Justin was sitting outside in a small courtyard (trees, footpaths, and stone tables) at school. He'd gone out for a smoke, but he was so absorbed in his thoughts that he just held the cigarette. It eventually burned out.

Justin was sad. He felt like he was failing at everything. At his art. At life.

He was terrified that Brian might not get the Flash vodka campaign, which would likely mean Brian's being fired … and that could mean Brian's returning to Pittsburgh. What a cruel twist of fate that would be: Justin and Brian's meeting in Pittsburgh only for Brian to leave for New York a few weeks later and Justin and Brian's becoming reacquainted in New York only for Brian to return to Pittsburgh a few months after that.

Justin couldn't let that happen. He just couldn't. But he didn't know what to do. The night before, after they had arrived at the loft, Brian had indeed fucked Justin again, and more than once, but both times he'd pushed Justin against something – the shower wall and then the mattress. They had managed to do a little kissing, but Justin hadn't really had the chance to look into Brian's eyes, not for long anyway. And Brian had fallen asleep immediately after his last orgasm. So no talking.

Then the next morning, Justin had received a 9-1-1 text from a classmate (who lived on campus and often worked at one of the various studios at odd hours). This was a stroke of luck for Justin (who befriended everyone, even 'creepy loners' like Ben).

Apparently, their design professor had managed to get a contemporary artist (Josh something-or-other; Ben did not know his last name) to speak to their class, and on short notice. He, it seems, had an interesting take on 'visual and thematic connections' – culling random encounters (e.g., a person mistaking him for some other Josh and friending him on Facebook) and occurrences (e.g., googling the his art gallery's address and discovering that in 1906 a doctor residing at the same address had been robbed of his horse) and incorporating some of that material into his own art – sometimes even taking another's words or images and transforming them from mundane objects into transcendent art.

The 9-1-1 part was that on a whim, the artist had decided to come early and take a walk around the design studio. He would offer feedback to any students who happened to be there (at 8). So … at 6:00 am, Justin left a note, kissed Brian gently on the lips, and ran out the door (he had to go from uptown Manhattan to Brooklyn to shower and change and then get back to lower Manhattan where his school was located).

Justin had been thrilled when the artist first approached. He'd been receiving nothing but praise from his professors (or mostly) all year. But this would be the true test. This was a prolific artist making money working 'out in the field.' His opinion mattered. A LOT.

Josh looked at Justin's portfolio and current projects (slowly, apparently taking in every detail). Then he looked up abruptly and asked Justin, "Do you wait for engraved invitations?"

"What?" Justin stopped breathing.

"I see perfect lighting, the 'perfect subject', and perfect technique. Where's the immediacy? The urgency? Is this a hobby or the reason you exist?"

Justin simply gaped.

"In a world without God, where language itself has failed ... We have no values or traditions or hope. Love doesn't make the world go round. Blood and money do." Josh's voice rose with the increasing intensity of his words. "Every day, governments, corporations, and the ignorant oppress others. Where's the struggle? I don't see that here. I see nothing raw. Nothing that will appeal to people on an instinctive, primal level. We live in the jungle. In a fucking warzone. What do we have in a world like this? What protection? What purpose?" Josh waited a moment, as though he expected an answer.

Justin swallowed hard, but said nothing.

"Art. Only art. Through it, you survive. Through it, you inspire others to survive. You show them that beauty CAN exist EVEN in a fallen world like ours. You should make art 24/7. Everywhere you go. Everyone should inspire you. And everything should be your material resources. Trash on the subway platform. The postcard sized propaganda thousands of desperate searching hands thrust at you as you walk down the street. Your mom's vacation pictures. Coffee stains on essays. Everything. Are you a dilettante or an artist?" Josh tossed Justin's portfolio back at him in disgust. "How is anyone supposed to take you seriously when you don't take yourself seriously?"

Justin said softly, confusion evident in his voice, "But …"

Josh simply ignored him. He started moving onto Ben's work.

Tears stung Justin's eyes. He knew oppression. He knew blood and pain. He was about to explode. And he did. He called after Josh angrily, "Hey!"

Josh stopped and turned around. He looked surprised.

Justin approached and thrust his portfolio back into Josh's hands. He hissed, "You think I sit in some ivory tower disconnected from reality? I lost my virginity to a stranger in an alley. I spent my last year of high school bullied and harassed for coming out of the closet, and on prom night, an ignorant asshole nearly killed me. He beat me so hard I suffered brain damage. He put me in a coma. You think I have 'perfect technique'? Do you know how fucking hard that is for me? When I came out of the coma, I could barely control my right hand. Drawing for any length of time HURTS. Perfect technique, for me, IS STRUGGLE. You think art isn't the center of my world? Coming out cost me EVERYTHING ELSE."

Josh laughed. "You have spunk. I like that. What about him?" He pointed to a photograph of the painting of Brian that Justin had shown in his recent exhibit.

"What?"

"Did you lose him, too?"

Justin smiled in spite of himself. "I didn't even really have him, not then."

"Look, I like your colors and textures. As I said, you have excellent technique. But what you say this is about is NOT what I see." Josh flipped through a few pages. "This is NOT violence. NOT fucking a stranger in an alley. NOT a world ending. It's antiseptic. Sterile. Clean. And from a different century. You live in the city that never sleeps, full of millions of people desperate for connection but who, for the most part, feel alone. Language has failed us. Social media is failing us, actually exacerbating the problem it was designed to solve. Where is that desperation? That disconnection? Who are you creating for? The people? Or the man? Think about that. Who will see your art? Where will it be displayed? Where and for whom will it do the most good? Most important, what are you trying to say? Whether or not you realize it, art is not simply representational. You are always advocating something, even unconsciously."

Josh patted Justin on the back and handed him his portfolio. Justin just stared after him.

This was another reason Brian couldn't leave. Another reason Brian and Justin needed each other. Justin had technique and style. He had the theory. All of which would benefit Brian. But Justin wasn't used to trying to communicate through art, not in any real way. And he didn't generally think about his audience. He put himself and his feelings on the canvas using techniques he found interesting. It never occurred to him to give more than a passing thought to how what he created might be received or understood. Message. Audience. These were Brian's gods. Not Justin's.

Justin tried to take a drag off his cigarette. Failing … he turned the cigarette so he could look at the far end. He laughed and relit it. Justin decided he had to get more involved in the campaign, even the non-art aspects. He had bent over backwards to throw the party and make it a success, but after that, he'd bowed out. Selling was Brian's talent, not Justin's. Justin had barely even paid attention when Brian had done his pitch. He was now kicking himself for that. He hadn't known what was at stake. And he didn't want to intrude. He wanted this to be Brian's win.

But Justin needed to make sure Brian got the account. Selling may not currently be his talent, but he was a fast learner, and highly motivated. He decided he'd skip his studio hour (the hour he usually spent painting after his classes were done) and skip the trip home to change. He needed to start pitching in right away. Justin gathered from the anger in Brian's voice the night before that they didn't have much time.

Cynthia slammed Brian's office door and started cursing under her breath. He had been infuriating ALL DAY. It all started when she'd stupidly asked about the date.

She prodded, "So … did you two have a nice time?"

Brian smiled softly (that should have been a MAJOR red flag) and gestured her over (he was sitting on the couch). Then when she sat down, he said, "This is good. I love it when we share. Let's start with you. How old were you when Aunt Flo first came to town?"

"Brian!"

He shook his head. "No good? How about your first bra? What were you 8? 12? 15?"

Cynthia stood and rolled her eyes. "If you didn't want to answer the question, you could have just said so."

"So."

"You're an ass." She did get a little payback (a little) … she'd realized why he probably didn't want to talk. She wheeled around. "You asked him to stay over, didn't you?"

Brian cleared his throat and looked down at whatever he'd been reading when she walked in.

That was a hit.

"So … did he stay for breakfast?"

Brian sighed loudly. "Don't you have something to file?"

"No, he didn't. Hmmm… coffee?"

Brian stood and walked to his desk, turning his back to her in the process.

This she found interesting. He didn't want her to see his face. Cynthia bit back a laugh. "Did he leave before you woke up?"

Brian smiled. "Did you see the note on your desk?"

"What?"

"From Shawn in legal."

Cynthia completely lost her train of thought. Shawn was GORGEOUS and single, and he'd told a guy friend of hers at the last Christmas party that he was looking for 'the one.'

She made a mad dash to her desk but saw no note. "I don't see anything." Her voice held desperation.

Brian snapped and shook his head. "My bad. I didn't see him by your desk. I saw him in the storage closet. With Marlene." Brian mouthed "anal." Then he speculated, "I think she might be the one."

"You are SO pathetic Brian! At least I don't have teenagers ditching me."

That's when a book came flying at her head. Good thing she had excellent reflexes.

That had only been the beginning.