Author: Angelus
See first chapter for disclaimer, etc.
After waiting for all of the patrons to clear out while offering pleasantly insincere goodbyes and promising his mother that he would leave soon and get to bed at a decent hour, Justin helped his agent clean up and close down, then finally found himself in the backseat of a taxicab bound for Allentown, which was in the exact opposite direction from the flat he shared with Trevor. But Max lived in Allentown, and Justin knew that he could wrangle an invitation to stay the night as well as some advice - no matter what time of the night, he was always welcome at Max's.
After paying the cabbie, Justin used his key to get in the front door and headed straight for the elevator, where he bypassed Max's fifth-floor apartment by hitting the button for the sixteenth floor. Getting off, he rounded the corner and took the final flight of stairs, until he finally found himself on the roof.
Max was over by the heating vent, her keyboard in front of her as her gloved fingers danced over the keys. Even from this distance, Justin could tell that she was singing softly as she played, by the uneven exhalation of her breath, which frosted immediately upon leaving her mouth. Even in this cold, she still had on a light, flowery dress, albeit bundled over it were several coats, a long scarf, and fur-lined boots. Max always looked a bit disheveled, but that was just part of her charm.
"Hey," Justin greeted. Max looked over, startled, her tousled black curls spilling over her shoulders. She smiled upon seeing him, and Justin felt the tension drain from his body. He'd known Max for a few years, and had quickly learned that this was the effect she had on everybody - she made you relax, take things in stride.
"Hey," she returned, as Justin made his way over to her. His fingers were playing with one end of his tie, which was swinging free from the unbuttoned collar of his now-rumpled dress shirt. "A little late, isn't it?" she teased.
"Like you ever sleep," Justin shot back. Max just smiled. She had, without a doubt, the most unusual sleeping patterns of anyone Justin had ever known - she never slept a full night, but rather in short naps whenever she was getting a bit sleepy. He'd never pretended to understand it - Max just had quirks, like everyone else.
Her fingers found the keys again, and she resumed playing. Sometimes, Justin wasn't sure if she even realized she was doing it. He sighed, knowing that Max wasn't going to drag the problem out of him - if he wanted help, he had to ask.
"Do you remember your first love?" he finally asked. A fond smile passed across Max's face, and the tune she was playing switched to something soft and romantic that Justin vaguely recognized.
"It was my freshman year in college," Max was saying. "My roommate had a boyfriend in another dorm, so she was rarely in the room. There was this girl Lydia, who lived across the hall - she would always come over and keep me company. 'Pretty girl like you shouldn't be sitting in her room all alone,' she'd say. I'd play her songs on the piano, she'd try to teach me how to knit, we'd watch movies together...we were inseparable. And then one day, it happened. Seemed like the most natural thing in the world."
"What happened?" Justin posed the question softly, not wanting to break the spell of her voice.
"Life happened," Max replied. It was then that Justin recognized the tune she was playing. Ethan had played it for him on his violin - "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," it was called. But by the time he could put a name to it, Max's playing had changed tune completely, and it wasn't as much as song as it was a repetition of clashing chords.
"Her parents were a lot like yours," she continued. "I always suspected that her preference for females came from a desperate need to rebel, but I was so lovestruck that I never said anything. But eventually, I got tired of always being referred to as her 'friend', and I pressured her to tell them. But she wouldn't. She cried about how hard it was, I said okay. Then it got the better of us and we broke up. And got back together the next week. It was all very dramatic. We did the on-again, off-again thing for awhile. Then I was at her house one year for Easter and her parents caught us in bed. We never talked about it. The next break was summer, and we didn't see each other at all. When we moved back the next year, she was gone. I never saw her again. But I was told by a friend that her parents pulled her out. They didn't want her near the influence of 'that Jewish girl with no mother and father to guide her.'"
She stopped playing abruptly, her hands leaving the keyboard to twist in her lap, playing with the heavy silver rings that adorned her tiny, delicate fingers.
"Oh, Max," Justin murmured. But Max waved a hand at him, jewelry flashing in the moonlight as she shot him a dazzling smile.
"Life moves on," she said. "People move on."
"Sometimes," Justin murmured. Sighing, he took a seat to the left of Max's keyboard. He put his head in his hands, massaging his temples. Maybe he had had one too many glasses at the gallery after all. Max reached down with one hand to stroke his hair, the other creating a light, plinking melody on the keyboard. Heaving a sigh, Justin flopped backwards, staring up at the sky.
"What do you do when life doesn't move on?" he pondered. "When you don't move on?"
"You do what you always do," Max answered simply. "You figure out what you want and you go for it."
"But what if this is totally not what I should want?" Justin countered. "He was the first person to ever make me feel loved. What if that's the only reason I still want him?"
"Then I'd say that's a damn good reason.
Justin pushed open the door to his flat and threw his keys onto the kitchen table as he closed it behind him. The place really was a shithole - peeling paint, rusting fixtures, moldy tiles in the bathroom...it was enough to drive a neat freak like Kyle crazy. He'd been over a few times, back when it was him and Daphne living there, but he always ended up making faces and threatening to clean things. Justin still didn't know how he was going on a year and a half living with a slob like Daphne without them killing each other. Meanwhile, he had grown attached to the shithole, even though with his current net worth he could have afforded something much nicer.
But money had never been a big deal to Justin, even growing up with it, and in his eyes it was just a fluke that he had it now. So he'd put out an ad, and three weeks later Trevor had answered. Trevor was practically an exact opposite of Justin - he was straight, large and muscular, and extremely outgoing. Despite what seemed like a recipe for disaster from the beginning, the two became fast friends. Trevor wasn't the least bit homophobic, and Justin found that he didn't even mind the steady stream of women coming to and from the house.
Last week, Trevor had finally gotten fired from his construction job. It had been a long time coming, but neither of them was surprised when it finally did, considering he rarely showed up. Since then, he had been spending most of his time lounging in front of the TV with a beer in one hand and the X-Box controller in the other. So Justin was surprised not to spot his prone form sprawled out on the sofa immediately upon entering the room.
"Trev?" he called. No answer. Justin peeked in the bathroom and both bedrooms, but there was still no sign of his roommate. Shrugging, he made his way to the kitchen and found a note taped to the refrigerator. Trevor was at a job interview, and Mark, his agent, had called. Justin grabbed the phone and hit number five on the speed dial. Tucking the receiver under his ear, he rummaged around in the fridge while it rang.
"Hello?" Mark's brougish Scottish accent answered.
"It's Justin." He grunted as he discovered a container of day-old putanesca and popped it in the microwave, then sifted through the silverware drawer for a fork.
"I put all of the paintings from last night into storage like you wanted," Mark informed him. "Except the ones you wanted me to leave. They're still there. You'd better get them out of there today, though - Alex Boudvierre is having a show tomorrow night, and you never know what he may do with them." Justin paused, his fork halfway to his mouth with the first bite.
"I asked you to leave some?" he asked. Mark chuckled.
"How many glasses of champagne did you have last night?" he asked. Justin made an unintelligible noise.
"I lost count," he admitted. "Look, I'll come and get them in a bit."
"Sure. Oh, and great job last night. There was a woman - Lindsay Penderson? Patterson?"
"Peterson."
"Right. Loved it. Said she'd love to buy if you were interested. You need her number, or do you know her?"
"I can get ahold of it myself."
"Allright, then. Great work as always, kid."
"Thanks, Mark. I'll see you on Wednesday, to talk about the Ackerman opening?"
"Wednesday it is."
Justin tossed the phone aside and shoveled the rest of the pasta into his mouth. In a few short minutes, he had emptied the container, and he still couldn't remember asking Mark to set any paintings aside. Sighing, he threw the dirty dishes in the sink and headed for a much-needed shower.
The gallery was closed on Sundays, but Justin was able to talk a janitor into letting him in so that he didn't have to drive all the way over to Mark's to get the keys. Climbing the three flights of stairs to the top floor where his show had been held, he flipped on a light to hind the place completely cleared out. Except for the collection of paintings still hanging in the back corner.
"Crap," he muttered. After the less-than-enthusiastic response to them last night, he knew he'd never show them all together again. But what on earth was he going to do with them? He had a studio in the city, but it was already stuffed to the gills. With a sigh, Justin began dismounting the paintings from the wall and stacking them in the corner. He worked hard and fast, and finally there was only one left, in the upper left-hand corner; the first painting. Brian's painting. Justin took it down and dropped to the ground, setting the painting in front of him and just looking.
Had there ever been anything real between him and Brian, or was it just sexual? Had time really changed anything? Was there a chance for a future for them, or was he just clinging onto romanticized visions of the past?
There was only one way to tell.
Once he got behind the wheel, with the painting sitting in the passenger's seat next to him and the others piled in the back, finding Brian's loft proved to be no problem. Justin navigated the streets from memory, not making one wrong turn before arriving in front of the dilapidated building that have new meaning to the words: "Don't judge a book by its cover." He'd let the engine idle for a moment before finally shutting it off, grabbing the painting and exiting the car. Before he let himself change his mind, he crossed the street and walked through the door.
The place looked exactly the same, from the brown shag carpet in the lobby to the rickety old elevator that brought him to Brian's battered steel door. Taking a breath, Justin lifted his fist and pounded.
Muttered curses could be heard, muffled by the thickness of the door, and finally, Brian appeared. He looked as good if not better than he had last night, dressed in his classic black wife-beater and jeans. Justin glanced down at his own khakis and PIFA t-shirt and felt like a little kid standing next to a god. Brian clearly thought otherwise, because Justin felt his eyes sweep slowly up and down his body, hot as a physical caress.
"What are you doing here?" he snapped. Justin held up the painting.
"Changed my mind," he murmured. "I want you to have it." Brian nodded curtly, and produced a leather wallet from his back pocket.
"How much?" he asked, flipping open the billfold. Justin shook his head, and placed a hand on top of Brian's to stop him.
"Nothing. It's a gift." He smirked. "Wouldn't want the other one to get lonely."
Brian quirked an eyebrow, glancing down at the hand that Justin still hadn't removed. "Are you back to stalking me again?" he asked.
"Maybe." Justin flashed his biggest, brightest smile. Sure enough, Brian caved. He could tell by the way the muscles in his shoulders relaxed. Justin handed him the painting, smile still plastered on.
"I'll be seeing you," he promised.