The First Thing

Brian never fucked Ethan Gold.

“Wait, what?”

Brian shrugs. “I said he wasn't that great. Of course, I was probably at a completely different angle than you were. Pun intended.”

Justin blinks in the harsh glare of the bathroom light and pauses with his toothbrush halfway to his mouth. “You didn't really, did you?”

“What possible reason could I have to make that up?” Brian asks, and when he brushes past Justin to turn on the shower, Justin catches a familiar smell. It's one he lived with for weeks: a light, musky cologne, contrasting sharply with the undertones of Brian's unique woodsy scent.

He puts his toothbrush in his mouth so he doesn't have to answer and watches from the corner of his eye as Brian steps under the spray. He puts the toothbrush carefully back into its holder when he's done and wipes his mouth with a towel. Leaving the bathroom, he catches Brian looking at him through the water-spotted glass and Justin spits, “Use extra soap.”

*

He could leave, go back to Daphne's where his sheets are probably still on the extra bed, but that would show more effort than he's willing to put in. The couch becomes his refuge and the television his deflector shield. He uses the volume to drown out the sound of Brian moving around the kitchen.

The fact that it's past midnight and his eyes are gritty doesn't keep his thoughts from tumbling over each other, trying to find space and order and make some sense of the new information Brian has casually imparted.

Or … maybe not so casually, the logical part of his brain says, and then there is a whole new set of ideas for Justin to mull over.

He knows Brian watches him even as he pretends not to, moving from corner to corner of the loft doing things Justin knows he would normally never bother with. Picking up a discarded throw pillow, leafing through an Abercrombie catalogue. Opening the lid of his laptop, only to click it closed again without doing any work.

Justin steadfastly keeps his eyes on the tv.

“You're really not throwing this little drama-queen fit, are you?” Brian stops in front of the television on his third trip around the living room.

Justin raises an eyebrow and pointedly tilts his head to see the screen. “Excuse me.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Brian mutters, and retreats to the bedroom, only to return five minutes later and snatch the remote from Justin's hand. “Do we have to talk about this,” he says with disgust, “because that would give me insomnia.”

“Do whatever you want, Brian,” Justin sighs, hugging a pillow to his chest. “That's your rule to live by, anyway.”

“Well,” Brian says, and Justin catches a tiny note of uncertainty. He relents.

“I meant it all, you know,” Justin says heavily. “I did, really. No demands or rules or expectations. But, God, Brian! Why did you have to fuck him>? What possible purpose could that serve, except to piss me off?” He stops, considers. “Oh.”

Brian's mouth twists into a mocking imitation of a smile. “Go ahead. Make it about you, if that makes you feel better.”

Justin doesn't immediately reply, sizing Brian up instead. The silence stretches out long enough to make Brian shift uncomfortably. Justin picks his words carefully. “He was different. That's all. Not better or worse or anything. Just different.”

“Don't coddle me,” Brian snaps, and throws the remote onto the glass coffee table. “I'm not the fucking jilted lover. Did it ever occur to you that I just wanted to sample the goods? No motive, no hidden agenda. Just ass.”

Justin rises from the couch and approaches him, half-expecting Brian to shy away when his personal space is invaded. Brian stands his ground, glaring down at Justin so fiercely that Justin almost laughs. “So tell me,” Justin says, “did he moan when you fingered him? He likes that.”

A muscle jumping in Brian's jaw in the only indication he's heard anything; otherwise he keeps his eyes fastened on the wall over Justin's shoulder.

“And did he beg you to eat his ass? He likes that too. He likes <I>anything</I> in his ass, actually. I remember one time, he made me lube up his bow and put it – ”

“Enough,” Brian barks suddenly, grabbing Justin's upper arm. “I fucked him in the alley and he didn't even come. One of the crappiest lays I've ever had. How the fuck you even got off with him is beyond me.”

It's the longest speech Brian's ever given about the entire situation. Justin feels the last vestiges of anger slip away. “Oh, I got off,” he murmurs, detaching himself from Brian's iron grip and sliding his arms around Brian's waist. “By thinking about you.”

“Oh, well. No wonder.”

Justin wonders if Brian knows that he already had power over Ethan; fucking him to prove the point was sort of redundant. But Brian looks so mutinous that Justin can't muster the energy or even find the wisdom in telling him, and besides, he's so tired his eyes are blurring.

Justin yawns widely enough to make his jaw crack and Brian puts a hand on the back of his neck. “Come on,” he tells Justin, tugging him toward the bedroom. “I need something to wash the foul taste out of my mouth.”

They fuck twice before dawn, with a minimum of words and a maximum of attention, until Justin finds himself begging and gasping and twisting on the sweaty sheets. Brian doesn't stop even when Justin nearly sobs out his surrender, pleads with Brian to please, please stop teasing. Brian only grins against Justin's damp skin and licks the bead of perspiration tracing its way down Justin's chest.

The Second Thing

Brian never died.

It rains, which is fitting. Brian would have laughed his ass off.

Justin pulls his coat tighter and huddles closer to Michael, trying to fit under the umbrella with two other people. He wishes Lindsay took up less space, but she's holding Gus so he figures they can have the dry part.

Fucking rain. How much more cliched can you get.

It's over a lot faster than he anticipated, but he hasn't been to a lot of funerals so how the hell should he know, anyway? He had just guessed it would take longer to sum up a person's life.

Brian's life.

The right words are said – he thinks – and people hug him and he's supposed to go to Debbie's, so he goes. There's enough food to feed the street and Justin eats some of it before his throat closes and he gags. He wanders around enough to look like he's socializing when he really isn't. Deftly avoiding people who want to touch him or kiss his cheek is hard work.

It's not like this was unexpected.

It doesn't make it easier, the hospice nurse had said in a gentle tone. Knowing it's coming isn't any better than having it happen unexpectedly. The only difference is time – time to say what you want to say.

Justin had liked her. She was quiet and unassuming with a soft southern accent. I can't say anything when he's like that, he told her, motioning toward the bedroom where a hospital bed had been set up.

Sure you can, darlin', she comforted. Justin watched her rinse out various bottles and other medical supplies in the sink and felt guilty that he was glad to have her there. He's still with you.

Justin appreciated her candor most of all.

He watches the guests mill around Debbie's living room without seeing them, wondering if time has gone back to its normal speed yet. That was something else he hated about the last few days before Brian

- died -

was gone, the fact that time sped up and slowed down at will, and Justin could never figure out if it was moving too quickly or not quick enough. He finally turned the digital clock by the bed around to face the wall, and stopped wearing a watch. Brian never noticed anymore by that time.

Michael comes to collect him – Justin knows Debbie assigned him the job because she assigned them all jobs to Take Care Of Each Other During Brian Kinney's Death. Justin thinks his job was to look after Lindsay but can't remember.

“You can stay upstairs,” Michael is whispering to him. “Ma would love it if you wanted to stay here for a few nights.”

“No,” Justin says loudly, and glares. “I want to go home.”

“Okay, shh,” Michael says, and glances around for Ben, who usually knows what to do when someone is becoming belligerent.

“Don't shush me,” Justin says again, and makes sure his tone is no quieter than before. “I'll talk however I want to.”

Debbie glances over from the kitchen and his mother looks up from the table and Michael starts to look worried that there might be some sort of scene, like Brian's funeral wasn't enough of a spectacle to last them all for the rest of their lives, and suddenly Justin doesn't want to be near these people any more today. “It's fine,” Justin tells Michael. “Just let me get something from the car and then I'll go up and lie down.”

Michael's relief at this bit of normality is palpable, and he gives Justin a watery smile. “Okay. I'll tell Ma you're staying over.”

Justin walks out the front door and closes it behind him. The rain has turned to a light drizzle that is more mist than anything else, and he heads into it.

*

He doesn't know what time it is because the clock is facing the wall. He figures Brian bumped it in the middle of the night. The sunlight is bright enough to warrant mid-morning, but then realizes that he forgot to draw the drapes. And whoever is pounding on the door won't go away.

Justin lies in bed for a while, hoping the pounder will either stop on his own or Brian will drag his lazy ass up and answer the door, but neither of those things happen. Closer inspection reveals that he's alone in bed. Brian must be at the gym.

“All right!” he finally shouts at the door, and pulls the sheet off the bed to wrap around his waist.

Flinging open the loft door produces Ben and Michael with Emmett in tow. “What,” Justin grumbles at them, using the heel of his hand to rub his eyes.

“Oh, thank God,” Emmett mutters in the background, while Michael clutches Ben.

“I told you he'd be here,” Michael babbles, and Ben reaches out a steady arm to Justin.

“You okay, buddy?” Ben smiles, and Justin scratches his head.

“Am I okay?” Justin isn't sure what prompts the question.

“Yeah. We got a little worried when you disappeared from Debbie's last night.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “I thought Ma was going to have a breakdown. Again.”

Justin doesn't remember being at Debbie's, so he ignores the question. “Uh, whatever. I'm fine. Why the hell are you pounding on my door at the fucking crack of – ” he leans over to check the clock on the microwave “ – nine-thirty? Good thing Brian's at the gym or wherever or else he'd be pissed.”

All three of them stop their fluttering and gaze evenly at Justin. He thinks it's sort of weird. Ben is the first to speak. “What did you say about Brian?”

“That he'd be pissed off if you woke him up on a weekend before noon.” Justin is getting cold standing here in just a sheet and wants to go back to bed to wait for Brian.

Emmett pushes past Michael and slides up next to Justin. “Honey,” he says, and turns him toward the bedroom. “Put some clothes on, all right?” He starts to walk Justin toward the steps but Justin shrugs him off.

“What the fuck? I can dress myself. And I don't want to get dressed anyway. I want to go back to bed.” He's aware that Michael and Ben are still hovering in the doorway, as if afraid to cross the threshold.

“Justin,” Emmett says firmly, and Justin doesn't think he's ever heard that tone before. “Put on some pants. We'll wait here.”

The whole thing is weird enough for Justin to obey, pulling on the first pair of shorts he finds in the drawer. The too-big waist tells him they're Brian's, and Justin wonders briefly why he didn't wear these particular ones to the gym. They're his favorite workout shorts – roomy but still fitted enough to show off his ass. Maybe he wore the black ones instead.

They're all sitting on the couch when he emerges from the bedroom, and if they just put their hands over their eyes, ears, and mouth, they'd be the epitome of that See No Evil painting of the monkeys. It's sort of funny. He stops in front of them, hands on his hips, and waits. “What the hell do you want?”

Ben gets up first. “Justin,” he says warmly, “do you not remember yesterday?”

“Yes. It was Friday.”

Michael makes a frustrated sound and Emmett puts an arm around his shoulders.

“Yes,” Ben agrees, drawing the word out. “But what happened yesterday?”

“Uh. I worked? I dunno, it was just a regular Friday.” Justin's stomach growls and he wants a bowl of cereal.

Emmett gets up next, putting his hands on Justin's shoulders. “Baby. It wasn't a regular Friday. What happened to Brian yesterday?” His eyes are red, Justin notes, and thinks maybe Emmett was out late the night before.

“Brian?” Why are they asking him these questions about Brian?

“This is bullshit,” Michael finally says, and pushes his way in between Emmett and Ben. He grasps Justin's arm and shakes it. “Brian's dead! He died in this fucking loft and we buried him yesterday! His funeral was in the morning! God, what is <I>wrong</I> with you!” He is crying when he finishes, his voice cracking and tears spilling over his cheeks.

Justin looks to Emmett and then to Ben, horrified when they nod in agreement. He watches a tear slide down Emmett's face. It's too early for this, he can't figure out why he hasn't really woken up from something that's rapidly becoming a nightmare. “Can I go back to bed?” he whispers.

They look at each other, then Ben puts an arm around his waist. “Sure you can. Come on, we'll go with you.” He guides Justin toward the bedroom, the other two following close behind. Ben lets Justin climb back between the sheets and pulls the blanket up for him. He sits on the edge of the bed and smiles reassuringly. Justin likes it.

“I'm gonna sleep for a while,” he tells Ben, who nods.

“Okay. We'll be here when you wake up.”

Justin sighs and closes his eyes to wait for Brian.

The Third Thing

Brian's never blown Justin at Babylon.

It's really, really good E, which surprises him because the last time he bought it off Todd, it sort of sucked. Justin only bought it tonight because no one else seemed to have anything, and the joint in his pocket didn't really appeal. He's glad he took a chance.

The drug is good enough quality to make everything glittery in a matter of minutes, and he continues bouncing around on the dance floor while he searches for Brian. The other tab in his hand gets sweaty from his palm, so he pockets it and puts his hands on the nearest available waist. It happens to be Ted, but Justin doesn't care. He just wants to touch someone.

Ted turns around and manages to look pleased and alarmed at the same time. Justin sees him scan the crowd nervously. “What's the matter,” he yells into Ted's ear above the music. “Looking for Brian?”

“No,” Ted lies, and gives him an uneasy smile before his eyes widen.

“Yes,” Brian says from Justin's other side. Ted backs away immediately but Justin barely notices.

“Hey,” he says happily, and runs his hands over Brian's shirt. “Dance with me. I fucking love this song.”

Brian scrutinizes him and then holds out a hand. “Share.”

“Share what?” Justin locks his arms around Brian's neck and grinds against him. “How do you know I bought enough for two?” He darts out a quick tongue against Brian's neck and feels Brian get hard beneath his jeans.

“Do I have to dig in your pockets? You always buy two.”

Justin fishes out the small pink tablet with a Playboy bunny stamped on it. “Come and get it,” he says, and puts it between his teeth.

Brian covers Justin's mouth with his own, using his tongue to sweep out the small pill. Justin closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of whiskey and smoke and aftershave, all smells and senses heightened by the drug, and presses even more tightly against Brian. Brian tears his mouth away momentarily to take a swallow of his beer and ask, “Where'd you get it?”

“Todd,” Justin replies, biting at Brian's jaw.

“Aw, shit. You wasted money on his crap?”

“No, no. It's good, I swear. Really good.” He punctuates his point by bringing Brian's hand to his crotch and letting Brian feel his erection. “See?”

Brian grins and leans down to press his forehead against Justin's. “You get hard when you're stoned, too. Or drunk. Or hungry, or tired, or …” he stops and twists away, laughing, when Justin sticks a finger in his ribs.

“Just kiss me, asshole,” Justin tells him, and Brian does.

They kiss forever on the dance floor, barely moving to the music but Justin can feel the pulse all around them. He senses people giving them space, being careful not to bump or jostle, and attributes it to the weird sort of awe that Brian inspires in his subjects. Justin doesn't care now, though, since he wants to practically crawl inside Brian's mouth and Brian's fingers are pressing insistently against his ass.

Brian breaks the kiss eventually, panting hard against Justin's cheek. “You're right. It's good.”

“Told you,” Justin grins, moving his hips in a slow semi-circle against Brian's leg.

“Let's go.” Abrupt and jerky in his motions, Brian hooks a finger in Justin's beltloop and heads toward the back. He pauses only to slam his empty bottle down on the nearest table before resuming his beeline for the back room, and Justin is more than happy to go. It's really, <I>really</I> good stuff.

There are plenty of dark corners but Brian shuns them all, choosing a spot right in the middle of the main wall and backing Justin up against it. A guy getting sucked off next to them says “Watch it,” when Justin elbows him aside, until Brian glances over and the guy taps his enthusiastic partner on the shoulder. They slink away, leaving plenty of room for Justin to spread his legs and welcome the feel of Brian leaning between them.

He lets Brian suck a brand into his neck, feeling the tiny sting of teeth and the nibbling of Brian's lips while Justin buries his hands in Brian's hair. It's hard to hold still, he wants more friction and more rubbing and more pressure, but Brian seems content to grind slowly against his hip and ignore Justin's cock completely.

Justin whimpers once, frustrated, and it brings Brian around with a wicked grin and a hand on Justin's fly. Justin reads it as an invitation to unzip Brian, so he reaches for his belt buckle, only to have his hand pushed away. His own jeans are unzipped and around his hips before he can blink, and when Brian kneels, Justin wonders if he's having hallucinations.

“What're you doing?” he asks dumbly, although since his cock is in Brian's mouth, it's a pretty stupid fucking question.

“Sucking you off,” Brian replies, as if it happens all the time. Which it doesn't. In the back room of Babylon, anyway.

“But …” Justin trails off, his eyes rolling back as Brian flattens his tongue against the vein on the underside. He gestures vaguely toward the room.

“Shut up.”

“Right.”

Talking would be useless in any case, since it seems all Justin can do is grit his teeth together and throw his head back against the wall. Getting blown is one of his favorite things anyway, and when he's getting blown by Brian … well. Better to be quiet and enjoy it, since it doesn't occur every day.

He can't keep his hands still. Justin alternates between scrabbling for purchase against the wall behind him and tangling his fingers in Brian's hair while Brian takes his own sweet time on Justin's dick.

And time he does take, seemingly in no hurry at all, laving long strokes up one side and down the other while fondling Justin's balls when he feels like it. Flat wet stripes over the head occasionally, no particular pattern. Justin is almost used to the irregularity, has just about found a way to thrust up when he needs it and establish a rhythm for himself, when suddenly there is hard sucking pressure that makes his knees buckle.

Justin feels Brian smile around him and reach out a steadying hand to his hip, ensuring that Justin won't slide to the floor a quivering mess. He holds Justin relatively still until Brian decides to deep-throat him with no warning and Justin can't help jerking forward. Brian encourages him, tugging gently on his hip until Justin gives in and starts fucking Brian's mouth, his eyes squeezed shut and all feelings centered around his cock. He hears himself muttering “yes yes yes” and knows it sounds idiotic but he really doesn't care at all, especially not when Brian is sliding a finger around to the very soft spot behind his balls.

He doesn't even know he's holding his breath until Brian tears his mouth away to look up and laugh at him. “Breathe, Sunshine,” Brian murmurs, and Justin glances down to see his eyes glinting in the smoky haze. He lets out a shaky breath as Brian lowers his head to his task again, his finger pressing maddeningly against the crack between Justin's legs.

Justin watches him withdraw his hand and bring a finger to his mouth, coating it liberally with saliva before sliding it back to Justin's small hole. He can feel Brian run a finger around it before pushing in, almost to the second knuckle. He twists away from the wall when Brian hits his prostate – and again, and then again, a third time – and whimpers out loud when Brian's talented mouth sucks hard at the head.

The feel of Brian swallowing around him and Brian's finger in his ass, pushing up against just the right spot, is something Justin can only take for so long. His orgasm comes from nowhere, surprising him, too late to pull out or push Brian away. It throws him back against the wall and his toes curl inside his tennis shoes. Brian recedes only briefly, meeting Justin's eyes, and Justin decides right now that there is nothing hotter in the entire world than Brian Kinney sucking cock.

His head goes back and he hears himself groaning out loud and doesn't care.

Brian swallows everything – nothing if not professional – and when Justin is too limp to do more than grasp feebly at his waistband, Brian helps him tug his jeans back into place. He nuzzles into Justin's hair and Justin clutches at the front of his shirt. “Thanks,” Justin manages. “But, um. Why?”

“Why what?” Brian is still hard, there's no way Justin can miss his cock pressing into Justin's thigh.

“C'mon. You know.”

“Never let a man question a free blow. Are you ready to go so I can fuck you in peace?”

“Just tell me.” Justin puts on a serious face. Or as serious as he can be after getting freshly sucked, he knows his cheeks are probably still pink and his hair's a mess.

Brian glances around and Justin follows his gaze. Almost every guy in the back has stopped what they're doing and is staring in amazement at Brian. Several of them have their mouths open and not a few are visibly drooling, their tongues darting out to swipe at their bottom lip. “That's why,” he whispers into Justin's ear.

“I should have known.” Justin rolls his eyes and Brian presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Yeah, you should have. Let's go, I gave them enough wet dream material for one night.”

“Maybe it was my cock they were staring at,” Justin sulks, allowing Brian to drag him in the direction of the door.

“Stop pouting. Are you telling me it was less than stellar?”

“It was okay,” Justin sighs, and receives a swat on the ass in return.

The Fourth Thing

Brian never let Justin know he came to the hospital.

The fucking sterility of the place makes his throat close up every time he walks through the automatic doors. Hospitals are freakish, terrifying places. That's probably why he makes sure he's either still drunk or still high most times, or at least has something in his pocket to get him through the two or three hours he spends.

The blonde nurse always looks the other way when he pops or snorts something, and for that Brian is grateful. But she won't let him fucking smoke. He could really, really use a cigarette. So he leaves an unlit one in the corner of his mouth until the filter is wet and disgusting and then he replaces it. He's wasted a lot of precious cigarettes that way.

He doesn't know the nurse's name because he never asked her and he avoids looking at the tag on her uniform. Brian finds he talks more to people whose names he doesn't know. The anonymity factor is comforting.

Brian told himself he'd stop after Justin woke up from the goddamned coma. Two weeks was long enough to spend with the almost-dead. But then he started therapy, so Brian wanted to know what kind of progress he was making, and two weeks turned into three and a half. The nurse stopped asking him after the first four days if she could tell Justin he had been there, but now she approaches with a determined look. Brian steels himself.

“He's having bad nightmares,” she announces as she rounds the corner. “And hello. Are you sober?”

Brian snorts in answer.

“Well,” she continues, “at least tell me you don't drive here every night.”

He snorts again and shows her the keys in his palm.

“I don't know why I worry,” she says. “God watches over drunks and little children.”

He turns to the window. “Yeah. He did a great job with that one.”

She sighs as she passes. “Brian,” she says gently, “he's not that little.”

He doesn't bother asking how she knows his name.

*

He's sober the next night, which makes him tired. He doesn't really get up much from his favorite chair, but sits there with his legs splayed and his head back against the wall. He doesn't see the nurse until he opens his eyes and she's looking in the window, watching Justin toss and murmur in his sleep.

“I have to wake him up if he starts dreaming again,” she tells Brian nonchalantly. “Or you could do it.”

“Fuck off,” he says, because she won't take it personally.

She doesn't. She just turns around with an arched eyebrow and shakes her head at him. Brian feels ten years old. “He asks everyone who visits how you are. And where you are. And if you give a shit, which you obviously do and are obviously terrified to let him know, because you are a coward.”

Her honesty makes him laugh, because it's either laugh or cry or throw up, and Brian doesn't puke unless it's alcohol-induced.   “What fucking good would it do? He'd get some stupid false impression of my reasons for being here.”

“I don't think <I>you</I> have any impression of why you're here.”

“Are you doing a psych rotation? What the fuck is this?” Brian thinks he should probably be pissed off at her attitude but he's too tired. And it occurs to him that he spends an awful lot of his life being pissed off.

She smiles at him then and her eyes are soft. “There's an easier way to absolve your guilt,” she says quietly. “And it would help you both.”

Brian ignores her.

*

Shitty long hours at Ryder and tricking till he's too exhausted to hold his head up during the day take their toll. Brian slumps in his usual chair in the hallway, his chin nearly touching his chest. He usually checks the window about once an hour but tonight he hasn't gotten up since he arrived. Nothing changes, anyway. Watching Justin sleep should be boring by now.

The nurse hasn't come near him tonight; she gave him her usual gentle smile on the way past but was too busy to stop. There's another room down the hall that people seem to be rushing in and out of. He wonders idly if someone's dying and thinks that maybe people thought that about Justin when he came in. He also wonders – not for the first time – how someone can lose that much blood and still be alive.

It makes him get up and check the window.

Brian sits back down heavily and rests his head in one hand, closing his eyes. So fucking tired.

It's only a minute, he swears. There is no goddamned way he closes his eyes for longer than sixty seconds, but when he looks up, Justin stands like a wraith in the hall.

“Shit,” Brian mutters under his breath, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He purposely doesn't look again.

He senses Justin's silent movement and knows the boy is standing in front of him. Brian can feel the censure radiating off him in waves.

“You could have come during the day,” Justin finally accuses. “You know, when I might be <I>awake</I>.”

“Well, now what would the point of that be,” Brian sighs. He looks up to see Justin positioned mutinously against the wall, his arms folded. “Why aren't you asleep?”

“Had to pee.”

“There's a bathroom in your room.”

“How do you know that?” The set of his jaw speaks volumes.

“I guessed.”

“You're fucked,” Justin bursts out, which is so close to being the truth that Brian almost laughs. “You're <I>fucked up</I>, Brian!”

Brian considers answering but decides against it.

“You let me think this whole time that you've never given one shit about what happened. This whole time! You let me rot in here!”

It's so princessy that Brian can't help quirking up the corner of his mouth. He tries to hide behind a water bottle but Justin sees the smile anyway and huffs out an indignant breath. “Yeah, you're rotting away to nothing,” Brian agrees, giving Justin a good once-over. It makes him blush, which was the intent.

He sits forward and braces his elbows on his thighs and stares at the linoleum. Justin, ever the little bulldog, crosses the hall and drops to the ground. He places his left hand gently on Brian's knee and Brian chooses not to look at Justin's right arm cradled protectively close to his body. “I got hit in the head,” he says reasonably, as if Brian didn't know. “I got smacked with a bat and I don't remember any of it. It wouldn't have fucking killed you to just check on me.”

He avoids revealing just how often he's checked on Justin and focuses instead on something else. “You don't remember?”

“I already told you that,” the nurse accuses, who obviously is done being busy and has chosen to set up camp about three feet from them.

Brian wonders if she went as far as waking Justin up. He glares at her just to be sure. She smiles back. “You can go now,” he tells her.

“Have to keep an eye on my patient while he's out of bed,” she replies cheerfully. “You want a sleeping pill, Justin?”

Justin answers her while keeping his eyes trained on Brian. “Maybe. I'll let you know.”

“Ten minutes,” she warns.

“All right!” Brian finally barks. “Christ, leave him alone!”

She turns away at last, but not before Brian sees her private smirk.

Justin still kneels on the cold floor, giving Brian beseeching looks. “I don't know what you want me to say,” Brian informs him. “I'm here, all right?”

“Yeah,” Justin whispers. “You are.” He heaves a tired sigh and a shudder goes through him. “It's freezing in this fucking place.”

“Then you should get your delicate ass back in bed.”

“Maybe you should take me. So I don't fall or anything.” His fingers tighten on Brian's knee and he smiles winningly.

“Fuck that. Get your private nurse to take you, she's half in love with you or something.” The nasty tone presents itself before Brian can check it. But then, like a sign from the God he doesn't believe in, the feeling of white silk beneath his shirt slides against his neck. “Oh, for fuck's sake. Let's go.”

Justin beams at him.

*

He puts Justin in bed and draws up the covers and doesn't look at the scar near his forehead. He feels a thousand years old. Justin reaches out a hand, and against his better judgment, Brian grasps it.

“Brian,” he says, and then hesitates. Brian squeezes his hand for encouragement. “Um. I won't tell anyone.” He tugs Brian closer to the bed, close enough that Brian has to sit down or fall over.

Brian feels a measure of guilt. “It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Brian looks at him then; really looks at him for the first time since Justin made his appearance in the hallway. He is young and serious and pale against the sheets. Faint purple bruises sit under his eyes, and Brian wants to rage at the fucking universe that decided an eighteen year old kid should be lying in a hospital bed, victim of a hate crime.

But he doesn't do anything except lean over and gently smooth Justin's bangs off his forehead, whispering, “Get some rest.”

“Are you staying?” Justin murmurs, his eyes heavy.

“Maybe.”

“Can you stay in here?” He pries open his eyes and glances down at the bed.

“I don't sleep in twin beds. What thread count are those sheets, anyway?”

“It's the least you could do,” Justin mutters.

“Oh, fuck me.” Brian slides over and squeezes into the tiny space. “Now shut up.”

“Mkay.”

Brian waits until Justin's eyes stay closed and his breathing deepens before moving gingerly out of the narrow bed, doing his best not to jar the sleeping boy. He slips out of the room, closing the door behind him. The light in the hallway is just as glaring and fluorescent as ever.

“I didn't wake him,” the nurse says from Brian's left. “If you were wondering.”

“I was.”

“I know,” she replies, and he can practically hear the eyeroll. “Good night, Brian.”

He glances at her nametag on the way out. It says ‘Donna' in capital letters. “Yeah,” he answers. “See you tomorrow.”

The Fifth Thing

Brian never said the words ‘I love you'.

You and Justin never fight more in your entire fucking life than you do after he moves in.

He pisses and moans at you when you don't want to go to the movies – the fucking movies – and you don't know how it gets out of hand, but there it is.

  “So there's that new Keanu Reeves movie,” he mentions casually, and flips a golden brown pancake. “I wanna see it.”

“Rent it,” you shrug. You didn't spend a shitload of money on surround sound for nothing. “Did you use butter to grease that pan?”

Justin picks up the can of fat-free cooking spray and shakes it at you. “No, not a DVD. Like a real movie, in the theater. Wanna go? We could go tonight.”

“It's Mesh night at Babylon,” you laugh. “All the see-through clothing your little fag heart desires. Last year some twink had mesh chaps. Emmett coveted them.”

“Yeah, well.” He doesn't say anything else and you study him.

“Well what?”

“Well maybe that's not what my little fag heart desires.” He avoids your eyes and turns the flame down under the griddle.

“You desire Keanu Reeves?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

You concede that point and watch as Justin plops butter on his own pancakes, leaving yours bare and handing over your plate. “I'm not going to the movies. It's Saturday night,” you tell him. Like he didn't already know.

“Stupid of me,” Justin smiles, in a completely self-deprecating way. You hate it.

“You'd rather see imaginary people doing imaginary shit on a movie screen instead of getting your dick sucked? That doesn't sound like you.” You watch him shovel in pancakes and feel a momentary twinge of jealousy at the butter dripping off them.

“Actually, Brian, it sounds a lot like me.” He drops his fork and brings his half-eaten breakfast to the sink, dumping his remains in the garbage disposal. You see him stab at the switch on the wall, roaring the disposal to life. After Justin's sure his pancakes have been sufficiently demolished, he turns and leans back on his hands. “I saw three movies this month. Once with Hunter and twice with Michael.”

“And?”

“And it sort of sucks that I have to go hunting for people to see a movie with me because my boyfriend won't. At least Michael knows how you are, so it's not as embarrassing asking him.” He heaves a tired sigh.

“Sue me if I'd rather stick my dick in a nice, tight ass instead of paying ten bucks to see the crap Hollywood churns out weekly.”

“Is that what you think of Rage?”

“Oh God,” you groan. “You fucking well know that's not what I meant.”

Justin turns to the sink and starts washing his dishes. “You have a nice, tight ass at home,” he says above the running water.

“We're back to this?” You pinch the bridge of your nose and think you should have had another cup of coffee.

“Yeah,” Justin says, and shuts off the water. “I guess we are.”

You tilt your head to study Justin more effectively, you really do want to know what makes the kid tick, because the same conversation every year or so is just so damn redundant. “You're not going to get a different answer,” you say finally, your eyes rolling of their own accord. “I don't know what you expect me to say.”

“Maybe that's the problem. I don't expect you to say anything.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means – ” he keeps his eyes on the dishtowel in his hand “ – it means that you don't even have to make your own excuses any more. I do it for you.”

You open your mouth, then close it again when you realize you don't have any desire to keep arguing. “Whatever,” you say, and your voice sounds tired to your own ears. “Don't fucking go, I don't give a shit.”

“I know.”

*

He moves out as swiftly and neatly as he moved in. You make sure you're at work on the day he told you he was going to get his crap out of your house.

*

It's a weird sort of amiable breakup. He seems fine with talking to you when you run into each other – which is more often than you thought but not as often as you'd like – and he has this calmness about him. It's unnerving.

“Hey,” he says pleasantly, when you find each other at some gallery shit of Lindsay's.

“Hey.”

“I didn't know you were coming,” he says, while looking interested in some freakish sculpture with spoons sticking out of it.

“She whined. I came.” You notice that he's had a trim and think it's too short over the ears.

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and turns to you. “How are you? You look tired.”

“Fuck you too.”

Justin smiles and tilts his head. “I'm just mentioning it. Work tough?”

“Work's fucking fabulous. I picked up two new accounts this month.” And then you promptly lost one when you refused to blow the asshole, because Brian Kinney only receives, thank you very much, but Justin doesn't need to know.

“Hey. That's good, Brian. That's great.” He looks like he means it, which annoys you, because who does he think he is to be able to be genuinely happy for you?

Lindsay arrives to smile knowingly, which is definitely your cue to look at your watch.

“Got a date?” she asks, eyebrows raised. Justin looks interested.

“I don't date,” you remind them both with disdain.

“You don't do a lot of things,” Lindsay observes, and dismisses you. “Justin, come here. I have someone I want you to meet.”

Against your better judgment, you turn around when you get to the door and see Justin shaking hands with a tall blond man. Lindsay points to a painting on the wall and Justin looks impressed, and not only by the artwork.

You head straight to Woody's and find four guys to look at you that same way.

*

You fuck him only once.

You find him drunk and laughing on the dance floor, his eyes bright with liquor and his cheeks flushed. He doesn't seem to care much that you elbow his dance partner out of the way and you remember that he's very agreeable when he's had too much to drink.

“Here,” you say, pressing your whiskey into his hand. “I bought you a drink.”

He sniffs it and wrinkles his nose. “I don't drink this. This is yours.”

You grab it again and take a swallow, then shove it back at him. “We're sharing it.”

He obediently downs the rest with only a small shudder, then grins. “Dance with me,” he says, and it's sort of frustrating that you can't really detect any kind of hidden agenda.

You wind up on a small couch in one of the darkest corners the back room has to offer. Private, almost, if you don't count the groans echoing all around you like cheap porn, but you look down at the messy, disheveled boy beneath you and it doesn't matter.

You're probably more than a little loaded yourself.

And when he offers up a condom out of his pocket, you don't think about the fact that he hadn't put it there for you. You just kiss him again, hand on his zipper, and listen to him muttering in your ear, “Hurry up.”

A quick flip to his stomach and you yank down his cargo pants, noting he wears no underwear, the little slut. Both the spit on your hand and lube on the condom ensure easy entry, not like it was ever hard to get into Justin's ass, and he arches his neck. “Missed you,” you think he murmurs, but it's too loud in the room to tell for sure. Maybe it's what you wanted him to say.

It's not awkward after, which is sort of awkward in itself. You really think that there should be darted glances and half-smiles and avoidance of eyes, but no. He zips himself up and grins at you, using his forearm to brush his sweaty bangs off his forehead. “Best fuck I've had since … well, you know.”

“It should be,” you force out, and you don't know what you expected to happen, but this isn't it – you didn't expect a smiling, confident Justin, his head cocked to one side and his hands in his back pockets.

“So … thanks,” he says, and brushes past you. You catch the scent of your own cologne on his shirt.

*

You don't see him for a while and Michael casually mentions he's been sick.

“Who?” you ask, leaning on the railing of the catwalk.

Michael laughs. “Like you don't know. He's been holed up at his mommy's so she can feed him soup and pudding and shit.”

“He has the weakest fucking immune system of anyone I've ever met.”

“They thought it was mono for a while because he slept for like fifteen hours a day. But then the doctor said he was just run down.” He slants a look at you after he says it.

You turn and stare back at him until he looks away uncomfortably. “Why does this matter?”

Michael shrugs. “It doesn't.” But he's far too smug.

*

“Oh, for God's sake. Go away.”

“Why, Justin. Such manners.” You lean against his mother's doorframe and smile at him, keeping your eyes carefully hidden behind sunglasses.

“I'm sorry. Please go away, thank you.” He starts to close the door but you block it with your foot.

“What? I came to see how you were. Mikey said you were at death's door.” Closer inspection reveals that he does look like he's been run through the wringer. His complexion is wan and his shorts hang low on his hips, showing his weight loss.

“Fucking Michael,” he mutters, and stalks inside. You take that as an invitation to follow.

Jennifer's house is as clean and conservative as ever. You watch Justin as he slumps down on the couch and stares at the television. “There's no beer, cigarettes, or drugs here. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. You have a bad habit of that.”

He coughs piteously and stares up at you. “Brian, come on. Give me a break, huh? I have no energy to deal with this.”

You spread your arms wide. “Deal with what? I'm just paying you a friendly visit. I have no ulterior motive. And what's with the crappy attitude, anyhow?”

“I'm sick.”

“No,” you muse, “I don't think that's it. You've gone out of your way for a month to show just how goddamned fine you've been with the status of our … relationship.” The word is still hard to say, although not quite as distasteful as you used to think.

He laughs, a short, sharp sound. “There is no relationship.”

“That's your fault,” you snap, suddenly prickled and angry.

“Oh yeah?” he says, rising from the sofa to face you. “You fucking think so? Why the fuck do you – no. Never mind. I will not do this.”

“Right,” you taunt, “just avoid it. Push the anger back down, it wouldn't be seemly to express yourself. Christ, one fucking week back in your mother's house and you undo all the hard work I put in.”

“I guess I'm just a waste of time, then,” he says, blue eyes snapping. “How fucking disappointed you must be. Just get out, Brian. God.”

“Pussy faggot,” you tell him, using words you know he hates. “You fucking little chickenshit pussy girl. All this time and you're still afraid to make me mad. You're right, that is a huge disappointment.”

“You asshole!” he shouts, fingers clenching and unclenching. “You total asshole! Why does it always have to be this way!” He takes a deep breath and presses his lips together, trying to keep back more words, but he's too wound up to catch himself. “Why can't I just love you?” he bursts out. “Why can't you just let me love you, and fucking admit you love me back?”

“I love you back,” is what comes out before you can stop it, “so Jesus Christ, can you shut up?” And then you grab his wrist to yank him to you.

He starts laughing like a loon against your mouth, despite your efforts to make him be quiet, so you fuck him on the floor of his mother's living room.

*

Another month goes by before you can wheedle him back into the loft, and it's another six weeks after that before “God, I love you,” slips out right before his mouth on your cock makes you come.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs afterward, nuzzling into your neck. “You don't have to keep saying it.”

~End