Codes: Justin, Brian, Daphne
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The ground drops.
Author Notes: To Josselin, for the diseased bunny that spawned this. Megan and CJ did the betas, cutting, slicing, dicing, and fricassee All remaining mistakes are my own. Thanks to you both.
by jenn
He moves out the next morning.
Debbie's out of the question, and he can't go to Mom's; his stomach twists at the thought of running home like a kicked puppy, like a kid, like some betrayed little twink who had no fucking clue. That leaves few options, and Ethan isn't one of them.
She's sitting in the living room the entire time, and Justin's not sure what to tell her, because he ran out of words the same time she did. She's not crying anymore, and that's good, because he's sure he'd break down if she did.
He should say something, but*incredibly* stupid things keep coming to mind, and he can't even explain to himself why he wants to tell her that they ran out of Windex last night when he worked out some Ethan-angst by cleaning all the windows. That seems so distant, like it happened years ago and wasn't that big a deal when it did.
Daphne doesn't look up from staring at her knees. "Don't--don't leave like this."
He pushes the easel out the door and turns around. Her eyes are red and she looks like she wants to throw up, but she's looked like that for days. This is how I always leave, Justin wants to tell her, because she knows him that well, knows that there's never been a problem in his life that he couldn't run out on. This is what I always do, and you can ask me anything else and it'll be okay, I can do it, but not this.
"I'll crash with a friend for a few days," he lies, because he doesn't have a lot of friends, but she'll be worried if he doesn't say it. "It'll be okay."
The rest of his stuff's split between Ethan's and Mom's--he'll have to do something about that tomorrow, tonight, today, anywhere, just not right here and not right now.
"Justin--"
"I'll call," he lies again, because he knows he won't. Small talk is like breathing, maybe easier, maybe more natural, because breathing's hard right now and he keeps having to think about it If he doesn't, he just might stop. "I'll call. Okay?"
She nods and gets up, coming to stop only inches away, arms loose at her sides as if she doesn't know what to do with them. The hug's brief and awkward, because he can't make himself touch too much, and it's like she can't remember how.
He hears her voice, just before he closes the door, and she's like a stranger he's known all his life. "Goodbye."
He doesn't have the right to be angry, he *knows* that.
He isn't looking for Brian, and it's an accident, the stupidest kind, when he stops at Lindsay's days later. The door's unlocked, and he walks in because it's a late Saturday afternoon. And Brian's there, old jeans and t-shirt, stretched out on the floor, playing with Gus.
It's just so weird--Brian's never belonged in a scene like this. Bizarrely, disturbingly domestic; Lindsay, one leg crossed beneath her and leaning into a chair, sketching idly, pretty and casual in jeans and an old pullover. Every so often, bare feet kick Brian's hip just because she can. Gus sits between them, little colored blocks scattered on the floor, while he carries on a conversation with the one in his hand.
All these short looks and sudden smiles and Gus' mumbling, and it's just *wrong*, it's Norman Rockwell on a hit of acid, it's--
Justin lets out a breath. "She told me."
Lindsay looks up, mouth half caught between a welcoming smile and surprise, but Brian just moves another block into Gus' line of sight.
Two steps in, Justin's almost *shaking*, and he can't even explain why. It's not just Daphne, it's not just Ethan, it's not just seeing this, this--this proof that Brian's not anything like what everyone thinks, not anything like the image that Justin's been using in his head to justify everything he's done. The fucker will do shit like this, just when you think you can give up, and there's a sickly-sweet, nauseating second of wondering what would have happened the day of the Rage party if he'd seen this moment.
It hurts. Brian's never given him moments like this one.
Lindsay shifts the sketch book off her lap, pushing herself up off the floor. "Justin--"
"Did he--did he tell you--" This isn't his secret. Jesus, it's not even his place to question, but the slow nod of Lindsay's head tells him, yes. Yes, she knows. Yes, she knows everything. Every. Dirty. Little. Thing.
Her hands are warm and gentle, like a mother's, moving him toward the couch, and he's not even sure why he goes along with it, doesn't know how the mug of tea materializes in his hands. Liquid heat splashes over his wrist, and he lifts it to his mouth, sucking on reddened, ginger-flavored skin.
Gus mumbles something from the floor, and Justin jerks his gaze up, staring at small waving hands and the image of Brian's face that looks back at him with his mother's bright hair and his mother's smile. The magical mix and match of two different people to create another.
Time stretches. Softly.
He's an artist, and he draws with his mind; he can't help it. Darker skin, like how Daphne takes her coffee. Brian's eyes and long fingers. Daphne's soft mouth and the way she scrunches her forehead when she's concentrating. It takes his breath. Two brilliant, beautiful people who created a child. It's unreal. It's Brian, who did this, did *that*, did it, Jesus Christ, with a girl, with *Daphne*.
"Why?" It's the stupidest thing he can think to say, and he feels Lindsay sitting down beside him, arm circling his shoulders. "Who else knows--"
Brian shrugs. "Whoever Daphne chooses to tell."
There's nothing to say to that. Horrible, nasty words are sticking to the tip of his tongue, God, the things he could say, the things that would be true and would hurt, because he knows every place that Brian's vulnerable and knows how to hit them all. What kind of man fucks a nineteen year old girl, you're a fucking lousy father now, how will you handle another kid, what are you going to do, how could you do this, how could you *do* this to her, to *me*, you're gay for Christ's sake....
They all stay stuck. *To me*. Justin stares at Gus and swallows every word.
Brian says something to Lindsay that Justin can't hear, doesn't even want to, and two sets of feet cross the room, a longer conversation at the doorway that ends with a hug. The door shuts and Lindsay comes back, dropping on the floor to push blocks with the toes of one foot. Gus grabs for one blindly, grinning wide and huge, and Justin blinks away the vision of a child that hasn't even been born.
He can't handle this. He just can't.
Her hand on his shoulder's an intrusion, but he doesn't shrug it away. He looks up to see her watching him, eyes wide and serious. "You're not even pissed."
One shoulder shrugs negligently. "I've been around."
Right. He's talking to the only *other* woman to fuck Brian Kinney. Oh God. His mind won't wrap around it. "I don't--this--he's--"
"Don't worry. I really don't think this has--straightened him out." Her mouth quirks up at the bad pun, and Justin's almost angry. She's acting like it's nothing, just another Brian Kinney fuck-up, and it's not. It's--beyond that.
"Does Mel know?"
"No."
Justin watches Lindsay watch him, and he's not liking anything he sees. "What--what are they--what's he going to do?"
Lindsay's face doesn't change. "You'd have to ask them."
Them. A magical word, a mindbending concept, this way that two people who barely know each other, have nothing in common, became a 'them', because now, oh hell, they have something in common.
"This is fucked up."
"So's life." Her hand draws idle lines on her thigh. When she looks up, he sees a glimmering of sympathy. "Brian told me a few days ago. Daphne doesn't have many close friends. He thought she might need someone to talk to."
Justin doesn't wince. Not many close friends. A few days ago. After Justin walked out on her. After he didn't call. After he didn't come by. After he stopped staring at the phone and thinking that if she called, he wouldn't answer.
After he realized she wasn't going to call.
"Did she talk to you?"
Lindsay pauses, obviously debating what to say, how to say it. Balancing confidences against their friendship. "Yes."
He wants to *move*. He wants to not think. He wants to go back a few days and just be miserable. He wants to be angry at Ethan, but it's vanished like smoke, like something that was never there in the first place.
He remembers the pleading message on his answering machine and how long it took to connect the voice to someone he knew. He used to know. He used to think he'd never forget Ethan. But 'never' turned into days.
"I broke up with Ethan." Lindsay shifts to her knees, reaching out, but he pulls away this time, shifting to his feet. Movement, concentration, something to distract his mind. Anything. "I don't even care."
"Justin--"
"I--I can't talk to her." He hates himself for it. He does, he hates it, but it doesn't change that simple truth. He's lied to himself for so damned long, and he lied about the lies, and that has to stop. He can't live like that. Ethan taught him that. "She's my best friend and I can't--"
"You need time."
She's not just talking about Daphne. Justin swallows, looking away. When he takes a drink of the tea, it burns his tongue, but he doesn't care.
He sees Brian first, half-way down the street, a glimpse of dark wool and a smirk between a booth of rainbow scarves and paper-mache lanterns.
Everything's accident or fate, take your pick. Justin's dizzy from trying to decide, exhausted from even thinking about it. He's been good, kept away, but it's like karma, some punishment for a crime he didn't even commit. It's a sidewalk fair, something that Brian would never, ever lower himself to attend, but he's here, sophisticated and bored to death in a black wool coat and slightly glazed sneer, like he forgot what he was mocking. Lindsay, Gus in tow, seems like an afterthought, and she's talking, he can see that over the edge of the booth, picking up something wooden and artsy, like the people that sell shit here have a clue what art is.
"...oh shut up, Brian."
Brian smirks, brought back to the here and now, leaning over her shoulder to take whatever the hell it is that she's looking at. "This is boring. Come on."
Frozen by the GLC booth, Justin watches Lindsay pull away, rolling her eyes as she lifts the stroller over the curb, pausing to glance at a point somewhere behind her. "Did you want to look at the cakes?"
"Jesus, Lindsay, don't. Mentioning food sets her off."
"Fuck you." Daphne's head emerges, and his first thought is, she looks *thinner*, and that somehow isn't right. Gloved hands tucked up under her arms, she steps off the curb, coming up beside the stroller. "It's getting late--"
"It's only five. You need to get out more." Lindsay tilts her head, both gloved hands pushing the stroller. "Have you eaten anything today?"
Daphne nods her head quickly, but Justin thinks she pales. "I had some crackers earlier."
"It's amazing how much of a cliché you are." Brian walks by them both, glancing around the street, and Justin, feeling like the biggest idiot ever, ducks behind the booth. "Are we done yet, or is this little excursion for the good of the gay community still ruining my day?"
"Brian, you aren't helping."
Brian's smile is slow and pleased. "Can I go?"
"No." With a flick of her coat, Lindsay's off, Daphne in tow, her expression grimly pleased. She likes winning just as much as Brian does. She just tends to hide it better. "I want to pick up some of that pottery we saw earlier. How did the check-up go?"
Daphne's head goes down, and Justin knows she says something, because Lindsay nods and smiles encouraging. A bit of breeze picks up the edge of the cloth roof of the booth, and Justin almost curses. He's a stalker. He's always been a stalker. Now he's just a pathetic stalker, ducking onto the other side of the booth to get a clearer view and still be able to keep out of sight.
And get much better reception. "Fuck that."
Oh. Something's happened.
"Brian." Lindsay sounds warning, but she doesn't look happy either. "Daphne, I understand that you feel--"
"I can't--look, it's just for the spring semester." Hunched shoulders and dark hair hide her face, but he can hear her just fine, and her voice says it all. "I--it'll give me a break."
"Try again." Brian sounds very, very bored. Justin could tell Daphne that he's at his most dangerous when he sounds like that. "You're quitting school because--"
"Jesus, I'm not quitting!" Daphne pushes her hair from her face impatiently. "I just--I want time to think. I need to put things in perspective."
Justin doesn't believe a word. Neither does Brian. "Does this have anything to do with that little visit home yesterday?"
Silence. "They made some points--"
"They cut you off."
Justin's breath catches in his throat, and he hurts for Daphne, who just stares straight ahead, like she has nothing to do with this conversation at all. Small in her big coat and with her hair floating around her face. Fragile, in a way that he's never imagined her before. "They gave me a choice."
Justin's feet are going numb and his hands are twitching in his pockets. He thinks of all the things Daphne could have told them, every what and how and why, and knows exactly what she told them and exactly why.
"What choice?"
Jesus. He'd almost forgotten Brian was there. "Doesn't matter."
"I'll take care of it."
Daphne closes her eyes, leaning into the arm Lindsay offers. "My parents--look, this isn't your problem, it's mine. I'll take care of it."
"Because you certainly have the skills to go out and get gainful employment." Brian takes a careful step toward her, pausing only a few feet away, head cocked in that way that says that he has no idea why everyone just doesn't obey him instantly because he's always, always right. "You don't. You can barely balance a check book."
How would Brian know that?
"I don't need you controlling my life!"
"Jesus Christ, save me from drama queens." Brian turns on a heel, coat this dramatic dark swirl of wool. He has to know how good he looks when he does that. "I'll be back in an hour. Talk some sense into her."
Lindsay nods over Daphne's head, a sad smile curling up the corners of her mouth before she steps back. "Come on. Let's go sit down while Brian finds someone else to make miserable. Something to eat?"
Daphne shudders. "God, no. I've bonded enough with the toilet as is."
Lindsay frowns, leaning down a little to peer into Daphne's face. "You don't look well."
"I'm just tired. I--how long does this *last*?" There's an edge of utter exhaustion that Justin recognizes, remembers from midterms and finals in high school. Daphne could burn for days with almost no sleep if she had to, but the results were never pretty and never easy.
"Usually only the first few weeks." Arm through Daphne's, Lindsay steers Gus toward the picnic tables. "Mel used to make this shake for me--I'll find the recipe. It'll help."
Daphne shrugs absently, and Justin hates that look on her face. Stubbornness warring with an unhappiness so deep he can feel it from here. "Lindsay, I don't want him to--"
"He likes it."
Daphne drops on a bench, looking up with wide eyes. Justin feels himself beginning to lean dangerously off-balance, but Lindsay's voice has dropped and he wants to hear this.
"What?"
Lindsay shrugs, easing down beside Daphne. "He likes being needed. And--no, look at me--it's perfectly okay to need help. And to take it when it's offered."
Justin wonders if Daphne really gets what Brian will do when he feels sufficiently motivated. He remembers what Brian's like when someone drops into his life that needs him. There's nothing more addictive to the man who lives for his addictions.
Daphne stares at Lindsay like she's grown a second head. No, she doesn't know yet. "Lindsay, I--this isn't--"
"He wouldn't offer if he didn't mean it. He's--trying. Not to make the same mistakes." Lindsay frowns a little, shaking her head, and Justin wonders what she's thinking about. "It was all--very theoretical to Brian, when I was pregnant with Gus. I had Mel. I didn't need him. He never thought Gus would need him. It never occurred to him that it was--well, real. Not until after Gus was born." Lindsay grins as if to herself, snickering softly. "Come on. You need to eat and relax a little. We'll swing by that booth with all the scarves that you liked."
"I'm not backing down on this, Lindsay." But Daphne gets up because Lindsay's from the Brian Kinney school of moving people--start moving yourself and drag them along by sheer will if necessary. It works. Really well.
"Just listen to him before you decide to get stubborn. I'm not sure how he'd take it if you decided dancing on bars was a legitimate source of income."
Justin feels himself flush even as Daphne begins to giggle, hand raised to her mouth as if she'd had no idea she could make that sound. "Not the way I'll be looking in a few months."
"There's something to be said for pregnancy," Lindsay says thoughtfully, arm sliding through Daphne's as they walk. "You can eat whatever you want whenever you want and no one blinks an eye."
"That's assuming I can ever keep food down again."
"You haven't let me cook for you yet. We'll find something."
The words trickle away as they vanish down the street.
Later, Justin won't admit he saw Brian join them somewhere near the baked goods, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else while Daphne turned an interesting shade of green, steadying her when she began to sway. He'll never admit that he heard Lindsay laugh when she left Gus with Brian and took Daphne to find somewhere private to get sick. Can't admit that he watched Brian cradling Gus and felt a shock when that image split again, another child with Brian's eyes, and still he couldn't look away.
He watched as Lindsay sweetly forced food into Daphne, until Lindsay bundled Daphne and Gus into Brian's car and they disappeared down the street, and if he felt anything, well, he wouldn't admit that either.
But if he had, it would have said it hurt.
He's not there to hear Mel's reaction, or Debbie's, or anyone's really, though he sees it in Lindsay's face, the crease of her forehead when she drops by with some literature for the GLC's latest show, the circles under her eyes. He sees it later in a glimpse of Daphne's bowed shoulders coming out of her apartment with Brian herding her efficiently into the car on the way to another appointment. He sees it in Debbie's frown that doesn't last long, because it's a baby and it's Brian's baby and hell if anything is going to get in the way of pseudo-grandmotherly instincts. He sees it in Michael's wide-eyed shock in the diner, the way he twists the napkin when Brian sits him down. Justin doesn't hear what Michael says, but he doesn't need to. He sees it in the way Brian leans back, casual and slow, then gets up and walks away without a word.
Little, strange events pop up at the diner, like the fact that Debbie always sends extra food home with Lindsay or Brian, but he pretends he doesn't notice and pretends he doesn't know why. He pretends a lot.
That's why it takes a while for him to find out she moved.
"She was too far from school." Lindsay efficiently re-diapers Gus and hands him over to Justin to hold while she cleans up. She knows why he visits so much these days. "Brian found her a place that's closer."
Justin lifts Gus against his shoulder, catching him before a small hand can tangle in his hair. "She has a car." Lindsay busies herself cleaning something, looking at anyone but him. "She did have a car--what--she didn't have an accident, did she?" Horrified visions of Daphne in a wreck make him sick--hospital corridors and people who won't answer questions and the fucking silence that never ends.
"No." A beat. "Her parents withdrew payments."
Justin looks at Lindsay, letting her take Gus from him and holding him against her chest, a gentle cradle that doubles without warning. Daphne's baby will be like that, bright and sweet and a warm, sleepy weight when he's held. "Fuck them."
Lindsay's smile is crooked. "That's what Brian told them when they called."
Oh Jesus. Justin leans his head into the wall. "I suppose she never mentioned how much like my dad they are."
Lindsay gives him an amused look. "I'm not sure he listened."
Yeah. What a surprise. "Is--she okay?"
Lindsay gives him a look from the corner of her eyes. "You could ask her, if you want to know."
Justin doesn't answer, picking up the neatly wrapped diaper and carrying it to the kitchen to toss in the trash. Leaning against the counter, he closes his eyes, listening to Lindsay take Gus upstairs for his nap, the sound of her feet coming back down the stairs.
"Mel still being a bitch about it?"
Lindsay frowns, as if to say, well, you're not taking it that well either, but Justin ignores it. "She's--unhappy, yes." Probably the understatement of the year, no matter how diplomatically Lindsay phrases it. Justin curls his fingers around the edge of the counter, digging in.
He hadn't seen Mel's initial reaction, but he heard it days later. Catch-up at the diner, when she'd come in for coffee before work. Justin remembers the way she'd said Brian's name, like it was dirty, his hands shaking from their grip on the counter in front of him.
The way she'd talked about Brian, about Daphne, like it was--like it was--
"She--hasn't been saying anything to Daphne, has she?" He can imagine what she said to Brian, no matter how hard he tries not to.
Lindsay freezes, just for a second, eyes fixed on the counter, and the breath catches in Justin's throat. "Only once."
--like it was something nasty and degrading and wrong, like Daphne didn't have a mind of her own, like Brian had--had just raped her or something. Like everyone should be appalled and sickened and not getting kind of excited about another child in the family.
He remembers that, remembers thinking that he couldn't listen to this, he just couldn't, and then he remembers looking up and opening his mouth and words came out that he couldn't have meant, except he had.
That worried about losing a cut of Brian's life insurance?
"Yeah," Justin breathes, looking at the floor. "Daph fought back?" Because Brian wouldn't even try.
Lindsay glances up, fighting a reluctant smile. "Yes. She fought back."
Justin closes his eyes. "That's my girl."
He doesn't know how Brian got around Daphne, only knows the receipt when he sees it on Cynthia's desk, tuition paid in full for another semester. A list beside it, short and to the point--numbers of people with instant access to Brian at all times. Justin doesn't see Emmett's name or Ted's name, and Michael's fourth from the top now. Priorities change. Daphne, Lindsay, and an unknown doctor have top clearance.
Priorities change, he thinks, turning quickly before anyone sees him here. This is the end of his first day at the agency and he still can't explain why he's doing this.
It's half-masochism, half the absolute fact that a recommendation from Gardner is as good as gold. Experience is good, and this was encouraged by his advisor with so much enthusiasm that Justin had almost backed out.
He can be stupid like that.
After a quick trip down the elevator, he tucks his badge in his pack and goes out, thinking about luck and the fact he started on a day Brian took off, and maybe it was fate being decent for once, considering how it had fucked him over before, but the reason for the absence cuts.
"Justin."
He turns too fast, knows he does, stumbles and feels like an idiot, but who the hell could blame him? Daphne's feet away, looking a little better than he'd seen her last, and maybe she's gained weight, but her coat's hiding it. Maybe it says something that he wants to know, see how far this has gone.
"Hey." His voice is too high and not at all casual, and her eyes won't meet his, skittering toward the pavement and then back up, looking for something, anything, that isn't him. He hadn't thought anyone could be more uncomfortable than he was, but now he's got to wonder. "Um. How's it going?"
"Um. Pretty good, I guess." It's like walking on landmines. There's no such thing as safe conversation; everything's going to hit a nerve. "You?"
"Great." If he looks at it abstractly, it is. The apartment he found is better than he ever could have expected and his roommate's a IFA art major, painting, and good for a casual fuck every so often. He's closer to campus than he was before. Tips have been going really well, and the internship was the result of beating out seventy-two other candidates, some upperclassmen. That's heady stuff. He blew away the art director and already has a project to work on.
In abstract, his life looks fucking fantastic. "Really great." She's shuffling her feet. She always does that when she's nervous. "I--um. Got an internship."
She smiles, honestly happy for him, and he wishes he could feel the same. "That's great. Where?"
No safe conversation. "Around." This would be the time to ask her for coffee, except maybe she can't have caffeine now? It flickers through his mind and he pushes it away, watching her shift again uncomfortable, worried, but she keeps trying, and he almost wishes he felt like doing the same, that the instinct to run wasn't moving through his body like electricity. "So what are you doing here?"
The flush is sudden and it's kind of obvious, isn't it? Except he didn't think and he's already trying to figure out a way to avoid her answer, because there's only one reason she'd be here and that's the one answer he can't stand to hear.
"He--Brian--got a call. From his assistant. I get--elevators make me kind of nauseous, so I stayed down here." Nausea, yeah. Lindsay had mentioned they'd been working on Daphne's--sickness. Her.
Just say it, morning sickness. Don't be such a fucking pussy.
"Better now?" He doesn't want to hear this. God, he'd do anything not to.
"Yeah." She breathes it out, like even making the wrong sound will set her off. "But--my doctor said it shouldn't last much longer."
"Did you get tested?"
For a second, he knows she has no idea what he's talking about. Then the flush again, brighter, and he bites his lip and almost wishes he hadn't asked.
This is why I can't see her, Lindsay. You have to get this. I can't see her because it hurts and I'll say the wrong thing, and you know what? I'll mean to.
She finally meets his eyes, and it must take a lot out of her, because her entire body's stiff. The look on her face reminds him of the time a condom broke, a trick so long ago he barely remembers. "Yes. I'm clean." She pauses, looking away. "It all--all the tests came back fine."
You won't know for sure on one test, he almost says, but doesn't, bites it back. She knows that. She knows a lot of things he isn't saying, and they're on her face, too. That she betrayed him and has no idea how to fix it and that it's just not fixable, and that she knows he's angry and doesn't blame him, and that she knows that it hurts him to look at her. She knows, because she knows him, and she takes a step back, head turning to the doorway like she's hoping something saves them both and ends this conversation quickly.
Like it's at her call, the door opens, and Justin bites his lip, thinks that maybe he tastes blood as Brian comes out, Cynthia a step behind him, arguing some point with sharp gestures, and he looks too good, too flawless, makes everyone else seem monochrome and boring. He always does. Both stop, Brian turning, flare of coat, saying something that makes Cynthia pause mid-word, then laugh. Her eyes flicker over the street as Brian takes the papers from her, and he knows the second she sees him by the way her gaze fixes.
She sees him, sees *them*, and Justin backs off a step, wondering if he looks dumb, but he really doesn't care. Another step, because Brian just needs to look up and see what Cynthia's looking at, just needs to look up and find Daphne, just look up and it'd be easy and quick and they haven't seen each other since Lindsay's that day and Justin's not near ready.
He's already saying something stupid, how he has to get somewhere, take care, the crap you tell acquaintances, people you don't know, anyone that isn't (wasn't) your (former) best friend, and he almost does it, is almost fast enough, but then Brian looks up, because that's instinct. Brian always finds him, always, in a crowded club or on a dim city street. And maybe he lied to himself, because he doesn't look away, not when the hazel eyes catch his and he feels it through his entire body.
Then he's walking away, and he knows Brian is watching.
"She doesn't really have anyone else."
Lindsay's cutting up potatoes for stew. It's funny that Melanie's kind of at the same stage as Daphne right now, food a careful navigation. Eyebrows twisted together, she glances at him briefly before dumping the contents of the cutting board into the pot.
"She has lots of people." He counts it up to prove it, but the number suddenly isn't that big. He wonders, suddenly and inexplicably, what she told her friends, and what the hell can she tell them, anyway? I fucked my best friend's sort-of ex and well, things happen.
"She needs people who understand." Picking up a spoon, Lindsay stirs slowly. "What's bothering you?"
So damn much. "You have to ask?"
Lindsay rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."
Yeah, he does, and he's not answering. "I--was he like this with you?" Justin waves a hand, trying to find the right words. "Doing stuff for you?"
"You mean, driving me to my appointments? He didn't even know I *had* appointments." Lindsay's mouth curves up in remembered amusement. "Though I remember when he called after I left a message after the ultrasound. He pretended he wasn't interested. It was funny. But sometimes, yes. He was responsible for my ice cream intake, since Mel was usually too exhausted to wake up at one and Brian was out anyway and didn't mind stopping."
Justin snorts. "So what--now he's Mr. Responsibility?" Picking up the bouillon wrappers scattered on the counter, Justin takes them to the trash, pretending his hand isn't shaking.
"He can be when he wants to be." Her voice has a lot of things in it that he doesn't want to read. "You and Gus taught him a lot."
Justin freezes, the last wrapper clinging to his fingers. Something shifts in his stomach, but he's not sure what it is. It's not comfortable. "I guess carting me to the doctor last year was great practice."
Turning around, Justin sees Lindsay watching him with a peculiar expression he can't quite define. "That's what's bothering you."
Justin doesn't like that note in her voice. "Don't start."
"Justin--"
"Just don't. I don't need a fucking psychologist." Though maybe he does, and wouldn't that be a great therapy session? Like something that should be on daytime television. Shit like this is what bored housewives live to see.
He thinks of that paper on Cynthia's desk, and it makes him wonder what it looked like a year ago. Justin, his doctors, his mom, his therapist. Or did Brian even have one? He'd never had a problem calling in and maybe that was why. .
There's no reason why he should, why he should want to. None at all. "I gotta go."
"Things change," Lindsay says calmly, and she's stirring the stew again, like this is any day in her kitchen, and considering how often he visits these days, it very well might be. "People change. Life does that. Expecting everything to stay static is setting yourself up for disappointment."
"I know that." But some things shouldn't. Brian shouldn't change, hadn't ever, not for Justin. Not for anything Justin could do or say, and God, he'd done everything he could think of and then some, would have done more if he'd known what, and what the hell had that gotten him? But Brian fucks up one night and suddenly, he's shifting and Justin doesn't get it.
I couldn't do a damn thing, I couldn't even make him admit I was more than a regular fuck, but he'll change for this. Fuck this.
"I'll see you later." Grabbing his jacket, Justin waves at Lindsay before she can say something else, going outside into the evening air and thinking that God, he needs a cigarette.
Justin flies under the Brian radar at Vangard for a full four days before he's caught. Upsets over some account are the reason, and they're also the reason he's discovered, when one of the art guys grabs him and pulls him front and center one hectic morning, right into Brian's line of sight when he comes down to bitch.
It's a double take that's almost funny, would be even funnier if Justin had been prepared, but he goes with it, surprised he can even move when he extends his arm to shake hands, more surprised to see Brian's split-second hesitation before doing the same thing.
Funnier much later, when he gets the message to come by Brian's office, and he has no idea what to expect. He just doesn't think this is going to be easy. But with Brian, he supposes it never is.
One of the junior execs is kind of hot, and Justin doesn't have any problem with finding him and the bathroom during break. There's a no-fraternization policy thanks to Kip and common sense, but Justin supposes that it only applies if you get caught. He's not Brian. He isn't stupid enough to fuck someone who can use it against him.
There's a kind of weird fascination with it, though, that he really doesn't want to examine. The man's older than him but seems so much younger, and he's nothing like any trick Justin's had, uptight and scared to death, but so fucking eager. Too-neat hair that Justin messes with casual fingers when those soft lips close over his cock, and Justin imagines the man in a meeting this afternoon, still tasting Justin in his mouth, listening to Brian drone on about projections and the state of the department. Imagines *Brian* knowing, every time he looks across the conference room table, that Justin's fucked this guy and might be fucking other ones, too, right here in his place of work.
Just the thought of it is enough to make him come, fingers digging into the dark hair and eyes fixed on the stall wall, every nerve trembling. It's amazing.
We didn't *have* a relationship, Justin thinks at the mirror after he pushes the guy out of the bathroom, leaving Justin alone. Leaning on the sink, Justin thinks about what Brian didn't say, thinks what Brian doesn't say now but does, and for someone that's not him. We never had a relationship. We didn't have anything at all.
Debbie's trying to feed Daphne into a calm stomach, or at least, that's what it's starting to look like, and now, Justin can see she's definitely gained weight and the image of not-Gus takes over for just a second when he's wiping down tables. He took this shift by accident, and everyone's been just terrific about Not Upsetting Justin, but maybe Daphne didn't get the notice, because she only hesitates for a second before finding a booth in a far corner and hiding behind a menu.
Debbie brings her pancakes, because apparently, Daphne's just fine on those, then sits down while there's a lull in the crowd, her voice loud and pleased as she tells Daphne about carrying Michael and how restless he was. He sees Daphne stiffen, dropping her fork, and he's already moving to the phone, instinct, 911, something's gone wrong, but then she looks up and her eyes are huge.
"I think--" She stops, frowning, hand on her stomach, and that scrunched forehead, the way her nose crinkles up--he stops moving, hand on the phone. "Debbie, it feels--"
Debbie's smile is like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. "Feels weird, huh, honey?"
"Yeah." Justin watches her palm skim her stomach, pressing, and the books all say this is the right time, so it shouldn't be a surprise. "I--wow."
Debbie leans into the table, a wistful expression crossing her face. "Honey, can I--"
"Yeah." Daphne turns in the seat, and Debbie comes over, crouching down to stare at Daphne's stomach like there's writing there she has to read. "Here. Um. Right--" One slim hand closes over Debbie's wrist and pulls her the right place. "There."
Nothing for a few seconds, then Debbie blinks, smile widening, and you wouldn't think that was possible, but it is. "Strong little fucker, isn't he?"
Daphne giggles, a little strained, but she's staring down like this is some sort of miracle, and it's not, it's just a baby.
A *baby*.
Not-Gus, with a scrunched forehead, Brian's eyes, Daphne's smile. Justin feels the cloth he was cleaning with drop to the floor, and then the bell on the diner door rings, and Justin turns, has to, get away from the image, but it intensifies when Brian walks in, a little windblown, a little mussed from the wind, and looking like he'd rather be doing anything or anyone rather than be here.
Debbie's voice cuts across the diner like a bullhorn. "Brian! Get your ass over here."
Brian pauses, making a long-suffering sound like someone who has been through a major war and only duty could force him one inch farther. And he's not interested in duty. "Whatever it is, I don't care."
"Shut the fuck up and get over here."
Brian rolls his eyes, but it's Debbie, so he obeys, because conditioning is conditioning and even Justin's not immune to that note in her voice. He nods a hello to Daphne then stares down at Debbie. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Debbie grins up at him. "Your kid seems a little restless today."
From this angle, Justin can't see Brian's face, and he's almost sure he doesn't want to. But he sees how Brian becomes still, long fingers tensing at his sides, the subtle tilt of his head. Daphne, looking up, nods slowly to something she sees, biting her lip and looking away quickly when Debbie laughs. "Thought that might get your attention."
"Sure it isn't indigestion?" He gets a swat to the thigh for that, and Daphne chokes out an unsteady laugh. "How are you feeling?"
"I won't throw up on your shoes again, if that's what you're asking." One hand flattens itself on the table, and Justin sees her take a deep breath. "Um. If you want to--" She waits a beat. "It feels weird."
Brian crouches beside Debbie. "You ever tell anyone, I'll deny it." It's surreal, impossible, and Justin feels his throat close up when Brian does exactly what no one expects, except maybe Debbie, who can sometimes know things that no one else does. A few long seconds, then Daphne takes her courage in her hands and moves Brian's hand just a little, and Justin can see the second it registers in the way Brian shivers--subtle, nothing anyone that didn't know him inside and out would recognize.
It lasts a long time, and Justin only moves when Brian does, turning away to grab the cloth off the floor and go behind the counter, disappearing into the back before he's seen, breath a hard lump in his throat. Not that he thinks Brian will notice, or Debbie, or Daphne. They apparently have more important things to do.
It's not on purpose, he thinks, though he'll wonder later, wonder when he walks in the door and Lindsay comes from the kitchen to greet him with a smile and both hands on his arm before he can think to wonder why. Wonder when she drags him to the back door and pushes it open, murmuring that the weather was unseasonably warm and she hadn't expected him so early from class.
He tells her that he cut class, but he doesn't tell her why. The model had been hot and Justin had been idly sketching him, thinking about seeing what he was doing when the job was up. He was thinking how this guy's hair was a little long and he should get a haircut, and then Justin had looked down and broken his pencil, putting it through the paper with an involuntary shake of his hand that had brought his teacher over at the loud sound of tearing paper as Justin had ripped the sketch off and crumpled it in one fist, grabbing his bag and stuffing it beneath his books. They'd chalk it up to hand-issues, poor little Justin, bad hand and bad head, and he'd walked out the door before a question could be asked.
He couldn't help taking it out at the bus stop, though, smoothing it on one knee with trembling fingers, tracing a familiar body and familiar face.
He'd thought he was over this. Instead, he's sick and helpless and seventeen again, looking into the face of the first man he'd ever loved.
Fuck.
He's on the back porch before he's aware how he's been maneuvered, and he sees Debbie first, bright hair and presence like a bonfire among candles, loud and rich and as warm as summer. Her head turns when Lindsay goes down the stairs and she smiles at him, motioning him over. He can't help grinning, taking the stairs two at a time, looking up just before his foot touches the ground.
A glimpse of dark hair and overpriced jeans. Brian. The responsible adult talking to Michael and someone Justin doesn't recognize, and Justin flashes on the sketch and thinks again how nothing on paper can ever capture everything Brian is.
Nothing's static, he thinks, watching Brian roll his eyes, finishing the bottle in a single drink before turning away to get another. Paper is static, a captured image in time, preserved memory that never moves. Life is never static. Neither is Brian.
"Sweetie?" Lindsay backtracks gracefully, hand on his arm, and he looks up and sees now the way her smile seems tight. "Listen, I--"
Somehow, he knows, before she says a word. He knows because it's fate and it's destiny or it's just his horrible, horrible luck, and his eyes cut through the crowd of people he recognizes and people he doesn't, a glimpse of Emmett looking tense and Ted being weird, and then Melanie's voice low and amused when she asks, please, would someone get her some fucking water already? People move like liquid at the sound of her voice. A glimpse of familiar worn boots that they'd shopped for together a lifetime ago, and Justin follows them up, sees Daphne, bright and laughing on Melanie's left side, a paper plate balanced on her knees.
"They're here." A 'they', a 'them' that still doesn't sound right, no matter how many times it's repeated in his head. "You didn't tell me."
"I didn't know you'd be coming." Lindsay's voice is quiet, and Justin blinks, feeling the stretch of time like bubble gum between his fingers, sticking on memory. It's not--he *knows* it's not, has to know--that this isn't a mirror of another day like this one when he brought Ethan to Lindsay's. No one thinks like that, least of all Brian. But it doesn't change the feeling, the tightness in his chest and the people that blur into nothing but color and sound.
He knows that it's different, but he knows the feeling is the same.
Daphne's caught up in something someone beside her says, stretching a little awkwardly to reach her drink. Taking a sip, she leans back in her chair, and Justin think she looks older. Her hair is in some loose twist at the back of her neck, the day's just warm enough to be coatless, and the dark sweater makes her glow. Maybe more than just the sweater.
He can't hear from here, but he can see plenty--Melanie leaning over just enough to say something to Daphne, who shakes her head.
"Why...." His mouth is dry; desperately, he licks his lips, trying to find something that sounds like his voice. "Why--why are they here?"
"I invited Daphne," Lindsay says steadily, hand still clamped on his arm, and he remembers Lindsay only seems fragile. She's so much stronger than she looks. "And I invited Brian. Just like I invited the rest of the family and friends."
He nods blankly. It was a stupid question, childish, and he knows it. That doesn't change the feeling. "I--have to go."
"Or you can stay." She pulls, and people come between him and Daphne, between him and Brian, lost to sight, as Lindsay plunks him down in a chair. "Let me get you something to drink."
He looks up helplessly, mouth open to deny, but she's disappearing from view, dodging people gracefully, a natural hostess, like her parents had maybe meant her to be before she chose a different way. Brian catches her arm on the way, murmuring something into her ear with a calculating smile before heading into the house. Michael smirks, turning away, and Justin watches him take the chair beside Melanie and pick up his bottle.
Being an observer is his life's calling, but it gets painful when he realizes his exclusion from this is so real they might as well be in different worlds. And he can't even entirely say it's their fault, because he chose it.
Standing up, Justin maneuvers his way toward the fence, the gate in view. No one will notice if he leaves. Hell, no one really noticed he arrived.
"Sunshine!" It's almost bellowed, and Justin sometimes thinks Debbie's voice is like a bullhorn, breaking conversation and getting way too much attention, and Justin freezes. That close to getting out. From the corner of his eye, and he hadn't been watching, he *hadn't*, Brian freezes on the porch steps.
Debbie's a force of nature, barreling toward him with no consideration for the groups between, armed with a plastic cup of punch and a determined smile. Yes. Great. Just fucking *great*.
"Get over here, kiddo." Her hand loops around his arm like iron, and what, do the women of Liberty Avenue do their workouts together or something? No wonder Michael knows to stay out of range. Justin's pulled, and it would look just idiotic to fight this now, follows because he can't really do anything else. Emmett's smiling at him, and Justin wonders what put that particular shadow in his eyes, but then Emmett's talking about some dinner party he's organizing and Justin's trapped in decoration-conversation with a cup of punch stuck firmly in his hand by an enterprising Lindsay.
From here, he can't see Daphne or Melanie, which is fine, maybe better than fine. Half his mind's devoted to ignoring the feeling of being watched, while the rest engages in throwing out affirmative sounds whenever Emmett pauses for breath. Ted disappears sometime between Lindsay introducing him to one of her fellow teachers, a sculptor with amazing cheekbones, and Emmett going in search of more punch.
The sculptor's name is Damien and he's hot, though he has Lindsay's fashion sense, which is a little worrisome, but no one's perfect. Horn-rimmed glasses. Tall and dark and older, mobile mouth, and Justin sees the way the dark eyes fix on his mouth with some satisfaction. Justin stands a little close and touches a little unnecessarily and he'd almost forgotten what it was like to just flirt. Just for fun. This isn't Babylon or a backroom. Just two guys getting to know each other at a garden party. Freaksomely normal. The same feeling he'd had with Ethan just before he left, before everything fell apart. Like this was what life was supposed to be like. No drama.
Glancing up, Justin sees Daphne's standing up a little awkwardly, hand on the arm of her chair, blinking a little, the tiniest sway that makes him tense. And like magic, Brian's there, hand under her elbow. Justin doesn't remember when Debbie left him and Damien alone, but she's there now, touching Daphne's forehead with the back of her hand like a practiced mom.
"I'm *fine*," Daphne is saying, and her voice is just loud enough and they're just close enough for Justin to hear. Damien's still talking about some experience he had in Nepal last year involving meditation and mountains, but Justin's lost the thread of conversation.
"You look like shit." Brian's mouth is curved in an amused smile. "Time for good little girls to get some rest."
"Oh Jesus." Daphne tries a step and blinks when she sways again. "Crap. I just got up too fast, that's all."
"At your current size, you can't even talk fast," Brian answers, tongue in cheek, and Debbie swats him irritably. "Come on."
Daphne sets her mouth stubbornly, and Justin recognizes that look too well. "This is the first time I've been anywhere but school, home, and the doctor for a month."
"Right. Being dragged to two fucking stores so you can find the ultimate bassinet with Lindsay doesn't count?" Brian's perfectly capable of moving her without her even knowing. He's sneaky like that. Deb's just behind, acting as back-up in case Daphne makes a run for it. Waddle for it. She really isn't that big yet, though, but Justin thinks she will be soon. "Be good and we'll stop for that shitty ice cream you like so much."
Daphne looks up. "Double chocolate brownie fudge? The one you think makes you gain weight just by looking at it?"
Brian shivers and shakes his head, and they're at the stairs. "If that's what it takes to keep your mouth shut."
"Let me drive?" She looks surprised when she takes a step upward, glancing down, like she has no idea how she got here. Melanie and Lindsay comes out of the house just as Daphne looks back up, mouth open to say something else about not-leaving and not being tired, but it's obvious even to Justin that she is.
"When hell freezes. Mel, Lindz. Say goodnight to the little drama queen."
Mel rolls her eyes, but a smile curves her mouth. "Don't forget dinner this week."
Pictures? Daphne nods and Brian looks like he has indigestion to a startling degree. "I'll remember. It was a lovely party. Thanks for inviting me."
Lindsay, arm around Melanie, just grins back, and it's just surreal, Mel and Lindz and Brian and--Daphne. Justin blinks it away, nodding to something Damien says, barely noticing the hand on his arm. "Family doesn't need invitations, honey. Get some rest."
Lindz and Mel come back down the stairs, Debbie following, but Justin's eyes fix on Brian, who is saying something to Daphne so softly that Justin can't hear a word. She hesitates briefly, then nods, and Brian slides an absent arm around her shoulders, squeezing a little in a way that's achingly familiar, raising pain out of places Justin hadn't known could still hurt.
Debbie barrels up to the crowd behind them, and Justin hears Michael's voice, clear and light, worried. "She okay?"
"She's fine, just drained. Brian wasn't sure she'd be up to much today. Jesus, I remember what that's like."
Justin snorts at the low, denying sound Michael makes. "You aren't sharing pregnancy stories with her--"
He can almost see Debbie's grin, imagine her patting his cheek. "Only the embarrassing ones, sweetie."
Damien's hand on his arm brings Justin back to reality. Tall, dark hair, a quizzical smile. Justin smiles lazily, practiced, and watches the dark eyes fix. He doesn't want to be here. That doesn't mean he won't get something decent out of it. "You want to go grab a drink?"
Damien nods, eyes glazing a little. Justin's so good at this that it's almost boring, almost rote, but there's a special kind of thrill in picking up someone even older than Brian, just as successful, one of Lindsay's friends. And Jesus, he's hot. Turning, Justin doesn't touch, but only because he knows Damien wants him to, heading toward the porch steps and taking them two at a time, making Damien keep up. In the kitchen's a different story. Damien's a good kisser, pushed back into the counter, hard and warm under his hands. So much better than Ronny, who just found his inner homosexual and always gets weird after they have sex, like he's not sure that if he's supposed to be declaring unending love since they're roommates. Damien's falling into the pureness of experience and age and everything that goes with it. Expertise.
"...the hell did they say this time?"
Justin freezes at the sound of Brian's voice, hard and cool and unlike anything Justin has heard in a long time.
"Why do you think--"
"Because they're the only ones that do this to you. So fucking spill. You will anyway, so might as well be now so you can eat that crappy ice cream without making yourself sick."
"It's not important."
"How did they find your new phone number?" Pause. "Of course. You told them. Christ, masochism isn't the new fucking black."
Daphne's voice is watery and sinks flatly, tiredly. She's tired of fighting. Justin knows all about that. "They're my parents."
"That's a cop-out." Justin remembers that, too. "Your parents are being assholes. They're so freaked out about their social standing when their daughter has a kid? Let them fucking deal. It doesn't have anything to do with you. Not your problem."
Daphne doesn't say anything, and Justin listens hard, ignoring Damien's mouth on his throat, the sharp bite of teeth that seem distant and not entirely real. "I disappointed them."
"Everyone disappoints each other. Nothing new in that. They love you, they get over it. If they don't, they aren't worth the effort of keeping around."
There's something in Brian's voice that Justin doesn't recognize, maybe doesn't want to. Damien's pulling away, asking if he wants to go upstairs, but Brian and Daphne are in the way.
The voices are quieter, but Justin recognizes Brian's tone. The soft one, the one Brian only uses for Gus, and once upon a time, for Justin. The one that melted him and made him shiver and he'd loved every rare time he heard it.
"...you have an appointment?" Still watery, but firmer.
"He'll keep." Brian sounds amused. Justin thinks he can see Brian's smirk.
"What, you think he'll be waiting around the door of the loft for you to get home?"
"Probably your door."
Pause. "Oh God, Jamie? The hot one two doors down? The one that keeps bringing me food? I *knew* it was to get to you. He kept bringing that Thai shit you love."
"Yes, now let's go before you ruin my sex life for good."
"Looks like I'm letting you open all new fields of sexual decadence. Jamie thinks it's so cute that you're living the American dream. Two kids and all. All you need is an SUV."
Dead silence, and Justin strains for a second, wondering about the expression on Brian's face, trying not to laugh himself, because *God*, that's scarily true.
Then his eyes close, because Brian laughs, and there's nothing on earth like it. Low and soft and as rare as a blue moon, and Justin remembers every time he heard Brian laugh like that and how he felt when he made him.
"Let's get out of here," Brian says, in that voice, the happy one, the one that's Brian when he forgets his image and forgets himself and just *is*.
"Upstairs," Damien murmurs in his ear, and Justin follows the pull blindly, arriving in the living room just in time to watch them disappear out the front door.
Ronny's waiting up for him in the living room, looking pissed, and Justin sways against the doorway, trying to figure out how he got home. Fucked Damien in Mel and Lindz's spare room, and man, that had been incredible. Babylon later, no Brian in sight, off playing heterosexual pseudo-boyfriend and whatever else the fuck he thinks he's doing. Blew Damien in the back room and had too many shots. Justin remembers Damien asking him to come back to his hotel with him, and that must have been when Justin called a cab. No. No, Damien had stormed off in the middle of some song *after* that, and then--Emmett had called a cab. Right.
It's rising dawn, and Justin's eyes are caught by the sunrise cutting through the window, pooling pink and gold on the floor like liquid. He marks the image in his mind, wondering if he could recreate it with pastels, the flow of pure light on cheap vinyl, making it look otherworldly and amazing.
"Glad to see you got home in one piece." Ronny has the telephone in his lap. Emmett must have called.
Tossing his jacket on the floor, Justin shuts the door with his heel, going to the refrigerator to get some water. Metal-taste, it's the cheap bottled shit he can't stand. Leaning into the counter, Justin watches Ronny watching him.
"Who were you with?"
Justin snorts. "We're not dating, Ronny, so get the fuck over it." Justin can feel the crinkle in his jeans, the phone numbers he'd gotten tonight.
"We're still friends." But Ronny looks too hurt for this to be just a friend thing, and Justin thinks he can see himself in the steady, angry gaze, the quiver in that soft mouth. It's a jarring double image that makes him clench his teeth, because yes, he had been that stupid once upon a time. "You said you'd be home after Lindsay's party."
"And then I decided to go out. I didn't know I needed permission." Guilt ripples through him at the look on Ronny's face. Hurt and anger and disappointment. And a willingness to forgive that doesn't ask for much at all. It's such a simple thing, and when did Justin forget how to be a good person anyway?
"I gotta shower for class." Walking by Ronnie, there's a mean kind of satisfaction in seeing his face, cut with the kind of guilt people join monasteries to do penance for. Stripping filthy clothes, Justin kicks them toward the cracked plastic hamper and turns on the shower. Cold water, but he almost doesn't care, ducking inside, letting the physical distract him from the emotional. Cold razor streams cut into his skin and make him shiver, groping blindly for soap and the sponge above his head. Ruthlessly attacking his skin, scrubbing Damien's fingerprints and skin and semen off, the taste and smells of a night alone surrounded by people.
It's not fair. He shouldn't have gone to Lindsay's today. He doesn't need them. He doesn't even want them anymore. It's a big city with a lot of people. With a little effort, with no effort, really, he can avoid them all, and--God--that would be perfect.
Hell, there are other places to *be*. He doesn't have to be here. He can go anywhere.
Slamming out of the bathroom, towel a trailing afterthought, Justin goes to his computer. Ronny's gone from the living room--sulking in his room, probably, and that's good, because Justin's not up to the drama right now.
A click of the mouse, and then he opens up a page and starts typing.
He could go anywhere. Anywhere at all.
"Who the hell are you?" A slip of the tongue, automatic and unthinking. Justin regrets it the second he says it.
"Jamie. And you?"
Jamie's nothing like Justin expected, if he'd expected anything at all. In fact, considering this was Daphne's apartment, Jamie being here at all is a shock. Blond hair and very blue eyes. He's a little taller than Justin, but not by much, with a slimmer build, like a gymnast or a natural athlete.
"Jamie, who is it?"
Justin freezes at the sound of Daphne's voice. The smells of Thai and heavy soy permeate the air and push against his nose like they're trying to burrow inside and take up residence. He's two seconds from a sneeze.
"Will you shut the fucking door?" Justin knows that voice, and it's no surprise now when Brian pulls it open more. Jamie's still staring at Justin like he's an intruder, but not like he doesn't recognize him.
"It's one of your--friends, Daph." Jamie takes a step back when Brian comes up, ducking under his arm to disappear back into the apartment, and Justin faces Brian without a single excuse between them.
"What are you doing here?" Brian's voice is low enough so there's no way Daphne can hear them.
"I could ask you the same question." Justin waits for an answer, but Brian shrugs, like it should be perfectly obvious why he's there and the question on Justin's motives is still up for debate. He doesn't move immediately, body blocking the view into the apartment, and Justin can hear Daphne giggling in the background, then the sounds of the TV.
"Brian, they got to the best part. You've got to see this."
Brian's mouth quirks unconsciously, softening, and Justin takes a step forward. Brian's body halts him from taking a step farther. "I can't see an old friend? You decide who she sees now?"
Of course he does, and it shows on Brian's face. Justin remembers the thousand times Brian ran interference when Justin wasn't up to dealing with people. Poor fragile Justin Taylor, poor baby. Now apparently one of the group To Be Screened. When had that happened? "I just want to say hi and see how she's doing."
"Brian." Scrabbling, then Jamie makes a strangled sound. Stomping over the floor, and Daphne's head emerges just under Brian's arm, huge smile and still half-laughing. "Who--oh, Justin." The range of her expressions is amazing. He'd be sketching decades to get all of that on paper. "Um. Come in. We're just watching educational television. Lindz and Mel sent it over."
"Better than a safe-sex lecture," Jamie comments from somewhere inside. "I saw this in eighth grade. Completely unsurprising I'm gay now, after that. We could totally use this as a method of recruitment. I'm pausing it, because you really, really don't want to miss this."
Brian doesn't move for a second, still studying Justin, but Daphne's faster. She grabs Brian's arm and pulls, careless of wrinkles left in Armani coal wool blend, smiling so bright that Justin thinks her mouth must hurt. She's nervous. "Justin, come in and close the door."
Brian backs off when Daphne pulls, and Justin slowly closes the door behind him. He didn't have a lot of options, he tells himself, as he follows them back into the living room. Jamie's sacked out across the couch like he owns it, a beautiful, lean body and pretty face, sitting up only when Daphne comes back in, reaching out to help her sit. God, she's getting bigger. That--the baby is growing. There, under the taut skin of her stomach. Without comment, Jamie leans over and pulls her feet into his lap, fingers rubbing gently at the instep. Daphne looks like she's having an orgasm. "God. That's good. Keep *doing* that."
Gingerly, Justin takes a chair to the side, the TV just in view. Can't help glances back, watching Brian take another chair with immense, careless dignity, getting control of the remote and hitting play.
*"Natural childbirth, however, requires full understanding and commitment from both partners on what this entails. Modern medicine can offer a wide variety of anesthetics to ease the discomfort of labor, and you and your partner should be aware of all your options.*"
Justin blinks. "You're watching--"
"The Natural Childbirth in Peace and Tranquility," Daphne offers, pushing her feet into Jamie's hands more urgently.
"Discomfort my ass," Brian murmurs, picking up a bottle of water from the floor and taking a sardonic drink, as if to underline how utterly ridiculous this is. "Ask Deb and Lindz what constitutes 'discomfort'."
"It's an option. Jamie said he'd be my coach for the birth if I wanted to try it." Daphne sticks out her tongue at Brian's raised eyebrows. "Don't worry, I didn't expect you to get a passion for that part of the process. I just thought you might want to know." Daphne rubs absently at her stomach. "And anyway--"
Jamie looks up at the sound of her voice, then gives Justin an indescribable look that he can't read at all. Daphne shifts up when Jamie stands, looking confused, then a sudden dawning of understanding.
Silently, Jamie goes to the DVD player and stops it, picking up an unmarked DVD from the floor and sliding it in. Tossing the remote to Brian, who catches it effortlessly, he gives Justin another one of those indecipherable looks, like Justin should instinctively know what to do here, when he really has no idea.
"Justin--Justin, right? Can you help me with something? In the kitchen?"
Brian looks at them, suspicion crawling over his face by degrees, then looks at Daphne, who is bright red and twisting her hands together in her lap.
Brian stands up, trying to catch Jamie's eye, but suddenly, the cabinet holds the secrets to endless wealth and eternal life, or Jamie's going to be looking in there until he finds them. A glance at Justin, somehow manhandled to the kitchen table, then back to Daphne. There's a flare of something unrecognizable in his face.
"Is this--" Brian is never panicky, but this could be some new version created just for him. God knows, the rest of the world bends to his every whim, so why shouldn't emotions do the same thing?
Daphne shrugs a little, looking anywhere but at him. "Lindz sent it. Um. Surprise!" Staring at her feet, she picks at some lint on her skirt. "The--the doctor taped it, so it's not like you haven't seen it before. Just. Um. Lindz said you might want to see it again. Without a lot of people around."
"Yes, because half of the fucking family showed up to watch. Jesus, you'd think someone was offering free drinks." But Brian's staring at the remote, slowly dropping to the couch. Justin watches his hesitation, the expressionless that meant Brian was thinking hard, then the finger went down and Brian's eyes fixed on the screen.
Neither spoke, and no sound came from the TV but a low, vaguely familiar buzz. Hospitaly-sounding. Pulling away from the kitchen counter, Justin ignores Jamie's hiss and goes back into the living room. His feet freeze when he gets the view.
Like some mutant shrimp surrounded in uneven black. Justin's mind flips to Anatomy in high school, remembered pictures like this. That's a head and those are tiny hands that are still developing proper fingers. Long feet. Curved spine. Swimming happily in amniotic fluid, it's--real.
That's Brian and Daphne's baby. *Their* baby.
"I wanted to know the sex," Daphne says softly. "Do you want to know?"
"I think I can tell from the view." Brian's voice is dry. "He's a boy."
There's something in Brian's voice that Justin's never heard before. A stab like an ache, doubled when he looks at the picture on the screen, little diagrams on the sides, a pen appearing and circling key spots. "Yes. Definitely a boy."
Silence. Jamie joins him after a few seconds and a dirty look, but Justin doesn't care. He's been working on the theory of *real baby* so long, but it's nothing compared to this. Maybe he'll have Brian's bodylines--no kid could ask for better than that. Both their intelligence. Both their drive.
But whatever he'll have, he *is* now. Proof on thirty-two inches of television screen. That's the result of *them*. Justin's not sure he'll ever breathe again.
Looking at Brian, Justin reads everything in the intense focus, excluding all others and everything else. Like there's no world outside this moment, this second, and this picture. He gets like that in sex, sometimes. When he's working. And now for this.
Jamie walks back over to the couch, picking up Daphne's feet again, and she glances over with a grin. "You totally use me to get to Brian."
Brian snorts something but doesn't look away from the television
"Damn straight. Straight girls are really boring and kids are weird."
"Except your nephew."
Jamie flashes a brilliant smile, like a room lighting up after total dark. Even Justin's blinded by it. "He's not a kid. He's Johnny. Completely different."
"Whatever. My kid will be amazing and you'll only *wish* Johnny was this great."
Surreal surreal *surreal*. Brian's leaning back as the video ends, hitting stop, one hand loosening his tie and throwing it on the couch carelessly before picking up one of the boxes of Thai on the coffee table. "Shut up, children."
Jamie snickers, leaning a hand on Daphne's knees and fixing Brian with lowered eyelids and a slow smile. "I know a way you could shut me up, Brian."
"Been there, done that." Brian sounds bored but not actively hostile. "And when exactly did you move in with Daphne?"
"A week ago, Mr. Doesn't Notice Shit Even When It's Just Under His Nose." Leaning back, Jamie continues the massage with talented fingers. Daphne looks like she's blissing out. "Masters programs aren't cheap and neither is rent. Daph and I decided to give into our mutual need and also, inevitability."
Daphne looks at Justin then, the soft smile still lingering on her lips. "Jamie's an architect. Won the design contest for the new Federal building they're putting up downtown."
Justin looks at Jamie again, trying to see it. An artist, too.
"...you feel better knowing someone is around to watch her twenty-four seven?" Jamie is saying, having shifted to sit between Brian and Daphne. Jamie's infatuated, no question, looking up at Brian like he's seeing God in action right now. Twenty-one, maybe? Twenty-two. But can still look like that, Brian can still do that to people. Going up on his knees, Jamie faces Brian from inches away, sharing breath. "Convenient, isn't it?"
Brian's mouth twitches. Like he's trying hard not to smile. Taking another bite of Thai, he chews slowly and deliberately. "That's a word for it."
"Take me to Babylon."
Jesus, this guy's amazing. Justin wants to slap him.
"No."
"You want to."
"No." Brushing off Jamie, Brian stands up, taking the carton to the kitchen. Justin feels Brian's eyes on him, the surprise, like he forgot Justin was there. Coming back in, Brian looks down at Daphne, and Justin can see his smile. "You. Bed. Now."
"It's not that late. And Justin's here." She flashes a hopeful look at Justin, eyes pleading. "Take Jamie and make him leave me alone for a while. I--want some time."
Brian reads the message and sighs, looking at Jamie, who's almost bouncing. "Five minutes and I'm leaving, with or without you."
"I only need two." And Jamie disappears. Justin blinks, then realizes he's alone in a room with Daphne and Brian.
And there really aren't any conversations good for this moment. At least, none that he can think of.
"How's it been going?" Daphne asks, voice a little strained as she leans into the back of the couch. Her hands are twisting in her skirt.
"Pretty good. GLC is showcasing some of my work. I've been pretty busy with that."
Daphne glows. "That's great. I mean, really great."
Justin takes a deep breath. "And--I was--I got the attention of this Chicago art critic. He thinks that I should think about transferring to Chicago to get my degree. More exposure."
Daphne straightens, eyes widening. "You're moving to Chicago?"
His application was sent off two days ago. He's not sure at all. "Yes."
He's watching Brian when he says it, can't even explain to himself why, because he shouldn't care, but he does. He remembers a car ride a long time ago and the sound of Brian's voice when he thought Justin might be going out of state. The way Brian could be unreadable all the time, so those times he wasn't were like writing in neon lights ten feet high. And maybe there's a flicker, though he can't be sure--he's just not the Brian-translator he used to be. For a long time now, come to think of it.
"Chicago's as good a place as any," Brian finally says, and Justin frowns at the cool disinterest, frowns more at the something that's squirming beneath the surface.
Jamie bounces out, and God, you can say a lot about him, but no one can say he doesn't have fashion sense. Blue to match his eyes, hair a studied mess, and painfully hot. Fuckable. Justin wonders if Brian might break his rule and do it more than once.
"I, um, gotta run." There were other things he knows he'd wanted to say--try to talk to Daphne, try to--well, just try, anyway, but all the desire's gone. And God, he looks like the biggest ass in creation, coming over to drop a bomb like this and just run out, when that's not what he'd meant to do or anything like it. Jamie is standing there just behind and to the side of Brian, looking around curiously at them all, before accusing blue settles on him. "You have a nice night and all, okay?" He's to the door without even a thought. There's a painful/sharp/welcome second where he thinks Brian is going to follow him, but then the slim body shifts and Brian sits on the arm of the couch, head turned away.
"What's going on?" Jamie asks, frowning between them, but Justin's out the door before he can hear Brian's answer.
Ronny comes to the latest show, which Justin hadn't expected, since he himself hadn't planned to be there. But he's wired--hours and hours of drawing this afternoon, unable to even think of stopping, and his hand feels like a permanent curl in his pocket. Every flex is agony.
Staying back, Justin watches Ronny walk down the line, pausing every so often. A newer one of a street corner hustler--Justin still can't explain that one, sitting in the freezing cold half a block away for thirty minutes to get the basics, hours more to finish it in charcoal. It's one of his better works. Maybe his best.
A faceless, thin, desperate figure in late Pittsburgh winter. The face in Justin's mind belongs to Jason Kemp.
Justin thinks a lot about Jason since Stockwell started his campaign. More now, in the office, seeing the man that represents everything he once fought against. Intolerance dressed up in the popular catch words of family values and decency. There was nothing decent about the way Jason died. Nor in the way it was ignored.
Ronny doesn't know that, though. He doesn't know a lot about Justin. Justin's beginning to wonder, though, exactly how much he knows about himself. Looking on as an observer, not the artist, he sees something in that picture that's been missing from everything he's drawn since he left Brian.
The critic isn't here tonight. It's slow--most people who wanted to see have, and Justin's okay with that. It's quiet, and surrounded by the visions of the world by a dozen different artists in a dozen different mediums, it's as close to peace as he's able to get anymore.
"Not bad."
Justin stiffens, stepping back instinctively into a less lit corner as Brian materializes in view, like he's been there all along. A little too polished and too urban for obscure little art shows in the city, but he looks amazing.
Ronny turns to look at him, vaguely interested in that absent way of his. Even if Justin had ever mentioned Brian, he wouldn't remember. His mind is always drawing, even when his hand isn't. "The best here."
Brian smirks and doesn't answer at first, eyes fixed on the wall like he's looking for something specific. He always looked at Justin's art like that, curious and wondering, like he's never entirely sure he's seeing what he's supposed to. Brian hates to not know. Bothers him in entirely anal-retentive ways that used to be funny as hell. "Friend of yours?"
"Roommate." How Ronny manages to imply a lifetime of fucking and a commitment ceremony with just one word is something that never ceases to amuse Justin, and hurt him, all at the same time. Ronny knows they're not going anywhere, but it doesn't stop him from believing they are. His mind is always drawing, and usually only what he wants to see. "You?"
There are so many answers to that question that even Justin has to wonder how Brian will distill it down to one word. Or at least, less than a dissertation.
"Ex boyfriend."
Justin blinks and sees Ronny's eyes widen, looking at Brian like he's grown horns. "Ethan?"
Brian snickers softly. "No. Not the fiddler." Brian's eyes fix on the hustler, narrowing as he takes a step closer. Scanning everything like he's looking for something specific, though Justin can't figure out what he's looking for. He comes back to the hustler time and again, though, and Justin wonders if Brian feels it, too, the difference.
There are a dozen sketches in the apartment with that feeling now, though. A cramped hand is worth it.
Justin watches Ronny finally wander off, kicking disconsolately at the floor with one scuffed boot. Justin knows Ronny had hoped he'd be here. Four days incommunicado have taken a toll on him. Justin wonders when he became so cold.
Then wonders when he became such a fucking coward.
Stepping out, Justin marks time in even steps, not too fast, not too slow, but Brian knows arcane things like this, and he doesn't even turn around, but he knows. Justin reads it in the line of his shoulders beneath black leather, the tilt of his head.
"This the one?"
Justin nods, knows what he means, feeling his hand spasm when he fists by instinct. "Yeah." He looks at the picture like an observer, but he can't look and see what Brian sees.
"You'll get more exposure in Chicago." Brian's voice is thoughtful, like he's weighing the pros and cons of blue versus orange. Disinterested, but the advertiser in him is always evaluating, seeing the potential for sale, measuring the illusion coating the reality. "Good program?"
"Yeah." Very good. Somewhere in his room are the printouts he did from the web. The information package, the possibility of applying for a scholarship, dorms, random shit that seems disturbingly important to know, like the color of his dorm walls, the distance to the nearest convenience store, and the way the sky looks at dusk. "Why are you here?"
Brian looks at him for the first time, and Justin wishes that just once, Brian didn't make everything so goddamn hard. Like it would kill him in excruciating ways to say something that doesn't have six meanings or hell, just say what's on his mind. "I haven't seen your new work." Like it's so obvious that anyone should know. Justin doesn't grind his teeth.
"How's Daphne?" That sentence is endlessly bizarre still. "And Jamie?" He somehow can't help that part, and he's looking for a reaction of some kind, knows it, and doesn't like himself for it.
Brian shrugs absently, eyes back on the picture. "Are these for sale?"
"Yeah." Justin almost says, 'except that one', but that would be--childish? "You know, at this rate, you could finance my career on your own."
Brian's smile is slow. "There are worse investments I could make."
It's weird to stand here and say nothing, because he's never been good with Brian and silences. Some part of him always suspected that left to his own devices in his head, Brian could overthink himself into doing incredibly stupid things and think they were great ideas. It's kind of a relief that when Brian gets high, he usually just wants to fuck. Justin doesn't even want to consider the kinds of thoughts Brian would think up unattended in those circumstances.
"When are you leaving?"
Justin's startled out of his thoughts. Maybe he thinks too much, too. "I don't know yet." When I know for sure why I'm doing this. "Before the end of summer, I guess, if everything goes like I think it will." He can't imagine packing again, putting everything into boxes, explaining to him mom that he's not doing anything like running away but really, this is the best idea ever. Debbie. Emmett and Ted and Michael and Ben. Thinking of Chicago brings a longing so sharp it hurts, but sometimes, he gets confused about that, because he woke up this morning after dreaming he was already there in a cold sweat of panic. Comfort in his room and his bed, his life and his world around him like a warm blanket. Mom might be supportive, actually, saying it's time for change. Brian might get how sometimes, there's no going back.
Justin catches his breath and watches Brian when he studies the walls. There's a pitiless kind of intimacy in this, in someone looking at his work who knows him so well. They're not strangers, they can't be, no matter how hard they try. Lovers who shared a house and meals and sex and a life and maybe even fell in love.
"It's getting late. I gotta go." Stepping back, Justin watches Brian's gaze fix on him, coolly evaluative, because maybe it would kill him to show too much. Show anything at all. Or maybe Justin needs to learn to see again.
It surprises him, when Brian reaches out, and Justin doesn't remember to pull away. It's instinct, letting Brian touch him, moving into it, but it's just his hand, warm fingers pressing into his palm in an old, familiar rhythm, massaging away the soreness.
"Overdoing it?" The softness makes Justin catch his breath, settles hard into his stomach. He didn't think Brian could hurt him more, but he'd been wrong.
"A little."
It's an endless stretch of time, and Justin thinks that Brian's going to say something else. That feeling of potential, like the ticking seconds before a storm, when the hairs rise on your arms and everything smells like ozone. And maybe he can't read Brian for shit, maybe he's imagined everything up to now, but he doesn't imagine this. No one could.
Tell me not to go. Just say it.
"Have a good trip." Letting go, Brian tilts his head just a little, like he's waiting for something. But Justin only watches, Brian turning like there's nothing to this second, like they really *are* strangers that never shared a life, and he walks away.
Justin thinks, a little dimly in a lonely gallery with shadows crawling up the walls like the nightmares he'd thought he left behind, that Brian was waiting for him to say goodbye.
Dinner at Debbie's is kind of like a sentencing, with Debbie as judge and jury. He should have known walking into the diner that morning that Debbie was ready to tackle things head on, and God help anyone who tried to evade.
He *knows* that. He knows because Debbie's the only living person to contradict and manipulate Brian Kinney successfully on a regular basis, and maybe that alone says a lot more about her than anything else. Justin should have known that the thoughtful looks and the authoritative way she snapped her gum that his days were numbered. Apparently, Justin's probation was over.
That's how he ended up sitting with Vic and Debbie at eight one night over minestrone soup, trying to figure out how exactly he'd gotten to this point.
"More soup?" she asks sweetly, ladle in hand, and the look on her face tells him he's getting more soup if it requires an IV push to get it going. Meekly, he surrenders his bowl and watches the vegetables tumble over each other in their golden brown liquid into his bowl with a sense of inevitability. "That's my Sunshine. How's school?"
Vic looks too damn at ease, following Debbie's cues with admirable promptness, like they're working off a script. Or Debbie's orders. Don't spook the kid. Lull him into a sense of well-being and fullness, *then* pounce like a psychotic tiger in the middle of an LSD trip. And do it with all four feet. Yes, Justin knows the strategy. And yes, Justin knows it works.
"Good." He shoves the spoon in his mouth, hoping the look of imminent starvation thing will excuse one word answers. And well, this is damn good soup. Ronny can't cook for shit. Justin almost took over a few weeks ago, but he'd gotten sick at the smell of what he'd begun to make without thought.
Grandma had probably never thought that the one thing Justin had learned to cook from her was the one thing he'd probably never be able to eat again.
"Ronny?"
Justin glances up, frowning. "Okay, I guess." Late hours at the studio at school, shifts at work, and all that quality time Justin's been using to see if he can pick up Brian's title as the biggest slut in Pittsburgh have cut into roommate time. "You know him?"
"He comes to the GLC," Debbie says calmly, like Justin should know this, and he does, but still. "We talked when he stopped by one night to drop off some paintings."
Oh, that doesn't sound good at all. Finishing his spoonful, Justin gazes at Debbie across the length of the table. "And why am I getting the feeling you're about to say something really personal and really not any of your business?"
"Fucking around with someone who's in love with you? You tell me what you're up to, Sunshine." Debbie doesn't just strip the kid gloves off. She throws them in his face.
Justin sighs. "I told him we weren't--anything but roommates."
"And convenient tricks that live together?" Debbie's eyebrows arch meaningfully. Justin doesn't like it--he's seen her look at Brian like that, and he can honestly say he never expected to see that look aimed at him.
There's a lot he could say in his own defense, but none of it is really worth the effort. "He went in with his eyes wide open, Deb." Justin remembers the first night, like being with Ethan but better, because Ronny didn't seem to have any expectations of anything at all. Slow sex on the couch, Ronny bent over the arm and telling him how amazing he was, and so *new*. Justin had never liked virgins all that much before, but Ronny was amazing, no inhibitions, no expectations, everything brand new, surprising, fascinating. Loved what Justin did to him, loved to reciprocate. "I didn't--"
"Promise anything?"
Justin bites down and picks up his bowl, going to the sink to toss it. Minestrone soup is on the list now. If he's not careful, he's not going to be able to eat anything at all. Behind him, he thinks he can almost see Vic and Debbie exchange looks. "I'm not Brian."
"I know. That's what's scaring me." Justin turns around, and he can face Debbie in a righteous rage or a temper fit, but there's no defense against what she looks like now. Worry written into her skin and eyes so deeply it hurts to look at her. Justin takes a hissed breath. "Sunshine. What are you doing to yourself?"
Fuck. "Living my life. Isn't that what everyone's kept telling me to do for the last two years? Get away from Brian, find someone my own age, get my own life? I'm doing it. Happy?"
Nothing's static, like Lindsay said. Everything changes.
"No." Her eyes search him, looking for landmarks, and he wonders what she sees. God, sometimes he wonders what *he* sees, because looking in the mirror these days is becoming something strange, like watching himself in a dream. Not entirely real, but the only reality there is. "Neither are you."
"I'm fine."
"It's okay to feel betrayed."
His fingers hurt from their clench on the edge of the counter. "Trust me, I have no problems feeling really fucking betrayed. But thanks for the permission."
Debbie on any other day would have blown up, and they could have gotten right into a good old-fashioned shouting match that would have ended with a storm out, but of course, Debbie's like everyone else these days. She's going for the medal in unpredictability. And hell, she may win. "Maybe you need it.
Vic nods slowly, and God, why does everyone feel this stupid need to analyze him? He's doesn't want it, doesn't need it, doesn't-- "I'm fine. I'm moving."
Her face doesn't change. "Brian told me. Chicago?"
Justin doesn't meet her eyes. "They accepted me for the second summer session."
"They'd be idiots not to."
Justin waits for more, but Debbie just watches him evenly. Nothing. Shit. "What? You're not going to say that I'm running away again?" Because I am.
"You know it and I know it. You're a big boy, Sunshine." Her head tilts as she looks at him. "You'll do okay."
Oh fuck this. "You never cared what I wanted before. So why now?" The baby, Justin thinks irrationally. All about Brian's damn mistake.
"Who are you pissed at, Sunshine?" Debbie stands up, taking her empty bowl and stacking it on Vic's before moving toward the sink. Justin moves out of her way just enough to give her access. He's tired of making space for everyone except himself. "I don't want you to go. God knows, your mother's going to be pissed. And you're not going to be happy either."
Justin looks down. "What makes you say that?"
"You take it with you wherever you go. You took it to the loft and you took it to my house and you took it to Ethan's, then you took it to Ronny's. You'll take it to Chicago, too, and where will you go when you realize that, hmm?"
"Take what? Brian?"
Her hand touches his face, gentle as his mother's. Harder than she could ever be with him, because it takes distance to tell the truth when it's going to hurt like this will.
"Yourself, Sunshine." She fingers the too-long hair gently, pushing it away from his eyes, cupping his cheek. Her expression hardens just a little. "You learned every one of his tricks for not dealing, but this one's dyed in the wool. You never learned how to give up, sweetie. You just learned to run away."
Just almost pushes her away. "I'm not running away. I'm moving on."
"You're not moving at all. You haven't in longer than I can remember." Her fingers are a gentle stroke that makes him hurt, matching the hurt in her eyes. "You never give up. You don't even know how. You think a few hundred miles will change anything? You'll still be Justin and Brian and Daphne will still be here and there'll still be this. All of it. And it will still hurt and you'll still be angry and you'll still somewhere in that fucked up head think that you don't have the right to be."
Justin looks at anything but her eyes, seeing everything there that he hasn't been able to say. "I--I never really believed I couldn't go back, if I wanted to. I just--I just thought I had time." Justin stops, sucking in a slow breath, trying to make it make sense. To Debbie. To Vic. To himself, most of all. "I thought--I don't know what I thought. It's Brian. Of all the people I had to worry about moving on, he--just doesn't. Isn't. Wouldn't. He wouldn't for me, so why the hell would he for anyone else?"
It's not fair. He should have had time, post-Ethan. He'd lost it, because Brian couldn't keep his dick in his pants and Daphne lost her fucking mind on one night that shouldn't have even been in the running for possible. It's stupid and it's unfair and it's wrong, but it doesn't make it less true. They took away more than just his trust, the belief there were some places, some things that were safe. They took away his hope.
"Maybe it's not for anyone else, sweetie." Both hands cup his face now, making him look up, and her face is a blur of bright lipstick and pained eyes. "Maybe he's doing this for himself."
"Typical."
Debbie laughs softly, hands sliding to his shoulders and shaking him. "Such a smart boy, but so dumb. You didn't listen to anyone before, you *knew*. You knew what most people never learn, how to go after what you wanted and how to keep it. What the hell's stopping you now?"
Who the hell knows what he wants? "You haven't met Jamie." That's entirely a surprise, even to himself, and Justin blinks at the way his voice sounds. Like--is he. Jealous?
Debbie's eyebrows arch, tongue between her teeth as she grins at him. Both hands slide up into his hair, giving him another tiny shake, palms pressed into his cheeks. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
Justin stares back. "What?"
Her hands smooth down his hair as she steps away, still grinning, like she knows something he doesn't. "Right. Dumb kid. When you're nineteen, it's all life and death, isn't it? This or that, no in-between. Don't look at me like that, kiddo. I know you, I knew you the day I met you. Whatever the hell you think you're doing now? Get your head outta your ass. What do you want?"
It's on the tip of his tongue, because there's always only been one answer to that question. He bites it back. "What if--what if it isn't possible?"
He takes in her surprised frown, like she's wondering why he started speaking a language she doesn't understand. "Since when do you care, Sunshine?"
"This is utter bullshit." Justin looked at the clips for hours in his apartment. Curled up on the couch, watching Brian's art, the way he makes something impossible sell, gives Stockwell something he just didn't have before. It was prostitution of talent, of a fucking gift, and Justin gets that the point of advertising is to sell the product, but there's a taint here that's impossible to ignore.
Brian glances up from his desk, like Justin barging in is just the most obvious thing in the world and nothing worth paying any attention to. "Are you finished?"
Justin has no idea. Impulse control's always been a problem when he's with Brian. That's why he spent so much of age eighteen on his back. "You're really selling this fucker, aren't you?"
He doesn't even put down the fucking pencil. Justin grinds his teeth and waits Brian out. It's an exercise in patience, but Brian's existence on the planet is just that. "That's my job, Taylor."
Fuck this. Half crumpled copy in one hand, Justin wonders what the hell Brian is thinking. If he even is. "He's a homophobe."
The pencil goes down. It's rare he gets Brian's full attention, and he really doesn't have it now. But damned if he's not going to try. "He's a politician."
"Bullshit. You know better." And he's sure Brian does--he's never been one not to know who and what he's dealing with. "Brian. Think about what you're doing here. That guy gets in charge, say good-bye to your exhibitionist sex life. Get *really* used to being second class on your own street. It all goes downhill from here."
Brian watches him from behind a completely unreadable expression, but Justin's learning, like a kid in his first reading class. The slow, painful combination of vowels and consonants, watch for those freaky silent e's and mysterious qu, but it's not impossible anymore, because Brian's never been impossible, just tricky as hell. The letters will all come together soon enough, he just has to have patience and time to practice. These days, he's all about both.
"You're overreacting." Brian's mouth telegraphs a tight line of slow anger, but Justin hasn't been thrown out, and frankly, he's been waiting for that from the second he was let in.
"And so are Deb and Emmett and Michael and oh, every fucking person with sense but you?" It's a risk, but hell, he tried the passive aggressive thing and man, had that blown up in his face in more ways than Justin can even begin to count. So. He thinks Brian is just lucky right now that he's coasting on all that pre-baby love going on, or Deb would already have his head on a plate. "Brian. I'm not pulling this out of my ass. I know what I'm talking about."
"You don't know shit about advertising."
"I lived with an ad exec for almost a year. You think I didn't pick up some tips?" It's true. Osmosis and boredom on long working nights left their mark. Justin hadn't realized how much he'd actually absorbed until he realized how few of the other interns could follow along with a damn thing going on down in the art department. Of course, it could be a tactical mistake to bring up anything regarding the not-them, but then again, Brian set the ground rules. No relationship? Fine. He can damn well chew on it. "This isn't about business. It's about common sense."
What scares him is how personally Brian is taking all of this. Stockwell scares Justin on a political level but also hits a place a lot closer to home. Brian isn't friends with his clients, but good old Jim is the exception to every rule Brian ever made. All kinds of undercurrents that Justin doesn't have the context to work out in every conversation. It makes him nervous in a completely different way.
"Tell me about the posters, Sunshine."
That throws him. But not too much. Brian's not stupid, just occasionally distracted. "The ones around Liberty?"
Brian leans back in his chair, studying Justin like a recalcitrant piece of copy that won't come out right. "Yes. Those."
Justin shrugs casually, right hand locked against his thigh to keep it from twitching. "They're good. A little crude, though. I would have gone for something more subtle."
He's not stupid either. Brian's not buying a word of it. Proof is something else entirely, though. And he doesn't think Brian will take a chance and push it when they're on such fine ice. He'll want evidence. And Justin has no intention of giving it to him.
"Are you done?"
Yeah. It's not that he thought a head-on confrontation would work. "If you are. Sir."
Brian picks up his pencil, dismissing Justin from attention as easily as he does an unsuitable trick. It's annoying as shit, and Justin suspects it's deliberate.
Turning, he tries to think of some good exit line, but he's just not feeling that dramatic. The entire storming-in thing took up way too much energy. Passive aggressive and direct confrontation are out. Brian's not listening, and he won't listen, because he's seeing exactly what he wants to see.
And what the *hell* is he seeing in Stockwell anyway? Justin doesn't get it. Yes, money's good, and for Brian right now, money might actually be a primary concern. Second semester tuition was paid up for both him and Daphne; Brian's become a one man scholarship committee for his former unconventional tricks. Justin knows from Lindsay that Brian was paying half of Daphne's rent, at least until Jamie moved in--and short term Justin's ass, if he's any judge of infatuation, and he is. And then there's the corvette, and Justin refuses to spend any amount of time thinking how hot that car is when he thinks about the payment schedule Brian has going on. And Gus. And God knows what else.
But. Money aside, Stockwell's the anti-Brian in every way that counts, and Justin isn't even thinking of sexuality. This isn't selling a homophobe's shitty alcohol. Brian's putting a guy in a position of power who has all the earmarks of a fanatic. And he doesn't even seem to care.
Jeremy, one of the junior execs, meets him in the hall. Justin takes in the dark hair, the way his eyes slide down his body furtively. One of his first tricks here and he pulls up a slow, amused smile that he learned from Brian an eon ago. It's never as effortless as it should be. He learned everything that Brian was willing to teach him, but could never master the art of cold seduction without regret.
"Everything okay?"
Justin thinks of Brian, cool sophistication and glossy perfection, watching him from behind the expanse of a desk like it was miles that separated them, not months. Son of a bitch. I'm not allowed to forget; you aren't either.
"Sure." Leaning into the wall, Justin considers the open door of Brian's office and the fact that Brian's a lot better at pretending not to pay attention than he is at actually following through. "Long day."
"Want to grab some lunch?" There's a bouncy sort of energy to the invitation that tells Justin he'll be spending lunch in a closet, trying desperately not to make too much noise, but that sounds just great right now. He runs his palm absently over the crease in his pants, watching the dark eyes fix and hold on his crotch, then pushes off the wall.
Nothing makes him forget, but sometimes, he can at least not remember quite so damn much.
"Yeah. Let's go."
Later, he'll think it was probably something on the order of a last straw. Information from Chicago piled up in his desk, where he hid it like porn mags and bad pictures, faintly ashamed and not sure why. He's being a pussy about it, but Debbie's words stung in places he had no idea he was vulnerable. He stares at the pictures hungrily, thinking of a life so much simpler, but she's right. The scene might change, but everything else will remain the same, including himself.
Ronny greeted him at the door when he came in from Vanguard, energetic and demanding attention like a lonely puppy, but at least it was the kind of attention that Justin could handle. He was up against the door with Ronny's mouth wrapped around his cock before he could say hello.
That hasn't been the pattern of the last few days, but the novelty's too much to resist. Justin closes his eyes and breathes.
Strange, mirror-image of the stuff he'd pulled on Brian once-upon-a-time dance in his memory, when life was simpler and sometimes just about as unhappy, but with better orgasms, so on balance, it evened out. Ronny goes down like a pro, like Justin taught him, like Brian taught *him*, this genealogy of sex that makes him smile when he thinks about it. It's faster than Brian would ever allow, though, because nineteen-almost-twenty is still a teenager and Justin's just not very good at delayed gratification. Comes with a start of surprise when Ronny deep throats after a short, hard suck that makes all the blood in Justin's body drain straight to his dick, and Justin breaks a nail gripping the door.
Ronny sits back on his heels, and Justin recognizes the expression on his face, smug and hopeful combined; it's exquisitely hot to know you can do that to someone, make them want like that, make them need like that, and an ache that begins deep inside.
I'm not Brian, Justin thinks in a kind of slow resignation, the kind that comes when you've gone as far as you can and just can't take another step. I'm not Brian. Brian never did this to me. "Ronny."
The dark head tilts inquisitively, and Justin reaches down, pulling Ronny to his feet. Ronny's inches taller and has thirty pounds on him, a year older, but a lifetime younger. This--this *kid*, who fucks him and cares about him and has fallen in love with him. Jamie's expression, his own, Ethan's, all reflected in that flawless face that stares back at him and asks for so damn little. That's asking right now, don't say it. Just let it go. Just be with me. Just let *him* go.
Justin bites his lip. I don't know *how*. Debbie's right. I never give up. "I can't do this anymore, Ronny."
There's still shock, though God knows, it can't be unexpected. Justin's seen the paintings Ronny hides, and then chose not to see anything at all. It was easier to keep the illusion of convenient fucks and roommates with serious privileges, not proto-relationship with a guy who had him as his first lover. "What?" And God, he sounds so damn *young*.
"We can't--"
"No." Ronny's head shakes slowly, taking a step back, ripping his arm free of Justin's numb hand. "Justin, don't--"
"I'm in love with someone else."
Ronny's expression doesn't change. "Ethan. I know. I do. It's too soon. But--"
Jesus Christ, it would be kinder to let it go there. Anyone could get away with that. Anyone would understand that.
"No."
Ronny blinks, tongue slicking wet lips nervously. "What?"
Justin draws in a slow breath, forcing himself to meet Ronny's eyes. "His name is Brian."
He'd never explained Brian to anyone well enough for them to get it. Ronny might, though, and that's the killer.
"Brian?" He sounds lost. Justin watches as his mind skips backward, and then the second of startled recognition. A meeting that Justin wouldn't have known about if he hadn't skulked in the shadows like an intruder in his own life. "I met--this guy. He said he was your ex. Brian."
Ronny hasn't been in gay Pittsburgh near long enough. "Brian Kinney."
Not everyone knows everything. But Ronny's been around enough for name recognition. Nothing for an endless second, then Ronny turns away. "Your--ex-boyfriend."
And all the ways that still did weird things to Justin's head. He used to think it, far back in the corner of his mind that obsesses about impossible things, like endless springtime love and commitment ceremonies and houses with dogs and long breakfasts in bed.
Ethan would have. Ronny would. Justin can see it in Ronny's face, in the lines of his body, in the memories of their shared past. Ronny would do all of those things, be all of those things that Justin's always wanted, and he'd do it because he loves Justin and do it because he *wants* to.
Justin doesn't even breathe. This is what I choose. This is because I have to, because I won't lie to you, and I'll never lie to myself again. "I love him. And I don't know how to stop."
Ronny's back is a ruler straight line that melts at the words, head turned away. Helpless need to comfort, but Justin doesn't know how. Brian would say something sharp and sarcastic or wrap around him like the safest, warmest blanket ever made, shutting the world out, filling Justin's mind with nothing but himself. This thing that Brian gives to no one else, because no one else has ever needed that from him, even Michael. Justin doesn't know how because no one he's loved has ever needed that from him before.
So he only watches as Ronny slowly sits down. "I don't care."
But I do. "I can't. Not with you, not with anyone right now." And God, the cliches about how it's not you, it's me, when the truth is, it's both of us. I don't give up and you aren't him. And neither of us can change that, no matter how much we might want to. And I don't even know if I want to anymore. "Ronny--I'll move out. Just give me a week, okay?"
There's no denial and he didn't expect it. Grabbing the jacket he lost on the floor, he turns to the door.
"Justin--" The choked voice almost makes him turn, but he doesn't want to know. God, he doesn't want to *see*. "I'll--I'll be here when you get back. We'll--we'll talk."
Justin opens the door and goes out before he can say something he regrets.
It's not running. It's just choosing..
"It hurt."
Daphne stares at him from the doorway. Jamie's out, he knows, he saw him, fucking himself unconscious in the backroom. Brian was somewhere back there, because Justin suspects that particular performance was specific and aimed. No one looks that good in orgasm unless they're performing for someone.
"I want to talk about it."
Her hand shakes on the door and Justin can see the slight protuberance of her stomach beneath her sweater, the pale thinness of her face. Fragile and soft and scared in a way that he never thought anyone could be, not of him.
"Justin." She hesitates, he can read it in every muscle of her body. "Come in." Stepping back, she lets him in, and Justin passes by her into the living room that saw him last in a last ditch attempt to run again. If he goes this time, it'll be on his own terms. "Justin, I--"
"We didn't talk about it." Which is classic, because Justin loves to talk, but only when he knows his ground, only when the advantage is his. This is entirely new territory. "I'm sorry about running out that night." In so many ways. He's not sorry that he left, though. Nothing and no one on earth could have kept him in that apartment. Just the way he chose to leave.
"It was an accident." She's still standing by the now closed door, hands hanging loosely at her sides. "Justin, I know--"
"I don't have the right to be pissed, I get that." Not yet. Just shut up, Daphne. Let me get this out. "You and Brian--it's not like I had a--that I had any right to be angry. I know that. You both had the right to fuck whoever you wanted." Brian's had that philosophy for years. "I just--I didn't expect it." Because you can expect anything from Brian, anything at all, but a pregnant girl turning up that isn't the equivalent of a lesbian sister was never, ever in the running. Justin would have expected Brian to take up life in a monastery first. And Daphne.... "I just--I need to know why. I don't care if that's stupid, it's just there. I need to know."
Slowly, she crosses the room, eyeing him with worry, and God, what the *hell*? Ronny and Daphne, who shouldn't ever look at him like this but they do. She takes the chair corner from him, hands twisting in her lap. She's halfway through this, and Justin still feels the unreality of it, every time he looks at her.
"I'm sorry, Justin." Her voice is low, so soft he'd never have heard her but for the stillness. That feeling again, like the GLC, and Justin thinks he smells ozone on the air. "It--it was a bad night. A bad time. We didn't--I didn't. Think about it. Because nothing like that could ever happen."
The thin fingers are white with pressure. "Bad time?" Justin flicks through his memories, trying to remember, but it all comes up Ethan. Ethan and his contract. Ethan and his closet. Ethan and his one lie that was just the culmination of a lot of unpalatable truths. "Did something happen to you? Did--"
Her eyes are fixed on her hands. "No. Nothing happened."
"You--never said anything. Then." Nothing. His mind's a blank, and it occurs to him to wonder why. "You never said anything was going on. You never told me--"
Her mouth sets, straight line, thin and unhappy. "You weren't there to tell."
Justin feels something freeze--he's already moving from the couch, and all those resolutions about not-running, settling his accounts, come crashing into dust, and maybe he should think about forgiving Ethan, because it's a lot easier to promise something than to see it through. Could be why Brian never makes them.
"Stop! Fuck it, Justin, don't do this. You can't--" Her voice breaks and he turns to see her push herself from the chair, standing a little hesitantly, like she's not entirely sure her feet will keep her in place. Nineteen, his best friend, *pregnant*. It's brand new every time he thinks it, like the day he found out. "You have to listen. Don't just---let me fucking *talk*, okay? You can hate me all you want after, but--it wasn't like that. I wasn't trying to--to get back at you or anything. You should know that."
He should, and six months ago, he would have, but everything changes. Daphne got pregnant, Brian fucked a girl, and if they've changed, so has he. It scares him. He doesn't *know*.
"I mean--no one knew. God, Brian probably showered his way down to raw skin after--" her lips quirk up affectionately, like she knows Brian, like she knows all those anal-retentive mannerisms and tics that only those close could ever know. She does, he realizes a little numbly. It wasn't the sex that did it. It was this. He almost walks out, but his feet don't move, thank God some part of him paid attention to the lecture. Just do this. Just listen. Just fucking *deal* already. "I tried--I mean, what are the chances? One fucked up condom and one night. I left almost as soon as I woke up. It was just--this weird night. I can't explain it."
Justin breathes out, prying his fingers off the doorknob. "Why were you there at all?"
Her hands twist in the hem of her sweater again, and she licks her lips. Nervous. Unsure. Then she looks at him and there's something in her face that makes him wonder if he should have left after all. "It's easier to be lonely with someone that understands."
Justin leans back into the door. "I was--I don't--"
"You loved Ethan, I get that. It was a new relationship and you were all about him, and I knew, I knew it was stupid to be mad at you, but--I couldn't help it. At least--at least when you fell for Brian, it was like, I still had my friend around. With Ethan, it was like you disappeared. Like you were someone else."
I was, Justin almost says, but he doesn't. The shaking starts inside and moves outward, and he locks his right hand against his thigh, fisting until the muscles almost cramp from the strain. "I didn't leave you out."
Daphne's smile is slow and hurts. "You never meant to. I knew it then and I know it now. It's hard, though, to lose someone you love. It's--easier when you can share it. When someone else understands, when they feel like that. Just knowing, you know?"
"Brian--" Brian. Christ.
Daphne looks away. "I--he--I don't think he took it like everyone thought." Her face says other things that make his stomach clench. No one ever told him anything. No one ever does. They'll tell when he's fucking having an affair, but the important shit? No. "I--I mean, I still--I still knew you'd be around again, if I waited, if I didn't screw it up and act like a jealous girlfriend. I had something. Brian--didn't have that."
Justin nods. He doesn't know. He never knew. He never wanted to, if he's honest.
"I didn't--it happened, and then it was over and we forgot about it until we--couldn't anymore. It was an accident and we were high and I went home and six weeks later, I went back and had to tell him. That's all."
That's all. Covering one night and one mistake and Daphne is looking at him now, expecting--something.
"I--" I don't understand. I don't *want* to understand. "You--of anyone, of everyone--" This was a bad idea, he knew it, and God, he feels guilty for coming over here and saying all this, like it's all her fault that everything's such a fucking mess. "I love him."
Daphne's mouth trembles, dropping back in the chair like her legs won't hold her anymore. "I'm sorry, Justin." Swiping a hand over her eyes, she stares at the floor. "You're--were my best friend. I never would have wanted to hurt you like that."
But she had. Par for the course, because it's a choice. She chose to fuck Brian. He can hate her or he can forgive her. That's a choice, too.
He has an apartment to find and a future to decide, a soon to be ex-roommate to apologize to, but right now, nothing seems more important than this moment. Like whatever he does now will change everything.
If he walks out now, it won't be running away. It'll be a choice.
"You need something to drink?" He doesn't even recognize his own voice, raw and scratchy like he's been chain-smoking for days, and she stares at him like he's grown horns. "I'll make some tea. We can--talk a little more. If you're up to it."
Daphne nods dumbly, mouth a little agape, and Justin turns to the kitchen and lets body memory tell him where everything is these days.
It wouldn't be running away, if he left this time. But it also wouldn't be what he wants.
"This place sucks."
Justin snorts as Lindsay sets up his easel by the only decent window, with a view of the tenement next door that's just depressing enough to get some serious angry imagery out of him. Black moldy brick and bare windows like blank, unseeing eyes. It's creepy. Justin thinks he'll install some blinds soon.
"You're really helping," he answers, setting down the last box and leaning into it. "God, my back hurts." Rubbing at tense muscles in the small of his back, he watches Lindsay scout the two rooms curiously. It's better than he really could have expected on short notice, but that doesn't mean much. "It's not like you had to come."
"Who else would you ask?" Her voice is all sweet reason, pushing messy blonde hair from her forehead, and Justin grins as she drops onto the floor in a careless sprawl, like the teenager she hasn't been in years. Right now, she looks too young to be the mother of a two year old, a respected professional adult woman. The harsh fluorescents overhead only emphasizing the way that even time has no power over perfect bones. "What?"
"Nothing." He remembers his first view of her at the hospital, an exhausted, sweaty, too-thin face, but incandescent, the way only a new mother can be. "Did you use the drugs? I mean, when Gus was born?"
Her eyebrows go up, but she only nods. "I was shot up the second we got to the hospital. I'd been in labor for a few hours by then." She grins, leaning an elbow on the box beside. "Au naturale has never been my style."
Restless, Justin paces the cheap vinyl floor, aware of how damned thin the walls are. This isn't any kind of real improvement over Ethan's, and he thinks of Ronny's snug two bedroom with a longing so sharp it almost aches. Painted walls, big windows, decent view. On the other hand, this place is much closer to campus. And if he ever feels the urge to take up prostitution as a career choice, at least he won't have to go any farther than his front door. He remembers the way Lindsay's nose wrinkled when they came in. Surely, he'd get used to the smell. Surely.
"Everything okay?" She doesn't say anything about Daphne, though he thinks she knows they talked, because Lindsay figures out things like that.
"Okay. It's only a six month lease." He can get some scented candles until then. Chicago is looking better, at least as far as rooming is concerned. Dropping on the floor across from her, he thinks about the piles of information about Chicago, its own box under his bed.
"Still thinking about Chicago?"
Justin glances up and sees her. No make-up, the pink of her lips, the flush of exertion on her cheeks, and the studied curiosity in her face. She's still one of his favorite subjects. She's so many people all at once. "Yes."
He thinks of it constantly, like an itch that never goes away because he can't scratch it, and he wants someone else to do it for him. Just say, 'go'. 'Stay'. Stop acting like he's some kind of adult capable of making reasoned, intelligent decisions, because dammit, he's not even twenty yet and he should have a few more years to be a kid.
Should have, but he gave them up, and he doesn't regret it, not in any way that matters.
"Was it hard? To--" Justin stops, thinking of Daphne in that quiet apartment, with Jamie, with a new baby, and right, like Jamie's gonna be around to help her through *that*. It worries him. "To do everything. After Gus was born."
Lindsay's eyelids lower, hiding the expression inside. She gives a lot away with her eyes, when everything else is still. "Hard enough, and I had Mel. Daphne's going to have her work cut out for her."
Justin doesn't answer, watching her mouth quirk at his silence, like she's reading him; pretty, fragile, upper-class artist, playing at lower class in a sweatshirt and jeans. It's so completely deceiving. "She won't be alone."
Lindsay shakes her head. "You mean Brian, or Jamie?"
Ah, so she's met him. The twist of her mouth is suddenly really comforting. "Right. Jamie's in it for Brian, not for her."
She's trying not to giggle. Justin doesn't bother hiding his grin at the look on her face.
"You should have been around for Deb's reaction when he came by the diner one day when you were off."
Justin hears himself snicker unsteadily through the hot flash of unreasonable anger. The asshole was in his *diner*? "Did she try to feed him?"
"Asked Brian if his latest client was into cloning."
Justin laughs, letting himself sprawl back on the floor. Even through the coat and sweater, it's cold. Staring up at the ceiling, he thinks about Jamie in the backroom, Jamie in Daph's apartment, Daphne's phone call a few days ago, out of the blue, and from the sound of her voice, she'd been working up the nerve to do it for awhile. It'd been easy to talk, like breathing, and he hadn't expected that at all.
"The show went well," Lindsay says out of nowhere, and Justin nods absently. "You sold several pieces, didn't you?"
"Yeah." The entire reason he had the deposit for this place. The diner will just barely cover rent and food. Maybe a regular phone, if he's lucky, not just his cell. If he's very, very lucky. "I--" He stops, rolling onto his side to stare blankly at the bare wall. "I'm tired."
Peripheral vision shows the shift of her foot against the vinyl, and he listens to her crawl across the floor to collapse beside him. The light floral scent of her hair surrounds him, musky with sweat. He can feel the warmth of her body. "It's been a long day, sweetie."
Not just the day. "Yeah," he murmurs, and God, he misses Daphne, who would have understood instinctively, would have wrapped him in girl-scent and told him how dumb it was to whine about what you couldn't change, then tell him they should get stoned and watch old movies. Microwave popcorn. Beer from the fridge. Giggling at everything. Falling asleep on the couch tangled together, comfortable the way only best friends can be who have known each other forever, closer than a sister or a lover. He misses it, suddenly and powerfully, an ache that he's hidden from himself for so long that it's like it's brand new.
"Justin," Lindsay whispers, and gentle fingers brush tentatively through his hair. Just that. Just his name, sweet and sad and maybe getting how he feels, how much it hurts.
"I thought I'd feel better if I talked to her."
Beside him, Lindsay nods, and Justin keeps his eyes closed, rolling onto his back. The long line of her body is warm against his. Justin wonders if this is how Brian feels with Lindsay, why he can give to her, anything she wants, everything she wants, even a child.
"I didn't say it'd be easy, honey," she whispers, still stroking his hair. "It won't be. But it'll be better. It'll get better."
"How do you know?"
Blonde hair brushes his face. "Just call it women's intuition."
He thinks about that, mouth tightening. Daphne hadn't talked about the baby. Anything and everything--school, professors, grades, the weather, Christ, the traffic downtown, but nothing that touched on anything that could hurt. Anything that could break the scab wide open, because she's as scared as he is. And maybe they're even scared of the same thing.
"What if I hate the baby?"
Half-formed, frightening thought that's slinked along the edges of his mind and comes roaring out like a lion now, made real and concrete when clothed in words. He shivers at the cool sound of his voice, the calm in it, the reasonable tones that convey something he knows he's never quite admitted to himself. It's not just Daphne, it's not just Brian, it's not just what they did. It's the proof growing in Daphne's body, day by day, the reminder and the warning both. The proof that will have been nine months in the making and be a lifetime in the reminding.
What kind of person *is* he?
But Lindsay doesn't draw away, and he's surprised. "Do you think you will?"
Justin shivers, moving closer to her. Lindsay's a mother. She can't understand. "It's a baby. It's their baby. It should be--God, it's a no brainer. But what if I don't? What if every time I look at it, I see--" Being hurt. Being betrayed. Another person that's more important than Justin, that will always be more important. Another piece of evidence that Brian won't ever care enough.
"You mean, like Mel sees Brian in Gus?"
Justin blinks. "Does she?"
Lindsay shrugs. "I know she worried about that. She never said, but--when I decided, it was the subtext behind every argument. If she could love a child created out of someone she disliked so much."
Justin frowns, watching Lindsay raise herself on one elbow, looking down at him with understanding eyes. "I don't hate Daphne or Brian." And I have no idea what slot you're putting me into and I don't want to know. "Why did you take the risk?"
Lindsay frowns a little, eyes growing distant. "It wasn't a risk. Not like you think. Mel wanted a baby. I wanted a baby. Anyone else being the father wasn't acceptable."
"An anonymous donor would have been--" A hell of a lot less risky.
"It wasn't that kind of choice," Lindsay murmurs, and Justin watches her face soften. "Mel didn't understand. I don't think Brian understood. I didn't need them to. In a way, it's the same reason that Mel chose Michael--"
"She's not in love with Michael."
Lindsay leans close, forehead against his, warm and soft. Justin draws in an unsteady breath, body memory reacting thoughtlessly, an echo of warmth and safety, what Brian would always be to him. This is where Brian learned that, who he learned it from. "I'm not in love with Brian, just like you're not in love with Daphne."
Ouch. "You don't make things easy."
"Who says it would be easy? It's a baby." Grinning, she slides back down, eyes half-closing. "Pieces of the two people you love most, all wound up together, and it doesn't matter why or how, because it *is*. Don't be so scared of yourself."
He wishes he had her faith in himself. Turning his head, he looks into the clear blue eyes and sighs. "Who says I give a shit about either of them?" He doesn't even try to sound convincing.
"Chicago. A line of tricks a mile long. The way you look right now." He chokes, thinking of Deb's sad eyes, but Lindsay only smiles. "Come on, let's go get some dinner. Mel's working late and Brian is on Gus-watch until eight. What are you in the mood for?"
Justin stares up at her, wondering what exactly just happened. "Um. Greek?"
"Lead the way."
Daphne's gaining weight, and it keeps surprising Justin, every time--a slow roundness that extends all over her body.. Even her coat doesn't cover it completely, but it does make it easier to pretend. He dreads summer for a lot of reasons these days.
She's also eating twice her weight in food, and for the first time, Justin watches in shock as Daphne outlasts him at the seven dollar Chinese buffet. She's still eyeing his one remaining eggroll with an acquisitive look on her face. He's not completely stupid. He pushes the plate across the table and soaks up her smile like the sun.
He's missed it, he realizes, that smile, free and clear and as old as their friendship, nothing sharp behind it to wound.
"What are you going to name him?"
Daphne's smile vanishes like the eggroll, and Justin wonders when he lost his mind.
"I--uh. Don't know." Her voice trickles off like a water spout turning off, leaving dribbles of shock behind. It's almost funny--no, it *is* funny, and he can't help the smile at the look on her face. Like she's not entirely sure what he said, or whether she heard him right at all. "I, uh--"
"Brian have any suggestions?"
She flushes. "Dick."
He can't help laughing. An elbow on the table, he stares across the vinyl tablecloth and hears himself like a stranger, someone he hasn't been in so long he'd almost forgotten him--someone who can laugh like this and not be hurt. "God--what did you say?"
The smile comes back, peeking out from the corners of her mouth. "I offered up Clarence and he dropped it."
It hurts--a little, a quick spike of pure pain--but it doesn't last long and he can ignore it, bathing in the feeling of something closer to peace than he's had in longer than he can remember.
"So," he says, skidding his fork across a puddle of soy sauce. "What else is going on?"
An achingly slow kiss in an alley that tastes all wrong, alcohol and unfamiliar sweat, a taste that makes him sick, slicking his tongue with a greasy film that makes him pull back, hand jerked from too-tight vinyl pants, green eyes and dark hair, surprised and drunk and high, and he steps back with a stumble over rotting garbage and a gasp. Wiping a hand across his mouth and remembers Ronnie, looking at him like that, with that expression of puzzled hurt *what did I do wrong, why are you doing this, what do you want?* and he thinks he knows the answer.
He's got to fucking *stop* this. Back inside isn't any better than the place he left, but at least it's somewhere to go.
He dressed for this tonight, slut in silver glitter and old leather that shapes to him like his skin, and he stopped wearing shit like this so long ago that the slide of leather had felt like nostalgia. Just an impulse he wants to think, but that's a lie, it's been a lie that he can't quite admit even now.
The club is dark and hot and crammed full of bodies, desperation closing around them like a box. Stockwell's doing great work. Justin finds the bar without even trying, taking the offered shot with a flick of his wrist. He thinks he can face the world with the burn of Beam in his mouth.
Brian's like always, picking and choosing through willing sacrifices, and playing harder than Justin can ever remember, making Justin think that all that grown-up responsibility shit and the campaign he's running are catching up with him at night. Justin watches for a lot of reasons, masochism probably rating high on the scale, but also because it's hot, because maybe he can't touch Brian but he can imagine it when he watches.
It doesn't last, the watching; it can't. He doesn't have that kind of self-control. He's never *had* to have it. Brian conditioned him in sex, what he wants, how he wants it, and no one else has ever gotten it right even by accident. No one else made it dirty-hot and sweet, something to wallow in and lose himself in, and no one does it like Brian and maybe no one ever will.
Sometimes, it feels like his grace is running out, and he's not even sure what that means. Marking time has to stop, he has to decide, but the problem is, he's not sure what he's deciding anymore. It's Chicago or Pittsburgh, but the truth is uncomfortable, because it's more than that. It's running or choosing, and he's still not sure which one he's doing.
The streets flash with more blue than he's ever seen before, unfamiliar men on patrol, caught from the corner of his eyes. There's a feeling of being watched even though it's silly. Why would they? That doesn't change the way his skin crawls every damn day, this expectant, uncomfortable feeling of waiting for something, though he's not sure what. Stockwell's fingerprints are pressing into places they've never been before, and he hates the feel of them working their way into every part of his life, every part of this street.
Liberty might be running out of grace as well.
Not tonight, though. It's been two weeks since he stepped foot in Babylon and damned if anything is going to fuck around with his head tonight.
Shaking his head clear, Justin leans into the bar, tuning out the low voice of the man beside him--cheap, porn-class words that don't even register on the scale. Talking dirty and making it work is art and this guy knows shit. Easier to shove his tongue inside that mouth to make him shut up, but Justin still tastes the alley beneath the beam, so all he can do is listen and sip his drink, watching Brian's art in action.
The one tonight's a too-pretty blond, maybe younger than Justin, maybe not, and he follows Brian like a puppy on a leash, all wide eyes and soft, vulnerable mouth. He'd wonder about that, if he were just a little less drunk tonight, a little less high. Jamie went back hours ago, someone tall and dark and not-Brian, and Justin spares a second for unreasonable hatred.
Justin pushes off the bar, downing his drink in a burning swallow, ignoring the trick that had his arm wrapped around his waist, who makes an incoherent sound he doesn't pay any attention to. It's not his style, but so far, his style hasn't gotten him much of anything he wanted. He's going to try something new.
He remembers the night he left Ethan, before Daphne told him, seeing Brian only feet away and the feeling of it, brand-new and achingly familiar, like slipping back into his skin and finding it still fit. Remembers how it felt to have Brian looking at him like that, like there was no one and nothing else between them, not two tricks, not a space of feet or time or mistakes. Just them, just this. The one place, maybe the only place, that everything ever fit. And God, did it fit, coming with Brian's name clenched between his teeth, nails breaking against the wall when he dug them in, wishing for flesh to mark and touch and breathe.
He waits just long enough, watching when Brian bypasses that neat, pretty mouth, licking up the line of his throat, hands beneath the kid's shirt, and then he moves, ignoring the bodies around him because they don't matter. The kid has just enough time to look up before Justin pushes him away, maybe a little too rough, but he doesn't really care. "Fuck off."
"Hey!" Justin tunes out the light voice, facing Brian, who doesn't look terribly interested and more than a little high, and that make things easier. He knows everything about Brian when it comes to sex.
"Fuck me." He murmurs it against a warm throat, sliding his hands into the waist of Brian's jeans, nails scratching a slow line up his spine. He feels the shiver, tilts his head up to see dark, glazed eyes and that incredible mouth, goes up on the balls of his feet to lick across his lips.
A hand on his chest stops him short.
"Not on the mouth," Brian murmurs, and Justin stops, just for a second. Not on the mouth. Not after three. No names.
"You can now." And he must have forgotten more than he thought, because Brian tastes amazing, God, long fingers wrapped in his hair, the hand on the small of his back, pushing in the waist of his jeans. Justin wonders how he ever needed drugs--he's almost laughing he's so high. "Come on, Brian." He gets a hand between them, knuckles grazing hard cock beneath the denim, takes a breath before dropping to the floor, one hand on Brian's hip to hold him in place. Opens the jeans just enough to get his hand inside, and Brian murmurs something that sounds like his name. Justin glances up once, wide dark eyes watching him, and he wonders if Brian knows it's him.
Going down is like breathing--he settles on his heels and swallows effortlessly, taking Brian in his throat. Fingers close in his hair, and he loves this part, how Brian holds on like he might just get up and leave if he gets bored, though he never has. Pulls back enough to lick around the head, let the air cool supersensitized skin, goes back down when Brian shudders. He's close, and Justin can take him there so easily. Rhythm and heat and that taste, uniquely Brian, that he can't ever forget, coating his tongue and he sucks harder, pressing one hand up to cup the swollen sack, squeezing just once and sucking hard.
Yes. This. *This* second, where Brian comes and he's Justin's, just from his mouth and his hands. Justin works him down slow and easy, drawing out the lethargic warmth. The softness. The peace. The place he can breathe again.
When he stands up, Brian jerks him close, kissing him, sharing that taste like they've done a thousand times before, warm, fast tongue and hunger he can feel like tiny needles pricking every inch of skin, saying, yesyesyes fuck everything else, he *has* to.
He has to.
"Let's go." He gets why Brian's always so hot after he lands accounts. Winning is an aphrodisiac like nothing else. He pulls, and there's a second where he thinks Brian just might try to resist, and he's ready for that, but he's ready for this, too, when Brian nods, slow and still drugged from orgasm. Pushing Justin into the wall when they get outside, taking his mouth like he's starving, and Justin wants, God, enough to do it right here on the street, fuck Stockwell and his pretensions to be mayor, a night spent in jail, it'd be worth it, so fucking worth it.
The cold wakes Brian up a little, sharper looks, but he doesn't say anything, maybe not wanting to damage the fragile peace between them. Justin's okay with that, because talking will get in the way.
It's the first time all over again, deja vu, walking in and feeling the differences that two years have made, the same sense of Brian around him like a coat. Tossing his jacket over a chair he doesn't recognize, Justin watches Brian go to the refrigerator, ever the responsible drug user and making sure he's well hydrated.
But it's *not* the first time, it's this time, and Justin tracks him, coming up to lean against the counter behind him, watching the slow, sinuous movements of muscle beneath his shirt, so hard he thinks he might be able to come just watching Brian drinking a bottle of water. Just watching Brian turn around and look at him, like he's not entirely sure it's Justin standing there.
"Why are you here?"
There's a lot in his voice that Justin's not sure of, but one thing he is, and that's the important part.
"To get fucked." Justin licks his lips, watching Brian's eyes fix, breath catching.
"You think you can just come running back?" And Brian sounds honestly curious, and of all times for him to get thoughtful, this is just not it. Taking a step, Justin watches Brian not even try to move away. Backed into a refrigerator door, a streak of glitter across his jaw from Justin's skin. He's too high to fight, but not too high to forget.
It'll happen like this.
"Fuck me."
Bent over the counter, because it's not the first time and he's not a virgin, almost no leverage with only his toes brushing the floor, cheek pressed to the cool surface of the counter, Brian's mouth pressed to the back of his neck like he'll eat his way through Justin's body if he has to. It wants to be casual, but it can't be, not with Justin fingers laced through Brian's, sinking his teeth into warm skin so he won't scream the entire building down when he comes.
Like this.
"Fuck me."
He'll spread himself out on Brian's bed, bathed in pale orange light, and watch Brian strip, careless of expensive silk and unruly zippers, pushing his own fingers up his ass, desperate to get ready, to *be* ready, to get this one thing back, one familiar place in a world that changed too much too fast. He'll feel Brian wrapped all around him like his own skin and come breathless and shocky, feeling it in every nerve, stealing air and thought and everything but Brian's name on his lips.
Like this.
"Fuck me."
He'll close his eyes and Brian's hands will be cupping his face, he's seventeen and falling in love for the first time with the first kiss. The way that Brian will fit against him like he's just made for this, for Justin's fingers to touch and explore and need like air. He'll listen when Brian talks with his body, tells him everything he's ever needed to hear and know what he's always wanted to have is his, and that he can have it all.
It won't be this.
His hands won't shake and his throat won't close, and he won't, he won't, he won't--
"Tell me you want me to stay."
Say it.
When he gets home, he takes out the acceptance letter and smoothes it on the desk with hands that won't be still.
Brian said stay.
"You're not expected to attend," Lindsay says, looking over something that resembles some kind of new post-modern art, except a lot more comprehensible, if vaguely Dali. He steers away from that. Lesbianistic interpretations just might scar him for life. He thinks it's a soufflé, but he wouldn't swear to it. "I just wanted to warn you not to make any plans with her that day. It's a surprise."
"You're hosting?" Picking up an apple, Justin takes one of the knives and methodically begins to peel it. "Here?"
"Mm hmm." Pineapple for the fruit salad in a glass bowl, covered in a cherry glaze. Lindsay's finishing up the pears.
"Who's coming?" He's curious, and he has nothing better to do.
"Deb, your mother, Mel, some friends from her school." Justin blinks a little at that but lets it pass. "I sent an invitation to Daphne's mother."
Justin catches himself before he slices off the tip of his thumb. "You're kidding, right?" His stomach turns over sharply. "You going to ask Brian's mom, too, and see if this can be the most miserable party ever?"
Lindsay winces and drops the diced pears in the bowl, stirring briefly to coat them. "Funny. And it's a baby shower, not a party."
If Lindsay sticks to this kind of guest list, a few hits of acid would go a long way toward making it successful.
"Whatever." Justin winces away from memories of Joanie Kinney like a sore tooth. It always makes him want to go out and buy his mom flowers and those Godiva chocolates she loves so much. She always looks at him afterward with puzzled eyes, and he wonders how he can explain how much he loves her, how great she is, and how very fucking lucky he is to have her for a mother. "Mom's coming?" Mom's never given an opinion on the Daphne Situation, though he thinks it's not from lack of trying. He doesn't even *want* to know what she has to say about it.
Maybe she's as puzzled as the rest of them. It wouldn't be a surprise.
"Justin?" The peeled apple's taken from his hand, and Justin watches Lindsay efficiently begin to chop. "How's everything going? You haven't been over in a while."
"You mean, besides my lack of a future and loss of educational opportunities?" Justin picks up another apple and starts cutting. "Great. I can't tell you how fabulous it is not to have to be restricted on my shifts anymore." Well, that *is* an upside. He's making enough money to survive. In a crappy apartment with goddamn *hustlers* living outside his window. Thank you Stockwell. Your memory's still green in my mind, and on my front porch for that matter, even if you're fucked.
Lindsay's tongue slips out between perfect white teeth. He always has this weird impulse to ask her who her dentist is. She eats a *lot* of sugar. "You should find someplace else. That neighborhood--" She shudders delicately beneath the orange and green sweater, the one that hurts Justin's eyes. He tries not to look directly too often.
"Like what, a cardboard box?" It blows his mind that rent's so high. Stupid fucking economy. Justin avoids his thumb and finishes the next apple, laying it on the counter. He needs something to do with his hands. "I could always peddle drugs as a second income in my spare time. Customers right next door."
"You're a lot less cute than you think you are, sweetie." Taking the apple, she begins to cut. "I mean with Daphne."
And isn't that a bizarre idea. "She has a roommate." A really disgustingly cute one, that fetches and carries at command.
"Oh. Jamie? He moved a few days ago." Lindsay studies the apple critically, removing a bit of peel that Justin had left on one side. "He's going abroad. It's all very dramatic." Lindsay rolls her eyes, and Justin tries not to grin, because Lindsay just said--
"And you think it would be a good idea if I moved in?" He doesn't think Lindsay lives in the same universe he does sometimes. Or anyone else does, really. She's all about the happy ending. Take Ethan, exhibit one. Of course, she couldn't psychically discover he was a lying bastard, but really, he feels vaguely betrayed she didn't at least show some kind of semi-conscious, unnamable dislike or something. But no. Just Daphne, who disliked with no reason, and right, he has to think about that *now*. And well, Brian, when he noticed Ethan existed, but Justin kind of thinks that Brian had more issues with Ethan's wardrobe choices and Justin's bad taste to fuck someone who dressed so badly than whether or not Justin was fucking Ethan at all. "That would be a *fabulous* idea. Afterward, we can throw a party and invite Ethan and all Brian's tricks and I can have the worst night of my life *again*." Chicago looks amazing from the kitchen window of Lindsay's house.
"Actually, I was thinking how economical it would be, since I don't think even you can live on canned beans and 7-11 burritos forever."
He needs to clean up more often. Or let Lindsay in less. "That's not the point."
"It's that or move in with Debbie, unless you really enjoy those double shifts you've been pulling." Lindsay adds the rest of the apples, picking up the spoon to mix. "Hand me the cherries, honey."
Justin picks up the jar, playing with it between nervous fingers. "I can take care of myself."
"Didn't say you couldn't." She takes the jar from his hands. "I was thinking you might like it better than staying in a hovel where you, as you told me, now know exactly how hard your next door neighbor wants it every night."
Justin frowns, but she has a point. He honestly hadn't thought that anyone tricked more than Brian, but he'd been wrong, if the sounds from next door are any indication. "You're just being weird."
Lindsay raises her eyebrows at him over the bowl of fruit salad. "I could say the same thing about you."
Justin looks for his jeans on the floor. He can feel Brian watching him, but every time he looks, Brian's watching smoke curl toward the ceiling. It's not something provable, really, just instinct. Lots of things are instinct, and Justin's okay with that. Thinking too much always gets him into trouble.
It feels vaguely dirty, like when he'd run out of Ethan's after sex, but also kind of cool, a much less guilt-inducing kind of secret. Justin's kind of tired of not having any secrets. Everyone knows everything about him and everyone knows all about everyone else, and Michael acts like Justin's this really unwelcome third cousin twice removed from the wrong side of town, like at the comic shop today, desultory conversation and pointed barbs at Justin when not ten minutes before, Brian was sucking his cock in the storeroom beside a new box of The Authority.
Justin bought one with nonexistent funds. He hasn't read it. He just likes to look at his fingerprints on page six.
"They're in the kitchen."
Justin picks up a sock and tries to remember. Right. "Is there anything to eat?"
Brian snorts softly. "Have time to eat or do you have another appointment to get to?"
Oh, you fucking ass. Like I have fucking *time* to have sex with anyone. Justin's still not entirely sure how he makes time for this. It just happens. "Fuck off. Is there any Chinese left?"
"Mmm hmm." Brian's absolutely fascinated with the smoke curling toward the ceiling. "Lindz came by."
That sounds ominous, and little hairs raise on the back of Justin's neck. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Justin breathes through the rush of worry, because there's no reason for him *to* worry.
"That's nice." He wants to get back. It's like being seventeen again, oddly enough, except no underage and no one else interfering and being odd about the entire thing. He also wants to just collapse and go to sleep, because one, he's exhausted, and two, he has very little money until payday and cabs are expensive.
Brian looks at him, all completely unreadable face and not giving a shit, but Justin's not an idiot. Brian got his sense of humor back in the last couple of weeks. Stockwell had sucked a lot of it out of him, but post-Stockwell, and also, post-Brian-and-Justin-start-fucking-again, the weird moodiness had vanished. He's actually getting close to being funny. As close as Brian gets, anyway.
Justin really tries not to read too much into that, but it's not like he has much else to *do*.
"She was talking about how worried she is that Daphne's all alone." Brian waves his cigarette in the air meaningfully, some expansive gesture that may mean something, or may just mean that Brian likes making pretty smoke trails in the air. Justin doesn't like where this is going.
"I told her no."
Brian really does a great fake surprise. "What about? Her marvelous plan to start a commune and move us all into it?"
See, Justin thinks if Lindsay had her way, that just might happen. Also, fuck. "She talked to you about that?"
Brian does a great impression of the village idiot, too. "About what?"
Fucker. "You *know*." It's odd, just on this side of weird, to be talking to Brian like he's a person, not the sort-of ex or the Enemy, or come to think, the Source of All Disappointment and Angst. It's been a while. "God, what did she do, ask your permission?"
Brian doesn't smile--that would be beneath him or something--but he does look amusement really well. "Does she need to?"
Justin frowns, standing up to grab his socks, like there's some vague chance he'll actually leave. He never sleeps so well as he does here. "I'm good where I am." In more ways than one.
"Mmm." Brian blows out a ring of smoke, and Justin has to stop and watch, because he still can't pull off that trick. Then just sits down again. It's pretty pointless, really. They're not strangers. And he remembers buying these sheets. "Why'd she talk to you about it?"
"I have no fucking clue."
Right. Laying back, Justin takes the offered cigarette, staring at it. "I'm not that hungry." Because that's really the entire point of this conversation, isn't it?
Brian makes a general sound that could be amusement, or hell, maybe he's just clearing his throat. Justin takes a drag and hands it back, wishing suddenly and desperately that he was seventeen and was thinking up creative ways of stalking Brian into submission, because things might have been complex then, but damned if they weren't a fucking *cake walk* compared to what's going on now.
He's been badly unnerved tonight, not least because surfing on Brian's computer had shown a disturbing number of online shopping sites that focus on babies bookmarked. Thank God the porn is still there. Justin's pretty sure he'd have a nervous breakdown otherwise.
When Brian's fingers brush his, he wonders if he'll ever be able to ask him the questions he'd asked Daphne. The temptation's almost overpowering, and it's incredibly stupid. Rolling into the sheet, he stares at the wall, hearing Brian put out the cigarette, then the complete stillness of the most boneless sleeper Justin's ever met. Like everything else Brian does, he does it damned thoroughly. One second he's awake, then non-moving pseudo-death until morning. Something Justin remembers from that first night together, and who the hell could have seen this coming anyway?
Rolling back over, Justin stares at the broad back, and he's just feeling weird, but that's just fine, he deserves feeling weird. Scooting across the tiny space, he presses his forehead against warm, silky skin, the lightest sheen of sweat. Remembers more nights than he can count just watching Brian sleep, sketching on a pad because he could never get enough of it. The way he'd flip through his sketchbooks after he left, catching the memory of cramped hands and half-closed eyes and the obsession of a lifetime.
That hasn't changed, even when everything else has. Justin curls up closer and goes to sleep.
Daphne's been in the bathroom way too long.
The cord from the phone snakes across the living room, going under the bathroom door, and while the shower's running, it's not exactly rocket science to figure out she's nowhere inside it.
Take-out Italian's on the table--Justin wonders how much Brian would shudder if he could see the sheer amount of carbs loading down the coffee table, but cravings are cravings and hell if Justin was going to argue against her sudden, violent attraction for all things involving pasta.
Walking to the bathroom door, Justin pauses to lean against the wood, listening carefully. Beneath the thrum of the shower's water hitting the floor, he can hear the low, broken sound of her voice.
He wonders if he should knock and tell her he's back, but it's been twenty minutes and there's no way he can play that off. How long had she been in there, anyway? Since he left? Did they call, or did she? Head back against the wood, Justin waits for inspiration to come to him, tell him what to do.
His eyes catch on the closed bedroom door where the highly unlamented and dearly departed Jamie used to live. He still calls Daphne on Tuesday nights, and they screech and talk for hours, and Daphne usually waves him off those nights, which is just damned annoying.
Pushing himself off the wall, Justin finds himself walking to the door. It slides open easily, surprising him--there used to be a lock on the door. Pushing it open, Justin fumbles for the light, blinking a little at the sudden illumination in the room.
Baby furniture. Justin takes another slow step inside, reminded vaguely of Lindsay's nursery for Gus in style, but Daphne's more of a classicist than Lindsay could ever be. All dark wood and shiny knobs. Boxes here and there, half-opened, with small stuffed animals and woolen blankets leaking onto the floor. Shopping bags from stores that Justin's never heard of, and then fed-ex boxes here and there. Justin crosses to pick one up, pulling out a soft woolen sleeper, flipping to look at the shipping label.
Brian Kinney, who probably never thought he'd be reduced to trolling through the most exclusive baby stores in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Justin nails each address in his memory. Lindsay must have told him about some. The rest he had to have hunted up himself.
It's so not Brian that it makes Justin's head ache with it.
"Justin?"
He feels like a burglar, spinning awkwardly on one heel and hitting the floor on his ass, but Daphne only looks curious, and a little embarrassed, like it's some kind of not-too-great secret she wasn't sure she was ready to share.
"Sorry. I--"
"I had it stored before," she says, glancing around the room for a minute, biting her lip and flushing. "You know. When Jamie moved out--nesting instinct, I guess." She shrugs, fingers fiddling with the edges of her sweater. "You know."
He doesn't, actually, but he nods encouragingly. Concealer doesn't do shit but highlight how red her eyes were only minutes before, and her lips are bitten red and sore. He remembers that. Fuck, does he remember.
"It looks great." It really doesn't--the walls are severe white and disturbingly bare, but some paint would help. Woodland animals, no clowns, Justin wouldn't traumatize any child with that. Best not let Brian get free reign or it'll come out something vaguely abstract-arty and way too classy for a baby and scar the kid for life. Blues, maybe, off-pastels, flat, not gloss. Wallpaper?
Justin's half-way into a visual before he realizes Daphne's awkwardly lowering herself down beside him, reaching for a box and pulling it in front of her knees. She's losing lap space fast. Justin thinks of when she won't have any at all.
"Look at this." Carefully, she pulls glossy gold-shot tissue paper free, reaching inside to lift out a delicate carousel. Setting it on the floor, she does something mysterious and it starts twirling, tiny, fascinatingly perfect horses whipping by, just slowly enough for Justin to appreciate the beautiful work. Handcrafted, maybe, by a master. Justin knows art when he sees it. "Lindz picked it up a few months ago at that--fair thing? Festival?" Right, the one where he was stalking and mocking the booths. Justin hopes she didn't see his frown.
"I like it." He doesn't recognize the song, but he thinks he likes it. Slow enough to induce sleep, pretty enough not to be boring. Musical things rarely get that combination right. With a glance for permission he picks it up, settling it on his palm to watch it move. "It's great."
"Yeah." She stares at it hard, blinking, and Justin wonders if he should ask her. Something stops his tongue--maybe the tightness around her mouth or the determined hardness in her eyes. Mostly, though, it's remembering. He knows how it feels to lose. It never really stops hurting, and it never will. Sometimes, you learn how to forget. And sometimes, you just don't. "I--I'm going to get something to drink." Pressing her palms to the floor, she stands up slowly. Her center of balance has changed. It's stupid to get alarmed--women survive moving around normally during pregnancy all the time--but he still stands up, hand automatically touching just the small of her back, ready to steady her if she stumbles.
She gives him a look from beneath loose dark hair, pushing it back, and he's not sure what makes her bite her lip like that when she looks at him, but he thinks he can guess.
"Fuck 'em," he murmurs, and it's the easiest thing in the world to pull her into a careful hug. She feels entirely different--he hasn't touched her since before--before he knew. Bones that feel frailer beneath a thinner covering of flesh, but--he almost lets go when he feels something that definitely is movement and it's not hers.
Her hand goes to her mouth, and he looks up, eyebrows raised. "It's--um, he moves a lot. Now." She pulls away a little, maybe feeling how stiff he is. "I--need to get--"
"Wait." He's okay now. Justin thinks of Gus, and how much he wishes he'd known Lindsay back then, when she was carrying him. Not quite letting her go, he takes a careful step back, looking down at the small projection of her stomach. "That was him?"
"Yeah." One hand flutters down, then pauses, like she's not sure what to do. "Especially at night."
Justin can't help grinning. He also can't quite help wanting, just for a second. "Can I--"
"Um. Sure." She's flushed all the colors of the sunset, and Justin almost stops, but she's also trying not to smile, and yeah. Sometimes, you can forget.
She takes his hand, guiding it down--Justin can honestly say this isn't one of the things he thought he'd ever be doing--and then something hits flat against his palm.
"Oh God," he murmurs, and presses a little more firmly. Another kick, like someone's really pissed and showing it. "How do you sleep through that?" Though this would explain all those random naps.
"You get used to it."
Thank you God for not making me a woman. "I'll take your word for it." Another sharp kick--Justin guesses that's a please-stop-touching-my-residence-okay? kick and moves his fingers reluctantly, looking up to see her grin at him. Amused and embarrassed and pleased all at once.
The ring of the phone jerks Justin's head over, and Justin can feel Daphne tense instantly. The dark eyes drain of humor, color vanishing in a sallow wash. Reluctantly, she turns to the door, and Justin reaches out, catching her elbow.
"Don't."
Once, a million years ago, Brian held him down in bed and fucked the ringing of the phone out of his ears. Justin remembers how Brian made him watch him, them, filling up every place in Justin's sight and mind with himself, intense and sharp and almost painful.
"Justin--" she pulls at his arm. He remembers how Brian pinned his wrists to the bed and went down on him, hot wet mouth and the barest threatening scrape of teeth. "They're my family."
He'd thought then that Brian was just using sex as Novocain, pure sensory overload to wipe out pain and thought and anger, that this was just another way for Brian to make him shut up and stop being such a fucking pussy.
Now, he knows better. "No, they aren't."
"I can't--"
"You don't *need* them." You'll learn that. It doesn't mean you'll ever stop wanting. But it does mean you know you can live without them. I know, Daph. "Let's eat."
"Justin--"
He doesn't know why he can't let her answer that phone. He can't watch her pull herself into pieces for all the things she is, let anyone tell her what she should be. He just can't. "You don't need them. You don't--"
"I don't have anyone else."
It stops him. Justin stares at her, thinking of all the time he could have said that and all the times he would have been wrong. Of Lindsay and her low-key excitement, no matter much she tries to hide it in front of him. Of Brian and the way his silence says everything. And he thinks of himself.
"Yes, you do." Holding on, he looks into frightened brown eyes and all the meanings that family can have, all the ways he learned what it was. He wouldn't give that up for anything. "You have us."
Epilogue:
It's the fifth time he's looked at his phone tonight, and only now does he notice the dim light on the face. The fucking *battery* ran out. "Fuck."
"What?" The mouth against his ear is wet and not a little gross. Justin rolls his eyes. That totally was not an invitation.
"My phone. Hold on."
Pulling out of the crowd, Justin detaches hands he doesn't quite remember getting *that* far down his pants, wiping away the sweat and taking a clear breath only when he's outside. It's cool and humid, one of those summer nights that happen once every blue moon, and Justin closes his eyes just to feel it for a second. The promise of light rain to cool the city for days.
It's perfect.
"Justin!"
Except that.
"Fuck off, Michael." But he says it affectionately, or at least, he kinda hopes, but then again, he drank a lot tonight. Something about warm nights and all decisions being made and set in stone, sort of, and it's--freeing. Like being seventeen again and everything in the world ahead of him.
A hand on his arm spins him around, stupid Michael, his balance is for *shit*. Michael's got to know that, it's a Friday night and who the hell is sober on a Friday anyway? "Justin! What the hell are you *on*?"
Justin grins in his general direction. "Life." Mostly, anyway. Justin opens his eyes on a frantic face and hears himself giggle. Maybe less than mostly. Maybe. "Michael. Where's your other half?"
"The hospital," Michael answers shortly, and Justin stops fighting the grip, letting Michael pull him through the crowd still gathered outside. A hand gropes his ass. Justin wishes they'd stop long enough to get a phone number.
"What happened?" Ben was fine, he saw him this morning, and Justin's mind flies off on a thousand different possibilities, none of them good. "What--"
Michael looks at him like he's the biggest idiot on earth, and Justin almost pulls away on principle, because really, Mikey has no room to play the oh-so-wise really-annoying older-brother anymore, dammit. "What the fuck is up with your cell anyway? No one can get through."
Justin grabs it from his hip as Michael maneuvers him into the passenger side of the car and then jogs around the front. That's kind of funny, actually, and Justin swallows another giggle, biting his lip as Michael gets in, seatbelting himself into position like the good little Boy Scout from hell, and then peals out, which is totally not in the Michael lexicon, especially when it sends two people onto the pavement in some kind of vaguely Bruce Willis dive that--heh. Wait. This is serious. Right. "Battery's dead. What's wrong?" He's not liking Michael's silence, the way his mouth's too tight, and there are light circles under his eyes, and Justin doesn't like that look.
"Calm down--"
"What's going on? Who--Mel? Is it--" And all desire to giggle just stops right there, because--something to do with Mel. Something related, vaguely, though his mind won't make the connection quite yet. Turning in the seat, Justin grabs for Michael's arm, probably not smart, since Michael just turned into *so* the wrong lane.
"No, not Mel, you idiot." A hand bats at his head, and Justin ducks instinctively. "Daphne went into labor."
Oh. Fucking. God.
"She's not due for another three weeks." Is that premature? Justin mentally tries to flip through all those books he didn't really mean to read, but everything's hazy and drizzled in golden light. Because he's drunk. And possibly high. On a Friday. In a car with Michael. That just sounds wrong. "She called me?" And his cellphone is out. Life sucks. Just so much right now. "How far--"
"When I left, they said it wouldn't be long," Michael answers testily, like Justin's the biggest pain in the world right now, and Justin supposes he might be, if Michael was cruising Liberty for him. "You could have answered your phone, you know."
"Battery's out," Justin repeats, trying to focus on the streets. He doesn't recognize any street names. Read them, either, if he's honest. Mikey's going kinda fast. "Is she okay? Can't you drive any faster?"
"No, I can't. And everything's fine. Christ." But Michael's about ten over the limit and climbing, treating corners a lot like he's been sneaking into Justin's apartment and playing Gran Turismo III a few more times than is really healthy. "Just shut up and let me concentrate."
"She can't be in labor." She just can't be. Three *weeks*. She'd told him that, and if she was wrong, they're going to have a really, really long talk, 'cause she should *know* these things.
"I'm sure Brian's pants will be happy to hear it, once they get back from the dry cleaner's," Michael answers testily, swerving a left that makes Justin's stomach turn. Way too many drinks tonight. None of this is making any kind of sense. "Didn't I say to shut up?"
Justin shuts his mouth tight, watching the world pass by in a dark blur of vaguely familiar shapes that could be buildings, or hell, maybe hallucinations at this point. There was a few minutes in the bathroom earlier, but that should have worn off by now, right?
"How'd you find me?" Justin asks slowly, ignoring Michael's glare. "How long were you looking?" Because you really could look around Babylon forever and still not run into anyone you knew.
"About three and a half hours, boy wonder. You didn't answer your phone at home and it's not like you go that many places." Michael's leaning on the wheel like his life depends on it.
Wow. Three hours. Justin has a vivid, uncomfortable image of Michael walking in on him and that cute redhead in the backroom and blanches.
"I mean--why?" Yes, that's right. Somewhere in his head is this absolute certainty that Michael shouldn't be the one picking him up to drive him to watch Daphne do the entire miracle of birth thing. Maybe Mom--and Justin pushes that thought away before he gets nauseous, because--no. Just no. Mom has no business on Liberty. Or in a backroom.
At this rate, he's going to work himself into hysterics over everything that couldn't possibly happen.
From the corner of his eye, Justin sees Michael roll his eyes. "Why do you think? Everyone else is already there waiting. Any more questions, or can I get us to the fucking hospital in one piece?"
"Dunno, can you?" Even to himself, he sounds less than in top sarcasm form, and slumping into the seat, Justin watches the hospital come at them, a monstrous, glaring disaster where he's spent far, far too much time in his life. "Michael--"
"Christ, *what*?" He's slowing down to get into the parking lot. A little. Justin thinks he spots a familiar blonde head just outside the doorway, but there's no way he can see that far. Michael, still on that Gran Turismo high, skids in front of the double doors and yeah, familiar, in that way that has nothing to do with any kind of memory, just feeling. "Get out."
Justin's throat closes over. "Michael--"
"I'll park. Get the hell up there." Reaching across him, Michael flips the handle up and pushes the door open, unlocking Justin's seatbelt, all in this weirdly slow-motion thing that Justin thinks he should be able to stop, but he can't quite get his arms to work. "Justin. Daphne? Giving birth and all? Big event?"
"Yeah," Justin murmurs, stepping out and almost falling on slightly slick concrete. The overhead lights are glaringly bright. Daphne. "Is Brian here--" Which suddenly seems like the stupidest question in the world, when he looks back and sees Michael grin at him, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.
"You think anyone else could get me to search half of Pittsburgh?" Of course. "Go." Justin shuts the door automatically, blinking, watching mutely as Michael skids off into the great beyond of the parking lot, red taillights vanishing. A few seconds later, he looks up to see Lindsay watching him with a faint smile.
"Ready?"
No. He would be ready in three weeks. Three years. Maybe. "Sure."
Distantly, he remembers a night, really nothing like this one, but kind of just like, because halfway up the stairs, he's running, and Lindsay's chasing after him, laughing, telling him to slow down, that he won't miss much of anything that hasn't happened already, and they skid onto the right floor mostly from Lindsay's shout to stop, and there are people just walking around, acting perfectly normal, like this is any day in the world. Except it totally is not, and Justin has to slow down to let Lindsay lead a little, because it's been almost three years and it's like yesterday.
"Where's Mel? And Gus? And--" He bites down on his tongue, not saying the name, because he already knows exactly where Brian is, don't even think about it. "Is she--"
"Just a little while ago," Lindsay says, jogging beside him. "It went fast. No problems."
"And the--the baby?" Justin feels something catch in his chest, sharp and tight, and then Lindsay's pushing open the waiting room door and Debbie's got him in a hug that smells like the diner and like home. He breathes it in, trying to clear his head enough to think. He can do this.
"Just went into recovery," Debbie says, smearing a kiss on his cheek. She looks tired. "They're both fine."
Mel's playing with Gus in one of the chairs, and Justin stares at him a second, feeling that strange twist again, memory and imagination, then Debbie's talking and saying something that's probably important and all, and Justin sees his mom, chatting with a tall doctor who is standing way too close, and then he sees Brian.
He doesn't know when he walked away from Debbie, barely aware of his name being said behind him, just aware that Brian looks more exhausted than he's ever seen him before, staring into the opposite wall like it's talking to him and he really has to listen. Jeans and grey t-shirt, dark hair falling over his eyes, arms up on folded knees.
Justin stops, less than a foot away.
It's so *weird*, but he can't think of a thing to say. Everything that his head's coming up with is just stupid and clichéd and well, weird. And he's not even sure Brian's in the same country right now, lost somewhere Justin can't follow.
So he just sits beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of Brian's body. "How was it?"
For a second, Justin's not sure Brian even heard him. Then Brian shifts, letting out a slow breath. "Good." It's soft, barely a breath, and Justin turns his head. "Fucking shopping."
Justin almost smiles, imagining the moment, and Brian's poor lost pants. "Can you ever show your face at Saks again?"
Brian snorts softly. "Probably not." The dark head turns, eyes on Justin, focusing slowly, like Brian's coming down from a *really* good high. "You?"
Justin gestures at his cell phone. "Battery was out. Daph okay?"
"She wasn't happy last time she saw me," Brian answers, almost to himself, but there's a hint of a smile curving up the corners of his mouth, the smile that Brian always tries to hide and never quite can. It's a familiar ache, though, not as sharp as it used to be, and Justin grins and ducks his head, nudging Brian's shoulder with his.
"You were in the room?" Justin can't imagine that, though he sort of can, in a really strange, parallel-universe way. He's really, really high right now.
"Bitch wouldn't let me leave." Eyes closing, Brian rests his head on his arms, drawing slow breathes, like he's been running for hours. Nails bitten to the quick, dried blood ringing his thumb. Justin wants to rub it away, almost reaching out to touch, then stops himself before his hand can move.
Justin takes a second to scan the room--Mom and Debbie talking by the windows now with coffee, Mel and Lindz playing with Gus, maybe telling him about his baby brother, Debbie with Michael and Ben, a few girls that Justin recognizes from in and outs of Daphne's apartment, watching the doors warily. They're keeping a good distance from Brian. Justin has to wonder what he said to them.
"Daphne's parents?" Justin says softly, and Brian turns his head, slow-motion, and that's not Justin's mind doing freaksome things from alcohol and just maybe half a hit in the bathroom.
Maybe a full hit, even.
"I forgot to call." Nothing exhausted now, just a cool, sharp look, before dark lashes feather down. Justin can't quite help it, brushing the mess of dark hair from Brian's forehead, damp from sweat. It's not his imagination that Brian moves into the careful touch, it can't be, he's never been that stoned. Justin feels the lean into his shoulder, braces himself against the weight, breath catching in his throat.
I love you, he thinks, remembering every time he's bitten it back; not even sex has been enough to loosen his tongue, clenched between his teeth.
"Mr. Kinney?" Justin jerks at the sound so close, looks up to see a nurse standing over them, somewhere between professional and amused. "Ms Chanders been moved to a private room, if you want to see her."
Nodding, Brian looked briefly at the floor, like he doesn't entirely trust it to remain stable, and Justin heard himself giggle *again*, so stupid, and gets to his feet unsteadily, extending a hand. "Get up."
For a second, Brian stares at his hand, then warm fingers close over his, and Justin braces himself for the weight, but it's too fast and too easy, and then his hand's cold when Brian lets go. "What room?"
"416. This way, sir." She turns away, and Brian gets an entire step forward, then fingers curl in the top of Justin's jeans, pulling him along. Anyone with sense might dig their heels in, but it's like, the night to be dragged places against his will, or sort of actually with his will, and he chokes back another stupid, stupid giggle and follows.
It's a nice room, but hospitals are hospitals and they aren't homey. Big white doors and creepy silence, before the nurse moves out of the way and Brian pulls him through the door, blinking into the too-bright, clinical fluorescent lighting.
Daphne's curled up in the bed, looking just about as bad as Brian, dark circles under closed eyes, and she seems incredibly *tiny*, swallowed up by that huge bed and crisp, stark white sheets. Justin freezes at the door, unable to move another step, and Brian lets go, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed.
"You look like shit," Brian murmurs, and Daphne turns on the pillow, opening bloodshot eyes to glare up at him.
"Fuck you. You try pushing out something the size of a football--"
"Christ, don't finish that sentence." Brian smoothes down the sheet, little frown at the quality, or maybe just the fact he hates the color, before he rocks back and grins. "Be nice and say hi to your visitor."
Daphne cranes her neck, looking over Brian's shoulder, and Justin catches his breath at the smile, bright and brilliant and utterly relieved, like maybe she'd thought he wouldn't come. It twists just a little, but then again, he's the one hovering at the door like he might bolt at any second.
It takes a lot to take that step forward, then another, and suddenly, it gets easier, with Brian dematerializing in that disturbing way he has, somehow appearing in a chair like he's been there the entire time. Daphne's arms slide around Justin's back, and he gives up, taking a deep breath of shampoo and sweat and disinfectant and maybe possibly blood and stuff he really doesn't want to think about at all. Ever.
"How was it?" Justin says, sitting on the spot Brian vacated, feeling weird and still a little high. A lot high. Maybe that was three hits at Babylon "How are you?"
"Sore as shit," she answers, laying slowly back down on the pillows, wincing until she's all the way down. "I'm glad you made it."
Like it's this huge gift that he showed up, and the twist inside pulls harder, like it's trying to claw its way out of his stomach. "Phone was dead. I wish I could have been here." And he does, he realizes with a start. "Daph--"
"I'm going to get something to drink," Brian announces, like it's a huge revelation, and Daphne looks over at him with a calculating smile. "Yeah, I know, soda. Justin?"
"I'm good," Justin says, blinking a little as Brian wanders out, and if this isn't the most obvious he's ever been outside sex....
"I'm glad you came," she says again, and small, fragile fingers close over his, tighter than he'd thought she'd be capable of. "I--it happened really fast."
"Shopping?" Because that's just funny, and he can see by the curl of her mouth that she thinks so, too.
"Yeah. Like, that thing with walking? Totally works." Grinning, she snuggles into her pillow, and it reminds Justin of sleepovers when they were both kids. "It was kind of funny. And by 'kind of', I mean, really funny. My water broke and then Brian was all, fuck, then started calling people, and it kind of got weird." Grinning, Daphne shuts her eyes, but the fingers stay tight in his. "You need to see him."
'Him' is easy to figure out. Justin's stomach turns over. He blames it on the alcohol. "You need rest." She looks it--paler than he can ever remember her being, ashy-yellow, and he carefully begins to disentangle his hand. "I should go--" Wait? For something? It's not like he can really do anything but mark time before he sees this.
"That's so like you." The door shuts, and Justin turns his head to see Brian, leaning into the wall, holding cans of various types and looking a lot more awake. The smile's for Daphne, but the sharp look's for Justin, who has never yet met a situation he couldn't run out on, and this one's a classic. "Daphne. Wake up."
Justin slides off the bed, backing toward the chair, and just watches. He hasn't seen a lot of Brian and Daphne interact for a while--that's just common sense. Brian opens the can as Daphne pushes herself up tiredly, taking the can and a slow, careful sip, like she's not sure her stomach is up to it, then hands it back, laying back down against the pillows. There's a kind of bittersweet hurt watching Brian watch her with sharp, worried eyes, brushing her hair back when it gets in her face.
"When are they bringing him--" Her voice trails off.
"They were coming down the hall last I checked." Justin can barely hear them. "Dick."
"Clarence."
"Whatever." Putting the can on the bedside table, Brian leans back, closing his eyes briefly. He's never looked more exhausted in his life.
When the door opens, Justin gives the hall a desperate look, but his eyes refuse to stay, fixing on the bundle wrapped in blue that the nurse is carrying. A little sound Justin can feel in every nerve, and then Brian's taking it and glancing down like it's the most casual thing in the world when it isn't, not when he looks like that.
Not when....
Justin blinks away the memory of Gus, the way Brian had gone so still, everywhere, the world coming to a screeching halt as Brian fell in love for the very first time. It's all here again, like time scooting backwards. And just like the first time, Justin watches it happen and just like the first time, he feels that rush of sweetness, edged with pain. Then, he didn't know what it was. This time, he does.
Then slowly, carefully, Brian gives him to Daphne, and Justin watches her face change. This second, where she's still Daphne, who is his best friend, no past tense to pretend to believe in, she just *is*. The paleness fades with a flush and a little sigh when she looks down, and it's entirely different.
Like the entire world just shifted again, and Justin watches her pull back the blankets, small, wrinkled face and tight-shut eyes, golden skinned and weird and tiny and--theirs.
It clicks.
I'm going to teach you to draw, Justin promises to the tiny waving fists, swallowing hard. I'll take you to the museum and to the gallery and I'll let you *roll* in paint and crawl all over the loft if you want to.
Daphne laughs as she catches a fist between her fingers, and Justin watches her look up at Brian, this *look* that's too intimate, that makes Justin feel like he's watching something private, something he shouldn't see, and he edges slowly toward the door, shivering a little at Daphne's next delighted laugh. Lit up from inside, and Justin's mind snaps the picture, the one he'll do when he gets home tonight, alone in that dingy apartment he hates, on the floor by the window, hold this moment, keep it--
"Stay."
Justin freezes, inches from the door, and fuck, Brian didn't even turn *around* so how the hell could he have seen?
"I--"
"Come say hi," Daphne says, and Justin takes a faltering step, almost shaking. Another, staring at the floor, not sure what else to do, just knowing he has to do this. He's almost at the bed before he can look up, and then Daphne's grinning up at him, bright and beautiful. "You want to hold him?"
Warm , real, *alive*, the way his imagination hadn't quite been able to get quite right, like the solid weight of the tiny boy with tightly shut eyes, like his dad when he doesn't want to wake up. Tiny fists tremble against the blankets, and Justin makes more promises, parks and swings and long car rides and crayons, non-toxic, and never to yell when he draws on the walls. "He looks like you." Forcing his gaze up, he looks into Daphne's upturned, glowing face, Brian's amusement, and has to wonder who he meant. "What--you have a name yet?"
Daphne snickers. "Actually, yeah." She reaches out, enough to grab a foot that's escaped a fold of blanket. "Aaron Kinney, say hello to Uncle Justin."
Justin glances up sharply, but Brian's studying his nails, probably planning a manicure for the wreck he's made of his fingers. Looking down, Aaron's tiny mouth opens in a yawn, and Justin catches his breath as tiny fists open and close. "Aaron."
"He was easy," Daphne says, and Justin hands him back, feeling strangely empty, an Aaron-shaped hole that he hadn't realized was there until today. He's been waiting for this, for *him*, Justin thinks, watching Daphne stare down at her son in wonder. She could light the city with just her smile. "It went fast. And very medicated."
Justin nods slowly, looking for something to say. Nothing practical emerges, just this confused fusion of thoughts and feelings and he needs time, God, more time, just to think, to put it together, everything he never wanted to think about, and everything it could mean.
A knock at the door twists him around, startled, but it's just the nurse. "You have visitors--"
Maybe only Justin sees the way Brian stills again, the way long fingers tighten on the knee of his jeans, but he doesn't say a word, leaving it to Daphne, who straightens tiredly and nods slowly. It's the obligation in her, wanting to show her appreciation to those that had supported her and helped her, and Justin knows all about that. He opens his mouth to protest, but they must have been waiting like, right outside the fucking *door*, because everyone comes inside as soon as the nurse steps out.
A rush of familiar and unfamiliar faces, and Justin moves backward from the bed, suddenly relieved, suddenly so *glad* that they're here, even if Daphne's tired and Brian's hostile, because he can slip out, groping for his cigarettes with shaking hands, still feeling the weight of Aaron in his arms. Downstairs, Justin stumbles on the concrete outside and watches in surprise as rain falls from the sky just beyond the edge of the porch, thick as water pouring from a spout, this perfect humid summer night filled to the brim with a perfect summer storm.
Justin breathes in the weight of water, dirty streets, a city glowing in the hazy darkness, and lights his cigarette with shaking hands. Breathes in, feeling the nicotine down to the bottoms of his feet, watching light trails in every movement, individual neon raindrops suspended in the air like they'd just wait for him forever to draw them, and Daphne and Brian's son is upstairs and Justin doesn't hate him at all.
"Aaron," he murmurs into the rain.
He's so high, so fucking *flying* and it's not just the drugs. He could have *missed* this. With a plane ticket and another pointless run for a safety that'll never exist, because nothing can save him from himself.
Eyes closed, Justin doesn't even twitch when the cigarette's taken from his fingers, just leans back on damp, solid warmth that he'd know in his sleep.
"Congratulations, Dad," Justin whispers into the electric colors swirling behind closed eyelids. Reaching up blind, he curls his fingers around a smooth, damp neck and pulls, until a warm mouth touches his, tasting of smoke and soda and heady, unbelieving joy, so strong Justin can feel it beat against his skin like heat. It's *warm* here, Brian's arms around him, and he reads impossible things into every touch that don't seem so impossible right now.
Like a night a million years ago and only seconds, when he met this man and fell in love for the first time, for the last time, for the only time that ever mattered at all. A thousand miles wouldn't be far enough to escape it, and a thousand years won't ever make him want to.
He thinks of Brian, ordering Mikey out to find him tonight, on this night, and holds tighter.
When he opens his eyes, he smiles, watching Brian smile back, that smile that's pure and slow and sweet and more rare than a trickless night at Babylon.
"Where you headed?" Brian says, and Justin feels his smile widen. It's as easy as falling, as easy as loving Aaron, and as easy as saying one word.
"Nowhere," Justin breathes, watching Brian's face, thinking of the way that Brian can say one thing and mean another, and the way Justin can say one thing and mean everything, and how Brian always knows the difference. Justin takes a slow drag from the cigarette in Brian's hand, then drops it, crushing it beneath one heel, sliding an arm around Brian's waist, settling into the familiar arm across his shoulder, fingers playing with his hair. "Let's go back inside."
the end