“I think it’s exquisite. You should be very proud.”

*****

The first week in September was a week of “firsts” for both Brian and Justin. Justin’s first week as a full-time art teacher, and Brian’s first week in his New York office.

It was the also the start of a comfortable routine, with both of them waking up early, an often-shared morning shower (and occasional shower fuck), Justin making them both breakfast, and seeing each other off outside the front door of their building as they headed to the two separate subway platforms that would take them each to the place where they’d spend their days. Functioning like your typical married couple -- something that even in nearly ten years of marriage, Brian and Justin had never been. The closest they had ever come in their entire relationship had been when Justin was a student at PIFA and Brian still worked for Gardner Vance.

So it was new and different, and also kind of nice to just be “normal.” Especially after the chaos and upheaval that had made up the bulk of the first part of their year.

Justin came home from school each day with a new story about one of the students that he had started referring to as “his kids.” Sometimes they were funny, and sometimes they were serious, but they were always told with a smile on his face that lit up the entire room and told Brian that Justin had found his calling. It had taken him a while to get there, but he’d found it. Justin was fulfilled and happy -- all Brian had ever wanted for him.

Brian and Cynthia moved into their new office, along with their new graphic designer and copywriter. Brian quickly realized how much he’d missed working directly with Cynthia. She was his partner in crime -- she had been for more than two decades -- and they worked really well together. She had a lot of great ideas, and the two of them together were pretty much an unstoppable force. Going to work actually became fun, rather than an exercise in trying to dig his way out of a never ending pile of things that needed to get done and yet somehow kept growing, with two more things getting added for each one that he finished.

Evenings were for time spent with Justin. No longer did Cynthia have to make Brian go home at 5:30 every day -- he actually looked forward to it. Justin got home a little bit before Brian did, and was usually in the middle of cooking dinner when Brian came through the door. Brian loved coming home and putting his briefcase down, taking his coat off and going into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Justin’s waist and pulling him down into his lap for a kiss. It was their own version of the idyllic television family life -- only this time, starring two men and no children.

“No children” might not be true for too much longer, though, if Gus had anything to do with it. He’d told Brian during his visit the previous summer that he was planning on applying to a few colleges in New York, as well as a couple of internship positions in digital media. Brian thought that career path would be perfect for his technology-addicted son.

“He gets that from you, Brian,” Justin had said one night over dinner. “You always have to have the latest and greatest of everything.”

“I do at least manage to remove my eyes from the screen long enough to eat a meal or have a conversation with you, Sunshine.”

“True, but still… how many people can say they still have their first generation iPod?”

“You do realize they have one of those on display at MoMA? It’s a relic. A collector’s item.”

“Yes, Brian, I’ve seen it. But that still proves that you love technology. It’s no surprise that your son likes it too.”

Brian had to admit he wasn’t particularly surprised either, considering that the older Gus got, the more and more he looked like Brian’s clone. He’d recently made the transition from the “tall and gangly” stage more into “tall, dark, and handsome” territory, which ignited a strange overprotective feeling in Brian, because he didn’t want unsavory people coming on to his son.

It was hard to believe that Gus was already a senior in high school, thinking about college and making plans for internships. Sometimes it still felt like yesterday that he was born and Justin gave him his name. Thank god Justin was there, or else Gus would probably have been named Abraham. He didn’t look like an Abraham.

Brian still wished he would have spent more time with Gus when he was younger, but hindsight was 20/20. He wasn’t ready then. In a way, it was Justin that had made Brian ready -- showed him that he wasn’t doomed to repeat his father’s mistakes. That Gus really wasn’t better off without Brian in his life. That if Brian wanted to be in Gus’s life, he should be, and everything would work out fine. It had, and Brian was glad that he got to spend more time with Gus now. If he went to college in the city, that would be the icing on the cake.

As the warmth of summer dissipated into the cooler temperatures of fall, Brian and Justin found themselves spending their weekends uptown, enjoying the colors of the trees of Central Park -- in many ways a small forest plunked right in the middle of Manhattan. Sometimes Justin would take his painting supplies and they’d sit on a bench together, Brian watching Justin’s brush move across the canvas as he transferred the image before them into a still form. Sometimes he’d sketch, and sometimes he’d use pastels, but no matter what he did, Brian always felt honored to have the privilege of watching Justin work. He always had. But it felt even sweeter now, knowing how hard Justin had to fight to get back his own emotional release.

Brian was proud of him. How he’d overcome tragedy not once but twice, and come out on the other side, still doing what he loved, albeit in a different way.

And that was really all that mattered.

Now that Justin’s show was scheduled, he was trying to decide what he wanted to feature in it, and finding it harder than he thought it would be. Justin had spent a lot of time over the summer in his studio, working. He’d shown Brian a few things, but for the most part, what Justin had been working on was a mystery. So when Justin said he was meeting with a representative from the gallery and asked if Brian wanted to go, there was no question what his answer would be.

The second they went through the door of Justin’s studio, Brian was already impressed by the sheer volume of things Justin had produced in such a short time. Brian could also see the difference in the things Justin had been working on months ago and the things he’d produced more recently. It was clear how much more comfortable Justin was in working with new techniques and new mediums. There were paintings on easels and leaning against walls, pencil sketches -- some matted and framed, others not -- spread out on tables, and dioramas in shadow boxes that he’d constructed from random objects and pieces of broken things. Another table held sculptures made from various different mediums -- some that appeared to have emerged from the same box of random things as the dioramas, while others were made from clay, including the one Justin had made of him.

Justin and the woman from the gallery -- Jane, she’d introduced herself as -- were well ahead of Brian as they progressed through the room. She was moving quickly from piece to piece, talking to Justin about each one. Brian was only picking up a word or phrase here and there, most of which meant nothing to him because he wasn’t an art critic or an artist, and when he did work with art, it was primarily graphics or photography, not the fine arts that were more Justin’s focus. Each time, she’d say a few words and then move on. Brian couldn’t figure out how she was moving on from some of these pieces so quickly, because he felt like he was being drawn in by so many of them. Feeling all of the emotion he knew Justin had been feeling when he’d put the pencil to the paper or the brush to the canvas or his hands to the clay. He wanted to tell her to slow down and really take a look at what she was passing by, but he knew if he said something like that, Justin would probably kill him later.

So he focused on moving at his own pace, just taking everything in, not saying anything.

He paid a little bit more attention to their conversation about the painting Justin had started before the accident and finished afterward, but still felt like the depth of what was said didn’t do the piece justice. She didn’t know how hard Justin had to fight to be able to finish that piece. She didn’t know what it symbolized. The true depth of what was on the canvas.

When they got to the sculptures, Brian deliberately tuned them out, because he didn’t want to hear her clipped, condensed evaluation of the piece Justin had done of him. That piece was personal. It meant a lot to Justin and to Brian. He just hoped that Justin didn’t want it to be in the show, because Brian wasn’t sure he wanted it to be. It felt too intimate. Too revealing.

Brian had barely made it through the pencil drawings before Jane was exchanging pleasantries with Justin and bidding farewell to them both. Brian managed to look up and say goodbye just as she bustled out of the room, her high heels clicking on the tile floor.

Justin walked over to Brian and put his hands on Brian’s shoulders, as Brian sat looking at the last pencil drawing on the table -- an erotic depiction of the two of them having sex that was quite reminiscent of some of Justin’s earliest work.

“You okay?” Justin asked. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just… taking it all in, I guess. This stuff is amazing, Justin. You should be proud.”

“She really liked the sculptures. She wanted to know if I was willing to show and sell those too.”

“What did you tell her?”

“All but one.”

Brian nodded, not needing to ask which one. That piece was as personal to Justin as it was to him. He turned toward the easel at the end of the workbench, where a painting sat, appearing to depict the two of them in silhouette, making their way down a city street, holding hands -- Justin walking and Brian rolling. The street looked wet, and reflections of the streetlights and the lights from the buildings shone on its surface.

“I decided to call that one, ‘Through the rain,’” Justin said, following along behind Brian as he made his way from piece to piece, stopping to take it all in, still not saying much because he was just so overwhelmed with it all. Justin was chattering excitedly about everything Jane had told him.

“She said we can show some of the sculptures and the dioramas on pedestals, and frame some more of the drawings, and of course the paintings,” Justin said. “I feel like so much of this never would have happened before, because I’d never really ventured outside of drawing and painting. Now, I just kind of want to see what I can do, you know? Just to prove I can.”

Brian took Justin’s hand in his, interlacing their fingers.

“There’s absolutely nothing you can’t do,” Brian said. “You just have to have the desire. The rest will come.”

In a way, Brian felt like he knew that better than anybody, because he’d been there himself. And he knew Justin had been there before too.

After their meeting with Jane, Justin spent most evenings at dinner talking animatedly about all of the new ideas he had for paintings and drawings and sculptures that he wanted to put in the show. And he spent every weekend in his studio, working, while Brian was at home getting more well-acquainted with the television than he cared to do alone.

He missed Justin, but he was also getting a little bit worried that Justin might be working too much. Between his teaching job and putting in work on his art at the studio, Justin was leaving the apartment early and coming home late, then doing the same on the weekends. Brian was well-acquainted with this type of pattern and what it could result in, so he started bringing Justin dinner at the studio to make sure he was eating, and trying to get him to go out and take a break or get some fresh air, but the only thing he could get Justin to do was eat while he worked.

And, just as Brian feared might happen, everything eventually caught up to Justin in the form of the migraine from hell.

It was a Sunday night, and it was getting really late -- so late that Brian was already in bed, reading a magazine and trying not to worry too much about Justin’s whereabouts, although he was quickly losing that battle. Justin should have been home by now. He had to be at work at 8 a.m. the next morning, and it was already past 11 p.m. He had been working late, but not that late. Brian sighed and tossed the magazine aside, picking his phone up off the nightstand. No sooner did he have it unlocked than it started to ring, and Justin’s name came across the display.

“Hey,” Brian said, adjusting his pillow with his free hand. “I was starting to wonder if you were ever coming home.”

The only response he got from Justin’s side of the line was a soft moan and a hoarsely whispered, “Fuck.”

“Justin?” Brian pushed himself up to a sitting position as quickly as he could with only one arm. It wasn’t very graceful, but it got the job done. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Where are you?” He knew he was asking too many questions and probably overwhelming Justin, but they spilled out of him before he could stop them, the panic quickly rising in gut also echoing in his voice.

When he still didn’t get a response from Justin, Brian backtracked, repeating the only question he really needed the answer to: “Where are you?”

“Studio,” Justin said softly. “I’ve got a migraine. Shit, I think I’m gonna throw up again.”

Brian heard the clatter of the phone being placed unceremoniously onto the floor in what he assumed was the bathroom, about two seconds before Justin started retching. Brian put his phone on speaker -- cringing at the sounds he was hearing but he really didn’t have a choice in the matter, because he needed both hands and free movement of his shoulders to get out of bed. He took the phone with him into the closet, setting it on a shelf while he grabbed a pair of jeans and worked them up as quickly as possible -- which wasn’t very quick at all -- until he got them to where he could hook his thumbs through two of the belt loops and hoist his butt up to finish pulling them on. He was in the process of pulling a shirt over his head when he heard Justin moan, and more noises as he apparently picked up the phone again.

“Sorry,” Justin said. He coughed and then let out a soft whimper. “I need to come home but I don’t think I can. I don’t know what to do.”

“Stay there. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay.” Justin sounded like he was ready to cry. “I'm really sorry.”

“Justin, don't. Don't apologize. Just sit tight, okay? I'll be there soon.”

By the time he hung up the phone, Brian was already gathering up Justin’s medications, not really knowing if he should try to have him take them at the studio to see if that would help him be able to get home, or if he should be trying to make some sort of a plan to stay at the studio. Right now, he was cursing the fact that they’d never bought a couch for Justin’s studio, even though they’d talked about it dozens of times.

He was, however, grateful that his car service operated 24 hours a day, which meant a much faster ride to get to Justin’s studio than trying to take the subway at this hour, or hail a cab any time of the day as a person in a wheelchair.

When he got to Justin’s studio, Justin was sitting in the armchair by the windows, and the motorized blinds that normally stayed open all the time were closed. The room was almost completely dark. The only light source was Justin’s computer monitor on the other side of the room, which was providing an almost eerie glow that changed in intensity and color as the starburst screensaver danced around. Justin had on one of his dozen or more hoodies, with the hood pulled over his head and down over his eyes. His knees were pulled into his chest, and his arms were hugging them in even closer.

Brian tried to shut the door as softly as possible, then made his way across the room to Justin.

“It’s me,” he said quietly, resisting the urge to reach out and touch Justin until he knew it was okay.

Slowly, Justin unfolded his left arm, holding his hand out to Brian, palm up. Brian took it.

He rubbed his thumb over the back of Justin's hand, hoping it would be soothing but knowing it wouldn't be enough.

“I brought your meds,” Brian said, keeping his voice low. “Do you want them now or do you want to try to go home first? I've got a car waiting, but we can stay here for a while if you want. Wait for them to kick in.”

“I want to go home. I just… I need a minute.”

Brian squeezed Justin’s hand. He looked around the room, which was somehow even more full of artwork than it had been when he’d brought Justin dinner on Friday night. One of the workbenches was covered in what he recognized as framing supplies. Slowly, Brian realized what Justin had been doing during all of these long hours at the studio. Why he’d been so physically exhausted every night when he came home. Why his arm was sore and his hand was stiff. And it was a wonder he hadn’t had a migraine before now.

“Have you been framing all of these yourself?” Brian asked, his gaze settling on a grouping of already-framed works in the corner.

Justin nodded, barely moving his head.

“Why?”

“I had a certain way I wanted them all to look.”

Brian really didn’t know what to say to that. He knew Justin was a perfectionist when it came to his art, and when he got it in his head that he wanted something a particular way, there was no changing his mind. But Brian wished Justin hadn’t attempted to do all of this himself. They had the money to hire the best goddamn framer in the city, whoever the hell that was, and to send it back over and over again if it wasn’t done right the first time. But none of that mattered right now. What was done was done. Getting Justin back home and into bed was the most important thing at the moment.

After a few minutes in silence, Justin unfolded himself and stood, leaning heavily on the chair. Brian picked up Justin’s messenger bag from the floor by the door, leading the way downstairs to the waiting town car. Justin rested his head on Brian’s shoulder for the entire ride back to their apartment.

Brian got Justin upstairs and into bed, gave him his meds and brought him some water, before changing back into his pajamas and climbing into bed alongside him. By now, it was well after midnight. Even lying there in the dark, eyes closed as he waited for the medications to take effect, it was easy to see how exhausted Justin was. He’d been doing too much. Putting too much pressure on himself.

Not quite six hours later, Justin’s alarm went off as it always did, jolting Brian from a sound sleep. Justin groaned and rolled out from under Brian’s arm on his way to turn it off, then started to get up out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Brian mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.

Justin was standing beside the bed, his hand on the nightstand, looking like he was waiting for the world to stop spinning. Brian patted the empty space on the bed beside of him.

“Come back to bed,” he said. “Call in sick.”

“I can’t. People are counting on me.”

“Justin… You look like you’re about to fall over. You’re exhausted. Come here. Just lay here with me for a minute.”

Tentatively, Justin did as he was told, climbing back into bed alongside Brian. Brian wrapped his arm around him and tugged him closer.

“You need to rest,” he said gently. “Remember all of that you were telling me a few months ago about taking care of myself? That I wasn’t replaceable?”

Justin didn’t say anything. He was massaging his forehead with the fingertips of his left hand.

“You’re not replaceable either,” Brian said. We can find someone to do the framing. And if you don’t like their work, we’ll find someone else.”

“It’s not just the framing, though. I have more pieces that I want to finish for the show. More things I want people to see.”

“You have dozens of beautiful pieces of art, already done and ready to go. What you’ve done is enough.”

“I need more, though. What if…” Justin let his voice trail off, almost as if he was afraid to say what he was thinking.

“What if what?”

“What if I don’t get another chance?”

“Justin… Why would you think that? You’re an incredibly talented artist. Of course people want to show your work. There will be more shows after this one -- I’m sure of it. This isn’t your last chance. Not by a long shot. You can’t keep running yourself into the ground like this. It’s not worth your health. You’re staying home today, and I’m staying with you.”

“But your meeting today--”

“No buts. It’ll be fine. Cynthia can do it without me. You need me today. You’re more important than work.”

Hearing those words come out of his own mouth -- and so easily, too -- told Brian just how much his perspective had shifted in recent months. His work was important, but coming as close as he had to losing Justin again had shown Brian what was truly vital in his life, and that it had nothing to do with magazine spreads or market share or television commercials. The most important thing in his life was being right here, right now, with his husband.

Justin spent the day in bed, mostly sleeping, and Brian spent the day taking care of him -- grateful that he had the ability to do just that. Appreciating the fact that sometimes it was the simple things in life that were the most fulfilling.

He’d spent his entire life chasing success -- climbing the proverbial mountain, not letting anything or anyone stop him when it came to proving what he could do in his business. Proving that he could be somebody, no matter how many times his parents had told him he was a worthless sack of shit. For decades, his success in business had been his purpose -- his way of finding fulfillment in this life. Of proving to himself that his parents were wrong. But now, he’d realized that success had been, for the most part, superficial. Sure, it was a high to get to the account, to sign another contract, to be chosen over a competitor. But it wasn’t what truly made him happy.

What made him happy was the person lying in bed beside of him. The person he’d woken up next to every day for nearly ten years now, and hoped to wake up next to each day for the rest of their lives.

Justin was the person who made him whole. The person who made him feel loved.

The next few weeks were better. Justin agreed to send the rest of what still needed framing for the show out to a framer who had come highly recommended by another artist, and he managed to keep his work-life balance more in check. Brian could tell that made Justin feel better, physically, and he knew it made himself feel better, mentally.

As the days until the show counted down, Brian made hotel and travel arrangements for their entire Pittsburgh family -- including the Toronto contingent. They’d all wanted to come out to support Justin. Daphne wasn’t able to come because she couldn’t get the time off -- something about still being low man on the totem pole at the hospital and how frustrating that was -- but Brian had overheard Justin promising to send her pictures. Either way, Justin had a lot of people in his corner.

Once they started arriving, Brian was reminded of how much trying to wrangle the entire group at once was like trying to manage a three-ring circus. It wasn’t like it was the first time they’d been to the city -- they’d been before, for some of Justin’s previous shows -- but some of them always acted like it was their first time. And Debbie, namely, usually acted like she’d never been out in public before. Her loud and boisterous personality might fit right in on Liberty Avenue, but in New York City, she stuck out like a sore, unsophisticated thumb.

Brian was thankful that Jen had been there so many times that she felt comfortable acting as a tour guide for those who wanted to play tourist, so Brian and Justin wouldn’t have to. But, of course, there would always be the family dinner -- a slightly more upscale, restaurant version of Debbie’s weekly Sunday gathering. The same attendees in a different locale.

As much as they drove him crazy, though, Brian loved them. All of them. And he was grateful for them, too. Just as he’d come to realize ten years before on his 36th birthday, they all loved him unconditionally, even when he hadn’t always treated them very well. But, he supposed, that was just what families did. Gave each other shit because they loved each other so much. His biological family notwithstanding.

Their ragtag group took up almost half of Nick’s dining room at Monetti’s on the eve before Justin’s opening. There was wine and toasts, and Debbie breaking down in tears as she told everyone how proud she was of her Sunshine. It was truly Justin’s night.

Of course, Debbie and Nick had to have a small, good-natured battle over the finer points of lasagna and homemade marinara sauce, and Lindsay had to repeatedly keep Gus from stealing her wine glass, and Michael nearly ruined a very important surprise when he started talking to Brian about the work he’d seen going on with the front ramp on the house in Pittsburgh before Ben caught Justin’s attention and redirected it with a question about some book they’d both been reading. But all of that was just their family.

Once everyone had raved about the lemon cake and retired to their hotel, Brian and Justin went home for a little celebration of their own.

“I am so fucking proud of you,” Brian said, his arm around Justin, whose head was resting on Brian’s chest.

“Deb said the same thing.”

“Must be the truth, then.”

“Must be.”

“I’m glad you found a way to keep doing what you love. You didn’t let anything stop you. It took a while to get there, but you got there. You didn’t quit. Even when you wanted to.”

“I had a pretty good inspiration.” Justin wrapped his fingers around Brian’s and let out a contented sigh. “So this is it, huh? The first day of the rest of my art career.”

“Your new beginning. Enjoy it, Sunshine.”

“Oh, I am. I just feel so lucky.” Justin paused for a moment and looked up at Brian. “You know what the benefit is of almost dying?”

“What’s that?”

“You realize how lucky you are to be alive. How amazing every little thing is. How lucky we are to breathe, to love, to create. It helped me learn how to live.”

Brian kissed the top of Justin’s head and blinked back the tears that were pricking at the corners of his eyes. Justin was right. Life was pretty damn amazing, and they were lucky to have it, and each other. Brian didn’t plan on taking any of it for granted ever again, and he knew Justin didn’t either.

The next day, Brian and Justin arrived at the gallery an hour early, so Justin and the people at the gallery could iron out some last minute details.

“You nervous?” Brian asked, watching Justin as he walked slowly around the room, waiting for Jane to return with an updated pricing sheet.

“I’d be worried if I wasn’t.”

Brian rolled up in front of Justin, wrapped the end of Justin’s tie around his fingers, and used it to pull the younger man down for a kiss.

“Oh, so that’s why you made me wear a tie.” Justin grinned.

“No, I made you wear a tie because it’s classy. You can’t wear t-shirts and jeans all the damn time.”

“Why do you think I became an artist instead of going to business school and working a soul-sucking desk job?”

“Alright, twat.” Brian swatted Justin on the ass. “Need I remind you that my soul-sucking desk job has paid for a lot of your shit over the years? The least you can do is wear a tie for one night. I promise I’ll take it off of you later, in the most sexy way possible.”

“Is that a promise, Mr. Kinney?”

Brian didn’t get an opportunity to answer that question, because Jane walked up behind him at that moment, with a lot more than just the price sheet she’d gone to retrieve -- she had a large box in her hands too.

“My assistant just told me this arrived today, addressed to you, Justin.”

Justin took the box from her and looked at the return address, then turned and gave Brian a confused look. “It’s from Pittsburgh,” he said. “But I don’t recognize the address. Wonder what it is?”

“One way to find out,” Brian said, handing Justin the pocket knife he always carried -- the one remnant of his biological family that he actually treasured. It was a gift from his grandfather -- a family heirloom that he’d passed down to an 8-year-old Brian just before he died -- that Brian was fairly sure no one else ever knew he had. If Jack had known, he probably would have taken it and pawned it to pay his gambling debts.

Jane’s assistant called her name from down the hallway, and she turned and walked away, leaving Justin and Brian alone in the gallery.

Justin used his left hand to carefully cut the tape on the box, and a single white sheet of paper slid to the floor. Justin bent down to pick it up, then sat down on the bench and read it aloud:

Dear Mr. Taylor,

I hope this letter finds you well. My name is Jason Harris, and I’m a detective with the Pennsylvania State Police. I recently found these paintings in an evidence locker at the post, without tags, and started looking into where they might have come from and how they got there. Long story short, I found out that you were the artist, and I read about your accident, as well as the show at the gallery I’m shipping these paintings to. They’re a little bit worse for wear, but I wanted to make sure they were returned to you. I wish you the best of luck at your show.

Sincerely,
Jason Harris

Setting the letter aside, Justin slid two wrapped canvases out of the box -- the paintings that had been missing when Brian and Michael went to retrieve the others at the state police post.

“I didn’t even remember these were missing,” Justin said, carefully removing the paper from each canvas, leaning them against the bench. “I don't know if I knew. Did I know?”

Brian stared at the canvases, trying to work out the weird combination of emotions that was rising up in him. He’d thought these paintings were lost forever. And he’d kind of made peace with that, although it had taken him a while, because to him, they were pieces of Justin. Not knowing where they were -- if they were lost or stolen or had been pulverized on the side of the highway -- had been devastating for Brian at a time when he didn’t even know if Justin was going to be okay.

So he was relieved, and he was happy that Justin’s artwork had been returned, but there was a small part of him that was taken right back to that day with Michael in the storage room at the police post, and all of the sadness and frustration that he’d felt at seeing Justin’s artwork treated in such a way, while Justin was lying in a hospital bed in a coma with an uncertain future, at best.

“Brian?”

Justin’s hand on his shoulder brought Brian back to reality.

“Hey,” Justin said softly, brushing his finger over Brian’s cheek to wipe away a tear that Brian didn’t realize had fallen. “What’s wrong?”

Brian blinked and shook his head. “Nothing. I’m okay. I’m glad someone found them.” He fought to turn his facial expression into a smile and hoped it looked sincere.

“But…?”

“It’s nothing. I swear. Don’t worry about it. It was in the past. Old memories. We’re making new ones tonight, remember?”

Justin scooted over to the very end of the bench and put his arm around Brian. “I love you,” he said, kissing Brian on the lips -- long enough and deep enough that it would have been highly inappropriate were they not the only ones in the gallery at the moment.

“Better watch out, Mr. Taylor,” Brian said, raising an eyebrow. “I hear fucking in art galleries is frowned upon.”

“That never stopped you before.” Justin laughed. “Although I’d rather not be the subject of a front-page scandal tomorrow morning: Disabled artist makes comeback, gets caught with pants down.”

Brian was about to shoot back another smartassed remark when Jane reappeared in the gallery, and Justin immediately put his professional artist face back on. It reminded Brian of himself whenever he went into a business meeting -- apparently he’d taught Justin well in more places than just the bedroom.

Brian put his own game face on, too -- this one the face of the proud husband to the featured artist.

“Are you ready?” Jane asked, smoothing her skirt and straightening her jacket. She had a megawatt smile to rival Justin’s.

Justin nodded, and Jane signaled to someone else, who unlocked the door and let in the people who had been waiting outside -- the loudest of which was, of course, Debbie Novotny. But the crowd was much more than just their family and friends -- there were a lot of people here to see Justin’s art.

The rest of the night passed by in a whirlwind of hand-shaking and introductions, and watching while reporters and art critics talked to Justin, their tape recorders in hand and pencils flying across their notepads.

Brian was thankful that the Pittsburgh family seemed to be entertaining themselves, which freed him up to just sit and watch as person after person shook Justin’s hand and talked about their favorite pieces. He could hear Ben trying to engage Michael in a far more intellectual conversation than Michael was probably capable of having about any sort of art other than comic books, and Emmett discussing the finer points of hors d'oeuvres with the caterer, and Debbie bragging on Justin every chance she got, but for the most part, his focus was Justin.

At one point, Rob and Adam joined him in his people watching. Justin watching, really.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him this happy,” Rob said. “You can tell he’s in his element, but it’s different this time.”

Brian had to agree. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was different, but he knew he’d never seen a smile that wide -- or that sincere -- on Justin’s face during an art show before.

A couple of hours in, nearly everything that was for sale had a sticker on it, indicating that it had been spoken for.

Brian was giving Justin a congratulations kiss when a woman walked up behind them and said, “Are you Justin Taylor?”

Justin stood up and straightened his tie. “Yes ma’am. That’s me,” he said. Always WASP-y politeness. He was well trained.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I got held up at work. But I wanted to make sure I made it tonight so I could talk to you. You probably don’t remember me.”

Justin shook his head. “Sorry, no.” Brian could see the slight frustration on Justin’s face that was always there whenever he felt he should have remembered someone and didn’t. He squeezed Justin’s hand in silent support.

“I’m Gina Abernathy. I happened to be traveling through Pittsburgh on the same night you were. I saw the accident happen.”

Brian heard Justin’s sharp intake of breath. He squeezed Justin’s hand harder. Brian felt like there was some sort of separation between himself and what was happening in front of him at that moment. Like he’d been pulled into a parallel dimension.

“It was awful,” the woman said. There was a strange echo to the way Brian heard her words, as if he was far away, even though he was right there. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear any more or not. Reading the police report and seeing the car had been enough for him. But he didn’t have much choice in the matter, because he wasn’t going to leave Justin to hear about it alone.

“But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how awful it was,” she continued. “I sat with you until the ambulance got there. You weren’t conscious, but I wanted you to know someone was there, so I kept talking to you. I remember I couldn’t get that night out of my head for a long time. I wondered if you were okay, but I didn’t have a way to find out. Then, I saw an article about your show in one of those free newspapers I picked up at a coffee shop. I recognized your picture, and I remembered all of those paintings that had been scattered across the road, and realized you must have been the artist. I was so glad to read about you and find out that you were okay. How crazy that we both live in New York, huh?”

It took Justin a few seconds to reply. “Yeah. Crazy,” he said, sounding numb. He looked like he was still processing everything that had been said.

To be honest, Brian was too. He was back to sorting through emotions, trying to figure out what he felt. But this time, what came to mind first was gratitude -- a word that seemed to have become a central theme in his life lately. He was grateful that this woman had taken the time to stop. That she’d made sure Justin wasn’t alone. That she’d called for help. And, who knows, perhaps her quick action had saved Justin’s life.

“Thank you,” Brian said, extending his hand to shake hers. He had so much more running through his head, but he didn’t want to say any of it to a stranger -- even one who might have saved his husband’s life. Mostly, he was thankful to finally know that Justin hadn’t been alone out on the highway that night. That he’d had someone holding his hand and talking to him.

It gave him closure. Closure that he hadn’t even really known he still needed.

Justin managed to shake off his shell-shocked expression and shake her hand and thank her as well, before she walked away to take a look around the gallery. After she’d turned the corner, Justin sank down heavily onto a nearby bench.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed.

“I know,” Brian said, reaching out for Justin’s hand again.

“I just… I don’t even know what to say about any of that.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Brian said, tightening his grip on Justin’s hand. “You thanked her, and that’s all you can say. I’m glad she was there. If I couldn’t be there with you, my one wish has always been that you weren’t by yourself. I sort of feel like that wish was granted tonight, even though it had already happened, and I just didn’t know it. Fuck, I feel like I need a philosophy degree to decipher that statement.”

Justin laughed, a small smile spreading across his face.

“There’s that smile,” Brian said. “So, it’s been a good night, I think.”

“More than I could have wished for.” Justin kissed Brian’s cheek and laid his head on his shoulder, while Brian’s eyes surveyed the gallery and the sum of Justin’s work of the last several months. Everything that represented his transformation. The way he’d reinvented himself and his art, like a flower emerging from a crack in the sidewalk -- beauty coming from something entirely unintentional. Something most people would think of as undesirable. But it had led to something beautiful, just the same.

The next morning, Brian was in the kitchen pouring his coffee when he heard a soft thump outside the door to the apartment. When he opened the door and looked outside, no one was there, but there was a stack of newspapers by the door, with the top copy folded and opened to a review of Justin’s show. There was a note on top from Steve, the weekend doorman, that simply said: Thought you guys might like a few copies of this.

Brian laid the papers on the table and settled in to read the review, which was glowing, detailing Justin’s “triumphant return to the art world after a serious accident last year” and how his treasure trove of artwork was filled with “artistic gems, in new mediums as well as old favorites.”

He had just finished reading the final paragraph, the smile on his face now even wider than it was when he’d began, when Justin walked into the room, still in his pajamas, his hair tousled, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. When his eyes met Brian’s, he stopped.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked.

Brian pushed the newspaper across the table toward Justin, who picked it up and starting reading, a same smile spreading across his own face as he read.

When he was finished, he pulled a chair out and sank down onto it, still staring at the paper as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“I thought I’d never get another review like that again,” he said. “I thought I’d never sell anything again. That nobody would be interested in my art anymore if I couldn’t do what I’d always done.”

“Well, I’d say last night proved you wrong, then.”

“I still can’t believe it. I just wanted to create things for me. Just to show I’m still here, you know? That I’m living.”

Brian reached across the table and laid his hand over Justin’s.

“That you are, Sunshine,” Brian said. “And I’m glad you are.”

Justin turned his hand over and wove his fingers through Brian’s. “Here’s to us,” he said, his smile illuminating the entire room in the early morning light. “Living.”