Any Place But Home 

Justin clutched his pillow in defiance of the alarm, keeping his eyes shut. No.

Brian's arm came around him from behind. He nuzzled his nose into Justin's hair and licked the nape of his neck. Justin murmured with appreciation, but he still refused to move.

"Name your wish," Brian said softly into his ear. In their bed, this meant:  name the sex act you want me to perform on you.

Justin opened his eyes; this would be worth waking up for. "Hmm, let's see," he said sleepily. Brian turned the licking into gentle bites. As if he were an uncertain diner asking the waiter for help, Justin said, "What would you recommend?"

Brian played along. "May I suggest a quick rimming to start, sir, followed by a good hard fuck?"

"That sounds good, I'll have that," Justin giggled, and received an ass-pinch from Brian, who didn't like him to act girlish.  Still smiling, Justin rolled over on to his stomach, burying his face in the pillows. Brian buried his own face between Justin's shoulder blades, and began trailing warm kisses down his back. Just as he was low enough to elicit the first moan from Justin, the phone rang.

Justin tensed, but Brian's tongue went on exploring. The phone rang two more times; Brian was going to let the machine pick it up. Justin blocked out the sounds of Brian's most recent recording ("If you really have to leave a message, hurry the hell up and don't talk too much") and the beep, trying to concentrate on the tongue-flicks he was getting, but then a voice called out.

"Christ, that's even ruder than the last one," Michael's voice said from the machine.

Justin let out another moan, this time an unhappy one. Brian lifted his head and waited.

"Brian? Brian! Pick up! Come on, I know you have to be there at this hour. I don't care what you're doing. Or who you're doing. This is important!"

It had better be, Justin thought, resigning himself. And who exactly does he think would be here first thing in the morning?

Brian sat up and reached for the bedside phone. "It's not even seven o'clock," he barked without preliminaries. "What the fuck do you want?" Then his voice changed. "Is something wrong?"

Justin, hauling himself out of bed, paused and looked back.  Brian listened, then shook his head --No - - to let Justin know nothing was wrong with Ben. Justin went into the bathroom and stood yawning, half-listening to Brian's end of the conversation.

"You're at the store already? What a busy little bee you are, Mikey.  The responsible store owner. I thought you were hiring a kid to help out . . . What shipment?"

Justin flushed the toilet and paused by the shower doors, wondering if he should wait for Brian. There was still time. The alarm was always set to go off a little early, so they could get in a fuck or a fondle in the shower.

"Well, why do you have to  . . . So they fucked up the order, why is this a disaster? . . . Okay, I got that, but . . . Jesus, Mikey, not the fucking warehouse . . . Great. And what lovely part of the Pitts is it in?"

Justin sighed. Whatever it was, it was going to take awhile, apparently. He reached in to turn on the faucets, then stepped back and waited for the hot water to come through. The pipes began to clang and whistle in the walls. Brian said he had spent a fortune renovating the loft, but nothing made the building itself anything less than ancient.  "You mean it's even older than you?" Justin had teased one day. Brian had cuffed him.

"You know, it's a Jeep, not a fucking pick up truck. . . . All right, all right. Maybe we can find ourselves a pair of brawny warehouse workers . . . What? . . . Hey, Sunshine!"

Justin came back and stood naked by the bed, just out of reach. Brian put his hand over the mouthpiece for a moment and said, "He needs me to go get a comic book shipment down at some warehouse. End of the world if he doesn't get it today or something. And he wants to talk to you tonight about more Rage stories."

"I'll try, but I'm getting together with Matthew and some guys he knows after Medieval Art."

"Who?"

"Matthew. The sculptor. The one from the art show? You met him."

"Oh, yeah. Well, but don't blow Michael off." Since Brian was still holding the phone away, letting Michael's voice talk to the air, Justin found this reprimand amusing. "It's important to him," Brian said. He added into the mouthpiece, "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Hey!"

Brian paused, looking him over. Justin, teasing, moved a little closer. "Make that forty minutes," Brian said to Michael. "I know, I know. But there's something I have to take care of here first."

"Meet you in the shower," Justin said, and darted away before Brian could grab him.

*****    

After work that evening, Michael came back to the loft with Brian. "I can handle the inventory, that's nothing after the Big Q," Michael was continuing as they entered the elevator in Brian's building. It started up. "But the tax forms for small businesses are getting to me. Every time I fill one out another one comes in, and they're all translated from the Japanese."

"Ask Melanie. OK, OK. But really, maybe you should stop taking it all to Ted. He's not doing much of that shit any more."

"I know, now that he's a porn master he's not interested in my little thing."

"Remind me, how little are we talking?"

"I meant my accounting books," Michael said, and smacked Brian's arm.

Brian flashed him a grin and pulled up the elevator door.  He reached for the keys in his jacket and suddenly stopped.

"What's all that noise?" Michael asked. They heard several voices talking at once, followed by a burst of laughter.  "Does Justin have somebody over?"

"Now there's a brilliant deduction. Maybe you should sign on as Horvath's partner."

"Oh, fuck you."

Brian yanked on the door and it clattered open. The noise inside suddenly paused and Brian had a moment's confusion as heads turned to him. He felt, ridiculously, as if he were intruding on something.

"Hey," said Justin in surprise, coming out of the kitchen clutching beer bottles. "You're early." Smiling, he came up for a kiss. When Brian didn't lean over, he stood on tiptoe and caught him on the cheek. "Hi, Michael. Want a beer?"

"No thanks, I'll wait until we go out. Hey," Michael added as a greeting to the faces looking at them.

There were only four visitors after all, Brian saw, even if they had been making enough noise for twenty. He recognized Matthew from the art show. He was sitting on the floor by the coffee table, where beer bottles and scattered potato chips had collected around textbooks. Brian hadn't paid much attention to him last time, but now he noted the green eyes and dark hair, the prominent cheekbones and promising muscular upper arms. Hard to tell about the ass when he was sitting on it. . . Brian made the inventory automatically; he didn't even realize he was doing it. Justin, who did, cleared his throat and made quick introductions. "You remember Matthew, " he began.

Next to Matthew on the floor, with one arm propped on the coffee table and the other around Matthew's waist, was a young man named Jonathan, sporting an ugly goatee and six or seven earrings snaking up his right ear. Someone named Steven, skinny but darkly handsome, was sitting in one of the white chairs.  At the sight of Brian, he froze with his cigarette halfway to his mouth, barely managing to grunt a hello. Brian glanced at him, and glanced again, wondering with irritation what the hell he was staring at.

"And this is Tina," Justin finished, waving at a girl  who was sprawled out on the couch as if she owned it. Her thick corkscrew red hair was hiding most of her face. She had on a fringed blouse, low-cut jeans, and high-laced black boots, both of which were digging into the expensive couch leather. As he and Michael acknowledged Justin's introductions, Brian leaned over, smiling, and pushed her feet off the couch. Startled, Tina sat up, shooting a confused look at Justin.

"Nice meeting you," Brian said, still smiling hard, but thinking, What the fuck? Now they're all staring at me.  "I'll have that beer," he said to Justin, but Justin had already passed the bottles out to his friends. Brian rolled his eyes and went into the kitchen. Michael started to follow, but Justin said, "I did a few rough sketches for Rage, Michael. They're over there by Brian's computer."

"Oh, good."  Michael turned to the desk by the door.

Justin went over to the kitchen area and sat down at the counter. Brian was standing in front of the open refrigerator. He asked, "Did you just give them the last of the imported beer?"

"Did I? I think there should be one more. Look on the bottom."

Brian fished it out. "So what's going on?"

"Nothing. We met after class like I told you, and we were talking, and just felt like hanging out. " Justin added a little anxiously, "Is this okay?"

"Is what okay?"

"That I brought them here?"

They heard Matthew called over to Michael,  "Are you the guy Justin's doing Rage with? That stuff is really cool."

Brian took a long swallow of beer. "You don't need my permission to have people over."

"Well, it's your loft."

"And you're living in it. So who's the dyke?"

"Tina's not a dyke, more like a faghag. She has a boyfriend but he transferred to Berkley and she's really upset about it. She's an old friend of Matthew's. I like her, she's really easy to talk to. Steven seems nice, too." He lowered his voice, but it wasn't necessary. His friends were chattering about Rage. "Jonathan's kind of an asshole, but he's part of the package with Matthew."

"They're fucking?"

"They're boyfriends. Apparently they broke up awhile ago, but it was true love or something and they had to get back together. Matthew told me he had cheated on Jonathan. He said he didn't mean to but he just got really horny."

Brian threw his hands out in a comical gesture, spraying a little beer foam, as if to say, See?

Justin laughed. "Some people manage to be faithful, Brian."

"Some people manage not to get caught. These new friends of yours sound like a bad influence." Brian looked over and saw that they had crowded around Michael to examine Justin's sketches -- which meant they were crowded around his desk. Tina was sitting on the edge of it, in fact. Some of his work papers had fallen to the floor.  Jonathan moved to the other side of Michael and stepped on them. "Hey!" Brian called. "Watch it." 

The young faces looked around in surprise, the excited talk abruptly cut off, and Brian pointed to the floor. "Those papers are important."  Christ, he thought, I sound like somebody's grandfather. Michael bent to the papers and put them back on the desk.

Brian said more quietly to Justin, "And tell them to pick up the beer bottles all over the floor."

"I will." Justin bit back a smile and Brian grimaced.

"Don't tell me -- I sound like your fucking father."

"Actually, I was thinking you sound more like my mother."

Brian snorted and tossed the bottle cap at him.  Justin said, "Brian?"
.
"Still here."

"I just wanted them to see the loft."

He took another swallow, trying to choke down his annoyance with the teenagers as well as his impatience with Justin. He always seemed to be in need of something. What the fuck was the matter now? "Why?" he managed to ask in a normal tone.

"The kids at school - " Justin paused. He wasn't sure if he should go on. Brian's face looked calm, waiting. Finally Justin said, "A lot of the kids I meet at school think I'm weird or something."

Shit, Brian thought. Here we go. "You mean because -- because of the -- "  He took a breath and forced himself. "Because of the bashing?"

"The bashing? Oh, you mean my hand. No, no most of them don't even know about it. Matthew's the only one I've told. Most of the people at school think I do all this computer work by choice."

"So what is it, then?"

"Well, most of them - some of them still live at home with their parents. Tina does. So does Steven. And some of them do have their own places, like Jonathan, but with a bunch of roommates. Some shitty rental where the heat doesn't work half the time and the roaches run around every time you turn on a light.  You know, like Daphne has. And Matthew's in a dorm room. I swear it's half the size of our bathroom."

Brian looked at them again. Now Matthew was thumbing through one of the art books from his desk  -- bending the spine back too far while he was at it -- as he tried to find a painting he was swearing was an influence on Superman comics. They were all laughing with Michael. People always liked Michael; he could get along with anybody. Mikey took most things in stride. Not like Sunshine. "None of them are living with someone, is that what you mean?"

"Well, sure, some people do, I guess. But not in a killer place like this. And not with - with somebody like you."

"Not with some thirty-year-old, is that it?"

"You're one more than that," Justin tried to tease.

"I can do the math, thanks."

"Anyway, it doesn't matter now. Now that they've seen you."

"Seen me? Fuck. They were all staring at me. Do I have spinach on my front teeth?"

"No, they just couldn't believe it. Matthew met you, but I bet the rest of them thought I was with some ugly old guy. They couldn't believe how hot you are. I thought Steven was going to cum in his pants."

Brian raised an eyebrow. "Which one is Steven again? The good-looking one?"

Justin said laughing, "Brian Kinney, don't you fucking dare!"

"Brian, ready to go?" Michael called over.

"More than ready. We're going to Woody's." he added to Justin.

"I'll meet you there after these guys leave," Justin said.

Brian nodded and finished off the beer. He ducked into the bedroom to change out of his suit, and reappeared in the living room in his jeans, the top button open, and a black leather vest over a black T. This time there was no mistaking the looks he was getting from Justin's new friends. Everyone said goodbye and nice-to-meet-you.

Pleased now and feeling mischievous, Brian leaned over the couch where Justin was sitting. "'Bye," he said in a husky voice, and pulled Justin into a long, deep tongue kiss. By the time he let go and Justin was able to take in air again, all conversation had stopped.  "Later," Brian said casually, and sailed out the door with Michael in his wake.
 

*****
 

The invasion of the teenagers, as Brian began to think of it, continued over the next week. The kids were all broke, and they had discovered the loft was free, comfortable and convenient, with a great sound system. And of course Justin and his friends were home before Brian was, unless he picked Justin up after class, in which case they all crammed into the Jeep and came home with him, with Tina on somebody's lap. Noise itself didn't bother him but the gossipy conversations about professors and other students he had never heard of did, and the more Justin laughed the more irritated Brian felt. Besides, there was something off about Justin's laughter. Sometimes it sounded forced. When the talk steered around to class work and art styles, Brian was willing to jump in; these kids weren't stupid, at least. But they listened to anything he said too quietly, nodding their heads, as if he were one of their professors whom they had to at least pretend to respect.

So it was a relief on Friday to open the loft door after work and find nothing but blessed peace inside. He couldn't remember if Justin had said he'd be late, but right now he didn't care. He was just thankful to be alone for once.

In the beginning he had felt strange and even a little anxious, learning to come home to Justin. It was like learning to drive on the opposite side of the street in a foreign country. By the time Justin had huffed off to Debbie's, the night after the zucchini man, he had realized he was used to it. More than used to it. He knew he wanted to come home to Justin.

But not necessarily to all of Justin's little buddies. Christ.

Brian flung his briefcase and jacket in the vague direction of the couch and hit the PLAY button on the answering machine. "You have eleven messages," the computer voice intoned. "Jesus," Brian said out loud, wincing. Not Vance complaining again, for fuck's sake.

He had had an exhausting and infuriating day, with Vance at his bitchiest, following him down one hallway and up another, reminding him of things he needed to do and other things he should have done better. Thank God for the weekend.

Brian headed for the bedroom as the machine continued. BEEP. "Hey, shit, did you hear what Professor Fuckface did?" a voice asked, choking back laughter. Brian, pulling off his tie, rolled his eyes. Matthew. And not even a hello, Justin, to identify himself. As if no one else lived here. "Call me, you won't believe it."  BEEP.

"Me again," the second message began. "Tina says I should - what?" There was giggling in the background and a girl's voice, then Matthew continued, "I mean, she says to tell you he put that bitch Miranda in our group for the project, but there is just no way. Call me back." BEEP.

Brian started unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped when Matthew's voice rang out yet again. "Listen, sorry, I forgot to tell you we need a new textbook in Medieval, why weren't you in class? Were you working? I can pick up a copy for you, I'm heading over to the bookstore."  BEEP.

"Okay, I'm at the bookstore now but I don't know if you want the paperback or the hardcover  -- "

"You have to be shitting me," Brian said. Eleven fucking messages of this crap? What was he running here, a dorm? College Boys Central?

The beeps went on, as did Matthew. "Sorry to leave so many messages on your phone -- "
Whose phone?

"I just remembered, I think I left my sketch pad at your place -- "

This is my fucking place. Mine.

"You're living with someone," Michael had said, around that same time. The infamous Zucchini Incident, which seemed to be going down in history. "He's living with me," Brian had corrected. He's living with me. This is still my place.

Something which he couldn't quite recognize as guilt crept up on him. He rubbed the back of his neck fretfully. The machine was beeping again. After all, if Justin couldn't call the loft his, what could the little bastard claim?  He had nowhere else.

I've given him a home. I have. It's more than his goddamn parents did for him.

He moved fast on bare feet down the stairs and back to the desk, just as yet another message began. "Go fuck yourself!" Brian said to the machine, and slammed his hand down to shut it off. The recorded message wasn't rude enough, apparently, no matter what Mikey said. He'd have to do a new one later. Like: If you want Justin, call his fucking cell phone.

He pulled out the top desk drawer and searched around for a cigarette, trying to simmer down. The hell with it. They're just kids. The end of a rough week  . . . at least it's Friday, start of the whole fucking weekend. And it's going to be a whole fucking weekend, too. Babylon tonight. I hope Sunshine comes with  --

But this was not a thought he would permit himself to complete. His mind jumped tracks to a more practical idea. Food. Something light, and then a shower.

In the kitchen he threw a salad together, making enough for two, although he knew that the way Justin packed away food he should really make enough for three or four normal people. Older people. Fucking wonderful to be nineteen and eat like an elephant with no consequences.

No carbs, but it needed some protein. He found a package of raw chicken cutlets he knew he hadn't bought  -- had Justin? Jennifer? Maybe Debbie? -- and tossed them under the broiler. He'd cut them up and add them to the salad. Perfectly good meal, or good enough, anyway. Justin had asked more than once why he had had such an expensive and well-equipped kitchen installed when he did so little cooking.

Because. Because the loft . . .

Has great potential, the real estate agent had said when he first saw it. She had sounded a little nervous. The place didn't look like much at the time, just a lot of empty space, but she was more right than she realized: it did have potential. And he was finally making the income to handle it. The mortgage hadn't been bad. It was the loan for improvements he'd taken out that stretched him, as Ted had warned. (Or at least it did until he used the Pool Boy bonus to pay it off.) Ted had tried to stop him from applying for the loan right away. Why not wait a year or two, he had said, and Brian had answered, "Because."

Because the loft was going to be his, really his, not like all the rentals he had already passed through, and certainly not like Jack & Joan's Happy Drunks House. This was the place where he'd belong. Edgy neighborhood, crummy building -- it didn't matter. With the money he was working so fucking hard for, with the success he was finally achieving, he would turn it into exactly what he wanted.

The chicken was taking too long and he grew impatient. He decided to get in a quick shower while it finished cooking.

He was just starting to strip off his clothes when the phone rang again.

 

*****

"That guy is cruising you," Ted shouted in encouragement to Emmett hours later, over the steady pounding of the Babylon music. The Friday night crowd, usually the most raucous of the week, was roaring along with the DJ, calling out lyrics to a new song which none of their small group, huddled at the bar, could recognize.  "He's hot, look at him!"

"He's just a baby," Emmett said, shaking his head.

"They all are, haven't you noticed?" Ben called over, smiling. These days, he only came to Babylon to humor Michael. The clientele were starting to remind him of his students. "Look at us, we're like the geriatric wing. Justin's the one who should be here, and he's not."

Ted said, "Well, it's good for him to have some friends his own age. Don't you think, Brian?"

Brian, facing away from the crowd to lean on the bar, shifted restlessly and didn't answer.

"Hey, what's that?" asked Michael.

"Vodka."

"But you don't drink vodka."

"Watch me," Brian said, and tossed down the shot. He waved at the bartender, way down at the other end of the bar, and tapped his glass for more. The bartender, who knew him --had blown him once, in fact -- nodded and held up a finger: be right there.

"I've become much too good a boy lately," Brian said to Michael, apparently still explaining the vodka. "I need a new vice."

"Think there are any left?"

The bartender refilled the glass. Brian lifted it up, not to his mouth but to his eyes, and peered through it at Michael. "See, it's all clear now," he said.

What was becoming clear to Michael was that Brian was already drunk. "Slow down," he warned.

"So why'd you get here so fucking late?"

"I was showing the new assistant how to lock up, set the alarm and everything. I left you a message on your machine, didn't you get it?" He waited. "Brian?"

"I didn't listen to it," Brian said. Suddenly he added, "Those fucking teenagers are eating everything they can get their hands on."

"What?"  Michael leaned in, over the noise.

"I said they're eating everything! Especially when they're high. I'm going to start checking the furniture for bite marks."

Emmett broke in, "Is that like love bites?" and Ted laughed.

"There was a head of lettuce in there," Brian continued, half-shouting above the music. "Jennifer dropped it off with a lot of other shit. She wants her growing boy to eat his veggies. And they fucking ate that. Lettuce, for Christ's sake!"

"Honey, when you're high you'll eat anything," Emmett said. "I've put a lot worse than lettuce in my mouth."

"We did too," Michael said. "Remember that night my mom made two huge bowls of puttanesca, one for us and one to take to the neighbors, and we ate them both? Plus all the antipasto and the tortellini en brodo? She was really pissed off."

Ted said, "Sounds like a Roman orgy."

"More like Roman showers," Brian said.  "Michael threw it all up."

"Eeew!" They all grimaced.

Michael, laughing, insisted over the bass thump, "I did not! That was you!"

He gave Brian a playful shove; Brian shoved back."No, you!" They locked wrists and wrestled up against the bar. "Hey, save that for dancing," Ben said. "What do you say?"

"Sure," Michael said. He stepped back from Brian. Ben took his arm and pulled him towards the dance floor. "Hey, Brian, come with us."

Ben looked back, then said easily, "Yeah, sure, the more the merrier. We old folks have to stick together."

"No, we'll just - " Brian began. He half-turned to his right, as if someone were there, and stopped. "I 'm - I want another shot. You go away. Ahead. You go ahead."

"You better slow down!" Michael shouted over his shoulder as Ben tugged him through the crowd. "And don't drive yourself home, either!"

Brian rolled his eyes and signaled to the bartender again.

 

*****
 

Tina's imitation of Professor Malcom's lisp probably wasn't as funny as Justin thought it was, but the joint they were passing around was having its effect. He felt good; most of the time he was so driven, and it wasn't often, really, he was this relaxed. Except after Brian fucked him, of course. The thought made him giggle again.

He was sitting on the floor -- they all were -- and when he leaned his back against the couch he had the momentary feeling he was leaning against Brian's legs. He tilted his head back, almost waiting for hands to slide up his shoulder into his hair, before remembering where he was. Or rather, who he was really with in the loft.

Matthew and Steven were talking about the movie. Everyone had thought it was terrific, except Justin. His tastes seemed different from theirs, somehow. And it was just as well Brian had turned down his invitation; he wouldn't have liked it, either.

When he had gotten home, late from taking an extra shift at the diner, Brian was already freshly showered and eating a chicken salad. He had gained half a pound the week before and was being extra careful. Justin would have joked about it, but Brian was on edge about something. Before he could ask if Vance had been a shit again, Brian had demanded, "Why'd you skip your Medieval Art class?"

"What did you do, consult Mysterious Marilyn?  How'd you know? I didn't tell you."

"You skip too many classes."

"The tips were bad this week, I needed an extra shift. Anyway, I knew Matthew could take notes for me."

"Well, hurry up and eat," Brian said, shoving a plate piled with salad at him. It was hardly a meal as far as Justin was concerned, but he'd already had meatloaf at the diner. "And get changed. I want to get going. Michael's probably waiting."  Seeing Justin's confusion, he added impatiently, "Babylon, you twat, where do you think?" 

Justin paused, trying to remember if he had promised to go. Brian said in a flat voice, "You're not coming with me, are you?"

"I'm sorry, I can't. I'm going out with the guys." Brian stared. Justin realized this usually meant a different group of people. "I mean, my guys," he said, and without knowing it gave the little giggle Brian found so irritating. "Do you mind?"

"I don't give a fuck."

"We're catching the new Tobey McGuire movie. Do you - I mean would you want to - " Why did this seem like such a stupid idea? "You could come with us. If you want."

"Why, is it rated R? Do you need a parent or guardian to get in?"

"Oh, very funny. I'm not 17 anymore."

Brian stabbed his fork into the salad. "You were never 17. Not really."

"Do you want to come or not?"

"No thanks, I can think of better things to do tonight. And you'll all wind up back here afterwards anyway, won't you?"

Which they had . . . The truth was that Justin was relieved Brian hadn't joined them. The thought of trying to be with Brian and with his friends at the same time set his teeth on edge. It just wouldn't be a good mix. Even the brief rides in the Jeep together felt strange. Brian hadn't pulled any of his crap -- in fact, he'd been fairly friendly -- but  . . . was it really all just the age difference? Justin didn't feel it when he was with Brian's friends, Michael and Ben, Lindsay and Mel, even Ted or Emmett. In fact, they were his friends now, too. Weren't they?

 

*****

Ted and Emmett were still standing with Brian.  He tossed back yet another shot and drummed his hands on the bar. Ted, searching for conversation, said, "It's good for Justin, though, having friends."

"You said that already."

"It's important in college."

"I told him to get friends his own age. I told him to."

"You were right," Emmett said. "He shouldn't be hanging around with us so much."

"They make a fucking mess. Pizza boxes all over the floor. And there's a hundred fucking ashtrays in the place, but they still leave cigarette butts everywhere."

"Well, sweetie, what else can you expect? When your boyfriend is just so young --"

Brian turned on him, eyes glinting. His growl sliced through the music better than any shout. "Oh, you have a problem with age differences now? You? "

"Brian!" Ted was horrified. He didn't dare even say George's name any more. Emmett could still start crying with no warning. "Holy fuck."

Emmett pulled himself up to his full height to stare levelly at Brian, who stared back. Finally Emmett said, "No, not age differences. I have a problem with maturity differences."

Brian shoved himself off the bar, as if pushing away an unwanted lover. "And when I say maturity," Emmett added coldly, "I don't mean you. I mean - "

"Yeah," Brian snapped. "I got that." He flung some money on the bar and stalked off.

"Christ," Ted said. "What a shit. Now what's he doing?"

"What does Brian ever do? Straight for the back room, honey. What else?"

"He never changes, " Ted said, and Emmett nodded.

 

*****
 

"So where's Brian tonight?" Matthew asked, popping the cap off another beer. Tina and Steven had gone over to the CD player to choose another disc.

"Babylon," Justin said. Matthew looked blank. "A club, the big one on Liberty Ave. We go there a lot. In fact, I worked there for a little while. Haven't you ever been?"

"Have we?" Matthew asked Jonathan, who was sitting propped up against him. "Was that the place we played pool that time?"

"I don't remember."

"That was probably Woody's. You'd remember Babylon," Justin said. "You really don't go to any of the clubs?"

Jonathan's jaw dropped. "Are you kidding? You gotta pay the cover charge, and they get you for like four bucks a drink. Assuming you can even get one if they don't ID you. How can you afford that?"

"Anyway," Matthew interrupted, before Justin could think of an answer. "I'm sorry I missed Brian because I wanted to apologize.  I mean, I said I was sorry on the phone but I wanted to do it in person, too."

Justin, who had eased down on to his elbows, sat straight up again. "For what? What happened?"

"He didn't tell you? Well, good, maybe that means he forgot about it. I called here and he answered and -- well, see, first I left you all these messages. Kind of a goof. I wasn't thinking, that, you know, he might get calls from clients or his business partner or something.  So he asked me not to leave so many on the machine."

"Was he mad?" Justin's heart sank.

"No. I mean, not at that point. He was nice about it. It was my fault. But then I -" he broke off.

"What? Come on, what?"

Jonathan said, "Just fucking tell him already, can't you see he's having a heart attack?"

"I called him Mr. Kinney."

"You -- ?" After his anxiety, this confession struck Justin, still a little high, as hilarious. He burst out laughing. "Holy shit, he must have been pissed! What did you do that for?"

"I don't know! It's like - he's kind of like the professors, you know? And sometimes you talk about him that way. 'Brian Kinney doesn't do this, Brian Kinney does that.' So I keep hearing his last name. I didn't mean anything."

"He's thirty-one, for god's sake," Justin said, still laughing. "Not 105. And he hates being reminded he's older than we are. He hates it."

"Yeah, I found that out. He said, 'What the fuck, do you think I'm Justin's father?'"

Justin stopped laughing. "Shit! Oh, shit."

Matthew paused. He threw Jonathan a look Justin couldn't read. Finally Justin had to ask. "And then what did he say?"

"He said, 'I'm not the guy raising him, I'm the guy fucking him.'"

"Christ."

"So tell him again I'm sorry, okay?"

"Sure." They were both looking at him. Justin tried to keep up a good face. "It's - don't worry about it."

At that moment one of his old Moby CDs blared out of the speakers. Jonathan jumped up, pulling Matthew to his feet so they could dance. The bare floors of the loft were good for it; at least they thought so. Justin didn't. It reminded him of the last time he had danced here with Brian. Or tried to, with Daphne looking on and a corny old song playing.

Tina called over to him, "Damn, is it always this cold in here?"

"It's a big place, it's hard to heat." Brian never seemed to feel the cold, anyway. "Want one of my sweaters?" he asked, getting up.

"Yes, thanks!"

Something was on the floor near the closet doors. Justin bent over and almost smiled:  a condom packet. He glanced over at the bowl by the bed, but it wasn't in its usual spot. Brian had tossed it into the middle of the bed, and more packets had tumbled out on the duvet. He must have just grabbed a handful of them. Just another Babylon night, Justin thought. My friends are dancing, and he's . . well, he's being Brian.

Justin put the bowl and packets back, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming towards the bedroom. Not that they hadn't seen condoms before, of course, but there were an awful lot here. When his friends made sex jokes it was different from the kind of stuff everybody said at Babylon. They didn't have the experience Brian did. (Well, of course, who did?)  But Justin knew they didn't even have his own level of experience. The baths and the three-ways. He had pulled up Ted's website on the computer one afternoon and Tina had said, "Oh my God, you actually know a pornographer?"

Imagine if they ever saw Brian in action . . .

If they ever . . .

And just like that, Justin knew.

 

*****
 

Despite all the vodka shots, and the hit off of something which somebody he barely recognized had handed him, the tension was still clawing at him. Brian shoved through the dance floor, ignoring Michael waving from the far side, and headed for the back, just as Emmett had supposed. It was just as well Sunshine hadn't come, he told himself. He was tired of watching out for him, checking to see if he'd found somebody he liked so he could enjoy his own trick in peace. Watching for the little snappish signs that his girlie jealousy was acting up again. He hadn't quite realized how much Justin's presence in the back room held him back. Tonight he was free.

And all he wanted now was some sweaty body up against him, some greedy hand pulling at the zipper of his jeans. He needed that connection: the one moment when a stranger's eyes suddenly locked on to you, and you could see a nasty desire flame up in his face. To arouse a stranger, to feel your own power as you drew him in, just as you had the last one, and the one before. Not by your personality or your good qualities (if you had any) or your loving heart (if you even had one) but just by the way you looked. . .and the way you looked at him.

That was what he still needed and would always need. Not the fucking itself, hell, to be honest it was always better with Justin, always. But Justin couldn't give him this one thing. Justin could never be a stranger again.

Brian's eyes, accustomed now to the low red light, searched the corners of the room. As he finished his sweep, he found right beside him, standing against the wall, a tall dark form with eyes that glittered back at him. They looked at each other for a moment. Brian ran his eyes down and up again, pleased with what he saw. As he stepped forward, the stranger's eyes widened, mostly with heat but a little, Brian saw, with nervousness. Of course; he could see now that he was young.  Not quite as young as Sunshine, but . . . Never mind him, Brian told himself, as the stranger's hands made the first tentative contact. I'll see him later. Maybe - -maybe we both will . . . Oh, yes.

Yes. Later.

 

*****

Justin looked at the clock. Almost 12:30.  Brian and Michael would have gotten to Babylon around ten, ten-thirty. They'd have some drinks. Dance a little. Drink some more. Check out the scenery from the balcony. . . Start to get serious around midnight, and then it wouldn't take long for Brian . . .

Goddamn him! He would bring a trick home. He would. He'd parade him right through the living room up to the bedroom, joking and smirking. Ask if anybody wanted to join in. It would be a matter of luck if he even bothered to close the glass panels, and anyway they'd hear every shout and moan. It would be a classic Kinney maneuver from start to finish.

(Mr. Kinney, Matthew had called him.  . .You'll all wind up back here again afterwards, won't you?)

I'll be fucked, Justin thought. You are not doing this to me, Brian! I won't let you!

"You know what? Let's not stay here," he called in to Matthew and the others. "I know some place better to go."  Where, where, where? Nobody had any money, that's why they were here in the first place. He could suggest Matthew's room, but he'd look so stupid. How could he explain why they should leave a huge, gorgeous place for a dumpy little dorm room -- right now, in a big hurry?

(Hurry up. Hurry up, I want to get going . .. You're not coming with me, are you?)

Justin knew that all his friends would want to do tonight was drink, talk, dance, smoke dope. And then eat. A lot.

The diner? No, better.

Justin looked at the clock again and wondered if this was just too much to ask, even of Debbie. On her night off, too.

He heard the hum of the elevator in the hall and for a moment he stopped breathing. It stopped at the floor below. But next time it would be here.

"What did you say?" Matthew shouted back.

"Ziti," Justin said. "You like ziti? I know somebody who makes the best damn fucking ziti in the world. And she always has some ready."  A cab, he'd have to offer to pay for a cab or nobody would move; they'd complain if they had to wait in the cold for the bus. "Anyway, we're out of beer," he lied.

Justin felt a surge of panic. Why had it taken him so long to realize what would happen? He should have been out of here an hour ago.

He nearly ran into the kitchen and yanked open a cabinet drawer, where Brian always left some cash. "Whenever you're light," he had said one day. "Help yourself." Justin hated to use it, but sometimes he ran out the last few days before he got his work check. And when he tried to replace it, he'd find the money had been magically replenished.

Now he snorted to himself, as he grabbed at Brian's money in order to escape Brian. Hey, what's wrong with this picture? Everything.

Cajoling, teasing, and bullying a little, Justin used up another fifteen minutes convincing his grumbling friends there was ziti out there worth getting off the floor for. As he finally herded them out the door  ("Let's take the stairs, the elevator's a pain"), he reached into his jacket for his cell phone, to call Debbie and warn her. Beg her, if necessary.



An hour later, Vic came halfway down the stairs and stood staring at the boisterous group in the kitchen. Justin was the only one he had ever seen before in his life. Debbie, in her bright pink pajamas, a green plaid robe and her wig on crooked, came to the bottom of the stairs and grinned up at him.

Vic asked, "Are we having a party? I would have dressed."

"Sunshine called to ask if he could bring some friends over. He said they were trying to stay out of the clubs, save some money."

The one girl in the group screamed out, "That's exactly what I told my professor!" and they all roared with laughter, including Justin.

"But why aren't they at Brian's?"

Debbie sighed. "I think because it IS Brian's."

Vic never needed much by way of explanation to understand. "Still the little lost boy without a home, huh? Poor kid."

"I couldn't say no to him."

"You can never say no to anybody," Vic said affectionately. "Go back to bed. If they're not gone by daybreak, I'll be the bad guy and kick them out."

"No, it's okay. I told Sunshine not too long. He'll remember."

*****
 

In the coldest part of the night, just after 4 a.m., Brian woke up. In his sleep he had been moving over, more and more to the left, seeking warmth and a soft firmness. His head hurt from whatever he had taken -- couldn't remember right now, didn't care -- and his mouth tasted sour. After a moment he put his hand out. When he felt nothing but sheets and pillows, his brain finally realized what his body had already known. Justin wasn't there.

He sat up and checked the time. Past curfew. Little fucker.

A brief image of Matthew, too good-looking and too horny, came into his mind, but he pushed it away. His throat was so dry. And now he'd never get back to sleep, not without -- shit. At least he didn't have to go to work tomorrow. . . .Have to get the Jeep back, though. He seemed to remember Michael taking the keys away from him. Must have come home in a cab.

He fished his black silk robe off the floor and stumbled in the dark to the kitchen, to get a little water to add to the large amount of Scotch he was planning on drinking.  He opened the refrigerator door and reached for a water bottle, shoved behind leftover Chinese take-out cartons. The second shelf was crammed with cans of some discount soda he had never heard of, and a few Budweisers, a brand he had never expected to see in his refrigerator.  Was that the best these kids could do, when they wanted to party?

As he started out of the kitchen towards the liquor cabinet, his bare feet hit a lump on the floor. Justin's jacket  And his jeans and polo shirt.

Brian paused. Then he walked slowly around to the front of the couch. There was Justin, curled up on his side, with the extra blanket from the closet pulled over him. Sleeping as deeply as he always did.

Brian's restless fingers picked at the label on the bottle, shredding tiny pieces of paper to the floor. They floated down, coming to rest beside an empty beer bottle, lying on its side under the coffee table. After a moment he went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out the Scotch. One gulp, two gulps. That was enough.

He turned on the far lamp -- not that a little light would be enough to wake sleeping beauty - - and crept up to the couch.  Justin's mouth was open; he was breathing as heavily as if they were fucking. Maybe in his dream they were.

Brian knelt down by his head. He leaned in over Justin's face and said, loudly and suddenly, "What the fuck are you doing?"

Justin startled awake, his arms flailing out. Brian sat back on his heels, eyes calm, waiting, as Justin spluttered in confusion, "What? What?" 

"What the fuck are you doing sleeping over here?"

Justin took a deep breath and sat up. He rubbed his hands over his face. "Shit, you scared me. Why did you wake me up?"

"The bed's over there." Brian crooked a finger.

"I think I know that."

"So?"

Justin had been expecting to have this conversation in the morning, not the middle of the night, but he remembered what he wanted to say.  "So who else has been in it?" Brian raised an eyebrow, not sure where they were headed. "You brought a trick home, didn't you? Come on, I know you did. Didn't you?"

"Well, we didn't hear you come in," Brian said with a hard smile. "Or I would have asked you to join us."

"No thanks," Justin said. "Besides, he was already gone when I got home. You were sleeping."

"Then why the fuck are you out here? Why didn't you get in with me?"

"Shit, I'm cold." Justin yanked up the blanket and pulled his legs in to his chest. He was shivering.

"Stop being a fucking princess and come back to bed. It's warmer."

"Did you change the sheets?"

"Did I -  No, what for? Fuck, he didn't cum on the sheets. The first time we were on the floor and the second we -- "

"All right, I don't want to hear about it! And I don't want to sniff you all over, either."

Brian stood up. He was cold, too, but he didn't shiver; he held himself still. "What the fuck is your problem? I didn't break any of your rules."

My rules, Justin thought. Not our rules, my rules. And of course I'm the one who broke them. He looked up at Brian, who knew it, who had guessed it somehow. And he knew he had forced Justin to think about the guy at Daphne's party. My virgin, Justin sighed to himself. Can't even remember his name. . . .That's a fucking lie. Eric. Lied to him, lie to myself. Shit, why didn't I just admit it and apologize? Now he can throw it in my face whenever he wants.

"You knew my friends were here."

"Aren't they always?"

"You knew and you brought a trick home anyway."

"I see. So now I can't bring a guest to my own loft? Is that a new little rule?"

"Oh, fuck that!  Fuck the rules, and - and - " His foot shot out from beneath the blanket and kicked Brian's knee. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but Brian took a startled step back. "Fuck you, too! Do I have to make a rule not to humiliate me in front of my friends?"

"Take it easy," Brian said quietly.

Justin pulled his legs back up and wrapped his arms around his knees. He was cold and exhausted, and it all seemed hopeless. He had meant to be calm, to tell Brian straight out that he couldn't be treated this way.  He wasn't Michael, who would take anything, put up with everything. Justin glanced up at his lover, who seemed taller than ever, standing over him, weighing his weakness. The black silk had fallen down Brian's right shoulder, exposing a nipple and the hollow of his breastbone, where Justin loved to press his lips. "I'm sorry," he muttered, meaning the kick.

Brian sighed a little and sat down close beside him. After a moment he reached an arm around Justin's shoulders and pulled him even closer. "You said you didn't expect me to change. You said you didn't even want me to."

Justin paused. It took a moment for him to remember. Apparently Brian paid more attention to what he said than he had thought. "Oh yeah. The Zucchini Man." They both smiled a little.  "Well, I meant it, Brian. I did. I know you."

"I'm never going to -- "

"I know, I know!  Jesus. Go ahead. Just don't bring them home. It's annoying."

"It is?"

As if you didn't know, Justin thought. As if you didn't have somebody here on purpose, when I came back from Vermont. He said only, "Yes."

Brian tilted his head back and stared up at the beams in the ceiling, although it was too dark to see them in the shadows. "Don't bring them home," he repeated. He was asking himself something. Justin stiffened against him, waiting. He remembered the night they made the rules in Babylon, the moment after he had said, "And one more thing." Then he had asked - -no, told -- Brian not to kiss anyone else on the mouth. The moment when he had waited to find out if he had drawn too harsh a line. If he had gone a step too far for Brian to accept. The same flash of fear went through him.

Suddenly Brian gave him a hard shove, which sent him back down sideways on the couch. The next moment he was sprawled out on his back with Brian lying on top of him, yanking his undershirt up to pinch his nipples. "Jesus," Justin said, breathless. Brian had his full weight on him and he could hardly move, which he hated. Another lie. Which he loved.

Brian landed a perfunctory kiss or two on Justin's chin and neck, before moving down to real business. His tongue started a slow crawl down Justin's chest and stomach, pausing while his hands pulled down Justin's briefs. The blanket was on the floor; Justin's arms were shivering while his legs, trapped under Brian's body, were bathed in warmth.

"Brian, this isn't . . . this isn't . . .oh, oh, God . . . no, wait -- " he clutched at Brian's hair. "This doesn't fix everything."

With his mouth full of Justin, Brian managed to say, "It'll do."

Justin couldn't help laughing; he understood he had his answer. For a moment he stared up at the same dark beams, but he could see no farther than Brian had. It'll do, his thought echoed, as Brian's tongue and lips made the familiar ache for more Brian more Brian more Brian start to radiate through his skin.

Yes, it'll do . . . For now.

 

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