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| Title: Enough To Go By- Chapter 7 & 8 Author: phobosgirl (phobosgirl@earthlink.net) Date: 11.15.05 Rating: R Disclaimer: Cowlip owns them, I don't, wouldn't want to, not making any money from this, want no fight with the big boys! Authors notes: Future fic. Feedback is welcome. Complete: no Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Brian ~*~ "I don't know how to read what you give me. Say, "I'm tired, I'm tired of being lonely." Spell it for me." ~*~ I found him in the kitchen sharing pleasantries with Norta, the woman who kindly puts up with my foul morning moods, makes turkey bacon and egg whites taste like a real omelet, and keeps my coffee cup filled while I bitch my way through the newspaper. His smile, when he saw me, lit his face, as his smiles always have, but there was reservation there, too, and I wondered about that. Did he regret the night before, wish it hadn't happened? That seemed unlikely, considering it was he who showed up at my door, he who had shoved his tongue down my throat and then later, he who panted for more, harder, deeper, Brian! But this was a different Justin than the young man I'd known, and his behavior baffled and unsettled me. I returned his greeting with a nod and glanced at Norta, indicating that she should start immediate infusions of caffeine. She nodded back in her usual no-nonsense way, and I slid into a chair at the table. "I hope you don't mind that I co-opted Norta," Justin said with a blush, "I smelled coffee and followed my nose down. She makes a mean dark roast." They grinned at each other, already old friends, and she patted his shoulder in appreciation as she set a steaming mug in front of me. Taking her cue, always the consummate employee, she slipped out of the kitchen, leaving the coffee pot sitting on the table between Justin and I. He smiled at me again, a placating look he'd always taken on with me when he wanted to diffuse my ire, but I didn't play along. I sipped my coffee quietly, waiting. Finally ducking his head, his smile faltering, he cradled his coffee cup gingerly, staring into it. "You probably think I'm nuts, don't you," he asked softly, "showing up on your doorstep in the middle of the night and then… well, you know." "Jumping on me in an upstairs bedroom and begging me to fuck you?" I smirked at him. "I dunno, Justin, seems like old times to me." He took a sip from his cup, another blush creeping up his collar, flushing his cheeks. I almost admired his ability to hang onto his boyish innocence and sense of shame, and I wondered as I watched him if I had ever had either of those qualities. "Is it going to cause you problems?" "Besides throwing out my back? No, why would it?" "I just thought maybe if you had a boyfriend, or something…" "Are you hungry?" I stood, cutting off his unsubtle inquiry, and strode to the Sub-Zero, yanking it open. It was none of his fucking business who I associated with- he'd given up the right to know years ago- but my heart had leapt into my throat, anyway, when he'd asked. "I- um, no, I don't really- I'm not a breakfast person," he stammered. I smirked to myself, pulling out a pitcher of orange juice to give my hands something to do. "Since when? If I recall, you love to eat, day or night." "Yeah," he chuckled quietly behind me, "I still do, but these days it goes straight to my gut if I indulge. I don't metabolize like I used to." "Who does?" I asked rhetorically. I pulled a small juice glass from the cabinet, my back to him, and filled it. "His name is Cole." I was boggled at myself. The words had just fallen out of my mouth as if of their own volition, and I gagged on them. Gripping my glass too tightly, I struggled for control. Was I bragging? Trying to hurt him? Gauging his level of interest? It was impossible to categorize my intentions, because I hadn't had any just ten seconds ago. Old habits slipped back into place, and I tried to mask my feelings with a shrug of my shoulders, glad he couldn't see my face. "Cole," he repeated softly, tasting the name. I took a long swallow from my glass, burning time. I didn't want to look at him, unsure that my defenses were fully secure yet, and unwilling to let him see me this rattled. He'd always fucking been able to do that to me- when I was with him, even before I really knew him well at all, he could pull information out of me that I had never revealed to anyone, with just a glance. He could make me want him again and again, when I had never wanted anyone more than once or twice. He could make me jealous by smiling at a random trick, angry because he loved me, and frightened for him just by crossing the street against the light. I'd been bound to him so tightly that I'd even put aside years of childhood conditioning and asked him to marry me. Twice. And then, after no communication for so long, he showed up and within the space of just a few hours, I'd betrayed my secret collection of his work, had him on his knees panting my name, felt guilty about it, and admitted to my relationship with another man. You'd better be very fucking careful, I told myself, ruefully, or you'll be begging him to move back home and help you plant next years crop of tomatoes in the back garden. I downed the rest of my juice and slammed the glass onto the countertop, frustrated with myself. "What are your plans for the day, Justin?" I didn't really care what his answer might be, I just had to keep moving forward, keep him off personal subjects, dodge my own confusion. "Um, yeah," he laughed, "Well, I dunno- I mean, I really haven't planned anything, you know? Except, you know… well, to see you." Fuck. "Why am I so particularly honored?" The sarcasm dripped off my tongue and I found relief in it. I poured another glass of juice with trembling hands, put the pitcher away in the fridge and finally turned to look at him. He was staring into his coffee cup, his brow furrowed, chewing his bottom lip, the way he used to do when he was unsure of himself or worried that I would become angry with him. It put me on even more firm footing, knowing that I wasn't the only one laboring through this happy little reunion. "I missed you." His voice was soft, revealing little, and it pissed me off. "After all this time, Sunshine? You could have called, or sent an email or even a fucking post card." I felt the smirk I knew I was wearing, heard the sneer in my voice, watched him recoil, and still couldn't seem to stop myself. "Why fly halfway around the world to see someone you haven't even bothered to speak to in years?" He shifted in his chair, dropped his eyes, and rolled his shoulders. "It's complicated," he managed to get out. "I'll bet. Complexity is our little Justy's middle name." "Look," he said, fire returning to his voice, "I get that you're pissed at me and fuck knows you have layers of reasons to be, but you can't very well expect me to discuss anything with you when you're just trying to score points off me!" He was right, and we both knew it. He also knew that in that one statement, his ability to fight back regained him some respect. But it wasn't enough. I'd played every game known to gay men. I'd become the master of most of them, perfecting them through years of studious observation and real-world practice, and I had grown tired of them. I was too old and too jaded and too fucking something for whatever he was playing. I wanted, deserved, answers, but looking at him then, it occurred to me just how much alike he and I were. He'd learned the games too, and more importantly, he'd learned the work-around for most of them. He had me to thank for that, and I had only myself to blame- I was too good a teacher. He had learned from me how to manipulate, but he'd also learned how to avoid being manipulated by me. I wouldn't get any answers from him until he was ready to give them. The little fucker. I was reluctantly proud of him. I drained my glass, my eyes locked on his, and nodded, the only concession he'd get from me. He acknowledged the stand-off with a small huff and a softening of his features and somehow, I felt relief. Uncovering his secrets would no doubt clarify his presence, but I wasn't so sure that knowing would prove a safer state for me. "I'm going into town, today," I turned around, parking my glass in the sink. "Mikey would probably like to see you, I can drop you by the store if you want." He laughed. "He still has it? "Yeah. New location, new décor, same Mikey. He's there every day, barking at employees and complaining about end caps, or some shit. He works too hard…" "And Ben?" I could see the worry cross his face. He was afraid of the answer. "Still kicking," I assured him. "He gave up teaching when he started getting sick, but he looks good, still making that tofu shit, swears by it. Hunter is fine, though, healthy, showing no signs of AIDS. He's a broker on Wall Street, married, couple of rug rats they adopted from China or somewhere." Justin laughed again. "That kid was always a constant surprise, wasn't he?" I nodded. "But a broker? I can see that, the little hustler." We grinned at each other across the few feet separating us, and for a moment, an electrical charge arced through the air between us, making the hair on my forearms stand up. Yep, just like old times. He broke the moment first, dropping his eyes again. "I guess I should rent a car while I'm in town. And find a hotel, too." "Stay here." The words were out with no graceful way to yank them back, and inside me, a surprised voice screamed warnings. I ignored it, as I always had with him, and slipped the fuck-all mask back in place. I brushed past him on my way out of the room, leaving him sputtering behind me. "Brian, I can't! I wouldn't want to impose! It's not fair!" We both knew how badly he wanted to be here but to help him preserve some of his dignity, I let him protest a moment more before turning back to him. "Don't worry about it. It's not like you're moving in or anything." Christ, when would I stop saying stupid shit and scaring the fuck out of myself? Where Justin was concerned- maybe never. I swallowed around the lump in my throat, rolled my eyes at him and shrugged casually. "If you're sure…" I was already turning away from him again. I'd asked, but I wouldn't beg. "I'd love to, thank you," he said to my back. "Brian!" "Hmm?" "Cole?" I stopped, my back still to him. "What about him? "Won't he care?" "Why should he?" There was a long, quiet pause behind me, and finally I looked around at him. "Are you in love with him?" Well, the question was finally out, and I had to hand it to him. It took a lot of fucking nerve. "Sunshine," I gave him my best smirk, "I don't believe in love. Remember?" I didn't wait for an answer before I strode out of the room. End of Chapter 7 Justin ~*~ "There will always be something there As long as one of us goes on living." ~*~ When Brian dropped me off in front of Michael's new store, he barely looked in my direction. His jaw was set tensely and his fingers drummed the steering wheel in impatience. I thanked him for the ride and stepped out, turning my back on his squealing tires as he sped away. The large, plate-glass windows looking into Michael's store showed a cacophony of color and movement inside. Rows of display racks and bins lined the floor and huge posters filled most of the available wall space. Posters dotted the windows, too, proclaiming new editions of Superman, The X-Men and other childhood heroes captured in vivid line drawings drenched with intense blues, reds and yellows. My trained eye played over the art, memories flooding me, until I noticed the last window. There, yellowing with age but still standing in proud, if not dated, glory was a cardboard cut-out of Rage, The Gay Avenger. My throat tightened, and before I could stop it, laughter began to roll out of me, aching like a blow to my chest. I let it come, bent at the waist, my hands supporting my weight on my knees, marveling at the close connection between laughing and crying. I had no idea how I would have explained myself if Michael had walked out onto the sidewalk at that moment, and as tears rolled down my cheeks, I realized how much I had missed him. How much I had missed all of them. Debbie. Michael. Emmett. Even Teddy. And Brian. Always, Brian. Sobering, finally, I wiped at my face, feeling as if a tightly wound rubber band inside me was loosening it's grip. I felt better, lighter, and I pushed my way through the double doors into Michael's domain with a smile, and a child-like sense of awe. Comic books had never really been my thing growing up, not like they had Michael's, and by extension, Brian's, but even before my own foray into the world of superheroes, I could appreciate the simple beauty inherent in them. Here, Michael had built a shrine not only to this art form, but also to his own dreams. He had never grown entirely out of his childhood and the décor of his business reflected that in a charmingly playful way. I could see Emmett's flair for decorating everywhere, he had obviously helped Michael with it, but it was Michael's personality that shone from every display case, from every gleaming surface, even from the custom t-shirts worn by his young employees that said things like, 'Superheroes Do It On The Fly,' and 'The Tights Make The Man'. So typically Michael, but looking around, it was clear he was a success, and I was proud of him for it. I wandered towards a young man standing behind a glass case that ran the entire length of one wall. A sign overhead proclaimed that this is where the real connoisseur went to find vintage work by their favorite artists. By the size of his stock, I could see that Michael had used his extensive knowledge of comics to search out and acquire thousands of collector's items, from the very first .05 comic books, to action figures from the '50's, to trading cards. It was an impressive collection and must have cost a small ransom. Successful, indeed. Of course, prominently showcased in the middle of the display were original, signed copies of Rage comics and paraphernalia. A small sign next to them warned, "Display only. NOT for sale!" I was lingering over the glass-encased reminders of my early days with Brian, feeling sentimental and a little sad, when the sales boy interrupted my overly-maudlin thoughts. "You're Justin Taylor." His voice was filled with awe, and I winced when I heard it. Most artists, Andy fucking Warhol notwithstanding, aren't cut out for celebrity. Art is such a personal endeavor; you don't do it for the masses, you do it for yourself, to appease the intimate voice that whispers constantly in your brain, your spirit, the cells of your body. Creating art is like brushing your teeth, or sneezing, or having an orgasm- it is essential and almost involuntary, and no one can do it for you. To create for an audience is embarrassing, and to be recognized for it, uncomfortable. Pride is involved when people love and appreciate your work, but few artists want up close and personal examples of that. The art is what's important, not the artist. I was painfully reminded of my own exposure lately, and knew with shame that I had sought it out. But this young man was not the cause of my humiliation, I had brought it on myself, so I looked up at him, flashed the non-threatening smile that I'd perfected for magazine covers and newspaper articles, and fluttered inside with shame when he nearly swooned. "This is your work," he went on, his eyes wide, his hand brushing the glass case. "It's amazing. I've seen your stuff hanging in the Carnegie Museum. You're fucking famous, dude." I blushed, hating the feeling of heat rising from my collar into my cheeks, and rushed to change the subject. "I'm looking for Michael Novotny. Can you tell me where I might find him?" "Oh shit, yeah," the kid sputtered, "Mikey's gonna be so jazzed you're here, lemme call him." I smiled my thanks, not missing for a moment the explicit look of interest he gave me as he dialed and spoke quietly into the phone. It made sense to me that Mikey had hired gay kids as his employees. It was so like him. As I waited, I wandered the aisles, boggled by the volume and variety of Mikey's hand-picked stock. I was aware the entire time of the young man's eyes on me, but I pretended not to notice. I wasn't here to get laid, my performance in Brian's bed last night notwithstanding, and I had no desire to encourage the kid. I wondered bitchily if Brian still stalked the young ones like he had me, or if domestic bliss had chilled his interest. I knew with certainty that I was actually the only kid he'd ever seduced, but for the moment, the threat I felt from the quiet presence of Cole in Brian's life stung just enough for me to justify to myself my uncharitable thoughts. I suddenly thought about turning and walking away, realizing that life here had obviously moved forward without me and that, like it or not, the direction I'd chosen for myself was all I had left. I had nearly made up my mind, and was wandering towards the front of the store, and escape, when Mikey's voice reached me from several aisles away. "Well, well, the prodigal son returns." I could detect no malice in his voice, no shadow of resentment, only warm and distantly-remembered affection. Michael and I had been brothers, once, or maybe brothers-in-law, and we had fought and loved like family. Turning to see him now, taking in his soft grin and the gray at his temples, I felt the relief of homecoming and reunion. He strode towards me in that shy, awkward way of his, and scooped me up in his arms in a tight grip that squeezed the breath out of me. I returned the hug, remembering how good it felt to be a part of something that was bigger than me, part of a family that meant more, together, than what I was, alone. All at once, my heart ached with missing Debbie and Vic, and although Michael had to have felt my trembling and heard the quiet sob that escaped my lips before I could call it back, he just held on and didn't let go until I was steadier. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were clear and honest, his smile genuine, and he playfully wiped at my tears, cuffing my chin as he stepped back. "Still a little drama princess, I see," he chided gently, and I laughed with him, embarrassed by how emotional coming home was turning out to be for me. "Some things never change." I wiped at my nose. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "Well, come on back, we have a lot of catching up to do. If you have the time?" "My whole afternoon is free," I assured him, "I'm all yours!" I knew, as I followed him back to his private office, nodding my thanks to the sales boy, that questions of Brian would come soon enough. But for now, I was content to be there and spend time reminiscing with my old friend. ~*~ "Through broken eyes and contact lenses, I watched you draw your future tenses. See kisses of flame blow out of your lips, your back telling me your apocalypse." ~*~ I dove for the shot, landing hard on my shoulder and rolling into the fall, watching as the ball bounced away and out of my reach. "That's 15," Cole laughed, panting, "Twice." I laid on my back, my heart thundering in my chest, sweat gluing me to the court beneath me. "You're off your game today, babe." Cole loomed over me, offering his hand to help me up. I ignored it and scowled at him. "Don't call me that," I reminded him absently. "Fine, I won't call you that." He knew his part as well as I did, and though we'd replayed those lines thousands of times since we'd met, he never seemed to tire of them. I grinned up at him and took his hand. He yanked me to my feet, and every muscle I had groaned in protest. "Steam room?" I could tell that he was enjoying my discomfort. "Yeah, I think so," I sighed. I was feeling my age more than I had in a long time, and I knew that one of the biggest reasons was Justin's return. Although he was knocking on the door of middle-age, too, he had always carried a youthfulness under his skin that reminded me of the years separating us. Weighing heavily on me, also, was not just my age, but the prospect of explaining Justin's reappearance to Cole, when I, myself, had no clear idea of why he'd come back. Stashing our racquets in lockers and shedding our clothes, I followed Cole into the steam room, admiring the view from behind as I went. Cole's back had always been one of his finest features (that his ass was killer went without question), the strong planes and curves both powerful and sweepingly graceful at the same time. I wasn't lying to Justin- I wasn't in love with Cole. But I sure as fuck was in lust with him. I turned my mind from thoughts of laying Cole out on the damp tile of the steam room and fucking him savagely. I knew enough about myself, now, to know when I was using sex as an escape, and today of all days, Cole deserved better from me. There were only a few people in the world I could honestly say I cared about, and whose feelings I took into consideration. Gus was at the top of the list. Cole ran a close second. I spent a moment briefly cursing Justin for that, for my inability to be in love again, but that was escapism, too. It wasn't his fault, it never had been; it was all mine. Settling in, a large white towel wrapped around me, I closed my eyes, leaned back against the wall, and let the wet heat seep into my pores. I was vaguely aware of people around us, coming and going, soft murmurs of voices, but mostly, I just blocked it all out, drifting on a cushion of warmth. I must have fallen asleep for a moment, because I awoke from a dream of wailing sirens to feel Cole's palm stroking up my thigh. Opening my eyes, I realized that we were alone, and the desire to have him right there, right at that moment, was strong on me, again. I gave in to it as he slid closer along the bench, settling his weight against my side. I leaned into him, enjoying the feeling of his lips as they found the most tender patches of flesh along my collarbone, my neck, finally reaching my mouth. Unbidden, as Cole's talented tongue pushed between my lips, the memory of finding Justin in the rubble of Babylon, and my relief that he was still alive, gripped me. Startled and unsettled, I broke the kiss. Cole's eyes clouded with confusion, and questions. But like a flashback that wouldn't let go, I tasted smoke, and fear, and I could feel Justin's hands he clung to me, I could feel his trembling, and on the heels of that, the overwhelming desire I'd had that night to never let him go. I stood abruptly, trying hard to shake off the dizzying sensation, and mumbled an apology to Cole. He leapt to his feet beside me, placing a calming hand on my shoulder, repeating my name softly. I could hear the worry in his voice, knew I was scaring him, but it was as if I was sensing him through a great distance. Around me, flames leapt up and people cried out as I dragged Justin from the rubble into the cold night air. I took a shuddering breath, freezing air filling my lungs, and then I was back in the moist heat with Cole, his hands gripping my shoulders. He peered into my eyes anxiously. "Brian, what the fuck, are you ok?" I nod vaguely, but I wasn't sure. "Come on, you've probably just been in here too long, lets get you out." He began to gently propel me along and I went willingly, but inside it felt as if something was cracking open. "A shower will do you-" "Justin is home," I blurted, and I could hear the flatness of my voice, the total lack of surprise, but once I'd started, I didn't dare stop. "He showed up last night. At the house." Cole's hands dropped from my shoulders, and his eyes went very serious and dark, unreadable. "I- he- it caught me off guard," I continued. The cruelty of confessing to him in such a public place didn't escape me, and I watched him shake his head, not understanding. Why should he have understood? I didn't even understand it. "I let him in, and then he needed a place to stay, so I put him in a spare room but he found the painting." The words picked up speed as they poured from my mouth, the rush to get them out making me sway on my feet. "He found all the paintings, all the ones I'd collected. In his studio. I guess he was snooping. Or coming to find me. I don't know. But I found him. I couldn't sleep after you and I talked." Cole blinked, and hurt bloomed across his features, his beautiful, dark features. "He was there when we were on the phone?" His voice was low, disbelieving. "When we… as we were… he was in the next room?" I shook my head. "In the room on the other side of the house. The one with his painting in the bathroom." I needed to sit, but I couldn't afford myself even that comfort. I didn't deserve it. "He saw it. I knew he'd find it. And then…" "What?" I hated the whispering, frightened quality of Cole's voice. "I fucked him." Slow understanding gradually settled into Cole's bones, drawing him up straight and tall, hardening his form, tightening his jaw, clenching his fists. I wished for one moment that he'd been allowed to expect more from me, because the atonement of a broken nose or a fat lip at his hands would have been both just and welcome. But he knew me. He knew that counting on me was fatal, and while he may have had dreams about us, wishes of lifetimes and commitments, he knew that I was too much of a prick to give him any of that. And I knew that he deserved all of it, and more. My self-loathing was just as habitual and protective now as it had ever been- as comforting as when I had first found Justin, coming out of Babylon, on a warm night nearly two decades ago. For the second time in my life, I had thoroughly cloaked myself in it, and another innocent person had been devastated by its impact. I waited quietly for his response. He didn't hit me. He didn't yell, or turn his back and walk away. He didn't cry or beg or accuse or demand. He merely nodded, his eyes flashing. "I need a shower. So do you." He was inscrutable. "Cole-" "Okay?" I watched his face, hoping he would give something, anything, away, but self-preservation is a powerful motivator- he'd become as practiced at hiding from me as I'd always been hiding from everyone else. I nodded, resigned, and reached out to touch his arm. Smoothly, without another glance, he dodged me and moved into the shower room. End of Chapter 8 |