Title: Aftermath II, Part 4
Author: Paul Plesko
Email address: pplesko@hotmail.com
Series/Sequel: Aftermath II
Pairings: Justin/Ethan
Category: Angst, POV
Rating: NC-17
Date:
Summary: Justin regrets giving the drawing away and tries to recreate it, but is unsuccessful. Trying to clear his mind, Justin goes for a walk, only to run into a dancer from Babylon. Andre is only too happy to recount what has happened to Brian since Justin has left him. Justin and Ethan's relationship is already beginning to show strain.
Spoilers: Everything through episode 220
Warnings: None
Author Notes:

Aftermath II, Part 4
by Paul Plesko

The drawing! Why had I given her that drawing? I couldn't get it out of my mind. I had almost forgotten it, it was done so long ago, but the quick glance I got of it as Pamela held it up brought back the moment...clear and crisp like a photograph. I missed him; I admitted it...even though I was still mad at him for driving me away with his mindless fucking. I ached for his touch. I had been with him so long, my brain hadn't quite registered that he was out of my life. I expected him to walk through the door at any minute; I heard his voice and turned to find him not there; the slightest, least-significant thing could bring the memories flooding back. And I had given away the fucking drawing!

I tore through the portfolio. The rest of my drawing of him were there...none of them as good...none capturing his essence like that one. I closed the folio determined that I would draw another one.

"I knew the old lady would come-up with some money if she saw your work," Ethan said as he came out of the bathroom. "She likes to think she's knowledgeable in the arts...although she doesn't know a Detach from a Sautill. She probably knows even less about art; you'll be her first artist."

"She may not understand the technique, but she has a good eye," I replied. A good enough eye to appreciate Brian.

"Well, to celebrate your success at getting on the "dole," I'll bring some beer home from rehearsal," he said with a grin.

I waited for Ethan to leave for his chamber music ensemble rehearsal. He would be away for 4 hours or more. The light was still good. I tried to find some Brian-Kinney-music to play, but all of Ethan's CDs were classical. I tried the radio.

There was one remaining piece of large, high-quality paper left in my sketchbook. I spread my "tools" preparing for some intense drawing. The first light strokes to get the right proportions...the contour strokes to establish the outline...the feather-strokes to add the beginnings of light and shadow. It was...OK. Not perfect yet. I sketched faster, remembering the moments when I was afraid he'd wake up and find me there. No, the curvature goes THIS way...I saw him lying there, in my memory...the sleeping Adonis...if I could reach out and touch him. Fucking-Hell! Drawing a picture of a picture is damned hard compared to drawing a picture of his perfect body. My memory of him was still perfect...I could recall the feel of finding his shoulder in the darkness and tracing across his broad back with my fingers, imperceptibly, while he slept. I could still sense his smooth skin on my palms as I slid my hands into the small of his back as he fucked me. I could remember the softness of that perfect skin where his upper thigh met his torso and pelvis...the concave triangle where I would rest my head as I studied his cock in-detail. But transferring those memories to paper, without him there to examine, was beyond my capabilities as an artist. I struggled. I erased. I tried another pencil. My breathing became faster and faster. Frustration mounted. In a final, desperate lunge, I drove the pencil deeply into the paper, ripping it. I gripped the stiff paper in my fists and wadded it up as my eyes filled with tears. I had lost him...himself, his picture, and the ability to re-create him in pencil-and-paper. I threw myself onto the bed, still clutching the wadded paper.

I don't know how long I lay there...sobbing at first, then angry, then sullen, and ultimately paralyzed. I didn't want to move. I breathed deeply, trying to catch his aroma. I closed my eyes to stop the tears and to remember him.

=====

When Ethan returned, I was still lying there, almost asleep. He turned off the radio before he spoke. "Get up," he said. "Let's go get something to eat. I made a couple of bucks on the street playing Perpetual Motion. People go for that virtuoso-crap." He noticed the drawing instruments spread on the table. I tried to hide the wadded-up paper in my fist. "Whadidja draw?" he asked, scratching his unkempt hair and stretching to get the kinks out of his bow-arm.

"Nothing," I said. My voice sounded raspy from the crying.

He paused a moment, waiting for me to explain. "Well, I see it there wadded-up in your hand. It's obviously SOMETHING." He knelt on the mattress and tried to pry it out of my fingers. "Don't be a prima donna," he teased. "There's only room for one of those in this apartment. The paper slipped from my fingers. He unfolded it quickly.

"Aaahhh," he said, flattening the paper on the table. "Getting rid of old memories, I see. That's good. Out with the old, unloving boyfriend, ...in with the new, romantic, forgiving, understanding one." But he realized that I had been drawing...and that this was the outcome. He wadded it up and attempted to toss it into the overflowing wastebasket; it joined the overflowing litter on the floor. "See? All gone," he said. "And maybe there are a few more in here." He started to open the large portfolio.

"No!" I shouted. "Leave my stuff alone. Some of those are good examples of my work, regardless of whom they're of. I need them for my..." I couldn't think of why I needed them other than the reason I was trying to hide. "...for my painting class. I can use those as ideas."

He bought it silently. I lay there quietly as he opened two beers and thrust one into my hand. He lit the candle, turned off the harsh overhead light, and slipped onto the bed beside me. "Fuck dinner. You are so lucky to have someone who loves you so much," he said as he ran his fingers through my hair. "I am so happy to have you all to myself. You're mine, all mine." He slid his hand under my t-shirt and stroked my back. "Why don't you sit on the edge of the bed and let me SHOW you how happy you make me?" he continued as he pushed my shirt up my back. I rolled away from him; his hand, still under my shirt rested on my belly. I sat up on my elbows, ready to speak. He touched his fingers to my lips and said "Don't speak...just let me suck you." He repositioned himself and pulled down my shorts and briefs, leaving my t-shirt bunched over my chest. Kneeling between my spread legs, he lowered his head to my lower abs, kissing the soft hairs of my belly. His hand positioned my cock and stroked it to semi-hardness. I let my head sag back, eyes closed, waiting for the surrounding moistness.

"No matter who you're with, I'll always be there," the voice said. "I'll always be your first...and you will see me in the shadows." I smiled and let Brian's mouth bring me to a sudden stiffness and an explosive eruption.

=====

"I'm going out," I said as we lay there side-by-side. "I just need to get some air...and think."

"Want some company?" he said in that sleepy voice he always gets after sex.

"No,...get some sleep. I'll be OK...I just need to buy some stuff at the convenience store...stuff I left at...at the Loft."

"OK, but I'll be waiting for you," he said, suspicious at the mention of the Loft.

I walked to the park along the dimly lit street. I was only 9 o'clock, but, to me, it seemed like the middle of the night after my catatonic nap. I sat on the same bench I had occupied yesterday morning. The same guys were there...well, perhaps not the same ones...the shadows from the overhead halogen security light obscured down-turned faces. As before, I ignored them.

I was suddenly angry at Brian...angry because I began to understand what he had done. He gave me no alternative but to leave. He forced me into an angry decision; I could still remember the look of pleasure on his face as he fucked that guy in the backroom...the same rapturous glow he had shown me that first night...and despite all that had happened since, he made me feel cheap, disposable, used-up. Perhaps he thought he did it for my own good...that there was no future for us...that he could never change...that I could never be, for him, what he was for me...

"Justin?" The quiet voice surprised me. I looked up. It was Andre, the lithe, black dancer who usually occupied Cage Number One at Babylon...the best of the dancers...and a friend from my short stint as a Babylon Boy. I nodded to him, forgetting that I was partially in-shadow. He came over and sat beside me on the bench.

"I thought it was you," he said. He grabbed my hand in that silly handshake we had invented in the dressing-room...like milking the last few dribbles out of a cock, then wiping your hand on your chest. "Are you OK? No one has seen you for a few days...after the...you know...the Rage Party. I knew you had it bad for Brian...and I saw what happened." He paused as I lifted my face into the light. "Oh, now I see," he said. "I hate the sadness on that gorgeous face of yours. Your eyes look puffy. If it makes you feel any better, Brian's not doing so well either...got in a fight with Trey at Babylon...you remember, the guy who grabbed your ass that night after the King-of-Babylon contest...and Sap kicked him out, permanently. It wasn't pretty."

"Is he OK?" I felt suddenly concerned. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"Oh, I thought you were mad at him. But I see you're not, Princess."

"I miss him," I said quietly. I turned to look deeply into his eyes.

"No one has seen him," he said, patting my shoulder. "Maybe that's a GOOD sign."

We sat quietly for a moment...his arm sliding around my shoulder as support as I sagged forward.

"Are you working? He said, breaking the silence.

"Not for the last few days. I've missed my shifts at the diner."

"I didn't mean THAT. I meant....here...right now."

I looked up, probably with a question on my face.

"I need to make a few bucks to pay my rent this week...I came-up a little short," he said, looking away. "Just came here to trick for some cash. I thought maybe...if you wanted to hook-up, we could go as a 'team'...you know, to make more money."

Suddenly the assistance from Pamela seemed awfully important...protecting me from a hand-to-mouth existence...or worse. I patted him on the knee. "I wish I could help you...with some extra cash," I said.

He smiled, realizing I hadn't sunken that low yet. "Well, back-to-work," he sighed as he stood. "If I see him...and if I see you again...I'll let you know. Take it easy...or anyway you can get it," he chuckled as he strolled, head-up, into the shadows.

I suddenly felt uncomfortable sitting there. I headed back to the apartment...and Ethan.

=====

He was practicing again. It was late; no wonder the neighbors complained. I let myself in as quietly as possible. He had been drinking. There were a few more empty beer bottles around...and his technique was suffering, even to an untrained ear. My portfolios had been moved onto the bed; perhaps they had been opened while I was gone. I would check their contents in the morning. He glared at me as if I had interrupted him in a most difficult spot.

"I'm going to bed," I said. He nodded, mumbled something, and resumed his playing. I wished I could cover my head with the pillow, but that certainly would have been taken as an insult. I closed my mind and let the repetitiveness of the music serve as a sedative.

Where was he? What was he doing? Was he safe? Did he miss me?

=====

Go to part 5

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