7. The Dog Days of Summer (Drabble 28)
Title: The Dog Days of Summer
Author: england13
Drabble: # 28 by IJ's hounded
Notes: So, this is a little odd. And random. But I read this drabble, and this is what popped into my brain. And then it just kind of kept going.
Drabble # 28:
Justin walked out of his apartment building and looked around.
The streets were radiating heat through the soles of his shoes. The air shimmered in waves over the asphalt. Within half a minute of leaving his air-conditioned apartment he was sweating.
He started walking towards the subway, trying to think about Brian's visit to New York next weekend instead of the fifty sweaty people he'd be sharing his ride to his studio with.
He turned the corner and stopped. Huddled against the base of a building in a rapidly dwindling sliver of shade was a skinny, dirty, panting brown dog.
*
Justin walked out of his apartment building and looked around.
The sun-baked streets were radiating heat up through the soles of his shoes. The air shimmered in waves over the scalding asphalt. Within half a minute of leaving his marginally cooler studio apartment he was already sweating through his t-shirt.
He started walking towards the subway, trying to think about Brian's visit to New York next weekend instead of the fifty sweaty people he'd be sharing his ride to work with.
He turned the corner, passing the narrow alley behind his building where they stored the trash cans and dumpsters, and stopped. Huddled against the base of the building in a rapidly dwindling sliver of shade was a skinny, dirty, panting brown dog.
Justin paused. If he didn’t catch the next train he’d probably be late to work. But there was something about the scrawny little animal that tugged at him. Although, to be honest, Justin had no freaking idea why.
The dog was the ugliest fucking thing Justin had ever seen.
He had a fuzzy, homely little face of no discernable breed or type. Justin could see every single one of the dog’s ribs, and the raggedy coat was marred with scars and gouges, like he was constantly getting into fights with much bigger dogs. One of his ears stood straight up while the other flopped lopsidedly down. Because of how malnourished he was, the dog’s feet and head were too big for his starved little body. But under the dirt and grime, the dog’s coat was a pretty, deep brown color. The dog blinked warily up at him and cocked his head.
Well shit. Justin had a thing for strays. Probably because he felt like one himself, these days. A little disgusted with how much of a pushover he was, Justin knelt to pick the dog up, maybe to get him to some kind of shelter.
“Ow! Shit!” Justin jerked back, nearly losing his balance in the process. The dog skittered nervously down the alley, growling, as Justin stared down at the livid red scrape across the back of his fingers. The damn mutt had bit him hard, nearly breaking the skin.
“Of course,” Justin muttered ruefully, rubbing his sore hand. But he’d been conditioned by long years of experience how to react to obnoxious brunettes who snapped at him.
He followed the dog further into the alley. The mutt was huddled under a piece of cardboard. Justin inched forward.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Justin tentatively reached out his hand again. “It’s okay. See? I’m just trying to help.”
Just as tentatively, the dog stuck his head out and sniffed at Justin’s fingers. Then...
“Ow! Fuck!” Justin swore. The fucking dog had bit him again!
The dog looked at him balefully, gave a disdainful little squeaking snarl, and disappeared behind the dumpster.
Well, fine then.
Apparently no fucking good deed went un-fucking-punished. Justin missed his train, of course, was late to work, and tried to smile at his glaring boss as he slunk behind the bar at the restaurant.
Eight hours later, when Justin finally got home, exhausted and cranky, he noticed the voicemail on his cell phone. It was a message from Brian, informing Justin that he wouldn’t be coming to New York that weekend after all.
*
So here he was in a tiny shithole studio apartment, paying an obscene amount of rent and sharing a bathroom with the other eight people living on his floor. But he had space for a twin bed and a rickety dresser and an easel and all his art supplies. And even though the apartment was crap, the neighborhood wasn’t too bad. So Justin figured he could make it work.
Justin was working part time at a restaurant across town, but he didn’t really like any of the other people who worked there. They were all uber-pretentious artist types that reminded him a little too much of Ethan’s friends from PIFA.
So really, the only other person Justin knew in New York was the homeless guy who hung out on his stoop, Budweiser Joe.
Budweiser Joe had smiling blue eyes that peeked out from a tanned, weathered face and the bushiest, grizzliest beard Justin had ever seen. He wore faded fatigue trousers and a t-shirt with Bert and Ernie on it, and he had a pocket knife that he used to whittle cheerful little birds out of pieces of wood that he picked up in the park.
Once a week, Budweiser Joe would carefully count out some of his change, go to the convenience store down the block, and buy himself a beer. Then he would sit in the sunshine on the sidewalk and drink it slowly, looking like the happiest man in the world.
Justin met Budweiser Joe because he’d liked the simple kindliness of Joe’s face and the careful, gentle way his hands looked when he worked with wood. When Justin asked Joe if he could sketch him, Joe’s face lit up like it was Christmas morning.
They were friends after that.
*
Justin had been in New York for three months before Brian finally bought a plane ticket to come for a visit. And then, predictably, four days before he was supposed to come, Brian called Justin and cancelled.
Granted, Brian had actually called him this time instead of just, you know, not showing up. Justin knew that in the Kinney Operating Manual, being apprised of Brian’s plans was about on par with getting two marriage proposals in two days. But still. He felt he had the right to be cranky about it.
“You’re not going to queen out over this, are you?” Brian asked, his tone managing to rest somewhere between affectionate and mocking. “I’m not ignoring you or freaking out or trying to dump you. I’m just telling you we have to reschedule.”
To be fair, Justin had secretly wondered if this was the part where Brian tried to throw him bodily over the edge of the infamous Cliffs of Kinney. For Justin’s own good, of course.
“No, I didn’t think that. Stop talking to me like I’m five, Brian.”
“Good. Just don’t be a twat about this.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” Justin said crankily.
Brian laughed at him. “Don’t pout, princess. It makes my dick soft. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“If you think you can find the time in your busy schedule,” Justin snarked.
“Oh, get the fuck over yourself,” Brian said, still laughing, and hung up.
*
The thing was, for some stupid reason Justin was determined to win over that goddamned mongrel dog.
So he started leaving out little tins of food and water, tucked in back of the dumpsters in the narrow alley alongside his building.
Mostly, the dog ignored him. The food, too. And every few days Justin would have to rinse out the tins before they got moldy. So he kept replacing the food and water, and eventually some of the food started disappearing, little by little.
Okay then, fine. It had taken him a few weeks to get Brian to take him seriously, too. And if he could outlast Brian Kinney, he could definitely handle one stubborn, scrawny stray dog.
*
“Did you get an agent yet?” Brian asked him when Justin called a week later.
“Yes,” Justin answered. “But she has a lazy eye and she smells like tuna salad. I think I need to find someone else.”
“Who gives a shit how she smells, as long as she gets you into shows.”
“She’s supposed to show my portfolio to some people tomorrow. Just at some small galleries.”
“What were you expecting?” Brian asked dryly. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art?”
“I don’t know.” Justin twisted his finger in the hem of his t-shirt. “Do you think anyone would notice if I walked into the Met with a hammer and nails and just hung something?”
“I think you’d probably get arrested. And then I’d have to send you a video camera for all the jailhouse porn you’d be making.”
“Oh, ha ha. You’re hilarious.”
“Don’t worry, Sunshine. Just keep painting abstract odes to my cock and one day you’ll be famous.”
“I do have other things to draw besides your cock, you know!” Justin exclaimed, offended.
Justin wondered briefly if Brian’s interest in his career was fueled first and foremost by his narcissism.
Then he guiltily tried not to look at the half-finished nude on the open page of his sketchbook.
*
“There’s something wrong with him,” Justin said to Joe. They were both standing at the head of the alley, watching the dog cheerfully mauling a carton of chicken wings tossed carelessly at the foot of the dumpster. “I mean, he sounds funny when he barks. Right?”
It was true. There had to be something wrong with the mutt’s vocal chords because he did not sound like a normal dog. He sounded more like an asthmatic bear cub. Or an angry canary. Somehow he managed to emit squeaky yips and raspy growls at the same time. Justin had never heard anything like it, and it kind of weirded him out.
The dog saw them watching and crouched protectively over his chicken wings. He gave a hoarse wheezing sound that Justin could only assume was meant to be an intimidating growl.
“He sounds the way he sounds,” Joe said philosophically. “Same as anyone. No use telling him he should be different than he is.”
*
It was the worst thunderstorm the city had seen in ten years. Justin sat up in bed, staring sightlessly out the window at the pouring rain. He couldn’t sleep.
The air was electric and charged. It felt like there was a heavy hand pushing down on his chest, making him sluggish and lethargic. And in the back of his mind he admitted to himself that the louder cracks of thunder made him think of a baseball bat hitting bone and blood.
A jagged lightning flash skittered across the floor of the studio and Justin remembered the stray dog outside.
The next thing he knew he was shoving his feet into his sneakers and running downstairs.
He found the dog huddled at the foot of the dumpster, eyes huge and terrified. He was shivering with fear, his skinny legs trembling visibly. The sight broke Justin’s heart a little.
Except, if he tried to pick the damn dog up, he’d probably get his hand bitten off.
But when Justin crouched down, the dog only whined pathetically and crawled forward on his belly.
“Good boy,” Justin said. “Good boy. Don’t you want to come inside where it’s dry? Doesn’t that sound good? That’s a good boy.”
He took a tentative step back and the dog gave another whine and inched forward. Justin held his breath. He took another step. And another.
Miraculously, the dog followed him slowly out of the alley, around the corner, into the building, up the stairs, and into his apartment. When he tried to towel the dripping dog dry, the dog backed away suspiciously, so Justin made a little nest of towels and an old sweater in the corner. Then he turned off the lights and got into bed.
A few minutes later, Justin heard the dog settle into the towels and start to snore.
*
The first week, the dog chewed up his favorite pair of sneakers, the corner of his easel, and three of his most expensive paintbrushes.
The second week, the dog somehow managed to get into Justin’s stash of Doritos, ate all the chips along with half the plastic of the bag, and then proceeded to puke all over the Armani belt Brian got him for Christmas last year.
The third week, the dog peed all over the canvas he’d been working on. Justin surveyed the damage impassively. He could always queen out over it, but honestly, given the epic levels of crap he’d been producing lately, dog piss was almost an improvement. He scrapped the canvas, started a new one, and bought the dog a shiny red squeaky ball.
The fourth week, Justin had to shell out two hundred dollars he couldn’t afford to take the dog to the vet. As it turned out, the dog had herpes.
“He has an STD?” Justin shouted, scandalized.
The veterinarian looked at him with thinly disguised pity and amusement. “Most dogs contract the virus through simple sniffing or licking. And the low level of the antibodies in his system only means he’s been exposed to the virus. I can give you some medication to give him and he should be fine.”
“Oh,” Justin said, relieved. But he sent the dog a glare. Knowing the mutt’s mischievous tendencies, he’d probably been humping every stray dog in the city.
Justin could sympathize with the impulse. He hadn’t had a decent lay since he’d left Pittsburgh.
*
He really was an ugly fucking dog. But sometimes he let Justin pet him and his fur was soft and thick and smooth, and the deep golden brown of Scotch whisky.
Plus, the dog had a way of looking down its nose at you even though it was flea-bitten, wounded, and half-starved. It had an undeniable kind of stubborn arrogance. Like he thought he was the hottest thing on four legs, scars and funny bark and ugliness and all. Justin had to admire that, a little.
Justin decided to name him Chivas Regal.
*
Seeing a pigeon outside the windowsill, Chivas Regal gave one of his hoarse, growly little gurgle-barks.
“What the fuck was that?” Brian asked.
“Nothing,” Justin said quickly, trying ineffectively to cover the phone with his hand.
“Are you fucking somebody? Did they just moo?”
“No!” Justin shouted. “Jesus!”
“I never knew you were into such freaky shit, Sunshine.”
“I hate you,” Justin told him. “Seriously.”
Chivas Regal spotted another pigeon and promptly lost his mind, dancing up on his hind legs, front paws muddying up the window, creating sounds Justin was sure no dog had ever made before.
“Are you having a goddamned Plushie orgy?” Brian demanded.
Mortified, Justin hung up and threw the phone across the room.
*
“Whaddya call him?” Joe asked.
“Chivas Regal.”
“Good name,” Joe approved. “Fancy, though. I had me a taste of that fancy liquor once. Went down real nice.”
In a gesture of friendship, Joe offered his beer can and let Chivas Regal slurp a few drops off the top. The dog wagged his scrawny tail in thanks and eyed the can mournfully when Joe lifted it away.
“Nice doggy,” said Joe.
Heedless of the dog drool on his beer, Joe tipped his head back and took a nice long swig.
“Why do you only drink Budweiser?” Justin asked, suddenly curious. “You could be Heinekin Joe or Miller Lite Joe.”
“Could be, I guess.” In the sunlight, Joe’s beard was equal parts white and sandy red, and he could’ve been anywhere from thirty-five to sixty. “But Budweiser’s the King of Beer, ain’t it? And I’m the King of Felix Street.”
*
His agent, Lorraine, stepped warily into his apartment, not bothering to hide her distaste at the less than luxurious surroundings.
“I’m awfully sorry, Justin,” Lorraine said, clucking regretfully. “But no one was very interested. And some of the gallery owners were a little put off by how... depressing... your latest canvases have been.”
Today the tuna salad smell was masked by the distinct odor of rotten eggs. Lorraine had just permed her hair and the wispy brown curls sprung out from her scalp like she’d stuck finger in an electrical socket.
Justin stared at his agent in disbelief. “Too depressing? Are you kidding me? This is New York. Black is like, the official color.”
“Justin,” Lorraine explained patiently. “Darling. There’s depressing and then there’s depressing. And anyway, everyone’s focusing on sort of this post-Kandinskyesque oeuvre at the moment. You know what I mean. Big splashes of primary colors that somehow manage to depict man’s essential loneliness and the moral bankruptcy of modern society.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Justin griped. “I’ll try to feel more Kandinskyesque next time.”
Lorraine nodded encouragingly and Justin got a whiff of egg. “That would be very helpful, Justin. You do that.”
She was halfway to the door before Justin stopped her. “Wait.” He sighed and picked up his latest project. It was a large canvas done in gold and peach and red, bright and bold. “What about this?”
Lorraine’s face lit up. She snatched the canvas from his hands. “My darling boy, where have you been hiding? It’s marvelous! The power, the passion! What was your inspiration?”
Justin tried not to fidget. And really, really hoped this wouldn’t be the painting that gave him his big break. “Um,” he said. “It’s an abstract ode. To my boyfriend’s cock.”
Lorraine’s eyes widened and she turned back to the painting, assessing. Her cheeks pinkened. “Well. Aren’t you the lucky one?”
*
“Brought you something,” Joe said, blue eyes beaming out from behind his scruffy beard. Almost shyly, he dug into his pocket and produced a box of broken, crumbled chalks. “Thought maybe you could make a picture on the sidewalk.”
Sure, Justin thought. Why not?
So he started on the sidewalk, scrawling in pinks and blues and greens, getting chalk dust all over his skin and hair. Joe sat and watched, fascinated, and kept Chivas entertained by occasionally offering him sips of beer and letting him chew on his latest wood carving. When he ran out of sidewalk, Justin moved up onto the brick wall of the building. He put his whole life up there, and didn’t even realize he’d drawn he and Brian together until Joe commented on it.
“He your fella?” Joe asked. “The one back in Pittsburgh?”
Justin looked at the rough scrawl of he and Brian, dancing at Babylon. Even in crude blues and greens, Brian was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Even if he hadn’t actually seen him in months. “Yeah. That’s Brian.”
Joe nodded, eyes trailing over the colorful, haphazard mural like it was a priceless Picasso. “You miss him?”
Justin swallowed. “Yes.”
The next morning, after the street cleaners had passed by, half the mural was gone, the colors melted together into a big, gray puddle.
*
“I got a painting into a show.”
“Is it a picture of my cock?” Brian asked
“Yes,” Justin admitted, then felt a sudden surge of resentment. “But I painted it short. And crooked. And with boils, from the syphilis.”
Brian only snickered at him. “That time of the month, Sunshine?”
*
When he’d lived in Pittsburgh, Justin used to dream about Brian all the time. As though sleeping in the same bed as him wasn’t enough, Justin would dream of Brian’s hands and hair and mouth and body. He’d dream of phantom touches down his chest, of long fingers curling round his cock and squeezing gently. Of a warm, hard body blanketing his, slipping inside him.
In New York, Justin hadn’t dreamed of Brian, not once. Not even when he jerked off thinking about Brian right before he went to sleep.
Justin wondered if it meant anything.
And he really wished Brian would come for a visit.
*
Sometimes in the middle of the night Justin woke up to find Chivas sniffing slowly across the floor for something that wasn’t there, his nose tracking the line of moonlight streaming in through the open window.
Sometimes Justin felt the same way, like he kept searching and waiting for something he’d never be able to find or touch.
*
Justin held it together for another month. But when Brian cancelled another weekend trip to see him, he lost it a little.
“Fuck.” Brian sounded tired, irritable, and exasperated. “Stop trying to make me feel like some pathetic, whipped, cheating husband. We’re fine. I told you it’s just business. How many fucking times do I have to explain it to you?”
There was a headache pressing hard into the sockets of Justin’s eyes and he was so angry he felt his hands shaking. How hard was it to get on a fucking plane to New York?
“I never asked you for an explanation. And I know how important your work is. But I haven’t seen you in months and I miss you. You fucking asshole,” Justin snapped, and hung up the phone.
Then he stood there, alone in his crappy, hot, stifling, piece of shit studio, and let himself wonder for the first time if he and Brian really might not make it.
As much as Justin bragged about being ‘on to’ Brian, there was always a pretty high margin for error. He knew Brian better than anyone else in the world, but Brian was still... well, Brian.
And so Justin couldn’t help wondering, even though Brian told him otherwise, whether Brian was freaking out that Justin had left, and worrying that they should break up, and thinking that Justin was never coming home again.
Justin knew Brian loved him. But no matter how often Brian assured him they were fine, Justin knew this distance wasn’t good for them. He knew how Brian’s twisted brain worked. He knew eventually Brian might start thinking that he should end it before Justin did, or that Justin wasn’t worth the effort. And if that happened, Justin thought he might shatter into a million tiny pieces that couldn’t ever be glued back together.
*
He called Michael about the next issue of Rage and ended up hearing a half-hour long dissertation on how fabulously Brian was doing without him.
“I know you’re worried about him, Justin, but you don’t have to be. Ted said Kinnetik is doing insanely great, and you should’ve seen the guys at Babylon last weekend. They were practically lining up around the bar to throw themselves at Brian.”
“Oh,” Justin said, feeling petty and jealous and lonely.
“I thought he’d be a wreck when you left,” Michael continued, oblivious. “But he’s amazing. He’s still Brian Fucking Kinney. Always has been, always will be.”
“Michael,” Justin said. “I have to go.”
Then he stumbled over to his bed, curled up around his pillow, and cried.
The mattress dipped slightly as Chivas hopped up onto the bed. He whined softly and nudged his head against Justin’s, and licked sloppily at the tears running down Justin’s cheek.
Justin put his arm around the warm, small little body and buried his face in his dog’s neck.
*
Justin picked up his cell phone at least once a day to dial Brian’s number, but he never pressed send. They hadn’t spoken in over a week. So Justin called Daphne instead.
“Justin,” Daphne sighed. “You know I love you, but seriously, what do you want me to say? Every time I talk to you, you sound more miserable.”
“I’m not miserable,” Justin argued. “I’m just...”
He stopped. Justin wasn’t exactly sure what he was.
“Justin,” Daphne said gently. “You know it’s okay if you want to come home, right?”
*
Chivas whined to go out at ten-thirty at night, so Justin took him for a quick walk around the block. It was still summer, still sweltering and damp.
It happened as they were passing the alley where Justin had first seen his dog.
“Give me your wallet, faggot.”
Someone put a rough hand over Justin’s mouth and slammed him back against the brick. Justin froze, feeling the prick of a knife blade against his throat.
“Please don’t,” Justin choked.
And then Chivas literally leapt at the guy, teeth bared furiously, snarling as he bit into the mugger’s thigh. The mugger screamed and used his knife hand to swipe at Chivas’ skinny flank. Justin heard his dog hit the bricks on the other side of the alley with a yelp and a sickening thud. Justin grabbed the guy’s other arm and sank his teeth in, hard.
The mugger swore and shoved Justin away. “Fucking faggot!”
Justin hit the pavement, feeling the impact like a shock through his body. He curled up, gasping, as his diaphragm seized, the breath knocked out of him.
“You fucking little bitch!”
Hands tearing at him, at his pockets. And then Joe was there, beer bottle held high before he smashed it over the mugger’s head.
The mugger crumpled to the ground and Justin lay there for a moment, wheezing, before Joe helped him up.
“You okay, son?” Blue eyes were worried in the grizzled face.
“My dog!” Justin gasped, scrambling to his feet.
Chivas Regal was laying on his side, whimpering faintly. There was a gash on his side and one of his thin legs was bent awkwardly underneath him.
“No,” Justin whispered. He touched the dog’s head gingerly and the scraggly tail gave a limp wag. “Good boy. Oh, such a good boy.”
“Leg’s broke,” Joe said. “And that’s a nasty cut.”
Tears swam in Justin’s eyes. “He was trying to help me. Did you see?”
“Needs a vet. There’s an emergency clinic down on Clipper Street.”
“Can you show me? Please, Joe?”
It took them twenty minutes to find a cab and another fifteen to get to the animal hospital. Justin held Chivas Regal to his chest, wrapped in Joe’s old Army blanket.
“Should maybe call the police,” Joe said. “That fella’s prob’ly still laid out cold. I licked him one pretty good.”
“Can you do it?” Justin awkwardly dug out his phone and handed it to Joe. “I don’t want to move him more than I have to.”
“Sure, Justin.” Joe patted his arm comfortingly. “He’s a tough little bastard. You’ll see.”
Then vet came out to take Chivas Regal into surgery. Justin sat there in his narrow plastic chair, his fingernails digging into his palms, trying not to shake apart.
*
By the time the vet came out to tell him that Chivas was okay, but that they’d need to keep him overnight, it was nearly midnight and Joe had already left to talk to the cops. Nearly comatose from exhaustion and shaky now that the adrenaline had worn off, Justin dragged himself home and collapsed into bed.
He woke up at five-thirty in the morning when someone pounded on his door. Bleerily, Justin stumbled to open it.
It was Brian.
Justin blinked, confused. “Wha-?” he said.
“Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn’t take you over my fucking knee,” Brian said flatly.
Justin blinked again and tried to focus. Brian was here. And apparently he was furious about something. “Wha-?” Justin repeated, confused.
Brian shoved past him into the apartment and slammed the door behind them. “Do you have the first fucking clue what went through my head? I fucking called you three times, Justin, and then some random guy picks up the phone, tells me he’s named after a shitty brand of beer, and tells me you’ve been mugged! And that your dog has been stabbed! When the fuck did you even get a dog, for Chrissake? I thought you were allergic. And I thought you were dead in a fucking ditch somewhere. And who the fuck names their kid ‘Budweiser’?”
Oh fuck. Justin blanched. He’d forgotten to get his cell phone back from Joe before he left the veterinarian’s. Oh, this was not good.
“Uh,” Justin said. “I-”
“Are you okay?” Brian interrupted gruffly. “You were... Did you really get mugged?”
“I’m fine,” Justin assured him. “Brian, I swear, I’m fine.”
Belatedly, Justin woke up enough to realize that Brian must have been practically hysterical with worry. His clothes were rumpled, his jaw rough with stubble. He must’ve driven all night to get here.
“I’m really fine,” Justin repeated. He wished he could go to Brian, touch him, but they hadn’t talked in so long he wasn’t sure he had the right.
Brian exhaled slowly. “Okay. So, you want to tell me what the fuck is going out?”
Justin was too exhausted to lie. He told Brian everything. About meeting Joe and finding Chivas and about how he hated New York and loved New York and how he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing and how he missed Brian so much it was stupid and how he wasn’t sure... how he’d thought maybe... that Brian didn’t want...
By the time Justin’s voice trailed off, Brian’s eyes were warm and laughing.
“You freaking out on me?” Brian asked quietly.
Justin felt his shoulders slump. “Maybe just a little,” he admitted.
Brian’s eyes and mouth were soft. “C’mere, Sunshine.”
Clinging to the last shreds of his dignity, Justin somehow managed to walk over to him and refrain from jumping all over Brian, clamping his arms and legs around him, and never letting go.
Brian draped his arms over Justin’s shoulders and bent his knees to look Justin in the eyes. “Hey.”
Justin’s hands moved automatically to Brian’s waist, his fingers clenching tight in the soft cotton of Brian’s t-shirt. “Hey,” he whispered back.
And then they were kissing, deep and needy and frantic, and Justin slid his hands up Brian’s body and into Brian’s hair and generally tried to fuse their bodies permanently together.
Brian broke the kiss, breathing hard, and tipped Justin’s chin up. “Justin, are you…? You’re crying.”
“Am I?”
He hadn’t even realized until Brian touched the moisture on his cheeks.
“Christ, you’re a mess,” Brian said fondly. “You’re an utter fucking mess. Everyone put their money on me being the one to lose it. They thought you’d leave me in the Pitts and I’d slit my wrists in the backroom of Babylon. No one worried for a second about you.”
“Well what the fuck do they know?” Justin sniffed. “God, I hate you. You kept cancelling on me. It made me think…”
Brian’s laugh, like dark velvet in his ear. “What? That we were over? You’re not that lucky, Sunshine.”
“Shut up, asshole,” Justin hiccupped tearfully.
Brian laughed and kissed him again. “Christ, I must love you. It’s the only reason I’d put up with this shit.”
And that was basically as much as Justin could take and he lost it completely and bawled into Brian’s neck for a few minutes until he felt like a human being again. Brian squeezed him close, calling him a fucking twat and a lesbian and a goddamned drama queen and a handful of other endearments that made Justin feel about a million times better.
*
The way Justin knew that Brian loved him was this.
He offered to drive Justin to the vet’s office to pick up Chivas Regal. Chivas, predictably, took one look at Brian, whined happily, and thumped his raggedy tail against the floor in a friendly wag, leaning into Brian’s touch with an expression of orgasmic delight.
“That,” Brian said, scratching Chivas behind his ears, “is the ugliest goddamn dog I’ve ever seen.”
And on the drive back to Justin’s studio Chivas got dog hair all over the interior of the Corvette, but Brian merely picked some fur off his shirt, reached for Justin’s hand, and didn’t say a word.
Author: england13
Drabble: # 28 by IJ's hounded
Notes: So, this is a little odd. And random. But I read this drabble, and this is what popped into my brain. And then it just kind of kept going.
Drabble # 28:
Justin walked out of his apartment building and looked around.
The streets were radiating heat through the soles of his shoes. The air shimmered in waves over the asphalt. Within half a minute of leaving his air-conditioned apartment he was sweating.
He started walking towards the subway, trying to think about Brian's visit to New York next weekend instead of the fifty sweaty people he'd be sharing his ride to his studio with.
He turned the corner and stopped. Huddled against the base of a building in a rapidly dwindling sliver of shade was a skinny, dirty, panting brown dog.
*
Justin walked out of his apartment building and looked around.
The sun-baked streets were radiating heat up through the soles of his shoes. The air shimmered in waves over the scalding asphalt. Within half a minute of leaving his marginally cooler studio apartment he was already sweating through his t-shirt.
He started walking towards the subway, trying to think about Brian's visit to New York next weekend instead of the fifty sweaty people he'd be sharing his ride to work with.
He turned the corner, passing the narrow alley behind his building where they stored the trash cans and dumpsters, and stopped. Huddled against the base of the building in a rapidly dwindling sliver of shade was a skinny, dirty, panting brown dog.
Justin paused. If he didn’t catch the next train he’d probably be late to work. But there was something about the scrawny little animal that tugged at him. Although, to be honest, Justin had no freaking idea why.
The dog was the ugliest fucking thing Justin had ever seen.
He had a fuzzy, homely little face of no discernable breed or type. Justin could see every single one of the dog’s ribs, and the raggedy coat was marred with scars and gouges, like he was constantly getting into fights with much bigger dogs. One of his ears stood straight up while the other flopped lopsidedly down. Because of how malnourished he was, the dog’s feet and head were too big for his starved little body. But under the dirt and grime, the dog’s coat was a pretty, deep brown color. The dog blinked warily up at him and cocked his head.
Well shit. Justin had a thing for strays. Probably because he felt like one himself, these days. A little disgusted with how much of a pushover he was, Justin knelt to pick the dog up, maybe to get him to some kind of shelter.
“Ow! Shit!” Justin jerked back, nearly losing his balance in the process. The dog skittered nervously down the alley, growling, as Justin stared down at the livid red scrape across the back of his fingers. The damn mutt had bit him hard, nearly breaking the skin.
“Of course,” Justin muttered ruefully, rubbing his sore hand. But he’d been conditioned by long years of experience how to react to obnoxious brunettes who snapped at him.
He followed the dog further into the alley. The mutt was huddled under a piece of cardboard. Justin inched forward.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Justin tentatively reached out his hand again. “It’s okay. See? I’m just trying to help.”
Just as tentatively, the dog stuck his head out and sniffed at Justin’s fingers. Then...
“Ow! Fuck!” Justin swore. The fucking dog had bit him again!
The dog looked at him balefully, gave a disdainful little squeaking snarl, and disappeared behind the dumpster.
Well, fine then.
Apparently no fucking good deed went un-fucking-punished. Justin missed his train, of course, was late to work, and tried to smile at his glaring boss as he slunk behind the bar at the restaurant.
Eight hours later, when Justin finally got home, exhausted and cranky, he noticed the voicemail on his cell phone. It was a message from Brian, informing Justin that he wouldn’t be coming to New York that weekend after all.
*
So here he was in a tiny shithole studio apartment, paying an obscene amount of rent and sharing a bathroom with the other eight people living on his floor. But he had space for a twin bed and a rickety dresser and an easel and all his art supplies. And even though the apartment was crap, the neighborhood wasn’t too bad. So Justin figured he could make it work.
Justin was working part time at a restaurant across town, but he didn’t really like any of the other people who worked there. They were all uber-pretentious artist types that reminded him a little too much of Ethan’s friends from PIFA.
So really, the only other person Justin knew in New York was the homeless guy who hung out on his stoop, Budweiser Joe.
Budweiser Joe had smiling blue eyes that peeked out from a tanned, weathered face and the bushiest, grizzliest beard Justin had ever seen. He wore faded fatigue trousers and a t-shirt with Bert and Ernie on it, and he had a pocket knife that he used to whittle cheerful little birds out of pieces of wood that he picked up in the park.
Once a week, Budweiser Joe would carefully count out some of his change, go to the convenience store down the block, and buy himself a beer. Then he would sit in the sunshine on the sidewalk and drink it slowly, looking like the happiest man in the world.
Justin met Budweiser Joe because he’d liked the simple kindliness of Joe’s face and the careful, gentle way his hands looked when he worked with wood. When Justin asked Joe if he could sketch him, Joe’s face lit up like it was Christmas morning.
They were friends after that.
*
Justin had been in New York for three months before Brian finally bought a plane ticket to come for a visit. And then, predictably, four days before he was supposed to come, Brian called Justin and cancelled.
Granted, Brian had actually called him this time instead of just, you know, not showing up. Justin knew that in the Kinney Operating Manual, being apprised of Brian’s plans was about on par with getting two marriage proposals in two days. But still. He felt he had the right to be cranky about it.
“You’re not going to queen out over this, are you?” Brian asked, his tone managing to rest somewhere between affectionate and mocking. “I’m not ignoring you or freaking out or trying to dump you. I’m just telling you we have to reschedule.”
To be fair, Justin had secretly wondered if this was the part where Brian tried to throw him bodily over the edge of the infamous Cliffs of Kinney. For Justin’s own good, of course.
“No, I didn’t think that. Stop talking to me like I’m five, Brian.”
“Good. Just don’t be a twat about this.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” Justin said crankily.
Brian laughed at him. “Don’t pout, princess. It makes my dick soft. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“If you think you can find the time in your busy schedule,” Justin snarked.
“Oh, get the fuck over yourself,” Brian said, still laughing, and hung up.
*
The thing was, for some stupid reason Justin was determined to win over that goddamned mongrel dog.
So he started leaving out little tins of food and water, tucked in back of the dumpsters in the narrow alley alongside his building.
Mostly, the dog ignored him. The food, too. And every few days Justin would have to rinse out the tins before they got moldy. So he kept replacing the food and water, and eventually some of the food started disappearing, little by little.
Okay then, fine. It had taken him a few weeks to get Brian to take him seriously, too. And if he could outlast Brian Kinney, he could definitely handle one stubborn, scrawny stray dog.
*
“Did you get an agent yet?” Brian asked him when Justin called a week later.
“Yes,” Justin answered. “But she has a lazy eye and she smells like tuna salad. I think I need to find someone else.”
“Who gives a shit how she smells, as long as she gets you into shows.”
“She’s supposed to show my portfolio to some people tomorrow. Just at some small galleries.”
“What were you expecting?” Brian asked dryly. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art?”
“I don’t know.” Justin twisted his finger in the hem of his t-shirt. “Do you think anyone would notice if I walked into the Met with a hammer and nails and just hung something?”
“I think you’d probably get arrested. And then I’d have to send you a video camera for all the jailhouse porn you’d be making.”
“Oh, ha ha. You’re hilarious.”
“Don’t worry, Sunshine. Just keep painting abstract odes to my cock and one day you’ll be famous.”
“I do have other things to draw besides your cock, you know!” Justin exclaimed, offended.
Justin wondered briefly if Brian’s interest in his career was fueled first and foremost by his narcissism.
Then he guiltily tried not to look at the half-finished nude on the open page of his sketchbook.
*
“There’s something wrong with him,” Justin said to Joe. They were both standing at the head of the alley, watching the dog cheerfully mauling a carton of chicken wings tossed carelessly at the foot of the dumpster. “I mean, he sounds funny when he barks. Right?”
It was true. There had to be something wrong with the mutt’s vocal chords because he did not sound like a normal dog. He sounded more like an asthmatic bear cub. Or an angry canary. Somehow he managed to emit squeaky yips and raspy growls at the same time. Justin had never heard anything like it, and it kind of weirded him out.
The dog saw them watching and crouched protectively over his chicken wings. He gave a hoarse wheezing sound that Justin could only assume was meant to be an intimidating growl.
“He sounds the way he sounds,” Joe said philosophically. “Same as anyone. No use telling him he should be different than he is.”
*
It was the worst thunderstorm the city had seen in ten years. Justin sat up in bed, staring sightlessly out the window at the pouring rain. He couldn’t sleep.
The air was electric and charged. It felt like there was a heavy hand pushing down on his chest, making him sluggish and lethargic. And in the back of his mind he admitted to himself that the louder cracks of thunder made him think of a baseball bat hitting bone and blood.
A jagged lightning flash skittered across the floor of the studio and Justin remembered the stray dog outside.
The next thing he knew he was shoving his feet into his sneakers and running downstairs.
He found the dog huddled at the foot of the dumpster, eyes huge and terrified. He was shivering with fear, his skinny legs trembling visibly. The sight broke Justin’s heart a little.
Except, if he tried to pick the damn dog up, he’d probably get his hand bitten off.
But when Justin crouched down, the dog only whined pathetically and crawled forward on his belly.
“Good boy,” Justin said. “Good boy. Don’t you want to come inside where it’s dry? Doesn’t that sound good? That’s a good boy.”
He took a tentative step back and the dog gave another whine and inched forward. Justin held his breath. He took another step. And another.
Miraculously, the dog followed him slowly out of the alley, around the corner, into the building, up the stairs, and into his apartment. When he tried to towel the dripping dog dry, the dog backed away suspiciously, so Justin made a little nest of towels and an old sweater in the corner. Then he turned off the lights and got into bed.
A few minutes later, Justin heard the dog settle into the towels and start to snore.
*
The first week, the dog chewed up his favorite pair of sneakers, the corner of his easel, and three of his most expensive paintbrushes.
The second week, the dog somehow managed to get into Justin’s stash of Doritos, ate all the chips along with half the plastic of the bag, and then proceeded to puke all over the Armani belt Brian got him for Christmas last year.
The third week, the dog peed all over the canvas he’d been working on. Justin surveyed the damage impassively. He could always queen out over it, but honestly, given the epic levels of crap he’d been producing lately, dog piss was almost an improvement. He scrapped the canvas, started a new one, and bought the dog a shiny red squeaky ball.
The fourth week, Justin had to shell out two hundred dollars he couldn’t afford to take the dog to the vet. As it turned out, the dog had herpes.
“He has an STD?” Justin shouted, scandalized.
The veterinarian looked at him with thinly disguised pity and amusement. “Most dogs contract the virus through simple sniffing or licking. And the low level of the antibodies in his system only means he’s been exposed to the virus. I can give you some medication to give him and he should be fine.”
“Oh,” Justin said, relieved. But he sent the dog a glare. Knowing the mutt’s mischievous tendencies, he’d probably been humping every stray dog in the city.
Justin could sympathize with the impulse. He hadn’t had a decent lay since he’d left Pittsburgh.
*
He really was an ugly fucking dog. But sometimes he let Justin pet him and his fur was soft and thick and smooth, and the deep golden brown of Scotch whisky.
Plus, the dog had a way of looking down its nose at you even though it was flea-bitten, wounded, and half-starved. It had an undeniable kind of stubborn arrogance. Like he thought he was the hottest thing on four legs, scars and funny bark and ugliness and all. Justin had to admire that, a little.
Justin decided to name him Chivas Regal.
*
Seeing a pigeon outside the windowsill, Chivas Regal gave one of his hoarse, growly little gurgle-barks.
“What the fuck was that?” Brian asked.
“Nothing,” Justin said quickly, trying ineffectively to cover the phone with his hand.
“Are you fucking somebody? Did they just moo?”
“No!” Justin shouted. “Jesus!”
“I never knew you were into such freaky shit, Sunshine.”
“I hate you,” Justin told him. “Seriously.”
Chivas Regal spotted another pigeon and promptly lost his mind, dancing up on his hind legs, front paws muddying up the window, creating sounds Justin was sure no dog had ever made before.
“Are you having a goddamned Plushie orgy?” Brian demanded.
Mortified, Justin hung up and threw the phone across the room.
*
“Whaddya call him?” Joe asked.
“Chivas Regal.”
“Good name,” Joe approved. “Fancy, though. I had me a taste of that fancy liquor once. Went down real nice.”
In a gesture of friendship, Joe offered his beer can and let Chivas Regal slurp a few drops off the top. The dog wagged his scrawny tail in thanks and eyed the can mournfully when Joe lifted it away.
“Nice doggy,” said Joe.
Heedless of the dog drool on his beer, Joe tipped his head back and took a nice long swig.
“Why do you only drink Budweiser?” Justin asked, suddenly curious. “You could be Heinekin Joe or Miller Lite Joe.”
“Could be, I guess.” In the sunlight, Joe’s beard was equal parts white and sandy red, and he could’ve been anywhere from thirty-five to sixty. “But Budweiser’s the King of Beer, ain’t it? And I’m the King of Felix Street.”
*
His agent, Lorraine, stepped warily into his apartment, not bothering to hide her distaste at the less than luxurious surroundings.
“I’m awfully sorry, Justin,” Lorraine said, clucking regretfully. “But no one was very interested. And some of the gallery owners were a little put off by how... depressing... your latest canvases have been.”
Today the tuna salad smell was masked by the distinct odor of rotten eggs. Lorraine had just permed her hair and the wispy brown curls sprung out from her scalp like she’d stuck finger in an electrical socket.
Justin stared at his agent in disbelief. “Too depressing? Are you kidding me? This is New York. Black is like, the official color.”
“Justin,” Lorraine explained patiently. “Darling. There’s depressing and then there’s depressing. And anyway, everyone’s focusing on sort of this post-Kandinskyesque oeuvre at the moment. You know what I mean. Big splashes of primary colors that somehow manage to depict man’s essential loneliness and the moral bankruptcy of modern society.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Justin griped. “I’ll try to feel more Kandinskyesque next time.”
Lorraine nodded encouragingly and Justin got a whiff of egg. “That would be very helpful, Justin. You do that.”
She was halfway to the door before Justin stopped her. “Wait.” He sighed and picked up his latest project. It was a large canvas done in gold and peach and red, bright and bold. “What about this?”
Lorraine’s face lit up. She snatched the canvas from his hands. “My darling boy, where have you been hiding? It’s marvelous! The power, the passion! What was your inspiration?”
Justin tried not to fidget. And really, really hoped this wouldn’t be the painting that gave him his big break. “Um,” he said. “It’s an abstract ode. To my boyfriend’s cock.”
Lorraine’s eyes widened and she turned back to the painting, assessing. Her cheeks pinkened. “Well. Aren’t you the lucky one?”
*
“Brought you something,” Joe said, blue eyes beaming out from behind his scruffy beard. Almost shyly, he dug into his pocket and produced a box of broken, crumbled chalks. “Thought maybe you could make a picture on the sidewalk.”
Sure, Justin thought. Why not?
So he started on the sidewalk, scrawling in pinks and blues and greens, getting chalk dust all over his skin and hair. Joe sat and watched, fascinated, and kept Chivas entertained by occasionally offering him sips of beer and letting him chew on his latest wood carving. When he ran out of sidewalk, Justin moved up onto the brick wall of the building. He put his whole life up there, and didn’t even realize he’d drawn he and Brian together until Joe commented on it.
“He your fella?” Joe asked. “The one back in Pittsburgh?”
Justin looked at the rough scrawl of he and Brian, dancing at Babylon. Even in crude blues and greens, Brian was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Even if he hadn’t actually seen him in months. “Yeah. That’s Brian.”
Joe nodded, eyes trailing over the colorful, haphazard mural like it was a priceless Picasso. “You miss him?”
Justin swallowed. “Yes.”
The next morning, after the street cleaners had passed by, half the mural was gone, the colors melted together into a big, gray puddle.
*
“I got a painting into a show.”
“Is it a picture of my cock?” Brian asked
“Yes,” Justin admitted, then felt a sudden surge of resentment. “But I painted it short. And crooked. And with boils, from the syphilis.”
Brian only snickered at him. “That time of the month, Sunshine?”
*
When he’d lived in Pittsburgh, Justin used to dream about Brian all the time. As though sleeping in the same bed as him wasn’t enough, Justin would dream of Brian’s hands and hair and mouth and body. He’d dream of phantom touches down his chest, of long fingers curling round his cock and squeezing gently. Of a warm, hard body blanketing his, slipping inside him.
In New York, Justin hadn’t dreamed of Brian, not once. Not even when he jerked off thinking about Brian right before he went to sleep.
Justin wondered if it meant anything.
And he really wished Brian would come for a visit.
*
Sometimes in the middle of the night Justin woke up to find Chivas sniffing slowly across the floor for something that wasn’t there, his nose tracking the line of moonlight streaming in through the open window.
Sometimes Justin felt the same way, like he kept searching and waiting for something he’d never be able to find or touch.
*
Justin held it together for another month. But when Brian cancelled another weekend trip to see him, he lost it a little.
“Fuck.” Brian sounded tired, irritable, and exasperated. “Stop trying to make me feel like some pathetic, whipped, cheating husband. We’re fine. I told you it’s just business. How many fucking times do I have to explain it to you?”
There was a headache pressing hard into the sockets of Justin’s eyes and he was so angry he felt his hands shaking. How hard was it to get on a fucking plane to New York?
“I never asked you for an explanation. And I know how important your work is. But I haven’t seen you in months and I miss you. You fucking asshole,” Justin snapped, and hung up the phone.
Then he stood there, alone in his crappy, hot, stifling, piece of shit studio, and let himself wonder for the first time if he and Brian really might not make it.
As much as Justin bragged about being ‘on to’ Brian, there was always a pretty high margin for error. He knew Brian better than anyone else in the world, but Brian was still... well, Brian.
And so Justin couldn’t help wondering, even though Brian told him otherwise, whether Brian was freaking out that Justin had left, and worrying that they should break up, and thinking that Justin was never coming home again.
Justin knew Brian loved him. But no matter how often Brian assured him they were fine, Justin knew this distance wasn’t good for them. He knew how Brian’s twisted brain worked. He knew eventually Brian might start thinking that he should end it before Justin did, or that Justin wasn’t worth the effort. And if that happened, Justin thought he might shatter into a million tiny pieces that couldn’t ever be glued back together.
*
He called Michael about the next issue of Rage and ended up hearing a half-hour long dissertation on how fabulously Brian was doing without him.
“I know you’re worried about him, Justin, but you don’t have to be. Ted said Kinnetik is doing insanely great, and you should’ve seen the guys at Babylon last weekend. They were practically lining up around the bar to throw themselves at Brian.”
“Oh,” Justin said, feeling petty and jealous and lonely.
“I thought he’d be a wreck when you left,” Michael continued, oblivious. “But he’s amazing. He’s still Brian Fucking Kinney. Always has been, always will be.”
“Michael,” Justin said. “I have to go.”
Then he stumbled over to his bed, curled up around his pillow, and cried.
The mattress dipped slightly as Chivas hopped up onto the bed. He whined softly and nudged his head against Justin’s, and licked sloppily at the tears running down Justin’s cheek.
Justin put his arm around the warm, small little body and buried his face in his dog’s neck.
*
Justin picked up his cell phone at least once a day to dial Brian’s number, but he never pressed send. They hadn’t spoken in over a week. So Justin called Daphne instead.
“Justin,” Daphne sighed. “You know I love you, but seriously, what do you want me to say? Every time I talk to you, you sound more miserable.”
“I’m not miserable,” Justin argued. “I’m just...”
He stopped. Justin wasn’t exactly sure what he was.
“Justin,” Daphne said gently. “You know it’s okay if you want to come home, right?”
*
Chivas whined to go out at ten-thirty at night, so Justin took him for a quick walk around the block. It was still summer, still sweltering and damp.
It happened as they were passing the alley where Justin had first seen his dog.
“Give me your wallet, faggot.”
Someone put a rough hand over Justin’s mouth and slammed him back against the brick. Justin froze, feeling the prick of a knife blade against his throat.
“Please don’t,” Justin choked.
And then Chivas literally leapt at the guy, teeth bared furiously, snarling as he bit into the mugger’s thigh. The mugger screamed and used his knife hand to swipe at Chivas’ skinny flank. Justin heard his dog hit the bricks on the other side of the alley with a yelp and a sickening thud. Justin grabbed the guy’s other arm and sank his teeth in, hard.
The mugger swore and shoved Justin away. “Fucking faggot!”
Justin hit the pavement, feeling the impact like a shock through his body. He curled up, gasping, as his diaphragm seized, the breath knocked out of him.
“You fucking little bitch!”
Hands tearing at him, at his pockets. And then Joe was there, beer bottle held high before he smashed it over the mugger’s head.
The mugger crumpled to the ground and Justin lay there for a moment, wheezing, before Joe helped him up.
“You okay, son?” Blue eyes were worried in the grizzled face.
“My dog!” Justin gasped, scrambling to his feet.
Chivas Regal was laying on his side, whimpering faintly. There was a gash on his side and one of his thin legs was bent awkwardly underneath him.
“No,” Justin whispered. He touched the dog’s head gingerly and the scraggly tail gave a limp wag. “Good boy. Oh, such a good boy.”
“Leg’s broke,” Joe said. “And that’s a nasty cut.”
Tears swam in Justin’s eyes. “He was trying to help me. Did you see?”
“Needs a vet. There’s an emergency clinic down on Clipper Street.”
“Can you show me? Please, Joe?”
It took them twenty minutes to find a cab and another fifteen to get to the animal hospital. Justin held Chivas Regal to his chest, wrapped in Joe’s old Army blanket.
“Should maybe call the police,” Joe said. “That fella’s prob’ly still laid out cold. I licked him one pretty good.”
“Can you do it?” Justin awkwardly dug out his phone and handed it to Joe. “I don’t want to move him more than I have to.”
“Sure, Justin.” Joe patted his arm comfortingly. “He’s a tough little bastard. You’ll see.”
Then vet came out to take Chivas Regal into surgery. Justin sat there in his narrow plastic chair, his fingernails digging into his palms, trying not to shake apart.
*
By the time the vet came out to tell him that Chivas was okay, but that they’d need to keep him overnight, it was nearly midnight and Joe had already left to talk to the cops. Nearly comatose from exhaustion and shaky now that the adrenaline had worn off, Justin dragged himself home and collapsed into bed.
He woke up at five-thirty in the morning when someone pounded on his door. Bleerily, Justin stumbled to open it.
It was Brian.
Justin blinked, confused. “Wha-?” he said.
“Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn’t take you over my fucking knee,” Brian said flatly.
Justin blinked again and tried to focus. Brian was here. And apparently he was furious about something. “Wha-?” Justin repeated, confused.
Brian shoved past him into the apartment and slammed the door behind them. “Do you have the first fucking clue what went through my head? I fucking called you three times, Justin, and then some random guy picks up the phone, tells me he’s named after a shitty brand of beer, and tells me you’ve been mugged! And that your dog has been stabbed! When the fuck did you even get a dog, for Chrissake? I thought you were allergic. And I thought you were dead in a fucking ditch somewhere. And who the fuck names their kid ‘Budweiser’?”
Oh fuck. Justin blanched. He’d forgotten to get his cell phone back from Joe before he left the veterinarian’s. Oh, this was not good.
“Uh,” Justin said. “I-”
“Are you okay?” Brian interrupted gruffly. “You were... Did you really get mugged?”
“I’m fine,” Justin assured him. “Brian, I swear, I’m fine.”
Belatedly, Justin woke up enough to realize that Brian must have been practically hysterical with worry. His clothes were rumpled, his jaw rough with stubble. He must’ve driven all night to get here.
“I’m really fine,” Justin repeated. He wished he could go to Brian, touch him, but they hadn’t talked in so long he wasn’t sure he had the right.
Brian exhaled slowly. “Okay. So, you want to tell me what the fuck is going out?”
Justin was too exhausted to lie. He told Brian everything. About meeting Joe and finding Chivas and about how he hated New York and loved New York and how he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing and how he missed Brian so much it was stupid and how he wasn’t sure... how he’d thought maybe... that Brian didn’t want...
By the time Justin’s voice trailed off, Brian’s eyes were warm and laughing.
“You freaking out on me?” Brian asked quietly.
Justin felt his shoulders slump. “Maybe just a little,” he admitted.
Brian’s eyes and mouth were soft. “C’mere, Sunshine.”
Clinging to the last shreds of his dignity, Justin somehow managed to walk over to him and refrain from jumping all over Brian, clamping his arms and legs around him, and never letting go.
Brian draped his arms over Justin’s shoulders and bent his knees to look Justin in the eyes. “Hey.”
Justin’s hands moved automatically to Brian’s waist, his fingers clenching tight in the soft cotton of Brian’s t-shirt. “Hey,” he whispered back.
And then they were kissing, deep and needy and frantic, and Justin slid his hands up Brian’s body and into Brian’s hair and generally tried to fuse their bodies permanently together.
Brian broke the kiss, breathing hard, and tipped Justin’s chin up. “Justin, are you…? You’re crying.”
“Am I?”
He hadn’t even realized until Brian touched the moisture on his cheeks.
“Christ, you’re a mess,” Brian said fondly. “You’re an utter fucking mess. Everyone put their money on me being the one to lose it. They thought you’d leave me in the Pitts and I’d slit my wrists in the backroom of Babylon. No one worried for a second about you.”
“Well what the fuck do they know?” Justin sniffed. “God, I hate you. You kept cancelling on me. It made me think…”
Brian’s laugh, like dark velvet in his ear. “What? That we were over? You’re not that lucky, Sunshine.”
“Shut up, asshole,” Justin hiccupped tearfully.
Brian laughed and kissed him again. “Christ, I must love you. It’s the only reason I’d put up with this shit.”
And that was basically as much as Justin could take and he lost it completely and bawled into Brian’s neck for a few minutes until he felt like a human being again. Brian squeezed him close, calling him a fucking twat and a lesbian and a goddamned drama queen and a handful of other endearments that made Justin feel about a million times better.
*
The way Justin knew that Brian loved him was this.
He offered to drive Justin to the vet’s office to pick up Chivas Regal. Chivas, predictably, took one look at Brian, whined happily, and thumped his raggedy tail against the floor in a friendly wag, leaning into Brian’s touch with an expression of orgasmic delight.
“That,” Brian said, scratching Chivas behind his ears, “is the ugliest goddamn dog I’ve ever seen.”
And on the drive back to Justin’s studio Chivas got dog hair all over the interior of the Corvette, but Brian merely picked some fur off his shirt, reached for Justin’s hand, and didn’t say a word.