Breakage

Part II 

Brian came out of the bank feeling in urgent need of a drink. He glanced around. There was a bar on the corner, no doubt full of breeders starting their Friday night happy hour flirtations, but as long as a Jim Beam was poured for him, it would do.

He squeezed up to the bar and put in his order, returning a cold and dismissive smile to the young woman who had thrown him a look under her artificial lashes. The bank officer had looked him over, too, but for her he had managed a warmer smile. When you were asking for a loan, a little friendliness went a long way.

It was only short-term, to cover the PIFA tuition, although he hadn't put that down on the form, of course. (What had he said? Improvements on the loft? Didn't matter.) He hadn't expected it to be difficult, and it wasn't: he was still pulling in a big salary and could handle the payments. The fact that the company forking out that big salary might be going under was information he hadn't shared with the loan officer.

He held the first gulp of Beam in his mouth for a moment, letting it burn inside his cheeks, then swallowed and reached for his cell phone. He had left early, he better check in before Cynthia left the office. The bar was getting noisy. He cradled his hand over the mouthpiece and half-yelled to her, "Anything important?"

"Vance sent out a shitty memo on taking economy measures in the office, that's all. Your calls . . . only Michael, twice. He wanted to remind you to go over to the store tonight. How was the dentist?"

"Painful." That was just as true about his real appointment. "Don't work late, go home."

"Finally, an order I like," she said, and hung up.

Brian rolled his head around, trying to stretch the tension out of his neck. Today was the second time this week he'd gone begging to a banker. Vance had insisted Brian come along to their commercial bank to re-negotiate the business loan that was keeping Vanguard afloat. The junior officer had pinched up his mouth as Vance spoke. But Vance wouldn't take that kind of thing. Brian remembered with hard amusement the startled look on the man's face when Vance demanded to see senior management. Vance had had his way on that, of course. Whether they'd get the terms they were asking for -- essentially, lower payments until they had more time to bring in business -- remained to be seen. "We'll get back to you," they had said.

Shifting restlessly, Brian became aware of another body behind him, standing a little too close. Their shoulders touched. He turned his head, expecting to see the same woman, but found himself nearly nose-to-nose with a smiling, dark-haired young man. "How's it going?" the young man breathed.

Brian gave another glance around the bar. There was no mistake, it was straight. But there was no mistaking the look he was getting here, either. He shrugged in reply, and checked him out. Green eyes, high cheekbones, small moustache not to Brian's taste -- but his shirt was open halfway down, exposing a very promising throat and upper chest. Brian had a flash of recognition -- had someone like this walked by him in the bank? He hadn't really noticed while he was signing papers. Apparently he had been noticed, though.

Brian found the idea that he had been stalked amusing. "You followed me from the bank," he said.

"I'd follow you anywhere," the trick answered, smiling more broadly. Brian almost gagged on the lameness of the line. Clearly the less conversation with this one, the better. But while he didn't sound like much, he was starting to look better and better.

Bring him home, do him fast, get him out. "Want a drink?" he offered. The trick shook his head. Apparently he wanted to get to business, too. Good. Brian tossed money on to the bar and suddenly remembered he couldn't bring him home. Somehow, he had wound up promising Sunshine there would be no more tricks in the loft. It hadn't seemed like such a big deal . . . but now he realized how inconvenient it might be. Already the trick was murmuring in his ear, asking where they could go, did Brian live around here?

"No."

"My place is about ten minutes away."

His place. God knows what kind of neighborhood it was, and he'd have to park the Jeep on the street there. Shit, Brian thought. Stuck again. Nailed by another one of those sweet Sunshine requests which were really cock-hard demands.

And he always has another one coming, Brian thought. Claimed he didn't want me to change. The fuck he doesn't. Well, he can want whatever. I'm going to have what I want now.

"All right, let's go," he said.

 

*****
 

Justin didn't get back to the loft until after 8:00. Brian, who had just walked in himself, was on the phone ordering Chinese food. "Tell them to hurry, I'm starving," Justin whispered, tossing his books and portfolio to the floor.

"And hurry the fuck up," Brian added into the receiver. He hung up and came over, but stepped back in pretended horror from Justin's offered kiss. "What happened to you? Have you been fucking a coal miner?"

"Oh, come on, I'm not that bad."

"Worse."

Justin laughed and looked down at his clothes, which were covered with grime and dust. His fair hair, darker with sweat, was plastered to his head. "I was helping Matthew, I told you. We moved him out of his dorm room into his own place this afternoon."

"Oh, right. The house-scrubbing party."

"Some house, an apartment with two tiny rooms and an open toilet. It's a pit, but he's happy about it. So's Jonathan," he added, referring to Matthew's boyfriend. "He didn't like staying over at Matthew's dorm." He kicked off his shoes. "You look tired. Did you have trouble sleeping again last night? I didn't hear you get up."

"You wouldn't hear an earthquake." Brian pushed away the memory of sitting at the computer at 4 AM, working on yet another new business presentation, a song playing over and over in his head. "It's your fault, you were supposed to fuck me senseless."

Justin stuck out his tongue. "It was the other way around, remember? I guess I better shower before the food comes. Are we still going over to Michael's store?"

"Yeah." Brian gingerly helped slide Justin's jacket off his shoulders. Normally he liked Justin in a sweat, but he was leery of getting the dust on his clothes. He hadn't changed out of his suit yet. "So is Jonathan moving in with him?"

"Eventually. He still has six months on his lease. Next year they want to get something bigger together." Justin paused a moment. The chatter all afternoon between Matthew and Jonathan had been a little hard to listen to: their plans for next year, plans for after they graduated, plans for the next twenty years. The travel they'd do together, the places they'd live. All rosy and romantic. It was silly, but . . . at least Matthew and Jonathan talked about the future.

On impulse he wrapped his arms around Brian's waist before he could back away, and put up his face for a kiss.

"Watch my clothes!"

"Fuck your clothes, Armani man. Come on, give it up."

Brian snorted. "Honestly, the expressions you young people use." He bent his head for the kiss. His mouth opened and Justin felt his tongue beginning to probe. To tease him, Justin turned his mouth away slightly and rubbed his nose along Brian's stubbly jaw and chin. He ducked his head lower, and stopped.

He had inhaled a musky scent, not anything Brian used. And something else. He sniffed again loudly, as a show, and stepped back. Their eyes met. Brian smiled and asked softly, "Any guesses?"

For a moment Justin almost played the game. At first their sniffing contest had been strangely enjoyable. It was nasty and exciting both at once, and it seemed to prove how little the tricking meant, if it could be turned into play between the two of them afterwards. He had tried to think of it that way, at least. Better than having Brian lie to him or sneak around - everything out in the open was better. Wasn't it?

But I don't really want to know, Justin admitted to himself. He already knew more than he wanted: that Brian was tricking even more than usual lately. He looked into Brian's eyes, still quizzical, waiting for his reaction, and then again at Brian's mouth, the only part of him he could fully claim.

Justin kissed him again hard, briefly, and then tried to pull away from Brian's hands. He wouldn't play. "I'd better shower."

"I'll join you."

"No. I'll be quick, and the food's coming." He had to pull away again. This time Brian let him go.

 

*****
 

"You're late," Michael greeted them, opening the comic store door, which had CLOSED emblazoned on it.

"Sorry," Justin began, but from across the room Ted called, "Did you stop for a sex break?"

Not me, Justin thought, shooting a glance at Brian. "No, I was helping my friends out. So what's left to do?"

"Well, these friends have been very busy, and all for you and Michael, sweetie," Emmett said. He made a grand gesture around the store. "See?"

The middle of the floor was piled with boxes holding the first Rage issue. Michael went back to checking through one of them. They hoped to sell as many issues as possible at Babylon, on the night of the Rage launch party, which was scheduled for the following Saturday night. Ted and Emmett were sitting together at the sales counter, stuffing party invitations into envelopes. More invitations would be handed out in all the clubs, but Brian had insisted on putting a separate list together for the crowd Ted referred to as "The A Gays," to invite them personally. But that meant stuffing envelopes.

"Look how many we've done already," Emmett said.

"We?" Ted asked sarcastically. So far Emmett had been talking, examining the invitations, making jokes over the names on the mailing list, considering whether he'd meet the man of his dreams at the party, and deciding what to wear. Sometimes he even put an invitation into an envelope.

Justin said, "I'll take over for you."

"And what are you going to do, Master Promoter?" Ted asked Brian, who had gone to stand by Michael.

"I'm lending my expertise."

"Lend a hand instead," Michael said, smiling. "Help me with these boxes."

"What are you doing with them?"

"Just checking the count. Sometimes they're light. I - oh, damn!" Michael lost control of the box in his hands, as the bottom of it suddenly gave way. Brian grabbed at it and helped him set it on the floor. He grimaced and wiped his hands.

"Fuck, it's all wet underneath. What happened?"

"Those idiots at the warehouse," Michael said. "They've done this to me before. They stack the boxes in a puddle or something, and then the bottom issues get ruined. Yeah, here, look at this. These are no good now."

Justin came over, frowning. "How many did we lose?"

"Well . . . oh, it's not that bad after all. Just a few."

Justin persisted, "That's not right, those are ours. We could have sold them."

"Not enough of them to fight with the warehouse over," Michael decided. Seeing Justin's face, he shrugged and smiled. "Breakage, we called it at the Big Q."

"Breakage?"

"Like overhead. That's -- "

"I know what overhead is. But -- "

"It's the cost of being in the game, Sunshine," Brian said. "Don't worry about it. How many envelopes are left?"

"Too many," said Ted. "Although Debbie took some of the invitations already. She's passing them out to the other stores around here."

"Put aside the top fifty addresses. I'm going to have them hand-delivered."

Michael said, "Wow, won't that be too expensive?"

"Forget it," Brian said. "The timing's tight, and I want these people to take notice."

A sudden bang startled all of them. Debbie was waving and pounding on the front window. "Michael, open up!"

"Take it easy, Ma," he said, letting her in. "You gave out all those invitations already?"

"Yep, and I'm back for more."

Brian shook his head. "That's wasting them, Deb. Wrong audience."

"Oh, listen to the hot shot. Now you tell me." But she believed him and gave up the idea. She took off her pistachio green jacket and hung it over the edge of a standing display. "Glad you finally showed up," she continued to Brian. "I'd ask what you were doing, but we can all guess that one."

"Sunshine got home late," Brian said airily.

Debbie, surprised, looked over at Justin, who was sitting at the counter now with Ted. He smiled at her. "I was helping my friend Matthew. He just moved into his first apartment."

Emmett asked, "What's it like? Is it nice?"

"No, it's horrible, but he loves it."

"Remember that fire trap I had over on Third for awhile?" Michael said to Brian.

"The most important thing is a lot of windows," Emmett pronounced. "You have to have light."

Ted said, "Shine a little over here, why don't you, and stuff a few more envelopes?"

"I do my best work at my own pace, Teddy. My first apartment in Pittsburgh faced a brick wall. Even my poor little snake plant couldn't take it."

"Ha," Debbie said. "You should have seen Michael's. Dark as a dungeon." She started to describe it, but Emmett insisted his own had been worse. Michael broke in with a story about one of Brian's early apartments, decorated with broken furniture and the droppings left by the mice. In a few minutes they were all talking at once and laughing.

To Justin, who remained silent, it sounded like they were talking about childhood pranks, instead of serious living arrangements. Maybe that's all it meant to them, now, those cold rooms and miserable apartments. The satisfaction of finally paying your own way and handling it all yourself, which seemed so important to him, was only a stage they had passed through long ago - even Emmett, who could still hardly balance his checkbook.

"I'll never have that," Justin suddenly burst out. "I'll never do that. "

He said it so loudly and with such insistence they all went quiet. Ted bent his head back to the invitations. Michael paused over the boxes, shooting a look at Brian. But Emmett said in a puzzled voice, "Why not, honey?"

Justin stared across the store at Brian, whose face was calm. Debbie felt a sudden alarm. She thought, because he'd have to leave Brian to do it.

Emmett persisted, "Honey, why do you think -- "

"When you graduate and get a decent job," Brian cut in, as if no one else had said anything, "you should be able to afford something."

"Meaning I would move out of the loft?"

Emmett gave a little gasp of understanding. Justin knew they shouldn't be having this conversation - he shouldn't even be asking this question - in front of the others, but he couldn't stop himself. His voice rose. "Just as soon as I can afford it?"

"If that's what you want."

"Brian," Debbie said, trying to intervene. But when he glanced at her, she realized she had nothing to say. Emmett pretended to busy himself with something on the counter.

Brian continued, "You can get a one-roomer down on Hamilton Avenue and fight with the landlord for heat. Furnish it with second-hands and a cheap mattress." He added with a crooked smile, "And I'll come and fuck you on the floor."

Ted gave a snorting laugh. Everyone else held their breaths. The flush in Justin's face started to recede. Finally he managed to smile back. "Who says I'll invite you?"

"You tell him, Sunshine," Debbie brayed in her relief, and they all started to relax. Justin smiled again a little more easily and reached for another invitation.

Michael said, "Ben and I are talking about moving in together."

"Jesus," Debbie blurted. "They're coming over the plate pretty fucking fast all of a sudden."

"Woo-hoo! Yippee!" Emmett clapped his hands.

"Take it easy. We're just talking about it. Maybe next year we can get a new place together."

"Why wait, sweetie? Go for it!"

"No. I have to make sure the store's really doing okay first. I want it to be successful."

"Of course it will be," Debbie said indignantly. Michael didn't answer. Justin, looking over, saw Brian reach out and rub the back of Michael's neck.

"You can't let the store keep you from true love," Emmett said.

Michael laughed. "I won't. But there's plenty of time."

Brian dropped his hand. His eyes met Debbie's behind Michael's back. How much time Ben might have could be debatable. But Debbie said gamely, "That's right. No rush."

"Sounds like you're making a lot of plans together," Justin said. Debbie heard something wistful in his tone. Brian's face remained blank. Michael answered, "Oh, we talk about everything. But one thing at a time. Live for the now, that's Ben's motto."

Debbie said, "Right. And right now, we've got a comic to launch. So when's the rehearsal?"

Michael and Justin had remained determined to have an enactment of the Rage story line at the launch party. Brian arranged it, remembering each time to call it "the story" instead of "the bashing." He roused himself now to answer Debbie. "Tomorrow at 5. The actors are all lined up and I have somebody to direct. But we have to be finished by 8. The Sap wants to reopen Babylon to the public by 10."

"Everybody at my house afterwards for a late supper," Debbie ordered.

"Ma, Ben and I were going to -- "

"At my house," Debbie said firmly, and no one contradicted her again.

 

*****
 

In the Jeep on the way home, Justin was quiet. Brian, who knew something was brewing, wondered tiredly how he could stop whatever it was. He was still working off of four hours' sleep and ten cups of coffee. As he fumbled with the car's cigarette lighter, Justin said suddenly, "Michael sounded a little worried about the store. Is business bad?"

"Mediocre." Brian, relieved at the topic, lit up and took a drag, steering with three fingers of one hand.

"Is he in trouble?"

"No, not yet. But he'd like to see things pick up. He could use a little cushion."

"So he really needs Rage to be a success?"

"Well, it would help."

Justin nodded as if a puzzle had just been solved. "So that's why you're doing all this."

"What?"

"You're doing all this for Michael."

Fuck. Brian, suddenly angry, realized the topic wasn't as innocent as he had thought. Don't start with me, Sunshine. Don't do it. . . . he almost said it out loud. Instead he said, "It's your comic, too, isn't it?"

"Sure." Justin enunciated the word precisely. "And I need a cushion, too, don't I? For that apartment I should get as soon as I can possibly afford it."

"You know, this drama princess act of yours is getting to be a bad habit. Maybe we should stage an intervention."

"That's what you said."

"That is not what I fucking said. I said you're free to do what you want."

"What do you want?" Justin demanded. "Here's a thought. Why don't you just fucking tell me, for once?"

"What I want is for this dyke conversation to stop." Brian steered into the next lane, turning the wheel a little too sharply. "Drop it."

"No. We never talk about -- about what we might want -- about -- " Justin floundered. "But other couples do. Look at Michael and Ben."

"Other couples," Brian mimicked. "And let's not forget Matthew and Jonathan."

Justin ignored the mocking tone. "Yes."

"Maybe it's escaped your attention, Sunshine, but we're already living together, remember?"

"I'm talking about our future."

"Oh Christ, what a fucking cliche." Brian had a brief thought about being at the bank and signing papers. "I don't even know what's going to happen next week."

Justin wouldn't accept this. "That's too convenient," he said. Brian made a derisive sound but said nothing. Trying to bring his voice under control, Justin went on, "I want to make plans with you. I want to be able to tell you how I feel about you, without it seeming like I'm doing something, I don't know, rude, almost. Or annoying." He looked out the window at the passing lights. After a moment he added quietly, "Most people like to be told they're important to somebody. That they're loved."

If Brian heard the word, he didn't let on. He demanded, "Most people? You mean straight people?"

"No, that's not what I fucking meant, and you know it! I mean anybody. People who aren't -- aren't -- "

"Aren't what?" Brian asked. "Immature? Emotionally stunted? Heartless shitheads?"

"Brian."

"What the fuck do you want?"

"I want to be able to tell you that I want to stay with you. I mean forever."

"Fine. You just did. That enough?"

"But -- "

"No, I didn't think so. Surprise."

"If you don't feel the same way -- " Justin let it hang in the air, as a question. When Brian didn't answer, his heart sank. "Jesus." He felt a warning sting behind his eyes and blinked hard against it. If he cried now, Brian would despise him.

Before he could stop it, the thought came: What does it say about us, if I'm afraid to cry in front of my lover? My lover . . . Justin looked over again, but Brian was staring out the windshield. He glanced down for a moment to stub his cigarette out. Justin thought angrily, he probably hasn't cried since he was Gus' age.

He managed to make his voice go cold. "So what's the difference between me and all the tricks? Is there any?"

He wasn't sure Brian would answer this question either. But Brian explained, as if speaking to a very stupid child, "You're here. They're not. What does that tell you?"

"That I'm more convenient?"

"Fuck you."

"Exactly! Is that all it is, fucking? Brian." He wouldn't stop. He couldn't. "Answer me." Brian shook his head, as if in disbelief. Justin cried out, "Is that the best you can do?"

Suddenly Brian slammed on the brakes. The stoplight they were coming up on had just changed yellow and the car behind them was unprepared. They heard his tires squeal. Justin's belt clenched on his chest and he braced for an impact, but nothing came - only the driver's furious honking.

Brian leaned over to hiss an answer into his face. "Yes," he said.

Justin stared at him, searching. But Brian's eyes held nothing. The dark circles beneath them from his sleepless nights were nearly black. The features Justin found so beautiful were hard as a monument, unmoving on an expressionless face. Yes. The best he could do.

The light changed again. Brian didn't move. Around them, the traffic started to flow again, horns honking; someone cursed them. But their car was going nowhere.

Justin unbuckled his belt and opened the passenger door.

"What are you doing?" The voice behind him was soft.

Justin stepped into the street and paused with his hand on the door. "Maybe it's time I got out," he said, and slammed it.

 

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