It’s more difficult than he thought.

He remembers his one attempt at shopping economically. Brian’s disdain for coupons won out over Justin’s giddy glee at 2-for-1 deals. Oh, and there was that time, rarely thought of and never discussed, that he spent at Ethan’s. He thought he was being Super Spendthrifty Shopper then, but there was Brian paying him twenty times what his Carnivale design was worth, and his mother showing up in the middle of the afternoon with a bag of fresh produce and a crisp twenty -- or fifty -- dollar bill to press into his hand.

Justin shovels another forkful of Kraft Dinner into his mouth, and fondly remembers lettuce.

Still. He made this move to be independent, to finally prove to himself that he could make it on his own, and despite the fact that Brian is raking in billions -- okay, not billions, but Michael mentioned that Em told him that Ted said the Brown account was worth millions to Kinnetik, and holy fucking shit, millions, sometimes he imagines convincing Brian to convert a bunch of his stocks or GIC’s or whatever the fuck into cash and they could spread it out on the bed and get naked and just roll around in it...

Fuck.

Justin adjusts the crotch of his jeans and tries to remember what he was thinking about.

Right. Independence. Making it on his own. And he’s not going to rely on Brian to keep the lines of communication -- and visitation -- open. He might not have much money, but even a struggling artist-slash-waiter can afford a hundred bucks... as long as he’s creative with his tips.

Some time, far in the future, when he’s comfortably ensconced in a cobalt-blue Porsche with leather interior and every gadget known to mankind, Justin will be able to look back at his first trip from New York to Pittsburgh and laugh.

He will not remember the eight hours spent crammed into a smelly tin-can with what appeared to be the worst of the festering underbelly of New York City. He will not remember the stopovers in Newark, and Mount Laurel, and Philadelphia, and Harrisburg. He most certainly will not remember the rat he’s sure he saw scurrying under his seat, or being propositioned by the woman with no teeth. He will only remember pulling open the door of the loft, and Brian’s arms around his shoulders.

At least, he hopes that’s the way it’ll work.

Brian isn’t home when Justin arrives... at 6:23am on a Saturday morning. At first this is a bit worrisome, but after a moment of furrowed brow consideration Justin decides he is too tired to care.

Also, he notices the coffee mug in the sink, and the missing briefcase. That helps.

When he awakens several hours later to a warm body stretched over his and soft lips nibbling at his ear, he squirms and smiles and lets his hands roam beneath Brian’s ridiculously expensive jacket, pulls and tugs until his questing fingers find smooth skin. He presses his palms against flexing muscle and lets his head drop back, legs fall open, content.

Two minutes after Brian’s lips find his, Justin has forgotten about greyhound buses and bitter vending machine coffee and sitting behind a guy who last took a bath in 1992. He figures he can make this trip to Pittsburgh at least once a month. Maybe twice.