Chris doesn't sleep all night, but Justin does, curling around him, holding him sotight. He pets Justin's hair, where the buzz cut seems to be growing out—it's a little rougher now, a little less like puppy fur—and periodically lifts one of his arms so he can breathe. He thinks a lot about what this is and what it means. He tries to decide whether this should be another regret, or if he should think of it as an experience to look back on fondly. He leans pretty heavily towards regret.

The sky lightens eventually, turning the room from black to grey to a pale blue. When the sun comes up, yellow light filters into the room, and Chris suddenly and emphatically identifies with every impressionist there ever was. He needs to draw Justin, to get him on paper like this, needs to, in some soul-deep way he barely recognizes. His art almost never comes to him like this, and the intensity of it is incredible. He eases out from Justin's embrace, carefully, not wanting to wake him, and quickly grabs a sketch book and his charcoals. He tiptoes around Justin a bit, trying to find the best angle, so it takes him a few minutes to get started. But when he's ready, he sits cross-legged on the floor and it just flows. He gets every line, every curve o Justin's body on paper in minutes, shading and shadowing, capturing that beauty. After the first quick sketch he tugs down the sheet, baring Justin, and then turning to a new page. Again he doesn't have to work for it, the charcoal just moves across the paper as if it's guided by something divine. Maybe it is.

Over the next half hour, Chris gets a dozen sketches of Justin down on paper from different perspectives, some full body drawings, some close-ups of his face, his hands, his torso. In one he sketches Justin's right arm, bent at the elbow, and he somehow gets on paper the softness of his skin, the curve as it flowed into his shoulder and neck, the bruises from passion and violence. It's the last drawing he does before Justin wakes up, and it might be the best.

Justin wakes slowly, a little moan, a shiver, eyes squinching and muscles tensing, and then is up, all at once, no longer laying in long lean lines. He contracts, Chris thinks, into something less, less powerful, less heartbreaking maybe. He's got defenses when he's awake, and he's rebuilding them as he remembers the night before.

"You're drawing me?" he asks, a little confused, a little bereft from waking alone, voice sleep-roughened, raspy from last night's cigarettes and moans. He smiles, though, that sunny, bright smile, that says he's gotten everything he ever wanted, when Chris nods. "Can I see? Can I see?" He's all eager puppy now, and Chris aches for how this will end, for what's going to happen next.

"No," he says. "Better not. They're not good. And you should get moving, gotta get home, don't you?" Chris keeps his voice brusque, quick. He knows if he slows down, gives an inch, the kid will be there forever. "You get dressed, I'll scare up some money for the bus."

He looks confused now, and hurt and angry. Chris makes himself move, get up, pull on last night's jeans and a shirt off the floor, and head out to the tiny kitchen to start the hot water. For this he needs coffee, and maybe a lobotomy so he won't feel so bad. He's waiting for it, the inevitable scene, and he hasn't underestimated the kid. Justin pulls on his clothes, tight sexysexy black shirt—sotight and you can seehisnipples remember them mmmmm... inyourmouth, oh god, onyourtongue—black cargos, with that chain—ohyeah want to chainthosewrists, oh christ, lick them lickthem, taste metal and saltyboyskin on your tongue—and stomps into the kitchen. He's angry, demanding, "What the fuck, Chris, what the hell!" He's yelling and his arms are sketching the air wildly, as he shouts.

And finally, sharply, Chris says, "Justin, Justin!" and he stops talking, just leans on the counter, breathing heavy, his breaths so loud in the sudden quiet. "Justin," Chris starts, "look, this was— We can't— this wasn't, it wasn't supposed to happen... it shouldn't've..."

And Justin stopped him there, absolutely livid, his face pale and cheeks flushed, eyes sparking. "You aren't going to do this. You aren't going to fucking say this, are you? This was... God, Chris, this was good. So good. I might be a fucking kid," he sneered the word, lips twisting, "but even I know this doesn't happen, it's not good like this. Not unless it's supposed to happen."

And Chris looked him straight in the eye and kicked the puppy, just drew back one foot and belted him. "You stupid kid. One night of good sex does not mean motherfucking hearts and flowers, fucking meanttobe bullshit. It was good sex, Kid," and he sneered too, put all his contempt and attitude and cynicism into it, "that was all. And now's the time on Sprockets when you go home to high school and I get back to regularly scheduled programming."

He put his all into the performance, made it real and credible as he could. And it must have worked because Justin said, "You motherfucking asshole" right before he let go and just decked him, a right cross to the head. Chris reeled, nose spurting blood everywhere, hands at his face. He would have gone for him, every instinct from a lifetime of fighting screamed at him to hit back, but he reined it in, held himself in. He'd hurt the boy enough, he thought, and he didn't want to be like every other adult in his life. Ha. What a fucking joke.

Justin stared at him, at the blood dripping at the mashed in face and the dripping blood. He looked like he wanted Chris to hit back, to fight him, already. And when it didn't happen, he cursed and then nodded and said, "I hope you're fucking happy" and headed for the door. When he go there he paused a minute, as if waiting. When Chris said nothing, he nodded again, like confirming something he'd been thinking, and said, "Yeah. Yeah. Have a nice life, Chris."

The door opened on its creaky hinges—last night Justin laughed about that, when Chris finally got the door open, before he shoved his tongue in his mouth—and Justin slammed it shut and pounded down the stairs. When Chris glanced at the clock it was 8:18 on a Sunday morning, and he was the stupidest fucker on earth.


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