Things that are okay when Brian and Justin were alone or with the kids weren’t necessarily okay all the time.

This understanding loomed always. Like waiting for the other shoe to fall.

It didn’t.

It didn’t.

But then, just when Brian got sort of comfortable, it did.

Brian’s humiliation and fear returned, and with an intensity and a quickness that he found nauseating.

One might ask, and rightly so, what could occur to bring about this devolution.

After all, Brian had taken Justin to Babylon and (in front of friends and past and potentially future tricks) grinded against him (albeit after dressing him in slimming attire). He’d eviscerated two rude near-tricks and nearly done the same to Mikey when they’d disparaged Justin’s body. And he’d insisted, with a sensitivity that shocked him most of all, that Justin hide nothing when they fuck. But Brian hadn’t simply gotten used to Justin’s “flaw.” He hadn’t drowned it with a hundred justifications, with a list of all Justin’s other “charms.”

Nope.

Brian blamed the dating site “project.” In the course of accoutering and positioning Justin to best effect … and photographing him, Brian had looked at Justin from every conceivable angle.

He’d stared at Justin’s perfectly shaped ass …

… his seemingly perfectly smooth back … that was in fact, downy, covered as it was in fine, soft blond hairs that glowed when the sun hit Justin just right … a patchwork of pink and ivory … dotted with chestnut freckles and the occasional deep, deep brown mole (three, to be exact) …

… the slight twist to his spine (Brian guessed from a mild case of scoliosis) …

… the curve of his neck, which, with the light behind Justin, and the tens of little hairs thereon, seemed to glow (in nimbus-like fashion) …

… the three gray hairs right by his left temple and the two tiny freckles just under his jaw. (Yes, Brian had zoomed in that close.) …

… his plump perfectly shaped lips, glistening and parted slightly …

… the flush in his cheeks, that often drifted down to his shoulders and chest … and accompanied by an almost ethereal sheen …

… and, when Brian put the camera on “accent,” Justin’s face, in fact his entire body, suffused with an otherworldly glow …

And the rest?

When Brian looked at Justin’s abdomen from the side, he saw the “tires” … and from the front, the young Santa belly (Justin was quite a bit less “jolly” than Santa) … but Brian also saw his smooth ivory skin, not a hint of color (Justin wouldn’t be caught dead naked in the sun), his nipple ring, glinting gold, and his belly button, his somewhat gaping belly button, which always caused a hint of a smile to creep across Brian’s lips, especially after the Barney Inkin episode in the warehouse.

Brian saw it all, and the sight didn’t cause him to flinch, to hesitate, or to grow nauseous (all reactions Brian’d had, though with decreasing frequency as time passed). Not even a little. Brian saw all of Justin and simply wanted him. Just as he was. Without hesitation or reservation. And he wanted Justin around. For a long, long time.

Stupid dating site, stupid Joe, stupid camera.

All this was passing through Brian’s mind when he saw Justin swinging his soft cotton shirt and then the silver and black broom at the bat. So when Justin flew into Brian’s arms, Brian held on, and tightly, and then he slid his hands up Justin’s back (relishing in the smoothness of Justin’s skin and tracing Justin’s slightly twisted spine lightly with a finger, which caused Justin to shiver, and, then like a domino effect, Brian with him) and along his neck (upsetting the tens of hairs rooted there and eliciting from Justin a shudder-y gasp) and finally buried his fingers in Justin’s longish blond hair. In fact, he proceeded to fist Justin’s hair. Then he pulled Justin close, suddenly, fiercely, drawing, no rending, from Justin a half choked gasp, and slid his lips over Justin’s. Into them would be more accurate. Brian had noted, time and time again, with, at first, a frightening discomfort, how well they fit together. How well all their parts fit together.

That’s when it happened. Molly and Gus hissed and screamed. (Molly hissed. Gus screamed.) “EWWWWWWWWWWWW!” Then Molly swung around in disgust, as she did so letting out an exasperated sigh (one worthy of Jennifer Taylor). Gus covered his eyes and then peeked sideways through his fingers.

But that’s not “the thing” that happened.

“The thing” (the world-changing, moment-wrecking thing) that happened was that someone threw the loft door open, or rather, slid it open, but hard, so hard it bounced and caused the very walls to shake and the slam to reverberate. Gus jumped, but kept his eyes trained on his dad and Justin. Molly turned toward the intruder and crossed her arms.

That someone (the intruder) was Dylan. As a semi-frequent visitor, he had the code and the key.

So there it was … or rather, there they were. Humiliation and fear. Back, and so visceral, Brian felt faint and like puking.

Not right away, of course. Before Brian could react to Dylan’s reaction, Dylan had to react. And react he did.

But first an introduction …

(You are no doubt asking, who the fuck is Dylan?)

One could describe him in a lot of different ways.

An Australian with a thick accent and blond hair.

(his hair) not short. Not long. Maybe two inches shorter than Justin’s. His hair was so blond it was almost white and looked perennially crimped, like he’d put it in a passel of braids before bed, unplaited them upon waking, shook his head a few times, and then left the apartment (sometimes even wrapping it in a hair tie, thus fashioning what appeared to be a bun).

Super tan.

Tall, but an inch and a half shorter than Brian, which Brian was always emphasizing, hovering over the man whenever possible and grinning.

Built but not a muscle head.

A soccer player and a surfer (when in the appropriate clime).

Former international student.

Brian’s college roommate …

… classmate …

… professional and sexual rival …

… and of course … lover.

Though Brian wouldn’t have used that word. But trick wasn’t appropriate, either.

Dylan was an advertising executive. He’d moved to New York immediately after graduating college and almost as immediately landed a job at the biggest advertising firm there.

Brian hated Dylan.

Dylan was less successful in back rooms than in board rooms. This was where Brian reigned supreme. They’d participated in an uncountable number of conquest contests over the years, and Brian always won. Hands down.

Dylan hated Brian, too.

Oddly, they also liked each other. One could easily call them “frenemies.” Though, to be fair, that was pretty much “how Brian rolled.” Only Lindsay, Mikey, and Justin failed to meet the definition.

A couple or few times a year, Dylan appeared at the loft, without notice, without asking. Brian and Dylan would fuck and then go out on the prowl. They’d spend the next two days fucking, in orgies and conquest contests, and then Dylan would disappear, with as little fanfare as when he arrived.

Back to the present … Dylan gaped and then (when he’d recovered sufficiently) laughed. What was Brian doing kissing (kissing!!!) a fatso? “Bri, you doing court-ordered community service, noaw?” In his thirteen years in the United States, Dylan's accent had remained just as it was the day he first set foot in the Pitts.

Molly dropped her arms, but then brought one back up, placing her hand on her hip.

Brian had been too preoccupied with Justin to hear the EWWWWW or the door (slam-slide shut). But he heard Dylan’s lilting brogue. He lifted his head, but didn’t turn it. He, and every part of his body, was frozen.

Justin suffered no such condition. But he was dazed. He had been too preoccupied with Brian (Brian, Brian’s firm, yet soft lips, Brian’s fingers –still– tangled in his hair, and –and– Brian’s erection, which was pressed against his own –even now) to hear the EWWWWW or the door (slam-slide shut) or Dylan’s lilting brogue. He only knew that Brian’s lips were no longer on his. His eyes fluttered open, and he murmured, “Hmmm …”

Finally (now that “the show” was over), Gus let his hands fall (he’d been mesmerized by the kissing). Molly stomped over to Dylan and started interrogating him, “Who are you? Why are you here? Why is your hair in a bun?”

Molly’s interrogation sent Justin crashing back to the real, non-floaty world. He snapped his head toward her and nearly jumped when he saw that they had company. He moved to grab Molly.

Brian, finally remembering himself, let go of Justin, stepped back, took a deep breath, and then pivoted. Dylan smiled. Flashed his dimples. Completely ignoring Molly (from his perspective, a glaring mean-looking girl), he quipped (to Brian), “Did you have a slash on another Jack?” Molly didn’t like being ignored. She promptly kicked Dylan in the shin, hissed, “I’m calling 9-1-1,” and made a run for the phone (the land line).

Dylan yelped and cried, “What’s up with the littlies?”

Another sigh (from Brian). Dylan didn’t know Brian had a son. In fact, Dylan knew almost nothing about Brian’s personal life (since graduation anyway). They fucked. They didn’t talk.

Justin caught Molly mid-leap and pulled her back against him. Gus was now facing Dylan, though still standing a foot or two behind his dad and Justin. He stared at Dylan (from his perspective, a scarecrow robber) with wide, unblinking eyes and pet Sweetie.

He said to her, still staring at Dylan, “The robber talks funny.”

Sweetie didn’t respond.

TBC...