Saturday, February 21, 2004

Justin

Brian sat on the sofa staring at the window for a while as I fixed myself some breakfast, we didn't talk. After a few minutes he got up and went to change his clothes, I figured he'd be heading for the gym. I wondered what he'd say to Michael about last night. Probably nothing. In Brian's eyes, Saint Michael can do no wrong.

Well, that's not always been the case. I remember the time Brian punched Michael in the face, it was at Mel and Lindsay's anniversary last year, a week after the Rage party. Everybody had been shocked, especially Michael, but naturally he and Brian made up right away. Mostly I can understand and accept the special relationship those two have, I only get upset when Brian takes Michael's part against me. And Michael's never stopped being against me.

Oh, he tries. And he pretends to like me. Superficially we get along okay, but Michael's never forgiven me for walking out on Brian, and whenever he can dig at me, he does. Like last night. I knew they had plans to go out and I was okay with it. When I heard the news that Lindsay's officially pregnant, I knew damned well that Brian would start fucking around immediately and I was okay with that too. Well, not okay, but resigned. Resigned's the best I can do.

But when Brian hadn't come home by three o'clock I started getting worried. There was no telling whether he would have gotten totally wasted, and if he'd left Michael and gone off with a trick, who would drive him home? I began to picture all kinds of grisly accidents - once you've been in a major car crash it's not something you easily forget. By three-thirty I couldn't stand it anymore and called Michael. After several rings, Ben's voice answered groggily, which was a relief - I thought that meant Michael wasn't home either. But a second later, Michael came on the line.

"Brian's not home yet," I told him, not bothering to apologize for the late call, "Wasn't he with you tonight?"

"For a while," he answered, then asked, "Are you checking up on him?" I could hear the tone of voice he uses when he wants to dig at me.

Trying to keep my own voice noncommittal I said, "It's late and I worry about him driving if he's messed up." When Michael said nothing, I asked, "Was he messed up?"

"A little," Michael admitted. There was a long pause, then he added, "But you don't have to worry about him."

"Did he go home with you?" I pictured Brian passed out on the sofa at Michael and Ben's apartment. I hoped it was uncomfortably lumpy.

"No." Just 'no,' flat out, but leaving something carefully unsaid.

Fuck, just as I suspected. I wanted to hang up but I needed to ask, "Was Brian sober enough to drive?"

"No. Not really. But somebody else was driving."

"So Brian's with a trick, big surprise." Nonchalant. I had no desire to give Michael the satisfaction of knowing I was pissed off. "Thanks. Sorry to bother you."

"It wasn't a trick."

"Huh?"

"It wasn't a trick," he repeated. "It was that guy that Brian used to date, what's his name? Rick?"

Speechless, I struggled to say something, anything.

"You remember him? That gorgeous young blond guy?"

There was no way I could answer Michael, no way I could fake unconcern when I could hardly breathe. I pulled the phone away from my ear and just looked at it for a minute. Michael's voice was still mumbling something in the background but I couldn't hear it. Didn't want to hear it. Instead, I clicked the phone off and laid it down carefully on the table.

I have to stop remembering last night, my anger at Brian and Michael is giving me a headache. Shaking my head now to clear it, I put bread in the toaster and retrieve jam from the fridge.


Brian

"I knew it!" Michael exclaims, "I knew he tells you things behind my back. And he's a fucking liar!"

"Liar?" I'm confused. And I want to defend Justin - he doesn't talk about Michael at all, but Michael will never believe that no matter how many times I tell him. Now I repeat, "Justin's a liar? You didn't tell him about Rick?"

"Of course I did! But he's lying when he says I called him, HE called ME. Checking up on you!"

"What time did he call?"

"How the fuck do I know?" Michael grabs another stack of Spiderman comics from the box at his feet and shoves them in a bin beneath the front windows, then glares at me again. "Three-thirty, four o'clock, I don't remember."

"Well," I say reasonably, "I suppose he was worried. But did he ask you who I was with, or did you volunteer that information?" I can't keep a tinge of bitterness out of my voice, Michael hears it and narrows his eyes.

"Don't third-degree me, Brian, I'm not going to be the fall guy just because you can't keep your dick in your pants whenever some blond kid comes on to you."

Annoyed, I can't resist saying, "Michael, I wouldn't care if you told him about Rick to spite me, but that's not why you did it. You wanted to upset Justin. Didn't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Michael picks up the empty box and takes it with him behind the counter. Without looking at me, he growls, "I only told him because he was worried that you were driving around wasted, so I told him you weren't driving." When I say nothing, Michael glances at my face, reading skepticism there no doubt, so he adds, "Next time, ask me to cover for you, if you want me to lie."

Ignoring the bullshit, keeping my voice calm and reasonable, I start to say, "But - " then stop abruptly, shake my head and turn to go.

"But what?"

I push away my annoyance, go behind the counter and drape my arm around Michael's shoulders. "Mikey, I'm asking you - again - to back off Justin."

He squirms away, shakes off my arm. "I've got to concentrate on the cash register now," he mutters, "Before I can open up. And I'm not going to discuss this anymore."

That's enough for me too, I'm sick of being put in the middle. Staring at the floor, I take a deep breath and say quietly, "Michael - don't make me choose."

"What?"

He heard me. Without looking at him, I turn and march to the door, yank it open; I pull too hard, the bell over the door goes CLANK-CLANK-CLANK! and the sound repeats over and over in my head as I stride off down the street ignoring Michael, who has followed me to the open door and calls after me, "What? What? What?"



Sunday, February 22, 2004

Debbie

I should have known it was too good to be true, everybody being available for a family Sunday dinner, usually, some folks have other plans so it’s seldom we get a full house nowadays. Everybody shows up all right, but it doesn’t take long to figure out that half of them are feuding with the other half and things are pretty tense. Michael and Ben arrive first, Ben’s helping me in the kitchen when Brian shows up – alone. He walks in, walks right past Michael sitting on the couch, and comes into the kitchen, gives me a kiss, something he usually doesn’t do without a gun to his head – then he pulls out a chair and sits down at the table. I glance into the living room, expecting Michael to join us, but suddenly he jumps up off the sofa and marches loudly up the stairs.

“What’s that all about?” I ask Brian, not really expecting an answer. He just shrugs. “And where’s Sunshine, didn’t he come with you?”

“I don’t know if he’s coming or not.”

“You don’t know? Why don’t you know?”

“Haven’t talked to him today,” he shrugs again as if that’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Why haven’t you talked to him?”

“Hey Brian, want a beer?” Vic interrupts, putting a hand on my shoulder and squeezing just a little too hard.

Then the door opens and Justin comes in carrying a bottle of wine, he’s so thoughtful, never empty handed, he gives me a hug and when he pulls away I see his eyes slide over my shoulder.

“Hey,” Brian says and Justin mumbles “Hey” before moving quickly into the kitchen and offering to help Ben, who’s creating some kind of exotic salad dressing.

So, there’s something going on there, too.

Then the girls and Ted and Emmett arrive at the same time and I lose track of the boys in the greetings and congratulations and Gus screeching for his daddy. Mel puts him down and he runs straight into Brian’s outstretched arms. I bet Brian’s relieved that at least somebody likes him today.

We’re busy dishing up the food and everybody’s taking places at the table when Michael comes back downstairs and pulls out a chair. Eventually, the chatter dies down as plates are heaped full - well, a glance at Brian shows his plate's empty except for a tiny mound of salad which he moves around and around with a fork. He catches me looking at him and stabs a piece of lettuce and shoves it in his mouth.

"Since when don't you eat my chicken marsala?"

Brian chews and swallows, then says, "Too fattening, I'm on a diet."

"Bullshit," I throw at him, "You're thinner than you've been in years. If you're really dieting, it's time to stop."

Melanie laughs then, loud and long, everyone turns to look at her. "Brian's been 'dieting' all right - if you call doing without something, dieting."

"Mel," chimes in Lindsay, "Don't."

"Don't what?" I ask, my head swiveling around to peer at everyone at the table - everyone's as curious as I am. Well, except Brian, who's frowning, and Justin, who's staring at his plate.

"Mel," Lindsay repeats, "We promised."

Brian's still frowning at Melanie, then he leans back in his chair. "Women have no honor," he snorts, crossing his arms on his chest.

If he's trying to goad Melanie, it works. "Big fucking deal, it was the least you could do for Lindsay and Gus, were you expecting some medal of honor?"

"What are you talking about?" I demand, I can't stand secrets.

Lindsay murmurs, "Some things are private."

"Not in this family," Ted pipes up.

Nodding agreement, I add, "And not with half of you mad at the other half. Let's clear the air, then we can all relax and enjoy this dinner I spent all fucking day cooking."

There's silence for a minute, then Melanie tosses her head and flicks hair out of her eyes. “We asked Brian to be monogamous for three months, for obvious safety reasons. Like I said, big fucking deal.”

“Brian monogamous?” Emmett bursts out, ‘For three months?” and “No fucking way,” Michael exclaims, and Ted sputters, “I don’t believe it – that’s impossible!”

Brian’s glaring at Mel and she’s laughing in his face when suddenly Justin leaps up so fast his chair tips over and falls to the floor behind him with a loud crash, everyone goes silent as Justin turns away and we watch as he hurries through the living room, grabs his jacket from the closet and he’s out the door, slamming it behind him.

Brian's look at Mel ought to drop her dead in her tracks, at least she’s no longer laughing, then he follows behind Justin, grabbing his own jacket as he goes out the door.

“Oh, Mel, how could you?” Lindsay sighs.

“What?” Melanie doesn’t get it, obviously neither do Michael, Ted, and Emmett, who are still babbling on and on, marveling at the miracle of a monogamous Brian like it’s a loaves and fishes kind of thing. Glancing at Ben I see that he gets it, and Vic puts a hand on my arm, maybe to stop me from giving Melanie a tongue-lashing. Well, tough, she deserves it, and nobody ever accused me of going easy on folks who act stupid.

“Shame on you,” I tell her to her face; hell, that’s mild for me. They all stop talking to stare at me.

“Since when do you take Brian’s side?” Mel demands, she’s mad.

“I’m not taking Brian’s side, I’m thinking of Justin,” I snap back at her. “Don’t you see how you’re all making him feel – like as if Justin can never be enough for Brian?”

“Well – he can’t,” she snaps back, “I don’t see what – “

“Rubbing Sunshine’s nose in it, and – “

“Oh come on, Ma,” Michael joins the ruckus, “If Justin’s not used to it by now, he better get used to it, Brian’ll never change.”

“He’s changed a fucking lot,” Vic says mildly.

“Not that much,” Michael insists. “The minute he heard that Lindsay’s pregnant, it was back to business as usual.”

Aha. “So that’s why Brian and Justin are hardly speaking.” Then I think for a minute. “Well, that’s one mystery solved. But how come Brian’s mad at you?”

“Who says he’s mad at me?” Michael asks, but he’s looking away. “Can we get back to eating dinner now? Everything’s cold.”

“Stick it in the microwave,” I growl at him.

And I don’t mean his dinner plate.



Brian

“Justin, wait.” He’s got a head start and he’s opening his car door before I catch up with him. He hasn’t heard me, when I grab his arm he jumps and stares at me open-mouthed.

“Justin, I – “

He turns around then and stands like a statue; waiting.

“Justin, I – “

He’s still waiting.

Fuck. “Justin, I’m – sorry.” Christ, I almost choke on it.

“What?”

No, I won’t say it again. “You heard me,” I insist and wait, dropping my hand from his arm, shoving my hands in my pockets.

Finally, he shrugs his shoulders. "And so what? You're sorry, and so what?"

We just stare at each other, and I realize I'm getting angry. "I never go after people," I remind him, "And I just did. I never apologize, and I just did. That ought to count for something."

After a moment he nods. "I'm honored." I hear the bitterness, and actually, I don't blame him.

"And for what it's worth, I reamed Michael out for the way he handled things."

Justin raises his eyebrows. "You told him he should have covered for you?"

"You know that's not what I fucking mean. And we both know why he told you about. . ." A shiver reminds me that it's fucking cold, I pull on my jacket. "And he's not going to do it again."

Shaking his head, Justin contradicts me. "It will happen again, Brian, it's been happening since the first night we met. He'll never stop hating me and you know it."

"I told him - " I stop right there; I never talk about Michael and Justin to the other. But maybe this time I have to. Looking Justin squarely in the eye, I repeat, "I told him - not to make me choose."

He's surprised. "Really?" I just keep looking at him, and I see a tiny smile begin to turn up the corners of his mouth. "You really said that to him?" he asks again, and I nod.

"Really."

The tiny smile becomes a grin, then Justin moves in close and slides his arms around my waist under my jacket. My arms go around him with a tight grip, I don't want him to get away. And I don't want him to ask me but I know he will, so I beat him to the punch.

"You, you little shit," and I push my face against his, our lips slide together, his breath is warm and tastes like garlic bread. After our kiss, I tell him, "I'm hungry now. Shall we go back in and get it over with?"

"Get what over with - dinner, or the inquisition?"

"At Deb's is there a difference?"



Debbie

To everyone's surprise, Brian and Justin come back into the house, hang up their jackets in the silence that's fallen over everyone and return to their places at the table, both acting as if nothing happened.

"You boys make up?" I demand.

Brian gives me his raised eyebrows snotty look and says, "Please pass the chicken."

"Answer the question first."

Brian tries to outstare me but it's a game he's never been able to win. Then he glances around the table at all the other faces also waiting. He frowns and sighs, but turns to Justin and slips an arm around his shoulders. Justin leans into him and they kiss.

"There's your answer, sis," Vic chuckles, everybody relaxes and goes back to eating. There's a lot more I want to find out, but I know when to keep my mouth shut.



Justin

Brian gets home first and parks on the street, he almost always saves the garage space for me. He’s waiting by the elevator and I join him in silence, we get in and I reach over to push the button.

“Don’t stop at two,” Brian says, “Come back home with me.”

My hand hesitates over the buttons and he reaches around me, pushes four, the elevator starts creaking upward.

“I want to sleep in my place tonight,” I tell him, marveling that I have a place of my own.

“Okay,” he murmurs, pulling me into his arms and leaning his forehead against mine, “But let’s fuck first.”

“I don’t want to fuck.” We’re pressed tight together, staring eyeball to eyeball.

“Really?” Brian almost-laughs, rubbing his hard cock against mine. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” I answer a bit breathlessly, “I don’t have to fuck every time my dick gets hard.”

That stops him. He pulls his face away, frowning. “You’re still mad.” It’s rhetorical so I don’t have to answer.

The thing is, I am still mad. I understand Brian, I understand why he did it, and I’m more impressed than I have any intention of telling him, that he apologized. But I’m not convinced that it won’t happen again tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month.

“I told you I won’t see him again.” He unlocks the door and I follow him into the loft.

“I’m not mad about Rick,” I say to his back, then I correct myself, “I mean, of course, I’m mad about Rick. But he’s not the problem.”

Brian turns around to face me, we’re standing by his desk making no move to take off our jackets. “Justin,” he says, studying my face, “I don’t do these kinds of conversations. You know that. So,” he takes a deep breath, “Just tell me what the problem is, and I’ll fix it.”

“The problem is. . .” Am I really going to tell him? Because what’s the point, he can’t fix this problem.

“What?” Brian’s patience, never very great to begin with, is running out. “Just fucking tell me, can you do that? Instead of – “

“The problem is, you feel trapped. Have you any idea how fucking insulting that is?”

He opens his mouth to say something, I don’t know what, but I cut him off.

“Do you have any idea how it feels to know that you think of me as just another responsibility hanging around your neck, dragging you down?”

“That’s bullshit!” Brian’s face is flushed, “I never said that.”

“You don’t need to. And as long as you feel trapped, you’ll do whatever it takes to make yourself feel free.”

He’s really angry, Brian seldom shows his feelings so openly. “Do not fucking psychoanalyze me,” he says, his quiet voice belied by his red face, his flashing eyes. “Don’t think you can pigeon-hole me, put me in a box, do not think you can fucking PREDICT me!” He’s almost shouting now.

That’s enough for me; I turn away and go right back out the door and down the steps. I wanted to get my new sketchbook and a bottle of water, but I can’t be in the loft another minute.

As I’m digging out my key I hear the loft door slam shut two floors above me, and the echo fills the hallway as I hurry into the new apartment and struggle not to slam my own door in return. I’ve just changed my clothes and have settled on the sofa with a paperback novel when I hear Brian coming down the stairs – of course, I know his tread and he’s moving pretty fast. Setting down the book, I walk over to the door, ready to pull it open.

But Brian’s footsteps don’t stop on the landing; instead, he continues down, and I hurry to my window to peer out at the street just as Brian emerges from the foyer and pulls out his keys to unlock the jeep. He’s going out dancing. And tricking. No matter what he says, Brian’s predictable. So why am I surprised? And why does it still hurt so much?

Plopping down on the sofa, I pick up my book and try to concentrate. A few minutes later I’ve tossed down the book and picked up a sketchpad. A few minutes after that, I’m climbing the stairs to the loft. I want to watch tv, and it’s a safe bet Brian won’t be home for hours. Or maybe not till morning. There’s a movie on Showtime I’ve been wanting to see, and I just get snuggled down on the sofa with a Coke and a bag of Cheetos when suddenly the door of the loft is pushed open and I whip my head around to stare over my shoulder.

It’s Brian, and for a moment I think maybe he's brought a trick home, but no, he’s alone. And he’s carrying something – it looks like. . . no, it can’t be. . .



Brian

Justin’s sprawled out on the sofa watching tv, a bag of Cheetos in his hand. “Now who’s predictable?” I drawl casually as I walk into the living room.

I wait while he stands up and walks close to me. “I thought you went out,” he says, “I heard you leave, so I – “

“I did go out.”

“What’s that?” he tilts his head, nodding at the ridiculously romantic bouquet of dark pink roses I’m clutching in my hand, feeling like an Edwardian suitor come a-calling.

Shaking my head at my own folly, I stare at the flowers, feeling nothing short of amazed. "I don't know."

"Brian," he murmurs, smiling slightly as he comes closer, "Why'd you bring me flowers?"

"I don't know," I say again, then I feel my mouth turn up in an answering smile. "Okay," I answer grudgingly, "Because I want you to stop being mad. Because I want you to sleep here tonight. Because I want to fu- " With an effort, I stop myself and lower my voice. "Because I want to make love to you. Because. . ."

"Brian." He's smiling into my eyes.

"When are you going to stop me?" I demand, clearing my throat. "If I have to go on any longer, I'll puke."

Justin takes the flowers from my hand, I've been gripping them so hard the stems are wilted. "Thank you," he says, holding the bouquet to his face to sniff the sweet fragrance.

"So," I clear my throat again and pull off my jacket. "This romance shit - is it working?"