How It's Gonna Be - Updated 1/28/2004

by jenn (jenn@thegateway.net)

Rating: NC-17
Summary: There's a stack of loose photographs like a mountain in the box under the bed. Justin wonders why he never saw them before. Then he wonders why they were kept at all.
Author Notes: I'm bored.
Archiving: No

He pulls it out because it's there. Just behind the sketch he's been looking for since he moved out over a year ago, and when his scrabbling fingers had brushed cool cardboard, he'd been surprised. There'd been nothing under this bed before.

Stupid thought--he's been gone a year, but still, it feels like his room, like no place since has. Michael's been edged out by hard-won inches, though Justin doesn't like to think of it like that. On the wall there's still a sketch of Brian, and the closet has a box of things his mother sent to make him feel more at home. Never unpacked, the tape as fresh as the day she sealed it shut.

He thinks maybe that he'll open it one day and look at the baseball he and Dad caught on his sixth birthday at the ballpark and pictures of their family at the beach. Just not today.

It's heavy--that's the first thing he notices, fingers sliding on the smooth cardboard, but short nails get purchase and he braces himself on both knees, jerking it out far enough for the top to be visible.

Not new. Another pull lets the dust ruffle slide off the top, and he feels kind of silly, sweating and straining for a box that looks older than he is. The tape's the brown-grey of too long storage and comes off with the first experimental poke.

Privacy's an outdated concept--he fucked in public before he passed his eighteenth birthday and half the city knew as much about his sexual proclivities than he did before he'd even graduated high school. There are few in his world that don't know him on sight--even fewer who don't know the details even he doesn't know, stupid fucking memory.

Still, though.

There's no permanent marker-etchings, explaining contents--just this old, worn box that maybe was in the attic before Debbie moved it in here for some reason. Water marks on the bottom. Okay. That's a reason. Turning it, he sits back on his heels and lets one hand trace the top, and if the tape comes off, it's a total accident and he'll swear it to anyone who asks.

Soft, old tissue paper, used--looks like part of someone's birthday present wrapping, silvery white and powder blue and pale yellow, edges brittle and browned with age. He pushes it aside, knowing he's off the map for being innocent, but it's been that way too long, and anyway, Deb's off with Vic doing some shopping and told him to entertain himself until she got home. Something about being too thin and needing feeding.

Not that he's ever turned down a meal in his life, so really, not a struggle.

The tissue's around his knees without a clear idea how it got there, but that's just fine. He's a little too caught up in the boxes beneath--relics of Michael's childhood, a football that makes him grin and try to imagine Mikey looking at it blankly while Brian made cracks about the shower rooms. Some silky material like a scarf, and Justin's fingers stop and linger for a minute, smooth as silk and for a time-stuttered second, he thinks he feels rough spots, old and scaled and crusting with time, but it's only a second, and the deep blue makes him smile and fold it back up, setting it aside.

Little folded papers from things like high school plays and an invitation to graduation. Flipping it open, he looks for Brian's name on instinct, Michael's on an afterthought. This imagine of Brian at eighteen in graduation robes that won't go away. Folding it up, he puts it aside and looks down, surprised to see the bottom is nothing but pictures.

Pictures. A treasure trove to Brian's number one, most determined stalker ever. Even in his head, he has to laugh. Brian really has no idea.

It's a heavy box, but he gets it up and tilts it enough to dump it on the bed. Water damage on the stuff at the bottom, sticking to the sides, and he patiently pries them loose one by one, letting them fall like wet leaves to land on the top. A glance at the door, then he sets the box aside and considers the lock. It won't stop anyone for any appreciable amount of time, but at least he'll have time to come up with a good story before they come in and ask what the hell he thinks he's doing.

Which would be kind of obvious, and so embarrassing, and he's not stopping why?

The ruined ones are a waste--smeared, blurry, choppy, with bits of cardboard and he throws those back into the box, settling on the bed once he's made enough space for himself. A few of Debbie, years younger, thirty pounds lighter, but the same bright hair and brilliant smile, and he flips one over and looks at the back. Early nineties. Wow. Another flip over to observe very blue eyeshadow and the way she winks the camera.

She's wearing spandex. Okay. Moving on.

Another picture--Vic, also different, dark hair and sunglasses, tanned from summer sun, and there's the vaguest feel of Brian around the hard mouth and too-thin body, but Brian's never been shy of cameras, and the man in the picture most definitely is, slipping off the edge like he wants to get away. Setting that one on the pillow beside Deb's, Justin sorts through the top layer. It's like watching time in motion--back and forth, with a shot of Michael in loose flannel and jeans sliding off his hips (he had a Kurt Cobain phase?) and flickers of Brian in the corners--lounging on the couch downstairs like it's a privilege to be allowed to look at him, spread on the floor with some insanely thick book and surrounded by paper, a pencil in one hand, more at home than Justin's ever seen him anywhere, anytime. Justin stops for that one, like he does for the one of Michael grinning from the side of an unknown swimming pool, pale skin already reddening from the sun, too-long dark hair falling in his eyes and all hunched shoulders and embarrassment while an unknown guy rests his head on his thigh from the lapping water.

A flicker of his wrist and it's the same year as Debbie's eyeshadow and Vic's sunglasses and Brian stretched on that floor. Sophomore, junior in college? Maybe. Makes sense, grouped together, and Justin sits that one with the rest, flicking over picture after picture, setting them by year. Nineteen ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, with Brian sharp and familiar in a suit, Debbie's arm around his shoulders, Michael tucked under his chin on an unfamiliar, carpet-smooth lawn, Vic nowhere in sight. College graduation?

A family portrait, the way that he's never seen one of Brian's parents and him. He puts that one on the pillow, continues through.

Amazing. He can't help focusing on Brian--short hair then long, sunstreaked on some beach, and Michael, who went through so many changes that Justin starts giggling, can't help it. An earring in one, and who would have thought *that*? Back again, wrapped up on the couch with Brian watching TV, and Justin can almost see Debbie sneaking into a corner to take that picture, Mikey sleeping like a kid one arm wound around Brian's waist, and Brian's chin in his hair, eyes almost-closed, lazy and satisfied as cat sleeping in the sun. Intimate.

It goes on the pillow, too, though Justin's not sure why.

More. Michael and his earring and different hair, and that guy from the pool, and it's a better picture. A different picture, couple-y, though they're not even really touching, just Michael on a lounge chair in the backyard and the guy reading beside him. So. Hmm. Tall, light brown hair, great body--God knows, no one can say Michael doesn't have a type. Flickers of Deb and Michael and then Lindsay, and God, she's like something out of a movie, golden blonde in pure summer sunlight, light dress in pale blue and green, and she and Brian look great together, like a magazine cover. Tracing it with his fingers, Justin thinks of every time he's ever sketched her. He's never got anything close to this kind of radiance.

Wonders if Debbie had her tongue firmly in her cheek when she took this one. The time period says right around the time Brian and she were doing whatever they considered dating, and Justin has to wonder what Debbie had been thinking, and then wonders if he could ever find a way to ask her.

Lindsay and a slim redhead in too much denim soon after, sharing a lawn chair and airspace, and Justin snickers and puts that one aside, too. Another of everyone in the living room around a Christmas tree, with Brian doing his best impression of bored nonchalance and Lindsay and a brunette kissing beneath the mistletoe behind him, with Michael holding some robotic thing with a remote control, and Debbie, several pounds heavier than the earlier picture had suggested she'd become, laughing at Michael's enchanted smile. Vic, pounds lighter and oddly pale, is watching the wrapping paper spread over the floor. Justin wonders who took the picture.

"Justin."

It figures, right when he's starting to spin stories in his head, that he'd be interrupted, but the time it takes to recognize the voice is just enough to start shoving everything into the box. Because Deb finding him and bitching would be bad, but Brian--well. No.

A rattle of the door. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Justin shoves the stuff on the floor into the top, wondering if the sound of crinkling paper will penetrate the door. "Jerking off."

"And I can't watch?"

Slam the top down. Start pushing. Stand up while Brian studies the door and considers his options.

And remember that the lock isn't really that good, and Justin really, really doesn't put it past Brian to push through, just because he can.

Struggling to his feet, he kicks at the box, and shit, it's heavy, but at least it moves, and Justin keeps pushing while the door knob moves ominously. He's five seconds from being busted. Four. Three. Two.

"Coming!" Up, over the bed. Almost to the door.

"I suppose at your age, you can't help yourself."

Oh fuck you, Brian.

Pulling it open, Justin tries his best smile. Not that it'll work or anything. "Why are you here?"

As usual, Brian pushes past him, and Justin sighs, leaning against the door to shut it tight. "Looking for Deb."

Liar. "Looking for me."

So he pushes. He's known for it.

"Considering you were bitching how we never go anywhere anymore, I thought you'd be interested in dinner. But don't let me stop you from a night of self-entertainment." Justin watches Brian glancing around the room briefly--maybe remembering things Justin doesn't, or hell, things he does. The mirror, at the pictures of Brian and Michael in high school. Michael's bed, where Justin fucked Brian once and Michael never finished a handjob. That bed. Where the pillow still has those pictures.

Fuck.

Brian's eyebrows raise when Justin casually throws himself onto the comforter, leaning into the pillow. "What's up with you?"

Oh nothing. Just paranoid. "You said something about dinner?"

There's a second where Justin's pretty sure Brian's going to snap something out--he's been like that since he got fired. Not at Justin, specifically--they're still in that tentative relationship stage where they tend to try and avoid argument by repression--but Justin figures that Brian's going to get over it eventually. Especially when Brian figures out it *is* a relationship thing. But at other people? Oh yeah. A guy that bumped into them at Babylon the other night, and here Justin thought Brian *liked* it when hot guys wearing only a jock strap and a smile rubbed up against him. The new waiter at the diner who didn't bring the coffee fast enough. Emmett--but then again, Brian stopped doing that, and Justin doesn't think it's sympathy, even if Brian so lost his mind as to try out the emotion for size. Emmett's sheer lack of reaction's just deflating. No Ted to harass, no Mikey to tease.

Jesus, no wonder Brian's looking for him. There's no one else to annoy.

At least, that's what Brian would say.

Justin takes a second to stop panicking and appreciate what he's seeing. Jeans. The ones that have been around forever, so soft that Justin would sleep on them if he could--has, in fact, since the day he moved out of the loft, they went with him, completely by accident in a variety of ways that include passive aggressive denial. They came back when he did, not a minute before, though Brian's never commented except to start wearing them again, which makes him kind of want to ask and then again, maybe not. White shirt, hastily buttoned. Looks vaguely like he just finished having a really good orgasm, but Brian can look like that while eating toast, so that doesn't prove anything. Automatically, Justin compares and contrasts the eighteen-nineteen-twenty year old to the one before him.

There's something--a flash of Brian and Michael on that couch, the softness of Brian's mouth in Michael's hair--but it vanishes with the jolt of knees at the foot of the bed, making the old mattress creak. Not the just-fucked look, then, but the wanting to fuck look. They're easy to mistake, so interchangeable.

"You missed me."

Brian snickers but doesn't deny it, covering the distance up the bed slow and easy, a deliberate drag along Justin's body. Fingers pushing his shirt up when Brian straddles his hips and looks down at him like he's studying him for a layout; like he's a client who he wants to get; like he's a fuck that he's been tracking all night.

Justin will never admit that he likes that, missed it once. Tricks get this look--all-new, different, Brian evaluating and considering and wanting, and he got it the first night, and if there's one thing he really envies every man Brian fucks, it's that. Before he left, he never saw it. After, now, it flicks up at random moments, like this, and he's still not sure what it means. He's not a trick, hasn't ever been, not that first night, not that first fuck, no matter what Brian says, but--yeah, he gets why people fall over themselves to fuck Brian, always has. Brian makes you feel like you're the only person in the universe he's ever wanted, even if it's only for the time it takes to come.

Sometimes, Justin even lets himself believe it. Like now, when Brian kisses him, light and friendly, like he's not riding his body and making him so hard his thighs ache from holding still. "Maybe."

Justin breathes out and thinks of the fact he's hiding pictures under his shoulders and can't really start anything. His cock disagrees, and in a contest, it's going to win without some serious counteraction *right now*.

"You said dinner."

Brian looks at him like he's speaking a foreign language. Justin can't be sure he's not--his mind's going offline at an alarming rate. Lazy grinding--really, just Brian being Brian, he does this in public in front of Debbie, against a wall in Babylon, when they're standing not three feet away from the family, carrying on conversation and laughing at Mikey's blush. It's still fucking hot.

It's just sex, except sex is pretty much the universe, here and now, and there's a really good reason he needs to stop this. He thinks.

"Dinner." In English. He hopes. "I--Debbie--" Coming home. Shopping? Later. Much later.

"Isn't here." Another kiss, more focused. Playing. With intent. Never good. Too good. He has to think in complete sentences at least. Another slow grind, and Jesus, Brian, who knows his body better than anyone ever has or ever will, but then, who the hell could be surprised by that? Brian had installed half the buttons himself, learned the rest the old fashioned way, knows how to play them all.

Justin's jeans are unbuttoned while he's still trying to remember the concept of *bad idea*, and he gives up even that when they're pulled down, just barely enough, hands on his hips to hold him still, and Brian goes down without even a breath, Jesus, like there's nothing to it, and no one gives head like Brian Kinney, no one makes it look natural and classy and dirty at the same time, like they could be in the middle of a hotel or in an alley or even in the quiet spare bedroom of a quaint old house.

No one else, he wants to say, but Justin can't breathe and doesn't want to talk, can't imagine explaining what this does to him now. It's all about the feeling, the way Brian's hair slips between his fingers and the way that mouth feels. Brian, who pulls off and doesn't laugh when Justin moans in protest, jeans jerked down to his knees, trapping his legs so he can't even get enough purchase to push up, pushing his knees apart just that right amount, ducking beneath to suck his balls, tongue this vicious, careless thing that sends off light behind his eyes.

Sex, which isn't so important except when it is, and he'd *missed* this, hadn't even known it until he came back to Brian, what he'd lost somewhere along the way. There'd been so much regret for so many things, Jesus *Christ*, enough to last five lifetimes and counting, but when Brian fucked him in his office, against that desk, eyes open wide on the ceiling and chanting Brian's name like a prayer, this is what Justin knew he regretted missing most. Not just the sex, not just the feelings, but the way Brian made sex utterly real. Making love with Ethan had been entirely different, all soft light and music and dazement and almost-intoxication, but he never made Justin feel this raw, this exposed, this uninhibited. That they could do anything, *anything*, private and public, anywhere and everywhere, and it wouldn't matter, no one else mattered, nothing else mattered but what they did, what they could do to each other.

He's aching and sweating and almost shaking, twisting his fingers tighter in Brian's hair and murmuring something that may be words and Brian moves, thank God, but slow, so fucking slow, taking him this time by inches.

"Jesus Christ, don't you two ever *stop*?"

Justin thinks about shame and the open door and mother figures in a theoretical sort of way and then gives it up and closes his eyes. Brian sucks out even the memory of it and the world's not even close to being important when he can have this, when they can do this, when he can come and scream his voice out if he wants and not give a shit who hears him.

Which he does, and he doesn't even realize he hasn't let go until Brian kisses him, slow, open-mouthed and bringing him down. Back. Grounding. Because no matter how much it's all about sex, it's also about this. The fine difference between fucking the person you love and loving the person you fuck.

How Brian can be both at the same time.

Opening his eyes, Justin considers his current state. "Tell me I imagined Debbie."

"You should be worried if you thought you were imagining Debbie during sex." Brian's grinning at him, rolling off and onto the bed. Indecent sprawl of a long body, and Justin wonders of Brian's in the same general vicinity of awkward. "She shut the door," Brian adds helpfully. Thank you, Brian.

"Jesus Christ."

"That's what she said."

Fucking smug bastard.

Justin reaches for his jeans, then reconsiders. The door's closed, Debbie knows what they are doing, and delaying the inevitable is always a plus. Rolling on his side, he watches Brian watch him.

There's this part, too. Strangers, acquaintances, friends, lovers, they've run the gamut and back again, but this is always the one place Justin knows where he stand, always has. Emotional rollercoasters, mental fuckups by the score, but he knew, always knew, that Brian wanted him like he didn't, had never wanted anyone else.

The creaking sound of paper makes Justin pause, and he reaches up behind himself casually and picks up the pillow, dropping it on top of the pile before sitting up and pulling off his shirt.

He has a line that he likes to use at these times, too. "Fuck me."

And it always works.

It's long after dinner before Justin remembers what he left upstairs. Intoxicated with way too much of Vic's really good wine, lulled by pasta and garlic bread, Vic and Brian discussing something that he can't focus on. Stretched out on the couch with Brian touching his hair every so often. It's heady. It's strangely normal. He's been a zip code or two away from normal for so long that he's not sure he can evaluate the moment objectively. And he really doesn't care. It's good enough.

"Ready to go?"

Brian leaves it up to him--it's redux from the beginning, but in a different way. Justin knows he's always welcome to go home with Brian. The implied freedom of it, that he can say no, doesn't mean he uses the option often. Or, well, ever, if he can help it.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Debbie smirk and turns his head away. It's not like she saw--much.

"Sure. I need to grab my bag from upstairs. Hold on." It's hard to move, but he manages, taking the stairs slow because Debbie's pasta's heavy stuff and he's sleepy and weirdly wired. Like he could sleep and dance all night at the same time. Pushing the bedroom door open, he grabs his backpack from where he dropped it by the door, then glances at the bed he and Brian left only a couple of hours before.

Neat and tidy, as he left it before hurrying downstairs, good, no one else has been in here. Ducking a hand under the pillow, he pulls out the pictures and puts them carefully in his sketchbook, tucking it at the bottom. Zipping it up, he thinks for a second on just how *weird* he's acting about this--just ask Debbie, he thinks, even though he knows he won't. Something about the box, stuck water-marked under the bed, tweaks him in a vague, alarm-sounding way. Instinct over reason, which he's gotten good at recognizing, ever since one long-ago night that he can't even remember the right way. The way he knows how far to push Brian and then back off.

It's been a useful sort of thing to have around, once he started *listening*.

Downstairs, Debbie and Brian are talking--possibly about future employment opportunities or something like that, since the it's the topic du jour and she can't let anything go. She's been riding Brian about getting a new job. Brian's watching with a kind of distant curiosity, like she's telling him he should take up sky-diving and he's not entirely sure why. He tuned you out five minutes ago, Deb, Justin wants to tell her. Just let it go. He's not doing a thing until he's good and ready, he never does.

The arm around his shoulders makes him grin, and he leans into Deb's kiss, wondering if telling her would make her understand. It's always going to be on his terms, and you have to wait until he knows what those are. But it's worth waiting for.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

Justin thinks Debbie is worried, but then again, she's always worried. With Michael off God knows where and Ben doing the zen patience thing with a noticeable increase in workouts and cold showers, Ted detoxing in a serious way, Emmett barely speaking to anyone, she's in the habit. Like everyone, she doesn't ask, though Justin's thought the words have been on the tip of her tongue, waiting for an excuse. And sometimes, Justin thinks his answer's just as close, but--he doesn't want to explain why it took him less than a month and a half to switch beds and God knows, Brian doesn't want to explain why Justin is back there, either. If Brian's ever said a word, it was to Michael, and from the puzzled looks he gets from the man, half-resentful, half-curious, Justin's pretty sure he doesn't know either.

That, or Brian is as lost as everyone else is.

Kind of comforting. Let Brian be on the ground with mortals for a change.

"I guess dinner is off," Justin says as he looks at the rental car that Brian, in an act defying credit damage and lack of significant liquid income, had somehow picked up. Five credit cards maxed, right, but Justin knows about card six, seven, and eight. The ones making utility payments and keeping food around when Brian considers the concept of eating as more than something that other people do to get through the day. Not to mention whatever crap he buys when he's fucking his way through the rest of Pittsburgh, and if his goal is to see if he can actually say that he's fucked everyone in the city, well, he's damn well on his way to achieving it.

Justin slides a careful arm around Brian and feels the fingers against his shoulder brush, a deliberate and understated caress. For a man who fucks on Babylon's dance floor and kisses Michael in the middle of a comic shop in broad daylight, he can get strange about that sort of thing.

"You're kidding. You can't possibly be hungry still."

Given a couple of hours? Hell yes. Justin is sure he hasn't reached his full growth, please God, one more inch, is that so much to ask? And no, not his cock, though that would be great, too. Craning his neck, he sees Brian smirk down at him and shakes his head, then grins. He can't help it.

"Out?" Brian shrugs, which is so close to a no that Justin interprets and goes with it. "Movie? Sit really still so I can draw you?"

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Try again."

"Fuck until I pass out?"

He never sees the kiss coming--fast and too short, leaving an afterburn like his skin's been brushed by a live wire. "Better."

There's a bulletin board in the wallspace Daphne gave him--if he's honest, it's more like a few walls of space, and he still isn't entirely happy that the Matt Damon poster was sacrificed for the sake of art. Still, Daphne had been stoic about it, and sometimes, he almost feels at home.

Only sometimes, though, and now, sometimes is elusive, like sleep and emotional stability, but really, it wasn't like he has a life to worry about.

That's why at eight in the morning, with Daph at school and Brian doing whatever he does these days, he's sitting here pinning up these pictures.

It's--something.

Other people's pictures are boring. He's always thought so, except these aren't other people's. These are of his family, closer than the ones in blood in some ways, and this is the history he wasn't around to see or feel. The subtext behind a dozen conversations he doesn't understand, maybe won't ever understand. It's not being young--Michael can look at him like he's ten and still riding a bicycle to elementary school, but he hasn't been young since he first really *got* what he was, and that was a long time before he ever stepped one sneakered foot on Liberty Avenue.

It's being--being himself. Being Brian's not-trick and Debbie's surrogate son, Emmett and Ted's tolerated acquaintance and Michael's cross to bear, and the GLC poster boy for the abused and innocent gay teenager living in the dangerous wilds of straight America. Wow, he's not bitter, is he?.

Poor, fragile little Justin, be careful, he might shatter, and it's truer than he likes to admit. Once upon a time, if he's honest with himself (and now, he tries, he does, he's got to), he taught them how to define him and conditioned them to accept it.

He almost rips the picture putting it up. Unsurprisingly, it's Brian and Michael.

Oh-kay, and to think he'd thought he was totally over that bit of non-history.

The board's big--Daph got it for him a few days after he showed up on her doorstep, and he's still not sure what she meant to say with it. It scares him that she might have had *no reason at all*, and that he's spent way too much time obsessing over her motives. Maybe she liked it and thought he would to. Maybe it was on sale. Maybe she found it in her car by magic and was told by a leprechaun to bring it to him, because one day, he'd be using it to psuedo-stalk some history. Maybe she was thinking he'd pin pictures of Ethan up on it to throw things at.

Maybe he needs to stop overthinking.

He's not using pushpins, just the clay-stuff that Daph uses on the walls to hang up light posters. Deb looks marvelous and Vic looks suitably impressive, and the one of Lindsay and Brian's just too damn good, he's got to get that one blown up for Gus one day, once he explains, oh, where he got it and how and right, he won't be doing it today. Or anytime soon. Brian, all trendy messy hair, streaked from the sun, looking impossibly beautiful and more remote than anything human could possibly be.

Michael and the boyfriend in the pool, when Michael was barely older than Justin is now.

"I see chain smoking's becoming the new blue." Daphne really hasn't gotten over the entire thing with the campaign, and why did he tell her again? Turning around, he watches her lean into the doorway, watching him with raised eyebrows and a quirked smile. She's way too cheerful for eight in the morning.

"Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

"Canceled. Whatcha doing?" She's already moving, dropping down beside him, and Justin fights the urge to cover the pictures or whip them away from sight. They were going on a bulletin board, after all, not exactly privacy central. "Jesus, he's hot. I don't get it. He doesn't even try."

Justin guesses she's talking about Brian. In no sane universe does anyone look at Michael and think, hot. Cute, yes, though Justin's perfectly willing to admit he's not objective and doesn't plan on being anytime soon. Glazed eyes meet his, and Justin grins, watching her shake herself out of the stupor and settle on her heels.

"Putting up pictures." Because he does this all the time. Uh huh. He gets a sharp look. Bullshitting Daphne's hard at the best of times--she knows what everyone else does and then, everything they don't. Like he threw up on her shoes in fifth grade and his thing for Nickelodeon is only getting worse as he gets older and the fact that he owns the entire original Wonder Woman television series on bootleg video tapes in the closet. High quality, too. Cost a half a paycheck on ebay.

She knows him the way only a best friend can. She knows when he's been tricking and when he's not sleeping and regular as clockwork, goes with him to the doctor to get tested every six months and does it herself without comment.

She knows why right now, they've been going every month.

She knows every one of a thousand reasons he could have left Brian and the one reason he did. And she knows the one reason he left Ethan that was a thousand reasons in the end.

Taking a deep breath, Justin sits back. "It's just pictures. Of--"

"Brian and the gang. Got that." He can feel her eyes on them, studying them with the objective eye of an acquaintance. "College?"

Good guess. "Yeah. I just--liked them." Completely not the entire truth, but she probably knows that.

She grins, nodding as her eyes travel down. "Who's the hottie in the black speedo?"

And that's the question. Justin shrugs. "One of Mikey's exes?"

"He really has a type, doesn't he?"

This is why Justin loves her. Leaning back on one arm, Justin studies the picture. "It was stupid. A box in my--old bedroom. I got them from this pile and smuggled them out."

"What is it, the Bluebeard box?" Seeing him stare at her, she shrugs. "You know. Where Brian and Debbie hide the pictures of the unsuitable Michael exes they killed."

The way she thinks sometimes. It blows his mind. "That fairytale is in no way applicable to this situation."

"Fable. If you squint, it totally works. Get up and let's get some breakfast. You look like death warmed over."

Thanks a lot. He is hungry, though--second dinner is for shit when you work off most of it for most of the night and how does Brian get up at seven anyway? Justin remembers living with him vividly, and while Brian had still gotten up on time every day, it'd never been like this. Like sleep was something to be escaped, not curled into and clutched.

Then again, that could be Justin, who has no life anymore. Or future. Or prospects of getting one. Besides a comic book with a man who isn't even here, and God, no fucking *wonder* he's obsessed with perfectly ordinary boxes under beds. He doesn't have anything else to *do*.

"Come on." Her hand's under his elbow, pulling him up from numb knees. "I'm buying."

He tries to pull away, stung, but there's something to be said for a girl who takes self-defense classes three times a week. Hell of a grip. "I can pay."

"I know. I just want to. Take a shower, get changed, and I'll tell you about my bad date last night."

Daphne has a life. This could be interesting. "How bad?"

Daphne rolls her eyes. "Legendary. Let's get going."

"...and that's when he said he was going to clown school, but he was hoping I'd wait for him."

Justin blinks up from the stack of butchered pancakes. She looks amused, like Brian, like everyone seems to these days. "I was listening."

"You were committing manslaughter on breakfast." A pause, and Justin sighs, looking down at the mess of rough triangles, artistically trickled in syrup. There's a sense-memory of watching *Close Encounters of the Third Kind* with his mom when he was a kid. Should be glad there weren't any mashed potatoes in the mix. "Want to talk now or is the repression thing working out pretty well?"

"There's nothing to talk about." Because there really isn't. Stockwell is licking his wounds--or himself, and wow, there goes any hope of appetite for the next year or so--school's gone, Michael's one call home hasn't been repeated, and Emmett's a mess. And Jesus, Brian.... "Literally. Nothing."

He can feel her watching him across the table, like maybe she knows what he's thinking. "IFA?"

"Out of the question." And what school would accept him with this on his record? Give up everything, right--he and Ethan had talked about that once; romantic, silly images of garret apartments and Paris in springtime, selling art to the tourists. Lots of artists did that once upon a time. Ramen noodles and barely making rent. Making love on shitty beds. Cold water showers.

What was he *thinking*? He can't stand a sheet count below three hundred. And he can't stand Ramen. "Justin. Talk to me."

"There isn't anything." Restless everywhere under his skin. This need to do something, but there's nothing to do. "I--don't know."

Reaching across the table, her hand covers his, long fingers stroking lightly. "Have you talked to Brian?"

Okay, that's funny. "Brian's--I don't know." He catches her frown from the corner of his eye. "No, not like that. It's not him and me--at least, not mostly. It's--I don't even know how to put it. He--" Isn't himself. Is himself, in a really weird, completely the wrong universe way. "It's like he went fatalist or something, and he's just *not*. I--I want--" My life back. Before Stockwell fucked with it, before Ethan fucked with it, and wow, that puts him right back in the single most miserable period of his life, and really, he can't possibly be remembering *that* fondly. He isn't that much of a revisionist. "I have no fucking clue."

Daphne's expression is puzzled. "So what, exactly, is making you crazy?"

"I don't know what to do." There. He said it. And it's not really freeing at all--shit, he's watched way too much Lifetime TV with Emmett. "Everything--when Stockwell went down, I thought--things will work themselves out. Somehow." Jesus, that sounds even worse. "That--I don't know. That Vance would give Brian his job back and IFA would say, wow, Taylor, you were so right...." Okay, he hadn't believed that, he *couldn't* have. "I'm not seventeen anymore, Daph. I don't--"

"Jump without thinking? Sure you do. You just think now you know what you'll land in." Bitch. He watches her pick up a bagel, studying it with the kind of concentration he's used to seeing her focus on boybands and music videos. "You can still work on the comic, though."

"I'm not the writer." He can't even imagine trying. "Michael did that." To think he'd ever, ever thought he'd miss Michael. One sneer, one condescending look, and yeah, he *is* bored, he's getting nostalgic about *that* and he swears, if Michael returns safe, sound, and unindicted for felony kidnapping, he'll never ever make another crack about Captain Astro's tights again.

The waitress comes by, filling his coffee cup without comment, and Justin almost snarls at her bright smile. Thank God Debbie isn't here--she'd kick his ass. He's been a waiter, he knows how to be nice. Looking up, he tries a smile that's returned before she walks away, greeting someone at the door, and Justin frowns as the man stops to talk.

Tall. A vague resemblance to David, come to think, and Justin blinks the memory away. Dark hair, cut shorter. Dark eyes. All over--

Oh.

"Justin?"

He's--staring. He can't help it. The guy looks back--not someone who doesn't pay attention to his surroundings, either. Justin feels the visual appraisal like a touch. He's used to it--hell, you can't *not* get used to it--but this isn't Babylon, a bar, but Liberty Diner in the middle of the morning. It's like Brian, all that look of evaluation, consideration, but just that touch off that sets Justin's teeth on edge.

Again, that thing with instinct has been really, really useful. You know, when he listens. He's listening now.

"Justin?" A hand on his elbow shakes him back, but Justin thinks he smells chlorine and his fingers itch for his sketchbook. Visual memory's all well and good, but he'd like confirmation on paper. "Justin?"

Looking away, Justin focuses on his coffee, trying to figure out what to say. "Okay, you believe in coincidence?"

"I believe in alien abduction and Mysterious Marilyn, who by the way, was totally right about my last ex, in case you're curious. What's with you?"

Justin keeps his gaze on his coffee, letting peripheral vision do the work for him. The guy finally looks away--Justin didn't need to see that to feel the lift in regard. "Look at the guy at the bar. Tell me what you see."

He can almost *see* her eyebrows going up, but the sound of her shifting tells him she's looking. "Don't be obvious."

"Yes, psuedo-hustler, I'd hate to do less well than *you* did in your forays into surveillance," she mutters, and Justin holds back a laugh with difficulty. A few long seconds pass, and Justin thinks, okay, he was wrong. He had to be. Because weird timing happens all the time, all ways, all kinds, but hell, this would be a topper to them all. "Jesus. Justin. Is that--"

Oh crap. And to think he'd said he was bored.

"I'm not imagining it." Picking up the cup, Justin takes a drink. "It's that guy in the picture."

"Uh huh. Man, they only get better as they get older, don't they?"

Trust Daphne for that. Justin swallows hard, trying not to laugh. "Stop it."

She grins back, completely shameless. "I can look, even if touch is pretty much impossible. That's--weird. Like fate."

"Fate. Coincidence." Weird. Too weird. Sipping the coffee, Justin ignores the fact he forgot to add cream or sugar. This insane desire to get up and go introduce himself, but something holds him back. Good sense, maybe. Explaining this would be an exercise in freakishness, that too.

But mostly, that look. That look, that instinct that wants him to duck and get away from the attention, and it's the one thing he's never, ever ignored. He's not Brian--he doesn't have the height, the weight, the age, or the reputation. Brian can trick with anyone and be relatively sure he'll be okay. Justin's never believed the same was true for him.

"Let's get out of here." Ignoring Daphne getting her purse, he pulls out a twenty, dropping it on the table. He's not even aware he's shaking a little, this really great reminder of eighteen and rehab, but Daphne's arm goes around him so casually that he doesn't think anyone even notices his stumble. It's hard to walk by the stool--right back front and center, and Jesus, it's Brian all over again and not at all, want like heat on his skin, and he wants *out*. Now.

She doesn't let go when they get outside, not until they're ten paces down the sidewalk, and Justin comes to a stop, drawing in a slow breath, going through every relaxation technique he's ever learned.

"Justin, you okay?" She's moving away, and there's an unreasonable spurt of panic--she can't leave him here, just can't--but she's whistling for a taxi, and he watches as one comes down, slowing at the curb. "Come on."

"I don't--" Need to be somewhere quiet, private, and safe? Stupid to even try to protest when she's pulling him to the car, and he climbs inside, not even trying to fight her off. "Daph--"

"Where to?" The driver's green eyes are just visible in the rearview mirror. Justin feels himself draw back and fights the sudden desire to hit something.

Daphne looks at him for an eternal minute, and Justin thinks he can actually see the address written in her eyes. "Don't you dare...."

His current luck says that Brian won't be home. Or will be home, which has a high percentile of a trick being there, and Justin doesn't think he's up to watching or participating. Or doing anything but wondering, what the *hell* just happened?

But some things remain the same. Whatever instinct that Brian seems to have about Justin is in force, and he's alone, doing something on the computer with that studied look of concentration that, despite everything else, makes Justin curious as hell.

"Brian?" Daphne pulls the door open farther, stepping inside and pulling Justin in with her. He's not fighting her. He's not ten. So what if he likes to walk slowly?

Brian stands up, mild curiosity and a little smile, but Justin's not so out of it he doesn't miss the fact that Brian locked his screensaver on before he stepped away from the computer. The smile fades after a few brief seconds, and Justin wonders what he looks like. "What happened?"

"Panic attack," Daphne says simply, and Justin really doesn't like the way Brian tenses. "I don't have--"

"Valium in the cabinet over the refrigerator, one quarter tablet. Sit down."

It's a command, and Justin used to think he was immune to them. Usually, he thought that well away from Brian's influence. There's a really rebellious thought of just sitting on the floor to be contrary, but--but--

But it's been a really *long* time since he had one of these. Taking a careful breath, he drops down on the old couch that Brian had exiled months ago to storage, brought back to utilization with the entire selling of worldly goods. It smells faintly of dust, almost enough to make him sneeze, and an allergy attack right now would be the capper to a hellacious morning.

"What happened?"

Across the room, Justin sees Daphne's mouth open, and that would be--bad. "Nothing." Right, that's not going to cut it. "Nothing serious. I just--"

"Someone asked about the GLC thing with Stockwell."

Justin looks up in shock, but Daphne's face is hidden by the cabinet door. She blushes when she lies.

Brian frowns. "Who?"

"Dunno." That's a vague kind of truth, and Justin takes a breath, surprised to realize he's relaxed. Fuck Daphne's instincts. Fuck his own, for that matter. "Could we not talk about it?" We're so good at it.

He thinks for a second that Brian's not going to let it pass, but thank God and Brian's defensive strategies, habit takes over. He won't ask, but it's a close thing. "You want something to drink?"

"Do you have anything without an alcohol content?" He does his best, sneaking in things when he doesn't think Brian notices. But apparently, anything will do as a mixer in a pinch.

"Funny."

A glass is shoved in his hand, along with the tablet. Justin ignores the pill, taking a drink of the juice, closing his eyes briefly, but the man stares back at him, from a picture, from the diner. A little shiver with memory, and when he opens his eyes, Brian is crouching in front of him. Worried, definitely.

"Tell me."

A second passes, then another, and Justin makes a fist around the pill and looks back. He doesn't want to talk about this--can't even begin to explain, doesn't even want to try. Of all the fucking times for Brian to be trying to get in touch with his communicative side....

"I gotta run, Justin."

Daph's an icebreaker and already half-way to the door--probably aware she'll be Brian's next object of scrutiny and doesn't want to deal. Good for her. He almost envies her the freedom to leave, but only waves, mouthing a thank-you when Brian isn't looking. The look he gets back tells him he's going to have some serious explaining to do.

It's delaying the inevitable. It's a nice idea to consider trying out sexual distraction, but he just doesn't think that this is one of those times it's going to work.

When the loft door closes, Justin takes a careful breath and considers how to handle it. "I'm sorry. Just tired."

"You haven't been sleeping very well."

This from someone who runs on four hours a night at most is kind of funny. Justin bites back the instinct to laugh, taking another drink. "I'm just--."

"Have you contacted IFA yet?"

Justin shuts his eyes. "For what? I wouldn't go back if they begged me." It's almost a lie, except--except the memory of the dean's office is too vivid. He's compromised for everyone for so damn long, and Ethan burned out the desire to even try anymore. He has to damn well stand somewhere. Brian gets all the compromise left in him. IFA is just out of luck.

"You don't mean that."

"You'd go crawling to Vance?" He's actually wondered about that--looking up, he sees the thoughtful look on Brian's face. "Would you?"

"I don't crawl."

"Same difference. Would you? If he asked?"

Brian would have once, he thinks. Pride is pride, but there's income, Versace, and Prada to be thought of. Gus. And more than those things, the drive beneath the skin, the one thing that no one in Brian's family could have given him, that need not only to succeed, but be great doing it. And the need to *do* something. Brian *does* things. Marking time isn't him at all.

But that was before. Brian's come out on the other side of everything. He's still feeling his way.

Familiar. There's a hospital room that reminds Justin a lot of that moment.

"I don't know."

Justin nods slowly. "Yeah."

And like always, the moment's broken, and Justin leans back when Brian stands up, restless everywhere. "Ben called."

Straightening, Justin refuses to feel hope. "Michael?"

"Fine. Something about a scratch on the hood of the car. Fucking thing will need to be detailed when it gets back. God alone knows what Hunter's done with it."

Justin tries not to smile. "Think Mikey lets Hunter drive?"

Brian isn't amused. "I'll have his balls."

"Where are they?"

Brian shrugs. So Michael hadn't told, which is a good indicator that this wasn't an announcement of a homecoming. Justin doesn't let himself react at all. "Ben's--"

"Stoic?"

"Wired. Between the store and classes and police questioning, he's strung too thin." Brian ducks into the refrigerator, leaving Justin with his thoughts. "He's having problems with Mikey's inventory organization. Can't find anything."

"Publisher first, then pilot issue date," Justin answers, sipping his juice. "He's a purist. The older good stuff gets the best shelf space. Newer stuff, upper shelves."

He's aware suddenly of Brian looking at him, thoughtful again. No, not right. Measuring. "Supply delivery dates?"

"Wednesdays and Saturdays, early morning." Seeing Brian's surprise, Justin shrugs. "It's the only time we had to work on Rage sometimes, with my class schedule and other commitments." Ethan. You. But mostly Ethan. "I got used to helping out. Michael couldn't work when everything was a mess." Anal retentive ass sometimes, and Justin knows, *knows* the bastard got off making him lug those damned boxes around.

"Huh. Accounts?"

"He had Ted auditing, but he keeps meticulous records. It's his baby. Why are you so curious? Taking notes for Ben?"

Justin's completely thrown by Brian's smile. *That* one, and usually, it means sex, which makes Justin wonder, since when exactly have office supply discussions become a kink? He's not objecting--hell, if he'd known, a major in business might have turned up in his college curriculum after all. "Something like that. How are you feeling?"

Hot. Justin blinks, trying to tear his gaze from Brian's mouth. It's not easy. There's an entire fantasy series devoted to just Brian's mouth and a hotel room in Venice, but-- "Fine. I--"

"Get your coat."

No, wait.... "What?"

"Ben's having a very civilized nervous breakdown at the comic shop." The smile widens, like it always does when Brian starts rearranging everyone's lives to suit himself. Manipulative bastard--except, okay, what is he doing, exactly? "Let's go help him out."

There's nothing that kills sex like discussing dry numbers, but Brian's doing his best impression of utter absorbed attention, which is suspicious in itself, and Justin can tell it's making Ben nervous. Because this--this is a comic shop. In no normal world does Brian look like he's getting a relatively good blowjob while Ben drones on about supply costs.

Ben's made a mess of the storeroom, though--Justin finally wanders off, leaving the two to talk in numerical code while he shuffles through. X-Men mix and match, Hellblazer left alone beside a pile of low-end Marvels, and Ultimate Spiderman is in danger of being lost inside the DC section. Justin knows shit about the comic industry, but crossing the streams is wrong on any level.

Taking a few minutes, Justin wanders through. He has to admit, Michael's doing a hell of a lot better than anyone could have possibly guessed. The once half-empty shelves near the far end are starting to fill with the Japanese imports. Graphic novels, still in plastic and protected in carefully sealed boxes--Justin remembers Michael going over the newsletters from conventions to find out what was hot, painstakingly highlighting what seemed interesting enough to investigate further.

The supply area's just--Justin winces, trying not to imagine Michael's face. Out of half of everything. Ben doesn't know what to order, of course, but the comic shop was Michael's sanctuary, home, best friend, other half. He knew what was needed like he knew how to breathe, instinct, no thought.

"Justin." Putting down the remaining few boxes of plastic covers, Justin turns to see Ben looking at him expectantly. Okay, what? Brian looks--smug. Satisfied. Frighteningly hot, because honest to God, nothing is hotter than Brian Kinney when he's winning.

Winning what, Justin's not sure, but-- "Yeah?"

"I was thinking about--look, would you be interested in manning the shop for a while?"

And imagine that, Brian had a strategy. Who saw this one coming? And dammit, he should have, but--Justin stops at the doorway, watching the two men watch him with every sign of interest in his least word.

"I don't know anything about--comic books." Completely ignore the fact he's writing one. Ben's expression doesn't change. "I don't know anything--Ben, you've got to be kidding. Michael will kill us both. Or at least me--he *likes* you."

Ben shook his head, smile widening. "I know shit about the business. Michael did all the work. Look, it'll only be for a little while, until Michael comes home. I can't--" Ben stops short, something crossing his face that's too close to pain for Justin to look on, and Justin jerks his gaze to Brian.

"Can I have a minute with Brian, Ben?"

Brian's expression doesn't change--but then, Brian's always a little less impressed with his temper tantrums than anyone else. It's frustrating. Ben glances between the two of them, and damned if the ass doesn't grin before nodding and picking up the styrofoam cup of coffee at his elbow, the bell ringing merrily as he wanders out.

"What are you doing?"

Both elbows on the counter, Brian's the picture of assumed innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Bullshit. You set me up. What--"

"You need something to do." There's a scary kind of surety in his voice that makes Justin wince--and he'd thought Brian hadn't noticed how he felt. "You're being a princess about IFA--"

"You ass, I have reason--"

"And the store needs to stay open. Ben can't do it--he's killing himself trying. Everyone wins."

Michael's store. Justin doesn't let his mouth tighten--a corvette and a store and God knows what else. "You do it."

Both eyebrows rise. "You're kidding."

"You know more about it than I do. And you have an applicable major. And--"

"No."

No discussion, right. Justin leans into the doorway, trying to work out what exactly just happened. He's--got a job. Somehow. Here. And--Justin sighs. "Mikey'll hate it."

"Mikey will like being solvent. That's assuming we're not visiting him in Attica or wherever the hell they send kidnappers these days."

Ouch.

"Who says I'll visit?"

Brian smirks and doesn't answer. Another sigh--he's getting way too comfortable with those--Justin crosses to the counter, leaning against it. Brian shifts close enough for their foreheads to touch. "Do it. Stockwell's over. You need to find out what you want to do now."

"I was thinking of selling my art on the street corner."

"How ridiculously romantic of you." A brushed kiss, and Justin tilts his head up, catching Brian's smile on his mouth. "It'll help Ben."

"And you're being really, really altruistic for someone running one seventeen in debt."

"One sixteen four-forty eight." Brian bites once, hard enough for Justin to catch his breath, then backs off. "Go over the details with Ben. I'll bring lunch by."

That's a nice thought. They've never fucked in the storeroom. Mikey's never out of it long enough. But-- "Wait. I didn't say yes."

Brian grins from the door--his answer, apparently, is the merry ringing of the bell.

Justin stares around the dusty, comic-book stuffed room, a little bemused. He remembers this feeling. Right after he dropped acid that one time.

"Justin?"

Looking up at Ben's hopeful expression, Justin blinks. Ben's too vivid to be part of an acid trip, and anyway, he really doesn't remember taking anything today. This is actually happening. "I'm in. Let's talk pay."

Six and a half hours, one storeroom quickie, and a bag of peanut butter cups later, Justin shut down the store and breathed out in relief. There's still stuff he needs to do--look over the account books, do some inventory to see what's missing, start unpacking those endless numbers of boxes multiplying like speed-addled rabbits in the back of the storeroom--but hell if he's staying in there for one more *second* if he can help it.

Justin Taylor, artist, former IFA student, gay rights activist, and surely an absolute bastion of coolness--a comic book geek. Not just any kind, but the one that rules them all, the proud supplier of the masses.

My God, thinking like this will get him no where fast. Pulling his coat closer, he looks up to see Brian leaning casually into the side of his rental--all slick leather, black silk turtleneck, and radiating sex like a beacon for gay men everywhere to come worship. Ultrafocused, like the entire street's this blurry place of not quite reality. Flipping through--of all Godforsaken things--Superman 226.

He looks bored and also, like he has no idea what he's reading, but he's Michael's best friend, which should, in a fair world, raise his geekiness quotient, since he actually *does* know comics. But then, Brian could probably make geekery sexy, and Justin leans into the door, wondering if Brian even knows he's here.

"How was your day, honey?" Brian looks up with a smirk, the low, mocking drawl like warm honey being poured on Justin's skin, and he draws in a breath, wondering if Brian knows how easy it is for him to turn Justin on. A look, a smile, a few words, breathing....

"A nightmare. I can't believe I'm doing this." That's not true. He knows he's doing this. Reality had descended when Justin caught himself snarling at a sticky-fingers preadolescent trying to remove The Authority issue four from its smooth protective cover, and the words that had spilled out of his mouth had been Michael's.

*Michael's*. The whine had been unmistakable. Justin shivers to remember it.

They stare at each other for a long moment--Justin feels his breath catch a little, the exhaustion dripping away by degrees.

"Everyone came to see me today. Did you tell them?"

Brian's smirk widens. "I might have mentioned to Debbie what a selfless, sweet thing you were doing for her only chick and child...."

"Son of a bitch." Lindsay and Mel with Gus in tow. Emmett, looking pounds lighter but mentioning fuschia curtains to liven the place up. Vic and Debbie both this afternoon, pretending all kinds of surprise to see him there, like they hadn't had a clue. God, even Daphne, hiding her grin and saying without words that you really, really had to be more careful what you wished for these days, especially with Brian around to listen. Ben to check up and look so eternally grateful that Justin had felt guilty for kicking that box of comics when it refused to move on it's own after he tripped over it the third time. "Deb wants a family dinner tonight."

Brian nods, flicking imaginary lint off his arm before tucked the comic into a recess of his jacket. Carefully, Justin notes, with a flicker of amusement. "I was informed. Hop in, geekboy."

Justin pushes off the door, tucking the keys in his pocket. Strange, surreal plans are already forming in his mind--the inventory he has to do in the morning, the rearrangement of some of the shelf space, dusting out the bargain bins, reorganizing the original Batman space and calling up suppliers that Michael hadn't had a chance to do before he left. Painstaking, handwritten notes in the account book--God, Michael was anal, had to-do lists that covered the next *year*, but if it made Justin' s life easier, he was going to bless it until the day he died.

He's not even aware he'd stopped moving until a tug at his shirt jerks him off-balance, a warm body pressed up against his, and Brian looks into his eyes from less than a centimeter away. Cool, butter-soft leather for his cold fingers to touch. Leather-slick hand in his hair, tilting his head up, and Justin closes his eyes to the kiss, warm lips, soft tongue, exploratory more than anything else.

Tension melts away like snow in spring, and God, Brian's so warm--silk under the coat when he works his hands inside, smooth skin beneath. That place just at the small of his back that makes Brian shiver when he digs his nails in just a little. Familiar line of a spine to slide his fingers up and down.

It's nearing dusk and they're on a public sidewalk in the middle of Pittsburgh, but Justin could really care less. He gave up--God, did he give up--everything for this. Touch and taste and the freedom to do both wherever he wants.

"Brian," he breathes at the bite to his neck, sharp and reminding him of everything they could be doing *right now* if it wasn't pre-dusk and there wasn't a major street less than a foot away. "Dinner can wait." It can. He *deserves* this. He wants to be taken somewhere warm and given hot chocolate and told how very, very selfless he's being while being fucked through the mattress. And he never, ever wants to think about comic books again.

Ever.

Brain pulls back with a wet sound, and Justin digs his nails in, fingers wrapped around the back of Brian's neck. Forehead pressed to his, Brian chuckles. "I promised to get you there on time."

And this is important why? "Whatever. Let's--" Fuck in the rental. Brian chose it for more than its looks. Lots of space there. Lots.

"--eat?" Brian pushes him away with another grin, stepping away to open the car door, and did Brian just turn down sex? Justin stares at him for a few long seconds. He's running a comic book store. Michael's a fugitive. Ted--*Ted* is in rehab. Emmett wore earthtones today. And Brian just turned down sex.

"This is a huge conspiracy to drive me crazy, right?"

Brian gives him a puzzled look. "Are you on something?"

Justin's beginning to wonder that, too. "I could ask you the same thing."

The warm light of Debbie's house--not to mention the sprinkle of cars--tell Justin they ware already late, and he doesn't want to concede that Brian had a point on the no-sex thing, but still.... He's tired and he runs a comic book store. People go postal for a lot less than this.

Brian's his usual silent self, but there's an edge of thoughtfulness that makes Justin nervous. Brian had spent the last few days before election day like this--like most of his attention was turned completely inward, focusing on something he couldn't or wouldn't share. All those tiny, subtle differences that only a friend or lover would recognize.

It's--not feeling shut out, exactly. More like forgotten. And Justin's not entirely sure that this is any better than the more deliberate ways they've found to ignore each other in the past.

"Brian, is something going on?"

Brian snaps back into focus with almost a physical wrench, and Justin blinks as he stomps his feet into the ground, wishing he'd worn thicker socks. His toes are freezing, what with all this standing around in the cold speculating when he could be inside, warm and surrounded by food.

"Nothing important." Right. Like Justin ever believed that. But again--this is Brian. Until something explodes, he's not getting more information than this. Almost sighing, he follows Brian up the stairs, feeling vaguely guilty, remembering the pictures he stole--borrowed, Justin, borrowed--and did Debbie notice anything with that box? Like maybe the tape was all ripped off?

Oh man, he really doesn't want to think about this.

Hands in his pockets, Justin takes a breath to see if he can figure out dinner by smell. Heavy spice makes him sneeze and always preludes Debbie's experimental jumps in cuisine. Fridays mean fish, but not that either. There's a light touch of something in the beef family, and Justin smiles as he opens his eyes as Brian knocks on the door.

It's a long wait, and Justin frowns, looking up at Brian, but he's back in wherever in his head he's been spending so much damn time--no help at all. There's the sound of rustling, voices near the door, then Debbie appears, strangely flushed, looking at them with an absolutely genuine smile and something that Justin doesn't recognize at all.

"I didn't expect you for another hour!" she says, grinning, but she steps back slowly from the doorway, and this day has gone well beyond bizarre, because Debbie's never uncertain.

"I'd think you weren't happy to see us," Brian answers sardonically, letting Debbie lean up to kiss him, and Brian rarely does that. Opening the door completely, she steps aside so reluctantly that something has to be up. Is Michael home? Hiding from the cops?

It's official--his life is beyond a melodrama.

"Just early is all. I--I guess you remember James, Brian."

Brian comes to a stop so short that Justin's left hanging on the edge of the doorway, and he reaches out to balance himself against Brian's shoulder. Stupid too-tall Brian in his way, and there's no way to see around him, either. Justin would almost think it was deliberate.

"Of course." It may be cold outside, but Brian managed to drop the temperature to arctic, and Justin really has *got* to see who this is that gets that kind of response. "What the fuck is he doing here, Deb?"

Fucking *hell*, this is totally unfair. He can't see a damned thing.

"He came because of Michael."

This is getting ridiculous and hell if Justin's going to start kicking at this point, but man, it's tempting. Just to the side, Justin can catch the expression on Debbie's face--frustration and worry evident in every line on her face, and right now, she looks ten years older and so tired. This entire year's taken a lot out of her.

"Brian--" Justin says, shaking the hand on his shoulder. Brian doesn't so much as twitch. "Brian, I can't--"

"We're leaving." Brian turns on his heel, looking down at Justin like he just remembered he was there. Behind him, Justin can see Debbie close her eyes, like a bid for patience, but he doesn't miss the way her hands are twisting in her bright apron.

"Brian, what's going on?" There's enough space now just to squeeze between Brian and the doorway, and Justin catches glimpses of worried, unhappy faces. Mel but not Lindsay, Emmett, Vic, and Ben in the living room, and another man, and Justin catches his breath, because there are people that are impossible to forget and this man is one of them. A slow, even smile at him, just for him, and Justin takes an uncertain step back, then another, only stopping with the hand on his arm that jerks him back into the cold night on the porch.

James, the man in the diner, the man in the picture, and fuck coincidence, this can't be one.

"Brian, stop--"

"Did you call him?" Brian's voice is rougher than Justin's ever heard it aimed at Debbie. "Tell me you didn't fucking call him, Deb."

Debbie glanced back at her guests, trying out a hostess' calm smile with mixed results, before grabbing the door and stepping outside, pulling it closed behind her.

"Don't pull this shit, Brian. I don't need it." All the color's drained from her face.

"And you need him? What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Mouth pinched, Debbie glares up at Brian. "Trying to find my son."

"He doesn't want to be found. Considering the circumstances--"

"To help him, Brian. You've heard of that, right?"

"And you need that fucker--"

Debbie takes a hard step forward, glaring up, and Justin's glad, God, so glad, that he's never had that look turned on him. "Don't fuck with me, Brian. He's the best there is and we both know it."

"Best what?"

They both ignore him. Completely not a surprise.

"Pittsburgh's full of private detectives if that's what you wanted. Instead, you import one. Fuck. You think Michael would want this?"

Debbie's eyes shine, and Justin forces himself to look away from the pain on her face. "He's not here to ask, is he?"

There's nothing to hear but the soft wisp of far-off cars driving over salted roads, the sound of the wind moving through the trees. Something turns over in Justin's stomach as he watches them--more when he thinks of the people inside, listening. Neither Brian nor Debbie ever considered lowering their voices.

A shiver when he sees James in his mind, smiling at him from Vic's easy chair, as comfortably at home in Debbie's house as any of them. James. James, Michael's ex, and not a surprise at all that Brian doesn't like him, Brian never liked Michael's boyfriends. But still....

Without another word, Brian lets go of Justin's arm, turning on his heel to stalk the porch and taking the steps two at a time. A belated glance back, as if he just remembered Justin was there.

He doesn't resent it. He won't resent it. He'll be philosophical about it, even if his hands are shaking in his pockets. "Justin. You coming?"

"Sweetie--"

Don't put me in the middle of this, he wants to say, but then again, he deserves it. There's a stretch of months where Debbie and everyone else were hung between Justin and Brian like this, and it makes him sick to remember it.

Looking at Deb, he feels something shiver inside. God, this was nightmarish. He can't just--

Brian's footsteps in the snow, though, snap him back, and he hugs her awkwardly, feeling the resigned cling of her arms before he turns around. Brian's already starting the car. If he's back in not-noticing mode, Justin could be left standing in the middle of the driveway and really feeling like an idiot.

Brian waits, though--eyes turned inward, hands clenched on the steering wheel, and Justin weighs the pros and cons of asking as he slides inside, jerking the car door closed behind him. The gas is hit with enough energy to make Justin worry for the transmission, then they're off, gone, and Justin is so glad he remembered his seat belt or he would have been thrown into the dashboard.

"Brian--" He has no idea how to frame the question.

"Later."

Sinking back in the seat, Justin watches the houses go by. A wrong turn coming up, and Justin opens his mouth to tell Brian that Daphne's apartment's the other way, but shuts it tight again.

"I saw him at the diner this morning."

The car skids a little, and Justin stares straight ahead, taking slow breaths. The seconds trickle by almost painfully, and Jesus, it's years until they pull up to the loft and he's following Brian inside. Brian, who doesn't say a damn word but radiates something vaguely threatening and alarmed at the same time. At and to who, Justin doesn't have a clue.

It's warm inside--warm and safe and he was wrong. Deb's house might be home, but here is, too, closing familiar and comfortable as a glove around him, and Justin breathes out, aware he hasn't taken a full breath since seeing the man in at Deb's. Slowly, he takes off his coat, laying it on the couch while perching on the arm. Brian's rooting through the alcohol supply like his life depends on it.

He knows--*knows*--that Brian wants to yell, why didn't you tell me? But logic would tell him, how was Justin supposed to know to tell? Logic, of course, isn't aware of the bulletin board in his room, and Justin bites down to keep from spilling that out.

"You met him?"

"Saw him." No one sane would draw a comparison between Justin being freaked out at the diner and James.

Then again, Brian's never been accused of being sane. "That's why you were upset?"

No reason to lie about it. At least, not any good reason, and Justin looks for one for a minute before giving up. He's not going to win this one. "He--I don't know. It was weird."

Brian snorts something that sounds suspiciously uncomplimentary, though of who, Justin's not sure. "He has that effect on people."

It should be comforting, but it's not. Running his hands over his thighs, Justin watches Brian cross the room, brushing by him to drop on the couch. He looks exhausted. That entire not-sleeping thing catching up, maybe. Turning, Justin wisely keeps his feet off the cushions. "Tell now or do I have to drag it out word by word?"

A pause, then Brian shrugs. "He's Michael's ex." Like that's an explanation. Normally, it would be--that's like a no-brainer equation to anyone who had any acquaintance with either of them. Michael plus boyfriend equals pissy Brian. There you are. But this isn't normally, if they've ever come close to the word in their lives, and Justin leans one elbow on his knee and stares at the man on the couch. This isn't the first time he's wished for telepathy. That, or a sledgehammer. Either would do.

"Try again."

Brian rolls his eyes. Really eloquent, and not going to get him out of this. "I don't like him. What--"

"And the entire drama queen routine on the porch?" Because frankly? He'd hated David, but there was no way Brian would have reacted like that about him. "Please. What'd he do?"

Brian shifts a little, a sure sign of discomfort, taking another drink of the bottle, like maybe that will be inspiring or something. He won't lie, Justin knows that, but he can and does minimalize the truth.

"A shit." Another shrug. "And it had to be fucking *now*..." He trails off, taking another drink, and Justin feels the first frisson of alarm when Brian's eyes skim by his. Something else is wrong. "Stay away from him."

"Trust me, I'm not cruising him or anything." Or willingly be in the same room, for that matter, and isn't this just going to be fun? "What--"

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

Justin sucks a breath between his teeth, feeling himself rock a little on the arm of the chair. "Where?" There's a temptation to reach for Brian's bottle now. Sliding down onto the seat of the couch, Justin watches Brian's eyes flick away from his.

"New York for a couple of days."

"Why?"

Brian blinks. "Why do you think?" Stupid question. That job thing. That stupid fucking election, and that entire reputation fucked over, and Jesus Christ, he hates this. Even if he should have seen it coming. He has to have. He's not stupid. He's not seventeen. He's not-- "Okay."

Brian raises an eyebrow and shifts on the couch, offering the bottle, and Justin almost laughs as he takes it. God dammit, their lives suck. Just suck. Justin takes a long drink, closing his eyes against the slow burn. "Take-out?"

"Yeah."

It's been a long time since Justin's seen Brian sleep like this--the restless energy has seeped away, leaving a boneless sprawl of body and limbs, and Justin can see Gus in the soft curve of his mouth, the sweep of dark lashes against his cheek, the slightly open mouth that drools onto the pillow. One of the thousand times that Justin's fingers itch for his sketchpad, but he contents himself with looking, with careful touches--the curve of Brian's shoulder. The lines of the arm draped over Justin's chest. Silky skin that he followed with his tongue only hours ago, eyes closed, and he can taste Brian still on his tongue.

It's the first time Justin's had an opportunity to watch in longer than he can remember. Too much coffee tonight from that place only two doors down from the shop, hideously convenient, and he's hypped up on espresso and sugar and worry. All this energy, charging him just enough to steal sleep, not enough to make him want to even consider doing anything productive.

Brooding seems like a great idea, though, and he closes his eyes.

New York. There are possibilities there that aren't here. If he's honest (and he's trying, God, is he trying), he knows that this has nothing to do with them. That this is important. That this is survival.

That this is nothing like the other time, except--

Am I one of those considered options? He hadn't asked. That trips into territory neither of them are anywhere near ready to start exploring again.

Carefully, Justin rolls on his side, wincing. There's a low ache of muscle and the sting of skin that reminds him that they do their best dealing with their bodies. Nothing's ever solved, right, but orgasms make problems seem a lot less important in retrospect.

At least, for a little while. Long term's the idea of hard plans for dinner. Short term is really all Justin wants anymore. That he can deal with.

Things change. Sometimes, though, he wishes they wouldn't. At least, not so fast.

And thinking like this isn't even close to conductive for sleep. Sighing quietly, he pushes himself up, sliding from beneath Brian's arm, careful not to jostle the bed too much--not that Brian looks in danger of waking up for anything short of a major earthquake. Grabbing the sheet that had somehow been orphaned on the floor, he pulls it around him, shivering a little at the chill of the loft. Brian and his edicts against heaters at night--Justin's hazy on the entire reasoning, though he thinks it has something to do with dry air and maybe health. Considering Deb keeps her house at a desert-like ninety five all winter....

Eww. Sweating during the winter for non-recreational purposes in bed just isn't sexy.

The couch is as good a place as any to fall down, grunting softly at the impact and rise of dust. Reaching beneath him, he pulls out a still-wrapped condom from the small of his back and drops it on the floor. The very model of safe sex readiness. He remembers wandering around on one of his first unsupervised excursions into Brian's loft and finding them literally everywhere. This intense, visceral reminder of who he was fucking, what he was up against, and it still somehow surprises him, that he was so *sure*. So he'd been only seventeen and dumb as hell, that's the nice thing about that age--he hadn't known what he wanted was impossible. Not a single clue.

He kind of misses being dumb. This growing up and thinking thing is exhausting. So much easier when life's a want-have kind of situation.

There's still half a bottle of wine by the couch, and Justin leans over just enough to pick it up and take a long drink. Yes, this is what he's come to. Waking up in the middle of the night after great sex to drink alone in his boyfriend's (and better not even say that out loud in your *head*, Taylor, he'll hear you). It's depressing. It's maudlin. It's--cold.

It's really cold, and what again did he have against brooding in a nice, warm bed?

A hand slides under his neck, and Justin tilts his head back enough to look at Brian as he's carefully lowered back down. "What are you doing up?"

"Lost my space heater." Simple and to the point. Justin grins despite himself, letting his head relax on Brian's thigh.

"If you'd be normal and use a heater at night--"

"Why are you still awake?"

Count the reasons. "Just not as tired as I thought." It's pretty lame as excuses go, but Brian's doing that thing to his hair--that almost-absent stroking thing that nine times out of ten he'd swear Brian doesn't even know he's doing, and Justin tries to keep very still when he does. Soothing on some primal level, or if he's honest (and he is, he really is), he just loves when Brian touches him. "What time are you leaving?"

"Seven."

"In the morning?" Great. Just great.

"That's the idea." The bottle's taken from his hand and Justin watches Brian study it as if it's the first bottle ever seen in history. "Drinking alone, at night, in the dark. Your mother's right--I'm a terrible influence."

Justin can't help grinning. "Pretty much, yeah."

It's nice like this, simple quiet and cool dark, wrapped in warm sheets. Except of course, Brian's pretty much naked and acting like it's just perfectly fine, but the fingers in his hair are cold. Justin sits up, shifting back until he can curl up on top of him, pulling the sheet around them both. "You're going to freeze."

"Not as long as you're around."

Justin shifts to stare down at Brian, who smiles back drowsily. He's really not completely awake yet. "Wow. That was almost romantic."

"I have my moments. Get your knee out of my stomach."

Justin swallows a laugh and draws his legs up, deliberately kicking at Brian's knee before settling back down, pulling the sheet over them both. The bed would be warmer with the duvet. But the couch is perfect. Even if he's losing feeling in his toes. Fast. "Where are you staying in New York?"

"I'm leaving a copy of my itinerary," Brian answers absently, and Justin shivers as cold hands slide down his bare arms. "Emergency phone number. That sort of thing."

"Emergency phone sex?"

"That qualifies."

It's a comfortable kind of silence, the kind that Justin could live on pretty easily. Life's so rarely calm. Any other night, they'd be out somewhere, high or drunk or fucking or all three, and Justin's not against that or anything, but.... It, this, is ridiculously domestic, even if he doesn't live here. Shifting again, he rolls his eyes at Brian's mocking groan and brushes his lips across Brian's neck, settling down again.

Of course, can't possibly last.

"My sophomore year."

What?

"What?"

Brian shifts like he wants to move, but Justin's just getting comfortable. Fuck the distance thing. Brian can deal while being cuddled, dammit. "College. When Michael met James."

For some reason, it sounds like a Disney based romantic comedy. Possibly involving bad double dates and some kind of plot device with big storms and wet clothes. "Bad relationship?"

Brian snickers. "Depends on who you talk to. Debbie adored him. Very ingratiating guy." Brian leans his head down, brushing their noses together, making Justin laugh. It's cold. And wonderful. "And considerably older than Mikey."

"Did he find Mikey on a streetcorner, too?"

"I think it was the produce aisle at the market, but don't hold me to it. It was years ago."

Brian doesn't forget. High, drunk, dead sober, half-asleep, that mind never really stops, never really slows. Brian's remembering now; Justin can feel it in the tension in the body beneath him, the way the hand on his arm keeps stroking with absent rhythm.

"Why'd they break up?"

Brian looks down at him. "What's the reason Mikey always breaks up?"

Well, yeah. "Bad?"

"I've seen soap operas with less histrionics, if that's what you mean." Warm breath against his hair, and Justin shivers with something that has nothing to do with cold when a warm tongue traces the outline of his ear. "What? No questions into the great mystery? No poking? Prodding? Whining?"

Justin shakes his head. "Nah. I'll work it out on my own." The tension's so sudden that Justin lifts his head--Brian's expression is curiously blank. "Hey. You okay?"

Brian nods, absently stroking Justin's hip, like he's completely forgotten that Justin's there at all. Crap.

"Brian?"

Distant hazel eyes meet his. "Hmm?"

"What--what did he do? To Mikey?"

Brian shrugs casually, but there's nothing casual about the hold on him. Yeah, Brian doesn't forget much. Anything. "He liked them young. And stupid."

Justin leans back a little, glaring down. "If that's a comparison to me--"

"....sweet." Pure malice, and Justin fights down a smile when he's pushed back into the arm of the couch. "Innocent."

Since when? "Not blond?"

Justin hisses when Brian licks slowly across his collarbone. Jesus. Thoughtful to horny in under fifteen seconds. That had to be some kind of record. Even for him. "Blond is an acquired taste." Teeth graze just below his jaw, that spot that makes him hard no matter where he is or what he's doing.

"Brian." The hard press of the arm of the couch into his back is forgotten, he's hard and Brian's--stopping. The fucker. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking dare stop."

"I want something." Long fingers close over his cock lightly, smoothing up with only the tips of his fingers. Justin thinks he's going to stop breathing. Or break his back.

"...what the fuck..."

"Little favor." Another of those slow tickling strokes, and when did Brian become such a fucking tease anyway? "Nothing you can't handle, Sunshine."

"...anything." He's stupid when he's hard. This isn't a surprise or anything. Just a fact of life. Brian can conduct national ad campaigns when getting his dick sucked. Justin loses most of his Mensa-class IQ.

"Don't trick while I'm gone."

Audio hallucinations must be part of it these days. Justin could swear he just heard-- "What?"

A rough tap to his forehead, and Justin opens his eyes. "You heard me."

There's no way to even *begin* to figure this one out. "I'm not the one--" So he does it, but not in a lifestyle choice sort of way. He's nineteen and he's free to do what he wants when he wants. He takes advantage of that. Sometimes. Rarely. Okay, four times since Brian and one of those Brian was fucking *watching* them, so does that even count? "You're serious."

"Like a wake."

Depends on who died, now doesn't it? "What about you?"

Brian leans close enough to breathe. Warm and familiar, and Justin wonders if it's ground into his skin like it is in his mind. No one ever feels, has ever felt, this right. "You didn't ask."

Justin forgets his aching back and forces his mind to clear up. Of course Brian would pull this right now. Because--uhm-- "And if I did?"

Brian shrugs, as carelessly as if he hadn't just change everything in a few words. Justin wonders if the day will ever come when Brian stops surprising him. "Ask and find out."

Emmett shows up at the shop just as Justin braces himself for another round of box-opening, knocking on the door while holding up an unmistakable white cardboard box.

Emmett believes in sugar, cholesterol, and all the wonderful things associated with both. Opening the door, Justin steps back and breathes in the smell of coffee and donuts. "I love you."

It's even *better* with the box open on the counter, and screw Michael and his rule against food up front, is he here? Nope. Chocolate covered, chocolate filled, glazed, they're all there, nirvana in pastry form. Brian doesn't allow them in the loft. Dire predictions of heart attacks and cholesterol counts.

"I bet you say that to all the boys who bring you food." Pushing the cup of coffee toward him, Emmett settles on a stool and reaches for something powdery and filled with jelly. "How's that gainful employment coming?"

"I'm in hell."

Emmett grins back, eyes fixed on the windows again. He's thinking of curtains. And damned if it wouldn't serve Michael right to come back to an Emmett-decorated comic shop. That's the kind of gift that keeps on giving. Grinning, Justin picks up a bearclaw and takes a slow, careful bite. Sugar. Glazed white sugar. No redeeming nutritional value. Oh hell yes. "So how is everything, Sunshine?"

You'd be surprised and wouldn't believe it. I don't believe it either, except it happened and I wasn't high. "Great." It's scary how much he means it. Shouldn't be a word associated with this place.

"Where's Brian?" Emmett makes a huge show of looking back at the storage room, like Brian would be caught dead flipping through comics when anyone could see him. Right, he can play that entire too-cool-for-this-shit thing, but Justin's not an idiot and he's had a lot of time this morning to go through Michael's books. And he'll be damned if he doesn't recognize Brian's handwriting on some of those order forms. 'Supporting a friend' Justin's very white ass. He just wants to know where the hell Brian *keeps* them.

Come to think, this would be a *great* time to do some spring cleaning in the loft, wouldn't it?

"New York for a few days." Taking another donut, Justin stuffs the entire thing in his mouth, grinning through the chocolate filling at Emmett's raised eyebrows, chewing quickly. "I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue, too. What are you doing down here anyway?"

"I have an appointment in the 'burbs this morning." Which doesn't explain a damn thing. Justin nods like it makes perfect sense, because in a way, it does. This morning, he'd been kissed against the loft door and asked to check in every so often to make sure the place didn't go up in smoke. The emptiness had been like an ache. He'd walked to work way too early. And he's really catching up on things. Two extra hours can do that to you. So can loneliness. And that thing with not having a life. "So Brian's trying New York?"

Justin nods as he picks up the cherry glazed. "He had an offer."

Emmett swivels on the stool, blue eyes fixing on him. "You okay with that, honey?"

No. Maybe. Have to be. "Why shouldn't I be?" They still act like he's glass that will shatter if he's handled wrong. To think he used to think the same thing about himself. Shaking himself, he holds the donut between his teeth and fixes his coffee, looking in amusement at the phallus-tipped stirring rod. He won't even ask.

"If he gets the offer?"

I have no idea. We're not at that place where discussing the future is really a huge concern. Pulling off a bite, Justin chews to kill time. But eventually, he has to swallow. "I hope he does."

Don't trick while I'm gone. Jesus, a two-three day absence wouldn't be enough to make Justin even consider it. He has a weird feeling there's some symbolism going on here, but of what, he just can't work out. What about you? Ask and find out.

"Justin?"

Justin blinks back into the shop, belatedly aware the bell on the door is ringing. Crap. He should have locked the door. People just don't pay attention to signs these days. "Excuse me, we're--"

His morning is taking a downslide fast.

"--closed."

"Justin?" Emmett's tap on his shoulder brings him back to the here and now. "This is--James Evans. Um, you didn't have the chance to be introduced." How diplomatic of Emmett. "James, Justin Taylor."

Justin doesn't put down the coffee or the donut, blinking at the man leaning familiarly into the counter across from Emmett, as if it's some kind of God given right to lean against any and all counters in his general vicinity. Breathe, Taylor.

"Justin. Debbie's told me a lot about you." A wide, white smile, like a really cheesy ad for toothpaste that Brian would have sneered at in production. Justin feels himself nod, autopilot good manners taking over. He can feel Emmett's worried stare and tries to make himself concentrate. Okay. Just. Be calm.

"I've heard a lot about you as well." There. It's childish, but he's never seen anyone make Brian act like that. Stay away from him. Not a problem, Brian, trust me. Except when he shows up at work. Leaning both elbows into the counter, Justin flicks his hair from his eyes with powdery fingers and makes himself look uninterested. "How's the search for Michael going?"

It's still there. Evaluative, penetrating, looking him over like he's a piece of equipment up for sale, like a Babylon hustler, like--that fix of eyes on his mouth. Justin feels vaguely dirty, but he's been around long enough to stay still. Looking never hurt anyone.

But damned if he has to like it.

"I have a few leads to check out." Beside him, Justin can almost see Emmett smiling when the man looks at him with that smile. Yeah, Emmett, keep up the flirting. It's the most animated he's been since Ted left. "Debbie tells me you're an artist?"

Justin nods slowly. What all did Debbie say? He knows Debbie talks about him--about him, Brian, Michael, Emmett, hell, even Ted. For some reason, though, right now? Not something he wants to think about.

"Yes."

"Comic books?"

There's an edge of condescension that sets every hair on Justin's neck up and he almost--almost reacts. "Yes. Michael and I are working on one together."

"Mikey's done well for himself." James gives the store a slow once-over, making Justin uncomfortably aware that he hasn't swept, the DC section is a complete mess, and one of the table legs is being held together with duct tape, after that unfortunate incident with the seven year old and the adult comic ban last night.

"He's done really well." And this is how it starts. This is how you know something is wrong with the world, because Brian's giving up random sex and Justin's talking up Mikey like he likes the man. He sounds like a fucking *commercial*. A bad one. But he can't help himself. It's kind of like being drunk but without the fun. "Really great. He and his partner Ben are totally giving it their all."

James nods pleasantly, and Justin shuts his mouth over the next bite of donut. Stop babbling. Stop. Now. "I just dropped by to pick up a few things Debbie said might help my search. Do you mind?" James motions at the counter, and Justin is assaulted by a wild desire to yell NO, which is all kinds of weird. Mutely, he steps back, letting James come around and slide by him--way too close for anything resembling personal space. So right, he's over his extreme dislike of crowding--he's never going to be over not liking it when it's like this.

"I--need to get these boxes moved." The one behind Emmett looks promising, and less like make-work than it actually is. Pushing the remainder of the donut in his mouth, Justin dusts off his hands automatically on his jeans, leaning over to pick it up.

And it doesn't move. Belatedly, Justin remembers *why* this one hasn't gone back yet. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Breathe. Think. Think. "Emmett? Give me some help?"

"I can get that."

Oh hell no. Justin opens his mouth, but James is already stepping around him, and Emmett's less than no help, blinking in surprise at Justin's glare. What, he seems to be asking with wide eyes. Hot guy wants to help with a box? Where's the bad in this?

Emmett's so going to pay for this.

The bulk of James body forces Justin back, and he leans into the counter, too aware of how close the man is--the brush of his coat against Justin's hip, the scent of some subtle cologne that makes Justin want to start sneezing, and hell, wouldn't that be a capper for a great morning? Though then he'd have a great reason to run for the bathroom, and away from the guy, and--

"Where do you want this?"

Justin stares at the box at his approximate eye level. Show-off ass. "In back."

"Mind showing me?"

Yes. I really do. "Just straight back by the first shelves. I'll unpack it later."

James grins at him over the top of the box and turns away, disappearing into the room briefly, and Justin's aware Emmett's still looking at him like he's grown an extra head.

"Justin?" There's about ten thousand questions wrapped up in that one word, and Justin doesn't want to answer any of them.

James comes back out before Emmett can move into the interrogation portion of the morning, and Justin gives the old clock hanging above the counter a desperate look. Still can't open yet. Fuck. But James is all that is completely calm, shuffling through the counter and space beneath like it's all his own, and Justin has a horrifying memory of some customized photography he's been looking at for the last few days. Where is it? Daphne's? The loft? Debbie's? Mom's? Here? Oh God, and Brian will have him killed or cut off his sex privileges if that thing with banana cream ever, *ever* sees the light of day....

"Is this Michael's account book?" James holds up the plain binder with a flourish. Right, in his backpack. Phew.

"Yeah." Reaching across the space, Justin closes his fingers over the edge and almost falls when the man holds on.

"Mind if I borrow this?"

Absolutely. "I kind of need it here to run the store." Justin doesn't let go--so right, in a serious dispute of ownership, Justin would be ass over heels on the floor and that binder would be James', but it's the principle of the matter. Deb likes him. Brian apparently has some serious negative thing going on here. And that's Michael's book. Tightening his fingers, Justin jerks it away, and James lets go like it's not that much of a big deal. "I can leave it at Debbie's after work today if I can get it back tomorrow."

James nods slowly, eyes on his mouth again. Like he's *ever* going to have the pleasure. "That'll be fine, Justin. Thank you." And the bastard sounds gracious. Justin closes his eyes in quiet frustration at Emmett's slow sigh of admiration. Yes, Emmett, suck up to the man. Go ahead.

"I'd better get going." James says slowly, finally looking away from Justin to give Emmett another bright smile. "It was nice to see you, Justin. Will Brian be around later? I'd like to ask him a few questions--"

"He's kind of busy." Sliding one foot over, Justin slams his heel into Emmett's ankle when the man opens his mouth. Don't you fucking dare. Another look, but hey, he can be as irrational as he likes, dammit.

"I thought he was fired from Vanguard?"

And aren't you one to keep up with details? Justin keeps his bright smile intact. It fools people who don't know him. "As I said, busy busy busy. Resumes, errands, that sort of thing. I'll give him the message." Tucking the book into the counter behind him, Justin widens his smile. "Okay, guys, great chatting, but gotta get the store open. Hope to see you both later, but work work work, all that stuff. Mikey trusts me with the store, you know? Don't want to let him down or anything."

Mikey wouldn't trust Justin with his old socks, but Mr. Man here totally does not need to know that, now does he?

"Of course." James sounds really amused, and that's not scoring a single point. "I'll see you tonight at Debbie's, Justin."

Oh fucking swell.

Later, he'll be amazed at his ability to hustle both of them out--luckily, Emmett's so surprised the donuts are completely forgotten on the counter, and after this kind of morning, Justin deserves a sugar high from hell. Watching them stop to chat on the sidewalk, Justin determinedly turns the sign to Open and steps back to survey his domain.

Another glance outside shows James and Emmett walking away, but James gives a single glance back, and even though it's impossible to see inside from out there, Justin would almost swear the man is looking at him.

"No."

"Sunshine--"

Debbie's got that entire combination order/plea thing down to a kind of art. There's a reason that Brian tends to obey her and Michael's deathly scared of her, and right, while Justin didn't have her overwhelming influence during his formative years, he still lived in this house, ate of this food, and there's some myth about eating the food of a place that sticks you there (pomegranates, right?), but he's way, way too tired to remember it. But the gist is, it works on him, too. Mostly. Usually.

But he's *fortified* this time. It's called, utter and complete desperation. The kind of desperation that let him sneak out windows at home at age seventeen to stalk down the rotten love of his life and also, to stand up to Debbie's pleas. Even though he can smell spaghetti and his stomach's still in rebellion from the fact lunch was five danish from that fucking coffee shop nearby that is becoming his most frightening addiction yet. Nicotine's understandable, and hey, meth or heroin junkie has a kind of shabby-dirty resonance, but what can you really think of yourself when you say you're a whore for triple vanilla espressos?

He shivers to remember it.

"You need to eat, honey. You're skin and bones!"

Brian had mentioned something about that a few days ago, but Justin had been sort of involved with sucking his cock and hadn't gotten around to answering.

"I gotta get home--I mean, back to the loft. I have--" Homework? Assignments? Nope. Art. Art! "--something I'm working on for the next GLC show." Like he'd allow something of his to be shown there if they went down on their knees and begged him. Which is another image he really doesn't need to even begin to visualize, like Stockwell naked, and Justin takes a step back before he finally admits insanity.

"Just for a little while. Your mother's worried about you."

Play the mommy card. Like that ever works. Or he's even looked at the voice mail on his cell phone.

"Brian's expecting me back." And this is one of those times that Emmett being very employed and pretty much invisible is such a plus. He needs to call him and--what? Don't tell Brian's in New York, and no, I don't have a reason, except I've lied twice and what the hell, let's keep it up for kicks? Justin pushes a step back toward the door, pushing the account book at Debbie. "I gotta run. I'll come by the diner and pick it up in the morning, okay?"

Debbie's mouth opens again, but Justin already has those pauses in Debbie conversation mapped--he's got his hand on the doorknob, which is like half the battle.

"What did Brian tell you about James, Justin?"

Oh hell. "Nothing." Half-turning, Justin looks at her disbelief and shakes his head. "Nothing, really. We haven't talked about it. I'll see you in the morning." And escape, out the door, he's already down the porch, where the rental Brian left him to use is waiting patiently. At least it's automatic.

Pulling his coat closer, Justin pounds down the sidewalk, feeling vaguely hunted. James could be back any minute. There's a good chance that James is on his way over and Justin doesn't want to be here when he arrives, and if anyone asked his reasons, he'd lie, mostly because he wouldn't be able to explain even if he tried. I don't like how he looks at me, I don't like how he smiles, and I don't like he makes me feel like that. Brian's reaction is just confirmation that he isn't pulling this crap out of his ass.

For no reason in particular (for every reason in the world), Justin ends up at the loft, and saying, I'm checking to make sure everything is okay is silly. The invitation had been something completely different and he knows it. What he really wants is quiet--after the comic shop and after Debbie and after James and after those endless triple vanilla espressos that are playing havoc with his sleep patterns.

The emptiness is disconcerting as hell, though he's been here often enough when Brian's away. Closing the door, he remembers vividly why he left this morning--too quiet, too much space, somehow not enough either. The heat's off, he turned it off this morning before he left. The cleanness is disturbing in some way. It's not like Brian left for a few days. It's more like the feeling of a place you don't come back to.

Justin snorts to himself. He's becoming such a ten year old girl.

Turning on the heat low--what's an extra few hundred dollars on a hundred thousand dollar debt anyway?--Justin flips on the main lights and goes into the dark bedroom, finding his way by body memory. Here's where the edge of the bed is, and his feet know the path when his eyes don't. The closet door's open and Justin kneels and reaches inside, past more shoes than Imelda Marcus could ever have hoped to own, to the very back, where his hands find the poster paper. He grabs a bundle and pulls them out, putting them in a haphazard bundle onto the floor and restacking them, then carrying them out. Spreading them out under bright, unforgiving light.

History of art class, freshman year. For some reason, the name of the professor eludes him--tall, stick-like guy way too old to have ever been young, moving with too-fast, almost jerky movements of a pencil across paper, but he'd blown Justin's mind with what he could produce with charcoal and pastels. Someone had told him once that he'd spent time in East Germany, but Justin hadn't ever thought to ask, hadn't been really interested enough.

Justin remembers falling asleep a *lot* during that class--it was first semester, he was pushing himself way too hard, trying to prove everything was just fine, thank you, now get the fuck off my ass already Mom, Deb, *Brian*.

"Political strategy in which techniques of agitation and propaganda are used to influence public opinion." Justin snickers to himself. He remembers going back to sleep almost immediately as examples were named--famous Russian, European, American artists who'd turned their talent into political statements, and what had he been thinking again? Oh right--he was *above* that. Prostitution for politics, so very beneath him, so very not what real artists did, he was in it for the *art*. Blah blah blah, I need coffee already.

How the fucking mighty have fallen.

Laying them out, Justin takes a second to study technique. Vivid, heavy slashes--the idea had been, go big. Subtle shading of dark and light, balance, hadn't been the point. This was supposed to be something you noticed, thought about, *remembered* long after out of sight had commenced. And Christ, if his future was in propaganda, he had a sure winner going on here. Dammit, he was *good*.

Arrogant little shit, he remembers Brian saying affectionately.

Fucker. Brian hadn't ever said when he'd figured it out, but Justin has a sneaking suspicion the first poster was all he really needed. There are all kinds of fingerprints you leave in what you're good at--Justin can spot a Brian-masterminded commercial at fifty paces for the most part, but it had never occurred to him that Brian knew him well enough to do the same.

Of course, the Stockwell thing had been a shock, and it *still* pisses him off that he didn't figure it out with the first airing. Maybe--maybe suspected some of Brian's touch, but--shit. It hadn't penetrated. Too out there, unnatural, like a heterosexual Emmett or Babylon becoming a coffee shop. Even indecent, considering it was *Brian*, who loved money and loved power and loved best when the two were together.

No, he didn't know Brian that well, it seemed.

Sophomore level art student who helped bring down a mayoral candidate--could you even put that on a résumé? How do you even phrase that? Classically trained artist with experience in computer graphics, cartoonist, and political propaganda? A laundry list of weirdness. Can also wait tables and currently runs a comic book shop. And despite the last part, does get laid regularly.

His life can be summed up just like that. And all he has to show for it is a collection of posters, a very broke lover, and a host of half-hearted regrets. He doesn't think he'd do much differently, but that's because there's no point he can see where he could have stopped. Events fluidly leading into each other like some kind of inevitability, like fate maybe, which he's sure he doesn't believe in, but he's beginning to really wonder about that.

The ring of the phone jerks his head up, and he almost gets up, stopping at the last minute, remembering that Brian's out and he doesn't have to. Looking back down, he sighs, wondering exactly what he *is* going to do. He's miles and miles away from being the kid who didn't know what to do with himself. At least, he thinks so, most of the time.

But shit, he's *nineteen*.

"Pick up the fucking phone, Sunshine. I know you're there."

Blinking, Justin straightens at the sound of Brian's voice on the answering machine. He's not at his most graceful when he skids across the floor, but he blames the posters that get under his feet, and he gets hold of the handheld and flips off the machine at the same time.

"Brian?"

"You were expecting someone else?"

See, this is the problem with the entire quasi-cheating thing being in your shared past. You start reading really bizarre things into simple statements. Justin bites back something sarcastic and drops onto the floor, leaning into the kitchen counter. "Yeah, but you'll do. How's New York?"

"Fucking freezing." The background noise makes Justin curious--that sure as hell isn't the dignified quiet of a hotel. If he didn't know better--

"Are you clubbing?"

"I didn't plan to go to bed at a decent hour." The ripple of amusement's annoying as shit. "Look but don't touch. Much."

Do blowjobs count? Maybe he should have asked if they were using Clinton-rules or not. "Uh huh. How is everything going?"

"Better than expected." There's something in Brian's voice that Justin hasn't heard since the days before that commercial came out. A quiet, secret glee, a kind of excitement that simply doesn't fit the image at all. The drama queen in Brian's skin that gets so damn little actual airtime and itches to get more. Frankly, it's alarming. Justin can read Brian like a book except he can't right now, hasn't been able to since he found out about the commercial, because this is a Brian who has gone places that his designer shoes wouldn't have considered going before, and he's still going. There's not a roadmap in sight.

"What does that mean?" He wants to know. It's unfair--he spent so much fucking time working out the psychology and wanting so badly for Brian to--to just--change? No, not the right word. Something. Become the person Justin had sensed so damn long ago, with their first meeting, with the first time Brian held Gus, with the first time Justin knew, *knew*, like he knew his name and knew he was gay, that this was *it*. When you look upon the shape of your fate fucked up out of his mind and think, you think--

--*cool*.

Yeah, that's him, romantic to the end.

"It means exactly what I said. How's the shop?"

Justin bites his lip, shifting the phone to his other ear. "Okay. I'm almost done with inventory. I'm going in early tomorrow to finish up." How sad when he puts it in words. He's becoming a Mikey clone. But cuter. "How does Mikey feel about fuschia curtains?"

Brian's laugh makes Justin smile. "Don't you fucking think about it."

"Add some color and all." Grinning, Justin leans back into the counter. "When's the last time Michael's books were checked?"

"Ted was doing it. God knows what since." The reception becomes cloudy for a second, but the connection doesn't snap, and Justin listens to the noise level drop, the sound of a slamming door. Brian's outside. "Why? Do you need money?"

"I might need it when we start getting the new stuff. Ben has access to the accounts, right?"

"I think so." There's a brief, thoughtful silence. "Has Evans been poking around the store?"

Justin straightens against the counter. "Yeah. He said he was looking for stuff to help him find Michael. Why?"

Another silence, even more thoughtful. "The books. The ones for the shop. Did he see them?"

Justin swallows hard. "He wanted to look them over, see if he could find a clue where Mikey--" Fuck. "Is Michael pulling from the shop's accounts?"

"Yes."

Justin doesn't even bother to ask how Brian knows that. He knows Michael. "But--he can't just request bank records, can he?" Even to himself, his voice sounds faint. "I mean--even the police can't--"

"There's some dispute on what the hell actually happened. Ben's claiming Hunter ran away and Michael went after him to talk some sense into him. That's why yours truly isn't currently in a jail cell for aiding and abetting a kidnapping." Oh right. The car. "Keep those away from him."

Well, too fucking late for that. They're in his sticky paws right the fuck now. "Brian? What's worrying you about him? Seriously here. Deb wouldn't have called him in if she thought--I mean, it's not like he's--" Going to turn information over to the police. To their great friend Stockwell, who is probably drooling at the chance to get any of them in his fat little hands. Oh *man*. This can't be good at all.

"I don't know what the fuck he wants." Brian sounds tense. And also, like he's not paying much attention. "I really don't give a shit. I know Mikey doesn't want to be found and I know the fucker wasn't that great for him the first time around. Just do it. Talk to Ben, give him some excuse. He's not that hot for Debbie's little idea either."

Justin blinks. "When did you talk to Ben?"

Brian ignores the question. Typical. "Gotta run. Remember to turn on the alarm before you leave in the morning."

Despite the faint stirrings of nausea, Justin can't help smirking. "Who says I'm staying the night here?"

"Where else would you be?"

"Daphne's." Justin closes his eyes, trying to visualize Brian on a New York sidewalk. Long coat--the leather one, maybe? Phone against his ear, looking for a cab. Or just walking, because it's a cold, clear night and because he wants to. "Mom's." Brian snorts his belief in that one, and Justin keeps his eyes closed. It's warming up. "I miss you."

There's a moment where Justin thinks Brian won't answer. But then again, this is all new territory. He knows better than to think he knows. "I miss you, too. See you soon."

The phone clicks off and Justin sets it down on the floor, eyes still closed.

He's not quite ready to move yet.

Justin dreams of killer bees chasing him through the edges of Liberty Avenue, and disturbingly, they seem to be carrying small spiked dildos.

Less than twenty-four hours without sex can do this to a person.

He wakes up to his cellphone ringing hard enough to bruise his hip and a promise to himself that his espresso intake is going to be severely limited. Eyes closed, he forces one hand clumsily into his pocket and pulls the phone out blind, sneezing from the dusty couch before flicking it on and lifting it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Where on earth are you, Sunshine?"

Emmett. Justin blinks to full wakefulness. "Ah. Sleeping."

"That didn't answer the question, sweetie." Background noise. Liberty. Did they have plans? No, because Emmett's been doing his isolation-and-silent-misery thing and Justin's been--well, what *has* he been doing, anyway? Yawning, he sits up, scooting back enough to lean into the arm of the couch. The apartment's warmer, though he's not really tempted to take off his jacket.

"Around. What's up?" Settling back down, he grabs the duvet he stole off Brian's bed and pulls it to his chin. He's okay with this level of weird, falling asleep in his--boyfriend?--okay, go with that, his boyfriend's apartment when the man's out of town. It's not like he steals Brian's underwear anymore.

At least, not recently. He upgraded to jeans, after all.

"The night, honey. Get something pretty on and come out to play."

Justin considers his current state. He's tired. He's kind of freaked out over James. No, he's really freaked out over James, and a part of him thinks for sure that just maybe, he should really have considered spending some time last night going over a few plans. Except he doesn't have a damn thing. It's not like he can break into Debbie's and steal the thing from under their noses without them being aware he's around.

"Sweetie."

And at this time of night, it's a long drive, and he didn't put gas in the car. Too freaked out and too tired and a lot of other 'too's' that aren't quite registering right now because Brian thinks it is a very, very bad idea that the shop's books be left to James perusal.

"Justin?"

And by now, surely, the man has read them and found out whatever it is that he shouldn't, or maybe photocopied everything to take to Stockwell. He's going to wake up tomorrow and find out Michael's been found and taken into custody and fucking James Evans is going to be given some kind of award while the rest of them are hauled into jail on charges of aiding and abetting a kidnapping. Mom will try and take out a second mortgage on the condo for Justin's legal defense fund and Debbie will yell really loud, so loud that it'll get through the prison walls and even that escape will be denied him. Justin wonders if they feed you enough in prison, and if there's any chance he can get a cell with Brian. Well, no, because Brian will collapse and die the second he realizes that the color scheme is all orange. He'll get a roommate from Arkansas named Bubba with a lot of tattoos who will like little blond artists.

He, Justin, will be responsible for the early, untimely death of his lover, not to mention the fact that God alone knows what those police will do with an impounded corvette. Probably icky straight-guy things.

Whoa doggies.

No. More. Espresso.

"Swing by the loft." The words slip out before he even realizes what he's saying, and on the other end of the line, Justin hears Emmett's breath release.

"The loft? I thought you said Brian--"

"I say so many things, you really have no idea. Just come by. And um--you have Ted's old car still, right?"

"The car--?"

"Gassed up? I swear, I'll explain when you get here."

The silence on the other end is Emmett, wondering if Justin's finally given up that entire claim on sanity. Come on, Emmett, coddle the insane. That's what all the books say. Go with it. Be one with pop psychology.

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

"I love you so *much*, Emmett."

Emmett makes a weird sound on the other end of the line. Like he's choking to death, but as long as he can drive okay, Justin's not too worried. "Uh huh."

"See you when you're here."

Hanging up before Emmett can think any better of the situation, Justin pushes off the cover and gropes for his shoes.

And to think, Brian thought he was the only one who could plan out cool investigative things. Not that this is investigative, and Justin pulls the boots on and pauses. This is actually, if anyone really wanted to get super technical, a kind of breaking and entering deal, except, well, Debbie's house was his home, right? That doesn't count as breaking and entering. If Michael were to go by and have to get in for some reason in a way that wasn't completely orthodox, surely no one could really say, that is so a felony.

And there's always the fact that Justin, for one, looks really *good* in orange.

Emmett keeps giving him weird looks from the corner of his eye.

"You've lost your mind, sweetie."

He sounds so--disapproving. Justin shifts in the seat, pulling up the ten thousand reasons why this is the best idea in the world, but Emmett hadn't even let him get to the orange jumpsuit thing before telling him to get in the car and checking his pupils for dilation.

"Look, what would you do?"

"What do you *mean*, what would I do? Justin, whatever the hell Brian told you--"

Rubbing a hand across his face, Justin's vaguely aware of the beginnings of a caffeine withdrawal headache spreading spider-web fine lines over his forehead and down his cheekbones. No more espressos, like, ever. "Brian isn't overreacting."

Emmett snorts his thoughts on *that* one, and well, okay, Mikey-ex, not exactly a place he can say Brian's absolutely blameless. Which sucks on a variety of levels right now. "I'm not saying he's being deliberately--"

"I'm saying, I'm going to trust that he knows what he's talking about." And that's damn little actual information, come to think. Stupid not to ask for a little clarification.

"Let's assume you and Brian haven't been smoking some extra special mushrooms. What could James possibly get out of Michael's account book, for Christ's sake?"

"The accounts Michael's pulling money from for his little cross-country adventure."

"And that is bad why?"

What, is Justin supposed to know everything? "I don't know! He just shouldn't know. I--look, Brian's right. Michael left with the idea of *not being found*, 'kay? This James finding him would totally blow that out of the water, wouldn't it? We should respect Michael's wishes."

Emmett's silent for a long moment. "What if he's in trouble and can't contact us?"

Justin refuses to think about that. "He's got Hunter with him. If anyone can get out of a bad sitch, Hunter's the one to do it." And he's talking up Hunter. It's like swallow your pride day all over the place. "Emmett, listen to what I'm saying. Do you think, seriously, that'd I'd even consider this if I wasn't sure something was really wrong?"

"I'm not saying that." A sharp right turn nails Justin to the door briefly. Competing instincts. They're friends, more or less. That counts for a lot. Justin's not sure, however, that a little breaking and entering is really something that comes up often when friends ask friends to help. "I'm saying, I think you're jumping to conclusions. Bad ones. Brian has no judgement on Michael's boyfriends, you know that--"

"He likes Ben."

That stops Emmett cold. "And one out of--"

"And when is the last time you saw Brian freak out over someone like this?"

Emmett seems to be mulling a reply, and Justin watches his forehead crease in thought. This combination of regret and worry. "Ethan."

Well, he asked, didn't he? "No, he didn't." Emmett snorts softly, and Justin half-turns on the seat to look at him. "Emmett." This isn't the time to be curious. This just--isn't. At all. And it doesn't matter.

"You weren't there, baby."

Thank you for the news flash. But--now is not the time. Now is the very opposite of not the time. "Leaving that aside--look, trust my judgement. Please. I--"

"Whatever Brian's told you, James is a great guy. Debbie told us about--"

"He--I don't like him." Staring directly out the windshield, Justin focuses his eyes on the bright lights of incoming traffic. Silence, with the sounds of tires over asphalt and the honking of disgruntled drivers

"Sweetie?" Emmett's voice is strained.

"We saw each other, in the diner. Something--" Justin bites back a sigh. Even to himself, he sounds like an irrational twelve year old girl. "I don't know. It's stupid. Before I knew who he was. Before we saw him at Debbie's. I saw him come in and--it was weird. I don't know, I don't *care* how stupid it sounds. I don't like him. I don't like the way he looks at me."

"Like he wants to fuck you?" Trust Emmett to screw tact. "A lot of men look at you like that, honey. Brian looks at you like that."

Justin shivers involuntarily, body memory of the way those eyes felt studying him. "Brian looks like he wants to fuck me. James looks like he wants to break me while he does it. I know the difference."

Emmett lets out a slow breath beside him. "You don't think--maybe--that this is something left from the--" His mouth freezes over the word.

Like in the end, everything comes back to that. And in some ways, he thinks it does. There's a lot of befores and afters in Justin's life, but that's the one that everything spins around to for everyone in the end. Before, he was someone he knew. After, he became someone else. He's at the middle ground finally, the place where his skin fits again, but he thinks, sometimes, that he lost a lot more than a few hours of memory that night. The effortless use of his hand.

Brian would say bullshit, but Brian first fell in love with someone who died in the middle of a deserted parking lot.

He's never told Brian that and never will. He thinks, just maybe, that Brian wouldn't understand.

Justin watches the traffic. "Do you think you all were around all the time? You don't know everything--none of you were around all the time when I first used to--when I wanted to see stuff. Not--nothing happened, but I'm not stupid, I learned not to be. He bothers me and that's all I need. That's what I trust. I trust Brian and I trust myself. I don't know why he's here and maybe I'm being completely unfair, but I don't care. This is Mikey we're talking about. You really want to balance Mikey's life against the intentions of a guy we don't even know?"

"Debbie trusts him."

"Debbie liked David." Justin stops short, hearing the edge in his voice. "Debbie liked Ethan, too."

Emmett sucks a breath through his teeth. Instinct and reason. One or the other. And Emmett's not stupid, he gets instinct. None of them are Jason Kemp. "Okay. I think you're out of your mind, but okay. You're that sure, we'll do this."

Justin hadn't even known how tense he'd been until his muscles went liquid and he finds himself sinking into the seat, eyes closed. "You don't have to do anything. Just get me there and then drive me home."

Emmett laughs. It's a weird, almost foreign sound--he hasn't heard Emmett laugh in way too long, and it's edgeless, and it's amused as hell, and it's Emmett all over again. Justin's mouth curves up in an unwilling smile. "Sit and watch my pretty little ass, honey. I do this, I go all the way. Now, what's the plan?"

"You're kidding."

Justin takes out his key, looking at the deadbolt and the lock on the back kitchen door. There's a chain inside, but Debbie always forgets it. If Vic locked up, they're going to have a problem.

"We just go in, get the book, and leave. Piece of cake."

From behind him, Justin thinks he can actually *hear* Emmett grinding his teeth.

"And what if Mr. Man took it to bed with him, did you think of that?"

"Kinky. And kind of disturbing, if he still has that much of a hard-on for Mikey." He's really trying not to think about that part. Because that goes seriously freaky places Justin's not sure he's up to. But.

"We'll just go upstairs and get it." Because, right, it's going to be that simple. His voice is all that's breezily confident, and he's really proud of that, considering at the mention of James and a bed of any kind, his hand starts shaking, and when the fuck did any key in the history of the planet ever have such a problem getting into a lock? It's like the first time he topped all over again, and Justin flushes in memory of *that* particular exercise. Thank God the guy had been so drunk he was making up his own porn memories all on his own at that point.

Not that sufficient lube is going to help in a situation like this, just some serious hand-eye coordination, and Justin swallows the hysterical giggle. He'd needed more of *that* on that night, too.

"I don't believe I'm going along with this. I really don't." Behind him, Emmett's started pacing. Justin tunes him out, pushing the key in finally and the doorknob, snap, good to go. Deadlock next. Okay, now the real test. Pressing one hand into the wood, Justin turns the knob and mutters a short prayer that he's sure his Sunday school teacher never, ever meant to be used in a situation like this.

It's a Debbie night, not a Vic, and Justin watches in surprise as the door swings open. The kitchen gapes, dark and unfamiliar, in front of him, like he didn't eat an endless amount of meals here. Or dance in here with Deb and Vic. Or, during a particularly memorable occasion, blow Brian in that corner of the kitchen counter while Deb and company chatted loudly in the living room.

A memory that still makes him hard, and this is *so* not the time.

"I don't believe this."

Emmett and this entire doom thing are getting really old really fast. "Shh. You wanted to be a par