"Coup de Foudre" 1
For new readers, you might want to get the backstory of
this fic here: "Red Shirt" and "Creekside Canyon." For
more information on Brian's backstory:
Brian & Ron: 1988 - 2006
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/509962.html
You can download the Brian and Ron Saga, 1988 to 2006 here:
https://groups.yahoo.com/neo/groups/queer_theories_by_gaedhal/files
Justin's backstory is "The End of 'The Evil Stream'":
The first chapter is here and then follows for 13 short
chapters:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/gaedhal/168780.html
That said, you can read this story without all the
backstory, but, hey! It definitely adds to the experience!
***
It's ten years after "The End of 'The Evil Stream.'"
Ten years after "253 Creekside Canyon."
Everyone is older. But are they any wiser?
It's only Time --
But what has Time done? To lives? To dreams? To love?
Sometimes it comes like a thunderbolt, when you least expect it...
By Gaedhal
Pittsburgh, May 2016
Justin Taylor had begun to paint again.
Yes, he had been doing some art, mainly sketching and doodling around on his computer, as well as his work in the Art Department of Kinnetik - which didn’t really count because it was work - but he hadn’t been painting.
Not real painting. Not since New York.
But lately he’d started again. He wasn’t sure why. He thought he’d given that up for good. He’d put his paints away a long time ago and stored his unfinished canvases in his mother’s garage. His inspiration was gone. His desire was gone. And he’d thought it would never return.
Then, one evening, in the middle of a cold Pittsburgh winter, Justin picked up his sketchbook. Flipped through it, looking at the half-assed images that listlessly crawled across the pages.
“Pathetic. Fucking pathetic.”
But it wasn’t his own critical voice he heard in his head, it was another’s. A voice he hadn’t directly heard in over ten years.
He hated that he still heard that voice. Hated that he still cared what it said. Hated that he still listened to it.
“Fuck that!” said Justin, throwing his sketchbook across the room in frustration.
But the next day he drove over to his mother’s house and rummaged through the storage space in the garage.
“What are you looking for?” asked Jennifer.
“Nothing,” her son replied as he dug deeply into a cardboard box.
“Are you staying for dinner? I’m making chicken.”
Justin didn’t usually stay for dinner. He wasn’t fond of Jennifer’s husband, Brad - he refused to think of the guy as his stepfather, even if he was, officially. Then he thought about his cold apartment with its fridge filled with bottles of water, leftover pizza, and poppers.
“Sure.”
He’d eaten the chicken and even had a conversation, of sorts, with Brad, whose two topics of conversation were money - he was a financial planner - and the Steelers. Then he carried back to his apartment his paint boxes, palettes, and some of his old sketchbooks.
Later that night he sat up in bed and leafed through the sketchbooks. He thought it would be painful, looking at the things he’d drawn so long ago, the people whose faces and bodies once had been so familiar. But he found that the pain had dulled over the years. He was able to look at the crude sketches, some dating back to high school, with an objective eye. They weren’t very good, but they showed promise. So much promise.
Where had that promise gone?
Justin knew he’d had talent, but he’d let it go. He’d lost his inspiration somewhere on the streets of New York and never gotten it back.
Actually, he’d never tried to get it back. He’d just given up.
“See?” said the voice. “Like I said - fucking pathetic!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Justin whispered. “What do you know about it? You aren’t even here! You ran away ten years ago, so you have no fucking right to comment.”
“Always an excuse, Sunshine. You don’t hear what you want to hear, so you bail. You quit. That’s one thing I never would have figured you for - a quitter.”
“That’s what you know!”
Justin got out of bed. He took out a poster board he’d retrieved from the garage and blew the dust off it. Not good. His oil paints were also a mess, most of them dried up or turned dark. Instead he opened up a box of watercolors he kept around the apartment in case he needed them for a work project. But that rarely happened. Most of the work he did at Kinnetik involved layouts and making preliminary sketches for ad campaigns. The finished artwork was usually done by Phyllis or Murph, the head of the department.
He cleaned his brushes and then unrolled a large sheet of paper on the floor. It was second nature. He didn’t even know what it was he was painting, he just let it flow.
He kept painting for an hour without stopping. His back hurt from bending over the sheet, but it felt good, like a hard fuck after a long drought. When he was finished he stood up and stretched. It was after 3:00 a.m. and he had work in the morning, but he didn’t feel tired.
He looked at his work.
The face looking back at him was no surprise. His technique was rusty, but anyone would have recognized his subject. The features were a little wet and blurry, but the dark hair, the green eyes, the arrogant tilt of the head was unmistakable.
“Fuck you, Brian!” Justin declared. “Fuck you.”
Then he sat down on the cold hardwood floor and put his head in his hands.
But no fucking tears. He was done with that. He’d been done with that ten long years ago.
It was time to move on.
Finally.
He looked at the drying painting.
But when?
The next day he bought a new easel, new paints and brushes, canvas and stretchers. A fresh start.
“What’s that smell?” asked Robbie, wrinkling his nose. He was carrying the pizza and beer that was their usual Friday night ritual.
“I’m working on a painting.”
“Oh, yeah?” Robbie looked at the canvas and frowned. “What’s it supposed to be?”
“It’s abstract.”
“Oh.” Robbie shrugged. It looked like big blotches of color to him, but he was no expert on art. He didn’t really see the point of it. He’d been an Economics major for the three semesters he’d lasted at Pitt. Eventually he didn’t see the point of Economics, either, which was why he’d dropped out.
His barista job paid him just enough to get by. He shared an apartment with two roommates; it wasn’t a bad set-up. Not as nice as Justin’s apartment, of course. And his 2002 Nissan was a piece of crap, while Justin had a late model Jeep. But Starbucks had its perks. It was on Liberty Avenue and lots of cute guys wandered in every day. He’d met Justin when he ordered a triple grande cappuccino with skim milk to go. And although some of his friends snickered, it didn’t bother him that his boyfriend was so much older. He thought Justin was cool. And hot. Well, hot for 33.
“I got half Buffalo chicken and half pepperoni with onions,” said Robbie, flipping open the box. “And I brought some movies. ‘Scarface.’”
Justin made a face. “I’m not in the mood for that much violence tonight.”
“Okay. I also brought ‘Jack and Jill.’ It’s stupid, but really funny.”
Justin shook his head. “Adam Sandler in drag? Seriously?”
“Dude! It’s funny!” Robbie could never figure out Justin’s bizarre taste in movies. Once he’d tried to get him to watch some old James Dean thing from the 1950’s, but it was pointless and Robbie ended up falling asleep. Justin had actually gotten mad at him for that. “Chill! It’s only a movie!” Robbie had retorted.
“Dude! I hate Adam Sandler!” Justin returned sarcastically. He took a piece of pizza. It was greasy and already cold. There wasn’t a decent place to get pizza nearby since Mama Nana’s closed about six years before. There was always Angelo’s, but it was too far for delivery.
“Then we have to watch this one. I’ve been trying to get you to see it forever.” Robbie put a DVD of ‘Beyond the Beyond’ on the table. It was an old Blockbuster copy in a battered case. Robbie bought most of his movies at a used bookstore near Carnegie Mellon. The basement of the place was crammed with discarded DVD’s and CD’s.
“I don’t want to watch a movie.” Justin got up and walked into the kitchen. He opened a beer and took a swig.
“You always say that. This flick is awesome, Just. It’s got great special effects. You have to see it!”
“No thanks.”
There was no fucking way Justin was going to sit there and watch a Ron Rosenblum movie. That’s where he drew the line. He didn’t care how supposedly great it was. Or what kind of gay subtext it had, like ‘Beyond the Beyond’ or ‘Red River’ or ‘Strangers.’ Or how overtly gay it was, like ‘The Olympian’ or “The Left Hand of Darkness’ or ‘Milk.’ He didn’t care if the fucking film featured Matthew McConaughey, Connor James, Ross Preston, and Channing Tatum all full-frontal and gang-banging each other, he’d be damned if he was going to watch it.
Of course, Robbie had no idea why he wouldn’t look at certain movies. And he never thought to ask, so Justin just seemed mystifying and cranky.
A lot of what Justin did was mystifying to Robbie. And he acted cranky a lot. Older guys were like that. Weird things bugged them. Who the fuck knew why?
“Then what do you want to do?”
Justin drank down the rest of his beer and set the bottle on the coffee table. He pulled his sweater over his head and tossed in on the back of the sofa. Then he unbuttoned his jeans.
“Finish that pizza and take off your clothes. All I want to do tonight is fuck.”
Robbie quickly shoved the rest of the slice into his mouth. It was Friday. That’s when they fucked. It was something he looked forward to all week. Because for all Justin’s quirks, he really knew how to fuck.
And what more did you want in a boyfriend? At least when you were 21, that’s all you really needed. None of that romantic crap or mushy-faced shit. Just straightforward in and out, with all the trimmings. Unlike a lot of guys Robbie’s own age who were awkward and clueless, Justin knew his way around a cock and also knew what to do with an ass. And he did it. Really, really well.
This kid is cute, thought Justin. It’s a good thing he’s not in love with me, because I’m not in love with him. It’s better that way. After the way I broke up with Ford so long ago, and then the mess with Anthony. And with Marty. And Dan. Never get too attached. Never let them think it’s more than a fuck.
Never let them think you care.
Justin thought about his painting as Robbie took his cock into his hot mouth. Abstracts only. No portraits. No faces. Nothing that might look like anyone. Or any particular one.
“Aw, fuck yeah, Robbie! Suck that cock!”
It feels good to feel nothing.
It feels like…
Well, it’s only time.
this fic here: "Red Shirt" and "Creekside Canyon." For
more information on Brian's backstory:
Brian & Ron: 1988 - 2006
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/509962.html
You can download the Brian and Ron Saga, 1988 to 2006 here:
https://groups.yahoo.com/neo/groups/queer_theories_by_gaedhal/files
Justin's backstory is "The End of 'The Evil Stream'":
The first chapter is here and then follows for 13 short
chapters:
http://www.livejournal.com/users/gaedhal/168780.html
That said, you can read this story without all the
backstory, but, hey! It definitely adds to the experience!
***
It's ten years after "The End of 'The Evil Stream.'"
Ten years after "253 Creekside Canyon."
Everyone is older. But are they any wiser?
It's only Time --
But what has Time done? To lives? To dreams? To love?
Sometimes it comes like a thunderbolt, when you least expect it...
By Gaedhal
Pittsburgh, May 2016
Justin Taylor had begun to paint again.
Yes, he had been doing some art, mainly sketching and doodling around on his computer, as well as his work in the Art Department of Kinnetik - which didn’t really count because it was work - but he hadn’t been painting.
Not real painting. Not since New York.
But lately he’d started again. He wasn’t sure why. He thought he’d given that up for good. He’d put his paints away a long time ago and stored his unfinished canvases in his mother’s garage. His inspiration was gone. His desire was gone. And he’d thought it would never return.
Then, one evening, in the middle of a cold Pittsburgh winter, Justin picked up his sketchbook. Flipped through it, looking at the half-assed images that listlessly crawled across the pages.
“Pathetic. Fucking pathetic.”
But it wasn’t his own critical voice he heard in his head, it was another’s. A voice he hadn’t directly heard in over ten years.
He hated that he still heard that voice. Hated that he still cared what it said. Hated that he still listened to it.
“Fuck that!” said Justin, throwing his sketchbook across the room in frustration.
But the next day he drove over to his mother’s house and rummaged through the storage space in the garage.
“What are you looking for?” asked Jennifer.
“Nothing,” her son replied as he dug deeply into a cardboard box.
“Are you staying for dinner? I’m making chicken.”
Justin didn’t usually stay for dinner. He wasn’t fond of Jennifer’s husband, Brad - he refused to think of the guy as his stepfather, even if he was, officially. Then he thought about his cold apartment with its fridge filled with bottles of water, leftover pizza, and poppers.
“Sure.”
He’d eaten the chicken and even had a conversation, of sorts, with Brad, whose two topics of conversation were money - he was a financial planner - and the Steelers. Then he carried back to his apartment his paint boxes, palettes, and some of his old sketchbooks.
Later that night he sat up in bed and leafed through the sketchbooks. He thought it would be painful, looking at the things he’d drawn so long ago, the people whose faces and bodies once had been so familiar. But he found that the pain had dulled over the years. He was able to look at the crude sketches, some dating back to high school, with an objective eye. They weren’t very good, but they showed promise. So much promise.
Where had that promise gone?
Justin knew he’d had talent, but he’d let it go. He’d lost his inspiration somewhere on the streets of New York and never gotten it back.
Actually, he’d never tried to get it back. He’d just given up.
“See?” said the voice. “Like I said - fucking pathetic!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Justin whispered. “What do you know about it? You aren’t even here! You ran away ten years ago, so you have no fucking right to comment.”
“Always an excuse, Sunshine. You don’t hear what you want to hear, so you bail. You quit. That’s one thing I never would have figured you for - a quitter.”
“That’s what you know!”
Justin got out of bed. He took out a poster board he’d retrieved from the garage and blew the dust off it. Not good. His oil paints were also a mess, most of them dried up or turned dark. Instead he opened up a box of watercolors he kept around the apartment in case he needed them for a work project. But that rarely happened. Most of the work he did at Kinnetik involved layouts and making preliminary sketches for ad campaigns. The finished artwork was usually done by Phyllis or Murph, the head of the department.
He cleaned his brushes and then unrolled a large sheet of paper on the floor. It was second nature. He didn’t even know what it was he was painting, he just let it flow.
He kept painting for an hour without stopping. His back hurt from bending over the sheet, but it felt good, like a hard fuck after a long drought. When he was finished he stood up and stretched. It was after 3:00 a.m. and he had work in the morning, but he didn’t feel tired.
He looked at his work.
The face looking back at him was no surprise. His technique was rusty, but anyone would have recognized his subject. The features were a little wet and blurry, but the dark hair, the green eyes, the arrogant tilt of the head was unmistakable.
“Fuck you, Brian!” Justin declared. “Fuck you.”
Then he sat down on the cold hardwood floor and put his head in his hands.
But no fucking tears. He was done with that. He’d been done with that ten long years ago.
It was time to move on.
Finally.
He looked at the drying painting.
But when?
The next day he bought a new easel, new paints and brushes, canvas and stretchers. A fresh start.
“What’s that smell?” asked Robbie, wrinkling his nose. He was carrying the pizza and beer that was their usual Friday night ritual.
“I’m working on a painting.”
“Oh, yeah?” Robbie looked at the canvas and frowned. “What’s it supposed to be?”
“It’s abstract.”
“Oh.” Robbie shrugged. It looked like big blotches of color to him, but he was no expert on art. He didn’t really see the point of it. He’d been an Economics major for the three semesters he’d lasted at Pitt. Eventually he didn’t see the point of Economics, either, which was why he’d dropped out.
His barista job paid him just enough to get by. He shared an apartment with two roommates; it wasn’t a bad set-up. Not as nice as Justin’s apartment, of course. And his 2002 Nissan was a piece of crap, while Justin had a late model Jeep. But Starbucks had its perks. It was on Liberty Avenue and lots of cute guys wandered in every day. He’d met Justin when he ordered a triple grande cappuccino with skim milk to go. And although some of his friends snickered, it didn’t bother him that his boyfriend was so much older. He thought Justin was cool. And hot. Well, hot for 33.
“I got half Buffalo chicken and half pepperoni with onions,” said Robbie, flipping open the box. “And I brought some movies. ‘Scarface.’”
Justin made a face. “I’m not in the mood for that much violence tonight.”
“Okay. I also brought ‘Jack and Jill.’ It’s stupid, but really funny.”
Justin shook his head. “Adam Sandler in drag? Seriously?”
“Dude! It’s funny!” Robbie could never figure out Justin’s bizarre taste in movies. Once he’d tried to get him to watch some old James Dean thing from the 1950’s, but it was pointless and Robbie ended up falling asleep. Justin had actually gotten mad at him for that. “Chill! It’s only a movie!” Robbie had retorted.
“Dude! I hate Adam Sandler!” Justin returned sarcastically. He took a piece of pizza. It was greasy and already cold. There wasn’t a decent place to get pizza nearby since Mama Nana’s closed about six years before. There was always Angelo’s, but it was too far for delivery.
“Then we have to watch this one. I’ve been trying to get you to see it forever.” Robbie put a DVD of ‘Beyond the Beyond’ on the table. It was an old Blockbuster copy in a battered case. Robbie bought most of his movies at a used bookstore near Carnegie Mellon. The basement of the place was crammed with discarded DVD’s and CD’s.
“I don’t want to watch a movie.” Justin got up and walked into the kitchen. He opened a beer and took a swig.
“You always say that. This flick is awesome, Just. It’s got great special effects. You have to see it!”
“No thanks.”
There was no fucking way Justin was going to sit there and watch a Ron Rosenblum movie. That’s where he drew the line. He didn’t care how supposedly great it was. Or what kind of gay subtext it had, like ‘Beyond the Beyond’ or ‘Red River’ or ‘Strangers.’ Or how overtly gay it was, like ‘The Olympian’ or “The Left Hand of Darkness’ or ‘Milk.’ He didn’t care if the fucking film featured Matthew McConaughey, Connor James, Ross Preston, and Channing Tatum all full-frontal and gang-banging each other, he’d be damned if he was going to watch it.
Of course, Robbie had no idea why he wouldn’t look at certain movies. And he never thought to ask, so Justin just seemed mystifying and cranky.
A lot of what Justin did was mystifying to Robbie. And he acted cranky a lot. Older guys were like that. Weird things bugged them. Who the fuck knew why?
“Then what do you want to do?”
Justin drank down the rest of his beer and set the bottle on the coffee table. He pulled his sweater over his head and tossed in on the back of the sofa. Then he unbuttoned his jeans.
“Finish that pizza and take off your clothes. All I want to do tonight is fuck.”
Robbie quickly shoved the rest of the slice into his mouth. It was Friday. That’s when they fucked. It was something he looked forward to all week. Because for all Justin’s quirks, he really knew how to fuck.
And what more did you want in a boyfriend? At least when you were 21, that’s all you really needed. None of that romantic crap or mushy-faced shit. Just straightforward in and out, with all the trimmings. Unlike a lot of guys Robbie’s own age who were awkward and clueless, Justin knew his way around a cock and also knew what to do with an ass. And he did it. Really, really well.
This kid is cute, thought Justin. It’s a good thing he’s not in love with me, because I’m not in love with him. It’s better that way. After the way I broke up with Ford so long ago, and then the mess with Anthony. And with Marty. And Dan. Never get too attached. Never let them think it’s more than a fuck.
Never let them think you care.
Justin thought about his painting as Robbie took his cock into his hot mouth. Abstracts only. No portraits. No faces. Nothing that might look like anyone. Or any particular one.
“Aw, fuck yeah, Robbie! Suck that cock!”
It feels good to feel nothing.
It feels like…
Well, it’s only time.