The newspaper lay on his desk when he returned from lunch at the diner.  Folded in half, it displayed a single article with bold headlines:  “Justin Taylor Returns to Hometown for Exhibit at PIFA.”

His neck flared a deep shade of crimson.  Who had left this here?  Cynthia?  Ted?  No one else at Kinnetik would even dare.  Without bothering to read further, he punched a button on his phone.

"Cynthia?  I expect both you and Ted in my office in five.  No excuses."

He yanked off his tie, feeling suddenly constricted and trapped.  He had not mentioned Justin's name in years.  Now, in the space of two weeks, he had run into the boy—man—and received an article about him.  The carefully constructed bubble of his life was taking a beating.

Ted and Cynthia entered a few moments later, understandably apprehensive.  Brian was generous to his employees, but they had to endure his occasional tempers, none of which were pretty.

Brian turned the article around so it was facing them and rested his palms on the desk, eyes flicking between them in a steely glare.

"Which one of you is responsible for this?"

After sharing a glance, they leaned forward to read the title.  Cynthia gasped, while Ted pressed his lips together to prevent himself from doing the same.

"Well?"

Ted shook his head.  "Wasn't me, Bri, I swear.  I had no idea Justin was even coming to town.  I haven't spoken to him since he left years ago."

Brian swiveled his head, narrowing his eyes at Cynthia.

"Brian, I had no idea . . . I let Michael in here while you were gone, but I didn't know he was planning on leaving anything for you."

Brian fell into his chair, the fury draining from him with a sigh. 

"Michael?  He left this?"

"It must have been him.  No one else has been in here all morning.  I'm so sorry, Brian.  He's your best friend, so I told him to go ahead."

Brian waved away her apology.  "You couldn't have known.  My apologies to you both for getting angry.  I'll track down Mikey later."

Cynthia nodded and left the office, but Ted waited until she was out of earshot.

"Are you going?"

It was obvious he was referring to the exhibit.

"No.  I hardly think it would be appropriate."

"Maybe he would enjoy seeing you."

"I said no, Theodore.  End of discussion."

Ted dropped his eyes to the floor respectfully and made his exit.

Brian logged into his computer and spent a wasted hour trying to work.  He finally gave up, snatched his briefcase and the newspaper, and headed out to the main work area.

"Cynthia, I'm out of here for the day.  Forward my calls to voicemail, please."

"Sure, boss."  She watched him leave with a sympathetic grimace, thankful that she was not Michael Novotny-Bruckner.

###

Justin rubbed his stained shirtsleeve across his forehead, leaving a streak of blue behind.  Dipping his paintbrush into his palette, he added a few more strokes of red, then stood back to examine the picture.

He had not used actual paint for some time, preferring the computer for detailed work.  His gimp hand tended to falter after an hour of solid painting, meaning he needed to complete it in pieces.  Fortunately, he had finished two months’ worth of Maddie strips, allowing him plenty of time to work on this particular art.

He began this canvas the day after he saw Brian in The Playroom.  Memories plagued him the entire night, and the idea for this picture had grown from hours of pacing his tiny apartment.  Needless to say, Brian had been the direct inspiration for what had become his current obsession.

Daphne had stopped by the next day to check on him.  He brushed aside her concerns, already busy sketching a rough draft of his idea.

"Well, you want to stay with me when you come to Pittsburgh?  Or are you planning to stay with your mom?"

"If you're good with it, I'll stay with you.  Mom and Tucker really don't have a room for me."

Daphne moved to sit beside him on the couch, leaning her head on his shoulder to see his sketchpad.

"You're always welcome at my place, you dork.  It will be like old times!"  She frowned at the drawing.  "Is this going to be an abstract painting or something?"

"Not really."  Justin smiled.  "I'm kind of hoping it will make a point."

"And that would be?"

"Don't worry.  When you see the finished product, I think you'll know."

After Daphne left, he posted the sketch on a wall in his studio and began the first strokes.  He had worried he would not finish it in time, but now it was complete.  Tomorrow, he would carefully package it for transport to Pittsburgh.  He hoped to convince the institute to display it in a special place, secluded from his other work.

There was no guarantee the painting would be seen by who it was intended for, but Justin was willing to gamble.

If Fate decides to mess with me again, I'm ready.

###

It was nearly dinnertime when Brian reached Michael's comic store, and it was deserted.  Good.  He flipped the sign on the door to “closed.”

"Mikey!"  He yelled.

His best friend since high school appeared from the back room, holding a stack of comics.  His face broke into its customary grin when he saw Brian.

"Brian!  What are you doing here?  It's not Babylon night."  Michael accompanied Brian every Tuesday night to Babylon.  It was their routine:  a night together with no tricks or spouses.

Brian did not return the smile.  Wordlessly, he held up the newspaper.

"Oh great!  Did you read the article I left?  Cool, huh?"

"Cool?"  Brian took a step forward, eyes narrowed.  "You call it cool?  What the hell you aiming at, Novotny?"  He cleared his throat.  "I mean, Novotny-Bruckner."

Michael took a step back, recognizing that his friend was skating the edge of a tantrum.  No one could queen out like Brian when he got riled up.

"I thought . . . was sure you'd be interested.  I mean, the two of you were an item for five years."

Brian raised one finger threateningly.  "First, we weren't an item.  Second, I haven't talked to Justin in years.  Why would you think I would be interested?"

Michael calmly placed the comics down, putting his hands on his hips.

"Well, if I wasn't sure, I am now.  If you didn't care, you wouldn't be in here waving your finger at me.  You going to punch me?"

"I have only ever punched you once."

"Over Justin, as I recall."

Brian dropped his eyes to the floor and sighed.  "You crossed the line, Novotny."

"By doing what?  Leaving a newspaper article in your office?  If you don't want to read it, just throw it out!  There's a trash can right there."  Michael pointed at the black basket near the door.

Running a hand over his face, Brian closed his eyes.  When he reopened them, he placed his hand hesitantly on Michael's shoulder.

"You're right.  I'm sorry."  He gave Michael a squeeze, offering an apologetic smile.

Michael leaned forward and placed a kiss on Brian's lips.  It's okay.

"Look, how about you come home with me tonight?  Ben's making this great linguini . . . ."

"Nah, but thanks anyway.  I need to go home and finish some stuff for work.  You go ravish Ben in my stead, okay?"

"Will do."  Michael watched fondly as Brian left.  It was not until later, when he locked up, that he realized Brian had taken the newspaper with him when he left.

###

The Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Art had renovated one of its display galleries for Justin's exhibit, using room dividers to section the room into different viewing areas.  Visitors began by walking through his earlier works before the bashing, and then his digital art at PIFA, including, at Justin's insistence, his political posters denouncing Stockwell.  Justin ensured that a placard near the posters explained why they resulted in his expulsion from the school.  When the administrators balked, Justin threatened to withdraw his works, and the placard was placed exactly as he wished.

The next area highlighted his post-PIFA works, including the comic, Rage.  Further, the focus turned to Maddie and the mix of digital and conventional art he began employing in New York.  At the very end of the circuit, a room was set apart and contained a single painting displayed in low lights.  Here was the final canvas, the one he had recently completed.

Justin arrived early with Daphne, his mother, Tucker, and Molly.  Dressed in a dark gray suit with a midnight blue shirt, he held still while Tucker took his picture with Molly, Jennifer, and Daphne.  Justin followed along while they wandered through his exhibit, taking advantage of the gallery's emptiness before it opened to the public.  Daphne giggled at the posters of Stockwell and the framed panels of Rage.

"God, that was a fun time back then, watching you draw this stuff while you were living with me."

Justin smiled wistfully.  "Yeah.  Good times.  Remember how stoned we were that one night when . . . ."  Jennifer turned sharply, and Justin quickly amended his words.  "I mean, when we rocked all night to that music you made me listen to?"

Molly laughed, and Jennifer shook her head in despair.  "It's a wonder you survived at all, but then, I guess Brian wasn't the best of influences," she said.

A silence fell.  Justin looked away, expressionless, and only Daphne saw him clench his fists inside his pockets.  Jennifer patted his arm contritely.

"I'm sorry, honey.  I know you prefer to forget him."

Justin grimaced, unable to reply.  Instead, he pushed forward, leading them to the New York pictures.  Once there, he quietly watched as they scrutinized his more recent works.  They had never seen many of these, and he acknowledged their praise with a casual shrug.  Daphne moved the fastest, and before long, she entered the last area where his final painting hung.

Justin gave her a few minutes before entering.  Daphne stood in the center of the space, just staring at the picture.  Not wanting to startle her, he laid a hand on her shoulder as he came to her side.

"So?  What do you think?"

"Is this what you were sketching the night after you saw Brian?"

"Yes."

"Wow, Justin."  She stepped closer, taking in more of the details.  "This is . . . stunning.  Not to mention symbolic."

"It's supposed to be." 

"You drew this for him, didn't you?"

"I drew it for myself.  To purge the last of him from my mind."

She turned slowly, her expression so gentle, he wanted to run from it.

"And did it work?"

Did it?

"I don't know," he whispered.

###

Michael, Ben, and Debbie were one of the first to make it through the exhibit.  Justin stood among the refreshment tables at the end, greeting visitors and accepting praise for his works.  Even before he saw them, he heard the ear-splitting shriek echoing through the gallery.

"Sunshine!"

His namesake smile already in place, he excused himself from one of the institute instructors, and turned, arms outstretched, as Debbie flew into his arms.

She planted a resounding kiss on his cheek before pulling back and squeezing his face between her palms.

"Look at you!  You still look like you're twenty!  Don't people age in New York?"

"Don't people age here?"  He laughed, running his hand over her flaming red wig.  Her purple sequined dress had several rainbow brooches arrayed around her neckline.  Yes, she was still the same Debbie. 

"Pshh.  I feel my age, trust me."

Michael and Ben came forward, surrounding Justin in a bear hug.

"You put my name on the Rage exhibit!"  Michael was ecstatic.

"Of course, I did.  We were a team, remember?"

"Do you know, I still keep copies in the store, and people still buy them.  There's never been another gay superhero since."  He grew more serious.  "You really should let me send you your half of the sales."

"Nah.  Keep it, Michael.  I'm good with Maddie."

"Your work is amazing, Justin," said Ben.  "I like the references to gay culture you've woven into your art.  If you ever have time, I would love to have you as a guest speaker in one of my classes."

"Thanks," said Justin, flushing.  "I'll think about it and get back to you."

Jennifer and Tucker approached, joining the group and swapping greetings and hugs.  Michael pulled Justin aside when Debbie started a long tale about Carl's last homicide case.

"I told him about your exhibit.  Left the local newspaper article on his office desk."

Justin did not need to ask whom.  "Let me guess.  He told you off."

"Yeah, but you know how Brian is.  He may still come."

"Actually, Michael, I don't know anything about him anymore.  We haven't been in contact for eleven years.  And I don't care if he comes or not."

"You think I don't know who that last painting is for?"

"Drop it, Michael."

"He's not exactly the same Brian Kinney.  The change has been so subtle, even I took a while to notice, but . . . ."

"Michael."  Justin shot him a glare.  "I don’t care."  He turned his back and rejoined the group listening to Debbie.

A high-pitched yell of glee signaled Emmett's approach.  Flamboyant as ever, he was dressed in tight leather pants with a neon purple button-down shirt.  A black, sequined scarf draped his shoulders, matching the dark eyeliner around his eyes.  Ted followed behind, dressed in a plain white sweater and khakis.  Both gave Justin a hug, complete with a chaste kiss on the cheek from Emmett.

"Baby, look at you!  The twink is all grown up!"

Justin grinned.  "And the queen diva is as fashionable as ever."

"He's got a reputation to maintain, you know," said Ted, linking his arm with Emmett.

Justin's gaze flicked between the two.  "Wait . . . are you guys together again?"

"Four years now."  Emmett caressed Ted's arm fondly.

"I guess it was always destiny."  Ted shrugged, but his nonchalance did not cover his satisfaction as he wrapped an arm around Emmett's waist.

"Guys, that's great."  Justin smiled at the two happy couples:  Michael and Ben, and Ted and Emmett.  He was genuinely happy that they had found happiness, but it made him miss Adam. 

Daphne came up behind him, tugging on his arm.

"Come here," she whispered in his ear.

Puzzled, he followed her toward the doorway exiting the gallery.  From here, the beginning of the exhibit was visible around a large partition.  She nodded toward the first area where his earliest art hung, and he peeked around the divider.

"He came."

Daphne sounded as surprised as Justin felt.  He had not been certain Brian would come.

His former lover wore an Armani suit, tailored as always to fit Brian perfectly.  At forty-five, he was still beautiful, with not a speck of gray in his hair.

Justin gestured to the others by the refreshments.  "Can you keep them occupied here?  I'll be back."

"What are you going to do?"

"Honestly?  I'm not sure yet, but I'll figure it out."

Without another word, he took off, threading his way through the dividers out of sight of Brian.  Daphne sighed but returned to the group as he had asked.

"Where's Justin?" asked Michael.

"I'm not sure," she replied.  "Restroom, maybe?"

She changed the subject, asking about his comic store, always a safe topic with Michael.  As she listened with half an ear, her thoughts flew elsewhere, hoping that Justin knew what he was doing.

###

The pictures of Rage brought a smirk to Brian's lips.  He wondered how many people knew who Rage was based on, not that it mattered.  After Justin went to New York, the comic had ended, the last issue being the one where Rage and JT married.

The one marriage that happened.  He was surprised at the bitterness in that thought.  After all, he had been as relieved as Justin to cancel the wedding.  No regrets there; he was not made for monogamy.  Marriage was for breeders, and he still believed that.

Then why the ache, Kinney?  Or you going to deny it as usual?

Fuck, he did not need this now.  Why had he come here?  He had buried his history with Justin long ago, had accepted its end.  Hell, the decision to end it had been his.  He did not blame Justin for his animosity.  Hadn't Brian deserved it?

He glanced behind him, toying with the idea of leaving, but there was a substantial crowd following along in a queue.  Leaving would make more of scene than staying.  Gritting his teeth, he moved on to the New York pictures.

He knew these works almost as well as he knew Rage.  No one else knew, but he had followed Justin's career closely.  He had visited several shows, when he knew Justin would not be present, and even gone to the galleries in New York where Justin's art was displayed and sold.  He read every article in the newspapers and magazines.  Before Maddie made it into the Pittsburgh paper, he even had the New York Times delivered to his door, just to read each day's strip.

Going a step further, he had kept an eye on where Justin lived:  from Samantha's apartment to Adam's, and then to the townhouse in Chelsea.  A private detective kept him informed every six months on Justin's affairs . . . nothing too personal.  He was not a voyeur and did not ask for pictures.  The detective let him know if Justin was okay financially and in good health.  Brian learned about Adam.  He also knew they broke up, although not the reason why.

Most of these pictures were familiar, and he walked by, admiring Justin's style.  The boy—man—had done well for himself, exceeded every one of Brian's expectations.  He had no right, but he was proud of the man Justin had become.

At the end of the exhibit was a final room, dimly lit with a single picture on display.  A few people were just leaving as Brian walked in, leaving him alone with a painting he had never seen.  The placard next to it listed the name as "Broken.”

Brian turned to the wall, acutely aware of the silence in this room, more so because the painting seemed to be practically screaming at him.  He took in the images piece by piece, even as he felt everything inside break apart . . . piece by piece.

Two hands dominated the center of the canvas, the lines detailed so minutely, you could tell one was younger than the other.  The fingers of each were linked together, palms facing up.  A white scarf, stained with splotches of crimson, encircled the hands, from one wrist to the other.  In the center of each palm lay a ring, both of them broken into two pieces.  The background of the picture consisted of shadowy images blurred together, and Brian moved closer to inspect them.

They were scenes, all depicting two men:  one tall and dark-haired, one short and blond.  The faces were blurred, as was all the background, vague memories frozen in time.  In some, the men were nude, locked in intimate embraces, and in others, they were clothed, engaged in some activity.  In one, they were dressed in tuxedoes, dancing.  In another, they hovered over a baby being held by the taller man.  Yet another showed them playing pool, next to a scene where they sat in a booth eating.

The images blended together, wisps of a past Brian knew too well.  The hands hung stark in the forefront.  Adding to the complexity was the way the picture was rendered as if you were looking at it through a window.  You could not see the frame or the windowsill, but there was the faint shimmer of glass, across which streamed raindrops, as if seen through a storm.

The painting was amazing, as well done as any Brian had seen.  He harbored no doubt as to who it was intended for, or what it was saying.

It's us, torn apart.  Nothing left but ghosts.

He wanted to smash it, throw it to the floor, and rip through the material with his bare hands.  No one should see the remnants of something so personal.  What had Justin been thinking?

Does he have any idea how hard it was?  Does he think he's the only one who suffered?  And then to put it on display for all to see?

Fuck, they all would see it, the entire family.  Probably already had seen it.  Brian closed his eyes, struggling to hold it all under his skin.

"What do you think?"

His eyes flew open, and he was spinning around, sneer in place before he could even think.  Justin was leaning against the back wall, arms crossed defiantly across his chest.

Breathe in, breathe out.

"Astonishing.  How much you selling it for?"

Justin narrowed his eyes.  God, they were still beautiful.  "It's not for sale."

"Really?  Too bad.  So much angst.  So much agony.  I'm sure many would pay a pretty penny for such raw emotion in a Taylor painting."

"As if you would know anything about agony."

It took seven steps, seven very restrained steps, to reach the man so casually mocking him.  It almost took his breath away, being so close to Justin after so long.  Brian could smell his aftershave, pick out the faint stubble along his jaw.  He wanted to follow his instinct:  bury his fingers in that soft hair and pull back Justin's head, bare his neck to Brian's lips . . . .

"What I know is I could shred your clothes and fuck you right here, and you still wouldn't know anything about how I feel."

Justin's nostrils flared, eyes widening.  Weren't expecting that, were you?

"Does everything have to be about fucking with you?"

"You have your way of expressing yourself."  Brian gestured toward the painting.  "And I have mine."

Justin swallowed, and Brian moved closer, his face now inches from Justin's.  He could smell the other man's breath, a hint of wine and some unnamable spice.

"I'm sure you have no shortage of people willing to allow you to express yourself,” he said.  “You never did."

Still defiant, not even giving an inch.  Brian felt a sliver of pride, even now.  Especially now.

"True."  Brian leaned down, his lips almost touching Justin's, his breath teasing that perfect mouth.  "But only one ever mattered."

He held himself still, waiting . . . daring Justin to make the next move.  When nothing happened, Justin apparently stunned to silence, he smiled bitterly, backing away.  The younger man never moved as Brian turned on his heel and left the room.

He spotted the family as soon as he entered the refreshment area.  Michael's face lit up, but Brian simply shook his head and made a quick exit, ignoring the calls from Debbie and Emmett.

It was not until he reached outside that he finally slowed down.  Leaning against the brick walls of the campus building, he withdrew a cigarette and lit up.  He rarely smoked these days, but sometimes he simply needed it.  Taking a long drag, he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl away in the night air.

Well, that went well.  Shaking his head, he walked around the corner to the back of the building and sank to his heels, back against the brick.  Calm descended as he took another puff.

He closed his eyes in an attempt to banish the simmering fury, but all he could see was Justin's face, his lips parted in shock at Brian' words.

All these years . . . all these walls so carefully built to hold it all in, now lying crumbled on the ground.

I'm so fucked.