Homecoming

*1*

Justin

I try to remember how it felt to be an artist - to think of myself as an artist. Not as a "personality", a commodity, but as a creator, a person who could take line and color and use them to express feelings, passions, ideas.

But I truly can't remember how it felt to think of myself that way.

For weeks, months, I feel like I've been caught between the twin pressures of having a "For Sale" sign suspended permanently, if metaphorically, over my head, while at the same time the sale room is empty, bankrupt of stock.

I've been here for nearly seven months now. The first couple of months weren't too bad. It was still a joy to me to create. And after each of Brian's visits, I'd paint for days like a madman, barely stopping to eat or sleep. I felt like an "Artist". I felt like I was living the dream. Then, of course, reality set in.

To start with, Brian's visits have gradually become less frequent.

Originally, we'd agreed that every second weekend, one of us would make the trip. And that we'd alternate visits. So once a month, each of us would make the trip to visit the other.

But in the first months there'd always been a "reason" why I couldn't go back to Pittsburgh. At first, I was busy "settling in". Actually, I did that fairly quickly. Thanks to that cun … critic's article, I found an agent in the first few weeks, and she found me somewhere affordable to work. Of course, after that, there'd always been some showing or opening that I was advised I simply "must" attend. I had to get my face seen in all the right places, with all the right people. I had to make sure that the right people knew who I was.

It didn't matter, it seemed, if they liked me or not. It didn't even matter if they liked my work. I just had to be a "face"; a personality, someone who was seen to be part of the scene. Someone whose name was familiar enough for their work to sell. In other words, a commodity.

At first, Brian … he just fitted in with all that. When I couldn't get back to Pittsburgh, he'd fly to NY instead. If he thought that some of the reasons I didn't go back were spurious, he just let it slide. I was grateful for that at the time. Because I couldn't tell him the real reason.

He'd been so proud of me. When he stood with me that last day in the loft, and told me that I'd done it, I'd become the best homosexual I could be, I knew that he said it because he thought I was strong and brave, because I wasn't scared to take risks and go for the whole lot, not just settle for what I thought I could have …

But … I thought my heart would crack. I felt … It was too much, almost. I didn't know how to tell him that I was terrified. Not of NY. Not really. Well, a bit … but …

I was terrified of losing him.

And just as scared of losing his respect if I didn't take this chance. He'd already taunted me, that terrible, wonderful afternoon when we decided to call off the wedding, with being scared. That afternoon was one of the most difficult times of my life, but it was also one of the best. Because Brian and I really communicated. We lay in that bed and talked and really worked out what was important to us. What would work for us.

And he made it clear that he believed that I'd always regret it if I didn't take this chance, and that he didn't want either of us to have to live with that. Just like I didn't want either of us to have to live with us trying to become some sort of model gay couple, with the home and the garden and all the other crap that for a while I seriously thought I needed. What a moron I can be.

So took the chance. I came here to New York. And, doing that, I tore something loose inside me. Something that made me who I am … who I used to be, anyway. Something that made me an artist, a creator. Something that made me alive.

I left him, and leaving, I left so much of myself behind that I …

I've been too scared to go back. That's the truth.

It was bad enough when he came here. He'd be here for two days - three nights, and two days, and then … he'd be gone. He always tried to get the 5.45 flight from Pittsburgh which was scheduled to land at 7.08. I'd be at the airport from 6.30 onwards. Too keyed up to eat, or even have a drink, just pacing around the arrivals bay. Waiting. Waiting to come alive again. Waiting for the moment when he'd be there, and I could start to breathe again. Start to feel again. And then Monday morning … he'd leave. On the bad weeks, when he had some meeting on the Monday, he'd have to get up before dawn to catch the 6.15 flight. Those weeks I didn't sleep at all that night. I'd just lay there all night, feeling him there, breathing him in, trying to store it all up inside me to last me till next time. If I was lucky and he didn't have any meetings - or none in the morning, anyway, he'd take the 9.15 flight, and I'd have three precious hours more. Three more hours to touch him, smell him, taste him, drown in him.

Then he'd be gone and for days I'd madly try to put everything I'd felt down on paper or canvas, before it all drained away again into the nothingness I felt all the rest of the time.

So the simple truth is that if I'd gone back … I'd never have been able to leave again.

And I had needed to do this. I'd needed to prove to myself that I could do it. That I could be the man he thinks I am. Or thought I was. Or …

I don't know anymore.

It all seems so foolish now.

But that was why I'd come here … to be the person he believed me to be. I loved that he believed in me. I loved that he respected me, respected us, so much …

I loved it so much that I put everything at risk rather than let him down, rather than be less than he wanted me to be, less than he believed I could be.

And now … now I'm left wondering why.

Wondering whether it was worth it.

Because …

Because now I'm afraid that it was all too high a price to pay. That, in trying to have it all, I might be left with nothing. Nothing that means anything to me, anyway. Sure my name is starting to get known here and there, and my paintings are starting to sell? But so what?

I feel like a complete fool. I wish I'd thought back further to the first time Brian gave me advice about my career; the time when he told me "it's easier doing what's expected". Because ain't that the truth? And what was expected, was that I'd come here. What would have been the smart, the wise, the brave thing to do, would have been to say "fuck it! it's not what I want".

But I couldn't. Because I didn't want to let him down, to have him think less of me. And because I was just plain fucking stupid. Stupid enough to buy into the bullshit, the hype.

And now, now that I know that. It might be too late.

Because, after those first few months, Brian stopped coming here on "my" weekends.

He'd had a client in town the first time, someone he needed to entertain. It was Remson's. They'd gone with their idiotic wishy-washy campaign, and of course it bombed. So Remson had come back to him. If it was anyone but Remson's I think Brian would have let them sweat. But they'd been his first big client. They'd made the whole thing possible. And Remson himself had coughed up the money for the Bike Ride, the money that made the whole Vic Grassi house thing happen.

So Brian feels some sort of loyalty to him, and he wanted to mend fences, I guess. I could understand that. I'm not the silly boy who threw a temper tantrum and ran off to Vermont and spent the most miserable week of my life there all alone, because I couldn't cope with Brian taking care of business.

I might have smoked an extra joint or two that weekend. Tried to drown my sorrows in JB and vodka. Hell! I even tried to paint my misery out … put it all on canvas … like that was going to work. But I understood.

But it happened the next time, too.

That time, he didn't even make an excuse, just let it go. Let it slide. Let the weekend slip away.

I felt like it wasn't just the weekend. I felt him, us, slowly slipping out of my grasp. I felt him letting me go.

But what could I say?

I had an open ticket. I could have flown home.

I didn't.

And he didn't come here.

And it was another two weeks before I saw him.

I don't know what was worse, the fear before he arrived that things would be different, that there would be some sort of gulf between us. Or the fear that descended after he arrived. The fear that came because it wasn't different. It was close and warm and whole and healing. It was being able to breathe again, able to see, and hear, and feel. It was being alive again. And it was going to end again, I was going to die again, on Monday morning.

I think that weekend was the worst of all.

Then, the weekend before last, he cancelled his own visit. More business that needed to be taken care of.

We've spoken on the phone since then. Emailed every day, like always. But the phone calls are difficult, painful. Neither of us knows what to say. Both of us fear the silence, fear what's behind the silence. But neither of us can break it.

And the emails say nothing.

I know that he believes I'm moving on. Moving away from him. And I know he's gearing up to let me go.

So, before he can find a Kinney cliff to throw me off, I have to find my own cliff, find my own courage to jump over the edge.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Brian

When the door starts to slide open, I breathe out a volley of curses. I'm just getting the outline for the fucking Remson's presentation finished, and once that's done …

Once that's done I can try to work out what to do about the weekend.

It's Thursday night. If I want a flight tomorrow night, I have to book it now.

If I want it …

That's fucking funny. That's hilarious.

I want it like I want to go on breathing.

More.

But should I take it? that's the question, boys and girls. Should I head back for one last taste, maybe try to find the courage to do this thing face to face. To …

But I can't think about that now because some fucking do-gooder is here, wanting to make sure I'm okay. Mikey. Or Deb. I haven't been to the diner for a few days, a week, maybe. So of course, I must be dead, or dying, or drinking myself into a stupor, or just fucking pining away.

I take my time saving the presentation.

For some reason, just the idea of what I have to do this weekend, or next, or whenever I get up the fucking courage to do it, has …

If he were here, I'd tell him I'd caught his fucking allergies.

If he were here.

Fuck it, Kinney, don't go there! Not now. Not while there is a guest to entertain. Or to be entertained by the sight of Brian fucking Kinney falling apart at the seams because he finally has to face reality.

Funny, I've hidden from it for so long, and now it's here, right here in my refuge, my safe place, my home; it's finally found me, here where I've been trying for weeks to pretend that it doesn't exist. To pretend that everything's okay. Well, as okay as it can be when all the parts of me that matter are stretched to the breaking point, to the screaming point, over the three hundred miles between here and New York. It's so ironic that the final face off with reality comes here, where I've been trying to burrow down into memories and dreams and never let reality in through the door. But it's found me all the same.

Somehow, then, I know before I turn around who it is who's come me.

And I know why. He always has had more balls than I do … even if you count my plastic one. It figures that he's the one who's had the courage to seek me out, to face me, to do this right. I can only try to match his courage, and not fall into a screaming fucking heap.

I turn and face him, and try to stand up straight and tall, and not let the pain show. I can't let him down. I have to be able to do this. I have to let him go easily; free and clear and guilt free. I have to be able to say goodbye.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Justin

I put my bag down and take deep breaths. Deep breaths of home and here and him. Him.

Fuck! He looks terrible.

No, he looks stunning. He always looks stunning - especially when he's not trying, when he's just in jeans and tee and bare feet. God! how I love his feet.

But his face … the pain in his face.

Then he gives one of those twisted grins, and says, "Hey, Sunshine."

Like I just went out the door this morning.

But his eyes …

Oh, God! what have I done?

I want to run to him. Make him take me into his arms, take me to bed, take me, anywhere, anyhow, just take me back.

But I know already that it's not going to be that easy. This time apart has done too much damage. I've done too much damage. Or, at least, I've let too much damage happen. I should have known this was how it would go. I know him. I know how hard it is for him to believe in anything, let alone believe in something as ridiculous as love.

But damage can be fixed. I believe that. I have to believe that.

I smile at him.

"Hey, yourself."

Then I go to him. I feel, rather than see, him stiffen as I walk towards him. And not, as he'd say himself, in a positive life-affirming way. But I don't let it stop me.

He braces himself, and, very gently, I start to touch him.

As soon as I do, I almost lose it. I want to throw myself on top of him. Throw myself into his arms and drown in him. I feel like I could do that happily if it meant that I'd never have to leave the haven of him, of being his, again. But I'm not there yet. Right now, that haven is still out of my reach.

So I touch his arms, and run my fingers up to his shoulders.

He sticks his tongue in his cheek, and looks down at me like he's trying to work out what I'm up to.

God! Brian, just reach for me already!

But he doesn't. He stands there, with that look on his face, and that pain burning in his eyes, and suddenly I know what to say.

"I hope that drawer's still empty, because I bought a lot of shit in New York."

He gives a strangled sort of laugh, and shakes his head. Not in denial, but in disbelief.

I put my hands on his face.

"I've come home," I say. "It's time for me to come home."

His face changes, then. His lips twist, and his eyes fill, and he gives a sort of gasp.

Then, of course, being Brian, he pushes me away.

He stands there, shaking his head.

"No," he says.

That's all, just 'no'.

I smile at him.

"Yes," I say.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Brian

He's standing here, right in front of me, saying that he wants to come home. Just throw it all away. All these months. Throw away everything he's worked for.

I can't fucking do this. I want to scream at him. I want to take him and throw him down the fucking stairs. I want …

I want …

Then he smiles at me, and I'm lost. Just … lost.

His hands are touching me again.

His hands.

And suddenly, none of it matters. Not the pain, not the loneliness there'll be once he's gone again. Once I've had to make him leave again. Nothing. Only this. Only the feel of his skin on mine.

Fuck!

My hands find their way into his hair, and my tongue is probing at his mouth, and then I'm home. He's home. He's here. Fuck me, but he's here.

And then it's all just heat and need and him. Him. Justin.

Oh, fuck! It's Justin. It's Justin.

Justin's hands on my body, Justin's spit in my mouth, Justin's cock in my hand. Justin. The smell, the taste, the everything that's Justin.

And right now, that's the only thing that matters.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Justin

I guess that some people would say that we should have talked first. Should have got things out into the open, discussed them, reached some sort of understanding, before we fell into bed together. Well, technically we fell onto the sofa, and then the table, and then we fell into the shower … but you know what I mean.

But they'd be wrong. There was a time when I'd get frustrated that Brian would try to use fucking to make me feel better about things instead of "really" communicating. That was before I realized that he doesn't do that. He uses fucking to communicate. Which is a very different thing.

Now, I use it too.

I let my body - my mouth, my hands, my tongue, my toes even, tell him how much I've missed him. How much I need him. How much I love him.

And then, to make sure he gets all the messages, when we're finally just leaning against each other in the shower, I say, "So, about that drawer …"

He sighs, and starts to pull away. "Justin, you know …"

He breaks off and takes a breath. "I know that you think … I know that …"

"Brian," I say firmly. "You don't know shit."

He blinks at me, and I get out of the shower and hand him a towel. I grab one for myself, start drying my arms. All the while looking into his eyes.

He tries to look away, but I move in closer, and don't let him. I stand there, until he meets my eyes again.

Then I say, "Everyone told me that I needed to go to New York. Needed to take advantage of the moment. Needed to make the contacts. All of that crap."

"Justin … it takes time, that's all. You have to keep …"

"No. I don't. I got what I needed to out of New York. I got an agent. She's good. She'll make sure that I get invitations to all the right shows. The "important" ones. The ones that I "have" to be seen at. And I'll fly up for them."

He looks at me now, like he might be starting to see some light at the end of a very long tunnel, but he's afraid to trust in it, afraid to believe it might be daylight, in case it's just some stray, short lived will-o-the-wisp.

I smile at him, suddenly longing to share this news with him. The news that I've been hugging to myself for the last few days. The news I couldn't share with anyone but him, and couldn't tell him over the phone. The news that is, I hope, going to reassure him, make him understand, make him know it's alright. That he doesn't have to let me go so that I can fly. That I can soar as high as the sky without ever leaving his arms.

"And in October I'll have to go up for a few weeks, for my show."

There's a moment of absolute stillness, silence so deep that the sound of the shower dripping seems to echo through the loft.

Then, for the first time, his eyes light up. He pulls his lips into his mouth for a moment, and then he says, the pride already there in his voice, "Your show?"

I smile, and nod, and that's when I do what I've been longing to do ever since I walked through the door. I throw myself into his arms and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. Not with hunger or need or anything except the sheer joy of being able to do it.

He grins, and hugs me. His arms tight around me, he picks me up, right off the floor, and sort of shakes me. Then he puts me down and, cupping the back of my head in one hand, he looks deep into my eyes.

I beam at him, and let him see it all. See my longing and my need and my over the moon happiness to be here, to be home.

And then he kisses me. Long and deep and sweet. And I lean into him and I feel my eyes stinging, because now, at last, I am home.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Brian

I hardly know how to hold it all in … all the aching loneliness, all the months of missing him, all the … the joy, at having him here. Having him home.

Home.

He means it. He's come home. He is home.

And now that he is, I realize two things.

One is that I never thought this would happen. Never believed that it would.

The other is that I've been hoping for this to happen every moment of every day since the day he left. Clinging to that hope somehow with bleeding fingertips and all the while berating myself for not just letting go.

But I didn't. I somehow didn't. I held on. Well, till this last couple of weeks. And even then … I still called him, although hearing his voice made my gut ache. I sat and emailed every day, though my fingers stumbled on the keys and sometimes I could hardly see the screen to be sure what I'd typed wasn't a plea for him to get his ass back here. I didn't walk away. I didn't give up on us. I held on.

Somehow I believed enough in him, if not in us, to try to hold on.

I wonder if he'll ever know how much that says about how I feel about him.

Then I stop thinking about that, because it doesn't matter any more. What matters now is all the other stuff. The stuff about why he went in the first place.

"Your show?" I say again.

He grabs the robe off the back of the door, the one that's been hanging there all these months, and pulls it on. "It's just a small one. A small gallery. But 'it has a very good reputation'."

He says that in a snotty New York accent, so I know that he's quoting his agent. She's okay, really. Well, she's a shark, but that's a good thing, since she's on his side, is invested in making him a success. But, fuck! she's on the premium scale of pretentiousness when she wants to be.

I can feel my pride in him swelling up inside me, even as I pull on some sweats and follow him, inevitably, to the fridge.

A fucking New York show.

I take a breath and try not to get ahead of myself. He pulls open the fridge door and makes a face. Of course there's no fucking food, Sunshine, I didn't exactly plan on having to feed you this weekend. I reach past him and open the freezer. That is crammed with stuff that either Deb has put there, or Emmett has. If it was up to those two I'd be the size of a damned mammoth by now.

He grabs out some stuff and dumps it into the microwave.

"So … how many artists are in the show?" I ask. I want it to be just him. I want this for him so badly. But I can't let him see that. Can't let him see me disappointed if …

He grins at me. I'm not fooling him for a minute, and I can read the answer in his eyes, in his smile, before he can get the words out.

"Just me," he says, doing his best to sound cool about it, but his pride and pleasure are bubbling in him like good champagne.

I smile at him and nod. And then I grab him and kiss him again. So he knows. Knows how fucking proud of him I am. Knows that it was all worth it. Knows that it's okay to want this. To want this success. And knows that somehow we'll find a way to patch our lives around it.

"So," I say, needing suddenly to get this out the way, " shouldn't you be in New York putting some work together."

His smile fades, and I wonder what I've said. Then he sighs. So deep, it's like a death rattle. I put my hand round his neck and pull him close, squatting a little so I can look in his eyes. They're dark and sad, and I feel …

I feel cold, and I feel anger pushing at me, burning in my gut, in my throat, on my tongue, trying to get out.

What the fuck! He just told me … told me in all the ways there are, that he's come home. Now what? He's going to tell me that's what he really wants to do but he just can't? Well fuck that!

I step back, away from him, and he gives a little gasp, and then he's pressing against me, arms round me, tying himself to me.

"I can't, Brian. I'm sorry. I tried. But I can't. I won't."

His words are choked and I can hardly hear them, can't understand even what I can hear.

"Justin …"

"I just can't do it there. I tried. I did try. I did. I didn't want to let you down. To have you think I couldn't do it, didn't have the balls to even try. But it's not me. Not who I am. Not what I want."

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Justin

I feel like howling now. Just a moment ago I was so happy, so proud that I'd made him proud, and now …

Now I feel like a child. A silly child who's tried to take on something that is way beyond their strength and skill and now's the time that everyone is going to know it.

I might have made the right contacts. I might even have an agent who's conned someone into giving me a show. But I can't cut it there. Not on their terms. I'm not … strong enough … or shallow enough, or something. Not … something. Not whatever it is that lets you be part of that scene. Really be part of the whole New York experience.

I don't even want to be. I want to be an artist on my terms. I want my life. My whole life. The life I could have with him.

And now Brian's angry with me. Disappointed in me. And I want to say "fuck him!". But I don't blame him. Because it means all this, all these last months, it's all been for nothing. All the pain and the loneliness, and it's …

I can feel myself choking.

And then he's holding me. Just holding me. His cheek against my hair. His arms so warm around me. And suddenly, it doesn't matter. I'm sorry if he's disappointed in me, but …

I need this. I need him. I need to be with him. To sit in our home, wherever that is, and eat and talk and laugh and fuck and be with him.

I hug him, and then I look up at him, and touch my hand to his face so that he'll listen to me.

"Brian, listen to me. Are you listening?"

I go on before he can answer, the words spilling out of me like tears.

"I can't go on living there, Brian. I don't live there. I just survive. It's not where I want to be. I want to be here. With you. I miss you so much that I feel like … I'm so empty inside most of the time, and I feel like there's nothing of me there that's real, that's me … I feel like a stranger in my own body. I don't know who I am. I only know who I want to be … and it isn't someone I can be there."

My words trail off and, as the microwave beeps, he stares at me, head slightly tilted to one side.

"Then why the fuck didn't you just come home?" he asks.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Brian

Of all the fucking stupid little twats!

I don't know whether to slap him silly or kiss him senseless. All these fucking months …

Then I laugh.

What does it matter? He's here now. And we'd better find somewhere for him to work. If he's got a show coming up, he'll need something to put in it.

I take the plate he hands me, and open the fridge to grab a couple of beers. We sit at the counter, stools close together, his knee pressing against mine. I take a mouthful of food, suddenly feeling for the first time in months like maybe I could eat something and not feel it choking me.

He inhales a fair portion of his serve, and then says, "So … you don't mind? I mean, I know you wanted me to …"

I cut that bullshit off right away. "Justin … all I wanted was for you to take your chance when it came along. And you have. You've got a fucking New York show coming up for chrissakes!"

He looks at me, that little worried frown still between his eyes, but I know that all he can see in my face is pride in him … and happiness. And relief. That most of all, probably.

He dips his head and then raises it again, and now the frown is gone and the light is back in his eyes, and who needs fucking food? I could just feast on this for weeks, months. Not taking my eyes off him, I take another mouthful of Deb's damned tuna thingy and gulp down some beer.

"So … what do you need to do?"

He sighs … not sad this time, but … relieved, I guess. Like he'd just put down some heavy burden he'd been carting around for a long long time, and then he grins.

"Well, first I think I need to suck you, and then I need to fuck you, and then I need …"

I laugh at him. "In your dreams, Sunshine," I say.

But it's bullshit, and he knows it. I don't bottom often. But for Justin … well, that's different. That's not like … It's not like giving up control. Or maybe it is. But that's alright. With him, that's alright. Occasionally. Like in about half an hour maybe, when this damned pasta has had time to settle. Meanwhile …

I look around for his bag. It's just a carry on.

"Doesn't seem like that'll take up too much space in the drawer," I say.

He grins. "Oh, I wouldn't count on keeping all the closet space just yet. The rest should arrive on Monday."

He looks at me, and I meet his eyes. There's just a tiny question in them. So I stick my tongue into my cheek and grin at him. Then I fucking swear someone switches on every light in the loft as he smiles back at me. And I figure maybe it's time for dessert.

I reach for him, and he comes into my arms and I just bury my face in his hair, in his neck, in Justin. I hold him, and he holds me. And I finally believe it. Really believe it.

He's home.

Return to Homecoming