The Peninsula New York Hotel. Midnight. Brian’s POV Justin shifted against me restlessly, causing the fragrant, green-tinted bath water to oscillate in little waves all around us. In my exhausted state, I found myself watching with mesmerized fascination as it lapped up against the ivory porcelain of the Jacuzzi-style tub, shimmering like liquid crystal. I was acutely aware of the feel of Justin’s body positioned between my legs, the curl of his back fitting faithfully into the hollow of my chest, his head resting sideways against my shoulder, one pale hand alighting on my knee, which just poked out of the water. His breath was coming in slow, even puffs against my throat, and through the fingers of my hand pressed lightly against his sternum, I could feel his rhythmic, steady heartbeat. He was almost asleep. Soon I would have to rouse him and take him to bed, but just then, I allowed him that innocent, effacing peace that sleep sometimes offers. The air was hot and heavy with steam, swirling and billowing about us in an almost ethereal mist, an evanescent fog that reflected the lethargy I felt in every molecule of my being. What a motherfucking day. It had begun a Thursday like any other, until Jennifer’s frantic, pleading phone call half way through the morning. And thus began the pandemonium; desperate phone calls to anyone and everyone in New York I knew Justin to be acquainted with- the gallery owner, his co-workers, any of the new friends he’d introduced me to, the pal of Daphne’s who’d found him the apartment. No one had known anything about Justin’s whereabouts or condition. When I could no longer bear having to wait for news, I drove myself to the airport, having no immediate plan of action beyond getting on the very next flight to New York. Hell, I’d been desperate enough to ride along on the plane’s fuselage at that point. As it turned out, riding on the fuselage may have been preferable to being crammed between the two hard-core hockey buffs who spent the whole flight debating the merits of wood vs. composite hockey sticks. I fought back the urge to demonstrate my version of the ‘slap shot’- or more specifically, just the ‘slap’ part. But the sheer blessed relief of finding him had been worth it- injured, confused and shattered though he was. But he was safe. Whole and beautiful and safe. Justin’s body unexpectedly slid down against me several inches as his skin suddenly lost traction on the smooth, subaqueous surface. I grabbed him under the arms before his head slid under the water, and the sudden movement yanked him out of his anesthetizing slumber. Justin pulled himself up again groggily, pressing back against my body and using the hand on my knee for leverage. His skin gleamed silver with a sheen of water, and tiny goosebumps rose on his flesh as the liquid turned into steam to rise in misty clouds. Justin had wanted a shower, but I’d insisted on a bath, ostensibly to keep the butterfly bandages on his face dry. Besides, if I was going to pay a fucking fortune for a Jacuzzi tub, we were damn well going to use it. But secretly, and perhaps a bit selfishly, I’d just wanted an excuse to sit with him and hold him in my arms; to give in to that blessed relief that he was alive and safe. Justin laid his head back against my shoulder again, and I saw that the eye with the cut above it was almost swollen shut, the inflamed skin pale magenta and deep purple. The blow to his face must’ve been pretty substantial; when Justin had peeled off his t-shirt, I’d been suitable horrified to find his neck and chest caked in the dried blood the navy material had obscured. “You should get this looked at when we get back to Pitts,” I reflected, carefully pulling away the strands of ash gold hair that had become lodged in the butterfly strips. “I think may be you should have had stitches.” “Don’t,” Justin muttered, cringing at my administrations and brushing my hand away, clearing not listening to a word I was saying. He had retreated again into that state of absent aftershock that no amount coaxing or cogitating or cuddling would bring him out of. Even on the phone to his mother half an hour before, he had sounded lost, as if caught up in a tornado that hadn’t yet set him down. “C’mon,” I directed, pushing myself up onto the edge of the bath and then swinging my feet to the floor. When Justin didn’t immediately follow suit, I added, “Get out before you start growing gills.” I reached for one of the hotel’s thick white bath robes and shrugged into it, padding back into the bedroom and leaving Justin to climb out on his own time. I dug around in my travel case until I found the clothes I’d brought for Justin; an assortment of items he’d left in the loft during his visits, with a few of my own supplementary garments. It had been Jennifer who’d reminded me that he’d have nothing to wear except what he was standing up in. Him, and the clothes on his back. A long hard year of struggle and sacrifice and victory, and that was all that was left. Oh cruel, heartless world. When I returned to the bathroom, I found Justin standing at the vanity, his palms resting on its smooth marble surface, his gaze intent on his reflection in the Hollywood-style mirror. I realized it was probably the first time he’d really looked in a mirror since last night, and his expression showcased the disgust and despair he felt at seeing the extent of the bruising and discolouration on his face. “I can’t,” he said softly, darkly, not looking at me but continuing to stare back at his reflection with abhorrence. “I can’t go to the airport and onto a plane and through the arrival gates looking like this. Like I’m battered and broken and destitute. I mean, Jesus!” Justin screwed his eyes shut and banged his fist down on the counter, shaking is head as if trying to ward off the true implications of what had happened. I stood watching him silently, knowing there was nothing- nothing- I could say or do for him at that moment. When Justin looked up again, his eyes shone with angry, hateful, pitying tears. “How did it come to this?” he whispered bitterly, addressing his reflection, which could only ricochet the questions back unanswered. “Why the fuck is this happening to me? What did I ever do to deserve it?” The questions were rhetorical, and I knew he knew there were no answers, no absolution. There never would be. Silently, I placed the pair of shorts and the new, unwrapped toothbrush I’d found for him on the counter, and quietly left the room. I knew that in the end, it would have to be he who came to me. I turned off all but one of the lights in the bedroom before going to one side of the king-sized bed and pulling aside the down-filled duvet and soft, snow white sheets. I could see the sliver of light from under the bathroom door as I padded to the other side of the bed and climbed in under the covers. I turned off the one remaining light and watched the glow of the digital clock radio as the numbers changed and flipped and morphed into one another. 1am…1:10…1:20… Just as I was thinking I couldn’t lie there any longer without succumbing to the beckoning of sleep, the bathroom light went out, and I saw the area of deeper darkness beyond it broaden. A moment later, I heard Justin padding across the plush carpet, and then felt the bed dip slightly as he slid under the covers I’d pulled aside for him. There was utter silence in the dark room and it seemed to throb and resonate as I held my breath and waited. After what seemed like an eon, I felt Justin’s hand brush very softly against my upper arm and I breathed a silent sigh of relief, feeling him slowly shifting across the bed towards me. It was almost pitch black, but we didn’t need light, or voices or explanations to see and hear and understand everything. I felt his head come to rest against my shoulder, his breath warm against my skin, his body nestling in against me, begging for comfort and assurance in a way he never would in his waking hours. I put my arms around him protectively, cradled him to me tenderly, stroked his hair and neck and back, kissed his face and the hollow behind his ear. Soothed him into slumber, and felt myself push off and soar with him, out of the conscious world and into the serene purity of sleep. And in the glimmering light of dawn, bathed in the glow of scarlet and indigo and cyan, a phoenix rose noiselessly from the ashes and spread her golden wings to the sky. ~~~ Pittsburgh, Four days later Brian’s POV “Patience is a virtue, possess it if you can. Found seldom in a woman, and never in a man…” The person who wrote that bullshit must’ve a) never had the pleasure of meeting any of the women I knew and b) never met a man dealing with a partner whose dreams and future aspirations had (literally) just gone up in smoke. I’d been patient with Justin. Really, really patient. Hell, I’d been so fucking patient that I would be astonished if I wasn’t nominated for a sainthood by the end of it. I couldn’t think of a single saint who had needed to put up with the industrial strength queen out I’d had to endure from my sunshine boy that morning. The stupid thing was, I couldn’t remember what I’d said or done to set Justin off like Mt. Vesuvius. What had made him declare that I ‘didn’t give a shit about where he ended up’? What had I insinuated to make him tell me that ‘unlike my worldly possessions, money couldn’t buy back the things he’d lost”? Why had he felt the need to express so fervently his hatred of everyone’s fucking ‘everything-will-be-alright’ attitude? My neighbours may have wondered what the hell was going on; after all, 8:30 was rather an unsociable hour for a ‘domestic dispute’. I doubt they would’ve identified Justin’s tirade as a monologue and not as the colourful projectiles of verbal combat they were more used to. And if the hippies downstairs had heard the stomping footsteps, the slamming of the loft door, and the pounding feet down the stairwell, no one came to investigate as I stood in the ensuing silence, pinching the bridge of my nose and imploring the Gods to send me patience. Patience. It wasn’t his fault, I told myself. I knew from personal experience that it was far easier to blame something- anything- than to accept life and random chance had dealt you a shitty hand. The hardest blow of all was realizing you had no choice but to play it. I shifted papers around my desk, unable to settle to any task except worrying about where the fuck Justin had gone after storming out that morning. I was trying hard to convince myself that he may have slunk back to the loft with his tail between his legs, but I knew it was far more likely he was getting piss drunk in whatever shithole bar was open at 11am. Sometimes I wished he was a little less like me. I was about to try calling the loft again- just in case Justin was there, and just in case he felt like communicating rationally- when the intercom buzzed. I jabbed my finger down on the receiver button and snapped harshly to Cynthia that I was too busy to see anyone at that moment (‘busy’, of course, being a subjective term). “It’s Justin,” Cynthia told me, knowing that ‘anyone’ didn’t include my boy wonder. She sounded (as she always did) as if she’d absorbed and sussed out the whole situation through osmosis. “He wants to know if you have a minute to see him.” “Fine,” I barked, trying to maintain my professional decorum as my heart did triple back flips in relief. “Send him in.” I quickly stuffed the papers concerning Justin’s damage insurance into the bottom drawer of my desk. I’d told him I would help him deal with the mountains of red tape involved in being a claimant, but what he didn’t know (and what I knew he wouldn’t allow), was that I was shelling out a small fortune to turn the screws on the insurance company in Justin’s favour. Straightening up, I nearly leapt out of skin when I saw that Justin had materialized right in frount of my desk, having somehow managed to enter and cross the room absolutely silently. He was looking down at me, uncomfortable and anxious, and I saw his thumb drawing little circles into the palm of the other hand, as he did when he was nervous. “You scared the shit out of me,” I told him, trying to convince my heart to slide out of my throat and back into my chest “Where the fuck did you learn to appearate like that?” “Brian, I’m sorry,” he said immediately, leaping in with both feet as he always did, and as I knew he would. “I’m truly sorry for all those things I said; they weren’t true and you didn’t deserve them. What I did this morning was appalling and…I’m sorry.” God, I hated this. I’d always hated having people apologise to me, or having to apologise to other people. It was insufferably awkward to have someone lie down and roll over at your feet, and so degrading to have to be the one doing the rolling. Christ, this time Justin hadn’t stopped at lying down, he had virtually tied himself down to the strapping board. “It’s OK,” I told him after a moment, feeling suddenly irritated. I swung my chair around and stood up, unable to stand the ‘principal’s office’ atmosphere. Justin moved quickly towards me and took my arm in both hands. When I looked down at his face, I saw his eyes were pleading and desperate. “It’s not OK,” Justin said firmly, looking up at me with those intense azure eyes. “I like to think I have more control than that. I just…I had no excuse to treat you the way I did.” Not wanting or needing to hear this, I decided to shut Justin up the best way I knew how. I grabbed him by the nape of the neck, pulling him in for a hard, deep kiss. I felt Justin’s shocked exhaled breath against my cheek, heard him struggling to breathe through his nose as he began to half-heartedly resist. When I finally let him up, Justin was flushed and panting and he looked so adorably indignant that I almost laughed. “Sorry is bullshit,” I told him with a small smile, pressing my forehead against his. “Don’t humble yourself by apologising when you know you don’t have to.” “Brian! Christ, you’re so irritating sometimes!” Justin protested, trying to pull away from me but prevented from doing so by my arm around his waist. “You can’t just pass it up like that. I was wrong. I hurt you, and I shouldn’t have. Not after everything you’re doing for me- everything you’ve ever done for me!” “For us,” I corrected. “I’m doing this for us.” “Fine, for us then.” Justin snapped, pushing me away. “But if we’re going to be an ‘us’, we both need to have our needs met. You can’t let me walk all over you just because my fucking life goes up in flames. Just like I didn’t let you trample on me when you had cancer. Our relationship is not a one-way street, Brian…I never want it to be like that.” “Well, what do you expect me to do?” I asked, irritated at his self-righteousness. “Throw you out on the street? Give you fifty lashes? Refuse to talk to you for a week?” “I want…” Justin started to reply, and then stopped. He seemed to take minute to gather his thoughts and then looked at me, his facial expression softening back into that idiosyncratic pensiveness. “I want you to accept my apology…if you can. I need to know if you forgive me.” I went slowly to him and took his chin in my hand, turning his face upwards towards mine. His expression was anxious and sombre and hopeful, and I suddenly hated how I had the power to do this to him. I hated how he couldn’t yet just sense that I would forgive him for anything and everything. I hated how there was still uncertainties and doubts between us. Perhaps it wouldn’t always be so. Patience. “I forgive you, Sunshine,” I told him, my voice sounding much softer and gentler than I’d intended. I leaned forward and kissed his nose, and he beamed back at me; the first sunshine smile I’d seen in a long time. “And as for getting my needs met…” I continued, lunging for him so abruptly he gave a squeak of surprise. I grabbed his ass and hauled him up against my body, sliding my thigh between his legs and rubbing just hard enough to make him gasp and throw his head back. “…you’re going to be responsible for most of that.” “Oh? And what needs might those be?” Justin grinned, throwing his arms around my shoulders. “And one more thing,” I added, continuing to rotate my leg ever so slightly to make Justin moan my name with pleasure. “The next time your inner drama princess wants to have a cow and invite the whole fucking farmyard, make sure she understands that you’ll be paying for it in blowjobs.” ~~~ Justin’s POV That night “Ahh, fuck…stop that, you little shit…” Brian half-gasped and half-hissed in my ear when I caught him off guard by squeezing my muscles tightly around his cock. His protests naturally only encouraged me further, and I redoubled my efforts, not giving Brian time to retaliate as he struggled to maintain the pounding rhythm. We were both on all fours on the bed, Brian’s chest heaving against my back, his knees forcing my legs wider apart, his hands squeezing my fingers so tightly I could feel our tarsal bones grinding together. I still marvelled at how we moved together so flawlessly; how every hollow of his body fit perfectly with mine, how every rivulet of sweat ran seamlessly from his skin onto my own, and how every movement he made induced a simultaneous, predictable, synchronized movement in me. Brian put an end to my shenanigans abruptly by reaching beneath us to fist my cock rather aggressively. In the explosion of electric euphoria, I immediately lost all muscle co-ordination, which allowed Brian to shove my head and shoulders downwards onto the bed, allowing him the best possible angle to stab repeatedly at my prostate. Once again, it seemed, youth was going to have to bow to experience. I writhed and moaned as blissful heat began to fill my body, spreading in a cascade from my chest to my arms, to my fingertips and toenails. I felt myself rising higher and higher, feeling as if I were composed of nothing but the millions of tiny electric sparks. I came hard into Brian’s hand, trying to ride the wave of orgasmic bliss as far as I could, vaguely aware of Brian starting to shake and shudder behind me. Satiated, I flopped forward on my stomach and lay there limply, trying not to give a needy moan when Brian peeled our bodies apart and pulled out of me slowly. A few moments later, I felt his upper body slump down sideways against my back, loosely embracing me, his hands just tucked under my body, his head resting in the hollow between my shoulder blades, the soft strains of hair warm and silky against my skin. “Brian…I was thinking,” I began softy, wanting to tell him things now that I felt so close and connected. “Don’t think,” Brian groaned against my skin, but he shifted his body upwards, kissing me tenderly on the shoulder as he came to lie on his front beside me, one arm still draped casually across my back. “Nothing too complicated, OK? It’s two in the fucking morning.” “I was wondering if…” I paused, wondering if this was a little too complicated for two in the morning. But when Brian raised his head slightly to give me a gentle, encouraging nod, I continued in a rush. “I was wondering if there was a job for me at Kinnetic. I mean, just until I get something worked out. I need the money; I can’t earn money until I can paint, and I can’t paint until I have the money to get new materials and until I have somewhere to paint. I just need somewhere to start off, you know? And you…you did ask me that once…” “Justin,” Brian interrupted, and the unusual use of my name made me look sharply across at him. He was wearing an expression I couldn’t accurately describe; it was something like euphoria and sorrow mixed into one, poignant but somehow delicate and soft. He leaned across to me, brushed the hair tenderly off my forehead and kissed me softly, lovingly, high on the cheekbone. “All my offers still stand, Sunshine. Whenever you want to take me up on them.” We slept that night nestled together in each other’s arms, listening to our hearts beat in unison in the still hours of peaceful darkness. It wasn’t until much later, until the early hours of the morning as I lay awake listening to Brian’s breathing, that I understood what he’d meant. “All my offers…” The offer to pay for school, the offer to let me move in, the offer of the job at Kinnetic… And his offer to marry me.