The flight home was bumpy. Brian was glad that the only reason he had to spend time in the John was to jerk off, not lose his lunch because he’d had too much to drink the night before. He patted himself on the back yet again for not having gotten drunk with Brown and his cronies. He’d drank just enough shots to look like he was throwin’ em back with the boys, but not so many that he acquired a reckless honest-to-God buzz. Fortunately, he had a high tolerance level for alcohol. At least there was one good thing about being a functioning alcoholic.

There was only one last thing on his list yet to do. Corner that fucker Vance and inform him that he, Brian, was now a partner. He’d managed to convince Brown to make it part of the client contract. Brian was pretty impressed himself – he’d scored a major coup without having to fuck anyone . . . well, okay, there had been Brown’s assistant, but that’d been only to get his foot in the door. After that, it was just him, Brian Kinney. His dick could take a brief vacation.

But only a brief one. A very brief one.

As soon as he got Vance to sign that crucial document making his partnership a reality, Brian was going to buy the most expensive bottle of champagne he could afford without being ridiculously wasteful – most of the champagne was going to end up flowing down the crack of Justin’s ass anyway, so $500 was really the limit. They’d get nice and tipsy and fuck each other’s brains out. Then they’d order Chinese, and after they’d stuffed their faces, they’d fuck again. Brian intended to fuck and suck the memory of the past couple of days right out of Justin’s head. He was going to pull out all the stops. He was going to fuck Justin like he’d never been fucked before, and then they were going to sleep all tangled up in each other and their nasty sheets. Tomorrow, after Brian had fucked him again, he and Justin were going to pack and be on the earliest flight to Vermont. First class, of course.

He had to do it, and he had to do it right. There was no room for error. Whatever the hell it was that he and Justin had together was on the line. Brian didn’t want to fuck it up any more than he already had.

Things were . . . well, things were not right between them – not like they had been – and he sure as hell hadn’t improved the situation by throwing a hissy (or perhaps he should say a “pissy”) fit over the whole Rage thing. But what else had he done wrong? He’d said he wasn’t going to get anything for Justin’s birthday, but then he had. Justin had clearly enjoyed fucking that hustler, and Brian had certainly enjoyed watching the show. Yeah, Linds and Mel were scandalized, but they were women. They couldn’t understand the way he and Justin lived – the way they did things, the way they wanted to do things. Lesbians. They might as well be straight for all their hang-ups.

But come to think about it – and if he was honest with himself – he’d noticed that Justin hadn’t jumped with joy when he saw his hired hunk. He’d been quiet for the rest of the day and didn’t want to go to Babylon that night. He hadn’t even been in the mood to fuck when Brian came home. Brian knew why. He really did. He knew that if he’d bought those fucking flowers, Justin would’ve been thrilled. But he just couldn’t. Why was that so hard for people to understand? Had he ever given anyone the mistaken perception that he was someone who bought flowers? The only person he bought flowers for was his mother, but it was only to assuage his lingering Catholic guilt. He did not buy flowers. He did not do candle light dinners. He did not celebrate birthdays because after all what were they? The day your mother pushed you out of her cunt like a giant, screaming turd? What was there to celebrate about that? What you celebrated was achievements – things you worked for and won with your blood, sweat, and tears. Hadn’t they celebrated Justin’s acceptance to PIFA? And then his re-acceptance? Hell, hadn’t they celebrated the fact that Justin had finally come down from his high horse and accepted help with his tuition? Maybe there’d been no cake and confetti, but it had been a big, fucking deal that he’d let Justin top him. A thousand roses couldn’t touch that gesture. And now he was going to throw the party of all parties to celebrate the release of the first edition of the soon-to-be-famous new comic “Rage.”

He was genuinely confused by Justin increasingly evident dissatisfaction. What had changed in their . . . whatever it is? Brian was still abiding by The Rules. He was still inviting Justin to come with him whenever he went out. He was still fucking Justin’s as thoroughly as he always had. He was still giving Justin the space to do whatever he wanted to do – and the means. Was it just about flowers . . . those motherfucking flowers? The flowers and all they represented – snuggling instead of fucking? Whispered, “I love you’s”? Chocolates and teddy bears and violin music playing softly in the background? Jesus Christ! They did not live in a heterosexual fantasy land! Justin knew that! He said he was fine with it! So What.The.Fuck?

By the time the plane landed, Brian had worked himself up so much that he was going to have to jerk off again and change into the suit he kept in his office for emergencies before he met with Vance. Despite having cranked up the cold air as far as it could go, his armpits and back were soaked. Even the crack of his ass was sweaty

To his great relief, Vance didn’t put up a fight, and Brian was made a partner of the new agency in less than an hour. Fucking partner! He was giddy as he rode the elevator down to the garage. As soon as he drove out onto the street and got cell phone coverage, he called Cynthia, who shrieked with excitement. Brian could picture her jumping up and down, the wine from her glass flying everywhere, and some poor bastard huddled in a terrified ball on the couch. He laughed and told her that as a partner he had the power to give her the week off. Why the hell not? After all, he was going to be in Vermont with Justin, and there wouldn’t be much for her to do.

As he drove toward the liquor store – an upscale one, not the kind with neon Bud Light signs in the windows – he looked around, taking in the sights of the city. For some reason, things seemed different. Brighter. Faster. More interesting. Pittsburgh would never be New York City, but the dissimilarity seemed less glaring than usual. God, he was pumped! For a couple days there, he’d thought partnership had slipped through his fingers. No longer. And who knew? Being a partner made you a much more attractive candidate should you want to move to another agency. Maybe New York City wasn’t out of his reach after all! He was soaring, and he wasn’t even high on coke. Life was good. No, life was better than good! He’d looked into the abyss, but now he was back on safe, solid ground. God, he’d been so scared!

The price of the champagne he bought exceeded the limit he’d set for himself, but only by fifty bucks. What the hell was fifty bucks now that his paycheck would be triple what it had been? Talk about something to celebrate! This was the mother of all achievements – more than he’d achieved since he’d got the job at Ryder’s in the first place ten years ago. He’d probably be the youngest partner, too. Not to mention the smartest and best looking by a long shot. He could taste the money he was going to make. It tasted like success.

He gave the bottle of champagne a big ol’ smooch when he got in the Jeep. Little did he know he’d be pouring it down the drain an hour later.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Shit,” Michael said angrily. “Shit shit shit shit!”

He, Emmett and Ted watched Brian walk away with his head down and his shoulders hunched.

“Wow,” Emmett said.

“Yeah. That wasn’t nearly as funny as I thought it would be,” Ted agreed. “In fact, it really wasn’t funny at all, was it?”

“Not in the slightest,” Emmett said. “Did you see his expression?”

“It looked like he’d been slapped in the face.”

“More like kicked in the balls.”

“Shit,” Michael said again. “Wait here, I’m going after him.”

Ted grabbed his arm. “Don’t,” he said. “He probably feels humiliated. If he does, it might be best to give him some space.”

“But . . . but . . . ,” Michael stammered.

“I’m afraid there’s no ‘buts’ about it, sweetie,” Emmett said, holding onto the back of Michael’s collar to stop him from running after Brian’s retreating figure.

It said a lot about their collective mood that no one made a “but(t)” joke.

“He was totally knocked off balance. I never thought I’d see a day when Brian Kinney looked like that,” Ted said, shaking his head with solemn amazement.

“I know,” Emmett agreed. “And I kinda wish I hadn’t.”

Michael pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called Brian.

“Shit! He’s not answering his phone!”

“Of course, he’s not, honey,” Emmett said soothingly. “My guess is that it’ll be a long, long time before he answers his phone again. Don’t take it personally.”

“What do you think his big news was?” Ted asked, blowing into his hands. It was cold as hell.

“Obviously something to do with his job,” Michael replied. “He probably wanted to tell Justin he didn’t get fired. Not that the little shit would care.”

“Now, now,” Emmett said, this time putting an arm around Michael’s shoulders and pulling him close for a comforting hug. “Let’s not go there.”

“No, let’s not,” Ted said adamantly. “Let’s go inside and try to have a good time.”

“How can I have a good time when my best friend looks like he did after his dad told him he had cancer?”

“Sweetie, the best thing you can do for him right now is give him some time alone,” Emmett said.

“Yeah,” Ted agreed. “Right now Brian is like a wounded animal; if you try to get near him he might bite your arm off even though you’re not the one he’s mad at.”

Emmett gave Ted a sad smile. “I’m willing to bet the person he’s mad at is himself.”

“You might be right,” Ted agreed. “C’mon, Michael. Brian will be okay.”

“Actually he might not be,” Michael said. “You guys don’t know how fucked-up he gets when he’s upset and alone. He might O.D.”

“Alright, how about this?” Ted said. “How about you come inside with us for a couple of hours, and then we’ll drive to the Brian’s so you can check on him, okay?”

Michael hesitated, but then he nodded. “Okay,” he said.

“And if he’s not there, you’re not going to freak out because he’ll probably be at the baths where there are lots of people around who can help him if he needs it.”

“Yeah, right,” Michael said. “A bunch of poppered-up guys high on E wandering around in the dark. What are we hoping? That one of them will trip over his unconscious body and give enough of a shit to call 911?”

Neither Ted nor Emmett replied.

“Uhm, maybe we should go to Brian’s now,” Emmett said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Well, Michael can,” Ted said. “My guess is that Brian wouldn’t jump up and down with joy if we walked through his door, too.”

“How does that sound, sweetie?”

Michael nodded. “Thanks. I’d feel better if I knew he was at home.”

“Then to my car, boys,” Ted said. “It’s off to the loft we go.”

They left the line to get into Babylon and walked down the street, their breath smoking in the cold air. None of them spoke again until Ted wished Michael good luck when he dropped him off at Brian’s building.

“Call us,” Emmett said. “Let us know how he’s doing.”

Michael fished his keys out of his pocket. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Ted, would you call Ben and tell him where I am?”

Ted nodded. “Sure. No problem.”

“What if Brian’s not there?” Emmett asked.

“Then I’ll sit on his couch and wait till he comes home,” Michael replied.

“And if he doesn’t?” Ted asked. “By the way, the right answer to that question is ‘I’ll call you.’”

“Okay,” Michael said. “Look, I gotta go.” He seemed even more antsy to be near Brian than usual.

Ted nodded again. “Right. Okay.”

Michael turned and started jogging toward the door. Emmett lowered his window.

“Tell him that whatever good news he has that we’re happy for him,” he called.

Michael didn’t pause, but he flashed a smile over his shoulder.

“I will,” he said. Then he disappeared into Brian’s building, and the door closed behind him.