Well Earned

The day started off just the way every single other boring, mundane one had since the beginning of time.

Wake up…

Shower…

Shave…

Coffee…

Work…

Boring, boring, bor-ing.

Except this day had a blip, a glitch in the program that forced it to be anything but the same. Today was the day Justin was finally coming home.

They'd talked about it, argued about it, shouted and fought and practically cried about it, but then Brian finally came to his senses and listened to Justin when he told him he was miserable and lonely and just fucking wanted to come home.

And Brian was happy, he really was. It's just that, well, he was fucking terrified.

The three years that Justin had been gone had been hard. The stolen weekends and occasional weeks had been great, but not nearly enough to smother the ache that seeped into every last cell of Brian's being each fucking time he had to say goodbye again.

And if Justin was coming home, like, *really* coming home for good this time, well, he didn't think he would survive it if he decided he needed to leave again. No, he was certain he wouldn't.

But Justin, the bravest person Brian knew, was on to him. So when he whispered that he'd had 'enough of fucking New York, and he could paint anywhere, so why the hell not in glorious Pittsburgh?' Brian had no choice but to agree. Because he was selfless like that, and lucky for Brian, Justin knew it too.

The day Justin's plane touched down was cold and dreary. But when he walked through the crowded gate, straight into Brian's open arms, all either one felt was the warmth of the sunniest day…times infinity.

"You look so good."

"You just saw me two weeks ago, but yeah, you're right, I do." The sudden lilt in Brian's walk was unmistakable. And his smile, blinding.

Justin laughed, swatting playfully at Brian's stomach, purposely forgetting to remove his hand as it slipped inside his open jacket and held on tight.

Tossing Justin's bags in the trunk, Brian shifted back against the 'Vette.

"You wanna eat?"

Eyes locked on Brian's, Justin shook his head.

"You wanna go someplace? See your mom?"

Again, a silent but affirmative no.

"Maybe take a drive?" Brian couldn't help but smile.

Justin leaned forward; his body pressed against Brian's from forehead to toe, and breathed, "I want to go home."

If Brian set a new world record racing toward the loft, competing with that of light speed, neither one seemed to notice. All that mattered was the locked door, set alarm and peeled-off clothes that littered the path from the front door up to the bedroom.

"In me, now, oh, please, please fuck me now!"

"Hold on, Jesus, hold on a minute."

Justin was panting, writhing off the bed, scratching wildly at Brian's back. And when Brian was sheathed and lubed, practically slipping inside with the slightest push, Justin was purring and moaning, neck arched sharply backward in pleasure.

"So fuckin' beautiful. God, you're so beautiful."

"Mmm, shit, you too. Fuck, Brian, I love you," Justin groaned, his heels digging into Brian's ass, forcefully pushing him deeper inside.

Grunts and gasps and hard and fast and they were coming, clenched together, shouting their release. And it was way too soon, but neither one could hold out a second longer.

"I missed you," Brian whispered.

Running his fingers through Brian's hair, petting it softly, Brian's heartfelt words mingled together with his hot breath panting against his shoulder, Justin smiled. "Me too."

And just like that, the day was extraordinary.

***************

"Did you get it?" Brian asked as Justin snapped his cell phone shut.

"Yeah, it's gonna open on the tenth. Shit, I've got a lot to do."

"Relax. It'll get done."

Justin laughed. "Not if all I do is stare at this ceiling all day."

"But it's such a nice ceiling," Brian coaxed, climbing on top of him, covering his smaller frame completely.

"Hmm, it is. But now all I can see is you," Justin smiled.

"Ah, and what an even nicer view *that* is."

Justin nodded, not really able to say anything more, since his mouth was otherwise occupied…with Brian's tongue.

***************

"Hey, Bri, looks like Champson will be up here on the tenth. The meeting's set for three; they couldn't make it any earlier."

Brian looked at his calendar then up at Ted. "Call and see if they can make it on the ninth."

Ted frowned. "Nope, already asked, since I know you had the tenth booked…" Ted glanced down at Brian's calendar displayed on his desk. He knew it was marked with a big red 'X'. Knew it was Justin's opening that day for his first solo show in the Pitts, not like it was New York or anything, but that whole, 'homeboy-makes-good-at-home' thing Justin had going on was gaining him major press, and Ted knew that Brian had every intention of devoting the day to his partner…

"Theodore!"

"Shit, sorry," Ted apologized, having floated away for a minute. "What?"

Sighing like the put upon drama queen he was, Brian barked, "Then tell them I can't."

"Brian, I know it's the tenth, and Justin and all, but you've been after them for like, forever."

Brian nodded, silently conversing with himself. "Three is fine."

"His show doesn't start until seven, right?"

Brian smirked, hating that even Ted knew him so well. With a scowl and a dismissive look he turned back toward his computer, ignoring the satisfied smile on Ted's face as he sauntered out of Brian's office.

***************

"Hey, you're home early," Justin turned, smiling into Brian's kiss.

"Yeah, figured I'd get out for once while there was still a glimmer of fucking daylight left." Brian shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over a bar stool before trudging up the bedroom stairs.

"You look tired."

"Long day." He hung up his suit, pitching his shirt in the hamper. "How was your day, dear?"

Laughing, Justin leaned against the bedroom entrance, watching Brian pull on a pair of faded jeans and a white wife beater. Absently licking his lips, his eyes traveled appreciatively along the length of Brian's body before landing on his face, his eyes, and he smiled sheepishly at Brian's knowing grin. "Better now."

"Good," Brian offered, pulling Justin against him for a more satisfying hello.

With a content sigh they broke apart, Brian following Justin down to the kitchen.

"What made it such a rough day?" Justin asked, pulling out some leftovers.

Lips pursed, Brian shrugged, realizing that he was indeed at a crossroad of sorts.

In the old days, the days before bashings and bombs and the badlands of New York, Brian knew he'd just blow the whole thing off, feigning ignorance at the importance of, well, pretty much anything meaningful to Justin. But those days were gone, merely dust in the wind of change, because he was different, they were different, and he owed Justin more.

"I, ah, I've got a problem with the tenth."

Justin froze mid motion, disappointment setting in. He looked up, trying to keep his face neutral. "What kinda problem?"

"You know how I've been trying to get Martin Champson up here? Trying to finally land his account?"

"Yeah," Justin set his knife down.

"Well, he's coming. On the tenth. At three."

Justin nodded. Shrugged. "And? My show's not 'til seven."

"I know, it's just, well, I wanted to help, you know, if you needed help. Wanted to *be* there."

Justin smiled. He knew that Brian understood what *not* being in New York had done to him, even though he swore up and down that it wouldn't really matter, when they both knew that it would. But it was ultimately his choice in the end. And he was exactly where he wanted to be, where he knew he should be.

"So you'll be there, at seven."

Brian smiled, relieved that he hadn't let Justin down. "What's for dinner?"

***************

"Where the fuck is he?" Brian was pacing, practically enraged.

"I called. His assistant assured me he's on his way." Cynthia wanted to calm Brian down, but she realized that in doing so she may actually lose a limb or something of vital importance if she got too close.

"It's five o'clock. Fucking *five* o'clock."

"I know. But you've still got time."

Brian 'hmphed', continuing to pace, until he heard the snick of the front door. "He's here."

Like a bat out of hell Brian shot out of his office, slowing slightly as he approached the reception area. "Martin, we've been waiting." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, obviously successful if the oblivious smile on the older man's face said anything.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," Champson started, unaware of the chaos he'd created, "but I just had to stop at this wonderful little bistro I saw on Pierce Street."

Brian wanted to fucking lace into the man, but the multi-million dollar account he held in his possession reigned him in. "I hope you enjoyed it. Now why don't we move into my office?"

"Great, I'm so full. I'd love to sit down," Champson agreed, following behind Brian, who hoped he hadn't mumbled too loud, "And I'd love to shove my foot up your pompous ass…"

***************

"Call his cell."

"I did. Like a million times. It's off."

"He'll make it, Justin."

Nodding, Justin shrugged. "Maybe."

Daphne wrapped her arm around Justin's waist, tugging playfully, gaining a miniscule smile. "He'll make it."

***************

Brian looked down at his watch. Fuckin' eight o'clock. Shit!

"Well…" Brian interrupted some long winded bullshit Champson seemed to be spewing about how very lucky Kinnetik was to be gaining his account, and Brian'd had enough. "I think we've covered everything for now, and I'm sure you're eager to get out of here…" Okay, so maybe subtlety wasn't his forte, but it was fucking late and he wanted to get to Justin's show.

"Oh, look at the time. I'm sure I could be talked into dinner…" the older man hinted and Brian blatantly ignored.

"I can recommend a few places. I'm sure Cynthia would be glad to set up a reservation for you if you'd like."

"Right, well, yes, that'd be fine," Champson answered, a little taken back.

Brian stood, offering his hand in conclusion of their meeting.

***************

'Eight-twenty. Where the fuck is he?'

Justin looked around the room, pleased with the turnout, only one face missing.

"The evening has been a success already," Jim Barken, the gallery owner, smiled happily, tossing his arm a-little-too-possessively around Justin's shoulder.

Justin tried to shift away but the strong fingers clenched to his shoulder wouldn't give. He sighed. "Yeah, it looks that way."

Turning to face him, Jim asked, "What's wrong. You should be thrilled."

Taking the opportunity to move back a few steps, Justin put the much-needed space between them and smiled, "No, I am. It's great. The turnout's been wonderful and I couldn't have asked for a better gallery for my first show in the Pitts. Thank you, Mr. Barken."

"Jim," the man corrected, closing the distance between them.

Justin quickly moved backward, repeating, "Mr. Barken."

Sighing in defeat, realizing that the tasty morsel before him was sadly not interested, the older man nodded in understanding and moved on.

Looking down at his watch again, Justin noted, 'eight-thirty…shit!' Gazing across the room Justin caught Daphne's eye, motioning to her that he was gonna step outside for a minute. She nodded with a smile, wondering herself where the hell Brian was.

***************

When asked, Daphne would later recount that the next few minutes all happened in slow motion, as if immersed underwater, only slightly less blurry.

She remembered hearing a loud screech and then a crash and a scream.

She remembered running outside, the large glass gallery door seeming irrationally heavy as she pulled it open.

She remembered hearing a group of people murmuring, then saw them gathered around something on the ground.

She remembered the car that was inexplicably perched on top of the sidewalk, practically wrapped around a lone and looming cement streetlamp.

She remembered the way her legs felt lifeless as she moved closer to the group, her mind's-eye picking up on the unmistakable fact that Justin was nowhere to be seen.

But mostly, she remembered the loud, piercing shriek she let loose the moment she saw him laying on the ground, red, red blood pouring from a gash on his forehead, almost in the exact same spot as it had those many years before, and his eyes closed, his body lifeless, just like that night.

***************

"I dare you," Brian growled, fists clenched tightly, the sharp bite of nails stinging his palms as he dropped to his knees, back and head arched fiercely, and screamed at the top of his lungs, uncaring of whoever might happen by, "I fuckin' dare you!"

Eyes glaring upward, a venomously unmistakable warning issued to whoeverthefuck was actually running things was now in play, and Brian knew, like he knew his name or his heart or his soul, he knew that *He* now knew that he wasn't to be fucked with.

Sniffing loudly, blindly wiping away the wetness from his face and eyes, Brian stood, a renewed determination in his stance, and he took the first step forward, certain of the road ahead, and headed out of the hospital's chapel.

***************

"Brian, I didn't think you'd be back tonight."

Lips curved slightly, Brian nodded, feeling no urge to share the fact that he'd never really left. "Yeah, well, just couldn't stay away." He looked down at the bed. "Any change?"

Sadly, the nurse shook her head. "Don't give up hope."

"Never," Brian whispered as the nurse made her way from the room, his eyes locked on Justin's pale face.

Brian pulled the chair away from the window, the metal legs scraping softly against the worn tile floor, and positioned it as close to the head of the bed as possible before sinking down into it.

"I really need you to wake up, Justin. I'm sorry I was late. So fuckin' sorry. I shouldn't've listened to Ted or you…I should've told that old fucker that I couldn't see him, that he could take his fucking account and shove it up his fat, cellulite-ridden ass…I should've…I…"

Brian broke down. Justin's hand held firmly in his grip, his forehead pressed against the warmth and comfort of Justin's rising and falling chest, he let go of the helplessness he'd been holding inside since the previous night when Justin had been hit by the car and rushed to the hospital unconscious.

He'd suffered a few cuts and bruises, and thankfully no broken bones, but apparently, he'd hit his head on the pavement when he'd fallen.

Brian sniffed loudly and raised his head. He brushed away the silken threads of blond that littered Justin's forehead, grimacing at the visibly fresh wound held together by a thick white strip, so stark against the redness of the surrounding skin. He couldn't help trace over the faint scar only inches from the new one. Anguish reminding him of how he'd almost lost him once again.

Closing his eyes, Brian whispered, "I should've been there. Then you'd be lying at home, in our bed, instead of in this fucking hospital."

"Hmm, that sounds like a better deal"

"Justin?"

"You were expecting someone else?" Justin's voice was raspy and dry, but still full of wit.

"You fucker. You've gotta stop doing this shit. One of these days I'm gonna start to take it personally."

Justin shifted, wincing slightly. Brian poured him a glass of temped water, offering him a sip through a straw. Clearing his throat, Justin smiled. "You, you, you. It's always about you."

"Justin," Brian sighed, knowing for sure that his message had been received loud and clear, if the miracle in front if him was any indication that even God thought of him as one motherfuckingsonofabitch that even *He* didn't want to mess with.

He'd never been more thankful of anything in his life.

***************

"Get off me."

"You say that now, but let's see what happens later…"

Justin laughed, shaking his head. Brian had been so attentive over the past several days in the hospital, he almost couldn't stand it.

When he'd woken up the doctor was hopeful that there'd been no permanent damage, and after a battery of tests, he was certain that Justin was pretty much good as new. Well, except for the whole head-trauma-again thing. That wasn't great. But they assured him that as long as he kept from suffering any more head injuries for at least, well, the rest of his life, he would be fine…more or less.

But Brian seemed to think that his assistance was needed…constantly.

At first it was endearing, sweet. But now Justin was gritting his teeth, wondering if Brian was gonna stamp his foot and insist that he hold his dick again the next time he took a leak.

"Brian, go, do something, leave me alone." Justin relaxed back against the softness of the leather couch, enjoying being back home.

"You sure? I could…"

"NO! I mean, no, it's alright, I'm fine. Why don't you call Michael, see what he's up to. Or even go out for a while. Maybe to Woody's, have a drink. Play some pool. Just get out."

Raised brow, lips drawn inward, Brian stared down at Justin. "You want me to leave?"

Justin could see the mix of confusion and hurt swimming in Brian's hazel eyes. He sighed resignedly. "Brian, you're driving me fucking nuts!"

Brian laughed, dropping down next to Justin. "Why?"

"Why? 'Cause you won't let me do anything by myself. You're always there. I'm afraid you're gonna try and wipe my ass next time I go to the bathroom."

Brian laughed, moving in closer. "Justin," he breathed.

And Justin couldn't help it. Even with how crazy Brian'd been making him, he felt his heart melt at the man's intimate tone. He smiled.

"I was just so fucking scared, you know?" Brian whispered, so genuinely, confessing what he'd feared since the moment Justin had demanded to come back from New York. The threat of losing him again.

"Yeah." Justin pressed his forehead against Brian's gently, mindful of the healing wound.

"Don't ever leave me."

Feeling his heart flutter at the desperation in Brian's voice, Justin swore. "Never."

Satisfied with the response Brian rose, offering his hand to Justin, who took it without hesitation, allowing Brian to pull him up then guide him toward the bedroom. Once there, Brian slowly undressed him, then pulled off his own clothes, climbing into their warm bed, holding back the covers in offering for Justin to join him.

"I love you," Brian almost whimpered, spooned tightly behind Justin.

"I know," Justin sighed, pulling Brian even closer. "I know."

***************

"Can you believe it?"

"It's been what, four weeks, and already they're bugging you?"

"Brian, it's great. Another show. So quickly."

Brian shrugged. "Of course. They know brilliance when they see it."

It'd been four weeks since Justin had come home from the hospital. Four weeks of them growing closer than they ever thought possible.

The scar on Justin's forehead had healed and begun to fade, but still, Brian refused to allow himself to forget what it all felt like. How he'd almost lost Justin. He needed to remember, to carry a little piece of it with him to make sure that he didn't take anything for granted again.

So since that first night back, they'd developed a sort of code, one that they, and by they, they meant Brian, felt comfortable with sharing at all times. In private, in public, hell, even in the backroom of Babylon.

Since Brian'd always had a hard time with those three simple words, he figured two might be a little easier, especially two everyday, mundane ones.

They'd be in the grocery, and Justin would casually ask, "You think this pasta's better than that one?" And Brian would answer, "I know," with that look, and Justin would melt, right there in aisle number four.

They'd be at Woody's, and Justin would ask, "You think I should take that shot?" offering a glance at the right-end pocket, and Brian would answer with confidence, "I know," and Justin would be a smiling mess.

Or it would be times such as this, at home, just the two of them, when Justin would smile sheepishly and ask, "You think?" about his upcoming show.

And Brian would drop the papers he'd been studying, pull Justin against him, look down into his bright-blue eyes, and whisper, "I know."

And really, what more could you say after that?

Nothing.

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