The One Where Brian and Justin Take Manhattan

LaVieEnRose


I woke up to the feeling of Brian's not-as-inconsiderable-as-he-would-like weight being lifted off me, and despite the fact that I should have been grateful that I was no longer being squashed into a pancake...well, I think we're past the point of thinking I have reasonable reactions where Brian is concerned. I lifted a hand and signed, Where are you going? even though my eyes were closed so I 'd have no idea if he answered me, or even saw me. The pounding in my head told me it wasn't worth it to check. God, I was getting too fucking old to drink that much. Or to fall asleep on the floor. I don't know how Brian's body hasn't just fucking quit in protest by now.

Eventually I gave up and peeked my eyes open very, very gently. Brian was naked and bent over by the door, saying something into the speaker for the buzzer. He strode away from the doorway and to the bedroom, mumbling to himself, and then threw a pair of sweatpants at me while he hopped into his jeans. Get up, he said.

No way. This is where I die. How the fuck much did we drink? Last night was slowly coming back to me in way, way too much technicolor. We'd started the night with our farewell dinner at Deb's—Brian got a little choked up about Gus, and Michael cried, which I naturally assumed was all about Brian, but then he got weepy when he hugged me too, so that was weird and kind of nice, and Emmett wrote me this letter about how much I've grown and what I mean to him that I can never let Brian see because he will mock it endlessly but that I am going to keep for the rest of my life—which turned into farewell drinks at Woody's, which turned into everyone getting drunk enough that they convinced me it was a good idea to text my Deaf friends and invite them, even though we already had our farewell dinner with them earlier in the week, and that turned into all fucking million of us bivouacking over to Babylon, and then Brian and I came home and said we were going to finish packing but then we found a bottle of wine in the fridge and we started talking about all the memories in the loft and then we decided we should fuck on every last surface one last time...

Brian pulled a shirt over his head and stuck his hands through the neck hole to sign: The movers are here.

And then I remembered what didn't happen last night.

“Oh God. Oh fuck. We didn't finish packing!”

I'm aware, Sunshine! Get the fuck up and start throwing things in boxes! They must have been knocking, because I could read the “Fuck,” on his lips—and not in a good way—before he charged back towards the door. I slid into my sweatpants, sign-mumbling my own curses at my fucking headache—and started tossing the blankets and cushions we'd fallen asleep on top of into the nearest cardboard boxes. Brian was shaking hands with the movers, introducing himself, gesturing to me. I waved a little and wondered what he was telling him. It could have gone any number of ways, really, depending on how Brian was feeling. Sometimes he stubbornly doesn't tell people I'm Deaf, because he wants me to think it doesn't define me, or he wants to think it, or because he wants me to decide whether they know, or because he still has rough days with it, sometimes. Other times it's the first thing out of his mouth, maybe because he's proud, maybe because he doesn't want me to embarrassed.

Maybe because it's the first thing he thinks of when he thinks of me, sometimes.

He came over and gave me a scratchy kiss. I told them to pack the canvases last and to ask you if they have questions about how to handle them. So that settled that, then. Why the fuck aren't you packing?

I pointed incredulously at the box I'd just fucking packed.

Not enough. Go finish up the bedroom, I'll do the bathroom.

Pretty soon we were rushing around our respective rooms while the movers carried out the few pieces of furniture we hadn't sold—Brian loved his furniture, but he loved the idea of shopping for new furniture more—waving shit at each other and signing questions as quickly as we could.

Bring or store those Prada shoes that don’t fit? I asked.

Fuck. Um...okay. Store. Store them.

Very brave of you. Did you just throw away my toothbrush?

I’ll buy you a new one. I’m incredibly generous.

Can I throw away the scarf with all my blood on it or are you still traumatized?

Don’t know that sign!

I fingerspelled it for him.

Oh, definitely that one then! Why the fuck are your allergy meds still in here and not in your suitcase?

The frantic packing continued around the loft. I threw paints into a box. Brian upended the silverware drawer.

That must have been loud, I said.

Brian shrugged. I don’t hear you complaining.

Huh, neither do I.

I went back to the bedroom to do one final sweep. When I turned around, one of the movers was behind me, looking at me expectantly. He was young, maybe a few years younger than me. I think they were a a father and son. Both pretty gorgeous.

“Sorry,” I said. “Did you need something?” I looked around for Brian, but he was nowhere to be seen.

He said...something, I didn't get a word of it. I imagined it was about the canvases, since otherwise they'd probably be bothering Brain but not me, but if he'd vanished off the face of the loft maybe I was responsible for everything now. What a horrifying thought.

“Um, hang on,” I said. “Brian?”

He appeared, and he was fucking soaked. Yes, dearest? he said. I'm proud he's gotten to the point where he can sign mockingly.

What the fuck happened to you?

I thought I should turn the water off.

And you couldn't figure out how so you decided to just use it all up?

Yeah. He looked at the mover. What's up? he asked me.

I don't know. Can you find out what he wants?

Brian turned to him and said, Can you repeat what you said? presumably out loud as well.

The guy did, a weird look on his face—was all the signing really not enough of a hint of what was going on here? Pretty but dumb, though he was probably thinking the same thing about me—and Brian signed, Do you have an order you want the canvases to go in?

“No, it doesn't matter,” I said, and the mover nodded and went back down the stairs. Brian came up to change his shirt, and I watched the movers say something to each other, laugh to themselves. I had a feeling what was going on, and Brian's hand appearing on my shoulder a second later—heavy, protective—was all the confirmation I needed.

What did they say? I asked anyway.

He shook his head and kissed my cheek. They said wow, I can't believe we moved all this shit to New York and Brian didn't even tip us. Where did we go wrong?

Tell me, I said.

I'm not your interpreter, he said. I'm not obligated to sign every shitty thing someone says. You want to hear ignorant crap, start paying me.

You're so annoying.

He kissed me. Bring the suitcases down to the car. Time to go.

I brought the suitcases to the door and just stood there for a minute, looking over the loft. It seemed enormous without furniture. Like some sort of museum exhibit about our lives, and people were going to come tour their way through it. On our left, where Justin lost his virginity!

Brian loped over to the fridge and took out a bottle of water, and even though he'd just put on a dry shirt, I was for a second totally sure he was about to pour it over his head. I must have been staring, because he looked at me with a strange kind of smile.

He came over and eased me under his arm. On to bigger and better things.

Pretty sure the new apartment is smaller.

Brian looked around the loft, and I watched sadness tug on his smile. It really was a hell of a place, wasn't it?

I have a few good memories.

Brian raised an eyebrow and nibbled on my neck.

Okay, okay! I said, before my knees gave out. More than a few. But something—guilt--was gnawing in my stomach, and I couldn't stop it. I felt so fucking selfish, dragging Brian away from his home for some shot at a dream I wasn't even sure I could have. Not to mention just nervous as hell that any minute he was going to have some kind of breakdown about commitment and hire a hustler to meet us at the new place or give up signing forever or like, drive us off a cliff or something, I don't know. I said, “Brian, are you sure you want—”

He grabbed my face and kissed me, and God, I was fucking seventeen year old, falling all the fuck in love all the way over again. He pulled away just a little and said, slowly and clearly, “Shut up,” and then smiled at me when I was sure I understood.

No sappy goodbyes, I said, repeating a pledge we'd made last night, before the party.

Exactly. Go down to the car, I'll meet you there.

I won't pretend there wasn't a part of me that thought Brian was still gonna bail. That he'd stand alone in that empty loft and panic and sneak out the back way and run for the hills or some shit, or that at the very least I'd wait in the car for half an hour and finally go up and have to drag him, kicking and screaming, off the bed platform. But less than five minutes later he slid into the car next to me and said, Let's be heathens and eat in the car. I'm hungover as fuck but I want to get on the road, with no theatrics, barely even any expression.

So we stopped at a drive-thru, and we were off.

We were mostly quiet on the drive. I slept a little, and when I woke up I stretched and paid attention to the music. We keep the bass turned up really high in the car so I can feel it, which Brian says makes everything sound totally ridiculous, but we do it anyway. This song was so strong I could feel the beat in my stomach. What is this? I asked.

Hey, you're up. The song?

Yeah.

He showed me his phone—some band and song I'd never heard of. Do you like it? he asked.

I nodded, and he fiddled with his phone and put the artist on shuffle. I smiled out the window.

**

Our place in New York is so fucking ridiculous. Honestly it reminds me of the hotel I stayed in the first time I ran away here (with Brian's credit card! Jesus Christ, imagine what an insufferable brat I'd still be if I hadn't been bashed. Although I guess taking that vacation he paid for alone instead of letting him reschedule it was also post-bashing...hmm). It's the penthouse apartment of a building on 61st street, off West End avenue. The floors are oak, the cabinets are cherry, and the bathroom is marble. There's a wraparound deck where I go out in the mornings with coffee and my sketchpad and look out over the water, and a second bedroom we use as a study, with a pull-out couch for when Gus comes to visit or Daphne doesn't feel like trekking back to her place after a movie marathon. We have a flat screen TV, a million bookshelves, and enough space for a dining room table with more than two chairs, which is probably the most amazing part of the whole place.

That day, of course, we had none of that--well, we had the cabinets and the balcony and shit, but you know what I mean. We had an empty apartment and Brian marching around giving directions to the movers. I was antsy from sitting in the car all day, and uncomfortable around the movers, and also I kind of hate when Brian speaks English around me. I wasn't mad about it or anything—simcomming is hard and annoying and it's not like I even really cared what he was saying to the movers—but I'm just so used to trusting that Brian will always include me that it hurts a lot more when he doesn't than when other people don't, and also Brian's voice is just about the only thing that I really miss, and it's easier when I don't think about it, and it's hard not to think about it when it's right there in front of me and the fucking movers get to hear it and I don't.

I tugged on Brian's sleeve, feeling like a little kid. I'm gonna go, okay? Can I go?

Are you asking my permission to leave the apartment? he said. Because I could get used to that.

I'm asking your permission to leave you here to deal with this shit by yourself, dick.

He kissed me. Bossing people around without you to guide me? However will I manage?

Be careful with the canvases! I signed on my way out, and turned away before he could bitch about if I have to hear about those canvases one more fucking time...

I went down the elevator and nodded to the doorman and headed down the steps in front of our building. It was nothing like home, where Tremont Street in front of the loft was usually pretty still, and the bustle didn't start until you went down a block. Here, the city started right away. I could have been in a cab five seconds after stepping outside, if I wanted to. But I didn't. I wanted to walk. I knew the park was close, but I didn't know exactly where—I was confused back then about what the difference was between West End and 11th Avenue and Amsterdam and 10th (answer: there isn't one) and what exactly the deal was with Broadway (answer: don't worry about it, and never use it as a reference point if you're not in midtown) so I just started heading East, and I ran right into Lincoln Center.

God, it was fucking incredible! It was all stairs and fountains and sculptures and I took about a million pictures on my phone to sketch later. I was already plotting how I was going to convince Brian to come to the ballet with me. Maybe for my birthday, I thought.

I made it to the park and found a spot of grass and flopped the hell down, allergies be damned. It was just after five o'clock and the sun was just starting to go down and it was February so it was freezing but God, so fucking beautiful. I almost got a little weepy, because I hadn't yet reached the official end of the Winter of Crying, but I managed to miraculously keep it together and just took more pictures. I was sure I'd be about the millionth amateur artist to paint the sunrise over Central Park, but fuck if that was going to stop me.

I got up and wandered after a while, thinking vaguely that I was going to find the zoo, but I had no luck and after a while I was shivering and figured I should head back. And then I had a moment where I realized it's not exactly like Central Park has one entrance, and now that the sun was down I wasn't even completely sure what direction I was facing. And I really should have worn a heavier coat, but it was packed...

A cop came up to me then. It was a woman, which made me feel a little more at ease, but I'd read enough horror stories about Deaf people and the police that I was still kind of antsy. It was too dark for me to even try to read her lips, so before she could start speaking I said, “Sorry, I'm Deaf, can you write it down?”

To her credit, she didn't even hesitate, just took out a small notebook and wrote me a note, then shined her flashlight on it for me. Are you lost?

I shook my head. I'm not really sure why. I guess I was afraid she'd give me directions, and then I'd have to pretend to understand them, and I got nervous about talking to strangers even when I could understand what the fuck they were saying, and..I don't know. I still hate asking for help. “I'm just waiting for a friend,” I said.

She looked like she didn't really believe me, and after a beat she wrote another note. The park's not really safe at night. Especially for someone like you.

Well, now I really didn't want her fucking help. Who would have thought I'd ever be nostalgic for the days when someone like you meant gay?

“Thanks,” I said. “He should be here any minute.”

The policewoman gave me a long look, then a shrug, and then continued on her way.

My first thought, obviously, was to text Brian, but he didn't know the city any better than I did, and he was probably still busy with the movers, and anyway I hated the idea of having to crawl to Brian for help my very first time out on my own. I knew he wouldn't have given me any shit about or anything, but...God, he was so worried about me all the fucking time. I had something to prove.

So I texted Daphne. She had me describe what was around me and told me she'd be there soon. Her apartment's down in the West Village—she'd warned me not to try to find it until I'd lived here for a while, “the West Village makes no sense”—but she'd been having coffee with her boyfriend in Chelsea, so she wasn't far. She jogged up to me less than fifteen minutes later, and I picked her up and swung her around.

I can't believe you're here! she said. We are going to have so much fun, oh my God, we are taking over this city!

Holy shit, look at your signing!

She beamed. I made a Deaf friend at school, I've been practicing! I wanted to surprise you.

You have a Deaf friend?? Is he cute?

Adorable. And a girl. Come on, I'm taking you to dinner! I'll tell you everything.

We had an amazing dinner and more than a few drinks and I finally got back to the apartment at around eight-thirty, bracing myself for an interrogation of where I'd been and why the fuck I hadn't texted. Brian was sitting in the living room on the floor cushions we got from home, which at that point was about all we had by way of living room furniture. He was eating out of a carton of Chinese food, which he offered to me.

I had dinner with Daphne, I said.

How is she?

She's good. I didn't get to meet the boyfriend. Her signing has really improved. I looked around. It looks fucking amazing in here.

You're easy to impress. And here I was planning to get us a couch and everything.

I sat down next to him and kissed his cheek. He didn't seem mad. I took out my phone and showed him some of the pictures I'd taken and he was vaguely interested in that Brian sort of way, but I was so wound up waiting for him to start snapping at me. He was so calm that it was making me feel uneasy, just like when he'd climbed into the car that morning. I could feel the other shoe just hovering above me. Something was going to happen. He was Brian Kinney. He could not just move away with me without making some sort of big fucking deal about it. I knew it, I accepted it, but...God, just fucking get on with it already! I finally couldn't take it anymore and I said, Are you pissed?

He furrowed his eyebrows. For saddling me with the movers? He shrugged. They don't sign and they were assholes to you. I don't blame you for wanting to get away. What'd you eat?

Some fancy Mexican place. I'll take you there if I can find it again. Are you mad at me for going out for dinner?

You are so deranged. I'm always forcing food down your throat, now I'm going to be mad at you for eating?

Yeah, but without you...

He kept looking at me like he wasn't quite sure who I was, casually shoveling shrimp into his mouth. We were together all day. I wasn't worried I'd forget what you looked like.

Then are you pissed at me for not texting you while I was gone?

Jesus Christ, do you want me to pissed at you for something? I can find something if you want.

I just expected to come back to you all... I gestured at him.

He laughed. Was that a sign?

I thought you'd be all worried, I said.

He cocked his eyebrow. Do you want me to be worried?

No, but I'd kind of resigned myself to it at this point. You've been kind of...um. High-strung lately.

He rolled his eyes at the euphemism. You said you'd be fine. You had your phone. My number's on your med alert bracelet if you fall and break your head. I was pretty sure you were alive.

It kind of dawned on me. You trusted me.

He popped a shrimp in his mouth. You're so fucking easy to impress.

I squeezed his arm. Take me dancing, I said.

He stood up, pulling me up with him. And easy to please, he said, with a quick kiss. I put a change of clothes on the bed for you.

I skipped off to get dressed and even forced myself not to complain about the fucking ugly outfit he picked out for me, to show my appreciation. Brian being as successful in clubs as he is when he can't dress and can't dance is truly one of the wonders of the universe and God, I am so in love.

We didn't want to go to a club we'd already been to on a visit on our first night living here, so we found a place close to our apartment—we did need to find a new regular place, and we did eventually, though it didn't turn out to be this one—and fucking went to town. Brian's magic worked just as well here as in Pittsburgh, which we were both very grateful for; maybe me even more than him, because good Lord I did not need to hear him bitch about that.

And honestly, I'm not sure if he even noticed. I don't even know if that club had a back room. All we did was dance.

Some of that was definitely the E—Brian took a tab, then tried to feed me one but I was nervous about seizures, so I declined, so he just shrugged and swallowed that one too—but some of it was...something else. The lights. The city. The night. Us.

At one point we were dancing, his hands on my waist, my head buzzing with whiskey and thumpa-thumpa, and Brian just started laughing. It was just a little at first, and I figured it was just the E—I mean, let's be real, a lot of it was the E—but then it got so I could feel it in his chest, and then all of a sudden he grabbed me by the thighs and hoisted me up onto him, my legs around his waist, and he held me there with one hand under my ass and signed with the other.

I did it, he said to me, still laughing.

I grinned at him. You made it to New York.

He shook his head. Not that. He laughed so hard. I fucking moved across state lines with you. He used my hand for the two-handed signs, like it was his. I picked out an apartment with you. I didn't freak out. I didn't scare you away. I didn't ruin it. He fucking beamed at me. I did it, Sunshine.

You are so high right now, I said, squeezing the life out of him with my legs.

You can't let me fuck this up, okay? he said.

When have I ever?

I did it, he said. Holy shit, I can't believe I can do it.

Are you going to propose now? I teased him.

Yeah, he said.

Well, I should warn you, I want it done right this time. Flowers. Guests. Rings. Writing vows.

He laughed hard and shook his head. No you fucking do not.

I couldn't keep it up either. I really, really do not.

And then he kissed me, and...Oh God, Brian's kissed me thousands of times, tens of, hundreds of thousands of times, but there was nothing like that kiss. His teeth nipped at my bottom lip, and no matter how hard I gripped his hair, how desperately I pulled him into me, I just couldn't get him close enough. His tongue chased mine around my mouth, his arm snaked around the back of my neck and gripped me close, and the whole time he was still holding me off the ground and it was like I was floating, like I was fucking flying right in the middle of the club. I could have kissed him forever. I didn't even need to breathe.

When we finally broke apart, he threw his head back and smiled. The strobe lights danced off his face. He'd never been that beautiful.

I was so proud of him I could die.

**

We woke up on our mattress on the floor in our new home. This time it was Brian groaning while I slid off of him.

I'm gonna run across the street for coffee, I told him. Go back to sleep.

Oh, God, what happened last night?

You took two tabs of E. Do you remember anything?

He shook his head, and I tried not to be disappointed. It's not like I didn't know he was high out of his mind when he said those things. And it's not like I needed to see them to know how much he loved me. I know.

It was nice, though.

I got dressed, and just as I was on my way out of the room something hit me in the back. I turned around and picked his sock off the floor. “Yes, dear?”

He looked at me thoughtfully.

What? I said.

Maybe just the rings, he said.