5:32 PM. October 7, 2012
Justin's POV
"It's three hundred and seventy grand."
Miles fumbles his fork and the chicken cacciatore that he is in the middle of eating falls back to his plate. "What?"
Justin repeats himself. "Three hundred and seventy thousand dollars."
Miles is staring at him.
"Three hundred and seventy thou—"
"Yeah, no, I heard you. WHAT?"
"That was my reaction, too."
They're in the kitchen, eating. Miles has to review a show tonight, so they're eating earlier than usual. The artist is actually the spouse of one of their mutual friends. She's a sculptor.
"Three hundred and seventy thousand dollars—"
"—is a lot of fucking money." Justin finishes. "It's crazy."
"Insane."
"Completely."
Miles has stopped gaping at him and is now giving him a knowing look. "And you aren't sure if you want a crazy person buying your paintings."
Justin grins and shakes his head sheepishly. "Yeah, something like that."
"But...it's three hundred and seventy thousand dollars."
"Which doesn't exactly mean a lot. Coming from you, you know." Miles is even more of a WASP than Justin is. He really doesn't know where all of the Webster money comes from and Miles doesn't like to talk about it. Naturally, Justin teases him about it relentless at every opportunity he gets.
Miles wrinkles his nose distastefully and moves on.
"I think that you should take it. I know that it's not like you need the money—"
"—we don't need the money—"
"—okay, we don't right now—" A slow smile tugs at Miles' mouth. "—but we might want it someday. We can't live in the city forever."
"Why not?" Justin feels the corners of his mouth lift and it isn't long before he's smiling the same stupid grin that Miles is. He knows what is coming. They've had this conversation before.
Miles has reached across the table and is now holding his hand, stroking the top of it with his thumb. "I don't want to raise a family in the city."
They meet across the table and kiss, smiling mouth to smiling mouth.
They make love against the wall of the shower and end up being almost late for the show. He calls Cam in the cab on the way there. He is going to accept the offer.
Brian's POV
"Kinney."
He's still sitting at his desk when he gets the call. He's alone in the office. He will be the last person to leave tonight just as he has been the last person to leave for the last five months.
"Excellent. I'll have my accountant wire the money in the morning."
9:10 PM. November 3, 2012
Justin's POV
After Brian leaves, he picks himself up off the floor and clothes himself only enough so there will be no suspicion on behalf of anyone who happens to drop by during the day. He moves through his studio in a trance. He paints and paints and paints and when he is finished and happens to look out one of the windows, he is shocked to realise that all of the good painting light has long since gone. He's been painting in the darkness for quite some time.
It is time for him to go home. It isn't like he has a curfew, but he does try to plan his hours around Miles'. He likes it when they have time together in the evenings.
He has waited all day to shower. He does not want to wash the scent of Brian from his skin.
When he gets home, the apartment is dark. Miles is lounging on the sofa watching television. There is a kiss hello and then he goes to their bedroom, throws on a pair of grey cotton pants and a t-shirt, and returns.
Paris, je t'aime. Tenth arrondissement. Faubourg Saint-Denis.
He falls to the sofa in front of Miles and lays his head on his shoulder. Warm arms come up around him. They don't talk.
"Thomas, listen. There are times when life calls out for a change, a transition. Like—like the seasons. Our spring was wonderful but summer's over now and we missed out on autumn. And now, all of a sudden, it's cold, so cold everything's freezing over. Our love fell asleep and the snow took it by surprise but if you fall asleep in the snow you don't feel death coming."
The soft flickering lights and the rhythm the steady breathing beneath his head calms his nervous heart and the next thing he knows, the title screen is looping in an irritating fashion. Miles' snoring fills his ear, teases his hair. He is tempted to spend the night on the sofa, in Miles's arms, but guilt gnaws at his stomach. He eases himself onto the floor gingerly, feeling around for the remote. It's almost too dark to see. Finally, he finds it and turns off the television. He runs a hand through Miles' hair, covers him with a chenille blanket, and goes to sleep.
It's well into the next morning when he decides that he needs to leave. He takes a cab back to his studio and spends the rest of the night on a futon that he keeps there for nights such as these.
Brian's POV
After Justin kicks him out, he goes back to work. The smell of sex mingles with his cologne and he ignores Cynthia's raised eyebrow when he finally walks back into his office. She's a nosy bitch where his personal life is concerned.
The rest of the day is unending but when it finally does end, he doesn't think twice about what he is going to do, or where he is going to go. He shuns his driver and hails a cab instead. Tonight he craves the anonymity of a crowd and, for the first time in a very long time, he misses Pittsburgh.
The first time he went to Babylon, he laughed. He remembers standing outside the door in utter disbelief. There was no way that there could possibly be another Babylon in New York, right? Wrong. It wasn't the same—nothing ever was—but it was a close enough that he was willing to use it as a substitute.
He rarely goes. Frequenting the club scene at forty-one feels a little pathetic. There is really nothing worse than an over-the-hill club boy. He refuses to become one but somehow he ends up there tonight.
He wonders if any of the tricks that are hitting on him have any idea how old he is. He assumes that they don't. They all seem so young—so much younger than they did before. He's not interested in most of them. They are too young for him and jailbait hasn't appealed to him in a very long time. He blames it on his son. Gus is twelve, now, and he can't help but do a mental comparison every time some young piece of bravado actually has the fortitude—liquid, of course—to approach him.
Blue eyes and pale skin select the lucky winner from his legions of admirers. He takes him by the hand and leads him to the back room. His hands are fisted in the nameless trick's blonde hair when he comes.
10:17 AM. November 8, 2012
Justin's POV
It's been five days. He is barely living in the apartment anymore. Miles comes to visit him at his studio every once in a while, but he doesn't stay long—he doesn't need to. It's happened before. Justin holes himself up in his studio for days at a time, barely stopping long enough to eat or shower, let alone make the commute back to the apartment. Miles understands. He brings him food and clean clothes. Never before has he been so happy for someone to chalk his behaviour up to typical artistic melodrama.
He doesn't often hide his work from Miles. It's often a matter of it not being finished, not quite right. He is his own harshest critic though it doesn't and has never helped that his boyfriend is an art critic. This time, it's because it's personal. He may have kicked Brian out of his studio, but he hasn't been able to stop painting him since he did.
There is a voice from the doorway and he is yanked out of his head and firmly back into reality.
He doesn't need to turn around to know who it is. He recognises it as if it is the only one he's ever heard. Panic washes over him. He doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't know how to talk about this. Paint is splattering violently onto the canvas but he likes the desperate feeling it lends to the piece—he certainly feels fucking desperate enough at the moment. Pain licks his nerves and his hand slowly but surely begins to tighten. He disregards it, he will not cave. He ignores his name, which Brian says aloud again, as the tap-tap-tap of his expensive leather soles on the hardwood get louder. He doesn't need to turn around to be able to see Brian's loose-hipped, predatory stride in his mind.
Warm arms wrap around his middle and he feels Brian's lips brush his temple. "Good morning, dear."
Justin actually drops his brush onto the drop sheet covering the ground in surprise.
Brian's hands slide up and he takes his spastic hand between his own. He tsks him and massages it gently. "What have I told you about taking breaks? You know you're not supposed to overwork it."
He's still gaping at him. What the fuck?
"Door was open," he explains and Justin gasps as he rubs the tension out of his hand. "I hope you don't mind that I let myself in."
It doesn't happen very often, but Justin has been physically rendered speechless. He can't think while Brian's touching him, so he pulls away and drops onto his futon. His leg bounces nervously.
Brian sits down beside him and grips his vibrating knee reassuringly. "Will you stop it?"
Justin practically shoots up off the futon which is definitely a bed, an unmade bed with blankets and sheets strewn everywhere. With Brian sitting on it, it doesn't feel sofa-like in the slightest and he knows what will happen if he stays there. He's already cheated on Miles once this week—twice if he counts jerking off in the shower to the memory of their indiscretion on the floor of his studio and innumerable times if he counts all of the times he's replayed it in his mind since—which is once more than he ever has before. He and Miles don't fuck around on each other like he and Brian did—there are no other lovers—and so it does not sit well with him. He does not want to do it again. Brian gets to his feet. In order to busy himself, he picks the dropped brush up from the ground and swishes it around in a jar of turpentine. Strong fingers massage circles into his tense shoulders. His back arches a little, involuntarily, and he leans into Brian's touch for a minute before pulling away. A hand at his elbow pulls him back and forces him to turn around.
Brian's POV
"Stop what?"
Petulance drips from Justin's words and for the first time since seeing him again, he is reminded of how young he used to be—his seventeen-year-old teenaged lover. Christ, that was bad, even for him. It's a good thing that he doesn't dwell on the past.
"Thinking about it," he explains. "You need to stop thinking."
When Justin opens his mouth to protest, he silences him with a finger against it. "If you're going to stop thinking," he rationalises, "then there's no point in talking, either." He knows full well that he should not be tracing the outline of Justin's bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, but it's keeping him quiet, so he can't bring himself to feel guilty.
"It's my turn," he says to him, even though he's done practically all of the speaking since he arrived, "to talk."
Justin's eyes are slightly glazed, but they are focused on him, so he proceeds by backing him into the futon.
"I know that you would like nothing more," he pauses until he's straddling Justin's body, "than to freak out about what this does and doesn't mean, but we're not going to do that this time."
Justin's smiling a slow lazy smile at him and Brian knows exactly what he's thinking. "But—?"
"No," he tells him, kissing his jaw. "Maybe. Yes."
Justin gets the idea. "Just one more time. Every second Sunday of the month. Whenever we're physically able."
"Everything. Nothing. Fuck, I don't know."
He knows that Justin has been working out when he flips him onto his back before he can even try to resist it.
"Nothing?" Justin mock-growls at him menacingly.
He's sure that Justin knows how ridiculous he sounds and it's true. It's taking everything Brian has not to laugh at him. He pulls him down until they bump noses and kiss until Justin pulls away.
"Everything." Justin corrects him and doesn't comment on the eye roll that escapes him. He drags the syllables out as if he were speaking to a non-native speaker. "Eve-ry-thing."
Justin's POV
They undress each other much more slowly this time. They sit up and Brian shrugs out of his suit jacket, folding it carefully and letting it fall to the ground beside the futon. Brian flicks open the buttons at his wrists in a lazy, practiced motion—Justin's seen him do it thousands of times, but he can't help but think that it's the sexiest thing he's ever seen. He shifts his weight and comes forward to help Brian undo the buttons on his shirt. He relaxes a bit when Brian's hands come up under his t-shirt, stroking his sides, before pulling it over his head. It's cold in the studio and when they come together this time, he can feel Brian's goose bumps on his chest.
He doesn't think about Miles again. There is no place for him in this.
A/N: I know that I took forever to update. I'm sorry. I'm on day 10 of an 11 day work streak and I've been tired.
Queer as Folk does not belong to me. Neither does Paris, je t'aime :(
