STANDING UP FOR OUR COLORS
Title: Standing Up for Our Colors
Author: emelwhy
Pairing: Brian and Justin
Author's Notes: Brian destroys Stockwell’s campaign for mayor and Liberty Avenue erupts in jubilation over the police chief’s electoral defeat. In the midst of the raucous crowd, Michael appears, fleeing from the authorities who want foster son Hunter turned over to his abusive birth mother. Brian gives him his car so he and Hunter can run away. This is my version of the finale of Season 3 - from Justin’s point of view as he and Brian survey the celebration.
Swirling colors, flowing in the breeze sweeping down Liberty Avenue, challenging the supremacy of dark sky with a brilliant rainbow.
Rippling colors, waving from the lampposts, flowing from the street lights, whipping above doorways and windows.
Red folding on orange, orange meeting yellow, yellow blending into green, green touching blue, and blue merging into purple.
My artist's eye catches the contrast AND the symmetry, the boldness, the beauty, the community of colors. And each of these colors seems to also spring out at me from the crowd, from clothing, storefronts, cars.
The wind is sharper now, catching the fabric in the giant banner that someone has hung directly above us. We can hear the snap of the fabric, a strong sound overpowering the music that filters out of Woody's.
I have a lump in my throat. The kind I had as a little kid when my Gramps - my mom's dad, a World War II vet - took me to a big parade.
It was the year I turned 10. There was reunion in Pittsburgh of men like Gramps who had fought in the Pacific.
We watched them as they marched. Flags flying, drums tapping, bugles blaring, old men walking stiffly, proudly behind the bands, medals dangling and jangling from ribbons pinned to their tightly fitting uniforms.
I had been sitting on the curb, doodling in a pad as I usually did, and Gramps said. "Stand up Justin. Stand up for our Country's Colors."
"Our Country's Colors." That's what he always called them. Not our flag, but our "colors”.
Funny how I had not thought of that in years.
How he stood at attention -this successful businessman, who rarely talked about the war - resplendent in his usual gray three-piece suit. And this day he wore his Legion hat too, and the lapels of his pinstriped coat were festooned with decorations- the Purple Heart, the Silver Star, the Bronze Star.
I miss my Gramps. I miss how proud he was that day, his eyes glistening as he stared at his country's colors.
And I remember the tears forming in my eyes, the fullness in my throat, the beating of my heart.
And the same feeling rushes through me now.
Since the first day I set foot on Liberty Avenue, this has been my country; these people my family, my community.
These are my colors, our colors, waving, defiantly, loudly, proudly.
There is a slight movement from Brian's arm. Subtle but enough to signal that he wants me nestled closer to him.
I look up at him, and move my hand from his back to rest it on his shoulder.
He looks out at the crowd, his handsome, defined profile standing out in the blur of celebration that swirls around us.
I stare intently at him until suddenly he turns his head and our eyes meet.
"Is JT using HIS super powers?" He asks.
I look down for an instant, then back up again, my mouth beginning to curve into a smile.
"JT doesn't have super-powers. Does he?" I say softly, my widening grin betraying my attempt at naiveté.
"Not that JT would admit." Brian answers.
My mouth is close to his ear now.
"Certainly not that he would admit to Rage," I whisper seductively. "But Rage knows."
"Not that Rage would admit, " he responds.
I chuckle and he pulls me closer to him, a warm smile on his face, a strong but comfortable look in his eyes.
Then I become aware of the music. One of the guys at Woody's has taken a speaker and mounted it on a pole outside the bar.
The crowd is starting to move to the beat.
It is the ABBA song that played in the street the night of last year's Pride March. The night we danced on Liberty Avenue.
I can hear the lyrics clearly, just as I heard them when we held on to each other and circled through the festive throng that warm summer night.
Chiquitita, tell me the truth
I'm a shoulder you can cry on
Your best friend, I'm the one you must rely on
You were always sure of yourself
Now I see you've broken a feather
I hope we can patch it up together
And do the words mean more now than they did then, I wonder? I needed to rely on him after the bashing. Will he need to rely on me now? Will he allow himself to do that?
Chiquitita, you and I know
How the heartaches come and they go and the scars they're leaving
You'll be dancing once again and the pain will end
You will have no time for grieving
I turn back to him and say:
"Want to dance, stud?"
"Another dance to remember?" he asks.
"Another dance we won't forget," I respond.
I reach my arms up and clasp my hands behind his neck. His arms move under mine and he places his hands together at the small of my back.
And we move out into the crowd, circling, circling, circling all the while locking our eyes into each other.
Chiquitita, you and I cry
But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you
Let me hear you sing once more like you did before
Sing a new song, Chiquitita
Try once more like you did before
Sing a new song, Chiquitita
In the periphery I am aware of Debbie and Emmett sweeping by us, Vic and Rodney doing an exaggerated waltz, even Mel and Lindsay holding one another and swaying to the music.
So the walls came tumbling down
And your love's a blown out candle
All is gone and it seems too hard to handle
Chiquitita, tell me the truth
There is no way you can deny it
I see that you're oh so sad, so quiet
Sad and quiet no more.
We have learned to talk to each other, to say what's on our minds. Maybe our words are not direct; maybe we couch them in other terms. But we know what we mean.
This is our way, our new direction, "AE" - "After Ethan" as I call it. (Brian calls it "AI" and I roll my eyes when he says it, but I always laugh to myself that he still insists on calling Ethan “Ian”.)
Perhaps Ethan had to happen in order for this to happen. In order for both of us to understand what we were missing while we were apart.
Chiquitita, you and I know
How the heartaches come and they go and the scars they're leaving
You'll be dancing once again and the pain will end
You will have no time for grieving
Chiquitita, you and I cry
But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you
Let me hear you sing once more like you did before
Sing a new song, Chiquitita
Try once more like you did before
Sing a new song, Chiquitita
Try once more like you did before
Sing a new song, Chiquitita
The song ends and I ask the question that has been on my mind since the news came of Stockwell's defeat.
"So now what do we do?"
"Another dance?"
"You know what I mean."
"Ah, yes. The consequences. What happens tomorrow, with you a school- less boy..."
" This time around I'm a "forced out" not a "drop-out"
"Certainly the boy I know would do something? After all, what have I taught you?"
"To do the right thing? Be the best homosexual I can be? To stand up? To not give up without a fight, if going back to The Institute is what I want?"
"Sounds about right."
"Certainly that's what someone who lost his job might do too. If that's what he wants...and if that's what he thinks is right."
"To fight back. Hmmm. A new idea for the comic book?"
"Perhaps. We COULD do something like that, if the writer is ever heard from again."
"Mikey? He probably hot-tailed to Debbie's in my car and he has Little Boy Lost stashed in his old bedroom."
I lean into Brian and chuckle again thinking of Hunter's reaction to the wallpaper and curtains.
Brian arches one of his eyebrows.
"Speaking of standing up, you're doing a good job of it right now."
He presses back and I realize we are both hard - warmly, deliciously, happily hard.
"Mmmm," I say, closing my eyes for a moment. " Standing up together."
"Can you hold that thought `til we get back to the loft?" he asks.
"Why wait? "I question in return, surprised by his comment. " The backroom is open at Babylon. Thanks to you, everything is open."
"Open for use if we want it. We have a choice again. But I choose my own bed..."
There is defiance in his voice and I like it.
"And on the floor, in the shower..." I add jokingly.
"There's not much else left," he muses as he runs his hand through my hair, tugging gently at the back where it covers my collar. "So let's take advantage of it while we can."
"Umm, Brian, you have no car," I remind him. "I don't think I can last through the walk. I'll be trying to hump you in an alley."
"Not the first time," he laughs. "Use your powers Boy Wonder. Smile that smile to someone and get us a ride."
"You want company?"
"No, just transportation. This is a celebration for you and me. Besides, if you think your smile will be too irresistible to one of these twinks, there are always taxis"
He wraps his arm around my shoulder and moves me down the street with him, pushing through the swarm of festive queers, searching for a cross street where traffic is still moving.
Will we be able to contain ourselves in the back of cab? Control ourselves as the elevator makes its way to Brian's floor?
The clothes will come off
Mouths will press together; bare flesh will meet bare flesh.
We will explore and travel over each other's bodies, making the trip we have made so many times before, always finding a different and more interesting route.
And when we reach our destination and collapse on each other in fulfilled exhaustion, as we fall asleep in each other’s arms, (which we have been doing more and more lately), as we drift off thinking what tomorrow will bring...I know we will face things together.
Friends, helpmates, true partners and...yes, lovers.
Boyfriends in "an undefined, unconventional way."
Standing up for ourselves.
Standing up for our family.
Standing up for our colors.
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