Lisbon, Portugal - July 26th, 2015

Justin lets his hips thrust upwards as his trick sinks down on his cock.

“Good. Very good,” the trick sighs as let himself grind at the hilt.

That’s more or less all the man has said since Justin brought him back to his hotel room. The guy introduced himself as Estevo but Justin’s too drunk to remember for sure. He had asked around and found a gay club near his hotel. When he walked in, he had been set on getting laid. It’s been three months. Three fucking months. That’s the longest Justin has been without sex since he was seventeen years old. He had come close in the last month or so. He almost let an art curator blow him two weeks ago but felt too much guilt over it and pushed him way . His breakup with Nathan felt too fresh and still does half the time. Maybe it had been the distance or the fact that he hadn’t seen or spoken to his ex in a few weeks but, whenever he hadn’t been working, he’d gone out to dance with men. Estevo had been the first man he brought back to fuck. Their conversation was limited. Estevo only knows a few words in English but, when they had tried to converse, Estevo did manage to confirm that he wasn’t a prostitute and was looking for a good time.

Justin opens his eyes to remind himself what the man looks like. Estevo is maybe a year or two younger than him with light grey eyes, chestnut colored hair, pouty lips, lean but muscular. If Justin was embracing his single life, he would have drooled over him and fucked him all over the hotel room, language barrier be damned.

But that wasn’t the case. He just needed a release.

When Justin is getting close, he takes Estevo’s cock in his hand, jerks it a few times, before letting go to grab both of his hips to pull him down on his cock, hard and fast.

“Porra!” Estevo cries out as Justin pounds into his prostate.

“Want it harder?” Justin grunts out.

Estevo says nothing. Maybe he’s lost in his pleasure. Maybe he doesn’t even understand what Justin said.

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. Soon Estevo is coming on Justin’s stomach, shouting out his release. Justin gives in soon after. There’s no need to draw this out.

“Magnífico,” Estevo sighs as he lays next to Justin’s form.

“...Yeah. Of course,” Justin sighs as he stares at the ceiling. He could really do with a fucking cigarette right now. It’s times like these he wishes that he still smoked. He had only smoked from time to time but it was enough that he realized he needed to stop for his own health. New York City selling them at 11 dollars a pack had helped him stick with his decision.

“You...food?” Estevo asks and Justin can’t be completely sure where he’s getting at.

“No, Estevo. I don’t want food,” Justin answers.

“No, no. Out,” Estevo starts gesturing, “Outside.”

“I’m good. You can go whenever you need to though.”

Estevo pouted before kissing Justin on the cheek.

“Great time.”

“Yeah.”

“Number?”

“No. Sorry. Long Distance, you know?”

Estevo starts muttering in Portuguese as he collects his clothes and throws them back on. Justin closes his eyes and lets out a breath.

“Have a good life, Estevo,” Justin mumbles right before he hears the door slam.

Justin sits back up and turns on the television. He finds one station that’s English with Portuguese subtitles playing Buffy the Vampire Slayer so he watches that for a while. It’s one the cheesier episodes but it gets him feeling bummed anyway because it reminds him of when he had been with Nathan for about six months and only found out then that his boyfriend never heard of the show. They marathoned it. It took forever for Nathan to even get into it but eventually he got on board.

He doesn’t feel like watching Buffy anymore.

He gets his clothes back on, deciding to walk around Lisbon. He only has two days left before he flies straight to Toronto to visit for Mel’s birthday and he feels like he’s barely seen the city at all. He did take Eric’s advice and go visit the library he talked about. The man was right. It had been fucking beautiful and Justin spent all morning in there just looking around. That had been the highlight of his trip, outside of business.

So, on his own, he just looks around sees the sights, walks the bridge to the view the whole city.

It’s beautiful. He wishes he could appreciate it more. It would be great to feel like he did when he was 22, in a whole new city that was ready to be conquered, no matter how hard it would be. But he doesn’t really need to accomplish Lisbon. He came here successful, just like he has with his other exhibitions in the past 4 years. While he is grateful for that blossoming streak of independence he formed as a New Yorker out on his own because it’s the main thing that has been keeping him afloat these past few months, he wishes that he didn’t need it. He wishes that he could come to this beautiful city with someone he truly cared about, walk the streets in the middle of the night with them, and become even closer with them as the time passed. Maybe they’d talk about having a family together and it would be one of the best conversations of Justin’s life because it would lead to something fantastic.

God, he sounds like such a lesbian. It has to be the fucking alcohol.

Even though he should probably head back to the hotel, he ends up going back to the club. There’s a back room at this one, something that’s hard to find in the mainstream clubs of New York. So, for the sake of old times, he finds a cute guy, doesn’t get his name, and gets his dick sucked. He comes and it feels great for approximately six seconds before he feels nothing again.

No. Not nothing. He feels like Brian Kinney.

That’s what Brian used to do, didn’t he? Suck and fuck until the pain went away? Kept his loved ones mostly at an arm’s length? Jesus, he was so fucked up back then.

But now he’s a family man and Justin’s the fucked up one.

Justin quickly zips up his pants, walks away from the trick without even a goodbye, and heads back to his hotel. Because, despite the hero worshiping he may have done back when he was 17, he does not want to become a young Brian Kinney. Maybe an old Brian Kinney, but not a young one.

Going without sex though? He doesn’t think he can do that for months at a time again.

As Justin drifts off, he has drunken thoughts weighing if he should find a new fuck buddy who he’s on good terms with or if he should just call one of his old ones like Milo or Tom. Maybe repeated encounters with a friend would be more fulfilling than anonymous ones.

Before Justin can think too hard on it, he falls asleep. Probably for the best. He has the feeling that the answer for getting over whatever this is isn’t there anyway.

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The next night is the next to his last night in Lisbon and his last night of his exhibition. He plays nice and schmoozes critics, enthusiasts, curators, and collectors. This is his least favorite part of the job but it is what gets him paid, and well at that. When he was younger, it was a lot harder for him to part with his work. For the pieces he was especially proud of, he used to want to know it would be taken care of by someone who understood it if it didn’t go to a friend or family member. Now, it is easier for him. Creating a piece he wants to display for the public but not sell didn’t happen often anymore. This show was different.

“I absolutely love this piece,” Sophia Cordeiro, the wife of a prominent art collector, says to him as she looks up at his picture of Nathan in awe, “What’s it called?”

Justin stares up at it, “Light from the Ashes.”

“How much do you want for it?”

“It’s not for sale.”

“Twenty Thousand. That’s good in your money, yes?” she presses.

“Pretty good. But it’s not for sale,” Justin tells her softly.

“Why not?” Sophia huffs.

“It’s special to me. It’s just meant for display. Everything else is something you can purchase.”

Sophia looks slightly annoyed but sighs in acceptance.

“Very well. That man...in the picture. He’s special to you?”

He stares at Nathan’s retreating form and nods, “He is.”

“Is he your lover?”

Justin clears his throat, “He was. Not anymore.”

“What happened? Did he die?”

Pulling a face, Justin gives her a strange look, “No? Why would you ask that?”

“He’s walking towards the light and away from the shadows,” Sophia shrugs, “Moving on to a happier world.”

Justin bites his lip and blinks his eyes a few times, “That...That wasn’t his reason.”

“No, it wouldn’t be. You’re a good man. Successful. I’m sure he was happy with you. Death would not treat him any better.”

Justin stays silent and turns to stare at his painting some more.

“It’s what you hope for. For him,” Sophia finally says.

He turns around, “Hope for what?”

Sophia stares at the painting and makes no move to make eye contact with Justin himself, “You’re the one in the darkness. Unsure. Heartbroken. He’s the one who chose to walk away but it was for your benefit yet you feel abandoned. Alone. He left a scar on your heart, the type that is rare and few and far between. You worry about him. Love him. Even though you want him back, you forced yourself to set him free and you can only hope that he finds happiness and peace. Is that interpretation closer?”

“Yes,” Justin chokes out, emotional and tense.

Sophia smiles a little, “Usually I would use a good interpretation to get the painting I wanted out of someone.”

“It won’t work with this one.”

“I know. It’s hard to let things go when we are hurting so.”

Justin takes a hitching breath and lets out a quiet, humorless laugh, “I guess the scar’s still too fresh.”

Sophia walks closer to him, stares in his eyes and pats him on the chest, “It will always ache. But when you grow used to it, you will realize that each scar tells a story. Including that one. And it’ll tell a beautiful story at that. I bet the man in the picture has one to match.”

After Sophia walks away and she’s out of sight, Justin finally lets himself breathe again.

“Intense, isn’t she?” a man asks from a few feet away.

“Uh...yeah,” Justin answers, rubbing the back of his neck.

The man comes closer, “From what I gather, everyone thinks Raphael knows more about art than his wife. He’s the one known in the field. He may know facts and techniques and might be better at naming the artist just by looking at the piece but it’s Sophia who actually understands the emotion of the work that went into it. I find that much more valuable. Don’t you?”

Justin stares at the man before nodding. He assumes this is a man in the industry. Whether he’s a curator, collector, critic, affiliated with the gallery, or an artist himself, he doesn’t know. He’s English, on the tall side, probably in his mid to late 40s but looks good. He has kind, wise eyes and a pleasant smile. It’s not often Justin likes to mingle during his exhibitions. Don’t get him wrong, he does so anyway and sometimes he meets great people. But there’s a part of him that will always be how he felt when he was 22 and that part makes him assume that the majority of the people, the critics and the refined collectors, as cunts.

This guy seems different.

“It’s more valuable to me too,” Justin admits, “Sometimes it takes everything in my power to not throw a fit when someone who buys one of my paintings obviously...I don’t know…”

“Doesn’t get it?” the man guesses.

“Yeah. It can get annoying. Just because you know facts or know techniques that are used doesn’t mean you understand what went into that piece. What emotion it is supposed to bring. I suppose I should be grateful that they are paying for me.”

The man grins and leans in, “If we got into art just to make money, then we wouldn’t be making a cent. It’s the passion, the love, and the integrity that make a piece of art worth something.”

Justin smiles a little and holds out a hand, “I’m Justin.”

The man raises his eyebrows, “I’m aware. You’re name is on the pamphlet.”

But the man takes Justin’s hand and shakes it.

“I’m Ewan.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ewan. What brings you here?”

Ewan shrugs, “I heard you were good. Your name comes up a lot in certain circles but I never saw a piece of yours with my own two eyes. I’ve seen your paintings online but wanted to see them for myself. Besides, I know Francesca. I was here when she first opened the gallery. We’ve known each other for about ten years now. It’s always nice to see her and how far she’s come.”

“How did you meet her? Are you an artist or a collector?”

“A bit of both.”

“Would I know any of your work?”

“I might have done a few pieces you would recognize. I’ve run an agency for a while now but have started dabbling in painting again these last couple of years. I’m starting to find my passion for it again. It helps to see work that inspires me. Like yours, for instance.”

Justin smiles, “I’m glad to have inspired you.”

Ewan bites his lip, “Would you mind if I treated you for coffee and dessert then? There’s a place down the road we could go to once you are done entertaining the masses.”

Justin looks around, “I have an agent already, you know.”

“I’m not trying to steal you away from your fancy New York agent, Mr. Taylor. I’m simply asking as a courtesy to an artist I admire and have had the chance to meet.”

Justin looks around before making up his mind, “I think I may have a chance to sneak out within an hour or so. Mind waiting that long?”

Ewan shrugs, “I have no other plans for the night. Just come find me when you’re ready to head off.”

Justin watches Ewan head to the other side of the room to study another painting, “Her.” Lola had posed for that one. He hadn’t been surprised when Max hinted at keeping it around the gallery. Justin almost felt obligated since he had secretly painted it through what he perceived as Max’s eyes but his employee might stare at it all day if Justin just kept it around.

Soon enough, Justin finds himself engaging in small talk and answering questions and trying not to cringe at one or two interpretations as people come up to him, mostly with praise. By the time 10 o’clock comes around, he’s more than ready to find Ewan and head out the door.

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“So what desserts are good here?”

Ewan looks up from his menu and blushes slightly, “I’ve only been here twice and had their dessert once so I’m not quite sure.”

Justin laughs a little, “You talked about the place as if it were a regular spot for you.”

Ewan smirks, “Well, it’s open late and I knew that much. I didn’t want to be ushered out the door within minutes of our arrival if they were going to close up. This way there’s no rush unless we hit a bunch of awkward silences in our conversation.”

“Well, maybe we’ll have a few things in common and it will go smoothly.”

And they actually do end up having things in common. Ewan’s easy to talk to. Surprisingly easy, especially since Justin has been finding it difficult to talk to anyone.

“Your paintings...I noticed that, while they are fantastic, the more recent ones dated from the past three months or so are bleak and dark. Not a lot of color. I loved them but I was surprised. Part of what made your work appeal to me was that series you did almost two years ago, I think. There were bold colors and brush strokes, an imprint of the image almost but had the tiniest details. Your work varies greatly.”

Justin clears his throat, “My boyfriend and I had just gotten together when I was painting with that technique. It was about four months into the relationship and we were in our honeymoon phase, I guess. He revealed so much to me and started becoming a little more confident and happier. I think it rubbed off.”

“I had a partner in my late twenties who made me feel like I was on top of the world. Some of my best paintings were made then.”

“What happened there?”

Ewan shrugs, “We were together for about seven years but ended up wanting different things.”

“Is that when you stopped painting?”

“No, it was before. I was stressed and so was he and then I was depressed that he left but then after that I was busy yet having the greatest time of my life.”

Justin raises a brow, “You meet someone else?”

Ewan surprisingly grins, “Yes. My daughter.”

“...Are you bi and you just got with a woman or-?”

“No. I’m very much attracted to men. But that’s why Chad and I broke up. I started wanting a family and he didn’t. It became a decision that I couldn’t go his way on and he couldn’t give in to what I wanted. So, after three years of looking but not finding the right man, I figured the hell with it. Women become single mothers by choice so why couldn’t I become a single father? I had the finances so I did what I needed to do because I was in my 37 and not getting any younger. I had my daughter and adopted my son five years later. Alice is 10 and Archer is 6. Both of them have taken to art, especially Alice. They have helped me find my passion for my work more than any man or therapist could.”

“So you’re doing it alone?” Justin asks dubiously.

“I have friends and family who love my children and lend a helping hand. I have a nanny who is with them in London now. But yes, ultimately I am raising my children alone.”

Justin blinks, “Doesn’t it...I don’t know...doesn’t it make things harder? To work as much as you need to, to find a man that you want to be with?”

“I feel that I am setting a good example by going back to my passion and my roots: painting. While my children both need to come first, they are also old enough to entertain themselves from time to time while I’m up in our attic working. As for a man...it can be harder. I hook up with men when I have a night to myself or I'm away on business but I have to be pickier when it comes to a serious relationship. Some men might not see me as the most desirable. I’m not in my prime and I am raising my kids full time. But I don’t want to be in a relationship with a man who can’t accept and love my children. They come first for me and I’ll never regret that. And if it doesn’t happen...that’s alright. My kids make me happy and they make life more than worth it.”

Justin stays silent and plays with his food as Ewan sighs.

“I’m a chatterbox, aren’t I? You didn’t come to talk about my life or-”

“No, don’t apologize. You don’t know how much you have given me to think about,” Justin tells him sincerely.

Ewan looks a little surprised at that and Justin continues with a vague but telling statement.

“Your situation...It hits home when it comes to my relationship with the man in my painting.”

“Ah,” Ewan slowly nods, “Well, I’m glad to be of service to such a wonderful artist.”

The two of them finish their dessert, the conversation much lighter afterwards. It’s only when they are walking back towards the gallery that the the man turns to look at him.

“I suppose you’re going back to the U.S. in the next couple of days,” he asks Justin.

“Canada first to visit some close friends but I’ll be back in New York in a few days. I leave Portugal tomorrow.”

Ewan gives him a small smile, “Then I’m sure you would like to go back to your hotel to get some rest.”

Justin thinks on the silent question in Ewan’s words but ends up nodding, “I really should. My plane leaves pretty early in the morning.”

Ewan clears his throat before he pulls out a card, “Well, if you are ever in London or just want to email back and forth, feel free to get a hold of me. I enjoyed talking with you.”

Justin smiles as he takes his own card out, “Likewise.”

With a pat on the shoulder, he and Ewan part ways. It’s only after he realizes that he never got Ewan’s last name. And, when he turns the card over to see what it is, he realizes that Ewan is Ewan Clemens and a more successful artist than he let on.

“Shit,” Justin mutters. He could have fucked a modern artist he looked up to when he was studying up-and-comers at PIFA. And he missed out.

If he were younger, he might have beat himself up over it. Instead, he goes back to his hotel, requests the man on Facebook, then opens a new tab all together to look up surrogacy services in New York City and their policy on potential single fathers. Pretty much all of them seem accepting and encouraging. What starts out as a quick check ends up equaling out to almost two hours online looking up everything he can on the process and reading testimonials.

He’s not committing to anything yet. He tells himself that his research is solely out of curiosity. Just to see.

But it feels like a huge step anyway, and a possibly life changing one at that. It's the first time in a while that he has felt anything close to hopeful.