Second Year

April

The day of the opening Justin was pretending that he was completely relaxed and confidant about the whole thing and fooled no one.

Almost none of his friends from Pittsburgh would be able to be there, they were all simply too swamped to get away but he had arranged a small party and viewing at the loft the week before so that the family, along with his mother and Molly and Daphne would be able to see what he would be sending to New York for his first big show. Debbie had been all for just loading everyone into the girl's station wagon and having them all attend the opening, lending their moral support and swelling the numbers but then the other waitress sprained her ankle and Gus got a bad cold and Molly had that term paper due in history and Jenn had to show a couple of houses and Vic and Em had three parties that weekend—in the end they made do with seeing his things in the loft and wishing him well, promising that they would be thinking of him and not wishing him luck because he wouldn't need it.

He knew, they all knew, how important this was. If he did well, if his work was well received and sold he would have a career, or at least the start of one.

If it didn't work out and the buyers kept their checkbooks in their pockets, if the critics sneered he could look forward to live as a hack illustrator, if he was lucky.

Fred had taken good acre of him. He had let Justin sleep on his couch; he had shown him some of the fun little restaurants that were in his neighborhood. He had introduced him to some of his friends and the people who helped in the gallery. He was kind and smart and funny and Justin could see why Brian had become so fond on him. He reminded Justin a lot of Vic, in fact and he simply liked the man. As they worked together he also came to have a growing respect for the knowledge of what sold and what didn't. He looked at his business as little more than high end home decorating—oh, yes, he acknowledged that there was a line that was crossed over when a piece hit that rung he termed art', but those were few and far between and nothing could be counted on to set him off more than to have some college kid refer to himself as an artist'.

"Rembrandt was an artist. Martha Graham was an artist. Paul Robeson was an artist, Maria Callas and Richard Avedon. YOU are someone who paints."

When Justin then asked why he was being given a show he was told, kindly, that it was a business and his work was salable. If he kept at it maybe, in a decade or two or three, he would be worth the title. In the meantime, there was nothing wrong with selling what he had to offer.

By four the gallery was ready. Brian had called and would be there as close to seven as he could possibly make it. He had phoned from Pittsburgh airport that his flight was delayed but expected to be in the air within the hour. He would cab in from Newark Airport (now renamed Liberty Airport after the 9/11 disaster) and would see them soon.

Trying to calm Justin somewhat, Fred took him for an early dinner at a small Japanese place he was fond of not far from the gallery. He had changed into a good black turtleneck he had coveted along with the Armani slacks Brian had deemed suitable. His shoes were new and Prada, also from Brian who insisted that if he was going to make an entrance he should be dressed reasonably well. As they walked the three blocks to the restaurant, Fred hoped that with any luck he would be able to have the youngster calmed down enough to deal with the invited guests and the critics who be arriving in a couple in hours. It wasn't all just about the work. Justin had to schmooze and from what Fred had seen at the group show last year, he would be fine once things got started and he would just go with the evening, especially if Brian showed up as promised.

The trick would be to get him to that point.

At six thirty Justin was sure that the paintings should be rearranged, by seven he was convinced that no one would show up and by seven thirty Brian was still not there and he was sure that he had either missed the flight, it had crashed or the traffic was bumper to bumper and he was stranded on the Pulaski Skyway.

At quarter to eight the first guests started to walk in, by eight fifteen the critics had started to show and by eight thirty seven paintings were sold, the wine was flowing well and Justin had been air kissed beyond all reason. He was this season's it' boy, Park Avenue matrons were asking if he accepted commissions and when he caught Fred's eye, he grinned.

At nine Brian finally showed, dressed better than any of them and drawing eyes just because he was Brian. He moved smoothly through the room, stopping by Justin, put his arm around the boy and kissed him full on, his other hand holding his jaw and moving up to his cheek. "I knew you'd do it."

"I was afraid that you wouldn't make it in time."

"I told you I'd be here…I always come when I say I'm going to."

"Later." The familiar smile.

"Count on it." With a small kiss, Justin moved off to talk to a woman who had just bought one of his paintings for more money than he had made the entire previous year. She was tall and thin and wearing the expected black with tasteful but obvious jewelry that could have paid for his entire school tuition for all four years. She wanted him to meet her husband and hoped that he did children's portraits—in fact now that she thought about it, maybe he could an entire family group if he had the time? He tried to come up with a noncommittal answer without either insulting her or blowing her off. He could probably be talked into it, but he wanted to know what would be a fair price before he completely screwed up that end of things.

Damn, he knew he had to get an agent, but Fred had been doing that end of things for him the last few months and he hadn't concerned himself with it as much as he probably should have. If Brian knew that he was neglecting the business end of things he'd have his balls on a platter.

And speaking of the business end of things, Brian wasn't naïve enough to think at he was just there as a supportive spouse. He worked the crowd for a good hour and a half, smiling, shaking hands, tactfully making sure people that people knew who he was and what he did for a living. Business cards were exchanged with several people and there would be phone calls in a few days feeling each other out.

Business was business, where ever you found it and an art gallery was a good as place as any to strike up contacts. That's how these things were done; he and Justin presented a united front, a complete package and image of sophisticated and erudite players on the scene. If Justin was too young to know the importance of that, Brian certainly wasn't.

Fred came over, smiling and handing Brian a glass of wine. "I got your old favorite. You still drink zinfandel?"

"I do, thanks, Fred." He indicated the room and Justin standing ten feet away. "It seems to be going well."

"Your husband has become the artiste du jour, I believe. You should be proud of him."

"I am. How long might the jour' last?"

"Until the next one comes along. Art is fashion, you know that. It has a longer shelf life than your shoes, but these things don't last, usually." He caught the look. Brian was taking it as a slight to Justin. "Of course he might be one of comets that don't burn out. It's happened before."

"But not often."

"You know that as well as I do."

"He doesn't. He thinks this is the start of everything."

"Maybe it is. Probably not. He'll have a few years I'm sure and he could find a niche that won't fade out, but the economy isn't good now and he's young. Part of the reason he's selling tonight is because his things are inexpensive compared to other works. Oh—don't take what I'm saying wrong, Brian. Your young man is really quite good and should have a nice career. I'm just not convinced yet that he has the ability to take it to the next level." He gave Brian a smile, they were old friends and he wanted to keep it that way. "Of course he could be the one with the pixie dust on him. It does happen."

He heard what Fred was telling him and that was alright. Justin was good. His career would be fine and he might even be one of the ones who made it big. He probably wouldn't, but then lightning didn't strike too often. He would do well, in all likelihood. He was proud of Justin, proud of his work and the passion that drove him and there were times when it amazed him that they were still together after everything that had happened over the last few years.

They seemed like they would be fine.

The evening ended well. Justin spoke to the critic from the Times who had remembered him from the group show last fall and who seemed pleased with his new work. The editor from Art News who had done that short piece on him was back again and wanted a follow up if he could spare some time in the morning. Three more pieces sold before the gallery closed its doors.

Around eleven Justin and Brian were talking quietly in a back corner, sitting, holding hands, resting and reliving the evening.

"You two plan to share my couch? I was just leaving if you are."

"Thanks, but I booked us a room at the Ritz Carleton. I thought that Justin and I should have a celebration, if you don't mind." Justin threw his arms around Brian, kissing him loudly and behaving embarrassingly like a teenager.

"Mind? Dear God. I'd never get a minute's sleep listening to you two go at it all night. Justin—be back by ten thirty tomorrow, Jess wants to do that follow up with you and he has a deadline. Don't be late, alright?"

"I'll be here. Fred? Thank you. This was awesome. I mean—thank you." He was on his feet; his arms around Fred and getting a good hug in return.

"You'll make us both some money and then you can support Brian the way he would like to be supported. Of course the only one who could afford that would be Donald Trump, but he's straight, thank God. That hair is enough to frighten the help and the horses." He opened the door. "I'll see you tomorrow. Johnny will lock up. It went well tonight, Justin, you did well."

Justin and Brian cabbed their way to the hotel, stopping at Fred's so Justin could get his things. The Champaign was waiting in the ice filled bucket along with the strawberries that they had taken to having for whenever they decided that a celebration was in order.

They made love gently and carefully then they made love quick and hard then they made love in the shower to clean themselves off.

Justin was happy, giddy, relieved. He had sold ten paintings, Fred had told him that five people had asked for the name of his agent for commission work and Brian had made it after all. His leave from PIFA could be extended unless he seriously missed his guess and he had an interview tomorrow with one of the editors of Art News. His last conscious thought before sleep was, Jesus, he was happy.

He woke up to the obnoxious sound of a phone ringing. It was nine; Mr. Kinney had left a wake up call. The other side of the bed was empty; Brian must be in the bathroom.

"Brian? Do you want me to order you breakfast?…Brian?" No answer. He got out of bed. The bathroom was empty, Brian wasn't in the room. Maybe he'd decided to hit the hotel gym? That would be the sort of thing he might do. Pulling on his jeans and a shirt he was about to call down there when he saw the note on the desk:

"J-

I had to take an early flight back to put out a couple of fires. I'll see you tomorrow—I'll be at the airport when your plane gets in.

I'm proud of you.

B"

Shit. He hadn't even woken him up to say goodbye or anything. Shit.

He still had to beat the galley by ten thirty. Shit.

Picking up the phone he ordered some food, got himself a quick shower, put his clothes back on and got ready for his day. He knew that he had to stay in New York until his plane out in the morning. There were things for him to do at the gallery, he had to talk with Fred and he had to go over what would happen next. There was that interview and he should call those people who wanted him to do paintings of their kids or their dogs or whatever the fuck they wanted.

He wished that Brian were still there. They could have done all of this—shit—they could have done all of this together.

Damnit. He wasn't even twenty years old and he had his first solo show in New York friggin City and he wanted his husband next to him to tell him how great he was and to hold his hand and to help him deal with all the bullshit that he had to deal with now.

Goddamnit.

He wanted Brian. He didn't want to be doing this, this first real big thing in his career alone. He wanted Brian. He wanted his husband with him. He did. Yes, sure, Brian was busy and he had a lot of pressure on him now and all of that, he knew that—but this was just one more day and—Damnit, Brian should have stayed. It was the weekend, what could be so damn important that it couldn't wait or Cynthia or someone couldn't deal with it or he couldn't handle in over the damn phone.

Damnit.

He looked at the clock, after ten. He had to go. He'd promised Fred that he wouldn't be late.

Damnit.

He cabbed over to the gallery. Fred was already there and greeted him with a hug and coffee from down the street. The calls were coming in, people wanting to know about his availability for commission work, where he was based out of, how long his backlog might be and how long would the show be running so they could get in to see what they had missed last night if they hadn't been able to make the opening.

"You done good, kid." Fred saw the look on his face. Justin wasn't that good an actor and it was apparent that something was wrong—though what it could be this morning had Fred wondering for the ten seconds before he made the connection. Of course. "Brian had to leave?"

"Business."

"…That's Brian."

"I know."

The guy from Art News showed up, asking about being the new it' artist and asking the expected questions about how this would change things for him—both financially and personally. In truth, it was still so new that it hadn't sunk in yet and that was basically what Justin told him. Fred offered that he would be busy for the next year or so and they might arrange another show at a sister gallery in San Francisco when Justin felt that he was ready. Justin managed to give no reaction to the news he hadn't been consulted about before it came out of Fred's mouth.

They took some photos, took some of the slides that had been prepared, thanked Justin for his time, wished him well and left. Justin and Fred spent the next several hours going over paperwork, percentages and the like, talking about which people he should get back to and which could wait. They spoke about how often he should show up at the gallery and when he might have things ready for the west coast. The one thing they didn't talk about was Brian and they both knew that they had to.

"You know that he supports you and that he's proud of you. I saw the look on his face last night."

"I know." God, Justin was so young.

"He flew in for one day to be with you while he's trying to establish a new business. That should tell you that."

"It does. I know, OK Fred? I do."

"So what's the problem? That he had to leave early? He showed up, Justin. Look at that side of it."

"Big fucking deal. He showed up—late—and split as soon as he could."

Christ. Teenagers. "That's right, he showed up and he stayed as long as he could before he had to go back to work. Don't be a frigging queen. He loves you, he married you and he supports what you're doing both emotionally and financially."

Fred's answer was a stony silence and a frozen face.

"Get over yourself, Justin. He's doing the best he can and you know that. He's breaking his balls to get his new agency off the ground—show him the same consideration he's giving you or you'll end up with a studio full of paintings and not much else, princess." He glanced at the ring on Justin's finger. "He put that on you and he won't take it off of you—you can do that if you're not careful, honey."

Angry, Justin grabbed his jacket, shoved his arms into it. "We're finished for today?" Fred nodded. He knew the boy would cool down given some time.

Turning, Justin walked out the gallery door and moved half a block down the street so Fred couldn't see him through the windows. He pulled his cel out of his pocket. He had dialed the number and was listening to it ring on the other end when he felt a hand on his arm. Startled, he turned to see who was there, half expecting a mugger or a panhandler.

"Eric."

"Hey. I heard that you had opened a show in the city and, I…my Mom lives here and I, I thought that, I decided to see for myself…while I was visiting her." He was stammering, embarrassed. "I didn't know you'd be here. Honest."

Justin relented. "You want to see the show?" Eric looked like a puppy someone had just decided to adopt, eager and happy and hopeful. "C'mon."

They went into the gallery, Fred looking up when the door opened. He nodded a greeting and kept his face blank. He didn't know who this other kid was, but it was obvious that he and Justin knew each other and that the new kid was hoping for crumbs. He wouldn't tell Brian, it was likely that he already knew—Brian would make things like this his business to know and he had no desire to get into the inner workings of their relationship. It was between the two of them.