The bed is now a four-poster (“Finally we can use those restraints, honey,” Brian had said loudly in the showroom, to Justin’s utter mortification), but the 1000-count sheets are the same. There’s still a bowl of condoms within easy reach, and a drawer that is sometimes empty but is more often full.

And there is still Brian, spread over him, sleek wolf-grin, hot. They ring in the new year with panting breaths and hard kisses, lips and teeth and hands. And in the silence after, there are promises made and renewed in the dark. There are locks on their doors.

At Debbie’s

“This is the best New Years ever!” Emmett enthused. “Okay, except for my honey leaving me to go back to Hazlehurst. And there was the soufflé dropping and then that whole thing with the neighbour’s dog. Oh! And Hunter. Poor kid, imagine needing his tonsils out at his age! And of course, there was that incident with the hair dye. Teddy, I’m sure I’ll be able to fix that in the morning. Other than that, it’s the best New Years ever!” Emmett glanced around the room. “Don’t you think so? Boys?”

“Yachtzee!” Debbie called out.

“Kill me now,” Brian said.

On The Roof

Justin adamantly insists that he does not live in a tenement, despite the presence of bullet holes in the lobby door, the crack dealer who lives on the second floor (who leant Justin his dog-eared copy of Watership Down, so Justin maintains he can’t be all bad) and the projects across the street where a notorious rapper that Brian has never heard of was once gunned down.

Justin’s roof is quite acceptable, though, and they sit on gravel and sip ridiculously expensive champagne and watch the fireworks burst over the water. They kiss, and make silent resolutions under the moon.

In Toronto

“Awww, the little guy really wanted to stay up and bang the pots and pans,” Lindsay says, brushing her hand lightly through the soft hair on Gus’s brow. Gus sleeps on, oblivious.

“I know what you mean,” Brian says with a pointed glance in Justin’s direction.

“I heard that,” Justin replies, but his body remains slumped on the sofa and his eyes remain closed.

“There’s always next year,” Lindsay says.

“I won’t be here next year,” Brian points out.

“Sure you will,” Mel says. “Our door is always open.”

Brian blinks.

Lindsay smiles.

And Justin’s hand squeezes Brian‘s knee gently.

At Babylon

Justin’s skin is slick with sweat, his t-shirt clinging to his body. He tastes glitter on his tongue. He closes his eyes and still sees the strobe lights bouncing beneath his skin, so he holds tight to Brian’s hand and waits until he feels the smooth surface of the wall at his back before opening his eyes again.

Brian’s hand wraps around his neck and draws him forward for a kiss.

And when Brian pulls away, tugs on the zipper on Justin’s jeans, and drops to his knees… Justin knows that 2007 is going to be a very good year.

In New York

The crowd in Times Square is out of control, and Justin has never been a fan of Dick Clark’s anyway. He can’t see a thing, he’s feeling mildly claustrophobic, and Brian is being outrageously good-natured about it all. The combination starts to piss Justin off.

But mostly, he hates feeling the need to be furtive. To watch where their hands touch. To keep an eye out for assholes in the crowd.

This is his city. And when Justin is eyed for the seventh time, he drags Brian towards a brick wall and kisses him. Thoroughly. And fuck what anyone thinks.

At Kinnetik

“This is fucking bullshit,” Justin says.

“This is business,” Brian counters. “My business. And if I don’t get the contract to Petersen on time--”

“I know.”

“Then make yourself useful.”

Justin thinks that Brian probably means by going over the revisions on page eleventy-seven of the million page contract, but instead he drops lightly to his knees and flips open the button on Brian’s new Armani slacks.

“Justin,” Brian warns.

He slides the zipper down and Brian is half-hard already, despite his feeble protests. Justin smiles against Brian’s thigh. Nuzzles the head of Brian’s cock.

“Happy New Year,” Justin says.

At Woody’s

“A toast!” Ben declared. “To continued success and happiness for us all.”

Michael raised his glass. “To comic book geeks everywhere!”

“To hot boys and cool drinks,” Emmett put in.

“Em,” Ted scolded. He slung an arm around Emmett and raised his own glass. “To good friends -- especially the ones who like hot boys and cool drinks!”

“To creativity!” Justin added.

Blake lifted his spring water high. “To sobriety!”

“To time,” Brian said. “The ability to appreciate it, and the skill to manipulate it.”

Justin smiled.

And when the bartender counted down to midnight, the cheers were almost deafening.

At the loft

Michael had advised against holding a party, because Brian didn’t exactly have a great track record where large gatherings of friends and family were concerned.

But his fears were unwarranted. No one was involuntarily outed. Debbie didn’t have to pick her way over any naked bodies (the naked boys were firmly told to stay in the bathroom until they were done.) No one returned unexpectedly from out of town with an irate boyfriend in tow (Michael heard that Dr. Dave now lived in Cleveland, anyway.)

Brian found him a little after midnight, Justin in hand.

“Told you so,” Brian said.

In Hollywood

“Thanks for coming,” Brett said.

“Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Brian replied. He snaked out a hand to grab a flask of champagne from a passing waiter and ignored the look that Justin shot his way.

Brett laughed. “I’m sure you can find someone you like,” he said, indicating the room with a sweep of his arm.

Brian glanced around disinterestedly. He spotted the star of some action films; a radio shock-jock; the second lead on a mindless television sitcom. Stars in Brett’s world.

He tightened his hold on Justin’s waist. “I’m sure I can,” he said.