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Chapter 8         

"You gotta give the devil his due." Debbie's comment was meant to be discreet, but it fell into a conversational lull in the gallery, like a stone into still water, sending out ripples in all directions, threaded through the quiet sweetness of the music of a string quartet. "He may be a total shithead, but you can't deny that Brian Kinney makes one drop-dead-gorgeous model."

The Pittsburgh delegation, dressed in their most elegant attire, which ran the sartorial gamut from the formality of the tuxedos worn by Ted, Blake, and Calvin, through the more casual business suits sported by Michael and Ben, to the spangled scarlet of Debbie's satin gown and Melanie's characteristic black sheath, was standing in front of a canvas that was more shadow than light, displaying the subject in profile, definitely not clad in his Sunday best - or anything else, for that matter - emerging from a striated cloud of steam or a swirl of smoke, indistinct, unclear - and unmistakable.

Nearby a tall, slender man with salt and pepper hair, elegantly decked out in an Armani suit, Prada shoes, mother-of-pearl cuff links from Tiffany's, and a crimson silk scarf, was studying another rendering of Brian, this one a view from the back, showing just a bare shoulder, the nape of the neck caressed by dark, sweaty hair, and a nuance of jawline. "Is that the model's name?" he asked softly. "He permeates the entire exhibit, even in the works that don't focus on him - and forgive me for saying it, but he doesn't look like a total shithead."

"That's because you're seeing him through the artist's eyes," said Melanie quickly, secure in her certainty that Justin had never been able to see Brian as he was, rather than as he wished him to be.

The man turned piercing gray eyes to her and studied what he saw in her face. "Really? I'm not sure I'd agree with that. I find that artists are usually able to see things more clearly than other people. They tend to put aside preconceived notions and see truth."

Melanie turned to look at the next portrait, a backlit profile of Brian's face, chin balanced against his fist, obviously lost in thought, and even more beautiful than usual. "Trust me," she said firmly. "That's not the true face of Brian Kinney."

"Pity," said the man. "I'd like to meet the man who could inspire such a vision."

Justin and Lindsey approached at that moment, just in time to hear the comment.

"Yes," said Lindsey firmly. "You would. How are you, Gareth?" The soft gallery lighting enhanced her blonde delicacy and the beaded, re-embroidered ivory silk of her bias-cut gown.

"I'm fine, Lindsey. And I want to thank you for sending me a heads up about this exhibition."

"My pleasure. I thought you'd like it. And this is the artist. Justin, this is Gareth Kyle. He writes for the Times."

"I know who he is," said Justin with a diffident smile, stepping forward to shake the columnist's hand. "Thank you for coming, and thank you for recognizing the inspiration for so much of my work."

"Your muse?"

Justin winced, not at all comfortable with the connotations inherent in that word. "No. My first love. At least, he . . . was." He looked away then, momentarily dismayed and wondering if anyone had noticed his hesitation, or if anyone would understand how hard it was for him to speak of Brian in past tense.

Kyle's smile was slightly wistful. "I'd love to 'recognize' him, in person."

"Yeah," Justin replied softly. "So would I."

"Shit!" Melanie muttered, not quite under her breath. "The asshole's not even here, and he still manages to steal the show."

Of them all, only Calvin, Blake, and the Times columnist noticed the quick frown that touched Justin's face, and the tiny flare of resentment that flashed in the depths of blue-on-blue eyes, but none of them could avoid noticing when the young artist abruptly took Michael's arm and pulled him away from the group. When Debbie stirred as if to intercept them, it was Ben who stepped forward and stopped her, with a murmured insistence that she give the young men a moment of privacy. Her grimace clearly indicated what she thought of his suggestion, but she accepted it anyway, albeit not very graciously.

"How is he?" Justin, speaking very softly, knew full well he didn't have to specify who "he" was.

Michael did not - quite - squirm. "He's . . . Brian - doing what he always does. Did you expect him to fall apart?"

Justin sighed. "I don't know what I expected, except . . ."

Despite himself, Michael felt a surge of sympathy. "Except you thought he'd follow you here."

After a brief pause, Justin nodded. "I didn't think he'd just walk away."

Michael looked over at one of the many images of Brian's face that lined the wall in front of him. "He didn't. Remember? You're the one who walked. Not that I blame you," he hastened to add when he identified the flash of anger in Justin's expression. "It was what everybody thought you should do, and I guess your success here proves that everybody was right. Only . . ."

"Only?"

"Forget it. I'm just . . ."

"No. I don't want to forget it. Tell me what you were going to say."

Michael hesitated. Then he took a deep breath. "I just never quite understood why you had to come to New York to paint, especially after Brian . . . " He paused then, reluctant to turn their conversation into a hostile exchange. Justin surely knew, as well as Michael did, that the concessions Brian had been willing to make, for Justin's sake, had been unprecedented - even unimaginable to those who thought they knew him best. "I mean, don't people paint in other places?"

"Yeah. They do." Justin paused to survey the crowds around them, to spend a moment basking in the glow of his success, as he listened in on the appreciative murmurs of the browsers, which he wanted to interpret as validation of his choices as old, familiar doubts assailed him. "So he's really OK then? I don't need to worry about him?"

Michael's sympathy was immediately replaced by a surge of irritation. "He's Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake! He's survived more shit than you can even imagine, throughout his whole fucking life, and he'll sure as shit survive you too. In fact, he's on his way to London. Looks like Kinnetic is going to be opening up a new office there."

Justin swallowed his own annoyance, understanding that Michael did not like having to explain Brian's vulnerabilities - or even acknowledge that he had them. "Like the one he opened here?"

Michael flushed. "Yeah. Only, according to Ted, it was Cynthia who did all the work here. I don't think Brian has much stomach for the Big Apple these days."

"Really? I remember a time when it was all he wanted."

"Yeah, so do I. What can I say? Things change."

Justin turned quickly, to give his old frenemy his full attention. "So is that what you're telling me? That he's moved on? Are you saying that . . . he doesn't love me any more?"

It surprised Michael how much he wanted to shout out his response, to confirm Justin's suspicions by denying what he knew to be the truth. But ultimately, he couldn't. "No. I'm not saying that. But you should know him well enough to understand that he's never going to come after you. He's never going to allow his need or his love for you to interfere with the life he thinks you want." He looked up then, and saw Steven making his way toward them. "And it looks like he's right. Your new main squeeze seems to be everything Brian isn't - a perfect candidate for your affections. Your mother - and mine - must be so proud."

There was no way Justin could fail to identify the faintly acidic quality of that statement, but there was also no time to respond to it as Steven was upon them then, eyes full of questions and concerns, with Justin's mother and best friend approaching from another direction. The young artist put on his most dazzling smile, determined to entertain his guests, to sparkle for his audience - to stifle the ugly little voice which kept repeating the same phrase over and over in his mind. He could have come here - to be with me - and he's going to London instead. He could have come here.

He looked up at Steven, and saw the love and pride in the eyes gazing back at him and came to a sudden decision, wondering why it had taken him so long to see the light.

The conversation then turned to introductions and reminiscences and catching up with gossip, old and new, and deliberately ignoring tired, unanswered questions. But there was ultimately no way of hiding from the face looking down at them from every canvas on the wall behind them; they were all aware of it, though most managed to maintain their silence and maneuver the conversation toward other topics.

Except for Debbie Novotny, of course, who had never maintained her silence about anything, for any reason. She wound up at Jennifer's side, with Daphne standing wide-eyed and flushed nearby, while Steven regaled the rest of the group with a running commentary about the volume and value of Justin's sales and the intensity of the critical acclaim the show was generating. Debbie tried to pay attention, but was quickly lost in the logistics and vagaries of artistic marketing; then she looked up and found herself the focal point of a pair of hazel eyes that almost seemed to follow her as she moved. It was not a particularly comfortable sensation, and she deliberately turned away. Then she concentrated on telling herself it was just her imagination insisting she was still being watched.

"Pretty fuckin' impressive, huh?" she asked, speaking more softly than was her wont. "Guess there can't be any doubt any more about him doing the right thing."

Jennifer, elegant in a dark green Dolce & Gabanna frock, looked puzzled. "The right thing?"

"Yeah." Debbie laughed, and heads turned to follow the sound. "It's pretty damned obvious that coming to New York opened all kinds of doors for him. He's a big success story now."

Jennifer turned to look at her son, who was staring up toward the second story, toward the niche that sheltered his two most special paintings - the two the general public never got a chance to purchase as they'd already been sold before the exhibition opened - and she noted that he looked comfortable and relaxed. But not terribly . . .

"Yes," she said softly. "I guess he is."

"And the new boyfriend . . . well, who wouldn't be pleased as punch? Handsome, classy, rich, attentive, and treats Justin like he's some kind of precious jewel. Just about perfect, right?"

"Right."

Debbie frowned. "Look, Honey. You might try for a little more enthusiasm. This is every mother's dream, for her kid. Isn't it?"

Once more, Jennifer studied Justin's face; then she turned and saw a flicker of something in Daphne's eyes as the young woman moved away. "Is it?" she asked quietly. "Is it really?"

"What do you . .."

"Look at him, Debbie." Jennifer's voice was suddenly harsh, like the friction of shifting shards of broken glass. "Really look, and let go of your preconceived notions about what you want to see. What you'd want to see if he were your son. Look at him, and tell me what's really there."

Debbie tried to do as Jennifer asked. Tried to find the right thing to say . . . and wound up choking on her silence.

Jennifer said nothing more; she simply walked away, following Daphne to a small loveseat near a window alcove, for she knew she would not get the blunt, uncompromising answer she was looking for from Debbie. Although honest to a fault, Debbie had one major shortcoming in any attempt to explore truth; she saw the world through lenses distorted by her own dreams of conventional fairy-tale endings. Debbie loved Ben, whom she had come to accept as her son's permanent partner, although that acceptance had come slowly because of his HIV-positive status. But she had never quite gotten over the fact that Michael had once had a doctor for a lifemate - the ultimate achievement for the scion of a less than affluent family. The pleasure of speaking the phrase "My son-in-law, the professor" would never quite measure up to the joy of being able to utter the words, "My son-in-law, the doctor."

As for Brian . . . Jennifer honestly didn't understand why Debbie's opinions of the young man wavered so drastically. Sometimes she appeared to love him like a surrogate mother would; other times, she seemed eager to condemn and abandon him to whatever fate awaited him. And she had never been reticent in expressing her disapproval for the way he treated Justin, choosing to believe the worst of her son's longtime friend and blame him for every bump in the rocky road of his relationship with Justin.

Jennifer would have liked to believe that everything was Brian's fault; it would have been comforting, but it wouldn't have been fair or accurate. Justin had made his share of mistakes too. She closed her eyes and remembered a scrawny musician with a ridiculous goatee. Debbie and the group she thought of as her extended family had accepted Ethan Gold and welcomed him into the group without a second thought, never realizing that he was a pretentious, posturing little cretin who would prove adept at saying the things Justin wanted to hear and meaning none of them.

But Daphne was a different story. Daphne knew Justin like no one else did - not even Brian. And Daphne would not split hairs over truth.

"So," said Jennifer as she took a seat beside her son's best friend since childhood, "what do you think?"

"I think what I've always thought," Daphne answered, taking a tiny sip of champagne from a fluted glass. "Justin's a huge talent, Mrs. Taylor. He deserves every success."

Jennifer turned once more to look at her son, who was now in deep conversation with Lindsey Peterson and a couple of eccentric looking young men in less-than-formal dress. "I agree, but that's not what I meant."

Daphne shifted in her seat, and her eyes moved quickly from one place to another, as if unsure where she wanted to rest them. Finally, she settled for staring into her glass. "Mrs. Taylor, I don't . . ."

"Daphne, please." Jennifer's voice was very soft, just above a whisper, but it was very firm and filled with resolve. "You know what I'm asking. Is he . . . "

"Steven is very good to him," Daphne interrupted. "He's a really nice guy, and he loves Justin. He's even been kind enough to tag along with us while Justin shows me the sights, and you know he has to be bored to tears. We took a carriage ride through Central Park, and I'm sure he just wanted to roll his eyes and look at us as if we'd gone crackers. But he didn't. He was really sweet and caring, and he'd do anything for Justin. Anything at all."

"And?"

"He's perfect, isn't he? I can't imagine how he could be more perfect. Can you?"

Jennifer said nothing. She just quirked one eyebrow - and waited.

"Except," said Daphne slowly, "for one thing."

Jennifer sighed. "Which would be what?"

Daphne refused to look up, becoming enthralled in watching the bubbles rise in her goblet. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Taylor. I know what you want to hear - what you want to believe. And if I could give you what you want, I would."

Jennifer sighed. "It's all right, Daphne. I think I have some idea of what you're trying to say."

"I know you don't want to face the truth. I know it goes against everything you've ever wanted for him." Daphne looked up then, and there were tears in her eyes. "But I can't change it, any more than you can. Steven is perfect . . . except that he's not Brian. I don't know what the future holds for Justin; I hope he's able to be happy with whatever lies ahead. And if he chooses Steven, I hope they can make a life together. But the bottom line is never going to change; in this one respect, he is never going to change. Nobody is ever going to replace Brian in his heart." She looked down again, and her voice sank to a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Jennifer took a deep breath; then she rose and moved slowly toward the corner of the room where the largest, most detailed portrait - life-size - of Brian Kinney was framed in a pool of light. She was surprised to find Daphne at her side when she stopped to stand looking up at it.

"Mrs. Taylor . . ."

"Don't you think it's time you called me Jennifer. After all, you're a major force in my son's life."

Daphne smiled. "OK, Jennifer. Would you mind if I gave you some advice?"

Jennifer smiled. "At this stage, I think I could use some."

"You might not like it much."

The smile grew broader. "There are plenty of things that I don't like much, but that doesn't mean I don't need to hear them."

Daphne nodded, and spent a moment considering how to phrase her suggestion in the least offensive way. Then she realized it wouldn't matter much; if Jennifer wanted to be offended, she would be, no matter how tactfully the idea was presented.

"When you look at Brian," Daphne said softly, with a glance toward the stunning face captured on the canvas, "you still see what you saw the first time you looked at him. Even though you try not to. Even though things have changed drastically over the years, you still see the man who stole your baby boy's innocence. You see the predator - the child molester your husband accused him of being."

"No, I . . ."

"Yes, you do," Daphne insisted, although her voice was very gentle. "That's the first thing you see. And then, you begin to see all the other versions of Brian Kinney. You see the image he allows others to see. For example, you see him through Debbie's eyes - as the brash, bold, uncompromising, flamboyant rake, who always cast the shadow that kept Michael from the limelight; who loved Michael, but couldn't be in love with him the way Michael (and his mother) wanted. Then you see him through Lindsey's eyes, as the heartbreaker who knew exactly what she wanted from him, but refused to pretend to be someone he wasn't in order to make her dreams come true. You see him as Mel sees him, as the man who was first in Lindsey's heart and might - just might - still hold that title, now and forever, and the person who was able to father Gus, something she couldn't do. You see him as Ben sees him, as the obstacle to his total happiness with Michael. As Ted sees him, with jealousy and envy and a suppressed rage over the fact that he can strive for it his whole life but he'll never be Brian. Even as those who don't really know him see him. As the maverick, the rogue, the one who dares to challenge everybody's conventions and refuses to compromise what he expects of himself and everybody else. Even . . . what he demands from Justin."

Jennifer stared into the eyes of the portrait, that glowed with so much life yet revealed so little. "OK," she said slowly. "If you're right - and that's a big if - how should I see him? What should I see when I . . ."

Daphne's smile was gentle. "You have to cast off everybody else's perceptions, and forget what they see when they look at him, because here's a fundamental truth. Every one of them sees Brian as they need to see him and as he allows them to see him, to enable them to feel smug and self-satisfied and condescending, or, sometimes, just to survive with ego intact. But the truth is that this guy is the most honest, most upfront, most truthful man I have ever known. And I can say that because I don't see him through the eyes of love, although I will admit to spending about an hour in the throes of Brian Kinney infatuation, just like everybody else in the world. But ultimately, I only see him as the man who lives in my best friend's heart, and that's how I judge him. And I honestly don't understand why so few of us see him as he really is - as the most generous, caring person I've ever known - because he not only busts his balls to take care of all the people he cares about, he also makes sure they never have to say thank you. Most of the time, in fact, they don't even know about it, because they don't want to know. It's easier that way. Is he a narcissist, the way Melanie loves to proclaim? Just take a look at him." She nodded toward the beautiful portrait, and laughed. "Shit! Can you imagine anybody who looks like that not knowing that he's fucking beautiful? But that's strictly from the physical perspective. Inside . . . that's different."

Then she paused and turned to stare directly into Jennifer's eyes. "And one more thing. If you can put aside all the filters imposed by everybody else's opinion and see him clearly, you'll realize he's also the person who'll love Justin as no one else ever will. Every day for the rest of his life. He was willing to marry him, for God's sake, even though he absolutely does not believe in marriage. I mean, why should he? Given the state of the institution, why should any of us? But he was willing to do it. For Justin. And that's the bottom line. For everything he does, for everything he doesn't do. It's always for Justin, and it always will be. Even if they never see each other again. Even if Justin chooses to stay away from him forever, to build a new life with a new partner, to put the past behind him. Brian will allow it - will live with it - and will go on loving Justin as he always has, without ever once trying to put him in a cage. For Justin. It always bothers me that almost nobody understands that. It says a lot about the man he is, and it's a shame there are so few who are able to hear it."

"But why?" asked Jennifer, stunned by the depth of Daphne's certainty. "Why would he . . ."

But Daphne was turning away, having spotted Justin moving toward them. Still, she paused and favored his mother with a sympathetic smile. "I think that's a question I have no right to answer," she explained. "One you should put to Brian. And maybe, if you catch him in the right mood and at the right moment, he might give you an answer. Not necessarily an honest one, but honest enough, perhaps, for you to be able to figure it out. Because Brian doesn't lie, you know. Not when it matters. He might sidestep and obfuscate and camouflage and deflect, but he doesn't lie."

With a final smile, she went to find Justin, who was understandably excited about the success of the night. He had sold eleven of his paintings, for a respectable sum, and he had drunk enough champagne to be feeling no pain.

Then Daphne noticed the pale specter of old misery in his eyes as he glanced once more toward the niche at the top of the stairs, and she revised her opinion. The pain was never entirely absent. Probably never would be. But he was learning to live with it.

She wanted to be happy for him - wanted to believe it would all turn out for the best. Wanted not to know he was learning to close himself off, to turn away from what he had always wanted most to settle for what he was currently wanting in any way at all.

The evening wore on, and it was late when the crowds began to thin.

It was Steven who proposed that the group of old friends should decamp and resume their reunion at a small, all-night bistro down the street. Justin and almost everyone else assumed he was just tired and looking for a more comfortable spot to loosen his tie, sit back and have a drink and relax, but Daphne understood his motivation when she spotted Margo Renton going into the display area at the top of the stairs with a young man at her side, carrying packing materials. It was immediately obvious that the show was really over, and the two paintings were about to be crated for shipping.

Daphne considered how it might feel to stand by and watch as the products of one's creative genius - the offspring of one's lifework - were boxed up to be sent away, to a new home in a strange place, never to be seen or touched again.

She was glad then that Justin was going to be spared that experience.

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

"You're looking particularly lovely tonight, Daphne," said Ted as they all settled into an over-sized booth at the dark and sooty old tavern called Nathan's Pub. She smiled as she shrugged out of her jacket, and her silver tunic, bright with beaded embroidery, glistened in the light shed from the frosted globe of the wall sconce behind them.

Justin flashed his friend a mischievous grin. "Yeah. Brian always said that he'd fuck her."

"The ultimate Kinney compliment," sniped Melanie. "Gotta love it."

"There are plenty who do," said Ben, and Michael looked at his husband with a surprised smile. Comments issued in defense of Brian were rare in this group; from Ben, they were even rarer, and Michael was pleased. His smile faded slightly, as he gave his reaction further thought. Things had been different since the night Babylon had gone up in flames. So had Brian, and so had Ben's attitude toward his husband's oldest and best friend. Michael was glad - he thought. Still, it had always been a tiny source of comfort for him to know Ben would take his side in any dispute with Brian, no matter what. He realized abruptly that he didn't want to think about the possibility of a change in that attitude.

"So," said Melanie quickly, eager to change the subject, "have we decided our itinerary for tomorrow? Anybody up for a tour of Yankee Stadium? Or . . ."

"Jesus, you really are a dyke," laughed Ted. "I was thinking more along the lines of a matinee of Mamma Mia. Or a major shopping spree at Bloomingdale's."

Lindsey laughed. "Ted, you're living proof that fags have replaced diamonds as a girl's best friend."

Debbie turned to Justin, her smile beaming. "What about it, Sunshine? How about you give us a tour of your favorite places?"

Justin smiled and opened his mouth to respond, but paused as Steven wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I'm afraid that won't be possible, Debbie," said the broker. "We have a plane to catch."

"Really? I didn't know you were planning a trip," said Jennifer. "Where are you going?"

Steven smiled. "We're off for an adventure in paradise. The South Pacific. Specifically, Tahiti."

"Oh-my-God!" said Daphne, turning to Justin. "That is sooo romantic. But I thought you were still thinking about it."

Justin did not offer a verbal response. Instead, he simply gave her a tiny smile, but she still managed to hear the words he didn't bother to speak. It was there in his eyes; Brian was going to London.  That was explanation enough.

"Well, he finally made up his mind," explained Steven. "Tomorrow morning, we're off on a flight to the coast. Then on to New Zealand. And from there, we sail to Fiji and surrounding points. We'll be at sea for ten days on a sailing schooner, before debarking at Papeete, where we'll spend another week at a luxury resort."

"Wow!" said Debbie, obviously impressed. "That's some trip. Sounds almost like a honeymoon, doesn't it?"

Jennifer and Lindsey both just happened to be looking straight at Justin at that moment, and both had a momentary urge to recoil from the flash of anger which sparked in his eyes as he turned to look at the woman who had taken him in off the streets, time and time again. In spite of everything, it seemed, there were some things he was not prepared to tolerate.

"No," he said quickly. "It doesn't."

"Or maybe you could elope," Debbie went on with gusto, obviously having missed the thunderous expression on Justin's face. "Have the captain of the ship perform the ceremony. Could anything be more romantic than that?"

"Wow!" laughed Steven, raising his glass toward Debbie and totally unaware of the not-so-minor typhoon brewing at his side. "I like your style."

"Do you?" said Justin, staring down at the shot of whiskey - Jim Beam, of course - the waitress had just set down before him. He lifted the glass and swallowed the liquid in one gulp, never once looking up toward the man who had been so quickly accepted by his old friends as his new boyfriend. When he spoke again, there was a hoarseness in his voice which said much about the depth of his annoyance. "Well, hey, why stop there? Maybe we can get the natives to toss rose petals on the waves for us and play the Wedding March on their ukeleles as the sun goes down over a turquoise sea. Then you can lock me into a chastity belt - to safeguard your conjugal rights, of course - and keep me tucked away on some deserted island, so I'm forever off-limits to the rest of the world."

He looked up then, and met Daphne's gaze, and she flinched away from the pain and the anger she read in his eyes. He stood abruptly and stared directly into Debbie's face. "I am never going to be part of an arrangement, that is governed by locks on my door."

Then he turned and strode out of the tavern, leaving a shocked silence behind him.

"Now what the fuck does that mean?" asked Debbie, still stunned by the level of venom she'd heard in the young artist's tone.

Melanie rolled her eyes. "What do you think it means?" she snapped. "It means Brian Fucking Kinney strikes again."

"Melanie," said Ben, very calmly. "For once, could you just shut the fuck up?"

The sudden silence around the table and the look on Ben's face proved that no one was more shocked than Ben himself, except maybe for Michael, who could not quite suppress the smile that trembled on his lips. He had always considered himself Brian's primary defender, but he knew he'd failed to live up to the title on a few occasions. And now, it was surprisingly comforting to realize he might have a little help, once in a while.

When Steven muttered a hurried good night, and took off after Justin, the group from Pittsburgh lingered at the table, each musing in his own way over the unexpected turn of events.

Some were stunned; some were disturbed; some were complacent, and a couple were having trouble controlling an urge to laugh. And Melanie sat frozen and silent, still trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.

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

My house has many rooms; I occupy but a few. The rest go unvisited.

Brian sat at his desk and studied the framed sketch he had just removed from the shipping carton in which it had arrived. He read the words that circled the drawing, as he idly played with the big swath of bubble wrap which had protected it. He'd always found it surprisingly therapeutic to pop those bubbles, especially in stressful moments.

This shouldn't be such a moment, or so he told himself. He was here, in his element so to speak; in the place where he "would never grow old". Or so he comforted himself when submerged in one of his more maudlin moods. He didn't allow himself to dwell on the fact that such moods seemed to be coming more frequently of late. At any rate, there was certainly nothing to be concerned about in this solitary sanctuary.

The office was dim, illuminated only by the gooseneck lamp that generated a cone of radiance on one side of the desk, leaving the rest of the room a study in shades of gray. Even the security monitors were dark.

Thus, there was nothing to distract him from his examination of the drawing, except for the dull thumpa-thumpa background of the music in the club - muted by the sound dampening properties of the room's heavy insulation - and the haunting mellow majesty, newly remastered, of John Coltrane's Blue in Green, playing on his private sound system.

He told himself that the tightness in his chest was only because he'd picked up a case of sniffles during his midnight adventure of the previous evening. It couldn't possibly have anything to do with the feelings stirring inside him, generated by the artist's rendering of a poignant moment.

It was a detailed sketch: Justin sleeping, face cradled against a pillow with one hand cupped beneath his chin, mouth slightly open, dark lashes emphasizing the smooth expanse of perfect skin. And hovering above him, Brian's face, eyes lowered to gaze at the sleeper, his expression open and vulnerable, yearning . . . and needful.

The words were printed in an oval arc around the image - saying nothing or saying everything, depending on how one looked at it. Bright fleeting images of Justin - a thousand different Justins but all, at heart, the same - flickered in his thoughts, stirred his memories, reminded him of what had been and was no longer.

My house has many rooms.

One part of Brian hated the sketch and hated Lindsey for drawing it and sending it to him, for knowing him well enough to capture the essence of his soul in a drawing. Another part of him loved it, and realized she had known how it would make him feel and why he would never allow anyone else to see it. He knew exactly where it would hang.

He remembered when she had first recited those words for him, in the process of telling him about her confrontation with Sam Auerbach. He had been careful, at the time, not to react, not to allow her to see how such simple phrases had struck a chord within his own consciousness, but apparently not careful enough. It surprised him sometimes how well she knew him, under certain circumstances. Almost as much as it surprised him when she demonstrated that she didn't know him at all, under others.

I occupy only a few.

He thought it ironic that she had uttered the phrase which provided a clue to the man he was, but failed to connect the dots. He didn't often allow himself to think about all the parts of him he had deliberately shut away over the years, parts that would have left him too open, too vulnerable, too accessible.

A very small, smug smile touched perfect, sensual lips. Brian Kinney - Enigma. It was the role he'd been playing all his life; the one he intended to continue to play. It pleased him somehow to realize that most people sought to be understood, to be needed; to know that Brian Kinney was unique, in this as in all things.

The smile became a chuckle as he imagined - for just one second - how Justin would respond to such an observation. The twat would wind up crouched on his knees, shouting with laughter and gasping for breath.

Providing, of course, he was ever around to hear it, which he wouldn't be. Brian did not allow himself a sigh. He simply took a deep breath, spent a moment indulging in a small surge of pride over the achievements of the young man who had stolen his heart; then he deliberately shut down those thoughts, positive that Justin was exactly where he was meant to be - where he would always be - free to soar, to fly, to light up the world with his talent. Unfettered, unbound, unshackled. Unanchored.

The rest go unvisited.

He spent another moment taking in the details of the sketch, illuminated by the palette of reflected memory, as his fingers traced over the contours of that beautiful face.

Unvisited, indeed.

When a discreet knock pulled him out of his momentary reverie, he was grateful for the interruption and quickly tucked the drawing into a desk drawer before pressing the switch to unlock his office door.

A distraction - any distraction - was preferable to sitting here in the gloom and mourning for what was no longer his to mourn.

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

Justin was sliding into the back seat of a cab when Steven caught up with him and managed to push his way inside before the vehicle pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires and a pulse of smoke.

"Justin," the broker panted, trying to catch his breath after his mad dash, "what the fuck was that? Why would you . . ."

But Justin was in no mood to be subjected to a third degree. Instead, he found himself eager to strike out - thirsty for blood.

"Why would I what?" he snapped. "Why would I resent my loving companions planning out my life for me? Why would I object to playing a role in some fantasy shit that they - and you - want to write for me? Why would I be sick and tired of hearing the sniping directed at the man who saved my life, the man who could have been here and . . ."

He fell silent abruptly, and turned away, unwilling for Steven to read the depths of the devastation in his heart.

The young broker could not quite suppress a sigh. "Is that why you agreed to go to Tahiti with me? Because he isn't here."

Justin continued to gaze out the window. "Do you want the ugly truth, or a pretty, comforting lie?"

Moving slowly, tentatively, Steven wrapped his arms around Justin's shoulders and braced his forehead against a stiff, hunched shoulder. "Justin," he whispered, "I just want you. However I can have you. Whatever you're willing to . . ."

The young artist turned then, to regard his companion with weary eyes. "Even if I say that you will never have me entirely? Even if I make you understand that I can never really leave him, and seeing him today or never seeing him again won't change that. Is that really what you want?"

"Not exactly," Steven admitted. "But I'm willing to believe that time will change things. One day, he'll be a part of your past, instead of the focus of your present." He looked away then, and his voice sank to a whisper. "Or the promise of your future."

Justin shook his head. "I agreed to go to Tahiti because Michael told me that Brian is on his way to London. That's the bottom line. Not because I have all these romantic fantasies; not because I want to be swept away by some Prince Charming on a white charger or sail off to paradise with my knight in shining armor." His voice was suddenly hard and cold. "But because I don't want to be here, in this country, when he's not. Now - you decide if that's a good enough reason for you, because there's nothing you or any of my so-called old friends can do to change that."

"Justin . . ."

"No," It was almost a snarl. "I've left this unsaid for too long, and I need to say it. For you and for me."

He paused then and waited, realizing he was teetering on the brink of a no-return moment, and willing to allow Steven a chance to back away, to never have to hear what he needed to say. Of course, refusing to hear it would be tantamount to riding off into the sunset - alone - but it should be Steven's choice to make, and Justin would not do anything to force the selection.

Finally, after a long pause, Steven shifted and turned to look out the window, obviously unwilling to meet Justin's gaze or to witness the play or emotions in his companion's eyes. "Go ahead," he said softly. "Say whatever it is you need to say, Only . . ."

"Only what?"

"When you're done, I get to say my piece. OK?"

Justin just nodded. Then he spent a few moments composing himself and organizing his thoughts. When he finally began to speak, his voice was surprisingly calm, almost emotionless. "I'm not sure how to say this so you'll understand, but I'll try. And you need to know that I'm not exaggerating. This is the way it is. Whatever I am today, I am because of Brian Kinney, no matter how much my old buddies try to dispute it. He saved my life, and then, he gave me everything I needed to become the man I am. Without him, I'd be dead, but it's more than that. Without him, I'd be lost and frightened and timid and afraid of my own shadow. He dragged me back into the world, when I was ready to just crawl into a hole and die. He didn't just give me everything he had to give; he gave me everything I needed to be able to rejoin my life, instead of just letting time roll along without me. He was the center of my life, my world, my universe . . . my heart." He paused then and turned to look at his companion, refusing to say more until Steven shifted to meet his eyes. "And he still is," he said then, refusing to flinch from the pain he read in Steven's expression. "Will that ever change? Maybe, but I'm not sure. But I do know one thing, and you need to know it too. I'm here, in New York and in this place in my life, because he refused to take advantage of the opportunity to tie me to him and keep me with him. And right now, all he'd have to do to bring me back would be to pick up the phone and simply say four words. 'Come back to me,' and I'm there."

He reached out then and touched Steven's face with gentle fingers. "And I don't really think that will ever change. I think some part of me will spend the rest of my life waiting for that call. Not that he'd ever make it, because he'd always feel like it would put pressure on me to do what he wants me to do, rather than leaving me free to make my own choices."

"He loves you that much?" whispered Steven.

And Justin was surprised by how easily the answer came to him. "Yeah. He loves me that much."

Steven's eyes fell, and he was suddenly fascinated by the clinching of his own hands. "Then - forgive me, but - what the fuck are you doing here? To be loved like that, by someone you obviously love just as much - why would you hesitate?"

It was Justin's turn to sigh. "Because I need to be everything that I can be. That's what he expects from me. That's the gift he gave me. If I just run back to him, just turn away from everything he pushed me to explore, then I . . ." He saw the disbelief in Steven's eyes, and fell silent, offering a rueful smile. "I know it doesn't make sense. Most of the time, it doesn't make sense to me either. But if I don't reach for the stars, if I don't explore all the possibilities he helped open for me, then he's going to believe that I sacrificed my life - my golden future - to be at his side. And the really bizarre part of all this is that he'd be right. I'd do it without a second thought, and I'd be happy with it. I know I'd never regret it - until the day I'd have to look into his eyes and know he's blaming himself for taking away the life he thinks I want to live. I have to grow into the man he thinks I am."

"For how long?" The question was barely audible.

Justin did not - quite - shrug. "As long as it takes."

Steven thought about it for a moment, before offering a small smile of his own. "You do realize that's totally fucked up, don't you?"

"Yeah." Justin replied, relaxing into a small laugh. "That's practically a textbook definition of Brian and Justin. Totally fucked up, but . . ."

Neither of them spoke for a while, as the taxi sped toward Bed-Stuy. Then Steven took a deep breath and reached out to take Justin's hands in his own. "Well, I confess this is all a little disconcerting." Then he smiled. "Actually it's more than that; it's a fucking revelation, and I won't pretend that it's easy to swallow. But I still want you to go with me," he said softly, deliberately not lifting his head to meet Justin's eyes. "I understand that you don't - that you can't love me . . . yet. But I'm not willing to give up on us. I don't expect perfection, and I don't expect you to forget Brian. Just, maybe, you can make a little room in your heart for me, so that, one day, maybe he won't be your everything. I won't pretend I'm happy with it, but I'm a patient man. And I think you . . . we . . . are worth waiting for."

Justin closed his eyes, and tried not to see the face that always came to him out of the darkness. "You're sure you want to settle for . . ."

"Let's not be too quick to define it," Steven interrupted, with a small, self-conscious laugh. "As for what I want, let's think about it. Times Square and the cold grunge of late winter, or exploring Papeete with your oh-so-charming ass? Bed-Stuy and the smell of garbage trucks, or snorkeling at Moorea? Clinging to a subway strap, or nude sunbathing at Venus Point? Which do you imagine I'd choose?"

Justin grinned, touched and aware that he should probably be ashamed of taking advantage of Steven's feelings. "Well, when you put it that way . . ."

Steven's smile was brilliant, but he was very careful to allow himself not the slightest nuance of gloating over his small victory. It was certainly not all he hoped for - nor all he was determined to have when all was said and done - but it was a start. The beginning of the end - for Brian Kinney.

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

 

 

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