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BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 48-LEGACY (the finale)
627
BRIAN’S POV
and all the roads we have to walk are winding

On a bitter cold Friday afternoon in November of 2011, you stood in empty commercial retail space, waiting and toying with random coils of wire as they spilled out of the ceiling. You were dressed for work having taken a half day at Kinnetik, and your overcoat, scarf, and gloves weren’t helping that much in the drafty room. But the cold was really the least of your worries; most of them were focused on Justin and what he’d decided to do. He’d been home for less than a year, a year where more changed than ever stayed the same....

************
GABE ZIRROLLI'S POV
everybody wants a box of chocolates, and a long stem rose,
everybody knows


May 2011

Falling in love--it's something you've indulged in a time or two, usually as some misplaced infatuation or physical encounter that was only meant to happen once. In the back of your mind, you held tightly to your list of preferred traits in a boyfriend; you just never expected to find all of them in one person on a day reserved for the dead.

After the funeral, you couldn't stop thinking about Daniel, about the blow job he gave you at the restaurant, at the refinement he oozed regardless of the crude act he was performing. The blow job was great, but you found yourself more interested in the expensive taste he had in clothes, at his polite, kind demeanor, at his expansive vocabulary (after all, you lived with your brother). After leaving the city that sad day, you kept in touch regularly, mostly texts and some phone calls that, at first, were predicated on Daniel's well being after the tragedy. You needed to see him again in person, though, to see if there was actually something real between you or if you were projecting. You made the gesture to come see him, the guise of needing to check in on your parents and their restaurant a perfectly legitimate reason for the trip. During the first visit, Daniel took you out to a very expensive dinner. With any other guy, you would've thought he was trying too hard to impress you (or fuck you), but not Daniel. He was--you could tell--very interested in you and very used to very expensive dinners, and the two of you had difficulty figuring out anything you didn't have in common besides, well, salary. The visits increased and became opportunities to meet your parents, go to the movies, the theater, always just the two of you getting along famously. He was courting you, and out of respect to the tradition and his gentlemanly efforts, neither of you made mention of the initial sexual act that brought you together. Over time, though, it began to seem like that was the only sexual act the two of you would be engaging in. You could tell he was attracted to you and you made it clear that the reverse was also true, yet it took an actual inquiry on your part to ever get to see the upstairs of his brownstone. Daniel blushed when you made your move, when you made sure the kiss you were sharing felt like it needed a second act, but he eventually capitulated and invited you up his stairs and into his room. What came next felt almost like another tawdry sexual act, a quick fuck and a weird moment during which he agreed that you could stay the night. After that, an awkward vibe pulsed into the room, and thinking that perhaps he was just nervous because it had been awhile since he'd been intimate with someone, you curled your body around his, not realizing that every demon he'd been fighting since Alan's murder would see that vulnerability in him and strike. It was a very long and agonizing night, one of tears and constant apologizing on Daniel's part and one of constant reassurance on yours that no apology was necessary.

This man you were falling in love with was thoroughly haunted.

************
BRIAN'S POV
'cuz if love won't fly on its own free will,
it's gonna catch that outbound plane


September 2011

A lunch meeting with Gabe was a common occurrence and often the best time the two of you could free your schedules and really talk about profit in the restaurant industry, but there’s was something about the halting way he walked into your office on a bright and brisk September day that made your brow furrow. “You okay?” you asked him, “You look either worried or constipated, but I can’t tell which.”

He laughed, “A little of both probably.”

The two of you were spreading your food out on the conference table when he took a deep breath and said, “Brian, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. I’m giving you my resignation today.” He slid an envelope across the table to you.

You opened it and read the letter trying not to choke on the orange chicken in your mouth. “This says you’re going back to the city to run your parents’ restaurant-–“

“I am. They’re old, Brian. They need to retire.”

You knew this day would come, yet you still felt unprepared and sort of bothered. Replacing Gabe, an employee who catered to your every whim…the thought exhausted you. You were certain Gabe could hear it in your voice so you immediately tried to disguise it, “Understandable. So Zeek? He goes, too?”

“I thought that might be the good news in this scenario,” Gabe joked.

You laughed, “Well, um…no comment.”

Gabe sat down and got serious, “Yes. It’s our parents’ restaurant. We both belong there. I’m sure you understand.”

You sighed, “What about Rube? How’s he going to survive without Zeek?”

Gabe laughed, “Rube already knows, and he’s totally fine with it. If you want to remove him from Babylon, you’re going to need the jaws of life to do it.”

“This letter…it doesn’t say when you’re leaving.”

Gabe handed you a fortune cookie and replied, “As soon as you can replace me, I guess,” and then he paused, “This is hard for me, too. I love Zeal. This is just something I have to do.”

“I understand,” you said because you did, “I think you’re making the right decision…but replacing you won’t be easy.”

“Give Emmett a shot,” Gabe said, “He’s fabulous and not just because he’s so very, very gay. He’ll serve you well.”

“He’s not as fiscally disciplined as you are.”

Gabe countered, “Brian, I’ve taught him a lot. He understands margins and portion sizes and that he has to cost something out before he adds it to the menu. And I’m only a phone call away if he needs help. But honestly,” he paused, “Dan and I have to find a place to live first and his place still hasn’t sold, and he’s still….“

……

“Pretty fucked up about everything that happened?” you asked to break the awkward silence.

Gabe looked more uncomfortable in that moment than you’d ever seen him as he spoke, “Some days he’s ready to sell and others he thinks selling that townhome is some kind of an insult to Alan’s memory because, you know, he…died…there.”

“Dan’s here all the time. He’s stopped seeing patients, hasn’t he?” you asked.

“He took a leave of absence.”

“What about Jon? Can’t Jon help him?”

Gabe shook his head, a tired demeanor spreading across his face, “He’s too close to the situation. Dan equates him with that madness. They talk, but not about anything important. He talks to me…about it…sometimes, and I love him, but I’ve run out of ideas about how to help him. He has night terrors about finding Alan's body. I wake up...and he's in the fetal position next to me just sobbing...."

"So he needs help? Maybe professional help?" you tried.

"Have you ever tried telling a shrink that he needs a shrink?" Gabe asked as if you'd asked him to climb a mountain in that question.

“Okay, well can I ask you something gay-man-to-gay-man? I don’t want you to take offense--.”

“Of course you can.”

You chose your words carefully, releasing them slowly, “Your feelings for Dan, and his feelings for you…are they going to be there when the fallout from this mess is finally over?”

Gabe nodded, “Yeah…our feelings are real; they’re just…buried under all this--; god, that was a terrible choice of words.”

“So, you love him?”

Gabe smiled, “I know; it happened fast and under weird circumstances, but yeah…I love him.”

You unrolled your fortune and sighed: If you want the rainbow, you must put up with the rain.

************
now we’ve come so far, so fast

Ordinarily, you would’ve picked up the phone and called Justin to hash out the news, but he was on day two of a week long road trip to Georgia with Harper and Sam. He’d come to you two weeks prior to tell you, “Look, Harper wants to go visit her old neighborhood and her Mom’s hospital and grave site and stuff. She feels like she needs to be there and tell her what happened to Alan. It’s her process, I guess. So Sam and I decided that we’ll just take a road trip—“

“Because you’re the only one who has a car,” you added.

“No, because we want closure, too. I need to process this myself; I need to get it out of my head and onto the canvas. It’s hard for me to do it here; I feel so removed. Harper has a friend in the city who has a little girl about Amelia’s age, so she’s going to stay with her.”

You nodded, “Okay, if that’s what you need to do. You going to plan this trip out or just—“

“Fly by the seat of our pants,” Justin said, “We want the journey to have an element of happenstance.”

His choice of words never ceases to amuse you. “Okay, well, just promise me that you won’t drive when you’re tired and won’t exist on gas station food.”

“The driving, sure, but we’re going to prove that you can live on Diet Mountain Dew, Cheetos, and beef jerky.”

“Um, excuse me, but I am the only beef you jerky.”

“Yeah, and I 'jerkied' it this morning, so you'll live.”

……

But later that same night around half past three in the morning, you were lying in bed smoking a cigarette and starting to worry. Every so often, you nudged Justin to see if he was semi-awake, and eventually he rolled over and lay his head on your chest. “What’s the matter?” he asked in an almost-whisper.

You sighed before you spoke, “The more I think about it, the more I don’t like this idea.”

“What idea?”

“This road trip, and hear me out before you start in on me—“

He propped himself up on his pillow and looked at you, “Okay,” his voice tainted with the slightest bit of aggravation.

You smashed your cigarette, “I’m not sure the three of you should go down there alone. You’re all still grieving, and Harper, Jesus, she’s still walking an emotional tightrope.”

“I’m just trying to take the next logical step, okay? Sam will take his camera and Harper and I will take our sketch pads, and maybe we’ll work through some of this. Have some faith in me, Brian. I’m not trying to be a hero.”

“Justin, I do—in you, and in Sam. Just promise me that if you get down there and this ‘processing’ turns into a nightmare, that you’ll let me know. I mean, they can fly back, and I’ll fly down and ride back with you or whatever. Okay? Just promise me.”

“I promise.”

You rolled onto your side and pulled him against you, “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“It’s okay,” he said, and then he reached back and touched you in that way that reminds you of taking care of him after he got hurt; it comforted and saddened you at the same time.

……

On the day of their departure, you had Roger fill a cooler with fresh fruit and vegetables and stow it in Justin’s car. And when you kissed him good-bye, you stuffed a bag of weed in the pocket of his jeans, advising him, “Use it in good health.” He immediately gave it back, “We don’t need pot. You’ll always know where we are, okay? You don’t need to worry.”

“Do you have your car charger?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll miss you, Sunshine. Be sure to get your own room so we can have phone sex.”

His eyes lit up, “Oh my god, you’re going to put me on face time and then just lay the phone on your dick, aren’t you?”

“Well,” you admitted, “I do love technology.”

“This is it…the last stage of your devolution.”

You hugged him and pushed him toward his car, “Don’t spoil it for me. It’ll be a very special moment in my life.”

************
you can linger too long in your dreams

Two days after your conversation with Gabe, you were sitting in your office glancing around your desk at the piles of work that needed to be done. Not one stack interested you; you felt unsettled inside, and truthfully, a little lonely because Justin had been gone for days. You looked out the window at the perfect fall day and decided that you were taking a very early lunch. At ten thirty-seven a.m., you walked into Zeal on a mission. Emmett jumped the minute you walked in perhaps thinking that this was his chance to further impress you, but you waived him off, “I’m not here for you.”

He looked mildly offended, “Well…okay…Gabe’s in his office—“

You looked in that direction and saw Gabe and Zeek arguing, both pointing up at a fluorescent light fixture that was malfunctioning.

“Swear to God,” Emmett said apparently following on your heels, “Zeek just now realized that the part he needs is called a ‘ballast’ and not a ‘ballads.’

You smirked a little, “I’m not looking for them either. I’m looking for….” and you finished your sentence with a shift of your eyes, and that’s all Emmett needed to respond, “He’s in there, as usual,” and he pointed to the closed French doors to the large party room. “Thanks,” you said, and then feeling guilty for brushing him off, you added, “You and me…we’ll talk soon about all this, okay?”

“Sure,” Emmett said though you could tell he didn’t quite believe you.

……

The large party room at Zeal had been Gabe’s idea a year ago, to install paned-glass French doors so the area could be closed off. It allowed Zeal to cater to the business crowd at lunch, gave companies a place to dine and make important decisions or have idiotic employee-of-the-month celebrations in private, but these days, it was mostly occupied by one man who brought his laptop and headphones and sat in the back left corner. He’d pretend to work, but you had an inkling that he was spending his days mastering Spider Solitaire. The door to that room always sticks a little, and opening it took the room’s inhabitant by surprise. He jumped in his seat and immediately pulled his headphones out, his voice almost stuttering, “Brian—hey--hello—it’s good to see you.”

“Doc,” you acknowledged.

Daniel’s face filled with an awkward smile and then he began to pack up, apologizing, “I’m so sorry. If you need this room, it’s no problem. I can work somewhere else.” He yanked his power supply from the wall as you sat down across from him and said, “No, no, I don’t need this room today. I was just kind of…hoping…you were here. I need your help with something…if you don’t mind.”

Daniel seemed immediately relieved before he wasn’t, “Well, certainly,” he swallowed, “What can I help you--? Wait, is Justin okay? Are they okay? Have you heard from them?”

“Oh, yeah…they’re fine. Talked to Justin this morning. Their goal today is to visit Ruth’s hospital. I was actually hoping you could help me with something.”

You were certain that Daniel’s guilt around occupying your party room on and off for months was contributing to his charitable spirit, “Well, certainly. Of course. What can I do?”

“Up for a little drive?” you asked.

************
I'm starting with the man in the mirror;
I'm asking him to make a change


"Good morning, Mr. Kinney. Today is Thursday, September 20, 2011. The time is eleven twelve a.m. The current temperature is sixty-seven degrees under sunny skies. You may enter your destination now.”

“NAVIGATION OFF.”

Discontinuing navigation. Thank you.”

Daniel examined your console and remarked, “I’ve heard about this car—from Gabe, I mean. He loves it.”

You laughed, “He’s the only one that does. Trust me.” You left the windows rolled down on purpose, thinking that the moments (current and future) could use a nice breeze; the air made you less nervous.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Daniel said.

“So, have you and Gabe ever had face time sex?” you asked.

“Excuse me?”

“’Cause Justin and I did last night; I mean, we tried, but I discovered something new about myself during the process—“

“This sounds personal, Bri—“

“I discovered that I’m kind of an old-fashioned guy when it comes to phone sex. I like to close my eyes and listen to his voice.”

“Okay,” Daniel said, the tone of his voice making it clear he wanted you to change the subject.

“So have you and Gabe tried it…oh, wait…probably not because you’re always here, huh?”

“Brian, where are we going?”

“Do you mean literally or figuratively?” you ask him.

Daniel sighed and turned his body toward yours, “Both, I guess.”

……

You made another sharp right turn-albeit conversationally, “You know what, Doc? You and I are a lot alike, and I don’t mean because of our fondness for young artists—“

“I don’t know what we’re doing.”

“We’re a lot alike because when we’re at the top of our game, we both dig deep inside of people to pull out the kernel of truth and get paid handsomely for it,” you explained.

Daniel turned away and looked out his window, “Brian, I know I’m not at the top of my game right now. That’s not necessary.”

“No, no, stay with me here, Doc. I need you. We’re also alike because we approach our personal lives with unwavering conviction.”

“Unwavering conviction?”

“Sometimes to our own detriment.”

“Gabe isn’t quitting because of me; he’s quitting to run his parents’ restaurant; you can’t fault either of us for that.”

You put your hand on his shoulder, firmly, “I don’t want to lose Gabe, nobody would, but I could give a fuck about Zeal right now. That will work itself out. We’re going to talk about the things that don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t work themselves out.”

His regret seemed sadly genuine, “I have no idea what you’re getting at, Brian. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m just a little slow today.”

You pointed to the upcoming intersection. The road was ending, offering a turn to either side, but you drove straight across and into a hotel parking lot. Daniel became agitated, “Brian, I know I could stay here instead of with Gabe and spend my days in my room waiting for him to get off work, but I can’t for some reason, okay? I don’t know why; I just can’t.”

The plan was officially in motion, “Dan, this hotel has nothing to do with you. We’re here for me. And for the record, I don’t care how or where you spend your days, and you are always more than welcome at any of my fine establishments.” The parking deck was virtually empty on the second level save a few abandoned vehicles and random piles of decaying leaves. You parked in the same place you always do and felt infused with hope and sadness at the same time. Daniel questioned you, “Why didn’t we just park in front of the hotel? There were plenty of spaces.”

“We’re not going into the hotel.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, “Then what are we doing?”

“Get out. I want to show you something.”

************
we’ve been poisoned by these fairy tales

You led a bewildered but finally compliant Daniel to the exact spot and then put your hands on his shoulders, advising him, “Stay right here.”

“Okay.”

And then you walked back to the car. When you got to your car door, you turned around and told him, “This is how far away I was.”

“From what?”

“From the reason I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

Daniel looked down at the pavement, took a deep breath; his body shifted like he was putting on new and almost too snug invisible clothing, and then he looked up at you the way he used to when you first met him, when things got tough in New York, “Go on.”

“I was this close and I couldn’t stop him,” you swallowed hard. “I yelled and I ran, and you know the funny thing is that I have long legs, you know? And Justin complains about it, about how one of my steps equals two of his, and ironically, that night they weren’t long enough.”

“Can you show me where his attacker was in relation to you?” Daniel asked.

You wiped your mouth with your hand, pushing down a sour taste in the back of your throat, as you walked over to where Hobbs was standing that night. “So he was close to Justin,” Daniel surmised.

“Even closer with a bat,” you added.

“And how do you feel being this close to it now?”

“Kind of queasy,” you confessed. “But, this is the last time I’m coming back here. Justin’s off processing his shit and I’m going to deal with mine. I just thought that, maybe, you’d be a good guy to have around while I attempted this.”

He bought your rational, “Fair enough. So you think your long legs were a match for a guy that was about three times closer to Justin and wielding a baseball bat?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” you said, “And, you know, when we were in New York, when everything happened, I made a promise to him, to Justin.”

“You did?”

“That I would forgive myself for this and stop holding myself responsible.”

“And we’re here today because that’s easier said than done? Right?”

“Right,” you agreed.

Daniel began to walk back to the car with a look on his face that you suspected was the main reason Justin bonded with this guy to begin with, “I’d be…honored…to help you Brian. Granted, I’m probably not going to hit one out of the park --- okay, that was a horrific analogy, I apologize. I just mean that I’m not at my best right now, but whatever I can do—“

“Come on," you said, "Let’s find somewhere to talk.”

************
DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV
It's lonely out in space

Since the day Alan died, you felt yourself spinning inward, deeper and deeper into a cocoon. And because you had the means and the authority to be your own boss, you’d enveloped yourself—just let it happen--with full on determination. The isolation became comfortable and then almost cozy. Nowhere inside that cocoon were memories of Alan—of helping him breakthrough his crippling psychological issues, of finding him beaten and bloody outside your front door, of sitting in a hospital waiting for a verdict--permitted. You’d annexed everyone who challenged your way of being to a cursory role in your life and exiled yourself from your townhome…the scene of the crime. Your shell was going to crack eventually; you knew it had to, but the day and time were always so elusive.

‘Somewhere to talk’ somehow became a journey with Brian that day. First, he drove to Gabe’s place and told you to go inside and change into something like jeans and a t-shirt. You didn’t tell him that you had to borrow from Gabe, that your pattern of denial had extended to your wardrobe, that you wore a dress shirt and dress pants every day because to dress down would mean admitting things were changing. Next, he drove to his loft where you found the empty spaciousness inviting. You were sitting on a sofa admiring the stark maleness of the place when Brian, now in jeans himself, sat down on the opposite sofa and began to prep a bong.

“We’re getting baked,” he told you before you could even object.

“I don’t smoke marijuana, Brian.”

“You do now,” he said with a smile, offering it to you after taking the first hit.

You told your first secret, “These aren’t my clothes; they’re Gabe’s. He’ll kill—be angry with me if they stink of pot tonight.”

“Not if it’s my pot,” Brian offered with a smile.

You hadn’t smoked since med school, but Brian didn’t seem like the kind of person people ever said ‘no’ to, so you acquiesced. When the THC finally began to take effect, you felt a courage bubbling up inside you, and maybe that and a softer veneer on Brian gave you the guts to ask him, “Do you remember when we were having dinner in New York and I tried to ask you a question about the painting in the tunnel, and you and Justin suddenly--?”

“Disappeared?”

“Yeah. I want an answer to my question. I want to know about that painting.”

Brian smiled a little, “It’s funny you ask about that because you remember a couple months ago when Gus came to visit for a long weekend?”

“Oh…yeah. He looks so much like you. I mean, he’s so tall! He’s a great kid.”

“Yeah, well, before he got here and unbeknownst to me, he found Justin’s CNN appearance online and suddenly had all these questions.”

“About what happened to Justin?” you asked.

“Yeah, and I didn’t really realize until then that I’d never told him, and his mothers never told him because they thought it was my place to bring it up, and of course, I never did. I mean, I couldn’t predict that Justin would want to come back, that it would ever be relevant to Gus. He’s only eleven years old.”

“Right.”

“So, I tried to tell Gus, to explain it to him, and I guess my version of it didn’t suit Justin, so he just took over and started telling Gus everything that happened like I wasn’t even in the room anymore.”

“Interesting. How did you feel about that?”

“I don’t know…I guess kind of helpless…because you know how Justin is when he’s determined to do something. You can’t stop him. He’s such a self-possessed person sometimes.”

“Yes, I know exactly what you mean. ‘Helpless’ can’t have felt good?”

Brian sort of snorted and laughed at little, “Justin is the only person who ever makes me feel that way. I mean, and this is a terrible thing to say, but I was the one who saw what happened to him; Justin doesn’t even remember the actual event really; he has flashes at best. So why can’t I tell my own son what happened? I didn’t stop him or say anything to him about it, but honestly, it pissed me off.”

“What do you think would’ve happened if you’d stopped him, if you insisted on telling the story?”

Brian smiled and rolled his eyes, “Honestly? I’d be in the biggest invisible dog house you’ve ever seen. And it’s haunted, too, so fuck that.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, Brian; that’s a very normal feeling to have given what you’ve both been through.”

“Well, that’s just the first stop on our PTSD-sponsored tour today. You want to know about that painting? Let’s go.”

************
as I listened through the cemetery trees

Fifteen minutes later you were standing on Chris Hobbs’ gravesite while Brian reclined on the top of headstone. The majestic oaks in the cemetery seemed to be standing guard around the two of you, their foliage determined to distract anyone who might’ve glanced in your direction. “This is it,” Brian said, “This is the genesis for that painting, for what Justin painted and for what Alan recreated in the tunnels. It started here.” He looked way too comfortable sitting on the edge of a headstone…especially this headstone; you didn’t like it; it felt wrong, but you pressed him anyway, “Why is this the genesis?”

“Well, remember when I came to New York that night and picked him up in front of your place? I know you remember because you were looking out the window at us.”

You hate thinking about that night, but again, you pushed past the discomfort, “Yes, I remember.”

“I brought him back here and we went to the funeral together. It was an intense few days.”

“I’ll bet. And when Justin came back to New York, he was somehow different.”

Brian seemed to perk up a little at that point, “Different how? What do you mean?”

You sighed, “Well, Justin and even Harper, they were always very open about their creativity, their process, their work, and when he came back from—“ you stopped and made a sweeping circular motion with your hands, “Well, when he came back from this, everything changed. He started working at night a lot and when he left in the mornings, he locked the studio.”

“He locked you out of a room in your own home?” Brian asked.

“Yes, but it wasn’t like I couldn’t get in there if I needed to; I just felt that…well, I felt that anger that would’ve sent you to the dog house, so I didn’t do it. For all the talent and insight Justin has, sometimes he’s very…protective, I guess.”

Brian laughed and relaxed his arms, “He’s still like that. I stay out of his studio most of the time unless he invites me in. I don’t fuck with his process. Learned my lesson about that.”

“It’s kind of funny. Two older men give him a place to work and both get shut out,” you observed.

“Never say ‘older’ when you’re referring to me,” Brian said with a very serious look on his face.

“Duly noted. Pretend it never happened,” you apologized and changed the subject as you sat down on the grass, “You know, Justin was really guarded about that first painting he got into a show. The one I met him in front of and tried to buy—“

“My money moves fast, I guess,” Brian shrugged but finally came down from the headstone and sat on the grass with you, crossing his long legs and leaning against it.

You picked up a skinny stick and starting poking the ground with it, “I don’t think it was just your money moving fast that night.”

“That’s fair, I guess. You know, he didn’t even tell me about that show; I found out by accident when his computer was stolen from Harper’s old place.”

That was new and significant information to you, “Really? Is that why you bought it? Because he didn’t invite you?”

Brian looked conflicted, guilty and a little surprised when he answered you, “I never thought about that, but I kind of think so now. I sort of wanted to get him back, I guess. Take something he was denying me. God, that’s fucked up.” You were about to say something when Brian looked up and continued, “Plus, something in me knew that if he was keeping it from me, it had something to do with me or with us.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know, I guess because Justin can be guarded about his work but he can also be really laissez faire, too. He either cares about it because it comes from a real place inside him or he doesn’t give a shit and just thinks about it as a commodity or a past time. It’s a defense mechanism. When he got hurt and couldn’t draw for awhile and had to learn new ways to create, something sort of split in two inside him. I think it did, anyway.”

“That’s interesting.” You looked up at a middle age couple heading toward another gravesite with flowers hanging from their hands and then went back to focusing on Brian, “It’s not uncommon for people with PTSD to experience a type of dichotomy.”

“When he came back here, he destroyed that painting when he found it hanging in my office, my home office across from our bedroom.” Brian looked away from you and lit a cigarette after he said that to you, but his body looked relieved after the admission.

“How? How did he destroy it?”

“He practically dumped this primer crap all over it, and it’s fucking huge—“

“I remember.”

“He keeps it propped up against a wall in his studio. You know, like, he doesn’t want me to have it but he wants the wrecked thing to still be in our house like some reminder to me of this crime I committed when I bought it.”

“He lied to me about it the night I met him, Brian. I saw something in that painting, something very dark, and he looked at me like I had three heads or something. I saw some type of violence in it.”

“Did he tell you to fuck off?” Brian asked.

“Now that I think about it, he told me he has violent feelings about it, but he doesn’t see it in the work.”

Brian laughed, “Okay, I’m not a shrink, and that sounds like a load of crap to me.”

“It was, and I knew it was.” You remembered Justin telling you that you were wrong about everything but then accepting your invitation that night. You said nothing to Brian along those lines, but started to realize that that’s the reason Justin went with you. You were on to something that night, and Justin wasn’t going to leave you alone with it. You asked Brian, “Justin can be almost unbearably persistent sometimes, don’t you think?”

Brian shook his head and laughed, “He practically stalked me, but you have to understand, I’d fucked the virginal-living-daylights out of him. Who wouldn’t want to go back to paradise?”

“You can only lose your virginity once, Brian.”

“It always felt like more than once with him. Sometimes it still does.” And then he got quiet, took a long drag off his cigarette and stared off in the distance for a minute or so. You spoke once Brian seemed to come back to the moment, “That’s what’s happening to me with what happened to Alan. It happens over and over and over.”

“I know,” Brian said, “That’s why I had this crazy idea that maybe…we can help each other.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“I’m serious, Doc. What happened to Alan is not your fault. You couldn’t have prevented it. I mean, the cops—those assholes—they were coming for him.”

“I know that now. He was beating the system, Alan was,” you said, “He and Stitch figured out how to take care of all those people down there for free.”

“It wasn’t free,” Brian said. “The cost just wasn’t apparent at the time of purchase.”

You broke the stick in half and stuck both pieces in the ground hard, “Why do you say that?”

Brian reached in his leather jacket and pulled out a flask and handed it to you, “Here. Don’t worry, it’s clean and full of very expensive whiskey.” You opened it slowly and took a swig as he continued, “I know that because the same thing happened with Justin. He had bad blood with this piece of shit buried underneath us. I tried to warn him once but he wouldn’t listen. It’s like Justin said in his interview on TV, he and Alan existed outside the bounds of acceptability. Justin within his peer group and Alan within society.” Again, he wore out his cigarette, sending the smoke on some far away mission.

“I was making real progress with Alan, Brian. Real progress. He had overcome so much,” you started to cry and didn’t even care, “He was going to take Justin’s place in the studio. I hadn’t even told Harper yet because I wanted to give him the chance to tell her. She would’ve been so proud of him.” The grass got blurry around your feet; you picked up a leaf and it crumbled in your hand.

“Yeah, well Justin got accepted to Dartmouth before he was bashed. Fucking Dartmouth; that’s how smart he is. He turned it down to go to art school, to follow his dream. And for what it’s worth, I was making real progress with him, too. That night, after I danced with him, I had less than ten minutes of knowing that I…kind of…loved him… before he was attacked in front of me. It was like…and this is going to sound really self-centered, but I don’t know how else to explain it; it was like I finally accepted my feelings for him and then had to watch them get massacred right in front of my face.”

"Wow."

"And that's not even the end of it. Not only do I see someone I love be almost killed in front of me; years later some homophobic cunt decides to plant a bomb in Babylon, and I end up running through my own destroyed night club trying to find him, to find all my friends after it goes off. And then I decide after all that trauma, that I should finally tell Justin I love him while we're both in shock and surrounded by fire trucks and ambulances. I mean, that is seriously messed up in so many ways."

"The metaphoric potential alone is a bit astounding," you agreed.

"Right, that I can only express love after horrific tragedy," Brian added.

"Can you feel love when there's nothing tragic going on?"

Brian paused and looked off in the distance; the question seemed to vex him. "I'm not sure," he finally said, "I think I feel it when it's already over. I don't think I feel it in real time. Okay, that's weird."

You reassured him, "No, not really. It's not uncommon. It's the way you process it, I guess. Kind of like how these young guys can go fight a war and not realize how truly scarred they are until months after they come home."

Brian shook his head, "But that equates love with horrible trauma."

"Some people react that way to positive attention or affection. For a myriad of reasons, perhaps low self esteem, perhaps dysfunctional core relationships early in life--"

"Bingo, I think we have a winner there."

"I believe that if you aren't given love and shown love as a child that you struggle with feeling and expressing it as an adult. Like with Alan, he had very strange ways and went to a lot of trouble to love the people in his life. All those people he took care of every single day and being the kid that Harper remembered to keep her grounded. He was abandoned by his father and then by society at large, and yet he kept working and working to make everything all right for everyone else."

Brian's posture opened up a bit, "Jon says that people repeat the same patterns over and over trying to recreate a moment until they get it right. That it's futile--"

"That you become like a hamster stuck in a wheel," you added.

"Why can't we just stop repeating?"

"We can. It's not about the ability; it's about being able to handle the anxiety that comes with stopping a routine or a pattern. We don't fear the outcome; we fear our own feelings: insecurity, abandonment, loss, pain, and even confusion."

Brian laughed a little, "And yet it's never the feeling that kills you--"

You smiled, "Right. It's the coping mechanism. The over-eating, the drinking, the drugs, smoking, whatever, you name it."

"You don't have any obvious coping mechanisms," Brian observed. "I find that a little strange."

You chuckled a little and pointed to your temple, "Mine are in here, locked away, however, I think I can get a gold medal in avoidance anytime I want."

Brian pressed you, "You don't drink to excess; you don't smoke--"

You interrupted him, "I have OCD. Ever since I was a kid. My dad, he was doing everything a regular guy could think of to help me, but then...he died suddenly."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know that."

"I was thirteen. The things that happen to you when you're a child; they last forever don't they?" you pondered.

Brian sighed, "Yeah, I guess they do."

“It’s a blessing that Justin doesn’t quite remember what happened to him,” you admitted to Brian, “I wish I didn’t remember finding Alan like that."

“I have that, too," Brian said, "I can never forget what happened to Justin. That’s what I’m trying to put to rest, but you’ll make faster work of it than I did. You’re a shrink; I had the coping skills of a Neanderthal man.”

“Being a shrink usually makes it worse,” you joked, though you weren’t really kidding, “Sometimes I think I’ll never get those images out of my head or those feelings out of my heart—“

“I completely get that. If what happened to Justin had happened in front of my loft, I’d probably be dead from alcohol poisoning right now.” Brian gathered his legs up and leaned forward, waving his cigarette as he spoke with great determination, “But I want you to listen to me. Gabe Zirrolli has been a fucking godsend to me, and he loves you, and you love him, and I’m not going to let you fuck this up, Doc. I’m just not. I can’t fix the past; I can’t change anything that’s happened, but I understand this guilt you have. I’ve worn it like a tacky, hand knitted sweater for a decade. I’m going to help you. You and I are going to New York and we’re going back to your townhome—“

“Brian, you got very sick there. I don’t think that’s a good id—“

“Shut up. And we’re going back to your townhome and we’re going to pack that place up and put it on the market, and you and Gabe are going to find a really, really gay place to live, and you’re going to get on with your fabulous lives. In fact, once you put that place on the market, I’ll run interference with the realtor for you. I’ll field the offers if needed. You tell me what you want for it, and I’ll make it happen.”

You were sort of stunned at Brian’s insistent offer but also sort of relieved that you didn’t have to face this alone, drag Gabe through it with you or god help you, tackle it with Jon. “Why would you do this? You had a terrible time up there; you had a dissociative break for god’s sake.”

“Because you took care of Justin; you looked after him, gave him a safe place to work. You and Jon, you took care of both of us when Alan—“

“Well, avoidance is a powerful thing, Brian. We didn’t want to face Alan’s death either.”

“I don’t care what the reason was. You cared enough about Justin to help us, and I don’t forget that kind of thing. And helping you, maybe it’ll help me get outside myself in a good way. See this shit from a different prospective. And I think we should do it while Justin and Harper are gone. Let’s start tomorrow.”

His suggestion gave you chills over your entire body, “Tomorrow? Oh god, no, I haven’t even talked to Harper about this. It’s where she works; it’s her studio; I can’t just take it away from her like that.”

“We’re not going to take a demolition ball to it, Dan. We’re going to clean it out and put it on the market. She doesn’t paint there anymore anyway. You know that. She’s squeezed back in with Sam at that shithole.”

“How can you just clear your schedule like this?”

“Because I own the fucking business, Doc. It’s a family emergency. End of story.”

“Are you going to tell Justin what we’re doing?” you asked.

“Yeah, I’m not going to lie to him. I’ll tell him tonight when he calls.”

“Before the phone sex?”

“Well, maybe after,” he conceded with a wide smile.

************
BRIAN’S POV
everybody knows that the diced are loaded,
everybody rolls with their fingers crossed


Truthfully, getting Daniel’s consent was much easier than getting Justin’s. When he called around nine p.m. that night, the conversation didn’t exactly go as you expected…

“Hey,” you said on the second ring.

”Hey. How are you?”

“Good, I miss you, though,” you said.

”I miss you, too. Are you okay?”

“Of course; how was your day?”

”Pretty crazy. I mean, we spent most of it at the hospital where Harper and Alan used to visit Ruth. It’s completely changed, of course; it’s been modernized, but Harper was able to find the same power pole that her father used to lean against and wait for them to come out. She got pretty emotional; Sam took tons of pictures for her, and she was so overwhelmed sometimes that I was just her scribe, just jotting down anything she remembered. We tried to go inside and find Ruth's room, but that wing is maternity now; everything’s different. But, I’m glad we did it. She needed to be there, to feel those things, I think.”

“Sounds like it.”

”She says that Ruth is gone. That she can’t feel her spirit anywhere we’ve been. I don’t think Harper expected that. I think she wanted—“

“Her mom?” you asked.

Justin sighed, “Yeah, I think she needs to feel her mom, and she’s gone, but she feels Alan everywhere we go; she’s convinced he’s with us on this trip. I actually think she’s a little bit psychic.”

“Or crazy…maybe,” you joked.

”No, I mean, come on, I don’t believe in ghosts and shit, but she definitely feels something. She says Alan’s okay; he’s tagging along behind us. She used to have intuition about him when he was alive, too. It’s not like we go out to eat and she asks for a table for four or anything; she’s just very conscious of his spirit, I guess.”

“Well, maybe she’s right. I kind of hope she is because I need to talk to you about where I’m going to be for the next few days.”

You’re going somewhere? If it’s Ibiza, I’ll fucking kill you.”

You laughed, “God, no. I’m going to New York to help Daniel pack up his place and get it ready to put on the market.”

Wait. What are you talking about?

“I spent the day with him; he’s here, of course; he always is. Wait, let me back up. You know, I told you that Gabe’s resigning and moving back to the city, and well, Daniel’s kind of the cog in the wheel; he’s kind of stuck in a fog or something—“

Justin’s discomfort began to weave into his voice, “Then let Gabe help him. That’s what boyfriends are for.”

“He needs a different kind of help…getting over this. I offered to go with him tomorrow and help him out.”

Well, that’s nice of you, but I don’t see why it needs to be you.

“Why not me? He and I, we kind of have some shit in common, you know?”

Just because I fucked him a few times does not give you two something in common, Brian.

“I don’t mean that. I mean, we both experienced a similar thing, okay?”

Well, don’t you think that we should be there? Me, Harper and Sam? We’re his friends. Can’t this wait?”

……

“Honestly, no, I don’t think it can.”

…..

…..

The air around you began to feel frozen. You cracked the ice with your voice, “Hello?”

…..

And again, “Justin?”

……

He hung up on you.

You threw your phone on the bed and felt an anger rising up in you that you hadn’t felt in quite a while. It was so strong, so present, that it actually frightened you. You had an overwhelming urge to smash everything within your reach. And then smash it again. And then your phone was lighting up and there was a text on the screen from Justin:

’I’m not okay with this.’

……

You wanted to run. Run all the way from your big, big house all the way to Babylon or maybe even further than that. Maybe to the Atlantic Ocean and just hurl yourself completely naked at the biggest, coldest, cruelest wave you could find. You stared at the words until they became abstract letters floating in space, until they meant nothing to you, and then you responded with a lie via text:

‘I don’t care.’

……

’Obviously. You’re just pissed at me for leaving you for a few days.’

The anger kept coming, crashing and crashing and crashing against your soul, screaming in your face, trying, like it always does, to intimidate your emotions. And that made you even madder:

‘If that’s what u really think about me, f u.’

Again, you threw the phone down, and then went into your closet, grabbed your suitcase, threw it on the bed and started packing. The next response came about ten minutes later:

’That’s not what I think, okay?’

You took a picture of your almost-packed suitcase and sent it to him along with:

‘I need to do this. guess I’ll c u when I get back.’

……

……

……

You went online and checked flight times for the next day, bought your ticket, texted Daniel the info so he could buy his.

…..

The phone rang again at ten p.m. It was Justin. You answered it on the first ring like the phone was the one attacking you, “What?”

I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

“Okay…thanks.”

”But I’m still not okay with this. I don’t think it’s a safe thing for you to do.

“I’ll be fine.”

I’m trying to get okay with it because you’re obviously going.”

“I am.”

”It’s just; Daniel’s my friend. I feel like I should be doing this.”

“You’re helping the people you can help. Daniel’s been practically living at Gabe’s for months, Justin. You never gave a shit or tried to reach out to him. What’s the big fucking deal?”

”I do give a shit; I just didn’t know what to do.”

“Okay, well I think I do. Like you said, not trying to be a hero, it’s just I think I can help him, and it might even help me in the process—“

”Brian, Alan was beaten to death like only six months ago. This isn’t some buried thing with Daniel. It just happened at his own fucking house.”

“Everyone grieves in their own time, Justin. Maybe since he’s a shrink, it happens faster; fuck, I don’t know. It doesn’t take everyone ten years to get over shit. Everybody’s different.”

And then the line went quiet, and you could hear Justin breathing…and then not breathing. You clarified, “I didn’t mean you; I mean me…taking ten years.” And still there was silence on the line. “Justin, I don’t mean you, really. Don’t go silent on me.”

……

You say that, that everyone grieves in their own time, but some people…never…grieve…at all,” he said.

“No, I don’t think so. Everybody grieves.”

……

……

My Dad never grieved. I mean, everybody thought I was going to die or be a vegetable, and still, he didn’t care.  He almost lost his son."

……

……

……

You took the phone from your ear, stared at the screen, at the time ticking by, and then put it back again. You felt so heavy after Justin said that, so heavy with hurt, “Look, he’s grieving now. That’s why he calls you all the time even when you won’t call him back. He’s just very, very late to the party, I guess.”

Well, sometimes when you come too late to a party, the party’s over.” And that was the moment you realized why he was on this quest for Ruth with Harper, how he was trying to fix someone else because he couldn’t figure out how to fix himself; it hurt to think he was going through this all alone, “I wish I was with you right now,” you said, “I really do.”

Me, too.”

“I never meant to upset you like this with this trip; I would never do that to you.”

I know.

……

”Brian, what if everybody gets past this stuff and I never do?”

“Is that what you’re worried about? Being left behind?”

Kind of.

“Justin, listen to me. Are you listening?”

”Yes, of course.”

“Regardless of how you feel tonight or six months from now, it’s okay. This is not a race. You don’t need to beat the clock on this.”

You say that—“

“I say it because it’s true. Everyone takes their own path in their own time.”

************

BRIAN'S POV
we may lose, we may win,
though we may never be here again


Going back to New York wasn't easy-not that you thought it would be. Daniel's place felt sterile just like before, only more so now because most of his personal things had spent the last few months migrating to Gabe's. Daniel's mood was somber though he was clearly appreciative for the company. The two of you split up shortly after arriving; Daniel to his bedroom to box up the rest of his clothes while you were taxed with taking down all the artwork, most of it Justin's.

"Are you sure you don't want these paintings?" Dan had asked, and you firmly shook your head and explained, "Uh, no. Justin would go off the deep end if I brought these paintings home. If they're with you, that's where he wants them to be." Quietly, you boxed each one and then had to ponder how to label them. A few of them were titled, signed and dated on the back, but many bore only a date and 'JT.' You ended up putting the size, the main attributes like 'blue and gold abstract,' and the date on each one. When you were done, you stared at the seven or so stacked boxes in front of you, picked up a marker and wrote 'Justin Taylor, artist' on the front of each one. Next, Daniel asked you to pack up the studio. You smiled and obliged him, your hand resting on his shoulder as he stood in the doorway of the room. He couldn't bear to step inside he told you, and you believed him because he looked as if he might shatter. "It's okay; don't worry about it," you said, "I don't mind at all. Go back to what you were doing."

As you surveyed the dusty supplies, easels and random oddities left behind, it was clear to you that most of it belonged to Harper. You put together cardboard boxes of different sizes, lined them up on the floor and tried to bring order to what a heartbroken artist leaves behind in a situation like this. Pieces of half-finished projects and random photographs went in one box, supplies of every variety imaginable went in another, and personal items in the last. You found all sorts of things during the task, including notes that Harper and Justin had left for one another when their schedules were conflicting. One from Harper to Justin made you laugh, 'J--Amelia sits at your desk and pretends she's you when you're not here. I try to film her but she won't do it on camera, lol. --H' And then you found a piece of black chalk that clearly belonged to Justin; you could tell because of the shape, the clear indentation of the callous on his finger.

The entire process seemed to be going fairly smoothly for both you and the Doc until you realized he wasn't upstairs with you anymore. You could hear what sounded like sobbing through a vent in the studio. You made your way downstairs and found Daniel sitting on the floor in his office, his arms around his bent knees, his face buried in the gap. There were piles of books on the floor next to a half-filled box. You found a spot and sat down as well, the corner of a hefty textbook jabbing your thigh in the process.

"Dan," you said softly, and then you repeated yourself with a little more courage, "Dan, tell me what's wrong." He didn't look up at you, but rather shook his head and kept his face hidden. You scanned the room for a box of tissues and nudged his arm with it, "It's okay. You can tell me."

He looked up. "The bookmarks," he choked out. You didn't understand what he meant but he continued, "They're in everything, so many of these, I can't take them out." That was when you noticed that about a third of the books had torn slips of paper sticking out. "He did this, Alan did. He was always reading in here...trying to solve his own problems." You picked up a book and opened it to the marked page: an explanation of the effects of long term electro-shock therapy. "Don't take it out," Dan said, sounding frantic, "Don't."

"I won't," you reassured him. "Just leave them in, Dan. There's no harm in that."

"I'm supposed to be putting this behind me," he said with disappointment tingeing his voice.

"Wanna know something?" you asked him.

"Sure."

"After Justin got hurt, I didn't change the sheets until he woke up from his coma. I threw blankets and shit on top of my bed if I had some trick over or something. Those sheets...they smelled like him, and I...was afraid...they never would again." Daniel looked up at you, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve as you continued, "And these bookmarks are nothing, Dan. Nothing. I had this white silk scarf on the night Justin was bashed, and in some type of cruel fashion-curse, I put it around his neck when I told him goodbye. A minute later he was bleeding out on the cement. I kept that fucking thing, crusty and stained with his blood around my neck for weeks. It's gone now; I've thrown it away, but sometimes I still feel it around my neck like a phantom or something."

"You've been in love with Justin for a really long time, huh?"

"Yeah," you sighed, "It feels like an eternity when I think about shit like that."

"I want closure, Brian, but I feel like it gets off on eluding me."

You shifted your legs and tried to get comfortable again in the small space, "You know, I had the same conversation with Justin last night. Maybe you and he are sort of alike? It's like you both think this process is a race or something. That there's a winner at the end?"

"'Physician, heal thyself;' haven't you ever heard that?" Daniel asked.

"Of course, I have, but it doesn't mean that it's an instant download or an app on your phone or something."

The doctor seemed distracted after that and had scooted over to his desk, a drawer opened and its contents pilfered. "Tell me again what you said said..about that scarf?"

"That I kept, that I wore it?" you asked.

Daniel kept digging and digging in that jam-packed drawer, "No, you said it was white, didn't you?"

"Yeah, white silk--"

"Found it," Dan said as he pulled a brochure out of a very full folder, sending about half of the contents all over the floor. "Is this it?" he asked you as he held up what must've been a flyer from Justin's first art show. You took the paper from him and stared down at a picture of a painting destroyed months ago--destroyed, and yet, still taking up space in your house and in your mind.

"Yeah, this is it," you admitted.

"I tend to keep things like this; I mean, I wanted to buy it--" Daniel confessed.

"But you were too late," you added.

He sighed, "Timing is everything."

"I feel guilty just looking at a picture of this painting," you confessed, "Justin would shred this."

You handed it back to Daniel for safekeeping as he spoke, "You know, I didn't really understand it until now. I mean, I didn't understand why Justin was so cagey about it and denied that there was anything violent about it, but now, I sort of get why he said that to me."

You were confused, "Get what?"

Dan explained, pointing to the white stripe in the painting, "Maybe Justin doesn't know what it's about because it isn't his point of view. Maybe it's your point of view, Brian."

"He was hit, not me."

"Right, but you just said that you gave him that scarf about a minute before he was hit. Maybe Justin was painting what he thought you saw seconds later...blood and the scarf on the ground."

"That doesn't make any sense," you argued. "If it's my point of view, yeah, I saw those things but I saw him."

Daniel kept turning the brochure and staring at the picture of the painting, "Hmm, perhaps he either intended for that scarf to represent him or he left himself out on purpose because he doesn't think you saw him at all or maybe--"

You cut him off, "Because he doesn't think that I see him now?"

"Maybe."

"How can I not 'see' him? I don't even get that."

Dan tried again, "Maybe he didn't feel like you see him as he sees himself? I'm not sure."

You felt a thickening sensation forming in your mouth as you thought about the painting and Justin's anger about finding it in your possession. "Maybe it's even more insidious than that," you suggested, "Maybe he thinks that he was lying on the cement bleeding out, and I was more concerned about myself. Maybe that's why he got so pissed when he saw the painting in my home office. He though it represented a lack of growth on my part?"

"Or just the opposite," Dan postulated, "Maybe hanging that painting in your home represented your ability to move forward, to face what happened, to be okay with facing it every single day."

"Because I wasn't afraid of it anymore?"

"Well, who really knows? I mean, it's all conjecture; art is very subjective for everyone, but it's something to think about. A fear of change, especially in the people we love and rely on, can be terrifying to most people, but when you take someone like Justin who was literally struck down on the cusp of adulthood, that fear of losing complete control of your world can paralyze people. Alan was that way, too, so much so that he basically hosted what were almost multiple personalities to keep his relationships with those he valued exactly as he remembered them."

You needed some air. "Will you be okay if I go smoke for a few--?" you asked Daniel as you pointed toward the front door.

"Of course," he replied, "Take your time." And then he stopped you, his hand on your leg, "But keep this flyer. It belongs with you. I don't need it anymore." You took it, folded it in half and tucked it away in the pocket of your jeans.

************
JONATHON MASSEY'S POV
Jesus, take the wheel

Life since Alan's death hadn't been easy for you. You went from feeling like an outsider around Daniel and his art groupies to actually being one when everyone went away. At first, you blamed yourself for taking Daniel's friendship for granted all these years, for thinking that he would always need you to talk to if nothing else. Never in a million years did you think that the guy would meet somebody at a fucking funeral, fall in love, and for all practical purposes, move away.

When you spend your livelihood analyzing other people's problems, you often leave little time or inclination to analyze your own. Not only had you lost Daniel, but you and Richard had parted ways that day as well. Burying a guy you barely knew meant saying goodbye to everyone and made your lack of a life glaringly apparent. And because unexpected losses can lead to unexpected coping strategies, you found yourself texting Richard around the start of summer when Daniel had decided he'd rather be in Pittsburgh than New York. You never expected Richard to answer your texts as they were mostly benign pleasantries inquiring about his well being that made it clear that no response was expected. But respond he did.

You met him for coffee in mid June. It was too hot for coffee that day and ultimately too hot for clothing as well because the two of you ended up fucking back at your place. For all the awkwardness over coffee, being in bed with him felt comfortable; you could tell he really wanted a connection to something, and you felt like you were the portal to whatever it was. You didn't know what to say when it was over; you just watched Richard get dressed in his hideous cargo shorts and sandals. He announced that he'd let himself out, and with zero emotion in his voice, offered to meet your for 'coffee' again next week. Same time; same place. You said, "Okay," the way you tell a mechanic who's just explained what's wrong with your car to go ahead and fix it--pretending you understand.

And so the ritual began and though the initial meeting place changed from time to time, the two of you sat and talked every week like nothing untoward had ever happened between you and never would. He started buying your coffee or muffin or whatever because, "You have to buy the condoms. That's not something I can do." You didn't know what this thing you had with him was; you just knew it felt like a forbidden form of tricking. Maybe that's why you kept doing it or maybe you were just lonely.

You'd often go for a walk after Richard left those afternoons because you felt sort of queasy and disgusted with yourself if you stayed in your townhome. Those walks eventually led to Daniel's empty home where you'd sit on the brick steps in front of his door and smoke exactly one cigarette. Sometime in early August when you'd been sitting there for about ten minutes, you saw an older man encumbered with tons of plastic bags coming toward you. There was something familiar about him, and he walked past you the first time without saying anything, but when he turned around at the corner and started coming back, he must've found his courage. "You're that other doctor, aren't you?" the disheveled man asked.

Your eyes were squinting in the afternoon sun, so you shielded them with your hands, "Excuse me?"

The man spoke again; his plastic bags clattering as he dropped them on the ground; you realized they were filled with bottles and cans, "The doctor that lived here; you're his friend."

"Do I know you?"

The man continued as if he wasn't listening to your half of the conversation anyway, "Do you live here now?"

"No," and then it dawned on you and your nose, "Are you Stitch?"

"Yeah." His eyes kept shifting all over the place. "Got any bottles or cans? That bottle of water there; can I have that?"

You looked down at the plastic bottle next to you, "I'm not done yet, but when I am, you can have it." He sat down on a step to wait.

At that first meeting, you learned that Stitch's community, Alan's family, had fallen apart after the funeral. Some of his residents didn't want to go back underground having come upstairs again. Lewis, who'd been charged with protecting the tunnel in their absence hadn't done a very good job. Things were stolen that day, and Lewis wasn't capable of running the routes that Alan ran and getting all the supplies they needed. Stitch had been able to keep his room, but that was about it. He didn't much like the new 'family' that had moved in with him, so he quit worrying about an entire group of people and began 'canning' to make money to provide for himself. Every night, he'd head to the recycling center and deposit the days collection. Sometimes they were so backed up with other people depositing recyclables that he ended up sleeping there. You could never leave your bags alone, he explained, or all of your hard work would be stolen. You asked him how much that day's enormous haul on the sidewalk in front of you would bring and he told you, "Fifteen or twenty dollars." You tried to give him some cash, and he ignored your hand asking instead where 'the other doctor' was. "He spends most of his time in Pittsburgh right now," you said.

"With Justin?" Stitch asked.

You laughed, "Uh no, with Gabe. You remember him?"

"Zeek's brother," Stitch said matter-of-factly.

"They're a couple," you said, and then you added, "And I don't think he likes to come back here very often; you know...because...."

"Yeah, I know," Stitch said, "That's sort of why I made this my route," and then he pointed to the bushes--less than three feet away from you-where Alan was murdered, "I kind of say 'hi' to him every day."

"Do you still paint?" you asked him, and Stitch shook his head and replied, "Nah. No fun without Al. He had so many ideas. Now, painting just makes me sad."

......

And so your routine continued, you sat on Daniel's steps once a week accompanied by a bag of any bottles or cans you'd accumulated that week, and Stitch would come by nearly every time. The two of you exchanged pleasantries and recyclables and sometimes he bummed a cigarette and then you went back home feeling somehow cleansed of the sin you'd committed earlier that day. On one particular September afternoon, you were enjoying the cooling weather and babysitting your plastic bottles when the door to Daniel's home opened behind you and scared the fuck out of you. You turned around expecting to see Dan and were surprised instead to see a six foot tall guy digging in the pocket of his jeans. Your bag of bottles rattled down the steps as you stood and said, "Brian?"

He came outside to join you, "Jon? What's up?"

"What are you doing here?" you asked him.

With a cigarette pursed between his lips, Brian explained while pointing inside the place, "Helping the doc pack some shit up and get this place on the market."

Your stomach dropped, "He's selling?"

Brian seemed a bit taken aback by your reaction, "Uh, yeah...maybe you should talk to Dan? He's here."

************
everybody knows that the war is over,
everybody knows that the good guys lost


Daniel's office looked like the aftermath of an explosion, and the expression on his face when he realized it was you standing in the doorway and not Brian was hard to decode. "Jon, hey. What are you doing here?" he asked.

It took you a second or two "Long story," you said, "I kind of come here once a week to gather my thoughts."

Daniel stepped carefully over open boxes and piles of books until he could get to you and then he gave you an awkward hug. "I've missed you," he said.

Your mind had to tell your arms to encircle his body at first, your emotions having been stuffed away so compactly. "Same here," you responded. He felt thinner than you remembered. As the hug expired, you asked him, "What are you doing? Brian said you're selling this place. You're moving to Pennsylvania?" There was fear of being left behind hidden in your voice.

"Selling? Yes," Dan said, "But so Gabe and I can get a new place together here. He has to come back...his parents are retiring."

He'd done it, you thought; he finally fell for a guy only a few years younger who wasn't a starving artist. You felt guilty for the amount of relief you felt and it fueled a small smile, "So you're not leaving here for good?"

Dan gave you a rather incredulous look, "You thought I'd leave the city? And not even tell you?"

You stuffed your hands in your pockets and shrugged, "I didn't know. You don't really come back here much anymore...and I don't guess I blame you."

He looked like he was about to explain himself to you but the conversation was interrupted by Brian who--with a cigarette still burning in his fingers--had appeared in the hallway, "Hey, Stitch is here. He's asking for you, Jon."

......

Instead of keeping your usual routine of walking back home after these weekly jaunts, you offered to stay and help. You packed up the contents of Daniel's liquor cabinet and went through the kitchen and living room boxing up personal items. Later that night, the three of you went out to dinner, and you divulged what you knew about Stitch's situation, how everything had changed. "Those light boxes I sent?" Brian asked.

"Stolen, I think," you said. "Light's a pretty hot commodity when you live underground."

"I tried to give him cash before he left today," Brian admitted, "But he wouldn't fucking take it. He'd rather cart hundreds of bottles around in a broken grocery cart all day than take a hundred bucks from me."

"He wants to earn his own living," you said.

"Some living," Brian said.

You changed the subject and asked Daniel when he thought he'd start seeing patients again. "After Gabe and I get settled, I guess."

"I'm proud of you for falling for someone your own age," you told Daniel, "Never thought I'd see the day."

"Thank you," Dan said.

Brian huffed and rolled his eyes at you, "Speaking of men your own age, how's Father Dick?"

"We broke up," you reminded both of your dinner companions.

Brian leaned forward and stared you down, asking, “So?”

"Why are you looking at me like that?" you asked him.

He smiled, "Because once a week, you're on Daniel's porch in the middle of a workday smoking. That does not compute."

Daniel's eyes grew two sizes as he caught on, "Wait? Are you? Oh god, you're not; are you, Jon?"

You'd forgotten how queens don't even need verbs in their sentences to be understood. "So? It's my early day," you tried.

"You don't have early days, Massey," Brian said, "You're a workaholic, like me. The only reason I leave work on time is because I have prime blond ass waiting for me every day."

"And how is Justin?" you asked.

"Don't change the subject. You're fucking Richard again, aren't you?" Brian asked.

You sighed and signaled the waiter for the check, "No comment."

Daniel crossed his arms, "What are you doing to him, Jon? I think he loved you."

"And he left me, if anyone's interested in the facts of the situation." You wrestled the check from Brian and slapped your credit card down with conviction. "You both need to calm down; it's all he wants, trust me. We chat beforehand, have a nice time at my place, and then he just gets up and leaves. I don't get it, but I'm not gonna fuck with it."

Brian slapped you on the shoulder, "I like it, Doc. It's carnal...and very macho."

Daniel took a different approach, "I feel so bad for him."

"Why?" you demanded, "I'm not hurting him." (You'd had just about enough of this.)

"Because he's just so gay," Daniel explained, "And he's had to hide his whole life. Clearly, these indiscretions are a type of a physical confession for him. Maybe it's nice what you're doing for him, maybe it's merciful."

"Gee, thanks, Dan. 'Merciful' is exactly what I was going for." The three of you began to exit the restaurant and Brian turned on a dime and stopped both of you, "Wait. Is the wardrobe situation better or worse?"

"No name polo shirts, cargo shorts, and sandals," you revealed.

"But it's September," Brian stressed.

"Bears don't hibernate until the winter," you reminded him.

Brian shifted his eyes as if he was giving what you said deep thought and then he said, "Dan's right. It's a mercy fuck."

"Both of you can go fuck yourselves," you told them, "And the sooner the better."

......

You convinced both Brian and Dan to spend the night at your place that night, instead of Daniel's. It wasn't a hard sell, but it surprised you that Brian went along with it. You knew that you'd get nothing but shit from them all night about Richard, but still, it felt good to be among friends.

************
HARPER COLLIN'S POV
if I could walk around I swear I'll leave,
won't take nothing but a memory
from the house that built me.


September in Georgia felt little like autumn as you sat in Justin's Jeep outside the house you grew up in. No one appeared to be home, probably at work, you surmised. Sam and Justin had exited the vehicle and were taking a walk; you could still see them at the end of the street before they turned the corner; Sam's camera swinging beneath his arm. You'd asked both of them to leave you alone for awhile. Coming back here felt nothing like you thought it would.

You noticed it the second Justin turned into the neighborhood. You expected the houses of old friends and neighbors to be different colors, but you never expected them to appear so worn down, like everyone who lived inside them just quit caring. There were random shutters and screens missing and every fourth or fifth house was trying to buck the 'gone by the wayside' trend by over-improving with dark brown slatted fences constructed to shield themselves from their low class neighbors. Nothing felt right either. The houses seemed much closer together than you recalled, and even the types of trees seemed somehow different. The landscape that used to be your never-ending playground felt claustrophobic and forgotten.

Your old house, then a pale lime green and now a soft gray, was a two story plus basement with a winding back deck that had to battle the crazy hills and valleys of the terrain. By the time you got to the top of that wooden labyrinth, you were always afraid of falling down and smashing into the hard ground below. Underneath the wooden structure, where you and Alan played together, was always home to copperhead snakes and black widow spiders. It was shaded, though, so it beat getting sunburned in summer. The dirt was hard and sloped up the sides of the cinderblock foundation; you remember carving a kitchen into it so you could play house. From your vantage point in the Jeep, you couldn't see the backyard, only that it was fenced in now. Surely, your favorite swing set was long gone. It was rusted by the time you were six but you loved the way it creaked when you pumped your legs back and forth; it had a language all its own. You swung for so long and so hard that you'd pull the legs right out of the ground at your highest peak causing a hard thunk on each swing back. If Alan swung with you, you had to be sure he was going backward when you were going forward or the set would've come unhinged. The back of your legs was always imprinted with the plastic seat when you were finished so you could never hide your favorite escape. From the back of the house, your memories were kinder: your mom calling you to dinner from the window over the kitchen sink, your dad firing up the lawn mower and ready to tackle that slope or responding to your squeals when you found a hornet's nest beneath the deck. The backyard reminded you of happy times.

Your gaze turned three hundred and sixty degrees back to your old front door, back to the windows of your old room that looked out over the front yard, as your thoughts turned to Alan finding your mother's body in the downstairs bathroom. You can still smell the air full of fear and confusion and helplessness. As you wondered if the current inhabitants knew what happened in that house, you could see straight through to the next street where Sam and Justin were making their way around the block and back to you. You wanted to shake this emptiness before they rounded the corner. You didn't want to tell them that you felt this place was dying just like you sometimes felt you were.

"Tell me what you want me to shoot, okay, babe?" Sam asked you when they returned. "I'm not sure what's important to you here."

"Me either," you said, "It doesn't feel anything like I thought it would." Maybe you could walk this sinking feeling off, you thought, so you indicated that you wanted to walk with them this time so the three of you began another trek as you replied, "Maybe because I was little, everything looked bigger? You think you'd feel safe and sort of homey when you come back to your old house, but I don't feel that way at all. Now, everything looks so plain, so unremarkable...so conquered."

"Well, the world looks bigger when you're only three feet tall," Sam said.

As the three of you made your way, you pointed out houses you remembered, neighbors you knew or feared and found yourself standing in front of the house that was directly behind your childhood home. You looked left, looked right, and then motioned for Sam and Justin to follow you as you walked through their backyard and made it to the creek that separated that house from yours. Sam came and stood beside you, his arm around your waist. You told both he and Justin what you remembered, pointing out that the old makeshift bridge the kids used to cross the creek was gone. "Come here," you said as you began to walk toward the mouth of the creek where it oozed out of a sewer-like tunnel. Sam began to shoot as you spoke, "I had forgotten about this. Alan and I were always so spooked by this tunnel. We were always afraid that someone scary was going to walk out of it and grab us or something. He went from being afraid of these tunnels to living in them. He was so much braver than I ever was." It was almost time for the leaves to start falling, decomposing and creating a mushy mesh for the fall and winter months. "We loved it back here, though," you said, "Because we had access to all of these yards and didn't have to cross streets to get through the whole neighborhood. I hardly remember playing inside our house at all." You looked over at Justin and smiled; he was sitting on a log and sketching. "One summer, Alan and I were running back and forth across this bridge playing a game or something and one of our neighbors saw us and ran out and pulled us back. We were so scared, but he knew there was a nest of baby copperheads under the plywood, and we didn't. He went down and flipped the plank onto the hill, exposing them, and then told us to head for the street and walk back home on the pavement. That happened about two weeks before my mother...."

Sam took a picture of you standing there and no one said a word.

......

That night after the adventure was over and the three of you were back at your nice hotel (Justin had put his foot down after one night in an Econo Lodge), the heavy feelings of hopelessness began to set in. You sat outside on the balcony of your room with a cold bottle of beer in your lap. Justin joined you; Sam was inside downloading his pictures. "Did you accomplish what you wanted to accomplish?" Justin asked you.

You sighed, "I don't know. I guess so."

"If it makes you feel any better, I haven't felt very productive since Alan...you know...either," he admitted to you.

You nodded, "I don't even need to produce anything new. The demand for our initial work after that interview, we're still riding that wave. Every indie-gallery in the city wants us. They want you, too," you told Justin, "But you're gone."

"They still call," he confessed.

"Well, of course they do. Our work sells and the economy is a piece of shit. Sometimes I feel like I'm making bank at the expense of Alan's memory. Sam says he feels that way, too, but we have to eat...."

Justin picked an odd moment to change the subject, "Did you know...Daniel's coming back to the city soon?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

Justin's eyebrows rose, "Zeek and Gabe, they're moving back to the city to run the restaurant. Gabe and Daniel are going to move in together--"

"Where?" you asked, fearful of the answer.

"Daniel's going to sell his place; they're going to find a new place together."

"How long have you known this?" you asked him.

"Found out two nights ago."

"And you're just now telling me? Sam! Come out here!"

......

Homecomings, you decided, are by their very nature unpredictable.
.
************
BRIAN’S POV
where the rivers change direction
across the great divide


When both you and Justin were back home, things began to pick up speed again. You spoke little of your respective 'vacations' and noticed that he seemed very intent on guaranteeing your well being; there were no arguments about robotic appliances (Justin treated them like they were in-laws to him, allowed to be present and at the most, tolerated) nor long discussions about how to cope with what everyone else was coping with. Yours (his and yours) became a world that revolved around facts, not emotion or fear. He seemed much more centered or perhaps he was just acquiescing to the fact that hopeless feelings surface now and again. At times, he'd acknowledge they were in his head and sometimes went as far as to admit they were in his heart, but he gave them far less credence. Or at least, you thought he did.

Then one day, you wandered innocently into his studio and saw sketches and blue prints instead of paints and canvases. Justin wasn't home at the time. Had he been, you wouldn't have lingered over them as long as you did. That night at dinner, you waited until he'd had a full glass of wine before you asked, "What's all that stuff in your studio? The blueprints and everything?"

He gave you a look of tepid warning, "Why were you in my studio?"

You told him the truth, "Because Maria put one of your paint rags in with my underwear again."

"Maybe you need to buy new underwear," he suggested, "If it passes for a paint rag."

"It was stuck inside those boxer briefs you hate. Reserve your disdain for static cling."

"Fair enough," he said, "I've decided what I'm going to do with that commercial property you gave me."

"Oh yeah?"

"I want to offer my dad a chance to expand his business."

This struck you as odd and very unexpected, "Um, okay. Why?"

"Because it's a conditional offer. I want something from him."

"What?"

He took a deep breath before continuing, "Okay, you know how in that strip mall he's in, how there's an empty space to the right of his store and three empty ones to the left?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to offer him the space to the right to expand Taylor Electronics as long as he becomes a significant corporate sponsor of the community art space I want to open in the other three spaces."

Your eyebrow escaped its cage, "Are you serious?" (It was a sober question.)

"Absolutely." - a sober answer.

************
it's gone away yesterday

With your sleeves rolled up and the bottle of wine by your side, you sat down next to Justin in his studio and listened as he further explained his idea, "There are a couple of things that really matter to me as an artist," he began.

"Okay."

"I want to live and work in a place where I feel creative and artistically motivated and free--"

"You mean New York?" you asked.

"No, no, I mean 'place' in a figurative sense. Just let me get this out, okay?"

"Sure, sorry."

"I mean that I want to feel creative energy within myself and my surroundings, but I want other people to feel it, too. Art matters, Brian. It matters. I used to be so cynical, but I've lived it now. I've lived with artists; I've seen what art can do for a completely ignored and impoverished community. Sometimes art mattered more than shelter or food, and definitely more than money. So I want to create a place where the same is true. A place where anyone can come and be involved or affected by art."

"Lofty but inspiring, please continue."

"And I have this space, this space you gave me...and I want to start a new community art space that houses studios for local artists and offers art experiences for people of all ages. I want to have different areas for painting, sculpting, drawing, pottery, photography, graphic art, even graffiti art like spray painting. I want to host art shows featuring local talent, and I want it to be a place where all ages can come to create and appreciate art, new mediums, whatever. I want to have classes and be a resource for art rehabilitation, even private space for art therapy if there's a need. I mean, art is constantly being cut from school curriculums and even PIFA doesn't have enough room for all the artists that want work space, and this property is on the bus route. And I don't want to have to charge people an arm and a leg; I want corporate sponsors." He stopped and looked at you, "I can't tell if you think this is a good idea or an incredibly stupid one."

"I think it's pretty cool, pretty ambitious, but pretty cool." You meant it when you said it, realizing that you'd been wrong all along; Justin's goal was never to conquer the art world; he was trying to find a way to be a more meaningful part of it. You were reminded of something he said to you months earlier, 'The genesis of art is not the hope of a sale.'

"Are you being honest?" he asked, and you responded, "Am I ever not honest?"

He smiled, "No, you aren't."

"When did you come up with this?" you asked feeling like you were playing catch up with him, like you needed to hurry and get on the same page.

"In Georgia," he admitted.

"On your trip?"

"Yeah. Every one of us who's been hurt, who's been broken; art was always there. Some of us produce, some collect, some covet, some analyze, some only struggle--"

"Some employ gnomes," you added.

"Some sell out," he said, revising your appraisal and then he swallowed and said, "And some...know how...to capitalize on art." He looked away after that, over his shoulder like the lamp behind him was speaking to him.

You sat there as the capitalist and stared down at your wine glass, your fingers skating around the rim. For so long, you'd felt shut out of this part of Justin's psyche, and now, he was letting you come in and look around. You were serious when you spoke, "You want my input on this process or were you going to do this all by yourself?"

He looked a little defensive, "I wanted to have it more fleshed out before I showed you. That's all. Please, say whatever you want...just don't say you totally hate it."

"I think it's a great idea, and there are--because of what I do for a living--about a hundred ideas in my head right now."

"Give me one," he stressed.

"Okay...," you tried to think how to phrase it, "...I think you have two different projects here. Building this art space and dealing with your dad. You don't need him to do this; the space is yours, so I think you should tackle your dad first and find out how much space you'll actually be renovating."

Justin's shoulders sagged a bit as he leaned on the table, "That's the part I'm uncomfortable with. Can I have a different idea?"

You humored him because you didn't want him to get stuck in his tracks. "Okay," you tried again, "Now, I'm sort of allergic to this concept, but maybe you should set it up as a non-profit; there are all sorts of rules about revenue and shit but Ted can help you, and that way, people can donate to it tax free."

"Keep going," he urged you, "Let's just brainstorm a little."

Over the next hour, you went over the mechanical blue prints with him explaining how the renovations you had to do on Babylon and Kinnetik had taught you way more than you ever wanted to know about plumbing and running electricity. You pointed out things like, "Look where the bathrooms are in these plans. See how they're always back to back? You need to keep all those sinks and the washer and dryer you want on the unused wall near the plumbing." He began to update his personal sketches as you spoke. "If you end up with all this space to renovate, you can always have space for kids birthday parties, summer camps or even those Wine and Paint nights that the soccer moms have around here."

"You think my dad's going to relocate rather than have his business next to mine?" Justin asked, the question clearly weighing on him.

"I'm not sure. All I can tell you is that there is a ton of cheap and empty commercial retail space in Pittsburgh, and he might be able to find a better deal--"

"Okay," he sighed, interrupting you, "That's true."

You finished your sentence, "I was going to say 'on paper' he'll find a better deal, but it'll only be better on paper."

"That's a sweet thing to say."

"Well, take it from someone who often feels like a stranger with his own son. You don't get these opportunities every day."

Justin blinked a few times and tapped his pen on the table as if it was a signal for his emotions to get back in check, "Well, the way I see it, my dad either takes this offer or he relocates. I either need three consecutive units or five. From that information I found in your desk, he wants to expand, and if he doesn't want to be a corporate sponsor, well, I mean, you're paying for Molly's education; you paid for mine; what the fuck else does he have to invest in?"

"Step-children?" you wondered aloud just to see if it was something he'd thought about. It was something Jennifer had alluded to once in a cryptic conversation. You could think of little else besides clearing the hell out of this path for Justin, shining it up for his well-deserving feet.

"There's two, I think. Molly told me."

"How old?"

"I think the oldest one is in junior high. Molly thinks he's gay, too."

"Oh, Jesus. God help that kid."

Justin stood up and faced you so you pushed yourself up off the table, too. He had such an earnest look on his face when he asked you, "Do you think that's why he's been calling me...maybe?"

You raised your eyebrows, "Who knows, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was the case. Times have changed since...you...."

"Yeah," he said quietly, his eyes moving back to his table full of future plans.

"Okay, so, anyway, what you said about what else he's got to invest in...that's exactly how I'd present it to him if it were me," you explained.

You spent another hour with him looking over the blue prints and explaining how to get bids for the work, etc. After the bottle of wine was long gone, you watched as he collated his notes, his sketches, and then rolled up the blue prints. "I need to see if Ted has time for me tomorrow," Justin said, picking up his phone. You took it from him and sat it on top of the pile, "He has time."

"Well, we should check," he suggested again.

"He works for me. He has time."

......

When you left for work the following morning, you left behind a check from Kinnetik for fifty thousand dollars on your pillow. In the memo line, you wrote, corp. sponsor - founder's level. By the time you got home from work that night, you had soft commitments from three other long time clients always looking for a benevolent cause for good publicity.

The sponsor that would bring Justin's project to the quarter million dollar mark would come in time and bear more than a check.

************
everybody knows that it's now or never,
everybody knows that it's me or you


And so it was... that on a bitter cold Friday afternoon in November of 2011, you stood in empty commercial retail space, waiting and toying with random coils of wire as they spilled out of the ceiling. You were dressed for work having taken a half day at Kinnetik, and your overcoat, scarf, and gloves weren’t helping that much in the drafty room. But the cold was really the least of your worries....

What was happening that very day was something that you feared would never happen for Justin in this new life. You worried since the day he returned about his ability to find his footing here, to plant something that grew deep roots. You knew it wasn't easy for him to just come back and meld right into your life and your livelihoods. You knew that you could make him happy at home, but that happiness only went part of the way. He had to take the next steps himself; he had to identify them and then want to take them.

You drove together to Taylor Electronics that day in his car; you drove for him because he was clearly nervous. You watched from the car as Justin walked into his dad's store, a leather messenger bag slung around his body. You waited until you couldn't see him anymore and then walked into an empty unit to pace. You paced and waited, waited and paced. You hadn't thought to bring a cup of coffee with you; the lunch you and Justin had prior to arriving was sitting like a lead ball in your stomach. Every time the bell on Craig's door rang, you looked up hoping to see blond hair and an expression of at least contentment. You checked your phone a million times, tried to play some stupid game. At almost the one hour mark, you heard the bell again, and then you saw blond hair walking stridently toward the car. You bolted out of that unit and unlocked the car for him from several feet away. He smiled at you when he saw you coming but you could read nothing into it before he disappeared inside the vehicle. Your heart was pounding when you put your hand on the car door. You made yourself take a deep, bitterly cold breath in an attempt to calm down. The air inside the car was thick and still; you shot Justin a quick glance but he was looking straight ahead so you started the car. "You ready to leave?" you asked because you honestly couldn't tell.

"Yeah, let's go," he said with a weird calm in his voice. He removed his bag and sat it on the floor between his feet and put on his seatbelt. It wasn't until you hit the interstate headed home that he finally said, "Molly was basically right."

You didn't know what to say so you just reached over and took his hand and wrapped your gloved fingers around it. You squeezed, and he turned away and started staring out his window. You passed the next five minutes in silence, slowly realizing that he was not okay, not at all. Part of you wanted to pull off the highway right then and there, but you kept driving thinking that where he really needed to be was home.

......

The two of you sat on a couch in your home theater room. "It was nothing like I thought it would be," he admitted wearing a mixture of relief, anger, grief, and incredulity.

"Is that good or bad?" you asked, "I can't tell." You rested your hand on his shoulder.

"I don't even know where to start," Justin admitted sounding a bit defeated.

"Start anywhere," you suggested, "You said Molly was right?"

"He's not even the same man anymore," he said ignoring your question. "They tell you that people don't change, but that's bullshit. They do."

"How has he changed?" you asked a bit fearful of the answer.

"He was calling me because he wanted to reconcile with me. He thought that's why I was there."

"Well, it sort of was."

"He wanted to or rather 'wants to' because he's seen the error of his ways, mainly that he blamed himself for me turning out the way I did."

"Excuse me?"

"He knows now that it's not his fault that I'm gay. He saw my interview on CNN; I guess he realized that I grew up, got married to a man and yet, the Rapture never came and left me behind or something."

"How enlightened of him."

Justin sighed in an exasperated way and sunk his face into his hands for a moment before resurfacing to say, "You see, he's got a thirteen year old step-son named Trevor or Travis or something, and he, the kid, is...well...not interested in being a boy." (You felt a pocket of your mind burst open at that moment.) "And after seeing my interview, he realized that maybe I could help him with this. He and his wife are clueless; they don't know what to do. The only thing he knows for sure is that kids are born this way; he gets that now. The odds of him having two deviant sons are infinitesimal, I guess."

Your eyes felt like they were growing too big for their sockets. "Did you even get to the property issue? "

"Yeah, I'm getting there. So, I told him that there's the Gay and Lesbian Center in Pittsburgh with tons of resources and groups like PFLAG, and if I were him, I'd start there. I think he wants me to talk to this kid, but I don't want to."

"Yeah, the Gay Messiah treatment is fucking annoying."

"So then, I got a little more upset than I wanted to, and I told him that our relationship, if we're actually going to have one now, needs to start way, way back from this point. That I'm glad he wants to help his step-son, but I'm his real son and deserve an apology for the way he treated me, making me feel like he wanted me dead before he wanted me gay, like I deserved what happened to me," and then Justin turned and faced you, "That we deserved what happened to us, you know? I mean, fuck, he physically hurt you, twice, Brian."

"Well, he fucked with me; I fucked with him. We're pretty even now." Your heart tried to escape your chest and envelope him, but you forced yourself to stay calm and composed, to not turn this into something about you. "You're incredibly brave," you said, "I hope you know that."

"So then, he admitted he was an ass, but that he only hurt me out of ignorance. I told him there's was a lot more than ignorance going on. That he was cruel and selfish, and that it took a long time for me to overcome the damage he did to me."

"Good for you."

"I had this overwhelming urge to punish him, Brian. It was a horrible feeling. And then I told him about my plans for the space, and that he had a week to decide if he wants to expand into the extra space or relocate the business. He was more than a little shocked."

"What did he say?"

"He said he doesn't have enough money to be a corporate sponsor, and he wouldn't want to pledge that to me if he couldn't deliver."

"Stores like his have taken a beating since 2008. I'm not surprised by that."

"He doesn't want to expand anymore, and he would've moved the store much earlier if you weren't his landlord. He's terrified of you, Brian."

You laughed, "Good."

"I told him he was dealing with me now, not you, and if he wants out of his lease, he can go. He'll give me his answer in a week, but I'm ninety percent sure he's going to go."

"Well, your dad got exactly what he wanted, didn't he?" you asked.

"What do you mean?"

"He wanted a businessman for a son and he got one; sometimes people should be careful what they wish for."

Justin gave you a wary look, "You're so cold and calculating sometimes."

You remedied that with, "Well, I'm proud of you, Justin. Beyond proud, really. I mean...I'm proud to be married to you."

He smiled at you in such an unguarded way that it gave you chills and then he said, "If you and I weren't how we are now, I could've never done this, Brian."

"If you're going to get emotional on me, could you at least put your hand in my pants first?" you asked him.

"No," he said rather emphatically. "You need to feel this; this is what having a good relationship feels like." And then he laughed and leaned against you, his fingers working on your shirt buttons, "Not every good feeling needs to end with an ejaculation, Brian. You need to grasp that concept."

Seriously? How can he scold you like that and expect you not to come?

Twat.

************
with those holiday greetings,
and gay happy meetings
when friends come to call


December 2011

Christmases in years past weren't exactly memory makers for you save the anonymous back-to-back blow jobs and then the few hours you'd get to spend spoiling Gus to death. But that December, things were different. You and Justin hosted a Christmas party at your home that brought everyone together, a mix of your family in Canada, Pittsburgh (friends and key employees), and New York. Naturally, chaos ensued. Gabe nearly peed on himself when you offered to pay him to cook a kick ass Christmas dinner since Roger was on vacation. He refused your money, and then basically moved into your kitchen three days before Christmas. Oddly enough, he got along better with the refrigerator than you did which you considered unnecessary bravado. Once you caught him singing to a spatula while watching your microwave count down from ten to one. When Jennifer arrived with her pecan pie in tow, you thought you'd have to intervene because Gabe had made one as well and was attempting to freeze hers, but Jennifer knew Gabe well enough and figured out a way to sweet talk him into having two of them, “It’s Justin’s favorite.” JR faced an uphill battle with Amelia for attention; Zeek (decked out in his "All I want for Christmas is a ho, ho, ho" shirt) asked you twelve times if you invited the pool boy and when you explained, that no, you hadn't, since it was December, Zeek asked you, "Well, how serious is that blonde lady and her dyke girlfriend?" "Do you mean Lindsay, the mother of my child?" you asked him, "The woman wearing a wedding ring?"

"Aw, shit, man. Are you serious?"

"Yes, and I think you should try to fuck someone who's not in some way related to me."

"This party blows, Boss Man," he promptly declared.

"Well, you know where the door is," you told him, "You probably installed it."

Harper and Lindsay hit it off right away, soon lost in a project that involved turning your kitchen table into a gigantic Elmer's glue and glitter ornament-making extravaganza. Your favorite part of that interaction was watching Emmett out create them at every turn. But even that had its upside because as Emmett made yet another reindeer out of popsicle sticks, Lindsay got a real chance to talk with Harper about motherhood and art, two things they had in common. Later in the day, Rube roped Emmett and Sam into a snowman building contest, and both men were too naive to say no. Rube quietly recruited Gus to help him because building an ordinary snowman and then carefully chiseling the exterior snow to make it look like the entire creature was made of Legos was no easy feat. Separated by the giant fir trees in your backyard, Sam and Emmett each worked alone. Sam created a snow replica of Beaker from The Muppets complete with strips of carrots a top his head which he stole from Gabe’s vegetable prep area. Emmett’s concept worked wonderfully at first; he dyed giant snowballs the colors of the rainbow with food coloring. The problem began when he began to stack them and they started to mix together turning a rainbow snowman into something sort of brown and gross. His choice of a butt plug for the nose turned out to be rather devastating choice design wise by the end of the three hour competition. Justin was slated to judge the competition as he’d been considered the most impartial. Before he made his rounds, you ran to Emmett’s snowman and moved the butt plug to the area it was designed for. Of course, Rube and Gus won the competition; their structure was mesmerizing. Sam was a good sport about it; Emmett not so much. Upon Justin announcing the winner, Gus came up to you in front of everyone and said, “Dad, the first place prize is three hundred dollars…each.”

You gave your scheming son a rather incredulous look, “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Gus said all satisfied with himself.

“Well, you must think that money grows on trees, so why don’t you go find some? We’ve practically got a forest back here.” You pointed to the foliage in your backyard as you teased him.

“Dad, c’mon,” he tried again.

“I found twenty-three dollars in these jeans this morning,” you offered, “You can have that.” When Gus looked disappointed in that gesture, you added, “Or not.”

Clearly feeling a bit embarrassed in front of everyone, Gus finally held his hand out, “Fine, I’ll take it.”

************
oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays

Aside from sabotaging snowman and keeping the rouse of a real Santa Claus alive, your biggest challenge was with Gus. He arrived with his mothers and sister about three days before Christmas, and about five hours after entering your world again, caught you kissing Justin in the kitchen...with your hand wandering over his ass. You had your back to the doorway, but apparently Justin saw Gus and slowly moved your hand back up to his lower back. You knew immediately that something wasn't right and turned around to see Gus walking away in at a rather brisk pace. You chastised Justin, "You don't have to do that. We're married. I can kiss you whenever I want."

"It wasn't exactly the kissing; it was the groping," he pointed out.

"Well, I can grope you whenever I want. Why the hell else would I marry you?"

"You need to talk to him, Brian; he's feels threatened when I'm around."

"It's just because you two are so close in age."

Justin socked you in the stomach and agreed, "Yes, I remember bumping into Gus when we shared a crib together. Boy, times have changed, huh?"

"I'll talk to him again. Though I'm obviously not doing that right either," you admitted.

You waited a couple of hours and then pulled Gus away from his Xbox and brought him up to your office. He sat on the sofa, the game controller still in his hand. "What?" he scoffed.

"Don't take that attitude with me," you warned him.

"Well, I was about to win that level; I was finally beating that kid in Sweden. Now I have to start over."

"Okay, well my condolences for that tragedy. We'll notify NATO. I want to know why you get so upset when you see me with Justin."

"I don't get 'upset,'" he remarked with way too much attitude.

"You just freaked out a couple hours ago when we were in the kitchen--"

"Oh my god, Dad. Don't talk about it. Seriously. Let it go." He pulled out his phone and tried to pretend he was getting a text. You took it away from him and put it on your desk. "I want an answer, Gus. I don't like feeling uncomfortable in my own house."

"Okay, here's your answer: it's…kind of gross. Okay? Can I go now?"

Part of you wanted to pin him against the wall and ask him where in the hell he got off being a smart ass to you, but then you remembered that he's your son and that in some karma-soaked way, you probably deserved this. You heard a noise in the hallway and knew that Justin (master sleuth and all) was clearly listening to the conversation from the other side of the wall. Gus stood up and tried to reach for his phone, and you put your hand over it and told him, "Sit down. I'm not finished."

"I don't even know why I need to be here," Gus said. "You don't want me here and I have a newer Xbox at Uncle Michael's anyway."

“You’re here because you’re my son, and it’s Christmas—“

“Yeah, but it used to be just me and you. Now it’s me, you, and tons of people I don’t even know.”

"Gus, we can do father/son stuff; I just feel like all you want to do is stare at a screen and play video games.”

He tried to change the subject, "That little girl won't leave me alone, Dad."

"Who? Amelia? You should like her. She's very straight and has great taste in men."

"She can't even talk right. And that big muscle guy keeps calling me 'Little Boss Man' all the time and won't let me just play my game in freaking peace. He thinks he's good, but he's old and he sucks."

You sighed; this was going nowhere. "What’s your problem with Justin?"

"I don't know; I don't really know him, and he acts like he's scared of me. Plus he's more than ten years older than me and we're almost the same height. Is he like a midget or something?"

"No, he's not a midget, Gus. Justin, come in here."

Justin rounded the wall and gave you an embarrassed look and a little wave, "Hi Gus." He sat down next to your son. Amazingly, Gus lived through that moment, and Justin was clearly chomping at the bit to get in on this conversation, "Gus, you know I've known you since you were a baby right? Since the night you were born? I actually, sort of, named you."

Gus rolled his eyes, “I know.”

"Look, if something is bothering you about us, you can say it. It's okay," Justin tried.

Gus turned at looked right at Justin, "Okay. I don't like it when you touch my dad...like you do, and the way you look at him; makes me feel weird. I don’t know why."

You felt yourself getting pissed off and you knew Justin could tell because he put his hand up like it alone was going to hold you back while he talked to your son, "Gus, we really try not to overdo it when you're here because we know it makes you uncomfortable, but what I don't quite understand is, well, do you feel this way about your moms, too?"

Gus responded like it was a dumb question, "No."

You felt like you were watching a tennis match as Justin kept trying, "Okay, so it's because we're guys and you're a guy?" (Justin was trying so hard that you started to feel bad for him.) "But, I mean, if that's the case, Michael and Ben are guys, and you like being over there, so we don't understand."

And that's when it hit you what Gus's problem was, and you looked at Justin and made it clear that you were taking over this conversation, "Okay, I think I see the problem. Gus, you're a smart kid. You understand the concept of 'newlyweds,' right?"

"Yeah," Gus said in a defensive way that clearly meant, well sort of, not really.

"Well, good, then you understand that that's what Justin and I are. Your mothers and Michael and Ben have been married since dinosaurs roamed the earth; Justin and I have married for ten months--"

"Ten and a half," Justin whispered.

You gave him a cross look and turned your attention back to your son and spoke a phrase that would’ve made you vomit in years past and forced you to admit to yourself that fatherhood changes you, "We're in what people call the 'honeymoon period.'"

"When is it over?" Gus asked you like it was a disease you were suffering from.

You rolled your eyes at him, "It ends when it ends. You're just going to have to grin and bear it. Justin lives here; this is his house, too, and we're all going to get along, and that's the end of this ridiculousness. And if you don't like it when we hug or whatever, then don't watch. We're not particularly interested in being stared at, so that shouldn't be too difficult. Understand?"

"Yeah," Gus said in a way that meant, can we please be done with this? "Can I go now?"

"Yep, get out of here. Better go fast because I think I'm going to kiss him again." And then you reached for Justin like you were a possessed zombie, and he slapped you away, "Stop it, Brian! That's creepy!" Gus ran out of your office as fast as he could. You got up to leave as well, and Justin pulled your hand to stop you. "What?" you asked.

"I remember the good old days when you liked people watching us," he chided you.

"My son doesn't need to know that, okay?"

"I don't ever want the honeymoon period to end," he said with a little sadness in his voice.

You pulled him into your arms and groped his ass, "Oh you silly, silly midget; it doesn't have to end. We're just not telling him that."

"You better stop calling me a fucking midget, Brian."

"Aw, you don't scare me, Eggo. Nice try, though."

************
but let me tell you, I've got some new for you,
and you'll soon find out it's true


Prior to your official Christmas Eve dinner, you were walking down the stairs and into the kitchen when you stopped at the doorway of the hall bathroom. The door was cracked, the light was on, and there was copious whispering going on behind it. You stood and listened for a second, afraid that it was Gus interviewing Zeek about his sexuality; the answers he'd get in that case would be blunt, honest, and probably send your son into a whirlwind of sexual confusion that would cost you at least ten thousand dollars of therapy. After a few seconds of eavesdropping, you realized it was Daniel and Jon, so you knocked with your knuckles and poked your head inside to ask, "What the hell are you queens doing in here?"

"Come here," Daniel said, grabbing your shirt, pulling you inside the small room, and shutting the door.

You threw your hands up as if he'd pulled you into the backroom at Babylon, "I don't do this anymore; I'm flattered but--"

Jon smacked your hand down and whispered, "We're pretty sure Harper is pregnant again."

"What? Why?" you asked.

"Because she's not drinking," Daniel said.

"Yes, she is," you defended, "I poured her a glass of wine myself."

"She's not drinking it," Jon stressed, looking at you like you were a moron. (Apparently your half bath was the West Virginian headquarters for The National Enquirer.)

"Watch her," Dan said, "She only sips it, and I've seen her trade glasses with Sam when his was empty." "Just watch her when we're all eating together," he suggested, "See if I'm wrong." You heard Justin's voice in the hallway calling for you, so you reached an arm out of the bathroom, yanked him in, too, and bestowed him with the same information. "We're shrinks," Jon said, shrugging at Justin's shock, "We're observant."

At dinner on Christmas Eve Night, Gabe announced that he and Daniel had finally found a place they liked in New York and were moving in January. Daniel's place hadn't sold yet, but he had a few good offers and felt optimistic that one of those would go through. Witnessing Gabe's happiness chafed Zeek, as usual, so Emmett cordially invited him to stay behind and continue to work at Zeal because, "I, the illustrious Swizzle Stick, will be your new boss." "The hell you will, Dandy Cane." Zeek said, prompting a very stern look from Melanie and Lindsay about his choice of words in the presence of little ones. Harper seemed to take the bad language a bit too seriously, covering her mouth and pushing away from the table with, "Excuse me," and running into the hallway. You caught the over-concerned look on Sam's face and in a split second sent your silent observation to Justin who sent it to Daniel who sent it to Jon who sent it right back to you. You looked away offering rolls to Rube, but the room was quiet enough for everyone to hear Amelia from the kid's table, "Brime Kinney, Mommy just frows up a lot." She shrugged her small shoulders, and Sam gave you a sheepish smile, got up and reassured his daughter as he followed Harper's previous footsteps, "She'll be okay, 'Melia."

"Yeah, 'cause I already knowed that, Daddy," she replied.

Well, you thought, now everybody knowed that.

And in all of the Christmas festivities, revelations and general holiday hubbub that went on that night, neither you nor Justin ever heard the doorbell ring.

************
JUSTIN'S POV
we give it to the people, spread it across the country

Once it became common knowledge that night that Harper was indeed pregnant, there were congratulatory hugs and a conscious effort not to make too big a deal out of it because it was still very early. From your calculations, she got pregnant in Georgia, which didn't surprise you. The veracity of Sam and Harper's sexual exploits on that trip were the reason you insisted on paying and staying in a better hotel where the walls weren't made out of newspaper.

After dinner, after the kitchen was cleaned and the children were supposedly tucked in their beds, you brought Harper, Sam, Daniel, Jon, Gabe and Zeek up to your studio for a meeting. Brian hung back in the doorway on child watch because keeping Amelia in her bed had become almost more exciting than the arrival of Santa Claus. Your friends sat on stools around your table as you explained what you'd been working on for the last couple of months. "It's a resource center," you explained, "That focuses on art. I have a huge amount of space--"

"Justin, the rent alone--," Daniel remarked.

"There's no rent," you explained, "I own this property outright." You pretended not to notice when Jon jabbed Daniel with his elbow and repeated in a whisper, "He owns it outright". Dan apologized, "Okay, got it. Sorry to interrupt. Continue."

"There are five units total that I'm renovating, so let's start in the middle," you pointed to your blue prints, "This unit, number three in the middle here, is a free art experience studio where people of all ages can come experiment with new mediums, like one week it'll be painting on canvas and then one week it'll be ceramics, and on and on."

"Wow," Harper said with a smile.

"And photography?" Sam asked.

"Yep," and you continued, "I'm working on getting local artists to volunteer during those times, like a potter to come during ceramics or whatever, and help people try things out. It's a lot of planning. Then unit two will be devoted to classes of all kinds, not free, but inexpensive--"

Zeek interrupted looking defensive, "Wait, who's doing this work? Who got this bid?"

"I've got a general contractor, Zeek," you said, "This job is huge. It's not a one man job."

"Well, I would've liked to be considerate," he puffed

Gabe pulled him back from the table, "It's considered, Zeek. You would've liked to be considered for the job."

"You're not even going to be here. You're going back to New York in less than a month," you tried.

"Fuck how you say it. You know what I mean," he shot back. You gave Brian a rather stern look, and he called Zeek over and pulled him out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

"Okay, so anyway. Sorry about that. I sort of thought he knew about this. Anyway, unit one will be staff offices and space devoted to occupational and art therapists, like the people who helped me use my hand again after I got hurt."

"This is unbelievable," Jon said. "You did this yourself?"

"I have a lot of help with the parts I'm not good at like permits and things. Brian has a ton of connections. Okay, so anyway, unit four is going to be devoted to specially themed day camps in the summer and rented out for birthday parties and wine and paint nights the rest of the year. Apparently, a drunk painting craze is sweeping the nation."

"This must be in the suburbs," Harper said, "How do I not know about this?" Sam laughed at her.

"Okay, and unit five, the last unit, will be devoted to small studios that artists can rent out and our art gallery where we can hold fund raising events and art sales and things like that. The artists that have studio space will have their rent subsidized by their participation in our programs." The next few minutes were spent passing around sketches and answering endless questions. Brian opened the door at one point, and Zeek came back in and apologized to you, "Sorry. I was being a jack ass, Eg--, Justin. Just forget what I said."

"It's forgotten," you said. Eventually the questions stopped and the room got quiet again. When it did, you began, "But the reason I brought you all here for Christmas and in here tonight, is, well, because...I want to name this...the 'Alley Oop Art Space' in memory of Alan, and I want to know, Harper and all of you... if you're okay with that?"

......

The room got quiet again. Very quiet. Brian nodded at you, and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

************
say what you wanna say
and let the words fall out


It was your first Christmas Eve since coming back; it was your first Christmas with Brian, really, and all you could think about was how grateful you were for him, for the man you married, for the man who waited for you (and you alone) in your bed, the man who didn't undress until you said good night to those who were staying at your house and good-bye to those who were going back home. Ever since Gus had arrived, Brian made it clear that he wasn't undressing until the two of you called it a night and your bedroom door was locked. And for a man who doesn't like doors or barriers of any kind, not to mention locked ones, he liked them more than explaining what Gus may have accidentally witnessed the two of you doing in the middle of the night (on his trip a few months prior) to Mel. (For the record, it wasn't your stupid idea to call it 'exercising.')

"Well?" Brian asked, his eyes searching your face for hope, "How did it go? What did they say?" You closed your bedroom door and pushed the lock in with your finger. "Tell me," he repeated, although by then you were standing between his legs, feeling his hands roam beneath your shirt.

"I love you," you said.

He smiled as you held his face and kissed him. "I love you, too. You were worried about what Harper would say, so what did she say?" he asked again.

"There was a lot of crying," you admitted.

"You look none the worse for wear," Brian offered.

"She agreed to it. Sam agreed. Daniel--"

"Fell apart again?" he asked.

"Yeah, but we were all there, and we picked him back up. Gabe's taking him home now. He'll be okay."

"So the tour is still on?"

"Yep, we're meeting everybody at eleven tomorrow morning," you explained, and then began to make a concerted effort to get your clothes off, happy when Brian followed your lead. You sat in his lap; his arms coiled around you..

"Do you promise to be quiet if I fuck you like this?" Brian asked.

"I'll do my best. It gets really deep--," and you didn't finish your sentence because it already was.

"Well, you're on Santa's lap," Brian teased, "What would you like for Christmas young man?"

You decided to go for broke (first Christmas and all that), "Tomorrow afternoon, when everyone's gone from our house and we're not expected anywhere, I'd like to take my time and full advantage of our age difference and fuck you into the middle of next week."

"Is that all?"

"At the moment," you said.

Brian gave a fake 'thinking' face he loves and said, "Well, I'll consider it. Sometimes Santa likes to do charity for elves this time of year."

"Okay, you need to stop with the short jokes. It's not my fault that your son looks like one of stilt-walkers in the circus."

"I've tried to tell him that this is the path one takes to tall, dark, and handsome, but he doesn't believe me."

"Well, he likes me now because I got him upgraded from the kid's table," you told him. "I'm back on his good side."

"Yeah, that was a good idea. He looked like Lerch sitting over there," Brian agreed, steering your hips until they were making the motion he wanted, and then he backed off just a little so you wouldn't run out the clock too fast on a very nice fuck. Maybe you were too quiet when it was over, maybe that quiet made Brian's mind start cataloging everything that had happened in the last couple months. You were pressed against him, enjoying his fingers playing with your hair when he tried, "You should feel relieved after all this. There are no more secrets. Everybody knows everything."

"It's not really about that," you said.

"Then what? What's the matter?"

"I feel like I didn't handle it right with my dad, like maybe I was an asshole for no reason."

"You had plenty of reasons," Brian said.

"Maybe they were dumb reasons," you tried.

Brian sighed and lifted your chin so he could see your face, "What you want out of your life, Justin, is just as important as what anyone else wants out of theirs. That's all life is, figuring out ways to get what you want and how to enjoy it once you've gotten whatever you end up getting."

"I think I was mean," you confessed.

"You weren't, and if I thought that you were, I would've told you. Haven't I always told you when I think you're going too far?" Justin sighed, unconvinced, so you continued, "And you're a good man, Justin Taylor. You were born that way. There isn't a bad bone in your body."

"Except the one in my ass at the moment," you pointed out.

"Well, present cock accepted."

......

The following morning, the kids opened their presents before the crack of dawn, and then everyone journeyed to Pittsburgh to see the art center in progress. You walked everyone through explaining away while Amelia ran screaming through all the empty space burning off the excess sugar from her six a.m. candy binge. When you got to unit four, Daniel looked up at the sign over the door and with a concerned look on his face said, "Justin, what is this place? A store?" He even tried the door and it was locked.

"It's my dad's electronics store," you said, "He's moving out soon."

You could tell that Daniel had many more questions but perhaps the rather stern look on your face convinced him not to ask them. He peeked inside instead and replied, "Well, looks like there's a huge sale starting tomorrow."

"Yep. Come on," you encouraged, "Let's finish the tour."

************
BRIAN'S POV
standing in the hall of fame
and the world's gonna know your name


That Christmas day the roads toward home were almost empty. Justin refused to wear his seatbelt because it was keeping him too far away from you. His amorous overtures made you almost pull off on the side of the freeway and plant his blond head in your lap, but you knew that because it was Christmas, every do-gooder on the highway would stop and offer to help, and you didn't need that. By the time you pulled into your driveway, your hand was inside his underwear and he was moaning your name.

Merry. Fucking. Christmas.

You stopped in the driveway when you saw it, the large square purple and white Fed Ex box, half of it sitting on your front stoop and the other half tilting into your bushes. Justin's eyes opened; his gaze followed yours, "What's that?"

"I guess it was delivered yesterday. Did you order something for me?" you asked with a Santa-like twinkle in your eye.

"Everything I ordered for you is in my pants right now," he teased.

"Well, then, it's a mystery," you decided.

Once inside, you opened the large square box with your pocket knife while Justin tidied up the living room as it was awash with crumbled up wrapping paper and bows. You peered inside and saw a giant red basket wrapped in copious amounts of cellophane and a plain white card tied to the green bow. Your reading glasses were in a drawer in the foyer table, and you donned them to read the card that was now open in your hand:

Brian,

With the passing of Steve Jobs, world re-known visionary and our fearless leader and, the time has come to usher a new set of visionaries into APPLET-- the Apple Pilot-Project for Lifestyle Enrichment®. We are pleased to inform you that you have been chosen as a key seed in our advertising and marketing core. Please enjoy the holidays and when you have a moment, text 'accept' to the phone number you use for iWINN ®. Instructions on how to proceed from that point will be sent to you. Please allow 3-5 days for delivery from date of text.

On behalf of the vision that Steve made a reality and the entire APPLET® project, I thank you for your dedicated participation in the beta testing of our product and wish you a Merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year. Enjoy the apples; they are a variety from all over the world--just like us.

Welcome aboard,
G. Clooney


You read it twice; your eyes shifted to see if Justin was paying any attention to you, and he wasn't, so you celebrated with a quiet but knowing smile in the hallway mirror and then tucked the card and your readers back in the drawer. By the time Justin questioned you, you had all but closed the box and were offering to take the bags of trash to the garage for him. "Thanks," he said, "I know you like things neat and clean. You're more relaxed." He was making a reference to your upcoming bedroom festivities, and he was right. "What's in the box?" he asked.

"Gift from a client."

"Delivered to our house? That's kind of weird."

"Yeah. It's just a bunch of fruit."

"Is that a subliminal homosexual slur? A bunch of fruit on our doorstep?"

You rolled your eyes at him, "Seriously?"

"You're a very fresh fruit," he responded, "I'm just saying."

"I'll take the trash out and meet you upstairs, okay?" you offered.

"Deal."

......

When you got up to your bedroom, Justin was waiting for you dangling a sprig of mistletoe over his dick. He fucked you twice and then congratulated you on, "Getting to the next level in that fucking cult."

You confronted him, "You peeked in the drawer."

"You found your own glasses. I knew something was up."

"Are you mad?" you asked.

"That card was really from George Clooney?"

"Yeah," you grinned.

"Hell, no, I'm not mad. He's hot."

You probably deserved that.

************
I'm bringing sexy back

Citing the unrelenting competition he faced from online retailers, Craig informed Justin he wouldn't be renewing his lease. Justin agreed to let his father ride out the holiday season in his current space as long as he vacated by January 31, 2012. In the meantime, Justin spent his days at Kinnetik in an unused office full of designs, sketches, blue prints, financial and fund raising forecasts. General contractors and sub contractors filtered in and out all the time. You road to work separately each day so Justin could take meetings when he needed to; you let him use Ted whenever he needed him and as the project began to get bigger, you advised him to consider hiring an assistant to help him, even offering Cynthia to weed through applicants for him. He was very grateful but declined (marriage seems to make the stubborn even more so...) and often expressed that you were doing too much for him but at the same time, seemed to understand that it's just your way. If he scoffed too much, you'd back off for a few days and try to blend into the background.

Justin had been home for almost a year when Craig vacated his unit. To celebrate the impending renovations, you wore nothing to bed that night but a bright yellow hard hat and a tool belt stocked with lube, dildos, anal beads. Upon seeing you, Justin rolled his eyes at you and said, "You're a total fucking idiot, you know that?"

"They're your dildos," you reminded him, splaying your hands at the selection you were offering.

"You're a dildo," he replied.

"It's important to spice up our sex life now that we're married," you explained, "Or so I've read in Theodore's internet history."

"I am not fucking one of the Village People," Justin declared.

He had a good point, so you offered, "Want me to go get the other five?"

He didn't.

************

you’ve got the best of my love

They say the first year of marriage is always the toughest, and when February of 2012 rolled around, you had little evidence to the contrary. And the fact that your relationship with Justin had survived the plethora of ups and downs continued to surprise you. The bond you felt with him was something you'd never experienced with anyone else, and it no longer caused fear to simmer inside you. It felt almost redundant, this pact of love and friendship. It could morph and change like an amoeba and yet never breach a boundary.

"Good evening, Mr. Kinney. Today is Friday, February 10, 2012. If you’re receiving this customized greeting, it’s because you forgot that today's our one year anniversary. But I forgive you because you’re a very busy man and because you fucked me so hard this morning that I slept until noon. I don’t know what got into you. For dinner tonight, you’re having an exquisite fellatio appetizer, followed by Twink casserole topped with candied walnuts and a nice tossed salad with our exclusive House dressing. Hurry home. I’ll be waiting……in the studio. And please be careful, Mr. Kinney; it looks like rain…….. Happy Anniversary, Brian. I love you.”

There was good food, wine, and a rendezvous in Justin’s studio. He invited you up there after dinner that night, and when you walked into the room, he was sitting on his table completely naked and smiling. The lights were dimmed; the rain outside was almost deafening. Before the evening went completely carnal, you handed him some legal papers and a pen, a gesture you'd planned to give him on Valentine's Day, “This makes it legally official. It’s a will, power of attorney, a trust for Gus, and anything else we need to protect ourselves. I had them drawn up for both of us. We have to sign them in front of a notary which means Theodore; you can read them over when you’re not…um….” You looked at your hand and the papers were gone, scattered on the table and pushed aside, the pen clinked on the floor and rolled away. You were pulled between his legs; you felt them wrap around you. “I want you to do illicit things to me,” Justin said.

You teased him, “There’s a paper for that, too. Let me see if I can find it….” You leaned toward the pages and Justin yanked you back, “Very funny.” Then he took one of your hands and brought it down between his legs, pressing it against his cock. You watched his face, his head down staring at his lap; his eyes lidded; his lips turning a darker pink. He was moaning softly and kissing the base of your neck whispering, “How could you forget our anniversary?

"I don't know. I think I'm subconsciously afraid of your sex drive on special occasions."

Justin laughed a little and in a hushed voice said, "You created this monster. Now you have to tame him."

“If you keep doing that breathy, whispering thing, I’m going to have to fuck the shit out of you.”

"Tie me up," he begged.

"Um, no, 'cause if I do that you won't cling to me like Saran Wrap and whisper dirty things into my ear."

His voice was slippery, low, and seductive, “Okay, then, remind me why I came back here. Pound it into me.” You popped the buttons on your pants, and immediately, Justin’s hands were in them, freeing your dick, kissing you and pulling you down as he lay back on the table. “The last time we did this, it wasn’t raw,” he reminded you.

“We’re going to make a mess,” you told him.

“So what?” He spread his arms on the table to demonstrate, “It’s a canvas…and this is art.”

You looked around and made sure any and all legal papers were on the floor and wouldn’t fall victim to this wound-too-tight fuck that was about to happen. You yanked your shirt off over your head and entered him with one of his legs on your shoulder and your pants still threaded through one foot. He threw his hands up over his head and tried to brace himself on something, but it never worked; you had all of him, his body shuffling, moaning and squeezing. You could feel his hand working hard between you while he kept puffing words into your ear, “Yes, yes, yes, Brian. God.” And in the sensual aftermath, you enjoyed the mess you'd made quietly, just being inside him, just feeling his fingers running over your scalp. "We kept our promise, our deal with each other," he said.

"Which one?" you asked because your mind was lost in the tactile experience and couldn't exactly recall.

Justin's voice was so smooth, so confident, so honest, "You said, a year ago, that you wanted lots of drama and lots of fucking. We delivered on both."

"We most certainly did."

"Sometimes I worried that it was a little too heavy on the drama," he admitted to you.

"Sometimes I worried it was, too," you conceded.

He brushed his hand across your cheek, "But I don't worry about anything anymore. You make me very happy, Brian Kinney."

......

......

"You coming home is the best thing that's ever happened to me," you told him.

"I make you happy?" he asked you.

"Happy doesn't begin to cover it, Sunshine."

You felt his whole body smile; his arms tightened around your neck, his legs around your waist. "Can I have seconds, please?" he asked, slowly rocking his hips.

You sighed and kissed him, and then whispered your attempt at a compromise, "Not quite yet. Can I interest you in a rousing game of spin the dildo?"

"Absolutely...bring it."

************
DANIEL CARTWRIGHT'S POV
give me one reason to stay here,
and I'll turn right back around


Friday, February 17, 2012

You and Gabe had been living in your new house in a trendy Brooklyn neighborhood for about three weeks on the night of your house warming party. You were the one who had to set the date because the only person who could out-nest and out-decorate you ended up being the man you were living with. If Gabe had has his way, he would've needed at least a year to be ready to have people over. In some type of psychological-karma switch-a-roo, you were madly in love with the one person whose OCD was worse than yours. Well, you thought, small sacrifice for happiness and unintentional job security.

Happiness.

It snuck up on you while you were unpacking boxes; it had the nerve to show its face before your old townhome was officially sold. On the day it was sold, you went in alone and feeling strong. The buyer was a corporation intending to use the townhome for visiting employees. You disclosed what had happened at the property to their representative with as little emotion as you could manage. It didn't seem to phase the guy, and you found that it gave you a bit of relief and made the sale go a bit easier. When you went home to Gabe that night, you were determined to let bygones truly be bygones. Gabe planned the party; you did the inviting. Brian and Justin were coming in from Pittsburgh at tad earlier than the invitation, so when there was a knock at your door around six fifteen that evening, you expected it to be them, but instead it was Sam. He explained that he needed to talk to you before the party, and that it was personal, so you let Gabe know the two of you were going into your new home office to talk. Sam seemed nervous, a bit jittery.

"What's up?" you asked. "You look a little tense."

Sam seemed a bit embarrassed as he looked around your new surroundings, "Things have been happening really fast, it seems like."

"What do you mean?"

He tried again, "Sometimes it feels like your life just snowballs, and you can't stop it, you know?"

"Sam, what's the matter? You're being a little jumpy and cryptic."

"I promised Harper...that I would do this for her. She wants to be here, but--" And then Sam reacted to the confusion on your face by making it worse, "We've been offered a drawbridge."

"A what?"

"We wanted to let you know before the party because they'll be here and decisions will be made."

You've seen patients do this bizarre deflecting routine before, so you tried to circumvent it. "Whatever it is, whatever that means, ‘a drawbridge’; just tell me."

"Okay," Sam said clapping his hands together and leaning forward on his knees, his words escaping his mouth as if they heard the starting pistol at the Kentucky Derby, "Brian has offered to buy us a house in Pittsburgh; I mean, like a foreclosure or something that he'll help us renovate and finance from him directly; Justin offered us, Harper and I, jobs at the new art center. I mean, I don't know exactly when, but we're going to move away. ...I'm sorry."

Gabe poked his head in your office to see if the two wanted something to drink, but you waived him out and rolled your desk chair closer to Sam, putting your hands around his. Your voice was as clear as you could manage, "Congratulations. That's wonderful. I'm so happy for you."

Sam looked at you like he was trying to gauge your sincerity and found himself unable, "Amelia will have a front yard and a back yard, and we can afford things for her there that we can't afford living here, things she wants to do."

"And she'll have a big house to run around in with her new brother or sister," you added.

"The schools...they're pretty good."

"Sam, this is just what you guys need. It's a blessing...and a very generous offer," you said, “The cost of living here in the city is insane for a family of four.”

"We, especially Harper, we don't want to leave you behind." He wiped a tear making its way down his face.

"What? Leave me here in my new house all alone with my smoking hot, Top Chef boyfriend?" you teased him, "How could you, Sam? You jerk."

Sam laughed as the relief flooded out of him, "Dan, you've done so much for us; you did so much for Alan; we feel like we're betraying you by doing this even though it's what we need to do."

You told him the truth, "Listen, everything happens for a reason, and if this is the next step for your family, then take it with gusto, please. Nothing would make me happier. Nothing."

"You can come visit," he pointed out.

"Yes, of course. I would love to."

Sam kept justifying to assuage his unnecessary guilt, "Brian said that he's a father, too, and that sometimes you have to make a decision that's best for your kids."

"He's right."

"We have to look at some options tonight, some info on possible houses."

"That's perfectly fine. I'd love to see some of the possibilities. Does Amelia know?" you asked.

"Sort of. We can't get real specific with her because she thinks we're actually going to live with Brian," Sam laughed and rolled his eyes, "And we want to wait until we actually have a house to show her."

"Good idea. Harper is excited about this, right?"

"She's over the moon and feels horribly guilty at the same time--"

"Oh goodness. That's just not necessary," you stressed.

"She sent me here because she felt like she couldn't have this conversation without bawling, and she's pregnant, so when she starts crying, she can't stop. They'll be here any minute; I was about twenty minutes ahead of them. She took Amelia to the park and tried to wear her out so we can get her to settle down before the party really starts."

Less than ten minutes after finishing your conversation with Sam, you were standing in your hallway watching a pink tornado coming toward you, droplets of melting snow flying off her coat and mittens, screaming as only Amelia could, "Dr. Car-ride!"

When Justin and Brian arrived about half an hour later, everyone postponed your housewarming celebration to focus on the information they brought for Harper and Sam. Brian had details on three different houses that he’d narrowed down with the help of Justin’s mother. He methodically went over the pros and cons of each until Gabe’s foreseeable anxiety about the food sitting too long (and being less than perfect) surfaced, “Why don’t we just have this conversation during dinner?” he asked. And so everyone relocated to your dining room table and while Brian continued to explain everything, Amelia appeared next to your thigh. “Sit on your wap,” she ordered and before you could pick her up to fulfill your request, she preceded to climb rather awkwardly towards her destination. You listened to information about the different school systems while Amelia picked at your salad, downing your croutons like she hadn’t been fed in a week. Harper and Sam were settling on their first choice in properties while you were realizing that you while you would miss the two of them dearly, it was the little one sitting on your lap whom you would most certainly miss the most. You didn't know it that night, but Harper, Sam, Amelia, and the baby-to-be would be gone from the city in less than two months.

************
ZEEK ZIRROLLI'S POV
buy a one way ticket

April 5, 2012, 5:37 a.m., leaving New York City

On the one year anniversary of Alan Harper's murder, you were driving down the interstate headed to just inside the Pennsylvanian border with West Virginia with a box truck full of Harper's shit knowing this would be the last time you moved her. You were following your little brother in his royal blue, top of the line Prius; his clown car full of fairies. Stitch was clean shaven in your too-big clothes leaning against the passenger door of the truck, the window partway down, the gasoline-scented air rushing in. "This is the first time I've left New York City in over twenty years," he said. "Feels weird."

"You'll be fine," you told him, Just enjoy the scenery."

"I forgot what riding in a truck feels like," he told you with a sigh, "And that nursery set we loaded, that thing was heavy as shit."

"Yo, no fucking shit, man. Rich people don't buy furniture you put together with an allen wrench."

"It was Ethan Allen furniture," Stitch pointed out, "There are way too many 'Alans' in this whole situation today."

You both got quiet. You'd started the day at fuck-o'clock in the morning, four a.m., at Daniel's old place, all of you--the doc, the other doc, your little brother, Stitch, and the priest. He said a few words about Alan, about grief, about moving on and shit, and then you and Stitch loaded the nursery furniture into the truck, throwing a bunch of blankets over it to hide it because ultimately it was a surprise gift. Then all of you went to Harper's apartment and loaded up everything they hadn't already taken. She and Sam were already at Kinney's, having gone down a few days before to start getting settled. Your little brother was pretty proud of himself, having gotten his doc boyfriend to suggest today as the official moving day like it was his own idea. Some kind of memory replacement magic. (You thought it meant that he'd been dating a shrink for long enough.) Yesterday, you'd picked up Stitch, brought him to your place and cleaned him up, no more long hair and bushy gray beard or sour smell. He was practically bald now with a beanie pulled over his scalp; nobody would recognize him. It was your idea to bring him along. He didn't deserve to be alone today, and you damn sure needed some muscle to get this done as you highly doubted the rumors that Kinney would be waiting with his sleeves rolled up to help you empty this truck.

Dan was to notify Justin via text when your posse was thirty minutes out so he and his MILF mother could swoop up Harper and Amelia and take them curtain shopping or some shit. If Justin had Kinney's credit card, they could be gone for days and need a search party to find their asses. The only upside in driving Harper's shit to her new home hours away from you was that Rube promised to be waiting for you in her new front yard. Not that you'd ever tell him, but you missed him, his wacky eBay deliveries and his dumb ass rainbow suspenders.

The truck had busted shocks, rattled way too much, and smelled like mothballs. You looked over at Stitch; he'd fallen asleep and was snoring. His first long trip in years had knocked him right out. You turned on the radio. Well, you tried. It was busted, too. You locked eyes with the back of the truck in front you; the guy's rig had those mud flaps with the silhouette of that naked chick, but they were old and starting to shred. You sighed and dug in for the five hour drive.

************
JUSTIN'S POV
so get ready 'cause here I come

On the morning of the one year anniversary of Alan's murder, you were assigned about half an hour of Amelia-duty while Harper was in the shower getting ready. Ruben had picked up Sam hours earlier and taken him to the new house where they were going through a punch list of odds and ends that needed to be cleaned or child-proofed. Your mother had found Harper and Sam the perfect little house; it was a red brick ranch built in the sixties with a very dated brick front porch that was home to an old but still functioning white metal swing. There were three bedrooms and two bathrooms and old white wrought iron details that stood out against the brick. (It reminded you of your grandparent's house.) "A house like this," your mother said, "Will last forever. These houses were built before the concept of 'cookie-cutter, build them in a month' neighborhoods were even imagined." It was practically in move-in condition if you could stomach the current decor and located right on the edge of Pittsburgh in a neighborhood banked by trees as far as the eye could see. Harper liked the schools, and Sam liked the quiet. Brian liked it because it was a short sale about to become bank owned, and he was able to swoop in, pay cash, and get a good deal. Brian offered Harper and Sam owner financing and included a ten thousand dollar loan to bring the house into the twenty-first century. Harper had already picked out her new kitchen appliances: a fridge, a stove, and a dishwasher that had zero intentions of collaborating against her. You liked the house, too, and were kind of jealous that you never quite had the 'starter-home' experience that your friends were enjoying, but you never said that aloud as they would likely remind you of your 'starter-mansion' and make you feel like an idiot for complaining. To make you feel better about this, you gleefully relocated your gnome statues to Harper's backyard before she moved in. You told her they were good luck.

Pining for small children, however, was not something you'd yet experienced. Perhaps that was the drawback to Amelia's unbridled energy that morning, the sad significance of that day blissfully lost on her. You were standing in the hallway holding the door to your bedroom closed while Amelia bounced up and down, pointing and informing you, "Waffle, I wanna go in der."

"My name is not 'Waffle.' What is my name?"

"Justin," she said with a wacky giggle.

"Right, see, you know my name, so I would like you to call me 'Justin.'"

She tried to get between your legs to open the door while agreeing with you, "Okay, Waffle. Lemme in."

"If you keep calling me 'Waffle,' I'm changing your name to 'Broccoli.'"

"Broccowi! I am not geen!"

"And I am not a waffle!"

"Criss cwoss is a waffle," she said, and then she held up her fingers in a pound sign, something Sam taught her, no doubt.

"That's a hashtag."

Amelia furrowed her brow, looked at her fingers again, and then looked back up at you, "Dat is a waffle."

This was going nowhere fast.

"Okay, let me go see if Brian is still asleep. You stay right here, okay?"

"Okay."

You opened the door, slipped inside and walked over to your bed, "Brian," you said as you shook his shoulder, "You need to wake up."

"No," he mumbled.

"We have to get ready; we have to get over to the--" you said, your words stopping abruptly when the security of your bedroom was breeched by a Tasmanian devil-child in pink flowered pajamas. "Bri-man Kinney!," Amelia screamed, running toward your husband with both arms up in the air like she was on the last hill of a roller coaster. You panicked, scanned the landscape, and managed to throw a pillow over Brian's sheeted erection just in time for Amelia's arrival. "Bri-man Kinney, you're 'upposed to wake up now!"

"No," Brian said, and he rolled away from her to the other side of the bed. Amelia found this utterly hilarious and ran there as fast as she could to yell at him again, and this time, he opened one eye, stared at her, said, "No," and rolled away again. The back and forth went on a few more times until Amelia had had enough of the denials and took advantage of your low mattress and just climbed up and sat on Brian's chest. "Who are you?" he asked her, and she screeched, "I'm AmeliaJocelynHarper-Collins!"

You tried to get in on the fun, "Her name is 'Broccoli.'" Your efforts were very unappreciated as a steamed Amelia turned and glared at you, "No, Waffle!"

"I quit," you declared, throwing up your hands.

Brian was up on his elbows staring at his little pink parasite, "What's my name again?"

"Bri-man Kinney!"

"Say it again," he ordered.

"Bri-man Kinney!"

Brian questioned her, "Why are you so excited this morning?" clearly expecting her to mention the new house, her new room, her big backyard, but she answered on another subject entirely, "Bri-man Kinney, I'm gonna have a baby brubber."

Brian looked at her, and then at you and you shrugged; you hadn't been given this news yet. He pushed her for clarification, "You're going to have a baby brother? Is that what you said?"

Before she could answer Brian, a voice came from the doorway; Harper's hair was rolled up in a towel, "Amelia, come on. We have to get dressed."

"No," she said.

Harper sighed, walked in and picked Amelia up off of Brian's chest, "You need to put your listening ears on, Amelia."

"Der broken," she declared as she was removed from the room, wiggling ferociously in her mother's arms in hope of escape.

"Harper," you said, stopping her exit, "Are you really having a boy?"

"Oh my god, did she spill the beans?" Harper asked, exasperated with her loose-lipped daughter.

"Yeah, she says she's having a brother," you said.

Harper sighed, "Yes, I'm having a boy--"

"A brubber," Amelia said.

"He'll be your little brother, Amelia. You'll be a big sister."

"Yeah," she said, "'Cause I already knowed that."

Harper apologized for Amelia's intrusion and took her down the hall to get dressed for the day. Brian turned his gaze from her to you, "Did you hear that? Did you hear what she said?"

"That she's having a boy? Yes, I'm standing right here."

"No," Brian argued, "Not that. Did you hear that extra syllable in my name?"

You sat down beside him, "Do you need me to hold you?"

He flipped you off, flopped back down on the mattress and sighed, "Time is passing, Sunshine. Faster than fuck. It's just flying by."

......

About twenty minutes later, Brian was out of the shower and shaving in the bathroom mirror, a towel wrapped around his waist. You snuck up behind him and hugged him, talking to his back, "You love that little girl so much that you bought her a house."

"No," he said, "That is incorrect. She loves me so much that she deserves a house."

"You never counted on so many people actually loving you, did you?" you asked quietly as you ran your hand down his chest.

Brian paused for a minute, tapping his razor on the edge of the sink, "One just has to hope there are enough houses out there."

"Is mine mortgaged with a thirty-year fixed?" you asked.

Brian laughed and tucked your hand inside his towel, "No, it's a balloon mortgage."

A few minutes later, he came in the sink.

************
out of the darkness and into the sun

By May 2012, Sam was essentially your full time assistant at Alley Oop, and Harper worked part time having gotten Amelia into a part-time preschool program. You trusted them enough to run the place if you wanted a day or two off, and after working there non-stop since January and, by default, neglecting your own studio time, the urge to paint became too strong to ignore. So, you gave in. You gave in on a Friday in the middle of May because Brian was in California at an APPLET® retreat that week, and Roger had the week off. You needed the house to yourself. You started your morning with a hefty bowl of cereal, (realizing that you tended to overeat when Brian was gone), took a long, hot shower and put on your favorite old ratty painting clothes.

It was now or never.

First, you had to rearrange the studio a bit to give yourself more open space. Next, you stood at the window and began to unravel the huge cloth you'd thrown over the ruined mural, coughing as you proceeded because dust flew everywhere. The exposed canvas covered in putty-colored primer stared back at you like it was wondering what took you so long. Carefully, you wedged it out from behind the other canvases, pulled it to the far end of the room and then slowly maneuvered it onto your horizontal table that was two thirds the size of the painting. It wasn't an easy job, but there was a part of you that felt it needed to feel difficult to feel right.

************
BRIAN'S POV
only hate the road when you're missing home

Your promotion to a higher level of IWINN® came with an invitation to an all advertising and marketing retreat in May of 2012. That meant spending a week with a group of six of the nation's top advertising executives; you made the seventh. Everyone in the room was a nobody--no celebrities, no moguls, just seven advertising and marketing gurus whose claim to fame was turning around a major product or brand. You were introduced as the man who did just that for Brown Athletics, making it a global name in fitness apparel. Aside from those accolades, you were also elated because you were quite certain that neither Anderson Cooper nor any of his ilk were anywhere near this level. You even double checked with the hotel front desk, making sure that no one by his name or perhaps an assumed name like Douche Bag was staying at your hotel. This was no longer about schmoozing; this meeting was actual work. Your group was tasked with taking the IWINN® concept and finding the right path for its next steps.

As you participated in all the various work groups (often praised for your out-of-the-box thinking), you kept thinking about going back home. The one woman in your midst spent the entire week on her cell with her husband, constantly asking, "Babe, did you remember the permission slip? The sleepover? The blah-blah-blah..." and every time she'd step away to make a call, you wondered what Justin was doing, how he was doing, and what he was wearing while he was doing it. You pondered whether or not you could be pussy-whipped if there was no actual pussy in the equation. By the time your group hosted the week's dinner and presentation on Saturday night, you were pretty much exhausted with the entire concept. You decided to skip the Sunday morning good-bye brunch, feigned a business emergency, and went straight to LAX to catch the next plane back to Pittsburgh.

You arrived home via car service at almost two in the morning and were surprised to hear music blasting as you punched in the code to override your alarm system. Slowly, you made your way up the stairs following the tunes and then stopped by your office door because you could see Justin a few doors down in his studio, painting with more than a bit of abandon. You stopped and just watched; he couldn't see you, so you felt safe for a minute, safe enough to realize what canvas he was passionately slapping black paint on in between a random lyric he'd sing. You bit your lip trying to decide what to do; you didn't want to frighten him or make him think that you'd been watching him, so quietly, you backtracked to the top of your staircase and sent him a text: Hey. Came home early to surprise u. I'm coming upstairs.

You listened when his phone went off, listened as the volume on the music dropped about halfway, and then you heard his voice, "Brian? You're here?"

You smiled and started walking down the hall and met him in the doorway of his studio. You felt like you had to explain yourself, like you'd done something wrong so you stated the patently obvious, "Hi. I missed you, so I came home early."

Justin smiled, his body swaying, his arms spread wide to brace himself in the doorway. "Hi. That was sweet. I missed you, too." He popped up on his toes to kiss you. He tasted like Jim Beam.

"Watcha doing?" you asked him, clearly glancing over him to the enormous project underway.

He laughed a little, "Mostly making a ridiculous mess."

His arms were still barring the door, so you didn't push him. "I think I'm going to take a quick shower. I missed our hard water. Want to join me?"

"Yeah, but I'm not exactly at a stopping place, so go ahead. I'll be here when you get out," he said, but then he rose up again, this time curling his hand around your neck and pulling you down for a more concerted display of affection. "I really did miss you. A week is too long."

"We're still lesbian newlyweds, I guess," you offered. Justin laughed and kicked you in the butt as you walked away.

......

To this day, you don't even remember taking that shower.

.....

All you remember is walking back into his studio and seeing him with his back to you as he stood at his deep sink. The music was off; the water was running. You took your time getting to him as it felt rather awkward to be in this room with Justin and this particular painting again. He was cleaning his brushes as you stood behind him and ran your hands around his waist. You kissed the back of his neck, breathed him in, paint, chemicals and all as the sink filled with dark grey water. Your body expected that he would lean back a little, rest against you, but he didn't do anything of the sort. He just kept washing, informing you, "There's something in my right front pocket that you should see."

"There is? Okay." You reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a folded slip of paper. When you unfolded it, you were a little shocked, "Whoa. This is a check for a hundred grand?"

"From Brown Athletics," Justin said, still facing the sink. "Did you know about this?" He turned the water off; the drain gurgled.

"The money? No. I mean, I knew Nate was going to donate, but I thought--I assumed--that meant fifty thousand. Wow."

Justin finally turned around with wet hands; the two of you paused, searching for a towel that you found and handed to him, "There was a letter with it."

"Oh, let me see," you said.

"I already ripped it up and threw it the trash."

The caution you felt when you first saw him painting that night returned. That something that was wrong; this was it, but Justin was being successfully evasive. You spoke a little slower and quieter than before, "Why did you throw it away?"

"It just kind of happened," he said. You put your hand on his upper arm and could feel how tense he was; you pondered what you should say. Nothing was coming to you, so you let your hand skim down his arm so you could hold his hand. He seemed slightly relieved by the gesture. Finally, he spoke again, "I needed you to come home early, and somehow you knew that. Also, I'm a little drunk."

You saw the open bottom of Jim Beam sitting next to the painting, so you picked it up and started to walk toward the futon. He resisted you at first, but it wasn't a rejection of you; it was fear. "I'm gonna get a little drunk over here," you said, pointing to the futon. "Wanna join me?"

"Okay."

He walked with you and sat down, and you started to drink straight from the bottle, occasionally handing it back to him. When the burning warmth started to seep into your bloodstream, you relaxed a little and turned your body, your head resting on your hand. "If you need me, I'm glad I'm here," you said. He looked right into your eyes and unzipped his jeans and then reached for your free hand, scooting closer to you so you could reach him. He slid your hand inside his jeans, and let you feel his erection developing inside his underwear. And then he moved even closer and kissed you. When your hand bypassed his briefs, he turned and sat on your lap in one smooth motion and hugged you, whispering behind your ear, "I missed you so much, Brian." His jeans were tight; you had little room to move, so Justin took care of that, shifting his hips in your hand and moaning so urgently that you weren't the least bit surprised when your hand felt sticky. He kept moving against you like it wasn't over yet so you just held on and let him use the moment.

"At night, all I thought about was you being inside me."

"I took something to help me sleep," you admitted to him, "The whole week. The bed in the hotel felt a mile wide. When did you get the check?"

"Thursday." Your mind was running backwards trying to figure out if he was different when you talked to him Thursday night; the time difference made it tricky to talk for too long, and he was adept at fooling you when you couldn't see his face. As if he was reading your mind, he said, "I didn't want to bother you on your retreat."

"It wasn't like I thought it was going to be. No more celebrities. No Clooney. No Cooper. It was all work."

"You sound disappointed."

"I knew I was being groomed this whole time, but still, I guess I thought they'd knight me or something when I got there. That's so stupid. They groomed a ton of ad execs and marketing people, apparently. I made it into the top seven they chose."

Justin defended the cause he normally despised, "Well, you should feel proud; I'm proud of you. What comes next? A co-dependent toaster oven that needs one of our kidneys to survive?"

You laughed, "They're coming out with new prototypes, but I'll just do software updates."

"If you want the new ones, get them. You earned them, Brian."

"I'll think about it. Did Nate say why the check was so large?"

Justin sighed and laid against you, "Fifty thousand in Alan's memory and fifty thousand...because of what happened to me. It's a yearly donation with no end date."

"That brings you to half a million, right?"

"Just over."

"That 's very generous of him, of Brown, really. Why did you unearth that painting?"

"I felt like it. Something inside me wanted out. And I feel bad that I took it from you."

"Don't. I'm serious," you stressed. Justin sat back and smiled at little as he removed your hand from his pants and wiped it with the inside of his shirt. "Why the letter? What was in it?" you asked.

Justin stared down at your joined laps as he spoke, "Because Nate, I mean, because Brown does Penn State's athletic uniforms and has for quite a while, he has information."

"What information?" you asked, confused.

"When Nate was Brown's Operations Manager or something, he had access to rosters. Preliminary athletic rosters that showed that Hobbs had some kind of partial football scholarship that was revoked because of what he did to me."

The air in the room felt colder on your skin, "For real?"

"Apparently. Did you know this already?" he asked you with a bit of skepticism in his voice.

"Uh, no. Why would I know that?"

"I don't know; I thought maybe Nate already told you."

You shook your head. As if that admission carried a great weight with it, Justin got up and released the lever that flattened the futon. "The lights," you said, and he went to the wall and brought all the dimmers down. You laid back and watched as he undressed from the waist down, welcoming his body back the mattress moments later. You pulled your t-shirt off and then his when he was once again lying next to you. As your bodies melded together, he ran his hand down your back and started to tug at the elastic band on your pants. You reached back and helped him, kicking them to the bottom of the bed. For awhile, you just held him as he held you, kissing his hair and enjoying his hands on your skin. He dozed off for a few minutes, and you stilled your hands and let him cat nap against you. It was almost three in the morning. You, however, were very awake.

No cigarettes in sight either.

When Justin awoke a few minutes later, he denied ever having been asleep.

************
how many roads must a man walk done before you call him a man?

You fucked him on all fours, both of you facing the painting.

He wanted it that way--hard, unyielding, his shoulders sinking low when he was going to come again, a warning signal for you to back off a little, so you did. You slowed down for him, slowed down and watched the pleasure wrestle with his body over and over. How you held back after being away from him for a week, you'll never understand; you just remember that feeling of fucking in quicksand, of having to hold his hips up lest he sink away from you. Finally, you began to tire, and when he began to merge with the mattress, you let him flatten all the way down, covering his body with yours as you moved inside him. "Do you want to come again?" you asked him, "I can't tell."

"I need to tell you something," he said.

You stopped your hips; they felt confused. "What? I'm hurting you?"

"No, of course not. The whiskey's given me a bit of courage, so I just need to say this, okay?"

"Okay."

"Back when I was hanging out with Cody and shaved my head and everything, I held a loaded gun at Chris one night. Cody was with me, and I made Chris get down on his knees, forced him to apologize to me and then made him suck the barrel like a cock." Your eyes started blinking very rapidly and wouldn't stop. "I'm sorry I never told you. It's probably why Cody stalked me...because I didn't go through with it. He was extremely pissed about that." A long minute passed as you laid there on top of him. Justin spoke again, "In a way, I blocked it out...but then it came back."

"When you got Nate's letter?" you asked.

"Yeah. Like I thought that there were never consequences for Chris, like real at-the-time consequences, but there were. I mean, a jock from a prep school doesn't just go work construction unless he can't get into a good school, right?"

You rolled off of him and laid on your side. "I don't know," you admitted. "Was he smart?"

"Very," Justin said.

"Where did you do this to him?"

There was nothing but shame in Justin's voice, "In his front yard. We ambushed him one night when he came home from work. He literally shit his pants." You didn't know what to say. He continued, "I don't deserve fifty thousand dollars."

"Justin, they are two separate things. If he hadn't done what he did to you, you wouldn't have reciprocated."

"Two wrongs don't make a right, Brian."

"Yes, but it's not that cut and dry."

"Cody went ballistic when I wouldn't pull the trigger that night."

"That's the difference between you and somebody like Chris or Cody. Chris didn't stop himself; Cody wouldn't have, but you did. You have to see that."

"Yesterday, I didn't go to work. I went to the cemetery...and I apologized to the dead guy who tried to kill me. I apologized for what I did, just me, because I'm not that kind of person, and then...I told him he was still a dick for what he did to me and the horrible things he used to say to me. That is so stupid."

"It's not stupid," you assured him.

"Then I came home and started working on this albatross again." Justin pointed up at the drying canvas, "That painting never told the truth, but it will now--"

You interrupted him, "I'd decided it was about the night you got hurt. The blackness, the blood--"

"It's about all of it. That night I was bashed, you falling apart, Chris terrorizing me, me terrorizing him, Babylon blowing up and nearly killing me again--
"

"It's the dissonance," you said. "It's all the sense you can't make out of anything. The void. The memories you don't have..." you let your voice drift off. He told Daniel he didn't have 'violent feelings' about the painting, and this was why; he can't feel what he doesn't remember.

"Brian, what if I had done it that night? Pulled the trigger. All the adrenaline running through me...."

"But you didn't. And that distinction matters a whole hell of a lot. If you hadn't needed life-saving help that night you were bashed, I probably would've beaten that kid to a fucking pulp. I wonder about things like that, too. Why didn't you ever tell me about this?"

"I thought you might get really, really mad at me, and then you got fucking cancer and threw me out of the loft anyway."

You sighed at your own myopic tendencies, "I was trying so hard to protect you from everything that I protected you from nothing."

Justin pointed at the painting, "I'm going to call it Culpability when I'm finished."

"So it finally has a name?"

"Yes, finally."

************
it's not about the money, money, money

On April 5, 2013, Culpability had more than just a name; it had a price. It sold for twenty-five thousand dollars at the grand opening event and art auction for the Alley Oop Art Center. But this time, it wasn't your money or Daniel's, or even Anderson Cooper's (although you were convinced for about thirty minutes that it had to be the little geriatric sprite.) The buyer was anonymous, but you were determined to figure it out in between helping Justin pull this event off. The center had a soft opening in January of 2013, and had been open to the public since that time, but that night in April was the real thing. There were huge black and white photographs of Alan that Sam had taken over the years hung as vertical banners behind the podium. In one, Alan was in the street walking with a backpack stuffed to the seams; his head down against the wind. In another, he was in the studio at Daniel's old place with Harper and Justin, and in the last, he was playing in that same room with Amelia, both of them with contagious smiles on their faces.

Alan had been dead for two years. Harper gave a speech about her brother; Justin gave a speech about his own circumstances and his passion for art and now, the center. Amelia followed you around since her dad was busy with her now nine month old brother, Owen, most of the time. (He was born in July of 2012 and had big brown chocolate drop eyes like Amelia with dirty blond hair like his mother. Harper named him Owen Tate Collins, and when winter came that year, you presented him with an array of little beanie hats without comment.) By the center's grand opening, Amelia could say your name correctly, and you'd been working with her to drop your last name from the salutation, a request that then lead to her calling you 'Just Brian' most of the time. Gabe and Dan were mingling with everyone and dropping hints that they were about to take their relationship to the next level. Zeek was there with Lana on his arm in what you understood to be a relatively permanent situation; Rube was tending bar and desperately trying to entertain Jon who'd come with Dan and Gabe but clearly felt alone. Emmett was constantly refreshing appetizers. Ted was handling the money coming in from multiple sources from art sales, in person donations and money generated from the center's website; Blake answered the phone. Many of the PIFA artists who had studio space at the center were also there, having contributed some of their own art for the grand opening. Justin had worked his ass off to make the event successful. He'd done everything but the advertising which he willingly let you commandeer. Your efforts meant that there was a decent but not overwhelming flow of visitors that day, folks signing up for classes or just taking advantage of a blank canvas and brand new paint. The event raised over one hundred and seventy thousand dollars, and Justin was proud and thankful. The last check was delivered close to ten p.m. when most of the artists had gone. You saw the kid riding a skateboard in the center's parking lot and thought nothing of it as you made trips back and forth to Justin's Jeep. But as you began to head back inside again, you saw that he was standing in the doorway talking to Justin. As you approached, you saw a concerned and serious look on Justin's face and heard him say, "I can't accept this check. Please tell him thank you, but he can keep the money."

"Don't make me do that," the kid said.

"Everything okay?" you asked as you approached.

Justin seemed tired but determined, "Brian, this is Trevor. My step--"

The kid turned and smiled at you, "Step-brother. It's okay. I'm still in the confused stage; I'm trying not to get freaked out about it." Again, he presented the check to Justin, and Justin shook his head, assuming the role of an older brother in the blink of an eye, "I don't feel comfortable taking this, and it's too late for you to be out by yourself."

"It's okay," Trevor said, "I have a phone. It has a tracker on it." He sort of shook it back and forth and then stuck it back in his pocket.

"This check, this is coming from your Dad? From Craig?" you interjected.

"Yeah," Justin said.

"Then accept it," you advised. Justin gave you a look, took the check out of the kid's hand and handed it to you. It was for five hundred dollars. "I'll put this with the others," you said and slipped back inside. You stood at reception and watched Justin walk outside with Trevor. They spoke for several minutes in the parking lot before Trevor was back on his skateboard and quickly out of sight. It wasn't until the ride home that you offered your opinion, "The event went really well, and I think it's good that you took that check from your Dad."

"I don't think he has a lot of money. I basically put him out of business," Justin said.

"The economy put him out of business, trust me. He had to give me a business plan every year when he renewed his lease. He was steadily losing revenue, and, besides, sometimes money isn't about money."

"I gave Trevor my card and wrote the number to the GLC on it for him. I told them that there are a lot of youth-oriented groups he might like."

"That was nice of you," you said.

"He didn't need it; my dad already gave him the number and actually offered to go with him one day if he was too nervous to go by himself."

"Holy shit. Good for your dad."

"He actually told Trevor that he had reacted to me being gay in a terrible way, that he didn't want to...repeat that."

"So that check was an apology and an acknowledgement of his mistakes and your success."

"Well, like you said, sometimes money isn't money."

You smiled, "Yeah, but I still miss the good old days when money was just sex."

Justin, although clearly exhausted, turned and looked at you, "When we get home tonight, sex is going to be just about sex."

"I don't have to pay you anymore?" you asked, relieved.

"Hmm, I don't know. We'll swipe your rewards card and see if you have any freebies left."

You imagined a very special rewards card sliding down the crack in his perfect little ass but instead you said, "I'm pretty sure I have a free blow job on there that may be expiring soon, so I should probably reedem that tonight." You put as much 'wishful thinking' into your voice as possible.

Justin, never one to shy away from your wit, countered, "If you let that expire, then you automatically get topped. It's in the agreement you signed."

Your eyebrow rose slowly and you had to force yourself not to laugh, "All right, then. Oh boy....decisions, decisions."

************
in the sunshine of your love

In mid-December 2012, you and Justin received a formal invitation to Gabe and Daniel's wedding to be held the following February. The high-end paper Gabe choose for that invitation was nicer than anything you'd ever touched. You were a bit jealous considering your first attempt at a wedding (that never was) invitation years ago had been a bit, well, crude. In February of 2013, you and Justin flew to New York to attend the wedding in their home with Jon and Zeek serving as the official 'best men.' Both had 'dates.' Zeek with Lana, and Jon with some guy named Mark, an artisanal brewery owner that he'd had snatched up from somewhere. Amelia was the flower girl; she pushed her baby brother, Owen, down the aisle with the rings secured to the front of his stroller. Later, at the reception, she out-performed the band Daniel had hired. Rube's wedding gift got the most kudos: an etch-a-sketch portrait of Gabe and Daniel done on the spot. You and Justin quietly left New York that night on a plane bound for New Hampshire. Justin was excited because he thought the trip was a just a little vacation in honor of your two year anniversary, although when you let him know that you were staying at The Rockford again, he gave you a rather I'm-disappointed-in-you look. "Oh come on, be a good sport. I've had our room preemptively de-gnomed."

"All right," he conceded, "But this time, we are not staying in our room the entire time. I want to go snowboarding or skiing or something."

You agreed and ordered him a stiff drink in first class, hoping it would chill him out and get him off of his game a little. Everything went like clockwork when you checked in; Dave, the hotel manager, was there once again to welcome you. Justin hung on your arm as you went over 'details' with Dave about the (fake) snowboarding lesson the two of you wanted to sign up for. As Dave was handing you actual electronic keys and telling you about all the upgrades The Rockford had undergone in the past couple of years, Justin announced that he had to pee and left your side. That gave you time to get everything squared away, including making sure that Dave could get someone to the hotel that could issue a marriage license. (Cash money worked at The Rockford the same way it worked anywhere else.)

An almost-kink in your plan occurred when Justin was coming back from the bathroom. He was smiling at you and approaching rather quickly when he suddenly looked left and stopped on a dime. "What's the matter?" you asked him, but he was ignoring your question and seeking Dave out to ask, "Dave, can I come around the counter?" Dave appeared scared shitless as he nodded, letting Justin come around to his side of reception. Both you and Dave thought that Justin had somehow figured out that something was up and foiled your plan, but you were both wrong. Justin walked behind the desk and then stood in the doorway of Sarah's office, peering inside and waving over his shoulder for you, "Brian. Brian, come here. Hurry." You gave Dave a puzzled look and walked back there only to find Justin now standing in the empty office with a rather incredulous look on his face. You couldn't help but notice the backdrop of his blond confusion...Culpability.

 

ss_mural


"Holy shit, Brian," Justin said, "Sarah bought my painting. She paid twenty-five thousand dollars for my mural."

Dave stood in the doorway looking perplexed as he affirmed Justin's thinking, "She said it was an art auction? A donation for a good cause."

"And to think, I had our room de-gnomed," you mumbled.

.....

The following day, your plan was put into motion after a late breakfast /early lunch. You sent Justin to see if Dave could switch your snowboarding lesson from a group one to a private lesson, knowing that anything exclusive always appealed to Justin's sensibilities. Dave was instructed to say yes (of course) and give Justin details about the lesson starting at one p.m. You hung out with your husband-to-be until just before the lesson, feigning a Kinnetik emergency you had to untangle and promised you'd meet him in the lodge. When Justin got to the lodge, the couches were full of people also waiting for a snowboarding lesson. When only one instructor showed up, Justin performed as you knew he would, asking nicely first about the mix up and then (after having been intentionally given the run around), ended up angry at the front desk of the lodge demanding his private instructor. Finally, at about one thirty-five p.m., a very apologetic Dave came over to the lodge and personally escorted Justin to the room where his instructor would be waiting. When Justin opened the door (so beautifully flustered), you were there waiting for him instead...

...down on one knee...

with an open red velvet ring box holding two very slim platinum bands.

Justin turned to question Dave and discovered that he was gone. He turned back around, "Brian, what---. What the hell is going on? What are you do--?"

"Will you marry me, for real?" you asked.

He was utterly discombobulated, "What?"

You smiled, "You heard me. I want you to marry me for real. Here. Right now."

"Oh my god. Was all that--?"

"A rouse, yes. Will you answer me, please?"

For some reason, Justin got down on the floor, too, and the two of you ended up sitting cross-legged in front of each other as he spoke more calmly than you'd anticipated; he leaned in and wrapped his hands around yours, "Are you being serious? We never even talk about this."

"Listen to me. Laws are changing every day on the federal and state level. We need to do this. We need to protect ourselves--"

"That's true," he agreed.

"And I love you."

"I love you, too," he said as he finally started to smile.

"So that's a 'yes?'"

"Yes. Yes, I will marry you for real."

You stood up and walked to the back of the room and opened a door, "We're ready." A flannel-clad, bearded justice of the peace came in the room with a folder and a pen in his hand.

"You seriously mean right this second?" Justin asked as he got up off the floor.

"Yes, and he's been waiting patiently for about twenty minutes."

"But nobody's here. None of our friends or my mother and look how I'm dressed."

"Well, don't worry about that; you won't be dressed for long." Justin rolled his eyes at you, so you tried again, "I thought it could just be the two of us. Just like always."

"Yeah," Justin conceded, "We do things a little differently, don't we? We're switching rings?"

"Adding," you said, "To remind us of when we made it officially official." You motioned for the folder, "You'll need to sign this. I have your birth certificate. Do you have your wallet?"

"Yes, yes," Justin said patting himself down. The appropriate identification was presented and accepted, and as the justice prepared to conduct the ceremony, Justin held your hand, giving it a tight squeeze right before he said, "I do."

It was all said and done in five minutes.

......

On the way back to your room, Justin questioned you, "The license said it isn't valid until three days from now."

"That's correct."

"So we're not really officially married yet?"

"No, but we're going to go to our room and fuck for three days, and then we will be."

"I want to be clear that I am not getting high and laying on top of a piano this time."

"Please," you said, "The only thing you'll be laying on is your stomach, and neither Nate nor Sarah are even here."

"And we were never going snowboarding, were we?"

You turned and grinned at him, "Tragically, no."

"We're going to be ordering a shitload of room service, aren't we?"

"Absolutely."

.......

When you opened the door to your room, The Rockford had beat you to it. Three carts had been delivered. One stocked with champagne and various soft drinks and waters, one with every type of cheese, crackers, and meats a man could want, and one with a ton of decadent chocolates and deserts. Justin walked over to his pillow and picked up a gift bag and looked inside, "Oh my god, Brian. It's those super-expensive candied walnuts." You were walking over to sample them when you heard a funny sound and saw a piece of paper slide into your room. Justin tried to grab it while you held it over his head and read it. "What is it?" he demanded.

"It's a note from our friends in New York. Congratulations and all that."

"You told them and not me?"

"I whispered something to Gabe when we were leaving, something about the two of us having almost the same wedding day," you admitted. "He figured it out from there."

"Yep, and then he came in his pants," Justin said, grabbing the note from you. "This is sweet. Harper drew this border design; I recognize her doodling. We should at least text them," he said, pulling his phone out.

"Oh, hell no," you said, taking it away from him. "Our honeymoon starts right now, and we're not leaving this room for three days so you can't change your mind."

"I'm not going to change my mind!"

************

JUSTIN'S POV
everybody knows that you love me baby
everybody knows that you really do


The following year, 2014, it was your turn to plan a secret marriage. Both you and Brian were cursed with busy schedules around your anniversary, so you devised a plan. You picked him up at Kinnetik at the end of a Thursday, blindfolded him, and then drove him around for an hour. When you got to your destination, the parking garage at the loft, you pulled off Brian's blindfold. He became a bit flabbergasted, "What the hell? We're at the loft?"

"We are."

You took him up to the loft where a justice of the peace was waiting, and without much ado, you married Brian again. When he had the gall to question your proposal methods, you laughed, "You have got to be kidding me. You only propose to me when I'm in shock, completely confused or totally aggravated."

"Okay, that's fair," Brian conceded, "We should probably change that, huh?"

"Next year, it's your turn again. Maybe you'll try something new," you teased him, "But in the meantime, it's your wedding night, so take your pants off and get in bed."

Brian cocked his eyebrow at you, "My goodness, marriage makes you a little more demanding that usual."

"Yep. Pants. Off."

"I find this oddly arousing," Brian claimed as walked backwards toward the bedroom while undoing his pants.

......

An hour or so later, you were lying against him reminiscing, "You know, Brian, falling in love with you was utter hell, but being in love with you is pretty amazing."

"Do you mean that?"

"Of course. I wouldn't want to serial-marry anyone else."

Brian kissed you, "Me either. But this is going to mean that the honeymoon period never really ends. Did you think about that?"

"Well, that's just a side effect we'll have to manage," you decided and then you turned so you were facing him, pressing your palm against his chest, "But I need to ask you something, and I really need you to be honest with me."

"Duh, of course. What?"

"Doing this, getting actually married every year, this is fun and our little secret, but your motives for this are in the right place, correct? ....Don't get offended, just think about it and answer me."

......

Brian sighed, but not in a frustrated way, "After our first one last year, I consulted an attorney to see if there was way this could hurt us, and to be honest, he said the idea is sort of half-baked."

"Oh god."

"No, no...like you said, don't get offended, just be honest. He basically said that the issue is so fluid right now that we could get married somewhere that then overturns their law or whatever, and I thought about that and then, honestly, I decided, 'Fuck it.'"

"This is not making me feel good, Brian."

"Well, here's the way I see it, fuck this fucking stupid country. I love you, and if I want to marry you every year until I croak, then I will. If I want to marry you on top of Mount Rushmore or in the middle of a coral reef or anywhere else, I'll do it--"

"Because nobody was going to tell you where you can fuck, and now nobody's going to tell you--"

Brian got animated, "Exactly. And this is a generational issue. People my age and older are the ones in power and the ones holding back marriage equality. Eventually, we'll all be dead--"

"Brian, stop saying things that make me want to cry! I just got married! Jesus."

"Okay, sorry, sorry." He hugged you, pressing your face against his chest and spoke a little more softly, "What I mean is, what we want for each other is way more important than what a bunch of old wrinkly white dudes in black robes want for us. I want you to wake up every day of your life and feel how much I love you. Nothing matters more to me than that; that's all I'm saying. Those are my motives." The room got very still for a few seconds, and then he said, "And...now I've made you cry, Christ."

"You are such an ass sometimes," you said as you wiped your tears, trying in vain to stop them. "And once in a while, you could love me just a little less so I could love you a just little more, you know?"

Brian laughed, "Justin, you aren't ever going to be the top in this relationship. Just accept it and move on." He was teasing you, but you twisted his nipple anyway, "Ow, fuck!"

"I love you so much that I will always let you think you're on top."

You muttered under your breath, "Yeah, I already knowed that."

"And you and I, from here on out, are just going to subscribe to the ridiculous idea that all these marriages are cumulative--"

Brian smiled, wiping the last of your tears away, "Okay, I like that. Like we get more married every year."

"Exactly. But not like a punch card, Brian," you said, feeling like you had to clarify that, Brian being Brian and all.

"Okay, no punch cards. Got it. No freebies. We're just slowly working on a PhD in matrimony or something like that."

You kissed him, "Sounds good. I like that."

"What are we going to do with all these marriage licenses?" Brian asked.

You hadn't thought about it, "Hmm.... frame them? Maybe hang them over your desk where the painting used to be?"

"Yes. Framed. I like that."

"And if you plan the secret wedding, then I frame the license and vice versa. And the framing has to reflect something about that particular year's ceremony. Like, I will get the one from last year framed in some tacky-ski-lodge-woodsy way or something."

"Okay. I'm down with that."

"Okay, I feel better about this now. And somehow, Brian, and I don't exactly know how, but somehow...despite your worst and then best efforts... you became the best husband in the entire world."

He brushed your hair off your forehead with his fingertips, "Well, far be it from me to argue with a genius, Sunshine. When you're right, you're right."

finis




Part 1 lyrics taken from: Oasis’ Wonderwall, Leonard Cohen’s Everybody Knows, Nanci Griffith's Outbound Plane, Don Henley’s The End of the Innocence, Billy Joel’s Keeping the Faith, Michael Jackson's Man in the Mirror, Don Henley’s The End of the Innocence again, Elton John’s Rocket Man, Leonard Cohen’s Everybody Knows again, Wallflowers’ One Headlight, Leonard Cohen’s Everybody Knows again

Lyrics for Part 2 come from The Eagles Take It Easy, Carrie Underwood's Jesus Take the Wheel, Leonard Cohen’s Everybody Knows again, and Miranda Lambert's The House That Built Me.

Part 3 lyrics taken from Nanci Griffith's Across the Great Divide twice, Leonard Cohen's Everybody Knows, Meredith Wilson's It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas, Perry Como’s Home for the Holidays, The Eagles Already Gone, Macklemore & Ryan Lewis Can't Hold Us, Sara Bareilles's Brave, The Script's Hall of Fame, and Justin Timberlake's Sexy Back.

Part 4 & 5 lyrics taken from The Eagles’ Best of My Love, Tracy Chapman's Give Me One Reason, LeeAnn Rhyme's One Way Ticket, The Temptation's Get Ready, Kelly Clarkson's Breakaway, Passenger's Let Her Go, Bob Dylan's Blowing in the Wind, Jessie J's Price Tag, Cream's Sunshine of Your Love, and Leonard Cohen’s Everybody Knows.

Culpability was created by silent_seas many, many years ago, and I am very, very grateful to her for her artistic contributions to this story, and I apologize that it took so many years for me to make this work public.

Chapter End Notes:

Original publication date 10/2/14

The End.
plumsuede is the author of 16 other stories.
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