I did what I wanted and damned the consequences.  If my exploits ended up with me on the receiving end of Jack’s fist, then I took it like a man.  And I got used to the look on Joanie’s face.  That long suffering look.  That “what did I do to deserve such a child” look.  That look that told me that the way I acted was just what she expected all along. 

I wanted… shit, it doesn’t matter what I wanted.  I got what I needed from Mikey and Deb. 

But the past few weeks I’ve been thinking about Joanie a lot.  Not because of that shit with John.  I’ve moved on past that little brat.   I’ve been thinking about this feeling I used to get in my gut.  This gnawing sensation that made me practically the only four-year-old that would grind his teeth and bite his nails and pull at his hair till his scalp bled. 

That feeling is back, and I can’t put my finger on what it is. 

It’s not the same feeling, exactly.  But similar enough that the old memories get dredged up from where they’re buried.  I’ve tried to put a name to it, but I can’t.  It’s not fear or anger or worry or concern or loss or any of the other thousand pointless emotions we torture ourselves with.  I can’t control it, so I do what I can to ignore it or cover it up or camouflage it. 

It’s worst in the loft.  The loft is so quiet. 

So I spend more time at work than I ever did before.  It’s easy to put in the extra time -- I’m a fucking partner and despite what my so-called friends think, the Stockwell campaign is not the only thing on my agenda.   I’m in charge of three other major accounts at the moment. We’ve got new national spots running in two weeks on Brown Athletics.  The morons in the art department ruined yet another graphic this week, and I’m at the point where I’m going to start knocking their heads together.  Maybe some time on the unemployment line will teach the fuckers.  This shit doesn’t run itself. 

When I’m home… alone… I watch my old movies and I play music and I make sure there’s noise, noise, until the moment I walk out the door.  And when I’m home… and not alone… there’s music or a video because I’ve got to do something to distract myself, got to do something to keep my mind on the guy going down on me and not let my eyes drift to where his computer used to sit or where his jacket used to hang over the back of the chair or where his body used to recline, naked, arms reaching out…

Fuck. 

He was wearing the same clothes today.

When the phone rings I consider letting the machine pick it up.  I  tell myself that I must answer because it could be important.  Gus could be sick; somebody could have been in a horrible car accident.  Can’t admit that I’m hoping it might be him.  Trouble in Sunshine’s paradise so he’ll come running back with his tail between his legs.  That’s not Justin.  That’s never been Justin. 

“What?” 

“Good evening to you, too.” 

If I didn’t have a headache before, I do now.  My fingers pinch the bridge of my nose as I struggle to rein in my irritation.  Not Mikey’s fault. 

“What’s up, Mikey?”  Fuck, I sound apathetic. Should try a little harder where Mikey’s concerned.

He doesn’t seem to notice.  That’s one of the good things about Mikey.  He gets so wrapped up in his own shit that he doesn’t notice other people’s.  Of course, that’s one of the bad things about him too.

“Babylon tonight?” he asks. 

“What about your homicidal lover?” I bite out.  Yeah, I’m still bitter.  I’m fucking scarred for life due to that asshole.

Mikey’s voice immediately becomes contrite.  “He’s not coming.  He’s got a class in the morning.  Look, Brian, Ben’s really sorry about what he did.  He feels terrible.”

“Fuck his sorry.” 

“I know.”  A long pause, during which Michael apparently tries to figure out what it is he knows.  He evidently gives it up as a lost cause, and returns to the subject of Babylon.  “It’d just be the two of us.  I figured we could celebrate my impending fatherhood.” 

Impending fatherhood.  He actually says that. 

It doesn’t take much to convince me to go.  It’s Babylon or trolling the ‘net looking for a suitable fuckmate and wondering when I started paying such close attention to Justin that I notice what he’s wearing from one day to the next.  Babylon wins out easily.  I arrange to meet Mikey there before hanging up and showering and getting dressed and making sure my hair looks good and doing all the shit that I do before I go out even though these days it feels like it doesn’t fucking matter anyway. 

I flip through radio stations on the drive, trying to find something that holds no memories.  I finally give up and drive the rest of the way in silence. 

Babylon is more crowded than usual.  I can see Mikey standing on the catwalk, searching the multitude for me, but I head to the bar first.  Grab us each a beer and fortify myself with a little of Sammy’s latest pharmaceutical concoction.  Then I make my way to Mikey’s side and fortify him with a very pricey Monte Cristo cigar.  I give him some bullshit about smuggling it in from Cuba, and fuck, I guess it was smuggled in but it sure as shit wasn’t me that did it.  The fact that I haven’t been to Cuba -- ever -- seems to slip Mikey’s mind because he just sucks on the stogey and goes a little green around the gills. 

“If that’s any indication of your technique, it’s amazing you have a boyfriend,” I snark.  Mikey ignores me, but I know he’s not going to give me any shit.  It was, after all, a Ben reference.  Pretty much the closest I’ll get tonight to admitting the asshole exists, and that I might be on the way to forgiving him.  Mikey gets it.

“I’m still in shock,” he says.  “We made a baby after just one try.” 

“Fucking disgusting, all right. Your sperm actually liked Melanie’s eggs.  Urgh!” I shudder elaborately.  “I guess there’s no accounting for some people’s taste.” 

I glance out over the dance floor, expecting a sarcastic response.  When none is forthcoming, I look back at Mikey.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the nauseous expression on his face isn’t just from the cigar.  I think I was justified in getting a little freaked out after Gus was born.  I never expected it from Mikey.  Sensible little Mikey who thought the whole thing through before agreeing to be the dad, and who knew exactly what he wanted out of this little arrangement. 

I press my palm on his shoulder gently.  “Easy, Mikey.” The last thing I need is for my best friend to pass out on the catwalk. Getting him downstairs would be a bitch.

He looks a little better after the contact, but his voice is still anxious.  “I don’t think I can do it.” 

“What?” 

“Be responsible for another life.” 

Who the fuck is ever prepared for that?  I can’t count the number of desperate calls I got at work from Linds.  Gus wouldn’t sleep, Gus wouldn’t eat, Gus wouldn’t do this, that, or the other thing and Mel was in court and what the hell should she do?  When you suddenly have someone… anyone… who’s relying on you to take care of them and protect them…

Fuck.

I don’t like the way my thoughts are going, so I revert to my old friend, sarcasm.  He and I have a long and fulfilling relationship.

“Did I ask you to?”

“Not you, asshole.” Mikey snips back.  “The kid.” 

Right, Mikey.  Thanks for clearing that up.  “The job’s done,” I lie.  “From here on out, the lezzies do all work.  All you have to do is show up for birthday parties and the occasional walk in the park.” 

Mikey frowns.  “I don’t intend to be a drop-in dad, like you.  I want to be involved, like a real father.  If I can just figure out how.” 

Like a real father.  Goddamn him.  He doesn’t want to be like me.  No, he wants to be a real father.  My lips twist in a smirk because otherwise I’ll lose it.  A real father, Mikey?  How about the kind that lays awake at night planning investment options for his kid’s future?  How about the kind that drives halfway across town in a fucking blizzard because the kid won’t stop crying and the babysitter doesn’t know what to do? 

I press my lips together.  I know Mikey doesn’t have a fucking clue that he’s just sucker punched me.  But I’ve got to get out of here.  I’ve had enough. 

“You’re gonna be a great dad.” 

He looks dubious.  “How can you be so sure?” 

“Well, you raised me, didn’t you?  Look how I turned out.” I lean forward to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek before heading off, hoping that my parting shot gave him something to think about.  I never said I was a nice person.  Honest, but not necessarily nice.

The backroom is more crowded than I’ve ever seen it.  Everywhere I look, naked and semi-naked bodies writhe in various stages of arousal.  It’s a smorgasbord of hot men, yet I wander through the labyrinth feeling vaguely unsettled.  My eye lights on a possible prospect, but my dick remains stubbornly soft.  Shit.  I move on, about to give up.  A veritable banquet of men, and there’s no-one here I want. 

Then I see him. 

I stop in the middle of the room.  An explosion could go off at my feet, and I don’t think I could will my legs to move or my eyes to look away.  I couldn’t be more obvious if I wore a sign. 

I finally manage to stumble towards the wall, leaning against it without taking my eyes off him.  There’s no trick in sight, but it doesn’t matter.  I can’t move.  All I want to do is… all I want to do is… Take him.  Pull him away from his trick and… Kiss him.  Push my tongue into his mouth and push my cock into his ass and fucking take him, and claim him, and… kiss him… fuck…haven’t kissed him in so long… haven’t kissed anyone in so fucking long…

He sees me then. 

Do Justin’s eyes widen just a little?  I don’t know.  But his hips suddenly piston, the lacklustre movement of a moment before stepped up a little once he sees me watching him.  I sense motion out of the corner of my eye and my hand raises to guide a trick to my dick… hard now, of course… and I don’t need to look at the trick, he doesn’t matter, and I couldn‘t look at him even if I wanted to because Justin‘s eyes are boring into mine and they’re the only things I see. 

I manage to pull my eyes away for a second, my lips twisting as I rest my head on the wall and finally put a name to the nagging, persistent, irritating feeling that’s been in my gut for weeks.  Not anger or fear or jealousy or worry or loss. 

Hunger.  I’m empty without him.  I’m a shell without him. 

I try to focus on the trick’s mouth working on my cock but it doesn’t work, and I’m drawn again to Justin’s eyes.  He never looks away.  He watches me as he pounds into a stranger and I watch him as a stranger sucks me off, and in some weird fucked-up way we are together.