The play of the red strobe lights on Justin’s cheekbones. The pattern of the tiles on the bathroom floor. The bend of the straw in Emmett’s drink. It’s not helping matters that Babylon has chosen “Spring Fling” as the theme for the weekend, and the go-go boys look like exploding chrysanthemums. Brian has never been more thankful that Justin gave up that particular mode of earning a living.

Brian downs another Beam, watches Justin gyrate on the dance floor, and knows that he made the right decision. Because everything he told Mel was the fucking truth: Justin’s not the little woman, there’s no dinner at six, sitcoms at nine, and falling asleep to Leno, and besides, flowers are for when you’ve done something wrong. Flowers are for the day after Thanksgiving, turkey dry as shit, Jack slamming down Old Pitt after Old Pitt until the turkey ends up on the floor, on the wall, gravy making weird patterns on the so-carefully-chosen wallpaper. Flowers are for the day after the breaking china, Claire dissolving into tears, Joanie disappearing into the bottom of the sherry bottle. After spending the weekend at poker with the boys, losing your shirt and the month’s mortgage payment.

Brian takes another sip and watches scarlet light blossom on Justin’s face like a rose petal, and he knows he did nothing wrong. And if he did... well, last time he checked, Justin’s talented mouth worked just fine, and he’s never had a problem using it before.

Still. Brian is man enough to admit, if only to himself, that seeing Justin light up from within -- pure joy radiating from his pores like... as much as Brian hates to even think it... like sunshine -- makes his pulse speed up and his breath catch in his lungs. There are times he does things, little things, just to watch Justin’s face transform into that beacon, that ray of light.

But flowers aren’t a little thing, he tells himself. Are they?

And so he keeps being reminded of the flowers, and the thoughts swirl in his head, and he downs another drink and finds Justin and they slide into their coats and Brian just wants to stop thinking, and he knows the best way to do that.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” he promises, sneaking up behind Justin in the alley and wrapping his arms around Justin’s waist. “I’m gonna fuck you all night long.”

And if Justin’s response is less than satisfactory -- save it for the weekend, indeed, who the fuck has he been living with for the last six months? -- Brian can shrug that off, too. He’s apparently been forgiven, at least on the surface, and he’s confident that Justin will be his usual perky, vibrant self soon enough.

Which is exactly why he lets Justin ramble about Vermont inns, and snowboarding, and the picture book images of hot cocoa around a blazing fireplace that are surely dancing in Justin’s head, and keeps his mouth shut about the conversation he already had with Daphne about this very thing. Justin, still in the shower, running late as usual -- and never mind that it was Brian, joining him belatedly for a long, leisurely fuck against the shower stall that made him late; Brian, in loose-fitting track pants, feeling relaxed and unusually open to conversation; and Daphne, perched on one of the kitchen stools while she raves about bunny slopes and candlelit rooms and how romantic everything was.

If Brian remembers correctly, he didn’t even blanch at the word.

So Brian listens, and snarks when it’s appropriate, and does some imagining of his own that doesn’t involve hot beverages or burning logs.

“Did they have those little mints on the pillows?” he sneers when Justin has finished extolling the virtues of Daphne and Bill’s Excellent Inn, as though Jacuzzis and fireplaces are not a staple of every single high-end B&B in existence.

“I forgot, Brian Kinney doesn’t do romance,” Justin intones.

And Brian closes his eyes and doesn’t think about flowers not purchased, most certainly doesn’t think about slow dancing to an old sappy song, and snaps out the first thing that comes to mind. “I don’t need an excuse to fuck,” he says, and if he did regrets he might regret those words when Justin rounds on him, when Justin accuses Brian of not wanting to be with him, when Justin’s shoulders slump and his sneakered feet drag the ground as he walks away.

Maybe Brian won’t do flowers. Maybe he won’t ever do schmaltzy cards or presents. But he can do this. He will do this.

“I want to go away with you for the whole fucking week,” he calls out, spreading his arms wide, opening himself up.

He can do this.

And when Justin leaps into his arms, kisses him, all bouncing glowing delight, Brian thinks that everything is going to be all right. He leans against a car, taking most of Justin’s weight, Justin’s palm gliding slowly over his ribcage, and knows that everything is going to be all right.