Moth for The Star

603 - Mists of Time (Chapter 3)







*4 months later* December 2005







Thy light alone like mist o'er mountains driven,

Or music by the night-wind sent

Through strings of some still instrument,

Or moonlight on a midnight stream,

Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream.

- Shelly









New York

JUSTIN:



Bold strokes of blue cut insistently through a brown background. Hinting at the form of something. Something with immense energy. With an unfathomable importance. But at the same time it is noncommittal, this shape, poised in the midst of it’s swirling hues. Massive. Ambiguous. It could just as easily be a tree, or a dense enveloping mist. But I know what it is to me. It is the silhouette of a man, pensive, standing at a window.



I moved around the huge canvass, spread out flat on a massive easel which took up most of the floor in my apartment, wiping my paint covered hands on my smeared overall. Trying to see, from this difficult angle, the impact of the image. It was a commission, for the latest exhibition at Henry’s gallery and he had wanted something big, arresting and heartfelt. I sighed and glanced in the mirror on the far wall. It was true that I put a lot of myself into my art: I looked tired, pale and drained. Yet my eyes glistened with fervour and inspiration. Underneath my spattered apron I was wearing loose grey slacks, a pale shirt open at the neck and a sweater against the cold. My body, I noticed, had begun to look like that of a man, rather than the skinny teenager I used to be. My shoulders were broader and my chest more defined, although I did not work out religiously like Emmett back home.



Home. My stomach did a funny twist at the memory. It had been weeks since I had heard from my mother; Pittsburgh, with it’s wide roads and glittering avenues, was beginning to feel like a distant dream: misty, incoherent, and fragmented. And yet the emotions that came with that memory were as vivid as a knife edge. I angrily gripped my messy brush tighter in my fist as I thought of Brian. Damn his fucking selflessness! Why must he ALWAYS put my needs before his? Why must he sacrifice his love, our relationship, so I could enhance myself? I wanted him to need me to stay. I wanted to be asked to stay. But I knew that was never going to happen. And I knew that what HAD happened was for the best, because I also wanted to get my career on track, and if he had asked, I never would have left. So I contented myself with picturing him, ignoring the familiar ache in my chest.



The night of the Pride parade, my first Pride parade, where queens had sparkled like so many colourful diamonds and costumes had waltzed by with a humming energy, a joyful vivacity, a multicoloured defiance. Lights and music and drums and shouts had pounded in my head, and I had pushed down the still-fresh fear of crowds, refusing to be overwhelmed, because I wanted to show Brian that I was okay. He had looked so gorgeous that night, in a sleeveless beige top that had hugged his gentle chest muscles and accentuated the strong musculature of his arms. He had been annoyed to be landed with Gus whilst Lindsey marched with Mel, but I had taken a secret joy in watching him with the baby. The way he held him, gently and naturally, the way he smiled at him, with no trace of his usual sarcasm. That smile reserved only for Gus, and later, me. Sincere and shy and warm, with a hint of humour curling up the sensuous lips and a sparkle in his eyes. I realised later what an effort it was for him to let anyone see this side of him, how vulnerable he made himself. And when he let me see it, I fell head over heels in love with him all over again.



That night he had surprised me yet again. Sitting at the bar after the march, I had kissed the soft warm skin of his shoulder, letting him know that I was not restraining him, or expecting him to stay with me. After encouraging him to go and dance with a hot stud, I had slipped out into the cool night, breathing in the smell of stale popcorn and passed exhaust from the floats, deciding to make my way back to Debbie. The light hand on my shoulder had caught me off guard and when he looked into my eyes with an unfathomable expression and shyly asked my to dance, I had laughed in disbelief. Yet then he had gently referred to the fated prom dance: “I promise you won’t forget this one”, and I felt a welling in my chest. That, the best night of my life. The night which I had lost so abruptly for a time, lost to blood and ambulance sirens and sterile cold corridors. I had peered into his guarded green eyes, seeing for the first time a nakedness there which had nothing to do with the removal of clothes. However, Brian had left me no time to pry further, but had taken my hand and led me into the pulsating street. Out dance that night had not been complicated, or flashy, or spectacular, because it was not our bodies that danced.



***



Pittsburgh



Michael was thoroughly bemused by Tibet. Ben had finally planned the trip and, wanting to accompany his husband in fulfilling his dream, Michael had agreed to go for a 4-month Buddhist training program. He had been very surprised. Surprised by the reservedness of the monks, surprised by the overwhelming shoulders of the mountains which seemed to tower over him wherever he was, highly surprised by the food which for the first week had created unwelcome side-effects the likes of which he had never before experienced. Paris with David had been pleasant, far more pleasant for Mikey than Tibet, but it was tame by comparison. Returning home by plane, he felt like he had been run through an emotional meat-grinder, but was not totally convinced it was a bad thing. Tibet had been... an eye opening experience. But now Mikey was sure he wanted to go back to cosy old Pittsburgh and keep his eyes firmly shut.



Lindsey and Mel brought JR and Gus and came from Canada to join Debbie, Emmett, Ted and Blake as the welcome party at the airport. Lindsey looked around at her old friends after escaping a rib-crushing hug from Debbie, and felt her eyes fill with tears. Her and Mel’s ‘new life’ had not been as ideal as they had pictured it. Despite Canada being labelled ‘gay-friendly’, she had noticed the dirty looks in the street, and felt the hostility of their neighbours. And it hurt her.



But she swallowed the lump in her throat, with a reassuring rub on the back from Mel, and took Gus’s gloved hand as she looked around for the person she had missed the most: Peter Pan.



“He’s not here honey!” Emmett chipped in, seeing her glances.



Debbie tsk’d and rolled her eyes; “Some things never change!” she muttered, bejewelled hands on multicoloured hips.



Lindsey could not say she was surprised. As well as being the head of an successful and ever expanding company, and therefore almost certainly busy, she knew Brian would not consent to join in any conventional and cliché exhibition of a frilly reunification. She knew he would find his own way to welcome Michael back, to greet her again, quietly but unforgettably.



Just then she felt a tug on her arm, and she smiled down into the blue eyes of her son. The one thing that stopped her from losing her mind with missing Brian. The one part of Brian she could take back to Canada with her. She had been so grateful when he had consented to father her child. The idea of such a connection with him had excited her beyond her wildest dreams, and although she never admitted it to Melanie, it was not her wife she had been thinking of as she was impregnated. Lindsey was still unsure; she had not especially been turned on in particular by men, except the artist, but that had been more of a release then anything. However, the one man she knew, without a doubt, that she loved, lusted after, liked beyond comprehension, was Brian. And he was the man she could not have. That time in college had whetted her appetite, and she was never quite able to satiate it.



Hot lips on her skin. Graceful curve of his neck counteracting his powerful shoulders. Burning green eyes, deep and clear as emerald. An ambiguous yet overpowering sexuality that seemed to envelop her completely. Gasping. Clutching. Gentle and quick. Unfocused, unsure, incredible. He had been so unwavering, she had been so desperate. Young, strong arms, oh-so-long legs and slight bumps of muscles on his stomach. His hair, light brown and mussed, was branded into her memory. Her bedroom, dark, tangle of sheets and sensations. He was big, and she was scared, but his kisses had transported her to another place and they were lost, exploring, crying out, thrusting, sweating, trusting.



And then they had gone their separate paths, and she had discovered women, because no man meant as much as Brian. Since then she had savoured his friendly kisses, savoured how he showed he loved her through his gestures, even though he could not help her live out the conventional fairy tale. And she loved Mel, loved the connection and understanding only two women could share, but when they had decided on a child, there could only be one father. She could live out that much of her fantasy, goddamnit. And so she had asked, cajoled, reasoned. And when he had consented and the night came when Mel held the precious cup, smiling at her, Lindsey had to turn away, shut her eyes. The thought of Brian filling her, alighting in her the flame of a child, was too much to bear and as Mel poured, she had shuddered and moaned and experienced the most powerful orgasm she had ever had.



***



New York

JUSTIN:



My 24th birthday had been in November, and I had been pressed to attend stuffy parties full of artists and critics I did not know, huffing and humming at various paintings and recent exhibitions. I lost myself in the sparkling bubbles of the champagne, saw with dazzled eyes the effervescent shapes of the frosted glasses against white starched tablecloths. And then I had fucked other artists who grunted and groaned in the haze of muffled clinking from the dining halls, or who had sucked me off and let me lose myself in wet sensation and the blinding flash of my climax. I had thought about it as I cleaned myself up one evening, pulling my tux back on and smoothing the rumpled shirt down over my chest. I was 24, truly on my way to finding success in this harsh competitive world. Looking at my blackly polished shoes, I sighed. And yet no word from him. But what did I expect? He was letting me go, freeing me to find the affluence my art supposedly merited, and I did not blame him. In fact, I secretly thanked him.



And then one day it had arrived. A plain box sitting on the mat outside the front door of my apartment in the afternoon, a week after my birthday. After carrying it inside, I circled it thoughtfully. It looked too big to be the delivery of brushes I was expecting and the ‘fragile’ sticker was incongruous. So I slid a knife over the binding tape, and slowly lifted the rough brown flaps of the top. What I saw made me draw in my breath with a gasp, and lose my stomach somewhere to the flat below. The thudding and crashing of my heart rendered me immobile for a minute and then, with a spreading grin I reached in and lifted the potted plant out of the box. The leaves framed flowers that were were huge and sensuous, and burned with a fiery glow; it was a golden gardenia.



Although no note had come with the box, I knew it was from Brian. I had stifled a laugh as I gazed at the plant, a message he still cared, still remembered. That night I had slept so peacefully, and had dreamt of the past.



***



Pittsburgh



Brian arrived home to the loft from work and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it on the sofa. He pulled off his tie and thought about going to Babylon. But then he remembered the account that was due in the next day and sighed scathingly. Couldn’t shirk duty, even if you owned the fucking business. So he crossed to the kitchen counter and poured himself two amber fingers of Beam before picking up his briefcase and striding towards his computer. He had fucked a hot stranger earlier in the day, who had already given him drugs, and he knew he did not really want to go to Babylon, even if he felt compelled to for appearance’s sake. He smiled surprisedly to himself as he slipped off his shoes and tossed them in the direction of the door: maybe adulthood was catching up with him after all, despite Mickey's best efforts to remind him of his perpetual immaturity.



But before he could reach his desk, a wave of dizziness hit him, along with a sharp pain in his side. Doubling over and gasping, Brian felt waves of chills snaking up his spine and spreading out to each limb. The glass crashed to the floor, bleeding golden liquid out onto the polished floorboards. Brian felt his chest was being crushed, constricted and he fought to breathe against the crippling pain. The loft became misty, and his head pounded with blood as he gasped, clutching his side, panting into the evening silence. And then it passed as quickly as it had begun. Brian caught his breath, sweating slightly and gazing around, cursing himself for accepting drugs off a stranger. After ten minutes he felt better and paced his loft trying to concentrate on his work, but he felt exhausted and drained and eventually gave up and crawled into bed, slipping between the cool navy sheets and thinking briefly, as he did every night he went to bed alone, of Justin.



***



New York

JUSTIN:



I visited ‘the scene’ in New York a few times a week, glad to be back in the grinding ‘thumpa thumpa’ that allowed me to drink, to dance, to fuck, and not have to think. The bright lights and crashing music felt like home, and the pulsating bodies enveloped me, swept me up, and carried me away into my need. Brian was right all those years ago when he had raved about the men in New York; it was not just the immense choice, it was the pure perfection of so many of them that captivated me. I plunged into so many, rutting and groaning my release from the stresses of work, from the emotional drain of my art.



One night in early December, I came in from Zion, the local gay club, to find the telephone ringing. Swallowing my pleasant drunkenness I answered and was happily surprised to hear my mom, Jennifer, on the phone.



“ We would love to come down and visit, if you are up for it!” She said, and I could hear Molly in the background, babbling about a trip to New York.



I smiled “Of course, Mom, I’d love to see you both. Why don’t you come down for Christmas?”



I heard her breath hitch in her throat “Are you sure?” She gushed “I mean, we won’t be interrupting anything...?”



I laughed and assured her that I would only have been forced to go to a host of fundraisers and dinner parties, and that seeing her and Molly was a much preferable way to spend my Christmas.



So, late in December, I drove my car to the airport to pick them up, two strangers wrapped in scarves and wooly hats, Molly’s little hands trussed up in Debbie’s handmade mittens. To see them both again after so long was wonderful, but painful at the same time. Jennifer was crying as she exclaimed how different I looked, how grown up I was, how she loved my hair longer again. I put them both up on the spare mattresses I kept in my apartment, and loitered by one of my easels, leaning against the cool metal as they examined my home; complimenting on my equipment, my kitchen, my style in furnishings.



I began asking about people back in Pittsburgh, realising for the first time how isolated and cut off from them I felt, here in my solitary tower of success, my island of ambition. I learnt that Hunter was doing well at college, that Michael and Ben had come back from a trip to Tibet, Ben slightly more enthusiastic then Michael. I smiled at the thought and then laughed out loud at the information that Debbie was sticking to her ‘no-wigs’ policy, for I had been sure when I heard of it that it wasn’t going to last, Debbie being the flamboyant queen she is.



And then I couldn’t help myself. “And Brian” I asked, “What about Brian.”



My mom looked at me with an expression of mingled pride and pity. “He’s fine, Justin.” She said eventually, and then, looking to the side: “Do you two speak on the phone anymore?”



I told her no, that I was getting on with my life, but I could not hide from her the depth of my feeling and she took me in her arms.



“I know how much you love him” She said against my ruffled hair. “And I saw how much he loved you. I am sorry for all those times I doubted you, or him. I was so happy when you said he had asked you to...”



She didn’t finish. And I was glad she didn’t. We didn’t marry because I went away, but I knew I was going to marry him, just not the next day, or the next week... it didn’t matter, I knew I still loved him, in all his beauty and imperfection and glory. And so I smiled at my mom, and we mentioned no more.



***



Pittsburgh



Christmas at the Novotny house was chaotic, exotic, delicious, suspicious, loud, proud, colourful, bountiful, and filled with food and a good mood. The whole group was there, including Brian, dressed smartly in a red turtleneck jumper and bouncing a laughing Gus on his lap, Lindsey and Melanie, who kept their promise to return to the coop for family celebrations and public holidays, Ted and a smiling Blake, who had recently been awarded for his work at the rehab centre, Ben, Hunter and Michael, Emmett, dressed in a flamboyant reindeer suit, and of course Debbie, in a gold glittering shirt and Carl, with red face and a merry grin.



This year there was a new christmas angel atop the tree. Peering down, it would have seen Carl wrestling with the turkey, which had been left too long in the oven by Emmett, and which was almost big enough to strap a saddle to and make into a mount for Gus. It would have seen Brian looking fondly at his son, while the boy opened his presents amidst cheers and laughter. It would have seen Lindsey come and sit behind Brian and link her hand in his, exchanging a loving look with her friend. It would have seen Debbie shriek in amazement when she received a complete new makeup kit from Emmett, and multicoloured gloves and hat from Michael. It would have looked down at the festive dining table, always the hub of Debbie’s house, at the delicacies and the wine glasses that clinked when Debbie proposed a toast in honour of Justin, and Jennifer, in New York, celebrating their own christmas. May they never forget their family. Clink.



Later, in the crisp night air outside Debbie’s porch, Brian lit up a cigarette. He chuckled as Gus huddled up to his leg in the cold, and reached down to pick up the boy and hold him against his body. Gus leaned his head against Brian’s shoulder, his eyes heavy-lidded and sleepy, and together they listened to the muffled jollity inside the house, and looked at the ancient harnessed reindeer Debbie had insisted on putting out. Suddenly Brian looked up, and put out his hand.



“Well, whaddya know, sonny boy.” He said softly, “it’s snowing.”



***



End of Chapter 3.