Moth for The Star

People have been encouraging me to put in some more 'action' (LOL!) so it starts hotting up now, as I pluck up the courage to add a bit of smut! :-) Without further ado, my dears! Enjoy, and please comment! ^_^





606 - One feeling (Chapter 6)







*4 months later* September 2006





One word is too often profaned

For me to profane it;

One feeling too falsely disdained

For thee to disdain it.

- Shelley





New York

JUSTIN:



Using the money I had earned from recent purchases of my paintings, I had bought myself a car: a silver BMW Z4. It was my pride and joy. Unused to splashing out on extravagances, it took me awhile to adjust to the flashy little vehicle, but soon I was zipping around Manhattan in glee. The car, as well as being incredibly useful in getting me to the new studio I had rented (my apartment had become too small for my growing enterprise), had made me finally feel part of the fast-paced New York society. Made me feel independent. It was almost a 'rite of passage' as Vic would have said, proving to the world that I was successful, and finally my own man. Logan and I would sprawl in it as we drove down Park Avenue, yellow-eyed streetlights glinting off the sleek side of the car and the evening breeze blowing fresh in our hair. Life was good, I felt. Pushing down regret at missing Deb's wedding, and the chocking fear that the sound of Brian's voice was becoming a foggy memory, I focused on my art, producing energetic paintings on no theme in particular.



But one day in late summer, I had realized that ignoring the demons was no longer an option. Logan was at my flat; we were slightly but happily tipsy. After chatting for a while; about my show at the Museum of Modern Art, about one of his friends who had been mugged in the red-light district; he stood up and began slowly peeling of his clothes. I sat back and laughed, watching as he pulled his shirt up over his head, revealing bunched-up pecs. This was good, this took away all other thought.



Logan had came forward smiling, his trousers still on, and pulled me up by my arms, leading me over to the bed. I had grinned and then gasped as he pushed me down onto the mattress. Usually I was the dominant one, and seeing him this eager was sweet. But soon all thoughts had left my head as he ran his hands up inside my t-shirt and I lost myself to the sensation. His fingers were cool on my hot skin, and the feel of the soft tips brushing over the downy hair just below my navel was bliss. I had let him pull my top over my head as he had done, before sitting up to meet his mouth. Our kisses were sloppy and somewhat awkward; his mouth had covered mine, hungry, taking without giving back. His tongue was hot and his breath smelled slightly, but I kissed him back because this, just this, the physical sensation, was all I needed right now. However, I could not help but remember how different Brian's kisses had been.



He had used kisses like words, speaking all the unsaid things between us. His lips were soft, so soft, and the gentle click of our teeth as we connected had turned me on so much. Five years of kissing him and I knew his mouth, like the rest of him, so well. The way his little vampire tooth pointed out slightly, almost imperceptibly. The voluptuous swell of his lips... truly he had the most beautiful lips of any man I know. The way he would kiss me sometimes hard, desperate, when I welcomed it; our passion mingling without explanation or rationalization, our limbs tangling together... his confident seduction, when he licked my lips and made me shudder, when he stuck his tongue in my unsuspecting mouth and held me still, made me grasp, trying to bring his head closer to mine...closer and closer and closer. And yet he had always been aware of my needs, listened with his mouth, moved with me. And there had been the times his kissed me gently, oh so slowly. Those had been some of the best times; the easy relaxed kisses that whispered so much: I love you I love you I love you. The feather soft kisses after I had suffered a nightmare, as if he were afraid I would break; when I could just close my eyes and nestle my head against his chest and feel the gentle pressure of his lips upon my hair.



Logan had removed his pants and was tugging on mine, an elfish grin on his face. His mousey hair was tousled; it had grown in the couple of months we had known each other and was now long and shaggy. His cheeks were flushed and I had felt my own cock growing hard from looking at him and anticipating what we would do next. Usually I fucked him, and I had let him fuck me a couple of times, but now he lay back and looked at me expectantly, his member standing upright, engorged, waiting. I had glanced up at him. "You want me to suck you off?" He had licked his lips, and nodded, eyes glinting. So I moved my attention back down to his cock. It was a good size, not quite as big as Brian's or mine, but thick and puerile. It was now a dark color and very hard, and so I tried to forget about how much it made me miss Brian and slowly closed my fingers around the shaft. It was hot, and the skin was slightly wrinkled and I had started moving my hand up and down in a lazy motion. Logan groaned, and I licked my lips. It wasn't that I didn't like giving head, in fact I loved it: It turned me on unfailingly. It was just that it always hit home when I sucked dick now, how different it had been with Brian. One cannot describe the feeling of loving someone so much, adoring every inch of their bodies; it is overwhelming, it feels like your every pore is crying out to connect, to touch, to please them. That kind of love is so powerful it almost hurts. And when I gave Brian head, there was that pulsating emotion, memories of all we had been through flashing in the air around like so many glittering arrows. And I knew his cock so well,and found it so goddamn beautiful... not because it was perfect, for it wasn't, but because it was HIS. The jarring LACK of intimacy now always hit me hard: With men I did not know, did not care for, sucking their dicks was an effort and sometimes disgusted me.



But I closed my mouth over Logan's erection, covering my teeth with my lips and beginning the pulling motion with a slight twist, judging by his gasp and the way he clutched at the sheets that I had done the right thing. Closing my mind to the memories that hovered, threatening to crash into my mind and render me helpless to emotion, I concentrated on licking and sucking, bringing him to the edge. After a while he stared panting and I could feel a sweat break out on his lover abdomen. I continued to tease the head of his penis, running my tongue around beneath the hood, before finally making the decision to deep throat him. It was not that hard, as he was fairly short, but I could only bear to hold it for a few seconds before pulling off. He grabbed at my head, and I went back to give him more. He was near climax and I continued, mercilessly, drawing an evil pleasure in having so much control of another person, but then I felt his balls tightening and he grabbed my head. "Swallow me" he gasped and I panicked.



I had swallowed other men's come before: It was not a taboo subject for me, yet the thought of swallowing someone's jizz that was not Brian disgusted me. It was a new level of intimacy, and new level of trust that I had only ever reached with him. And fuck, did I love to swallow Brian. The taste of him sent shivers down my spine and I relished the feeling of his hands clutching at my hair as I swallowed around his cock. I had sucked Brian off, god, it must be hundreds of times, and every time I adored feeling his come in my mouth, bitter-sweet and so... him. God, I had loved it. Had striven to make him shoot in my mouth when he hadn't intended to, just because I wanted the ultimate closeness, the slightly lewd coupling that would show him how much I loved and trusted him.



But with Logan... I couldn't. Not because I did not like or trust him, he was a nice man and very sweet, but because I suddenly could not bear to allow that kind of intimacy with anyone but Brian. Logan's come seemed to me suddenly alien and disgusting, and I did not want it anywhere near my mouth. So, even though his hands sought to keep me where I was, I pulled off, and finished him with my hand, fighting to keep myself from retching when he shot over my duvet. I could feel the tension in my hand which started whenever I was emotionally off-balance or under unpleasant stress, and when Logan sat up to look at me I avoided his eyes.



"Why didn't you finish it?" He asked, hands reaching for a towel to clean himself up, eyes boring into me.



My mouth was dry. "I don't know..."



"Was it just me? Don't you like me?"



"No, it's not that, Logan. I just.. I can't explain."



He was sitting up now. "Thats okay. If it's not me, how about trying again next time?"



My head snapped up. "No."



"What?"



I looked at his puzzled brown eyes, darkened with a hint of annoyance, the smell of his come hanging around us and repulsing me. "I'd just rather not."



"Have you done it before?"



I forced a laugh "Of course!"



"With whom?"



"With my partner in Pittsburgh".



"So what's wrong with me?"



I paused. I couldn't take this anymore. "You're not him."



Logan had glared at me, before standing up abruptly and pulling on is clothes. I sat on my ruffled bed and watched as he roughly gathered together his things and headed for the door, pausing to spit out: "You know, you may be hot, but you are not even that good a fuck. I don't know why I stayed with you for so long!"



I didn't know either. In the big bustling empty world of New York, I guess it was something to pass the time. Until what? I sighed angrily, brushing away the tears which squeezed out between my eyelids, and slowly pulling on my clothes. I REALLY had to stop living like I was going to go back to Brian, like my life was just a vacation until I could see him again.



***





Pittsburgh





Michael could feel his heart thumping in his chest as he made his way to Brian's loft. His friend had not turned up at Babylon that night to celebrate the arrival of Mel and Linds, who had moved back to Pittsburgh. Michael felt like his head would burst from the stress, the anger, the effort of holding in his worry, holding back the secret he promised he would keep for Brian until it was unavoidable. He had laughed with the others, made up some flimsy excuse for Brian when they had asked where he was, and then excused himself and hurried to the loft. Walking quickly along the lamp-lit pavement, he cursed himself, cursed Brian for wanting to keep his sickness quiet until absolutely necessary. But he understood it too. He knew how Brian hated to be pitied, and as long as the others didn't know, he could continue to live an approximation of a normal life, and fool himself. Thoughts and images flashed through Michael's brain: Why had Brian not arrived? Had he forgotten? Did he have treatment today? Finally he reached the loft and took the stairs two at a time, reaching the huge grey expanse of Brian's door and banging on it with his fist.



What do you do when the one person who you have looked up to all your life, who has always been the leader, the strong one, your supporter, is reduced to a disease? When the possibility that he may not last the year sears into your brain, however hard you try to ignore it. Michael had lain awake at night, unable to tell Ben what was wrong, thinking about his friend. Daring, sexy, beautiful Brian. Michael knew it was cliché, but he found himself thinking: Why him? Why Brian? Why not some decrepit old man who was ready to go? To watch Brian, who was so full of vitality, had so much going for him, become gradually paler, and loose muscle tone, although he insisted on continuing to visit the gym, was heart-breaking. Michael tried not to think about himself, but he could not help it and had premonitions of doom and of being left alone. Life was so unfair. But then he thought of Brian and he felt even worse. Michael could not even begin to imagine what it must be like to be dying, fighting a cruel disease within your own body, passed on to you by your father. Michael pictured Brian's face that first day he had seen him, had lost his heart to the lean boy with the dark shock of hair who was introduced to his class. Even then, Brian had emanated a keen intelligence, and Mikey had been drawn to his tortured personality as well as his physical beauty.



The first time Brian had asked if he could sleep over, Mikey had known it was because of his father. He had picked up snippets of information by things Brian had casually let slip, pretending not to care, and his heart had ached for his friend, trying so hard to hide the bruises on his arms and refusing to acknowledge the pain. They had lain in the dark comfortable silence of his room, listening to the faint sounds of Debbie clearing up dinner downstairs, and Mikey had peeked over at the silhouette of his friend, whose face was turned to the black ceiling. He had made out the straight bridge of Brian's nose, but couldn't see whether his eyes ere open or not. After that Brian had slept over often and Debbie had been slightly bemused by his constant presence. If she knew why he comes here, Mickey had thought, she wouldn't be half so judgmental.



One day, when he was 15, Mikey was woken from his sleep by a sharp *crack* at the window. He lay with baited breath until it came again, like someone was throwing a hard object at the glass. He hurriedly got up and padded over, pulling up the blinds and looking down at the moonlit figure of Brian, standing like a forgotten waif, another pebble ready in his hand. After Mikey had tiptoed downstairs and let him in, he saw that his friend had a bleeding black eye and a cut lip. Mikey bit his tongue, knowing that Brian did not like talking about it, and led him to the bathroom where he could clean himself up. Later that night, as he saw Brian fall into a fitful sleep, his long lashes flickering uneasily, Mikey had wished he could find the right words to re-assure him, to make it all better, to tell him he was loved. If not in his own house then at least in Mikey's.



There was no answer at the door so Michael slowly slid it aside, unsurprised to find it open. He walked into the huge open space with it's sloping ceiling and polished floors, calling Brian's name. The kitchen was clean and empty, but the kettle was on, nearly at the boil. Brian's briefcase sat by his desk in the corner, and the light above the bed was on, shedding bizarre creamy-white illumination into the apartment. Then he heard a sound coming from the bathroom and hurried up the steps, coming to the doorway of the on-suite. The sight that met his eyes made his breath catch in his throat.



Brian was sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up and his forehead resting on his arms. His face was invisible but Michael could see he was exhausted from the slump of his shoulders. Michael wondered how he could have missed how ill Brian looked: He had refused to let Mikey come and care for him, or take him to hospital appointments, but now Michael could see that his shoulders were angular, and the bones of his neck where his head was bent down stuck out like rounded spines. Michael dropped to his knees in front of his friend, and tentatively put out a hand to rest on Brian's knee, prompting the other to look up and smile weakly.



"I figured you would come in eventually. It seems nothing can keep you out."



"What the fuck happened to you, Brian?"



Brian swallowed, and Michael had to fight the urge to just throw his arms around him, hold him tight, never let him go. Protect Brian like Brian had protected him all those years, fight away the demons with his bare fists. But instead he gazed at Brian's face, kicking himself for not noticing how hollow his cheeks had become and how his skin was almost bloodless, his eyes huge and dark in his pale face. Brian sighed, and shifted a little on the cold hard tiles of the floor.



"I'm just having a bad day, that's all. They nuked me again yesterday and I think I have a slight case of radiation poisoning." He finished with a hint of sarcasm.



Mikey was about to say something sympathetic when Brian pushed past him, lurching to the toilet and retching, his knuckles white as he gripped the toilet seat. Michael's hand came up to his mouth and he felt the tears come to his eyes as he watched the suffering before him. He felt completely helpless and he was angry. Angry that he had to see Brian, whose body had always been so sleek and beautiful, become racked with sickness, reduced to the stereotype of an emaciated cancer patient. Brian Kinney was supposed to be immortal, goddamnit. Michael did not have words strong enough to express the feelings that coursed through him as he watched his friend's heaving back, spine showing slightly through the plain white T-shirt.



Mikey looked back to the kitchen. "You haven't eaten anything, you've got nothing to throw up."



After a minute Brian turned around, giving a bitter laugh as he closed the toilet seat. "Try telling my stomach that."



"Do you want something to drink?"



"Yeah, some mint tea, the kettle is on."



Later, they sat in the living room area, curled up on the sofa, and Brian told Michael that they were planning to operate. Soon.

"They've started pre-operative chemotherapy" he said, looking into his cup. "And let me tell you, Mikey, radiation is NOTHING to how you feel after they have pumped what could be the entire contents of the radioactive sewer into you. Its... Fucking shitty." He chuckled sullenly. "Just promise me you will find me a nice wig when my hair fall out - and NOT one of Deb's!"



Michael stared at him, knowing that Brian was trying to make light of a terrible situation. He leaned over and grasped Brian's hand. "You are not going to loose your hair, you hear me? You WILL get better from this, because you are a fighter." He peered at Brian, who was staring at the coffee table, his face expressionless. "Look at me. Hell, you are the strongest person I know. You can always pull it off. You are Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake!" Mikey smiled a little at the old words as he said them, before the gravity of the situation hit him and he fell silent. Brian put his arm around Mikey's neck for a minute and then pushed him away.



"Go on, get back to the party, they'll be wondering where you are."



"You don't need me here?"



"I'm fine, Mikey, I'm feeling better now. Just go and send my apologies, and congratulations, and whatever the fuck else they want to hear."



So reluctantly Mikey left him; after arranging a pot of soup he picked up his things and headed out. When he got to the door and had slid it open, he turned and looked at Brian, who was sitting on the couch and looking through his huge window over Pittsburgh, and Michael was struck by how empty the apartment looked. Faint sounds of traffic permeated the stillness and ethereal lights from outside shone through the gauze curtains. The floor gaped wide, shining yet missing something, the bed seemed huge and irrelevant in the centre, the kitchen was unused and lonely. Mikey knew what was missing, and let out his breath sadly, before closing the door and heading down, back out in the night.



***





New York

JUSTIN:



Bleep bleep. An email.



Hiya there!

Greetings from Pittsburgh! We are all doing well over here - you have heard that Mel and Linds have moved back *Hooray!* and we are all very happy to have them amongst us again. I know Brian is pleased to see more of Gus too, even though he will never admit it!

Now, to the reason for my email: I am going to be coming to fabulous New York for a weekend, my dearest painter! Have been asked to organize a wedding and need to check out the venue myself *sigh*. Anyway, was wondering whether you still remember your old friends down in the humble Pitts and would like to meet up with me, possibly even let me stay in your apartment? Of course, no pressure dearest. If your answer is 'yes' to the above, we shall have a fantastic time- Debbie is already threatening to load me up with food to bring you! If not, of course don't worry. I understand that as a prolific painter you must be very busy, but I WOULD love to come and ambush you for a while!

All the best,

Emmett

x



I grinned as I recognized the old queen enthusiasm that I had so missed, and immediately sent back an email confirming that Emmett WOULD be staying with me, with no argument, and to prepare himself to be be shown Manhattan on the weekend of his stay. It arrived fairly quickly. I drove the Z4 to the airport to pick him up and spotted him standing by the pick-up area. Indeed he was hard to miss, in bright orange jeans and a blue stripy top, his hair streaked with highlights and holding a huge pink suitcase. I stifled a laugh as I pulled up alongside other cars and waved. He did not see me. Rather his eyes skimmed over me, and the other waving people in cars. I waited and then got out of the car, standing, holding the door open, until I caught his eye. His mouth dropped open as he recognized me, and he literally bolted over before leaping into my arms.



"Oh my God! Honey, I didn't recognise you! You look so... I don't know how to describe it!"



I laughed. "Successful? Handsome? Independent? Famous?"



"Thats it! Oh sweetie you look fabulous! And WHAT A CAR! You are quite the gentleman now! This is unbelievable! And I didn't think you could get more beautiful!"



We drove back in companionable silence and spent the weekend cruising round the gay bars; Emmett was awestruck by the New York men.



"Oh my god, Justin!" He exclaimed, "How do you resist? If it were me I wouldn't find time for anything else! I'd be addicted to the men!"



I didn't tell him how relieved I was to see an old face, how refreshing his enthusiasm had been in contrast to the stuffy connections I had made in Manhattan. We lounged in my apartment and I asked about back home, laughing at the latest stories and promising to come and visit when there was a break in the onslaught of commissions and shows. When he went back, leaving me with bags of cookies from Debbie, I went out alone to the clubs, wanting to fuck my brains out and get blindingly, dizzily, obliviously drunk.





***





Pittsburgh





Debbie cornered Michael when he came round to collect some home-made brownies. Knowing her son better than anyone else, she could sense when something was wrong, And so she had sent Carl away on an errand, and stood in front of Michael.



"So, are you going to tell me what's wrong?" She demanded, hands on hips, chewing on her gum. (Some habits die hard) "Or am I just going to have to guess?"



Michael shifted to the other foot and turned away, busying himself with packing away the brownies into a plastic tub. But Debbie would not give up that easily. "Hey, I'm talking to you! Since when do you have the right to ignore your mother?"

Brown eyes slowly raised to meet her flaring blue ones. Michael stood still for a moment and then he sighed, clicking the lid on the tub and leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms across his chest. He knew he could not withhold it any longer. And to be truthful he didn't fucking want to. Debbie waited and finally Michael spoke, deciding that it was best to just take the plunge and have it over with.



"Brian's sick."



He watched the tiny changes in Debbie's face which registered when she was scared or upset or shocked. After a pause she spoke in a small voice; "How sick? ...What's wrong? ...Is it..."



"No, it's not AIDS." Michael swallowed. "It's the cancer. It's... come back."



Debbie raised her hand to her chest as she gasped in a breath, and then her face crumpled. Michael could see the tears welling in her eyes and wished he had an easier way to tell her. But there was no way to pad the hard edges of the truth. Debbie wanted the details and Michael dazedly told her what he knew and elicited her secrecy, apprising her that Brian didn't want anyone to know for the time being. She was understandably furious that Michael had known for months and not notified her before, but then she was just overcome with pity and worry for Brian. Bustling around the kitchen, starting to cook soup and other foods for him, she drowned her fears in activity. Michael left her to go up to his room, where he sat in stunned silence for a while, before lying down on his bed and crying silently into his pillow.



***



Brian sat at his computer, staring at the screen. Kinnetik was highly successful, which meant more fucking paperwork for him to do. Great. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and blinked his eyes, trying to concentrate on the numbers on the monitor. This was a good day, but hell, he still did not want to concentrate on fucking math... wasn't that what his accountant was for anyway? Suddenly there came a quiet knock on the door. Brian frowned; it couldn't be Mikey, because Mikey always banged on the door, never knocked, and he wasn't expecting any visitors. It came again, and Brian got up and hauled open the sliding gate, blinking to find Debbie on the other side, smiling and holding a whopping casket of food.



She pushed her way in and Brian found himself smiling. "You know, I'm not housing the entire American army in my flat, much as I'd like to." He said, following her to the kitchen and leaning against the beam as she set it down. "There is no way any normal human being could eat all that."



Debbie grinned. "Well, you know me, I'm Italian. Its in my genes to cook too much food and then try to force people to eat it! Say... do you have a joint?"



Brian laughed and pushed the pot over to her. After helping herself, she went to sit at the table and he followed her, watching as she drew thoughtfully on the spliff.



"You know, you may be developing quite an addiction to that stuff. And me." Brian added with mock exasperation. But Debbie did not reply. She puffed away, cocked her head and then turned to look at him out of the corner of her eye; "So, when were you gonna tell me?"



Brian felt his heart sink. He didn't even try to act naive. "When I had to."



"You mean when they tell you that you have 3 weeks to live and to write your fucking will?"



Brian fiddled with the table cloth before raising his head to look Debbie in the eye. "Well it beats the hell out of being pitied and mollycoddled to death. They don't think it's terminal anyway." He sighed. "I'm going in for the op in two weeks and they say that if they can continue to fry me with radiation and poison me with chemo I stand a good chance." He let out a short laugh. "Bit of an oxymoron huh?"



He felt helpless suddenly. He was too fucking tired to care whether Debbie knew. Too tired to care about being pitied. Too tired to fight to maintain his flawless image. And he was grateful, in a strange way, when Debbie stood up, came around the table and grasped him in a hug, crushing his head to her bosom. Kissing his hair and stroking it like a child's. Whispering reassurances into the still apartment. Later, after she had released him, she sat back down and stared at him until he met her eye, and he knew he was in for a lecture.



"You are a fucking stubborn little shit, you know that?" She said, voice chocking slightly. "You refuse to let anyone care for you, to see what's underneath the shell. And the only reason Sunshine got through is because he is such a persistent little hero and put up with all your shit before you finally let him in. Why is that? Why must you always insist on doing things on your own, on refusing help. Why do you make yourself into an island?" She paused a minute, and Brian stayed silent, knowing she was not finished.

"I'll tell you why it is. Its because you are afraid of being hurt. You're afraid that if you admit yourself to be vulnerable, you will be able to feel pain that you deny. As long as you are Mr-I'm-fucking-immune-to-humanity you are safe. Well, I'm sorry to break it to you honey, but you're not fooling anyone. Your actions give you away." Brian looked at her at this point and Debbie reached out a hand to cover his on the table. "I've seen you sacrifice everything for your friends. I've seen you put your heart on the line for another's happiness. I've seen you caring for another so tenderly. So why not quit the tough-guy routine, huh? And let your friends in. I'm not going to tell them, (although you have my sworn promise that I WILL if I see fit) but I think you better think long and hard about whether YOU want to tell them. Whether they would want to know."



After a while she left and Brian stood alone in his empty apartment, swallowing the inexplicable anger and sadness that washed over him. He briefly thought of Justin, gentle blue eyes fixed on his as they lay companionably side-by-side on the rug, but pushed the images away when they caused his throat to tighten and his chest to hitch. Justin was now in New York, enjoying the well earned success that Lindsey had been so sure he deserved. He was probably at a posh arty dinner or painting in a fabulous studio that very moment, hair messy and covered in paint, eyes shining with a feverish creative light as they always did when he was stuck in a painting. Brian turned on his heel and strode over to the counter, pouring himself a glass of water, he was unsure he could stomach anything else, and then stood in the centre of the floor, sipping it and fighting off the overpowering realization that he still loved Justin more than life itself.



***





New York

JUSTIN:





I stood back from the massive canvas and stretched my neck, looking around my spacious studio. I rented it from a gracious lady who had leased it to artists for decades. It was huge, as big as Brian's loft, and had massive skylights in the roof which let cascades of light tumble down onto the concrete floor. As my projects became larger and more ambitious I appreciated the extra room it afforded me; I had thrown myself into my work since my break with Logan and found myself painting on themes, trying to express myself, change people's minds, through the sheer energy of my work. The painting which now stared back at me across the floor was of a young man.



Beautiful beyond compare, with sleek muscles and shining hair, he is sprawled casually beside a pool. Beside, above and below him are silhouettes, repetitions of his form which flares with bright oranges and reds. Unlike him, they are not composed, rather wild, and flailing, one reaching up to the heavens, one peering into the glimmering silver of a pool, one chained and straining out of the water. It is Narcissus.



After commission from a collector, I had agreed to create the massive work and had spent a night researching and reading, intruiged by the tale: Narcissus, in Greek Mythology, was a hero from Thespiae who was renowned for his beauty. Disdaining those who love him, he falls in love with his reflection in a pool, not realizing it was his own, and perishes there, unable to leave the beauty of his own reflection. I had snorted as I thought back over all the pec implants and shaved chests in the gay clubs of New York and Pittsburgh; truly if there is anyone to have a narcissus complex, it's a fag. And yet... and yet... As beautiful as a buffed-up body is, I had not lied when I told Debbie and the others in the diner that Hollywood's hunks had become boring. Perfection IS boring, especially when it is engineered.



My mind naturally dragged me back, and I thought of Brian's body. It was not perfect, not by a long shot, but love is not about that. I had learnt, memorized, every inch of him, loved every inch of him, not because it was perfect but because it was HIM. Of course I had drooled over his physical beauty when I first saw him, but after a while I had learnt the little flaws, and loved him for them. How he had a few fine hairs around his nipples, and in the centre of his chest; how his eyes were no pure color, rather an explosive mix of hazel and green mingling and changing in different light; how his hair, at the back above his collar, never lay flat however much he wanted it to; how his lips became chapped in the cold winter weather; how he had a gentle dusting of hair between his brows, almost imperceptible to the eyes but soft to the lips. To know someone so well is not a turn off, as is so often assumed, but a huge stimulation. To be familiar with every movement he made, to know the exact spots which made him gasp. And to know that he was imperfect underneath the cocky front, to hear the little hitch in his breath when he wanted to groan but wouldn't let himself, to watch him learn to trust me over the years, to let me in.



The afternoon I had come back from campaigning against Stockwell to find him standing in his loft, arms folded across his chest, watching as removal men emptied it of his possessions, I had been nonplussed. I knew he had lost his job, but did not think his lifestyle was decadent enough to merit his things being repossessed. I had gone over to him, tried to take his arm in mine, tried to understand why he was selling his painting, and his TV, and his designer table. He had turned, looking me in the eye with an expression close to amusement. Revealed that he had paid for the anti-Stockwell commercial out of his own pocket. And I had loved him so much, suddenly, in that absurd moment, because he had finally proven what I knew all along: That he cared. That he may have acted like a callous prick, but he really had the biggest heart of anyone I knew. He just did not like to take the credit for it. I had chuckled as he had gazed at me and said "I think I'm experiencing possession withdrawal. I need to lie down." Then I had followed him to the bed where he had thrown himself down, still managing to look sexy, and I had lain beside him and kissed him. He had been passive that night, as I gave him an intense blow-job then gently topped him. I wanted to show him my thanks, show him my fierce pride in him, my awe that he had sacrificed everything for the cause. Ladies and gents, meet Brian Kinney: noble saviour of Liberty Avenue.



Nothing, not even the most gorgeous body in the world, could surpass Brian, for me. Love is irrational, unpredictable, unstoppable, unforgettable, and unconditional. And I knew I still loved him deeply, tried to grasp out at the little memories: the musty rich smell of him after a workout, the way he threw his head back almost in pain as I rode him, the slick feel of his sweaty skin under my fingers, how his hair always fell in his eyes in bed in the mornings, before he had got up and combed it. Truly, perfection is overrated, I thought, as I pulled up my stool and went back to work on the painting, my arm moving with vigor as my brush layered navy onto the base with thick sure strokes.







***



End of Chapter 6

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