He remembers that Brian was there, that night, in the parking garage, and he closes his eyes tight, tight against the sunlight pouring through the window.

“Fuck this, we’re going,” Brian says from somewhere behind him.

He can feel Brian’s presence, hovering at his back, not touching but there, there, close enough to touch, close enough to hold. If he needs to.

Justin opens his eyes. “We‘re not going.”

Brian opens his mouth to protest, and the noise from outside swells, giggling children and laughing adults, and Justin almost wants to give in, just say yes, christ yes, get me away from here. Instead, he straightens and turns, leans against the counter, crosses his arms at his chest and hopes that he appears indifferent. Knows that the look in his eyes gives him away anyway. “You’re not going to miss Gus’s party.”

“He’s one. It’s not like he even gives a shit.”

“We’re staying.” Justin knows they’d could remain like this all day, Brian protesting and Justin digging in his heels, so he forces himself to move toward the open door and the back yard. Toward the sounds of the party in progress. Toward the crowds and the people and fuck, fuck, he doesn’t know if he can do this.

“… and the least he can do is put in an appearance at his own son’s party!”

Melanie’s voice is a ragged hiss, and Justin hesitates in the doorway, aware that Brian is sighing at his back and about to join him, and watches as Lindsay takes Mel’s elbow and tries to steer her toward the bushes and --

“He’s with Justin,” Lindsay hushes and --

“Oh, Justin,” Mel sneers. Justin has never heard his name sound so much like a curse before.

“Yes, Justin,” Lindsay says and --

“Look, I know the kid was hurt, okay? But this is Brian’s son. You’d think that he’d consider Gus a little more important than--”

“Justin is important, too,” Lindsay says, and now her voice is cool and calm and… glacial. Justin hears her voice and thinks of ice-frosted streams and snow-topped mountains. “Don’t expect him to choose, Mel.”

“Well?” Brian says, again at his back, lingering near but not touching. Never touching, unless Justin touches first. But there, right there, scent of sandalwood soap and cigarettes, solid, strong, and Justin could turn, could bury his head in Brian’s chest, could just hold on. If he needed to.

Justin takes a deep breath and steps outside.