Rating: NC-17
Summary: Post season three.
Author Notes: I suppose explanations are in order. When Jainieg gives them, I'll certainly post them.
by jenn and jainieg
Part I:
Babylon is for losers with no lives, or that's what Ethan tells himself, even when he's standing there, a drink clutched in one hand. Solid bodies coat the floor, a moving, writhing ocean of nameless, faceless people. Like watching the largest clothed orgy in history.
He hates it.
He hates what it is, a meat market for bodies, for a quick fuck, for mindless, meaningless sex. He hates what it symbolizes, the power one man can have over so fucking many. He never brought Justin to Babylon when they were together. He was never that stupid.
It meant something, the day he took Justin away from this, and he remembers how high it made him, giddy like a kid, excited like playing a flawless concerto, like performing for thousands. And it probably means even more that the second Justin left him, he came back here.
The lights, with their cartoon-colored gels, flashing on and off in time to the beat of the music, make him feel lightheaded. The music is monotonous and electric - some soulless techno, thick with sharp bass. He frowns into his tonic water and the pitiful slice of lemon floating in it.
It's stupid to be here, but God, everything seems stupid these days. A pretty face at a concert, a quick, mindless fuck in a hotel, and the smell of rotting roses on his floor. He was hours staring at them, shaking hands touching ripped petals, velvety smooth beneath the pads of his fingers. They may still be there, dried flowers and the lingering scent of loss. He doesn't know. He hasn't been back.
"Hey."
Ethan hunches his shoulders against a heavy palm on his shoulder. Meat market for bodies, less than meaningless sex. It's not him. It never has been. "Fuck off."
Of course, the one man with power over seemingly every last man on Liberty Avenue *would* be here, tonight. Swaying against the rhythm in the center of the crowd, at the heart of it. Right at home. The techno is sweet in Brian's ears, like Chopin or Pachelbel, and the lights don't make him dizzy so much as whatever he taps out of a small vial onto the back of his hand and sniffs.
Ethan takes a drink, eyes fixing as Brian licks the residue away, slow and through, like even this is another kind of sex, and hell, for him, maybe it is.
He curses and turns to face the bar, slamming his glass down onto it, but the sound is swallowed up by the crowd, and he can't even get the satisfaction of hearing it.
It shouldn't be like this. This isn't how he planned his life.
"More--water?" The bartender smirks, and Ethan bares his teeth in nothing like a smile.
"Beam." Justin's drink of choice. No, Brian's drink of choice, dark and thick and heavy, burning the tongue, God, Ethan remembers kissing Justin and tasting that like a brand. And even though it wasn't, even though it couldn't be, it always, always felt like Brian's unique message to anyone that did more than look. You may have him now, but I always will.
"Fuck." It tastes like shit, Ethan can't *stand* hard liquor, but he throws it back, instantly dizzy from the rush. Another one after - the bartender setting it in front of him without Ethan having to ask - and Ethan takes it, choking a little at the sharp burn
From the corner of his eye, Ethan catches a glimpse of blond hair--a dime a dozen here, pretty blond boys offering up ass for shots, for drugs, for fucking *nothing*. But he'd know that color in his dreams, sunshine and the smell of smoke and spring, blue eyes like the sky after it rains, and confidence like a beacon. Dear fucking God, he thought he was ready and he wasn't.
One more drink. Maybe that will help. The third doesn't go down any easier. He buries his face in the crook of his elbow, muffling his cough in his sleeve as he half turns from the bar, feeling his eyes begin to water.
"Hey, honey, why don't you take your jacket off and stay a while? Not that leather isn't a good look for you, but they've got the heat turned all the way up tonight."
Glancing up, Ethan vaguely recognizes the worried face, short honey hair, too-tight clothes. Friend of Justin's. "Fuck. You."
Perfectly curved eyebrows slip upward, but he doesn't flounce off, like anyone with sense. Sitting down, the man glances briefly at his glass, then leans an elbow on the bar. "Ethan Gold, right?"
Yes, definitely a friend of Justin's. Justin, who's dancing on the floor right now, slim body swaying with that perfect rhythm that always made him so fantastic in bed. Some not-Brian wrapped around his back, but the glazed eyes are fixed on Brian, five people away, and they might be apart, they aren't even fucking *touching*, but they might as well be.
"Yeah." He gestures to the bartender for another. If he can't work up the nerve to go up to Justin, open his mouth and try to talk, the least he can do is get completely hammered before he leaves. At least then, the night won't be a total wash. "You're... Emmett?"
The man smiles, then extends a hand over his glass, palm down. "Yes. Think you've had enough, hmm?" Before Ethan can say a word, before he can even *think* it, he's pulled up and away, stumbling at the rush of vertigo. "Come sit with us."
"Wh - I --" His tongue is numb but his feet seem to be moving just fine. "They have -- tables?"
It's kind of welcome, when they move far enough away not to see the floor, but halfway up the stairs, Ethan glances down. Watches dazedly as Justin sniffs a line off Brian's hand, pretty pink tongue chasing after, sucking a finger into his mouth with a glance up that makes Ethan immediately hard. Pulled into Brian as they kiss, like they're alone, like they're not surrounded by what feels like a million curious eyes. Swaying against Brian like he's never been anywhere else, like he has no idea there's anywhere else to be.
Like almost five months are *nothing*, like Justin never left this place, these people. This life. That man.
"Come on." The hand on his elbow pulls again, and Ethan stumbles up the next stair, Justin's smile burning into his mind, and God, he hates it here, *hates* it here, this fucking church of the one night stand with its high priest feeling up his most willing, most fucking eager sacrifice.
Fucking *hell*, why is he here?
"Where are we *going*?" he manages, clutching at Emmett's sleeve. His toe catches on the next step and he lurches for a moment before catching himself. Guys of all shapes, sizes, colors file past him down the stairs. A black guy in a cowboy hat and chaps, a blond surfer in a skimpy leather thong with a silver zipper on the front and a black studded dog collar.
"I told you, honey - upstairs. I think someone's had a little too much to drink," Emmett says, not looking at him, but still pulling him along. "You were about to fall off your stool."
"I wasn't sitting on one."
"Exactly." Emmett snorts softly, like he's thinking of something else entirely. "Not for very long, anyway." Another pull--he's stronger than he looks. A glance shows blond hair disappear into the backroom, and God, he could have lived his whole life without seeing that.
He knows about it. Knows that less than a day after Justin left him, Justin was here, in that room, and maybe it wasn't Brian, but it was someone. The art of pain management as learned from one Brian Fucking Kinney, like all the habits he'd said he hated, discarded like old clothes and shoes that don't fit and Brian himself, that were just on hold, not gone, not forgotten
Ethan may have slipped, one fuck, one night, one stupid mistake, but he never did this to Justin. He never, ever denied who he was.
"Down, boy." Somehow, God knows how, they're at a table, and Ethan sees a vaguely shocky--Michael? Hot guy wrapped around him that he knows he'd recognize if he was more sober.
"What the hell--"
"I'm telling you, they weren't fucking each other," Michael is saying as he took a sip from his drink. "They don't know what they hell they're talking about."
"Ooh, gossip? Tell, tell!" Emmett begs as he drags Ethan over to a chair. "Is it good? Is it anyone I know?"
"Lex Luthor and Superman," Ted says with a small smile. "Michael's been watching this new show on the WB... Smallhell? Smallworld...?"
"Smallville. It's so wrong," Michael says firmly.
It's like they don't even *see* him, and Emmett grins and reaches for something foamy and pink, taking a sip as the big man laughs at some low voiced comment by Michael. Across the table is one vaguely familiar face and one not at all. Ted, his mind offers blearily. He remembers him, God, who could *forget*--too thin, too pale, clinging to his water glass like a lifeline. All the earmarks of the recent graduate from rehab. The thin blond with him is doing the same thing, worried blue eyes fixed on him to the exclusion of all else.
"That's Ben," Emmett tells him, pushing a glass of water in front of him. "Ted. Blake."
Michael looks up, and it's almost funny to see the look on his face when he really *sees* who's at the table. Justin never needed to tell him that Michael was the enemy from day one. It was all over his face every time they saw each other.
And that wasn't often. Ethan thinks Michael worked to make sure of that.
"How's it goin'?" Ted says, offering him a wan smile. Ethan can still see the sickness around his eyes, the hunger, the craven addiction.
"What the *fuck* is he doing here?!" The words are out of Michael's mouth like buckshot, leaden and deadly.
"Having a drink," Emmett says, sipping the pink thing so casually, he might be totally unaware of the fact that Michael looks ready to implode.
"Ethan. We've met before," Ben--Ben?--says, extending a hand. At a loss, Ethan returns the favor, the big, firm palm sliding against his. He's hot. Ethan's mind offers up a vague memory of Justin saying something like that once. The thought slips away before he can catch it.
"Yeah. Um. Hi."
"Why does he have to have a drink with us? There are a million other tables - *empty* tables - he could be sitting at," Michael gripes. "Brian'll shit if he comes back up here and sees *him* here." There's such venom in that word and the way that Michael says it, Ethan feels sick to his stomach. Well, more sick.
Emmett's eyebrows go up. "Brian can take care of himself, honey." Leaning an elbow on the table, Emmett gives him the most comfortable smile in creation. "So. Back from tour?"
It's surreal. Everything is tonight. "Yeah."
"Tour? You're a musician?" Blake asks, playing along with a kind of pathetic curiosity. Anything to keep Michael quiet, Ethan thinks.
"Yeah, uh... I play the violin," he says, letting his voice creep up in octave as he says the last words, almost making it into a question.
"Oh, cool," Blake says, smiling, strain showing around the blue eyes. "Do you play any opera? Ted loves opera."
Ethan blinks back to Ted. "Some."
"So how long are you in Pittsburgh?" Ben asks, and it's kind of getting funny, because no one except Emmett looks anywhere near comfortable, except Ted, who seems to be in a world all his own, watching his water like it holds salvation.
"I don't know." Probably a while. Ethan thinks of long nights in hotels and the too-pretty blonds he's picked up, magical bow and magical charm. Justin had said he was beautiful when he played.
Justin had said--
"Brian!"
"Hello, children," Brian murmurs as he swaggers over to the table, knocking back a mouthful of Beam. "Have we been behaving ourselves?"
"I won't tell him about the spitballs if you won't," Michael mock-whispers to Ted and gives him a big, conspiratorial wink.
Ethan swivels around, and God, he doesn't mean to, should have stayed the fuck down, but instinct is instinct and hell if he wants Kinney anywhere near his unprotected back. He takes up too much space, too much air, and Ethan's always hated that about him. He notes the unbuttoned top of his jeans, the studied mess of quickly rearranged clothing. Brian takes in the table at a glance, eyes brushing Ethan impersonally like he's not entirely sure who he is. A slow burn of anger--I'm the one that took your boyfriend, you son of a bitch--that turns off the second Justin materializes from behind him, chin on his shoulder.
"Hey," Justin wraps his arms around Brian's waist and kisses the round of his shoulder, bared temptingly by the sleeveless shirt he wears. Ethan feels invisible. "What's up?"
Justin, beautiful and sweet and high as shit, taking Emmett's glass with a grin and a smile that's too bright and too wide. Vaguely disheveled in that way that suggests he's been on his knees, messy blond hair and glassy eyes.
"Get your own drinks," Emmett says, but Brian's body blocks his reach for his glass and Justin just grins, drinking it in a single swallow. He shouldn't be that hot, sweaty and high and smelling like another man, wrapped around him like a cheap hustler, but he is. God, he is.
Brian turns his head, glancing over his shoulder, and smiles indulgently, knowingly - proudly - at the lovely mess that Justin is. His eyes own every inch of Justin's body, from the tips of his hair to the soles of his square-toed boots. Jesus, he's even *dressing* like him, now.
"Now, now, Emmett," Brian chides. "The boy is thirsty."
"Yeah," Justin chimes in. "It feels like I've been dancing for hours and hours..." His head falls onto Brian's shoulder as Brian takes the glass back from him, dropping it carelessly on the table.
Ethan opens his mouth. "Justin." He's not sure when he became suicidal. Maybe that's what Beam does to you.
For a second, he's sure Justin didn't hear him. Nothing, no movement, not even a twitch, but he gets Brian's unwavering attention, and yes, he's always, always understood the addiction of that, why Justin wanted it so badly. But his eyes are on Justin, who lifts his head, eyes meeting his in confusion, and the shock of recognition chasing just after, lighting the blue eyes from inside. Justin hadn't even seen him until now, Ethan realizes with a sick jolt he feels all the way to his feet. He didn't even realize Ethan was there.
"Ethan." The single slow, slurred word makes him tense, remembering that voice whispering his name in bed, chanting it to the ceiling, face down on the mattress. A thousand ways he's heard Justin say his name--what feels like a thousand nights remembering--but he's never heard it like this.
Fingers tighten on Brian's waist, instinctive recoil, and Ethan thinks he understands. He's part of Justin's past, and he's being erased. No one likes to see their work undone like this.
He can understand Justin's reaction, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt. It does. Like crazy. "Justin," he whispers, pleading, feeling the knot in his stomach slowly working its way up into his throat. "How's it going?"
The table's silent, and Ethan wonders what they see--past and present touching, just like this, Brian without anything but pure amusement, like Ethan's never been anything and never will be. I had him, Ethan wants to say, and I still would if I hadn't fucked up.
But then, Ethan thinks as Justin looks at him, sharp and unhappy, Brian could say the same thing.
"I'm good." God, dammit, why did he *come* here, and the answer is so simple. I had to see. I had to know. I had to try, and Justin has to respect him for that, has to understand that, has to get that letting go isn't as easy as it sounds. Of all people, Justin should know that.
And God, if Brian just looked--uncomfortable. Angry. Jealous, something, anything, like how Ethan felt every time they met, but Brian--Christ, he doesn't even *care*.
"Ready to go?" Justin asks, low-voiced, and Brian's eyebrows raise, a sharp look that belies the easy looseness of his body, whatever he's taken tonight, whatever he's given Justin.
"Sure," he says, brusquely, and hooks his arm around Justin's neck. Neither of them look back as they walk away, but when Justin leans against Brian, it's not as carefree as before. He puts more of his weight against Brian, now.
Brian stops briefly at the bar, another quick shot, and Justin leans up, soft pink mouth and wide open eyes. A slow, careful kiss, and nothing like the floor, just this taste that lasts forever, and Ethan can't stop watching, can't even think how he could try. Justin, who wraps himself around Brian like a blanket, like Brian's the only protection in the world, and maybe he is, Ethan thinks a little dully. That's the one thing that Ethan knew he could never be.
When they're gone, he catches the tail end of Michael looking away, and damned if he doesn't feel that expression on his own face. Wiped away as soon as Michael sees Ethan looking, turning to Ben and the conversation with Ted.
Emmett's hand on his thigh is gentle. "Want more water?"
Ethan thinks he'll throw up if he drinks anything at all. "No. I--gotta go." Where, he doesn't know, he can *smell* Justin, and his apartment is where his memories are. Can feel him on his skin, like they were in bed this morning. Taste him, and taste the Beam that reminds him of Brian, and Justin, and how stupid it is to love someone who doesn't know how to stop loving someone else.
"Wait, honey. Let me get someone to take you home."
Ethan bites his lip. "I'm fine." He stumbles when he gets to his feet, and right, that doesn't make him look sober at all, but he is. He's never been more sober in his life.
Emmett's hand catches him by the elbow and his eyes scan over the table, considering. "Teddy, give him a ride. He can't drive home like this."
"Walked," he croaks. Like he has time to buy a car. "I walked here."
"All the more reason." Emmett says flatly.
A glance at Ted gives him the almost hysterical view of Ted's naked shock, like he can't imagine why anyone would ask him anything of the sort. Blake, though--Blake?--nods slowly, leaning back in his seat and picking up his glass, and the glance at Ted has to be significant, but Ethan can't figure out why.
"Uh. Sure."
Ethan opens his mouth to protest, but Emmett's fingers tighten on his elbow, cutting off words, thought, and pretty much anything that isn't blinding, searing pain. Oh. Fuck. Before he can try again, catch his breath, Ted's pulling out his car keys, standing up with a few words to Michael that Ethan doesn't pay enough attention to hear.
He hears Michael, though. People in *space* can hear Michael. "He's a big boy, Emmett. He can certainly take care of himself."
"That's not the point," Emmett says primly. "Being old enough to drink and staggering home drunk are two entirely different things."
And that's apparently unanswerable, or maybe it's Ben, who touches Michael's hand, getting his attention, and Ethan's being taken from the table with no clear idea when he agreed to this. A single stumble, though, and a strong arm goes around him, catching him before he falls.
"Okay?" Ted asks, like he actually cares, and Ethan almost laughs. No, I'm not okay, I haven't *been* okay, my life is a fucking *mess*, Jesus, weren't you at that table? But he doesn't say that, because Ted's coaxing him with gentle hands, and God, he likes that.
Needs it, even, and he lets Ted lead because there's nothing else to do.
"It's okay, honey," Emmett whispers to him, giving his elbow a gentler squeeze. "Go with Teddy and Blake. They'll make sure you get home safe and sound."
"The safe and sound is negotiable," Ted quips awkwardly as he leads Ethan toward the door. "Especially if he tosses his cookies in my car."
Outside, it's cold, and Ethan shudders at the change, pulling his coat closer, Ted and Blake scanning the street. "I think I parked--fuck. Blake."
Ted moves, even Blake moves, but they're not fast enough, not to stop this, and Ethan watches as feet away, Justin goes down on Brian in the alley. Anyone could stop and see, anyone would *know*, and God, he'd never do that to Justin. He'd never have asked that.
"Christ," he hears himself whisper, and Ted's pulling at his arm and Blake is saying something, but what the fuck do they matter?
Bare fingers sift through Justin's hair, tightening, guiding, and Ethan
*remembers* what it feels like to have that perfect mouth tight around his cock, that wet tongue, those soft lips. Remembers how Justin looked up at him, holding his eyes, making him see everything. Justin's long fingers, braced on Brian's thighs, tighten, and Brian tenses, and fuck, the *sounds*.
Brian smiles as he comes, hazel eyes open and watching, and the dark head turns slow and easy, drowsy from orgasm, and it's like he knew Ethan was watching, knew he'd see this, though it's impossible. It's impossible, unlikely, fucking *ridiculous*, but it feels like it, it sounds like it, and Ethan believes it. Brian holds his gaze, sharp smile and glazed eyes, even as he pulls Justin up, taking that swollen mouth in a hard kiss, and Ethan tastes Beam all over again, bitter and sharp on the back of his tongue, numbing his lips. Brian's unique message to anyone that looks and once touched. You may have had him once, but I always will.
Ethan turns and just makes it to the gutter before he throws up.
Blake's behind the wheel and Ted is with Ethan in the back seat, one arm around his shoulders and the other resting on his forearm. It's not a comfortable position, considering where they are, and it shouldn't be comforting - considering the fact that Ethan barely knows this man, either of these men - but it is.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," Ted says quietly.
"Why? It's not like it's your fault," Ethan says. As soon as he gets home, he's got to brush his teeth, to get the bitter bile taste out of his mouth, off of his tongue.
"I know, but... it was cruel."
"I deserved it."
"How can you say that? No one deserves that," Ted says and finally, he's there and he's alive and solid and real. No more sick-eyed rehab ghost with its arm draped around his shoulders.
I might, Ethan thinks, remembering a garden party long ago and far away. Brian's not like anyone else, Brian likes to play, Justin had told him once, but Ethan hadn't quite gotten it, not until now. Like a disease, a fucking psychosis, his mind rewinds it over and over like some horrible dream that won't end. That's not Justin, he thinks, Justin would never, Justin had never, Justin isn't and can't be--and then he wonders if that's true at all.
Brian Kinney moves like a cobra in his head, dancing under Technicolor lights flashing like a heartbeat, swaying slowly from side to side, hypnotizing Justin and holding him in thrall. He can feel himself falling under that same spell and when he closes his eyes and sees himself there - in the circle of Brian's arms, on his knees at Brian's feet on the cold cement, he's dizzier and not quite as dizzy all at the same time.
"Fuck," he grates out, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead, hard, trying to force the thoughts out of his head. Christ, he's beautiful...
"Hey." Ted's hand tightens. "Just breathe, okay?"
Ethan almost laughs, because his chest feels tight and his throat aches. He'll never breathe again.
"I need an address," Blake says neutrally from the front seat, and Ethan buries his head in his hands. Go back, see the place that was home with Justin, see Justin everywhere, but see him like he was tonight. Brian Kinney's pretty fuck toy. Not Ethan's. Never Ethan's again. "Fuck."
"Ethan--"
"Just--a hotel. Or something." Side of the road is fine. Ethan doesn't even care.
Ted's quiet for a few minutes. "You sure?"
"I don't know." He sucks in a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut tight when it refuses to come out again.
"Okay, hang on. Okay? Just hang on. Blake?" Ted's hand leaves his forearm and rests on the back of the driver's seat. "There's a gas station at the corner, can you pull in there for a minute?"
"Sure." Ethan can hear the confusion in Blake's voice, and shares it, but is too busy trying not to let the images in his head sink into his lungs and suffocate him.
He can feel the car lurching to a stop, the ticking of the turn signal, and they turn into the gas station parking lot. "I'll be right back," Ted says, slipping out of the car inch by inch - a foot, calf, leg, torso, and lastly that one arm holding him together. "Just wait here. I'll be back."
A hand wraps around his wrist and coaxes him out of the car a few minutes later. "Here." The plastic mouth of a bottle of water kisses his lips and he opens his mouth, letting the coolness in. He spits and they repeat the maneuver several times, until he can finally swallow and breathe again. "Better?"
Actually, yes. "Thanks," he whispers, and his voice is still raw, but at least he sounds human again. He can't possibly have a headache from the liquor already, but there's a sharp pain spreading over his forehead, and he rubs uncertainly, opening his eyes enough to see Ted watching him with wide, worried eyes.
"You sure you don't want to go home?'
Home? Where the fuck is that? The apartment he avoids, the hotels he hates? Jesus. "No. Not there."
Ted looks down at him carefully, like he isn't sure how to say what he's thinking. "I have a very comfortable couch."
The offer is oddly worded and coaxes an unexpected laugh from Ethan. Ted looks embarrassed, sorry that he offered, maybe even sorry that he woke up this morning and found he was still breathing. Ethan quiets and turns it over in his mind for a moment. Emmett saw him leave with Ted. People saw him leave with Ted. And God, what's the worst that could happen? Finding Brian and Justin fucking in Ted's bed, and that seems pretty fucking unlikely. Leaning back against the car, he clears his throat, schools his features. He takes another drink and nods his head. "Okay."
"Good," Ted smiles and looks pleased, if a bit bashful.
"Everything okay?" Blake asks, peering at them over the hood of the car.
"Yeah," Ted says, nodding. "We're getting there."
"So where to?" He twirls the key ring around on his index finger, keys jingling.
"Ethan will be staying at my place tonight."
"Careful, Sonny Boy." Brian catches him when he stumbles, almost hitting the wall, and he's way too high and way too drunk and way, way too damn distracted to even know where he's going, which is why the door looks amazingly difficult to unlock. He's propped up against it like a doll while Brian shows disgusting amounts of motor coordination and disables the alarm, getting the door open and Justin inside in one way too smooth move.
Justin would be a lot more pissed if he didn't pretty much depend on Brian to keep him from collapsing on the floor in a sodden heap of denim. "God, I can't be this drunk."
"You didn't count your shots, did you?" And fuck the bastard, he just sounds amused. "Keep moving and don't you fucking dare throw up on my floor."
"I'm fine."
Brian lets go, stepping away, and Justin's listing dangerously to port. Right. He's not okay. He is very, very, very drunk.
Before he and the floor become any closer, Brian slides an arm around him again. Isn't this his job? Get Brian home in one piece? The one he inherited from Michael by brute persistence? But no, he's the one being led to the bed, dropped unceremoniously over the side and left for dead while Brian wanders off to do whatever sacred-Brian rituals commence after a night of semi-debauchery.
Eyes closed, Justin considers the state of his body. He's not sick, just utterly without anything close to sobriety, and God, Ethan's here, he really, really should have drank a lot more.
A few long seconds pass, then a weight lowers itself onto the bed beside him. Justin's body follows the depression of the mattress, rolling into a warm, bare hip and damp skin. "Sit up."
Sit up?
An arm slides behind his shoulders, arching him up, and Justin opens his eyes to watch in bemusement as a bottle of water appears in his line of sight. Right. Water. His arms don't want to move, but his choices are to take it or have it dumped all over him, and it's just not that warm in the loft.
A half a bottle later, Brian pulls away and Justin collapses back into the mattress, eyes closed. "My life sucks."
Brian can move like a cat when he wants to, so it's no real surprise that Justin can't hear a damn thing, though he sometimes wonders how Brian learned it. It's the dumbest game ever, but he's too drunk to do much else, so Justin lies still and just listens. Faint brush of fabric against itself. The lights being turned off. The open and close of the refrigerator door. Then silence, silence all around, before the bed shifts, Brian stretching out beside him, long legs dangling over the side like a kid's. Kicking his feet like Gus does when he's restless. Brian might be a little drunk, too.
"Better?"
Someone might mistake the warmth in his voice for concern. Justin smiles, turning his head to bring Brian into view. Tousled dark hair and sharp hazel eyes. High still, coasting on the afterglow of whatever he took, and close enough to touch if Justin shifts just a little. Like a tease, to be so close, feel the warmth of his body, and not head toward it like a compass pointing north. Or a lemming for a cliff.
It's a long way down, but Justin's not afraid of jumping anymore. "Everything is still, anyway."
Brian slides a lazy hand over his stomach, sliding stealthily beneath his shirt, fingers idly tracing sweat-slick skin. Brian likes touch, anyone, everyone, but especially here, especially now, especially Justin, and Justin appreciates that. Appreciates it even more when he's more sober, but it's good now. Stretching his arms over his head, Justin tilts his head back, eyes closing, feeling like a sleepy cat being stroked just right. Muscles go liquid and pliant beneath the slow, steady movements of magical fingers.
"Any reason you're so tense?"
Well, he'd been coming down from that until *now*. Justin doesn't open his eyes. Brian won't give him a clue, anyway, even if he does look. "Long night." Don't say Ethan. Though honestly, he'd as soon expect Brian to bring up Ethan as the sun to rise in the west. They don't talk about it. They *never* talk about it. Justin knows his Brian, and hell, he knows himself. He's all for openness of communication, but you don't, you just *don't*, talk about the ex in bed with the current. That's just common sense.
Of course, he's very drunk, and common sense is really overrated when life looks like this. It could get dangerous.
"Mm-hm." The stroking doesn't stop, but somehow, it's mixed in with clothing removal, and Justin didn't even feel Brian move. His shirt is skinned off so easily Justin barely feels the change in angle before he's back down on the mattress. Pants next, sliding down his legs, socks and shoes falling onto the floor with soft plops after. Justin shivers at the cool brush of the bedspread on bare skin, feeling goose bumps rise everywhere. "Roll over."
Justin grins, eyes still closed. "What, no kiss?"
He can almost see Brian roll his eyes, giggles to himself as he's pushed over, but Brian doesn't do much more than pull himself up further on the bed, stretching out beside him. It's like being felt up in the slowest way, sensitizing every inch of skin. Justin breathes a sigh, rubbing his cheek into the blanket. "That's good."
Brian chuckles, and he's doing all that wonderful stroking again, and all of Justin's skin is aching. Fuck me, he mouths into the blanket, eyes closed at the brush of fingers through his hair. He's been hard since Babylon, hard in the alley he pushed Brian into, hard through a game of pool like foreplay and three shots at Woody's, hard coming home, and he's hard now. Brian's taste coats his mouth over whatever pink shit Emmett was drinking, and that makes him hard, too.
He keeps his eyes closed and doesn't think of the way Brian looked at him in the alley, before Justin's mouth covered his cock and he stopped thinking altogether. He knows Brian. Sex is amnesia and Novocain both. At least for a little while.
"You're so fucking drunk," Brian murmurs, and Justin grins into the blanket, reaching blindly for the pillow beside him before pulling it under his chest. Shivering at every lingering, thoughtful touch. Brian's slow now, like he's moving through honey, and it shows in the open-mouth kiss to the back of his neck, the fingers twining in his hair, the press of a hard cock against his hip. Brian's slow and careful and thinking, and Justin wishes Brian thought less. "You never get this drunk."
Justin closes his mouth. If he could figure out what to say, he'd say it. It wasn't Ethan, it was me. How the hell do you deal with the person you used to be with him when you don't ever want to remember? He still loves me and I don't love him and it scares me that maybe I never did. I don't know what to do. I don't want to do anything at all. "Fuck me."
Fingers follow the line of his spine, tongue chasing wet and heavy, and Justin moans softly, pressing his cock into the blanket, just a little friction, just to make it good, make it better. Down to his ass, and Justin arches into the fingers that press inside him, pushing back on them, trying to get more. Brian has this amazing tongue that moves into corners and pushes out sensation where Justin never knew it could exist. He's biting into the pillow when Brian opens him up and licks inside. "God. God, yes."
Pulls himself on his knees and tries not to buck into it, cock hard and painful, nothing to grind against, brushing his stomach with every panted breath. Justin can come like this, just from this, wet tongue chasing warmth and feeling like it knows everything that Justin's body's ever been.
But not tonight. Brian pulls away and Justin catches his breath on a whine, God, touch me, fuck me, I don't care, just do *something*, and maybe he says it out loud and maybe he doesn't, but he doesn't care. He rocks back when he feels the chill of the lube on long fingers that push inside again, and then finally, finally, the tear of a condom wrapper and Brian's cock pressed against his ass. "*Yes*." Yes, yes, please yes, anything, just yes.
Ted's apartment is small, quietly furnished, reflections of someone who maybe once lived in Ted's skin. Taking his jacket off, he stands uncertainly in the center of the living room, eyes darting between the shelves with their neatly arranged pictures, short shots of a life in progress. An older woman who has to be his mother. Ted and Michael somewhere in the city in different times, grinning at the camera. A group shot from the diner, and Ethan's mouth tightens as his eyes skim over Ted and Emmett smiling from stools, to Brian with his arm around Justin. An older picture--younger, brighter face, shorter hair, an apron just glimpsed before Michael's body blocks the scene. High school, maybe. An older woman on his other side, Debbie. Without even meaning to, Ethan reaches out to touch the smile--that bright one, that lights up a room, that makes Ethan ache, the smile that he'd always thought was just for him, but it never was.
Sunshine, Ethan thought, eyes blurring. That wasn't mine either, was it?'
"I have clean towels, if you want a shower..." Ted trails off, eyes flickering from Ethan to the picture, and Ethan jerks his fingers away as if he's done something wrong. It feels like he did. "You want something to eat?"
Ethan shakes his head quickly, nausea rising at the thought of food. "No. Um. Not hungry." He left the airport tonight, his bags sent to the apartment, and went straight to Babylon. Justin, his mind on constant refrain, Justin, Justin, Justin, because somehow, he'd imagined--something else entirely. So *stupid*. "And yeah. A shower--a shower would be great. Thanks." Wash the feel of Babylon and Brian's smile off his skin, the sour smells of Beam and vomit. Most of all, wash Justin away, Justin's smiles and Justin's pretty blond beauty and Justin's eyes when they looked at him, like he was an embarrassment, something to be hidden and lied about and ignored.
And it figures, Ethan thinks as Ted nods quietly, following the man down a short hall, into a tiny, immaculate bathroom. I was always your dirty secret, wasn't I?
Ted opens a small cabinet, stepping back to avoid being hit by the door, taking out two towels and a washcloth so neatly folded Ethan almost regrets having to destroy the crisp lines. New, he thinks, touching the top one. Never even used. "Thanks."
"No problem." Ted frowns, like he means to say something else, but then just smiles, walking out and quietly shutting the door behind him. Ethan watches for a few long seconds, then strips off his shirt. Spots of vomit and spills of Beam and sweat. He skins the jeans faster, then underwear, dropping them in a pile by the sink. It's only a short step to the tub, and Ethan pulls back the opaque plastic shower curtain, stepping inside. Brand new bar of soap, never used. Containers of shampoo that have been used once. Ted's just out, finding the world again, maybe.
Ethan leans his head into the wall. The world post-Justin feels a lot like that.
The plastic shower curtain closes him into a compartment of steam and water and silence and Ethan leans against the tiled wall under the spray, letting it beat down onto him. His cheek presses against the cold tiles and he lets the water pelt his scalp, plastering his hair on his skull. He can't remember the last time he'd actually taken a shower outside hotels. The pipes and fixtures in his building were so ancient, the best his modest apartment could offer was a claw-footed bathtub that had been put in when the tenement had been built.
He could remember cuddling with Justin amidst bubbles and warm water, with candlelight and sometimes a book. He'd pick up a razor and shave the nearly invisible blond stubble from Justin's chin while Justin laughed.
He could also remember being more nervous than he could ever recall as he reached for a small jewelry box one night. He took the rings out and showed them to Justin, suddenly feeling silly and sappy, but Justin had been delighted and had let Ethan slip the ring on his finger.
Ethan tipped his head up and opened his mouth wide, letting the hot water spray in and rinse out the taste of Beam and vomit, and tried to pretend that he hadn't kept those rings. Had kept both of them, and placed them back in the box, where they still sat in his suitcase, traveling with him everywhere he went, as a reminder.
No matter where he went, the rings always went with him. If he was on the road, they were in his suitcase. If he was back home in Pittsburgh, they went with him in his jacket pocket. Right there, where he could feel the velvet of the case against the whorls of the pads of his fingers. Burning and condemning. He could always sense where they were in a room on the rare occasion the box wasn't in his hands... could feel them and their distance.
They went with him everywhere. Always. A ghost clinging to him, pressed against his back, whispering poison into his ear to the tune of 'but he never promised me anything... you did'.
Promises are for shit, Justin knows that, but he makes them with every strangled breath, elbows braced on the bed, eyes wide and staring blindly into the wall. He makes them all the time, looped together in his head on repeat, since the day he walked out of Ethan's apartment, since he looked into the relief on Daphne's face before her arms slid around him that was so much like coming home he could have cried. This is who I am and what I am and I'll never stop being that for anyone or anything again.
Brian's taking it slow, deliberate drawing of all that power into long, silky strokes, hard enough to make Justin's teeth ache and cock twitch. Mouth slick and wet on his throat, incidental graze of sharp teeth, tongue licking away the sting. Justin's not sure he can take this long, a lengthening tease of his senses, burning out memory by inches, trapped in this moment so close to pain he barely knows the difference anymore. Just wants. Wants, wants, wants, Christ, Brian, he chokes something filthy out between his teeth, tasting the blood on his lip. Brian's hand strokes down his side soothingly, like you'd calm an animal.
"Brian."
It's a horrible angle for a kiss, fingers twisting in his hair and arching his neck, but Justin takes it any way he can get it. Silky dark hair against his cheek, and Justin wants to touch so badly he aches with it, but his balance is shot anyway and he can't take the risk of losing it now. Nips that way Brian loves at the corner of his mouth, sucking Brian's tongue into his mouth and pushing back hard, because it's so slow that Justin might die before he comes. "Please. Come *on*."
A stroke of his thigh from knee to hip, and then Brian pulls away, leaving his back cool from air drying salt-slicked skin, making him shiver. A rough hand on his shoulder, and Justin groans as Brian pulls almost out, like he just might get bored and go have a shower, and Justin thinks hazily he just might kill him if he even tries that shit.
Then the thrust back inside rattles his teeth and he loses breath and even the illusion of thought. Grits his teeth and almost laughs, because his body's alight and Brian's fucking everything out of him that's not here, that's not now, and that's everything he wants.
"Justin," breathed against his neck, like a benediction and a promise all wound into one, and Justin comes at the first stroke of the hand on his cock, the breathless, drunken sound of Brian's voice in his ear. A roar of white noise and the room goes blank, but he can still hear it, feel it drawled along every too-tight nerve, written into his skin for anyone to see. Christ, Brian, don't ever stop, don't ever stop, don't ever let me go again. "*Justin*."
The couch is spread neatly with a blanket and pillow, thanks to his considerate host, and Ethan pauses to touch. New, too. Most of it is, his eye tells him. Never used.
Ted's not in the room, and there's a relief in that, mixed with a curious sense of shame. Everything's too close to the surface of his skin, now, seeing Justin, hearing him, close enough to touch but untouchable.
And somehow, he'd been so sure everything would go differently ,and God, what *had* he thought?
"Ethan?"
He doesn't mean to jump so fast, jerk at the sound of the calm, low voice, but he does, spinning on a heel, wet hair flopping against his forehead. Ted is awkward at the doorway, playing casual with pitiful transparence, like this is nothing new, like they know each other, like there's anything here that makes any sense at all.
"Sorry." Ethan takes a slow breath, trying to slow his racing heart, knowing he's flushing and he can't do a damn thing about it. "Um. Thanks. For letting me crash on your couch."
Ted shrugs uncomfortably. Ethan doesn't think he's used to being thanked for anything. "No problem. Do you need anything else?"
"Oh, no... no, I'm - fine," he says. He's not quite sure what to do with his hands, or the rest of him, and he knows he must look ridiculous - half naked, wet, wearing only a towel and crossing his arms over his chest. But it seems like Ted is embarrassed and apologetic enough for both of them. "You -- you didn't have to do this. I probably would have been fine walking home."
Ted quirks an odd, strained smile at him. "Guess you didn't hear about dumpster boy."
"What?" Ethan frowns.
"Nothing," Ted relents. "Just... if you're on Liberty Avenue and don't have any way of getting home on your own from now on, call me. It's safer." Ethan is confused, both by the cryptic warning and Ted's sober insistence, but nods anyway.
"Okay," he says. He feels the exhaustion pressing down on his shoulders like sandbags, each second another bag added on to the pile. "I... I'm so trashed. I should probably get some sleep."
"Yeah." Ted looks almost regretful, as though this has been the best conversation he's had with anyone in weeks, and all they talked about was... nothing. "Well. Night." He backs away into the shadows of another short hallway, turns, and disappears into a dimly lit room at the end of it.
Belatedly, Ethan remembers his boxers, still in the bathroom, and slips down the hall, grabbing them off the floor of the darkened room. He briefly glances at Ted's closed door, the soft light sprawled underneath. He's not sleeping yet. Ethan thinks that maybe Ted hasn't slept well for a long time.
Leaving the towel in the hamper, Ethan pulls on the shorts absently, using the moonlight from the living room window to guide him to the couch. Hard, but comfortable enough, nothing like the hotel beds he's tossed and turned in for hours, and his eyes automatically flicker to the shelves, fixing on where Justin's picture would be.
He can't lie to himself, not now, not alone in the dark. He wants Justin back.
And he knew that that's why he'd gone to that club, tonight. To get a lay of the land, scope things out... see if Justin was with him or if he was alone. If he had been, Ethan thinks, even for a second, he could have taken that second to whisk Justin way. Out of the club and somewhere they could talk. Okay, maybe not 'they could talk' so much as he could apologize so that Justin could call him a cheating, lying bastard. Which he knew he deserved, despite what Ted had said to him.
He shifts onto his side and stares at the picture, now. He won't even bother to pretend to be disinterested in it. In that young, clean face with those clear eyes.
Justin looked debauched, tonight. That's the only word he can think of that fits. Then again, why shouldn't Justin look that way? He was back in his element, back with the guy he loved. It was as it should be.
Eyes closing, Ethan blots the image of Justin tonight from his mind. Tonight was a mistake, but he doesn't make the same mistakes twice. Pulling the blanket closer, Ethan folds his arms across his chest, imagining the space there is filled with a warm, smooth-skinned body, with blond hair tickling his nose as he surrenders himself to sleep.
Justin doesn't appreciate early mornings.
"Fuck."
Maybe it's the headache.
Rolling over, he grabs for a pillow, jerking it over his head, wondering what kind of masochist left the lights on. Blindly, he gropes for blankets, pulling them like a tent over the whole, and if Brian even tries to move him, he'll kill him, and it'll be perfectly justifiable homicide.
"Rise and shine, Sunshine."
It's indecent that the one morning--the *first* morning he's gotten a hangover in months--Brian wouldn't have one. It's not just unfair, but plain ridiculous. Brian drinks twice as much as he does. Three times, even.
A heavy weight lands on his calves--that would be Brian, and it's weird enough for Justin to almost sit up, but his head reminds him that all moving would just suck beyond words to adequately describe, and then the covers are being pulled up, dragged off of his skin by inches. "Up, Sonny Boy. We have things to do. Well, you do, anyway."
"I do?" His mouth tastes like cotton and cheap rum, the salty aftertaste of a middle of the night blowjob that he just couldn't resist. He wants to brush his teeth. But he really wants to just lie here a lot more. "I don't."
"Sure you do." The blanket peels back from his head, and Justin slits his eyes open enough to watch the unwelcome light of day creeping toward his head, just beyond the edge of the pillow. It's Saturday and he doesn't have a shift in the diner. He doesn't have homework, which is still disturbing as hell. He doesn't have a damn thing to do.
"I thought you wanted to go pick up your transcripts from IFA."
Oh, that. Justin wonders if he was drunk when he made that decision last night. Groping for the blanket, Justin tries to tug it back, but Brian's the Antichrist and callously pulls it out of reach, taking the pillow as an afterthought in pure evil. "Maybe they won't release them." Maybe he has no desire to step foot on campus. Just the thought of it brings up nausea sweet and sour in the back of his mouth, and suddenly, his hangover is taking on epic proportions.
"Maybe you should find out." All protection gone, Justin squirms in full sunlight, shivering a little at the brush of cool air. Brian lets him roll over, one hand braced on either side of his shoulders, before a lazy kiss. Justin shivers, catching his breath, reaching up, but Brian's gone, bastard, disappearing into the kitchen, and Justin's--God, he's hard *again*.
"Son of a bitch." A glance at the clock shows pre seven, which is just indecent, and it's like Brian's inhuman and doesn't need sleep at all. "Brian, I--"
"Ted called."
Justin sits up, too surprised to remember how much his head hurts. "What does Ted want?"
"Come the hell out here so I don't have to fucking yell."
The aroma of fresh coffee is floating through the bedroom and that, more than Brian's bitchiness, drags Justin from the dwindling warmth of the bed, grabbing his boxers along the way and pulling them on. Brian's staring at the coffeemaker like it has the answer to the ultimate orgasm inside and it's his sworn duty to get it out. Justin takes a slow breath, walking up to the counter, ignoring the pounding in his head, and boosts himself up, kicking the back of Brian's knees to get his attention. It's a morning just like any morning, with Justin wanting attention and Brian turning around, like it's a complete surprise that he's not alone in the loft.
It's also indecent that Brian gets out of bed looking like crap and still makes Justin want to blow him. Fucking ass. "Ted?"
"Who?" Leaning back, Brian surveys him with blank incomprehension, but Justin knows better.
"Ted. Called. They say the mind's the first to go." Kicking his foot again, Justin jerks as Brian catches it and starts pulling. "Stop it, I'll fall."
"Ted wants to talk to you."
Why the hell would Ted want to talk to him? They've exchanged maybe five words since Ted reappeared post-rehab, and Justin's not even sure they were direct. "What does he want?" His ass is getting closer to the edge of the counter. Justin eyes the floor warily. It's going to hurt. But it might distract him from his headache.
"Do I look like your social secretary?" The coffee finishes, and Brian loses all interest in Justin, like Gus with a new toy.
"He must have said something." Justin rubs his forehead. The blinds are all down, and Justin notices the lights are low. Maybe Brian does have a heart. Maybe. "Coffee?"
The cup magically appears in his hand, and Justin's instantly suspicious. There's even sugar and cream, and that's just creepy. And Brian knows that's creepy, and that's why he does it. Kindness Justin's ass. Brian has method to his madness. Not understandable method, but it's there. "He's just worried about his new friend is all."
"What?"
Taking a sip, Justin winces. It's perfect. Fuck. This could mean anything. "He picked up someone."
"Ted?" That's--weird. Very, very weird. "How would I--"
"He had a sleepover with the fiddler."
Brian's already moved out of range, so the coffee runs down the cabinet after Justin spits it out. Forget headache. He's working on active nausea now. "*Ethan*?"
Brian studies the dripping coffee with vague interest, like it's abstract art or like he's tripping and it's talking to him. It's about as likely as what he just said. Taking a drink from his own cup, Brian nods to himself and glances around for a towel. Without a cleaning service, Brian's learning the art of cleaning up after himself. Or Justin, as the case might be.
"Ethan wouldn't--" Justin stops short, but Brian's discovered where his towels are kept and looks completely surprised that they're there. He wonders about Brian, sometimes. "He said Ethan?"
"Wandered off this morning without a word. Ted said he was pretty trashed last night. Wanted to know if you could check up on him." A few quick flicks, and the cabinets are as dry as they are bare.
"How the hell would I know where he is?" Of course, he's the only one that would know. He never invited any of them over to Ethan's apartment. "Jesus. I--" Ethan was a little drunk last night, if memory serves, and in this case, Justin's memory isn't doing any blanking at all. He had to be drunk if he was going to go home with--with Ted. Christ, *Ted*.
Brian nods absently and wanders toward the shower, and Justin won't read significance into the fact that he doesn't ask Justin to join him. Not that he ever has to ask. Justin just follows, like a puppy on a leash, because it's *Brian*. And a shower. And there's nothing on earth sexier than that.
"Fuck," he murmurs as the door closes, and it's this huge temptation to throw the coffee cup at the wall. "Fucking *hell*. It's unfair and it's annoying and it's even worse than that, because he's off the counter and going to the phone, unreasonably angry to see Ted's new number written in Brian's crisp handwriting on a pad. Like Brian expected it, and that draws up all kinds of uncomfortable thoughts that Justin's really not sure he's willing to follow.
He picks up the phone anyway, dialing the number, fingers fumbling across the pads like they've never touched a phone, like it's almost two years ago and he's still learning to use his hand again. The ringing is short and sweet, then Ted's voice. "Hello?"
"It's Justin." He doesn't want to do this. He really, really doesn't want to do this. He could have been happy for the rest of his life not having to do anything like this, or ever hear Ethan's name again. "What's the problem?"
Gay Pittsburgh is too small.
He forgot that, building up these idealized memories of his apartment, school, home, wrapped up in soft-focus, picture-perfect visions of life before he left the first time, when Justin changed his world, became his world.
He's not five hours into the day before he hears more than he ever wanted to know about what had gone on in his absence--a mayoral race, a homophobic candidate, Justin the junior activist, and Brian. Brian, Brian, Brian, like it's not enough Ethan hears that name in his dreams, his reality reflects it, too.
A second class coffee shop reminds him of Justin, the stale biscotti and cheap syrups they used for flavor, right off campus, where all the students gather, and it should be the safest place but it's not. In hours, Ethan knows everything there is to know about suspensions and non-apologies, fucking the boss, the mess of the internship program. Justin's name is constant, traded from table to table like a street hustler, Justin this, Justin that, Justin, Justin, Justin....
They don't notice him, and he likes that, though he can't explain why, hunched down in yesterday's clothes beneath his coat, watching his coffee like it has the answers to every question he didn't ask. Conversation is a slow ebb and flow around him while he wraps his fingers around the mug and tries to tune it all out.
He sorts through the mail with one hand, spreading out months of computer paid bill receipts, junk mail, IFA information, fan letters that somehow found his home address. A few named to Justin that make his fingers shake--that subscription to Architectural Digest, an invoice for dry cleaning, the internet bill. A thin envelope with the cancellation of a flower delivery, and Ethan's throat tightens. Canceled the night Justin left, fuck the deposit, and Ethan crumples it between two fingers, wondering if he'll ever smell roses again and not get sick.
He hasn't made it up to the apartment yet to find out.
A body drops in the seat across from him, and Ethan looks up, sharp words already on his tongue, but they freeze before they can find air, because it's Justin, looking at him from behind a fall of too-long hair and completely unreadable eyes.
Justin, who's so easy to read he's like a book, broadcasting everything he feels in every look, in every touch, but there's nothing to see but the kind of cool evaluation Ethan gets from critics and his manager, the one that would throw a fit if he knew how Ethan had spent his first night in the city.
But. Justin. He's here.
"Hey." Ethan take a short drink of too-hot coffee, trying not to choke as he swallows it down. It's bitter - the kind of bitter that supposedly puts hair on chests - but the counter staff have become accustomed to filling his mug only halfway full so that he can temper the bitterness with sugar and cream, himself. Sure, he could always order something that wasn't as strong, but then he wouldn't have the rich taste of the coffee underneath the sugar and cream; a small, infinitely simple pleasure. Like fresh, clean, white sheets against skin nearly as pale... a lithe, firm body awaiting him in bed.
Justin always hated this place. Though considering how much coffee he drinks at the diner, he's really not in a position to judge, now is he? "I -- I wasn't expecting you." Wanted, yes, but Ethan remembers the look on Justin's face last night.
"I guess not." Justin glances down at the plethora of envelopes, like artifacts from a different life. Faintly aware of his connection to them but not caring enough to find out why. "I didn't know you were back in the city."
Ethan's not sure what to say to that. "Yeah. Taking a break. Too many hotels." Cocking his head, he watches Justin study the letters, making no move to reach for the ones with his name. Justin was looking for him? It feels like it. Ethan's stupid enough to hope. He's stupid a lot these days. "You okay?"
Both eyebrows arch, a single glance around the room, and Ethan takes in the quiet with surprise. Conversation dropped to the level of whispers. Feeling the looks. Oh. "Pretty good, thanks." Justin rests both elbows on the table, long fingers twining casually together, and if he's nervous, if he gives a shit about what he has to know everyone says, his body doesn't show it.
"I didn't mean to surprise you like that," Ethan says slowly, when that's exactly what he meant to do. Justin's neutral expression isn't encouraging, but it's not hostile, either, which is more than he should have expected. He can't be blamed for wanting more, though. "It's just--I wanted to see you. See how you were doing." If you missed me like I missed you.
Justin leans back in the seat, and the evaluative look is back, sharp and thoughtful. It's strange, to look at someone you shared your bed with, read every emotion on his face, knew every word that would come out of his mouth, and be faced with this. Like more time than a few months has passed. Justin's not a stranger, he could never be that, but it's somehow worse.
He doesn't like it--hates it, suddenly and inexplicably. This is Justin, and Justin isn't a random fuck at a concert, he's--God, he's fucking everything. "You landed on your feet. I knew you would."
Something flickers in his eyes, but the voice, if anything, betrays a hint of irony. "I usually do. Tour going okay, then?"
Ethan nods slowly, thinking of long nights in hotels, when even the bodies sharing his bed never quite dispelled the feeling of being alone. His manager's completely undisguised relief when he understood that Justin wasn't in Ethan's life anymore. The checks that he stared at, blank and unmoving, thinking of all the ways this was supposed to assure their future together, Justin's future. In his mind, he was the one paying Justin's tuition bills, paying for his art supplies, making up his home and his world, and how the hell had that changed? Why the hell had that changed? "It's good."
Justin nods absently, but Ethan can see the long fingers tighten, and whatever Justin came here to say, Ethan's suddenly isn't sure he wants to hear it. "I--."
"Why were you at Babylon last night?" It's a new habit, that calm stare, like he's searching Ethan for his answers, trying to work them out by sheer will before Ethan says a word. That look was there the first time Justin asked him about the guy at the concert, and only now, Ethan understands what it means.
He doesn't try to prevaricate. "I wanted--I needed to see you."
"That's what phones are for."
Ethan almost laughs. Like that would have worked. "If I'd wanted to see you? And, anyway, would you have called me back if I had?"
Justin shrugs in acknowledgement. "Probably not."
They look at each other over the space of a scarred linoleum-slick table like there are miles between them, not just time. Too much time or too little, Ethan's not sure. "I'm sorry if it..."
"It surprised me." The ironic edge makes Ethan wince. "Ted said you were pretty plastered. What on earth could you have to say to me? Besides to come pick up my mail, that is."
It's not hostile--at least, Ethan doesn't think it is, and that's--God, that's something. Leaning forward, Ethan shoves his cup aside. He doesn't know how not to try. "I miss you. I--God, Justin, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for what happened, I just -- I never had the chance to explain, to tell you --."
Justin squints a little. "You did explain. If you need forgiveness or closure or whatever, you got it. But that's all I can do. You get that, right?"
"Because of Brian?"
The frown is so slight that Ethan would have missed it if he wasn't tuned to every one of Justin's moods. The restless artist who couldn't be disturbed, the hyperactive kid, the thoughtful student, the thousand different shades of personality that made up Justin Taylor in whole, but this part is completely new and Ethan's not sure what to make of it. "Brian doesn't have anything to do with it."
That's such a complete and total pile of bullshit that Ethan can't believe Justin even bothered to say it. "You're kidding me, right?"
"No." Justin frowns a little more, just that sharp line between his eyebrows, before a fall of glossy blond hair covers it. "I don't think we really have anything to say to each other anymore. I'm glad tour is going so great and I'm glad you're a success. I'll always be happy for you. Can we just leave it at that?"
The calm, reasoned tones raise something in him--Ethan's not sure what, or if he can blame the traces of Beam left in his system, or hell, maybe it's the crappy coffee or something that's short-circuiting rational thought, because there's no other explanation for what comes out of his mouth. "Glad I'm a success, huh. Yeah, thanks. I guess I finally have one up on good ol' Brian."
Ethan shuts his mouth in shock, tasting bitterness like hard liquor over the too-sweet caramel coffee. No. That's not what he meant to say at all.
Justin's expression doesn't change--where did he learn that, who did he learn it from?--but the table is miles across and Justin might not even be on the same planet anymore. Ethan's mind runs like a hamster in a cage, looking for something--anything--to cover that, explain it, but it just sits there between them, all the ways that Ethan's fucked up on display.
"You don't know shit." Justin shifts in the booth, his mind probably out the door already, because when Justin decides something, it's decided and to hell with everything else. He's already tuned Ethan out, like a bad recording, like a fuzzy radio station, like a memory he doesn't want or need. Ethan's been relegated to Justin's uncomfortable past and that's where Justin wants him to stay, tucked in with every other bad decision of his life, and Jesus, they were *more* than that. He wasn't just Justin's mistake, part of Justin's learning curve, Justin's--God, Justin's back-up. He wasn't. He *wasn't*. "I gotta go--"
"How long?" The words snap out, not checking in at his head, and this is going all wrong. When they met again, Ethan had words prepared, speeches--about love and forgiveness and how losing Justin ripped him apart, and how sorry he is, but for some reason, none of it's making the cut. "How long did it take for you to run back to him? Days? Weeks?" A rough husk of a laugh, humorless, sharp. "Hours? Did you walk out on me and go back to him that same night or did you make him wait a while? What difference would a few more hours make, a few more days, when you knew you were going to be reunited with your true love?"
Christ, it's like he's gone completely crazy, and Ethan's never heard himself sound like that before. Bitterness he hadn't even known was there, bubbling up from the bottom of his mind, thick and ugly and sick, and nowhere in his head had he ever thought he'd ever say these things to *Justin*.
"Maybe it wasn't like that," Justin says, and his voice is so low that Ethan has to strain to hear it. "Maybe I never stopped. Maybe I was fucking him all along. Every time I told you that I had to work late, I was getting fucked in the bathroom of the diner. Every time I was at Michael's working on the comic, I had Brian's cock in my mouth. When I didn't answer my cell, I was getting my ass reamed out and couldn't hear it over my screaming. Maybe it was all a lie. Maybe that was how it was."
There's no words now, not even angry ones--this blank space where everything Justin said twists and roars and magnifies, and he can remember, suddenly and painfully, every late day from work, every early morning with Justin going to the comic store, every evening he tried to call Justin's cell phone and didn't get an answer. An ugly, poisoned layer over every memory, and Ethan thinks he can't breathe, chest tight; it feels like a small animal is trying to claw its way out, sharp claws and sharper teeth.
"Or I just made that up. Which one do you believe?" Justin pauses, and Ethan watches through a red haze as he buttons his coat, standing up. "When you look back, do you wonder now? Because I did. I wondered about everything."
Son of a *bitch*. Ethan takes a slow breath, face hot. Guilt never goes out of style. "Did you enjoy that?"
Justin slowly shakes his head. "Ted wanted me to make sure you were okay. Done that. I think that's all I really have to say. Just... please... stay the hell away from me." Justin turns on his heel, walking past the whispering students, like he has no idea he's the center of all attention, like half the damn place didn't hear them talking, going out the door with a jaunty sound of the bell.
Ethan stares at the chilling cup of coffee and doesn't turn around again.