Brian would notice.

He is greeted with nods and smiles as he pulls up a chair, and Brian meets his eyes and slides over a coaster. He reaches for it and their fingertips brush and he reads volumes in that look, that touch.

Emmett appears from the bar in a flutter of grey feathers, Cosmo in hand, and manages to spill only a little as he drapes his arm over Justin’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to say anything before, sweetie,” Em stage-whispers, breath sweet and warm against Justin’s cheek, “but pink is really not your colour.”

There is murmured laughter and Justin half-smiles into his beer and the conversation resumes and Justin knows that will be it. His sojourn with Cody summed up and dismissed in one blithe sentence.

He closes his eyes and knows that they don’t understand. They don’t know how it felt, strutting down the street, thinking that all eyes were on him, believing it, everyone watching him, and not because he was some cute twink with a hot ass. Because he was powerful, someone to be feared. They don’t know that he would take that feeling and roll around in it, bathe in it. Curl up in it like a black shroud until nothing else could get through.

They don’t know that the crunch of his fist crashing down on someone’s cheek made him hard.

They don’t know that gunmetal is surprisingly cool and slick, and that releasing the safety can drown out the sound of passing trains and laughter from nearby homes and the stuttered panicked breathing of the man on his knees in front of you. He remembers that most clearly, that click when everything else faded away and there was only the two of them. And it felt like they were trapped in their own pasts, not Justin Taylor but just “Taylor”, the school fag, the brunt of lame jokes and student abuse and teacher indifference. Not Chris Hobbes but just “Chris”, the jock, the object of schoolgirl crushes and frantic artwork scattered on English notebooks.

He remembers gritting his teeth against that voice in his head chanting Do it Do it Do It DO IT. Cody was a phantom. The voice was his own.

They don’t know any of it, they certainly don’t understand it, and the conversation swirls around him as he opens his eyes and clutches at his bottle and drinks, cold lager sliding gratefully down his parched throat. He drinks, and Brian’s hand comes up to rest on his arm, gentle but insistent, and he puts his bottle down carefully and takes in Brian’s slow nod, Brian’s eyes hooded and dark and gentle and Justin relaxes, feels the tension draining out of his body like a physical thing.

He remembers arriving at the loft drenched in sweat, staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror and wondering if he could make his way back to himself. He remembers Brian’s arms heavy on his waist and the press of Brian’s lips on the back of his neck. He remembers soft, slow lovemaking that felt like atonement and renewal.

He squares his shoulders and takes a breath. He is Justin Taylor, and he has walked through more blistering fire than this.

He smiles, and Brian smiles back.