Justin's cell phone rings, interrupting his perusal of the studio space he has just leased.

After pulling the phone out of his cargo pants, Justin smiles when he sees his lover's name flashing on the screen. "Hey," he answers, "what's up?"

"I am..." Brian drawls sexily, making the blond laugh.

Justin is keen to share the news about his studio, but before he can say anything, Brian invites, "Wanna help me christen Babylon's new VIP room? It's the grand opening tonight."

"Uh, sure," Justin stutters, nonplussed. "When?"

"Be here at eleven o'clock," Brian commands, before abruptly ending the call with, "Gotta go."

His brow furrowing, Justin pockets his cell and moves over to the grime-encrusted bank of windows. He scrapes at a filthy pane with his fingers, pondering why he isn't all that excited by the notion of tricking with Brian. Since returning from Los Angeles and moving in with the brunet, he has been hoping their relationship would evolve, that it would amount to more than sharing a never-ending parade of men. What that ‘more' should be, however, he hasn't been able to determine.

Does he want monogamy? Justin interrogates himself. He knows that's a futile wish, since Brian will never be monogamous. Recalling the recent foursome in which he eagerly participated, he has to mock himself for being such a hypocrite, the idea of monogamy quickly losing some of its appeal.

Maybe if Brian would occasionally tell him, "I love you," he'd be satisfied. He'd like to hear the words just often enough that they wouldn't become stale from overuse.

Resting his forehead against the dirty glass after a while, Justin sighs. The only resolution he has reached is that he and Brian need to talk, since he doesn't want their relationship to deteriorate to the point that he ends up leaving his lover. That notion makes his stomach heave.

The blond moans approvingly, "Fuck, right there," as the nameless trick kneeling in front of him swirls his tongue around Justin's glans. 

Brian groans, thrusting his tongue between the blond's lips and his dick into another unnamed trick's mouth. Riding a wave of arousal, Justin passionately kisses the brunet. In this moment, he's more than satisfied to be with his lover. 

His lover pulls away slightly to mumble, "Make that one hundred and three uses for Babylon..."

Justin's slightly hysterical giggle is cut off by Brian's tongue invading again. He sucks fervently, screaming into the brunet's mouth as he lets go, shooting down his trick's throat.

On their way home after the club closes, the two temporarily satiated men bump shoulders, reminiscing about an evening similar to their onetime ‘date nights'.

Justin boasts, "I lasted longer than you did." 

The brunet smirks and retorts, "Not the first or second time, Sunshine."

When they get back to the loft, they make love, Brian falling asleep first, his head pillowed on Justin's chest. The younger man soon joins his lover, his lips curving upward in happiness.

A few days pass by, during which Justin hasn't found the gumption to talk with Brian about their relationship. Then, everything implodes. Justin is cooking, which he truly enjoys doing, when Brian comes home. Within moments, they are sniping at each other.

"The little wives swapping recipes," Brian sneers. "What's next?"

Justin eggs him on, "If a home-cooked meal is so unappetizing to you, you're welcome to order Thai food for the third time this week."

After murmuring, "I love your cream sauce," Brian drops the bomb. "I have syphilis."

Instead of being understanding and supportive, the younger man freaks out, going into public service announcer mode, cataloging all the horrors that might befall Brian, "Heart abnormalities, mental disorders, blindness..." before insinuating that his lover must've fucked without a condom. 

The whole time he is speaking, Justin wants to shove a sock in his own mouth to shut himself up, but he can't stop pissing and moaning about Brian's STD. 

He completely ignores Brian's mocking, "You're no saint," as well as the man's ridiculous supposition, "I might have even gotten it from you."

Infuriated with his lover, his appetite gone, Justin dumps the meal he's been cooking into the trash. While Brian sprawls out on the bed, inhaling a reefer, Justin begins sketching Rage, the superhero's face rapidly becoming covered in pustules.

Repulsed by the idea of touching his diseased lover, Justin leaves the loft and heads to his well-lit but grungy studio. He hasn't told Brian about the place, so the brunet won't be able to track him down - if he even notices Justin is missing, the blond derisively thinks.

He spends the next day painting frenziedly, trying to get ready for the upcoming show at the Bloom Gallery. That evening, the young artist knocks back copious amounts of cheap alcohol before passing out on the ratty old couch one of his neighbors tossed out.

On the morning of the second day, he drops by the loft when he knows Brian will be at Kinnetik - he's still too pissed off at his lover to talk to him - and luxuriates in a long shower before putting on clean clothes. As he makes his way to the medical clinic, he wonders what he will do if Brian has infected him with syphilis.

He tries to resist, but like a hamster on its wheel, his mind travels a familiar path. Brian will never be monogamous. Justin knows this and has accepted it, but he's not sure he can stay with Brian if the man has infected him with an STD. Even though he enjoys tricking, especially with Brian, Justin imagines he could be content having sex with no one other than his lover, but the brunet would undoubtedly dismiss that notion as total ‘monotony.'

He's so absorbed in thought that he walks right past the clinic and has to backtrack two blocks.

"Mr. Taylor?" a voice calls.

"Yes?" he croaks, his throat parched.

"Follow me, please," the nurse requests, leading Justin to an examination room.

As Justin looks at the plain white walls - the starkness broken only by a medical diagram depicting the male organs and a photograph of a man fly fishing - the nurse states, "Take a seat on the exam table. The doctor will be with you shortly."

The blond nods in acknowledgement. His throat has closed up so tightly that he doesn't think he can utter a word. 

"Mr. Taylor? I'm Dr. Dhruv Singh," a slight, bespectacled man lets himself into the exam room and introduces himself.

"Yeah," Justin manages to eke out as he shakes the doctor's hand, "that's me."

His manner brisk and professional, Dr. Singh inquires, "I understand you want to be tested for syphilis."

"Um, yes," the blond stutters, flushing. "My, uh, partner, has just been diagnosed with syphilis, so I thought I should be tested too."

"Please don't be embarrassed by my questions," the medical practitioner urges, "but it's important that I have a clear picture of how you may have acquired the STD. Are you monogamous or do you have multiple sexual partners?"

"Multiple," Justin mumbles. "Brian and I have an open relationship."

"But you believe you contracted syphilis from him?" Dr. Singh probes. "Can you tell me why?"

"Uh, he tricks more than I do," Justin explains.

"So you haven't had sexual liaisons with anyone other than your partner since you were last tested?" the doctor asks.

"Uh, I have tricked some," Justin admits. "But I always use a condom."

"For oral as well as anal sex?" Dr. Singh questions.

"No, not for oral sex," Justin responds, defending himself. "The risks are supposed to be miniscule with oral sex."

The doctor sighs. "Young man, syphilis is transmitted vaginally, anally, or orally. If you kiss an infected person, that can be enough to spread the contagion."

"Brian and I don't kiss anyone except each other," the blond protests.

"If you've just had oral sex with someone else, you could easily pass the disease to one another when you kiss," Dr. Singh patiently expounds. He glances at his notes, "When was your last syphilis test? You didn't fill in the blank on the intake form."

"Seven weeks ago. The same date as my last test for HIV," Justin replies.

"Did you give the receptionist your records?" the medical practitioner questions sharply.

"Yeah, they should be in there," Justin responds.

Dr. Singh frowns, leafing through the file in front of him. "I only see the results for your HIV test."

"Wasn't I tested for other STDs too?" the blond almost implores as he becomes more nervous. "I assumed a full STD panel was done."

"That's rare, unless you specifically request it," Dr. Singh remonstrates. "Since you're in a high-risk group, you should regularly self-test at home - there are kits for that, as you must know - and then come into the clinic if a test indicates you have been infected, or if you develop sores around your groin or elsewhere on your body." 

The young artist feels like a fool for not being aware that he should be testing himself. He can recite the possible side effects, but he clearly lacks information about basic preventive measures. 

Looking into Justin's eyes, the doctor queries, "Do you have any blisters?"

"No," Justin verifies. "That's a good sign, right?"

"Yes, although if you've only recently been infected, the sores may not have developed yet," Dr. Singh explains, before suggesting, "Let me take a blood sample, and I can give you the results in ten to fifteen minutes."

"Um, could you test for other STDs too?" the young man hesitantly requests while the doctor is drawing his blood.

"I was hoping you'd ask, so I wouldn't have to remind you," the doctor nods in approbation, using a swab to collect tissue from inside Justin's mouth. "We'll run a couple different tests to thoroughly check you out," he informs his patient.

Justin fidgets while he waits for Dr. Singh to return - tapping his right foot against the floor, his left leg swinging restlessly to and fro, his fingers drumming a worried melody against the countertop. He tries to still his fingers when he almost knocks a tray containing various medical implements to the floor, but he soon resumes the agitated motion. 

Jesus, what's taking so long? he wonders when twelve agonizing minutes have crawled past. As he reaches into his messenger bag, hoping he can distract himself by sketching, Dr. Singh knocks and pushes open the door. Justin stares at the medical practitioner expectantly. "Well?" he appeals in a hoarse voice.

"You do have syphilis," the doctor states bluntly. 

"Fucking Brian," Justin mutters.

Dr. Singh eyes him chidingly. "Since the infection was readily discerned, my educated guess is that you passed the contagion to your partner."

"What?" Justin loudly protests. "But I don't have any sores!"

"The blisters can be barely noticeable and vanish quickly in the first stage, but you likely would discover some sores soon if you hadn't come in for testing and treatment," the man discloses.

"So I'm past the first stage?" the blond barely manages to ask. "What does that mean?"

"It's still easily treated with an antibiotic injection," Dr. Singh reassures him. "As your partner was undoubtedly told by his physician, you'll also need to refrain from sex for forty-eight hours."

After vaccinating Justin, the doctor lectures, "Syphilis sores make it much easier to spread HIV, so I strongly recommend that you use condoms, even for oral sex, in the future."

Justin grunts in acknowledgment, unable to formulate a more coherent response.

Dr. Singh doesn't seem perturbed; he just pats his patient on the arm and tells him, "Be careful, young man."

After leaving the clinic, Justin trudges through the city, mindlessly putting one foot in front of the other. He wants to cry, but that won't solve anything.

He's such an idiot, a complete fucking hypocrite, he berates himself endlessly. He has no idea how he'll tell Brian; after the self-righteous way he behaved, his lover will probably release a newsflash that JT has contaminated all of Gayopolis, requiring Rage to save everyone by fucking the sores out of them.

Justin chuckles ruefully, and then - mindful of Dr. Singh's last piece of advice - he pulls out his cell phone, scrolls through his contacts, and presses the number for Brett Keller. When he reaches the answering machine, he leaves a message. "Brett, it's Justin Taylor. Could you let Connor James know I have syphilis? He should get himself tested, and so should that redhead from the film crew as well as anyone else either of them has fucked." He wraps up with, "That's it. Bye." It was a rather curt message, but he didn't have anything else to say to the man who was once so eager to turn Rage into a blockbuster.

Pocketing his cell, Justin decides to return to the loft and wait for Brian to get home. He refuses to be a pathetic coward any longer; it's time to confess to Brian and find out how the brunet will react.

Justin sits on the sofa, his pencil flying across the page as his sketch nears completion. He doesn't notice his ragged fingernails, which he's gnawed to the quick, anxiously fretting that Brian will reject him when he breaks the news that he infected the brunet.

A teardrop trails down his cheek, falling onto the drawing. The way it worsens the appearance of the diseased creature he's sketching is apropos to the circumstances, Justin reflects, as another tear plops onto the page.

When he hears the metal door to the loft sliding open, he hurriedly swipes at his face. He doesn't want to look like he's begging for Brian's sympathy, not when he doesn't deserve it.

"Hey," Brian insouciantly greets him, not commenting on his lover's reappearance after a two-night absence. "I'm out of no-fuck prison."

Justin glances toward the door, his face pale, and mumbles, "I'm not."

Brian walks over, sits down, and nuzzles the skin behind the blond's ear, his breath sending a shiver through Justin. "Not what?" he asks in a suspiciously calm tone, pulling back and arching an eyebrow.

"You were right," Justin blurts, all his efforts to rehearse how he'll tell the brunet blown to smithereens.

Brian's eyes gleam knowingly as he declares, "I'm always right, but about what, exactly?"

The artist gestures toward the drawing in his lap. "This fucking disease," he splutters.

Brian looks down at the sketch of JT, his visage riddled with oozing sores. Another drawing, torn in half, lies discarded underneath the coffee table.

"You have syphilis?" Brian states.

"Yeah," Justin confirms morosely. "I'm the one who gave it to you."

"How do you know that?" Brian challenges.

"Dr. Singh said it likely would've been undetectable if I hadn't been infected a while ago," the younger man divulges. 

"You'll be okay though, right?" Brian probes, his brow furrowing in what Justin hopes is concern.

"Yeah. Though I should have known better... Shit!" Justin growls. Looking up and noticing Brian's questioning gaze, he discloses, "I fucked around - a lot - in Los Angeles."

"Of course you did," Brian nods approvingly.

"I've been wracking my brain," the blond confesses, "trying to remember whether I always used a condom. It's difficult to recall clearly when the alcohol flowed freely, and drugs were set out like candy at some of the parties I attended." 

"What?" Brian snarls. "What do you mean, you're trying to remember?"

"Like I said, there were lots of drugs," Justin excuses himself.

Brian stares at his lover, pinching the bridge of his nose, before pronouncing, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

The blond rolls his eyes. "You know what it's like to be high. Haven't you ever messed up?"

Brian gazes at his lover incredulously. "By being so high that I couldn't remember if I used a condom? Are you fucking serious?"

"Fuck," Justin mutters. "I screwed up, okay?"

Brian swallows hard. "Justin, you can't-"

"It won't happen again," the younger man hurriedly promises.

Brian huffs, "Sure."

"I mean it," Justin insists.

Brian shakes his head.

"Brian..." Justin stops, not sure what else he can say.

"I don't want you to get hurt," Brian declares. "So you'd better keep that promise and always - and I mean always - use a condom, do you hear me?"

The blond nods, warmed by Brian's concern, suddenly realizing how much the man means to him. He must've been deranged to consider leaving Brian, he muses. 

"About the syphilis," Brian continues; "how the fuck am I supposed to go forty-eight more hours without fucking you?" 

"You'll survive." Justin shrugs, grinning slyly. "You can always go to Babylon, and you know, take condoms with you."

"I'm relieved to hear you want me safe too," Brian counters, smiling slightly. "Now, what about watching that crappy movie you rented the other day? What's the title again?"

"How can you be so cool with me giving you syphilis?" Justin quizzes. "When you told me you had an STD, I acted like such a sanctimonious little shit, all holier-than-thou."

"I wasn't exactly happy with you," Brian affirms, "especially when you stayed away for two nights." As Justin stares at him in surprise, he quietly remarks, "I noticed. You ever do that again, you'd better call and let me know you're okay, you hear?"

"Maybe I should just move out," the chagrined blond stammers.

"Don't be ridiculous," Brian demands, standing up and approaching Justin. "I wouldn't mind if you stayed," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against the blond's. "I'm used to inhaling paint fumes... and you."

As Brian speaks, Justin realizes that he doesn't need monogamy or declarations of love or anything else. What Brian is giving him - accepting him warts and all - is way more precious.

"I have a studio now," Justin informs him, "so the fumes won't be as bad."

"Break the lease," the brunet orders after Justin tells him the location. "That's a bad neighborhood. If you need more space to paint in, we'll look for a bigger place."

The blond again feels tears pricking at his eyes, wondering how Brian always comes up with the perfect way to show how much he loves him.

Two days later, Brian sweeps into the loft, tossing real estate listings onto the table. "Time's up," he announces. "Tomorrow, we'll look at these places Jennifer found. Now, however, we celebrate."

Justin giggles as Brian tugs him toward their bed, where he pushes the blond down onto his back, impatiently pulling down his jeans just far enough so that he can deep throat his cock.

The younger man embarrasses himself by coming within thirty seconds.

"No stamina," Brian teases playfully, licking his lips before opening Justin's shirt and peppering kisses from the blond's groin to his mouth.

Forty minutes later, the brunet slides into his lover for the second time, the men rocking back and forth for what seems like hours before urgency overwhelms them. As Justin erupts between their bodies, Brian fills the condom, groaning, "Fuuuck," before he collapses on top of the blond.

"Uh-huh," Justin grunts in agreement, his legs dropping from around the brunet's waist onto the bed.

"I really needed that," Brian groans as he recovers enough to pull out of Justin and remove the condom, tying it off and carelessly tossing it aside before flopping down on his back. "The only other time I've gone four days without sex was when I had fucking cancer."

Astounded, Justin rolls onto his side and stares at his lover. "You didn't . . ."

"Why would I settle for second-rate ass?" Brian shrugs nonchalantly. 

Christ, Justin muses, if this isn't love, he doesn't know what is. They may not be monogamous, but by waiting for Justin before having sex again, Brian is showing how much he cares. 

Even though Justin is responsible - twice over - for his partner going without sex, Brian's not angry. He's generous enough to forgive Justin and accept him - exactly as he is. The blond realizes that he wouldn't want Brian if his lover changed himself just to please him - that he wouldn't any longer be the Brian that Justin loves.

As Brian holds him, the brunet's fingers stroking through his hair, Justin smiles. This is love. It's real, and it's all he's ever wanted.