Chapter: 4
Rating: R
Wordcount: 10,248
Warnings: strong language, sexual situations, misunderstandings
Author's Note: So here's chapter four, and I'm very sorry that it turned out so long! I usually try to keep the length more reasonable. But because I went out of control this time, this chapter is going to have to be split into two parts due to LJ's character restrictions. Also, you may wonder what's going on about half way through the chapter, but I encourage you to keep reading until the chapter's end. Everything will be explained!
While her name is notorious in the ad business, Brian could never have realized before now just how true the rumors about Susanna Blackwell were. He watches her from across the table in the conference room—a tiny, old woman with the cutthroat, kill-or-be-killed temperament of a beaten down pit bull. If pit bulls wore blindingly scarlet lipstick, of course, and had enough business savvy to keep him on his toes.
He's wanted her account for ages, almost from the moment that he heard of her company and the prestige it held in the world of fragrance and perfumery. It was an impossible pursuit while he was with Ryder and only slightly more realistic under Vanguard. But now that Kinnetik has gained a reputation for being the best boutique agency in the business, he has his chance. Either he gets the account now or he never will. And at this critical juncture, there's no telling which way the scales will tip.
For whatever reason, Brian senses that Blackwell questions the vision he has for her product. She's notorious for being a ballbuster when it comes to design, expecting nothing short of groundbreaking for each new campaign. It is, after all, why she's sitting with him and his team today—Smith & Martin out of New York having failed abysmally in pleasing her. Brian might have been able to appreciate that business practice—being that it's so very near and dear to his own expectations for his company—if he weren't trying to sell himself just now. He's sure he's courted her interest at the very least; the rest just comes down to convincing her that Kinnetik is the right business to see her vision through.
Just as he's about to suggest to her that they meet over dinner at some point this week and discuss Kinnetik's ideas for her product, Brian catches Cynthia's startled look from the corner of his eye. His brow pulls as he tries to inconspicuously read whatever it is that has so obviously caught her interest in Blackwell's background information. Their gazes meet briefly, Cynthia trying desperately to communicate to him that they need to talk. About what, he has no fucking clue, but he definitely wants to, especially if it has to do with this account.
"Mrs. Blackwell," Brian begins as she finishes expressing her concerns for what has to be the hundredth fucking time in ten minutes, "if you'll allow my team some time to look over your requests, I can assure you we can come up with an excellent campaign that meets your company's needs."
"I don't want excellence, Mr. Kinney. What I want is perfection," she says tersely.
He smiles, forced. "And you'll have it."
"I must stress again that time is of the essence."
Brian thinks he sees Ted rolling his eyes at that. They're all well aware of the timetable that Blackwell has all but outright demanded of them should she decide to sign the contract. It's goddamn ridiculous, and if it weren't for the fact that he's had his sights set on this account for years, Brian would tell her exactly where she could shove her time constraints. It'd be exactly the same place where she could shove her questioning of his design ability.
"We understand. I'll have my art department prioritize your account and my assistant contact yours about arranging another meeting. You should expect to hear from us within a few days."
For the first time since the old bag and company walked through his office doors, Blackwell finally looks placated by something he's said. She nods curtly and stands, her employees and partners following suit.
As he walks her toward the doorway, Brian notices her attention suddenly diverts to his desk. He turns to find what's caught her interest and immediately guesses that it's the large-scale painting Justin did for him ages ago when Justin was just starting out in New York. It spans across most of the wall, making it an imposing presence in the room to say the least. Brian likes it for that reason. Well, that, and because it exudes this raw energy—harsh and cold, yet undeniably sexual. It's palette of mostly blue shades with dabs of blacks, oranges, and whites was no doubt inspired by the light above of his bed in the loft; Justin had admitted to that much, though they didn't frequently analyze his work together.
A sense of pride wells inside him as he watches Blackwell's face morph from confused to curious to somewhere close to awestruck. He wants to say, that's right; Sunshine's a fucking genius and you should feel fortunate to experience it. But he doesn't. The smug smirk gracing his lips will have to do.
"This is stunning," the old bag admits after some time.
"Quite impressive," he agrees.
Her eyes never leaving the painting she asks, "Where did you acquire this piece?"
"I didn't. It was given to me as a gift."
"By whom?"
"Justin Taylor. He's—"
"I'm well aware of who he is, Mr. Kinney. I am a patron of the arts," she huffs, insulted apparently. "I've read of his work and had the pleasure of viewing it in person once. He is quite an accomplished young man."
"You wouldn't know the half of it."
"You're an acquaintance of his?"
"We're—"
"Partners," Cynthia quickly interjects.
Brian's eyes snap to her, completely surprised. What the fuck does she think she's saying? They're not fucking partners, haven't been for a really long time, if ever. Just as he's about to correct Cynthia, she gives him a look that's begging him to trust her. The only reason that he does is that she's never once disappointed him, and she'd better hope that she didn't just start. A mistake that could cost him Blackwell's account could prove fatal to her.
"Partners?"
"Justin is Brian's ball-and-chain," Ted adds, a touch nervously, and nods to Brian to go with it.
"I had no idea," she says surprised.
"We don't advertise it. Justin likes to keep our personal life private."
Blackwell returns her gaze to the painting, staring at it greedily as if she's never seen anything so remarkable. She probably hasn't and probably never will. Despite their differences at times, Brian would never begrudge Justin of his talent. And judging from the way Blackwell's demeanor has suddenly changed from rabid animal to calm in light of the artwork, he may have Justin to thank for this account.
"You must have impeccable taste to be able to court such an artist, Mr. Kinney."
Brian could scoff at the absurdity of that statement. Yes, he does have impeccable taste, but it sure as hell has nothing to do with his relationship with Justin. And if she thinks that Justin has any sense of taste beyond art, she really is as senile as some claim her to be. The only thing it would take to court Sunshine is a nine inch cock and some cheap flowers. Throw in a mushy Hallmark and he's yours for life.
"Thank you."
"I'll be in touch," she says with one last, hard look at the painting.
.
.
The moment Blackwell and her entourage are safely out the door, Brian turns to Cynthia and Ted. He gives them both a hard look, as if to tell them to cut the goddamn bullshit. Ted visibly squirms a bit, but Cynthia remains unruffled.
"Do you two want to tell me what the fuck is going on?" His lips thin. "Because last time I checked, Justin and I aren't married. And we sure as hell aren't partners in any sense of the word."
"I hadn't made the connection before rereading Blackwell's background in the meeting, but the old bitch has been a patron of Henderson's for the past ten years."
"Henderson's?" he asks, not understanding the relevance that has to his question.
"It's the gallery Justin worked at in 2006. You couldn't make his second show, remember?"
That does ring a bell now that she mentions it. He'd promised he'd be there but had a business meeting forced on him at the last minute by Brown. And in a genius move to help get him out of the dog house, he'd had Cynthia order two dozen calla lilies to be delivered to Justin at the gallery he was both working for and featured at. That gallery happened to be Henderson's.
"Yeah, I remember."
Cynthia cocks her hip, arms folded across her chest. "I thought the place and address seemed familiar when I went over the background the first time, but it wasn't until the meeting that I made the connection. Blackwell hardly ever misses a show, so she'd have had to run into Justin's artwork at some point. I thought it might be worthwhile to bring up. And when she said what a fan she was, it seemed like the right move to make."
"It was a fucking dangerous move," Brian scoffs. "She could have been a homophobe."
"Well she came to us, Bri. It's not as if the company is exactly in the closet," Ted interjects. "That, and considering her firmly established concerns—your sexuality not being one of them—it was a pretty safe bet that she wouldn't be offended by domestic partnership."
Alright, so they both had very valid points and reason enough to back their mini-mutiny. He doesn't feel compelled to fire them yet. In fact, Brian's rather impressed by their quick thinking and risk taking, especially considering that it didn't backfire right in their fucking faces.
"So what are you suggesting then?"
"You could always dangle the carrot in front of the horse," Cynthia says, slyly.
"Do you really think that arranging a meeting between the two of them would get us anywhere?" Ted asks. "I'm not sure a meet-and-greet is really going to sway this sort of client."
Brian is sure. At least, he's sure that it can't hurt his chances any. No one knows better than himself that sometimes all a client needs is an extra push in the right direction. Most of the time that means some one-on-one with his cock. But in this case, it could mean the opportunity to meet an artist whose work left her stunned. And the one person that can give her access to Justin? Him.
"Cynthia, if this works out, remind me to give you a raise."
"Sure thing, boss."
"But, wait," Ted stammers. "That's underhanded. It's one thing to fuck your clients, but it's completely different when you're involving Justin. He's going to be pissed if he knows what you're doing, Bri. Using him like that. You'll ruin—"
"Ruin what, Theodore? There's nothing to ruin," Brain says, walking around his desk. "Now don't you have some numbers to crunch?"
The look on Ted's face is one of exasperation, but he leaves anyway with Cynthia right behind him. When the door shuts, Brian sits and leans back in his chair, rubbing his palms over his face. This account is so fucking attainable he can smell it. And Cynthia isn't wrong; she knows how to play a client just as well as he does. That's why they're the perfect business partners.
But there is an issue, like it or not. He's put things before Justin, he's pushed Justin away. However, he's never used Justin. If it were anyone else, no problem. But, he has more respect for Sunshine than to do that to him. And as much as he'd like to pretend there's nothing left between them to ruin, Brian knows better. Justin still trusts him, and that trust should never be brought into question.
.
.
Brian waits to call him until he's in the comfort of his loft and away from all his nosy employees who don't need to hear what's about to be said. He showers quickly enough and falls onto the bed before he picks up his cell. Somehow it feels strange to talk to Sunshine anywhere else in the loft. Two years of phone sex will do that to anyone.
The phone rings and rings. Just when Brian is about to say fuck it and call back at a later time, Justin answers, winded—as if he'd been running—but pleasantly surprised judging from his tone.
"Brian."
Brian smirks, voice husky. "What are you wearing?"
"Stop it," Justin says with an amused chuckle. "Do you always have to be so indecent on the phone?"
"You used to wait with baited breath every night for me to say that, Sunshine."
"Who says I still don't?"
Justin suddenly has the complete attention of his dick. Brian knows better than to think that Justin still wants to hear that. After all, who the fuck fantasizes about phone sex? Aside from pathetic twats, no one. He tries to convince his cock of that, though, but it's still half-hard and approaching aching.
"Alright, that's enough. I don't actually give a shit about what you're wearing."
"So you just called because you miss hearing my voice?"
Brian snorts. "Maybe in your muncher dreams."
"Then what's up?"
"I need your help."
He lays out the plan for Justin from start to finish. It's meant to be nothing more than a quick face-to-face after his next meeting with Blackwell, seemingly completely accidental. They do their cute, married couple routine for her. She fawns over Justin's immeasurable talent. Then, she leaves. With some luck, she'll be begging Kinnetik to let her sign a contract with them. Justin's part is done, and everyone goes home happy.
"So?" Brian prompts.
"You've resorted to lying to little old ladies in order to get clients, Brian?"
"She's not just any old lady. She's the closest thing to the anti-Christ you're ever going to meet."
"And naturally you want her business."
Brian can almost see the smirk on Justin's perfect lips. He can also feel the urge to kiss it right off of them. Fuck.
"I didn't call to talk morality with you. Are you in or out?"
"It might be fun to be partners-in-crime again. Just like when we took down Stockwell." Justin pauses. "But what's in it for me?"
"That satisfaction of knowing that you might be instrumental in saving my ass isn't enough for you, Sunshine?"
Justin hums appreciatively. "I think I'd rather be nailing your ass than saving it. Sorry."
Brian scowls. "I'm not that desperate."
"That's unfortunate. Looks like our business negotiations are over then, Mr. Kinney. It's been a pleasure."
That little fucker. Justin knows what that voice does to him, the one that's all sultry and yet oh-so-innocent. And Brian won't even get into Justin's Mr. Kinney routine. The kid knows how to drive a hard bargain, and Brian's not too sure he can get what he wants without Justin's help.
"Justin, wait."
"I'm listening." And Brian can hear his fucking smile.
"We'll do dinner. Lunch. Whatever the fuck whenever the fuck you want it. You name the terms."
"That's a nice start."
"What else do you want? Besides that because you're not getting it."
"I've been dying for a real night out for ages.
"Uh-huh."
"But I'm going to need to find a babysitter." Justin seems to hesitate. "I know it's probably asking too much, but would you mind?"
.Fuck. His brow pulling, Brian's mouth drops open as he struggles to wrap his mind around what Justin just said. That kid had fucking balls to ask him to watch the urchin. And just who the fuck did Justin think he was going to spend a romantic evening with? Did he meet someone since he'd gotten back to town? Some asshole who probably liked shitty violin music and had stupid facial hair? Yeah, that's just Sunshine's type.
"You know what? Forget it," Brian snaps and promptly hangs up.
.
.
He takes a long drag off his cigarette and a deep drink of Beam straight from the bottle. On the other end of the phone, Gus is listing off all the Christmas gifts he wants this year. Brian smiles lazily, his mind a blur from the liquor, and jots down the items in a drunken scrawl across the back of a take-out menu.
"That's all you want, Sonnyboy?"
"Dad, I told ya like…twenty things. That's a lot."
"You're too practical for a nine year old," Brian says, struggling to keep from slurring his words. "You get that from your mother."
Actually, Gus gets a lot of things from Lindsay. He may look dead like his old man, but his personality is all Linds, from mild-manners to an ungodly ability to read people. Brian does his best to be a bad influence during their monthly visits, but so far the lessons haven't stuck.
"You say that all the time."
"Because it's true."
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"You sound super sad," Gus says, his own voice troubled.
"Only because I miss you, Sonnyboy."
It's not really a lie. He does miss Gus; he misses him like he never thought he could miss anyone. They see each other a lot, more than Brian expected when the Marcus-Peterson brood left for Canada. It'll never be enough, though.
But it's more than Gus, too. He's drunken himself into a daze because of Justin, because Justin interpreted his I'm-only-in-this-for-the-fuck-and-nothing-more as I'm-okay-with-you-dating. Which he isn't. It's probably not fair for him to uncomfortable with the idea given the established terms of their agreement, but fuck fairness. Life isn't fair.
"I don't want you to be sad, Dad. Mom and Ma have the countdown calendar up in the kitchen. Jenny and I mark the day off every night before we brush our teeth. Only she's really bad and got marker everywhere. And you know what? I get to see you in, like, ten days. So you just hafta go to sleep tonight and tomorrow night. And then you do it a couple more times. And then you wake up and I'm there!"
Goddamn. His eyes get suddenly wet because, fuck, his kid is comforting him and not the other way around. And he's so damn smart and optimistic. Not the miserable cynic his father is. Gus isnothing like him in all the ways that matter, thank god for that.
"You should get back to bed," Brian says, not because he wants to stop talking but because he fears the evenness of his voice won't hold out. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"After my game."
"Yeah, after your game."
"Okay, Dad! Love you! Sleep tight!"
"You too, Sonnyboy."
Brian can hear Gus pass the phone off to one of his mothers. He really doesn't feel like talking to either of them tonight; it's much easier to hide a drunken call from a nine year old than it is from the munchers. And if it's Mel, he knows he'll be read the riot act. It's not as if he doesn't know he shouldn't be calling Gus when he's significantly more than five sheets to the wind. Most of the time, he doesn't call in this state—Brian knows what it's like to be subjected to a drunken father. But he needed to hear Gus, needed to know that at least one of his Sonnyboys still and always would love him.
"Brian? Are you still there?"
Lindsay, her voice as downy soft as always. Not Mel. Maybe there really is a God.
"Yeah."
"You called after Gus' bedtime."
"Jesus fucking Christ, Lindsay," he spits. "He's my son. I'll call him whenever I damn well—"
"That's not what I meant," she says, softer still. "You know you can call him whenever you want to. That's not even an issue. It's just that you never call past Gus' bedtime. This isn't like you. When I saw your number I thought something had happened back home."
Well, shit. He rarely loses his temper with Linds, and half the time he does it usually ends up being over a misunderstanding. Like tonight. He bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to keep himself from apologizing. Brian Kinney doesn't do apologies, and even if he did, Lindsay wouldn't want to hear it. She's one of the few people who prefers his life's philosophy—no apologies, no regrets. It's probably why he loves her so much.
"Nothing's wrong. Everyone's fine."
"You're drunk."
"I am not."
"Don't lie to me. I know your drunk voice, Bri. We were friends in college." She sighs, tone suddenly more serious. "And you never call Gus while you're at Babylon or the bars. You're drinking alone, aren't you? At the loft?"
"You're not my goddamn mother, Linds," he says with little heat.
"No, but I am the mother of your son, which I thought meant something to you."
"It does. You know it does"
"So why don't you tell me what's got you in this state? I'll listen and nod in all the right places, promise. And then we can pretend like this conversation never happened. Come on, it'll make me feel better."
Lindsay has always had a way with words, spinning things so he always felt as if he was helping her and not the other way around. Over the years, Brian's become wise to it, now picking and choosing when he decides to open up to her. He doesn't feel much like talking tonight, but he'll throw her a bone.
"Justin's in town for the holidays."
"He decided to come?" Lindsay asks, surprised but pleasantly so. "Oh, Brian. I didn't know that was a certain thing or I would have called you sooner."
"I don't need you to check up on me."
"No, no, I just…" She pauses, and Brian has no doubt she's trying to figure out exactly how to phrase whatever comes next. "How do you feel about it?"
"Linds," he sighs, taking another drink of Beam. "You don't think we're actually going to discuss feelings, do you?"
"Right. Well would you like me to say something to Gus? I'm not sure if he remembers Justin very clearly. It's been a few years."
Brian thinks that over, having never really considered it before. Gus had been around six years old the last time he saw Justin. He's grown a hell of a lot since then and has long since stopped asking or talking about Justin. It's only natural that he would, considering how Justin faded from his life.
He's not sure what to do about that issue though. Should they explain to Gus who this person is ahead of time? Or should they wait until Gus sees Justin again? He has no fucking clue, and it's probably not a good idea to make this sort of decision when he's well on his way to shitfaced.
"Let's wait. I can't think straight right now, and I sure as hell don't want to hear about how I permanently scarred him during Christmas 2010 until the day I die."
"Alright, well if you do decide that you want Mel and me to talk with him before we come down, we will. Now why don't you get some sleep? It sounds like you've had a trying day."
Trying doesn't describe the half of it, but sleep's not a bad idea. He shifts the phone to his other shoulder and reaches for the cap to the liquor. It takes him a couple swipes before he manages to get his hands on it.
"I'll give you a call in the morning, Bri?"
"I'll be fine."
"I just worry when you drink like this."
"Save your mothering for my son, alright? Goodnight, Linds."
"Goodnight. I love you."
Brian rolls his eyes and smirks. "You too."
.
.
Truth be told, he'd rather cut off his own cock than sit through another meeting with Susanna Blackwell. Dealing with this woman twice in one week is a feat of superhuman strength; luckily for him, he's a superhero. Well, in theory, anyway. And right about now, he would love nothing more than to tap into Rage's mind control abilities and have Blackwell see things his way.
The problem is that she doesn't trust him. He's unapologetic about the campaign he and his staff have spent the last forty-eight hours slaving over—it's sleek, it's sexy, it's everything a perfume ad should be.
And apparently, it's also not quite good enough.
Brian watches Blackwell's beady little eyes flit over the boards that were drawn up for her. They're genius as far as he's concerned, more than she'll ever get anywhere else. He wants to tell her as much—just lay it on the line for the old bag—and normally he would. But with tens of millions of dollars at stake, all riding on her signature, Brian has no choice but to sit back and wait.
"What inspires you, Mr. Kinney?" she asks, pausing in front of one of the boards.
Cock—nine inches, cut.
He's reached the level of irritation that he nearly tells her as much, but bites his tongue before he costs himself the account. Brian wracks his brain for an answer that's not lame. As suspected, there really isn't one, so he settles for the next best thing.
"Money."
Her lips curls. "Not your partner?"
"Maybe if this were a romance novel." Cynthia shoots him a look that's begging him to stop. "I like to keep work and pleasure separate for the most part."
"And what about Mr. Taylor? What inspires him?"
Cock—nine inches, cut.
She really didn't understand much about gay men, did she?
He tries to ignore the ease that comes with answering questions about his partner, how Justin is the only person who ever comes to mind when that word is used. At business dinners, conferences, fundraisers, parties—it's always Justin, even on the off occasion when he's sleeping with someone more than once.
"Everything inspires Justin," he states simply because it's just better that way, better to not over-think it.
It must be the right answer because the old woman smiles and nods sagely. "And what does Mr. Taylor think of your campaign for my product?"
Goddamn, does she not know when to shut the hell up? In her demented mind, she may think they're a couple, but even then that doesn't mean that they cozy up next to the fire at night, cuddle, and talk about their days. For fuck's sake, they're not lesbians. Or breeders. Or Stepford Fags.
It's almost the tipping point for Brian. He's going to tell her where to shove her artistic vision—fuck the money—and escort her the hell out. But then he realizes what it is that she wants. She didn't come back to Kinnetik for his vision of her product. Blackwell came back for Justin's vision—a work of art designed specifically for her. Briefly he wonders if this is even about selling the product. But should it matter to him? Millions are millions.
"It's too heavy handed for Justin," Brian says, honestly. "Blatant. He'd rather think about and react to artwork than be told what it is. He likes the abstract. I assume you're well aware that you can't just glance at one of Justin's paintings. It's a ten minute process just to sort through what you're feeling."
"That's what I want for my perfume line."
"You do understand that abstract design isn't appreciated by the masses. People like to be spoon fed their products."
"I don't care about the masses, Mr. Kinney."
Well, that's one point that they can certainly agree on. And if the campaign fails abysmally, he can always tell her that he told her it would. Brian's always been confident in everything he's put his name to, but this is somehow different. What she's asking from him is something that he knows very little about, as does his art department staff. They've all taken art history classes, art theory, but to do what Justin does isn't the same. What Justin does he's had since birth and in no amount of time can be learned. At this point, Brian can only hope that seven years of fucking an artist has made him qualified to at least mimic the art.
"Alright, we'll come up with some new boards then. Cynthia can arrange a time for you to come back to the office to see the new designs, and we can discuss the terms of the contract from there."
She raises her brow at that, apparently surprised that he would assume she'd be signing anything. Blackwell will sign though, he's sure of it. She's running out of time and is far too obsessed with one Justin Taylor to let this opportunity pass her by. Little does she know that Justin won't be playing a single part in this campaign. And as far as Brian is concerned, Justin won't be playing a part in his life anymore either. Let him have his musicians with tiny dicks. His fucking loss.
Their meeting officially over, Brian escorts Blackwell to his office door. They're halfway across the room when said door opens and in walks Sunshine pushing a goddamn stroller complete with urchin. The smile on his face is nothing short of radiant, and Brian wonders what the fuck he's doing here.
"Jus—"
"Shit, am I early, honey?"
Brian pales at the nickname, even though Justin is only using it to keep up with the arrangement Brian had laid out the other day on the phone. Except, last time they talked, they weren't going through with this ruse because they couldn't settle on any terms. And, Justin is seeing someone. Somehow Brian is struggling to get over that last part, try as he might. In fact, he doesn't want to have to look at Justin again—and especially that kid—for as long as he lives. It's over between them, and it was stupid to try to sort out some holiday arrangement otherwise.
He about ready to tell Justin to get the fuck out, but the way Blackwell's eyes light up like it's fucking Christmas morning makes him think better of it. Blowing up on Justin—and confessing to the fact that they are in no way, shape, or form partners—would mean the end of the Blackwell account.
"Not really. I was just showing Mrs. Blackwell out." He turns to her. "Mrs. Blackwell, this is my partner, Justin Taylor." And then to Justin. "Justin, this is Susanna Blackwell."
"It's a pleasure," Justin says, taking off his glove to shake her hand. "Brian's been talking non-stop about your account for days. He's been putting in long hours just to make sure everything is perfect. The baby and I've hardly seen him since Tuesday."
Shit. The baby. Brian groans inwardly. Initially, he hadn't accounted for the fact that Justin would have the urchin with him. He doesn't know why. Where else would she be besides with her father, fucking up his life? And now he's going to have to pretend to be her daddy for all of five minutes? The thought makes him want to gouge his eyes out.
"You never mentioned a daughter, Mr. Kinney. I had no idea," Blackwell says, grinning fondly at the urchin.
"That's probably my fault," Justin says, throwing him a devious smile. "When she was first born, Brian wouldn't shut up about her. He'd just go on and on to anyone who would listen. I finally had to start telling him that not everyone wants to hear about our kid, you know? I think he's gotten tired of hearing me tell him to shut up, so he just doesn't say much about her when he can help it."
He's fucking dead. That's all Brian can think, can feel. He's going to murder Justin like Justin has just murdered his image. As if he would ever fucking do something like that. Brian Kinney—doting father? When hell freezes over.
Seething, he watches as Justin picks the urchin up from her stroller, tugging off her hat and unwinding the scarf from around her neck. Her nose and cheeks are pink from the cold, and she looks less than impressed to be here.
"Can you say hi to Mrs. Blackwell, Elise?" Justin coaxes, bouncing the kid in his arms.
"Oh what a lovely name."
"Brian picked it out."
He needs a drink. No, he needs significantly more than a drink. He needs a bottle of aspirin too. Of all the things that probably should have killed him over the years, it's really going to end this way—death by humiliation. The looks on Ted and Cynthia's faces tell him that he's never living this moment down. Ted will tell Emmy Lou. Emmy Lou will tell all of Liberty Avenue, and he won't be able to show his face anymore.
"Justin," he cautions, forcing a smile on his lips.
But instead of stopping, Justin just goes on and passes the kid to him. He has no choice but to take her, especially under the watchful gaze of Blackwell. Holding the urchin when she's awake is a little different than holding her when she's asleep. It's her eyes, the way she expresses herself through them. The urchin looks at him so trustingly as he settles her against his side. Trusting and curious.
At her age, Gus hadn't been very trusting of strangers. He'd shied away from them or outright cried when meeting someone new. Brian supposes that she is the way she is because she's always been surrounded by so many people, coming and going. Justin is a very social person; it's only natural that his kid would be too.
"She's been saying Dada all day," Justin explains. "So we thought we'd meet him for lunch."
"It must be difficult painting with a child so young in the house. And not to mention travel for your shows."
"I manage. Brian's a huge help, too."
Brian's about to cut Justin off and force Blackwell out the door, but the urchin starts patting him on the head again like she had that morning at Deb's. Her tiny fingers grab at his hair, and he gently tries to pry her grubby hands away. Justin tries to keep from laughing—Brian can tell from how he's not so subtly holding back a smile—and Blackwell watches on with some sort of tender expression.
"Justin, dear, we shouldn't keep Mrs. Blackwell from her obligations."
"Yes, I should be going." She walks towards the door but stops just short of it. "Mr. Kinney, please have your assistant send over the contract so that my lawyers may look it over before our next meeting. I'm certain we'll soon be able to reach an agreement on the new ads. And perhaps after the project is finished, you and Mr. Taylor could join my husband and I for dinner to celebrate. I would love to hear more about your artwork, Mr. Taylor."
"That'd be great," Justin says. "It was a pleasure meeting you."
"I'll have the contract sent right away," Brian adds, as the urchin tightens her arms around his neck in a hug.
He can almost ignore the hug, the sight of Blackwell walking out the door such a relief. And that contract business? He hadn't expected her to agree to see it so quickly. Brian had imagined another month or two of coming up with boards for her product before she would even consider signing. If it weren't for the fact that he's so pissed off with Justin, he just might offer to blow him.
The office falls into momentary silence, and Brian's tossing his patented get-the-fuck-out look to Ted and Cynthia. They do, though he's no doubt that they'd love to stay for the show. And what a fucking show it's going to be.
The moment the door clicks shut, Brian all but dumps the urchin into Justin's arms, as if she's scalding to the touch. The kid makes a little fuss about the rough fumbling, and Brian can sense that Justin's about to say something about it. Before he can, Brian holds up a hand to stop him.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he snaps.
"Saving your ass."
"I was doing just fine."
"Oh, whatever, Brian. The look on her face as I came into the room suggests otherwise. You were losing the account."
"Bullshit." He walks around his desk, briefly looks down at his desktop before raising his gaze to Justin again. "I don't want you or that kid here, understand? It's fucking over."
"You're only saying that because you're pissed off about something. You haven't returned my calls for the past two days. So why don't you stop having a queen out and tell me what I did to upset you."
Sometimes Brian doesn't know what he did to Justin that makes Justin so goddamn understanding. Not even Lindsay—WASP-extraordinaire—keeps up her country club façade this long. And it's fucking infuriating, the way Justin does this. It makes him feel like a total asshole when he has every right to be livid.
He needs a drink. Brian can feel Justin's eyes on him as he crosses over to the end table by the sofa where he keeps a bottle of liquor and a few tumblers. Sloshing some Beam in one, he takes a quick drink—feeling the slow burn down his throat—and then turns to Justin.
"You can fuck whomever you like, Sunshine. Just don't ask me to be your goddamn babysitter."
"What are you talking about?" he asks, setting a squirming urchin on the floor.
"The other night? You said you needed a night out?"
Justin's brow knits, a look of genuine confusion on his face. Sitting on the sofa, Brian waits for him to put the pieces together. He personally thinks it's pretty fucking obvious why he upset about the whole situation.
"Brian…" And then there it is—eyes suddenly wide with realization. "I wanted to go out with you, asshole. I didn't…when I asked you about a babysitter, I wanted to know if you'd mind arranging something. You know, because I haven't lived here in five years and you had experience with Gus and his sitters. You remember that agency you, Mel, and Linds found Annie through? Yeah, that."
This is the thing that gets Brian about his once-sort-of-partner—Justin doesn't always say what he wants. And he's really fucking notorious for not being up front about stuff when chances are Brian's reaction is going to be less than ideal. So he pulls this shit, and Brian ends up being more pissed off than he would have been in the first place.
He should have just fucking asked for the agency's number. Or, Brian would have been more than happy to make the arrangements since he was already on file at the office. And just as he's about to tell Justin exactly that, Justin beats him to it.
"I hate it when you do this!" Justin says, running his hand through his hair before throwing it up in frustration. "You just jumped to the worst case scenario and shut down on me, Brian."
"If you just said what you wanted in the first place, Sunshine…"
Silence reigns for a minute or more, Brian holding Justin's gaze. Sunshine looks like he wants to strangle him, and the feeling is pretty fucking mutual. But in the quiet, the moment for that seems to fade. Brian stares down at his new Armani loafers and wonders how in the hell they always seem to do this.
The tension in his chest eases at knowing that Justin wanted him and not someone else. If he's honest, Brian's always thought that the day might come when he'd be too old for Justin. For fuck's sake, he's almost—and it's painful to even think it—forty, and Justin's still in his twenties. It's unclear to him why Justin's still hanging around like he always has, showing up when he least expects it and throwing Brian's whole world off its axis. But Brian's not going to complain about that when his world seems so much better off kilter.
"I guess we haven't always been particularly good at communicating with each other," Justin says lightly, joining him on the sofa.
"Unless it's with our dicks," Brian adds, by way of an apology.
He feels Justin's lips skim across his jaw and smiles despite himself. There are certain perks to have a twenty-seven year old temporary-lover at his age. And one of those perks happens to be the twenty-seven year old sex drive to compliment it.
Brian leans back against the sofa—half-lying, half-sitting—and Justin sidles up next to him, pressing open mouth kisses on his neck. His eyes flutter shut and breath hitches when Sunshine's fingers slip across his torso and up to rub his nipple. If Justin was after the undivided attention of his cock, he certain has it. In spades.
The moan that slips from his lips is drowned out by the urchin's babbling and incessant Dadadafrom the middle of the floor. They manage to ignore it for a few minutes longer—touching and kissing—before what sounds like a stack of folders smacks the floor.
"Uh oh."
Jesus fucking Christ.
Sure enough, there are a stack of folders spread out on the floor, thankfully the contents still fairly intact. And right next to that is the kid, looking up at him with her big blue eyes, her expression one of complete confusion.
He groans, slowly turning towards Justin who is smiling at him.
"She's starved for your attention, Daddy. You've been neglecting us for days."
"Call me that again, and something is going to be neglected for days," Brian says, grabbing Justin's half-hard cock for emphasis.
His hips twitch, but Brian lets him go quick enough that it's not very pleasurable. Justin kisses the side of his mouth and then slaps his leg playfully.
"Come on, you can buy us lunch, Mr. Kinney. We're starved."
.
.
"Look who's here!" Debbie shouts, delighted, as Justin settles the urchin into a high chair at the end of the table. "There's my little Elise."
Brian thinks that the kid takes offense to having her cheek pinched, but if Deb hasn't caught on in close to forty years, she never will. And the kiss to the forehead—red lipstick mark left in its wake—isn't received too favorably either. God only knows what's gotten into the urchin today, but she does seem a little out of sorts.
"So what are you three doing out?" Deb asks.
"Brian's promised us greasy burgers and fries. We're cashing in on it."
"You did?" Debbie glances over at Brian, who stares coolly back at her, and then to Justin again. "Well good for you, baby."
He fears that look of Deb's—too much questioning and not enough minding her own fucking business. And he knows what she's thinking. Did all of their friends have to jump to conclusions the moment they see he and Justin together? Are their lives really that pathetic?
"It's just lunch, Deb," Brian says, skimming the menu despite knowing it by heart.
She snatches it out of his hands before he even makes it to the side dishes and dutifully recites, clearly annoyed, "Turkey on whole wheat, hold the mayo. What'll it be for you, Sunshine?"
Justin puts in his order—a heart attack waiting to happen—and he and Deb look over the menu to find something suitable for the urchin. Brian thinks they decide on macaroni and cheese, but isn't sure because he's too busy tuning out the kid's constant stream of nonsense she's directing towards him. She smiles, throws around her hands, and smacks the table a couple times, laughing. She's definitely inherited her penchant for flirting from Justin.
As soon as Deb leaves to put in their order, Brian feels Justin's light kick against his shin. He raises an eyebrow at that and watches as Sunshine reaches across the table for his hand. Their fingertips loosely meet, Justin's hand then attempting to make it full blown handholding, but Brian puts an immediate stop to it.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Come on. Don't act like the great Brian Kinney is above handholding. We did it on more than one occasion right here in this very diner."
"Yeah, only ever under the table and when I was feeling particularly sorry for your ass."
Justin kicks him again, a little harder this time. And in an act of retaliation, Brian slips off his shoe and rubs his socked toes against Justin's calf. Sunshine's expression goes from put-out to turned-on in a matter of seconds.
"Now there's a good boy."
"Shut it, Brian."
At Justin's scathing look, Brian slips his shoe on and fights back a smirk. He plucks the Out Pittsburgh from its usual spot behind the napkin dispenser and opens it from the back, leisurely browsing the singles ads for the sport of it. Not much amuses him like pathetic queens desperate enough to put an ad in the local fag rag in order to turn a trick.
He catches the kid trying to grab at the paper from the corner of his eye and Justin nudging her hand away at each attempt. When Justin starts to talk to her—presumably to draw her interest elsewhere— Brian does his best not to listen in. However, Justin brings up the urchin's home-wrecking mother, and Brian can't help but pay attention.
"Are you excited to see Mommy, Eli?"
"Mamamama," the urchin rambles, now focused on the stuffed toy that Justin handed her out of the diaper bag.
Brian cocks an eyebrow, continuing to skim the personals. "And when do we get to meet your infamous baby-mama?"
"She's flying in for Elise's birthday. And she's not my baby-mama."
"Seems pretty involved for a surrogate," he returns with an indifferent—and yet so not indifferent—shrug.
"Delaney is a friend."
"Did you fuck her?"
Admittedly, Brian asks because he's a little bit curious how this whole urchin thing came about. He'd never say it outright, though. He wonders how special this Delaney chick is to Justin, whether she's just a friend or a Lindsay. Somehow it makes a difference in Brian's mind. Because he would have fucked Linds—had, really, more than once—if she'd wanted to make Gus the old fashioned way. Linds is special like that to him—she's the only woman he would ever consider having hetero-sex with.
He'd told her that once. She'd said she loved him, too.
Brian wants to know if Delaney is special to Justin like that, if he'd go out of his way to give her what she wants. Part of Brian thinks not, that that place in Justin's life is reserved especially for Daphne. But it's been so long and he knows so little about Justin's life now that he could be wrong.
"No, not that it's any of your business."
He's relieved to hear it for reasons he doesn't quite understand, maybe because she's less of a threat to him this way. While he gets the impression that Justin cares about her, she's not so important that Justin couldn't live without her.
"Why do you even give a shit?" Justin asks.
"I don't. I was just making conversation." Brian shrugs and takes a sip of his water. "I don't remember it being a crime to ask about your life, especially considering I'm not in it anymore."
The more he tries to explain himself, the more he realizes that he should just shut the fuck up already. Rambling will only encourage Justin to think that he does care, which he really doesn't. Not much, anyway. And if he does care a little bit, it's only because he's curious about whether or not the urchin is a permanent fixture in Sunshine's life now.
Just when Brian thinks they are done with the conversation—Justin having pulled out his phone and started messing with it—Justin pushes his cell across the table. Hazel eyes flick down at it and see a picture of a blonde young woman with long, frizzy curls. Somehow she looks vaguely familiar.
"That's 'Laney," Justin says, grinning. "Since you apparently don't give a shit."
Twat. Justin always had been suspiciously good about reading between his lines. He lets his eyes fall to the photo again, getting a better look at her this time. He does remember her from a picture that Justin emailed him sometime last year. The baby shower, he thinks. All Brian remembers is thinking that she sure as hell wasn't glowing, but Sunshine was.
It's hard to tell who the urchin favors more. With Gus it had been much more obvious. He guesses the curls come from her mother. But that nose is all Justin, Brian thinks with a small smirk. He loves Justin's nose. He's never told that to Justin. And never fucking will so long as he lives. And why the hell does he give a damn in the first place who in the hell the urchin looks like?
"She's alright," Brian says with a shrug, returning to his paper.
"She's talented. You'd really enjoy her artwork, Brian. She primarily does sculpture, but her watercolor is something to see. I have no idea how she does what she does."
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" Justin smiles. "Blond, artsy types are your thing. You'd love her."
Brian doubts that. Not that he has a type; he can admit to that much. But that he'd love her? Not fucking likely. He could never love the mother of Justin's brat. Hell, he could never love Justin's brat. What's Sunshine expecting? That they're going to spend Christmas as one big fucking family? Not happening.
"So you're spending Christmas with her too?"
"No, she won't be in until the day after." Justin's gaze falls on the napkin in his hands that he's meticulously shredding. "I have to spend some time with Mom, and I have some plans to go to Michael and Ben's and Debbie's. But I was hoping to see you as well."
Brian wants that, wants Justin. They'd never celebrated the holidays together for the first couple years, but when they had, it'd been something to experience. For Brian, Christmas with Justin and Gus and the rest of the family had been the closest thing to a real Christmas he'd ever experienced. A definite far cry from what he'd had growing up. And he wouldn't have particularly minded having that back this year.
Well, if it hadn't been for the urchin.
"I might be busy."
"Because of Gus. Yeah, I completely understand. If you have some time though…"
"Have some time for what?" Debbie asks, bringing their order.
"It's nothing, Deb," Justin says.
After clearing off the tray, Deb puts her hand on her hip and looks down at Brian, eyebrow arched. "You're not giving Sunshine a hard time, are you?"
"Really, Deb. We're just making plans for Christmas," Justin interjects.
"Oh, well then. Listen here, Ebenezer," she begins, her finger pointed at Brian and her tone one of no nonsense, "you're coming to my house on Christmas Eve with the rest of the family, and you're going to fucking love it."
In a move of strict self-preservation, Brian doesn't say a word. He doubts that he'll "fucking love it" since the sleepover a few days ago was enough to have him questioning why it is that he's friends with these people in the first place. Time has taught him that not saying anything is always interpreted as an affirmative in Debbie's mind. So when he doesn't show up—because that's a real possibility—he can always remind her that he never agreed to anything.
Justin thanks Deb for bringing their food and gets the urchin started on her lunch. Brian thinks that Justin wanted to be rid of her as much as he did. Brian loves Deb, but sometimes he's grateful that she's only his surrogate mother.
They dig into lunch, Justin regaling him with tales of New York and the urchin interrupting the conversation every now and then for a queen out. Sunshine has the patience of Job to deal with her, excusing her behavior as nothing more than needing a nap. Brian questions that, thinks it's more of a personality flaw than anything.
"So what are you doing tomorrow night?" Justin asks, adjusting the urchin's bib for what must be the fifteenth time in five minutes since she seems to have a personal vendetta against it. Brian doesn't blame her; he'd be pissed if anyone dressed him in something with ladybugs on it too.
"The usual. Friday night at Babylon."
Sunshine hums his acknowledgement, blue eyes flitting over to Brian and then back on a spoon full of mac and cheese. "How set are those plans?"
Brian knows that tone. It's Justin's I-want-to-make-plans-to-come-over voice. And that, inevitably, always leads to fucking. Suddenly, Sunshine has his complete and undivided attention. Brian remembers how Justin wormed his way into his life in the first place—just like this. Because Brian, after all, finds it painful to go without Sunshine's ass for more than…say, four hours at any given time. And much like then, he's willing to reschedule just about anything to get in it.
"How flexible do you need them to be?"
"My mom's going out of town with Tucker to pick up Molly from Dartmouth. She'll be gone the whole weekend."
Brian smirks. "Keep going."
"Elise goes to bed around nine—"
"Hey, Justin!"
At the sound of his name, Justin looks around Brian and grins, waving. Brian glances over his shoulder to see Deb standing just outside the kitchen talking to the diner's usual cook, Ernie. He's been working here ever since Brian was a kid, though he'd had way more hair back then and less of a beer belly. Before Brian knows it, Justin is out of the booth—lunch left half-eaten—and walking towards Ernie and Deb.
Apparently, it's his job to make sure the urchin doesn't choke on a macaroni in the meantime. Brian looks at her, and she looks at him. He glares—warning her off any impending queen outs—and she gazes back at him, unimpressed. The urchin keeps her temper in check though, which is all Brian is asking for at this point. He goes back to eating the rest of his turkey sandwich and not-really-reading the paper.
"Uh oh."
Oh for fuck's sake.
Brian looks up, and she's got a fistful of squished mac and cheese in her small hand. Definitely not classified as an "uh oh". Before she can do any more damage—like getting it in her hair or all over her clothes—he holds her hand, pries open her fingers, and takes a napkin to the mess.
"Don't you know how to feed yourself yet?" he grumbles.
"Bahbahbah. Muh!"
"You better hope you inherited Sunshine's artistic abilities." Brian wipes her face free of cheese sauce. "Because you sure as hell don't have a future in public speaking."
"Dada," she babbles, scraping her spoon across the table.
"Oh my god, you have the most beautiful baby."
In the struggle to get the urchin clean, he hadn't realized some young twink had walked towards them. Brian appraises him briefly, not really seeing anything interesting at first glance. He's always preferred his twinks to look like school boys—preferably with blond hair and blue eyes—and this one doesn't make the cut. The twink apparently fails to notice his general disinterest, however, and sits on the seat formerly occupied by Justin.
"How old is she?" he asks, cooing at the urchin.
"Almost twelve months," Brian says flatly, tacking on a silent and do you fucking mind?.
"Aren't you such an adorable little girl? You have your daddy's pretty lips, did you know that?"
The twink throws Brian a heated, meaningful gaze, and it makes Brian want to be sick. He's heard a lot of shitty pick-up lines over the years, but never something as disgusting as comparing his mouth to "his" kid's in an overtly sexual way. And their lips look nothing alike in the first fucking place. Very few times has Brian ever rejected a trick when his dick hasn't been touched in the past six hours, but this is one of those times.
"Listen, Casanova—"
"Excuse me," Justin interrupts him, walking towards them and looking more pissed than Brian has seen in awhile.
The twink raises an eyebrow and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "And who the hell are you?"
Justin's mouth drops open, incredulous. He looks at Brian, then back to the twink. Brian has to suppress a smirk; seeing Justin jealous has always been amusing to him, even when Justin was still at St James. Sunshine had staked out his territory very early on—that territory being him—and god help the poor bastard who crossed that boundary. Brian's ego always benefited from his Sunshine's jealous queen outs, despite the fact that he'd never let Justin lay claim to him.
"I'm his partner," Sunshine retorts.
That's news to Brian, but the look Justin shoots him when he's about to speak up tells him to shut the fuck up. The promise of weekend sex with Sunshine hanging in the balance, Brian keeps his mouth closed. While he doesn't need Justin to get laid, he'd much prefer it's him than some random trick at Babylon. Justin's too good to pass up.
The twink gazes from across the table to Brian, disappointed. "Well if you ever decide to ditch the housewife for a newer, better model, the name's Mario. I just started at Torso."
He leaves as quickly as he came, and it's probably a good thing for him. Justin sends the twink a scathing look as he collects a take-out bag and leaves the diner. Then, he turns to clean-up the urchin, who has made a mess of the macaroni and cheese while Brian was in the process of trying to lose the trick.
Brian half-expects Justin to make some comment about the whole thing, but he's strangely silent about it. In fact, he just goes back to eating the rest of his lunch, though Sunshine more stabs his fries into his ketchup than dips. Not wanting to deal with a now-pissy Justin, Brian takes the last bite of his sandwich and turns the page of the paper.
He nearly fucking chokes.
There, in the middle of the page, is Ian with his fucking violin, under the headline of PIFA Graduate Returns to Pittsburgh for PSO Concert. His stomach knots up, but not because of jealousy or near-decade-long feelings of resentment. It's probably just the shitty diner food.
Still, he glances up at Justin—who is wiping the urchin's face with a baby wipe—and takes a long, hard look at him as if he might just disappear.
.
.
"You weren't really going to pick up that guy, were you?" Justin asks hesitantly as they walk back towards Kinnetik.
Brian considers it—not whether or not he would have fucked the guy, but how he wants to answer Justin. There's no way he would have gone through with it; he does have some standards, and the twink looked like a total waste of time. But saying that to Justin might give him the wrong impression, that he somehow had warmed to the idea of monogamy or some shit. Which he hasn't. Never has, never will.
But fuck it. Justin knows him well enough to know that he's just being a little more picky than usual. Besides, the weird tone of voice Justin is using—uncertain and maybe even fearful—makes him uncomfortable, and Brian wants nothing more than to set the record straight just to get that comfort back.
"The kid was a freak. And not the good kind like Dungeon Master Don."
"How is Don? I haven't seen him in forever!" Justin asks, taking off on a random tangent.
"He just got married a couple months ago. Apparently there's at least one other fag in glorious Pittsburgh that has a mummification kink."
They both wrinkle their nose at the idea, glance at each other, and laugh at their similar thinking. Brian's never been one to begrudge anyone their kink, but some of them are fucking out there.
"Well I'm glad."
"For Don? I don't wish matrimony on even my worst enemies, but yeah, I guess. It's nice to have someone around every now and then."
"I meant the guy at the diner," Justin clarifies, bumping playfully into Brian's shoulder as they stop in front of Kinnetik. "Looks like this is your stop."
Brian smirks. "No rest for the wicked."
He takes Justin by the lapel of his jacket, pulls him forward, and doesn't hesitate in slipping his tongue between Justin's lips. Sunshine tastes like salty French fries and root beer. It's sort of nice. It's even nicer when Justin wraps his arms around his neck to give him a little more leverage. Brian doesn't want to fucking stop, especially when the urchin is sound asleep and therefore incapable of being a stupid, little cockblock like she usually is. But Justin has to get home, and Brian has a giant stack of papers to look over before he can even think of his loft or Babylon.
"Are we on for tomorrow?" Justin asks in a whisper against his lips.
"Yeah."
"You want to come over for dinner?"
"Are you making your cream sauce?"
Justin playfully slaps his cheek. "That's for dessert."
Author's Endnote: Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think of the chapter. :) Feedback is food for the muse! Chapter five hasn't been started yet due to some holiday projects, but I'm planning on starting it in a few days!