Jewel: Chapter 1: "Forming"

[galeandrandy]

Title: Jewel
Summary:
It's not because he wants to explore his 'feminine' side and it isn't because he's an 'effeminate gay', he just knows that it's about art. Justin isn't yet comfortable with himself, he's a confident gay man but accepting Jewel isn't easy for him. Jewel is stuck being a Princess because Justin isn't ready to allow her to be Queen and she isn't the only one in limbo. He really doesn't have any idea what he wants to do with his life, he doesn't have focus or direction because he doesn't trust himself. The idea of finding a man who he can trust to accept him is definitely not on his to-do list, he's well aware of what many gay men would think of him if they saw inside his closet. He's taken a few chances, but he learned quickly that as long as Jewel exists, he isn't likely to meet anyone worth more than a quick fuck or suck.
Brian is at a crossroads in his life, he's bored with his routines and no matter where he goes in search of a trick, he never finds him, 'the one got away'. His brain isn't even aware that he's looking for anyone in particular but his body knows and he's smart enough to know that something has to change if he's ever going to be satisfied with his life. All of his friends have moved on and making fun of their 'stepford' romances has passed the point of pathetic and ventured into acceptance, with perhaps a whisper of jealousy. Many aspects of his life have changed rapidly over the last eight years and the yearning he feels for something 'different' is too strong to ignore any longer.
Brian and Justin meet and have an undeniable connection but Brian isn't looking for someone this different and Justin isn't looking for anyone at all, especially not a man who is a bigger slut than himself and who can't see past Jewel and remember that underneath her, is always Justin.
Can they can accept one another and in doing so learn to accept all their desires?
Timeline: This is a canon characterization alternate 'fate' of Brian and Justin, but likely there may be a bend in character once in a while. This will involve many of the characters from QAF and events from canon.
Rating:XXX
Author's Note: Thank you to: momentsgoneby for the artwork, and for editing, this story is for you and me. This may not be everyone's 'cup of tea' which I'm sure you've figured out by the banner and summary but for those who take the leap, I hope you enjoy the journey.
Word Count: 4,350
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Jewel
Chapter One: “Forming”

“Love, like everything else in life, should be a discovery, an adventure, and like most adventures, you don’t know you’re having one until you’re right in the middle of it.” ~E.A. Bucchianeri

August, 2008

“Fuck!” The Jeep bounces around as I hit an unexpected pot hole and see that the latte I just bought is victim to the motions, bubbling liquid out of the mouth and all over the lid. I slow the vehicle to a crawl and hope my brand new tires aren’t busted already. A plume of gravel smoke dusts the air around me as I pull into a parking space between an old maroon Corolla and an even older black convertible Mustang. It’s a good thing I changed out of my suit before leaving the office or my new Armani would be covered in gray dust. Sure, I could’ve put the top on the Jeep, but it’s August, and the winter weather will force me to put it up soon enough.

Ted told me that the Royal Reclamations Studio was deceiving from the outside. It better be true, because the old service station turned ‘art house’ looks like it’s about to fall down. The large garage door’s windows are painted black, so I can’t see inside; I guess that stops any would-be robbers from casing the place. Honestly though, I doubt anyone would think they’d find anything of value in there. The sign above the office door is the only indication that this is something other than an abandoned building, that and the loud noises I hear coming from within.

I slip out of the Jeep, pocket my keys and walk up to the beat up metal door. I’m not a germaphobe, but as the black grease on the silver handle threatens the well-being of my suit, I can’t help but to cringe a bit as I turn it and push the door open. Immediately the noise I heard from outside becomes ear-piercing and I doubt the bell sitting on the office countertop will be heard over it.

“Hello!” I call out, looking around the tiny space. Surprisingly, the office is clean and neat. A small desk sits on the other side of the counter and a couple metal sculptures and light fixtures decorate the room, along with an amazing abstract painting that takes up the entire back wall beside another metal door, this one in better shape than the entrance. The painting is intriguing, I wouldn’t mind owning it, but its missing depth and leaves me feeling unsettled. I look at the signature and see a scrawled J for the first name and a T for the last. Though the name is basically illegible, with those initials, I know it’s not painted by the owner of the shop and now I’m curious about the creator.

After a minute, when no one answers, I call out again, “Hello!” I wait another minute and ring the little metal bell. As I suspected, you can’t even hear it.

I look at my watch and see that it’s five thirty, right on time for the meeting with the artists who are working on the pieces commissioned for Babylon’s reopening. The designer, Sam, accompanied by Ted, has been down here multiple times to check on the progress of the art pieces. I’ve met the owner of Royal Reclamations, Tatum Avery, a handful of times at Babylon and Kinnetik to discuss the design of each piece commissioned. He’s always been prompt, so I’m a confused as to why he’s obviously forgotten this meeting with me. I don’t have time to wait. I promised Gus that I’d read him his bedtime story tonight and that’s in an hour from now. I open the door next to the painting and find a long rectangular work room that probably used to house tires from the looks of the massive shelving on each side.

There’s a few people milling about, working on various pieces that I recognize from the plans, but none of them are Tatum. I wave at the only person who seems to give a shit that a stranger just walked in, a tall red-haired woman using a table saw.

She shuts down the saw and thankfully the noise ends. “Hi. Can I help you?”

“I have a meeting with Tatum to see the final pieces for Babylon,” I tell her, walking toward her.

“Oh,” she frowns. “Um… he isn’t available today.” She waves behind her and points with her thumb behind her. “Jussy’s in the studio with the big ball and can probably help you out. Just go through the door back there.”

“Thanks,” I say, though I’m feeling anything but thankful as I walk toward the glass door. I didn’t think Tatum was like most artists I’ve known, temperamental and pretentious, but obviously I was wrong. Not keeping an appointment, or bothering to reschedule with a client, not mention one who has commissioned thousands of dollars worth of artwork and wants to see the projects on the final projects, is extremely rude and unprofessional. Hopefully this Jessy woman will at least know enough to show me what I’m here to see.

The thick paned glass door opens to a dark studio, and with the light coming from behind me I can’t see much. The door shuts behind me and leaves the room pitch black.

“Lisa, stay where you are,” a male voice calls out. “Or you’ll trip over the wiring. Give me just a second, I’m about to light the globe!”

I want to tell whoever it is that I’m not Lisa, but I’m rendered speechless when a bright light from above illuminates the garage. The whole room is lit up, glittering, and the source of the brightness hangs in between two raised car lifts. This globe in front of me is better than the design Tatum showed me a couple of weeks ago. It’s an addition that one of his artists came up with at the last minute and I was doubtful about it when he showed me the sketch. I just couldn’t really envision the reality from the penciled rendering. Whoever the artist is, they’re fucking brilliant. The ball is actually a rounded cage made from broken handrails, salvaged before the start of Babylon’s rebuild, welded together into a three dimensional globe. Holes have been drilled in the pipes and colored light shines from within, but the best part, which is a complete surprise to me, is the large disco ball spinning inside of it.

The F.B.I. investigation into the bombing caused a delay in my plans to immediately rebuild. As soon as they took over from the Pittsburgh P.D., they shut down the building for almost four months. Six weeks into their investigation, they caught the person who planted the bomb, thirty-three year old, Steven Pettigrew. He’s a Christian Fundamentalist, cast out of the Woodsboro Baptist Church occult after rumors started within the sect that he was gay. The rumors had been true. Steven had chosen to go to a ‘see the light’ type of camp at the age of twenty-four after living in Pittsburgh his whole life and contracting H.I.V. from his unfaithful lover. His retaliation, the bombing, had been toward both the fundamentalist group and the gay community whom he blamed as a whole for his positive status. It didn’t even have anything to do with Prop 14, which is really fucked up. I still don’t know how they’d tracked the bomb to Pettigrew, I’ve heard dozens of theories, but as part of the no contest plea agreement where Steven waved his right to a trial, the details of the investigation were sealed. Pettigrew was sentenced to three consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole and ordered to pay damages to the victims and their families.

After the F.B.I. gave the property and Babylon back to me, I was knee deep in dealing with the munchers’ bullshit and helping Michael, who had just woke up for his coma, rehabilitate himself. A year passed before the insurance company paid out, due to ‘investigative issues’ the company had with the sealed F.B.I. file. They questioned whether or not the burden of payment should be with Pettigrew’s insurance or Babylon’s. The extent of the damages went beyond anything I had been prepared to take on without it, and I had no choice but to allow the club to sit empty, until the matter was settled. Most of the rubble rested undisturbed inside of the club until last year when I finally had enough time to begin thinking about the plans for rebuilding.

The outside walls were structurally sound, so with the exception of a new coat of blue-black paint, and minor repairs, they could stay the same. Inside nearly everything had to change. It was important for me that Babylon would retain only the best parts of the past. This is my chance to design my playground the way I want, but the bombing has, rightfully so, shadowed each decision I’ve made. First, I told Sam that I wanted to go into a different direction for the art pieces, but that very night, Ted and I took a trip to Babylon to meet with the architect. Though I’d been inside many times since the bombing, I’d never noticed the piece I found that night. The largest disco ball of the dozens that had once hung directly over the dance floor was still in perfect condition.

I told Ted about Sam’s idea for the art and believe it or not, he gave me some damn good advice. I gave Sam the disco ball, told him to bring in a crew to salvage whatever he found worthy and to look for an artist that could turn the ugly destruction into beautiful, tasteful art. The last time I talked to Tatum about the disco ball, we were planning to use it the same way it was before, adding various sizes of other balls to it and hang it over the dance floor. This surprising use for it is fucking genius.

“It’s fucking beautiful,” I hear the male voice say.

I look toward the direction it came from and see a blond man climbing down a ladder, his back toward me. He’s shadowed a little due to the light being in front of him but I don’t have to look hard to notice his perfect ass. I get a weird feeling of déjà vu as he walks backward into the center of the studio and looks directly up to the light. I can see him a little better now and even though his clothes are baggy and dirty, he’s definitely hot.

“Are you Jessy?” I call out, walking toward him.

“Fuck.” He jumps and spins around to face me. “You’re not Lisa.”

I refrain from grabbing my dick and say, “Definitely not,” as I approach him. He smiles slightly as I come to stand a foot in front him, my eyes taking in all of his features. He isn’t just ‘hot’, he’s fucking gorgeous and the lighting makes his blue eyes sparkle and his teeth gleam. I get a mental picture of glitter falling on his pale skin and then my mind morphs to an even better place, him in my bed, under me, face flushed the way it is now but not from shock or embarrassment but from passion.

“Who are you?” he asks, and narrows his eyes a little.

“That depends, are you ‘Jessy’? The girl with the saw told me to find you in here.”

His nose scrunches up. “That would be Lisa.” He shrugs. “She has a brother with my name and uses ‘Jussy’ to delineate between us. Not Jessy.”

“So what’s your real name then?” I prompt.

He blushes again, offers his hand to me and smiles big and wide. “Justin Taylor.”

I grasp his hand in mine and feel the heat build between us as our skin touches. I’ve seen a lot of beautiful men, but Justin is one of the prettiest. Normally I’m not attracted to twinks, but he doesn’t exactly give off the impression of one. His eyes aren’t as innocent, there’s something in them that gives credence to him being older than what he may first appear and I can’t find it in me to look away from him or even drop his hand. “Brian Kinney,” I say after what I’m sure is too long of a pause for my introduction.

He shifts on his toes and blinks slowly, his eyes traveling down my body and then up again until they settle on my eyes. “You’re the owner of Babylon.”

My cock reacts to his dropped, husky tone and I stupidly-reluctantly drop my hand from his soft grip. “Yes.” I clear my throat and remind myself of the reason I’m here. “I’m supposed to see the final pieces, sign off on them so-to-say, but Lisa said Tatum isn’t available?” I raise my eyebrow.

“He had a family emergency,” Justin tells me and runs his hands through his shaggy locks. “His mother was taken to the hospital,” he frowns, “heart attack.”

“I’m sorry.” Still, someone could’ve called to let me know.

“He said he’d call you to reschedule, but then I said I would do it for him. He had enough to worry about this afternoon but I got so caught up with completing the globe,” he gestures above us, “so deep into creating, that time slipped away from me. I can show you everything though. I’m Tatum’s partner.”

The word partner doesn’t always pertain to business in the gay world, but this is business, no matter how much I’d like to fuck Justin and his perfect ass, mouth and… Right. This is business, and until the contract is finished, there won’t be any fucking going on between us and I can wait until then to find out what sort of partners he and Tatum are. I knew in the first moment Justin saw me that he was checking me out, I knew when we touched that he wanted me, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t attached. Then again, if having a partner was enough to stop men from fucking around, I probably wouldn’t have fucked a third of the men that I have. “All right then, show me what you got,” I say, and can’t resist a sly grin.

“Well, you’ve seen ‘The Globe’, though everyone here has other silly names for it.” He sweeps both hands upward. “What do you think?”

“I like it.”

He chuckles and dares to push my shoulder. “Oh, please! You more than like it. You can’t hide the look on your face when you stare up at it. You love it.”

I shrug, why deny it? “It’s going to look perfect. Did you work on this yourself?”

“Mostly,” he admits, still grinning ear to ear. “This isn’t the type of art I usually do, but I’ve known Tatum for a long time and I’ve learned a lot from him. When I first thought up the globe concept, he told me to forget the other stuff I was working on and focus on it. I had to get help from Tommy, he’s a wiz with anything that requires electricity, but other than the wiring for the pulley system and lights, the rest of it is mine. Before this, I’d never even held a freaking blow torch or any of the other tools I used to put it together. It was a great learning experience for me, but I’m glad it’s over with because I just started my last year in the MFA program and I’ve got to concentrate on that. I still don’t have any idea what I’m going to do for my written thesis or what work I’m going to present at the final MFA art show.”

I’m not sure if I’ve somehow made him nervous and that’s causing him to talk a mile a minute and offer up information I could care less about, or if it’s because he actually believes I give a shit. “Right. So, if you’ll show me the other pieces, I’ll cut you a check, you can get paid and get back to your school work.”

“Oh, sorry,” he laughs as he turns away and walks over to a series of switches on the wall. “I haven’t had very much sleep because I’ve been trying to make the deadline, so I get a little bit crazed and start talking a lot.” He flips one of the switches and the room goes dark but a second later all the lights come on. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest and try to reel in my punch drunkenness.”

I follow him through the garage and besides a few words about the materials used in each piece and who made them, he seems to do a good job in tampering his giddiness. I approve each one; they’re all exactly how they were detailed to me during my last meeting with Tatum. When we get to the paintings I commissioned from the remains of the sponge and oak soundproofing walls, his whole demeanor changes. Standing in front of the six massive panels, his small body appears to fold in on itself. His shoulders slump, his breathing becomes heavy and I can see he has a vice grip on the hem of his t-shirt.

The paintings are beautiful, intensely painful, violent and hopeful all at the same time. For anyone who is more comfortable than I am with showing emotion, they’d likely react the way Justin is. All of the panels are damaged in various areas, but the artist has made the destruction appear to be a part of the paintings. Instead of working around it, each hole, burn and scratch has meaning and effortless flows together. If I didn’t know what they originally looked like, I’d think the damages were created by the artist too. They’re a little bit impressionistic and a little bit abstract in form, all of the panels feature naked bodies dancing, the first in red hues, the second in orange hues, the remaining panels finishing off each color of the rainbow. The artist used those colors, but the dark, blacks, browns and grays make up most of bodies whereas the muscles, bones and facial features are highlighted by each designated color. “Tatum told me what he had planned for these, but I didn’t expect this,” I speak, breaking the silence.

Justin looks over at me and blinks his tear-filled eyes. Gruffly he says, “Tatum didn’t do these. I did.” He stares at me, waiting for me to tell him what I think.

I’m not surprised; the kid is obviously a genius. I just don’t think hanging something so intensely depressing, especially in a place where people died, is the right thing to do. He’s probably not going to like what I have to say. “I don’t think we can use them.”

His blue eyes widen and then narrow. “You don’t like them?”

“I didn’t say that.” I point to the purple one, the figure of a woman with her arms raised up, her eyes staring straight ahead, her expression filled with… Wait a minute. Shit, I can’t believe I didn’t see it at first. It isn’t desperation, pain or anger in any of their eyes. I look at all the others and I see the emotion clearly. It’s pride. I mentally backtrack and tell him, “I don’t think we can use these where they were supposed to originally go. Around the dance floor’s walls, they’ll be hidden away behind crowds of people. They should be seen.”

He relaxes his stance and wipes his eyes before giving me a curious look. “Where?”

I take my cell phone out of my pocket and flip it to the picture I took of the entryway. “Look,” I tell him and show him the picture. “We planned to have that metal piece that spells Babylon here, but I think these paintings will fit there much better.”

“But that’s the first thing people see when they walk in,” he says in an anxious voice.

“Exactly.” I put my phone away. “We can put the sign on the opposite wall near the coat check.”

“But Tatum made that,” he says hesitantly. “That was his favorite piece.”

“And it’s my club,” I say. “Do you think Da Vinci got to choose where his work was displayed?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “The globe is genius, but these are fucking gallery worthy and people should see them in the light before they step into the dark nightclub.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I just hope Tatum isn’t too angry about the change in plans.”

“I’ll make sure to handle your boss,” I tell him. No fucking way is the kid going to get in trouble for creating what may possibly be one of the greatest pieces of art I’ve seen in my life.

“My boss?”

“Yeah. So, what the fuck are you doing working here?”

“I don’t exactly work here. I’m Tatum’s partner.”

So he is that kind of partner then. “What have you been doing here?” I indicate the painting. “I mean, shouldn’t you be creating pieces like that for a gallery or something?”

“No. I didn’t want to say no to the money that came with the commissions and Tatum needed extra help with such a huge work load. I guess I’ve just been experimenting.” He shrugs. “And when I heard what materials we’d be working with, I really wanted to be a part of it.”

“So you can point out your work to your friends when you go dancing?”

“No. It’s because of what this project represents. That’s what I wanted to show in those paintings. The bombing may have devastated us, stopped us from dancing for a little while, but we’ve still got our pride and they can’t take that away from us. It’s like those lyrics in that song, uhm… I can’t remember the name but the lyrics say, ‘You’ll be dancing once again and the pain will end, you’ll have no time for grieving.’ I can’t wait to dance at Babylon again.”

His voice is unexpectedly beautiful and he’s right about the lyric, hell, the whole damn song is perfect for Babylon’s resurrection. “It’s ABBA, and the song is Chiquitita.”

He laughs and slaps my shoulder. “Guess someone from the older generation would know who sang that. The title though, it’s an odd one. You must be a big ABBA fan, am I right?”

I glance at my watch and ignore his teasing because it’s obvious I’m not old enough to have been a part of the original generation of ABBA fans. “I’ve got somewhere to be. If you want me to pay the final sum for the commission now, I’d suggest showing me out.”

“You have to leave so soon?” he says, hip checking me as he passes me. “I was hoping I finally found someone who loves ABBA as much as I do.”

“Love them?” I snort, following his fabulous ass toward the door. “You didn’t know the name of the song a minute a go.”

He pauses and looks at me over his shoulder, a flirty grin on his face. “I was lying. It was a test to see if you were a fan or not.”

“Why should it matter?” I ask, though this conversation is pointless.

“Because I don’t dance with anyone that doesn’t love ABBA, it’s a rule of mine.”

“A rule?” We’ve now entered the workspace with the other artists who once again ignore me completely. Apparently, Justin and Tatum have an open relationship because there is no way that I’m misinterpreting his flirting and obvious request for a dance at the opening.

“Of course. Don’t you have rules?” He pushes open the door leading to the office but waits for me to pass him.

“Rules are meant to be broken,” I lean down and whisper in his ear before walking into the office.

His laughter is unexpected, but I put it down to his odd personality. “Okay, so maybe some rules are meant to be broken. But I don’t break this one.” He walks behind the desk and produces a stack of papers. “These detail each piece and on the bottom is a line for you to sign saying you’ve received them. So, I don’t think you’ll have to write us a check today. We have to wait until you sign these and you can’t until all the pieces have been received and installed as part of the commission contract. They’re still working on a couple of them too, but Lisa told me they’ll be ready by next week’s install date.”

I don’t know why I didn’t realize this before, it isn’t like me to start writing checks for work I haven’t even received and I’m pissed that Ted sent me here to do just that. Some fucking account manager! “Okay, you or Tatum, whoever is dealing with that will have to set that up with me and Sam.”

“All right. Thanks for stopping by Mr. Kinney.”

He smiles at me so wide that it makes my breath catch and my cock begins aching for him. I really want to fuck him. “So,” I say, leaning on the counter and getting close enough to smell his cologne. “You’ll be at the re-opening?”

He nods and his face is so close his shaggy hair brushes against my forehead. “And I’ll be dancing with ABBA lovers only.”

“That’s a pretty high bar you’re setting,” I laugh and back away before I do something I know I’ll regret. I don’t kiss my employees and whether or not he works here, he’s still getting paid for the work I commissioned and that makes him an employee by extension. “Later.” I turn for the front door and push it open.

“I’m sure you can meet it,” I hear him call out just as I walk outside and I can’t help but smile.

TBC in Chapter 2