Misstep

This is another in the `Other Foot' series. It's ten years after the breakup, Brian is still with the other guy, but he wants to help Justin who's having some problems.

Note: In this story I make passing reference to Women's shelters and several Gay organizations. I did almost no research about them in regards to the issues I've raised and intended to offend no one. Honest. From what I do know of them—and certainly hope— they are significantly more helpful than I've suggested here.

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Ten years since `it' happened and Justin was pretty firmly established as one of the young artists to collect, one of the ones to watch and one of the ones with a future. His shows attracted the important critics who all seemed to love his work and his pieces sold well for continually increasing prices.

He was doing better than he had hoped for.

He lived in Colorado, had for years. His lover of several years, Eric, had finally lost his fight with AIDS three years ago and Justin was now involved in a new and serious relationship with a doctor, a pediatrician he'd met at one of his openings, a charity thing for the local cancer society. Peter was accomplished and you practically needed an invitation to book an appointment with him. He worked long hours, took his work to heart too often and was known for his kindness to the families of his patients.

The two men had moved in together two years ago and had bought a house together last year. It was one of those showplace brand new log cabin with window walls that overlooked both a lake and views to the Rockies. There was a studio for Justin, a kitchen Debbie and Vic would have given their eyeteeth for and quiet most of the time. Peter had decorated it with most of the current Ralph Lauren collection, which made Justin grimace slightly, but he let it go, reasoning that it was just furniture and maintained control over his studio and the kitchen—the two areas that mattered most to him. The bedroom was a compromise, blending both their tastes, if not completely successfully.

They were pretty happy together and there seemed no reason why that wouldn't continue.

Peter worked long hours, Justin had to travel more and more for shows and lately a graphics company had expressed interest in making limited edition silk screens of his work to sell in galleries, all of which meant that he would be traveling more than either of them would have liked, but it was chalked up as the price of success. Neither one of them really complained about it and if there were evenings or weekends when the tension in the air was a bit thick and they would be more likely to snap at one another, well—that was just the way things were.

Jennifer had remarried five or so years ago and was happy with her new husband. The real estate she had sold to make ends meet had turned into a career and she was recognized as the broker to go to for either the purchase or the sale of a multi-million dollar home. Justin thought it was her intrinsic WASP breeding that brought the clients to her, mixed with her smarts, but whatever the reason, she was doing well and enjoyed the work she had.

Molly had finished her undergrad degree in pre-med at Stanford and gone on to Georgetown for her medical studies. Though she hadn't decided on her specialty yet, she was leaning towards family practice and was now in residency at Bellevue in New York. Peter had rolled his eyes when he'd heard, likening it to a combat zone and saying that if she could get through that, she could make it anywhere. Usually, on the rare occasions that they would all get together, the conversation would be mostly shoptalk and for Christmas one year, Peter gave Molly a subscription to the Journal of the American Medical Association. She was thrilled.

Justin didn't hear from his father too often. They would exchange Christmas presents through the mail and talk on the phone maybe once a year. He had been excited to learn that Brian had found someone else and seemed to hope that it would signal Justin's return to the straight and narrow.

He didn't hide his disappointment when it didn't and their contact remained strained, at best.

He and Peter had a good life together.

It was true that Peter could be stubborn and a little controlling, but it wasn't bad enough that Justin wanted out because of it. Usually they got along just fine, really well, in fact. They laughed together and they shared interests and usually they were pretty compatible. They both liked to cook; they would go to movies together. There was a circle of mutual friends they had developed which combined both doctors and members of the local art community. They traveled together when they had the time and Justin had finally seen some of the great museums in Europe—the Prado, the Lourve, the British National Gallery and the Tate. He was hoping that they would finally be able to make that trip to St. Petersburg he'd dreamed about and see the Hermitage this year. Things were pretty good.

Peter enjoyed being so close to the mountains—he'd practically been raised on skis and Justin had gotten more serious about snow boarding because of it. They were close enough to go often and Peter was considering buying a small condo in either Vail or Snowmass that they would be able to use. Frankly, Justin didn't care all that much about it one way or another, but if Peter had the money, he wasn't going to get upset about it either way.

It was March, still winter in the Rockies and Peter worked longer hours than the rest of the year because of all the kids still getting hurt on the slopes, besides, it was a bad year for the flu and it seemed that every one of his patients had it. It was common for him to have to put in twelve-hour days and the phone often rang late at night with one thing or another regarding a patient.

That's where he was now, attending to some emergency or other. It was eleven at night and Justin was home alone working on a canvas when the phone rang. It was probably Peter, either saying he was on his way home of that he'd still be a couple of hours.

"Hello?"

"Justin?" It wasn't Peter's voice.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Brian—Kinney. Is this too late?" God, that voice. It was the same and now he realized that he would have known it if it had been fifty years instead of just ten.

"Brian—no, this is fine. Are you, where are …are you alright?" Brian hadn't called him; they hadn't had a real conversation since Justin had removed the last of his belongings from the townhouse they had shared in New York for less than a year.

"I'm fine. I'm in Denver to see a client, staying at the Brown Palace Hotel downtown. I thought that we could hook up for dinner or something. If you wanted to, I mean."

Brian was in town and wanted to get together? After ten years apart, after making a choice between him and Steve and Justin coming in second? He wants to have fucking dinner—now? What the fuck?

"That sounds great, sure. How long are you here for?"

"Not long, I got in this evening and have meetings all day tomorrow then leave the next morning. You free tomorrow night?"

Actually he and Peter had made plans to go to a birthday party for one of the doctors who was just turning fifty. Shit.

Well, fuck it.

"That would be good. You want me to pick a place or would you like a home cooked meal?"

"I get tired of restaurants. Home cooking sounds good. I'll drive out to your place when I'm finished—probably around seven. Is that alright?"

"That sounds good—Do you know where it is?"

"The hotel can get me directions. Is it anything complicated?"

"No, it's easy—anything you'd like for dinner?" A decade ago that would have lead to a series of smirks and innuendo. Not this time, though.

"Surprise me." He heard a small laugh, more like just a breath. "You used to be good at that. Later."

The old catch phrase. "Later."

Peter would shit when Justin told him. They both knew about the other's past, who they had each been involved with before they'd met and Peter made it clear that he thought Brian sounded like a complete prick, a self serving jackass who Justin was better off without. He also knew that Justin hadn't completely forgotten and that when he did think about Kinney—which was more often than Justin would admit—it still hurt.

Well, he'd have to get over it. Maybe this would be a good way to exorcize the ghost. Maybe Brian had a paunch or his hairline was three inches higher than it used to be. Maybe he used the dreaded comb over to hide his baldness.

Right—and maybe Brian was wearing polyester now, too.

And maybe pigs could fly.

Brian would still be Brian, he would never change. He would—as Michael still said—always be young and always be beautiful.

He would still be Brian.

Cleaning up his paints he went over to the graphic computer he had set up on his desk. It wasn't the one Brian had gotten him, no—that had been state of the art a dozen years ago, it was a dinosaur now. This was the latest version. He booted up, logged on and connected to the net, typing in the company he wanted to check out. He used to do this every couple of weeks then every couple of months He hadn't bothered in over five years. There was no point.

`Brenner/Vanguard, Inc. Advertising. Privately owned. Main office in New York City, subsidiary offices in Pittsburgh and San Francisco. Rumors of a London office opening within the next year. Winner of twenty-three Clio awards for campaigns designed for Multitech, Ford, Johnson & Johnson, Brown Athletics and others (click here to see samples). Campaigns guaranteed delivered on time and within 1% of estimate, the company absorbs any over-runs. Listed by Businessweek and the Wall Street Journal as one of the top ten medium size companies to work for. Revenues for the last year available listed at $32 mil/net.'

They were taking the world by storm, just like Brian had wanted, just like they had talked about doing together. And Brian ran the main office, held the title of president and was a full partner. He seemed to be doing as well as he had thought that he would when they had made the move from Pittsburgh to take the damn job after Gardner Vance had merged Vanguard with Steve's company.

Brian would still be Brian.

"Hey, you didn't have to wait up for me." Justin jumped three feet as Peter put his arms around him from behind. A kiss on his neck and then, "What's so interesting?"

"Just surfing." He hit the `close' button. "Are you hungry? I could make you something."

"I had something at the hospital and I'm whipped. Bed?"

"I'll be there as soon as I shut down the machine." He smiled, kissed Peter and got ready to join him in their bed.

Peter had seen what Justin had been reading.

Three years together and Justin was still thinking about the son of a bitch who had thrown him out a decade ago. OK, sure, you never forget your first love, but there was a damn limit. He would deal with this.

Around five-thirty the next evening Brian was in his hotel room showering and changing for dinner when the phone rang.

"Yes?"

"Brian? Justin. Look, I'm sorry to do this, but tonight isn't good, after all. I forgot that Peter and I had plans and it's really hard to change them at short notice. No hard feelings, OK?"

"…Yeah, sure. We'll make it another time then."

"Yeah. Call me next time you're in Denver."

"Everything alright?"

"Everything is fine. I just forgot that we have something to do tonight. Tell you what; I think I'll be in New York in about six months. We'll get together then."

"I'll look forward to it."

They cut the connection. That was odd.

Or maybe it wasn't. It had been almost ten years since he'd really talked to Justin. Maybe he honestly was fine and had just forgotten a dinner or a movie or something. It had been a long time. He was fine. If he wasn't he would have said something.

Five-fifteen. He dialed the client he had seen that afternoon and whose dinner party he had blown off to see Justin. Explaining that he was unexpectedly free, was it too late to make an appearance? No? Good, he'd be there within the hour.

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The next night he was back in his own home on the 67th and 68th floors of Trump Tower. He and Steve had bought the duplex about eight years ago and it was, despite the overdone building and over the top lobby, a tasteful showplace that was actually livable. They had managed to combine Brian's minimalist leanings with Steve's homier but no less sophisticated tastes and it was both beautiful and inviting. Justin would have been surprised to see several of his paintings prominently displayed, but the fact was that they were wonderful and collectible. One, a full length portrait he had done of Brian without his knowledge and then given him as a surprise, hung over the large fireplace.

"How did it go?"

"It went fine. He signed the contracts."

"Good. Did you see Justin?"

"I called him, but we couldn't connect."

Steve looked over to where Brian was sitting in his favorite chair by the big window that looked out to Central Park. "I'm sorry, I know you were looking forward to getting together. Was he alright?"

Brian turned to look at him, thoughtful. "I'm not sure. We had made plans and when he called to cancel he sounded odd. I think his husband might not have approved."

Steve crossed over to him, his hand running through Brian's hair, "If he knows your history, I wouldn't think that he would be too pleased with the two of you having a private dinner together. Justin was probably being considerate."

"When Justin and I were together, if I had tried to stop him from seeing an old friend he'd have told me to fuck off." He put his hand on Steve's waist, pulling him closer. "Unlike you who seem to think you have nothing to worry about."

"Oh, I have plenty to worry about—but you walking out doesn't happen to be on the list."

"You think I can't live without you?"

"I know that you can." He leaned down so they could kiss. "But you don't."

Later, in their bed, they talked quietly in the dark. The only light coming from the city laid out below them. "Why don't you call Debbie or one of the girls? They'd know if there was a problem."

"I thought that I'd do that in the morning."

At nine the next morning he was at his desk at Brenner/Vanguard, phone in hand. "Deb? Brian…how are you doing? Still at the diner?" He knew full well that she was…."No, I'm fine…Steve is, too." Cynthia brought a pile of folders in to him, placing them on his desk. He nodded at her. "I know when my son's birthday is. I'll be in Pittsburgh the night before—because Lindsay said something about `if I wanted to remain uncastrated I'd be there.'…No, I'll stay at the Hilton…Deb, a hotel is fine…well, for one thing, you don't have the room…Deb…Debbie…Mrs. Novatny… Yes, fine that would be great. I'll stay in Michael's old room…no, it's perfect…Of course I want to catch up with you too…Deb, shut the fuck up and listen…Jesus, Deb…stick a fucking sock in it…Good—now what's going on with Justin?…Because I was out there a couple of days ago and there's something going on….Justin? Are you shitting me?…You're sure about this?…Why doesn't his own fucking family do something?…I know that…fine—fine. I'll…I said I would, now back off….I'll see you in a couple of weeks."

Well, crap. So that was the problem. Justin's new hub had a little problem with jealousy and seemed to be a dab on the controlling side.

So what to do?

"You look like someone rained on your parade." Steve walked in, sitting I one of the client chairs on the other side of Brian's desk, coffee cup in hand.

"Deb says that Justin's new beau keeps him on a short leash—according to her, it's pretty abusive."

"Justin? He wouldn't put up with that."

"I wouldn't have thought so either, but there was something weird going on out there—maybe that's what it is." He leaned back in his chair. "I had a suspicion it might be this."

"Maybe Deb is wrong." Steve and Deb had met a few times and after initial awkwardness and some resentment that he had replaced `Sunshine' even Debbie had admitted that he was a nice guy and better than Brian deserved.

"Maybe. I think she might be right, though." Steve knew that a shoe was about to drop here. Whenever Brian wanted to do something he thought that Steve wouldn't agree with or might not approve of, there would be some hedging. In fact, he generally thought that most of Brian's ideas were dead on. "I asked—she said that Jenn had told her a few things."

"And for whatever reason—probably he told her to leave him alone and butt out of his private business—his mother isn't getting involved so you want to do something to try to help him."

Brian gave him a small smile. Steve knew him too well.

"You also know that if he really is caught in something like this, there's nothing you can do until he acknowledges the problem—it's all tied up with self-esteem and self-worth. It's not just about getting away."

"I know that." Christ, he'd lived it growing up—that was how he knew what the score was. "I want to do some checking, see what's available in Denver, then maybe go out and talk to him."

Steve just nodded. Brian still cared for the other man—that Brian still, in his convoluted way considered him a friend and he never abandoned his friends, he'd known that for ten years and knew it would likely always be true—just as he knew that Brian would come back to him and their home. "Can I help?"

"I'll see what's involved with this. Can you cover me for a few days?"

"Of course." He stood up, going back to his own office and his own work. "Did I tell you that Gardner is coming in tomorrow for a visit? I think it's more social than anything." Gardner still ran the Pittsburgh office. "I'll arrange dinner and maybe a show."

"Gardner hates theatre. Just dinner, maybe a museum. He likes art galleries."

"I always take him to a show."

Brian smiled. "He's more tactful than you realized."

By the next morning Brian had found out about a number of women's shelters in the Denver area and a couple of shelters for victims of domestic abuse. Although one or two had told him, doubtfully, that they would consider his friend, on a case-by-case basis, they were geared to the problems of abused women. Next he tried the local chapters of GLAAD and ACT UP. He was basically told the same thing and they had added that if the person in question had financial resources, they would likely do better by seeking private help and counseling.

Christ.

"Cynthia? I need a flight to Denver either tonight or in the morning, open-ended return, put me back in the Brown Palace. And I'll need a car."

He checked his private book and dialed another number. It was answered on the fifth ring.

"Jenn? Brian. What the fuck is going on?"

Fifteen minutes later he knew most of the story.

The next day, around eleven in the morning, he pulled up to the house he'd been given directions to by the hotel. It was largish, though not a monster, well maintained and a showplace set on a street that likely housed white-collar executive types—doctors and lawyers and company presidents. The view behind the house was the Rocky Mountains. It was all modern log cabin and large picture windows. There was one car—a van, large enough to transport paintings—in the driveway.

He rang the bell and waited a couple of minutes until he heard footsteps. The door swung open.

Justin.

He was wearing an old pair of sweats and an old tee shirt. Both were smeared with paint and he had probably been working. He was barefoot and didn't seem all that surprised to see him standing there. Maybe he'd heard from his mother or Deb. It would be like them to call, to check up on him.

He had a dark bruise on his left cheek but he was still Justin. The hair was longer, though styled and he seemed to have lost some weight. He was still Justin.

"I thought you told me you were going back east a couple of days ago."

"I had a change of plans. May I come in?"

He stepped aside, walking through the house to the kitchen. "I was just about to get some coffee. Would you like some?"

Brian noticed that he had a slight limp as he followed through the house. He also noticed that he was trying to hide it. In the kitchen, the showplace you would expect in a house like this, Justin poured two mugs and slid the sugar bowl over, remembering that Brian liked it dark and extra sweet.

He touched Justin's cheek, barely grazing the damaged skin. The bruise looked even worse than it was against his white skin. He pulled back the contact. "Don't. Did my mother ask you to come here?"

"No, Debbie did. Then I called your mother to see if it was true."

"It's nothing, you know what a fucking drama queen Debbie is—my Mom's the same way, she's just more WASP about it."

Justin was sitting on a bar stool, Brian glanced down at the bandaged leg. "You fall playing basketball?"

"It's just a sprained ankle." End of subject.

This was going nowhere. Fine. "Show me your new work. I've heard that it's amazing."

Justin gave him an appraising look then spared a half smile and started walking—limping—through the house to a set of stairs that led to a single room, his studio. In the large room—maybe twenty by thirty with several large skylights—were at least a dozen canvases in various stages of completion. They ranged from obviously commissioned portraits to landscapes to abstracts. They were bold and intense and sensitive and had a character that drew the viewer.

Brian moved from one to the next, studying each in turn. They were exceptional.

"I heard that they sell well."

"I do alright." He sipped the coffee through the travel lid he'd put on it so it wouldn't spill as he hobbled along. "So did you see what you came here for?"

He took a sip himself. They were sitting on a couple of comfortable chairs that were set by a large flat screen set up. "You know you can get away. There are any number of people who will help you with whatever you need—money, a place to stay, legal help. You know that."

"It's no one's fucking business and who the fuck do you think you are to come here—to my home—and tell me what I need and what I should do? After ten years."

Brian's answer was mild, like that day in the Taylor's living room when he had told him to pay attention to his mother. "People care about you, Justin. Your Mom is worried and she says that you won't return her calls."

"That's bullshit. I call her back whenever I get a message and I call her anyway at least—every few months."

"When was the last time you got a message she'd called you?"

"What the fuck business is it of yours?"

"Did you know she called you four times last week and left messages with Peter?" No answer. "Is this"—he indicated the ankle and the bruised cheek—"because of me? Because we were going to have dinner?"

"I tripped on the steps."

Brian took a beat. God, not that old chestnut. "I used that one in high school—fell down the steps, slipped in the shower, I was playing with my dog, it happened during a game of touch football in the park, I fell off my bike, I tripped over something in the garage…you want me to give you a few more?"

"Fuck off."

"And he was sorry and it will never happen again. Did he bring flowers home, take you out to dinner? Arrange a trip somewhere so you can relax and reconnect?"

"What the Hell do you know? He loves me and I love him—you don't know dick about me now so just get the fuck out."

"I know you didn't trip down the damn stairs."

"Fuck all you know about it. He was so sorry—he cried. Did you ever cry? Can you? He did. He didn't mean to hurt me, it was just a Goddamned accident. I slipped on the stairs, OK? I did, I slipped down the damn stairs and he, God, I never saw anyone so scared as he was. He was crying, Brian, and he made me go to the ER and make sure that I was OK. You don't know shit."

He tried for calm, Justin was still a primo drama queen and this was accomplishing nothing. "Has it ever happened before?" He was speaking quietly.

The hesitation lasted too long. It had.

Christ. How could Justin have gotten here? When he was with Brian he would have told anyone who laid a hand on him to fuck off then would have called the cops while he packed his bag.

Deb had blamed it on Brian, of course. "If you hadn't kicked him in the teeth when you dumped him, he'd have some fucking self-esteem left, but no—you had to throw him over for your `true love'. Well, you broke his heart and he's been trying to fix it ever since. Asshole."

Shit, that was ten years ago.

"How does he feel about your art?"

"He likes it. Not the paintings themselves, he thinks they're crap, but he likes that I have something to do that he can brag about to the other doctors." At least he was being honest. "I guess I'm sort of his trophy wife." He nodded to a half finished portrait. "That's his partner's kids. It's supposed to be for Christmas."

"Does he mind when you have to go to openings and travel for jobs?"

"I call him every night. He calls me every morning. Sometimes a friend of ours goes with me—just to keep me company."

Of course, a short leash.

"…Deb told me that you have a show in Philadelphia next month. Why not come up to New York after and you could do some museum hopping."

He looked like that sounded good, but, "I can't. Peter likes me to come back as soon as I can and he hates paying for hotels."

From what Brian had heard, Justin was doing well enough on his own that that shouldn't even begin to be an issue. "You pool all your money?"

"…Peter knows a lot more about finances than I do and so—I trust him with what I make."

Christ.

"Steve and I have a guest room. You can stay with us for free. No funny business. I promise. Your virtue is safe."

"I'd. I'd better not this time. Maybe I could take a rain check."

"Any time." He finished his coffee. "How long have you and Peter been together now?"

"A couple of years. Three, I think."

Jesus.

They heard footsteps on the stairs. "Justin? Do we have guests?" An average looking man came in, carrying a bouquet of about two dozen white long stemmed roses. He handed these to Justin with a light kiss on the mouth. Brian heard him say something about how badly he felt about Justin's poor ankle. He barely looked at the flowers, but managed a forced looking smile. His whole demeanor had gone—quiet, defensive and cowed. The change had taken less than five seconds. Even his voice had changed, becoming tentative and shy, questioning.

"Peter, this is Brian. Brian, Peter." They shook hands, saying the usual pleasantries.

"Are you here to see his paintings?" Brian saw the look on Justin's face. Scared. Peter was speaking about Justin in the third person, ignoring him.

"I was thinking that some of it might work in one of our campaigns."

"Your campaigns?" Brian was aware of being scrutinized closely. Asshole.

"I'm with an ad agency back east. I was here to see a client and I saw some of Justin's things. We were just talking about a deal that could be beneficial to both of us if we can put it in place."

"You're in a position to make deals—Brian?"

"I'm a senior partner and president of the firm. I can make deals, yes."

"Where in the east?"

"I work out of the New York office."

"So there are others?"

"We have branches in Pittsburgh and San Francisco."

Peter gave him a hard look—Justin was from Pittsburgh and he'd lived in New York for a while. It was too much of a coincidence. "Justin, how flattering for you." He put his arm around Justin's waist. Justin flinched slightly, not enough for Peter to notice. "Small world—did you two know each other? Justin's spent time in all those places."

"No, he though that he knew me, but it seems that he doesn't…You're what? Probably a dozen years younger than I am?"

Brian never lied. Maybe he really didn't know him now. Justin nodded agreement and murmured something about how he would guess something like that then covered, changing the subject by turning to the doctor and asking "So what are you doing home so early? I thought you had two operations scheduled."

"One was cancelled and the other didn't take as long as I though it would so I decided to take the rest of the day off. Would you two like to join me for lunch?"

Brian was tempted, but he had seen enough to know the score. "Thank you, but I have a plane to catch. Perhaps another time."

"I'll look forward to it. Justin? Would you like to go out for lunch?"

"I'd love to." It was a shade too quick.

"Justin? I'll be in touch about what we were talking about, if that's alright with you."

"That would be great, Brian. I'll—look forward to it."

Brian stood, "I'll let myself out." He nodded to Peter and left. As he walked to his rental car he half expected to hear something—arguing or crashes or something, but there was nothing.

Ninety minutes later he was in the first class lounge, waiting for his flight when he got the call.

"Brian? Could you maybe—I'm in a cab headed for the airport. Could you maybe wait for me?"

"I'll be in front of the main terminal."

"…Thank you."

He told the attendant where he could be found for the flight, arranged a second ticket for Justin—paying beyond full fare because of it being last minute—and waited on the sidewalk. Inside of ten minutes the cab pulled up and Justin got out.

There was still blood on his face from his nose and a split lip. There were a few streaks and drops on his shirt and on his hand where he'd wiped at it.

"He though he'd interrupted us, that we were about to fuck. He didn't buy the story about you being interested in my paintings." Despite being somewhere around thirty, Justin still looked young for his age. It was deceptive. He probably still got carded in bars.

"Come on." Brian led him to the men's room in the VIP waiting area. Though they got a few looks, no one said anything. An attendant appeared with a first aid kit. He was cleaned up and a Liberty Air tee shirt was handed over for him to wear.

Justin didn't say anything on the flight and almost nothing on the ride into Manhattan. He thanked Brian a couple of times for helping him, promising that he would pay him back for the plane ticket and that he'd find a hotel when they got into the city. He didn't argue too hard when Brian told him not to be a twat, that he could use the guest room. It didn't matter, he didn't care. It was important.

When they got off the elevator and opened the door to the duplex Steve was waiting for them. He kissed Brian and greeted Justin, taking in the injuries and not commenting on them. Brian had called him from the plane while Justin had slept for a while. He knew what was going on and agreed easily that they would do whatever they could to help.

Justin was shown to the guest room, given some things to wear—a bathrobe and some sweats that he could make do with until he could get some real things in the morning. He was trying to relax in the Jacuzzi while Steve spoke to Brian in the kitchen.

"You want to hear this." He turned on the answering machine. A diatribe of loathing, accusations and insults came out, intended for Justin from Peter. It was what you would expect—how Justin was an ungrateful, no talent little shit who wouldn't get away with the crap he was pulling now—how everyone knew he was a flash in the pan and that Peter had supported him for years. If he thought that he could come crawling back he was out of his Goddamned mind and the finger paintings he'd been wasting his time with were right where they belonged—he'd just finished burning their sorry asses. Furthermore, if he thought he could come back and that all would be forgiven, he had another thing coming. He should stay in fucking New York with his new sugar daddy.

It went on for a full ten minutes before the machine cut off.

"He can stay here for as long as he needs to. He'll have to decide what he wants to do now and where he wants to work out of."

"And we may want to get legal on finding out about division of their property. I think the good doctor might have tied Justin's money up in his own accounts."

"That could be a court thing."

"Could be, but he's made some semi-serious income the last couple of years. It could be an decent worth fighting for."

"Fine—we'll do what we have to."

They both looked up as Justin walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.

"Feel better?"

He nodded. "I've been thinking. Is it alright if I make a call?"

"…Of course."

"Peter worries if he doesn't hear from me."

 

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