Monday.  Back to work.  After a few prelims in the Loft bedroom.

On his stomach with Brian hovering over him, Justin felt Brian’s lips brush his ear then leech high on his neck.  He ran a hand up to gently break the contact.

“Lower?  I hafta go to Graphics today and I want attention on my supply order, not my sex life.”  Justin felt Brian’s lips drop below his collar line.  “Mm.  That’s good,” he sighed, closed his eyes.  Opened them when Brian lifted off and shifted, shaking the bed.  “What’re you doing?”

“What you asked.”  Brian kissed and tongued a spot just below the height of Justin’s ass curve, planted his lips and drew.  Necks gave instant response, but it’d take some fucking work to raise a bite on a glute.

Justin twisted a look at Brian’s tense jaw.  The increasing suction caused a needly prickle that made him cringe as the process wore on.

Brian finally backed off.  A nice cherry mark. “Not bad.”

“Yeah, it was.  I thought you were ripping off a chunk,” Justin couldn’t see it, but he touched the spot, felt the welt and smiled, “Will I be scarred for life?”

Brian stretched beside Justin with room for Justin to flip onto his back, eyes waiting for an answer. “Only if you WANT to be.”

“If you think I’m giving up on you, you can just kiss my ass.”

Brian rolled his tongue against his cheek.  Little fucker was getting too goddamned smart.  Better kiss his lips and shut him up.  Then, “Did you finish that petition letter?”

“Yeah, but I thought it’d be better to bring it in person, so I’m calling Armstrong after I get back.  Throw myself at his feet and beg for mercy.”  Justin watched Brian’s deadpan stare, wrinkled a smile and shook his head.  “Nah.”

Brian match-grinned, “They already know you’re talented.  Mention guaranteed financing and all will be forgiven.” He kissed Justin’s nose and rolled out of bed, threw on sweat pants and skipped down the steps toward the kitchen.  Slowed when he noticed dropped leaves around the fig tree and shouted to Justin on the steps behind him.  “If you get ambitious, your model is shedding.”

“Shit.  I didn’t notice.  I keep it watered,” Justin veered to the tree, looked up.  “Maybe it needs more light.”

Brian filled the coffee maker.  “I’ll call…” saw Justin glare say-the-name-and-die, “…there’s a ladder in the basement.  I can pick up a light while I’m out.”

Justin sat on a stool, leaned on the counter and parked his cheek on a hand, wide smile.  “You’re gonna hang a light.  Don’t start till I get home.  I don’t wanna miss this.”

Brian flat answered, “Fuck.  You.”  Didn’t change Justin’s grin, so Brian joined in.  “I have talents you have yet to discover, Sunshine.”  Lighting isn’t one of them, but how hard could it be to turn a couple fucking screws.

WaveLight’s Info Board.  A large glass-doored aluminum frame of neatly organized postings under day-glo red labels.  Images of Ruder and Crewcut reflected off the glass over the Job Opportunity 8x10.

Ruder turned a serious eye to Crewcut. “This could be your last chance.  It may be YEARS before it comes up again.”

“Yeah, but that salary.  For an ART DIRECTOR?  He’s gotta be kidding,” Crewcut shook his head.  “No, I’m too close to retirement to take a cut like that.  And that ninety-day probation…” Crewcut shook his head again, “…with my ulcer?  Means if I miss one deadline, I could lose my job.  Not worth it,” Crewcut checked his watch, started down the hall with a last, “If anything, it looks like a way to snag and eliminate one of us.  I’ll see you later.”

Justin, legal portfolio under his arm, turned the corner, saw Ruder at the board and told himself to walk naturally and keep going.

Ruder spied Justin’s approach, stepped back to ambush.  “Mr. Taylor,” his mustache curved with his smile.

Uh-oh.  Beware of Dog.  Justin slowed.  “Morning, Mr. Ruder.”  Why’s that fucker standing in the middle of the hall.

“I see they’ve posted your job,” Ruder waved at the board.

ALREADY?  Justin side-glanced, masked with nonchalance and stopped in front of Ruder. “I suppose that’s the normal way it’s done.”

“Sorry to hear you’re leaving us,” Ruder cheeked another smile, “At least now you know how much hard work goes into a good agency.  MANY people don’t realize that…and once they get into it, find they can’t cut it.”

Justin smiled his catty best.  “Fortunately, I can cut it any way it’s dished out.  But at least I have other choices.  Unlike MANY people,” Justin sidestepped him and moved on, leaving Ruder fuming in the hall.  You’re ONE asshole I won’t miss.

At the Loft and sitting at his desk, Brian studied the Vangard business envelope, grabbed his stiletto opener and zipped to the contents.  The single letter knit his brows as he read.  He leaned back in thought, fingers tapping the paper in his lap.  Then he snatched his phone and with the speed of memory, keyed a number.

“Gardner Vance, please.  Brian Kinney.”  Brian rolled his lips in, eyes on the letter until his call connected.  “Gardner.  I got your note.”

At Vangard, Vance leaned back in his chair.  “You wanted verification that the boat exists.  Consider that a serious invitation to do so.  And if you’re interested, we’ll discuss it further.” Vance leisurely lifted a postcard quote propped on his computer, “I can assure you right now, I can afford to triple what you’re making at Lightwave,” and smiled at - I’d prefer to keep someone like him inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in.  Lyndon B. Johnson. 

Brian raised a brow but kept a casual tone.  “That’s an attractive offer,” he stared at Justin’s office, “I’ll have to review the limits on my current contract.”

Vance stayed confident.  “By all means.  But I have ten days to fill the position, and I’d like to move quickly on this.  Let me know by Monday.  That should give me enough time to notify my alternate choice if you decline.”  And you’d be a fool if you did.

“I’ll call you as soon as I decide.  Thanks.”  Brian hung up, bit the edge of his lip and read the letter again.  An invitation to tour Vangard’s Director’s office, and an open First Class E-ticket confirmation in his name…roundtrip to Chicago.  He viewed his desktop…bills due…sale papers for the Vette…income tax extension grant to delay tax from last year’s salary that THIS year’s salary couldn’t cover…the fucking pall of debt thwarting desires and boxing control into a tiny space.

Brian drifted through Justin’s office.  Glanced down and picked the Lightwave packet off his desk – an idea on trial – brushed his fingers over Justin’s keyboard – without you, I can still make this work, but is it worth the risk of banking on some unknown artist.  I can fucking sell the image anytime I want, but when it comes down to the knife edge… there IS no indispensable man.  If Lightwave doesn’t work, neither do I.

He eyed Justin’s bookshelf, his PIFA schoolbooks.  You won’t need your Father’s help.  Smile fading, he turned to the window, gazed with heavy thought.  But would you accept MINE…if we’re not together.

Passing the WaveLight reception lobby on his way out, Justin did a double take at a man seated and filling out a form.  Hick.  Not the roguish free spirit from PIFA – pressed suit, combed hair, wide binder and portfolio propped against the chair legs.

“Hick?” Justin quirked a brow and moved in.

Hick glanced with tense surprise.  “Justin.  I guess you’re applying, too.  It figures.”

“For what?  The Art Director job?”  He took the chair beside Hick.

“No, cleaning lady,” Hick shot at the perceived mock as he tapped his portfolio.

Uncharacteristic tone and attitude.  “I didn’t say your stuff wasn’t good.  But…what about school?  Don’t you have a year to go yet?”

Hick gave an I-don’t-believe-you grin. “I’m not in school just to go to school.  THIS is what it’s all about,” Hick aimed an open hand at the WaveLight application.  “YOU got lucky.  But you know how many decent art jobs are out there, man?  ‘Member Danwell?  Graduated a couple years ago,” Hick watched Justin shake a no.  “Won PIFA’s Most Creative award.  He couldn’t find anything and didn’t want to relocate.  Now he’s working for a construction outfit and shows up at the City Arts Festival once a year with a few pieces when he finds the time to knock ‘em out. That’s NOT gonna be ME.”

Justin discreetly glanced around, “Brian…Mr. Kinney is a decent boss, but the pay is for shit and the Creative Director’s an asshole.”

“Come on, man,” Hick sly'd, “It’s Art Director.  With full creative control.” Hick saw Justin’s eyes widen.  “Don’t tell me you didn’t KNOW that.  Half the seniors were buzzing about it when it hit the PIFA job net Saturday morning.”

“So how’d you get an interview so fast?  Did they call you?”

“No.  Doing what YOU’RE doing,” Hick guessed.  “Told them I’d wait until someone’s free.  Let ‘em know I want this job.  A lot of the top seniors are trying for it.  But MY shit…” he winced, corrected, “work…is as good as any, and if I didn’t believe that, I shouldn’t even BE here.”

An approaching Lady Receptionist interrupted,  “Mr. Charles Hickman?” She looked from one to the other, watched Hick stand then smiled, “Mr. Rheinholdt has a moment to see you now.  This way,” she turned to lead.

Hick took a breath, shot a nervous glance at Justin.

“Good luck,” Justin said low.  Meaning it.  He watched Hick nod with a fleet smile then follow the receptionist.  Not like a slouchy college kid.  Like a man serious about what he’d trained for.  What he wanted to do.  I suppose in another year or two I’ll feel the same.  But I have too much left to learn and I can’t do it here.  Not with this stale old pathetic group.

Justin left WaveLight for the bus tour back to the City and…

…the Bank.

Justin opened the deposit box door, cleared his throat to stop the gut-sink feeling.  Part of the deal on BOTH counts – with Craig, with Brian.  If he destroyed it fast, maybe it wouldn’t feel so wrong.  Still undecided, he pulled the tray and saw the top page.  Their names in bold print.  He lifted the packet and while slowly paging, imagined himself like a knight running from a dragon. By the last page, he’d turned around and stood to face the beast.  Knew what he wanted to do. Only then, did things feel right again.

He read the final paragraph, the signatures, ran his fingers across the embossed seal. Flat and fake.  Not the original.  Justin replaced the papers, shoved the tray, clanked the door shut and locked it. What did it mean.  A copy.  The fact was it still existed, though just a symbol of itself.  Didn’t change the essence of why it came to be. 

That in mind, Justin left the Bank, veered into a storefront alcove, dialed his cell and waited for an answer.  “Dad,” he turned his back to the traffic noise.  “I thought about what you offered…and…” he bit his lip, strengthened, “…I can’t accept your terms.  I made commitments to keep.  And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll know it’s not because I didn’t try my best…that I can pick up and keep going.  Like you and Mom.”  Justin stopped then.  And Brian.  “Dad?  Dad.  Are you still there?”

At his desk, face sunk into a hand, Craig raised his glaze-eyed head and cleared his throat.  “Yeah.  I understand,” with a belying business tone.  “But if you change your mind -” Craig winced,  “I know.  But I’m saying IF…okay,” he hunched forward, smiled, “I’ll tell Lori you said hi.  Thanks for calling me back.  Bye.”

Craig hung up and leaned back in his chair.  His plan failed.  But hardly a bitter defeat.  Because in standing firm to his principles, Justin validated the goodness in their effort and their strength to get past its failure.  And used them as his example.

Then clouds again.  With all that’s happened… who you’re with…how did you become the man I just heard?  That’s not what I think when I hear gay.  Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to accept that there’s no chance you’ll change your mind.  I want to believe there’s always still that chance.  If you get away from Kinney.  Take your time, and think.

Rheinholdt looked up from his desk of ads and stats, briefly smiled at Justin standing in the doorway.  “Mr. Taylor.  I understand you’re leaving.  Can you stay on until I find someone to take over?  I should have someone by the end of the week.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Justin cleared his throat, pulled up a chair and sat in front of the desk.  “I’d like to stay on…as Lightwave’s Art Director, Sir.”

Rheinholdt sat silent, unimpressed.  “I’ve already started the process.  Have you filled out an application?”

What FOR? “No,” Justin shook his head.

“Then I suggest you do so and I’ll consider it with the others.”

WHAT?  “Mr. Rheinholdt…I already know Lightwave, RegionAir was sold on my graphics, and I’m good at what I do.”

Rheinholdt kept a steady cool eye.  “I hired you because of your fresh approach, and Brian Kinney’s request.  Despite the fact that you were expelled from the Fine Arts Institute for abusing their internship program at another agency.  Then I hear that you plan to leave with Lightwave barely underway.  Your work is exceptional.  I don’t doubt that.  But to put it bluntly, Mr. Taylor, no matter how good someone is, it doesn’t do ME any good unless I can depend on it.”

Justin fried at the intimidation and had to bite back a vulgarity about the pay.  “Mr. Rheinholdt, I intended to leave a clerk’s job for an opportunity to improve my skills so I would have a better chance at an Art Director position.”

“Then see my receptionist for an application and I’ll give it fair consideration.”

“Thank you, Sir,” stuck in Justin’s throat as he stood and walked out.  Down the hall, into the lobby.  Okay, if that’s the way it’s gonna be… 

In her kitchen, Joan rinsed off a dinner plate, set it the drain basket and blinked at it.  The single cup.  Single fork.  She looked around her kitchen, large and empty and making her feel small and forgotten.  Except for someone’s cruel joke.  Or was it.

She opened the sink cabinet, tilted the trashcan and retrieved a card she’d tossed this morning.  Opened and read it one more time.  An invitation to a baby shower for Melanie Marcus – I don’t know any Melanie Marcus – but the print below – “Lindsay Peterson will be there with her and Brian’s son, Gus, your grandson.”  I know Lindsay.  And she knew Brian.  If it’s true, why didn’t he tell me, she seethed then clenched her eyes shut from the answer to her own question.

She read the card again.  Time, Date, Brian’s address.  On the phone number line: “It’s a surprise.  Please do not call.”  Not Brian’s writing.  No signature.  Lindsay?  Who on earth would DO something like this!

Joan flung the card back into the trash and slammed the cabinet door.

By dinnertime when Justin entered the Loft, he saw the tree moved aside, Brian atop a stepladder and attaching a bullet light to a rafter.

Brian expected a smartass comment and shot first.  “You were gone so long, I had to screw something else. Does it meet with your approval?” saw Justin dull-eye HIM, not the light.  “Up here,” Brian pointed.  No change. “How many guesses do I get?” he backed down two rungs, turned and sat on the top step.

“I stopped by the Bank.”

“And they were robbed.”

“Something like that.  I checked our safe deposit box and there’s a COPY of our contract.  What happened to the original?”

Brian exhaled, brows low.  “Do you want it now?” 

Justin moved to the base of the ladder and looked up.  I’ll make it easy on you. “I thought about tearing it up.” Justin watched Brian’s eyes drop to his lap, waited until he regained Brian’s stare.  Thought so. “Did YOU get rid of it?” saw Brian’s eyes avert with deep thought.  “Because if you DID, that’s okay.  But I want to know why you didn’t think you could tell me.”

Brian climbed down, swooped around Justin to his desk.  He opened a drawer, pulled out the contract and laid it center.  “There it is,” he resigned.  “If you want it gone, do it.  You don’t owe me a reason.  Like I told you, it’s -”

“- just a piece of paper.  I know,” Justin softened relieved, eased to the front of the desk, eyes steady.  “But it’s a legal commitment…that we’re together because we WANT to be.  That makes it more than just a piece of paper.  There’s no way I could’ve destroyed it…and be honest with myself.” Justin looked at the contract, back to Brian, “Is that why it’s here?  Because you thought I would -”

“No,” Brian shook his head. I wasn’t sure about this.  About you.  About me. I may NEVER be…but…fuck it.  DO it. “I switched it with the copy…” Brian fished a smaller paper-clipped packet from his drawer and set it on the contract,  “…because they want the original.” 

Justin quizzed a look at him then looked down and read the official header.  Philadelphia Commission on Human Relations Domestic Partnership Registration Packet.  He swallowed a rise in his throat.  “You…you want to register?”

Brian down-played, “There’s a six-month wait after the contract date before we can apply.  I thought we might get around to discussing it sometime between.  But as usual,” he off-glanced, “You have a way of fucking up my plans.”

“One of my missions in life is to keep yours interesting.” Justin watched Brian’s guess-so shrug, set his elbow on the packet, chin parked on his hand and half-closed eyes above a sly smile.  “So.  Is the plan still feasible?”

Brian slowly came around the desk.  “If we decide to expand on the financial arrangement.”  He lifted the packet and removed the bottom page. “Either one of us can nullify it anytime.  It’s more complicated, but there’s a form -” 

“Brian.”  Justin snatched it from Brian’s hand and slapped it face down on the desk, ran intimate arms around Brian’s neck, “It’s already common knowledge that you’re the Master of In and Out.  Can we just stay in the first part a little longer?”

“I want you to know there are no locks.”  No convention…within the convention.  And commitment doesn’t mean captivity – if you still want it…after what I have to say next.  “Don’t give up on school yet.”

“What?” Justin shook his head, drew back, “I already told my Dad the deal’s off.  I’m not lying to him about -”

“Who said anything about lying?  I got a job offer that triples my salary.”

“Where?” Justin’s eyes narrowed.

Not the joyous reaction he expected.  “Vangard.”

“But how?” Justin blinked off,  “If you break the contract with Lightwave, you can’t work within a hundred miles of Pittsburgh for two years.”

Brian’s jaw twitched.  “The Chicago office.”  He watched Justin’s face go rigid, eyes cold.  Just hear this out.  “You can finish school and pay me back according to our original -”

“No,” Justin’s eyes narrowed and he turned away, hand through his hair, “I’m not going back.”

“Well.” THIS simplifies it. “You could always get used to singing My Kind Of Town.” Fuck.  I got more reaction from inviting you to the fucking White Party.  Did you hear what I said?  “We could get a place in Boys Town – the gay area north of the City.”

Still faced away, Justin bit his lip, exhaled a breath, “It sounds great…but…,” Justin swallowed the rise in his throat.  “I’m Lightwave’s new Art Director.”

Brian’s mouth dropped, eyes lit with pride – then dulled.  Fuck.  “Surprise, surprise,” he raised a brow, slouched back on his desk, eyes locked on Justin’s.  “It’s just a job, not a sentence. With your talent, I’m sure you could land -”

“What?  Another waiter job?” Justin hardened.  “Brian, I don’t have your resume, or your track record.  I made some mistakes that I thought shit about…but now I know they make a BIG fucking difference…and I pitched my brains out to get Rheinholdt to give me this chance…so I can be a serious artist with a reputation to back it.  If I skip out NOW, will ANYBODY take me seriously.”

“Is that what you want?” Brian softened, feeling their distance like a widening fissure.

 “For now,” Justin nodded, face flushing.  Déjà vu – Ethan’s plan to be together without being together – the time Brian almost went to New York and nearly tore his heart out.  I’m not…won’t be…that same kid.  “I signed a contract.  And I gave Rheinholdt my word,” Justin’s eyes glazed.  He edged close to Brian, leaned back on the desk beside him.  “But that doesn’t mean YOU have to stay.”  As much as I want us together, I see your struggle…to stay young and beautiful, when you age over every bill and sacrifice with this shit pay job.  I made my choice because it was right for me.  This one is about you.  “I think you should take it.”

Brian looked with admiration for such tenacious spirit, and a pang over the double edge of its sincere consistency.  “We’d be taking partnership to the height of unconvention.”

“People take transfers and commute all the time.  More inconvenient than unconventional,” Justin’s faint smile groped for any positive.  “What were you planning to do if I stayed in school?”

“Fuck your brains out on weekends.”

“If you have any energy left from all that fresh meat,” Justin said to his lap.  New dark thoughts. He felt Brian’s hand under his chin and lifting eyes to meet.

“We’re still men, Justin.  That goes for you, too.”

“I don’t need to be the King of Liberty Avenue.”

Brian’s eyes shifted over Justin’s clear unblinking eyes.  Is that what you think?  I’ll go free-prowling back to the same fucked-up existence?  Well you’re fucking right.  I WOULD.  If you weren’t there in some way.  But you WILL be. “One reign is enough.”

“What happened to never enough?”

“That’s been redefined.”  Brian kissed him to seal the meaning.  Then they stood and held each other - Brian staring off, head over Justin’s shoulder, and Justin gazing out, face turned away and cheek to Brian’s chest – both in comforting closeness mixed with apprehension over the threats of distance.

Justin toned low, “Two years isn’t that long.  And regardless of who takes over Lightwave, at least I won’t have to deal with goddamn Ruder.”

One planned detail that worked out after all.  “I won’t give up the Loft,” Brian whispered.  This is home.  Until we agree it isn’t.

“When do you start?”

“I’ll know next Monday,” Brian looked off dazed, impact creeping in.

Justin pulled tighter.  For all the effort to handle this with grace and control, some reflexes defied it.  When strong sensitive men cry, they stay inside themselves.  Feel every twist and burn…allow themselves the right to be sad…to express it.  Until they cross the line of pain to the better, hopeful side.  As for the tears…they’re all right.  Because they only make more important and meaningful…the reason why they’re there.

Brian heard Justin’s brief sniffle, slowly rubbed his back.  “You just remembered it’s YOUR turn to do the laundry.”

Smile sparked, Justin pulled back and brushed a hand over both cheeks.  “Actually, it just dawned on me that I’ll hafta put up with an even BIGGER Queen.”  Emotions make you uncomfortable.  And time’s too short to waste there.

No snark back, Brian held a soft smile and made sure an important milestone was recognized. “YOU got that job.  All I did was suggest where to post the opening.”

“Um-hm,” Justin smiled off, cleared his throat.  “Did you have to throw the kitchen sink at me?  I mean…come on.  The PIFA job net?”

“I heard they take only the best.  If I couldn’t have YOU, I was willing to settle for SECOND best.”

“You ARE the Master of In and Out,” Justin side-eyed, slapped Brian’s shoulder.  “Get dressed.  I feel like celebrating.”

At the Comic Shop, Michael reached under the counter, lifted out a vintage plastic-wrapped Fantastic Four like a newborn and held it up to Sixty.  “It took a lot of hunting to find one this mint.  Are you a collector?”

“Just being young again,” Sixty smiled at the comic, pulled his wallet.  “How much?”

“Oh, these aren’t for sale,” Michael replaced the comic in the glass counter, locked it.  “They’re part of my collection.  So I can show beginners what to look for.  But I have a classics section over there,” Michael pointed out a rack, “We don’t close for another ten minutes yet.”

Sixty chuckled, “I can’t read THAT fast.  But thanks for your help.”

“Fountain of Youth opens nine AM if you want to stop back,” Michael smiled, watched Sixty nod and leave.  A perk of his dream…kids star-struck by heroes; people like Sixty reliving the joy of it.  Heroes.  Michael looked down, missing his.  Glanced at the tinkling bell as Sixty left with a “Thank you” to someone holding the door for him.  His eyes widened, a lump rose in his throat.  Ben, suit and briefcase.  Stepping inside and stopping just shy of the closing door.

Michael swallowed, gripped the comic.  “Ben.  Did they cancel the symposium?”

“No.  I did,” he paced slow to the counter, “I think I’ve had enough time to think about…everything,” stared into Michael’s eyes.

“So what did you decide?” He would have closed his eyes to hear this, but couldn’t take them off Ben’s.

“I think it would work.  If we agree on one more detail.”  Ben set his briefcase on the counter, removed a single paper and handed it to Michael, watched his eyes narrow and flash disapproval.  “I want your word that you’ll sign it and send it…if I can’t…and I ask YOU,” Ben swallowed.  “It’s ALL…or nothing.”

Michael breathed heavier.  Read it again.  Life Partnership Termination.

At the Comic Shop, Michael and Ben embrace.  In the Loft bedroom, Justin runs his hand over Brian’s pillow while in the bathroom, Brian lifts his toothbrush, stares at Justin’s alone in the holder.

Song: “Real Hero” by Bill Evans

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