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Chapter 2:


Melanie came down the stairs, barely stifling a yawn, and paused at the landing to watch her partner/lover/better half (much better, she sometimes admitted, but only to herself) page through the colorful brochure she and Justin had designed to send to potential buyers and collectors - to whet their interest in his upcoming exposition.

But this was, apparently, not just an idle review, as Lindsey was busily scribbling on a yellow pad, taking notes on something.

"What's up?" asked Melanie, as she descended the last three steps.

"Just jotting down a few points."

Melanie lifted one quizzical eyebrow. "What kind of points?"

Lindsey did not look up to meet her partner's dark eyes. "Just . . . points."

Melanie pulled the brochure from Lindsey's fingers, and thumbed through the bright, glossy pages. She skipped over a brief bio of the artist, and a few reproductions of favorable reviews; skipped over a photo of Justin and a synopsis of the gallery and its history; skipped over a couple of pages displaying a selection of impressionist works, distorted visions of familiar objects rendered from strange perspectives. Compelling and stark and arresting, but impersonal - almost cold. Melanie kept scrolling through, until she came to a portrait - a face barely etched against shadows, a not-quite-profile rendered in dark values. Then she looked up and saw the shadows move in Lindsey's eyes.

"This one," she said, tapping her finger against a distinctive chin.

She turned more pages, until she came across a slender shadow limned against a scintillant light, a silhouette of dark hair against darker gloom.

"And this one."

More paging, more images, and then . . . a face. Pale, unfinished, vague. Unmistakable.

"And this one, most of all." Then she leaned forward and took the tablet from Lindsey's hand and saw immediately that she was right.

Her smile was just slightly smug. "How much is he willing to pay for them?"

Lindsey sighed. "No limits. Only . . ."

Melanie's smile shifted, touched with a wisp of sadness. "No names." It was not a guess.

"Right. No names."

"Any more?"

Lindsey nodded. "Just one, but it's not in the brochure. I'm not even sure he plans to sell it, but he might. Now."

"Why does he always have to be such an asshole?" Melanie demanded. "Why couldn't he just . ."

Lindsey stood and moved forward to wrap an arm around her partner. "How quickly they forget," she quoted with a small smile.

"What do you . . ."

"You stood right there in our old house, just a few days before we left, and you told him he had to be good to Justin - that he needed to remember how much Justin was giving up to be with him."

"Yeah. So?"

"So," Lindsey looked over toward the mantle where there was a framed snapshot of Brian and his son, "he remembered."

"And what? He gave up what he wanted? For Justin's sake?" Melanie laughed, and it was not a pretty sound. "Brian Kinney? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Lindsey just smiled. "Am I?"

She dropped a kiss on Melanie's cheek, quickly put her things away and went up to bed, while Melanie just stood and watched, not even bothering to try to conceal her skepticism.

Brian Kinney? Sacrificing his wants and desires for someone else's happiness?

Bullshit!

She looked down then at the image of Justin's face - a semi-profile sketch that graced the front of the pamphlet, a minimalist effort that focused on the huge eyes and the mop of hair and the smile which had earned him the nickname, Sunshine. The smile was beautiful; he looked really happy. And yet - was there really a shadow of sadness in those lovely eyes?

Would Brian have given up everything he wanted, just to be sure Justin was able to reach for his dreams? Brian Kinney?

Bullshit!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Ma-ah-ah!" wailed Michael, stretching the single syllable into three as his palm cradled the cheek his mother had just slapped. "What'd you do that for?"

"Because you're not listening to your mate," she replied smartly.

"And that's your business because?"

"Because he's right," she observed, with a cheeky grin for her son-in-law who was pouring soy milk over his serving of oatmeal (a dish that Debbie usually referred to as 'turds and whey').

"You should listen to your mother, Mikey," said a husky voice as a new arrival slid into the empty spot on Michael's left. "Be a good little wifey and obey your lord and master."

"Shut up, Brian!" Mikey snapped, not particularly in the mood to be teased - or to be addressed as 'Mikey'.

Brian spotted the smirk on Emmett's face as the big Nelly-bottom dumped sugar in his coffee.

"Somebody piss in his Cheerios?" he asked with a wink.

"Piss off!" snapped Michael. "Not that it's any of your business, but I don't see why I should have to go traipsing off to New York just because the twink has an art show."

Brian ducked just in time to avoid the flash of a spread hand that smacked the side of Michael's head with a sharp snap.

"Ma-ah-ah! Will you stop?"

"Shame on you," retorted Debbie. "That 'twink', as you so charmingly put it, is a member of this family, and we all need to show him our support."

Brian opened his mouth to respond, but wisely subsided when he saw that Debbie was still poised to strike.

"Hey, Brian," said Ted, from his seat in the corner, with his own version of a twink cuddled up beside him, "care to car pool?"

Brian flicked a spec of dust - more imagined than real - from the sleeve of his Armani jacket before fixing his accountant with a frigid stare. "Car pools are like boyfriends," he answered with a snarky smile. "I don't do either."

"So," said Emmett, pursing his lips to blow on his still steaming coffee, "when are you leaving, and where are you staying? The Ritz, maybe? Or the Plaza? Or are the two of you just going to rough it in Justin's little flat?"

"None of the above," Brian replied. "And what does a man have to do around here to get a cup of coffee?"

"Don't get your Prada panties in a twist," snapped Debbie, leaning over to fill his cup. "And stop dodging the question. Where are you staying?"

"Claridge's," he answered, bending over to inhale the aroma of his coffee.

The table went silent until Ben, Michael's partner, spoke up. "That's quite a commute."

Brian said nothing, lifting his cup to take a cautious sip.

"What is that?" asked Michael with a grin. "A hide-away for gay porn kings?"

"It's a world famous, five-star hotel," answered Ben as he studied Brian's face. "In London."

Michael blinked rapidly. "You . . . you're going to London?"

Brian nodded.

"After the show?" said Emmett, suddenly overwhelmed with visions of men in Elizabethan costumes and the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace.

Brian sipped before answering. "Instead of."

"You little shit!" cried Debbie, getting right down in his face, shoving forward to slosh his coffee, although he was agile enough to avoid the splash.

Brian, unperturbed, looked up at her and smiled. "It's business, Mother."

"Business, my fat ass!" Her eyes narrowed. "How can you do this to him? You know it will break his . . ."

"He," Brian cut in sharply, "is a hell of a lot stronger than you - any of you - give him credit for. He'll be fine."

"But . . ." Michael paused to avoid spluttering. "But we could all go together. Explore the Big Apple. Find their version of Babylon - shit like that. Why would you . . ."

"I told you. It's business."

"Business!" snapped Debbie. "And all the English ass you can fuck."

He grinned. "That too. We're considering expanding our operations 'across the pond'. Good for business . . ." The grin widened and grew slightly venal, "and good for me."

Somehow, although everyone at the table heard what he had said with perfect clarity, it was somehow not as loud as what he hadn't - quite - said.

"Debbie?" he said, after a moment of silence.

"Huh?"

"Breakfast?"

"What?"

"You planning to feed me, or . . ."

It was uncertain who was more surprised when she simply straightened up and went to order his omelet.

The question ringing in everyone's mind remained unspoken, but it continued ringing nonetheless.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Brian had a meeting to make - as always - and although he firmly believed in being fashionably late, he never pushed it to the point of rudeness. So he finished his omelet, drained his coffee cup, gave Michael a quick, thorough kiss on the mouth - designed to annoy Ben to no end - and made his exit.

The silence that lingered in his wake was deafening.

Blake left quickly, followed by Ben, both having jobs to attend, leaving behind the crucial core of a friendship that went back almost twenty years - the crucial core, minus one. The critical 'One' - the one who had always been the nucleus around which the others revolved.

Michael had been focused on tearing his napkin to shreds. Once that was done he looked up and stared at Ted. "Is he serious?"

Ted, as Brian's primary accountant, was eminently qualified to answer. "He might be," he admitted. "Some of our big clients have been making noises about expanding into European markets."

"But he could open up a branch over there without actually having to go himself," Emmett pointed out. "He did it in New York. Still hasn't been there, has he?"

Ted shook his head. "Left it all to Cynthia. Bet she never dreamed how lucky it would prove to be when she hitched her wagon to the star of the fag prince of Pittsburgh."

Debbie sat down beside her son, offering coffee refills to the three before serving one for herself. "And you don't find that the least bit suspicious?" she asked. "The fact that he once was so caught up in going to New York, he was ready to sell his beloved fuck nest - and now he can't be bothered to drop in, even when he owns an office there?"

"Yeah," said Michael softly. "But London. It's so far. You don't really think he'd . . ."

Ted stared into his coffee. "I think maybe there's nothing left here to hold him."

"It's his home," Michael insisted.

Debbie stirred her coffee while gazing out into bright, liquid sunshine, and was suddenly struck by a memory - the look in Brian's eyes on the day Justin had left for New York. He had been quintessentially himself on that day - brash and sardonic, witty and acerbic, supremely confidant. And yet - she had never been sure of what it was she had glimpsed in those hazel depths from time to time, and she knew he would never tell her.

But it was enough to make her wonder. Michael believed Pittsburgh was Brian's home.

But she wasn't so sure. She wondered, occasionally, if he had been forced to stand still and watch as every vestige of home had turned and walked away, with his blessing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 

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