The Pittsburgh skyline glowed faintly in the distance, blurred by a steady drizzle of rain. Brian Kinney leaned against the railing of his loft's balcony, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. The city below hummed with life—cars honking, distant laughter, and the muffled bass of club music—but none of it reached him. His gaze was distant, lost in thoughts he couldn't quite articulate.

Inside, Justin Taylor sat cross-legged on the couch, sketching absently in his notebook. The soft pencil strokes filled the silence as he glanced at Brian through the glass doors. Something about Brian tonight felt different—quieter, heavier, like he was carrying a weight he wouldn't name. Justin knew better than to press him, but the tension in the air gnawed at his nerves.

The lyrics of Taylor Swift's "Superstar" hummed in Justin's mind, the words a perfect echo of how he felt every time he looked at Brian:
"You'll never see you the way I do."

"Are you going to stand out there all night?" Justin finally called, his tone light but inviting.

Brian turned, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Depends. Is there anything worth coming in for?"

Justin smirked, setting his sketchbook aside. "I don't know. You tell me."

Brian rolled his eyes but stepped back into the loft, closing the balcony door behind him. He leaned against the wall, watching Justin with an intensity that made him squirm.

"What are you drawing?" Brian asked, his voice casual but curious.

Justin flipped the sketchbook closed. "Nothing important."

Brian arched an eyebrow. "You? Drawing something unimportant? Doubtful."

Justin sighed, holding the notebook close to his chest. "Fine. It's you."

Brian's expression didn't change, but his silence pressed Justin to continue.

"I mean, not you exactly," Justin clarified, fumbling over his words. "It's more… how I see you."

Brian finally moved closer, sitting beside Justin on the couch. He reached for the notebook, and after a moment's hesitation, Justin handed it over.

The sketch was raw and unpolished but striking. It wasn't just Brian's face or his body—it was the aura of him, the confidence, the fire, the vulnerability he never let anyone see. Brian stared at it for a long time, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Is that how you see me?" he asked quietly.

Justin nodded. "You're… larger than life, Brian. You always have been."

Brian let out a soft scoff, setting the notebook down. "Yeah, well, larger than life doesn't always feel so great."

Later that night, they ended up at Babylon, the pulsating energy of the club offering a welcome distraction. Brian was in his element, commanding the room with his charisma, his movements fluid and magnetic. Justin watched from the bar, a mix of awe and frustration bubbling inside him.

"You're staring again," Emmett said, appearing beside Justin with a drink in hand.

"I can't help it," Justin admitted, his gaze fixed on Brian. "It's like he lights up every room he walks into."

Emmett smiled knowingly. "He's a superstar in his own right, honey. But even superstars have shadows."

"What do you mean?" Justin asked, tearing his eyes away.

"I mean, sometimes the brightest lights come with the darkest corners," Emmett said, his voice gentle. "Brian's got his walls, just like the rest of us. He just hides them better."

Back at the loft, Brian poured himself a drink, the buzz of the club still thrumming faintly in his veins. Justin sat at the kitchen counter, watching him in silence.

"You're quiet tonight," Brian said, glancing at him over the rim of his glass.

"Just thinking," Justin replied.

"About what?"

Justin hesitated, then said, "About how you always try to act like nothing can touch you. Like you're invincible."

Brian smirked, taking another sip. "Maybe I am."

Justin shook his head. "No one is."

Brian set his glass down, leaning forward. "What's your point, Sunshine?"

"My point is," Justin said, meeting Brian's gaze, "you don't have to be invincible with me. You don't have to be this perfect, untouchable version of yourself all the time."

Brian's smirk faltered, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. "And what happens if I do let my guard down? If you see all the cracks?"

Justin reached for his hand, his touch firm and steady. "I've already seen them, Brian. And I'm still here."

Over the next few days, Justin noticed subtle shifts in Brian. He was still Brian—sarcastic, brash, and unapologetically himself—but there were moments when his walls came down, even if only for a heartbeat. Like when Justin caught him staring at the sketch again, his expression unreadable. Or when he reached for Justin's hand without thinking, as if grounding himself.

One evening, as they lay in bed, Justin traced lazy circles on Brian's chest. The rain tapped gently against the windows, filling the quiet space between them.

"Do you ever wonder," Justin began, his voice barely above a whisper, "if people only see what you want them to see?"

Brian opened his eyes, glancing down at him. "All the time."

Justin propped himself up on one elbow, looking at him intently. "What do you want me to see?"

Brian hesitated, his gaze searching Justin's face. "I don't know."

Justin smiled softly. "That's okay. We'll figure it out."

Weeks turned into months, and their relationship continued to evolve. Brian began to let Justin in, piece by piece, showing him the parts of himself he usually kept hidden. And in turn, Justin found a new sense of self-worth—not as someone chasing after Brian's approval, but as someone who could love him fully without losing himself.

The lyrics of "Superstar" played in Justin's mind one night as he watched Brian fall asleep beside him:
"You'll never see you sing me to sleep every night from the radio."

Because Brian might never see himself the way Justin did, but that was okay. Love wasn't about perfection—it was about showing up, flaws and all, and choosing each other every single day.