He goes back to perusing the menu -- not that it’s changed since 1992; carb-laced, fat-laden poison, he should know better than to frequent the place, but he definitely wants a double order of fries -- and tries to mentally drown out Emmett’s description of the elder Lichenstein’s lime-green gown. He doesn’t miss the scrape of Nikes on the worn linoleum, though, or the squeak of vinyl as Michael finally, finally squeezes in next to Emmett.

“Hey guys,” Michael says.

“Mikey,” Brian grits out. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Michael grins distractedly in Brian’s direction, completely nonplussed by the patented Brian Kinney Death Glare being tossed his way. Brian slumps back against the seat and considers upgrading his arsenal of nasty looks.

“I just got off the phone with Justin,” Michael continues. “Oh my god, did you tell them?”

Emmett squirms in his seat. “Oooh, hot Hollywood gossip? Spill!”

“You will never guess what Justin is doing right now!” Michael says.

Ted waves his hand frantically in the air, and Michael assumes a school-teacher poise that almost makes Brian sit up straighter in his seat. “Ted Schmidt?”

“Having wild monkey sex with any gay, straight or undecided Hollywood star that he can get his hands on.” Ted crosses his hands on the table and looks smug. Brian thinks that, while Justin should be fucking anyone he damn well pleases, and more power to him, he’ll still add Ted to the list of People To Strangle. Perhaps in the boardroom at Kinnetik. Theodore will never know what hit him.

“Bzzzzzzz.” The grating noise of Michael’s response slices into Brian’s brain like an ice-pick. He wonders why he didn‘t get his double-fries to go. “I’m sorry Ted,” Michael laughs, “but that was the correct answer for last week.”

“Oooh, I know!” Emmett says. “He’s recreating one of those beach party movies, with Frankie and Annette. Except Justin is Frankie, and Annette is Connor James, and in this version Annette’s not a prude ‘cause she totally puts out, and--”

“Uhhh… no, Em. But nice try.”

Emmett pouts. “Oh. That’s too bad. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Welllll,” Ted says in exasperation. “Are you going to tell us, or what?”

Debbie stops at the table so abruptly Brian is surprised he doesn’t see skid marks on the floor. She props her hand on her hip and cracks her gum. “Tell us what?”

“Okay,” Michael leans forward eagerly. “Right now, Justin is on a plane to Bali where he’ll be supervising the filming of the new underwater scenes featuring our new cameo guest villain.”

Michael looks around the table, taking in the wide eyed stares of his friends -- and Brian’s completely disinterested expression -- before continuing. “Colin. Farrell.”

“Wait--” Ted says.

“What?” Debbie squeals.

“You mean, right now--” Emmett says.

“Justin is fucking Colin Farrell,” Ted mumbles, jaw dropping.

“If there’s a gay god,” Michael nods.

“Right now!” Debbie shrieks. “But Sunshine is coming home to visit tonight! I made three cheese lasagne, his favourite!”

“Actually, Deb, bean sprouts and alfalfa is his favourite. California’s turning him into a health nut.” Brian scrapes his nail on the table and tries to ignore the pounding in his skull before noticing the silence. He looks up to see all eyes on him, and notes that Debbie has perfected a very nice Death Glare herself. “But I’m sure he would have loved your lasagne,” he adds, and throws in a disarming grin for good measure.

Debbie takes in a breath. “And you!” she snorts out, the grin just as ineffective on her as the glare had been on Michael. “Letting us all get our hopes up! The least you could have done was tell us--”

Brian lifts a shoulder. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“Bullshit! Sunshine wouldn’t just up and change his plans at the last minute, he knows how important this is to us.” Debbie waves a red-painted talon in Brian’s direction. “Just when I think you’ve changed, Brian Kinney, you prove that you’re the same asshole you always were.”

“And on that note,” Brian says, pushing past Ted and rising from the booth as Debbie flounces off toward the kitchen, “I’m going to be late meeting my new trainer. Marco. He’s promised to help me with my forward lunges.”

Brian leers and wiggles his tongue, and Emmett rolls his eyes, and Brian tosses a five on the table for his coffee, and he almost, almost makes it to the car before he feels the hand on his sleeve. He doesn’t want to turn, because he knows what he’ll see. But he sighs, and spins slowly, and there is Michael, all puppy dog eyes and down-turned lips. Michael’s cache of expressions hasn’t changed in twenty years, either.

“You really didn’t know, did you?” Michael says, keeping his voice low. “Shit, Brian, I’m sorry. I thought--”

“Mikey,” Brian says. “Justin doesn’t owe me anything. If he wants to head out for some x-rated fun in the sun instead of returning to glorious Pittsburgh, that’s great.”

Michael crosses his arms at his chest, clearly unconvinced. “It’s just… relationships, they’re really complex, and you can start thinking--”

“I’m fine, Mikey.”

“But--”

“Michael,” Brian says with finality. “I’m fine.”

Brian ends up near the park where he sometimes meets Lindsay to see Gus, and trudges through freshly mown grass to slump onto one of the benches that line the pathway. He ignores his ringing phone -- Marco, likely wondering where the hell he is; Michael, twice; Cynthia, and who the fuck cares why, it’s Saturday and nothing at Kinnetik is in meltdown state. He ignores the occasional stares of passers-by. He closes his eyes and remembers that it’s been four days -- maybe five -- since he last heard from Justin, and that was a 4am wake-up so that Justin could tell him just how small a certain A-list celebrity’s dick really is. He remembers Justin’s laughing excitement over attending glittering parties filled with beautiful people. He opens his eyes to a typically grey Pittsburgh day and isn’t surprised that Justin chose not to come back.

He sits on the bench for so long that his ass starts to go numb and a chill seeps into his bones.

Brian slides open the loft door to the smell of burning rubber. “Fuck!” he mutters, taking two anxious strides inside and--

“Hey,” Justin says. “I was trying to heat up that leftover pasta.” He crinkles his nose and waves a hand in the air. “Not too successfully. Got any air freshener?”

Brian’s mouth hits the floor at roughly the same time as his gym bag. “What the fuck,” he finally says, “are you doing here?”

Justin frowns, and Brian isn’t sure whether he wants to crush Justin to his chest and kiss the look of puzzlement away, or spin on his heels and walk out the door.

“It’s… Saturday,” Justin says. “I’m supposed--”

“To be on a plane to Bermuda,” Brian says coolly.

“Bali,” Justin corrects before having the grace to look sheepish. “Oh. You heard about that?”

Brian arches an eyebrow and waits.

“Well,” Justin says, tossing aside an oven mitt, “I know it’s been a long time since I’ve seen everyone. But I don’t have much time off, and I started thinking…. Like, I miss my shower. I miss sleeping in our bed. I miss getting delivery from that Thai place that always fucks up our order. Everything I love and miss is right here, in this loft. So…”

“So you tell Mikey that you’re going to the Bahamas,” Brian says.

Justin grins. “Something like that.”

“And fucking Brad Pitt.”

“Well,” Justin slides a palm across Brian’s hip, “I figured if I was going to make up a story, it might as well be a good story. Besides,” he says as he presses his body closer and nuzzles his nose into Brian’s neck, “I know what I’m getting here will be better than Brad, or Colin, or whoever else I could make up.”

Brian throws back his head as Justin’s tongue snakes out to lick at his neck. He breathes deeply, Justin’s scent masked by burned linguine and a new shampoo but still there, uniquely Justin. He lets himself feel, his heart picking up the pace, his cock thickening, his eyelids fluttering closed as Justin’s lips and teeth and hands roam across his skin.

Then he grips Justin’s hips and pushes him slightly away, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re devious,” he drawls. “Is that something new you’ve picked up in Hollywood?”

“Mmm,” Justin says, “it’s the nature of the beast. Anyway, Brett says--”

Brian shakes his head. “Less talking, more fucking.”

Justin spreads his arms wide. “I’m here for forty-eight hours. Do with me what you will.”

Brian smiles. He always knew Justin would come back to Pittsburgh. He always knew Justin would come home.