On the long drive home, Brian convinced himself that initial reaction had overemphasized the worst-case scenario.  By tomorrow, rational and practical would prevail and he wouldn’t hear any more about it. 

But the incident spawned a morose daydream anyway.  He was at the Loft grieving Justin’s loss when Craig barged in and started taking everything that was Justin.  Paintings, drawings, CD’s – and Brian, cased in unbreakable glass, could only stand there and watch.  “He’s my son and you’re nothing,” as Craig picked out images of Brian, piled them on the living room floor and set them on fire.

Brian blinked off the daymare, only to play another.  Justin helpless in that same glass case, watching Joan, Claire and her two sons piling intimate memories into trash bags, Joan insisting, “I don’t want anything left of his horrid lifestyle.” Then Claire sitting on his bed.  “Mom, I think this will go perfect in my room.”

A Psycho-scene flare jolted Brian back to reality but didn’t stop a nagging sensation that ludicrous as those fantasies were, base truth was – he and Justin were related only by a simple paper that claimed they were partners.  Nothing giving them the universally recognized emotional connection of family.

At a small Downtown restaurant bar, Brian sat across from Justin in a corner booth and watched their Waitress place a check on their cleared table.  Justin reached for it, found his hand on Brian’s and stroked the top of his hand.  “Would you let ME get it this time?  I’m starting to feel like a freeloader.”

“Then get the tip and be a philanthropist.”

“Finally.  A tart comment.  I was beginning to think I walked in with somebody else,” Justin leaned on crossed arms.  “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

Brian stared at the rocks glass turning in his hand. “I’ve been thinking of making out a will.”

“A will.” Justin stared down then back with alarm.  “A will?  As in, planning for death?”

“It isn’t about death.  It’s about a right to decide what happens to your life’s worth.  And last minute choices don’t always count.” He took a drink, looked off quietly, “We don’t have rights like straight people.  So we have to take every one we have.”

Justin wasn’t convinced.  “Brian, is something wrong with you?  And don’t give me that bullshit answer ‘everything’.”

“What’s wrong with being smart and practical in case something happens?”

“What could happen?  Are you in some kind of trouble?” Justin pressed.

“No, I’m not in any trouble,” Brian gulped his drink, clinked the glass down.  “Scott had a little scare -”

“Like he’s not USED to it by now.”

“- and it made me think,” Brian finished with an indignant stare.

“If this is how you plan to spend the rest of the evening, I might as well go to the Baths.”

“THAT’S new.  The Sex Card.”

“If it trumps you over the head, yeah.  I don’t wanna talk about YOU gone, or ME gone…not when we hardly talk about BETWEEN here and there,” Justin slung back his own drink, tossed a five on the table and slid off the bench seat.  “Are you ready to go?”

Brian exhaled a long breath, snatched the check and followed Justin already heading for the exit.

Walking through the lamp lit darkness along Forbes Avenue, Justin slowed to check the line of parked cars.  Where the fuck DID we park.  He was halted by Brian’s arms sliding over his shoulders from behind and holding him firm, Brian’s head against his and a brush of air on his ear.

“We passed it four cars ago.”

Justin cleared his throat, turned in Brian’s hold and looked up, voice almost lost against the whiz of passing traffic.  “It’s not that you didn’t make sense.  It’s just too close to something I don’t want to remember right now.  Okay?”

Brian studied his eyes.  The Between comment. “What would you like to see in Denver?”

Justin revived a smile, stretched up and kissed Brian’s lips then locked one arm around his waist, discreetly ran the other hand up Brian’s cock.

Brian blinked his eyes slow. “That’s a given.  Anything else?”

“Vancouver.”

“That’s not in Denver.”

“No, but it’s sitting on our desk and waiting for a Miracle Worker.”

Brian leaned back, “Where did you hear that term?”

“Cynthia,” Justin raised his brows, turned back with his arm guiding Brian by the waist.  “In my old days, I was quite adept at digging up stuff on you.”

“Were you that determined?”

“No, YOU were, and I needed all the help I could get.”

Brian stopped them at the car, pinned Justin’s back against the passenger door.  “I had no idea you were so devious.”

“You always have a way of bringing out the best in me.”  Justin sucked a breath when he felt Brian’s hand stroke his cock.  “Two ways.”

Brian nudged Justin aside, dug his keys out, unlocked the passenger door then dashed to the driver’s seat, his mind more into a way than a will.

Lightwave’s first day in the new office.  A tribute to Murphy’s Law – Anything that CAN go wrong, WILL go wrong – starting with…

“SURPRI-ISE!” from a gang of familiar voices, all the lights coming on followed by a blinding flash from a camera and a whirlwind of “Congratulations!” “Over HERE!” “Hope you like it.” “Nothing too good for our boys.” “Careful with that.” “Watch the cake. Watch the cake.”

When Brian regained his sight, he had nowhere to set his briefcase. His desk was a loaded buffet table, computer shoved precariously to one end.  He stared at a fish mold tuna salad surrounded by cut fruit and vegetables, at Michael and Ben hustling plastic glasses while Ted poured champagne, “I know it’s nine AM, but there’s never a wrong time for champagne at a celebration.”

Justin finally focused, headed to HIS desk where…another computer? crowded beside his own with Debbie, Vic and Emmett smiling under a saggy Liberty Lightwave Kicks Ass banner.  On closer scrutiny, Justin got Emmett’s proud, “The cake turned out exactly like I thought it would…” he glanced off, “…except for the screen logo, which is a liiiittle bit shaky…” saw Justin aim a finger at the cake keyboard and deflected with a gentle hand.  “Uh..not that part, Sweetie.”

“It looks so real.”

“It IS,” Vic drolled, “We ran out of time, so we glazed Michael’s old one.”

Debbie fired up, “Everybody grab a glass,” saw Ben goose Michael, “I said GLASS,” turned to Justin, “Go over by Brian,” and yelled to Brian, “Can you two stand together?”

“Every chance we get.”

“Gay men,” Debbie grumbled over background snickers, grabbed her camera in one hand, Vic’s offered glass in the other.

Glasses in hand all around, Michael took over.  “Okay everybody…everybody.  Here’s to success, profits,” what else, “And any other good shit that can happen for two great guys.”

They cheered and drank, Debbie snapped a picture. “Now for the unveiling,” she stepped close to Brian and Justin, “Since we knew you’d end up with leftovers today, we all pitched in and got you a special office gift,” nodded to the back wall and all eyes turned to Ben, standing beside a blanket-covered item the size of a short file cabinet.

Ben pulled the blanket off.

“It’s a refrigerator,” Justin smiled.

Michael coaxed, “Well?  Go on over and turn it on.  There’s a dial above the top shelf.”

Justin looked at Brian, Brian waved a hand, Ben opened the door, Justin turned the knob, the compressor kicked on.

And all the lights blinked out.

Party over, guests gone, Brian fished through papers spread across his desk, rolled his chair back and bumped into the refrigerator.  “Fuck this,” he glared at the fridge, swiveled from his seat and stood up.  “It’s going on YOUR side.” 

Justin had his own problems.  “Mikey should’ve paid Scott to rewire that back outlet, too.” He tilted his head at his screen, “Shit,” dropped his face into raised hands, “Think.”  Could anything stifle creativity or congeniality more than a short deadline.

They heard a cell phone ring and Brian had to shuffle through papers to find it.  “It WOULD be nice if the fucking phone company would get around to putting in our line,” then all-pro answered, “Lightwave.  Brian Ki -”  He sat back on his desk.  “Yeah.  I’ll be there in about…forty-five minutes.”

Justin looked at Brian’s back, cell phone on his leg, head low.  “Who was it?”

“Scott,” Brian stood up and pocketed his phone.  “I have to meet him about a business deal.  Can you hold down the fort for awhile?”

“Don’t forget our deadline, and we already lost two hours.  What kind of deal?”

“Real estate,” Brian answered on his way out.  “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.” Fuck.  Scott could’ve thought it over a little longer than THIS.

Justin watched the door shut, spun back to his screen and ended up staring past it, concentration further blown.

Steele Attorneys Professional Building.  Standing beside Scott’s truck parked in the lot, Brian read through a packet of papers and looked at Scott leaning back against a front fender. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Just lay the hundred on the table and sign your fucking name.”

Guess so.

They walked together into the building.

Brian left alone.

Finally back at Lightwave, Brian, holding a large envelope, opened the fire door, dodged a paper plane, saw Justin’s floor area littered with crumpled papers and Justin cross-arm surly in his chair. “A new three-dimensional concept?” he scanned the strewn planes.

“I thought it would make a great fold-out.  Now what’s the deal?”

Brian pulled the contract from the envelope, walked it over and handed it to Justin.  “I bought Scott’s ranch.”

“You…” Justin’s eyes bugged wide, “You don’t have that kind of money.  NOBODY has that kind of money.” He pored over the cover page as Brian sat back on his desk.  “How…fuck,” he stared up at Brian, “A hundred dollars?” narrowed eyes at him, tension building. “What did he get from YOU?” Justin slapped the papers on the desk, “Love and trust?”

“That’s just a legal term,” Brian stayed calm, watched Justin shake his head and sniff back agitation.  “He had a positive contact, and not the electrical kind,” got a return look of concern.  “If he turns up clear, I’ll sell it back to him.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“It’s ours.”

“Where’s Scott gonna go?”

“He doesn’t.”

Justin gaped, glanced away to form a thought before looking back.  “You KNOW how he is…all the shit he gets into.  And we’re gonna be responsible for him?”

“Scott’ll take care of himself on his own terms if he has to.  Nothing else is definite yet.”

“Then what the fuck is THIS?” Justin snatched the contract and bolted to a stand, tossed it on the desk and paced, “Or is this how you think about ALL contracts?  Just sign it for temporary convenience.”

They both turned to the stairwell when Michael appeared and called, “Hey…would you mind keeping down your…” spotted the paper planes, “…creative differences?”  Seeing their stormy faces and getting no answer, he added “Thanks,” and quickly disappeared.

Diffused by the interruption, they lowered voices and kept eye contact – Brian stiffly seated on Justin’s desk, Justin standing near him, one hand clenched on a hip.

Brian firmly started, “I think very seriously before I sign anything.”

“Then why didn’t you talk to me first?  We’re supposed to be partners.”

“Being partners doesn’t mean we give up being ourselves.  I made the decision, and I’ll handle anything that comes out of it.”

“Brian, anything that’s part of you becomes a part of me.  You decided to bring him into our…MY life, and never gave me a say in it.”

Brian shut his eyes and exhaled a long breath.  Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.  Why is it so fucking hard to cover all the angles when someone else is involved.  I could revert to the alternative.  But was it really that much better.  He stared at Justin’s eyes, reached out, hooked Justin’s bent elbow and pulled him close between spread legs until their chins nested on each other’s shoulders and arms rode around in a tight hug.  “Does being partners…include supporting decisions…that were made with good intent?”

“Only if one remembers not to leave the other out.”

“The thing with Scott didn’t seem like something meant for anyone else.  I never talked much about you to Mikey.  Or about Mikey to YOU.  But we weren’t partners then.”  Brian kissed Justin’s neck and whispered, “I’ll remember that.  As for the ranch, more than likely I’ll be selling it back to him in a couple months.”

Waning adrenaline left Justin in low gear.  “Can we…take a break at Woody’s for a little while?  I can’t work right now.”

“Good idea,” Brian rubbed Justin’s back.  “After we’re drunk and loose, we’ll knock off RegionAir, wow them in Chicago.  Then from there to Denver and two days away from all the bullshit.”

Justin’s eyes opened.  “We’re going right from Chicago to Denver?”

“That’s the way they wrote our tickets.”

“When were you gonna tell me that?”

“Fuck.  I WAS planning to get around to it.”

“It’s okay,” Justin patted Brian’s back.  “I’m sure you had good intent.” 

They drew back to face each other, kissed then left to regroup.

All-Nighter.  Defined as cramming for finals while tweaked on No-Doz and caffeine.  Or hanging out till dawn with friends, shit-faced and trading secrets nobody’ll remember anyway.  Maybe rediscovering sexual attraction even after the drugs wear off. 

Or brainstorming ideas until the masterpiece finally evolves.

Their office lights were still burning, a strip of azure sky above buildings through the windows.  Cross-legged on the floor amidst sketches and copy, Justin sniffed back fatigue, held a graphic in one hand and blinked hard to focus on it. 

Sitting back on his knees beside him, half-filled coffee pot and used cups to one side, Brian pen-crossed a word off a page of copy, pressed a palm to an eye and snorted back a breath. 

They simultaneously grunted, “What do you think?” as they handed over sheets with arms crossing like fencing foils, free hands accepting, eyes scanning without noticing their fluid choreography.

Brian nodded at the graphic, pleased, “This is -”

“Genius,” Justin finished, looked up to see Brian’s wry brow.  “I was referring to YOUR work?” he flashed Brian’s copy, saw him grin then added a brassy, “I already KNOW that MY stuff is genius,” and bobbed from a play punch to his shoulder.

An alarm clock rang from the desktop.  Brian staggered up and shut it off.  “We have three hours to finish, get back to the Loft and make our flight.”  No sex innuendo.  Justin looked drained and Brian grudgingly accepted that he himself was too beat to be horny.

The day flashed by in a blur.  

…On the flight to Chicago, they assembled proposals, stopped only for another coffee.

…In the cab to RegionAir’s headquarters, they studied copies of the airline’s inflight  magazine.  “Full page?” Justin pointed to a similar ad.  “Fold-out,” Brian decided.

…Sitting at a conference table, they traded discreet smiles while three Execs paged through their proposal.  All favor and nods.  Sold.

…By 2PM they were still in suits, Brian with a briefcase, Justin empty-handed, both trapped in a flood of bodies at O’Hare’s security screeners.

“Good thing our flight’s late,” Justin tossed dress shoes into a plastic bin.  “The ticket agent said MOST of them were running late.  Is it ALWAYS like this at O’Hare?”

“Somebody must have spit on a runway,” Brian set his briefcase on the belt, shoes on top, glimpsed the next belt where a tall, well-dressed Asian Man argued with a Security Agent over confiscated medical tools, his shorter Interpreter struggling to explain so they wouldn’t be arrested.  Fucking glad we picked THIS line.

Finally through security and loping to the gate, Brian caught Justin’s yawn.  Made his own eyes feel dry and heavy.  “Slow down.  We have forty minutes yet.”

“The faster we get there, the longer we can veg.”

Standing down the hall beside the crowded gate area, a uniformed Guy Agent spied them, streaked past a podium beside a black screen that suddenly lit a bright red DENVER – DELAYED. He sprinted up the loading bridge and grabbed his Girl partner’s arm as she started to shut the aircraft door.  “Hold up.  They’re just outside.”

“They’ll have to hurry.  Captain says if he misses this window, we’re stuck with another hour flow control hold.”  She reopened the door, called to the Flight Attendant in mid destination speech.  “Two more running!”

Justin and Brian turned the corner into the gate area, almost collided with harried Guy.

“You on this flight?”

Brian glanced at the DENVER sign, “Yeah.”

“Give me your boarding passes quick.  You almost missed it.”

“They said it was late,” Brian barely had the cards from his pocket when Guy snatched them from his hand, ripped and shoved the stubs back into the same hand.

“We got an okay to leave, but we have to go NOW.  Come on,” Guy raced up the bridge.

No time to think, Brian and Justin tracked close behind, through the doorway where a smiley Flight Attendant ushered them left into the premium cabin as the door thud shut.

“Right here,” she waved.  To two large seats, centered by themselves against the back wall and almost privately removed from the rows ahead.

While they buckled in, she rattled them a fast version of the oxygen-flotation-emergency speech over the Captain’s - Flight Attendants, please take your seats for departure - then scurried up front to strap in as the plane backed from the gate. 

Justin side-eyed a smile at Brian.  “First Class?”

Brian stared at the Coach boarding stubs in his hand, held them across the consol between them and under Justin’s gaze.  “We might as well sit back and enjoy it until they figure it out,” he grinned and pocketed the stubs.

At the gate window, Guy Agent was watching the next plane whine into place when Asian Man’s winded Interpreter called, “Excuse me.  Can we still make it?” and thrust two boarding cards at him.

Guy took and eyed the cards, his eyes widened and he dashed to the podium.  Grabbed Brian’s ripped pieces, read them and blurted a low, “Oh shit.”

A jumbo jet peels off the runway and circles the city of Chicago before banking West.

Song: “Jetlag (Alpha Zone Remix)” by DJ Kim

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