Moth for The Star

605 - Cloud is Scattered (Chapter 5)







*2 months later* May 2006





When the lamp is shattered,

The light in the dust lies dead -

When the cloud is scattered,

The rainbow's glory is shed.

- Shelley





Pittsburgh



Brian had started pre-operative radiotherapy and surprisingly, he didn’t feel too bad. He was able to go into work, make signature appearences at Babylon, and avoid discovery by his friends. Shit. That was just it. He had promised Michael that he would notify him if anything was wrong. And now it had been 2 months since the doctors rampageous relevation and he still had not plucked up the goddamn courage to tell him. Because it would cause that look in Mikey’s eyes, the fucking pitying, condescending, worried look that made Brian feel so condemned.



There came a knock at the door, followed by a cheery call: Michael had come to visit. Brian sighed and leaned his head back, taking in the clear white of the sloping ceiling and the fluttering patterns of sunlight from through the leaves outside. Then he got up from where he had been sitting at his computer and padded across to the door barefoot, sliding it open and grinning when Mikey pushed his way in, holding two joints.



"Thought I’d stop by on my way back from the store!” He announced, handing one to Brian and flopping down on the couch, “And I thought you could use one of these, given the supernatural stress of your judicious jazzy job!”



Brian laughed. “Is it also perhaps because your homeostatic hubby would have a heart attack if he saw you smoking a secret spilff?” He walked to the kitchen counter to pick up his lighter, then returned to the living room area and perched on the coffee table, facing Mikey, his legs stretched out, ankles crossed, as he lit up and passed the lighter to his friend.



They talked about trivial things for a while; Emmett's latest adventure with new hair curlers, the unanticipated success of Kinnetik, Mel and Linds' complaints about Canada. But Brian knew that he had to break the news, somehow. It was not going to be easy: Michael almost surpassed Debbie when it came to emotional hysteria, and Brian was sure that once he knew, Mikey would not leave him alone. Yet he also knew that he could not play innocent this time; Mikey would not forgive him, not after what had happened before. So, when the conversation died down, and they were both surrounded in an ephemeral haze of pearly smoke, he sat up and looked across the short distance that separated them.



"Mikey..." he began.



His friend looked up, a goofy grin on his face and Brian felt bad for almost certainly going to ruin the moment, unless Michael was far more stoned than ever before and would laugh it off. Brian somehow thought that was unlikely. He looked down to his polished floor, cursing the fact that this was so hard to do, that there was almost a physical barrier, a tightening in his chest, restricting, as he teetered on the edge of changing the way Michael looked at him, spoke to him, looked up to him. Brian cleared his throat whilst his friend sat cross legged on the couch not quite giving his full attention, and decided to take the plunge.



"When I...passed out in Babylon" Brian glanced up at Mikey and drew his lips into his mouth in an effort to find the right words, but he was interrupted.



"Christ, Brian! What is it? You're scaring me! Did they do tests? Did they find out what was wrong with you? I knew it couldn't be drugs because I knew that you hadn't taken any that night in fact I haven't seen you tripping in..."



"MIKEY! Listen to me. You have to listen. Are you listening?" Brian reached out and cupped his hand round the back of the other man's head, then looked down and withdrew, crossing his arms over his chest and finally raising his eyes to meet Mikey's. "I need you NOT to freak out, okay. You can afford not to be a big fat fucking sissy. Yeah they did the tests and discovered what made me do a Marilyn Monroe in the middle of the dance-floor. It... I..." Brian swallowed and frowned as he unfolded his arms and raised his shoulders. "The cancer's come back."



That was it. He'd said it. Cautiously he peered up at Michael who was sitting stock still staring at him, obviously trying to shake the last remnants of dope-filled haze from his head. Brian heard the ticking clunk of his wall clock it was so silent in the loft. He was reminded bitterly of that night, 6 years ago. The night which had brought he and Justin together, when he was reminded of his own mortality by the wrinkled baby in the hospital room. In his stoned state, he had heard a ticking then too. Tick tick tick, his child had said to him, drilling into him with each heartbeat that he could not reverse time, could not stop it, and that he was racing headlong to old age and death. Now the message was even more biting; what if he only had a year left? Brian began to think over his life and regret that it was not fuller when he stopped himself. If he was going to go, it was not going to be like some whimpering little faggot. It was going to be with no excuses, no apologies, no regrets.



He was brought out of his thoughts by Mikey shifting in front of him. His friend cleared his throat, and Brian had to commend him for not going overemotionally berserk. Mikey kept his eyes fixed on Brian's. "Where is it now?"



"My bones. My upper right thighbone, to be exact."



"Oh God Brian. Shit."



"That's what I said."



Mikey's eyes were filling with tears and Brian felt the old anger come back that he had to be pitied, that his friends had to suffer. He didn't even want to think about why they might be sad. He wasn't fucking dead YET for God's sake. He reached over and squeezed Michael's shoulder. "Look, I'm alright. I'm doing okay. I'm having radiotherapy and the doctors are...optimistic." Filling Michael in on the important details; they can operate, it's treatable, have to wait and see; Brian felt numb, like it was happening to someone else. Some other poor sucker's fucking nightmare. Then Michael was talkative, full of suggestions of herbal remedies, adamant that he would NOT tell the others until he had to, overly optimistic; trying to cover the tears with exuberance. Brian was quiet, still, staring at the white rug and taking half-hearted puffs on another joint, held loosely between his fingers.



Finally, Michael took hold of Brian's hand and brought it down, looking into the evasive green eyes. "Have you told Justin?"



Brian sighed and rolled his eyes, making to get up off the coffee table, but Mikey kept hold of his hand and held fast. "Brian, have you told him?"



"No."



"Well, when are you going to?"



Brian looked calmly down at his friend. "I'm not."



Mikey immediately stood up, coming face to face with Brian. "No fucking way! You are not doing that to him again! There is no way on earth that I am going to let you lie to him after all he went through last time! He really loves you, you know, and..."



Brian cut him off. "MICHAEL! Unless you haven't noticed, we are NOT TOGETHER any more. We haven't spoken in 6 months. He has a new life in New York and I will be damned if I call him up and make him come running back with a sob story", he put on a whining voice, "poor Brian's got cancer, he needs you to come home and give up your dream!"



And when Michael just stared at him reproachfully, he continued, sighing. "Look, I will tell him - but there is no need right now. I'm feeling fine, and he has just had a huge show. If he comes running back out of a feeling of obligation now he will miss his big break and ruin his chances. No, I may be sick, but I'm not THAT sick. But when I am, Mrs Puddleduck, I will tell him. Have no fear."



Michael slowly nodded. He was clearly still unhappy with the idea, but saw the sense of it. After a minute of silence he slowly put his arms around his friend, feeling Brian's slowly come up around his back. They stayed there like that, embracing, all the cares of the world swirling with a dark foreboding, and the fading evening light tuning the wooden floor to gold.



***





New York

JUSTIN:



Floor littered with crumpled pieces of paper. Feet ache. Half-finished glasses of wine and whiskey recline on arms of chairs and edges of tables. Smug. Forgotten. Light caresses the blue curtains, toys with them. Eyes are tired. Paints lie expectantly in their wooden box, covers drawn up, colors closed up. Smell of exhaustion hangs in the air like smog. Breathing. Reaching. Grasping. Clothes in a pile on the floor, crumpled like felled soldiers. Smoldering ideas spread their wings and wait, like insubstantial waifs, while their host lies prone. Hollow as an autumn tree trunk. Used up. Spent. Peaceful.



I lay on my bed, covers tangled haphazardly over me, too tired and worn out and excited to tidy my messy apartment, or begin thinking about painting again. The show had been... intense. Hand after hand I had shaken, until they became a waving forest haunting my dreams. Face after face I had smiled at, until I no longer saw eyes, only glaring lipstick or sycophantic stubble. The energy which had surged into me upon seeing my name 'in lights', so to speak, and had carried me through the weeks of my show, had brought with it a feverish burst of effervescent yet unsubstantiated creation: I had drawn but scrunched up, painted but thrown away. And now the adrenalin had faded from my system like a drug wearing off, taking with it my illusion of vitality. I felt like a damp leaf squashed underfoot. Bled dry of my creative current, helpless but to drift in a clouded world of muted sounds and white oblivion.



It did not improve my mood to think of the young man I had caught following me on several occasions recently. I saw him first at an exposition at Mr Olsen's gallery; he had come up and introduced himself as an post-graduate art student, interested especially in modern art. I knew from the moment I saw the way he was looking at me that he was gay, and had felt a surge of arousal at the absolute freedom I felt: I could fuck this guy, he wouldn't object, and neither would anyone else. But I did NOT take him to the toilets. We exchanged a few banal words, then I excused myself as I was called by Mr Olsen who wanted to introduce me elsewhere. Since that evening, I had seen him more and more. He came to my exhibition and gushed to me as I tried to balance talking to several guests at once. He had caught up with me in the street and asked me where I lived, needless to say I did NOT tell him. After that he did not try to speak to me again, but I still saw his face staring at me in the most unusual situations, and it annoyed me, then it freaked me out. In a cafe, at the park, during a trip to the theatre, at a private gallery, in men's washrooms. Just a glimpse, but always the same: his face, smiling, white and moon-shaped, shining out of crowds or shadows and into my consciousness, making me uneasy. He was ubiquitous! I knew he was stalking me, and I knew that he was probably harmless, all the same, his constant yet indiscernible presence irked me.



Suddenly, I heard a sound outside the door to my apartment. Whether it was because I had been focusing on my stalker, or because I was still emotionally exhausted, I got up immediately, puling on a loose pair of grey sweat pants, and stood, heart pounding, listening in the centre of my floor. It was too early in the morning for it to be Adele with the paper and her usual happy chatter. The sound came again and I slowly reached for the heavy cane of wood used to prop up my spare easel: It was the sound of a person trying not to be heard. Getting closer to the door, the sound of breathing filtered through to me; heavy, suppressed breathing. Briefly closing my eyes and steeling myself, I flung open the door. The sight I beheld made me stand stock still, staring in disgust. There stood my stalker, I didn't even remember his name, his hair greasy and his face red, with his hand down his pants. Upon seeing me he stumbled back, zipping up his fly.



"What the FUCK are you doing here?" I asked, my hands on my hips, glaring at him but feeling the bubbles of laughter forming in my chest at his obvious embarrassment and the absurdity of the situation. "How do you know where I live?"



He swallowed before looking me straight in the eye. "I found out from a friend who knows Mr Olsen. I ...er... I wanted to come and see you, I thought that maybe we ..."



"Why have you been following me?"



His eyes lit up in a crafty smile, "Because you're hot."



I laughed and looked up at the doorframe. "And you think that by stalking me you can get me to fuck you."



He gazed levelly at me. He was tall, well built, with a mop of mousey hair and very dark eyes. He must have been in his late 20s and was dressed in a well cut pair of jeans and a casual shirt and sweater. He could see me looking and grinned.



"The name's Logan."



Later, after I had invited him in and we had fucked, we lay side by side on my bed, the sheets lightly covering us, and the morning light warming the room. He gazed at my abandoned easels and commented on my talent. Reluctantly I told him of my inspirational low, how nothing seemed to appear, and he laughed, assuring me that it happened to all his artist friends as well and not to worry. It was nice to talk to someone so casually, but I could not help the ache as I remembered the lazy hours lying curled up with Brian, talking, making out, just being in each other's presence.



It had not always been like that. In the beginning Brian had scorned all forms of affection and always abruptly left for a shower or a piss after sex. I had been so naive then, I had felt annoyed at his lack of endearment, unable to comprehend the reasons for his fear of commitment. Later I had understood, had seen the negativity drilled into him by his father, had seen how he was made as a child to feel so unwanted that he was afraid to love anyone because he felt he didn't deserve it. Brian Kinney was a complicated soul. But I had tried to show him, through my actions and my words, that I would NOT hurt him, would NOT leave him and break his heart. Sure, my infatuation with him had at first been driven by my sexual appetites and my adolescent attraction to his beauty. But even before the first year was up, I had seen other sides to him, sides he tried to hide from the outside world because they would tarnish his steel cold image; a generosity, a nobility, a morality, an unfathomable humility.



When, after throwing a fabulous birthday party for Michael, he had outed him and brought his world crashing around his ears, everyone had hated Brian. They had stormed out, throwing insults which struck him visibly, I could see, like arrows in his chest. Yet he had not fought back, or explained the reason for his pushing Michael away so strongly. Had not told them that it was the only way Michael could move on with David and forget Brian, had not allowed them to see what a selfless and caring thing he had done. Instead he had just stood there and taken the blame, the insults, the anger. But I had watched quietly and had put two and two together; things Debbie had said in the diner, the fact that Brian had also invited David to the party... I suspected I knew what was going on. And so I had stayed. Silently clearing up, because I knew words were useless and would not be welcome. I had seen how torn up he was by the loss of his best friend, and that, I think, is when I began to recognize the other sides of Brian. And I had fallen in love all over again.



***





Pittsburgh



Debbie decided that she was going to make Carl Horvath happy and marry him. Despite her still rock hard principles and her adamance to stand up for gay rights, some of her magnanimity had vanished along with her wigs. She WANTED to get married. After all, she was not young anymore, and she wanted to be a wife by the time she retired. IF she EVER retired. Carl, of course, was so shocked when she made the announcement that he nearly choked on his chicken breast and needed to be thwacked on the back by his betrothed before he could speak.



The next they told Michael and the others.



Ted said: "About time too!"



Brian said: "Now he can make an honest woman of you!"



Emmett said: "Oh Deb you MUST let me plan the wedding for you!"



Hunter said: "Jeez, aren't you too old to get married? I mean, what's the point?" earning him a cuff round the ear from the indignant bride.



Michael was relieved, having felt somewhat responsible for his mother's distinct lack of nuptials.



The day finally dawned and Mel and Linds, who had eagerly hurried down from Canada to attend the celebrations, left Gus with Brian and took their time-honoured make-up skills to the Novotny household. When they arrived they were greeted by Emmett, who had ushered Carl into a car and taken him to Michael and Ben's house to be dressed "because it is bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding!". Lindsey smiled to herself; it was certainly going to be a day to remember, if Emmett had anything to say about it. She thought back to her own wedding and the turmoil that had preceded, almost causing it not to happen. Arrangement after arrangement had gone wrong, and she had reached the stage where hopeless despair took over, and something more scary; an apathy, an acceptance... thinking perhaps God did not want homosexuals to have that kind of union...



And then Brian had come bursting into their lethargic morning despondency and Mel had jumped up from where she was sitting on the bed, as usual full of indignation and bristling with annoyance at him. Lindsey had just lain there, looking at his tousled hair, which shone in the little light that had wrestled it's way through the blinds. He had obviously not washed and his shirt was crumpled; he had stridden over to her side of the bed and she had felt his strong warm hand on her arm, pulling her up, and she had caught his intoxicating scent: tobacco, and sweat, and...Brian, but then she was dragged down, too shocked to protest, and bustled into his jeep along with an indignant Melanie. Brian, after having slammed the doors, swung himself silently into the driver's seat and started the engine, pulling away with his usual alarming speed. Lindsey had stared at the back of his head, at the soft curling hairs just above his collar, at the muscles of his strong graceful neck, partly hidden by the hood of his jacket. She had begun to suspect that he had engineered a miracle rescue, as he always did. Of course she knew he would deny it completely, preferring to stay anonymous, resented by others for his apathy, afraid to show that he cared because that would make him vulnerable, would allow him to be hurt. Lindsey remembered Debbie talking to her about Brian; "I'll never understand that man!!" she had said "To his friend's faces he acts like he couldn't give a shit, like he's a selfish un-caring asshole" She had snapped her gum and looked pointedly at Lindsey. "But he doesn't fool you and me huh? All those little things he does for his friends, in goddamn SECRET! Its obvious that he has a huge heart and cares very deeply... and in fact-" She looked surprised for a moment, "He's probably the most selfless and generous person I know!"



That day Brian had demonstrated what Debbie had said by coming into Lindsey's dressing-room when Mel was absent. He had stood with an almost tentative stance, and Lindsey was burning inside with all the appreciation and hugs she wanted to give him, but she knew he would not want it, indeed he denied all credit, so she asked him to do up her dress instead. Feeling his gentle fingers buttoning carefully, Lindsey allowed herself to sink back into her old fantasy for a moment... Him and her, their wedding. Him doing up her dress with husbandly love, both tentative and excited about what was to come... Brian had finished and she had turned to face him, seeing the devotion and nervousness in his eyes and feeling her heart would burst with gratitude. It took her completely by surprise when he held out two tickets, HIS tickets, to Miami. The trip he had been anticipating, he was giving it to her. Lindsey had stared at him, and Brian had shuffled in shyness: it was a hard and rare thing he was doing; not just giving up his holiday, but showing her he cared, letting her see the selflessness, making himself vulnerable. And she was so taken aback by his generosity that she refused outright, pushing the tickets back into is hands and peering into his downcast eyes, which had finally raised to meet hers. God, she loved this man so much. When he had kissed her in farewell; a chaste but lingering kiss, burning with all the memories, all the possibilities, all the certainties, she had felt tears welling but swallowed them quickly. Brian had always spoken more with his actions than with words.



Debbie was predictably hysterical during her nuptial preparations. Emmett had found a wonderful dress, flamboyant and colorful, and when Debbie had put it on the whole company had drawn in it's collective breath. It was a pale pastel blue, with a plunging V neck and straps studded with deep blue jewels which brought out her eyes. The skirt however was layered, the lower layers being a sophisticated pastel green, mirroring the shade of the material which covered the breasts like a high bodice. With Debbie's silver bob combed down and decorated with a pastel green band, she looked stunning and was actually speechless when she saw herself in a mirror. Emmett had dressed Carl in a navy suit and pastel green tie, and had decorated the rented chapel room with bright green branches and pale blue peonies, along with yellow and pink piccolas. Lindsey knew that Brian would turn up at the last minute with Gus, having not made a sufficient excuse to avoid the soppiness, so she called him.



"Brian?"



"That's me"



"It's Lindsey"



"I would never had guessed"



"Look, I want you to make sure Gus is presentable this afternoon, okay?"



"Don't worry. Mom. Your sonny-boy is going to look very butch. I've even started to shave..."



"BRIAN!"



"Okay, okay, keep your knickers on. We will NOT turn up in leather."



Lindsey laughed then smiled to herself. "Okay Dad, love you, see you later."



"Later."



The ceremony was joyful and full of laughter. Debbie countered everyone's expectations and just smiled the whole time but Michael, with JR on his lap, cried and needed to be handed tissues by Ben. Emmett had surpassed himself with the decorations; the pale gauze silks that hung from the windows fluttered in the breeze as they stood around afterwards nibbling at the buffet and laughing together. Brian brought Gus in his mini beige suit, with shiny little shoes and his hair, which was becoming dangerously close in color to Brian's, combed and neat. Lindsey sucked in her breath when she saw Brian; she was always surprised how well he scrubbed up. With a dark grey suit and blue tie, her friend looked dashing, sophisticated and aristocratic; quite opposite to the tousled rebel in the wife-beater top and jeans hung sexily from his hips. He saw her across the hall and smiled, walking over to her with Gus trotting behind and pecked her on the cheek with a fond but mischievous look. Lindsey felt so good to be home, and wondered whether she should tell him of her and Mel's latest conclusion: that it was no friendlier in Canada after all, despite the different laws, and that without their friends to support them they felt lonely and twice as victimized. That they were moving back to Pittsburgh... soon. She decided not to tell him, not yet, and contented herself with complimenting Gus's turnout and causing Brian to roll his eyes and laugh.



Debbie was jubilant, but at one point that afternoon she grew sad. "If only Sunshine could have been here!" She said to Jennifer who smiled understandingly and explained about Justin's latest success and the obligations it entailed, which kept him very busy. Brian overheard and looked down, pursing his lips. Debbie continued, "It is so exciting that our little Sunshine is becoming a famous artist!! I always said he would be the next Andy Warhol, didn't I? Soon it'll be the Louvre!!", provoking a rush of laughter which was carried up on the warm air to the gilded ceiling of the hall, bedecked with blue and green silks, where a pastel spring butterfly fluttered up and around the happy gathering before dodging out an open window and into the warm sky beyond.



***



New York

JUSTIN:



I nearly dropped my brush in shock, smudging the painting I was working on, when there came a frantic banging on my door. So loud, so desperate was it, that thoughts of fire and emergency fled through my mind and I got up quickly, wiping my hands on my apron and crossing hurriedly over the door, flinging it open to find... Mr Olsen, flushed, panting holding a big black briefcase, with a huge grin spread across his face. I put my hand to my chest.



"Jesus, you scared me. I thought perhaps..."



"Never mind that!" He gasped, pushing past me into my flat and crossing to my table and chairs, flinging his briefcase down on the tabletop before flinging himself into one of the chairs. Never had I seen him so ruffled. Cautiously I followed him in and made my way to my kitchen to get two glasses of liquor. He paid no attention to me and just continued to gush:



"You will never guess what?"



"No, I don't suppose I will."



"It is unbelievable! You will be famous! We will be rich!"



"What is it?" I came and sat down opposite him, pushing his glass over to him before crossing my arms over my chest. He glanced at the drink, glanced at me, took a gulp and leaned forward in his chair. "The unthinkable has happened, Mr Taylor! You have won it!"



"Won what?"



"What do you think, young man? The NEW YORK LIECHTENSTEIN ART AWARD!!!!"



I stared at him, my glass frozen in my hand. First Mr. Farthinstoke, then the solo show, now this? It seemed that someone or something was favoring me. I said this to Mr. Olsen and he stood up indignantly. "You don't give yourself enough credit my man! It is YOUR TALENT that has got you this far, and yours alone! You have shown all those dogmatic suckers what you are capable of! And you have also shown all those critical homophobes that gay artists are not talentless or vulgar or offensive! You have won the fucking Liechtenstein Prize, you fucking asshole!!!"



He clapped me on the back, spilling my drink, but I was to shocked to care. My mind was exploding with ideas and disbelief; my incredulity must have shown on my face because Mr. Olsen whisked me off for dinner to celebrate.



A couple of weeks after that I attended the award ceremony, packed with hundreds of artists and critics, all commending me. Boiling inside my tuxedo and feeling my legs shaking, I spied Logan's ecstatic face in the crowd and grinned back. Walking up to the platform. Receiving the glass sculpture, a sudden heavy cold weight in my hand. Shaking the presenter's hand, sweaty palms. The evening turned into a blur as I was approached, applauded, congratulated, complimented. The award came with a hefty prize: 10,000 dollars, and once news of my achievement reached the ears of the press and the arty bourgeois community in New York, my paintings started selling at an alarming rate. Mr Olsen came to my apartment one day to inform me, with a grave face but excitement twitching the corners of his mouth, that I was on my way to becoming rich. Having been raising the value of my paintings and consulting with his accountant, he confirmed that I now was able to start making a name for myself outside of New York. The demand for more pieces was growing every day; the Gagosian Gallery had requested a show and the Museum of Modern Art was showing certain interest. Mr. Olsen was practically hovering off the ground as he stared at me.



"Certainly, Justin, You are truly a REMARKABLE young man!"



***



Pittsburgh



Brian decided he needed a vacation. His doctor had decided to put the radiotherapy on a break for 2 weeks, fuck knows why, and Brian felt he could not stand to stay in the Pitts one day longer, with Mikey turning up unannounced at his apartment EVERY DAY, bearing more food than anyone could reasonably eat, and fussing about Brian losing weight. So he quietly booked a flight to Sydney, reasoning that he had never got to go before, and packed his bags, telling a distraught Mikey that he was FINE and would tie him from the ceiling by his balls if he tried to stop him. In truth he was not so fine, and he knew it. Some days, the pain had started to get the better of him, and the pills they prescribed made him frequently groggy. Thank god he had managed to hide these things from Mikey, otherwise he would NEVER leave his fucking side. God. Brian screwed up his eyes and shoved his hands into his back jeans pockets at the thought. His mother's saviour. And, she thought, his punisher. What if she was right? Well fuck her. She chose God over her son, and made it very clear why. Brian was selfish, insubordinate, untrustworthy, disgusting and condemned in her eyes. A person unfit for her society, the son she was ashamed of, the heartless sinner who was punished for his deeds. Brian blinked his eyes hard and looked up at the ceiling, letting a sigh out through his teeth. Fuck her. He never needed her love anyway. And there was no fucking reason to tell her. Not yet anyway.



Sydney was everything Brian had expected it to be; hot, bright, full of gorgeous men and charged sexuality. Palm trees lined the hot dusty streets in a neon nighttime glow, and guys with drawling Australian accents hung from railings, chatting with other visitors and flexing their perfectly toned muscles with festive abandon. Yet Brian was unable to enjoy it fully. When he was unwilling to take a trick to his hotel, he told himself that it was because he felt too exhausted, too drained to fuck. But he knew it was really because the rich swirl of male flesh meant nothing to him anymore, because it was not who he wanted.



Pale lithe body twisting in gentle illumination, blue eyes burning with understanding, making Brian feel so exposed and yet so loved at the same time. Fine strong jawline covered by soft skin, faint brush of stubble against his palm. Silky full lips opening in a gasp, or against his own, bruising, caressing, igniting. Long milky hands grasping a poised pencil, or held in his, or stroking his body, tracing unintelligible patterns. Blonde hair slightly stiff with gel, grasped gently in his hand, tousled in the mornings. And the smile, the million-watt smile that lit up a room and made Brian's heart leap in his chest. Truly, it was a curse to know someone this well and to love them this much.



***



End of Chapter 5