Title: Aftermath II, Part 5
Author: Paul Plesko
Email address: pplesko@hotmail.com
Series/Sequel: Aftermath II
Pairings: Justin/Ethan
Category: Post-episode, Justin POV
Rating: PG-13
Date: Oct. 10, 2002
Summary: Despite the feared repercussions, Justin asks for the return of his drawing. The reaction is not what he was expecting. Instead, he learns about her philosophy of the artistic process... and of her opinion of Ethan. Justin returns to Ethan only to find that his jealous lover is determined to wipe Brian out of Justin's memory by destroying Justin's prize. Justin leaves... perhaps forever.
Spoilers: Everything through episode 220
Warnings: None
Author Notes:

Aftermath II, Part 5
by Paul Plesko

The next night I walked again, although it was drizzling and threatening worse.  I thought about going to the Diner, but the Gang would be there…or maybe even Brian…and I didn’t look forward to the awkwardness and the questions…and the sympathy.  God, I hated feeling like I was in bereavement; it was just a fucking friendship gone wrong, not a tragedy.  So why did I still have that lump in the pit of my stomach?  Why did I wake up reaching to touch his pillow?  Why did I smell his skin…his hair…his musk…his Jim-Beam-breath?  I ached for his firm touch…his strong hand moving me into position…his rigidity entering me…his essence filling me.  He was like a drug that gripped me in some kind of addiction.  I wasn’t addicted to sex, I was addicted to HIM. 

I walked the dark streets skirting the pools of light from the overhead streetlights, feeling somehow comforted in the dark.  The light showed only one shadow.  The wet pavement reflected back his absence.

The Loft was dark.  I stood in the shadows looking up at windows I had peered from while naked after the flush of overwhelming rapture.  How small those windows looked when you were looking in from the outside.  Was he out?  Was he away?  Or was this the time the blue lights were shut-off…when the ropes and cuffs emerged…or when the bodies lay heaving together, trying to catch their breath.  Or the other times.  He loved to look at me under the blue lights…but it was in darkness that he fucked me the hardest…when he awoke sweating…recalling a dream…and reached for me like any anonymous trick…and fucked me with the violence that meant something only to him.  If only I could have seen his face at those moments; perhaps I could have understood him better.  When I asked the next morning, he seemed oblivious or evasive.  His need was met there in the darkness, but how or why was a mystery.

The rain came down harder now and I ducked into the recessed doorway that smelled slightly of urine and spilled beer.  I had looked down on this scene before…the figure huddled in the shadows…the look of abandonment and hopelessness.  But I kept telling myself that my future was brighter than ever.  Pamella’s endowment…my schooling paid-for…money for travel and even for study abroad.  How could I feel so down when things were looking up.  And then I realized…that I was only half there; my other half was ripped away somewhere.  The fire to succeed and to earn his pride, the purpose for living, the focus of my being…gone in a few seconds of anger and betrayal.  I rested my chin between my knees and sobbed…the big, heavy tears reserved for the private times.  I gulped the urine smell to expel it in one loud moan.  How could I have been so stupid to let this happen.  I had always been able to read his wavelength.  I was the “adult” in this relationship…this former relationship.  I had set the rules and then broken every one of them.  I had driven him to the point that he felt it necessary to let me go rather than hurt me even more.  It was so clear now.  And so utterly irreversible.  I looked up as the wind blew a sheet of rain across my face mixing the dirty Pittsburgh rain with my salty tears.  My vision blurred.  Was there a light on the top floor?  No, it was just the reflection of the distant skyscrapers on rain-streaked windows and tear-streaked eyes.  He was gone.  And I was sorry.

The wind changed direction and the rain began accumulating on the cement slab where I sat, wetting the seat of my pants.  “Time to go,” I thought.  “I wouldn’t know what to do, even if I saw him.”  I arose and stepped into the driving rain.  I was soaked before I had walked half-a-block…so I simply continued as the water ran down into my shoes. 

=====

When I got back to Ethan’s place, it was clear that the beer had won the battle.  He was sleeping face-down into the pillow.  I stripped off my wet clothing and climbed into what remained of my side of the bed.  As I pulled the covers to try to warm myself, he felt them slip slightly toward me; he gripped the blankets and rolled, pulling even more of the blankets to his side and leaving me with practically nothing.  I retrieved another blanket from the closet and covered myself enough to sleep. No touching, no murmured words, no welcome…I was still a visitor in his bed.

=====

The next morning, the car arrived to take me to Pamella’s house again.  Ethan wasn’t invited for lunch; she wanted to discuss my training and travel.  We sat at the glass-topped table in the Conservatory.  It was time to raise the issue that had bothered me all week.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to return the drawing I left with you last week,”  I began. 

“Oh, really?  I liked it very much.  In fact, I had it framed.”

“Oh?” I said hesitatingly.  “It’s just that…well, …that drawing has some special significance for me…it’s one of my favorites, but I had promised it to someone else…”  I was stammering, looking for an excuse to lie. “Well,…actually that’s not true.  I can’t lie to you,” I said.  “Not after what you’ve done for me.  The truth is…”

She interrupted me before I could finish.  “You’ve passed the test, you know.  I could tell it was important to you, just from the look on your face when I pulled it from your portfolio.  And that’s why I asked for it….to see how far you would go to get my support…both financial and emotional.”  She reached across the table and put her hand atop mine. “At that moment, I would have given you anything,” I replied.  “It was an intense experience just coming here with Ethan…and when you expressed an interest in my work, I was blown-away.  But how was it a test?”

“Some people say that I know little about art,” she said, settling back into her chair and intertwining her fingers in front of her. “…that I’m just a rich old lady who likes the company of talented young people.  And I can’t deny that.  It’s true.  But I do know something about the importance of art and the creative process…and I think a can recognize “quality” when I see it.  I haven’t been wrong…yet.”

I felt a lecture coming on, so I sipped my iced tea and listened.

“Some artists love the attention and the monetary rewards their talents bring them.  Applause, fame, notoriety and wealth are the goals.  They can turn-out pop music or cutsey trinkets…or they can play the same piece in a hundred different concert halls like a recorded CD.  They have the technique…but not the soul for art.  Perhaps Ethan fits into this category.  I’m not sure.”

Pamella obviously understood Ethan better than Ethan understood Pamella.  That was clear already.

“The second type of artist attempts to bring pleasure to others.  They get their rewards from a subtle smile on the face of a solitary person standing before their work in a gallery…or a nod from an audience member…or even a perceived inner glow irradiating from an entire concert hall audience.  They may be poor and unknown, but they have an inner satisfaction.”  She paused to let the message sink-in.

“The third type strives for beauty…the rhythm, form, and balance we all perceive in different ways.  It’s a hard struggle, because what might be perceived as beautiful by one person or one group may be considered trash by another.  Beauty is a hard master.  There is no ultimate judge.  People see, in Beauty, what they look for….their needs unsatisfied.  But Beauty is not a need but an ecstasy. Beauty is an image you see through closed eyes and a song you hear through stopped ears. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in the mirror.”

She paused and reached for a box under her chair.  Slowly, almost reverently, she opened it and slid out the contents. It was the drawing of Brian…in a simple, thin, silver frame with a blue-gray mat surrounding my drawing.  She laid it on the table between us.

“And then,” she said, “there is the artist beyond the Art…art used to express worship, adoration, …dare I say ‘love’?  Some people say it’s a link to the Divine.  The work says ‘I am inadequate to express what is in my maker’s heart, but he was compelled by the sheer joy of the act.’  That is what I see here.”  She tapped the glass of the drawing.  “I saw it in your eye and in your work.  I’ve seen it in Michaelangelo’s ‘Pieta’ and felt it in Mozart’s ‘Requiem’…but I have never held it in my hands before.”  She fell silent for a moment, as if in prayer.

“Who is he?”  Her voice was soft and sad.

How could I explain?  I could tell her who he was, what he did, how we met, what had happened….all of it inadequate to answer that simple question.

“His name is Brian.  It’s a long story,” I said, dropping my eyes through the glass table to the stone floor of the conservatory.  “We were together…for awhile.  He’s older…in some ways.  He…   I… I left him to live with Ethan, but…”  I could feel the hot tears welling-up in my eyes and I was determined that I was NOT going to cry.  “The picture is all I have of him now.”

“I wondered about Ethan the first time I met you,” she said, picking up the tempo.  “He paraded you like a prize pony.  I could tell there was something between you.  Your sexuality matters little to me, by the way.  All the creative people I know are either gay or crazy…and some are both.  But you seemed like such an unlikely pair.  He’s self-centered and egotistical; you’re  mature, self-assured and introspective.  He’s a show-off; you exude confidence.  He looks like an unmade bed; and you look composed no matter what you wear.  The contrasts are so obvious.  Tell me this…when he plays the violin for you…I assume he does…does he do it to please you, or to collect your praise?  I know how it feels when he plays for me; there’s that moment of silence when he’s through…as if he’s almost waiting for applause.  It makes me uncomfortable. ”  She paused before asking, “Are you happy with him…now?”

“We have our problems, but he’s good to me…he loves me in his own way…it’s too early to say whether I’m happy.  I’m still dealing with the Brian-thing.”

We sat there for two hours talking about what had happened…what had gone wrong.  His picture there on the table was a huge distraction.  Sometimes I felt as if I were talking directly to him lying there.  I poured out my heart, brimming-full, until there was no more to say.

She stood then, and walked around the table to the arm-rest of the chair where I slouched in despair.  She gripped me hard and pulled me upright.  And as I stood, she put her arm around me…either to steady me or to comfort me.  It did both.

As I prepared to leave, she slipped the drawing into its box, almost as if she was sliding an icon back into its gold sheath.  She handed it to me with a determined thrust, indicating that she wanted to keep it, but that she was determined to send me home with it.  Quentin was waiting with the car at the front door.  We said our good-byes, but she added a kiss on my cheek as we parted. “Mother Number Three,” I thought to myself as I climbed into the car.  “I just keep accumulating them.  Deb was Number Two.”  I needed to talk to Deb again…soon.

“She’s quite a lady,  Mrs. P.” Quentin said as we drove through the gate.  “And she must think you’re pretty special.  I’ve never seen her kiss any of her wards like that…always a handshake or maybe a squeeze.  And she brags about you too…’my artist’ she calls you.”

“I think she’s pretty special too,” I said, not willing to tell him how truly special that might be.

=====

I could hear Ethan practicing as I got out of the car.  I made a mental note to suggest that he close the window so he wouldn’t disturb the neighbors, even though it was 4 o’clock in the afternoon.  Letting myself in quietly, I tried not to disturb him…but as soon as he heard the click of the door, he stopped mid-cadenza, and spun around to face me.  “How’d it go?” he queried with one raised eyebrow.  “Did she ask about me?”

“Yeah…your name came up a few times.”  I didn’t lie.  “But mostly we talked about Art.”

“What did she give you?” he said, nodding toward the box under my arm.  I had forgotten that I was clutching it; it would not be welcome here, so I tried to hide it unsuccessfully.

“Just one of my drawings…framed,” I replied nonchalantly.

“Let’s see,” he said, putting down the violin and stepping forward.

“No, it’s nothing important,” I returned, clutching the box with both hands now.

“Now I AM curious.  You’ve never hesitated to show me your drawings before.  What-the-fuck is it?”  He gripped the package by a third edge.  “Give it to me.”

“No.  I’m asking you not to do this.  Don’t make something out of nothing.  It’s just a token gift from Pamella.  She wanted to…”

He ripped it out of my hands and turned to put his body between me and the package.  He flipped open the flap and withdrew the picture. 

“I’ve never seen this one before,” he said coldly. 

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.  Pamella found it in my portfolio.  I’d almost forgotten about it.  It’s the truth.  She asked for it…and she framed it.  That’s all there is to it.”

“OK,” he said.  “Look at it.”  He held it up in full view for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t keep my eyes from tracing the curves of his body like the morning light.  “I knew it!  I can tell by the pitiful look on your face…you still love that bastard.  You can’t even stand to look at him without wanting him back.  It is SO obvious!”  He gripped the frame in both hands and brought it down sharply over his knee, glass-side-up.  The frame splintered and the glass shattered all over the floor.  His feet were bare, and he realized he could not move.  “It has no place here.  Destroy it!”  he ordered.  He thrust the jumble of wood, mat-board, paper, and glass toward me; I tore it from his hands, careful not to cut myself.

“No,” I shouted.  “You already have …with your insane jealousy.”  I slipped the drawing from the bent mat and rolled it quickly.  “I’m going out.”  I wheeled-around and left, leaving the door open.  He didn’t follow.

When I got to the sidewalk, I heard his voice from the window three stories above.  “And don’t bother to come back!” he shouted.  A few windows opened in adjacent houses and I saw a few curtains being pulled back.  “Just a lovers’ spat,” they’d say…but it was clear to me.  This was the end.

With only the clothes on my back and a single rolled-up drawing I headed toward the future…not knowing where to go or what to do.  Loneliness suppressed by anger was all I could feel.

=====

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