Fic: QAF fic "Blade and Scabbard" (2/4)
Title: Blade and Scabbard (part 2 of 4)
Rating: PG-13 for now, NC-17 by the end
Summary: A medical breakthrough changes Brian's life in more ways than one.
Disclaimer: It belongs to CowLip and Showtime. They have all the luck.
Warning: Yeah, this installment has some angst. Not much. Trust me, they'll get over it.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Author’s Note: seanmegansean, this one's for you.
Earlier Installments: Part One
Title: Blade and Scabbard (part 2 of 4)
Rating: PG for now, NC-17 by the end
Summary: A medical breakthrough changes Brian's life in more ways than one.
Disclaimer: It belongs to CowLip and Showtime. They have all the luck.
Warning: Yeah, this installment has some angst. Not much. Trust me, they'll get over it.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Author’s Note: seanmegansean, this one's for you.
Earlier Installments: Part One
November 11, 2014
I’m in a cab headed to Manhattan from LaGuardia Airport as I try (for the tenth or twentieth time) to figure out what to say when I see Justin. What do you say to a man whose emails and phone calls you haven’t returned for nearly a year?
I missed you?
I’m sorry I put us through this? It was stupid, forgive me?
Great pitch, Kinney. That should do the trick.
With rain pelting down, I can't see very far out of the cab window. It doesn't matter, since I'm stuck thinking about our last conversation one more time in my head. It started when I tried to buy Justin an $800 easel in the Pearl art supply store on Canal Street and Justin wouldn’t let me. The argument on the way back to his sixth-floor walkup apartment is when things got out of hand.
September 3, 2013
“So, until you’re successful, I can’t buy anything for you?! What the fuck kind of partner does that make me?”
Justin’s face was hard, determined. “You are not buying me a better easel, a new winter coat, or another vacation to Cozumel until I can pay my share. An equal share. I’m tired of you buying me things, Brian, even if it's only once in a while. I don’t want to live off Kinnetik, alright?”
I should have shut up right then, I know it, but I didn’t.
“The money doesn’t matter to me. Why can’t you just accept a gift graciously and fucking say thank you, like anybody else?” Justin’s poverty has been grinding me down for a long time, and this is an old argument, one I usually win. But not today.
“I can’t accept it when I know that Kinnetik needs every dime.”
There it is. The thing we’ve been dancing around. The new Kinnetik office in Chicago may have stretched the budget to the breaking point, but Justin’s not supposed to mention it. Too many weekends have been cancelled with me flying to put out fires in the Windy City, and Justin’s made one too many jokes about Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. Now the gloves come off.
“Kinnetik is fine, and Ted’s gonna be wishing he had his leather daddy back once I’m done whipping his ass on Monday,” I growl. Trust Ted to hyperventilate about numbers the last time Justin came home for a holiday. Now the boy-well, man-won’t let it alone.
“All he did was tell the truth. Besides, it’s time that you stopped buying me things. Otherwise, what was the point of me coming to New York?”
“For people to see your talent. So how long do I have to wait before I can buy you anything? Until Kinnetik’s clearing two and a half million per quarter?”
“Yes.”
He can't be serious.
Fuck, he’s serious. “Justi-“
He cuts me off. “And until I’ve sold enough paintings that I can afford a better shithole than the one I’m living in now. Until we can pay for things together and neither one of us has to make sure the check won’t bounce.”
“So what the fuck are we supposed to do until then? Keep a running tally of what painting you sold and which account I landed?” This is one of Justin’s stupider ideas, and the last thing I want to do with Justin is talk about money.
There’s a flare behind those blue eyes, and I can tell I’ve just given him the solution he was looking for. Shit.
“Why not? I’ll let you know every time I sell a painting, and you’ll call every time you land a new account, or the monthly receipts add up to more than the ones from last year.”
I’m standing on the sidewalk, staring at him now. “What is this? A fucking race?” The spiral of anger is tightening in my gut, and I’m starting to see red. Not good. Never good.
Justin gives me that patient 'I’m-explaining-this-to-a-mental-defective' look that usually makes me want to slug him in the middle of a fight. “No. But I’m tired of arguing about money every time you come to New York. We ought to be more than that, Brian, and if we can’t be, then it’s time we moved on.”
Whatthefuck? Yeah, we've had our problems, but...he can't mean it. Not again. Don't push me away, Justin.
He’s already turning the corner on to Wooster Street when I catch up, get in front of him. “You mean it? You want to reduce this-” and I grab him by the shoulders, give him a hard, lip-numbing kiss “-to dollars and cents? That’s crazy, Justin, Pink Posse crazy.”
I’ve hit a nerve. He hates being reminded of the time he spent with Cody. The shoulders square up a bit, and the steel in his backbone is coming into play. Don’t push unless you expect him to push back--God, why can't I remember this rule? What the hell have I done?
“I want to try this, Brian. Besides, you’ll make your target long before I do, so why are you worried?”
Because what happens if I don’t? And how long will we wait until you get your success? Forever?
I can see the set chin, the pissed off look in those blue eyes-even if I get there first and he doesn’t, he’ll still be poor and we’ll have this same goddamned argument again in six months. All of the sudden I don’t care if Justin’s angry because fuck it, I am too.
The words come spitting out. If Justin wants this, fine. Just fine.
“I’ll be back once Kinnetik has its ten million dollar year. And you better be waiting.” I hail the next cab I see and fling myself into it, not looking at Justin, knowing already that this may break us, and too pissed off to care.
I’ll be back in four months. Five, tops. Little shit.
Only it didn’t quite go that way.
The first few phone calls from New York I didn’t return, still too angry to see straight. It all came down to my fucking pride--I'd show him. We'd gone without seeing each other for a month or two before this; he could wait until I got to the place he wanted me. Ten million wasn't that much more than what Kinnetik grossed last fiscal year anyhow.
Then I kept getting emails, the ones that mention the pieces sold from the Lindemark Gallery. The Stewart Gallery in London decides to take on a fresh unknown from America and sells several of his paintings almost immediately. Now he can add "works in international collections" to his resume. The Chase Gallery in San Francisco has an unexpected opening for three large canvases in a group show and takes the latest Taylor originals. Some fancy hotel chain snaps them up. Then there were the two pieces that went straight into a private collection, no gallery commissions, pure profit in time for Christmas.
It got to the point that when I saw another email was from JTPaintsNY@gmail, I almost couldn’t read it. Each one with better news than the last. This is the year. Justin’s big year, with all those successes I won't let myself celebrate with him.
Every email signed Love Justin.
Meanwhile, Kinnetik couldn’t buy a break. A tanking national economy translated into lower client profits, and that meant reduced fees for the agency. At the same time, the Chicago branch was sucking down every bit of profit Pittsburgh generated. It got bad enough that I even asked Ted to run the numbers on closing the Chicago office-what would happen to us? Too many sunk costs, he advised. Better to keep it open and hope it turns a profit next year.
Next year.
Four months gone, then six. Eight. So long since I’ve touched Justin that I dream about him when I fall asleep at my desk every night. Warm, responsive flesh under my fingertips, the soft skin of his neck arching back towards my lips as he comes beneath me-only dreams now, since I’ve cut myself off from the real thing.
I work all the hours in creation, land four new accounts, five, six, but it’s not enough. I don’t bother letting Justin know. We re-sign all our existing clients, coming up with new campaigns that sell sunglasses and building supplies, diapers, detergent and dog food. Keeping the ship on a steady course, riding out the bad economic weather like Ted recommends. But we’re just treading water, not advancing. Seven million and every dime of it keeping Chicago afloat.
And now, Remson’s super secret. The wonder drug that everybody will need.
If the figures are right, we’ll clear close to fifty million alone in the first year. That’s the low end projection, Ted tells me.
Everything changes now, and it’s not just the money. Everything.
+++
The cab stops in front of a familiar shitty apartment building on Prince Street, and I get out. Six flights is a long way to go if he’s out for the evening, but I start climbing anyhow when I see the front door isn’t closed completely and I can sneak inside without hitting the buzzer. Besides, it beats standing in the rain.
Six flights of stairs later, and I still don’t know what to say when I’m in front of his door, the one with two deadbolt locks that couldn’t keep out an angry crack addict with a crowbar.
When Justin opens the door, and I don’t have any words, it doesn’t matter. I see the joy in his eyes, and a smile that says he still loves me. I drop the bag in the hall and reach for him, and all the ‘sorrys’ we owe each other can wait until we’ve fumbled our way out of clothes and onto his bed and into each other.
I’m the biggest shithead in the world, but he waited anyway. Anything I’ve got to tell him, I’ll tell him in the morning.
Part Three
++++++
Author’s Note: For those confused by the “Mrs. O’Leary’s cow” reference, read about the great 1871 Chicago fire that devastated the city here.
Rating: PG-13 for now, NC-17 by the end
Summary: A medical breakthrough changes Brian's life in more ways than one.
Disclaimer: It belongs to CowLip and Showtime. They have all the luck.
Warning: Yeah, this installment has some angst. Not much. Trust me, they'll get over it.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Author’s Note: seanmegansean, this one's for you.
Earlier Installments: Part One
Title: Blade and Scabbard (part 2 of 4)
Rating: PG for now, NC-17 by the end
Summary: A medical breakthrough changes Brian's life in more ways than one.
Disclaimer: It belongs to CowLip and Showtime. They have all the luck.
Warning: Yeah, this installment has some angst. Not much. Trust me, they'll get over it.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Author’s Note: seanmegansean, this one's for you.
Earlier Installments: Part One
November 11, 2014
I’m in a cab headed to Manhattan from LaGuardia Airport as I try (for the tenth or twentieth time) to figure out what to say when I see Justin. What do you say to a man whose emails and phone calls you haven’t returned for nearly a year?
I missed you?
I’m sorry I put us through this? It was stupid, forgive me?
Great pitch, Kinney. That should do the trick.
With rain pelting down, I can't see very far out of the cab window. It doesn't matter, since I'm stuck thinking about our last conversation one more time in my head. It started when I tried to buy Justin an $800 easel in the Pearl art supply store on Canal Street and Justin wouldn’t let me. The argument on the way back to his sixth-floor walkup apartment is when things got out of hand.
September 3, 2013
“So, until you’re successful, I can’t buy anything for you?! What the fuck kind of partner does that make me?”
Justin’s face was hard, determined. “You are not buying me a better easel, a new winter coat, or another vacation to Cozumel until I can pay my share. An equal share. I’m tired of you buying me things, Brian, even if it's only once in a while. I don’t want to live off Kinnetik, alright?”
I should have shut up right then, I know it, but I didn’t.
“The money doesn’t matter to me. Why can’t you just accept a gift graciously and fucking say thank you, like anybody else?” Justin’s poverty has been grinding me down for a long time, and this is an old argument, one I usually win. But not today.
“I can’t accept it when I know that Kinnetik needs every dime.”
There it is. The thing we’ve been dancing around. The new Kinnetik office in Chicago may have stretched the budget to the breaking point, but Justin’s not supposed to mention it. Too many weekends have been cancelled with me flying to put out fires in the Windy City, and Justin’s made one too many jokes about Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. Now the gloves come off.
“Kinnetik is fine, and Ted’s gonna be wishing he had his leather daddy back once I’m done whipping his ass on Monday,” I growl. Trust Ted to hyperventilate about numbers the last time Justin came home for a holiday. Now the boy-well, man-won’t let it alone.
“All he did was tell the truth. Besides, it’s time that you stopped buying me things. Otherwise, what was the point of me coming to New York?”
“For people to see your talent. So how long do I have to wait before I can buy you anything? Until Kinnetik’s clearing two and a half million per quarter?”
“Yes.”
He can't be serious.
Fuck, he’s serious. “Justi-“
He cuts me off. “And until I’ve sold enough paintings that I can afford a better shithole than the one I’m living in now. Until we can pay for things together and neither one of us has to make sure the check won’t bounce.”
“So what the fuck are we supposed to do until then? Keep a running tally of what painting you sold and which account I landed?” This is one of Justin’s stupider ideas, and the last thing I want to do with Justin is talk about money.
There’s a flare behind those blue eyes, and I can tell I’ve just given him the solution he was looking for. Shit.
“Why not? I’ll let you know every time I sell a painting, and you’ll call every time you land a new account, or the monthly receipts add up to more than the ones from last year.”
I’m standing on the sidewalk, staring at him now. “What is this? A fucking race?” The spiral of anger is tightening in my gut, and I’m starting to see red. Not good. Never good.
Justin gives me that patient 'I’m-explaining-this-to-a-mental-defective' look that usually makes me want to slug him in the middle of a fight. “No. But I’m tired of arguing about money every time you come to New York. We ought to be more than that, Brian, and if we can’t be, then it’s time we moved on.”
Whatthefuck? Yeah, we've had our problems, but...he can't mean it. Not again. Don't push me away, Justin.
He’s already turning the corner on to Wooster Street when I catch up, get in front of him. “You mean it? You want to reduce this-” and I grab him by the shoulders, give him a hard, lip-numbing kiss “-to dollars and cents? That’s crazy, Justin, Pink Posse crazy.”
I’ve hit a nerve. He hates being reminded of the time he spent with Cody. The shoulders square up a bit, and the steel in his backbone is coming into play. Don’t push unless you expect him to push back--God, why can't I remember this rule? What the hell have I done?
“I want to try this, Brian. Besides, you’ll make your target long before I do, so why are you worried?”
Because what happens if I don’t? And how long will we wait until you get your success? Forever?
I can see the set chin, the pissed off look in those blue eyes-even if I get there first and he doesn’t, he’ll still be poor and we’ll have this same goddamned argument again in six months. All of the sudden I don’t care if Justin’s angry because fuck it, I am too.
The words come spitting out. If Justin wants this, fine. Just fine.
“I’ll be back once Kinnetik has its ten million dollar year. And you better be waiting.” I hail the next cab I see and fling myself into it, not looking at Justin, knowing already that this may break us, and too pissed off to care.
I’ll be back in four months. Five, tops. Little shit.
Only it didn’t quite go that way.
The first few phone calls from New York I didn’t return, still too angry to see straight. It all came down to my fucking pride--I'd show him. We'd gone without seeing each other for a month or two before this; he could wait until I got to the place he wanted me. Ten million wasn't that much more than what Kinnetik grossed last fiscal year anyhow.
Then I kept getting emails, the ones that mention the pieces sold from the Lindemark Gallery. The Stewart Gallery in London decides to take on a fresh unknown from America and sells several of his paintings almost immediately. Now he can add "works in international collections" to his resume. The Chase Gallery in San Francisco has an unexpected opening for three large canvases in a group show and takes the latest Taylor originals. Some fancy hotel chain snaps them up. Then there were the two pieces that went straight into a private collection, no gallery commissions, pure profit in time for Christmas.
It got to the point that when I saw another email was from JTPaintsNY@gmail, I almost couldn’t read it. Each one with better news than the last. This is the year. Justin’s big year, with all those successes I won't let myself celebrate with him.
Every email signed Love Justin.
Meanwhile, Kinnetik couldn’t buy a break. A tanking national economy translated into lower client profits, and that meant reduced fees for the agency. At the same time, the Chicago branch was sucking down every bit of profit Pittsburgh generated. It got bad enough that I even asked Ted to run the numbers on closing the Chicago office-what would happen to us? Too many sunk costs, he advised. Better to keep it open and hope it turns a profit next year.
Next year.
Four months gone, then six. Eight. So long since I’ve touched Justin that I dream about him when I fall asleep at my desk every night. Warm, responsive flesh under my fingertips, the soft skin of his neck arching back towards my lips as he comes beneath me-only dreams now, since I’ve cut myself off from the real thing.
I work all the hours in creation, land four new accounts, five, six, but it’s not enough. I don’t bother letting Justin know. We re-sign all our existing clients, coming up with new campaigns that sell sunglasses and building supplies, diapers, detergent and dog food. Keeping the ship on a steady course, riding out the bad economic weather like Ted recommends. But we’re just treading water, not advancing. Seven million and every dime of it keeping Chicago afloat.
And now, Remson’s super secret. The wonder drug that everybody will need.
If the figures are right, we’ll clear close to fifty million alone in the first year. That’s the low end projection, Ted tells me.
Everything changes now, and it’s not just the money. Everything.
+++
The cab stops in front of a familiar shitty apartment building on Prince Street, and I get out. Six flights is a long way to go if he’s out for the evening, but I start climbing anyhow when I see the front door isn’t closed completely and I can sneak inside without hitting the buzzer. Besides, it beats standing in the rain.
Six flights of stairs later, and I still don’t know what to say when I’m in front of his door, the one with two deadbolt locks that couldn’t keep out an angry crack addict with a crowbar.
When Justin opens the door, and I don’t have any words, it doesn’t matter. I see the joy in his eyes, and a smile that says he still loves me. I drop the bag in the hall and reach for him, and all the ‘sorrys’ we owe each other can wait until we’ve fumbled our way out of clothes and onto his bed and into each other.
I’m the biggest shithead in the world, but he waited anyway. Anything I’ve got to tell him, I’ll tell him in the morning.
Part Three
++++++
Author’s Note: For those confused by the “Mrs. O’Leary’s cow” reference, read about the great 1871 Chicago fire that devastated the city here.