Even though he can’t clearly recall it, Brian must’ve asked Jennifer for Justin’s address because here he is climbing up six flights of chipped-cement, pissed-stained stairs to what will no doubt be a total dump, not to mention a poster-perfect example of the necessity of safety codes. Jesus. Justin left the loft for this? He must’ve really wanted to leave . . .
. . . As he reaches the top floor, he exerts all his waning mental energy to push the past few months out of his mind. Things are different now. Everything is different. The old rules no longer apply. It’s all new, uncharted territory from here on out . . .
. . . which is why he’s braving this homeless shelter disguised as an uninhabitable apartment building to ask Justin for his hand in marriage.
He’s pretty sure he knows how Justin will react. Last night, he’d teared-up and put his arms around Brian’s neck when Brian had told him that he loved him. This morning, Justin is going to positively fling himself into Brian’s arms – forget tearing-up, Justin is going to sob with happiness. Brian hopes he has some Kleenex handy. Well, if he doesn’t, then he can probably use a brush-cleaning cloth. Hell, Brian is going to need one too because . . .
. . . because he is finally doing what he’d wanted to do for ages – tell Justin he loves him and needs him and will do anything to have him in his life. Any fucking thing – including marrying him. Hell, especially marrying him. Fuck the sock drawer. Been there, done that. Nope. No more “let’s live together” bullshit. He’s going to fucking marry Justin’s ass. Rings, flowers, vows . . . even a fucking garden trellis if must be. He is going to pull out all the stops. There will be nothing that Justin might want that Brian won’t give him . . .
. . . but most importantly, he’s going to give Justin himself. Not only his heart and soul (which he’d actually given Justin a very long time ago) but his body. No one will ever touch him again. EVER! If he’s going to get married, he’s going to fucking do it right. No more of this tricking bullshit. Hell, he won’t even look at another man.
MONOGAMY, HERE I COME!
. . . . except that’s not how things turn out. Not even close. Justin doesn’t run to his arms. In fact, Justin pulls away and laughs . . . laughs . . . as in “ha-ha, you moron” and says “don’t be ridiculous.” But that’s not the worst. The worst isn’t the actual rejection, the worse is what Justin says next.
“You don’t mean it. How can Mr. I-Believe-In-Fucking-Not-Love mean it?”
If Brian had a moment to swallow Justin’s words, he might’ve gagged on them. He feels sick. How . . . how . . . can Justin say that? Hadn’t he finally told Justin he loved him? Hadn’t he run into a fucking burning building for Justin? Okay, so maybe Justin’s points about marriage were well-founded. Yes, there’s no doubt Brian had been railing against it practically since the first day they met. But did Justin really believe that he was just a fuck? That Brian didn’t love him? HOW COULD HE?
He’s shaking so hard as he walks down the stairs that he has to hold on to the rusty railing with both hands. The words echo through his mind . . . fucking not love, fucking not love, fucking not love. Really? After five years . . . five fucking years . . . Justin still believes he’s nothing but a fuck? That Brian thinks love is a bullshit heterosexual pipedream? Because if he does . . . if that’s really what Justin thinks . . . then he, Brian, has fucked up big time.
That’s it. Never again. Never again will he let Justin doubt his love for even a nanosecond. Justin had said his shithole apartment was going to have to do until he got a country manor. Okay, yes, he was exaggerating, and yes, even being snarky, but why not? Why not buy Justin that country manor? Why not? Brian could sell the loft, he could sell what was left of Babylon – he could probably even use Kinnetik as collateral for a mortgage. Hell, he’d all but bankrupted himself to make sure Stockwell didn’t become mayor – that meant jack shit compared to marriage to the man he loved. If Justin wants a manor, then that’s what he’s going to get. If Justin wants babies, then that’s what he was going to get. If Justin wants him to leave his past behind, then that’s what he’s going to get. He’ll sell the loft, he’ll sell Babylon, he’ll stop going to bathhouses; hell, he’ll even sell his “fuck mobile” (as Justin had gotten in the habit of calling it before he left).
He’s almost at the bottom of the stairs when he stumbles and only barely stops himself from tumbling headlong against a wall. Jesus, he’s tired. He’s never been so tired. Mikey . . . God, Mikey almost died. Ted . . . Ted’s in shock. Lindsay . . . Lindsay is brokenhearted over her dead friend. Everything . . . everything was almost ruined. Everything was almost lost. Almost, but not quite. He still has Justin . . . well, he’ll have Justin. If at first, you don’t succeed, try try try the fuck again.
He shouldn’t drive. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s practically hallucinating with exhaustion, but there’s no time to call a cab. There are THINGS TO DO! He starts making a list in his head. He needs to call Jennifer. He needs to tell Ted to put Babylon on the market. He needs to see how large of a loan he can take out on Kinnetik. He needs to find a country manor – but not just any old, country fucking manor. There has to be stables and a pool. There has to be room for a huge, sun-filled studio and rooms for Gus and his half-siblings . . . speaking of which, who are they going to use for a surrogate? Would Lindsay do it? What about Daphne . . . ?
. . . He barely slams on the breaks before he rear-ends the car in front of him. Shit. God, he shouldn’t be driving. He might as well be drunk out of his skull – hell, he’s probably in worse shape as he is, forget a bottle of Beam. He’s exhausted. He can’t keep his eyes open . . .
. . . it’s only thanks to the luck of the Irish that when he passes out, he’d just pulled into his parking spot.