The Truth

Warning: Character death…no, not Brian or Justin. I'm not THAT cruel.

Author's Notes: Yep, it's me. I'm still here. This started out as one thing and ended up as another. Go figure.

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Was I relieved when Justin and I decided that we didn't need to get married? I won't lie, a little.

Did it mean that the feelings I'd finally come to admit, not only to Justin, but to myself as well, were now all bullshit? Not a chance.

Standing there, we heard the final boarding call for his flight. "That's you," I managed, my voice tight.

He pulled back, his hands reaching for mine as our eyes met. I could tell he was barely keeping it together, positive he saw the same emotions reflected on my face. His eyes dropped down and when they set on mine again, they seemed different. Bluer. A little clearer through the cloud of tears.

He squeezed my hands, still held in his, and blinked, slowly, a single tear escaping from each eye simultaneously, and I followed their path down his cheeks, needing desperately to look away, escape for a minute.

"Hey."

My eyes shot back up.

"Thank you for loving me," he whispered with a smile, pure and bright.

And all I could offer was a nod, confirming his truth.

I knew if I moved or uttered a sound I'd fall apart, right there.

But like I've always said, Justin's the bravest person I know.

So I watched him, as he let go of my hands, bent down and picked up his bag, slinging it over his head and across his chest, then slowly turned away, heading toward the gate.

I knew he wouldn't look back, and he didn't disappoint. Never disappoints.

I stood, rooted to the spot, watching the gate door close behind him, as his airplane taxied the runway and then finally took flight. I stood there several minutes more, looking in the direction that his plane had gone, completely oblivious to the new crowd of people flooding the area, until I was positive that he was gone.

I closed my eyes and once again began to breathe.

With a quick glance around I squared my shoulders, ran my hands over my eyes and took a step, then another and headed out of the airport, alone.

At first the whole lone-wolf-again thing was interesting. No one else to consider. No one else to account to, not that I'd ever admit to having done that in the first place. It was freedom reigns time, and I was ready to take full advantage.

But after I paraded the first horde of forgettable tricks through the loft's revolving door, smoked as much as I could, my lungs practically begging for mercy, drank myself into oblivion and a step beyond, it got old and boring and fucking lonely, so goddamn lonely without a particular little bossy blond around.

And the phone calls were great. The perfect reminder of what I'd had but no longer did.

"New York's amazing!"

"You should see all the hot guys, it's like fucking Christmas!"

"You'd love it here, Brian. You'd fit right in. You've got the looks *and* the attitude that everyone here would appreciate."

But the worst, the ones that tore my already obliterated heart in two, were the late night calls. The ones where he was barely holding it together. The first time it happened I thought he was drunk, the way he was practically slurring his words, but I soon realized it was just his emotions closing in on him, choking him…

"God, Brian, I…I'm so lost here. I mean, yeah, it's great to see my name in print, my work being praised, hung on the walls of some kick-ass galleries, but it's not, you know, it's not all good. Not nearly good enough 'cause something's missing. You're missing, Brian, fucking *you*."

I closed my eyes, searching for the right thing, the *perfect* thing to say, and when I was certain I had it, I said, "Justin, suck it up. You wanted New York, to wow the art world, well, there's always a price."

Um, not so good?

Thought so.

And apparently he did as well, if the instant dial tone meant anything and the unreturned-call-hell he inflicted upon me for three days after that.

Lying in bed, trying his cell for the zillionth time, holding my breath when I heard him finally answer instead of his goddamn voice mail, I decided I'd better come up with something more appropriate if I ever wanted to have decent phone sex again, well, at least with him.

"Yes?" he answered rather pissy. Obviously he'd checked his call display first.

"Hey." I admit, not the wittiest comeback I could've chosen, but, it seemed to work

Or maybe not, since silence was all that greeted me.

I figured it was up to me.

"So, you sell enough paintings yet for me to retire and be a kept boy?"

He snorted. "Kept geezer is more like it," he mumbled.

I still heard it.

"Now, now, now, Sunshine. That's no way to work on your apology."

"What?!"

"Alright, I accept."

He laughed, sort of. "You've got balls, Brian."

"And a nine-inch cock to match. They're a lovely set. All the rage this season."

"You're fucking unbelievable."

He sounded almost sorry for me. And from where I lay, alone, no warm, smooth particular body beside me, I was willing to accept it.

He sighed.

I bit my lip, lit a cigarette and decided that it was my turn.

"I miss you, Justin. I miss you like fucking hell. I reach for you in my sleep and wake up every goddamn time 'cause you're not here. I miss your face, your lips and most of all, your ass. I haven't had a decent lay since you've been gone."

I listened, pretty sure I'd heard him sniffle.

"What're we gonna do, Brian?"

He sounded so small.

And I realized, that's how I felt.

Decision made.

"You think that friend of Daphne's would mind if she had another roommate?"

"Huh?"

He's smart, but not the quickest.

I gave him a minute. And when the light went off above his head, I heard the megawatt explosion.

"Brian! You mean it?"

Shrugging, even though he couldn't see it, full of bravado, I answered, "New York's always been my dream." Then softer, intimate, I added, "And you're my reality."

He gasped, then sighed, I'm guessing not quite sure what to say, still rather unaccustomed to the soft, lesbianic side of me. But when I heard it this time, I was certain that he'd sniffled.

I'd share the remainder of our conversation, but I don't want to bore you. Let's suffice it to say that there was a whole lot of begging, moaning and fluid expended, and leave it at that.

Oh, and Justin got off too.

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The first few days in New York were amazing. Justin and I couldn't get enough of each other.

We fucked everywhere and anywhere, and by the second day his roommate was more than eager to get rid of us, thrilled when I announced that I'd found us an apartment.

New York was big and loud and expensive and I fucking loved it.

I'd found a loft, practically double the size of the one in the Pitts. It had two rooms partitioned off, one smaller, which I figured Gus would use when he visited, and the other was large with huge floor to ceiling windows, perfect for Justin, who'd no longer have to paint in the cramped little shit-hole he'd been renting.

Our bedroom was on the second level, which covered about half the space of the main floor, a major selling point for me. But the piece de resistance that set visions of butt-fucks and blow-jobs dancing in my head was the master-bathroom. I can't seem to think about that room without getting stiff.

The shower, fuck, the shower was double the size of the one in the Pitts, with heads jutting out of the black slate everywhere, several at just the right height to make Justin's ass stand up and take notice, along with another very happy body part of his. Okay, and of mine. Hey, you can never be too clean.

Oh, right, and then there's the huge sunken tub. I thought Justin's eyes were gonna bug out of his head when he saw it. And it took some pleading and begging and blowing on his part, but he finally got me to try it out. And it wasn't that bad. Not after he joined me. Naked. Hard. Then fucking rode me like a cowboy on acid.

Okay, yeah, the tub can stay.

I decided not to look for office space right away. Kinnetic was running smoothly back in Pittsburgh, thanks to Cynthia and Theodore, so I decided to just branch off out of there for a while.

Concentrate on landing the bigwigs in New York.

And land them I did.

New York felt like a separate entity, like its own little spot of the universe just floating there, waiting, destined to be conquered by Brian-Fucking-Kinney.

And word got around quickly.

"Of course, Mr. Douglas, we can certainly fit you in."

"No, not at all. Kinnetic is thrilled that you're happy, Mr. Sandler. What? Aries Computers? Yes, I know of them. They are? Well, thank you for recommending us. Yes, I'll give him a call. Thanks again."

"A two year contract sounds perfect. I'll have my Pittsburgh office fax you over a copy. Thank you."

Yep, things were moving along smoothly.

Justin was balls-deep in galleries and openings, at which I was the ever supportive partner, and I was usually balls-deep inside of him, behind some partition or locked in a bathroom stall, at least once during each event.

Yeah, New York was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

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The call came at 3:12 a.m. on a dark and dreary Sunday night…no, Monday morning…waking us from a sated sleep, immediately dousing us in that middle-of-the-night-terror that a ringing phone provides, and making it painfully clear that the feeling of dread was right on track.

We flew home, um, back to the Pitts, at 6:50 a.m. that same day, the fear from the early morning call stowed right alongside us.

We drove directly to the hospital, arriving at room 426 at, coincidently, 3:12 p.m., apparently 12 minutes too late.

I fucking hate the number twelve.

Michael was hysterical.

Not even Ben could calm him down.

And I, well, I felt like the world had just tipped on its axis, letting that oasis called New York slip right off into oblivion, dropping big old Pittsburgh full of pain and heartache right down on top of us…without the ruby slippers.

They said she didn't suffer.

They said it was for the best. That she would've been a vegetable.

They said a lot of things.

Nothing made it any better.

Logically, while I knew that Justin loved her just as much as I did, I needed him there for me. And I was selfish, I'll admit it. But the woman I'd considered my mother, having forfeited all claim to Joan voluntarily years before, was gone.

Debbie was gone.

And I'd never said goodbye.

Never told her how much she really meant to me.

Never told her how happy I was in New York, with Justin.

Never told her that finally, I felt, well, okay. I felt okay in my own skin.

And when I finally broke down, cocooned securely in Justin's arms, he told me that she already knew it all. Every fucking bit.

And I realized, she did. I know she did.

Pulling back, I sniffed loudly, running my hand under my nose, positive that I didn't even want to guess at the way I looked, and opened my eyes. And he smiled. Watery. Half-hearted. Still full of sadness for our loss, but he smiled and I knew that *he* knew it too. Knew it all.

"I love you," I whispered, smiled when he said it back.

It was the truth.

That was all I had.

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We're back in New York now.

Things are a little better, easier.

It was tough to leave. Tough leaving Michael behind. Parentless.

It was especially hard that last day, making our way back to Debbie's grave, needing to say goodbye before we left.

The leaves had fallen on the newly formed mound of dirt and the marker with her name seemed a little less foreign.

We stood hand in hand, and I told her that I'd miss her. That she was always there for me when I'd needed her, and sometimes when I didn't even know that I did.

I heard Justin sniffling beside me and pulled him in front of me, my arms circling his shoulders possessively, tugging him back against me, grateful for his presence.

And I told her thank you.

Just thank you.

That was all I had.

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