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The night before Justin leaves for LA, they take down the thing over the bed.
“What are you gonna put there instead?” says Justin, frowning at his palm. He thinks he might’ve scratched it on the corner of the light fixture.
Brian shrugs. “Dunno,” he says. “I don’t want to take any drastic measures. Maybe I’ll just take the Zen approach for a while.”
“You mean, you’re too lazy to figure it out, so you’re going to leave it blank.”
Brian chuckles. “Damn,” he says fondly, “You’re onto me.”
They both pause at Brian’s words, certain that they’ve heard them said before, but neither remembers exactly when. They’ve said a lot of things to each other over the years.
“Hmm.” Brian tilts his head slightly, looking down at the jumble of framing and light tubes that’s lying on the bed in state. He thinks of other old conversations.
“If blue was the old orange, then what’s the new blue now?” he asks.
“You already answered that,” Justin says, and pokes at Brian’s ribs. “Zen is the new blue. No other colors, no substitutions.”
“Yeah. Okay then,” and Brian takes a breath, lets it out slowly.
Justin steps closer and tucks himself under Brian’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around Brian’s waist.
“I wish –“ he starts, but Brian shakes his head, and Justin stops. Instead, Justin says “It’ll be different, not being here with you.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage. You have before,” says Brian.
And although his comment wasn’t meant to mean much of anything at all, Brian realizes, about five seconds too late, that it was actually a completely thoughtless, stupid thing to say, and that he has just made a major faux pas in the land of Justin Is Really Really Sorry About the Ugly Fiddler So Can We Never Mention It Again Please that they’ve been living quite happily in for months and months now.
Justin inches out from under Brian’s grasp, and crosses his arms. Brian hates this, this sudden awkwardness, and he never fucking wants to go through any of that old shit again.
“Yeah,” says Justin. “But that was different. I actually left you that time, and this time I’m not fucking leaving you.”
Brian takes a breath. “You’re wrong,” he says, and continues before Justin can say anything. “...You never really left me. It was more like,” he pauses, “like you just withheld sex for a while.”
Justin is slightly insulted for a moment. Then the absolute conviction in Brian’s statement registers, even though it’s conviction that Justin is sure Brian didn’t have at the time. It makes Justin’s heart beat a little faster, to know that Brian has that now, has that for him. And at the same time, it’s so fucking...
Justin bursts out laughing.
“What is it?” says Brian. He’s worried that he’s accidentally sent Justin into murderous hysterics. It wouldn’t be the first time. But Justin’s already moved on from Brian’s previous words, the old angst laid aside easily.
“Oh, nothing,” says Justin, “That was just... strangely romantic.”
Brian stares at him, frowning slightly.
Then he shrugs, smiles a little, and says “’Strangely’? I can live with that.” He steps forward, gently tugs Justin’s arms out of the defensive posture he left them in, and takes one hand in his own. Justin’s fingers slide between his, and fit like they always do.
Justin kisses him, but draws away, suddenly nervous. “I’m – I’m just going to miss you, that’s all,” Justin says.
It’s been easy up until this point. Justin’s been busy packing, been busy figuring out where he’s going to stay in LA, what he’s going to do once he gets there. And he’s fine with leaving, he is, and he really does want to do this. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be going.
Everyone except Brian (and Michael, surprisingly enough) thinks that he’s doing it just because Brett is a big name director, or because Justin thinks that Brian wants him to, or because Justin and Brian are having problems and this is Justin’s easy way out. And that’s all bullshit.
He just wants to do this, as much as he’ll want to come back to Brian when it’s all done.
“Just think,” says Brian, “You’ll be in Hollywood. You can get young, nubile native boys to bring you pineapple rum twists, or whatever fucking fruity drinks they have there.”
“Hmm. Sex on the Beach?” says Justin.
Brian says, “Exactly. With young, nubile native boys.”
Justin starts to laugh again, feeling like his emotions are on some sort of fucking hormonal roller coaster. “I think that’s Hawaii you’re thinking of,” he says. “LA’s gonna have young nubile boys that drive Porsches and charge me sixteen bucks for a fruity drink. Not that I’ll have any problem fucking them, either.”
Brian chuckles at that too, and reaches to fiddle with a tuft of Justin’s hair. Justin grips Brian’s hand tighter, brings it to his chest.
As Brian’s palm smoothes out on Justin’s ribs, he can feel Justin’s heart beating under his fingers, under the smooth fabric of Justin’s shirt, right through his skin. Brian breathes in deep, smells the loft, smells the abandoned Chinese take-out by the stereo, smells soap and sweat and Justin.
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Brian says again, and he means it in so many different ways. He’s sure that Justin understands all of them.
But just in case, he has the rest of the night to explain. And just maybe, every night after.