Justin was so damn exhausted.

It was probably for the best; he didn’t have the energy to think about anything. Shooting was scheduled to begin in a week, and the set, which sprawled across the back lot, was not even close to completion. Tom, the Art Director, was running everyone ragged. Eighteen hour days were commonplace. Overnighters were not unheard of. Did any of these people sleep?

Justin pushed open the door of the tiny bungalow the studio had provided for him, not bothering to take off his clothes before falling onto his back on the bed. He glanced over at the tiny kitchenette crammed into the back corner of his room. Nah, forget food. Who had time or energy to eat?

Tom hated him. Well, he didn’t hate him so much as he resented the fact that the director seemed to defer more to Justin than to him, the few times Brett had shown up to check on progress.

“It’ll be done! It’ll be done!” Tom assured Brett, even though nothing was near done but for the alleyway in which the first scene, the assault and rescue, was to be shot. Brett had a frown stamped on his forehead as he toured through the back lot, noting the slow progress. There was a week left to pull it all together. The alleyway was perfect; but the second set, the loft - uh, Rage’s lair – wasn’t anywhere near completed. And shooting there was to begin shortly after the bashing scene.

“Yeah, it better be,” Brett clipped. Then he turned to Justin, and asked, “What do you think of Rage’s lair? Is it on target?” Justin had been waiting for Tom to finish sucking up to the director so he could hand over the materials list Tom had requested Justin research. He expected he would next be ordering supplies per Tom’s request, and had a very good idea of which materials were best. But he had found out the hard way not to do anything without Tom’s go-ahead. His job seemed to be doing whatever the Art Director told him to. And the goddamn micro-managing art director hated him. When Brett came down to the set, Justin tried to keep his head down, but Brett would invariably call him over.

Justin wasn’t quite sure how to handle his unique position on the set. He and Robin, the other Assistant Art Director, mostly ran errands for Tom, researched material, and pitched in to help build the actual sets when they could. To say nothing of getting Tom’s coffee, which he drank non-stop. No wonder it seemed like the guy would vibrate out of existence, or explode with nervous energy. All that caffeine. But, since Justin had actually designed the comic book, and Brett had made clear the film was to stick as close as possible to the original vision, whenever Brett showed up on the set, he would have Justin show him around, and Tom would lag in their steps, explaining the mechanics of the set’s construction, the cost estimates, and the projections for completion. But Brett would always turn to Justin, seeking his assessment of whether Tom’s work lived up to “their” vision.

Tom had issues with this.

Today was typical. Brett had left after complimenting Justin on his work and barking at Tom over the delay in the construction schedule. Tom had then snatched the materials list out of Justin’s hand, scowled, and said, “Fine, he wants the sets up faster but can’t hire me any more fucking workers? Robin!” Robin appeared, shooting a quick, worried look at Justin, who shrugged at her. “Where’s my fucking coffee? Go get me my usual, and not that cafeteria shit, go to Starbucks!” Justin had brought him cafeteria coffee earlier that day, and had been rewarded with a long, raving rant. Today, Tom wanted a triple shot, 2-pump hazelnut, caramel sauce, cinnamon sprinkle, extra-hot, soy, no-whip moch latte. Vente, of course. His drink order changed daily. Justin was pretty sure Tom didn’t actually like all these drinks, but he definitely loved fucking with the assistants.

“Uh, Tom, the cafeteria serves Starbucks coffee,” Robin informed him.

Which had been Justin’s point.

Tom glared at her. “Then the cafeteria’s switching the grounds and pocketing the difference, wouldn’t be the first time. Go to the fucking Starbucks down the street, and then get your ass back here.” Robin left, and Tom turned to Justin. “You’re going to help put up the set. Robin, too, get your ass over to the lair set.” He glanced down at the list. “Fuck, you forgot Rothman’s!”

“You didn’t tell me…” Justin began.

“Do I have to tell you everything!” Tom yelled. “Fine, I’ll call them myself, just go to work.”

The rest of the day was spent lifting walls into place, carrying pieces of furniture, painting walls, and setting up a platform.

Robin wasn’t at all sympathetic to Justin’s complaints. The one time they managed to sit down in a café and eat lunch together, she had simply laughed them away.

“Tom’s supposed to be the guy in charge,” she explained. “You got the director looking for your approval, of course Tom’s going to make your life shit when Brett ain’t around.”

Justin had picked at his salad. What there was of it. People didn’t seem to eat a lot here, at least, they didn’t at the café Robin had brought him to. “Yeah, but, I just… I don’t know. I guess I’m an idiot, I kind of expected, since I created Rage in the first place, that the art director would be more interested in what I had to say.”

“Yeah, but you’re an assistant, HIS assistant. Your place is not directing the director; it’s doing whateverthefuck Tom tells you. It doesn’t matter that you created the ‘vision.’” Her emphasis on “vision” was mocking, Justin noted with dismay. “These are his sets,” Robin continued, “not yours. In fact…” She leaned forward, shoving her plate aside. “…do you have any idea how many people out there want your job? I mean, people who have advanced degrees. People who have a hell of a lot more experience than you do. This just dropped in your lap! Maybe for good reason, I’m not gonna judge that, but you would never have gotten this job with your resume as is. You can learn a lot here. I know Tom’s hard to handle for even the most favored. But you can learn a lot, just focus on the positive.”

Justin figured she meant well. Barring the fact that he and Mikey had basically written the storyline, the entire creative effort of a movie was nothing like producing a comic book. And Justin had seen how writers were treated out here. “You’re right. I guess I just expected something different.”

Robin smirked in response. “What, the glamorous movie industry? It’s a business, just like anything else. I hate to tell you, this is as glamorous as it gets.”

Justin’s forearm and hand started aching after only four hours into the grueling work of raising the lair set. By the end of the day, he was painting the walls with left-handed brush work. And that was only the first coat; tomorrow would be a full day of the same. He would kill for a bath, but this tiny room the movie had supplied for him only had a shower. A tiny, cramped shower. He supposed he was fortunate to be put up at all, so that he had not had to scramble for housing. Not that he would have time to look for somewhere nicer to live, even if he wanted to. He lay on his back on the hard mattress, massaging his right arm with his left hand. Didn’t help. Sharp pains passed periodically through his numb fingers, and the muscles in his forearm cramped horribly. He could feel the twinges of beginning spasms. He would not say anything about this, though – what was he supposed to do, beg off heavy labor? No way. If he said anything, he’d look like he was trying to get out of work, that he couldn’t take the bullshit Tom dished out. So he would say nothing. But fuck, this hurt.

He missed Brian. He was tired, in pain, and he missed Brian with an ache that had lodged firmly in his gut.

Not that he would tell Brian this. Justin wasn’t sure if they were fighting or not, and he certainly wasn’t going to do anything to exacerbate as situation that might or might not be happening. What was certain, was that both he and Brian were insanely busy; something had come up with Brian’s Brown Athletics account, and god knew Justin barely had a free moment himself. When he did, he slept. If they were fighting, it was a cold war. It had started when Justin had informed Brian of the opportunity out in Hollywood. He had known that was going to cause trouble. But he had no idea how to get around it. So he’d just plowed through and hoped for the best. When in doubt, default.

Seeing that sketch on the wall of the loft’s bedroom, that picture of Brian that was his first art sale, and learning that Brian had been the purchaser all along, seeing it hanging in the bedroom, *their* bedroom… that had thrown him. Justin had seized on the lack of responsiveness when he had asked Brian why he had bought it. Maybe he should have been more sensitive. But he was tired of always worrying about Brian’s feelings. When was it going to be about his?

Still, he couldn’t forget that look of resignation that came over Brian’s face when Justin had finally broached the issue of their future. “Um, when I was out in California, uh, Brett asked me if I wanted to work for him, on the movie?” Justin had paused while Brian watched him and said nothing, just waited. Justin knew this tactic; he’d watched Brian use it a thousand times, but he’d been too nervous to counter with anything of his own but the truth, which just spilled out. “Anyway,” Justin continued, “he offered me that job of Assistant Art Director…” he trailed off, and looked over at the sketch. His stomach knotted more tightly, if that was possible.

Brian’s forefinger caught Justin’s jaw to pull his face back to look at Brian, imitating the very motion Justin had just used on him mere moments before. “It’s a good opportunity.”

“He asked me before you asked me to move in.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Brian dropped his hand onto the bed, watched Justin. “You’re thinking of moving to California, then?” The mask was in place, oh so calm. Watching, Waiting. His eyes were almost glazed, and not in a good way.

“No! Not moving, just… relocating. And just for a couple of months. For the duration of the movie shoot.”

“I see.”

Justin could imagine what Brian saw. “It’s only going to be for a couple of months. And it’s a great opportunity…”

“And lots of fresh starlet meat,” Brian tried to joke, leaning back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “When do you leave?”

Jesus, he already has me out the door, Justin thought, but he forced that thought back. It’s just Brian, he reminded himself, but the phrase had been repeated in his head so often that it had long lost meaning. Sure, it was just Brian to pretend he didn’t care. To accept reality, in Brian’s words. Justin could tell himself a thousand times that this didn’t mean that Brian didn’t care, but it didn’t tell him what Brian did feel.

“Next month sometime… the movie starts shooting in two months, but there’s stuff that needs to be done before that.”

“Ah. So you’ve already said yes.”

Shit. “I should have talked to you first.”

“It’s your life,” Brian shot back, getting up from the bed and crossing the loft to his desk. He picked up the cup of coffee and took a long swallow. The mask was back down and firmly fastened in place.

Justin got off the bed and followed Brian into the living area. “But it’s our life…”

“Apparently not.” Brian clicked mouse to restart his program, and stared at the computer screen.

Fuck, this was bad. “Don’t. Brian. Brian!”

Cool eyes looked up at him. “What?”

“Don’t shut me out.”

Brian pushed back from the computer, leaned back in the chair, and crossed his arms over his chest. He considered the young man in front of him. “No big deal. We’re not married, you don’t owe me anything, we’re not joined at the hip. It’s a good opportunity for you.”

“Then why are you acting so pissed?”

“I’m not!” Hearing himself, Brian bit his lip. That came out more forcefully than it should have for the effect he no doubt intended. He uncrossed his arms, and gestured to Justin to come over. When Justin approached, Brian reached up to take him by the hips, and sat him down on his lap. “Fine… maybe I’m a little… surprised. I’m not upset with you. It could be a good career move. Or maybe you just want to fuck Connor James again?”

Justin wrinkled his nose, “Hm, not twice. He might get attached and never leave me alone.”

“I know what that’s like,” Brian grumbled. Justin punched him lightly on the shoulder.

“Maybe I just want my shot at Tom Cruise…”

“Everyone knows he’s not gay,” Brian answered.

“He hasn’t met me yet.”

Brian snorted a laugh. He turned Justin to straddle him, then reached up to pull at Justin’s neck so their lips could meet. And then they weren’t talking anymore.

Now, lying on his awful bed in L.A. while cradling his aching arm, Justin wished he had pushed Brian harder. He always let him off so easily; he never tried to push him anymore. He had pushed like hell when they first met. What had happened since then? Justin had begun to wonder about that, he felt so fucking lost lately… and now there was no time to think at all . Even less time to contact Brian, to email, to phone. Anything.

They’d spoken on the phone only a couple of times since he’d been out here, but not about anything important. Justin wasn’t about to admit that he missed living with Brian. His eyes closed, and before he drifted off to sleep, he allowed himself the luxury of remembering the fierce fuck session in the chair that had ended that half-assed conversation, and memories of Brian saying, once they’d caught their breaths, “You know, if you move in here before you go to California, you’ll have a home to look forward to coming back to…” and his own whispered, “yes…”

Justin’s arm throbbed. He took a very deep breath, willed the tears that threatened back, back to the depths. He couldn’t cry. He had to sleep. He already felt bad enough.

***

“Brian? I have to talk to you.”

Brian glanced up from his computer to see Ted hovering in the doorway of his office. He saw the look on his accountant’s… well, accountant/account assistant’s face. “That is becoming my least favorite sentence of all time,” he muttered to himself.

“I’m sorry… may I come in?”

“Yeah, Ted, just a second.” Brian closed out his email, shutting down the message he was trying to write to Justin. The “save draft?” message blinked for his attention. He hesitated, and finally clicked “No.” Everything he wanted to say came out sounding stupid. And fuck if he even knew what he wanted to say. He had written emails that just recounted how his day was going, but those sounded dumb too. Fuck, he wanted Justin home. Fuck all this communication shit. Full body contact was so much better. How long was that damn movie going to take? “Okay, Ted, what’s up?”

Ted sat down in the chair across from his desk and twitched.

“Ted…”

“Yeah, uh, I have to talk to you about Drew Boyd.”

“What about him?”

“Uh…”

“Ted. I do not have all day. Fucking spit it out.”

“Emmett had an affair with him.”

Ted looked on, aghast, as Brian burst out laughing. “No, Brian, I’m not kidding. That guy… he apparently, uh, likes a little bit on the side. Boy bits.”

Brian rubbed his hands over his face. He did not need this today. Or any other day for that matter.

“I had no idea, I swear, I didn’t know until Emmett told me. He ditched him, though, for being a closet case…”

“Well, thank god he’s a closet case! What, was Emmett trying to work his fairy godmother magic and turn the ripped linebacker into a princess?”

“Isn’t he a quarterback?”

“WHAT THE FUCK, TED!!!”

“Sorry…” Ted knew this was going to be bad, but he hadn’t expected Brian to be quite so pissed off. Well, yeah he did, he had just hoped Brian wouldn’t yell at him. “It’s over, though, I just thought you should know.”

“You’re damn right I should know, he’ll have to be replaced. Any ideas?”

Ted could not figure out the tone of voice, was that sarcasm? Would Brian entrust him with finding another cover boy for Brown? “Uh…

“Yeah, uh. Guess that’s no. Fuck.”

“Look,” Ted tried, “if it helps any, Emmett told me that Drew said he’d never risk his reputation by coming out of the closet. Too much money riding on it, apparently.”

“Thank god for small favors,” Brian muttered.

“But, well, since Brown’s so pleased with this guy, and actually brought up keeping him longer than the original contract, I figured you’d want need to know, so we can avoid the risk of scandal that comes with him.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Not so dumb, Schmidt. In the meantime, we’re just going to have to ride out the next couple months, and hope that Boyd is discreet. You do know what this could do to Kinnetik’s reputation?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m telling you. And nobody else.”

“Well, tell Honeycutt to keep his mouth shut.” Fuck. Thank God Brown was in Chicago. And Brian would have heard if word was out in Pittsburgh, so Boyd had been smart enough to remain under the radar – or gaydar, as it were. Still, he had bad enough judgment to get involved with Emmett, who was not exactly discreet, especially when he was pissed. Not that Brian minded that under ordinary circumstances, hell, he admired Emmett’s fuck-’em-all attitude. But this was business. It had nothing to with his personal opinions, his preferences. It had to do with reality. The average heterosexual American guy would not buy sports gear from his queer brethren. And while the average heterosexual woman would be more likely to buy sports gear for her guy from a hot guy regardless of orientation, they were not the market, and anyway, women hated cheating dicks. Hell, nobody ran to buy products from them. It was just a bad bet all around. Maybe he could have worked with Boyd’s homosexuality; Brown would never have gone for it, but it might have played in specialized markets. But the closeted cheating of a married liar? No way, no one, nowhere.

“We’re going to have to ride out the next couple months and just hope it all works out.” Ted echoed Brian’s words.

“I don’t just let things work out on their own,” Brian growled, unconsciously grabbing and squeezing the stress ball on his desk (Justin had brought it for him just before he’d left, saying, “Since you won’t have me to take your stress out on…”).

“Unfortunately, I’m not sure we have a choice,” Ted returned. While Brian tried to figure out when Kinnetik had become a “we” endeavor, Ted continued, “Here’s what I thought. I figured I could come up with a selection of replacements and then pass them by you. After you narrow them down to two, we’ll hire an investigator to scope them out and then you can decide who you prefer, and we can approach one or the other. We can’t do much about Drew but hope he doesn’t fuck up while he’s on our billboards, but we can try to prevent it from happening again. And, maybe, you could propose to Brown that we have a rotating representative, to keep the appeal fresh. After Drew’s contract is over, we just seamlessly replace him with someone who’s not using his wife as a beard. Or, you know, at least someone whose wife is okay with it.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. Ted had obviously thought this out, and had come up with a proposal of his own that was well planned before he even approached Brian’s office. Not that Brian would ever tell Ted he was impressed by this. Instead, Brian just rolled his eyes and shook his head before looking down at the man sitting across from him (Brian’s guest seats were two inches shorter than his desk chair). “Yeah, fine, pull something together. You got a week to show me what you come up with. And Ted,” he added as Ted rose to leave. “You should know I’m aware of how big a mess this could still become. I’m expecting you to keep it under control.”

“You want me to talk to him about this?”

“Of course not, that’s my job.” At Ted’s look of resignation, Brian added, “It’ll play better, coming from me. That way, he’ll feel you’re on his side while I’m the angry dickhead.”

“Good cop/bad cop?” Ted mused, his eyes lighting up.

“I always did like those handcuffs,” Brian shot back, and he grinned as Ted groaned.

“Yeah, that’s definitely your thing,” Ted replied. He got up from his seat and picked up the files, getting ready to leave.

“Oh, and, Ted?”

Ted turned back.

“Find me some alternatives in California. L.A. area, if you can.”

Ted bit his lips to keep from smiling before he went back to work. First on his To Do list: Kill Emmett.

***

“Oh, hey, Brian, come on in.”

Brian stepped into the foyer of Drew’s house, and said, “I’m not staying. In fact, I would have saved time and just called, but this is not a conversation I want to risk on recordable media. There’s no one here, is there?”

Drew stopped, his wooden face becoming stiffer, if possible. He paled. “Just me.”

“I see you understand where I’m going with this,” Brian continued. “Neither Brown Athletics nor I would appreciate any of your extracurricular activities getting out while you’re fronting our campaign. So you will restrain yourself for the duration, and keep your dick out of anything that isn’t your wife. Otherwise, you won’t have a dick to stick into whatever you like when all this is done. Are we clear?”

Drew stared into the hard eyes of the man standing across from him. “Frankly, Kinney, I’m surprised you’re so… judgmental about this. I know your reputation.”

“Yes, that’s the point, isn’t it? I’m not in the closet, billing myself as the all American het sports star.” He turned to leave, and threw over his shoulder, “And, Boyd, I’m not kidding. If I find out you’re fucking around anytime in the next six months, you will be minus your junk.”

“Six months? The campaign’s hardly two more!”

“Extra four months for safe distance. Then you can do whateverthefuck you want.” Brian slammed out, heading down the long staircase to his car. Damn it, what a day. All he wanted… but he couldn’t go bury himself in blonde boy forgetfulness, now could he? Fuck, he needed a drink. A lot of them.

***

Michael found Brian later at Woody’s with a glass of whiskey in front of him. He slid onto the stool next to his best friend.

“Oh, hey, Mikey,” Brian slurred. Michael raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t seen Brian this drunk in a while.

What’s up, Brian? Bad day?”

“Nah, my days are just peachy.” Brian drained the shot glass, and gestured to the bartender. “How’re the Huxtables?”

“We’re fine… Hunter just got his report card. He’s doing really well. He says he wants to beat Justin’s score when he takes his SAT’s.”

Brian snorted. “That’ll be the day.”

“I don’t know, he’s pretty smart. Speaking of Boy Wonder, have you heard from him?”

“Yeah, phone, he’s busy-busy.” He almost smiled, remembering the phone sex from the night before. Unfortunately, their actual conversations were much less satisfying. Work. That seemed to be about it for both of them. Brian needed some contact. Speaking of which… his eye was caught by a promising looking trick across the bar. If he could just stand up now. He tried, and stumbled, then sat back down hard. Well, shit.

“Guess that’s out,” Michael said dryly, having followed Brian’s line of sight. “Justin should be happy to hear you’re too drunk to fuck.”

“You won’t tell him, would you?”

Wow, Michael thought, he really is drunk. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Good.” Brian put his hand around his glass, but didn’t lift it. Too drunk to drink, he thought, I’m not supposed to be abusing myself this way, anyway.

“I’m going out there next week,” Michael offered, “to see the start of the shoot, first scene. Justin said the set’s coming along nicely.”

“If you talked to him and know all this shit, why’d you ask me?”

“I wanted to know how you’re doing.”

“Oh, I’m just peachy.” Brian managed to get the amber liquid up to his lips. There, he thought. Just peachy. Fuck you all.

“He seems to be doing well.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Think he’ll want to stay in California?”

Brian did not want to talk about this. Shut up, Mikey, he thought. “He says he’s coming back.”

“Yeah, but can you imagine? Hollywood, big success. Would you come back?”

Brian closed his eyes. He wished he could close his ears.

Michael was too caught up in the fantasy playing out in his head. “I sure wouldn’t. If I didn’t have Ben and Hunter, I’d go work for Brett too. Make a shitload of money, have my name up in lights over movies. Hey, I’m going to have my name up on the screen! Well, it’ll be on the credits that nobody sits through, but shit, who knows how far Justin could go, he could even become a star, he’s sure good looking enough, well, he’s not you, but he’s not…”

“Shut the fuck up!” Brian exploded. The conversation around them lulled as Michael’s mouth dropped open. Brian realized that was a bit harsh. And loud. He lowered his voice, but continued anyway. “Why the fuck are you bringing up shit that might never happen? He says he’s coming back.”

“Yeah, well, there’s what Justin says, and then there’s what he does.”

Brian stared at Michael, hard. Then he laughed. “Okay. So why do you think I shouldn’t believe him?”

Michael answered, softly, “I just… I dunno, I guess I want to remember what he’s capable of. So you don’t get hurt. Again.”

The bartender set another drink in front of Brian. He hadn’t asked for it. He stared into the glass, and spoke again, hoping Michael was listening, but not really caring if he was. “You know, you of all people know why it’s so fucking hard to keep my shit together through this, but I’m doing it, for once in my goddamn life I’m actually trusting something besides my own instincts. You know how fucked up this is to me? I’m about to go fucking insane, and all you want me to do is doubt him. Doubt anything that’s not you.” Brian glanced over, to see Michael staring at him, for once not responding. Brian went on, “I know you’re there for me, Mikey, you know I love you for that, but with Justin it’s…” he stopped, searched for the words, shook his head impatiently, and started again. “You couldn’t handle all my shit, Michael. You couldn't handle half of what I've dumped on him, but he can, he can handle it, it’s fucking unbelievable. I love you, Michael, but you’d break, but with him… And you keep wanting me to keep him at a distance? He’s already at a distance and it sucks. But he said he’d be back, so what else am I supposed to do? No, seriously, tell me what else am I supposed to do?”

“Holy shit, Brian…” Michael paused, watched his friend put his hands on the bar, place his forehead on them. “I am so sorry, I had no idea… I’m sorry, you know I wouldn’t hurt you, I just worry…”

Brian lifted his head, and looked over at Michael, who looked like he’d been punched. Thank god it hadn’t gone that far, this time. Michael meant well, but his intentions sometimes got lost in the delivery. “Yeah, I know you do. Stop worrying. Have a drink.”

But Michael pressed on. “I had no idea…”

Brian relented. “Well, shit, I’m surprised you don’t. Your mother figured it out a long time ago, I figured she’d have gotten on some PA system somewhere and made an announcement.”

“Yeah, but you know I never listen to her.”

They both laughed.

“Hey,” Michael said when they’d calmed down. “Let me drive you home?”

“Yeah, okay. You can have that drink at my place. Hey, just, don’t tell him or I’ll have to kill you. Right after I kill Emmett,” Brian muttered, as he stumbled off the stool.

Michael shook his head. That these two were together at all was nothing short of a miracle. But he guessed that’s what Brian had been trying to tell him. And Brian was wrong; Michael was holding up just fine under Brian’s abuse. At least he knew that Brian was aware of why Michael was concerned; that’s all he asked for.