Title:  Timeless

 Author:  Cynical21

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 It was only time.  He had said so himself.

 Only time.

 Except that it was time without end, and he had known it from the beginning.

But that wasn’t quite right either.  One element of it was infinite, true enough – the part that was the absence of the young man who had once been the center of his world.  But another element – the primary element – would end when the moment was right; when the damage inflicted by time’s relentless passage would make it impossible to continue the existence he had embraced throughout his life.

Only a few months passed before he knew that he had been right from the beginning.  He had allowed himself to watch from a distance – had followed the articles in the Times and in the art magazines and read the insider reviews that Lindsey thoughtfully provided for him – and things were turning out exactly as he had expected.

Justin was taking the New York art scene by storm, heralded by virtually every critic as a “new, sexier version of Jackson Pollock”.

His first big exhibition was only three days away, at a very exclusive, very prestigious little gallery called Bergérie in the east village.

Brian had received a personal invitation a week earlier, followed by dozens of messages on his answering machine, confirming the time and the place and the circumstances.

He had answered none of them, and failed to RSVP.

It was not that he didn’t want to go, didn’t want to see Justin.  Didn’t want to walk into the place where he would find the young man and promptly throw him down and fuck him through the floor.  Yes, that was exactly  what he wanted to do.

But he wouldn’t. 

First of all, it would be counterproductive.  That time had passed.  And secondly, it would violate the only rule he’d ever cared to live by:  no excuses - no apologies – no regrets.

Brian Kinney did not allow himself to regret anything, and if, perhaps, there was a quiet spot deep in his heart – a dark, locked space contained within a pristine wall which was full to the brim with the tears he never allowed anyone to see or fathom – it was absolutely no one’s business but his.

Beautiful hazel eyes – eyes that had mesmerized an entire generation of gay men along with a not insignificant number of women, gay or otherwise – gazed down into the dark amber of his drink and did not focus on the memories that stirred in his thoughts.

He did not allow himself to dwell on the past, or to ponder any questions of what might have been.  He had never once, for example, reflected on the fact that he had volunteered, during their very brief formal engagement, to give Justin exactly what he’d always claimed to want – total commitment, total love, total acknowledgement of his feelings.   Of course, Justin had ultimately realized that a devoted, committed, totally faithful Brian was not the Brian he had fallen in love with. At almost the same moment, Brian had realized what Justin would be giving up in order to become his spouse, and known immediately that it was a sacrifice that he could not accept and Justin would one day grow to resent.

Thus he had come to the only conclusion he could reach.  Their commitment to each other – their love for each other – was simply not meant to be.  So he’d found other things to occupy his time.

He had rebuilt Babylon, even though he’d meant to sell it; he had canceled the sale of his loft, and the purchase of the big estate that Justin had wanted to christen “Bri-Tin”, had continued to grow his business into a huge success, opening a new office in Philadelphia and, just recently, in New York, although he never went there himself.  He had even invested time and effort in a little private project of his own involving honest-to-God manual labor, and who the fuck would ever believe that about Brian Kinney.   And he had regenerated his old lifestyle, in a renewed effort to fuck any new man who caught his fancy, although he never again broke his rule about no repeats.                                                                

It had been an intensely busy year.

He had also managed to build a good relationship with his son, picking him up from his two moms in Toronto and taking him on a trip to Disney World and following through by spoiling him with designer duds for tots and an obscenely huge pile of expensive toys.  He forced himself to spend holidays at Debbie’s house so he could be a peripheral part of a family unit, and he and Mikey occasionally engaged in familiar adolescent behavior, to renew their connection to each other.

And he had indulged himself in one new toy – a classic 2002 Screamin’ Eagle Harley Davidson customized Road King, a rich, crimson beauty – one of only 400 that were made.  He wasn’t sure which he loved more – the sleek, graceful lines of the bike itself, or the way heads turned when he donned his tight leathers to ride it which he usually did on week-ends.

He was still the center of attention, no matter where he went.

But inside, Brian remained alone.  And moreso with every passing day.

On this night, he sat on his horrendously expensive Italian sofa and spent a moment gazing at the framed photograph of his son, listening as the phone rang.  He made no attempt to answer it, and was not surprised when the voice on the answering machine sounded weary and frustrated.

“You’re not coming . . . are you?  I think I knew it all along.  It’s really . . . over.  Isn’t it?”

There were a few seconds of silence, the sound of a deep breath being drawn, and a soft click.

Brian glanced at his watch.  Almost ten, but not really too late.

He dialed the familiar number quickly, and was inordinately grateful that Lindsey’s dulcet tones greeted him, rather than Melanie’s brusque rumble. 

“Are you going to New York?”  he asked, without preamble.

“Yes, of course,” she answered, not even bothering to chide him for rudeness.  “Shall I meet you there?”

 “No,” he said sharply, “but I need a favor.”

He explained quickly and succinctly what he wanted and then waited for Lindsey to respond.  There was a heavy sadness in her voice when she did.

 “Brian, why do you  . . .”

 “Will you just do it, please?  Or do I need to make other arrangements?”

 “I’ll do it,” she said quickly.  “But can’t you at least  . . .”

 “Oh, for Christ’s sake, can we please not have another session of Dyke Psych 101?”

He could almost hear her frown.  “Mel’s right.  You really are an asshole.”

“Which has nothing to do with what I asked.  So . . .”

 "I’ll do it,” she answered with a sigh, “But I don’t have to like it.”

 “No,” he agreed.  “You just have to do what I asked.”

 “And you?” she snapped.  “What are you going to be doing?”

 “Same as always,” he replied easily, leaving her to draw her own conclusions.

“Brian,” she said, after a slight pause, “we’ve talked to Debbie a couple of times lately.  And we’ve heard some ugly rumors about things happening in the Pit.  Gay-bashing. Vigilante crap.  Vandalism and nasty graffiti on some of the Liberty Avenue buildings.  Shit like that.  Is everything okay?  Are you . . .”

“Awww,” he drawled.  “The kwazy wesbians are worried about wittle old me? I’m touched.”

"Don’t be touched,” she snapped.  “Be careful.  I don’t want to have to explain to my son why his daddy had to depart to shop in that great Armani superstore in the sky.”

Brian heard the genuine concern beneath the strident tone, but refused to respond with equal candor.  “You know me, Linds.  I’m indestructible.”

In the small townhouse in Toronto, Melanie leaned forward across her partner’s shoulders and called out her greeting.  “Night night, Asshole.”

“Sleep tight, Cunt,” he responded, equally loud.

He hung up and spent a few moments gazing down into his glass of JB.  It was still early, and Babylon would be filled with energy and music and bright lights and plenty of firm young bodies, any number of whom would be more than happy to court his favor and suck his cock.

On the other hand, the semi-concealed doorway to the little space which he had come to consider his inner sanctum was slightly ajar, dark and offering no hint of what lay within it, but somehow not the least bit forbidding.  The fruit of his own labors.  He knew it was a little silly, but he was rather proud of his accomplishment.

He poured himself another drink . . . and went seeking sanctuary.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC