"The End of 'The Evil Stream'" 1
Be warned. I won't call this a post-513 fic because I
don't do canon and I still don't. But take it as you
will.
By Gaedhal
New York City
Justin didn't come home for Christmas.
He wanted to, but he was afraid.
Afraid to face the inevitable questions.
Afraid to face Brian.
Afraid to pretend that everything was the way he wanted it to be.
He couldn't afford to send out Christmas cards. That's when he really
freaked out. Daphne's friend Malcolm had finally said, "You know, I
think you should find a place of your own. It's been nine months that
you've been sleeping on my sofa and sort of paying me rent. I thought
this was going to be temporary?"
"I'm sorry!" Justin said. He had just walked in from an eight hour
shift at the restaurant and he was exhausted. He handed all of his tips
over Malcolm. It was a decent piece of change -- a lot of people had
been Christmas shopping and feeling in a generous mood -- but it
wasn't nearly enough for real rent in New York City. Not in Manhattan.
Not in Chelsea or the Village or any of the places Justin wanted to live.
But now he had no choice.
"I'll pay for your plane ticket home," said Jennifer in a worried voice.
"I want you here for the Holidays."
"I'm too busy," Justin lied. "I... I have a lot of work to do."
Yes, a lot of work waitering. And temping three days a week in an office,
filing and answering phones. He couldn't remember the last time he had
touched his paints. There was no time. And he had no place to work. He
couldn't afford studio space any more than he could afford an apartment
on his own. His stuff was in storage in a gallery downtown that had made
some promises to show his work, but never gotten around to it, even
after he had shown the woman the article Simon Caswell had written
about him in 'Art Forum.'
"How many pages is that magazine?" said the woman, a chic Asian with
her hair pulled back in a perfect chignon. "And how many issues come
out a year? Every article is about 'The Next Great Thing' in the art
world." She waved her hand dismissively. "Simon? He trolls the
provinces looking for easy lays, my dear! What important critic travels
to -- where was it? Pittsburgh? -- looking for so-called 'talent? I
hope you didn't sleep with him. I hope you weren't naive enough to fall
for that!"
"I was working on 'Rage' out in Hollywood," said Justin, desperately.
"What's 'Rage'?" asked the woman impatiently. She kept looking at her
watch.
"A film based on a gay comic book character that I illustrate," Justin
told her. "Connor James was going to star as Rage. And Brett Keller was
directing. I worked directly with Brett as an assistant art director."
A trace of interest crossed her face. "When did you say that this film
is coming out?"
Justin took a deep breath. "It isn't. The film was shelved. But some
other studio might pick it up."
The woman rolled her eyes. "Call me when they do." She turned her
back on Justin.
"But what about my canvases?" Justin declared. "Would you at least
look at them?"
"All right," she said. "How many do you have?"
"The three that were written up in 'Art Forum,'" said Justin. "I can
have them sent here from the Sidney Bloom Gallery in Pittsburgh."
"Three canvases?" The woman frowned. "Is that all you have?"
Justin hesitated. "I had more -- and some unfinished pieces, but...."
"Well?"
"They were stolen." Now Justin felt completely defeated.
Two weeks after he flew to New York and moved onto Malcolm's sofa,
Jennifer Taylor packed all of his possessions into her SUV and drove
them to the city. But when she parked the vehicle on the street everything
was stolen when someone smashed the windows of the SUV and cleaned
it out. Justin's special computer. All his clothes. His books. His art
supplies. And his painted canvases and computer projects, both finished
and unfinished.
"What am I going to now?" Justin cried, staring at the empty SUV.
"What the fuck?"
"I warned you about this neighborhood, Justin," said Malcolm without
much sympathy. "I've been broken into three times in the past year.
Welcome to the fucking club!"
"I'm so sorry!" Jennifer wept. "I'll replace your clothes, honey! And
whatever else I can. I'm sure my insurance will cover it."
"But my computer and printer!" Justin said, the words choking in his
throat. "How can I work without it? Or without my paints and supplies?
What am I going to do, Mom?"
"I'll... I'll replace what I can, honey," Jennifer promised. But Justin
knew that his computer -- the one Brian had bought him when he had
been in such despair -- was gone forever. And his art pieces -- there
was no replacing them. Or everything saved on his hard-drive and on
his disks. It was gone. All gone.
A few days later the police found one of his paintings, broken in half
and stuck in a trash can a few blocks away, but nothing else was ever
recovered.
Justin looked for another place to live -- Malcolm and he weren't
exactly getting along -- but the prices were insane. And studio space?
Forget it. He looked at one rat-infested room that made his crummy
studio in Pittsburgh look like luxury accommodations. There was no
heat, no running water, and no security. "This building is due for
renovation, but it hasn't happened yet," said the guy he met at one of
the galleries who clued him in to the place.
"How much is the rent?" Justin asked, feeling uneasy. His 'Rage' money
had gotten him to New York, but was now almost completely depleted.
"It depends," said the guy. "This isn't really an official rental."
"What's that mean?" Justin frowned.
"It's a squat," said the guy. "You pay me and I let you live here. I've got
my studio downstairs and another couple of guys are above you. We all
pitch in, you know?" He shrugged. "But if the owners show up and
throw us out...."
"Then what?"
"Then we're fucked," the guy said flatly. "We're out."
"No thanks," said Justin when he heard that the guy wanted him to pay
$1300 a month. Not only could Justin not afford it, but he also wasn't
about to lose everything he had again if someone showed up one day and
began tearing the place apart. But nothing else Justin looked at even
came close to being affordable.
So many times he'd had his hand on the phone, wanting to call Brian.
Wanting to tell him to come to get him. Wanting to tell Brian that he'd
made the biggest fucking mistake of his life -- again! Brian would
understand. He'd never throw back it in his face. Never.
Justin thought about Bri-Tin and the wedding and everything that had
happened. It all seemed unreal. So fucking unreal! Maybe it WAS unreal.
Maybe it had never happened. But it had. And he'd walked away. Left Brian.
Because... because why? Because he wanted something else? Because
Brian wanted it for him? Or because everyone told him he should want
more? Like Lindsay? Justin tried not to think about it because he just
didn't know anymore.
(to be continued...)
don't do canon and I still don't. But take it as you
will.
By Gaedhal
New York City
Justin didn't come home for Christmas.
He wanted to, but he was afraid.
Afraid to face the inevitable questions.
Afraid to face Brian.
Afraid to pretend that everything was the way he wanted it to be.
He couldn't afford to send out Christmas cards. That's when he really
freaked out. Daphne's friend Malcolm had finally said, "You know, I
think you should find a place of your own. It's been nine months that
you've been sleeping on my sofa and sort of paying me rent. I thought
this was going to be temporary?"
"I'm sorry!" Justin said. He had just walked in from an eight hour
shift at the restaurant and he was exhausted. He handed all of his tips
over Malcolm. It was a decent piece of change -- a lot of people had
been Christmas shopping and feeling in a generous mood -- but it
wasn't nearly enough for real rent in New York City. Not in Manhattan.
Not in Chelsea or the Village or any of the places Justin wanted to live.
But now he had no choice.
"I'll pay for your plane ticket home," said Jennifer in a worried voice.
"I want you here for the Holidays."
"I'm too busy," Justin lied. "I... I have a lot of work to do."
Yes, a lot of work waitering. And temping three days a week in an office,
filing and answering phones. He couldn't remember the last time he had
touched his paints. There was no time. And he had no place to work. He
couldn't afford studio space any more than he could afford an apartment
on his own. His stuff was in storage in a gallery downtown that had made
some promises to show his work, but never gotten around to it, even
after he had shown the woman the article Simon Caswell had written
about him in 'Art Forum.'
"How many pages is that magazine?" said the woman, a chic Asian with
her hair pulled back in a perfect chignon. "And how many issues come
out a year? Every article is about 'The Next Great Thing' in the art
world." She waved her hand dismissively. "Simon? He trolls the
provinces looking for easy lays, my dear! What important critic travels
to -- where was it? Pittsburgh? -- looking for so-called 'talent? I
hope you didn't sleep with him. I hope you weren't naive enough to fall
for that!"
"I was working on 'Rage' out in Hollywood," said Justin, desperately.
"What's 'Rage'?" asked the woman impatiently. She kept looking at her
watch.
"A film based on a gay comic book character that I illustrate," Justin
told her. "Connor James was going to star as Rage. And Brett Keller was
directing. I worked directly with Brett as an assistant art director."
A trace of interest crossed her face. "When did you say that this film
is coming out?"
Justin took a deep breath. "It isn't. The film was shelved. But some
other studio might pick it up."
The woman rolled her eyes. "Call me when they do." She turned her
back on Justin.
"But what about my canvases?" Justin declared. "Would you at least
look at them?"
"All right," she said. "How many do you have?"
"The three that were written up in 'Art Forum,'" said Justin. "I can
have them sent here from the Sidney Bloom Gallery in Pittsburgh."
"Three canvases?" The woman frowned. "Is that all you have?"
Justin hesitated. "I had more -- and some unfinished pieces, but...."
"Well?"
"They were stolen." Now Justin felt completely defeated.
Two weeks after he flew to New York and moved onto Malcolm's sofa,
Jennifer Taylor packed all of his possessions into her SUV and drove
them to the city. But when she parked the vehicle on the street everything
was stolen when someone smashed the windows of the SUV and cleaned
it out. Justin's special computer. All his clothes. His books. His art
supplies. And his painted canvases and computer projects, both finished
and unfinished.
"What am I going to now?" Justin cried, staring at the empty SUV.
"What the fuck?"
"I warned you about this neighborhood, Justin," said Malcolm without
much sympathy. "I've been broken into three times in the past year.
Welcome to the fucking club!"
"I'm so sorry!" Jennifer wept. "I'll replace your clothes, honey! And
whatever else I can. I'm sure my insurance will cover it."
"But my computer and printer!" Justin said, the words choking in his
throat. "How can I work without it? Or without my paints and supplies?
What am I going to do, Mom?"
"I'll... I'll replace what I can, honey," Jennifer promised. But Justin
knew that his computer -- the one Brian had bought him when he had
been in such despair -- was gone forever. And his art pieces -- there
was no replacing them. Or everything saved on his hard-drive and on
his disks. It was gone. All gone.
A few days later the police found one of his paintings, broken in half
and stuck in a trash can a few blocks away, but nothing else was ever
recovered.
Justin looked for another place to live -- Malcolm and he weren't
exactly getting along -- but the prices were insane. And studio space?
Forget it. He looked at one rat-infested room that made his crummy
studio in Pittsburgh look like luxury accommodations. There was no
heat, no running water, and no security. "This building is due for
renovation, but it hasn't happened yet," said the guy he met at one of
the galleries who clued him in to the place.
"How much is the rent?" Justin asked, feeling uneasy. His 'Rage' money
had gotten him to New York, but was now almost completely depleted.
"It depends," said the guy. "This isn't really an official rental."
"What's that mean?" Justin frowned.
"It's a squat," said the guy. "You pay me and I let you live here. I've got
my studio downstairs and another couple of guys are above you. We all
pitch in, you know?" He shrugged. "But if the owners show up and
throw us out...."
"Then what?"
"Then we're fucked," the guy said flatly. "We're out."
"No thanks," said Justin when he heard that the guy wanted him to pay
$1300 a month. Not only could Justin not afford it, but he also wasn't
about to lose everything he had again if someone showed up one day and
began tearing the place apart. But nothing else Justin looked at even
came close to being affordable.
So many times he'd had his hand on the phone, wanting to call Brian.
Wanting to tell him to come to get him. Wanting to tell Brian that he'd
made the biggest fucking mistake of his life -- again! Brian would
understand. He'd never throw back it in his face. Never.
Justin thought about Bri-Tin and the wedding and everything that had
happened. It all seemed unreal. So fucking unreal! Maybe it WAS unreal.
Maybe it had never happened. But it had. And he'd walked away. Left Brian.
Because... because why? Because he wanted something else? Because
Brian wanted it for him? Or because everyone told him he should want
more? Like Lindsay? Justin tried not to think about it because he just
didn't know anymore.
(to be continued...)