InsaneJournal

Graphic Number 21: "May 17th, 2008"
Title: May 17th, 2008
Author: arlad
Timeline: post 513
Rating: R
Warnings, if any: none. A bit of schmoop maybe
Author's notes: to the artist, thank you so very much for your stunning work – it’s beautiful!
Graphic: 21 by pretty_words224





May 17th, 2008, West Virginia. An unremarkable day, a day like any other. No birthdays, no deaths, no anniversaries. The sun is shining weakly, but it heralds the coming summer and the heat. A soft wind stirs the trees near the house, rustling the evergreen leaves gently, and, inside, the coffee maker beeps, the fresh pot Brian set before leaving is ready.

Justin wakes up, opening his eyes slowly, and he takes a deep breath. That’s when he realizes: he remembers. He remembers the prom, the dance, the words. Everything. Somehow, the night gave him another night back.

He sits up, swallows. Fuck. He shakes his head and reaches toward the bedside table, grabs his cell phone.

“Yeah?”

“Brian.” Justin’s voice breaks, he can’t say anything else.

</i>“Justin, what’s wrong?”</i>

“I – god, Brian, I think I remember.”

There’s a moment of silence. ”I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Justin hangs up, and gets out of bed. He walks to the window and stares at the grounds outside, the gorgeous garden, the pool, and somewhere in the distance, the tennis court and stables. Britin. He smiles. Eight years. He still can’t believe he’s here, that they made it this far, that they beat all the odds. And his recently re-acquired memories only sharpen his joy.

He decides to take a shower, and as the hot water beats down on his body, he closes his eyes and gives himself the luxury of remembering, of calling all his new memories to the forefront of his mind. The odd, almost imperceptible fear in Brian’s face, when he first walked into the ballroom. His smirk, the way he teased Daphne. And how he looked, god, how he looked. Dressed in black from head to toe, except for that white, silken scarf; sharp, brutally beautiful, out of place – a dark, sensual knight, irresistible and irreverent. The perfect “fuck you” to St. James, indeed.

The song drifts into his mind then, and he can’t help himself, he sings it out loud. “Don’t forget who’s taking you home, and in whose arms you’re gonna be. So darling, save the last dance for me.” He laughs at himself, shakes the water out of his eyes. There’s this uncontrollable happiness inside of him, because, damn it, he remembers.

The dance, fucking hell. That dance. He gets it, now, why Daphne talked about it with near reverence, why Brian went through the whole “recreation” debacle. It was huge, it was really huge. It was fucking perfect. The blue lights, the spotlight, and them, dancing as if they’d practiced forever, as if the whole year they spent together, and not together, and together but not calling it that, their whole lives, it all led to that one stunning moment in time. Moving in perfect synch, with perfect and heart-achingly beautiful grace. Brian’s face, his joy, his laughter. His eyes, so open, devoid of any of the usual walls. They were more than just together, while they danced. They were partners. Way back then.

A traitorous tear makes its way down Justin’s cheek. Fuck, trust him to get all maudlin.

He needs to let all of this out, somehow, so he quickly puts on a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt, one of Brian’s, perfect for painting. He heads to the studio he has set up in the attic of the house, and starts painting.

A light shade of blue, for nostalgia and strobe lights.

Streaks of black, for tuxedos, and Armani suits, and formal dances.

A dash of salmon pink, because Daphne was there, as a date, as a friend, as a cheerleader, and as a witness.

Light brown, deep green, mixed together to make that amazing color of Brian’s eyes, that daunting hazel, which on that night reflected promises, and laughter, and love. It makes Justin shiver, as he paints, because he can’t believe life was unfair enough to make him forget for so long.

He starts adding white. White for hope, white for a scarf, white for joy. A symbol he understands perfectly now, and sadness tempers his giddiness when he compares how the silk shone against Brian’s black suit, twirling around them in the dance floor, and how it looked stained with old blood, hanging on Brian’s neck like a medieval hairshirt, the light, once-iridescent material managing to weigh down his shoulders with guilt and pain, a yoke Justin removed almost unconsciously.

Finally, he adds three drops of red by the left corner. It looks vaguely ominous, but it’s realistic, it’s his truth. It speaks of everything he went through to remember, and it makes every recovered second all the more valuable.

He paints with all his colors, with all his memories and his symbols, losing himself in the past. When he’s done, he steps back, and he understands the happiness that’s invaded him since he woke up. It was one memory lost, one, out of his eighteen years. But like a key, this one memory unlocks that year, that first mad-confusing-exhilarating year, that year when his life begun. All his memories surround him now, they pervade his being, from when he first stepped into a puddle in Liberty Avenue and wound up by a lamppost, the unlikely setting for getting his world turned upside down, to living with Brian, running away to New York and being found, ice-cream kisses, gay-straight alliances, and more guts, recklessness and passion than he knew what to do with. Finding himself, finding a family, finding love.

That year was locked away, somehow, after the bashing, after feeling like a stranger in his skin, and Ethan. But he gets it, now, that all his bravest, proudest moments, getting his art back, getting Brian back, standing up to Stockwell, even standing up to Brian himself, he always had that strength. Since he was seventeen, and said “I’m going with him”. A year of growing into who he was always meant to be, which culminated in one extraordinary dance.

“It was the best night of my life.”

“Even if it was ridiculously romantic.”

A night that was stolen from him, with all its romance, and hopeful promises. A broken night, a broken dance, a broken skull and two broken men.

Nothing that’s broken remains so forever, everything heals, for better or worse. There are scars, because there’ll always be scars, but that’s okay. Scars mean living, and loving, and losing. Scars mean learning. And, finally, at long last, scars mean remembering.

“Justin.”

Justin turns to see Brian standing in the doorway, anxiety clear on his face. He must’ve dropped everything at Kinnetik, driven as fast as he could. Justin’s heart, impossibly full, fills even more. He smiles, smiles like he’s sure he did that night, in the parking lot. “I’m okay. I remember, Brian, I remember everything.”

Brian walks toward him, and pulls him close, hand tugging at his hair. He pauses, inches away from Justin’s mouth. He says nothing, because there is no need. It’s all there, in the quirk of an eyebrow, in the soft-happy grin, in the mimicking of a movement made seven years before. In the eyes, in those eyes, which say everything, which have always said everything to anyone who cared to understand.

Justin tugs Brian forward that last inch, and they kiss. Somewhere, somehow, the music echoes, the song plays. Save the last dance for me.

May 17th, 2008, West Virginia. An unremarkable day, a day like any other. A day in which a remembered past, an instant’s beat, made whole a present.

The End.