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One thing Justin has learned the hard way, is that the art world is not romantic. Art is not romantic. He thought so, like every young aspiring artist does, but cold hard reality hits him one night on the sofa belonging to Daphne's friend. Whose name by the way is Nina. Justin has to learn a lot of names. The e-mail Linds sent him drops a few - people he should see, talk to, schmooze. It's all about selling the one man brand 'Justin Taylor'. Justin Taylor Inc..
Justin flips burgers during the day, and during the night he paints. Living in New York inspires him, it does, but Justin's not a romantic anymore. He want to be able to make a living out of his art, that's why he moved here. That's why he sacrificed the fairy tale ending. Though it's not as if he and Brian never see each other. Every other month, Brian's got some meeting or another in the big city, which means Justin will spend a night or two in a fancy hotel room instead of on Nina's sofa. (Justin would buy a bed, he would, if he had the money. Or enough space in his room.)
They fuck, of course they fuck, but they also have dinners in whatever hole in the wall Justin has found that week while walking to another warehouse-turned-hip-office-building with his portfolio, using all of his charm on any curator that will see him.
They look at Brian's pictures of Gus, growing taller and more Brian-esque by every visit. "'Shit Dad, tell the Moms I wanna go to Pittsburgh by myself. I'm old enough now,'" and Justin loves the way Brian's eyes shine when he repeats his sonnyboy's words.
They go to the movies once, but end up giving each other handjobs and are not-too-politely asked to leave by a middle aged man looking not-too-pleased (but at the same time not very surprised, like these sort of things happens once in a while and he's gotten used to stuff like that by now).
Justin snags a spot in a shared exhibition at a really hot gallery. He thinks it's partly because the gallery owner wants to fuck him, but it doesn't matter. He's in.
He starts hanging out with this straight guy who rents the studio space next to Justins', Adam. Adam's funny, and he, Justin and Nina get along great. They go clubbing, shopping, even ice-skating in Central Park once. Justin goes back to Pittsburgh for the holidays (big dinner at Deb's, gifts are all cold hard cash like he asked, and he makes a beautiful sketch of Brian asleep with Gus drooling on his daddy's Armani sleeve). When he comes back to New York, Adam and Nina have decided they're going to get married and Justin and Adam arranges an apartment-swap.
Justin spends New Year's Eve alone, eating Debbie's Christmas leftovers in his thrift shop bed, and loves every second.
"You know what I think is funny?"
"How Hunter found his way back to gay?."
"No, not that," Justin chuckles. "Though that's kind of funny too. I was thinking about Debbie's comment."
"'Not at the dinner table, you two'? C'mon, we've heard that before."
"'He's our own Picasso.' I mean, I have nothing to do with Picasso. I don't work after a modernistic manifesto, I don't even work with figurative images!"
Brian flats down Justin's bangs, then kisses his forehead.
"Debbie don't know Pollock from a dirty dust cloth. You can't expect her to."
"It's just... Sometimes it frustrates me, that people I care about can't see what I want to tell. It's like speaking a foreign language."
Justin turns to lie on his stomach. He looks at Brian.
"Do they have to speak it?" Brian says softly and lets his hand slide down Justin's spine. "Maybe it's enough that they hear what a beautiful language it is, without understanding it?"
Justin sighs. "Yeah, I guess you're right..."
"I always am, now go to sleep," Brian mumbles and Justin scoots closer, doing just that.
Justin doesn't do romance, but if he did, he and Brian would go to Italy. Justin sometimes dreams that he's invited to represent the US at the Venice biennial. So he and Brian would go, they would travel by vaporetto down the canals, look at fantastic art, eat amazing pasta... Well, Justin would eat amazing pasta, Brian would eat decent salads (because how amazing can salads be?).
They would walk around in the sunshine, Brian would wear a thin white linen shirt, his skin all bronzed and hair not greying at all (though Justin secretly knows that's because he dyes it, Justin's seen the receipts from the hairdressers.) They would fuck in a picturesque little hotel room with a view over Laguna Veneta...
When Justin dreams of Venice, he always wakes up with the craziest morning wood. Justin thinks his body is trying to tell him something about this whole no-romance approach of his.
"Yours is the best."
"I know."
"I love your modesty," Brian rolls his eyes, smiles.
"I love yours too," Justin says and sips on his glass of champagne.
They are the most handsome couple there, Justin thinks smugly. After Justin's made some comments to the art critics about his work, they leave to get ridiculously drunk and dance all night to celebrate Justin's-first-NY-show-holy-shit. Life is beautiful, Justin thinks when Brian gets glitter in his eye and they laugh (though Brian swears a lot as well until he blinks the fucking thing out). It really is.
His mother and Molly comes too before the exhibition ends, and they go out to eat and then Molly wants to go to the top of the Empire State Building. They stand there, the three of them, and it's fucking cold because it's only March still, and it's dark but not at all, because there are so many lights, and Molly says "You live in the best city in the world, Justin."
"I do, Mollusk," he admits. His mother's eyes are red and she blinks too often, but that could be the cold, Justin supposes.
"I'm exhausted," he sighs into the phone.
"So sleep," Brian says matter-of-factly.
"Tim said I can't work less hours per week or they'll hire someone else instead. So when am I supposed to finish all these fucking paintings that are supposed to be exhibited in two months?"
"Quit. Find a new job after the show's done."
"And pay rent how?"
"Didn't you just sell two paintings?"
"Yeah," Justin says, "but what if I'll need that money later-"
"Later, you'll sell more."
"Don't sound so confident..."
"I am."
"...I love you."
"Yeah... You too, you twat."
When it does happen, it happens fast. Justin has his second solo exhibition in New York, Art Forum gives it two thumbs up. Brian flies over and fucks Justin on the linoleum floor of his apartment. Justin pretty much can't walk for two days.
Juxtapoz calls. Vice calls. Fucking i:D calls for their art issue. Justin answers their questions, and before he knows it, his agent calls to tell him his "Edges" series has just been sold for enough money for Justin to pay his rent for the forthcoming three years.
Justin moves right after that, so make that a-year-and-a-half.
(Brian helps him to christen his new kitchen, bedroom and lounge area. They share a joint on his new balcony. Yes, balcony. Justin's got one of those now.)
Then a representative from Taschen calls. They want to feature him in their next Art Now edition, right after Fiona Tan. When Justin remembers to breathe again, he politely answers all the woman's questions, hangs up, and then starts jumping up and down, screaming "FUCK YES! FUCK YES!!" He can feel it happening. He can really feel it happening.
The curator is waving at them, and Justin smiles back. They work the room, slowly but surely. So many people, and for some reason they all want to talk to Justin. He gets to talk a bit to Tracey Emin, which is really fucking cool, and Justin feels what can only be described as vertigo when he realizes Tracey Emin chose to go see his opening when she was in town. The world has gone crazy.
"Who was that?" Brian whispers.
"Later," Justin answers as the executive editor of NY Arts comes over to congratulate him on 'another fabulous show'. They make small talk while Brian chews on crudetés and his fingertips draws little circles on Justin's shoulders.
After that show, he can pay off his whole debt to Brian, all in one big chunk without having to live on ramen noodles alone for the next year or so. One beautiful little piece of paper, and his heart feels a lot lighter. Brian refuses to accept it at first, like Justin knew he would.
"Brian, I'm a fucking success, I've showed the assholes at PIFA I didn't need them. I'm a grown man, I'm independent. All that fucking shit you've told me about becoming the best homosexual I could possibly be, now fucking take the cheque."
He does after the third fuck, but only because he's too tired to say no by then.
They lay entwined in Justin's dark green sheets, Brian's arms around Justin, nose buried in blond hair. Justin's no romantic anymore, but that moment comes awfully close to making Justin's heart melt into a gooey little puddle.
Five weeks after Art Now 5 is released, Justin wakes up because some Fed-Ex guy rings his door bell. Back in the kitchen, Justin unwraps a big pretty cake with the number 93 decorated in frosting on top. His cell starts buzzing. 'Brian' the phone tells him. Bewildered, Justin answers.
"Ninety-three?" he asks.
"Haven't checked your art facts today?" Brian says, and Justin can practically hear his grin.
The penny drops. Justin all but throws himself over his laptop, goes to artfacts.net, then starts to cry.
Somehow, Brian knows about this stuff. Somehow, Brian always fucking knows.
"I don't really care, you know. It's not really important."
"That's why there are big fat tears rolling down your cheeks right now, little twat?" Brian chuckles over the phone.
Justin's not a romantic, but being in the top 100 on Art Facts is something worth a few tears of joy, at least in his book.
The Giardini is huge. There are so many countries represented, Justin has no idea how they are supposed to manage them all in one day.
"We'll have to come back tomorrow," he tells Brian before they enter Russia's pavilion.
"I though we were doing the Arsenale tomorrow?"
"Well, the day after tomorrow, we're coming back here."
"Sure," Brian nods.
And he kiss Justin, just a peck on the lips, but Justin can taste the blue-cheese sauce from Brian's lunch salad, and he look so beautiful - even with specks of gray in his hair, even with lines around his eyes. Justin would never say it out loud, but middle age suits Brian. Suits him like the white linen shirt he's wearing, making him look so damn fuckable. Suits him like Justin's hand in his as they wander through one half of the 2017 Venice biennial.
"Ti amo," Justin whispers.
"Oh, how ridiculously romantic, " Brian whispers back, and plants a kiss on Justin's forehead.
"I am comfortable with that," Justin smiles.
He is.