Reverberations

Chapter 18

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Justin

He huffs and rolls his eyes when I ask him why we're heading to West Virginia, but that's how it feels, it's so far outside the kinda seedy urban landscape of inner Pittsburgh that's been home to me for the last five years - give or take those few months in LA.  There are no old brownstone buildings or shiny glass skyscrapers.  No gaudy shops and noisy traffic.  Out here, it's all quiet winding roads through gently rolling hills studded with huge trees.  I spend the last few minutes of the ride trying to imagine Brian living here, spending weekends at least in this almost rural landscape and then realize that I can't even imagine myself doing it.

It's raining pretty heavily by the time we get to the house, so I don't immediately take in what it's like - I'm too busy running for the porch.  But then Brian pulls out this huge old key and opens the front door, and I step into some kind of fantasy.  Only the fact that it's clearly not lived in convinces me that it's a house and not some fancy-assed hotel, it's so big, so … grand.

Brian pushes the door closed and then turns.  One eyebrow raises, and he looks around the entrance hall.  Then he shrugs and strolls forward into the house.  Of course there's no way he's going to admit to being impressed by it.  But … fuck me! He can't seriously be thinking of buying this place.  It's fucking huge.  What the hell would we do with it?

I follow him as he moves into a large beautiful room.  Even covered in dust sheets, it's beautiful.  There are large windows, looking out across a rain-drenched lawn towards something that looks suspiciously like a tennis court.  I mean, pretentious much?  And an enormous fireplace.  From there, there's an arched doorway into a smaller, narrower room, and that opens into an amazing kitchen.

I wander through the kitchen, see through one doorway a short corridor that presumably opens into a back porch or the garage, because there's a row of coat hooks on the wall next to the far door.  Beyond that doorway there's an arch that leads through to a long narrow room with tall windows all along it that's probably used as the dining room.  Then through that there's another hallway and off that are some smaller rooms - though they're still like twice as big as Debbie's living room; one is lined with bookshelves, and has a huge bow window complete with window seat, another has French windows that open onto what looks like a huge garden.  It's hard to see much of that though because the rain is really coming down now.

And all of these rooms are … they're magnificent.  They have high ceilings, with amazing moldings - cornices, and these incredible ceiling roses, and …

As I finally find my way past a large staircase and back into the entrance hall, I turn to stare at Brian who's been following my meanderings.

"Brian, this place is …"

"A palace," he says, with one of his slow grins.  "I told you I was going to buy a palace for my prince."

He's laughing at me, but his eyes are doing something else, and I find myself starting to blush a little.

"It's fucking freezing in here," he says suddenly and strides into that first beautiful room.  In the few seconds it takes me to catch him up, he's already crumpling paper from a basket near the log pile into the fireplace.  I watch as he carefully adds kindling, and a couple of the smaller logs and then takes out his lighter.  I hear the click and smell the first acrid puff of smoke as the paper catches, and then fire is crackling in the grate and that small noise makes me aware for the first time of the silence all around us.  I can hear the whisper of flame and the hiss and patter of the rain outside and that's all.  No traffic noise, no horns blaring or music thumping.  No voices, raised in laughter or in anger.  Nothing. 

And I suddenly feel like this is the first time I have truly been alone with Brian.  The feeling is amazing, like an immense arc of new experience and perceptions.

I take a step towards him and he stands.

"A palace, huh?" I ask, not finding words easy to come by.  This situation is so far outside my experience with Brian.

I expect him to make some further joke, turn aside from anything serious like he always does, but in this new world that's suddenly opened up to us he surprises me.

"If you want it," he says.

Then I really have no words, because I might not be sure about the house, but I want him.  More maybe, than I have ever wanted him; and in different ways.  But … but …

I stare into his eyes for a long, long moment and then hear my voice saying, "Why, Brian?  Why now?  Why would you change your mind like that?  You've never …"

I hear my voice wobble and I stop.  Not sure how to go on.  Needing to know, but not sure if I want to hear his answers.

But he comes to me and takes my hands.  Scrunching down a little, like he does sometimes when we're dancing, he looks right into my eyes and says, "I want this, Justin.  I want this for us."

He pauses for a moment and then says forcefully, "We deserve this.  We fucking deserve it."

Then abruptly he turns away and goes to tend the fire which has now caught properly, he carefully feeds more logs onto it, using the poker to settle it in, keep it from burning too fast.

I watch the firelight flicker on his beautiful face, and then all at once this strange new world is overwhelmingly familiar and exciting and I know how to answer him. 

I start gathering together all the dust sheets, wreathing them into a soft warm nest on the floor behind him.  When he turns to me again, I'm already half naked.

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Brian

I hear him moving around, but I play with the fire for an extra minute or two, not too sure how to face him.  We've never been in this situation before.  And I sure as hell never expected to be here with him or anyone else.  So for once I don't know quite what to do, how to handle it.

Then I hear a familiar rustle and I stand and turn and he's hopping on one foot, trying to shake the other foot free of his pants at the same time as he's pulling his sweater and shirt together over his head.  He's piled all the dust sheets on the floor ready, ready for us.  They might not be any fucking luxury bed, but I'll take Justin on the dust sheets in this house that is going to be our fucking home over anyone else in the fanciest bed in the fucking universe.

I grin at him, and he finally kicks his pants off and tosses his sweater aside and then he just stands there, running his hands down his torso and his tongue over his lips.

I pounce.

He laughs, not his sexy little giggle, but a deep throaty laugh, and pulls me even closer against him.

"I love you," he says.  "Fuck me."

Romantic little twat.

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Justin

We never do get to look over the whole house.  We check out a couple of the rooms upstairs, including one that has these great windows that look out across the garden.  He nods and gives me a nudge and mutters something about "seeing the light" that makes us both laugh, but he's right, the light is amazing, even on this dull wet day.  This would make a perfect studio.  We figure out that it's directly above the room with the French windows and I tell him that would make a great office for him.  I don't know why but suddenly the thought of both of us having work space so close to each other, even if it's on different floors, suddenly makes the idea of this place, of living in this place, seem slightly less impossible.  I can actually imagine painting up here, while he's working downstairs.  I can almost hear his voice on the phone as he snarks at Ted or Cynthia.  If we both had our windows open the sound would carry to me up here, and I can see myself tilting my head to listen and then getting on with my work with a smile on my face. 

Brian in "boss" mode always makes me smile.  It's kinda funny and at the same time it's really hot.

I've never told him that though.  He's bad enough, he so does not need that kind of encouragement.  Although, come to think of it, he probably knows.  It's all part and parcel of the bad-ass Kinney persona, and I know that's a deliberate construction.  Ergo, he must know it's hot, otherwise he would have constructed something different.  But he still doesn't need to hear it from me.

Anyway, by the time we've looked at all that, we have to hurry to catch our flight.  Brian's not all that stressed, he just says we can catch the next one, but I know it took a while for him to book us on a direct flight, and there's no way I want to hang around for hours waiting for a later one, or else have to take one with a stop over in Washington, or worse, Harrisburg, or some stupid shit like that.

I've never flown first class before, and I can hardly wait to see what it's like.

That time I went to Vermont, I downgraded my ticket to economy - some bizarro sense of guilt, I guess, that I was heading off on Brian's dollar.

In many ways, that was the stupidest, most childish thing that I did in all the time that I was with him before.  Worse than being so fucking stupid with the whole thing with Sap.  When I look back on how badly I behaved when Brian was trying to save his job - and save both our asses in the process, knowing that without him having a job, I couldn't have afforded school, or anything … I was such a fucking princess.  I mean, I was hurt, really really hurting, because it seemed like I just meant nothing to him.  It seemed like something that was so amazing and so precious to me … having a holiday with him … it seemed like to him it was just nothing.  A lot of the time back then I felt that my loving him, needing him the way I did, was just a burden to him.  Not that he didn't want to be with me, but that I was so intense about it, that was something that he just had to put up with, and if he'd had a choice, then he would have preferred that I cared about him a lot less than I did.  And that feeling … that what you regard as the best, the most real part of you, of your life … the feeling that that's just a burden to the person you feel it for … that's soul destroying.  It really is.

I don't know what I wanted from Brian in those months after the bashing.  At least, I do know.  I wanted him to make me feel whole.  And I was somehow convinced, somewhere deep inside me, that the only way I could feel that would be if he loved me, wanted me, the way I wanted him.  And when he didn't come to Vermont, that's when I knew that was never going to happen.

It was totally fucking dumb, because since then I've realized that Brian and I are completely different, so of course we don't love each other the same way.  That's like expecting Monet and Picasso to paint the same way.  But just because they saw the world differently, and their techniques were different doesn't mean that they didn't both produce great art.

Now I know that Brian loves me just as much, feels just as deeply for me as I do for him.  He's just never going to express his feelings in the way that I would.  Because, duh! He isn't me.

Why it took me so long to figure that out, I don't know.  I guess I was just too fucking young.

Anyway, that's all long past us, and this time we're flying off to Chicago together.  And it might only be for a few days, and it might mainly be a work trip for Brian, but …

We're together.

And we're engaged.  Fuck!  We're fucking engaged!

Mikey's going to have a cow.  Or a relapse.

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Brian

I'm a little surprised, I guess, that he doesn't want to hang around at the house.  I tell him we could spend the night there if we want to, but he's keen to get on the damned plane, so eventually I let it go and we take off to Chicago on schedule.

I know he's a little underwhelmed by the house - thinks it's too big or some shit.  But he can't seriously think I'm going to buy some tiny little suburban cottage like Mel and Linds with no fucking room for anything, including the new baby.  Well, no, there's room for the new baby, apparently; it's Gus who's the problem.  Because of course JR has to have the room next to theirs, but Gus keeps waking her up in the morning - like she never wakes him up in the night, screaming and fucking wailing.  Shit! She's got a mix of Mikey's genes and Mel's.  She spends all her time moaning and whining - usually at the top of her lungs.  But because Gus got out of bed a couple of times early and woke her up, now he's got to move out of his room, but they don't know where because they think he's still too little to move into the attic room they made.

For fuck's sake!  Didn't any of this occur to them before they fucking had another kid in a tiny two bedroom fucking house?  But apparently not because they treated me to the full fucking production number about it while I was there earlier.  I even offered to help them with the down payment on a bigger fucking place - no way is my kid going to feel like he has no place in his own fucking home - but they got all pissy about that.  At least Mel did, Linds just looked at me like I should know better than to upset Mel.  Why the fuck moan at me about it if they're not going to let me help fix it?

Just thinking about it gives me a fucking headache.  And that's not helped when, just as we're walking into the terminal, I get a call from Debbie.  She's pissed that I'm not hovering over Mikey's bedside.  But the doctor's say he's out of any fucking danger, and I'm not his fucking partner.  But of course, Deb still expects me to put Mikey first.  I remind her that Justin was in that hell as well, that it's the second time that some fucker has tried to kill him.  And that he's my partner and he's the one I need to worry about.  She grumbles, and bitches, but I finally tell her we're about to board, and just hang up on her. 

I'm ready just to forget the whole fucking thing, because suddenly it's all too fucking much trouble and I'd rather go to the fucking Baths and just …

But the check-in is quick and smooth and, after the ride across the terminal, we head up to the flight club bar.  Beside me, I can feel Justin simmering with excitement.  I sneak a look at him while I order our drinks and he glows back at me.  I feel the headache ease off just looking at him.  Fuck them.  Fuck them all.  He's the only one who counts and he's here with me and for once I'm not fucking things up between us.  For once, I'm making him fucking happy.

Although, even as I think that, his face clouds a little, and I can see the gerbils scurrying behind his eyes.

"Brian," he says suddenly as we're sinking into a couple of chairs in a secluded corner of the lounge, "we … you do know you don't have to marry me, right?"

I snort a laugh.  I can't fucking help it.  "You mean you're not pregnant?" I snipe.

"Brian!" he says in that voice that's halfway between a whine and a reproof.

I grin at him, and then, seeing that he really is struggling with this apparently sudden turn around on every bit of bullshit I've spouted about marriage, I fight my natural inclination to never fucking explain and try to find the words.

"Justin," I start.  For some reason I feel fucking, I don't know, nervous or some shit.  I break off and take his hand.  I know this is important.  Maybe this is make or break for us, because he has to understand, he has to believe in this.  Or it's all fucking pointless.

"I don't know anyone who deserves this more than we do," I tell him.  "We've fucking earned this.  We've earned the right to stand up and say `this is us, we're partners, we're planning on making this fucking thing between us work, we plan on being together for a fucking long time, so get used to it'.  No one deserves that more than we do.  Not Mikey and Ben, not Linds and Mel with all their bullshit.  No one."

Although I can't say it, because he'll misread it, what I really mean is that he deserves it.  After putting up with all my bullshit for all these years, and fighting me tooth and nail to get us to this point, he damned well deserves the chance to shove it down the throats of all our fucking "friends" who've given him so much shit over the years, never believing that we could make it, trying to undermine us at every fucking point.  He deserves to fucking strut his stuff in front of all of them, and show them how little they fucking know us, how little they know him.  He deserves everything … all the trimmings.  He's earned them.

But I deserve to be the one who gets to give them to him.  I've fucking earned that.

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Justin

I can feel tears welling in my eyes and I try to fight them back. 

I'm finally starting to understand why he suddenly wants marriage.  And it's almost overwhelming.  He wants to send a message, an unmistakable message … not to me … he knows … I hope he knows … that I don't need that anymore. 

But to everyone else.  Our friends.  Our families.  The assholes who tried to blow me to smithereens.  Everyone.

He wants them to know that, no matter what they thought of our chances, he's ready to put himself out there and say `we're going to fucking make it'.

That's what this whole marriage thing means to him.  It's about him taking a stand.  And that is maybe the most amazing thing he's ever done.  It's right up there, for me, with the Stockwell thing.

So all I can do now is what I've desperately wanted to do since he first asked me.  I can say `yes' with all my heart.  And stand proud and tall beside him.

I mean … I said `yes' earlier.  But I still kept wondering `why?'.  Now I understand, and I just feel … amazing.

Like together we can take on the world.

But right here, right now, all I can do is tangle my fingers around his, and smile at him, and let him see how happy I am.

He smiles back, though, a real smile, like he hardly ever does, and that makes me feel even more amazing.

He's trying to persuade me to take a trip to the restroom with him, when they call our flight.  He insists that we have plenty of time, but … this is almost like our honeymoon or something, and I don't want to miss a minute of it.  So with him moaning and bitching a little, just for the sake of it, we get on the plane.

The seats are amazing.  I could totally get to like this first class thing.  I almost wish the flight was longer.

I'm sort of hoping that maybe he'll try to persuade me into a mile high thing, but by the time we finish the drinks and snacks the cabin attendants bring us, it's almost time to strap in for the landing.

O'Hare is fucking huge.  But Brian knows his way through it, and it hardly seems any time before we're piling our luggage into the limo he's organized to meet us. 

I guess I'd expected him to hire a car, but when I ask, he sort of shrugs. 

"We can, if you want," he says, "but I figured we'd mainly be within walking distance of the hotel.  If we want to go further, it's easier to call the limo service than try to find parking."

I nod, feeling a bit dumb that I hadn't thought of that.  I guess I'm just so used to Brian liking to be behind the wheel - it's one of his control things. 

He smiles at me.  "Just tell me if you want something," he says.  "We can have whatever you want.  I just … didn't think of it."

I shake my head and smile at him as he slides into the limo beside me.  "This is fine," I say.  "Better than fine," I go on as I slide my hand into his.

He sticks his tongue into his cheek and lets his eyes drift down over my fingers clutching his, just to let me know what he thinks of something as lesbianic as holding hands in a limo, but then he just settles back against the cushions and looks out the window, leaving his hand right where it is.  I laugh and move close enough to jostle my arm against his.  His fingers tighten on mine, and I feel like my smile is going to split my face in half.

He's booked into the Four Seasons.  When we go to check in, the clerk checks the computer and then says obsequiously, "You're booked into a Deluxe Suite, Mr. Kinney, which I'm sure you'll find very comfortable.  Would you prefer a Lake view or a city view?"

He shrugs, then turns to me.  "What do you think, Mr. Taylor?"

I hardly hesitate.  Cities are just cities, I'd much rather have the Lake view.  I think about watching the way the water will change under the light, and am glad I brought my laptop as well as some pencils and crayons.

"Lake view, definitely, Mr. Kinney," I smile at him.

And all the time I'm thinking, `Deluxe Suite, fuck!'  He'd normally book into the Executive Suite, I should know, I've rung enough of them.  And he says he's not fucking romantic.  I'm almost surprised he didn't book the Bridal Suite.

I give him a nudge as we walk across the lobby to the lift, to let him know I'm onto him and he huffs a laugh. 

We're on the 45th floor and the view is just amazing.  When we first walked into the suite, I saw the view from the windows that took up nearly the whole wall in the living area - a great sweep of the lakeshore - and thought that was beautiful.  Then I turned around and realized that the window on the end wall looked straight out across the lake.  Being Chicago, it's pretty windy but we'd left the rain behind in Pittsburgh and the light was refracting from a million different facets in the wind tossed water. 

Now, while Brian fusses over his clothes, and organizes to get his suit pressed for the meeting on Monday, I'm sitting on the bed staring out at the same view from the bedroom window.  My fingers are itching to get out some pencils, pastels, anything to try to capture that scintillation of light, but there are other things I want to do more.

Finally, Brian hangs up the phone having made arrangements to leave the suit on the bed if we go out before housekeeping arrives, and stands looking down at me.

"You can draw on Monday while I'm with Brown," he says, like he can read my mind.

I grin at him and put my hand on his hip to pull him closer.  I'm kind of surprised when he moves away, but then there's a knock on the door, so I guess it's just as well we didn't get started.  Once the maid heads off with Brian's precious damned Armani suit and a list of instructions on exactly how it has to be treated, we've got the place to ourselves, though, and he still doesn't want to play.

I pout at him and he gives me a look - a bit nervous, maybe.  Certainly serious.

"There's a place I'd like to go and have a look for …" his voice gets even more hushed and serious, "our rings."

I stare at him, my heart suddenly pounding.

Fuck!  We are really going to do this!

"If you want," he says.  Then after a moment while I try to get my tongue to work, he goes on.  "It's just … if they need resizing, and we get them today, we could probably pick them up on Monday or Tuesday before we go home."

I can't hear if he says anything else because the blood is pounding so hard in my ears.

I stand up and wrap my arms around his neck.

"I fucking love you," I tell him.

In the end, we go to about six places, before we find just what we want.  Which might seem strange, because they're really plain. 

But there's plain as in boring and dull and there's plain as in so fucking simple and elegant that they practically scream style.  And money.

I nearly have a heart attack when I realize the price.  I'd wanted to pay for Brian's, but, even with the money I've got left from Rage, that would be a serious problem, but of course Brian shrugs it off.

"They're what we want," he says.  "It doesn't matter who pays for what.  As long as it's what we want."

I have to fight not to argue with him about that.

It sucks that it's always his money whenever it's anything really expensive.  But what are the fucking choices?  I've still got some left from Rage - most of the money we got for the movie rights, and a good chunk I saved from my salary.  But it's still nowhere near what Brian brings to the table and he'd have conniptions if I used it just to make some damned point, or out of what he'd see as false pride.  Someday things might be different, I sure as fuck hope they are.  But … they are how they are.  There isn't anything I can do about that right now unless I want us to have to downscale, and for him to have to settle for less than the best just to salve my pride.  That would just be dumb.

Maybe I can at least get him to let me pay for dinner.

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Brian

I expect more of an argument over who's paying for the rings.  I know him.  Know that it must bug him to give way on this.  But thank fucking God he doesn't say much, just lets it go.

His ring fits fine, mine needs re-sizing a little so we make arrangements to get that done, and to pick them both up on Monday.  He'll probably have to do that; I'll be tied up in meeting with Leo Brown all day.  Or maybe we can both go together on Tuesday, before we fly home.

We leave the very discreet jewelry showroom, and browse some clothing stores for a while.  I persuade him to try on a few things, and as he climbs in and out of clothing I enjoy watching the show, but all of that is really just a prelude to heading back to the hotel. 

I have to feed him first, of course.  He wants to get some damned crap from a street vendor, but I persuade him to wait for room service.  He's about to argue, when I let the tip of my tongue slide out over my bottom lip and mention how he could order a nice creamy dessert.  His eyes get that look then, the one that makes them look darker, a much deeper blue.  That's not it, of course, it's just that the pupils expand so far, the clear blue iris nearly disappears.  I swear his lips swell while I'm looking at them, just at the thought of what he could do with that cream, and suddenly I have to lengthen my stride to keep up with him. 

Not for the first time, I'm struck with gratitude for the fact that the one man on the planet I could hope to have any sort of fucking relationship with is as hot and horny as I am.  Since the very first night when I popped his cherry and introduced him to the delights of sucking and fucking, he has made it clear over and over again that he loves sex as much as I do.  All kinds of sex. 

I taught him about down and dirty sex; and he taught me how fucking amazing it can be with someone who knows all your sweet spots and just when to hit them; and somehow we taught each other about whole lexicons of sex that I'd never imagined, never thought I'd want to explore.  We discovered together the incredible feeling of lying locked together, just rocking slowly against each other, nothing fast, nothing urgent, just this slow sweet simmer that we can keep going for what seems like fucking hours, before we turn up the heat and let all that slow built passion boil over.  Or how fucking amazing it can be to have someone explore your whole body with their mouth; to feel them kiss and lick and suck their way from your toes to your finger tips and all points in between and to be able to just lay there passively and let them, knowing that you'll get your turn, your chance to turn them to mush the way they are doing to you, sometime - if not today, then tomorrow or next week.

Like I said, not something I thought I'd ever fucking want, but that was before Justin.  Before I'd had the chance to find out.

Of course, before Justin I'd never have had the balls to let myself find out; because to do it to someone else is too much fucking trouble and there is no fucking way I would have let any trick try those things on me - why would I?  Not only could I not see the point, but … the truth is, you're fucking vulnerable in that state.  If he'd really understood all that back then, the whole bullshit with Ethan would never have happened because he would have known what it said about how I saw his place in my life that I let him do that stuff, that I did that stuff with him. 

But he gets it now. 

Funnily enough, the main thing that I alternately want to thank the fiddler for, and to beat his brains out over, is that he taught Justin that lesson.  I doubt little Sunshine will ever let himself be that vulnerable with anyone else again.  Only with me; because with me he doesn't have to try to protect himself.  There's no point; any more than there is for me to try to keep the walls up any more.  We're way past where there's any fucking use in trying to protect our fragile little hearts from each other.  On a bad day we can shred each other just with a look.  And there's nothing either of us can do about that.

But on a good day …

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Justin

The thing is, sometimes when things are tough with Brian, they are really tough.  Like, I hate it when there's something bugging him and he won't talk about it. 

It used to make me completely paranoid, because I always felt that if he wouldn't talk about it, it must be to do with me.  I personalized everything.  I try not to do that now.  I understand better that most stuff he just doesn't think is worth talking about.  All the little shitty things like work, and when the car needs a service but he can't find the time, and when the dry cleaners lost his favorite shirt for a week.  Most people go on and on about that stuff, but Brian doesn't. 

I guess I've finally worked out that I don't, really, either.  I mean, I used to wish that he'd talk to me more about his work and stuff, but I finally realized (yet another lesson that Ethan taught me) that all that noise can make you miss hearing what's really important.  So now, I don't say much about all that little stuff either.

But there are times when there were things he really should have discussed with me, and he didn't, and they caused major problems for us.  Like the cancer.  And how paranoid he was getting that I was going to stay in fucking LA.  And like about Gardner Vance and why he didn't have any choice about making that trip to Chicago way back when.

But he's getting better about that stuff, and I'm getting better at listening to the little things he does let slip, and somehow we're making it work.

Because, and nobody seems to get this, when things are good with Brian they are better than great.  I don't mean when things are spectacularly fucking wonderful, I mean, just ordinary every day good.  Most days when we're just going about our lives, it's pretty fucking amazing.  I mean, I don't sit there and think, `Fuck, but I'm happy today.  I really am a lucky little shit.'  But maybe I should.  Because I think maybe life isn't like that for most people.  Most people don't get to share their lives with someone who gets them, and who totally supports them.

I do.  And I hope that Brian does too.  That he feels that he does, I mean.  Because it's an amazing feeling.  And that's how it is on just the ordinary every day good days.

Then there are days like today.  Which has just been surreal.

I woke up to find myself on the front page of the paper.  I did an interview with the fucking Washington Post for Christ's sake, about me and my life, and how all the shit that has happened to me has affected me, affected my art.  Then I went with Brian to look at a house he's thinking of buying for us.  I practically proposed to him, and then he turned it around and proposed to me again instead.  We've actually managed to get out of the Pitts together for the first time (well, not counting New York when we didn't actually go together, however hot it might have been when he caught up with me there); he booked us into the most amazing room, with an incredible view.  We went shopping for our wedding rings.  Fuck!

And we have just had the most amazing sex I think we've ever had.  Hotter even than New York, and sweeter than the night he first made love to me after the bashing.

I'm going to have to have my third shower of the day because I can still feel the oiliness of cream and the stickiness of custard in places that they just have no business to be, and Brian has something that looks like a piece of watermelon squashed into his hair.  The bed is a wreck.  Brian says that he'll get housekeeping to make it up fresh for us while we're out.  I'm feeling kind of lazy and languid and I'm thinking we should maybe just stay here, but he's relentlessly pulling me up and into the shower.  I don't know why he's all hot and bothered.  It's way too early to hit the clubs.  We could take a nap and still find time for dinner before we go out.

But I feel better after the shower and only have the tiniest argument with him about the clothes he wants me to wear.  He says we should dress for dinner at a decent restaurant, that we can always come back and change if we want to go clubbing later.  I'd rather not stuff around with all that, and I want to wear the hot little blue top he likes; the one that shows off my nipples and gets him all hot and bothered but he gets all pissy and says it's not suitable.  I want to tell him "Fuck dinner".  It's not like I'm even all that hungry right now.  I mean, we just ate when we got back to the room.  Well, I did, anyway, and Brian did have at least some stuff, even if the "serving plate" was kind of unconventional. 

But he's so obviously got something special planned that I have to go along with it, just hoping I'm not going to regret it later.  (Because honestly, some of Brian's surprises are seriously for shit.)

So I give in and let him dress me, and okay, there might be a bit of eye rolling involved, because seriously, he has a control freak side that's almost bigger than his ego, but finally he's happy with how I look (after another fucking session of pulling clothes on and off and not for any useful reason) and we get out of the suite without killing each other.

We're waiting for the elevator and I give him just a quick glance.  He's got this whole tongue planted in his cheek smirk going on, but aside from that …

His eyes meet mine and despite his best efforts, he's fucking smiling.  A real honest to God smile.  He huffs some little sort of laugh, like he's embarrassed about it or something, and looks away.  So of course then I have to pull him against me and kiss him.  He rests his forehead against mine just for a moment, then the elevator arrives and we step in, our hands somehow tangling together and I lean into him a little.  He's warm and solid next to me and I can feel his breath against my temple and feel his heart beat under my free hand when I place it on his chest and he's so … with me, so together with me, that it's just … I feel like I'm flying apart - like all the little atoms that make up Justin Taylor are just bursting out of themselves with pure joy, and at the same time I feel more solid, more centered, than I have ever felt in my life.  As if right now, right this minute, I'm exactly who I'm meant to be.  And then the elevator arrives at the ground floor and we walk out of the building still holding hands like a couple of teenagers.

It's one of those moments that I want to hold in my head, in my heart, forever. 

See when things are bad with Brian, they can be really shitty.

But most days are better than great.

And some days, like today, are just fucking …

I can't find any words.  I don't know if there are words for how this feels.

Someday I'll paint it, and the critics will fall over themselves when they see it and everyone will want it, just because of the way it makes them feel when they look at it, but I'll never ever sell it.  I'll give it to him instead, and then it will always be there to remind us, on the tough days, that sometimes we get it abso-fucking-lutely right.

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

Brian

One thing about the right hotels is that cabs magically appear on the doorstep when you want them. 

I guess the magic theme is appropriate tonight, and he fits right in, because he looks like he stepped out of some damned Disney feature - too beautiful to be real and I can practically see those little star shaped highlights in his eyes they're shining so fucking brightly.

Then we pull up at our destination, and after one fucking incredulous look at me to make sure that he's got it right, he squeals like the little fucking princess he used to be and practically shoves me onto the pavement he's so anxious to get out the damned car.  Then he's all over me, dancing up and down like he's fucking five years old and what pisses me off about that is that I should find it totally not cool.  Completely unattractive.  I should be tempted to tell him to calm down or I'll fucking walk off and leave him.

Instead of which, something inside me is …

The truth is I am so fucking grateful that somewhere under all the cynicism that he's had to learn, all the hard truths that have been literally knocked into him, he's still Justin.

Somewhere there's still the enthusiastic boy I met under a lamppost.  The one who wasn't afraid to get excited and show his feelings so openly.

The one I couldn't crush.

The one that apparently nothing can crush.  He's been through so much fucking pain and heartbreak and things that would have just destroyed most people.  And yet here he is, hanging onto my arm and going all "wow!" and "look at that!", his eyes everywhere, as we make it to the Box Office to collect our tickets, and then move into the theatre.

He smiles up at me and it's fucking blinding and I tangle my fingers in his hair and give him a look that's as close to a kiss as I feel able to give him standing here in straightland surrounded by breeders and their families without risking some bullshit scene that we can both do without.  He smiles even wider, his hand squeezing mine more tightly, and I hear the almost embarrassed little laugh he gives, before he edges us both closer to the concession stand with all its "souvenir programs" and shit.

"Later," I tell him.  Promise him.  "After the show.  You don't want to have to cart shit around all night."

But his eyes are still on the program, so I go to reach for my wallet. 

"Brian, no," he says, the silly little shit.  "I don't expect you to buy me stuff like that."

Then he's pulling out his own wallet, so I shrug, and tell him I'm going to get a drink and let him buy himself the damned program.  I can get him the other stuff later.  Or maybe order it online if he gets all huffy about me buying it tonight.  Whatever.

Whatever he wants.

He finds me at the bar, and I hand him his drink and watch his face as he studies the program. 

"It looks amazing," he says, eyes raising to meet mine, and shining like some fucking supernova.

I shrug again and he laughs.

"Don't even try, Kinney," he says.  "I'm onto you, remember."

He drops his voice and moves closer, stretching up a little so he can whisper in my ear, "And I'll be suitably grateful for all this torture you're putting yourself through later."

I give him a look to let him know that he'd better be, but the little shit laughs again.  A sound of pure fucking joy.

Then he smiles at me, less blindingly, but somehow warmer, more intimate.

"Brian Kinney gives a shit," he says softly, tenderly; God fucking help me, lovingly.

Well, he fucking got that right, at least.

"I love you," he breathes.

I hand him the tickets to pass to the usher, and he smiles into my eyes.  A smile that says he knows what the tickets, what this whole fucking trip is about.

A smile that says how happy I'm making him.  A smile that lets me know that sometimes I can fucking get it right.  Absofuckinglutely right.

Then he gives another little jig of excitement.

I knew that bringing him to see Wicked would be a good idea.

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