The worst thing though, the absolute worst, is when they wake you up in the middle of the night… so that you can take your sleeping pill.  Not that sleeping pills have anything to do with hospital time, but still!  And then they get all huffy when you start yelling that everybody should be woken up from their sound sleep at 3:30am, because that makes such fucking perfect sense, and you can hear the call-buttons sounding all along the ward and get a feeling of grim satisfaction when you realize that Nurse Ratchet has run off after giving you a very aggravated scowl, but not your sleeping pill. 

Come to think of it, it was the day after that little incident that the doctors told me they were releasing me early. 

Anyway, I have tons of experience with hospital time.  And I have tons of experience with the many facets of Brian Kinney.  So I know that while Corporate Brian would rather recite love sonnets at Woody’s than be late for a meeting, Playtime Brian doesn’t know how to tell time. 

So when he tells me that he’ll be ready to go in “ten minutes”, I decide to use my time wisely.  I unpack the rest of our clothes, organizing Brian’s in the closet according to colour,  style, and function before flinging mine into the drawers any old way.  I mean, they’re just clothes.   I toss my sketchpad, some pencils and charcoals, and a bottle of sunscreen into a knapsack, after liberally dousing myself with the SPF Forty Kajillion lotion.  I re-make the bed and check the cell phone -- one message from Michael, have to remember to tell Brian -- and then I move into the sitting area of the suite and settle into one of the immense wingback chairs with a highlighter and the Barcelona Travel Guide.  I fucking love this book. 

I’ve marked off about a dozen different sights I want to check out by the time movement in the doorway alerts me to Brian’s presence.  I glance up towards him and suck in a breath.  Realize that my mouth has dropped open and quickly close it.  Not quick enough, though, if the look on Brian’s face is any indication. 

He’s just thrown on faded jeans and a muscle shirt.  Shades dangle from his fingers.  It’s not like he’s a GQ poster boy.  But honestly, he just takes my breath away.  I know that sounds like a cliché, but sometimes it just hits me, you know?  That this extraordinarily gorgeous, sinfully talented, and okay, somewhat emotionally stunted man is actually mine. 

And when he’s dressed like this… and looking at me like that… it makes me enormously tempted to just cancel any plans to visit the exhibit and throw myself into his arms and let him take me back to that very inviting four-poster bed.  We might not be able to rival Picasso, but I’m sure we could twist and turn into a few positions that would compliment Hieronymous Bosch‘s best work.

Appealing as the prospect is, I force myself to focus on the big picture here.  Spain.  Picasso Museum.  Rare, once in a lifetime opportunity to view rare and previously unseen works of a master.   Right.  Concentrate, Taylor.  I slap on a unruffled expression, rise from the chair and toss the highlighter aside.  “Ready?” 

Brian raises his eyebrows and spreads his arms, as if to say he’s been ready for hours and I’m the one who takes a minimum of fifteen minutes making sure the hair is just right.  As if.  But the fake-innocent look and half-smile on his face is so cute that I have to smile back. 

Justin keeps up a steady stream of enthusiastic chatter about Picasso as we make the drive to Montcada.  His study at the Royal Academy in Madrid, his marriage to Olga something or other, blah blah blah.  His entire face lights up when he gets like this.  His hands slash the air as he talks, and his eyes sparkle with intelligence and wit, and fuck if he doesn’t seem to actually glow.

Rambling about subjects that he’s passionate about is just another of the Justin-things that I’ve more or less gotten used to.   Like hiding Count Chocula at the back of the cupboard where I’ll supposedly never find it is a Justin-thing.  Smelly sweat socks tucked beneath the top sheet and the duvet at the very bottom of the bed where they won’t be discovered until the laundry has already gone to the cleaners is a Justin-thing.  Getting so transfixed by the drawing he’s creating that he forgets to eat or sleep is a Justin-thing.

I let him blather on, stealing glances at him as I drive, and wonder if he has a mental list of Brian-things. 

I grunt and nod every now and then as he talks, as if I give a shit.  Because much as I could care less about good ol’ Pablo’s polychrome period, I do give a shit about making the kid happy.  And I like watching him when he’s happy.  It’s a win-win situation.

There is only so much of my altruistic nature to go around, however.  Twenty minutes into the drive I’m ready to strangle him if he doesn’t just shut the fuck up about cubism and blue periods and post-fucking-impressionism. 

I make a sharp turn onto a particularly narrow road, and he either has to stop to take in another lungful of air or he’s just holding his breath out of abject terror for his safety.  Regardless of which it is, I take advantage of the opportunity to slip in a question. 

“Where the fuck did you learn all this?” 

“Art history class, mostly,” he answers nonchalantly, though he’s still holding onto the passenger door handle as if his life depended on it.  Don’t know why.  I didn’t take the curve that sharply.  “There was also a great section on Picasso in the guide book.” 

The guide book.  Don’t we have a fireplace in that hotel room?  When we get back, I’m going to burn that fucker. 

We pull in on a cobble-stoned side street where parking is for shit.  The whole area is packed with quaint little shops with cutout shutters on the windows and doors painted in vibrant colours, each shop bedecked with window box flowers and topped by the whimsically lettered sign of its terribly charming name.  I can feel my blood sugar rising just by being in the vicinity. 

“Isn’t this cool?” Justin lets the door slam as he slings his backpack onto his shoulder and turns in a circle, trying to take in everything at once. 

“Cool,” I drawl. 

“Check out that bakery!” He looks over his shoulder to make sure I’m paying attention before hightailing it to the display window and pressing his forehead to the glass.  I take my time reaching his side.  I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be looking at the pastries on display, but the view of his ass is just much more enticing. 

“Maybe we can stop off here on our way back to the hotel.  Grab some snacks for later.” 

I shrug.  “Sure.” 

“Promise?” he asks, playfully digging at my side.  Kid knows I don’t break from my strict nutritional regimen very often.  If ever.  But fuck, we’re on vacation.  I’ll let myself live a little.

“Sure.  You can even feed it to me,” I tell him, and the ways his eyes light up and his tongue snakes out from between those pink lips has my cock stirring.  He moves just a little… enough to bump his hip against mine… and I know the same lustful images are running through Justin’s head as well. 

“Oh, I think I can find some interesting ways to--” he begins, before his eyes drift away and he grabs my forearm.  “Hey.” 

Whatever has grabbed his attention has his brow furrowed and his lips drawn down in a pout.  It’s a fifty-fifty shot whether I’ll turn to check out the action or suck his bottom lip into my mouth.  Finally I decide that he’ll get pissed if I swoop down on him in the middle of the street with no advance warning, and then he’ll bitch and moan about it for hours… well, minutes, but it will seem like hours… so instead of doing what I really want to do, I shift beside him and follow his gaze. 

“Look at her,” he says, pointing without really pointing to a woman ducking into an antique store.   Bland brown hair cut to just above the shoulders, completely characterless style to both hair and clothing, big doe-eyes.  She looks like one of those sheltered schoolmarms from a Harlequin romance, the kind that falls desperately into unrequited love with the lord of the manor.  Not that I‘ve ever read a Harlequin romance.  But I might have picked up one or two in Lindsay‘s dorm room and flipped through them, once upon a time.

“Don’t we know her?” 

I snort.  “No.” 

“I definitely know her,” he contradicts immediately.   So why the fuck did he ask me to begin with?

I glance back at the woman, but she’s disappeared into the shop. 

“How do you know her?” 

“I don’t know.“  Justin shrugs, biting on his bottom lip.  Okay, now I really want to suck on it.  Shit, he really doesn’t know how tantalizing he is.  Or maybe he does, and he just likes to torture me. 

I squint up at the sun before slipping on my shades.  “Did you fuck her?” 

“Ewww!  Gross!”  Justin crinkles his nose and shudders, and goes from alluring to adorable in about two point five seconds.  And you could drag me naked through hot coals before I’d ever admit to using “Justin” and “adorable” in the same sentence, but that doesn’t stop me from giving into temptation and pulling him into my arms and enthusiastically enjoying the lips that have been tormenting me for the past five minutes.

When we come up for air, I’m fairly certain that women are the furthest thing from his mind.

We make it through three of the buildings before Brian’s eyes begin to glaze over.  By the time he whispers that if he has to look at one more painting of a freakish circus performer or ugly chick with a fan he’ll commit hari-kari, I am more than willing to take pity on him. 

We wander around outside at the street festival, and somehow I strike up a conversation with one of the artists.  Well, I actually don’t know if you’d call it a “conversation.”  I only know three Spanish phrases: “hello, my friend”, “two beers, please”, and the absolutely invaluable “my typewriter is broken.” I’m sure I’ll be able to use that on this trip.  Of course, that’s better than my French, in which I only know two phrases:  “hello, my friend” -- yes, I’m a veritable Greeting God when it comes to foreign languages -- and “Pitou, Pitou, give me the chicken”.  Dad had this idea that I had to take multiple  languages at St. James, because I’d be going into some sort of multinational business and I’d need to be able to communicate with overseas buyers or whatever.  Five years of that shit, and I still suck at anything other than English.  Thank God for Daphne;  I’d still be sitting in that French final if she hadn’t let me crib off her notes.

The gentle brush of a hand along my back alerts me to Brian‘s presence, and I look up from trying to decipher Isidro’s span-glish to see Brian indicate the tapas bar on the other side of the street.   I nod, watching as he makes his way across the road to one of the small patio tables.  It’s a nice view, and one that puts all kinds of distracting thoughts into my head. 

Brian leans back at the table, people-watching, and I try to pay attention to Isidro, I really do.   But I’m mostly thinking about chilled wine, and cream-filled pastry, and that tonight’s “final bout” is going to put my most elaborate wet dream to shame. 

Fuck.  I love Spain.