* * *

Every fucking night was the same. Brian went to Babylon. Got drunk. Or high. Preferably both. Grabbed a trick off the dance floor. Arrived at the hospital smelling of sweat and come and the backroom. He didn’t give a shit what any of the nurses thought.

Tonight was no different. Babylon was comfortably loud. The music pulsed in his temples, keeping time with his heartbeat. Getting lost for a blissful few hours in the mad crush of bodies on the dance floor was the only thing that kept him sane after endless hours at work and a constant stream of phone calls updating him on Justin’s condition. Today he’d reached his limit and had finally turned off his cell phone. Besides, Lindsay or Deb would contact him at the office if it was one of the two messages that Brian always expected every time the phone rang. Either, “He’s awake.” Or - -

It was the “or” that made his breath hitch in his throat every time the phone rang; and it was the “or” that propelled him to Babylon every night to numb himself from even considering the possibility of that becoming a truth.

Sweat ran down the back of his neck. He’d lost track of how long he’d been dancing. An hour? Maybe two. Several shots of Jim Beam had given him a pleasant buzz; enough to keep him from caring how long it had been. He reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out a tab of E.

And that’s when it hit him, not the rush of E coursing through his system, but the memories.

Justin in the loft, tugging on his sneakers. “That’s why I don’t take anything not prescribed by a physician or recommended by a reliable pharmacist.”

Fuck! Brian spent most of the day sober and bombarded by memories of blonde hair and ice cream kisses and marathon fucking sessions. Now Justin was invading his high. This had to stop.

The brightly lit hospital corridors always came as a shock after the darkness of the streets and Babylon. Reality was bad enough in a hospital without having to face it in bright lights. The harsh glow put a spotlight on everything. Justin’s bruised face. The IV sticking out of his hand. Even from Brian’s usual spot in the hallway, staring at Justin from behind glass, it was impossible to miss.

But tonight, Brian didn’t stop in the hallway. Without so much as a nod in the nurse’s direction, he marched right inside as if he’d done it every night since Justin arrived.

A chair was already beside the bed. Brian sat down and leaned in close, his voice harsh and angry. “You’re going to wake up, you little fucker. And you’re going to be the same annoying shit that you’ve always been.” Brian stared at Justin for a moment as if he could make his own words come true by the sheer force of his will.

“You’re going to be the next fucking Picasso, for Christ sake.” Brian sat back in the chair, his shoulders sagging. “How the hell am I supposed to sell that sketch you drew of my cock and make an astronomical profit, if you don’t become famous? You haven’t done enough yet to garner the praise that some artists get by dying young. So that’s not an option, Sonny boy. No, you have to wake up and get your ass to school. After, I’ve fucked it senseless, of course. And after you’ve given me at least a dozen blow jobs, I haven’t had a decent one since…”

Brian let his words hang in the air between them, and reached out his hand.

Despite the number of positions and places that he’d fucked Justin, Brian couldn’t bring himself to touch him. He never touched anyone without consent. There was always a nod, or a well-timed gaze, or an exchange of remarks that always implied acceptance. But Justin couldn’t say a word and without it Brian wouldn’t touch him. It wasn’t his place. He had no right.

Instead Brian held his hand just above Justin’s mouth, feeling the warm puff of breath on his palm. In and out. In and out. Brian’s hand curled into a fist.

Fuck!” Brian got up and walked out the door.

* * *

Justin sat alone in the art department on the studio lot. A small sketch book lay open on the table in front of him. Since he’d arrived in L.A. every fucking night was different. The excitement of being in a new city had dwindled into exhaustion. The nights all blurred together in a mix of city lights and gorgeous bodies and ink stained fingers.

In celebration of finishing the first round of story boards, the art department staff had gone out for drinks. Justin said he’d catch up later, but as the minutes ticked by he found himself enjoying the solitude. With the art room empty, it reminded Justin of the silence of the loft. A big silence, comforting in a way that the silence of his cramped apartment never would be.

He chewed on the end of his pencil for a moment and stared at the blank sheet of paper.

Before he had left Pittsburgh, Daphne had put together a photo album for him to take with him. It was filled with pictures of everyone. Unfortunately, none of them captured Brian the way Justin wanted.

He smoothed down the paper with his hand, suddenly wishing he hadn’t sold that nude sketch of Brian. At the time he’d been ecstatic. In a year of many firsts, that first sell had meant a lot. A lifetime and several thousand miles later, he regretted it. The Brian in the sketch was the one he wanted to see more than anything: sleep-mussed hair, relaxed body, eyes closed in sleep, the white sheets bunched carelessly below his hips.

The only things that had been missing were Brian’s hands. When he’d drawn it, Justin had tried his best to coax Brian’s hands from beneath the covers, but they refused to budge and Justin hadn’t wanted to risk waking him up.

He’d always meant to draw another, and while he had dozens of drawings, none of them had been completed. Brian was too aware of when Justin left the bed to stay asleep long enough for him to finish sketching anything anymore.

He loved to draw Brian. Somehow it gave Justin permission to focus on him in a way that wasn’t allowed in their typical day to day interactions.

Drawing him from memory was never quite the same. Instead of the world shrinking down until nothing existed but Brian, Justin was forced to let his mind wander, sifting through memories while he concentrated on the paper. He’d focus on one body part and soon after a random memory would follow.

Justin reached down and put his pencil to paper.

Cowry shells all in a row encircled the wrist. The strong fingers. Perfect knuckles. Right now, that’s what Justin missed the most.

Hands that expressed more about how Brian felt than his words ever would. Hands that gripped at him possessively, or threaded softly through his hair. Hands that were sometimes rough, but never abusive, and always eager.

His pencil danced across the paper. The soft sound of scribbling filled the room. As Justin expected, a memory followed.

A hand hovering just over his face.

He’d recognize those fingers anywhere, but he couldn’t quite place the context. Then he remembered. A voice.

“How the hell am I supposed to sell that sketch you drew of my cock and make an astronomical profit, if you don’t become famous?”

Justin could hear the beep of the heart monitor and smell the pungent disinfectant and see those damn hospital lights shining down on him.

He dropped the pencil. “Fuck!”

Justin paced the room. It couldn’t be true. Brian never bought the painting. And he certainly never sat at Justin’s side at the hospital. It was impossible. The only plausible explanation was that separation from Brian was turning him into a dyke. Every romantic idea that he’d ever had, had somehow morphed into a hallucination. A dream. What he wished had happened. That was it.

Satisfied that he’d figured out the truth, he picked up his pencil, but every time he tried to draw he heard Brian’s voice again and remembered a few seconds more. Refusing to dwell on his overactive imagination, he tossed the pencil down, grabbed his jacket, and went to meet the rest of the art department

Three drinks, two cigarettes, and one blow job later he was still unable to get it out of his mind. Back at his apartment the silence was claustrophobic. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d already dialed the number at the loft.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. “What the fuck do you want?”

“A fuck would be nice.”

“Then you’d best get your pretty little ass away from the phone and to the clubs,” Brian said, sleepily.

“Been there, done that.” Justin glanced at his watch. Shit. 1 am here meant 4 am there, but Brian never complained.

“Finally fuck Tom Cruise?”

“I don’t always call you to tell you about my sexual conquests, you know.”

“But those are the call I like best,” Brian said.

Justin could hear the flick of a lighter and the sharp intake of breath as Brian took a drag on a cigarette.

Now that Justin had him on the phone, he had no idea how to broach the subject, so he just settled on a direct confrontation. It usually wasn’t the best way to go about getting Brian to admit to something. Maybe sleep deprivation would make it easier.

“Do you still have the sketch?”

“Which one do you need? I thought you took all the Rage drawings with you.”

Justin heard the ruffle of bed sheets, and the soft pad of feet across the loft floor.

“This isn’t about Rage,” Justin said. “I want the sketch that I drew of you. My first sell. The one you bought.” He held his breath, not quite sure if he was hoping for outright denial or an admission of the truth.

Brian laughed. “You had me get out of bed at 4 in the morning because you want a picture of my cock? Shit, why didn’t you just say so. Let me get the digital camera.”

“I don’t want a picture of your cock.”

Brian obviously didn’t believe him, because Justin could hear the soft hum of the computer and the open and shutting of the desk drawer.

“Ok, so that’s a lie,” Justin admitted. “I do want a picture of your cock, but I also want that sketch.”

Brian ignored the comment, far more intent on other things. “Do you want a particular pose?”

“Right where you are now. Sitting at the computer desk. Hand wrapped around your cock.” They’d had phone sex dozens of time since L.A. but never anything like this.

The camera beeped a few times and Justin grew hard just thinking of Brian emailing him personalized porn. They should’ve done this weeks ago. He wondered if he could get away with borrowing the art department’s digital camera for a few days, because no doubt Brian would want pictures in exchange. Justin was already choreographing erotic poses in his head and imagining how Brian would react to them when Brian interrupted his thoughts.

“When did Linds tell you I was the buyer?” His breath was coming short and fast.

“She didn’t. I remembered what you said to me at the hospital after the bashing.”

It was like he’d dumped cold water on Brian. “Is that why you called? So I’d admit to keeping some romantic vigil at your side?”

Justin rolled his eyes. “Discussing how you wouldn’t make a profit off the sketch if I died, isn’t remotely romantic. Although, considering that it’s you we’re talking about, that probably is the equivalent.”

“I thought about getting a trick to blow you while you were unconscious.” It was the closest Brian would come to admitting it. “Thought it might snap you out of it.”

Justin played along. “I can just imagine the medical journals now: Blow Job Brings Boy Out of Coma.”

“Crazier things have happened,” Brian said.

“Yeah, like you coming to visit me at all.” Justin knew he was pushing his luck, but he didn’t care. “How often did you come?”

“Depends on the trick. The good ones can get me off more than once.”

“Brian...”

A cabinet door open and bottles rattled as Brian reached for the whiskey. After a few seconds the bottle banged down onto the counter. When he finally spoke his voice was barely above a whisper. “Every fucking night.”

* * *

Two days later, a FedEx package arrived. Justin tore into it. He’d always loved presents, and one that came in an unmarked package was more exciting than most. He ripped open the top and tossed the packing peanuts over his shoulder.

At the top was Brian’s digital camera with a post-it note stuck to the lens cap detailing all the things Brian wanted to see in pictures. Justin grinned and set it aside, eagerly looking forward to getting started. Maybe he’d call Brian while he took the pictures. That would be hot.

The sketch was buried at the bottom of the box. The frame was new and expensive, definitely not the frame it had been displayed in at the art show. The sketch wasn’t as good as Justin remembered. His art had come a long way since then, but it was still Brian and it was still beautiful.

A post-it note was stuck to the front of the glass:

I want this back.

- end -