Title: Aftermath II, Part 1
Author: Paul Plesko
Email address: pplesko@hotmail.com
Series/Sequel: Aftermath II
Pairings: Justin/Ethan
Category: Angst, Justin POV, Post ep. (220)
Rating: NC-17
Date:
Summary: Justin retrieves his belongings from the loft after he leaves the Rage party with Ethan. He then returns to Ethan's apartment where the two begin the odyssey of their relationship.
Spoilers: Everything through episode 220
Warnings: None
Author Notes:

Aftermath II, Part 1
by Paul Plesko

I'll never forget his face. Standing there in the crowd---he was all I could see---mask off, a questioning look---"What are you gonna do now, boy" he said with his eyes.

Five minutes earlier, in the back-room, his look had spoken to me in a different voice. "Here I am, fucking a trick like I always do---forever the same, unchanging. Join me---or don't." I had left him there, stunned that on the night of my artistic triumph he could still only think of his need to dominate and display his prowess. It was MY night---and Michael's. I felt set-up and used---and rejected too. We could have celebrate afterwards at the loft, but he had to get-off here---with an audience. I bolted.

I left with Ethan, not knowing what else to do. He loved me in a way Brian never could. He made me feel wanted... important... desirable. Not that Brian didn't make me feel wanted and important and desirable... sometimes... but it was always within the confines of the mentor-protg relationship...or in the drunken throes of sexual passion. Brian's love was like a thunderstorm---threatening, demanding, tempestuous, hit-or-miss, potentially dangerous, ---cold stinging rain, then fading into the dripping quietness of the aftermath. Ethan's love was like a river---warm, continuous, flowing, engulfing, buoyant, eroding, and eternal. The thunderstorm does not know its purpose and direction; the river does.

"Let's get outa here," he said above the din of the music.

I pushed the door and it banged against the brick wall almost breaking the glass. Ethan could tell I was hurt and angry.

"What happened in there?" he asked.

"I just got my face rubbed in it," I replied. "One fucking time too many."

"Brian?" he said with a glint in his eye. "Mr. Smooth-talker---Mr. Fuck-anything-that-moves?"

"I just blew up," I admitted. "I didn't know where I was going. I was just getting-the-fuck outa there---and then I saw your face in the crowd... Thank God you showed up...like someone come to save me." He reached for my hand and pried my fingers from where they were knotted in my hair. With his other hand he brushed my cheek.

He smiled again, broader now. "Well, thank God I didn't have to stay. That music was destroying my eardrums."

"If you can play a violin two inches from your ear---" I began, but then decided it wasn't worth raising this issue as we walked to the bus stop. We stood quietly. I could always tell when he was immersed in his music. He whistled a complicated tune under his breath and his fingers twitched ever-so-slightly. His muscle-memory was at-work, playing some complicated piece. He caught me watching his hands.

"Paganini's Perpetual Motion," he volunteered. "I've been working on it so much, I could play it in my sleep." "Where are we going?" he said finally.

"To your place, eventually," I replied. He looked surprised. "But first, we need to stop at Brian's loft to pick up my things. He smiled briefly...then he was lost in the music again as the bus approached around a corner.

We were the only passengers. The bus driver hardly waited for us to find seats in the back before he accelerated away from the stop. He was probably headed home after this run...like a horse bolting for the barn when you turn him in that direction. We slumped into seats beside each other, hip-to-hip. I could feel his body sway as if he were standing on the Heinz Hall stage playing his heart out to an adoring audience. It was "Perpetual Motion" all right---and he was heavily into it.

The bus dropped us a few blocks from the loft and we walked the empty streets in silence. The imaginary music had apparently stopped when the bus came to a halt.

I used my key to open the front door. We climbed the brightly lit stairs to the loft. The security code was automatic now. I paused to wonder if I would ever forget it---666-BEAST--- apparently parochial school humor.

The space seemed foreign to me already. I knew I didn't belong here. And the presence of Ethan made it that much more uncomfortable.

"Cool place," he muttered--- "Good reverb from the high ceiling. I'd love to practice here. He must be pretty rich, huh?"

"He does well," I said, noncommittal.

I gathered my things quickly. The last thing we needed was a confrontation with Brian here in his territory. I dumped things into a pillowcase---threw a pile of clothes onto the chaise-lounge...and collected my art supplies.

Ethan, who had been examining the CD collection (noticing his own and removing it for examination) suddenly realized that I was making a large pile. "Damn---you need THAT much stuff for an over-night?"

"No," I said, hesitating. "I'm planning to move out. If it's an inconvenience or anything I can move on somewhere else tomorrow---but I'm not coming back here."

Ethan slowly began to realize the finality of what had happened. "Baby, you're welcome to stay...it's humble quarters---not very big---you know...but if it will get you away from Pappa Bear, you're welcome to stay with me. We'll work something out." He realized that what he had wished for had suddenly come true---with little effort from him. He was just in the right place at the right time. "But how are we gonna get all this stuff to my place?"

"We can take a cab," I replied. "I have enough money---just enough---for cab fare." He tucked the CD into his jacket pocket. It was, after all, mine.

All my belongings---in a single bag and a pile over my arm. I left with as little as I had arrived. But the memories filled my heart to overflowing. So many memories hiding in the darkness; I tried not to remember.

I threw the pillowcase over my shoulder, gave the place a quick survey for anything I'd forgotten, dropped the key on the desk next to the computer, and left the loft for the last time---carefully remembering to set the security system.

We carried everything back to a busy intersection and tried to flag-down a cab, which is hard to do at 11:30pm. But eventually we got back to Ethan's room. He had apparently left in a hurry, and he hadn't been expecting company, so the place was in a jumble. It was amazing how someone who had so little could make such a mess. I dropped my stuff in the corner and sank onto the mattress on the floor.

He reached for the violin as if he hadn't held it all day. And after a quick tune-up, the instrument began to pour-forth a rapid jumble of notes---faster and faster. He swayed under the physical strain as if he were supporting a huge weight; his jaw was rigid and his eyebrows glowered at each perceived, slight imperfection. He finished with a flourish and stood stone-still as the notes dies away.

"I had to prove to myself that I hadn't lost what I'd worked so hard on this afternoon," he explained. Then he smiled at the obvious reference to "hard-on." "And to welcome you as my new, live-in lover, let me play what I promised you weeks ago---'Valses nobles and sentimentales'---the sentimental, romantic ones at least." He put the violin down for a moment, lit the candle, and turned off the overhead light. Then he picked up the violin again and stepped up onto the mattress to straddle my outstretched legs. He paused for a moment with the bow on the strings as if waiting for a noisy audience to quiet itself---and then he began to play a desperately romantic melody. It flooded the room and stroked my body like a thousand wet tongues. I sat up, supporting my upper body with straight arms watching him swaying above me. And then I began to undress slowly; he was asking me to do it, with the music. He was lost in the music, eyes closed most of the time, until he finally looked down and saw me looking up at him. Naked and inviting. He continued to play, but now the melody took on a new urgency---a new sensuality. He was saying, with his bow, what was in his heart. He had said the words before---the words that Brian could never say---but his music was an even more powerful voice---wordless longing---soaring urgency. I reached up and unbuckled his belt. He was hard already, from the music. I opened his jeans and slid them part-way down his hips as I raised to meet his swaying cock-tip with my lips. He was sweating now---feverishly shifting to a faster tempo---begging me, with music, to crescendo with him. I swallowed him as he lunged forward at the peak of an arpeggio; he shot his load deep into my throat. {I will never hear this piece again without tasting him in my memory.) Frozen; he trembled, unable to finish. His arms relaxed and the bow and violin hung at his sides. In the flickering candlelight I could see that he was crying. He pulled away and placed the violin carefully in its case. Then he hurried back to the bed, stripping off his clothing as he came, and he dove beside me to kiss me frantically---needfully. As the kisses subsided he rolled me onto my side against him with my head on his chest.

"I have dreamed of this moment since the first time I saw you at that recital," he spoke quietly. "I had almost given up. Our lovemaking had almost become excruciating, knowing that, at any moment, your face would darken with responsibility and you would get dressed and leave me to return to him. The smell of you in my bed nearly drove me mad. I couldn't have lasted much longer. Sharing you with someone who didn't treasure you was harder than doing without you completely."

I tried to speak, but he pressed his fingers softly over my lips.

"I need to tell you," he said. " I need YOU. I need someone in my life who raises the passion necessary for me to wring the last bit of emotion from my gut as I play beautiful music. Loving inspires greatness in me. When I'm not in-love, it just isn't there. You can't fake the passion. And BEING loved is the greatest driving-force. I could do anything for you. I WILL do anything for you." He paused. And it's not all about ME, although my talent is a gift from somewhere that I must repay. But you are part of that gift too. The ability without the passion is a tragedy. And you have an entirely different ability and an entirely different passion. I can see it in your drawings---the sensuality, the longing, the beauty. We experience beauty in different ways---and when we experience it, we express it in different ways. Some people need to be surrounded by beauty, but for us beauty is an ecstasy. For you, it isn't an image you look for; for me it isn't a melody to hear. Beauty is an image you see through closed eyes and a song I hear through stopped ears. Beauty is our life---and in that way we can share it."

We lay silently together. No one had even spoken to me that way before. The words burned in my memory like images burned into my retinas after fireworks. I felt his breathing slow; my head rocked slowly on his chest as I heard the slow rhythm of his heart. He finally moved, stroking my hair with his fingers. "Now you can talk," he said softly.

"Why did you come tonight?" I asked. "You acted like you couldn't care less about my comic book debut and then you appeared out of nowhere."

"I haven't read a comic book since I was six---at a friend's house. My parents wouldn't allow them. The only reason I showed-up was the message on my cell phone---a digital one...from you, I thought. It was from an unidentified number but it said 'Meet me at Babylon as soon as you can.' I came as soon as I got home and found the message."

"I didn't send a message. I wonder who?---" My voice trailed off as I thought about the possibilities.

"I'm just glad I could be there when you needed me---just Fate, I guess--or God."

I had seen the face of God---and I wondered if that was the god to whom he was referring. What would I have done if Ethan hadn't appeared? Would I have bolted anyway? Would I have left Brian? Rather than facing the answer to that question, I raised up to kiss him again. His hand slid down my side, then dove between us to find my cock. He knew I wasn't going anywhere that night.

I awoke the next morning in my new surroundings---the dark comfort of Brian's big bed was in stark contrast to the sun shining in my eyes. Ethan had no curtains or window shades and we had slept late on a Sunday morning. I rolled over with a pillow over my face. Ethan was apparently accustomed to occupying the whole bed, a standard double mattress, because he was sprawled in the middle leaving little room for me. The room looked larger from a vantage point at floor-level.

The reality of what had happened the night before began to sink-in. I would need a new job and perhaps even a new place to live if I couldn't stay here. I didn't want to face the questions from Debbie and the BK Fan Club if I went back to work at the diner. I'd need to tell my Mom how to contact me. I should change my address at school so my mail wouldn't go to Brian's place. I could get-by charging things on the credit card Brian had helped me get, but I'd need to change my address there, too, so he wouldn't be tempted to pay my bills. I kept ticking-off things on the list that needed to be done.

"Hey, good morning!" Ethan's rough morning-voice surprised me. "I've waited weeks to wake-up beside you...but, fuck---I had promised you we'd watch the sun rise together and it's already (squinting at his watch) eleven o'clock. Damn!" His arm flopped over my shoulder like a dead weight. "I'd always dreamed about you spending the entire night---but last night exceeded my wildest dreams. Did we sleep at all?"

"Off-and on," I smiled. "Off the mattress, on the floor, off the walls and ceiling, on my back---turning ON---and getting OFF. We were amazing."

"I don't remember much of it," he said. "Sex with you is like a drug---it just takes over my whole consciousness. I wish I could remember." He smiled, showing that he remembered quite a bit.

"So, what do we do on this first day of being together?" I teased, nose-to-nose with him now. "How shall we celebrate?"

His face darkened almost imperceptibly, but it was clear something was troubling him. "Well, I have this thing I have to do today. Nothing very special, but an obligation."

"Oh, don't let me interfere with your plans," I said. "You couldn't have known---"

"It's not someone else, Babe. Well, yes, it is someone else, but it's not what you think. I'll tell you about her."

"Her?" I questioned. I rolled onto my back ready for an explanation.

"I've told you I'm estranged from my parents---not so much because of my sexuality, but because of my music. So, even though they could afford to pay my tuition, they've pretty much disinherited me because I didn't follow their wishes. Can you imagine me as a lawyer??? Jeez!" He paused to let the image of his tousled hair and bedraggled appearance in front of a jury sink-in. "I had no interest in becoming my father's partner."

"So, who is this woman?" I prompted.

"My 'patroness'---that's what I call her,---my benefactress," he continued. "She's a friend of my mother who gives me some money on-the-sly because of my talent." He paused to smile at his own egotism. "She's a widow with a comfortable life-style---and she supports young artists who need assistance---money, introductions, exposure at her parties...and all basically out of the goodness of her heart. She only asks that I play for her the second and fourth Sundays of the month---and her home. So that's where I need to go today---in about three hours---so I need to warm-up and practice."

"Does she know you're---"

"Gay?" he interrupted. "It's never come up in conversation, although several of her other proteges are---at least I think they are. We occasionally meet at her parties. And she doesn't ask for any sexual favors, if that's what you're thinking. She's fifty years old, for Christ's sake. Don't be rude."

I laughed. He had read my mind. I rolled over on top of him and poked him in the ribs. "I thought maybe you were her cute little boy-toy who aroused her passions with music before you stroked her with something other than your bow."

"Eeeewwwwww," he feigned disgust as he wrapped his arms tightly around me and rolled over so he was on top. "She might like a 'twinkie-toes' like you---but all she gets from me is music---and damned good music, I might add." He released me and began to crawl out of bed, brushing my thigh with his semi-rigid cock as he crawled over me. "I thought I'd try to give her an orgasm with 'Perpetual Motion' this afternoon." He gave me that sexy, raised-eyebrow smile that let me know I was about to be his test-subject. I gathered the pillows behind my back, raised-up so I could watch his performance.

He slipped into his levis. "I don't want anything distracting you from the music," he teased as he zipped the fly. With a flourish, he slipped the violin under his chin, turned to give me the three-quarter profile view, paused as if to let the applause die-down, and then he slowly lifted the bow to the instrument.

He practiced for almost an hour, working up a sweat as he labored over the difficult piece...over and over again. Although I mostly listened to rock and hip-hop, I knew something about classical music; a prep-school music appreciation class had made me a discerning listener. And my mother had always played soothing classical music at home. But Ethan's music was bold, powerful, and demanding. It was almost as exhausting to listen-to as it was to perform. I felt my heart racing as I watched his muscles flex with the effort.

He glowered at me after the final cadenza, as if he expected some kind of praise or cricism. But then his face lightened. "Let's shower together---it'll save time," he said, putting the violin in the case and covering it with the soft cloth.

"That's the weakest excuse for shower-sex I've ever heard," I joked.

"I can't have sex for three hours before a performance, Luv. It lessens my abilities." His facial expression showed that he actually meant it. You'd think he was some kind of jock-athlete or something---with a sexually-repressive coach and a curfew!

=====

We dressed silently after the shower. I had never seen him wearing anything but t-shirts and levis and sweats---except for that recital...but now he was dressed in a suit, looking slightly uncomfortable---a dress-shoes instead of those dirty, white running shoes. His hair was combed, almost, and he looked like he was going to choke when he tied the necktie around his neck.

"She bought the clothes for me," he replied to my inquisitive look. "...for me to wear when I come for tea---and to play. You look great." I had dug my school blazer out of the pile of stuff I had dumped in the corner. And with a short hang-up in the steamy bathroom, the coat and gray slacks looked passable. I couldn't find matching socks, but they were close. I slicked my hair to the side in an attempt to look presentable, then off we went---to Tea.

=====

Go to part 2

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