Lyric to Blue Eyes http://www.elyricsworld.com/
Brian didn’t realize how accurate the saying “Don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone” was until the night of the Rage party. He’d walked out of the back room, intent on finding Justin, kissing him, telling him that it was great that Rage was selling, that fucking Rage in the back room hadn’t meant anything, like the zucchini man before. But he stopped dead when a flash of blonde hair caught his eye, and he watched that kid- Ethan, Ian, Ivan, whatever- kiss Justin, claim him.
He stood there, watching Justin break every rule he had made and every rule Brian had followed. A territorial, indignant anger sparked in his gut, but was pushed down suddenly and was replaced with resignation. He should have expected this. The Ian guy saw him looking, and stopped kissing Justin, staring at him with something akin to pity. Justin followed his gaze.
Brian took off his mask. Obviously, he was done being Justin’s hero. He was done saving him and helping him and housing him. He hoped Justin would be happier wherever he was going with Ethan than he was right now with him. Justin looked back at Brian with a sort of tired acceptance, a broken promise on his lips and an apology in his big, childlike blue eyes saying ‘Sorry, I guess he’s better for me than you are. I guess I was wrong. I have to do this.’
And Justin took the Ivan kid out of there. And Brian stood staring after his twink, (His twink. When had he started thinking like that?) then turned to the hottest guy closest to him, and started dancing, placing the mask back on his face. He danced with the guy, a smirk placed on his lips. He attributed the unfamiliar pressure behind his eyes and the roiling in his gut to the weird combination of drugs he’d taken earlier and went on dancing.
It isn’t until a couple days later, when he comes home from work, that he feels how much is missing. He opens the door, mouth already open to call “Hey, Sunshine!” into the loft, then he remembers that Justin doesn’t live here anymore. So, instead he yanks off his work clothes and goes to
After a while, it gets easier to forget that Justin is with someone else. It gets easier to miss him only a little bit instead of a lot. Until he hears someone say the word “Sunshine,” or sees a baseball bat, or smells the citrus shampoo Justin used to use. And although he no longer looks around the loft for a blonde head when he gets home, he still automatically sticks to the ‘home before three’ rule. And the no kissing rule. He doesn’t know why, but somehow, in the back of his mind, it seems to make a difference.
He manages to ignore it during the day. He avoids going to the diner when he knows Justin has a shift, he works as late as he can and then goes to Babylon or Woody’s or the Baths to drink and fuck. But when he’s not drinking or fucking, when it’s late or early –take your pick—his mind drifts to blonde hair and a Sunshine smile. He lies in bed and smokes cigarettes, watching the smoke drift upwards and disappear into the darkness of the ceiling. He watches the blue of the fluorescent lights above him mix and mingle and clash with the changing light outside his windows. He rolls over as the sky finally brightens and tries to sleep, but ends up dreaming of blue eyes and forcing himself to wake again.
He goes back to his old ways, his pain management. Fucking guys in his loft, in the back room, wherever. But in his mind’s eye, they always turn into Justin in the middle of the fuck, and he is left tired and disappointed once he pulls out. He avoids the gang, Debbie, Mel and Linds. They’ll just murmur words of attempted comfort, ask him if he’s okay, and that will make it worse because it will make him think, and that’s the last thing he wants to do.
One night he breaks down, his last fuck was the complete opposite of Justin- tall, dark, incredibly thin, with high cheekbones and large dark eyes that saw the world in black and white- and yet he still turned into Justin. So he calls up a service he knows about. Fuck, they’re expensive. But they’ll supply him with what he wants to see. And when the trick gets there, it’s a pretty good imitation. The eyes aren’t quite blue enough, but he rolls the trick over so he doesn’t have to notice. He touches the hair. It’s almost believable in the blue light, though not quite light enough or soft enough, and it doesn’t smell like peaches and oranges and lemons. He doesn’t make a show of opening the condom as usual, just picks it tiredly from the bowl and slides on his dick with a resigned glance at the trick. When he pushes in, it’s not as hot or as tight or as right as he’s used to, and it surprises him a little, but he looks at the hair and the soft back and manages to pretend. Except the trick opens his mouth, starts moaning, because obviously that’s what most guys like, but his sounds aren’t right, and they feel abrasive to Brian’s ears. He wants to tell the trick to shut up, that’s not what he’s supposed to sound like, but he knows it’s a ridiculous request. He fucks the trick on Justin’s side of the bed, quickly so his mind can pretend. When he’s done, he wants to force the trick to just lie there with his face in the pillow so he can pretend, but he doesn’t. He let’s him leave and goes back to his cigarettes.
He goes on fucking, goes on pretending. He pays Justin’s tuition fees, tries to think nothing of it. Ignores it by working and fucking. One night a trick asks him, “Why are the best fucks always the biggest jerks?” And as he leans on the counter, staring out at nothing listening to the trick leave, his mind answers, though he tries adamantly to tell it not to. Because the best fucks are always fucking someone else in their head, that’s why. Because the best fucks are always disappointed when they come down.
The next night, he fucks some stud in the back room and the same stupid problem occurs. He comes quickly and pulls out, hurries home. When he opens the loft door, he almost, almost hopes for a shock of blonde hair and blazing blue eyes to come bounding over. He shakes his head a bit and clears it of thoughts, grabs a bottle of Beam and sits down to watch a movie. He’s watched One-Eyed Jacks a million times, but this time, as he recites the lines with the actors, the words have more meaning than he cares to think about. A knock sounds at the door and he ignores it. The door slides open anyway and he knows he shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. And Justin is standing there with a look akin to pity on his face, and he turns back to the television. He feels obligated to prove to Justin that he misses him, without actually saying it, and so tells him no one’s there, feels the bite and sting when Justin remarks, “For a change.” It’s almost strange to hear Justin’ voice, soothing and aching and angering and warm and sharply painful all at the same time. He realizes that he doesn’t really want to do it again, but at the same time he really, really does. It hurts to watch him leave, it hurts to see him carry the computer- another piece of Justin he’d once had- out of the loft. It hurts to hear the soft, almost inaudible, “Later,” that drifts, probably automatically, from Justin’s mouth as he slides the door shut. He goes to sleep that night and dreams of laughing blue eyes, wakes up with a pain that starts in his throat, slowly moves up behind his eyes and down to clench at his heart.
For some ridiculous reason, he asks Justin to make the poster for the Carnival, gives him tickets. When he sees him in the dark crowd through the flashing lights, he feels almost elated, a pinch of satisfaction running through that Justin came back to the hot crowd and the colored lights and the drugs and the darkness where he really belongs, not with some pretentious boring art crowd. And without Ian, too. He seems comfortable and a little uplifting as he approaches Brian. But as they’re talking, a trick sidles up, and Brian registers the hurt and offense, and a little bit of scorn in Justin’s sapphire eyes. When Justin turns and leaves, he goes off without the trick to go home, ends up fucking some guy who was leaning against his car instead. He lies awake that night and wonders what the fuck is wrong with him. He wonders why Justin cant seem to understand that actions speak so much louder that words. Again, the pain blooms behind his eyes, in his throat and around his heart. He knocks back a few drinks and curls up in bed to try to make it go away. It doesn’t.
When his dumbass nephew accuses him of being a child molester, he’s pissed. But he cant complain to anyone. Because Justin is gone, and Mikey will just say I told you so and everyone else can just go fuck themselves. So when Justin shows up at his door, he’s surprised. They stand in the doorway, Brian uncertain, Justin shifting from foot to foot.
“Carl told me. I knew your nephew was lying, and well, I had to do something.”
“Yeah, because no one else gave a shit. Why should you?”
“Because I do, Brian. Anyway, the charges are dropped. And….I believe this belongs to you.” He holds out the bracelet.
For a moment, Brian cant say thank you, wont say it, but he smiles a bit and takes the bracelet. Justin looks into his face, and Brian stares right back into the blue eyes that he misses so much. He musters up the courage. “Thanks.” He tries to put the bracelet on one-handed, and cant.
“Any time.” Brian wonders what that means. Justin notices his difficulty and reaches over. “Here.” A spark snaps between them as Justin’s fingers brush Brian’s, taking the band from him. Brian clears his throat nervously, tries not to react. He watches Justin’s face as his fingers bump and brush against the skin of Brian’s wrist. He thinks that if Justin’s hands touch him that gently for much longer, he’s going to pull the man into the loft and hold onto him and fuck him into the mattress and never let him go. But then Justin is done tying the string for him, is glancing nervously into his face, and Brian is schooling his features back into something like apathy before Justin can see how he really feels, even though he knows that Justin already has.
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your boyfriend?” He knows it’s a low blow, standing here outside his loft, but what the hell. It’s what I used to be, sort of. Justin casts his blue eyes down, they both know what he’s thinking.
“Yeah.” Justin smiles lightly at him and leaves. Brian leans against the wall, fiddling with the knot on his bracelet, committing to memory the soft touch of Justin’s fingers against his wrist. He goes back inside the loft, leaving his door open, wondering if Justin will understand the silent message he’s trying to send. That night, he dreams about azure eyes and blonde hair and soft fingers, and it takes him a while to force himself out of his dream and into reality, where the only soft blue thing is the fluorescent light that surrounds and drowns and pillows him.