Homecoming

*4*

Authors Notes: Some parts will be a little obscure. Sorry about that, but there are some issues that will be coming up soon in Reverberations, and I don't want to give too much away. As Randall would say (and Cael too, for that matter), AWBR.

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Justin

We stand there for a while, in a shared silence that is warm with contentment. The rain gets harder and becomes spattered with hail. We can see it bouncing off the stone coping round the window. Somehow the sight increases our pleasure, makes us appreciate even more the warmth that exists here, in the little sphere that we share.

Then my stomach gives a loud rumble. I feel the answering rumble of Brian's laugh against my spine and smack his hand.

"Time to light that fire," he says, "and make use of some of that mountain of food."

So we kiss one more time and wander downstairs.

As he brings in some wood from a store outside (another clue to how much time he's been spending here), I put on some pasta to boil. I can make a quick smoked salmon sauce, and toss a salad. Add some crusty bread and open a bottle of wine and "Shazzam!" - instant feast.

I'm stirring the sauce when he comes into the kitchen. He starts tearing up lettuce, and adding olives and cherry tomatoes. Then he mixes some dressing while I drain the pasta and toss it in the sauce. We move around each other easily. You'd think that we'd lived here together for all the last long months instead of it being our first meal in this house he'd bought to be our home.

I really want to talk to him about that, but … not right now. We're both still too raw. We need some time to let things settle. To let the feeling of being together sink in. Then will be the time to talk about what we're going to do about this place.

Once the fact that I'm back for good, that we are going to be living together, that no matter what building it's in, we'll have a home together; once all these things have sunk in, have become reality, have banished the loneliness and the fears, then we can talk about this place as just another building, not the symbol it's become.

At the moment, though, the symbol is too potent, has too much power. I'm not sure that I can make it clear to him, on the emotional level he works on far more frequently than he'd like to admit, that not wanting to live in this house does not mean not wanting to live my life with him. I won't take the risk of hurting him over something so pointless.

So, as we take our seats in the breakfast nook, and Brian opens a bottle of crisp white wine, we talk about our friends.

About how things are going with Mikey and Ben. That has been such a mess. And of course, for some bizarre reason Michael is somehow blaming Brian for not being able to fix it. Despite the fact that when Brian offered to help in the only way he could, by offering money to pay for a decent lawyer, Michael threw the offer back in his face. It's as if Michael still hasn't realized how really serious this is, and that it could get worse.

Deb, of course, is worried out of her mind. Which means that she's more schizoid than ever in her attitude to Brian, leaning on him one minute, looking for ways to blame him the next. Brian just accepts all that, of course. It's a damned good thing I'm back to try to deflect some of that shit.

Anyway, there's not really a lot we can say about that situation, so we move on to talk about Emmett. He's still single. Still pining a bit over Drew, I suspect. But his business at least is booming. Now that Babylon has been reinvented yet again, Em is getting a lot of work catering events in the function room on the upper floor.

I haven't seen the redeveloped building, but I know all about it. Brian brought the plans with him on more than one NY trip, and I know all about the hassles of getting the permits and the building delays and how successful it looks like being. Although, it still seems weird to me to think of Babylon as being anything but the club.

But things have changed. Downstairs … downstairs is still Babylon. Complete with the go-go boys, the back room, and of course, the eternal thumpa thumpa from the dance floor. But on the ground floor, as well as the club entrance and the upper level bar of the club itself, there's another bar and a coffee shop, plus two small specialty stores. And on the second floor is a beautifully designed function room, complete with industrial kitchen.

The brains trust that funded the redevelopment decided that if the queers were going to lose access to the city's function facilities at the whim of a few bigoted power brokers, then they'd build their own. Ironically, the function room has become the trendy place for businesses to hold events. If a company wants to be viewed as young and hip, they need to have their company dinner or whatever at the Rainbow Room. Just thinking of the straights having their nice dinners only a few feet above the back room is enough to make Brian and I share a wicked grin. It will definitely add spice to our next visit there.

Meanwhile, Emmett is making out like a bandit. He has an agreement with the manager so that Em offers discounts to Rainbow Room clients who use him as their planner, and the Rainbow Room reciprocates with discounts to Em's clients who use the facility at his recommendation.

Brian is doing alright out of it too. Once he'd gotten the club re-opened, he had some development plans drawn up and got Ted into looking for investors. He sold all but 20%, but with the profits from the club, the other bar, the coffee shop and the function room, as well as the ground rents from the two stores, he's apparently making more from that 20% than he did from owning the whole club outright. Yet, as Ted keeps saying, he's spread the risk, and doesn't have any of the management hassles. Of course, his deal had him keeping owner privileges, including to that Private Room he added to the club.

The best part about it is that Ted found out about this incentive scheme to bring more business back to the inner city, and made damned sure that the redevelopment qualified. So the investors got their funding at a really low interest rate, and also get a deal for the first five years on rates and taxes. Courtesy of Mayor Deakins.

All this leads us, of course, to talking about Ted - for a minute, anyway. Brian dismisses that topic quickly with a pungent, "He's still 12-stepping with the Crystal Queenex. They're planning on taking a tour of the fucking Opera Houses of Europe or some bullshit. I obviously pay him way too much."

But underneath his bluster, I can hear that he's actually happy for Ted.

Brian did a good thing in helping Ted get his act together when he got out of rehab. But Ted has been there for Brian, too. I think it was one good outcome from the cancer thing, that Brian actually showing weakness and needing help allowed Ted, for once, to be the strong one, the go-to guy. And he was. He really came through for Brian. So now, he feels more … equal, I guess, in a way. And that's been good for their friendship. Ted knows Brian trusts him, and Brian knows he can rely on Ted - even to keep his secrets, which, in our crowd, is actually pretty rare.

Which pretty much brings us to the really tough one.

Gus.

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Brian

If we're going to talk about this, I need more wine.

I open another bottle, and we take it with us to drink in front of the fire. In some ways, I don't want to open this topic at all. In others … well, Justin … I can tell Justin without really having to say much. Especially about Gus. I guess he really is onto me. Always has been.

We sit together on the couch and he talks about the munchers and their little family, and I grunt, and, if I occasionally snuffle, he doesn't draw any attention to that, just rubs his shoulder against mine, where they lean together, and says that it's been ages since he's seen Gus. So I grunt again. And then he knows how much I miss my son.. Like he would ever have been in any fucking doubt.

I mumble something about Mel and fucking munchers and then he knows that I'm worried. He even knows what I'm worried about. I'm shit scared that my son will forget me. That the child I never wanted, the one who was only ever supposed to be some jizz in a cup to me, will forget who is Dadda is, will forget that he has a Dadda even. Will forget, or never know, how much his Dadda loves him.

I wonder if they tell him about me. When he comes home from play group and asks how come he doesn't have a Dadda like other little boys, I wonder if Linds gets out the photos of me, and tells him that he does. That he has a father who loves him, who fought to keep him here with me till I was made to feel like a completely selfish shit for doing it. Who let him go because he loves him, and wants him to be safe.

Or does Mel stick her oar in and just say that he has two mothers instead. Maybe even tells him that he has a father, but that his father is an asshole who never wanted him.

Justin's arm goes up round my shoulders then, and he whispers, "Gus knows you love him. He won't forget you."

So I know he's understood me.

I shrug, of course. Then I manage to get out something about Linds not seeming to be keen on me visiting. How I've suggested it a couple of times, and she's put me off.

He listens, takes it in, then he says, "Well, maybe we should invite her down here."

I give him a sideways look. So he knows that I don't want to appear like I'm begging here.

He grins. "Leave it to me," he says.

I pull my lips in and look down into his eyes. His grin turns into a soft smile, and he pulls me down for a kiss.

"It's your birthday soon," he says. "She can bring him down for your birthday."

I feel something that had been wound tight inside me relaxing a little. That would work. Linds is a sucker for all that shit. And having Mel and JR visit might help Mikey and Deb feel better too. I take a careful breath. And another, till I'm sure that the tears that have been pressing in my eyes are not going to fall.

Okay.

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Justin

I can only imagine how hard that conversation was for Brian. It was hard for me, too, in a different way. I have to bottle up so much anger sometimes against Mel and Linds because of the way that they treat Brian over Gus. But it's Brian's pain that I have to focus on, not my frustrations with his so-called friends. So, once it's settled what we're going to do, and that he's going to get to see his son soon, I figure that he's due for some distraction.

I slide down off the couch to kneel at his feet, and begin to pull down my sweat pants, keeping my eyes locked on his.

He seems to hesitate for a moment, but then he stands and slides his down as well. I grin, and crawl over to the rug, glancing back over my shoulder at him to make sure he's watching my ass. Sure enough, before I can even get myself settled, he's there with me.

I'm still sore, but I need him, need him inside me. But when he stretches out next to me, his cock inches from my mouth, his mouth already going down on mine, I don't object. While his mouth is working magic on me, mine is filled with him, my tongue is reacquainting itself with every ridge and bump on his dick, and I'm drowning in his taste and scent. Nothing could better remind me that I'm home than this.

Afterwards we curl there for a while, lazily kissing and stroking each other's hair. Then I really need to piss (wine does that to me every time) so I get up and pull on my pants, and he puts some more wood on the fire.

When I come back, I head for the kitchen. He follows, saying that I can't be hungry again already. I grin at him and tell him I want to get dinner going, that I'm going to make something that will cook slowly, for a long time, because I have plans for the rest of the afternoon. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't ask - just loads the dishwasher with the lunch things and then helps me peel and cut the vegetables. I put together a stew that will cook on the stove top for hours on a very slow heat and wind up tender and tasty and absolutely right to eat on a cold wet night in front of the fire.

Then I go find my bag, and pull out the dreaded sketchpad. He shakes his head, but his eyes are grinning at me, even while he tries to look bored and fed up at the whole idea.

I put my hand in his back and push him towards the stairs. He laughs, and dodges around me, but only to go bank the fire, and put up the fire guards. Then he comes back to me and lets me take his hand and drag him up the stairs to my studio.

Once I get there, and actually start looking around, I realize that I don't need the sketchpad. He's equipped the place with everything an artist could need - including large sheets of thick art paper, and some canvases. As soon as I see those, all thoughts of a sketch vanish. I pull out a blank canvas, and after getting Brian to drape himself over the couch, I start to block out what my next painting will be.

He gets up at one stage to put on some music, and at another to make us some coffee, but for the most part he lays there and, as he puts it, suffers for my art.

We talk a little bit as I work. I tell him how the crazy guy who used to live on my landing kept insisting that my dog was messing on his lawn. (Not bad, considering that the nearest stretch of grass was at least ten blocks away.) He tells me about some of his more cretinous clients. We laugh a little, and talk a little, but mainly we're just together.

It's wonderful. It heals sore places in me that I'd become so accustomed to, I didn't even know where the hurt was coming from. By the look of him, laying there so relaxed, with contentment sort of shimmering all around him, it's the same for Brian.

Then, out of the blue, just as I'd finally admitted that the light was going and was packing stuff up, he says, "You should know. I've had an offer on the house."

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Brian

I probably should have given him some sort of warning, not just blurted it out like that. He nearly spills some of that expensive fucking paint.

He just stares at me for a moment.

Then, very quietly, carefully, like he's afraid just that syllable will break something, will break me, he says "Oh."

I laugh. What else can I do?

"I know you don't want to live here," I say.

He watches me, making sure that I'm not falling to pieces. Then he says, "I just think it's too big."

I nod.

He watches me some more, while he goes on putting away his stuff. At least he got to use this room once, I guess.

"Is it a good offer?" he asks at last.

I shrug. Then I sigh. He's fucking right about the house. It is too damned big. I know that. It's just … I bought it for him, for us.

He comes to me, and wraps his arms around me.

"Brian, it doesn't matter. We can live here, if it's …"

I look down at him and he breaks off. Then he tilts his head up and I think to myself `here comes trouble, now he's going to come out with the truth'.

Then he says, "It's just that it's so damned big that we'd spend half our time running around trying to make sure that all the fucking maintenance was done, and done right, and done at the right price. I don't want that. I don't want to be that person. As if the fucking house defines us, defines what we are to each other. I don't want that."

Then he drills me with those baby blues of his, and says, "And neither do you. You're just too fucking stubborn to admit that you bought the place to prove a point, not to live in. You can't even admit that to yourself."

Then he hugs me and kisses my chin and I have to force myself to stop grinning from ear to ear because as usual he's totally nailed it, nailed me.

So I do the only thing I can and sweep my tongue into his mouth to shut him up, and to let him know that he's right. Again. And that I'm not going to queen out because my prince doesn't want to live in this fucking palace with me. As long as he wants to live somewhere with me, that's okay.

The truth is, I don't know if I could live here now. It's got too many painful memories. I look around, and then I smile at him. Of course, it's got some good ones, too. And getting better by the minute.

"After taxes and fees and all that shit, we should make around one fifty," I tell him.

He blinks. "Well, it's better than a loss, I guess," he says.

I grin at him, and let him see the devil in it, "One fifty kay," I smirk.

He stares at me. "No fucking way!"

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Justin

I cannot believe that we could make that much money just by buying a place and holding onto it for a few months. But Brian shrugs, and gives me that wicked grin again.

"Some hotel chain wants to buy it," he says. "Turn it into some kind of fucking conference center or something. Your ma and I have been haggling."

I look around me. Well, that makes sense. That's probably the only use that these sort of places have now - unless you're some sort of celebrity and think you have to live a celebrity lifestyle. Dickheads.

"So … what do you think?" he asks.

And I suddenly realize that that question is a lot more complex than it sounds. I think we should get rid of this place, yes. But at the same time, I don't really want to sell the loft. But then again … I did like the idea of Brian and I having … somewhere that was ours. Well, … to be honest, I liked the idea of us having a house. Somewhere we could have Gus to visit without having to turn into monks for as long as he's with us.

But the whole having-Gus-to-visit thing is such a hot button with Brian that I don't want to mention it. It was bad enough when they were living in Pittsburgh, but I don't know how he'd react to that suggestion right now. For that matter, I have no idea how Mel and Linds would react. Except a sick feeling in my gut tells me that they wouldn't go along with it, and that all that bringing the subject up would do is help them find new and better ways to drive it home to Brian what a total loss they think he is at being a father.

I can't afford to think about that right now, because it just pisses me off, so I play for time and say, "Well, what do you think?"

He gives me a look as he heads for the door, "Oh, no, Sunshine. I asked you first."

"Briii-an!" I say. Sometimes it works. But this time he just laughs and heads downstairs. I finish cleaning up and go down to find him opening bottle of red in front of the fire. Outside, in the gathering darkness, the rain is coming down even harder, but in here the room is warm and the flickering firelight turns the red in the bottle to a rich dark crimson, full of its own light and somehow brimming with the promise of warmth and life.

"It needs to stand for a while," he says.

I nod, and go to check on the stew. It's more than ready, the meat so tender it's falling apart. While I'm putting some bread in the oven to freshen it up a little, he comes into the kitchen and starts getting plates out.

He looks at me sideways; then, after I've closed the oven door safely, he nudges me. I turn to look at him and he grins for a moment, then turns serious. "I know it's not really the right place," he says. "If we sell it, we can look around for something that's …"

"… us," I finish, beaming at him.

Once he sees my smile, his own slides shyly into place. I go to him, wrap my arms around him and kiss him. Hard. I feel his hands in my hair and my arms tighten even more around him.

We stand holding each other for what might be a long time, or might only be a few minutes. When you feel eternity in the moment, it's hard to tell.

Then he gets the bread out of the oven, while I serve up the stew and we carry the plates into the room where the wine sits waiting and sink down onto our couch in front of our fire, and eat our dinner in our home and it's all good.

Tomorrow, or someday soon at least, the couch, the fire, the home may all have changed. But we'll still be eating dinner together somewhere. And that's all I care about right now.

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