Summary: There can't be a happy ending without an ending, but Brian realizes that life is currently being too alright for him to just leave it behind. Post 513.

Warnings: slash (need I say it?), sexual situations, infidelity, substance abuse, mentions of mild violence, spoilers for all five seasons, shameless fluff

A/N: There is something about the end of the fifth season of QAF that demands catharsis. This is mine. It's been done to death, but I needed to write it, and maybe there's someone out there who wants to read it… so, in the belief that there are those who crave a B&J happy ending as much as I do, I am posting this piece of overdone, clichéd post-513 fic.
Title is taken from the ridiculously apt 'Melodies of Life' by Shiratori Emiko. (Seriously. Check out the lyrics. Romantic, fluffy, and oh-so-fitting.)
Appreciate you all. Leave a review, and I might just love you for a few minutes. Ta.

Brynn

x

Circle 'round and Grow Deep

x

"Do you ever think about how lucky we are to be living in the twenty-first century?" Justin remarked on one late evening, bent over some book or other, squinting at the pages.

Brian couldn't tell what the man was reading, watching the feed in a little window in the bottom right corner of his laptop screen.

"Absolutely not," he said, categorically refusing to even acknowledge the possibility of fate and gratefulness for something subject to chance, due to the sheer inanity of the concepts. "Philosophy fucks with your mind almost as much as religion and psychology does. Steer clear, Sunshine."

Justin laughed the easy, genuine laughter of a human being delighted by simply being alive. Brian mentally acknowledged that the laughter had everything to do with the live feed transmitted between their computers, and allowed himself a few seconds to revel in being so essential in the life of anybody else. It had been a painful lesson to learn, but eventually he had come to understand the term 'unconditional'. Justin's relocation to New York had the positive effect of teaching him the difference between accepting 'unconditional' and becoming belligerent.

Brian had appreciated crisis in the past, because it prevented things from getting dull. Now he craved it, because it made the emotional bond between him and Justin so stark against the grayish background of everyday.

"What are you reading?" he asked, signing off on another expenditure necessitated by his desire to keep himself from thinking about being so far away from the sack of meat and bones and blood (and stupidity) that meant the world to him. He absolutely had to have a Dolby Surround System, anyway. Not that he watched much except super-old (mono) James Dean movies.

"Black Oxen," Justin replied. "Not really reading right now, though. I don't think I've turned a page in ten minutes."

"That wouldn't have anything to do with me, would it?" Brian queried, turning up his facetiousness as far as it would go without damaging his image as the ultimate suave maneater.

"Nothing," Justin answered.

The honesty ripped Brian out of his comfortable haze of complacency.

"What's wrong?" he asked, frowning at the webcam.

"Nothing," Justin repeated, sighed, marked his place in the off-puttingly orange paperback with a folded leaflet (advertizing some New York dance-club or another) and put the book away. "I'm just so fucking nervous about tomorrow."

"That's really funny," Brian said mockingly. "You. Nervous. About a fucking art show."

It wasn't like it was Justin's first show. Well, first in the Big Apple, sure, but he'd been through the song and dance before, and there was hardly anything different about it now. The same blank white walls, the same fawning cunts panting for a chance to write a complimentary review – and they better be fawning over Justin, or Brian would have something to say about it.

He wasn't sure if anyone would listen, but he would definitely have something to say. In several languages. Using words not admissible in polite company, probably. Well, he thought, letting his eyes slide over Justin's body (the twink was dressed in only an old pair of jeans and a basic white undershirt), it was no wonder that whenever Justin was in sight Brian's mind took the plunge into the depths of the gutter.

"If this goes south," Justin said tightly, "I might as well slink off back to Pitts with my tail between my legs."

Brian let the silence hang long enough for both of them to acknowledge that he didn't comment upon the innuendo, and then said simply: "They'll love you. You'll make them."

Justin raised his eyebrows, attempting a skeptical look, but ultimately only succeeding in grinning into the webcam. "What makes you so sure?"

Brian scoffed. "Sunshine, you forced me to love you. You can force anyone."

He disconnected the line before Justin could say something nauseatingly sentimental (not that he would – boy had the 'cynical love' rhetoric down to an art) and lit a fag. It was as perfect a night as it could ever be. The Earth was turned with the North America continent away from the Sun, the aye-see was working as it was supposed to, Brian was lightly buzzed on three glasses of jay-bee and the scent of nicotine wafted through the air in the loft.

He wasted a moment on wondering whether a pliable trick would add to the perfection, and decided to lie back and enjoy the lack of necessity of throwing out some man who thought he was entitled to relish in the post coital languidness. If he was that desperate for release, he was in possession of one of the two pairs of most talented hands in the US, hence no need to trip over his feet or risk life and limb trying to dee-you-eye to Babylon.

Some days it was enough to listen to the silence and regret that he had ever let Justin walk out of the loft and fly. Life brought its own crises and Brian was finally rising high enough above the cesspool that he could earnestly tell himself that he didn't need to create any more problems that those thrown his way as it was.

His and Justin's way, if he was to be truthful. Because, much as he might have liked to deny it initially, he considered Justin's problems to be his. And, let's face it, could there be any better sign that he was as committed as he could get?

"Break a leg, Justin Taylor," Brian said to the empty loft, lifting a glass of alcohol to the emptiness filled with memories and visions of future that couldn't come soon enough.

x

"Hey!" Brian drawled, heaving himself out of the bed.

His most recent trick rolled over and myopically squinted at the intruder, trying to make out his features.

"Hey, yourself," Justin replied, lifting the strap of his bag over his head. He chucked the whole thing onto the super-expensive Italian settee and made his way over to the fridge to mooch off of Brian's storage of juice. "It's good to see the real Brian Kinney back."

Brian nakedly padded over and kissed Justin's smile off his lips. "It's good to have Justin Taylor back," he said coyly. There was something about the way Justin tilted his head, about the feel of his ever-so-slightly chapped lips, that resulted in a distinct déjà vu. The jolt of lust that shot through Brian's body was familiar, but by no means arbitrary.

Justin slid his hands around Brian's neck. For a while he simply reveled in their proximity, in the heat coming off of Brian's skin, in the smell of sweat and sex clinging to his skin. He might have gotten a bit carried away in their reunion, but he didn't see Brian protesting – until the moment when Brian's arms around his midriff flexed and he was lifted off of the floor.

Brian oofed mock-comically. "Ya getting' too heavy to lug around, kid," he grumbled in an exaggerated Southern accent.

Justin quirked his brows – a gesture that was becoming altogether too frequent – and said: "Instead of you being hot and me being heavy, why don't we get together and hot and heavy?"

Brian chuckled and dislodged his unprotesting burden. "I need a shower. You can join me. And you-" he turned to the trick, who was in the process of trying to pull on a thong while pretending that he wasn't staring at the by-play between the two main characters of the show, "-can get lost."

"Fuck you," the trick replied empathically. Really, sometimes it seemed like Brian's day wouldn't have been complete without someone saying that precise phrase to him. The man picked a wife-beater up from the floor, located his trousers and dragged them on with some difficulty, seeing as they were so tight that they might as well have been painted on. He glared at Justin.

It was totally understandable – there was a plethora of reasons to be jealous of Justin.

Justin had meanwhile lost his hoodie and shoes. Brian was already ensconced in the shower, but Justin lingered, gritting his teeth against the sensation of his hands being grimy after the trek from the airport. He didn't trust jealous people. The trick would be gone before he allowed himself to let his hair down.

The man in question donned his leather jacket and biker boots and got into Justin's personal space in a feckless attempt to be intimidating.

"That's kind of pathetic," Justin informed him, briefly glancing up at the scrunched semi-handsome face.

"He'll just fuck you over, kid," the guy offered unsolicited advice, not half as altruistic as he made himself out to be.

Justin kind of fathomed how the man might feel about being kicked out by Brian, but he was too busy swallowing a laugh to try and come across as sympathetic. Not that he was overly inclined to. He just kept smirking while the trick hung onto his dignity by the skin of his teeth on his way to the exit.

"Bye!" Justin called after him.

The sliding door banged into the wall and the lock engaged.

"You coming?" Brian's muffled call came from the bathroom.

"Not just yet. You'll have to try harder," Justin replied, although he was fairly sure that Brian couldn't hear him. Not that it mattered. It was enough to know that Brian's own particular brand of humour (infantile as it was) was contagious enough for him to crack cheap jokes based on trivial innuendo within minutes of entering the loft.

Also, within minutes of entering the loft, Justin was naked. It already felt like no time had passed. Maybe Brian had been right with his naively fairy-tale-ish allusion that 'it was just time'. There was a routine that had never become boring, a comfort in the familiarity of the loft. There was sex and cheap jokes, mindless bigotry and insults aimed at those lucky (or unlucky) enough to be a part of the majority, take-out and alcohol and drugs… and sex. Justin's proverbial make-up flaked off, and he could feel himself relaxing like he hadn't relaxed in months. This was easy. The only expectations here were honesty and consent, and even that was subject to circumstance.

"New York's spoilt me," Justin warned as he stepped into the spray of pleasurably hot water.

Brian plastered himself all over Justin's body and for a couple of minutes there was no opportunity to say anything due to their mouths being way too occupied with each other's.

"I'll be demanding all kinds of things now," he gasped breathlessly, grinding into Brian, "like chocolate and books and unforgettable orgasms-"

He was cut off when Brian shoved two fingers up his ass without the slightest hint of warning. He keened a moment later and folded under the ministration. Because no matter how much he tried to bitch and act like a spoilt little queen, there was nothing better than having Brian's incredible talent and years of experience in the art of sex having focused upon him.

"Fuck…" Justin sobbed, clutching spasmodically at Brian's shoulders. Water got into his eyes, and he simply squeezed them shut, giving himself over, without hesitation or qualm, letting himself be dominated like he never had with anyone else.

There was an intense liberation in succumbing so entirely, one that Brian would probably never know, but one that Justin embraced as soon as he had taught Brian to admit that he gave a damn and he himself had learnt to trust that much.

"I've still got the rings," Brian breathed hoarsely over the unceasing patter of the shower. "If you want to…"

"Yes, yes, yes…" Justin blabbered, literally fucked stupid.

x

"This is kind of small-town for an artist of your caliber," some hot-shot journalist remarked.

Justin glanced over his shoulder and smirked. He was twenty-five and he owned the gallery and all the people gathered inside it to worship him, simply by walking into the room. His 'art' as they called it was displayed on the walls, lights adjusted to flatter the paintings and to tempt unconscionable loads of money from potential customers. This was a consumer society and Justin knew all too well how to hustle himself.

He might not be peddling his ass to these men and women dressed in expensive labels, but there was only a qualitative difference between selling his body and selling his soul, which very few people understood.

"You're here, though," Justin pointed out easily, lifting a flute of champagne in a mute toast. A whole lot of loud names had gathered in this quaint, rural place for the sole purpose of admiring Justin's talent and get their hands onto a piece of the artist himself. They went all the way – it showed that the whole 'relocating to New York to further his career' thing was so much horseshit – for him. He could choose to live wherever he wanted, and customers would come to him.

That was the beauty of being a courtesan as opposed to being a whore.

"Do you not feel," the newspaper woman asked, "that you could rise to the top more readily if you were to have an exhibition in the centre of the most prominent art community-"

"Can you imagine," Justin cut in, "how much it strokes my ego to see all these people-" he swept his arm to indict the throng of stupidly rich big wigs gawping at his paintings, "-traipsing all over the country to come to me?"

The woman scoffed and went off to write an ambiguous review on the topic of a supremely talented but off-puttingly arrogant young artist who had held an immensely successful yet not at all friendly show in the 'pits' of Pennsylvania…

Justin discarded the champagne as good as untouched and went off to aggravate and irritate and mesmerize more influential people. He had learnt this metaphorical prostitution from Brian, but he had his own unique style that befitted 'the best homosexual he could be' and which he found to be effective enough to not only pay his bills but afford him several mostly useless awards for the rising start of the art world, and he fully intended to sell as much of himself as he could tonight, before he let Brian take him home, get him drunk or stoned or simply fuck him stupid. Whatever. As long as life was worth living and there was inspiration for yet another painting-

"That motherfucker!" a vexed squat balding man grumbled under his breath.

Justin paused and decided that it was time to examine the brushwork on the 'Lost Refrain' painting (one of the few abstract pieces he had on display).

"Taylor?" the female reporter from earlier on inquired.

Justin estimated some kind of non-verbal confirmation. He was too busy scowling at the line between the First and the Second Verse to look over. The slope wasn't quite fluent enough-

"Yeah, he's one shrewd son of a bitch," the woman was saying.

"Learned from the best," a familiar voice joined in on the conversation.

Justin couldn't have stifled his smile if Chris Hobbs had been holding a gun to his head. Brian's irreverent manner of slicing through the self-imposed blindness of the complacent would never cease to amuse him. Fuck that wobbly line of the Refrain. He'd gotten an unsightly bid for the piece already, and Brian was mind-fucking the only people who dared criticize Justin for being an unmitigated asshole to his assembled fanclub. What was there not to enjoy?

"You know him personally?" the information-hungry journalist asked eagerly.

"In a sense," Brian replied. "Hey, Sunshine!"

Justin, ready to be grabbed from behind, allowed himself to be spun into a lazy embrace and a nigh-pornographic kiss that, he knew, had happened solely for the purpose of discomfiting the woefully straight people watching. (Days like these, Brian adhered to the ideals of the erstwhile Pink Posse, utilizing techniques way too shrewd for Cody to even begin to comprehend.)

"You actually made it?" Justin asked. It wasn't really redundant – he was asking about the reasoning, not the fact, and Brian knew it goddamn fucking well.

"It's your big debut – could I have missed it?" Brian said into the skin of his neck, and bit down hard enough to leave a mark.

Justin pushed him far enough away to gauge the level of his sobriety. Brian's pupils were well within the normal, and his hands held onto Justin's hips with confidence. His cheek bulged ever-so-slightly where he pressed his tongue against the inside of it, and that was enough to reassure Justin that, coy as the question had been, Brian was actually trying to make a statement, in his own, round-about, avoidant way.

"I honestly expected something to 'come up'. Surely there is a fuckfest going on somewhere?" Justin said, shrugging off Brian's arms, but maintaining eye-contact to make sure that his needling wasn't misunderstood as accusation.

For a total jerk, Brian could be unpredictably vulnerable at the most inopportune of times.

"We can have one tonight," Brian offered.

For the record, he could have said 'let's have one right now right here' and Justin wasn't sure he would have refused. As it was, he found this new, muted-for-posterity but still impudent-as-fuck attitude of the mature, grown-up Brian Kinney to be a major turn on.

"Jesus…" Justin drawled out under his breath. "Now I'll have to go through an evening of socializing with a fucking hard on. You're evil."

"I'm sweet," Brian protested, stole a hetero-mockery of a peck. He promptly countered his assertion by staring at the twosome of the balding man and the newspaper bitch in the middle of the perfunctory kiss Justin returned.

Making smiles freeze on the faces of bigots and closet-cases was ever so satisfying.

"See something you like?" Justin asked their audience, rakishly grinning.

"Are you trying to foist me off, Sunshine?" Brian mock-accused him, ghosting his fingers over the front of Justin's jeans, which was really fucking evil of him and altogether too sweet (because, try as Brian might to deny it, Justin recognized a staking-claim action when he saw one).

"I wouldn't want you to be too bored to ever come to another of my shows," Justin replied half-seriously.

"I like your jeans," Brian said. "It won't be a hardship to watch your ass flounce around for a couple hours."

"I can't believe you said 'flounce'." Justin chuckled, and went off to talk to Mrs Motherfucking-Rich, the wife of whatever business tycoon believed in Art, no matter the sexual orientation of the Artist. Justin was well aware that portraying himself as a queer was bound to lose him some customers, but it had never stopped Brian. Besides, he had nothing to be ashamed of.

He thought, maybe a part of the reason why Brian had sent him off to the Big Apple was for Justin to get a sense of equality (not that Justin had been intimidated by Brian in years, but there admittedly had been some residual notion of dependency). Nowadays, the debts for the tuition at PIFA that Brian had paid off seemed like such a trivial thing. Living at Brian's loft was a choice rather than a necessity. And that was, Justin suspected, what Brian had wanted to instill ever since the bashing.

They were so far.

Justin displayed himself with a smile, coy and staunchly maintaining the illusion of unavailability to the people so hungry for him that they were willing to leave behind sizable sums just to get their hands on his paintings, and considered for the thousandth time in his life what it meant to belong.

He couldn't find a single aspect he didn't fit.

"…my inspiration for Lost Refrain?" he paraphrased, sending his patented 'sunshiny' smile at the helpless Frenchwoman. There was something to be said for casting away his ingenuity. "Let's say that I have found that there's a lot of unspoken business going on between us. Sometimes we forget that it's there, because it gets unacknowledged."

The woman, with her sleek dress and pearls and diamond earrings was hanging onto his every word.

"But," Justin continued, putting on the perfected façade of guilelessness, "the most important things are up in the air. It's not something you can grab onto. You have to surrender yourself to it. And that's so scary that most of us never find the courage."

x

"You ever wonder why the straight call it 'making love'?" Brian mused, sucking onto a customary post-coital fag, silently inviting lung cancer to take him while he was still not-old and beautiful, because it was looking clearer every day that he was going to hang onto the bundle of warmth and wit (and stupidity) plastered to his side with all his considerable willpower, and not going gentle into that good night anytime soon.

Justin snorted quietly and stole the cigarette from Brian's fingers. He was too fucking young to even be considering doing anything as final as he wanted to embark upon, but there was no reasoning with the twink when he was right.

"I mean," Brian rambled on, glaring to communicate that he wanted his goddamn fag back, thank you very much, "sticking your dick into somebody over and over until you come doesn't exactly inspire warm and fluffy feelings."

"You've fucked me too many times to remember and you still want me," Justin pointed out the obvious and returned the cigarette before Brian got genuinely cranky. "Either I'm doing something better than right, or there's some substance to that shit."

He didn't sound like he cared very much. He was, to the best of Brian's knowledge, simply humoring Brian's compulsive need to apply logic to sex. After what they had been through together, what they had actually survived, this whole debate seemed banal.

"You're not – the best fuck I've ever had," Brian says with crippling sincerity.

"You're thinking average or sum?" Justin asked dryly, and Brian once again recalled exactly how this man had bought him for the price of a smile.

"Average…" Brian mused, and then corrected himself. "No, tonight." He handed the cigarette over. It occurred to him he'd never thought about just how intimate that action was. He watched Justin's lips tighten around the end of the shaft and the muscles of his throat flex as he breathed in.

"Tonight's hardly representative," Justin protested and pressed an unanticipated fag-less kiss to Brian's shoulder before taking another drag. "I'm beat. I've been beat before I've called the cab. Say, Sunday."

Brian, who had secretly wished that he could get a bonus twenty-four hours on last Sunday, replied nothing. He had fucked too many men for Justin to be the best fuck, but there were some days when Justin's mouth and hands and ass and cock erased the whole world outside the loft and Brian knew only too well that no amount of stud or E or GHB had ever done that half as successfully.

"I've updated my will," Brian said out of nowhere, and in the resounding stillness he knew that it was too late to retract the statement. So, with his legendary perseverance, he plowed on: "You're my primary beneficiary. Your name's on pretty much everything valuable I own. If you ever try to leave-"

To both their luck, Justin didn't allow him to finish. He cut off what was looking to become Brian's spiel about killing or committing suicide with a kiss that stank of nicotine. Brian was grateful. He despised nothing more than unwarranted self-pitying sentimentality… except maybe homophobes.

"You're supposed to ask someone before you marry them," Justin remarked, trying to pretend like he wasn't choking on tears.

Brian pointedly didn't tell him that he had made Justin his medical proxy as well. He didn't offer his lawyer's phone number (not like Justin couldn't find it out with the minutest amount of effort). He didn't need confirmation that within a week's time everything Justin had to his name would be half-Brian's. The certainty was in direct opposition to the human nature, but Brian figured that it was a quirk of etymology that made the substance of the l-word grow from this into the perfunctory illusion it was used to describe nowadays.

"I did," Brian pointed out. "Years ago. You said yes."

"I'm not going into that shit," Justin protested. He tossed the drag into the ashtray on the bedside, grabbed for a condom and briefly stuck his tongue into Brian's navel. "You've had your rest, old man. Satisfy me."

x

Brian didn't bother trying to stop laughing. He was sprawled on the settee in front of his laptop, with Justin more or less draped over him and Gus' email on the screen, full of typos and misspellings, but nonetheless intelligible.

"It was you who said to be glad we're living in the twenty-first century," Brian said, unapologetic.

Justin climbed to his feet – leaving Brian with a tangible sense of loss than went away practically instantly, washed off by the knowledge that no matter how far the fucking twink might get, he'd come back sooner or later. They had an epic history of precedents, after all.

"I didn't say that," Justin protested.

He was even right, not that Brian would concede as much.

"Well, it seems that these days the kids' motivation to learn to write is that they'd be able to send emails to their estranged parents."

"You're hardly estranged," Justin protested, pointing to the screen at the 'want daddy come', which was an open invitation for Brian to crack a joke that, considering the sender, was so out of the realm of decency that even Brian didn't have the callousness to say it. Justin felt a little ashamed that he picked up on it at all, but he pinned the guilt on Brian with years of practice and went off to hunt down a glass of juice.

Brian re-read the email once again and took a while to consider just how likely it was that his to-be-eight-year-old son could lie so convincingly through written word. It was certainly far more likely than the possibility of Melanie issuing an invitation for Brian to come to Toronto for Gus' birthday.

"Are you going?" Justin asked from the counter. He came back with two glasses and pressed one into Brian's hand. It was so domestic it made Brain want to puke, but he drank the juice, handed the glass back and congratulated himself on being such a well-behaved adult person with a growing immunity toward the domesticity into which he and Justin were very, very slowly sinking.

"Incorrect pronoun, Sunshine," Brian said smugly. He could give as good as he got – well, as a matter of fact, he could give much better than he got. Justin could attest to that.

"Applying the 'what's mine is yours' policy to your son is taking it a bit far, don't you think?" Justin protested uncomfortably.

Brian smirked. Then he sniggered. And then he laughed.

"What's so funny?" Justin grumbled, pulling on a t-shirt that was entirely unnecessary and surely there simply to entice Brian into taking it off again. Justin pouted – not that he would ever admit to it – and flopped down onto the far side of the settee, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"You're not Gus' father," Brian said simply, and then killed the statement by adding: "Just like Deb's not my mother."

It was such a stupidly sentimental thing for him to say that Justin stared a little before he grinned, unashamedly usurped Brian's laptop and started typing a reply.

x

"…so wonderful!" Lindsey was still gushing. "And Sidney actually called…"

Brian checked his watch. This admiring monologue had been going on for almost forty minutes, and Justin's stiff (purely in the uncomfortably uncomfortable way) pose betrayed that he was annoyed and bored and wanted Lindsey to shut the fuck up and stop harassing him over his success – which, by the way, wasn't nearly as minor as Justin liked to make it out to be. Lindsey knew perfectly well what she was talking about, and even though she was definitely the type to lie her ass off if she thought it was prudent, Brian was fairly certain that all the praise she had recently heaped upon Justin had been heartfelt.

Justin had even appreciated it, initially… for the first five minutes or so.

Brian stifled a snigger.

"Dad!" an excited eight-year-old burst in and practically filled the room with his exuberance.

Brian no sooner lifted his arms than they were filled with a momentarily clingy child, before Gus remembered that one of his mothers was there and that Justin was watching and red-cheeked (in the throes of a puppy-crush on a handsome, smart blond with the most dazzling smile know to man, which Brian could understand perfectly) muttered something about 'going to help his Mom in the kitchen' that no one bought for a second.

Justin blinked a few times and then couldn't stop chucking once he realized what exactly was Gus' problem.

"Oh, my," Lindsey said, grinning at the empty doorway leading to the hallway of their comfortable, if slightly small house. "I should have known. Normally he gushes whenever his Dad's coming for a visit, but lately he wouldn't stop singing praises to you."

"Like mother, like son, huh?" Brian remarked, catching the grin Justin sent from the hideous, squeaky couch the second Lindsey's attention was diverted elsewhere.

"I suppose I might have mentioned you," Lindsey said to Justin, smirking as if her approval of Justin's art had actually been important. All that it had gained them so far had been the lengthy separation while Justin had been in New York discovering just why he was Brian's equal when it came to the 'important shit', and Brian had remained stuck in the Pitts, figuring out how none of the 'important shit' really mattered as long as there was still a goal to pursue or a crisis to avert. Since life's gotten about dozen times as fucking fabulous as it had been, starting with the moment Justin had walked into the loft and Brian had kicked out that trick, Brian figured that there was no earthly reason why he should be thanking Lindsey for showing him that first article about Justin's potential.

Brian blinked, glancing from his friend to his – whatever. Partner, he guessed, might be alright. Not in the traditional meaning of the word, but in some meaning, and it was better than the alternatives.

"Gus would like to spend some time with you – both of you," Lindsey said then, giving Justin an imploring look that might have worked on him once upon a time, before her good intentions had thrown him to the sharks of the Art world.

"We're here now," Brian said, narrowing his eyes. He finally got the point of the long-winded admiration session Lindsey had just subjected them to: she wanted something. It was so obvious that he could have kicked himself for not realizing it earlier, but as caught up as he sometimes got in (silently) admiring his twink, he could easily forget that other people didn't share the fascination.

Lindsey put her hands together, not quite wringing, but definitely steeling herself. "Yes, you are. And you've seen that Gus is really happy when you're around. I thought it would be good for him to spend a longer time with you. A month, maybe?"

Brian heard a subdued huff coming from the kitchen. His eyes met Justin's. Aggravatingly enough, they didn't need to say a word: Brian crossed his legs, leant into the backrest of the armchair and surveyed Lindsey over the roof made of his fingers and Justin rose, gathered the mostly empty wine glasses (Lindsey's old and amusingly ineffective method of tenderizing her victims) and carried them into the kitchen.

"Mom!" Jenny's high-pitched voice came from upstairs.

Melanie briefly glanced at Justin and rushed off up the stairs without even saying anything. Justin heard her speaking to both kids, stern and uncompromizing. She sent Gus to select a book 'for the trip'.

"…Mel and I going through a rough patch…" Lindsey was saying to Brian in the living room.

Justin had his qualms about both Lindsey and Melanie, but they were his friends. Good friends, even. They had let him crash on their couch more times than he remembered – they had been the first of the family to actually invite and accept him. Still, sometimes it wasn't easy, especially as he watched Brian struggling with his natural tendency to disdain those who weren't mentally on his level.

Lindsey was far from stupid, but she also wasn't a genius, and her privileged upbringing had left her with blinds on her eyes that she stubbornly refused to remove. Justin had had reality bashed into his head; Lindsey remained thoughtlessly self-centered. Brian, who had had to struggle long and hard for the kind of things Lindsey and Justin tended to take for granted, was scraping the bottom of his barrel of patience while listening to Lindsey's explanations and weak attempts on guilt-tripping.

"Has she gotten to the best part yet?" Melanie's voice sounded from behind Justin's shoulder, startling him into almost dropping the glass of wine he was still nursing untouched.

Justin pressed the heel of his hand to his eye and shifted so the woman could come stand next to him. Together they listened.

"…you're his father. I just think it would be better for him if he didn't get caught in the middle. Mel and I… we'll work on it. It will be just for a couple of weeks…"

Justin snorted, covering his mouth to keep the sound quiet. He knew Brian knew that he was eavesdropping, but there was no need to alert Lindsey just yet.

"Now he's the father," Mel snarked. She reached around Justin – her arm was worryingly thin, like she had lost weight she really couldn't have afforded to lose – grabbed the wine bottle and took a swig. "Un-fucking-believable."

"Lindsey should have been a politician," Justin remarked. "Or a businesswoman." The speech reminded him of his father from before he had turned out to be a homophobic asshole – too self-important to kiss ass and in possession of an over-inflated sense of entitlement. Justin had been kind of like that, once upon a time, but he couldn't regret it, because it was what had made him stalk Brian in the first place.

"Does she think no one will notice she changes her tune every time she wants something?" Mel wondered.

She didn't protest when Justin carefully extracted the bottle from her fingers and put it down on the counter.

"What about JR?" he asked.

Melanie pursed her mouth. "I can take care of my daughter. With or without Lindsey."

Justin nodded. It wasn't his place to point out that JR was meant to be both to women's daughter, and Gus was both their son, and this shit they were pulling was juvenile, especially since they had already done all permutations of it in the past. So, instead, he put his hand on Melanie's sweater-clad shoulder and met her eyes. "You've got my number. If you need anything, call. If you and JR need to get away… come back to Pittsburgh and we'll think of something."

Melanie gave him a tight, tired smile. "You're sweet."

Justin resented being patronized simply because he was younger, and he figured that he had been through enough life on his own since Lindsey and Melanie had relocated to Canada that he deserved to be treated like an equal (if Brian thought so, the memo was signed, sealed and delivered).

"I mean it, Mel," he insisted. "I'm your friend and, believe it or not, so's Brian. Even though he'd probably chew his eyes out before he admitted it. But you can count on us."

Melanie accepted the sentiment, worn down by her exhaustion and Justin's persistence, and went back up the stairs to finish helping Gus pack.

x

During the whole flight back to Pennsylvania Gus was high as a kite, and though Justin had ample experience with tripping Kinneys, by the time the plane touched down he was ready to fall into bed and sleep for a fortnight. Logic would say that a little boy with a crush would be shy and nervous in the presence of the object of his infatuation, but Gus was Brian's son – not a hint of timidity in sight.

"Don't let go of Justin's hand," Brian ordered as authoritatively as he could without turning into his hard-ass boss persona.

Gus pouted and was about to protest, but Justin cut the rant off before it could begin by leaning down, cupping Gus' cheek and saying in a low, enticing voice: "I know you're an independent boy. You're not embarrassed about holding my hand, are you?"

Hell, with that kind of persuasion, Brian might have let himself be talked into holding hands.

…if no one was looking. And not very often. Perhaps.

The bustle of the airport hall gradually calmed, and Brian went off to gather Gus' luggage – he and Justin hadn't packed anything, figuring that they were making just a roundtrip anyway, and if anything unexpected happened they were in possession of credit cards.

Michael spotted them just as Brian had gotten back to his two boys and succumbed to the desire to mouth a short and illicit proposition against the soft skin of Justin's neck.

"Jesus fuck!" the man exclaimed. "Brian Kinney, God's gift to gay PA – the family man!"

"Shut up, Mikey," Brian said in a tone that suggested he wasn't really listening and didn't give a damn about Michael's opinion.

Gus was staring at Michael with wide eyes, awed by this adult who was friends with his Dad but still talked like the big kids smoking round the corners and yelling at night in the playground.

Michael knew Brian altogether too well and smelled blood. He ruffled Gus' hair, flashed a conspiratorial smirk in Justin's direction, and fell into step next to Brian as they moved towards the exit. "So, you're finally ready to cast away the image of the perpetual club-boy and rebel without a cause?"

Brian could have pointed out that he had never had a shortage of causes, but since Michael had only said the words to sneak in a James Dean reference, he let it pass. Besides, Justin was looking like he might fall asleep upright, so he decided to go for the least amount of discord and maximum efficiency in reaching the loft.

"Didn't particularly care about the image," he said, not quite truthfully, "but there was nothing better there to exchange it for."

"And now there is?" Michael inquired with an irrepressible grin, unlocking Ben's car.

Brian stuffed Gus' luggage into the trunk and nudged the boy himself to climb into the backseat. The direction was interpreted as permission to plaster himself over zombie-Justin's lap, but since Justin wasn't protesting (he simply started stroking Gus' hair) the little conniving seducer got what he wanted.

"You tell me," Brian concluded, watching the scene.

"I told you before and I'm telling you now," Michael said, sliding in behind the wheel before Brian could rob him of the keys, "those two are your saving grace. You'd be a fucking idiot to let either of them get away."

Brian didn't reply, which, frankly, was as good as admission – at least to someone who had known him for almost, dare he say it, twenty years. Fuck, he was getting old. Respectable, almost. Justin really had done a number on him.

Many numbers. As opposed to the eighties, nowadays it was good to be Brian Kinney.

"Wake me up when we get there…" Justin mumbled.

Gus burrowed deeper into him and closed his eyes, pretending to be falling asleep as well, solely for the privilege of proximity. Brian wasn't at all surprised that his son had inherited the weakness toward the Taylor charm, and he was hopeful that this meant the boy wouldn't grow up into a fucking breeder.

"I reserve the right to remind you of your hypocrisy for the rest of our lives," Michael informed Brian quietly, grinning at the red traffic light behind the windshield.

x

When Brian came home one Friday afternoon too pissed to censor himself and a hair's breadth away from shouting at Justin out of sheer frustration, he was grateful for Jennifer Taylor's offer of babysitting. Gus spending his weekday afternoons with Jen and Molly was a godsend – as he found when an hour later Justin put a lit cigarette into Brian's hand and pressed a short, open-mouthed kiss to his Adam's apple.

Brian tried to recall what had just happened. He dimly recollected Cynthia telling him that Doris Mackenzie had sent a negative reply – she was a frigid hetero bitch, so it didn't really surprise him – but that she was dragging her future husband's business away to a different advertizing agency as well.

He had smashed his favorite coffee cup in pique and broke several speed limits on his way home. And then Justin did some kind of magic – because there was nothing short of a spell that could have had Brian perfectly relaxed and ready to laugh at himself for overreacting about a stupid account.

"A few centuries ago, they burnt people like you at a stake, Sunshine," Brian slurred stupidly, staring at the ceiling above the bed.

"Fags?" Justin asked laughingly. "That wasn't so long ago-"

"I meant witches," Brian cut in. He took another deep drag and let the smoke out in wobbly little circles.

Justin poked him between his ribs. A while later he poked again, and when even that didn't garner a reaction from Brian, who was quite happy just smoking his fag (and allowing his mind to traipse through the gutter), he lifted himself on his elbows and leant over Brian.

His hair had gotten kind of longish again – it was hanging into his eyes.

"All I know about charming people I've learnt from you, so you don't get to judge. And share the nicotine."

Brian raised his head and transferred the smoke from his lungs into Justin's. With some minor breathing difficulty, they sank into a kissing session, and Brian blindly fumbled for the ashtray, because any moment now he'd forget he was holding a fire hazard. Pressed against his body, Justin was ridiculously hot for being so familiar.

"This is a fucking bad time for a conversation," Justin muttered with his palms against Brian's chest, "but I've got something I want to talk over while you're in a positive mood."

"Hmm…?" Brian's brain had gone a little way off, so he had to wait for it to backtrack. He wanted to be irritated and demand sex before debate, but Justin's hand snuck down and palmed Brian's cock, just lightly enough to keep him there out of desire for more.

"I want Gus to start going to school on Monday," Justin said.

Brian grabbed his shoulders and rolled them over, trapping Justin beneath himself. Then he scowled. "Stop. Rewind."

Justin unrepentantly raised his eyebrows. "It would be irresponsible of us if he had to repeat a year because his mothers can't get their shit together and had to send him away to keep him sane. God knows when they'll be ready to take him back, or if they ever will be, and even if they are I'm not sure it would be a good idea to let him go back." He sighed. "They oscillate between together and apart more than we used to…"

"And make far more of a drama of it, too. Women."

Jesus, Sunshine knew how to kill a hard on. Now that Brian was sure he wasn't getting ass before they had hashed this out, his mind raced over the suggestion and its implications. When he had agreed to take Gus for a while, he had honestly anticipated it to be like a vacation. He should have thought it through more thoroughly. Looking back, he realized that Justin had expected the possibility from the start, and had even tried to caution Brian. Now, the dice were cast.

"If their relationship isn't stable enough after more than a decade, I don't think it's ever going to get better," Justin said.

He didn't need to point out that it had taken Brian's intervention to get them back together a few times, and the costs were increasingly dearer. It didn't seem worth it anymore.

"Mel will take care of JR – she's like a mama bear with her cub. But Gus…"

"You want me to sue for custody?" Brian asked outright. It was such a ludicrous proposition – and a few years ago he wouldn't have been caught dead in a situation where he was pinning a naked nubile young body to the mattress and talking about raising a kid. His paternal responsibilities had consisted of jerking off into a cup.

Justin somehow managed to free his hands and hold Brian's face between them. In a low, enticing voice he said: "Melanie will agree to sign it over. And Lindsey…" He trailed off.

Brian nodded. "Linds fucked up. Big time."

"She shouldn't be solving her problems by foisting them off onto us," Justin said aloud what they'd been avoiding up until now – admitting that Lindsey had basically put her child into a safe deposit for the time being and fully intended to just come by and pick him up whenever she felt like it. "I get that she's trying to protect Gus, but I say let us protect Gus now. If you want to, I mean. Because I'd like that, so if you don't think that the three of us living together would be too Stepford to stomach, I want Gus here."

It shocked Brian how little time he actually needed to make up his mind. "Okay. We'll need to move, though. I'm not raising my son in a fuck-pad."

x

Strobe lights flashed and music thumped, drinks flowed and drugs changed hands.

Justin felt like he had just grown younger, winding through the dancefloor, brushing against the hot sweaty hard bodies, breathing in cigarette smoke and drawing attention. It's been a while since he'd been to Babylon, and he had forgotten what he'd been missing.

One mindless repetitive song fluently changed into another. Justin met several admiring glances and looked away in silent refusal every time, feeling their eyes slide over the slope of his ass encased in tight black silk and over the thin strip of sun-bronzed midriff between the rim of his tee and his belt. Little had changed in years. No wonder Brian kept hanging onto this place – this experience.

"Thanks, Michael," Justin said into the man's ear as he passed him on the stairs, aware that Michael wouldn't know he was talking about the effort exerted to make Brian rebuild Babylon yet again after the bombing, but not particularly bothered about expounding.

"Good to see you, Justin!" Ben called after him, smiling and lifting his beer in a toast.

Justin grinned at the couple over his shoulder, then turned forth and slunk through the throng of horny men to the bar.

"Two Jim Beams?" the bartender asked.

Justin, buzzed on Babylon itself, threw his head back and laughed. Wasn't it just funny? He'd stepped foot into this place five times over the past two years, and he was still recognized and his standard order remembered. It paid to be Brian Kinney's accessory.

"And a Cosmo," Justin added. He leaned against the bar and waited for an out-of-breath Emmett to land next to him, wiping sweat out of his eyes.

"Haven't seen you here in a long time, baby!" Emmett momentarily stopped his excited jumping and pulled Justin into a hug.

"Busy, busy," Justin replied in parody of Brian's parody. "But a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime so here I am, back to my stalkerish ways-"

"And if you weren't, the owner of the club would be begging you to," Emmett pointed out, giggling. He accepted his Cosmo with the grace of a queen and sipped it.

"Brian doesn't beg," Justin said. "Ever." It wasn't quite true, but its intended purpose of making Emmett feel involved, to remind him that even though he had scarcely seen Justin for years they were still friends, was accomplished. There was nothing like sex-jokes to lighten the atmosphere.

"You lucked out, baby! You've got your man, and he's crazy about you!"

"You on the hunt again?" Justin asked, shrugging off a strange hand and sending the tiresome stud scrambling with a single scowl. He turned to Emmett again, his face going from 'deadly' to 'sympathetic' in a blink. "Calvin didn't work out?"

"Calvie went back to Hazelhurst," Emmett said, looking so goddamn wretched that Justin had to reach over and give him another hug. "His loss, though. I got an email from Drew yesterday. I'm hopeful."

"More power to you!" Justin cheered. "Another Cosmo?"

"Don't mind if I do!" Emmett said in a woeful imitation of British accent. He got his drink and a sizzling look from one of the bartenders. The guy was a little too young, but from the right angle Justin still didn't look legal, so he was the last to say anything.

Justin was unexpectedly engulfed in an embrace from behind, and he was halfway to putting his elbow in the face of the interloper when he felt a thumb sliding down his hipbone and hooking under his belt. He relaxed.

"How did it go?" he asked, lifting the so-far untouched second glass of Jim Beam up for Brian to take.

"How do you expect it went?" Brian scoffed. He exed the drink, slammed the glass onto the counter, and licked Justin's nape. "I offered him the chance to live with me and with the current love of his life. He's in."

Justin snickered. "He's got his priorities in order. I fully understand his desire to live with you."

"I'm not so sure. I think it's your presence what sold him…" Brian gestured the staff to refill both his and Justin's glass, and finally cared to notice Emmett who, in his hot pink top, wasn't inconspicuous in the least. "Hey, Emmy Lou!"

"Hello, Brian," Emmett replied with a tolerant – if a bit envious – smile. "Are you arranging for a threesome now? Who's the lucky guy?"

"Gus!" Justin said hastily, because Brian was liable to name one of the silver-screen stars and bullshit his way through the rest of the conversation just to see Emmett's face. "We're thinking of taking him in permanently."

Brian released Justin and slid into the cramped space between him and Emmett, taking up his refilled glass. "I need someone to carry on my legacy, anyway."

Emmett shimmied. "I bet he'll walk in on the two of you doing the dirty, and end up scarred for life and straight."

"Fuck you!" Brian said empathically. "My son will be a proud fag!"

Emmett kissed Brian's and Justin's cheek and returned to the dance floor. He didn't really get lost in the crowd, because it was very difficult to lose someone like Emmett, but he fit in and conformed to the pulse of the mass of bodies that pretty much swallowed him.

"Where did you leave him?" Justin asked, eyes roving the multitude of scantily clad male bodies.

Brian, unable to keep his paws off for too long, snuck a hand around Justin's hips and pulled him closer, practically forcing him to rest against his chest. "Molly demanded he stay the night. She's getting attached."

"That's hardly a bad thing," Justin pointed out, sipping his JB. "Free babysitting?"

"That's the beauty of being me, Sunshine," Brian drawled into his ear. "People fall over themselves to do my bidding. Only things I have to pay for anymore are electricity and gas." Which was, of course, so much bullshit, but Justin didn't care to spoil Brian's self-loving session. It was kind of mental jerking off, and, frankly, it cracked him up.

"You're calling the lawyer?"

"Monday," Brian replied. "No hurry. The munchers won't take their heads out of their asses for weeks yet."

The sad thing was that he was right, but Justin didn't want to be sad. The alcohol and the music thrummed through his veins.

"Let's dance-" he demanded "-and heighten the general sexual awareness in this joint!"

x

"…it's getting difficult," Tucker said into his can of non-alcoholic beer. "I wasn't sure at first, but Jen's really serious about PFLAG and I got to know all kinds of people just going with her to fundraisers and shit. Liberty Ave is like another planet…"

"But?" Justin grinned knowingly.

"I've seen two guys look at each other like the Sun rose and set with their counterpart. I don't really want to think about… you know-"

"The butt-fucking," Justin provided helpfully.

"Yeah," Tucker agreed, scrunching up his nose in distaste, "but I can tell that they love each other, so, let them have at it. Except I've got this kid in my class – small, skinny, his mom dresses him… he's twelve and already as obvious as it can get. Like that friend of yours… what's his name?"

"Emmett," Justin replied. He wondered if it was possible to get smashed on non-alcoholic beer, because Tucker sounded, for all intents and purposes, like he was trying to drown his sorrows in the can.

"So, this kid," Tucker complained, "he gets all kind of shit from his classmates. He doesn't even do anything. Doesn't even look at anyone weirdly."

"He's just obvious." Justin nodded. He hadn't been obvious, at least until the time he had arrived at school in a fuck-mobile with 'FAGGOT' spray-painted on the side. "Keep an eye on him. Maybe let him know he's not a freak just 'cause he's different?"

Tucker nodded.

Justin had somehow failed to create any kind of relationship with his mother's lover, but he had come to the conclusion that the man was handsome enough and clever enough for his mother, and he treated her with the proper respect, so Justin tolerated him. This promotion of gay rights thing was new. Justin could tell that Tucker was feeling helpless and torn-up about it… it was actually the first subject they had found which they had in common.

The front door opened and closed. Justin listened to the sounds. There wasn't the tell-tale clicking of his mother's heels, and neither did he catch the jingle of keys or the rustle of a jacket being hung, so he wasn't really surprised when Brian walked into the kitchen, went straight for the fridge and appropriated a carton of juice.

"A good day at the office?" Justin estimated by the slope of Brian's shoulders.

Brian set the carton down, grabbed Justin and pulled him into a kiss that had Tucker squinting at his can and, probably, desperately wishing he were elsewhere.

Justin was all too aware that Brian and Tucker were roughly the same age, and he loved seeing how imprudent Brian was in comparison.

"You were right," Brian said, intermittently nibbling at the shell of Justin's ear. "Melanie asked if this was your idea and signed without a fuss. Lindsey got hysterical, which didn't help her case a bit."

Justin processed the disjointed account and realized that Brian had once again fudged the issue and gone off as the solitary crusader, only admitting his actions retrospectively. But this was Brian, so it made a whole lot of sense.

"Gus is yours, then?" Justin demanded reassurance. Of course it had worked out – otherwise Brian would have gone for the quality whiskey that Justin's mother kept in the back of the pantry for 'special occasions', and which Brian had sniffed out with impeccable instinct during his second official visit to this house.

"Ours, Sunshine," Brian corrected. "It's called joint custody."

Justin froze. He was indescribably glad that Brian grabbed him then, because he wasn't sure if he wouldn't have humiliated himself by falling onto his ass without the support. He opened his mouth and then closed it, once he found that words had failed him.

Tucker was giving them a bemused look, but he did exhibit the presence of mind to keep his questions to himself for the time being.

"You're shitting me," Justin gasped eventually. "You…"

"It was your idea. You're not getting out of it," Brian said simply.

Justin was, needless to say, stupefied. This was such a Brian thing to do – out of clear sky, undiscussed, deniably romantic, with the stamp of 'not going to talk about it ever' all over it. Justin felt obligated to say something, something vulgar, cutting, bitter and fucking grateful, but he managed a pitiful: "I…"

"Congratulations, Sunshine," Brain said with a smirk. "It's a boy."

And the Justin's mother was standing in the room, having turned up just like that, some time between the shocking realisation and the verbal confirmation. "Justin?" she said, staring at the three most important men in her life. "Honey, what's happened? Brian? Is everything alright?"

Justin, still open-mouthed in awe, turned his head to look from Brian to his mother and the brightest smile imaginable lit his face. "I've got a son!"

"What?" To Jennifer's credit, being subjected to the tumultuous saga of Brian Kinney and Justin Taylor for years had made her highly resistant to the kind of insanity that went on around them. Therefore she didn't hyperventilate, or start screaming, or faint. She sat down at the table next to Tucker, folded her hands, and put on a polite, fake smile. "When did this happen?"

"Yesterday," Brian replied.

Justin had regained his mobility and was currently half-strangling his lover to death to show his appreciation, so it fell to Brian to take pity on the woman and explain before she got cross-eyed at the vision of screaming babies and diapers in her near future.

"Justin's officially been made Gus' guardian."

"Oh!" Jennifer's relief was deafening.

"Gus will be my nephew?" Molly asked from the doorway.

There was a brief pause as four concerned adults looked over at the teenager to gauge her reaction. She raised her eyebrows – very reminiscent of her brother for a moment – and then turned and crooked her finger.

The young Mr Gus Kinney (and didn't that stick in Lindsey's craw, but Brian had insisted, because it would make their life that much easier in the future) walked into the kitchen in the wake of his favorite babysitter, with the knees of his jeans grass-stained and traces of illicitly obtained ice-cream (strawberry, it seemed) on his face.

"You can call me Aunt Molly!" Molly announced. "And we'll drive your daddies crazy."

x

Being young, too hot for his own good, successful, rich and unmarried resulted in Justin being the favorite target of socialites. Ninety-five percent of them were women.

It wasn't like he kept it a secret that he was queer as a three dollar coin, pardon the cliché, but there was something about a blue-eyed blonde with a squeezable butt that made women think he could be turned to the dark side with the correct application of wiles.

"Come here often?" a female voice asked, and a finger poked Justin's side.

He tore his eyes away from his own painting (he had called it Reaching Out, and it was one of those melodramatic pieces that he had painted to expel some lingering emotion that cramped his style) and glared at the woman who had the gall to get familiar with him without even a hint of invitation.

Then he recognized the face, framed by short wild curls sticking every-which way.

"Daphne?" he asked breathlessly.

"That's Doctor Chanders to you, you uneducated lout," she replied, and then demanded a greeting hug, which Justin was only too happy to deliver.

"I was kicked out of school for having a personal opinion and personal honor. They can stick their titles up their asses anyway. I've made it."

Daphne grinned. "Is Brian around?"

Justin shook his head. "He had to stay home with our son." The words still rang alien. "New York nights are ridiculously long and cold-"

"And lonesome," Daphne added knowingly.

"-without a man to fuck me into the soft squishy mattress of the king-sized bed in my hotel room. I think I'll go pick up a trick tonight and exorcize my horniness."

Daphne giggled and put her arm around Justin's shoulders, gazing up at the Reaching Out. It was predominantly blue and green – sad and hopeful – and Justin hated it. He was glad to see the 'sold' sticker on it. If he would never see it again, he wouldn't mind.

A minute later Daphne eventually processed what he had said.

"Son?" she exclaimed.

x

"They're both guys! It's sick!" a midget with an awful overbite cried, shoving Gus.

That was a bad idea all around. For one thing, Gus was attending a school that didn't tolerate bigotry; for another, Gus was handsome and way too suave for an eight-year-old, and most of his classmates were friends with him within a week of him starting school in Pittsburgh. The little charmer wasn't intimidated by his status as the 'new kid' – rather he had made it work for him, and already half his circle was allegedly in love with him.

The kid with overbite looked mighty uncertain when a gaggle of girls fanned out around Gus and all of them directed a Melanie-level of pissed-off glare at him.

"No, it's not," Gus said as if he were pointing out something perfectly obvious.

"It is!" One of the non-infatuated girls stood by Overbite Junior and stuck her nose in the air. "God will punish them-"

"You're stupid," Gus said simply, tying his shoelaces. "And jealous. Because Justin's prettier than either of your Moms."

Brian, who had been watching the exchange from his vantage point in the lobby, practically swelled with pride. He ignored the lonely pang he felt – and which, he was sure, Gus felt just as acutely – at Justin's absence, and started planning an outing for Justin's first night back in town. Nothing too fancy. And they'd leave Gus with Molly…

"God, he really is your son," Tucker said, shaking his head.

"Absolutely," Brian agreed, and decided to avoid a conversation with his not-mother-in-law's long-term-fuck. He strode over to the group of girls, pleased to know that the majority blushed as he approached. "Good going, sonny boy," he praised.

"Thanks, Dad," Gus replied, while his fanclub swooned. "When's Justin getting back?"

"As soon as he's done with the show," Brian replied, mentally tacking on 'I know just how you feel, sonny boy.'

"This sucks," Gus announced.

"And not in…" Brian trailed off, realizing that he was in a room full of eight-year-olds. Jesus, how the mighty had fallen.

Gus, who had always been a little precocious due to his genes and the company his parents kept, sagely nodded to the unfinished statement, picked up his bag and went to hold the door open for his multitude of female friends.

Brian with satisfaction added more points to the 'Gus is gay' side of the argument.

"So long, Tucker," Brian said gleefully on his way out.

"Don't forget tomorrow, Brian," Tucker returned, minimally phased. "With or without Justin, Jen's still expecting you and Gus to turn up for dinner. Plus, Debbie will be there and you don't want to cross that woman, do you?"

"She'd tie a knot on my cock," Brian grumbled – under his breath, maintaining discretion to protect sensitive ears.

School sucked. And not in a positive, life-affirming way.

x

"You little asshole!"

One good thing about Debbie Novotny was the fact that she came with an inbuilt bullhorn, so she never managed to sneak up on anyone.

"Give me a second," Brian said to the manager of the moving crew. As opposed to the hot, toned runaway models in overalls that had gone out with the rest of Brian's Italian furniture, this man was old-ish and flabby. Nothing to look at, and very little in the way of intelligence, so it was all Brian could do to keep up a façade of politeness.

"By all means, sir," the manager replied, trying very hard to fade into the background as Deb the chimera approached.

"You were supposed to be at Jennifer's on Saturday! Where the Hell were you? Sticking your cock into some twinked out-"

"Hello, Debbie," Brian said, turning around to face Mrs Spitfire. "It's nice to see you again. Thank you, I'm fine – enjoying my freedom while the ball and chain is off rescuing puppies and saving Christmas. And how are you?"

Debbie went from frothing to understanding within the bat of an eyelash. "I know you're missing Sunshine, honey… But that's no excuse!"

"Busy, busy," Brian sing-sung. "Gus and I took a little trip. I called to cancel."

"During soup!" Debbie complained, but Gus' presence in the Pitts was still fresh enough to garner sympathy points and the woman was already folding. "And where's the mini-you, anyway?"

"In school?" Brian suggested. He checked the time on his cell-phone. It was eleven in the morning. Gus better be in school, or he would be taking it out of somebody's skin. And he had ten new messages, of which only half was spam.

Cynthia demanded that he come by the office for ten minutes to put his autograph on some vital, urgent papers; Lindsey wanted Gus for the holiday (no fucking way) and Justin sent the finalized time of his arrival to Pittsburgh International. Brian liked to think of himself as the consummate businessman, but juggling Justin's absence, Kinnetic, Babylon, Gus, moving, family, and managing to look good through it was turning out to be beyond his considerable capabilities.

"Can you please sign here, sir?" the moving party manager found his opportunity while Debbie was looking around and finally noticing that there was something actually going on.

"Where's all your stuff?" Debbie demanded, voice rising to a frequency that rattled the windowpanes.

Brian handed the signed protocol back, nodding in acceptance of the hasty greeting and yet hastier exit of the man. He had a brief anxiety attack as he realized that he was leaving the loft for the last time, for real, forever, and he deserved a freak-out of epic proportions at the ending of a fifteen-year-long period of his life marked by his inhabitation of this space. He would have liked to feel nothing, but the melancholia that rose in his throat fucking choked him.

"I'm switching haunts," he said shortly.

"You're not fucking off to West Virginia again, are you?" Debbie asked, worried.

Unfortunately, even Brian Kinney wasn't that lucky. He had checked – not that he had or would inform anyone – if Britin wasn't on the market again, just in case, because the expression on Justin's face when Brian had told him that he had bought the house for his prince remained etched in his memory… Still, it was infinitely more practical to live in the city.

Brian put his hand on Deb's shoulder, turned her around and led her toward the exit. "Would it be so bad?"

"Yes!" the woman exclaimed.

Brian shrugged. He was glad for a moment that Justin wasn't here, because he wouldn't have been able to disguise that he had an emotional response to this situation, and that it was ambivalent. "Well," he faux-mused, "it is awfully hard to get good cleaning service in West Virginia. I might reconsider."

"What about Sunshine?" Debbie cried, perplexed, close to tears, as Brian slammed the heavy door shut from the outside.

"What about him?"

Debbie opened her mouth, blinked a few times, and then gave Brian a shrewd smirk. "Oh, I see. Good luck, asshole."

x

The penthouse was passable for them. It was no country mansion with pool and stables, but it was close to everywhere, vast enough to fit the demands of all three of its inhabitants, and it had soundproof walls. Brian had a brief episode of hesitation when he had wondered if his perpetual nonchalance about making big decisions that affected Justin wouldn't be ill-received, and in the end decided that if Justin pitched a fit, he could bullshit his way out of trouble and say that this was just a transitional phase while they waited for another 'perfect' house to come on market.

Jennifer and Molly brought Gus in straight from school and exclaimed over the space and lighting and view, using way too many superlatives. And then they extolled to everybody they met.

Debbie reamed Brian a new one for not inviting her first – there were shades of her final fall-out with Vic present in her tone, and Brian hung up on her before he was forced to say that 'she could fucking wait until Justin fucking got home and at least fucking saw it before she stuck her fucking nose in'. Things with her – and by association with Michael and Ben – were a bit strained since then, and Brian was relieved to be standing in front of the glass doors of Pittsburgh International and watching Justin amble toward him with a bulky suitcase in one hand and a cell pressed to his ear.

"…won't be comfortable with it," he was saying to the person on the other end of the line. "I know I am not. Maybe if you were-"

Brian stepped up and took the luggage from him, earning a distracted smile.

"That sounds authentic," Justin chuckled. "Anyway, work on her, and if nothing else, at least come for the holidays."

Brian leaned in for a kiss, but was rudely prevented by Justin pressing the index finger of his recently freed hand to his lips. Brian shouldn't have been so sweet and helpful and should have taken the kiss before the suitcase.

Justin gave a bitter smile and sighed. "I know. Do that. Thanks, Mel." He hung up, stuffed the cell-phone into his pocket and pulled Brian into the delayed kiss.

"Melanie?" Brian inquired once they unwound themselves.

Justin sighed again. "Lindsey called. She said the two of them were good again and she wants Gus back. More or less promised to go to court – so I called Mel to hear what she had to say."

"And?" Brian asked with dread. The tail-end of that conversation hadn't sounded too bad, but Justin could be way too forgiving sometimes (case in point being his tolerance of Brian's idiosyncrasies) and he treated all his friends civilly. Though, who would want to be friends with Melanie-

"And Mel said that she loves Gus and they talk on the phone and write emails and he's happy with us." A hint of the sunshine smile played on Justin's lips. "She's learnt her lesson with JR – said that unless Gus explicitly insisted upon returning, she would support us even against Lindsey."

"And that will result in another break-up," Brian concluded facetiously. He had had it with the munchers. Lindsey would always be a part of his family, but now that Gus was safe from their problems he saw no earthly reason to put himself out for either her or the monster she liked to pretend she'd leashed.

"There was a time when I was worried we'd never overcome that phase either," Justin said pensively. "That we'd go on breaking-up – making-up until one of us tragically died and the other would curse himself for being so stupidly stubborn and losing all that precious time…"

Brian pointed out the corvette and let Justin take the lead through the narrow spaces between the parked cars; he didn't particularly want Justin to attempt to read in his face right now.

"I realized this in New York," Justin went on, probably aware that he was being too verbal for Brian's peace of mind, but as obstinate about getting his melodrama fix as he ever had been. "You didn't answer my email and you weren't picking up your phone for two days straight. Sure, I knew that it wasn't a reason to panic, but it occurred to me that if you'd died I wouldn't even know, and I got irrationally scared for about ten minutes of absolute insanity." He grinned, shrugging off the angst for posterity and because he knew that Brian didn't want to have to – God forbid – comfort him. "I thought I'd hate myself forever for putting you on hold for my career."

Brian raised an eyebrow. "And you didn't buy a ticket and fly down to the Pitts to grab onto me and hysterically sob out your fears-"

"Fuck you," Justin laughed. "I painted a picture. God, I hated that one. Sold it, and was glad to see it gone."

"So that's what happened to the little queen I used to know!" Brian exclaimed mockingly, sliding into the driver's seat. He glared at the dark grey sky. It was going to rain soon – with his luck, it would start pouring down while they were stuck in the traffic. Good thing that Gus was all settled in for his sleepover at the Taylors.

"You know the biggest difference between then and now?" Justin mused, fastening his seatbelt.

"You're making almost as much money as I am?" Brian guessed. It was true, too, except that Brian brought in regular sums, whereas Justin always got a whole load of money after his shows and then months of nothing, with the exceptions of some insignificant income for doing freelance digital art and the occasional commission.

That was obviously not it, though, because Justin got unexpectedly quiet and stared at Brian, gauging the potential reaction to the upcoming big confession. Brian liked to think that he knew his twink well enough to not be shocked by whatever was going to come out of his mouth.

"Now I'm not scared to ask you for anything," Justin said.

Okay, Brian had not expected that. Still, it wasn't anything he couldn't process while driving. "And before you were?"

Justin laughed. "You better believe it. Petrified. Sometimes. I used to feel that I didn't have the right to impose – after I've accepted so much from you already."

"Bullshit," Brian growled.

Peripherally, he could see Justin shrugging. "It's how I felt. Doesn't have to be rational."

"You don't anymore?" Brian asked, feeling pitiful for having to be reassured. Everything they had belonged to both of them anyway. Nevertheless, it boggled the mind – Sunshine, scared to present his demands? Or take whatever he wanted without asking? Or manipulate it out of his unsuspecting victims? That never had been and never would be.

Justin shook his head.

"Good."

"I love the idea that if you ever needed it, you could depend on me," Justin explained. After some of the financial finagling they'd been through, that made sense.

Anyway, since they were waiting for the green light, Brian figured he could throw the man a bone and get his rightfully deserved full-on grin of happiness-overload. "Brilliant. Because, Justin, I count on you."

x

"I see Gus has a new best-friend-forever," Justin remarked dryly, watching the boy – his son, for all intents and purposes – play monopoly with Ted, Blake and Emmett. Gus and Emmett were whispering and trying very hard not to be trashed. Even their alliance didn't seem to be helping them against Ted and Blake.

Ted and Blake were in love in a way Justin had never seen anyone be in love – very, very quietly, and very, very devotedly.

"He's a nice boy," Drew commented, a little banally but all the more honestly.

Justin, who was wary of jocks for obvious reasons, had to struggle to treat Drew the same as he treated his other friends' significant others, but he was doing his best. So far, the only ones who noticed were Brian, Blake (who was naturally receptive to aberrations like that) and Emmett (who was paying a lot of attention to the reception his old-new boyfriend was getting). Even Debbie, their hostess for the day, was in the dark.

"Thank you," Justin said. "Not that I've had much to do with it. He's only been with Brian and me for a few months."

"Emmett tried to explain it to me – but it sounds very complicated."

Justin had a sneaking suspicion that anything significantly more complex than the rules of football was beyond Drew's capacity. On the other hand, Drew seemed to be a genuine, straightforward guy who thought the world of Emmett, so Justin settled on cautious endorsement.

"What do you say we blow this popsicle stand?" Brian asked unexpectedly, inches from Justin's ear. He was doing it on purpose – to mock Drew because he probably wasn't able to hear the unkind sarcasm or the innuendo.

"I know you want to avoid Lindsey, dear," Justin turned sarcastic in turn and patronizingly patted Brian's hand resting on his thigh, "but we will stay and put on our game smiles for the family. We wouldn't want some outsiders to catch onto our dysfunctionality and hate all homosexual people based on our poor example, would we?"

Drew got somewhat cross-eyed and promptly relocated closer to Emmett, probably hoping that the simple and obvious flamboyance would shelter him from the weirdness and pseudo-intellectualism.

"You're taking your rightful half of the flak if she catches us," Brian grumbled, put on his game smile and settled down on the couch next to Justin. The hand on Justin's leg clutched slightly too hard for comfort.

"God, Brian, you're acting like my wife," Justin milked this rare chance to mock Brian for all it was worth. "Next we'll start arguing about whose son he is when the principal calls us about him fighting in the halls."

"Ha-ha," Brian pressed out through clenched teeth.

"There you are!" Lindsey called out.

Brian's claw of a hand clutched even harder. Justin yelped. Gus' eyes took in the scene and the boy shrunk to hide behind Ted.

Gus learnt quickly and was smarter than he let on – just like Brian. In a couple of years, he would be able to see through Lindsey's words and stop being confused by her constant changes of tune. Unfortunately – basing his estimation on his knowledge of Brian – Justin was fairly certain that the boy would start silently resenting Lindsey.

She would eventually catch on – she, too, knew Brian. It would end in tears.

"Mikey and Melanie coming?" Brian asked, luckily for Justin easing his grip. There would be bruises as it was.

"In a while," Lindsey replied, sitting down across the coffee table from them and crossing her hands at the wrist.

Justin took the chance to look closer, and noted that she had gained weight and her make-up was too thick. He was hesitant to assume, but it looked like depression to him.

"JR ate too much candy and now she doesn't feel like napping," Lindsey said nonchalantly.

Neither Justin nor Brian bought it for a second.

"I talked with Gus," the woman said, and failed to maintain her façade of casualness. "Or, rather, I tried to. He said that he misses Mel and I, but absolutely refused to return to Canada."

Justin felt Brian tense. He, himself, was ready to get cutting with Lindsey. That she had the gall to speak to Gus about this, and then had come to complain about being turned down… Justin secretly thanked Chris Hobbs from killing the spoilt kid that he had once been, because even being brain-damaged was more dignified than what Lindsey was currently displaying.

"We won't talk to him," Justin said resolutely, not bothering to hide his anger. "We won't try to convince him, and we won't let you take him." And if Brian had some problem with Justin speaking for both of them, he could stop using him as an emotional shield.

Brian, obviously, had no problem whatsoever.

"Justin," Lindsey implored, "Gus is my son. Not yours, and not even really Brian's – you've said so from the beginning, Brian. He belongs with his mothers."

"You should have thought about that before you requested that Brian and I take him while you sorted out your relationship issues," Justin said, using hundred percent less vulgarisms than Brian would have used if he had been appointed the speaker. Jesus fuck, they were really finally acting like a couple.

And the whole room was watching them at it, too, including Gus, who was cuddled up in Emmett's protective embrace and hanging onto Justin's every word.

Lindsey frowned. "You think he would have been better off listening to Mel and I argue? That he should have been subjected to that amount of antagonism?"

Justin rapidly leaned forwards, startling the woman into silence, and asked: "Do you love Melanie, Lindsey?"

"Of course I do!" she cried.

"Then how the fuck come you're being antagonistic?" Justin snapped at her.

Brian huffed, swallowing a chuckle. His grip on Justin's thigh eased off into a soft caress – a kind of nonverbal show of gratitude, which was about as much as he ever allowed himself to express seriously.

"I… we…" Lindsey stammered. Her eyes strayed to Gus.

The boy held her gaze for a protracted while, then pointedly turned away, tugged on Blake's sleeve to get his attention and asked something about the game.

"There's your answer, Linds," Brian said. He kissed Justin's temple, closed his eyes and lay back into the couch. He couldn't have made it more obvious that the conversation was over.

x

"I was turned down today," Justin whined, chucking off his coat vaguely in the direction of the hanger and kicking off his shoes.

It was close to midnight, but Brian was awake and alert, still in that periodically repeating phase when he was getting used to Justin being back in Pittsburgh after a show elsewhere, and impatiently waiting to be reassured of his presence when the door opened and he stomped in after an outing, invigorated or exasperated or, most often, just plain tired and glad to be free to crash and not get up until tomorrow.

"Hey, yourself," Brian said, offering a glass of juice.

Justin shook his head and went straight to the bathroom. When he came back out five minutes later, the annoyance was gone, leaving behind the lethargy of exhaustion.

"Who dared deny you, Sunshine?" Brian inquired, rubbing Justin's flat hard stomach through the fabric of his shirt.

"Some stupid trick I tried for on my lunch-break," Justin complained, nuzzling Brian's collarbone. "Said he was 'too scared Kinney'd have his balls' if he touched me."

Brian smirked. "Kind of short, red-haired, a goatee?"

"Nice pecs," Justin added.

"He's one of my ad execs. No wonder he's terrified." He had never before thought in that direction – he generally didn't give much thought to either his or Justin's tricks – but he imagined he could have turned into a bigger asshole if he ever found that Justin fucked one of his employees. That was a brownie point for O'Flaherty.

"I like it when you're feeling proprietary about me," Justin teased.

Brian had always avoided being responsible for anyone else because, although he hated it, he knew too well that he liked getting high as much as his mother liked drinking, and he was in possession of the same violent temper as his father had used to direct at him (although Brian expelled it through fucking strangers). He didn't trust himself with another person.

Only, he didn't have a viable alternative anymore. No way in Hell would he risk losing either Justin or Gus to the ghosts of his parents' fuck-ups.

"You've staked your claim on me. I'm entitled," Brian said, uncertain to which incident he was referring. There had been altogether too many. And since he and Justin had started sharing living space again, Brian had been wearing the ring on a chain around his neck. All the other arrangements were practical, to make sharing their lives less of a hassle, but the ring was there purely as a traditional stamp of ownership.

Justin grinned and pulled his still buttoned shirt over his head.

Brian leant down, licked his throat, and started working on his belt. He could tell from Justin's sigh that the man was tired, and there wouldn't be much excitement happening tonight, but Justin was palpably up for a bit of tension relief. Brian might go to Babylon afterwards, but first he was going to fuck the ass that was his.

"Bed," Justin demanded, and then burst in breathless laughter when Brian grabbed him around his waist and lifted him off the floor.

Brian stumbled. They fell onto the bed – mutually glad that they had both insisted on keeping it after the move – and Justin let himself be rolled onto his stomach. He propped his chin on his forearm and hummed his appreciation for the biting kisses Brian delivered to the back of his neck and shoulders.

"S'ry, Bri…" Justin apologized once it became obvious that Brian would have to do all the work tonight. "I'll make it up to you in the morning?"

Brian would have replied that it was a deal, but his mouth was otherwise occupied for the moment, and then it would have been redundant, so he swallowed Justin's moan at the intrusion of his cock and moved his hips.

The whole act was ridiculously habitual and uncomplicated. They came within minutes, Justin first and Brian following soon after, only getting rid of the spent condom and switching off the lights before he laid back down and raked his nails over Justin's shoulder blades. The twink was already falling asleep.

Brian considered hunting down an apple but he figured that, if he really wanted one, he could get up later on. He wasn't even sure about going to Babylon. It seemed like a good idea, especially if he wanted to avoid the sudden bout of introspection that came upon him today, but for now he was perfectly comfortable lounging in his bed and sort-of watching Justin falling asleep.

The fact that intimacy could be so casual used to scare the fuck out of him. Now it was the other way around – the idea that he might lose this was rapidly becoming his worst nightmare. There were days when he remembered the bashing and almost wished that Justin had died and taken with him the piece of Brian's psyche that had already been accustoming itself to the relationship (he could lie to others as much as he might have liked, but once the other person knew how he took his coffee, it was a relationship). If that had been the end, Brian would have survived, jaded anew, more broken, more resigned to the 'sex, drugs and thumpa-thumpa', but still alive.

Now Justin was ingrown, an addiction that couldn't be kicked. Essential. Without him, there was nothing but 'sex, drugs and thumpa-thumpa', and Brian was too old for that shit. Even his reputation couldn't stop panta from rhei-ing, and keep the crow's feet and the occasional white hair secret.

He was still young and beautiful and Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake, but he was one and half times as old as James Dean had been when he had taken his swan dive off the plane of existence, and not in a hurry to go anywhere. True to his superhero alter-ego, he raged, raged against the dying of the light.

"I want a new car," he said into the darkness.

Justin wiggled and hummed, and sleepily mouthed something unintelligible against Brian's upper arm, leaving behind a trail of spit.

"A Porsche," Brian continued. "Something sleek and sexy and able to go triple the speed limit on the highway."

"'s long 's 'ts got a baby seat for Gus…" Justin slurred, effectively killing Brian's grandiose plans for a spectacular exit.

"Fuck you," Brian grumbled, carding his fingers through Justin's longish hair. Fucking Tinker Bell. The kid's been so adult in some ways since before they'd even met, and Brian had tried so hard to hang onto the hormone-charged carefreedom of adolescence… He'd been doing well, too, but this little blonde sprite just had to fuck it up for him. No dramatic death for them, then. They'd go on to become sad old queens living in the memories of their youthful days of taking Babylon by storm and fucking more tricks than they cared to remember on their next hung-over morning.

Well… it wasn't like it was the absolute worst thing that could happen to him.