“So, what do you think?”  I ask, leaning across the table as I swipe at the butter.  Real butter is a new addition to the loft, purchased and kept on hand only after much… creative persuasion… on my part. 

I used to be able to list the contents of Brian’s fridge on one hand.  Bottled water.  Poppers.  Bread.  Guava juice.  Things are changing now that I’m a more-or-less permanent fixture around the loft.    Brian actually buys food now.  And we often go shopping together.  Now that’s always an adventure.  Sometimes I feel like I have to get out the combat fatigues before a trip to the supermarket.  Hand to hand combat shouldn’t be part of anyone’s shopping regimen.  I find myself grinning as I slather a generous portion of butter on my toast.  I understand that Brian is health-conscious, but come on. Nobody should have to live on eggplant and avocado!  Sooooo… I wheedle, I smile, I tease… and sometimes I win the battle.  Real butter.  A little slice of heaven. 

I already have my next offensive planned.  The goal: chocolate syrup.  I figure it will be a pretty easy pitch.  Definitely not as difficult as convincing Brian that pizza pops are an essential source of protein.  After all, there are lots of interesting things one can do with chocolate syrup. 

Still grinning, I wash down the toast with a gulp of soda.  “Brian?” 

He glances up from his newspaper, and I see the look in his eye.  I suddenly realize I should have broken out the camouflage gear for this little conversation. 

“Oh, were you talking to me?” he says dryly. 

I can’t hold back the sigh.  “Brian—” 

“Because the way you were prattling on like some lovesick schoolboy, I figured you must have Daphne on the phone.” 

“Brian, it’s Valentine’s Day!” 

“Whatever.” 

“It’s a special day,” I say carefully.  I want to get this right.  “When people who… people who care about each other—” 

Brian folds his newspaper methodically, leaning back in his chair.  “It’s a trumped up holiday invented by chocolatiers and florists to move their merchandise.  Do you want to know how many valentine campaigns I’ve worked on, Justin?  The whole thing is designed as a marketing strategy to enrich the pockets of Godiva and FDA.” 

“Actually, it’s not.”  I lean forward, folding my hands on the table.  Brian’s wearing his ‘oh shit, here comes one of Justin’s speeches’ face, but I soldier on anyway.  “Valentine’s Day goes all the way back to Roman times.  Claudius passed a law banning engagements and marriages.  But one of the Christian priests continued to marry people anyway.  Even after he was captured and sentenced to death, he still continued to marry people in secret.  They’d come to Father Valentine outside his cell—” 

Brian holds up a hand.  “Why the fuck do you think I care about this?” 

“You don’t.  Because it proves you’re wrong,” I tease.  I push away from the table, stalking towards Brian’s chair.  Sometimes dealing with Brian is infuriating.  Frustrating.  Maddening.  Of course, sometimes it’s satisfying, rewarding and a shitload of fun.  I just never know what I’m going to get.  Hence the attraction, I guess.   “Briaaaan—” 

“Jussssstin,” Brian mocks, grabbing my wrist.  I find myself pulled forward to straddle his lap.  I don’t resist.  Who would?  His thighs are warm and firm beneath me, and my awareness of him is so strong that I briefly lose my train of thought.  He wraps a hand in my shirt and pulls me toward him, looking into my eyes for a long moment before taking my lips with his.   The kiss starts out gentle, then deepens as his other hand finds the back of my neck and presses me closer into his embrace. 

I’m breathless when I finally pull back with a smile. “So you’re saying you don’t like this, then?”  He doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips together.  Considering me.  Contemplating his next move.    I know I need to continue quickly before he decides to move the conversation to the bedroom.  If we hit the bed without me getting at least one little concession from him on this matter, I’m doomed.  Not that he wouldn’t stop if I wanted him to.  It’s just that I know I wouldn’t want him to. 

“You wouldn’t like being pampered…” I lean in to kiss his neck… “In a fancy hotel…” I lick quickly at his ear… “With a Jacuzzi…” I move to his shoulder, nipping gently… “A nice meal…” my lips graze his cheek… “And me…” I move to his brow, a gentle touch… “To do with as you please…” his lips, soft and smooth… “All night long?” 

He smirks.  “What makes you think you’re so enticing?” 

I glance deliberately down at our laps, and then lift my eyes slowly to his.  My raised eyebrows say more than I could ever manage with words. 

“That’s just friction,” he laughs, pulling me closer. 

“Uh huh.” I shrug and roll my eyes, letting my hands drift along his bare arms.  I love his arms.  Could be why I’ll always encouraging the purchase of more muscle shirts.  “Anyway, I learned from the master,” I say. 

He runs his hand along my back, and I have to fight to keep the victory grin off my face.  “You’ll say anything to get my dick inside your tight little ass,” he whispers. 

I’m so close to winning.  If I keep this up, our suite at the Hilton on February 14th is a lock.   But I can’t.  I know I’m frowning as I push back from Brian’s embrace.  “It’s not like that, Brian,” I say, resting my hands on his shoulders.  “It’s about… doing something nice for the person you… you love.  It’s about—” 

One moment I’m nestled in Brian’s arms, his hands kneading my waist, his eyes inches away from my own.  The next moment I’m thrust backward against the table so hard the cutlery dances against the plates.  Before I can react, Brian is out of the chair and halfway across the room. 

“Brian!” 

“Romance is bullshit, Justin,” he says over his shoulder as he shrugs into his coat. 

I lean against the table, arms folded at my chest.  My burgeoning erection still presses against my trousers, which frustrates me even more than his pissy attitude.  Friction, I tell myself.  Just friction.  Too bad my body doesn’t listen. 

“Brian,” I try again.  “It would be nice—” 

“No.” 

Now with Brian, ‘No’ means a lot of different things.  Sometimes it means ‘maybe’.  Usually it means ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m going to do, so I’ll say No right now till I think about it’.  And then there were the occasions when ‘No’ really meant ‘No.’ 

I don’t like this version of  ‘No’.  It has a ring of finality to it. 

“Where are you going?”  My voice comes out sharp and exasperated, although I’m trying to sound blasé. 

Brian grabs his keys from the counter before fixing me with a glare.  “Out.” 

The loft door slams shut as Hurricane Brian storms away.  I stare at the pockmarked metal hopefully, but the pounding of his feet on the stairs announces that he’s not coming back.  I could track him down, if I wanted to.  But it’s better to let the storm pass before I attempt to broach the subject again. 

A faint smile plays across my lips as I gather the dishes from our lunch.   For some reason I’m reminded of Monty Python.  When the Spanish Inquisition sketch goes through my mind at a moment like this, I know that Brian and I have been spending too much time watching the comedy channel lately.  But “amongst the weapons” of a certain determined young artist are perseverance, assertiveness, and a hell of a lot of enthusiasm. 

Brian may have won the battle, but the war is long from over. 

February 12th…

Woody’s is busier than usual.  The spillover from the raid at Hot Shots last weekend has been a godsend to the pub’s coffers, from the looks of it.  Rowdy men pack the tables, their voices getting louder the more abundantly the beer flows. 

It’s been a long day and honestly, this is the last place I want to be.  School was pathetic.  Chris Hobbes was a rampaging asshole, again.   Big surprise there.  Dickhead Davidson marked down my Civil War notes for some lameass reason.  What difference does it make if “Brian” was written in a couple of the margins?  They were fucking study notes, not the actual assignment.  Why the fuck do we have to hand in notes, anyway? 

I’m tired and irritable, and I want to go home and collapse.  Or… go to the loft.   Hell, practically anywhere but a crowded, noisy bar would do. To make it worse, we’re crammed into one of the corner tables, and the view’s for shit.  But I’m not here to ogle the hot guys, I remind myself.  I’m here to get inspiration for the new plan.  Valentine’s Day, Mark II.  New and improved.  Well, not exactly.  New, yeah.  Improved?  Not so much.  It doesn’t get much better than the posh hotel idea.  But considering Brian stayed out all day yesterday and hasn’t returned my calls today, I’ve had to ice that particular proposal.  Time is running out. 

Emmett and Ted, however, seem to have the combined attention span of a two year old.  They don’t seem to realize that this is important!  I lean forward against the table, raising my voice to be heard above the din. 

“What about Babylon?” I ask. 

“Babylon?  It’s only six o’clock.”  Emmett shoots me a look that clearly says I’ve taken leave of my senses before turning back to the current edition of Out. 

“No, I mean for—” 

“Ooooh, here’s something.”  Emmett waves the paper to get our attention.  Like the bright fuchsia sweater he’s sporting isn’t eye-catching enough.  “Uncle Arthur’s.  What do you say, boys?” 

“Eh.  I don’t think so,” Ted answers. 

“Come on, Teddy,” Emmett coaxes.  “Look, they’re having a ‘Thighs of Thunder’ contest.    Hot, beefy men in teeny, tiny briefs…” 

“Nah, I’ll pass.  I’ve never really liked Uncle Arthur’s.” 

“How come?” I ask, my curiousity roused.  Uncle Arthur’s is one of the few bars along the strip that I haven’t yet been able to finagle my way into.  Besides, I know Brian doesn’t like it much.  So my incentive to try harder pretty much goes out the window. 

Ted shrugs, taking a sip of his drink.  “I don’t know.  Anyplace where I’m one of the coolest people there is just not the place for me.” 

I laugh as Emmett plants a kiss on Ted’s cheek.  Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea.  Being around friends.  Okay, maybe not my friends so much.  Brian’s friends.  But still… just laughing and talking.  It’s nice.  Especially when Brian’s giving me the cold shoulder. 

Brian.  Shit.  My stomach churns with tension again.  Okay, maybe my shitty day had less to do with Hobbes and Davidson and more to do with Brian than I’m quite ready to admit.  I understand he’s pissed, but not returning my calls is just… just… childish. 

I’m going to make this right, and damnit, Brian and I will celebrate Valentine’s Day together. 

“What about Babylon on Valentine’s Day?” I ask again. 

“Hmmm?  What about it, sweetie?” 

I bite back the sarcastic answer that immediately comes to mind.  Haven’t they been listening to me at all?  I only spent the first five minutes after my arrival at the damn bar explaining why I needed to find an alternate Valentine destination for Brian and me.  Jesus! 

“Do they do anything special?” I ask, trying to sound unconcerned.  If we’re going to act like I didn’t already mention – half a dozen times – that I was looking forward to spending some quality time with Brian on the 14th, then I can do blasé. 

“Special?”  Ted shrugs.  “I don’t think so.” 

“Oh.”  I try to keep the crestfallen expression from my face, but I don’t do a very good job.   Emmett picks up on it.  Since a bloodhound with a head cold could probably catch the scent of disappointment oozing from my pores, this isn’t a big surprise. 

“Oh!” Emmett looks up excitedly, obviously glad that he’s come up with something memorable.  I try not to get my hopes up.  Good thing, too. 

“Last year,” Emmett says, “the go-go boys dressed up in little cupid costumes.  Remember that, Teddy?  And that tall blonde—” 

“The one with the dimple,” Ted nods. 

Emmett smiles in recollection. “Got his bow stuck in the—” 

“Okay, this isn’t helping,” I interrupt.  “That’s it?  That’s all they do?” 

“Wellllll… sometimes there’s red glitter,” Ted adds hopefully. 

“Great,” I mutter, dropping my head in my hands.  So Babylon was out, unless I wanted us to do the same thing we did every other night of the week.  Shit, this was aggravating.  I allow myself a sigh before raising my head.  A weak smile is all I can manage, but at least it’s a smile.  I’ve still got two more days.  I can work something out.  “Amongst my weapons” and all that. 

“So… no Uncle Arthur’s tonight?  Too bad.  I’d like to see the inside of that place.” 

Emmett ignores my oh-so-subtle change of subject.  “Justin, honey,” he says, taking one of my hands in his, “you’ve got to stop getting these… starry-eyed… notions in your head about Brian.” 

Okay, so he was listening before.  Fantastic. 

“He’s just not…” 

“Not what?”  The defensive walls are coming up and I can’t stop them.  Hell, I don’t even try. 

Emmett looks to Ted for help. 

“Not… into romantic gestures,” Ted tries tactfully. 

“That’s fine.  He doesn’t have to be.  This isn’t about Brian doing something for me.  It’s about me doing something for him, to show him how I feel. Fuck, if there’s any day when two people should be able to show how much they care about each other, it’s Valentine’s Day.” 

“Since when does Brian Kinney care about anyone but himself?” Ted bites out. 

I shake my head.  “You think you know him, but you don’t.  You don’t see him when we’re alone.  He’d like it, if he’d just let himself admit it.” 

“Justin, we love you,” Emmett says, looking to Ted for confirmation.  “The last thing we want to do is hurt you.  But don’t you think that maybe you’re just… telling yourself what you want to hear?  Every boy wants to be loved.  It’s a natural instinct, same as breathing.  Or eating.” 

“Or in Brian’s case, fucking,” Ted adds. 

Emmett shoots Ted a dirty look as I pull my hand away.  They don’t understand.  They see the sardonic Brian, the one who uses his intelligence like a finely-honed blade, perfectly willing to skewer whoever is in his path.  They don’t see the vulnerable Brian, like I do.  Every boy wants to be loved, Emmett said.   But somehow, in their world, “every boy” doesn’t include Brian. 

I slide from the table, pushing my way through the mass of patrons to the door.  The clock is ticking.  Less than fourty-eight hours to design and execute an effective battle strategy.  Fuck. 

I stand outside the door, buttoning my jacket as I breathe in the crisp night air.  I look up at the sky, awash with twinkling lights.  The stars seem to wink at me.  Maybe they know something I don’t.  Maybe they’re on my side. 

I feel lighter now, weightless.  The air clears my head.  I can think again. 

There’s still time. Brian won’t know what hit him.