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Brian had never known the technical difficulties associated with the act of hand-holding. But Brian hadn’t known many things before Justin came along. For example, Brian didn’t know to read food labels for allergens when grocery shopping. Brian also didn’t know to keep an extra toothbrush by the sink and an extra towel by the shower. He didn’t know how fast his loft could become cluttered--how often he'd find socks under the couch, coats hanging on doorknobs, ratty t-shirts mixed in with his laundry, or textbooks lined up on the shelf with his Italian design books. And Brian had absolutely no idea how heavy a white scarf can be against his shoulders.
The first time Justin tried to hold Brian’s hand was also the first time Justin walked down Liberty Avenue after the Prom--Brian didn’t allow himself to dwell upon that night anymore. Justin was jumpy and nervous, but Brian tried to focus on the present.
It was a casual gesture. Justin arched away from the people around him and inched closer to Brian, grasping for his hand to hold.
The act of hand-holding was an extremely difficult activity, Brian quickly discovered. He didn’t understand why anyone, straight or otherwise, would go through so much trouble for just a hand. There were too many technicalities to be bothered with. Am I walking too fast? Am I holding your hand too tight? Is this awkward? Is there enough room?
And there was also something terribly personal about hand-holding. Matching your pace with someone else was like matching heartbeats--a display of trust, as if you were saying to the world, I trust you to lead me anywhere.
When Justin's hand first gripped his, Brian was surprised to feel how sweaty Justin’s palms were. Justin clutched at Brian’s fingers as if he was hanging on for his life. (In a way, Justin probably was. But Brian didn’t allow himself to complete the thought.) And Brian was suddenly painfully aware of the gentle shaking in Justin’s arm and the space around him as faceless strangers passed by them. Brian felt something tug at the bottom of his stomach. He loosened Justin’s grip and threw his arm around Justin’s shoulders. Brian pulled Justin closer and kissed his temple in silence. Then, Justin allowed Brain to walk him back to the loft with Brian’s arm wrapped protectively around his waist.
The second time Justin tried to hold Brian’s hand, Brian panicked. Somehow the clamminess of Justin’s hands was heavier than the (not so) white scarf around his neck. Brian pretended that his hand was cold and stuffed them into the pockets of his leather jacket. Justin walked back to the diner with his arm linked around Brian’s--their hands never touching.
The third time Justin tried to hold Brian’s hand, Brian pretended that he needed a coffee and insisted on walking to his Jeep with a cup of hot coffee in his right hand and his left arm casually draped over Justin’s shoulders.
Brian didn’t understand why he couldn’t stand the touch of Justin’s hands. And Brian wanted to forget the sound of hollow echoing in that wretched parking garage. Brian wanted desperately to feel Justin’s hand without the sweat and nervous tremors. Brian needed Justin to be all right. Brian didn’t understand because he had never needed anything before. In all three decades of his life, Brian had never needed anything from anyone.
The fourth time Justin tried to hold Brian’s hand, Brian didn’t know what to do. So instead, Brian kissed him. Leaving an apology on Justin’s lips as a substitute for the words he could not say, communicating his helplessness with the line he traced with his tongue into Justin's open mouth.
When they parted, Brian slipped his arm around Justin’s torso, pulling him in the direction of the loft. But Justin didn’t budge.
“Brian,” Justin said, his voice firm. “Would you just fucking hold my hand?”
Brian stiffened. The air suddenly constricted in the back of his throat. Brian took a step towards Justin. His hand reached up to the hollow at the back of Justin’s neck. Brian pulled Justin towards him so that their foreheads were pressed against each other. He closed his eyes and exhaled. Brian had never needed anything in his life, except this. Everything boiled down to this.
“Okay,” Brian breathed. The two syllables were barely above a whisper. Justin may have lost his virginity the night Brian found him under the yellowing light of a lamppost, but Brian lost his virginity the day he intertwined his fingers with Justin’s and held his hand all the way home.