Part 2
By the time I close the bathroom door, Justin has hopped up onto the counter and is sitting next to the sink, his legs dangling, that same goofy smile plastered on his face. “What we gonna do now?” he asks like a kindergartner waiting for the finger painting to begin. For a moment, I can only smile and shake my head. He’s created a huge fuckin’ mess I’ll be cleaning up shortly, but I’m still having a hard time being angry with him. When the fuck did I start being so nice? I built my entire reputation around being a bastard and it’s all been undone by a cute, blond twink? “We’re going to get you in the shower,” I say, stepping closer, not surprised when he spreads his legs for me. “But first we’re gonna fuck?” he asks breathlessly, reaching for my pants to undo the top button. Shit. I can’t do it. Not even big, bad Brian Kinney can fuck someone when their mother is in the next room ... at least, not this someone. No, I’ve miraculously risen to a place of honor in Jennifer Taylor’s eyes, and I’m not risking that for a quick bathroom thrill. Besides, given Justin’s condition, he’d do a lot of screaming the minute we started. Just my luck. “No, we’re just going to shower.” Justin sticks out his lower lip in a massive pout and, hands on my shoulders, looks into my eyes with the sustained gravity only someone so drunk could maintain. “World’s best Brian? That’s wrong. You know that’s wrong, don’t you?” he explains to me in a tender voice. “Fucking is what we do, okay? We’re fags. We have dicks. We fuck. Here lemme show you.” He reaches for my fly again. “No, we’ll do that later, okay?” I say. “Right now, you need to undress and get in the shower so we can sober you up, at least a little. Then you can have dinner with your mommy.” I turn away and open the shower to start the water flowing. As I do, I hear someone banging on the loft door. “Company!” Justin cries like some of his playmates have arrived and, before the motion even registers, he jumps off the counter and slides open the door. “I’ll get it!” he calls, his voice growing fainter the further away he gets. “Maybe it’s dessert!” What made me think we were finished with this drunken drama? Turning off the shower, I grab a towel and dry my hands. Following him, I catch up just as he slides open the door. “Michael!” Justin says in that same jubilant tone. “Brian, it’s Michael!” “I can see that, Sunshine.” Standing in the hallway, Michael has something clutched to his chest. Is that a book? Since when did Michael read anything other than comics? Michael’s brow furrows and he looks from Justin to me. “What’s up with him?” “Isn’t that obvious?” I step back so he can come in. “What’re you doing here?” Michael sees Jennifer and looks surprised, waving at her. “Wow, you’re having a party and I wasn’t invited?” he says in that joking/whining voice of his. “The only one having a party is Justin.” “Michael!” Justin says on cue, crowding closer to him and patting his chest with both hands. “My goo’ friend, Michael. Brian’s best friend, Michael. Best Brian’s best friend!” Justin doubles over at his own wit, laughing uproariously. “Wanna drink, Michael? I got plenty of drinks.” He pats Michael’s chest again. “Have a Cosmo, okay? Lez get drunk and draw stuff and piss off Brian, ‘kay?” Thankfully, his voice goes down. “But no fucking,” he says to Michael in a stage whisper. “Can’t do that best Brian’s best friend ‘cos my mom’s here. Moms don’t like fucking.” Michael looks amused. “What the fuck did you do? Have a drinking contest with him?” My eyebrow goes up. “I know you won’t believe this, but he was already this way when I got home. Why are you here, Michael?” Humming, Justin begins to dance, circling around me as I talk to Michael. “You wanted that book Ben had, the architecture one?” Michael says, holding it out. “Remember? I said I’d drop it off after the shop closed?” “Oh, right.” Justin is suddenly between us, his hips moving, his arms doing that waving thing, the Bunny Hop going full tilt. “Michael, Michael bo-bichael,” he sings as he dances, “banana-fana fo-fichael, fe-fy-mo-michael—Michael!” I put my hands on his waist and move him aside. “I forgot. Thanks. I just want to get some ideas before I talk to the architect.” Michael’s head is going up and down as he watches Justin’s jumps. “Yeah, uh—that’s pretty exciting, about the building and all.” “Brian, Brian, bo-Brian—” Justin sings as he comes into view again. “Yeah, all we need to do is sign the lease papers,” I say to Michael as Justin sashays in front of me. “—banana-fana fo-frian, fe-fy-mo-mrian—Brian!” Michael eyes widen, he throws back his head, and laughs. “Oh, man, he is so plastered!” “Plastered, plastered bo-blastered, banana-fana fo-flastered, fe-fy-mo-mlastered—plastered!” Justin sings without missing a beat. “Yeah, he’s very entertaining,” I tell Michael. Shit, I realize just then that Justin is now officially screwed. Michael is his mother’s son, so this little incident is going to be on the Novotny grapevine about ten minutes after Michael leaves. Justin’s about to get his full fifteen minutes of fame, but I have a hunch it’ll last a lot longer than that. “Hi, Michael,” Jennifer says as she finishes setting up the food and crosses to where we’re standing. “We’ve got dinner.” She looks at me, probably wondering if it’s okay to ask him. “Lots of it.” “Yeah, Justin ordered half the items off Little Italy’s menu and you’re welcome to—“ “Ladies and gentlemen!” Justin announces just then in a commanding though slurred voice, and I realize he’s no longer with us. We all whirl around. Shit! He’s standing on the fuckin’ dinning room table! “Justin, what’re you doing?” I call to him, once more concerned that he might get hurt in his drunken state. “Justin!” Jennifer echoes as we cross toward him, probably envisioning the mess he’s going to make when he puts his foot in the spaghetti. “I am going to sing a little something for you, a favorite tune from my childhood, one I know you’re all familiar with,” Justin tells us, back in performer mode as he tries to sound smooth and suave. “This is dedicated to my mother, the world’s best mother there ever was.” Justin makes another of those wide, sweeping gestures as he throws out his arms, and then straightens up, one hand clasping the other as he takes a deep breath:Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener That is what I truly wish to be 'Cause if I were an Oscar Mayer wiener Everyone would be in love with me!
With a strangled gasp, Jennifer begins to laugh so hard I fear the woman might have a coronary. Behind me, Michael is also howling, and, yeah, I have to admit, I’m finding it way too funny to sound stern, but I try—God knows, I try. “Justin, get down off that table,” I tell him as I walk closer. “Oooooohhhhhhhh,” Justin begins again, hands waving, his voice rising. And that’s when his fate is sealed because, as he goes through this esteemed and widely recognized song of American consumerism a second time, Michael has his cell phone out and is holding it up toward Justin. Oh, shit! It’s the fancy phone Dr. David gave him, the one that has video on it. He’s recording Justin in all his drunken glory. “Fuck!” I say as Justin ends the second round of the wiener song, and I step up onto a chair, grabbing him around the waist. “You are so busted, little boy,” I murmur against his sweaty neck, and drag him off the table without destroying the food we’ll be eating for the next week. Justin doesn’t fight me and when we’re safely back on terra firma, he remains compliant. “Don’t wanna sing anymore, Brian,” he murmurs against my chest, where he’s laid his head. “’kay? Need to take a little …” His eyes close then and he goes limp, completely unconscious. “I think the entertainment portion of the evening is finally over,” I say as I haul him up into my arms. Damn, he’s a lot heavier when he’s a dead weight, but I manage to get him upstairs and into the bedroom where I lay him onto the bed, on his side. I begin packing pillows around him so he can’t roll onto his back. “Best Brian?” he whispers after a few minutes of this, and I have to admit I’m going to miss the name he’s given me. Not that I’m sentimental or anything, it’s just that it’s … part of the evening, that’s all. “Don’t feel so good.” I sit on the bed’s edge and brush the hair off his forehead. “You drank too much. See if you can get some sleep.” “Can’t dance anymore,” he mutters as his eyes drift shut. “That’s okay. Somehow, we’ll manage without you.” “Really?” “Really.” “Love you, best Brian,” he whispers. Then he’s sound asleep, his chest slowly rising and falling. “Yeah, Sunshine,” I say softly as I continue to stroke his hair, my throat constricting despite my best efforts to maintain my cool indifference. “I love you too.”