Into the Ether, 602 (Part : 1A)

Fandom: QaF
Title: Into the Ether, 602 (Part : 1A)
Author:  bloodyrose82 (Rachael)
Pairing: Brian/Justin
Rating: NC-17 to be safe.
Warnings: Spoilers for all seasons.
A/N: Thanks to my beta danijo1.

Finally, the second part is here. I'm sorry for the huge delay, things have been hectic, but I hope the super-extended chapter makes up for that somewhat. For those of you who have been following 'The Daily Muse', my G/R RPS, I am hoping to start it up again after christmas.  Keep posted! For those of you who read the B/J rp, you will recognise the notion of 'blue'. When I came up with it for Justin, I knew I had to use it in more detail in this fic. Enjoy!

Have you read 'After the End' first? It can be found: here

Into the Ether Part 1 can be found: here

-*-

Prologue

Some people say that happiness is a state of mind, and no matter where they are, who they are with, or what’s going on around them, they can be happy just by wishing themselves to be so.

But isn’t that just a way of fooling themselves into having an optimistic outlook, pushing aside whatever harsh reality they are currently enduring in favor of an idealistic world where they don’t have to deal with anything they deem as less than perfect?

A perfect moment is exactly that; a construct of a snapshot in time where everything was all right with the world, when the planets were aligned, and the sun shined. But then it passes on by, and all that is left is a memory, an imprint of something that once was, but will never be recaptured again.

And sometimes, even though it doesn’t feel like it can possibly do, it has to be enough.

-*-

I. Brian

You woke up to find it was still dark, your nose pressed up against the back of Justin’s neck as if in your sleep you were trying to inhale him. Your arm was wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling his back flush against your chest.

A quick glance at his cheap, flashing travel clock told you that despite the lack of light, it was already morning, and it felt like you had barely slept at all.

You looked towards the window, the blinds pulled up, letting the half-light of the morning in, an idiosyncrasy Justin liked to indulge in, no matter where he was.

He told you once, why he did it, how he felt closed in when he couldn’t see the world outside his window. You knew it was a residual habit left over from the bashing, where the closed-in parking lot whirled around the both of you, drawing in tighter, until it was nothing more than a prison where he dropped like a soldier on a battlefield, his head hitting the cold, hard concrete with that sickening thud that you could still hear whenever you closed your eyes, and his blood seeped out across the floor like a spreading yolk of an egg that was never meant to break.

Outside his window, New York City was awakening to yet another grey and dismal day. Unlike Justin, you weren’t overly bothered by enclosed spaces. You supposed that to be so would be hypocritical after the amount of time you had spent in the backroom at Babylon.

But then again, surprisingly, Justin never seemed to have a problem being there either.

“I’m awake.”

You blinked, startled by Justin’s declaration, and moved your head, resting your chin on his shoulder.

He reached down and prised your fingers off his hip, where you were gripping him like a vice, completely unaware you had even done so.

He linked your hands together, and let them drop against his stomach. “This is nice.”

“Mhmm.” You made a noncommittal sound and nuzzled against his ear with your nose.

“I wasn’t sure if this would ever happen again; if I would get to wake up with you.”

“Justin…” you warned, and he quickly shook his head.

“It’s stupid, I know. There were a couple of times over the last two weeks. But that was different. I knew I was coming back here.”

You pursed your lips, remaining silent on the subject. It wasn’t because of a lack of things to say, either. You just didn’t know how to begin. For years, you had avoided anything that would point to some sort of commitment on your part. Sure, all of the signs were there - the amount of money you paid for his education, letting him live at the loft, fucking him far, far more than once.

And of course, there was the house, the proposal, the rings, the invitations, the fucking golden gardenias. But all of those things were better left unsaid. Maybe even better left un-thought.

You shoved the images out of your head as soon as they leapt up, and managed to extract your hand from Justin’s, moving it down the expanse of his abdomen towards his rapidly hardening cock that was already straining up to meet your touch.

“Brian…”

“Shhh…” You placed a kiss against that tender patch of skin just behind his ear, the one that always guaranteed to make him shiver. He gave you the desired response, and pushed back a bit against your own erection, his body working on its own agenda, even while his mouth was telling you something else entirely.

“We don’t have time for this…”

You smiled at the lack of conviction in his voice, watching as his eyelids fluttered closed, his lashes brushing his cheeks.

“We always have time, Sunshine.” Your fingers moved lower, reaching for his cock, and finding their target, wrapped around him and began to stroke.

He pushed up into your hand, already throbbing towards what was promising to be a rapid release.

“You like that?” you whispered and tongued the whorl of his ear, causing him to whimper.

Of course he liked it. Justin always liked it. Especially from you. The thought didn’t give you the thrill you expected it to, but rather a quiet sadness, thinking over all the times you pushed him away and he kept on bouncing back. Like a god damn boomerang; a weapon you had created that was destined to knock off your head.

You ground your hips into him, rubbing your cock up between his ass, and picked up your pace, stroking him quickly, as if it was some kind of race.

He stiffened for a second, shoving himself back hard against you, and then jerked up into your hand, gasping out as he came.

He had never managed to learn how to be quiet.

You stopped pushing against his ass, your own orgasm could wait, and placed a kiss against the juncture where his neck met his shoulder, closing your eyes as you prepared to drift back into the warm comfort zone of sleep.

“Brian, I have to get up.”

“You just did.”

“Really, I meant it. I have to go.”

“No, you don’t.” You let your fingers drop from around his cock, and grabbed his hip again, pulling him back against you, having every intention of keeping him there with you - your own personal security blanket.

“No, Brian. I’d love to stay but I have a meeting at a gallery in less than an hour, and then I want to drop by my studio.”

You sighed. You knew this would be coming. In many ways, while New York felt like a vacation to you, this was Justin’s home now, and he had things to do. Things you couldn’t get in the way of.

“Why don’t you take a cab and go buy some new clothes?” Justin continued. “Or you could call Michael and sort out what you’re going to do about everything at the loft. Then you could meet me for lunch.”

“I guess we could do that.” You hated the idea of doing anything less than staying in Justin’s tiny, cramped bed, and reacquainting yourself with the lines of his body, but you also knew that if you really wanted to try and make a go of living near Justin, you needed to start making plans.

You weren’t looking forward to Mikey’s reaction. He would say you should have made plans before you had hopped on the plane, and while you knew he was right, you knew him well enough to read between the lines and hear the unspoken ‘maybe if you’d thought about it beforehand then you never would have done it.’

And he would have been right about that too, which was exactly why you hadn’t allowed yourself to think about it.

Justin removed your sticky hand from his hip and sat up, taking his warmth with him. “There’s a little café called Ronaldo’s that I go to. It’s within walking distance of my studio. So how about I meet you there at about one? Practically any cab driver will know where it is.”

“Sure thing, Sunshine.” You rolled over, stretching out into the space he had just vacated, as much as you could in the thing that dared to call itself his bed, and closed your eyes, preparing to sleep for just a few minutes longer.

-*-

II. Justin

Rainy New York mornings dripped like a ruined oil painting, the neon lights of the billboards blurring like tears.

You walked through the streets, the collar of your coat pulled up around your ears, your hair dripping in your face. People’s faces melted into their clothes as they rushed on by in a flurry of activity, on their way to work, or school. The tourists were distinguishable by their lack of speed, ambling along despite the weather, cheery smiles stretching their faces as they pointed out this or that landmark to their companions.

You passed the local deli that you always visited when you were feeling particularly low, usually after calling home to Pittsburgh, calls which would always end in frustration because of everyone’s reluctance to talk about Brian, to give you some sort of reassurance that he was okay, that he was getting on with his life. Without you.

You turned the corner and walked down the street towards the gallery you were due to show your work at in just over a week’s time. The owner, Monsieur Garcon, his supposed French heritage as likely as the name he had given himself, was one of the first people you had met upon your arrival in the city.

You had spent a lot of time scouring the galleries, trying to get a feel of the kind of work that was selling, hoping to find a hole in the market that you could slip into and use to your advantage. The moment you saw Monsieur Garcon’s gallery, you knew you wanted to show your work there.

Unlike some of the larger galleries you had passed without even bothering to enter, intimidated by the clinical detachment the stark buildings procreated, this gallery was small and homely. It felt like it had seen years of paintings, nursed emerging artists inside its four walls as they struggling to get their names recognized.

The moment you stepped inside, you were greeted by a tiny old man with a handlebar moustache, wearing an old velvet smoking jacket that appeared to be even older than he was.

Before you had time to tell the man why you were there, Monsieur Garcon had pulled you into a tight embrace and then dragged you over to one of the more prominent pieces he was displaying.

“You like?” he had asked, and you nodded in reply, more out of politeness than anything else, not overly impressed by the generic painting that stood before you, a poor example of cubism that lacked any sort of imagination.

“Oui?” Monsieur Garcon had replied. “You like. I don’t.”

You had blinked, staring at him, having no idea what you could really say in reply to that.

“Been here three months. No interest. People look and walk on past. Boring.” He waved one hand, leaning in towards you, and whispered in conspiracy. “You paint me something better and I hang it. Oui?”

To this day, you still had no idea how Monsieur Garcon had known that you were an artist, although you suspected it may have had something to do with your distinctively cheap clothing.

Little did you know that anyone with any sort of perception would assume that a person with dried paint embedded underneath their fingernails was likely to be some sort of artist.

You returned to the gallery regularly after that first visit, taking daily breaks from the intensive painting regime you had forced upon yourself, to stop by and check out the latest pieces Monsieur had procured.

Less than two weeks had passed when he pulled you aside. “Where you paint?” he asked, his little sparkling eyes boring into yours.

“In my apartment,” you replied.

“No good.” He shook his head vigorously, his carefully slicked wig tilting precariously on his head. “You come with me.”

He locked up the gallery right there and then, in the middle of the day, when it was likely to be at its busiest, and took off down the road as fast as he could, leaving you, despite your five inch height advantage, jogging to keep up with him.

A couple of blocks down, Monsieur Garcon turned and hopped up a few steps, pulling a key out of his jacket, and fitted it into the lock.

You followed him up six flights of stairs, suddenly finding an advantage in being so poor you could only really afford to buy potatoes, cheese, and bread, and waited as the door at the top was thrown open into a huge bright space with windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling.

You stared in awe, your mouth hanging open.

Monsieur Garcon grabbed your arm, pulling you over to the corner where you noticed a set of winding, cast iron steps for the first time.

“Up!” Monsieur exclaimed, and gave you a little shove.

You blinked at him, and then did as you were told, ascending the steps. At the top was another door, and you pushed it open, emerging onto the roof.

“Oh my god.”

Monsieur Garcon appeared behind you, smiling, and swept his arms out, gesturing to the city rising up around you. “A view for an artist!” he declared, and you could do little else but agree.

An hour later, back at the gallery, sitting in the tiny backroom, sipping one of Monsieur’s herbal teas, you became the official new resident of the lofty space, with access to the roof.

Your new studio. And for less than a quarter of the rent you paid at the apartment you shared with Dean. If it wasn’t for the contract you had only just signed on the place, you would have dragged a mattress into the new studio and slept there amongst your paints and canvases.

Monsieur Garcon’s generosity didn’t end there, and he made a point of introducing you to every possible art connection that he knew of.

Not to mention insisting on a fairly frequent basis that you come to his house for dinner, telling you that his wife had simply made too much food for them to manage on their own.

You had the sneaking suspicion that the extra was made on purpose, just for you, but you weren’t about to turn down a free square meal, or a chance to sit in a house for a few hours, a house that made you feel like you were a part of somebody’s family again. Even if it made you a little homesick for Liberty Avenue and the warmth of Debbie’s home.

Your first show had come about through one of Monsieur’s connections, which you had to admit was probably one of the most exciting days of your life, perhaps only surpassed by countless numbers of memories you had of Brian.

The wine had flowed freely, and at the end of the night, Monsieur Garcon had taken you aside to congratulate you.

“You wonder why your first show here and not at my gallery?” he asked, sounding, not for the first time, more Polish than French.

“Well…uhm…” Of course you had wondered. After everything else he had done for you, it seemed odd he didn’t want to show off your paintings, especially as he praised them enough, especially compared to the paintings he was hanging in his gallery.

“You need…how do you say it…exposure outside of my influence,” he said.

“But you introduced me to Camille!” you replied, mentioning the lady who ran the gallery your first show had been held at.

“No matter,” Monsieur replied. “Everyone knows everyone here. But your first show at my gallery? No good. Everyone knows you paint in my building, eat in my house. No good.”

You nodded, it finally beginning to make a little sense.

“You show paintings at my gallery a little later,” Monsieur said, and patted your arm as he made a move towards the exit. “When you have a bit more of a…reputation…oui?”

What could you say to that, other than a very profound ‘merci’?

-*-

III. Brian

You waited until you heard the door of the apartment slam shut, indicating Justin’s departure, and pulled yourself up out of his bed. There was no reason to stay there without him lying next to you, the sheets that smelled strongly of his scent rapidly growing cool underneath your ass.

You rooted around on the floor for your jeans and pulled them on, padding out of the room towards the kitchen. There was no sign of Dean anywhere, and the apartment was deathly quiet.

You set about making yourself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the table, tracing a finger over one of the grooves while you thought back over what had happened the previous night.

It still stung, however much you wanted to pretend that it didn’t. Seeing Justin in the club, being nailed by the two idiotic tricks he had decided to pick up; it was a big shock. That sort of thing had always been your area of expertise, not his, but you couldn’t exactly blame him for doing it unless you wanted to come across as a hypocrite, not exactly an appealing concept.

What’s more, you knew if it had been six months ago, maybe a little more, you would have been the one in the backroom, not him.

You hated change. Things were so much easier when they stayed the same. Much less hassle to deal with.

And far more boring.

You sighed and took another sip of your coffee before putting the cup down. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your cell phone, toying with it while you contemplated calling Mikey.

Shit.

The last thing you wanted to do was have to tell him that not only were you in New York, but you had every intention of staying. You tilted your head and brought your address book up on the screen, scrolling through the names you had programmed in. You paused at the number for Kinnetik; the one with Ted’s extension, going right through into his office.

Maybe you didn’t have to tell Mikey. Why do something for yourself when you could get someone else to do it for you?

You smirked and clicked the button to dial Ted’s number, then held the phone up to your ear, waiting for it to click through.

“Kinnetik. Ted Schmidt, accountant. What can I do for you on this fine day?”

Ted sounded cheerful. Perfect.

“Hello Theodore. Working hard?”

“Brian!” You could hear the surprise in his voice, and you imagined him sitting up straight in his chair, pulling his eyes away from the porn that was undoubtedly on his computer screen, giving your call his undivided attention.

You could certainly take the man away from the Jerk, but it was a little harder to take the jerk out of the man. Especially when said man now spent most of his evenings filling, or being filled by, a certain ex-crystal queen jerk.

“Pleased to hear from me? Working hard I take it?” You took another sip from your cup.

“I always work hard, Brian. I was just going over the accounts for Brown, checking everything is peachy.”

Who the hell uses that expression?

“Glad to hear I’m getting my money’s worth out of you,” you told him, subtly expressing that he had better not be jerking around at work. Literally or figuratively.

“So, what’s up, Bri? I didn’t expect you to come in today, not after…after…”

“Justin. Yes, you can say his name without fear of imploding, Theodore.”

“Right! Justin. I didn’t expect you to be calling in today either, though…”

“Yeah. About that…” You leant back and reached for a pack of cigarettes you had left on the table the night before, removing one. “I’m calling to tell you I’m not coming into the office for a very long time.”

“You’re not?” You couldn’t work out whether he sounded worried, or maybe even pleased that he wasn’t going to be monitored for the duration.

“No, I’m not. So I’m leaving you and Cynthia in charge, if anything drastic comes up, call me on my cell phone. Or Justin’s.”

“Justin’s?”

“I’ll get internet access sorted shortly, but until then you’ll just have to cope without me.” You paused, preparing to do a little ego stroking, however distasteful. Sometimes a little flattery would get you everywhere, especially with someone like Theodore. “I was impressed with how you and Cynthia handled the reclaiming of the Brown account,” you told him, making a face at the deliberate compliment.

“Why, thank you, Brian!”

You could almost hear his bemused smile down the line. Time to put him back in his place.

“That doesn’t mean you can slack off. I expect profits to remain within the same margin, maybe even increase by the time I get things sorted this end. You understand?”

“Yes, Brian, I understand, but…”

“But?” You quirked an eyebrow and lit your cigarette, taking a long drag. Ah, nothing like the first hit of nicotine in the morning.

“But why aren’t you going to be here? Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

You knew instantly that he was referring to the time when you had cancer, and your appearances at the office had been short lived. “I’m not sick, Theodore, sorry to disappoint. I’m in New York.”

“New York?” His voice sounded strangled. “But…that’s where Justin is.”

“Someone give the guy a fucking medal!” You snorted and drained the rest of your coffee, then stood up, balancing the phone between your ear and shoulder as you went over to the counter to pour yourself a refill.

“So, you’re taking a vacation for a while?” he asked. “That’s good. Everyone needs a break.”

“I’m living here.”

“You’re…what?!” You winced as he screeched down the line, and you quickly sat down at the table again, putting your cup down so you could pull the phone away from your ear.

“Fuck, Theodore, shut the hell up!” You frowned and took another drag on your cigarette. “Listen hard, because I’m only going to say this once. I got on the plane with Justin and flew out here, I’m going to get an apartment. I’m going to be god damn generous and sort it so you and Cynthia get a payrise. I expect you to keep our clients sweet. I’ll deal with the New York accounts…meeting them, that sort of thing. At least for a while until I figure out what I want to do.”

“Okay.” He paused and then asked the obvious. “You’re not going to sell Kinnetik, are you?”

“Of course I’m not fucking selling Kinnetik! Don’t worry, Theodore, your little job is safe for the duration. I’ll be in touch.”

You terminated the call before he had a chance to respond further, and smiled to yourself.

Now all you had to do was sit back and wait for the inevitable to happen. Theodore would get on the phone to Emmett, unable to resist spreading the gossip, and Emmett, in turn, would call Mikey. As soon as he got wind of your location, Mikey would be squealing down the phone to you, probably within the hour, trying to work out why the hell you would want to leave Pittsburgh, Kinnetik, the loft, Babylon, him, for Sunshine.

Why indeed.

-*-

IV. Justin

You entered the gallery, spotting Monsieur Garcon almost immediately, and waited for him to finish waxing lyrical about one of the least interesting pieces he displayed in the place. The customer he was talking to, a middle aged woman, nodded a few times and then arranged for the painting to be wrapped up and sent to her home.

“Ah, Justin!” Monsieur trotted up to you as soon as the woman had left, and tugged on your sleeve. “Tea? Rose sent me off this morning with a dozen cookies. I can convince you to try, oui?”

You nodded and followed him into his little office, unwinding your scarf from around your neck, and sat down in one of his plush chairs. You could never say no to cookies, especially if they were homemade.

Monsieur set about making tea, and handed you a cup, waiting until he had sat down and taken a sip from his own before he spoke.

“Your vacation went well?”

You nodded, taking one of the cookies he was offering it, and bit into it, brushing crumbs off your lap before answering. “Very well actually.”

“You obtained…how do you say…closure with your Brian?”

“Of sorts.” You couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across your face. “He’s here. In New York.”

Monsieur Garcon blinked a couple of times. “He…staying long?”

You could tell he was trying to be tactful, to spare your feelings, and it only made your smile grow even wider.

“He’s moved out here. To live.”

“He’s here to live!” Monsieur placed his cup down in a hurry, almost spilling his tea, and grabbed one of your hands, shaking it vigorously. “My Justin, he is happy again! I knew the moment you walked in here something good happen for you in Pittsburgh! But this? I never would have thought! I must call Rose and you two come for dinner tonight. Oui? Or tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow would be better, Monsieur; we’ve barely had time to do anything yet. It’s a little overwhelming.”

“Yes, oui; I see. Tomorrow.” Monsieur sat back down and resumed drinking his tea. “You are happy he’s here? Your Brian?”

“Of course,” you replied, smiling at him. “It’s not going to be easy with Brian, but then, it never is.”

“Nothing good is ever easy. All artists know this,” Monsieur replied, making you think, not for the first time, that there was nothing he didn’t know.

Which reminded you…

“Monsieur, can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away, ask away!” He reached for his third cookie, showering himself with crumbs as he bit into it.

“How did you know with Rose that…you were supposed to be together? That it was right to commit to her?”

“Ah, age old questions of the heart.” Monsieur drained his cup, then placed it down, folding his hands in his lap as if he meant business. “Start with the easy, first. You love your Brian, oui?”

“Yes,” you replied, without skipping a beat.

“How do you know?” He smiled slightly, watching you steadily.

“I…” you trailed off. How, exactly, did you know?

You had thought you were in love with him right from the start, the moment you had set eyes on him, but that wasn’t really true. You had been in love with the idea of him, what he represented: a shiny new world with all of its doors thrown open wide, beckoning you to step inside and explore.

He was glittery, glossy, a beautiful man, more beautiful than you could ever remember seeing before. He was like an idol, an icon, something that signified everything you were not, and everything you strived to be.

You supposed it reminded you of that old adage that all that glitters is not gold, but in Brian’s case, he was pure, twenty-four karat.

Of course, he had flaws, plenty of those, but without those he wouldn’t be Brian.

“I don’t know,” you replied, finally. “There isn’t one thing. I just know.”

“Oui. This is the same for what you asked of me. I just knew.”

“But…” you trailed off again, unsure how to project what you were feeling. “How do you know that twenty, fifty years away, you will still want to be with Rose?”

Monsieur’s lip quirked upwards as if he was in on a secret held by a special club, and that he had been through an arduous initiation to even be considered membership in the first place.

“I don’t,” he replied, a little of his faux-French easing out of his voice as he became serious. “I only know how I feel now. I can’t say what I will be like in twenty years time; I can only say that now, how I feel today, I think I will still feel the same then.”

“I think I get it.” You paused and took another sip of your tea before continuing. “Do you believe that there is only one person for you? Is Rose that person?”

“Non, non, non.” Monsieur shook his head, and you feared for the balance of his wig. “You choose who you want to be with. There is nothing…predetermined. No fate. No destiny. No perfect person.”

“There isn’t?”

“Justin, are you perfect?”

“Of course not.” You furrowed your brows.

“Then how can you be the perfect person for someone?”

“I don’t mean perfect as in flawless,” you answered, feeling a little frustrated. “I mean…perfect for me.”

“Non. Contradictory. If a person can’t be perfect in themselves then they can’t be perfect for someone else.”

“But…”

Monsieur laughed. “You know of compromise, oui? You do this with your Brian?”

“Well, sometimes I feel I’m compromising more than he is, but yes…” You reached for another cookie.

“This is the key. To everything.” Monsieur waved one hand in an elaborate gesture. “Each of us, we are a like a piece of a jigsaw….all spaces and protrusions, oui?”

“I guess so…” You weren’t really sure where he was going with this.

“You meet someone, you like them, and to fit with them you soften some of those edges. Then you fit better.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Some people need less softening than others, but whoever you choose to be with, your Brian, anyone, this will need to happen.”

“I get that. I do.” You paused, still not satisfied. “But how do I know if he’s…the right piece?”

Monsieur smiled again. “You never really know until he’s not there anymore. Then you know, because the gap he leaves is bigger than the one you knew before you softened your edges to fit with him.”

He sat back, looking smug, and took another cookie.

“So you’re saying I won’t appreciate if he’s ‘the one’ until I lose him? If I lose him.”

“I thought you already had?”

It started to dawn on you, but still, you had to say it. “But how can I have lost him if he’s back?”

“You can lose someone for a day, Justin, then you find them again. And you know, in that day, that no matter how much you argue and annoy each other…” He gave a little smile, as if he was letting you through that door into the secret club, because yes, of course sometimes Brian annoyed you so much you wanted to scream.

You nodded, indicating for him to continue.

“No matter how badly he can annoy you, just that one day without him is so much worse than all of that.”

And there it was, the god damn Truth, and you’d known it all along, really, you just couldn’t identify it: that no matter how frustrated you became at his nonchalant refusal to share his emotions, his incessant fucking, his seeming indifference, you would rather deal with that a thousand times over than spend more time than you had to without him.

-*-

V. Brian

You’d just finished in a clothing store when your cell phone rang. You flipped it open and stared at the caller ID - Mikey. It was inevitable.

“Hiya Mikey!” you declared cheerfully, flagging down a cab with one hand.

You got in the back, throwing your bags in first, and sat back, half listening to Mikey rambling on as you told the driver to take you to Ronaldo’s.

“Mikey, slow down, I can’t make out a thing you’re fucking saying.”

The cab pulled out into heavy traffic and you took note of a couple of other stores you may have to go back and check out at a later date.

“I said ‘what kind of fucking game do you think you’re playing?’ ”

“I’m not playing anything, Mikey. I’m riding in the back of a cab on my way to meet Justin.”

“That’s what I mean! What the fuck are you doing going to meet Justin?!”

“Well, he had some meeting about his art show so I went to do some shopping, and now we’re about to grab some lunch.” You rolled your eyes.

“Brian!”

“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist, Mikey. What did Theodore tell you?”

“That you’re in god damn New York.”

“Well there you go then!” You rolled your eyes again, this time at the driver, in his rear-view mirror, and he smiled indulgently in return.

“When are you coming home?” You could hear the strain in Mikey’s voice as he tried to keep himself from exploding more than he already had. You pictured him as a little ticking bomb, the lit fuse getting shorter and shorter.

“I’m not Mikey,” you replied, cursing dear old Theodore for not giving him the full details, for leaving it up to you. So what if it was your mess to explain?

“What do you mean you’re not? Please don’t tell me you’re actually considering staying there with…with him!”

You sighed and ran one hand through your hair, glancing out of the window as the cab pulled up outside a small café with ‘Ronaldo’s’ emblazoned across the front in neon lettering.

“Hold on a moment, Mikey, I need to pay for the cab.”

You found your wallet and pulled out a twenty, waving the driver away when he tried to give you back your change, and you juggled with your bags as you got out of the back and slammed the door closed.

“Right. Where the fuck were we?”

You shoved your phone against your ear again and pushed open the door to the café, walking inside.

There was no sign of Justin, so you took a corner table, sinking into one of the seats, and pointed to a skinny latte on the menu when a waiter appeared at your elbow with his pen and pad in his hand.

Part 1B

-*-

“Where were we?! I thought we were in Pittsburgh, but obviously you have other plans!” Mikey said, getting closer to boiling point.

“Mikey, don’t be mad.” You nodded at the waiter as he brought your latte over, and tore open a couple of sachets of sugar, dumping the contents into your cup.

“I’m not mad. I’m…disappointed!”

You snorted. “You’re not my mother, Mikey. I don’t have to answer to you.”

“The hell you don’t! I’m your best friend!”

“Yes you are, Mikey. Which is why I’m so glad you understand why I did this. Why I have to be here. With Justin.”

Talk of the devil…

You looked up as the door of the café opened, and Justin walked in, half of his face hidden underneath his scarf.

He looked over at you, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and you knew that somewhere under there he was beaming.

“Mikey, I have to go. Justin’s just turned up.”

“Oh that’s right, ditch me once again in favor of the twink.”

“Mikey, don’t be a brat. Go read some new comics or fuck the Professor or something. Before you know it, you won’t even remember who I am.”

“That’s never going to happen.” His voice was small now, and you sighed, shaking your head at Justin as he approached the table, one eyebrow raised inquisitively as he started to unbutton his coat.

“No, it’s not,” you told Mikey. “And I’m not going to forget about you either, okay? Christ, Mikey, you act like we’re married. I’ll call you later.”

You hung up without waiting for an answer, and looked over at Justin, who had sat down opposite you and sneakily pulled your latte towards himself while you had been busy with Mikey. He was now sampling it, his nose wrinkled in distaste.

“You know you hate skinny lattes,” you told him, rescuing your cup. “Why even bother trying it anymore?”

You called for the waiter and asked him to bring Justin a hot chocolate with whipped cream.

“Because you like it,” Justin replied, with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world to him.

You nodded, understanding what he was getting at, but not particularly inclined to comment.

“How did your meeting go?” you asked him instead

“Oh, good. Got everything sorted out. Have a few finishing touches to apply to a couple of paintings but I’m pretty much ready for the show. Except…” He trailed off when his chocolate arrived and took a big sip, coating his top lip with the cream.

You leaned over and wiped it off with the side of your thumb. “Except?” you prompted, and stuck your finger in your mouth, sucking it clean.

“Except none of the pieces are really what I would call central pieces, you know? There’s usually some sort of theme that ties everything together, but there’s always one at the center of it all.”

“What’s the theme?” you asked, and picked up the menu again, reading the dishes listed under ‘lunch’.

Justin mumbled something into his mug and you quirked an eyebrow at him over the top of the menu. “What was that?”

Justin sighed and put down his drink. “The theme is called ‘home’.”

“Pittsburgh?” You looked at him in surprise. “What do you want to paint pictures of that dump for?”

“Not Pittsburgh exactly…” he said, shifting in his seat, and plucked the menu from your hands. “Although it does feature in a couple of the paintings.”

“Then?” You looked up as the waiter appeared again, and ordered a salad, hiding a smile when Justin asked for a hamburger and fries.

“Home, Brian. You know?” He looked a little frustrated. “The concept of home. Family, friends, and places I feel safe in…”

“I see.” You paused and took another sip of your latte. “That sounds rather…” You searched around for the right word. “…happy.”

“It’s not. Not all of it. Home isn’t always happy. My father and the bashing…they are all home in their own way.”

You winced at that, and tried to steer him away from that line of thought. “So you need something to tie it together and you don’t know what?”

“Exactly.” Justin perked up a bit when his food arrived, which you were relieved about.

“Think of it like I would with an ad campaign. What does the consumer, or in this case, your target audience, expect or want?”

“But this is art, Brian. There isn’t a specific audience. Unless you count me.”

“You?”

“I paint what I want. For myself. Inspiration doesn’t work to a predefined schedule.”

“Well, there you go then.” You speared a piece of tomato and stuck it in your mouth, chewing deliberately slowly as he looked at you, waiting for you to continue.

You rolled your eyes and swallowed your mouthful. “Home to you, Justin,” you said, unable to stand the look he was giving you anymore. “Paint what you feel home really is . For you. At the heart of it all. That’s your center piece.”

“At the heart of it all…” he repeated, and took a bite of his burger, with that familiar glazed look in his eyes that told you his mind was already mulling over the possibilities.

-*-

VI. Justin

Home? That was easy. You knew what home was to you, what home felt like, looked like, smelled like, sounded like, tasted like…

Home, of course, was Brian. He hadn’t even realized it at the time, and maybe you hadn’t either, but that’s what he was, from the first day you went back to the loft with him, when he had initiated you into your new world, his new world, the world you had always belonged in but would never have been able to find on your own.

He took you in when you couldn’t live with your parents anymore, in your first home. He had spelled it out to your father that his kind of love -the oppressive type that forced you to conform to his ideals- wasn’t love at all, but hate, and in doing so Brian had shown that despite himself, even back then, he was giving you his own kind of love.

Again, after the bashing, he took you in, paid for your education, allowed you to slip in under the door and become part of his already-established family, part of his new son’s life. He took you back after you had left with Ethan, and rather than treat you like a child and try and control you, focusing on his own hurt, the hurt you had undoubtedly caused by choosing Ethan, albeit momentarily, over him, he let you make your own mistakes. He let you experience what it was like being with another person, to discover what it felt like to make your own choices.

But more than that, he forced you to hold yourself accountable for your actions, showing you that you had made the decision to leave so if you wanted to return then you had to directly, implicitly, tell him that’s what you wanted, rather than slink around, waiting for him to ask.

In short, he let you grow up into the person you were meant to be rather than something he felt he needed you to be for himself. He showed it again by letting you go to New York without a fuss, knowing that suppressing your need would only prevent you from being yourself - the person he loved.

You chewed on your hamburger, watching him as he picked at his salad, casually looking around the café.

Brian was home, no matter where you lived, but you didn’t know if you could paint something that could really represent that. Could really do it justice.

You had sketched him many times over the years, but they had all been drawings you had kept to yourself. The only portrait you had created of him that had been displayed was the nude you had painted for the show at the Gay and Lesbian Center. The nude he had bought for himself.

You didn’t think you could draw another portrait. It was too explicit, too realistic, and these days abstract was more your style.

You sighed and dragged a french-fry (about as French as Monsieur Garcon) through your ketchup, and tried to start up conversation. You could think more on the painting later.

“So, what did you buy?” you asked, eyeing Brian’s bags that were piled around the empty chair at the table.

“Lots and lots of expensive clothes that will make me look gorgeous and sexy,” he replied.

“The usual then?”

He laughed and glanced in your direction. “I can see I taught you well.”

“I’m a good student.”

“Don’t I know it? 1500 on your SATs, as you like to remind me on a regular basis.”

“I’m proud of it! You should be too.”

Brian laughed and chewed on a piece of lettuce before setting down his fork and calling the waiter over so he could order another latte. “Less foam this time,” he chastised, and the waiter, as any man with any inclination towards his own gender usually did, blushed slightly and almost tripped over himself to make Brian happy.

You looked on, amused, and Brian turned back to you, rolling his eyes. “Where were we? Oh yes; I am proud of you….but your SATs were a long time ago. You’ve achieved more since then. Besides, I’d be more proud if you bragged about it whilst wearing your old uniform.”

You snorted and stuck another fry into your mouth. “You’re just a dirty old man, aren’t you?”

“Less of the old, twink.”

“But dirty is okay?” you replied, laughing.

“Dirty is always okay, Justin. Keep up.”

“Keep up? I overtake you!” You drained your hot chocolate and wiped your mouth with a napkin before he had a chance to reach over and wipe your lip again. You noted his tiny pout with more than a little satisfaction.

“I still have the tie and blazer you know…” you told him. “Back at the apartment. Maybe if you’re a good boy I’ll put them on for you.”

“And maybe if you’re a bad boy then I’ll spank you.” Brian pursed his lips and reached into his jacket for his wallet to pay for lunch.

You tilted your head curiously as he pulled a small paper bag from his pocket. “Oh, I almost forget. I got you something,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t get excited,” he warned. “I only got it because there was a pot of them on the counter in one of the stores I went to. Fuck knows why they were selling them in a clothing store, but then, it was a little kooky. More like Emmett’s taste than mine.”

He handed the bag over and you delved inside, excited despite his warning. Brian never bought you anything.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He bought you food and drink on a regular basis, and there was the house…

But small tokens? Never. Brian had never been the type to come home with roses and a cheery ‘hello dear, I saw this and thought of you’.

Not that you minded. Not anymore. You knew that Brian loved you, and he showed you in a million ways. But still, a gift? You couldn’t help but be excited.

You pulled out the little tube inside and stared at it.

Oil paint.

You glanced up at him and he shrugged. “You’re always buying new paint so I figured you would at least use it. And it was half price because of some stupid printing mistake. When I saw it, it kind of cemented the deal.”

“Printing mistake?” You were still rather bemused.

“It’s blue paint,” he explained, taking the tube from your hands and turning it over, pointing to the writing on the back. “But they fucked up and called it Sunshine.”

He laughed and you blinked at him, your eyes wide.

He studied your expression for a few moments and then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He picked up the latte that the waiter had just deposited on the table, and took a sip. “I told you not to get excited,” he told you. “It’s just paint.”

You shook your head, fingering the word on the back. “It’s not just paint,” you said. “It’s perfect,” and you gave him a wide smile.

And it was.

-*-

VII. Brian

Justin’s reaction to the little tube of paint surprised you. You had expected him to smile, maybe laugh at the irony, but ultimately to take it as it was - nothing.

You remembered the roses you had almost bought him once, a long time ago, but had changed your mind over at the last minute, walking away from the street vendor, feeling his confused expression following you until you had escaped around the corner.

The paint was nothing like the roses. You had picked it up on a whim, barely even thinking about it, and yet here he was, making a fuss over it, like you had just bought him diamonds. You completely missed the point that it was exactly that reason why it meant so much to him - because you hadn’t thought too much about it, because you had simply seen it, knew he might like it, and so had bought it.

You thought back to the only thing you had ever really gotten him that had held any meaning, any consequence: the house.

But that was different somehow. For a start, it wasn’t exactly altruistic. You had wanted to make as big an impact as possible, and while you knew he would like it, the ultimate goal was purely selfish.

There was another reason too, although you would never admit it to yourself: the house was grand, decadent, and entirely within the realms of a fairytale. It was a gesture of such epic proportions that you were able to hide behind it, using it as shield to mask how you really felt about him.

You were always about the larger than life gestures - the arrangement of Mel and Lindsay’s wedding, Michael’s comic book birthday gift, the ad campaigns against Stockwell, participating in the Liberty Ride. Those things were easy to do because they screamed ‘look at me!’, and while everyone was busy staring, bowled over by the sheer scale of it, you could pretend that the real reason for them was to get noticed, to gain brownie points, rather than the true fact of the matter - that you actually, honestly cared.

In the scheme of things, the paint was harder to deal with. That stupid two dollar paint with the misprint was far more difficult to come to terms with than a million dollar house.

You felt ridiculous.

You glanced over at Justin, who was busy finishing off his lunch, with a huge knowing smile on his face, and you cleared your throat loudly.

The best way to divert attention away from your mistake was to distract him with something else. Preferably something shiny and related to art.

“You ready to show me your studio then, Sunshine?” you asked, and he nodded, sticking his last fry into his mouth.

You left a few bills on the table to pay for lunch, and gathered your bags, waiting for Justin to re-submerge himself within the depths of his coat and scarf, before following him out of the door.

The rain had stopped, thank god, and you walked with him a couple of blocks to a slightly quieter street, if there was such a thing to be found in New York.

Justin bounded up a few steps towards a nearby building, and unlocked the door, holding it open for you to slip inside.

“Up the stairs,” he instructed, and you did as you were told, taking the lead up what seemed endless flights of steps.

At the top you were confronted with another door, and you waited while Justin unlocked that one and let you in. Once inside, you put down your bags and looked around, your eyes immediately drawn to the floor to ceiling windows that displayed New York City, laid out in front of you like a picture postcard.

“What do you think?” Justin asked, and you glanced at him, noting his obvious excitement.

Despite your reluctance to appear too enthusiastic, especially after the fiasco with the paint, you saw by the look on his face that this was one thing you couldn’t afford to fuck up. Especially not deliberately.

“It’s a vast improvement on that slum you had back in the Pitts,” you told him, and his smile widened. He was visibly pleased.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Justin replied. “Although the view can be distracting sometimes.”

You nodded and began to walk around, examining some of the paintings on easels, half-finished.

“Are these for the show?” you asked, stopping in front of a huge piece in black and red, with a dash of yellow, that looked like it was dripping with tears. You felt the anger vibrating off it in waves.

“Yup,” he said, joining you in front of the painting. “What do you think?”

You tilted your head, studying it, then moved onto a second, smaller painting, one which felt a lot calmer, more secure, depicted in muted greens and blues.

“I like them,” you told him. “But then again, I always like your work.”

You felt him grinning behind you, the heat radiating off his smile and warming your back.

“You haven’t seen the best part yet,” he said, and you turned to watch him walk over to a set of cast iron, winding stairs.

You climbed up behind him, curious, and emerged out onto the roof, the cold afternoon air slapping you at once and stinging your cheeks.

“I used to paint up here in the summer,” Justin told you. “But it’s too cold now.”

“Hmmm…I can think of a few things to do to keep warm.” You stepped up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist.

He leant back against you automatically and placed one of his hands over yours at his hip.

“If we fucked up here this time of the year, we would be lucky not to get frostbite,” he said, smiling, and you wrinkled your nose at the very idea, remembering when the baths and backrooms along Liberty Avenue had been shut down and you had tried to fuck Justin in the back of a lorry in sub-zero temperatures.

“I guess I can wait until Spring, at a push,” you finally said.

He laughed and turned in your arms, leaning up to kiss the tip of your nose. “Besides, there’s no time for fucking right now. I have an idea for my central piece and I need to make a start before I lose inspiration.”

You tightened your grip on his waist and quirked an eyebrow. “How about we fuck first and you paint later?”

Justin rolled his eyes. “No, we fuck later. I have to start now or else it will never be finished in time for the show. Stop being a distraction.”

You opened your mouth to protest and then shut it again. You could argue the point. Hell, you wanted to argue the point, but so far everything had been going pretty smoothly, and you didn’t want to get into a fight with him on your first official day. Especially when he looked like that, his cheeks flushed from the wind, his hair flying around his face.

Besides, you had something you needed to do anyway.

“Alright,” you told him. “You paint. But expect to make it up to me later by getting down on all fours and begging me to fuck you.”

Justin laughed and pressed his lips against yours for a second, keeping them clamped firmly shut, knowing that if he left you any room to snake your tongue inside his mouth, then within minutes you would both be naked on the roof, his painting and the bitter weather be damned.

You pouted against his lips and then flicked your tongue out over them, just because you could, before finally stepping back and letting go of him. He brushed past you, making his way back down the stairs, looking pretty smug that he had gotten his own way, and you waited until you had stepped back into the room at the bottom before patting his ass, unable to resist pinching it slightly before heading towards the door.

After all, sometimes he needed to be reminded of just who was in charge.

-*-

VIII. Justin

You stopped Brian before he left the studio, and arranged to meet him later that night at Ethos, the same club you had taken him to the night before. You had offered to take him somewhere else, to show him the other places you had found around New York, but he had refused, stating he wanted to go back to Ethos.

You smiled as you lay your brushes out and erected a new blank canvas on one of your easels. You assumed the reason Brian wanted to go back to the club was because he must have had such a good time the night before. Not that you were surprised - all of the hottest young gay studs congregated there, and you knew that if there was fresh blood to be sniffed out then Brian would be right in the middle of the action. That was the good thing about Brian; you could leave him alone in a club while you visited the back room with your own tricks, and he would always find something, or someone, to do.

You understood his behavior as well as you could. You had never had any trouble finding a trick or two to satisfy your needs at Ethos, and while it wasn’t your ideal situation -you had given up on that desire a long time ago- it was a highly satisfactory second best.

And well, if it made Brian happy, then who were you to argue? You had spent far too long trying to model him into something you thought you had wanted - a man who would wine you, dine you, and romance you. A man who would give you a stable home, and maybe, if you were really lucky, a family.

But things were different now; Ethan had gone part of the way to seeing to that. Now you wanted Brian to be happy doing what he had always done, namely tricking, and while you couldn’t say you were happy seeing him fuck other men, you could take the sharp edge off it by joining in and taking tricks yourself.

You couldn’t keep up with the rate Brian tricked, and neither did you want to, but you found it worked better to do it occasionally, a way to numb your own feelings towards his actions as well as showing him that you were okay if he did it. After all, how couldn’t you be if you were doing it yourself?

You picked up the small brown paper bag that contained the tube of Sunshine Brian had bought for you, and tipped it out onto your hand. You couldn’t bring yourself to linger on the thought of him tricking when he did things like buying you the paint. That was what mattered, not whose ass he was burying his cock inside…

You pulled your thoughts away from that line and turned your attention back to your art show. You would have to get a move on if you had any hope of finishing the paintings you had already started, never mind having a hope in hell of creating what you hoped would be your center piece.

Brian. You knew the painting had to be about Brian, but you had already eliminated the possibility of a portrait. When you had first taken a proper look at the tube of blue paint thoughts had begun to move in your mind, away from the tumbling, jumbled up mess, and into some sort of logical order.

Blue. That’s what the painting would be. It signified everything. Not only was blue the color of the paint he had bought for you, the paint you would use, but blue was so much more.

Blue was the primary color you could remember on the night you had first met Brian, the street lamp behind your back reflecting in the puddles on the ground and creating a navy sheen.

Blue was the color of the lights in the loft. When you had first seen them you had scoffed, thinking they were tacky like those that could be found in a Soho sex shop. But the more time you spent there, the more you associated them with aspects of Brian’s personality other than sex. And in turn you grew to like them.

You remembered many nights lying away under those lights, on his bed, watching him sleep. You recalled the numerous mornings when you would wake up first and pick up a pencil, sketching him under their glow.

Then there were the countless number of times you had sex with him - rough sex; desperate, animalistic sex; punishing sex that forced your nose into the pillow, the blue nights burning at the back of your eyelids as he rammed into you. And of course, the soft, tender sex, so painfully slow you felt you may explode from the sheer pleasure of it.

There was your first time, when Brian pulled your legs up over his shoulders, and moved slowly inside of you, telling you that he wanted you to remember it always, no matter who you were with.

And he was right - you would remember it always, the way he looked down into your face, his eyes boring into yours, the expression smearing his features as he buried himself inside of you; the feel of him in you, over you, around you. The way his skin felt underneath your fingertips, the taste of his lips as he bent you in half, leaning over to suck your tongue into his mouth.

And how he came, telling you he loved you, without even knowing your name.

It wasn’t love for him, not back then. You knew that now, and you thought that maybe, despite your naïve, seventeen year old self wanting desperately to be loved by that glorious, confident, sexy god of a man, he knew it too.

But it was love now, and that was all that mattered, and it turned everything else a vibrant, Sunshine blue, the color of love, clouding but not blinding all of the trials that had come before.

There were other times too, when he had laid you out under those misty, seductive lights of his; of course there were. How you sat on his bed after the bashing and had unwound that bloody scarf from his neck, unsure what meaning lay behind the incredibly morbid reality.

He had looked so vulnerable, so sheepish, as if he had been the one who had been bashed, and you could do nothing but try and take the pain away, to try and reassure him, even as you needed to be reassured yourself. So you had let him take you, fuck you, surprising both of you by how tender he could be.

There were times when he let you fuck him too, although they were far fewer in number than you would have liked. They were significant times for you, each and every one of them, because they meant that underneath his bravado, buried deep down inside, he trusted you enough to offer you his control.

There were other blues too - the blue of the backroom at Babylon being the most notable, and you thought back to all of those times you walked through that sweaty haze that hang palpable in the air, weaving between the writhing, grinding bodies, sometimes with Brian, when he felt like fucking you, and sometimes to find him, your eyes growing wide each and every time, even though you always knew what you would see.

There was a time, once, when he found you there instead. You had never spoken about it (and you doubted if you ever would), and you hadn’t let on at the time, but you had known he was there, the very air around you changing as you felt his eyes burning a hole into your back.

You had imagined his expression, the same one you had always worn when you had deliberately stumbled across him, his eyes wide and unblinking, that haunted, pained hollowness that felt as cold and familiar in your own eyes when you had looked into the mirror after seeing him with someone who wasn’t you.

You knew he couldn’t look away, almost as if he was punishing himself by watching, and you had redoubled your efforts, shifting your hips so you could grind harder into the trick bent over in front of you. The trick you had stolen from Brian after you had been crowned king.

So no, blue wasn’t always about happiness, but neither was love. It was often painful and brutal, like the thwack of a baseball bat against the bone of your skull. There was blue there too - a misty cool blue that whirled around like fog, accumulating in a flashing bright blue explosion like an electrical fire.

You used to spend night after night with that same sequence playing itself out in your dreams. You would wake up screaming, your heart practically bursting out of your chest, and you would open your eyes to a blue of a different kind filling your vision, followed by the concerned-but-trying-not-to-look-it sight of Brian’s face as he placed kiss upon messy kiss against your lips, trying to eradicate your nameless fears.

You picked up your paintbrush and dragged it through the thick paint before beginning to apply it to the canvas. Blue was definitely the right choice; there was no other.

-*-

IX. Brian

You left Justin’s studio and took a cab to his apartment, intent on looking through the clothes you had bought so you could make the best possible selection to wear to the club that evening. The look you were going for was simple - completely irresistible, and since you knew that pretty much that’s what you already were, it shouldn’t prove to be too difficult.

You paid for your cab and made your way up to the apartment, stopping outside Justin’s door.

Fuck, you didn’t have a key, and you had forgotten to ask Justin for his.

You knocked on the door, listening to the heavy beat of music from within, and waited for Dean to open up.

And waited.

You sighed, shifting your bags into one hand, and leant your shoulder against the doorbell.

A minute passed and then the door was thrown open. You looked into the annoyed face of Dean and smirked. “Took you fucking long enough,” you told him, and brushed past into the apartment.

Dean shut the door behind you and followed you inside, running one hand through his unruly hair. “I was working on my homework,” he said.

You unloaded your bags onto the kitchen table and turned to look at him, taking in his bare chest, his heavy breathing, and slightly red face.

A bang from the direction of his bedroom confirmed your suspicions.

“Ah, homework includes fucking, does it?” you asked, amused, and he glared at you in response.

“Excuse me,” he said, and walked into his room, shutting the door behind him. Muffled voiced came from within, and you rolled your eyes, grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge before heading towards the bathroom for a shower. You had no intention of sticking around to listen to heteros fucking.

You stripped off your clothes and looked around for a towel.

Shit.

You pulled your jeans back on and opened the door, intending on going into Justin’s bedroom to find one, when you caught sight of Dean coming out of his room, someone in tow.

A very male someone.

You closed the door a little so they wouldn’t see you, and watched as Dean led the guy towards the front door.

“Will I see you again?” his ‘friend’ asked, and Dean shrugged.

“Dunno. Maybe.” he opened the door and ushered the guy out. “I have your number.”

He closed the door behind him, and you opened yours, stepping out into the hall.

“Interesting choice of study partner,” you said, and he turned, his eyes flashing.

“What the fuck do you know about it anyway?”

You quirked an eyebrow. “I know that if a person comes out of their room wearing very little, sweaty, out of breath, and more than a little disheveled, a hot guy in a similar state not far behind, then homework really isn’t what’s been going on.” You paused, throwing him a sly smile. “Unless you have switched from music to human biology.”

“What I do is none of your damn business!” Dean replied, his lips pursed, and he stared at you for a second longer before he turned on his heels and marched into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

You sighed as his music started blaring again, and continued down the hall towards Justin’s room. You weren’t quite sure what was going on with Dean, but you knew one thing - that you had been around for long enough, had seen enough in your lifetime, to know when you were witnessing a fag getting laid. What you couldn’t work out was why he was so adamant it remain a secret. Especially when he was living with another queer.

You suspected that either he hadn’t managed to come to terms with his sexuality, or was ashamed of it. There didn’t really seem to be any other explanation for it.

You had seen a similar behavior before, from Mikey, most notably when he was working at The Big Q and had felt he couldn’t tell his straight colleagues that he liked to take it up the ass on a regular basis.

But this was different. Dean had no reason you could think of to hide it, especially from Justin, who obviously had no clue that Dean had been batting for the same team all this time.

You furrowed your brows as you grabbed a towel from one of Justin’s drawers, musing on the possibilities, always coming up short.

You turned to go back to the bathroom when your cell phone rang. You cursed, tossing the towel down onto Justin’s bed, and rooted through the pockets of your jeans until you found your phone.

“What?!” You jammed the phone against your ear and rubbed the back of your neck with your other hand.

“Hey Brian, having fun in New York?”

It was Linds, not Mikey again. Thank God.

“Oh, hey Linds. It’s okay I guess. Pokey little apartment but the men are hot.”

Lindsay laughed. “What about Justin? Has he gotten over the shock of you being there yet?”

“You know Sunshine. He’s a hearty little shit.”

“He sure is.” Lindsay paused and you waited for what you assumed would be her version of Mikey’s earlier tirade - why you shouldn’t have left Pittsburgh, the fucking mistakes you were making in abandoning your business and your friends, all of the problems it would cause…

“Listen, Brian, I’ve spoken to Michael and he’s pretty much blown a fuse, but…”

“Linds, I don’t need to hear it. I’m here, it happened. Get over it.”

“But Brian..”

You sat down on the bed and rolled your eyes.. “No, Linds, save it for someone who gives a shit. Moving here was the right thing to do, no matter what you, Mikey, or any of the rest of you have to say.”

“Brian!”

You blinked when she practically tore your ear off, shouting down the phone, and waited for her to say what she had to say.

After all, she was going to say it anyway, and it was probably better that she said it sooner rather than later so you could get dressed and get your ass down to Ethos where you could have the first pickings of the fresh new meat…

“Brian...” Her voice was softer now. “…I wasn’t going to say that. I think it’s a wonderful thing you’ve done.”

“You do?” You flopped back on the bed and raised one eyebrow to the ceiling.

“I do,” she confirmed, and you could almost hear the smile in her voice. “It’s something you should have done a long time ago. We all knew you wanted to be with Justin, so you should have left when he did in the first place.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence there, Linds,” you said. “Why not bring up every supposed mistake you think I’ve made over the years?”

“No supposed about it,” she answered. “It was a mistake. Still…you’ve put it right and in such a romantic way! I bet Justin was so pleased.”

“Linds, it wasn’t romantic in the least.”

“Sure it was! I’m sure Justin thought so. I can just imagine how he looked, those wide eyes just staring up at you…”

Part 1c

-*-

You rolled your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to ward off the looming headache that always accompanied any such conversation. Perhaps you really were allergic to romance.

“It wasn’t a movie, Lindsay. Christ, you munchers are pathetic. If anything, he looked like he was going to tell me to fuck off.”

“But he didn’t, Brian. He loves you, and now, after all these years, he really must know that you love him too. See, acting like a heterosexual couple isn’t all that bad!”

“Lindsay! We do not act like a heterosexual couple. We are men. Two gay men. Who happen to have…an arrangement.”

You knew she was teasing, but still, it managed to annoy you all the same. And scare the hell out of you, if you could admit it.

“Jesus, Brian, you still can’t say it after all this time, even though you asked him to marry you?”

“It’s different,” you insisted. “Besides, we never got married, did we?”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and you wondered if she had hung up.

A small sigh alerted you to the fact that she hadn’t.

“I know what this is,” she said after a while, as if she had been debating whether or not to say whatever it was that was on her mind.

“What is this, oh wise one?” you asked her, playing the edge of Justin’s sheet. “Why don’t you enlighten those of us who don’t have a damn fucking clue what you’re raving on about?”

“The wedding didn’t happen, so it’s almost as if you didn’t ask him,” Lindsay said. “That was your big moment, your abracadabra unveiling of your great big love, and it flopped.”

“Lindsay…” you warned, but it was too late. She was just getting started.

“So it’s set you back,” she said. “You think that because it didn’t happen, that because he moved away, you’re back to the start.”

You remained silent, hoping that this time she would think you had hung up.

She knew you too well for that.

“Only thing is, Brian,” she said, in her better-tread-lightly-or-you-may-bite voice. “You opened up and let your feelings out. You let everyone know what he meant to you. You can’t take that back, It’s like Pandora’s box - once you open it, you can’t stuff it back inside.”

She switched the subject then, as if you had just been making small talk about the weather the entire time, and you listened for a few minutes as she repeated whatever new expression Gus had come up with, barely paying any attention.

Finally, you managed to get off the phone, and you closed your eyes, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth as you tried as hard as you could to make yourself believe that Lindsay wasn’t right.

Unfortunately for you, she had hit the nail right on the head.

-*-

X. Justin

You took a step back from your easel and studied the canvas, critically examining it. It wasn’t bad, but there was still a long way to go.

You glanced at the clock, surprised that over four hours had passed since Brian had left, and you put down your brush and began to massage your hand, trying to ease the stiffened muscles that had begun to cramp up a little over an hour ago, eventually forcing you to call it a day.

For the most part, your hand was better - at least you could paint again. But it still had a tendency to cramp and shake if you worked for too long. It was something you just had to come to terms with, and find your own way around.

You pulled on your coat after rinsing out your brushes, and turned out the lights, locking the door behind you as you left the studio and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Brian would undoubtedly be at Ethos by now, probably well on his way to getting tipsy, and quite possibly already working his way through a trick or two.

You unlocked the door to your apartment when you arrived, and let yourself in only to find Dean sitting at the kitchen table, his arms folded on its surface, a sour expression on his face.

You unwound your scarf, draping it over the back of a chair, and pulled off your coat. “Is something wrong?” you asked him tentatively, pretty sure he was going to answer in the affirmative.

“Maybe you need to ask your boyfriend that,” Dean replied, distastefully spitting out the word as if it was something dirty.

You sighed and pulled out a chair, sitting down opposite him. Shit, what had Brian done this time?

You wanted to get mad -he’d been in New York less than twenty four hours and already he’d managed to anger your housemate- but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to do so. Whether it was because you were still on a high from him being there with you, you didn’t know, or perhaps it was just the knowledge that where Brian went, trouble was bound to follow.

“What happened?” you asked, and pulled out your cigarettes, lighting one.

“Nothing happened,” Dean said, his brow furrowed as if he was deep in thought. “But I don’t think this is going to work. The apartment is barely big enough for two, never mind three people.”

You took a drag on your cigarette, feeling that he wasn’t telling you the entire story.

“What did he do?” you tried again.

“Nothing,” Dean repeated. “Unless you count forgetting a key and then leaning on the buzzer for ten minutes until I answered. I was…in the middle of something.”

“That would be my fault,” you admitted. “I forgot to give him my key when he left the studio.”

“It isn’t just about the key!” Dean declared, and got up, stomping over to the fridge to grab a Pepsi. “I don’t trust him. He’s sarcastic and he keeps on giving me these strange looks.”

“Of course he doesn’t trust you,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “He doesn’t know you. As for the sarcasm and the looks…well, that’s just Brian.”

“Yeah…well…” Dean opened his Pepsi and took a large swig. “He spent far too long in the bathroom and used up all of the hot water.”

You made a face. Everything Dean was saying was stupid and trite, surely even he could see that, but you couldn’t really argue with him; it was his apartment after all.

“It’s not going to be for long,” you said, trying your best to placate him. “He’s going to find his own place and then he will be out of your way.”

“He’d better make it quick,” Dean replied, and sat down again. “I don’t mind having you here - it was a favor to Daphne, and I’ve gotten used to you now. I like you. But I don’t think it’s a good idea if your boyfriend stays here too.”

“I just told you,” you replied, trying to be patient, “he’s going to find his own place.”

You finished your cigarette and ground it out in the ashtray before pushing back your chair. “I need to go and get ready. I’m meeting Brian at Ethos.”

Dean snorted. “That place has a shitty reputation.”

You paused and smiled at him. “I kind of like it. I guess it reminds me of home. Brian owns a club back in Pittsburgh.”

Dean snorted a second time. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

You wanted to ask him what the hell he meant by that, but you didn’t want to argue with him. Not only did you have to live with him, but you didn’t want to ruin your entire evening. Not when it promised to be a good one.

You shrugged in response, instead, and headed into the bathroom, humming to yourself as you got undressed. You stepped into the shower and gingerly turned the dial, preparing to wash yourself in record speed under the freezing spray.

You were surprised when the water ran hot.

-*-

XI. Brian

You managed to leave the apartment without running into Dean again, and found yourself a bar to kill a couple of hours in before making your way onto Ethos.

The bar was seedy, a little unkempt, and you nursed a luke-warm beer in the corner, your eyes drawn towards the door every time someone walked in, as if the bar was Woody’s and you expected to see Mikey and the boys arriving at any moment.

The pickings were slim in the bar, most of the men far below your standard - either too greasy or too old. There was some interest from a dirty old man in a grimy sweatshirt, but you managed to deflect his glances with a patented sneer pretty early on.

Around eight you drained your last drink and made your way to the club. It was a little early, but you thought that maybe this time it wouldn’t be a bad thing. After all, the less people around, the more bored those who were there would be, and the easier it would be to pick up a cheap trick as an appetizer to the main course: Justin.

But you were disappointed when you entered, finding the club already thumping. Obviously New Yorkers didn’t have the same sense of time as the gay residents of Pittsburgh.

But then again, they could party around the clock here.

You positioned yourself at the bar where you had a good view of the men on the dance floor, and ordered yourself a Beam, giving the oblivious barman the once-over as he moved away, without a single glance in your direction, to serve someone else.

You looked good that evening, in your new shirt and tastefully worn jeans, your hair styled just-so, making it look like you had stumbled out of bed that morning with it artfully tussled instead of spending two hours fixing it in front of Justin’s full length mirror.

You took a sip from your glass and glanced at a man next to you as he sat down, sitting so close it was obvious that he too thought you looked good.

Maybe the previous night had been a fluke - you obviously still had the old Brian Kinney charm.

You blinked when he turned his head and looked at you. His body was okay, but hell would freeze over before you went anywhere near that skin, cratered and puckered with old acne scars.

You raised your eyebrow at him, as if to say ‘in your dreams’, and he shrugged before collecting his drink from the barman and moving away, thankfully getting the message without forcing you to cause a scene. Evidently he was used to be turned down.

Shit, even Theodore would have been fucking below his station if he had gone off with someone like him, and even that was saying something.

You looked back towards the dance floor as the song changed, already bored of waiting around, ready for some action.

A guy caught your eye almost immediately. He was about twenty, around six feet tall, with curly black hair and a body that obviously took a lot of effort to maintain.

He was moving quickly to the music, in his own little world, and from the look of it he was there alone, despite the other bodies of the dancers that occasionally brushed up against him.

Target sighted; time to move in for the kill.

You drained your drink and put the glass down, nodding to the barman who didn’t see, and headed onto the dance floor, making a beeline for the dark haired guy.

You found a spot close to him and began to dance, the upbeat sounds of the music urging you on towards your goal.

You pushed up behind the guy, pressing your body against his, and continued moving to the music, blending your movements in with his.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, his expression blank, but he didn’t move away either, which you took as a good sign.

You pressed against him a little more, letting him feel the hard bulge of your erection through your pants and against his ass, and you could have sworn you saw him smile.

That’s when he came along. A fucking generic fag in too-tight clothes, his bleached blonde hair shorn close to his head, and he grabbed the hand of your dark-haired dancing partner, shoving it down the front of his own pants.

Your guy’s face lit up with a lustful smile and he pushed his hand further into the intruder’s pants.

Right. Fine. You could play that game too. It was obviously war.

You eased back a bit and ran your hands down over your guy’s sides before placing them firmly on his ass. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to stand up in the morning,” you told him in a breathy whisper against his ear.

The blonde guy in front of him snarled at you and pulled him closer towards him in an act of possession. “Back off, buddy,” he said. “He’s mine.”

“Fuck, haven’t you heard of ‘first come, first served’?” you retorted, and raised an eyebrow.

The dark haired guy laughed, evidently enjoying the little spat in his honor, and glanced at your over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe next time.”

You stared at him for a second and then deliberately removed your hands from his ass. “There won’t be a fucking next time,” you managed to grind out between clenched teeth, and you whirled around, heading back to the bar.

Justin was already there when you managed to make your way back over, surrounded by a couple of college boys who fancied trying their luck.

He batted their hands away, leaving them groaning in frustration, and beamed up at you.

“There you are!” he exclaimed. “I was wondering where you got to. I should have known you would already be off in the backroom.”

Good. He hadn’t seen what had just happened.

You nodded tightly and picked up his glass, downing half of his whisky in one shot. “Yeah. I’ve been here a while. How did the painting go?”

“Great!” He looked about ready to burst with happiness. “I barely even noticed the time.”

You smiled and nudged his shoulder with your nose before resting your chin on top. “Wanna dance?” you asked him.

Justin smiled in response and kissed your cheek before slipping off his barstool. “Later, Bri. I think I have some catching up to do.”

He gave you a pointed look and vanished off into the crowd. You sighed and took his place on the barstool, finishing off his drink.

When you glanced up again, you caught sight of his blonde head threading its way towards the backroom, a black curly haired man in tow, the bleached blonde shooting daggers into Justin’s back as they walked away from him.

You didn’t know whether you ought to laugh or cry.

-*-

XII. Justin

For a moment, when you arrived at Ethos and couldn’t see Brian, you panicked.

It was stupid, you knew that, but you couldn’t help thinking that maybe he had decided the idea of moving to New York, or moving to be with you, was a bad one, and had taken off without telling you, getting on the first flight he could find back to Pittsburgh.

You had sat down at the bar and ordered yourself a drink, brushing off the obvious advances from the barman (when would he take no for an answer?), and sat sipping it, trying to calm yourself down.

When you finally saw Brian making his way over to you, your relief was palpable. He looked a little ashamed of himself, and why else would he be looking like that if he hadn’t been busy in the backroom with a trick and had forgotten that you had arranged to meet him there?

You fought down the tiny surge of jealousy that was beginning to climb up your throat from your stomach, and brushed off his offer of a dance -you didn’t need to be placated- and waltzed off onto the dance floor to find a trick of your own and show him that two could play at his game.

You found a dark haired man who fit the requirements, although he was more Brian’s type than your own, and you wheedled him away from the fake blonde he was dancing with.

After all, why settle for an imitation when you could have the real thing?

You led him into the backroom and leant against a wall, forcing him down on his knees to give you a blowjob, not really inclined to take it further, and closed your eyes, letting your thoughts drift away to long, lingering sessions with Brian at the loft, as the trick tried to coax you to orgasm.

After twenty minutes and barely any progress, you pushed him back away from you and buttoned up your jeans.

“Can I see you again?” he asked hopefully, and you scoffed, not really in the mood for letting him down gently after his abysmal performance.

“Did you taste my come in your mouth?” you asked him, calling on many memories of Brian being caustic to his own tricks to lend you credence. The trick shook his head.

“There’s your answer then,” you replied, and brushed past him, walking back through the winding corridors of the backroom, ignoring the grunts that echoed off the walls, and back into the flashing lights of the club.

You plastered a smile on your face as you neared Brian, because, after all, it wouldn’t do to look like you had a completely unsatisfactory experience. He would only laugh at you and tell you to choose your tricks better in the future.

You reached up and nuzzled against his neck, then leant over the bar to order another drink when he grabbed your hand.

You looked up into his face and furrowed your brow. He wore that blank expression that never quite managed to reach his eyes, leaving him looking a little haunted.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, and he shook his head.

“I’m bored. Let’s go home and see if you can dig out that old St. James’ Academy uniform from the depths of your closet.”

You smiled and let him drag you towards the exit, but you knew something was wrong.

It was apparent that whatever it was, he wasn’t about to tell you, so you pushed down the tiny trickle of fear that he would leave again, and followed him down the sidewalk, back to the apartment.

“I had a run in with Dean earlier,” you said, finally, after you had walked a couple of blocks in deathly silence.

“Oh?” He glanced at you, that blank expression still in place, and you inwardly sighed. “What did he tell you?”

“Not much. He just said that he didn’t realize how frustrating it would be with another person in the house.”

“I bet.” Brian kept walking, his eyes focused ahead.

“You going to tell me what happened with you two?” you asked as you continued walking with him, and it looked, for a moment, like you weren’t going to get any sort of explanation.

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “I guess he was in a bad mood. Wasn’t too fucking pleased he had to stop and answer the door.”

“I guess he’s just used to it being the two of us,” you replied lamely, feeling left out of the loop. There was something neither of them were willing to discuss you.

Brian snorted, and you trudged on helplessly after him, staring at the back of his head as if it would give you all of the answers you needed.

You opened the door to your building and followed him inside, going up to the apartment. “We’re going to have to be quiet,” you told him. “Otherwise he will only complain more.”

“Let him complain,” Brian replied, and stopped you before you could go in, pulling you against him for a punishing kiss that left you breathless.

He pulled back before you barely had time to respond to him, and pushed the door open, walking inside, tugging you into the apartment behind him.

The music was still blaring from Dean’s room, the same album he had been playing when you had left to go and meet Brian at Ethos, and you crept past his door towards your own bedroom, waiting until the both of you were inside with the door firmly locked behind you before you dared to speak again.

“Where were we?” you asked, with a mischievous smile, and practically dived on top of him onto the bed, finding his lips with your own.

He let you kiss him for a few moments, barely kissing you back, and then he took hold of your hips, firmly pulling you away from himself.

“You were about to look for your uniform,” he said, and managed a tiny smile.

You stared at him for a second, in confusion, and then nodded and climbed off him, going towards the closet to root around for the box you kept all of your old school stuff in.

You weren’t sure what was going on with Brian, or why his mood had changed so drastically from earlier, when you had met him for lunch, and later, in your studio, but you knew one thing: you didn’t like it one little bit.

You supposed it probably had something to do with his run-in with Dean, but that didn’t explain the uneasy feeling you had, nor the way he looked at you. The only comparison you could really come up with was the time you had been with Ethan, again, and Brian had shoved you onto the floor, playing with you roughly, teasing you to punish you, then told you that you stunk and sent you away to have a shower.

That’s exactly what it felt like, you decided, as you rummaged around in the box, finally locating your tie and blazer, but you couldn’t work out why he was punishing you this time. You’d only been apart for a few hours, while you were at the studio painting, and surely that wasn’t enough time for him to get mad at you. Especially if he had been tricking; that usually relaxed him.

You sighed, unable to work any of it out, and turned around, closing your closet door behind you.

You held up the tie and blazer and glanced towards him, where he lay on the bed, your eyes going wide when you saw that in the time it had taken you to find your uniform, he had gotten undressed and was busy stroking his cock with his long, elegant fingers.

He nodded his approval when he saw the tie and blazer, and offered you a smile, which you accepted and then returned with one of your own.

“Take everything off,” he ordered. “And put those on.”

-*-

XIII. Brian

You watched Justin intently from your position on his bed as he slowly removed his clothes, your hand jerking hard around your cock as if you were trying to win some sort of race that had yet to be announced.

He glanced up at you when he finally stood naked, and you inclined your head towards the uniform in his hands. “Go on,” you urged. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

He bit his lip, as he was inclined to do when he was unsure of something, and he slipped on the blazer, buttoning it up, before slinging the tie around his neck and tying it loosely.

“Now, now, Taylor,” you chastised, dropping your cock, and stepped off the bed. “If you’re going to do something, make sure you do it properly.

You walked over to him and undid the knot in his tie, your gaze dropping from his face as you redid it in a perfect, well-practiced Windsor, tightening it against his throat a little more forcefully than necessary.

You took hold of his shoulders once you were finished, and pushed him back a couple of steps. “Let me get a good look at you, Sonnyboy,” you whispered, and tilted your head, studying him critically.

You took in the cut of his blazer, a little too tight for him now, but on the whole a fairly good fit, and let you eyes wander down to the tip of his erection, which was poking out from just underneath the hem.

Your gaze traveled back up to his face where you found him chewing on his lip again.

The uniform had the desired effect, taking him back over five years into the past, to the year you met him. It was perfect.

You spun him around, directing him towards the full length mirror, and forced him to look at his reflection.

“How do you feel?” you asked, and he shrugged, looking away from the mirror.

You grabbed his chin and forced him to look back, your eyes meeting his in the glass. “It’s rude not to answer when someone asks you a question,” you informed him, your eyes widening for a second to drive the point home. “Now, shall we try again?”

He nodded.

“How do you feel?”

“Like an idiot,” he replied, and stuck his bottom lip out in defiance, despite his obvious discomfort at having to look at himself in the mirror, all dressed up.

“Don’t be stupid, Taylor,” you replied. “You look very smart. I’m sure your mother would be proud.”

“I’m sure my mother would have a heart attack,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What did you say?” You fingered the edge of his tie, your fingers smoothing over the rough cotton.

He looked down at what you were doing, and then lifted his head, once again returning your gaze through the mirror as you watched him over his shoulder. You could see he was debating with himself over whether he should repeat what he had just said.

You quirked an eyebrow, waiting. “Well?”

He sighed. “I said that my mother would have a heart attack if she saw me like this.”

“Oh really?” You wrapped your hand around his tie and tugged, pulling him around, and walked backwards towards the bed, taking him with you. As soon as you felt it against your legs you sat down, leaving him to stand there in front of you like a naughty child, in-between your open legs.

He nodded, his initial uneasiness giving way to something else as he decided to play along. Especially if it meant that he was going to get fucked.

“Well,” you continued, pushing one hand up underneath his blazer, trailing your fingers over the soft, hairless skin of his abdomen. “I think she would be delighted to see how grown up her little boy had become.”

Justin snorted. “Very grown up,” he replied, arching an eyebrow as he looked down at his cock, which was busy trying to poke its way through the material of his blazer, leaving a small, wet mark.

“Don’t be insolent,” you scolded, and brought your hand down, hard, against his ass.

Justin jumped and frowned down at you, a little spark of annoyance in his eyes. “What the hell did you do that for?!”

You smiled up at him, your fingers running over the skin of his ass, that was now slightly warm to the touch. “Because, Taylor, you’ve been a bad boy, and bad boys deserve to be punished.”

He pouted, and you almost laughed at the absurdity of it. You scraped your nails down over his bottom, making him wince, then delivered another flat-handed slap, the sharp sound punctuating the air.

“Get on the bed,” you ordered. “I want you on all fours.”

He stared down at you for a second, and you wondered if he was going to defy you, but then he stepped away from your wandering hands and clambered up onto the bed, positioning himself on his knees, baring his ass at you out of the back of his blazer.

You stared at him for a second, your gaze lingering over the reddened spot on his flesh where your hand had been, imagining you had left fingerprints behind, and you reached over, grabbing a condom from the nightstand before climbing onto the bed behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder at you and you slapped him again, the other cheek this time, and harder. “Don’t look unless I tell you to,” you told him. “You don’t deserve to look.”

He quickly turned his head away again, and you smiled. He had always been a quick learner.

“What do you want?” you asked him, and nuzzled your nose up against his inflamed skin, inhaling his musky scent.

“I…”he stuttered, and swallowed before trying again. “Whatever you think I deserve,” he finally managed.

“Good boy,” you replied, and dipped your tongue in between the globes of his ass, tasting him briefly, waiting just long enough for him to jerk back against you before lifting your head again.

“You want my tongue inside you?” you asked him, and he nodded, his voice a little shaky when he spoke.

“Yes…”

“Yes what?” You paused, your hand hovering over his ass again.

“Yes. Please,” he answered, and you laughed, spanking him again anyway. Once, lightly. Twice, with more force.

He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and you placed a hand against the spot you had just whacked, feeling the heat radiating off him.

You wondered if he was hurting yet.

Without warning, you pushed a finger into him, twisting it to make it sink down to the second knuckle, and he cried out, his body bucking forward to escape from the intrusion.

You slapped him again, with your free hand, this time against his thigh. “Stay still,” you ordered, taking note of the red bloom.

He froze.

You moved your finger inside of him for a moment, and then pulled it out, shoving it back in a second time, while delivering yet another blow with the palm of your hand, hitting him as hard as you could.

This time you swore you heard a moan of pain mingling with his gasp of pleasure.

You added a second finger, and shoved both of them into him as hard as you could, then reached around and took hold of his cock, the throb of it urging you on.

You collected a drop of his pre-come from the tip as you brushed your thumb over it, and then dropped his cock again, forcing a whine of frustration from Justin’s throat.

You quickly tore open the foil wrapper and rolled the condom on. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to stand up in the morning,” you growled, repeating the words you had used on the guy in Ethos.

Justin nodded.

You pressed yourself up against him, forcing yourself inside without the aid of any lube.

He cried out - a strangled, guttural sound, and his arms wobbled as he strained to keep himself upright.

You grabbed hold of the back of his head with one hand, and forced it down against the pillow, before thrusting all of the way into him, your eyes closing for a moment at how fucking tight he was.

You thought back over the night, over the trick who thought he was too good for you, knowing he wasn’t good enough for Justin, and you eased yourself back, out of Justin’s hole, slamming back into him straight away.

Your fingers curled in his hair and you pressed hum further into the mattress. Your thoughts drifted back further, to the day he left to come to New York, leaving you, and everyone else behind.

You slammed into his ass again, and delivered another stinging blow to his thigh, your hand tingling with the force of it.

You thought back further, to when he had initially turned down your marriage proposal, thinking that you, of all people, could never be serious about anything that resembled commitment.

You kept on thrusting into him as hard as you possibly could, listening to the myriad of sounds he was making, expressing his alternate pleasure and pain, and you thought back to Ethan, that god damn violinist he left you for.

No matter that he came back.

Back further, to the bashing, to the fucking hopelessness of it all as everything came crashing down around your ears with that single blow, and seeped out into the concrete with his blood.

You forced yourself further into him. Deeper, harder, clenching your teeth at the pressure.

Back, still, to when you had first met and he had danced circles around you, smiling that fucking infamous Sunshine smile. He was so fucking naïve back then, probably just as naïve now, thinking he could tame you if only he stuck around long enough.

You smacked him again, as hard as you could, as you dove into his body, shoving his head further down to drown out his cries. You moved your hand to his hip and held on, riding him home, back through your memory of your first time with him, and how you had surprised yourself with your patience.

Maybe…maybe if you had fucked him like this back then, none of the rest of it would have happened.

None of the confusion, none of the hurt, none of the jealousy.

But none of Justin either.

You bucked up into him again, your neck straining forward, a vein in your neck pulsating in time with your cock as you reached towards some sort of release, finding only an orgasm.

You collapsed against his back, and lay there, heavily for a moment before rolling off him and onto the bed by his side, having no idea if he had even climaxed or not.

You listened to the hammering of your heart, trying to shut out all of the other noises, and glanced across at him when he managed to lift himself up, from where he was squashed against the bed, and with great difficulty fell onto his back.

He winced at the discomfort in his ass and thighs, and you glanced down, noticing the sticky mess across the front of his blazer.

You closed your eyes and swallowed.

He laughed, and you thought that for that moment your heart may have stopped beating.

“Yeah, I really don’t think my mother would be proud,” he said, and then he curled up against your side, pressing a kiss against your collarbone.

“That was hot,” he whispered, once he had caught his breath properly.

You closed your eyes even tighter.

Some things never changed. Whatever shit you thought you were chucking at him, Justin always escaped unscathed, as if he was protected, watched over by some higher power.

You were the one left with the scars; most of them self-inflicted.

-*-

Epilogue.

Some people say that love is about compromise, and Justin finds he can’t do anything else but agree.

There are some days when he looks at Brian and he finds he doesn’t understand him. But still, he goes along with what he wants, stumbling along like a blind man in the dark, trusting that if he waits long enough then the storm will break and light will shine through.

He’s scared sometimes, that he may do the wrong thing, and it will all come crashing down around him. But he can’t afford to allow himself to think like that too often.

He has too much riding on the outcome, too much time invested, too much love, to do anything other than sit back and watch and hope that someone will come along and show him what to do.

He pretends the possibility of it never happening doesn’t exist, and somehow, sometimes, it’s enough to get him through.