Disclaimer - CowLip/Russell T Davies/Showtime own them, I don't.

Kinda angsty Brian/Justin fic, set post-513. But hey, prepare to feel the schmoop! Many thanks to nel for looking over it. *smooches and hugs* Rated PG-13 for some bad language.

Feedback would be great!

*

After Justin leaves, you quit Babylon. Mikey is right in thinking that some things should never change, but five years with Justin - five fucking *years* - means that you know by now that some things *should* change. Maybe you're never going to be ready for marriage and a house in the country, but it'll only be a few years now until you're officially 'too old' to be taken seriously at Babylon. Better to bow out now while you're still on top, and stay behind the scenes.

You still go to Woody's, the diner; still hang out with the guys. Kinnetic becomes more of a focus than ever before, until Ted of all people confronts you over a tax form that's six pages too long.

"I know things are different now," Ted murmurs, something he wouldn't have dreamed of saying even a few months ago. Working things out with Blake has given Ted's self-confidence a proverbial shot in the arm. "I know things are different, and I know how important Kinnetic is to you. But I think you need to slow down, Brian."

All you hear is, "I'm deliriously happy and I know you can be too even though the only person you've ever gotten close to has left for greener pastures," and bitch that you're going to need three new pens just to keep signing your name on this fucking form.

That evening as you wait for a particularly graphics-intense website to load, you find yourself doodling on a folded up piece of paper. Realising what you're doing you glance down at the doodle, frown, and bring up a search engine.

*

Night class isn't exactly what you expected. You don't really know *what* you expected, but fourteen breeders and you wasn't it. Whoever heard of an art class with only one fag?

You have nowhere near the natural instinct for art that Justin does, but you have some experience with it as part of your career, not to mention all that time spent around him. Still, it's frustrating as hell not being perfect at something first, second or even third try. Your 'teacher', Ramona, tells you to stop trying to be a perfectionist and that although there's good and bad art, there's no right or wrong.

It's no wonder Justin fucking loves this shit.

Your first completed painting is a piece of shit. So is your second. And your fifth, and your sixth. It isn't until you move onto Impressionism for Beginners (AKA Art for the Art-less) that you start to feel comfortable. *This* is more like it. You don't like the restrictions of 'realistic' paintings, of just painting what you see in front of you exactly how you see it. Plus, it's kind of boring. You don't even have a life class.

With impressionism you feel like you can let loose, be yourself a little more, and although objectively you know your style isn't really impressionism and more whateverthehellcomesout, you...like it.

Ramona smiles when she sees your next painting. "Good work, Brian."

You don't think anyone has said that to you for almost twenty years.

*

It's easy enough keeping it a secret - on the nights you have classes you simply claim you're busy with Kinnetic or pre-arranged tricks. Everyone's busy with their own lives, anyway, so no one notices that you're always busy on the same nights.

When class ends you don't go looking for another one. Useful as it's been in teaching you techniques, you prefer to do your own thing and as no one else is going to see your work it doesn't matter what the fuck it ends up like. More often than not you don't like what you produce, but every now and then this piece of *art* ends up in front of you that you're almost *proud* of. It's a weird fucking feeling.

Life develops into a new routine. Most days you go to work, mock Ted, meet up with the guys at Woody's, and later on you'll go back to the loft to work on your latest piece. Paint is definitely your favourite medium of everything you've tried so far (and you still can't believe you use words like 'medium' in a context that isn't making fun of Mysterious Marilyn).

During one of your monthly visits with your son, you take one of your smaller pieces with you. It's all bright colours and broad brush strokes and somehow it suits Gus. You don't know what the fuck made you think you'd be able to sneak it by the munchers and into Gus' room, and sure enough Linds catches you in the act.

"Is that one of Justin's older paintings?"

Grunting, you place it on the side, thankful that you hadn't scribbled your initials anywhere on it.

*

Vic starts visiting you again. Instead of making cryptic comments about death he stands next to you and makes fun of your art. You're not actually sure how someone who was Deb's brother can have any sense of taste, but you owe Vic a lot and only tell him to fuck off some of the time.

The day you drive by a construction site and see Chris Hobbs talking to someone outside, you cancel all of your meetings and speed home.

You're not sure what you're going to do until you're doing it. Painting for hours - if that's what you can call it; it feels like you're attacking the canvas - you work until sheer exhaustion forces you to stop.

You know you never dealt with what happened, not really, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was making sure that Justin was okay, that he could walk down the street without jumping out of his skin. You didn't cry after that first visit to the hospital and you don't cry now, but that doesn't stop the anger from making your eyes burn and you understand the Pink Posse in ways you never did before.

When the shrill sound of the telephone wakes you the next morning, Vic is peering down at you. He probably knows exactly how disconcerting that is.

Fucker.

"You should show it to him," he says.

Ignoring Vic and the phone, you instead opt for a shower. Planting a paint-splattered hand on top of a pillow to help push yourself up, you realise it's damp and figure you must have been drooling in your sleep.

*

You know you should have seen it coming - Deb and Vic were never far away from each other.

"Open up, you asshole!"

Her muffled voice comes through the door even as her hand bangs on it loudly. Only one person other than you has a key now that would grant instant access. They're not coming back for a long time - if ever - but Deb's as persistant as the little shit ever was. There's no getting away from her.

Unlocking the door, you roll it open just a few inches. "Deborah, to what do I owe this delightful pleasure?"

She pushes by you easily, her strength having nothing to do with her thinner yet still formidable frame. "You can start by telling me why the fuck you've been ignoring everyone who tries to come...Jesus Christ!"

No one ever reacts to something quite like Deb.

And it's not like you've been ignoring anyone, really. You still see them, still go out. You just haven't let anyone in here for a while.

Deb doesn't look at you, apparently not able to tear her gaze away from the other side of the loft. "What the fuck have you been doing?"

"Painting," you state dryly, no apologies, no regrets.

"Well I didn't think it was fucking cross-stitching!" she snaps, but when she turns towards you she's not really angry. The fucking *pity* is almost audible. "Have you called him lately, honey?"

You call him every fucking day.

*

Two days later Cynthia buzzes you.

"Your next appointment is here."

Frowning, you glance through your day planner. There's no one due until 4pm. "Who's-?"

"It's Taylor Industries," she declares smartly, and she's not even *trying* to conceal her amusement.

Rolling your eyes, you nonetheless tell her to send him in and you're standing just a few feet from the door when he walks in.

You swoop in to kiss him and his arms go around you immediately. The relief is barely acknowledged as you take your time greeting each other, saying hello. Pulling back a little eventually, you kiss his eyelids.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" You can't keep the fond surprise out of your voice and for once it doesn't bother you.

"Well," he huffs with a smile, opening his eyes and leaning up to press a kiss against your neck, "according to Debbie you've gone, and I quote, 'batshit insane'. Naturally, I had to see it for myself."

You should probably be offended.

You clasp a hand over the back of his neck and really don't give a fuck.

*

For some reason you thought you'd feel nervous when he sees them, but instead you realise it's something you've been waiting for. He asks you about every single one of them and most of the time you have answers. Justin studies each of them closely, intently, and though sometimes he smiles, he never laughs at you.

There aren't that many, really. Sometimes it takes weeks until you're finished with one, so it's not long until he's staring at the latest.

You haven't painted anything since then.

"What happened?" he asks quietly.

You contemplate not saying anything. You contemplate lying.

You don't.

"I saw Hobbs."

He doesn't tense up, doesn't suddenly turn to look at you. He just nods, slowly, and fucks you right there on the drop cloth.

"I want you to come back to New York with me," he says later, because you both know this was just a visit. "I want you to come to New York and bring all of your art with you."

"Why?" you ask, eyes closed, hand running along his side. God, you've missed him.

"So that when we move into our new place," he pauses to kiss your collar bone, "I can hang up your painting," you know he means the latest one, "and tell everyone who sees it that you painted it for me."

"Why?"

"Because you love me. And because you let me go."

You don't even think. It just happens. "That's *why* I let you go."

He wiggles around, sprawling across your body. "And I don't want you to, because *I* love *you*."

His skin is warm, so warm, and he's pressing against you and he could be trying to manipulate you but you know he isn't.

His breath moves across your skin. You place the palm of your hand flat against his back, exhale, and realise that you needed him to ask.

"Okay. But we're moving in somewhere near Prada."

~FINIS

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