InsaneJournal

9. Artistic Distances (Drabble 25)
Title: Artistic Distances
Author: testdog65
Drabble: 25 by lastglances
Notes: Takes place in the space between 508 and 509, after the Brian/Brandon fuck-off and before Justin's art show. Thank you to my beta and to the drabble writer for the inspiration!



It isn't so much an inadequacy as a…Brian doesn't know what it is. He drives with no sense of direction, taking stock in what's at home and what he can get elsewhere. He needs a drink and a shower and perhaps a piece of ass. Or he could do it solo, he's got a whole bedside drawer full of…"Kinky," he mutters, trying to lift his sour mood. He doesn't want kinky, he wants this fixed. Whatever it is, it needs to be as it was. He pulls up to his building and kills the engine. What he wants is Justin.

*****

Brian lets the sudden silence envelop him after shutting off the Corvette's engine. Snow falls in thick flakes, coating the windshield before melting and joining the rivers that crisscross the slick glass. He's sure that it won't take long before the melting stops and the snow creates its own layer of camouflage.

The jumble of keys weighs heavy in his hand and he wonders about the access they each afford. Loft, office, club, car and a small worn one that must have opened something important once. Brian doesn't remember and he thinks about discarding it, pulling it from the ring and flinging it out into the night to fall lost into a drift of winter. But then the cold is seeping inside and he starts the engine again, just for the heat. Just for a minute.

He's pulling back into traffic before he's even fully aware that he's shifted into gear. And he listens with an inner sense of satisfaction as the engine roars and hums, moving through the streets and around the corners, effortless and quick through patches of light and dark and swirling snow.

Parked again. A different street, a different part of town. Same snow, same dark night. Brian watches out the still-wet window as a lone car passes by. He reaches absently for a cigarette and curses when he finds the pack empty.

The cold air hits him as he gets out of the car and he pulls the collar of his coat up as he hurries to cross before the next car passes. On the sidewalk now and the light that's spilling out from the windows that line the street makes the wet pavement glow in a patchwork of misshapen squares. He moves further down to where the largest windows create the biggest and most distorted rectangles on the surface of the night.

Brian stops as the heavy door in front of him opens, and an exiting figure casts a shadow against the light that floods out. He nods at the coverall-clad man and catches the heavy door just before it closes.

And then he's inside, eyes adjusting to the too-bright light and the frenzy of activity that takes him by surprise. Several people occupy the space, and they're all busy moving, lifting, adjusting and scrutinizing as the random pieces of artistic interpretation transform the blank canvas of the gallery into a montage of color and shape.

He sees Lindsay on the opposite side of the room, head bent in concentration, studying a well-worn set of papers. She looks up at the sculpture in front of her, frowns and then calls over one of the workers, speaking to him in a voice too low for Brian to hear from where he stands. They both look down again at the pages in her hand, and then the man nods and signals for assistance.

The air feels charged with an energy that Brian recognizes as the by-product of creativity. It's what's left over after the work is done, but before the presentation is finalized. He's felt it a thousand times in the midst of ad campaigns and print layouts. And on late nights with the loft door sliding shut, the silence broken as Justin returns from the studio. The paint-splattered clothes will come off, but the color will remain, imprinted on the skin of the artist in a hazy reflection of the original work. And in the lateness of the hour, Brian will trace the stains and feel the skin as Justin moves under him in final celebration of his accomplishment.

The loud crash of an object out of sight surprises Brian back to the reality of the gallery, and he watches as Lindsay moves off to deal with the crisis. But then there's nothing left in the space but him and the light. And Justin.

He's turned slightly away from Brian and his profile is clearly defined against the unfocused backdrop of paint and form that surrounds him. He's as far away as Lindsay was, but in an opposite corner of the room, looking up at a large canvas filled with darkness and cut through with bold lines of intensity and color that appear to be escaping from the shadowy pigment that ties them down.

Brian's focus remains fixed as Justin takes a few steps back and then glances over at another canvas, related to the first in a way that seems to draw the entire section of the room together into some kind of post-primitive mosaic, revealing and concealing without ever seeming at odds.

Brian sees it all; artist and canvas and creativity and energy, caught within the confines of the space, but still free in a way that should be familiar but isn't. He takes a single step forward, barely shifting position before he stops again and looks across the distance that separates them.

Justin turns slightly, his eyes continuing to move over the expanse of the canvas in front of him, and Brian catches the hint of a smile on his face. A moment passes, indefinable in duration, borderless in scope, while the activity of the room carries on as an afterthought to the infinite array of possibilities.

And then Brian's through the door and back on the street. A gust of wind stings against his skin, and he waits for his eyes to adjust to the sudden change in light before he heads out into the winter darkness alone.