Moving On
In the nine years since Brian and Steve had reestablished contact with
Justin Taylor they had managed to stay in touch, keep track of one another
and, occasionally, get together. It would usually be when Justin was passing
through
The older men were still happy, still solid and it seemed that they would likely live out their lives together. The agency that Brian had headed for the last ten years was doing well. It had prestige, high profile clients and a reputation for being the best, always able to deliver on time, within budget and in high style. They had every award worth having to their credit and the respect of their peers.
Justin’s own reputation was also growing, his works starting to be shown in some of the better galleries and he was represented by the top agent in the field, his paintings commanding top dollar and he had the freedom to work only on commissions which caught his interest.
His lover, the one he had told Brian he had such hopes for had, indeed, proven to be what he had hoped. They were good together, their only real complaint being that Justin had to travel too often to openings or set ups or to work on location. They both knew that it was necessary and so they coped. They looked forward to the frequent reunions as they dreaded the separations.
That fall, Brian had arrived at work after a couple of weeks away from the office. It was a Saturday, but he enjoyed being there when no one else was around. He liked the solitude, the lack of interruptions and this particular morning he was at his desk nursing the latte he had picked up on his way in when the phone rang. It was his private line.
“Brian?”
“Yes?”
“…It’s Justin, am I interrupting something?”
“No, nothing. How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m here in
“Yeah, sure. Any night is fine.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Fine. Where would you like to meet?”
“Uh—I don’t care. Maybe Steve would like to cook something fabulous?”
“Let’s make it a restaurant. You know Le Cirque?”
”Yeah, I think I’ve heard of it.”
“Is nine tomorrow alright? I have some things to do.”
“Sure, fine. Is everything OK?”
“Yeah, no problems. I’ll see you there.”
Justin knew damn well that something was very wrong. Brian had been all
off. His voice, his demeanor, even the choice of fucking Le Cirque at
Something was definitely screwed up here.
Could Brian and Steve be having some problems? That was ridiculous. They were as tight as two people he’d ever known.
Business trouble? He hadn’t heard of anything, and he followed their business.
Family problems?
Who the fuck knew.
Shit. Well. He’d find out tomorrow.
He arrived at the restaurant a few minutes late, the traffic in midtown causing the delay. He was shown right in, Mr. Kinney was waiting.
“Brian.”
The older man stood, embracing Justin, kissing his cheek. “Justin, you look well.” It was true, Justin did look well. He was thirty-eight now, still a fairly young man. He tried to stay in shape and his blond hair, now more gold than white, was still thick.
Looking at Brian, it was obvious that Justin had been right the day before. Something was very wrong. Brian had lost weight, easy to see on his still slender body, he had shadows under his eyes and there was a sadness, a melancholy about him that was disturbing.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Would you like something to drink before you order?”
Justin asked for a glass of Chablis, Brian requested sparkling water with a twist. The drinks arrived quickly, they settled on appetizers and main courses and sat back to find out how they were both doing.
“What’s the new show?”
“It’s a portrait collection of contemporary artists at the Whitney, opening with a dinner on Wednesday. I hoped that you might be able to make it.”
“Thank you, but I’d rather just see it without the hype.”
Justin tried a different approach. “Since when do you turn down a party?”
“I’ve become sort of a homebody lately. I want to see your paintings, though. I’ll go over during the week.”
“Brian, is everything alright? You look a little strained.”
He sipped his water, stalling for time. “Steve died last week. The funeral was on Thursday.”
Justin stared at him. There was nothing he could think of to say.
“It was brain cancer. He started noticing symptoms about two months ago. We had all the tests done but it was inoperable because of the location of the tumor. They said he’d had it for a while without knowing, but for some reason the growth just sort exploded and there really wasn’t anything they could do.” Brian was looking at the linen tablecloth, toying with his fork. “When we knew it was hopeless he decided to leave the hospital. I brought him home; we had a couple of nurses. At the end he needed a morphine drip for the pain, but the last couple of days he refused it because he wanted us to have the time together. I held him when he died.”
“Brian, I had no idea…God, I’m so sorry.”
He nodded. “I miss him.”
The appetizers were placed in front of them, neither one made a move until Brian managed a half smile. “It’s no reason for you to starve. Eat that.”
“Have you thought what you’re going to do now?”
He shrugged slightly. “I don’t know. Cry some more?”
“I meant with the agency. Do you want to keep working?”
“I go back and forth with it. Some days I want to stop. I don’t need the money; I could just sell it or put Cynthia in charge and keep my name on the door. What’s the fucking point? I’ve done everything I ever wanted to with it, but then other days I think I don’t know anything else and Steve would probably want me to have a reason to get up everyday, but I don’t know. It’s too soon to know.”
“Was there something wrong with your crab, Mr. Kinney? Would you like something else?”
He looked up at the waiter who seemed to know him. “It’s fine George. I’m just not as hungry as I thought. You may take it.” The man left with Brian’s full plate and Justin’s empty one.
“Don’t make any decisions yet, Brian. You’re still in shock. Take a few months or a year before you do anything.”
Absently, he nodded. “I know, that’s what Cyn tells me, too.”
“How is she?”
“Cyn? Fine.” Unexpectedly tears tracing falling down Brian’s cheeks. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Justin. I keep doing this. I can’t seem to stop.” He leaned his face on his hand covering his eyes, his elbow on the table. Afraid that a touch would shatter what little control he had, Justin let him be. Several minutes passed before he regained his composure. Finally he drew several shaky breaths, wiped his hand across his cheeks and looked across the table.
“I shouldn’t have agreed to meet you tonight but I wanted to see you.” The tears were starting again. “Look, I’ll come to the Whitney this week. Show me your new paintings.” He stood. “I’ll call you in a day or so.”
Justin stood, putting his hand on Brian’s arm. “I’ll see you home.”
“There’s no need.”
“You’re upset, I’ll worry about you if I don’t.”
“Mr. Kinney? Are you alright?” It was the manager of the restaurant. He seemed genuinely concerned.
“Mr. Kinney isn’t feeling well this evening. Would you please just add tonight’s meal to his account?” Justin assumed, correctly, that Brian’s agency would bring clients here often enough to have an account. They were about to head to the coat check when George the waiter appeared beside them holding both of their coats along with their dinners packaged to take with them.
“Mr. Kinney? I’m so terribly sorry about Mr. Brenner. He was a wonderful man, we were all so fond of him here.”
Nodding his thanks, Brian allowed Justin to lead him outside to a cab the owner had called for him. Giving him the address of the duplex the two men had shared, they were opening Brian’s front door fifteen minutes later.
It was still a showplace, a combination of Brian’s minimalist leanings and Steve’s equally sophisticated but warmer tastes. It was beautiful and well maintained and empty.
“I know I have to start going through his things, but I can’t just yet.”
“When you’re ready, Brian. There’s no rush.”
“His sister wants to come over tomorrow to take some of them.”
“You told me that you like her.”
“Yes. I do.”
Justin saw that a couple of his paintings had been given prominent wall space. Brian saw him noticing. “Steve liked them, too.”
“Do you think you could eat some of this now?”
Brian just shook his head. “I’d like to just lie down, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind. I’ll put this in the fridge.”
A minute later Justin walked into the bedroom to find Brian sitting on the edge of the large bed.
“Would you do me a favor?”
“Of course, anything.”
“…Would you stay here tonight? I don’t mean sex. I know you’re with Peter. I just don’t want to be alone.” The tears were starting again Brian seemed almost unaware of them.
Nodding, Justin knelt between Brian’s knees, put his hands on the sides of his face and kissed his cheeks, wet and salty.
“We were together almost twenty years. I don’t know how to be alone anymore.”
“Brian, you have people who love you. You know that. Gus is in college
right here in
“Justin, don’t be an asshole.” Standing up he began removing his clothes, finally getting into the bed naked. Stripping as far as his underwear, Justin joined him, gathered him into his arms.
Lying together Brian couldn’t help but mentally compare the two men. In truth, Steve and Justin had been the only two men he’d slept with who had mattered to him, the only ones he had cared about and the only two lovers he had actually loved.
He felt Justin’s small, more compact body against his as opposed to Steve’s longer, taller one. Justin’s small, blunt hands, Steve’s long elegant fingers. Justin’s feet ending around Brian’s mid calf, Steve’s toes would mingle with his.
He had once thought that he and Justin fit together so perfectly, almost yin and yang, then he changed his mind as Steve became his other half. He craved the feel of a body the same size of his, one he didn’t have to feel protective of, one he wasn’t afraid of hurting or overwhelming, one whose arms encircled his back as far as his did around the man he held.
Unbidden the memory of making love in the shower with the two men came to mind, Justin, smaller, he would have to bend his legs so that they would mesh. Steve, the same height, had no such problems.
When they would simply hug in greeting, Justin would fit against his shoulder, he and Steve would be in contact from feet to face, mouths at the same level.
But still, the hands stroking his back gave comfort and the lips against his cheek felt good. It was still Justin and Justin had always tried to take away the hurt, even though he was also the one responsible for so much. Brian still, all these years later, couldn’t recall the affair with Ethan Gold without pain.
He had seen the name about six months ago. There was a concert at
Feigning disgust at this supposedly new and petty side to Brian he had wondered aloud what other unpleasant secrets he’d been keeping all these years.
A couple of months later the first symptoms had appeared, a hand that
wouldn’t stop shaking, vision problems, headaches that nothing would
relieve. They had made the rounds to Sloan Kettering and
He had done everything he could to ease some of what Steve was enduring and finally had come the night when the had lain in this same bed, told one another what the last twenty years together had meant to them both. They spoke of the depth of their mutual love and the joy each had brought to the other. Steve had thanked him for allowing him to share in raising Gus, to allow him the pleasure of a son and Brian had thanked him for allowing him to show the best parts of himself without embarrassment or fear.
Finally, Steve had made the last, obvious request.
Brian had agreed to placate him, so that he would rest, but he had no wish, no desire to find anyone else.
Steve had wanted the service to be small, private, but that had become impossible. There were too many friends, too many business acquaintances who wished to pay their respects. The small church Steve had attended sporadically was filled with a standing room crowd.
Brian distraught, but with the rawness of his emotions contained by doctor-administered drugs had delivered the eulogy with dignity and feeling and even humor, but no tears.
That was four days ago and the reality was starting to sink in.
Steve was dead.
He was alone.
Finally, Justin’s arms around him, he fell asleep.
The next morning, around eight, Justin woke up with that disorientated feeling of not being sure where he was. He was alone in a large bed, apparently not in a hotel. After a few hazy moments he remembered.
Shit. He was at Brian’s and Steve had died.
Getting up, he wandered out to the kitchen where Brian was sitting with coffee and the New York Times. He looked up at Justin walked in. “There’re bagels and yogurt. I’m not sure what else is here right now.” He put the paper down. “Thank you for last night. I know that wasn’t easy for you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing. You’d have done it for me. Shit, you did do it for me. Are you feeling any better?”
“Strangely, I think I am. Carol will be over soon to go through Steve’s things.”
“You’re OK with that?”
“I’m fine with it. I don’t give a shit about that sort of thing. She can have his fucking jewelry for her kids or whatever it is she wants.”
Nodding, Justin asked if he could take a shower, saying that he had to
get over to the Whitney to supervise the unloading of the paintings and make
sure they were uncrated safely. “Would you mind if I stayed here while
I’m in
“You don’t have to baby-sit me. I’ll be alright.”
“I know that. I’d like to spend time with you.”
“…Fine. I’d like that, too.” As an afterthought he added, “There is a guest room if you’d be more comfortable there.”
“Why don’t we play that by ear?”
About four that afternoon Justin returned, using the spare key Brian had
given him to let himself in the door. He had picked up his things from the
hotel and checked out earlier in the day. Following the sounds he heard coming
from the lower part of the duplex he found Brian running on the treadmill,
his mind flashing back to the same sight in Brian’s old loft in
Good, if he was running, maybe the lethargy was lifting a little.
“Hey.”
“Hey. Did you have anything to eat today?”
“I heated up some of last night’s dinner for lunch. Did you want something?” He stepped off the conveyer, toweling off.
“You mind if I cook something? I don’t get much chance when I’m traveling and I like it.”
“Sounds good. You have what you need?”
“Yeah, I stopped on the way here.”
Half an hour later Brian went to the kitchen to see what Justin was up to and was surprised by the sight of the midconstruction of one of Deb’s lasagnas.
“How the Hell did you pry that out of her?”
“About a year ago I was back for a thing at the Scaife Galley and she finally decided that I could cook well enough to warrant access to her recipes.”
“Michael never did master boiling water, did he?”
“Fuck, no. Either Deb or Vic did all the cooking and then Ben took over.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Ben? Fine. Those new blockers really made a difference. He’s doing great.”
“And Michael? He still pissed that you’re late on the new Rage art?”
“He told you?”
“Of course he told me. I think it’s funny you still draw that crap between Whitney gigs.”
After putting the final topping of mozzarella on, Justin slid it into the oven. “That will be about an hour.” Pouring wine for them both he handed one glass over then sat down at the kitchen table. “I like the comic. Keeps me grounded.”
“JT and Rage are still lovers there.”
“Yeah, and Zephyr is still jealous.”
“Some things don’t change.”
“I was thinking. Why don’t you come out to
“Spend time with you and the doc?”
“Get a change of scenery. Breath some air you can’t see.” He sipped his wine and looked down the sixty-seven stories to the street below. “Besides, you said that Cynthia runs the day-to-day stuff. When was the last time you hit the slopes?”
Brian looked at him for a long second. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll be alright. It’s just an adjustment, that’s all.”
“…You’ve been kicked in the teeth. Besides, I like your company.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Brian, I spoke to Gus today and Cynthia. She said that she could run things and Gus thinks it’s a great idea.”
“Cynthia can run things and Gus wants the use of my fucking apartment so he can get laid without a herd of cockroaches watching.”
“You’re just pissed that he turned out straight.”
“My one major failure in life.”
“He’s terrific.”
“I know he is.”
“So let him get laid in cleanliness.”
“I said I’d think about it now fucking back off.”
“The paintings are up. Would you like to see them tomorrow?”
“I have to talk to the lawyer about Steve’s will.”
“That won’t take all day, you could come over to the museum either before or after.”
“I might not feel like it tomorrow.” Brian was looking at him with the glare that had lost nothing over the years. It was ignored.
Justin got up to adjust the oven temperature slightly. “Didn’t he leave everything pretty much to you?”
“Yes. Some things to his sister and a couple of charities, but most of it is mine.” He started to get up. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be back when the food’s ready.”
The next three days went by with the two men alternating between close and desperately personal conversation and times when Brian would simply leave the room, probably to cry in peace. Whichever mood was in force, Justin let Brian play it out, knowing it was needed.
When they went to bed Justin would often start in the guestroom, but usually within an hour or two, either he would walk across the hall or Brian would and they spent each night sleeping together without either of them saying anything.
On Wednesday Justin went to the opening. Three of the five paintings he had up were sold before the evening was over and the critic’s reviews were love letters. He also accepted four new commissions from contacts made at the Whitney that week and he was ecstatic with how it had gone.
Brian was proud of him, making no secret of the fact, surprising him with a particularly beautiful and fine gold chain he had found at Tiffany’s. When he had pushed the light blue box, tied with the white satin ribbon across the table at a final dinner, Justin had just stared for a moment then smiled his big smile tinged with some shyness.
“But why did you do this?” The chain was already around his neck, nestled in the V of his cashmere sweater.
“We’re friends, you twat.” A pause. “And because I don’t know how I would have gotten through this week if you hadn’t been here.”
“I’m glad that we are, Brian. And we both know you’ve been there for me more than once.”
“I thought, if it’s alright, that I might go out to
The smile widened.
Twenty-four hours later Justin was opening the door of the mountain home he shared, when he could be there, with Peter, his lover of a decade. The house was dark, obviously no one was home, but Justin seemed unconcerned.
“He’s probably at the hospital. He gets called in for a lot of emergencies. Let’s get you settled in the guestroom and see what we can scrounge up for food.”
The house was one of the new, but supposed to look old, log cabins with about ten rooms and all the modern conveniences including a hot tub in a room that looked out to the mountains. Justin had a large studio and the rest of the house was comfortable in a rustic, Ralph Lauren sort of way.
They managed a simple dinner of omelets with fresh hash browns and were just finishing when the front door opened.
“Justin, I thought I smelled your cooking on the turnpike. God, I missed you!” He stood to receive a welcome home hug and a heartfelt number of kisses. Finally he broke the embrace.
“Peter, this is Brian Kinney, He’s going to be staying with us for a little while. Brian, This is Peter Roberts.” The two men shook hands.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Brian. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
“Likewise. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Of course not. We’ve plenty of room. Do you ski?”
“No, not really. I was just hoping to relax a bit, if that’s alright.”
The tension coming from Peter was thick enough to almost see in the thin mountain air.
“Late shift tonight, Peter?”
“No, three car pile up. I had surgery from two this afternoon straight through.”
“You poor thing. Would you like something to eat? I can make some more eggs for you.”
“I did drive thru on the way home. I’m just going to watch a movie and not think for a few hours, you two want to join me?”
They moved to the living room where there was a large screen TV playing the Godfather Saga. Justin rested against Peter on the couch, Brian had a soft chair.
“The show went well? I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, but you know what it’s like trying to get someone to cover me for more than twenty-four hours.”
“I know. What you do is important. It’s fine. I sold three at the opening and a fourth the next day. Twenty thousand each. And I got some commissions out of it, too.”
“See, I keep telling you you’re not just a pretty face.” His fingers were on Justin’s neck. “This is new.”
“Brian gave it to me after the opening.”
“Tiffany? You must do very well for yourself.”
“I do alright.”
“So Justin has told me.”
Shit, this is just what I fucking need. “Justin was extremely helpful to me to this week, I wanted to thank him.”
“Services rendered?”
There was an awkward silence. “My partner of twenty years died last week. Justin was supportive. There was nothing else involved, Peter, I assure you.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Brian. I had no idea. Please—I really am sorry.”
“You didn’t know.”
The rest of the film was watched in silence.
Later that night Brian heard the argument in the master bedroom. “You Goddamned fucking slut. His partner dies and you move in less than a week later.”
“It wasn’t like that. He was distraught. Steve died unexpectedly and Brian had just given the eulogy for shit’s sake. I didn’t fuck him.”
“Not for lack of trying, no doubt. I’ve put up with this crap from you before and I’ve had fucking enough. You even bring him home with you? How damn stupid do you think I am?”
“Brian is a friend, Damnit.”
“Who you’re still in love with. Fine, you want him, go fucking get him. I’m not going through this again with you.”
“How can you bring that up? That was six years ago and it didn’t mean a Goddamned thing.”
“Listen you cunt, I’m the one who works around here. It’s my job that allows you to dabble with your finger paints and play in the kitchen, if it wasn’t for me you’d still be shacking up with any meal ticket you could find.”
“You fucker—I made eighty thousand dollars this week. That’s six months pay for you.”
“That I work for. You play in your studio when the mood strikes you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ah, another literate comeback. I’d suggest you spend the night in the guestroom, but that’s probably what you’re angling for.”
“Screw you.”
Brian heard the door slam and foot steps going down the hall. Shit. He found Justin up in his studio.
“Is he always this jealous?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you put up with it?”
Justin just shrugged.
“I’m leaving in the morning. Come with me or go see your mother or something, but don’t stay here.”
Justin was silent for a bit, thinking, then he managed, “I thought that he loved me. After you left me for Steve I wanted to get back what we had. I kept hoping that you and Steve would break up, but when it didn’t happen I found Peter and I thought he loved me. I think that he did, but at some point it changed and he started resenting that I would go here and there for shows or jobs. He wanted me here, you know, the little woman he could trot out for Doctor’s conferences. The little twink who paints all those pretty pictures. I think he had this fantasy that I’d do portraits of the other doctors kids or something and then have a perfect dinner on the table when he finished his rounds.”
“You had an affair?”
“Yeah, a few years ago. It wasn’t much, but he won’t forget it.”
“Come back to
“He broke the chain. He pulled it off my neck.” Brian looked at the welt it had left.
“I’ll get you another.”
“No, it wouldn’t be the same.”
“Don’t stay here, Justin. Whatever it used to be, it’s not good now. Come back with me.”
He sat back in his chair, looking out the windows at the
“I’ll help you.”
“Yes. Good.”
The next morning Peter had an elaborate breakfast made when Brian came down to eat, obviously an apology. Justin was toying with his pancakes. It was apparent that they had been talking when Brian interrupted.
“Justin says that you’re going in a day or two. You know that you’re welcome here for as long as you want, Brian. Any friend of Justin’s is welcome here. You should stay, there are some sights I’m sure you’d enjoy.”
“Thank you, but I need to get back to my business. I’ve had to neglect it the last couple of months and I need to make contact with the clients.”
“Of course, you know what you have to do. Justin tells me that he might go back with you.”
Christ. Fucking games. “Yes, that’s right. I’ve told him that he’s welcome at my place for as long as he wants.”
“You have room? I’d always heard that
“This one has space.”
Justin looked up. “Brian’s place is a duplex in
“That’s a big place for one person.”
“…Until last week there were two living there and I often have my son or friends stay with me.”
“Of course, how thoughtless of me. You’re sure he won’t be under foot?”
“I’m sure.”
And so the day went. Peter pretended that nothing was wrong while Justin made the calls that would pack up his studio and paintings and have them shipped east within the week.
Two days later they were at the front door, the cab was waiting with Brian standing beside it.
“You leave, you don’t come back. You understand that, right?”
“I know. You’re changing the locks.”
“You really think that you two are going to pick up from twenty years ago? You really are a cunt if you think that.”
“I don’t know, Peter.” He sounded so tired. “I just know I’d rather be there than here.”
“Then you are a cunt. He fucked you over once, he’ll do it again.” The door closed in his face.
The arrangement in Brian’s place worked out well. They got along and stayed out of each other’s way when needed, but were available for dinner or a talk or just a hug when the occasion arose. They went to shows and movies. They had dinner in or out, they saw friends and Gus brought his college friends over often. Brian went back to work and was getting a handle on his grief. Though he would always miss Steve, he was almost ready to move on, as he had wanted—as he had asked Brian to do.
Four months later Brian walked into the apartment to the smells of Debbie’s chicken parm. He kissed Justin on the cheek. “Good day today?”
“I finished that portrait and I got a call that another painting
sold from that gallery in
“I’m proud of you.”
“What about your day?”
“I landed Ford and I was thinking about something.”
“What?”
“I think it’s time you moved out of the guestroom.”
“…If you think—I’ll start looking for a place tomorrow, if that’s what you want.”
“…I thought that you could move into my room.” He took a light blue box tied with a white satin ribbon out if his jacket pocket.
“Brian?” It held another gold chain, different than the last one, but just as beautiful.
“I think it’s time.”
His arms around the larger man, his big smile in place, he simply said, “No shit.”
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