So this is the part where I’m supposed to chase after him, find out what’s wrong, and have some kind of “meaningful” dialogue that ends in reconciliation and understanding. 

Well, fuck that shit.  Brian Kinney doesn’t chase after anyone.  And I already know what’s gotten into his WASPy little ass, and unfortunately this time it’s not my dick.  If he wants to flounce off like a fucking drama queen, he’s more than welcome.

My eyes follow his stiff-backed progress as he shoulders his way past a group of gawking tourists.  Kid’s got no transportation, no destination, and probably no fucking cash, but he’s got balls.  If only he didn’t have to turn everything into a big production number.  Shit, it’s no wonder he’s so enamoured of those goddamn musicals.  His fucking life should be set to music. 

He glides around a concrete barrier, almost collides with a fat chick who scowls at him as her lips move in rapid-fire Spanish.  His left arm disappears from view, hand raised upward to his face.   Shit, is he crying? 

Fuck. 

I go after him, catching up as he nears the intersection.  Lay a hand on his forearm to get his attention.

“Fuck off!” he snarls, wrenching his arm away.

So he’s not crying.  Huh. 

He darts away into the traffic, joining the swirl of bodies moving en masse toward one of the many statues that line Las Ramblas.  I fall into step beside him, my longer legs easily keeping up even when matched against the extra momentum his oh-so-righteous indignation provides.  We pass a statue of some fop in a ruffled shirt, another of a fop in a gladiator costume, apparently on our way to the port and the oversized statue of Columbus, who supposedly was not a fop though I have my doubts about that.

“Where the fuck are we going?” I finally ask when the only sound for many long minutes has been the clatter of shoes on pavement, the braying of sellers hawking their wares, and the nauseating babble of sightseers exclaiming excitedly over the fabulous purchases they’ve made.

“I told you to fuck off,” he answers coolly. 

“And I told you to grow the fuck up,” I bite back.  “This drama princess act is boring.” 

“Shut up.” 

I roll my eyes and concentrate on Columbus, hefty granite hand pointing steadily toward the sea.  “Brilliant comeback, Justin.  Did you spend a lot of time working on that?” 

“Fuck you!” He stops and whirls toward me, the move abrupt enough that the tourist at his back gets an unexpected, up-close view of Justin’s ear canal.  I don’t think any tongue but mine has been that close to Justin’s earlobe in… well… since… for a while, anyway.  Evidently we’ve reached the point where Justin’s natural histrionic tendencies have overridden his inbred dislike of causing a scene.  “You acted like a piece of shit to my father!  You didn‘t even give him a chance to--” 

“Your father,” I cut in evenly, “ran me off the road and nearly killed me, then followed that up with a rather spirited attempt to kick my spleen into my oesophagus.  I’d say my response was fairly magnanimous.” 

Justin’s palm splits the air between us as he gesticulates widely, nearly taking out an elderly woman with a handcart.  “You had no right to… to…”

“To… what?  To say what I believe?  To be who I am?  I have the right, Justin, to do or say or think whatever I fucking want whenever I fucking want.”  And my mind flashes to the loft and the squeak of sneakers echoing in the suddenly barren space.  Blue eyes wide with incredulity.  A leaden rock heavy in my gut and the bitter taste of bile in my throat and then, soft lips replacing anxiety and fear with comfort and reassurance. 

Blue eyes wide… again.  I push off from his chest and barrel my way across the boulevard, ignoring the creative curses that follow in my wake.  Flop onto one of the benches and earn the evil eye from some crotchety old broad in a straw hat.  I shake out a cigarette, then plaster on my most ingratiating smile and offer her one.  She wanders away, muttering.  Probably trying to invoke a curse that will appropriately punish me for disturbing her precious bird-feeding time. 

I stretch out my legs and lean my head against the wooden backrest.  Close my eyes.  Concentrate on blowing smoke rings, the heat of the sun on my upturned face, the cool breeze coming from the water.

“Brian.” 

I keep my eyes closed.  The noise from the street is a subdued hum, the hustle and bustle of clamouring tourists seemingly miles away. 

“Brian.” 

In the distance, muted guitar from a streetside busker.   He’s got talent. 

“Brian.” 

I hold back a sigh and open my eyes as I pull myself up to look at him.  It’s at times like these that I can see the kid he once was.  Because though “kid” is a convenient appellation where Justin is concerned, it’s not accurate.  Not now, probably not since I’ve known him.  But old habits die hard. 

He lifts his chin and flexes his left hand, clearly trying to reign in his emotions before he attempts to “reason with me”.  He thinks he’s on to me.  Well, he’s got his own “tells”. 

“You‘re right,” he finally says, then frowns when I snort at that big concession.  His jaw muscles work for a moment as he swallows back about half a dozen snarky responses before he continues.  “You do have the right to say and think whatever you want.  So do I.  And I guess… I guess I was just hoping that this time… that one time… things would change.  That maybe Dad would just… not be a dick.” 

He shrugs, allows himself a sheepish, uncomfortable half-smile, his eyes hooded with frustration and regret, and with every flutter of his eyelids and every tap of his fingers on his jeans, I rediscover old ways to hate Craig Taylor.

“You have this image of a happy reunion, cheerful Sunday dinners, baseball games,” I say as gently as I can.  “Except that’s never going to happen.  And every time you allow yourself to believe it, you get hurt.  If he can’t accept you on your terms, as the man you are, then fuck him.” 

“It’s not that easy.” 

I shrug and toss my cigarette onto the pavement.  “Who said anything about it being easy?” 

“I just want…” He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us.  “I just want to love him.” 

There’s that word again.  Love.  Love fucks everything up, messes with your head, makes you nauseous.  Is it any wonder I avoided it for so long? 

“Then love him,” I say.  “Keep your happy family dreams, if that’s what you want.  Pretend that he’s going to change, and don’t expect any disappointment along the way.  Just don’t expect me to play along.”  I look out over the water, gentle waves breaking now.  “It’s got nothing to do with me.” 

Justin shakes his head, and actually laughs.  “Of course it does!”

I raise an eyebrow, but before I can respond he takes another half-stride forward, our knees bumping together.  I take the hint and shift so that he can step into the vee of my legs, my hands resting lightly on his hips.   Typical.  Lately, he hints and I usually succumb to his will.  To suggest otherwise would be a lie, and as I’ve said before, I’m always honest.

“It’s got everything to do with you, Brian,” he says before pressing his lips quickly against mine.  His next words sigh against my skin like the summer breeze.  “You’re my family now.” 

He dips his head, not seeming to want a response.  Or maybe he just knows that he has rendered me speechless.  He retakes my lips in another kiss and my hand moves of its own accord, wrapping around his neck as I pull him down and push inside his warmth.  We might be shocking the breeders, but neither of us can be bothered to check. 

When we pull apart, slightly breathless, he smiles impishly.  “You still should have given my Dad a chance to not be an asshole,” he admonishes. 

I return his grin and shrug.  “What can I say?  I’m an asshole.  Live with it.”   I swat him on the ass before gripping his hand and hauling myself to my feet.  “Now let’s go back to the hotel.  I’ve got a couple of ideas on how we can purge ourselves of any thought that is even remotely domestic.” 

Justin falls into step beside me, my hand still grasped lightly in his, and I can‘t seem to work up the desire to pull it away.  Not when most of my attention is already focused on our imminent carnal diversion. 

“Hey Brian?” 

Fuck.  Isn’t sharing time done? 

“Can we stop off on the way and pick up some of those éclairs?” 

Oh, I like the way his mind works.