I’m frantically scooping up toys and assorted Gus-related paraphernalia from the living room floor when the first knock sounds at the door.  I let out a yelp and steal a quick peek at my watch.  It’s been twenty-two minutes since I hung up the phone.  Brian must have ignored half a dozen traffic laws to make it to the house so fast.  The living room still looks like a FAO Schwartz delivery truck exploded in it.  I start tossing things away madly. Where’s the toy box?  I spin, tripping over the laundry hamper of clean clothes stacked neatly beside the chair.   Fuck!  No time.  Toys behind the sofa, blanket under the couch, jar of peanut butter behind a framed photo on the end table.  Stuff something under the TV stand, something else under a seat cushion.  Whatever.  I just have to get all this shit out of sight! 

The knock sounds again, louder and more insistent this time.  Hastily scooping up the clothes, I dump them back into the hamper and shove it aside. 

A third knock. Fuck, Brian’s going to kill me.  I run my hand lightly over my shirt to smooth away any wrinkles as I practically run through the hall.  I ease the door open with a smile that hopefully conceals my nervousness. 

“Brian, I—” 

He pushes past me without a glance, his shoulder brushing against mine roughly. His long legs carry him swiftly into the living room, then the adjoining dining room.  I trail meekly behind, feeling like a minnow caught in the wake of a tidal wave.  His gaze darts swiftly around the chambers, making a quick tally of room contents before his eyes rest on mine. “Where’s Gus?” 

I smile uneasily.  “You’re not going to believe this…” 

“Try me.” 

I take a few cautious steps into the dining room.  “A couple of minutes after I hung up from you, he settled down.  He’s sleeping upstairs.” 

Brian nods, drawing his lips together in a thin line.  He takes a step toward me, and I involuntarily tense.  He always knows how to use his physical presence.  To lure, to entice, to dominate… and to intimidate.  My nerve endings are virtually screaming – Explosion Imminent. 

I try to stave it off.  I’m good at that. 

“I didn’t know.  I just kept walking him… rubbing my hand along his back… and before I knew it, he drifted off.  I took—” 

“And you couldn’t have called me.” 

Brian’s voice has gone soft – too soft.  My nerve endings crank it up a notch. 

“I thought—” 

“No, Justin, that’s the problem.  You didn’t think.” 

“Brian—” 

“Instead, you drag me out of my loft… make me drive halfway across town… in a blizzard… worried about my kid… and all this is for no… fucking… REASON?” 

“It’s snowing?” 

Brian closes his eyes, and I wince.  Shit.  Yeah, focus on the snow, Justin.  Smart move. 

“Fuck you.  I’m going.” 

Brian takes an angry step forward and I quickly move to block his path. Things are happening so fast… my mind is whirling crazily just trying to keep up.  One major point manages to push its way through the maelstrom of my thoughts.  Brian can’t leave.  He simply can’t. 

“Please, Brian.”  I lay a palm on his chest, feeling it heave under the subtle pressure of my touch.  I know he could shove past me in an instant, and he knows it too.  But he stays.   “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I didn’t call.  But I wanted you to come.  I don’t know how long he’s going to stay asleep, and I don’t want… I don’t know what to do if he starts crying like that again.  Please, Brian.  Please stay, at least for a little while.”  Fuck, am I begging?  Is this what I’ve been reduced to?  I hold my head up, determined to piece together the tattered remains of my dignity.  This is love.  At least, this is what loving Brian Kinney can be like.  Nothing is ever effortless. Nothing is ever easy.  I take a deep breath, meeting Brian’s eyes.  I’m up to the challenge.  Simplicity is boring. 

“I made something to eat,” I continue, calmer now.  “At least stay and eat.” 

Brian pushes my hand away roughly.  “How did you get Gus to cry, Justin?” 

I take a step back, shocked. “What?” 

“You’re pathetic.  Is this how desperate you are to get me to be your widdle Valentine, Justin?” 

The anger twists within me with the ferocity of a thunderstorm.  I swipe out with both hands, shoving Brian backwards with a suddenness and viciousness that surprises him.   “Fuck you!” I spit out.  “You think I’d hurt Gus?  You think I’d do that?  You’re the one that’s pathetic, Brian!  Get out, then.  Get the fuck out!” 

I spin on my heel, feeling the tears spring to my eyes but unable to stop them.  Not even sure what they’re for, exactly.  Anger, hurt, rage, loss, fuck, even gut-wrenching terror.  I feel it all.  Fuck him.  Fuck him for thinking for even one moment that I could hurt Gus.  An innocent child.  Jesus Christ.  I stumble against a dinette chair, blinded by more than the tears.  I swipe at my eyes, ashamed.  I don’t want Brian to see me cry.  I don’t want Brian to see the downward spiral his words have set in motion.  I don’t want Brian… 

I feel his presence at my back, his energy a current that surges between us.  Scents threaten to overpower me… the herbal blend of his shampoo, the dark dusky leather of his jacket, the hint of whiskey, of cigarette smoke, of a dozen other smells that personify Brian Kinney. I try to straighten, try to resist, but he steps closer, the line of his body pressed against mine. An arm drapes over my shoulder, coming to rest over my heart... another follows behind it, crossing over the first and drawing me back against his chest. 

God, I want Brian. 

“I know you’d never hurt Gus,” he whispers, lips grazing my neck as he speaks.  He strengthens his hold, pulling me closer as he nuzzles against my cheek. 

Closing my eyes, I draw in a quivering breath.  Brian’s version of an apology always leaves a lot to be desired. 

Sometimes I wonder if I can do this.  Sometimes I think that loving someone shouldn’t be such hard work.  Then I remember how it is when we’re good – when everything clicks, and it seems like nothing in the world could stop the power of us.  I remember the rare moments when he opens his heart to me.   And I know that nothing will ever make me give up the fight. 

I relax, turning in his embrace and throwing my arms around his neck. I lean my head back to look into his eyes. “You’re an asshole, Brian.” 

Dipping his head, Brian brushes his lips against mine.  A soft, gentle, lingering kiss that seems to draw the very breath from my lungs.   When he pulls away, he’s smiling and I’m panting.  He takes a step back, withdrawing his heat and leaving me gasping from the loss of his touch. 

“So,” he grins, “what’s for dinner?” 

I fling my jacket across the chair, half-listening to Justin bustling around in the kitchen.  He’s promised me a veritable banquet. 

I still can’t figure out what his game is, and that pisses me off. 

I circle the dining table, eyeing the elaborate display.  Melanie’s fine china set against elegant linens.  Tapered candles amidst a floral centerpiece.  Silver cutlery polished to a high, gleaming shine.  Crystal goblets sparkling beside each plate. 

The whole thing screams ‘set up’.  He maneuvered me here.  Fucking kid’s more cunning than I thought. 

I pull out a smoke and make my way to the kitchen, leaning against the doorjamb.  Justin’s oblivious to my presence, for once.  He whirls around like a dervish, checking pots and adjusting temperatures, humming something under his breath the whole time.  Some schmaltzy ballad.   “Everything I Do”, maybe.  Or “Reunited”. 

Oh, shit.  It’s worse than I thought.  It’s “Sometimes When We Touch”. 

Fuck, I’ve got to make sure he stays out of Deb’s record collection. 

Then again, almost anything is better than Moby. 

“So when did you have time to cook?” 

He jumps at the sound of my voice.  Good to know I can keep him on his toes. 

“I brought everything with me this morning,” he answers with a shrug.  “I figured, even if I wasn’t…going out… I could still have a nice meal.” 

“And some wine?” I indicate the bottle of merlot cooling in the ice bucket.  No need to mention that red wine is usually served unchilled.  Or that I’m well aware that Justin’s drink of choice leans more towards cheap beer or fruity flavoured zinfandel. 

“Might as well go all out,” Justin smiles. 

Riiiight, Sunshine. 

“And even though Gus was screaming up a storm,” I say casually, “you still managed to outdo Martha Stewart in the dining room?” 

Justin’s eyes cloud briefly as a frown creases his face.  I hold up a hand to halt the protests brewing behind the storm.  Shit, I don’t want a replay of the scene in the dining room.  Contrary to what people believe, I’m not a big fan of angst.  My life is built around keeping things simple.  It’s the other people in my life that tend to fuck that up. 

“I’m just saying… you did a good job.” 

Justin’s mega-watt smile is back in an instant.  “Thanks, Brian.” 

He fidgets with a long-handled spoon, probably trying to decide if he should spill his guts.  Tell me all about how he knew he could get me here. 

He won’t do it, though.  Justin likes his secrets. 

“Have I got time to look in on Gus?” 

“Sure.  Dinner’ll be another ten minutes.” 

I leave Justin to his last-minute preparations and take the steps to the second floor two at a time.  Justin has left the door to Gus’s room slightly ajar, and I ease through the slim opening to gaze down at my sleeping son.   He lies on his side, one hand curled limply atop his chest.  His lips suckle silently on the air, perhaps dreaming of that fabled, unending supply of mothers milk.   I lay my hand over his chest, mesmerized for a moment by the steady, simple, unbroken rhythm of his heartbeat. 

I know that Justin would never hurt Gus. 

I never thought I’d be a good father.  More than that, I never thought I’d WANT to be a good father.  Or any kind of father at all.   That’s why I agreed to the sperm donation, no matter what Mikey says about Lindsay’s flattery.  It came down to simplicity, again.  I had something Lindsay needed.  It cost me nothing to provide it.  The resulting offspring would mean nothing to me and everything to her. 

I tuck the blanket more firmly around Gus’s shoulders.  Never thought I’d love the kid. 

Fuck, fatherhood has changed me.  Can’t fight it.  Can’t deny that I spent the entire drive to the munchers mansion worrying that Gus might have another fever.  Cursing myself for not having told Justin to check while I still had him on the phone.  Worrying that we’d have to rush him to the hospital, and that the doctors wouldn’t let me into the examining room since I’d signed away my parental rights.  Going through a dozen different scenarios in my head, each one more nerve-racking than the last.  And the snow coming down in small, bitter pellets, pinging off the jeep and blanketing the roads and making driving a bitch. 

When I arrived, the silent, tranquil house was a slap in the face.  Fucking drove myself nuts for twenty minutes because Justin over-reacted to a baby’s cries. 

I run my hand lightly over Gus’s fine hair.  Yeah, I know Justin would never hurt him.  He loves Gus almost as much as I do.  But I still lost it.  Said some shitty things.  Hurt him.  Because he… scared me.  Fucking terrified me. 

Because Mel and Linds aren’t home.  And if they’re not home, then I am IT.  The caregiver.  The guardian.  The one responsible for this indispensable, irreplaceable life. 

I made it up to Justin as best I can.  I told him I knew I was wrong.  I said I’d stay.  And I know he planned to get me here somehow, and that Gus’s tantrum or whatever-the-fuck was just convenient.  Always nice when a screaming baby can actually aid your cause.  But because I… hurt him… I won’t even try to get Justin to reveal his original strategy, though I’m sure his ideas would be quite amusing.  I’ll play along with the game, as long as he doesn’t push it. 

I lean down, pressing my lips against Gus’s soft, unblemished cheek.  My son doesn’t stir, lost in the kind of sleep known only to those who are secure and contented. 

“I’ll do my best, sonny boy,” I whisper before creeping out of the room and retracing my steps to the dining room. 

I lean back in my chair and drop my napkin next to the plate.  I have to give credit where credit is due – Justin really knows how to cook. 

“There’s strawberry cheesecake,” Justin announces as he rises from his seat.  He can’t help but notice my contented expression, and now he’s looking entirely too pleased with himself.   Have to remind myself not to let it get to me.  You got me here, Justin.  You can keep your secrets. 

“I’m stuffed.” I push away from the table, standing and searching for my cigarettes. 

“You don’t want dessert?” 

He makes his way to my end of the table, bending slightly as he reaches to collect my plate.  Never noticed him being so fastidious about cleanliness before.  But I guess the dish-washing-genies don’t do the cleaning at the loft.  Must be Justin.  Of course, before he came along there weren’t any dishes that needed washing. 

He reaches across me to the table, his arm lightly grazing my chest.  The soft cotton of his sleeve sparks against the silk fabric of my shirt, an electric tingle where our bodies so innocently touch. His face is turned up to mine, those startling blue eyes gazing at me artlessly… fuck… so young, so sweet, so soft, so god-damned tempting… 

“I never said that,” I growl. 

There’s a moment… a moment when his eyes widen as surprise and then comprehension sets in. 

I love that moment. 

I fist his shirt in my hand, pulling him up and around in one jarring movement that sends him crashing against the doorjamb.  His back digs into the wood as I crush my body against his, my mouth seeking the warmth of his lips.   I devour him, engulf him, overpower him, taking and tasting all that I desire, inhaling him, his scent, his essence, his innocence, drowning in it, in him.   When I pull away, Justin’s eyes are glazed, his mouth slack with desire and his lips bruised from my attentions, his stuttering breath matching my own. 

I love that moment, too. 

Somehow we make it to the sofa, yanking off clothes as we go.  His eager mouth sketches a path down my chest as I flop backwards onto the couch, pulling him on top of me.  I run my hands along his back as his lips work industriously, teasing, kissing, long strokes of his tongue alternating with the sharp nip of his teeth as he traces a warm, wet path to my stomach.  I arch my back, urging him on, when something digs into my shoulder blade. 

Shit.  I’ve been telling Lindsay to invest in some decent furniture. 

I shift, but the dislodged spring or whatever the fuck it is feels like it’s gouging a hole into my spine. 

I twist again, almost upending Justin as I flail back onto the cushion…and the discordant sound of Gus’s cries suddenly fills the room. 

My head whips up to meet Justin’s guilt-filled eyes even as my hand gropes beneath the cushion, finally wrapping around the offending object that’s been trying to open a rend in my back and coming up with... 

A tape recorder. 

No longer muffled by the cushion, the distressed wails of my son seem to ricochet off the walls.  I hold Justin’s gaze as I depress the ‘stop’ button.  The silence that descends is anything but blissful. 

Tossing the mini-recorder in the general direction of the coffee table, I raise myself onto my elbows. 

“I am going,” I say slowly and carefully, “ to kill you.” 

Justin looks suitable abashed.  He ducks his head, and I prepare myself for the onslaught of “but I had to’s” and “it seemed like a good idea’s”.  When he lifts his head, though, he’s smiling.  One of those devilish grins. 

“Okay,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.  “But just fuck me first.” 

Little fucker. 

I tug him roughly forward, but he pulls back before I can capture his lips again.  He nuzzles at my neck instead, then rises up to run his lips over my jaw, my cheek, my brow.   He brushes a hand through my hair, his smile wide and giving and infectious. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Brian.” 

I struggle to keep the answering grin off my face, but I’m not entirely successful.  He lets me pull him forward then, and I give myself over to the feast of his lips. 

Happy Valentine’s Day, Justin.