ALL THAT GLITTERS

 

***

December 23rd, 2008. 14:50:14

Ryhmeswithvenus has signed in.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: HELP!

Taylor_made has signed in.

Taylor_made says: Oh shit. Hang on.

Taylor_made says: Brian? You have about three minutes, max.

Taylor_made says: A reporter from the New York Times is making his way over here.

Taylor_made says: He’s got that “I’m going to ask you lots of hard and embarrassing questions” look on his face.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: I promise I will lavish you with praise and admiration at some point in the not-so-distant future.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: But for now, I need your immediate assistance. 

Ryhmeswithvenus says: I have several emergencies going on simultaneously. 

Ryhmeswithvenus says: I thought I would consult you before calling the army in.

Taylor_made says: The army?

Taylor_made says: To help make gingerbread houses with an eight-year-old and a three-year-old?

Ryhmeswithvenus says: Wipe that fucking smirk off your face, asshole. 

Ryhmeswithvenus says: You have NO IDEA what I’ve been through. 

Ryhmeswithvenus says: Do we keep an A.E.D machine in the house? The next near-fatal accident involving almond bark (and there have been three so far) may trigger a cardiac arrest.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: By the way, I’m getting a vasectomy right after this. Just so you know.

Taylor_made says: Oh dear. 

Taylor_made says: Sounds like Gus and J.R. are putting you through the paternity wringer.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: Hey, I will admit that I have a claim to Gus. But I have no biological relationship whatsoever to Mel and Mikey’s demonic gremlin of a child.

Taylor_made says: That’s not very nice. Jenny’s a great kid. Maybe just a bit, um, enthusiastic.

Taylor_made says: Mel says the fact she constantly impersonates a Neanderthal warrior is a sign of early intelligence.  

Ryhmeswithvenus says: It’s a sign of something all right.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: She tried to EAT the fucking cat when she first got here! She was running after her going “Kitty! Num num num!”

Ryhmeswithvenus says: I managed to entice her away with a candy cane, but I swear she’s plotting how to hunt down Ophelia and make her into Feline Flambé with a kitchen torch when I’m not looking.

Taylor_made says: LOL! There’s nothing like a three-year-old to bring out the inner Drama Queen, is there?

Ryhmeswithvenus says: You wouldn’t think it was so funny if you were here, Sunshine.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: It’s like that scene from Jurassic Park where the raptors break into the kitchen.

Taylor_made says: Okay, okay. Tell me what you need to know.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: How to separate eggs. I’m attempting to make royal icing.

Taylor_made says: No problem. How far have you gotten?

Ryhmeswithvenus says: I broke all the eggs into one bowl, whisked them up and divided them in half. I’ve been beating one half for about fifteen minutes and nothing is happening.

Taylor_made says: Ah.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: “Ah”? What do you mean, ‘ah’?

Taylor_made says: I mean ‘ah’ as in “Maybe I should return those silver cuff links I bought for Brian and buy him ‘Baking for Dummies’ instead.”

Ryhmeswithvenus says: Spare me the diatribe. How do I fix this?

Taylor_made says: You can’t. 

Ryhmeswithvenus says: Fuck. Really?

Taylor_made says: Really. Look, shove those eggs in the fridge and we’ll have omelets tonight. 

Ryhmeswithvenus says: I seriously fucked up that badly?

Taylor_made says: Of course not. :-* I love omelets. Rich in omega-3 fatty acids.

Taylor_made says: Listen, I’m sure you’re doing wonderfully. You have kept Jenny from eating the kitten AND the house hasn’t burnt down yet.  

Ryhmeswithvenus says: But what do I do about the goddamn fucking icing? 

Ryhmeswithvenus says: I need something to stick the pieces together, or it’ll look like we’re recreating a gingerbread city after it’s been hit by a massive earthquake. 

Taylor_made says: I need to go right away, but I have an idea.

Taylor_made says: Put some white sugar in a saucepan and heat it up until it melts - it’ll turn gold and liquidy. 

Taylor_made says: Melted sugar will set like glue once it hardens and cools – it’s how they make spun sugar and praline. 

Taylor_made says: You can use it to stick the gingerbread pieces together. 

Ryhmeswithvenus says: That’s clever.

Taylor_made says: It’s genius.

Taylor_made says: But listen. Once sugar melts, it’s roughly the temperature of molten lava, so keep the kids well away from it.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: No problem. I’ll just get Gus to play ‘fetch’ with J.R. for a bit.

Taylor_made says: Fetch?

Ryhmeswithvenus says: Yeah. He throws random assorted objects, and she runs after them and brings them back. Keeps her busy for hours.

Taylor_made says: Great, so she can channel both an early hominid and Canis familiaris. That’s quite an impressive zoological range.  

Taylor_made says: Listen, Mr. New York Times is making a beeline for me. I gotta run.

Taylor_made says: When are Mel and Linds coming to pick up the kids?

Ryhmeswithvenus says: Around six. They’re going to Deb and Carl’s for dinner.

Taylor_made says: Fuck, then I’ll miss them. I won’t be back until 8ish at the earliest.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: The Munchers are in Pitts all week. There’ll be plenty of other opportunities to see them.

Taylor_made says: I know. Look, I’ll see you tonight, okay? I’ll help you clean up a little.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: If you happen to come across a natural disaster relief team, bring them along. It looks like Hurricane Katrina in here.

Taylor_made says: Love you :-*

Ryhmeswithvenus says: Justin, wait.

Taylor_made says: I really have to go.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: I know. I just want you to know I’m proud of you. I wish I could see you there tonight.

Taylor_made says: There will be lots of other high-caliber, international art shows, Brian. This is just the beginning.

Taylor_made says: And you’re doing a brave and noble thing in agreeing to take Gus and J.R. on by yourself today. You’re a good man, Mr. Kinney.

Taylor_made says: Love you.

Ryhmeswithvenus says: You, too. :-*

 

**

Later

**

It’s close to nine-thirty by the time the tires of Justin’s car crunch their way up Britin’s sweeping drive. The headlights bathe the front of the house in a whitish glow as he reaches up to push the button on the garage door opener. 

As he waits for the heavy wooden door to slide open, he takes a moment to admire the white and gold fiber optic lights that adorn the doorway and the windowsills. Along the eaves of the roof, strings of delicate silver lights shimmer and blink like illuminated icicles, their glow spreading light into the darkness around them.

“Not bad,” he thinks modestly.

It had been only two weeks before that Brian had arrived home with the back of the ‘vette filled with enough Christmas lights to bedeck the Eiffel Tower. He’d explained that he’d just won an account with a client who specialized in commercial sound and light displays. These had been free samples, he’d said, so Justin could “quit fucking complaining that the house looked like a festive black hole.”

It was one of those little things that had made Justin love Brian just a little bit more. One little thing that said so much. One little thing that made him glad he had left New York and returned to Pittsburgh, knowing his dream was wherever his passion and his love was.

Justin hadn’t quite been able to win the Christmas tree debate, as Brian had refused point-blank to allow ‘any constituent of the fucking boreal forest into the living room’.  Justin had been prepared to compromise, though. He’d taken the leftover fiber optic lights and a reel of chicken wire and had constructed an approximation of a tree, which turned out to be a very handsome (and pine needle-free) contribution to their living room.

Brian doesn’t even seem to have noticed that he’s been spraying it with pine-scented air freshener. 

Justin carefully maneuvers the silver Lexus sedan into the garage beside the ‘vette. The sedan, a sophisticated luxury hybrid, is naturally Brian’s car – but he’d bought it for Justin to use. During the week, the two of them commuted into the city together, but there were enough times that they’d needed to be in different places at different times to justify a second vehicle. 

The fact that the car was a hybrid goes a little way to ease Justin’s nagging guilt about contributing to the Greenhouse Effect. Maybe leaving the Christmas tree out in the boreal forest could earn him a few extra carbon credits.

He parks, turns the car off and pushes the driver’s door open. Immediately the cold December air flecked with tiny snowflakes rushes into the warm interior, caressing the exposed skin of Justin’s face and hands with icy fingers. 

Shivering, for he’d taken his jacket off for the forty-minute drive home, Justin reaches across and pops the trunk before climbing out of the sedan. He collects his portfolio, his winter jacket and the box of art exhibition paraphernalia and prize ribbons he’d accumulated over the course of the day.

He’s excited to tell Brian about the awards his newest collection of paintings, entitled All That Glitters, had won. Most exciting of all, he’d been approached by a Canadian critic who had suggested that there could be a place for his collection in an upcoming exhibition at Montreal’s prestigious Museé de Beaux-Arts. 

It would’ve been great if Brian could’ve been there to see it, but Brian had been busy doing other heroic things. For someone who didn’t spend a whole lot of time with children, agreeing to single-handedly take charge of two kids under ten for a period of nine-and-a-half hours was no laughing matter. 

Indeed, Gus’ plea for a gingerbread house-making session with Dad had actually struck fear into Justin’s heart. Brian was the embodiment of a culinary disaster, but he would not be dissuaded from his desire to fulfill his son’s holiday fancy.

Given their earlier text message exchange, Justin thinks that Brian may be a good deal easier to dissuade next time. In fact, Brian may never attempt such a dangerous endeavor again - save perhaps in a situation where the fate of the world depended upon his ability to erect a gingerbread structure.  

As soon as Justin unlocks the door that leads from the garage into the house, he can sense the chaos that lies beyond the mudroom.  

There is an assortment of Jenny-Rebecca-sized footprints liberally sprinkling the grey slate tiles, and little handprints all over the walls to match them. On closer inspection, Justin deduces that the prints are outlined in what is unquestionably milk chocolate. 

In addition to the prints, there is tinsel in a stunning variety of sparkly colours strewn everywhere, along with a handful of plastic-wrapped candy canes. It looks a bit like a Christmas tree had been making a break for the great outdoors, but self-destructed just before it could make it outside.

Justin decides that it might be prudent to remove the more expensive components of his black-tie attire before proceeding further. He finds a square foot of chocolate-free space on the floor, sets down his portfolio and the box he’s carrying, and hangs up his winter jacket in the closet. He then carefully removes the suit jacket and blue silk tie he’s been wearing and hangs them on another hanger, making a mental note to take them upstairs later.

The suit is an Armani: dark, well-cut and with a faint charcoal stripe that accentuates and defines Justin’s figure in all the right places. It had been a gift from his mother and Tucker after he’d won an apprenticeship position at the Pittsburgh Museum of Contemporary Art. That had been eighteen months ago, soon after he’d come back from New York. This was only the second time he’d worn it. 

As he prepares himself to make his way through the kitchen into the den beyond – he has a hunch he’ll find Brian wherever the most alcohol is kept – he hopes the description of the kitchen as a tornadic landfall zone was an exaggeration. 

It can’t be any worse than the aftermath of the ‘Happy New Queer’s Party’ they’d held the previous year. Could it?

The New Years’ party had been fun. In fact, so much fun that Brian and Justin had decided to shelf the monogamy plan for at least another year. But the festivities had left Britin in chaos. Surely two kids couldn’t make the same mess that thirty or so inebriated adults could. (Although granted, there had not been a small-child-in-the-kitchen factor involved…)

Bracing himself, Justin moves down the hall with all the fearful anticipation of an intrepid explorer entering a jungle full of man-eating beasts. He notices that the pale blue walls are also dabbled with chocolaty fingerprints. There is also a festively-themed trail of red-and-green M&Ms partially ground into the beige carpet, augmented in places by a rainbow assortment of sticky jellybeans. 

He feels oddly as if he is in a horror movie, following this track of half-melted candy towards the terror that lies just beyond his vision. He just hopes that he’ll find Brian alive at the end, and not with a candy cane stuck through his heart. 

It is awfully quiet... 

Trying to remember which yoga exercises were supposed to lower blood pressure, Justin slowly moves into the kitchen doorway.

He’s greeted by a scene that could only accurately be described as a super saccharine disaster area. Just looking at it is enough to send someone into a sugar-induced coma.

It appears as if a vortex into Candy Land had opened up somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen table, and had divulged its sugary contents into the floor, the walls and every single flat surface.

The kitchen counters are festooned with so much flour and sugar that it seems the opening of the vortex had triggered a blizzard, originating in the pantry. An upended kitchen chair and a small stepstool stand close by, and Justin assumes that this was where the kids would have stood to help make the gingerbread. 

“And by ‘help’,” Justin adds to himself, “he means ‘contribute to the chaos that is Brian’s culinary techniques’.” 

He seriously need to tie his boyfriend down one of these days and teach him the basics of cookery. Now that they were out of the range of the Thai delivery van, it was a necessary life skill.

A pile of what looks like charcoal – but upon closer inspection is gingerbread burnt to a cinder – is a testimony to Brian’s learning how long it takes to over-bake cookies. Justin also peers into a pot that has been left on the stove, and finds it to be a quarter-full of melted sugar. Brian had at least been able to follow these instructions, which makes Justin proud. 

Almost proud enough to overlook the fact that the sugar syrup has set in the saucepan, and has taken on the physical properties of tempered steel. Almost.

A one-legged gingerbread man, bleeding chocolate syrup, balances precariously on the edge of the tabletop as if contemplating jumping to the floor and escaping. A huge bowl of yellow butter icing has been tipped over in the centre of the table, most of its contents spread over the surface like a pastel-coloured river system. Chocolate wafers have set sail in it, and now stand in suspended animation in the middle of the sugary flow.

Graham crackers in various stages of disarticulation are broken and crunched under the table and chair legs, as well as being dispersed across most of the kitchen floor. 

All but one of the small bowls of candy decorations – cinnamon hearts, peppermints, ribbon candy, jujubes, and chocolate-covered raisins – has been upturned.  The pieces that hadn’t survived to make it onto a gingerbread house now add to the multi-colored collage that bedecks the table and most of the floor.

And there are fucking sprinkles everywhere. 

The entire room seems to glitter with what Justin estimated to be at least five bottles of edible pink, blue and white sparkles. Someone had obviously decided that his or her gingerbread house was to be occupied by either a Fairy Princess or Michael Jackson.

A movement to his left catches Justin’s eye. He looks up to see Brian’s cat – and she was Brian’s cat – looking up at him reproachfully with her intense blue eyes. 

Justin had been away at a conference in Maine the weekend Brian had found her. She had been curled up, shivering and alone, by the small stream behind Britin. Brian had taken the tiny, half-drowned and starving kitten back to the house to feed her and warm her up. 

He always maintains that it had been his intention to take the cat to the A.S.P.C.A as soon as she was well enough. But the feisty grey kitten, which Brian had by then christened ‘Ophelia’, was still there when Justin got back from his conference a week later. 

It was clear that Ophelia had decided for herself that Britin was home, and that Brian was her pet human. It was clear also – although he would never, ever admit it – that Brian adored her.

Ophelia gazes at Justin for a long moment, looking displeased to find him there. She’d always viewed Justin as a direct competitor for Brian’s affections, and therefore the two had never really got along.

“What?” Justin asks her, spreading his hands. “You think it was my fault that a small human chased you around and tried to eat you? I’ll have you know it was you beloved Master’s idea to bring her here.”

Narrowing her eyes in a way that was uncannily human, Ophelia gives him an aloof look that says ‘I don’t believe you’. She turns, swishing her small grey tail, and trots off into the den to find Brian. Justin shakes his head and follows.

As he makes his way carefully across the room, hearing sugar and sprinkles crunch beneath his feet, he tries to avoid stepping on the more messy obstacles. He tries not to think about how long it’s going to take him and Brian to clean up the aftermath of Operation Gingerbread House.

He’s going to need a stiff drink before he can face the kitchen again. And possibly a stiff dick, as well.

The den, just beyond the kitchen, is in semi-darkness. It’s a very masculine room, a very Brian room. Justin squints against the gloom as he moves tentatively into the space, noting that the fire in the ornate fireplace has long since burnt itself into glowing embers. 

It’s very still and very quiet as Justin scans the room for any sign of life. Perhaps he’d been wrong in his assumption that he’d find Brian here. Maybe he’d been so traumatized by the experience that he’d gone up to bed. 

Justin nearly leaps out of his skin when he feels warm fingers close around his hand.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelps, his heart in his mouth as he looks down to see Brian’s face peering up at him. “You fucking scared me!”

Brian had been in one of the ornate leather armchairs by the door, which wasn’t the coziest place to sit in the room. He’d evidently not had the strength of will to make it all the way over to the more comfortable chairs by the fire. Ophelia is curled up in his lap, giving Justin a smug look that says all too clearly, “Mine.”.

“Sorry,” Brian breathes, continuing to hold onto Justin’s fingers and giving them a gentle squeeze. “I was…dozing. It’s been a long, looong day.”

Brian’s voice is slightly slurred, but not enough to make Justin think that he’s really drunk. He’s holding a glass of amber liquid in his free hand, and Justin notices the bottle of Rouge Dark on the side table. It’s still about three-quarters full.

“Thought I’d break out the eggnog,” Brian explains, following Justin’s gaze. He gives the glass in his hand a small shake, making the ice cubes clink. “Only without the eggnog part. I hate that shit.”

Justin snorts and perches on the arms of the chair. He weaves his fingers through Brian’s thick, dark hair, smirking to himself when his fingers come into contact with a glob of butter icing.

“You don’t hate it once you get going,” he corrects. He massages the back of Brian’s neck with his fingertips, just below the hairline. “I’ve seen you pack away several gallons of eggnog at Deb’s annual Board Game Extravaganza Nights.”

Brian leans his head back and closes his eyes as Justin works the tension from his neck muscles.

“Doesn’t count. That was self-preservation. I would never survive Board Game Night without the eggnog.”

They sit in a comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the peace and quiet after what had proven to be an eventful day for them both. 

Eventually Brian sets down the rum glass and snags Justin’s wrist. He tugs sharply and Justin tumbles half into his lap, dislodging an irritated Ophelia. Justin giggles as he rights himself again, and then wedges himself in beside Brian as best as he can, snuggling up against his warm body.

Ophelia seems determined not to be left out of the group hug. She jumps back onto Brian’s lap and snuggles into his other side, burrowing into the crook of his arm. She purrs as Brian rubs his thumb gently across her small forehead.

He also puts an arm around Justin’s shoulders and kisses the top of his head.

“How was the show?’ he murmurs into Justin’s hair. 

Brian’s words send little vibrations tingling down from the top of Justin’s head down his spine. He shivers involuntarily. 

“It was all right,” Justin tells him. He picks up Brian’s hands and weaves the long fingers with his. “I won some shit.”

He can feel Brian’s lips curl into a smile against his brow. Brian moves his head back slightly, gently pulling Justin away from him so that he can look him in the face.  Justin meets his eyes and can see the respect lingering in the green-gold depths.

“It think it was better than all right,” he murmurs. He leans forward to kiss his favorite spot on Justin’s face, the narrow strip of skin under his nose where the upper lip begins to swell. “They posted the results online this evening. I went to look at them as soon as I’d packed Gus and J.R. off to Grandma’s.”

Justin is so touched by this that he’s not sure what to say. 

“You really checked how well I did online?” he asks. He reaches out to lay three fingers on Brian’s chin, needing to touch him. 

Brian smiles and takes Justin’s fingers in his, pulling them away from his face and squeezing them gently. 

“I did want to be there,” he murmurs. “I knew you’d do well. I would’ve liked to see you wowing the crowds and sweeping up all the awards. It… well, it would’ve made me proud. It does make me proud. You make me proud.”

Justin holds his gaze for a long moment, feeling emotion swelling in his chest. Brian always did this to him. He always knew in his heart what Brian thought and felt about him, but to hear it in words just meant so much. 

“You made me proud today, too,” he tells Brian, reaching over to caress the other man’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Fatherhood is a harder hurdle to leap than a soiree with a bunch of art fairies. But, judging from the state of the kitchen, I’d say Gus and Jenny had the time of their fucking lives.”

“I’ll bet,” Brian snorts with a sheepish smile. “I let them get away with shit that would make any normal parent have a conniption fit. And they were definitely on a sugar-high that would get them to Mars and back by the time the Munchers came to pick them up. And…Gus gave me this just before he left.”

Brian reaches over and picks up piece of computer paper, folded into a makeshift card, from the side table. He hands it to Justin, who immediately recognizes the drawing on the front  - not a bad rendition of a reindeer - as being in Gus’ distinctive drawing style. 

The image is coloured in with pencil crayon, and Justin is thrilled to see that Gus has used the shadowing technique he’d taught him a few months earlier.

Inside there is message, written in a third-graders’ careful and deliberate printing.

 

“Dear Dad,

Today was the best day of the year for me. Me and J.R. are happy that we got to visit you. You let us do stuff Mom and Mama wouldn’t. I wish I could come more and stay with you and Justin. When I’m ten, I will come and live with you and we can make more gingerbread houses, kay? 

You are the best Dad ever. Happy Christma-kkah! 

Love Gus.”

 

Justin reads the message twice and then folds the card carefully. He looks up at Brian who has a faraway expression on his face, a hint of sadness creasing the corners of his eyes. Justin knows exactly what he is thinking – he’s seen this inner turmoil so many times. 

Brian so much wants Gus know how much he loves him, and how much he longs to spend more time with him. But the circumstances that keep them apart from each other are still too complicated to explain to an eight-year-old. 

Justin leans forward and kisses Brian tenderly on the lips. He waits a moment for Brian to come back to himself, and then kisses him again more deeply.

“Gus knows, Brian,” he murmurs against the soft, compliant lips. “He loves you and always will. And so will I - even if you do turn my kitchen into a hurricane landfall site.”

Brian gives an amused snort and pulls Justin back against him. Justin grins and puts an arm protectively across Brian’s stomach, laying his head against Brian’s shoulder. Not to be outdone, Ophelia stretches out then makes a show of getting comfortable again in the crook of Brian’s arm.

“The kitchen may take three to four weeks of clean-up effort,” Justin comments with a yawn. “I’d say the damage is roughly equivalent to the eruption of Krakatoa. But we’d better get the sugar off the floor as soon as possible or we’ll get mice. Or worse, squirrels.”

Brian shudders and nods. Of all the worldly creatures, Brian despises squirrels above all else. He’s convinced that each and every one holds a personally vendetta against him, and Justin just can’t help teasing him about it.

He’s trying to think up a witty, squirrel-related comment when Justin feels his hand on the inside of his thigh, exerting a slight but very suggestive pressure.

“Could it wait fifteen…no, better make that twenty minutes?” Brian breathes. His voice is silky with seduction. “I know a really great way that we could both unwind from our long, challenging and successful days.”

Justin squirms slightly as Brian’s fingers deftly undo his belt and slowly unzip his fly. He relishes the slight pressure Brian’s hand exerts against his belly as he works his fingers under the band of his silk underwear.

“I like this idea,” he murmurs contentedly to Brian. “It’s much better way of relaxing than yoga…”

This was why he had come back to Pittsburgh. This was why he had come back to Brian.

It was here that life glittered.

**

THE END.