Reverberations

Chapter 6

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Brian

He's sound asleep when I leave in the morning. I make one attempt to wake him and he grumbles something, and rolls himself up in the duvet, the pillow over his head, so I give up. I write him a note saying I'm going to take a half day and we can cart some of his stuff over to the undoubted rat-trap he calls a studio this afternoon, and I head out.

For some masochistic fucking reason I decide to head for the diner. Maybe somewhere in what passes for my mind, I was thinking that I could get to Mikey before Justin does and … something. Who knows?

He's not there when I walk in, but Deb is. She comes over to me and gives me a look … one of her "I'm not sure whether to hug you or hit you" looks.

I sigh. "Coffee," I tell her.

"You need to talk to him," she says. "You can't blame him for being mad."

I stick my tongue in my cheek and debate whether to tell her fuck off, or just to walk out. In that split second, while I'm debating what to do, Emmett waltzes in. "Hi, honey," he says to me, giving me a peck on the cheek. Then he turns to Deb. "Hey, Deb. Can I have pancakes, please, two strips of bacon on the side? And coffee?"

Then he ushers me down into a seat and settles himself in next to me. "Ted will be here soon," he says.

I give him a look to let him know how much that thought thrills me. Deb brings my coffee and is about to start in again on what an asshole I am, and all the ways I need to fucking change if I want to keep her Sunshine happy, when she's cut off by Emmett chirping, "So … I figured out the perfect story to put around after you two left last night."

I give him another look, and Deb butts in with "What fucking story?"

"The story to explain how that ridiculous competition rumor got started," Em says.

"What do you mean `rumor'? Michael said …"

"Well, I could have blamed Michael," Emmett acknowledges, while I take a cautious sip of my coffee and try to keep my head down.

"Why the fuck would you blame Michael? There's only one person …"

Emmett slides a quick sideways look at me and then he lowers his voice and says, God help him, "Because it was Michael's fault, Deb. There never was a competition. It was all …"

"Are you fucking calling my son a liar?" she spits out.

Emmett gives her a long look and then says, very seriously, the drawl in his voice more marked than usual, "Well, let's just call it a little piece of wishful thinking, shall we?"

"Michael would never …" she snaps, and then breaks off and glares at me. "What the fuck have you been saying? How can you sit there and let him …"

I suddenly lose all interest in the coffee. I stand up and squeeze Em's shoulder as he moves to let me out.

"Listen, asshole, if you think I'm going to …"

I round on her then.

"Enough! Butt the fuck out if you don't want to make things worse."

I move to go and she grabs my arm. I freeze.

I stand looking down at her fingers until she lets go, then I say, "If you want to berate anyone over this, try talking to your son. And if you do, I'd warn him to stay out of Justin's way for a while."

"Why the fuck is Sunshine mad at Michael?" she demands.

"Because between you and him you almost …" I break off and take a deep breath. Then I just walk out of there.

Something tells me I'm going to hear about that later. But right now I need to get to work. Maybe Emmett can talk some sense into her, let her in on what really happened. Maybe. But I don't count on it. Mikey sweet and innocent, always. Brian to blame for every fucking thing in his life as well as mine. That's the gospel according to Deb.

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Justin

I didn't mean to sleep so late. He should have woken me. As I stumble out of the shower, I hear my cell. It takes me a while to dig it out of my clothes, and by then it's stopped ringing. I check the missed calls. Brian. I try to call him back, but he's busy, so I start to get dressed and then of course it starts ringing again.

I snatch it up, but it's not Brian, it's Mom.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that her first words to me are a complaint about Brian. At least it's not about the competition. No. It's about Brian upsetting Deb this morning.

I can only wonder what went on. Maybe that's what Brian was calling about. He'd never admit it, but he hates having run-ins with Deb. She can really get to him, hurt him in ways that no one else can. Not even me.

According to what Deb told Mom, Brian behaved like a complete asshole and was blaming Michael for all the problems in his life. Talk about projection!

But maybe it means that for once Brian actually tried to explain what really happened instead of just letting her blame him. That's hard to believe … he never defends himself when any of them attack him. Never. I hate that. And I hate it that he doesn't want me to, either. So I'm always left with the choice of being pissed off myself because I can't say anything, or pissing him off because I do. In the end, I usually keep my mouth shut. Not because I'm afraid of his moods, but because it won't do any good. They believe what they want to believe about Brian. All of them. Although maybe Ted is getting a clue now, and I know Emmett has seen Brian differently ever since Brian stepped up and intervened in some way when Ted was going through his crystal phase. I don't know the details, but I do know, because Em told me, that Emmett is really grateful to Brian for preventing him from making a big mistake. They've been much closer since then.

Anyway, right now I have Mom to deal with. What the fuck can I say? I don't want to go into the whole competition thing, not with her. Because well … because she'd kind of believe it. Or at least, believe that it might be something Brian would do. (And I squirm when I realize that I believed it myself, at least for a little while. I really have to learn to have more faith in him. Maybe more faith than he has in himself. At least more than any of the other assholes who call themselves his friends. Right now, I'm no better than they are.)

So with Mom, instead of trying to defend Brian, I go on the attack.

"Why the fuck did you tell Deb I was getting an apartment?" I demand.

I hear her breath catch. Then, in defense, she goes all "mom" on me. "Justin! Please don't speak to me like that. I'll hang up if you use that tone with me again."

"Fine, Mom," I say sarcastically, "then I'll ask nicely. Will you please tell me why in the name of all that's holy you told Debbie I was getting an apartment?"

"I didn't!" she protests. "In fact, she was the one who told me about the place."

"What?" I can't make any sense of that.

She gives a long-suffering Mom sigh, and says, "We didn't have anything on our books that was really what you were looking for. I had to call her about the next PFLAG meeting, and while I was on the phone, I just asked if she knew of anything in the neighborhood."

"What exactly did you tell her I was looking for?"

"A studio - somewhere cheap, but with good light where you could work. Now why are you asking about this? You sound really upset. Is everything alright?"

I sigh. "It is now," I answer. "But I was packing up some of my art things yesterday when Brian got home. Mom, he thought I was leaving him." I can't help the wobble in my voice.

"Oh, Justin," she sighs. "I'd hoped that you and Brian were more solid now, that you were more settled."

"We are," I swallow hard. I can't tell her about all the other stuff. About the syphilis, and the dinner party at Michael's, or Brian's blow up yesterday morning. I just can't tell my mother I caught an STD like a total slut, and she wouldn't understand about the rest. Hell, I still don't understand what caused the blow up.

I swallow again, and go on, my anger making my voice stronger, "But Deb called Michael and told him that I was getting an apartment, and Mikey just couldn't wait to pass that on to Brian. So he came home from work early and found me packing stuff, and …"

"Oh, Justin! That's awful. Did he let you explain? Are you all right now? Do you want me to call him?"

I nearly laugh at that. "No, Mom, no. We're fine. We're great."

I stop and listen to myself, and suddenly realize that we are. We're fine. Whatever caused him to walk out of here in a hissy fit yesterday morning, it went away last night. Got blown away in the reality of how close we came this time to losing it all.

"Well, that's fine, sweetheart. As long as you're sure."

"Yeah," I hear the smile in my own voice. "I'm sure."

She hesitates and then says, "Justin, don't be angry with Debbie. She may have misinterpreted something I said."

I let my silence tell her how unimpressed I am, and she hurries on, "I just said that it might be a good thing for you to have somewhere of your own to go to when things with Brian get a bit … tense. Not that you were actually moving, but just somewhere you could go if you needed to get away for a few days. But maybe …"

I want to be angry with her, but I guess she was just being a mom. Then suddenly I laugh. "That's what Brian said - that at least I'd have somewhere to go if the going got too tough."

"Justin … "

"Oh, Mom, relax, he was just joking. And anyway, I made it crystal clear that I'm not going anywhere."

I'm remembering some of the ways I made it clear, and I'm sure that Mom can hear the sated satisfaction in my voice even now, because she hurries on, "Well, honey, as long as you know that I would never try to cause trouble between you and Brian. I'm so sorry if Deb misunderstood, and that Brian got hurt because of it."

I think about that for a moment. And realize that it's true. Mom has moved a full 180 degrees from where she started with Brian. She likes us being together now. Has for a while. I wondered when that happened and how come I didn't really notice.

"I know, Mom," I tell her, and hope she can hear in my voice how grateful I am that I have her support now. It makes me feel like kind of a shit about all the grief I've given her over Tucker. "How's Tucker?" I ask, trying to make up for some of it.

"He's fine," she says, sounding a bit surprised. "But what I called about was the next PFLAG meeting."

"Why?" I ask. I mean, I guess I'm happy she's working with PFLAG and all that, but normally we don't really talk about it much.

"We're having it at the GLC," she says. "It's a joint meeting with the members there, and we want as many people to come along as we can get. We're organizing some opposition to Proposition 14."

"What?" I feel kind of dumb. With one thing and another since I got back from LA I'm feeling really out of the loop.

"They're trying to force some legislation through the state assembly banning gay marriage. We need to get organized to oppose it. I wanted to make sure you'd be there."

I didn't even hesitate about saying yes.

Fuckers!

After all the shit I've been through in the past few years, just because I'm gay, and now people who've never even met me are trying to deny me, or anyone like me, any chance at all of every marrying, of having our relationships legally recognized, and protected. I mean, it's not like there's even any legislation been proposed to legalize gay marriage in Pennsylvania. But people are trying to stamp it out before the debate even happens. That's just wrong!

"I'll be there," I promise. "Is there anything else I can do in the meantime?"

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Brian

I get home just after one and he's on the phone to his Mom. He gives me a wave and I go up to change. I settle for jeans, a long sleeved tee and an easily cleanable jacket. Something tells me he will not be amused if I queen out over getting my clothes stained at whatever hell hole he's found to paint in.

Part of me is glad that he's a man now and doesn't feel the need to discuss every fucking small decision with me, and part of me is kind of pissed off that he went off and did this without even discussing it with me. Plus, of course, part of me is quite honestly relieved that he has found somewhere because now that he's not at PIFA, the only place he's had to work is here, and, aside from the mess, the fumes of paint and thinners do nothing for me except give me a damned headache. But mainly I guess I'm just fucking relieved that it's just a damned studio, and doesn't mean anything like the shit that certain people were trying to make it mean.

Michael. It doesn't mean what Michael was trying to make it mean. I want to ream Mikey out for that. But I won't. I don't know if I can keep Justin from doing it, but that's between him and Mikey. Justin will try not to catch me in the middle of that; and I can only be grateful. I know that I'm losing my "best friend". Hell! I've known that for a while. But it fucking hurts, and I'm not quite ready to just walk away. Not yet. Maybe not ever. If I can just keep things together for a while longer, maybe it will work out. It has before. It did after David. It did after my little stunt at his birthday party. It did after he made that crack about Justin and I punched him out for it. It did even after he pushed me into "blaming" Justin for finding out about the cancer.

I knew that Michael had manipulated that, as well. Even if he didn't mean to, he wanted to be the first one that I talked to about it, so he …

And, of course, I let him manipulate me, and instead of taking out my anger and fear on Mikey when he fucking wept all over me and made me comfort him because I'd dared to scare him by getting sick, I took it out on Justin instead for daring to find out that I'm not immortal, that I'm human and vulnerable and not fucking perfect. I let Mikey manipulate me into that. Justin could have done that the first night he found out - gone all weepy and pathetic and made me be strong for him and make me find other outlets for my terror. Instead, by not saying anything, by not giving way to his own fears, he showed me yet again how fucking strong he is, so I could safely unload on him.

Plus, of course, I was terrified as much as anything by the fear that he'd leave me. That he wouldn't want me once I was diseased and …

Well, that's past history. And I forgave Mikey for it. Put it out of mind, like I've done so many times. All the hurtful things he's said to me. Shit! People think I'm the insensitive asshole. I don't know if they just never hear what Michael says to me, or if somehow the rules about giving your friends a break just don't apply to me, but …

I'm pulling on some boots and trying not to think about all that shit when Justin bounds up the steps and throws himself down onto the bed beside me.

"Hey!" he says, running his hand up my back.

I grunt and let the other boot fall to the floor. I may not be needing it any time soon.

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Justin

I don't know what he was thinking about when he got home, but he was really stressed out by it.

He's much more mellow now, though. As we take a shower and then clown around getting dressed again, he explains his careful choice of clothing just so I can gripe at him.

"Jesus, Brian! It's not that bad," I gripe obligingly. "It's just a little … seedy, that's all."

He scoffs, of course, and puts on his least favorite boots to go with a pair of newish jeans. He hasn't worn the jeans in properly yet, and so he doesn't feel like they'd be a great loss if they get contaminated by whatever he thinks lies in wait for him in my … I can hardly believe I'm saying the words … my studio.

The things that came to mind while I was talking with Mom reminded me that I still want to try to find out what yesterday morning's little melt down was all about, but it's no good asking him directly. He'll either get all huffy again, or deny completely that anything happened at all. Instead, I tackle the other subject that I know might not go down very well right at the moment. I tell him that I'm joining the campaign to fight Prop 14.

We're loading a couple of boxes of my stuff into the car when I tell him, and as I expect, his tongue goes into his cheek and he gets that nasty sarcastic tone in his voice.

"Of course you are, Sunshine," he says, so patronizingly that I want to slap him.

I straighten and just stand still until he's forced to look at me. He sees something in my face, because he stands tall and looks right into my eyes and waits for me to speak. I don't know what he thinks I'm going to say. Some defense of why gays would want to marry, or something else that contravenes his little life codes. I don't know.

Instead, I say, "Brian … it's not about me wanting marriage. It's about other people telling me that I can't have it."

He shakes his head and I walk up to him and put my hands on his chest.

"Brian, I've never wanted to dress in drag either, but if they were putting up legislation to ban it, I'd be out on the street protesting that, as well."

So would you, my eyes tell him.

He hears me, too, because he just shrugs.

"I don't want to live my life by anybody else's rules," I say firmly. "You and I … we might not need that. We might be happy to just forge our own way and do things the way we want to do them. But it's not right for people to be saying to Michael and Ben, and Mel and Lindsay, people who do want that, who do want marriage and the picket fence, that they can't have it."

He bites his lip, but I know that he's heard me. I hope that he's clearly understood what I'm telling him. It isn't that I'm dissatisfied with marriage not being on the agenda for Brian and I. I may never want that. I sure as fuck don't want it right now. But I'm not going to let anybody else tell me that Brian and I can't have that if we want to. That somehow we don't deserve it. That our love for each other isn't as valid as some het couple. That what we've fought for and struggled with for nearly five years is somehow even less real, less deserving of recognition than some fuck-witted morons who get married in a chapel in Las Vegas and have a quickie divorce ten days later.

That pisses me off; just like I'm tired of all the so-called friends who think we're not a real couple just because we don't want the same things that they want, don't have any time for the things that they think "real couples" should want.

Both mindsets are completely fucked as far as I'm concerned. There doesn't seem to be a lot I can do about our "friends". But these Prop 14 homophobic assholes - at least I can take them on.

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Brian

Fuckit!

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I do not want to have to deal with this. Not today. Not after …

Not after yesterday.

But he's not backing down; he's just waiting for me to actually look him in the eye, so that he can nail me with whatever it is he's got to say. Might as well get it over with.

Fucking drag queens! Shit! Couldn't he find a better example?

Well, maybe not. Because I know where he's coming from on that. For all that he has his little fem moments, he's never been remotely into that scene. But hell! yes, I can imagine him out there marching in full drag waving a damned placard if that's what it took. Only difference is that he'd be pushing at me to be marching alongside him. At least he's not going to make me pretend to give a shit about this fucking marriage thing. I guess I should be grateful for small mercies.

And I can respect that he's pissed off about people trying to set limits on his life. As long as the people he's pissed off with don't include me. I try not to do that. I did once, I guess. When he was first living with me. And maybe after the bashing. But not since I realized how unhappy it made him. The only limits I set now aren't set by who I want him to be, but by who I am. Of course, that's the biggest fucking limitation of all. And I know that who I am is bound to make him not happy eventually. I wish I knew how to fix that without having to completely change who I am. But I don't. I know someday he's going to want more … or at least different, to what I have to offer. Can't do anything about that. Can only make the most of …

He's finally stopped with the speeches; he's just standing there with that look on his face. The one he had when he was going after Stockwell. Fuck! but he makes me admire him.

Suddenly, despite my misgivings and despite all the potential for drama, I can feel myself grinning at him.

It catches him off guard. His eyes widen, and when I reach for his jacket and pull him to me, he opens his mouth to protest. I let myself smile at him, and suddenly he's smiling back, and he's in my arms and his mouth is opening further under mine and …

Well, the drama all fades into the background.

"Let's get this fucking stuff over to your damned "studio" while there's still some shred of daylight left so you can help me `see the light'", I tell him.

He grins at me, kisses me one more time, and we pile the last box into the car and take off.

We should both get some sort of danger money, the way we dance round land mines in this fucking … well, whatever it is we have together.

But at least we're still dancing.

***

Justin

Walking up the stairs, I can feel Brian sort of drawing himself in to make sure that he doesn't take any risk of brushing against the walls. I guess it is a bit grungy, but who cares?

Once I open the door, though, he stands there, looking around, and nodding slowly. The walls are streaky, and the floor needs cleaning, but through the grimy windows the afternoon light is streaming evenly, making the dust motes sparkle as they float around the room. The room glows, despite the dirt.

He walks across and looks down into the street, then he peers into the kitchen-in-a-closet and pulls a face.

"Well, I know what I'm getting you for a studio-warming gift," he says.

I expect him to say a cleaning service, or a year's supply of industrial detergent, but he looks up with a smile and says, "There's a power point. You can run a microwave up here, and not have to worry about actually trying to cook anything."

That's a great idea. I hadn't thought of it, and I want to say I can buy it myself, but then I figure that at least he's not offering to completely redecorate, including installing every latest arty gadget he can find, so I reward his restraint by giving him a big smile and a hug.

That turns into a long, hot kiss, and then he says practically, "I'll get the other box. You start making a list of what you need to get to make this place usable."

I give him a look, and he says, "Broom, sponges, that stuff. We can drop by the supermarket on the way home. Don't worry, Sunshine," he finishes with a grin. "I'll let you pay for it all."

He brings up the other box, and I've worked out that I do need at least some cleaning stuff. The windows have to be done, aside from anything else.

I want to ask him if he likes it, my first studio. I crave his approval. But I can't ask for it. I'm a man now, not a clingy boy, and I have to just make my decisions and live with them, without always needing him to validate them. Just like he has to let me. He's doing his best to do that, so the least I can do is not undermine myself.

All the same it feels totally great when he turns to me as we're about to walk out the door, and says, "It has that starving artist, garretty feel. You'd do the left bank proud."

He gives me a quick hug and as we walk down the stairs I feel more like his partner than I have for a long time; since I got my ass kicked in LA. I knew taking control of this one thing would make me feel better about everything else.

I knew it.

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