I was packing my clothes for our trip to LA when there was a pounding on the loft door. I sighed at my concentration being broken. Sure Justin can throw some cargo pants and hoodies in his shitty duffle bag and call it packing but I had to pack suits for business meetings, business casual for touring potential office spaces, casual for viewing potential homes, and clubbing clothes, and beach clothes, and I-don’t-know-I-might-need-this-clothes. So yeah, it took some concentration.

I slid open the door to a very perturbed looking Debbie Novotny, casserole in one hand, tapping her foot impatiently, and cracking her gum. She shoved the casserole into my hands, grumbling, “350 for 40 minutes.”

As I turned to place the casserole in the kitchen, she followed me, “Won’t you please come in?”

“You bet I’m coming in.” I turned around to face her and she swatted the back of my head. “Asshole!”

“What the fuck was that for?’

“For not telling me you’re going to LA.” She peered into the bedroom where my suitcase was open on the bed. “And pretty fuckin’ soon from the looks of it.”

“I’m sorry, I thought one of the perks of being my own boss was not having to clear my vacation plans with anyone.”

“Vacation my ass.”

“What else would you call a weeklong trip? A sojourn? A sabbatical? A furlough?”

“And then when you get home from this so-called sabbatical? You’re here in Pittsburgh forever?”

“Death and taxes, Debbie. Nothing else is forever.”

“Enough with the wiseass remarks.”

“So Mikey told you.”

“Yeah Mikey told me.”

“Well he could have told me he was going to! I asked him - I nearly begged him to.”

“Brian, my son is many wonderful things. A keeper of secrets he is not.”

“This wasn’t a secret! Did you not hear me? I wanted him to tell you!”

“Why?”

“Why? Isn’t that obvious? So I wouldn’t have to myself.”

“And why the fuck didn’t you want to tell me yourself, mister?”

“To avoid being hit upside the head, being called asshole, and being force fed tuna casserole while getting the kind of peer pressure to smoke pot that DARE only promised me.”

“And...”

“Mikey told you, you’ve hit me, called me asshole. I assume you want me to heat up that casserole and...break out my stash?”

“You bet your tight ass.”

I dutifully started preheating the oven and rolled a joint. I lit up, took a hit, and passed it to my surrogate mother.

“So.”

“Yes, ma?”

“Tell me about this move.”

“Well, what did Mikey tell you?”

“You’re opening a branch of Kinnetik in LA but that’s just your cover story.”

“Leave it to Mikey to turn this into alter egos and superheroes.”

“He said you’re really doing it to make Sunshine happy.”

“Well, Sunshine hasn’t been so Sunshine-y recently.”

“Yeah, I know kiddo.” She placed her hand over mine. “It’s not easy watching someone you love suffer like that.”

I opened my mouth.

“Don’t even fuckin’ try it. We’ve all seen through the act, asshole.”

I closed my mouth and slumped a little in my seat. She passed the joint back to me and I took another hit. The oven dinged, indicating it was preheated. Debbie got up, put the pan in, and set the timer.

“So, tell me. What the fuck are you going to do when you move to LA and Justin’s still depressed? Because work on Liberty Avenue as long as I have, and you see your fair share of people trying to outrun their goddamn demons. You know what? You can never run fast enough.”

It reminded me of what Tori had said. “Wherever you go, there you are.” I didn’t respond to Debbie.

“I know Ted’s been advising you - he must be as your accountant. He hasn’t said anything to you about not trying to run away from your problems?”

I shook my head no.

“Brian, honey, you’ve got to know. It’s not that fuckin’ easy to just cure depression. If all it took was moving, the doctors would tell you that.”

“I’m not forcing him into anything. He wants to go. He thinks there are more opportunities in LA for him. Why would he choose go if he didn’t think it would help?”

“Because that kid would do anything for you.”

“No. No, he wouldn’t. You’re confusing him with Michael.”

She laughed bitterly, “Yeah I guess I am. Sunshine’s always been his own boy - man - hasn’t he? I guess he wouldn’t have kept your fuckin’ attention the way he did if he wasn’t.”

“He kept my attention, that’s for damn sure. Just about wore me out.”

“No kidding? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The two of you are well-matched.”

I glared at her.

“Enough with the fuckin’ attitude. You’re picking up your entire life and moving thousands of miles away. You care about him. Dare I say you’re in a goddamn relationship.”

“Yeah, well you’re wrong about one thing.”

“Oh yeah, enlighten me.”

“You said it’s hard watching someone that I...care about...suffer.”

“Well I believe I said ‘love’ but go on...how was I wrong?”

“This isn’t about me watching him suffer. He doesn’t have to feel any goddamn way for me. He doesn’t owe me anything.”

Debbie took another hit and exhaled slowly. “Except his life.”

“I have never…”

“No, no you haven’t. Doesn’t change the fact that you saved his life.”

“Even if I...did. He gets to live his life exactly as he chooses. He doesn’t owe me happiness. He doesn’t owe anyone happiness.”

“No he doesn’t. You’ve always been able to let people choose their own paths, even if it’s not what you would choose. Even if it comes at a cost to you.”

“This isn’t about a cost to me. I don’t get what is so hard for you, for everyone, to understand. It’s not about me. It’s not about anyone else. All I’m doing is giving him an option. An option. I am not forcing this on him. I’m not asking him to feel any differently than he does. He doesn’t have to do anything. He doesn’t have to be anything.”

“He has a lot of options here. The therapy, the medication…”

“Yeah a lot of good that’s doing him.”

“I thought…”

“Yeah well, he’s giving an Oscar-worthy performance of someone doing all the right things.”

“Oscar-worthy, eh? Good thing you’ll be in Hollywood.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe he needs to be someplace without an audience.”

“What you call a fuckin’ audience, others might call family, friends, support. You don’t know a goddamn soul out there.”

I shrugged. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

She raised her eyebrows at me.

“Maybe the problem isn’t that Sunshine isn’t so Sunshine-y. Maybe the problem is that everyone expects him to be so Sunshine-y.”

She sat back quietly for a moment. The longest moment of silence I’ve ever witnessed from Debbie Novotny. “Maybe...and you feel so sure, he feels so sure, this move is going to help?”

“Nothing’s definite. We’re still just researching the options.” I shrugged.

“Brian Kinney, you did not talk with Michael and Lindsay about something that was still undecided. Remember how long I’ve known you.”

“Nothing’s decided until we’re unpacking boxes in LA. It’s up to him, he can change his mind.” And I meant it. It would have been a hassle, sure. But despite what you may have heard, I do let the boy make his own decisions. I don’t actually have powers of mind control, I’m just drawn that way.

“And this amazing business opportunity to open an LA branch?” She cocked her head at me.

“You all saw through that, you don’t think he did? I’ve got profits from Kinnetik burning a hole in my pocket. Ted said ‘buy something.’ A condo in West Hollywood is something. It’s an option. And if we fly out there for the week and Justin decides he doesn’t want to move? I’ll buy something else. Maybe Babylon.” Given all the money I had spent in cover charges and on drinks over the years, I probably had spent what a down payment would have cost.

She laughed, “Jesus, Mary. and Joseph. I hope for both your sakes you wind up buying a West Hollywood condo and not Babylon. That would be a fuckin’ disaster.”

I raised an eyebrow at her.

“What? You’ve never heard the expression ‘don’t shit where you eat?’ I don’t think being owner of a nightclub is nearly as much fun as being the king of a nightclub.” She may have had a point.

The oven timer went off and Debbie heaved herself up.

“Hey hey...we’re not at the diner. Sit your ass down, ma.” I got up and pulled the tray out and served us. Debbie pulled her gum out of her mouth and stuck on the edge of the plate. At least Mikey comes by his horrendous table manners honestly.

We sat next to each other and began to eat. Debbie reached over and messed up my hair. “I’m so proud of you I could shit, kid.”

“Yeah?” I rolled my lips in.

“Yeah.”

Justin came home a little after Deb left. We sat around debating whether or not we should stay up all night, while he ate directly out of the casserole pan. We had a 5 AM flight so chances were we weren’t getting much more than a couple of hours of sleep anyway. However, we were flying in so goddamn early so that I could go to my meeting right after showering and changing at the hotel. I could sleep on the plane and god knows I’ve done many a meeting feeling slightly less than fresh as a daisy. Having fun and staying up all night won in the end. We danced at Babylon until late and had Emmett drive us home while Drew followed in his SUV. We fucked in the shower and again on the couch where we passed out for about 15 minutes before the alarm went off. I had sobered up enough to get us downstairs to meet the car and then through check in and security while Justin giggled and kind of flopped around, still drunk. He’s very careful to never mix his Ativan with alcohol but I swear his Lexapro has lowered his tolerance. He passed out on my shoulder, drooling, while economy was still boarding, and, shortly after take off, I also fell asleep.

After my meeting I headed to pick Justin up from the coffee shop where he had met up with his former co-worker from Rage, the one who had initially suggested the Cal Arts animation program. Quinn had graduated from the program a few years before and Justin was hoping to get some insider info about what it would be like to be a student there. I strolled into Cafe Intelligentsia and immediately saw Justin. He’s not hard to spot what with that blonde halo...wolf in sheep’s clothing, friends. It sounds like the stupidest most fantasy fairy tale shit, but it’s like he just knows when I enter a room or even when I’m looking at him. He turned around and when he spotted me at the entrance… Justin can be one of the most pretentious twats alive when it comes to film, music, art, of course, and coffee, I mean just look at where I had to meet him that day. I blame the fiddler, I certainly didn’t raise him like this. If I had, he would have much better taste in clothes, but that’s my cross to bear. But that fucking sunshine grin, the way he lights up when he sees me - and I’m not being grandiose here, that’s just a fact - that is totally without pretense. I raised my hand in a small wave to Quinn, while Justin collected his things. We had houses and apartments to tour.

Justin looked through the listings the realtor brought while I dutifully listened to her describe the house we were standing in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Justin start to fidget, rolling the listings into a tube and shifting around on his feet. The realtor gave us some time to look around while she stepped outside to check her messages.

“What’s up, Sunshine.” I had no idea what was making him anxious and panicky. Right after the bashing, I learned pretty quickly what triggered him and most of the time I had a pretty good handle on that stuff. Most of the time.

Justin looked up at me and said a little breathlessly, “Brian, these are all...very expensive.”

“LA prices. You know what they say, location, location, location.” We had chosen to look in West Hollywood where prices were more expensive than the east side where I would have been closer to a downtown office but Justin would have been further from Cal Arts or the valley where we would have had to live in the valley.

“Brian…” he said with a warning tone.

I sighed, “Are we really going to have this conversation?”

“Yeah, we are. We should have had it before we left. Do you have any idea what the mortgage on a place like this would be?”

I rolled my eyes and did not dignify that with a response.

“Brian…”

“Justin…”

“I can’t afford half of a mortgage on a million dollar home,” he said, like he was under the impression that I didn’t know his finances as well as he did.

“I’m well aware.” I tried to keep my voice patient.

“As it is, I’ll be taking out loans for Cal Arts, if I go there.”

“What are you talking about - loans? We have a deal.” We had never discussed student loans beyond when he learned Craig wasn’t going to pay for PIFA and he wasn’t eligible for financial aid.

“We had a deal when I was still technically dependent on my father and couldn’t qualify for financial aid or student loans.” He tensed his jaw and got a determined look in his eyes that I knew well. It was the same look he had before he started dancing on bars in his tighty whities and before he started playing with guns with the Pink Posse. His patented Justin Taylor “I’m an adult and I can take care of myself” look.

“No, we had a deal so you wouldn’t graduate school with tons of debt. And a deal, is a deal. If I recall, we ‘shook’ on it.” I could not believe here we were arguing about his tuition...yet again.

“Is that what you’re calling it these days?”

I shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t expect you to pay the mortgage. I don’t expect you to pay tuition. And I certainly don’t expect you to take out a goddamn loan.”

“Brian, you can’t just support me.”

“Can’t I?” I wasn’t trying to be difficult, I was really confused by this since I had the money and he did not.

“No you can’t...you’re picking up your entire life, leaving the only city you’ve ever lived in...and for what? For me?” He was pacing now.

“Is that such a bad reason?”

“Yes.”

“For fuck’s sake, Justin. Would you learn to value yourself just a bit?” Here we were three years later having this same discussion. Except things were different now. We were different. We had figured some shit out between us. We were in a better place. We were a we.

“This has nothing to do with not valuing myself!”

“Oh no? Then tell me why the fuck you’re not a good enough reason to do something?” I was getting pissed because at that point in our journey through depression and anxiety and PTSD I would have really paid...done...anything if it meant that he didn’t have to feel this way. And I know I said and I was going to say a lot more that he didn’t owe me feeling better. And he didn’t. But if someone told me there was any way to take this away from him, I would have done it in a fucking heartbeat and now this kid was standing there telling me he wouldn’t let me? And why? Because he’s not important enough? Important enough to me? Bullshit. Acting like he doesn’t know what he does to me. And sure I get that maybe there’s some hypocrisy because I’m not exactly signing up to let him help me when shit gets tough, but I’ve never pretended I’m a consistent fucker. And that’s not how this thing we have works.

“Do something? Adopting a cat is doing something! Going on vacation is doing something! This is…”

“What? What is it?”

“It’s fucking changing your entire goddamn life around!”

“Oh yeah, I seem to recall two, three years ago a certain little boy begging me to change my life around to prove how much I...to give a goddamn sign of something! What’s changed?” Sure Justin of three years ago wouldn’t accept tuition money but tell that kid I was willing to change my life for him? That kid would have been over the fucking moon.

“I’ve changed! I don’t need that kind of thing anymore.”

“Oh no?” I supposed I was expected to forget the whole interlude with the fiddler and everything that led up to that.

“No! And even if I did, the gesture, the willingness to think of something like this. That’s enough! We don’t actually have to go through with this.”

I narrowed my eyes into a squint. “Oh we don’t?”

“No, Brian, I appreciate the gesture, I really do. But please let’s not do this.” He was beginning to sound desperate and that...I don’t know that flipped a switch in me.

“You appreciate the gesture?” What the fuck was this shit? My voice got low and calm, which I know freaks him out and, look, I shouldn’t do it but I don’t do it on purpose either. “You don’t want to move with me? Tell me what changed.”

“I want to be with you, Brian, this is not about that. I don’t want you to move because of me...take on a ridiculous mortgage, pay for a school I might never finish, if my track record is anything to go by.”

“What if I want to?” Because ultimately that’s what it came down to, isn’t it? I wanted to do this for him. I get that I’m a selfish bastard and I’m certainly told I am often enough. But this kid got me to want things that I was never supposed to want.

“Why? Why do you want to?” Was he seriously asking me this? Wasn’t it clear? And then I thought back to other times when I thought I had been perfectly clear and he hadn’t understood me.

“Why? We’ve been over this. Besides it being a good business opportunity, there’s a great animation program here for you and...and I don’t think it’s a terrible thing to get away from Pittsburgh. I can afford this.” Because...the words went unspoken. I had changed over the last few years but I’m only human here, despite the rumors to the contrary.

“So don’t worry my pretty little head about it?”

“Nothing little about it. But yeah...”

“Fuck Brian.”

“Maybe later, Sunshine.”

“What if...what if this doesn’t fix me?” He had gone from a raised voice moments before to a whisper.

“I don’t think you’re broken.” I never had.

“Fuck off, we both know I am.”

“You’re not broken; you’re the strongest fucker I know.” If I had a fraction of his strength, I would be the kind of person Justin actually deserved.

“What if this doesn’t help my depression? What if we leave everyone we know, what if you buy an expensive house, what if you pay for my tuition and what if I never get better?”

I shrugged again. “What if? You don’t owe me a thing.”

“If I make you sacrifice everything and it wasn’t worth it?”

“You making me do anything I don’t want to is a goddamn laugh riot. Who decides what’s worth it? What if we move here and Kinnetik becomes the biggest fucking success? What if you get a job in animation? What if we’re just out of Shittsburgh and living in the land of eternal goddamn sunshine, huh?” Let’s not pretend I haven’t been looking for a way out of Pittsburgh since before Justin was in high school.

“What if I don’t get better?”

“Do you want to stay in Pittsburgh? Do you think that being there will be better for you? Because I’m not twisting your arm here. We’ve talked this thing to death. If you don’t want to move, we don’t move. I thought you wanted to give LA a shot.” I honestly was beginning to think he had changed his mind about what would be best for him and if that was the case, don’t wrap it up in concerns about money, just tell me and the whole deal is off the table. And give me a break because yes I was telling myself that’s all he would have to do like I have some long history of listening to anyone else when I have an idea of what might be best for someone.

“I do but…”

I waited. “But…?”

“I guess I didn’t think...it didn’t seem real until we’re standing in a goddamn million dollar house in West Hollywood and I’m realizing how much this whole thing is going to cost. Cost you. Because I can’t contribute shit.”

“I haven’t asked you to. I don’t understand what the problem is.”

“Brian, like hell you would be someone’s kept boy.”

“That’s not how I think of you!” I thought of our friends - Lindsay and Melanie, Michael and Ben, and even, god help me, Ted and Blake. None of them made exactly equal salaries. What’s the difference between a kept boy and a...boyfriend or whatever we were?

“I didn’t say that’s how you think of me! But what the fuck do you think everyone else thinks?”

“Why do you care what everyone else thinks?”

“Because I can’t be someone who takes and takes! I can’t hurt you like that!” He looked at me with those eyes of his so vulnerable that you can’t help but feel something when he looks like that. 

Okay. It was suddenly clear as day what was going on. I sighed and ran my hand over my mouth. Oh Justin. I pulled him into my chest and put my nose in his hair and inhaled deeply. His hair always smells like baby shampoo. I just held him for a moment. “Sunshine, you are not hurting me. I suggested we do this because I want to. I want to do this for you and for me. And, christ are you going to make me say it? For us. If you disagree, we won’t move, okay? But if you want to do this? Then please let going of the money thing. This is not quid pro quo, I’m not doing this in exchange for you getting better, got that? I am paying for the mortgage because I refuse to live in a shithole in the valley. I’m paying for your tuition because I don’t want Sallie Mae owning your ass for the rest of your life. You don’t owe me anything. Just...just let me do this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Sunshine, I’m sure.” I’m not good at...whatever it is that we have between us. I think that much is clear. But I am excellent at spending money and if a situation can be improved by spending money? I’m your guy. That? That I can do.

He nodded against my chest and reached up and kissed me. We finished that first day in a bar not far from the house.

I walked over to the table where Justin had grabbed us seats, drinks in hand. He turned around when I walked up, like he had in the cafe but instead of a big grin, he looked at me with those blue eyes wide and his face pale.

“I can’t breathe,” he gasped. I set the drinks down and sat next to him, putting my hand on his back, he twisted and batted it away.

“Hey, it’s okay. What happened?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Do you think you’re having a panic attack?”

“I- Brian, I don’t know.”

Justin had asthma as a kid but since he is diligent about taking his allergy medication every spring, he hasn’t had an asthma attack since I’ve known him. He uses an inhaler during the worst of allergy season to prevent an asthma attack and that’s pretty effective.

Justin also gets panic attacks. When he was first experiencing them, right after the bashing, it was always obvious that what he was experiencing was a panic attack. There was always a clear trigger - having a nightmare, walking down the street, seeing Gus wave around a baseball bat. His panic attacks had come back in full force when he returned from LA and everything with his depression started. This time around, just to add some color to the shit that gets thrown Justin’s way, there wasn’t always a clear trigger. We would later learn how to better detect triggers but often it’s a matter of hindsight rather than predicting what would trigger panic. It was always an interesting intellectual exercise after the fact but didn’t ever do us much good in the moment.

Justin, having some terrible memories of asthma attacks, had asked his doctor how to tell the difference between a panic attack and an asthma attack. Turns out there’s no fast and easy way to tell the difference. Of course not, why would Justin get a single fucking break?

Panic attacks are not dangerous. Justin has explained to me that when he’s having one, he feels like he’s dying. So yeah, not fucking pleasant but not dangerous.

Asthma attacks can be dangerous so Justin’s anxiety to be able to easily tell the difference was pretty understandable.

The best way is statistics. Justin hadn’t had an asthma attack in years and he was getting panic attacks pretty frequently. Odds are heavily in favor of a panic attack when he starts to have difficulty breathing. Especially because his asthma is well-controlled by taking his allergy medication and inhaler during allergy season. Allergy season which is spring. So when we traveled to LA in February 2006 we didn’t fucking think to pack it. Guess what is going on in LA in February? Pittsburgh spring. His eyes had been red and watery since we got off the plane.

“Bri - Brian? I can’t feel my...my hands are going numb.”

Well fuck. “It’s going to be okay, Sunshine, we got this.”

Odd were it was a panic attack. But do you want to talk odds to the kid who took a bat to his brain? Because what are the fucking odds of that?

“Did anything happen while I was at the bar? Anything that could have triggered a panic attack?”

He looked at me wild-eyed and shook his head, “No, no, nothing. I really feel like, like there’s something wrong.”

Do you know what’s a symptom of a panic attack? A sense of dread and that something’s wrong. But that’s also how it feels when, you know, something is wrong.

“Can you take an Ativan?”

“Brian! I don’t have any with me...” He sounded desperate and so fucking scared.

I checked my watch, it was still early - 5:30 PM. “Here’s what we’re going to do, Sunshine. We passed an urgent care down the block. We’re going to head over there and turn this over to the fucking professionals.”

“Okay, okay.”

We abandoned our drinks and the open tab, and I got Justin across the street as fast as I could move his struggling-to-breath derriere. The reception area was empty of other patients when we walked in. I announced to the nurse behind the desk, “He’s either having a panic attack or an asthma attack. Figure it out.” Justin turned and stared at me and I sighed, “...please.”

We were obviously the most excitement that they had had all day and they ushered us back pretty quickly. Taking in all the advertisements for Botox - this was an urgent care mind you - I wondered what types of urgent medical situations the people of LA had that required Botox and how could I set myself up for whatever that was. I was clearly amongst my people.

They poked and prodded Justin and asked him all the relevant questions and determined he was indeed having a panic attack. He admitted that when he said he didn’t have his Ativan with him, he meant he had left the bottle in Pittsburgh, not that it was back at the hotel, twat. So they gave us an emergency prescription for Ativan and gave him a shot for some goddamn relief in the moment.

The NP told us, “Medication can help in the moment when you’re having a panic attack, but doesn’t do much good long-term. Therapy is really what works long-term.”

“I have a therapist,” Justin responded.

“Yeah and we’re moving so you’re going to have to find a new one, Sunshine.”

He groaned and I got it. It’s hard enough to open up to someone like that once, let alone again and again.

“We can provide a list of local referrals. Will you be paying privately or using your insurance?”

“Whoever’s the best for panic and depression - cost doesn’t matter,” I said as Justin simultaneously said, “Using my insurance.”

I spoke to him quietly, “Might as well see the best and actually get better.”

He shrugged, “It’s your money.”

The nurse spoke up, “You have a PPO. The therapists we recommend often don’t take insurance but they will provide a superbill for partial reimbursement. Here’s the list. I would start at the practices that have CBT in their name.”

Justin appeared to brighten at that and said to me, “That’s what Daphne recommended.” He took the list.

I walked back over to the bar to close out our tab, while they monitored his reaction to the shot. As I was waiting for the bartender, I noticed that all the televisions in the bar were playing some b-movie horror film complete with blood and gore. Like I said, triggers are sometimes easily identified in retrospect.

Benzos knock a person out so we spent the evening in the hotel room, ordering room service, and fucking around, both literally and figuratively. Justin was pushing me to go out...like he felt that the stuff of the day - looking at houses together, going to urgent care - had reached some sort of quota for me that needed to be balanced out. But I was actually perfectly content to have an excuse to stay in, rather than admit that maybe partying all night and sleeping on the plane is not as easily managed as it used to be.

I toured potential office spaces the next day without Justin since he still felt lethargic from the medications the day before. Most of what the realtor showed me was boring boring boring as though there was somehow an inverse correlation between success and the aesthetics of an office space. I was finally losing my patience, “Is there anything that looks less...office like?”

“Uh.”

I rolled my eyes. I had already emailed this guy photos of Kinnetik so he could have a sense of what type of space I was looking for. I really needed Justin, he’s great at translating design into regular English and just generally speaking to other humans. “What would you show an artist looking for studio space?”

The realtor relaxed and brightened. “Oh well there’s an old brewery that’s been converted into studio space. The square footage is bigger than you’re looking for and there’s an application process. The goal is to reserve these spaces for artists.”

Hmmm. “My partner is an artist. If he’s using part of the space as his studio, would that count?”

“Yes they’re designed to be live-work spaces so there’s ample space for more than one use. He would have to apply though.”

“What’s the application process like? How does one prove one’s an artist?”

“It’s not terribly hard. Is any of his income from his artwork? That’s really all that’s needed as well as writing something about how he would use the space.”

“He publishes a comic book, he’s the illustrator. Does that count?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Alright, then, let’s go look at the space.”

This gave me a perfect excuse to have to show Justin the space before committing to it. Something I realized was I was feeling antsy making this choice without his input. I don’t know when this happened - not making major decisions without consulting him. I picked out the bath house without any input from him. Although, I did have Jennifer there. Maybe I’m not codependent. Maybe I’m just reliant on the guidance of a Taylor when choosing office space. Lord help us if we expand to another city and I have to consult Craig. Maybe we can postpone expanding until Molly’s older.

The space was ideal. The size we needed if we were now including a studio space. It was completely open and had high enough ceilings that we could put in a loft area to maximize the space. The lighting was great - I knew Justin would blow a load when he saw it. I also kind of hoped that with me needing his help in qualifying for a lease on the space, he would feel less like whatever it is feels, I believe the term was “kept boy,” and more like he’s contributing to this thing between us. I glanced through the application and, if Justin was willing to apply, they would be stupid not to accept him. Not to say there’s any shortage of stupid people out there but you know, I was surprisingly optimistic about our chances. The LA sun was starting to affect me, obviously.

We spent Saturday at the MoCA and Broad and Sunday we toured open houses. We found a three bed, two and a half bath designed in the style of Marcel Breuer and, per Justin’s request, had the bedrooms on the second floor, and put in an offer. Our realtor said she would be in touch as soon as she heard back from the sellers.

Monday we drove the rental car up to Cal Arts so Justin could tour the campus, meet with the head of the animation department, and maybe sit in on a class.  We also wanted to check out what his commute would be like. We were shuttling down the 405 and Justin kept switching the radio station.

“Hey, quit it,” I said after he had changed the station for the millionth time. I batted his hands away from knobs.

“I don’t like that song,” he pouted.

“Do you hate it?”

“No…”

“Then just let it play, okay?”

“But what if there’s a better song playing on another station?”

“What if there’s a...what? No, this is how radio works, you like some of the songs, you don’t know some of the songs, and you don’t like some of the songs. You want total control over the songs played? Get a CD.”

“So I have to just pick a station and stick to it?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Unless you truly hate the song.”

“Unless I truly hate it?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why can’t I change the station if I just feel so-so about a song?”

“Because I truly hate going through a million stations only to catch half of a song that you like. So that’s how this is going to work. I have to hear something I truly hate only if you hear something you truly hate.”

“Brian Kinney compromising, who would have thought?”

I rolled my eyes and kept driving.

“Brian…?”

“Yes, dear?”

“What if it’s a song you truly hate?”

I smacked him lightly on the back of the head and muttered, “Twat.”

The drive wasn’t terrible. It was a reverse commute so the traffic was less hellish than we had experienced at other times in LA. Justin also wouldn’t be in class 5 days a week. Still, it was a lot of five lane freeway for someone used to taking the bus or being chauffeured by yours truly.

“Sunshine?” I said over the dulcet tones of Black Eyed Peas “My Humps,” which I, in fact, truly hate.

“Mmhmm?”

“You’re going to need a car.”

He sighed, “Yeah I know.”

I was surprised to get such a quick agreement from him and without any fight so I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to spoil this beautiful and rare moment.

“I think between what I have left from Rage, the movie, and my tips from the diner, I could probably buy something.”

Oh hell no. “Justin, what you can afford is something that will be held together with shoe string and chewing gum.”

“Yeah but I don’t mind. It’s not like you have to drive it or even be seen riding in it.”

“No I’m not because you’re not getting some jalopy and breaking down on the 405 in the middle of nowheresville and calling me to come rescue you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, I would call AAA, not you. No one is asking you to rescue anyone.”

Well. “It’s still not safe. You’re going to buy some dilapidated beater that was manufactured before they had seatbelts, let alone airbags. LA drivers are crazy. All we need is for you to get flattened like a pancake.”

“So I shouldn’t take out student loans but a car loan is okay?” I waited a moment and it dawned on him. “Oh no! No way, Brian! You are not buying me a fucking car!”

“Relax. It’s not like I’m getting you a Benz or something.”

“You’re not because you’re not getting me anything. Remember how much shit we gave Michael when Dr. Dave bought him a car?”

I remembered. And I remembered three days of sitting, waiting, not knowing if he would live or die, and not knowing if he lived who he would be, if he would still be him. And I remembered sitting in the loft as he detailed the bloody images he had of killing himself and not knowing, yet again, if he would make it through the night. And each time, I felt like I should have known, I should have done something to prevent it. If I hadn’t been selfish, maybe his brain wouldn’t be permanently injured. If I had been more vigilant, maybe I would have noticed the signs of depression before he was suicidal. This kid, he’s it for me. I don’t get another chance at this, I know that. And the gods, the universe, fate, or whatever keeps trying to rip him from me. As if what I want can’t actually be mine. Bats to the brain, depression, it was all too little, too late, but driving a car that would disintegrate on impact? That I could control. Spending money to fix things, like I said, this I can do. “Justin, I’m not buying you a fucking gold Miata with vanity plates. We would have made fun of that car even if Mikey had bought it by saving up his pennies in his piggy bank.  No one’s talking about that. Just...something made in this century at least? I can’t… I can’t have you driving 60 miles round trip in whatever it is that you could afford.”

“The majority of car accidents happen less than a mile from home.” That’s my boy.

I groaned in frustration. “All the more reason...Justin if something happens to you - if you’re injured or, god forbid, killed - and being in a newer, safer car could have… what am I supposed to do?” It was probably unfair of me to guilt him like that, but I wasn’t above fighting dirty at this point. And, hell, it worked. I saw his face soften.

“Something like the Jeep?”

“With a hard top, yes, something like the Jeep.” I would have preferred a small tank but I was willing to meet him in the middle. And people say I’m unreasonable.

Justin shrugged and softly said, “Okay.”

“Thank you, Sunshine,” I responded, which earned me one of those eponymous smiles.

Justin’s meeting at Cal Arts went well. Most of his credits from PIFA would transfer, putting him about three quarters of a year ahead and permitting him to apply as a transfer student. Over the next few days, we spent the days working - me reviewing storyboards and chewing out the art department remotely and Justin working on his Cal Arts application and his application for the brewery space - and our nights out at different restaurants, bars, and clubs in the neighborhood.

As we sat on the red eye flight back to Pittsburgh, Justin leaned over me to look at the lights of the city as we flew overhead. “Jesus, you know you could just ask me to change seats.”

“The fasten seatbelt sign is still on. Plus, I like this better,” he smirked as he wiggled around on my lap.

“Hey, don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Have I ever?”

“There was that time in 2002…”

Justin gawked at me. “When I had food poisoning?”

“You asked, I answered. It was a very painful experience.”

“Painful...for you?”

“Sure was. You ran to vomit part way through a blowjob. It was a scarring experience and could have seriously damaged my self-esteem.”

“Oh yeah, like you couldn’t stand to have your incredible ego deflate just a little bit. I was the one who lost like ten pounds by puking my fucking guts out!”

“Right...your ass shrunk, speaking of deflating. I told you it was painful for me. Writing checks your ass can’t cash,” I huffed.

He rolled his eyes. “The city is really beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked with the type of non-sequitur that makes me keep him around.

“Yeah, yeah it is.”

“I think...I think this could be good. It could be good for us.” Something like that would have sent me jumping out of the plane without a parachute a few years ago. Not because I didn’t want to be a part of this, but because I did, and that terrified the fuck out of me. When we were moving to LA, I was still terrified half the time but I had had enough experiences to know that terrified and with Justin is a helluva lot better than safe and without Justin. So I kept my seatbelt securely fastened and I pulled him into me and whispered into his hair, “Yeah it could be.”