Justin Taylor, 21, transferred to the Slade School of Fine Art after studying for a year and a half at the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts in the United States. His eight pieces exhibited here represent his final, independent project for which he was awarded a Bachelor's in Fine Art with Highest Honors. Already adept at traditional charcoal drawing and ink comic book-style animation, Mr. Taylor studied other media at Slade including painting, focusing on acrylics and enamels; digital art, and "found objects" - a form of multimedia art. While full of classical themes and forms, Mr. Taylor's works challenge viewers to revise their understanding of what is classical and iconic in a modern age of blurred definitions, uneasy juxtapositions and crumbling canon.

Among his many fine works, Mr. Taylor has been most notable for exploring and challenging gender and sexual stereotypes. As a gay man, Mr. Taylor is particularly interested in "muddying the waters" surrounding manhood and what it means to be a man, gay or straight. These eight mixed-media pieces confront the viewer with the essential, fundamental attributes that have traditionally distinguished manhood from womanhood combined in a single central image of a pregnant man. There is a perfect balance of the masculine and feminine, virility and fecundity and, ultimately, fatherhood and motherhood.

Justin cringed at the description of his pieces in the catalog accompanying the exhibit of recent graduates' artwork. The writer made him sound so pretentious! He hoped the bar of expectation hadn't been set too high. The people who'd seen his work thought highly of it, but all he saw when he looked at it were flaws and failures and missed opportunities. But his friends all felt the same way about their own fabulous artwork. Justin supposed he wasn't the only one who'd been up all night in a state of suspended dread. There could be no downplaying the importance of this exhibit. His future opportunities depended on its success. No pressure, of course.

He'd labored over the eight pieces (yes, pun intended) for months. The first image was of a handsome, dark-haired man wearing a wife-beater and sitting at a dining room table. There's a glass full of ice cubes and whiskey at his elbow and a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam beside it. The man is smoking a cigarette and staring unseeingly ahead of him. There's a letter on the table which, judging from the man's stunned expression, obviously contains unexpected, possibly even bad, news. Even though the man's face is beautiful, there's a hardness to it, a stubborn set to his jaw, a touch of a sneer on his lips and disdain etched in the faint creases at the corners of his eyes. One might glean from the image that the man is not a nice person - or maybe just a very difficult one; regardless he didn't look like a man you wanted to tangle with. The piece was titled "The News."

The second image showed the same man standing with his back to the viewer in front of a full-length mirror. He is a classical male nude in the style of Michelangelo's David with sculpted, clearly defined muscles and lean, well-proportioned limbs. Everything about him is quintessentially masculine . . . except for his belly which the viewer can only see in the mirror's reflection. Even though the man is covering it with his strong, masculine hands, there's an obvious bump that is unmistakably the result of pregnancy. Just above the bump is a hard, muscled chest and just below the bump is a thick patch of dark pubic hair and a soft, but nonetheless, sizable penis. The piece is simply titled "Sixteen Weeks."

The third image was set in a bar full of men. Beer bottles and ashtrays balance on the edge of a pool table. Some of the men are shirtless and sport tattoos and piercings, and a couple of breaded men in the background are dressed in full motorcycle leathers. There are several men in the foreground laughing and talking. One of them is the same man from the previous pieces. He's holding a dart, getting ready to throw it. On the table beside him is a bottle of non-alcoholic beer. He's wearing black - black jeans and a shimmery black shirt whose fabric catches the light in complicated patterns, but even so, the viewer can make out the swelling of his pregnant belly. The viewer can only see the man's profile but it's enough to see that his eyes are narrowed with purpose and intense focus, and there's a cold quirk to his voluptuous but unsmiling mouth. The piece is titled "Friday Night at Woody's."

The fourth image was a close-up profile view of a naked man on his knees gripping his fully erect penis and clearly in the process of anally penetrating another man who is on his forearms and knees. Neither man's head is visible, and the tip of the thick, dark, vein-lined penis is at the exact center of the image. Penetration is clearly imminent. There's a handprint on one of the bottom's (Justin's) buttocks that was clearly caused by a blow. Though not violent, the image is primal, and its obvious intent is to sexually arouse the viewer. However, after the viewer has sated his gaze on the center of the image, his eyes drift slightly upward before fixating on the taut fullness of a pregnant belly. The piece is titled "The Last Fuck."

The fifth image was of a man (again, headless) dressed to the nines in a perfectly fitting and obviously expensive "power suit." The jacket is open in a display of careless confidence. Gold cufflinks catch the light and a Rolex peeks out from under his sleeve. At first glance, the viewer isn't aware of anything out of the ordinary, but under closer scrutiny, the viewer sees two dark spots on either side of the man's tie in the location of his nipples. The piece is titled "Leaking Milk."

The sixth image was a bird's eye view of a man sitting on a couch watching a pornographic movie. The man's jeans are pushed down to the middle of his thighs, and the viewer can partially see his fist between his legs. Even though the viewer can't actually see it, it's clear that the man is masturbating, and the reason the viewer can't see the man's erection or even most of the man's fist is because his pregnant belly is in the way. The hand which the man isn't using to pleasure himself rests with obvious tenderness on his belly. The piece is titled "Twins."

The seventh image was of the beautiful dark-haired man sitting in a traditional "man's" leather office chair wearing jeans and a leather jacket. There's a masculine-looking shell bracelet on his wrist and his legs are spread with a kind of aggressiveness that only a certain kind of "manly" man emanates. The leather jacket is open and slipped off the man's sculpted, powerful shoulders, and he isn't wearing a shirt. He is holding a teeny, tiny, obviously premature baby in one hand while it nurses. This time the man's head is visible, but he's looking down at the newborn, so all the viewer can really see is his dark hair. Even so, you can tell there's a soft smile on his face. The piece is titled "Too Soon."

The eighth image is half-profile and half-frontal. The same man is sitting on a couch, his back arched, head thrown back, the sinews in his neck straining. All the viewer can see of his face is his chin and a glimpse of the side of his profile. He's obviously in agony. His strong hands clutch the couch's fabric. He's wearing jeans with his fly open and a white t-shirt that's scrunched up to reveal his belly. He's sweating; the cotton of his t-shirt is dark under his arms and his dark hair is clumped and damp. Tears streak his temple. He's heavily pregnant. The piece is titled "Labor."

At the very end of the line of images, there's a single, black and white, close-up photo of a man's arms holding two identical girl babies against his bare chest. Below it was a plaque that read For my muses and the loves of my life, Brian, Helen and Maeve. No work of art can capture your beauty and courage.

I need you to come home as soon as possible - Brian

Justin blinked at his computer screen. It was one o'clock in the morning, and he was exhausted after the exhibit's opening gala; maybe he was seeing things. Other than receiving one small package, he had not seen or heard from Brian in over a year.

I need you to come home as soon as possible.

There were no attachments. Brian never emailed him without attaching photos of the twins - in fact, their photos was all he sent, and there were never any accompanying words. Two identical, dark-haired, blue-eyed, smiley babies. Sometimes Brian would be holding them in his arms or they'd be sitting on his lap, but the photos never showed anything higher than Brian's shoulders. It was annoying. It was as though Brian were saying "I don't want you to come home, so I can't send you a photo of my face because I'm so hot you won't be able to stay away."

Fortunately other people had been sending him photos that actually included all of Brian. He looked good - maybe a little older than his years, but not much. Like his daughters, he was always smiling even when it was obvious he hadn't known that someone was taking his picture. Everyone told him that Brian was doing well and seemed happy. He'd returned to work but only halftime (at his request), and whenever he could, he worked from home. Everyone had expressed surprise that Brain was so content in his caregiver role - especially Justin's mom who took care of the twins when she could wrangle a free afternoon out of her schedule.

They adore Brian; you should see their little faces when he walks through the door, she wrote. They'd be the same with you. Justin, why don't you come home?

What no one knew was that he had come home . . . and that was why he couldn't come back again. Not until he'd earned his degree. Not until he was ready to face Brian again.

In the beginning he'd known without a doubt that he made the right choice when he accepted the scholarship. He'd learned more in a semester at Slade than he would've learned at PIFA in four years. Everything was exciting - he was being challenged artistically and intellectually and his artwork had become much more interesting. He met some terrific people and even made a few close friends (other than Daphne, it was a first for him). His professors were pleased with his steady progress - so much so that he was offered the opportunity to transfer to Slade for the remainder of his undergraduate studies.

And that's when he made what he sometimes feared now in hindsight was a bad decision. He told Brian about the offer, declared he wasn't going to accept it, and that was when Brian broke up with him.

He'd returned to Pittsburgh, and they had the fight to end all fights. It was so awful that the twins stayed with Justin's mother for two days (although she never found out why). Among other things, Justin literally handcuffed himself to a railing in the new house, and Brian was forced to go out and buy wire cutters. They screamed and yelled and broke things - a lot of things. There were threats of custody battles and bodily harm. No obscenity went unsaid, no back went unstabbed, no threat - no matter how hurtful - went unspoken (including Justin's last desperate threat that he'd tell the police Brian was abusing the twins and Brian's equally desperate threat to take the twins and flee to a country that wouldn't extradite him for kidnapping). Tears flowed (on both sides). Insults were thrown. Buttons were pushed. The word "hate" was used so often it lost its meaning. And when Justin ultimately surrendered and returned to London, he fell into a deep depression. The ensuing summer was easily, hands-down the worst time in his life. It made the bashing seem like a picnic in the park by comparison.

June and July were a blur. He drank too much and took pills he bought on the street. All the places he went blended together in a smeared insomniac streak of color and noise. Paris, Athens, Rome, Dublin, Amsterdam, Prague, even St. Petersburg. He was cutting - something he hadn't done since the aftermath of the bashing. He got lice at a hostel in Greece and shaved his head. He had his passport and credit card stolen. He fucked without a condom and threw up in countless alleyways. He almost died once and once almost killed someone. Fortunately two of his close friends tracked him down. They took care of him and forced him now and then to see glimpses of beauty until, by the end of August, the glimpses turned into sustainable experiences. It'd been regaining the ability to see beauty again that he later credited with saving his life. That fall, he completed a series of multimedia works documenting what he'd gone through. There was so much emotion - exuberance and leaden grief, hope and despair, ecstasy and hatred - that the professor of the class for which they were created cried when she first saw them.

That fall, he decided to shake up as many elements in his life as possible and see what happened. He reestablished contact with his mother who he'd stopped calling when he left Pittsburgh because getting news about Brian and the twins was far worse than getting none. He even, with great effort, connected (albeit it tentatively) with his father who actually visited for a weekend and turned a blind eye on Justin's living arrangement with four guys all of whom he was casually fucking. They did all the London touristy stuff and carefully avoided all meaningful discussion. It hadn't been a magical reunion, but Justin was glad it'd occurred even if the only result was a mundane email correspondence. Justin had hated his father, and he was glad he no longer had to . . . it left him with more hatred to spend on Brian.

And the thing he hated most of all? Brian was paying his tuition and (even though she swore it wasn't true) giving his mom money to send to him. He'd returned the first check he got from her saying he didn't want Brian's "fucking charity," but she'd cried and begged him to take it - not for Brian, but for her so she didn't have to spend her days and nights worrying about him.

By the time he graduated, Justin had found a space within his core where he could go to protect himself, and from its safety, he was able to start caring again. He'd learned what it was like to bump into his monsters in the darkness of the darkest night and not run away. He'd learned how to let art absorb the volcanic emotions and thoughts he couldn't safely secure in his heart. He remembered why he'd so longed to be a father and, after a long struggle, forgave himself for falling so far short of his naïve intentions. He'd discovered that he needn't say out loud everything he thought and felt and that sometimes more can be said through silence than speech - but, at the same time, he realized that some things had to be spoken no matter the consequences, and it was after that realization that Justin wrote his first letter to Brian. It was short, but over time, they gradually grew longer.

Brian,
Stop believing that everything you think is true. Sometimes it is, but most of the time it isn't. Especially when it comes to me . . . and us.
Justin

Brian,
I don't hate you anymore. I'm not sure I ever really did, but I know I hated how you made me feel sometimes. You're like a wounded animal gnashing at the hands that would help you if you'd let them. I got tired of bleeding because of your wounds.
Justin

Brian,
You can keep me out of your life if you need to (or want to), but you can't keep me out of the twins' lives. Everyone's told me what a wonderful father you are, but you're only one person. Someday, you're going to need a partner. I hope when you realize that, that you'll consider me for the job.
Justin

Brian,
I know you're reading these letters. You may be able to delete my emails, but I know you, and I know you're incapable of not opening an envelope that's addressed to you. I'd like you to write back, but if you don't, I'm okay with it. I don't need your stamp of approval before I can think any given thought or feel any particular emotion. I have seen and done as much as you have - and maybe more. We're equals now. I will never tolerate your shit again. If we're able to get back together, you're not going to win every argument - or perhaps even half of them. I'm the monster you created, and, like Dr. Frankenstein's, I've grown stronger than you. I could crush you. It's not a threat; it's the truth.

You're smiling right now. You're getting hard. Maybe you're even touching yourself. When you come, think of me if you weren't already - because something tells me you already do think of me . . . and that you've never stopped.

If I'm right, give me a sign. If I'm wrong, return my next letter unopened, and I'll never write to you again.
Justin

Four days later a package arrived. When Justin opened it, he gasped. Whatever he'd expected, this definitely wasn't one of them, but there it was. A collar.

It was made from the softest leather he'd ever felt and was lined on the inside with a thin layer of black cushioned silk. It was about an inch wide and was secured by a silver buckle, which, in turn was secured by small lock, the key for which was in a black silk bag with drawstrings pulled tight. To Justin's surprise, the leather wasn't black - instead it was the color of rich, dark caramel. There was nothing tawdry or obviously "deviant" about it, and there could be no doubt that it was handcrafted. Along with the key, Justin found in the bag a handwritten note on a piece of paper no larger than the fortune in a fortune cookie:

Catch me if you can was all it said.

Justin had grinned his first Sunshiny grin in years. He had to stay in London until the end of the exhibit of the graduating class's artwork, but that was only another two months. After jerking off, he went on line and booked the earliest flight home he could find.

And then the email arrived a month before his departure date.

I need you to come home as soon as possible.

The words made Justin's heart stutter with the kind of nausea-inducing fear that he hadn't felt in a long time. There were only a small handful of reasons why Brian would "need" him to come home, and none of them were good. It was only six o'clock in Pittsburgh. Justin opened his phone and, for the first time in forever, dialed Brian's number. He was sure Brian wouldn't answer, but he did and after only the second ring. Justin didn't even get a greeting out of his mouth before Brian spoke.

"I have cancer," he said matter-of-factly.

And just like that, the bottom fell out of Justin's world.

To Justin's complete surprise, Brian met him at the airport. He'd been expecting his mother, but there he was. Brian Kinney. They froze and stared at each other for a second, but then Justin dropped his bags and ran to him. He wasn't going to give Brian a chance to be standoffish; if Brian didn't open his arms then Justin was just going to collide with him and knock him over. But Brian did open his arms, even well before Justin reached him. They grabbed onto each other. Justin threw his arms around Brian's neck; one of Brian's arms went around his back and the hand of his other disappeared in Justin's hair, holding Justin's head tight against his shoulder. Justin could feel him shaking. They didn't let go for a long time.

"Hey," Brian said huskily and loosened his embrace just enough so that Justin could step back and look up into his eyes. They, like the rest of Brian's face, looked tired - not haggard but almost.

"Hey," Justin replied, his voice just as husky.

"How was your flight?"

Justin shrugged. "It was okay. I took a Dramamine, so I was able to get some sleep. Where are the girls?"

"They're with your mom."

Justin took a deep breath. "Does she know?"

Brian shook his head. "No one knows. Just you and my doctors."

Justin stood on his toes and kissed Brian's mouth, pressing their lips together long enough for their eyes to close and their bodies to relax against each other.

It was so strange. The last time they'd seen each other was when Justin, his voice venomous, had told Brian to go fuck himself before he got in the cab that was to take him to the airport. He'd known what hate tasted like in that moment. They hadn't seen each other since, let alone spoken. But a lot of time had passed in the meantime - a lot of experiences had impacted them both for better or for worse. They were not the same people they had been.

"I don't want to fight old battles," he said when he ended the kiss.

"I don't either," Brian replied. "I have neither the inclination nor the time."

Justin swallowed. "What kind?"

"Testicular. An oncology specialist blew me at the baths. While he was playing with my balls, he said he noticed a lump. After I came, he told me to get it checked out, which I did as soon as possible. Sure enough, it was a malignant tumor."

Justin swallowed again and nodded. He didn't like learning that Brian was tricking, although he wasn't surprised. But in this particular case, he wanted to send the trick a dozen roses and thank him with all his heart.

"How far along is it?"

"Far enough."

"So what's going to happen?"

"First they'll removed the ball and replace it with a fake one, and then I'll undergo radiation treatment."

"How long will that last?"

"As long as it needs to."

"Are they . . . have they given you . . . ?"

"It depends on the nature of the tumor and whether the cancer has spread, but assuming the best case scenario, my chances of recovering are very good."

"And the absolute worst case scenario?"

"Seventy-four percent."

Justin felt a rush of relief so profound that he had to grab Brian's arm or risk collapsing. "Thank God, he said in a rush of breath.

Brian just looked at him.

"I'm glad you're relieved," he said, not sounding particularly glad at all.

Justin frowned. "You're not?"

"Every fucking night I dream that I'm dying," he said without looking away from Justin's eyes. "I can't die. It's not an option. The girls . . ."

"You're not going to die," Justin said flatly.

Brian nodded. "But I am going to be sick - really really sick for a while. I won't . . ." He paused and cleared his throat. "I won't be able to take care of the girls. I . . . I need . . . I need help, Justin."

"That's why you asked me to come back," Justin said fiercely, grabbing Brian's shoulders and giving him a little emphatic shake. "And that's why I'm here, but frankly, Brian? I was going to be here anyway. I couldn't stand being away from you and the girls another fucking day. God, I've missed you so much!"

"Yeah," Brian said after a moment. "I've missed you too. I really have." He let Justin pull his head down so their foreheads touched. "We all have," he whispered.

Justin's mom met them on the front steps of her condo holding the hands of two identical blue-eyed beauties with straight, dark brown, shoulder-length hair. Yes, Justin had been sent countless photos, but nothing prepared him for seeing them in real life. Just as he'd predicted, they looked exactly like Brian, which Justin rightly or wrongly attributed to the fact that Brian had carried them. They were wearing t-shirts with sparkly glue words on them; one said "I'm Maeve" and the other said "I'm Helen." For the second time that day, Justin dropped his bags on the ground and ran to them. They were shy when he first knelt down in front of them and hid behind their grandmother's legs, but when they saw Brian kneel down beside Justin and kiss his cheek, they slowly emerged, clearly more curious than apprehensive.

"This is your other daddy," Brian said. "He's come home forever."

The twins squinted up at him and pointed. "Yellow hair," Maeve said. She turned to Helen, who merely said "yellow forever daddy."

Justin laughed. "I got you guys something in London," he said. He stood up and retrieved a plastic bag from his heap of luggage. "Actually, I got you a couple things," he said, kneeling down in front of them again. "First I got you these." He pulled out two English bulldog stuffed toys wearing t-shirts that read Never Mind the Bollocks Here's the Sex Pistols.

"Justin," his mom said disapprovingly, but Brian cracked up.

"I owned that album. ‘Oh we're so pretty, Oh so pretty, We're pretty vacant,'" he sang badly. "And, yes, that's how Sex Pistols really sounded - it's not that I can't carry tune." He laughed again. God, it was so good to hear him laugh!

The girls each accepted their plush toy, and then the first thing that did was show them to each other.

"They're making sure they're 100 percent identical," Brian said. "We've discovered that they don't want different things or even colors. Everything has to be the same."

Once the girls had made sure the toys were acceptable, they swapped them.

Justin covered his mouth with his hand. "Oh my God," he said. "They're so adorable!"

"They're so weird," Brian replied.

"Adorably weird," Justin's mom said and then knelt down. "Do you want to show Nana your puppy dogs?"

The girls clutched their toys to their chests and shook their heads. Justin laughed again. Helen pointed at him. "Forever daddy," she said with a child's serious voice and expression. His eyes filled with tears. When he looked up at his mom, she saw that hers had too. He cleared his throat.

"Okay, let's see," he said. "I may have something else in here." He looked into the bag. "Ah, yes! Here we go."

He pulled out two boxes containing classic London stuff - a toy taxi, a double-decker bus, a phone booth and a "lorry" with moving doors and "fresh crumpets!" written on the side.

"Any detachable parts?" his mom asked. "They're still putting everything they find in their mouths . . . Brian . . ."

"I wasn't going to say anything," Brian said holding up his hands. Justin's mom gave him a playful finger wag.

"Nope, everything's approved for one year and up," he said and then looked at Brian with a guilty expression. "Sorry about the plastic."

Brian rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. The no-plastic thing lasted a grand total of three months. I've surrendered to the reality that my home will be littered with plastic crap for the foreseeable future. Although the big, innocent eye ban is still in effect and strictly enforced."

"What about pink?" Justin asked. "Have you managed to keep the princess obsession at bay?"

Brian sighed a long, weary sigh. "Sadly no, and do you know who's at fault?"

"Let me guess . . . Aunty Em?"

Brian shook his head. "Not a bad guess, but the answer is unexpected. It's Gus. Gus has been a princess since April. I'm finding it surprisingly hard to handle . . ."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Brian," Justin's mom said. "You should be proud that your son isn't straitjacketed by gender stereotypes."

Brian made a face that Justin well recognized. It made him grin. "Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm immune - or even necessarily opposed - to cultural expectations," he said. "By son is a boy, and boys should look like boys - unless they're drag queens, of course."

Justin's mom shook her head and turned to Justin. "I think it's adorable," she said. "And what makes it even more adorable is the fact that Gus spends all his time chasing after little girls in their own princess costumes and trying to kiss them."

Justin laughed. "It's a brilliant strategy," he said. "It's like a duck blind. He's discovered that camouflage lets you infiltrate the desired demographic group. I bet he catches more girls dressed as a princess than he would if he wore sneakers and overalls."

"God," Brian said. "My kid's going to end up being a straight fag. It'll be so confusing."

The three of them watched the twins go through their present-receiving ritual; first they examined their own boxes, and then examined each other's, and then swapped them. They then talked to each other at length in what sounded like Dutch spoken by Daffy Duck.

"Well?" Justin whispered. "Do you think they like their presents?"

"Hey, kiddos," Brian said. "What do we say when people give us nice things?"

"Thank you," they chirped and then turned to Justin.

"Thank you, daddy," Helen said, and then turned to Maeve and nodded.

"Thank you, daddy," Maeve said.

He reached for them for a hug; they were still too shy to go to him and hid between his mother's legs again, but they were laughing and playing peek-a-boo.

"It's so interesting," his mom whispered. "Helen has taken on a hint of a ‘big sister' role with Maeve."

"Maybe they've figured out they're not the same age," Justin said.

"Or maybe they're just weird," Brian replied. "C'mon, bumblebees, let's get something to eat." When he reached them, they held up their arms, and he bent over and picked them both up at the same time.

"Won't be able to do that much longer," Justin's mother said with a teasing smile.

Justin caught Brian's eyes and saw a glimpse of pain in them.

"That's not what she means," he whispered against Brain's mouth after they kissed.

"I know," Brian whispered back. "But it's all I can think about . . ."

"Ssshhhh," Justin said. He cupped Brian's face in his hands and kissed him again. It was still soft, but not quite as soft as the last one had been.

They stayed for dinner, and Justin was given the dubious honor of feeding the twins in their highchairs. It took an eternity. Clearly, food was just a really messy toy.

"Ah yes," Brian said as he cleaned their faces and hands with a damp cloth. "My dainty, little darlings are total Mikey-style pigs. Mikey used to eat like that when I first met him. It was horrifying. That's how I learned that shame is a highly effective method of manipulation. Sadly, our daughters are, as of yet, impervious to shame or anything requiring contrition."

"Daddy, daddy!" they yelled. "Play leaf!"

"‘Play leaf'?" Justin said.

Brian winked at him. "Just watch, you'll see."

Justin watched with immense amusement as Brian picked up one of the girls and swung her in the air as though his arms where a swing.

"It's autumn," he said, "and the trees are shedding their leaves. Here comes a wind . . . whoosh! And the littlest leaf is tugged off its twig and starts floating downward." He held his daughter and slowly wafted her down before dumping her on the squishy couch.

"Now me!" the other shrieked. "I want to be a leaf!"

Brian did the same thing for her and then turned to Justin after dropping her on the couch. "Taking notes?" he asked. "It won't be long until they figure out that you make a perfectly good tree yourself."

Justin laughed. Had he really missed all of this? Had he really been away for almost two years? Had he been insane? Watching Brian with the girls made Justin fall in love with him again - only this time even deeper. The three of them were beautiful together.

He was home. He was finally home.

He and Brian had planned things so that they could spend a week together before Brian went to Johns Hopkins for his operation. They did everything possible to make things feel normal for the girls so they could get used to Justin's presence in their lives. The week was also necessary because Justin had a shitload of stuff to learn. Brian laughed as he scribbled yet another note on the pad he carried wherever they went, but he needed to write everything down. There were a million and one little things that Brian and the twins had figured out over a span of almost two years that Justin had to memorize in seven days! At times, it felt like an impossible task, and he'd get scared. What if he couldn't do this? What if the twins didn't feel comfortable with him? What if he fucked up?

"It's not ‘if,' it's ‘when' and ‘how badly,'" Brian said the night before the operation. "You will fuck up. You have no idea how many times I have - and still do. The main thing is to never let them forget for even an instant that you love them and that they are safe. You could be trying to put out a grease fire and change a diaper while the other one drinks dish detergent, but as long as you're smiling and making eye contact, they'll be fine. I've noticed how much they like your smile. Maeve even called you ‘sunshine daddy' when we got home from Deb's place the other day. And once one says something, the other will start saying it too. It's like living with a constant, giggly echo."

They were lying in bed. The first few nights, Justin had slept in the spare room and joined Brian in the mornings when the girls woke up so they could see that he'd eventually be sleeping in "daddy's big bed." Once it was clear the girls were taking things in stride, he and Brian started spending the whole night together. There'd been a lot of touching and kissing, but nothing overtly sexual had occurred between them. Justin wasn't sure why. Was it due to the twins? Was Brian not sure he wanted their relationship to be sexual? Was he worried that Justin wouldn't want to be fucked by a guy with a tumor in one of his balls?

He decided to grab the bull by the horns.

"Are we going to fuck or do you want to wait until the operation and treatment are over?"

They'd been kissing lazily, and Justin was on the edge of going crazy with lust. He took Brian's hand and placed his palm against his cock. Brian moaned raggedly in response, but when Justin reached for his cock, he moved away.

"Brian? What's . . . ?"

Brian rolled onto his back and covered his face with his hands. Justin placed his hand, fingers splayed wide, on Brian's chest. They stayed like that for a long time. Finally Brain spoke; his voice was so low, it was almost inaudible.

"I haven't fucked anyone since we fucked the night before you left for London the first time."

Justin couldn't stifle his gasp of surprise.

"I don't mean I haven't being tricking," Brian continued. "It's just I haven't fucked anyone's ass. I haven't wanted to . . . and I'm not sure I do now."

Justin kissed his shoulder. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," he said . . . and meant it. Just being with Brian and the girls was more than enough to make him happy - even if they never became lovers again, he'd consider his life blessed . . .

. . . not that he didn't want Brian to fuck him. In fact, there was nothing he wanted more. Brian's body wasn't only back in pre-pregnancy shape, but even better. He'd taken up running outdoors, and the unevenness of the ground and varying stride-lengths had turned his legs from those of a hot guy into those of a hot guy who runs marathons. He'd also started playing racquetball with Ben and Ted. Yes, Brian also still did regular work-outs at the gym, but there was something about adding actual sports to his fitness regime that made him stronger and more agile. He seemed more at home in his body than he ever had, which was saying something!

And it also explained in part Brian's obvious grief surrounding the cancer. His body had betrayed him - and not just any part of his body, but one of his testicles. Justin would understand if sex was the farthest thing from Brian's mind at the moment.

"It's not that I don't want to have sex," Brian said eventually. "It's that . . . fuck. Justin, are we together?"

Justin frowned. "Together?" What a weird word to come out of Brian's mouth.

"Yeah," Brian said with a hint of embarrassed irritation. "Are we together? Are we partners? Are we a . . ."

"A couple?"

"Yeah. A couple. Although please do not say that word again in my presence. It's Mikey's new favorite word, and it makes me want to strangle him. He's being all Mr. Married Man these days. It's getting really old." He paused and took a deep breath. "So, what do you say? Are we? Or have the bridges finally been burned?"

Justin wanted to slap him. Of course, they were a couple! Why did this always have to be so fucking complicated?

"We are if you want us to be," he said.

"Do you want us to be?" Brian asked in return.

Justin laughed. "I feel like we're junior high schoolers asking each other if we want to dance. Fuck, yes, I want us to be a couple! Have you been waiting to fuck me until I said that actual word, because if you have, it is so fucking sweet . . ."

It couldn't have worked better if he'd planned it: Brian rolled on top of him and covered his mouth with his own all the while mumbling "shut up, you silly twat." From there, memory and nature took over.

"I'm gonna come," Brian gasped before long. "Where do you want it?"

Justin thought for a moment. What would be the most symbolic? Did he want Brian to come on his face and claim him? Did he want Brian to fill a condom in his ass?

"My mouth," Justin said breathlessly.

Brian froze in the midst of fucking him just like Justin knew he would.

"You don't want my come in your mouth," Brian said, ruthlessly blunt. "It's diseased."

"It is not diseased," Justin replied. "You asked me where I wanted you to come, well I want you to come in my mouth. I've missed the taste of you like crazy."

"I know you're being all artsy-fartsy about this," Brian said. "Like it's a symbol . . ."

"And so what if it is? So what if I want it to be a symbol of wanting you - of wanting all of you and everything about you? Brian, this is the last time you'll come with that ball. I want to feel it move with each contraction of your orgasm. I want to hold it. It's been a part of you since you were born - I want to say good-bye . . . and I think you do too. Hate the cancer, hate the tumor, but don't hate your body."

"Christ," Brian chuckled. "No wonder I can't understand your fucking thesis paper. The next thing I know, you'll be quoting Foucault or some other French brain-guy."

Justin laughed. "Alright, three things: (1) I did quote Foucault; (2) French brain-guy? I shall say no more, and (3) you read my thesis paper??"

Brian laughed and kissed him. "Haven't you figured it out yet?" he said, his voice husky with laughter and lust. "I think you're fucking brilliant; I think your art is exquisite and your thinky-thoughts are inspiring." He propped himself up on his pillows and spread his long, gorgeous legs. "Now," he growled. "Suck my aching cock, Sunshine."

Justin drove Brian to the airport the next morning and then picked him up again two days later. Both times Brian was solemn and quiet. The girls had been fine with his absence, but they melted-down when he came home. They obviously knew something was wrong. Brian smiled and kissed them, but they weren't fooled. They clung to him and cried.

"Remember what daddy and I told you?" Brian said. "I'm going to have a tummy ache for a while and will need to sleep a lot, but I'm fine. Okay? We just can't play as rough as we usually do."

They didn't believe him, but they also didn't understand why. Over the course of the following weeks, they spent a lot of time playing quietly on Brian and Justin's bed and "reading" him stories. Justin watched them. He'd never thought he could love so deeply . . . or so well. The art he created during the months of Brian's treatment and recovery was simple but heartfelt - he thought of it as a "back to the basics" time. A fresh start.

Which was not to say it was easy. Brian was nauseous almost all the time and very weak. When the girls were asleep or with their grandmothers, he talked pessimistically about the future and mourned an idealized past that had never actually existed. Justin just lay beside him on the bed or sat near him on the couch and let him talk. Much of what he said defied basic reason, but it didn't matter. You feel what you feel. Plus, any time that Brian spent talking was better than all the years he'd been silent. When Brian finally recovered, Justin felt for the very first time that he knew him.

On the anniversary of the day Brian had conceived the girls, Brian and Justin got married. Not because they wanted to be married (an institution Brian still scorned), but because their daughters wanted them to be.

"I figured what the hell if it makes them happy," Brian told Michael, who, ever since becoming a father himself, had become slightly less intolerable. At least in Justin's life. Apparently, Michael was now driving Mel insane by constantly questioning (and subsequently) undermining her parenting decisions.

"His capacity for hovering knows no bounds," Justin told Mel who gave him an expression suggesting that she'd already figured that out, fuck you very much.

Brian had little sympathy. "She's the one who let him fuck her with a turkey baster," he said. "It's too late in the game to call a fowl."

The wedding was held in the lodge at Sugarbush Mountain. It was "fucking cold as fuck," according to Brian who claimed he was freezing his ball off. The girls had no idea what he was talking about, but they jumped around shrieking and laughing because everyone else was. As favors, they handed out ski tickets and heavy duty, industrial-strength condoms, which, appallingly, Emmett used to make balloon animals much to the twins delight.

Deb spent the day wallowing in babies, happy as a pig in shit; Ted had brought Blake who'd spent the day trying to teach Ted to ski; they both looked ready to keel over with exhaustion during the ceremony. Michael gave a long, rambling tearful toast that Brian eventually pulled the plug on (literally), and Lindsay cornered Justin for a ridiculously long time to discuss an exhibit of his work she'd like to put on at the gallery, Justin was pleased although he had to tell her firmly (and to her disappointment) that the exhibit couldn't contain the "Pregnancy" pieces. Brian didn't hate them, but he definitely didn't want "all of fucking Pittsburgh looking at his leaky tits."

Gus was still a princess, and he came to the wedding dressed as the Snow Queen from the Narnia series. Justin laughed at Brian's sour expression when he walked through the door. Brian was even less pleased with the situation when the twins tried to mimic their idolized half-brother by covering themselves with garlands of toilet paper.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered in Justin's ear. "Just think, four years ago you shoved your cock in my ass and look what happened." He gestured at the twins who were dancing on a table, draped in toilet paper and singing "Toot Toot, Chuga, Chuga, Red Car" at the top of their lungs.

Justin grinned a big sunshiny grin. "How about tonight you let me shove my cock up your ass again for old times' sake?" When Brian's gaze went hazy with lust, Justin's grin turned into a tiger purr as he stuck a finger in the open collar of Brian's wine-red shirt and hooked it through the well-worn collar underneath.