A MATTER OF TIME

So many times when I'm sliding the loft door open I have a flash, only for half a second, that it will be Justin standing there. Once in a great while it actually is, of course. His unannounced visits are erratic -- months and months go by in between -- but I keep having the flashes. It's like the rats in those lab experiments. If the cheese comes regularly, they take it for granted and won't work for it. If it doesn't come at all, they give up. But if it comes some times and not other times, they'll keep pushing the fucking lever, hoping, hoping, hoping. Emmett called me a rat the other night, as a matter of fact. But he has no idea.

This time I blink in case my flash is lasting too long. But no, this time it really is Justin. He's leaning back against the elevator wall, smiling a little the way he always does, hanging back to pretend he'll leave if it's a bad moment for me, but secure in knowing he can always walk in. He still has the fucking key, after all, even if he doesn't use it. It was still on his ring the last time I was able to check when he wasn't looking.

We've developed certain little rituals for these reunions, like we used to have in bed. Things progress in a certain sequence. There's to be no acting surprised on my part, for starters. And we don't kiss hello or hug, none of that crap. He used to try it but I barely let him, and he got the message. We say hey, give each other the once-over and exchange a few preliminary "How hot you're looking" remarks. Then I ask, "How's the boyfriend?" He answers, "Steven (or Mark or Tyler or Jimmy) is doing fine," in an exasperated tone that tells me I'm supposed to remember the guy's name.

But I'm not asking because I care how what's-his-dick is doing. I'm asking so I'll know which kind of evening we're going to have. If he says, "He's fine," then I get him out of the loft as soon as possible and take him out for dinner to as fancy a restaurant as I can find in this 'burg. He's been to better by now, but he lets me pay and pretends to be impressed. By the after-dinner drinks he usually hooks a finger or two through mine on the table, but that's because he's sentimental. He'll kiss me goodbye outside, very chastely, like the good boy he is, before he catches a cab. Well, sometimes it's not so chaste, but the Boyfriend won't have anything to complain about. I put him in the cab and that's it for the next few months.

But if he says, "There is no boyfriend," it's different. Then I can pull him inside and pour him a drink. And we'll order in food. We won't leave the loft, because when there's no boyfriend, it means we're going to end the night fucking. And I won't have to put up with the condescending bye-bye kiss until the morning.

I don't remember when we stopped talking on the phone. If he called me now, I'd figure somebody was dead or something; that's how bad it would have to be. I don't like talking to him when I can't see his face, not now when I have to be careful what I say. When we were together, of course, I was never careful. I said whatever I wanted. I guess you can add that to the long list of mistakes, if I bothered to tote them up, which I won't. What's the point? But when I talk to him now I want to see what he's feeling. He can lie, he can withhold information, but he's never been able to keep his emotions out of his face.

So we don't talk between his surprise visits. I hear how he's doing from some member of the family or other. I never ask, but I don't have to. What with Debbie and Jennifer and Lindsay and even Michael there's always someone who's heard from him recently, and what one knows everybody knows soon enough in our circle. Once in awhile he sends me a postcard with an announcement of a small art show he's involved in. (If it's within a 100 mile radius, I go.) Sometimes he emails me. His email addy seems to change constantly, but I know it's him because he uses the same subject line every time: "Who're you fucking now?" Sometimes that's the entire message. My answer line, of course, is, "Whomever I want " Sometimes he does actually tell me something, gives me the latest news about a job change or city change. It's usually a boyfriend change. He's been racking them up. Still looking for true love, our Sunshine. Doesn't seem to be finding it. Stubborn enough to keep looking, that's Justin all over, but I think our little family have all been surprised how fast he dumps one and moves on to the next. After all, I was supposed to be the one with the commitment problem, right? Which is pretty fucking funny, since he was my first, my only, and will certainly be my last.

I happened to overhear the end of a conversation between Jennifer and Debbie in the diner one time, maybe a year ago, when I came up to the register. I knew Justin had dumped yet another boyfriend - I'd had an email saying, "Cutting my losses, here's my new address" - but no details. Didn't want any. I certainly didn't want any from Jennifer. I hardly say more than hello and goodbye to her any more, but I can guess she's getting a little perplexed by her boy's romantic escapades.

Jennifer must have been telling Debbie about her bewilderment. All I heard was, "He can't seem to settle down." Then she saw me and clammed up, smiling too brightly. But Ma Debbie, who never met a problem she couldn't blame on me, said immediately, "That's the Kinney influence, still at work on him!"

Of course I didn't make that boy a slut any more than I made him gay. He came that way. Thank God. But I couldn't describe how I know without giving his mother information no mother should have. So I said, "I certainly hope so," and took a lemon bar without paying. I've paid enough, all around.

But tonight he's no sooner over the threshold when something seems off. The pattern doesn't seem to be in place. He never gave me the big once-over, I realize. That's a first. I've done my checklist: hair cropped behind, brushed up in front; face as young as ever, he'll look like that until he's fifty, damn him; perfect ass still; good quality jeans. But he hasn't checked me out. He just glanced at my face like he needed to see if it was me after all, and walked past me.

But I try to stick to regulations. I ask after the Boyfriend but he screws up his line, saying, "Um, all right." I raise my eyebrows. He wanders out into the loft, running his artist's eye over the furniture, picking up this ceramic gargoyle thing Gus made me. Nobody knows what the fuck it's supposed to be and I didn't dare ask Gus - my son gets insulted easily - but it does catch the eye. While Justin turns it over in his hands, I tilt my head and squint at him.

He's come here at times for comfort when he's moody. He's come for career advice, to crow about some achievement, to bounce work ideas off me, to check up on me if Michael's been babbling and he thinks I'm in trouble, or to admit to some worry he can't share with anyone else, like those months his hand seemed to be getting worse. More than once he's been here to fuck, period. That shouldn't be a surprise. I know he's never had better from the Boyfriends and he knows I've never had better from the tricks. That's just the way it is with us. I mean fuck, that's obvious. If everything had been as good as it was in bed, he'd still be here, right?

"Want to go out to dinner?" I hazard. That should be next on our agenda, if he's got an um-all-right Boyfriend. "There's a new Italian place that's not bad. The headwaiter's good enough to eat."

"And did you?" he asks absently. He's on automatic; he doesn't care. He's looking at my windows like he's never seen them before.

"Sure," I say. "He was supremo." Justin nods. He's still not paying attention. He starts wandering again. Now he's looking at the TV like he's never seen one of those before, either. "So?" I nudge.

"What?" He looks around.

I say loudly and slowly, "Do-you-want-to-go-out-to-eat?"

He considers. "I guess. We could stay here if you want." He picks up my cigarette lighter and contemplates it.

I start to ask if he's had another brain injury since I've seen him last, but I look at him and stop myself in time. See, this is why I can't talk to him on the phone. But I can't figure this out. He has a boyfriend. But he doesn't want to leave the loft. This isn't adding up. I'm trying not to look at his ass, which I have not had a piece of in way, way too long.

He moves again, but swerves away from the bedroom stairs. That's not a good sign. He trails a hand along the kitchen counter. I'm about out of my famously limited patience, but he finally comes to a stop just a foot in front of me. "I love this loft, I always have," he says wistfully. He looks up at me like he has a boo-boo and I'm supposed to kiss it. I would if I could find it.

"What's wrong?" I ask. Personally, I'm amazed at the gentleness of my tone.

"Nothing." He's trying to shake it off, whatever it is. "I'm okay. I felt like seeing you."

"You're seeing me."

"Right." He tries to give me one of those Sunshine smiles, but he's forcing it. "So let's go out. Italian sounds good."

I nod and go for my jacket. I'm actually more concerned with what the hell is wrong with him right now than I am with my disappointed dick. I must be slowing down.

We don't say much in the elevator. He comments on my boots, then finally looks me over, but without the suppressed lust I'm accustoming to seeing. His eyes pause at the new streaks of gray at the sides of my hair. They only came up this summer. My first reaction was to yank them, but I noticed they had appeared in a dignified symmetrical way, on both sides. I thought maybe that makes it okay. Like I did it on purpose. Like it was my choice. Only one more year now until I have to face forty. And I'll get there before Justin hits thirty. Fucker.

Ted has been graying for a long time and covering it. He and Michael have been urging me to do the same. As a matter of fact, so has Cynthia, who keeps leaving her hairdresser's card mixed in with my papers. I think about it every morning when I'm shaving. It's not much, it would be easy to cover. I'm not sure why I haven't. I'm not interested in becoming a "distinguished" older gentleman. I've already done the research on a face-lift, when necessary. So why I . . .

Christ. I realize I'm holding my breath. This is why I haven't covered the gray. I'm waiting for Justin's reaction. I've been waiting all this time. Fuck me.

"You won't believe me, but it looks good. It suits you," he says.

I could pretend I don't know what he's talking about, but I don't. "I'm distinguished," I tell him, and he smiles. Then I add, "Gray is the new blue."

I've finally caught him by surprise. He laughs, and rewards me with a swat on the arm. I'm harking back a lot of years, but he remembers. We do this on these evenings: we offer our shared history to each other in little sushi-bites, raw and salty. Maybe he's remembering some of our blue-lit nights, too, because his eyes widen a little and he shoots me a look I usually only see when he's already yanking off my clothes. It only lasts a moment. He turns his head and looks at the elevator panel instead. Maybe he just remembered the all-right Boyfriend.

As we get in the car I have another little flash, a brief fantasy of jumping him in the car and fucking him before he knows what he's doing. I'm getting the impression he'd drop and roll in a second if I start the fire. But I have some principles these days, a few rules to live by. The first one is not to fuck with Justin's life. Why a boy as bright as he is hasn't figured out monogamy is bullshit yet, I don't know, but I'm never going to be his guilty secret. If he thinks he's not free to fuck, I'm not touching him.

There was only one boyfriend in the hit parade, at least that I know of, who was sensible. I think that was Tyler. Todd? No, Tyler. He was some minor-league actor, and he traveled all the time, so he and Justin had agreed they could fuck around when they were separated. I was taking that as good news - we were at some French place, and I remember thinking we could have stayed at the loft if I had known - when he suddenly added with a laugh, "But that doesn't include you."

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me, I've heard of this. It's only with strangers. One fuck only. No names, no kissing." Justin's face flushed. This is one part of our history we don't review. But I was pissed off.

Justin tried to take it as a joke. He said, "No, of course not, who would be dumb enough to make rules like that?" I refused to grin back. He added, "I meant, not you personally. Not you in particular."

"Really. And how have I personally and in particular offended this gentleman I've never met?"

"He's jealous of you," Justin admitted. "He's asked me a lot about you and he doesn't -- well, he doesn't understand. He doesn't know why I still want to see you sometimes. He didn't want me to come visit you."

"For fuck's sake. You're letting Mr. Boyfriend tell you who to socialize with?"

"No," he flared. "I'm here, aren't I? I'm here."

"But not fuckable," I pointed out. "He ordered you not to fuck me."

He pushed some crumbs around the table with his fork. His voice dropped into a deeper register. "I don't think it's an unreasonable request to make." The intonation was so alien, so un-Justin, that I realized he must be repeating Tyler's exact words, with Tyler's intonation. I hate hearing someone else's words come out of his mouth. Unless they're mine, but that doesn't happen much any more.

Now, as I start the car and pull out, I glance over again, wondering if he's ever made up his own mind about this. It's fucking peculiar that a boy - oh, all right, he's all man these days, I know - that a man as headstrong and opinionated as he is, should seem to be so malleable about this. I mean, our relationship was open because I wanted it to be. Then he was faithful to that stupid fiddler because that's supposedly what the fiddler wanted. Back to me, back to fucking around. Off to others, back to monogamy. Or semi-open with Tyler. Christ. Doesn't he have his own idea how he wants it to work? What he's wound up with is serial monogamy, punctuated by one-nighters with me and the occasional trick. That can't be right, by anybody's standards. And what I mean by right, of course, is it can't be satisfying. Which is what counts.

As we drive along, the weird mood seems to settle back on him. He looks out the window. Where's all the bright chatter? Where's the news, the gossip, the complaints about the art world, the boasting about his latest work? Where are the questions about Kinnetic's expansion, about Gus in school, about Lindsay and her new gal-pal who hates me as much as Melanie did? He doesn't even comment on the new car. I have three now (Debbie keeps blaring, "Why does one man need three cars?") and they each cost more than I originally paid for the loft. He must have noticed. Justin doesn't live for luxury but he has no trouble appreciating it when he can get it.

That first time he was out in Los Angeles, to work on Rage, he gave me a ten-minute soliloquy on the phone about Brett Keller's fabulous car. He ate it all up, the movie stars and the famous restaurants and the best of everything. Not that he couldn't walk away from it. He loved it but he could leave it. But after the first six months, when the Rage movie went into post-production, good old Brett offered him another juicy position on another movie. He turned it down. I didn't even find out about the offer until he was unpacking in the loft, settling in. I told him to get back out there. A few more months apart wouldn't make a difference with me, I said. So he went, leaving most of his clothes, because he thought he was coming back. I think I still believed it, too. But somehow after that there was a shoot in Toronto. I visited him that time. It was cold as fucking hell and we were both assholes and spent the weekend arguing over stupid shit.

At some point Michael demanded why I didn't tell him we had broken up. How could I tell him when I didn't know? We never really did break up, not officially. It's not like he threw back the ring and I canceled the caterers. I did figure out that he had gotten involved with somebody but I assumed it would blow over. Which it must have. And he kept talking to me like our separation was still temporary. He wasn't fucking with me, either. Some part of him wanted to believe it. So his clothes hung in my closet for two years. I can't believe I let them stay there. What a fucking sap I was. He was in Boston (he'd chucked the movie industry after Rage died in previews and was trying to get back into the art world) when he finally called to ask if I could ship the stuff up. I lied and told him I'd given it away to the undeserving poor who like to go clubbing - who else could have used his Babylon outfits? - and waited for him to tell me off. He just laughed a little ruefully and said, "I know, it's been a long time. I don't blame you, Brian."

We let that hang in the air, on the telephone line. Was that the last time I could stand to talk to him on the phone? Maybe. Then he said again, in a different voice, "I don't blame you, Brian."

I said gently, "I don't blame you, either." That was it; that's how we admitted it. He could love me and leave me, too.

I say now, with no gentleness at all, "Have you developed laryngitis?"

He smiles over. "Sorry, I was thinking. I didn't tell my mother I was in town. I was wondering if I should let her know, but I don't really feel like it. She asks so many questions."

"So you're here to see me." I can't help underlining this. I'm absolutely sure some of the times he's been here it was only to see me, but he always gives another reason. Visiting his mother, of course, is the obvious excuse. While Daphne was still living here, he'd stay with her sometimes. She's in Florida now; she lost all her ideals and got married after all. One time he made a big point of touring the art galleries with Lindsay, like he was doing career research. I don't know who the pretense was aimed at. It was pretty obvious what he really needed that night. In fact he needed it so badly he stayed a second night.

"Yes," he says simply. He can lie, but the amazing thing is the easy way he can tell the truth. "I've been missing you."

Fuck me, I actually get a thrill through my chest from this. Goddammit. "So you're staying with Debbie and Carl." I make this a statement.

"Do you seriously think I could tell Debbie I'm here and my mom wouldn't find out?" He's right, of course. We both grin.

That leaves a rather obvious question but I don't want to ask it. This must be what breeder guys go through, sitting through dinner, yak, yak, yak, and not knowing until the end of the evening if they're going to get laid. Fucking little twat. He can show up any time, I don't mind, but if he wants a fuck he has to admit it. If he keeps this cock-tease up I just might make myself unavailable.

Yeah, I don't believe me either. But he's figured out at least a little of it. He says quickly, "I have a hotel reservation, I left my bag there. Is this the restaurant?"

No, it's a bowling alley. Another remark I don't make. A hotel reservation? "Is that the Boyfriend's idea?" I ask. Maybe we've got another Tyler on our hands. I pull up to the valet sign and stop the car.

Justin pauses, then says, "Actually, he's about to become an ex-boyfriend. But I didn't tell him yet."

Ah. Another interesting little tidbit. The valet has his hand on the door, but I decide I want this settled. "So are we going to fuck during this visit or not?"

"Jesus, Brian," he splutters. Like I'm offending his delicate sensibilities.

"Are we?"

"Have you ever heard of foreplay? Or seduction?"

"This is the foreplay," I explain.

The valet opens the door just as Justin leans over and gives me a big, warm, wet kiss. Unfortunately there's no time to open my mouth before he pulls back. The valet is frozen in place, glaring, but when I shove the keys at him he remembers what an expensive car I'm driving and re-arranges his face into an obsequious smile. Bastard.

The other little bastard, who hasn't answered my question, is already inside, talking to the maitre d'. I don't know what game it is we're playing but I try a counter-move anyway. "I think it's your turn to pay for dinner," I say in his ear as we head to the table. He looks at the gleaming marble and well-dressed diners, and grimaces in alarm without realizing he's done it. But he says gamely, "Sure," like we always take turns. I see his hand fumble to his back pocket, checking that his wallet is there.

I order hot antipasto, a pasta course, and two side dishes for the table. At the last minute I relent and order only the second most expensive main dish. Justin coolly orders the most expensive. He's going to hate it but he'll probably eat every mouthful just to show me. Then he orders wine from the top of the list for both of us. We sit in silence while the bottle is opened at the table. He holds the waiter's eye so he'll know not to offer it to me for tasting.

I look at Justin over my glass. His eyes gleam at me in that mischievous way and suddenly we both start laughing. There was a time we would have kept this petty warfare up all night. "If you don't like the veal, I'll eat it," I offer.

"Thank God." He grins, then settles himself. Maybe now we'll have a real conversation and I'll find out what's wrong. We may or may not be going to fuck, but it's clear that's not what he's here for. Something's twisting him up inside. I doubt it's the about-to-be-ex.

But Jennifer raised her boy to be polite. So he asks about me first. And the truth is I'm anxious to tell him. Things were iffy with Kinnetic for a while there - I expanded too fast, to be honest - but we've just had our best quarter in years. "Ted looks like he's been reprieved by the governor," I say, and explain how I finally landed a tough account. He congratulates me and it's sincere. He asks a lot of good, sharp questions, and I have to stop myself from being surprised. I forget, between his visits, how savvy he's become. He always had good instincts (in more ways than one) but now he's also had some toughening experience in two harsh fields, film and art. I'm not sure how he's making a living now, especially in an expensive city like New York. Showing in small exhibitions isn't enough, but he had quite a packet after Hollywood. He's not ready for me to ask, though. First he wants to know about Gus.

This is my semi-annual fatherhood examination and I'm ready to earn my A. I've never gone back on my promise to be a better father to Gus, and I'm on the spot at Lindsay's regularly. Not because I have to answer to the little twat here, of course. Still. There was a bad year there, when Gus was in first grade, when Lindsay was going through boyfriends so rapidly it seemed she was trying to overtake Justin's pace. I didn't think it was good for Gus, but I'm not in a position to preach sexual moderation, so I kept my mouth shut. Melanie said more than enough for everybody, anyway. This Chrissy woman Lindsay settled down with afterwards is another raving bitch, straight out of the Marcus mold, but Lindsay seems a lot happier. I like her better in lesbian mode.

But there was a point during her Reign of Men when she came up with some guy so hot I could hardly look at him without getting hard. I thought I'd better stop dropping by for awhile. Then I remembered Justin was coming in for the holidays that year and I'd have to face the quiz again, so I kept visiting Gus as usual. Luckily the hot guy wasn't around for long, and I had plenty of anecdotes about taking Gus ice-skating and tucking him into bed to satisfy my inquisitor at our next dinner. I have even more tonight. It gets us through the pasta course.

"And you? What's happening among the artsy set in the Village?" I ask finally.

He pushes pesto ravioli around on his plate and doesn't answer. I take a long drink of wine; this is going to require a lot of patience. He came here to tell me whatever it is, but apparently he wants me to pry it out of him, which seems like a ridiculous waste of time. Okay, no more small talk. I ask exactly what I asked at the loft. "What's wrong?"

But I still don't get an answer. At least, I don't think I do. He says, "Michael claims you still trick like crazy but never date."

I'm about to demand why he and Mikey are chatting about my sex life, but the word he used is even worse, so I go for that. "Date? Me? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Oh, Brian," he sighs. I swear he sounds like my mother the martyr.

I stop eating, too. "You can't sit there and tell me you don't know me better than that, for fuck's sake."

"I thought that maybe, you might have become more -- " He pauses to choose a word. I guess he's careful with me, too. " - More open to, I don't know, a friendship with fucking attached. Or fucking with friendship attached."

"Like a fuck buddy?" I look up at the ceiling and scratch my chin, like I'm trying to recall. "I think I have one of those. Depending on whether he does or does not have a boyfriend."

Christ, he's working to be patient, too. He says with forbearance, "I'm not expressing this well. I didn't mean a - a fuck buddy. I meant, I thought it was possible that you might have become more open to a real relationship after -- " He pauses again.

"After what?" I suspect a reference to my aging.

"After me," he says. He clears his throat and pushes an entire ravioli into his mouth. I can't even speak. He shouldn't either, with his mouth crammed full, but he says, muffled with pasta, "I was just - " He swallows. "Checking. I take it the answer is no."

"Are you coming back to the loft with me?" I demand. I didn't know I was going to ask again.

He shakes his head and I can feel myself flush. He'll see it; he'll actually see that I'm disappointed. That I'm dying to fuck him until he's blind and then yank his head back by the hair and make him tell me what's going on. Barring that, I'd like to stab him with my fork.

"No, I don't want to go to the loft," he says.

Yeah, I got that.

Then he says, "I want you to come back to the hotel with me." He eats another ravioli, eyes on his plate. When I don't answer, because I can't believe I heard him right, he says, "If you want to," to the ravioli.

The hotel. The hotel? What's wrong with the loft? Didn't he tell me he loves it? I guess I am getting old, because I feel like I have fucking dementia. So far I haven't understood a thing. "You're telling me, aren't you, that you want to fuck?" I can't believe I have to ask this.

Apparently he can't either. He rolls his eyes. "No, I want to play bridge. For Christ's sake, Brian. What do you think? Don't I always want to fuck you?"

Ah. The world makes sense again. "Naturally," I say airily. "But there have been times when you've refrained."

"Well, those times are over." He's smiling but he sounds a little sour. "From now on I do what I want, when I want."

"I see. So you're finally - "

"Where I want," he says loudly, overriding me.

I wait, but so does he. Look, I'm queer. I resent having to play the straight man in a comedy act. But I feed him his line anyway. Besides, I want to know. "Where you want," I repeat. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm leaving New York. And by the way, don't you ever call me your goddamn fuck buddy again."

I ignore that last part. "So you want to leave New York? Too many painful memories, I suppose. Well, Mr. Taylor, if you keep changing cities every time you change boyfriends, you'll really see the world. So where to now? Paris? London? Buenos Aires?"

"Pittsburgh," he says. "I'm moving back to Pittsburgh."

I spill my wine all over the fucking tablecloth.
 

*****
 

The hotel is one of the better ones, a little pricey for him I would have thought, but Justin says they're still having new-opening promotional rates. It was going up the last time he came through town; I remember pointing it out to him. I've only been in the restaurant, so I'm curious to see the rooms.

Right. Like I'm here to rate the hotel.

The way we enter Justin's room, you might think so. I cast a shrewd eye on the carpet, which is impressively non-institutional, and move on to the sleek furnishings, the subtle shadings of the tasteful wallpaper, and the fake antique roll-top desk, where no one will ever sit to do business. I glance into the bathroom and take in the white tile, gold-tone faucets, and the fact that the shower is too small for erotic purposes, at least if you're trying to be imaginative.

The queen-size bed has a blue-and-cream spread with a fringe, four pillows, a blank breakfast order sheet, and a bemused young man in the middle. Justin is sitting cross-legged on the spread, wondering, no doubt, why he hasn't been pounced on. He looks as confused as I've been all night. Good. He's been playing it - whatever it is - his way the entire evening. Time to remind him who's boss.

I stop and look at him. Just look. He's uneasy, but he tries to smile. "Does it pass inspection?"

"I don't know yet," I say coolly. "Come here and I'll take a closer look."

I can almost hear him think that this is more like it. His face relaxes. He gets off the bed and swaggers over to stand in front of me. He lifts his head up for a kiss, but I just go on looking at him. He nods a little to himself and reaches to open the top button of my shirt.

"I'm doing the inspection," I remind him in a cold voice.

Our eyes meet. Justin nods again, to me this time, and starts to take off his own shirt instead. As he slips it off he looks at me questioningly. I assent, so he takes off his jeans and tosses them aside. He pauses. I look pointedly at his briefs, then back at his face. He gives me one of those fantastically slutty grins and it's all I can do to keep my own face still and not grin back. I think he knows, because he grins even wider and steps out of the briefs.

Now I have to kiss him, but I don't put my hands on him. He has no such restraint. As the kiss deepens he tries to embrace me. Still kissing him, I pull his arms off me and push his hands to his sides. He puts them right back up to my shoulders.

I break the kiss and smack his hands down. "Stand still," I order. "I'm doing this."

"Oh, is it going to be one of those times?"

Wise-ass. I don't bother to answer. I wrap one arm around him and yank him in hard against me, groping with my mouth into the crook of his neck. My other hand slides down and grips his ass cheek. He makes a low guttural sound and starts to put his arms around me again. "Behave," I say hotly into his ear.

I don't know if it's my tone or his stiffening cock that reminds him, but something makes him remember how good it will be for him later if he gives in to me now. He collapses against me. His surrender is complete; I practically have to hold him up as I bring him back to the bed. I toss him down on his back and strip off my own clothes. He watches me from beneath lowered lids, pretending he isn't, then closes his eyes quickly when I sprawl out beside him. He's breathing fast; he thinks I'm going to ram it into him any second. And he wants me to.

Instead I lean over and kiss his mouth again, very gently. Then I start to kiss the rest of him. Soft, soft, soft. I leave little kisses all over his face and his shoulder. I kiss the underside of his jaw - he tilts his head back to help me - and kiss down his throat. I kiss all across his chest, but I won't give him tongue on his nipples. I slide down lower and kiss the lovely length of his dick. No foreplay? No seduction? He's already leaking. Got you, I think smugly.

I slide back up, throwing my legs across his. He stays still. He's totally limp, like he has no bones, except of course for the boner now straining against my stomach. I stroke his arm and he doesn't respond. This is a little more submissive than I had in mind. I look at his face. His eyes are still closed but he's biting back a smirk. Little fucker. He thinks he's got me.

I drop down on him, hard, and kiss him in a way that obliterates the smirk. Suddenly he grabs my hair with both hands, without permission, and wraps his legs around my waist.

Then I wrap everything I have around him, against him, and in him. And after that neither of us can think any more.

 

*****

With anybody else, I'd say I just fell asleep for a few minutes afterwards, but with Justin it's possible we both blacked out. It wouldn't be the first time. When I can see again, I find I'm looking at a strange ceiling. It takes me another minute to remember we're at his hotel. I feel him wriggling beside me, like he does when he's waking up in the morning. He lets out a final little sigh, which makes me ridiculously happy. I turn my head and he's looking back at me. We smile at each other.

He says, "I'm getting cold, let's get under the blankets." He starts pulling down the spread. I realize he's expecting me to spend the night here. No reason not to, but somehow I hadn't pictured it earlier. I'm not crazy about the idea. I'll fuck anywhere, but I like to sleep in my own sheets. I wonder again why he didn't want to go back to the loft.

I couldn't get any more sense out of him about that -- or anything else -- at dinner. After his drama-queen announcement that he was returning to the Pitts, he suddenly didn't want to talk about anything.

"Pittsburgh is a place smart people leave," I said.

"You didn't."

"The more fool I. But you did. What is there to come back here for?"

"I want to. Let's talk about this later, okay?" The sea bass I had ordered was in front of him. It looked excellent, but he pushed it around on his plate until it disintegrated into white shreds.

"Stop that or I'll make you eat the veal after all. How are you planning on deriving an income?"

"I'm going to get a job at one of the galleries. Lindsay's got some contacts," he said. He read my thought and added quickly, "I told her not to say anything, I wanted to tell you myself."

"Exactly when were -- "

"Brian, can we please talk about this after?"

I didn't ask after what. His hot little smile reminded me. I stopped eating and signaled to the waiter.

"Dessert?" the waiter inquired.

"No," I said, looking at Justin. We were planning on dessert, all right, but not here. I ordered the check, which I knew would be in the triple digits, and said, "I was wrong about whose turn it is. I'll pay it."

"I'll let you," he said, and we both laughed. That was all we said. During the drive to the hotel he kept saying, "After" and "Later" to all my questions, until I gave up.

"It's after," I say now.

"Hmm?" He snuggles up to me and pulls the blankets up higher on both of us. He sounds sleepy.

I say louder, "It's after. Time to earn your dinner."

"Didn't I just do that?"

"Not quite. Tell me what all this shit is about moving back to Pittsburgh."

"I knew you were going to be a pain in the ass about this. What's the matter, don't you want me around?"

Justin around. I've been performing a self-lobotomy on my brain to keep from thinking about it. I had a wave of what felt suspiciously like excitement at the restaurant, when he made his announcement. If he returns to live here, obviously I'll see him more. Fuck him more. Maybe . . . No, that's not right. He'll get himself a new boyfriend by the second week, and then what? New Boyfriend will think it's all too close for comfort, and lay down the law. I'll wind up seeing him even less. Christ, I might not see him - or fuck him - at all.

"It has nothing to do with me," I say. He's silent. After a moment I slide my hand down under the blankets, to stroke his thigh. "Let's skip the post-fuck guessing game. Just tell me."

He takes in a deep breath. "All right. The honest answer is, I'm homesick. This is my home and I miss it."

"You've lived in L.A., Toronto, Boston, and New York. Assuming I'm not forgetting any. And you miss Pittsburgh?"

"I know, there are better places. Fuck, those were all better places." He laughs against my shoulder. It feels so good I turn my head and kiss his hair. "But none of them were my home. I can't explain it to you, Brian, you've never moved away. I went to all those cities for the jobs, or I went -- " He pauses.

"Or you went for the guys you were with."

"Sometimes. Although I didn't meet Jimmy until after I moved to Boston. And it was exciting. I'd get a fresh start and meet a new group of people to hang with. Every single fucking time I thought, this is it, this is where I should be. This is the guy I should be with, these are the friends I should have. God, I'm so stupid. The only real friends I have are here."

"What do you mean? What happened to the others?"

"Well, it started in Toronto, with Billy's friends." He doesn't realize this is a new name to me. So it was a Billy who was the shadow figure I felt back then. . . I tell myself it doesn't matter. It was so long ago. He goes on, "I thought they were my friends but as soon as I quit with Billy, they went with him. That's what happened in Boston, too, with Jimmy. It happened to me everywhere. I always found out in the end that they were his friends, not mine. My real friends are here."

"But Daphne's in Florida."

"I know. But Lindsay and Emmett and Ted and Michael are still here. I miss them. I miss my mom, too. And Debbie."

"Emmett? Ted?" I've held out long enough; I need a cigarette. I climb out of the bed to look for my jacket, wondering if it's significant that my name was left off the list. Or does he take that as understood? I wish I did understand. I say only, "You can't be coming back here for Theodore. I wouldn't cross the street to be with Theodore."

"Oh, you know what I mean."

"What I know is that, with the exception of your lovely mother, these people were all my friends, remember?"

Justin blinks. I fish out the pack and light up, standing naked at the foot of the bed. He's right, it's cold in here. Justin says slowly, "Yes, I met them through you, I guess that's the same thing, but . . . "

But it's not the same thing. He's right again. They made it clear about that, all of them, that first time, the time when he went off with the fiddler. Even Lindsay. Not that I would have wanted them to shut him out on my behalf, not at all, but it was almost the opposite, as if they . . . Anyway, they are his friends, too, of course. Only Michael would still put me first.

"They can be your friends no matter where you're living. You've already seen that." I walk back over and he folds the blanket back for me. I sit propped up with some of the pillows behind my back, and inhale a long drag. "But you can't be making a major life decision based on our dysfunctional little family. We -- "

"I thought you gave that up."

"I did. This is the fourth time."

"Remind me to nag you about it. Listen -- "

"You never forget to nag."

"Listen, of course I'm not moving back here to be with Emmett or anybody. I was only trying to explain why I feel at home here."

Once again he's not making much sense to me. There must be something more to it. I try a different tactic. "But what are you going to do? You've been making some headway in New York, haven't you, getting in to some shows?"

"Yes."

"Then why -- "

"I told you, I'm going to work at a gallery, learn the business end of it. And I'm going to take courses at night." He's just about to slide over to snuggle again but I sit up straighter.

"You said you finished your degree in Boston." We had an argument about it. I was glad he was finally going back to school but I wanted to pay the tuition. Finish what I started, so to speak. But he said he had money from Rage and he wouldn't take it. Then I refused to let him pay back what I'd already spent at the PIFA. It was a shitty evening. We fight about the stupidest fucking things, when you think about it.

"I did get my degree. I sent you a graduation announcement, remember? And you sent me a big fat check as congratulations. I wanted to kill you."

"You cashed it."

"Only after I found out it pissed off Jimmy." I snort and he laughs. "I was getting ready to ditch him anyway and I wanted to be bitchy. But yes, sir, I do have my Bachelors of Fine Art, and I will show you my diploma if necessary. What I'm talking about now is taking business courses. Because eventually, after I learn enough, I'd like to open my own gallery."

I blow out smoke. This might not be a bad idea. Easier to do that in a smaller pond like Pittsburgh than New York. Maybe the lad is making some sense, after all. Assuming he has capital. "Do you?" He looks confused. I forgot I didn't say it out loud. "Do you have money to invest? Still have your filthy lucre from selling your soul in Hollywood?"

"Some. I've been careful, I've been trying to save it. And while I'm learning the business I can save more." This time he pushes up against me, nosing like a dog under my arm. I put my arm around him and pull him in closer. "And maybe," he says, walking his fingers across my chest, "maybe I'll find some rich businessman who would like to invest as a minority partner."

I snort again and he grins up at me wickedly. I say sternly, "So that's it. You're here after my money."

I'm startled when the smile is suddenly wiped from his face. I almost think he took me seriously until he says, mimicking my stern tone, "Of course not. I'm here after your dick." His fingers walk lower. "And speaking of dicks, are you ready to -- ?"

I stub out my cigarette. He certainly knows how to distract me.

 

*****
 

By the time we finish again, it's after 2 AM and I'm ready to sleep. I was in the office at 7 this morning. But Justin, who was sleepy before, is revitalized now and fizzy. He turns on all the lights - over my protests - and climbs out of bed to find his bag, so he can show me some artsy-fartsy pictures he's taken of street people in Greenwich Village. He's gotten interested in photography lately, apparently. At this moment I really don't give a fuck.

"I'll look in the morning. Turn off the fucking lights."

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you're tired." Why should I be tired? I've just given two of my best performances in months, on top of a long workday and a bewildering evening. "Look, come on. I took these during the Halloween parade in the Village. You can't believe what goes on in that parade, it's crazier than any Pride."

"And you're crazy if you think I -- Jesus," I interrupt myself. The photo he's dancing in front of my eyes does demand attention. "What the fuck is that, a dominatrix crossed with a poodle?"

He gives me a big grin and shoves more photos at me, but before he can say anything the William Tell Overture goes off in my head. Well, it feels like it's in my head. It's really coming from his jeans, on the floor somewhere. He must have his cell phone set to "scream" volume. I almost ask who the fuck would call him at this hour, when I realize. Of course. The sap who doesn't know he's about to be added to the Discard pile.

Justin's grin vanishes. He climbs over me to get to the phone, giving me one quick apologetic look, and the apology isn't for the climbing. He gets in bed with it, shivering, and turns his back to me before he answers. "Yeah, what?"

A loving start to the conversation. I could be discreet and go take a piss. But I don't.

"I'm fine. I told you I'd call you tomorrow. . . No, I had dinner and I was trying to sleep." I make a noise in the back of my throat, and he swings his hand behind to swat me, but he misses. "So what happened with Landermann? . . . That's good. I knew it would be all right. . . No. No. Look, I can't -- " He's getting pissed off. I'm still waiting to find out this one's name. He falls on to his back, listening impatiently to whatever it is, and looks up at me. I'd love to lean over and kiss him, and deepen that guilty flush on his face, but I wait. "No," he says into the receiver. I guess his patience runs out then, because he snaps, "If you must know, I had dinner with Brian."

Interesting. This one knows my name, just like Tyler did. I wonder how I appear in Justin's conversation. Am I spoken of as the hot stud who taught him everything in bed? The mentor who showed him gay life? Or that older man who took his virginity? He's about the age I was that night, now. I hadn't thought of that before.

"Don't tell me who to have dinner with," Justin says. "I always see Brian when I visit." There's a long pause. I can hear shrill sounds from the phone but not the words. I'm guessing the mystery man isn't happy. Justin's face is reddening again, this time with anger, but he looks up at me and I see some kind of plea in his eyes.

So I lean over, very close, and pause, like I'm asking permission. He closes his eyes and puts his mouth up for the kiss. I make it very soft, so it will be quiet. The noise from the phone is louder to me now, closer to my own ears. I break the kiss but I don't pull away. He's looking me full in the face when he says into the phone, "All right, yes, you're right. I fucked him. Happy now? And I'm going to fuck him again if I get the chance."

"I think that can be arranged," I whisper. But there's no need for discretion; we both hear the connection break as the mystery man hangs up on him.

Justin tosses the phone to the night table without moving from his position. We're still face to face. "I'm a bastard, right?" he asks.

"Who cares?" I know I certainly don't. "And I don't know how he's treated you. You haven't even told me his name."

"I didn't mean to do it this way. I mean, I've been thinking about it for a long time, but -- "

"It can't be that long," I point out. "You weren't even with this one last time you were here, were you? Or is this still, let me think, is it Patrick?"

"No. Patrick? Jesus, I forgot about him." I laugh but Justin doesn't. "This is Nathan. I tried not to get serious with him, but he . . . But I shouldn't break up with him on the phone, that's pretty low." He frowns, thinking bad thoughts about himself. I have no patience for this, but luckily it doesn't last. He suddenly grins, wicked again. "He's really a pain in the ass."

I hoot and nuzzle my face into his neck. He kisses my ear and sits up to put out the nearest light. Then he climbs out of bed to put out the others. When he slides back in beside me, I say, "I thought you wanted to fuck again."

"Oh, I meant in the morning." There's only one light left, the one on the table beside me. He reaches over me, then pauses with his hand on the switch, a little disconcerted. All his energy was drained away by that phone call. "Do you mind if we sleep first?"

"No, no," I say graciously, as if I weren't half-dead. "If you're tired."

The room goes black and he snuggles into my arms. The same as always, he starts to drift off almost immediately. It takes me longer. I hold him, this familiar form with a familiar warmth, as I lie awake in the dark of a strange, cold room.

 

*****
 

Justin says in the morning, "So what's your availability later?"

"When?" I put on a non-committal expression. We already fucked, and then I showered alone. I have a lunch meeting to get to. I put on my pants and stand bare-chested, toweling my hair.

"For the next 36 hours. I'm catching the train back tomorrow night." He rubs his hand over his face. "Then I'll be back as soon as I can, to start looking for an apartment. It's not going to be very comfortable in my current one any more."

I imagine not, with the mystery man there and fuming. I say casually, "If you don't want to bunk in at your mother's while you're looking, you can stay with me." He's lost in some thought, with his eyes on the floor. I can't tell if he even heard me. "Utilities, liquor, and fucking all included," I say.

He looks up, but his face is serious. "Thanks, Brian, but I don't think that's a good idea."

I shrug, like I don't care one way or the other, and bite the inside of my lip to keep from asking why not. I go back to the first question. "This meeting will take most of the afternoon, but I'm free tonight," I say. "Did you want to get together?"

"Yes, you asshole, that's why I'm asking. I told you, I've been missing you."

I didn't forget. I come closer. He's sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear. He hasn't really gotten out of bed yet. When I stand in front of him, he puts his hands on my waist, threading a finger through the belt loop of my pants. "So you haven't had enough of me?" I ask softly.

He shakes his head. We smile at each other. Then he asks, "It's Saturday, how come you have a meeting?"

"Client's leaving for Europe tonight. He wants to get one last ass-kick at me before he goes. I'll give him lunch and the meeting, then I should be home by 5. Why don't you meet me there?"

"At the loft? No. Why don't you come back here? The hotel restaurant is supposed to be pretty good. Or we can go out somewhere else if you want."

I'm starting to get pissed off. This loft-avoidance is new. "What exactly is wrong with my place? You just told me yesterday you love it."

"I do, but -- "

"Then meet me there," I order. "It's a lot closer to the office and it's a lot closer to the train station for you. You can stay over. There's no point in paying for another night here. And if you're trying to hide out, trust me, it's a good spot. I've spent many a lost weekend there."

"Brian, I don't want -- "

"I'll give you my key."

He hesitates. I wait to see if he'll admit it. He tugs me a little closer and kisses my bare stomach. "I still have a key," he murmurs into my navel.

"Oh," I say, all surprised. He flicks his tongue on my skin and my cock stirs agreeably again inside my pants. I glance at my watch. I don't really have time, but he can get me off fast when required.

But before I can say anything, he lets go and sits back on the bed. "All right, I'll meet you there later. I guess I'll take a look around some neighborhoods this afternoon, start thinking about apartments."

I get the rest of my clothes and finish dressing. At the door I nod goodbye. Something is clouding his face. With my hand on the knob, I ask, "What are you going to do right now? Go back to sleep?"

He shakes his head, smiling a little. "No. I have to call Nathan back. We'll be on the phone for a good hour, saying the same things over and over. I hate this."

I nod wisely, but I'm wondering how much my name is going to figure in the conversation. "You don't seem to be very successful with your boyfriends."

"Thanks for the profound insight," he says dryly, "but I've already reached that conclusion."

I realize I still don't know what other conclusions he's reached, or what the real problem is. It can't be moving back to Pittsburgh, and I still don't believe it's this Nathan guy. If he came here to tell me whatever it is, he better hurry the fuck up. We only have one night left.

 

*****
 

It's a working lunch, ordered in to my office. I had to bring in Cynthia and the creative team, to put on the full dog and pony show. Nobody's happy but they don't grumble too much. I always make it up to people afterwards, with a little extra in the paycheck or a few days' vacation. The client is all packed for Europe and apparently has nothing else to do, so he's inclined to sit and ponder instead of making campaign decisions. I make them for him and thank everybody all around. I'm about ready to wrap it up when Cynthia pokes her head back in and says, "Line one."

I raise my eyebrows. She mouths, "Michael," at me.

Shit. I did have plans for tonight. "Excuse me, Stan," I say to the client. He waves at me graciously and asks Cynthia if she's ever been to Geneva. While they make small talk, I swivel my chair to face the wall and pick up the phone. "Hey, Mikey. You tracked me down."

"Your cell's off and you're not answering at the loft," Michael says. It sounds like an accusation. "I stopped by last night, but you weren't there."

"Then I guess I was somewhere else."

"No kidding. So what time tonight? I have to let Ben know."

Of course he does. His married life has settled him down - way too much, as I keep telling him - but he thinks it's okay because he plans a "night out for the boys" every couple of weeks. It makes me gag, but that's really what he calls it.

"Turns out I can't this time, Mikey." He starts to say something about it being a Saturday night and I say firmly, "I'm at the office, remember? It can't be helped." I don't actually tell him that I have to work tonight. I can't help what he infers. He grumbles but accepts it. He's used to me putting in long hours. I tell him I'll call him tomorrow, and we hang up.

I suppose I could have told him Justin has popped into town. He knows I always make time for him. The problem is, he knows what kind of time. It was a long while back - must be quite a few years, I think Justin was headed for Boston - when Michael walked in on us fucking. Well, technically, we hadn't quite started, but my clothes were off and so were most of Justin's, so Mikey got the idea. He was so shocked, you would have thought he had caught me with a girl.

It bothers him for some reason. He can't understand how we can fuck sometimes and it doesn't mean we're together. And he really can't understand how I can listen to all the talk about the Boyfriend, when one exists. He has some vague idea that Justin is hurting me or taking advantage of me somehow. Michael is too simple, really, too straightforward. Getting drunk hurts like hell afterwards, too, but has that ever stopped me from drinking?
 

*****
 

When I enter the loft, I have another of my flashes. For a few amazing moments it feels like it used to, when I fully expected to come home to Justin. I hear him clattering in the kitchen and realize he might even be cooking. Not that he cooked much when he was here; it was only an occasional thing. We usually ordered something in or went out. He was never interested in being the little wife. Which is a damn good thing, because I would have kicked his ass. But once in awhile, I'd open the door like this and hear him in the kitchen.

All of a sudden I feel sick. This was a terrible idea. What the fuck was I doing? Maybe this is why he didn't want to wait in the loft. Maybe he knew it would be like this - playacting at our old selves. Fuck me. How could I have been so stupid?

Well, he's here now, because I insisted on it, and he's cooking something for certain. I can smell it. I just have to suck it up. Like I always do.

I throw down my jacket and the files from the office, and settle my face before I walk closer. "Hey," he greets me. Something's simmering on the stove and he's reaching into the refrigerator for a bottle of white wine. "Hiding out here sounded like a good idea after all, so I picked up some groceries." He grins. "I knew you wouldn't have anything. I don't know why you even have a kitchen."

"The liquor cart is fully stocked."

"So I noticed. I've been taking inventory."

"Meaning you've been poking into everything?"

"Yep." He pours a glass of wine for me and I take it. "I now know all your secrets."

"Such as?" I try to think if there's anything here I don't want him to see. But everything I have to hide goes on in my head.

"Such as your current taxable income, and may I congratulate you." He holds up his own glass in a mock toast. "And the number of Italian suits you presently own, the anti-aging vitamins you've started taking, and the latest additions to your pornography collection, which isn't as extensive as it used to be."

"I gave the stuff I was bored with to Theodore."

"And there's something in the toy chest I can't even identify."

"A sophisticated, well-traveled sex fiend like you? Well, well. I'll be happy to demonstrate its uses."

"There are also an alarming number of photos of a beautiful young boy."

"I'm a pedophile now, didn't I mention it?"

"I haven't seen Gus for real for so long. The last few times I got together with Lindsay, he was at Melanie's. When I move back, can I come with you to visit him?"

"You don't need me as an escort. Lindsay adores you, you know that."

"But after your description, I'm afraid of her girlfriend."

I manage to laugh and head for the bedroom to change. Due to unforeseen circumstances -- the fuckfest in the hotel room -- I had to meet my client in yesterday's clothes. Luckily casual is fine for a Saturday meeting. But I'd like a fresh shirt.

Justin, I notice, is freshly showered and changed. He's carefully calibrated what he's wearing: a tight black shirt with black jeans that seem comfortably easy for hanging around here, but would also get him into one of the new clubs, should the mood strike us. That would mean should the mood strike me, of course. He's not likely to suggest it.

If we go out after dinner, we'll dance and we'll fuck but I'll never find out what he's really here for. And it's still possible we'd run into Emmett or someone. So I decide to settle it right now. Instead of a fresh shirt, I pull a white undershirt over my head. It's a signal that we're staying in, and I don't doubt he can still read my signals. He's left one for me, too: his overnight bag from the hotel is here on the floor. He must have taken my suggestion and checked out.

He glances at my new attire - including button jeans and bare feet - and smiles a little. I pick my wine up and nod towards the couch, but he shakes his head. "I have to keep an eye on this sauce for another ten minutes."

"Oh." I pause, ridiculously uncertain what to do with myself in my own place. I don't want to stand here twiddling my fingers and watch him stir a sauce. In that other life, I used to go watch TV or work at the computer until he was finished, but I'm not going to do that now. I take a sip of wine to stall, and he rescues me.

"Here, slice this for the salad." He hands me a tomato, the cutting board, and a knife. So I sit down at the counter, across from him as he stands by the stove, and slice away dutifully. He puts some carrots on the board, for me to do next.

It's all very cozy, and I feel even sicker. Seven years since I asked, and he almost-not-quite moved in here. But what's the point in adding up the time? Time has never been on our side. I met him too young, and he was hurt by hate too soon. And I was too slow, too fucking stupidly slow, to reach for what I had in front of me. By the time I put out my hand, he was gone.

When a brick wall looms in front of me, my policy is to dash right into it. Better to get the pain over with. So I say, "How did the 'my darling, it's over between us' talk turn out?"

He grimaces. "About as well as they always do. You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"What'd he say?"

"Blamed me for everything. You know how this stuff goes."

"As a matter of fact," I remind him, "I don't."

"Well, you haven't missed much. Maybe you've been right all along, Brian. Maybe it's hopeless." He adds feta cheese and some mix of herbs to the sauce, and checks another saucepan, where the water is starting to boil. He adds rigatoni to it. "Or maybe I'm hopeless."

Sounds like he's finally becoming sensible about these romances. Somehow I'm not as satisfied about it as I should be. "You seem to be blaming yourself for everything, too."

"In a way," he says. He pauses and looks at me. I don't want to meet his look, so I drop my eyes. That's when I see the little tremor starting in his right hand. He's been stirring and chopping too much. Without thinking, I put out my own hands. He hesitates so long I'm forced to look up at him. As soon as I do, he puts down the wooden spoon and gives me his hand. I start to massage it. Awkwardly, with his left hand, he turns off the heat under the sauce.

Something's finally coming. I concentrate on pressing my thumbs along his palm.

"The thing is, Brian, I know what's wrong with me."

I feel myself frown. "So do I. You got clocked in the head."

"I don't mean my hand."

"I don't know what the fuck you do mean." I press harder. Inside my grip, he stretches out his fingers and flexes them.

He says, "I can't make it work. I can't make it work with anybody. I don't commit to anyone, I don't try hard enough. I always walk out."

I almost laugh. This is it? This is the big problem? He can't be serious. He couldn't have come here, here of all places, to me of all people, to have his love life analyzed. Christ. "I know what else is wrong with you," I say. "You're an asshole." What the fuck am I supposed to say?

"Thanks." He pulls his hand back.

I make a small try. "Maybe you're expecting too much. Or maybe you keep picking the wrong guys."

"Both true. And I think I over-cooked the pasta."

"I'll choke it down." Why not, I'm choking down everything else. "Maybe you really don't want this domestic bliss crap, did you ever think of that?"

"Yes. I think about it a lot. And every time I do, I hear your voice in my head."

"Really? And what am I saying?"

He shrugs, as if it doesn't matter. In a way it doesn't, because I can guess. I've made enough pronouncements on this topic, over the years. There should be a statute of limitations on these things.

I still can't believe this is about his fucking love life, his parade of young men - oh yes, they were all younger than I am, I always managed to find that out - and the string of poor broken hearts he's leaving behind him. And the little shit brings this to me, like I'm his wise old uncle. I'm the man who fucked him out of his mind last night, did he forget already?

He has to know I can't give advice on love. The only thing I'm an expert on is eating your heart out. Yeah, I can advise him on that. Do it in utter silence. It's the only way.

I was braced for some kind of real disaster, imagining anything that might be wrong with him. I was already trying to figure out what I could do. I thought he might have run out of money. Or had bad art reviews. Or a crisis of confidence. Or more trouble with his hand, something wrong with his mother, who the fuck knows. The worst thing I was imagining has been my biggest fear all along: that at some point he'd be romantically stupid with one of these guys, and come back to tell me he's had bad news on his latest blood test. In which case I'm prepared to save the medical system hundreds of thousands of dollars by strangling him with my bare hands.

I could strangle him now anyway. But his face is very calm. No, it's hardened. He didn't finish saying whatever he came to say. I don't care. For the first time since I've been having these little get-togethers with him, I don't want to know and I don't want to help.

He doesn't ask for any. He doesn't ask for help with the dinner, either, but I can't sit here and let him set the fucking table by himself. Well, I could, but I decide not to. As we put out the plates he goes back to small talk, asking me about my meeting and how Cynthia is doing these days.

I almost tell him to go fuck himself, but I know where that will lead, and what it will get me: an empty bed. I'm pissed off, but not enough to want that. So I make myself answer him. The wine helps.

Turns out, the dinner's pretty good, even if the pasta is a little mushy. I say so and he gives a little sardonic smile. We keep chatting and he keeps eyeing me over his glass. He's putting back the wine much faster than I am, and he's not eating at all.

"Are you all right?" I ask finally. I wouldn't mind him staring if it was a fuck-me look. But this is almost cold, calculating, like he's adding something up. Maybe he's counting my gray hairs.

"No. I told you." His voice is strange, a little high. "There's something wrong with me and I know what it is."

"Care to share?" I don't like the way he's smiling at all. This is not the famous Sunshine. This is a hard young man who's getting drunk and - it's easy to see now - who's very angry.

He swishes the wine in his glass. "I know what's wrong with me," he repeats in a singsong.

I sit back, to appear at ease, and force a smile of my own. God knows what it looks like. "So," I say, as if I'm humoring a child, "go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with you."

"You." He's very pleased with himself for a minute. "You're what's wrong with me."

I've been so fucking careful. I watch everything I say. I don't goad him, I don't tell him what to do any more, I listen and I nod and I give advice if it's asked for, and I fuck him when he wants me to. What can he accuse me of now? "If you're blaming the Kinney influence for your failed love life," I say, thinking of Debbie's diagnosis, "you're a big boy. Take your own lumps."

He shakes his head, to tell me that's not what he meant, and drains his wine. He's halfway through a second bottle. "I shouldn't have had so much. I wanted to tell you this sober. But I couldn't seem to say it last night." He pours himself more.

"You still haven't said it," I point out. "At least not coherently. How have you reached this conclusion, that I'm what's wrong with you? What did I do?"

"It's not your fault. You're just you. And I . . . " He looks at me. Now he does give me one of his real smiles, the kind that light up his face. A jolt goes through me. The next thing he says jolts me again. "I'm still in love with you. That's my problem. That's why I can't make it work with anybody else." The smile vanishes, replaced by a smirk, probably at my astonished face. "Well, that wasn't as hard as I thought. And you can save your fucking replies, I'm not expecting any and I don't want any. Are you finished?"

Me? He's the one dropping bombshells. But apparently he means the pasta. I nod, wordless. He gets up, takes my dish, and starts clearing up, like he's nineteen years old again and bussing tables at the diner. Only the way he's slamming the plates around, Debbie would be lecturing him.

I sit and drum my fingers on the table. It's a good thing he doesn't want a reply, because I'm fresh out of any. I don't know how much time goes by, with me sitting like a Rodin statue and Justin loading my dishwasher and banging the refrigerator door as he puts away the leftovers. Angry drunks shouldn't handle ceramics; he drops and shatters a pasta bowl, curses, and cleans it up. When he's finished, he comes back to the table and stands in front of me.

Like a demented host, I say, "Shall we take our wine into the living room?"

Without a word, Justin snatches up both our wineglasses - which is all that he's left on the table -- and stalks over to the couch. But he doesn't sit down. He just stands there. I join him, taking my wine from him, and sit, thinking he'll sit down beside me.

It's a mistake, because he stays on his feet. So now he's standing over me. And I'm not used to looking up at him. I feel myself squinting, like he's burning too bright for my eyes.

"Here's what I realized," he announces loudly. It's clear I'm supposed to shut up and listen. "I realized that I've been wasting all these years trying to fight you off. And I can't, so I'm done trying and I'm done pretending. This is just the way it is."

He's in a cold, controlled fury. I'm mesmerized. I don't think I've ever seen him this way before. Not even when he realized his hand injury was permanent and he wanted to quit school, or the night he figured out that I had given the fiddler career advice. Or even that time I neglected to mention that I had cancer. His anger is usually hot, right up front, not crystallized in ice like this.

He goes on, spitting out words. "The thing is, I can't remember not being in love with you, it's gone on so long. That's why I couldn't commit to anybody else, that's why when Jimmy shouted at me that my heart was never in it, I couldn't even answer him. That's why I wake up so many mornings with Nathan wrapped around me, feeling like I'm choking, and I realize I've been dreaming about you again for like the five thousandth time." His eyes look down at me, narrowed into slits, unrecognizable.

All I can think is that maybe this is what Chris Hobbes saw, kneeling on the ground with a gun in his mouth. "Justin." My voice is so shaky, I'm practically whimpering. Did Hobbes whimper? But I'm not frightened of him, or of what he might do to me. I'm frightened of what he's doing to himself. "Justin." But I can't say anything else.

He sneers, he actually sneers at me. "Don't worry," he assures me sarcastically. "I'm not going to bother you. I'm not moving back to Pittsburgh to be with you. Don't flatter yourself. I'm moving back because it's my home, and I realized that the only reason I haven't been living here is because of you. I've been trying to stay away from you. I've been running from you ever since I was in Toronto, and I can't do it any more."

Finally, something I can grab hold of. "You mean, Billy in Toronto?"

"What?" He's thrown off. Then he sighs a little and closes his eyes. "Yeah, that's when I fucked it up." He takes a breath, like he's trying to calm himself. Finally he says, "I'm sorry, Brian. I was so fucking stupid, I felt ashamed. Did you know the whole time?"

"I knew there was something. I knew there was somebody."

"But there wasn't, not really. It wasn't serious. But I was ashamed, after I promised you I wouldn't -- and I knew you wouldn't want me -- oh, shit. It doesn't matter now."

"No," I say slowly. "No, it doesn't matter now." But my heart takes some kind of leap and starts pounding in my chest. He didn't come back . . . not because he didn't want to. He didn't come back, because he was ashamed. Because he thought I wouldn't want him? That was the only fucking reason?

His voice rises again. "I'm not going to bother you, I'm telling you. My stalking days are over. I'm going to live my own life when I move back here. I'll see you sometimes like we do now. When I can or when you want. When we both want to fuck, I guess. But what I'm going to concentrate on is my work and getting a gallery off the ground, and that's it. I'm not going to waste my time looking for someone else to love. I'm already in love and there's nothing I can do about it except live with it somehow."

There's so much noise going on in my head I can barely hear him, even though he's almost shouting. No, no, he's not shouting, he stopped. He's taking in another long breath. I'm half-deaf but I'm not blind; I can see what else he's thinking, the things he's not saying, all on his face. He's overwhelmed with what he thinks is his failure, his failure at love. Stupid, fucking, moronic little twat with his head up his ass, he still doesn't get it. The failure is mine. Mine. It always has been.

True to myself, my oh-so-fabulous Kinney self, I can't say this. I can't seem to make my mouth say anything. Oh, but he knows me. He knows me and he doesn't expect one fucking thing from me. He finishes his wine in one final gulp and puts the glass down on the coffee table. I'm still staring up at him, like I'm waiting for more revelations from a prophet, but he's said what he needed to. He takes a step closer, so that he can rub his knee against mine. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice calm now. "I didn't mean to yell. I think I had too much to drink. I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at myself."

I choke out, "I wish you weren't."

"Weren't what? In love with you? Well, that makes two of us." He looks out over the loft. "God, I knew coming here would be a mistake."

"I meant, I wish you weren't mad," I say. But I'm talking to empty air. He's walking away.

"I'm not going to stay tonight," he calls over his shoulder. He must be going for his bag.

Oh, good guess, Kinney. Yes indeed, because here he is again, with it slung over his shoulder. "This isn't good for me," he says. He must think I need an explanation. "Being here in the loft, acting like I belong here. It reminds me too much of how it used to be. It hurts, Brian." No shit. He thinks I don't know that? "So when I come back to Pittsburgh permanently, I don't think I want to hang out here, okay? I'm going to have to be careful." He nods, like we're going to shake hands on the deal. "When I see you, we should probably go out. And fuck at my place. It'll be new, it won't have the same feeling. The same associations."

"Associations?" I don't know why, but I hate the way he's trying to make it all rational, get it all sorted out so it makes some sense. It doesn't make any fucking sense at all, and that's the first thing we better face. I stand up, and I stand close to him. It forces him to tilt up his head; he can't just lift his eyes. "I was right the first time," I say coldly. "You really are an asshole. Do you seriously -- "

"Just think about it," he says. He's worked off his own anger, so he's going to be patient with me now. Fuck that. He backs up, and has to take a step sideways to get past me. His eyes are glassy, but his speech is still precise. "I didn't want to come back here under false pretenses. I thought you should know, but now you don't have to worry about it. We'll work out the details. I never want to stop seeing you, Brian, but I'll have to be careful how much and how often. I don't want to get distracted from my work."

"You're making me sound like a fucking drug. Like you have to watch your dose."

"Why not? Apparently I'm addicted. Listen, I'll let you know when I'm coming back to find an apartment. Maybe you can help me look. I'll stay with my mom until I get a place."

"Justin -- " But he's already heading to the door. Again. So I get to stand here and watch him walk out. Again?

All right, that's not necessarily true. I can think it over. I can talk to him tomorrow, when he sobers up. I could see him next time he comes in. And I'll be seeing him when he moves back. It's not like this is the make-or-break moment.

But oh God, it feels like it. It feels like I either make my paralyzed legs move, right now, or I can stand here and flush more years of my life down the toilet.

Funny that our timing is perfect in bed, when it's always been so off everywhere else. Maybe that's going to finally change, because I have a moment of perfect timing now. I'm there and grabbing him by the shoulders, just as he puts his hand on the door.

His bag hits the floor, but his feet hardly do. I drag him towards the bedroom, with my mouth -- finally being of some use -- fastened over his. He flails a little, not resisting really, just surprised. When we have to break far enough apart to get up the stairs and fall on the bed, he says breathlessly, "Brian, I don't think -- "

"Good. Stop thinking so fucking much."

"This isn't really going to help now," he says. He's shaking his head. He's also trying to wriggle out of his jeans.

"Won't hurt," I say, helping him.

I was wrong. It does hurt. As soon as we're naked, I pull him up against me and wrap my arms around him, and the truth is it hurts like a motherfucker. And I'm talking, I'm saying things, I don't know what I'm saying. His name, mostly I'm saying his name over and over. And please, please. Christ, I'm begging -- me, the guy who makes other guys beg. And what am I begging for? I finally gasp it out. "Come back home," I say. "It's time for you to come home. Home to me."

He clutches at me and babbles something, but it's all muffled into my hair. I can't make it out. Then he pulls away, just a little, so he can draw his legs up high to his chest and put them over my shoulders. I take that as my answer.

 

*****
 

There's no such thing as time in this bed, not with him. We fuck like we're trying to break some of our old records. Justin, who was acting so cold and hard and tough before, goes all sentimental and compares it to our first night. I don't care what he compares it to, so long as we've settled it the right way: that this is our first night again, our first night back together. During the rests, we hold on to each other and talk a little.

"What's Michael going to say?" he asks at one point. He's laughing.

"I'll handle Michael. You handle your mother."

"Oh shit, my mother! Well, she wanted me to settle down. And she'll be glad I'm in Pittsburgh."

"But in this loft?"

"I do love this loft," he says dreamily. "I don't think it's you, after all. I think I'm in love with the loft."

"Make up your mind."

His voice goes serious. "I have. Are you sure you have?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just that . . . your invitation did seem a little sudden."

I snort into the pillows. "Sudden? I asked you to move in with me seven fucking years ago, you asshole." It's just like my gray hair. I've been waiting for him ever since.

Justin smacks himself in the head and I laugh. Shit, I can really laugh about this. I say gently, "You took the long way home, didn't you?"

"I guess it was always just a matter of time. Brian? I'm sorry it took me so long. If I had known the door was still open . . . "

"Our timing was off."

He rolls closer to kiss my nose, and gives a little groan. He's sore. "Oh my God, maybe there is such a thing as enough. I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow."

"You won't need to walk tomorrow," I assure him. "We're not going anywhere."

"But I still have the train ticket. I mean, I have to go back and settle things in New York."

I'm supposed to let him go off again, even temporarily? That's what he thinks. Never mind, I'll explain it to him tomorrow. In the meantime, he starts explaining things to me. About his artwork that he has to bring, apparently there's quite a lot now, and some of it will look good on these walls. There's some kind of special desk he got off eBay, too, which he can't work without any more, but it's okay because it collapses and will fit in the trunk of my car, and we can go get it next weekend . . . I stop listening. I'm just watching his face, all animated as he makes plans. As I drift off, I think he's talking about how I really should quit smoking.

For once I fall into a deep sleep, easily, and stay there for hours. Eventually I'm aware that Justin is nibbling on my ear and the loft is all lit up by the sun. "I'm hungry," he's saying. "And I already know you don't have anything in the house." By all rights, he should have a hangover, but he sounds fine. "Let's go get something."

With my eyes closed, I murmur, "I told you, we're not going anywhere today."

He nuzzles me. "But for what you've got planned, we're going to need nourishment."

"No diner," I say. Sundays are prime family days; they may be out in roaming packs. And they'll have plenty to say. Not that I give a fuck. All I know is, he's here and he's staying. Everything else will be white noise.

Justin knows what I mean. "No, I don't want to run into anybody yet, either. We can get something on the corner and bring it back."

"What time is it?"

He sits up and fumbles around, looking in the wrong place for the clock. I must have moved it since the last time he was here. Finally he says, "Shit, it's already after noon. I'll go start the shower. Coming in with me?"

I was about to roll over on him, but this sounds even more tempting. It's a long time since we've showered together . . .. Noon. Let's see, he showed up before 7 on Friday night, so that's maybe forty, forty-one . . .

"Brian?"

He's on the edge of the bed, about to get up, but puzzled. I sit up beside him, yawning. "I was thinking . . . it's about forty hours since you banged on the door Friday night. Not much time."

"What do you mean?"

I look at him. The thing is, I don't have to say what I'm thinking, not out loud. I really don't. And I never would have, never until today. But I lean over and take him by the upper arm.

He's startled. "What is it?" He looks in my face. "Brian?"

"I was . . . " My voice fades out. He waits a moment. Then the expectation dies out of his face and he turns away, back to the bathroom. I tighten my grip. "Hold it," I manage to croak. "I'm trying to say something."

"Well, what?"

I clear my throat and we both wait for it. I clear my throat again. Justin says, "You sound like you're trying to bring up a hairball."

"Fuck you." But it's just what I needed. Now I can say it, if I talk fast. "I was thinking, it's only about forty hours ago since you banged on the loft door and -- "

"You said that."

" -- Will you shut up? Only forty hours and - and my whole fucking life suddenly fixed itself."

We stare at each other. Justin's eyes soften and he puts a hand to my cheek. "Forty hours and seven years," he corrects me gently, and kisses me. He wants to make sure we get the timing right.

Fuck, it took us long enough. But I think we finally have.

 

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