Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s an embarrassing cliché, and when he’s somewhere else, Justin blushes when he tells people that, of all the cities he’s ever visited, New York is his favorite. New York, New York. The city that never sleeps. He fell in love slowly, but even now, he’s still falling. Every sound, every smell, every color, every glint of sunlight off the windshield of a speeding cab. He loves them all. Walking down any street at any given time, his heart blooms with love, and he marvels yet again at how lucky he is to be there.

Destiny sometimes has to rip itself out of your guts before you recognize it – let alone have the courage to follow. That’s what had happened years ago when he left Pittsburgh. His sinews had been the rope in a tug of war between the future and the past. Nothing had been harder than leaving – nothing ever would be. When he thinks he can’t do something, he remembers the moment he closed the door to Brian’s loft and stepped into the elevator. After having done that, nothing else in the world can faze him. Once you step off a cliff and not only survive, but thrive, jumping over a puddle is no big deal. He's been able to shrug off every failure ever since. Compared to the nausea-inducing dread-filled elation he’d felt that snowy April morning, nothing else was a big deal. As for so many things, he had Brian to thank.

He also had Brian to thank for his new roommate-free apartment as well as the fact he could quit his job as a bartender in a downtown hotel and focus, at long last, on his art. He’d have neither if Brian hadn’t dropped off the face of the earth a few months after Justin was comfortably settled. He’d have neither if Brian had visited him. And he’d have neither if Brian had even once told Justin he missed him. He’s pretty sure he would’ve ditched New York and gone back to Pittsburgh if Brian had revealed anything except a grim determination to keep Justin as far from his heart as possible.

By the time the news reached him from other sources, he’d started taking a class at NYU and settled in with a group of friends he’d felt blessed by fate to have met. He’d even found a studio. When Daphne asked, he could tell her honestly that he was the happiest he’d ever been in his life. So when the news came that Brian was – allegedly – addicted to pills, he didn’t even think of going back. Not that he wasn’t deeply saddened. But Brian was no longer his problem, and Brian would flip the fuck out if Justin made him one.

He hadn’t heard from Brian in almost three years, although he unwillingly heard about him from people who thought he was being a cold-hearted bastard. But hadn’t that been what Brian had taught him – to think of no one but himself? Even without being told, he knew Brian was proud of him, and he tried to remind Brian why he should be by sending him occasional symbols of success – a syllabus for a freshman art history class he was co-teaching; a postcard of his work when he had the luck to be included in an exhibit somewhere; a photo of his latest apartment and the cat he’d adopted and named, rather awkwardly, “No Regrets,” although his friends insisted on calling him “JT.” He wanted to help Brian, and the best way he could think of was letting him know how happy he was. It was the only thing Brian had ever really wanted.

He hadn’t set out to get addicted to anything other than sex, but then he’d torn his ACL playing racquetball and discovered Percocet. And then after Percocet, he discovered the careless bliss of OxyContin, Vicodin and Dilaudid. He had his rules though – only pills during the week. Friday night, snorting only, and Saturdays – but only if he was in a good mood – freebasing. Sunday it was back to pills again.

He didn’t bother trying to bullshit people. What was the point? A pathetic addiction to pills had to be treated like everything else – no apologies, no regrets. He listened numbly to their pleas and threats, but it was when he found out they were reporting to Justin that he got angry. He was not Justin's problem. The only problems Justin should be having are the ones he'd been stupid enough to saddle himself with in New York.

When Lindsay broke down and told him she’d talked to Justin about his “situation,” Brian cut her out of his life to the extent possible without losing his chance to spend time with Gus (which Lindsay didn’t let him do unless she was there to supervise). For weeks, he endured daily panic attacks and night-sweats. He was terrified that Justin would come back to Pittsburgh, but the terror subsided as the days passed with no phone calls and no knock on the door. Justin couldn’t return. Brian wasn’t sure he had the strength to let him leave again. He wasn’t sure he could stop himself from tying Justin up in coils of shame. And if that happened – if he made Justin stay – it would finally do what Justin’s leaving hadn’t. It would kill him.

At first it’d been . . . okay. The certainty that he’d done the right thing got him through the months he and Justin were still talking, but then Justin had stopped returning calls and emails until the next day. He’d known it would happen. It was only a matter of time. But going cold turkey on Justin’s voice and his punctuation-less missives was . . . not easy. He was relieved that Justin stopped pushing back within weeks. If things had gotten messy, if Brian had been forced to hack and saw at the ties that bound them, he would’ve lost it – “it” being his control, his tenuous grasp on what he wanted to be reality. Versus what he needed it to be.

He’d come to accept that he’d been too late. He’d had years to end the charade of indifference, but by the time he finally did, Justin was gone. Maybe not yet in body, but in goals, in aspirations for his future. Justin hadn’t fallen out of love with him; he’d fallen in love with himself, with his potential. Brian had sensed it, kind of like you can smell snow hours before it falls. In his ugly moments, he let himself grieve. In his better moments, he erased himself from the equation. From the list of considerations Justin had to review before he left. Brian refused to be an open-ended-question. He refused to let Justin think that he wasn’t loved, but he also refused to let Justin think he was needed. Brian would be fine without him.

Except he wasn’t, and he’d never managed to convince himself as he’d convinced Justin that he ever would be. But that was something to let go of too – the wish for relief from something inexorably unbearable. He’d let Justin go, but he didn’t – and couldn’t – let go of the burdensome hope he’d return. He’d tried. And failed.

Visiting his mother in Pittsburgh was not a luxury he could afford. They hadn’t even discussed it. Instead she came to New York, usually with Molly, and they talked about everything except how Brian was doing. Justin assumed that if Brian was doing well, his mother would tell him. Unlike everyone else, she, like Brian, didn’t want him to go back. Justin wondered if they occasionally talked. He was pretty sure they did. Because how else would his mother know if Brian wasn’t well – and how else could she assure Brian that Justin was? Brian would want to know. Perhaps he craved news of Justin’s happiness even more than he craved the pills. Justin liked to think so. Being happy was the only way he could think of to help.

It was only when Molly graduated from high school that Justin set foot on Pennsylvania soil. When he saw Brian through the window of the diner, he paused to watch him for a moment before quickening his steps and admonishing himself for visiting Liberty Ave. Brian was sitting at a booth across from a balding man who must be Ted. He was facing the window, but he wasn’t looking through it. Instead he seemed to be studying his mug of coffee. Words like “pale” and “thin” flitted through Justin’s mind and out again, but the word that stuck was “ordinary.” Brian looked ordinary. As Justin crossed the street to his car, he wondered whether it was because of the pills or because that was what Brian had become. Ordinary. Later that night as he lay in bed in this mom’s guestroom, he found himself wishing that Brian was still gorgeous. Justin could bear almost every accusation that could be thrown at him, but he doubted he could bear being told that Brian was no longer young and beautiful . . . and that it was his fault.

When he returned to New York, he wrote Brian the first email in years:

Get over it was all it said. Brian didn’t write back.

The thing about pills is that you don’t feel like a loser because, hey, they’re pills. Everyone takes pills. Big deal. The FDA had approved all the medications Brian was abusing. How bad could they be? It wasn’t like he was smoking something cooked up in trailers from anti-freeze, Sudafed and battery acid. He wasn’t even buying them illegally. He’d found a doctor who was into risky levels of electro-stimulation and liked being fisted on his examination table.

He’d tried to stop once, but that was when Kinnetik almost went down the tubes. Without the pills, Brian had been incapable of making a good decision, and his temper was bad. Two of his best people quit, and Cynthia had threatened to. Ted hadn’t said a word, but he’d touched Brian a lot – his shoulder when he passed by, his hand when they were sitting at the bar at Woody’s, a nudge in the ribs to make Brian laugh. If he was feeling almost ready to give in, Ted kept him from going back to the little bottles with the child-proof lids for another few hours.

But then he’d heard Justin had a boyfriend. He thought he’d prepared himself. If he had, it wasn’t enough. The news had come out sloppily. A hushed conversation at the diner that wasn’t hushed enough. Deb’s face had crumpled with distress when she’d seen him standing there. Oh, Brian, she’d said. Honey. It’d reminded Brian of when he’d told her he had cancer. He can’t remember what he’d done and said. Emmett had tried to talk to him. It was just a rumor. Emmett was sure it wasn’t anything serious. When he ordered his sandwich to go, Deb’s eyes filled with tears, and Emmett stared down at his plate. He and Brian had planned to have lunch and discuss the annual Christmas party at Kinnetik.

Shit, he’d heard Deb say sadly as he walked out. When he got home, he pulled out his stash box and took the first Vicodin he’d taken in months. Three weeks later, at the flawless party Emmett had put together, Brian was soaring high on spoonfuls of coke and keeping himself mellow with a handful of pills. It’d been a long time since he’d felt so good. So happy.

He never found out if it was true – whether or not Justin was with someone. He’d decided it didn’t matter. If he wasn’t, he would be. It was only a matter of time. Brian didn’t let himself think about it, but sometimes when he was seriously fucked-up, he jerked off imagining Justin fucking a hot guy in the apartment Justin had sent him pictures of. He never imagined Justin bottoming. The one time he did, he thought he might be sick in that way you feel sick after having run too far too fast on a full stomach.

Lindsay had asked him if he wanted her to ask Justin. He’d said no, but part of him wished she’d do it anyway. Even if she said it was true, that Justin had a boyfriend, at least Brian would know. Although why that would make him feel better, he couldn’t say.

It was when Erik moved in that Justin pulled Walt Whitman off the shelf. It was between the pages of Leaves of Grass that he’d stuck the few photos he had of him and Brian. He sat on the edge of his bed looking at them for a long time as though they depicted people long dead. Several must’ve been taken during the winter – Brian’s lips were chapped and red as though he was wearing lipstick. His lips always got chapped in the winter. Justin used to love the taste of blood when they kissed. But of course he never said anything. Brain would’ve freaked out about HIV and ruined the beautiful death wish that accompanied the metallic taste on Justin’s tongue. The others were taken at various parties. If Brian knew there was a camera, he’d do something outrageous, but when he didn’t, he was always looking at Justin. Even when Justin was on the other side of the room.

It must be weird to be loved like that, Erik said when Justin showed him the photos. It was an interesting remark. Weren’t new boyfriends supposed to be jealous of old boyfriends? Erik didn’t seem jealous; he merely seemed mystified. I don’t want to be loved like that, he’d told Justin. I don’t want the responsibility.

His mom swore she hadn’t told Brian, but Justin knew that Brian knew. It was impossible to imagine that Brian didn’t know. It would be like one of them dying – the other would sense it no matter when it was or where they were. They’d just know because people know shit like that. No one is ever truly shocked by the news of an ex-lover’s death, and Justin was sure Brian also wasn't shocked if he’d found out that Justin was falling in love with someone else. The thought of Brian not knowing was inconceivable. But he didn’t want Brian to be sad; he wanted Brian to be as happy for him about Erik as he was about everything else. Happy – and proud. Erik, he was sure, was someone Brian would describe as being the best homosexual he could possibly be. Erik was another one of Justin’s success stories, and the fact that there was no way in hell he and Erik would ever get married would be yet another success in Brian’s mind. Justin could see him holding up a glass of whiskey in an ironic toast and then throwing it back in one swallow.

But then Justin imagined Brian washing down a handful of pills with his toast and wondered for the first time if Brian might, at some still-dark early-hour, accidentally forget to live until dawn.

Killing yourself is so pathetic, he wrote. But he deleted the email before he could send it. Instead he took a deep breath, typed thinking of you and clicked the mouse before he exhaled.

It’s annoying, Brian told Jennifer at their usual restaurant. If they were the marrying types, I could show up at the wedding and object when the minister asks if there’s anyone present who wishes to say this whole thing is a crock of shit. Jennifer’s answering smile was weak and insincere. All she said in reply was that Justin had been awarded the grant he’d applied for to live at Yaddo for the summer. Brian smiled and held up his water glass. Cheers, he said, and then when Jennifer raised her glass as well, he clinked them together. To both of us, he said. We raised him well. Her smile turned from insincere to fond. It was more you than me, she said. Bull shit, he replied. For a while they ate in silence, and then Brian asked, without looking up, Do you like him? She didn't answer.

The only thing worse than feeling like you’ve missed your only chance at happiness, is realizing that it’d passed long before you thought it had. Lindsay hadn’t needed to tell him one drunken night on the phone; Brian would’ve eventually figured it out. The day his chance had expired was the day he’d cancelled his flight to L.A. He thought it’d been later, maybe during the whole syphilis thing. But it wasn’t. Justin didn’t come back from L.A. because he was in love with Brian; he came back because he didn’t know what else to do. Brian could’ve gotten dandruff instead of a venereal disease. It wouldn’t have mattered. Justin still would’ve left a month later. Brian’s “I love you” wasn’t in the nick of time; it was too late. The memory made him wince now. Justin had cried, and Brian had thought it was in gratitude and relief, but it wasn’t. It was in sadness – and pity. I’m so sorry, Justin’s tears had said. But I can no longer say I feel the same way.

It was those thoughts – not the thoughts of boyfriends and artist retreats – that made him close the door to his office and press speed-dial on his cell phone. His “doctor’s” name was Walter. For some reason, Brian found it hilarious. Who goes to someone named “Walter” when they’re looking for an illegal prescription? The only name that would’ve been even funnier was “Larry.”

Yaddo was . . . . life-changing. When Justin returned to New York, he broke up with Erik and moved into a group house in Brooklyn with a nearby communal-neighborhood garden. For six months, he did mushrooms, took care of babies, baked bread, read Russian literature and made gallons of tomato sauce. Then he got bored and moved to Paris.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think about Brian, it was just that he didn’t think about him often. But when he did, his thoughts were like the burps of unremembered dreams. He had the sensation that at some point in time, he’d brushed his fingertips against wisdom as though wisdom was a swath of fine cloth and he’d been blind when he touched it.

Brian, he’d heard, was trying to sell Kinnetik. No one would tell him why. When he finally found out it was to pay a gambling debt, he took Leaves of Grass off the shelf again and threw it in the bag of garbage he was about to take down to the curb. It was a Tuesday. The garbage truck came on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The “T” days. That was how Justin remembered. TTTTT. Take The Trash out on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Paris hadn’t been New York, and Rome hadn’t been Paris, and Prague hadn’t been Rome, and so on and so on. It’d been the beginning of a rainy winter when Justin had returned to New York. Friends were married and/or had kids and/or had moved to California. Those that remained were stale in a way that made Justin think of old newspapers when he visited their apartments. Along the road, things had gone wrong for almost everyone in ways that weren’t very interesting. In ways that didn’t leave you full of a kind of morbid relief that it’d been them and not you. People had stopped dodging bullets and started drowning in their bathtubs. When he called Brian on his thirtieth birthday, no one answered. Justin didn’t leave a message.

Chapter Text

When Brian finally crashed after a lost weekend that’d turned into a lost week, he realized that it was the first time he’d ever been offered a clear opportunity to forgive someone. It was late afternoon when he came to. He was lying alone on a bed in a trashed hotel room that he was pretty sure wasn’t his – at least he hoped not. Whoever rented it was going to have a hefty check-out bill. He felt terrible, had a split lip, and there was vomit on the pillow next to his head. For all he knew, it contained that all-but-inevitable stomach-full of pills that would one day kill him. He didn’t want to die. Not yet. He had something to do. He’d never thought vomit could smell like hope.

Forgive. The word had always been too Jesus-y and had the great misfortune of reminding him of his mother. Cheek-turners forgave, not cocksuckers. He’d never forgiven anyone. He’d never loved anyone whom he’d needed to forgive. If everyone had gone, it wasn’t because they left, it was because they decided there was a place they’d rather be, whether it was Lindsay and Gus who moved to Toronto or Michael and Ben who’d followed a year later. Whether it was Emmett who didn’t actually leave but now moved in a society of fags Brian could tolerate even less than the Gay and Lesbian Center types. Whether it was Deb and Carl who’d started playing couples’ bridge and going to Florida for the winter. Or whether it was Justin, who, last Brian knew, was opening a gallery with a friend (boyfriend?) on a gentrifying block in the Bronx.

The person who’d “stayed” was Ted, and it wasn’t for a lack of opportunities to go. It was the choice he’d made. Fixing up that ugly townhouse with Blake, walking his dogs, playing Ultimate Frisbee, working at Kinnetik and hanging out with Brian on Friday nights was what Ted wanted to do – in the same way that all Brian wanted to do was work, get stoned, go to Toronto when he could, hang-out at his members-only sex club, and spend Friday evenings with Ted shooting shit and pool at Woody's. The irony amused him. Of all the life situations he’d ever imagined himself in (including holy matrimony), the one that’d come to pass had never even crossed his mind as a possibility.

Ted had fucked up. He’d convinced Brian to take Kinnetik public, and when they did, the shares were snapped up by a competitor that ended up acquiring Kinnetik in a hostile takeover. Ted should’ve seen it coming – both he and Brian knew he should’ve – and Brian had relied totally on Ted’s assessment of the situation. Brian had known that taking Kinnetik public was a gamble, but Ted had made the gamble seem well worth it. And it was in terms of the money raised, but how good is a flood of capital when that capital is seized by someone else? Brian could’ve sold Kinnetik. Instead he was losing his company and any money he might’ve gotten from it. They should’ve never put a controlling interest up for sale, but the money had been so tempting . . . . they’d spent hours at Woody’s imagining where they’d take Kinnetik. Now Kinnetik no longer existed. It’d already been renamed. Overnight, they were out of a job. It’d happened so fast Brian wondered how he didn’t end up with whiplash.

So he’d gone on a world class bender. Now it was time to get his shit in a pile and go find Ted. He prayed Ted would be home and not at some small-time White Party somewhere with a pipe in his mouth and giant dildo up his ass. There weren’t many people left for Brian to protect, and Ted was one of them. And like Brian, the person Ted most needed protection from was himself. He looked everywhere he could think of. Even Blake didn’t know where he was. Then Emmett called. Ted was with him. He’d happened to run into Ted at a bar halfway through his fourth gin and tonic. He says you hate him, Emmett said accusingly. Brian merely snorted. I should, he replied. It’s just money, Emmett said. I know, Brian replied. Later, when Emmett opened the door to his apartment, Brian walked right past him into the living room, grabbed Ted by his collar, hauled him off the couch and pulled him into his arms. When Ted started to sob, Brian held him tight.

The block was gentrifying, and the gallery space was perfect, but Justin and his co-founder were struggling to find artists whose work was “attractive” to the rich morons who actually buy art. The students coming out of New York’s art schools were creating stuff no one wanted to purchase – edgy, interesting and challenging. But edgy, interesting and challenging is fine for a museum and a disaster for a no-name gallery run by two artists, who, themselves, had sold maybe a dozen paintings between them. To stave off bankruptcy, Justin moved to a small, one-bedroom apartment in an area straddling safe and not-so-safe. He became afraid to go out alone after dark and lay awake for hours listening to the wail of emergency vehicles. There were bars on his windows even though he was on the third floor. The man from upstairs looked at him menacingly when they rode the rickety elevator together. Justin hadn’t felt afraid in years – not since those terrible months in the aftermath of his bashing. He felt like a failure now that fear was creeping back into his life. When he did manage to sleep, for the first time in years, he dreamed of Brian. When he woke he sometimes wondered whether, if Brian could see him now, he’d still think Justin had become the “best homosexual he could possibly be.”

The “news” of Brian’s “gambling” had come from Molly – a grad student studying archeology (even though she’d become “pre-engaged” to some guy who was clearly never going to leave Pittsburgh; Justin hoped for her sake that someone discovered an ancient burial ground under Frick Park so she’d be able to make use of her degree). The guy (Justin refused to acknowledge he had a name) was a “business student” at an online “business school” that Justin couldn’t find when he Googled it. Apparently, he’d explained IPOs and hostile takeovers to Molly while they were stoned out of their heads. He said going public is basically gambling, she said defensively when Justin called her to yell at her for spreading rumors about Brian and Kinnetik. But he knew it was himself he should be mad at; he’d been more than willing to believe the worst.

It was my fault, Ted said when he walked through the door of Justin’s struggling gallery. He’s not a big failure like you probably think.

Justin blinked at him. His mouth was still hanging open in surprise. He hadn’t seen Ted since that night he’d looked in the diner’s window. He showed Ted around, and then they went to lunch at the Kenyan restaurant down the street. Ted ordered chicken and scrapped off the seasoned pureed chickpeas. Justin was annoyed. Had none of them changed . . . even at little bit? Was Pittsburgh the Land that Time Forgot?

The whole thing was awkward, and neither suggested they should meet-up again, but as Ted was pulling on his coat, Justin impulsively grabbed his arm.

Please don’t think I’m a bad person, he said.

Ted just looked at him. I’ll try, he replied and walked out the door.

Ted didn’t tell him he’d gone to New York, but Justin told Lindsay who called to tell Brian. Brian didn’t say anything. Ted had gone for his own reasons, and whatever they were – they weren’t Brian’s concern. Nothing having to do with Justin was his concern anymore and hadn’t been for a very long time. He’d even stopped having lunch with Jennifer.

Gus was a young man now – tall and preppy and into girls who looked disturbingly like his mother. He and Brian had nothing in common. There were a lot of awkward silences when they were together, and Gus played a lot of video games. Brian found himself wondering if things would be different between them if he and Justin had gotten married and moved to the house in West Virginia. Maybe they’d have shared memories of doing whatever people do when they live in the boondocks. Maybe in the absence of T.V.s and computers and pills they could’ve found that mystical thing that makes someone on the verge of life want to hang-out with a guy who’s pissed most of his away. He’d tried. He wasn’t Jack, and he knew it, but his son didn’t make him feel less alone in the world – in fact, he made him feel even more so.

He was living on a diet of coffee, pills and take-out from the diner, and he didn’t need Lindsay constantly telling him he looked like crap because he already knew he did. He’d taken most of the talent with him, but his new agency just wasn’t getting off the ground. Ted worked even more than he did until Brian threatened to fire him if he didn’t spend more time with his husband. Despite years of trying to deny it, Brian had long since come to accept the fact that having someone to lay down next to every night was worth more than anything else life had to offer. Which sometimes made him wonder why, more than thirteen years after Justin left, he still hadn’t found – or even looked for – a new lover. But a cold bed is easier to get used to than a warm one. A warm one meant there was someone else in it that required talking to and spending time with. Brian couldn’t imagine finding anyone who’d ever make the hassle of either feel worth it.

He did have what one might call a few “fuck buddies,” but they only fucked at the club. They were all men in their forties who were tired of the grinding gut-pain they felt every time a hot guy in his twenties looked at them with a “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” expression. He kept in shape, and the pills kept him thin, but he could no longer fool himself that he was desirable to men younger than himself. And he didn’t have a Mikey around to tell he’d always be young and beautiful. He was neither, but he tried not to drown in a hatred of time. He kept treading water. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he did.

And then Deb died.

Justin came to the funeral, but Brian couldn’t bear to be talked to let alone have to talk in return. It didn’t matter that Justin tried to. When he hugged Brian as he was leaving the wake, Brian didn’t move to hug him back. He just left his arms hanging at his sides.

He’d started watching a ton of T.V. Friends with babies and/or thriving businesses didn’t go out much, and even if they did, Justin couldn’t afford the places they wanted to go. There was a lot of moving going on; it seemed like everyone he knew was either going west; planning to stay in India for indeterminate amounts of time, or transitioning slowly to increasingly remote suburbs. He started to feel like New York was no longer the place everyone wanted to be and was instead becoming the place where no one wanted – or could afford – to stay.

He found himself feeling occasionally grief-stricken and, on the advice of a friend, started seeing a psychiatrist who prescribed him medication that made him feel better but at the same time took away all desire for sex. He was in his mid-thirties, and his boyfriend was incredulous that someone who’d once been so hungry to fuck could become so disinterested overnight. Is it me? his boyfriend kept asking, and Justin told him, no, of course it wasn’t. He was as hot as always. But things got tense, and Justin started feeling guilty. He hated his cock. Not even the most extreme porn could make it twitch. He started to wonder . . . could Brian?

After Deb died, he’d started trying to spend time with Carl. Carl was obviously lonely, and Brian felt he owed it to Deb to try to make him less so. But in his grief, Carl was becoming an angry old man obsessed with conspiracy-based politics. Brian could handle the anti-Semitism and racism. He could even handle the homophobia. But when Carl started talking about global mafias and secret bunkers where people who graduated from college were running the world for alien overlords, Brian got fed-up. He thought briefly of getting Carl hooked on pills so he’d chill out and they’d have something to talk about – like who the most corrupt doctors are and where to find the shady pharmacies. But then he thought of Deb and figured she’d rather Carl watch Fox New and be angry than watch endless reruns of 80's sitcoms and be numb.

He met a guy at the club who was into racquetball, and they got together a few times for a match and a beer. But then they fucked. It’d been the first time Brian had fucked in his bed since Justin left, and the memories it brought back were overwhelming and painful. He knew he could never do it again, and when the guy said they couldn’t use his place because he had a partner, Brian ended things – everything. When Ted asked him why he was no longer playing racquetball on Thursday evenings, Brian told him the guy he’d been playing with got hit by a truck. Ted clearly didn’t believe him, and Brian later caught Ted looking at him sadly. You know, Ted said when Brian glared at him, but Brian held up his hand. Whatever it is you’re about to say, don’t say it, he said. Ted just nodded.

He’d gone back to Pittsburgh to pay his respects to Deb, but he’d also gone back to have sex with Brian. It’d soon become crystal clear that it wasn’t going to happen. Brian didn’t even acknowledge him. When Justin got back to New York, he got drunk and shoved his boyfriend. Not hard, but hard enough for his boyfriend to leave for the night. The next morning, Justin lay on his back for a long time staring up at the ceiling. The person he’d really wanted to shove was Brian. He should’ve. He pictured scenario after scenario in which he shoved Brian in different settings and against different things. Telephone polls on snowy sidewalks. Bar counters in clichéd Irish pubs. Trees on the grounds of that fucking house Brian had bought. SUVs in Walmart parking lots. Even the cheesy angel statute that marked Deb’s grave. It would feel so good. He reached into his boxers and jerked off for the first time in months. It took forever before he came, but when he finally did, it punched the breath from his body as though a demon who’d long dwelled there had been exorcised.

He got up and went to the kitchen. His boyfriend usually made the coffee, and Justin had forgotten how. The result was a tar-like sludge, but he drank it anyway. Then he sat down at his desk and turned on his computer.

I’m sorry about Deb, he wrote. I know how much you loved her. I never really thought about it at the time, but I can see now that she was a mother to you. I wish I’d known that when we were together. I guess there were a lot of things I didn’t know about you and was too incurious to find out. You weren’t a real person to me back then. You seem like one now though. You don’t look good, Brian. Stop with the fucking pills.

He clicked on send.

Brian didn’t write back, but Lindsay called a few weeks later to tell him Brian had checked into rehab.

Rehab fucking sucked. There was a lot of puking and shaking and sweating and crying. He’d shelled out some serious dough for one of those fancy facilities were the celebs go with a pool and “restorative yoga” classes, but the last thing he felt like doing was going for a dip. By the time he checked-out he felt as feeble and drained as an old man. Gus hung-back, looking freaked out when he and Lindsay came to Pittsburgh for a visit. Before she left, she gave him a tube of lotion with shimmery pink blush mixed in, assuring him that “men going through chemo use it all the time.” He reminded her that he’d gone through radiation treatment and hadn’t needed Maybelline’s help. She looked sad and said that that had been a long time ago. He shuddered to think how bad he must look if being ill with cancer in his mid-thirties looked better than getting off pills in his late-forties.

You’re still beautiful, she told him. You’ve just been abusing yourself for years. What’d you expect?

He guessed the next step was to give up booze. He tried but in the end he couldn’t. Instead of shaming him, Ted shrugged. You can only do so much, he said. And it’s a hell of a lot easier to do it when you’re young. Blake gave him some “literature,” but didn’t pressure him to attend any of his dreaded groups. Brian would rather gouge his eyes out with a grapefruit spoon than get together with a group full of losers and listen to them talk about how they’d fucked-away their pathetic lives.

He’d been surprised by Justin’s email and even more surprised that it’d been the one thing, out of a million things people had been doing over the years, to get him to go to rehab. He was pretty sure Lindsay had told Justin that he was clean now, but he felt it was only right for him to say something too. He drafted at least a dozen emails and deleted them all – especially the ones that started with It was nice seeing you at the funeral. Finally he settled on something short and sweet:

Thought you might want to know I’m sober now – well, mostly. At least as much as I’ll ever be. I’m grateful for the nudge. I hope you’re well. Keep in touch. Or not. It’s up to you, Sunshine.

Chapter Text

He didn’t know whether he liked the idea of “keeping in touch” with Brian. What was the point? What did they have in common to “keep in touch” about? Maybe they could trade tips on how to fail spectacularly . . . well, Brian had failed spectacularly. A “hostile takeover” sounded kind of cool; it could be the name of an action flick staring Ryan Gosling. But Justin wasn’t failing spectacularly – he was failing in slow motion and in increasingly mundane ways.

His boyfriend finally left – but not soon enough for them to avoid developing a genuine dislike of each other. Justin threw a party celebrating the occasion to which people brought babies and non-alcoholic beverages for the pregnant women and those friends who were currently on the wagon. The night started out fun – they lit a fire in the fireplace and ceremoniously burned everything flammable that’d been left behind by the boyfriend, including the gigantic stash of porn he’d hidden behind a rarely used crockpot. But then the babies got restless; a couple people fell off the wagon rather messily, and someone locked themselves in the bathroom, sobbing inconsolably. Justin decided it was the last party he’d ever throw. His friends could invite him to barbeques in the burbs or lavish parties in their SoHo lofts, but his own days of playing host were over. It made him sad – he used to love to throw parties. Now he couldn’t afford to – financially nor psychologically.

Dumped my boyfriend and burned his porn stash, he emailed Brian after he convinced the woman in the bathroom (he had no idea who she was or who she’d come with) to come out and let him call her a cab.

That wasn’t very nice, Brian emailed back. The porn was innocent – it’s the ex you should’ve roasted. A shameful waste of good porn.

It wasn’t ‘good porn,’ Justin replied. It was the kind you buy at truck stops on the Turnpike.

Say no more. You did the world a favor.

He snickered. At least in one way Brian hadn’t changed; Brian could still make him laugh no matter how shitty a mood he was in. Maybe that alone was a reason to “keep in touch.”

The hardest thing Brian had ever had to do, other than break his engagement, was lay-off his employees. No one was surprised. The new agency never got on its feet, but nonetheless there were a lot of tearful hugs and bittersweet toasts when Brian popped the corks of the expensive bottles of champagne he’d bought in anticipation of a grand launch party. He, himself, didn’t cry. Not because he felt it was inappropriate, but because he’d stopped crying years ago. He hadn’t even cried at Deb’s funeral. He wasn’t sure if he even could cry – it seemed like he’d exhausted a well of tears in the months following Justin’s leaving. At the time, he thought he’d never stop crying, but he did, and now he couldn’t anymore. Ted did the crying for them both. Even Super Girl Cynthia (as the staff called her) cried. It was unnerving. For some reason her tears made everything feel final in a way they hadn’t yet. Thankfully she didn’t cry for long and instead got completely wasted and fucked the (much younger) guy in the art department she’d been lusting after for ages. Everyone applauded when they returned from the supplies room glowing and disheveled.

After he pulled the plug on his struggling agency, Brian turned his entire attention to the long-forgotten Babylon. Ted was in charge of the finances, and Brandon (yes, him) was a solidly decent manager – he even had the requisite receding hairline like The Sap used to except thankfully Brandon had some dignity and shaved his head so he didn’t look like something belched up by the seventies. Brian really wasn’t needed. Plus, it was becoming clear that Babylon was heading in the same direction as the other gay nightclubs. Gay life had changed radically. People hooked up through Grindr. People weren’t meeting in bars and clubs like they used to – well, some still were but not enough to make Babylon money. Between the cost of booze and keeping up with city regulations, Babylon was doing only slightly better than breaking even. Brian could market the shit out of it, but it was never going to be what it had been. The same was true for all of Liberty Avenue. The only things that were still “gay” were the diner, one merely-slightly-shady sex shop and a few rainbow flags. Queers had become invisible and seemed to like it that way. Brian tried not to think about it too much. He got depressed when he did, and being depressed caused Vicodin to whisper in his ear like a chalky siren.

He needed something to do. Brian and boredom was never a good combination. He had a lot of sex for a while. He’d go to his club around noon and stay till midnight, but even the swanky bathhouses weren’t what they used to be. Goddamn Grindr and hipster coffee shops. He missed Liberty Avenue as though it’d been an old friend who’d died while he was absent. Things were changing so quickly. He started feeling like a crotchety old man like Carl, mumbling about “kids these days.”

He needed to find something to do – and soon. He wasn’t getting any younger.

His co-founder wanted out, so he and Justin sold as much of the gallery’s expensive lighting as they could. At least they didn’t have to pay to break the lease on the space. A couple of guys wanted to rent it and turn it into a jazz bar. Justin became their bartender, and the business opened with much fanfare and praise from the local press, but within six months, it too was struggling. The landlord had raised the rent. It pissed Justin off so much that he wrote a letter to The New York Times in response to an article it published about the cost of gentrification. Places that would’ve been great incubators of small, independent businesses were being gobbled up by chains because the owners of the renovated buildings wanted too much money too soon from their investments. We’re ruining New York, Justin wrote. It’s all starting to look the same: Starbucks and Subway on every corner. Is that what we want? We’ll end up going the way of D.C.. When the Times actually printed his letter, Justin was sufficiently proud to send it to his mother . . . and Brian.

Look, I’m famous, he wrote in the subject line to the attachment.

Brian responded by sending him an article about the astounding success of Pittsburgh’s urban renewal initiative and the resulting influx of jobs. The article was titled Pittsburgh: No Longer the Pits. He didn’t mention that he’d been quoted, but Justin found it immediately. Even skimming, the words “Brian” and “Kinney” leapt off the page.

Local businessman and entrepreneur, Brian Kinney, plans to sell Babylon, a longtime fixture of Liberty Avenue, to invest in real estate in the up and coming Troy Hill district. “Clubs don’t play the same role they used to in the gay community,” Kinney says. “Babylon’s more or less breaking even these days. I decided it was time to get out of a dying industry and invest in something new – something forward-looking and daring. I’ve always enjoyed a challenge, and gentrifying Troy Hill will definitely be one.” So far Kinney has purchased three gutted historic buildings in the once-vibrant business district. “There’s a lot of renovation to do,” Kinney says, “but with the grant I got from the city and proceeds from selling Babylon, I’m confident I can do it sooner rather than later – and better than anyone else could.” This reporter for one hopes he’s right.

Justin laughed. Modest as ever, I see, he wrote back. Just don’t fuck things up by being greedy.

Asshole, Brian replied. Maybe I should hire someone to keep me in check. Ted’s too traumatized after what happened with Kinnetik to slap me upside the head Deb-style if I start to overreach.

Justin stared at his screen. Was he imagining it or had Brian just offered him a job?

Brian actually jumped up from his chair with a triumphant shout when he got Justin’s email. Smart little fucker! Brian hadn’t been at all sure if Justin would catch his hint.

Only if you want it, he wrote back. And before you say yes, take into consideration the fact that Cynthia will be your direct supervisor, and let’s just put it this way: I wouldn’t want to work for her. She’s a total bitch.

The news actually did give Justin pause. Cynthia really was a bitch. Not only could he not expect any special treatment, he might actually have to deal with Cynthia’s not-too-subtle fury with him for leaving. He’d tried to say hello to her at Deb’s funeral, and she’d literally turned her back on him. Not only had her behavior made it clear that she was a massive bitch; it’d made it clear that his leaving had devastated Brian.

I’m not going to let her make me feel guilty for going to NYC, he replied to Brian’s email. Because I don’t regret it.

It took Brian long enough to respond that Justin started panicking a little. Had he said too much too soon? After realizing Brian really had offered him a job, Justin had gotten increasingly excited about the idea of moving back to Pittsburgh. Not only did the job of managing the properties Brian had bought sound interesting, but his mom wasn’t doing well, and he wanted to be near her. She’d developed breast cancer a year ago, and the treatment had eradicated the tumor, but she just didn’t seem to be recovering in terms of her energy. She seemed frail and tired, and Justin suspected she was lonely now that Molly had left for the Middle East (thankfully after ditching the enormous loser she’d been “pre-engaged” to).

For three days, he refreshed his email obsessively. But Brian was silent.

Brian stared at the computer screen. Justin didn’t regret going to New York. Why did he know going to New York was exactly what he’d hoped and always wanted for Justin, while at the same time feeling as though Justin had cut open a scar with a pair of rusty scissors? This was a bad idea. Justin shouldn’t come back. What’d Brian been thinking?

Everyone else wondered the exact same thing. No one thought it was a good idea.

You shouldn’t go backward, Lindsay said. Neither of you should. You need to move forward, Brian – and so does he.

He’s not the same, Bri, Ted said. He’s very big-city. He’ll get bored and leave again, and I don’t want you to have to go through that.

What if he moves back and then finds the love of his life? Emmett said. I know you keep saying this is all about work, but is it? And even if it is, will it stay that way?

New York City is just as big a cesspool as Hollywood, Carl said. Too many Jews and N-words. Pittsburgh doesn’t need any more big city liberals.

If he’s still hot, he’s gonna hook up with someone, Brandon said. And you’ll be hitting the pills again. Besides, I could do a better job than him. I’m a businessman; he’s an artist. I wouldn’t let an artist run anything. They’re too flaky.

If he gets within an inch of me, Cynthia said, I’m going to wring his little, blond neck. And what’ll you do about it? Nothing. Because you’d be in deep shit without me, that’s why. Justin’s clearly shown that he’s expendable.

He’s not in a good place mentally, Daphne said. He should stay where he has friends and a support network.

He’s an ungrateful little shit, Michael said. You’ve been much happier without him.

If he comes back, does that mean you’ll have to be all gay in front of my friends? Gus said. I don’t mind, but life did get easier when mom married Leo. Not that I’m against you being gay, it’s just that . . . well, I don’t know . . . you know? It’s just kinda weird thinking about your dad doing the stuff . . . uhm, you know, the stuff that gay guys do.

If he comes back, I’ll get you hooked up with that meditation group I’ve been telling you about, Ben said. I think it’ll really help you handle the whole situation.

I’m worried you’re going to get hurt, Jennifer said. And I’m worried for him when it happens.

Maybe they were all right. Maybe Justin’s coming back to Pittsburgh would be a giant, messy train wreck. But Brian believed he was strong enough not to let that happen. This was about a job, not a relationship. It was about work, nothing else. Plus, with Cynthia running the day-to-day stuff, Brian needn’t have to see Justin at all. The only thing he’d know was that Justin was doing a damn good job. Brian knew he would, and that’s what mattered, right? He was determined to make this new venture a success, and having the best people doing the essential jobs was an absolute must. Hiring Justin was as much of an investment as buying the properties had been.

He ignored Justin’s remark about not regretting that he’d left, and merely asked when Justin could start.

He wasn’t sure when he could actually move back. Brian seemed to want him to start his job as soon as possible, but it was going to be hard to leave New York. He still loved it and knew he’d always miss it. Sure, he could return for visits, but visiting New York and living there were two totally different experiences. In fact he doubted he’d be able to go back once he’d left. It would be too painful. He’d spent the best years of his life there; the thought of becoming a stranger to his old haunts was all but unbearable. Several times he almost emailed Brian to tell him he’d changed his mind.

All of his friends thought moving back to Pittsburgh was a great idea.

The job sounds right up you’re alley. You’re always going on about how this or that city fucked up their renewal efforts. You’ll play a role in seeing that doesn’t happen in Pittsburgh.

It’s a terrific opportunity. Think how it’ll look on your résumé! After a couple years, you’ll have job offers from all over the country!

You’ll be able to raise your standard of living. New York has gotten so fucking expensive. I’m sure your ex will pay you a good salary.

You won’t have to work your ass off at three jobs anymore. You’ll have time to do your art again.

Maybe you’ll find a boyfriend who isn’t as weird and stuck-up as the guys you’ve been dating lately. Your taste in men has really gone downhill since you broke up with Erik.

You’ll be able to buy your own place instead of having to rent all the time!

Judging from that picture you showed me once, your ex is pretty hot. Maybe you guys could fuck a couple times so you’ll get your mojo back.

Maybe you’ll meet someone who wants to settle down and have babies. I’ve always known you want kids.

You’ll totally love your job! It’s so you! Grab it and run!

His friends were so excited that Justin began to wonder if they wanted to get rid of him. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt that way. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he’d long sensed that they were outgrowing him in one way or another. He felt like caveman frozen in a glacier. Other than this job offer, Justin felt like he had no prospects – no plans as to where he should go next. It unnerved him. If he did go back to Pittsburgh, he’d be settling again like he’d done when he’d gone back after his time in L.A. He’d been miserable back then. Would he be miserable again? Plus his mother was dead set against it, which was upsetting because one of the reasons he’d be going back was to be near her.

Well?

It was all Brian’s email said.

Justin took a deep breath.

I don’t think we should try to get back together, he wrote.

Who the fuck said anything about ‘getting back together’?

Justin could practically hear the anger in Brian’s words.

I’m just trying to clarify things, he wrote back lamely.

Oh, they’re ‘clarified’ alright. They were ‘clarified’ years ago. Do you want the fucking job or not? Just say yes or no. It’s not like you’re the only candidate.

Brian’s word stung just as he was sure Brian had intended. Why would he want to go near that hell again?

Can I have another couple days? he wrote. This isn’t an easy decision, Brian.

Fine. Brian replied. But any longer than that and I’m taking the offer off the table. I don’t want you to feel compelled to do something you don’t want to do. Been there, done that, not doing it again. This is a fucking job offer, not a marriage proposal.

Holy. Fucking. Crap! Justin actually instinctively seized the shirt covering his heart. Brian still knew how to cut to the bone. It was good to know. It would make staying away from him much easier.

I’ll take it, he emailed Brian the following morning. I’ll start next Monday.

Brian didn’t reply. The next email he got was a terse note from Cynthia instructing him to fill out the attached tax documents and get them back to her asap.

Brian snorted ruefully. Unknowingly, Justin had chosen a momentous time to return. Brian was shutting down Babylon and throwing a huge farewell blow-out on Saturday night.

It was going to be one of the most difficult things he’d ever done. Just as at his agency’s closing party, there’d be hugging and crying and all sorts of bullshit. He didn’t want a funeral; he wanted a celebration, and he instructed Emmett to do everything he could to make it one. He even told the bouncers to kick out anyone who started crying unless they were staff.

When he sent out VIP invitations, he very consciously didn’t include Justin even though he was pretty sure Justin would be in Pittsburgh by then. There was no way in hell things would be a repeat of Babylon’s reopening celebration. He’d sent an invitation to Justin in New York. Justin said he’d be there, but he didn’t show up. More than anything else, his absence had made it clear that they were over. They were still emailing and talking on the phone, but Justin was obviously doing it out of habit, like a chore, like brushing his teeth and washing his clothes.

Brian had gone home that night feeling utterly drained. He’d become a charity case to the man he’d wanted to marry. He’d walked around the loft in a daze, picking up random things and setting them back down. Breathing was an almost undoable task. He brushed his fingers over surfaces and looked in cabinets and drawers for something he couldn’t name, let alone find. It felt like he’d been repeatedly kicked in the ribs. When he’d started to shake almost convulsively, he’d sat down on the edge of his bed. People had been knocking on his door and shouting for him to open it, but he’d barely heard them. He’d felt like he might be dying, but the thought did not alarm him.

The next day he’d erased Justin’s number from his phones and blocked Justin’s calls. He’d even blocked his emails. For a while he’d thought Justin would show up at the loft – or more likely Kinnetik. But he hadn’t. And that had been that.

Emmett outdid himself, which was saying a lot. He’d even set up an elaborate buffet in the backroom. The thumpa thumpa vibrated in Brian’s chest, and to his relief everyone around him were laughing and dancing and having a great time. Soon his face hurt from grinning. Everyone was there – even Gus and his latest tall, blonde girlfriend who looked like she was having the time of her life, which in turn made Gus look like he was too. Lindsay and Leo were there as were Michael and Ben and JR and Hunter. Cynthia was there with her art-department beau, and of course Ted and Blake were there. The only person who should’ve been present but wasn’t, was Debbie, and Brian’s eyes teared-up when Michael mentioned it. It almost turned into one of those sad moments Brian had dreaded, but then Michael took his hand and led him up to the platform they’d danced on at Babylon’s reopening party.

Brian danced alone again, but this time it was different. He felt nothing but happiness and curiosity about what his future held. There was no bitter sweetness, just playfulness. When he looked down, everyone was there dancing, even Emmett was wearing eyeliner and leather pants for old times’ sake. Leo looked a bit dorky, but who gave a shit? Brian supposed they all looked a bit dorky compared to the twenty-somethings humping each other’s legs or bouncing up and down on E like lunatics.

And then someone said “hey.” Brian turned around, and there was Justin. He was grinning ear-to-ear.

“I’m going to pretend this party is in celebration of the return of the prodigal son,” Justin shouted over the music.

Brian just stared at him with his mouth open.

Was he having some kind of hallucination? After all, he had done everything except pills that night.

And then he did the last thing he’d expected he’d do when he first saw Justin – he pulled Justin into his arms and clung to him, laying his cheek against Justin’s head. His hair smelled the same as it had all those years ago. And then, as though that wasn't weird enough, he started to cry.

“Hey,” Justin whispered against his ear. “It’s okay.” He tightened his arms, pulling Brian closer. “It’s okay,” he said again. He sounded helpless, and Brian wished he could stop crying but every time he did, he started again.

He finally stopped when he felt a tug on his pant leg. He pulled away from Justin but didn’t let him go.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I have to ask you to leave,” one of his bouncers said. His expression was completely serious, but he couldn’t hold it for long. “You said to kick out anyone who cries,” the man said. Justin goggled at him, but Brian started to laugh. And like had happened when he’d started crying, he couldn’t stop.

He’d clearly lost his mind.

“Fuck off,” he said. “It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.” He leaned down and bumped fists with his soon-to-be former employee.

“What was that all about?” Justin said when Brian straightened.

“Long story,” he replied and pulled Justin back into his arms.

They danced, their bodies touching, until the music ended and the lights came on. When they parted and Justin started to descend back to the dance floor, Brian kept hold of his hand until the last second. Justin was looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I expect to hear you’re at the office bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 8 o’clock Monday morning, Mr. Taylor” Brian said, and Justin’s questioning expression turned into a grin.

“Yes, Mr. Scrooge,” he said. “I mean, Mr. Kinney.”

Brian rolled his eyes. His heart was still pounding. There was no way he was going to sleep before dawn.

He’d planned to rent an apartment, but on the salary Brian was paying him, he could easily afford to rent a townhouse. There was plenty of space for his mom although he didn’t mention it to her. She was nowhere near ready to admit she needed that kind of help. Justin suspected she’d move in sooner rather than later, but he wasn’t going to push her. He had friends who were dealing with aging parents; he knew how difficult moving was for them. He wanted to tell her it was more about having company than getting old, but he’d bide his time and let her come to her own decision.

In addition to paying him handsomely, Brian had set him up with an office in one of the newly renovated buildings that would make even his SoHo friends drool. Brian said he could furnish it any way he wanted to, but any purchase had to go through Ted first, and Justin would need to show why the company should pay for it. Ted approved a beautiful oak desk and a fancy desk chair, but turned down Justin’s request for a leather couch and miniature orange tree.

Employee failed to show requested items were necessary to complete his appointed tasks, Ted wrote on the denial form. It was weird, but it was also necessary. Justin actually preferred the formality. It helped establish boundaries.

His job put him in charge of vetting the businesses that applied to lease space in the renovated buildings, and he was ruthlessly exacting. Each had to submit a detailed business plan and evidence that they had investment funding for at least a year so they could afford to lose money for a while – all new, independently owned businesses in formerly shady neighborhoods do. Brian was charging only enough rent to pay for salaries and overhead. All the money to buy additional properties came from his personal investments. Each business Justin okayed was assured by contract that Brian would not raise their rent for five years, which was so generous that it teetered on the edge of unwise. But the city was throwing money at Troy Hill, and much of it ended up in Kinney Investments’ bank account thanks to Brian’s considerable schmoozing skills.

Speaking of Brian . . . Justin rarely saw him except at the company’s weekly meeting where he acknowledged Justin in the same way he acknowledged every other employee. It was unnerving, and at first it hurt. Justin was actually surprised by how much it hurt. But the situation definitely helped as far as Cynthia was concerned. Once she realized there wasn’t going to be any favoritism – or fucking – going on, she lightened up on Justin to the point of actually being friendly and taking him to lunch occasionally. She was pleased with his competency, which was no small thing. She was not afraid to hand-out pink slips.

“Don’t think I won’t fire you in a second if you fuck up,” she told him amiably as he watched in barely concealed horror as a new-hire cleaned out her desk with tears running down her cheeks.

Jesus, Cynthia was a bitch! Justin gave daily thanks that he’d managed to get on her good side.

He dreamed about Brian a lot. He looked really good and could rock an Armani suit as well as any man in New York. He was obviously happy and pleased with himself, and nothing in the world looked as hot as Brian when he was pleased with himself. He radiated energy and confidence . . . and sex. Sometimes, while Brian was giving his weekly run-down, Justin wanted him so badly that it hurt.

He did the best he could to shove all such thoughts out of his mind. And failed spectacularly.

Brian couldn’t be more pleased with his new endeavor. Cynthia was an expert at hiring good people, Ted had his confidence back and was kicking the ass of whatever it is that accountants kick the ass of, and Justin was a natural at working with the weirdo people who came hopping and slithering through the door wanting to set up all kinds of fruity businesses. So far, Brian approved of all his choices. Some of them had opened their doors mere months ago and were already turning small profits. Others, however, looked like they were hanging by a thread, but Justin was very good at tugging them back from the brink and making them think like business people and not anti-capitalist hipsters. Brian suspected most of Justin’s friends in New York had been exactly those types. He shuddered to think how annoying he’d find Justin’s parties. Fortunately he was never invited to them so he didn’t have to turn him down.

Plus he was enjoying sex again, which had started to feel stale while his life was going down the tubes. His appetite was back with a vengeance. But it didn’t escape his attention that he often fantasied that the guys he fucked were Justin. When he got wasted, he first had to put his cell phone in a hard-to-reach place out of fear that he’d drunk-dial Justin and beg him to come over. As much as he ached to, it would be a catastrophe of epic proportions. Things were good just as they were. And everyone was applauding their restraint, even though Brian insisted there was nothing to be restrained.

But then it happened.

One day, instead of meeting Justin in the glass-sided conference room, Brian went to his office. They needed to discuss what to do about the panhandlers who’d cropped up now that people with money were coming to the neighborhood to shop and eat at the trendy new restaurants. The cops didn’t seem to know what to do, and Brian was becoming increasingly alarmed. He owned six buildings now and was maxing out both the company’s and his own personal credit cards. He’d heard through the company grapevine that Justin was doing research on how to discourage loitering (apparently one involved playing classical music through strategically placed speakers – apparently panhandlers didn’t like Bach).

Why he hadn’t set up a meeting in the conference room, Brian honestly wasn’t exactly sure, but once he was lying on the couch with Justin underneath him, kissing him like he’d die if he stopped, he knew. They didn’t fuck, they didn’t even get undressed, but they did come. When Brian caught his breath, the first thing he said was, “Shit. We just fucked-up big time.”

Yes, they had fucked up big time, Justin silently agreed, but neither of them moved. He knew what’d happened was going to make things awkward and difficult, but he couldn’t care yet. He’d just had an orgasm with another person. He hadn’t been able to come with another person in over two years! It’d felt amazing. He hadn’t even worried whether or not he’d be able to climax; as soon as Brian started moving his hips between Justin’s legs, humping him through their clothes, he knew he was going to be able to come. He’d lost himself completely to the sensation, only vaguely aware that he’d been moaning rather loudly – so loudly that Brian had had to shut him up with a kiss. But it’d just felt so fucking good. When he whispered as much in Brian’s ear, Brian had made a helpless sound that thrilled Justin to his toes. Justin was pretty sure they would’ve fucked for real except for the knock on the door.

“Brian,” was all that Cynthia said.

Losing Cynthia was a blow. He’d begged her to stay, offering to double her salary, but she was too angry at him. And it wasn’t because he’d fucked an employee – it was because he’d fucked Justin.

I’m not going through this again, she’d said, wiping angry tears from her eyes. I’m through, Brian. I am not going to be a spectator to your fuck-ups anymore. This isn’t going to last; he’s going to leave again or even worse find someone else. You’re going to get hurt again. You have no idea . . . no fucking idea how hard it was to watch you go through all the shit he puts you through. Just pay me until I find another job, okay?

Brian had nodded, utterly stunned. She’d been with him since the day he’d been hired by Ryder. Going to work without her there was inconceivable. It broke his heart that they were going their separate ways and on such a sour note. He’d offer her anything to stay . . . but he wouldn’t offer assurance they he and Justin would return to their employer/employee relationship. He didn’t know where they were going, but wherever it was, Brian wanted to go with him.

Justin wisely stayed well away from him while he was mourning Cynthia’s departure, and when he sensed it was safe to broach the topic of “what now?” he did it matter-of-factly as though asking Brian whether they were “together” in some capacity was just another progress report. It took the pressure off, and made it safe to say that he didn’t know . . . and was more than a little afraid if they were. Justin nodded, but it was in agreement, not defeated resignation. Justin also nodded when Brian said the weirdest thing he’d ever said – he didn’t want to fuck. At least not yet. Kissing and rubbing were okay, but it might be a very long time before he’d let himself be naked with Justin . . . maybe he never would. If there was a “together” in their future, Brian would have to know in his bones that he was loved. Justin might not be able to feel that way – he never had before. But Justin looked at him differently now. He asked questions, and he listened to the answers. He even seemed curious to hear what Brian had to say. And unlike before, Justin sometimes sought out his hand and kissed his cheek. Things were different. Not more passionate – not even as passionate – as they’d been before. But that was okay. Brian had had his fill of passion.

It was the last damn time Justin would give the go-head to a psychic. They were way too high-maintenance. Even though Crystal Ball was wildly successful, she was constantly complaining about something. Justin was considering hiring an assistant who’d do nothing else but handle her. She drove him crazy. She also said he had the aura of a serial killer. Once she even called Brian to tell him he’d employed a psychopath. When Justin came home that night, Brian had already arrived, and there was a box of Cheerios on the kitchen counter with a knife stuck in it because Brian was a dork.

Brian was also scared. It broke Justin’s heart. They didn’t fuck with their clothes off or spend the night together. Most of the time, they got take-out or Justin cooked and they sat on Justin's couch watching movies. They always kissed and almost always came, but Brian was keeping him at arm’s length. Justin also knew he was fucking guys at his club. He tried not to let it bother him, but sometimes it did. He desperately wanted Brian’s cock inside him, and the thought of other men experiencing what should be his sometimes drove him crazy. Brian told him not to think of it as punishment – the guys didn’t mean anything to him; fucking them meant nothing emotionally. And Justin believed him . . . it was just . . . He just wanted to hold Brian’s naked body against his own. Even if they didn’t fuck, Justin wanted to taste his skin and smell his sweat and comb his fingers through his pubic hair. He wanted to feel the hot weight of Brian's cock in his palm and watch Brian's nipples harden at the brush of his fingertips . . .

. . . but along with the plane ticket to New York all those years ago, it seemed as though he’d also bought a lock for Brian’s heart. A lock he didn’t have the key for and only Brian could give it to him. He wasn’t sure if Brian ever would, but he was going to keep trying.

For some inscrutable reason, Brian loved to watch “WKRP in Cincinnati.” It was hands-down the dumbest show Justin had ever had the misfortune to encounter. But watching Brian dissolve in laughter at the idiotic jokes was worth it. Justin watched him incredulously and then wove his fingers through Brain’s. When he raised Brian’s hand to his lips and kissed it, Brian stopped laughing. There was surprise in his eyes, which turned sly after a second.

“Justin Taylor gives a shit,” he said gloatingly. “You so care about me. You love me so much.”

It was Justin's turn to look surprised. Brian remembered that exchange? It was unsettling. What else did he remember? Justin was as wary as he was curious. He’d forgotten so much, and judging from the unreadable look Brian was giving him, he couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing . . .

. . . after all, there were plenty of gentrifying neighborhoods in New York City. And a saying about revenge being a dish best served cold.

Chapter Text

Owning investment properties wasn’t exactly fun. In fact, it was fucking scary. Every time the Weather Channel warned of flash flooding, Brian imagined the Alleghany swallowing the Art Deco era concert hall he’d renovated and rented to an independent movie theater company that showed films that only Justin and his ilk would pay to see. And every time the wind blew from a certain direction, Brian was convinced he could smell the landfill even though it was miles away.

"Nobody wants to smell garbage while they’re dining on a patio at a snobby restaurant," he said.

Justin would insist he couldn’t smell garbage. Brian believed Justin couldn’t smell it, not because it wasn’t true, but because his allergies had screwed up his olfactory nerves. Either that or Justin was only telling him what he wanted to hear so he could get laid.

It hadn’t escaped Brian’s attention that Justin was often literally desperate for them to have sex. In the beginning, Justin came during their “make-out sessions,” but after a while, something changed. Usually he had an orgasm, but not always. On those occasions when he didn’t, Justin would squeeze his eyes shut on welling tears and shove Brian off him after Brian came. That or either he’d grab Brian’s belt buckle and swear at him when Brian batted his hand away. It was actually kind of hot, and Brian remembered those occasions when he jerked off – which was a lot. Before he and Justin started “fucking,” he’d stopped coming more than a couple times a day. Now he was almost back to where he’d been in his thirties, often coming five or six times a day either with Justin or tricks or just jerking off every chance he got. And when he wasn’t fucking or jerking off, he was thinking about sex constantly. It was awesome!

Justin, though, was clearly less than happy about the situation, and Brian was starting to panic. Not only might Troy Hill become part of the Allegheny someday, Justin might leave again. It was too late for Brain not to be devastated if he did.

Why, Justin often wondered – why did owners of coffee shops always think they needed an Open-Mike Poetry Night every week? O.M.P.N.s were so 1990s. Nobody wanted to listen to emo kids reading poetry about vampires or whatever the fuck their poems were about while drinking a seven-dollar spiced pumpkin soy latte and munching on an organic, vegan zucchini muffin. If they wanted to listen to anything (which Justin wasn’t convinced they did), they wanted to listen to a competent singer/songwriter who was good at integrating covers of esoteric songs into their performances. But trying to convince Pittsburgh’s “hipsters” that poetry was out and acoustic, “re-imagined” covers of Scott Walker’s most bat-shit works were in was a frustrating task . . . about which he got no sympathy from Brian.

Brian thought it was hilarious. He hated poetry and viewed the demise of Open-Mike Poetry Night as a personal victory of some kind. He also still hated anything involving violins. In fact, he hated violins so much that he banned the excellent street performer who played the harmonica and fiddle from the sidewalks abutting his buildings. It didn’t matter that he played the fiddle; as far as Brian was concerned, it had strings and a bow and was thus a violin. Justin avoided the conversation – not only because it was annoying and highlighted Brian’s less savory characteristics, but because it also made Justin sad. Brian had loved him, and that love had obviously been a source of misery. It was hard knowing that you’d fucked up someone’s life . . . although if Brian wanted to talk about it, Justin had plenty of examples of Brian playing fast and loose with his own adolescent sanity. Neither of them didn’t have blood on his hands . . .

. . . but as much as it embarrassed him, the only thing Justin wanted on his hands now was Brian’s semen. Brian wore condoms when they “fucked” so he wouldn’t ruin his pants, and Justin had, on a few occasions, rescued the used condoms from the bathroom garbage bin and actually squeezed out Brian’s come just so he could smell it and taste it with the tip of his tongue. He felt like a fucking junky and it was humiliating, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to suck Brian’s cock and be fucked by it and ride it like he used to. Sometimes the need was so intense he couldn’t fathom why he’d left for New York. But then he’d jerk off and come and pour himself a glass of whiskey. Yes, Brian had fucked him like no one else afterward ever had – or even could – but was fucking fantastic sex a reason to stay with someone you no longer loved? Do you marry someone because the sex is incomparable? The answer, of course, was no. In his saner moments, when the sexual craving he felt for Brian wasn’t eating his fucking brain, Justin knew that was why Brian wouldn’t let them have sex.

And probably never would. Brian needed to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Justin loved him and not just the way his cock felt inside Justin’s ass.

Brian loved being on T.V. He also loved being featured in the Sunday edition of the Pittsburgh Business Times. He almost pissed the pants of his $4,000 Bottega Veneta suit when he was profiled in the Wall Street Journal (even though it took up only half of one column). Why hadn’t he gotten into the urban revitalization business sooner? Advertising was so Mad Men. He should’ve ditched it years before he did.

What do you do next when you’ve bought every property being sold in the Pittsburgh neighborhoods the city and state were awarding grants to renovate? The answer became clear when Philly came knocking on the door.

The amount of money available to investors who wanted to gamble on its shadier neighborhoods was jaw-dropping. And success at gentrification in Philadelphia was a ticket to any other city in the nation – Hell, any other city in the fucking world!

Philly wanted him in a way that he hadn’t been wanted since he was twenty-one and hitting all the gay bars in Pennsylvania with the conquering determination of Attila the Hun. There was a meeting with the head of the chamber of commerce and then a meeting with the mayor and then a fucking meeting with the motherfucking governor of PA, himself! He had to hire someone whose sole task was to apply for grants, and then when she quickly became overwhelmed, he hired her two assistants with recommendations praising them for their excellent organizational and ass-kissing skills.

He’d thought Kinnetik was a success. Kinney Investments LLC blew it out of the fucking water. Every cell of Brian’s brain was occupied at any given moment. He’d known he was talented, but nearing the age of fifty, he’d never believed he’d actually be able to use that talent to its full extent. Now he could. Philly today, L.A. the next. And who knew? He might be celebrating his sixtieth birthday in the newest swanky restaurant in the newest, hippest neighborhood in Mexico City!

Finally he was using his talent! Finally he was working at the full capacity of his knowledge and skill and ambition! Jesus, it’d taken for-fucking-ever!!

On the evening of the day he bought his first gutted warehouse in North Philly, Brian took Justin to an expensive, suit-only restaurant in Pittsburgh and told him he was now the head of Kinney Investments’ Pittsburgh branch and all its employees, while he, Brian, was moving to Philly in the morning.

Brian might as well have punched him in the stomach. No, fuck “punched” and fuck “stomach” – Brian might as well have stabbed him in the heart. Was this the revenge served cold? Justin just stared at him. Brian was smiling like he’d just told him the best news in the world . . .

For a year and a half, they’d been going to lunch or dinner every day. For a year and a half, they’d been going to galleries and museums and concerts and plays and movies every weekend. Every Wednesday, Justin tried out a new recipe and they ate till they almost fell asleep in front of the T.V. Every Friday, they went to bars with friends (old and new). Once a month they had brunch with Justin’s mom. And almost every other day they kissed and humped and ground their bodies together in a mere simulation of sex, their tongues thrusting into each other’s mouths like cocks, their bodies straining against the impossibility of merging into one single entity.

Brian was leaving.

Justin excused himself to the fashionable bathroom and locked himself in a stall. He was shaking so hard that he had to sit down on the toilet. Brian was leaving. He was going to buy a place to live in Philly. He probably was going to sell the loft. He was going to take with him all his possessions. Pittsburgh was going to become a place where he used to live, and him? What would become of him? Justin knew from experience that absence only made the heart grow colder.

Brian was leaving.

He was leaving because his dreams were coming true. Success caressed his face like sunlight on an April morning. He was amazing – intelligent, funny, clever, talented and full of vision. He was alive and alight with plans, with dreams on the verge of unfurling. He was smiling more than Justin had ever seen him smile. He was carefree, curious, light-hearted . . . . He was happy. And that happiness, that curiosity and talent and ambition was taking him away. Brian had dived into a sea that would carry him away from Justin’s shores. And he was so beautiful even as he was waving good-bye.

Is this how it had felt? All those years ago, when an engagement was broken and a plane was boarded, was this how it had felt? Was this what Brian had been feeling? For all these fucking years, is this what Brian had been living with?

If it was true, then Brian was a stronger man than Justin ever would be . . . because Brian’s leaving might break him. His leaving might take what little strength he had left after living for so long without the man he loved.

Justin had been crying. Brian pretended that he didn’t notice. He didn’t want to make Justin feel even more pathetic than he probably felt already. Been there, done that, knew what it felt like. The only thing worse than crying was knowing others knew about it.

"This isn’t some sort of good-bye," he said Justin when he returned from the bathroom. But it was . . . and they both knew it. When you live in the same city, you can call and say, “Hey, I made too much spaghetti. Come over and help me eat it.” But when you live in different cities, Plans Need To Be Made In Advance if you want to see each other. The spontaneity that keeps a love affair alive is lost.

"I’m sorry," Justin said.

Brian didn’t ask him for what. He already knew. Justin knew how it felt now – how being left felt. It was awful. It was like having your dreams punctured suddenly with a pop.

"We’ll still see each other," Brian said. "You’ll visit me there, and I’ll come back here. We’ll see each other all the time. It’s not like I’m going to completely stop supervising you."

But that was the wrong thing to say. Justin pushed away his half-eaten lobster frittata and more or less stumbled his way out of the restaurant. Brian sat there, staring at their newly uncorked bottle of Krug Clos Du Mesnil champagne. He couldn’t tell if he felt vindicated . . . or just plain, old broken-hearted. Lobster frittata was served cold. So had been his revenge. He reached out and stabbed a piece of Justin's dinner with his fork. When he ate it he wasn’t sure if it was good or just a boiled, bottom-feeding crustacean with a fancy name.

Brian’s absence bleached the colors of his life until it looked like a cheap Polaroid. All the things Justin had enjoyed before he left held no interest to him. They talked every day on the phone. During business hours, they talked about business. At night they talked about everything except business. The phone sex was amazing; there were wadded Kleenexes on his bedside table, reminding him of his adolescence when even the briefest thought of Brian made him need to come. But all the phone calls and emails and texts in the world couldn’t make up for the fact that Brian was no longer walking into his office every morning with a giant mug of coffee, flopping onto the couch, and unknowingly mutilating the miniature orange tree by plucking off its leaves and flicking them while he rambled on about one thing or another.

He wanted to paint, but he couldn’t. He’d stare at a blank canvas until he started hating it with every fiber of his body. So, he took up getting drunk and writing. It was silly and over-the-top, but it made him feel better.

I wake up with something that tastes like blood in my mouth . . . or wet garbage . . . it all depends on how long I’ve slept. My fingertips are numb. It’s as though every nerve in them has died since I last touched you. I remember caressing your bottom lip with my tongue; I remember how it tastes. Every inch of you was a miracle. I had you there, there, right beside me, but did I take the time to carve the memory of the scent of your skin into my brain? I must have because I dream about it. I remember your fingernails, short but still long enough to sometimes have dirt underneath them. I remember the shape of your ears. I remember the sound of your breathing when you’re sleepy. I remember your knuckles, your moles, the rough skin on the backs of your heels. I remember the marks time has left on your face – the crinkle of a smile, the furrowing of the brow. I remember the way you smelled when you hadn’t showered for a couple days – the damp hair under your arms, that tender space between your cock and your balls. I remember the blue veins in your wrists that screamed to me “I AM ALIVE!” I remember the sounds you could not hide when I slid my hand between your legs, when I bit your nipples through the cloth of your shirt, when I combed my fingers into your hair and curled them into a fist. What did you need? I worshiped the space between your toes with my tongue. I thanked God every time I saw my face reflected in your eyes, and I thanked Him again for your birth every time I kissed your navel and explored it with my tongue. My life aches in your absence. You were every moment of my sweetest dreams, every breath that kept me alive, every sound, every scent every taste my senses cared to know. My days are haunted by all the things I wish I’d known: exactly how many freckles there are on your back, how many hairs in your eyelashes, how many chicken-pocks scars on your forehead and the hints of skinned knees on your legs. You were more than I ever hoped for, more than I deserve. What I feel for you is more than words can stretch their skins to hold. I didn’t love you enough – it wasn’t even possible to love you enough. I tried; every nerve stem, every cell craved the warmth of your presence.

Did I make you doubt for even an instant that you weren’t cherished above all else? If I was asked, I could recount ever speck of brown in your eyes, every slivering hint of blue amidst the murky memory of green. I could recount the shades of brown between the hair on your head and the hair between your legs. I could recount the varying circles of your fingerprints, each one different from the other. I remember everything, but everything is not enough. I know, that given another chance, everything that I thought I knew would become nothing in the face of everything that you are. Nature didn’t give me enough time to learn everything there is to know about you. I want to let the sawdust of your dreams run through my fingers. I want to remind you of what has not yet been corrupted. I want to scour the rust from your hopes. I want to wipe clean the fog from the windows of your soul. I want to mend the torn seams of your hopes, your aspirations, your memories of what you’d thought fate had promised you.

If leaving is what you need, then leaving is what I’ll let you do. You have my blessings. You have an envelope full of my hopes for you, a box of all the things I expect to hear of your success. You are my best hope for the world. Go. Get the fuck out of here. But don’t forget; you have my phone number. You have my email address. You have the key to my home. You will always be welcome, no matter how long you’ve been away. . .

. . . by the way, have I told you lately that I love you?

One night, when he was falling out of his chair drunk, he emailed his ramblings to Brian. When Brian didn’t write back and didn’t call, Justin wished himself dead. Like stone-cold, worm-nibbled dead.

He sat, staring at the screen, completely freaked out. What the fuck? Was Justin crazy? Who sends someone stuff like that? What was he supposed to say in response? He’d never thought anything like that. Yes, he loved Justin; he’d never stopped loving Justin . . . but whoa! Had Justin fallen off some kind of cliff into some kind of deep end somewhere? Did Brian need to intervene? Should he call Daphne to make sure Justin was okay? Hell, should he call the police? A doctor? What do you do when you think someone’s about to hang themselves or shoot themselves in the head?

He should go to Pittsburgh. He knew he should. Whatever was going on was clearly his fault. But, God, how awkward! He could picture himself knocking on Justin’s door and Justin opening it looking Edgar Allen Poe after an opium bender. What would he do? What would he say? Hey, wanna go play some pool at Woody’s and then come back and make-out on the sofa like teenagers and come in our pants?

Jesus, he felt so guilty. Is this how Justin had felt when he left for New York? No wonder, he’d stopped calling and emailing! Brian was tempted to do the same now. He was scared. Justin was scaring him. He started calling Ted instead of Justin to talk about business, and then felt like a giant asshole because he knew Justin would find out.

Justin had opened his heart and dumped all of its messy contents over Brian’s head. What did he want? For Brian to go back to Pittsburgh? He didn’t want to go back to Pittsburgh. He felt like he’d finally escaped. And Philly was exciting! He liked the edginess, even the danger of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It made him feel alive in a way he couldn’t remember ever having felt before. He’d stopped wearing his “uniform” of Prada and Armani and visited his grimy warehouses and gutted brownstones wearing jeans and a shirt. He didn’t need his uniform anymore. He was finally where he should be. The endless, grinding aspiring had stopped.

Yes, he missed Justin . . . sometimes he even missed him like crazy. But . . . he was finally where he should be doing something he loved. He didn’t want to give it up, and Justin’s apparent anguish was not flattering. Instead it felt like a guilt-trip.

Is this how Justin felt when he left for New York? If so, Brian was somewhat appalled. But at least he’d not written bat-shit emails. He’d just let go and allowed himself to fade into the backdrop of Justin’s new life . . . and then eventually disappear altogether.

"Christ, Brian! Call him, write him back," Lindsay said when he called and read Justin’s email to her. He hated revealing so much to someone else, but he didn’t know what to do.

"What the fuck am I supposed to say?" he asked, exasperated. He felt put on the spot.

"I don’t know," she said. "Something. Anything. You can’t just leave him hanging after sending something like that to you of all people!”

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snapped.

"You know exactly what it means, you shallow son of a bitch!"

Brian pushed the “end call” button and didn’t answer his phone when she called back. Instead he poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat down at the computer. Shallow? Fuck you, Linds!

Justin, you really freaked me out with that email. What’s wrong with you? Maybe you should go to the baths – you can use my membership. I’m their best customer, they’ll let you in.

I don’t know what to say. “I love you, too” doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s true. I do love you. In fact I love you more than I ever have, but I also love my new life. I’m sorry if that hurts you. It’s not that I left you, I left Pittsburgh. I’m following a dream. Surely you know what that feels like. But it’s different this time. I don’t want us not to be together. There’s absolutely no chance I’m going to find a “boyfriend.” I don’t want another boyfriend; I want you. I’m not going to let you just disappear out of my life, and I’m certainly not going to kick you out of it like I did before. I’m going to fight for us this time. I’m not going anywhere.

Look, if it’ll help, why don’t you come live with me here on the weekends and then live in Pittsburgh during the week? I’d like that. I miss you. But that said, I don’t want to live together full-time. That’s never worked well for us. If you no longer want the job of running the Pittsburgh office, that’s fine. But don’t quit it just because you want to move to Philly to be with me. The thought freaks me out as much as your email did.

Take as much time as you need to think about it – even as much as it took me trying to figure out how to respond to you. If you need me to, I’ll say it again: I love you, Justin. And, yeah, I want to fuck you. Get your bat-shit ass on the next plane.

Brian’s loft was gorgeous, but Justin didn’t bother with a tour. Instead, he went straight to the bedroom and stripped. When Brian joined him, he was wide-eyed. Justin prayed it was because he still looked hot and not because Brian thought his going from the awkward car ride from the airport and straight into fuck-me mode was weird. But then he lowered his eyes from Brian’s shocked expression to the bulge in his jeans that was rapidly growing bigger.

Get undressed, Justin said. His voice was so sex-drenched and husky that he almost didn’t recognize it.

Brian’s eyes widened even more, but he pulled his t-shirt off. Justin inhaled sharply. Brian’s chest was as beautiful as always. Then his gaze lowered to watch Brian unbuckle his belt and open his fly. There again was the lovely dark hair Justin remembered, and then, after Brian shoved his jeans down and kicked them aside, there was his cock – gloriously hard, the soft skin swollen by his heartbeat. His blood. Justin made a broken sound.

They fucked face-to-face. Justin wrapped his legs around Brian’s hips just like he always did when they’d “fucked” in their clothes. But this time, Brian’s cock wasn’t just rubbing against his; it was inside him, filling him, moving with increasing speed, while Brian lunged forward with hungry kisses.

Brian didn’t last long and came with a frustrated groan, but Justin tightened his legs, encouraging him to keep going. When he came, it was again too soon. His whole body trembled, and Justin wondered if he made the same sounds and shook like that with other men. He almost asked, but it was a stupid question, and its timing would be even stupider.

Brian hadn’t been inside him long enough for him to come, but that was okay when Brian moved down and took his cock in his mouth. Just like Brian, he didn’t last long, but it was long enough for Brian to get hard again. When the fucked again, it lasted long enough to go through every delicious stage together. Brian waited to come until Justin did, and then licked Justin’s stomach clean. He fell asleep with his head resting on Justin’s chest. He could’ve slept too, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to gently run his fingers through Brian’s hair and listen to his little wheezy snores.

Forty-eight hours later he was back on a plane, feeling dazed and unsettled. Could they really do this? He knew what it was like to fall in love with a new life. Brian had showed him around his new properties and whisked him around Philly in his new BMW convertible. Justin’s neck hurt from turning it constantly from side-to-side as Brian pointed out this or that thing. Twice, Justin had cried in the bathroom. He hated Philly with a passion. It’d taken Brian away just as New York had taken him away all those years ago. He knew what it was like to watch a future unfurl like a red carpet down every street.

Could they do this? He didn’t know. Could he do this? He’d never imagined spending most of his life alone, and that’s how it would be. Only two nights a week in Brian’s bed. It would merely stoke the relentless missing. Would it be enough?

As soon as the plane landed a text binged on his phone. It was Brian.

Stop thinking, you twat. And that was it.

Justin smiled. Brian was right. Stop over-thinking things. Life would go on. Time would tell. Until then, Brian was in his arms again, and this time Justin was going to hold on tight. He had to, and he would. At least until Brian stopped loving him just he’d once stop loving Brian. Then he’d let go, and just like Brian had done all those years ago, he’d watch him fly away and wish him well.