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Trivial Pursuit

Layla V

Pairing: Brian/Justin
Rating: NC-17
Codes: Post-513, Angst, Romance
Summary: A chronicling of events that take place during three years of Brian and Justin’s lives after Justin moves to New York.


Thank you to darksylvia for being a splendid beta as always!

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Chicago

It’s the summer again and although Brian has made no more trips abroad, he has been traveling extensively in the States.

Gus came to stay with him at the House for a week in June, and you stayed with them for a weekend, but he had summer camp in July so he had to go back. He’s been growing up so fast. You can’t believe he’s almost seven years old already.

Both yours and Brian’s schedules have been hectic since then. His stays out of Pittsburgh have been getting longer and longer lately—some of them are in New York, but mostly it’s San Francisco, Chicago, Los Angeles and Chicago again. After Kinnetik’s 2007 Summer Campaign for Brown Athletics, their sales went up by thirty-two percent—which obviously made Leo Brown very happy. Most of those meetings, you suspect, have been with Brown in Chicago.

Then you are engaged for your first ever solo show at Adelson Galleries on 77th and things are on the roll once again.

Paris

It is October now and you can’t believe how fast the last three months have gone.

You spent July and August doing nothing but painting and painting and more painting, and occasionally eating something when you got too hungry. You saw Brian twice during this entire time—one, of course, was his appearance at the solo show last month—which went fabulously well, if you do say so yourself. You can’t complain about Brian, however, because it was him who made the first trip to see you on that free weekend as well. You know he’s been up to his ears himself with proposals and mockups for the new campaigns.

Knowing that, however, doesn’t help ease the loneliness.

Kinnetik has acquired dozens of new clients in the last two years but Brian doesn’t want to forget those few original ones that gave him support when he was just starting. So he has hired two new Art Directors and has put them in charge of focusing on the older clients these days.

And now that you’re done with your show and there is a gap before the next event, and you think you will finally take a breather—you get a call from a liaison at the US Embassy. You sit down in shock and listen to them as they inform you that some of your artwork has been selected for the AIEP, otherwise known as Art in the Embassies Program, and they would like to know if you’d be willing to attend a three-week workshop in Paris as part of the program.

That night when you call Brian, he is overjoyed. "What did I tell you?" he laughs.

Yeah, yeah, you smile—he did tell you. But it’s Paris, Brian, you sigh, fucking Paris.

"Think of all the cathedrals," he says, "And the museums. And the galleries. You’ll have a fabulous time."

"Will you come to see me?" you ask him. Both of your schedules have been so hectic lately that the only sure thing you could plan for was the Christmas getaway at the House. Brian had promised to definitely make that, and you’d vowed to keep him to his promise. No one dares fuck with you plans at the House.

"I don’t know, Justin," he says. "You’ll only be gone for three weeks. I am not sure I can get away during the entire next month."

"But it’s Paris, Brian," you repeat, your voice suddenly quiet.

"Yeah, I know, Sunshine," he replies softly.

The award

As it turns out, Brian is not able to make it to Paris.

However, in the last week of November—just when your workshop is about to end in Paris—he comes to London, to receive an award from the London International Advertising Awards. Kinnetik wins Best use of Illustration for a Brown Athletics campaign and the entire top management from the firm, which includes Brian, Cynthia, Ted and Andrew Wiley—one of the new Art Directors—are there to receive it.

You manage to wrap things up at AIEP, and fly over to London right in time to attend the ceremony held at the Carlton. The award is a very highly recognized industry standard and winning it has undoubtedly given Kinnetik the kind of push it needed to make further inroads into the international arena.

As you enter the reception hall, you’re dressed in your new Hugo Boss and Brian’s eyes light up when he sees you. He’s, of course, impeccably dressed in the latest Armani and looks drop dead gorgeous. His name is called to receive the award, and you feel so damn proud of him, you could burst. When asked to speak, Brian is as always eloquent and articulate and the crowd takes to him immediately.

It’s when the ceremony ends, and you’re mingling with the Kinnetik group at the reception, drinking champagne from the tall flutes, that you hear Cynthia say something about Leo Brown being thrilled with Kinnetik’s Chicago offices opening soon.

Chicago, you freeze. Did she say Chicago? Why, it’s your mom who’s been helping us with looking at real estate, Cynthia smiles. Your mom has great taste, Justin—she says, I love her choices.

You turn to look at Brian but he’s not looking into your eyes. You watch his eyes dart from his plate to his glass to the table in front of him, and you try to grab his arm to get his attention. Brian—you say, what’s going on?

Shhh, says Ted as the emcee begins another announcement on the podium, be quiet.

And the moment is lost.

Kinnetik

"But why Chicago, mom?" You ask your mother when you get home. Brian barely stayed in the US for three days before he had to go to Sydney for a series of meetings with a large Australian manufacturing concern. "I don’t get it. First it was Los Angeles. Now, it’s Chicago. Why the fuck would he want to relocate to Chicago?"

"He has major clients in Chicago, honey." Your mother’s voice is quiet.

"But he has major clients in many cities, mom. San Francisco. Fucking Milan. New York." You are nearly spitting with hurt and disappointment. "He was supposed to come to New York. It has always been his dream to work in New York. Why would he not do that, now that he’s got the money and the opportunity?"

"Justin, why are you saying all this to me?" she asks.

"Because you’re the one who’s been…. helping him do this, you’ve been fucking planning his move behind my back!" Your voice rises in volume.

"Behind your back?" your mother replies, her voice awed. "No one has been planning anything behind your back, Justin. You have seen how Brian’s career has progressed in the last three years. You’ve kept tabs on everything in his life, just as he’s known everything that has happened to you."

"But I have obviously never kept track of this aspect of his career," you reply, feeling helpless. "He was supposed to move to New York, mom."

"To tell you the truth, he has looked at property in New York, he just never made a decision on those," she says. "But let me ask you something, have you ever asked him what he wants to do?"

"What do you mean?" You feel flabbergasted.

"Have you ever asked him about New York?"

"What do you mean, mom?" you groan. "Everyone knows Brian wants to move to New York. That’s always been his dream. What could possibly be standing in his way now?"

Your mother is quiet for so long, you think she’s dropped the line. And when she replies, she just says three words.

"Talk to him."

Newsbreak

The announcement comes as a Developing Story on the local news station, when you’re at the small diner across from Ginelli’s on your lunch break. You squint at the small television screen, trying to catch what all the commotion is about.

The words plane crash, Liberty Air, Sydney and Los Angeles come through the airwaves, and the sandwich you’ve just paid for slips from your fingers as you stare at the screen in shock, your heart hammering in your chest.

Liberty Air Flight IK709 from Sydney, Australia to Los Angeles, California, has disappeared from the radars, the newsman says, and you turn on your heels and stumble out of the diner, your fingers grappling with your cell-phone, punching in Brian’s number.

Please, please, answer the phone, you pray, your heart in your throat, please God, make him answer the phone. But you only get a busy signal.

You reach the gallery out of breath and call Kinnetik from the landline and get a busy signal. Fuck, why won’t anyone answer the phone? You try again, and again, and again, until you finally get through.

"Cynthia!" You say. "What is the number of the flight Brian is on?"

There is silence on the line.

"Cynthia, which flight is it?"

"Justin..."

"Which flight?" you yell.

"Justin," she says. "Brian was supposed to be on the flight that went down."

The only thing you hear inside your head is your own voice going no, no, no, as you put the phone down. Your vision is suddenly blurry and you can’t hear anything except the upheaval within your head and the thundering beat of your heart—as you walk back out of the gallery, ignoring Maria’s voice calling your name, the cell-phone in your hand on constant redial for the same number. Brian, you repeat to yourself, Brian, please answer.

Somehow you find your way back to your apartment and as you blindly reach out to turn on the television, you grab the phone book to find the Liberty Air enquiry number. You get on their emergency line and are put on a hold for several minutes before you get through.

I am calling about the Flight IK709 coming from Sydney, you tell them—what is the status of that flight? Status unknown at the moment, sir—you get the message. As soon as we have further information, you’re told, there will be an announcement.

And the line is cut off. You stare at the phone in your hand disbelievingly. They fucking cut you off. You think about smashing the receiver against the wall, when you remember Liberty Air is Brian’s client. Kinnetik has to have some contacts.

You call Cynthia again and this time when you get through, you force her to give you the number of Kinnetik’s highest contact at the airline. She seems flabbergasted at your queries but gives you the number.

"Sam Walston," you say when you get the guy on the phone. "This is Justin Taylor calling on behalf of Kinnetik’s Brian Kinney. I am his partner and I need your help in getting an update on Flight IK709."

Sam turns out to be a cooperative man, who gets along greatly with Brian and is more than happy to help you. You ask him to confirm the passenger list and he does, and the answer he gives you turns your world even blacker than before.

Brian was on the flight. He checked in at the airport and is on the passenger list.

"However," Sam says, "There has been no clarification so far on what happened to the flight. According to last reports, it just disappeared from the radar. I am sorry, Mr. Taylor, that usually means…"

"Thank you, Sam." You interrupt him in the middle. "Please let me know if you hear anything else."

Just as you put the phone down, it starts ringing again.

"Brian?" You answer eagerly into the mouthpiece.

"Justin?" It’s your mother. "Are you okay?"

"Mom, have you heard from Brian?" You ask her. "I’ve been trying to call him but there’s no answer on his cell." For some reason, your voice sounds strange to your ears, dull and muted, as if you’re speaking from the bottom of a well. "I think he’s been trying to get in touch but there’s something wrong with my cell."

"Honey..." Your mother speaks quietly, her voice suddenly grave. "Justin, do you need me to come over?"

"No, mom, everything’s okay," you reassure her. "I am pretty sure Brian is all right. I just called Liberty Air and they said there has been no update on the flight status as yet, but that doesn’t mean anything is wrong. You’ll see, Brian will be fine and he’ll call me soon."

"Justin, what are you...?"

"He said he’d spend Christmas with me at the House, mom." You tell her patiently, as if explaining to a three year old. "And you know Brian never breaks a promise."

"Justin..." she starts but you cut the line in mid-sentence. You don’t have time to soothe your frantic mother at the moment. You have to keep the line free for other important calls. Brian is all right. He has to be all right. And he might be trying to get in touch with you.

But no one wants to give either of you a break. The phone rings nonstop from that point onwards. Deb, Michael, Ted, Daphne, Emmett, your mom. Even Mel and Lindsay from Toronto. It seems everyone wants to call you and talk to you—trying to talk sense into you. As if you’re a lunatic, a nutcase. Fuck you all, you want to scream.

Honey, are you all right?—they ask. Baby, do you want us to come over?—they want to know. No, mom, I am fine—you tell them. No, Em, you don’t need to come over—you reassure them. And would you please stop calling, I am trying to pay attention to the news reports.

But CNN has the disappeared-from-the-radars report playing on an endless loop and everywhere else it’s just confusion and chaos. You will your cell to ring. Please, Brian, please call me.

The landline rings constantly off the hook but it’s never Brian on the line. And after Michael calls for the fifth time, saying that you need to calm down, you scream at him to fucking get off the line. "Brian may be trying to get in touch with me, you moron. Stop hogging the line!"

NBC is talking about possible terrorist connections and you think you will go crazy if you listen to this pandemonium anymore.

The phone rings again and you pick up the receiver and scream into it. "Michael, I told you to stop calling me."

But it’s not Michael on the phone.

"Mr. Taylor," its Sam Walston. "I’ve got an update on Flight IK709. It seems they suffered some engine malfunction and the plane had to make an emergency landing on a small island off the coast of Panama."

Panama. Brian’s plane has been found. He’s all right.

Sam continues, "There was a small explosion on board, not related to any terrorist activity, and there seem to be some casualties and injuries... but we don’t have the names of the affected passengers as yet."

"Where in Panama?" You hear yourself ask.

"The plane landed on a small island called Coiba on the southern coast of Panama, but we believe all the passengers are being brought to Panama City."

"Give me your contact’s name and number there," you request him. "I need to find a flight to Panama City."

"Mr. Taylor, let me know when you want to leave. I’ll make sure there are tickets in your name when you reach the Liberty Air desk at JFK."

"Right away,” you tell him. “I want to leave right away."

Canal Zone

The flight, which takes nearly nine hours to reach Panama City, lands at Tocumen International at six-thirty in the morning.

You’d found your tourist card waiting for you with your tickets, and thus face no further delays at the entry point. You find the Liberty Air contact, Carlos, waiting for you at the immigrations.

“Come this way, Mr. Taylor,” he says. “The City Hospital is twelve miles away and the traffic will soon get very congested.”

Hospital. You bite your lip as you try to bring your breathing under control. There were injuries during the explosion. That’s why they had to take all the passengers to the hospital to check everyone out. Doesn’t mean every single one of them is hurt. It’s just standard procedure.

You turn to Carlos. “Any updates on the names of the passengers that are not hurt?”

“No sir,” he replies. “The last communiqué I received, the authorities were still bringing in the last of the passengers from Isla De Coiba. It is a small island and has no airport so they had to ferry the passengers first to the mainland,” he explains. “At Santa Catalina, they started boarding them on small planes that operate on domestic flights and bringing them to the Air Force base here in the city.”

You take in a struggling breath and lean back on the seat, trying not to chew out your lips with worry. It’s only around seven-thirty in the morning and the roads are already filled with cars and colorful buses and bicycles. The sun is hot outside, the weather dry and sultry. It’s the start of the tourist season in Panama, one of the places everyone dreams about coming to once in their life, but the last thing on your mind right now is white beaches or palm trees.

You have to find Brian. He has to be all right. He has to be okay.

The car stops at Hospital Nacional and taking a deep breath, you step out of the car and follow Carlos inside.

And step into pandemonium.

The hallways are lined with the sick and the injured and as Carlos locates the official desk and starts enquiring about the Liberty Air passengers, you realize things are worse than you expected.

In the area that has been cordoned off for patients arriving from the plane, the sights that greet you fill you with sickness and dread. Bleeding men, women and children, some with scorched faces and broken arms—lying in cots along the walls, moaning with pain. You walk over to a doorway and look inside the room and find it filled with bodies being covered with white sheets.

Brian, you want to scream. Where are you, Brian?

You try to get Carlos’s attention who you find arguing with an official in Spanish. Where is the list of the passengers?—you ask him. And then you turn to the official. The passengers list, you urge. Where is it?

“Brian Kinney!” You tell them. “I am looking for Brian Kinney. Tall. American. Dark Hair. Have you seen him?”

But no one seems to understand a word you’re saying.

The sound of a woman wailing in front of a burnt body riddles your consciousness and you suddenly feel the whole world closing in on you. No, no, no, not Brian. You feel the sob forming in your chest and stagger back against the wall. Not Brian. You feel your fingers curl into a fist, your nails digging into your palms. Not Brian, you bite your lips and taste blood, oh God, please, not Brian.

And that’s when you see him. In the far end of the hallway, he’s being settled down on a cot, as a nurse tends to his face. His face. Your breath catches in your throat as you struggle to stand up straight, and for a moment you think that his face is burnt. It’s dark and smudgy and the nurse is putting something over his eyebrow. And then your vision clears and you realize it’s only soot.

Brian, you want to call out. But you voice is stuck in your throat and you can’t even make a sound.

So you push yourself to your feet and make your way into the crowd—rushing towards him. Brian, you want to scream. And as if he can hear you, he looks up right at that moment and his eyes widen with shock when he recognizes you.

"Justin!" He stands up and you’re suddenly right there and you grab his shoulders and pull him to you, hugging him tightly. "Justin!" he repeats.

"Brian." You finally manage to get out, your voice barely audible. "Brian!" You take in his appearance, his beautiful eyes tired, his beloved face smudged with black soot and scratchy with stubble. "Are you...?"

"I’m fine." He shakes his head. "Just inhaled some smoke. That’s all. I’m fine"

"Brian..." The overwhelming relief that permeates your whole being at that moment is devastating and absolutely complete, as the sobs you’d been trying to swallow earlier suddenly wrack your whole frame. “Brian…” You feel your arms and legs give away and if it weren’t for the fact that Brian was holding you, you’re sure you would’ve fallen down.

"Justin..."

"Brian." You kiss his face over and over again, as tears roll down your cheeks unabashedly.

"Shh, Justin..." He soothes you, his fingers running gently through your hair as he kisses your forehead. "It’s okay, I am okay."

You feel your cell-phone vibrating inside your pocket and take it out with shaking hands. You check the display and it’s your mother. Of course, she’s worried about you. You barely spoke two sentences to her about Panama before you turned off the cell and boarded your plane. You have to tell her Brian’s okay.

But when you press the talk button, you find your breath caught in your throat and you can barely speak and you’re crying so hard that the only words that come out are Mom and Brian and God.

And then Brian has taken the cell from your hands and is talking to her, telling her that yes, he is all right and that you’re all right and that he’s got you.

You’re still in a daze as Carlos comes and speaks to Brian, enquiring about his injuries. He says he’s fine but the nurse points to his right arm and you realize that Brian does have a small burn that needs to be taken care of. It’s nothing, he insists, as they bandage his wrist and you tell him to be quiet as you trace a finger down his right cheek, urging your heart to stop beating so fast.

Back in the car, as you head towards a hotel room that has been arranged by Liberty Air for the passengers, you lean your head against his right shoulder. You press your cheek to the small patch of bare skin above his open collar and feel his steady pulse throb against you.

Your hand reaches out for his. "Is that how you felt after the bomb when you were looking for me?"

Brian is quiet for a moment and then he interlinks his fingers through yours and breathes out. "More or less."

"I kept calling and calling," you tell him. "But there was no reply on your cell phone."

"Don’t have my cell with me," he replies. "I think I put it in the overhead compartment in the hurry, in my shaving kit. Never got a chance to get it out."

At the hotel, Carlos leaves the two of you in your room with the request that you rest up before the flight home tonight.

You find shaving gear in the bathroom and hand it over to Brian, who goes inside to clean up. You stand in the bathroom doorway and watch him as he splashes water over his face and chest, before stripping and stepping under the shower. You watch him for a moment, the spray hitting his overturned face, before you take off your own clothes and join him. You find a clean sponge on the ledge, which you lather with the bar of soap, and then gently wash down his chest and arms and back—kissing every inch of his skin until he’s flushed with arousal. Then you get down on your knees and take his cock in your mouth, licking and kissing and sucking it—until his fingers tangle in your hair and he comes with a heartfelt groan.

It’s a little later, when you’ve both had food from the room service and are lying inside the warm duvets covering the bed—your head lying on Brian’s stomach—that you hear him murmur in an amazed voice.

"I can’t believe you’re actually here."

You look up at his face, noting the wonder on his face, and slowly sit up. You don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired and have just gone through an experience that can only be termed as sheer trauma. Or perhaps it is the nine fucking sleepless hours you’ve just spent on the flight from New York to Panama city. You have no clue. All you know is that you’re on edge right now, and every little thing anyone says makes a big fucking difference. And it’s even more pronounced when that someone is Brian.

You look at him curiously. "Why, Brian? If it had been me, wouldn’t you be here?"

He blinks. "Of course."

"Then why won't you believe the same of me?"

Your voice has suddenly risen, you realize, and he notices it. After seven years, he had to have gotten pretty adept at handling your moods. "Justin," he says calmly. "I do believe."

Even his calm frays on your nerves. "Do you really?" All the doubts of the past few months that have been plaguing your mind come rushing to the front. "Do you believe in me, Brian? Do you believe in us?"

He stares at you quietly, his face suddenly unreadable. "What are you talking about?"

And you hate that he can make his emotions inaccessible with just a blink of an eye. You bite your lips. "Do you think there is an us, Brian?"

"What?" He frowns. "You know I do. How can you even ask me such a thing?"

You grit your teeth. "Because you do things that make me wonder if you really, truly do."

"Spell it out to me, will you?" He’s annoyed now. "I am feeling a little dazed at the moment." And you remember that you’re not the only one who’s been through a trauma. "I have no clue what the fuck you’re talking about."

You try to lower your volume. "Chicago, Brian," you tell him. "I am talking about Chicago. What the fuck are you doing thinking of relocating Kinnetik there when you could be… in New York." You feel yourself scowling. "New York, Brian. Your dream. What happened to that dream?"

He suddenly smiles sadly, a sigh escaping his throat. "I haven’t stopped dreaming, Sunshine." His voice is husky.

"Then why Chicago?" you demand.

He stares at you for a long moment, his eyes suddenly filling with all that pain, all that loss and hurt and hope and love that he had finally opened up for you to witness and experience all those years ago. All that love that you made the decision to walk away from.

"Because... you’re not there."

You feel gutted. "You... don’t want to be in New York because of me?" This is it? But why? "Why, Brian?" You ask him. "What’s wrong? What happened? What the hell are you talking about?"

He runs a shaking hand over his face and sighs. "Because... I am clueless, Justin. I have no fucking idea whether you’re ready or not."

"Ready for what?"

"To have me there."

You stare at him. "You think... I don’t want you in New York?"

"It’s not a question of wanting, Justin." He sounds exasperated. "It’s a question of timing."

"But..."

"You told me once, long before you ever moved to New York..." he says, "That you had to find your own way in life."

"Brian..."

He stops you before you can interrupt any further. "I know, from personal experience, how important standing on your own two feet can be. So I knew at that moment, just as I knew when the question of your going to New York came..." His eyes bore into yours. "That it was true. You had to find your own way. On your own terms, in your own time."

You try to stop him. "Brian..."

But he doesn’t let you. "And I knew at that point that I could never, ever do anything to jeopardize your future, Justin." His voice cracks but he continues. "I could never get in your way because that would fucking defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it? I can’t be in New York if it means my being there is a distraction, or if it makes you feel like I am stopping you from making it on your own. Because you’re fucking talented, Sunshine, you’re fucking amazing and you don’t need anyone’s help and nothing can ever..."

You finally stop him by pressing your lips to his, your fingers grabbing hold of his hair to tilt his head up so that you can kiss him hard and firm and passionately. He moans against your mouth, struggling to gain control but you are having none of it. You bite his lips and push him back as you grab hold of his arms and lower your body to his—your cock harder than it has ever been before.

"Justin," he sighs as you kiss him with love and desperation and a burning ache, your fingers pressing under his chin to help angle your mouth better, while your tongue plunders his mouth. Your hands press down his body and you find his cock throbbing with arousal, and you hold it in your hands, feeling him arch in your arms, as it pulses with need. "Justin," he groans, as you reach out and find a condom in the pocket of your discarded jeans and with your teeth against his neck, you put it on yourself.

"Brian," you moan against his mouth as you caress his face and his hair and his chest, your hands moving under his hips, searching, and he lets you fold his legs onto your shoulders. And then with a deep sigh, you align your cock with his opening, your tongue laving down his neck, and plunge into him.

You rub your hands soothingly over his arms and his sides and his thighs aligning your chest as you fuck him hard—thrusting in and out of him with abandon. You feel his arms holding you close, his back arching as you tug at the point between his neck and shoulder with your teeth, leaving marks, making him gasp, and then soothing the sting with your lips and tongue.

He cries out, as you grab his thighs and bend his legs even more so that you can fuck him deeper, your cock plunging hard inside him. He’s tight, oh so fucking tight, you groan as you lean down to kiss him again—his tongue lashing yours in return.

"Brian..." You shudder against his neck as you feel your need build, your senses heightened with the scent and taste of his arousal, and the feel of his silky soft skin. You reach down for his cock again and he groans as you squeeze it between your fingers, letting it coat your palms with the leaking precum. And when you lean down to kiss him again, your teeth gnashing and your tongue tangling with his, you feel his cock convulsing in your hand. The sound of his guttural moans and the tight squeeze of his ass over your cock is enough to push you over the edge as well.

Once your bodies have stopped shaking, you kiss his thighs and help his legs off your shoulders, slowly pulling out of him. You get rid of the condom and as you lay down next to him—pulling him close to your body—the only thing you can think of is that you didn’t have to go through this. That all Brian wanted was to hear that you were ready to have him with you. That all this time when you had lain awake in your lonely bed, missing him, and wondering when would be the next time you’d see him, all of it could’ve been avoided if only you’d told him you wanted him to be with you.

"Brian." You touch his face, your fingers slowly caressing his cheeks. "Brian," you urge him to look at you, your voice pleading.

He opens his eyes and you look straight into them. "Brian, I don’t want to be away from you anymore." You kiss his nose and his cheeks and his lips. "Please, don’t leave me. Don’t move away from me. Please, Brian. I don’t want to spend even a moment away from you."

He touches your arm. "Justin..."

"I don’t ever want to lose you, Brian," you tell him. "I don’t ever want to feel that we had a chance… to make a life together, and we wasted it because you thought I didn’t want to be with you."

"Justin..."

"I won’t be able to live with myself, Brian..." You bite your lips. "If something ever happened to you and I felt I had wasted my chance with you."

He swallows hard.

"I love you, Brian." You breathe in deeply, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. "Please don’t leave me."

"I am not..." He shakes his head, his eyes suddenly wet as he stares at you. "God, Justin. I want to be with you. I’ve always wanted to be with you."

"And I’m the one who fucked this up, right?" You sob. "I am the one who fucked us up."

"That’s bullshit." He grits his teeth and suddenly sits up. "You’re the one who kept us together." His voice is firm and resolute. "When you were out there, being fabulous, working on your art and your career and making a name for yourself, with me loving every moment of your success,” he pauses a second. “Even if it hurt to be away from you, I always knew I had you, Justin." He looks into your eyes. "You never, for even a moment, let me fear that I’d lost you. You always found a way to keep our lives involved. You kept us together. You did it."

You let the loving and all-encompassing feeling of his trust in you wash over you, and it rejuvenates you, fills you with new hope and dreams. You search his eyes for any residal pain and find nothing but relief. "I want us to be together, Brian," you tell him.

"Tell me," he asks. "Where do you want us to be?"

"No." You shake your head. "You tell me. After all this, I don’t care. I can draw anywhere I want—as long as I have you." You let him absorb this for a moment. Then you put your finger below his chin and tilt his face up to look into his eyes. "I want you to decide."

And he smiles.

Home

At the loft, the two of you are greeted by your entire extended family—amidst loud cheers and delighted hollers.

Deb envelops Brian is a big hug, holding him tight, and when she whispers, "I love you, kiddo, and I am so glad you’re okay," you realize that her love may sometimes be heavy handed and harsh, but it’s real and it’s true and it will last forever.

It’s a little while later, after Emmett is done breaking down for the fifth time and Ted and Michael are done scouring the kitchen drawers for more paper towels to dry his tears, that you follow Brian to the fridge to take a water bottle out. There you find your mother, quietly sipping from her own glass—and as you drink from your bottle, you notice a strange little exchange take place between your mother and your lover.

She stares into his eyes, the look in her eyes silently questioning him, and you watch as a slow smile spreads across Brian’s face. He nods at her, and you watch them, as he leans forward and quietly whispers in her ear.

"New York."

As your mother’s eyes light up, and she reaches up with her hand to tilt his face towards her and kisses him on his forehead, you realize that not all things need to be said aloud.

Some communications happen under the surface and that’s the way they’re meant to be.

The gift

It’s Christmas Eve, and you and Brian are holding another reception at the House.

Lindsay and Mel have again come down with the kids, and you’re pleased to see Mel actually agreeing to stay at the House this year.

Brian let Emmett handle the festivities, only supervising a little with the decorations and not complaining too much about the food. Emmett shushed him and told him to stop being a drama queen because he had everything under control. He is quite adept at party planning, of course, and you know Brian knows this—otherwise he would never have entrusted him with this task.

Right before the dinner, Brian herds everyone into the library where the Christmas Tree is, and announces the commencement of the gift opening. Gus comes running down the stairs, hollering about his presents, and Brian tackles him down to the carpet, kissing him on the head.

"Dad, I love this!" Gus laughs when he sees his brand new Kid-sized Harley Davidson, and hugs his father. "I’ll be the coolest kid on the street."

"You’re already the coolest kid." Brian ruffles his son’s hair. "You’re my kid."

Then Gus opens the package you’ve given him and smiles so brightly, you think his face would split in half. "Wow, Justin. An Art Studio Junior Picasso set. I’ve always wanted this, but mama never let mom buy one because she thinks I’ll make a mess."

Brian snorts as Mel grumbles about paint stains on the sofa and leans down to whisper in Gus’s ears. "Go ahead, sonny boy. You have my blessing to do with the sofas as you want."

"Now you open yours," Gus pronounces once he’s done with his gifts—looking at you and Brian.

"Gus, I think everyone else should open the gifts they’ve received," you tell him. "We’re the hosts so we should be last."

"But I want you to open yours first." Gus pouts. "Please!"

"Yeah, go ahead, Sunshine." Deb calls out, "Just keep any kinky sex toys hidden from view. We’ve got children in here." Everyone else laughs and agrees with the sentiment. You try to gauge Brian’s mood through his eyes, but he only smiles and shrugs.

You pick up the gift you’d chosen for Brian and hand it to him. "You go first."

He pokes his tongue inside his cheek as he dramatically sighs and pulls open the wrapper around the tiny box. He opens it and as everyone holds their breaths in anticipation, he takes out the small item hidden inside.

It’s a key.

He looks at you questioningly, and you feel a shy smile creeping up your face as you explain. "It’s a copy of the key to my place in New York. Now, it’s yours too. We’ll share it until we find a new place to live in. Until then, you and I both will have keys to our home in New York."

Everyone goes awww as Brian leans forward to kiss you. And then you watch a cryptic smile tug at his lips as he pushes his wrapped gift into your hands.

"Your turn," he says.

You carefully remove the wrapping paper and take out the gift—which turns out to be a small photo album, with colorful pictures inside. Of houses, and rooms and high-rise buildings. You turn to Brian.

"These are some of the places your mom suggested I explore when I was looking at real estate in New York," Brian says. "I never really went to see any of them because I didn’t want to do it without you." He looks into your eyes. "These are for us to live in. Kinnetik can come later. Now that you’re in on the secret, you and I can go exploring together."

Everyone around you hoots and claps as you throw your arms around Brian and kiss him soundly on the lips.

His own arms close tightly around you, and as you feel the weight of his hand resting on your back, you know life has never, ever before been more perfect than at this moment.

The End