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Chapter 17:  Toughing It Out





Justin

"Mom! What the fuck are you talking about?"

My own voice sounds kind of squeaky and higher than usual when I try to ask her what's brought that look of appalled horror to her face.

Tucker glares at me but before he can say anything, Brian's voice, still with that almost eerie quietness, says, "Calm down, Mother Taylor. What 'can't it have been'?"

Mom kind of sinks back against Tucker, pressing her hand to her lips.

"I told him. I told him where the fundraiser was going to be. I …"

She breaks off and looks at me, her lips twisted and her eyes full of something that it hurts me to look at.

It's like she's begging me not to blame her – not just for whatever Craig's fucking done, but for ever saddling me with that prick for a father.

I try to smile at her, to let her know that there's nothing that I need to forgive her for, that however hard for her it might have been, she was there for me when it counted, when I really needed her. She even loved me enough to let me go, to give me into Brian's care when she realized she couldn't help me after the bashing.

So I don't need to forgive her, but I do need to understand why she would tell my asshole father anything about the fundraiser, given that he wanted to have my ass thrown in jail for supporting the cause.

I'm trying to find words that won't come across as totally confrontational when Brian says, "Jenn, I don't think you need to worry about how the bombers found out where it was being held, there were posters all over fucking Liberty Avenue with the change of venue on them."

Mom gives a kind of gasp, like she'd been struggling to breathe until then and then she nods. "Yes, yes of course." She gives a relieved little grin. "I posted some of them myself."

Brian nods back at her and smiles and anyone else might be reassured, but my Mom is starting to know him pretty well now, so she's already kind of stiffening her spine when he says, quite softly, but with this kind of silky venom in his voice, "So why the fuck would you tell that asshole anything about the little soirιe at Babylon that night?"

 

*****
 


Brian

Why the fuck would Mother Taylor be talking to that asshole at all, let alone telling him anything about the anti-prop 14 fundraiser? It was only a couple of days before the fucking thing that Justin had his last run in with the bastard, when dear old Craig threatened to have his son arrested for parading around his store with signs that tried to persuade the great lump of indifference that is the moronic general public to boycott the place because Taylor of Taylor Electronics supported the amendment.

Sometimes even now I don't know whether to hug the little twat or slap him silly when he's so fucking naοve.

But that's beside the fucking point. The point is what the fuck did Jennifer think she was going to accomplish by chatting to her ex about a fundraiser for a cause to which he was predictably completely fucking opposed?

Jennifer takes a breath that's a little shaky, but then she draws herself up and says, "I thought it might do him good to actually meet some of the "perverts" he's convinced he hates."

She shoots a look at me and I can't help be reminded of where little Sunshine gets his backbone from, because she goes on, "I knew Brian wouldn't be there, and I thought if he could meet people like Lindsay and Melanie and Ben and Michael that he might get his head out of his ass and realize that they're just people. Some of them are wonderful and some not so wonderful but they're not monsters or perverts; they're just people who are trying to get through life as best they can and deserve all the same opportunities for love and support that everyone else has."

Justin leans closer when she says the bit about me not being there, as if he thinks I need to be comforted or some shit that his Mom thinks that way, but I don't. I appreciate the logic. If I'd planned to be there, there was no way that Craig would have even considered coming and if he'd been hog-tied and dragged there all he would have been thinking about was his image of Brian Fucking Kinney de-flowering his 17 year old son.

Now that Gus is getting older, I'm not even sure I blame Craig for thinking of me as a pervert, although he should also thank his lucky fucking stars that I was the one who took that tasty little blond morsel home that night. If he'd gone home with the wrong guy it could have fucked him up really badly; whatever other fucking mistakes I might have made along the way, at least I made that first experience good for him.

Of course, with the way that fucking bigot thinks, he would probably have preferred the whole experience to be so horrendous that it turned his son off gay sex for life – no matter how fucked up that left him.

"But if he …" she's going on, but her son cuts in on her.

"Mom … it doesn't matter whether he passed the information on or whether those assholes saw it on a poster … they could easily have found out where the fundraiser was shifted to. It wasn't a secret. We wanted people to come."

It's my turn to shift subtly closer to him now; because sure, the fuckers who planted the bomb could have easily found out about the new venue, so it wouldn't have made any difference in the grand scheme of things whether they found out from Craig or saw it on a poster or read it in the fucking tea leaves. But it sure as fuck makes a difference to Justin. If his father was an even sicker fuck than we already thought he was, if he'd actively helped the bastards who tried to kill his son, that's a whole new level of hurt that no kid deserves to get from their father.

And if Craig was involved in this, I swear to my mother's God, I'm going find a way to repay him for every single shitty thing he's done to the man he doesn't deserve to call "son".

I remember watching that Princess Bride movie sometime (I blame Mikey) and hearing that "to the pain" line. For months I fantasized about fighting good ol' Jack "to the pain". Those fantasies are nothing to the ones I can see myself having about Craig.

But I can't brood about that right now. We didn't come here just to fill Jenn in on what her ex has been up to, we came here to warn her that she might be subject to a fucking siege if the press decide she's an easy target.

Predictably, she doesn't want to go into hiding; like I said, I know which side of the family tree gave Justin his strength and his courage. At least we get her to agree to think about moving to the apartment I rented for Linds if things get too hot to handle. She knows that she has Molly to think about.

Then we get out of there.

 

*****
 


Justin

"So where to, Sunshine?" he asks as he starts the car.

"Home," I tell him. "I want to go home."

So that's where he takes me.

Gus is so excited when he comes running out to us. He's talking so fast I can hardly understand him, something about a lady beetle and some photos and how he wanted to keep her but instead she's living in the garden and did I know that ladybugs are really good to have in the garden because they eat things that eat plants and, and, and.

I detect Daph's influence in there somewhere. I doubt Brian knows any more about fucking ladybugs than I do.

I get taken out to the part of the garden where the ladybug lives, but I guess she's shy because we don't see her. I get to see the photos, though. Millions of them. Well, it seems like that.

Brian has disappeared and Daph is busy making something for dinner (she'd already started when we got home, so she just kept going) so it's Gus and I for a while, and really it's just what I need. I need to be reminded that this is what a family is and that I'm going to be a better father to Gus than Craig ever was to me. Because sure there were some times in my childhood that had good memories of him, but really not all that many. Most of the time he was at work, or busy or tired or any damned thing except spending time with me or Molly.

Later, after Gus has gone to bed, we settle down in the living room under Billy's window, the three of us – me, my lover and my best friend. There's still light spilling in from the evening sun; the window is casting a kaleidoscope of glimmering jewel shades which shift as with every movement, and the room seems filled with color – Daphne's deep purple dress, Brian's red shirt, the rug in front of the fireplace, the painting of Gus laughing under a huge sunflower, nearly twice as tall as him, that I finished a few days ago and hung just in time for our party.

Somehow the colors … if they don't heal the wounds my father has inflicted, they at least remind me why those pains aren't important; remind me of who I am – Justin Taylor – man and artist, Daphne's friend, Brian's partner, Gus's father. I happen to be gay. If my father can't get the fuck over that, it's his loss.

We talk about the day, about what we might all expect in the next few days, depending on what comes out during the police investigation. Daph is just about to leave when Carl calls. They hadn't got much out of good old Dad. Seems like he lawyered up and pleaded the fifth and all that shit.

Of course all that shit makes it seem like he's hiding something; like maybe he is involved somehow. But there's nothing any of us can do about that, and nothing any of us can do to get him talking either.

He certainly won't be moved by any pleas from Brian or me, or even Mom or Molly.

So all we can do is thank Carl, and be grateful that we have a friend "on the inside" as it were, who's prepared to at least let us know what is going on.

Carl does have better news about the rest of the case, however. Seems like they've found physical evidence that ties in with some of the stuff they retrieved from the bomb site. Plus there's a couple of emails, some of the calls and texts, and better yet, the people they arrested are getting scared and starting to turn on each other.

So with or without anything Craig might say, they reckon they've got a pretty good case. They can't prosecute it as a hate crime, of course, because gays aren't covered under the hate crimes legislation in Pennsylvania. Carl says the prosecutor could try to sneak it through, argue that the definition of hate crimes relating solely to ethnicity is too narrow. But the risk is that if they do that and get a conviction, it would almost certainly be appealed, and then the sons of bitches could wind up walking.

Instead, it's likely it will prosecuted as an act of domestic terrorism. Hopefully if we get a decent judge, everyone on the jury will still be shaken enough by 9/11 for that to resonate.

That's pretty fucking huge, really. Even bombing of abortion clinics don't usually wind up with that charge. But apparently because the fundraiser was specifically about a political activity – the referendum on Prop 14 – that means it can be argued that it falls under the " influence the policy of a government by intimidation or coercion" clause. Deekins is leaning on the city police to go that way, and someone in the government is leaning on the DA. Could be Senator Baxter, I guess.

So that's some good news at least.

We have another coffee and talk about that for a while, and Brian and I both try to persuade Daphne to stay the night, but she heads off a little after 11 and we're both wiped out, so we just go up to bed.

To my surprise, I realize as soon as I get my clothes off that I'm really tired. I make a kind of half-hearted offer to blow Brian but he just laughs at me and tells me that our relationship is tough enough to survive most things, but he doesn’t think it would recover from me falling asleep with his cock in my mouth.

It probably wouldn't either.

Or at least, his ego would be so dented, my jaw would ache for weeks trying to make it up to him.

So I pull the covers up and am trying to get comfortable so I can sleep when he slithers closer and wraps himself around me and then I can relax. Whatever happens, this, here with him, is my safe place.

And on that thought I feel myself drifting off.

 

*****
 


Brian

I don't expect to get to sleep any time soon, but it's actually not long after he zonks out on me that I find myself drifting off.

Waking up is not a pleasant experience.

Gus is pulling on my hand, demanding that I get up so I can get him to school because Heaven help us if he misses a single second of the time he plans to spend telling every single fucking person he meets about his party, about our party, about the boat trip on Saturday and even about the fucking ladybug.

And Justin is nowhere in sight.

I should go into the office this morning. Fuck knows I've missed so much time there, we seem to be doing some campaigns for clients that I know absolutely fucking nothing about.

But … I know him. He'll find a way to blow the thing with Craig way out of proportion. I don't mean that his daddy isn't a total asshole. But if Craig's involved with the bombers, Justin will try to find a way to blame himself for the fact that people died that night.

I have no fucking idea how to handle this. I can't fucking wrap him up in cotton wool. He'd cut off my remaining ball if I even hinted at it.

But I know the little fucker too well. If the news media pick up on even a hint of Craig's involvement, he's going to find it fucking hard to behave as if it's nothing to do with him.

Every time he goes to Woody's or Babylon or even the fucking diner, he's going to see faces that were there that night, faces of people who were hurt that night, even people who lost someone that night, and he's going to feel like he has to fucking apologize to every one of them for his prick of a father.

I wouldn't blame him if he took off back to New York, except that he won't want to leave me alone to manage the whole 'daddy' thing with Gus. Of course, I can handle that. With Daphne around, and with Mother Taylor on hand, even I can manage for a few days at least. But of course a few fucking days isn't going to solve this.

I've got no fucking idea how to solve this.

Unless … there's an idea that I've had in the back of my mind for a while now. So maybe this is the time to see if Cynthia and Ted can make it all come together.

As long as we had to be around for the fucking social worker's visits, it wasn't workable, but if she's really going to more or less cancel those …

Maybe, just maybe, we can stage a summer getaway somewhere.

It might even get me out of that fucking summer program at Gus' school.

We can make it a family affair.

Jenn, if she can get some time off, Molly, and of course young Daphne. With them there, if we can find the right place, Justin should still be able to paint, and if we can get one of the places I've been looking at I should be able to commute. At one there's a heliport less than 15 minutes drive away – which would put me within an hour's travel time to the office. And of course I can work remotely as well so it's not like I'd have to go in every day.

One thing about these new campaigns that I haven't really been involved with is that they're bringing in a shitload of money. Time some of it was put to good use.

I'll make sure that little Sunshine is holed up in his studio or somewhere equally safe, and then I'll get to the office to see what magic Cynthia can work with dates and bookings. Hell, if we can find somewhere we like, we could even buy the place.

Pittsburgh isn't the best place to spend the summer. It wouldn't hurt to have a lakeside getaway somewhere.

All I have to do is to convince little Sunshine that it's not just for his benefit.

Who am I kidding? He'll fucking know what I'm up to. But if it looks like it's a good way for Gus and the rest of the family to have a nice summer break, he just might go along with it.

All I have to do is find the right place.

Except fuck that! I'll make it part of the package that he finds the right fucking place. That will keep him out of mischief and give him something else to think about other than this whole fucking mess.

I really need to call him, but I'd better get Gus to school first or there might be another queen out in the family.

First things first. Breakfast. Then school. Then track down the missing artiste. Then sell him on the idea. Then work. Then … oh, fuck it, after that I'll just wing it.

 

*****
 


Justin

Brian has his head in the fridge looking for milk for Gus' cereal when I walk in. The cereal bowl is on the table, filled with cereal and a neatly sliced banana, Gus is sitting ready, spoon in hand, but Brian's shit out of luck if he thinks he's going to find any milk.

"We were out of milk," I tell him. "I had to go down the road for some."

He jumps about five fucking feet into the air, just missing banging his head on the top of the fridge.

He says a couple of words that we try not to use in front of Gus, and then gives me a really weird look.

I guess I should have known he'd freak out if I wasn't here when he got up. He probably thought poor little Sunshine couldn't cope and had run off like that dumb kid I used to be would have done. Fuck that!

I've been awake for hours trying to work out how to handle things. I even thought about going to New York for awhile. With Daph around to help Brian it didn't seem like such a bad idea. I could get my face seen round a bit, do some more painting – Charis, my agent, would probably be able to find me some temporary studio space somewhere. And knowing that I've got a New York show coming up, no one would have questioned that I needed to spend a little while there.

But there are so many reasons why it's a totally horrible idea. Gus is just getting settled, just starting to feel that he can rely on Brian and me to be there for him. What kind of father am I if I abandon him at this stage just because my life is a little complicated. And it's not just him I'd be abandoning. Aside from Gus, and even Brian, I'd be abandoning Mom and Molly too. If Dad is in any way involved in all this shit, they're going to have to deal with all that fucked up shit as much as I am. They're going to have to face friends and neighbors and maybe even the press. I can't shield them from that, but the least I can do is share the burden with them, not go running off to hide like some fragile little Princess.

They deserve better. Gus deserves better. And the one who's still giving me these kind of sideways looks like he's working out how to deal with the fact that I haven't run off in the night sure as Hell deserves better.

Uh-oh.

He's doing the whole sucking the bottom lip thing. He thinks he's come up with some fucking solution to help me escape and he's trying to work out how to sell it to me.

Silly fucker!

I can't believe I ever forgot how to read him like this.

I wait, part of me just enjoying the moment, because he's twisting himself in knots trying to help me without me knowing he's doing it while being totally transparent if you know how to read him; and partly because it hits me all over again how much I fucking love him. Even when he's about to launch into control freak extraordinaire mode.

Maybe especially when.

But in the end he actually manages to surprise me.

 

*****
 


Brian

He blinks and looks kind of shocked when I ask him if he can get Gus to school today.

I guess he was thinking that I was about to go into mother mode and demand to know if he's okay and all that shit. He should know better.

"You going to be in your studio today?" I ask him.

He nods.

"Yeah. I'll check on Mom and Molly some time, but mostly I want to work on a couple of things that I've been thinking about."

My turn to nod.

"Did I tell you Charis wants to include the sunflower painting of Gus in the Roget show?"

Roget is the pretentious fucking name of the New York gallery. But they're not having that painting. Before I can protest, he reassures me.

"She says I can have one, maybe two "from a private collection" pieces. So with the two Warhol pieces that means that I'll only need about another dozen. And I can use a few that I did in New York, so I'll probably only have to paint six or maybe seven in the next four months. It will still be a bit tight, but I can do it, I think.

"It might even be less because she's going to lean on them to display some of my sketches and some of the Rage artwork. She says it won't hurt to let people see my versatility really early. In fact it will help, because it will mean that they don't always expect my work to be in a certain style or even format. It will give me more freedom. She says it might take a little longer to establish a consistent following, but it will pay off in the long run, because my base will be more widespread and that will give me a chance to build it up in other directions, not just one interest group."

I don't say anything, just watch as he gets the coffee I put on earlier and pours us both a cup, and then potters round making toast and asking Gus if he's got his lunch, and his bag and the photos of the parties and the boat and the ladybug that Daphne printed out for him yesterday while we were at his Mom's.

Something way deep inside me is soothed, maybe even healed, by the knowledge that he's happy doing this shit. That, his fucking father aside, he's happy with his life. That he enjoys being here with Gus and me. For a moment, I feel my throat tighten for some ridiculous fucking reason, then he turns his head and smiles at me and all I can do is smile back.

I can't find it in me to say those words every fucking day, but it's like he hears them anyway, because the smile turns into a full on Sunshine spectacular and then he laughs, puts down the toast and comes to me.

"I'm done running away," he tells me. "If my father has fucked things up then we'll just have to tough it out, I guess. You and me and Gus and Mom and Molly.

"That's what families do, right?"

He's asking me? How the fuck should I know?

But I guess somehow I do know, because I find myself nodding.

"Then that's what we'll do," I tell him. "We'll tough it out."

I can talk to him about my summer plan later.

We can't go till after the Warhol thing in early July anyway, because they want him to be available for pre-publicity for that.

So we'll have a month or so to tough things out, and then a few weeks – five, maybe six, when we can get the fuck out of Dodge.

He can probably even do his art week fucking thing at Gus' school. But with any fucking luck, I'll be able to dodge the bullet on my stint. Or better yet, leave Cynthia and Ted to deal with it.

Meanwhile …

I grab him and lick at his lips, enjoying coffee and toast flavored Justin, as he sucks my tongue into his mouth. It's developing into a very nice makeout session when my … our son starts clamoring to be on the move and he pulls away.

"Sorry, Dad," the little twat says. "I have to go or Gus will be late for school."

He's halfway to the front door when he turns with a grin. "Wanna meet up at my studio for lunch?"

I grin back at him and give him a look, letting a little of what I'm thinking show in my face. Enough for him to know that he'd better eat early because I'm not planning on wasting our lunch date consuming food.

"Later," he laughs.

"Later," I echo.

"Come
on, Dus," Sonnyboy demands. "Bye, Daddy."

He consents to be delayed long enough to give his old man a farewell hug, then Justin is swept out the door by a Gus shaped whirlwind and I head up to finish dressing.

I am going to get on top of every single fucking thing that's going on at Kinnetik today or kill every asshole there trying.

 

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