“Hello?” 

“Hey, Daph.” 

“How did it go?” 

Twirling the phone cord between my fingers, I flip over onto my stomach.  From this position, I have the best view of the sketches on the wall beside the bed.  I know it sounds silly, but sometimes just looking at the drawing of Brian makes me feel a little closer to him.  Like he’s here… almost.  Just a step or two away.  Close enough to breathe in his scent. 

I’m glad I didn’t have this sketch completed when the GLC was having their art auction.  I’m sure Lindsay would have convinced me to offer it, and I’m equally sure that somebody would have bought it.  Probably the same guy that bought that other sketch of Brian.  That drawing captured the serenity of a post-coital Brian Kinney.   I was proud of it.  Still am. But for some reason, I was willing to let that one go. 

But the drawing that hangs beside my bed is far more intimate, even though it’s only of his face.  I tried to capture everything about Brian in this sketch.  My pencil was flying across the paper, eager to portray the subtle nuances of his personality before he noticed what I was doing and made me stop.  Sure that I could expose the spirit of Brian Kinney to the world.  Pretty full of myself. 

Of course, the finished sketch is as much an enigma as the man himself.  Lips curved in a half-smile, mocking or pleased or thoughtful or unsure, depending on your point of view.  Eyes revealing only that there is something more hovering beneath the surface, and that you’ll discover what it is only if he allows it. 

Yeah, it’s almost like he’s here. 

“Wellllll?” 

I pull myself back to the present with an effort.  Poor Daphne sounds like she’s going to have an epileptic seizure if I don’t. 

“Like shit,” I answer, flopping onto my side as Daphne’s dejected sigh sounds through the receiver.  Maybe I should just let it go at that.  What’s done is done.  The dream is over.  Fuck. 

“Michael didn’t have ANY ideas?” Daphne prompts. 

Well, I didn’t really want to let it go at that. 

“He’s pathetic,” I spit into the phone.  “First of all, I go all the way down to the crap emporium to see him.  He spends half the time paying more attention to the damned chocolate display than he does to me.  Starts babbling about how the red candy hearts don’t belong with the foil Kisses.  Like the world’s going to end if The Big Q’s candy display is out of whack. And when he finally does decide to actually acknowledge my presence, it’s only to give me the same old lecture.”  I pitch my voice into Michael’s whine.  “’Brian doesn’t do boyfriends.  Brian doesn’t fall in love.  Brian doesn’t believe in romance.  He never has and he never will’.  Jesus Christ, Daphne! Do you have any idea how sick I am of hearing that?” 

“Well…” 

“Don’t you start!!  None of them know Brian like I do.  Michael least of all.” 

“Look Justin, I know you love Brian.  But—” 

“No ‘buts’.  I swear, Daphne, I’ll hang up the phone.  I don’t need this shit right now.” 

“Justin!  I’m just saying… well… that Michael’s known Brian a lot longer than you have.” 

I glance back at the sketch.  Only lead scratches on paper. But Brian’s impenetrable gaze seems to latch onto mine.  There’s so much hidden emotion in that face, now trapped for eternity on the ripped-out page of a tattered sketchbook.  I suddenly want to drag that sketchbook out of my bag, fix the image of Brian in my mind, and try again.  I was so close to catching it.  So close to capturing the real Brian on paper. 

I know that if I keep trying, keep struggling, be more persistent… I’ll be able to illustrate another facet of Brian.  A sketch that will show the Brian that holds me in his arms when I have a bad dream, and kisses me on the ear, and tells me that he won’t let me go.  The Brian that said he’d always be there to protect me.  The Brian that listens to me bitch about school, and then shares his own worries about Michael… or Lindsay... or his latest client. The Brian that is already investing for Gus’s college fund.  The Brian that loves and needs and hurts and feels and cares. 

“I’m not just some stupid twink,” I mutter. 

“What?” 

It’s only Daphne’s startled squeak that makes me realize I’ve spoken aloud. 

I take a deep breath.   What were we talking about?  My hand still itches to hold a pencil. So close.  I can almost see it.  “Shit.” 

“Justin, I didn’t mean to, you know, hurt your feelings.  About Michael, I mean.” 

Michael.  Right.  Hurt my feelings?  No, Daphne wouldn’t do that.  And they can’t be hurt… at least, not about this.  Because she’s wrong. 

I shake my head, though Daphne can’t see it.  “You didn’t, Daph.  Michael thinks he knows Brian.  He just doesn’t get it.  Brian has changed.  I’m proof of that.  But Michael still sees Brian as some adolescent fantasy.” 

“And you don’t?” 

Daphne’s voice is lighter now, thankfully.  “Only every teenage boy’s wet dream,” I grin. 

“Teenage girl’s, too,” Daphne answers back with a laugh. 

“Seriously, Daph, there’s so much more to Brian than what Michael sees.  Why would I want him if he was just some narcissistic playboy?” 

“The hot sex?” 

“Daph, I’m serious,” I answer, though I can’t keep the smile out of my voice.  The sex is amazing, after all. 

“I know.  You’re not just some stupid twink.” 

“Daph—” 

“So what’s the plan for tomorrow night?” 

I sigh.  “There is no plan.  It’s too late to do the Hilton thing.” 

And honestly, now that I consider it, the let’s-get-a-hotel-suite-together idea probably wasn’t the best one I’ve ever come up with.  Especially where Brian is concerned.  Nothing like saying, “Hey, let’s do this really romantic thing, even though you insist you hate romance.  And by the way, you’re paying!”  Sometimes I am just some stupid twink. 

“And I don’t want to spend the night watching Brian ogle the guys at Babylon,” I continue.  “Soooo… I decided that if I can’t have a good time myself on Valentine’s Day, I can do something nice for another couple so that they can.” 

“Awwww, Justin, you shouldn’t have.” 

“Not you, dumbass.  I’m going to…” The receiver beeps in my hand, and I pull back to glance at the Call Waiting message on the bedside phone.  “Oh shit, it’s Brian.  I’ve gotta let you go, Daph.” 

“Oh, of course.  Ditch me for Briaaaan,” she giggles. 

“Shut UP.  Talk to you later.” 

“Sure.  See you Monday at school.” 

I ease down from the treadmill as the ringing starts.  No point in breathing heavy when the kid picks up.  He’ll think I’m calling to get him all hot and bothered.  And as amusing at that can be, it’s not my intent tonight. 

Well, not right now.  Maybe later. 

Three rings.  Four.  Five.  The little brat has call display.  He knows it’s me.  What’s his game tonight?  Does he think I’m going to be on pins and needles, anxiously waiting for him to answer?  Little fucker. 

“Hello?” 

Aaaah, sounds like somebody else is breathless tonight.  “Did I interrupt something?” I tease. 

“Uh… no,” Justin answers.  I can almost see him blushing.  “Just talking to Daphne.” 

I smirk into the phone.  “Right.  Be ready tomorrow night at seven.  I’ll pick you up.” 

“Huh?” 

“To-mor-row night.  Se-ven.”  Shit, I feel like I’m talking to Gus.  What was the kid doing before I called? Or is it just my sparkling personality that causes Justin to revert to Neanderthal speech patterns?  “We’ll grab something to eat before Babylon.” 

“Uh…” 

“Gee, Justin, loquacious as always.”  I wrench open the fridge, find nothing I want, close it again.  “Be ready.” 

“I can’t.” 

For a moment, my mouth literally drops open.  What the fuck? 

“I’m sorry, Brian, but I can’t,” Justin continues as I stare at the phone in mute wonder.  “When… when you didn’t like my plans… well, I…” 

“Forget it.” 

“Brian—” 

“Have a good time.”  I end the conversation, thumbing the cordless to ‘off’ before flinging it across the room.   Goddamn kid.  What the fuck was I thinking, anyway?  Going senile in my old age.  Running my hands through my hair, I cycle through possibilities for tomorrow night.  Still plenty of options for Brian Kinney.  Babylon’s sounding good.  Nothing has to change. 

Except one thing. 

I pad across the room, retrieving the cell phone from behind the sofa.  Undamaged.  Don’t usually lose my temper like that. 

Little fucker. 

I turn on the phone and thumb through the recently called phone numbers, finally lighting on the one I want.  I redial, tapping my finger on the back of the sofa as the call dials through.  The simulated exuberance of the woman who answers would send any self-respecting diabetic into convulsions.  Christ, don’t they limit the sugar intake of these people? 

“Pittsburgh Hilton, Annabelle speaking.  May I help you?” 

“Why yes, Annabelle, you can,” I sneer. Nobody can beat Brian Kinney’s sneer. Back off on the sweetness and light, babe, ‘cause I’m not buying. 

And my stomach hurts because I just did fifty fucking crunches before the treadmill, and not for any other reason.  Shit. 

“Sir?” 

Little fucker. 

“I’d like to cancel the reservation I made for tomorrow night.” 

February 14th…

“You have our cell phone numbers?” 

I dig into my pocket and hold up my own phone.  “Preprogrammed, remember?” 

Lindsay thrusts a piece of paper in my hand.  “Here’s our numbers.” She huffs out an impatient breath at my expression.  “Just in case.” 

Just in case.  In case… what?  A fluke streak of lightning crashes through the living room window, incinerating my cell phone where it sits?  Verizon decides to cancel service to all blonde queers in the Pittsburgh area?  Shit, parenthood makes people paranoid. 

Well, most people. 

“Okay, I’ve made a list of everything you need to know.  He’s already had his bath, and meal time is five o’clock.  Remember, if you give him squash you have to feed that to him after the carrots, because if he gets the squash first, he won’t eat the carrots.  He’s not too thrilled with bananas, but he’ll eat them as long as he gets peas first.  Got that?” Lindsay brushes a stray hair behind her ear and smiles weakly.  “No, of course you don’t.  That’s why I wrote it all down.” 

“Don’t mind her,” Melanie calls from the hall.  “She’s just a little… uptight.  Right, hon?” 

“It is NOT being uptight to want to make sure that my son is adequately cared for while I’m away!” 

“Sounds like a weekend by the lake is just what she needs, then,” I answer Mel, grinning as she joins us in the living room. 

“What we both need,” Mel agrees.  “And we can’t thank you enough, Justin.” 

“If he gets fussy,” Lindsay continues as though neither of us has spoken, “play the Talking Cow.” 

“The talking cow?” I laugh.  I can’t help it.  I’m suddenly picturing myself covered in spots with a bell around my neck.  It has possibilities for other aspects of my life, but right now? 

Lindsay pushes past me, reaching down to the coffee table and coming up with an electronic toy.  “The Talking Cow,” she explains with a hint of exasperation.  Was she reading my mind? 

“It plays music, teaches the alphabet.  Gus loves it.  He also loves it when you sing along.  ‘Old McDonald’ is his favourite.” 

Old McDonald.  Great. 

“But don’t give him the Talking Cow before bed.  He’ll get too excited and he won’t sleep.  For bedtime, he has to have Roo.”  Before I can get a word in, she points to the stuffed kangaroo partially hidden in the toy box.  “He only gets Roo at nap time and bed time.” 

“And believe me,” Melanie adds, “if you forget to bring Roo up to the crib, Gus will definitely let you know it.” 

“Okay,” Lindsay takes a deep breath, shrugging into her coat.  “I think that’s it.  Any questions?” 

“I know what I’m doing,” I complain as Lindsay pushes the list into my hand.  I involuntarily take a quick look at the paper, eyes widening.  Christ, she’s used graphics.  There’s even a table illustrating the preferred meal combinations.  Sighing, I fold the paper and make a big show of putting it in the pocket of my jeans. 

I guess I should be thankful that they’re not mentioning the “didn’t test the bottle” incident.  Shit, I didn’t know that stuff then.  Things are different now.  I’ve learned a lot.  I could practically teach a parenting course after all the lectures I’ve sat through from Mel and Linds in the last few weeks. 

“It’s not like I’ve never babysat Gus before,” I add. 

“Well… yeah, honey.  And you’re wonderful with him.  But…” Lindsay darts a look at Mel. 

Melanie coughs lightly. “But never without—” 

“Brian,” I finish impatiently.  “Look, I’ve got backup.  My mom… and Debbie, too.  If I have any trouble, they’re a phone call and fifteen minutes away.  Don’t worry, all right?”  I scrunch down next to Gus, sprawled on the baby blanket in the middle of the room.  “We’ll get along fine.  Won’t we, Gus?” 

Gus gnaws on his teether like the thing’s ambrosia.  The kid could care less. 

“Come on, honey, we should go if we want to make the two o’clock check in.”  Melanie takes Lindsay’s arm, steering her toward the door. 

“Okay…” Lindsay backpedals, blowing kisses at Gus, before suddenly turning to Mel with a stricken look.  “Oh my gosh, I just remembered.  The reception is horrible up at Deep Creek.  Remember, when we went to the cabin for Thanksgiving, two years ago?  We couldn’t get hold of anyone for days!” 

Melanie smiles, tightening her hold on Lindsay and raising her eyebrow suggestively.  “I remember.  It was fantastic.” 

“Mel—” 

“Go!” I stand and step forward, pointing at the door.  “Gus will be fine.  Go have a romantic getaway.  Drink champagne, eat chocolate covered cherries, do… do whatever lesbians do when they’re alone!  Just go before my head explodes!” 

“Okay.”  Lindsay takes a deep breath before stepping forward to kiss my cheek.  “Thanks for doing this, sweetie.” 

Mel takes the other cheek, and I’m unexpectedly the filling in a lesbian sandwich.  Now that’s a visual I just don’t need.  “You’re the best, Justin.” 

“My pleasure.  Now go!” 

“Ooooh, what does Brian think of this authoritative attitude, mister?” Lindsay teases. 

“You’re stalling,” I shoot back.  “Go!” 

“Sir, yes sir!”  Lindsay flips off a salute before linking her arm with Melanie’s and – finally – heading out the door. 

I crouch down next to the baby.  “Alone at last.” 

Gus gums contentedly at his soother, his indifferent expression reminding me a lot of his father.  Guess that’s another thing he has in common with Brian.  As long as they’ve got something in their mouths, they’re satisfied. 

Smiling, I run my hand over Gus’s hair before getting up to gather my bags.  I’ve got a full day ahead of me. 

The phone. 

It’s probably Michael… again.  Who else?  He’s only called three times today. 

I wait for the machine to pick up.  Nothing.  Forget to re-set it when I got home.  Fuck.  Well, forget it.  I’m not answering.  How many times to I have to tell him what time I’ll pick him up?  That I don’t give a shit what shirt he wears?  That Ted can get his own fucking ride? 

I’m not answering.  He’ll catch that clue eventually.  He always does, if I throw it hard enough. 

Give up, Michael.  Give up give up give up give up! 

Shit! 

Leaning across the bed, I snatch the phone from the cradle.  “What?” 

“Brian?” 

Not Michael.  Justin.  And near tears, by the sound of it.  Shit, why did I pick up?  My jaw clenches involuntarily even as my grip tightens on the receiver. 

“Justin.  What do you want?  And what the fuck is that noise?” 

“I’m sorry, Brian.  I just didn’t know who else to call…” 

Justin trails off into sniffles.  Yeah, yeah.  Heard it all before, sunshine.  ‘Didn’t know where else to go… didn’t know who else to call… didn’t know…’ Fuck, since when did I become the twink’s security blanket, protector, and all-round guru?   Yeah, I know when.  Don’t need reminding, thank you very much. 

I pull myself to a sitting position as the cacophony of background noise abruptly coalesces into something recognizable.  “Is that Gus?” 

“He won’t stop crying!” Justin blurts out.  “I’ve tried everything!” 

“Have you tried handing him to his mommies and getting the fuck out of there?” 

“I’m babysitting!  And I tried mom, but she’s not home.  Deb’s not answering and—” 

“Feed him.” 

“He’s BEEN fed!  He’s warm and dry and full and I’ve walked him and sung to him and burped him and tried the Talking Cow and he just… won’t… stop!” 

Talking Cow? What the fuck?  I rotate my neck, feeling the tension that I’ve worked all day to eliminate come rushing back due to one simple conversation with Justin.  Yes, this is my life. 

“Please… Brian… can you come over?” 

“What do you think I can do that you haven’t already tried?” 

“You’re his father!  Please, Brian!” 

I pinch the bridge of my noise, wincing.  Great, now I’ve got a headache as well.  Thanks, Justin, thanks a lot. 

But… shit… he IS my kid. 

And so is Gus. 

So I guess I’m in. 

“I’ll be there in half an hour.” 

Justin’s relief is almost palpable.  “Thanks, Brian.  I’m… I’m sorry if I messed up any of your plans.” 

“Whatever.  See you.” 

“Brian?” 

“Do you want me to get dressed or would you rather chat on the phone all night?” 

Justin draws in a shaking breath as Gus continues to wail in the background, and I feel a twinge of guilt.  Especially as I realize that babysitting is the ‘plans’ he made for this night.  Valentine’s, not that it means shit to me.  But fuck, it does to him.  And he’s spending it watching my kid.  Our lives are so screwed up. 

“Brian,” he says again, softly, hesitantly.  “Do you… do you have someone over?” 

“None of your fucking business,” I snap.  The response is immediate and instinctual.  My life is my own.  I don’t owe anyone any explanations.  I don’t owe anyone anything.  I never will. 

I can hear Justin breathing.  Surprising that I can hear that, even over Gus’s cries.  I can even picture the look on his face.  Taking in the information, processing it, filtering it through his own moral code.  Deciding what to do or say next. 

“Okay… well…” 

“No,” I say.  “Not that it matters, but… No.” 

“Okay.” More relief from Justin, this time in huge, sweeping waves.  Shit, why do I care what he thinks, how he feels?  “See you soon.” 

“Soon,” I answer, flipping the phone to ‘off’ before he can say anymore, and blissfully cutting off Gus’s screams.  Soon to be experienced in full stereo-surround-sound.  Lucky me. 

I toss the phone behind me, rolling from the bed in one fluid motion and heading for the dresser.  I glance over my shoulder as I pull on a pair of jeans. 

“Get dressed and get out.” 

“What?” 

The trick is gorgeous; I’ll give him that.  Fuck, he wouldn’t have ended up in my bed if he weren’t.  Obviously dumb as saltwater taffy, though.  Was he not listening to my phone conversation? Ah well, intellectual capacity has never been a requirement in the past.  Maybe I’ll have to raise my standards a little. 

I toss the patented sneer his way.  “Still having trouble in those ESL classes?  Playtime is cancelled.  Get. The. Fuck. Out.” 

The trick mutters something under his breath, but he starts dressing as I detour into the bathroom for a quick wash.  I tell myself it’s because I’m tired and need a splash of cold water on my face before I face Gus’s tantrum, or whatever the fuck it is.  It has absolutely nothing to do with the scent that may be lingering on my skin.  Nothing at all.