Church | Hymns | Psalms | Testify
This site is not intended for those under 18 years of age.
The End Done Right
by Vamphile
Chapter Thirty-Seven
He wanted to tell him to stop pacing. He wanted to tell him to stop biting his thumbnail and staring off into space. He wanted to tell him to eat something. He said nothing. It was the day of a show. All bets were off the day of a show, there was no point in even trying.
Justin sat down, bouncing his knee and flipping through channels, biting his nails. Five minutes later he was up and pacing again.
“Jesus Christ. You know it’s gonna be fine, what’s with the fidgeting?”
Justin looked up surprised, as if he’d forgotten Brian was in the room. “What?”
“C’mere.”
Justin walked towards him. “What?”
Brian was sitting in the chair by the mini-bar. He pulled Justin down onto his lap. “Calm the fuck down.” He whispered into his ear, licking at the spot behind it.
“Brian stop, I can’t calm down. You know that.”
He sighed, he did know that. He shook his head, pulling Justin a little tighter. “You’re driving me, and yourself insane. Most importantly you’re seriously driving me insane.”
“Go out. Go shopping, go home, whatever.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Then shut up, I’m allowed to be nervous.”
“We’ve done this before, it’s not so hard, it’s not THE show… you’ll be fine.”
“I know, it’s just…”
“What? What do you think’s gonna happen?”
Justin leaned back against Brian. “I have no idea. It just won’t be good.”
“And what if it is?”
“Justin smiled. Even if it’s good it’ll be bad, cause then they’re gonna ask me to do another show, and I’ll have to create a bunch more paintings and…”
“So if it’s bad, it’s bad, and if it’s good, that’s bad too?”
“Yeah.”
“Christ you’re insane.”
“I thought you liked that about me.”
“I do, but you get so bratty when you’re anxious.”
“I’m not being a brat.”
“Yeah you are, but it’s okay. Let’s go out. Kill some time.”
Justin wrinkled his nose. “Can’t I just stay here and pace some more?”
“Is that really what you want to do?”
“No I want to go home.”
“Well, you’re still here, at least for another week.”
“At least??? I’m leaving the minute the show’s over.”
Brian laughed, “You don’t even want to come back to the hotel and get your stuff?”
“NO!”
“Okay, fine, we’ll leave the moment the show’s over next Saturday.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Justin closed his eyes, relaxing against Brian, cracking his knuckles. Brian ground his teeth against the sound but Justin was almost still except for the obsessive knuckle cracking. He’d take it. He took Justin’s hand and massaged it to stop the sound, and calm him more. The two sat in silence just enjoying being close to one another.
Brian’s hand idly roamed under Justin's shirt, stroking his stomach. Justin leaned his head back trying to lose himself in the feel of Brian. He knew he was trying to help him. It wasn’t working. Five minutes later he bounded off of his lap.
“I’m going out. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Want Company?”
“Not really…I just need to clear my head.”
Brian shrugged. “See you soon.”
He was opening his laptop when Justin looked back before closing the door behind him. Justin walked the streets quickly. It was cold. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, but his face was left bright red from the wind. He could see his breath in front of him. He wasn’t really sure where he was going; he just needed to be out.
Twenty minutes later he was standing in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He paid and entered. It was quiet. No school trips on Saturdays, no little kids running around. Just true art fans and tourists.
He walked reverently past some of the most famous pieces in the world. Each one made him feels worse. He was a fake, a failure. Why did he bother to paint, to try to create when there were people who could do this? He sat in front of one of his favorite pieces and stared turning his head, his hand sketching it invisibly against his jeans. This was art. The crap hanging in Ranston’s gallery was hotel paintings made for people to hang over their sofa. He stood up and moved on; angry with himself for thinking he could become an artist. He should have gone to Dartmouth. Failing at business just means you made a mistake. Failing at being an artist means you’re a no talent hack. That’s what he’d have to accept. He had no talent.
He walked further into the exhibits. There was a new one, Vincent Van Gogh, the drawings.
He stood, rapt. He’d seen them in books before but here they were. He stepped closer, examining each one in detail…some of them were amazing but more importantly. Some of them sucked.
They were stiff and the scale was off. Sure the man had been insane, and also a great artist, but look, he was also sometimes a bit of a hack. This shouldn’t make him feel better. He knew that. But it did. The lines were crooked. The colors didn’t always work. Not everything the man did was phenomenal, or even good. Justin exhaled, his hand reached out to touch a particularly flawed example, and he pulled it back before alarms went off. He smiled.
He spent another hour in the exhibit and would have spent longer but his phone was buzzing.
“What?”
“Where the fuck are you?”
“At the Met.”
“You went to the opera?”
“The museum dork.”
“Oh, what are you doing there.”
“Seeing what real art looks like.”
Brian closed his eyes. He’d seen Justin do this before too. Drive himself nuts over the accomplishments and talent of artists. Convince himself he’d never make it. “You are a real artist.”
“I know…did you know Van Gogh sucked sometimes?”
“I’m sure he did.”
“I mean phenomenally. Christ Brian some of this shit isn’t worth the paper he scribbled it on.”
“And yet there it is, at the Met.”
“There’s hope for me yet.”
“That’s what I’ve always said.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yeah well I meant to.”
“Shut up.”
“Are you heading back?”
“Yeah I’m on my way now.”
“Should I order something for dinner?”
“Don’t start.”
“Right, show day, wouldn’t want to have strength for that.”
“I have strength for lots of things.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll tell you when I get back, not when I’m standing in a very reverberating lobby of a museum.”
Brian snorted. “When did you get shy?”
“I’m not shy, I just have some respect for my surroundings.”
“Whatever, I’ll see you soon.”
“K”
Brian hung up and logged on to the Met’s site to see if he could find the exhibit Justin had been looking at. He had to admit to himself he was relieved. Justin had found a way to pull himself out of his bad mood and anxiety. He pushed down the ridiculous thought that Justin didn’t need him anymore and concentrated on the fact that the kid was right, some of those drawings were for shit.
He couldn’t really concentrate on anything once Justin returned to the room. His arms were too full of horny blonde.
Hours later they showered dressed and headed off for the show. Justin was still jumpy and nervous, but far less so than he’d been that afternoon. Brian thought he might actually be able to get him to eat something after the show.
Brian was wrong. After the show the best he could do was get Justin to drink something. And that wasn’t what he was aiming for but Justin was in rare form. Angry. Apparently one of the very wealthy patrons had requested a version of a piece redone in a different color scheme to blend better with her office décor. Ranston only barely managed to steer Justin away from the woman before he said something brutally honest and painfully expensive to her. Justin hadn’t stopped seething all night. White wine wasn’t getting him where he needed to go. He searched Brian’s pockets for a joint and disappeared for fifteen minutes. When he returned he was more mellow…but it didn’t last long.
Finally they left. Justin was walking and ranting, his hands flying over his head as he continued his diatribe. He didn’t even head to the elevator but straight to the bar when the got to the hotel. An hour later he was very very drunk, and loud, and still angry.
“Fucking Bitch!”
Other bar patrons turned their head. Brian just smirked; he wasn’t going to stop Justin when he was on a roll. His anger seemed healthy. His pain management reasonable and hell, it’s not like making a scene in a bar was new territory for either of them.
“She had no right to ask that.” He commiserated once again.
“Goddamned motherfucking right she didn’t. I fucking open my veins to create something brilliant and she wants it in something more sooooooooothing.” He drew out the last word. “Fuck soothing. Fuck her, fuck everyone.” Justin slammed back another shot.
“Why don’t we head upstairs?”
“Fuck you.”
Brian shrugged and gestured to the bartender to refill Justin's glass. “Sooooooooothing.” Justin said again snorting. “Why the fuck would a painting called pain management #12 be done in sooooooooothing colors? What the fuck are sooooothing colors anyway? Who the fuck cares if that bitch is sooooooothed by my work. Soooooooth is a funny word. If you say it long enough it doesn’t mean anything anymore. Soothe soothe soothe soothe soothe. See, meaningless.”
“Mmmmmm hmmm.”
“You know what would be soothing?’
“What?”
“If you fucked me.”
“I can do that…you want to do it here, or should I take you upstairs first?”
Justin looked around the bar, seemingly considering his options. “I think we should go upstairs first.” He glanced over at the bartender who was looking at them both appreciatively. “Wanna come?” he wiggled his eyebrows drunkenly at the guy. His eyes shot up and he glanced over at Brian who was obviously the more sober of the two. Brian just shook his head. Justin was too drunk, he wasn’t even sure the kid was gonna make it upstairs; bringing someone else into the mix tonight was a bad idea. “Maybe tomorrow.” he said as he signed the check and helped Justin down from the bar stool, taking most of his weight. He was staggering a little as Brian helped him to the elevator. The whole time they walked through the lobby he kept mumbling the word “soothing.”
He was leaning against Brian's chest, mumbling it into the space between his pecks as his fingers fumbled drunkenly with the buttons on Brian's shirt. “Sooooooooothing.” Brian leaned against the wall, his arms wrapped lightly around Justin, as much to offer comfort and support as to be ready to catch him if he passed out and fell.
“Fucking bitch wants to be soooothed. I’ll show her soothing.” Justin mumbled as his mouth followed his fingers and traced along the lines of Brian's pecks. Moving up a little and flicking at his nipples. Then biting hard.
“Hey!”
“What? Wasn’t that soothing?”
Brian smirked and ran a hand through Justin's hair. He was sweaty. “Wow you’re really worked up.”
“I’ve been trying to do the same to you.”
Justin leaned his entire body into Brian's. His sticky heat radiating off of him. “Christ sunshine, I think you’re sick.”
“What? I’m not sick, I’m just not soooothing.”
“Mmmmmm hmmmm.” Brian kissed Justin's forehead and then realized that he just didn’t have the mommy gene, he had no way of knowing if that was, lots of alcohol and anger, or an infection. “You take anything tonight other than my joint?”
Justin shook his head. “Stop worrying and start soothing me.” He pulled Brian's hand away from his face and moved it lower on his body.
They kissed, their hands roaming, until the subtle bing of the elevator announced their arrival at the top floor.
Brian was leaning against the door when Justin looked up at him. “Brian?”
His voice was suddenly not angry, or sultry. It was plaintive. And the red flush that his skin had taken on was now a sickly pallor. Brian opened the door quickly and steered him to the bathroom just in time.
The most soothing thing either of them experienced that night was cool washcloths, the feel off tile against a flushed face, and the promise that next time Brian would stop him on his ninth shot.
By morning they were both exhausted, and sore. A night on a tiled bathroom floor is rarely relaxing.
Brian filled the tub and roused Justin enough that he’d be able to keep his head up and now drown. They sat quietly. “I shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.”
Brian nodded.
“I shouldn’t drink shots of whiskey straight.”
Brian nodded again.
“That woman was right, soothing colors are important.”
Brian shook his head. “You had a right to be mad, and fuck, I’m not the one to tell you how to deal with anger, but yeah, last night was not one of your more stellar victories over emotion.”
“She wanted me to change my work to match her house.” Justin was getting mad again.
“Forget about her.”
“She better not be at brunch today.”
“Any idea who else will be there?”
“No, just some backers for some stuff ‘influential art people” Justin rolled his eyes. “Deliver me from the pretentious small talk.”
Brian laughed and they both went back to silence, each gathering their reserves for the brunch. Then they’d come back here and sleep and then… well Brian had to get back to KinnetiK tomorrow for a client meeting, and Justin had some major work to do for the show. But they were both attempting to think about anything else at the moment.
Showered and dressed Brian hailed a cab. Justin leaned against him once he’d given the driver the address. “Sorry about last night.”
“You’re not supposed to apologize.”
“Yeah but I was a mess.”
Brian shrugged, “you were pissed off, you got drunk. Did you learn your lesson?”
Justin grimaced. “Yeah, whiskey is NOT my drink, you’d think I’d know that by now, I’m much better with tequila or gin.”
“I’ll remind you of that.”
“I won’t listen.”
“I know you won’t”
When they finally reached their destination Justin plastered on his fake smile, and Brian affected a look of blank boredom and they were greeted by a short balding man with apparently more money than taste when it came to both wardrobe and home décor.
The brownstone was restored beautifully, but each curio, knick-knack and painting was… well…ugly. Justin tried to look interested as Daniel; their host gave him a tour of his most prized art pieces. He tried to look flattered that one of them was his. He wasn’t, it made him want to run screaming from the room.
Brian caught the look in Justin's eye and brought him a mimosa.
Brian’s interruption saved Justin from having to make yet another noncommittal comment on some ghastly thing the man was about to show him. His eyes showed his gratitude.
They moved on to the over decorated over stuffed living room done in a series of reds and browns that was making Justin's stomach roil. Introductions were made all around and the deep and important chitchat began.
Neither Brian nor Justin were paying much attention to anything being said. Mostly responding minimally when required and simply willing the hours to pass until they could leave.
Brian wasn’t looking forward to leaving Justin, who had barely eaten in two days, and had seemed less than well the previous night. Justin simply wanted more alone time with Brian before he went back to Pittsburgh for the week. It didn’t matter; this was part of the contractual obligation. This would put his name on the right lips. Put his work on the right walls. And that would get him to his ultimate goal. To become a hermit who never had to deal with people again. Right now he just wanted to lock himself in his studio and unlock it for Brian when he felt like it.
Brian leaned over and whispered in his ear. “You know, even after this show, you’re still going to have to come out of the studio and deal with people.”
Justin looked at him surprised. “How did you? I mean…”
Brian smirked. “I’ll tell you later, but I always know when you just want to barricade yourself in there…you have a tell.”
“I do?”
“Mmmmmm hmmm.”
“What is it?”
“If I tell you, you’ll know.”
Justin sighed, “Can we leave yet?”
Brian was about to answer when someone entered and announced that brunch was served. They all filed into the dining room. Place cards had been set, and thus Brian and Justin were at opposite ends of the table on opposite sides. Conversation was impossible. Brian found himself sitting next to a woman with a small dog in her purse who could not seem to stop talking. She had a complaint about everything and he simply grimaced at the sound of her voice, which she took as agreement about the state of affairs of the customer service situation in the retail industry and forged on to other topics.
Justin was seated between Daniel, their host, who was apparently also a Broadway producer or financier or something and Franco his business partner. When they found out that he was the Justin Taylor who illustrated rage Franco almost squealed with delight. Apparently the two had been discussing the possibility of buying the rights from the studio and turning it into a Broadway musical.
Justin was bored.
“It could be one of the best plays we’ve ever done” Franco gushed.
“It has such potential, the love story between JT and Rage is so Poignant and Hot, and the plotlines so topical. I’ve talked to several high profile songwriters who would love to be attached to the project.”
Justin was having L.A. flashbacks. Attaching people to a project, getting it off the ground, giving up what you wanted for what THEY wanted. Giving up what you wanted for something else you wanted. He tuned out of the conversation and then realized that they were waiting for a response from him.
“I’m sorry…what?”
“We said we’d love for you to be the art director, who but you could design the sets, you’d have full creative control of course.”
Justin didn’t even have to think about it. “Thanks, but I’m really not interested. I’m focusing on my art at the moment.”
“But sweetie, this would be a wonderful resume builder and you’d get to live in New York and work on Broadway. It’s every gay mans dream.”
Justin smiled and shrugged. “I guess it’s just not the right time. Hey, if you get the rights, I’ll be happy to come see the show, you know, if it doesn’t suck, give it my own personal endorsement but my time is already spoken for at the moment. And I’m not looking to move.”
Brian caught the last parts of the conversation and filed it away to talk about later but then the man on his other side rescued him from the chatty woman, only to drag him into a diatribe about why Cuban cigars should be legal.
It felt like days but was only about two more hours before they could politely take their leave. Justin was asleep against Brian's shoulder almost before he closed the cab door. He didn’t wake until they were back at the hotel.
“You okay?’
“F…yeah, I’m okay.”
“Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Neither did you.”
“Brian stretched stripping down to underwear. He rolled a joint and lay on his back on the bed. Justin joined him a moment later. “That was a pretty good offer they were making.”
“Which one?”
“Art director of rage the musical.”
“I’m working on my art, I don’t want to be a Broadway musical art director.”
“It’s a great opportunity.”
“So is the life I have now.”
“You sure?”
“Are we actually going to have a ‘you should leave to fulfill your dreams and aspirations’ argument?”
Brian shrugged. “Those are pointless, you’re like a fucking boomerang”
“Yeah, plus I figured out what my dreams and aspirations are.”
Brian raised his eyebrows interested.
“I want to go to Paris in the spring, and Rome, I want to do Europe right, see the masters. I’d love for you to come, but if you can’t take three months off I’ll understand, but then I’m going to come back, to OUR house, and MY Brian, and MY life, and MY art, and live OUR life happily.”
“That’s what you want?”
“Yeah, I want to be an artist. Always have. Might do some more commercial stuff for money, but I can do that out of Pittsburgh just as easily as anywhere else.”
Justin took another hit then handed the joint back to Brian and curled around his body, leaning his head against the man’s shoulder. “Want to be with you. Want to wake up drooling on your shoulder. Want to have horrible fights with you and know you’re not going anywhere, and that I’m not going anywhere, and that we’re together, because we choose to be even though sometimes it’s hard.”
Brian leaned his head back. “Me too…except for the fights. Lets skip those.”
Justin laughed. “Fine then just always agree with me.”
“You’re not allowed to use that word. And I can’t always agree with you. You’re so often wrong.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Brian, I’m not always wrong.”
“I didn’t say always, I said often.”
“I’m not even often wrong.”
“You’re wrong more than I am.”
“Pfft, hardly.”
“This is stupid.”
“These are the kind of fights I’m talking about.”
“That counted as a fight?”
“Sure.”
“Is it over?’
Justin shrugged. “Sure.”
“Then lets have make up sex.”
Justin flipped over, his body on top of Brian's “sure.”
Send feedback to vamphile @ gmail.com