FIC: Grace, Too (QAF) (1/?)
Woot! This is the official first posting of my new WIP. Yes. The one I've been babbling about for months.
(If you've already seen the unedited, friends-locked version of this chapter, there probably isn't much recognizable difference between them, just a couple of little things. Feel free to skip this. The second part is nearly done, and will be posted soon. Hopefully.)
Note of thanks to everyone who replied and gave me initial reactions when I posted this before. Also, cindelius is nifty times ten. :D
Post 414. Brian/Justin, Justin/Other. This is not angst, seriously this time. I mean it.
It was every cliché he could think of about LA.
It was every cliché he could think of about LA.
Justin was at a party clogged with superstars; people with immediately recognizable faces, actors and producers that wouldn’t look him in the eye unless they thought he was somebody. But then again, everybody is somebody in LA, right?
There were no hot vampires, though, Justin realized sadly. It was really a shame.
As fun as parties could be, ever since his brief career stint as go-go boy, Justin was a little uncomfortable around coffee tables crisscrossed in lines of cocaine. He made a few well-placed compliments and excuses, and then hid over in the corner like a good wallflower.
Anyway, he’d been a social little bee for long enough that day. In addition to his duties as assistant art director, Brett Keller expected Justin to schmooze with the stars and other very-important-people. He said that Justin, being the co-creator and the inspiration for one of the characters, would be their best foot forward. Seeing him around at functions would be free publicity.
He could chat nicely for a while, Brett suggested, and then Justin could calmly slip little tidbits into conversation, like - “Actually, this project I’m working on, it’s very daring and provocative...“
Brett said, crazy as it is, sometimes it’s really all about the buzz words.
As a consequence of being out and about all the time, Justin was pretty much exhausted all the time, and was picking up a nasty caffeine habit that reminded him of Brian. Any moment Justin spent by the gurgling coffeemaker ended up giving him a raging erection, and the smell of ground coffee beans made his breath catch.
But he wasn’t going to get sleep for a while, so he might as well get used to it.
Justin glanced around awkwardly, cradling a glass in one hand. His attention was caught by a painting on the wall, and he stepped closer to look at it. It was an angular blocking of triangles and squares. The style was distinctive, and Justin couldn’t quite place where he’d seen it before.
He studied the lines of paint closely, and a guy bumped against his back and nearly knocked him into the artwork.
“Hey, watch it,” said Justin, and the guy turned to look at him. He was slightly grizzled, dark-haired --definitely not hot, but kind of handsome in a fierce way.
The guy wrinkled his nose.
“What, that?” he said disdainfully. “I could paint that. I can’t believe the shit they call art.”
Justin opened his mouth, ready to leap to the defense of artists everywhere. It pissed him off when people said things like “I could draw that,” or “Looks like something a five year-old did,” or “I just don’t understand this modern art thing.” But he looked a little closer at the guy, and suddenly recognized him.
“Yeah,” said Justin, “You could paint that, couldn’t you?” He smiled and stuck his hand out.
Sam Auerbach. The man was as much an asshole as he was a genius, Justin had heard, but what the hell. Justin was as good with assholes as he was with dicks.
Auerbach raised an eyebrow and took his hand gingerly. “I see you’ve found me out,” he said, and gripped Justin’s hand a little more firmly, gave it a good shake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Auerbach,” said Justin. “My name’s Justin Taylor. I love your -“
“What do you do?” Auerbach interrupted.
“Uh -”
“Modelling? Romantic comedies? Action movies?”
“No,” Justin started to say.
“Do you think that because you play a pretty boy on television it makes me the least bit interested in your opinion?”
Justin’s mouth fell open.
Sam shook his head. “Never mind. Have a good night.” He began to walk away, but Justin impulsively grabbed his hand again to halt him.
Justin’s smile didn’t waver, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back for it. The man really was an asshole, and Justin was way past taking shit from anyone.
“Actually,” he said breezily, and turned loose of Auerbach’s hand. “I’m here as assistant art director for a current movie project. I was hired specifically for my expertise.” And okay, maybe that was laying it on a bit thick, but Justin was pretty fucking annoyed by then.
“Ah,” said Auerbach, and instead of surprise, or even acknowledgement that Justin wasn’t just a pretty boy, his gaze wandered toward the sound of laughter from a cluster of people nearby.
“They’re designing sets and costumes based on my original designs,” said Justin.
“Impressive,” said Auerbach, sounding bored.
“...and I attend the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts,” said Justin, grasping at straws.
“Pittsburgh,” Auerbach said slowly, “is a fucking hellhole of a city,” and then he was gone before Justin could react.
*
The phone rang three times before Brian picked up.
“I hate it here,” Justin said immediately at the sound of the static.
There was a pause, and the sound of an amused snort. “No, you don’t,” said Brian. “You love it there. Who’s offended your virtue now, Mr. Taylor?”
“Fuck you,” said Justin, but he had to grin. God, he missed Brian. “Nobody. Just some famous asshole artist. He pissed me off and I ended up sounding like a complete twat.”
“Hmm,” said Brian. “But you are a twat,” and he said it playfully, and with that tone in his voice, that tone that Brian only started using a few months before Justin came to LA.
Justin covered the receiver and sighed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly for a moment.
“So what shining celebrities have you fucked lately?” said Brian.
Justin cleared his throat and took his hand off the receiver. “Nobody interesting lately,” he said, because he didn’t feel like making something up, “but one of the Olsen twins slipped me her number the other day. I burned it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Brian laughed, “I should hope so.”
“I don’t know, though,” said Justin. “The way things are going, I think if I get a chance to fuck Mary-Kate, I might go for it.”
He imagined that he could feel Brian’s disgusted shudder all the way down the phone line.
“You’re obviously out of your fucking mind,” Brian said. “Remember not to drink the punch at those fucking parties anymore, got it?”
“Yes, daddy,” Justin said.
“Fuck you,” Brian said. “I’m hanging up now. The long-distance bills aren’t worth this shit.”
Justin chuckled, then quickly added a not quite sarcastic “I love you too,” because he knew from experience that Brian wasn’t joking about hanging up.
There was a pause, and Brian said softly, “Yeah, I guess you do.”
It was followed almost immediately by a click that Justin could barely hear, but that made his heart thud dully against his ribs anyway.
Justin thumbed the phone off.
*
He ran into Sam Auerbach again the next night.
“Well -” said Auerbach, “If it isn’t the artistic prodigy from Pittsburgh.”
Justin grinned huge and fake. “Yes. And, if it isn’t the aging, rest-on-his-laurels sell-out mural painter.”
He had a feeling of “oh fuck did I just say that?” that was coupled with a feeling of satisfaction. It was good to be a vindictive little shit sometimes.
Auerbach raised an eyebrow and peered down his nose at Justin, even though it meant he had to tilt his head back.
“So, what was your name again?” he asked after a moment.
*
They ended up lurking by the bar for a while, taking advantage of the free alcohol, and then they decided to weave their way through the crowd and sit on the staircase.
The staircase was really wide and marble, and hurt Justin’s ass. Attractive actresses kept bumping past them on their way to the bathroom.
“I didn’t really mean that,” said Justin. “What I said earlier. I mean, I did mean it, a lot, but I still think you’re sort of a genius. You know what I mean?”
“Mm,” said Auerbach.
“Anyway,” said Justin, “Sorry I’m being such a twat. I mean - yeah. I’m really tired, my brain isn’t at its best.”
Another actress made her way past them, and she stumbled slightly. Auerbach reached out to steady her, and Justin had to blink slowly, hoping he wasn’t seeing what he was most likely seeing.
The actress looked like she was about to punch Auerbach in the face, but he grinned winningly and took his hand off her ass. She glared a moment longer before she relented and continued on her way.
He turned back to Justin. “Where were we?” Auerbach said.
“Was that Cameron Diaz?”
“Oh, probably,” said Auerbach, “I can’t keep all those blondes straight.” He raised his shotglass in a brief toast to nothing. “But enough of me! You’re young, talented, you have your whole career in front of you. Tell me about yourself.”
“Um,” said Justin, “Um, what do you want to -“
“Anything,” Auerbach interrupted. “Tell me about your passions.”
Auerbach’s voice was suddenly gruff, and Justin felt it slide through him like soft pencil lines. “Tell me about your art, boy.”
Justin started to open his mouth, tried to think of a good spin to put on I draw pictures of superheroes fucking. But no, he didn’t feel like talking about that, because it felt like he’d been talking about nothing but Rage for months now.
Justin tried to think of anything else he’d done recently, anything that might be noteworthy to Sam fucking Auerbach, and his head started to pound. Shit. Oh, shit.
“I draw pictures of superheroes fucking,” said Justin. “For the comic book. Rage. They’re making it into a movie, that’s why I’m here.”
“Never heard of it,” Auerbach said, and Justin wondered how much more disinterested he could sound.
Auerbach cleared his throat. “Well, keep up the good work,” he said. He hoisted himself off the stairs and nodded solemnly at Justin, and wandered off to find the bar again.
*
Justin was still staying at Brett’s mansion, even though he was starting to earn enough money to rent a small place of his own. He just didn’t have the energy to move, and Brett was fine with him there, and claimed that he often didn’t even notice Justin’s existence. Justin assumed he was supposed to find that comforting.
It’s the upside to having more rooms in a house than you know what to do with, Justin thought.
So Justin was living out of his suitcases and a few stacks of Stor-all boxes. The few tricks that he’d actually brought back to his room had all complimented him on his avante garde cardboard box furniture. If that became the new home decorating fad in a couple of years, Justin was so claiming the copyright.
But after his second encounter with Auerbach, Justin was disquieted, nearly aching with frustration. He was tired, really fucking tired, and his head was still throbbing. He had tried briefly to sketch something, but he couldn’t concentrate.
He wanted to talk to Brian, but Justin knew that he was exhausted and frustrated enough, that if he did call Brian, he’d end up sobbing down the phone line and spewing self-pitying bullshit. And he would hate himself for it in the morning.
So Justin called Daphne instead, and woke her up.
“Jesus,” she said blearily. “Do you know what time - oh, screw it. Hi.”
“Hey,” said Justin.
“You never call me anymore, asshole. How’s LA?” Daphne paused. “What’s wrong?”
Justin could tell Daphne was cranky from her interrupted sleep, but she somehow knew this was a Justin on the verge of a nervous breakdown kind of night.
“Nothing really, I just -“
So what if he was being a drama queen.
Justin told Daphne everything he could think of, little things that had been bugging him for too long. Because he was slowly becoming good friends with some of his coworkers, but he didn’t know them well enough to just sit back and vent, not like he could with Daphne and Brian.
He told her about Brett’s plans, and the endless work that Justin was doing, and the endless occasions when he had to convince people that an unabashedly gay superhero movie was something the world needed, and that real live kids did occasionally get their heads crunched in by baseball bats, and that no, Zephyr could not be played by Angelina Jolie.
Daphne didn’t really say a lot to any of it, she just uh-huhed in all the right places. She’d always known what those places were. Justin missed that.
“Anyway, it’s exhausting,” he said. “It’s fucking exhausting.”
“It sounds intense,” said Daphne.
“It is. And god, I - I miss Brian. More than I thought I would. I thought we’d be too busy with our own shit, you know? But I miss him, even when I don’t have any time to think about anything.”
“I saw him the other day,” said Daphne. “At the post office.”
“Really? How did he look?”
“He looked good. Tired, maybe. He tried to hit on me again.”
“Jesus,” Justin smiled, “He never gives up. Not that you really want him to, do you?”
Daphne considered for a second. “Hmm, ...no, not really,” she said with a laugh. “Okay, now, I know there’s more. What else is going on?”
Justin sighed and stared at the wall. “I met this artist. Sam Auerbach?”
“Not a clue,” said Daphne.
“He’s pretty well-known. He’s really - yeah. He’s into abstract expressionism. Anyway, I’ve run into him a couple of times, and we were talking, and he asked me about my art.”
“Really? That’s cool.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Except -“ he fell silent.
“Except what?”
“I didn’t know what to tell him.” Justin laughed incredulously. “Can you believe it? I mean, I should know what to say, I should know what the fuck kind of art I do, and I went blank, I couldn’t even - “
Justin started to cry a little, and said “Goddamnit, fucking fuck fuck it, Christ,” and wiped the tears away with his knuckles.
“Yeah,” said Daphne. “That does kind of sum it all up, doesn’t it?”
“Kinda.” He sniffled a little and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand. “But aside from all that, I’m having a good time here, too. It’s amazing, everything’s amazing, and Rage being on the big screen... it’ll be awesome, Daph. But right now, I’m just... you know? I need some fucking sleep. I’m just...”
“You’re scared,” said Daphne, with a certainty born of countless fucking years of friendship.
Justin laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I guess,” he said. “And the thing with Auerbach... I realized earlier what’s really been bothering me. I think I’ve lost my inspiration somewhere, Daph.”
“Well then,” she said, “Go find it again.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is,” Daphne said. “And I need to get some sleep because it’s the middle of the fucking night here, you... you whatever.”
Justin gave a quiet laugh. “’You whatever’?”
“Whatever! I hate you. I can’t even come up with a good insult. But call me tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” he said. “Love you, Daph.”
tbc
(If you've already seen the unedited, friends-locked version of this chapter, there probably isn't much recognizable difference between them, just a couple of little things. Feel free to skip this. The second part is nearly done, and will be posted soon. Hopefully.)
Note of thanks to everyone who replied and gave me initial reactions when I posted this before. Also, cindelius is nifty times ten. :D
Post 414. Brian/Justin, Justin/Other. This is not angst, seriously this time. I mean it.
It was every cliché he could think of about LA.
It was every cliché he could think of about LA.
Justin was at a party clogged with superstars; people with immediately recognizable faces, actors and producers that wouldn’t look him in the eye unless they thought he was somebody. But then again, everybody is somebody in LA, right?
There were no hot vampires, though, Justin realized sadly. It was really a shame.
As fun as parties could be, ever since his brief career stint as go-go boy, Justin was a little uncomfortable around coffee tables crisscrossed in lines of cocaine. He made a few well-placed compliments and excuses, and then hid over in the corner like a good wallflower.
Anyway, he’d been a social little bee for long enough that day. In addition to his duties as assistant art director, Brett Keller expected Justin to schmooze with the stars and other very-important-people. He said that Justin, being the co-creator and the inspiration for one of the characters, would be their best foot forward. Seeing him around at functions would be free publicity.
He could chat nicely for a while, Brett suggested, and then Justin could calmly slip little tidbits into conversation, like - “Actually, this project I’m working on, it’s very daring and provocative...“
Brett said, crazy as it is, sometimes it’s really all about the buzz words.
As a consequence of being out and about all the time, Justin was pretty much exhausted all the time, and was picking up a nasty caffeine habit that reminded him of Brian. Any moment Justin spent by the gurgling coffeemaker ended up giving him a raging erection, and the smell of ground coffee beans made his breath catch.
But he wasn’t going to get sleep for a while, so he might as well get used to it.
Justin glanced around awkwardly, cradling a glass in one hand. His attention was caught by a painting on the wall, and he stepped closer to look at it. It was an angular blocking of triangles and squares. The style was distinctive, and Justin couldn’t quite place where he’d seen it before.
He studied the lines of paint closely, and a guy bumped against his back and nearly knocked him into the artwork.
“Hey, watch it,” said Justin, and the guy turned to look at him. He was slightly grizzled, dark-haired --definitely not hot, but kind of handsome in a fierce way.
The guy wrinkled his nose.
“What, that?” he said disdainfully. “I could paint that. I can’t believe the shit they call art.”
Justin opened his mouth, ready to leap to the defense of artists everywhere. It pissed him off when people said things like “I could draw that,” or “Looks like something a five year-old did,” or “I just don’t understand this modern art thing.” But he looked a little closer at the guy, and suddenly recognized him.
“Yeah,” said Justin, “You could paint that, couldn’t you?” He smiled and stuck his hand out.
Sam Auerbach. The man was as much an asshole as he was a genius, Justin had heard, but what the hell. Justin was as good with assholes as he was with dicks.
Auerbach raised an eyebrow and took his hand gingerly. “I see you’ve found me out,” he said, and gripped Justin’s hand a little more firmly, gave it a good shake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Auerbach,” said Justin. “My name’s Justin Taylor. I love your -“
“What do you do?” Auerbach interrupted.
“Uh -”
“Modelling? Romantic comedies? Action movies?”
“No,” Justin started to say.
“Do you think that because you play a pretty boy on television it makes me the least bit interested in your opinion?”
Justin’s mouth fell open.
Sam shook his head. “Never mind. Have a good night.” He began to walk away, but Justin impulsively grabbed his hand again to halt him.
Justin’s smile didn’t waver, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back for it. The man really was an asshole, and Justin was way past taking shit from anyone.
“Actually,” he said breezily, and turned loose of Auerbach’s hand. “I’m here as assistant art director for a current movie project. I was hired specifically for my expertise.” And okay, maybe that was laying it on a bit thick, but Justin was pretty fucking annoyed by then.
“Ah,” said Auerbach, and instead of surprise, or even acknowledgement that Justin wasn’t just a pretty boy, his gaze wandered toward the sound of laughter from a cluster of people nearby.
“They’re designing sets and costumes based on my original designs,” said Justin.
“Impressive,” said Auerbach, sounding bored.
“...and I attend the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts,” said Justin, grasping at straws.
“Pittsburgh,” Auerbach said slowly, “is a fucking hellhole of a city,” and then he was gone before Justin could react.
*
The phone rang three times before Brian picked up.
“I hate it here,” Justin said immediately at the sound of the static.
There was a pause, and the sound of an amused snort. “No, you don’t,” said Brian. “You love it there. Who’s offended your virtue now, Mr. Taylor?”
“Fuck you,” said Justin, but he had to grin. God, he missed Brian. “Nobody. Just some famous asshole artist. He pissed me off and I ended up sounding like a complete twat.”
“Hmm,” said Brian. “But you are a twat,” and he said it playfully, and with that tone in his voice, that tone that Brian only started using a few months before Justin came to LA.
Justin covered the receiver and sighed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly for a moment.
“So what shining celebrities have you fucked lately?” said Brian.
Justin cleared his throat and took his hand off the receiver. “Nobody interesting lately,” he said, because he didn’t feel like making something up, “but one of the Olsen twins slipped me her number the other day. I burned it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Brian laughed, “I should hope so.”
“I don’t know, though,” said Justin. “The way things are going, I think if I get a chance to fuck Mary-Kate, I might go for it.”
He imagined that he could feel Brian’s disgusted shudder all the way down the phone line.
“You’re obviously out of your fucking mind,” Brian said. “Remember not to drink the punch at those fucking parties anymore, got it?”
“Yes, daddy,” Justin said.
“Fuck you,” Brian said. “I’m hanging up now. The long-distance bills aren’t worth this shit.”
Justin chuckled, then quickly added a not quite sarcastic “I love you too,” because he knew from experience that Brian wasn’t joking about hanging up.
There was a pause, and Brian said softly, “Yeah, I guess you do.”
It was followed almost immediately by a click that Justin could barely hear, but that made his heart thud dully against his ribs anyway.
Justin thumbed the phone off.
*
He ran into Sam Auerbach again the next night.
“Well -” said Auerbach, “If it isn’t the artistic prodigy from Pittsburgh.”
Justin grinned huge and fake. “Yes. And, if it isn’t the aging, rest-on-his-laurels sell-out mural painter.”
He had a feeling of “oh fuck did I just say that?” that was coupled with a feeling of satisfaction. It was good to be a vindictive little shit sometimes.
Auerbach raised an eyebrow and peered down his nose at Justin, even though it meant he had to tilt his head back.
“So, what was your name again?” he asked after a moment.
*
They ended up lurking by the bar for a while, taking advantage of the free alcohol, and then they decided to weave their way through the crowd and sit on the staircase.
The staircase was really wide and marble, and hurt Justin’s ass. Attractive actresses kept bumping past them on their way to the bathroom.
“I didn’t really mean that,” said Justin. “What I said earlier. I mean, I did mean it, a lot, but I still think you’re sort of a genius. You know what I mean?”
“Mm,” said Auerbach.
“Anyway,” said Justin, “Sorry I’m being such a twat. I mean - yeah. I’m really tired, my brain isn’t at its best.”
Another actress made her way past them, and she stumbled slightly. Auerbach reached out to steady her, and Justin had to blink slowly, hoping he wasn’t seeing what he was most likely seeing.
The actress looked like she was about to punch Auerbach in the face, but he grinned winningly and took his hand off her ass. She glared a moment longer before she relented and continued on her way.
He turned back to Justin. “Where were we?” Auerbach said.
“Was that Cameron Diaz?”
“Oh, probably,” said Auerbach, “I can’t keep all those blondes straight.” He raised his shotglass in a brief toast to nothing. “But enough of me! You’re young, talented, you have your whole career in front of you. Tell me about yourself.”
“Um,” said Justin, “Um, what do you want to -“
“Anything,” Auerbach interrupted. “Tell me about your passions.”
Auerbach’s voice was suddenly gruff, and Justin felt it slide through him like soft pencil lines. “Tell me about your art, boy.”
Justin started to open his mouth, tried to think of a good spin to put on I draw pictures of superheroes fucking. But no, he didn’t feel like talking about that, because it felt like he’d been talking about nothing but Rage for months now.
Justin tried to think of anything else he’d done recently, anything that might be noteworthy to Sam fucking Auerbach, and his head started to pound. Shit. Oh, shit.
“I draw pictures of superheroes fucking,” said Justin. “For the comic book. Rage. They’re making it into a movie, that’s why I’m here.”
“Never heard of it,” Auerbach said, and Justin wondered how much more disinterested he could sound.
Auerbach cleared his throat. “Well, keep up the good work,” he said. He hoisted himself off the stairs and nodded solemnly at Justin, and wandered off to find the bar again.
*
Justin was still staying at Brett’s mansion, even though he was starting to earn enough money to rent a small place of his own. He just didn’t have the energy to move, and Brett was fine with him there, and claimed that he often didn’t even notice Justin’s existence. Justin assumed he was supposed to find that comforting.
It’s the upside to having more rooms in a house than you know what to do with, Justin thought.
So Justin was living out of his suitcases and a few stacks of Stor-all boxes. The few tricks that he’d actually brought back to his room had all complimented him on his avante garde cardboard box furniture. If that became the new home decorating fad in a couple of years, Justin was so claiming the copyright.
But after his second encounter with Auerbach, Justin was disquieted, nearly aching with frustration. He was tired, really fucking tired, and his head was still throbbing. He had tried briefly to sketch something, but he couldn’t concentrate.
He wanted to talk to Brian, but Justin knew that he was exhausted and frustrated enough, that if he did call Brian, he’d end up sobbing down the phone line and spewing self-pitying bullshit. And he would hate himself for it in the morning.
So Justin called Daphne instead, and woke her up.
“Jesus,” she said blearily. “Do you know what time - oh, screw it. Hi.”
“Hey,” said Justin.
“You never call me anymore, asshole. How’s LA?” Daphne paused. “What’s wrong?”
Justin could tell Daphne was cranky from her interrupted sleep, but she somehow knew this was a Justin on the verge of a nervous breakdown kind of night.
“Nothing really, I just -“
So what if he was being a drama queen.
Justin told Daphne everything he could think of, little things that had been bugging him for too long. Because he was slowly becoming good friends with some of his coworkers, but he didn’t know them well enough to just sit back and vent, not like he could with Daphne and Brian.
He told her about Brett’s plans, and the endless work that Justin was doing, and the endless occasions when he had to convince people that an unabashedly gay superhero movie was something the world needed, and that real live kids did occasionally get their heads crunched in by baseball bats, and that no, Zephyr could not be played by Angelina Jolie.
Daphne didn’t really say a lot to any of it, she just uh-huhed in all the right places. She’d always known what those places were. Justin missed that.
“Anyway, it’s exhausting,” he said. “It’s fucking exhausting.”
“It sounds intense,” said Daphne.
“It is. And god, I - I miss Brian. More than I thought I would. I thought we’d be too busy with our own shit, you know? But I miss him, even when I don’t have any time to think about anything.”
“I saw him the other day,” said Daphne. “At the post office.”
“Really? How did he look?”
“He looked good. Tired, maybe. He tried to hit on me again.”
“Jesus,” Justin smiled, “He never gives up. Not that you really want him to, do you?”
Daphne considered for a second. “Hmm, ...no, not really,” she said with a laugh. “Okay, now, I know there’s more. What else is going on?”
Justin sighed and stared at the wall. “I met this artist. Sam Auerbach?”
“Not a clue,” said Daphne.
“He’s pretty well-known. He’s really - yeah. He’s into abstract expressionism. Anyway, I’ve run into him a couple of times, and we were talking, and he asked me about my art.”
“Really? That’s cool.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Except -“ he fell silent.
“Except what?”
“I didn’t know what to tell him.” Justin laughed incredulously. “Can you believe it? I mean, I should know what to say, I should know what the fuck kind of art I do, and I went blank, I couldn’t even - “
Justin started to cry a little, and said “Goddamnit, fucking fuck fuck it, Christ,” and wiped the tears away with his knuckles.
“Yeah,” said Daphne. “That does kind of sum it all up, doesn’t it?”
“Kinda.” He sniffled a little and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand. “But aside from all that, I’m having a good time here, too. It’s amazing, everything’s amazing, and Rage being on the big screen... it’ll be awesome, Daph. But right now, I’m just... you know? I need some fucking sleep. I’m just...”
“You’re scared,” said Daphne, with a certainty born of countless fucking years of friendship.
Justin laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I guess,” he said. “And the thing with Auerbach... I realized earlier what’s really been bothering me. I think I’ve lost my inspiration somewhere, Daph.”
“Well then,” she said, “Go find it again.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is,” Daphne said. “And I need to get some sleep because it’s the middle of the fucking night here, you... you whatever.”
Justin gave a quiet laugh. “’You whatever’?”
“Whatever! I hate you. I can’t even come up with a good insult. But call me tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” he said. “Love you, Daph.”
tbc