Boys Keep Swinging Chapter 5

[nothing_rhymes_with_ianto]

After three and a half years, Justin comes home from New York for good.
Chapter Summary/Teaser: Brian and Claire plan the funeral. Ben discovers that he's been found out. Justin goes to his interview in New York and gets an unpleasant surprise.

 

Go back to Chapter 4

"Shit, Claire." Brian pressed his thumb and forefinger into the corner of his eyes, leaning back into the couch. "It's just a reception. It doesn't need to be perfect, and there's no need to freak out."

Claire turned a teary glare to him. "It's Mom's funeral, Brian. She would want everything to be perfect."

"Yeah, well, she never got that, did she? First she had Jack, then you, then me. No, I don't think she ever got anything to be perfect."

"Shut up, Brian." He gave her a tired smirk and she glared at him again. "And don't pull another fucking stunt like the one at Daddy's funeral. Don't you dare."

He held up his hands. "Oh, of course not, Claire. I would never do that to dear old Saint Joanie. Never."

She thudded a vase of roses down on the table and turned on him. "Fine. If you're not going to help me now, then just go away. But I expect you to be at the funeral. On time. And sober."

He stood. "Fine. Although the last two you might not get." He glorified a little in her huff as he went out the door.

---

"Dumpling, I'm home! Michael?" Ben looked around the living room. "Hunter!" he called into the kitchen where Hunter was sitting with headphones.

"Huh? Yeah?"

"Where's Michael?"

"I dunno. He went storming out of the house with a backpack. Maybe he had an emergency at the store."

"Uh…okay." Ben made his way slowly up the stairs. He kicked off his shoes in the bedroom and headed to the bathroom to wash his face. He scrubbed his face until he finally felt clean, then glanced around the bathroom. Something seemed off. He looked around. The trash bin was on its side, the plastic trash bag ripped, its contents gone.

---

Brian actually made it to the funeral on time. He had considered not going at all, but decided that it might be amusing to see the spectacle of his mother's funeral. Reverend Buttfuck was giving the last rights and the eulogy. He smirked at the thought and hid himself in the back. After about five minutes of the reverend droning on and on, Brian left the small group dressed in black, stomping through the slush to stand beneath a tree. Jack and Joan were not being buried near each other. He lit a joint and sucked the sweet smoke into his lungs, welcoming the burn. He glanced back at the group, scoffed. What good was Joan anyway?

Brian sat sprawled on the couch in his childhood house, letting Claire do the hostess work. He rolled his eyes. She was sobbing again, shoulders shaking as she asked random guests if they'd care for a sandwich or whatever other hors d'oeuvres were wasting away there on the table.

"Um, excuse me everyone." Claire sniffled. "I…I just wondered if anyone had some good memories of Mom." She stared pointed at Brian. "If anyone wants to start? Reverend?"

Reverend Buttfuck turned to her, smiling gently, obviously trying to comfort. "Joan was a sweet woman. She always came to mass, and always stayed behind to talk to me about scripture. Since she lived alone, I spent quite a bit of time with her. I must admit that she treated me like a son. The church and I will miss her."

"Thank you, Father." She looked around. "Anyone else?"

Some old woman piped up from the back. "She knew the bible from cover to cover. Even during church get togethers, she could quote any part without looking. She was a very devout woman." Brian snorted.

"She, uh, once handed me a tissue during Reverend O'Malley's funeral."

"Thank you, everyone." Claire's voice was soft. Brian raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, Claire," he said conversationally. She whipped around to glare forcefully at him, but he just smiled glibly and went on. "Remember that time in high school when Joan was drunk, and caught you wearing high heels? She called you a slut and kicked you out. Then when Jack came home and found you sitting outside in the rain, he didn't let you inside either. So you had to climb up the rose trellis."

Claire's eyes grew wider and wetter than they had been before, her face turning red. She drew herself up to her full height (nowhere near close to Brian) and stepped hotly to the front door, wrenching it open. She pointed toward the driveway.

"Out. Now." Brian gave a little smirk. His work was done here. He shrugged slightly, standing and walking toward the door. As he passed her, he gave Claire an abrasive leer. He heard her break down as the door shut behind her and reveled in it a bit. Then he decided to go home and get drunk. He wasn't in the mood for the trolls at Woody's, not now.

Brian slammed the loft's door closed, kicked off his shoes. He half expected Justin to come out of the bedroom and caress his cheek gently, asking him if he was okay. Then he remembered that Justin was in New York. He grabbed a couple bottles of Beam and his stash of weed and settled in.

Within an hour he had nearly drunk both bottles of Beam, and was planning to go get more, and had smoked a few joints. For a moment he felt amazed that Michael or Justin or Lindsay hadn't called him to make sure he wasn't dead, then he remembered that Michael was a dick, Justin was busy in New York, and Lindsay didn't even know that Joan had died. He took another gulp of Beam, and his thoughts unwillingly wandered to his life in the Kinney household.

He remembered his father's almost nightly yells, Joan freaking out and begging him to "be quiet, you're scaring the children," but during the daytime he was almost kind to Claire. He'd let her sit on his lap while they watched TV, he'd tickle her and make her laugh until she cried. And he didn't get mad when she called him "Daddy."

He cleared his throat. His head felt fuzzy. Probably from the massive amounts of drugs and alcohol he'd been abusing his body with. And Joan. Joan had never done a thing to protect him when Jack was beating him up in a drunken frenzy. And Jack had rarely laid a finger on Claire. And Jack always scolded him when he got a bad grade, always said he'd be good for nothing, as Joan scolded him for dicking around during Mass. Claire had always been Daddy's little girl. And Brian….well, Brian was nothing.

He let the bottle of Beam slip from his limp fingers with a thud.

---

Justin walked into his studio, sighing. He had spent the past three days being dragged around New York by Roger, taken to galleries that could be interested in his work, being interviewed by reporters who wanted to know more about this up and coming artist, and eating sushi with his manager and whatever new important art critic was out there. Four more days of this, and it'll be over, he thought wearily.

He looked around the studio/gallery where he and a few other artists worked. The entrance room was horizontally long, with a door on the left leading to bathrooms and a custodial closet. The back of the entrance was open, with railings running along the back, four paintings hanging in the open space on each side. In the middle of the railings, a tiny flight of stairs lead down into the open gallery area, which was only about four feet lower than the entrance. Painting and canvases lined the walls, some on display, some covered. Easels stood scattered about in the center of the room, displaying more canvases. Large, paned windows diffused the light and brightened the gallery. In the back, a pair of double doors opened to three rooms: a storage room for unfinished works, a room full of washbasins, extra easels, brushes and paints, and a center room that was divided into individual work spaces. Justin loved working here.

He squared his shoulders and stepped inside the main room. He smiled gently at the reporter, who was quietly inspecting his newest paintings leaning along the walls.

He had really been dreading this interview. The reporter was going to be asking him about the new exhibit that would be showing in a few months, as soon as he finished his last two pieces and they were shipped to the city. Justin sat down in a chair in an aesthetically-pleasing looking corner and waited. Soon, the reporter came up to him, her microphone in hand.

"Hi, Mr. Taylor, I'm Jenna Morgensen."

"Hi. So, you wanted to ask me about my art."

"Yes." She smiled at him, looking him up and down, obviously observing his mannerisms so she could describe them later. "Just a few questions about your artistic background, then we'll get in to the rest of the stuff."

"Okay."

"When did you start drawing and painting?"

"Well, my mom gave me crayons when I was still in the crib, and I never really stopped. I didn't start painting until senior year in high school."

"Am I correct in the assumption that you have an art degree?"

"Actually, no. I did go to the Pittsburg Institute of Fine Arts for a little under three years. I was expelled for using my art and my internship in order to express my political opinions."

Jenna raised her eyebrows. "Ah. Do you mainly use paint as a medium, now?"

"Well, mostly. Because of an incident in high school, I sustained a brain injury that affected my hand. I cant hold a pencil and do fine line drawings for long periods of time. But at home in Pittsburg I use a digital arts program on my computer as well as paint and charcoal."

"Can you tell me what happened to you that caused you brain damage?" The reporter was gentle. Justin lifted one shoulder towards his ear, looked across the room to the large window. He looked back at the reporter.

"I was attacked when I was a teenager. I was in a coma for two weeks. I had to have a few months of rehab in order to get my hand in good enough shape to draw again. Even so, I was accepted to PIFA."

"That must have been hard." Justin nodded. "So, about your current work. You have a very interesting style. Some of your work is very abstract, and some of it is very realistic. And there's a sort of sex appeal and sensual quality that emanates from a lot of your pieces." Justin gave her a half-grin.

"That's something that's said very frequently."

"This exhibit seems different, why is that?" Jenna turned to scrutinize his work again. Justin shifted in his seat; this was the part he had been sort of dreading. He glanced up at his paintings. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth.

The first painting in the series was a circular abstract piece full of browns and golds and greens. It made him grin madly every time he looked at it. The second seemed abstract, and only two other people besides Justin would have recognized. It was made mostly of different shades of white and red, with streaks of brown. The painting was shadowy and dark, with an air of fear and pain, but also, strangely, of safety. The third was made up of shapes of black and grey and orange, obscured by an ashy layer, but one dark shape was clearer than the others. It was obvious that it was two figures, but they were wrapped around each other as one. The fourth was incredibly abstract, but it was obvious from the shapes and colors that it depicted a busy, distinctive street. The only realistic-looking part of the painting was a perfectly detailed streetlight, shining down on the sidewalk. He still had two more paintings back in Pittsburgh to finish.

The reporter turned back to him, expectant. He opened his mouth, then thought better of it and stopped, thinking of how to phrase what he wanted to say.

"These paintings are very personal to me. They….represent times in my life that were extremely…significant. They represent moments in my life that changed my perspective on things, that changed my feelings for certain things or people."

"Hmmm. They're very darker, darker the most of your other work."

"Honestly, many of the things that changed my life were not very happy or uplifting."

She pointed to the red and white painting. "You seemed to have put a lot of work into this one. Is there a specific reason for it?"

"Um, I'd prefer to keep that to myself. I'd rather the viewer come up with his own meanings and feelings for my work."

Jenna nodded, understanding. She pointed to the first and last paintings. "You used a lot more color in these, and they seem more light-hearted and happier than the others."

Justin smiled slightly, cocked his head. "They represent a few things that happened in the beginning of my senior year of high school, right when my life started changing drastically." Jenna nodded, eyebrows raised, eyes asking for clarification. Justin shrugged, he didn't mind let the reporter on this part of his life. "They represent the first year I met my partner, Brian Kinney."

"Brian Kinney….that name sounds familiar."

Justin stifled a laugh. "A lot of people have heard of him. He runs Kinnetic, an advertising firm."

"Yes! My brother's an entrepreneur in make up and anti-aging products. I think Kinnetic handled his ad campaign."

"That certainly sounds like a campaign Brian would snap up in a heartbeat."

"Okay, well, back to the questions. Why are you waiting two more months before showing these pieces?"

"Well, I have two more paintings in the works. When I finish them, they'll be shipped here from Pittsburgh."

"One more question. Why did you move back to Pittsburgh?"

"Because my inspiration was there. My friends and family are my inspiration. But more than that, Brian was there. He is one of my biggest inspirations, and after three years in the Big City without him, I felt like I needed to come home."

Jenna smiled and stood up, extending her hand. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Taylor."

Justin flashed her a sunshine smile and shook the offered hand. "Your welcome. Thank you for enjoying my art."

She left the studio. Justin stood up and stretched, running a hand through his hair. He wandered over to his paintings, running a gentle hand along the top of the abstract of a street, smiling softly. He cocked his head at the sound of the door jingling open and thudding closed.

"Hi." A familiar voice stated uncertainly. Justin whipped all the way around, nearly losing his balance.

"Ethan? What the fuck are you doing here?"

Chapter 6