~ the day is fresh, i'm coming home again ~

Justin doesn’t take shit from anyone.

That’s one thing he’s always known about himself, and one thing he’s particularly proud of.

Like for instance, when a trick is telling him that he’s got a nine-inch dick and wants to fuck Justin’s tight ass with it, Justin makes the trick pull out his nine-inch dick and prove it.

He’s yet to find a trick that hasn’t lied.

So when he gets to Hollywood, the land of lies and stories and dreams that are easily crushed, he knows that there’ll be a lot of shit flying, and not just lies about cock sizes.

He knows that people will tell him the things he wants to hear because he’s in Brett’s pocket. No, they’re not fucking, and no, Justin doesn’t want to fuck Brett, and besides he’s pretty sure that Brett’s a little intimidated by Brian and so wouldn’t want to fuck Justin anyway.

Brett and Justin are just friends, for some crazy reason, maybe because Justin’s a lot older than the 20 years old that he is, and Brett’s a lot younger than the 30 years old that he is, and somehow they come together over wow cool about comics and Brett’s got this thing with movie stars that makes you feel okay about being excited about meeting them when you’re meeting them with Brett.

Justin thinks Brett’s pretty cool, actually, because, let’s face it, he’s a “big-time-movie-director”, and who’s Justin? Justin’s a nobody really… he’s the guy that broke all Brian’s rules, but that means nothing outside Pittsburgh. Fuck, that means nothing outside Liberty Avenue.

So Justin hangs out with Brett and Brett lets Justin tag along, and invites him for lunch and parties at his house, and Justin can’t believe the life he’s living.

It’s not real, it’s gotta be a fantasy, because no life could possibly be like this.

And even though he’s spending his days flirting with the young blond actor that’s playing JT, and trying *not* to make eye contact with Connor James after the night of so-so sex, Justin’s not really thinking about real life or life at home, or the diner or Liberty Avenue or Pittsburgh or even his goddamn mother.

Justin’s thinking that this can’t be real. He can’t be here, seeing these people, going to clubs and meeting Ashton-fucking-Kutcher who told him, standing at the urinal at Firefly, that he was really disappointed he didn’t get the part of Rage.

After seeing *his* cock, so was Justin.

And there are parties every night and staying up too late and early, early, early morning wake up calls, mere hours, sometimes minutes, after Justin’s just put his head down to sleep. Not getting enough sleep.

That’s the part Justin hates the most.

He hates missing out on sleep, because in those few moments just before he falls asleep, and just before he wakes up… well, Justin goes somewhere else. He goes back home in his head, goes back to reality, the life he knows he’ll go back to when the fantasy of California is done. He'll go back to the life that seems real, the life that honestly, he’s really looking forward to. He'll go home again.

He closes his eyes and thinks of lying in bed in the loft, imagines what Brian feels like beside him, tries to pretend he hears Brian’s soft breath, feels a warm palm on his chest or back.

Back in waking life, in the small apartment that never, ever gets dark, Justin lies in bed and rolls onto his stomach, humping the sheets a little. Justin pretends that Brian’s tongue is just hovering over his hole… that Brian is teasing him, that Brian is there with him, that Brian…

Well. Yeah.

Sure they talk on the phone and even set up web cams so Justin can finger himself and pop anal beads up his ass for Brian on the camera, and Brian can stroke his cock and shoot cum all over his keyboard while Justin watches.

But that’s not the same.

Not at all.

When Justin closes his eyes before sleep, he sees different things, not the jittery images and distorted view of the web cam. He sees things that he knows he only ever saw before with his fingers, his tongue, his cock. Brushing of skin on skin and that *heat*, Christ, the heat of Brian’s body pressed against his, the slip of sweat and the damp breath and the smell of latex and that feeling of being so full, so full of Brian’s cock.

He sees those things, but not with his eyes. Justin sees them with his mind, his memory. Sees them and wishes them to be true, because it’s not really about fucking and sucking anymore with Justin. It’s just about Brian.

But despite all that, the six months pass much faster for Justin than Brian, because Justin has things like long hours and new friends and the excitement of living in LA and seeing movie stars everyday. Brian has Kinnetik, and he’s happy with that, more than happy with that, and he’s got Gus on Saturday afternoons and dinner at Deb’s on Sundays and Mikey for pool Wednesday nights at Woody’s… but none of that really fills the time. Or fills the space in the bed that Brian wants filled with Justin.

Brian waits and finally the day comes. Finally Justin gets home and he sees that his stuff is already there at the loft. His computer, his socks, his toothbrush.

A painting hangs near Brian’s desk and Justin grins when he recognizes it as one of his own.

Justin doesn’t take shit from anyone, and even more so now that’s he somehow managed to get to Hollywood and back in one piece.

So when Brian looks at him and says he just moved all Justin’s stuff in here last week, Justin calls him on it, because Daphne already told him that Brian was by the apartment months ago to pick up Justin’s computer and socks and toothbrush.

Brian just shrugs. Smiles. Sucks his lips between his teeth. Shoves his hands in his back pockets. 

And Justin smiles back, because yeah, he doesn’t take shit from anyone, but maybe, sometimes, he takes it from Brian. Because well… he’s Brian and that’s enough reason for Justin.

But then none of that matters anymore and they forget everything else—Justin’s barely even looked around at the changes and not-changes in the loft and then Brian’s on him. Hands on his neck, pulling him hard against his body, fingers twisting up into Justin’s hair and breath sliding down Justin’s throat. Brian consumes Justin, lifts him up and carries him to the bed and throws him down on it, falling down onto Justin beside.

There are kisses and words and tangles of legs and arms and Justin realizes that this is what he missed and jobs and experiences aside, this is what he’ll never miss again, because he’s never leaving it again. He’ll take everything Brian ever wants to give him, shit or not, because it’s real and it’s here and it’s home.

He’s left this place more times than he can count... over pride and violin players and love and fights. He’s walked out, been pushed out, stormed out, been kicked out. He’s left for good reasons and bad, he’s left with the intention of never coming back and he’s left with the knowledge that he’ll always return.

He’s left Brian and this life trying to find what else is out there. And he’s come back each time realizing that everything he needs is here.

Somehow this time Justin thinks that maybe he’s really come home again for good.