BRIAN’S POV

laughing like children
living like lovers
rolling like thunder under the covers

Sunday, 8:01 am

“Are you going somewhere?” Watching Justin slip his bare ass into those tight jeans is a very nice way to wake up. “Come here.”

“Someone’s knocking on the door, Brian.”

“It’s breakfast. Just shut the bedroom door. They’ll leave it out there, per my instructions.” I give him my best 'come back to bed look.' He zips his jeans and walks into the outer room anyway. I hear him opening the door, talking to the guy, tipping him, and shutting the door. He wheels it into the bedroom, right up next to the bed. Okay, so I ordered a lot.

I fiddle with his jeans as he uncovers everything, his eyes getting bigger and bigger. “Holy shit, Brian! Is there anything you didn’t order?”

“These jeans. Take them off.” He turns towards me a little, barely, thrusting his hips in my face, much more interested in the food. If I want them off, I guess I’m taking them off. “I’m gonna suck you while you eat that waffle.”

“Sounds good to me.” He dips his finger in the whip cream and puts it on my nose before he takes another bite.

“You’d better get that off of me, Justin.” I unzip his Levi’s and free his dick from its denim prison. He looks down at me with this coy smile as I wrap my mouth around it, my tongue swirling around the head. It disappears into my face.

“It’s… not… polite… to talk… with your mouth…… full of cock.” We’ve both got whip cream in our hair now, just, well, not the same kind of hair. It’s kind of like this very sugary tug-o-war, his fingers sticky and caught in my hair, my hands inside his jeans pulling him against the bed. I release him enough to let him move inside my mouth a little, which is a mistake. He yanks my hair even harder. “Oh my god, this is the best fucking waffle I have ever had.” I do make a killer waffle with my master card. He finishes it.

I deep throat him.

His right hand grabs the breakfast cart for support. Smooth move. It’s on wheels. I grab his ass tightly so he doesn’t fall. “Whoa. I didn’t even see that Brian.” His body starts to tighten all over. I pull him closer. He lets out a little screech as he pops the cork on the champagne.

He’s damn lucky I didn’t bite it off, not to mention the fact that he almost put my eye out. The champagne pours down his throat as he pours down mine.

“I’ve never had champagne for breakfast before.” He looks refreshed, kind of like an Irish Spring commercial.

“Apparently.” I take the bottle from him. Okay, so I lied to that Pendergrass prick. I can appreciate good champagne. I’m in advertising; I get paid to lie, and I’m really, really good at it. He leans down and kisses me. We trade off for a while, champagne, then kissing, kissing, then champagne. I run my cold hand between his legs, his movement still obstructed by his jeans. “I told you: 'No pants in my kindgom.'” He finishes the bottle, puts a strawberry in my mouth, and tries to push my chilly hand out of the way. I shake my head. “Is there a particular reason you’re not riding my cock right now?”

“Breakfast. Duh.” He’s standing up, eating scrambled eggs while I fondle him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy.

“If memory serves, we fuck first. Then we eat.” He just put a forkful of eggs in my mouth. I’ve never eaten eggs with my finger running up and down someone’s crack before. That was a first.

“That’s because there’s never any food in the loft, Brian.”

Good point.

“Now you know why. Get on me.”

“It’s gonna get cold.” I can’t deal with this much obstinance so early in the morning. I take his fork out of his hand and throw it on the plate, covering the food back up.

“We have a microwave. You’re going to work in the real world. You need to learn to follow orders. Come here now.”

“Uh.” He abandons the cart, climbing onto the bed. Mumbling some shit about, “You’re the one who ordered the food.” I slide my hand back between his legs as he dives across my lap. He’s looking for a condom. I force his jeans the rest of the way down. He kicks them off. He turns around in my arms a little, grinning at me, flashing the condom in my face, like he just found hidden treasure or something. I crack up and kiss him.

“You look like you just found the prize in the Cracker Jack box.”

“Like they would ever put condoms in Cracker Jacks, Brian. I wish. I’d have eaten a lot more boxes.”

“You and me both. All I ever got were those ugly rub-on tattoos.” He giggles in my lap. Champagne? He takes my hand off of his hip and pushes it back between his legs, running his hand down my chest, palming my cock. He’s an evil little flirt when he’s buzzing.

“Speaking of rubbing….”

“I thought you wanted to get this over with, so you could eat your breakfast?” He shakes his head at me.

“If I can’t have breakfast right this minute, then I’m damn well gonna have some foreplay.”

What the fuck was the blowjob?

“I don’t think so. You don’t need it.” He needs foreplay right now like I need a hole in the head.

“I want it.” He throws his arms around my neck, and we end up leaning against the wall, making out for several minutes, my tongue down his throat, hands between legs, gasping and grunting like two teenagers in a parked car in an abandoned cul-de-sac somewhere in the middle of the night.

“With all due respect, I think I know what you want and what you need, Sunshine.”

“Oh, if you knew what I really wanted, your mind would explode Brian Kinney.” He raises his eyebrows at me, straddling me now, pulling me down on the bed, a ridiculously happy smile on his face, way too happy for this early in the morning. I raise mine back. Eyebrow poker. Surely he’s not challenging me to this game. I’m not giving in until I can figure out if he’s bluffing or not. He’s enjoying himself way too much. He laughs at me and my pointless determination. I don’t think he cares if I know or not. “Your hands are warm.” I don’t know what the fuck that has to do with anything. I squeeze his thighs, where my hands are residing. “So why are we having champagne for breakfast anyway, Mr. Kinney?”

Fuck it, I give up. “Because we can.”

“That’s the Brian Kinney answer for everything.” Okay, we’re not having champagne for breakfast ever again.

“Speaking of breakfast, your breakfast is getting very, very cold, and I’m very, very hard.” He plucks the condom out of my hand and moves down my chest, his little pink tongue flicking at my nipples. I look down at him because I know he’s looking up at me. He bites me as soon as our eyes meet. I don’t know why I fall for that every time. He licks and bites and sucks them until I’m practically cussing at him and pushing him away, anywhere else, so he goes down to my belly button and starts fucking it with his tongue and it tickles. Then I'm cussing at him, “Damnit, Justin.”

Laughter. He’s so proud of himself. “Everybody thinks you’re so tough Brian, but you’re not. You’re really just a big pussy cat.” I glare at him. That was uncalled for.

“Suck my dick or something. Make yourself useful.”

So he does. He’s handy like that. Only he doesn’t finish. He just takes me in his mouth enough times for me to think I can finally relax now and feel free to lose my fucking mind in the moist steam room that is his mouth, but no. It was nothing but cruel torture really. Mind-blowing, intense stimulation immediately followed by an overwhelmingly dull, fuzzy sensation. Kind of like when your mother forces you to wear a coat when it’s seventy-eight degrees outside. Fucking barbaric. Goddamn mother fucking condoms.

I’m still trying to cope with my feelings of betrayal, when he swats my chest. “Hey! Concentrate on the fuck we are having, not the one you wish we were. Snap out of it!”

“I am.” My eyes practically roll back in my head when he sits on me like this. So do his. He leans forward, pressing his hand into my chest, and I cover it. I could fucking scream this feels so good.

This is the best sex I’ve ever hated.

“I swear to god Brian, your dick grew overnight.” I love him.

“Take your time.”

“There’s not going to be anything else left to take.” Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I know that’s selfish, but please don’t.

“You can stop if you want Justin.” He grins at me.

“I’m not stopping. I’m just making you appreciate me.” He’s riding me slowly now, and I’m fighting every urge I have to push up into him. I rub his thighs hard, my nails digging into him.

“I don’t know if this is the right time to tell you this, but I took out a five million dollar insurance policy on your bottom.” He laughs. I always forget that I shouldn’t make him laugh when I’m fucking him. It makes my dick freak out.

“I’m flattered.” There he goes. Free and clear. Feels like home.

“Ten million on your hair.”

“Stop the flattery. I come too fast like this anyway.” I could come just from watching him like this, how he closes his eyes on the downstroke, how I have the most wonderful view of his cock, his balls, his hips, how when I touch him, he moans a little and doesn't even realize it.

“If you cut it, you’ll end up in the Pacific Ocean.”

“Brian.” He can’t stop laughing. My hands are firm on his inner thighs. God, I want to kiss him.

“That wasn’t flattery, Sunshine. That was a promise.” We’re both laughing.

“You just threatened me. You’re an asshole. I should’ve insured your testicles.”

“Now that was just mean.” Unbelievable. I can’t believe I even think that’s funny, can’t believe he's still this tight after four years of me pounding his sweet little ass.

“Well, it’s true. I’m only with you for your mojo.”

“And my money.” I mean if we’re going to be cruel Sunshine, let’s at least be honest.

“And your devastating good looks.”

“My looks are a subsidiary of my mojo.” He thinks about that as I stroke him.

“Then where does your ego fit into all of this?”

“Fuck you.” I push up into him. He lifts up and tries to fuck it up for me. I tighten my grip on his hips.

“I mean is your ego a subsidiary of your mojo, or is your ego the parent company of the whole kit and caboodle?” Oh shit. He’s laughing so hard now he can’t keep a decent rhythm. This is why I’m the top. Never ask a bottom to do a top’s job.

“Stop laughing and concentrate.” I can multi-task when I have the upper hand. He can’t.

“I can’t.” His whole body is vibrating. Now neither of us can stop. “You used the word ‘subsidiary’ while we were fucking.” Yeah, like four sentences ago. “That’s fucking hilarious. Oh my god.” He’s giggling hysterically now. “Oh my god. My stomach hurts. Oh shit. Hup!”

Oh shit.

“Hup!” Fuck. He’s got the hiccups. “Hup!” It takes him forever to get rid of them.

“I can honestly say that I have never fucked anyone while they had the hic—"

“Hup!”

“You have no idea what this feels--"

"Hup! Hup!"

"Jesus, it feels like you’re trying to perform CPR on my dick.” I try to hold his hips still, but that just makes him laugh harder, which is making them worse.

“What are you try—hup-ing to do? Will them out of me? It’s hup! Not going to work! The look on your face!” Okay, well it was just an idea. Jesus. You don’t have to have a conniption. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. We’ve got to stop. Hup!” He rolls off of me and onto his back. I look over at him, tears are rolling down his face, he’s laughing so hard.

“Stop. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

He tries to take a deep breath. “Okay, okay. This is it. I’ve figured it out." Another deep breath. "Your ego is the parent company, and then you have all these little subsidiaries.” He dissolves into another fit of hysteria over that fucking word. So now, I do too. “Stop making me laugh harder, Brian. So, your subsidiaries are: your looks, your mojo, your hup! Your wardrobe, your cars.”

“My bottom boys.” I give him an evil smirk. “You can be the CEO of that subsidiary.”

“Oh my god, you’re, hup, such a bastard!” He punches me really hard. “Okay, now I have to think of a name, hup, for this parent company.” Great. I hum the theme to Jeopardy. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it.” He spreads his arms out in front of him. “Kinn-ego. It’s fucking perfect. Oh my god, that’s genius.”

“Yeah, you’re a fucking genius.” He’s rolling the condom off of me. “What are you doing?”

“I can at least jerk you off.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a turn on. Your little spasming body convulsing with hiccups, crying with laughter, jerking me off. That’s one of my top five all time fantasies.”

“Stop it!” He clutches his stomach. “Hup! It could be hot. I’ll just be really still, hup, and hold your dick, and let my body move all over the place, like this!” He grabs my cock and pretends to flop all over the bed like he’s having electro-shock therapy. I’m laughing my ass off without moving. I’m afraid to. He’s gonna rip my dick off. I’ve got to get rid of his hiccups. I’ve got to save my dick.

“Oh my, hup, god. I’ve got to stop laughing. I’m gonna, hup, hurl.” I think you drink water upside down to get rid of them, or you scare the shit out of the person. I look over at him. There’s no way on god’s green earth he can drink water upside down right now. It would kill him. Although, that’s ‘plan B’—the killing part. I’m going to have to scare the shit out of him. He’s giggling so much at this very moment, I’m afraid he’s going to pee on himself, or worse yet, on me. Again, not a fantasy. How to scare him?

Justin, I’ve changed my mind. You can’t have breakfast.

Not severe enough.

Hollywood called. They’ve cancelled your movie.

Doubtful.

Your mother has a new boyfriend. They use Trojans.

No, he will throw up.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. He’s let go of my dick. Now’s my chance. I pounce on top of him and pin him to the bed, spread eagle. He can’t move.

“Hu—" His eyes open wide.

“Justin Taylor, I love you.”

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

I unpin him, pull back a little, lie still on top of him. This is just like any old Sunday morning in bed.

Except that it isn’t.

He looks at me.

I look at him.

I look around. I think I’m in the wrong room.

I think I’m in trouble.

I wonder if I’m hurting him lying on him like this. I start to move. He holds onto my arm, so I don’t. I want to kiss him.

I can’t. I don’t feel I have permission.

“Honestly, Brian, I don’t know what to say to that.” When did he sober up?

“You don’t have to say anything.” He breathes. I breathe. The elevator opens in the hallway. The people next door open their door, their dishes clanking in the hallway. “You wanna eat breakfast?” He shakes his head. It seems he wants me instead of pancakes. He looks over at the clock on the nightstand. I wish I had a hammer. “We can stay as long you want. I booked through tomorrow.” Denial is expensive, and I should know. It’s bankrupting me. His hands are in my hair, absently tucking it behind my ear. He’s staring off into space. “Can I kiss you?” His eyes move back to mine in the slighest way possible and somehow I know it’s okay to try. For some reason, I wonder what it will feel like.

It’s not a typical Sunday morning kiss. It’s too tentative, too reluctant, too in need of validation. I’m desperately grateful when I feel his body start to respond to mine, start to want things from me that I was too frozen to offer, and sickened when I realize how destroyed I felt without that for just five minutes.

I will rot from the inside out if there ever comes a moment that he doesn’t want me.

He beckons me inside of him like a lighthouse signaling a troubled ship to shore. It’s always that way with us. He’s always the light. I’m always the storm. I find my way back to him, taking cover where I’m always warm and safe, where I can protect him and please him and feed off of what he does to me.

“Brian.” I close my eyes. “Stop. Get off of me.”

Lightning strikes.

***********************
Friday night I crashed your party
Saturday I said i'm sorry
Sunday came and trashed me out again

When he finishes buttering that English muffin, I’m gonna use that knife to cut the tension out here. Our breakfast in the outer room, an exhibition of a clothed, sober silence.

He breaks it.

“So, I guess I need to know now. How long has it been? When was the last time?” I don’t really know. He’s barely looking at me.

“A while. Since before the cancer.” So, yeah, a while I guess. Shit. He looks surprised. I don’t think he believes me. Kind of hard to fuck anybody else when your dick won’t cooperate. And, quite frankly, I haven’t wanted to.

“Hmmm.” Mouthful of pancakes.

“It’s not like…..you stopped me………I wasn’t in for more than a few seconds. I don’t think it’s really that much of an issue.” He looks dead at me. Shit. That totally came out wrong. Wrong thing to say. “What I mea—"

“It’s not a big issue to you. That’s what you meant.” I’ve convinced him now—of the wrong goddamn thing. He fucking doesn’t trust me.

“No, that is not what I meant.” I’m done eating.

“Why did you let it happen?" That’s a very good question. I wish I had a very good answer for that. He’s sure as hell expecting one.

“I don’t have a good answer for that.” I would never hurt you.

“What? Did you just think that it was my responsibility? It’s your dick.”

“I know that. I guess my mind was on other things.” Why did you let it happen? It’s your ass. We have a safe word for the wrong thing.

“Well, that’s a luxury we can’t afford.” He stabs the last piece of his omelet. The worst sex I’ve ever had followed by the worst breakfast. Fuck Sundays. No such thing as a personal savior when you need one.

“Will you just shut up and listen to me for a minute?” He looks at me like he has no intention of talking to me anymore, anyway. “I did not do it on purpose. I was not waiting for you to do it.” I swallow my anger. Feel angry fine, sound angry, no. “I was thinking about you. I was caught up in the moment.”

“If you were thinking about me, you wouldn’t have done that to me.” Christ. “You were thinking about yourself. As usual.”

I give up. “Okay. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to say.” He busses our table and stands over me as I sink into this sofa.

“I’ll tell you what I want you to say. I want you to tell me that you will never again tell me that you love me just to get rid of my hiccups. That hurt my feelings, Brian.”

I can’t blink.

“If that’s the only way you can tell me, then don’t ever tell me again because I don’t ever want to hear it. And if it fucks you up so much just to say it, so much so that you can’t even remember to follow your own goddamn rules in the bedroom that you put me at risk, then I definitely don’t ever want to hear it again.”

Holy shit. That’s what we’re fighting about. He walks towards the bedroom and stops halfway there, turning around to face me again, one hand on the edge of the opposite sofa and one on his hip.

“And one more thing while I’ve got your attention.” You're a mother fucking piece of shit.

Why not? The knife’s already in, push it in deeper.

“Did you ever think that maybe I liked fucking in the backroom? That maybe I liked being back there with you? Or did you just think about what you wanted?”

It doesn’t require an answer from me. It’s rhetorical rage. I never thought about it. He shakes his head at me, the way he does when he’s done with me, when he’s had enough.

“I’m gonna take a shower and then we’re leaving. Do not follow me in there.” He walks into the bedroom and slams the door.

Like I could move if I wanted to.
***********************
Why do you have to be a heartbreaker
when I was being what you want me to be?

I wait until I hear the water running before I open the bedroom door. It doesn’t take me long to pack our stuff. The clothes that Paul had ready for Justin I put in his new luggage. I give the suite a 'once over' to be sure I’ve gotten everything. The water stops. I leave his clothes on the bed and go back into the outer room. I don’t know what he wants to wear.

“Brian, did you bring my razor?” He’s calling to me from the bathroom. I can hardly hear him.

“No. No, I only brought mine. Just use it.”

He doesn’t. He’s unshaven when he comes out a few minutes later. “It’s all yours.”

“Thanks.”

“You packed everything?” He scans the suite.

“Yeah.”

“Where’d you put my sketchpads?”

“In one of your suitcases, in the front.” He walks in the bedroom, takes them out, and goes back into the outer room and sits down. “I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes. I won’t be long.”

“Okay.” He’s flipping through them. I go into the bathroom and close the door. I haven’t taken a shower with the door closed since I first got home from the hospital.

He’s gone when I get out, a note left on top of his suitcase.

Meet me out front. I had to smoke.

His sketchpads are gone.
*********************

JUSTIN’S POV

Heaven knows I was just a young boy
Didn't know what I wanted to be

I light up the minute I get outside and notice him immediately. Actually, I notice his name tag first.

“Welcome to the Fairmont ma’am. Enjoy your stay.” He helps an elderly lady out of a cab. I step out of the way as he opens the door for her. He turns right around and talks to me as soon as the door closes. “Don’t stand right next to me and smoke man. That’s cruel. I can’t smoke while I’m working.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re John, right?” I hand him my cigarette. There’s no one out here besides us and a few other valets at the moment. “I’m Justin. Justin Taylor, Brian’s friend—boyfriend. I’m moving to L.A. Your bother—"

“Oh yeah. I recognize you now. Sorry. I see hundreds of people a day. Where’s Brian?”

“Upstairs.” I point.

“Yeah, congratulations on your movie, man. That’s cool. I’ve never known anyone who was going to make a movie. You know, in Hollywood, I mean. You think I would with my brother living out there and all, but he’s all work and no play.” I laugh.

“How long has he lived out there?” I hope this Matt guy’s as easygoing as his brother.

“Six, seven years. Long enough to make a shit load of money. My parents remind me of that at least four times a year.” Parental expectations. Been there, done that. I nod. “He’s looking forward to meeting you. I called him on Friday right after Brian called me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he said: ‘Sure, we’d love to meet him. Any friend of Kinney’s is helluva lot better than Kinney, right?’”

That makes me smile. “I guess he does know Brian pretty well.”

“Yeah, but I had to tell him about the cancer though. I figured Brian would’ve told him, after his old man died of the same thing and all. Matt quit joking around after that. He’s gonna be all right, isn’t he?”

“The doctor’s say he is.” John shakes his head, done with the cigarette I gave him. “It’s a damn shame. He’s way too young to have to deal with that shit.” He looks me up and down. “And you’re way too young to have a fucking picture deal. How old are you anyway?” He smooths out his uniform, his eyes constantly scanning the circular driveway for people needing assistance.

“Twenty-one.” Almost.

“Twenty-one. I guess Brian’s done all right for himself, huh?” He elbows me. “If I can snag a twenty-one-year-old when I’m his age, I’ll be a happy man. Like her, for instance.” He points to a beautiful girl getting out of a cab in front of the hotel. She looks like Natalie Portman to me. “I’m on.” I watch him carry her suitcase into the lobby for her. He’s all smiles when he comes back outside. “Damn she smelled nice. Told me she’s waiting for her boyfriend to get here, though. I love Sundays. For some reason, the women always smell better on Sundays.” This guy’s funny.

“So how long have you and Brian been together?”

“Four years, on and off.” Hard to believe. Time flies.

“Whoa. That’s like twenty years in ‘Kinney-time.’ Matt was right. He must love you. In college, he was always: chew ‘em up, spit ‘em out.”

“He’s spit me out plenty of times.”

“Ah, doesn’t surprise me, can’t help himself. It’s like a gag reflex in him, like his old man. Same reason I cheated on my wife—to see what I could get away with it, to push my limits—hell, to see if she really loved me. Isn’t that the most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard?”

“That works in your marriage?”

“Depends on how you look at it, I guess. I can have all the illicit sex I want now. We have an ‘arrangement.’” I raise my eyebrows.

“Yeah, we do that too. Does yours work?”

“Well, our arrangement is: she left my ass, took my twin daughters, who were five at the time, and now I get to pay alimony and child support for the rest of my life. All the illicit sex I want though. Plus, I get to work seven days a week and meet up and coming Hollywood royalty to pay for it.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“It was funny actually. I ran into Brian here one day, right before Melissa dropped the bomb that she knew what I’d been doing. He was at some meeting here, so we had lunch together. I told him that I was living the 'life of Brian,' that I wished us straight guys had anonymous sex clubs where nobody wants to know your name. You know, 'cause most women aren’t like that.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. One of the many perks of being queer. So, did he tell you to keep up the good work?” That's what he always says.

“No. He said: ‘Is that what you really want, John?’ And it wasn’t. So, I thought about it and said, ‘No.’ And he said, ‘Then go get what you want.’ Irony was, it was too late. She threw my ass out that weekend.”

“I’m really sorry. That’s awful about your kids too. You get to see them, right?”

“Yeah, I have joint custody, just no time. Gotta work, you know? They don’t understand that. Think their Dad doesn’t want to have them over. Fucking sucks. Listen, do you think you could spare another cigarette?” Motions that he’s going to pocket it for later. “I’ve gotta step it up here. These church ladies are gonna start checking out in droves, and they might not smell good, but they tip.” No shit. They smell like my grandmother.

“I’ll give you the whole pack if you’ll do me a favor.”

“Sure. Name it.”

***********************

BRIAN’S POV

I'm a man without conviction,
I'm a man who doesn't know
how to sell a contradiction
you come and go, you come and go


The only good thing about my morning so far is that I don’t have to wait in line to check-out with all of those high-holy hypocrites. I cruise past them and out the front door.

“Brian!”

John.

“Hey. Is there a day you don't work?"

"No. Twenty-four, seven, three sixty-five."

"My car is in ‘G’ what again? I can’t find that note you left me.”

“’G-230-something.’ It was packed yesterday. It’s all the way in the bottom of the garage.”

“All right. Justin’s around here somewhere. If you see him, can you just let him know I went to get the car, and do you mind watching these bags for me?”

“I’ll watch them for you, but he left in a cab about five minutes ago. He asked me to give you this.” Left in a cab.

Nice.

I take the folded paper he’s offering me.

“Thanks.”

“Said he had to be somewhere.”

“Yeah, I forgot.” I step over to the side and unfold the paper. My lighter falls out. I’ve gone to my Mom’s to pack. I don’t have much time. I’ll see you at dinner tonight. Thanks—Justin. I throw his note in the trash as I head for the bowels of the parking garage.

*****************

JUSTIN’S POV

don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy

My mom opens the door as soon as she hears my key in it.

“Sweetheart! I was getting worried. I was wondering when you were going to get here. Where’s Brian?” She looks out the front door for his car. “I thought he was coming to help you.”

“We’ve been together non-stop for over twenty-four hours, Mom. We need a break from each other.”

“Okay.” She backs off from hugging me, surveys my appearance. “That’s a new shirt. I like it. You look so grown up.”

“Yeah, Brian gave it to me. I’ve got to pack, okay?” I sprint up the stairs to my room.

“Do you want me to help you?” I hate when she sounds so needy.

“Not right now, Mom. Maybe in a little while.” I open the door to my room, my suitcases the first thing I see. My mother’s in the doorway.

“Your father brought those over yesterday. I called him and told him.” I’m surprised he even cared.

“That was nice of him.”

“He was pretty amazed that you’re going to Hollywood.” I open them up, glancing around my room, trying to figure out where to start.

“He’s probably just amazed that I’m making something of myself.” She crosses her arms over her chest and looks down. That’s her ‘no comment’ pose, which means I’m probably right. I'm amazed I'm making something of myself. "Does he know I’m going to make a gay action movie? Did you tell him that?”

“Not in so many words. I figured you could tell him that when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, just when he decides that he’s proud of me, I can burst his bubble again. I can’t wait for that moment.” I open my closet, stare at my clothes.

“I’m gonna go downstairs. I’ve got stuff in the oven. If you need me, just call me.” She pats me on the shoulder.

“I will.” She leaves me alone.

I spend about fifteen minutes walking around my room, dividing things into two piles: California, not California. I don’t even know which pile I want to be in. I dump a bunch of clothes into my suitcases. When all you wear is cotton and denim, doesn’t much matter if they get wrinkled. Underwear and socks, who cares? Shoes. My lightweight jacket. More sketchpads, old and new. My art stuff. The crap in the bathroom. I stand there for five minutes just staring at my umbrella, like it’s some huge decision about whether or not I need to bring a fucking umbrella to California. I throw it in my suitcase and start going through my CD’s. That takes me forever when I realize that most of the CD’s I really like I haven’t even listened to in four years because Brian doesn’t listen to them. I throw them all in the other suitcase, along with my ipod and all it’s crap.

I’m getting out of here.

“Mom?” I’m halfway down the stairs. “Mom?”

“What, honey, what?” She’s got a bowl of cookie dough in her hand.

“Can I borrow your car? I need to go get some stuff, some stuff I need.” Lie.

“I’ll go get it for you, if you want to keep packing.”

“No, I need to go get it. It’s personal stuff.” She gives me a weak, understanding smile. I can’t stand that. It gets on my fucking nerves.

“Do you need any money?” Why does everybody think I need money? Where the fuck is my wallet? My other pocket. Shit. That scared me.

“No, I don’t need any money. I have money. Can I just take the car for a little while?”

“Sure.” She hands me her purse. There are condoms in here. Now I really need to get out of here.

I need to go somewhere where I belong.

******************
BRIAN’S POV

Do I have to tell the story
Of a thousand rainy days since we first met
It's a big enough umbrella
But it's always me that ends up getting wet

It’s a good thing it’s a cloudy day because I have no fucking idea where my goddamn sunglasses are. “Debbie, it’s Brian. I’m looking for Emmett. Is he there?” Son of a bitch just cut right in front of me.

“Sure honey. Hey, did Sunshine like the big surprise you had for him? I heard he looked gorgeous! Oh, I wished I could’ve been there!” She lowers her voice. “And by the way, so does Michael. That’s just a little warning, from me to you.” And raises it again. “Here’s Emmett! It’s Brian.”

“Hey! How’d it go! Was it wonderful? Did he love it?” I hate morning people.

“Yeah, he loved it. Listen, I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, well we’re having breakfast now. Carl is being my guinea pig, trying out some of my new recipes. You wanna come over? There’s plenty to eat. Bring Justin.”

“No. I don’t want to come over. I need to talk to you now, on the phone. I don’t care about breakfast.”

“Okay, okay. What’s the matter? Did I fuck something up? He doesn’t like the clothes or something?”

“No, it’s not about the fucking clothes. Go get on a phone where Debbie can’t hear you.”

“I’ll just call you back on my cell. Calm down while you wait. Jesus.” He hangs up. My cell rings in less than thirty seconds. “Okay, what?”

“Okay. Listen to me, there’s something wrong with Justin.”

“You mean other than the fact that he likes hanging out with you?” Very funny.

“I’m being serious. He remembers you.” There’s some god awful disco diva dance music playing in the background.

“Well, I hope so. I just saw him yesterday.”

“From the prom, Emmett. He remembers you helping him get dressed before the prom.”

“Oh my god. Okay. I didn’t know that he didn’t remember that.” He turns off the music. Thank god. Like I need to hear I Will Survive—the 12” extended play version right now.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t. He just remembered last night, sort of. He thinks he remembers being at Debbie’s with you. I want you to go talk to him.”

“Well, I’ll see him tonight at dinner at Jennifer’s.”

“No, you need to go do it now.” Just fucking go do what I’m telling you to do.

“Where is he?”

“At his mother’s, packing for L.A.”

“Well, come pick me up, and we’ll go. Although, I’m not so sure about this, Brian.”

“I can’t go with you. I need you to go by yourself.”

“Why? What the fuck is going on?”

“I just need you to, okay? I’ll give you a hundred dollars.”

“I don’t want your money.” He’s exasperated with me. Common theme lately. “I just don’t think this is a good idea. I mean, what am I gonna say, ‘Hi Justin, Brian sent me over to help you dredge up horrible memories from four years ago about the night you were almost killed?’ That’s fucked up, not to mention dangerous.”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“No, Brian.”

“Look, something’s wrong with him. I don’t know what it is exactly. He’s leaving in less than twenty-four hours. Can you just go over there and talk to him? See if he brings it up?”

“Fine. But if he doesn’t bring it up, I’m not bringing it up. And if he does bring it up, and he gets upset, I’m calling your ass, and you’re coming to get him. And then I’m going to beat the ever-loving shit out of you and make you pay me a thousand dollars.”

“Deal.”

“You’re a phenomenally fucked up person Brian.”

I’ve almost perfected it.

I’m almost home when Lindsay calls. No rest for the weary. “Hey.”

“Is your love fest over?” She’s whispering.

“Completely.”

“Good. I need you to come over here.”

“Why?” I want to spend some time with my good friend, Jim Beam. We have an appointment.

“Remember that thing I asked you to do a year ago, when Gus was three, and you never did it?” Fuck. Shit. Yes.

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s four now, Brian, and the kids at school are teasing him. And since Mel’s not here anymore to fight with you about it, I’d appreciate it if you’d come over here and do what you were supposed to do in the first place.” She’s in a pissy mood today.

“Why are you being so damn vague?”

“Because your son is standing right here.”

“Right. I forget that sometimes.”

“I’ll be there shortly. I’m already in the car.”

“Wonderful.” She tells Gus that Daddy is coming over to play with him and have lunch. He’s ecstatic.

So am I.
*********************
EMMETT’S POV

we all need somebody to lean on

Carl was nice enough to let me borrow his car. Seems straight men watch football on Sunday, so he wasn’t going anywhere. Debbie wants to watch AMC with him. I left before that argument got ugly. Jennifer looks completely surprised when she opens the door.

“Emmett?”

“Hi Jennifer.” I wave. She’s so pretty. I love her hair.

“I’m sorry, I just thought you were Brian. I just looked really quickly.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. We’re both tall.” Similarity ends there, though, thank you very much.

“Come in. What can I do for you?” I smell chocolate chip cookies.

“Came to see Justin actually. Thought I’d help him get ready for his big move!”

“Oh, you should’ve called, he’s not here. He went out for a while.” She doesn’t look very happy.

“Oh, okay. Do you know where he went? I guess I can just call him.” I flip open my cell, scrolling for his number. This new silver-red faceplate so matches my backpack. I don’t care what Teddy says. He doesn’t know shit about accessorizing. Just thinks he does because he’s got his new fancy job and his new fancy office. I mean everything he knows about accessorizing he learned, like, yesterday.

“His phone is off, and I’m not sure where he is actually. He seemed kind of upset when he left here.” Oh, great. I'm going to kill Brian Kinney.

“Well, where does he usually go when he’s upset?” If you sound optimistic, you’ll be optimistic. That’s what my Aunt Lullah always said. Oooh, Jennifer’s got an idea.

“He’s probably at Daphne’s. Let me find her number.” Makes sense to me. Sometimes a boy just needs his hag. She’s back in a flash with Daphne’s number. I’m ready to start my trek down the yellow brick road, but she’s worried. Justin has the best mom.

“Why don’t we just call him real quick and see what he’s up to?” I give her my reassuring smile while I dial Daphne’s number.

“Hullo?” She was sound asleep.

“Daphne? It’s Emmett.”

“Hey Emmett. What’s up?” Sounds like somebody had a rough night. I keep grinning at Jennifer, keep pimping that optimism. Can’t really tell if it’s working, though.

“Oh, I’m fine. Hope you’re doing well. I was just wondering if you’ve talked to Justin today or, if by chance, he’s there with you?” I already know the answer to this question.

“No, haven’t seen him.” She yawns. “And he hasn’t called. Why? Is something wrong? I think he and Brian are at the Fairmont fucking and sucking and rimming their brains out.” Lovely, Jennifer just heard that.

“Um, no, no, not anymore. Seems he’s gone on a little bit of a walkabout.” Jennifer just snatched my pretty red phone from me. Somebody is much stronger than she looks.

“Daphne, it’s Jennifer.”

“Hey, Mrs. Taylor.”

“Justin left here a little over an hour ago, kind of upset. I just figured he was with you. Where does he usually go nowadays when he’s in a funk?”

“He’s not with Brian?”

“No.”

“Michael?” Jennifer and I are sharing one phone now. I shake my head.

“No.”

“Debbie?” Another shake of the head.

“No.”

“And he’s not with you or me. Okay, let me think for a minute. I just woke up…… ……….. ……….. Okay, my guess is he’s at the museum, in gallery four, at the Picasso exhibit, hanging upside down on a bench, looking at the fifth painting down on the far wall.” I nod to Jennifer. I’m very impressed with Daphne. “That’s what he does when he’s freaking out about his life. He says the only thing that’s less fucked up than his life sometimes is an upside down Picasso.”

Bingo.

“Thank you so much Daphne.” Jennifer is so gracious. She and Justin are two peas in a pod.

“Don’t you dare tell him I told you. I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you guys tonight.” Jennifer hands my phone back to me.

“Nite nite, sweetie.” I hang up. “A hag always knows her fag. I’m gonna go pay him a little visit. Thanks, Jennifer.”

“Thank you Emmett. At least now I know where he is.” I wonder if she’ll give me a cookie.

“If I don’t find him there, I’ll call you and let you know.”

“That would be great. I’ve got to get my cake out of the oven before it burns.” Guess not.

“I can’t wait to have some of your cooking tonight, Jennifer. It smells delicious!” She waves good-bye with a pot holder on her hand. I’ve got to think. Now just where exactly is this museum again?

*****************
Have you seen her
Tell me have you seen her

You would think after living in this town for a million years, I would know my way around. That’s what you get for thinking.

This is why I don’t have a car.

This is why I hang out with people who do.

Okay, so no problem. Don’t panic. You’re in a police car. Well, not actually a police car, but a policeman’s car, and policeman are prepared for everything right?

Wrong.

Not a map in the glove box. Course why would they need maps? They know where everything is. Duh, Emmett. And here comes Jennifer. Wonderful. I’m sure she’s wondering why I’m still sitting in her driveway ten minutes later.

“Emmett! Wait!” I roll down the passenger window. At least I know how to do that.

“I’m just getting all of my ducks in a row.” Dead ducks.

“I think we should just call the museum first and see if he’s there before you drive all the way over there.” Good idea. See why I shouldn’t be in charge of these things? Case in point. Her cell phone is purple-ly. It’s prettier than mine.

“Myron? Hi. This is Jennifer Taylor.” She got the museum on speed dial. Damn. “I’m fine. How are you?....Great. And Janet?...Oh, that’s wonderful.” She mouths to me: He’s a talker. “I was just wondering if my son Justin was there.” He’s laughing. I can hear him. He’s got a booming voice. Sounds like Santa Claus, not like somebody you’d expect to work at a museum. Not that I’m stereotyping or anything.

“You mean ‘upside down Picasso?’”

“Yes.” She looks embarrassed. Honey, that ain’t nothin’ compared to what people called me back in Hazelhurst.

“Yeah, he’s here. Been here for about an hour, letting the blood rush to his head. There aren’t many people here today, so I’m just letting him be.”

“Oh, thank you so much.”

“Just between you and me, the owners want to take that exhibit down, and I told ‘em: ‘You better check with ‘upside down Picasso’ first. He’ll freak out.’”

“Thank you so much Myron. And please don-"

“I mean that’s his favorite painting.”

“I know. Well, thank—"

“I don’t know what he’d look at if it wasn—"

“Yes, yes, he really does love it.”

“You know art means a lot of different things to people, but that painting just does something—"

“That is so true. Please don’t tell him I was looking for him Myron. I’ve got to run. I appreciate it. Take care.” Good lord, somebody needs to buy that man some oxygen so he can take a breath.

“Well, that sounded like fun.” I can’t wait to get to the museum now. Brian Kinney is officially on the clock. Overtime rates. It’s Sunday.

“That Myron is quite a character.” She turns in her seat to face me and starts speaking to me in a much quieter voice. She has such intense eyes. Oh my god, I’ve never even noticed that before. And she makes this funny throat clearing sound right before she says something 'important,

“Emmett, I thought that we should call before you go because you might not be able to find him right away when you get there.” She looks kind of nervous. Hell, I don’t even know how to get to the damn place at this point. One problem at a time please.

“Well, when I go in I’ll just have someone point me to Picasso.” Can’t be that difficult.

Okay, now she’s pressing her lips together. I think I have some chapstick in my backpack. “He might not be in the Picasso exhibit. You might have to look for him.” She's acting really strange. No need to worry.

“Well, if I don’t see him in the Picasso exhibit, I’ll look around for him. I’ll find him.” No offense, but I’m not stupid. I know museums have a lot of rooms.

“No. What I mean is he might be in the bathroom with a man.”

Oh

my

god.

“Okay.” I have to think about that for a minute. Why am I freaking out? Because Justin cruises guys at museums? Because it works? Because his mother knows about it? Or because he’s doing it right now? My head is spinning. I feel like a Picasso painting right now. “I doubt that’s what he’s doing.” I pat her arm. “Do you think you could do me a teensy, weensy favor and tell me how to get to this museum?” She laughs. Thank god somebody thinks this is funny.

“Sure. I’ll draw you a map.”

“Fabulous.”

So now, after twenty minutes of being in Jennifer’s driveway, I’m on my way. This is turning into a three hour tour. When I was twenty and disappeared for days on end, more than a month once, no one even noticed I was gone. Justin’s gone for an hour, and we’ve already formed a search party. We should all have t-shirts with WDJG on the front and Where Did Justin Go? on the back in an assortment of styles and colors.

WDJG. Sounds like a radio station where people call in everyday with their “Justin sightings.” We could play my all-time favorite hit from the Chi-Lites, Have You Seen Her? every hour on the hour until he comes back. Oh my god, I love that song! And then we could have play a little running clock on our website, www.wheredidjustingo.com, showing exactly how long it’s been since he’s been gone.

Okay, I need to stop this now and focus on what I’m doing. Pay attention to where I need to turn. I’ve never driven a policeman’s car before and to think, the first time I drive one, I’m actually on a mission. That's such a coincidence. I feel so Cagney and Lacey right now.

Oh my god, I can’t wait to tell Debbie about this.

Ready or not, ‘Sunny-side-up’, here I come.