Reverberations

Chapter 4

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Brian

It's not the most stellar fuck we've ever had, but it's real and hot and him, and feels a hell of a lot better than anything I'd expected when I walked in here. Afterwards we just sprawl on the couch all tangled up together.

Maybe I'm just light-headed with relief or some bullshit like that, because at first I just thought the competition thing was funny. But, while we're lying there all comfortable and relaxed, he makes some comment about how he's going to kill Emmett if he doesn't stop spreading gossip, and it's clear that he doesn't share that view. It's also clear that it's not Emmett he's really pissed at; that he'd love to be ripping Mikey a new one if I don't do something to stop it.  Which makes me feel tired; and also reminds me that I'm pretty pissed off with Mikey myself. Maybe I should just stand aside and let Justin take his shot.

Why the fuck do other people have to get so fucking involved in our lives?

I swallow down the rest of the Bean, and, to distract him from fuming about Mikey I say, "So tell me about this fabulous studio of yours."

He gives me a look that tells me he knows exactly what I'm doing, and that it won't work, then he grins and as he starts gently massaging my scalp, he says, "It's not exactly fabulous. But it's only a couple of blocks from here, it's got great light, and I can afford it."

I hear myself give a little moan of pleasure at the magic his fingers are working, and make a note to remind myself that I am not a fucking lesbian, then I say, "So … how come the word on the street says it's an apartment?"

He shrugs. "It's got one big room, and a tiny kitchen which is like a gas ring in a closet, and I have to share the bathroom with the people who rent the store downstairs. I guess you could live there if you had to, but …"

He makes a face, and I stick my tongue in my cheek and say pointedly, "Not me, Sunshine. But it's nice to know you've got somewhere to go when the going here gets too tough for you."

Fuck me if the little shit doesn't laugh at that.

"Yeah, right," he says. "Like I'm the only one who bails when it gets tough."

Our eyes meet and we silently acknowledge that we've both done more than our fair share of bailing in different ways - he physically takes off, I move away emotionally. Either way …

Not a good way to deal, boys and girls.

I'm trying to find words to say something about that. Not some bullshit promise, but something, so he'll know that I'm doing my best not to do that again. But before I can, his face softens, and he says, "I told you, Brian.  I'm not going anywhere."

"Good," I manage to croak out.

His smile lights up the room then, so maybe he's heard the rest of it anyway.

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Justin

"Good."

He said `good'. Which on one level is pretty pathetic … I mean, give me a break. That's the best he can do? But on another … it's fucking amazing.  Because a year ago even, he would just have shrugged, or worse, made some crack about the door being open, or no locks, or some shit like that.

So compared to that, `good' is like a major declaration.

"You could drive me down there," I say. "Take a look."

"Cart your shit for you, you mean."

I grin at him. "That too."

He nods. "After dinner."

"You won't see the light then," I protest. I really want him to see it, to see why it's such a good work space for me.

He laughs. "Am I Emmett?"

I don't get what he means at first, then when I run over what's been said, I pinch him. He picks now to get into bad puns?

"See the fucking light," he cackles.

For some reason it suddenly does seem funny and we lay there laughing like a pair of maniacs until we hear the phone ring. He stares at it for a moment, but neither of us moves to answer it. It's going to be one of them, one of our friends, sticking their oar in as usual.

It goes to voice mail, and we hear Michael's voice.

I think Brian would have gotten up and intercepted it, but I'm still half on top of him and before he can untangle himself, Michael is in full flight and it's too late then.

"Brian, Brian! Are you alright? Call me. I just … I wanted to tell you that Emmett told Justin about the thing with Brandon, and maybe Justin is just over-reacting. You know what a drama princess he is. So maybe you just need to talk to him and make him understand that … well, you know, that you're never going to settle into being a real couple, and he should just get over it."

He's not making any attempt to get to the phone then, he's too busy holding onto me to make sure that I don't. I struggle away from him and sit up.

Michael gives a final, "Call me," and hangs up. I sit there feeling so much anger that I can't express. There are some things that are just off limits, and this is one of them. I get up and take a couple of steps away. I feel like I have to say something or I'll explode.

"I am so tired of this fucking shit!" I spit out.

He bites his lip, and I can see him, I can actually see him, finding a way to take on responsibility for this. Finding some way to make this his fault.

Fuck!!!

I take a deep breath. I am not going to let that stupid little shit have this much power over Brian, over Brian and I. And I sure as fuck don't give a shit about whether he thinks we're a real couple or not. I know. I know that I'm the one who was there during the Stockwell shit. I'm the one Brian listened to, I'm the one he let see how freaked he was, I'm the one who shared the fear that it would all be nothing, and the one who shared the jubilation when it wasn't.  I'm the one who shared the tough time when there was no money coming in, and Brian didn't have a job, or a plan, or anything … except me. I'm the one who fed him chicken soup, and cleaned up after him during the cancer thing; and I'm the one who was there while he fought to get fit enough to go on the Liberty Ride; the one who knew that he could do it; the one who shook his ass at him and gave him encouragement while he struggled on that stationary bike night after night. Just like he's the one who's been there for me more times than I can even count.

We sleep together, fight together, make up together; we share each other's lives and just because we don't wear fucking rings on our fingers or feel like we have to prove something by parading some chastity belt mentality to all and sundry does not mean that we're not a "real couple". I know that. I know that better than someone like Michael ever could.

None of which means that Mikey's constant digs don't hurt. But I am not going to let him cause any more problems than he already has.

While I'm working out what to do, Brian gets up and walks over to unplug the phone. Just before he does, he hesitates.

"What do you want for dinner?" he asks.

I take another breath and resist the urge to just shrug at him and flounce off.  "I don't mind," I manage to get out. Surprisingly, my voice sounds almost normal. "Thai?"

He rubs his nose. "How about pizza?"

Our eyes meet for one of those long, in-the-balance moments, and finally we smile at each other, the tension in the air just vanishing. He's the only man I know who could make offering pizza for dinner into some sort of declaration of love and commitment.

I walk over to him and hug him.

"I love you," I tell him back.

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Brian

I call and order the pizza, and then I unplug the phone and we turn off our cells. Tonight they are all going to have to just get fucked. I lock the door and put the security system on, so the lock can't be opened even with the key without the security number, and we changed that a few weeks ago when he first got home.

Of course, I'll have to open it all again for the pizza, but we've got twenty minutes or so till that arrives, and meanwhile I need a shower. He's ahead of me, though, as I move up the steps and he's already got the water running by the time I hang up my suit coat.

We don't really fool around in the shower, just soap each other, and I wash his hair. He always loves that, and leans back against me while I rinse the shampoo from his scalp. For some reason that gets home to me in a way that I usually fight to avoid, as I realize how fucking close we came today to losing this. He might have gotten so angry over that stupid fucking competition story of Mikey's that he really did leave me, and I might have been so angry over the apartment thing that I came home and said or did something unforgivable. Wouldn't be the first time. So far he always has found a way to forgive me, just like I've forgiven him. But … if he'd left this time, I don't know that I would have had the strength or the courage to take him back, even if it did all turn out to be a mistake. And he must be close to giving up on me the next time that I throw him out.

I fold my arms around him from behind, and he presses back into me, placing his hands over mine and squeezing tightly. I nuzzle into his neck and he turns in my arms and buries his face in the hollow of my shoulder, his arms almost cracking my ribs, they're wrapped around me so tightly.

So I know he shares the feeling of how narrowly we escaped disaster this time.

No thanks to Mikey.

I sigh. I know that Justin's mad as Hell. And that when it comes down to it he won't do, or say anything to Michael. Not because he's afraid to, but because he doesn't want to cause any more problems between Mikey and I than he does just by existing, just by being with me. He doesn't want to cost me my best friend.

So he soft pedals, always, through the minefield of Mikey's petty spitefulness and I let him. I let it all go on because I am scared. I'm frightened that if just once I really spoke my mind to Michael, all the years of friendship would just blow out the fucking window. Mikey was mad enough over me helping Linds to keep some sort of role in her daughter's life. Like I should never ever do anything that doesn't put him first.

Even when he's behaving like a total prick.

Then I feel Justin's lip move briefly over my throat, and as we move out of the shower, the buzzer sounds from downstairs. He pulls on a robe to go to the door, and as I pull on a pair of sweats and follow him, I take in the fact that this time, he didn't leave. What was it he'd said? Something about not letting me use the competition to push him away?

I think about that while I'm opening a bottle of red. He was mad as hell at me, but he didn't leave. He hasn't been all that happy about how things are for a while, but, when the perfect excuse to bail on me came along, all he did was to get mad, and to let me know that he wasn't going to put up with any of my bullshit.

Somehow, that makes me feel … better.

It makes me feel safe.

Part of me is scared by that feeling. But mainly what I feel is relief. I feel like after floundering for a long, long time, I'm finally beginning to feel solid ground under my feet. I'm finally reaching the point where I can believe in, if not forever, then at least next week; probably next month; Hell, even next year looks like a good bet.

That's more than I've ever had before. After I get the glasses down I turn to smile at him, hoping he can read in the smile some of what I feel about him right now, something of how good I feel about us right now. I know there are still some things that are bothering him. But I'm starting to believe that there's nothing that can't be worked on, as long as we both fucking hang around long enough to do it. And, more amazingly, I'm starting to believe that he's prepared to hang around.

He smiles back as he opens the pizza box, and crams some of that disgustingly unhealthy mess into his beautiful mouth. His eyes are laughing at me, so I know that he's feeling pretty good about things, too, even if the little shit is deliberately provoking me.

I sigh, and then the smell hits me, and my stomach lets me know in no uncertain terms that it expects its fair share of where that sinful fucking smell is coming from. I give in, and grab a slice myself.

We're each gobbling away and struggling not to let any stray pieces fall to the carpet as we make our way back to the couch. He turns on the tv so that we can watch the end of the dvd we gave up on a few nights back. (Well, we got distracted, and interested in other things.)

We share the couch as we so often have, me at the end, my legs spread for him to settle between them, leaning back against me. The pizza box is open on his lap, so I'll have to be fast if I want any more, and the wine is on the table beside us. The film is okay. It's an old one, made before he was born, maybe even before I was, but it's darkly funny and was written by a guy who wasn't afraid to be out and proud even when it wasn't even vaguely socially acceptable. Joe Orton may not be considered one of the greats, but he had balls and wit and "Loot" is a hell of a lot more enjoyable than most of the fucking pap they push on a public that probably deserves it for being so fundamentally fucking stupid as to pay to watch it.

Every now and again, I bend forward and nuzzle into his hair, or kiss his neck; and sometimes he reaches back and caresses my face, or squeezes his hand on my knee. That's how we tell each other that things are okay, that we've survived another crisis. That's how we say all the things that we need to say to each other, in ways that don't twist into lies as soon as the things are said.

For tonight, at least, we're okay.

Tomorrow, outside that door, our friends are probably waiting to spread their shit all over us again.

But as long as we can lock them out and sort things out between us, I'm starting to fucking think that maybe we'll do alright.

Fuck me!

Maybe I really am turning into a lesbian.

Nah, he's moving, and my cock is hardening, and I pretty sure that I'm still a faggot.

We're a pair of faggots, and to hell with all of them. We know who we are, and what we have, and who gives a fuck what any of them think.

Meanwhile, speaking of fucking ...

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