I promised Ben I'd be home by midnight.

Oh, pathetic! Well, be sure to thank your husband for me for allowing you to come out and play with your poor, lonely friend.

I notice you left out ‘old.’ Well, you'll be a lot less lonely when you're reunited with your beloved.

Hey, you better not say anything.

When have I ever? Fine, never mind. I give you my word.

Swear to it, on the memory of Marilyn Monroe.

I swear on the memory of Marilyn Monroe that I will not tell Justin that you are flying to LA this weekend to surprise him and that you love him and you miss him more than words can express.

Oh! Who said anything about that? 

Look, you don't fool me, Mr 'I Am a Rock, I Am an Island.’ I know how hard this has been for you.

Hmm. You have no idea, Mikey, how hard.

About 4 years before Miley Cyrus had a party in the USA, I hopped off the plane at LAX myself. In case you haven’t had the distinct honor of visiting Los Angeles via their airport, let me assure you, you’re not missing anything. The images of LA that you may have of beautiful people on a beach are immediately dispelled by this cesspool of people and traffic. I really hoped Justin appreciated all that I am willing to do for him. 

I had hired a driver because no fucking way was I going to try to find my way on the LA freeways. That scene from Clueless where Dionne accidentally gets on the freeways has forever been burned in my memory. Justin made me watch that “movie” sometime during the period between when Jennifer transferred him to my care and his brief sojourn to NYC. I can’t account for that boy’s tastes or for what I was willing to put up with just to get in his pants consistently.

Some hours after landing, collecting my luggage and finding my driver, I arrived at The Beverly Hills Hotel. I knew Justin was staying in Brett Keller’s guest house but I figured we may want some privacy plus I can’t say that blowing little Sunshine’s mind with staying at some luxurious hotel wasn’t a factor in my decision. I showered, got changed, and rode over to Rodeo Drive to get some shopping in before I went to surprise Sunshine. I didn’t want him to hurt himself by rolling his eyes so far back in his head they got stuck, if I tried to get him to go with me. Plus I didn’t want to risk being asked to leave any of these shops thanks to his lovely sense of style. Luckily the child was a little too young to know that scene from Pretty Woman…I’m going to blame Mikey for that taking up valuable space in my mind. 

By the time I got in the car to make my way to Brett’s mansion in the Hollywood Hills, my wallet had gotten a thorough workout. I won’t lie and say I wasn’t a little…apprehensive about seeing Justin. I’m not great on the phone (are we surprised?) unless it’s phone sex, there hadn’t been any shortage of that, and our emails to each other consisted of dick pics and conversations such as, “Would you rather have a furry tongue that you couldn’t shave or otherwise get rid of the fur or eat a baby?” So no real deep stuff, and it had been some months since we practically lived and worked together, if you count my eating nearly every meal at the place Justin worked and his working on a comic with my best friend as practically working together. I did. Even when Justin was off on his little starving artist adventure with the fiddler, we were still so much a part of each other’s lives (see above about practically working together) that it wasn’t a separation like this had been. I just didn’t know if it was going to be awkward or something. I didn’t have any experience with whateverthefuckthiswas (it was a relationship, okay? I’ve evolved and I can admit that now) to draw on. 

In case you’re curious, the answer is eat a baby, and no it wasn’t awkward. 

So that’s how I found myself, as the sun was setting, in the Hollywood Hills, trying to hide both my nerves and my excitement, ringing Brett’s doorbell. I heard Brett call, “Justin, can you get that?” Don’t these people have someone to answer the door for them? (No, I would learn, people in LA have a weird relationship with their wealth and they have personal assistants and interns and personal celebrity chefs, but no one specifically for answering their door.) The door opened and there was Justin just fucking beautiful, his blonde hair blonder from the sun and his skin with a slight tan that had somehow snuck in under the layers of 100 SPF I knew he had to use to avoid being totally burnt, his eyes wide in surprise, and his huge smile that earned him that nickname just lighting up everything. “Brian,” he breathed, clearly shocked, score one for me, “You came!” and jumped into my arms and kissed me like…well, like we hadn’t seen each other in months. Yeah not awkward, and all my nerves dissolved. “Not until we get to the hotel,” I whispered against his ear, hiding my grin in his hair. He smelled the same. 

“Surprised?” I asked, biting back my smile even though I know I’m shit at hiding anything from him. 

“I figured you would either plan some elaborate surprise or just disappear from my life,” he grinned. The kid doesn’t even try to hide anything, and I’m so fucking glad because I am definitely not emotionally developed enough to try to guess at this stuff. “I’m pretty fucking glad I was…” and I kissed him again before he could finish because sometimes it feels good to be that known to someone. Sometimes it’s terrifying. 

“So Sunshine, want to pack a bag and join me at my hotel for the weekend?” I asked, pulling back from the kiss again to let him catch his breath. As if he’d say no. His grin widened even more, which I didn’t think was possible. In pretty short order, I had been invited in, greeted and thanked Brett for his part in this whole surprise, and bustled Justin into the car with his ugly duffle that he’s still toting around. We rode to the hotel while we made out like teenagers and Justin pointed to various points of interest out the window. I got to see where Brangelina lived and hear about his adventures fucking Connor James. (We determined there should be a celebrity clause on the no-repeats rule…I was kinda hoping to run into Tom Cruise since we all know he’s really gay.) We got to the hotel and continued our reunion against the wall, on the couch, and in the bed. There is nothing so beautiful as a horny Justin Taylor. Afterwards when we were lyingthere, his head on my chest and my hand in his hair, we discussed plans for the weekend. 

“How long are you here for?”

“Trying to get rid of me already, Sunshine?”

“No! Just want to figure out what we should do while you’re here.”

“I’m happy to not leave this hotel. I leave Monday, if that influences the choices outside this suite any.”

“Uh, I need to go into the studio tomorrow…at least for a few hours,” it was Thursday, “would you…want to come to the studio and see it? It’s not terribly interesting, sounds a lot more glamorous than it is.” It did sound way more glamorous than it was. It looked like the art department in any large ad firm. But I hated how unsure he sounded, like I might not be interested in what he’s been doing out here.

“I know you have to go in – I planned this with Brett, remember? I promised him that I wouldn’t totally monopolize your time tomorrow. I brought my laptop so I can get some work done after you show me around.” He sighed happily against my chest. 

“Do you want to go out tonight? We can go to West Hollywood. There are a ton of bars there but at the club, The Abbey, Friday night is Truck Stop so we’ll want to go tonight or Saturday.” The club had a ladies’ night during which scantily clad women danced on top of the bar modeled after that terrible movie Coyote Ugly. Okay, I can’t blame anyone for knowing that one except really strong pot and an overwhelming laziness that prevented me from changing the channel. And look, ladies’ night wouldn’t be a problem, there were still always more guys there even on ladies’ night, same with Babylon’s rare forays into inclusivity. But my understanding from Justin was that Truck Stop was generally a tourist destination for hetero bachelorette parties. I’m glad queer bars can provide an environment that feels relatively safer for straight women, but in a political climate in which we could have used some more straight allies, I wasn’t a big fan of playing host to people who kept electing Bush into office. So we decided on The Abbey for this evening’s entertainment. I had made reservations for dinner for Friday and Saturday nights at some restaurants that I knew Justin had neither the budget nor the inclination to go on his own. Justin did want to take me that night to his favorite Thai place because we’ve made a habit of comparing Thai restaurants in every city we visit. One day we may even go to Thailand and ruin every other city for Thai food. 

So that’s how I found myself on Sunset Ave, sitting on the floor at a low table, music videos playing on the TV behind me, under low lights, drinking beer, and eating pad see ew slathered in three different types of hot sauce. Don’t let Justin’s WASP heritage fool you -- the kid loves his food with flavor and so spicy it makes his nose run. We chatted -- mostly Justin chatted and I listened -- to gossip about our family, how Mikey’s comic shop was doing (not great), how Linds and Mel were managing their separation (also not great), how big JR and Gus had gotten (big, like kids do), how Ted was enjoying Kinnetik (a lot), how Emmett’s new TV gig was (beneath him) and how Daphne’s MCAT prep was combining along (competitive). I realized that Justin knew a lot more about what was going on in Pitts than I did. He was more interested and was maybe a bit homesick.

I realized he was homesick when he started talking about how Molly was doing. I hadn’t realized he had been in touch with her (since that wasn’t covered by either the dick pics or by a discussion of if you were going to eat a baby, how would it be cooked? He said fried, of course he did, I said in a stew). It’s not that he and Molly had a bad relationship. With their age difference, they just didn’t have much of any relationship. I guess she was just getting to an age where she was old enough for him to be more of a friend than a distant older brother who hadn’t lived with her in 4 years. She was going to St. James because Jennifer had lost the “they didn’t do anything to prevent our son from nearly being killed and then let his would-be killer graduate with his class while Justin was in a coma” argument against Craig as he again used money to try to control where his kids were educated. Molly had finally learned what happened to Justin – both why he moved out and what happened at his prom – although I was never too clear on whether Jennifer or Justin told her. Either way, she was less than pleased about attending St. James and about Craig using child support to dick her and Jennifer around.

As Justin filled me in -- and as I tried to think about anything other than my feelings about Craig, St. James, and Justin -- I realized how much he must miss the Pitts if he was spending all this time on the phone or emailing with Molly, and Linds, and Mel, and Ted for fuck’s sake. Michael I knew he must be in touch with to keep him updated on the movie and to plan the next issue for Rage (sales were going through the roof with rumors about the movie), and Emmett and Justin had always had a closer friendship, probably because they were closer in age than Justin and anyone else. And Daphne and Justin being in touch was just about like Justin breathing. Maybe Justin hadn’t been as swept up in the Hollywood life as I had imagined. I also realized, as he talked about Molly, that he was getting a bit agitated and jumpy, as happens when he talks about St. James, Craig, or the bashing, let alone all three. Who can blame him? I’m not exactly the picture of calm either. I didn’t want him to get too panicked if we were planning on going to a crowded club. 

Justin has recovered remarkably from being hit in the head with a baseball bat. But, he was still hit in the head with a baseball bat by a closeted homophobe who was so threatened by Justin’s pride and confidence that he wanted to snuff it out. He was left with permanent brain damage that has limited his ability to do one of the things that brings him pure joy (art, in case you were wondering, he has recovered much better in the me fucking him department, thankyouverymuch). And you don’t just recover that easily from that type of trauma – the impact of being a targeted victim of violence is so much greater than when it’s random, fun fact – and although he’s worked hard towards his recovery, he’s still uneasy about crowds, he gets flashbacks of what little he can remember, and he still has nightmares. Not all the time, but still. I think people, including our little family whom he loves so much, think he’s more recovered than he is probably because they don’t think too much about it except to make it the focus of a comic book and now a movie. It just doesn’t fit in the narrative of Justin being so strong and brave and overcoming. He is strong, he is brave, but strength and bravery do not cure traumatic brain injury and PTSD. 

As I began to notice Justin’s signs of becoming panicked -- his eyes darting around, breathing more heavily, fidgeting in his seat -- I put my hand on his across the table, looked him in the eye and said, “Hey. This shit is spicy, I’m going to get another beer, you want one?” 

I know with my illustrious history of being totally comfortable talking about feelings, it must seem like I’m just avoiding the issue. That’s not what I was doing, I swear. It’s just something Justin and I have developed, without naming it explicitly, where I try to just shift his attention to something else. It just doesn’t always make sense to check in with him and draw even more of the focus to how he’s feeling. And, look, I learned that by actually checking in with him about how he was feeling many times and realized it’s fine to do if we’re alone and have the time, but if we’re out, trying to shift his attention just works better. So let me have some credit, for you know, growth, okay?

He smiled up at me and sighed, “Yeah. Another beer sounds great.” 

He started talking about how he had found this restaurant, the random videos they always play, and how uncomfortable the funky chairs shaped like hands are. See, it works for us. I mentally calculated whether I should bring up whether he was homesick now or at some other point during our short time together when broaching a possibly emotional and definitely not fun conversation would be easier. It’s not about the trauma, right? So maybe asking right before we head to the club to dance and drink and fuck (all my favorite ways of coping with any feelings ever) wasn’t the worst idea ever.

“Hey, Sunshine?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you, um, I mean, have you been, homesick?”

“Huh?”

“Well you’ve been in touch with Ted to know that, thanks to my generosity as his boss, he’s been able to upgrade his season opera tickets. If that’s not feeling some misplaced nostalgia for all the Pitts has to offer, I don’t know what is.”

“Brian.”

“Yes dear?”

“I talk to Ted because he sees you every day. He tells me how you’re doing.”

“We talk.”

He raised an eyebrow, totally my move. “Yes, I know exactly how your dick is doing. Ted tells me about the rest of you. They all do.”

Oh. “My dick is the most important part of me.”

“Uh huh.”

…

“I guess I am a little… not homesick. I miss just being a part of the day in and day out. Especially with you. Because you don’t tell me how you’re doing. When I’m there, I just know without you having tell me. But not being there, there’s a big piece of my life that I guess I don’t have here. I miss that.”

…

“Don’t pretend like you’re functioning just fine without me either. Being apart like this isn’t easy, it doesn’t have to be.”

Well, he got me there. “So you are homesick?”

“If you’re implying that you’re my home…”

“You seemed fine all afternoon, in fact brighter, lighter than I’ve seen you in a while.” I wasn’t going to touch that home comment with a ten foot pole if I could help it. I also realized that comparing Justin now to Justin during my whole cancer thing was probably not the fairest comparison. But he did seem happier during our time together thus far until dinner. And I wasn’t going to chalk it up to me surprising him. I had Justin after we reunited following his time with Ethan as a point of reference. He was happy then, thrilled, over the moon, but not the lighter version of Justin I had been with all day. 

“Uh yeah.” He kept his face toward me but his eyes shifted to some point to the side of us. Hm. 

“Sunshine?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s going on?”

“What? Nothing.”

“Nothing? Are we really going to do this?” I was maybe more stern than I should be. If I can tell something’s going on with him, then something is going on with him. I don’t do well with subtlety when it comes to emotions as I think we’ve clearly established. 

Justin sighed heavily. “It’s not just missing you. It’s…I just feel…it’s not as…” He sighed again. “I just don’t like living on my own. I know Brett’s right there in the main house but the guest house is practically as big as the loft and I’ve never lived on my own. It’s…an adjustment.”

I heard what he wasn’t saying. The nightmares, the panic, the flashbacks. This wasn’t just about living by himself for the first time. 

He continued, “You’re right. I do feel happier. I’ve been so happy working on the movie, getting to do art for a living, feeling like I’m doing something that makes a difference and getting paid for it.”

“A change from the diner, is it?”

Justin rolled his eyes, “You could say that.” 

“I thought I just did. So you’re happier, but?”

“I just miss you, is all. And I miss home -- I don’t even know where home is anymore. I just want someplace that I can live for more than six months without having to move while my life gets turned upside down. Okay? Pathetic. Are you happy now?” 

Fuck him. Fuck how the realization that he hasn’t had a home that’s felt like his, truly his, since he was kicked out by his father at 17 just cut me open. Knowing I’m at least partially responsible for most of the upheavals he’s experienced. At least. How does a person make that right?

I want Justin’s happiness more than I want my own happiness. We’ve confirmed that I’m a miserable piece of shit, but this kid is everything bright in the world, personified. He still is, even with all the shit that’s been relentlessly thrown at him. He gets to have happiness. But? Fuck me I’m a selfish bastard. Because I cannot pretend that hearing that he’s been happier in LA than he can remember being…that shit? I can’t pretend I don’t feel something in response to that. Not when it took all the courage I have (and as a spineless asshole, I’ll admit that’s not much courage) to tell him that just maybe I was happier when he was with me than when he wasn’t. The time it took, and the pain for both of us, for me to realize that Justin after the bashing needed words where before he could tell by my actions. Whether it was the trauma or the brain injury or some combination of the two, it doesn’t really matter. Justin just struggles more with non-verbal communication now. So aren’t we the perfect pair? That no doubt had some role to play in his leaving me for the fiddler. Well, that and my unilateral decision-making that he should experience a more conventional relationship at some point in his life. He didn’t deserve to be stuck with me out of default. 

So I had told him, asked him to move back to the loft. And he leaves for LA. Where he’s happy. Yeah, I felt something. 

I know I should have tried to articulate some of all…this. But I also balked at the idea of for even one second Justin feeling any guilt about being happy - even if it meant he was happy away from me. And even I’m not obtuse enough to not realize that what he was not saying was that being away from me made him happy. Just that his happiness was here in LA. 

And now, now that we’re past all this, I can admit that in that restaurant, I really believed he was on the path to the decision of him staying in LA more permanently, after pre-production on the movie wrapped. I honestly thought that’s where this was all headed. Not that night. No, in fact I thought Justin didn’t even realize that this was where everything was headed himself. But deep inside, I was preparing myself for a conversation about how we would work long distance. If we would work long distance. And how I would never ever ask Justin to stay in Pitts just because I want him there. Not when he could have the chance of a lifetime.

I’m working on that unilateral decision-making thing, I swear.

“I wouldn’t say happy, Sunshine.” 

He tipped his head to one side and looked at me. 

“I might…You may have gathered from what, ah, others have told you that I, well, your absence has, ehm, been felt.” 

“Stunning admission.”  

I sighed softly. “Ready to go?” 

“Yeah, let’s go.”

LA isn’t exactly what you would call a walkable city, but some neighborhoods were definitely better than others. Justin told me that West Hollywood had a high “walk score” whateverthefuck that is. And it was very easy to navigate. Justin had the driver drop us off at an intersection on the east side of the main drag nearby some chicken fast food place with a name that sounded like a Beatles lyric. We walked west toward The Abbey. Santa Monica Blvd put Liberty Ave to shame. People everywhere. It was winter, but LA was warm enough for everyone to be on the streets in their slutty clothes and spilling out of the bars. And goddamn everyone was beautiful. 

Justin pulled me into this Cali-Mexican cantina-style bar, telling me it was happy hour and we had to get drinks here first. We ordered two-for-one margaritas (“They bring them both at once!” this kid has no class) from a gorgeous waiter and Justin laughed when he saw me checking him out. “You can try, but he’s married. And the bathrooms in this place are disgusting.”

“Aw, Sunshine, did you strike out?” I was beginning to doubt the waiter’s taste. 

“Everyone strikes out with him. His husband is a psychologist and, get this, Bobby makes more being a waiter here than Geoff makes with his PhD!”

“Really? Makes me reconsider your future career as a waiter. How about you ditch the artwork and support me in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed?” 

We joked around and checked out guys until we finished our drinks. Each drink was the size of a swimming pool and after two I was ready to never drink tequila again. Justin had clearly mastered the art of drinking a lot and for cheap. It was deemed late enough that we wouldn’t embarrass ourselves by showing up at the club.

People were lined up, IDs in hand, down Robertson Blvd. Justin pointed out the where the queer AA meeting takes place right across the street. He told me that’s the AA meeting best known for celebrity sightings, and then told me about who’s been spotted there. So much for anonymous. Justin walked to the front of the line and was waved in by the bouncer. “Perks of knowing Brett and Conor” he told me. I’m so proud. 

The bars, the go go boys, the thumpa thumpa, it was all very much like Babylon. Except here the bar opened right up onto the front patio and although it was a balmy 68*, there were heat lamps everywhere. According to the people waiting in line, whom we passed on our way in, 68* is “freezing” in LA. What the actual fuck. We drank some more and danced. I dropped my arms around his shoulders and bent down to lean my forehead into his. His hands slipped under my shirt, and he traced my spine up and down while he swerved his hips against mine in time to the music, pressing his erection into me. I took his lips in a deep kiss tasting the tequila and cigarettes on his breath. I slid my hands down his back, taking his ass in my hands and pulling him impossibly closer, swallowing his moan. He moved his hand between us and groped my erection through my jeans while hebit my lip. He kissed his way to my jaw and then down my neck, placing kisses and small bites. I moved one of my hands to the back of his head, weaving my fingers through his soft hair. I leaned against his ear and said, “Fuck, Sunshine. Back room, now.” 

So there was no back room. As I said, what the actual fuck.

We made do with a cramped stall in the bathroom, ignoring all the signs proclaiming stalls were to be used by only one person at a time. When we finally returned to the hotel, we both dropped into bed without showering and I fell immediately to sleep just after thinking vaguely how I had been in snowy Pittsburgh this morning. 

We had a leisurely fuck and a fast shower in the morning. Justin ordered coffee for us, telling me that the studio kept a stocked kitchen and had lunch catered everyday. He usually waited until he got to work to eat breakfast. 

The drive from Beverly Hills to Burbank was absolutely insane. I was worried that Justin was going to be late and he laughed telling me that most people didn’t roll in until after 10 and that in LA, if you’re late, it’s okay to just blame the traffic. 

It was fun to see a bit of what Justin was doing but as I said before, a lot less glamorous than it sounds. One of his coworkers mentioned that they have been encouraging Justin to consider the animation program at Cal Arts. Huh. Remember how the night before I was convinced that Justin would want to remain in LA more permanently? Yeeeeahhhh, I do too. 

When I looked to Justin, eyebrows raised, he said, “What, so I can have the dubious pleasure of being kicked out of art schools on both coasts?” It was my turn to roll my eyes. And he was afraid of me completely disappearing from his life. Indeed.

“Hey,” Justin said. He put his hand on my arm and looked into my eyes. “Hey. Did you want to find a place to do some work?” I guess the refocusing thing works both ways.

I grabbed coffee and a green juice, whateverthefuck that is, and grabbed a free desk and began responding to emails and triaging crises from my art department. I was using the term “art” loosely that day. 

After a few hours, Brett sent Justin to enjoy the rest of the day and my visit. We got the fuck out of Burbank and spent the afternoon at the LACMA which was doing a whole Maplethorpe exhibit. I bought Justin the exhibition book, a beautiful thing, because this kid refuses to take money from me but never turns down an expensive present. And after dinner we wound up at some party in Venice beach. Saturday, Justin retrieved the car the studio was loaning him from Brett’s house, and we drove up the coast to Mailbu. Sunday we rented a cabana at the hotel and lazed around the pool all day and I tolerated the hardship of making sure Justin was slathered in sunscreen in all his hard to reach places. I realized at some point that I laughed more this weekend than I had in the months since Justin left. Monday, Justin went to work for a few hours while I checked out of the hotel and we met up in the afternoon at the guest house, which, yes, was about the size of the loft. We watched a screener of Brett’s new movie that was being released soon, but neither of us paid much attention 

“Are you going to come back for another visit?” Justin asked quietly. 

“I would like to,” I replied honestly. I had really had fun with him plus I got better blow jobs in these few days than I had in the past months combined. The kid is gifted. “Maybe I can fly out after my meeting in Chicago next month.”

Justin grinned at me and I was treated to another one of those blow jobs. As he slid up my body and rested his head on my chest and my hand found its way into his hair, I sighed. “I’ve got to get going soon, Sunshine.” I was flying out on a red eye. 

I felt his body stiffen but he just said, “Yeah, okay. I know.”

“Thank you for visiting, Brian. I really was surprised,” he said with those country club manners.

“I had fun, Sunshine. Once you ignore the avocado and kale on everydamnthing, LA’s not so bad.”

“It isn’t, is it?”

Well, you know what happens next. We live in a country that elected that village idiot - god the height of incompetency and hatred in a president - and it’s just not the right time for a movie about a queer avenger who has queer sex. Sounds like the perfect time if you ask me. So the movie is cancelled, and our little Sunshine leaves the sunshine and returns to gloomy Pitts.