mclachland

Stay Illogical, by

mclachlan
QaF US, Gus, Justin (Brian/Justin)
Post-5.13

You'd woken up to sunshine on your face, causing you to overheat under your heavy comforter, the sweat adhering the material of your shirt to the skin of your back. It's an uncommon thing to find in your bed, the sun. Your blinds are either always drawn, or even if they were open the light never quite reaches your bed.

Today was going to be different. You just never thought to read it as a sign.

The diner is two patrons away from being almost empty, the easy lull between breakfast and lunch occurring now. Another hour will bring an influx of people in, queers and queens together like zebras at a watering hole, as it were, each clamoring for the best places to sit, the booths that will grant them the easiest access to the counter, and to cruise.

With a huff, you glance down at the expensive wrist watch you received as a birthday gift last year, checking the time in the U.S., and Germany, and Japan. Your father is late. Your father is never late. Your father laughs in the face of Tardiness, and then usually preys on those who fall victim to it, laying them bare to his harsh words and sardonic wit.

"C'mon," you mutter. "If I had to get up for this, the least you could do is fucking be on time." Taking your gaze from the watch and placing it on the door, you will it to open and spill the man you're waiting for into the diner. It opens, and it spills a man inside, but not the one you want. This man doesn't possess your father's confident swagger, nor the aura of success, but rather a subdued loneliness hidden behind a polite smile that he flashes to the other patron seated at the counter, a gesture that surely isn't meant to be as brilliant as it actually is.

Scanning the place for someone and finding nothing on the radar, the man's smile slowly bleeds away, and for a moment you feel the pull of something, recognition, or maybe déjà vu. A mutual feeling of loss. There's a connection.

The man takes the booth next to yours, immediately pulling out a small sketchbook and a used pencil. In the time it would take you to motivate your ass out of bed and into the shower, the man creates a masterpiece, a subtle tribute to the giants that preceded him and to the one he will most assuredly be someday. You crane your head a little higher to try and capture all of it, but what you can't see is hidden by the golden fringe that hangs from the man's bowed head.

You check your watch again, hoping now that your father will leave you enough time to watch the picture be completed. Enough time to dredge up the courage to ask the artist who he is and how much that sketch is worth. Your father will surely pay whatever sum the man asks. Or fuck him and get it for free. But then, that sort of thing hasn't happened in years.

"You know, you can come over here and sit with me," the man says loudly without lifting his head, pencil softly shading in thicker lines. "You're not very subtle, and all that staring is starting to creep me out."

You flush with humiliation, but swallow it down and stand, moving jerkily to the other booth, sliding in to sit opposite of him. "I didn't mean to creep you out."

Pencil pausing, the man looks up and smiles, and you are positive that it really isn't meant to be as brilliant as it actually is. "I know."

An uncomfortable silence descends, and you shift uneasily before venturing forward. "So, um, you're really good."

Beaming, yet without any conceit. "Thank you."

"No, I mean, really good," you press on; because you aren't sure this guy understands just how talented he is. You went to school with kids who viewed themselves to be artists, and most were very skilled at what they did. But none could just scratch something out so effortlessly, barely an afterthought, something done just to pass the time by. None had this man's silent and almost invisible passion. And for that, they are all of them frauds. "Like, you should really pursue this."

It startles a laugh out of the man, a sound that rattles up his windpipes and hesitates, as if the brain never sent a message to the diaphragm for a laugh and needs a moment to shut down and regroup to deal with this anomaly. But it's a beautiful sight, and you find yourself smiling.

"If I had a nickel for every time someone told me that…" The man sighs wistfully, but it sounds like it's tempered vaguely with regret. He stops his drawing, pushing the pad and pencil away, and you fight the urge to push it right back and shout, you can't stop there! "So, you're here all alone and haven't ordered a thing."

You shrug, suddenly self conscious. Sitting back, you cross your arms, protection against this man's critical scrutiny. You know you're being over-dramatic, but you hate to be judged by anyone, especially strangers. Probably a trait passed down to you by your father. "I'm waiting for someone."

Bitterness creeps into the man's voice, and he stares down at his hands resting on the table top. "Aren't we all."

"I haven't seen you before," You say, and the man blinks slowly at you before grinning.

"God, you're not trying to pick me up, are you?"

"No!" You sneer, rolling your eyes, gesturing to yourself. "I was just saying that I've been here more times than probably should be allowed, and I've never once seen you."

There's something there, a quick shadow that passes over the man's face before it's locked away, hidden and untouchable, like his talent for art. "Never once?"

And now you're second-guessing yourself, and you hate that even more than being judged by strangers. You pull out the ring of index cards you keep in your mind of every trip to the diner, studying each one and coming up empty. "Never once."

But maybe there are one or two cards missing. It's possible.

The man nods, pursing his lips together, and there's something almost painful about the sight he presents. It's what you imagine being forgotten looks like. Because that's what the man's demeanor, the slump of his shoulders, screams out to you. He's been forgotten. But by who? Who could forget such a good-looking guy with such an amazing gift?

Apparently you are at the top of the list.

"So," the man says brightly, steering you away from the dark road you both had been on. "Who are you waiting for? A boyfriend?"

Boyfriend? Hardly. Although it would be nice to see Jacob Hartley walk through the door and ask you out again. Or Nicole Brennan. Or hell, both of them. But no, the man you're waiting for is the Devil, a sly and cruel monster, waking you up before noon on a Sunday to discuss graduate schools. As if you need to go for a Public Communications degree to go along with your B.A. in Graphic Design. Not when nepotism is still alive and well.

"No. My dad. To talk about my future in the advertising business."

There it is again! That haunted, lost look! A little boy, no, a teenager stares at you through blue eyes turned gray by that loneliness, and then you know. Christ, what a moron you are. "Never Once", indeed.

"Justin." The coolest babysitter in the world, who would take you to the park and let you stay up past your bedtime and give you ice cream before dinner and would bring over the best movies and draw you your own picture books… The coolest babysitter in the world, who would come over to watch you less and less, until he stopped coming at all.

Smiling sadly, Justin nods. "I was going to ask you how you've been, but if you're here to discuss grad schools then I think that tells me you're doing okay."

"What are you doing here?!" You demand breathlessly, fingers itching for the cell phone you'd left on the coffee table where your paranoid roommate probably found it and is currently searching through all your listed calls to determine who is gay and who isn't. Living with a born-again Christian isn't as amusing as you thought it would be when you answered the ad for a roommate.

Your father is going to flip. Or more accurately show absolutely no emotion, nod once, and then hand you pamphlets for Bentley.

It's common knowledge among those who troll Liberty Avenue that Brian Kinney and the Little Twink Who Could (And Did) fell apart when the distance and exhaustion became too much, all accumulating to a colossal fight that ended it all. No one actually knows the basis of the argument, but it's said that Justin wanted to finally come home for good, but was doing so well for himself in New York City that Brian wouldn't allow it.

"My dad's a fucking idiot," you snarl suddenly, so infused with barely-concealed rage that it makes Justin jump a little. You slide out of the booth and stand next to where he sits, looming over him ominously. A little intimidation never hurt anyone.

"Gus… What happened between your father and me--"

"He's miserable. He doesn't trick, and he drinks, and has a picture of you on his desk that he moons over constantly."

Justin's face crumbles slightly, and he runs a trembling hand through his hair, a hand that isn't shaking just because of an emotional overload. "Gus."

"It's so illogical that you two are just wasting time like this! If you weren't fated in the stars, I'll fucking eat my shoe." You've heard the stories, and you remember bits and pieces of the days when Justin would come back to Pittsburgh on a few of the weekends that you were visiting with your father. "And you're letting it stay this way!"

"I tried, okay?" He's on the defensive, incited by your accusations. "I tried. For seven fucking years, I tried. And you know what? After a while, I just got tired of trying."

No. That's not how the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name ends. Not when your father hasn't ousted all of the Romantic that still lives inside of you. "Try again."

Because, really, it's that simple.

"I--"

"Why would you even come back here if you didn't want to give it another shot? When you came in here, you looked for him. You know you did."

He meets your eyes stoically and says nothing to deny it. You clench your hands into fists and lean on your knuckles.

"Don't waste this trip, then. Come home. It's time for you to come home to him."

You think you've gotten through to him when he slumps back into his seat and releases a shaky sigh, and you're about to continue your diatribe, just to make sure all his defenses are down before you go in for the kill, when the door opens with a bang.

"Gus, while it makes me proud to see you talking some poor fag up, I took time away from the office to come down here and--"

You step away and try to capture your father's shocked gaze, but he can't look away from the blond head in the booth. A tremble starts in his shoulders, nothing to do with the cold outside, and you hope it's just the excitement and relief blooming inside of him and not an impending seizure. It would be a bitch to lay him on his side in a coat that heavy.

"Why don't you come over here and say hello." It's not a suggestion, but Justin is stuffing his sketchpad into a worn satchel and sliding out of the booth, head down.

"I was just leaving--" He's half-way past your father when

"For anywhere special?"

At first, you think you imagine your father speaking, but Justin turns around and there's a decade and a half of shadows hesitantly dispersing from his expression. "What?"

Your father licks his lips and tries again, just as softly, just as hopeful. "Are you leaving for anywhere special?"

Golden hair catches the fluorescent lighting as Justin shakes his head back and forth. "No. No, not really."

Lifting a gloved hand to a pale cheek, your father lowers his forehead to Justin's and breathes into him, "I can change that."

All thoughts of potential graduate schools leave you, and you can't stop admiring the watery smile on Justin's face.

Now that one was meant to be that brilliant.