xie_xie_xie (xie_xie_xie) wrote in qaf_challenges, @ 2007-11-17 00:30:00 |
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A is for Artist
Justin doesn't like the word artist.
Oh, he knows that technically, it's his profession, but there's something so definitional in the word, something too much like a label and Justin despises labels. And the label of artist… well, it conjures up images of polo-neck-wearing Art critics with their impenetrable long-worded reviews and memories of Ethan Gold with his cheesy clichés about starving in garrets. It means using words like "muse" and "craft", despising the commercial world with one breath and selling your soul for an exclusive contract in the next.
Justin, having lived too long in Brian's world, has never despised commerciality; he wants to make lots of money from his work and he's not ashamed to admit it. He wants the freedom that only money can buy: the freedom to create what he wants when he wants. This is why he's come to New York. This is why he's currently clutching his portfolio of work and good reviews to his chest like a life preserver, wilting under the frosty glare of the manners-challenged gallery assistant, about to find himself (and his art) measured, assessed and hopefully found worthy of an exhibition spot in this perfectly rendered, all-white space. He shifts on the uncomfortably shaped sofa and remembers last night's Kinney-style pep talk on The Art of Bullshitting; hearing the tap of the owner's heels approaching, he prepares his biggest and fakest smile.
B is for Boys of Babylon by Ben Bruckner
"Ruthlessly seductive rake Chad Ryan is used to having his own way. A successful businessman and consummate rule-breaker, Chad is at the pinnacle of his game when he meets nubile high-school student Kyle Tyler, their relationship is passionate, haunting and overwhelmingly real… Ben Bruckner's third novel is at times lyrical and farcical, shallow and heart-breaking, but always life-affirming... An outstanding example of modern gay literature…"
"I'm going to sue," declares Brian throwing the book across the room with a vicious glare. "Chad Ryan? Chad Ryan? What the fuck is that?"
Justin drags his eyes reluctantly away from his own copy. "You can't sue, there's a what-it's-called disclaimer thing at the beginning… Anyway, he's your best friend's husband, so you definitely can't sue."
"Ahh yes, my so-called best friend. I think Mikey and –"
"Brian! Just – don't. Okay?"
Brian's eyes narrow suspiciously. "What did you do?"
Justin heaves an uncomfortable sigh and closes his book. "Look – Ben may've mentioned to me that his new book had characters that were – um, sort of similar…"
"Sort of?"
"…to us and would we be cool with it and I said yes. I mean – you're used to being immortalized on canvas and in comic books, a novel was just the next logical step. You should be flattered." He opens the book again, finding his page with an intent frown. "Now, will you please fuck off, I've nearly finished and I want to find out if Kyle manages to win Chad's stony heart."
Brian stares at him with a mixture of horror and disbelief. "I'm still going to sue."
C is for cock
It is no secret that Justin likes cock.
He remembers being twelve years old: discovering his own cock late at night, fingers working furiously under the sheets. After he comes he wants to cry, he knows there is something wrong with him: the fantasies that assail his brain are not of Princess Leia in a spangled bikini but of Han Solo with his tight pants and wicked grin. He falls asleep feeling dirty and disturbed.
He remembers being fourteen years old: terrified of the communal showers after gym class. He knows he has no control over his body - over his body's inevitable and shameful betrayal. He lingers in the locker room after everyone has gone, he knows he's going to be late for class and will get a detention, but it doesn't matter, anything is better than them discovering the truth. He remembers being seventeen years old: Brian pushing inside him, changing his life with one perfect thrust. He gasps with a pain so excruciating and so exhilarating that he wants to die a little death right there, his own petit mort. He has never felt this alive.
He remembers being seventeen years old: almost choking as Brian comes down his throat. He swallows the slimy saltiness with one awkward gulp, the taste unpleasant and lingering on his tongue. He looks up at Brian with wide adoring eyes and knows it's all worth it when he sees the almost smile of approval.
He's twenty three years old: "I love cock," he whispers late at night as he curls his fingers around Brian's cock, working his hand with effortless ease. "I love your cock Brian."
Brian looks at him, a hint of amusement behind the glazed eyes, "I know. We all know."
D is for door
"I bet that door could tell a few tales." Michael chuckles in a slightly obscene manner as he lifts his end of the couch, steering them through the army of hunky removal men littering the loft. "All the men that've gone through it over the years… all the hot guys… if doors could talk, huh?"
Justin rolls his eyes and bumps the couch against Michael's knees (unintentionally of course) as they pass the threshold of the Door With Many Tales To Tell.
"Ow! That hurt!"
"Sorry, it was an accident." Justin flashes him an innocent smile.
"Sure it was," Michael mutters with a baleful stare.
E is for Ex
Naturally, when Justin sees Ethan Gold for the first time since their dramatic and unregretted parting he looks like shit.
He's been standing on the corner of Washington Square for the past four hours handing out flyers and he's gotten to the stage where he's no longer cold, but legitimately freezing. His nose and eyes are streaming - which he's been trying to mop up fruitlessly for the past two hours with the aid of a sticky Starbucks napkin. He's wearing his oldest and dirtiest coat with the extra tears, the scarf he wore when he painted his mother's dining room and his holiest pair of gloves. The last four passers-by he tried to engage in political activism mistook him for a crazy homeless guy and scurried away with fear in their eyes.
"Justin? Still fighting the good fight I see?"
For a moment he feels like Barbra Streisand in the last scene of The Way We Were, but then he remembers that Barbra's character actually loved her Ex, and he dismisses the analogy with contempt (and a sneeze).
"Yeah. Something like that." Answer muffled by the Starbucks napkin and a vicious blow of his nose.
Ethan steps back hastily with a look of alarm. He's wearing a brand new, obviously expensive but poorly fitting (the boy has gotten chubby – ha!) leather coat and is still sporting the ill-advised soulpatch.
After a minute of boring conversation, Ethan pulls a "sympathetic" face. "Look, if you're in trouble Justin, if you're sick and um, are having… money problems then – well, my latest CD is doing well, more than well actually…" he smiles in what he thinks is a winning fashion and spreads his hands with their fur lined gloves in a charity-giving gesture.
Justin regards him coldly. "I'm doing just fine. Thank you."
"Right. Okay, yeah. Well, um, I should be going." Cowed by Justin's dark glare, he smiles weakly and leaves.
My ex thought I was a fucking hobo Justin thinks, scowling at passers-by. It's only later when he repeats the story to Brian after a restorative fuck in the brand new Kinnetik offices that he begins to see the funny side.
F is for friendship
"If we broke up, do you think we'd still be friends?"
"No," Brian answers after a long moment.
"Oh! Why not?"
There's another pause before Brian responds: "If we broke up – you'd be happy just to be friends then? No fucking, no kissing, no blowing, no touching. You'd be happy with a platonic relationship, watching me with another guy and having to be okay with it –"
"I see you with other guys all the time Brian!"
"No… I'm not talking about just a fuck Sunshine, I'm talking about seeing me with another guy in a relationship?"
"Like you'd ever do that," scoffs Justin.
"No, I wouldn't. But you might."
Justin turns to look at him, surprised by the catch in his voice. For a moment he stares into the familiar face, feeling that twinge in his chest, the air caught in his lungs for a brief overwhelming second… mine, my Brian. He smiles awkwardly. "I guess you have a point."
Brian returns the smile and leans into him, lips pressing gently against his forehead, "I always do."
G is for graduation
The first graduation Justin ever attends is his sister's high school graduation. He missed out on his own thanks to Chris Hobbes and a baseball bat, and the likelihood of him ever attending his own college graduation is getting dimmer by the year; still, Molly makes a great graduate.
For Molly's graduation, Brian and Justin offer The House Formally Known As Britin for the after-party. The House has never been renamed since the time Molly, the quintessential teenage brat, laughed for four minutes straight on being told the name. Justin subsequently sulked and refused to rename it, insisting it was Brian's turn, he always named things - be they sons or businesses or mansions. Brian couldn't be bothered thinking of a new name, so it had come to be known as The House, (capitalized of course).
Molly's graduation ceremony is also the first time Justin has seen his father in the years since he moved to New York. He watches him help his new wife, an attractive, suspiciously youthful looking blonde, into his new Mercedes with a blank feeling in his gut.
"I asked him if he wanted to come to the party," Molly tells them afterwards, "but he said he wouldn't be welcome."
"He wouldn't," Brian states flatly, tossing one protective arm around Justin's shoulders. "Sorry kid."
"Meh – whatever, it's not like he's gonna be missed." Molly shrugs equably and slides off into the crowd of well-wishers.
"God, I love that girl," Brian mutters before Justin pulls him into a very public display of affection.
H is for hard
When Justin first knew Brian, he would sometimes count the seconds in his head it took from the moment Brian first touched him for his cock to get hard, 1, 2, 3… and there it would be again: The Ever-Reliable-Brian-Induced Erection.
Now, without the constant raging hardness distracting him from homework, class, work, chores, Art Club, anything… he can remember his inexhaustible and insatiable seventeen year old body and its raging and embarrassing perma-arousals with fond indulgence.
Tonight, as Brian rolls towards him with that look in his eyes, he feels his breath hitch in his chest and his fingertips begin to tingle, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… Okay, so these days he needs an extra two seconds, but some things never change.
I is for inimitable
Kinnetik is in its third year of operation since the opening of its second office in New York, and to say the expansion has been a success for the small boutique ad agency would be a serious understatement. Nominated for four major awards in this year's ADDY's, its innovative and unusual campaigns have reaped critical praise, and more importantly, commercial success for its impressive client list.
Arnaud Griffiths spoke to the man behind this meteoric rise, Kinnetik's inimitable CEO and Founder, Brian Kinney.
Justin raises his head, "Inimitable?"
Brian smirks, accepting the compliment with his characteristic lack of modesty. "He offered to blow me after the shoot."
"Of course he did."
"But I thought – why bother with some lame-ass hack with dandruff when I've got the inimitable Justin Taylor at home to service my every need?"
Justin snorts and darts him an indulgent look, "You, Brian Kinney, are fooling no one."
J is for Joey Greengrass
Joey Greengrass was born three days after Justin. Joey Greengrass lived next door to Justin. Joey Greengrass's mother, Gabrielle, was Jennifer's best friend for many years and Mr. Greengrass, Cliff, was Craig Taylor's racquetball buddy. Joey and Justin were born and raised to be best friends.
Joey liked football, wrestling, playing with Transformers and nailing bits of wood together with his father's hammer. Most Saturday nights, the Taylors and the Greengrasses would socialize together and Justin would be forced to keep Joey company, shivering in Mr. Greengrass's garage as Joey banged two bits of wood together and threatened him with his Dad's cordless drill.
When Mr. Greengrass's office relocated to Scranton, Jennifer broke the news gently to Justin, worried how he would cope without his "best friend".
Justin coped just fine.
K is for kissing
Kissing Brian never gets boring. They've been doing it for the past two hours, making out like horny teenagers on Emmet's couch as the rest of the gang gossip over their heads, interrupting Beaches to Emmet's continued annoyance.
"Don't you two every get bored of each other?" Ted asks as they eventually pull apart, Brian for a smoke and Justin for snacks.
Justin looks at him blankly, noticing for the first time that there are other people in the room besides Brian, "Um, no?" he answers, eventually finding his voice again, his lips are swollen and his tongue seems to have gone dead.
Ted shakes his head in bewilderment and goes back to bickering with Emmett.
L is for Leonard
"I'm going to call him Leonard," declares Gus as he squeezes the small brown mouse between his curled fingers. "Cause he kinda looks like a lion. Don't you think?"
Justin squints through the gaps of Gus's fingers at the scared looking creature, trying to see the resemblance. "Um… yeah. That's a great name Gus."
"I know," replies the boy stoutly.
"You know, I was the one to name you when you were born?"
Gus turns his head to look at him, gaze both limpid and unimpressed, "I know that. You've told me that before. Like, millions of times." He rounds off the sentence with something that looks suspiciously like the patented Kinney eye-roll.
Justin hides a smile and rests one hand on Gus's shoulder. "Right. I'll remember that in future."
M is for marriage
After six years in Canada and two break-ups and make-ups, Mel and Lindsey decide to get married. Again.
"Totally fucking pointless," is Brian's verdict on the entire ceremony as he takes his seat in the front row beside Justin. "I give them six months this time."
Justin shoots him a warning look but secretly agrees.
Outside, in the freezing Toronto weather, Justin shivers and wraps himself around Brian, speaking into his thick wool coat: "Do you ever think about when we almost –"
"All the time."
"Don't you think –"
"If that's what you want."
Justin tilts his head back: "Are you serious?"
"Completely."
Justin stares at him for a moment, barely daring to smile. "Huh."
Brian raises his eyebrows: "Do you want to then?"
"God, yes," Justin breathes, "yes, course I do."
"Good. I do too." Brian grins and gathers him into a long kiss.
N is for nicotine
Brian gives up smoking for 38 hours.
At the end of that period, Justin reckons he's just gotten through the worst 38 hours of his life; at least when he was in a coma he didn't have to listen to Brian's never-ending bitching and whining.
He promises to never ever mention lung cancer, throat cancer, heart disease, second-hand smoke and midget children ever again; and resigns himself to a lifetime of wearing clothes that stink like a days-old ashtray.
It's a small price to pay for his sanity.
O is for obfuscate
"To make obscure or unclear. Nine letters."
"Obfuscate," answers Brian from behind the computer screen.
"How the fuck did you know that?" Justin stares down at the newspaper, filling in the blank squares with irritable black lettering. He glances towards the top of the page, "Hey… wait a minute – this is yesterday's paper." He looks up towards Brian with an accusatory glare. "You've got today's over there, haven't you?"
"What makes you think that? Maybe I've just got a wider vocabulary than you."
"Bullshit! I got –"
"…1500 on your SAT's."
Justin snorts and returns to his crossword: "Yes, and I always beat you at Scrabble. You're cheating Brian."
"No, I'm winning Sunshine."
P is for pencils
Justin's favorite ever pencils were fire truck red with scratched golden stencils of the Statue of Liberty on one side. They were a present from Gus during his first visit to New York eight years ago and cost $1.99 from a tacky souvenir store in Chinatown.
After the Chinatown expedition, an exhausted Gus fell asleep on Brian's enormous bed at the SoHo Grand (Brian was out seeing potential Kinnetik offices at the time) and Justin used his new pencils to sketch the sleeping boy on the smart cream-colored hotel stationery.
A month later Brian presented him with the framed drawing, a signed contract for Kinnetik's new Tribeka office and a declaration that there was no getting rid of him now, as he'd signed the papers and was coming to live in New York whether Justin liked it or not. Justin liked it.
The Gus drawing now has pride of place alongside class photos, baby pictures and one of Gus's less grand-looking trophies on what Justin privately calls "the Gus shelf". The last remaining pencil (now worn down to a nub) Justin carries in his wallet.
Q is for Quentin Pope.
Daphne announces her engagement to Quentin Pope whilst eating a low-fat hazelnut yogurt, resting it on her huge denim-clad baby bulge, her expression serenely calm… unlike Justin's:
"But – bu – you – you're – pregnant! By your Ex! Who isn't Quentin!"
Daphne licks the rest of the yogurt off the plastic spoon and fixes him with a patient look. "I know that. But I love Quentin and he loves me and we're going to be tremendously happy together and he doesn't care that little Justin here isn't his – he loves him anyway."
Justin's mouth falls open and his lip begins to tremble: "Little Justin?"
"Of course." Daphne smiles and reaches out with one hand to thump him on the arm, (her aim and strength not at all diminished by her pregnant state). "And I hope you're going to agree to be godfather given I'm naming him after you."
"Um, I – of course, I – wow, Daph, are you sure?"
"I'm always sure," returns Daphne, her mouth creasing into that lofty all-knowing look Justin remembers so well from his childhood. "I was sure about you and Brian. And I was sure about Quentin. And now – I'm sure about Little Justin."
"Well, um, okay, yes. I'd be honored."
Daphne tosses the empty yogurt carton in the general direction of the trash. "I couldn't've done it without you, you know. No – not this," she rubs her belly and rolls her eyes on his look of confusion, "but all the rest of it – life, you know…"
"I know." Justin smiles and grabs her hand, his eyes feeling suddenly moist. "Me neither."
R is for Romeo and Juliet by Dire Straits
Also known as Justin's favorite song, though when asked, he says Superstition by Stevie Wonder.
He's managed to keep his love of Dire Straits a secret for a long time until the fateful night Brian catches him in the new deluxe-sized bathtub, singing along to an ancient vinyl copy of Making Movies with word-perfect accompaniment.
"Dire Straits huh?" is Brian's only comment, but he's obviously restraining himself, eyebrows working overtime.
"It's a classic album!" Justin retorts defensively. He feels curiously self-conscious, standing wet, naked and flustered in the dangerously full bathtub (curious because this is Brian, and when has he ever been embarrassed about being naked in front of Brian?). In the background Mark Knopfler croons and plucks at his guitar and Brian hides another smile.
He scowls as he towels himself dry. What Brian doesn't understand is that it isn't just the lyrics, the musical arrangements and the great rockin' guitar melodies; it's watching his Mom and Dad dancing at his cousin's wedding, it's long journeys to his grandparents in the funky smelling rental car, it's his Mom singing along as she cooks dinner and he finishes his homework at the kitchen table...
"So, you're secretly the uncoolest person I know. And I know Mikey," Brian says as Justin finally emerges from the bathroom. He's sitting on the floor surrounded by Justin's secret stash of vinyl and is looking very pleased with himself.
Justin shrugs, he's already decided he doesn't care that his secret's now out, it's not like he's into emo… "Whatever. What shall we listen to next? Brothers in Arms or Love Over Gold?"
S is for Sunshine
Justin has always hated this nickname but he has never said so out loud because he loves Deb and doesn't want to hurt her feelings. Besides, it secretly gives him a warm and fuzzy feeling when Deb calls him it, even though he's now over thirty and should be way past that stage.
T is for ten inches uncut
It's pure Kinney propaganda and Justin would know. And no, he's not telling what it really is.
U is for Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers.
During one memorable night at Woody's, and a drinking game involving some weird hands on and off the table thing that only cranberry juice drinking Ted seems to understand, Michael admits that his favorite-song-of-all-time is Unchained Melody.
Justin sniggers for seven minutes straight, miming shaping clay on a potters' wheel with both hands while Michael sputters with impotent outrage. It's at this point in the evening that Brian takes revenge on behalf of his mortified best friend, and proceeds to dish the dirt on Justin's musical shame (see R).
In Justin's opinion he has nothing to be ashamed off, Dire Straits are waaaayyy superior to Tubular Bells I, Second Movement (Ben), Some Boring Opera Shit No One's Heard Of (Ted) and Candle in the Wind, Princess Diana Version (Emmett). Brian chooses this exact moment to go outside for a cigarette.
V is for vestibule
"It's a fucking closet Justin!"
Justin sighs and refers back to the plan in his hands, tilting it to catch the light. "No. It's not. Look – here, it says vestibule. Vestibule Brian!"
"Right. And I say Bullshit! It's a closet! Anyone can see it's a closet. Anyway, what the fuck's a vestibule?"
"An antechamber or small entrance area – which is what this is! Obviously!" He snarls as he tosses the plans under Brian's nose. "Look for yourself!"
Brian picks them up and scowls furiously as he surveys the floor plan.
"See?" prompts Justin, prodding the paper with one smudged finger. "Vestibule. It says so."
"Well – it's still bullshit!" Brian tosses the plan to the floor and pushes his chair away with a dramatic flourish. "I don't care that it's prime Manhattan real estate We're not living in an apartment with a fucking vestibule! Next!"
Justin sighs manfully and reaches for the next set of thick glossy particulars: "Ooooh, this one has a drawing room."
Brian catches his eye and glares.
W is for wedding
Debbie marries Carl on her 61st birthday, three weeks after the State of Pennsylvania formally recognizes same-sex marriages. Michael gives her away, Mel and Lindsey declare a temporary truce and attend with their respective partners and a bored-looking Gus. Ted and Emmett sob noisily, drowning out the wispy-voiced Minister, Brian wears his brand new Armani Fall Collection and Justin spends the entirety of the vows thinking about tearing it off him.
After Debbie has been escorted down the makeshift aisle by Carl to Ted and The Liberty Diner Choir's rendition of Wind Beneath My Wings, they repair to Woody's for the reception.
Toasts are drunk to departed loved-ones: Vic, Kenny the drag queen, and most recently, Ben. There is a poignant moment of sadness when Justin remembers Ben at his and Brian's wedding three years before: laughing and healthy and alive, before the exotic dancers and male strippers appear to the sound of Debbie's screams of delight. In the furor of glitter and discarded clothing, he and Brian manage to slip away and reacquaint themselves with the third stall from the right in Woody's men's room.
X is for X-rated!!!
Justin finds it as he clears out the basement one bored afternoon: a homemade DVD emblazoned with his own excitable handwriting: BRIAN + JUSTIN X-RATED!!! He sniggers and slides the disc into his old laptop.
After a burst of static Brian appears. There's no grey in this Brian's hair and no lines at the corners of his eyes, but he's still Brian, tilting his head as he smokes, body lithe and tan against the dark blue sheets. Onscreen Brian turns his head to smirk at something behind the camera: "What the fuck are you doing?" And then Justin recognizes his own voice: "Wait! I'm – there! Got it!"
He cringes as he watches himself leap onto the bed beside Brian: so pale and - Jesus, I look about fourteen!. The Brian onscreen doesn't seem to be concerned with the absurd youthfulness of his companion and is already manhandling him into a kiss – an obscenely long kiss, pushing him down into the mattress, their eyes darkened by the light as they stare intensely into the camera lens.
"What're you watching?"
"Argh!" he jumps as (present-day) Brian looms over him.
"What are - Oh. Ohhhh…" He tilts his head back to look at Brian: he's gazing at the screen, smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His face may be older than the Brian onscreen, but the expression on it is exactly the same.
"We were hot," Brian states after a minute, narcissistically mesmerized by his own younger self.
Justin takes his hand and presses it against the substantial bulge in his jeans, "We still are."
Y is for Yearning by Justin Taylor, oil on canvas
Justin has just gotten out the shower when he gets the call.
After mopping up the puddle of water that accumulated under his stunned feet while he was on the phone, he makes his naked (but now dry) way towards the enormous full-length windows. The sun has just risen – bright and dazzling in the dramatically blue sky above him, and he has to blink as he gazes out across the familiar downtown landscape. He thinks about the moment he first arrived in this city (over thirteen years ago): the sky appropriately dark and stormy as he stepped off the bus at Port Authority, burdened with an enormous backpack containing all his worldly goods and the equally heavy weight of everybody's expectations…
This news – what his agent Marcus has just told him – this is what it's all been leading towards - what in Brian's world would be called the Ultimate Key Performance Indicator… His painting: Yearning, (not one he considers his best, but there's no accounting for taste), is going to be viewed by thousands and thousands of people as part of the MoMA's new permanent exhibition. His painting is going to be in a museum, the biggest fucking modern art museum in the world (or at least the one which matters most…)
He closes his eyes and lifts up his arms, feeling the sun warm and triumphant against his bare skin. He stretches out one hand to grab his cell phone. The only thing that can make this Moment of Moments better is to share it with Brian.
Z is for zero
As in the number of waking hours in the day Justin hasn't thought about Brian in the eighteen years, three months and twenty days since they met.
They sit on the bed and kiss for fifteen minutes straight, languorous, intensely perfect kisses of lust, desire and contentment (if ever the word contentment were permitted in the same sentence as Brian Kinney and sex). Justin is already hard as he twists under Brian, crushing their fingers together, matching rings glinting in the soft-colored light.
After they fuck, Justin wants to say something profound and meaningful about the passage of time and just how he used to think he couldn't possibly love Brian anymore than he did, and yet every day he finds himself wanting him, needing him, loving him in new ways - but it‘s all too hard to put into words and Brian knows it all anyway. Instead he remembers those stupid games of what-if he and Daphne used to play during their sixth grade sleepovers.
"What would you do if you knew that the next time we fucked it'd kill you? Would you still want to do it?"
Brian turns to look at him as if he's just asked a supremely dumb question: "What do you think? I'd die happy."
Justin smiles and lets Brian tuck him under his arm. "Me too."