“You going to the gym?”

Brian doesn’t reply, but that rarely stops Justin. He drops his unfinished bagel in the trashcan and sucks cream cheese off his fingers as he rises from the chair. “Wait two minutes, I’ll go with you. It’s been a while since the guys have had a chance to ogle my ass in sweatpants.”

“I’m not going to the gym.”

“Oh.” Justin flops back down on the chair and gazes wistfully at his lost bagel. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Out where?”

“Just out, okay? Fuck!”

Justin leans back in the chair and crosses his arms at his chest. Is it his fault that Brian only got three hours of sleep and was consequently a sleep-deprived asshole? They both wanted to stay up and get reacquainted. In as many positions as possible. You don’t see him behaving like a--

His thoughts are cut off by the squeal of the door sliding open. Justin studies the tabletop and waits for the crash as it closes, and when that doesn’t come, he looks up to see Brian standing over him.

“I’ll be back around four,” Brian mumbles, and then leans down to kiss him on the lips. Well, the intention was probably for a kiss on the lips, but he mostly gets chin and a bit of cheek. Justin waits until Brian is gone to wipe away the spit.

Justin rinses off the dishes. Looks at the phone. Goes online. Looks at the phone. Sends Daphne an instant message. Ignores her reply and looks at the phone.

Looks at the phone.

Scowls at the phone.

It’s Brian’s right to do whatever he wants whenever he wants, Justin tells himself. No strings, no expectations, no locks on the doors. That much hasn’t changed. Does he tell Brian where he is every moment of every day? No. Of course not. They trust each other. Trust is the cornerstone to any successful relationship.

Justin looks at the phone.

Justin is weak. He lasts ten minutes.

His first call is to Woody’s. No Brian. His second call is to the diner, and not only is Brian not partaking of an early afternoon lemon bar, but it’s just Justin’s luck that Debbie answers the phone. He spends ten minutes assuring her that he’s eating well, sleeping well, staying away from Central Park at night, painting a lot, and not about to sink into an endless well of poverty and despair despite the location of his small studio apartment and his rather limited income. He figures he hangs up just in time to avoid her questions about the relative dick sizes of New Yorkers compared to those in the Pitts.

Brian’s not at Uncle Arthur’s or Nick’s or the Liberty Baths. Or any of a dozen other pubs and spas that Justin tries. As a last resort, he dials Kinnetik. He knows Brian won’t be at Kinnetik - Brian had a gym bag, after all - but Justin is nothing if not thorough. Ted confirms that Brian hasn’t been in, and then manages to weasel two tickets to a Broadway show out of Justin for promising not to mentioning that Justin called. Justin briefly mourns his dwindling bank balance and mentally calls Ted a schmuck before hanging up. At least he didn’t have Ted check Brian’s itinerary. That probably would have cost him a dinner as well.

Justin carefully sets the phone back down and cradles his chin in his hands. He knows Brian. This won’t be the first mystery trip that Brian takes. And Justin happens to have some experience in stalking.

Just when Justin is starting to believe that he’ll be back on the plane to New York before Brian packs his shit up again, Brian pulls out the gym bag and tosses in some sweatpants. Justin feigns indifference, barely looking up from his magazine.

“You gonna be home by dinner?” Justin says around a yawn.

Brian glances up, peering at Justin through his bangs, and Justin ignores that pang, that good fucking lord put that bag down and let me rip off your clothes spasm that still hits him when Brian looks at him a certain way, and he can ignore it even as he wonders if it’ll ever go away. He hopes the fuck not.

Then Brian is saying something about dinner at Deb’s, talking about home-cooked lasagna and perogies and all the while smirking at him as though he can read Justin’s mind, and Justin doesn’t really want that to go away either.

“Are we going to have one of these going-away dinners every time I go back to New York?” Justin asks Brian while standing and stretching and trying unobtrusively to sneak a peek into the gym bag for a clue. “I’m here, like, every six weeks. It’s getting embarrassing.”

“Deb is sure you’re going to fade away into oblivion.” Brian waggles his wrist and mimes popping gum. “ ‘Look at you, Sunshine, you’re nothing but a bag of fucking bones’.”

Justin laughs. Brian really does do a good Debbie. He’s got the screech perfected. Years of practice, Justin assumes.

“So. Meet you there?”

Brian nods, and this time when he kisses Justin good-bye it’s long and thorough and doesn’t involve any saliva on the chin.

Brian is shiftier than Justin expected, and Justin loses him. He backtracks one block, cuts down an alley, and is just in time to see what can only be Brian’s leather-jacketed figure duck into a building several blocks away.

He hustles double time and stands in front of the building he thought Brian went into. He shakes his head. He squints, then looks up and down the street. No Brian. Looks again. Still no Brian.

Justin figures there’s only one way to know for sure. He pulls open the door and follows the arrow pointing up the staircase.

“Rhythm and Motion Dance Studio -- Beginners Our Specialty!” the sign says cheerily. There’s even a smiley face. With legs. Wearing tap shoes.

He will not laugh, Justin tells himself. He most definitely will not fucking laugh.

Justin follows the hum of voices to a small room at the end of the hall, the squeak of his sneakers sounding ridiculously loud on the polished wood floors. He does his best to ignore the whining sound of his mothers voice in his head lecturing him against eavesdropping and sneaking around and about the importance of respecting other peoples boundaries.

“Your ad clearly promises--”

“You have no idea how sorry I am, Mr. Kinney.” Justin reaches the doorway in time to see a tall man wearing red leggings and some sort of green body-suit gesture expansively toward Brian, who hasn’t even managed to get out of his jacket. “We pride ourselves on being able to take even the most hopeless case and transform him into the epitome of grace and style. We have never failed. Until today.”

“What are you saying?”

“Please accept a full refund of your fees, along with our deepest regrets, Mr. Kinney.” The man presses something into Brian’s hand before turning with a flourish and seeing Justin. “Ah. Can I help you, young man?”

Justin jerks.

He manages to mumble something about looking for a bathroom, but it’s clearly the wild-eyed look in his eye that sends Bodysuit Man scurrying from the room. Justin catches a look at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and realizes he’s seen meth-addicts wearing that exact same look.

“Um,” Justin says when he and Brian are alone in the room. It is not his finest moment.

Brian bends to his gym bag and finds something fascinating about the strap. “Don’t say a fucking word.”

Justin takes a few tentative steps into the room. His footsteps seem to echo, and he can hear the squeak of leather-against-leather as Brian’s arm brushes against his side. “Brian?” he says, and waits until Brian stops fiddling with the strap to look at him. To glare at him.

Justin doesn’t falter. He’s had years of knowing what Brian hides behind those looks. He merely spreads his arms wide, his eyes puzzled. “Why?”

Brian is able to hold the glare for a few more moments, then his head drops and he shoves something into his gym bag. The refund, stuffed between grey sweats and a water bottle. He mumbles something under his breath, and Justin steps closer, closer, reaches up and rests a hand lightly on Brian’s shoulder.

“Babylon reopens in a few weeks.” Brian meets Justin’s eyes. Daring him to mock. Daring him to…

“Brian.” Justin says. He smoothes a hand along Brian’s neck. “Do you remember that night I came after you, right after we met? You were at Babylon, dancing with these two guys, and I--”

“I remember.”

“You looked so fucking hot. I watched you with them and I couldn’t wait to get down there. I had to feel you pressing against me like that. I had to feel the way you move… the sway of your hips…”

Justin shifts, and Brian’s leg slides between his thighs just as Brian’s arms drape around his neck.

“The way you move. It’s hot,” Justin murmurs.

Brian rolls his hips, bends his knees, runs his tongue along Justin’s neck.

“It makes me hot,” Justin says.

Brian moves, his hands roaming across Justin’s back, fingers dancing along his spine, his body pressing closer, closer, sway and thrust and back and Justin lets his head fall back, lets the rhythm take him.

In an empty room filled with mirrors, they dance.