The One Where Justin Freaks Out

When Gus was younger, I used to make up stories for him sometimes before he went to bed, and he always wanted the exact same scenario: there's a big misunderstanding, everything goes horribly wrong, and then at the end everyone laughs about it.

So, in case you have the same high-brow tastes as my son, here's a story about that.

**

Our tale starts one lovely Saturday night at Nova. Justin had on a low-cut tank top and looked edible as fuck, and I was pleasantly buzzed as we drew closer to one AM. The music was rough, and Justin was a flurry of movement, his hands in my hair, on my chest, down my pants.

But eventually he sighed and leaned his sweaty forehead against my neck and said, I have to go.

No, come on, I want to fuck your brains out.

You do not, you want to dance for two more hours and then fuck my brains out, he said.

I grinned. I could shave that down to an hour. ASL is fucking amazing for having conversations in clubs. We should have figured this out ten years ago.

He gave me the kind of sloppy kiss that's the reason I hitched my wagon to this kid. I want to sketch out the next part of my canvas and I'm supposed to be asleep by two.

You and your seizures. I hoisted him up in my arms.

Yeah, me and my seizures.

I put him down and squeezed his face in two hands and kissed him. You need me to come?

No, I think I can make it back to the apartment all by my little self.

So resourceful.

He kissed me again. I love you. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

Thanks for not narrowing it down much, I said. I grabbed his ass on his way out of the club and threw my arms up and kept dancing for a while.

After a while I got bored, though. Dancing on my own has never really been my thing, all apologies to Robyn, and no one here was catching my eye. I left the club and thought about heading home, but God, it was such a nice fucking night and Justin was probably passed out already so going back to the apartment now would do nothing to make me any less antsy.

So I called Daphne.

“I'm at a bar by Columbia!” she yelled over the noise. “Come up!”

“You want me to come a hundred blocks uptown at one in the morning?”

“Yeah!”

“What the fuck, okay.” I stuck my arm up for a cab.

Daphne was fucking wasted when I got there. She shrieked and held her arms out to me and in the spirit of continued what the fuck I let her hug me. She introduced me to some of her little med school friends and I shook their hands and immediately forgot their names but I ordered the next round of drinks so they loved me anyway.

“How do you two know each other?” one friend, a cute girl with a pug nose, asked.

Daphne hung onto my arm. “Brian is my brother-in-law!”

I took a shot and said, “Yeah, sure, what the hell.” Daphne laughed and clapped her hands. “Ooh, whoa whoa whoa.” I grabbed her arm and nodded to a guy in the corner. “Hello. Over there.”

“Oh, shit, he's cute. Is he gay?”

“I don't know. Show him your tits.”

“These are great tits,” Daphne said. “That would prove nothing.”

“Okay, fine, show me your tits. Now I'm curious.”

“You are lucky I'm drunk as shit.”

I did another shot. “Am I striking you as particularly sober? All right, we'll try this.” I stretched my arms up over my head, squeezing my bicep and letting my t-shirt ride up in the back.

“He's looking,” Daphne's friend said.

“You're a doll.” I took out some amount of money and slapped it on the table. “Keep drinking, kids.” I kissed Daphne's cheek and went after my prey while they made catcalling noises behind me.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere good to fuck in a shitty college bar. Fortunately, this guy had no qualms about going a hundred blocks downtown at two in the morning.

I paused him in the landing before I unlocked our door, gently prying his lips away from my neck. “One second, one second,” I said, and I poked my head in the doorway. Justin was still up, sketching at the coffee table. I waved my arm around, but he didn't look up, so I stretched until I could reach the light switch and almost fell on my damn face.

He looked up when I flashed the light on and off. Hello, you drunk, drunk, drunk man.

You are supposed to be asleep, sir.

I know, I got caught up.

I grabbed the trick by the wrist and pulled just his hand in. Want to get tied up?

Justin laughed. No, I really am going to bed in a minute.

Then do youuuu want to go ahead and go to bed?

No, I have to finish this.

Do you want to go to your office, then?

He raised an eyebrow. Are you shy, Mr. Kinney?

No, I'm assuming he's probably going to expect me to speak to him and I don't want to do it in front of you.

Justin rolled his eyes. It's fine. You're absolved. Bring him in.

So I did, and the trick and I went at it on the couch while Justin drew on the floor. I tried to talk to him as little as possible—I feel so, so weird speaking in front of Justin nowadays—but Justin wasn't paying any attention anyway. Eventually, though, he looked up, and the look he got on his face was so strange that for a minute I was convinced I'd accidentally let the trick kiss me or something. That's just the best reason I could think of for why Justin would look like that, kind of...disarmed.

He waved his hand while the guy was going down on me. What's up? I said.

Where'd you find this guy, Nova?

I shook my head. Bar up on 168th.

By Columbia?

Yeah, do you know him?

Justin shook his head and gathered his papers up.

All finished? I asked him.

He nodded and gave me a tight smile. Have fun, he said, and he went to our bedroom and shut the door.

I was concerned about that for about six seconds until the trick swallowed my cock and everything seemed very inconsequential. Until, of course, he'd sucked and I'd fucked and he was gone with a generous amount of cab money in his pocket, and I showered and felt vaguely uneasy. Justin was asleep, but I still moved around quietly, just out of habit, but when I crawled into bed next to him he still threw an arm over my chest, like always, so I told myself that I'd been imagining the little cold front out in the living room and everything was okay.

He was gone when I woke up in the morning.

So, okay, now we come to the misunderstanding. And maybe you're a smarter son of a bitch than I am and you've already figured out what Justin's problem was here, in which case bully for you, but maybe you're just a dumb asshole like me who's going to assume that Justin's issue, despite the fact that he initially showed no problem with the fact that I'd brought a guy home, was with the fact that I'd brought a guy home.

Look, I'm just saving you the trouble of trying to twist reality into an explanation for why maybe that was what was going on. It wasn't, and frankly all that bending over backwards is exhausting and saving you that journey is my charitable act of the day.

So, anyway, I assumed Justin was passive-aggressively trying to force me into monogamy, because I assume Justin's passive-aggressively trying to force me into monogamy when he breathes too loudly.

At least my first instinct was damage control. That's progress, or something.

Usually Justin sleeps in and then we fuck and then he makes breakfast on Sunday mornings, but today he was working with his oil pastels in the office. I came over to his desk and he looked up.

Are you hungry? I asked him. We can go out if you want.

No, not today.

Normally I like when he works with the oil pastels, because it means it's something he's just doing for himself, which usually means he's happy. Today it meant he was choosing doing something he didn't have to be doing, and...I didn't love that.

But still, I said I like this, and touched the edge of the paper.

He studied it, then me. Thanks.

I leaned down and gave him a kiss, which, thankfully, he returned. Come take a shower, I said, and to my surprise me let me pull him up and away from the desk. Okay, so maybe we were okay.

He was quiet in the shower. I kissed him and bit his neck a little, but he seemed distracted and didn't put his hands on me so after a while I sighed and gave up. He chewed on his thumbnail and didn't look at me while he washed his hair. Washed his own hair, which I'm pretty sure he's done all of twice in the past eight fucking years.

I thought we could go to the park today, I said. See if there are actually sheep on that sheep hill.

He gave me a faint smile. I have work to do today. And I thought I might go for a run.

I'm sorry, a what?

A run?

Have I ever seen you run? Can you run? Have you ever run?

Like you're one to talk. You work out your vanity muscles and go home.

I poked him in the ribs. Still.

He got out of the shower and stared blankly at his reflection.

What's up with you? I signed to him in the mirror.

Nothing.

Don't make me call your therapist.

As if she'd tell you anything.

I'd pretend to be a cop. I got out of the shower and backed him against the sink, kissed his chin. I do a great cop voice. Been working on my New York accent.

I'll take your word for it. And threatening to call and lie to my therapist to find out what I'm thinking is really romantic, by the way. Still, pretty delusional to think I've been to see her in the past twelve hours.

I took my hands off him. So this is about last night.

He sighed and pulled on some sweatpants. I'll be back in a while.

Aren't you supposed to be working on that not walking out thing?

That's when I'm mad at you, he said. I'm not mad at you.

You're acting pretty mad at me.

He stood on his toes and kissed me, deeply, and God, I was just fucking lost as shit at this point. I just want to go for a run, he said. Okay?

I held onto his upper arms. Okay.

I'll be back in a while.

He left, and I paced in circles around the apartment for a while, trying to figure out who the fuck to talk to. Michael was out; I'd heard his lectures on the virtues of monogamy so many times I had them memorized, and all they ever did was make the concept appeal to me even less, plus complaining to him about Justin really only works when I want to bitch about Justin, and that wasn't really the mood du jour. Daphne's good for advice, but she's straight, and there are elements of this she's never going to get, plus she was as certain come down on Justin's side as Michael was on mine.

God, I just didn't want to have a fucking conversation about this! It wasn't even like I tricked that much anymore: once, twice a week, maybe, or when Justin wasn't feeling well. And Jesus, he did it just as often! I tried to think if he'd shown any resentment of it before today anytime in the past couple of years, and I couldn't think of any, which, if I were a more reasonable man, might have been enough to convince me that I was on the wrong track here, but instead it just told me that Justin had been secretly building up to this for God knows how long.

Needless to say, by the time he was back from his run, I had, regrettably, moved past damage control. He came back panting and rinsed his face in the sink, and I watched him from the couch.

He wheezed a little, bending over his knees. That was good, he signed with one hand.

Yeah, and all you had to do was fuck your allergies up. Maybe you'll get another sinus infection. That worked out great last time, right?

He squinted at me. Are you drinking?

I shrugged.

Christ, Brian, it's noon on a Sunday.

And that doesn't fit into your image of your happy little home, huh?

What?

I'm sorry, Sunshine. Not really being the husband of your dreams right now, huh? Should I wait while you decant the wine and we can talk about our days?

I told you I was past damage control. You were warned.

Justin shook his head a little and went to the bedroom and started stripping out of his running clothes, which were really just a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt because this kid doesn't have any fucking running clothes, because he doesn't go running unless he's throwing a fucking hissy fit about something and looking for some excuse to bail out in the middle of a fight like he fucking always does.

So maybe I'd had a few at that point.

I thought you were going to communicate better, I said to him. Didn't you make a whole fucking thing about that? How we need to communicate as a couple?

“Brian.”

Don't Brian me. He has trouble with his Rs now, and even though at first I kind of flew off the deep end about that a little bit and made him feel so shitty and embarrassed about it that he avoided words with Rs in them for weeks so, you know, way to go me, now I think, though I will obviously never fucking tell him this, that it's fucking cute as shit and it makes it hard to stay mad at him, and I was not in the mood for it to be hard to be mad at him.

He started to push past me and I said, Walking out, huh? That fits.

Listen, for all my faults—like, you know, jumping to wild conclusions about Justin's behavior and lashing out at him over it, for example—I don't walk out. Even when maybe I could stand to take a walk and cool off or whatever the fuck, I don't, I just stay and I yell until it's fucking over. Or I would, if I ever got a chance to do it, because Justin always, always fucking leaves. And I forgive him for a lot of shit, and I'm willing to give him the moral high ground over me in just about every situation there is, but frankly it is fucked up how often he turns and runs away when shit starts to get heavy. I'm not saying the kid has to be perfect. I'm just saying, a thousand years from now when they're evaluating Justin Taylor's candidacy for sainthood for the admirable task of putting up with me for his whole fucking life, they're going to have to take that little habit into consideration.

To his credit, he knows it's fucked up and he's working on it.

I'm going to the bathroom, he said, which...tracked, since he was headed towards the bathroom. I need a shower. You're welcome to join me.

What the fuck is going on with you? I exploded. If you have something to fucking say to me, just say it!

I don't, he said.

Bullshit. Bullshit! You've been acting fucking weird since last night. Why don't you fucking say it? You thought moving here meant me we were going to finally start our little life, is that it? You thought we'd sign a piece of paper and start wearing rings and that meant we'd finally be the sweet little couple that would make all our friends proud, huh?

He stared me right down. Brian. I'm not mad at you. I'm going through some shit and it's about me. So can you please stop yelling at me?

Bullshit. You do not get to have a fucking hissy fit about something I did and then tell me it has nothing to do with me!

I'm sorry, who exactly is having a hissy fit?

Screw you.

Can I please just take a shower?

I waved towards the bathroom. Knock yourself out, I said.

Thank you, he said, all WASPy politeness, and he went to the bathroom and shut the door—fucking child—and I went into the living room and turned the TV on. Justin came out a while later and flitted between the kitchen and the balcony and the office and otherwise passive-aggressively didn't either interact with me or vacate the apartment. I heard him signing—he is not quiet—to someone over Skype at some point, probably Derek or Emily, since Daph's signing isn't really up for video chatting yet.

At some point in the evening he said, I'm going to go get dinner with Emily and her friends. Do you want to come?

I knew he didn't want me to. No.

He shifted from foot to foot. Okay, he said, but he didn't move.

I finally turned off the TV. What?

He chewed on his thumbnail with one hand and signed I love you with the other.

That was probably the first time I even considered that maybe he actually wasn't mad at me.

Come here, I said, and he approached the couch kind of hesitantly. I put my hands on his waist and gave him a quick squeeze. Quit being weird, I said.

Okay.

So hey, dumb old Brian thought, okay, that was strange, but maybe everything was going to be fine now. Sunshine and that moody artist temperament of his had some sort of issue but it was over now so whatever, we move on, aaaand then four hours later I heard the key in the lock and there were Emily and Justin.

A little background: I like Emily. She's about five foot nothing and has mousy brown hair and glasses and looks like she'd be kind of timid, but she is anything but. She has whatever the Deaf equivalent of a potty mouth is to rival one Debbie Novotny and she signs faster than anyone I've ever seen, and it's probably good for my ego to have to ask her to slow down all the fucking time. Justin says she's pansexual and I have no idea what that means but I round her up to gay because she's a good egg, and she came to Justin's shitty show in the village that we practically didn't even bother to attend. So yes, in general, feeling positive about Emily.

Feeling a little less so when she's bringing Justin home and he's fucking wasted.

I stood up and met them at the door. What the fuck?

Hi, Emily said, Justin's arm slung over her shoulders.

Uh, hi. I studied her. Are you okay?

I'm fine, I had like three drinks. Him, on the other hand...

Go lie down, I said to him.

So stern, Justin said to me, making a grab for my crotch. Hot.

Now, Justin.

“JUSTIN,” he said, way, way too loudly. “Very dramatic..”

“Jesus Christ.” I took him by the shoulders and led him to the couch. He's not supposed to be drinking, I told Emily.

Yeah, we asked him about that and he told us to fuck off, so...

I turned to Justin. What the fuck is going on with you?

He smiled at me lazily from the couch. You're beautiful.

I am what? I turned back to Emily and pointed at him. He didn't take anything, did he?

What, like drugs? No, he's just fucking drunk.

There was a crash behind me and I probably jumped about a foot. Justin was off the couch and standing next to our now-broken living room lamp.

I heard that! he said.

Yeah, I think the whole block heard that, I said. Jesus Christ, go to bed.

He reached for my arm, missed, and tried again. Come with me.

I'm going to leave you two to it, Emily said. Good luck with that.

Do you have cab money? I asked her.

I don't need your fucking money! Shit, I have a job and crap...this guy, thinking he can pay for my shit...

All right, all right, get out of my apartment.

She flicked me off and waved goodbye to Justin, who bounced and signed, I love you! to her and the second she was gone turned to me and pouted. I miss Emily.

I pointed to the bedroom. Get in bed. Jesus, this is worse than having Gus around.

He launched himself up and in my arms and against my mouth and all of a sudden it was absolutely nothing like having Gus around. He kissed me hard for a while, his arms wrapped around my neck, and I let him because my hands where a little occupied making sure he didn't fucking fall off me.

Eventually he pulled away and hummed, and smiled at me.

“Sunshine,” I said, because again, no hands.

He squinted at my lips. “Sunshine?” he said.

I nodded.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Fuck me,” he said.

I shook my head. “You're too drunk.”

“I don't know WHAT you said,” he announced, and I carried him into the bedroom and dropped him on the bed. I tugged off his shoes and pants and he rolled around the bed, and I got him a bottle of water and his meds and he groaned. I thought we were gonna have sex.

I said no. Take those and hopefully they'll fucking stay down.

He pouted. You're mad.

I'm fucking confused. You know you're not supposed to drink.

Come here. He sat up and grabbed me by the shirt, pulling me in for another kiss. Don't be worried. I'm okay.

Do I look like a fucking idiot? You are very obviously not okay.

I want you, he said. Don't you want me?

I stared at him. You think I don't want you?

Show me, he said. Show me you still want me.

So, okay, there were a number of ways to take that 'still.' He could be asking if I still wanted him even though I tricked last night, which a part of my brain was still convinced this was about. It could have been 'still,' since he went Deaf, which normally wouldn't have been Justin at all but considering I was an asshole about it a month before, there was some precedent. It could have been 'still' even though he was having seizure issues, and mental health issues, and altogether wasn't the easy fuck he's somehow under the impression he at some point was, and that kind of self-loathing was more his speed.

It turned out it was absolutely none of those things, but what I'm saying is, there was no shortage of possibilities and I had no idea what the fuck was going on.

But I know I don't like being asked to prove shit.

If this is your own shit, sort it out yourself, I said to him. I'm going to sleep.

I didn't sleep, of course. I stayed up, certain he was going to have a fucking seizure, while he slept through his alarm in the morning. I grabbed him by the ankle and pulled.

“What the fuck?” he mumbled.

I waited for him to look at me. You're going to be late for work.

He sat up. Fuck.

Congrats on not having the seizures you fucking deserved last night.

He bit his lip. Yeah.

Can I go to work? Are you going to be goddamn alive when I get back?

Yeah.

I waited for him to offer up some other explanation, but when he just sat there in bed, looking pathetic and small, I eventually said, “Whatever,” out loud and got the fuck out of there. He texted me a few hours later to say he was sorry, which I ignored, because why the fuck should he apologize to me if he wants to be a stupid asshole and drink on his meds? His problem, not mine.

Yeah, okay. I got home at seven and he was sacked out on the couch with an ice pack against his temple. I shook his wrist and he jumped and opened his eyes. Two years of this and I still haven't figured out how to not startle the shit out of him.

You okay? I asked.

He nodded and sat up. Just hungover.

Yeah, that'll happen.

That was embarrassing, he said.

I sighed and sat down on the coffee table and waited for him to explain. He didn't.

Are you depressed again? I asked, without really meaning to.

He looked kind of mildly amused. You mean, since I've been cured of my depression from before?

You know what I mean. Are you in...y'know. The bad place.

He sighed. No. I don't know. I think I'm having a nervous breakdown. He paused, then held up his hand. Not actually.

I just looked at him and waited.

Ugh. Okay. That guy you brought home the other night.

I stood up. I knew it.

It's not that.

I've told you, I'm not going to fall into some bullshit imitation—

He was younger than me, okay? Justin said.

I stared at him. What?

Justin looked utterly, completely humiliated. He was younger than me. That guy couldn't have been more than twenty-two.

I don't...

You've never fucked anyone younger than me before, he said.

That couldn't have been right, but as I sat back down on the table, thinking about it, I couldn't come up with a counterexample. It wasn't anything I'd been avoiding, it just...well, Justin used to be really fucking young.

And he wasn't really anymore.

He looked at me miserably.

You're having the age freak out? I said, trying not to smile.

He slumped back against the couch and held the ice pack to his head. I'm having the age freak out.

You are so fucking young, I said. You're fucking twenty-six.

And how old were you when you started freaking out about it?

Hmm. Okay. Point taken.

He groaned and threw himself down dramatically.

Okay, hang on, I said. You can't honestly be worried I'm...what, fucking losing interest in you because you're in your late twenties?

Mid-twenties! Twenty-six is still mid-twenties!

God, you're so damn cute. My hands just say things sometimes. Christ, is that why you went for a fucking run? What's next, buying a bowflex? Do you want a hair transplant?

I am trying to stay hot for you and you are being so mean to me!

I pulled him to sitting. Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're going to go to that bar by Columbia, and you're going to pick up the most barely-legal looking guy we can find, and it's just gonna fuck all the bad feelings right out of you.

Oh really?

I kissed him. Worked for me, didn't it?

I am not sleeping with a seventeen year old.

Yeah, that's what they all think. C'mon. I ruffled his hair. I'll be your wingman. You should take your ring off, though. Kids care about shit like that.

I started to get up and find an outfit for him, but he grabbed me by the wrist. I don't want to go out. My head hurts.

True. I cocked my head and studied him. Okay, how about if I fuck all the bad feelings out of you?

Deal, he said, and I tackled him onto the floor.