Title: Ashes of Roses
Author: Paul Plesko
Email address: pplesko@hotmail.com
Series/Sequel: n/a
Character/Pairings: Brian/Justin
Category: Brian POV, angst, drama
Rating: PG
Date: Febuary 2, 2003
Summary: Gap-filler for episode 216
Spoilers: Everything through 216
Warnings: None
Author Notes: I promised Julie that I would write a gap-filler (any gap of her choosing) as a celebration of the second anniversary of our QAF chatting. We’ve exchanged messages almost-daily via e-mail, MSN, or phone...and she has inspired many of my writings or has helped me sort-out my feelings about the characters. So why did she pick the toughest gap to fill? You’ll have to ask her. While I associate strongly with Brian, in retrospect, I think I would have bought the roses. Here’s my attempt to fill-in this pivotal moment in the QAF saga. [Don’t miss the added note at the end.]

Ashes of Roses
by Paul Plesko

"Red Roses…" the sign said, " ...signify Love, Beauty, Courage, or Respect."

"Well, those are all appropriate sentiments," I thought. "I mean, he’s been pressuring me to use the L-word for months now… and he’s a beauty, that’s for sure… and he’s courageous in many ways… and I certainly respect him for it."

"Those are nice," said the guy at the flower cart. I brought the bundle to my nose as if I were testing the truthfulness of his statement. But, in truth, I was standing there thinking about what Mel had said... and weighing the alternatives.

"You might have given him something a little more thoughtful." We were standing in the Home Depot parking lot. Dykes with power tools... a terrible thought.

"Would you save the Jewish-mother guilt-trip for my son?"

"Fuck off, Brian," she snapped back. "I’m just trying to let you know what he wants."

"What does he want, Mama?" I said, lighting my cigarette.

"Something romantic."

"Jesus Christ!" I shot back. "Whatdaya think we are, a couple of dykes?"

"You should be so lucky," she said with a faint smile.

"Maybe I should send him a dozen roses."

"Why not?"

"Because he’s not my wife," I replied. "We’re not married. We’re not straight."

"Couldn’t you bend your ‘Holier-than-thou, I’m-gay-and-if-you-don’t-like-it-you-can-suck-my-dick’ principles just once and let him know you care?"

"I thought I did," I said, remembering all the times I’d shown it, in thought and deed, if not in words, since the bashing.

"I thought I did." The words echoed now because it was one of the few times I had admitted my feelings for him, let alone to Melanie. And I even admitted I had tried to show him.

Perhaps my birthday gift HAD been a bit "non-traditional." But he seemed to enjoy "the model" after he got started… and I helped a little. The guy had advertised that he looked like Travis Fimmel… but I think the only resemblance was the long hair. So much for "truth in advertising." I was the Master. But who was looking at his face when there was so much else to enjoy?

=====

"A dozen roses, please," I said to the clerk chewing her gum behind the counter. I had stopped at the small flower shop on Center Avenue, not too far from the high school to buy some flowers for Deb after track practice. It was Valentines Day… and Michael had bought her a box of chocolates (with some money she had given him specifically for that purpose). But she was like a second-Mom to me, so I had saved my tips from working the last three Saturdays bagging groceries at the Giant Eagle; I always gave them a big smile when I carried their bags to the car. "The red ones," I added.

"Gotta be red ones for Valentines Day," she said, almost annoyed because the store had been so busy that day. "That’ll be $15."

"Fifteen?" I said in surprise. "They were less than that when I checked last week."

"The price gets jacked-up for the holiday," she snapped. "Everyone gripes about it."

I had just enough. She wrapped them in green tissue and took my money. "Who’s next?" she snarled.

Just half-a-block from the store, I heard my name. I turned to see my mom getting off the bus. You can’t hide long-stemmed roses under a jacket. I was busted.

"What are the flowers for?" she asked. "Some girl?" She looked at me as if I had just committed rape.

"No, Ma," I stammered. "They’re… they’re for… for YOU." I could see my fifteen dollars disappearing as I spoke. "For Valentines Day." She clutched them in her mittens.

"Well!" she said, poking and peering under the tissue. "This is a new one. What have you done now? Your father only gives me roses when he’s done something wrong. He’ll have a fit if he thinks I bought these for myself. And he’ll be even more angry if he thinks you’ve wasted your money on them."

"They’re for Valentines Day." I was repeating myself because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. One lie led to another, and I’d eventually get caught. Roses were not a good gift for my mother; I had overheard her telling her sister that Jack gave her roses when he cheated on her.

"Well… thank you," she said, hesitatingly. "But I think I’ll dedicate them to the Virgin, rather than get us both into trouble. They last about as long as…" She turned and headed toward St. Matthew’s before finishing the sentence.

Now what could I do about a present for Deb? I retraced my steps to the flower shop. The same clerk looked annoyed that I was back so soon.

"When my girl opened the flowers, there were only eleven there," I said. "I’ve come back for one more." I tried to look mature…and charming.

"Good try," she said… "but the roses come packaged by-the-dozen from the wholesaler… and they never make a mistake. But I can sell you one more… for $2.50."

"I don’t have it," I sighed. Her frown told me to leave.

I walked toward Mikey’s house… which took me within a block of the church. Perhaps I could retrieve my flowers after all! When I arrived at the church, with it’s dim interior and musty-incense smell, there they were on the side altar dominated by the passive lady in the blue dress… but there was also my Mom, on-her-knees in the front pew gazing up past the roses toward the painting. No chance… she’d be there for an hour saying the Rosary.

But as I left, there was a small African violet in front of some un-named saint’s statue, so I stuffed it under my jacket and hurried out the door. What saint could complain about a puny violet when the Queen-of-Heaven was sniffing MY roses?

I opened the back door as if I lived there. I practically did, these days. "Ma, I’m home!" I yelled in my best imitation of Mikey.

"Shut up, you asshole. I’m already home." His voice rang from the kitchen. He and Deb had eaten almost half the chocolates before I arrived. She swatted his hand as he reached for the one she had her eye on.

"You’re gonna freeze your scrawny butt off," she said, rising from the table to hug me. "Can’t you wear regular clothes… like normal people in February?" She pulled my unzipped fake-leather jacket open to reveal the black tank underneath. "And your jeans are full of holes. You’ll never make something of yourself until you start dressing properly." I had bought the jacket and shirt with my own money… and I had worn almost nothing else since their purchase because I thought they gave me a tough-looking edge. "But… you’ll do as you damned well please," she sighed. "Always have, always will. If I say ‘white,’ you’ll say ‘black’ without even thinking. It’s just your way of being YOU."

"Brian bought you some…" began Mikey, but he stopped when he realized I didn’t have any roses.

"Here, Deb," I said, producing the violet. "Happy Valentines Day to my almost-Mom." She gave me a quizzical look; we both knew she couldn’t keep a plant alive for more than a week. The ivy on the TV was plastic…for good reason.

"What a sweetie," she cooed, pinching my cheek.

"I meant to buy you roses, but…"

"Those expensive flowers don’t mean nothing," she interrupted. "It’s the thought that counts, and you boys give me tons of that all year. Here… have a chocolate." She poked one in my mouth before I could decline, perhaps to cut-off any further mushiness. "Roses just get droopy and look sad. I’ll take a perky violet any day." She placed in next to the sink where it began its slow death.

=====

"Those are nice." He was waiting in anticipation while I made up my mind. The heavy rose scent filled my memory with rapid-fire images… of betrayal… of Love’s promise… of sentimental expectations… of guilt and anguish. "Shall I wrap ‘em for ya?"

I put the roses back into their water bucket. "No thanks," I said. He shrugged, smiled, and shook his head. He was probably thinking that some young wife would never know how close she came to getting a flower-message.

I walked away on the wet pavement into the stream of foot-traffic. Deb was right. Doing the conventional thing was not my style. I had never followed someone else’s rules. I abhorred meeting someone else’s expectations. I had joked about giving him roses… until Melanie thought it was, perhaps, a good idea. And now the idea had deteriorated into a cliché. An overly-romantic cliché, at that. An almost laughable attempt at drama. He would think I’d lost my mind.

=====

The trick preceded me up the stairs to my apartment above the garage. I had found him in the Natatorium… a senior, majoring in Theater. His expressive eyes had watched me work-out with increasing interest… and I had put on a good "show" for his benefit. I thought he would pee-his-pants when I licked the sweat from my biceps after the bench-press. He looked like he was going to faint. When I finally spoke to him, he practically begged me to fuck him… so I invited him to stop for pizza first, just to make him wait an extra half-hour. That’s when John saw us… as he walked by the window of the campus hangout. I hadn’t seen him for over a month following the cataclysmic break-up… and I was surprised by the look of longing on his face as he stopped to peer through the steamy glass. Then his face hardened into a look of un-concern before he hurried away… but I knew what it meant. We ate our pizza in a conversation that sparked with sexuality.

As we approached the door, the trick stopped. "Someone has left you a flower," he said. "But, oh… look… someone else has stepped on it accidentally."

There on the rubber doormat was a red rose, ground into the mesh by a heavy heel-print. "It was no accident… just a message," I said as I slipped the key into the lock. "Now, get in there and show me what you can do. Your ass is mine."

"Who would do such a thing? Those roses are expensive." He slipped his jacket off as he entered my dark apartment. I kicked the rose off the porch before I went inside. He was probably watching in the darkness below.

Sometimes, as I stood naked at the window smoking a cigarette after a hard fuck, I imagined him standing below in the bushes, looking up as he jacked off… but I never knew for certain. He was too proud to let me know he was there.

=====

But now I was approaching another door… the metal door of the loft. As I touched the handle, I heard the violin music… not the "thumpa-thumpa" I usually heard when Justin was home alone. His musical taste had certainly changed in the last few days. I decided to open the door quietly in case he was asleep; I could slip in beside him and wrap him in my arms before he woke up.

But he wasn’t sleeping. The loft was dim with the last glimmer of twilight and the rosy glow of a smog-shrouded sunset, but, in the dimness, I could see him moving rhythmically in-time with the music, doing a chair-ballet on one of the bar stools. I watched quietly as he swept across the floor, propelling himself occasionally with one foot, and pirouetting like a skater performing his long-program. As the romantic music came to an end, his chair came to a stop and he slowly pivoted to face me; his eyes were closed as if in a tranquil dream. After a second, they opened. He was so startled to see me, he almost fell off the chair.

"Oh, Jesus, Brian… you scared the Hell out of me! I didn’t hear you come in."

"Obviously. You looked like Baryshnikov at the roller-derby. You sure were wrapped up in that violin music. Was that the guy from the recital?"

"Yeah," he replied, looking a little sheepish. " I just wanted to listen to the rest of the CD." He rose from the chair and rolled it back into place while I took off my topcoat and suit jacket. I loosened my tie as he reached to unbutton my shirt. "That music makes me ‘ridiculously romantic’… to use your phrase," he said, sliding his hands into my shirt and pulling it out of the waistband of my pants. "It would be great fuck-music."

"Yeah… if you were wearing a tutu, maybe." I put my hands on his ass and pulled him close. "But guys don’t fuck that way."

"I’ll bet some do," he retorted… then added "and you’ve fucked ME that way a few times, almost like ballet… a horizontal pas de deux. You’d better be careful, or I might mistake it for romance." He kissed my cheek, then turned his head and pulled away, looking into the distant darkness.

"You never said much about your birthday present," I said, changing the subject. "Of course, you were a little breathless there at the end… and you went right to sleep before I could pay him off and get him out the door." I was still thinking about what Melanie had said. It hadn’t been what he had wanted.

"Well, it was a big surprise… I admit it. Not a traditional kind of present. But, then, you seldom do what’s conventional. And I felt a little funny with you standing there watching… but when you joined-in, I sorta got ‘into it.’"

"It got into YOU, is more like it." We laughed, remembering all the permutations and combination of the night before. "I think he earned his money."

"Don’t you mind… paying for sex, I mean? Most guys would be willing to pay YOU for the privilege."

"It’s just neater, that way," I explained. "No expectations beyond the payment… no hurt feelings… and no regrets."

"And no spoiled brats who hang-around for months, eat your food, and mess up your life? Is that what you’re saying?"

"Well, there are some trade-offs." I smiled and lowered my head in that quizzical way that means I’m ready to head to the bedroom. "And you don’t eat that much. A Great Dane would be a lot more expensive to maintain."

"Is that all I am? Your ‘pet-boy?’" he said in a louder voice that trembled. He was suddenly serious… and angry. He turned away so I would not see the anguish on his face. I turned on the desk light to see him better.

"You know I want you here," I said as I stepped forward to take him in my arms. He struggled momentarily, but he let me hold him.

"Sometimes I wonder why," he said softly. "All I do is give you trouble… from the bashing, from my Mom and Mikey, from Sap, from your mom… even from Deb some times. I never know where I stand with you. Sometimes I think you’d be better off without me."

I held him close. How could I tell him how much he meant to me? Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t everyone already know? Even hard-hearted Melanie knew the score.

We stood in the shadows... in the center of the room...dwarfed by its sudden emptiness. Two souls clinging together in a vast void. My lips traced a path along his hairline... forehead to temple to sideburn to ear. "That’s not true," I murmured, although I didn’t know where the truth lay. I felt his body lift as he inhaled... as if to sigh.

"I know I’m young," he began... "but every day of my short life someone has told me that they loved me... at least once a day... my mom, mostly... but my Dad, too, when I was meeting his expectations. Everything wasn’t perfect... but I was raised in a loving environment. I felt it, I guess... and I became accustomed to it and took it for granted. And then it all fell apart, partly because of me. So, I miss that feeling sometimes... well, most of the time. I try not to be needy... often... but sometimes it’s unavoidable." He lifted his face toward mine in the shadows. His eyes glistened.

"My life has been totally different," I countered. "You know that. Not a loving environment at all. I can never remember my parents using the word to each other... or to me. My mom loves her church... and the saints... but I’m not a part of that any more. So I learned to seek satisfaction within myself. I don’t hitch my hopes and my future to anyone else. I pull my own weight. I carry my own emotional baggage. I don’t ‘need’... period. And no one taught me to live this way; I learned it on-my-own, making mistakes here and there, and trying to get-by. It’s survival. But I think my love is purer, somehow... no strings attached... no apologies..."

"No regrets," he interrupted.

"There ARE things I regret," I whispered. "What I mean is... I try not to cause anyone else to have regrets. I try to avoid putting someone in the position of doing something they may regret later. Even at my own expense, sometimes. If I have no expectations, then there’s no way for someone to disappoint me. It’s as simple as that." Had I said it... or simply thought it?

"It sounds so lonely," he sighed.

"Two people can’t be lonely… if they’re truly together," I thought. It was the closest I’d come to speculating about our future. But not tied together... with promises and constraints and agreements and rules... not with a series of expectations and an atmosphere of keeping-score. That’s for heteros who think of love in terms of ‘owning.’ Wordlessly, I guided him, step-by-step toward the bedroom. We sat on the end of the bed. He slumped, also wordlessly now, looking downward as if he were in his own little world. I pressed him backward with fingertips on his chest, and he settled back onto the mattress like a limp doll. I lay beside him, forehead-to-forehead. But his eyes were closed; he was somewhere else. I started to pull him closer, but he rolled with his back against my chest... then he reached behind to lift my arm over his side. I held him tightly, cupped in the curve of my body. The darkness deepened, overwhelming the tiny desk light’s bright, but distant, pool. We lay there, still clothed… feigning sleep as we thought of what we should have said.

I should have bought the roses. One simple, throw-away gesture... doing the expected thing, just once. It would have made such a difference, in retrospect. But what’s done is done. There’s no chance to do it differently. A pivotal moment, come and gone. Missed opportunities are the biggest regrets; there’s no one to blame but yourself.

=====

Soft on the sunset sky
Bright daylight closes,
Leaving when light doth die,
Pale hues that mingling lie –
Ashes of roses.

When love’s warm sun is set,
Love’s brightness closes;
Eyes with hot tears are wet,
In hearts there linger yet
Ashes of roses.

Elaine Goodale Eastman

=====

Added note: I withdrew this story from posting after a few friends, whose opinions I trust, said that my Brian was too open and vulnerable. After all, wasn’t the breakup still ahead? Could Brian go this far and have the relationship ultimately fall apart? To me, my story IS the pivotal moment. All that comes afterwards is, sadly, pre-ordained by what happened here. Sometimes simple things, left undone, un-do the rest. Justin has thought-it-through, and he has begun to decide. Brian has gone as far as he can go... and it is not enough. Justin ultimately breaks the rules big-time... and Brian reacts as expected... pulling back protectively and sending Justin off for his own good.

I’ve made a few changes to the story... but nothing too significant... and I have asked Jen to post it. And I offer it as a preamble to Season 3. Each ending is a beginning...

=====

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