The Present



“Maybe you’d rather just cuddle.”



Brian rolled over to look at Justin. Justin was glaring at him. It wasn’t a new look for him. Glaring had been his default expression before he’d left back in November – especially after the whole stupid syphilis thing.



Fuck him.



Isn’t that what Justin wanted? To cuddle? Wasn’t Brian giving him exactly what he desired? Hadn’t he already done so? There was the house. There was the proposal. There were even the fucking pool and stables and tennis court! What else did Justin want from him? Brian had given him everything. Every Goddamn, fucking thing. He’d even refused to fuck that trick at the stag party. And now, here he was, offering to forego sex in favor of cuddling! And what was the result? The glare of death.



Brian would be pissed enough to get up, get dressed and storm out, except . . .



. . . except he’d created the whole situation. He’d thrown down a gauntlet. He’d been spoiling for a fight.



He still was.



“What?!” Justin exclaimed.



“I said wouldn’t you just rather lie here and . . .” Brian repeated.



“No, no, no. I know what you said, you said ‘cuddle.’”



“So?”



“So, I’ve never ever once even heard you use that word, much less actually want to do it . . .”



____________________________________________________________________________



Last Night



Brian was looking through the mock-ups for Remsen’s nausea-inducing ad when Justin came home. He had managed to shove the memory of his meeting with Renee Dickenson out of his mind, but going through the mock-ups was stirring up the anger and indignation all over again. Just having to look at them was pissing him off. The images were even more insipid than he’d expected, which was saying something. The background was dominated by a crackling fire, and the soon-to-be-fucking geezers were looking out at the viewer with generic, totally unsexy expressions.



In addition to trying not to heave, Brian was also trying to suppress a memory . . . a memory of himself and Justin . . . a memory of himself and Justin kissing tenderly in front of a crackling fire in their new house. Yes, the kissing had led to sex, but it hadn’t been fucking. It’d been love-making. Brian had held back, forcing himself to be gentle and “romantic,” after all that was the first time he and Justin were having sex after Brian had made his promise – his promise to give Justin everything he ever dreamed of, and Brian knew that dream included tender love-making and gentle kisses . . . and a sworn vow of lifelong fidelity. Just like the couple in the ad.



Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God.



What had he done? By swearing to be monogamous, he had already fucked up. Justin had said he didn’t want to marry someone who would fail at marriage – someone who couldn’t keep his promises without getting resentful.



Oh, God.



Brian desperately didn’t want to acknowledge it, let alone admit it, but being in total denial was hard, if not impossible when you weren’t high and fucking some trick’s brains out. But he had to, he had to deal with the fact that Justin was right. He was going to fail – if not by being unfaithful, then by being resentful. Resentful toward their marriage. Hell, resentful toward Justin, himself!



Oh, God.



It was in that moment. That blinding, sickening moment of revelation that Brian’s fiancé walked through the door.



“What are those?” Justin asked when he walked up and looked over Brian’s shoulder at the fucking Remsen ads.



“My revised ads for Remsen’s instant wood,” Brian replied. “What’dya think?”



Justin glanced at the array of photos for a second.



“At that age, I thought if they were on the floor it was maybe because they’d fallen and can’t get up.”



Brian snorted. That was why he’d wanted to get married. Justin could make him laugh under any circumstances, and he needed that. He needed Justin.



“Which do you prefer?” he asked.



“None,” Justin replied, sounding almost offended by the images before him. Brian could sympathize. His sensibilities were offended too. But he was . . . he was annoyed. Why was he annoyed?



“Just because you wouldn’t watch ‘Geriatrics Gone Wild” doesn’t mean they can’t do it.”



“I didn’t mean that; it’s not edgy,” Justin said. “It’s not funny. It’s not sexy.”



Brian stood up . . . he had to . . . he should . . . he should leave. He should tell Justin that he needed to do something at the office. He should go downstairs, walk out the door and get into the Vette. Better yet, he should go downstairs, walk out the door and keep on walking because . . . because, if he stayed, he wasn’t going to be able to stop himself from opening the shaken soda bottle that was his head.



It wasn’t fair to Justin. Hell, none of this, right down to the proposal, was fair to Justin. Because at the end of the day – the fucking end of the fucking day – it’d all been about him, Brian, about his fear of losing Justin, or more precisely, his fear of never getting Justin back. Buying the house, selling Babylon and the loft, the proposal – all of it was a Hail Mary, a desperate grab for a future with the man he loved. It wasn’t about Justin and what Justin might need or want; it was about Brian being selfish. Being greedy. Being afraid.



And now? Now he was going to fuck it all up. As the wedding approached, he was going to let it seep out – the fear, the regret, the resentment. It was going to ooze from his words, from his expressions, from his unwillingness to laugh or even smile.



It wasn’t that he was regretting asking Justin to marry him – he was regretting that he’d promised their marriage would be monogamous. That was what he regretted. Nothing else. And it was such a little fucking thing! So, he got his dick sucked once and awhile? WHO CARES? . . .



. . . it was the answer to that question that scared him so much because the answer was Justin. Justin cared. Justin cared a lot. Justin cared so much that he’d leave in a heartbeat if Brian disclosed his thoughts, his worries, his desires . . .



So, actually, it was Justin’s fault – or at least half of it. If Justin didn’t want SO FUCKING MUCH . . . !



“Haven’t you heard?” he snarked, because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Sex is out.”



Justin didn’t detect the twinge of resentment. Brian could still stop. He could still slam on the breaks and avoid the pending train wreck . . .



“Who told you that?” Justin replied, reaching down and sliding his hand between Brian’s legs.



Brian bit his lip. It was all he could do. No kiss. No innuendo. Just a bit lip and a lack of response.



“Now put on your sluttiest club clothes and bring plenty of drugs,” Justin said playfully, “because we’re going out.”



He started walking to the bedroom, but Brian didn’t follow because . . . because he’d decided to ruin his life.



“I was thinking we’d spend a nice, quiet evening at home,” he said and only barely stopped himself from adding Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To stay at home and snuggle-wuggle?



Justin stopped dead. He wasn’t an idiot. He recognized a below-the-belt jab when he heard one.