It was 8:00 pm, and Justin hadn't called. A fact which was currently making a certain ad exec very cranky.
Brian had kept the entire art department late to work on the boards for Flash. Brian had gotten the account with broad stroke ideas (the guerilla campaign, the metrosexual concept), but everything was still all potential. He had yet to work out the little details – something he had hoped to be doing with Justin. Not that he would ever admit it. Brian had decided to keep the slogan "The Freedom to Be You" but he couldn't exactly use the Flash (from the first leg of the guerilla campaign) for the print ads. But he was contemplating keeping the red, white, and yellow (or some combination thereof) for the lettering. He'd had the art department do red, red and yellow, and red and white. But somehow it was all wrong. He'd been through five different fonts, three different sizes, and seven different space arrangements.
Brian had been multi-tasking: supervising the art department while also trying to pick the next big whale to pursue. Cynthia was en route from a tiny but amazing Thai place that didn't deliver with dinner for the two of them. Brian was taking that time to give the photographs another glance. He was looking at the models wondering whether he should pick a couple and reshoot the whole thing, this time under more controlled circumstances or go with the three the focus groups had responded most to. He was tired of looking at the pictures and the different permutations of everything. Particularly at the pictures. Brian had stared at each guy at one point or another throughout the afternoon and evening, trying to imagine which fine 'art' he engaged in … what he 'liked' (Was he a top? A bottom? Did he look like he could give good head?) … and whether Justin was likely to like him. Brian knew that many of the men were 'straight,' but he'd fucked enough 'straight' men to know how little that mattered. Particularly at night holed up in some empty studio or library. No one there to see.
Brian sighed deeply and shoved the pictures aside. He wasn't sure which option he should choose. This was not AT ALL what he wanted to be doing. If he were still in the Pitts, Mikey would have accompanied him to Woody's for some pool and an hour or two of lavishing Brian with compliments and fawning, puppy dog looks. Then he would have headed to Babylon taken just enough of whatever Anita was selling to feel invincible and fucked his way through the back room. Or brought a few home for an impromptu celebratory orgy. For a number of reasons, he could do none of this in New York. And that pissed him off. What pissed him off more was that he had someone he could be fucking … should be fucking … and that someone had blown him off.
Worse yet, Brian actually felt embarrassed. Brian-Fucking-Kinney (or the man formerly known as Brian-Fucking-Kinney) was embarrassed. And because of a twink. It was beyond ridiculous. The source of this embarrassment was a certain reservation he had made PERSONALLY for two at a certain miniscule French restaurant for 8:00 that night. A celebration. What should have been a celebration. He told himself he'd made the reservation personally to avoid Cynthia's savage teasing, but that was bullshit. He'd made the reservation himself because he wanted to tell Allain about his win. Besides Cynthia and Justin, Allain was the only person something like family (or surrogate family). He knew Allain would be impressed. He'd wanted to impress the man.
So calling back to cancel was humiliating. Allain wanted to know why. He couldn't bring himself to tell the truth ("My boyfriend had better things to do than celebrate with me"), not that he would have called Justin his boyfriend. But he wouldn't have had to. He'd already introduced him as such to Allain. He ended up rescheduling for the next night. It was the least humiliating thing to do.
So the little twink that could, who'd insinuated himself into every aspect of Brian's life, who'd actually induced Brian to agree to a label (and not the good kind), had blown him off to work on a school project with some other twink (who was probably making goo-goo eyes at Justin over a piece of poster board this very second), and Brian had made absolutely no progress. He and Cynthia had brainstormed for three hours before he sent her for takeout, and they hadn't managed to come up with a single viable prospect. Neither had he made final decisions on any aspect of the print campaign. Other than to keep the slogan the same for the guerilla and print campaigns. And he kept checking his cell phone for missed calls. He'd silenced the ringer. He didn't want to actually answer the phone. He just wanted to see Justin's name on the missed call list. Waiting for a teenager to call him on a fucking Friday night. He'd never felt more ridiculous.
Cynthia walked into a perfect storm. She came in smiling, armed with two plastic bags full of white cartons. "Hey, boss. Here you go! The best Thai in the city, cooked exactly the way you like it. I made them let me in the kitchen to watch." She probably should have anticipated what came next … Brian had asked her (at 7:00 p.m.) what she'd told Justin (he wanted to get their stories straight for when he deigned to talk to Justin again), and she'd had to inform him that she hadn't had to spin any story at all. Justin hadn't called. Brian had not responded at all. He'd just nodded slowly and walked back into his office. She should have known that the lack of some face-saving comment or dick comment was a bad sign. But she was still surprised when the food she had taken three trains to fetch (and spent 20 minutes in a steaming hot kitchen to ensure was prepared properly) went flying through the air until it met wall. At that point, she was NOT surprised to hear, "Fuck this. I'm hitting the village." Or the outer door slam. Or to see the offending item (the cell phone) still lying on his desk.
Cynthia sighed and called janitorial services.