TOWJWAGABI, Part 2
This is more experimental than I usually am. Usually, I totally know where the story is going and even though I adore comments and feedback and suggestions from readers, I've already got the story mapped out in my head, so the suggestions don't really figure in to the rest of the story.
I really don't have anything mapped out for this story. I go back and forth trying to decide what I want to have happen, and I haven't really come to any conclusions.
That said, here's a little bit more!
The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 2
It wasn't that he passed on the Chicago job offer that confounded Brian, it was that he never even considered it.
And fuck, it wasn't like passing on the Chicago opportunity ever made him think twice. Weeks after that, weeks in which Brian never even thought about that fucking job offer, Cynthia asked him if he and Justin wanted her extra set of tickets for the hockey game, and that's what totally floored Brian.
"Why the fuck would I go to a hockey game with Justin?" Brian asked sharply.
Cynthia rolled her eyes. "Are you asking about hockey or Justin?" she sweetly shot back.
"Don't fucking assume I'm bringing Justin anywhere..."
Cynthia ran her tongue across her teeth and said, "Is Halverson still coming in tomorrow morning to review the new campaign?" she interrupted to ask.
Brian answered impatiently, "Yeah."
"Then I don't have time for this." She turned on her heels and headed back to her office, but only after tossing the tickets onto Brian's desk.
That's what opened the can of worms, and Brian supposed he should have been grateful to her for finally, God damn finally opening his eyes to the epic ridiculousness that was his current state of affairs.
Brian couldn't fucking remember the last time he'd just up and done something without calling to see if Justin was up for it too. When had nights of drunken debauchery been replaced by fucking on the couch? When had underwear parties and circuit parties and white parties been replaced by something as fucking mundane as dinner and a movie? What the God damn fuck?
Brian slumped behind he desk as he tried to grasp the fact that he couldn't fucking remember the last time he'd ingested an illegal substance. February, right? He and Justin were at Babylon and Tiny McCracken had offered...no, Jesus fucking no, that was in January.
Jesus Christ, this was a fucking disaster.
Driving home that night, Brian had a heart attack.
Well, he thought he was having a heart attack. A mile before the exit to get home, he found it impossible to draw his next breath, and his heart slammed against his rib cage with loud, angry thuds. Gasping and choking, Brian pulled over to the side of the road and sat there waiting for death to finally come and take him.
A few minutes later he eased back onto the highway.
Instead of going home, though, he drove to the airport. He booked a round-trip ticket to New York City, turned off his cell phone and boarded the flight.
When he arrived in New York City, Brian took a cab to the Roxy, and then he proceeded to spend the next 42 hours as drunk, stoned, and overly sexed as was humanly possible when that human was Brian Kinney.
Early Sunday morning, Brian stood in the middle of some nightclub, the lights strobing overhead in all the beautiful colors of the rainbow as beautiful, hot, sexy men--Jesus Christ, so many fucking, fuckable men--presented themselves to Brian. He was a starving man brought before the most luxurious, ample smorgasbord in the world, and he almost started to cry at the delicious feeling of finally coming home.
If Brian was a man who wondered about things, and he absolutely wasn't, he might have wondered later what would have happened had he simply gone home that Friday night. Justin would have been there, blabbering on about whatever the fuck happened that day, and he would have let Brian fuck away those feelings of panic and suffocation.
When Brian turned his cell phone on late Sunday afternoon, there were 12 messages waiting for him, but only one from Justin. It was delivered on Saturday afternoon, wondering where Brian was, but that was it.
Unsure how to explain to Justin that being with him was going to kill Brian, he managed to avoid Justin for another two days, but being a total chicken shit loser wasn't really his style, so he drove over to Justin's apartment after work on that second night, prepared to set the record straight.
"Where the fuck have you been?" Justin asked, but he turned and walked into the kitchen, not really expecting an answer.
"Look," Brian said. "We've always said it's about being where we want to be, and I don't want to be here anymore."
Justin looked at him like he was a moron. "So go home," he said with a shrug.
"I'm serious. This whole playing house domestic shit is over. I'm not playing anymore."
"Okay," Justin answered. "Are my acrylics on the shelf over there? My mom cleaned last week, and I can't find shit around here."
"Are you listening to me?" Brian said.
Justin looked up from his work table where he was setting out jars of paint. "You don't want to be here, you're serious, you're done playing house," he parroted back.
"So, okay then." Brian started to leave, he really did. But it dawned on him that the last time they'd fucked, they hadn't known it was the last time they were going to fuck around, and it didn't seem right to leave it like that.
So he fucked Justin on his work table and again on the couch and then in the shower, but he didn't spend the time because he was done with all of that domestic shit.
Several nights later, Brian had to explain it to Justin again. "I meant what I said," he insisted, fucking Justin against the backroom wall. "I'm done with all this shit. It's over."
"Right," Justin said, then grunted and pushed back against Brian's thrusting cock. His breathy, Ah! Ah! Ah! rang in Brian's ear.
Brian thought maybe he wasn't doing a good job getting his point across. When things between the two of them grew more acrimonious, Brian knew Justin was finally beginning to understand that he was serious.
It had been weeks since the last time they'd spent the night together, and Justin started asking Brian what the fuck was going on, and Brian kept patiently explaining that he'd already told Justin he wasn't engaging in anymore bullshit.
"What happened?" Justin asked. "Did someone say something or God forbid imply something? I mean, what the fuck?"
Justin kept wanting the why. As if the why would negate any of it. There wasn't a why, as far as Brian was concerned, there was simply what was.
Brian hated how petty and ridiculous it grew between the two of them. He hated seeing Justin at the diner, the bars, and Sunday dinner. He hated fucking Justin after vowing to himself that it wouldn't happen again.
Justin wore those fucks as proof that Brian was full of shit, and Brian hated that more than anything.
They needed time apart-good and fucking far apart, that's what they needed. Which made the idea of the New York Art Institute one of Brian's more fucking brilliant ideas. It was one of the oldest and certainly the most prestigious art college in the United States. PIFA was a joke next to NYAI, and a degree from the world renowned school would allow Justin to pursue any fucking path his heart desired.
Brian knew his change in attitude had come with little warning, and maybe that was why Justin thought it was just some fucking phase Brian was going through. Brian was determined to prove to Justin that it wasn't a phase.
Brian met Timothy Cranston, an NYAI trustee, through Lindsay's gallery. The gallery was bringing to town an exhibit by Marilee Park Naughton, who'd died the year before. This was to be the biggest exhibit of her work since her death and it was attracting attention from galleries all over the world.
Brian was coordinating the inter-gallery advertising, and it was sitting in on a snooze-worthy presentation about a tie-in with young, local artists that the idea of sending Justin to New York took root.
Cranston started describing a similar program between MOMA and the New York Art Institute while Brian surreptitiously pulled Cranston's bio from his portfolio.
What he read made the very notion of Justin attending NYAI seem like it had been preordained.
After the presentation, the attendees were free to roam the amateur wing of the gallery and view the submitted works. Brian sidled up to Cranston and ushered him over to some familiar canvases. "Justin Taylor, the artist, was bashed in high school and nearly lost the use of his right hand," Brian said sadly as Cranston looked on.
Timothy Cranston turned wide eyes to Brian. "Justin Taylor? I know that name!" he said. "I'm on the board of a judicial watchdog organization. The judge who presided over that case was one of our main targets in the last election."
"Really?" Brian said, his own eyes wide. "You know, Justin is something of an activist himself," Brian said, slipping a companionable arm around Timothy Cranston's shoulder. "You must have heard about the Stockwell mayoral campaign, right?"
Several hours-and a combination blow job/fuck-later, Timothy Cranston vowed to do everything in his power to get Justin Taylor admitted to the New York Art Institute.
Two weeks letter the acceptance letter arrived. Brian drove over to Justin's and presented the letter to him with a flourish. "What's this?" Justin asked, reading the letter with a furrowed brow.
"This is the rest of your life on a silver fucking platter," Brian answered.
Justin took so long to read the letter he must have gone back over it three or four times before he shook his head and returned it to Brian. "I'm not going to the New York Art Institute," he said dismissively.
"I hope it's not because you think you have some fucking little life here that you can't leave, because that's bullshit."
"Tell me why you're doing this!" Justin yelled. "Just fucking tell me why!"
"Because this is fucking bullshit!" Brian shouted back. "Because I'm sick of this fucking farce of a life! Because I'm not going to play out this fucking bullshit any more! Because you can't seem to get it through your fucking head that I am not buying into some fucking hetero bullshit fuck of an idea about what life is all about! Does that answer your fucking question, Sunshine? Does it?"
Justin stood there, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. "Yeah," he said in a strangled voice. "Yeah it does. Get out."
Three days later, Brian showed up at his apartment again. Justin tried to slam the door in his face, but Brian got a foot in the door and just barreled on in.
"You've got to formally accept the offer of enrollment," Brian said, having received a phone call telling him they needed Justin's acceptance so they could process the necessary paperwork.
"I'm not going to school in New York!" Justin said. "Get the fuck out of here and leave me alone."
"Why are you being such a fucking twat? You'll be able to write your ticket with this degree."
"I am not some fucking mistake you can spirit out of town so you don't have to fucking look at it anymore," Justin said. "You don't want to be with me? Fine, whatever! But you're fucked if you think I'm gonna slink away with my tail between my legs just because Brian Fucking Kinney is done with me!"
Brian rolled his eyes. "Get over yourself. I called in favors I haven't even earned yet to get them to consider you midterm. Twenty-two hundred students on the face of the earth are granted this opportunity. Do you know how many applicants they had last year? Over fifteen thousand. You ought to be fucking grateful."
Justin flushed bright red and spoke to him through gritted teeth. "Get.out.of.my.house."
"Is this your plan, Sunshine?" Brian sneered. "You're going to ruin your fucking life to show me how wrong I am, to make me sorry for walking away? Is that your brilliant little plan?"
"Get out!" Justin shouted. "Get out and leave me the fuck alone!"
"I'm leaving you with a hell of a lot more than any of the others ever got," Brian said smoothly. "They got a good night's fuck and that's it. I'm giving you the fucking world right there. That ought to mean something to you."
"Fuck you, you fucking shit!" Justin said. "I never asked you for anything, and I don't want the fucking world if it's coming from you!"
A week before Justin was required to check in with the NYAI registrar, Brian called Justin's cell and learned the number was no longer valid. He smirked when the recording told him no forwarding number was available. A week after Justin was due to report at school, Brian drove over to his apartment and found it vacant with a For Rent sign in the window.
Brian drove home whistling under his breath and feeling unduly proud of himself.
For months after that, whenever Brian walked into Babylon, it was with the smug arrogance of a returning war hero. Whereas that first, shocking split from Justin had been tinged with humiliation and failure, this return to his roots was all about freedom and fucking life after near-death.
Brian basked in the glow of his newfound independence. He went out when he wanted, stayed in when he wanted, ate when he wanted, slept when he wanted. There wasn't a white party he didn't attend; an orgy he didn't grace with his presence; or an able and willing ass he didn't fuck. He flew to Milan for a long weekend one August afternoon just because he fucking could.
And if every once in awhile he looked down and to the left, ready to share some sardonic comment or trade wiseass remarks, well...that was just habit. And habits were easy enough to break.
Brian understood Justin's bruised ego and hurt feelings, and it didn't surprise him not to hear from the kid for a few months. The summer came and went and Brian sure as hell would've picked a summer in New York City over languishing in the Pitts, so Justin's silence was hardly unexpected.
Thoroughly unexpected, albeit pleasantly so, was the lack of hounding Brian got from the rest of the crowd about Justin's absence. Granted, that was helped along by the long-awaited arrival of one Hannah Rachel Novotny Petersen Marcus.
Apparently Debbie, Melanie and Michael were the only three people in the universe ever to bring forth life, and the rest of them indulged the three with varying degrees of tolerance.
As far as Brian could see, the kid ate and slept, peed, puked and shit just like it was supposed to. As long as it didn't do it on his suit coat or dress shirt, he was fine. Deb's occasional, "Where the fuck is Sunshine? Don't they have fuckin' phones in New York?" was forgotten the minute Hannah cooed. Or peed. Or shit. Whatever.
More months passed, and Brian wondered if maybe Justin had attended summer school to ensure that he graduated with his class. That's how Brian would have played it anyway. September brought the start of the fall session, so even though Justin's continued absence was starting to rankle, Brian accepted it.
Come November, Brian was convinced he would hear from Justin over the Thanksgiving break. And if he dressed a little sharper than usual when out on the town, no one mentioned it. If he watched the door at Babylon and Woody's with more attention than was his wont, it went unnoticed by the others.
Brian half expected Justin to just show up out of the blue at the Novotny Thanksgiving celebration, but it turned out there would be no celebration at the Novotny home that year.
Debbie announced she was spending two weeks in Arizona with a Carl who'd been feeling neglected since the arrival of baby Hannah, and the idea of spending Thanksgiving without his precious mommy threw Michael into a hysterical tailspin. Lindsay declared she would host the holiday for their erstwhile family, but then hysteria reigned anew when a pipe burst at the gallery just three days before the big day.
Naturally, the Liberty Avenue crew promised to pitch in and ensure the holiday went on, but Christ, the Liberty Avenue crowd was fucking inept. Melanie was responsible for the turkey, but it turned out she neglected to get it all the way in the refrigerator, and the morning after she bought it, they came downstairs to a refrigerator door slightly ajar and a kitchen that smelled like a slaughterhouse on a warm summer day.
All Michael and Ben had to do was cough up a couple of casseroles and a dessert, which prompted a nearly titanic blow-up when Ben insisted that sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top were a dessert. Ted was supposed to be responsible for drinks, but Emmett didn't think the recovering drug addict should have to supply the alcohol, not that he volunteered to do it himself. Emmett fucking planned parties for a living, and he was acting like he'd never had more than three people sit down at a table together.
Brian ended up pulling all of their asses out of the fire by having the entire meal, down to the linen tablecloths, fine silver and Waterford crystal, catered by Valjean's.
Brian decided that Justin must have spent Thanksgiving with a friend from school, but there was little time to dwell on that with the Christmas season approaching. Debbie was out of control, insisting that Gus and Hannah experience the joys of every winter holiday ever invented. In what Brian dubbed The 138 Days of Christmas, there always seemed to be a dinner or party or an extravaganza of some kind planned For the Children.
And it was sitting on a folding chair at Gus' preschool, watching numbingly untalented children roam around a stage dressed in bathrobes and confusing the identities of Jesus and Santa Claus, that Brian realized he missed Justin.
Fucking missed him.
Justin would have been as bored as Brian, but he would have looked interested. Justin knew how to play shit like that with great conviction. Whether it was attending Molly's band concert, suffering through a dry-run of Emmett's latest party theme or listening to Cynthia drone on about home improvement projects, Justin had a knack for making people think he was fascinated by their shit.
Brian didn't have that.
But he was curious about Justin's school and the New York nightlife. He wanted to hear Justin tell him that the freedom and independence were fucking amazing and that Brian had had the right idea all along. He wanted to dance with Justin and fuck him and tell him all the stupid shit that had happened with his agency and with the family. He wanted to look down and to the left and see Justin standing there.
Two days before Christmas, Brian took the scenic route home from work and found himself driving right past Jennifer Taylor's condo. If a car happened to be in the driveway or someone he knew happened to be visible through the window, the only neighborly thing to do would have been to stop in and spread some holiday cheer.
But when Brian drove by, two dark-haired kids were building a snowman in the front yard, while a dark-haired woman unloaded groceries from a van parked in the driveway.
Apparently Jennifer Taylor et.al. had a new address.
Three short weeks later, all of the little mysteries were revealed when Justin Taylor strolled by the conference room where Brian was finalizing his outsourcing plans.
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Ever since he was 16 years old, Daniel Forrester had known the kind of life he was going to live. He was going to major in pre-med at an ivy league school, attend medical school at his grandfather's alma mater, UVA, and complete his residency at the hospital of his choice. He would join the most successful cardiology practice he could find; spend four weeks a year as part of Doctors Without Borders; buy a sports car; furnish his home with the finest antiques his mother could find; vacation in Europe or the Caribbean every year; and he would take a lover whose goals and ambitions matched his own.
Dan's sexuality had never been an overriding factor in anything. He wasn't going to live his life in the closet, but he wasn't marching in parades and waving banners at political rallies either. He'd never been a fixture in the gay community-whatever the hell that was. The life of a med student and later lowly resident bred its own community, and Dan thought of himself as a doctor before anything else. The hours were so ridiculous, the schedule so grueling, the lifestyle so punishing that the only other humans who could understand were fellow doctors. They worked together, played together, ate together and slept together. As one of only a few out doctors on the staff, Dan may have lagged behind the others in the sleeping together department, but he never felt any more deprived than the next guy.
After finishing his residency, Dan spent his early thirties building a medical practice, which didn't leave much room for hanging out at the clubs on Liberty Avenue, not that Dan minded all that much. It wasn't his scene.
Not that he had a scene really. Still, he wasn't looking for a relationship when Martha Ross introduced him to her brother, Kevin, but they clicked so fast and so completely that it all just seem to happen by itself. Kevin was an analyst with a Big Eight consulting firm, intent on making partner by the time he hit 40. He was as likely as Dan to work 18 hour days, and he often took out of town assignments that would help further his career.
They eventually bought a house in the trendy suburb of Bernhard and amassed wealth and career success; art from their European travels and attractive pictures for the frames that sat on their antique tables.
Years later, when he knew things were no longer good, but before he'd resolved to do anything about it, Dan often wondered if he'd mistook simple compatibility for something deeper than it really was.
In the end, they just drifted apart; it was like they'd become furniture-accessories- in one another's lives. They couldn't even work themselves up to any anger over the split. One day they were together and the next day they weren't, so Daniel had to go buy a new dining room set.
It bothered Dan that he couldn't even pinpoint when the fun and passion had turned to complacency and disinterest. He wondered if embracing a stricter code of monogamy would have made a difference; he wondered what would have happened if one of them had been less ambitious, less driven. He wondered if he should have taken the chief resident job in Connecticut. Maybe a new city would have forced them, encouraged them, to turn to one another in a way they simply didn't.
"Maybe you were supposed to be with Kevin for awhile, and now you're supposed to be with someone else," was his brother Charlie's simplistic interpretation of it.
Thrice married-and thrice divorced-Charlie wasn't much for introspection.
But it was because of Charlie-inadvertently to be sure--that Dan and Justin got together.
Despite being the most laid back, least motivated person Dan had ever known, Charlie had managed to open two of the most successful restaurants in Pittsburgh. Their sister Kate had always described Charlie as Ishy. Everything with him was -ish. He'd meet you at noonish. He return the car he borrowed on Fridayish. The restaurant would be completed in Octoberish. He'd pay back the loan in 2004ish.
It drove Dan crazy. If you told him to be somewhere at noon, he was there at 11:55, by God, and ready to go.
Dan made plans to meet Charlie at the coffee shop near the hospital at least once a week, but it was always a crap shoot whether or not Charlie would show. And every time he did show there were usually three phone calls between when he was supposed to be there and when he actually showed.
After nearly 40 years of dealing with Charlie, Dan thought he probably should have grown used to Charlie's breezy interpretation of time, but it still bugged the crap out him.
It bugged Dan less when he waited for Charlie on days that the cute blond kid with the killer ass was at the coffee shop studying.
The first time Dan made eye contact with the kid, the kid gave him an extremely unsubtle once over. Then his blue eyes darted over to the bathroom and back to Dan, the invitation unmistakable and a little shocking.
It had been years since Dan had noticed a public come on. He'd flushed, embarrassed and titillated, and pretended like he hadn't caught the obvious pass. The kid was pretty as hell, but looked like he was in high school, and Dan wasn't the least bit inclined to break in some inexperienced kid.
And if trips to the coffee shop became a little more frequent, it was entirely coincidental. So was knowing the kid was always there at 4:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
It was one of those Thursdays when Dan was impatiently waiting for Charlie that he formally met Justin. Charlie was already 20 minutes late when Dan's cell phone rang. "I don't want to hear it," Dan said by way of hello. "I don't care that the new sink is the wrong size or the oven was scratched or the refrigerator smells funny. You're either here by one o'clock or..."
"I told you, I'll be there..."
"If you say soonish, I will kick the shit out of you when I see you."
Charlie just laughed. "For once in your life would you lighten up and go with the fucking flow?"
"Charlie, if you don't drag your sorry ass through the door in the next 15 minutes..."
"Driving...tunnel...can't...hear..." Charlie said and clicked the phone off.
"Asshole," Dan muttered, pocketing the phone. He looked up, and Pretty Blond Boy was looking at him with a knowing smile.
"Charlie your boyfriend?" the kid asked.
Dan thought the question pretty audacious given that they weren't anywhere near Liberty Avenue or any other gay Mecca. Fifteen years ago, he never would have made that assumption about some random guy sitting at a coffee shop.
"God no. My brother. A boyfriend you can get rid of. I'm stuck with Charlie whether I want him or not. And I generally lean to not."
The kid smiled and wrinkled his nose. "Liar," he said. "You meet him here at least once a week. I've seen you." Dan had a feeling the kid wrote his ticket with that smile.
"Then why'd you ask if Charlie was my boyfriend?"
"Well, I know the guy who meets you is your brother because you look alike," the kid said. "I just didn't know his name was Charlie. And I assumed the guy you were talking to on the phone was your boyfriend because you've never asked me out. That means you have to be in a relationship with someone." The kid grinned happily at his logic and Dan outright laughed.
"That's your litmus test? Either a guy comes on to you or he's in a relationship? Those are the only two possibilities--couldn't it just be that they're not interested?"
"You've seen my ass," the kid said, and Dan laughed again. The kid cocked his head and said, "If you let me take you to dinner tonight, you'll get an even better look, guaranteed."
Dan thought later that if a million little things had happened differently that day, he never would have met Justin and most certainly wouldn't have agreed to meet him for dinner. More than anything, the second the invitation was offered, Dan heard Charlie saying for once in your life would you lighten up and just go with the fucking flow?
Dan narrowed his eye and gave the kid an exaggerated look of appraisal. "What are you, 15, 16?" he said. "Do you even have a driver's license?"
Justin threw back his head and laughed, and the effect was nearly blinding. Oh yeah, the kid wrote his ticket with that smile. "I'm legal," he said. "Would you feel better if I told you I had an old soul?"
"Hell no," Dan answered. "If I'm going out with a boy toy, I want the whole package. Boy and toy."
"Believe me, you get the whole package with me," Justin said, and the line was so silly they both laughed at it.
Dan said, "That sounds dirty but it's been so long since I've dated, I'm not sure why."
"We'll research it further tonight," Justin promised.
Dan knew he'd never have a relationship with that brazen kid. He knew it would be a casual, sexual fling, and if he was lucky he would have a hell of a good time and then get out before any of his friends caught wind that he was doing something he'd always mocked--dating a much, much younger piece of eye candy.
But, shit.
Justin was fun. He was smart and interesting and up for anything-an art house movie, a trip to the hardware store, a night at the symphony or a blockbuster matinee. He was wild in bed and had such a joyful attitude about sex that half the time whatever plans they'd made were chucked in favor of staying in for the night.
And it almost confounded Dan how understanding Justin was about his work. Dan assumed a student like Justin would grow quickly irritated at the time and attention Dan's job required. After all, what kind of practical experience would a 20 year old have with the demands of a full-time career?
A certain amount of understanding was always evident at the beginning of a relationship. Dan was a surgeon-of course there would be medical emergencies, life and death calls to return, plans that inevitably had to be cancelled or rescheduled. In Dan's experience, those last minute cancellations wore real thin, real quick.
Justin just shrugged them off and used the free time to study or work or drop by his mother's place. To play hours of uninterrupted video games, Justin often joked.
Every one of Dan's carefully constructed notions about what their association would and wouldn't be fell by the wayside as day-by-day he grew closer to Justin.
When Dan realized that his relationship with Justin was deepening, the first person he introduced Justin to was Charlie.
Dan had tried to tell Charlie about Justin before they were introduced. Charlie knew Dan was seeing someone. He knew it was getting progressively more serious. And he also knew there was some reason why he hadn't yet met the guy. Dan had managed to get out that Justin was "kinda young," but the details always seemed to stick in his throat. In the end, it just proved easier not to say anything, just to show up with Justin and say, "See? Here."
They walked in to Mortie's where Charlie was waiting, and to Charlie's credit, he didn't look remotely surprised while Dan made the introductions. He shook Justin's hand and sat down, then turned to Dan and with a perfectly straight face said, "I didn't know you were adopting one of those Russian babies."
Dan thought that if Justin hadn't nearly snorted water out of his nose, the situation could have been salvaged, but no such luck. While Justin pretended the water had simply gone down the wrong way, Dan glared at his brother and muttered, "Shut up."
Dan tried to facilitate some discussion between Charlie and Justin. If nothing else they could have talked food service for a little while, but Charlie's high pitched giggle made talking about anything pretty much impossible, and Justin's snickering wasn't helping anything either.
After the waiter took their order, Charlie started to tell them about the latest construction mayhem with the new restaurant, but his face turned red, and he was sputtering with poorly concealed laughter and finally he had to put his head down on the table and let go with a belly laugh.
"Charlie!" Dan said, exasperated. "Cut it out!"
"I can't help it," Charlie said, wiping his eyes with a napkin. "This is funny!"
Justin was laughing right along with him and Dan glared at him. "What are you laughing at! It's just as embarrassing for you!"
Justin shook his head. "No way! I bagged a rich doctor," he said. "What do I have to be ashamed of?"
The rest of the hour was just one ridiculous comment after another, and Dan ended up leaving both of them in a huff and stiffing Charlie with the bill.
He was still peeved when he got home that night and not even the sight of Justin in tight jeans and t-shirt and a candle-lit kitchen replete with lasagna in the oven and homemade garlic bread could assuage his hurt feelings. Much.
He sat down at the kitchen table and refused to acknowledge Justin's grinning amusement at his pique. Finally, Justin slid onto his lap and snaked his arms around his neck. "You're a very proud man," he said.
Dan sniffed and looked away. Justin undulated slightly, moving his hips to a slow, steady rhythm. Justin licked his lips and whispered, "Who makes me hard when he walks in the door and says, 'Hey.'"
Dan sighed and shrugged. "Me," he grudgingly admitted.
"Who made me completely reverse my sacred oath to swear off men for the rest of my whole life just six weeks after I made that vow?"
"Me again," said Dan.
"Who fucks me so long and so hard, so fucking fantastically, that my mama calls in the morning to thank him, to thank him, for turning her boy inside out and back again?"
"Me," Dan said, his tone telling Justin to just get to the point already.
"So what exactly are you so pissed off about?"
Dan grinned in spite of himself. "It's getting kind of hard to remember."
"Does it really bother you?" Justin asked later. They'd been making out at the kitchen table for half an hour and at some point Dan had come in his pants like a hapless teenager. Justin could have asked him if having a fork shoved in his eye bothered him, and he would have said no.
Dan smiled at Justin and brushed back the soft blond hair. "Not bothered," he said, feeling more embarrassed than anything. "I was such a judgmental asshole before about pathetic old losers making fools of themselves with gold-digging twinks."
Justin laughed in delight. "It's the taste of crow making you cranky!" he said.
Dan laughed too. "Yeah, I guess so."
"Some gold digging twinks have really fabulous asses," Justin said between slow, wet kisses.
"Some pathetic old losers have so much fun with those asses, they don't care if they're making a fool of themselves."
Justin laid kisses all across Dan's face, finally traveling over to his ear where he finally stopped kissing long enough to whisper, "Some gold digging twinks really love those old guys."
Dan got really still. He slid his hand behind Justin's head and held him there against his shoulder for a moment.
God, Justin was ...brave. Given everything he'd experienced he was still willing-determined, even-to put himself out there, to live the life he wanted to live. Dan found it amazing. He wasn't anywhere near that brave, which went a long way to explaining why it was eight years before he and Kevin finally called it quits.
Dan had to swallow a couple of times before he could say anything. "I love you too," he whispered.
Justin pulled back and looked at Dan, eyes blazing. "Fuck me," he said. "Inside out, Dan. Fuck me."
Dan did, right there on the kitchen floor. He ripped off Justin's clothes and fucked him crazy, until Justin was howling and shrieking, and he was bellowing back like a fucking caveman.
Months later, whenever Dan was crossing the kitchen to put something in the fridge, he'd remember and chuckle to himself. And sometimes that memory was so visceral, so vivid, it would suck the breath right out of him.
And every time that happened, Dan had to track Justin down and say, "Hey," and when Justin looked up from his book or the TV, a drawing or his computer, Dan would shrug at him, an apology for interrupting, and then he'd say, "I love you."
And Justin would smile and sometimes blush and sometimes shake his head at the non sequitur. "You're nuts," he'd always answer. And Dan would laugh and sit down next to him or turn to go or whatever. And that's when Justin would say, "But I love you, too."
End Part 2
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I really don't have anything mapped out for this story. I go back and forth trying to decide what I want to have happen, and I haven't really come to any conclusions.
That said, here's a little bit more!
The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 2
It wasn't that he passed on the Chicago job offer that confounded Brian, it was that he never even considered it.
And fuck, it wasn't like passing on the Chicago opportunity ever made him think twice. Weeks after that, weeks in which Brian never even thought about that fucking job offer, Cynthia asked him if he and Justin wanted her extra set of tickets for the hockey game, and that's what totally floored Brian.
"Why the fuck would I go to a hockey game with Justin?" Brian asked sharply.
Cynthia rolled her eyes. "Are you asking about hockey or Justin?" she sweetly shot back.
"Don't fucking assume I'm bringing Justin anywhere..."
Cynthia ran her tongue across her teeth and said, "Is Halverson still coming in tomorrow morning to review the new campaign?" she interrupted to ask.
Brian answered impatiently, "Yeah."
"Then I don't have time for this." She turned on her heels and headed back to her office, but only after tossing the tickets onto Brian's desk.
That's what opened the can of worms, and Brian supposed he should have been grateful to her for finally, God damn finally opening his eyes to the epic ridiculousness that was his current state of affairs.
Brian couldn't fucking remember the last time he'd just up and done something without calling to see if Justin was up for it too. When had nights of drunken debauchery been replaced by fucking on the couch? When had underwear parties and circuit parties and white parties been replaced by something as fucking mundane as dinner and a movie? What the God damn fuck?
Brian slumped behind he desk as he tried to grasp the fact that he couldn't fucking remember the last time he'd ingested an illegal substance. February, right? He and Justin were at Babylon and Tiny McCracken had offered...no, Jesus fucking no, that was in January.
Jesus Christ, this was a fucking disaster.
Driving home that night, Brian had a heart attack.
Well, he thought he was having a heart attack. A mile before the exit to get home, he found it impossible to draw his next breath, and his heart slammed against his rib cage with loud, angry thuds. Gasping and choking, Brian pulled over to the side of the road and sat there waiting for death to finally come and take him.
A few minutes later he eased back onto the highway.
Instead of going home, though, he drove to the airport. He booked a round-trip ticket to New York City, turned off his cell phone and boarded the flight.
When he arrived in New York City, Brian took a cab to the Roxy, and then he proceeded to spend the next 42 hours as drunk, stoned, and overly sexed as was humanly possible when that human was Brian Kinney.
Early Sunday morning, Brian stood in the middle of some nightclub, the lights strobing overhead in all the beautiful colors of the rainbow as beautiful, hot, sexy men--Jesus Christ, so many fucking, fuckable men--presented themselves to Brian. He was a starving man brought before the most luxurious, ample smorgasbord in the world, and he almost started to cry at the delicious feeling of finally coming home.
If Brian was a man who wondered about things, and he absolutely wasn't, he might have wondered later what would have happened had he simply gone home that Friday night. Justin would have been there, blabbering on about whatever the fuck happened that day, and he would have let Brian fuck away those feelings of panic and suffocation.
When Brian turned his cell phone on late Sunday afternoon, there were 12 messages waiting for him, but only one from Justin. It was delivered on Saturday afternoon, wondering where Brian was, but that was it.
Unsure how to explain to Justin that being with him was going to kill Brian, he managed to avoid Justin for another two days, but being a total chicken shit loser wasn't really his style, so he drove over to Justin's apartment after work on that second night, prepared to set the record straight.
"Where the fuck have you been?" Justin asked, but he turned and walked into the kitchen, not really expecting an answer.
"Look," Brian said. "We've always said it's about being where we want to be, and I don't want to be here anymore."
Justin looked at him like he was a moron. "So go home," he said with a shrug.
"I'm serious. This whole playing house domestic shit is over. I'm not playing anymore."
"Okay," Justin answered. "Are my acrylics on the shelf over there? My mom cleaned last week, and I can't find shit around here."
"Are you listening to me?" Brian said.
Justin looked up from his work table where he was setting out jars of paint. "You don't want to be here, you're serious, you're done playing house," he parroted back.
"So, okay then." Brian started to leave, he really did. But it dawned on him that the last time they'd fucked, they hadn't known it was the last time they were going to fuck around, and it didn't seem right to leave it like that.
So he fucked Justin on his work table and again on the couch and then in the shower, but he didn't spend the time because he was done with all of that domestic shit.
Several nights later, Brian had to explain it to Justin again. "I meant what I said," he insisted, fucking Justin against the backroom wall. "I'm done with all this shit. It's over."
"Right," Justin said, then grunted and pushed back against Brian's thrusting cock. His breathy, Ah! Ah! Ah! rang in Brian's ear.
Brian thought maybe he wasn't doing a good job getting his point across. When things between the two of them grew more acrimonious, Brian knew Justin was finally beginning to understand that he was serious.
It had been weeks since the last time they'd spent the night together, and Justin started asking Brian what the fuck was going on, and Brian kept patiently explaining that he'd already told Justin he wasn't engaging in anymore bullshit.
"What happened?" Justin asked. "Did someone say something or God forbid imply something? I mean, what the fuck?"
Justin kept wanting the why. As if the why would negate any of it. There wasn't a why, as far as Brian was concerned, there was simply what was.
Brian hated how petty and ridiculous it grew between the two of them. He hated seeing Justin at the diner, the bars, and Sunday dinner. He hated fucking Justin after vowing to himself that it wouldn't happen again.
Justin wore those fucks as proof that Brian was full of shit, and Brian hated that more than anything.
They needed time apart-good and fucking far apart, that's what they needed. Which made the idea of the New York Art Institute one of Brian's more fucking brilliant ideas. It was one of the oldest and certainly the most prestigious art college in the United States. PIFA was a joke next to NYAI, and a degree from the world renowned school would allow Justin to pursue any fucking path his heart desired.
Brian knew his change in attitude had come with little warning, and maybe that was why Justin thought it was just some fucking phase Brian was going through. Brian was determined to prove to Justin that it wasn't a phase.
Brian met Timothy Cranston, an NYAI trustee, through Lindsay's gallery. The gallery was bringing to town an exhibit by Marilee Park Naughton, who'd died the year before. This was to be the biggest exhibit of her work since her death and it was attracting attention from galleries all over the world.
Brian was coordinating the inter-gallery advertising, and it was sitting in on a snooze-worthy presentation about a tie-in with young, local artists that the idea of sending Justin to New York took root.
Cranston started describing a similar program between MOMA and the New York Art Institute while Brian surreptitiously pulled Cranston's bio from his portfolio.
What he read made the very notion of Justin attending NYAI seem like it had been preordained.
After the presentation, the attendees were free to roam the amateur wing of the gallery and view the submitted works. Brian sidled up to Cranston and ushered him over to some familiar canvases. "Justin Taylor, the artist, was bashed in high school and nearly lost the use of his right hand," Brian said sadly as Cranston looked on.
Timothy Cranston turned wide eyes to Brian. "Justin Taylor? I know that name!" he said. "I'm on the board of a judicial watchdog organization. The judge who presided over that case was one of our main targets in the last election."
"Really?" Brian said, his own eyes wide. "You know, Justin is something of an activist himself," Brian said, slipping a companionable arm around Timothy Cranston's shoulder. "You must have heard about the Stockwell mayoral campaign, right?"
Several hours-and a combination blow job/fuck-later, Timothy Cranston vowed to do everything in his power to get Justin Taylor admitted to the New York Art Institute.
Two weeks letter the acceptance letter arrived. Brian drove over to Justin's and presented the letter to him with a flourish. "What's this?" Justin asked, reading the letter with a furrowed brow.
"This is the rest of your life on a silver fucking platter," Brian answered.
Justin took so long to read the letter he must have gone back over it three or four times before he shook his head and returned it to Brian. "I'm not going to the New York Art Institute," he said dismissively.
"I hope it's not because you think you have some fucking little life here that you can't leave, because that's bullshit."
"Tell me why you're doing this!" Justin yelled. "Just fucking tell me why!"
"Because this is fucking bullshit!" Brian shouted back. "Because I'm sick of this fucking farce of a life! Because I'm not going to play out this fucking bullshit any more! Because you can't seem to get it through your fucking head that I am not buying into some fucking hetero bullshit fuck of an idea about what life is all about! Does that answer your fucking question, Sunshine? Does it?"
Justin stood there, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. "Yeah," he said in a strangled voice. "Yeah it does. Get out."
Three days later, Brian showed up at his apartment again. Justin tried to slam the door in his face, but Brian got a foot in the door and just barreled on in.
"You've got to formally accept the offer of enrollment," Brian said, having received a phone call telling him they needed Justin's acceptance so they could process the necessary paperwork.
"I'm not going to school in New York!" Justin said. "Get the fuck out of here and leave me alone."
"Why are you being such a fucking twat? You'll be able to write your ticket with this degree."
"I am not some fucking mistake you can spirit out of town so you don't have to fucking look at it anymore," Justin said. "You don't want to be with me? Fine, whatever! But you're fucked if you think I'm gonna slink away with my tail between my legs just because Brian Fucking Kinney is done with me!"
Brian rolled his eyes. "Get over yourself. I called in favors I haven't even earned yet to get them to consider you midterm. Twenty-two hundred students on the face of the earth are granted this opportunity. Do you know how many applicants they had last year? Over fifteen thousand. You ought to be fucking grateful."
Justin flushed bright red and spoke to him through gritted teeth. "Get.out.of.my.house."
"Is this your plan, Sunshine?" Brian sneered. "You're going to ruin your fucking life to show me how wrong I am, to make me sorry for walking away? Is that your brilliant little plan?"
"Get out!" Justin shouted. "Get out and leave me the fuck alone!"
"I'm leaving you with a hell of a lot more than any of the others ever got," Brian said smoothly. "They got a good night's fuck and that's it. I'm giving you the fucking world right there. That ought to mean something to you."
"Fuck you, you fucking shit!" Justin said. "I never asked you for anything, and I don't want the fucking world if it's coming from you!"
A week before Justin was required to check in with the NYAI registrar, Brian called Justin's cell and learned the number was no longer valid. He smirked when the recording told him no forwarding number was available. A week after Justin was due to report at school, Brian drove over to his apartment and found it vacant with a For Rent sign in the window.
Brian drove home whistling under his breath and feeling unduly proud of himself.
For months after that, whenever Brian walked into Babylon, it was with the smug arrogance of a returning war hero. Whereas that first, shocking split from Justin had been tinged with humiliation and failure, this return to his roots was all about freedom and fucking life after near-death.
Brian basked in the glow of his newfound independence. He went out when he wanted, stayed in when he wanted, ate when he wanted, slept when he wanted. There wasn't a white party he didn't attend; an orgy he didn't grace with his presence; or an able and willing ass he didn't fuck. He flew to Milan for a long weekend one August afternoon just because he fucking could.
And if every once in awhile he looked down and to the left, ready to share some sardonic comment or trade wiseass remarks, well...that was just habit. And habits were easy enough to break.
Brian understood Justin's bruised ego and hurt feelings, and it didn't surprise him not to hear from the kid for a few months. The summer came and went and Brian sure as hell would've picked a summer in New York City over languishing in the Pitts, so Justin's silence was hardly unexpected.
Thoroughly unexpected, albeit pleasantly so, was the lack of hounding Brian got from the rest of the crowd about Justin's absence. Granted, that was helped along by the long-awaited arrival of one Hannah Rachel Novotny Petersen Marcus.
Apparently Debbie, Melanie and Michael were the only three people in the universe ever to bring forth life, and the rest of them indulged the three with varying degrees of tolerance.
As far as Brian could see, the kid ate and slept, peed, puked and shit just like it was supposed to. As long as it didn't do it on his suit coat or dress shirt, he was fine. Deb's occasional, "Where the fuck is Sunshine? Don't they have fuckin' phones in New York?" was forgotten the minute Hannah cooed. Or peed. Or shit. Whatever.
More months passed, and Brian wondered if maybe Justin had attended summer school to ensure that he graduated with his class. That's how Brian would have played it anyway. September brought the start of the fall session, so even though Justin's continued absence was starting to rankle, Brian accepted it.
Come November, Brian was convinced he would hear from Justin over the Thanksgiving break. And if he dressed a little sharper than usual when out on the town, no one mentioned it. If he watched the door at Babylon and Woody's with more attention than was his wont, it went unnoticed by the others.
Brian half expected Justin to just show up out of the blue at the Novotny Thanksgiving celebration, but it turned out there would be no celebration at the Novotny home that year.
Debbie announced she was spending two weeks in Arizona with a Carl who'd been feeling neglected since the arrival of baby Hannah, and the idea of spending Thanksgiving without his precious mommy threw Michael into a hysterical tailspin. Lindsay declared she would host the holiday for their erstwhile family, but then hysteria reigned anew when a pipe burst at the gallery just three days before the big day.
Naturally, the Liberty Avenue crew promised to pitch in and ensure the holiday went on, but Christ, the Liberty Avenue crowd was fucking inept. Melanie was responsible for the turkey, but it turned out she neglected to get it all the way in the refrigerator, and the morning after she bought it, they came downstairs to a refrigerator door slightly ajar and a kitchen that smelled like a slaughterhouse on a warm summer day.
All Michael and Ben had to do was cough up a couple of casseroles and a dessert, which prompted a nearly titanic blow-up when Ben insisted that sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top were a dessert. Ted was supposed to be responsible for drinks, but Emmett didn't think the recovering drug addict should have to supply the alcohol, not that he volunteered to do it himself. Emmett fucking planned parties for a living, and he was acting like he'd never had more than three people sit down at a table together.
Brian ended up pulling all of their asses out of the fire by having the entire meal, down to the linen tablecloths, fine silver and Waterford crystal, catered by Valjean's.
Brian decided that Justin must have spent Thanksgiving with a friend from school, but there was little time to dwell on that with the Christmas season approaching. Debbie was out of control, insisting that Gus and Hannah experience the joys of every winter holiday ever invented. In what Brian dubbed The 138 Days of Christmas, there always seemed to be a dinner or party or an extravaganza of some kind planned For the Children.
And it was sitting on a folding chair at Gus' preschool, watching numbingly untalented children roam around a stage dressed in bathrobes and confusing the identities of Jesus and Santa Claus, that Brian realized he missed Justin.
Fucking missed him.
Justin would have been as bored as Brian, but he would have looked interested. Justin knew how to play shit like that with great conviction. Whether it was attending Molly's band concert, suffering through a dry-run of Emmett's latest party theme or listening to Cynthia drone on about home improvement projects, Justin had a knack for making people think he was fascinated by their shit.
Brian didn't have that.
But he was curious about Justin's school and the New York nightlife. He wanted to hear Justin tell him that the freedom and independence were fucking amazing and that Brian had had the right idea all along. He wanted to dance with Justin and fuck him and tell him all the stupid shit that had happened with his agency and with the family. He wanted to look down and to the left and see Justin standing there.
Two days before Christmas, Brian took the scenic route home from work and found himself driving right past Jennifer Taylor's condo. If a car happened to be in the driveway or someone he knew happened to be visible through the window, the only neighborly thing to do would have been to stop in and spread some holiday cheer.
But when Brian drove by, two dark-haired kids were building a snowman in the front yard, while a dark-haired woman unloaded groceries from a van parked in the driveway.
Apparently Jennifer Taylor et.al. had a new address.
Three short weeks later, all of the little mysteries were revealed when Justin Taylor strolled by the conference room where Brian was finalizing his outsourcing plans.
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Ever since he was 16 years old, Daniel Forrester had known the kind of life he was going to live. He was going to major in pre-med at an ivy league school, attend medical school at his grandfather's alma mater, UVA, and complete his residency at the hospital of his choice. He would join the most successful cardiology practice he could find; spend four weeks a year as part of Doctors Without Borders; buy a sports car; furnish his home with the finest antiques his mother could find; vacation in Europe or the Caribbean every year; and he would take a lover whose goals and ambitions matched his own.
Dan's sexuality had never been an overriding factor in anything. He wasn't going to live his life in the closet, but he wasn't marching in parades and waving banners at political rallies either. He'd never been a fixture in the gay community-whatever the hell that was. The life of a med student and later lowly resident bred its own community, and Dan thought of himself as a doctor before anything else. The hours were so ridiculous, the schedule so grueling, the lifestyle so punishing that the only other humans who could understand were fellow doctors. They worked together, played together, ate together and slept together. As one of only a few out doctors on the staff, Dan may have lagged behind the others in the sleeping together department, but he never felt any more deprived than the next guy.
After finishing his residency, Dan spent his early thirties building a medical practice, which didn't leave much room for hanging out at the clubs on Liberty Avenue, not that Dan minded all that much. It wasn't his scene.
Not that he had a scene really. Still, he wasn't looking for a relationship when Martha Ross introduced him to her brother, Kevin, but they clicked so fast and so completely that it all just seem to happen by itself. Kevin was an analyst with a Big Eight consulting firm, intent on making partner by the time he hit 40. He was as likely as Dan to work 18 hour days, and he often took out of town assignments that would help further his career.
They eventually bought a house in the trendy suburb of Bernhard and amassed wealth and career success; art from their European travels and attractive pictures for the frames that sat on their antique tables.
Years later, when he knew things were no longer good, but before he'd resolved to do anything about it, Dan often wondered if he'd mistook simple compatibility for something deeper than it really was.
In the end, they just drifted apart; it was like they'd become furniture-accessories- in one another's lives. They couldn't even work themselves up to any anger over the split. One day they were together and the next day they weren't, so Daniel had to go buy a new dining room set.
It bothered Dan that he couldn't even pinpoint when the fun and passion had turned to complacency and disinterest. He wondered if embracing a stricter code of monogamy would have made a difference; he wondered what would have happened if one of them had been less ambitious, less driven. He wondered if he should have taken the chief resident job in Connecticut. Maybe a new city would have forced them, encouraged them, to turn to one another in a way they simply didn't.
"Maybe you were supposed to be with Kevin for awhile, and now you're supposed to be with someone else," was his brother Charlie's simplistic interpretation of it.
Thrice married-and thrice divorced-Charlie wasn't much for introspection.
But it was because of Charlie-inadvertently to be sure--that Dan and Justin got together.
Despite being the most laid back, least motivated person Dan had ever known, Charlie had managed to open two of the most successful restaurants in Pittsburgh. Their sister Kate had always described Charlie as Ishy. Everything with him was -ish. He'd meet you at noonish. He return the car he borrowed on Fridayish. The restaurant would be completed in Octoberish. He'd pay back the loan in 2004ish.
It drove Dan crazy. If you told him to be somewhere at noon, he was there at 11:55, by God, and ready to go.
Dan made plans to meet Charlie at the coffee shop near the hospital at least once a week, but it was always a crap shoot whether or not Charlie would show. And every time he did show there were usually three phone calls between when he was supposed to be there and when he actually showed.
After nearly 40 years of dealing with Charlie, Dan thought he probably should have grown used to Charlie's breezy interpretation of time, but it still bugged the crap out him.
It bugged Dan less when he waited for Charlie on days that the cute blond kid with the killer ass was at the coffee shop studying.
The first time Dan made eye contact with the kid, the kid gave him an extremely unsubtle once over. Then his blue eyes darted over to the bathroom and back to Dan, the invitation unmistakable and a little shocking.
It had been years since Dan had noticed a public come on. He'd flushed, embarrassed and titillated, and pretended like he hadn't caught the obvious pass. The kid was pretty as hell, but looked like he was in high school, and Dan wasn't the least bit inclined to break in some inexperienced kid.
And if trips to the coffee shop became a little more frequent, it was entirely coincidental. So was knowing the kid was always there at 4:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
It was one of those Thursdays when Dan was impatiently waiting for Charlie that he formally met Justin. Charlie was already 20 minutes late when Dan's cell phone rang. "I don't want to hear it," Dan said by way of hello. "I don't care that the new sink is the wrong size or the oven was scratched or the refrigerator smells funny. You're either here by one o'clock or..."
"I told you, I'll be there..."
"If you say soonish, I will kick the shit out of you when I see you."
Charlie just laughed. "For once in your life would you lighten up and go with the fucking flow?"
"Charlie, if you don't drag your sorry ass through the door in the next 15 minutes..."
"Driving...tunnel...can't...hear..." Charlie said and clicked the phone off.
"Asshole," Dan muttered, pocketing the phone. He looked up, and Pretty Blond Boy was looking at him with a knowing smile.
"Charlie your boyfriend?" the kid asked.
Dan thought the question pretty audacious given that they weren't anywhere near Liberty Avenue or any other gay Mecca. Fifteen years ago, he never would have made that assumption about some random guy sitting at a coffee shop.
"God no. My brother. A boyfriend you can get rid of. I'm stuck with Charlie whether I want him or not. And I generally lean to not."
The kid smiled and wrinkled his nose. "Liar," he said. "You meet him here at least once a week. I've seen you." Dan had a feeling the kid wrote his ticket with that smile.
"Then why'd you ask if Charlie was my boyfriend?"
"Well, I know the guy who meets you is your brother because you look alike," the kid said. "I just didn't know his name was Charlie. And I assumed the guy you were talking to on the phone was your boyfriend because you've never asked me out. That means you have to be in a relationship with someone." The kid grinned happily at his logic and Dan outright laughed.
"That's your litmus test? Either a guy comes on to you or he's in a relationship? Those are the only two possibilities--couldn't it just be that they're not interested?"
"You've seen my ass," the kid said, and Dan laughed again. The kid cocked his head and said, "If you let me take you to dinner tonight, you'll get an even better look, guaranteed."
Dan thought later that if a million little things had happened differently that day, he never would have met Justin and most certainly wouldn't have agreed to meet him for dinner. More than anything, the second the invitation was offered, Dan heard Charlie saying for once in your life would you lighten up and just go with the fucking flow?
Dan narrowed his eye and gave the kid an exaggerated look of appraisal. "What are you, 15, 16?" he said. "Do you even have a driver's license?"
Justin threw back his head and laughed, and the effect was nearly blinding. Oh yeah, the kid wrote his ticket with that smile. "I'm legal," he said. "Would you feel better if I told you I had an old soul?"
"Hell no," Dan answered. "If I'm going out with a boy toy, I want the whole package. Boy and toy."
"Believe me, you get the whole package with me," Justin said, and the line was so silly they both laughed at it.
Dan said, "That sounds dirty but it's been so long since I've dated, I'm not sure why."
"We'll research it further tonight," Justin promised.
Dan knew he'd never have a relationship with that brazen kid. He knew it would be a casual, sexual fling, and if he was lucky he would have a hell of a good time and then get out before any of his friends caught wind that he was doing something he'd always mocked--dating a much, much younger piece of eye candy.
But, shit.
Justin was fun. He was smart and interesting and up for anything-an art house movie, a trip to the hardware store, a night at the symphony or a blockbuster matinee. He was wild in bed and had such a joyful attitude about sex that half the time whatever plans they'd made were chucked in favor of staying in for the night.
And it almost confounded Dan how understanding Justin was about his work. Dan assumed a student like Justin would grow quickly irritated at the time and attention Dan's job required. After all, what kind of practical experience would a 20 year old have with the demands of a full-time career?
A certain amount of understanding was always evident at the beginning of a relationship. Dan was a surgeon-of course there would be medical emergencies, life and death calls to return, plans that inevitably had to be cancelled or rescheduled. In Dan's experience, those last minute cancellations wore real thin, real quick.
Justin just shrugged them off and used the free time to study or work or drop by his mother's place. To play hours of uninterrupted video games, Justin often joked.
Every one of Dan's carefully constructed notions about what their association would and wouldn't be fell by the wayside as day-by-day he grew closer to Justin.
When Dan realized that his relationship with Justin was deepening, the first person he introduced Justin to was Charlie.
Dan had tried to tell Charlie about Justin before they were introduced. Charlie knew Dan was seeing someone. He knew it was getting progressively more serious. And he also knew there was some reason why he hadn't yet met the guy. Dan had managed to get out that Justin was "kinda young," but the details always seemed to stick in his throat. In the end, it just proved easier not to say anything, just to show up with Justin and say, "See? Here."
They walked in to Mortie's where Charlie was waiting, and to Charlie's credit, he didn't look remotely surprised while Dan made the introductions. He shook Justin's hand and sat down, then turned to Dan and with a perfectly straight face said, "I didn't know you were adopting one of those Russian babies."
Dan thought that if Justin hadn't nearly snorted water out of his nose, the situation could have been salvaged, but no such luck. While Justin pretended the water had simply gone down the wrong way, Dan glared at his brother and muttered, "Shut up."
Dan tried to facilitate some discussion between Charlie and Justin. If nothing else they could have talked food service for a little while, but Charlie's high pitched giggle made talking about anything pretty much impossible, and Justin's snickering wasn't helping anything either.
After the waiter took their order, Charlie started to tell them about the latest construction mayhem with the new restaurant, but his face turned red, and he was sputtering with poorly concealed laughter and finally he had to put his head down on the table and let go with a belly laugh.
"Charlie!" Dan said, exasperated. "Cut it out!"
"I can't help it," Charlie said, wiping his eyes with a napkin. "This is funny!"
Justin was laughing right along with him and Dan glared at him. "What are you laughing at! It's just as embarrassing for you!"
Justin shook his head. "No way! I bagged a rich doctor," he said. "What do I have to be ashamed of?"
The rest of the hour was just one ridiculous comment after another, and Dan ended up leaving both of them in a huff and stiffing Charlie with the bill.
He was still peeved when he got home that night and not even the sight of Justin in tight jeans and t-shirt and a candle-lit kitchen replete with lasagna in the oven and homemade garlic bread could assuage his hurt feelings. Much.
He sat down at the kitchen table and refused to acknowledge Justin's grinning amusement at his pique. Finally, Justin slid onto his lap and snaked his arms around his neck. "You're a very proud man," he said.
Dan sniffed and looked away. Justin undulated slightly, moving his hips to a slow, steady rhythm. Justin licked his lips and whispered, "Who makes me hard when he walks in the door and says, 'Hey.'"
Dan sighed and shrugged. "Me," he grudgingly admitted.
"Who made me completely reverse my sacred oath to swear off men for the rest of my whole life just six weeks after I made that vow?"
"Me again," said Dan.
"Who fucks me so long and so hard, so fucking fantastically, that my mama calls in the morning to thank him, to thank him, for turning her boy inside out and back again?"
"Me," Dan said, his tone telling Justin to just get to the point already.
"So what exactly are you so pissed off about?"
Dan grinned in spite of himself. "It's getting kind of hard to remember."
"Does it really bother you?" Justin asked later. They'd been making out at the kitchen table for half an hour and at some point Dan had come in his pants like a hapless teenager. Justin could have asked him if having a fork shoved in his eye bothered him, and he would have said no.
Dan smiled at Justin and brushed back the soft blond hair. "Not bothered," he said, feeling more embarrassed than anything. "I was such a judgmental asshole before about pathetic old losers making fools of themselves with gold-digging twinks."
Justin laughed in delight. "It's the taste of crow making you cranky!" he said.
Dan laughed too. "Yeah, I guess so."
"Some gold digging twinks have really fabulous asses," Justin said between slow, wet kisses.
"Some pathetic old losers have so much fun with those asses, they don't care if they're making a fool of themselves."
Justin laid kisses all across Dan's face, finally traveling over to his ear where he finally stopped kissing long enough to whisper, "Some gold digging twinks really love those old guys."
Dan got really still. He slid his hand behind Justin's head and held him there against his shoulder for a moment.
God, Justin was ...brave. Given everything he'd experienced he was still willing-determined, even-to put himself out there, to live the life he wanted to live. Dan found it amazing. He wasn't anywhere near that brave, which went a long way to explaining why it was eight years before he and Kevin finally called it quits.
Dan had to swallow a couple of times before he could say anything. "I love you too," he whispered.
Justin pulled back and looked at Dan, eyes blazing. "Fuck me," he said. "Inside out, Dan. Fuck me."
Dan did, right there on the kitchen floor. He ripped off Justin's clothes and fucked him crazy, until Justin was howling and shrieking, and he was bellowing back like a fucking caveman.
Months later, whenever Dan was crossing the kitchen to put something in the fridge, he'd remember and chuckle to himself. And sometimes that memory was so visceral, so vivid, it would suck the breath right out of him.
And every time that happened, Dan had to track Justin down and say, "Hey," and when Justin looked up from his book or the TV, a drawing or his computer, Dan would shrug at him, an apology for interrupting, and then he'd say, "I love you."
And Justin would smile and sometimes blush and sometimes shake his head at the non sequitur. "You're nuts," he'd always answer. And Dan would laugh and sit down next to him or turn to go or whatever. And that's when Justin would say, "But I love you, too."
End Part 2
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