Except that’s not true at all. Justin thinks that wishing Ethan well is what he should do, as a mature responsible adult who has moved on from that failed relationship. So he tries his best to do it. But in his heart of hearts, he rather hopes that Ethan is living on Kraft Dinner and booking gigs at the local Steelworkers Hall. Oh, and if Ethan could gain 40 pounds and never get laid again ever, that would be a bonus.

Still, Justin is shocked to see Ethan’s name listed on the bill for the latest GLC fundraiser. Granted, Justin has half a dozen pieces up for auction at the same event, but Justin doesn’t need the GLC: Justin is donating his art because the GLC helps the community, and Justin’s own art career is thriving (if by thriving one means having two pieces accepted in a sixteen person show at a slightly run down gallery in Greenwich Village and earning a three sentence write-up in the local art rag.) For a brief moment Justin considers that perhaps Ethan is also merely taking a break from a ridiculously successful career in order to give something back to the community. Then he snorts and rolls his eyes. As if that would happen.

“Will you just pick something, for fucks sake,” Brian grouses from somewhere behind him.

Justin bites at his nail and sways indecisively at the closet. He’s already rejected Brian’s selection of The Proper Outfit for the event -- a snug knit casual matched with trousers that cost more than his rent -- because it looks like he’s trying too hard. Jeans and a T-shirt look like he’s not trying enough. A geometric print shirt -- too artsy. White button down and grey slacks -- too plain. Long sleeved FCUK shirt -- too childish. He digs deeper and finds one of his old black turtlenecks stuffed at the back of the closet. He fingers the material thoughtfully before shaking his head -- too pretentious -- and letting it drop to the floor, where it joins a growing pile of other discards.

He hears Brian sigh, loudly and pointedly, the clump of Berluti clad feet from the room, and the clink of bottles as Brian returns with beer number… well, to be honest, Justin has lost count of how many Becks Brian has gone through while waiting on him, and he‘s just thankful that Brian hasn‘t said a word about why he is suddenly so concerned about his appearance.

“All my fucking good clothes are in New York,” Justin mutters.

Twenty minutes later, Justin shuffles impatiently at the door while Brian sets the alarm. He smoothes down the front of the lightweight knit that Brian had laid out on the bed two hours before, ten minutes after a leisurely mutual jerk-off session in the shower and forty minutes after a bitter and heated debate about the pre-Raphaelite period. Justin figures Brian’s allowed to look a little smug, so he merely adjusts his cuffs and tries to stop jittering in place.

When Brian lays a warm palm at the small of his back as they walk down the driveway, Justin is hazily aware that his nerves have lessened considerably.

Justin situates himself as far away from the musical entertainment as possible in the tiny GLC hall. He makes small talk with Tannis, gets slobbered on by Debbie, and meets Ted’s new boyfriend, an exceedingly boring dental technician originally from Scranton. He’s surprised by a overzealous reporter from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette’s “People” column, and spends ten excruciating minutes discussing his life as a “blossoming artist in the edgy New York Scene” around a mouthful of cheese puffs. He’s also never been more grateful for an open bar.

At some point he realizes that the music has stopped. He steals a glance at the barren stage, then lets his gaze flick through the room, landing lightly on Brian laughing with Michael at the makeshift bar before scanning the rest of the area quickly. No Ethan. Justin takes a shallow breath and begins to feel better.

Which is, of course, exactly when the hand touches his forearm.

Justin plasters a tight-lipped smile in place and turns.

“I thought it was you.” Ethan smiles, and gestures with the hand holding a glass of red wine. The other hand is still pressed on Justin’s arm.

“Ethan.” Justin forces the two syllables past suddenly parched lips, the result sounding more like the warble of a fatally injured frog than any viable word in the English language. Ethan appears not to notice, the arm holding the wineglass again gesturing toward the nearest partition.

“Your work is phenomenal,” Ethan says.

“I--.” Justin blinks. Frowns. He expects mental slow-motion replays of Ethan fucking him on the tattered sofa, and the bloom of guilt that always accompanies the remembrance of following his head instead of his heart. He expects phantom rose-thorn pain in his palms, and the resulting wave of shame and anger at his own gullibility. Instead he feels… nothing.

Ethan is watching him, head tilted to the side, and Justin shakes his head. “Thanks.”

Ethan’s fingers press lightly on Justin’s arm, warm and friendly and absolutely nothing more, and then his hand is gone.

“And how about you?” Justin asks, surprised to find that he’s actually interested. Ethan the person may have been a pompous self-important asshole, but Ethan the violinist was quite gifted. “I thought you’d be painting Paris red by now.”

“Let’s just say, the contract didn’t completely work out,” Ethan admits with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’m still playing. I‘ll play in a bowling alley if they’ll pay me. I’ll play even if they don’t pay me, you know?”

Justin nods. He knows. He remembers Ethan silhouetted against the small bay window, hours upon hours of practice not because he had to, but because he wanted to. And the memory brings nothing with it but the knowledge that in a small way, he and Ethan remain kindred spirits. They create, because it’s what they have to do. The fame or money (that may or may not come, and Justin is well aware that may not is the customary outcome) is inconsequential.

“Well,” Ethan says, “I just wanted to stop by and wish you luck.”

“Thanks.” Justin smiles, not tight-lipped at all but warm and open. “You too.”

When Justin thinks of Ethan, which isn‘t often, he mentally wishes him well and hopes that his career is flourishing. But he still wouldn’t mind all that much if the weight gain thing came true.