But right now, drunk on champagne and Brian’s success and the knowledge that he can take whatever the fuck life throws at him -- thank you, Cody, you hypocritical piece of shit -- Justin feels like this is the best night of his life.

He stops on the stairs, shirt half unbuttoned, cocks his head, and tries it on for size. “This is the best night of my life.”

“What the fuck are you mumbling about?” Brian momentarily stops fussing at the arrangement of lemons and limes on the counter to turn his attention to Justin, but Justin doesn’t miss how he keeps eying the lone lime that keeps rolling back to the middle of the bowl. On a good night, Justin finds Brian’s obsessive compulsiveness with produce displays to be charming in a whimsical way; on a bad night, he wants to sneak out of bed and rearrange everything so that all the lemons are on one side and all the limes on the other, and laugh maniacally while he’s doing it.

“Nothing,” Justin says, and smiles. It’s a good night.

Brian simply nods before snatching at the stubborn lime and pressing it carefully into place.

Justin makes it up another step and almost to the edge of the bed, and actually manages to get his shirt fully undone despite fingers that feel like overcooked sausage. He thinks that perhaps he shouldn’t have drank an entire magnum of champagne, but hey, it wouldn’t be the best night of his life if he’d been cautious, would it? Justin has learned that regret only eats you up inside.

“Hey. You know that guy, Herb?”

Justin knows that Brian knows Herb, could probably recite the high points of the guy’s resume from memory, along with a biting commentary on his most irritating personality traits. Something along the lines of “bites his nails when he’s anxious, flushes bright red when flustered, picks his nose when he thinks no one is looking”. But Brian squinches up his face as though he’s thinking really hard, in that way that Justin finds impossibly cute, though he’d never say so aloud. He values his life -- and his sex life, more importantly -- far too much to use the word “cute“ to describe Brian Kinney.

“Fat guy?” Brian says. “Bad teeth?”

“He could benefit from some time in the gym, yeah,” Justin reluctantly agrees.

“Christ, even drunk you’re fucking PC.”

“And I wouldn’t say his teeth were that bad. They just need some work. I should really recommend my orthodontist--”

“Did you have a point?”

“Oh.” Justin shakes his head, which turns out to be a really bad idea, but the room manages to hold itself to one complete spin before he feels semi-normal again.

“Aaaaand?” Brian prompts, apparently happy now with the lemon/lime combination, because he crosses to the bedroom, walking entirely too steadily for Justin’s satisfaction. After all, he drank almost an entire magnum of champagne too. Not to mention what other libations he got into once the staff had their fill and took off and it was down to the regular gang.

“Oh,” Justin says again. “Right. He didn’t know you’re gay.”

Brian merely grunts. Justin, who has memorized almost the entire directory of Brian’s grunts, groans and moans, as well as assorted grimaces, smirks, and eyebrow-arches, is surprised to read this grunt as “completely unsurprised.” Taking into account Brian’s wardrobe, the hand gestures, the queen-outs over deadlines and shoddy artwork, hell, even the former occupation of the building that now houses Kinnetik, he fails to see how anyone could not know that Brian Kinney is a raving homosexual. Unless…

“I think maybe Herb is retarded,” Justin says.

Brian is in the process of taking off his pants, an act that seems to take more concentration than normal. But Justin is pretty sure he hears a muffled laugh. He waits until Brian is upright again before continuing.

“Seriously,” he says, poking a finger into Brian’s chest. “I think you should be commended for hiring someone who is mentally challenged. I should, like, mention you to the GLC or something.”

“You are sooooo fucking drunk.”

“I am not sooooo fuc--” Justin stops, and considers. And grins. “Okay, yeah, I am. I actually think I am officially too drunk to fuck.”

Brian raises an eyebrow, and leers. And drunk or not, Justin can read those signs just fine. Unlimited rapture lies ahead, those signs say, and he’s too wasted to take advantage of it.

“I am never too drunk to fuck,” Brian declares. But he doesn’t make a move, just flops down onto the bed and struggles under the covers, holding them back while Justin slips out of his own designer whatever trousers and crawls into bed beside him. The trousers are left in a heap on the floor, and the fact that Brian doesn’t have a hissy fit about that tells Justin all he needs to know about Brian’s current mental state.

Justin closes his eyes, but the room does a flip and twirl and the bed feels like it’s levitating. Closing his eyes seems like a very bad idea. Talking, on the other hand…

“I think maybe you should have asked Michael to come up on the platform with us.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t think Brian’s going to answer. Then, “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Well. Friends. You know.” And Justin doesn’t mind that Brian called him a “friend”, he really doesn’t, because they are friends, and the kiss, yeah, the kiss let everybody know just what kind of friends they are. Justin squirms a little against Brian just thinking about it, the way Brian’s lips felt so soft and fresh and alive.

“He is your best friend,” Justin says, a little groggily now, the thought of that kiss making him feel snug and sated.

Brian lifts his head, and even if Justin didn’t understand a single page of the Brian Kinney Operating Manual, he could read those eyes.

“No. He’s not,” Brian says softly.

Brian’s eyes close, and Justin grins. Again.

Now, the sheets are cool on his heated skin. Brian’s body is warm against his, Brian’s nose soft against his neck, and Brian’s arm a comfortable weight around his waist. It might not be the kind of rapture Brian had in mind, but Justin loves it just the same.