A/N: Gimme feedback, lots of feedback, please
Brian tossed the pile of clothes he was still holding on the desk with his overcoat already thrown over it and took this moment to survey Justin's room.
He saw an easel with a recently begun canvas sitting on it – he opened the bottle of schnapps, took a swig, and stepped closer. So far it was an uneven patchwork of blacks, whites, and greys. Brian leaned in so that he could examine the brushstrokes. They seemed to have three different orientations, up and down, side to side, and at a 45 degree angle. Justin had also apparently used several different brush sizes. Brian was kind of amazed. The various techniques he had used gave the patchwork texture and even volume. Reminded Brian a lot of Renoir's ballerinas.
Justin noticed Brian's scrutiny of his newly begun work and watched him carefully, on tenterhooks, desperately desiring to know what Brian thought. Unfortunately for Justin, Brian wasn't the most expressive guy, particularly when it came to compliments. Justin knew he'd have to intuit much. The fact that Brian had found the work interesting enough to move close and then actually lean so close his nose was an inch away was a good sign. Then he said, "Huhn" and nodded. Justin smiled brightly. Apparently, he liked it. Justin desperately wanted to ask Brian what he thought, but he knew better. Brian would admire Justin more if he didn't need the reinforcement.
After a careful examination of the painting, Brian moved on. Justin's room was disturbingly small, the size of a child's room. He had a twin bed (Brian made a bad-smell face at that and decided that circumstance warranted another shot); the tiny desk Brian had effectively covered with their dress clothes; a dresser, with (to Brian's disgust) open drawers full to bursting with crumpled up shirts, mostly T-shirts, pants, socks, and underwear (Justin had a disturbing number of tighty whiteys); and the easel. That was all the furniture that would fit. Justin had then put everything else wherever it would fit. His dresser top was covered with tubes of paint, jars filled with brushes and pencils of all sizes, cardboard pieces he was using for palettes, a stack of sketch books, and boxes filled with pastels (oil and chalk) of more colors (and tints, tones, and shades) than Brian even realized existed. For example, he counted 12 different greys. Brian peeked beneath the dress clothes on the desk and glimpsed a laptop and piles of notebooks and some other kind of books. Brian picked one up and paged through it. They were books as thick as three or four magazines full of paintings. He flipped through the pile: Christie's, Sotheby's, and Gerrards mostly. They were auction house catalogues from all different years.
Justin explained, "I found them at the Strand for just a couple of dollars each. Helps me keep abreast of what new artists are doing."
Brian looked at Justin and then back at the catalogue in his hand. He was impressed. He actually said what he was thinking out loud, "Resourceful."
Justin dropped his head and smiled a little shyly.
Brian replaced the catalogue and looked under Justin's desk. His eyes widened. There were hundreds of DVDS down there. Surrealist films written by Salvador Dali, some directed by Man Ray, and many others Brian didn't recognize. But he imagined that the writers and directors like Dali and Man Ray were artists. He also saw every single one of Alfred Hitchcock's films. Brian hmmmed. There was a lot he still didn't know about Justin.
In the remaining space, precious little that was, Justin had fit a small TV and a playstation, a mountain bike, and piles and piles of books – about half ginormous art books (Joan Miro, Wassily Kandinsky, Van Gogh, and countless others) and half novels.
Brian walked over to the bed and sat down. He leaned all the way down and peeked underneath. Brian smirked and pulled out two shoeboxes. Inside he expected to find porn, dildos, butt plugs, lube, and whatnot. Instead he found postcards. Each featured a painting. Justin sat beside him and explained, "Every time I visit MOMA, the Met, or the Guggenheim I get a couple. I can't usually afford to buy their books or reprints. They only cost 50 cents each."
Brian shook his head. "How often do you go?" There were hundreds of postcards.
Justin shrugged. "I don't know. At least once a week."
Brian took another swig of the schnapps and moved down to the floor, kneeling and peeking under the other side of the bed.
Justin smiled nervously. "What are you looking for?"
Brian exclaimed, "AHA!" and withdrew a small flat plastic bin. He smirked. "The porn."
Justin turned three shades of red.
Brian sat on the bed again, with the bin on his lap. He actually set the bottle down on the floor at that point. "Let's see what you have … " He started rifling through. What he found confused him. He discovered an S&M magazine and a beefcake magazine, both of which sent his eyebrows skyward (and got a little something happening in his groin area – that explained the mini-scene Justin had choreographed the other night), but most of the naked men took the form of drawings Justin had clearly made … and they were of bits and pieces … eyes, part of a somewhat chiseled but not super muscle-y chest, erect 9-inch dicks, and so on.
Justin was mortified. So mortified he kind of felt like crying. He reached in the bin and started grabbing the drawings (intending to take them out or hide them under the magazines), but Brian slid his hand over Justin's and said, his voice suddenly husky, "Don't."
Brian actually removed them and started examining them one by one. When he reached the end, he said, carefully avoiding Justin's eyes, "Now that you have the real thing, you should replace these."
Justin's eyes widened. "What?"
"Use these for your new project and make a new one, a full portrait."
Justin felt warm all over. Had Brian just volunteered to pose naked? In a tiny voice, he asked, "You … you wouldn't mind?"
"Nope."
Justin felt flushed and a little dizzy. "Okay. It's a good idea. Using these for the new canvas. Maybe give it a bit of a collage aspect."
Brian placed the pictures carefully back in the bin, all but one. He asked as nonchalantly as he could manage, "Can I keep this?"
Justin looked over. He expected it to be one of the dick drawings. But it wasn't. It was of Brian's face half shrouded in darkness, most prominently featuring his eyes. Justin smiled. That was the one he was most proud of. He'd gotten the expression in Brian's eyes just right. In a much higher pitched voice than he intended, Justin replied, "Sure."
Brian placed the top back on the bin and slid it under the bed. Then he walked over to his overcoat and slid the drawing carefully into his inside pocket.
On his way back, he noticed that one of the dresser drawers was actually pushed in. He exclaimed, "AHA!" and pulled it open. And lo and behold, inside he found dildos of all shapes and sizes, though no butt plugs. And a tube of Vaseline. Brian held it aloft and looked at Justin, a question in his eyes.
Justin cleared his throat. "Uh … I'm always too embarrassed in Rite Aid to buy actual lube."
Brian laughed. "But not too embarrassed to purchase these?" He pulled out nipple clamps.
Justin cleared his throat again. "Those I bought from a special store. Everyone in there was freakier than me – buying face masks and ball gags, so I was okay."
Brian set the items back inside and shut the drawer. "Nipple clamps, huh?"
Justin's face burned.
Brian drawled, "I think you've been holding out on me. Clearly that leather daddy made quite an impression on you."
Justin bit back a grin. Brian's voice suddenly had an edge to it. He was still jealous. Justin nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess so."
When Brian reached the bed, he started pulling back the comforter.
Justin squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands. He'd forgotten about the sheets.
Brian said, in disgust, "What the … ?" He dropped the comforter and backed away. "Yeah, no. Nope, not doing this."
Justin was bright red, and totally humiliated, but he tried to make the best of the situation. He pleaded, "Brian, they're just sheets."
Brian scoffed. "140 thread count sheets, as opposed to my 400 count, bad enough. But …" He actually turned away then and headed for his clothes. "But this, no. Just no."
Justin laughed. Brian was being ridiculous. "What, you don't like Ironman?"
Brian started putting on his pants. "I didn't even sleep on kiddie sheets when I was a kid. I'm sure as fuck not doing it now. No amount of alcohol would suffice to get me to 69 with Ironman."
Justin burst into a fit of laughter. "What?"
"You aren't even familiar with your own sheets? He's upside down. He's trying to 69 me."
"HE's not trying to do anything. HE's a picture of a fictional character."
"Look, it's bad enough that you have a twin, bad enough that I can barely walk two feet before I hit bed, bad enough that you have roaches crawling EVERYWHERE, or that you don't have a drop of decent alcohol in your apartment. I haven't even gone into the bathroom. I'm afraid to. BUT THIS, THIS is a step too far. So you have a choice. Change the sheets, or I'm calling a car service."
Justin's face burned hotter. "They're all I have."
Brian started dialing.
Justin lay down on the bed and sighed. What a shitty end to an otherwise PERFECT night.
As Brian waited for the dispatcher to answer, he hissed, "What the fuck are you doing? Get dressed."
Justin's head popped up. "What?"
"You're coming with me."
"I am?"
Brian looked at Justin like he'd suddenly grown two heads. "Uh yeah. You fed me schnapps and probably ruined my Prada overcoat and my NEW ebony Armani pinstripe … between the filth and the insect infestation." He glanced around and shuddered. "The least you can do, the VERY least, is let me fuck you a few more times."
"Oh." Justin had to bite his lip HARD to prevent himself from both laughing and smiling. He didn't want Brian to know just how happy he'd made him. When he'd gotten his mirth under control, he nodded slowly. "Yes. I suppose I do owe you that."
Then he stood (slowly) and walked (slowly) over to his dresser. He was about to pull out a T-shirt and jeans when Brian smacked him on the ass and shook his head (Brian was listening to whomever he was talking to on the phone). He pointed to the new suit. Justin cleared his throat to stop the joy from escaping. Apparently Brian thought he looked hot in the new clothes.
"Yes, that's right. How long? Good."
A few minutes later, Brian and Justin were outside sitting on the stoop. Justin glanced down at his phone to look at the time. He noticed it had just become Wednesday. He leaned into Brian. "Are you excited about Gus's visit?"
Brian whipped his head around. "What?"
Justin sat up straight and repeated, "Gus's visit. On Friday."
"What?"
"You were sitting right there in the living room when Lindsay and I were talking about it. She asked if this weekend would work and you said sure."
Brian ran a hand over his face. "I wasn't paying attention."
"What? Why not?"
"I'll have to cancel."
"Brian, you can't. Gus is excited, and Lindsay and Mel will have purchased tickets to a Broadway Show by now. Those are expensive."
Brian sighed. "I'll have to reimburse her. Can't be this weekend."
"Why?"
Brian turned around but said nothing.
"Brian! What? What's more important than seeing your son?"
Brian wheeled back around and hissed, "What good am I to him if I don't have a job?"
Justin paled and actually took a step back. "Wait, what?"
Mercifully, the car service arrived then.
