His thumb hesitates over the screen, Justin’s name and number pulsating in electric blue, and finally he gives in and slides the phone open and compromises by not saying anything, just holds the phone to his ear and listens.

“Hey.” Justin’s voice drifts across the line, over the miles, and Brian thinks it should be crackling and hissing, fading in and out, but it’s strong and clear and Brian tries to ignore the way his chest constricts and his mouth goes dry at the sound. “I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.”

Brian clears his throat. “Bad connection,” he lies. “You’re not supposed to call me.”

He doesn’t know he is going to say it until the words are out of his mouth, and he mentally curses his own -- what the fuck should he call it? Integrity? He knows he should hang up, just one little flick of the nail and end the conversation, but instead he stands, swaying just a little, and waits. Waits.

“Look, I just--”

“We already discussed this,” Brian bites out. He pinches the bridge of his nose and remembers the discussion all too well, warm sheets tangled around their bodies, gentle fingers on Justin’s skin, trying to plan a life that would satisfy them both. He remembers salty tears on his lips and soft words murmured against his chest.

“It’s a fucking stupid rule, Brian.” Justin’s voice is harsh, and Brian thinks that maybe this is the way it should be, maybe Justin is right, maybe this is just one more case of Brian Kinney fucking up again, thinking he is the Be-All-Know-All-King-Of-The-Fucking-World.

Brian’s fingers clench the phone and he closes his eyes and when he speaks again, he blames the crack in his voice on too many Marlboros. “Just deal with it,” he says, and quickly slides the phone shut and tosses it toward the sofa.

When the phone rings five minutes later, Brian is already on his third shot of Beam. He doesn’t answer.

Justin’s email arrives two weeks later.

By this time, Brian has stopped counting the hours, and has even stopped checking for Justin’s shoes when he walks in the door. He still reaches for Justin in his sleep, but he’s begun to believe that will never change, and he’s completely given up trying to hide his desire for information about Justin’s new life when he’s talking to Debbie. He puts up with sloppy lipstick kisses on his forehead in order to glean what he can, and he figures it’s an even trade-off.

Still. His finger hesitates on the mouse for long moments before he finally opens the email.

Dear Brian,

I know, I know. We’re not supposed to talk. Let’s just say I’ve never been good at obeying rules. Um. You know what I mean. You just deal with it, okay?

Things are going well here. I found a great job at a restaurant a few blocks away from my apartment. I know that sounds like it’s just a step above the diner, but I’m making phenomenal tips and the hours are good so I have lots of time to paint. I also found studio space -- it’s not much but there’s a huge window and great light and I think I’ll really be able to work there.

Michael tells me you’re re-opening Babylon. I’m just… I think that’s great, Brian. Somebody needs to show those homophobic assholes that they can’t keep us down for long.

Well. I have to go. With what they’re charging at this internet café, I won’t be able to eat for a week.

Love, Justin

Brian’s eyes slide reluctantly from the screen to the boards propped against the desk. The boards for the pitch that he’s been working on for weeks. The one that’ll add a couple mill to Kinnetik’s coffers… if he manages to land the account. The one that he’s pitching in the conference room in thirty minutes.

He figures if he doesn’t have the spiel down by now, he doesn’t deserve the account anyway.

Brian spends ten minutes searching the internet for a grocery store in Justin’s area that delivers, and another ten minutes filling an online shopping cart with essentials. He’s seconds away from hitting ‘send’ when he realizes that his version of essentials is not exactly the same as Justin’s, and he backs up to add things like Pizza Pops and caramel cakes to the cart, shuddering inwardly as he does so.

His fingers tap against the desktop as he considers what to write on the delivery card. Much as he wants to throw Jennifer’s name on there -- or hell, even Debbie’s -- in the end he decides to grow some balls. He signs the card Love Brian.

Five days after Debbie has kissed him on the cheek for his “care package to her Sunshine” and then smacked him on the head for being a schmuck, Brian is standing in the middle of the construction zone that will shortly be Babylon. He has the beginnings of a headache, he didn’t eat lunch, and there is dust covering his new Armani suit. It’s not a good day.

“The architect dropped off the latest set of plans,” Ted says, waving a sheaf of papers and picking his way across the equipment-strewn floor to Brian’s side. Ted has managed to remain completely dust-free. Brian curses him under his breath, muttering something about polyester before snatching at the plans.

“He changed the location of the DJ booth like you wanted,” Ted points out.

Brian grunts.

“I’ve given the contractor the thumbs-up to continue the renovations. And the cheques are on your desk, just waiting for your signature.”

Brian nods.

“So… will Justin be coming to the opening?”

Brian envisions tying Ted’s intestines in neat little bows.

“Okay, I know you two aren’t supposed to be talking. But honestly Bri, don’t you think that whole thing is a little… silly?”

Brian takes a breath. ‘Silly’ is the last word he would use to describe the past few weeks. But he has to be fucking strong, doesn’t he? He has to do what’s best for… shit.

“We agreed,” he says quietly, not even sure why he’s deigning to discuss this with Theodore of all fucking people. “Justin needs to know that he can do this on his own. Find a job, work on his art, live. Have a life. With no help from me.”

“Six months is an awfully long time, Bri.”

“We’re dealing with it,” Brian says, voice hoarse, and he can’t blame the Marlboros so he’ll blame the dust hanging in the air. He won’t say -- can’t say -- that the separation isn’t killing him but being incommunicado is, needing to hear the sound of Justin’s voice, needing that laugh, needing to know that those blue eyes are sparkling with happiness or dark and hooded with desire and it‘s because of him. He fucking needs it, like air, like water… and Justin needs his independence.

He has to be strong.

“He’s alone in a big city with nobody telling him he’s going to be okay,” Ted says. “Everybody needs a support system. Believe me, I know.”

Three days later, Brian finds himself outside a door that is pitted with scrapes and stains and what he is certain is at least one bullet hole. He knocks loudly to be heard over the strains of Coldplay he can hear drifting from the space.

When Justin answers the door, there is a streak of blue paint in his hair and red speckles on his cheek. His eyes are wide and blue and shocked. Brian thinks he has never looked hotter, sexier. More beautiful.

“Brian,” Justin says, his voice barely a whisper.

“It’s a fucking stupid rule,” Brian says.