Chapter Text
"What are you wearing?"
Trust Brian to begin our conversation like that. As I register his flirty, filthy question, I burst out laughing and retort, "I'm grocery shopping and it's the middle of winter."
Slowly, and every word dripping with teasing, Brian murmurs, "That doesn't answer my question."
"I'm trying to warn you that you're about to be sorely disappointed."
"I'm a big boy, Sunshine, I can handle it."
I glance down at myself and sigh, sensing that disappointment is imminent. "Sweats-"
"Mmmm..."
Laughing, I clarify, "Paint-covered sweats."
"Well then, you really ought to take them off, Sunshine. What's underneath?"
Before I can purr nothing at all, there's an alarming whirring and beeping in the background. Then a crash. Brian curses.
"Where are you?"
"The office," he growls. "Fucking printer is shot to shit."
"Working late again?"
"Trying to. Nothing's getting done."
"You might get more done if you weren't calling people for phone sex."
"Person," he says, then emphatically: "Singular. You."
"I wouldn't mind if it were plural. You might have better luck with someone who isn't standing in the middle of the soup aisle in painty sweats."
"Maybe," there's another crash and more cursing, then a spot of silence. "Or maybe I don't give a shit about that and I just wanted to talk to you."
He says this softly, like it's a secret. It is, I suppose. Brian's sexual preferences and proclivities might be known to all of Pittsburgh, but emotional intimacy? Affection? That's private. That's just for us. I think he'd cut his dick off before releasing any of our sweet nothings into the public domain.
Normally when Brian calls, he says things like this and it feels like he's here. It feels like an embrace, like his arms are winding around me and holding me close. But tonight I feel completely stranded. I can feel every awful inch of distance between us, and fuck does it hurt.
There's an old woman standing next to me sifting through cans of pumpkin soup, and a little girl a few shelves down begging her mom for dinosaur noodles. They're not paying me any attention, but I can't stop noticing them. Their presence grates at me. I slip away to a distant corner of the store, where if I happen to break down, I can do so without attracting attention.
"Justin?"
"Yeah?"
"Talk to me."
I grab onto the shelf in front of me, stocked with endless cleaning supplies that I don't need, not when Brian pays for a cleaning lady to come every week ("You'll be too busy to clean, what with becoming a famous artiste. And missing me, of course. That'll take up a bunch of time.") The metal surface of the shelf feels cool at first, but it starts to burn as my grip on it tightens and tightens. The brands of detergent blur as tears prick at my eyes. "This is harder than I thought it would be."
Brian takes a breath, almost starts to speak, and then takes another. Then he's just silent.
I force a laugh. "You must think I'm pathetic."
"No," he says, forcefully. "I was just thinking... thank fuck you said it before I did. This is awful."
Awful. That word keeps coming back to me, all the time. I love it here, I love the city, I love the work I'm doing, I love the idea of where I could be headed with it, but then I realise how far away Brian is and I feel absolutely fucking awful. To know he feels the same... I'm so relieved I almost burst into tears. I do manage to keep myself from crying, but when I start to speak it still sounds like I'm talking through tears. "I miss you all the time. It's not just time, it's distance, and it's too much, and I'm not... fuck. I want to come home. I'm going to come home."
"Don't be stupid," he all but snaps. "Just try and come back here, I'll march you right back to New York myself. I'll have TSA bundle you onto a plane and strap you down, just try me. You're not coming back to Shitsburgh."
"So what do you suggest? That we each go on hating this? That we try and get used to it? Or-"
Before my suggestions turn truly dismal and utterly undesirable, Brian interjects, "I was going to suggest the 8.45 flight into JFK."
"You-- what?"
It suddenly occurs to me there hasn't been any whirring or crashing in the background for a while. There's street noise, though, a constant rush of it, like he's driving somewhere. "The 8.45, there's still seats left. Do you want me on it?"
"Yes!" It comes out louder than I mean it to. Brian laughs. I lower my voice and say, "Yes, please, please be on it."
"Good, because I'm already in a cab." I can hear him smirking. I wonder if he knows I'm about to cartwheel through the store. "I can only stay tonight. Is that-"
"It's fine!" My elated cry draws several stares from alarmed shoppers. I slap my hand over my mouth to muffle any further exclamations. Brian's laughing again.
"By the way, I fucking hate cabs. Don't make me catch another one. You're picking me up in a private car, okay, Sunshine?"
"Anything." I laugh out loud, realising I don't give a shit who's listening. "Anything, anything, anything!"
"Anything?" He echoes, and I can hear the leer. It sounds so fucking good.
"Anything."
Brian breathes in deep, contemplating, thinking his evil thoughts. "The painty sweats."
"Get rid of them? Shred them? Incinerate them?"
"Actually," he chuckles, low and deep, "You never told me what's underneath, so it looks like I'll have to find out for myself. Leave them on. Just get a car and get to the airport by 10, okay?"
"Yeah," I say, beaming. "See you then."
"See you then."
There's something else I'd like to tell him, and I think he's wanting to say it too, but it can wait. Brian will be here soon and we can say it properly - while we touch, hug, kiss, fuck. He'll be here by 10. I can tell him then.