Chapter Text
“They’re watching! They’re always watching.”
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to remember that.” Brian shoved the trick’s shoulder. This guy needed to get out of his damn apartment already, even if Brian didn’t particularly like returning to an empty bed.
But an empty bed was still preferable to waking up stabbed or robbed blind, which he could not rule out. Or to committing murder himself, which he wouldn’t rule out either considering the trick’s babbles were starting to sound like his mother whenever she found Brian or Claire hiding shit.
God always sees. The Lord is always watching.
The trick stumbled down the stairs, mumbling to himself. “Gotta get away from their eyes.”
By all means, please. The sooner the better.
“You should go too,” the man hollered. “Before they see you.”
Nope. Brian slammed and locked his door in answer.
Christ. The sky outside was already starting to lighten, stars fading in violet steam. So much for sleep. He staggered towards the window, checking to make sure the guy actually left. Sure enough, the man crossed the street and broke into a run.
Okay, come on, the fuck hadn’t been that bad.
They’re watching! Well, if “they” were, he hoped they’d given a good show.
Brian rolled his eyes to himself and flopped back into bed. Even an hour or so would help, right?
He could almost hear Justin lecturing him after laughing at him when he heard this story, but his arm found only dissipating warmth on the other side of the bed.
Of course, Brian then overslept his fucking alarm. Goddammit. Brian swore as he clambered to get ready for work. He headed towards his car.
Someone jumped into the car behind him, pulling out after him. Brian thought nothing of it until they turned where he turned.
The fuck?
No, he was just letting sleeplessness and his crazy trick peck at him and turn him into a paranoid idiot. Brian tuned it out, focusing on beating the yellow lights on his way to caffeine, that magic light switch in his brain.
“Well, someone still needs his beauty sleep!” called a voice as he strode into the Liberty Diner.
“Speak for yourself, Honeycutt.” The aromas of coffee, hash browns, and bacon spread through the Liberty Diner.
Brian didn’t have time for breakfast today, though. Coffee and done.
“Was he good?” Emmett draped himself over the counter. “Ted’s already at work, y’know. I told him his boss not being here probably meant he was gonna be late, but he said, Brian’s never late , and took off before he even ate. Blake did say he’d drop something off, though.”
“I am never late. I make my own hours.” Brian made a face at Emmett as he planted his elbows on the counter. Hunter waved, pouring a cup of beautiful coffee.
“So, was he—”
“He was insane,” Brian said.
“Size? Positions? Or—”
“Literally insane.” Brian pointed at his temple. “Actually certifiable.”
Emmett blinked.
“Kept saying people were watching us through the window.”
Emmett laughed. “Are you serious?”
Did the circles under his eyes not give him away? Brian glared. After all the rambling about spies and the government all damn fucking night, during which Brian really wanted to kick him out but also really didn’t want to put in the effort, the standard Liberty Diner chatter rolled into his eardrums like rough pebbles scraping and pelting, rather than mimicking the cadence of slow, sleepy music.
But there were voices missing today. As there always were lately. Even if Brian had made it to meet Ted and Blake, even if Michael and Ben were still here, Justin, Lindsay, and Melanie wouldn’t be.
Emmett raised his hands. “Sounds rough.”
“Yeah, he eventually ran out of my apartment stark naked at six in the morning.”
Emmett gaped.
Brian shrugged. “My neighbors have seen worse.”
“Maybe he was right.” Emmett lowered his voice. “Three o’clock hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”
Brian glanced over his shoulder. “Not the same guy, and I’ve got work.”
“Oh my God, he broke your dick,” Emmett said. “I don’t think I’ve ever—”
“I really just want a latte, Emmett.”
“Well, I’ve gotta go to work too, since I’m, y’know, not the boss, but good luck with that.” Emmett waved.
Brian rubbed his skull. “Can I get a latte already, foundling?”
Hunter gave him a thumbs up instead of his usual sass. Great. The government probably was spying on all of them, and Hunter had probably been replaced with a reprogrammed robot that actually smiled and was polite.
“Don’t you see them?” the trick had demanded. “The lights from across—”
What to say to that, Brian didn’t know, but it was apparently not “s treetlights reflect against glass, you know .”
“Dude, you won’t believe what happened last night.” Hunter leaned across the counter.
“The government replaced you with—”
“No, no, not your crazy trick. But I’ve never seen Ben so pissed off—well, aside from the time he beat someone up, but—”
“Okay, okay,” Brian interrupted. “You gonna tell me, or what?”
“Some creepy-ass reporter came to our house! Kept trying to talk to Michael about the bombing. Ben told her to leave politely, and then she wouldn’t. Like, she came around back, she called, she—”
“Tell Michael he can file a harassment report,” Horvath said in his raspy voice. Brian nodded to him in greeting.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think that’ll help your case, since she kept asking if Michael was pissed they hadn’t caught the bomber yet.” Hunter ran his hand through his hair. “She also knew that he was basically your stepson, by the way. She asked if it caused friction.”
“What was she, yelling questions like the paparazzi?” Brian asked wryly. Of course the kid exaggerated.
“Pretty much, yeah.” Hunter nodded. The guy who had been cruising Brian rose. Too skinny for Brian’s type.
“Well, tell Mikey he’s made it big.” Brian rolled his eyes and grabbed his coffee. He turned away from the cruiser.
“Sorry,” Horvath said to him. Hunter was called away to a table.
Huh? “For what?”
“What he—”
Brian waved his hand. “Don’t care.”
“I’m really doing—”
“No, Horvath, not about that,” Brian interrupted, turning around. “I don’t—” He stretched his fingers up towards the ceiling. “I’m not that invested. It doesn’t matter whether you catch him or not. There will always be someone else.”
Horvath pressed his lips together. “Well, it’s important to me that there’s one less someone else.”
Fair enough. “If you really want to catch him, ask your wife.” Common-law wife. Whatever Debbie was now.
“I am.” Carl gave a nod. “Though you’re not half-bad yourself for getting Reickert’s DNA.”
Brian laughed to himself. To be fair, Debbie was probably a more accomplished sleuth than half the Pittsburgh police because she actually gave a damn. If she ever really wanted to leave the Liberty Diner she could be a PI or something.
“Oh, by the way,” Carl said. “Watch out for that reporter. Pretty sure she’s waiting for you outside.”
Aw, shit.
On the bright side, he wasn't paranoid.
“Want me to—”
“No, I’ll handle it.”
Brian looked over his shoulder as he exited the diner. Sure enough, the figure lounged against a building nearby, sipping their coffee like they hadn’t a care in the world.
Well, fuck that. Brian chugged his coffee and marched straight up to the person. “You got something you want to say?”
The person’s face split into a toothy grin.
Mistake.
“Hi,” chirped the dark-haired girl. “I’m working for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette on an article about the Babylon—”
“Didn’t you just publish one?” And why stalk him?
“Well, yes, but this is more of a feature.” The woman beamed like she was a disco ball in a club telling him to dance and drink instead of someone asking him to talk about the night his best friend got blown up and he thought he’d lost both Michael and Justin forever. “On lives affected, how it’s affecting Pittsburgh’s gay commun—”
“No comment,” Brian said. His mouth tasted dry. Coffee only made him cough instead of wetting it. Fuck! He swiveled on his heel.
“Don’t you want to lend your voice to the—”
Lend his voice? “Not to people who enjoy borrowing our voices to sell papers. It’s a dying industry. I recommend finding a new career.”
She hurried to keep up with him, wobbling in heels. “But I understand your best friends with one of the—”
“Then talk to him.” Shit, Michael—this was the reporter, wasn’t it?
“He doesn’t want to talk to me. And I saw you already got an award a few years ago for saving the life of a young teenager—I was thinking I could take an angle of you saving the community by reopening and—”
Oh, holy hell. The only place he was allowed to be a superhero was on the pages of Michael and Justin’s comic. He reached his car. “Listen, do you like pussy?”
She halted. Her forehead wrinkled.
“Thought not. Then don’t bother. You’ll never understand.” Brian yanked the door open and jumped inside, slamming it in her face.
He made it to the office and called Michael at the comic shop almost right away. “You might have a crazy reporter showing up at your store. Again, if what Hunter said happened was true.”
Michael swore.
“Tell me about it. And I’m not even the one who exploded.”
“Ha, ha.” Michael groaned. “Like, how does she think she’s helping? By harassing us about one of the worst days of my life?”
One of his, too. As for the other— “She brought up Justin’s bashing too. Guess she did her homework.”
“Oh, that’s just great.” Michael huffed. “Real circumspect of her.”
“How very professor to use such verbiage.”
“Well, if we all start imitating our partner’s ways of speaking, you’ll start sounding like a Millennial. Helps keep you young, I’m sure.”
His partner, who lived nine hours by car away. Brian huffed.
“Anyways, Ben says to just ignore her. Which is what I plan to do."
“That’s what I always say. Live better to get even.”
“Exactly. I wouldn't have even minded talking to her if she'd actually been asking for my story; she was just incredibly aggressive and rude and clearly already knew what she wanted to say.” A ding echoed in the background. “Customer just came in. See ya.”
Michael hung up before Brian could say goodbye. He shrugged to himself and got to work.
It was early afternoon before Ted stuck his face into the office door. “Guess what?”
“What, Theodore?” Brian focused on finishing the final sentence in this email for a client. He hit send with a satisfying swoosh.
Ted marched in and grabbed the TV clicker, turning on the news.
“Listen, Ted, news is the last thing that I—”
“No, look.” Ted pointed.
Holy fuck. Brian stood without even realizing he was getting to his feet.
“So many upstanding members of the gay and lesbian community have refused to comment, including the owner of the club Babylon,” said the reporter.
Oh, Christ.
Ted slid his gaze towards Brian.
“But this young man has plenty to say,” the reporter continued, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. “Don’t you, Cody?”
He even still had that godawful haircut. And his voice was still the same when he ranted about how the police didn’t give a shit about them, how they might have even blown up Babylon themselves, how it was upon them all to protect themselves from homophobes. God, was the kid on drugs himself now?
“Turn it off,” Brian said.
“Uh, are you sure—”
“Turn it off!” Brian grabbed the clicker and switched off that annoying voice. If you wanted something done, do it yourself.
“Wasn’t that Justin’s old friend?” Ted asked.
“Yeah.”
“Pink Posse one?”
“Yeah.” How much did Ted remember of that, considering he was just out of rehab at that time?
“Seems like an angry little shit,” said Ted.
“Ya think?”
“We’re absolutely getting more calls for comment because of this,” Cynthia called. She leaned against the doorway.
“Yeah, well.” Brian gave a fake smile. “Tell them no room in my schedule.”
“If they’re hot, do you want me to change it?” Cynthia asked, arching a brow. Ted smirked.
Not unless they were five foot eight, blonde, and an artist. “No.”
Cynthia looked surprised. “All right, then.”
She and Ted left.
He wondered what Justin would be doing now. Normally Brian would think it’d be too early to have a trick over or something, but the life of an artist seemed pretty lackadaisical. Too bad Brian could never draw a stick figure, because there was certainly appeal to a life sans rules and start times.
Drawing? Visiting museums? Thinking about Brian?
Definitely not. Brian bit down on his knuckle.
Ah, fuck it. “Cynthia, close the door.”
“Sure thing.” His assistant hurried over. She arched her brows towards his computer. “Just you in here?”
“Ha, ha.” Brian rolled his eyes. He let out his breath the second the door clicked. He reached out, grabbed the phone, and dialed.
Brrring .
If Justin was painting, he’d have to dry off his hands. He’d always looked like he committed a multicolor murder after getting absorbed in those pieces of his.
Brrrrring .
Brian tapped his foot against the tiled floor. Speaking of Babylon, he should probably go tonight. He hadn’t gone last night. Maybe Emmett would be there, or even Ted and Blake. Probably not the professor and Mikey, because—
Brrrriing.
It was stupid of him to call. It was midday, for Christ’s sake. Justin was busy pursuing his dreams, and he was here in Pittsburgh. Brian lifted the phone away from his face. He should just hang up; it wasn’t as if he had anything interesting to offer in a voice message.
Brrrr—
“Brian?”
He’d picked up? Brian blinked. “Hey.” He kept his voice neutral.
“Hi,” Justin said cheerfully. “I couldn’t find my phone under all this—I still haven’t unpacked. And I’m covered in red paint right now.”
Of course he was. “Are you wearing anything underneath the paint?”
“I don’t want this on my skin long, Brian.”
“Damn.”
Justin laughed. “How’s it going?”
Er… “Your ex partner’s on TV.”
“My ex what?” Justin sounded confused. “But you’re not an ex—”
He wasn’t? Well. He knew that. The problem was that Brian didn’t know what the fuck they were. Not that that was inherently a problem. Whatever. “Not me.”
“Ethan—”
“Not a romantic partner.” That he knew about. He spun a pen, peering out of the window. Clouds brewed overhead, thick and soupy. “Your little gun-toting, wannabe gay Rambo partner.”
“Oh.” Justin exhaled. “Cody.”
“Yeah.”
“Is he still—”
“Well, he talked up a game about how the police don’t give a shit, which is probably true, but then said he wants to take justice into his own hands, so he’s banned from Babylon, not that he knows it yet.”
The sound of paintbrushes swishing against canvas seeped through the phone. “Does he often come there?”
“Not that I’ve seen.” Brian tilted his head back.
“You seem awfully petty about it.”
“Petty?” Brian blinked. The pen dropped from his hand, clattering against the desk. “Just thought you’d want to know.”
“Enough to call me?”
Well, why else would he call? It wasn’t like he could say just to hear your voice or some other romantic crap.
Shit.
“Do you miss me?” Justin asked, voice light and ticklish, brushing against Brian’s ear.
Brian bit his lip to keep from replying, what do you think? “Wh—” No, he couldn’t ask that either. Maybe Justin would never come back. He was in New York, why would he want to? “Maybe.”
Justin snorted. “I miss you, you know.”
Oh great. He wanted to say you could do something about that , but he was not going to request it, Godfuckingdammit. “Mikey suggested a beamer. Like from Star Wars .”
“ Star Trek.”
“There’s a difference?” He knew there was. He just didn’t care.
“If Michael hears you say that, he’s trading you in.” Justin coughed.
“Probably.”
“You sound kind of down,” Justin opined.
Uh-oh. A shard of sunshine struck the corner of the desk, stabbing through the shade. He squinted. “Killing time. Trying to hide from reporters.”
“What?”
“I’m the owner, you know. Trying to make—”
“Oh God,” Justin said, exhaling. “Did you tell them to fuck themselves in words or with gestures?”
“Slammed the door.”
“Tame.”
“I was going for mature .”
“Not quite.”
“One reporter seems like she’s really persistent,” Brian said. “She was bugging Mikey at his house.”
“The fuck?” Justin sounded incredulous. “Tell her to fuck herself with—”
“Ah, ah, Sunshine.” Though he did like when Sunshine got fired up. Brian leaned over his desk. “She asked me questions about you.”
A pause. “About me.”
“Yeah. That award I got once, the one I didn’t show up to receive.” Actually, he already had his reward from that decision and was busy fucking said warm, breathing, gasping reward instead of being handed a cold, hard plaque from faces plastered in forced smiles.
“Well, if she shows up here, I’ll act my age and say fuck maturity and tell her to go fuck herself.”
Brian pinched his nose. “Just be careful.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not a teenager anymore. Now I’m just your early-twenties lover.”
Brian groaned. Was that what they were? “Yeah, yeah.”
“Love you too.”
Fuck. Brian swallowed. “Love you.” He kept his voice low so Cynthia wouldn’t overhear. One never knew what they could hear from behind closed doors, and Cynthia had frankly probably heard it all by now, but not this one.
This one, he wanted to keep private.
God, he looked like he’d murdered someone.
Justin winced. Clear water ran red over his hands, flowing pink against a white sink and vanishing down the drain with a gurgle. Brian calling had broken through the glass encasing his creativity. Not that he gave any credence to the bullshit idea of a muse like Ethan had, but Brian definitely inspired him.
If he were to tell Brian that, it’d go to his head. Not actually. He’d act like it did, but it’d be a disguise.
The water finally ran clean. Justin dried his hands and stepped back out into the studio, studying the painting.
Brian missed him. He heard it in his voice.
He would just never ask.
Maybe the one time he did ask, it didn’t work out. But it wasn’t like he wanted to marry Justin, either. Right?
He just didn’t want to lose him.
Justin stepped past the painting and poured himself a glass of water.
Cody, huh.
He hadn’t thought of the Pink Posse for so long. Weird, too, with the Babylon incident still in the news every now and then. He’d been at clubs in Chelsea, fucked guys here and there, and sometimes they’d bring it up as a joke every time they saw someone looking sketchy and run-down, bangs covering their eyes.
Hope he’s not about to pull a Babylon.
He never laughed. No one noticed. But then, he’d never mentioned that he was there, either.
If only there was a way to make things safer. But following Cody around with a gun wasn’t it. If the kid hadn’t shot anyone yet, Justin would be surprised. Then again, maybe Cody was a coward, hoping Justin would be the weapon for him.
Justin wondered about that reporter. Harassing Brian Kinney? Might as well have signed their death warrant. Unless, of course, you were Justin Taylor, in which case you could harass away and maybe even convince the lothario who didn’t believe in love to fall in love with you along the way.
Brian wouldn’t have brought it up if he wasn’t actually bothered.
He probably wouldn’t have called, either.
But he had called.
Well, Justin had never really been able to leave well enough alone. He grabbed his phone and called, booking a ticket back to Pittsburgh. This would certainly cost him the advance he’d just received for this painting.
Outside, the sun glinted against the glass windows of the buildings against the street. When he’d first moved here, Justin thought of them as stars come to earth, himself as part of a galaxy, and then he’d told Daphne that on the phone and they both laughed so hard he was sure he could hear her no matter how many hundreds of miles away she was.
Today, they felt weirdly like eyes glaring at him.
Justin shielded his eyes, frowning.
Clouds moved overhead, dulling the light, but not before one last sizzling snap of sun. Or was it a camera flash?
No. He was just being paranoid.
Still, Justin lowered the blinds as he turned back to his painting.