***

When Michael tells him the movie’s been cancelled, Brian maybe gets a little scared because Rage is Michael’s baby, but this was Justin’s chance to be a Stah and he’d dived head first into it. Michael is used to having his dreams dashed. Justin’s never failed to achieve anything he’s set his sights on – he managed to gets his hands on Brian (twice) after all. Brian makes stupid jokes to get Michael laughing through his tears, but in the back of his mind he’s thinking how he needs to be in L.A., helping Justin pack his bags.

***

“Justin,” Brian says immediately when he picks up the phone.

“Brian. Hi.” Brian’s been waiting a week for this phone call. A week of watching the clock and obsessively checking his voicemail and smoking pack after pack to keep his fingers occupied and off the speed dial.

“Hey. What’s up? It’s been a while since you last called.”

“Yeah. Sorry. It’s been really busy around here.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s, um, kind of chaotic, really. And I think I’m getting sick. I think I’m getting a cold.”

“A cold? In sunny California?” Brian sing-songs in that way he used to when Justin came home smelling like the fiddler.

“Well, you know. The air conditioner. I wish I’d taken the humidifier with me.” They descend into an uncomfortable silence. Brian breaks it first.

“Justin.”

“Brian?”

“How’s L.A.?”

“Good. It’s good. L.A.’s great.”

“Michael told me.” There’s silence and Brian thinks maybe Justin just got up and left.

“Well he can never keep his mouth shut. I shouldn’t be surprised.” Brian knows this is true and fuck it’s pissed him off enough times, but this conversation is making him want to hurl the phone at the bathroom door, except he hasn’t talked to Justin in so long he’s afraid to hang up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Justin doesn’t answer and Brian regrets the words the minute they leave his mouth.

“Justin. You had to know something like this might happen.”

“No! I didn’t, okay? I mean everyone’s been telling me that, but I just didn’t think. I mean, Brett was so psyched and he flew me all the way out here and everything.”

“It’s not about Brett. You know that. It’s about…” Brian wants desperately to say it’s about sexually repressed homophobic studio dickheads, but he’s never been able to lie to Justin about the real world. “It’s about marketing. The fact is it’s a gay movie and they’d be alienating their typical teenage straight-boy comic book fan base. I’m not saying it can’t be done, but it’s a tricky sell in Hollywood.” When Justin speaks, his voice is broken, defeated.

“I thought this was going to be my big break. It’s stupid, I know. I just really wanted this. Stupid.”

“Justin, you’re not stupid. You’re growing up and this was your first major setback. You weren’t expecting it.”

“Brian, I’m not a kid. Don’t talk to me like one.” Brian doesn’t want to, hell that should be Craig’s job but he’s not around and Justin needs to hear it from someone.

“When are you…coming home?” Brian doesn’t want to be looking forward to this but he can’t help the feeling of relief that washes over him when he thinks of Justin back at the loft, waking up next to him in the morning in a mess of sheets and tangled legs.

“I…I think I’m actually going to stay out here. For a little while. There’s this gallery that wants to use my Rage sketches as part of this exhibit on graphic novels and I mean, I know it’s not the Guggenheim or anything but the exhibitor’s a friend of Brett’s and it’ll be my first show outside the GLC…”

“That’s great Justin. I’m sure Michael would want to see. We could fly out for the opening –”

“Brian.” He usually loves it when Justin says his name – pants it, screams it, whispers it against his lips. He doesn’t want to hear it now, like this. “Brian…I think maybe I need to be alone right now. Take some time to – to work on my art and just…live by myself or something.” There’s so many things Brian wants to ask right now, about what this means and how long the drawers by the bed are going to stay open and empty and if Justin wants him to ship all his clothes out there for him.

“Okay.” Justin’s asking for time, and Brian’s going to give it to him.

***

Brian spends a lot of time with Gus. A lot. So much time that the more cynical lobe of his brain tells him he’s trying not only to make up for the last four years, but also for all of Michael’s years without the formative influence of a well-heeled drag queen and all of his own years with the formative influence of a fist. He can’t help it, really. Lately, Gus is the only breathing human being he can stand. Everyone else is fucking pissing him off.

At work, Ted’s taken to watching his every move with thinly veiled concern, following him into his office and standing in front of his desk with a mildly questioning look until Brian throws him out. Yeah, he told Theodore about the cancer but fuck if he’ll budge an inch on this one. Cynthia’s started making early morning Starbucks runs, something she refused to do even when Brian was still working for Ryder, and she’s stopped calling him on his bullshit altogether.

Emmett drags him to Babylon once and force-feeds him something vile and pink and excessively alcoholic and by the next morning, Brian’s not sure if he was trying to poison him or get him drunk. Honestly, he’s doesn’t know which he’d find more disturbing.

He avoids the Diner like the plague that it is because the box of Lemon squares he finds outside the loft door every morning is enough to buy him an extra 45 minutes on the treadmill every afternoon if he wants to retain any reasonable hope of still fitting into the fuck me jeans that have been hanging in his closet, collecting lint, since Justin left for L.A.

So he spends every spare minute outside the office with Gus, who doesn’t try to get him drunk or fat and doesn’t look at him with anything except unadulterated adoration. If nothing else, Brian thinks fatherhood is a fucking blessing for his ego.

***

After a long day bitching out half of Kinnetik’s art department, Brian wants to come home to a nice buzz and James Dean on the television, but Gus wants to watch the Wizard of Oz (again), so Brian decides that pot and Dean can wait, and drops by the video store on the way home.

Gus giggles at the scarecrow and dances along with the munchkins and cowers behind the sofa cushions when Dorothy soaks the Wicked Witch of the West. Brian tries not to fall asleep. Except maybe he doesn’t have to try so hard because Gus’s antics put the kind of smile on Brian’s face he imagines he’s only seen on dykes and dickless fags and maybe Debbie. It’s something he can’t explain, something that hit him in the gut and nearly made him lose his liquor the first time he held Gus in his arms. Brian hates kids the way he hates anything he can’t talk sensibly to, but everything that Gus says sounds like genius to Brian’s ears.

He’d always known he wasn’t meant to be a father, thought for a while, when he still believed in God, that that was the reason God had made him gay. So Brian had envisioned himself to be a sort of mentor instead, of Gucci and Prada and real life bullshit. Brian doesn’t like to undertake something he isn’t sure he’s going to be a big fucking success at. Trying out the role of father in Gus’s life is the biggest risk he’s ever taken.

When the film is finished and Brian is putting Gus to bed, Gus tells him something that throws him for a loop.

“Mommy Mel said that Mommy Linds wants to leave because she doesn’t care about her family anymore. She told Mommy Linds that she chose a – dick” Gus whispers it, with a guilty look on his face “ – over me and Mommy Mel and Jenny Baby.” Brian thinks about how he could tell Gus that relationships are all bullshit, how they’re messy and deceitful and hurt everyone who’s involved. He thinks about just telling Gus the truth about his mommies, that they’ve fallen out of love, and are living together out of a doomed sense of obligation to each other and their kids. In the end, Brian tells Gus that sometimes when adults get really mad, they say bad things to each other they don’t really mean. Brian can’t say he honestly believes it, but the contented smile on Gus’s lips as he falls into a deep sleep is enough to make Brian want to pretend he does.

Lindsay comes over later to pick Gus up. She’s tired, but grateful, and Brian’s never before been able to count the lines around her mouth.

“Brian. You have no idea how much I appreciate this. The atmosphere at home can get a little tense and I’m sure it’s a welcome relief for Gus to come over here for a couple hours.” Brian knows what it’s like to want to escape that kind of tension at home. Gus shouldn’t ever have that urge.

“I thought you were leaving when the baby was born.”

“I was going to. But Mel needs all the help she can get. She can’t handle both the baby and Gus on her own and she won’t let me take Gus with me and move out.”

“So you’re just going to listen to her? Let her dictate your life?”

“I’m not doing it for Mel. I’m doing it for Gus and Jenny Rebecca.”

***

Lindsay’s barely out the door when Michael calls.

“What the hell is going on with Justin?” Brian lights a cigarette with growing dread. What the hell isn’t going on with Justin?

“What do you mean?”

“I just called your boyfriend to see how the sketches were going for the next issue of Rage and he went ballistic on me! He quit!”

“He what?”

“He quit Rage! He said it wasn’t real art and that – that I should grow up give all this superhero bullshit a rest. What the hell, Brian. When did Justin become such a bitch?”

“I don’t know Mikey. I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

“God I’m sorry. I just –”

“Mikey it’s okay. He’s…upset right now. Comics aren’t bullshit, you know that.”

After Brian calms Mikey down sufficiently to get him off the phone, he hits the speed dial. Justin picks up after entirely too many rings.

“Hello?”

“It’s Brian.”

“Brian? What do you – why are you calling so late?” Justin sounds appropriately mystified but Brian’s steaming mad and more than a little worried and he doesn’t give a shit about niceties and pretence and giving Justin space right now.

“What the fuck crawled up your ass and died?”

“Brian?”

“It’s one thing to act like an arrogant, self-involved twat but why do you have to go and take it out on Michael?”

“Brian, Rage is between me and Michael.” Brian hasn’t felt this much of an outsider since the week of silent treatment he had to endure as a result of pissing all over the first issue.

“Fuck that, why are you quitting?”

“I need to…concentrate on my art. Get back to what I was doing before Rage swallowed my life.”

“And Rage isn’t art? Where the fuck did that come from?”

“Come on, Brian, it’s a fucking comic book. Page after page of fucking and fighting. It doesn’t mean anything. I’ve been going to shows. Real art shows. And then I go home and paint or whatever and nothing I do has any substance. I can’t paint that kind of stuff anymore. I think I’ve forgotten how.”

“You know that’s not true. You’re just feeling uninspired. You need go back to school, be around other artists with your own level of experience.”

“No! You don’t get it. I don’t need to go back to school. I can’t. It’s just going to limit me with technique and fixed composition. Fill up my time with useless projects, keep me from working on my art.”

“When are you going to quit being such a fucking princess already and come home?” The dial tone rings harshly in Brian’s ear.

“Well fuck you too.”

Brian hangs up and collapses back onto his bed, frustrated as hell. He’s horny and he misses Justin’s lips, can’t stand that Justin could be here with him, that there’s no discerning reason why he should be halfway across the fucking continent. He opens the drawstring of his pants and takes his cock out, stroking half-heartedly from base to tip and back down again. He rubs his thumb along the underside of the head, letting his mind drift, until he’s hard. He strokes faster, closes his eyes, and almost imagines it’s Justin’s hand on his cock. He shoots a minute later, surrounded by empty drawers and the new light fixtures he just had put in.

Feeling a hitherto unknown brand of pathetic after that lackluster orgasm, Brian resolves to wear his fuck me jeans and go pay Babylon a much overdue visit. And fuck if those jeans don’t still fit his ass like a glove.

**

Justin is in the backroom of some seedy Babylon knock off in Los Angeles, ass-deep in a velvet smooth dark skinned Adonis. The trick is straining and pushing back around Justin’s cock and Justin just pounds into him, trying to lose the echo of Brian’s voice in the trick’s desperate moans. He’s mad at Brian and feeling a little ashamed for what he said to Michael and shit thinking of Michael just now has made him lose most of his hard on. He pulls out, reaching around to quickly finish the trick off before leaving the club. On the way out, he buys a hit of acid off the local disco pharmacologist.

Back in his apartment, Justin knows he shouldn’t take the acid, knows he should never trip alone, but he needs to see his art, needs to touch it and taste it and feel it, needs to know he still can. He places the tab under his tongue and the first couple hours are great. He takes out his paints and fills up all the pages of his sketchbook. Somewhere along the line, he forgets about the brushes and starts using his hands. When he runs out of paper, he takes it to the walls, a decadent swirl of oils and acrylic and watercolour. He hasn’t painted like this, with his entire body, since he was little, before he started watching cartoons and tracing the lines so carefully.

He’s rock hard and at some point he takes off his clothes because he’s naked and covered in paint and once in a while, when the colours are so vivid and thick he can hear them ringing, he reaches down to touch himself.

Seconds and hours stop passing linearly, splitting off and grouping together at whim, but Justin keeps checking the clock, so he knows exactly how long it’s been. The clock freaks him out and suddenly he hates it but he can’t stop looking at it, he turns around but it follows him and maybe that’s when he should’ve known this was going to go bad.

He looks at the wall and all he sees are lines lines lines and everywhere he looks he can just see the colours escaping. He tears open the sketchbook and the colours dissolve beneath his fingertips, he can’t stop them and everything he’s drawn in the last 128 minutes is gone gone gone. He knows where every picture is supposed to be, knows exactly what goes on every page but everything’s white. Everything’s so blank and new and white and Justin can’t remember what the colours looked like. He keeps staring at all this blank space where it’s all supposed to go. He keeps staring at the page and the white is rippling flowing and when he touches the canvas it comes away like silk beneath his fingers.

Then. A flash of silk around his neck and Justin shivers. It’s smooth, taut around his neck, and Justin follows the ends of the scarf up up and he’s looking into Brian’s warm eyes, his softly smiling lips. Justin lurches, feels he’s falling, but Brian grabs his hand in his, wraps another firmly around his waist and they’re spinning together, twirling so tight. Everywhere Justin sees dancing white light and Brian’s eyes clear and steady and open. Music fills his ears, an old tune of decades past. Justin’s spinning and spinning and he can see the colours flooding back, swirling around them, holding him against Brian tight as they spin and spin and spin.

Then the colours are separating out, congealing into eyes and mouths and ears, a hundred faces all trained intently on him. Brian dips him back and just before he lets his eyes fall shut he sees Hobbes standing tall, staring straight through him.

The music stops and Justin starts to fall. He’s on the floor of the parking garage. He turns his head and Brian’s looking at him in horror, face frozen in a parody of a scream. Justin looks down at himself and sees his suit is dirty from the fall. He brings his hands down to brush the dirt off his pants and they come away sticky and red.

Then Brian’s got him pinned against the Jeep, kissing him, and Justin wants to tell him to stop because he doesn’t want Brian to get his Armani dirty and then Justin’s walking away with this absurd grin on his face because he knows he’s going to see Brian again later that night, thinks about turning around running back to the Jeep to tell Brian that he loves him, unspoken rules be damned, but Brian beats him to it and the last thing Justin feels after Brian calls his name is the silk slip between his fingers.

***

Justin is cold. He’s cold, and he can’t see.

He wraps his arms around himself, rubs up and down his shoulders. Something is wet there. Sticky. Later, Justin will remember that he started screaming just then.

Something is clawing at his face, something wet and slimy and he realizes it’s his fingers, trying to pry his eyes open. He blinks them open hesitantly. The first thing he sees is paint. Everywhere.

That’s when Justin understands what he’s remembered. It calms him down a lot, then freaks him out a little, then there’s this great surge of fury that back in that alley with Cody would have made Justin pull the trigger while the gun was still warm in his hand.

His sketchbook is lying next to him on the floor, open to a drawing of Rage holding JT in his arms, protecting him from his captors. Justin tears it to shreds. He tears up all the others, too.

He sees the phone on the nightstand and lurches toward it. He wants to call and the impulse makes him even angrier. The need wins out and he hits the speed dial. No one answers. He tries again. No one answers. Justin throws the receiver against the wall then goes to pick it up and calls again. There’s no answer.

Of all the times that Justin’s imagined this, imagined remembering the prom, there’s always been Brian’s arms around him, holding him, shielding him from the rest of the world.

Justin’s never felt so alone in his entire life.

**

Brian comes home from Babylon cranky and uncomfortable and decidedly unsatisfied – though not for a lack of opportunity – to fourteen messages on his answering machine. From Justin.

“Brian oh my god Brian where are you I remember everything Brian I remember the prom oh my god.”

“Brian pick up. Goddamnit pick up. I’m scared. It’s so cold and I can’t find my clothes.”

“Brian I hate you I hate you for protecting me. I don’t need it Brian. I never wanted you to protect me. Now I’m scared to be alone and I hate it. I hate it. I’m like a fucking seventeen year old and I’m scared to be alone.”

“Brian I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I love you. I’m sorry.”

Brian doesn’t listen to the rest. He books the earliest morning flight to L.A.

**

The first thing Brian thinks when he arrives at Justin’s apartment is there’s paint everywhere.

Justin looks up calmly from his seat on the floor and says, “So I guess you got my message.”

Brian just looks at him.

“I’m fine. Brian I’m fine. I had a bad trip. I got a little hysterical. That’s all.”

“Wait. You were tripping? Alone?”

“I know it was stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Well, that’s obvious.”

“Brian, if you came here to lecture me just get the fuck out. Save the parenting for Gus.”

“Since when do I parent you?” It’s the absolute last thing Brian is expecting in the way of an accusation. Brian’s always been under the impression that he’s gone out of his way to treat Justin like an equal. Even when maybe he shouldn’t have, like when Justin shaved his head and ran around the streets of Pittsburgh with a concealed weapon. Or when he sold his body to the Sap so he could go dance on bars. Or when he humiliated Hobbes in front of his homophobic posse with tales of an illicit storeroom hand job.

“Nothing. Just never mind.”

“I treat you like an equal.”

“Yeah, like it’s part of some ‘making Justin the best homosexual he can be’ life lesson. We’ll give him some independence to see how he handles it, but we’ll always keep him on a fucking leash lest he fall off the deep end.”

“You mean like carrying around a gun? How the hell did I restrict you from blowing Hobbes’s brains out? Yeah, Daphne told me.”

“You treated it like a bad joke. Like a stupid phase I’d eventually grow out of. It wasn’t an obligatory screw up for me, Brian. It was real, and maybe that’s what I wanted to do with me life, then. You can’t just bail me out whenever you feel like you’re losing control over me.” This conversation is making Brian’s head hurt. There’re only so many different directions of concern his gut can take without turning over and spilling everything on his shoes.

“I just want to know why you’d drop a hit of acid in a foreign city, by yourself –”

“It’s not a foreign city! It’s my home.”

“Justin, you knew LSD could trigger a traumatic memory. Why would you put yourself in danger like that?” Brian knows like Justin knows from hours spent browsing through websites and hospital information packages on PTSD.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“That’s bullshit.” Brian can’t stand that Justin won’t look at him. It kills him. After a while Justin starts speaking again, but he’s playing with his shirt cuffs and he still won’t look at him.

“I just. There was this local art critic. He came to see the show, once. He said – he said my art didn’t have soul. That it was just a bunch of lines on a piece of paper, Rage fucking JT over and over again.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Brian laughs in relief. He can’t believe this is what’s got Justin hung up for so long. “Since when is art not made up of a bunch of lines? That’s just some self-important bullshit put together to make himself look superior.”

“What the fuck do you know about art?” Justin screams it and it’s a slap to the face like every note of that fucking fiddler’s violin music ever was.

“I know it isn’t exclusive, Justin. I know there’s not such thing as criteria for art. I know it isn’t supposed to make you feel worthless, I know it’s not supposed to make you feel like a failure. I know you have no reason to feel like a failure.” Justin’s shaking his head but Brian isn’t stopping now. “And I know that you scared the shit out of me. Not because of some fucking parental responsibility but because you’re my partner and I – I –” Brian doesn’t know what the fuck he’s saying except that if he doesn’t get this out now he thinks he might choke on it. He takes a deep breath, tries again. He’s ready for this. “Justin, I –”

“No, Brian. Brian, don’t. Not now. Please.” Justin’s crying, and Brian imagines that he is, too.

“Why not? Why the hell not? It’s what you’ve always wanted to hear. What, do you hate me now?”

“No. No, Brian, I love you. Just, don’t say it. Not now.”

Brian’s fucking shaking now, and if Justin keep looking at him like that, with a mixture of horror and pity in his eyes. If Justin doesn’t throw his arms around him and kiss him right fucking now, he thinks he might just lose it this time for real. He looks down at the carpet, slathered with paint. Looks back up at the wall. Can’t look him in the eyes. Justin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Brian grabs his wallet off the nightstand and gets the fuck out of there as fast as he can.

***

Brian’s halfway to the airport before he realizes that he left all his things at the apartment. He thinks about going back, but the thought of facing Justin again makes him want to hurl worse than chemo ever did. At the airport, he buys first-class tickets and gets so pissed on champagne that the flight attendant has to help him off the plane. He could take a cab but he’s too drunk to remember how to order one so he calls Lindsay instead to come pick him up, and tells her no, don’t bring Gus.

Back at the loft Linds helps him out of his clothes and under the covers, and shoves some water down his throat, but before she makes to leaves, Brian pulls her down onto the bed beside him. He tells her about what Justin said, about controlling his independence, bailing him out like a parent does with troubled a teenager. He’s drunk and mostly incoherent and he has this horrifying suspicion that he’s going to start crying again, but Lindsay’s there, right behind him, so he doesn’t have to let her see his face when she talks. She runs her fingers through his hair and speaks softly into his ear.

“It’s like, Mel had to always be on top when it came to her career. She had to make more money, have the busier job…be the breadwinner in a sense. Which was fine, for a while, because I was busy with Gus, but she couldn’t handle me going back to work at first. It made her insecure. So she threw herself into important cases and just assumed I’d carry the next baby. She treated my job like a whim of fancy, a hobby, almost, because she was scared to let go. It took her a long time to finally ease off on her caseload, and if it wasn’t for Jenny Rebecca I’m not sure she ever would have.

“Now, I’m not saying you’re insecure that way about Justin’s success. I’m sure you take his career seriously. God knows you preach his talent enough. But I think maybe Justin feels you’re controlling him in other ways, always trying to be on top of where your relationship is going. When you can’t deal with his power over you, you back off, and he chases you and you let him. But here’s the thing. If you’re going to be partners, Brian, you’re going to have that power over each other. There’s no way around it. You’re just going to have to risk it, and let him handle the reigns when he needs to.” Brian’s a little drunk and a lot sleepy and he thinks about the risks he’s taken with Gus in the past couple months. Thinks about all the ways it’s paid off. Just before Brian finally passes out, he decides maybe he can take one more.

**

On the last day of the exhibition, Justin goes back to see his sketches. There’s this one, from the first issue, of Rage holding JT after the bashing. Justin looks at it, really looks at like he hasn’t looked at any of his storyboard sketches before. He looks at it like he looks at art.

He sees Brian holding his hand as they walk down the street together carefully, sees Brian’s concerned eyes as he wakes screaming from yet another nightmare and sees the gentleness of Brian’s hands during their second first time. He looks harder and sees Michael’s exhilaration when they were working on that first issue, that instant when they were both watching Brian on the treadmill and Michael turned to Justin and said “Rage.”

He looks at the sketch like he looks at art and there’s definitely soul in this. His soul. Maybe Justin just never wanted to see it before.

***

Outside the gallery, Justin dials Brian’s phone.

“Justin.”

“Hey. How are you?”

“I’m alright. Just closed an account.”

“For what?”

“Cell phones.”

“How’s Gus?”

“Growing fast. You know, it’s his birthday on Saturday. I’m throwing him a party at the loft.”

“Oh? Is there a theme?” Justin asks playfully. Brian groans.

“The Wizard of Oz. God help me, the kids, they’re all dressing like munchkins.” Justin starts laughing hysterically.

“I’ll be there.”

“Yeah?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

**

“Sunshine!” Debbie’s ear-splitting screech tells Justin he’s home. Within a second, he’s rushed by every female denizen of Liberty Avenue he’s ever met, and Ted and Emmett, too. Mel and Lindsay each come over separately and kiss his cheek, and everyone else hugs him and tactfully avoids any mention of L.A. He’s stunned, and more than a little touched, but there’s something preoccupying his mind today…

“Where’s Brian?” Nobody looks surprised, except Gus, who comes barreling out of his dad’s arms and straight at him, squealing Jus Jus. From behind a face full of Kinney hair, Justin can just make out the corners of Brian’s lips quirking, a surefire sign that he’s desperately trying to hold back a grin. Justin puts Gus down with a kiss and flourish and says, “I promise to play with you later but I want to talk to your father first for a little bit, okay?” Gus nods and runs off to entertain his little guests.

Justin looks up to see Brian smiling at him.

“Hey,” Justin says.

“Hey yourself.” Brian watches him patiently, waiting for him to take the lead.

“So, I was thinking maybe I owe you an explanation for all the…crazy.”

“Okay.” Justin takes a deep breath.

“The thing is, when the movie was cancelled I started thinking maybe I’d taken too big of a risk, signing on, abandoning school. That I’d veered off course. So then I started to think what course I’d veered off of and then I thought seriously about my art. And that scared me because I’d always said that it was enough just to make art, I didn’t need to be rich or have a fancy title or anything, and that’s why I chose PIFA over Dartmouth. Except when the movie came along I realized just how much I was expecting, one day, to be successful and rich all that. Well not rich…but maybe secure. Financially independent. Yeah. And, well, that wasn’t going to happen with pure art unless I turned into the next Sam Auerbach or something. So then I went a little off the deep end.” Brian quirks his eyebrow at that, and Justin decides steadfastly to ignore it. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking a bit more and I’ve decided that I’m definitely going back to school, if for nothing else than to immerse myself in all the obligatory young adult nonsense while I still can. But. I’m thinking that once I finally get my art degree I should go for an M.B.A. You know, keep it practical. Maybe go into advertising. So I can be successful and everything.”

“Successful like me?”

“Well.”

“Why don’t you become successful like you?” Justin thinks about that. Really thinks about it, and then nods.

“Okay. I’m going to go back to school and get my art degree and give that a try. And then I’ll take it from there.” Justin expects Brian to say something like that sounds like a plan or at least nod his approval or something, but then he realizes that Brian’s approval is not what he’s looking for, and it’s not something he’s going to get.

“Thanks for letting me know.” Brian smiles and pulls him close, brushing their lips together softly and Justin suddenly remembers how long it’s been since he’s tasted Brian on his lips and that gets him hard immediately, and he has just enough time to drag Brian into the (mercifully unoccupied) bathroom before he does something monumentally immature like rip Brian’s clothes off in the middle of…well…Oz.

Once inside, Justin goes immediately for Brian’s neck. Brian laughs until Justin starts nipping and then he moans.

“So. When are you moving in?” Brian pants breathlessly.

“When do you want me to?” Justin whispers in between delicate licks to Brian’s ear. Brian pulls back, looks him in the eye very seriously.

“Today would be nice. What do you think?”

“I think today would be perfect.”