The problem is all inside your head she said to me

The answer is easy if you take it logically

I'd like to help you in your struggle to be free

Apparently, there are fifty ways to leave your lover. I cannot think of one. Well, I can think of some, but, trust me, they all suck. Everything in my life feels so fucked up right now. I am so …conflicted. Yeah…conflicted.

And I deserve to feel this way because I was so confident, so sure of myself, sitting there all eager and hopeful waiting for Brett to get back to us about our movie—like I didn’t know full well that this might change everything or something. And then going out there to that gratuitous “we’re all gay, but we’re not” party of Brett’s, being seduced by the glamour and the “this is Justin Taylor; he created Rage” bullshit. My overwhelmed smile lighting up the room, dazzling movie stars, gaining me entrance to their asses!

And then coming home, disguising my dilemma with well-practiced smiles, unfinished sentences, a willing body, and country-club charm employed my millions of miserable, rich housewives every day. My mother has taught me so many things she is hardly aware of. But I got what was coming to me, just like always. The powers that be in my life are never hesitant to dole out punishment, are they? Only this time, it was so subtle, unlike so many of the other times.

I got home from my trip, resumed my comfortable role with Brian. (Did I just say comfortable?) He was even letting me take care of him. It felt so good. We were becoming normal. Normal is what I wanted right?

So I went to my “this is your life dvd player” and hit “play” thinking that that’s all it would take to move my life forward. Try again Taylor. This function is not available on this disc. What? I pushed it like 400 times. Son of a bitch was stuck on “pause.” I knew I should have saved my money and bought a better one.

I mean I had just figured that any day now would be the right day to tell him that: “I got this great job offer Brian, and I sort of accepted it without even talking to you about it….” But I was kind of stalling because I’m a chicken shit.

But as usual, Brian took care of everything. He went over to my “this is your life dvd player” and hit “play,” and it worked on the first try. Of course it did.

Everything works on the first try for Brian Kinney.

I know why that is.

I think I have it figured out.

He’s the action figure in this story. Not me. I’m not even the stupid sidekick. Hell, I’m not even the writer. I’m just the illustrator. I get paid to wait for shit to happen and to react to it—and not even verbally. I get paid to draw, which, if you ever sit down and really think about it, is a very slow way to react to something. It doesn’t always lend itself well to real life. You don’t always have time to sketch your feelings, and sometimes you just don’t want to. I wanted to be sure, to be careful, when I talked to Brian about going to L.A. that I didn’t hurt him. I can’t bear to hurt him.

I hadn’t drawn anything since Brett offered me the job. My pencil tapped on a blank page a few times, but nothing ever came out. The longer that went on, the more trouble I knew I was in. The worst part about that whole situation was that I couldn’t talk to Brian about it. Or I guess I thought I couldn’t or something.

Then Brian asked me to move in with him. Everything just started swirling down the drain from there, getting away from me, moving too fast.

I thought I had everything I wanted. This was what I wanted from the moment I could ever remember wanting anything, and I could never remember wanting anything as badly as I wanted Brian. The picture may have blurred once or twice during the last four years, but it always managed to come back into focus. Sometimes that was because of me, sometimes it was because of him, and sometimes it was because of shit that I just don’t fucking want to think about right now.

But last night was my fault. He may brew the potion, but I drink it.

It started to happen again, like it always does. I was, as usual, entranced by the spell he was casting over me. My body becoming almost dream-like as he gradually drew every bit of desire out of me, from the tip of my toes all the way to the parted pink of my lips. And even as I tried to fight the good fight, to agonize about what it meant to sleep in his bed one more night without being honest with him, I couldn’t worry about anything when he was seconds from inside me and promising me things I knew I didn’t deserve anymore.

But I waited too long for the right words to come to me, and I ended up hurting him anyway. I should have stuck with what I knew. I should have just drawn him a picture. Anything would have been better than the theater of the absurd that I forced him to attend last night—in the front row, no less.

The ride home went so much faster than the ride there, as if I had a destination in mind. I had nothing. There was nothing but fear and panic in the gas tank. Literally. We were about forty-five minutes from home when I realized that we really were on “E.” Brian was completely asleep and snoring off and on. I felt so bad for dragging him all over the outskirts of Pittsburgh. I found an exit with a gas station right off the ramp. As I brought the car to a stop under the obnoxious lights, Brian stirred a little.

“Are we home?”

“No, we’re not home yet. Go back to sleep. We’re on ‘E’.” I turned off the engine and realized I really didn’t know where my wallet was. Shit.

“I don’t have any E.” He shifted back on his side, the way he likes to sleep.

“I’m not asking you for ‘E,’ Brian. I’m getting gas; we’re on ‘empty.’” Fuck, I needed money. I am a kept man after all. I stepped out of the car into the cold night air and immediately jumped back in to get my coat. I swear it had dropped at least ten degrees. I walked around to Brian’s side of the car and opened his door.

“Fuck, it’s cold!” He pulled away from me a little. I leaned over him and whispered in his ear.

“I need your wallet.” He mumbled something about “back pocket” and “shut the fucking door.” I reached into his back right pocket and removed his wallet, my hand lingering there longer than it needed to.

“I said shut the fucking door.” I did what I was told.

The stale air inside the Exxon felt welcoming for a second, and I took the opportunity to grab some more cigarettes and junk food. I hadn’t eaten in hours. The girl behind the counter looked too young to be working at a place like this by herself at this time of night. I can’t believe I even thought that; she’s older than me.

I smiled. After all, I was on camera and recording.

“$34.57.” I opened Brian’s wallet and was a little taken aback by how much cash he hand in there, well over three hundred dollars. There are just some ways he and I will always be different. I handed “Megan” a fifty dollar bill, the smallest bill in his wallet. She handed me my change, and I fussed with getting it back into Brian’s jammed billfold. I guess, unlike me, he’s always prepared for everything. I had just felt the blast of cold air hit my face when I heard her calling me.

“Sir? Sir.” I caught the door before it closed. I am not old enough to be a “sir,” am I? “You dropped this.” She handed me a white card and reacted to the perplexed look on my face. “It fell out of your wallet.”

“Oh. Thank you.” I took it from her and stepped outside the door to study the dog-eared offering. It took a minute for everything to register. I had seen these before, a long time ago, my patient information cards from Allegheny General Hospital: my name, my room number, my nurse, my therapists, my attending, and the visiting hours. I remember autographing Daphne’s for posterity when I was released, a private joke and a good luck charm between us, now and forever. I flipped it over and read the names of every doctor who worked with me at every step of my recovery, every therapist of any kind, every charge nurse at every shift, the third shift nurses all underlined or starred, and in the corner, the name Miguel. I remember him. It was a lot of information to keep on a 3 x 5 card, and it was a long time to keep it. I slid it back inside his wallet, hoping I put it back in the right place, hoping that he wouldn’t have to know that I accidentally saw this part of him that he almost always hides from me. I returned to the comfort of the ‘vette and resumed my place behind the wheel.

Behind the wheel. I wanted to be here, and I was terrified to be here. Part of me tried to tell myself that the risk in all of this was going to L.A. by myself, working on Rage, but I knew that it wasn’t. That was the easy part. I focused on getting us home as soon as possible. He needed to get in bed; I didn’t think I’d ever seen him sleep so hard.

I wasn’t prepared for what I’d see when we walked into the loft, least of all for what I would be stepping on. Brian had trashed our bedroom, rock star style. There wasn’t much of anything breakable left unbroken. I kept shaking my head back and forth as I picked up the picture frames and put them back in their original places, sans glass. I picked up the big pieces I could grab quickly, righted the lamps, and located what looked like the base of the clock.

“Jesus.”

He pissed and walked out of the bathroom, heading for the bed, and I re-directed him to the sofa to give me a few minutes to clean up. I re-sheeted the bed and picked up as much as I could. If Brian owns a broom, I didn’t even know where the fuck it was. The rest would just have to wait until morning. It was just too late. I went back out to the sofa to get him. He was starting to get undressed.

“Don’t Brian. Leave everything on.”

“That’s a new one.” His eyes were barely open.

“I don’t know what the fuck happened in there, but there is shit all over the floor. Just come to bed, and I will help you get undressed. You can’t walk in there with bare feet.” I helped him up and walked with him to our bedroom.

“I broke some shit.”

“I can see that.” Glass crunched underneath our feet as I lowered him onto the bed. I removed his boots, his clothes, but didn’t bother with his underwear. “Go back to sleep.”

I kicked as much of the glass as I could over to the corner, needing to vacuum. I wasn’t going to do that in the middle of the night. I removed my shirt and pants and slid into bed beside him, sliding my arm around his waist, adhering myself to his weary, fetal-positioned body.

“Mmmm.” He purred against me, and I felt his hand looking for mine. Our fingers intertwined. I kissed his shoulder blade and nestled my face against his back. “Goodnight Sunshine.” He squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.

“Brian?”

“Hmmm?” I knew he wasn’t really listening to me, his breathing was too deep and too slow. I really didn’t want him to be.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight, for not telling me ‘no.’” I felt his left shoulder pushing toward me, felt him easing onto his back. He pulled me underneath his arm, readjusting the blankets.

His drowsy voice reassured me in the chaos of our bedroom.

“Justin, there isn’t a bone in my body that can tell you ‘no.’” He ran his fingers through my hair and told me to stop wearing him out, to go to sleep. I closed my eyes and kept my head on his chest, concentrating on his fingers as they continued their journey in and out of my hair for the next few minutes. He was asleep again, before I was, his hand finally giving up, falling onto my shoulder, and eventually off of me and onto the bed.

I turned over on my side to look out the window, wishing that sleep would envelop me as it did him, but I was not so lucky. I tugged on his arm a little as I tried to get comfortable, and he followed me, holding me like I wanted, his generous hand covering my stomach and folding me into him, his steady breathing in my ear. I buried my hands underneath my pillow and looked for the clock to see what horrible hour of the morning it was before I realized that the clock was gone, no longer part of our world. It didn’t matter anyway. No matter what time it was, it couldn’t be time to leave him.

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

I only got two hours of sleep. I am exhausted, but it’s seems to be the wrong kind of exhaustion. Whatever kind it is, it’s working for him. He’s still snoring. I am sitting on the sofa with my feet tucked under the cushions, doodling on my sketch pad, the same place I have been since a little after 7:00 am, when I gave up on trying to sleep. I can see Brian well enough from here. I have to keep an eye on him.

I have to think. I have to go. There is no way Brian will let me stay. He’ll throw me out. I should want to go. Who wouldn’t want to go? I should be excited. I am excited. This is every person’s dream. It would be selfish for me to want to stay here, to pass this up. If I go there and actually make something of myself, I mean, just think, I’ll be rich, maybe famous, fuck famous. Who cares about famous? Rich would be good. And then my parents, my father even, would be proud of me. Brian would be proud of me. I would be proud of me. Fuck it, that’s stupid. I’ll learn so much. And it’s my work, my story, my life, what I want.

Fuck, I don’t know what I want. I know I made a commitment to Brett. And to Brian. Fuck commitments.

There are very few blank pages left in any of the three sketch pads that are with me on the sofa. I have spent the last few hours making up for lost time. I wish Brian had a quieter pencil sharpener. I am down to my last pencil. I hear this very bizarre buzzing sound that I don’t realize is my cell phone on “vibrate” until it starts moving across the coffee table and almost hits the floor. I catch it just in time. Fuck.

The display shows an 818 area code. 818?

Shit, that’s California.

“Hello?” It’s Brett. It’s like 7:30 am there or something.

“Didn’t want to call you too early.” He laughs. I seriously need to think about this guy’s “late to bed, early to rise” shit, if I’m going to go work for him.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I’ve got some good news about Rage.”

I get off the sofa, and walk farther away from the bedroom, so I won’t wake Brian. “What good news?”

I’m never going to ask anyone that question again. I listen as he tells me about the scheduling conflicts with the studio, the locations, the actors he’s signing, and how all of this is pushing our timeline forward. Fast forward.

“Monday. You are fucking kidding me, right?” You probably shouldn’t talk this way to your future boss, but I could care less right now. Brett is prattling on in my ear, but someone else is pounding on the door to the loft, which is going to wake Brian up, so now I have to go answer the goddamn fucking door. “Brett. Hang on a second.”

I slide open the door and am mostly relieved to see that it is just Michael. And he is alone. Thank god. I motion for him to come in and return to my other problem. He shuts the door for me. I don’t think Brett ever even stopped talking that whole time.

“Brett. Brett. Listen to me. Today is Friday. Monday is—Monday is no fucking way. You told me at least a month.” Michael’s face is changing with every word. Sometimes he is like a Mr. Potato Head, but in a good way. I try not to sound so much like a total bitch.

“It’s just that I need a little time.” I need more than a little time. My pleading is alarming Michael, his expression is settling on “concerned.” Regardless of the tantrum I threw for him, and Ben, and Hunter last night, he is still my colleague and my friend. I listen to Brett’s explanation.

“I know it’s a lot to take in Justin, but it’s now or never. We move or we lose. So we’re moving.”

Michael refuses to blink while all of this is transpiring, like he’s afraid if he closes his eyes for a second he is going to miss something. I sigh and capitulate.

“It’s just that I wasn’t expecting this. Brian just found out last night that I even had the job.” Michael’s hand rests on my shoulder. My forehead is in my hand. Brett tries to cheer me up.

“Well, then it’s probably a good thing that you guys have that ‘open-marriage’ thing or whatever, right? Together because you want to be, not because you have to be?” He means well, but he has no idea what the fuck he is talking about.

“Yeah. Sure.” What the fuck else am I going to say?

“I’ll email you with your e-ticket info for Monday. Call me if you have questions or whatever.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Oh, and Justin?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell Michael I said congratulations on the birth of his daughter, and tell Brian I said congrats on the birth of his boyfriend’s career.” Again, the man knows not of what he speaks. So, Brett, just shut the fuck up.

“I will Brett. Thanks. Later.” If Brian wasn’t still asleep, I would have flipped the switch and ground up my cell phone in the garbage disposal. Michael and I just look at each other. He could hear every word Brett was saying. The man cannot modulate his voice. He’s so L.A. I put my hand over Michael’s on my shoulder and I study his face before I speak. My mind wanders to something I heard over and over on the ride home last night.

Just slip out the back, Jack.

I force my brain to get back on track.

“I’m going out for awhile.” I start to head for the door.

“Oh, no, you’re not.” He pushes me back toward the kitchen. “I came over here this morning to be sure that you were okay, after last night and all. But there is no fucking way that you are walking out of here and leaving me with that.” He points to Brian’s haphazard sleeping form on our bed, a form that is starting to stir. “I also came to give you this.”

He hands me back my key to the loft. I'd forgotten about that.

Drop off the key, Lee.

“Yeah, sorry about that, throwing it at you and all.”

And get yourself free.

“I’ve never had someone throw just one key at me before. I’ve had people toss a whole set to me, but not quite like that. It’s a good thing you didn’t hit me in the face or something. Ben probably would have kicked your ass.”

Yeah, I know. That thought had crossed my mind. He isn’t done.

“Although Hunter wanted me to tell you that when you get to L.A, audition for some soap opera roles. He thinks you’d make a great daytime soap star after your performance last night.”

“Heh, heh.” I smirk.

“Anyway, as I was saying, I’m not doing the third wheel with you two anymore. I’m a married man, with my own business, a teenager, and a new baby. I don’t have time to be your marriage counselor. From now on, you two talk to each other about your shit.” He points to me and then points to sleeping beauty.

Okay, I get it Michael. Your life is wonderful. I know you’re right.

But let’s face it, there's way more to it than that.

When have Brian and I ever dealt with each other without Michael around for the ride? Suddenly, I feel like the floor has dropped out from under my feet. I thought that this was what I wanted, just me and Brian. The look on my face says something different.

“This is fucked up Michael. I love him, but I don’t know how to handle him by myself sometimes. I don’t even know if I want to.” What the fuck is that about? If I cry anymore, I am going to have to sign up for tear replacement therapy.

“Look. None of this will change overnight.” When did Michael become so fucking reasonable?

“Except that now I have to practically leaveovernight. And he’s going to fucking freak Michael. He doesn’t even know.”

“Then you will tell him. He will act like a total asshole. You will let him calm down. And then you will tell him again.”

“You are better at this than me.” I suck at this.

“Only out of necessity. With a little practice and a little time, you will be too. Give him a chance Justin. I’m going to go.” He looks at his watch.

“Wait, Michael. There’s one more thing I’ve got to ask you before I leave on Monday. Fucking Monday.”

“What?” He pauses and waits for my question.

“While I’m gone, you’ve got to look after him for me. Make sure he’s not working too hard, or getting sick, or whatever because he hides everything, and I might not be able to tell. Okay?” It was so reminiscent of the talk Michael had with me about taking care of Debbie when he thought he was leaving Pittsburgh to live with David. Deja-vu all over again.

“Of course, Justin. You don’t even have to ask. You know that. Don’t look now, but your prince is awakening. That’s my cue.” He hugs me and darts out the door. I follow him.

We stand in front of the elevator. I don’t know what to say. All of a sudden, I just really don’t want him to leave. He can tell. He grabs my wrist.

“Let’s synchronize our watches, okay?”

“What? Why?” I don’t understand. He unhooks my watch and hands it to me.

“10:41 am. Set yours. In seventy-two hours, I’ll be ready to take over, okay? Don’t worry. Now go.” He pushes me a little. “And don’t forget, this is your big break, our big break. Go out there and make us a household name, okay?”

“You know you're turning out just like your mother, right?”

“You are probably the thirteenth person to tell me that today, and I haven’t even had lunch yet.”

“I meant it as a compliment.” I did.

“Just promise me that if I start wearing buttons that say stupid shit or putting crap in my hair that you’ll put in a mental hospital okay?”

How will I know? I’ll be gone.

“Deal.” I swallow hard and smile. Our heads turn simultaneously as we hear a sharp, lost cry from the loft.

“JUSTIN!” Oh shit. He’s awake. Michael has no desire to wait for the elevator now. He heads for the stairs.

“I’ll leave you with Rage. I’ve got enough characters to deal with at my store.”

“Bye, Michael.” I watch as his dark hair descends quickly down the stairs and turnaround to face my day.

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

“JUSTIN!” He's yelling for me again, but now I'm at the stairs of our bedroom and that just really isn’t necessary.

“I’m right here, Brian.”

“What the fuck time is it?” He has the worst case of bed head I’ve ever seen him have. He really needs a haircut.

“It’s 10:43 am. Don’t get out of bed.” I throw my hand up for emphasis. I look just like one of The Supremes. He's trying to get out of bed. He doesn’t remember, I guess.

“Why the fuck did you let me sleep so late? I’ve got a meeting at noon.” He's untangling his body from the sheets. His voice is beyond irritated.

“I called your office. Told them you weren’t feeling well. But listen to me: you need to stay put for a minute. I’ve got to vacuum. There's glass on the floor from where you smashed everything. I didn’t want to do it until you woke up.”

He looks over the side of the bed at the shards of glass and internal springs and parts of the clock everywhere, like his memory of smashing it and everything else are just coming back. I listen as he berates me for calling his office, for thinking I know his schedule or that his office does, for making decisions for him. I'm so happy when I finally plug in the vacuum cleaner and drown him out. It makes a horrible sound as it sucks everything up, but it's better that listening to him bitch. Sometime during my domestic moment, he finally shuts the fuck up.

“Okay, you can get up now.”

He throws the sheet off of himself and sprints for the bathroom to piss. I roll my eyes. Such drama. I hear him resume his rant.

“I’ve got to go in for that noon meeting. It’s a new client.”

“Just let Ted handle it okay?”

“I don’t let Ted handle brand new clients Justin.” He flushes the toilet, washes his hands, and starts brushing his teeth. “Look at me. I look like shit.”

“Exactly. You’re exhausted.”

“Call Ted. Tell him I’m coming in.”

I hear him start the shower, and I give up. I'm not fighting with him anymore. I find my cell phone, switch my phone off of silent mode, and call the office. Ted is on the phone so I talk to Cynthia.

“Hey, it’s Justin. Brian wanted me to call and let Ted know that he'll be there for the noon meeting with that new client.”

“Hang on. Let me tell him.”

I wait and listen to the hold music. I’ve told Brian before that he needs to change it. It fucking sucks. She's back in a flash.

“Justin, that meeting's cancelled according to Ted.”

“Really? Do you know why? He’s going to ask me, so you might as well tell me now. Otherwise I’ll be calling back.”

“One second.”

More shitty music…..

“Client cancelled and rescheduled for Monday at 10:00 am. That happens a lot with Friday meetings. Not many people want to start something new on a Friday, you know? Friday is a good day to end something.”

Sometimes Cynthia is the smartest person I've ever known.

“Okay. I’ll let him know. I’m assuming that no one needs him there today then, right?”

“Not really. Ted’s a check signer, so he signed payroll. We’re fine. We’ll call him if we need him.”

“Thanks, Cynthia. Have a good weekend.”

“You too, Justin. Take care.”

I end the call and head for the bathroom to tell him that everything's copasetic. We can start our weekend, our last weekend for awhile, right now.

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

He's almost done with his shower. I know his routine. I stand outside the shower door.

“I called the office. Your meeting is cancelled.”

“Why?” He's pissed now.

“Cancelled by the client Brian. They rescheduled for Monday morning at 10:00 am. You didn’t lose the client.” I know that this is what he's worried about.

“Well, I still have to go in. I have things I have to take care of. It’s my company Justin. I can’t just not show up.”

Right. I'm immediately sorry when the next words come out of my mouth, but I'm not quick enough to stop them.

“Can’t we just spend today together?”

He shuts off the water and answers me.

“Tonight. Not today. Can you hand me a towel?”

I hand him a towel off of the shelf and exit the bathroom. I'm about three seconds from killing him; I need to do something else.

I've never loved someone and hated someone so much at the same time as I routinely do with Brian. Sometimes I feel like I should have gone to school and majored in “How to deal with impossible people—that you accidentally fell in love with” or some shit like that. He's lucky that I got rid of that gun that Cody let me play with for awhile because right now I'd go cock it at the side of his head. But then I regroup and take Michael’s advice and come up with a new strategy. Yeah.

Make a new plan, Stan.

Suitcases. Fuck, I don’t have any luggage here. Think again.

Hmmm……. Legal pad. Check the desk. Second drawer. Bingo. Find a pen. Back to the bedroom. Sit on the bed. Occasionally say shit out loud.

Make a list. “Things to pack for L.A.”

Clothes, underwear, sketch pads, art supplies, toiletries, meds, shoes, coat, day planner, condoms, lube, socks, tap pencil while I think….

Cell phone, charger, both types, checkbook, credit card, camera, photo album, computer, sheets, towels, pillow, blanket, suit, tie, dress shirts, think, think, think….

I need to call my mom and ask her where my luggage is. I hope it's at her place and not at my dad’s. I don’t want to have to deal with him. Maybe she'd go get it for me and not make me have face to him. God, I'm such a pussy.

Brian's trying to decide what suit to wear. Nothing's making him happy today. I guess we have that in common.

Think.

Tap.

Think, tap.

Dancing queen…. Dancing queen?. Oh wait, that’s my cell. That’s Emmett, which reminds me: I need to pack my ipod, my headphones, all the shit that goes with it, my cds….

I walk over the to the bar to answer my cell.

“Hey Em.”

“Sweetie? I just heard from Michael that congratulations are in order and that you're leaving us on Monday. Is that right?”

I'm back in the bedroom now, back on the bed, doodling on my list.

“Yes. You heard right. I’m flying out on Monday morning.” I don’t really care if Brian hears it like this. He can go to hell right now.

“Well, I hope for your sake that the flight is standing room only.” Emmett talks to me in his sing-songy voice.

“What?”

“Honey, your ass is going to be sore as hell come Monday morning.”

God I hope he’s right. I give Emmett the laugh he deserves for that comment. Maybe Emmett's smarter than Cynthia.

“I hope so Em. It’s not looking too promising at the moment.” I cut my eyes in Brian’s direction, but he's hiding his reaction from me. For an out and proud gay man, he sure spends a helluva lot of time in his closet. Nothing is lost on Emmett, though, as usual.

“Um, honey, I guess that’s why they call it the blues.” Leave it to Emmett to hit it on the head. “So, you have any big plans for the weekend or are you just gonna look at the ceiling?”

“I wish I knew.” I’m being cunty, but it’s Emmett, so that’s okay. “Actually I’m making a list right now of everything I’ve got to pack, got to buy; there’s just not enough time. By the way, how did you know all of this so fast?”

“Honey, we were on a 3-way before Michael’s feet were down that stairwell. Stay with me here.”

“I figured as much.” I can hear Em in the background giving the play by play of my conversation to Ted. He must be at Kinnetik.

“Brian’s being a cunty bitch to Justin. Justin’s making a list—he’s got to shop, pack, that boy is going to be bus-y this weekend, if you know what I mean. Teddy, don’t..”

Apparently, I'm speaking to Ted now.

“Hey.”

“Hey Ted.”

“Do me a huge favor and fax or email me that list. Auntie Em has absolutely nothing to do today but sit in my office and chat my face off, and I need to close the month. She can go shopping for you. Oh, and congratulations and good luck—which you won’t need. You're obviously the chosen one.”

“Thanks Ted.”

“Hey, one more thing.”

“Yeah?” This is the longest conversation Ted and I have ever had with each other.

“Be careful out there Justin. L.A is a whole different world. You won’t have your fire breathing dragon to protect you.” I hear Emmett grab the phone and fuss at Ted.

“Don’t scare him Teddy. He’ll be fine. He’s got youth and bliss on his side. He’s not you.”

And then the part I’m supposed to hear:

“Honey, don’t mind him. He’s on the rag. I'd love to go shopping for you. It’s my second favorite past time. Please, please let me.” I know he’s jumping up and down.

“Sure.” I’m relieved, actually. “What did Ted just say?” I heard him mumble something.

“Oh, he said that I would pass up a Drew Boyd fuck-session to spend Brian’s Kinney’s money.”

“He’s right Emmett.” We're all three laughing really hard now. Brian's pissed because he doesn’t know what’s so funny.

“Watch it, sweetie. I know what you won’t pass up. You may be Brian Kinney’s fuck, but you’re still my bitch. Now, rattle off that list to me.”

There isn’t a fag in this town that won’t put me in my place, is there? I read my list off to Emmett and laugh when Brian yells at me to “add soap.” I do.

“I’ll see you a little later honey, packages and all.” And he’s gone. And I’m back to me, Brian, and my list. And it’s all quiet again.

I’m not even going to bother looking at Brian’s face for the inevitable disappointment. I don’t have time to be disappointed. I cue my phone to my mother’s cell number and hit send.

My mother knows about my job--what she just doesn’t know that I'm leaving on Monday instead of in a month. I break it to her the best way I can. Maybe Brian can listen to my conversation with her and realize that it isn’t just his roller-coaster of emotions that I have to juggle. Not everything in my fucking life revolves around him. My mom's a little flabbergasted at first, but she adjusts. She is excited for me. I get to the real reason I'm calling.

“Mom, where's my luggage? I’ve got to pack.”

“It’s in your father’s attic.” Shit. That’s what I was afraid of.

She has to go because a client is calling in, so we agree to talk later. I I look back down at my list and add “luggage.” Fuck. Just what I needed. Brian interrupts my train of thought.

He's standing beside the bed as close as he can get to me in his gray suit pants, the dark gray ones, which are unzipped, unbuttoned, and unbelted. My eyes move up his body: his legs, his crotch, his stomach, his chest, his face. I wouldn’t say he has an entirely pleasant look on his face.

“What?” He does smell good though. I’ll give him that.

“So what ring do you have for me?” It takes me a minute to realize what he’s even talking about.

“None of your fucking business.” I look back at my list. Start drawing columns and shit. I'm seriously not in the mood to play “Guess My Avoidance Behavior” right now.

“Fine.” He gives up and goes to the kitchen. I hear him open the refrigerator. I start making a list of the errands I have to run before I leave.

My cell rings again. It’s him. Mother fucker. I answer it.

“Very funny.”

“Well, you won’t talk to me.”

“I wonder why that is Brian.”

He won’t stay on topic. What a big surprise. “I like that ring you have for me.” He has never heard my special Brian Kinney ring tone before-until now.

“I’m getting ready to change it.” I am, that decision was made a few days ago.

“Why?”

“Because I think my mother is seeing somebody.” I lean over and look at him. He's standing in the kitchen with his back to our bedroom, focused intently on our conversation. I shake my head, grin, and give up. I guess there are some things that Brian and I can’t do face to face.

“I don’t follow.”

“I had dinner at my mom’s the other night. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“Well, when we were done and cleaning up and everything, she played that very same song and danced like an idiot while we were clearing the table.”

“Your mom is an Elvis freak? So what?”

“My mom is an Elvis freak when she’s horny, Brian.”

“Get out. Go Mother Taylor.”

“Shut up.”

“But I don’t see why I have to suffer just because your mom has found her mojo. That song is me. I am a little less conversation and a little more action.”

“Not today you’re not. Today you're a pain in the ass.” Sometimes it’s my job to point out the obvious.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” I think Brian's trying to make up for a lifetime of “no apologies” in twenty-four hours or something.

“Yeah, well sorry is bullshit and a waste of time. Time, incidentally, that I don’t have. So unless you have something to say that's going to move the plot along, I’m hanging up.”

I corner him, and he makes his move. “You didn’t tell me that you were leaving on Monday.”

“I just found out about fifteen minutes before you woke up Brian. I thought I was leaving in a month. But, in retrospect, it’s probably better this way because there's no way in hell that I could put up with you acting like this for four weeks.”

I lie back on the bed, pushing my list to the side. I can hear him breathing into the phone. I listen to his footsteps as they get closer to me. I should hang up, but I don’t. He doesn’t either.

“Well, I want to keep my ring.”

“No.” I already know what I'm changing it to, and I'm not going to tell him, even if he is lying beside me on the bed now.

“Can I have another Elvis song then? Burning Lovemaybe?”

“No.” He cannot have Burning Love. We're both lying on the bed staring at the ceiling talking to each other on our cell phones. This has got to be one of the stupidest things we've ever done.

“Heartbreak Hotel?”

“No.” Like I want to hear that every time he calls me. “I am about to change it to Walking on Broken Glass if you don’t shut the fuck up about it.”

“You know what Elvis song reminds me of you?”

This I can’t wait to hear. “I have no idea.” He turns his head on his pillow and raises his eyebrow at me. I get instant butterflies in my stomach every time he does that thing with his eyebrow, and he fucking knows it too. He’s doing it on purpose.

“Devil in Disguise.”

“Wow, that’s quite a compliment.” It is. It really is.

“You should be nice to me now and compliment me back.” Leave it to Brian to be subtle, especially when his eyes are locked on yours.

“What do you want me to say?” I might as well ask because he’ll just tell me, and then I can just say it, and we can hang up.

“Something really nice, like, ‘Brian, you are my Elvis.’”

“Um, that would be a really nice compliment, but I don’t know if I really feel that way about you right now.” God, that was so mean, but he totally deserves it. I’m such a bitch. “I don’t really think of you as my Elvis, more like my Fonzie. You know?”

He digests this information, doesn’t seem to like it that much.

“Is that right Sunshine?” I nod, scrunch my nose a little. I'm in way over my head. “Well, then, I suggest you take cover.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m getting ready to jump your shark.”

Finally. End of conversation. Cue the action.

It’s been a while since we wrestled like this. Oh fuck. He’s going to kick my ass. God knows where my cell phone just went. His knees fly between my legs and glue me spread eagle on the bed. He’s on top of me on all fours in a flash. Like I mind.

Advantage: Brian.

He starts tickling me. Jerk.

“Stop it, Brian. Stop it.” I try in vain to get out from under him. Hopeless. “I mean it. Fucking stop it.” He seems to be finally satisfied with my complete and total helplessness and quits assaulting me. I don’t trust him though; I know he’ll start back up the minute I let my guard down.

“You think I’m your Fonzie?” He rolls his lips inward and smirks at me and my stomach flips again. My body is tense with mistrust. I refuse to blink. I am smiling though, underneath him, like a complete idiot. I can’t stop. Maybe he's done tickling me.

“Well, you know how on Happy Days it was always kind of distracting how Fonzie could be the idol of all those kids when he was clearly so much older than they were?” I figure I’ll just go for broke.

“Taylor, you are on very thin ice right now.” I'm kind of mad that my dick is getting hard when I am trying to hold my own here. My dick is such a traitor.

“Yeah, well, I had a crush on him anyway.” It’s true. I did. I’m not proud of it, but I did. We can all thank TVLand for that. Brian grins at me, like I just made him the happiest Fonzie in the world. I feel so swoony inside. My body finally relaxes.

“Well, I do love motorcycles and lovesick teenagers who hang all over me.”

True. “And you have great friends who act like idiots sometimes.”

He's stopped listening to me, and I've stopped listening to myself. I don’t know if it was the motorcycles or the lovesick teenagers or what, but he's all over me. Happy days are here again.

“I haven’t fucked you on white sheets since I tracked your ass down in New York.” His words are breathy in my ear, and I welcome the warmth of his body on mine as he relinquishes his predatory 'king of the jungle' stance. I'm so ready for this.

“You were out of dark sheets. These were all you had left.” My words come out in between his attacks on my face.

“You put me to bed last night didn’t you? You tucked me in.”

I keep my lips close to his. He's so warm. “You were out cold. You slept on the couch while I put sheets on the bed. Do you remember that?” He can’t answer me for a while because my tongue is in his way.

“I remember that I was trying to take my boots off, and you wouldn’t let me.”

“Because there was glass all over the floor.”

“I guess I was Rage last night, you know, after you left and all….”

It takes a minute of kissing, sucking, nibbling, and pausing for him to realize that he just made me think of the movie, and L.A, and leaving again. And then I realize that he’s sorry he made me realize that, and then I feel everything I don’t want to feel right now. Now is a good time to forget.

I can tell by the look on his face that he wants to forget it too, that he’s trying to concentrate, to focus on just what we’re doing right here, right now. I should help him. I should try harder.

I try looking at him while he’s kissing me, but I can’t. And to be fair, he can’t really look at me either.

And that is when I realize that there is nothing more fragile than being loved by Brian Kinney, and that sometimes I just want him to break me.

His eyes open briefly right then and, I swear he feels my quandary without me even saying anything. The expression on his face has changed. I’m not the man who is going to leave him; I’m just the man he is getting ready to devour. He's made the transition. I wish I could make it too.

I feel him rise up off of me and hasten his pants off like they are on fire. I think his underwear just vanished. He discards my clothes like junk mail, in a way that makes me feel guilty for even owning any.

He presses me close to him and steals kisses from me before I can even offer them. Sometimes they are fast, feisty, drive-by kisses, and sometimes they are slow Gone with the Wind kisses that break my heart into a million pieces. I can’t leave this man. I just can’t.

I let myself melt into him. His hand travels down my back, on top of the crisp, white sheets. I moan a little into his neck, and he rewards me by letting his fingers glide down the crevice of my ass like he’s touching a very expensive crystal goblet. He molds the material to my body, making it tighter and tighter and tighter against my back, my ass, my thighs, his hand cupping my bottom. I can feel the warmth of his hand through the cotton, the possessive squeeze. Oh god, I’m going to miss that so much.

“You have no idea what you do to me Justin.”

His hand is moving again, tugging at folds he’s made, working it’s way underneath the covers.

He begins the process of gently preparing me, so much slower than I want, so much slower than I deserve. I feel him massaging my hole so softly that I don’t know if I want to scream or cry or just give him all of my money. He leaves it all alone, and I'm about to say something I’ll regret, but I can’t because that very same finger is in my mouth. Asshole. I suck on it harder than I’ve ever sucked on anything, and it's gone before I can finish, replaced by his lips, his tongue, and his words,

“I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”

I crush my face into the pillowcase and inhale. God, I love these sheets, this bed, this room. I love his hand running down my back again. I love the promise of knowing what’s coming next. I feel his left arm slide underneath my chest and pull me close to him. Fuck. This is what I want. My right hand reaches for my cock.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

My hand leaves the scene of the crime, but not before he tucks the empty condom wrapper in it.

I'm wrong; I'm not prepared for anything.

I'm not prepared to pine for that wide, familiar burn that rips through my body when Brian fucks me like this. I feel like he's chasing me off of the end of our bed, and I don’t want to get away, but I'm still running. Why am I still running?

He's bigger and stronger and faster than me, and I'm no match for him. My hands cling to the mattress at the head of the bed, my fingers digging into anything that will give way.

His hands grab my hips and pull me back in one swift move, and I feel his hot steam in my ear.

“You’re not going anywhere. Do you hear me, tight boy?”

God, I hope he’s right.

I push up on all fours in an effort to participate in some half-hearted way, and he laughs at me a little and smacks my ass.

“Don’t bother now, Sunshine. We’re almost done.”

I let my head fall onto my arms, and hold on for the home stretch. I should have never cut my hair. It would have really come in handy right now.

I offer him some sort of consolation prize and clench my ass muscles as an afterthought.

“Oh, now that was a really nice gesture. Oh, fucking Christ,” he falls on top of me, pushing every last inch of himself right through me. I lace my fingers through his and squeeze as he rides out every twitch, tingle, and syllable that is me. That's us. That's almost Monday. That's the next few minutes of breaths to catch, thoughts to organize, and mostly just sounds of silence.

“Justin?”

“Hmmm?” His hair is in my mouth.

“Can I be your Elvis now?”

I think about it for a minute, mostly just to make him suffer. Fair is fair.

“Okay, but only on one condition Brian.” After all, I actually have a negotiable position now; well, not right now. Right now, I’m still flat as a pancake.

“What condition?” He’s still Brian, always Brian, reticent to give up anything, even for a permanent piece of tight, extremely sore, blond boy ass.

“You can be my Elvis as long as you quit playing the part of Rage in real life. Okay?”

I start to wonder if he is going to agree to this because he doesn’t answer me right away. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Maybe what happened at the rest stop stays at the rest stop.

“Okay. Deal. I’ll take Elvis over Rage any day.”

“Then it’s settled. You can be my Elvis. We could shake on it, but I kind of can’t move here.” I guess we just fucked on it.

He lifts up a little so that I can breathe easier and nuzzles me before collapsing again.

“Justin?”

“What?”

“Thank you very much.” He thinks he’s really funny.

“Anything for the King, Brian.” He pulls out of me slowly and my reaction is audible. He tore through me, and he knows it, but there's no way in hell that I'm going to complain.

Too much paperwork.