Business Trip

Justin was sitting on the floor of the small studio space he shared with Jim Fallow. It was at the top of the painting building, up six flights of stairs and serviced by an elevator that never worked. It was cramped, hot in summer, cold in winter and usually without air.

They were lucky to get it.

He had a project due in the morning that he'd drawn a blank on how to solve and two more due the next week. He'd practically moved into the small room, working non-stop for the last few weeks and he was starting to get seriously worried that he may not have the things done in time plus Deb had been on his case to add shifts at the diner because the new kid had quit without notice, claiming a sick grandmother.

He and Brian had hardly seen one another in weeks because of how nuts both their schedules had gotten. Brian was under pressure to land a couple of big accounts that Vance was horny for and so they were both under the gun. They had been reduced to notes on the counter and messages on answering machines and voice mail and the like. The only times they were in the lofty at the same time, usually one of them would be asleep and the other would be gone by the time they woke.

It completely sucked and they were both exhausted and horny and lonely.

Sitting in the hammock chair Jim had hung up a couple of months ago, he tucked his legs up, leaned his head back and, without meaning to, started thinking about what he'd like to do when he got home—what he'd like to do with Brian and to Brian and have Brian do to him.

He could practically feel the softness of Brian's hair between his fingers, feel the way he would slide his pants down and run his hands over Justin's cheeks and down his legs, back up his sides and he could feel the softness of Brian's hair on the skin of his thighs…he could hear the sounds they both would make, see the glow of the lights, taste the…They would make love, no they wouldn't fuck, no matter what Brian chose to call it, they would make love and then they would hold one another all wet and sticky until they fell asleep against one another. They would sleep in then wake up and make love again, maybe in the shower this time, then make breakfast and spend the day reading the newspaper and being together and just resting. They could share the couch and lean against each other. Maybe he could finally get Brian to watch Pirates of the Caribbean and they would tease one another about who was hotter, Johnny Depp or Orlando Bloom. They would…

"Taylor? You asleep there? Go home, asshole." Jim was packing up his brushes, getting his coat. Justin looked up at him and was about to answer when Brian appeared, standing in the door. He never came up here. He hated being around all the college kids, being reminded that they were younger than he was, that some of them might be hotter and that someday Justin might go off with one of them—again. Justin had tried to tell him that he had nothing to worry about with that, but finally they had both silently agreed just not to go there.

Justin knew that Brian expected that someday he'd find someone else and Brian knew the belief hurt Justin, but it was what he believed in his bones to be true.

Drunk or sober, they never talked about it.

"Am I interrupting?"

Justin's smile started, not the full one because he was so tired, but enough to get his meaning across. Jim just stared. He'd heard about the beau, heard some of the other students talking about what a beauty Taylor had caught himself for a sugar daddy, but he hadn't expected him to be this good. Damn, he was enough to turn him gay. Both men looked at Jim expectantly.

Oh, right. "…I was just leaving. Get some rest, Taylor. Tomorrow."

"Yeah, tomorrow." The boy left, his eyes swiveling as he walked past the taller, older man. Ignoring him completely as he left, Brian stepped into the studio and pulled Justin to his feet. They hugged, arms staying around one another. Brian spoke quietly against his ear.

"I have to tell you."

Shit. "No. Don't." Brian was wearing his jeans and the black cashmere turtleneck he always wore on planes. He claimed it was the only thing comfortable enough and warm enough for a flight in winter. "How long? Where?"

"San Francisco and Vancouver then Toronto and Boston. Maybe ten days, a week if I'm lucky. I'm on my way to the airport now."

"Shit." It came out like a sigh.

He put his hand on Justin's neck in a small caress. "I'll call."

Knowing there was no point in anything else, he kissed Brian and nodded. That was it, that was all, he was gone. Justin heard the footsteps clanging down the metal stairs, echoing through the stairwell and thought that he should have at least walked him out. It was too late. He was gone.

He turned to the easel he needed to concentrate on, on the canvas nowhere near finished, picked up a brush and put it down again.

Sighing he put his things away, got his coat, turned off the light and locked the door. Screw it. He was tired and depressed and hungry and now Brian was gone for a week or two and just, well, just shit. He was going to stop at the student union to get a sandwich then remembered that he didn't have any money. He'd meant to stop at the bank, but now it was closed and he knew that the ATM was still broken. Shit.

He caught the bus that would take him close enough to the loft that he could walk the last few blocks. He'd work there, he had the computer and maybe after he'd taken a hot shower to get rid of the chill and found himself some food he'd be able to come up with an acceptable idea.

Well, at least something that didn't completely suck, anyway.

The bus was delayed because of a car wreck on Forbes Avenue so it was almost an hour later that he was finally sliding open the door to the loft. It was dark and Brian must have turned the heat down when he left. He pushed the thermometer up a few notches.

He'd noticed that when Brian wasn't in the loft it seemed like it was too big. Brian filled the place up, but when he wasn't home it was cold and empty and lacking.

He felt like a twat and shook off the feeling, or tried to.

The next two weeks would be long.

Even though he knew that they hadn't been food shopping, he checked to see what was in the kitchen that he might be able to turn into his dinner. The only thing that wasn't either rotted or moldy or gone was half a box of rotelli. There was nothing he could use as sauce other than about one pat of butter—unsalted. There was, stuck in the back of the fridge, a bottle of beer with an expiration date that had come and gone on it about four months ago.

Deciding on a shower first, he hoped that would lift his mood at least a little. Oh, and he found a piece of paper on the counter with a note from Brian telling him the names and the numbers of both his flights and his hotels. That was sweet, Brian had never bothered to leave that with him before, and he found himself inordinately pleased at the show of consideration. He managed a small smile at that, Brian being thoughtful. This was good.

He'd call Daphne. They could get a pizza or something. That would be an idea. They hadn't seen each other in a while and they could catch up with one another. Making the call, she agreed to come over and should be there in about half an hour. He took his shower, toweled off and got some warm sweats on and was just opening a bottle of wine when Daph was knocking on the door.

They decided on a DVD, called in the dinner order and were just sitting down to wait when the phone rang.

"Brian?"

"No, it's Justin. He's not here, Michael. Do you want me to take a message for him?"

"Yeah, tell him that I need his car tomorrow. He knows but he might forget. Just remind him, OK?"

"He's on a business trip for a week or so. I think he took his car to the airport." In fact, Justin knew for a fact that he had.

"Goddamn him…when you see him tell him `thanks' for me. Asshole." The line went dead.

Daphne looked at him. Fucking Michael.

"I guess his trip was sort of short notice. I don't think he told anyone."

"That's weird. Aren't these things usually all planned out weeks in advance?" She was picking the sausage off her piece. She always did that then ate the pieces later after they'd gone cold and the grease had congealed. It was gross.

"Usually, yeah, but I guess something must have come up or something."

"…I guess." Like she believed that. She probably thought he was in San Francisco getting laid. Well, fine, maybe he was. OK, probably he was. They didn't have an exclusive arrangement. Sure, Brian knew his feelings but it wasn't like they were lesbians or married or any of that shit. They could both do what they wanted—who they wanted, no locks on the door.

They nominally watched the film, ate the pizza and talked. Daphne filled him in on her classes, her new boyfriend who was a junior at Pitt and her idiot sister who was screwing the co-captain of the high school football team and didn't believe that he banged anything that moved. Daph was worried about her. Justin was privately glad that Sophie and Molly weren't friends.

Justin told Daph about his projects, that he was hoping for a scholarship for next year so that he wouldn't feel like so much of a drag on Brian and so that he could prove he could pull his own weight. He told her he thought that Brian was working too hard, putting in too many hours and Vance was taking advantage of the fact that Brian was better at closing deals than anyone else at the agency and so had to do all the traveling and all the pitches. Oh, and his mother was getting used to them being together but his father still hadn't spoken to him since the start of the school year and there was no thaw in sight.

It was killing him, the thing with his father, and Daph had no solution for him, just an ear to lend.

By around midnight she was tired and ready to leave, getting her things, when Justin suggested that she might as well stay. It was late, the buses wouldn't be really running anymore and it just made sense. Pulling a blanket onto the couch and taking Justin up on his offer of one of Brian's spare toothbrushes, she agreed.

They were both settling in when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Did I leave a note on the counter with flight times and hotel info on it?"

"Yes, I found it. Thank you, that was really…"

"I forgot to put it in my pocket. Get it and read off what the hotel confirm number is. I'm in San Francisco and I can't check into the damn room." Justin got up and did what he was asked. "Now I need you to e-mail the rest of that information to me for the rest of the week. I'd ask Cynthia, but she's off for a few days. I'll need that tomorrow."

He hung up. No thanks, no see you around, no goodbye. He saw Daphne looking at him from the couch but he wasn't in the mood to talk about it right now. He was tired and she'd just tell him that it was Brian and that was the way he was.

He knew that, that didn't make it any more fun to deal with. Flipping off the last light, he went back up to the bedroom and climbed under the comforter—amused by the name. I could use some comfort right about now, wondering if this was like the time Brian had blown off their trip to Vermont because his job was in trouble. That had been without warning, too. It sort of had the same feel to it and he thought it was like déjà vu all over again, as his grandfather would say.

Whatever, whoever was going on, Brian was focusing on it—or on him—exclusively. Something big was happening or he was trying to stop it from happening or…something.

Shit.

And as usual Brian couldn't be bothered to let him know what was going on.

That's how things stood for two more days. Justin didn't hear from Brian, nor did he try to contact him, figuring that if Brian wanted to talk to him, he'd call or something.

He went to class and did his shifts at the diner. He checked up on his mother and Molly and made sure that Vic was alright. He did his assignments. He was fine.

Really he was and he hardly ever thought about where Brian was or what he might be doing.

OK, that was a lie. He thought about Brian all the time. He thought about him when he was in class and when he was clearing tables. He thought about him when he was walking down the street and when he was brushing his teeth and most of all he thought about him when he was in bed alone and was wondering who the fuck Brian was doing this time.

Two more days went by like this with still no word and he was getting angrier by the hour. The others tried to calm him down, telling him that Brian worked hard, that he was just focused on his clients and landing accounts, that he'd call sooner or later, probably gloating that he'd landed fucking Coca Cola as an exclusive or something like that.

He was fine, he'd be back soon and Brian was just being Brian.

That was all.

Well, except for Debbie who would roll her eyes and mutter about `That Asshole' as she served up the burgers and omelets.

The fifth day, Friday, was when it went from annoying to weird.

Justin was working on his computer at the loft, around six thirty in the evening when he picked up the phone on the second ring. It was Cynthia.

"Hi, Justin, can I speak to him?"

"…He's not here. He's in Toronto tonight."

"What's he doing in Toronto?"

"Meeting clients, pitching. Isn't he?"

There was a short pause while Cynthia seemed to process what he's just said. "He said that he was taking some personal time and would be in on Monday. I thought he said he had some work to catch up on."

Shit. "He does, he is. He had to talk to some people, that's all."

"…Have him give me a call when you see him, OK? He knows my home number."

"Sure, I'll tell him."

"Thanks."

That was weird. Where the fuck was he and what the fuck was he doing? Obviously Cynthia hadn't a clue and if she didn't know where he was then it couldn't be Vanguard business. She knew everything. Brian told her everything and he trusted her to keep her mouth shut. They'd worked together for years.

What the hell was he doing?

He resisted calling Brian, but just barely.

Another day and a half went but, still with no word. On Sunday night he was in the loft, alone, finishing a dinner of leftovers when he heard the elevator running. It was probably one of the neighbors. The sound got louder; he heard it stop with that particular squeak that told him it was on the top floor. He heard the gate being lifted and then the loft door being slid open.

Brian, suit bag over his shoulder, walked in like he had just gone down to the corner for a paper. He put the bag and his coat over the end of the couch and walked over. Neither one made a move to the other. It seemed to Justin that they were sizing each other up. Looking up from the bar stool he was sitting on to eat his dinner, Justin managed a calm, "How was your trip?"

"Fine. Is there any more of that? I haven't had dinner."

"On the stove."

Moving to the other side of the counter and getting a plate, Brian served himself some of warmed over pasta and a bottle of beer from the fridge. Without another word, he started eating, standing at the stove; he must have skipped lunch, too.

"Cynthia wants you to call her at home whenever you get in."

Brian nodded.

Goddamnit. "Are you going to tell me where you were?"

"I did."

"San Francisco, Vancouver, Toronto and Boston." No reply. "Fuck you, Brian." Justin got up, headed for his shoes and was just getting the second one on his foot when Brian looked over at him.

"I'm starting my own agency. I locked down the first clients."

"Right." He pulled his jacket off the hook by the door he'd hung it on earlier. "Bullshit."

"Leo Brown was in San Francisco for his daughter's wedding. Vancouver is looking to promote tourism. Toronto was hosting an advertising convention and George Poole was in Boston. Brown and Poole have agreed to move with me, Vancouver liked my pitch and will get back to me with changes and I made contacts at the convention."

Justin straightened up and stared at him. "You're serious."

"Yeah."

"And you not only didn't tell Cynthia, you couldn't even say one fucking word to me."

"I wasn't sure if it would work."

"And I have no interest in this? Where are you going to set up shop?"

"I rented an office in the Triangle about two weeks ago."

Justin just stared at him. Jesus. "And what if it hadn't worked out? What would you have done then?"

"I'd have eaten two months rent and no one would have been the wiser." He finished what had passed for dinner, picked up his beer and his bags and headed up to the bedroom. Tossing his things on the bed, he walked into the bathroom, proceeded to strip and stood under the shower, washing the road and airplane off his skin and out of his hair. Justin waited down in the main living area. In fifteen minutes Brian joined him, now wearing old jeans and a long sleeved tee—silk, of course. "What are you so pissed about? I told you I was on a business trip. It's not like it's the first one."

Justin's jaw was so tight Brian was sure it would crack soon. Fucking princess.

"And where do I fit into this, or do I?"

Christ. "You're my art department, if you want the job. I can't pay you, but you can have a percentage of any account you work on."

That stopped Justin cold. When the hell was he going to bother asking him if it hadn't come up? Fucking Brian. "What makes you think I have time for something like that?" Go on, beg, me, asshole.

"I was hoping that you could make time. I was also hoping that Cynthia would move with me."

"So you have the space the clients, an assistant and now you think you have an art department. Anything else?"

"I have the letterheads designed, they'll be printed as soon as I give them the go ahead. On Monday I'll talk to Gardner about my settlement for leaving Vanguard and then I'll get started on getting new clients." He sat next to Justin, smiling. "Are you in?"

"I'll let you know."

Fair enough. Justin would have his drama queen moment then sign on. Brian knew him. "Fine."

"…That's it? `Fine'? Like you give a shit about what plans I might have. You disappear for over a week with no word; you come back with this cock and bull story and then hand me this on a Goddamned plate. Fuck you." In full flounce mode, Justin grabbed his jacket and this time made it out the door.

He didn't stop until his key was in the lock of his studio and, pushing in, he was annoyed to see Jim working at his easel, startled by the intrusion.

"Something crawl up your ass, Taylor? Or someone?"

"Fuck you." Angry, he threw his jacket on the chair; got out his paints and started on a new canvas, screw his hand. It always throbbed it didn't matter. The two young men both worked, ignoring one another, for several hours. Neither one said anything. Around four in the morning, tired and nearly finished, they looked at one another and started laughing.

It was funny—it really was. Both of them having fag fits at the same time and Jim wasn't even gay.

"What happened?"

"Brian was an asshole. You?"

"Lori was a bitch."

"Fuck'em."

"Fuck'em both."

"Fuck'em together."

"Doubt it."

"It could happen."

"No it couldn't."

"It might."

"Brian hates pussy."

"I knew he was an asshole."

"He likes mine."

"Your pussy?"

"My asshole."

"That is more information than I needed."

"You asked."

"Didn't."

"What did he do—the asshole?"

"He wants me to do the art for his new ad agency."

"You turned him down?"

"I'm not his fucking beck and callboy."

"Asshole. It's a job."

"It's his job."

"Why the fuck are you doing here if you don't want to work?"

"I DO want to work."

"And you're so hotshit that you can turn down offers? You have any idea how good this will look?"

"He didn't ask me, he fucking told me."

"Asshole. I should be so lucky."

"No, he walks in and just says…Hey, you wanna head my new art department?"

"And you blow it off? Asshole…. He any good?"

"In advertising?"

"Yeah."

"The best."

"Asshole."

"Yeah, but…"

"Asshole."

"But he…"

"Was he going to pay you?"

"A percentage."

"Asshole."

"I should go home?"

"You should go home."

"But he took off for like a week and he…"

"He didn't call, he didn't write. Shit, what are you? A teenaged girl?"

"Yeah, but he…"

"Get over yourself, Taylor."

Jim had his jacket on, headed home. "Maybe Lori has chilled by now.  Later."

Forty minutes later with the sky starting to go light around the edges, Justin was climbing in the bed, Brian asleep, or pretending to be, on his own side.

"Brian? OK."

"Good. Go to sleep."

"What accounts? Do you know what you want for them?"

"It's five in the morning, go to sleep."

"I was thinking about Brown on the way home just now and I have this really kickass idea."

"Tell me later."

"But…"

"Tell me later or I'll fire you."

"Brian?"

"…What?"

"Are you tired or horny?"

"Both."

"…OK."

"Justin?"

"Are you going to sleep?"

"But you just said…"

"Asshole."

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