Beautiful For Now Author: Rachel Anton E-Mail: RAnton1013@aol.com xxxxxx It's taken nearly two decades, but you've finally learned not to panic when Brian disappears off the face of the planet for days at a time. Sure, occasionally he's found hanging from his ceiling fan, or with severe alcohol poisoning in a Tijuana prison cell, but usually he's just getting laid, so you don't worry much about it anymore. You can't worry about it. There's Ben and there's work and you're about to be a father for fuck's sake, and you just don't have the time. And if you wind up at the loft at 3:45 one Saturday afternoon, banging on the door and demanding to be let in after Brian doesn't show for Babylon Thursday the gym Friday the diner Saturday morning, well it's not because you're worried. It's because you're fucking annoyed. And when he slides open the door, and he's smiling and slightly moist, hair sticking up in odd directions, holding a spatula and wearing his silky sex-robe, you're a little bit more than annoyed. "Where the FUCK have you been?" You hear yourself, shrill and hysterical, and it's really not how you wanna be, but there it is. And what a stupid question anyway. It's obvious he's been here. "Mikey," he says, and seems genuinely happy to see you, which is...disconcerting. He touches you, leads you into the loft, and the smell of sex is so overwhelming you almost gag on it. Sex and...bacon? "Sit down," he tells you. "Have some breakfast." "You were supposed to be at Babylon! And the diner! And why the fuck did you turn off your phone? It's almost four o'clock in the fucking afternoon, Brian! I had breakfast six hours ago." "I'm sorry, Michael," he says, and he seems to sort of mean it. You sit, and he puts a plate in front of you- bacon and eggs and fucking buttered toast- and he's still smiling at you, and you're starting to get a little bit scared. You look around, half expecting there to be a massive, ongoing orgy that you somehow managed to miss, but there's nobody else around. Some of the chairs are tipped over, though, and the contents of Brian's desk seem to be scattered across the floor along with several articles of clothing. In the distance, you can hear the shower running. There's a third place set at the table, across from Brian's seat. Whoever's in the shower is staying for breakfast. "Would you like some coffee, Mikey?" he asks, suddenly behind you with a pot. "Huh?" "Would you. Like some. Coff-ee?" You just nod and let him pour you a cup, and then he's sitting next to you, shoveling forkfuls of egg into his mouth, humming as he eats. *Humming*. "Must've been some fuck..." He closes his eyes, makes some bizarre laughing/moaning noise that you're sure you've never heard before, and nods. "You have no idea," he says around his eggs, and now you're really frightened because Brian never sounds this excited about his fucks. Every encounter is described with the same bland indifference, designed to make you and anyone else listening feel infinitely inferior for being the slightest bit impressed with a ten inch cock or a blowjob in the back of a police car or what the fuck ever. And lately there hasn't even been much of that. For the past few months, it's seemed like Brian's just been going through the motions, not even bothering to brag about his various conquests. This is different. This is...bound to be trouble. "Who are you, and where is that asshole I used to hang out with?" You ask helplessly, when his head starts bouncing to some internal, unknown rhythm and his bare foot swings against your leg under the table. "Mikey, I'm offended." He doesn't look offended. He's still smiling. Fucking glowing. You look down at your food, poke at it with a fork. Two eggs over easy and three strips of bacon stare up at you, like a horrifyingly chipper face. You're afraid to eat it. "Why is your trick staying for breakfast?" You ask. "Who is this guy, Brad Pitt?" Brian laughs with a genuine mirth you haven't heard from him since...ever. "Better," he says, just as you spot a very familiar looking sweater draped over the CD rack. "Promise we'll be at Babylon tonight," he tells you. "You'll be there, right? Make sure everybody's there." You look back at his stupidly grinning face, your stupidly grinning food, all the way back to the sweater again, and it's just...no. "You have got to be kidding me. He came back?" "Of course he did," Brian says, smugly, and there's a hint of the person you know. The person you used to know. "And you let him? Just like that?" "No, I made him dance naked for me first. And wash my car...wax the floor..." "Brian!" You lean across the table, whisper conspiratorially to him, even though the shower's still running and there's no chance of anyone hearing you. "How can you ever trust him again?" Brian shrugs, bites into a strip of bacon. "How can I ever trust anyone?" he asks, and you want to beat him with your chair because how the fuck could he ask *you* that question? You're the one who's always been here, who's never given up on him, never abandoned him for a fucking violin player in the middle of a party he gave in your goddamn honor, and if he can't trust you then what the fuck are you doing here? "I can't believe you let him just waltz back in here, after what he did. I can't believe he'd have the gall to even try!" But you can believe it. Of course you can. Brian only has one blind spot, and it's short and blond and irritatingly aware of the power it has. "Mikey...shut up and eat your breakfast." You sigh and poke at your food some more and wonder what the fuck it is about this kid that makes him the exception to every single one of Brian's rules. How it can be that someone who humiliated him so thoroughly is still worthy of this place in his life. And you know you should just accept it, just forget it and stop trying to talk and understand, because conversations about Justin always wind up running in circles and getting nowhere and sometimes you wind up with a black eye, and there's just no fucking *point*, but for some reason you can't let it go. "Look, it's nothing against him personally," you say, and Brian looks like he doesn't believe you, but it's true. You don't dislike Justin. Some days you actually think he's pretty cool, for a spoiled little teenaged brat. "It's just...he's just a kid, Brian! He doesn't know what the fuck he wants." "And you do?" "A lot more than I did when I was nineteen fucking years old, yeah!" "You're jealous," he says, with his condescending, sarcastic sneer, and yeah, the asshole is definitely back. You almost missed him. "Please, don't flatter yourself," you tell him, and what the fuck is that about anyway? Jealous is not even in the ballpark of what you are. Jealous is completely laughable. Maybe once, and maybe for a long time, but not any more. You haven't been jealous since you finally realized that fucking Brian would destroy your sanity, and a "relationship" would surely kill the both of you. What you are is...worried, because you know things that other people don't. Because your mother and Lindsay and everyone else who claims to "get" Brian think that Justin is the injured party in this situation. They think that because he's young, and his eyes are wide and naive, and he talks about love and feelings and violins, that surely all the wrong between them is Brian's fault. That all the hurt is with poor, pitiful, abused Justin, and Brian got what he deserved and it was only a matter of time. You seem to be the only one who sees Justin for what he is- inexperienced, fickle, and a liar- and you know it's all gonna happen again because Justin will always change his mind. Justin will always have his eye out for something better. Justin is nowhere near ready to choose the person he wants to spend eternity with, and that's just fine for Justin, but it's not fine for Brian because when Brian lets you in, when Brian decides to love you, you better believe it's for-fucking-ever. And he loves Justin with a ferocity that's remarkable, even for him. You'll probably never understand why he does, but you're long past doubting it. "I just don't wanna see you hurt like that again," you finally say. "And I don't wanna go to anymore underwear parties, so... if this blows up in your face then you're gonna have to find yourself another underwear friend." "Jesus, Mikey, relax," he says, laughter in his voice, because of course the clinical depression of the past few months is just a distant memory to him right now. Not even a blip on his radar, and if you asked he'd say he was never really depressed at all, but it's still real to you. He reaches over, onto your plate, makes the twisted bacon lips move up and down in a bizarre imitation of speech, says in a sing-song tone, "Everything is beautiful," and Jesus, fuck, you've gotta get OUT of here. "I'm sure it is, for now, but....God, knock it off!" You smack his hand away, trying to make the scary stop, but it won't stop. It'll never stop. He swipes the lower bacon lip and stuffs it in his mouth with a stupid grin. Then the grin gets even stupider, the eyes go all gloppy and sex-filled, and you know the prince has arrived for his breakfast. "Hey, Michael," he says, and you don't want to stare, but there he is, wet and mussed and blotchy, a light blue towel slung low around his hips, hickeys- fucking *hickeys*- running trails up and down the sides of his neck. How can you not stare? Of course, he's not looking back at you, even as he speaks to you. His eyes are trained on Brian, and Brian's eyes drink in every square inch of him as you sit there, feeling like a breakfast table voyeur. He slides into the chair next to you and starts eating, and for a minute or so there's an awkward, peculiar silence- conversation interruptus. Justin is the first to bre...
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