Second Year
August
August was hot and humid, the dog days were here and both men were working too hard to even consider thinking about getting away.
Justin, in addition to the body of work he had to get ready for the show in San Francisco, had a couple of commissions from his show in New York that were expected to be delivered before Labor Day and Brian was up to his ears at work.
The new agency was doing well, better than he had hoped, in fact, but it was non-stop and he was under the gun to produce or destroy the good PR and word of mouth that they'd managed to generate. He was also under increasing pressure from Gardner Vance to either merge or allow a buy out, neither of which he was interested in yet and he knew that Gardner wouldn't take the rejection well. When he let his thoughts wander, he knew that Gardner was becoming concerned about the competition and that made him feel pretty good after the conditions he had been forced out under—damn good, in fact. It was a classic case of getting even instead of getting mad, though he had been pretty damn mad there for a while. He expected problems, possibly in the form of being undercut or blindsided on presentations. This wouldn't go away and he knew that he'd have a fight on his hands soon, probably within the next couple of months if it wasn't diffused and he was doing what he could to be ready for it. He was making sure his clients were happy, making sure his own people were with him—but he knew that it might not be enough and he was privately worried.
It was costing him sleep and his appetite was off again. Sometimes he wondered if he was getting an ulcer, but that was too cliché for him to talk to anyone about—an ad man with an ulcer? Please.
And the phone call from Eric that he'd intercepted a couple of weeks ago up in Canada. He kept thinking about that.
He had no idea what the kid had been talking about, but he had obviously dug up some crap from somewhere and he knew that sooner or later Justin would be made aware of whatever it was.
He had also had a message from Father Tom on his answering machine when they'd gotten back, asking him to call, something about his mother and that he would like to talk to Brian about her. No, she wasn't sick or anything like that, he'd just like to have a conversation.
He was sitting at his new desk, the one in his new office. Cynthia was in the space next to his, a couple of others around working on this and that and Brian was sitting, staring out the window and thinking.
He was thinking about the last few months, all this shit that he and Justin had gone through—the fling with the other kid, the afternoon with Marvin the Tire King, the talk with Joan, starting the new business, Justin's show and the success and fallout from that, the trip to Canada—there had been so much going on and somehow it had all turned into a great big extended drama queen encounter and, well—he was sick of it.
He was.
He was frigging tired of drama.
The thought was a revelation.
He wanted calm and he wanted peace and quiet and he wanted to be able to walk into the loft after a day of dealing with pissy clients and ad wars and be able to take off his shoes and his suit, put on a pair of his old jeans and a wife beater, pop the top off a beer, have some dinner with his husband, sit in front of his damn TV and veg.
That was what he wanted, honest to God, he did.
He wanted to lose the drama.
OK, no. He didn't want a house in the suburbs and a dog and a swing set in the back yard—and God knew he'd open his wrists before he would ever buy a van, but…
He wanted to be able to relax and go home and not think about where the next grenade was coming from or what would be involved in defusing the thing.
He wanted—God help him—he wanted peace and quiet and calm.
He did.
That's what he wanted…well, at least a butt load more than he'd had for the last fifteen or twenty years, anyway.
He didn't want to fly to Buffalo for that meeting next week and he didn't want to deal with whatever was his mother's current problem. He didn't want to have to cope with Justin's friends snarking at him for being Justin's sugar daddy and asking did he have a brother for them. He wasn't in the mood for Debbie's interfering or the muncher's demands. He would scream if Mikey asked him for the time of day and if he saw Ted's face he would be hard pressed not to either smash it or turn around and walk out.
He wanted peace and quiet.
That was it.
He'd come to a realization. He'd had an epiphany. Sitting in his office, looking out the window at the skyline, he'd had a moment of clarity.
He wanted to lose the bullshit and have calm in his life.
He wanted to be able to live his life and he wanted to do it with Justin. He knew that. He wanted them to be together. He wanted to see his son and make sure that he was well cared for, well provided for and that he had the things he needed. He wanted his friends to be happy and content with their lives, but he didn't want to be responsible for them—they were adults, more or less, and they could take care of themselves. More or less. Barring emergencies.
He didn't want to deal with Craig.
He didn't want to be in the middle between—well, between anyone anymore.
He wanted Gardner to leave him alone.
He wanted to, he wanted to…
He wanted to cancel this afternoon's meetings and talk to Justin.
But first:
He punched the number in the phone, waited a few seconds. "Good morning, Vanguard. May I help you?"
"Gardner Vance."
"I'll connect you."
"Gardner Vance's office. May I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to him."
"Mr. Vance is in a meeting. May I take a message?"
"This is Brian Kinney. Tell him I'd like to speak to him."
"Oh—Just a moment, please, Mr. Kinney."
In seconds he picked up. "Brian, good Lord, I was just thinking about you. I hear BK and Company is causing some ripples with that new campaign you've come up with for Mikasa china—I heard rumors you'll be up for a couple of Clio's for that next time around."
"That's what I hear, too, Gardner. How are things at your end?" He knew damn well that Vanguard was feeling his loss. They had lost a few big clients and were having trouble signing more of the caliber that had left.
"We're well, thank you, very well, in fact." Brian knew better. "So, to what do I owe the honor of this call?"
"I thought that you and I might get together and have a talk—informally, of course."
"Of course. That would be lovely. When is convenient for you, Brian?"
Make his sweat. "Next week would be good for me. The end of the week, if that's alright with you. I'm sure you're as busy as I am." Sure he was.
"Quite, indeed we are. Let me see…would Wednesday be good?"
"…To be honest, Thursday would be better." Never take the first offer.
"Fine. Do you still like O'Malley's steaks? Say at seven? We can catch up with what we've been doing. My treat."
"That sounds good. I'll see you there."
"Shall we bring the spouses or not?"
"Why not bring them—I'll run this by Justin and see if he's free then."
"Perfect, just call my girl and let her know. I'll look forward to it, Brian."
"So will I, Gardner." They broke the connection.
Brian wanted to talk to Justin.
Right now.
"Cynthia? I'm leaving early. Deal with it."
"…What about the presentation?"
"You do it."
"But…"
He drove back to the loft. Justin would probably be there working on one of his paintings, at least that's where he usually could be found at ten thirty on a Tuesday morning. He could have called to make sure, he could have just done that, but he liked the idea of surprising the kid.
Kid—shit, he wasn't a kid. Not any more.
He was a married man; he had a good start on the career of his choice, which promised to generate an acceptable income. He had survived homophobia, virtual abandonment by his father and marriage to Brian Kinney. He wasn't a kid. He may not quite be twenty years old yet, but he wasn't a kid.
When Brian was his age he was a sophomore at Penn, Dean's list and all state in soccer. He was supporting himself with scholarships and student loans and part time jobs. He had just finished paying off the damn loans last year; in fact, just about the same time he started paying tuition to PIFA. He had a quick fantasy that as soon as that ended he'd start paying for Gus, too. It would be never ending forever. There would never be a time in his life when he wasn't writing checks to some fucking school.
There wasn't much traffic at that time of the morning and he got home quickly. The street was almost empty and he had no trouble parking. He took the stairs two at a time and slid the unlocked door open, ready for the look of surprise on Justin's face and wanting that smile.
He got the look of surprise, anyway.
Justin was standing facing the door; Eric had his back turned, facing Justin. Obviously they were in the middle of a fairly intense conversation. Hearing the door and seeing the look on Justin's face, Eric turned around, his eyes growing larger when he saw who was there.
"Fuck off."
"I was talking with Jus…"
"Fuck off." Brian and Justin were looking at one another, Eric now reduced to an afterthought.
"Justin…"
"You'd better go."
"I'll tell you the rest later."
"No, don't bother."
"He's going to screw you over again, you know that. I told you what he…Fine. Just…whatever, fine." He looked close to tears and Brian wondered if he practiced that expression in the mirror. "Call me. You can call me any time, day or night."
Justin didn't say anything, just gave him a steady look, dismissing him.
Seeing that it was pointless to try to do more, at least for now, Eric shook his head, gave the other two a parting glare and left, leaving the door open.
Justin just looked at Brian, maybe he was wondering of whatever the hell Eric was telling him was true. It didn't matter; maybe what he was saying was true. I didn't care. It wasn't important, whatever it was.
"You're home early." He'd taken a couple of steps closer to Brian, was standing right in front of him.
"I've been thinking."
"What about?" He crossed his arms in front of hi chest, waiting to see what the hell his husband had on his mind this time.
"I think we need to slow down a little. I think I do, anyway."
He gave Brian one of his looks, one of his –uh-huh—what's the punch line' looks. "What brought this on?"
"I've just been thinking. The last year, well, this year anyway, it's hasn't been too good for you and me. I think we ought to think about that. Maybe we could do something about it."
He looked like he was trying to process what was just said and not having an easy time of it. OK, he knew—this was Brian Kinney, Alpha, Type A extraordinaire and he was suggesting they get the proverbial hammock, kick off their shoes and hang out.
"Did something happen today?" Like maybe he'd dropped acid and had decided to join a commune? Grow his carefully razor-cut hair and wear beads—never a good look except for maybe Jim Morrison and we all know how he turned out.
"I guess I just had a moment of insight." Brian smiled at him, but Justin got that he was serious. He was still wondering what the hell had happened. "I thought that I might take Gardner up on his merger offer and take things a little slower."
"You? Brian, you live for work. How many times have you told me that you ARE business? You like signing new clients more than you like sex." He reconsidered. "Well, maybe."
"That's my point. Shit, I'm not saying that I want to take off for nude volleyball in the woods or any of that shit, but I don't want to work eighteen hours a day six days a week for the rest of my life. "
Justin was still trying to digest whatever he was saying. "You want to work part time?" Brian could see the fear in his eyes at what that would mean for him. He would be around more, hanging around the loft, getting bored, getting ideas about—whatever floated through his brain on a given day and God knew, that could be almost anything.
"I was thinking of cutting down to maybe fifty or sixty hours a week and two day weekends." He reconsidered. "Well, mostly two day weekends."
Justin looked stunned, like he wanted to make sure he'd heard Brian right. "Are you sure? This would mean that…" Dear God, let him not be serious. Let him forget about this by breakfast.
"We'd have more time, yes, I know."
"You could come to the show in California." That would be good. They would have fun there, it might even be a good idea—at least this part of it. He stopped. "But what about the money? You said that you needed to put in the hours to make ends meet until you could afford to hire more staff."
"That's why I'd consider a merger, you twat." Like he was talking to an idiot. "Vanguard has everything in place for all the shit work."
Justin shifted his weight to one hip. Brian had his attention. "And you've talked to Vance about this?"
"We're having dinner next week. He's already drooling." This was accompanied by the trademark smirk, something that had always secretly annoyed Justin—not that he had ever admitted that to anyone, but Brian knew. He could tell by the look on his face whenever he used it. In fact, he'd made an effort to cut back on it but lifelong habits are hard to break.
"And you and Vance can work together after what happened with Stockwell?"
"We could always work together. We just know better than to trust each other. It'll be like it was before. I'll be a partner—senior partner—he'll try to screw me and I'll watch my ass."
Justin gave him that look again, the one where he's wondering where the real Asshole Brian went and where did Pod Brian appear from—and how long would he be staying.
Then gave Brian a long look, said, "Huh." shook his head and went back to his canvas. It was pretty obvious that he thought this, too, would pass. After a couple of minutes he came up to where his husband was changing in the bedroom. "You're not going Lez on me, are you?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Cutting back at work, spending more time together, not caring that Eric was here trying to mess us up—what's crawled up your butt?"
"I want to smell the roses."
He blinked once and took a beat. "Jesus. You are scaring the Hell out of me."
"Get used to it. It's the new me."