“Justin.” 

“Holy shit, Brian, did you see this?  Our own individual TV’s!”

“Justin.”

“This chair is almost as comfortable as our bed!” 

“Justin!” 

Justin pauses in playing with the controls on the arm of his seat to look my way.  I guess the expression on my face starts him thinking, because he abruptly stops squishing the person sitting behind him and raises the chair to an upright position.  He plasters a solemn look on his face, and for a moment I regret barking at him.  He’s been serious too much these days.  He’s had to grow up so fast… too fast, I sometimes think.  How much has my presence in his life contributed to the loss of that innocent kid from under the streetlamp?  I really don’t know.  Fuck, I don’t.  I only know that it’s too late to turn back now. 

“Do you think these pillows are down-filled?”

Jesus.  I take a deep breath, resisting the urge to rub the bridge of my nose and wondering whether it’s worth it to pull my travel bag down from the overhead compartment.  Tylenol is just an arms-reach away.

“Justin,” I begin again, waiting until I have his full and undivided attention.  “You have flown before, right?” 

“Sure,” he says.  “Lots of times.” 

I press my lips together and nod.  Three, two, one…

“Well… twice.” 

“Uh huh.” He always gives in to the desire to confess.  Well, except for… fuck, not going to think about that. 

“I flew to New York,” Justin reminds me with a smirk.  “But the ride home was a lot more fun.” 

“Right.  Crushed in the back of the jeep while Michael gets us lost on the interstate.  ‘Fun’ is not the adjective I’d apply to that little misadventure.” 

I lean back in the seat and adjust the headrest, ignoring the knowing grin on Justin’s face.  Every moment of that journey is imprinted on my memory… and apparently his as well.  A six hour trip that stretched to twelve long hours due to Emmett’s inability to read a map and Mikey‘s inability to read a simple road sign.  But at least Justin and I managed to keep each other occupied on the drive. 

I turn my head, meet his eyes.  Let my gaze travel to his crotch, and grin when his cheeks colour ever so slightly.  Oh yeah, he remembers every detail of that little excursion.  And I love that I can still make him blush.

I rest my hand on his thigh, wait for his fingers to cover mine.  “And the other time?” 

“I was three.  My parents decided to fly down to see Gran in Florida.  I don‘t remember much of it.” He shrugs. “Apparently I spent the entire flight puking up my Cheerios.  Dad insisted that the milk must have been bad.” 

I press my lips together and lift a hand to my face to cover my smile.  I really shouldn’t be laughing at this. 

“He threatened to sue Meadow Gold Dairy when we got back.” 

Really should not be laughing at this.

“Mom talked him out of -- Hey!  It‘s not funny!” 

Busted. 

“Brian?  What the fuck is that?”

I manage to crank one eye open, squinting in Justin’s general direction.  The overhead lights are turned down low and nothing can be heard but the gentle hum of the engines and the occasional snore from the slightly overweight and unquestionably straight businessman two rows back.  I think he’s the only one in first class that hasn’t cruised me since this flight took off.  If only I was kidding.  Our friends think I have a big ego.  Well, they should try spending some time in this body before they make any judgement calls.  Shit, I practically had to fuck Justin where he sat to convince the bleached blonde with the fake tits in the seat across the aisle that I definitely wasn’t interested.  The steward seemed to find that highly amusing.  Of course, he’s a fag too.  Aren’t they all?

I steal a glance at my watch and see that only forty-five minutes have passed since I reclined my chair and reminded Justin that we both needed to be rested so that we could begin enjoying our holiday as soon as we landed.  Okay, so I actually said, “You sound like a fucking wind-up doll.  Shut the fuck up and get some sleep.” But the intent is the same. 

But for some inexplicable reason Justin’s sitting straight up in his chair, fingers clutching the armrest and a wild look on his face. 

I pull myself to a sitting position with a groan, rotating my neck to ease the stiff muscles.    First item on the agenda when we get to the hotel -- a backrub.  Or a dip in the Jacuzzi.  Or a backrub while in the Jacuzzi.  With Justin.  Steam rising around us.  Water dripping from our naked torsos.  My fingers tangled in his hair, heavy and dark with water, as he leans into me…

I unconsciously lick my lips at the wanton images floating through my mind.  This is undeniably the best idea I’ve had all day. 

The plane suddenly dips sharply, wind buffeting the wings and the metal seeming to groan in mild protest.  Justin hisses beside me -- a long drawn-out “Shhhhhiiiiit” -- and reaches blindly for my hand.  His palm is clammy in mine.  I squeeze gently, rubbing my thumb along the inside of his wrist.  The light touch usually calms him, and his breathing does seem to be evening out, but then the plane tumbles in the jet stream again, and abruptly my hand is caught in a death-grip. 

I pitch my voice low and soothing.  “It’s just turbulence.” 

“Fuck, I know!” he snaps back.  “I’m not… scared.” 

“Okay.”  I guess I’m merely imagining that I’ve lost all feeling in my left hand.

He turns imploring eyes to mine.  “It’s just… it reminds me.   Of that dream.” 

I close my eyes briefly.  Justin’s always had a vivid imagination -- it’s what makes him an exceptional artist.    But that imagination hasn’t always stood him in good stead.  There have been many dreams over the years, not the least of which were the series of nightmarish images that plagued him immediately following the bashing.  Not many of them made sense, but that didn’t make them any less terrifying to the battered and insecure boy who shared my bed.  And yes, one of them did involve flying… and falling.  Not in a plane, but when did fears have to be logical?

I lean over and press a kiss to his forehead.  “This isn’t a dream, Justin.  You’re fine.  I’m fine.  We’ll pass through this turbulence and then--” 

“Oh fuck, I’m going to be sick.” 

“You are not going to be sick,” I tell him firmly.  Mind over matter and all that.  Though he does look exceptionally pale.  And his pupils are dilated.  And… shit, he’s going to be sick. 

He fumbles at his seatbelt and then he’s bolting past me, completely ignoring the admonishment from the stewardess and the steady red light reminding all passengers to remain in their seats.  He hits the bathroom door with a force that would make a linebacker proud.  The sound of the metal hitting the inner wall jars a few still-sleeping travellers out of their slumber, but I think he’s beyond caring. 

By the time I reach the tiny stall, he’s hunched over the seat gasping for breath and most of his filet mignon is making its own journey toward the bowels of the aircraft. 

I manoeuvre my way into the cubicle and crouch beside him, ruffling a hand through his hair.  The quivering abates somewhat under my touch, and after a moment he raises his head and swipes at his mouth with his sleeve.  The sleeve of a hundred-and-fifty dollar shirt from… no, I’m not going to think about it.  Instead I nudge his shoulder, let him take the proffered tissue from my hand.  He says nothing, simply blows his nose and looks up at me. 

His skin is so pale it’s practically translucent, a fine sheen of perspiration coating his flesh.  His eyes are glazed and red-rimmed, his hair dangling sweat-soaked in his face.  And he’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. 

I squinch up my nose, looking from him to the toilet bowl, and back again.  “At least it wasn’t Cheerios.” 

He snorts out a laugh.  “You fucker.” 

I press my tongue to my cheek, nudge him again.  “Ready to go back to your seat?” 

“I don’t know.  Do you think you can stop this shaking?” 

He still sounds weak.  I offer a hand, pulling Justin to his somewhat unsteady feet.  “Hmmm.  Is controlling the weather one of  Rage’s superpowers?” 

“It’s going to be,” he mutters under his breath as I drape my arm around his waist and lead him up the aisle.  He folds his body into the seat and wraps his arms around his middle, not protesting when I adjust the setting on his chair nor when I re-do his seatbelt.  Once he’s settled, I push my seat into the same position and lock myself in before once again taking his hand in mine. 

“You know what would make you feel better when we land?” 

“A new stomach?   A million dollar settlement from Liberty Air for making me feel like shit?” 

I shake my head, though his eyes are closed and he can’t see it.  “A nice relaxing soak in the Jacuzzi.” 

“Hmmm.  That sounds nice.” 

Yes.  Yes, it does.