The One Where Justin Loses His Hearing by LaVieEnRose
Summary:

AU after Season 4. The year Justin turns 23, he and Brian get the news that over the next year he's going to gradually lose all of his hearing. The series tracks the next years of their life as they manage their new reality, after-effects of the bashing, their eventual move to New York, and their ever-evolving relationship. Told in first-person chapters from their points of view and some outsiders, with some angst, a lot of hurt/comfort, and loads of humor. Never any big relationship drama, always disability-positive, and no one ever takes themselves too seriously.


Categories: QAF US Characters: Ben Bruckner, Brian Kinney, Justin Taylor, Lindsay Peterson, Melanie Marcus, Michael Novotny
Tags: Bashing
Genres: Alternate Universe, Angst w/ Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort
Pairings: Brian/Justin, Melanie/Lindsay, Michael/Ben
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 154 Completed: Yes Word count: 780901 Read: 81619 Published: Aug 30, 2018 Updated: Aug 04, 2022
Story Notes:

 

A few years down the line, but AU after Season 4, for reasons that will become clear. NOT Michael-bashing! Additional Tags: Deaf Character/Disability, First-Person POV, Outsider POV

1. Chapter 1 - The One Where Justin Loses His Hearing by LaVieEnRose

2. Chapter 2 - The One Where Brian Learns Sign Language by LaVieEnRose

3. Chapter 3 - The One Where Justin Gets Sick by LaVieEnRose

4. Chapter 4 - The One Where Daphne Comes to Visit by LaVieEnRose

5. Chapter 5- The One Where Emmett Doesn't Babysit by LaVieEnRose

6. Chapter 6 - The One Where Cynthia Tags Along by LaVieEnRose

7. Chapter 7 - The One Where Justin Forgets He's Married by LaVieEnRose

8. Chapter 8 - The One Where Justin Does Good Work by LaVieEnRose

9. Chapter 9 - The One Where Brian Meets Justin's Brother by LaVieEnRose

10. Chapter 10 - The One Where Justin Cries All Winter by LaVieEnRose

11. Chapter 11 - The One Where Brian Talks About Relationships by LaVieEnRose

12. Chapter 12 - The One Where Brian and Justin Take Manhattan by LaVieEnRose

13. Chapter 13 - The One Where Brian Does Some Shopping by LaVieEnRose

14. Chapter 14 - The One Where Justin Gets Better by LaVieEnRose

15. Chapter 15 - The One Where Brian Isn't There by LaVieEnRose

16. Chapter 16 - The One Where Brian Doesn't Worry by LaVieEnRose

17. Chapter 17 - The One Where Justin Goes to a Hockey Game by LaVieEnRose

18. Chapter 18 - The One Where Justin Gets a Present by LaVieEnRose

19. Chapter 19 - The One Where Brian Freaks Out by LaVieEnRose

20. Chapter 20 - The One Where Brian Goes to a Party by LaVieEnRose

21. Chapter 21 - The One Where Justin Freaks Out by LaVieEnRose

22. Chapter 22 - The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 1 by LaVieEnRose

23. Chapter 23 - The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 2 by LaVieEnRose

24. Chapter 24 - The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 3 by LaVieEnRose

25. Chapter 25 - The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 4 by LaVieEnRose

26. Chapter 26 - The One Where Justin Finishes His Work by LaVieEnRose

27. Chapter 27 - Emergency Contact by LaVieEnRose

28. Chapter 28 - On The Table by LaVieEnRose

29. Chapter 29 - A Change of Plans by LaVieEnRose

30. Chapter 30 - Long Night's Journey Into Day by LaVieEnRose

31. Chapter 31 - Do You Look at Your Life by LaVieEnRose

32. Chapter 32 - Negotiations by LaVieEnRose

33. Chapter 33 - Easy by LaVieEnRose

34. Chapter 34 - One Bad Day by LaVieEnRose

35. Chapter 35 - Modern Love by LaVieEnRose

36. Chapter 36 - A Matter of Timing by LaVieEnRose

37. Chapter 37 - Respite by LaVieEnRose

38. Chapter 38 - A Slight Inconvenience by LaVieEnRose

39. Chapter 39 - All Together by LaVieEnRose

40. Chapter 40 - The First Five Years by LaVieEnRose

41. Chapter 41 - If They Can Do It by LaVieEnRose

42. Chapter 42 - Dear Justin by LaVieEnRose

43. Chapter 43 - No Apologies by LaVieEnRose

44. Chapter 44 - Absolution by LaVieEnRose

45. Chapter 45 - Something New by LaVieEnRose

46. Chapter 46 - Family Bonding by LaVieEnRose

47. Chapter 47 - Anniversario by LaVieEnRose

48. Chapter 48 - Mixed Doubles by LaVieEnRose

49. Chapter 49 - Under Pressure by LaVieEnRose

50. Chapter 50 - A Kind of Magic by LaVieEnRose

51. Chapter 51 - Promises by LaVieEnRose

52. Chapter 52 - Laying on of Hands by LaVieEnRose

53. Chapter 53 - Like Diamonds by LaVieEnRose

54. Chapter 54 - Ducks in a Row by LaVieEnRose

55. Chapter 55 - From New York by LaVieEnRose

56. Chapter 56 - To California by LaVieEnRose

57. Chapter 57 - And Back Again by LaVieEnRose

58. Chapter 58 - At Home in the World by LaVieEnRose

59. Chapter 59 - No Safer Place by LaVieEnRose

60. Chapter 60 - You Must Remember This by LaVieEnRose

61. Chapter 61 - Sparks Fly by LaVieEnRose

62. Chapter 62 - Five by LaVieEnRose

63. Chapter 63 - Ah, Wilderness by LaVieEnRose

64. Chapter 64 - House Call by LaVieEnRose

65. Chapter 65 - A Story in Two Parts by LaVieEnRose

66. Chapter 66 - Gender Reveal by LaVieEnRose

67. Chapter 67 - Miranda by LaVieEnRose

68. Chapter 68 - And to Hold by LaVieEnRose

69. Chapter 69 - Tidings by LaVieEnRose

70. Chapter 70 - Typical by LaVieEnRose

71. Chapter 71 - A House in Virginia by LaVieEnRose

72. Chapter 72 - Adaptation by LaVieEnRose

73. Chapter 73 - And Many More by LaVieEnRose

74. Chapter 74 - Welcome by LaVieEnRose

75. Chapter 75 - Keep Breathing by LaVieEnRose

76. Chapter 76 - Hiatus by LaVieEnRose

77. Chapter 77 - The Thing About Fairy Tales by LaVieEnRose

78. Chapter 78 - Flashback by LaVieEnRose

79. Chapter 79 - Into My Night by LaVieEnRose

80. Chapter 80 - Kindred by LaVieEnRose

81. Chapter 81 - Outrageous Fortune by LaVieEnRose

82. Chapter 82 - Saturday Morning by LaVieEnRose

83. Chapter 83 - Bring Your Daughter to Work Day by LaVieEnRose

84. Chapter 84 - Pause by LaVieEnRose

85. Chapter 85 - Stop by LaVieEnRose

86. Chapter 86 - Atypical by LaVieEnRose

87. Chapter 87 - Sister Winter by LaVieEnRose

88. Chapter 88 - Gratitude by LaVieEnRose

89. Chapter 89 - Indoor Living by LaVieEnRose

90. Chapter 90 - How Far We've Come by LaVieEnRose

91. Chapter 91 - Until the Scenery Changes by LaVieEnRose

92. Chapter 92 - If My Heart Was a House by LaVieEnRose

93. Chapter 93 - Home for the Holidays by LaVieEnRose

94. Chapter 94 - Meeting in the Middle by LaVieEnRose

95. Chapter 95 - Permanence by LaVieEnRose

96. Chapter 96 - The Big Easy by LaVieEnRose

97. Chapter 97 - The Best Medicine by LaVieEnRose

98. Chapter 98 - Pack up Your Troubles by LaVieEnRose

99. Chapter 99 - Stitches by LaVieEnRose

100. Chapter 100 - Gonna Make This Place Your Home by LaVieEnRose

101. Chapter 101 - Underwater by LaVieEnRose

102. Chapter 102 - Michael and Evan by LaVieEnRose

103. Chapter 103 - Unsaid by LaVieEnRose

104. Chapter 104 - Comfort by LaVieEnRose

105. Chapter 105 - Capable by LaVieEnRose

106. Chapter 106 - The Happiest Place on Earth by LaVieEnRose

107. Chapter 107 - In Place Of by LaVieEnRose

108. Chapter 108 - Better by LaVieEnRose

109. Chapter 109 - Come On by LaVieEnRose

110. Chapter 110 - Come Out by LaVieEnRose

111. Chapter 111 - Come Here by LaVieEnRose

112. Chapter 112 - Saltwater by LaVieEnRose

113. Chapter 113 - Problem Solving by LaVieEnRose

114. Chapter 114 - Safe House by LaVieEnRose

115. Chapter 115 - Three of Us by LaVieEnRose

116. Chapter 116 - Compound by LaVieEnRose

117. Chapter 117 - Lovers in a Dangerous Time by LaVieEnRose

118. Chapter 118 - Haunted by LaVieEnRose

119. Chapter 119 - Overnight by LaVieEnRose

120. Chapter 120 - How to Be Alone by LaVieEnRose

121. Chapter 121 - Sinai by LaVieEnRose

122. Chapter 122 - Befriend by LaVieEnRose

123. Chapter 123 - Coming of Age by LaVieEnRose

124. Chapter 124 - Split Level by LaVieEnRose

125. Chapter 125 - Hey Jealousy by LaVieEnRose

126. Chapter 126 - A Ballet by LaVieEnRose

127. Chapter 127 - The Ballad of the Ugliest Lamp On the Face of the Earth by LaVieEnRose

128. Chapter 128 - Guardian of the Sick by LaVieEnRose

129. Chapter 129 - The Week it Didn't Stop Raining by LaVieEnRose

130. Chapter 130 - Duty of Care by LaVieEnRose

131. Chapter 131 - A Bigger Boat by LaVieEnRose

132. Chapter 132 - Love, Justin (Part 1) by LaVieEnRose

133. Chapter 133 - Talking About It by LaVieEnRose

134. Chapter 134 - Date Night by LaVieEnRose

135. Chapter 135 - Pain Management by LaVieEnRose

136. Chapter 136 - Dirty Magic by LaVieEnRose

137. Chapter 137 - Three Acts by LaVieEnRose

138. Chapter 138 - Love Justin (Part 2) by LaVieEnRose

139. Chapter 139 - April Showers by LaVieEnRose

140. Chapter 140 - Awaited by LaVieEnRose

141. Chapter 141 - Sleeping with Ghosts by LaVieEnRose

142. Chapter 142 - A Consult by LaVieEnRose

143. Chapter 143 - In From the Rain by LaVieEnRose

144. Chapter 144 - Miracle by LaVieEnRose

145. Chapter 145 - Second City by LaVieEnRose

146. Chapter 146 - The Origin of Love by LaVieEnRose

147. Chapter 147 - Jellyfish by LaVieEnRose

148. Chapter 148 - Mother's Day by LaVieEnRose

149. Chapter 149 - Fear by LaVieEnRose

150. Chapter 150 - Interlude by LaVieEnRose

151. Chapter 151 - The Art of Introductions by LaVieEnRose

152. Chapter 152 - Happiness by LaVieEnRose

153. Chapter 153 - Forever Hold Your Peace by LaVieEnRose

154. Chapter 154 - Pride by LaVieEnRose

Chapter 1 - The One Where Justin Loses His Hearing by LaVieEnRose

The One Where Justin Loses His Hearing

by LaVieEnRose




Chapter 1 - The One Where Justin Loses His Hearing


I don't think I would have noticed anything at first if Brian weren't teasing him about it. “Hey,” he'd say, when he'd have to repeat a question, or when Justin missed a joke a the diner. “You going deaf, old man?” He'd nibble on Justin's neck, right out in fucking public, but what else is new. “Do I need to trade you in for someone who can keep up with me?” And Justin would laugh and swat him and make that face he always does when Brian's a dick, that one where you can tell he hopes Brian keeps being a dick to him for the next five hundred years.

To tell the truth, even with Brian calling attention to it, I barely noticed. We had a lot on our plate, with moving Hunter into college three fucking states away, and Ben getting promoted to head of the department, and Rage selling more copies than ever before. I swear, Justin and I spent half our time just answering fan mail, from thousands upon thousands of queer kids who never even thought of seeing a superhero like them before. Justin thought that was the coolest thing, and obviously I didn't disagree. He and I were spending a lot of time together, maybe even more than me and Brian, so maybe I don't really have an excuse for not noticing anything was wrong.

But I still noticed before Brian did. Or maybe I just don't have Brian's strong sense of denial as far as anything wrong with Justin is concerned. One time, ages ago—like before the whole Ethan fiasco, which now feels like something that happened when we were kids, or like something somebody made up—Justin had a panic attack at Babylon, and Emmett and Ted and I were all over Brian and Justin trying to get them out of there or get Justin some water or something, and Brian was barking at us like we were the problem, holding Justin all close and growling, “He's fine, he's fine, he's fine,” like the idea of Justin not being fine was just completely not acceptable. And it's always been like that; if I make the mistake of telling Brian Justin's been having trouble with his hand, Brian just about bites my head off.

So maybe I've trained myself out of noticing when something seems off with Justin. Or maybe I'm just making excuses for being a self-centered prick. And maybe Brian really knew ages before me that something was wrong, and he was just pretending he didn't. But I don't know. He was busy too, supervising renovations on the loft, pulling in business left and right for Kinnetik, still going out five nights a week. And he and Justin were happy. Really happy, had been for years now. Maybe Brian thought he could keep anything from messing with that by sheer force of will. It'd worked so far, I guess.

And it was so subtle at first. I'd repeat myself to Justin all the time, struggle to get his attention when he was working on the comic, practically have to wave my hand in front of his face. “We oughta get you tested for ADD,” I probably said more than a couple times over however long that was...god, a month? More? I know Brian says it wouldn't have mattered, that there wasn't anything that they could have done, but it still seems like...I don't know, with Ben it's so important to stay on top of shit, to report to his doctors at the first sign something's not right.

I remember a few times I'd come into the loft with Brian and Justin would be there watching TV or listening to music, and Brian would make a face and ask him why it had to be on so fucking loud, and was he trying to get them evicted, and one time he even asked if all that thumpa thumpa had damaged his hearing already. And STILL, I didn't think anything of it, until one time me and him and Ben and Brian were all at Mel and Lindz's for dinner, and Mel and Ben and I were in the kitchen loading the dishwasher after dessert while the others were getting the kids to bed and Mel said, “Did something seem off with Justin?” and I swear the fucking hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

“He has seemed kind of spacey lately,” Ben said, and he had and I had never talked about it or anything, and I just got this really bad feeling about the fact that we'd both noticed something separately, even though I hadn't even really been AWARE that I'd noticed it. I guess that's proof right there that I might have been in denial just as bad as Brian was.

Except even I wasn't prepared for what Mel said next, because I was thinking it was something with his PTSD or whatever, like Justin was disappearing into his memory or having flashbacks, and then Mel went and said, “Do you think there's something wrong with his hearing?”

Jesus. Like PTSD isn't scary enough, right? And he and Brian were just hanging out in the living room groping each other like everything was fine.

I don't even know when Justin realized things weren't right. If he already knew.

I guess it's fucked up I never thought about that before.

**

After that dinner at Melanie and Lindsey's I kind of started...testing Justin. Nothing major, I'd just drop something light behind him when he was working on the comic book, or say his name quietly when he was looking away from me, things like that. I didn't really get much out of it. It seemed like sometimes he noticed and sometimes he didn't, and anyway Justin's always been the type to go off somewhere in his head when he's working, or thinking about working, or thinking about thinking about working. Brian's always throwing stuff at him.

So since my tests were doing nothing, I finally bit the bullet and mentioned it to Brian, when he came by the store one day after work. He was fucking with all my arrangements like always, making Captain America figurines go down on the Batman ones, same shit, different day. “So how's Justin?” I said, all carefully.

Brian didn't look up from angling the Cap's head. “Didn't you see him yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he's just about the same. Mister Universe here could really stand to take a yoga class. Come on, hero, BEND those knees.”

“Brian.”

“Yyyyes?”

I took a deep breath. “Is something wrong with Justin?”

He turned around with that look he gives me when he wants me to shut up. Like I'm so fucking stupid that he can't figure out how I'm even saying words to begin with.

“Justin's fine,” he said. “He's working hard. His hand gets tired.”

“I'm not talking about his hand.”

He tightened his jaw. “Justin,” he said. “Is fine.”

So I let it go. Because in terms of everything else, Justin did seem totally normal. He wasn't depressed, or cranky, or quiet. He came up with new ideas for the comic, and taught Ben this stir fry recipe he got from his mom, and he and Brian were still showing up to the diner looking as worn out and sweaty as ever. Maybe I was making mountains out of molehills. Ben's always telling me I tend to do that.

Then about two weeks later, we had a meeting with this lawyer about a copyright thing for Rage. It was beyond stupid; the plotline in our last issue had the most superficial similarity to some comic from the '80s that even I had never heard of, and now the creators of that wanted some kind of compensation, so we had to meet with their lawyer. Justin hates shit like that and probably would have blown up the whole meeting with some rant about artistic integrity and how nothing is really new or some shit like that, and anyway we needed someone to stay with JR and Gus since Melanie and Lindsey were out of town for their anniversary and they were both staying with Ben and me, and Ben wanted to be at the meeting, and Brian was being Justin's proxy or whatever...anyway, all of that's a long way of saying that Justin stayed at our place alone with the kids one evening.

Brian was right that the whole meeting was bullshit, and we agreed to pay the creator a hundred and fifty dollars and it all went away, so that was fine. When we got home, Justin was on the floor playing with Gus. The baby monitor was on the coffee table next to him, and we could all hear JR crying quietly through it.

“How long has she been up?” Ben asked, and Justin looked with confusion first at him,and then the baby monitor.

Or, almost all of us could hear it.

Ben went to check on JR, and I said, really gently, “Didn't you hear that, Justin?”

“No, of course I heard it, I just thought...” He shrugged and looked quickly back at the blanket, said something to Gus, I don't remember.

I just remember I looked at Brian, and he was chewing his thumbnail and staring at Justin, his expression totally blank in that Brian way that means everything. And I knew then for sure that he was really worried. That he'd been worried for a long time.

And then he kind of shook himself off and went and pulled Justin off the floor. He kissed him and said, “Let's go home,” and kind of pulled Justin out the door. And if I didn't know better I'd say the way he put an arm around his waist was almost...protective. But of course I know better.

Better than to say anything, anyway.

**

I don't know how long after that Justin and Brian went to the doctor. They didn't give anything away to us; nobody mentioned the incident at our house, and they kept acting totally normal. But then eventually they sat us all down as a group and told us that Justin had a genetic disease and within a year he was going to lose a hundred percent of his hearing. There was some surgery they could have done once he lost it all, but the doctors said with the bashing it was too dangerous to go digging around in Justin's brain. So basically he was just going to be completely deaf, for the rest of his life. And they were so fucking matter of fact about it! You could tell they'd known for weeks. I don't know how they kept going acting like nothing was wrong.

Maybe that's why they finally told us. They just got tired of keeping up appearances. Because after the announcement, Justin canceled our next two dates to work on the comic book, and I stopped seeing Brian anywhere outside of Babylon. It reminded me of when I came back from Portland and Brian was tricking without any life in his eyes. If I didn't know better I would have thought they'd broken up again. I even freaked out and called the loft one time when I knew Brian was at the office late to see if it went to the machine, but Justin was there, of course, and he sounded fine. And after that, he started showing up again, at the shop, at the diner with Brian, at the bar, and everyone acted totally normal.

Except...if you really paid attention, you could tell something was different between Brian and Justin, usually just at the end of the night. They always went home together, and that wasn't new, but there was something...I don't know, desperate about it, I guess? The way they'd grab at each other, hold each other on the dance floor, start tearing at each other's clothes because they even got to the fucking car...it was like they were so afraid it was going to be their last night together, or something. It would have been sweet if you didn't know what was going on.

And honestly, it was easy to forget a lot of the time. Justin didn't act much different. If you were really looking for it, you could see him watching your lips when you were talking sometimes, and sometimes he kind of got lost if everyone was talking at once, but he always seemed so embarrassed and tried to hide it, so it's not like I was going to say anything. After a while I noticed Brian had this habit of slowing people down, if we started talking all at once. “I can't fucking listen to all of you at the same time,” he'd say, and everyone knew what he was doing, but obviously we didn't call him on it. I remember one time we'd been working on the comic and Brian came to pick him up, and the phone started ringing while I was in the back. I asked Justin to grab it, and Brian snatched it up and sent me death glares across the room. I hadn't realized it before then, but I probably hadn't heard him talk on the phone since that time I called him at the loft. And I hadn't even thought twice about doing it, either!

It got to the point where it was practically impossible to have a conversation with Justin when Brian was around, not because of the hearing loss, but just because Brian was all the fuck over you controlling what you said and watching Justin to make sure no one upset him and basically being his typical control freak self turned up to eleven. And Justin acted like he didn't notice, but it had to be driving him crazy, having Brian micromanage all his social interactions like that.

So whenever Justin and I were alone I'd try to check on him, kind of push the little Do Not Mention It boundaries Brian was enforcing, but Justin always acted like he had no idea what I was talking about. “I'm fine,” he'd say, with this look like I was being crazy. “Don't I look fine?”

But one week he bailed out of meeting some PIFA students who wanted to interview us, which before he'd been really excited about, and then the day after the interview was supposed to happen Brian showed up at the shop instead of him and said Justin wasn't coming today. And he seemed just...tired, like his guard was down for the first time since all this shit came crashing into their lives.

“Is he okay?” I said.

I was expecting him to glare at me, and he did, for a second, and then he looked away and shrugged. His fingernails scraped at the glass on the display case. “He had a doctor's appointment the other day and...it's progressing faster than they thought it would.”

“Shit,” I said.

He shrugged again. “It was going to get there sooner or later. I don't know why it matters if we just cut down on the fun anticipatory part,” and I could tell by his voice he didn't mean a word of it. He just looked so...open, I don't know how to describe it. Like all of this was just cutting him open.

I didn't know what to say.

Brian ran his hand over his face. “He's fucking miserable.”

“He seems like he's handling it all okay,” I said. “You're the one who's on edge all the time. He's like the same old Justin.”

He looked at me like I was an idiot.

It was one of those moments where I was so sure I was never, ever going to really understand the two of them and what went on when I wasn't around. I don't know when they developed their secret little world—hell, maybe it started the first night Brian took him home—but there was no going back now, that was for sure. And not that I wanted them to, most of the time, though it was hard to see Brian standing there looking like he used to after he fought with his dad and not...I don't know. He's my best friend and he was hurting. Sometimes even the Epic Magic of Brian and Justin can't shake that out of my brain.

We stopped by the diner and got something to eat, and Brian talked about his new account and about Gus and and the new issue of Rage and the new hot guy at Babylon and basically anything in the world besides Justin losing his hearing, and I let him. Ma gave us a big care package to bring home to Justin, and at the last minute Brian said I should come back to the loft with them. He said Justin would like to see the mock-ups for the new issue, even if he didn't feel up to going out. “It's just easier for him when he can control the environment,” Brian said, and it took everything in me not to make some joke about Justin learning THAT one from the master.

When we got up to the loft, Justin was lying on the couch with his eyes closed and ear buds in, listening to music loudly enough that we could hear it before we'd even opened the door to the loft. Brian jiggled his foot and Justin opened his eyes, took out the earbuds.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Michael.”

“We brought food,” Brian said. “You're going to fucking eat. And Michael has some...thing for you to look at.”

I tried to smile at him. “Hey, Justin.”

He and I sat down and started looking at the mock-ups while Brian plated the food in the kitchen, but a minute later, he stopped while he was shuffling around the bags and said, “Justin, what the fuck is this?” Justin didn't even pause in his explanation to me of what's wrong with the layout, so I knew he didn't hear him.

Brian threw a French Fry at him.

Justin turned around. “Jesus, what?”

Brian held up this small paper bag, the kind you get from the pharmacy, waiting for an explanation.

Justin sighed. “I just...didn't feel like it.”

“You said you wanted to be alone to try them out, you said go for a walk, get the fuck out, and you were going to test them out. They're still in the fucking packaging.”

“Yeah, like I said, I didn't feel like it.”

“You're never going to feel like it.”

“Just fuck off, Brian,” Justin said.

I said, maybe I should go, but they acted like they didn't hear me. Or one of them acted, anyway.

Brian closed his eyes, and I could practically see him counting to ten. “I am trying to help you,” he said, his voice even, forced. “I'm going to eight million doctor's appointments. I'm running to the pharmacy every five minutes. I've called your fucking grandmother for you. I am here, in the flesh, being the motherfucking partner of your dreams, so you're going to stop being a drama queen and try the fucking hearing aids.”

“It's too soon,” Justin said. “I don't need them yet.”

“Then what the fuck did we go to the doctor for, Justin? If you're not going to do anything he says—”

“He's being overly cautious,” Justin said. “It's too early.”

“Overly cautious because he doesn't want you to walk in front of another fucking car.”

“That was one time,” Justin said, and he turned back around like he was going to get back to work on the mock-ups.

“Don't you...” Brian crossed the loft in three steps and pulled Justin up by his shirt. “Could you fucking look at me when I'm talking to you?”

“I don't want to look at you.”

“Well, too fucking bad, because you won't WEAR THE FUCKING HEARING AIDS!”

I wonder all the time how loud that sounded to Justin. If he could hear his voice ringing through the loft the way I could.

I started packing up our shit to get the hell out of there. “I'll see you guys later,” I said. I touched Justin's arm so he'd know, I don't know, that I was leaving? That he didn't deserve to be yelled at like that? I don't know. But he looked at me and smiled a little. I don't know if Brian even registered that I was still there.

I paused for a minute on my way out, before I closed the door all the way. He was just holding Justin at this point, his hands around his neck, his forehead tucked against his. He pulled back just enough so Justin could see his lips and said, “I cannot keep being this fucking...I cannot be this fucking scared all the time, Justin, I can't fucking do it, I can't...”

Justin wrapped his arms around his waist. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

I heard them kissing as I slid the door shut.

The next morning I had a text from Brian: “He's wearing them. Don't fucking say anything about it.” I don't know what his plan was to keep everyone else from saying anything. God knows Ma would be all over him like they were the greatest thing she'd ever seen.

Justin came in and gave me a small smile and got straight to work without a lot of small talk. I kept trying not to look at the hearing aids, but then that made me want to look at them, and then I didn't want to act like I was deliberately not looking at him, so that made me look at them, and then I'd try to look away, and the whole thing was a fucking mess and he'd only been there for like ten minutes.

“I know,” he said finally. “I look weird.”

“Actually, I think they look kind of cool,” I said honestly. “You kind of look like a superhero.”

He blushed and ducked his head and said, “You are such a freak, Michael.”

**

Not long after that he and Brian started taking classes to learn sign language. It seemed like they were both picking it up pretty quickly, and they always wanted to show off for us and teach us some things. I made some comment to Brian once about how they must be almost fluent by now, and Brian shook his head and said fluency took something like FIVE YEARS, and how the grammar was completely different from English, and I started freaking out because at that point Justin's hearing was supposed to be completely gone in less than six months. What the fuck where they going to do?

“It's not like we need to be fluent right away to get by,” Brian said. “And I know all the essentials. 'Take your clothes off, bend over...'”

“Justin likes to talk,” I said.

“He'll still be able to talk,” Brian said. “I'll still be able to hear him.”

That made me feel pretty stupid, but I guess I'd kind of forgotten that. That Justin had to learn this whole language just so people could talk to him, but he didn't even have to use it to talk. Something about that was just so fucking sad to me, I don't know why. I guess it hit me how isolated he was going to be. That only the people who knew him and took the time to learn a whole new language were going to be able to communicate with him.

So I started paying more attention to their little lessons at the diner, and I bought a book and watched some videos. There was no fucking way I was ever going to be fluent—I took four years of Spanish in high school and all I remember is how to ask what the weather is—but I wanted to try.

“You know what's fucked up?” I said to Brian one time, at the diner.

Brian raised an eyebrow over his omelette.

“I get why you have to learn sign language, and me and everything,” I said. “But it just seems totally fucked that Justin has to learn it. It seems like he should just magically...know it, like it should be his consolation prize for having to deal with this shit. Like it shouldn't be allowed to take his language away from him without giving him a new one.”

I was so ready for him to tell me that that was fucking stupid, but he just chuckled a little and said, “I said that exact same thing to him last week.”

I practically burst out laughing. “What did he say?”

“He told me I was fucking stupid,” Brian said, with the world's most affectionate smile, I swear to God, and I didn't have to ask if it was for me or for Justin. I'm not the one who's fucking stupid!

About a month later stuff started progressing more quickly, and it seemed like Brian and Justin were spending all their time shuttling back and forth to the doctor, trying to find meds Justin wasn't allergic to that would help with symptoms like dizziness and migraines that were hitting him all the time now. Periodically he would lose all the hearing in one of his ears, and it always came back, but it was definitely freaking them out. Justin had this look he'd give Brian when it happened, and Brian would always get them the fuck out of wherever they were. Which was usually Babylon. Yep, the old stomping ground was back to being their number-one hangout, and even though they both still tricked sometimes, I rarely saw them go into the back room even together; they'd just stay out in the middle of the floor, dancing for hours, and then disappearing when the sun came up to go to another fucking doctor.

Brian was hanging out in the shop midday one time when our checks for Rage came in. I went ahead and gave him Justin's, and, while I was handing it over it occurred to me that all this shit going on with Justin must be really fucking expensive and it's not like he had health insurance through school anymore. So I said, “Do you guys need, uh, an advance on the next issue?” as I handed the check over.

Brian chuffed out a laugh and straightened his cuffs. “You know this is Prada, right? Do I look like I'm struggling, Mikey? Were you not listening when I told you about my new account? I asked if you were listening. I give you a chance to tell me you're not listening...”

“Justin's medical stuff must be expensive,” I said. “I figured you were helping him out.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “No, I figured I'd let the little pup put himself hundreds of thousands of dollars into debt instead. He's my partner, Michael. It's not 'helping him out.'”

“Okay then, well I figured—”

“It's taken care of,” he said.

“Even you don't have the cash on hand to pay this shit out of pocket,” I said.

“Oh, and a bonus from your little comic book is gonna change that?”

I glared at him all through handing a customer change for an issue of Wonder Woman and a pack of gum. Finally, he sighed.

“It's not out of pocket,” Brian said. “He's on my insurance.”

“Jeez, how'd you swing that?”

And the thing is, if he'd just said some line about how he wrote the policy for Kinnetik so he could decide it or some shit, I totally would have bought it! I wouldn't have sat down and gone, “Hey, wait a minute, that doesn't make sense.” I would have totally believed whatever bit of bullshit he fed me, but instead he just stood there looking so fucking guilty!

“Holy shit,” I said. “When?”

He shrugged.

“Brian, when?”

“Right after we found out,” he said.

“Holy...and you didn't tell me?”

“Don't go trying to find us a house in your neighborhood,” Brian said. “It's business. It would have been totally fucking stupid not to do it.”

Only Brian Kinney could get married to the love of his fucking life and call it BUSINESS.

**

Justin started feeling pretty shitty all the time soon after that. He'd come by my house or the store to work on the comic and half the time just end up crashing on the couch. He was having these bouts of nausea too that Brian said reminded him of when he had cancer, so that was a fun trip down memory lane for all of us.

His hearing was pretty much garbage at that point, even though they kept turning up the hearing aids. At some point we all knew they'd stop working completely, when his brain would just forget how to process sound or whatever, and that would be it. They got really dedicated to their sign language classes, whenever Justin wasn't feeling too sick for it. With us, Justin still talked, and still seemed like he got most of what we were saying, but Brian threw a lot of signs in while they were talking, and it was hard not to notice that Justin responded a lot more to that than he did to us. I'd done enough reading to know that if you're doing sign language right, you never do it while you're talking, but I think they were less worried about being correct and more worried about just fucking getting by, and who could really blame them for that?

And sometimes Brian would sign to him without talking, and Justin would grin, and probably that was because it was something dirty, but maybe it was also just because they liked having their own secret language, this thing they could pull out in public and no one would even know. Or maybe they were just talking shit about us right in front of us.

One night Justin and I were working late at the shop, and he was putting up a good front but I could tell he was feeling like total trash. I tapped him on the shoulder and asked him in sign language—I told you I was practicing!—if he wanted to go lie down for a while, and he said yeah. I didn't know if he'd be able to actually sleep, since the air conditioner back there wasn't working right so it was making a shit ton of noise that I figured even he could probably hear, but it would probably be helpful for his balance just to get horizontal for a little while, and besides, I didn't need him to do the text layouts anyway.

He'd been lying down for about twenty minutes when he went, “Michael?” and God, his voice just sounded...wrong. And I knew. I knew right away.

I went to the back room and he was sitting on the couch, breathing hard, and he looked so fucking lost, like he'd never seen this place before. “Can you call Brian,” he said, and the way he was searching my face it's like he was scared I would say no, fuck.

I didn't want to leave him back there. I don't know, it just suddenly seemed so fucking imperative that I not leave him by himself. So I helped him up from the couch and I held his hand out to the front. I don't know why—it's not like he'd lost his ability to walk—but the way he clung to me made me feel like it was the right call. I sat him back in his place at the counter and turned away from him when I called Brian. I didn't want him to know if Brian was freaking out, but Justin wasn't looking at me anyway. He had his head in his arms, down on the counter.

“I'm busy,” Brian said, by way of hello.

“You need to get down here right the fuck now.”

And he was just fucking ironically silent.

“What happened?” he said eventually, but his voice wasn't asking a question. He knew.

“It happened,” I said anyway. “You have to get the fuck here, he needs you, I don't know what the fuck to do.”

There was this pause that was just fucking...awful. And I know Brian. I know what was going through his head in that moment.

But he said, “I'll be right there. Fuck, Michael, tell him I'll be right there. Make sure he fucking knows I'm coming, okay? Promise me.”

I promised him, but once I got off the phone it's like all the sign language I'd tried to learn had totally fallen out of my head. I just squeezed Justin's wrist until he looked up at me and nodded and smiled a little, and I think that was enough.

Brian was there in five minutes, sweaty and disheveled as hell, and I wondered if he'd even had time to get the trick out of the loft before he got out of there. But he put this...this game face on, and he strode over to Justin and tapped him on the shoulder and pulled him up into his arms. Justin was clinging, but Brian pulled back a little and gave him this smile, and even though I knew it was held together with tape and pure willpower, God, I just felt this sense of calm, and he wasn't even smiling at me.

Let's go home he signed to Justin.

I didn't hear Justin's voice again for two months.

**

It turned out they had to go to the hospital instead, Brian explained to us the next day. The doctors needed to check him over and make sure it was permanent, that this wasn't some temporary thing they could reverse. And even after they were sure that this was it, it was really gone, they wanted to run an MRI and some blood tests and stuff to figure out why it progressed faster than they'd thought—he was supposed to have had weeks left, a nurse mentioned to me—so they ended up keeping him overnight.

We all went to visit him, and Brian was a rock, sitting on the bed next to Justin, signing some stuff to him that people were saying, letting Justin kind of smile and drift out of the conversation when he wanted to. Justin wasn't talking at all, which we didn't realize at the time was going to be the new normal. After all, how many times had he assured us that he'd still be able to talk to us, we just wouldn't be able to answer?

Everyone held it together okay, but eventually we were all saying goodnight and kissing Justin and telling him we loved him, and something just...changed in Brian, I don't know how to describe it. It was like he'd been punched or something. He did a decent job of hiding it, but...it was like all of a sudden a light went out, or something. He kissed Justin's temple and carefully got out of bed and then walked out of that room like it was on fire.

I didn't know if I should follow him, but Justin gave me this look like, well?, so I went. Brian was still moving fast, down hallway after hallway, until finally he just stopped with his forehead against the wall and...fuck, it's been years and years since I've seen him cry like that.

After Justin was bashed, we sat for ages, and it felt like he was never going to stop crying, but it was slow and quiet, like he didn't even realize he was doing it, like it was just breathing. This was shaky and desperate, like when we were kids, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the fuck had just happened. I guess I thought it had all just hit him eventually, but when I put my hand on his shoulder he flinched and turned to me and said, “I was going to tell him, I had it all planned out, they...they told me I had weeks,” and oh God, I knew.

“Brian, he knows,” I said. “You've been together for six years. You fucking married him, for God's sake. He knows.”

But that just made it worse. “He's NEVER going to hear it!” he yelled. “Do you get that? He is fucking NEVER going to hear me say it, and it would have...I was waiting for the right time, they promised me WEEKS, I'm going to sue this fucking hospital, and I could have just...I should have...it would have taken me two fucking seconds, and I screwed it up, I fucked it up, and now he never gets to...”

And what could I even fucking say? How do you make that better? I just held him for a while, and we both cried, and I kept telling him, “He knows. He knows,” because I didn't know what the fuck else to say.

Brian pulled away eventually, frantically wiping at his face. “God, I've got to get back there, I can't leave him alone in there with them. I've got to get back.”

“He's okay,” I said.

“He's not. He's not okay.”

**

Brian was right. He always is.

We barely saw Justin for months, and when we did, he was a shell of who he used to be. He never talked, never made a fucking sound, and honestly I assumed the doctors had been wrong and the disease had affected his ability to speak.

Brian kept up appearances as well as he could, but anyone could see he was tired as hell. Maybe me more than anyone else, because I spent more time around the loft, since Justin didn't want to meet at the shop to work on the comic book anymore. But God, being there was fucking depressing. You could see how hard they were working just to fucking understand each other—this mixture of lipreading, sign language, just fucking writing stuff down when they got too frustrated—and it all just seemed so goddamn unfair, that they'd gotten through so much shit together, finally fucking learned how to communicate as a couple, just to have it all snatched out from underneath them.

“I don't know how you do it,” I said to Brian at once point, when Justin was in the kitchen. I still lowered my voice on instinct.

Brian rubbed his temples. “We're getting better. Once our signing improves it'll be easier.” But there was no hope in his voice, just exhaustion.

“I thought he was going to talk,” I said. “What happened?”

“He's self-conscious about it,” Brian said. “It makes him feel out of control, this sound coming out of him that everyone else can hear but he can't. And he's nervous about being too loud, or too quiet.”

“Jesus,” I said.

Brian shrugs. “Could have been worse, I guess. It's not like I've ever been much for long speeches. Fuck, I grab the kid's hand, he knows everything I'm trying to say.”

“Well yeah, you're not,” I said. “But he always liked talking to you.” I don't know why I said that, and I regretted it right away. Like Jesus, Brian really needed to feel worse about all of this?

But he just looked at me like I was nuts and said, “Well, he still talks when it's just him and me,” like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Which I guess maybe it should have been.

**

Gradually Justin started coming out more, just for an hour or so at the diner, or to dinner at Ma's house. He didn't ever go anywhere without Brian, until one day, before I left the store to go to the loft for the comic book, he showed up there alone like it was the most natural thing in the world. I tried to play it cool, but God, it was so fucking great to see him out and alone, I probably looked like I'd just seen a puppy or some shit. Justin rolled his eyes, signed nice and slowly for me, and we got to work, stopping every once in a while for him to painstakingly fingerspell out some words or jot down notes for each other.

Eventually I went out to get food, and on my way back I noticed Brian's car parked half a block away. Sure enough, when I opened the door of the shop, I heard Brian's voice coming from the back room...and then Justin's, and I totally froze.

“He totally looks like like that horrible teacher,” Brian said, and I knew he was talking about the villain in our new issue. “Is this supposed to be him?” His voice was kind of halting, pausing while he searched for signs. I couldn't see him, but I was used to that by now. Sometimes he did it when Justin wasn't even around, just out of habit.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” Justin said. I don't know what I was expecting, but fuck, he sounded just like he used to, and I was just...so fucking sad, I don't know.

“The one who wouldn't let you start the GSA,” Brian said. “The one who testified at the fucking trial.”

“Hmm, I don't know,” Justin said. “Doesn't ring a bell.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“Don't tell Michael. I let him think he comes up with the stories.”

And maybe I should have been pissed at that, but honestly I just felt so relieved that they were having this normal conversation, that they were talking about something other than hearing loss and brain scans and did Justin eat today. They sounded...happy. And for the first time I felt like maybe Justin was going to be okay.

I brought the food to the counter and made a lot of noise with the bags so Brian would know I was there, and soon enough, the two of them came out a minute later and made short work of the takeout, and then Brian said, “Come on.”

Justin raised his eyebrows.

We're going dancing Brian said to us.

**

The thumpa-thumpa doesn't know age, gender, disability, sickness, time. Ask not for who the thumpa-thumpa beats; it beats for every goddamn queer in the nation. And Justin felt it just as well as we could hear it.

He and Brian were the marvel they always were, spinning with Brian's arms around Justin's neck, swallowing each other whole, smiling and saying words only the other one could understand. Just in a new language this time.

And that night, after I hauled both their drunk asses back to the loft, Justin gave me a tired wave and headed off to bed, and Brian paused in his juggling, letting three oranges fall to the floor, and caught Justin's shirt with his hand.

And he signed, I love you.

 

Chapter 2 - The One Where Brian Learns Sign Language by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

What was Brian up to during TOWJLHH, and what happens after? You asked, I answer.

 


Since there's more sign language in this one, a quick note about it: ASL grammar is completely different from English grammar, so no attempts to represent it in English are going to be perfectly successful. I went ahead and kept the signing parts (in bold) in English grammar just for ease of reading. I'm not Deaf but I'm in school to be an interpreter, so let me know if you have sign language questions!

The One Where Brian Learns Sign Language
By: LaVieEnRose


Justin thinks I'm full of shit, but I swear to dog, I knew he was losing his hearing for a year before we were sitting in that dingy doctor's office reading brochures about decibels and playing with model eardrums. I just didn't think it was worth mentioning.

You know how loud a noise has to be before it starts damaging your hearing? If you're around it for any length of time, about 80 decibels—think the noise when you run the garbage disposal on the sink (not that that comparison means much to Justin, who leaves crud growing in our drain like it's some service I'm paying him for). So enough to be noticeable, sure, but not anything anyone this side of fifty would call 'loud,' and certainly not anything you could hear over the thumpa thumpa at Babylon, where Justin's been spending the better part of twelve hours a week since he was seventeen. Hell, all of us have. You could run any queer in Pittsburgh through the barrage of hearing tests they treated Justin to and I'd bet we're all a little bit deafer than we used to be.

So I figured it was just that.

The doctor told us that, with the disease Justin has, he's lucky he didn't start losing his hearing until he was an adult. That's what they said, 'lucky,' and also 'adult,' as if he's nearing middle-age or some shit and he's enjoyed some long fruitful relationship with his functioning ears. The kid's about to turn twenty-five now, was twenty-three when the doctor imparted upon us that precious nugget of perspective, and I guess I should have been thankful that we got a little taste nice and early of the never-ending parade of bullshit we'd be up against on our exciting journey into the next chapter of What's Wrong with Justin This Time. You know someone actually tried to tell us we were lucky we had the incentive to learn a new language? I'm not kidding.

He's not entirely, a hundred percent deaf, and they say there's no real way of knowing if he's going to get there, but at this point it doesn't make much of a difference. His threshold's about 120 decibels (seriously, find me someone with a fetish for talking about decibels and I'll make his fucking dreams come true—yeah, as if I couldn't anyway, but you know, I'm practicing humility in my old age) judging by the clap of thunder from directly overhead that made him jump about a foot last month, so it's not like it's anything he can use. He'd been losing his hearing gradually for years, but it started speeding up a few months before he was diagnosed and then eight months after that, it was gone. Nice and sudden. Like a thunderclap.

And we're doing fine, thank you very much. I know half of Liberty Avenue is giving me the stink-eye if I even look like I might be thinking about getting annoyed at Precious Justin, and the other half is pissed that I haven't tossed the kid out on his ass and opened up the big steel door for them, but the truth remains: Big Mean Brian hasn't kicked Poor Little Sunshine to the curb just yet.

**

Not like it's all been smooth sailing, or whatever the fuck. Right after we got the diagnosis we were both pretty floored. I couldn't believe I'd written this off for as long as I had, and Justin I think still sort of thought everyone was making this up, like this was all some horrible prank, because as far as he was concerned he could hear fine. It's like how you don't notice your hair getting longer, or your kid getting older. Something gradual like that, it slips right by you.

“What do you want for dinner?” I asked him eventually. He was sitting on the couch, and I came around in front of him to ask him, and it hit me that I'd been doing that for ages, parking myself where he could look at me before I started talking to him. I couldn't even tell you when I started it.

He shrugged.

“You've got to eat,” I said.

“Whatever you want is fine,” which is just about the most un-Justin thing he could have said.

“Don't go zombie-ing out on me, Sunshine,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.

“Yeah, you're right,” he said. “Who knows how many conversations we have left?”

Once Justin started doing more research and it kind of sunk in what was going to happen to him, then it all started feeling pretty fucked up. It was real important to him that we not tell anyone what was going on until he felt like he was in a place to handle the questions and the pity and the histri-fucking-onics, so we had to keep going around acting like everything was fine. And I was willing to do that, obviously. That's the kind of shot he gets to call. And it's not as if I've ever been one for making big scenes about my shit in public. Fuck, if it were up to me, Justin would have gone his whole life without anyone but me ever knowing, if that was what he wanted.

Except it turns out it's really fucking hard to work through your issues with someone close to you having a life-altering illness when the only person you can yell at about it is the one person who you really, really shouldn't fucking yell at about it. And it just seemed like every time we were starting to get a handle on this shit, every time it felt like maybe we were turning a corner, one of us would remember something else Justin was going to lose—singing along to the radio, his mother's laugh, Yellow Submarine, the positively sublime noises I make when I come—and we'd be back at square fucking one, and I'd come home from work and he'd be lying in bed in the dark. So then I'd end up yelling at him anyway, telling him “You're not fucking dying so get the fuck up!” and other soothing words you'd want from your partner in a time like this.

Then came the phase where he was convinced I was going to leave him, which was a blast, since my fucked-up brain already has half of its metaphorical foot out the door if Justin looks at me too long before I've had my coffee, but I was doing my best to project an aura of someone who was not scared entirely shitless wondering what his future was going to look like with this new kind of kid in tow, so fuck him for not giving me any credit for that.

Or maybe he was. “It's not that I think you're going to leave,” Justin said. “I just don't know what I'd do if you did.” At that point we'd already made plans for sign language classes, lipreading practice, all these things that would make it easier for Justin to communicate...as long as it was with me, because guess if the tricks at the baths were going to be lining up to learn how to talk to Justin? They'd just move on to some guy who was less trouble, if they even bothered to see Justin at all after this. Honestly, I couldn't even really be pissed at Justin for not giving me credit for sticking with him through this shit so far, because, God, the stakes were just so goddamn high. What the fuck was he going to do if I didn't come through for him?

But, you know. No pressure, or anything.

“I'm not going anywhere,” I said, and Justin just gave this little shrug, like, 'I hope so.'

And I know you're wondering it, you're sitting here thinking you've got the whole thing all figured out, so no, that's not why I married him. It had nothing to do with convincing him I wasn't going to leave, or with making some display of my feelings for him or some heterosexual shit like that. As far as I'm concerned, it changes absolutely nothing between us. If one of us wants to leave, no piece of paper is going to stop us, though I think we've both come to terms with the fact that we're fucked for each other for life at this point. Getting married was not some big deal. Nobody even knows we did it, besides Michael, and I made sure he knew it was so Justin could get on my health insurance.

Which it was, don't get me wrong, but that wasn't the only reason. And again, don't go expecting rainbows and flowers, here.

I figured we should probably do it as soon as he got diagnosed, but I didn't bring it up to him until he didn't hear a car run a red light and almost got himself plowed over. I was a few steps behind and there was nothing I could do, and Christ, I tried to play it off like it was nothing so it wouldn't freak him out too badly, but it was like watching Hobbs come after him all over again. And after that I just got it into my head that we HAD to get married. I know this is stupid as shit, but I just felt like if Justin and I were married, if he signed a piece of paper telling me he was going to be with me forever, that meant that nothing could happen to him. He'd promised forever so now he had to do it. And I know that's moronic for so many reasons, not the least of which is that Justin's disease isn't life-threatening, and he's gotten through way worse, but just...fuck, how many more times can he keep getting out of this shit alive? So it all became kind of a fuck you; I'm going to have my eye on you for the rest of my life, you little shit, so don't you think you're going anywhere. They're throwing the dirt over me first and here's a contract saying so.

I sat down with all the medical paperwork and took a deep breath and explained to Justin why I thought this was our smartest idea, and the little fucker wrinkled his nose and said, “I don't want to get married,” like he was telling me he didn't want to get Thai food tonight.

This is the same child who cries at Hallmark commercials and about five minutes ago was practically on his knees begging me not to leave him, just to make sure you're keeping up.

“I don't want you doing it out of some kind of obligation,” he said.

“What other reason is there to get married?”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I don't want to deal with the ensuing Brian Kinney freak out when you wake up the next morning and realize what you've done and you feel trapped and you have to treat me like shit for two weeks to feel like a man. I'm very ill. Haven't I suffered enough?”

“Marry me, you unbelievable prick.”

“Ugh. Fine. I'm really going to miss your sweet-talking, you know.”

I kept the ensuing Brian Kinney freak out to myself just to spite him.

We had a lot of moments like that, actually, during the whole process. Just these times where somehow we'd still manage to joke about what was happening. When we'd get into some little spat or something and he'd make this big show of turning off his hearing aids so he wouldn't have to listen to me. When he'd kiss me and tell me that counted as practicing his lipreading. When we'd leave Deb's and he'd tell me how grateful he was to have a clock on when he wouldn't have to ever hear her singing again. It was dark, but it was the way both of us liked to deal with shit, and not to get too sappy, but it really fucking helped. It was kind of like we were both looking at each other saying, see, I can talk about this, I know what's going on, my eyes are open, and we're still us.

Other times, like I mentioned, Justin wouldn't get out of bed. I was through with the yelling phase by then, so most of the time I'd just come up behind him to hold him, and he'd pretend he wasn't startled, and like he'd totally heard me coming. I could never think of anything comforting to say—not to sound too flippant here, but it's been a year now so I can say with confidence that we really haven't lost that much of our Comforting Justin repertoire by taking away his ability to hear me—but I used to get real close to his ear and murmur, “You're still you,” because it was the kindest thing I could think of to say that wasn't also bullshit.

Well, besides one thing, but we're not going to talk about that.

We fucked a lot during that time, even by our standards, and he was tricking more than he had in a year or so. It was like he wanted to absorb everything he could, like he thought he was going to be losing more senses than just his hearing. Not that he wasn't freaking out about that too; he was constantly listening to music, downloading shit he didn't even like because if he didn't hear it now he was never going to.

Like I said, that's not a train of thought I'm going to be aboard right now, so why don't we just skip to the next part of the story.

**

Honestly, Justin losing all of his hearing was sort of a relief for me. Yeah, I queened out about it at the hospital, whatever, but at least it was over now. No more sitting around wondering when it was gonna get dropped on us. No more making plans we wouldn't get the chance to carry out. We'd finally arrived at our destination and it was time to get out and look around at this shit hole where we lived now.

And imagine, I'm not talking about Pittsburgh.

Justin, unfortunately, didn't really see it the same way. I think going from still having some functional hearing to essentially none was more disorienting than either of us had expected, and he spent a lot of time crying those first few weeks, and texting me a ton whenever I was out of the loft. A few days he even came to work with me and just sat on the couch so he wouldn't be alone in the loft, since it's not like he was working then, either at the diner or on Rage. He was so fucking jumpy at first, startling at the drop of a hat, and it's not like I could fucking blame him, but God, it was sending me right back to where we were when I first got him back after the bashing.

And just like after the bashing, we couldn't talk about it for shit.

If anyone wants proof that Justin and I aren't just doing the same shit we used to—not that it's any of their fucking business, but since when has that ever stopped anyone from having an opinion on us—then it's really right there in what a fucking setback it felt like to go back to the days where we couldn't figure each other out. I'm not saying that before Justin lost his hearing, he and I were regularly sitting down together and hashing out our deepest darkest feelings, but we'd gotten to the point where I wasn't breaking out in hives if we had to do it and he could get enough from a few sentences from me that we rarely did have to. And then that was snatched away from us, just like Justin's entire fucking life was, and here I was using the meager amounts of sign language we'd managed to learn in time to tell him “I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.” The only time he ever seemed like he felt safe was when we were in bed, so I made sure he got as much of that as possible like the selfless partner I am.

We kept taking ASL classes, and between signing the words I knew as I said them and speaking clearly and right into his field of vision, we got to the point where we were pretty okay one-on-one. And now, a year later, he and I are a well-oiled damn machine. Our sign language is still far from perfect, but it's been months now since I've really struggled to get him to understand what I'm trying to say, and most days now I hardly think about it. I wake up to his vibrating alarm clock, sign at him while I'm brushing my teeth, and when I get home in the evening and wrap my arms around him from behind, he doesn't even flinch. So even though we were having some trouble at the beginning, there was still...I don't know, this promise that we were going to be okay, like we could somehow see the future a little bit. It seemed doable that Justin and I would get through it.

Justin and the rest of the world was immediately a fucking problem.

Because all everyone wanted to know, all they wouldn't stop fucking asking me, was why wouldn't Justin talk.

I should explain.

Justin losing his hearing obviously didn't mean he lost the ability to talk. It's weird for him, because he can't hear his own voice, but he still sounds the same as he ever did. Sometimes he'll yell something to me from across the loft and I have to stop myself from yelling back, because he just sounds so damn natural doing it. And trust me, anyone who's been in the vicinity of me sucking the kid off can tell you he's perfectly capable of making plenty of noise. Bad as new.

Justin talked to me right off the bat--even though nowadays he signs to me more than he used to, just because we get into the rhythm of it, and because he's getting to the point where he's starting to think in sign language instead of English which, not to sound too Michael about the whole thing, is just about the coolest goddamn thing and in case you hadn't gotten it by now Justin is a goddamn miracle—and it's still how we do most of our talking. I sign to him, sometimes talking while I do it, depending if I know enough of the words I want to sign for him to need to fall back on reading my lips or not, or depending if the silence is eating me up, sometimes, and he talks back to me.

Now. That's us.

Before he'd entirely lost his hearing, the rest of our little family, for some reason, took an inordinate amount of comfort in the fact that Justin would still be able to speak. I don't know why this was such a relief to them, because you don't even have to look at this plan sideways before it's full of holes. Justin can speak to you, and then you...what, nod? That's the kind of communication you're relieved you're going to be able to have? They needed to learn to sign, which we kept fucking telling them, and they'd nod and say of course, of course, and then throw in some comment about how at least Justin would still be able to speak. Were they under the impression that they'd be learning a different sign language to speak to him than the one he could have been using to speak to them? Did they not get that it was the exact same amount of difficulty for them, whether or not Justin was putting himself through the awkwardness and embarrassment of speaking in public?

Which, he found out, he didn't want to do at all, once it came down to it. And look, I get it. God knows I don't like being out of control, and also...no, I'm not going to complain about having something that's just between the two of us, fuck you, so what if it made me feel shiny and special that Justin's voice was just for me?

What was so fucking annoying was how everyone was on my case about it all the goddamn time. Nobody ever bothered Justin about it—not that they even could, because Michael and Jennifer were the only ones who'd taken learning sign language even somewhat seriously, and they were still disasters, and Mel and Lindsay were in classes but they could have, y'know, started those a fucking year earlier when we brought it up—but the second he was in the bathroom or the backroom or I was out without him, everyone was all the fuck over me: what's wrong with Justin, why isn't Justin talking, wasn't Justin supposed to be talking, we thought he was going to talk to us!

Jesus, it was so fucking annoying. He'd just had his fucking world ripped away from him, every decision he'd made about his life was going to be different now, and they wanted to take away this one choice he got to make because they didn't understand it?

God. I can't even think about it without getting pissed off all over again.

It all kind of came to a head one night at the diner. Justin had stayed back at the loft to work on a painting—this was one of the first times since he'd gotten sick that he felt up to doing his own shit—but everyone else was there, and Hunter was home for spring break so everyone was making a big deal out of that. Everyone talked about how sad it was that Justin couldn't make it, like they'd done anything but smile awkwardly at Justin and expect him to expertly read their lips like the world's lamest Vegas act for going on three months at this point. It was such bullshit.

I went outside for a cigarette when it all got to be a little Much, and Lindsay came out a minute later to steal a drag or two like she always does. We talked about Gus for a while—he was about to turn seven and was a fucking riot—and then the conversation drifted over to Justin.

“I just hate to see him isolating himself like this,” she said.

“He's not isolating himself. When he comes here he can't follow the conversation. He's not the one doing the isolating.”

“I can't believe this happened to him,” Lindz said, because I guess she thought I meant that the disease was doing the isolating, which I didn't. I guess at that point I'd run out of energy to rage at the universe or genetics or Justin or whatever the fuck and had moved on to blaming my friends instead. “Have you talked to him?” she said.

“Of course I talk to him.”

“No, about...you know. Why he doesn't feel like...”

I stomped out the cigarette. “Like what, Lindsay? Like making this all a little bit easier on everyone?”

She didn't say anything.

“You know, he's the one who got sick,” I said. “He's the one who lost his hearing, he's the one whose entire life is fucked up. And all anyone can say about it is, why isn't he making more of an effort to make US comfortable? Why won't HE go the extra mile? Fuck this shit. He's done enough. Why is it his responsibility to smooth everything over? He's sick, he's dealing with his fucking life being shattered, why don't you try learning HIS fucking language?”

Lindsay just kind of sputtered and sighed because what could she even say to that, but I think it was kind of a turning point, both for the gang and for me. That was when they started taking learning to sign some more seriously, and with that last sentence that came out of my mouth, this accidental acknowledgment that Justin had a new language now...it shifted the way I thought about this whole thing. Don't get me wrong, it was still a fucking horrible thing that had happened to him, but it was the start of me seeing it as less of just a tragedy and more of...the start of something new for Justin, this new identity for him, something that was big and special and...his, and if you think I'm a rational person who was entirely proud of him for that and not also insecure and threatened by him having a world I'm not a part of, you're going to be gravely disappointed as this story continues, but we'll get to that when we get to it.

When I got home that night he was wearing this ratty t-shirt he wears to paint, dabbing at his easel over by the window. The moonlight was catching on his hair and he had a smudge of green paint across his cheekbone. The painting he was working on was this view of the river from the loft, and it was, to put it lightly, stunning. I like Rage, but the kid is so much more than that, and when I walked in and saw him I was just...I don't know, floored by him.

I let my hand trail over his shoulders and I circled the easel, getting a full view of it, and Justin looked up at me expectantly, all big blue eyes.

“How was the diner?” he said.

I backed him up against the pillar and kissed him as hard and as deep as I could. I wasn't trying to get him out of his clothes, not right then, but I couldn't stop grabbing at him, at his hair, at his shirt, at his waist. It was just so fucking important that I just...honor him, right at that moment. That's the only way I know how to explain it.

When I finally let him came up for air, he signed, panting, What was that for?

I kisses his nose and signed, You look really nice tonight.

**

We kind of started to fall into a normal rhythm after that. Justin and Michael were pantomiming to each other enough to get comic book stuff done, I was rescheduling meetings I'd been putting off when Justin needed more attention, and things were starting to click back into some imitation of what they were before. The major difference was that Justin still hardly went anywhere without me. Basically the only place he ever ventured alone was Michael's store to do some drawing, and half the time Michael came here anyway. It's not as if he never left the loft—he and I went out just about as much as we used to, though there was less variety with bars and more just straight up clubbing, which was easier for him and fine by me—he just didn't really do any of it without me.

Now, a reasonable person would assume that I'd feel suffocated by this and that I'd want the kid to get some sort of life, because reasonable people would expect some sort of pattern of behavior or character consistency, but you are now entering the Kinney dimension, where every time I looked at Justin I felt this tightening in my throat that made me want to buy out the Big Q's stock of bubble wrap so I could wrap him up like a fucking Christmas decoration, and not in a kinky way.

But one day I ran into Debbie at the grocery store and she made a whole point of telling me that everyone at the diner had learned a few signs and they were working out a system where customers could write down orders for him and they were all ready for Justin to come back and when was he coming back and could you please ask him when he's coming back or we're going to have to hire a new waiter, so that night I sat on the counter when he was cooking dinner and said, “Sunshine...are you going to go back to work?”

He stopped chopping up garlic and watched me. That's one thing you've got to get used to; we can't really multitask when we talk anymore. “I worked today,” he said. “I was at the shop for like four hours.”

“Not that work,” I said. “At the diner.” I used the sign for restaurant, which really seems like an oversell of the diner, but we make do.

“I can't work at the diner,” he said, like it was crazy, and something about the casual way he said that kind of broke me. Like he'd completely written himself off already. And I know I just said I wanted the boy to live in a bubble, but that didn't mean I wanted him selling himself short. Maybe that doesn't make a lot of sense, but in the words of that ancient bear Walt Whitman, I am large, I contain multitudes.

“Debbie says they're ready for you.”

He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and looked at me.

“Look, it's your call,” I said. “You bring in a hundred times more with Rage than you're ever going to at the diner. I just thought...you might miss it.”

Everyone's going to stare at me he signed, like he was too embarrassed to say that out loud, and God, the things this kid can fucking do to me.

Everybody has always stared at you I told him.

He rolled his eyes and grinned.

“Debbie needs to start looking for a, uh, replacement,” I said, searching for the sign.

He showed it to me. I knew we'd learned it at some point. Kid's a genius.

“Replacement. Thanks.”

He nodded.

“I mean, I can't imagine why you'd want to go back there,” I said. “But you're a freak, who knows what you want to do, so I thought I'd pass on the message.”

He chewed the inside of his cheek.

“It's on you, Sunshine,” I said. “It always is.”

He was back at the diner two days later, obviously.

His first week, I kept making all these excuses to spend time hanging around, which probably annoyed the shit out of him. God knows it would have annoyed me. But I wanted to make sure it was going okay, and that no one was giving him a hard time. I acted bored when Justin came over to talk to me so he wouldn't feel like he was being stalked, and I did a good job sitting still and minding my own business if Justin was struggling through something, though I did nudge Deb and make sure she spit in the coffee of the guy who laughed as soon as Justin's back was turned. I'm only a man of so much restraint.

It was only two days after I stopped my little guard dog routine that it happened. I was already back at the loft when his shift ended, and he came home smelling like tuna melts and French fries and immediately started tearing our clothes off. He was so fucking happy, practically giggling.

“Good day at work, dear?” I asked him, and tugged him towards the bedroom.

“The best,” he said. And between grunts, the story came out: a guy at the diner had seem him signing a little with Michael and got all excited and started signing to them. Justin was embarrassed and had to tell him to slow down, that he was still learning, and it turns out the guy--Gregory--is hard of hearing and started learning to sign a few years ago. He and Justin ended up talking for an hour after the shift was over, and now he's going to help Justin work on his signing, and Justin was so so so so excited to have a deaf friend.

We have now entered the phase of the story where I'm a complete asshole, so hold on tight.

I said all the right things that first night, how it was great he'd have someone to practice with and I was happy he'd made a friend, but as he skipped off to the shower something in me was already tightening up, and not in a good way. And before you start rolling your eyes about what a little heteronormative cliché Our Brian has become, it's not because I was worried he was going to cheat on me or some straight shit like that. Justin and I are in a different fucking world from worries like that, so spare me the analysis.

Though I would have to forgive someone for assuming that's what was going on, since that's fucking exactly how I acted, but we'll get to that.

Justin was only working a few shifts a week at the diner, since it was a lot for him to handle and he was busy with Rage and it's not like it was pulling in any real money anyway, and that meant he had plenty of time to meet with Gregory and practice. And meet with Gregory and practice he did, and he'd come home all full of stories about how much he learned and how much they laughed and how Gregory was going to introduce him to his Deaf friends (capital D Deaf, Justin explained) and gradually I stopped saying all the right things.

I warned you about the asshole thing, so don't come crying to me that you don't like this part of the tale. Neither do I.

And yes, of course Justin invited me to have lunch with him and Gregory a hundred times, but I was a little busy working the job that gives the health insurance that pays for all this shit, and yes, of course they made an effort to schedule dinners when they knew I could make them, but something would always come up at the last minute, and if it didn't, I would make it come up, and then I'd sit at home or in the office like a jilted little lover and no, I don't know why I invent trouble for myself, and I've been doing it for thirty-whatever years at this point so don't think you're going to waltz in here and put all the pieces together.

Justin's improvement with Gregory wasn't even gradual; it was like a fucking bullet train. He was coming home knowing signs I'd never heard of, and he'd be so excited signing to me when he first got home and then he'd slow down or just start talking when he realized I wasn't keeping up, and he always looked so fucking disappointed and I just about wanted to go walk in front of a bus for making him look like that. But what the fuck was I supposed to do, actually accept the invitations to get better instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself that he was outgrowing me? Please.

Finally, Gregory invited Justin to this party with all his Deaf friends. Justin was really nervous about it, thinking he wouldn't be able to keep up and he was going to embarrass himself, so I told him I'd come with him and we could be awkward and embarrassed together and if it sucked we could escape and fuck on the roof.

Gregory was medium-height, medium-good-looking, and had one of those smiles that anyone in advertising would kill for, the kind that puts you immediately at ease. I was ready to sign to him, but he spoke to me right away, and introduced the hot guy next to him as, “And this is MY hearing partner,” with a little wink at Justin, and I decided I hated this party.

His hearing partner turned out to be fluent or damn near close to it, and the party picked up into just this flurry of movement, people signing in small groups in every direction, people signing across the room to each other, people not signing at all but making out against the wall, and plenty of them were queer men so we've answered that little question of what Justin would do if I ever left him, I guess. Because Justin was not standing there feeling overwhelmed, was not standing out like a sore thumb, and definitely was not pulling me up to the roof to fuck him. Justin was a fucking social butterfly, and I watched him chat with Gregory and had no fucking clue what Justin was saying.

And if you've never seen the boy you pulled off a bloody garage floor suddenly turn into someone you can't understand, if you've never had the moment where you've realized that he's been a person you couldn't understand for God knows how long, and you've been a fool, you can spare me your fucking judgment for what comes next. Don't fucking act like you know what it feels like for Justin to leave you behind. You have no goddamn idea what can happen to that boy.

After the tenth time he went back to his conversation after having to pause and be my little interpreter for the evening—a job which is MINE, thank you—I left, and I went home, and I started to drink, and by the time Justin got home I was halfway into the bottle.

He slid the door shut. “That was really rude,” he said. His voice sounded kind of funny, after not using it for hours.

Didn't think you'd notice I was gone I said.

He crossed his arms. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I'm sorry, could you not understand my shitty signing?”

“I understood you, Brian.”

I drained my glass and shoved it away so my hands were free. “It was a boring fucking party. If you don't have to hang out at the diner with me and the rest of the hearies, I don't see why I have to hang out with your friends.”

“Silly me, I thought you'd like to know what I've been up to these past few weeks.”

“I know what you've been up to, Sunshine. You and Gregory. Bonding.”

Justin took a deep breath. “He's teaching me about a part of myself that—”

And in that moment I would have said just about anything in the goddamn world to get him to stop talking. So I said the first thing I thought of. “What did you need me there for anyway?" My hands were moving faster than my brain. "You and him seemed pretty cozy.”

I did warn you that I would be playing the role of the jealous boyfriend.

Justin seemed just as confused about me saying that as I was. “Did I...are you saying what I think you're saying?”

Well, you can't unring the bell. “Do you speak with him?”

“What?” He was getting stressed out thinking he wasn't understanding me properly, that's how fucking unexpected all of this was.

I faced him straight on and spoke clearly, signed as crisply as I could for how fucking drunk I was. “Do you speak with him? Do you use your voice?”

“I...yeah,” he said, like he still didn't get it, and it felt like someone fucking hit me. “Brian, what? Isn't that the goal, for me to be comfortable speaking with people besides you?”

“Oh, that's still your goal? You still have some plan to spend time with hearing people, you're not leaving us all for your new friends?”

“LEAVING you?”

“I thought talking was our thing,” I said, feeling indescribably lame.

“This is unreal,” Justin said. “I can't believe after all this fucking time, what, you don't trust me? He has a boyfriend! I have a...” He gestured vaguely. “You.”

“What, like that hasn't stopped you before? I can just hear the violin music now.”

Yes, I said that, and it would take another six thousand words to unpack each and every reason that was a beyond shitty thing for me to say to him, so we're going to have to just blow past it.

You're a fucking joke Justin said to me, and then he left and slammed the door so loud even he must have heard it, and I sunk my head down into that table and hated every single goddamn thing I'd done in my entire life.

But here's the thing, all right?

I could not just stand there and hear Justin tell me about how he had a brand new tour guide to a different part of himself, all right? That is not something that I'm capable of doing, and I'm capable of doing a fucking lot.

Do you remember the last time Justin was discovering something new about himself? The last time Justin was exploring a new identity and—God help me—a community? How'd the little munchkin go about it the first time? Let's recap. He had Daphne drop him down in the middle of downtown. He had no place to stay that night, so he wandered around waiting for someone to scoop him up and take his virgin ass home. And I'm not saying I'm Saint Kinney of Liberty Avenue, but can we take a fucking second to stop and think about how goddamn lucky he was that that person was me?

He could have been fucking killed that night, easily. Could have been the first body Debbie found in her dumpster. He could have been drugged and raped like Ted was. He could have had some guy bareback him. Or he could have just had a really, really shitty time, with someone who wasn't careful, who didn't listen when he asked to slow down, who took him from behind like he didn't deserve to be looked at and had him thinking that's what being a gay man was going to be for him, that was normal, that was what he deserved. And instead, Justin got the only good luck he's had in his entire fucking life and he stopped under that streetlight and he got plucked up by me. Do you think everyone would have been that gentle with him?

So now, who the fuck was this guy?

Do you get what I'm saying here? How badly that could have gone? How we can't really trust that the world is going to hold little Justin's hand when it comes to exploring these new fucking communities?

And he thought he could just wander into this Deaf world without me, that he got to be MY guide, that he was going to be the one right in the line of fire of whatever the world was going to throw at him?

I signed the fucking papers, remember?

I don't do shit I don't mean.

Except, you know, accuse my partner of cheating when that's not even my fucking issue. So as soon as it really hit me that that's what I did, I got out of there to...if not apologize, at least set the record straight.

And hopefully to apologize, but God knows I wasn't trusting fucking anything I wanted to come out of my mouth at this point.

I found him at Babylon, like I knew I would. He was in the back, fucking some guy probably even younger than he was. He gave me an annoyed look when I slid up on the wall next to him, but I just leaned against it and signed I'll wait and was very patient, even though he definitely slowed down just to annoy me, and because he couldn't hear the trick complaining anyway.

He finished with what looked like an utterly unsatisfying orgasm, and I made a silent promise to fix that for him later before I took him by the wrist and pulled him outside. He let me. I tugged him over to the streetlamp where he would be able to see me. THAT streetlamp.

Does he even notice that I think about these things? Does he see me thinking about him and what's going to be accessible for him and what's going to make him comfortable every single fucking moment?

I don't even know if I want him to.

“Look at me, okay?” I said.

He nodded.

“It's not that I don't trust you,” I said. “I trust you. I don't trust the world with you.”

He chewed on his lip.

“I mean, fuck, Justin, can you blame me? Look at all this shit the world keeps doing to you. And now you're starting this new thing and you're becoming this new person and...I don't know anything about this. You're charging in all brave and beautiful and reckless and I'm supposed to fucking...go in first and check and under the bed for monsters, or whatever the fuck. You're not supposed to do this shit alone.”

I asked you to come out with me and Gregory, he said.

“I know you did, but...I could come out with you guys every single fucking time, I could be the best signer anyone's ever met, and I'm still not going to be a part of this world. I'm supposed to go in first. I'm supposed to...”

I'm not seventeen anymore. I don't need you to protect me.

“I know you don't, Sunshine, Christ. You'll be fine. You always get by.”

He looked up at me.

“But what about me?” I said, and goddamn was I grateful he couldn't hear the way my voice broke. “What the fuck happens to me if something happens to you? If you decide you're sick of slowing down for me, or you get hurt, or...”

“Brian,” he said. Out loud. Softly.

“You were so scared I was going to leave you, when you first got sick, you remember that? You said, what am I supposed to do if I'm not with you. Well, what the fuck do you think happens to me, huh? You think the world is fucking teeming with people who can make me feel like this? You think there's some other shot out there for me? This is it for me, this is the one fucking chance I get, and if...”

He wrapped his arms around me and rested his head against my chest, and he couldn't see me anymore so there was no point in saying anything else, so we just stayed like that for a long time.

"I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," Justin said eventually, so quiet I could barely make it out.

It got better after that, and I'm nice for the rest of the story, so you can breathe out now. I know I sure did.

**

Melanie and Lindsay brought Gus over for dinner a few weeks after that. Their signing was actually starting to come along pretty well, and Gus was so excited to show Justin the alphabet and Justin practically burst into tears. It was pretty great.

I wanted to just watch, for a little while, so I drifted up to the bedroom while everyone else was around the kitchen table and just...took it all in. Melanie fixing one of Gus's handshapes when he accidentally signed something dirty. Lindsay explaining what they were learning in their class, halting, nervous, trying. Justin, my Justin, laughing.

Eventually Lindsay came up the stairs and stood there with me, while Justin and Melanie and Gus started on the dishes.

“Thank you,” I said. “For learning. It means...it means a lot.”

“Gus is having a ball,” she said.

“I can tell.”

We were quiet for a minute. Melanie signed something to Justin that I couldn't see from this angle, and he laughed.

“You weren't wrong,” Lindsay said. “With what you said outside the diner that night.”

Well, duh, I didn't think I was, but I had the decency not to say that.

“It is on us to make the effort,” she said. “And we did let him down. But...”

I rolled my eyes automatically.

“That's not why we want to hear his voice,” Lindsay insisted. “We just...miss it. We just want all of him that we can get.”

Well.

It's hard for me to blame someone for wanting that.

Why don't we go to the diner for dessert? Melanie asked us all a minute later, and Gus and his love affair with diner food were all over that idea, so we headed out. Debbie was working, and Michael and Ben were there, and everyone hugged and kissed like we hadn't seen each other in months.

And half an hour later, Justin said, “Debbie, could I get some more water?” like he did it every day, and bless her heart, she only froze for half a second before she signed Sure, Sunshine.

**

Justin was on his back, his feet up on my shoulders, glorious noises pouring out of him. He wheezed, mumbled, begged, scraped his heels against the back of my neck, clawed the bedsheets.

He covered his face and then took his hands away to sign more more more

I can't explain to you how important it was right then that I touch him with as much of me as possible, that every single part of me that could be in contact with Justin was.

I can't explain to you how I am so proud of him that I feel like my fucking chest might explode.

He came, and then I came, and he collapsed back on the bed and I stayed where I was, pressing my forehead to the inside of his ankle. I don't know what it was I wanted to do in that moment. Carry him up to the roof and hold him up to the stars and shout LOOK AT THIS BOY with my voice and with my hands. Cover him with blankets and hide him away so nobody could ever hurt him. All of it. Everything.

He sat up a little and grabbed my hand until I looked up.

Okay? he asked me.

Perfect.

End Notes:

 

Okay so that was really fun. Definitely open for suggestions if you'd like to see anything else in this world!

Chapter 3 - The One Where Justin Gets Sick by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

I think everyone, even Brian, thought I understood a lot more than I did for a long time.


The One Where Justin Gets Sick
By: LaVieEnRose

 

I think everyone, even Brian, thought I understood a lot more than I did for a long time.

I've always been good at faking my way through things. Brian says that's not true, and it's just imposter syndrome, whatever that is, but I think it is true and I just have him fooled too. Back when I was in school, I used to get good grades on tests I had no business doing well on. It's like I could just sniff out the right answer without even knowing how I got there, somehow.

And that's what this was like. Someone would be talking to me, and they'd sound like they were underwater, and I'd panic and nod and say something and somehow, way more often than they should have, they'd smile at me and I'd know I'd passed the little test and they walked away happy.

And that's good, right? Keeping people happy. So it's good that I got to do that for as long as I could, and it's okay that that meant that I felt really, really alone for a long time.

Brian would totally kill me if he knew I thought that. If he knew I put having people—having HIM— feel at ease above my own happiness? God, he'd freak the fuck out. But it's not my fault putting him at ease is so goddamn important! Maybe if he really wants me to put myself first, he should like, fucking take it down a notch or something.

But I hope he doesn't.

And anyway, it eventually got to the point where even I couldn't fake it anymore. It was a few months after I was diagnosed with this genetic disease that eventually took all my hearing, and at that point I still thought I was doing an okay job getting by, but Brian was being really weird and boyfriendy—or husbandy, I guess, since he'd fucking decided to marry me by this point so I could get on his health insurance—and concerned about it and said we had to go back to the doctor, so we went, and he told me I needed to stop screwing around and wear hearing aids, and I just...couldn't bring myself to do it. Michael came over that night and me and Brian had this fight right in front of him, and Brian said I was scaring the shit out of him and after Michael left Brian and I did sort of a...experiment. I sat at the counter, and he stood on the other side and I said okay, turn around, put your back to me, and say something in a normal voice, and if I can tell what it was then I don't have to wear them.

And then I waited. A few seconds later, he turned around to me, one eyebrow up, and God, it was so not the time, but he looked so fucking sexy I almost just said fine I'll wear them so we could stop this whole thing and head to bed. Almost.

“Very funny,” I said.

He quirked that eyebrow, God.

Stay focused, Taylor. “You didn't say anything.”

Brian just started at me for a second, and then realization hit his face and he closed his eyes and gripped the counter and bent at the waist, just a little, like I'd punched him.

“You did?” I said.

He nodded, his head down, and then he pulled himself together but God, I felt so guilty. I was already fucking panicking. I wasn't even thinking about the fact that I hadn't heard anything, I was just so upset that I'd made him look like that.

“Do it again,” I told him.

He winced. “Justin...”

“Do it again! Just...a little louder.”

He took a deep breath and turned around and squared his shoulders and I closed my eyes to concentrate and that time I heard something. I really did. I just had no idea what it was. I couldn't even have told you whether or not it was Brian's voice, and I think that's the minute that it hit me that one day I was going to forget what Brian's voice sounds like, and I'm in a good place with all of this now but still if I think about that too hard I'm going to start bawling everywhere. I may not even have a great concept of what sound feels like anymore, but Goddamn do I remember Brian's voice.

He turned back around, and he looked so fucking desperate.

“I heard you,” I said.

He nodded.

“I heard you, I just don't...”

“It's okay,” he said. Easy words to lipread. God knows he'd said them plenty of times over the past few months, when I was freaking out.

I sighed and rested my chin on the counter, looked at the fucking hearing aids, then back at him. “So what did you say?”

He shrugged like it didn't matter, and then he told me what he said, and I got the words “Do” and “you” and that was it. And honestly, I didn't even hear those words, I just figured them out from context.

It's hard to describe what I did hear, partly because it was so long ago, partly because it's been a year and a half since I've heard anything at all so the whole issue of sound is sort of ridiculous to me at this point, and partly because the idea of losing your hearing freaks people out so hard that they refuse to imagine it, but I'm pretty sure back then it was like I was hearing static all of the time, and I couldn't make things out over it. I could catch voices on top of it, but it was like I was...I don't know, inside a washing machine or something, and people were yelling at me from outside. I was a radio halfway between two stations.

But I could usually still understand Brian. He was so great about it, always speaking clearly and not too slowly, standing close but not too close, making sure I had a clear view of him. He did absolutely everything he could, before we even had a diagnosis or anything, just when he could tell it was something I needed. We never even talked about it, he just...did it.

He was doing everything he could, and I had no fucking clue what he was saying.

I tried so, so hard not to freak out. I just swallowed and said, “Um, one more time?”

Brian paused, his lips parted a little, and then he leaned forward onto the counter, a little closer to me, and said it again, a little slower. And louder, I could tell, just from the way his chest moved and his throat looked because I know Brian, I know Brian so goddamn well, I know everything about Brian, but I did not know what the fuck he was saying.

“One more time?” I said.

He took a deep breath and said it again, and God, it was getting further and further way from me, and I knew there was no way I was going to get it at this point, not when I was this upset and it was all of a sudden so important, and it was probably just some stupid thing he'd thought of to say anyway!

Brian looked around, and I knew he was going to get a pen and paper and write it down for me, probably because he could tell I was about to lose my shit over some dumb sentence that meant nothing, but I grabbed his wrist and said, “Say it again, I can get it, I'm going to get it.”

So he did, and I was staring at his mouth, and that's how I saw his chin start shaking, and when I still couldn't get it he dropped his elbows onto the counter and put his face in his hands and I grabbed for him and said, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” until he grabbed my wrists and yelled “STOP,” too loudly for me to miss, and then he kissed me so, so hard, like he needed me in order to breathe, or something. That's how it felt.

It's funny how he would get really overwhelmed by small moments like that and then when it came to things that should have totally been way too much for him, he was so calm and amazing!

One of the worst parts about losing my hearing was how fucking lousy I felt for a ton of it. I had migraines a lot and all these problems with my balance and feeling super dizzy all the time, and it meant I was constantly nauseated and like, fucking running into furniture because it felt like everything was spinning.

Sometimes it got so, so bad. There was one night when I was on the bathroom floor and I could feel all this fluid in my ears just woosh-woosh-woosh and I couldn't stop shaking and I couldn't stop throwing up, and I kept wondering if this was how Brian felt when he had cancer, and how much I would fucking kill him if he tried to make me eat some soup. I kept trying to talk to him, just to tell him how bad I felt and how I was freaking out, as if there was some universe in which he couldn't tell, but I couldn't hear my own voice at all over the pounding in my ears, and I wasn't used to that yet so that was making me freak out even worse, and I felt so fucking sick that I swear to God I thought I was going to die there in our bathroom.

And he just stayed right there next to me, calmly rubbing my back like I had a hangover or some shit—not that Brian Kinney would ever rub my back for having a hangover, but you know what I mean. Like it was nothing. He cried because I couldn't hear his stupid sentence but he couldn't spare a tear when I thought I was actually gonna fucking drop dead any second? I get it now, that it's easier for him to stay calm when he feels like he HAS to, but at the time I really thought I wasn't getting through to him just how bad I felt or how scared I was, and that was really upsetting for some reason.

Finally I got up and he kept a hand under my elbow and I made it about two steps before the room tilted and my knees totally gave out. I would have knocked myself out on the floor if Brian hadn't been there, but he scooped me right up like he'd been expecting it and carried me to the bed, and then when we got there he just crawled up behind me and draped an arm over me and kissed the back of my neck all fucking casual, like this was nothing, like we were just going to bed like normal and he wasn't even worried at all, and then he put his lips on the bone under my ear and hummed so I would feel it. So fucking chill.

I'm gonna be trying to figure this guy out until I die and I can't fucking wait.

Most of the time it wasn't that bad, even on days I felt really shitty. One day I just woke up feeling totally spinny and terrible and he called in and told Ted he was going to work from home, and we ended up just sprawling out on the couch getting stoned all day. We watched shitty movies and took a nap and I lay there while he pretended to be totally sober on a conference call, and then we laughed about that for like twenty hours, and then we talked about Kinnetik and about my ears and about the comic and about Daphne in New York and about my mom's new boyfriend and all sorts of various other things and finally the conversation drifted to whether I felt up to going to Babylon in a few hours.

I crawled on top of him. “When I'm deaf, will you still take me to Babylon?”

“No way,” he said. “I'm not wasting a cover charge on music you can't even hear. Get excited for silent nights at home, Sunshine.” I was wearing the hearing aids full time then, and I hadn't gotten to the point yet where they were useless, so I was getting by pretty well. We'd started taking sign language classes so we were signing a little too. It was kind of like a game at that point, and I don't know if either of us really could imagine that in a few months it would be our main way of communicating, and shit, now it's like all we ever do! Back then we were just playing around. He made up the sign for Sunshine, which we later realized was basically just shower but y'know, no going back and all that.

“Noooo,” I said. God, I was so fucking stoned.

“Yep.” He kissed my chin. “Scrabble. Muted television. Long, significant glances. Utterly silent fucking.”

“You wouldn't.”

“I can't go enjoying all that sound all by myself, can I?”

“True, that wouldn't be very husbandy of you.”

He tackled me off of him and onto the floor and he tickled me and I screamed and I was just so fucking happy that we could joke about this, that we weren't fucking...paralyzed by how enormous and scary this was. It was like the only time I felt secure, besides when he was fucking me. I just needed Brian to keep acting like Brian. The thought that he might leave, or worse, that he'd permanently turn into some Stepford partner taking this thing happening to his poor defenseless lover Very Seriously and we'd never actually be us again freaked me out more than the impending silence.

He said something and pinched me around the waist, but I was still laughing too hard to look at him. “Wait, say it again,” I said.

“I said, if you ever call me your husband again, I'll divorce you.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Mmm. Let's see how much you enjoy going deaf with no health insurance. That would really suck the fun out of the whole adventure.”

“This is an empty threat,” I said. “You bitch so much about paperwork, the last thing you'll do is follow through on a divorce. You'll just sneak out in the dead of night, never to be seen again.”

“And leave you with the loft?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“This is starting to sound more like your fantasy than a threat.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“Have fun with the property tax. Weren't you the one just asking me permission to go to Babylon? Suddenly he's a homeowner.”

“I was not asking you permission,” I said.

“That's the way I heard it.”

“Maybe we should get your hearing checked,” I said, pulling him into me, and that went into some of the predictable “please may I suck your cock, Mr. Kinney?” and other such standbys I'll leave to the imagination.

When that was over I said, “When I'm deaf, will you still fuck me so hard I scream?” I knew he'd just fake-threatened me with silent sex, but I don't know, I had to check.

Maybe he could tell I was little more serious now, because he said, “Of course. Constantly. Every minute you're awake. Some you're not.”

“I hope you realize when I'm deaf there's going to be music pounding in here loud enough for me to feel. At all hours. Between that and the scream-fucking you're never going to get any sleep.”

“Good. We'll open our very own Babylon.”

“What about the neighbors?” I said.

“We'll have to kill them.”

“Mmm, good.”

He said something else then, but I didn't catch it, and I knew he could tell because he just gave me this little smile and shook his head to show me it didn't matter and then said, nice and clear and calm, “You should drink some water.” His eyes were all heavy, like it was this really sexy thing he was saying to me, I don't know. And in a way it kind of was.

“Okay,” I said, and I felt really safe.

**

The bad news, aside from the whole I'm-losing-my-hearing thing, was the nightmares picked back up. I haven't slept reliably well since the bashing, but over time the nightmares started happening less and less often, from every night without fail down to once or twice a month, and they're less intense than they used to be. They still flare up when something stressful's going on—when I was living with Ethan they were damn near constant, and after Brian lost his job, and when he was sick—but for the most part they'd become really manageable over the past year before I got diagnosed.

And then I started losing one of my senses and all of that went bye-bye out the window. And the really fucking annoying part is that right when I'm waking up from a nightmare, I can't stand if anyone touches me. So take away sound and touch and I just have to hope Brian can look at me in a soothing enough way, pretty much.

Luckily back then I could still hear somewhat. I jerked awake from a brutal nightmare that night, probably my reward for smoking so much. Brian was already up, on his way to my side of the bed. I sat down on the edge and he switched on the lamp and crouched down in front of me. I know he wasn't pissed, but he looked like it, all squinty in the light. He handed me my hearing aids and waited while I slipped them on with shaky hands.

“You scream,” he said. “So much fucking louder than you used to.”

I took these big heaving breaths. I felt like I was drowning, and I was just trying not to start fucking bawling.

“Eyes on me,” Brian said, and that's another thing that sucks, because after a nightmare usually the last thing I want to do is look at someone, even Brian, but I don't really have that choice anymore. “You know where you are? Who I am?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tell me.”

“You just want to hear me say your name,” I said, and his lip quirked a little.

“You want to talk about it?” he said.

“I don't remember it.”

“Okay.”

“God. God. Fuck.”

“Easy, Sunshine.” He signed it, even though it the middle of the night and I'd just screamed him out of a deep sleep, and nowadays of course that would just be normal, we wouldn't even think about it, but I remember thinking it was so fucking sweet. God, he was learning a new language for me, and he never complained about it once.

I sobbed a couple times without meaning to and folded up into my lap. I felt him lay a hand on my back, really hesitantly, and I nodded to show him it was okay.

He sat down next to me on the bed and tucked me under his arm. He probably said some shit, but I wasn't looking at him so fuck if I know what. I turned and looked at him eventually. “What did I miss?”

He kissed my forehead. “Oh, I said all the right things. It was amazing. No one's ever done a better job.”

“I knew it.” I rested my cheek against his hand. “You should get your therapy license.”

“You want a Klonopin?”

I shook my head.

“You sure? You're cute when you're stoned.”

“Brian Kinney just called me cute.”

“It's the middle of the night and you're crying. My defenses are lowered.”

“I'm not crying anymore.”

He shrugged. “Well, fuck you then.”

I kissed his collarbone. “Yes please.”

“That,” he said. “I am definitely licensed to do.”

“I remember,” I said.

We were both still tired, still at least a third asleep, so he fucked me slow and gentle and it was just...so fucking comforting. I'd relied on this more and more as my hearing slipped away, and I know communicating through sex is just so totally Brian of me, but hey, even a broken Kinney is right twice day, and I think maybe he was on to something with this one. We've never needed to talk much in bed; I can tell where he wants me to go, how he wants me to move, just from the way he pushes his body into mine, and he knows if I want him to speed up or slow down just from listening to how I breathe. And there's no easier way to get a handle on what Brian's mood is, and to level him out one way or the other, and sometimes that's all the comfort that I need. Just knowing that he's going to make it another day.

And sometimes it just feels really, really nice to have a dick up your ass, but I don't want to get too sentimental.

**

Going completely deaf was devastating at first. I just felt like...like I would never really be able to participate in life again. I was useless anywhere without Brian interpreting for me, and it's not like I could even use a regular interpreter at that point because my signing still wasn't good enough, and I know, I know interpreters are trained to adapt to that, but God, I was just so fucking embarrassed about the whole thing. I had literally no good method of communicating, and it wasn't because the world hadn't kept up and learned sign language or something, it was because of ME. There was nothing anyone could have done to communicate well with me. It was so fucking depressing.

And then I met Gregory. He's a few years older than me, and he lost seventy percent of the hearing in one ear and fifty percent in the other—so compared to me, he's some kind of hearing superhero, but still—suddenly from an illness when he was twenty. He told me when he met that he still didn't consider himself all the way fluent, but God, to me he was incredible. I'd watch him talk to his boyfriend and not be able to follow a fucking word, and he kept promising, “You will.” And he said he'd tutor me! He started learning to sign in school, and made all these Deaf friends, and now he's totally a part of the Deaf community—his boyfriend's even an interpreter! And then there was me, thinking I was going to be living this whole little life with people who felt sorry for me, and it turned out, there was a whole group of people who were happy, who fucking celebrated signing together. I hadn't even known the Deaf community EXISTED.

I spent the next week online, and it made me laugh over and over again because it kept reminding me of when I realized I was gay. It was like I was realizing I was Deaf, with a capital D. Both times, I had this moment of discovering a whole community had been under my nose this whole time, and I'd had no idea.

My house growing up wasn't like the Novotnys, where Michael being straight would have been recognized with its own national day of mourning, but it also wasn't like Brian's Irish Catholic nightmare, with all the screaming about hell and AIDS and God and all that jazz. Last time I saw my dad, he brought up the whole sin thing, but it felt so forced, like he was just desperately looking for justification for really just being uncomfortable with anything that's not his version of normal. I didn't grow up in some churchy family—we'd go on Christmas if we were visiting my grandmother, but that's about it—and I've actually tried to remember when I first learned about gay people, when I first found out we even exist, and I have no idea, because it was never, ever something we talked about at home.

Luckily, the internet existed—I seriously don't know what queers did before that, and God knows I can't ask Brian because he'll go on some week-long drunken bender about pushing forty—and obviously I'd heard the word 'gay' around school and whatever, so after my third confusing dream about Jonathan Taylor Thomas, I googled “am I gay” and, well, the rest is herstory.

This felt just like that, and God, just like the first time, I was so RELIEVED. It wasn't just me. I could fit in again.

Brian, of course, had trouble adjusting at first, but Brian has trouble adjusting to a new brand of dishwashing detergent so I didn't think a whole lot of it. We got into a big fight about it once after I dragged him to this Deaf party, and then he practically got on his knees and promised to love me forever and ever and ever, and after that he was the very picture of support even when I could tell he was feeling left out. And I made every effort to let him know that I planned to drag him into this world with me kicking and screaming, if necessary. Mostly by making him kick and scream.

My first year Deaf was actually pretty great for me and Brian, after the first rocky couple of months. I was getting my tutoring sessions with Gregory, and Brian was still going to classes with me and taking it so, so seriously. I was talking about going back to school, once I felt confident enough to work with an interpreter. Rage was doing well. I started painting more. Brian landed two huge accounts and took me to Hawaii for a whole week! I was spending a lot of time with Gregory and his friends, and I even had some awesome sex (and some mediocre, but such is life) with a bunch of Deaf guys in between the usual Babylon tricks, which I didn't tell Brian about because I knew he would get insecure about me being with Deaf guys even though he pretends he's toootally too good for that. I tried to spend time with the family too so they'd know I wasn't abandoning them and that I appreciated how hard they were working. Balancing act.

And Brian and I were just...God. So, so good. The sex was incredible, better than ever, now that we were both learning new and exciting things to do with our hands. And even outside of that...we just were making sense. One morning we went to the diner for breakfast and then we just...walked, for ages, talking totally in sign language like we'd been doing it our whole lives. And I just...the whole thing was like so overwhelming! I kept thinking about this guy seven years ago who picked me off the street thinking I was going to be a one-night stand, and now we're walking around speaking an entirely different language that he learned just for me, and he did it like it was NOTHING. Like it was just totally, totally a given that he would do it for me. God, sometimes I can't even stand it.

And also I feel completely bad about it sometimes, because I got this whole new community out of it, all these new friends, and he got...nothing, he had to learn all of this just to be able to talk to me and nobody else. He says that's totally fucked because all he had to do was take a few classes and I had to lose one of my senses, but...I don't know. I don't really see it that way anymore, or maybe Brian and I are just going to spend our whole lives falling over each other to explain why the other has the raw end of the deal staying with us.

I can live with that. I like the rest of our lives part.

While we were on this walk I saw the reflection of some old church in a puddle, and the way the water rippled and distorted when Brian stepped on it made me totally desperate to go home and paint, so I had my easel set up and ready to go about ten seconds after we got home. Brian knows better by now than to bother me when I'm like this, so he sat at his computer for a while and then watched TV and then for all I know went and had a twelve person orgy on the floor behind me, fuck if I ever paid any attention to the outside world when I'm working even when I could hear.

Hours later, he came over and looked over my shoulder, and the way he ran his hands up and down me my arms made me shiver. He kissed behind my ear and hummed there, like he does sometimes.

Beautiful he signed, but still standing behind me. His hand, my face.

I turned around to face him. Me or the painting?

He looked me over, top to bottom, sooo slowly, and then he swallowed, actually swallowed, like he was nervous! Brian complains all the time about me getting paint everywhere, but he has such a kink about it. I came to Kinnetik one time after I'd just finished a painting and straightened his tie before he went into a big meeting, and I swear he almost lost it right then looking at my hands. He was back in his office the second his meeting was over, demanding I take my clothes off before the door was even shut. Mr. Kinney indeed.

But now he shook himself a little and said The painting, actually.

It's not finished.

He loped over to the fridge and got himself a beer. You know, he said, signing big across the loft, one handed. You need to do something. He pointed to the beer, asking if I wanted one. I nodded.

Do something? I said. Like give you a very colorful hand job?

He grinned. Well, absolutely that. He sighed, like talk about me jerking him off is such a fucking chore, or something. I'm trying to be serious here.

Sorry, sorry.

He gestured towards my easel with his beer bottle. You cannot keep storing your paintings in the closet. I'm running out of room.

Maybe you should get rid of some of your suits.

He snorted and handed me my beer. I'd sooner get rid of you.

You're welcome to try.

Brian pulled me over to the couch, and we kind of pawed at each other for a little while, nothing desperate.

Your paintings should be hanging somewhere. God, he was so close to me, looking at me with these eyes, and I just...I really believed him, for a second. That's how powerful I feel when he looks at me like that.

Then I snapped out of it. So hang them, I said, even though I knew that wasn't what he meant. Besides, there are already three Justin Taylor originals hung around the loft.

He waved his hand at me gently to get my attention. It's a Deaf thing; I taught it to him. You have shit to say, he said. Shit that's more complex than Michael writes for you in the comic book.

I squirmed. The comic book means a lot to queer people.

Brian nodded towards my canvas. You're painting a... He fumbled for a way to sign it. A fucked-up church. You have bigger things to say to queer people than Rage zooming around forcing guys to choke on their own dicks.

I laughed at how he managed to sign that out. I know I'm the artist here, but Brian is so fucking creative.

I gave my hand a shake—between the painting and the signing, I give the thing a beating nowadays—and he pulled it into his lap and massaged it. We just sat there for a little, him focusing on my fingers like they were so goddamn important, me just...mesmerized.

“Brian,” I said, out loud, and he looked up at me and smiled, his eyes dark.

That's not fair he signed, never letting go of my hand. You know your voice makes me hard.

Talking without being able to hear it is the weirdest fucking thing. I always feel like I could be saying anything and I wouldn't even know it. But I don't mind with him.“That's why I only use it on you,” I said. “I can't have all of Liberty Avenue running around horny all the time.”

He laughed. Yeah, that'd be a change of pace. He squeezed my hand and let it go.

Let's go out, I said.

He slapped me on the thigh and stood up. Thought you'd never ask.

We got dressed to go out—he wouldn't let me wash the paint off, so twisted—and at one point I turned around and he was paused pulling his shirt off, looking at me with the strangest expression on his face.

“What?” I said.

He kissed me, really gently, and I realized he was sad. You were singing.

No shit? I said. He nodded. How'd I sound?

He kissed me again. Terrible.

Ah well. I was never any good anyway.

Keep going he said.

**

If I didn't know better, I'd say Babylon was designed for Deaf people. The music hurts your ears if you can hear it but vibrates through your whole body if you can't, and it's too loud to talk but there's enough light to sign, at least until you get to the back room, and there's not usually a lot of talking to do there. Take it from someone who's experienced it both ways: it's better Deaf.

The bartender was new and the drinks were strong, and neither of us had work the next day so somewhere during the night we made some tacit agreement to get drunk off our asses. I started to feel dizzy after the fifth drink so I called it quit, but Brian kept going. I rarely see him totally wasted unless he's depressed about something, so it's always fun to see him plastered but happy. He kissed me on the dance floor, spinning me around, hands gripping my shoulders tightly enough to lift me off the floor.

A few guys came and danced with us after a while, and I didn't think they were anything special, but Brian's less discerning than I am and before long he and one of them were making serious eyes at each other. You good? he asked me, and after I gave him a thumbs up, he took the guy by the collar and started to pull him off to the back room, then changed his mind and pulled his buddy along with the other hand. I was not at all interested in the remaining guy, but I was already checking out this guy by the bar who'd been watching me, so when I felt up to another drink I went over and signaled the bartender and gave the guy a smile. “Hey,” I said to him, hopefully at an appropriate volume.

He said something back, but he wasn't facing me fully and my lipreading is not spectacular so I didn't get it, but I could tell from his body language it was some kind of pick up line. So I just gave him a cryptic kind of smile, which he seemed satisfied by, and I had barely finished my drink when he took my hand to drag me back to the dance floor. We danced a few minute, he tried to kiss me, I responded by yanking him to the back room, and everything was going great.

It was packed back there tonight, and my eyes adjusted to the dark as we looked for a bare patch of wall. We passed by Brian, pants open, two guys on their knees, who signed a quick, appreciative nice I could just barely make out when he got a look of my trick.

The guy was slight, almost Brian-skinny, but closer to my height. I had him with his jeans down, his hands on the wall, my palm on his ass, my mouth on his neck, when he turned his head just a little and said something. I could feel the vibration of his voice in his throat, in my lips.

I decided to hedge my bets that it wasn't important and kept nipping at his neck, but he spoke again, so I stopped and turned him around. He looked confused, and I tried so hard to focus on his mouth in this shitty lighting. I think he said, “Why'd you stop?”

“I couldn't hear what you said,” I said. “I'm Deaf.”

“You're Deaf?” he said, and I nodded, and then he said some shit I couldn't make out but it was clear he was second-guessing this whole thing, and look, whatever, if you have some arbitrary demand that a guy you fuck for five minutes needs to be able to hear, I'm better off without you. So I rolled my eyes and moved to the side to let him go, but then the guy's expression hardened and he said something to someone behind me and obviously I knew what was going on.

I said, “Brian, stay out of it, it's fine,” still glaring at the trick.

Brian did not stay out of it. I felt his hand on my shoulder a second later, then he grabbed me and the trick and yanked us both out to the back alley and under a streetlight.

He needs to be able to see you to understand you, Brian said, talking and signing at the same time, so probably not doing either of them all that well but, y'know. We make do. Talk to him now.

The trick talked, and I watched him and then looked at Brian.

Did you get that? he asked me.

No. It's fine, it doesn't matter.

No, I'll interpret. He said he didn't know you were Deaf.

I said, Obviously. How was he supposed to know? and Brian repeated it to the guy.

The guy said something else, looking uneasy, and Brian's glare hardened.

I waved my hand at him. What did he say?

Nothing, Brian said.

That's not how it works. You're supposed to tell me everything he says. Even if it's bullshit.

Brian sighed and said, He asked if you're positive.

Look, neither of us has any problem with a trick wanting to know our status before we hook up. That's fine. But all three of us knew that wasn't what was happening here. He wasn't asking everyone if they were positive. He was asking me, because I was...diseased. Defective.

To him. Don't worry, this isn't a story where I fall into some kind of shame spiral. I'm good.

I'm negative I said, and Brian interpreted. I'm just Deaf. Still have a great cock. I was just messing with this guy at this point; I wasn't going to fuck him no matter what he said next.

Which must have been some bullshit, because he kind of backed away and then left down the alley, and Brian signed What, you think you can do better than my Deaf husband?

You are so drunk, I told him.

No I'm not.

You didn't even say that out loud. You just signed it at him. And he doesn't know sign language. And he wasn't even looking at you.

Oh.

And you called me your husband.

He scoffed. I did not.

Afraid so.

He shook his head, utterly sure of himself. You must have misheard me.

I just told you, you signed--

He waved his hand, cut me off. Your signing's not as good as you think it is. Let's go home.

We walked back around to the front of the building. We were definitely taking a cab. He was totally swaying too much to walk home.

He grabbed my arm as we walked and said, You know, they really need to put some lights in that back room? His squinty drunk face made everything a question. I don't think that's even ADA compliant?

**

So everything was going really great, in other words. And then I got really fucking sick.

Nothing gold can stay, right?

I started feeling really shitty one night during my shift at the diner. I texted Brian on my break and asked if he could pick me up when my shift was over so I wouldn't have to walk back to the loft. He just said “okay” and nothing else, and in that moment I really, really missed talking on the phone with him. I wanted him to hear in my voice how crappy I felt, and I wanted to pick out that note of concern he would try to hide. All that “okay” told me was that he was busy in the office and didn't have time to either mock me or worry about me, and I just...I don't miss things all that often, but right then I really, really did.

He came into the diner a few minutes before my shift ended and God, I was so fucking happy to see him, you'd think he'd been away at war or something. I put my coffee pot down and and wrapped my arms around him, and I could feel him laugh a little.

He stopped when I pulled away from him enough to see me. Christ, you look like shit.

Thanks. I told you I didn't feel well.

I thought you were just being a drama queen. He palmed my forehead. Christ, he said again. Come on.

My shift isn't over.

Your shift is over. He waited while I hung up my apron and waved apologetically to Deb, who signed Feel better! as Brian practically dragged me to the car by my ear.

I shivered on way to the car. It's cold out here.

He had his hand on my back. It's really not. But he let me turn the heat on in the car, and he was staying pretty calm at that point.

Something about being in the loft made me feel worse, like I had permission to be sick now so I was going full speed ahead. I sat down on the side of the bed and kind of folded in on myself, and I let Brian take my shoes off and take my temperature and pour water down my throat. He handed me a box of cold medicine and had me read the back to double check it was okay, and after I nodded he punched out two.

He pulled the covers over me and lay down next to me. I knew he wasn't staying there—it was early, and his clothes were still on—but I liked that he was there. I made some half-hearted grab for his dick, and he rolled his eyes and swatted me away, which like, thank God, and I fell asleep.

After that it's all kind of a blur. I remember coughing, so much fucking coughing, and Brian's hand on my back. I remember waking up from a nightmare and trying to scream but I couldn't, so I kept fucking screaming, and I couldn't find Brian and I kept feeling these hot licks of pain against my skin. I kept swatting against them and just begging for Brian and trying and trying to scream but no sound came out. I remember at one point, God, it was so bad, I felt like I was fucking boiling inside my skin, and he was running this cool cloth down my arm and I was so goddamn freaked out and I didn't understand why he wasn't whispering my name like he usually does when I'm sick or upset, just that little “Justin, Justin,” so I said, “Brian, I can't hear you, I can't hear you,” and he looked really upset, so totally not-Brian, and I tried to ask him what was wrong but I couldn't remember how to do it, and my vision was swimming so badly I could barely see him.

He woke me up at one point really gently, this small, calming smile on his face, and sat me up and started putting clothes on me. I started crying because I knew that meant we were going somewhere and I felt so, so goddamn awful, and for some reason I was sure he was making me go back to the diner for work. Like, I was a hundred percent sure that was what was going on, and I kept telling him I wasn't ready.

We're getting you ready right now, see? he said, helping me into some sweatpants, and one of his softest t-shirts.

He didn't understand, and I didn't know what to say to make him understand, and everything was so fuzzy. He helped me to the car, and I curled up as small as I could get in the seat. At red lights he'd reach over and play with the hair on the back of my neck.

We were going to the doctor, obviously. He kept signing to me in the waiting room, just normal stuff, telling me about work or this article he'd read online, I don't know, I couldn't focus, and I kept realizing I'd missed what he was saying and feeling bad about it. He squeezed my shoulder and nodded to the nurse when I guess they called my name, and then I sat on that cold exam table and shivered and didn't even try to follow what the doctor was saying. Brian sat in a chair across the room and even through the fog I realized he was dutifully interpreting every single word, even though he knew I wasn't watching. Just in case I started.

We went to the pharmacy and then he brought me home and lay down next to me and pressed his lip behind my ear and hummed, and just like that everything was okay.

I woke up panting after God knows how many days of that sucking shit. Brian was asleep next to me, and man, he looked like utter shit. He hadn't shaved in forever, and his eyes looked kind of swollen. I reached out and touched his cheek, running my fingers over his stubble, and he blinked himself awake. I smiled at him, and he smiled back, and then reached over and put his palm on my forehead. He sighed—relief—and pulled me into his collarbone, and we both fell back asleep pretty quickly.

He was gone when I woke up a while later, but there was a package of aspirin on the table next to me and a bottle of water that was still cold. I took them, and drank some, and followed the smell of steam and Brian's shampoo into the bathroom. He opened the door to let me in, and then kissed me under the spray. It felt fucking amazing. The kiss, yeah, but also the shower. Like I was rinsing the last of the sickness off me. I was still feeling pretty weak, though, and after a couple minutes of making out and hair-washing I sat down on the floor of the shower, but Brian rolled his eyes, turned it off, and pulled me up and sat me on the sink instead. I watched him shave.

He looked at his reflection instead of me. That was fucking awful, he said.

“I'm sorry,” I said, and he winced.

Your voice sounds terrible, he said.

Yeah, doesn't feel great either.

He rinsed the razor off and turned and looked at me finally, but he kept darting his glance from me and then back again, like it was too hard to keep his eyes on me. And I knew of course how tired he was, but I think that was when it hit me how completely emotionally spent he was, that it wasn't just that he'd been missing out on sleep. God, he looked worse than he had when I actually lost my hearing, and this was just the fucking flu. I was okay.

You were worried, I said, and I meant it like an apology.

He scratched his chest, looking down. How much do you remember?

I shrugged, then said, “Not a lot.”

Stop talking.

Then stop not looking at me.

He sighed, and I just sat there and gave him time to get himself in a place to talk about it. It was so hard not to just put my arms around him, tell him I was okay, but I knew if I didn't make him tell me about it he'd just smash it all into a nice little snowball of resentment and like, spare me, I am Deaf and convalescing.

So I just waited.

You didn't know where you were, he said. Your fever was so fucking high and I couldn't get it down. The doctor said it just had to wait to run its course, and he wouldn't listen to me that you were...newly Deaf and confused and fucking miserable. You were so fucking confused..You didn't understand why you couldn't hear. You were having these nightmares and you'd scream that I was hurting you when I touched you and Jesus, you wouldn't stop screaming...He closed his eyes, shook his head. There was nothing I could do. There was nothing I could do.

You stayed.

He shrugged.

You stayed, I insisted. I'm so glad you stayed.

Another shrug, and this time I took him by the wrist and tugged him into me. He resisted, just a little, and then stood in front of the sink and brushed my hair away from my face. I curled my legs around his waist.

Got the idea from you, he said.

It took us a little while to go back to normal after that. Brian was shaky and nervous and worried and made me pay for seeing him shaky and nervous and worried by going out without me and snapping at me when he was home, and then we'd lay down together at night and he'd handle me like I was the most precious thing on earth, when he'd just gotten through being a dick to me! He is so fucking weird. I don't know why he still has to put on this whole act like he doesn't care about me sometimes. And then people are always pulling me aside, reassuring me that it's not me, that he loves me, like...maybe I needed that when I was eighteen and suffering from PTSD, but I'm good now, guys! Brian Kinney is the world's most transparent goddamn person and every once in a while he needs to queen out and pretend like everyone doesn't see right through him, and...okay, fine. You do you, Kinney. At the end of the day, we know who you're coming home to.

He went out one evening around seven and I wasn't expecting to see him again until he'd crawl back into bed looking contrite at the crack of dawn, but instead he showed up an hour later with Chinese food and we ate on the floor and I fed him Kung Pao shrimp and he fucked me on the floor like I wasn't precious or fragile at all, and I knew that everything was finally back to normal.

**

Now, I know you're wondering. Everyone does. So, yes. I still get really sad about it sometimes.

It's not often, because most of the time I really don't feel that way and even when I do, I try to not let myself get bogged down in it, but sometimes...I just start thinking about stuff. Like how I'll never hear Molly say “I Do,” or my dad say he's sorry, even though that was probably never going to happen anyway. I'll never hear Debbie's laugh, or any new song, ever. I won't hear J.R. say my name, or Gus tell me he got into college. And Brian.

I start thinking about Brian.

That snarl in his throat when I say something funny and he's trying not to laugh. The little “mmph” when he grabs me and hugs me from behind. The way he'd murmur “hey” like it's my name. The whinny in the back of his throat when he comes. The way his voice breaks when he's upset, and stretches when he yawns, and softens when he talks about Gus, curls when he talks about me.

I get sad about how hard he has to work to talk to me, how much less sleep he gets than he used to, how much I know he worries about me no matter how much he tries to hide it.

He loves me so fucking much and sometimes I feel like that's been nothing but painful for him.

I don't really have a point here. But just...in case you were wondering. Everyone does. I still get sad sometimes.

**

On my twenty-fifth birthday, Brian rimmed me on the floor, and I swear to God, I was just about to come when he stopped suddenly and I whined and he grabbed me and flipped me onto my back.

Why'd you stop? I asked.

He smiled, really slow. Do you remember, he said, when you didn't want to wear the hearing aids, so we did that test?

I nodded, panting.

Remember how you didn't know what I was saying?

"Yes."

Brian grinned and kissed from my mouth down across my collarbone, and stopped.

I said, he signed. Do you want to fuck me tonight?

God knows what noise I made when he hoisted me into his arms and carried me off to bed.

End Notes:

 

Thanks for reading! I have a Daphne one and an Emmett one in the works...

Chapter 4 - The One Where Daphne Comes to Visit by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

I saw Brian first, standing at baggage claim, that smarmy half-smile on his face, holding a sign over his head like that guy in Say Anything: “The Inimitable Daphne Chanders.”

The One Where Daphne Comes to Visit
by: LaVieEnRose

 

 

I saw Brian first, standing at baggage claim, that smarmy half-smile on his face, holding a sign over his head like that guy in Say Anything: “The Inimitable Daphne Chanders.” He winked at me, and the crowd thinned out a lot when I got closer and then there he was, my best friend who I hadn't seen in ten months. He grabbed me around the waist and lifted me a few inches off the ground, and Brian rolled his eyes and kissed me on the cheek.

“I'm so psyched you're here,” Justin said to me. It was the first time I'd heard his voice in ten months, too. Mostly we'd just IMed and sent emails, and when we Skyped we used it as an excuse to practice my signing, which is “coming along” to quote Justin, or “she's going to talk to you how exactly?” to quote Brian.

As if me and Justin ever needed words.

Brian took my suitcase from me despite my protests and Justin chattered away on our way to the car about everything we were going to do on our trip. This was only phase one; I was visiting Pittsburgh for a few days, to see Brian and my parents and some friends, and then I was bringing Justin back up to New York with me to introduce him to my friends there and so he could see the art show opening of someone he knew from his school. “And blow, like, as many New Yorkers as possible,” he'd said in his last email. “Brian wants a book report.”

We invited Brian to New York with us, of course, but he'd told us he had this enormous thing coming up at work. I kind of thought he was just making an excuse, but he explained it on the way to their place from the airport. “Pittsburgh is hosting this major ad conference for the first time in fifteen years,” he said. “So there are going to be accounts here that otherwise would never even look twice at an agency that's not in New York, or LA...this is our only shot with them. I've been preparing all these presentations...if you were anyone else I'd apologize for the state of the loft, but I've seen that shithole you and Justin used to live in.”

“Also you never apologize to anyone,” Justin said. He reached for the radio knob and Brian knocked his hand away. “You're such a dick! I can't hear it.”

“Yeah, if it were loud enough for you to hear, Daphne and I would both lose our hearing, and spare me that offshoot of our adventure.” They were in the front seat, and I watched, fascinated, at how they signed at each other even though Brian was driving and they couldn't fully look at each other. Justin had told me over the past few months how much Brian's signing had improved, how he'd finally started coming to hang out with Justin and his Deaf friends, and God, it was so cool to watch. Last time I saw Justin was right after he'd lost his hearing fully, and they were both so unsure and unsteady then and I cried on the way back to New York because I was so scared they were going to break up and Justin was going to be all alone and silent and...stuck. It was hard to believe I'd ever thought any of that now.

“Please,” Justin said. “You know you're jealous that I don't have to hear Emmett sing karaoke, or that weird whimper Michael does when Ben kisses him, or that super annoying sound your juicer makes...”

“Eh,” Brian said.

Justin snapped his fingers and pointed at Brian. “The garbage trucks outside the loft at 5 AM. Beep...beep...beep...”

Brian thought about it, then reached for the volume knob and cranked it as loud as it would go, and even over the music I could hear Justin laughing.

The loft was totally a mess, as predicted. Poster board and photos and files spread out all over the table, and the counter, and Brian's desk. “The one week it's my shit everywhere and not Justin's...” he grouched, clearing everything off the couch.

“I didn't know this was such a bad time,” I said. “I can always stay at my parents'.”

He held up his hand. “You are welcome here any time, you know that.” He paused. “I do think we should probably kick out Justin, though. It's time.”

“I can read lips, you know,” Justin said as he set up the pillows, as if Brian totally wasn't signing it all anyway.

“Oh, you can? Then how come I had to interpret Michael's ENTIRE unbelievably boring story about restocking fucking Wonder Woman or whatever the hell that was?”

“To piss you off. I didn't even watch what you were signing.”

“Seriously,” Brian said to me. “We're kicking him out.”

“I didn't think you would object to the free practice,” Justin said. “All the better to impress Gregory, right?”

Brian grinned.

I looked back and forth between the two of them. “Gregory?” I said. “Like, Justin's friend Gregory?”

Justin looked at Brian.

“Face Justin,” Brian said to me. “I can hear you.”

“Right, sorry.” I turned to Justin, who smiled gratefully when I signed Your friend?

“The very same,” Justin said. “Brian has somehow decided—”

“I'm going to fuck Gregory!” Brian announced, arms spread wide while he signed.

“I don't know why he thinks this is going to happen,” Justin said. “He got it into his head one day and there's been no talking him out of it.”

“Yeah, well, I stood next to him at the urinal one day, that's what happened,” Brian said.

Justin rolled his eyes at me. “Gregory will not fuck you.”

“Famous last words,” Brian said. “Daph, can I make you a drink?”

“Oh, sure, anything with whiskey.” I sat with Justin on the couch. “Why won't it happen? Who wouldn't sleep with Brian?”

“I've missed you,” Brian said, from over by his little liquor cart. A liquor cart! In New York I'm lucky to have a beer left in the fridge after my roommates are done picking through it.

“Gregory has a boyfriend,” Justin said.

“So do I,” Brian said, in this voice like it was a great tragedy.

“They're not open,” Justin said.

Brian scoffed. “We're queers. They're open.”

Justin squawked—this totally natural, unfiltered noise, and I swear I've never seen Brian smile like that. He got it under control quickly, but you could tell he was just so fucking charmed—and said, “You know if you don't want people to call you old, maybe you shouldn't spout gay cliches from 1983.”

Brian came over with two glasses and handed one to me and one to Justin, then settled on the couch between us. “Regardless,” he said, pointedly talking to me and not Justin, though he still signed. “They're on the rocks. The boyfriend's a hearie. It'll never work.”

“You are unbelievable,” Justin said.

Brian leaned over and kissed him. “I've heard that.”

I went out to lunch with my mom and dinner with some girlfriends and got back to the loft around nine. Justin was wearing a black tank top with buckles on the shoulders, and he shoved me towards my suitcase. “Get dressed!” he said. “We're going out.”

“Where's Brian?”

“Doing shit at the office. He was supposed to be back by now, though.”

He got back while I was halfway through my makeup. He loosened his tie and looked exhaustedly at Justin while Justin jumped all over him like a puppy. He signed something and Justin said, “Talk too, Daphne's back,” which was so fucking sweet of him. What happened to that asshole high schooler who used to be my best friend?

Brian said, “I asked him if he got into my speed again. I swear, I have to lock up the drugs like there's a fucking five year old in the house...”

“What are you doing now?” Justin asked.

“I have to work on the Bramson presentation.”

Justin whined. “What have you been doing all day?”

“Working on the Abrams presentation, and the Giglio Stemware, and the—”

“I'm taking Daphne to Babylon,” Justin said.

Brian groaned. “Fuuuuck, without me?”

“No. You're coming.”

“Justin, I can't. Goddamn it! The one fucking night I can't...” He stomped off into the bedroom.

“Okay!” Justin called after him. “If you can't, you can't! We totally understand!” He winked at me and signed He's totally coming.

He said he can't!

Wait.

I finished my eyeliner and listened to Brian banging stuff around in the bedroom and have some weird muttered argument with nobody. Justin waited serenely.

Finally, Brian stuck his head out. He pointed at Justin and said, “One hour. I'm serious.”

Justin shrugged.

Two hours later, Brian and Justin were still dancing, and I was taking a brief rest at the bar with their friend Emmett, who totally needed to move to New York, like, yesterday. “You have gotten so city chic since I last saw you!” he told me. “So remind me what you're doing up there in that big ol' apple?”

“Med school,” I said.

“Well no shit.”

“But I'm on break right now.”

“What are you gonna do once you're a doctor?” Emmett says. “Cure Justin?”

“Justin's not broken,” I said.

Emmett smiled out at the dance floor. “No, I guess he's not.”

He and Brian came over at the end of the next song, and Brian ordered a bottle of water and handed it to Justin before he kissed me on the cheek. “I really fucking have to go,” he said. “This fucking presentation...”

“It's fine!” I hugged him. “I'm glad you got to come out for a while.”

“You three have fun,” he said, and he pulled Justin in for a kiss. They signed to each other quickly, way too fast for me to follow, and then kinda slapped at each other for a little before Brian left, pressing some sign into Justin's palm right before he left. What was that? I asked Justin, but he just shook his head and smiled and pulled me and Emmett back out to the dance floor.

A while later, this big guy, as tall as Emmett but way more muscley, came over and started dancing really close to us. I'm so used to straight clubs that I felt totally threatened at first, but no, he was, much to Emmett's dismay, entirely there for Justin. I didn't think he really looked much like Justin's type, since Justin's type is usually...Brian, but Justin danced with him for a little while and eventually gave me a little wave and let this guy lead him to the back room, where Justin told me years ago my tourist visa did not extend to.

Emmett rolled his eyes on my behalf. “He's just getting his dick sucked,” he yelled over the music. “He'll be back soon.”

“How do you know that's all he's doing?”

“It's all he ever does, unless he's fucking them,” Emmett said. “And that big fella is not gonna let Justin fuck him, trust me.”

So Emmett and I just kept dancing. But a couple minutes later, some guy came weaving through the crowd and straight over to us. Emmett started to greet him with an enthusiastic “Hey, Todd!” but the guy grabbed him and said something in his ear, and right there Emmett just...stopped, like he became this totally different person. Serious. Scary.

“Stay here,” he said to me, and he and Todd were gone, charging back towards the back room. A minute later, he was back, his fingers tightly around Justin's shoulder, and he grabbed me without letting go of Justin and pulled us both outside.

“What's wrong?” I said. “What happened?”

We barely made it outside the club before Justin threw up, and I realized his nose was bleeding.

“Holy shit, Justin,” I said, even though he wasn't looking at me. “What the fuck happened?”

And then I saw that Emmett's knuckles were bleeding, too.

And Justin's neck was covered in angry red marks. Shaped like fingers.

**

Emmett offered to come up to the loft with us, but I turned him down, as nervous as I was about bringing Justin home like this on my own. I figured the less of an audience Brian had when he found out what happened, the better it would ultimately be for everyone. I know that when anyone catches Brian worrying about Justin he tends to freak out and overcompensate, which pretty much means the treats Justin like shit for a while, and...well. I wasn't really in the mood for that.

He looked up from his desk when we got back into the loft, and whatever he was about to say died on his lips when he saw Justin's face. “What the fuck,” he said. “You're bleeding.”

“I'm okay,” Justin said. “Don't freak out, okay?”

“I'm not freaking out,” Brian said, and it was true, he wasn't, not yet. “What happened, did someone run into you?” He got him a paper towel for his nose and studied his face. “Jesus, you're going to have a black eye.”

“Yeah.”

“Sunshine, what the fuck happened? Did you get in a fight or something?” He looked concerned but still not remotely panicked, and then he saw the marks around Justin's neck and everything in his face changed.

Justin looked away.

“What the fuck,” Brian started saying. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck is that?” He was picking up Justin's arms, pulling down the neck of his shirt, looking at every inch of him.

“I'm okay,” Justin said.

Brian let him go so he could sign. “Tell me what happened.”

“Can we do this tomorrow?”

“Now.”

“I just want to take a shower—”

“JUSTIN,” he yelled, and from the way Justin flinched I knew he must have heard that. Tell me, he said. Now.

Justin ran his hand down his face, and when he spoke it was a little too quiet. “This guy took me to the back. I guess he...he must have said something, he must have thought I agreed to...but it's not like even if I had agreed I wouldn't have gotten to change my mind if I wanted to, there's not some binding contract—”

Brian was totally coming apart now, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

“He thought he was going to fuck me, I...informed him he was mistaken.” Justin does this thing when he's really scared, where he talks about it like it's almost boring, like it's nothing. “He didn't like that.”

“Who was this?” Brian kept pacing, signing without looking at us. “Who did this?”

“I don't know, c'mon. You think I looked at his driver's license?”

“You said no, and then...” Brian forced himself to a stop, his eyes closed, and then turned to Justin and signed something.

No, Justin signed back.

“You promise me,” Brian said.

“I promise.”

“You would tell me,” Brian said, almost like he was reassuring himself.

“Brian, of course.”

Brian cupped Justin's jaw, too roughly. “And then, what, he hit you?”

Justin nodded, winced.

Brian touched his neck. “And he fucking—”

“I just want to take a shower,” Justin said. “Please.”

“Your voice is hoarse.”

“I'm okay.”

“No, we should go to the hospital, we—”

“Brian.”

“Fuck.” Brian looked at me, his eyes begging for help. “I don't...” I don't know what to do.

“Go with him,” I said. “Go take a shower.”

Brian took a deep breath and nodded, and he kept his hand hovered behind Justin's back on the way to the bathroom, not touching him, like he was scared to.

They went, and I changed into pajamas and tried to calm down. Justin went straight to bed after, but Brian came back into the living room and started up the pacing again. Every once in a while he would start towards the front door, like he was about to charge over to Babylon, and then he'd glance at me, or back towards the bedroom, and just start pacing again, his knuckle in his mouth.

“He's okay,” I said, gently.

“The guy fucking choked him,” Brian said, his voice stretched to nothing.

“I know.”

“He could have...”

“I know.”

“This goddamn shit, he takes risks, he shouldn't...he never should have fucking gone to the back room by himself! Would that have been so fucking hard, to just do the smart thing for once in his fucking...thinks he's fucking invincible, thinks he can just talk his way out of anything, well he can't—” He stopped abruptly and turned to me. “Did you see it happen?”

“No, no. Some guy came out and told Emmett and he charged back there.”

Brian laughed, once. “Emmett.”

“I think he punched him. His hand was bleeding.”

“Remind me to get him a fruit basket.” He breathed out. “No pun intended.”

“Come sit down,” I said, but Brian shook his head and kept circling the loft. After a while Justin started coughing up in their bedroom, and Brian went up the stairs and never came back down.

Hours later, as I finally drifted off to sleep, I remembered all that work he was supposed to do.

**

Brian was gone by the time I woke up the next morning. Justin sat at the kitchen table, now miraculously clear of Brian's supplies, eating oatmeal and drinking the biggest mug of coffee I'd ever seen. He got up and poured me my own when I got to the table.

He looked fucking awful. Brian was right about that black eye, and the marks around his neck, where they showed above the collar of his t-shirt, had darkened to a deep purple. When he handed me my mug, I grabbed him impulsively and hugged him, and he hugged me back, shaking a little.

“Brian is so freaked out,” he said.

I pulled back so he could see my lips. “I don't blame him. How are you?”

He shrugged. “I don't think it's really hit me yet. I'm just trying to manage Brian.”

“He's at work now?”

“Yeah.” Justin sat back down. “Bet those presentations are gonna go just great.”

He came home earlier than expected, just a little after five, while Justin and I were crashed on the couch deep into our brainless movie marathon. Justin paused it when Brian stormed in. “I thought you were having dinner with Bramson.”

“Canceled,” Brian said, without signing, marching past us to the bedroom.

Justin reached over the couch and caught him by the arm. “Brian.”

Brian stopped and turned to him, signing this time. “It was canceled, Sunshine!”

“Why?”

“Because I blew the presentation so fucking badly that we all agreed there was no point in acting like they were going to sign with us! I blew every single fucking one, why do you think that was? And Bramson's off having dinner with some fucking agency from New York, just like goddamn everyone else, because I'm an agency from goddamn Pittsburgh so I need to be twice as good as everyone else, I needed to be dazzling and I wasn't dazzling, and you know why that is?”

Justin sighed, turned off the TV, and got up. Brian took one look at him and kind of stumbled back on his feet.

“Christ,” Brian said. “Look at you. Jesus fucking Christ. Can you fucking breathe with your neck like that?”

“I can breathe.”

Brian put his hands on either side of Justin's head and lowered his forehead to his and they just stayed there for a second, their eyes closed, and stupid me, I thought maybe they were done fighting.

“I'm sorry about your presentations,” Justin said.

Brian let go of him. “I was a fucking joke today. I'd fire myself if I could.”

“I'm sure it wasn't that bad,” Justin said.

“What the fuck do you know about it?” Brian said.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

“Stop fucking apologizing.” Brian broke away from him and went over to the fridge, got out a beer. “You want to be sorry for something, fucking cover your neck up.”

Justin put his arms around himself and looked down, and neither of them said anything for a minute. Brian took two swallows from his beer, quiet, controlled, but the bottle was shaking in his hand, and suddenly he slammed it down on the counter.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he said to Justin, but Justin was still looking down, so Brian stomped his foot on the ground until Justin looked up. “What were you thinking?” he said again.

“Doing what? Going to the back room, like I have a thousand times?”

“By yourself. With nobody you know back there.”

“You do it all the time!”

“You are not me!”

“Everyone does it all the time!” Justin said. “You think Emmett gets a chaperone before he heads back there?”

“I don't give a shit if everyone does it! I don't give a shit if you used to do it!” He was back in front of Justin now, leaning in close. “I am proud of you for everything you have gained from this shit and you know that, you know that you fucking know that, but that doesn't mean you can walk around like you're not fucking missing one of your senses.”

“So because I'm Deaf, I don't get to—”

“Because you are Deaf, you have to be twice as smart as everybody else. You want to know what that's like?” He pointed to the couch, to me. “You fucking ask Daphne.”

Justin looked away and chewed on his lip, and Brian shook his head slowly.

“And if you fucking think you're going to New York tomorrow—”

“What?” Justin said.

“I said—”

“I know what you said, Brian, and I am fucking going to New York.”

“Like hell you are,” Brian said, stalking back to his beer.

“You don't get to decide where I go!” Justin said. “I'm twenty-five years old and you're not my fucking parent!”

“No, I'm your goddamn husband who you're treating like a fucking villain for worrying when you come home looking like a fucking corpse—”

“I'm not treating you like a villain for worrying, I'm treating you like a villain for being a fucking asshole. It is possible to do one without the other, did you know that? Why would you.”

Brian glared at him for a a moment, then stalked out of the loft, slamming the door behind him.

After a minute, Justin came and sat down next to me on the couch.

You okay? I asked him.

Justin rubbed his neck. “Fine. Let's play the movie.”

He was antsy while we watched, though, and after about ten minutes he got up without saying anything and set his easel up by the window. He got out a new canvas and started something new, and I pretended to watch the movie, but really I watched him.

He used to paint more when we were younger, but eventually he switched mostly to drawing just because it was so much more convenient, and then he got really into animation and graphics and stuff, which was obviously useful after his hand was fucked up. But I always missed his paintings, and I'm so happy he's started up again, because...fuck, there is nothing like Justin Taylor in color. He does these combinations that shouldn't make any sense, and somehow it's like...I don't know, I'm not an artist, but it seems like each color is more itself than it was before, when it's next to this one that shouldn't work.

I thought about that again when Brian came back pretty soon after. Justin had his back to the door and was lost in a painting trance anyway, so Brian stood in the open door of the loft for a little, his head against the wall, and watched him with this look that was half-pained, half...something else.

Eventually he came into the loft, slowly, gently, and wrapped his arms around Justin from behind. Justin kept painting, but I saw him relax into Brian's arms.

These two people who shouldn't work, brighter together.

I'm sorry, Brian said, his fist rubbing circles on Justin's chest.

Justin turned around, and Brian carefully removed the brush from his hand, ran his finger over a smear of paint on Justin's shoulder.

“Come on,” he said.

He pulled Justin to the couch, then left him there for a second while he messed around in the kitchen. He came back with two mugs of tea, one for me, one for Justin, and an ice pack, which he held around Justin's neck while he drank. And we just sat there for a while, watching the movie, not really talking, while Justin slowly settled back into Brian.

“Nothing can happen to you,” Brian said softly, eventually, and I don't even know why he said it out loud, since it wasn't for me to hear. “You promised me, remember?”

Justin rested his forehead against Brian's neck, and Brian so, so hesitantly touched one of the marks on his neck.

I promise, Justin signed.

Justin fell asleep there, tucked into Brian, and when the movie was over he and I shrugged at each other and I put another one in. I sat back on the couch, legs crossed. “So I guess he's coming to New York tomorrow?”

Brian nodded. “We had a plan, didn't we?”

“We did.”

“You think that's going out the window because someone nearly kills him?” He snorted. “Please.”

I smiled.

**

Brian brought us to the airport and kissed us both goodbye. Justin was wearing a turtleneck.

“All right.” Brian straightened the straps on Justin's backpack. “You have everything you need?”

“Condoms, sketchpad, clothes,” Justin said.

“All the essentials,” Brian said, and then he pulled Justin in and hugged him, and it was so...tender. I don't think I've ever seen Brian and Justin touch without there being some kind of risk they were about to start doing it on the spot, but this was just sweet. I had to look away, and I've practically seen those two fucking!

“It's two days,” Justin said.

Brian pulled away to sign to him. “I know. Will be nice to not trip over your fucking shoes every time I come and go.”

Justin smiled at him and hitched his backpack up.

“It's our first time apart since I got sick,” he explained to me on the way to security.

Don't worry, I signed. I'll take care of you. I held onto his arm and batted my eyelashes up at him so he'd know I wasn't serious.

Still he rolled his eyes. “I'm not worried about me. Who's gonna take care of him?”

“Judging by the other night I'd have to say Emmett, probably,” I said.

Justin laughed. “Sure seems that way.”

We didn't get to New York until early afternoon, so we had a low-key rest of the day, walking around my neighborhood in Queens, climbing up to the elevated train where you could see the Empire State Building, getting food from this hole-in-the-wall pasta place in Midtown. I introduced him to my roommates and we stretched out on my bed and ate our weight in gummi candy. His friend's art opening was tomorrow, and we were going to check out a few other art galleries too. We talked about that for a little, and then med school. The way Justin watched my lips made me feel like everything I was saying was so important.

“Brian was right, wasn't he?” Justin said. “About working twice as hard.”

I shrugged a little.

“I always thought you had it so easy,” he said. “Because you were straight. I guess I'm a moron, huh?”

“Little bit!” I said, and he laughed and pulled me under his arm.

We Skyped with Brian before bed, just letting him know we got in okay and filling him in on our plans for tomorrow, and I guess showing him that no one new had tried to strangle Justin. We signed I love you to him before we hung up, and Brian covered his face with one hand and signed it with the other, and Justin and I cheered like kids.

He had a nightmare that night, but we managed it. Not my first time at the rodeo. He asked me not to tell Brian, so I didn't.

The next day, we took the 7 to the 1 and rode that down to Chelsea, where his friend was showing. Justin was pretty quiet on the walk there, looking around at all the galleries, and I nudged my shoulder against his and we smiled at each other.

Justin's friend didn't know any more sign language than hi, which is just saluting you, but, in a big surprise for Justin, the gallery owner did, and she got all excited when she came by and his friend introduced him. I walked around looking at the paintings—fine, I guess, but nothing compared to my guy's—while she and Justin chattered away, and the next time I glanced over Justin had his sketchpad out and was showing her a few of his drawings, a nervous pink flush underneath the black eye he made me help cover with my roommate's concealer this morning.

I covertly took a picture on my phone and texted it to Brian.

Justin didn't really say anything about it for a while; whenever something big happens to him, he always needs some time to decompress, so we just talked about his friend's art and about the Chelsea art scene in general, which basically meant I nodded along while he talked. We went out to lunch, and after we'd ordered appetizers he said, abruptly, “She said she'd love to see some of my stuff. That I should email her photos.”

“Justin, that's amazing.”

“And I mean...fuck, if Brady can get a show?”

“I know. You blow him out of the water.”

Justin shrugged like what can I say?

“And there's a thousand other galleries just like this one,” I said. “Ones looking for up and coming talent. Pittsburgh has like...”

“One,” Justin said.

I sipped my drink.

“Fuck,” Justin said. “I've got to get up here.” He rubbed his forehead. “God, Brian's going to kill me. When I told him I was coming to New York, the first thing he said was 'Don't you fucking fall in love with it.'”

“To be fair, when has Brian telling you not to fall in love with something ever, ever worked,” I said.

Justin looked at me apologetically. “I'm not sure I got all that, sorry.”

I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Brian would do anything for you,” I said.

“I know.”

“That's all I said.”

Justin groaned and banged his head against the table a few times, and I smiled to myself.

We walked around a little more and then he groaned and said, “Okay, okay, let's do it,” and we went back to my place to Skype with Brian. He was still at the office, and damn, he looked good all put together in that Armani.

He leaned back in his chair and said, “So how was the show?”

“I've got to be here,” Justin said, so so much for easing into it!

Brian raised an eyebrow.

“There's a gallery owner here, she fucking knows sign language, and she likes my shit and she wants to see more and...and even if that doesn't pan out, there are so many fucking opportunities here, and...and I have no idea how we would make it work but maybe, I mean, I know you love New York, maybe there's some way you can...I don't know, and I know you're probably so pissed at me right now and I know I'm going to come back to Pittsburgh and this is all going to seem like some stupid fantasy I had but like...but it's not, it's real, and I could have it. And there's a Deaf community here like fucking nothing they have in Pittsburgh, the gallery owner was telling me about it, and...and I fucking thought my life was over when I was diagnosed but it's here. It's right here. And I just...I'm sorry. I have to be here. I have to be in New York.”

Brian didn't say anything for a minute, and Justin twisted his hands together, waiting. Finally, Brian leaned forwards and looked at me. “Hey, Daph?” he said, signing.

“Yeah?”

He stuck his tongue in his cheek and grinned. “I fucking told you it would work.”

Chapter 5- The One Where Emmett Doesn't Babysit by LaVieEnRose

 

I can count on one hand the number of times Brian Kinney has called me, and one finger if we don't count the times he was drunk and meant to call someone else.

Notes:

Skype wouldn't have actually existed at this point, especially not for phones, but idk maybe when Justin lost his hearing Brian invested in it or something. Just go with it.

 

I can count on one hand the number of times Brian Kinney has called me, and one finger if we don't count the times he was drunk and meant to call someone else, but my phone rang one day in August and there was his name across my display. God knows why I even have his number saved. Pretty sure it would take zero fingers to count how many times I've called him. Brian just...shows up. Whether you want him to or not, there he is, like a nice little herpes flare up.

“Honeycutt!” he said, like he was surprised it was me, though I doubted even he'd be drunk at ten AM on a Tuesday. “How's life at the...I don't know what you do nowadays.”

“Charming, Kinney. Can I help you with something?”

“You can meet for lunch a the diner in...two hours. An hour and fifty minutes. Your pick.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you'll probably fucking be there anyway,” he said. “Where the fuck else do we ever eat in this town?”

Brian was antsy at lunch, pulling out the charm with Deb, ordering more food than I'll see him eat in a week, tapping his fingernails on the table. He cleared his throat when she walked away with our order and balanced the salt shaker on top of the pepper shaker before folding his hands on the table and looking at me with uncharacteristic seriousness. “I never thanked you,” he said.

I nodded. “I figured that's what this was.” 

A few weeks earlier, Justin had been in a bit of a situation at Babylon. One minute, I was dancing with Justin's adorable friend whose name I don't think I've ever been told, and the next, Todd was in my ear telling me Justin was in some trouble in the back room. I don't know what I expected to see when I got back there—honestly, I was probably thinking he'd OD'd, knowing the way he loves E—but it was definitely not Justin with his pants down, his arms flailing, some beefy motherfucker's hands around our kid's neck.

Luckily, you don't grow up gay in Mississippi without learning how to throw a punch or two. 

The guy weighed twice what I do, thank you very much, but I had the element of surprise and, by that point, a whole alleyfull of angry queers on my side, so we got Justin out of there without too much more of a fuss, and he promised me he was all right. His friend insisted on bringing him back to the loft alone, so I sat at home and...waited for a call from Brian, if I'm honest. Justin texted me the next morning—he can't call, naturally, hasn't been able to hear a thing for almost two years now—but nary a word from Brian.

Brian stacked the coffee creamers. “Honestly? It felt...feels...I don't know, gauche?” He rolled his eyes a little. “To thank you for saving him, like he's something expensive I dropped that you caught before it hit the ground.”

“Well, you have pumped plenty of money into the boy,” I said. 

He gave me a look.

“I understand,” I said. “It's not your place to thank me. He's not yours.”

Brian nodded shortly.

“I'm still going to assume you're paying for this lunch.”

“And here I thought the party planning was going swimmingly,” he said. Ha! I knew he knew what I did. 

“And the first rule of a good business is, you never say no to a free lunch.”

“Fair enough.” Brian sipped his coffee, made a face, set it aside. “Anyway, that's not why I asked you here. I have a proposition for you.”

I batted my eyelashes. “Why, Mr. Kinney.”

He held his hand up. “Don't start.”

“Please. They'd have to clear every queer out of Pennsylvania before I'd come near that thing. With a pair of rubber gloves.”

“Kinky,” Brian said pleasantly. “Listen. I have to go out of town for three nights next week...it's business, it's out in LA, and Justin found out the hard way he gets extremely airsick now with his condition...something with his equilibrium or whatever, but he's not interested in coming.” He looked up at me expectantly.

I said, “So, you want me to...what, give him a ride somewhere?”

“He can drive.”

“Pick up his groceries?”

“He can shop.”

“Fine, what can't he do, suck his cock?”

Brian stuck his tongue in his cheek. “Actually...”

“Huh.”

“Indeed.”

“I assume you don't want me to suck your husband's cock,” I said.

Brian made a face, waved me away. “Why the fuck do people keep calling him my husband?”

“Because you marrying him is the worst kept secret in Pittsburgh. It's worse than Ryan Major's nose job.”

“Hmm,” Brian said, considering. “That's a bad nose job.”

“I'm saying.”

“Regardless,” Brian said, “I don't want you to suck anyone's cock.”

“Well,” I scoffed. “Just for that—” 

He laughed, actually laughed! “I want you to stay at the loft with him while I'm gone,” he said. “He's still a little shaky about being on his own at night, and we haven't gotten lights for the alarm system yet, and...and frankly, I'd feel better too if there were someone there.”

Huh. Stay at Brian's loft.

Speaking of counting things on one hand...how many times had I even been inside that loft? Never mind sleeping there...

“Not in my bed,” Brian said firmly. 

“Please. My body's not touching any of your sheets without—” 

“—rubber gloves. I know.”

I hesitated. “You know my signing's not fantastic.”

“It's not bad,” Brian said, which is high praise, from him.

“Michael's is better.”

Brian shrugged.

“And Michael's your best friend.”

Another shrug.

“And Michael would be champing at the bit to role play as you for a few nights.”

“Justin,” Brian said simply. “Didn't ask for Michael.”

Well.

Huh.

**

The loft smelled like oil paints and popcorn when I showed up on Thursday night. Justin burst out laughing when he saw me. “What are you wearing?”

“It's my onesie!” I said. I fingerspelled it for him. 

“Onesie,” Justin repeated.

“We're having a sleepover,” I said. “I had to dress the part.” 

Justin gave me that little smile that he absolutely does when he doesn't understand what we said but doesn't want to trouble us and ask, and I made a pledge to say more things I knew how to sign (how the fuck do you say 'sleepover?') Are you hungry? I asked. I held up my overnight bag. “I brought snacks.” 

Justin bit his lip, a smile threatening to split open those cheeks. “You just asked if I was horny.” 

“Well,” I said smoothly. “That was going to be my next question.”

We spent most of our first evening watching movies and baking brownies, laughing some but not really talking much. Justin used to the chattiest of all of us, besides me of course, and it was so damn sad that he'd lost that. He didn't usually seem depressed when he was out, but seeing him now in the loft he seemed...smaller, somehow, like he'd folded in on himself.

We'd just taken the brownies up on the oven when a Skype alert popped up over the recipe on his laptop. Justin smiled and answered the call, and there was Brian, looking fabulous for someone just off a long plane ride, signing one-handed as he traipsed through the airport. Within a second, they were signing so quickly at each other, I couldn't even believe it. I swear to God, if one of them weren't Justin, I'd think they were just making hand movements and pretending to understand each other just to fuck with me.

I started cleaning up the kitchen, so I couldn't see the screen, but every time I'd glance over at Justin...God, he was so lit up, so joyous, watching Brian with his fingers against his lips, then telling him something in a flurry in a movement. Laughing, and I could hear Brian laughing with him on the other end. 

Once the dishes were in the sink, I came around behind Justin and drummed on his shoulders and gave Brian a bit of a wave.

“You two behave yourselves,” Brian said. “Don't smoke my weed.”

They said goodnight, Justin hung up, and he and I looked at each other.

**

Two joints and half a pan of brownies later, Justin rolled onto his stomach and said abruptly, “He doesn't ever talk about it, you know.”

I'm not surprised.

“He freaked out that night when I first got home,” Justin said. “When he saw the marks on my neck. And he cried later, when we were in bed.” He paused. “I think he was really scared I was raped, and I just wasn't telling him.” 

I patted him on the knee. Still waiting to be surprised, I said.

“I guess you've got him all figured out, huh?”

I shook my head. “Not at all,” I said. I just know how I felt when I saw you.

“I haven't really dealt with it,” he said.

Yeah. I know that too.

**

Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to screaming.

To be fair, Brian had warned me this might happen. To be even more fair, he had entirely undersold it. Right when we were leaving the diner, he said, like it had just occurred to him, “Oh, he's been having nightmares since he lost his hearing. Probably won't come up. He'll tell you how to handle it.”

Well, it was pitch black so he couldn't read my lips, and Justin was sobbing in the middle of his bed, but sure, he was gonna give me some tender guidance about what to do.

I went up to the bedroom, saying his name just out of habit, and reached down and put my hand on his back. He flinched away like I was on fire and whimpered somewhere in the back of his throat, and I swallowed and switched the light on. I signed my name a few times, and his, but Justin had his eyes squeezed shut, forcing tears into his pillow.

I FaceTimed Brian.

He answered after a few rings, shirtless, squinting in the light, already lighting a cigarette. “Fuck,” he said, his voice rough. “Is he sick?” He was signing while he spoke already, even though Justin wasn't in the frame.

“Nightmare,” I said.

Brian nodded like he knew and put the cigarette in his mouth. “Let me see him.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, carefully, and held the phone up so Brian could see Justin, still shivering and balled up. A sob escaped, and Brian closed his eyes and nodded a little.

“He doesn't want me to touch him...” I said.

“I know. Shake the bed a little so he knows you're there.”

I did, and gradually Justin uncurled. He looked at me, then the phone in my hand, and hesitantly reached for it. I gave it to him.

“Hey, Sunshine,” Brian said. “Always nice to see you.”

Justin laughed, or maybe cried, and ducked his head.

“Nice deep breaths, okay? Last thing we need is Emmett thinking he needs to drag you to the fucking hospital or some shit.”

I offered to take him to the hospital, after Babylon. Just about the strongest no I've ever heard, and I've seen straight guys try their luck on Dyke Night.

Justin sat up and took a deep breath.

“Good, Justin,” Brian said, softly. “Good.”

Come back Justin said, and I'm sure Brian's very, very grateful Justin couldn't hear the broken sound he made in response.

“Before you know it,” he said after a minute. “I'll be back with a new account and I'll take you out to the most fucking expensive dinner you can imagine.”

Justin shuddered.

“You are okay,” Brian said, firmly. “You will always get by. Remember what you promised me?”

Justin nodded.

“You are okay,” Brian said again. Willing it into existence. “You are okay.” His voice hardened, and he said, “Emmett, get him a fucking Klonopin, Jesus.”

**

Justin made waffles in the morning, and then I had meetings to take and he had a shift at the diner and a comic book meeting with Michael, so I didn't expect to see him until late. I was surprised when I came back at around seven, Chinese food in tow, and he and Michael were sitting on the floor in front of the couch, papers spread in every direction. I'd thought they were meeting at the shop. I kissed Michael's cheek, then Justin's, and set the egg rolls down in front of them.

Michael said, “Hey, Em, want to see what we're working on?”

I'll admit, I have absolutely no interest in their little comic book, but the loft was mine for three days which meant Michael was my guest and I'm nothing if not a good hostess, so I made all the appropriate enthusiastic noises and sat down on the floor with them. Justin was drawing, but he stopped to stretch out his hand.

“J.T. gets cornered by our new villain,” Michael said, showing me the sketches. “He tries to fight them off but he can't.”

I nodded slowly. “Really.”

Justin just kept drawing. 

“And then what happens?” I said.

“Oh, Rage shows up and saves the day, of course,” Michael said.

“Of course,” I said.

I figured Justin would want to give a hand a rest, but the first thing he did after Michael left was pull his easel out. I guess with all the signing, giving his hand a rest is kind of a lost concept.

“The paintbrush is easier for me to hold than a pencil,” Justin said, like he knew what I was thinking. “Bigger, and you don't have to grip it as tightly.”

I ignored the obvious joke about Brian's cock and sat on the couch with a glass of wine and read a magazine and watched him work. He looked so calm, studying the canvas and making little dabs now and then. It must have been nearly finished, but fuck all I know about art.

Still, I waved my hand until he looked at me and signed, It's beautiful.

He smiled at me. Thank you. He paused, took a step back, looked at it. “Did Brian tell you about New York?” he said.

“Michael did,” I said, signing. “He's...verklempt.” I just signed sad. When will my sign language catch up to my lovely vocabulary? Maybe never, if he and Brian flee the state.

“We're just waiting 'til it's the right time,” Justin said. “For Kinnetik, really. But it's really going to happen. Brian checks on real estate every day.”

“Yeah, Michael told me.” I let him work a little more, then waved my hand again and said, “Sweetie?”

He looked at me.

“Does Michael know? About what happened at Babylon?”

Justin ducked his head briefly. “I didn't tell him. It's possible Brian did, or he heard it through the gay grapevine or whatever. I just told him it was a story I thought up and he didn't...he didn't ask any questions. He thought it was a good story.”

“It is a good story,” I said. “Rage coming in and fixing it all.”

Justin grinned. “You're not feeling slighted, are you?”

“No, baby, of course not.” I sipped my wine. “People show up to see Rage fix everything, right?”

Justin nodded a little.

“Is this really the best time?” I asked him, gently. “For you to be leaving?”

“There's too many memories here,” he said. “Way too much stuff I think about that there's no reason for me to be thinking about. Once I'm out of here it'll be better.” He gestured with his paintbrush. “Plus. Art.”

He is fucking incredibly talented. Any idiot could see that.

“Sweetie,” I said. “What do you dream about?”

“Getting bashed,” he said, immediately, easily.

“Just that?”

“Just that,” he said, with something like bitterness in his voice. “No matter what else is actually going on, without fail...dream about the bashing. My brain’s stand-in for any issue.”

“Justin...do you think maybe you should talk to someone about what happened at Babylon?”

“You mean the cops?” He dabbed on a line of paint. “I’m not ratting out a queer to the cops.”

“I mean like a therapist,” I said. I didn’t know the sign, so I fingerspelled it.

Justin showed me how to say it, with a small roll of his eyes. “I don’t need a therapist. What, I need professional help because some guy had his hands around my throat for thirty seconds? I didn’t even go to a therapist after my head got bashed in.”

“Doll, that’s not the strong argument you think it is,” I said, but I don’t know if he even understood me. He just went back to his painting.

He screamed even louder that night, and by the time I untangled myself from the sheets and scrambled across the loft, I could already hear him calling Brian. He signed frantically at the phone, sobbing, gasping, and Brian said, “Justin, you have to speak, I can’t see you—“ and then, when Justin kept signing, barked, “Emmett! Where the fuck is Emmett?”

“I’m here,” I said.

“Turn on the light. Take the phone, hold it back so I can see what the fuck he’s saying.”

I knelt in front of the bed and held the phone up and Justin signed and Brian said, “Kid, slow down, I can’t...” and then “Yes you can. Yes you can, Justin,” and then a small, broken “Please.”

Justin folded up, knees to chest, and cried and cried and didn’t seem like he was going to be looking at the phone any time soon, so I hesitantly turned the phone back around to me. Brian was smoking out his hotel room window.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said he can’t breathe,” Brian snapped. “He’s having a panic attack.”

“What does he need?”

Brian looked at me like I was a moron and said, “Me.”

“Of course,” I said. “Rage to the rescue.”

“Why are you still sitting there? Get him a fucking Klonopin. No, don’t—leave the phone. Leave me here.”

**

Brian called Justin’s phone midday the next day, while he was sleeping hard on top of the duvet. I rescued the phone from his bedside table and answered it. “Hey.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Not Justin.”

“So observant! He’s sleeping.”

“I thought he’d just be getting gone from work.”

“He called in sick. He needed to get some damn sleep. I stayed here to keep an eye on him.”

Brian nodded once, shortly. “I’ll be home tomorrow,” he said. “He’ll be better then.”

“Will he?”

Brian’s jaw tightened. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Brian, he is fucked up,” I said. “He’s a mess about what happened at Babylon, and hell, I think he’s a lot more of a mess than he wants us to know about the fucking bashing. This isn’t just a stress reaction to you being gone or to losing his hearing a year and a half ago or however the fuck you’ve been rationalizing this to yourself. Something fucking bad happened to him, and he is not okay, and stuffing him full of drugs and running away to New York is not going to make him okay.”

Brian just looked at me, and for one beautiful, stupid moment, I actually thought Brian Kinney was listening to me.

Then he leaned forwards in his chair and said, “Let me get something straight, okay? Because it seems there’s been some confusion. Your job is to babysit. Not to diagnose. You don’t know shit about Justin and what he needs. None of you do.”

“I know he’s not a baby,” I said.

Brian glared.

“See you tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll tell him you called.” I hung up and stared at the screen for a while.

Listen. I might not worship at the Brian Kinney altar here in the Church of Gay Pittsburgh, but I’m not here to try to minimize what Brian’s done for Justin. But if nobody else is willing to puncture holes in the ego himself, maybe that’s my job. For Justin.

Because it sure as fuck wasn’t babysitting. We’re really going to act like BRIAN is the responsible one in their little partnership? Even my head isn’t that far in the clouds.

Justin didn’t start screaming at any point while he was napping, but when he woke up he was sweaty, panting. I brought him a bottle of water and he drank gratefully.

I sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, and he leaned against the headboard. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

I waited, trying to plan what I wanted to say so I’d be able to sign as much as I could, and then said, “Did you know that when I was in junior high in Mississippi, some boys tried to burn my house down?”

Justin shook his head, watching me.

“I was twelve, and they...well. You don’t need me to tell you what kids can be like. They tried to set on fire when me and my parents and my grandma and all my siblings, even my four-year-old sister, were asleep inside.”

“What happened?”

I smiled a little. “Turns out setting a house on fire from the outside isn’t as easy as they expected. My dad heard a noise and went out and found them skulking around with kerosene and newspapers, trying to light up the aluminum siding. As soon as they saw his shotgun they ran off.”

“That’s good,” Justin said.

I smiled a little. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it? It’s great that my house didn’t burn down. It’s great that my family didn’t get hurt. And yet...twenty-five years later, I still jump if I hear a noise at night. I still get scared when I’m in the house alone. And sometimes...I wish I had a shotgun under my bed, like my daddy did. Just in case.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to sit around feeling grateful because they didn’t succeed,” I said. “You don’t have to be okay. And fuck anybody who tells you you do.”

Justin nodded a little, looking away.

I lifted his chin and said, “And that includes Brian Kinney.”

I gave him some space for the rest of the evening, sitting at the kitchen table working on invoices while he painted, and messed around on his computer, and ran for a little while on the treadmill. Right before I was about to ask if he wanted me to pick up something for dinner, his phone rang, and he settled down with it on the couch.

“Hi,” he said, and afterwards switched to signing. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, and I knew I shouldn't watch, but I figured with the speed he and Brian sign at each other, I wouldn't understand enough for it to technically count as eavesdropping anyway. Brian wasn't talking, and from the amount of signing Justin was doing, I got the feeling Brian was being largely quiet in both languages.

Eventually I heard movement on the other end of the line. The click of Brian lighting a cigarette. A hitch of breath that didn't sound like Justin's.

Justin dabbed at his eyes, and nodded his head, and, just barely, smiled.

“He moved his flight up,” Justin said to me over dinner. “So he's gonna get here early tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And we're...going to look for a therapist.” He bit his thumbnail. “Turns out I've got a lot of shit.”

“The best people usually do,” I said, and he aimed that Sunshine smile right at me.

**

Brian got in at eight the next morning. I woke up to the sound of him tossing his keys on the counter, and he nodded at me, eyes already moving to the bedroom.

“How was last night?” he asked me.

“Fine.”

He looked at me. “Fine?”

“Really. No nightmares.”

“Hi.” Justin had appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing boyishly at his eyes. A smile broke over Brian's face, like nothing I'd ever seen on him, and he crossed to the bedroom in long strides and wrapped his arms around Justin.

I gave them some privacy, gathering my things, getting ready to put this little chapter behind me. I wasn't expecting to be acknowledged again—figured they'd need some time to celebrate their little reunion—but as I started towards the door Brian said, “Hey, Emmett?”

I turned around. They were still right at the top of the stairs, Justin's face buried in Brian's neck, Brian's eyes on me.

Thank you, Brian signed.

Chapter 6 - The One Where Cynthia Tags Along by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Simcom--simultaneous communication. Signing and speaking at the same time. Very, very hard to do well.

 

 

The One Where Cynthia Tags Along
LaVieEnRose

 


“Oh, and Cynthia? One more thing?”

He always does this. He calls me into his office for some completely tedious bullshit, stalls by going over it in way, way too much detail, and then, when my hand is on the door, tells me the actual reason he wanted to talk to me. For someone with a well-earned reputation for overconfidence, Brian Kinney is fucking chickenshit about asking for favors.

I turned around and crossed my arms. He winced, ran a hand over his mouth, and finally said, “Can you come to New York this weekend?”

“This weekend?”

“Justin and I have business in the city,” he said, and I couldn't help smiling a little at how easily the phrase Justin and I fell out of his mouth. Sue me, I've been rooting for them since the first time the kid waltzed into the office and Brian sent me home early for the first time in five years. Plus Justin gets me way better birthday presents than Brian does.

“Courting an art gallery?” I asked. One of Justin's paintings hung right over his head.

A ghost of a smile passed over his mouth. “Something like that. I found some office spaces I'd like to look at while we're there, and I'd like it if you could look at them with me.”

I tried very hard to keep my face neutral, because there's no fun with Brian if you don't string him along and make him beg for a little while, but I wondered if he knew that until that moment I'd had no idea if I was included in his plans to expand Kinnetik to New York, or if he'd be leaving me here with the great unwashed (no offense, Ted). Sure, I knew he'd prefer to have me with him—I'm the only staff he's ever had that he's tried to fire under ten times—but considering the relocation fee and the raise he had to know to know I'd be demanding, I couldn't pretend it wouldn't be a hell of a lot cheaper for him to hire someone new in the move and leave me to hold down the fort here.

And now he wanted my input on the office space.

He looked at me expectantly.

“I'm assuming this will count as a working weekend when you're deciding my Christmas bonus,” I said smoothly.

He rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“And I'm assuming there will be dinner. Lobster.”

“Naturally.”

“Maybe some Louboutins changing hands.”

Brian picked up his phone and started to dial. “Now, don't be ridiculous,” he said. “You don't have to get me anything. And they don't even make men's shoes.”

I rolled my eyes. “I'll get tickets.”

“Just one for you,” Brian said. “Justin and I are taking the train.”

“All the way to New York?”

Brian shrugged. “He doesn't fly anymore.”

Right. The truth was, I hadn't spent much time with Justin since he lost his hearing. He didn't stop by the office as much as he used to, and his semi-regular calls to the office phone, filtered through me, had switched to emails and video calls on his cell phone, which weren't. We used to waste a ton of time on the phone, gossiping about accounts, and his school friends, and whether Brian was getting enough sleep, until Brian would start shooting daggers at me through his glass doors and drop some pointed comment later about how he didn't think he was receiving all his calls.

Now, most of what I saw of Justin was when Brian came in with a new painting for the foyer or the conference room, always perfectly designed for my, thank you very much, carefully selected color schemes.

It would be nice to see him again, I told myself. And it was still just Justin. There was no reason for me to be nervous.

I don't get nervous. I work for Brian fucking Kinney, for God's sake.

**

Looking back, I don't know how I managed not to strangle Brian before Justin came along. I guess because it was easier back then to put up with him when I had no idea how much better things could be. It's not as if I sat around wishing someone would could file down some of Brian's rough edges, because I had no reason to believe a better version of Brian was even possible. How was I to have guessed he had a heart way, way deep in there?

It's so many years back now that it's hard to remember, but what I won't forget is how gradual Justin's presence was, like maybe even when they barely knew each other he could sense that the only way he was going to stick around was if Brian never really noticed he was inching closer. And either it worked, and Brian really didn't realize that he was falling in deeper with every phone call, every dirty letter Justin had me messenger in, every late-afternoon drop-by, or maybe he made a conscious decision at one point to let it happen, to actually enjoy something for once in his miserable life. Either way, Brian never actually mentioned Justin to me, not during that first year of his quiet, less-and-less occasional existence, and not when he came in one Tuesday in May with every bit of light missing from his eyes. I knew what had happened, of course—Michael had called the morning before, to explain why Brian wouldn't be coming in, and I'd already had flowers sent to Justin's mother—but Brian strapped on a mechanical version of his voice and talked to me about work and only work so I returned the favor. It took six weeks, but he came back one morning, and he still looked like over-tired, overworked shit, but there was life there, there was something, and I knew without having to ask that Justin was back.

After that, the only reminders of what a tremendous bastard he used to be were when he had cancer a few years back, when he and Justin were split up a a year before that...and when Justin got sick.

Don't get me wrong, he held it together better for that last one—I guess once you hit enough crisises, you start to get a sense of how to power through, and God knows they'd had their fair share—but Brian still reverted back to the guy who threw his lattes at boards he didn't like and made interns cry on a regular basis. His calendar filled up with doctor's appointments and prescription refills, and he snarled at me about why the office didn't have video phones and why we didn't have a sign language interpreter on staff.

For a while, Justin came to the office more than he used to, but he mostly hung out on Brian's couch and drew or read or slept. I could tell he'd lost weight, and he always looked worn out as hell, but for that matter so did Brian. I asked Ted about it once, in a whisper: “Is Brian fucking sleeping?”

“They're in night school,” Ted explained. “Between that and getting in at six every morning, and by what I must assume is a dogged refusal to let it affect his sex life...”

I said, “How's Justin doing, do you know?”

“Brian says it's progressing faster than they expected,” he said. “If you ask me...” He glanced around. “Don't tell Brian, but I saw him break down at the diner the other day.”

“Justin did?”

He nodded. “He was trying to take someone's order and he couldn't understand it, and he'd been having a rough day already, y'know, with his hand, and he just started fucking crying right there behind the counter. Deb dropped everything and came and held him, of course. It was rough. I was the only other one of us there, and...afterwards Justin made me promise not to tell Brian. Said he's worried enough as it is.” Ted shrugged a shoulder. “Not that he seems all that worried to me.”

It was one of those moments—I have them with Michael sometimes too, whenever he stops by and wants to shoot the shit about Brian—where I'm baffled by his friends, and how they've known him longer than I have and yet sometimes act as if they met him last week. Anyone with half a semester of Kinney 101 under their belts should have been able to tell that he was terrified out of his mind, that scheduling meetings at ridiculous hours and taking on twice his normal workload was exactly how Brian Kinney did worry, but...here we were again. The man really isn't all that complicated. He just likes people to think he is, and his friends, for some reason I can't suss out, seem to be equally invested in keeping the illusion alive, even if all it leads to is everyone getting pissed off at each other. Thank God Justin's never been one to partake. From the first time he came in here, he was rolling his eyes at me about how transparent Brian is, and I thought, finally.

An hour later I walked towards Brian's office with some paperwork for him to sign off on, and stopped outside the doors when I saw him sitting on the couch. He had a pen in his mouth and a file open in his hand, deep in concentration, but Justin was asleep next to him with his head resting on Brian's knee, Brian's hand tangled up in his hair.

The paperwork could wait.

**

Brian took a half-day on Friday to catch his train, and I took a flight right after work and met them in Chelsea for a late dinner. I kissed Justin's cheek, gave Brian an overly professional handshake to annoy him, and ordered the most expensive thing I could find on the menu. Brian had me sit down next to him with Justin on the other side of the table so that he could interpret. Brian was dressed to the nines, of course, but Justin had on an open-collared deep blue shirt that made his eyes look like swimming pools, and he seemed happy, comfortable, darting his gaze between my lips and Brian's hands when I spoke. The last few times I'd seen Justin Brian had been rushing around with his arms full of files, so I'd only seen him lipread before now. And I'd never seen Brian sign more than a few words. I knew logically that he could, of course, but seeing it live was kind of amazing. Not to get too hetero about the whole thing, but Brian has lovely hands.

“So what's the schedule tomorrow?” I asked, and Brian interpreted, his thumb under his chin for tomorrow.

“The first space is in SoHo,” Brian said, signing while he spoke. “We have an appointment there for...Christ, I hate simcomming. Sunshine, interpret for me.”

Justin laughed and watched Brian sign. “We're scheduled to look at that at ten in the morning. Then Justin and I have an appointment at one, and then we can see a place on the Upper East Side and one in the Financial District sometime after that.” Brian nodded, and then Justin added, “And tonight Justin wants to go to Battery Park and see the boats.”

Brian laughed and rolled his eyes and signed something, presumably that, and Justin grinned.

“Yeah, Brian said you two had business here,” I said. “Finally scheduling a show?”

Brian signed quickly and Justin shook his head. “It's fine, Brian. No, I have an appointment with a neurologist.”

Fuck. “Oh, I didn't—”

“It's fine,” Justin said. “Everything's fine.” He looked at Brian, hard, and they had some conversation not in English, not in ASL, just looking at each other. “Right, Brian?”

“Absolutely,” Brian said.

Justin turned to me and asked me a question, but it was lost under a roar of laughter from the table next to us. Brian waved his hand to get his attention and said, “Loud in here, Sunshine. You gotta speak up.”

Justin wrinkled his nose. “Sorry.”

“You can sign if you want,” I said. “Put Brian to work.”

Justin glanced at Brian and then quickly away. “No, it's okay,” he said. “Just tell me if I start shouting or something.”

Our food arrived, we finished two bottles of wine, and I wondered what it was they weren't telling me. Brian was quiet through dinner, just cutting in to interpret when necessary, but once we left the restaurant and got into a cab he seemed to unwind. We walked under the lights of Battery Park towards the water and in incredible view of Brooklyn, and he kept his arm over Justin's shoulders and signed something with his other hand that made Justin laugh so hard he doubled over.

Anyone watching them would think they'd been speaking this language to each other their entire lives. You'd never guess that they'd lost anything.

Justin started to sign something to him but stopped abruptly, and his expression darkened all of a sudden. Brian just nodded a little, took each of Justin's hands in his, and kissed him deeply, leaning against the railing.

A neurologist appointment.

Maybe they were about to get something back.

We couldn't for the life of us find a cab, so we took the subway back to our hotel on the Upper West. Justin was delighted, probably just because of how pissed off it made Brian, but he fell asleep a few stops in, his head on Brian's shoulder.

“He gets really tired nowadays,” Brian said softly, and the gentleness of his voice, the way he rested his cheek just so slightly against Justin's head and pulled Justin's hand into his lap, left a bad feeling in my stomach, and I suddenly worried I was very, very wrong about why they needed to see a doctor.

“Brian...” I said.

“Mmm.” He didn't look up from his thumb rubbing circles on Justin's palm.

“He's...he's okay, right?”

“He's fabulous,” Brian said dryly, and I knew I wasn't getting anything out of him tonight.

Just before our stop, he woke Justin up and pulled him up with his hands cupped carefully under his wrists. Justin leaned against him, cheek on his chest, as the train slid to a stop. He tilted his head back to look at Brian, eyebrows raised like a question, and Brian smiled, and he smiled back.

“We'll see you tomorrow,” Brian said to me, as we parted at the hallways for our rooms.

Justin nodded. “Tomorrow.”

**

They were chipper in the morning. Brian sipped a latte and snapped questions at the poor realtor. “I've got to get Jennifer to come with us next time,” he grouched to me at one point. “Someone who can do their fucking job...”

Justin explored on his own, measuring walls with his arms, studying the ceiling, checking the floorboards. “What do you think?” he asked me at one point, while Brian was arguing with the realtor over the accuracy of the floor plan he'd been sent.

“Well, it's no bathhouse,” I said, and the way Justin grinned I knew he'd understood.

Brian came over and slung an arm over my shoulder. “What do you two think?” he said, signing to Justin.

Justin screwed up his face. “It's got no character.”

“Well, you haven't painted a mural for this wall yet.”

“Oh, I'm painting a mural now?”

“I thought a bathhouse scene,” Brian said. “To honor our origins.”

“Technicolor fucking in...” Justin scanned the wall. “Thirty feet by nine, maybe.”

“Exactly.”

“You could have exposed brick,” Justin said. “Pre-war touches. Levels. Not an...office, Christ.”

“I'm telling you, when I was your age, this was not Chelsea,” he said. “All the fucking married gays with their little dogs now...you should have seen how it used to be, back when the Best Buys were bodegas.” He shook his head and looked around. “Well, I'd rip up the carpet.”

“And what's under there, linoleum? You could have hardwood.” Brian started to sign, and Justin grabbed his hands and gave him a look. “Watch it.”

“I agree with Justin,” I said.

Brian sighed.

“And you do too, and you know it,” I said.

“I do not, because Justin's pulling a long con here trying to make us look at outerborough buildings because he thinks they have more character.”

Justin shrugged innocently. “I'm just saying, there's this gallery space in Dumbo...”

“You don't move to New York to get an office out in Brooklyn when you can get something in Manhattan,” Brian said. “Right there, you're cutting your credibility in half.”

“Yeah, I don't know what you just said,” Justin said.

“Yeah, I signed it really badly. I told you I hate simcomming.”

“I just don't see how it could hurt to look at somewhere in Brooklyn or Queens.”

“Why not just go to Staten Island?” Brian said. “Westchester? Albany? Pittsburgh?”

“Does this place have a bathroom?” Justin asked. “I don't have to pee, I just want to get away from you for a minute.”

“That's what you think,” Brian said, and he stalked Justin to the bathroom, body pressed obscenely against Justin's back, leaving me alone with a very frazzled realtor.

“Thanks,” I said to her. “We'll be in touch.”

We had another hour before they had to head to their appointment, so we ordered brunch at a cafe in Chelsea. Or, Justin and I ordered brunch, and Brian sipped a Bloody Mary, bitched about the calorie counts, and then ate half our food. He checked the time on his watch, took a pill bottle out of his briefcase and shook out two for Justin, who took them wordlessly.

“Teach me how to say something,” I said to Justin, after a mimosa or three. “Teach me how to hit on a Deaf guy.”

“Excuse me,” Brian said.

Justin rolled his eyes and kicked him. “All right,” he said, leaning forwards. “So here's what you want to do.”

I was practicing, and Brian was heckling Justin over his choice of pick-up lines, when a guy walking by stopped on his way past our table and signed something to Brian. Brian shook his head, pointed at Justin, and Justin greeted him and the two started signing animatedly. Brian smiled a little to himself and scooted his chair back to get out of their line of sight.

“Do they know each other?” I asked him.

“Nah.” He sipped his drink. “You think queers can find each other anywhere, but that's nothing compared to them.” He watched the conversation for a minute. “I can't follow this at all,” he said.

“Really?”

He shook his head. “Justin slows way down for me. I always forget until I see him signing with someone Deaf.” He grinned. “Learned a second language in his twenties, you know how hard that is? And fucking look at him.” He shook his head. “Hell of a thing.”

“Can't be as hard as learning it in your thirties,” I said, partly to mess with him, mostly because I have no idea what to say when Brian gets sentimental. It's not like I have a lot of practice.

“Nah,” Brian said. “I just...I get by. I function. He...” Another headshake. “Hell of a thing,” he repeated, softly.

Justin continued his conversation, and Brian and I looked over the specs of the space we'd be touring after their appointment, until Justin stopped signing suddenly, slipped one hand into his pocket, and continued one-handed. It was such a little thing, and I would never have noticed it if Brian hadn't fixed his eyes on him the second he hesitated, if he didn't immediately touch Justin's elbow and sign something to Justin, then the guy. Justin smiled apologetically at his new friend and they signed a little, Justin still one-handed, and the guy went on his way.

“Can't believe I got a Deaf person to say goodbye in under ten minutes,” Brain said. “I really am a superhero.” His voice was light, but he still had a tight look on Justin.

Justin looked at me instead. “He's nice,” he told me. “And straight. You should have practiced the line I taught you.”

Brian got his attention.“First you're teaching women how to hit on men, now you're talking to straight people. What am I going to do with you?”

“You were right before, though,” Justin said. “We are gonna be late.”

Brian nodded and took out his wallet. “We'll see you after,” he said to me, and he threw down some money and wrapped an arm around Justin's waist as they stood up and headed for a cab, leaving me at the table wondering what the hell just happened.

**

We were supposed to meet in the Upper East Side at four, and at four fifteen I was still alone on the sidewalk. I finally gave up and took out my phone to text Brian when a cab pulled up and he got out. He'd changed clothes; this morning he was all power suit, cuff links, show the realtor who's boss, but now he was in jeans and a sweater and his hair was messed up. And he was alone.

He lit a cigarette the second he was out of the cab.

I said, “Um, we should—” and he held up his hand.

He took a long drag and exhaled, eyes closed. When he opened them, he fixed me with a hard stare. “He's back at the hotel,” he said. “He wasn't feeling well, so he's taking a nap. Okay?”

“I didn't say anything.”

He rolled his eyes and inhaled.

“I was going to say if he don't go in they're going to think we're not coming.”

“They can wait,” he said. “It can wait five fucking minutes.”

We went in once he'd finished the cigarette, but he was distracted and disinterested and even if he hadn't been, we both knew this wasn't Kinnetik's new home about a second after we'd walked in. It was airier than the first space, but it was still blank, still generic, still the kind of place that needed a full wall mural of guys fucking in order to have anything resembling a personality, and Brian wasn't having it. We spent less than ten minutes touring the place before he rolled his eyes and charged out the door, and we headed to the nearest bar.

The way he was acting, I figured he'd be getting shitfaced, but instead he ordered a martini—my standard—for me and a beer for him and nursed it from a booth in the corner. He looked around dispassionately. “Straight bars are very subdued,” he said.

“Well, it's four-thirty in the afternoon.”

“You can get a blow job in the bathroom of a gay bar at ten in the morning,” he said. “If you tried to blow someone here they'd probably take you to get your head examined.”

“Is that a challenge?” I said, and he grinned with half his mouth and took a swallow of his beer.

I let the moment rest for a while, watching him start to decompress, and when I couldn't stand it anymore I said, “Brian, what the fuck is going on?”

He sighed and leaned back in the booth. “You know Occam's razor?” he said.

“Of course.”

“The simplest answer is the best,” he continued, like I hadn't spoken. “Don't think that there are two things going on when it's probably just one. Because what are the odds? That one person, that one fucking kid, is going to have two fucking catastrophic things happen to him before he's twenty-five. You'd think, there's gonna be a connection, right? But...” He gestured carelessly, shrugged. “But he was born with this fucking disease and a guy swung a bat at his head because I danced him around like a circus act. Because it's not a razor, it turns out. I don't know. Jesus, remember when you could smoke in bars?”

“Barely,” I said, and he rolled his eyes. “This is about him being bashed?” I said.

“Everything,” he said. “Is about him being bashed. That's the thing. No matter what we do, no matter how much fucking distance...no matter how many fucking bigger problems we have to deal with, it always, always goddamn comes back to the fucking...” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “And I can't make it go away.”

“Nobody expects you to,” I said.

He laughed harshly, took a drink. “Well, that's just bullshit.”

“Brian...”

“It makes him ineligible,” Brian said, drawing the word out. “For certain treatments. The type of brain damage he has. Could be catastrophic, they say, if they were going to go digging around in there. A miracle that he's recovered as well as he has, that he's able to paint, that he's able to...” He clenched his jaw. “Look how functional. Look at the little boy go.”

I sipped my drink. “This about a cochlear?”

He looked up, finally. “What?”

“That's brain surgery, right? To make him hear again?”

Brian waved me off. “He's not getting a cochlear.”

“Right, because—”

“No, not because, he...I mean, no, he can't have one, they said he'd stroke out on the table, but that's not...he doesn't want one. It's a non-issue. He's fine how he is.”

“You're not really acting like someone whose partner is fine how he is,” I said.

He groaned and said, “Not that.”

“If you're annoyed that I'm not catching on, maybe just fucking tell me what's going on instead of mumbling in metaphors.”

“It's not my place,” he said, and then not thirty seconds later burst out with, “It was a consultation for deep brain stimulation for epilepsy.”

“Epilepsy.”

“Yeah, that's what the thing with his hand is called. Post-traumatic epilepsy, focal seizures. He tries to send too many signals to his hand, and it goes haywire, his vision tunnels out, he can't control his hand. Which means he can't write, or paint, or...” He looked at me, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

“Or sign,” I said.

He pointed to me.

“Fuck.”

He drained his glass and signaled for another. “Pretty much.”

“I didn't know it was still such a problem.”

“It wasn't,” he said. “But he's been sending a lot more signals to his hands lately. Because he just...because Justin cannot, because Justin is apparently not fucking allowed, to have one fucking thing. His hand is fucked up from the bashing, and he's not a candidate for treatment to fix it, because of the fucking bashing. That right there, that's Occam's razor.”

I didn't know what to say.

Brian dropped his head into his hands. “I swear to God,” Brian said. “I swear to God, if he loses this, if this gets taken away from him too...I can't, I can't fucking watch this.”

“He can still talk,” I said, maybe a little desperately. “He can talk, and you can sign to him...”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “Yeah, sure, he can talk to me,” he said. “I don't care about me. How the fuck is he going to talk to his friends?”

“His friends...?”

“Not our happy little Pittsburgh family who couldn't be bothered to learn to sign more than two sentences to him, not those friends. His actual fucking friends, his Deaf friends, these people who are fucking...seeing him and listening to him and he is fucking...fucking flourishing, and I'm supposed to be happy that he'll still be able to speak and sit at home and watch my shitty signing?”

“You could interpret—”

“No,” Brian said. “It's...it's connection. It's fucking...intimacy, him and his whole Deaf...it's community,” he said. “You don't get it. Fuck, I don't get it. That's the point.”

There wasn't much to say to that, so we sat and drank in silence for a while. Brian drained the last of his beer and said, “I gotta get back.”

“We're supposed to see another place...”

“Another sealed-window office in the fucking Financial District,” he sneered. “No. I'm going back to Justin.”

I didn't see either of them until the next morning. My flight was at one, so at ten I was already packing up my stuff to head to the airport when there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and Justin was there with a bright smile on his face, looking nothing like a boy who got bad news from a doctor the day before. Brian stood behind him, his arms crossed.

“We're seeing one more place,” Justin said.

I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I get the feeling this place is in an outerborough?”

Justin turned to look at Brian who sighed and interpreted it, and Justin beamed at me. “Because I'm good at what I do,” he said simply.

We took the train ten minutes into Queens and got off in Astoria. A small, balding realtor met us at the station. He shook our hands and signed nice to meet you at Justin, and fuck if Brian wasn't ready to get into bed with this guy after that, in more ways than one.

And then we saw the space.

“It used to be a concert hall,” the realtor explained. “The stage was here...James Taylor played here once.”

“Any relation?” Brian asked Justin, who shook his head sadly.

“Eric Clapton,” the realtor continued.

Brian raised an eyebrow. “No shit.”

“The Four Seasons. Freddy Mercury. The Drifters.”

Brian blinked, looked at Justin, looked back to the realtor.

“Back in the day,” the realtor said. “Before the city was...”

Brian nodded slowly and put his hand on Justin's shoulder. “What do you think, Sunshine?”

Justin tilted his head back, taking in the wooden rafters, the steal beams. “You know what this reminds me of?” he said.

Yes, Brian said back, simply.

The realtor talked to me about specifics, and Brian and Justin drifted over to the stage. I imagined where my desk would go. Where Brian would build his little enclosure (obviously, on the stage). Where we would hang Justin's paintings.

“So what do you think?” the realtor asked me.

I looked over at the stage, where Brian and Justin were locked together, swaying slightly, dancing to some kind of music that only Brian could hear. Or maybe not.

“I think we could be really happy here,” I said.


Chapter 7 - The One Where Justin Forgets He's Married by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Not Justin POV, despite the title; we're hearing from his friend Gregory today. To refresh your memory, he's the first Deaf person Justin met back in TOW Brian Learns Sign Language, and he introduced Justin to Deaf culture.

 

 

The One Where Justin Forgets He's Married
LaVieEnRose

 





Jasper still lived at home, Kyle shared a tiny room with four other guys, Meredith just moved in with her boyfriend a week ago and the last thing I wanted to do right now was watch them in their honeymoon phase, and Lisa had been crashing on her sister's couch for the past month, so she was off the table too. And besides, she rescued me last time Little Gregory had a crisis and even though that was years back she still hadn't shut up about what a great friend she was and I couldn't take extending that even longer. Which meant that, when I was standing on the street outside the place I didn't think was my apartment anymore at two AM on a Wednesday, I texted Justin. I'd known him for barely a year, but he was always telling me he owed me big time, and I wasn't ever planning to cash in on that but...desperate times, and all that, and this definitely qualified.

He pulled up in this sexy, old as hell car less than ten minutes later. He stared at me while I crammed my bag into the car. I can't believe this, he said. I thought you two were so happy.

Think that over and over again for an hour, I said. And you'll get to where I am. I'm really sorry about—

He stopped me. Don't. After everything you've done? And you'd do the same thing for me, if...

If he and and his boyfriend ever broke up. It sort of hung there in the air, like he didn't want to sign the phrase to me, like he thought that would make it real.

Maybe it would.

Broke up. Jesus.

If I ever needed you, he finished, and started to drive.

We got back to his place, and he signaled for me to be quiet as he pulled the door open. Justin's deafer than I am—I have enough residual hearing that I can tell if someone starts talking, but I can't make out individual words—but I've been doing this a lot longer than he has, so I'm more used to working around hearing people, like his boyfriend. Or my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.

He pulled open the door and we entered as quietly as he could, but immediately a light went on in the bedroom, or whatever you want to call it. Bed platform. This place is strange. Justin winced, and Brian came down the small set of stairs in sweatpants and no shirt, his hair shoved up on one side of his head. He squinted at us.

I didn't know Brian well. He didn't come out with us or the others much, and when he did he was usually quiet and seemed bored. Justin was always apologizing for him after he left, and I felt bad that Justin constantly needed to be making excuses for him. The first time I ever met Brian was at a party at my place, and he left right in the middle of it without even telling Justin he was going, and the rest of the night everyone kept asking Justin where he'd gone and Justin had to smile and wave it off and pretend like he didn't care and he wasn't embarrassed.

Justin had told me Brian was just self-conscious about his signing, and I wondered how well they could really communicate if his signing was all that bad. Mario was hearing, sure, but he was an interpreter, not to mention a CODA. He'd known ASL back when I was just some average schlub who had no idea he'd be losing his hearing one day. Eighty-five percent of relationships between a hearing person and a Deaf person fail, but I'd assumed that having that Mario having his background took us out of that statistic.

These two, on the other hand?

Sorry, Justin said. Didn't mean to wake you.

Brian glanced at me and said, Ever heard of leaving a note? It was a little halting, but he signed it right.

I was only gone for a minute.

And I was supposed to know that how? I just wake up and you're gone, I thought... He looked at me again, then shook his head a little and said, So what is this, a spontaneous three-way? He looks too depressed to fuck right now.

Justin rolled his eyes. He needs a place to stay.

Brian shrugged and gestured to the couch.

Thank you, I said, and Brian shrugged again and trudged back to the bedroom. He hates me, I said to Justin, while he helped me make a bed on the couch.

He does not hate you. He told me thinks you're hot!

What does that have to do with not hating me?

He grinned. It's the first thing he thought about me. Seems to be going okay so far.

He went to bed, and I lay on a very uncomfortable, very expensive couch instead of in the bed where my boyfriend was screwing some other guy, and fucking contemplated that.

**

I woke up early the next morning, and by the time I remembered where I was and what I'd walked in on the night before, I was already aware of some kind of noise behind me. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. Brian and Justin were in the kitchen, standing on either side of the bar while Justin made pancakes and Brian glanced back and forth between the newspaper and Justin signing.

—downtown Justin was saying. Can you drop him off at the bus on your way? Talking about getting me to work, I assumed.

Brian sighed. Will you come with me?

And then, what, hitchhike from Kinnetik?

Come on...


No, I have work to do today, I don't have time to babysit you. You'll be fine.

Brian sipped his coffee, glaring at him, and finally said, What the fuck happened, anyway?

Mario cheated on him.

Brian laughed a little and shook his head, and my stomach squeezed. When will they learn...

Don't start.


It never works.

It does work. For some people. Every kind of arrangement works for someone.

That's very zen of you.


Justin sighed. You don't have to throw up walls every time the m-word comes up, you know. It's not a ploy. No one's trying to trick you into something.

No one's throwing up walls, Jesus. You're so dramatic. His signing was different from last night: smoother, looser. Better.

Do you want strawberries on these? Justin asked.

Yeah. Thanks.

Justin went to the fridge and took out a carton of strawberries, then said, So where did you think I was last night?

God, I thought you fucking sleepwalked out of here again. I was sure I was going to find you on the stairs with a broken neck.

Not sure enough to actually get out of bed and check, though.

And break my own neck stumbling over your body? One of us has to keep the family name going.


You're the only person I know who can mix wild catastrophizing with ruthless practicality.

Brian frowned. What was that sign?

He repeated it. Making a big deal out of nothing.

Brian tried it, his handshape not quite right, and smiled at Justin a little when he corrected it. How are you feeling today? he asked.

Okay so far.

You should speak some, Brian said, and that rubbed me the wrong way. I knew, of course, that Justin had been having problems with his hand freezing and spasming when he was signing—it's kind of hard to miss—but still, you don't tell a Deaf person they should speak. There's baggage there, cultural stuff that Brian wasn't—couldn't be—aware of. Some Deaf people choose to speak, some don't, and I knew, of course, that Justin was comfortable speaking in certain situations. So was I. But it's our choice when those situations are.

I don't want to wake him up Justin said.

Brian checked his watch. If I'm taking him to work, he better be waking up soon. Plus you're burning your pancakes there.

Shit.

I figured it was about time I stopped eavesdropping, so I made a a big show of stirring on the couch, and Justin stamped his foot and waved at me.

How'd you sleep? he asked me.

Good. Thank you for letting me stay.

He waved me off and brought me a plate of slightly-burned pancakes. Brian's going to bring you to the bus on his way to work.

That's okay, I can walk.


Don't be silly. He doesn't mind.

I looked at Brian, who was drinking his coffee and carefully looking at Justin, and very much not looking at me.

Okay, I said.

Justin spent five minutes trying to figure out what the nearest bus stop was that had the line to where I was going, and Brian eventually rolled his eyes and said it was fine, he'd just bring me all the way, it was close enough to where he was going. He gave Justin a quick kiss on his way out the door, then stopped, looked at him like he was thinking something over, and then grabbed him by the front of the shirt and kissed him like he was trying to swallow him whole.

I looked away. Then Brian rolled his eyes, swatted him on the side of the head, and we were out the door.

“What's Justin doing today?” I asked when we were in the car. Brian started a little; I don't think he was expecting me to speak. But following the signing of someone sitting next to you isn't easy, and the last thing I wanted was Brian to careen us into some lamp post because he thought he had to prove something.

He still signed, though, which I was grateful for, despite the increased risk of careening, because my lipreading's okay but far from perfect and especially not in profile. Shift at the diner, he said. Then he has lunch with his mom, I think.

“That's good,” I said. “That he's seeing her. It's been a while, right?”

How should I know?

“You knew he was seeing her today.”

He goes where he goes. I don't keep tabs on him, Brian said, which was, obviously, ridiculous, since he'd just laid out Justin's itinerary for me, so I had no idea what he was trying to pull.

I said, “I just meant that it sounds like she's coming around on learning to sign. Last time he talked about her he said she'd started going to classes, so—”

I get it, Brian said. He talks to you.

“I wasn't trying to—”

Just because he talks to both of us doesn't mean we have to air out his business when he's not here.

“You think you need to prove to me that you know shit about him too? That's what this is? Do you think, what, I didn't think you knew that shit about his mom?”

He didn't say anything.

“You really like reading motives into shit, don't you?”

He snorted so loud I could hear it. You're the one always making Justin explain why his partner won't come out to play. Trying to make him think it's some big problem.

“Isn't it?”

He's allowed to have his own life. His own friends.

“Of course he's allowed. That's not really the question, is it?”

He rolled his eyes as he pulled up to a stoplight. You know, he said, So much changed when Justin lost his hearing, but thank God one thing we didn't lose was people telling us what it is he really wants. What would we have done without that? I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything. I watched Brian take work his jaw, let out a deep breath through his nose, and finally sign, So what do you do? like it was an insult.

“What?”

He pulled his lips into his mouth. I signed that right.

“No, you did, I just...you mean for work?”

He gave me a duh look. I'm making conversation.

“I do graphic design for Maniac Magazine,” I said.

This wasn't an answer Brian wanted, and he hid that really, really poorly. You'd think I had an additional connection to Justin purely to piss him off. I tried not to laugh, I really did.

You think you've just got the boy all figured out, don't you? he said.

“Mmhmm. And here you thought we had nothing in common.”

He pulled up outside my building. I just think it's sweet, that's all. The two little musketeers.

It drives you crazy, I signed, now that we were stopped. You think you're fooling anyone? It drives you crazy that he's part of a world that you're not in.

Brian smiled at me sweetly, but it didn't meet his eyes. You don't know me, he said. You know your hearing prince turned out to be an asshole, and now you think it's up to you to rescue poor Justin from such a dismal fate. Because the problem must have been that he was hearing, right? Not that he was, I don't know, a cheating asshole.

I don't think all hearing people are assholes. I said. I just think Justin deserves a fuck of a lot.

He gave me a cold smile as he leaned over me to open my door. See? he said, practically in my fucking lap. And here you thought we had nothing in common.

**

He texted me fifteen times today, I said to Justin, while we were grabbing dinner at the diner later and I was trying to ignore the two guys at the counter staring at us signing like we were a novelty act. Begging me to talk to him. He's so sorry. On and on.

Justin scrunched up his nose. Maybe it was just a mistake.

No, it's been going on for months. Jasper finally told me he's known the whole time.

Justin's mouth fell open. Jasper knew?

Yeah. You..you didn't, right?

Come on, he said. You think I'd be loyal to Mario over you?

God. I can't believe this is a me versus Mario situation. This is so fucked up. I... I tore about my sandwich morosely. I felt really good about us. I don't feel good about relationships very often, y'know? But I felt like...I don't know. I was hopeful. Fuck hopeful.

Justin nodded sympathetically, but suddenly leaned forwards and said, like he couldn't help it, So you guys really didn't fuck around at all?

I mean, he was...

No, but I mean...
He grappled. I forget, sometimes, that Justin's still pretty new to signing.

Consensually? I filled in.

Yeah.

I shook my head.

Not even threesomes?

No.


For a YEAR? He blew air out of his mouth. I can't even imagine.

Now I have to go get tested, I said. Really looking forward to that.

Fuck. He cocked his head to the side. Did you like it? Do you like it? Monogamy?

Yeah, I do.

We have a friend who does it. Him and his husband. I think for a while I thought...it was the only way to do marriage. I guess because it was all I've seen.

Do you want to get married?
I asked him.

He shrugged. Maybe. But it wouldn't be like some... He looked at me guiltily.

What? I said. Like some straight person's marriage?

He chewed on his lip.

Do I look straight to you? I asked.

In that shirt? Not even slightly. He picked up his fork, but it immediately fell out of his hand as his fingers straightened and shook. He wrapped his other hand around it self-consciously and pulled it into his lap.

You okay? I asked him.

He nodded and massaged it for a while, but as soon as he released it to try to sign something it spasmed again. He sighed and lowered it to the table, where it danced around on its own. Sorry, he signed, left-handed.

It's fine. You want to head back?

He nodded.

We got back to the loft, and Justin, right hand still useless, started the process of getting himself out of his jacket, but I could hear noises from the bedroom that he couldn't, and fuck, it was quite the goddamn deja vu, except this time it wasn't my boyfriend we were walking in on fucking someone else. I had no idea what to say to Justin, and before I could sort it out he looked up and saw Brian on the bed. He rolled his eyes, then glanced at me, and something in his face hardened.

You're not fooling me, Taylor. Nobody wants this.

He touched my arm and said, “Come on,” and started to lead me out the door. We were almost gone when a shoe came flying across the loft and landed by our feet. We turned around.

Brian, balls-deep inside some guy on his knees, signed Fifteen minutes, okay? and then something else at the end, with his hands up by his face. I couldn't believe he was fucking negotiating with Justin in mid-thrust how much more time he needed to screw someone else in their bed. And Justin just nodded!

Did he just call you 'shower?' I asked Justin on our way out of the building.

It's a long story he replied, his hand finally returning to normal.

We got ice cream and sat on a bench in the park by the building for a little while, not really talking much. Justin tried to apologize for Brian to me for the millionth time but it was all so fucking depressing that I shut him up as quickly as I could, and he listened. But fifteen minutes later on the dot Justin said we had to go back, and I assumed he was curious to see if Brian kept to his deadline or not. Sure enough, when we got back, the guy was gone, and Brian was up and in the kitchen, boiling water and microwaving something. He ignored me and gestured for Justin to sit down at the bar. He started signing to Justin privately, and Justin was speaking back to him, his voice low, and I could tell they didn't want me to hear and I figured eavesdropping on them once a day was probably enough, so I went over to the couch to get some work done. When I glanced back over at them later, Justin had some kind of heating pad wrapped around his lower arm, and he was drinking tea left-handed while Brian rubbed at his right hand. It would have been sweet if it weren't so obviously Brian scrambling with his tail between his legs to make things right for earlier, and the whole thing just left me with such a bad taste in my mouth.

Every time I spared them another look they were doing something different. At one point, Brian held two cigarettes between his lips, lit them both, and slipped one into Justin's mouth. Another, he did the dishes while Justin adjusted the heating pad. Another, he wrote in a little notebook while Justin was trying to talk to him about something. Another, he shook out a couple of pills and kissed Justin's forehead.

Eventually I heard a timer go off on the oven, and turned around to see Brian nodding to Justin and carefully taking the heating pad from around his arm. Justin stretched his hand experimentally, then turned to me and said, we've got an errand to run, we'll be back soon, okay?

Okay, I said. Thanks again for letting me—

They were already gone, chasing each other and fucking giggling their way out of the apartment.

They got back an hour later and Justin said goodnight to me and headed straight to bed. Brian lit another cigarette, an eyebrow raised at me, and said, His doctor has him on a strict sleep schedule, and I still have no idea if he said that expressly so I'd feel bad about pulling him out of bed the night before to come rescue me or if he thought he was throwing me a bone sharing information with me like that. I have no idea.

So I just nodded.

Same time tomorrow? Brian said.

**

Justin got up the next morning just before Brian and I were about to leave, and Brian shot him an aggravated look and waved him back to bed. It's practically nine Justin said.

You were up half the night. Go back to sleep.

I can't just lie around here all day and not...

I'm not doing this again with you right now
, Brian said, and Justin threw up his hands and stalked back to bed.

“You know he's not a child,” I said to Brian when we were in the car. “He wants to get work done, to contribute. Not lie around because you like having a housewife.”

Brian's nostrils flared. You know, I appreciate everything you've done for Justin, I really do...

“Cut the crap.”

Fine. How long do I have to be sweet about you lying around judging us from my Italian leather sofa like we're some Saturday morning game show as...I don't know, penance? He fingerspelled it.

“This is you being sweet?”

I just thanked you, didn't I? And what do I get, never ending feedback from the cheap seats and I can't even fuck in my own goddamn home...

I snorted. “Didn't seem to be stopping you last night.”

So that's what this is, he said. I'm sorry, I thought you were gay, I didn't think it would offend your delicate sensibilities.

I am gay, I said, and he made this face like I don't know about that, and fuck if that didn't just push all my buttons. I am so sick of being told that I don't count—as an artist, as Deaf, as gay—because I don't fit into someone's preconceived notions of what that looks like. Especially from smarmy pre-millennial corporate gays who have a chip on their shoulder from still being born too late to claim AIDS crisis baggage.

“Being gay does not require being an abusive shithole,” I said.

He rolled his eyes and set his jaw. Don't call me that.

“Justin was upset last night when we walked in on you,” I said. “Do you even care? Did you even notice?”

Brian was quiet for a long time, but finally he burst out with, Not that it continues to be any of your FUCKING business, but he was upset because he thought it was inconsiderate TO YOU, that it was going to remind you of walking in on your little interpreter fucking his side piece, not because of any kind of feeling he had about it. He wanted me to apologize to you. So, I'm so, so very sorry that you had to see a bit of an arrangement that doesn't fit your romantic standard. That is clearly very, very difficult for you.

I didn't say anything.

He coddles you, Brian said. He's so fucking grateful for everything you've done for him and he feels like he's never going to make it up to you, so he coddles you.

“That's probably a nice change of pace from coddling you all the time.”

He laughed humorlessly. He doesn't coddle me.

“Oh, bullshit. He lies down when you say lie down. Takes pills when you tell him to take pills.”

You have no idea what's going on with him.

“It's about his hand, I'm not a fucking idiot.”

He glanced at me but didn't say anything.

“You micromanage him and tell yourself you're playing the part of the caretaker, when really it's him kowtowing to your demands because he's, what was it? Coddling you.”

Brian's teeth worked his lower lip, and I knew I'd hit on something. Good.

“So he does it for me because of everything I've done for him,” I said as Brian pulled up outside my office. “Why does he do it for you?”

He smirked and stared at the windshield and didn't fire anything back, and I didn't feel good anymore.

Justin picked me up after work that day, eight hours and twelve more texts from Mario later. He looked pissed. Could you stop picking fights with my boyfriend on the way to work? he asked me. This is two days in a row his assistant's texted me that he's making the interns cry.

I didn't pick a fight.

I had to reassure him today that he's not abusive. So congratulations, you got to him, are you happy now?

Telling you to get out for fifteen more minutes so he can finish fucking some guy—


That's NOT what happened, Justin said. Can you just trust me?

He ordered you back to bed this morning.

Because I didn't sleep well last night and he knows if I don't sleep my hand is worse, and because he knows that if someone doesn't give me permission to lie around I'm going to beat myself up about being lazy and I won't do it. He knows me. Justin shook his head a little. I know you don't like him, but when you're giving him shit about not respecting me or whatever, have you stopped to consider that part of YOU respecting me is trusting that I get to decide who I want to be with? That if I'm fine with how he treats me, that you give me the autonomy to make my own decisions?

You're right, I said, because it was pretty hard in that moment to argue that Justin didn't know what the hell he was talking about. And because I'd spent all day not responding to Mario's texts. And because I felt bad. And because he was right.

Justin nodded.

But I couldn't help myself. I just...know how hearing guys are.

You know how one hearing guy is
, he said.

Come on. You really think in all this time, I've dated one hearing guy?

He didn't say anything.

They all want to be the good guys, I said, waiting for pauses where he glanced away from the road. But sooner or later...and seeing him worry and fuss about you and your hand, yeah, it scares me, because this is how they all are. They worry, and they fuss, and then eventually it's too much for them, and they start thinking that you're holding them back and freaking out about how it's becoming their whole life, and they find some nice easy hearing guy to fuck around with instead. And let's not pretend Brian would have a hard time finding one, but I didn't say that part.

That's not Brian, Justin said. You know he has all the same worries you do about mixed relationships? He brings up all the same statistics to me that you do, when he's being insecure. You two aren't really all that different.

“Yeah, I keep hearing that,” I said, out loud, not for Justin.

He's scared about a mixed relationship because he's scared he's holding ME back. And you have got to know how rare that is. How fucking astronomical it is that he knew me, that we did everything we could possibly do together, back when I could hear, and now I can't and he isn't sitting around crying about how there's something wrong with me. Everyone looks at me like I'm a fucking charity case and he's worried my life is too big for HIM now. You're going to tell me that's nothing?

Not everyone looks at you like you're a charity case, I said. Deaf guys don't.

Yes, Deaf guys are great, he said. Deaf guys have everything going for them except for one little thing.

I looked at him.

He looked back and said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, They're not Brian.

I took a deep breath and looked out the window for a while.

Mario's leaving, I said eventually. He said it's his fault and he shouldn't be in the apartment. He's moving his stuff out tonight, and I'll be out of your hair tomorrow.

Justin sighed. You're not...

It's okay, I said, and he just shrugged. The awkwardness sucked, so I said, He signs really well when he's pissed.

Justin cracked a smile. I know, right? he said, and God, he was so proud.

The loft was empty when we got back. Justin opened up a beer for himself and one for me and went straight to his easel and a half-finished painting he was clearly in the middle of when he came to get me. I opened up my laptop and worked on some photo editing for our new ad campaign, and jumped about a foot when Brian tapped me on the shoulder some undetermined time later. I didn't even know he'd gotten back.

Sorry, he said. Just thought you should know, GQ is doing an ad with that same font next month. Saw a mock up of it today.

“Really? Shit.”

He shrugged. It's just font. You can change it.

I'd have to run it by a million higher-ups first, but still, it was nice of him to tell me. “Thanks,” I said.

He shrugged and walked backwards away from me and towards Justin's easel. You know, you don't have to speak to me, he said. I can understand you.

He probably thought I was being passive aggressive, like I was implying he couldn't understand me if I signed. Maybe I was. Sorry.

He shrugged again and put his hand on Justin's arm. You know what time it is?

Justin looked at the clock on the wall—ten to nine—and sighed. I'm right in the middle of this.

Well, you have ten minutes to find a stopping point. He headed towards the kitchen.

“Brian....” I saw Justin say.

No, Brian signed over his shoulder, and Justin rolled his eyes and dabbed some more paint on the canvas, and started to realize that yeah, I really, really hadn't understood that “fifteen minutes” thing last night. It wasn't Brian telling Justin to get lost. It was him making sure he'd be back by nine.

Because at nine o'clock exactly, they repeated their ritual from last night—tea for Justin, pills, a heating pad on his arm, a long, concentrated massage of his hand. An entry in a notebook that, now that I was eavesdropping more shamelessly, I realized was a record of Justin's symptoms. They did it all on the couch this time, sitting right next to me, and I didn't know if that was to rub it in my face or if Brian was maybe trying to reassure me that Justin was good with this, that he wasn't being pushed around.

You want a drink? Brian asked me, when the timer on the oven went off to indicate he'd been rubbing Justin's hand for a full half-hour. Justin's already met his daily allotment of one.

Anti-seizure meds
Justin said. So fun.

I nodded to Brian and asked Justin, Are they helping? as Brian went to his liquor cart and started pouring two glasses.

Justin stalled, and Brian looked up and said, What did he ask?

If the meds are helping. Justin kept his eyes on Brian. We're giving them time.

Brian nodded, head down. His own hand was shaking a little as he handed me my drink. I don't know what it was—I'm not really some kind of alcohol connoisseur—but it was brown and tasted awful and would probably do the trick quickly.

It hurt, to see Brian that worried about Justin. It still scared me that he'd get overwhelmed and leave, it made me think about Mario when I was sick, it made me think about how nervous I was for Justin...it was a lot, and it hurt. So I set down my drink and said, Brian, who's the baby in the picture up there? just to give him anything else to talk about.

He smiled a little. My son, he said. It's an old picture, he's eight now.

You have a kid?

Brian nodded. Gus.

I named him, Justin said, and even though I'm sure Justin had told me at some point, it really struck me that that fuck, these two had been together for ages.

Brian took his phone out and showed me some more recent pictures, and that led to me going through his music and discovering his taste didn't actually suck, and that bored Justin who can't do anything more than feel a beat so he drifted back over to his canvas while Brian and I drank and shot the shit about Bright Eyes and Ladytron. But at some point, I heard Justin's voice from over by his easel, and the grin died on Brian's lips. I looked over, but Justin was still facing away from us.

I tugged on Brian's sleeve. What did he say?

What if it doesn't help, Brian signed, watching him. From the angle where we were flopped down on the floor, Justin could see me, but not him, so Brian told me, Tell him to come here.

I did, and Justin came over to our cushions on the floor and settled himself next to Brian. Brian immediately pulled Justin's hand into his lap and started massaging it again, and I lay back and contemplating how very drunk I was at this point.

We will figure something out, Brian says. Just like we did seven years ago when you couldn't draw. We figured it out.

There's no magic computer for signing.

He kissed Justin's fingers. So we'll invest in one.

What am I even going to be? Justin says. If I can't hear, and I can't sign, what even am I?

Well, that was ridiculous, so before Brain could say anything—and I sort of regret that, because I do wonder what he would have said—I sat up and said, You're Deaf.

But if I can't—

No
, I said. You are Deaf. Even if you could never sign a fucking word again. We're not letting go of you that easy. You're ours now.

I glanced at Brian, but he just nodded encouragingly at Justin.

There are a million ways to be Deaf, I said to him. Just like there are a million ways to be gay.

Fine, so I said that last part to piss off Brian. But fuck if he didn't raise his glass to me, just a little bit, and fuck if there wasn't a smile in his eyes.

And, Goddamn it all, I knew what Justin had meant in the car.

**

I must have passed out on those cushions on the floor for a little while. When I woke up, the lights in the loft were still on, and Brian and Justin were cleaning up the kitchen. Justin was talking out loud a little, and Brian ducked his head and laughed at something he said. It felt peaceful.

At some point, Brian was wiping down the counter, and Justin signed, I forgot we were married the other day.

Wait, what the fuck? They were married?

Brian cocked an eyebrow.

Gregory asked me if I wanted to get married someday, Justin said. And I sat there and like, CONSIDERED it. And I didn't remember I was already married for like two minutes.

I'm so glad you said that, Brian said. Because I forget all the fucking time.

Oh God, you do?

Constantly.


Justin laughed a little. That makes me feel a lot better. I'd been beating myself up about it.

I always thought it would feel...I don't know. I would have thought I'd be chewing my leg off. But it doesn't feel any different.


Justin nodded.

So what did you say? Brian asked, grinning. Did you want to get married someday?

Oh, God, I said I didn't know!


Brian cracked up. I don't know either, he said. You want to get divorced?

Kind of, Justin said, and Brian came around to his side of the counter and wrapped his arms around him, and Justin leaned into his chest for a while. Eventually he pulled back a little and signed, When I picked Gregory up that night he apologized for bothering me, and I said, you know, it's fine, you'd do the same for me if...

Brian smirked at him.

I couldn't get it out then, either! Justin said. It just felt so ridiculous. And it felt like...patronizing, for me to sit there in the car with him after they'd just broken up and act like I even...thought there was some possibility that that could happen to me. Like it felt like I would be insulting him to act like there was any element of fucking...risk here.

Are you getting bored? Brian said. I can go out and do something really, really reckless and completely fuck this up if you want. Should I sleep with Daphne? Call in a bomb threat to Molly's school? How's your dad's girlfriend, should I put out a hit?

Sure, if you want.


Brian studied him, smiling kind of strangely. Holy shit. You're panicking about commitment.

I am not panicking.


You are! Holy shit. You realized you can't even imagine a life without me so then you went and forgot you were married. You are so freaking out.

It's just...I realized how much I've assumed you're going to be there and how much it would fuck me up if something happened so then part of my brain was thinking maybe it would be better if I just...oh God, I'm panicking, aren't I?

This isn't just any panicking, this is MY panicking. He grabbed Justin and hugged him, rocking him back and forth. This is amazing, he said, after he'd let him go. I'm the strong, secure one, and you're the one freaking out. Can I record this? I want to watch this on my phone every day for the rest of my life.

You HAD to pull out the 'rest of my life' shit right now, didn't you?


Brian grabbed his face and kissed him. This is amazing, he said again. You are so scared.

Just don't GO anywhere
, Justin insisted. Make it okay that I'm this complacent, okay?

Brian kissed him. Okay.

God. We really didn't have a chance that anyone else on earth would put up with us, did we?

Not for a second,
Brian said.

They finished cleaning the kitchen and then turned off the lights and skipped off to bed, and I thanked God I was too fucking drunk to bother trying to figure them the hell out.

**

I was going back to my apartment the next day, but first, Brian drove me to work for the last time. We turned up the music very, very loud instead of talking, which we really should have figured out a few days ago.

Thanks, I said, when he pulled up outside my building. He nodded, and I felt the urge to say something more. You know, your signing is really good, I said. You should be more confident about it.

He chewed his lip, but I could tell he was trying not to smile. And you are about four points above Mario, on a one out of ten scale. Plus he's boring. You can do a lot better.

I shrugged a little.

And if you just want to fuck some hearing guy to piss him off? I mean... He grinned. I have references.

I rolled my eyes and got out of the car, and I could hear him laughing as I closed the door.

I'd think about it.

Chapter 8 - The One Where Justin Does Good Work by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

You can't call Brian Kinney sweet, but sometimes you want to anyway. Ted POV, but you guys give me more views when I put Justin or Brian's names in the title instead of the POV character. I'm onto you.

 

 

The One Where Justin Does Good Work
By: LaVieEnRose


“Ted?”

I looked over from my desk to Cynthia at hers, waving me over. She gestured to a a pretty redheaded woman standing in wait and said, “Is Brian still on with Brown?”

“I think so,” I said. “What's going on?” I offered my hand to the woman. “Hi. Ted Schmitt. Future head of Kinnetik: Pittsburgh.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “He's been doing that for a month,” she said to the woman, and, sure, she had a point, but could you blame me? Besides, in three months, everyone annoyed with me saying it would be gone, and I would be here, the head of Kinnetik: Pittsburgh. “This is...I'm sorry, Ms. Rowley, is that right?”

“Christine is fine,” the woman said.

“She's a sign language interpreter,” Cynthia said to me.

I said, “Oh, for Saturday?” We had our big quarterly party that weekend, and I supposed it made sense that Brian would hire an interpreter for it so he wouldn't have to stick by Justin's side the whole night, though he'd never seemed to have minded before. Justin never talked at those kinds of events, just signed to Brian and let him talk for him. It took a while after he lost his hearing before Justin would even talk to us, but he does now, and sometimes I'll even forget he doesn't hear us, because he lipreads pretty well and he talks just like he used to. Last time we were at Deb's he was in the kitchen when the phone started ringing and Deb yelled for him to grab it, and Brian just about lost his shit laughing. We spent the whole rest of the evening asking Justin to tell us what song was playing on the radio or to let us know if the timer on the oven went off or stuff like that.

“I was told to be here today,” Christine said.

“That's where I'm confused,” Cynthia said. “Did Brian say something about Justin coming to the office today?”

“Not to me. Could it be for a client or something? Presumably Justin's not the only Deaf person in Pittsburgh.”

“We don't have anyone scheduled to come in,” Cynthia said. “And no new hires or anything. I'm wondering if maybe Christine's supposed to be meeting Justin somewhere else and Brian billed her here and the agency sent her here by mistake...”

“Let me see if I can find a billing form for it,” I said. I'd barely taken a step back to my desk, though, when the glass doors of Brian's office opened and he stuck his head out. Are you Christine? he signed to her.

Yes.

“Great, you're right on time. Come in.” He looked at me. “You too.”

I led Christine into the office and stood by while they shook hands. “Justin's coming in?” I asked.

“Brilliant detective work,” Brian said.

“I knew minoring in deductive reasoning would come in handy someday.”

“Will you excuse me for just a minute?” Brian said to Christine, and when she nodded he slung an arm over my shoulder and walked me away from his desk. “I want you to find something for Justin to do,” he said.

“Come again?”

Brian rolled his eyes as if he'd been trying to explain this to me for hours, instead of literally seven seconds. “He hasn't been able to work much lately,” he said, with exaggerated patience. “He's bored, restless, wants to finish a project. Take him down to the art department, move around whatever you need to move around, fire whoever you need to fire, I don't give a shit. Find something for him to do. God knows he's got more talent in his left tit than everyone we have here put together. Shouldn't be a challenge to put him to work.”

“The diner's not filling him with that strong sense of accomplishment?”

He gave me a strange look. “He quit the diner two weeks ago.”

“He did?”

Brian shrugged. “Thought you knew.”

Nobody in this damn little family tells me anything. It's been a while since it really bothered me—Blake's always on me about how I need to learn to let things go, so, y'know, I'm working on it—but it'd still be nice if they didn't expect me to manifest information out of the blue.

“I'm surprised you got an interpreter,” I said. “Justin always seems to get by pretty well on his own.”

Brian waved a hand dismissively. “It's one less thing for him to worry about. And he doesn't like speaking with people he doesn't know, or if he doesn't know the volume of the place...”

“So this was your idea.”

Brian nodded, lips pulled in. “He might be pissed I made this call,” he said, just as Justin knocked on the door behind us. “Let's see what happens!” Brian said, and I chuckled.

What's so funny? Justin asked me when I opened the office doors.

I just shook my head and kissed his cheek and ushered him. “A Mister Taylor to see you,” I said to Brian.

Brian crossed the office and guided Justin towards Christine, his hand on his back. This is Christine he said to Justin. She's going to be your interpreter here.

Justin blinked and shook her head. I get an interpreter?

Here! Brian shoved me forwards. Practice with Ted!

I laughed nervously and said, “So I'm going to take you down to the art department, and you can see what they're working on and pick whatever project you're the most interested in and hop on board. Sounds good?” Speaking to Justin without at least trying to sign some of it—not that my signing's anything to write home about, but I always make some kind of pathetic attempt—felt really weird, and my eyes kept drifting over to Christine as if I'd really be able to tell how well she was translating me. If it's possible to do a good job capturing personality in sign, I'm not sure that's something I need to see of myself.

Justin nodded and signed, and Christine said, “I don't want to drop in and start rearranging things. Just wherever you think I could be helpful. I'll do grunt work.”

“Watch Justin,” Brian said to me quietly. “Not her.”

“Right. Sorry.” Christine signed all of this to Justin, who smiled a little.

Brian cleared his throat, then looked from Christine to Justin. “I have no idea if I'm supposed to sign or speak,” he said to her finally.

“Whichever you're more comfortable with,” she said, signing as she spoke.

“Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck and kept his eyes on Justin. “I've told Anthony down there that you're coming and that you've got...no, I'm sorry, this is too strange.” He started signing instead, too fast and complicated for me to follow, and Justin laughed, charmed.

“Do you want me to...?” Christine asked me.

“No, it's fine. God knows I've heard enough of the dirty things those two say to each other to last me a lifetime.”

Eventually Brian turned to me and signed, Okay, get lost, and dropped a kiss on Justin's cheek. Justin signed something to him quickly on our way out, a mischievous look on his face, and Brian rolled his eyes and grinned down at his desk.

“Is it really easier for Brian to sign than speak?” I asked Justin as he, Christine and I headed towards the elevator. I probably could have signed it if I needed to, but, well, she was there, and it definitely wasn't a question which one was easier for me.

“No, I don't think so,” Christine said as Justin signed. “It's just weird for him to do it with me, since he never makes me try to read his lips anymore. Sometimes he'll still talk while he's signing, but usually only when he's pissed off and needs to scream.” It was strange hearing someone else talk for Justin, hearing phrases that weren't quite the way he would have translated them, words emphasized not exactly the way he would have. And honestly, if you'd asked me before right that very moment, I probably wouldn't have thought I knew Justin well enough to notice, but there it was.

Even though Brian and I had gotten closer the past few years, there had always been a distance between me and Justin that didn't seem to be there with Justin and Emmett, or Justin and Michael. I have an unfortunate suspicion it's the age thing. Brian and Michael are twelve years older than Justin, Emmett's ten, and I'm...a depressing sixteen. I mean, Christ, I was practically the double the kid's age when we met him. And even though there probably isn't, probably has never been, much of a difference between ten, twelve, or sixteen year gaps as far as Justin's concerned, it definitely took me longer than the rest of them to think of Justin as anything other than a high-schooler, even though he was twenty-five now and I was...no need to do the math.

Plus most of the time I spent with Brian was at work, and Justin didn't come around all that often even before he lost his hearing, since he was busy with school, off and on, and Rage, and the diner, though apparently not anymore. I'd still see him at Babylon fairly often, and of course family dinners at Deb's and whenever I'd stop at the diner for lunch or bring work around to the loft, but...well, a language barrier will do a lot to a guy's developing bond with his friend's young boyfriend. We never made an effort to get to know each other back when we shared the same five senses, so it was hard to justify ramming myself into Justin's life now and making him deal with my crappy attempts at communicating with him.

“Thanks for finding something for me to do here,” Justin said through Christine. “I've been sitting around at home so much you'd think I was trying to resolve some kind of bet over who I'm going to drive crazy first, me or Brian.”

“What happened with the diner?” I asked. “Finally had enough of the glamour and glitz?”

“Yeah. Reminded me too much of Hollywood.” He shot me a look like I was in on the joke, which I suppose I was, though he was simultaneously very definitely telling me it was none of my fucking business.

We got off the elevator at the art department and I led him across the floor, introducing him to people with a dozen repetitions of an awkward “this is Justin Taylor, and this is his interpreter.” Most of the department was fairly new—we get a lot of interns down here—and so half of them were trying to figure out the interpreter thing, and the other half were trying to remember where they'd heard the name Justin Taylor before (Brian does mention him occasionally, plus one of his paintings hung right over their drafting table).

Justin found a project that looked like it could an extra hand and jumped into negotiating background colors with Lucy, one of the interns. As soon as Lucy figured out that Christine's voice was Justin's it seemed to be going smoothly enough, so I retreated back upstairs to start collating the quarterly report.

Brian called me in a few hours later. “Everything going all right?” he asked me neutrally, and obviously I knew what he was asking, but I made him listen to me go over the workings of the entire rest of the office before I got to Justin, just to push his buttons.

“Everything's going fine,” I said. “Anthony mentioned they're ahead of schedule for the first time in a month.”

Brian held up a board from his table. “He worked on this one?”

“How'd you know?”

“Because for once something doesn't look like a fourth grader did it.” He tossed the boards aside and propped his feet up on his desk. “He's not working too hard?”

“I haven't been down there. Do you want me to hire a babysitter for tomorrow?”

“Fuck you,” Brian said easily.

“Seriously, they can stand right next to Christine and—”

He picked up the board again to swat at me with it. “Get out of my office,” he said.

I was back in there going over the newly collated reports at a little after six when we heard Justin say “Hey,” from the doorway. Brian smiled without looking up.

Where's Christine? I asked him.

“She went home,” Justin said. “She'll be back tomorrow. I think she's a good fit.”

Brian looked up finally. You can sign if you want, he said. I can interpret.

Justin shrugged a little. “It's okay,” he said, and Brian nodded and beckoned him over to the couch. Justin came and perched lightly on Brian's knee while he sifted through some of the art department work for the day.

This one's good Brian said. But the logo needs to be bigger or...something I didn't catch.

What was that? I asked.

Justin said, “The logo needs to be huge or the CEO throws a fit.” He laughed a little. “Okay.” This was a technique they used a lot when we were together as a group, kind of mutually interpreting for each other; Brian signed things that other people said for Justin, but instead of speaking when it was his turn, he'd sign everything and let Justin voice it for him. Justin himself would go back and forth, signing sometimes, speaking others, and there didn't seem to me to be any pattern to which one he preferred. But Brian never cared that Justin was the only Deaf person in the room. If Justin was there, he was signing.

You can't call Brian Kinney sweet, but sometimes you want to anyway.

Brian held up a board for Abrams Electronics. This one is awful.

“Yeah, I didn't see that one until now.”

No shit. Brian looked up at him beseechingly. Can you do something about this tomorrow?

“Tomorrow,” Justin said, getting up and pulling Brian to his feet. “Tonight we are going home.”

I have to finish

“Home,” Justin repeated, and then signed something too small and fast for me to understand, but it made Brian's face soften, his head tilt slightly.

Okay, Brian said. Justin waved goodbye, and Brian tossed me the keys on his way out, Justin's hand slipped into his back pocket.

“Can you picture it?” Cynthia asked me a little while later, while we were finishing locking up.

“Brian and Justin? Unfortunately I've caught many iterations of the live show.”

She laughed. “Not the sex. The two of them...y'know, going home together. Making dinner. Watching CNN, I don't know. Boring shit. After all this time I can still never picture it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That never makes sense.”

**

Brian called me in at around ten the next day and handed me a board. “Go down to art,” he said. “Tell them this needs to be redone.”

“This is a job for an accountant?”

“I'm sorry, you are the person I'm bequeathing my entire company upon in the coming months, are you not? My baby, the fruit of my hard work, passing it on to you like an old fuck? You're going to what, sit in your office all day looking at files, let the art department go to shit?”

I bit back a remark that sitting in his office all day looking at files was exactly what he, our current benevolent leader, was doing, and looked at the board. Another mock up for Abrams Electronics. “It's a lot better than the one yesterday,” I said.

“Of course it is, Justin had a hand in this one. But I just got off the phone with Abrams and he hates it. Says he's looking for retro.”

“Well, this is not retro.”

“He didn't tell me he wanted retro until five fucking minutes ago. So go down there, stroke all the artists' egos, and then tell them to completely redo what they just finished.” He flashed me a tight smile as he started dialing another number. “Having fun yet?”

The art department was, predictably, not pleased. Abrams wanted something new by tomorrow, and the only guidance they had was “retro” and “not what you already came in at eight to start.”

“We don't have time to do put together a photo shoot,” Rose said. “We’re going to have to either edit these same photos or use stock or reuse the photos we ran in October.”

“He’s not gonna like that,” I said.

“I don’t know what else we can do.”

Justin, who’d been watching Christine’s signing intently, looked at me and hesitantly raised a hand. I nodded to him. He signed, and Christine said, “What If we did something completely illustrated? It would stand out from every other electronics ad out there, and we could do the entire thing in-house. We’d save money, we wouldn’t have to worry about arranging a photo shoot or repeating stock, and we could have something mocked up in a couple hours, tops.”

He looked around at everyone considering this and eventually added, “Guys, you know I’m Deaf, right? You’re going to have to tell me what type of silence this is.”

“We like it,” Lucy said.

“Great,” I said. “Who’s taking the lead on this?”

“I can do it,” Christine said for Justin. “I’m seeing it already, something like...” He found a piece of scratch paper and starting sketching something out. Anthony took a look, then nodded to me over Justin’s shoulder.

“Great,” I said. “Can you get some sketch of it to me by noon? Doesn’t have to be anything polished.” Justin was oblivious, already lost in his drawing world, so I turned to Christine and said, “Can you...”

“I’ll tell him,” she said.

I gave her a thumbs up and left them to work their magic. One of the interns brought a sketch up to me at eleven thirty, and I put it in with some invoices I needed Brian to look at and brought them into his office. Cynthia was in with him, showing him how to do something on his computer, and I tried very, very hard not to laugh.

“Not a word,” Brian said. “Are those the invoices? Took your goddamn time, didn’t you?”

“Glitter and shine,” I said, and ignored his glare. “The new mock-up for Abrams is in there too. They decided to try something illustrated. For better or for worse it should shut Abrams up.”

“That does sound appealing.” Brian flipped through the papers until he got to the mock up. He paused, dropping the rest of the paperwork onto his desk. “Justin’s drawing it?”

“You can tell?” I asked, and Brian looked at me like I was an idiot. “Yeah, he’s taking the lead on this.” Brian and Cynthia exchanged a glance. “What?” I said.

“He was supposed to be helping out,” Brian said. “Cog in the machine. Not taking the lead on projects.”

“You said yourself he’s more talented than everyone else down there,” I said. “Don’t you want your best on this?”

“I can talk to Anthony,” Cynthia said. “Get Justin pulled onto something else.”

“Can someone please tell me what the problem is?” I said.

Brian sighed and closed his eyes. “Was this Justin's idea?” he asked.

I said, “Yeah, he came up with it.”

“No, was it his idea to do the drawing himself? Nobody else talked him into it?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Brian shrugged at Cynthia.”Then okay,” he said, handing the sketch back to me. “Tell him I need it by tomorrow.”

“Brian,” Cynthia said.

“It's his hand,” Brian said. “It's his call. If this was his choice it's his choice.” He tapped the paper again. “By tomorrow, Theodore.”

“I'll let him know.”

Brian nodded and went back to the invoices.

I got swamped in reimbursement forms after that and didn't make it down to the art department until three, though I'd of course messaged down that they had the okay to continue and it had to be posthaste. Justin was surrounded by a little circle of minions when I got down there, and he was hard at work, making delicate strokes with a paintbrush. On the table in front of him, an ad was coming together like a still from an animated movie—burnt orange, brown, silver, and even though they were modern appliances, it had that “listen to the opera channel in front of the fireplace” vibe. Abrams was going to love it.

I waited until Justin was paused, stretching his fingers against the back of his hand, before I got his attention. He raised his eyebrows.

How's it going? I asked.

“Good. Is Brian getting antsy?”

“Not as long as it's done by tomorrow,” I said.

Justin watched Christine and nodded. “Shouldn't be a problem.”

“Great. Keep up the good work,” I said, and as I was leaving I noticed he was still shaking his hand out. It'd been a while since I'd seen him have trouble with it, but between Brian's remark upstairs and my memory of after he was bashed...well, it didn't take a genius.

I was once again in Brian's office that evening when Justin came by, and I expected there to be some sort of tension, or at least for Brian to ask about his hand, since Justin had it shoved into his pocket and he looked exhausted as hell. But Brian seemed perfectly normal. He looked mildly happy to see Justin, gave him a quick kiss, bitched about one of the interns in the billing department, and asked if they should pick up Thai food on the way home.

Justin, once again, spoke instead of signing, and I was beginning to think there was more of a pattern to that than I'd realized.

**

Brian called me into his office three times the next day to ask about the progress of the Abrams ad before I couldn't take it anymore. “Jesus Christ, Brian, as the person who buried me in all this fucking work, you should know I don't have time for this junior high bullshit! If you want to know how his hand is, ask him yourself!”

You don't really need his reaction to know that was the wrong thing to say, but in the interest of story completion, it was crossed arms, narrowed eyes, and a dangerously low voice. “What I want to know, Theodore, is whether or not I'm going to get my remaining ball handed to me in a teacup in three hours when Abrams calls to find out where the fuck his ad is. Is that really too much for you to find out? Is that task really too big for you to handle, because three months from now—” and then I left before I had to sit through that 'fruits of my labor' shit again.

I made it down to the art department an hour later. Justin was working furiously, and he shook his head as soon as he saw me. “I know, I know,” he said. “I'm going as fast as I can.”

“Brian said—” I started, and Justin didn't even bother looking at Christine's interpretation. Unsurprising that he can lipread 'Brian' pretty much without fail.

“I know, he needs this by two. It's going to be ready, but not if I keep wasting time talking to you about it.”

Rose snorted. I gave her a look.

I said, “Okay, just please make sure—”

“What was that sorry couldn't hear you okay bye now.”

The ad was finished minutes before two, but fuck if it wasn't great. Brian took pictures and faxed them over to Abrams before our two-thirty meeting with Lovell and Daniels Cashmere, but he didnt say anything when I pointed out how great the ad was. “Justin really pulled it out, huh?” I added.

“I said it's good,” Brian said, even though he hadn't.

We moved straight into the conference room for the meeting with Lovell and Daniels, and everything went fine for about the first fifteen minutes. Brian was standing and presenting, marinating L & D in his charisma, and I was sitting watching and possibly hanging on his every word just as much as they were. Sue me, I got to soak up all the knowledge I can get. But I was at an angle where I could see Justin appear outside the conference room doors, even though no one else could.

He motioned, left-handed, for me to come outside, bouncing slightly on his feet. I subtly slipped out of the conference room, ignoring the irritated look Brian shot me without pausing in his presentation, and without turning his head to see Justin.

I closed the door behind me. “What's wrong?”

“I need Brian,” he said, and I motioned for him to lower his voice. “Please,” he said, quieter.

“He's giving a presentation.”

“I don't know what you just said but please can you just get Brian.” He was sweating, chewing on his thumbnail.

Where's Christine? I said.

“I sent her home.”

“Why?”

“It's...please, you know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. Please just get him.”

“Are you okay?”

”Ted.”

“Okay, just...sit down, you look like shit.” I signed, Sit, and he nodded, but instead of going over to the bench on the other side of the hall, he just sat down on the floor right where he was. Something was very, very wrong here.

I went back into the conference room and stood by the door, waiting for Brian to pause. As soon as he took a breath, I went over to him and stood by his shoulder.

“Pass the meeting over to Cynthia and come with me,” I whispered.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” he said through his teeth.

“It's Justin. Pass the meeting over to Cynthia and come with me.”

Brian finally looked at me, the anger in his eyes barely masking his fear. He swallowed, then turned a dazzling smile to L & D. “I need to attend to something urgent,” he said. “But I'm leaving you with the incredibly capable Cynthia Yates, and if I were a slightly more humble man I'd say you were trading up.” He offered his hand and pulled her out of her chair, and she, with the shortest of questioning glances, smoothly took over where he'd left off. Brian speed-walked with me out of the conference room.

Justin was still on the floor. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“What the fuck are you doing on the...” He stopped signing and pulled Justin up, carefully, despite the irritation in his voice. He put his arm around Justin's shoulder and ushered him down the hall to his office, and I followed, feeling worse than useless.

Brian lowered Justin down to the couch with his hand under his elbow. “Is your vision tunneling out?” he asked, signing while he spoke. I remembered Justin telling me he only did it when he was pissed.

Justin nodded. “On and off for the past half hour.”

Brian ran his hand under his mouth. “You can see me right now.”

“I can understand you, can't I? I sent Christine home, I didn't want to explain...”

Brian said, “Ted, can you get, um...coffee or hot water or something. In a styrofoam cup.”

I said, “Brian, what's—” but he looked at me hard enough to shut me off. I went over to the coffee maker in the corner and filled up a cup.

Brian sat down next to Justin on the couch. “Let me see it,” I said.

He used his left hand to ease his right out of its pocket. It was curled into a malformed fist, his fingers jammed and overlapped.

“How the fuck long has it been like this?” Brian said.

“Half an hour.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Justin.”

“It won't...it won't let go, I'm scared it's stuck like that forever.” He was breathing fast.

“It's not stuck like that forever, calm down.” Brian took the coffee cup from me and held it to the inside of Justin's wrist. “It hurts a lot?”

Justin hesitated, then nodded.

“Well, good, if you pulled me out of a meeting for something that didn't fucking hurt, I'd be pissed.” He gave Justin a small smile and carefully placed Justin's hand on his lap. “Ted, I can't sign to him while I do this, come talk to him.”

Justin sat back against the couch, pale and sweaty, and I pulled a chair up in front of him and patted his knee awkwardly while Brian set to work uncurling his fingers. Justin flinched, and I squeezed his knee while Brian brought a hand up briefly to scratch the back of Justin's head before returning to his fist.

“Tell him I told him he needed to be getting more sleep,” Brian said to me, so I signed it out as best I could.

“I have been sleeping,” Justin said. “I just—”

“Overworked it,” Brian said. “No shit.”

I signed that too.

Justin sighed, then winced as Brian pried apart his fingers. “I'm not going to have an argument with you through Ted.”

Brian carefully massaged his palm, working his thumbs deep into the muscle. Justin's whole arm twitched and jumped. “Stay still,” Brian growled at it.

We stayed like that for a while, Justin keeping his eyes closed, taking slow breaths through his nose while Brian gradually loosened his hand, me squeezing his other hand every so often when Brian did something that looked like it really hurt. When Justin finally opened his eyes and nodded to Brian, he had some color back in his cheeks, and Brian exhaled and pressed a kiss to the back of Justin's hand.

“You had to know something like that was going to happen,” Brian said, gently letting go of Justin's hand to sign. I don't know why he was still speaking out loud. Maybe because for me. Maybe because he was still upset.

“I didn't think it would be that bad,” Justin said.

“You still knew it was going to hurt you. Why the fuck did you volunteer to create an entire illustration from scratch in a day?”

“You're the one who made me do it in a day,” Justin grumbled.

Brian rubbed his forehead. “Sunshine, this was supposed to be—”

“I know what it was supposed to be,” Justin said. “Busy work to instill me with some false sense of contributing. But I found a way to actually contribute, and I did a fucking great job.”

“Yeah, and now your hand's a mess and you're going to have to take enough anticonvulsants to knock you out for two days, and you're still not going to be able to sign for a week, let alone work on your own shit. You think fucking Abrams is worth that?”

“It's not about fucking Abrams,” Justin said.

“That's good,” I mumbled. “Pretty sure he's married.”

They both ignored me—well, obviously Justin did.

“It's about doing good work,” Justin said.

“You do good work,” Brian said, gesturing to one of his paintings on the wall. “And now you can't, because you fucked yourself up doing something meaningless.”

“I'm not making a living just painting what I want,” Justin said.

Brian snorted. “You think you're making a living temping for us, especially now that you've burned yourself out in two days?”

“It's something,” Justin insisted. “It's working and getting paid. I want...I want to contribute.”

Brian pinched his nose. “Completely setting aside for a moment that the money you are making to contribute is coming out of our company, so we're really just jerking ourselves off at this point—”

“Your,” Justin said. “Your company.”

Brian rolled his eyes.

“No,” Justin said forcefully. “It's not nothing. You have the company, you pay for the loft, you pay for fucking everything, and I'm not going to just sit around like some housewife because I'm...”

Brian gave him an incredulous look. “Disabled? Are you seriously chickening out of saying the word disabled?”

Justin slumped back against the couch and crossed his arms.

“Not a bad word, Justin,” Brian said, and I could see the tension rising in him.

“It's not about that,” Justin said. “I can still work, I can still—”

“You do work, Christ! You paint!”

“That's not work! Nobody but you pays me to do that!”

“So the fuck what?”

Justin rolled his eyes. “You of all people are going to tell me that it's not about the money.”

“Exactly, me of all people. Ex-fucking-actly. If anyone would know it's me. Your ability to make money does not determine your fucking...worth, Jesus.”

“That's idealistic bullshit and you know it,” Justin said. “You're the one who told me that if I care about my ability to do what I want to do, I care about money.”

“Yeah, most people have to,” Brian said. “Not you.”

“Why not me?” he said.

“Because you are taken care of. It's a blessing. Just fucking...enjoy it, Christ.”

“But it's not...it's not fair,” Justin said.

“Not fair to who?”

“Everyone who isn't me,” Justin said. “People who don't have a choice but to drag their disabled asses to work because they don't have a partner to fucking...keep them.”

“Sunshine...again, so the fuck what?” Brian said. “You got kicked out of your house when you were seventeen. You took a bat to the head at senior prom. You nursed your partner through cancer when you were twenty years old, had your dream job ripped out from under you, lost your hearing before you were twenty-five, you manage a disability that affects the two things you most love to do in the world, three if you include jerking me off, and you had the utter misfortune to fall for the most emotionally unavailable asshole on the planet. So, yes, you have a partner who's going to buy you shit. You have found the one piece of good luck the universe saw fit to give you. Can you just fucking enjoy something for once in your neurotic, over-dramatic, miserable life? Goddamn, you're exhausting.”

And that, friends, is how Brian Kinney says I love you.

“Okay,” Justin said quietly.

“All right.” Brian palmed the small of Justin's back and seemed to remember that I existed, because he tossed me his keys and said, “Do me a favor and bring the car around, would you? I'm taking my house boy home.”

“Fuck you,” Justin said, and snuggled into Brian's shoulder.

“Excuse me,” Brian said, with a kiss to the side of Justin's head. “My artist in residence.”

**

Christine was back for the party on Saturday, but she didn't have a lot to do, because Brian never left Justin's side. He wrapped an arm around his waist and introduced him to everyone as the man behind Kinnetik's décor, the guy who saved the Abrams campaign, the most talented artist to come out of Pittsburgh since Warhol.

Megan Teller from Sawyer Medical nodded appreciatively at the painting by the front entrance, one of my favorites of his. “You do extraordinary work,” she said to Justin.

Justin watched Brian interpret, then turned to her with a smile.

Thank you, he signed, while Brian voiced. I work very hard.

Chapter 9 - The One Where Brian Meets Justin's Brother by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Now, Craig Taylor turned around from the hostess and there we fucking were, two foreign superpowers in the middle of a packed restaurant lobby. Negotiating Justin like a treaty, I thought vaguely to myself, though the metaphor didn't really fit, since I was always trying to pass Justin off to the highest bidder anyway and Craig, of course, didn't want him.

 

 

The One Where Brian Meets Justin's Brother
By: LaVieEnRose

 

 

I fucking told him the wait here was going to be ridiculous. I said, we have thirty places that will deliver until 2 AM. There is no reason to go get takeout at eight o'clock the last Saturday before Christmas from the trendiest fucking Bistro in Pittsburgh, not to mention it's a fucking twenty minute drive from the loft, past all thirty of those aforementioned delivery places, and you've been laid up with your head between your knees all evening and not in a kinky way so I'll be the one making this sojourn on my own, all so you can have the one thing you think you could eat right now, please, Brian.

“Lawson?” the hostess called.

That last bit, that one one thing he could eat right now, obviously, is why I was fucking here anyway, waiting with every other sad sack in Pittsburgh for the hostess to call my name and tell me my order was ready. The people here were so goddamn somber; it reminded me of all the time I've spent waiting in hospitals, if I'm honest. I don't remember much of right after Justin was bashed, but there have been plenty of much less traumatic, much more boring times—when Gus broke his arm, in college when Lindsey got her stomach pumped, about eight thousand MRIs through Justin's various cranial adventures —when I had extensive time to just sit and look at the motley crew I was stuck with, and it was this same sort of vibe: not enough chairs, not enough distractions, way too many children running around ready to take out one of your kneecaps. One sprinted past me just now, waving a toy plane around, a blur of blond hair and a red shirt.

“Yamaguchi?”

I leaned against a pillar and tried to find some article to read on my phone that wouldn't bore me to tears. Maybe I needed to suck it up and download one of those stupid games Justin was always fucking with...I could always delete them before I got home and he could see them.

“Stevens?”

He'd been feeling shitty for two days at that point. It was never as bad now as it was back when he was still in the process of losing his hearing, and his brain just couldn't adjust fast enough, but he'd still have days when his equilibrium was a mess and he had vertigo too bad to stand up. Pot helped, but tended to bring on the nightmares, so, just like everything where Justin was concerned, it was a balancing act. Help the nausea, fuck up his sleep schedule. Talk in his language, fuck up his hand. Paint a pretty picture, be unable to sign for the rest of the day.

He kept such a positive fucking attitude about all of it too. It was aggravating as shit. I just wanted to piss and moan about how unfair it was and instead he had to sit there and Pollyanna about it, so then what the fuck was I supposed to do? I swear, he's only nice because he knows it pisses me off. If I ever came around on it, he'd morph into an asshole just to keep the dynamic alive.

“Taylor?”

I looked up. Justin had placed the order online, so it was possible it was under his name instead of mine, but the idea of picking up food with his name hit me with that nowadays rarely-accessed relationship panic that still likes to rear its head once in a while, and I was overtaken by an urge to run for the hills and change my phone number and remove everything Taylor-branded from my life and other sorts of reasonable responses to hearing your partner of six years' last name in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

Then I figured I should probably check what the first name was on that order before I fled the town. Hell, maybe Taylor was the first name. I took a step towards the desk just as the fucking Antichrist himself appeared and accepted the bag of food.

I am referring, of course, to Craig Taylor.

This wasn't the first time I'd seen him since I removed young Justin from his picturesque home; Pittsburgh's not a big town, and Craig somehow hadn't had the good sense to get the fuck out of it. But hell, if my presence couldn't scare away St. Joan, I guess there's no hope this fucker would run either. Last time my eyes had been graced with the loose folds of flesh Craig Taylor calls a face (it's all right—Jennifer's beautiful, so there's still hope for Justin, plus the little shit seems to not age) it had been across the row at a gas station and it was easy enough for me to turn away and pretend I didn't notice him, and he either truly didn't see me or was returning the favor. Now, he turned around from the hostess and there we fucking were, two foreign superpowers in the middle of a a packed restaurant lobby. Negotiating Justin like a treaty, I thought vaguely to myself, though the metaphor didn't really fit, since I was always trying to pass Justin off to the highest bidder anyway and Craig, of course, didn't want him.

For a second I thought maybe he wouldn't recognize me, but the look in his eyes let me know pretty quickly that was a bust. The asshole had probably spent the past eight years hate-jacking off to my face. He wouldn't be the first.

“Surprised to see you here,” he said, after a long moment.

I tried out my best smirk. “Queers gotta eat too.”

He clenched his jaw. It was suddenly incredibly, unavoidably important that he know that Justin and I were still together. I'm not exaggerating when I say that for that one moment, all my anti-commitment, anti-labels bullshit was gone and replaced with new, overwhelming relationship bullshit, and it was the most crucial thing in the discovered world that Justin's father know that the boy had not wised up and gotten himself away from me. Fuck, if I'd had the paperwork with me I would have whipped out the marriage certificate and asked if he could do me a favor and get it framed.

I settled for a simpering smile and, “After all, this is Justin's favorite restaurant.” It completely wasn't, and honestly Justin asking for this place tonight was showing buckets more taste than I'd come to expect from the lad, but it had the effect of making Craig look like he wanted to fling his takeout into the nearest dumpster before it made his new attempt at a family homosexual as well, so, that'll do, pig.

He managed a “How is Justin?” that sounded like an insult, and it struck me that I had no idea if Craig knew that Justin had lost his hearing.

When Justin was bashed and I was doing my little midnight vigils by his bedside, I was sure I was going to run into Craig one of those nights. I knew, of course, that he wasn't coming during the day, because I kept tabs on everyone who came by, since I was similarly paranoid that the Westboro Baptist Church was gonna make a day trip out here, but I thought...God, I don't know what I thought. That they'd only been estranged eight months, and that couldn't have been enough for Craig to shake himself of any sort of affection for him? That being gay starts to look a little...I don't know, in relief when viewed next to brain hemorrhaging and permanent motor cortex damage?

But, well. We know how that story ends. Six months after Justin had his Sleeping Beauty moment, Craig celebrated by cutting off his tuition and leaving him to shake his ass for spare change. Quite the Get Well card.

Anyway, my point is, it was not outside the realm of possibility that Craig was well aware that his son was no longer among the hearing and hadn't felt any real urge to reach out for him about that. It was just as likely that had no idea. It was also, of course, possible that he had been in touch and Justin hadn't mentioned it to me. I'm not in charge of his correspondence.

So basically, I had no idea if he knew, and although it was hardly some sort of shameful secret, I still didn't know how Justin would feel about me being the one to drop that bombshell.

So I just said, “He's phenomenal.”

Craig nodded once and hiked the takeout bag up his arms. “Luke,” he said, looking around the lobby, and he caught the little blond boy by the arm on his next lap around the lobby. Something in my stomach twisted. “Let's go home, come on.”

All right, so Justin had a brother. And this kid looked fucking exactly like him, so there goes the hope of our Sunshine inheriting his mother's looks. I tilted my head and tried to imagine waking up to a Craig clone thirty years from now. Lord have mercy. Shoulda gotten a pre-nup.

And then Luke turned his head to point in the corner and say, “Daddy, he has a plane like mine,” and all my smarmy prayers for the integrity of Justin's collagen flew away, because on the side of Luke's head was something I'd seen roughly a million people with at Justin's audiologist appointments.

The kid had a cochlear implant.

So let's break this down.

Now, we'd known, of course, that Justin's condition was genetic. And we'd known, after testing Jennifer, that it came from Craig's side, and that Molly was unaffected.

We just didn't know there was another kid in the equation. A kid who, judging from his height, was about six, and from the not-entirely-clear way he spoke, had been deaf from quite an early age.

It had, at this point, been under three years since Justin was diagnosed. I'll let you run a little bit of math in your head there.

We can put together a few things out of this information. Craig almost definitely knew about the condition before we did. Justin almost definitely didn't know that he had a brother. And Jennifer and Molly almost definitely had been keeping some shit from us that really should have been out in the open.

And then there's the little matter of whether or not it's ethical to give a small child irreversible brain surgery he can't consent to to prevent him from being a minority but...not hard to guess where Craig and I are going to fall on the sides of that argument, and the last thing we need is one more hearing asshole spouting opinions about the Deaf community so I'll leave that bit here for now.

At the time, though, Luke looked up at me, nervous, and being the warm hearted motherfucker I am, and absolutely not because I wanted to test if Craig had cut open his child in order to not have to bother introducing him to his culture, I signed, I like your plane to him.

He looked up at Craig, confused, and Craig looked like he was about to try to kill me for the third time.

“I didn't realize your son was Deaf,” I said. Of course, I could have also said I don't realize you had another son, but where's the moral high ground in that? There's also the matter that I did, naturally, know that Craig's son was Deaf, but subtleties were wasted on this man.

Sure enough, his eyes flashed and he spit out, “My son is not Deaf,” in the voice of a person well-practiced at throwing out slurs.

He pushed past me and out the door, Luke in tow, and I said, “Nonsyndromic Genetic Sensorineural Hearing Loss, right? Has he had problems with vertigo? We've found marijuana pretty helpful.”

Yeah, yeah, I know, so much for not revealing Justin's situation, but I could never resist getting the last word, and I was feeling a little more strongly about the whole being Deaf if not a dirty secret thing than I did a minute ago, imagine that.

Craig turned and stared at me.

I gave him a tight smile. “Might want to give your ex-wife a call,” I said.

He blinked and scowled and yanked Luke out the door, and I stood there and wondered what the fucking fuck I was going to tell Justin.

“Kinney?” the hostess called.

**

Justin was up and dressed when I got home, which was an improvement—well, not so much that on the dressed part, but you know—from how he'd been the past two days. Look who's vertical, I said.

Giving it a shot. What's with you?

Goddamn this kid. How the fuck does he do it? All I'd done was walk into the loft and he knew something was going on. How the fuck do you fucking...guard yourself against that?

And when those blue eyes are looking at you, softening you up like butter on the counter...I mean, fuck, how do you even make yourself want to try?

He hadn't kept food down in days, so the last thing I was going to do was spring this on him and wreck our chances of him getting a meal out of this. After dinner, I told him. Let me decompress. Really I just signed relax, but we'll make do.

Justin nodded and got glasses out of the cupboard. On his way past me I guided him into me and gave him a quick kiss. “Hey,” I said, out loud. I don't speak to him often, but...sometimes.

“Hey,” he said back.

I kissed his forehead. His hair smelled like his lime shampoo, and his skin tasted like sweat and sickness, which at this point...it worked for me. It’s not as if Justin hasn’t been confusing my urges to fuck him until he passed out and wrap him gently in blankets since the night I met him. One day you wake up and you've tied your life to someone with a chronic illness and it turns out you don't divide him up into parts that you like and that you don't like. At some point you learn to stop questioning.

I ran my hands up and down his sides. Too skinny. You ought to pitch your disease as a diet plan. Thousands of middle aged women will be gouging out their middle ears.

Justin stood on his toes—if he ever finds out what that does to me, I’m a dead man—and kissed me. Unfortunately for them, I’m starving.

Go sit, I said. Couch. I’ll bring you a plate.

He gave me a strange look—“eating on the couch” and “doing small, nice things for Justin” aren’t two of my usual hobbies—but shrugged and went to the couch with our drinks. I fixed up plates for us and brought them over and watched him eat for a while, left-handed with his plate balanced in his lap. He’s working on being more ambidextrous, like he was when he was a kid. Saving his right hand for important tasks like signing, painting, and hand jobs, though I had to say there was an odd appeal to the left-handed hand jobs. Like getting jerked off by a stranger, but one who was as talented as Justin.

He ate so carefully, balancing that fork in his wrong hand, gently setting it down to reach for his glass, and God, breaking his heart with the shit about his dad and his brother felt fucking Herculean. You’d think I was some novice to hurting him, with how hard it was for me to even think of doing in that moment. I put down my plate and kind of dove into his collarbone.

His hand found the back of my neck. “You’re being weird,” he said out loud. since I couldn’t see him sign. His voice was a little too loud because of course he didn’t know, and it’s not as if that doesn’t happen all the time but God, something about it right then in contrast to that fucking little boy with the cochlear, God, my Deaf fucker talking too loud right here being the most enchanting goddamn...I would have given him anything, that’s what I’m trying to say. You could have told me you were carving out one of my kidneys for him and I would have held out a hand for a scalpel to help the process along. I was garbage, in that minute, is what I’m telling you, and if you think I’m ever forgiving Justin for the bullshit he does to me you’re more brain damaged than he is.

I know, I signed with my eyes closed. Just let me.

He stroked my hair and said, “Okay,” and that was nice for a while until it occurred to me that he was still petting my hair and that he was essentially comforting me for his own trauma that I’d been too chickenshit to tell him about, and that pissed me off, so I sat up and put a hand on his waist and sighed and let go of him.

I saw your dad, I said. At the restaurant.

Justin stared at me like I was signing in some non-American type of sign language for a minute, and eventually coughed out a humorless laugh. How’d he look?

I shrugged. The same. Older. Still has his hair.

Good sign for me, I guess.


I shook my head. That’s passed down from your mother.

Oh. Well, my mother still has all her hair too.


I couldn’t let him sit here thinking the news was over. Did you know he’d had another kid?

Justin blinked. He does?

Fuck. So much for the anti-reveal I'd been hoping for. Yeah, he was there. A little boy. ASL doesn't have gendered pronouns, so I had to specify. Looked like he was born when you were about nineteen, twenty.

Molly never said anything.

Do you think your mom knows?
I said, as gently as I could.

Justin thought about it. She must, right?

I don't see how she wouldn't.

What's his name?

Luke,
I fingerspelled.

He nodded a little. What does he look like?

You know that picture of you at the park with your mom and...whoever that other lady was.

My aunt Sally, Jesus, Brian, you've met her like three times.

Whatever. He looks just like you in that. Except...


Justin raised his eyebrows.

I laced my fingers through Justin's and signed, He has a cochlear implant.

I watched Justin sit back and just kind of...absorb this. It's never going to stop amazing me how he handles getting slammed with information like this. Me, I'm yelling before I even realize I'm yelling, and fuck, now that I sign it's goddamn worse. I thought my mouth moved before my brain, but you should see my fucking hands betray me. I'll be halfway through a paragraph before I've even realized I'm talking. But Justin..God, you can see every emotion pass over that face of his, and it's painful as hell, but he stays so quiet.

Does he sign? he asked eventually.

I don't think so.

God
, Justin said. That poor kid.

Because here's the thing. I'd been listening during Justin's appointments, I paid attention, I did my homework. I knew just as well as Justin did that a cochlear implant is not a magic wand or whatever the fuck. It rewires your brain to process sound in a different way. It's not perfect. You're still not hearing.

To continue the queer metaphors we hinted at earlier and that are going to continue throughout this sordid tale...think of it as, I don't know, say a bisexual in an opposite sex relationship. They're gonna look straight, everyone's gonna look at them and think they're straight, fucking other queer people are going to look at them and think they're straight, but they're not, and they can pass all the live long day until they can't. And who the fuck says they even want to?

And fucking sue me if watching Justin make all his Deaf friends had changed my opinions about...fine, I'll say it, the importance of goddamn community. Look, even when I was pissing and moaning about it, I had a gay family, we just don't gather at the GLC to Kumbaya and endorse Republican police chiefs, so the fuck what.

And look, I don't know what I'd have done if Gus had been born Deaf, if Justin was still the seventeen-year-old very much hearing kid standing in the doorway of the hospital room when the doctor told us there was a problem. I don't really want to picture it, if I'm honest. But I do know that no matter what we did surgery-wise, Lindsay would have fucking made sure that kid knew how to sign and knew where he belonged, and thank the goddamn hypothetical Lord for that. God, Justin probably would have been on top of it too, the shit. Giving me midnight lectures on the importance of Gus knowing his identity. How the fuck did Justin even happen?

I shook my head a little and said, I think...so I heard him speak. Luke. And he's...you know, he doesn't sound like you. He has an accent, he sounds Deaf. This was probably politically incorrect as shit, but fuck you, it was just me and Justin here, you're goddamn lucky I'm relaying this conversation to you at all.

He didn't get it, and probably was just thinking about how I clearly needed one of his country club etiquette classes. Okay?

I sighed. So he must have lost his hearing before he was very comfortable speaking.

I watched Justin nod, then gradually understand what I was saying. He ran his hand over his mouth.

We could have known years ago, he said eventually.

I...think we could have known years ago. What do you want to do? I asked him. Anything. Seriously, did he want that kidney?

I want to call my mom and find out what the fuck she knew, Justin said.

I nodded. Sounds good to me.

**

Jennifer sighed. “I knew he'd had a kid,” she said. “I didn't know if I should tell you.”

She and Justin were really just starting to get their footing back, too. Things had been rough since he lost his hearing; she'd held onto a lot of hope that he was going to spring forth this incredible lip reader and Justin's lipreading really, really leaves a lot to be desired. The other day we were at Starbucks and after he ordered the barista asked him what size he wanted and he didn't get it. What the fuck do you think she's asking you, Justin? Jesus, you don't have to lipread to figure that one out if you just use some basic logic, but, well, basic logic has never been his strong suit. And neither is lipreading.

Jennifer had finally resigned herself to the fact that her son was fucking Deaf and not getting any un-Deafer, and after a great deal of tears about it that Justin was much more patient about than I was, she finally, at least two years too late, enrolled herself in some sign language classes. She was now at the point where she could introduce herself and say, I don't know, colors or something, so nothing really useful, but I knew it meant a lot to Justin that she was trying, so whatever, I slapped on a nice encouraging smile every time I saw her.

Not that I needed one now, because I was standing behind the laptop, facing Justin, interpreting for her and occasionally for him, when he got so heated he forgot to speak instead of sign, which I normally find pretty hilarious—Justin's like a mad cat when he's pissed off, all hissing and spitting—but somehow wasn't really feeling tonight.

“How old is he?” Justin said.

“I guess...let me see. He was born while you were dating Ethan, I believe. However long ago that was.”

I gave Justin a look to tell him just how much I appreciated having to sign that fucker's name, and Justin rolled his eyes to show me exactly what he thought of the great sacrifice I was making. He counted on his fingers. “Seven years ago,” he said.

“Brian's sure he had a cochlear?” Jennifer said.

It was annoying when she talked to me, because I had to sign her question for Justin, then my answer for Justin, and finally tell her, “I'm sure. I know what they look like.”

“Well...that's good, right?” Jennifer said. “I mean, I know it wasn't an option for you, sweetie, but...”

No way in hell did Justin want to get into this with her. “You really didn't know he was Deaf?” Justin said.

“Of course not, honey. You really think I wouldn't have mentioned that before now?”

I mean, I don't know, you managed not to mention that I have a brother, Justin signed, and I was grateful for the chance to interpret that because I wanted an excuse to be a little snarky at Jennifer.

“Are you sure he has the same thing you have?” Jennifer said.

“It would be kind of a huge coincidence.” Justin rubbed his forehead. “What about Molly? How could she not know?”

Jennifer was quiet for a minute, then she said, “Justin, Molly hasn't seen your father in five years.”

“What?”

“She was always asking me what happened, why you stopped living here, and...I decided she was old enough to know, and after that she said she didn't want anything to do with him, and she stuck with that. He calls on her birthday and sends a Christmas present, that's it.”

Justin tapped his fingers against his lips.

This was, obviously, news to me as well. Molly was...I'm gonna say sixteen, at this point, I wasn't completely sure, but somewhere around there, and she'd grown on me as much as as a sixteen-year-old or something girl probably can. She took ASL classes at her school so she could hold a basic conversation with Justin in person, and they'd go out to a movie once a month or so and she'd sleep on our couch twice a year when Jennifer was pissing her off. Justin was always giggling at his phone at bad times over something ridiculously stupid she sent him that he thought was funny (remember I told you he's fucking brain damaged? You can keep it in mind here, like I do when he goes to the grocery store and buys the wrong brand of mouthwash twenty thousand times in a row).

So anyway, it wasn't out of the question that Molly would cut Craig out in Justin's defense, but...still, it raised the kid up a few notches as far as I was concerned. Which was good, since I'd just spent the past few hours cursing her and Jennifer's names for acting like Justin going Deaf was a huge shock, and I'm concerned that all my time spent hating people is giving me frown lines.

The only person who could have told us years ago that this was going to happen was Craig.

“I'm so sorry about this, baby,” Jennifer said. “I just...I didn't know if I should tell you.”

“I don't know if you should have either,” Justin said.

“Are you glad you know?”

“I don't know yet,” he said.

**

We took a shower after that, but he was starting to feel dizzy again so he got out pretty quickly. He sat on the sink and leaned against the wall and watched me, and we fooled around like that, getting each other off with glances and our own hands. He got back in with me to clean himself off, and I turned down the water temperature for him and held him up in case he lost his balance, and also just to hold him for a while. He'd been quiet ever since we got off the phone.

Suddenly, he said, I think I'm going to ask my mom for his number.

I nodded slowly and showed remarkable restraint by not asking what the fuck.

The kid...Luke, Justin said. He needs to know a Deaf person. Having a cochlear isn't the same as being hearing. He needs to know that...that if playing the part of a hearing person works out for him, then great, whatever, but if it doesn't...he needs to know there are options. That there's a place.

You know he's seven, right?


Justin shrugged. I remember stuff from when I was seven. Don't you?

I pulled Justin into me to shut out the flashbacks. Nothing good, I said.

“Knowing my dad, it's probably not much good for Luke either.”

I squeezed him.

“That's why I've got to do this,” he said.

I kissed the top of his head. Okay.

After a beat, I said, What do you want to bet he suggests talking on the phone? and Justin snorted and laughed, and I felt him relax against me.

**

Well, fuck if I was letting Justin have dinner with his father alone. How would that even work? They sit across from each other and jot shit down, like the high school bully passing notes to the doe-eyed freshman? No thanks.

Justin had set this all up through texts, so I didn’t know the details, but he’d somehow managed to get Craig to agree to eat with us and to bring the kid along. I was trying to look at this purely through the perspective of Justin achieving his goals—you have to keep that in mind here. And that meant that my opinions on everything going down here were not relevant. I was there to interpret. I was a neutral third party. All that jazz, in the words of the somehow straight Bob Fosse.

You promise you’ll let him talk? Justin asked in the car, for the eightieth time.

I told you, I said. I’m not Brian Kinney. I am devoid of personality or concern for your well being or hatred of homophobes and audists. I’m here to voice for you, sign for him, coo at a small child, and make sure Craig doesn’t punch you in the middle of a restaurant.

Justin stared at me. And you wonder why I've made you repeat this so many times.

I groaned. Look, do you really not get that I'm taking the easiest possible way out here? Fuck if I know what to say to the guy. The only confrontation I ever had with my father involved cancer and a garage full of boxes, and somehow I doubt either of them's going to be making an appearance at Cafe Monongahela—don't make me fingerspell that again—

You spelled it wrong.

—eat shit, so that experience isn't giving me much help. I don't know what to say to him, and this way I don't have to think of anything. I also don't have to be all supportive of you because, again, I'm an interpreting robot, so I get out of having to be all caring and encouraging and I can just sit there and make you handle everything.

You're right,
Justin said. It does sound a lot more believable when you put it that way.

I'm saying.

But thank you for making sure he doesn't hit me.

Well, sure
, I said. I'm not letting you mess your face up in service of this little mission. Plus I can't go letting you have more head trauma. One more hit might turn you straight.

It would take a lot more than one
, Justin said, with a grab for my crotch, and I grinned.

Craig and Luke were already seated when we got there. Luke was coloring peacefully on his placemat, and Craig looked about ten seconds away from coming out of his skin. They hadn't seen us yet, and just as I was about to head over, Justin took a breath and kind of ducked behind me, and God, right then he was the eighteen-year-old who flinched in crowds again, and I don't think I can explain the amount of willpower it took to not forcibly remove him from that restaurant, to not physically lift him up and place him somewhere safe.

I brushed his hair off his forehead and said, You good?

He nodded, but he was still breathing hard.

Okay, you don't really sound good. Gonna have to trust me on that one.

He rubbed the back of his neck. What's the volume like in here? I wasn't sure if he was planning on speaking or not—it's possible neither was he, yet—but he likes to get a feel for a place in case he decides to.

Pretty quiet. I'll let you know if you're too loud.

He nodded, chewing his lip.

Or, I said, We could just get the fuck out of here right now.

No.

Okay, I said. Let's do this, then.

He headed towards the table, me trailing behind. He cleared his throat and said, “Looks like you've got another artist on your hands, huh?” as Craig scrambled to his feet.

He said ,”Well...um, we'll see,” and I signed it out for Justin. The thing about interpreting is, it's not just about signing or voicing the words. You have to capture the tone of it, to make sure all the non-verbal shit doesn't get lost in translation. Which meant if Craig was going to stumble awkwardly over his words, well, I had to capture that. I had to be Craig Taylor, and did you figure out as quickly as Justin did that all my shit in the car about taking the easy way out was just that: shit?

Then Craig reached out and gave Justin the world's most tentative hug, the kind where you touch as little as physically possible, and then he reached out and shook my hand like he was trying to strangle it, but I let him. Justin and I took seats at the table while Lucas stared at Justin in undisguised fascination. Hard to blame him; Justin was looking at him pretty much the same way.

Craig said, “So, um, how are we going to...”

Justin watched me, then signed, Brian will sign what you say, and then he'll say what I sign. Like this.

Craig's eyes darted to me. “But you can talk,” he said to Justin.

I just did, didn't I? Justin shrugged. I like to sign.

The waiter came by to take our orders, and I think Craig was surprised I didn't jump right in and manage Justin, but that's not how we do things, if you remember the barista story. He'll ask me if he needs help, and generally he manages fine on his own. The waitress asked him whether he wanted soup or a salad with his sandwich, and Justin didn't get it. He motioned for her to write it down—he'd ordered by pointing, he doesn't like vocalizing with strangers if he doesn't have to—and I could tell it was killing Craig not to jump in and smooth the situation over, and he kept looking at me like I was some kind of mutineer.

“He can do it,” I said softly to Craig, because...because I do get it. I do. If you're not used to it, it's not easy to watch a struggle when you could clear it up in a second. I get it. “He can write it down. It's only going to take a second.”

The waiter wrote it down, and Justin smiled and pointed again, and the waiter turned to the rest of us. Craig ordered for Luke, and I noticed he had a little trouble getting his attention to find out what he wanted. I think Justin noticed too.

It's not like regular hearing.

“So...how long has it been?” Craig asked Justin.

I was diagnosed when I was twenty-three, he said. And it took about a year to lose my hearing completely. He looked across the table. How about you, Luke?

Luke had no idea where to look. I smiled and pointed at Justin, who gave him a little wave.

How old are you? Justin asked him. He was signing so gently, warmly, so I tried to do the same thing with my voice. It wasn't hard.

He was still looking at me when I spoke, not Justin, but I don't think that was because he didn't get Justin was the one asking. He needed to watch my lips.

“Six and three-quarters,” Luke said.

Justin nodded. You know, Brian—this is Brian, the one talking—he has a son who's a little bit older than you. He's eight and a half.

“That's a lot older,” Luke said.

Justin smiled. Is it?

Uh-huh.”

Justin finally turned back to Craig. “So when...?”

“They diagnosed when he was two,” Craig said. “But he didn't need the surgery until he was two and a haf.”

I took a deep breath and signed that to Justin in the same matter-of-fact way Craig said it.

Craig said, “Can I ask why you haven't...? If it's an issue of money—”

It's not. It's not an option for me, Justin said. Because of...what happened at my prom.

Craig nodded slowly, then said, “Justin...I want you to know that I...I regret the way things happened, when you were younger.”

That's nice, right? If you ignore all the things that that isn't saying, isn't that nice? Because it's not saying, I'm sorry for calling your sexual orientation a disgusting lifestyle. I'm sorry for hitting you in the face. I'm sorry for making you unwelcome in the only home you'd ever known. I'm sorry ramming my car into Brian's and then beating the shit out of him—I mean, not that this is about me, but the fucker did. I'm sorry for not coming to visit you when you were hurt—and I know, I know I don't have a fucking leg to stand on for that one, but the fucker didn't. I'm sorry for not letting you know that my new child had a genetic condition that you might want to get yourself tested for.

If you completely ignore the complete lack of an apology in Craig's apology, man, what a sweet gesture, am I right?

Craig got a little choked up and said, “It's so hard to see you like this,” and I had to fucking sign that in his choked up way without an ounce of sarcasm, so don't let me hear you complain about how your life is hard.

Justin just shook his head and said, Look, Dad, I didn't want to meet you to rehash the past or anything like that. It's over. I just...I wanted to meet Luke, and I wanted him to know that I exist.

Luke watched us.

Craig said, “Oh...um, of course, you're his brother, you should—”

He needs to know Deaf people. Justin was hardening up now. Even if he has a cochlear, even if he's in mainstream school...that's fine, but he needs to know this part of himself too.

“This isn't a part of himself now,” Craig said. “He's had the surgery. He's fixed.”

That's not how it works, Justin said. He's never going to have it as easy as a hearing kid does. There's always going to be extra hurdles for him. He's always going to be different.

Craig shook his head slowly. “That's what this is, huh? You, and your...your pathological obsession with differentness.”

“That's not what this is,” Justin said, out loud. Too loud. I touched his wrist, and he nodded in acknowledgment without looking at me.

“You have this romanticized idea of being an outsider,” Craig said. “You always have. You think it makes you better than all those poor assholes who are the same. You're an intellectual, that's it, right? You're an artist. And now you're Deaf. Us poor regular Joes, we couldn't possibly understand.”

No, Justin said. You can't.

“What I understand,” Craig said. “Is that I don't want Luke to think that he's weak, to think that he has to depend on someone the way you depend on Brian. God knows how long he's going to stick around, and then where will you be?”

What a fun thing to sign.

Justin set his jaw. “I do not depend on Brian,” he said, out loud, because...because he fucking had to. “I get along just fine when he's not there.”

“Oh, like you did with the waiter just now? You had no idea what he was asking.”

“And I figured it out,” Justin said. “I made it work. Without needing some hearing person to hold my hand.”

“Daddy?” Luke said, and Craig ignored him and kept glaring at Justin. .I reached out and gave Luke's hand a quick squeeze. I didn't even mean to, it just fucking happened.

“See, there you go,” Craig said. “You want Luke to have to overcome some kind of adversity because you think it'll make him more interesting. Because the Justin Show maybe isn't as interesting as it used to be, and you want to recruit someone else? Well, you can keep your hands off my son. I bet you hope he's a fag, too.”

All right, listen. It's not that I don't say the word fag on a fucking daily basis. Whatever. But the idea of turning to Justin and signing it with that kind of hate, after the shit this man had already me say to his fucking son...

I looked at Justin and just said, Please.

I already saw it
, he said. Just say it.

Justin...

You promised,
he said. Say it.

So I did. And it fucking sucked, if you're curious. I realize there's no shortage of cruel things I've said to Justin over the years. But God, they're never fucking premeditated, they just come out of my mouth when he's too stubborn or clingy or naive or...close. I've never looked at that face and thought, I'm going to be cruel to him.

How the fuck could I? How the fuck could anyone?

Justin stayed very calm. He crossed his arms and shook his head slightly and said, “No, I don't,” he said, like it was a vaguely interesting fact. “I hope he's as straight as they come. I would never, ever wish on anyone the hell that's growing up gay with you for a father.” He stood up. “Brian, we're going to go now.”

Gladly. I got to my feet.

Justin put his hand on the back of Luke's head on our way out and waited until Luke was looking at his lips before he spoke.

“It was really, really nice to meet you, sweetheart,” he said.

**

We were quiet in the car. There wasn't much to say. I was pissed off as hell and feeling like some sort of lion over someone saying that shit to Justin, and whenever I start to feel too protective of Justin my instinct is to lash out at him because I'm fucking disturbed, but he would have been all patient and understanding about it and I didn't want to deal with that shit right then. What I really wanted to do was get the hell away from him and snort something and fuck someone and just not fucking think for as long as I goddamn could, but even I'm not enough of an asshole to just leave Justin by himself after all that shit, so I'd resigned myself to stewing in silence and drinking us out of house and home by the time we parked at the building.

Except the second we got in, Justin charged to the closet and changed into his going out clothes. Hell if I was going to discourage him. Now, I'm not oblivious to the fact that going out and getting plastered and fucking your troubles away is not the most healthy of coping mechanisms—at least not for Justin, of course—but it's not as if I had previously been under the impression Justin was handling this well, so what was I going to do, wring my hands about it? No, I put on my hottest shirt and shaved and styled my hair so I looked like a fucking dish because the kid deserved it and then I changed him into something sluttier and dragged him out and licked him up and down on the dance floor and put his arms around my neck and made sure everyone in that club wanted to fuck him. We had several guys interested right away, but fuck if the next thing I knew I wasn't on my knees blowing him in the back room. I don't even remember how we got there. We'd had plenty of E at that point, and I just...

It was important that Justin feel like he was the one in charge, that's all. It didn't even occur to me until his cock was in my throat that we'd never done this in public before. God knows me blowing him isn't a rare occurrence at home, but here there was an image to uphold or...something. Something that used to seem important and no longer mattered nearly as much as getting as much of Justin inside of me as I possibly could.

“I love you,” he whispered when I was done, I don't even know if he knew he said it, and I closed my eyes and left my forehead on the soft skin of his stomach.

And I'll tell you what: thank God my little fucker is different from everyone else.

**

We could have known years ago, I said suddenly that evening, when I just couldn't take it anymore. I was standing in the bathroom doorway brushing my teeth, while he sat in bed spreading lotion all over himself, turning me the fuck on, which was not helping to make me any less angry.

I know.

We could have been preparing, or...

Honestly, I think it's for the best that we didn't know, he said. I did the math, and it would have been right around when you had cancer. Can you imagine us trying to deal with that shit then? We had enough on our plate, and we weren't...like we are now. It's better that we didn't know.

You're so aggravating.

I know.
He paused. Do you wish I had a cochlear?

No.

Why not?

Because your neurologist said the surgery would kill you and it takes too long to break in a new boyfriend.


He gave me a look. If I could have one.

No. All that shit you said about Luke would be true for you too. You still wouldn't be hearing. You'd struggle. And you'd be doing it without a language, without a culture.


Justin considered this. Then...do you wish I was hearing?

I wish he wouldn't do this shit. I hate talking about crap there's no reason to talk about. I hate even more that I can't just give him some pat answer. Sometimes life would be easier if I could lie to him.

Or maybe it wouldn't be. Maybe moments would just be easier, and big picture, it would be harder because...just to cut through the bullshit for a minute? We're doing fucking fine.

But that didn't mean I didn't wish I could weasel out of this moment. Do you wish I were Deaf? I stalled.

Sometimes, he said, and then looked at me expectantly.

I sighed and braced myself. Sometimes, I said.

He nodded thoughtfully.

I wish I didn't worry about you this much, I said. But I've been wishing that since...you know. Since you were eighteen.

His expression softened, and God, I can't handle the way he looks at me. I don't know how to be a person worthy of the way he looks at me

You're happier now, I said. You didn't used to be happy. You're happy now. So no. I don't wish you were hearing.

I went and spit out my toothpaste and left him to sit with that for a minute. When I came back, he was sitting up with his arms around his knees, still watching me some kind of way, and he looked so small and fragile and before I knew it my hands were moving. I told you they do this shit to me. Just start signing without my permission.

How did you know I wouldn't bail? I asked. When you got sick.

I didn't, remember? I worried about it.

Yeah, but you didn't...you didn't really think I would.
God, it was too late to go back now. I just don't get how you...why you had that faith in me. After how I fucking vanished when you were bashed.

Justin tilted his head to the side. You...know that I know that you visited me every night, right?

Well, the world was suddenly a very different place than it had been a few seconds before. No, I most definitely did not know that.

Jesus. He laughed. I've known since a couple of days after I woke up.

What the fuck?

He rolled his eyes and held his arms out, and I crawled onto the bed and tucked him into me. The nurses told me, he said.

But I asked them not to, I said, pathetically.

Yeah, and I'm sure it was a real struggle for them to decide who they wanted to be loyal to, their sweet, brain-damaged teenage patient whose recovery was slowed down by all his crying about his boyfriend, or the weird guy who showed up at two AM every night. Must have really been a tough choice for them.

Hmm.

Justin said, Plus, the night you brought me back here you were throwing around the terms occupational therapist and trauma specialist like you'd been using them every day. You weren't exactly subtle.

I flopped back down on the pillows. Can't a guy have a secret around here? I asked.

I'm sorry. I promise I still think you're very mysterious. Practically inscrutable.

I sighed dramatically. No. You know everything. I bet you even know what I'm thinking right now.

Sure enough, he rolled over onto his stomach, and it was hard to be too pissed about anything for a little while.

**

Two days before Christmas, Justin had turned the loft into some sort of gift-wrapping horror show. Snowflake paper. Santa paper. Reindeer paper. Awful, awful, awful.

Don't worry, he said. Yours is in a brown paper bag.

Thank God.

He had two piles next to him, ones that he'd finished wrapping and ones that hadn't yet met their maker. I picked a Lego fighter jet out of the to-be-wrapped one and looked it over. It wasn't for Gus; he'd emphatically declared himself too old for Legos and Justin had gotten him some bottle rockets.

I held it out to Justin, my eyebrow up.

Justin shrugged. Someday he might want to know me, he said. I'm going to have to keep reminding him I exist.

I cocked my head and looked at him, and he squirmed. What? he said.

I took his wrists and pulled him up. You already know, I said. You can read my mind, remember?

And then, just in case he couldn't, I kissed him like my fucking life depended on it.

 


 

End Notes:

 

I got to work in one of my headcanons, so that was fun. Seriously, there's NO WAY the nurses wouldn't have told Justin.

I'm blanking on what to do next, so hit me up with requests if you've got 'em! POVs, scenarios...we'll see what sparks.

Chapter 10 - The One Where Justin Cries All Winter by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

"Brian says I'm crying all the time," I said.

Technically, what Brian said was more along the lines of, "I really should have gone with my gut your last allergy season and bought stock in tissues, because for God's sake, Justin, pull yourself together," but Brian's way of expressing concern is an acquired taste.

 

 

The One Where Justin Cries All Winter
LaVieEnRose

 

So what made you decide to try therapy again?

I squirmed on Lydia's scratchy couch. After the whole incident at Babylon last spring I was having a ton of nightmares and generally doing a really shitty job dealing with what it turns out is not actually a normal amount of violent encounters to have survived in your first twenty-five years of life, go figure, so I did therapy for a while, and it helped.

I remember I thought Brian was joking when he suggested I get a Deaf therapist. For some reason I thought...I don't know, that they couldn't exist. But Brian looked at me like I was crazy when I laughed at the suggestion and asked if I really wanted an interpreter sitting in on my sessions with me and, you know, obviously I didn't, and then we found Lydia. And in five sessions I was all fixed up so I didn't come back.

And now here I was again.

Brian says I'm crying all the time, I said.

Technically, what Brian said was more along the lines of, I really should have gone with my gut your last allergy season and bought stock in tissues, because for God's sake, Justin, pull yourself together but Brian's way of expressing concern is an acquired taste, and Lydia probably needed the translation.

Are you? Lydia asked.

I guess so.

Do you feel sad a lot?


I thought about that for a while. Thought about Brian telling me, just a couple days before the start of the winter that he would, years later, refer to as that stretch where you were on the rag for three goddamn months, that I was happy. How I'd felt when he'd said that. How I hadn't understood how something could be that right and that wrong all at the same time.

It's not that simple, I said.

**

I guess it really started two months before I was sitting in Lydia's office when I dreamed Chris Hobbs ripped my arms off. It's always something like that. A meditation on a theme. I guess I should appreciate the variety.

I must have been quiet through most of the dream, because my arms were well and truly detached by the time the light switched on and Brian sat me up on the side of the bed. Jesus Christ, he said, kneeling in front of me. Take it easy, come on. He stopped signing then because he needed to hold onto my shoulders to keep me from, I don't know, collapsing and rolling off the bed.

“F-f-fuck,” I probably managed.

He pushed my hair off my forehead and wiped away the sweat. He rubbed my arms roughly, like I was cold and he was trying to warm me up.

What the fuck was that about? he asked.

A thing Brian doesn't know is that I've had nightmares every night since the bashing. No one knows that. Nowadays they're usually nothing big, and I don't even really think about them or remember them. I just feel kind of freaked and out of sorts for a little while after I wake up, and Brian just think I'm cranky in the mornings and leaves me alone. He only knows about the ones where I wake up screaming.

It's just easier that way.

I can't breathe, I said.

Yes you can.

I shook my head.

Come on, have I ever been wrong about this? He put his hand on my chest. God, your heart's going fast. Easy, come on. Come on back now. He wiped my tears away and kissed me. You're okay, he said. You're just fine.

What day is it? I asked. I end up asking him that a lot after nightmares, usually over and over. People think Brian is such an intolerant asshole, but God, sometimes I'm fucking floored just thinking about how patient he is with me.

He gave me the oddest look, then, like he was sad and amused all at the same time. It's Christmas, Sunshine.

Oh.

**

Eight hours later we were knocking on the door of Debbie's house, my enormous bag of presents in hand. Debbie opened the door and greeted us each with a crushing hug, and Carl shook our hands and took our coats. Gus just nodded to us from the couch, like the world's youngest sullen teenager that he totally is, but J.R. bounded over and did the whole sticky bear hug situation. I scooped her up and kissed her and Brian rolled his eyes while he interpreted her whole monologue about the new toy cash register she'd gotten that morning.

She's a businesswoman already, Lindsay said. The grammar wasn't exactly right, but I knew what she meant. I kissed her cheek, then Mel's, and then Michael intercepted me and dragged me upstairs to look at some stuff for the comic book.

I'm not trying to be an asshole here, and I know I'm probably going to sound like one, and it's not that I don't appreciate the effort, because I totally, totally do, but Michael's signing is...not good. Honestly, none of them are very good. Melanie and Lindsay can ask me some basic questions and at least pretend to understand my answers, Molly is coming along, Emmett's got a somewhat decent vocabulary, even if his grammar is atrocious, Ben is totally patient and never just gives up and says never mind, which a lot of people will do, and Ted's reception is pretty good, meaning he can understand it a lot better than he can produce signs himself. But...none of them are at the point where I can really hold a conversation with them without someone interpreting or a lot of writing and gesturing, which would be sort of okay except that none of them really seem to get that? And that's where I feel like an asshole, because I think they all believe they're better than they are, and I don't want to be the guy who comes in like hey, I realize you've done me this enormous favor learning a second language so you can communicate with me, but I actually still can't fucking understand what you're saying.

So anyway, by the time Michael had talked me through his latest plot idea and shown me his horrible (I'm not being mean here—he knows they're horrible, it's okay) mock-ups of the art he had in mind, I was so completely exhausted from trying to work out what the hell he was trying to sign that I just wanted to flop down on the bed that was once his and once mine and go to sleep for a million years. Plus I was still all out of sorts from the nightmare and not getting enough sleep last night, which my stupid epileptic brain does not know how to cope with, and Debbie always insists on getting a real Christmas tree and even though I was upstairs and had taken like five Claritin in preparation my allergies were already driving me insane.

Michael said, What's up, are you okay?

So I shook myself up and slapped on a smile because Jesus Christ, Justin, we already have Brian here to be the Grinch, we don't need you being an asshole on Christmas, and I told Michael out loud what I thought of all his ideas even though I was congested as all hell and my voice probably sounded like I was underwater, and that seemed to reassure Michael enough. We went back downstairs, and I had a nice moment of Christmas spirit standing on the stairs watching Brian make Gus laugh by violently snapping the head off a gingerbread man. Okay, so it's not that Christmassy, but A Christmas Story was playing on the TV behind him, so we'll count it.

Brian saw me and got up and met me on the stairs. You look like Rudolph, he said, and kissed my nose.

I'd set fire to that fucking tree if I thought it wouldn't make my throat close up.

We don't have to stay long. He squeezed my hands. Don't sign too much. I have plans for that hand.

So yeah. That's another thing that had been going on in my life. Speaking of my stupid epileptic brain!

I don't think anyone who hasn't done a pharmacy run for me even knows about it, because I don't have what most people think of when they think of epilepsy—y'know, falling down on the floor, grand mal seizures, the whole nine. I have had a few of those, but at the point they'd all been in the weeks right after I was bashed. I don't remember them. What I do remember is the doctor explaining to me, after it had been months and my hand was still twitching if I overused it, that after a massive head trauma you can develop post-traumatic epilepsy, I guess because my post-traumatic stress disorder needed a friend, and that sometimes people don't even notice seizures like mine because they're so small. You don't lose consciousness or have to rush off to the hospital or anything like that. You just kind of sit and wait for it to be over. They can be brought on by all kinds of things—stress, lack of sleep, flashing lights—and my neurologist didn't know if mine were centered around my right hand because that's where my brain was sending all its signals all the time or if that was just God deciding this whole “complex partial seizure” thing wasn't really high stakes enough and he needed to up the ante. “There's a lot about the brain we don't know,” he'd said, and, well, at that point I couldn't sleep for an hour without a nightmare and I couldn't be out in public without feeling like I was dying, so you didn't need to tell me that.

But it was manageable. As long as I took my meds every day, it got to where I could get through a whole day without my hand ever acting up as long as I didn't try to draw by hand for too long, and even if it did it was usually minor enough that I could work through it. Sometimes I had issues with seeing spots or tunnel vision if it got really bad, but that wasn't such a big deal.

It's not like I relied solely on my hand and my eyes to be able to communicate. What a fucking nightmare that would have been, right?

So, once again. God decided it really just wasn't high stakes enough.

It had really, really started to become an issue a few months before, to the point where I had to budget how much I signed in a day. To the point where when it got really bad, my vision would be so fucked that I couldn't understand what was being said to me.

Everyone kept telling me how well I was handling it.

That's me. Taking everything in stride. Nothing I can't manage! What's one more, one more, one more, one fucking more setback, right?

Smile, Sunshine. It's Christmas.

Brian and I went back to the couch and I snuggled under his arm and let him interpret for a while instead of trying to figure out what everyone was saying. He doesn't believe me, and he's still so insecure about it, but God, his signing is beautiful. I'm not saying it's perfect or anything, because it isn't—hell, we've only been signing for two years, neither is mine—but he has some sort of natural talent for it. So much of ASL isn't prescriptive, isn't do these signs in this exact order; it's about using all the space around you in a certain way, figuring out where to sign things, what spot to choose to represent a person or an idea, how to let that concept sit there and sign something else and then come back to it, how to express things that aren't visual in a visual way...it's not easy, it's not straightforward, and he's amazing. I miss his voice sometimes, but God, it's nothing like how I'd miss his signing. Sometimes I can't believe I lasted as long as I did without it, which is dumb because I was hearing and it's not like I knew what I was missing, but...fuck, it's a good thing I didn't know or I would have pulled my ears off years ago.

So anyway, that cheered me up. And then Emmett came out with the food and presented it all like Vanna White, and we ate off paper plates throughout the living room and the kitchen because there was no way we could all fit around the table. Mom and Molly came, and that was nice, even though stuff is still kind of weird with them not being able to sign so well and now with the whole not telling me I had a half brother thing, but I hugged them and watched my mom's lips and tried to smile in the right places.

My allergies were still driving me up a wall, and it would have been way easier to sign and just make Brian voice for me, but it was like he was too lazy to do it or something because every time I tried to sign he'd kind of bat my hands away, which is is so super rude and also gross since I'd been sneezing all over them, but when has being rude or gross ever stopped Brian Kinney. Everyone opened presents after dinner—I got this really soft scarf and some new oil pastels—and then we ate cake and drank coffee and lazed around. Ted and Blake made out under the mistletoe. Emmett and Drew slow-danced to music I didn't think was playing, but what did I know. Michael and Ben were hassling Hunter about something, and Gus and J.R. were ignoring everyone to play with their new shit. Mom and Molly had to leave early to to go to some neighborhood gift exchange. Debbie tidied up in the kitchen even though everyone kept telling her to leave it, and Carl tried to fix some problem with the Christmas lights. Mel and Lindsay were having some kind of argument, but every time I tried to figure out what was going on everyone would tell me Don't worry about it, Justin like I was five.

Brian pulled me into the backyard and lit us some cigarettes and we watched the snow fall. I looked at him, his profile sharp in the porch light, like he was drawn from a long, unbroken line. He was so goddamn beautiful. He still is, he'd like me to specify.

“I love you,” I said to him, and he wrinkled his nose and shook his head playfully. “Yeah, you're right,” I said. “Never mind.”

He stole my cigarette and gave me a kiss I was much, much too stuffed-up for, but I didn't mind.

Michael came out a minute later, I guess because he thought we had pot, I don't know. He explained it all to Brian, but when Brian started to interpret I just shrugged and waved him off. I don't know. I was so fucking tired at that point, and if Michael was going to come out and talk like I wasn't even here then he could just do it, whatever. I sat down on the steps and smoked and let them have their conversation, and I felt bad about it because I know Brian hates talking in English in front of me, and out of the corner of my eye I could see him keep glancing at me like he was ready to start interpreting again as soon as I looked his way.

It was cold as shit out there, obviously, so we didn't stay outside for long. Brian came over eventually and tapped me on the arm, and the three of us started to head in, but he stopped me and put his hands on his shoulders and just looked at me, and God, I knew he was trying to figure out what was going on with me, but how was I supposed to explain it to him when I didn't even know what was going on with me.

So I just said, “It's okay,” because what else was I supposed to do? Say hey, sorry I'm acting like kind of a pouty little bitch right now, but I'm overwhelmed as hell and I don't know what anybody's talking about and being around all these hearing people who are supposed to be my family is stressing me the fuck out, and I know how much they love me and how much they're trying but the thing is that they're just not trying enough, and I keep thinking about all the bullshit my dad said to me a few days ago and wondering if Luke is having an okay Christmas, and also I'm still kind of thinking about my arms getting ripped off? You can't say that.

I gave him a a small smile, and he gave me one back.

He brushed the snow off of me and brought me inside and said, Will you voice for me?

Yeah. I love doing that, honestly, as ambivalent as I am about talking otherwise, because it means that Brian's first priority is me and whether I understand and everyone else is just an afterthought. It's been a million years, but Brian choosing me still gives me butterflies like it did my first night at Babylon. I'm a sucker.

He waved his arms to get their attention and said, I'm taking him home before he sneezes so many times his head explodes. Deb, just get a fucking fake one next year. We really have to convince you to embrace something tacky? And Lindsay, give it a rest already. Getting Gus a water gun is not going to turn him into a serial killer. Ted, nobody wants to see that. And Michael, yes, Hunter has probably been blowing off classes to sleep off hangovers, and if you keep ragging on him like a mother hen I'm going to be forced to start telling him the kind of shit you did when you were in high school. Now, hopefully you're all annoyed enough at that that you'll let us leave without smothering us in hugs and kisses, because I've had more than enough merriment for one day and Justin needs to go drown himself in Benadryl.

That didn't, of course, stop them from smothering us in hugs and kisses, but it did catch me up on everything I'd missed, which I knew was really the point of all that, and...God, I just loved him so fucking much. It was all I could to not pull him into some Ted and Blake impression right there in front of everyone.

Once we'd finally extracted ourselves, we climbed into the car and sighed in unison. He chuckled, then reached over me and dug around in the glove box for a pack of tissues to toss at me.

God, I am such a mess, I said.

How's the hand?

It's fine, since you didn't let me fucking use it at all!

He shot me a cryptic look and pulled out of the driveway.

Shit, I said. You must have some night planned.

He just shrugged.

I spent the whole drive home picturing Brian turning me inside out and fucking counting down the minutes until we were home, and by the time we got to the loft I was practically vibrating. But right before he was about to pull open the door, he stopped and looked at me thoughtfully.

I may have made a mistake here, he said.

I narrowed my eyes. What did you do?

I said it MAY be a mistake, he said. I'm not sure. He dabbed at my face with a tissue. I wasn't expecting for you to be feeling this crappy. Also you kind of look like shit.

Is someone coming over?


He stuck his tongue in his cheek, gave me a “here goes nothing” look, and tugged open the door to the loft. And there, signing SURPRISE! in unison, were Gregory, Jasper, Lisa, Martin, Abigail, Meredith, Kyle, and Tom. All my closest Deaf friends, inside the fucking loft, which was—and this was maybe the most ridiculous part—decorated. It wasn't like Deb's house or anything, but there was some tinsel hanging off the rafters, and the whole place smelled like egg nog and bourbon.

Everyone kind of jostled me and started signing and Gregory came and kissed my cheek, and then Brian's, but I was just staring at Brian. I don't think I could have physically looked away from him in that moment if my life depended on it.

He tilted his head a little, watching me too.

You got me Deaf Christmas? I somehow managed to sign.

He shrugged. Surprise he signed.

There was no mistletoe in the doorway—Brian would never—but God, I kissed him like there was. And in that minute, I was sure I couldn't possibly love him even a tiny bit more.

That, of course, turned out to be bullshit, but we'll get to that.

Brian went to mix drinks and kind of hang out on the sidelines—Deaf parties are still a lot for him, kind of the way hearing parties are for me—but he shooed me away every time I tried to hang out with him so I eventually stopped worrying about it and just dove in into this pile of hugs and signing and laughter and...God, it was like coming up for air. Lisa and Kyle started making out at one point, so that was a trip, and Gregory was getting completely wasted, and at some point someone turned on some kind of music with a loud bass beat and we were all dancing. I don't know how Brian didn't kill us.

And he didn't, not at all. He just made drinks for people and smiled indulgently while Abigail hit on him and signed with so much self-confidence that it made my fucking soul hurt, I loved him so much, and..God, I'd had a lot to drink at that point, and I was kind of teetering on the edge of falling apart anyway, and then my hand started to act up. I hid it for a while and tried to just give it a rest, but it wasn't fixing itself, and I went to the bathroom to stretch it in private and while I was in there everything just kind of hit me like a truck, how fucking happy I was about this party, how exhausted I was from the last one, how goddamn frustrated I was about my hand, and I started crying.

The door opened a minute later. I tried to clean myself up as quickly as I could, but it was just Brian.

He looked at me like he wasn't quite sure exactly who I was. Confused, slightly concerned, slightly amused. I was just coming to tell you Gregory definitely wants to fuck me and I'm going to try to make that happen, he said. But not if you're going to weep about it.

I laughed a little and wiped my eyes. Fuck you.

He closed the door and leaned against the wall. What's with you?

“This is so fucking nice. I can't believe you did this. And we're going to be leaving soon and I'm going to miss them so fucking much, and I feel so goddamn guilty I'm not as close with everyone else anymore, this feels like I'm cheating on them, but I'm so fucking happy, and I just...”

He, of course, immediately knew what it meant that I was speaking. Let me see.

I held my hand out. “It's not bad.”

He looked it over. All right. After I fuck Gregory I'm going to kick everyone out.

“It's early.”

Yeah, well, you're clearly going through some psychotic break, so I'm thinking you should turn in early.

“Gregory is not going to fuck you.”

Brian kissed my hand, then put it down to check his watch. Forty-five minutes from now, I will have deflowered your little friend.

“He's not a virgin.”

Yeah, once he's had me, he'll think he was. You would know.

“That doesn't even make any—”

Bye, dear. Have fun sobbing over what a great sex partner I am.

I don't even know where he did it—out in the hallway??—but he totally fucked Gregory. Unbelievable! I never thought that was going to work. Gregory wanted to tell me all about it later, too, how great it was and everything, and I was like, duh?

After everyone had left and Brian and I were cleaning up, he asked me how my hand was doing and I shrugged. “It's frustrating,” I said. “I'm frustrated.”

Brian thought it over. Want to get in the car, and I'll drive really fast and roll the windows down and you can scream as loud as you want?

I went over and hugged him around the waist. “Thanks. But no, I don't want to scream.” I sighed. “I just want to sign.”

He kissed my forehead.

**

My next little breakdown to tell Lydia about was courtesy of, of all people, Ethan Gold.

It was a couple days after New Year's. Brian and I were going up to New York later that week to look at apartments, and he'd told me not to get groceries for that week since we were going to be traveling, but it was only Wednesday and we weren't leaving until Friday and there was no fucking food in the loft, so I was at the grocery store getting enough food to tide us over until then, and also some snacks for the road. I was debating between two kinds of gummi worms when I saw him at the end of the aisle, and he was wearing this face that had me think he might have been calling me for a while.

The most awkward thing about going Deaf is telling people. People who just met me don't know, if I'm speaking, because my voice sounds the same as it always does--well, not so much anymore, but we'll get to that eventually. And anyone who knew me before, they're all so sorry, and then you end up having to comfort them for something that happened to you, and something you don't even think is a bad thing, and...God, it's just so exhausting.

And awkward. Did I mention awkward? Because when you're typing something on your phone and holding it out to them instead of speaking, and there's that moment when they're wondering what the fuck is going on, and then that other moment when they're reading what you wrote and they think you're joking...God, it's such a drag. I need to just wear a shirt that says HI, IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN ME IN YEARS I HAVE A SURPRISE, I AM NOW DEAF and save everyone some time.

But I was not wearing that shirt, so I went through the whole process with Ethan, and it was even worse than usual because he's a musician so obviously going Deaf is the world's worst thing as far as he's concerned, and he got teary and wouldn't stop hugging me and asking me lots of questions I couldn't lipread and the whole thing was such a fucking process. And I was kind of annoyed and out of sorts about it but basically fine, and then I was walking back to the loft with the groceries and I just started crying out of the fucking blue, and I was curled up in bed still crying when Brian got home. At least I put the perishables away.

Brian came over to the bed and craned his head down. Are you dying? he said, like he was mildly interested.

I sat up and wiped my face. I ran into Ethan.

Is he dying? That seemed to interest him more.

I don't remember what violins sound like, I said, crying again. I'm never going to remember.

I thought he would make fun of me, but he didn't. His face kind of softened, and he took off his shoes and loosened his tie and got onto the bed with me and let me cry for a while. He didn't say anything, because what really is there to say? It's not like it really mattered if I remembered violins, and it's not like anything was going to make me less Deaf. Things were just...what they were.

Justin? he said after a while.

Yeah?

Violins are really, really bad.

I started laughing, and that made me cry some more, and we stayed like that for a while, and eventually he got up and made dinner out of all the shit I bought, so that was nice.

I'm happy. I swear. I just...

It's not simple.

**

After that, we went to New York. We were supposed to be picking out an apartment, which I had stupidly thought might be kind of fun and romantic, and ended up mostly consisting of each of us wanting to strangle the other one. Turns out when you've lived together for four years in a place only one of you picked out, you each bring in some baggage about wanting to make decisions on the next place! Shocking, I know. Brian thought his taste had gotten us this far, so why tempt fate, and I thought maybe I'd actually get to have some input after feeling like a guest in the loft all this time, and then he got all pissy about me saying I felt like a guest and if a guest left all his shit around all the time like I do he'd be thrown out in a heartbeat, so then I pointed out that I'm always the one walking around picking up his laundry, and anyway we did this over and over in several different apartments in several different neighborhoods in front of several different brokers and the whole thing was super, super fun.

But this isn't a story about apartment hunting, so all you really need to know is that we were both on our last nerves with the other one and we eventually found a place in the Upper West Side that we both loved, but we were still pissy at each other just for sport or whatever. Which honestly also isn't really relevant, but probably at some point you're going to wonder where the fuck we were planning to live, and I have to include the part where we were assholes to each other because this is a really sappy story otherwise and I feel like I'm talking about, like, some imaginary boyfriend if I don't include a section with Brian being a control freak drama queen, since in-between him being the amazing guy who throws me surprise Deaf Christmas and comforts me about violin music I have to put up with this shit every day of my goddamn life.

Anyway, while we were in New York we saw Daphne, who we only overlapped with for one day before she flew out to France to see her mom, and we met up with some Deaf friends of Gregory's who lived there and they were amazing and welcoming and made me feel more okay about leaving my Pittsburgh Deaf friends. On our second to last day in New York we were going to go to the Met and then dinner, but we didn't have any plans before that. Brian wanted to go uptown to see Yankee Stadium and I one hundred and thousand percent did not, so after breakfast and a shower fuck he got into a cab and I crawled into bed and tried to figure out the subtitles on the TV.

At some point I dozed off and when I woke up it was already starting to get dark, which happens early that time of year but still, I thought it was weird that Brian wasn't back yet. I hunted down my phone, and I had four missed calls, two from Brian and two from a number I didn't know, and two voicemails.

So, a couple things weird there, because first of all, obviously no one should be leaving me voicemails, but also the calls from Brian weren't Facetime calls, they were...regular, hearing-person phone calls. And no texts. And when I tried to Facetime him back, he didn't answer.

My heart was starting to beat faster at this point. I got my laptop out and looked up the number the other two missed calls were from, and it was the number for the emergency room at Mt. Sinai West.

In retrospect, obviously, there are things I could have done here. I could have gotten a concierge to listen to the message and write down what it said. I could have texted my mom and had her call the hospital and find out what was going on. There are plenty of rational solutions that you don't really consider when a hospital tried to call you and you partner is missing.

I ran outside. It took me forfuckingever to get a cab, and I kept thinking I should give up and get on the subway, but I didn't know how to get to the hospital or even where the nearest subway station was. Finally a cab picked me up, and I got in and probably just yelled “Mt. Sinai West emergency room I'm Deaf please don't ask me questions” but fuck if I remember. At that point, I was nothing but worst case scenarios. I was being called to identify Brian's body. He'd been confused and out of it in his last few moments and just wanted to hear my voice one more time so he called me and I didn't pick up and he died having no fucking idea how much I loved him, and for some reason that reminded me of the fact that I never heard him say I love you out loud, and look, it's fine, it's fine, but in that moment, Oh God, oh fucking God.

I threw some money at the cab driver and ran through the doors of the hospital and up to the front desk where a girl who looked about twelve was behind a computer. “I need to know if there's a patient here,” I said. “I got a call, but I'm Deaf, I don't...”

She gave me a weird look and said something to me.

“I don't know what you're saying, I mean it, I'm Deaf, I don't...please can you just. His name is Brian Kinney. K-I-N-N-E-Y.”

She typed, excruciatingly slowly, and I bounced on my feet and looked around the waiting room. There was a woman near me sobbing, and a baby who looked like he was screaming, and someone being wheeled in on a gurney and holyshit somuchblood—

The girl looked up and said something to me, and I felt like I was losing my fucking mind.

I said, “No, you don't understand, I'm Deaf, I don't know what you're saying to me.”

So she said it louder. Of fucking course she did. I swear to God I thought I was going to throw up.

“Where is he?” I said. “Is he here? Is he even alive?”

She pointed down a hallway.

“Okay. Okay. Thank you. Is he...do you know how he is, is he...”

She just shook her head and shrugged.

Oh God oh God oh God.

I rushed down the hall, past a gurney with a kid fucking screaming and past that sobbing woman who tried to talk to me, and God, I thought I was going to come out of my skin. I'm not good with shit like this, not since the bashing, really still can't handle blood, still get kind of weird if I work with red paint for too long, but this wasn't about me this was about Brian and I needed to get your fucking shit together, Justin.

There was another desk at the end of this hallway, and around it was a fucking madhouse. Kids swarmed the waiting room, people bent over in chairs clutching themselves, someone was vomiting, someone on a gurney looked gray and still and oh my God where was Brian, where's Brian.

I got to the front desk and tried to get someone's attention but no one would look at me. “I need some help, please can someone—”

The nurse held up her finger and someone pushed past me from behind me—don't touch me and demanded something of her, and she started talking to him instead.

I said, “No no, please, I need help, I'm looking for—”

She said something to me.

“I'm sorry, I don't, I don't know what you said, I'm Deaf, could you write it down or...I'm looking for Brian Kinney, I think he's on this floor, I'm Deaf and I don't know what's going on but I think Brian Kinney is here, please can you just, can you tell me where to find him.”

The nurse didn't even look up at me when she spoke.

“No, I can't...I'm Deaf, I don't—”

A nurse raced past me and down the hall and she ran into me on her way, her shoulder against mine, and it was too much, everything was so fucking huge and terrifying and nobody was fucking listening!

I said, “P-please, if you just look at me maybe I can read your lips, I...”

She looked up and said something that maybe was, “Are you family?”

“Am I family?” I asked, and I probably sounded fucking hysterical at this point, but I couldn't help it, I just wanted to grab her and shake her until she fucking brought me to Brian.

She nodded.

“I'm his husband, we got married...they told me he was here. Please, is he is here?”

She said something and I didn't get it, not a word, and then she turned to this nurse next to her and said something to her and the other one laughed, fucking laughed, and that was it, I was just fucking bawling in the middle of the emergency room, because I hate hospitals and I hate nurses and I hate hearing people and I needed my FUCKING husband.

One of the nurses put her hand on my shoulder and said something to me and I said, “Please, can you just tell me if he's alive, I don't know if he's alive, I don't understand what's going on, I need somebody to help me, Brian Kinney, his name is Brian Kinney, he's thirty-seven, h-he...I think someone here tried to call me from his phone because he wouldn't call me because he knows I can't hear him because, he's my husband, we're from Pittsburgh w-we're just here visiting we don't, he doesn't belong here, I'm supposed to be with him, I promised him that I was going to be with him you don't understand.” I felt my voice rising and I knew I was being so loud but I didn't know how else to make them listen. “He was scared a few years ago and I made this promise and he was there with me the whole time I was sick, and he doesn't like hospitals because one time something bad happened and I need to be with him and he, he has dark hair and his blood type is O negative and...I don't know what else to tell you, he's my husband and please can somebody tell me where he is, please, please?”

I knew people were staring at me. I knew I was screaming and I wasn't making any sense, but I just...you have to understand that at that moment I really thought he was dead. I really, really did.

And then the nurse wrote down a room number for me and she pointed down the hall and I fucking ran. And I almost tripped on this whole pile of shit in the hallway outside of Brian's room—a blanket, a sock, a bedpan, a broken fucking lamp—but I'll explain that in a minute. What matters is that Brian was there, and he was alive.

He was watching the doorway intently and as soon as I got there he held one arm out to me and signed the other against his chest, forcefully, over and over: Fine fine fine fine fine fine. His hand reaching out to me opened and closed in a fist, like he was trying to grab me out of thin air.

I said, Can I— because I didn't want to hurt him.

He reached out so far he almost fell out of the bed. Yes, come here, come here.

I rushed over to him and he pulled me into him without any hesitation, and he gripped my shoulder blade and signed against my chest instead, and I don't know if he was still telling me he was okay or if he was trying to will it to be true for me, too. Fine fine fine fine fine.

I forced myself away enough to look at him, but no, he didn't look fine at all. He was so fucking pale, like nothing I'd ever seen on him, and he was crying. And I could count on one hand the number of times I've seen Brian cry. He wasn't sobbing or anything, so he was managing all this a lot better than I was, but he was definitely crying, and...he was really, really pale. Like a ghost.

I said, “No no no you're not fine, you're crying, you're not fine.”

He shook his head. It's not that, he said, and he wiped my face off roughly and gave me this little laugh, except he was still crying, and every part of me that wasn't touching him hurt.

No, what hurts, why are you crying?

I'm fine, he said, and he gave this little shrug when I was still searching his face and said, I could hear you screaming your little heart out out there, and Oh, God, it was me, he was crying over me.

He cupped my face in his hands and kissed my cheeks and signed fine fine fine fine fine.

I got the whole story eventually in pieces, once I'd calmed down enough to like, process information again, but there's no reason to leave you hanging, so here's what happened.

Brian was in a cab on his way back when the car got T-boned. His cab driver was in pretty bad shape—he ended up being okay though—so an ambulance was coming, which was good because Brian's foot was broken. His cell phone was in his briefcase which got thrown out of the car in the crash, and he couldn't get to it because of the whole broken foot situation, and as soon as they got to the hospital they took his shit away from him and he hadn't seen it since. He told them not to call me, to call Michael instead and give him the information and let Michael text it to me, and as far as he knew that was how it went down, but...well.

So he was just sitting in his room enjoying some morphine, waiting for them to put his cast on, and then he heard me out in the waiting room. And he said he barely recognized my voice. He said I didn't sound like me at all.

And that's when Brian maybe kind of lost it a little bit, so at least I wasn't alone in my journey or whatever.

He couldn't get up, because his fucking foot was broken. And he sat there listening to me getting more and more upset and he kept screaming at everyone who came by to go get me and bring me to him, but I think he forgot to explain that it was because I was Deaf? He was not really on his game about the whole thing, and as soon as someone tried to ask him questions he told them to shut up because he was trying to hear what I was saying. And he started throwing everything he could get his hands on in hopes I would see shit flying through the hallway and realize that was him calling me, like when he wants to bring him coffee and he's too lazy to get out of bed so he just starts flinging clothes across the loft. And then when none of that worked, when he was still sitting helplessly in that bed listening to me fucking break down fifty feet from him, he just started yelling my name as loudly as he possibly could, because maybe I would hear it if it was loud enough, or because maybe he couldn't not call for me right then.

God, when I realized he was crying because of me, I felt so fucking bad. He was the one in the hospital and here he was fucking comforting me about it. So I forced myself back into one piece and kind of pawed all over him, doing triage, and he kept promising that he was okay, that they were going to put a cast on his foot and he'd be on crutches for a few weeks but he was fine, and would I please sit down, would I please breathe.

The doctor came in a little while after that and Brian asked if I wanted an interpreter, but I shook my head because honestly the fewer people who saw me this dysfunctional the better. I immediately regretted it when I realized that meant Brian would be interpreting his own medical information to me, and I was so, so scared he was downplaying it.

“His ankle doesn't need surgery and you're keeping him overnight to watch for internal bleeding,” I said to the doctor. “That's what you said?”

He smiled a little at me and nodded, and Brian squeezed my hand so tight. He'd told me the truth. God, he was amazing.

“Since you're married, we can get you a cot if you want to stay here overnight,” the doctor said to me, and Brian interpreted this but then immediately said, Absolutely not, you're going back to the hotel.

“I'll let you two work this out,” the doctor said.

The fuck I am, I said after he left.

Your meds aren't here and you're not skipping them, and you are not sleeping in some cot in a hospital freaking out and not sleeping when you have a seizure condition and also the worst fucking immune system I've ever seen. No. No way.

You think I'm going to be able to sleep if I leave you here?

Well, you better fucking try, because you're not staying here. It's out of the question.


And God, just like that I was bawling again. And I mean like seriously, seriously fucking sobbing, like nothing I've done in years. And I'd just had that whole thing about how I was going to try to hold myself together so Brian didn't have to comfort me, and poof, there that went out the window! And I knew he was okay now, too, and still here I was crying like I was at his funeral or something. I was such a goddamn mess. I honestly don't know how he puts up with me.

And he just sighed and reached out for my arm and pulled me until I was on the bed with him and had me curl up into his chest, and he was probably trying to talk to me but I'd clearly forgotten how to use my eyes for any kind of non-crying purpose. Once the tears dried up I just told him that I loved him over and over, and he let me, even if every time I said it he looked like it was hurting him, he let me.

I think sometimes Brian manages to convince himself that I don't love him as much as he loves me. I don't mean that he does it so he gets to feel like he's not appreciated or something like that; I think it's honestly comforting for him to believe that that's true, like he gets to tell himself that means he's saving me from something. I don't really know why he thinks it's true—maybe because I'm the one who generally does better when we're apart for any length of time, or because loving him isn't as painful for me as loving me is for him, or maybe just because he doesn't think he deserves to be loved the way I love him. I don't know. But I think he really believes it sometimes, and then there are moments like this one where he can't keep it up anymore. And I know he doesn't like it, but I think it's good for people to know how much they're loved. Especially when they're lying in hospital beds.

Not that I was doing it right then in some sort of strategic way. I was just a fucking goddamn mess.

He was serious about making me go back to the hotel, though. I wouldn't go until they gave him his phone and we had it put in his records that they had to text me, not call, if there was an emergency, and when I got back to the room I still turned the volume up on my phone as loudly as it would go, as if that made a difference, and then made sure the vibrate was on and lay down with it under my cheek. I really thought I wouldn't be able to sleep, but I guess I'd worn myself out with all the damn crying at that point, because after a long stretch of dreams about Brian being ripped away from me, I woke up with a start to him standing over me, crutches under his arms, his hand on my shoulder.

I sat up. No internal bleeding? I said.

He shook his head and sat down on the bed, and I buried my face in his chest and tried to control my breathing so I wouldn't start crying again. He peeled my face off him eventually and said, Did you take your meds last night?

Of course.

You feeling okay? You look like shit.


I stared at him. Are you under the impression you look great right now? How are YOU feeling?

I'm fine. My foot hurts.
He slowly maneuvered himself next to me on the bed and we lay there looking at each other. That was a goddamn nightmare, he said.

I don't think car accidents are usually a good time.

He shook his head. Not that. God. I don't think I've ever seen you that scared.

I don't think I've ever been that scared
, I admitted, and he winced like I'd punched him.

I wonder sometimes if we're going to go our whole lives like this, just feeling guilty about this...this thing that we do to each other, about the amount that we mean to each other. A lot of our life is just taking turns feeling awful about the fact that the other one wants anything to do with us. I don't know if that's because of something fundamentally broken in us—Brian's abusive childhood, my past history with baseball bats—or just because we love each other in a way that's...that's bigger than two people were supposed to love each other. I know that sounds stupid. But it's no more stupid than people who walk around thinking they're soulmates, right? And this is kind of the opposite; I feel like Brian and I just weren't meant to be, that it couldn't have been anyone's good idea for two people to need each other the way Brian and I do. It's not reasonable. It's barely survivable. And it makes all the other assholes who think what they have is some kind of remarkable love look super pathetic in comparison, which isn't very fair to them.

But it's just...nobody has ever been able to understand the way Brian and I tear each other apart.

And lying there on that bed next to him, all I wanted was for him to not care that I had been scared, and all he wanted was for me to not have been scared over him.

Except if either of those things actually happened, we'd probably literally die. You can't cut this cord at this point. It's too late.

Thank God it's too late.

He said, Something in me just...snapped when I heard you like that. I could hear all those nurses telling you to calm down, telling you to wait....and I was yelling at this orderly, I said, you see that blonde kid, he's scared, go get him, and just...nobody got it, nobody understood that he couldn't just call you over. You gotta start wearing hearing aids just so people will believe you. Or we can fuck up your voice. He kissed me. Maybe I could do some damage to your vocal cords.

I leaned into him. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have freaked out. It...it was stupid of me to panic like that.

He rolled his eyes. You are damn lucky you were in a coma when I was pulling my little Walk to Remember shit in a hospital hallway. Trust me, you've got nothing on me.

That made me feel a little better. Plus it meant I could tease Brian about knowing A Walk to Remember for the rest of the day, and that would help.

Come on, he said to me. We've got to pack.

I slept on his shoulder on the train and didn't have any nightmares.

**

So that would be a nice place to end the Winter of Crying, right? Sweet little emotional reunion in our hotel room, no nightmares on the train, everything's on the up and up.

Yeah, okay.

Brian on crutches was—and I know, this is absolutely the shock of the century, I'm calling up the local news stations now—an asshole. He snapped at Cynthia, he snapped at his clients, he snapped at Michael and Debbie and everyone else who brought food over to the loft to try to help us out, and he snapped at me. The second I tried to do goddamn anything for him, like, oh, I don't know, get something, I was babying him, and would I fucking cut it out already, and I was going to make myself sick and don't come crying to me, Sunshine.

I'm sure you know how that's going to end.

It didn't help either of our moods that I'd sort of given up sleeping and he knew it, and I knew that he knew it, and he knew that I knew that he knew it, but that didn't really matter because it's not like I'd sat down and decided, hmm, you know what would be fun, what if I added some insomnia to the mix? I just was so goddamn anxious all the time, and when I closed my eyes all I could see was either Brian getting hit by a car or a reminder of how fucking useless I was without a hearing person there to babysit me, and neither of those were really nice comforting thoughts I wanted to curl up with at night.

You weren't useless, Brian said, exasperated as shit, and I couldn't blame him because we'd been over this a million times. You found me. You did it, all on your own. And Jesus fucking Christ, for the last time, I'm FUCKING FINE.

And because he's Brain Kinney, in-between telling me not to do the slightest thing for him, he was complaining constantly about how his foot hurt and he couldn't do shit and the crutches were unattractive and he hadn't fucked anyone but me for two weeks and how was he going to survive and oh, listen to me recount for Michael for the eightieth time the story of my near death experience and what a fucking hero wounded soldier I am but don't you dare ask me if I want a bottle of water, I can get it myself.

So yeah, he wasn't exactly a peach to live with, but neither was I, and I hadn't just been in a fucking car accident, so there was plenty of self-loathing for me to throw on the pile as well, which I'm sure made me even better company. Basically for two weeks Brian and I did an excellent job staying alive despite how much we wanted to kill each other, or, probably more accurately, how much he wanted to kill both of us and I wanted to crawl into a hole and never be seen by human eyes.

Oh, and in addition to giving up sleeping, I'd also given up leaving the apartment, because I was panicking in crowds again and because my hand was so useless from not sleeping that I couldn't sign and I was too embarrassed to be seen by anyone. So not only was I irritating to be around, but I was irritating to be around literally all the time!

Brian and I were just locked into this dance of trying to take care of each other without letting the other one take care of us, him because he, I don't know, either genuinely hates it or has refused love for so long that he's convinced himself he genuinely hates it, and me because I felt so goddamn guilty that something that should have been about him and what he needed had turned into, once again, another episode of what my dad had so charmingly been calling The Justin Show, and every time Brian looked at me with those eyes and asked me to please, please try to get some sleep, please rest my hand, please drink some water, I felt like I was going to lose it. Don't you see what a piece of shit drama queen I am? I wanted to yell at him. Aren't you sick of what a fucking worthless, needy pathetic little princess I fucking always find a way to be?

People don't warn you for how humiliating it is to need things. They just drill it into you, subtly, your entire life, and then all of a sudden you're disabled and you're supposed to be out of the blue fine with accepting the help you'd been told up until now you were supposed to be too proud for.

And you know they still don't want you to accept it, not really. They want you to climb Mount Everest with no hands, or win an Olympic medal with no lungs, all that motivational shit, that's what they really want from disabled people. Inspiration porn, Gregory calls it. They see us limping along, and it inspires them to keep their abled asses in gear because wow, if the cripple can do it, what's my excuse?

And like, I don't know what your excuse is! Why the fuck do I care about your stupid life? Not that anyone was out there getting inspired by me anyway. I wasn't climbing Everest. I couldn't even get Brian to let me get him a bowl of cereal.

So we were just sitting on the couch one day, watching one of those old movies he loved because letting him pick the movie was about as much caretaking as he would consent to, and my vision started blurring out on the edges, and then going dark. And then the whole right side of my body got that pins and needles feeling, and the next thing I knew my entire right arm was shaking, from my shoulders down to my fingers, and I felt muscles in my thigh start to jump too, and in my foot.

Brian noticed and paused the movie. Whoa, shit, okay.

After that my eyesight got too fucked up to see what he was saying, which has happened a few times before, but it always freaks me the fuck out because what if this time it doesn't go away? I closed my eyes so I didn't have to see everything blurry and dancing around, and I felt him rub his hand firmly up and down my spasming arm, and when that didn't do anything he just put his hand on the back of my neck and waited for it to be over.

It took about four minutes before it stopped, and afterwards I was dizzy and suddenly so, so tired.

Yeah, I bet, Brian said, even though I hadn't said anything. That's got to take a lot out of a guy. Come on, we're gonna go to bed, okay? I gotcha...

He picked me up and carried me to the bedroom. He was off crutches at this point and just in a boot, so this wasn't impossible or anything, but I was so out of it that I just knew there was something vaguely wrong with this and I couldn't figure out what it was, and that was really upsetting. I started crying and apologizing while Brian shook out pills and dialed the phone, and I was so sure he was like, going to send me away or something. What can I say, my brain was scrambled eggs right then.

I need to call your doctor, he said. It's okay. Just lie down and go to sleep.

I felt like I shouldn't, but I also felt like I couldn't possibly keep my eyes open. It seemed like a minute later that I blinked my eyes open, but the quality of the light in the loft was totally different, and I felt a lot better.

I sat up. “Brian?”

He appeared from the kitchen. Hey, he said. Dr. Bartha wants to see you next week, but he said we don't need to panic or anything.

I nodded, then dropped my head into my hands. “This is fucking humiliating.”

He limped up the stairs and sat by my feet. Why?

I gave him a look and just gestured at myself.

You didn't even piss yourself, he said. Have we forgotten so soon me having testicular cancer and literally vomiting on you? You have a lot of ground to make up.

“You can't keep using the one time I took care of you for two months like it's the same as you stuck taking care of me the rest of our fucking lives,” I said.

He just rolled his eyes at that, probably because he knew I was right and I was the worst.

I did tell you you were going to make yourself sick if you didn't fucking sleep, he said after a minute. I realize you're all, you know, tragically wilting like a heroine right now, but I thought you should still recognize that I'm extremely smart.

“And I'm extremely self-involved,” I said.

His eyebrows knit together. What the fuck are you talking about?

“You were the one in the accident,” I say. “And still, somehow I manage to make it about poor little Justin and his problems. You fucking deserve some time where you're the one getting taken care of, whether you'll fucking admit it or not, and instead I just...this is just what my dad was talking about. It always has to be about me and what a poor little broken bird I am. I victimize myself. And I just...I fucking feel like I'm using you. Like I'm just keeping you around like a fucking...nursemaid, or at least an audience.”

Okay, first of all, spare me the gospel according to Craig. The guy's a shithead. You know why he said that stuff to you that's still getting to you?

“Because it's true and I know it?”

No, because he chose stuff to stay to you that he knew would get to you. They're good at that. That's what they do. They find your insecurities and they make you feel like they're legitimate. It's Craig Taylor's one skill, besides producing Deaf children, and he's only two out of three on that one anyway.

I shrugged a little.

Second of all...God, are you really going to make me spell this out?

“Um. Yes?”

He stood up. Christ. I can't believe you're making me say this. The things I fucking do to reassure you. They ought to put up a statue of me for this shit.

I had no idea where the fuck this was going.

Okay. He shook himself off a little, like a diver getting ready to go. Okay. I can do this. He clasped his hands together, held them out to me, then let them go and said, All right, I'm gonna do this.

“Jesus Christ, Brian, I'm going to be older than you by the time you're done with this.”

Shut up, twat.

“You realize I just had a pretty major seizure, right? You should get on with this. Who knows how long I have left.”

He flicked me off with both hands, clapped his palms together and said. Okay. Here it is. He paused, took an excruciatingly long breath, and said, I like taking care of you.

I stared at him.

Yes, he said. I'm not saying I don't mind doing it, or I'm willing to do it, or I'm used to doing it, or some shit like that. I like taking care of you. Okay?

And fuck if I didn't goddamn tear up again! I blame the seizure.

Brian groaned so hard I could see it and crawled back onto the bed. Oh my God, I didn't mean right this second he complained, pulling me into his arms. What is the matter with you lately?

“People with traumatic brain injuries cry more often,” I said. “It's a thing. There are studies.”

That'd be very compelling if I had more than a handful of memories of you pre-traumatic brain injury. Christ, you've cried more this month than in the past six years.

But I couldn't help it. If you...if you don't have a chronic illness, I don't think I can make you explain the kind of fear that comes with it, that everyone around you is just tolerating you, is secretly so, so sick of you, that behind you're back they're saying you don't really deserve or even need all the things they do for you, that you're exaggerating, that you're a burden. It's fucking crushing, and it's just constant, and here was Brian, Brian fucking Kinney, so goddamn fucking nervous to tell me that his idea version of me needed saving sometimes.

It's about ten billion times better than any pathetic “I love you,” could ever hope to be, I'll tell you that much.

And God, you know what...

I know what I just said but sometimes it is fucking hard to believe we weren't meant for each other.

**

Okay, so THAT would be a good stopping point, right? Everything's all nice and wrapped up, the winter of endless crying is over, we ride our hypoallergenic ponies off into the distance?

Did you forget that I started this story sitting on the couch at my therapist's office? If life had already handed me neat and tidy, I wouldn't need professional help.

Brian's foot healed, and I started sleeping again, and my MRI looked okay, so...you know, everything was sort of all right. Brian and I stopped biting each other's heads off in a metaphorical sense and started...well. I'll let you fill in the rest.

He was busy as hell at work, trying to tie up a million loose ends before the move, and I was trying to get some paintings ready to go in case it took me a while to create anything good once we were up there. I was kind of paranoid that I'd move to New York and like, forget how to paint, I don't know. We'd already started packing up the loft. It was really happening.

One morning my mom texted me to tell me she was in the area and asked if I wanted to get lunch. I met her at this little cafe I love near the loft. I was leaving the apartment again, clearly, but I was still feeling kind of shaky about it, at least when I went out without Brian. He was being patient about it, but I think we were both wondering if I was going to get my shit together in time to live in the most crowded city in America.

Anyway, it was easier to stick to somewhere close to the loft, and it was easier because it was my mom. I haven't told Brian this, because I feel like he'd get kind of wounded about it, I don't know. Probably he wouldn't and I'm just being paranoid. But I can lipread my mom way, way easier than anyone else. You'd think I'd be better at lipreading Brian because I, you know, know his mouth, but he kind of mumbles, plus he's been signing with me since the beginning so I never really got into the habit of needing to read his lips. My mom annunciates really well, and she doesn't talk too fast or too slow, and since she didn't start signing until recently I had to rely on lipreading her for a long time, and also...she's my mom. I know her better than anyone in the whole world.

We talked about Molly, and Brian, and her boyfriend, and what projects I was working on and what houses she'd sold, and eventually we got around to the move.

“It still doesn't feel real that you're leaving,” she said.

“I know. To me either.”

“You've been here your whole life,” she said. “You didn't even want to go away for college.”

“That had a lot less to do with Pittsburgh and more with...the company.”

She laughed. “Still. Everything that's ever happened to you, everything you've ever experienced...it's all here.”

“That's why I have to go,” I said. “It's just...it's too much. I need to live somewhere where I don't worry Chris Hobbs or fucking Dad or...or I don't know, Ethan, is going to be standing on the next block when I turn a corner. I just...I want to live in a place that's not always going to be the place where they set my locker on fire and where they tried to fucking kill me. And...where I got sick. This is always going to be the place where I lost so much shit.”

“I know there are so many bad memories here,” she said. “But there's also Debbie, and your Deaf friends, and Molly and me. And this is where you picked up your first set of fingerpaints, and learned to ride a bike. It's where you met Brian.”

“I know,” I said.

She took my hand. “New York has opportunities for you that Pittsburgh will never have. I'm happy for you, Justin. I want you to go. I just...I don't want you to be running away.”

“I need to not be surrounded by people who knew me when I was hearing,” I said. “It's not even just you guys, it's...everyone. People look at me when I go to the diner, or when I just walk down street. It's, remember, that's Justin, so sad what happened to him, so sweet of Brian to stay with him. I can't keep living in the past like that.”

“I don't want you to live in the past,” she said. “I just don't want you to feel like you're not allowed to miss anything.” She ran her finger over my knuckles. “I know you're working so had to show everyone how okay you are, Justin. And you want everyone to know that what happened to you isn't a tragedy. And I know that you're happy. But...you are allowed to miss things. You don't have to package this up and make it easy for us hearies to understand. I didn't raise you to fit into a box.”

I ducked my head and swallowed and she waited until I was looking at her. “Did you get all that?” she said.

I nodded. “I think so.”

I gave her a hug outside the restaurant and then went back up to the loft to work on my painting. I was feeling...I don't know, a lot of things, and I was working on this part that needed a lot of detail work, these really straight lines, and then my hand twitched and completely ruined what I'd been working on.

And everything my mom had said kind of came rushing back to me, and I was just so goddamn frustrated, so sick of shit happening and then not getting better, so sick of being stuck in this goddamn body in this goddamn city, and I sat on the couch and just kind of lost it, and this time it was the middle of the day so Brian didn't appear to save the day, and I didn't even want him to. I couldn't explain to him why I was fucking bawling this time. I barely understood it.

It's just that the reason we were going to New York was so I could paint, and so I could be in a bigger Deaf community, and what if my fucking hand couldn't even do it? What if we were leaving everything that we knew not because I was going to grab onto some big opportunities, but just because I was too fucking chickenshit to face up to all the crap that had happened to me here?

What if I couldn't do it?

And if Brian were there, he would have just told me, yes you can, you can do it, and I didn't want that right then, because he couldn't undo this truth that I couldn't escape anymore: Leaving Pittsburgh wouldn't fix me. It wouldn't make my hand stop seizing. It wouldn't make me not miss sound anymore. And it wouldn't fix this dark, dark part of me that's been afraid and sad and goddamn broken and given me nightmares every fucking night, this part of my personality that was never even supposed to be there and now it's going to be here forever because of something that happened when I was eighteen years old.

It was all still going to be there. Nothing was going to change but the zip code. And God, there would be no one I even knew there besides Daphne, who was super busy with school, and Brian, who at some point was going to get sick of me having emotional breakdowns every ten seconds, and then what! It was just going to be me surrounded by hearing people again, eight point five million hearing people.

This was a horrible idea. I was going to let everybody down. What was I fucking thinking?

So I sat on the couch feeling sorry for myself for a while, and then I texted Lydia, and then I got up and fixed my fucking painting.

**

So I think I need a referral for someone in New York, I explained to Lydia, after getting through the whole saga. Because I'm thinking maybe it's possible that all my problems won't magically evaporate when I move to New York. Maybe. We'll see.

She smiled a little and pulled out an address book. Let's see. When's the move?

Two weeks from now, I said.

Are you ready? she asked.

I took a deep breath. Yes, I said, and I didn't cry.

Chapter 11 - The One Where Brian Talks About Relationships by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

"Why does everyone think they deserve their own personal fucking confession about how I feel about Justin? Who the fuck are we saying needs that in this equation? I don't need it. Justin doesn't need it. It's for you. You need it. And just fucking spare me. You want security, reassurance, sappy little platitudes? Get them from your own relationship, not mine."

 

 

 

The One Where Brian Talks About Relationships

 

 

LaVieEnRose


The boys had all done shifts at the loft helping Brian and Justin pack for their big move, and all of them came out whining like little bitches about how hard it was. So much heavy lifting! Brian is so demanding! They don't even have any food! It just goes to show you: don't send a boy to do a broad's work. And especially don't tell her they don't have any food. If you think I wasn't going to march over there at noon on Sunday with my biggest dish of tuna noodle casserole, you are fucked in the head.

Brian swung open the loft door and gave me that characteristic squint. Twenty-three years I've known this asshole, and he still looks at me like he doesn't know who the fuck I am. “Michael, I see you've made some changes,” he said.

I shoved the dish at him. “I took his shift. Three-seventy-five for twenty-five minutes. Don't burn it.”

He rolled his eyes and headed towards the kitchen. “I can count to twenty-five, thanks. Why, just last week at Babylon—”

“Yeah, yeah, give it a rest.” I closed the door behind me and looked around the loft. “Where's Sunshine?”

Brian lit a cigarette and gestured towards the bedroom. There was Justin, curled up asleep on top of the covers. And not naked, which was really the big surprise, even bigger than still being asleep at noon. Even when he was a teenager living in my house he never slept in on weekends. “Too much to do!” he'd shout, and babble on and on about seeing Daphne, and getting a head start on a project, and going to an exhibit at the museum, and Brian, Brian, Brian.

God, I missed that.

“Is he not feeling well?” I said, lowering my voice, and Brian just shrugged. “I can come back later...”

He raised an eyebrow. “What, are you afraid you're going to wake him? HEY, SUNSHINE!” he yelled, so loud it strained the muscles in his neck, and when Justin didn't so much as stir, he raised his arms like ta da.

“Ha. Guess not.”

“You get used to it,” Brian said.

“Well, maybe not if you're leaving.”

Brian took a long drag on his cigarette, and I thought he wasn't going to say anything, in his typical Brian fashion, but then he let it hang from his lips and said, “You had two years.”

Well, how do you fucking respond to that? “I know,” I said, softly.

He stared me down.

I cleared my throat and looked away. “What do you need help with?”

He sighed and stubbed out the cigarette. “You can help pack up Justin's canvases. You have to do it a certain way. I'll show you.”

“Thanks.”

I went over to the canvases leaning against the wall by Justin's desk, and Brian put the casserole in the oven and turned on some music and came and joined me. He showed me the proper procedure, how to handle and wrap them so they didn't get damaged. “You gotta be careful,” he said. “If anything happens to them it'll be my ass.”

I snorted. “I'm sure that's a big weight on your mind.”

Brian grinned lazily and studied one of the canvases. “You have no idea how big.”

“That one's beautiful,” I said. “I mean, they're all beautiful.”

He nodded, still looking at it. After a minute, he said, “The first time I saw one of his drawings...I mean, he'd babbled at me already that he wanted to be an artist. I think he told me his whole life story by the time I'd fucked him three times. Goddamn, that kid doesn't shut up.”

Didn't used to shut up, I thought, but I didn't correct him.

“But then one time he stayed over...I don't remember what had happened, something with Jennifer. I made him sleep on the couch.” He chuckled. “And I guess he couldn't sleep, 'cause in the morning I found this little sketch on the coffee table, just this drawing of the view from the window...this tiny little thing, and I realized he was actually good. I don't think I'd even considered that he might have been. Just assumed he was full of shit. First of many surprises,” he added quietly, a little darkly.

“I still find them at my house,” I said. “I was cleaning Mikey's room the other day and I found a whole series of Brian in repose under the bed.”

He laughed a little.

“Y'know, I've always been surprised about how supportive you've been,” I said. “I would have thought you'd be first in line trying to push him to go to business school.”

“Why should I have given a shit where he went to school?” Brian said, fooling absolutely no one. “I barely knew the kid then.”

I gave him a look. “I guess everyone's still surprised that Brian Kinney has a soul, huh?”

“Mmm,” he said.

“You still think you're James fucking Dean,” I said. “Rebel without a cause. You think everyone doesn't see you found your cause a long time ago.”

Brian carefully wrapped the canvas. “I don't care,” he said.

“Sure you don't.”

“No,” he said. “I don't. Jesus Christ, I didn't say I wouldn't care if he tried to fucking go to business school now.”

“You cared then.”

“Maybe I did,” he said. “So?”

“So it's just nice to hear you fucking say it sometimes,”

He rolled his eyes. “You'd think because I'm not writing poems for him and running them in the Post-Gazette that I'm still fucking oblivious to what's going on or trying to pull one over on everyone. Why does everyone think they deserve their own personal fucking confession about how I feel about Justin? Just because Michael won't shut the fuck up to anyone who breathes near him about his undying love for his partner doesn't mean...I mean, who the fuck are we saying needs that in this equation? I don't need it. Justin doesn't need it. It's for you. You need it. And just fucking spare me. You want security, reassurance, sappy little platitudes? Get them from your own relationship, not mine.”

“Everyone just loves you, you know,” I said. “And we want you to be happy.”

“Well, I'm not a skipping-through-the-daisies type of fag,” Brian said. “You're just gonna have to trust me.”

“Trust what? You don't give us anything.”

“It's not fucking yours!” he said.

I fixed him with a look. “Sunshine needed more than you gave him for a long time, and don't you dare sit there and pretend otherwise.”

“Okay, well, if the little pup starts coming to you telling you he's unhappy, by all means send up some smoke signals. Until then—”

“He wouldn't come to us,” I said.

Brian clucked his tongue. “I wonder why.”

“Don't get smart with me, you little asshole. Justin would never say a bad word about you to anyone and you know it.”

He shook his head. “That's not why.”

“We once watched him suffer and didn't say anything for too long. And now—”

“And now you don't know what's going on with him, so you're worried the same shit is going down.” Brian put the canvas down and sat on the floor, legs crossed, eyes fixed on me. “Well then, by all means, let me explain. Justin needed more than I gave him for a long time because he had fucking PTSD and didn't understand non-verbal cues the way he used to, and yeah, it took me too long to realize the things that worked on him before he took a bat to the head weren't working for him like they used to, and yeah, I was a fucking idiot to think all I needed to do was sit down with a psychiatrist once and all of a sudden I'd know what he needed. It was a communication issue. And you want to know what's going on now? A communication issue. Between you all and him. Not him and me. We are Brian and Justin against the whoooole goddamn world, and you think it's a problem because you don't understand it, because you never fucking bothered to learn to talk to him.”

“We sign with him,” I said.

“Bullshit. Bullshit! You sign out a few shitty sentences and learn how to tell him to pour another cup of coffee and think that means you deserve access to his thoughts? What's he going to do, fingerspell out a monologue for you while you stare at him trying to solve him like a puzzle? Yeah, he feels really welcome to open up to you. And you have the goddamn audacity to think you have some sort of right to have concerns about us because you can't figure him out like when he spoke your language for you? Bullshit. I had to throw him a second fucking Christmas party because I knew he was going to be so goddamn devastated by yours, did you know that? I had fucking tinsel in my goddamn loft because of you shitty hearing people. And nice fucking tree, by the way. If you don't remember what he's allergic to you can fucking ask him. Might have to learn a few new signs for it, though. Sorry, I know that's inconvenient.” He got off the floor and started walking away from me.

“You know, you have a lot of fucking nerve,” I said.

He whirled around. “I do? I do?”

“Do you have any idea what's going on outside your four fucking walls?” I asked him. “Did you know Drew's getting sued for violating some fucking morality cause in his contract? Do you know Hunter got fucking arrested last weekend for disorderly conduct, and Michael and Ben are trying to figure out if they need to pull him out of school and send him to fucking rehab? You know Carl saw two kids get fucking shot in front of his eyes last month and now he doesn't sleep? Or that we lost Kiki and Justin in the same fucking week at the diner and I've been pulling triple shifts? Lindsay got fired? Any of this ringing a fucking bell, Brian?”

He didn't say anything.

“We have our own shit,” I said. “We have lives. And we want to talk to Justin with everything in our goddamn hearts, but it is not easy, so don't you fucking stand there sneering at me like this is a matter of us deciding not to go to a class once a week. You fucking know that's not how this works.”

“I fucking work my ass off to learn this language,” he said. “Carl hasn't slept for a month? I've been running a company and learning a new language and taking care of a sick kid, I haven't slept in a year. I put aside everything. And nobody else will.”

“He's your fucking partner!” I yelled at him. “You're supposed to work harder than everyone else. That's how it goddamn works, you stupid asshole!”

He sat down on the couch with a huff. I stood over him, arms crossed.

I said, “You think that if everyone else works as hard as you do, that, what, it'll make you learning a new language for him, giving him everything he needs, less of...what, a marriage? You're not breaking your little rules, you're not sacrificing for love, if everybody else is doing it too, is that it?”

He glared at me.

“I got news for you, you miserable son of a bitch,” I told him. “You're doing love the same way all of the rest of us sorry slobs do it. You haven't discovered something new and bigger and better than us. You just do the same shit the rest of us do, but with a fucking attitude.”

“You all make him feel like shit,” he said. “You make him feel guilty when he doesn't show up at the diner or at your little family dinners. Do you not get that he can't fucking keep up? That he's overwhelmed and embarrassed the whole time, and I can't interpret for ten people at once?”

“We just want to see him,” I said. “We don't have any expectations of him.”

“So once again, it's about you,” Brian said. “It's about you getting to see him, like he's a fucking zoo exhibit. He doesn't want to be fucking seen all the time. Christ, it's hard enough getting him to want to be seen ever.”

I shook my head slowly.

“What?” he said. “Fucking what?”

“Don't you get tired?” I said.

He scoffed.

“Of being so fucking angry all the time,” I said. “Of fighting everyone who isn't treating him exactly the way you think that they should. Following your little Brian Kinney manual for Justin. Because I know he's not asking you to do this. This shit, this isn't Sunshine.”

“No, just fucking accepting it all and internalizing it and letting people walk all over him, that's Sunshine. So I have to do this, because none of you will fucking pay attention to how fucking miserable he is around you.”

“Now who's not picking up non-verbal cues,” I couldn't help but say, and he laughed a little and looked away.

“Of course I'm tired,” he said eventually. “I'm out of my fucking mind worrying about him, I can't use my fucking first language half the time, I have to learn all these new fucking rules about a new culture and....yes, I'm fucking tired. Okay? Are you happy now? Feel vindicated that I've admitted there's nothing fucking easy about living with this? What the fuck good does this do? He's not going to not be Deaf, I don't even want him to not be Deaf, and I'm not going to leave him, so what's the point of sitting around bitching about shit?”

I sat next to him on the couch. “Fuck if I know,” I said. “They say it helps.”

He rolled his eyes and loosened up a little. “They say all kinds of things. They said Justin's condition wouldn't cause him any physical symptoms outside the Deafness, and look at him. He still can't get out of bed some days. Nobody knows shit.”

“What's he going to do in New York?”

“Presumably we'll have a bed in New York.”

“I wish we'd worked harder,” I said. “I wish I'd worked harder. I thought we'd have more time.”

“He's not dying,” Brian said. “I'm sure you'll be gracing us with your presence soon enough.”

“I have always wanted to see the Statue of Liberty,” I said. “And go to the top of the Empire State Building. And see Times Square!”

“I changed my mind,” Brian said.

“Oh, fuck you.” I reached a hand up and rubbed the back of his head, and we were quiet for a little. Eventually I said, “I think...I think we all just kept thinking about when he was bashed.”

“Really,” Brain said dryly. “What's that like?”

I ignored him. “Sitting in that hospital waiting room, waiting for any fucking news they would give us, not knowing if he was gonna be himself when he woke up or if he was going to wake up at all—”

“This is really fun,” Brian said. “Can we go over some of my fights with my father next? Or maybe recount when I found out I had testicular cancer? Justin had a seizure three weeks go, should we make this a series?”

I looked at him. “Justin had a seizure?”

Brian shrugged. “He has a lot of seizures. This one was bad.” He nodded up at the bedroom. “His doctor has him on these new meds and they're making him feel like shit. That's why he's sleeping.”

“Is that related to—”

“To what, him getting bashed in the head or him losing his hearing?” He lit another cigarette. “Definitely the first one. They don't really know about the second. Do you know how much doctors just don't fucking know?” He waved his hand carelessly. “I guess you would. Sitting in the waiting room, waiting for any fucking news they would give us, right?”

I gave him a minute, then said, “When you told us about this thing with his hearing...I was just so fucking grateful he wasn't fucking dying again. That we weren't all going to be crowded around a hospital for weeks at a time.”

Brian nodded a little.

“I think...I think maybe we were all so happy that he was going to live that we didn't want to think about...how much more he was going to need.”

“He doesn't need anything from you,” Brian said automatically, and you could have seen that one from a thousand paces, right? “If he doesn't get it from you he'll get it from someone else, whatever.”

“What about you?” I said.

He took a drag. “He can get everything I give him from someone else too, if he wants.”

“What about what you need, baby?”

He groaned. “Are people really under the impression that I need some sort of rescuing? Justin loses his hearing, and so I decide to...what, stay with him out of obligation? I swear, sometimes I think you all make up different people to be in this relationship so it will be more interesting to you. We aren't throwing things and sobbing when you all aren't around, you know? We're fucking and watching Survivor like every other sad sack out there, whatever it was you said. And when have I fucking ever done something I don't want to do?”

“I seem to recall something about being fucking tired worrying about him, learning a new language...”

“I want to do it!” he said, throwing his arms up. “I'm just fucking tired! People get tired! It doesn't require a fucking inquisition.”

“Intervention.”

“Whatever the fuck. Look, I appreciate the concern, but if you think Justin is my fucking charity case now because he's Deaf, you're welcome to visit sometime after dark and see how I treat my poor little ward. I'm pretty sure fucking him until he loses his voice isn't some volunteer work I'm doing to help the handicapped.”

“I think you're supposed to say disabled.”

“Don't fucking tell me you're supposed to say disabled, you think I don't know?” He sucked on his cigarette. “We're fine. Can people just fucking let us be fine?”

“You know, you're not gonna have a support system out there in New York. Not right away, anyway. And I know he's been depressed lately and don't you give me some kind of face about it. I'm not an idiot.”

“He has a referral for a therapist in New York,” Brian said, and I won't pretend I wasn't fucking surprised that he just came out and said it like that, and without any kind of glare. “He's working on it. Anyone would be having a rough year after the shit he's been through.” He tightened his jaw. “It's not about me,” he said, too firmly.

I took his hand. “I know it's not, Brian.”

He dropped his head onto my shoulder and said, quietly, “It's just nobody's fucking business how much I love him.”

I tried to hide my smile. “No,” I said. “You're right. You little shit.”

He sat up and rubbed his face with both hands. “Remember before when I was listing things that are exhausting? You. You are exhausting.”

“Yeah, cry me a river.”

“He misses you,” Brian said. “He misses talking to you.” He paused, then added, quietly, “Don't you miss him?”

I felt tears in the back of my throat, just like that. “Jesus, Brian, of course.”

“That was all it took for me,” Brian said. “If you'd asked me I would have said I'd do anything to just make him fucking shut up for once, make him stop fucking nagging me to talk to him, and then we're sitting in that doctor's office and the thought of not being able to talk to him made me want to jump off a fucking bridge, and...and that was it, I was all in.” He shook his head. “That's irony or whatever, right? He has trouble with the non-verbal cues, so I learn to fucking talk to him every once in a while without wanting to slit my wrists, we're peddling along okay, and then...So no. No, I don't get it. I don't get that why that wasn't enough for everyone else to put aside fucking...anything else in the world and do what they needed to do for him. Fuck Hunter being a jackass, fuck Lindsay's job. I don't understand why he comes first for me and not them. ”

“That's because you're a fucking moron,” I said.

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You are going to spend your whole life wondering why the world isn't kinder to him,” I said. “That's what love is.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, why are people falling over themselves to do this shit? Christ, I oughta be committed.” He sighed. “I hate that he lost you. I hate that he lost all of you. I hate that he lost anything. I kept telling him when he got sick, we're going to make it work, we're going to keep your old life. God, what bullshit. And thank God it was, but...what a load of bullshit.”

I cleared my throat and said, “Well, you said it yourself. It's just a plane ride away. We've got all the time in the world to get better, get back to him. Family doesn't need blood, Brian, you know that. It doesn't need a zip code, either.” I pinched his cheek.

“You know, none of this is helping us get packed,” he said. “And that monstrosity you brought over is going to be ready any minute now.” He paused and cocked his head towards the bedroom. “He's awake.”

I craned my neck. “You can see him?”

“No, I just...” He shrugged. “He'll be up in a minute.”

Sure enough, a moment later Justin came padding down the stairs, looking sleepy and fucking adorable in oversized sweats. Brian held out his arms as he got closer and Justin fit himself into them, Brian's face against his chest. He reached up to paw at Justin's forehead, then smiled a little, his eyes closed, and breathed Justin in like a drug. Justin pet his hair.

Hi, Sunshine I said to him, and he smiled at me.

“I saw you did the canvases,” he said. “Brian, did you show her how—”

Brian signed something quickly, his eyes still closed.

“You are such a jerk,” Justin said. Brian smiled and squeezed him and kissed his belly.

Just then the timer on the oven went off, and I got up to take out the casserole. I served up portions for me and Brian, and a massive one for Justin—that kid was skin and bones lately—and set them on the counter.

Over on the couch, the two of them were twisted up in each other's arms, somehow still managing to sign so fast to each other that I couldn't pick out a single word. Justin batted Brian's hand away at one point, and Brian grabbed one of his and kissed it, and Justin signed something against Brian's chest and Brian something against his cheek.

And it occurred to me that I'd been very, very wrong earlier when I thought Justin wasn't a chatterbox anymore.

Gimme a break. Even Wonder Woman misses a call every once in a while.

Brian signed something to Justin and squeezed him around the waist, and Justin threw his head back and laughed. The sound filled the whole loft.

End Notes:


Just a little one scene thing. Eventually I'll get them to New York, I swear...

Chapter 12 - The One Where Brian and Justin Take Manhattan by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

I won't pretend there wasn't a part of me that thought Brian was still gonna bail. That he'd stand alone in that empty loft and panic and sneak out the back way and run for the hills or some shit, or that at the very least I'd wait in the car for half an hour and finally go up and have to drag him, kicking and screaming, off the bed platform.

 

 

 

The One Where Brian and Justin Take Manhattan

 

LaVieEnRose


I woke up to the feeling of Brian's not-as-inconsiderable-as-he-would-like weight being lifted off me, and despite the fact that I should have been grateful that I was no longer being squashed into a pancake...well, I think we're past the point of thinking I have reasonable reactions where Brian is concerned. I lifted a hand and signed, Where are you going? even though my eyes were closed so I 'd have no idea if he answered me, or even saw me. The pounding in my head told me it wasn't worth it to check. God, I was getting too fucking old to drink that much. Or to fall asleep on the floor. I don't know how Brian's body hasn't just fucking quit in protest by now.

Eventually I gave up and peeked my eyes open very, very gently. Brian was naked and bent over by the door, saying something into the speaker for the buzzer. He strode away from the doorway and to the bedroom, mumbling to himself, and then threw a pair of sweatpants at me while he hopped into his jeans. Get up, he said.

No way. This is where I die. How the fuck much did we drink? Last night was slowly coming back to me in way, way too much technicolor. We'd started the night with our farewell dinner at Deb's—Brian got a little choked up about Gus, and Michael cried, which I naturally assumed was all about Brian, but then he got weepy when he hugged me too, so that was weird and kind of nice, and Emmett wrote me this letter about how much I've grown and what I mean to him that I can never let Brian see because he will mock it endlessly but that I am going to keep for the rest of my life—which turned into farewell drinks at Woody's, which turned into everyone getting drunk enough that they convinced me it was a good idea to text my Deaf friends and invite them, even though we already had our farewell dinner with them earlier in the week, and that turned into all fucking million of us bivouacking over to Babylon, and then Brian and I came home and said we were going to finish packing but then we found a bottle of wine in the fridge and we started talking about all the memories in the loft and then we decided we should fuck on every last surface one last time...

Brian pulled a shirt over his head and stuck his hands through the neck hole to sign: The movers are here.

And then I remembered what didn't happen last night.

“Oh God. Oh fuck. We didn't finish packing!”

I'm aware, Sunshine! Get the fuck up and start throwing things in boxes! They must have been knocking, because I could read the “Fuck,” on his lips—and not in a good way—before he charged back towards the door. I slid into my sweatpants, sign-mumbling my own curses at my fucking headache—and started tossing the blankets and cushions we'd fallen asleep on top of into the nearest cardboard boxes. Brian was shaking hands with the movers, introducing himself, gesturing to me. I waved a little and wondered what he was telling him. It could have gone any number of ways, really, depending on how Brian was feeling. Sometimes he stubbornly doesn't tell people I'm Deaf, because he wants me to think it doesn't define me, or he wants to think it, or because he wants me to decide whether they know, or because he still has rough days with it, sometimes. Other times it's the first thing out of his mouth, maybe because he's proud, maybe because he doesn't want me to embarrassed.

Maybe because it's the first thing he thinks of when he thinks of me, sometimes.

He came over and gave me a scratchy kiss. I told them to pack the canvases last and to ask you if they have questions about how to handle them. So that settled that, then. Why the fuck aren't you packing?

I pointed incredulously at the box I'd just fucking packed.

Not enough. Go finish up the bedroom, I'll do the bathroom.

Pretty soon we were rushing around our respective rooms while the movers carried out the few pieces of furniture we hadn't sold—Brian loved his furniture, but he loved the idea of shopping for new furniture more—waving shit at each other and signing questions as quickly as we could.

Bring or store those Prada shoes that don’t fit? I asked.

Fuck. Um...okay. Store. Store them.

Very brave of you. Did you just throw away my toothbrush?

I’ll buy you a new one. I’m incredibly generous.

Can I throw away the scarf with all my blood on it or are you still traumatized?

Don’t know that sign!


I fingerspelled it for him.

Oh, definitely that one then! Why the fuck are your allergy meds still in here and not in your suitcase?

The frantic packing continued around the loft. I threw paints into a box. Brian upended the silverware drawer.

That must have been loud, I said.

Brian shrugged. I don’t hear you complaining.

Huh, neither do I.

I went back to the bedroom to do one final sweep. When I turned around, one of the movers was behind me, looking at me expectantly. He was young, maybe a few years younger than me. I think they were a a father and son. Both pretty gorgeous.

“Sorry,” I said. “Did you need something?” I looked around for Brian, but he was nowhere to be seen.

He said...something, I didn't get a word of it. I imagined it was about the canvases, since otherwise they'd probably be bothering Brain but not me, but if he'd vanished off the face of the loft maybe I was responsible for everything now. What a horrifying thought.

“Um, hang on,” I said. “Brian?”

He appeared, and he was fucking soaked. Yes, dearest? he said. I'm proud he's gotten to the point where he can sign mockingly.

What the fuck happened to you?

I thought I should turn the water off.

And you couldn't figure out how so you decided to just use it all up?

Yeah.
He looked at the mover. What's up? he asked me.

I don't know. Can you find out what he wants?

Brian turned to him and said, Can you repeat what you said? presumably out loud as well.

The guy did, a weird look on his face—was all the signing really not enough of a hint of what was going on here? Pretty but dumb, though he was probably thinking the same thing about me—and Brian signed, Do you have an order you want the canvases to go in?

“No, it doesn't matter,” I said, and the mover nodded and went back down the stairs. Brian came up to change his shirt, and I watched the movers say something to each other, laugh to themselves. I had a feeling what was going on, and Brian's hand appearing on my shoulder a second later—heavy, protective—was all the confirmation I needed.

What did they say? I asked anyway.

He shook his head and kissed my cheek. They said wow, I can't believe we moved all this shit to New York and Brian didn't even tip us. Where did we go wrong?

Tell me, I said.

I'm not your interpreter, he said. I'm not obligated to sign every shitty thing someone says. You want to hear ignorant crap, start paying me.

You're so annoying.


He kissed me. Bring the suitcases down to the car. Time to go.

I brought the suitcases to the door and just stood there for a minute, looking over the loft. It seemed enormous without furniture. Like some sort of museum exhibit about our lives, and people were going to come tour their way through it. On our left, where Justin lost his virginity!

Brian loped over to the fridge and took out a bottle of water, and even though he'd just put on a dry shirt, I was for a second totally sure he was about to pour it over his head. I must have been staring, because he looked at me with a strange kind of smile.

He came over and eased me under his arm. On to bigger and better things.

Pretty sure the new apartment is smaller.

Brian looked around the loft, and I watched sadness tug on his smile. It really was a hell of a place, wasn't it?

I have a few good memories.


Brian raised an eyebrow and nibbled on my neck.

Okay, okay! I said, before my knees gave out. More than a few. But something—guilt--was gnawing in my stomach, and I couldn't stop it. I felt so fucking selfish, dragging Brian away from his home for some shot at a dream I wasn't even sure I could have. Not to mention just nervous as hell that any minute he was going to have some kind of breakdown about commitment and hire a hustler to meet us at the new place or give up signing forever or like, drive us off a cliff or something, I don't know. I said, “Brian, are you sure you want—”

He grabbed my face and kissed me, and God, I was fucking seventeen year old, falling all the fuck in love all the way over again. He pulled away just a little and said, slowly and clearly, “Shut up,” and then smiled at me when I was sure I understood.

No sappy goodbyes, I said, repeating a pledge we'd made last night, before the party.

Exactly. Go down to the car, I'll meet you there.

I won't pretend there wasn't a part of me that thought Brian was still gonna bail. That he'd stand alone in that empty loft and panic and sneak out the back way and run for the hills or some shit, or that at the very least I'd wait in the car for half an hour and finally go up and have to drag him, kicking and screaming, off the bed platform. But less than five minutes later he slid into the car next to me and said, Let's be heathens and eat in the car. I'm hungover as fuck but I want to get on the road, with no theatrics, barely even any expression.

So we stopped at a drive-thru, and we were off.

We were mostly quiet on the drive. I slept a little, and when I woke up I stretched and paid attention to the music. We keep the bass turned up really high in the car so I can feel it, which Brian says makes everything sound totally ridiculous, but we do it anyway. This song was so strong I could feel the beat in my stomach. What is this? I asked.

Hey, you're up. The song?

Yeah.


He showed me his phone—some band and song I'd never heard of. Do you like it? he asked.

I nodded, and he fiddled with his phone and put the artist on shuffle. I smiled out the window.

**

Our place in New York is so fucking ridiculous. Honestly it reminds me of the hotel I stayed in the first time I ran away here (with Brian's credit card! Jesus Christ, imagine what an insufferable brat I'd still be if I hadn't been bashed. Although I guess taking that vacation he paid for alone instead of letting him reschedule it was also post-bashing...hmm). It's the penthouse apartment of a building on 61st street, off West End avenue. The floors are oak, the cabinets are cherry, and the bathroom is marble. There's a wraparound deck where I go out in the mornings with coffee and my sketchpad and look out over the water, and a second bedroom we use as a study, with a pull-out couch for when Gus comes to visit or Daphne doesn't feel like trekking back to her place after a movie marathon. We have a flat screen TV, a million bookshelves, and enough space for a dining room table with more than two chairs, which is probably the most amazing part of the whole place.

That day, of course, we had none of that--well, we had the cabinets and the balcony and shit, but you know what I mean. We had an empty apartment and Brian marching around giving directions to the movers. I was antsy from sitting in the car all day, and uncomfortable around the movers, and also I kind of hate when Brian speaks English around me. I wasn't mad about it or anything—simcomming is hard and annoying and it's not like I even really cared what he was saying to the movers—but I'm just so used to trusting that Brian will always include me that it hurts a lot more when he doesn't than when other people don't, and also Brian's voice is just about the only thing that I really miss, and it's easier when I don't think about it, and it's hard not to think about it when it's right there in front of me and the fucking movers get to hear it and I don't.

I tugged on Brian's sleeve, feeling like a little kid. I'm gonna go, okay? Can I go?

Are you asking my permission to leave the apartment? he said. Because I could get used to that.

I'm asking your permission to leave you here to deal with this shit by yourself, dick.


He kissed me. Bossing people around without you to guide me? However will I manage?

Be careful with the canvases!
I signed on my way out, and turned away before he could bitch about if I have to hear about those canvases one more fucking time...

I went down the elevator and nodded to the doorman and headed down the steps in front of our building. It was nothing like home, where Tremont Street in front of the loft was usually pretty still, and the bustle didn't start until you went down a block. Here, the city started right away. I could have been in a cab five seconds after stepping outside, if I wanted to. But I didn't. I wanted to walk. I knew the park was close, but I didn't know exactly where—I was confused back then about what the difference was between West End and 11th Avenue and Amsterdam and 10th (answer: there isn't one) and what exactly the deal was with Broadway (answer: don't worry about it, and never use it as a reference point if you're not in midtown) so I just started heading East, and I ran right into Lincoln Center.

God, it was fucking incredible! It was all stairs and fountains and sculptures and I took about a million pictures on my phone to sketch later. I was already plotting how I was going to convince Brian to come to the ballet with me. Maybe for my birthday, I thought.

I made it to the park and found a spot of grass and flopped the hell down, allergies be damned. It was just after five o'clock and the sun was just starting to go down and it was February so it was freezing but God, so fucking beautiful. I almost got a little weepy, because I hadn't yet reached the official end of the Winter of Crying, but I managed to miraculously keep it together and just took more pictures. I was sure I'd be about the millionth amateur artist to paint the sunrise over Central Park, but fuck if that was going to stop me.

I got up and wandered after a while, thinking vaguely that I was going to find the zoo, but I had no luck and after a while I was shivering and figured I should head back. And then I had a moment where I realized it's not exactly like Central Park has one entrance, and now that the sun was down I wasn't even completely sure what direction I was facing. And I really should have worn a heavier coat, but it was packed...

A cop came up to me then. It was a woman, which made me feel a little more at ease, but I'd read enough horror stories about Deaf people and the police that I was still kind of antsy. It was too dark for me to even try to read her lips, so before she could start speaking I said, “Sorry, I'm Deaf, can you write it down?”

To her credit, she didn't even hesitate, just took out a small notebook and wrote me a note, then shined her flashlight on it for me. Are you lost?

I shook my head. I'm not really sure why. I guess I was afraid she'd give me directions, and then I'd have to pretend to understand them, and I got nervous about talking to strangers even when I could understand what the fuck they were saying, and..I don't know. I still hate asking for help. “I'm just waiting for a friend,” I said.

She looked like she didn't really believe me, and after a beat she wrote another note. The park's not really safe at night. Especially for someone like you.

Well, now I really didn't want her fucking help. Who would have thought I'd ever be nostalgic for the days when someone like you meant gay?

“Thanks,” I said. “He should be here any minute.”

The policewoman gave me a long look, then a shrug, and then continued on her way.

My first thought, obviously, was to text Brian, but he didn't know the city any better than I did, and he was probably still busy with the movers, and anyway I hated the idea of having to crawl to Brian for help my very first time out on my own. I knew he wouldn't have given me any shit about or anything, but...God, he was so worried about me all the fucking time. I had something to prove.

So I texted Daphne. She had me describe what was around me and told me she'd be there soon. Her apartment's down in the West Village—she'd warned me not to try to find it until I'd lived here for a while, “the West Village makes no sense”—but she'd been having coffee with her boyfriend in Chelsea, so she wasn't far. She jogged up to me less than fifteen minutes later, and I picked her up and swung her around.

I can't believe you're here! she said. We are going to have so much fun, oh my God, we are taking over this city!

Holy shit, look at your signing!

She beamed. I made a Deaf friend at school, I've been practicing! I wanted to surprise you.

You have a Deaf friend?? Is he cute?

Adorable. And a girl. Come on, I'm taking you to dinner! I'll tell you everything.


We had an amazing dinner and more than a few drinks and I finally got back to the apartment at around eight-thirty, bracing myself for an interrogation of where I'd been and why the fuck I hadn't texted. Brian was sitting in the living room on the floor cushions we got from home, which at that point was about all we had by way of living room furniture. He was eating out of a carton of Chinese food, which he offered to me.

I had dinner with Daphne, I said.

How is she?

She's good. I didn't get to meet the boyfriend. Her signing has really improved.
I looked around. It looks fucking amazing in here.

You're easy to impress. And here I was planning to get us a couch and everything.

I sat down next to him and kissed his cheek. He didn't seem mad. I took out my phone and showed him some of the pictures I'd taken and he was vaguely interested in that Brian sort of way, but I was so wound up waiting for him to start snapping at me. He was so calm that it was making me feel uneasy, just like when he'd climbed into the car that morning. I could feel the other shoe just hovering above me. Something was going to happen. He was Brian Kinney. He could not just move away with me without making some sort of big fucking deal about it. I knew it, I accepted it, but...God, just fucking get on with it already! I finally couldn't take it anymore and I said, Are you pissed?

He furrowed his eyebrows. For saddling me with the movers? He shrugged. They don't sign and they were assholes to you. I don't blame you for wanting to get away. What'd you eat?

Some fancy Mexican place. I'll take you there if I can find it again. Are you mad at me for going out for dinner?


You are so deranged. I'm always forcing food down your throat, now I'm going to be mad at you for eating?

Yeah, but without you..
.

He kept looking at me like he wasn't quite sure who I was, casually shoveling shrimp into his mouth. We were together all day. I wasn't worried I'd forget what you looked like.

Then are you pissed at me for not texting you while I was gone?


Jesus Christ, do you want me to pissed at you for something? I can find something if you want.

I just expected to come back to you all...
I gestured at him.

He laughed. Was that a sign?

I thought you'd be all worried, I said.

He cocked his eyebrow. Do you want me to be worried?

No, but I'd kind of resigned myself to it at this point. You've been kind of...um. High-strung lately.

He rolled his eyes at the euphemism. You said you'd be fine. You had your phone. My number's on your med alert bracelet if you fall and break your head. I was pretty sure you were alive.

It kind of dawned on me. You trusted me.

He popped a shrimp in his mouth. You're so fucking easy to impress.

I squeezed his arm. Take me dancing, I said.

He stood up, pulling me up with him. And easy to please, he said, with a quick kiss. I put a change of clothes on the bed for you.

I skipped off to get dressed and even forced myself not to complain about the fucking ugly outfit he picked out for me, to show my appreciation. Brian being as successful in clubs as he is when he can't dress and can't dance is truly one of the wonders of the universe and God, I am so in love.

We didn't want to go to a club we'd already been to on a visit on our first night living here, so we found a place close to our apartment—we did need to find a new regular place, and we did eventually, though it didn't turn out to be this one—and fucking went to town. Brian's magic worked just as well here as in Pittsburgh, which we were both very grateful for; maybe me even more than him, because good Lord I did not need to hear him bitch about that.

And honestly, I'm not sure if he even noticed. I don't even know if that club had a back room. All we did was dance.

Some of that was definitely the E—Brian took a tab, then tried to feed me one but I was nervous about seizures, so I declined, so he just shrugged and swallowed that one too—but some of it was...something else. The lights. The city. The night. Us.

At one point we were dancing, his hands on my waist, my head buzzing with whiskey and thumpa-thumpa, and Brian just started laughing. It was just a little at first, and I figured it was just the E—I mean, let's be real, a lot of it was the E—but then it got so I could feel it in his chest, and then all of a sudden he grabbed me by the thighs and hoisted me up onto him, my legs around his waist, and he held me there with one hand under my ass and signed with the other.

I did it, he said to me, still laughing.

I grinned at him. You made it to New York.

He shook his head. Not that. He laughed so hard. I fucking moved across state lines with you. He used my hand for the two-handed signs, like it was his. I picked out an apartment with you. I didn't freak out. I didn't scare you away. I didn't ruin it. He fucking beamed at me. I did it, Sunshine.

You are so high right now, I said, squeezing the life out of him with my legs.

You can't let me fuck this up, okay? he said.

When have I ever?

I did it,
he said. Holy shit, I can't believe I can do it.

Are you going to propose now?
I teased him.

Yeah, he said.

Well, I should warn you, I want it done right this time. Flowers. Guests. Rings. Writing vows.

He laughed hard and shook his head. No you fucking do not.

I couldn't keep it up either. I really, really do not.

And then he kissed me, and...Oh God, Brian's kissed me thousands of times, tens of, hundreds of thousands of times, but there was nothing like that kiss. His teeth nipped at my bottom lip, and no matter how hard I gripped his hair, how desperately I pulled him into me, I just couldn't get him close enough. His tongue chased mine around my mouth, his arm snaked around the back of my neck and gripped me close, and the whole time he was still holding me off the ground and it was like I was floating, like I was fucking flying right in the middle of the club. I could have kissed him forever. I didn't even need to breathe.

When we finally broke apart, he threw his head back and smiled. The strobe lights danced off his face. He'd never been that beautiful.

I was so proud of him I could die.

**

We woke up on our mattress on the floor in our new home. This time it was Brian groaning while I slid off of him.

I'm gonna run across the street for coffee, I told him. Go back to sleep.

Oh, God, what happened last night?


You took two tabs of E. Do you remember anything?

He shook his head, and I tried not to be disappointed. It's not like I didn't know he was high out of his mind when he said those things. And it's not like I needed to see them to know how much he loved me. I know.

It was nice, though.

I got dressed, and just as I was on my way out of the room something hit me in the back. I turned around and picked his sock off the floor. “Yes, dear?”

He looked at me thoughtfully.

What? I said.

Maybe just the rings, he said.

Chapter 13 - The One Where Brian Does Some Shopping by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

"You always said rings were a meaningless heterosexual ritual," the blond one said.

"I know, but then I thought about it and realized how fucking gay it is for men to wear jewelry."

 

The One Where Brian Does Some Shopping


What you have to understand for me to come away from this story with any kind of integrity intact is that my job is really, really boring. Working at a luxury furniture store in New York city means your clientele is exclusively billionaire assholes who snap their fingers and point at shit without ever taking their ears away from the cell phones, or, more often, their poor, stressed personal shoppers who look like they're about a second away from crying and...also never take their ears away from their cell phones. The pay's awful, the commission's a joke, and I have to wear heels for eight hours.

So hopefully that at least partially excuses my kind of less-than-moral turn here. And it's not like I lied. I just...didn't fully disclose.

I was on my break when Kurt came and got me. “My ten o'clock just got here, and I think you should take them instead,” I said.

I raised an eyebrow. Even though our commission is shit, it's where just about all of our pay comes from, so we don't exactly go handing off our appointments around here. Plus, Kurt's been trying to fuck me since I started here, so I think I'm well within my rights to be suspicious of him trying to get on my good side. “And why's that?”

“They just showed up and they're doing that sign language thing. What do you call it?”

“Well...you call it sign language, Kurt.”

“Yeah. And you know it, right?”

I do. My mom's Deaf, so I grew up signing when I was at her house and speaking when I was at my dad's.

“So you should take them,” he said. “I don't know what to do with them.”

I mean, I wasn't about to refuse a commission, and I didn't have any appointments that day. But if Kurt thought I was gonna sleep with him for this, he was gonna be gravely disappointed.

I clicked my stupid high heels across the show room to where two guys were signing. They were white, looked rich—but who doesn't, here,—and were both, um...extremely attractive. The taller one had dark hair and looked older, and the shorter one was a shade of blond I would absolutely kill for. They were taking intensely to each other as I approached.

You always said rings were a meaningless heterosexual ritual, the blond one said.

I know, but then I thought about it and realized how fucking gay it is for men to wear jewelry, the tall one said. Right when I was about to say hello, he noticed me and offered his hand. “Hi,” he said. “I'm Brian Kinney, this is Justin Taylor. We have an appointment with Kurt.”

I just still feel like you're fucking with me, the other one—Justin—said.

I'm not fucking with you, he signed, without looking away from me.

I cleared my throat. “Just a little change of plans,” I said. “I'm going to be taking care of you today. I'm Charlie. I'm much better than Kurt.”

I know. I know I should have told them that I know sign language. I know!

But I just...kind of wanted to see where this wedding ring conversation was going.

I told you. My job is really boring.

What'd she say? Justin asked.

That she's better than the guy we were supposed to have.

Works for me.

“Fine with us,” Brian said. He signed while he talked. “We have a whole apartment to furnish and a list of pieces we want to look at. If you have anything you want to tell Justin, let me know, but he has terrible taste and he's boring so I wouldn't feel obligated.”

Yes, terribly boring, Justin signed, pacing slowly around one of our sculptures. Do you like this? he asked, studying it.

Not even sort of. Do you?

It looks like the kind of shit the freshmen do at PIFA.

Why would I be fucking with you? Brian said. It was my idea, wasn't it?

No, I'm the one who mentioned rings first. You were just too high to remember it.

“What can I show you first?” I asked.

What do you want to look at? Brian asked Justin.

Let's see that hideous couch you won't shut up about.

It's fucking groundbreaking design, you philistine.


Justin cocked his head. Teaching you to fingerspell was a mistake.

If there were a couch magazine, this would be on the cover,
Brian said.

Then I would unsubscribe.

“We saw online you have the piece from the Louis Carlo Spring collection,” Brain said.

“The tobacco leather sofa?” I actually think it's pretty gorgeous, though it's not everyone's cup of tea. It's a bit...foreboding. It's also incredibly uncomfortable, but rich people never sit on their furniture anyway. “Right this way.”

I led them through the showroom, and they fell into step next to me instead of falling behind, which I was pathetically grateful for, because now I could watch them out of the corner of my eye and I was having way, way too much fun.

Platinum, Brian said. Simple and classy.

I wasn't serious.

I don't understand why you're so hesitant about this.

And I don't understand how you don't understand why I'm so hesitant about this.

You already wear a bracelet with my name and number on it,
Brian said. If you're worried about being branded, bad news for you there.

Yes, I wear it. You don't.


Brian gave him a weird look, but unfortunately we'd reached the couch so I had to interrupt. “Here it is,” I said. “The finest Italian leather on the market right now. The construction really is unparalleled.”

This is the ugliest fucking couch I've ever seen in my life, Justin said to Brian.

Brian turned to me and said, “He likes it. And there are a limited number of these, is that right?”

“Absolutely. Only five hundred manufactured.”

Justin sat right down on it, and I could see him biting his cheek to keep from laughing. You've got to try this, he said to Brian.

Brian circled it thoughtfully. No, I don't think so.

You absolutely do. I've never won an argument this thoroughly in my life.


Brian said, No, I just mean I don't need to sit on this to know that now that I've seen it in person, this is the ugliest fucking couch I've ever seen in my life.

Justin pumped a fist.

I struggled, fucking fought, to keep a straight face. “So what do you think?”

Brian tapped his lips thoughtfully. “It's definitely a possibility, but there are a few more we'd like to look at.”

“Absolutely,” I said. 'Can I make some recommendations?”

“Please.”

“Right this way,” I said.

Brian picked up right where they'd left off. So it's fine for you to wear the shackles because you're disabled, but I shouldn't have to do it? That's very ableist of you.

It's such a mystery why you calling it shackles doesn't reassure me.

I was kidding, come on.

Well, you weren't kidding for eight years when I had to approach you like some sort of deer I was trying not to scare off.

I wasn't like that for eight years, come on.

Excuse me if I'm used to tiptoeing around you at this point, if I'm scared that you'll wake up and see a ring on your finger and freak the fuck out and lash out at me. Where do you think I got that idea?

It hasn't been eight years,
Brian said.

Yes, I know, we haven't been together for eight years, do you feel better?

No, I haven't...been like that for eight years. I stopped.


It's in hibernation.

It's not in hibernation.


Justin said, This year has been a lot for you already. Taking care of all the shit, the move...let's not push you too far.

Don't fucking patronize me.


I said, “Um...so this is one of my favorite pieces. The gold studs add a nice accent to the leather without being overstated, and it has that vintage appeal but with modern craftsmanship. And it's really comfortable.”

They did a lap around it and sat down, and Justin said, I really like it.

Yeah?
It was hard to believe they'd just been fighting.

Yeah. And I think it would look really nice with the flooring, and the gold would bring out the hardware in the kitchen.

Brian looked up at me. “He likes it. We'll take it.”

Justin touched his arm. Wait. Do you like it?

It's stunning.


Justin smiled a little.

“We have a dining table that I think compliments it really nicely,” I said. “That's right here.”

I'm sorry, Justin said. You're right. That was patronizing. I'm just scared. I don't want to push you and have us both end up regretting it.

“Are there chairs that go with this?” Brian asked, and he signed, How is this pushing me? I'm the one pushing you, to Justin.

“We have two sets that were designed for this table. Each one comes with and without arms, here...”

But you're doing it to make me happy, Justin said. Because I've been dying for some kind of...symbol for a million years. And right when I decide you don't want it you change your mind.

Well, I like to keep you on your toes. And what does it tell you that I didn't offer it until now? I was waiting until I felt ready.
“And there are upholstery options for this?”

I don't think it counts as waiting until you're ready if you never planned on being ready in the first place.

“Uh-huh, really any color you could want,” I said. “I can show you a sample book.”

It counts. And you didn't answer my question. “Sorry,” Brian said to me. “Just interpreting for him.”

“Take your time", I said.

What does it tell me? Justin said. I don't know, that I finally pushed you hard enough? You got sick of saying no? You feel bad because you know I've had a rough couple of months? I don't know.

“That would be great, thank you,” Brian said to me. I've never felt bad for you in my life and I'm not about to start now. I don't know why these rings are such a big fucking deal. We're already married.

But we don't tell people we're married. Everyone would know. People are going to see your hand and assume you have a wife. A wife.


So then I'll get to see the horrified looks on their faces after I correct them. You know I love the horrified looks. “I like the navy, I think. Justin?”

The navy's nice. The eggplant's better. You know these are two different chairs, right?

Yeah, it's two different styles. This one's better, right?

Definitely.


“We're going to go with this one,” Brian said. “With the eggplant upholstery. Bedroom sets?”

“Right this way.”

Brian said, You don't really think I feel sorry for you, do I?

No. I don't know.


I feel weird about the bracelet. I feel weird that you have to be marked in some way and I don't.

Okay, but see, there it is again! Have to be.

I didn't mean that. I meant...goddamn it, I'm jealous of your stupid bracelet, okay?

You're what?

You have something on you all the time that says that there's someone who gives a shit if something happens to you
, Brian said. I'm mauled in some mass shooting, for all anyone knows there's no one who's even noticed I'm gone.

“This is the one I can picture you with,” I said. “It has the same sort of lines as the dining room table, and the bed frame is very...solid. I think this is probably the heaviest thing in the whole store.”

Hear that? Brian said.

Did you just ask me if I heard something?

Figure of speech. She says it's heavy. Sturdy.


Sounds like a challenge.

“What's the warranty like on this?” Brian asked politely.

I did everything in my power not to laugh. “Lifetime.”

Brian looked pointedly at Justin. Did you hear that?

Justin rolled his eyes. Yes. Lifetime.

How about that? “We'll take it.”

I don't want you to wake up one day and realize you're not who you want to be, Justin said later, when they were standing at the register—hellooooo commission. And I don't want to wake up and realize you're not the person I fell in love with.

Christ, you are such a drama queen. It's a platinum band.

Who says I want platinum?


Brian handed me his credit card. There's nothing better than platinum.

If we find something we like, okay? I don't want to go shopping for them or something, head to Tiffany's like some fucking straight couple.

Brian tucked the card back into his wallet. Tell you what. You pick out something you like, okay? Take your time, and when you find something...then we'll know.

Justin narrowed his eyes. Is this a trick?

Brian kissed his nose. It's not a trick. You said it yourself. You've had a rough few months. And you've kind of been jerked around for eight years.

Justin squirmed. I didn't say that.

You did, but you didn't have to.

It feels like a trick,
Justin said again, and I could tell he was getting upset. He bounced on his toes a little.

Christ, please do not start crying in the middle of the furniture store. We can talk about this at home, okay?

Justin rubbed the back of his neck and looked down, and after a moment Brian flashed me a smile. “Thanks so much for your help today,” he said, and Justin nodded and signed, Thank you.

“Of course,” I said, and then, maybe because I felt guilty, maybe because it looked like they needed something else to talk about, maybe because I was kind of scared Justin was about to start crying in the middle of the furniture store, I signed, Come back again anytime.

I left them with their mouths hanging open and skipped off to tell Kurt about my nineteen hundred dollar commission.

Chapter 14 - The One Where Justin Gets Better by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

"So," I said. "You know how you were thinking about asking your shrink to up your antidepressant?"

He looked at me warily. “Yeah.”

"Any further thoughts on that? Because I just looked at that painting you finished and now I’m thinking about killing myself, too."

The One Where Justin Gets Better
LaVieEnRose

 

We'd been in New York for two weeks and Justin still wasn't better.

Now, I'm not an idiot, despite what the vast majority of the non-business-related decisions I've made in thirty-some years on this shitty planet might have you believe. I knew that moving to New York wasn't going to be the magic bullet that cleared away whatever was going on in Sunshine's decidedly un-Sunshiney little mind. But he'd already seemed to have been on the up and up when we left, and I knew that Pittsburgh and the family and the memories there weren't exactly helping him move past his shit, so...yeah, maybe I did think that this was at least going to be a step in the right direction.

Instead, it was starting to seem like that little funk he'd fallen into this winter was going to last forever.

And meanwhile I couldn't stop thinking. Remembering.

Like, for example, the day we found out Justin was losing his hearing and there was nothing we could do. How we sat in that office, his hand in my lap, and stared at the doctor, and I laughed because it didn't make any fucking sense, and then I asked all the questions, and the doctor talked and talked and talked, and Justin didn't say a word.

Could he even fucking hear what was going on?

**

He was still painting, which had to be a good sign, right? I watched him over my coffee cup before I went to work. He was in the living room with his easel set up over the drop cloth, his tongue between his teeth in concentration.

He hadn't said anything about getting some sort of job outside of painting, which was fine by me, since the point of coming up here as far as I was concerned was so he'd really focus on his art, but it was still a surprise. He's usually all up in arms about contributing financially, I would have thought he'd be filling out resumes for shitty diners and convincing himself that bringing home fifty bucks a night was worth wrecking his hand and swallowing all his time.

Maybe he didn't think he was employable anymore.

Maybe he was right.

I kissed him goodbye and went to work and spent the day nodding at things Cynthia put on my desk and Googling things and then not clicking on the results.

Epilepsy depression

Deaf PTSD

head trauma long term effects

gaslighting long term effects


I managed to only text him once to see if he wanted me to bring home dinner. He didn't, but I did anyway, and I called Michael on the cab ride home.

“Hey!” His voice was tinny on his shitty cell phone. “How's the Big Apple?”

My act of charity for the day was ignoring that. “Do you think I meant to hurt him? Back then? Or do you think it was always an accident?”

He paused. “Brian, what the fuck are you talking about?”

I knew I sounded desperate. “Do you think it matters?”

**

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the first time I almost moved to New York after I met him.

How I looked him in the eyes and told him I wouldn't think of him at all.

Did I think I meant that?

Do you think it matters?

**

I came back to the penthouse with Thai food and roses. Justin wasn't in the living room, and for a second I thought maybe he'd gone out and was feeling kind of encouraged by that, but then I heard the toilet flush, the sink run, then him shuffling back off to bed. Great, that's a great sign.

We didn't have a vase or anything straight like that, so I stuck the roses in a glass of water and left the food on the counter. Maybe he'd smell it and come out on his own. The canvas he'd been working on looked a lot different from this morning, so at least he'd gotten some work done today. Yesterday I think he just watched TV the whole time I was gone.

I went over to take a look at it and had to sit down. That's Justin for you. His art will just drag the shit out of you.

It was done mostly in blues and purples, and it reminded me of some of the Picassos we'd seen when we went to Spain a few years ago. Except when you set aside the color schemes—and the quality, yeah, you heard me—they diverged pretty strongly. It was like Picasso was one of those fucking Thomas Kincaide things with the saccharine Christmas scenes, and Justin's was...I don’t know, something you’d see at some genocide memorial.

I went into the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed and hit the mattress until Justin looked at me.

So, I said. You know how you were thinking about asking your shrink to up your antidepressant?

He looked at me warily. “Yeah.”

Any further thoughts on that? Because I just looked at that painting you finished and now I’m thinking about killing myself, too.

Justin glared at me and pulled his pillow over his head. “You’re not funny,” he said, voice muffled.

“Who’s joking,” I mumbled to myself. I came around to his side of the bed and lifted the pillow off his head. He let me. I thought you were thinking about going to see Daphne today, I said. Or finally texting some of those friends of Gregory's.

He just shrugged.

How’s your hand after working on your ode to despondency all day? I held out my hand, and to my surprise he gave me his. It was shaky and rigid, but not too bad, considering. I rested it on my arm and pulled him up by his elbows. You need a shower. Your hair's dirty and you look like shit.

“I probably smell worse.”

Well, I wasn’t going to say anything. He smelled kind of nice, actually—like paint and salt. There’s food when you’re done.

“I told you I wasn’t hungry.”

And I told you I didn’t give a shit. If you lose any more weight it’s gonna be like fucking a teenager again, and I’m not young enough to get away with that anymore.

“Were you ever?” Justin mused.

C’mon. I could use a shower too.

He felt shaky in the shower, fragile. He's this miniscule kid, but he's always had a kind of sturdiness to him, a hardiness that made me not worry about going at him as hard as I can, but right then he felt too delicate for me to fuck against the glass wall of the shower like I wanted to. We just jerked each other off languidly under the water, his left arm tangling up with my right, and when we were finished he tucked his head against my collarbone and I put my arms around him. He was crying a little, which wasn't really newsworthy at this point.

I used his hands to sign, It's going to get better, but he could probably feel how full of shit I was. How the fuck did I know if it was going to get better? I didn't even know what was wrong.

“Do you ever feel like everything is going so, so fast?” Justin said. “But you’re just going so slow?”

I trailed my fingers up and down his back. His skin was so smooth.

“Every day keeps ending and I still feel the same way.”

I lifted his chin. Do you want to do something tomorrow? I think I can get out of work early.

He shook his head. We can go out if you want.

You decide. It’s your birthday.

I don’t want to do anything.


I tilted his head back to rinse the shampoo out of his hair, shielding his eyes with my hand. Twenty-six, I said, after. That was a good year for me.

Yeah?

Yeah, you’ll like it.


He bit me gently on the chin.

I dried him off and put him in warm clothes and let him put his legs on my lap while we ate. He looked thoughtfully at his painting. I guess it is kind of depressing.

I’m just saying, if you decide to show it, you might get slapped with some sort of lawsuit.

“Shut up.”

They’re gonna start putting warnings over paintings thanks to this. You’ve changed art forever.

And here I was thinking nobody was going to remember me when I die, he said, and what the fuck was I supposed to say to that? I just took his foot in one hand and ran my other up his leg, feeling him solid and safe and here.

He was sniffling a lot, which I attributed to the spicy food and the shower crying and the fact that he couldn’t hear how annoying it sounded, until he frowned at the counter and said, What are those?

Oh. I was walking by a guy selling them on the way home.
I watched him paw at his nose. And you’re allergic.

He shrugged a little.

Yeah, your eyes are swelling up. I’ll get rid of them. The walk downstairs seemed impossibly long, so I set them out on the balcony to bring down in the morning.

Justin still looked uncomfortable. Why did you get roses?

Because I didn’t have the Justin Taylor Allergy List with me and I forgot. I can’t exactly carry it with me. It’s the size of a phone book.

Did you get them for me?


I put my hands up and let them drop, feeling caged. I don’t know, Justin, what do you think? Do you think I got roses for myself?

Why did you get me roses? He was starting to breathe fast, with this pitiful little wheeze. You hate roses.

Because I thought maybe you’d like them, okay? Jesus Christ, why do you keep asking me questions when it’s obvious there’s no right answer and you're already freaking the fuck out? What the fuck do you want me to say?

This isn't like you. You don't get me roses. You don't get me roses and you don't suggest we fucking wear wedding rings.


Again on the rings.

Because you keep doing weird shit and then acting like I'm the fucked up one for noticing that it's weird!


Gaslighting long term effects.

You’re not going to make me happy acting like somebody else, he said.

When the fuck have I ever acted like someone who doesn't want you to be happy?

A lot, a fucking lot, and you know it!

I clenched my jaw. I have always wanted you to—

I know that,
he interrupted. That is not what I said.

I paced. What the fuck am I supposed to act like? Acting like myself clearly isn’t fucking working. I'm just trying—

So stop!
he said. Stop trying! Every time it doesn’t work you’re fucking shattered about it. You’re not going to fix this. Please stop making me feel guilty for not being fixed.

And because I didn't want to access my feelings about that, I sneered. Sounds like someone’s learned some lingo from therapy,

Good. At least I’m getting one thing out of it.

Do you have to do that? In the middle of an argument you go and say something so goddamn pathetic?


He shrugged helplessly. What the fuck do you want me to do?

Fight back! Fucking say something!


He stood up and started clearing the plates. I’m going to spend the night at Daphne’s.

Damn it, Justin.

I need to get out of here for a little while.


I sighed and ran my hands down my face. Don’t forget your meds.

I won't.


He packed up some shit and was gone in two minutes, and I sat in the apartment that still smelled like roses and stared at his cry for help painting. And then I got up, went to Nova, our Manhattan Babylon, and got a blow job from the tallest, blondest trick I could find. I toasted Justin's birthday at midnight, alone.

**

The funny thing is, just about exactly seven years ago, when I stood at that flower cart and thought about buying him roses, I remembered his allergies. Don't get all moved here about sweet concerned Brian; I didn't pass on them because I was worried his delicate little throat was going to close up or some shit like that. I just realized it was going to make it even more of a fucking event, that it would turn into a fucking story about the time Brian made a romantic gesture and Justin was allergic to it, that it would get repeated, that we'd all sit around and laugh about it, and just no. No.

Now, Jesus Christ, if I could just get him to laugh about something.

But I did think about it, that night. And then I let him believe I never would have considered it, and that I never, ever would. Fuck, “let him believe,” listen to that euphemism. I fucking told him.

And then I bought him roses when he was unstable and got mad at him when he was upset that his world didn't make sense.

Long term effects.

**

He wasn't back yet in the morning when I left for work, but when I called him a few hours later I could see our apartment in the background.

Hey, I said. Don't talk, I told Cynthia I was going over some briefings.

He leaned back against the couch, looking sleepy. Okay.

What'd you get into last night?

Tequila and board games. You?

Some stud's mouth.


Hot. He yawned.

How's your birthday so far?

He shrugged.

I can still get off early, I said.

It's okay. I'm just going to sleep, I think.

Not feeling well?


Another shrug. Getting a headache.

You need to go to the neurologist.


I know. He paused. I'm sorry about last night.

I freaked you out. It's going to happen. You're not especially hard to scare.

I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed and worked through shit.
He rubbed his neck. My mom always did that. She and my dad would fight and she would walk out.

Knowing your dad I can't really blame her.

I know. But it didn't help.

I'm just trying to get through to you,
I said. It's been fucking months now, me just trying to...break through whatever's going on.

He sighed. I know. I'd explain it to you if I could.

I know you would. You'd explain fucking nuclear physics to me if you could.

It's just bad right now.


I drummed my fingers on my mouth. Let me take you out tonight.

He shook his head.

We can invite that couple you met. Daphne's friend and her boyfriend. They were insufferably boring, and straight, but they were Deaf and Justin's age and I would take any of that I could get right about now.

I don't want a party.


It's not a party. Four people. Two of them are us.

He shook his head again. I'm just really tired.

I sighed. Okay.

But maybe...maybe you can come home early?


It was all I could do not to close my eyes and thank some God I haven't believed in for thirty years. Yeah, I can do that.

We hung up, and instead of getting my shit together and getting through all the work I'd need to have done to be able to clock out early, I leaned back in my chair and let the relief I was feeling slowly ebb away because I'm just as incapable of as Justin of enjoying anything, it seems, and because something about that conversation was really, really fucking bothering me.

Because if Justin's emulating Jennifer in our little scenarios...what does that make me? You see what I'm saying?

In a burst of whatever-the-fuck, I scrolled through my phone, found her number, which for some Godforsaken reason I had saved, and called Claire.

She sounded similarly surprised to have my number. “Brian?”

“How's the homestead?”

“It's...fine. I'm on my way out the door, though, I have a shift.”

“Are you back at the bank?” She used to be a bank teller, before her piece of shit ex-husband decided she should stay home with the spawn.

“Since last year.”

“That's good.”

“Brian...”

“Did you think I would end up like Dad?” I asked. “Did you just...when we were kids. Is that something you assumed?”

Silence. Then, “Did you hit Justin?”

“Of course I didn't...how do you know that name?”

“He comes up when you google yours.”

“Why the fuck were you googling me?”

She sighed. “I'm your big sister. I have to make sure you're okay, don't I?”

I chewed on my cheek. “I'm in New York now,” I said, feeling like I owed her some bit of information. “Moved here a few weeks ago.”

“Okay.”

More silence. Why the fuck did I think this would help?

“No,” she said. “You were never like him. You found your own, unique ways to be an asshole.”

“He used to get her flowers all the time,” I said. “To apologize, or whatever.”

“I remember.”

“Do you think all shitty men do that?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Trust me.”

“Mmm.” My hand twitched on my lap, desperate to say something. Since I've started signing I just fucking say things; it's awful. “Listen, back then, if I had done what your kid said I did...you were right to stick by him. To believe your kid first. Mom would never have done that for us.”

“Well, that's true. So I guess we'll keep being shitty in our own ways, then.”

“What a relief,” I said, and we laughed together for the first time since we were kids.

**

The ultimate irony of Justin running away to Daphne's was that two weeks later, when I was dying for him to go, he wouldn't.

I had to go to a conference in Houston and I was going to be gone overnight. In my opinion, it was pretty fucking reasonable for me to not want to leave my Deaf, epileptic, profoundly depressed partner alone for a night in a city we still didn't know well, and since he couldn't come with me without spending the whole plane ride puking, gallivanting over to his best friend's for the night seemed like the most obvious solution. Justin disagreed.

“I don't know if you know this, but I have spent a night alone on my own before,” Justin said. I was standing behind his easel while he dabbed on paint and looked at me disinterestedly when I signed.

Yeah, that was before you were having seizures and making art that looks like the last conscious thoughts of the Donnor Party.

“It was not before I was having seizures,” he said mildly. “And you're exaggerating.”

I don't know why this is a problem. I was under the impression you liked Daphne.

“I have work to do here.”

So ask her to come here.

“She has school. It's not a good night.”

Okay, I'm sorry Houston didn't schedule the conference around when was convenient for you and Daphne.

He gave me an irritatingly patient look. “I'm not asking them to, Brian. I'm asking you to accept me spending a night on my own like I have done many, many times in my adult life. My adult life that I still have even though I'm disabled. So please stop treating me like some sort of child you need to find a sitter for.”

This is not about you being disabled and you fucking know it.

“Then why bring up the seizures?”

Because I'm a little more comfortable talking about them than saying I don't want to come back here and find you in the bathtub with your fucking wrists slit.

“Again,” he said. “You're exaggerating.”

You keep telling me you don't want me to worry about you, I said. Then make a fucking concession so I don't have to worry that you're okay! Just fucking go to your best friend's house, why won't you fucking do one thing for me?

He glared at me. “You have no idea all I fucking do for you.”

What's that supposed to mean?

He stopped painting and spread his arms wide. “Have you walked in and found me in the bath tub with my wrists slit?”

I stared at him.

“Okay then,” he said, and he went back to his painting.

That is fucked up, I said. You cannot say that shit and then tell me I'm not allowed to worry about you.

“I haven't said that in a long time.” He didn't look at me. “I just said I would be fine on my own for a night.”

I set my jaw and watched him work and wondered how the fuck I was supposed to go a night without being able to touch him, without being able to hold this son of a bitch in my two hands and know without a shadow of a doubt that he was here and breathing and alive.

Maybe I should cancel, I said.

“You can't.”

Maybe if...

“This will be good for me,” he said. “I need to prove to myself that I'm okay on my own.”

You're not an experiment.

“I know.” He looked at me. “I'll be fine.”

**

And he was, all through my day in Houston. I sent him a text every few hours, just updating him on my day, not enough that he'd feel like he was being checked up on, and he always answered pretty quickly and sounded all right. He called me before he went to bed, while I was still in the cab on the way back to the hotel, and he looked sleepy and sexy and he told me he loved me so that was, y'know, nice.

But I woke up in my hotel bed in the middle of the night with an awful taste in my mouth and a worse feeling in my stomach, and I snatched my phone of the nightstand and called Justin without stopping to analyze. I told himself to stay calm if he didn't pick up—he usually sleeps with his phone under his pillow so he'll feel it if it vibrates, but sometimes he sleeps through it anyway and sometimes he forgets—but he answered after the second ring. He was sitting up in bed, the lights on, and it was clear I hadn't woken him.

Hi, he said.

Christ, I thought you were dead, I said before I could stop myself. Traitorous fucking hands.

He stared at me. “What?”

Nothing. Why the fuck are you crying?

He wiped his eyes. Why are you awake?

I didn't have a good answer for that, so I just said, I asked you first. Dream?

He shook his head. I haven't slept.

Goddamn it, Justin. You have to sleep.

That was clearly the wrong thing to say. I know that! I'm trying! But I can't and it's stressing me out and it's making it worse.

Okay. Come on. You're okay.

I'm sorry. Jesus fucking Christ, I'm such a fucking goddamn useless piece of shit, how are you putting up with this? Nothing's wrong with me and I've been fucking crying for three months.


You think I wish something was wrong with you so you'd have a better reason to cry? That's pretty fucked up even for your current brain situation.

I meant more that it'd be better if I wasn't crying at all, jerk. But at least that wouldn't be so fucking embarrassing.

Knowing you you'd find a way to be embarrassed. C'mon, lie down.


He did, propping the phone up in front of him. I don't know what's wrong with me.

Yeah, me neither. It's not the move. It's not me getting in that accident.

He shook his head. It started before all that.

So what is it?

I told you. I don't know.

Well...what does it feel like?


He didn't answer for a minute, then he finally said, his voice small, “It just feels like something's wrong.”

**

Is it me? I asked, when I couldn't fucking stand it anymore. I took my shoe off and threw it at his feet so he'd turn around. Is it me?

He furrowed his brow, paintbrush in his mouth. Do you have to throw hard things at me? Can't it be, like, a napkin? Or I don't know, get up and walk the three feet between us?

Is it me?
I said again.

Christ, is what you?

I gestured at him. You. Then at this week's Incredibly Depressing Canvas. That.

He put his paint down and sat on the arm of the sofa. Brian, what are you talking about?

I've been doing everything I fucking can to convince myself it's not about me,
I said. That the problem isn't that you don't want...you know, to do this anymore.

Justin still stared at me like I was speaking something other than one of his two languages.

But you don't want to wear the rings. You didn't want to go out for your birthday. You freaked out when I got you roses. And I'm thinking...I'm thinking maybe it's me.

Brian. Look at me.

I am.


I love you. It's not you.

I searched for words. Well even if you...did I mess you up? Did I fuck you up for life?

I have no idea what you're talking about.


You know! Did I make it so like...so that you can't trust anything anymore? Did I fucking...torture you psychologically for years and now you're a fucking mess and you're never going to be happy again? Did I break you?

He slid from the arm of the couch to the cushion and took my hand. Okay. You did not break me. If not for you...God, if not for you there'd be nothing of me to break. God, Brian, you made me.

I took a few deep breaths, nodding, but then said, That would be a lot more comforting if the 'you' I made wasn't miserable, dear.

Yeah, I know. He swallowed, thinking. And about the rings...

We don't have to talk about it.


He shrugged. Clearly we do. I've just...I've been thinking lately about how you're older than me.

I felt like I'd been punched. Oh God, it is me.

Brian.


You just gave me all that shit about how it's not me and now you're telling me it is me?

“Brian,” he said sternly. “Shut up and listen to me.”

It's hard to disobey him when he uses that voice. It's amazing; he hasn't forgotten how to do it even a little.

“I've just...” he said, and then he shook his head and started signing. I've been thinking about how you're twelve years older than me so you're probably going to die before I do.

Probably, yeah.


He stared at me significantly.

Okay...? I said.

So that's it. I keep thinking about how you're going to die and I'm going to have to bury you.

You...okay. Let me get this straight. You don't want to wear wedding rings because I'm going to die first?

It's not that I don't want to wear them, I just...I keep picturing having to plan the funeral and then lowering you into the ground and how that will be the last time I ever see your ring, when they're putting you in the ground, and I'll just be standing there wearing mine and now it'll be the only one left in the world because you're dead.

What if I promise to kill you first if shit's looking pretty dismal for me? Would that be better?


I was kidding, obviously, because what the fuck else was I supposed to do when I was this fucking uncomfortable, but he replied, “Yeah,” right away with nothing but absolute goddamn simple sincerity, and fuck, it just cut me right open and left me lying there.

I took a minute to steady myself, absently brushing his hair back out of his eyes, and finally said, Sunshine. You know how you were thinking about talking to your doctor about upping your antidepressant?

Yeah.

It's time to do it.

I don't know if—


No, I said. No more discussions. You're sick and you need some help right now.

He sat next to me on the couch and rested his head on my shoulder, and I'd bet a million dollars that right at that moment we were both thinking the exact same thing. One of my favorite signs: Finally.

**

Things didn't get better right away, but they did get better, so you can all relax too.

His neurologist and psychiatrist worked together and messed with the dosages of his anticonvulsant and antidepressant, which basically meant jacking them up quickly and backing them down until they found the lowest dose he could tolerate. For two weeks or so, during the adjustment, he was kind of a zombie, but he told me he was okay, so we pressed on. They kept lowering it for about a month until he had a pretty significant seizure and started the crying thing again, so they nudged both meds back up a little and he stayed there.

It wasn't a perfect solution. His hand still crapped out on him a couple times a week. He still got migraines. And he still sometimes got that faraway look on his face or left his laptop open to tabs about genocide and animal abuse and other shit his doctor told him to stop obsessing over.

But he didn't want to die anymore.

**

Near the beginning of April, he got in touch with that gallery owner who knows sign language who'd loved him they met the year before. Her son is Deaf and a few years younger than Justin, and through him Justin met most of the people he's friends with now. And even though she didn't have any slots available to show Justin's work yet, she hired him to be her assistant, scheduling shit and screening works for the gallery. I wouldn't have guessed Justin would be that excited about a behind-the-scenes job, but he was thrilled.

It means she trusts my taste, he told me that night at Shake Shack. And it means that... He shrugged, blushing.

I nudged him. That what?

That I can get some job besides...I don't know, working for someone who has a reason to want to accommodate me or...I don't know, teaching ASL to kids. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but...

But it's not you
, I said. This is you.

She didn't hire me because she feels sorry for me, yeah. He sipped his milkshake. It's just a relief I'm still in here.

I bit into a fry, studying him. Do you want to do something tomorrow?

Sure, like what?

No, I mean like, do something, do something
, I said, and I stared at him waiting for him to get it, my eyebrows raised.

I watched him put the date together in his mind. Shit, really? he said. We didn't do anything last year.

I snorted. We barely did anything the year before that. I just figured...we didn't do anything for your birthday, I can handle some ridiculous display once a year, so maybe...only if you want to. Sue me, so I'm a little nervous about throwing him off his game nowadays.

But he reached across the table and tapped his fingers against mine.

Please stop being so scared of me now, he said. I promise. It's getting better.

He looked at me so intensely, and I stole his milkshake to swallow the lump in my throat and was very, very grateful that these conversations happened in a language no one around us could understand.

Happy anniversary, he said.

Happy anniversary, you shit.

**

Two years ago that day, we'd gotten up early, dressed in our finest jeans and ratty t-shirts, and driven ourselves up to Vermont and gotten hitched. Justin was carsick and cranky and we argued about music most of the way up and stayed in some crappy motel he paid for. Even though we were still talking then, we looked up how to say “I do,” in sign language before we got to the state house and signed it out for each other while some bored secretary married us in about two and a half minutes. We gave each other a perfunctory kiss, walked out into a cold, sunny afternoon, and had lukewarm delivery pizza as our big post-wedding meal, after we fucked up an appetite. We stayed up late looking for gay porn on the motel's pay per view and drove home in the morning, stopping at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription Justin no longer had to worry about affording.

It was, I am absolutely certain, the greatest wedding this world has ever seen, and you fuckers can eat your hearts out.

**

I took Justin to the ballet.

I know, I know. I'm such a fucking goner for this kid, it's goddamn ludicrous. The fucking ballet? But hell, I was already going to do it for his birthday, and then that didn't work out, so I figured I'd already made the mental leap, might as well see the smile on the fucker's smug little face.

And God, was he fucking entranced. I couldn't give less of a shit about ballet, so I just watched him, and fuck, you'd never have guessed he couldn't hear the music. He was just watching the shapes of the dancers, and after twenty minutes of watching him trace frantically on his thigh I took pity on him and took out the pencil and small sketchpad I'd tucked into my jacket before we left. If this had been a few months earlier he would have burst into tears right then, but instead he barely glanced at me before he started sketching, and I couldn't keep myself from smiling. That's my boy.

During intermission we walked around Lincoln Center, lit up by the lights around the fountain. We should do this every anniversary, he said.

Sure, if you want this to be your last, I said.

I'm onto you, you know.

Good,
I said, and then I wrapped my arms around him from behind and hummed behind his ear the way he likes.

He turned in my arms and looked up at me, and I kissed him, but he kept watching me. He looked...guilty, almost. What? I said.

It wasn't really because I was thinking about you dying all the time, he said. I mean it was...I definitely thought it was. But it also wasn't.

Very eloquent.


I think I knew that if we got the rings then...I was always going to remember getting them at that point in my life. And it's not really a time I want to commemorate. I nodded, and he sighed.

It just felt like it was going to last forever.

I touched my forehead to his. It's getting better, right? I needed to see him say it sometimes.

He closed his eyes. Right now I don't even remember what it felt like.

He would again. I knew it, and he knew it. The shit Justin's been through, that doesn't just fall off you with a few well-dosed pharmaceuticals and a trip to the ballet. Christ, if anyone knows that it's me.

But you know what? Sometimes, just for a fucking moment, you don't even remember what it feels like.

**

I ducked into the bathroom after the show and looked around until I saw a flash of blond hair over in the gift shop. I put my hand on his arm. Ready to go?

He was standing by a glass case, and his fingers dug into my sleeve. Look.

So I did. He was pointing at a set of steel bands. So dark they were almost black.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

Steel, I said.

He nodded. Like Pittsburgh.

I know. I cleared my throat. I was thinking a couple thousand dollars more expensive.

I can afford these, he said.

I smiled. You want to buy them?

Yes.

Well. Get to it, then.


He typed a message on his phone and handed it to the girl behind the counter, and after a little back and forth she gave him a little paper bag with two rings inside.

Subtly, so subtly no one else around us could have even noticed, we slipped them on each other's hands in the middle of the gift shop of the New York City Ballet.

And Justin smiled.

Chapter 15 - The One Where Brian Isn't There by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

I really needed just some pure, naked h/c, so here we are.

The One Where Brian Isn't There
LaVieEnRose

 

The phone rang at two in the morning.

“What the fuck,” Ben groaned, pulling his pillow over his head. “I thought once he left the state the drunk phone calls would stop.”

I shushed him and rubbed his back while I picked up the phone. “Hello?” I said, softly. Either it was Hunter, or Ben was right and—

“Get up and go to New York,” Brian said flatly.

Goddamn it. I was going to have to make Ben breakfast to make up for this shit. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Well, it's four in the afternoon here, so...early? I don't know.”

“Right.” I yawned. “Australia.” He'd left a few days ago for a conference down under. Said he'd send us a postcard back here in the Pitts, not like we were his home anymore anyway. “Wait, if you're in Australia, why the fuck do you want me to go to New York?”

“Because I'm not there,” he snapped. “Get up, get dressed. There's a flight in an hour. I'll pay.”

“Shit.” I sat up and put my feet on the floor. “What happened?”

“Yeah, that's what you're going to find out. He's not answering his phone.”

“It's...you're sending me to New York because he's not answering his phone at two in the morning?”

“Jesus Christ,” Ben said.

“Noooo,” Brian said, with fake-patience. “I'm sending you to New York because he texted me while I was in a meeting an hour ago telling me he felt like he was going to have a seizure, and now he's not answering his phone. Now don't you feel like an idiot? Get up.”

“Doesn't he...have a lot of seizures?”

“Oh! You're right! I forgot about that. He's probably fine, then. Thanks, Mikey. Never mind.”

Goddamn, he can be so fucking annoying. Scratch that: he's always fucking annoying, but I'm only sometimes fucking annoyed.

“He doesn't usually feel them coming unless they're major,” Brian said. “And they just lowered his meds again before I left.”

“Seems like shitty timing.”

“Thank you. Thank you for that. You know what, put your fucking husband on the phone, I'll send him instead.”

I ignored him. “What about Daphne? Isn't she in New York?”

“She's in France this weekend.”

“What about, I don't know, his mother?”

“You're the one with the key to our apartment. And I would rather not worry her unless there's something to worry about.”

“But you don't mind worrying me.”

“Frankly, Michael, you don't sound all that fucking worried.”

“I just think you should give him a few hours to answer his phone. Like during daylight, for example.”

I heard him take a pull of his cigarette. “I have a bad feeling,” he said after a minute. “Okay? And last time I had a bad feeling he was...it wasn't good.”

“A bad feeling.”

“Yeah.”

I wanted to make fun of that. Hell, I almost did. But I looked at Ben beside me and I just...I don't know. Couldn't. I've had bad feelings too.

I sighed. “Okay, okay. I'll go.”

“There's a cab outside your house waiting for you.”

“What the fuck? Already?”

”Go,” Brian said.

**

The flight from Pittsburgh to New York is short, but it was enough time to think about how the fuck this became my life.

I mean, imagine. Some eight and a half years ago, Brian goes home with his nine millionth trick, I head home with my nine millionth (okay, not literally, but it sure felt like it) aborted, disastrous non-trick, on a night that, Gus's birth aside, you'd never would have guessed was the start of anything but another boring ass chapter of the same boring ass book. Now fast forward to now, and I'm married to a guy I probably never would have met if Justin weren't being all about inspiring people to live their dreams or whatever the fuck that shit was that had me pin all my hopes on a comic book shop, and Brian finally broke out of Pittsburgh and was sending me to New York in the middle of the night to check the status of that trick he just happened to glance up and see under the stoplight, who is Deaf and sick now and also his fucking husband.

And oh yeah, Justin and I have a successful comic book together that was almost sort of a movie.

It was just impossible to break any of this down into something simple, that's what I'm saying. At this point, our lives were just so fucking tangled together, the good and and the bad, all of it. Brian and Justin spoke some whole new language and had moved to a whole different state—hell, Brian was in a different fucking continent right now—and here we were still balled up in each other's business.

It's hard to not be irritated sometimes. Brian and Justin would never have moved to New York if Justin weren't an artist, and I'd still have my best friend around, and he wouldn't be so fucking tired all the time if Justin hadn't lost his hearing, and I'd still talk to Brian more than once a week and I would have fucking seen him sometime in the past two months.

But then we wouldn't have the comic book. And Brian wouldn't have Justin. And Justin wouldn't have Brian.

So, like I said. None of it's simple.

**

I texted Brian once I'd landed to let him know I was there, and then on a whim texted Justin and gave him a call, just to see. Maybe he'd answer and it would turn out this whole rescue mission was as unnecessary as I thought it was.

He didn't answer, but it was still the middle of the fucking night. Brian called me a minute later.

“You know how to get to the apartment?” he asked me.

“Uh, no, but I'm sure a cab driver does.”

“Right.” He paused. “Flick the lights when you go in so he'll know someone's there.”

“I know, Brian. I have seen Justin in the past two years.”

“He might be asleep.”

“I've even seen him sleep before.”

“Yeah. I still haven't heard from him.”

“Am I to assume you're coming home?” I said.

“Not until after I get a report from you,” he said. “I don't want to miss this conference if he's fucking fine. And I don't want to sit on a flight to LA for fourteen hours not knowing what the fuck is going on.”

“I'm sure he's fine,” I said.

“Yeah, well.” I heard him light a cigarette. I wondered if he'd been smoking since our first call.

**

A fucking penthouse apartment. Like, is that really necessary? What's wrong with some other floor? Don't they want to save any money at all for Gus?

I rode up in the elevator, feeling very underdressed in my sweats, and unlocked the door of the apartment. All the lights were off, which wasn't too surprising given it was four in the fucking morning. I flicked the first light switch I could find on and off a few times and left it on. “Justin, it's me,” I said, even though he couldn't hear me, because...I don't know. No reason not to say it, right?

God, this place was fancy. That couch probably cost more than my mortgage. And Christ, look at that size of the TV...

I heard a shuffling from the bedroom and then Justin was there, leaning against the open doorway, looking confused and impossibly tired.

Hi, I said. Are you okay?

“Where's Brian?” he said, and his voice sounded wrong, almost kind of...echoey? I don't know. Fuck Brian and his bad feelings.

I took a step towards him. He's in Australia, remember?

He rubbed his forehead and didn't say anything. He used his left arm, his right one hanging limply at his side.

He said you told him you weren't feeling well, I said.

“I don't remember,” he said quietly, and then he turned abruptly and went back into his room, walking a little strangely, like he had to drag his right foot. He collapsed heavily on top of the covers, and I followed him in. To my surprise he grabbed me immediately and pulled me down on the bed, resting his head against my chest. “Head hurts,” he said.

I tried to sign where he could see me. You know I'm not Brian, right?

“Shut up, Michael,” he said with a sigh, and then he was asleep. Fuck, that was weird.

I put my hand on top of his head and called Brian. He picked up right away.

“Yeah, I think you want to come back,” I said.

“Don't you fucking lead with that,” he said, his voice tight. “Tell me what's going on.”

“He's really out of it. He didn't remember where you were.”

He sighed. “Yeah, that's a seizure.”

“He says his head hurts.”

“You think he hit it?”

“I don't think so. There's no blood or anything.”

“Why the fuck hasn't he been answering his phone?”

“I think he's just been sleeping. He's asleep again already. I can try to wake him up—”

“No, no. He needs to sleep right now. How's his hand?”

“It's...kind of like the whole right side of his body isn't working right.”

I expected that to really freak Brian out—God knows I was freaked out, but he just kind of sighed and went, “Yeah, that means it was a bad one. God, and he was alone...”

“I think he's okay.”

“Yeah. All right, let him sleep. My flight's in four hours, I'll call before I get on.”

**

I must have fallen asleep there for a little while, but I woke up a few hours later to the sun coming in the curtains. Justin was still asleep on top of me, brow furrowed, looking uncomfortable. I figured he could probably use some water, and lord knows I needed some coffee, so I carefully slid out from underneath him and went to the kitchen. God, what a kitchen.

The coffee was halfway through brewing when I heard unsteady footsteps and the sound of Justin vomiting in the bathroom. I'm not exactly squeamish; my husband and my son have HIV, things happen, but they usually like their privacy, and I had no idea what Justin wanted right now. Fuck, Justin probably had no idea what Justin wanted right now, if he was still as confused as he was the last time he was awake.

I went into the bathroom and knelt next to him, resting my hand on his back.

He choked, spat. “Brian?” he said hoarsely. I couldn't answer until he lifted his head out of the toilet, so I just rubbed circles on his back and waited until he picked up his head to look at me. He sighed and dropped his forehead down to the toilet seat. “Not Brian.” His voice broke. “What the fuck is going on?” He took several heavy breaths. “Something's wrong with me.”

I helped him to his feet, slowly. You had a seizure and you're confused, I said. It'll wear off. Do you want to call Brian?

He spat in the sink and drank some water. “Your signing sucks.”

I know. Sorry.

“I can't even hear my voice,” he said, like it was mildly interesting, and that about stopped my heart for a second when I thought I'd have to explain to him that he was Deaf, but then I remembered that he'd just mentioned my signing so he definitely knew he was Deaf, it just wasn't all really coming together right at that moment. Plus he didn't even sound stressed about the fact that he couldn't hear his voice, so I figured I'd just let that go.

Do you want to call Brian? I said again.

“Yeah. Is he going to be here soon?”

Not for a little while. Come on, let's go back to bed and we'll call him, okay?

“I'm not a kid,” Justin said, but he listened. He was shaking too hard to manage the covers, and his right arm was still useless, so I pulled them back for him and helped him into bed. I got on top of the covers next to him and said, Come here, encouraging him to prop himself up on me.

I held the phone and video called Brian. He picked up pretty immediately, walking fast. “Hey, I just got through security,” he said. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, look who's awake.” I angled the phone so Brian could see him.

Brian smiled immediately. Hey, Sunshine.

“Hi.” Justin rested his head on my shoulder. “I don't feel good.”

I believe you. Michael didn't wake you up, did he? Brian was signing slower than he usually did with Justin, either so I could understand him or because he wanted to make sure Justin did.

“No, I had to get up and throw up.”

Seizures are fun, huh?

“God, is that what this is?”

Yeah, pretty textbook. You just don't know it because you're so out of it. Because you had a—

“—had a seizure, yeah.”

There you go. How's your head feel?

“Bad, bad, bad.”

Do you remember where you were when it happened? Do you know if you hit it? We kinda need to know if you have a concussion.

“I don't remember anything after...I don't know. Where are you?”

I'm on my way. It might come back to you.

“Yeah. I want to go to sleep now.”

You do that. If you feel like you're gonna have another one, tell Michael, okay?

“Okay.” He closed his eyes and passed the fuck out, still on my shoulder. I angled the phone back too me.

“Still pretty out of it, huh?” Brian said, breezing through the terminals.

“That's the most lucid he's been so far.”

“Sometimes his vision goes for a while after a bad one. That's when he really freaks out.”

“Yeah, I imagine.”

Brian looked about as tired as I felt.

I looked at Justin's head on my shoulder. “I think he has a fever. He feels really warm.”

“Well, that would explain the seizure, then. Don't medicate him, he's allergic to a ton of shit.”

“He's not gonna have another one, is he?”

Brian shrugged. “Sometimes they come in waves, and he probably missed a dose of his meds in all the excitement. Make sure he takes them when he gets up.”

“You just said don't medicate him...”

“Well, if it's in a prescription bottle with his name on it, you can probably trust that it's safe,” Brian snapped. Fair enough. “And when he's a little less out of it he has to call his neurologist.”

He has to call him?”

“What, you think I make his phone calls for him? Yes, he has to call him.”

“I...okay.”

“I did go ahead and text his boss for him, so you can tell him that when he freaks out about work. My flight lands in LA in about fourteen hours,” he said. “I'll call then, then it's another five.”

“Okay.”

He sighed and rubbed his face. “Thanks for doing this, Mikey.”

I shrugged a little. I'm always uncomfortable when Brian gets sincere. “He's my friend.”

Brian nodded. “I know.”

**

The next thing I knew he was shaking me. “Michael? Michael.” I was still half asleep and confused about why Ben sounded so weird, but then I remembered where I was and sat up.

What's wrong?

Justin shook his head. “I don't feel right.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay.” I leaned back against the headboard and headboard and eased him back into me. “Okay, it's okay.” He couldn't hear me, but he couldn't see me sign in this position either, so I hoped just feeling my voice might be comforting, I don't know.

“Can you call Brian?” he said. His eyes were squeezed shut, so I didn't have to think of some way to cover for the fact that Brian's first plane wouldn't land for another eleven hours. I lay my hand across his forehead and tried to remember everything I knew about seizures, which wasn't much. I'd never seen Justin have anything other than the tiny ones that were just his hand. I didn't even know those were seizures until recently.

This one came quickly, and it wasn't much more than that, it turned out. Justin's arm twitched, and he hid his face with his hand and tucked himself into my side. I kept petting his hair, and when it was over, Justin turned onto his back and let out a deep breath.

“That was okay,” he said.

Should we go to the hospital?

“No, I'm okay.” He sat up, slowly. “That wasn't like the last one.”

Right, well, maybe we should still go to the hospital for the last one.

“I need to take my meds,” he said. “I'm behind.” He breathed out. “God, this is not right.”

He couldn't navigate the nightstand well with half of his body still fucked up, so I read the labels on his prescription bottles and shook out a few pills. He took them, but it looked like it was hard for him to swallow.

You have a fever, I said. Probably part of why you feel so fucked up.

He nodded and lay back on the bed. “It's good Brian isn't here,” he said. “It's good. He shouldn't have to see this.”

I brushed his hair off his forehead. It was getting long again.

He opened his eyes. “How long until Brian gets here?” he said.

**

“He was pretty alert after that last one,” I said into the phone as I paced around the living room. “So I think the one he was alone for that really fucked him up...that must have been like a completely different thing.”

“What does Brian say?” Ben asked.

“He's still on the plane, he won't be able to talk for another like ten hours. I don't even know what to do with him until then. He says he doesn't need to go to the hospital, and I forgot to ask Brian...”

“What's he doing now?”

“Sleeping, he mostly just sleeps. And then wakes up and asks where Brian is.”

“I'm sure he's grateful you're there,” Ben said. “You're a pretty good nurse.”

“Sure, with you. You can hear me when I talk to you. Justin's too out of it to look at me half the time. I'm not even positive he knows who I am. I'm pretty sure he'd cuddle with the Grim Reaper if he showed up right now.”

“Well, we'll keep that one on the back burner,” Ben said.

I heard shuffling in the bedroom and said, “I think he's up, I gotta go.”

“All right. Keep me posted. I love you.”

“I love you,” I said, and then it struck me that Justin and Brian had hung up earlier without either of them saying it. God, and when Brian was literally across the world and Justin was all sick and shit! I will never understand these two. I hung up the phone just as Justin made his way to the doorway of the bedroom. Hey, I said, and he looked so fucking pitiful that I instinctively offered my arms, and he came over and gave me a hug. He felt really young, all soft and sweaty in his pajamas.

“I'm hungry,” he said into my shoulder.

I pulled back a little. You're still really hot. How about some toast?

He nodded heavily.

Okay, come on. I went to the kitchen and dug around and he sat on one of the stools at the bar. Don't fall off that, I said.

He slumped over the counter. “I won't.” He rubbed his face. “God.”

Are you feeling any better?

“I think I'm more aware of how shitty I feel, so...yes?”

You're definitely a lot more aware than you have been.

“What the fuck happened?” he said. “How did you even get here? Did I know you were coming?”

You texted Brian that you thought you were going to have a seizure, and then he couldn't get in touch with you, so he called me and told me to come.

Justin frowned and dug his phone out of his pocket, scrolled through it, laughed a little. “What I actually said, apparently, was 'Hey I know you're in a meeting but I have that falling feeling don't freak out I just want to sleep.' Aaaaand I have twenty million texts from him. Damn, he was pissed.” He rubbed his face. “Um, where is he now?”

Plane.

Justin groaned. “He's coming back? God, this conference was so important...”

Justin, you're like, very sick right now. He's got to come back.

He sighed and propped his head up in his hand. “You've talked to him? How does he sound?”

You talked to him too.

“I did? Damn.”

I put a plate of toast in front of him. He's been staying pretty calm, actually. I mean, he's worried about you, obviously, but I don't think he's panicking.

He rested his head on the counter. “He always surprises people with that. They expect him to become a basket case when something's wrong with me but he's pretty rational about it unless I'm like, actually dying. So then people give him shit about being cold...”

You're supposed to eat that.

He sighed. “I know. Oh, God, fuck. I'm supposed to be at work.”

Brian texted your boss.

Justin snorted, then rubbed his head like it hurt. “Bet that went over well.”

Lindsay said you got a job at a gallery?

“Yeah, I'm the assistant to the owner. The pay is kind of ridiculous. I mean, Brian still thinks it's a joke, but I've never earned this kind of money in my life. And she gave me a key to this studio space downtown so I can stop making Brian flinch thinking I'm going to drip paint on the hardwood.” He took a bite of toast and chewed slowly.

That was good, I said. Very...I don't know the sign.

“Cognizant?”

...Okay, now I don't know the English.

Justin laughed a little. “I really don't remember anything after...what's today?”

Thursday.

“God. I think my last memory is sometime Tuesday night. I lost a whole day. And I must have gone to work and shit on Wednesday...I just lost all of it.”

Maybe it'll come back to you.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Not like it really matters.”

Brian was all on my case about finding out details about the seizure.

“Yeah, unfortunately I think those are lost to the sands of time.” He drank the juice I gave him, still doing everything left-handed. “He just wants to know if I fell, really. A couple years ago I got some tiny concussion when Brian—so this was his fault, mind you—dropped a fucking shelf on my head, and my neurologist was all fearmongery about how I couldn't have any more head trauma or I could like, die or whatever.”

He said you have to call your neurologist.

He nodded tiredly. “Yeah, I'll schedule a MRI just in case.”

So, um...how do you do that?

“How do I get an MRI? There's not a lot of audience participation involved.”

No, the phone call.

“Oh, I call a service and they connect me to an interpreter who works like a go-between. They speak, interpreter signs, I sign, interpreter speaks. Or I can speak, but sometimes that's more confusing for everyone.”

Sounds complicated.

He shrugs. “Gotta make calls. I use it all the time at work.”

I just figured...

He gave me a look. “What, that I have hearing people do that shit for me? That Brian's my personal secretary?” He rolled his eyes. “Get real.”

Well, you know, you keep him from self-destructing into a pile of whiskey and cigarettes and STDs. Figured he did something to return the favor.

Justin shrugged uncomfortably. “I don't do anything for him.”

I tilted my head and looked at him.

“Cut it out,” Justin said. “You look like your mom.”

You really don't get it, do you?

“I'm postictal. I don't get anything.”

P-o-s-t...what?

He waved his hand. “Don't worry about it.”

You also have a fever of like a hundred and twelve.

“Yeah, I think I have a sinus infection.” He finished the toast. “Thank you. That was good.” He paused, chewing on the inside of his mouth. “How long until Brian's here?”

His connection's in LA. He'll land there around ten tonight, our time. Then another five hours after he gets on his next flight. I don't know how long his layover is.

Justin smiled a little. “That was good. You signed that really well.”

That's not what you said earlier.

“Yeah, I'm an asshole after seizures. Brian says I called him an ugly old man one time.”

I laughed. Oh my God.

“Yeah, don't try to get me to lie down if I don't want to lie down, apparently. And with that I'm going to lie down.”

You need anything?

He shook his head as he got to his feet, swaying a little. “Thanks for being here, though. Sorry I'm not really showing you New York.”

I've seen it.

“Help yourself to anything in the fridge, and the TV...”

Justin. He looked like he was about to fucking collapse right there. Go lie down.

He laughed a little, went back to bed, and slept through the rest of Brian's first flight.

**

Brian looked, frankly, like shit when he video called me from LA. He was still in his suit, but it was a wrinkly mess right now, and he looked like he hadn't gotten any sleep on the plane. He slumped in his chair in some terminal and said, “How is he? I am going to kill him for letting fucking LA people see me like this. Tell him to kiss his dreams of moving back here someday goodbye. I can never be seen in this town again.”

“He's doing better,” I said. “He's definitely still feverish and he had another seizure a couple hours into your flight, and his hand's been twitching a lot in his sleep, I don't know if that...”

Brian blew out a mouthful of air. “Yeah, I might have to take him in when I get there. We'll see.” God, I didn't know how he was planning to get through a trip to the hospital after about twenty-four hours of no sleep.

“I can do it,” I said. “If you think I should.”

“No, it might not be necessary, and I don't want to do it if we don't need to. I'll...y'know. Assess when I get there.”

“See if you have a bad feeling?”

“I guess,” he said with a dramatic shrug, and something about that was weirdly...bonding, like Brian was just as baffled by his connection to Justin as the rest of us were.

“Do you want me to wake him up?”

Brian sighed. “He needs to sleep...but yeah, fuck it, I just sat through that whole fucking flight. He'll deal. Wake him up.”

I went into the bedroom, turned on the light, and gave Justin a gentle shake. He took a long time to wake up, blinking blankly up at me.

Hi, I said. You know what's going on?

He nodded, but he looked unsure. He raised his hand to start to sign but just looked at it. “My fingers don't work.”

It's getting better. You couldn't pick it up last time you woke up.

“Where's Brian?”

I held up the phone to him and Justin struggled to sit up. I helped him, and sat down next to him to hold the phone.

Sunshine, you look like such crap, Brian said.

Justin yawned. “You're one to talk.”

Michael's saying you might need to go to the hospital, Brian said. Thoughts on that?

“Not without you,” Justin said sleepily.

Open your eyes. I can't talk to you if you don't...Michael. Make him open his eyes.

I shook him a little, and Justin groaned and looked at the phone. “Are you in Australia?” he said.

I was. I'm in LA now. Almost home. That's good you remembered. I heard him breathe out. You look really sick.

Justin sat himself up some more. “I'm okay, really.”

Ew, fuck, don't do that brave Tiny Tim thing.

Justin laughed a little and slumped back down. “Fine.” Brian laughed too.

Hand still fucked up? Brian asked.

He nodded. “Did you really text Marie?”

Yeah. She's very concerned. I think she's gonna mother the shit out of you when you go back in, so get ready for that.

Justin groaned. “As long as that involves food. Or maybe a bonus check.”

That's right, Sunshine, milk it.

“You're being very affectionate in front of Michael,” Justin said lazily. “He's gonna catch on that you have a crush on me if you keep this up.”

I can't help it, you look like fucking Typhoid Mary over there.

Justin shook his head. “No, she didn't get sick, that was her thing. She just got everybody else sick.”

Okay, fine, you look like literally everyone except Typhoid Mary.

Justin chuckled. “Better.”

Don't fucking croak until I get there, okay? I already paid for Michael's flight up there, I'm not paying for his therapy too.

Justin stretched. “I'll try.”

You're messing with your ears a lot, do they hurt? Brian said. I'd noticed that too.

“They feel kind of...full.”

Brian paused. Is that normal? I don't know how your ears usually feel.

“Me neither.”

We can just cut them off. It's not like you're using them.

Justin lay down. “Okay.”

Drink some water, Brian signed, gently.

Justin closed his eyes. “Okay. Stop being sweet in front of Michael.”

**

We ended up moving to the couch, because Justin said he wanted to be awake when Brian got there. He considered showering, but I told him I didn't want to have to burst in there and scoop his naked body off the floor, and he agreed that sounded really unpleasant, so he settled for changing into clean pajamas and washing his face. Brett Keller had a new movie out, so we turned that on and compared it unfavorably to what Rage would have been like. Justin was starting to cough a lot, so I made tea.

“Working on that movie was the most fucking fun I've ever had,” Justin said. “I missed Brian, but...God. I never would have thought I'd fit in in LA.” He paused. “I probably wouldn't anymore.”

Because you're Deaf?

“Yeah. People there don't really slow down for you.”

You're doing okay here.

He shrugged. “I just got here. Kind of early to know how I'm doing.”

I seem to recall something about a very well paying job.

He grinned. “I guess. I just need to find a director who knows sign language and I'm set.”

Could happen. Drink your tea.

He did, and eventually fell back asleep with his head on my knee. It occurred to me as he was sleeping that this had to be the longest time Justin and I had ever spent just the two of us. Definitely since he lost his hearing, at least. When Brian had called me asking me to come up, I'd expected it to be so awkward, for Justin to reject my help and for us to spend the whole time finding something to snark about like we sort of often do, but this reminded me...I don't know, that no matter how much Justin annoys me sometimes, no matter how often I think nostalgically about the days of me and Brian versus the world...friendship just happens, whether you want it to or not. Justin and I were maybe the clearest example of that I'd ever seen. I remember the night he was bashed, all I was thinking about was Brian, and was Brian going to be okay if Justin didn't make it, and then when we found out he was going to be okay...God, I had this moment where finally it was about Justin, and I realized somehow along the way I'd started giving a shit about the kid. And now, eight years later here he was asleep on my fucking lap, and I was rubbing his back wondering how high his fever was.

Time just fucking...happens to you.

Finally, at four in the fucking morning, I heard Brian's key in the lock and I gently woke Justin and sat him up. He rubbed his eyes and coughed while I went and greeted Brian at the door.

“Hey, here,” I said, taking his suitcase away from him. Brian gave me a tired nod and took his jacket off, his face relaxing a little as he looked at Justin on the couch. Justin's face broke into a smile, and Brian crossed the floor and knelt in front of the couch, his hand on the back of Justin's neck, and touched their foreheads together. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

“How was the flight?” Justin said.

Brian pulled back a little. Fine. He looked him over. God, look at you, you are so sick, he said, but the expression on his face was so strange. Like it was kind of vaguely funny that Justin was so sick, like some inside joke only the two of them were in on.

Justin shook his head a little, smiling. “I know, it's ridiculous.”

I'm going to have to take you to the hospital, you look like you're about to fucking die.

“Urgent care tomorrow,” Justin said. “Sleep some.”

Brian kissed his forehead. Okay. Christ, you're burning up.

“Yeah. I can move my hand now, though.”

Good, we're going to need that later. Okay, ready?

Justin nodded, and Brian smoothly slipped his arm under Justin's legs and lifted him up into his arms. Justin tucked his face into Brian's neck on their way to their room.

I said, “Brian, you need anything? Something to eat?”

“No, I'm okay.” He lay Justin on the bed and came to me and gave me a hug. “Thank you,” he said into my ear. He looked at me. “You look like shit.”

“Common thread around here.”

“The couch in the office pulls out. Get some sleep.”

God knows I needed it, but I don't know, for some reason I just stayed at their doorway for a while. Brian got out of his suit and lay next to Justin, and Justin kissed his face over and over, like Brian was the one who needed comforting. Brian closed his eyes and relaxed into it.

I'm sorry you don't feel good, Brian signed, small against his chest.

“It's okay,” Justin said quietly. “I don't mind now.”

Brian pushed his face into Justin's collarbone and took a deep breath. Justin trailed his fingers over his back.

“Did you get me anything?” Justin asked. “From Australia?”

Brian lifted his head. Yeah, I got you a kangaroo.

“Oh good.”

He palmed Justin's forehead. Next time I'll take you with me.

“And I'll throw up for fourteen hours?”

From what I hear you did that anyway.

Justin groaned and laughed and slung his leg over top of Brian, and Brian pulled him into his chest and wrapped his arms all the way around them. They were still laughing a little when I went off to the office, and God, I will never understand those two! One minute Brian's calling me all fucking panicked, and then the second the two of them are together they're laughing about it.

I fell asleep to the sound of Justin coughing and Brian murmuring little “Shh shh shhs,” that he couldn't hear. And I knew they'd be okay.

Chapter 16 - The One Where Brian Doesn't Worry by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Takes place immediately after "The One Where Brian Isn't There."



The One Where Brian Doesn't Worry
LaVieEnRose

 

I woke up what turned out to be ten hours later with Justin's feverish self draped over me like a heated blanket. He was snoring softly and his right arm, draped over my chest, was twitching.

“Cut it out,” I said to it.

It didn't.

“I mean it,” I said, fixing it with my best death stare. “Give it a rest now.”

Justin coughed in his sleep and shivered, so I pulled the blanket over him and rubbed my fist against his chest, thinking.

Coffee. Coffee sounded good.

**

One thing they don't tell you, or maybe they do tell you and I wasn't fucking listening, is that you really can get used to anything. Anything at all. You know that guy in Greek mythology, Prometheus, who stole fire and so they chained him to a rock and he had his liver eaten out by some bird every day? I bet eventually even he got used to being a bird appetizer. He probably woke up every morning and spread himself out to give the bird better access. At some point, it doesn't even hurt anymore.

And nobody has me chained spread-eagled on a rock, so comparatively I'd say shit is pretty livable around here.

And then enter the tourists.

“I don't understand what the fuck is going on,” Michael said. “Didn't you say you were taking him to the hospital?”

I stood in the kitchen and sipped my coffee, glancing through the paper. “Yeah, when he wakes up.”

“Who the fuck goes to the hospital when it's convenient?” Michael said.

Outsider shit, I suppose. I'm not saying Michael doesn't have hospital experience; Ben's had a couple of health scares over the years, but they've always been just that, scares. Meanwhile when Justin was losing his hearing, we were trekking over to the hospital all the time, to have him under supervision when he started new meds, or to get him a fluid IV when the nausea was kicking his ass, whatever the fuck.

“He's really sick,” Michael said.

“Yeah, and I'm not really concerned he's going to get less sick between now and when we go. I think the doctors will still be suitably impressed.”

“That's not—”

Well, obviously that wasn't what he meant, I'm not a fucking moron. “Once we get there they're gonna hook him up to all this shit and put him through all these tests. He should rest while he can.”

Michael shook his head. “I don't understand how you're so calm.”

I didn't know how to explain it to him. Yeah, I was worried when I was across the equator and Justin wasn't answering his phone, sure, but now I was half a generous-but-still-New-York-sized apartment away from him. What the fuck was going to happen that we couldn't handle when I was right there? What exactly did Michael think Justin could go through that we hadn't dealt with before?

We heard coughing from the bedroom and the sound of Justin moving around. I rolled my eyes. “Is he actually trying to get out of bed?” I said, and crossed over to the bedroom door. What the fuck are you doing?

He was sitting up in bed, his hair mussed, his t-shirt damp with sweat. And he was glaring at me like I was the Antichrist, which amused me.

I called you, he signed, left-handed, his right still twitching in his lap. You didn't come.

Well, I couldn't see you, dear, I was in the kitchen.


With my voice, he signed, looking every inch like he was about to drag his delirious ass out of bed and kick my ass.

Say something, I said, and he did, and God, it was the most pathetic, hoarse little squeak you've ever heard. Yeah, you lost your voice, Sunshine.

He made some noise that was probably supposed to be a groan and flopped back on the bed.

I went over and helped him sit up again. I tried to uncurl the fingers on his right hand, but he pulled it away from me and shook his head. Hurts.

Yeah
. I kissed his temple. He was still burning up.

Where did you go? It was weird watching him sign with his left hand. Like hearing him talk with somebody else's voice.

Just the living room. Michael's out there pulling a Deb. I think he's about half an hour away from calling an ambulance. That I will make him pay for.

Justin dropped his head into my neck. I forgot Michael's here.

Well, you've probably fried most of your brain cells by now, so that's not surprising.

Don't call an ambulance.

In Manhattan, are you kidding? We'll take a cab.


Okay, he said, and I was relieved he seemed to have dropped the notion that we were going to Urgent Care instead of straight to the ER. With they way his hand had been jerking constantly since he got sick, they would have sent us straight to the hospital anyway for a stronger anticonvulsant, and it would have just been an annoying time suck.

Want some breakfast first? I asked.

He nodded.

I gave him a quick kiss and went to the doorway of the bedroom. “Hey, Michael?”

Michael appeared from the kitchen, wringing his hands. “Yeah?”

I flashed him my most dazzling smile. “Can you make pancakes?”

**

The fork shook in Justin's left hand. He hit me on the leg with his useless right until I looked at him. “Make him stop staring at me,” he croaked out, almost soundlessly.

I turned to Michael. “Stop watching him like he's about to drop dead.”

Michael threw up his hands. “How did you even understand that?”

Now I know what lipreading is like, I said. Turns out it's not that hard, drama queen, I said to Justin.

“Bite me,” Justin said.

I shook my head. Making everyone learn sign language for you and shit...

Justin painstakingly cut another bite of pancakes with the side of his fork. He was panting from the effort of staying upright, and eating, and fucking existing, and I had my foot casually propped up on the back of his stool to catch him if he started to slip.

How high is his fever? Michael asked.

We don't have a thermometer, I said. I assume they'll check at the hospital.

Justin slowly reached out for his juice glass. A shiver ran through him, so I made sure he was stable on the stool and went and grabbed the blanket from the bedroom. He was dangerously close to falling off the stool when I got back, so I righted him while I wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and stayed there to keep him in place, my arms around him from behind.

You are so fucking sick, I signed on him, like one of those acting class games where you're somebody else's arms. Shut up, my high school had a drama requirement. I mean, so did Justin's, but mine was more “take an elective” and less “experience a traumatic hate crime that will haunt you for the rest of your life,” but six on one, half a dozen on the other.

Justin kind of collapsed, with me there behind him to hold him up, and coughed for awhile. I tightened my grip around him and rubbed his chest.

“Brian,” Michael said, looking desperate. I glared at him.

I kept my hands on Justin and came around next to him. Justin, I said. Are you going to die in the next five minutes?

He shook his head.

Good, I said. Then finish your breakfast.

Justin nodded and picked his fork back up. Michael and I stared each other down until he finally sighed and went to load the dishwasher.

You're torturing him, Justin said to me.

I can't help it. It's so easy.

He loves me. You should be happy.


Somehow that struck me as the sweetest thing Justin had ever said. I can't really explain it. It wasn't the deepest or the most meaningful or whatever, it was just...fucking sweet, and I kind of cocked my head and looked at him and just thought about the fact that this kid knew that people loved him and knew that I wanted people to love him, and that he was able to translate all of that from Michael staring at him and me asking if he was dying.

He might be a little shit, but he's a sweet kid, really.

I don't look happy? I said.

You look okay.

I kissed his lips, sticky with syrup. I'm happy to be home. Eat, okay? You never eat the hospital food.

He took a shaky breath. I'm scared.

You don't have to do a thing. I'm going to take care of it.

I feel really bad now
, he said, and yeah, that got to me a little. Sue me, despite what gay Pittsburgh would have you believe, I really am a mere mortal. I stood up and wrapped my arms around him.

You don't have to eat any more, I signed after I hugged him. We can go now.

Justin changed his shirt, I left Michael money and then some to get a cab to the airport, Michael hugged Justin and impulsively kissed his cheek, and I took the little waif to the hospital.

**

I gave my little speech at the front desk that I knew I'd be repeating eight million times before the day was over. “This is Justin Taylor. March eleventh, 1983. He has a fever and epilepsy and he's been having small seizures. And he's Deaf and we need an interpreter.”

I hate interpreting Justin's doctor's appointments with a fervor I usually save for country music or the Gay and Lesbian Center. It's too much jargon, it's too high-stakes if I get something wrong—someday I'm going to touch the wrong finger and sign seven instead of eight and someone will fuck up his dosage of something and his brain will explode, and one of the medications he's allergic to is oxazolidinedione and do you really trust yourself to fingerspell that right—and it means that instead of being there as an advocate for Justin, or God forbid as support for him, I have to be a neutral party, and that's just not how this little arrangement we have goes.

The nurse at the reception desk told us an interpreter would be down soon, but our stay in the waiting room was short because the continuous seizures had everyone real excited, so we still didn't have an interpreter when we were bundled over to one of those curtained-off cuticles in the ER. They took his temperature—an impressive 103.5, basically the only time Justin's ever done anything by halves—and started him on IV fluids because they said he was dehydrated, which I felt strangely guilty about. They'd had him change into a gown, and that plus the IV made him look a lot sicker than he had back a the apartment, and I had to fight the irrational urge to bring him back there.

I'd had them page Justin's neurologist but he wasn't here yet, and since we'd only lived in New York a few months at that point I didn't know him well enough to know how soon he'd be here. The on-call doctor ordered an EEG and an MRI which any idiot can do anyway—hell, it's exactly what I would have ordered, if these hospitals would finally wise up and let me call the shots for this boy—so there wasn't really much of a rush. Except we still didn't have an interpreter, so I had to stand there and sign all these questions to Justin about his sleeping habits, his seizure symptoms, how long he'd been sick. And with Justin's lack of voice and foggy brain and one working hand, it was taking him a long time to sign out the answers, and it was frustrating as fuck because of course I knew the answers already, and I still had to go through the process of dragging them out of him.

At one point the doctor said to me, “You know, you can answer these questions yourself if you know. It would save some time.”

I stared at him. “I'm not the patient.”

“I know, but—”

I clenched my jaw. “Would you normally allow the patient's partner to answer for them, when they were fully capable of answering themselves? I wasn't here when he got sick. I don't know what his seizures feel like. So either get us the fucking interpreter we asked for or we can continue.”

He sighed. “What medications are you taking?” he asked, and I took a deep breath through my nose and watched Justin slowly fingerspell drugs I knew by heart.

You need to chill, Justin said, after the doctor was gone. They're going to get a bouncer and kick you out.

Yeah, they would have bouncers but not interpreters. I sat in the chair by the bed and tried to, in Justin's words, chill.

Justin signed a quick I love you and slipped his shitty right hand into mine. Did you do this when I was bashed? Rage at the doctors?

So, okay, this is a thing he'd been doing lately. And I knew it was because of therapy, even though Justin hadn't said as much. I know it was good for him. I knew there were still parts of this story he didn't know, and that that wasn't healthy for him, and that he deserved to know.

That didn't mean I wanted to talk about it. But the thing is...when it was just us? It wasn't as hard as you might think.

You can get used to anything, including the fact that your partner was beaten almost to death in front of your eyes two minutes after saying he'd had the best night of his life.

I brushed his hair off his hot forehead. No, I was just in shock then.

He nodded.

And that was nothing like this, really. They took you away the second we got there, brought you into surgery. No sitting around like this.

VIP service.


I kissed his cheek. Yeah.

I bet you looked handsome, he said. Sitting in the waiting room in your suit.

I was a bloody, snotty mess,
I said.

He shook his head. You're pretty when you cry.

I snorted. Liar.

I wish I could have been there for you.

You were a little busy in surgery.

No, just lying there really.
He leaned into my hand. I'm here for you now.

Sure are, I said, not because I needed him to hold me up or anything, but because I knew he just needed reassurance that this wasn't like the bashing. He probably felt worse than he did any of the last dozen times we'd been through the little hospital thing, and the fever was probably making this seem a lot more fucked up for him than it actually was.

Plus I knew it helped him to feel like he had a job. Justin's not great in crisises, never has been. He's outstanding in the aftermath, once the storm is over, but he freezes up when shit is actually going down, and sometimes you just have to assign him a thing to do to keep him from shutting down. If he thought he needed to hold my hand through this...maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world to let him believe it, as much as it irked me when anyone, Justin included, tried to make Justin's health about anyone but Justin.

Are you scared now? he asked.

Still, I wasn't going to lie to the boy. I shook my head.

I believe you, he said.

Good.



**

I'll admit I got a little antsy when he was gone for the MRI, but that was mostly because he still didn't have a fucking interpreter with him. He's allergic to the contrast dye, and even though that was on his chart, obviously, and on one of the twenty paper bracelets they put around his wrist with a name of a drug he can't have, the thought of Justin pinned to a table with no voice while people talked around him kind of freaked me out. He'd been moved to a real room by that time, and I alternated between pacing around it and being anywhere else, the cafeteria, the vending machines, the waiting room, anywhere.

I figured now was as good a time as any to call his mother.

“How long do you think he'll be there?” she asked.

“They might let us go today,” I said. “Maybe overnight.”

“How's he doing?” I knew she asking if he was freaking out. The kid, understandably, is not a huge fan of hospitals.

“He's okay,” I said. “I think right now he feels too shitty to really care too much about anything but feeling better.”

She sighed. “Yeah. How are you?”

I scratched my neck uncomfortably. “I'm fine. I'm worried about his allergies, but I always am when he's here.”

“It'll be nice when Daphne's a doctor,” she said.

“Oh, God yeah. I'm gonna make her do all his shit.”

That probably spurred the ridiculous conversation I had with Justin after he got back from the MRI. He's always groggy after them—lying perfectly still in a claustrophobic tube for an hour is kind of disorienting—and he was curled up on his side in his bed. They were coming to stick the electrodes on him soon for the EEG, so this was our last foray before he looked like something out of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.

Maybe I should go to medical school, I said.

He smiled. Yeah, that could be fun.

You'd help me study?

Sure. You'd steal me all sorts of narcotics?

Oh, absolutely.


He stretched. Where do you want to go?

Columbia, probably.


Justin looked at me dubiously. Pretty good school, Kinney. Not sure you can hack it.

I climbed up on the bed with him and helped him curl up against my chest. I can do anything, I said. Thought you knew that by now.

I probably do, he said. I'm delirious, remember?

I kissed him. I forgot.

That doesn't bode well for medical school.

You have to know fevers to be a doctor?

I'm pretty sure.

Damn,
I said. So much for that dream.

I'm sorry
, Justin said. I know you loved the idea for a whole ninety seconds.

Yeah. Longer than I've loved almost anything.
I kissed him. Almost.

Gimme a break. Kid was sick.

**

I sat in the chair with my ankles crossed on the bed and watched the screen that was recording the EEG. It was steady most of the time, small spikes, but periodically they'd get larger, sharper, and Justin's hand would start twitching again.

I kicked him during one of the spikes. He opened one eye.

I held up my newspaper. Hey there, Doc Brown. Got an eight letter word for 'typical political talk?'

He closed his eyes, and I watched the EEG dance, chewing the inside of my mouth, but he opened them a minute later.

Rhetoric, he fingerspelled, slowly.

Rhetoric. I smiled a little and studied the puzzle. That's very good. 'Greek salad staple,' four letters. That's gotta be feta, right?

He nodded sleepily.

'Princess who was captured by Jabba the Hut.' I know that one and I haven't even seen those fucking movies.

Can I have some water?
he asked.

I took the cup off the nightstand and held the straw to his lips, and he sipped slowly. His eyes glowed with fever. Give me another, he said as I settled back in the chair.

'Enthusiasm.' Four letters. Second letter's e.

He thought, then smiled. Zeal.

You're a smart kid,
I said, and glanced up at the EEG. It was calm again.

Another.

'Canada's third largest city.'

He shrugged. How many letters?

Six.

Ottawa?


That works.

I'm not sure. Write it in pencil, he said.

No way.

**

Justin's neurologist came to tell us the results of the EEG. Two guesses if he had an interpreter with him, and you only need one of them.

He shook my hand, and Justin's left, but when he started to talk I cut him off.

“We're not doing this without an interpreter here,” I said, signing for Justin.

Dr. Pearson nodded. “I know this isn't ideal, but I really need to talk you through this results so we can get started with treatment.”

“I understand that, but you're standing there with a face like you have bad news and that means I need to be sitting there holding his fucking hand, not interpreting. So please, go out there, pull whatever doctor strings you have to pull, and get us a fucking interpreter.”

“Brian,” Justin croaked.

I looked at him.

“Just have him tell you,” he said. “And you can tell me after. You don't have to interpret.”

No, I said.

It's just wasting time. It's fine.

This is about you. I shouldn't know before you do.

Please?
he said. “It's okay,” he said to Pearson. “I give whatever permission I need to give, just...tell him, it's fine.”

So I stood there and listened while Pearson told me Justin had an ear and sinus infection—what did I tell you, never anything by halves—and they'd need to give him the one antibiotic he can tolerate and, since he's allergic to fucking everything but aspirin, somehow, load him up on that to bring the fever down. The real concern, obviously, was the seizures, and normally they'd dose him with benzos to stop them, but that's not an option for Justin, so he wanted to try high doses of something called fosphenytoin until he stopped seizing, but it's a heavy drug with some potentially nasty side effects and there was, of course, no guarantee he wouldn't have an allergic reaction.

“Okay,” I said, hating every fucking second of this, hating talking about Justin right in front of him, hating talking in front of Justin period. “Okay, do it.”

He nodded and left, with an apologetic smile at Justin, and I breathed out and sat next to the bed and repeated it all to Justin. He watched and nodded and asked a few questions that I answered as best I could.

“They're supposed to give me an interpreter,” he said, quietly, because what else could he say?

I know. I'm going to sue fucking everyone.

Everyone?

Yeah. Everyone we've ever met.

Justin nodded and kissed my hand.

**

The IV was in, there were ice packs under Justin's arms and between his legs, and he was panting.

You know Latin? I asked. 'Letter after epsilon,' four letters. Are you having trouble breathing, what's up?

I'm just cold.


So you're panting?

Yeah. I don't know.


I put my hand on top of his head. What do you think? Third letter's T, you can do it.

I don't want to.

I don't care, come on.


He shivered so violently I thought he was seizing for a second.

I know, I said. I know this sucks. I rubbed my palm up and down his chest.

He sniffled a little and fingerspelled Zeta.


That's my good boy. 'Minus,' four letters.

He choked on a sob. “Less.”

**

I don't even remember falling asleep, but I woke up at some point with my arms and head folded on the bed next to Justin and his hand gently shaking my shoulder. I sat up, cursing my fucking back. You okay?

He nodded, and pointed at the foot of the bed, where Pearson stood with some young guy.

“His fever's down two degrees,” Pearson said, and the guy, thank everything that is holy, was an interpreter. Swear to God, if Justin hadn't already made an honest man out of me, I would have proposed to the fucker then and there. “The seizures have stopped. He's going to need antibiotics for another ten days, but you can do that from home.”

We can go? I signed. Let the interpreter do the work. I wasn't here for Pearson.

He nodded. “I want you home from work until you're fever-free for twenty-four hours, Justin, okay? And listen to your body after that. Your brain needs time to rest and recover.”

Can I ask him a question? I asked Justin.

He nodded.

The seizure at the start of all this, I said. The one he was alone for. He's never been out of it after one like he was for that, and he said he doesn't usually feel that bad. We...can assume that was a larger one, right? A...what's it called?

“Tonic-clonic,” Pearson said.

I nodded.

“I don't want to speculate,” he said. “But it's definitely concerning, and it's something we're just going to need to be keep an eye on.”

He's never had one of those before, I said. Except for right after his initial head injury.

Justin gave me a strange look.

Right? I asked him. There haven't been others?

He shook his head.

So what does that mean? I said. Does it mean he's getting worse?

“Probably not,” Pearson said. “Again, I don't want to speculate. Epilepsy is very variable. Someone having a type of seizure they've never had before isn't uncommon. And it doesn't mean it's going to happen again.”

So we just wait and see.

“We wait and see.”

I looked at Justin, who nodded.

Okay, I said.

**

Justin slept in the cab home and was still groggy when we got to the apartment. Which was full of groceries.

Justin chuckled. “Fucking Michael.”

I helped him get settled in bed and gave him a slow kiss. He pawed at me when I tried to pull away.

I'm not fucking you right now, I told him. You will die.

“Good way to go, though,” he said. His voice was starting to come back. He kept batting and pulling at me until I relented and lay down next to him on the bed.

How are you feeling? I asked him.

Pretty crappy, he admitted. My ears hurt.

How about here?
I asked, and pushed on his sinuses with two fingers. He whined and pushed me away, and I chuckled. I think this is all because you didn't take your allergy meds, y'know. Pollen season started and your face exploded.

He yawned. You're the one who wanted to live close to the park.


I rubbed up and down his back. I should start calling the caravan. Michael must have spread the news of your imminent demise. My phone started blowing up a few hours ago.

He groaned, and I stood up and headed to the kitchen to make the calls. Before I left, though, his little voice went, “When did I have a seizure?”

I turned around. I tilted my head and said, Would you like me to list them all? even though I knew what he meant.

“Was it in the garage?” he asked.

I nodded a little. Before the ambulance got there.

“Did you call the ambulance first?”

I sighed and sat at the bottom of the bed, pulling Justin's feet into my lap. Yeah. 911. They had me stay on the line, so I didn't call anyone else until I was in the ambulance. Your mom first, then Michael.

“Did anyone else come to the garage? I always picture you alone the whole time.”

I shook my head. People came pretty quickly. Someone came out after...I don't know, two minutes, three? And then there were a ton of people. Daphne. I always try not to think about her, kneeling on the pavement with me, getting blood all over her pretty pink dress. It doesn't fit with the Daphne I know.

You know what I always wonder?
he said.

A lot, apparently, I said, because I didn't know how to not joke right now.

He smiled a little. What you told the police when they talked to you. How you told them you were related to me.

I believe I said we were “seeing each other.”

He laughed at that. Seeing each other. Seeing each other naked, maybe.

I lay him back gently on the bed and carefully climbed on top of him, keeping my weight off his body. He was breathing in these congested little sighs, like a baby animal. His hair was soft under my hand, and he looked up at me so sleepy and trusting, his fingers trailing up and down my sides.

We stayed like that for a while. Seeing each other.

**

Justin's recovery was slow. The fever lingered, and he spent days working his way through tissue boxes faster than I could buy them and falling asleep in front of the TV. But he didn't have any more seizures.

Wild suggestion, I know, I told him, watching him languish on the couch. But what if you took a shower at some point?

He threw a balled up tissue at me.

The fever kept going up at night. He'd wake up shivering, and I'd wake up with his hot face pressed against my neck.

I switched on the light. You're doing it again.

What, being sick?


I kissed his nose. Yeah.

**

How do you stay calm? he asked me, a few nights later. His fever had finally broken a few hours ago, so we'd started the countdown for him to go back to work. My Australia time off had come to an end, so I was headed back the next day.

I'm like the Hulk, I said. I'm never calm.

You scoff at Star Wars and then quote Avengers to me.

We were eating Chinese food at the coffee table, stretched out on the floor pillows. Justin was still sneezy and said his ears hurt when he changed positions, but other than that he was almost well.

I keep thinking about when you were in the hospital, Justin said. I was a mess.

That was different. You had no idea what was going on. I was with you, I knew you were fine.


And I think I cried every minute you weren't looking at me when you had cancer.

I put down my chopsticks. I didn't know that.

He winced. Sorry.

You held it together for me, though,
I said. That's all I'm doing.

So you're going to go to work tomorrow and lock the office and cry?


I thought about that. No, I guess not.

See, it's not the same.


I don't know, I said. I guess I just do what I need to do and try not to...I don't know. Think about it.

Like I said: you can get used to anything.

Justin chewed slowly, watching me.

Oh yeah, and what's that look? I said.

Nothing, I just think it's weird that the whole narrative is that I'm the sick one.

You don't look sick to me,
I said, and I tackled him onto the cushions and yanked down his pants and made up for lost time.

**

Work went okay. My brain drifted every so often to the possibility of Justin seizing in the apartment in a puddle of blood, and at one particularly neurotic moment I considered calling him and seeing if he'd come to the office and just...be here, but I shook it off quickly. We had a new client who gave me bedroom eyes for thirty minutes through a meeting and a blow job for five minutes afterwards, so that did a lot to keep my mind off everything. And when I got back to the apartment Justin had put the leftovers of the lasagna Michael made for us—that guy—and the whole place smelled like heaven, and he was messing around with oil pastels at his desk and I thought...okay. Okay.

Six hours later, I dreamed about him seizing on a garage floor in a puddle of blood and woke up tasting acid with Justin's hands on my shoulders. “Hey, hey,” he was saying. “Okay, it's all right. Hey, baby, hey.”

I dropped my forehead down to my knees and clung to him with both hands.

“Okay,” he said, smoothing his palm over my hair. “Okay. There it is.”

 

Chapter 17 - The One Where Justin Goes to a Hockey Game by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

"I hate hockey," Justin said.

The One Where Justin Goes to a Hockey Game
LaVieEnRose

 

Let's get this out of the way: I have absolutely no, zero, zilch interest in business. I'm working on my Master's in Education. I've told my dad that a hundred times, and it's always the same thing: “Son, trust me. Everything is business.”

Today, there was an extra dose of, “You should be grateful for this kind of opportunity” and “Not everyone has the kind of father you do” and “Lucky I'm bringing you along with me” and on and on and so on and so forth while he straightened my tie outside this advertising agency in Astoria. My dad never learned more than a few signs, but I've been reading his lips and seeing these speeches my entire life, so I could practically do it with my eyes closed.

We walked into this office that was...kind of amazing. The lobby had high, lofty ceilings with wooden beams criss-crossing and cutting sharp angles in the corner, and the whole thing was done in chrome and dark wood. A blonde woman smiled at us from a desk in the center. “Can I help you?”

“Reg Breyer,” my father said. “And this is my son, Leo.”

“And you are...” She looked at a clipboard on her desk. “Breyer and Son Hearing Aids. Sorry, I've been out of the office so we had a temp doing the scheduling. Italy,” she said to me, eyes glittering. “I bought nine pairs of shoes.”

I decided I liked her.

“Hearing aids, okay, so I'm going to assume you're with...wait, Isabel? That's not right.” She shook her head. “No, you should be with Brian.”

“We heard Isabel was good,” my father said.

“Isabel is fantastic,” she said. “But Brian's the president. The Kinney in Kinnetik. And I think he'll have a special interest in managing this account. Let me go check if he's available, and I'll be right back with you?”

My father agreed, and she headed back through a set of glass doors. My father looked at me. “So you're going to be paying attention here, right?”

“I told you I would.”

“And if he asks you—”

“Then I'll tell him I've been wearing your hearing aids my whole life and they're phenomenal,” I said. “It's not going to come up, Dad.”

“People like to hear a product's good before they throw their weight behind it,” he said. “Even ad execs.” He lowered his voice and looked around. “Not that we'll be sticking with this one. Just moved to New York this year, from Pittsburgh? When you see some of the agencies we're meeting with later...”

The woman poked her head out from behind the door and beckoned to us, and we followed her into a room with a high, rounded ceiling, a couch, a table, and a massive wooden desk. The only color in the room came from two big abstract paintings, one behind the desk and one on the wall behind the couch. The acoustics in here were probably amazing, I thought idly.

A handsome guy somewhere in his thirties shook my Dad's hand, then mine, giving me a bit of a smile. “Brian Kinney,” he said.

“Reg Breyer,” my father said. “My son, Leo.”

“Nice to meet you,” Brian said. “So you're...” Brian looked down at his paperwork. “Hearing aids. Huh. And you weren't originally scheduled with me? How did that happen?”

“The temp,” I said.

My dad shot me a look, but Brian nodded and said, “That's right. Well, you're in the right place now, that's what matters. Please, have a seat, and tell me what you're looking for.”

We sat on the couch and Brian rolled his desk chair over, reading our file. “So you have an interest in hearing aids, huh?” Dad said. “Your secretary said.”

“Assistant. And yeah, my partner's Deaf.”

“Your...business partner?” Dad asked.

Brian pointed to a thick black ring on his left hand without looking up from our file.

Dad cleared his throat. “Ah. Does she wear hearing aids?”

“Heeeee does not, he's profoundly Deaf.” Hearing aids are only helpful if you have some residual hearing, since all they do is amplify what you already have. No residual hearing, no use wearing aids. “He used them for a while before he lost all of his hearing. So I have some experience. And, of course, vested interest.”

“So he signs?” I couldn't help but ask. “Your partner?”

Brian nodded, and I tried not to look too excited.

“Did he go to Gallaudet?” I asked. “Maybe I know him."

“No, he lost his hearing in his twenties.”

Dad put his hand on my back, either to shut me up or show me off. Or both. I looked at him. “Leo was born Deaf,” Dad said. “He's the reason I got into hearing aids. Nothing was giving him the kinds of results he needed to be able to speak and follow conversations. But now look at him."

Brian nodded slowly. “That's great. You know, we can do this in sign language—”

He doesn't sign, I said.

Brian raised an eyebrow. Do you want an interpreter? His signing was smooth, confident.

It's fine, I read lips well. 


I could have mine here in twenty minutes. She's very good.

I'm okay, really.


Brian then laid out his plan for an ad campaign, and I'm not going to lie and say I found it particularly captivating—I told you, I have no interest in this shit—but it did sound innovative, and I couldn't not notice how Brian faced me directly and spoke clearly, and I'm not going to pretend that didn't help win me over. Brian talked for ten minutes, and in that time he'd put together a complete two-year plan for Breyer, with phases of advertising, tiered marketing campaigns, and all sorts of shit I understood in some vague sort of way.

And then my dad hemmed and hawed about the other agencies we still needed to hear from and I remembered what he'd said out in the lobby. He had no plans of hiring Kinnetik.

Brian said, “Of course, naturally you weigh your options. Who else are you talking to?”

Dad looked like he was considering not answering, but he also wanted to show off who he scored meetings with. “Ignite and Irina Braverman.”

“All right, well, between you and me, Ignite just lost their art department director and they're floundering. You don't want to get in bed with them right now. Now, Irina's a genius. Does incredible work...when she does it, which isn't often anymore, because she brought in eleven million dollars for herself alone last year so she's not exactly hungry. If you sign with her, you're not going to be working with her; you'll be working with her intern's intern's intern. You're getting the name brand without the name. See, here, you get a boutique agency with a dedicated, powerful focus, and the guy with his name on the front personally invested in the health and success of your business.”

My dad hesitated.

“Tell you what,” Brian said. “There's a Rangers game tonight and we have a company box. Why don't we take in the game and talk a little more about what I can do for your bottom line?” He turned to me. “I'll bring my partner. He'd love to hear about Gallaudet.”

Well. My dad would never turn down a hockey game.

“One thing, though,” Brian said, as he let us out. “Justin doesn't read lips.” He looked at me like he was trying not to smile.



**

Brian was already in the box when we got there that night, signing urgently with someone short and blond. What was the name Brian had said? Justin.

My dad nudged me. “What are they saying?”

I hate hockey, Justin said.

Brian said, Really? I didn't know that, because you haven't told me five hundred times.

I still don't get why I have to be here.

People like me more when you're around. You make me look like I have a soul.

You're going to hell.


I care about you and that makes them wrongly assume I have the capacity to care about other people. Plus you're charming, and I want this account. This guy's richer than Satan and this is our reward for you losing your hearing.

Am I also supposed to be fooled into thinking you have a soul, or...

You should be happy about this,
Brian said. Hearing aids! You love hearing aids.

Do I?

You will once I devise an amazing Deaf-positive marketing campaign for them.


He rolled his eyes. Deaf-positive. This guy won't even sign with his son.

I'll buy you something pretty for the apartment
, Brian said.

Oh, you bet your ass you will.

Brian smiled. Is that a threat?

“They're, um, just talking about the game,” I said, mentally tucking away “richer than Satan” for future use.

We entered the box and Brian turned to us with a dazzling smile, shaking my hand—mine first!—and then my father’s. “So glad you could make it,” he said. “This is Justin Taylor, he’s an artist and a gallery curator in Chelsea.” Just introducing you he signed in an aside to Justin.

I figured, Justin said, with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes.

Brian looked at him inscrutably and then signed while he said, “Justin, this is Reg Breyer, his son Leo.”

Justin shook our hands, then showed me his sign name, one finger tapped next to his mouth. I don’t have one, I said. Just fingerspelled.

My friend Ben is the same way, Justin said. I think he was jealous he didn’t get a sign name.

Leo's a good Deaf name,
I said. Easy to fingerspell, easy to lipread.

My dad asked Brian some question about the game, and that lead to Brian going up to the glass to point something out on the ice, and Justin and I drifted over to the refreshment table at the other end of the box.

So, father son business, Justin said to me. That's what my dad always wanted from me.

It's father and son in name only,
I said. I'm working on my Master's in Education. But it's Spring Break so I couldn't get out of being dragged along. No offense.

None taken, I was dragged here too. Where are you studying?

Gallaudet. I did undergrad there too.

Justin groaned. I am so jealous. I'm consistently annoyed I didn't lose my hearing a few years earlier so I could have gone to Gallaudet.

It's not too late,
I said.

Yeah, it is. My life's too settled now. We sat down.

You sign really well, I said. I would have guessed you were a lifer. So does, um... I gestured at Brian. Fingerspelling his first name felt way too informal, given the suit he was wearing.

Justin showed me his sign name, a B and a K at his temple, then smiled. Thanks. We only started learning three years ago, but, you know. Plenty of practice.

I didn't learn until late childhood,
I said. My parents tried the oral thing for a while. Finally I convinced them to send me to a Deaf school.

His eyes lit up. How was that?

Amazing.


I feel so jealous sometimes that I missed out on all these experiences of being young and Deaf, Justin said. I had a good life and...I think I enjoyed being hearing. I don't know. But I think about all the stuff I'll never get to do as a Deaf person and I get so depressed sometimes. If I'd gotten to go to Deaf school and make Deaf friends and really be entrenched in Deaf culture instead of now...I still feel kind of outside, some Deaf people still look down on me.

You're always going to find people who think they're Deafer than you, I said. I get it for not having Deaf parents.

Same with gay people, I guess. God forbid you be bisexual.

Gatekeeping.

Justin nodded. I have a friend who didn't realize he was gay until college, and he feels the same way, and like...I get it. Being a gay teenager was awful, it was really fucking awful sometimes, but it was also...you know, formative. And if you miss that there's no going back.

The game started, but Justin and I barely paid attention. We talked endlessly about Gallaudet, and art, and I asked about his Deaf friends in New York and he asked about my girlfriend in DC.

Is it weird dating a hearing guy? I asked.

I think it would be if we hadn't met way before I lost my hearing. He was there with me when I was figuring everything out. In a lot of ways he's as Deaf as I am. He glanced over at him and my dad, deep in conversation. In other ways not.

Yeah.

You read lips? What are they talking about?


I looked over and watched them for a minute. Us.

Of course. Two hearing guys can't plan a campaign on hearing aids without giving lip service to the Deaf poster boys,
he said. He slumped in his seat a little. Sorry. Very cynical.

No, that’s pretty much exactly what’s going on. I would know, I’ve been the mascot my whole life.

Jesus.

I’m kind of surprised Brian didn’t get an interpreter.


Justin gave me a significant look. That makes two of us.

Gotcha.


I mean, you can get by without one. He hesitated. Can I ask you something?

Of course.

So I have this little brother, he has a cochlear, and his parents are raising him oral.


Oh, yeah, okay. Let’s get into that.

We were so deep in conversation that I’d honestly forgotten a hockey game was even happening—I couldn’t hear anything other than the occasional whistle, and Justin I assume couldn’t hear that—when Brian came over a while later. He gave a tight smile to Justin and asked him, Having fun?

He returned it. Sure am.

Fabulous. Enjoying the game?

No, not at all.


Then would you come over and socialize with us for a while? They both still had these fake smiles plastered on their faces.

Justin craned his neck around Brian to see where my dad was standing. Oh, did you get an interpreter?

Brian’s smile slipped. I can interpret.

So now you’re not even in the conversation? It’s just me talking to this guy who did exactly to Leo what my dad is doing to Luke about what an amazing ad man my partner is and how sad it is that I’m too Deaf to use his amazing product? Pass.

You know, I have spent hours making boring as fuck small talk in galleries.

You like art. And real quick, remind me what language that was in?

I can come over and interpret
, I said, but only Brian saw.

And it’s not with someone who thinks you’re an object of pity. Or worse, Justin continued.

Brian glanced over his shoulder and then looked at Justin, hard. Darling. Do you think we can pick this up at home and right now you just go over there and make conversation for five minutes? Leo said he’ll interpret.

Fine.

My hero
, Brian said.

We went back over to my dad, and he tucked me under his arm and ruffled my hair and directed my head sideways to show off my hearing aid to Brian, and Justin sipped his drink and watched politely while I interpreted. Brian was making an effort to sign while he spoke now that Justin was here, but the thing about simcomming is you inevitably end up favoring your stronger language and your weaker one starts to crumble, and it wasn't hard to tell which was Brian's stronger language.

Finally, Brian nudged Justin forwards a little, and my dad seemed to notice him. “So you're an artist!” my dad said.

I am. I'm preparing for a small show in the village and I also curate for a gallery in Chelsea.

I interpreted, and Brian signed, small, Could you speak, please?

No
, Justin signed back.

“Congratulations,” my dad said. “That's an incredible achievement.”

Thank you very much.

“Can I ask you how that job works out for you?” he said. “I imagine not every artist who walks in knows sign language.”

Of course not, Justin said. But I'm an assistant to a woman who's hearing and signs. Most of what I do is screening artists before we meet with them, and then administrative tasks for her.

“Oh, okay. That makes sense,” Dad said.

Brian glanced at Justin. “Justin is more than capable of doing anything a hearing person would do in his job,” he said, and I signed it for Justin. “He's just new to the job, so of course he's not running the gallery right away. But he will, someday, if that's what he wants. He'll have an interpreter.”

Dad said, “Of course, in an ideal world, that would be the case. But unfortunately we all know that's not the case, right?”

Justin raised an eyebrow at Brian.

Brian says, “Well, of course there are challenges.”

“If your boss didn't sign, she probably wouldn't have taken a chance on you at all, right?” Dad said. “Even though of course she should have, but some people are just...close-minded. I'm sure she knew you'd have a difficult time getting hired somewhere else. I keep telling Leo, this is the problem with something like a degree from Gallaudet...you're automatically limiting yourself to Deaf jobs, or getting lucky and finding an exception like you did.”

Brian closed his eyes briefly, and I forced myself to interpret that without wincing, or hitting my father.

Getting lucky, Justin repeated. I saw Brian's fingers very, very lightly grab the back of his sleeve.

I'm sorry, I said.

Justin shook his head a little and turned to Brian. “I'm not feeling well, I'm going to go home.”

Dad said, “Hey, he speaks real well.”

“Dad,” I said.

Justin shook my dad's hand and then mine and handed me his card before he walked quickly out of the box. Brian watched him go and then said, “I'm just going to get him into a cab, I'll be right back. Keep an eye on Henrickeson for me, let me know if he...” He waved his hand like he was too lazy to come up with the rest of the sentence and followed Justin.

I waited a beat and then said, “I'm going to go ahead and go to the bathroom,” to my dad, who shrugged and opened another beer.

It didn't take me long to spot Justin speedwalking towards the exit. Brian caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm, and I watched from what I hoped was an inconspicuous distance.

Justin sighed and turned around.

I'm sorry, Brian said.

Justin just watched him.

Come on, I'm saying I'm sorry!

...Okay?

That's character growth! Saying sorry unprompted?

We're calling that unprompted?

Okay, that's fair. But still, come on. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. Can you just come back?


Brian, what the fuck, I'm not coming back. You're thirty-seven years old—

That has never been proven.

—you think you can just say sorry and all of a sudden everything's fine? No. That works for Gus, not you.


Brian sighed. I should have gotten an interpreter. I thought it would be crowded or that Breyer would feel like I was...I don't know, insulting him or something. I was wrong and I should have gotten one.

Justin stared at him.

Brian said, So...okay?

No, not okay! You really think the extent of what you did wrong here was not getting an interpreter?

I mean, that guy is an asshole, but you can't blame me—

How about not introducing me as your partner, what the fuck was that?

You're such a fucking girl, Christ. I already told them you were my partner back at the office. What the fuck do you think I said, come to a hockey game, and I'll find some Deaf kid off the street to keep your kid company?

That's exactly how you fucking acted,
he said. Like I'm some African orphan from your charity that you're bringing to the benefit to show off what good work you do.

Come on.


You don't get to parade me around when you need to prove you know something about Deaf people, Justin said. You don't get to take credit for me!

Brian raised an eyebrow. Excuse me? Because I seem to recall plucking your ass out from under a streetlamp—

That was different! That was before!


Brian pinched his nose. I told you this account was important. What the fuck do you think pays for the apartment?

That doesn't mean you get to hold me hostage.

Will you stop being such a fucking queen? No one is holding you hostage.

I told you I didn't want to come to a hockey game. I'm sitting there fucking losing my mind watching the sticks swing around hoping to God they don't start a fight, and then I have to get up and perform for you like some sort of trained monkey. This is bullshit.

Something about that got to Brian, I could tell. He looked kind of...stricken. I thought...it's not like it's a baseball game, I thought...

Justin shrugged.

I'm sorry. Brian grabbed him and pulled him in for a hug. Justin let him, but he didn't exactly hug back. Brian let go and said, I mean it, okay? I'm sorry.

I just don't think you get it
, Justin said. All this Deaf stuff. And I thought you did, so I'm just like...dealing with that.

Let me go in and make some excuse to them, okay? And I'll take you home.

No, I'm not going to be the reason you lose this account. That's not going to help anyone. Just...go in and be brilliant and I'll see you at home, okay?

Justin.

I'll see you at home, go.

Brian sighed and turned around and went back to the box, and Justin started back towards the exit and that's when he saw me. He groaned and walked towards me like he was walking to the electric chair.

Please don't tell your dad about that, he said.

I won't.

I'm just pissed at him
, he said. I don't really think...listen, he's a good man. And more importantly, he's the right guy for your account. Don't let us arguing make you think any different. This is just our shit.

I get it. Are you okay? I'm sorry my dad is such a fucking asshole.

He gave me a weak smile. I know the type. And I'm fine, just getting a headache. Can you do me a favor and help Brian cover in there? I know he's flustered, and...I don't want him to blow this over me having a bad day.

Okay.

And text me sometime, okay? My number's on the card. It really was good to meet you.


I went back to the box and watched Brian charm my dad. He didn't need my help. And he didn't really look flustered to me, either.

But as he was saying goodbye to us, he shook my hand and brought his other up to his chest and rubbed it in a quick fist. I'm sorry.

That night I told my dad to hire him. And the weirdest part? He listened.

**

We went back to Kinnetik for a follow-up meeting before we went home. Brian's assistant led us into his office, and a minute later Brian and Justin walked in together.

“Ah, it's both the Kinneys!” my dad said.

The look of terror on Brian's face was so hilarious that I forgot to interpret. “Oh, God, no,” he said. “Definitely no, no. Not in this lifetime.” He turned to Justin and explained, He called us the Kinneys, and...I'm sorry, I can't. It's a bridge too far.

Oh, Jesus, don't apologize. You think I want to be a Kinney? You guys are a fucking mess.

Oh thank God.

Kinney. Christ. What do I look like, a belligerent alcoholic Irish Catholic from Eastern Ohio? Fuck.

Fuck no. You look like an old money pill-popping Protestant from Western Pennsylvania.

You're damn right I do. I'm a Taylor.

A woman knocked on the door of the office, and Justin smiled and went to let her in. “That's Stephanie,” Brian said. “Staff interpreter.”

I smiled a little, and I swear Brian winked at me.

Stephanie and Justin joined us by the couch, and Brian said, “Justin's going to be working with us on this campaign. Taking the lead on the design work as well as making sure that we have a campaign that's putting a Deaf voice, so to speak, front and center in deciding how we market a product to Deaf consumers. It's great PR for the company and it also makes sure we avoid any missteps that could be offensive or even just stale.”

Justin watched Stephanie and nodded.

“Plus,” Brian said. “He's really damn good at what he does.”

Justin grinned.

End Notes:

I have ideas for a few more stories but if you have anything you'd like to see, please feel free to prompt! I'm especially hungry for h/c prompts because they're my favorite thing to write but they feel so self-indulgent unless someone's asking me for it, but I'm open to anything!

Chapter 18 - The One Where Justin Gets a Present by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

I almost called this "The One Where Literally Nothing Happens."

 

The One Where Justin Gets a Present



In the two months I was between assistants, I'd forgotten what it felt like to have an organized desk, a manageable inbox, and a heart rate below 120 beats per minute. Justin had been here for five weeks and I was still getting used to the idea that I could take a lunch break.


He was taking his at his desk one Friday, eating a sandwich while he skimmed through some files, when I checked in on him. Have you finished looking at the submissions for the July showcase? I asked him.


He nodded slowly. I have.


And your thoughts?


Obviously Cecily Lenninger is the frontrunner, he said. But I'm just...not responding as much to her more recent work. Do you think we could get her to agree to show some of the stuff she did last year? The figure study is tremendous, but these new pieces... He unearthed her file and looked through it, shaking his head. Yeah, I don't know. It's too self-conscious. It's trying really hard to stand the test of time.


Have you ever tried telling an artist to return to their previous style?


He laughed. So I'm guessing that's a no.


You'd think you were asking them to go back to fingerpainting.


Well...there's nothing wrong with this new stuff, Justin said. It's technically amazing. I still think she's the strongest submission we've seen. Maybe we convince her to show a mix of some of her newer and older stuff, like...tell her it's to show the progress of her work, or something.


I nodded. Draft an email.


On it. And the notes on the restoration of the Harrison piece are on your desk. It sounds like they're actually on schedule for once, so it should be getting here by the middle of next week.


You're a marvel, I told him.


He blushed. It's just paperwork.


Come see me before you go home today, okay? Something came in with our last shipment that I want to show you.


Justin glanced at his watch. Are you free to show me now?


Am I ever free?


He grinned sheepishly. Sorry. It’s just I’m supposed to meet Brian in Queens at six. I was hoping to get out of here on time today.


Ah, the mysterious Brian. I hadn’t met him, though I’d gotten a text from him a few weeks ago when Justin was sick. Outside of the small laugh Justin had given once when I asked if he was also an artist, I didn’t know much about him.


Well, there’s no rush, I said. I can show you tomorrow.


He groaned. No, now it’s going to drive me crazy. I’ll meet you after I close the office. In the studio?


Naturally. Years ago, when I was renovating the gallery, I turned the basement into several rooms of studio space. Artists always found something they wanted to change at the last minute, and between shows it functioned as storage. I’d told Justin it was his to use whenever he liked, and he often stayed late or came in on weekends. He told me Brian was delighted to finally have an apartment that didn’t reek of turpentine.


I met him downstairs after the day. We got a shipment of canvases for Amanda West to work on while she’s here, I explained. She was very specific about the measurements she wanted, and...well, I ordered them while you were sick, and either I made a mistake placing the order, or there was some miscommunication at the manufacturer, because...


I led him into the studio, and Justin turned and gave a startled laugh that reminded me of my son's: unfiltered, beautiful. Oh my God. How big is this?


Twelve feet by thirty-five.


I've never seen a blank canvas this big in my life, Justin said. God, it's beautiful. Amanda should have ordered this in the first place.


Well, she didn't, and she doesn't want it, I said.


He was walking from one end of it to the other, scanning it like it was already painted. What are you going to do with it?


I smiled. That's what I was going to ask you.


What?


I want you to have it, I said.


His eyes widened. Really?


Really.


Well, what kind of thing do you think I should—


Whatever you want, I said. It's not a commission. It's yours, whatever you want to do with it.


His eyes traced it from the floor to the ceiling. “Oh, wow,” he said out loud, softly.


Make something brilliant, I said.


He nodded and went over to his workspace in the corner and started sketching.


I waved my hand to get his attention. Don't you need to meet Brian?


He looked at me, then his paper, then his canvas, then back at his paper. Sure, he said vaguely.


**


I went in the morning to supervise another delivery and wasn't surprised to find Justin in the studio space. I waved at him and pointed to a bagel and he, hands full of brushes, said “Thank you, yes please.” The canvas was still blank.


He was in the process of dismantling what looked like a hundred paintbrushes. Part of the artistic process? I asked.


He laughed and put them down. I want a very wide brush with a million bristles, and since it doesn't seem like it exists, I'm making my own! I'm going to figure out some way to attach it to my arm and just kind of... He mimed swiping his arm through the air.


So you'll get the broad stroke without sacrificing the fine detail up close.


Exactly.


Very clever, I said. Have you been here all night?


He laughed. No, I made it home eventually. I definitely missed that reservation though.


How'd Brian take that?


Justin shrugged. He's used to me by now. He doesn't really get the allure of the world's biggest canvas, but...


Sounds like my first husband, I said.


Justin smiled faintly and decapitated another brush.


I took care of a few more chores around the office before I headed home. Derek was on the couch, playing some video game. He's twenty-three, but he lives at home because New York real estate is expensive and he's a bum.


We talked for a little about how that didn't look like he was working on his resume, and wasn't he supposed to ask Ms. McClasky about a position at her firm, and did he at least take the chicken out for dinner, and finally I said, You've been spending some time with Justin, right?


Yeah, I guess so. Justin had mentioned to me when I hired him that he didn't have a lot of Deaf friends in the city yet, and my son is, for all his faults, possibly the friendliest person in existence, so introducing them to each other was the natural choice. Since then, Derek had mentioned a few times that Justin joined their group to go to dinner or to a movie, and he was at the apartment last week with a crowd Derek hosted for a board game night.


Have you met his partner?


Derek nodded. He went out to dinner with us last week. Good signer for a hearing guy. He's like twice my age though. I don't know. Seems nice.


What does he do?


Some kind of business thing. And I am not asking him for a job.


I went to my office to answer some emails and thought about being married to Derek’s father, a businessman who constantly complained about artist’s whims and an industry based on anything he couldn’t categorize or quantify. I thought about that old quote, about Carrie Fisher and Paul Simon, though I couldn’t put my finger on who’s said it: you can have a flower and a gardener, whoever it was had explained, or you could have two gardeners, but Carrie and Paul were two flowers.


A sweet sentiment, but as far as I could tell, there had never been a gardener who really, truly wanted a flower, not once they looked down the road at how they wanted to spend their life. At the end of the day, all I’d really learned in my fifty-one years on this earth is there’s never anyone for us flowers but each other.


I hoped Justin would be okay.


I called Justin that evening to ask him about a piece to ask if he'd sent out an email to a gallery in Santa Barbara we were hoping to borrow a piece from, and laughed when I could tell from the background that he was still in the studio.


At some point I'm actually going to start painting! he said. He showed me the progress of his brush apparatus. And then once I'm done I'll sell this to a museum.


If this were MoMa you could show that too, I said.


He looked at me hesitantly. Too?


I waved a hand like it was nothing. Well, of course if it's good, we'll show it, I said, and I watched a smile break over his face like a wave on a beach.


He looked up at the canvas and said, We might need a bigger gallery.


I'm coming in tomorrow to start setting up for the Natalie Cloud exhibit, I said. Think you'll still be there?


I was joking, but his Probably in response seemed pretty straightforward.


You're still supposed to be taking it easy, I said. Don't forget.


I'm never telling you when I'm sick again, he said.


You didn't. Your boyfriend did.


There are exceptions to rules about taking it easy. Like enormous canvases. Even he understands that. Justin tapped his finger into some cerulean paint, testing the color.


I'm glad, I said.


**


I checked on Justin at about two PM on Sunday. He was signing to someone on his phone. I need to find a ladder, he said, and then paused, watching the screen. How the fuck else am I going to get up there? I'll be fine.


I stomped my foot on the floor—years of practice getting my son's attention—and Justin looked over.


Got to go, he signed to the phone, then turned to me and smiled. Different clothes! he said. See, I've been home.


And busy, too. There was paint on the canvas now, wide swaths of sweeping teals and midnight blues. That brush is really working out for you.


It's so fun. I'm about to search the other studios for a ladder, do you know where I can find one?


There's one in C, I think.


Perfect.


I went back upstairs to supervise the placement of the paintings, and hours later I was admiring one of the pieces when suddenly I heard footsteps out in the lobby. The gallery is closed on Sundays, unless we're having a special showing, but I'd forgotten to lock the front door after my intern had left for the day. I came out into the lobby and saw a man, dressed casually, carrying two paper bags. If he was coming to rob my gallery, he certainly didn't seem prepared.


“Can I help you?” he said.


“Hi.” He scrunched up his face. “I think I'm lost.”


“What are you looking for?”


“The studio space.” He juggled the bags into one arm and held out his hand. “Sorry. Brian Kinney.”


“Justin's Brian?”


“As long as you promise to never, ever say that in front of him, sure. You must be Mrs. Norbert.”


“Marie.”


“Marie. It's good to meet you finally. Sorry about the panicked four AM text the other week.”


“So Justin had you bring him food?”


'You really are making me sound whipped, aren't you?” He laughed a little. “No, he doesn't know I'm here. He gets caught up sometimes when he's working and forgets to eat, so...” He shrugged.


Well, if that wasn't just the sweetest. And not exactly less whipped than bringing food on request, but I knew better than to say anything. “Let me show you down to the studio.”


“Thank you.”


I took one of the bags from him and led him to the elevator. I pointed towards one of the rooms. “Justin's—”


“—the one singing off-key. I figured. He doesn't know he's doing it.” He opened the door and set the bag on one of the tables, then came over behind Justin and waited until he'd lifted his brush off the canvas before wrapping his arms around him from behind.


Justin laughed. “Hi.”


Brian turned him around. Hi.


What are you doing here?


Sunday's date night.


Sunday has never been anyone's date night.


Fine, then I needed to make sure you didn't have a seizure up on a ladder and break your head. There's egg rolls in the bag.


I love you! Justin hopped over to the table. Oh my God, this is exactly what I needed. He gestured for me to join him and, well, I couldn't say I wasn't hungry, and Brian nodded encouragingly, so the three of us made ourselves plates and sat around one of the tables and looked at Justin's work.


What do you think? Justin asked Brian.


I was expecting something blandly supportive, like I always got from my ex-husband, but Brian studied it for a long time without saying anything. Finally, he said, It reminds me a little of that one artist we saw when we were in Hong Kong. Huo?


Huo, yeah. I was thinking about the way the boats look at the Long Island City Landing. It was giving me kind of a Hong Kong vibe.


Brian nodded.


Do you think it's too derivative? Justin asked anxiously.


Brian thought, then shook his head. Having it this size and keeping the brush strokes this broad, makes it kind of...impossible to be derivative, as far as I know. The way you're keeping all the little brush strokes up close and still having that feel of one fluid motion.


Well. Color me impressed.


The detail work is going to take forever, Justin said. I've got to do all the lights on the boats, and from the windows across the water. But of course without making it look like a souvenir something someone does with spray paint in Times Square.


Brian laughed. Those things are cool! They use pie tins and shit. Innovative. You're just a snob.


You're the one bringing me eight dollar egg rolls.


Well, I'm not the one eating them.


Justin finished his drink, kissed Brian, and started mixing paint again. He stood with his back to us, studying his canvas, completely lost in his own world.


He's something else, isn't he? I asked Brian.


Brian smiled up at the painting, and said, He's a genius.


Well. Fuck me if they weren't two damn flowers.


I left them alone after that, but decided to come down a few hours later to lock up the studios on the off-chance they'd gone home. They hadn't, but they'd left the door open, and I could see the two of them pressed up close to each other on tiny bit of wall not occupied by the canvas.


I am a little disappointed, Brian says. This did seem like the perfect opportunity to finally cover ourselves in paint and fuck on a canvas.


Justin kissed him, deeply. Talk about derivative.


Somehow I doubt that would really bother me much.


Sure, not at the time. But then later, it's hanging in our apartment, you look at it one day, and you're just overcome by the lack of artistic ingenuity. You faint onto the couch, overwhelmed by how pedestrian you've allowed your décor to become. I find you drinking rosé and sobbing on the balcony.


You know me so well.


I know. Another kiss. I'm sorry I haven't been home much. I'm just...


Brian shook his head a little and guided Justin's jaw upwards, pulling him into a kiss that lasted much, much longer than the others. Justin sighed a little when Brian finally let him go.

 

Take your time, Brian said.

Chapter 19 - The One Where Brian Freaks Out by LaVieEnRose

The One Where Brian Freaks Out



One of my favorite parts of us both having nine to fives—okay, really mine is more like a ten to six, and Brian’s is more of a nine to “whenever the fuck I text him and ask if he’s planning to show up with food any time this year,” but it’s the principle of the thing—is getting ready for work with him in the morning. You have to be careful about drawing too much attention to domestic shit or Brian starts getting all spooked, so it’s always exciting when it’s a situation even he can’t twist in his head as something I’ve engineered. It’s not my fault we’re getting up at the same time! What am I supposed to do, not pour him a cup of coffee? Not straighten his tie? Not kiss him and hand him his briefcase and tell him to have a good day?


Eeeeeee.


I was making breakfast one Tuesday while he sipped his coffee and told me about a potential client he had coming in. This guy wants to grow in the 25-30 market and is convinced the way to do it is radio ads. Do kids your age even listen to the radio?


Everyone I know my age is Deaf.


True.


I worked my spatula underneath a pancake. “There’s an app Daphne uses for music. I think it has ads. That might work.”


Spotify?


“Yeah, that’s it.” I flipped the pancake. “Ta da.”


Brian kissed my cheek. What do you think, navy tie?


“Yeah.” He went back to the bedroom and I called, “Brian, do you want strawberries or no?”


I flipped the rest of the pancakes and waited for him to stick a hand out and sign a yes or no, but he stayed in the bedroom for a really long time. And when he finally out he looked...different. Not like the guy who’d just kissed me and asked what tie to wear.


No, he said. I should probably go.


You have time to eat.


I want to get settled before the meeting. He grabbed his jacket and started out the door.


I said, “It’s warm, you don’t need a—“


The door slammed.


“—jacket,” I said, and then I stood there wondering what the fuck just happened.


**


I met Derek and Emily for lunch at a cafe near the gallery to brainstorm. One minute everything was fine, then all of a sudden, barely looks at me and he’s out the door.


Emily said, Maybe he got a call or something from work? You said he had a big meeting, maybe he got bad news about it.


I picked at my croissant. Maybe.


I mean, it couldn’t have anything to do with you. You said it yourself. Nothing happened.


I said, Yeah, that doesn’t always stop Brian.


Derek said, Maybe he was already pissed about something and he’d forgotten and something you said reminded him.


I shrugged.


Emily said, Okay, clearly you have your mind made up already about what the issue is, so why are you keeping us guessing?


I just know Brian, I said. I know he gets freaked out if I act too...wifey.


Isn't he the one who talked you into the rings? Derek said.


I know this is confusing for people who aren't me and Brian, but it's actually not all that complicated; we both have our hang-ups about marriage and commitment and shit, and they're completely opposite to each other's. My friends think I'm the one with all the baggage, and his friends think he is.


Brian once told me, years and years later, obviously, that he's known we were going to be together forever, in some capacity, since I was nineteen years old. That is fucking bananas. And he was so fucking casual when he told me that, too, like it was this completely obvious thing and I should have known it this whole time too. Brian doesn't flinch when he thinks about us doing stuff however many years from now, unless it's just him freaking out about getting old. And I think that surprises people who don't know him well, or people who do know him well but have constructed this totally weird form of him in their minds—hi, Lindsay and Michael, what's up—that's supposed to freak out at every single aspect of commitment.


He's good on that. What makes him go off the fucking deep end is any time he thinks we're turning into, or thinking about turning into, or thinking about thinking about turning into, some kind of imitation heterosexual couple. So stuff like monogamy—not that I want that either, but he always acts like I'm engaged in some long con to trick him into it—or breakfast in bed or, I don't know, giving him advice on what tie to wear.


Meanwhile, I'm not afraid that if we don't keep constant vigilance that we'll accidentally turn into straight people, but I still get totally and completely antsy sometimes at the idea of being locked into a relationship for the rest of my life. And it's not because I don't totally love Brian and want to be with him! I just spend a lot of time worrying about death, antidepressants be damned, and also, like...you know those Choose Your Own Adventure books? I could never read them as a kid because I would get so distracted by the options that I didn't take that I could never remember what was going on. And like, God forbid I'm playing some video game with Molly and there's two directions you can go. I go ten feet down one and then double back and go down the other, again and again and again.


So he's gentle with me about the whole 'forever' aspect or else I start freaking out about him dying and leaving me old alone, and I'm gentle with him on the whole 'heteronormative' aspect because otherwise he starts freaking out about our dicks falling off, and we make it work. Except our other big difference is that when we're worried about something in our relationship, I tend to buckle down and deal with it, and Brian, bless his heart, tends to spectacularly blow things up. And I really wasn't in the mood to come home and found out he'd like, set the apartment on fire because we can't be domestic if we don't have a home or turned our office into a sex club to prove how gay he is or something.


Look, it doesn't matter, Derek says. If you think he thinks you're being too...whatever, you just have to prove to him that you're not. Do something really non-wifey.


That, I said, is a fucking great idea.


So that's how I ended up ducking out of our lunch early and taking a cab to Queens. I only had half an hour before I needed to be back in the office, and I didn't even know if Brian was going to be available, but the spontaneity was part of it. I waved to Cynthia and she nodded me through, and I stood in the doorway of Brian's office. He didn't look up.


“Hi,” I said.


Hi, he said, without looking up from what he was writing.


I came over to his desk and drummed my fingers on it until he finally put his pen down and raised his head.


What are you doing here? he asked.


I tilted my head to the side. I thought I'd stop by and...improve your afternoon.


Shouldn't you be at the office?


I'm on my lunch break. I came around to his side of the desk and slid onto his lap. I caught a bit of a smile, and his hands closed around my waist. Good. I thought I'd come by for dessert.


Oh yeah?


“Mmmhmm.” I kissed him. “Relive my days of being your intern. See if you can still make a phone call while I blow you under the desk.”


He let go of me.


“Brian,” I said.


I have a lot of work to do.


What's going on?


The traffic's going to be a bitch getting back into the city.


What the fuck is going on with you?


He sighed and kind of eased me off his lap.


I'll see you at home, he said.


**


The rest of my day was for shit. Maybe it was the stress or maybe it was just a coincidence, but I started having issues with my hand for the first time in weeks, and by the time six o'clock came around I had a migraine and I had to throw up in a trash can at the train station. So much for part two of my plan, to pull Brian out to Nova for dancing and public fucking and otherwise proving to him how utterly un-heterosexual we were. My meds had kicked in some by the time Brian came home, so I was just sacked out on the couch trying to gain some kind of energy back. He walked into the living room and loosened his tie and didn't say anything.


I'm going out, he said eventually.


I figured.


He went to the bedroom and got changed and got the hell out of there, and I ate cereal for dinner and thought about getting some work done for Rage but didn't actually do it. Brian came home earlier than expected and stood by the couch, smelling like liquor and sex.


You have to talk to me, I said, stretching the fingers back on my hand.


I'm gonna get the heating pad.


I relaxed a little. Okay.


I sat up on the couch, and he pulled the chair around and sat in front of me, wrapping the heating pad around my arm and taking my hand between his to work at the muscles. Bad day? he asked.


“You could say that. How about yours?”


He shrugged. We got the account.


“That's good.”


He concentrated on my hand for a while, then sighed and said, You're losing your Rs.


“What?”


The letter R. You've started saying it kind of funny.


I blinked. “Oh.”


He kissed my hand and let it go, and looked at me.


We knew it would happen eventually, I said. I'd start forgetting what things were supposed to sound like.


I know.


So...


It doesn't bother you?


I mean, we've pointed out there are situations where it would be easier if strangers could tell I was Deaf. Maybe me sounding Deaf isn't the worst thing in the world.


He looked away.


I bent my head and forced him into eye contact. Does it bother you?


He stood up and started pacing.


“What the fuck,” I said. “Are you embarrassed of me?”


Of course not.


“You don't want people to hear me and think there's something wrong with me?”


It's not that.


“What, you think they'll think less of you if they think your boyfriend is—”


He stopped pacing me and signed, It's not going away.


What? What isn't?


He gestured at me. This.


Me...being Deaf?


He pinched his nose and nodded.


I stared at him. Were you under the impression this was something temporary?


No, of course not.


So then—


I knew it was forever, he said. I just didn't...feel it. And then I'm in the fucking bedroom and you say strawberries and it fucking....took me a second to understand what you were saying.


So I can't say Rs! Who fucking cares!


There's an R in my fucking name, Sunshine!


So?


So I don't want you to say my fucking name wrong for the rest of my life! he said. God. Fuck. FUCK.


I felt something drop in my chest.


Well, too fucking bad, I said eventually.


He rubbed his hands over his face. I know.


I said. Are you...having doubts about us?


Brian sighed and sat back down in the chair.


And he didn't say no.


What the fuck, I said.


I just...it's just hitting me that this is going to be forever, he said.


That what is? Signing? Explaining me to people? Managing me?


I...


You stood over me in that fucking bed in the loft six goddamn months ago and you told me that you liked taking care of me. You're a goddamn fucking liar.


Stop. I do like taking care of you.


You are not supposed to freak out about the rest of our fucking lives! That is my goddamn job! You're supposed to be sure!


I know, he said. I know.


So what the fuck, tell me you're sure. Tell me you're not fucking questioning our goddamn relationship because I said your fucking name wrong.


He bowed his head for a long time, and when he finally looked up at me his eyes were wet.


How sure do I have to be? he asked.


**


Daphne woke me up in the morning and handed me a cup of coffee. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Ugh. Thanks. What time is it?”


A little before eight. I have a cadaver to go dissect, so. She sat down by my feet. Are you going to try to see him before work?


No. I have no idea what to say to him. As soon as he'd asked me that last night—how sure do I have to be? I'd stuffed some shit in my backpack and gotten the hell out of there. He hadn't tried to stop me, and I glanced at my phone now and...no. Nothing.


This was such a fucking nightmare. Usually when we had some kind of dust-up, I could at least see it coming in advance. This came out of fucking nowhere. All because I said his goddamn name wrong. Him and his fucking ego.


I guess that whole “I knew we'd be together forever,” thing came with a disclaimer, really. Together forever...as long as you stay healthy.


Christ.


And God, the fucking irony of the fact that it wasn't even the goddamn seizures and the lifetime of that bullshit that was scaring him off, it was the fact that I was fucking Deaf, which wasn't even a goddamn problem! Can't he ever get freaked out about something goddamn rational for a change?


She sipped her coffee.


I think I'm in shock, I said. What are the symptoms of shock?


Rapid pulse. Cold skin. Death.


Definitely in shock.


She smiled just a little.


I'm really fucking scared, I said. I think I might not have a place to live.


This isn't like the loft. It's your apartment too. Even if you broke up—


I put my head in my hands. “Oh God, you said it.”


I said even if.


How is this fucking happening? Over something so goddamn fucking stupid? Oh, God, and when Gregory and Mario broke up I was such a cocky asshole...


You are not breaking up.


I don't even know who I am without him anymore. I feel like some part of my body is missing. What the fuck. What the fuck.


She reached out for my wrist and took my pulse. Breathe.


I don't understand how this is happening, I said. He's being such a fucking...he's just pulling the rug out from under me on this. He's been so fucking supportive ever since I got this diagnosis, and he's reassured me a million times that it's not too much for him and he's not going anywhere, and now, out of fucking nowhere...now he's telling me it was all a lie?


It wasn't a lie, Daphne said. He's not leaving you. He's just...having a temporary malfunction.


He shouldn't be having a malfunction about me being Deaf, I said. It's not a bad thing. I rested my head against the back of her couch.


She squeezed my knee. I've got to get going.


Okay. She stood up, and I said, “Daph?”


“Yeah?”


“Do I say Rs weird?”


Yeah.


I nodded a little.


Does that bother you? she said.


I don't want it to.


She rested her hand on top of my head. I'm sure he doesn't either.


**


Who cares if you don't sound like some hearie anymore? Derek said, when we got tapas for lunch. God knows I never have.


I thought it was stupid at first too, but now...I don't know. I get why he's freaking out about it. It feels more real now.


You can always get speech therapy if it really bothers you.


I shook my head. It's not about that. It's...I don't know. I guess I still have internalized audism issues to work through.


We all do. He popped a mushroom in his mouth. Sounds like especially Brian.


Well, not internalized, but yeah.


He'll get over it.


I think it's more than that, I said. He's starting to think about the future and what he wants for his life, and I'm thinking...maybe that doesn't include slowing down for me.


Who says you're slowing him down?


It doesn't matter. If our lives aren't compatible anymore... How the fuck was this happening?


Who says they're not compatible?


I don't know. Society.


Derek took apart a kabob. Society also says two guys aren't compatible together.


I raised an eyebrow.


Oh yeah. he said. I'm super fucking wise, you didn't know?


**


are you coming home tonight Brian texted me.


no


ok


I cried in the bathroom at work.


**


I made dinner for Daphne to thank her for letting me stay there another night, and because I thought if I didn't do something I'd probably throw myself out the window of her four story walk-up.


She drank a glass of wine and leaned against the refrigerator, watching me.


“What?” I said.


Did he ever grieve? she asked.


Grieve? Nobody died.


You can grieve things other than people.


A funeral for my ears? I asked.


For the things he had planned. Who you used to be.


I groaned in frustration. Going Deaf was not a bad thing. I said, for the hundred millionth time. It gave me—


I know what it gave you she said. You got this new language and this new community and culture and history and all of this stuff, and that's great. It's totally great. But...what did Brian get out of this? Like, I know he's happy for you and everything, like he genuinely is, but if you think about it...I mean, his life is totally changed because of this too, and he's still an outsider on all the stuff you got. So if you think about it...this has kind of been completely a negative experience for him and only partially a negative experience for you. And I think maybe he's been really afraid to say anything about that because he didn't want to make it about him.


Well, so much for that.


Hey, trust me, no one's about to pat him on the back and compliment him on doing a bang-up job these past few days. I'm not sticking up for him.


I don't want to be someone's tragedy, I said. Not even his.


You know that's not what it is, she said. That's not what he sees when he looks at you.


How do you know?


Because, she said. It's been three years, and he's thinking this for the first time now.


We ate mussels and linguini and drank shitty white wine, and eventually I said, He asked me how sure he has to be.


Well? she said. What's the answer?


I have no idea. What do you think?


She shrugged. Sure enough not to walk out, I guess.


He's never the one who walks out.


She looked at me meaningfully.


I remembered what Deb said, when I was fucked up about my hand after the bashing: All you can do at a time like this is hold on until the scenery changes. It wasn't about waiting until my hand magically got better. It was just about hanging in there until it wasn't so goddamn devastating anymore, because eventually it wouldn't be.


Brian didn't leave. I did. He sat there and he stayed and he asked me how sure I needed him to be.


Maybe it wasn't a rhetorical question.


Maybe I made a really big mistake not answering it.


 


**


I got back to the apartment half an hour later. I thought about calling Brian's name, then realized that was probably a bad idea and felt kind of stabbed.


But anyway, I could smell steam and his shampoo, so I knew where he was.


He jumped a little when I opened the shower door. Jesus, scared the hell out of me.


Now you know how I feel when you're grabbing me from behind all the time.


I got in with him and he put his arms around me. He still looked so afraid of me, like I was about to disappear at any minute.


I was thinking we could have a funeral, I said.


His eyebrows came together. He was beautiful.


For hearing Justin, I said.


He stayed perfectly still for a second, then his lips twitched into a smile.


My mom can sing something, I said. Debbie will sob through some hideous poem. Emmett will put together some stunning flower arrangements.


You're allergic.


So? I'm dead.


True.


You can wear your new Brunello Cucinelli, I said. You'll be gorgeous.


I'm always gorgeous.


I closed my eyes and let him wash my hair.


What do you want to wear? he asked, once my eyes were open again.


To be buried in?


Yeah.


I relaxed under his fingers. You can pick.


The steel gray Versace I got you for Christmas. he said immediately. Black shirt underneath. Open collar.


You've put some thought into this, I see.


Considering how often you make me want to kill you, it'd be irresponsible not to.


I kissed his chin. Like when I run away to Daphne's instead of staying and finishing a conversation?


Does it count as a conversation when it's just one person being Deaf and one person being an asshole? Asking for this guy I know.


I lathered my hands up with soap and ran them down his arms. I never let you be sad about me losing my hearing, I said.


I didn't want to be. It wasn't about me.


Someday we are going to have to get out of this pattern of thinking we're not allowed to have feelings about shit happening to each other, I said. It never, ever works. We end up drinking ourselves into comas or having seizures.


He leaned into me. But I read this article about love languages in a magazine in Lindsay's bathroom and I think ours is out-of-control self-loathing.


One of us is going to fucking die someday of a heart attack because the other one had a stomachache first so we felt like it would be in bad taste to complain.


I call the heart attack, he said.


No, because I want to call the heart attack, because we both want to martyr ourselves out over who gets to have the heart attack.


That does sound like us.


I'm telling you, we're a mess.


Losing your hearing did happen to you, though, Brian said. That's not bullshit.


It's not a competition over who...lost my hearing the most, I said. We all know it's me. You don't have to prove anything.


He rinsed my hair. Do you get a medal for being the first one to say you get to be more fucked up about something?


It'll go nicely with the Armani.


He ran his fingers through my hair and tapped his fingers against my collarbone. I had so many plans for us, he said. They're different now.


Every instinct in me told me to reassure him, to tell him it wasn't different, to make promises. But I didn't. I held on until the fucking scenery changed. I know, I said, watching him. That sucks.


He nodded a little.


We can just let it suck, I said.


You won't walk out?


You won't throw a hissy fit and kick me out of your office?


Yeah, that's fair.


I wrapped my arms around him and laced my fingers behind him. He sighed.


I traced my hands up his back. “I know I'm not the person you fell in love with anymore.”


He winced and dropped his forehead on top of my head. Too much.


“I know.”


He dug his fingernails into my shoulders.


I'm sorry, I signed on his chest, and he shook his head.


You were seventeen years old, he said, and I tried very hard to stay in the moment and not lose my shit over that little admission. You were supposed to change.


This is probably a little more than you bargained for.


He kissed me. You're a little more than I bargained for generally.


I'm sorry, I said again, and again he shook his head.


He said, Remember like a month after we met and you had that allergy attack at the loft?


Oh my God. Why did you have to mention that?


How are you still embarrassed about something from nine years ago?


I'm still embarrassed about stuff from nineteen years ago.


My point is, Brian said, that I knew pretty early on you were a fucking handful. You haven't changed all that much.


Wow, thank you.


He shrugged.


I have, I said. There's no point pretending. I feel like all the changes you've made are you, like, improving as a person, and meanwhile I'm just zigzagging around and expecting you to keep up.


He didn't say anything, and I breathed out and rubbed my face. I'm scared that you think I'm with you because you take care of me, I said.


He pushed my hair back. Would that be so bad?


Yes.


I do like it, though. He kissed my cheek. And you do get sick a lot.


Yeah, but I don't want to feel sad about that anymore.


I barely knew what I meant, but he took my face in his hands, hard, and then took one away to sign, I don't want you to either. Okay?


I can't explain how I felt in that moment. If you don't have a chronic illness you probably couldn't understand it anyway. But I was just...free. And much, much too scared to believe it. It's so fucking scary, to have someone in your life who can say shit that means that much to you. The risk is so goddamn high.


But still, I said, Okay.


He breathed out and let go of me. Can I promise I'm not trying to fix you? Does that help? As long as you get through another day, I'm good. I promise.


I nodded.


People expect me to fix things, he said, small. I don't know what other reason there is for me.


That's why it's bad for you to think that's why I'm with you.


He sighed.


That's what you were asking me last night, wasn't it? I said. If I needed you to be strong all the time?


He looked away, and I took his chin and brought him back to me.


I don't need you to be sure, I said. I should have said that last night. I didn't understand what you were asking. You don't ever have to be anything, okay? I don't need it. As long as you get through another day, right? I'm good. I love you.


He swallowed. Too much, he said again.


Okay. I wrapped my arms around his waist. “Okay. We can stop now.”


We just stood like that for a while, and then he spun me around and fucked me for a while, which did a lot to lighten the mood. We got out when the water started to run cold, and I was ruffling a towel over my hair when he grabbed my arm, hard.


“Ow, what?”


It doesn't mean I don't love you how you are now, he said. You know that, right? Say you know that. His face was pinched.


This fucker.


I stood on my toes and kissed him briefly. Don't hurt yourself, I said, and he sighed and laughed and covered his face with his hands, and God, I would take that over sure any day, Brian Kinney fucking hiding his face like a schoolgirl because he goddamn loves me.


**


I made French toast the next morning.


You're trying to get me fat, Brian said.


I watched him polish off his third piece. No one's holding a gun to your head.


He kissed my cheek. I have to go to the gym after work now. You want to meet for dinner after, go to Nova?


Yeah.


He headed for the door and paused, his hand on the doorknob. Well?


Well, what?


Usually you call after me...


“Oh. Have a good day.”


He sighed theatrically. Have a good day, who?


I rolled my eyes and shook my head.


Say it, he said.


“No.”


He came over to me and grabbed me around the waist, working his fingers up my ribs. Say it.


“Don't you dare.”


He worked his fingers between my ribs, crawled them around my waist, and I hit him and tried to squirm away and probably made some inhuman kind of shrieking noise. “Let go of me! Oh my God, you are such a jerk.”


Say it!


“Fine,” I said, gasping for air, and he finally let me go, the bastard. “Brian Brian Brian Brian, have a good day, Brian.”


He looked down at me, his eyes glowing with...well, if it weren't Brian, I would say pride.


“How'd I sound?” I said.

 

Beautiful, he said, and he kissed me so hard I think I chipped a tooth.

Chapter 20 - The One Where Brian Goes to a Party by LaVieEnRose

The One Where Brian Goes to a Party



The doorbell rang at six-fifty—miraculously, only twenty minutes late—the night before the party. “Gus, your dad is here!” I called, tripping over J.R.'s dollhouse on my way to the door. That girl is a lawsuit waiting to happen.


Gus ran ahead of me, opened the door, and immediately narrowed his eyes at Brian. “Where's Justin?”


“Well, hey, champ,” Brian said. “Just me tonight.”


Gus groaned and stomped towards the kitchen.


“Uh...good to see you too,” Brian said.


“He's been practicing his signing,” I explained. “He wanted to show off.”


“You can show it off to me!” Brian said, but Gus just muttered to himself on his way down the hall. “What the fuck's with him?” Brian said.


“I don't know, he's eight, he's an asshole.” I closed the door. “Where is Justin?”


“Laid up, and not in a fun way. Migraine.”


“Aw, that's too bad. The one perk to seeing you.”


He gave me a smarmy smile. “I've missed us. Where's your better half?”


“Setting the—”


“Brian!” Lindsay bounded out from the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Brian's neck with some sort of squeal. I kicked some toys out of the way while Brian closed his eyes and put a hand on the back of her head.


“Your kid's an asshole,” he said.


She let go of him. “I know. I was hoping seeing you would cheer him up.”


“It seems seeing Justin might have.”


“Yeah, where is Justin?”


“Couldn't make it. But he sends his regrets and told me to make sure to pick up a bottle of wine on my way over, which I definitely did not.”


She smacked his arm lightly. “We have wine. Come sit. You know you didn't have to get a hotel!” She called over her shoulder. “You could have stayed here!”


Brian made a face like yikes but managed to keep his voice neutral. “Ah, yeah, I know, but it would have been a whole thing with Justin's mother about why we were staying with you and not with her...better to just sidestep the whole thing.”


“Nice save,” I said to him.


He stuck out his tongue.


“Are you seeing her while you're here?” Lindsay asked.


Brian nodded and sat down at the table next to Gus. “Lunch with her tomorrow before the party.” He nudged Gus. “Want to come with?”


“Come where?” he said.


“To lunch with Grandma Jen,” Lindsay said, setting a platter of roast beef on the table.


Brian looked at her imploringly. “Grandma Jen? This is happening?”


I said, “What the fuck's he supposed to call her, Mrs. Taylor?”


“That's what I call her,” Brian said.


“She asked him to call her Grandma,” Lindsay said. “I think it's sweet. She says it's the closest she's going to come to a grandchild so she better make the most of it.”


“I don't know,” Brian said. “Molly's pretty, uh, provocative.”


“Grandma Jen buys me the best shit,” Gus said.


“Gus, language!” Lindsay called from the kitchen.


“Mom literally just said fuck,” he said.


“Mom's old,” Brian stage-whispered to him. “She gets to do things while she still has time.”


“I can't go tomorrow,” Gus said. “They're holding me hostage and making me clean for the dumb party.”


“You always love the anniversary parties!” Lindsay said.


“I want to go to Anna's.”


“You have been to Anna's three times this week,” I said. “You'll survive a night at home with your moms.”


“Two nights,” he said. “Tonight and tomorrow. Two nights.”


“And here I thought you'd be looking forward to spending time with me,” Brian said.


“Why can't I spend time with you in New York?”


“Ask the wardens,” Brian said.


Lindsay took her seat at the table. “When you're a little older, honey.”


“They're no fun,” Gus said to him. His eyes lit up. “Fun zero!”


Brian grinned and reached for his wine. “Very good.”


“What?” Lindsay said.


“It's a sign language thing, Mama,” Gus said. “You wouldn't understand it.”


Lindsay put her hand on her chest. “Hey, we've been practicing too!”


Gus rolled his eyes. “Barely.”


Brian cleared his throat and served himself some meat. “So where's the shrimp?”


“At Michael and Ben's,” I said. “Have you seen them yet?”


Brian shook his head. “We just got in a few hours ago and Justin was already feeling shitty on the drive.”


“How's he been?” I asked.


“Uh, up and down, healthwise.”


“He really freaked out Michael,” Lindz said. “He was back here telling everyone how sick he was when you were in Australia.”


“Michael's such a drama queen. He was totally fine. He took a few days off work and was good as new.”


“Oh, so you didn't run home from Australia in the middle of your conference?” Lindsay said.


Brian shrugged and took a sip of his wine. Lindsay's like a dog with a bone about this shit. She's always trying to get Brian to make some big confession of his feelings for Justin, and so he acts extra nonchalant because he probably knows she's fishing, and then she gets even more desperate. I will never understand the dance these two do, or, more importantly, fucking why.


“How's his job going, anyway?” I asked.


“He loves it. And his boss gave him this enormous canvas so he's been working on that for the past month.”


“Like to restore?” Lindsay said.


“No no, like a blank canvas, to do whatever he wants. He has pictures, he'll show you tomorrow. It's...tremendous.”


The conversation drifted over to what Gus was doing in school, and what his camp plans were for the summer, and how if his report card was good when it came in next week maybe, maybe he could go up to New York for a few days before school started up in the fall. He left to go play the new video game Grandma Jen got him last week, and we offered Brian coffee, but he shook his head. “I should get back.”


Lindsay said, “Oh, that's right, let me pack up some leftovers for him.”


“I don't know if he'll eat.”


“They're just going to sit around here,” Lindsay said, which was ridiculous, since Gus eats like a football player, but obviously I had no objections to sending dinner back with Justin. Brian and I waited awkwardly in the dining room while Lindsay filled Tupperware in the kitchen.


“So, how many years is this?” he asked me.


“Fourteen.”


“Holy shit.”


“Tell me about it. What'd you do for your anniversary?” I teased.


“We went to the ballet,” he said lightly, and I scoffed. Sarcastic asshole. He grinned at me and stuck his tongue in his cheek.


Lindsay came and handed him two things of Tupperware and kissed him on the cheek. “Tell Justin we hope he feels better.”


“Will do. Bye, Gus,” he called into the living room, and rolled his eyes when Gus ignored him. “Oh,” he said, his hand on the doorknob. “By the way, we have an interpreter coming to the party tomorrow.”


Lindsay frowned. “He's never brought one to family stuff before.”


“And he's always lost.”


“Everyone's really been working hard...” Lindsay said.


Brian shrugged. “Now they can all relax.”


Lindsay brought that up again that night, after the kids were in bed. “Do you think they're...trying to tell us something?” she asked me while she brushed her hair.


I lounged on the bed. “If they are, good thing they're bringing an interpreter.”


“I'm serious,” she said. “It feels like some sort of...implication. Like they're saying we haven't been working hard enough for Justin to be able to understand us.”


“I don't think that's an implication. I think Brian literally said that.”


She sat down on the foot of the bed. “There are always layers to things Brian says,” she said, and I resisted the urge to groan and flop dramatically backwards. She crawled up on the bed and lay next to me. “It was sweet, huh? Him talking about Justin's art like that. He sounded proud.”


“Sure.”


“You don't think that's remarkable?”


“Remarkable? No, I don't think it's remarkable. I talk about your art like that to anyone who will listen. A lot more strongly than that, actually.”


“But this is Brian.”


“Yeah, I know it's Brian,” I said. “And I know we regularly applaud Brian for doing the bare minimum in a relationship. Now he's acting like a pretty averagely supportive partner. Only took him nine years, but hey.”


Lindsay sighed. “Mel...”


“Look, it's nice,” I said. “And I'm happy for Justin that Brian's being nice to him. But I'm not going to stand up and applaud that Brian's finally doing the same shit everyone else figured out years ago.”


“You expect too much from him,” she said.


“I expect nothing at all from him! That's my point. I'm not waiting around on tenterhooks to see what Brian does next. He can do whatever. He's not my trained seal, so I'm not going to feed him fish.”


Lindsay sat up and kissed me. “You're impossible,” she said, and she crawled her hand up underneath my shirt and Brian and Justin were forgotten.


**


We set the yard up beautifully for the party, with catered food from the bistro by the river and waiters with pass hors d'oeuvres. Never say Lindsay doesn't know how to pull together an event. I was re-introducing Gus to our friends that he only sees once a year and promptly forgets when Michael and Ben showed up with Jenny Rebecca, and, right on their heels, Brian and Justin and an older man who I presumed was their interpreter. Gus ran over and hugged Justin immediately, and Brain threw up his hands and signed something that looked to me like Why do I bother, and Gus laughed and hugged him too.


Justin pinched J.R.'s cheeks and kissed her, and then Ben and Michael, and finally turned to me with that dazzling smile. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. You look beautiful, he said. Congratulations.


It's so good to see you, sweetheart.


I'm sorry I missed dinner last night.


Not a problem at all. You're feeling better?


Good as new.


“Justin!” Lindsay appeared and swept him into a hug. “How was your trip? Did Brian give you the leftovers?” I was surprised she didn't at least try to sign to him, but I guess that's what the interpreter's for.


Justin watched the interpreter and then smiled. “He did, thank you,” the interpreter said for him. “The potatoes were amazing. I'll need to get the recipe from you.”


Brian came over and signed something subtly to Justin, kissing him above his ear, and Justin gave him a look and smacked his hands away.


“Thank God you two have a new language to be vulgar in,” I said. “However did you survive?”


Brian signed, and the interpreter said, “Melanie, I'm surprised with you. There are children around.” Brian tapped Justin on the shoulder and signed, Ben's over there, and pointed.


Justin signed something back I didn't get, and the interpreter didn't translate it for us, I guess since it was for Brian and he knew he understood. I can't say I'm well-versed in how these things work. I've really only seen interpreters in court rooms a few times and when Justin took us to a play at PIFA last year.


Fine, Brian said. But playing hard to get doesn't suit you, Sunshine. He kissed Justin's nose and left to stalk Marco, one of my paralegals. Not gay, but possibly able to be convinced.


I got myself a glass of wine and found Gus a change of pants when he got grass stains on himself and caught up later with Lindsay and Brian underneath the oak tree. He was pushing Jenny Rebecca on the swing and looking over at one of the picnic table, where Justin, Ben, and the interpreter were talking intently. Lindsay was leaning against the tree and watching Brian in that...way of hers.


I cleaned chocolate from around J.R.'s chin and said, “That looks cozy,” with a nod towards Justin and Ben.


Brian said, “Yeah, Justin's been looking forward to talking to him.”


“I didn't know they were close,” Lindsay said.


“They're not, really. But.” Brian shrugged a little. “Justin has some Deaf friends. Now he needs some chronic illness friends.”


What's funny is, if I were Lindsay, that's the kind of thing that would give me feelings about Brian being a sweet and supportive partner. That's where I'd be swooning. But that's not how Lindsay reacted at all. She kind of looked away quickly and made some excuse about the crudites and she was off.


Brian shrugged and gave J.R. a push. “Some people are very uncomfortable with illness,” he said neutrally, but there was a kind of weight to it, and in the way he was looking at me.


“Not you?”


Brian shook his head and pushed her. “Nah, not at this point. But that still doesn't mean I'm gonna really get it. I reminded Justin Ben existed and he got all excited, so...”


“That's why you brought the interpreter,” I said. “So Justin could talk to him.”


“Not the only reason. You guys are truly awful signers.”


“How about Gus?”


Brian laughed. “Awful.”


“He taught everyone the alphabet at show and tell last week,” I said. “He said everyone thought it was the coolest thing.”


“That's cute,” Brain said dryly. “Culture for show and tell.”


I tilted my head to the side. “That's exactly what I said.”


Brian laughed. “Fuck, that's scary.”


“Isn't it?” I sipped my drink. “Lindsay thought I was being a stick in the mud.”


“You probably were.” He shot me a big fake grin. “Welcome to the club.” He held out his own drink, and fuck it, I toasted him.


People started to trickle out around six. Some of the neighborhood kids had wandered over to play with Gus, so he was finally happy. Justin and Michael were hashing something out about Rage through the interpreter, both of them looking somehow simultaneously frustrated and delighted. Emmett and Ted were curled up asleep in front of a football games where their husbands watched eagerly, J.R. was down for a nap, and Debbie was already cleaning up, despite our best efforts to stop her. I met Lindsay in the kitchen where she was scraping plates into the sink.


“Another success,” I said, and she kissed me and smiled at me. It slipped, though, after she looked around the kitchen to make sure we were alone.


“Did you hear Justin's voice?” she said to me quietly.


“No? I don't think I heard him talk at all.”


“He sounds different,” she said.


“What do you mean, different?”


She shot me a look and rinsed a plate. “Don't make me say it.”


“Ah.”


“It's so sad,” Lindsay said. “And now he's, what, bonding with Ben?”


“Brian seemed like it was a good thing.”


“Brian's being brave,” Lindsay said.


“Ah, yes, the conquering hero,” Brian's voice said from behind us, and we both jumped. “Aren't I always brave? What'd I do this time?”


Lindsay and I looked at each other.


“C'mon, ladies.” Brian leaned against the sink and ate food off of other people's abandoned plates, because I guess the calories don't count that way. “Spill. I just got a fantastic blow job from that straight friend of yours, by the way.”


“Marco?” I said.


“Marco,” he confirmed, rolling the R.


“We just think what you and Justin are going through must...be hard,” Lindsay said.


Brian crunched a carrot. “We're not going through anything.”


“The seizures and everything...”


“He's been having seizures since he was eighteen,” Brian said. “So they're a little worse now. Things tend to get worse when you get older. Like Melanie's tits.”


“I'm so glad you're in my house,” I said. Lindsay punched him in the arm and he pouted and rubbed the spot.


“I just...I hope you two are still able to...be you,” Lindsay said.


Brian laughed. “Who the fuck else would we be?”


“Just that you're not spending all your time taking care of him.”


“Do you want a spreadsheet on our sex life?” he said. “Maybe you two would find it inspiring.”


“Be serious, Brian,” Lindz said.


“God, serious about what? You pulling this concerned Mom act on me about whether I'm happy? Don't I look happy?”


“He looks happy,” I said. And he did, for the record.


“This can't have been what you imagined for yourself,” Lindsay said.


I said, “Lindz, what are you doing right now?”


She sighed. “I just don't want to see him feeling obligated, or...”


Brian rolled his eyes and opened the fridge.


“Since when does Brian ever feel obligated?” I said.


“Listen to your wife,” Brian called into the fridge.


“The point of the two of them was that they didn't have to make sacrifices for each other,” Lindsay said. “No apologies, no regrets.”


“Christ, did that sound that lame when I used to say it?” Brian said. “Fuck, you have watermelon in here and you didn't serve it? No wonder this party sucked.” He took out out a container of watermelon and popped two pieces into his mouth.


I said, “That's for Gus's lunch...”


“I've been whining about wanting watermelon for hours,” Brian said. “Like five different people can tell you. Ask Marco!”


Lindsay was either completely oblivious to Brian trying to lighten the mood or just really, really determined not to let him do it, I'm not sure which. “So, what, now you'll just rearrange your life because—”


“Nobody's rearranging anything,” Brian said, and though his voice was still light, there was a bit of an edge to it.


“You moved to New York,” Lindsay said. “Away from your son.”


“I've wanted to move to New York since I was fifteen,” he said.


“You learned a new language for him,” she said.


He squinted at her. “Yeah, he...couldn't speak the other one anymore? What the fuck was I gonna do, keep speaking it at him anyway?”


“Of course not,” she said softly. “I'm sorry, I don't...I guess hearing his voice just made it seem more...”


Brian waved his hand and fished out another piece of watermelon. “Nope, bored, did that already, had the freak out, read the book, saw the movie. Next. Y'know, some prosciutto would go great with this. Remind me to tell Justin. How the fuck do you say prosciutto in sign language?”


I laughed a little. “You're stoned. He's stoned, Lindsay.”


“I had to get through this party somehow. Not to mention this conversation.” He sighed and came over and planted his hands on Lindsay's shoulders. “Darling. I am older and wiser now.”


“I don't know about that,” she said.


“Here's the thing about principles,” he said. “About making big statements about things you don't do. It's fucking stupid. It's some Hollywood shit. It's not how actual people live. It's not how I lived! You should be fucking thanking God for the miracle of me knowing that. I must imagine I'm less exhausting this way. And I can't keep being a precocious little tyke because it makes you feel younger too.”


Lindsay sputtered a little.


“I do things for him,” Brian said. “This isn't new. Stop being surprised. It's fucking boring.” He let go of her and backed away with a shrug. “If it's an consolation, I'm still an asshole. Now I'm just a bilingual asshole.”


“With a wedding ring,” I said, oddly enjoying this.


Brian nodded and took the container of watermelon with him out of the kitchen. “Live hard, die old, cover your corpse in jewelry!” he shouted over his shoulder.


“I don't think that's the phrase,” I mused.


Lindsay's cheeks were pink.


“You need to give it a rest,” I said.


She shook her head slowly. “Maybe I do.”

 

I laughed and went back to the dishes. “Y'know? I think I want to feed Brian a fish right about now.”

Chapter 21 - The One Where Justin Freaks Out by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

So, in case you have the same high-brow tastes as my son, here's a story about that...

The One Where Justin Freaks Out



When Gus was younger, I used to make up stories for him sometimes before he went to bed, and he always wanted the exact same scenario: there's a big misunderstanding, everything goes horribly wrong, and then at the end everyone laughs about it.


So, in case you have the same high-brow tastes as my son, here's a story about that.


**


Our tale starts one lovely Saturday night at Nova. Justin had on a low-cut tank top and looked edible as fuck, and I was pleasantly buzzed as we drew closer to one AM. The music was rough, and Justin was a flurry of movement, his hands in my hair, on my chest, down my pants.


But eventually he sighed and leaned his sweaty forehead against my neck and said, I have to go.


No, come on, I want to fuck your brains out.


You do not, you want to dance for two more hours and then fuck my brains out, he said.


I grinned. I could shave that down to an hour. ASL is fucking amazing for having conversations in clubs. We should have figured this out ten years ago.


He gave me the kind of sloppy kiss that's the reason I hitched my wagon to this kid. I want to sketch out the next part of my canvas and I'm supposed to be asleep by two.


You and your seizures. I hoisted him up in my arms.


Yeah, me and my seizures.


I put him down and squeezed his face in two hands and kissed him. You need me to come?


No, I think I can make it back to the apartment all by my little self.


So resourceful.


He kissed me again. I love you. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.


Thanks for not narrowing it down much, I said. I grabbed his ass on his way out of the club and threw my arms up and kept dancing for a while.


After a while I got bored, though. Dancing on my own has never really been my thing, all apologies to Robyn, and no one here was catching my eye. I left the club and thought about heading home, but God, it was such a nice fucking night and Justin was probably passed out already so going back to the apartment now would do nothing to make me any less antsy.


So I called Daphne.


“I'm at a bar by Columbia!” she yelled over the noise. “Come up!”


“You want me to come a hundred blocks uptown at one in the morning?”


“Yeah!”


“What the fuck, okay.” I stuck my arm up for a cab.


Daphne was fucking wasted when I got there. She shrieked and held her arms out to me and in the spirit of continued what the fuck I let her hug me. She introduced me to some of her little med school friends and I shook their hands and immediately forgot their names but I ordered the next round of drinks so they loved me anyway.


“How do you two know each other?” one friend, a cute girl with a pug nose, asked.


Daphne hung onto my arm. “Brian is my brother-in-law!”


I took a shot and said, “Yeah, sure, what the hell.” Daphne laughed and clapped her hands. “Ooh, whoa whoa whoa.” I grabbed her arm and nodded to a guy in the corner. “Hello. Over there.”


“Oh, shit, he's cute. Is he gay?”


“I don't know. Show him your tits.”


“These are great tits,” Daphne said. “That would prove nothing.”


“Okay, fine, show me your tits. Now I'm curious.”


“You are lucky I'm drunk as shit.”


I did another shot. “Am I striking you as particularly sober? All right, we'll try this.” I stretched my arms up over my head, squeezing my bicep and letting my t-shirt ride up in the back.


“He's looking,” Daphne's friend said.


“You're a doll.” I took out some amount of money and slapped it on the table. “Keep drinking, kids.” I kissed Daphne's cheek and went after my prey while they made catcalling noises behind me.


Unfortunately, there was nowhere good to fuck in a shitty college bar. Fortunately, this guy had no qualms about going a hundred blocks downtown at two in the morning.


I paused him in the landing before I unlocked our door, gently prying his lips away from my neck. “One second, one second,” I said, and I poked my head in the doorway. Justin was still up, sketching at the coffee table. I waved my arm around, but he didn't look up, so I stretched until I could reach the light switch and almost fell on my damn face.


He looked up when I flashed the light on and off. Hello, you drunk, drunk, drunk man.


You are supposed to be asleep, sir.


I know, I got caught up.


I grabbed the trick by the wrist and pulled just his hand in. Want to get tied up?


Justin laughed. No, I really am going to bed in a minute.


Then do youuuu want to go ahead and go to bed?


No, I have to finish this.


Do you want to go to your office, then?


He raised an eyebrow. Are you shy, Mr. Kinney?


No, I'm assuming he's probably going to expect me to speak to him and I don't want to do it in front of you.


Justin rolled his eyes. It's fine. You're absolved. Bring him in.


So I did, and the trick and I went at it on the couch while Justin drew on the floor. I tried to talk to him as little as possible—I feel so, so weird speaking in front of Justin nowadays—but Justin wasn't paying any attention anyway. Eventually, though, he looked up, and the look he got on his face was so strange that for a minute I was convinced I'd accidentally let the trick kiss me or something. That's just the best reason I could think of for why Justin would look like that, kind of...disarmed.


He waved his hand while the guy was going down on me. What's up? I said.


Where'd you find this guy, Nova?


I shook my head. Bar up on 168th.


By Columbia?


Yeah, do you know him?


Justin shook his head and gathered his papers up.


All finished? I asked him.


He nodded and gave me a tight smile. Have fun, he said, and he went to our bedroom and shut the door.


I was concerned about that for about six seconds until the trick swallowed my cock and everything seemed very inconsequential. Until, of course, he'd sucked and I'd fucked and he was gone with a generous amount of cab money in his pocket, and I showered and felt vaguely uneasy. Justin was asleep, but I still moved around quietly, just out of habit, but when I crawled into bed next to him he still threw an arm over my chest, like always, so I told myself that I'd been imagining the little cold front out in the living room and everything was okay.


He was gone when I woke up in the morning.


So, okay, now we come to the misunderstanding. And maybe you're a smarter son of a bitch than I am and you've already figured out what Justin's problem was here, in which case bully for you, but maybe you're just a dumb asshole like me who's going to assume that Justin's issue, despite the fact that he initially showed no problem with the fact that I'd brought a guy home, was with the fact that I'd brought a guy home.


Look, I'm just saving you the trouble of trying to twist reality into an explanation for why maybe that was what was going on. It wasn't, and frankly all that bending over backwards is exhausting and saving you that journey is my charitable act of the day.


So, anyway, I assumed Justin was passive-aggressively trying to force me into monogamy, because I assume Justin's passive-aggressively trying to force me into monogamy when he breathes too loudly.


At least my first instinct was damage control. That's progress, or something.


Usually Justin sleeps in and then we fuck and then he makes breakfast on Sunday mornings, but today he was working with his oil pastels in the office. I came over to his desk and he looked up.


Are you hungry? I asked him. We can go out if you want.


No, not today.


Normally I like when he works with the oil pastels, because it means it's something he's just doing for himself, which usually means he's happy. Today it meant he was choosing doing something he didn't have to be doing, and...I didn't love that.


But still, I said I like this, and touched the edge of the paper.


He studied it, then me. Thanks.


I leaned down and gave him a kiss, which, thankfully, he returned. Come take a shower, I said, and to my surprise me let me pull him up and away from the desk. Okay, so maybe we were okay.


He was quiet in the shower. I kissed him and bit his neck a little, but he seemed distracted and didn't put his hands on me so after a while I sighed and gave up. He chewed on his thumbnail and didn't look at me while he washed his hair. Washed his own hair, which I'm pretty sure he's done all of twice in the past eight fucking years.


I thought we could go to the park today, I said. See if there are actually sheep on that sheep hill.


He gave me a faint smile. I have work to do today. And I thought I might go for a run.


I'm sorry, a what?


A run?


Have I ever seen you run? Can you run? Have you ever run?


Like you're one to talk. You work out your vanity muscles and go home.


I poked him in the ribs. Still.


He got out of the shower and stared blankly at his reflection.


What's up with you? I signed to him in the mirror.


Nothing.


Don't make me call your therapist.


As if she'd tell you anything.


I'd pretend to be a cop. I got out of the shower and backed him against the sink, kissed his chin. I do a great cop voice. Been working on my New York accent.


I'll take your word for it. And threatening to call and lie to my therapist to find out what I'm thinking is really romantic, by the way. Still, pretty delusional to think I've been to see her in the past twelve hours.


I took my hands off him. So this is about last night.


He sighed and pulled on some sweatpants. I'll be back in a while.


Aren't you supposed to be working on that not walking out thing?


That's when I'm mad at you, he said. I'm not mad at you.


You're acting pretty mad at me.


He stood on his toes and kissed me, deeply, and God, I was just fucking lost as shit at this point. I just want to go for a run, he said. Okay?


I held onto his upper arms. Okay.


I'll be back in a while.


He left, and I paced in circles around the apartment for a while, trying to figure out who the fuck to talk to. Michael was out; I'd heard his lectures on the virtues of monogamy so many times I had them memorized, and all they ever did was make the concept appeal to me even less, plus complaining to him about Justin really only works when I want to bitch about Justin, and that wasn't really the mood du jour. Daphne's good for advice, but she's straight, and there are elements of this she's never going to get, plus she was as certain come down on Justin's side as Michael was on mine.


God, I just didn't want to have a fucking conversation about this! It wasn't even like I tricked that much anymore: once, twice a week, maybe, or when Justin wasn't feeling well. And Jesus, he did it just as often! I tried to think if he'd shown any resentment of it before today anytime in the past couple of years, and I couldn't think of any, which, if I were a more reasonable man, might have been enough to convince me that I was on the wrong track here, but instead it just told me that Justin had been secretly building up to this for God knows how long.


Needless to say, by the time he was back from his run, I had, regrettably, moved past damage control. He came back panting and rinsed his face in the sink, and I watched him from the couch.


He wheezed a little, bending over his knees. That was good, he signed with one hand.


Yeah, and all you had to do was fuck your allergies up. Maybe you'll get another sinus infection. That worked out great last time, right?


He squinted at me. Are you drinking?


I shrugged.


Christ, Brian, it's noon on a Sunday.


And that doesn't fit into your image of your happy little home, huh?


What?


I'm sorry, Sunshine. Not really being the husband of your dreams right now, huh? Should I wait while you decant the wine and we can talk about our days?


I told you I was past damage control. You were warned.


Justin shook his head a little and went to the bedroom and started stripping out of his running clothes, which were really just a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt because this kid doesn't have any fucking running clothes, because he doesn't go running unless he's throwing a fucking hissy fit about something and looking for some excuse to bail out in the middle of a fight like he fucking always does.


So maybe I'd had a few at that point.


I thought you were going to communicate better, I said to him. Didn't you make a whole fucking thing about that? How we need to communicate as a couple?


“Brian.”


Don't Brian me. He has trouble with his Rs now, and even though at first I kind of flew off the deep end about that a little bit and made him feel so shitty and embarrassed about it that he avoided words with Rs in them for weeks so, you know, way to go me, now I think, though I will obviously never fucking tell him this, that it's fucking cute as shit and it makes it hard to stay mad at him, and I was not in the mood for it to be hard to be mad at him.


He started to push past me and I said, Walking out, huh? That fits.


Listen, for all my faults—like, you know, jumping to wild conclusions about Justin's behavior and lashing out at him over it, for example—I don't walk out. Even when maybe I could stand to take a walk and cool off or whatever the fuck, I don't, I just stay and I yell until it's fucking over. Or I would, if I ever got a chance to do it, because Justin always, always fucking leaves. And I forgive him for a lot of shit, and I'm willing to give him the moral high ground over me in just about every situation there is, but frankly it is fucked up how often he turns and runs away when shit starts to get heavy. I'm not saying the kid has to be perfect. I'm just saying, a thousand years from now when they're evaluating Justin Taylor's candidacy for sainthood for the admirable task of putting up with me for his whole fucking life, they're going to have to take that little habit into consideration.


To his credit, he knows it's fucked up and he's working on it.


I'm going to the bathroom, he said, which...tracked, since he was headed towards the bathroom. I need a shower. You're welcome to join me.


What the fuck is going on with you? I exploded. If you have something to fucking say to me, just say it!


I don't, he said.


Bullshit. Bullshit! You've been acting fucking weird since last night. Why don't you fucking say it? You thought moving here meant me we were going to finally start our little life, is that it? You thought we'd sign a piece of paper and start wearing rings and that meant we'd finally be the sweet little couple that would make all our friends proud, huh?


He stared me right down. Brian. I'm not mad at you. I'm going through some shit and it's about me. So can you please stop yelling at me?


Bullshit. You do not get to have a fucking hissy fit about something I did and then tell me it has nothing to do with me!


I'm sorry, who exactly is having a hissy fit?


Screw you.


Can I please just take a shower?


I waved towards the bathroom. Knock yourself out, I said.


Thank you, he said, all WASPy politeness, and he went to the bathroom and shut the door—fucking child—and I went into the living room and turned the TV on. Justin came out a while later and flitted between the kitchen and the balcony and the office and otherwise passive-aggressively didn't either interact with me or vacate the apartment. I heard him signing—he is not quiet—to someone over Skype at some point, probably Derek or Emily, since Daph's signing isn't really up for video chatting yet.


At some point in the evening he said, I'm going to go get dinner with Emily and her friends. Do you want to come?


I knew he didn't want me to. No.


He shifted from foot to foot. Okay, he said, but he didn't move.


I finally turned off the TV. What?


He chewed on his thumbnail with one hand and signed I love you with the other.


That was probably the first time I even considered that maybe he actually wasn't mad at me.


Come here, I said, and he approached the couch kind of hesitantly. I put my hands on his waist and gave him a quick squeeze. Quit being weird, I said.


Okay.


So hey, dumb old Brian thought, okay, that was strange, but maybe everything was going to be fine now. Sunshine and that moody artist temperament of his had some sort of issue but it was over now so whatever, we move on, aaaand then four hours later I heard the key in the lock and there were Emily and Justin.


A little background: I like Emily. She's about five foot nothing and has mousy brown hair and glasses and looks like she'd be kind of timid, but she is anything but. She has whatever the Deaf equivalent of a potty mouth is to rival one Debbie Novotny and she signs faster than anyone I've ever seen, and it's probably good for my ego to have to ask her to slow down all the fucking time. Justin says she's pansexual and I have no idea what that means but I round her up to gay because she's a good egg, and she came to Justin's shitty show in the village that we practically didn't even bother to attend. So yes, in general, feeling positive about Emily.


Feeling a little less so when she's bringing Justin home and he's fucking wasted.


I stood up and met them at the door. What the fuck?


Hi, Emily said, Justin's arm slung over her shoulders.


Uh, hi. I studied her. Are you okay?


I'm fine, I had like three drinks. Him, on the other hand...


Go lie down, I said to him.


So stern, Justin said to me, making a grab for my crotch. Hot.


Now, Justin.


“JUSTIN,” he said, way, way too loudly. “Very dramatic..”


“Jesus Christ.” I took him by the shoulders and led him to the couch. He's not supposed to be drinking, I told Emily.


Yeah, we asked him about that and he told us to fuck off, so...


I turned to Justin. What the fuck is going on with you?


He smiled at me lazily from the couch. You're beautiful.


I am what? I turned back to Emily and pointed at him. He didn't take anything, did he?


What, like drugs? No, he's just fucking drunk.


There was a crash behind me and I probably jumped about a foot. Justin was off the couch and standing next to our now-broken living room lamp.


I heard that! he said.


Yeah, I think the whole block heard that, I said. Jesus Christ, go to bed.


He reached for my arm, missed, and tried again. Come with me.


I'm going to leave you two to it, Emily said. Good luck with that.


Do you have cab money? I asked her.


I don't need your fucking money! Shit, I have a job and crap...this guy, thinking he can pay for my shit...


All right, all right, get out of my apartment.


She flicked me off and waved goodbye to Justin, who bounced and signed, I love you! to her and the second she was gone turned to me and pouted. I miss Emily.


I pointed to the bedroom. Get in bed. Jesus, this is worse than having Gus around.


He launched himself up and in my arms and against my mouth and all of a sudden it was absolutely nothing like having Gus around. He kissed me hard for a while, his arms wrapped around my neck, and I let him because my hands where a little occupied making sure he didn't fucking fall off me.


Eventually he pulled away and hummed, and smiled at me.


“Sunshine,” I said, because again, no hands.


He squinted at my lips. “Sunshine?” he said.


I nodded.


“Hi.”


“Hi.”


“Fuck me,” he said.


I shook my head. “You're too drunk.”


“I don't know WHAT you said,” he announced, and I carried him into the bedroom and dropped him on the bed. I tugged off his shoes and pants and he rolled around the bed, and I got him a bottle of water and his meds and he groaned. I thought we were gonna have sex.


I said no. Take those and hopefully they'll fucking stay down.


He pouted. You're mad.


I'm fucking confused. You know you're not supposed to drink.


Come here. He sat up and grabbed me by the shirt, pulling me in for another kiss. Don't be worried. I'm okay.


Do I look like a fucking idiot? You are very obviously not okay.


I want you, he said. Don't you want me?


I stared at him. You think I don't want you?


Show me, he said. Show me you still want me.


So, okay, there were a number of ways to take that 'still.' He could be asking if I still wanted him even though I tricked last night, which a part of my brain was still convinced this was about. It could have been 'still,' since he went Deaf, which normally wouldn't have been Justin at all but considering I was an asshole about it a month before, there was some precedent. It could have been 'still' even though he was having seizure issues, and mental health issues, and altogether wasn't the easy fuck he's somehow under the impression he at some point was, and that kind of self-loathing was more his speed.


It turned out it was absolutely none of those things, but what I'm saying is, there was no shortage of possibilities and I had no idea what the fuck was going on.


But I know I don't like being asked to prove shit.


If this is your own shit, sort it out yourself, I said to him. I'm going to sleep.


I didn't sleep, of course. I stayed up, certain he was going to have a fucking seizure, while he slept through his alarm in the morning. I grabbed him by the ankle and pulled.


“What the fuck?” he mumbled.


I waited for him to look at me. You're going to be late for work.


He sat up. Fuck.


Congrats on not having the seizures you fucking deserved last night.


He bit his lip. Yeah.


Can I go to work? Are you going to be goddamn alive when I get back?


Yeah.


I waited for him to offer up some other explanation, but when he just sat there in bed, looking pathetic and small, I eventually said, “Whatever,” out loud and got the fuck out of there. He texted me a few hours later to say he was sorry, which I ignored, because why the fuck should he apologize to me if he wants to be a stupid asshole and drink on his meds? His problem, not mine.


Yeah, okay. I got home at seven and he was sacked out on the couch with an ice pack against his temple. I shook his wrist and he jumped and opened his eyes. Two years of this and I still haven't figured out how to not startle the shit out of him.


You okay? I asked.


He nodded and sat up. Just hungover.


Yeah, that'll happen.


That was embarrassing, he said.


I sighed and sat down on the coffee table and waited for him to explain. He didn't.


Are you depressed again? I asked, without really meaning to.


He looked kind of mildly amused. You mean, since I've been cured of my depression from before?


You know what I mean. Are you in...y'know. The bad place.


He sighed. No. I don't know. I think I'm having a nervous breakdown. He paused, then held up his hand. Not actually.


I just looked at him and waited.


Ugh. Okay. That guy you brought home the other night.


I stood up. I knew it.


It's not that.


I've told you, I'm not going to fall into some bullshit imitation—


He was younger than me, okay? Justin said.


I stared at him. What?


Justin looked utterly, completely humiliated. He was younger than me. That guy couldn't have been more than twenty-two.


I don't...


You've never fucked anyone younger than me before, he said.


That couldn't have been right, but as I sat back down on the table, thinking about it, I couldn't come up with a counterexample. It wasn't anything I'd been avoiding, it just...well, Justin used to be really fucking young.


And he wasn't really anymore.


He looked at me miserably.


You're having the age freak out? I said, trying not to smile.


He slumped back against the couch and held the ice pack to his head. I'm having the age freak out.


You are so fucking young, I said. You're fucking twenty-six.


And how old were you when you started freaking out about it?


Hmm. Okay. Point taken.


He groaned and threw himself down dramatically.


Okay, hang on, I said. You can't honestly be worried I'm...what, fucking losing interest in you because you're in your late twenties?


Mid-twenties! Twenty-six is still mid-twenties!


God, you're so damn cute. My hands just say things sometimes. Christ, is that why you went for a fucking run? What's next, buying a bowflex? Do you want a hair transplant?


I am trying to stay hot for you and you are being so mean to me!


I pulled him to sitting. Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're going to go to that bar by Columbia, and you're going to pick up the most barely-legal looking guy we can find, and it's just gonna fuck all the bad feelings right out of you.


Oh really?


I kissed him. Worked for me, didn't it?


I am not sleeping with a seventeen year old.


Yeah, that's what they all think. C'mon. I ruffled his hair. I'll be your wingman. You should take your ring off, though. Kids care about shit like that.


I started to get up and find an outfit for him, but he grabbed me by the wrist. I don't want to go out. My head hurts.


True. I cocked my head and studied him. Okay, how about if I fuck all the bad feelings out of you?


Deal, he said, and I tackled him onto the floor.

Chapter 22 - The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 1 by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Part one of...four? I think?


The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 1




“So when we're looking at children's literature through a queer lens, what are we really doing?” I asked, writing Arnold Lobel's name on the board. “What are we saying about the acceptability of queer relationships versus non-queer ones, and about the public's perception of the inherent sexuality of queer love versus non-queer love?”


Annabel raised her hand in the second row.


“Annabel, yes.”


“There's someone at the door,” she said.


I turned to the door, and there was Michael, watching me through the glass. If the fact that he were interrupting a class weren't enough to let me know something was wrong, the look on his face would certainly have done it.


“Hunter?” I mouthed, and Michael shook his head, and I felt the barest ounce of relief.


I cleared my throat and turned to the class. “Can you excuse me just a moment? I want you to write down answers to that question I just asked, all right? I'm expecting thoughts prepared when I get back. Preferably something using the phrase 'family values.'”


I opened the door and immediately Michael was in my arms. “Michael,” I said. “Who is it, what's wrong? Is it your mother?”


He shook its head. “Brian called me,” he said.


“Fuck, what happened?”


“He...we have to go to New York, I want you to come, will you come?”


I cupped his face. “Michael, of course. What's wrong with Brian?”


“It's Justin.” Michael wiped his nose on his hand. “Brian was...this isn't like last time, he's really scared, h-he sounded just like...”


“What's wrong with Justin?”


“He's in the hospital, he had a seizure.”


I nodded.


Michael took a shaky breath. “He was boiling water.”


**


There wasn't a lot to know at that point. Brian hadn't been exactly coherent on the phone, Michael said, which I believed, as difficult as it was to imagine.


Michael texted Brian a few times on our way to the airport and as we were going through security, but when he didn't get answer he called from the terminal. “Hey,” he said. “I just wanted to check...okay, well, do they know how much...yeah, of course. Um, we're at the gate now, we're just waiting to board. Yeah, of course. Do you need me to call anyone before...”


I rubbed his back.


“Okay. Listen, hang in there, okay? We'll be there in an hour and a half. He's gonna be fine, okay? I love you...yeah. Okay.” Michael hung up and breathed out. “Jesus,” he said to me. “Of all the moments I didn't want to relive, standing in the airport talking to Brian in a hospital...”


I squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah, I bet.”


I still remember when I found out about what happened to Justin at his prom. What was really strange was that I had heard about it, when it happened, in sort of a vague way; I'd seen news reports, heard about the trial verdict, but all of that was before I'd met him, or Michael, and I never internalized the victim's name or pictures, and when I did meet Justin I didn't learn his last name or think of him as more than Michael's best friend's boyfriend for some time. Then one day, I was at the diner with Michael and he had to run out when he got a call that a delivery showed up at the store an hour earlier than expected, and Justin and I struck up a conversation when he came over to refill my coffee and he asked about the book I was reading. Turns out, the kid was smart as a whip, the sort of college student I would have killed to have in one of my classes, and when he went on his break we ended up talking for a while about metatextual elements and the death of the author.


That night, I mentioned to Michael that we'd talked. “That makes sense,” Michael said. “Justin's sweet, but he's definitely kind of a show-off. I guess you'd have to be to put up with Brian.”


“How long have they been together?” I'd asked, mincing some garlic.


“Uh, I guess Justin started following him around the September before last. But he's only lived at the loft for a few months.”


“I gotta tell you, when you told me Brian had an eighteen-year-old boyfriend, I was...”


“Very, very confused?” Michael laughed. “Yeah, that doesn't really go away.”


“But Justin seems so mature for his age,” I said. “He's thoughtful. Seems more cautious than a lot of these kids in my classes who think they can just charge through life.”


“Yeah.” Michael's voice sounded different. “He didn't used to be like that.”


“Oh yeah? What changed?”


Michael stopped dicing chicken and turned around and looked at me. “It's so weird that you don't know,” he said. “I'm so used to everyone knowing. It was all anyone talked about for months.” He shook his head. “I guess I figured it was in your welcome packet.”


“Must have skipped that page,” I said.


“It's a whole chapter.” And then Michael told me. About his ex, and how he moved to Portland for awhile. And about how on the night he was originally supposed to leave, Brian called him from an ambulance.


“He said...God, I will never forget his voice,” Michael had told me. “He just said...'it's Justin. Something happened.' And that's all he would say. I kept pushing him and he kept taking these deep breaths like he was going to finally say it and then he'd just say, 'Something happened,” again. Like he physically couldn't say what it was. I found out from Justin's friend Daphne after I got there.” He shook his head. “I've never seen Brian like that before.”


Now we got up to board and I rubbed Michael's arm. “How'd he sound?”


“Not like when he called from Australia, that's for sure,” Michael said.


“How was that?”


“Like he was just...bored and annoyed, the way he usually acts when he's worried about Justin. He puts up a front most of the time.”


“Not this time?”


Michael shook his head a little.


“What's going on now?” I asked as we boarded.


“He said Justin's in surgery and he's just waiting. He said he never woke up after the seizure.”


If he had burns bad enough to need surgery, I imagined that was probably a good thing.


“Brian doesn't like when he doesn't wake up,” Michael said.


**


We found Brian in the waiting room of the surgical ICU, sitting by a window overlooking the city. His head was bowed and he had a bandage wound around one hand and the top of his other arm.


“Still in surgery,” he said when we got close to him and set down our suitcases, without looking up.


Michael said, “Well, how much longer do they think it's going to be?”


“I don't know.”


“When's the last time you were updated?”


“I don't know.”


“Well who's his—”


“I. Don't. Know,” Brian said.


“Okay, well I'm going to go talk to a nurse and find out what's going on.”


Brian pinched his nose and waved his arm towards the desk. “Knock yourself out.”


Michael charged towards the desk, energized by his mission, and I hesitantly sat down next to Brian. It occurred to me that, for all I knew about hospitals, I knew very little about sitting around waiting for news on somebody else. Brian wiped his hand over his mouth and looked everywhere but at me.


“Can I get you anything?” I said. “Coffee, or...”


He shook his head.


“I can call his mother, if—” but he shook his head at that too, so I didn't push it.


“I hate hospitals,” he murmured. “Justin,” he added, louder, like it was a fun fact he was sharing. “Justin hates hospitals. Of course, Justin has no idea he's even in a hospital right now. Justin's unconscious.”


I touched the bandage on his arm. “Burns?”


He nodded a little.


“You were there, then.”


I didn't expect an answer, but after a minute, Brian said, “I was two feet away from him.” He held out his hands, estimating the difference, adjusted it a little. “Two feet.” He breathed out. “Aaaand my back was turned. And then he poured a pot of boiling water on himself.”


“Having someone there to act fast probably saved his life,” I said.


“He told me he had a headache,” Brian said. “I said, you can lie down after dinner. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. And I didn't feel like cooking. Didn't feel like it.” He shook his head. “His clothes were fucking melting onto him.”


I took his hand and threaded my fingers through his. After a moment, he squeezed, hard.


Michael came back a while later and sat on Brian's other side. “So, um, he had a reaction to the anesthesia. He's okay, but they had to deal with that, so...so it's taking them a little longer than they expected.”


“'course he did,” Brian said softly.


“They're taking skin from his thighs to graft onto his stomach and chest,” Michael said. “It's called a mesh graft, so they have to—”


Brian held up his bandaged hand, the one I wasn't holding. “I can imagine.”


Michael nodded a little.


Brian turned his head and looked out the window. “It didn't get his face,” he said vaguely. “He'll like that.”


“They think he's gonna be okay,” Michael said.


“Yeah,” Brian said, like he didn't really hear him.


**


About twenty minutes later, Brian stood up out of nowhere, like a man bolting out of sleep, and said, “Why haven't they given us a fucking update?”


Michael said, “I don't think they have anything new to—”


“Then they could fucking tell us that!”


“Brian—”


“Don't,” he said. “Don't say anything to me.” He covered his mouth with his hand. “I don't even know which way the OR is.”


Michael clearly didn't know whether or not to say anything. “Does...does that matter?”


“I'm supposed to face him,” Brian said. “He can't hear so I'm supposed to...” his voice cracked. “Fuck.”


“It's that way,” I said. “See the sign? Down that hall.”


Brian turned and read the sign for a very long time. “He's that way,” he said.


“He's that way.”


“He doesn't know what's going on,” Brian said, and he turned to us finally, his eyes wet, desperate. “As far as he knows he's still fucking boiling pasta and everything's fine, he hasn't been awake since then. He still thinks everything's okay.”


“That's good, isn't it?” Michael said.


“No, it's not good, what the fuck? Everything's not okay. He has fucking partial thickness burns on thirty percent of his body and he doesn't even fucking know it! Fuck!” He paced back and forth. “This is just fucking like it, Mikey.”


“No it's not,” Michael said, firmly. “He's going to be fine. We know he's going to be fine this time.”


“He could get an infection, he could have another fucking reaction, he...I need to take him home, it's not safe for him here.”


“Brian,” Michael said.


“He doesn't know what's going on!” Brian yelled, and I think everyone in the waiting room was staring at him at that point. “I'm supposed to tell him what's going on and he's supposed to fucking stay where I can see him, that's the fucking deal! He said, he said he would be okay, he promised me on that fucking night outside of Babylon, he promised me—”


Michael got up and took his arm and brought him back to the chairs. Brian curled up with his forearms pressed against his face.


“I was right there,” he said. “I was right fucking there, if I had just moved him away from the stove...why the fuck hasn't someone sedated me yet?”


**


Justin's friend Daphne showed up, along with two other kids who looked about her age. Brian immediately hugged Daphne, his fingers digging into her back, and I couldn't miss the look of pain on Michael's face that she was the one who got that sort of greeting from him. They all started signing to each other quickly, much too fast for me to keep up, but I still pulled Michael away to give them some privacy.


Michael paced and crossed his arms. “He's telling them everything. He's...he's known them for what, six months? I mean not Daphne, but...”


“They're Justin's friends,” he said. “It probably feels right to sign when he's talking about him, and..it is probably a relief for him to talk to people who love Justin.”


“We love Justin,” Michael said. “I love Justin.”


“Of course we do. Come here.” I put my arms around him and felt him shaking against me. “I know you do,” I said. “I know.”


Michael took a ragged breath.


“But you're still here for Brian,” I said. “They're here for Justin. So's he.”


Michael nodded a little.


“Just give him a little while with them.”


“Okay.”


Daphne came over to us after a while. “He told us to go home and get some sleep,” she said. “Said he'd text us when they were out of surgery. He's probably going to forget, can one of you do it?”


“I'm on it,” I said.


She gave my hand a squeeze, then Michael's. “Take care of Brian, okay?” she said, softly. “We kinda need him around.”


**


A doctor came and sat in front of us a little after one AM. Brian lifted his head.


He shook his head and introduced himself as Dr. Karamov, a plastic surgeon. “Justin's in recovery now,” he said. “We're getting him set up to move to the Burn Intensive Care Unit, and that's where he's going to be for the next few days. He's stable after the allergic reaction he had during surgery, and the grafts seemed to take well. We have to wait and see.”


Brian rubbed his mouth. “I need to see him.”


The doctor nodded a little, but then he said, “The BICU has very strict visiting hours because the patients are kept on a schedule and the rooms get very crowded. Visitors aren't allowed overnight.”


“He's his husband,” Michael said.


“Not even family,” the doctor said.


I asked so Brian didn't have to. “This wouldn't be any different if they were a straight couple?”


“No,” the doctor said. “It's a universal rule.”


“You need to make an exception,” Brian said, his voice soft.


Michael said, “Brian—”


“No,” Brian said, still calm, focused on the doctor. “He's Deaf, an exception needs to made here. He's going to wake up drugged, in pain, and confused, with nobody around who speaks his language to explain to him what's going on. This is not me being some overprotective partner or not understanding the policy, I get it, but this is an accessibility issue. Someone who knows sign language needs to be with him. And unless the hospital wants to pay an interpreter to sit by his bed the entire night, I think it makes sense that it's me.”


We looked at the doctor.


“We have him heavily sedated right now to avoid the risk of another seizure upsetting the grafts,” he said. “Justin isn't going to wake up tonight.”


Brian's eyes hardened. “When.”


“If he does well through the night, we'll lower the sedation in the morning. You can be with him when he wakes up. Go home. Get some rest. He's going to need you a lot more tomorrow than he does tonight.”


Brian clenched his jaw so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek, but finally he said, “I'm going to see him before I leave.”


The doctor hesitated, then nodded. “All right. We'll let you know when he's in a room.”


“Thank you.”


There was barely space for all three of us plus the doctor to stand in Justin's room. The hospital gown hid most of the bandages on his torso, but we could see one wrapped around his upper arm, where the burn wasn't severe enough to need a graft. There were countless monitors and pieces of equipment hooked up to him, and he still had a tube down his throat to help him breathe while he was sedated. Brian, somehow, completely ignored all of this and zoomed in on a pair of tiny hives next to Justin's mouth. You would have thought they were the only thing wrong with Justin, the way he fixated on them. He didn't touch Justin at all, just prowled around the bed the best he could in the tiny space.


“Were those there in surgery?” he asked the doctor. “Those are from that reaction, those aren't new?”


The doctor nodded. “Those are old.”


“And you gave him epinephrine. During the surgery.”


“Yes.”


“Can I see his chart?”


“The patient has to give permission for that,” the doctor said, and I expected Brian to fly off the handle at that, but he actually accepted that right away.


“Okay. Okay, yeah. That makes sense.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Maybe tomorrow then. He's going to wake up tomorrow?”


“If he does well tonight.”


“Right. Yeah.”


The doctor put his hand on Brian's arm, and Brian flinched but didn't pull away. “We have your number. We'll call if there's anything you need to know.”


Michael said, “Brian, do you want a minute alone with him?”


Brian shook his head. “No, no.” He turned abruptly away from the bed. “We can go now. It's fine. I want to go now.”


I said, “If you want to talk to him a little—”


“No.”


“They say patients can—”


Brian said, “What, hear you? You were going to say he could hear me, weren't you?”


Well. Really no way to come back from that.


Brian coughed out a laugh and covered his eyes. “You people are fucking pathetic,” he said.


Michael said, “Brian, it's time to go home.”


Brian lowered his hands. “Okay.”


**


The pot was still on the kitchen floor. Brian stared at it when we walked in. “Least I turned the fucking stove off,” he muttered, going into the living room and kicking off his shoes.


“This is a nice place,” I said.


“Yep.” He lit a cigarette. “Justin doesn't want us smoking in it.”


“You should go to bed,” Michael said. “At least lie down and rest, even if you can't sleep.”


Brian lay on his back on the couch and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.


I said, “Brian, do you want a drink?”


“Yeah.”


Michael followed me into the kitchen. “You really think that's what he needs right now?” he hissed at me.


“We can't give him what he needs right now,” I said. “I just know if something happened to you, I'd need a drink before I could get into our bed alone.”


Michael picked the pot off the floor. “Christ. Did you see how many fucking machines—”


“I know.”


“If he wakes up tonight,” Brian announced from the living room. “I'm suing this hospital.”


I came out and handed him a glass of scotch, Michael at my heels. “He's not going to wake up tonight.”


“Fucking better not.” He drained the glass and snorted. “Three days we fucking waited to hear if he was going to wake up, you remember that, Mikey? Fucking praying that he would wake up. And now look at us. Fucker better stay asleep until I get there. Can barely fucking wake him up on time for work so he's just gotta channel some of that bullshit or whatever the fuck they say, right, Professor?”


“Sure,” I said.


Brian held out his glass for a refill, and I obliged. Michael said, “Brian, he's going to be fine.”


“He's gonna have scars,” Brian said.


Michael shrugged. “Scars are sexy.”


“Scars are sexy. That's very wise, Mikey.” He drank, and Michael sat down next to him on the couch.


“I read online that most people are only in the hospital for like nine or ten days after skin grafts,” Michael said. “That's not that long.”


I said, “Do you need us to call Justin's work in the morning?”


Brian shook his head. “Derek, that kid who came to the hospital, he's the boss's son. She'll probably be sending over fucking...flower arrangements. And Kinnetik will fucking...deal. Cynthia's covered my ass before.” He took a pull on his cigarette and drained his glass. “What I am trying to do,” he said suddenly, “is get all the bullshit out of me.” He looked at us, some kind of desperation in his eyes. “See, what I always do is, I push it down and push it down and then later he has to deal with it. Well, that's crap. He needs to rest. So I' not pushing it down, see? It's right the fuck here and you assholes can deal with it.” He slumped back on the couch.


Michael and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Works for me,” I said.


“Daphne told us to take care of you,” Michael said.


“Daphne's an angel.” He stood up and started taking off his clothes. “You know what's amazing?” he said lightly, handing me the butt of his cigarette. “Being comfortable around someone. Just fucking...being yourself around another human being. Fascinating fucking stuff, huh?” He waved his hand towards Michael. “See, you and I, all these fucking years, we never had that.”


Michael stared at him. “Okay, you're going through something right now, so I'm not going to—”


Brian snorted. “Going through something right now. Didn't I say I was doing all my shit right now? You think there's space in there for euphemisms? Going through something right now. I fucking smelled my partner's flesh cooking on my goddamn kitchen floor, yeah, I'm going through something right now.” He pulled his shirt over his head. “If that fucker wakes up alone I'm going to kill him myself. Shouldn't be hard.” He hopped on one foot, pulling his pants off. “Thinking he can die from some fucking anasthesia, like I would not go down to hell like fucking, who was it, Ben, Hercules?”


“Hercules,” I said.


“Hercules that fucker down into hell and drag him back up again. And you know the fucking punch line? He didn't want to wear the rings because I was going to die first!” He laughed. “In what fucking universe! Because I'm older? At least I'm not trying to fucking bail every ten seconds! See, that's what it is. He walks out of fights, he walks out of life. It's the same goddamn thing, it's just cosmic instead of...you know, instead of walking out the front door.”


Michael said, “Brian, what?”


“Just let him,” I said.


Brian pointed at me. “Just let him. See, that's some good advice. I bet you two are all fucking comfortable with each other.” He went into the kitchen and came back out with the bottle of scotch, then collapsed into the chair holding it against his chest, looking faraway. “You know what it's like to just have a fucking conversation?” he said, with this voice like he was genuinely asking.


I sat on the couch. “Yeah, I do.”


He nodded and sipped from the bottle. “It's nice, right?” he said lightly.


“It is.”


“Doesn't even matter that it's not in English, really,” Brian said. “Sometimes it's easier that way. God, he's not going to be able to have sex for ages. He's going to be so fucking goddamn cranky.” Brian laughed and looked up at the ceiling. “God, he is such a little bitch.”


Michael shook his head in disbelief.


“I'm offending your husband,” Brian said to me, taking another swallow. “He wants me to be nicer to Justin. Everyone does. Even when he didn't like Justin he wanted me to be nicer to him! Work that one out. I've stopped trying. You know what, Michael? Last time he had a seizure like that it was because he had a fever, remember? You remember, you came.”


“Of course I remember.”


“Oh, this is your first time in the apartment, isn't it?” Brian said to me. “Well.” He spread his arms out. “Welcome.”


“Thank you.”


“Anyway.” He drank from the bottle again. “Last time he had a fever. So what the fuck about this time? He wasn't sick. He had a headache. I have to worry every time he has a headache now? Can't let him around stoves, leave him anywhere up too high? We live in a fucking penthouse! He's working on a fucking...this very tall canvas.”


“Ah, shit,” Michael said, pulling out his phone. “I forgot to text his friends.”


Brian laughed.


“You might need some help when he gets out of the hospital,” I said. “Some nurses for home care. Michael and I have some experience with that, we can help set it up.”


Brian shrugged. “Okay.” He shifted in his chair. “How does one have feelings?” he said. “How am I supposed to...to get all that bullshit out. Do I have to cry? I cried already.”


“I think it's just about being present for him,” I said.


He groaned. “I am always present for him. I fall apart after. And he is gonna be a fucking mess for God knows how long, he doesn't need to be fucking waiting around for the other shoe to drop. I am dropping all the shoes right the fuck now!” He paused. “But how, though.”


“Write him a letter,” Michael said, without looking up from his phone.


I looked at him.


He shrugged. “It's what I do when you're sick. I write a letter with all the shit that wouldn't be fair to say to you and then I flush it down the toilet. It's therapeutic, or whatever.”


“Get a pen!” Brian declared. “I will dictate.”


Michael went to hunt around in the kitchen drawers while Brian drank. “Dear Justin!” Brian said.


“You never call him Justin,” Michael said.


“So what? He's not gonna read it. Dear Justin!”


“Hang on, I'm still looking for—”


“So here we fucking are again,” Brian said. “Here we are, you are putting me through this shit for the millionth time.”


“Okay, got one,” Michael said, and he started writing.


“And in the interest of being a more developed person, I am telling a letter that's going to go in the toilet how immensely fucked up I am about it. And don't tell me to go to therapy about it, you little shit. What the fuck are they gonna do? Point out that I have feelings. Well congratulations. It's not like I've been fooling anyone for fucking years. Hey Michael, did anyone think I was really okay after he had been bashed? No.”


Michael paused. “Uh, does that go in the letter, or...”


“So I am doing the drunk and raging thing immediately this time,” Brian said. “In hopes of fucking...growth. And then tomorrow I'm going to go to the hospital and I'm going to deal with this shit. And we're going to be fine. You are going to be fine, you little shit.”


Michael nodded and wrote.


“And here is the part where I'm supposed to say I regret ever fucking meeting you and getting dragged through this shit. 'Cause that's how I felt the first time we did this, I thought, goddamn, if I had just walked out of Babylon a minute later, if I had just kicked that kid out of the loft, something, I wouldn't have to do any of this shit, wouldn't have to do any of these fucking feelings. Ben and Michael, they want me to say that, they want me to get all those bad bad mean thoughts out of me. But you know what, Sunshine, you motherfucker?” He took a swig from the bottle. “I'm just worried. That's all it is. All the fucking...the fucking theatrics of it all, and really it's just that.”


It was quiet, just a siren in the distance and the scratch of Michael's pen on the paper.


“I don't regret a fucking thing,” Brian said. “And I'm not going to, so fucking get over it. I'll see you tomorrow, you overdramatic asshole. Love, Brian.” He shrugged. “How was that?”


“Mine are usually angrier,” Michael said.


Brian put the bottle on the coffee table and stood up. “Well. I'm not angry.” He pointed at Michael. “Flush it. If I find out you leave that out as some matchmaking shit or something—”


“All right, all right.”


“Goodnight,” he said, and then he went to his room and shut the door.


“Well,” Michael said.


I said. “I...guess we'll see how he is tomorrow.”


**


Brian was up, dressed, and drinking coffee at six AM, looking not a hair hungover. He'd taken care of the burns on his arm and hand, changed the bandages and everything.


“Visiting hours start at seven,” he said. “Come on.”


Michael and I exchanged looks, and Brian sighed.


“I told you,” he said. “I'm dealing with my shit. I went to bed last night and cried for an hour, okay? I promise. There is no denial aaaaanywhere around here.”


“The new and improved Brian Kinney,” Michael said dryly.


Brian shrugged one shoulder. “Scars are sexy, right?”


**


“He did great last night,” the doctor told us.


Brian pulled the chair up close to the bed and kissed Justin's cheek. The tube was out, replaced by a mask over his nose and mouth, but everything else looked the same as the night before.


“We're going to go ahead and lower his sedation,” he said. “He's still on heavy levels of anti-seizure meds, which, Brian, as I'm sure you're aware—”


Brian nodded.


“So between that and the painkillers and the remains of the sedation...”


“He's gonna be really out of it,” Brian said. “I know.”


“Expect him to wake up gradually,” he said. “And it's likely he's not going to retain a lot of what we tell him today. Tomorrow he should be a lot more aware, assuming he doesn't have any seizures today. He has a PCA pump for his pain, the button for that is here.”


“PCA?” Michael asked.


“Patient-controlled analgesia,” I said softly.


The doctor nodded. “It's so Justin can control his own morphine dosage. The machine's locked at a certain level, so it's perfectly safe. And it lets him be in control of what he needs.”


“When do you think he'll wake up?” Michael asked.


“Any time in the next few hours.” The doctor smiled a little. “We're on Justin's time now.”


As soon as he left the room, Brian took the button for the PCA pump and said, “Yeah, I don't see any reason to fuck around on this one,” and hit it until it was maxed out.“Enjoy it, Sonny Boy.”


There wasn't room for all three of us to sit around Justin's bed, so Michael and I took seats near the door, by the foot of the bed, and Brian stayed where he was by his head. He was calm at first, but as time went on, he started getting more and more antsy, twitching his foot on his knee, looking at his watch, looking at the clock on the wall like it was going to say something different from his watch. Michael got a stack of magazines from the waiting room and he and I worked through them, but Brian just sat there. Finally, suddenly, he stood up. “He's waking up.”


Justin looked the same to me. Michael and I exchanged a look.


“Brian...” Michael said.


“No, no, hang on.” Brian scooted the chair closer to the bed and sat on his knees, leaning over Justin.


A minute later, Justin's eyelashes fluttered, and Brian smiled and tapped gently on his collarbone.


Good morning, Brian signed.


Justin's eyes were barely open. What's up? he signed, one handed.


Not much. You?


Nothing. Justin closed his eyes, and Brian laughed softly and kissed his hair.


“Okay,” he said. “Good talk.” He looked over at us and smiled.


**


The next time Justin woke up, he started to sign something that would have touched one of the bandages on his torso, and Brian was there in a second stopping his hands. Justin noticed the bandage around Brian's palm, then, and he touched it and looked up at Brian.


Brian brushed his hair back. You've got to be kidding me, he said.


Justin touched the bandage, then the one on Brian's arm, still watching him.


Brian laughed gently. Sunshine, I'm fine.


Justin's eyes started to close again.


That's right, Brian said. Rest up. Was nice to see you.


“You too,” Justin murmured on his way out.


**


The next time he woke up was with a gasp and a high-pitched noise of pain in the back of his throat.


Hey, it's okay, Brian said. He put the button in Justin's hand and helped him press down. Did you have a bad dream?


Justin shook his head, looking confused, and for the first time he seemed to take in the room, the gown, the machines.


Brian squeezed his hand. It hurts, huh?


Justin nodded.


What's the last thing you remember?


Thursday, Justin said.


Brian smiled gently. Today's Thursday.


Justin seemed very, very confused by that.


It's okay, Brian said. How's the mask, breathing okay?


Yeah.


Brian touched his cheek. You're so scared.


I got up and came towards the bed. Hey, Justin, I said.


Justin looked at Brian, then at me.


I said, “Brian, can you—”


Sure, Brian said.


I said, “The doctors told us you were going to be confused,” and Brian signed. “So you're doing exactly what they're expecting. Nobody's worried about it. You're doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing.”


Justin relaxed a little, and Brian looked at me after he fell back asleep.


I shrugged a little. “Sometimes you just need permission to lie there and feel like crap. It's nice to hear that it's what you're supposed to be doing.”


Brian kissed his forehead, then glanced at me and Michael.


“I'm glad you're here,” he said, and I saw Michael exhale.

 

“I think he's gonna be okay now,” Brian said. “I think he's going to be fine this time.”

Chapter 23 - The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 2 by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Part 2 of 4. Next one's Brian's POV.

 

So this is heavy, and after some comments on the last one I feel the need to point out that if you don't like what I write, no one's making you read it *shrug*

The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 2

LaVieEnRose



So here I fucking was again. I swear, I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure I don't die in a hospital. After all the time I've spent here, with Vic, with Ben, with Hunter, and again and again, with Justin, I am not having one of these fucking hell traps be the last thing I see. Just ship my decrepit body to Bora Bora, wherever the fuck that is, and let me die on the beach. Hell, I'll die on the plane on the way to Bora Bora, I don't care. Just don't make my last sight be these goddamn walls. I would pay every cent I have left if it meant I never had to spend another day here.


And if I never have to see this kind of pain on Brian's face again, hell, I'll take that too.


This whole thing had been such a blur. One minute I'm doing inventory in the shop just after closing and my phone starts ringing, and Brian's saying, “Justin's hurt, I'm alone, I need you,” and then I'm on a plane to New York, again, because something's wrong with Justin, again, only it was so, so not like the last time. When we got here, Brian was sitting there and he didn't know anything, didn't know how long Justin was going to be in surgery, didn't know the name of his doctor, nothing, and I couldn't fucking believe it, because what had he been doing this whole time? And then I went up to the desk and started demanding information and they told me that they'd told Brian that if he didn't stop fucking harassing the staff they'd have him removed from the waiting room.


So, y'know. Still the Brian we know and love.


“Such a freak accident,” the nurse had said to me. “Really just a million to one.”


Brian's never told me what happened in much detail, the same way he's never really told me about the night Justin was bashed. And of course there's that morbid part of my brain, y'know, the part that makes me kind of crane my neck if I pass a car accident, that wants to know. It's like I think it's going to make more sense why the universe keeps doing this shit to Justin if I can picture how it actually happened, see all the details of it. But it's also like...I feel like if I could have seen Brian in those moments, I would learn more about him than I have in twenty-five years otherwise. It's like the only way I could ever really know Brian is to see him totally broken like that, and I know that's a fucked up way of thinking, but I can't help it.


Besides, it's not like I haven't seen him broken. He was a mess at the hospital after Justin was bashed, and he was a mess at his apartment when the doctor sent him home the night Ben and I came to New York. God, Ben and I tried to play it so cool, but he was scaring the shit out of me, drinking out of the bottle and making some rant that didn't even hold up. But there was still distance there, there was an element of like, thought to it, and...I don't know, some part of me just really wants to see the fucking rawness of Brian caring about Justin right in a moment. Maybe then I'd finally fucking understand how the hell we got here, waiting for this kid Brian picked up under a streetlight to wake up, sitting in his hospital room again, and again, and again.


You know what, though, is that I also really wish Justin could see him like that sometime and not be fucking unconscious every time Brian really lets go and shows that he cares about him. Although look, for all I know Brian's composing him sonnets every night anyway. Who the fuck knows what goes on with those two when no one else is around.


Anyway, so what I know is that they were making dinner and Justin was boiling water for pasta, and he had a seizure and he knocked the pot off the stove, and it burned his chest, torso, and shoulder. Brian got splashed on one arm, and he burned his hands, one of them kind of badly but not surgically bad or anything, getting the pot off of Justin and ripping through his clothes. That's what I know. And I know Brian won't come to barbecues anymore because he can't stand the smell so that's...you know. Something.


I know Brian acted really fast, or the burns could have been even worse. As it is, he got some third degree burns but mostly deep-second on about thirty percent of his body.


I know from a nurse that if they were worse, they probably would have been a lot less painful, because all the nerves would have died. She also told me that deep second-degree burns are just about the most painful injury there is.


And sitting in the hospital room the day after, I knew I had no fucking clue what was going on with Brian.


“We're supposed to stop pretending we don't have feelings about shit happening to each other,” Brian said that morning, on the way to the hospital. “We made a pact.”


Not that he could really pretend much or not pretend much with Justin right now. He'd been sleeping most of the day, just waking up every so often to have a brief, confused conversation with a very patient Brian. God, the whole situation was so fucked up. We had to wear these gowns over our clothes, and the whole unit was full of people screaming and crying. Thank fucking God Justin couldn't hear it. Ben and I were sitting by the foot of the bed, feeling awkward as shit, or at least I was, and Brian was half-sleeping, half-watching Justin in a chair up by Justin's head. Justin woke up again and looked around like it was his first time seeing the place, like he had every time he'd been up so far. It was scaring the shit out of me, but Brian said with all the medication he was on it was bound to happen. I guess a few months before they'd had to adjust Justin's anticonvulsants and he'd been on a really high dosage for a while, so Brian had some idea of what he was like on them.


Brian reached over to the bed and squeezed Justin's hand while he looked around.


What happened? Justin asked.


You got hurt, Brian said.


Bad?


Kind of.


Justin tried to sit up, and Ben and I jumped up to help stop him, but Brian was on top of it. Still, Justin noticed us, and even though he'd talked to Ben a little before, it was clear he hadn't really realized we were there. “Hi,” he said.


I said, Hey, Justin. How are you feeling?


“Okay,” he said, but with this sideways glance to Brian like he was checking to see if we were really there, like asking Brian if he saw us too. Am I dying? he asked Brian.


Brian said, No, you drama queen. When you're ready we'll have a doctor come talk to you, okay? I told them starting tomorrow no one even walks in here to take your blood pressure without an interpreter. I'm giving them a break today because you're so out of it.


“What?” Justin said.


Yeah, like that.


“Okay.” Justin cast another glance around the room, at all of us, still kind of looking like the three of us were putting on some kind of play and he wasn't sure he was into it.


“I'll be right back,” Ben said softly to me, kissing my cheek before he left the room.


Did someone hit me? Justin asked.


Brian sighed and stroked his forehead. No.


Are you mad at me?


No one's mad at you.


Justin whimpered a little and tried to roll over before Brian could stop him, and he kind of yelped and covered his face and started crying and Brian went, “Oh, oh, fuck...”


I got up and came around to Justin's other side and helped settle him back where he was. Brian took Justin's hand between both of his and kissed it.


I don't like it, Justin said.


Ben came back then, with a cup of ice chips and a spoon. He handed them to Brian, who looked confused at first but then hesitantly held a spoonful to Justin's lips, and Christ, I don't think I've ever used the words hesitantly and Brian in the same sentence before, but there we were.


Justin swallowed them slowly and closed his eyes, still crying a little. Brian fingerspelled something into his hand, I couldn't see what, and Justin shook his head, but there was a tiny bit of a smile on his face through the crying.


Justin fell back asleep, and it was a while before anybody spoke.


“I've never really seen him in pain before,” Brian said, his voice kind of blank, like it was slightly interesting but not really. “I didn't really think about it. I've seen him sick a million times. I've never really seen him in pain.”


That was going to change.


**


Two nurses came in—without an interpreter, but whatever—to change his bandages at around nine-thirty. “Twice a day,” one of them explained. “Change the dressings on the grafts and do debridement on his arm.”


“Debridement?” I asked.


Brian shook his head. “Trust me, you don't want to know.” I wondered how much time he'd already spent looking shit up. When I got here last night, he already knew about mesh grafts and was throwing around terms like “partial thickness burns” like some kind of expert.


Ben said, “Do we need to step outside?”


“Actually it can be helpful to have loved ones here,” the nurse said. “Having burn dressings changed is...unpleasant, to say the least, and family can be a big comfort.” He looked at Brian. “Plus, you'll be doing this once he goes home, so you'll need to learn how sooner or later.”


Brian nodded shortly.


The nurse said, “It's good if someone takes his hands.”


“He...” Brian cleared his throat. “He needs them, he hates that. He's Deaf, if I take his hands he can't...”


“We need to make sure he doesn't touch the wounds,” the nurse said gently. “And he might have a hard time staying still."


Ben came around on Justin's other side. “You hold his hands, Brian, okay?” he said. “I'll make sure he doesn't move.”


“Okay,” Brian said, and God, I just felt so fucking useless, standing there and really, really not wanting to see what was under the bandages, except for that sick part of my brain that I mentioned that absolutely did. And Brian and Ben were just being so fucking capable, and I felt like...I don't know, like someone's kid brother that got dragged along because there was no one to babysit him. I wasn't helping. I was just taking up space.


Justin started to wake up as the nurses carefully pulled down his gown. He looked at Brian fearfully.


It's okay, Brian signed, Justin's hands tucked under his elbow. Use your voice if you want.


Justin looked down at the bandages. “Oh, wow.”


You don't have to look, Brian said.


The nurses were keeping up this ongoing chant of, “It's okay, Justin, doing great, Justin, we're just going to check the bandages now, just going to unwind this here,” and the more they talked the more and more agitated Brian was getting. Justin, of course, had no idea what was going on, and he kept trying to get free so Brian had to keep grabbing his hands, which made it pretty impossible to sign to him.


Justin looked at me, and I tried to give him a reassuring smile, and he tried to give me one back, and then the nurse started to peel the gauze off of Justin's abdomen, and he gasped.


“I know, Justin,” one of the nurses said. “I know it hurts.”


Justin tried to twist towards Brian, but Ben held him still, and Justin made this noise like a trapped animal and all the color in Brian's face just disappeared. He got down lower towards the bed and signed with Justin's hands against his forehead: I know I know I know.


The nurses had a basin of water, and they wet a piece of gauze and held it to Justin's stomach, and that's when he screamed.


If you've never heard a person scream who has no idea what they sound like, who is in such tremendous goddamn pain that they probably wouldn't care what they sounded like anyway...I don't think I can describe it to you.


Brian mentioned to me offhand years later that he still hears it in his nightmares.


The nurses kept working, not shaken at all, and Ben was a rock, putting firm pressure on Justin's shoulders and not taking his eyes off his face for a second, but Brian...well. Brian was falling apart. I think he would have tried harder to keep it together if Justin was watching him, but Justin wasn't fucking watching anyone, he was crying and screaming and trying so hard to get away from the hands on him, and Brian was sweaty and shaky and Ben realized what was about to happen about a second before I did. He pried Justin's hands away from Brian—Brian did not let go easy—and said, “Michael, get him outside now.”


Finally, something I could do. I grabbed Brian by the elbow and we stripped off our gowns and gloves as fast as we could and got out of the room. “Hang on hang on hang on,” I said to Brian, and I managed to vault him over to the nearest trash can before he threw up.


He sank to the floor, his head in his hands, and I got him some water and reassured a watching nurse that he was okay.


“I have to go back, I have to go back with him,” Brian said.


“Ben has him. Take a minute.”


Brian sipped his water, panting. God, I'd never seen him look that sick, not even when he had cancer.


“That is fucked up,” Brian said eventually. “I've never heard him do that.”


“God. Yeah.”


Brian leaned back against the wall, sweat and tears dripping down his face. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” he whispered, and squeezed his eyes closed when we could hear Justin's screaming reach a new pitch. “How does it fucking not sound like him and exactly like him at the exact same fucking...”


“I know.”


“Don't those fucking drugs do anything?” he said. He held out his hand. “Don't answer that.”


“He's going to be okay.”


Brian looked at me like I was stupid. “I know he's going to be okay,” he said. “But he's not okay now.”


Brian threw up again a minute later, so we didn't end up going back into Justin's room until after the dressings were changed. The nurses were gone, and Ben was crouched by the bed, signing small and slow to Justin, who was lying on his side now. Brian and I put on new gowns and gloves, and Ben said, Brian's back. He's coming. He stepped out of the way when Brian came around in front of Justin.


Brian examined the bed and figured out how to lower the sides, then very, very carefully lay down next to Justin, facing him. Ben and I stood at the foot of the bed, his hand on Justin's leg, mine on Brian's. I don't really know why. It just felt right at the time.


Justin was tear-stained and weak, but not crying anymore. And not screaming. Hi, he said.


Hi, Sunshine. You with me?


Yeah.


Brian nudged the oxygen mask off and kissed him, really gently, and Justin kissed back. It must have been their first kiss since before it all happened, and I could almost see the relief building in both of them, covering them like a blanket.


Brian pulled back a little and said, Can I get you anything? You want some more ice?


Justin nodded, and Brian reached behind him to the nightstand and fed him a few more ice chips. Justin sighed as he swallowed.


Your morphine's maxed out, Brian said. Sorry. I can talk to them...


It's okay, Justin said. Are you okay?


Brian ran his fingers through Justin's hair. In the interest of full disclosure, he said, I will be honest and tell you that I'm having feelings about this whole situation here.


Justin smiled, and then laughed, and then winced, and Brian said, “Oh,” and cupped the back of his head.


I love you, Justin said, and Brian closed his eyes and basked in it, like a cat soaking up the sun.


Go back to sleep, he said to Justin, and Justin did.


**


Ben had to step outside a little while later because Justin's mom came and there's a three visitor limit, and Ben said I should stay with Brian. She hugged Brian as soon as she came in, and I was surprised by how tightly Brian hugged back. Between her now and Daphne last night...I don't know, I don't know why it never occurred to me that Brian had let Justin's people into his life that much. I guess I thought Justin's people were just Justin's people, and then us and the rest of the family were for both of them. I guess that's not how it works most of the time. Ben and I have dinner with some of his friends sometimes, but he doesn't really have a tight-knit group the way I do, so it made sense that he'd mostly just fold into ours. But Justin...I mean, if is friends rushing to the hospital in the middle of the night last night are anything to go by...Justin's got a group too, and I guess it makes sense that Brian's involved in that. And it probably shouldn't fill me with panic that I'm losing Brian, but...that wasn't really important right then.


Jennifer pulled back, and she and Brian were both crying, just a little bit, and they kind of laughed a little and then Jennifer went over by the bed. She put her hand on his forehead, and he opened his eyes and smiled, and she signed kind of haltingly to him, but it was enough, I think. Brian drifted over to the foot of the bed and sat next to me in Ben's empty seat.


“She was in California with the new boyfriend,” Brian explained to me softly.


“Have you met him?” I don't, it just seemed like a nice service to offer Brian literally anything else to talk about.


“Yeah, he seems nice. Justin likes him. Molly has an attitude about him, but she has an attitude about everything.”


“She's not here?”


Brian shook his head. “Away at camp. Jen didn't want to tell her.”


“Have you told everyone else yet?” I asked.


“I figured you had.”


“They'd be calling you every ten seconds if I had.”


“Deb's gonna shit when she finds out we didn't tell her right away.”


“God, I know. I'll handle it.”


“Oh, really? You will? Gee, thanks, Mikey.”


I rolled my eyes.


“I didn't think you'd noticed how much I have on my plate right now. I'm truly touched.”


“You're such an ass.”


He shook his head, watching Justin, his smile slowly fading. “God. I can't believe they have to do that to him twice a day. You'd think they could knock him out or something.”


“This nurse told me yesterday that second-degree burns are the most painful injury there is.”


“Thanks,” Brian said. “Thanks for that.”


“No problem.”


“I've got to get Stephanie here,” Brian said.


“Who?”


“Our interpreter, we use her at Kinnetik and Justin has her at art functions sometimes. She's done a few doctor's appointments for us but she always complains because she doesn't like doing medical work. Sure she'll love this! I'm gonna have to buy her the world's best Christmas present...”


“Doesn't the hospital have interpreters?”


“I'm not taking chances with that shit.” He gestured towards the bed. “He still doesn't know what happened to him, you know. I don't even think he knows for sure those are burns.”


“Why don't you just interpret?”


“Not a good enough signer,” Brian said.


“Come on.”


He shrugged easily. “I'm not. Besides, it sucks. Imagine Ben's lying there getting bad news from a doctor, and instead of sitting next to him fucking...dealing with it with him, you have to stand next to the doctor and repeat everything he's saying word for word. And you're the one he hears all that bad news from.”


“Ugh.”


“Yeah. I'm gonna pay someone, and I'm gonna sit and hold his hand. That's what I do.”


“Brian?” Justin said from the bed. Brian's mouth quirked, an involuntary smile, and he stood up and went towards the bed.


Yeah?


“Can you tell me what happened? I asked Mom, and...”


Jennifer laughed self-consciously. “I don't think my signing's up to explaining. I'm just confusing him more.”


Brian sat down by the bed. That's not hard. He's pretty easily confused right now.


“Shut up, at least I'm awake,” Justin said.


Brian looked at him and then took one of his hands in his. Okay, he said, one-handed, bandage still wrapped against his palm. And he told Justin briefly and unemotionally what happened—the seizure, the water, the ambulance, the surgery. Jennifer knew it all already, I could tell, but she still got distressed as she listened and eventually excused herself and stepped out. Justin looked like he wanted to fucking follow her or something, and Brian said, She's fine, give her a minute.


God, Justin said. I am so fucking sorry.


I'm still amazed by what Brian said next. Not that it was this grand sweeping speech or something thing or anything, just that it was...so exactly the perfect thing to say in that moment, and it somehow, like...it summed up so much shit in so few words, it meant all these different things. And it was exactly what Justin needed to hear, and it still wasn't some platitude, or some non-Brian reassuring bullshit that would have felt like it was coming from someone else. And it was also, I knew it, Brian knew it, Justin knew it, one hundred percent fucking true.


He said, I am really, really glad I was there.


Justin held him.


**


“What the fuck do you mean, this happened yesterday? This happened yesterday and you're telling me now?”


I winced, holding the hospital phone away from my ear. “Christ, Ma, will you stop shouting?”


“Well, where the fuck is Sunshine? Do the video call, let me see him!”


“He's sleeping,” I said. “I'm out in the waiting room.”


“Well...well I'm gonna come up there! And I'll bring Emmett, and Mel and Lindsay, and...”


Brian had told me no fucking way to that one already. “Ma, it's already crowded as shit here. Jennifer just arrived, and Ben and I are here, and they've got Justin's friends here in New York, and Brian...”


“God, poor Brian. How's he doing?”


“Um...surprisingly okay,” I said. “He's dealing with it. I can't believe I just said those words about Brian.”


“Don't you let him fuck this up,” Mom said. “Justin's got enough to worry about without Brian fucking bailing on him again.”


“He's not going to bail on him.”


“Yeah, we'll see.” She sniffed. “Well. I'm gonna overnight them some lemon bars.”


“I'm sure they'll appreciate that,” I said. I glanced over at Justin's room and saw through the window what definitely looked like Brian arguing with a doctor, so I said, “Ma? I gotta go. I'll talk to you later,” and hung up before she could object.


Ben had gone back to Brian's place to get some work done for his substitute and make a meal or two for Brian and Justin, so it was just Jennifer and Brian in the room with Justin. Justin was awake, and they'd raised his bed a little so he wasn't completely flat anymore, which did a lot to make him look more alive. He still had the oxygen mask on, and at the moment he was just watching Brian.


“Turn around and get an interpreter,” Brian said.


The doctor said, “We really need to discuss this—”


“No,” Brian said.


Jennifer said, “Brian, maybe you can just—”


“No,” Brian said again. “Justin gets to know this at the same time we do. Turn around and get an interpreter before you talk to us.”


The doctor sighed and left, and Brian sat down by the bed and took out his phone.


Justin waved for his attention. What are you doing?


Texting Stephanie and telling her I'll pay her triple if she gets here in the next ten minutes.


Do you think something's wrong? Justin asked.


No, Brian said. I think you're sitting right in front of me and you're fine.


Sometimes I think that's really how Brian's mind works, that he divides Justin's health into two categories, fine and not fine, and the only real determining factor is whether or not Brian can touch him.


Although it was hard to ignore the way Brian's eyes snapped up when Justin coughed a minute later, and the look he exchanged with Jennifer.


Sure enough, that was the issue. Brian's phone buzzed—under ten minutes later—and he kissed Justin's cheek and stepped outside and a few minutes later was back with the doctor and a woman who I presumed was Stephanie. Justin gave her a little wave, and the two of them had a brief, much-too-fast-for-me conversation before Brian nodded to the doctor to speak.


“So we have your latest test results,” the doctor said. “And your lung function is a littler lower than we would like.”


That happened last time and it was fine, Brian said, at the same time Jennifer said, “Last time he was under anesthesia we had the same issue.”


I don't remember, Justin said.


Brian placed a hand on top of his head. Your brains were scrambled, he said, and Justin smiled a little and knocked his hand away.


“It's something we need to keep an eye on given the potential for infection after burns like these,” the doctor said. “Especially considering we aren't able to do the usual IV antibiotics given Justin's drug allergies.”


“He's not on antibiotics?” Jennifer asked.


“He is, but they're not as strong as the ones we would usually use.”


You delicate little princess, Brian said to Justin.


Bite me, Justin said. I knew Brian was being flippant to try to keep Justin from getting worried, so Justin must have known too, but it looked like it was working anyway.


Brian turned to the doctor. So what do we do?


The doctor did a good job keeping his eyes on Brian and not on Stephanie. “We keep an eye on it, for now,” he said. “We're going to increase the flow of oxygen through the mask to keep his levels up, and Justin, you're going to need to concentrate on taking big, deep breaths, making sure air keeps flowing through those lungs, okay?”


Okay, Justin said.


“If everything goes well, we'll have you transferred out of the ICU and into a regular room in two or three days,” the doctor said. “Then you'll have more room for all your many visitors.”


Justin smiled a little, took a deep breath, nodded. If everything goes well.


The doctor nodded. “That's right.”


But of course, that's not what happened.


**


That evening was a weird mix of moods, because Jennifer went back to her hotel and Justin was a little more awake and aware and joking around a bit, so in that way everything felt kind of peaceful, but as we got closer to the time he was going to have his bandages changed again, Brian kinda started unraveling. I went down to the cafeteria and got us something to eat—Justin wasn't eating yet, and joked that for once Brian couldn't nag him about it—but Brian mostly just picked at his and watched the clock. Justin didn't seem worried about it at all, and Brian took that to mean, he mentioned during one of Justin's still-frequent naps, that he was still too out of it to really remember it from earlier, but I think he was just staying calm for Brian's sake.


About an hour before he was due to be tortured again, his friends showed up, and that did a lot to brighten up both of them. Brian's always liked seeing people fawn over Justin, loves going to his art shows and seeing people grovel, so watching Daphne and these two other kids—Derek and Emily, they introduced themselves to me—fuss over him was good for his mood. And they did a good job of not getting too morose and serious. Daphne probably coached them. She was in med school, then—now she's some big hot shot doctor—so she was easily the most comfortable person in the room.


Derek and Emily were both Deaf, and they complimented me on my signing, which was nice, even if it made Brian roll his eyes and then sign faster, like he was showing off, but whatever. He and Emily had a pretty hilarious rapport, which was especially funny since she's about the size of his pinky and completely not intimidated. And he and Daphne, of course, have had some kind of unspoken bond ever since their first night at the hospital together. She hung out with Justin mostly, asking him questions—totally not medical questions either, just like, stuff about TV and how his big painting was going—but after a while she made eye contact with Brian and somehow that was enough for him to know to meet her at the foot of the bed while Derek and Emily talked to Justin.


“The nurse said he's getting his bandages changed soon,” she said to him, softly. “Do you want me to stick around for that?”


“Fuck,” Brian said, and he grabbed her and hugged her so, so hard. Daphne chuckled.


Brian made it all the way to the end of the dressing change process before he threw up this time, so that felt like progress.


**


Once again, they wouldn't let Brian stay the night, which he seemed close to accepting until the on-call doctor made the mistake of mentioning offhand that the nurses would be checking Justin periodically throughout the night. I guess he thought Brian would find that reassuring.


“And an interpreter's going to go in with them every time?” Brian said. We were already in the waiting room, having been escorted out of Justin's room for the night. He and Justin had said a very quick, very unemotional goodnight, Justin clinging a little to Brian's shirt, Brian kissing his nose and instructing him to keep breathing.


The doctor sighed. “The nurses have a lot of patients, I can't expect them to wait around for an interpreter to be available. They'll only be in Justin's room for a minute each time.”


“And if he has a question during that minute, he's supposed to...what? If they have some sort of instruction for him, he just guesses what they're saying?”


“We'll have an interpreter with me every time I go in,” the doctor said. “I'll be doing any major updates.”


Brian shook his head. “I'll stay here.”


“As we've told you—”


“I get it,” Brian said. “Not in his room. I'll stay here.” He sat down in a chair in the waiting room. “And before anyone goes into Justin's room, they let me know and I'll come in and interpret.”


“I thought you hated interpreting,” I said.


Brian shrugged, still watching the doctor. “Desperate times.”


The doctor sighed. “I'll have an orderly get you a blanket and a pillow.”


Brian smiled.


“I can stay...” I said as the doctor walked away.


“No.” Brian got up and kissed me. “Go back. See Ben. Get some sleep.”


“You're sure?”


“I'm sure.” He took a deep breath. “I'll be here.”


**


Ben hugged me as soon as I walked in the door. “How is he?”


“Uh, he screamed a little less tonight, so that's good. Daphne and those kids from last night came to see him. And Jennifer kept her cool okay, but you can tell she really fucking hates hospitals at this point. Hard to blame her.” I took of my shoes and accepted the plate of food Ben shoved at me, eating without even really looking at it. “They're worried about Justin's breathing or something.”


“Is he okay?”


“He seems okay to me. Brian's going to camp out in the waiting room all night. We're going to need to figure out some kind of better solution, he can't do this every night. And we're gonna have to go back to Pittsburgh at some point.”


“We can worry about that when the time comes.”


“Very zen.”


“Well.” He kissed me.


We sat on the couch and turned the TV to whatever was on and just tried to decompress for a while before we got up and took a shower and fell onto the pull-out couch in the office. It was weird, how quickly I felt so far away from the hospital and everything that was happening there. It was like once I wasn't right by it, it was impossible to believe that something that intense was actually happening to people who I know, and love. I answered some texts from people at home, updating them on Justin, texted Brian to tell him goodnight, and fell asleep in Ben's arms.


Brian was out in the waiting room when we showed up at the hospital the next morning, pacing the floor and barking orders over the phone to someone at the office despite the glares from the people sitting around him. Jennifer was sitting with Justin in his room, and there was a new sign on Justin's door, amongst the ones warning about his drug allergies, this one a piece of scrap paper with Brian's handwriting, underlined three times: “He's DEAF.”


“I don't fucking care how many times they've redone it, it's still not fucking good,” Brian said into the phone. “Get a new proof to Breyer today or start handing out pink slips.” He hung up the phone.


“Everything okay?” I said.


Brian turned to look at me, and I knew just about instantly that everything was definitely, definitely not okay.


“He has a fever,” Brian said.


**


Changing the bandages made Justin scream, and screaming made him cough, and coughing pulled the grafts on his chest, which made him scream, which made him cough...


It was a fucking nightmare.


Jen couldn't stand to be in the room with it. Ben remained a fucking rock, keeping eye contact with Justin, encouraging him to take deep breaths.


Brian held his hands and didn't look at him.


They moved Justin from the BICU to the regular Critical Care Unit because they said his infection put the other burn unit patients at risk. The look on Brian's face when Justin cried through being moved said exactly how many shits he gave about the safety of the other patients, and his new unit came with new nurses and new explanations from Brian, over and over, to them about what Justin needed. A nurse tried to give him a new medication at one point without clearing it with Justin first, and Justin completely freaked out, and I thought Brian was going to come apart right there. “Write it down, show him the label, fucking something!” Brian yelled. “You do not fucking give him anything until he tells you it's okay!”


Brian was in and out of his room dozens of times, going through gowns and gloves at some kind of record pace. He was making calls to the office, checking Justin's medication dosages, getting his chart from the nurse's station, sending his friends away, pacing the floor in front of Justin's bed.


“Come here,” Justin said, his voice wrecked from coughing, when Brian came in after reposting the “He's DEAF,” sign, now with extra underlines, on Justin's new door. Jennifer was outside calling relatives, and now that they were throwing the term “possible pneumonia” around I'd sent Ben back to the apartment, so it was just me and Justin and Brian. Justin was sitting up a little now, propped up on pillows because they were hoping it would make it easier for him to breathe.


Brian paused and looked at him, his hand over his mouth, then very carefully climbed up onto the bed beside him and eased Justin's head onto his chest. He checked his temperature with his palm, then the back of his hand, then his lips.


Shivering, Brian said, and he pulled the blanket up over Justin's body.


I'm okay.


Yeah, I know.


You need to sleep, Justin said.


How about you?


I've been sleeping all day.


Brian rested back against Justin's pillows. I can try. You have to breathe.


I can try too, Justin said.


Brian actually did fall asleep, Justin still pillowed on his chest, and Justin glanced up at him and then beckoned me over to the bed. You have to take care of him, okay?


I took a biiiiiig step back. This better not be some kind of death bed speech. Don't you fucking do that.


Justin rolled his eyes. I'm not dying. I just mean while I'm here.


You're supposed to be worried about yourself right now.


I'm an excellent multitasker. Look, everyone here is focused on me. I'm covered. Brian needs someone focused on him. He shivered and coughed, and Brian shifted a little in his sleep, pulling Justin into him.


Okay. I sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. But you better not pull any shit. Don't go taking this as me reassuring you Brian will be okay without you or something like that.


Justin smiled weakly. Like I'd ever believe that.


I ran my hand up his arm, carefully. How are you, are you okay?


He shook his head just a little, and I swallowed.


Well, you're gonna be fine, okay?


What the fuck, are you crying?


I shrugged. I kind of like you.


Justin shoved me. I love you too, you dork. Now cut it out. I'm gonna be fine. He coughed for a long time.


**


Justin had a seizure, and Brian and I were unceremoniously removed from his room. Jen watched through the window with her hands over her mouth, and Brian shook his head and hugged her against him so she couldn't see, his face unreadable.


The doctors said they were going to raise his sedation back up to keep it from happening again. They didn't want to intubate him again if they could possibly avoid it. They said with the way his lungs were right now, they didn't like Justin's chances of being able to have the tube removed.


Brian stared at them, Jennifer's small hand inside his. “What the fuck does that mean?”


“It means this is a balancing act,” the doctor said. “And we're going to do everything we can.”


Brian said, “You're telling me survived taking a bat to the head, losing his fucking hearing, pouring boiling water on himself, and now he's going to die from catching a fucking cold?” Jennifer made some noise in her throat, and Brian said, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. He's not going to die.”


“Putting him back under is going to give his body some time to rest,” the doctor said. “This is what he needs right now.”


Brian took a deep breath and shook his head fast, like he was clearing it of something. “I want to see him first,” he said. “Someone needs to tell him what's going on.”


I asked Brian if he wanted me to go in with him, but he said no. “I need you to handle Jennifer,” he said to be quietly. “She...I know I'm an asshole, I know, but I can't fucking deal with her right now.”


“I'll take care of it,” he said.


He ran his hand over his mouth. “I don't want any of the fucking Pittsburgh people texting me every five minutes asking me—”


“I'll take care of it.”


“And Justin's friends, I don't—”


“Brian.”


He swallowed. “You'll take care of it.”


“I'll take care of it. Go see him.”


Brian went into Justin's room, and I convinced Jennifer to go to the cafeteria for some coffee, and then I called Ben at the apartment to fill him in on what was going on. “I'm gonna try to get Brian to come home for the night,” I said. “He's falling apart, and Jennifer already said she was going to stay, and Justin's...he's not going to be awake anyway. It's not doing anybody any good having Brian keeping vigil out here another night.”


“Good luck with that,” Ben said, but it turned out Brian actually agreed really easily. I think all the fight was just drained out of him at that point. He came out of Justin's room and kind of nodded vaguely when I told him we could come back first thing in the morning, and he sat beside me in the cab like a zombie.


Ben met us at the door to the apartment, but I kind of shook my head at him and he nodded and backed off. I brought Brian to his bedroom and slowly got him out of his clothes.


“I didn't tell him I loved him,” Brian said.


“That's okay,” I said, because I had no idea what fucking else to say. I tried to imagine saying anything other than I love you to Ben in a circumstance like that. What the fuck even is there to say?


“I'm not holding it over him like that,” Brian said. “Making it so fucking...significant. It's not significant. I'm not doing that shit.”


“Okay,” I said, lost as hell.


“Anyway. He's going to live because he wants to,” Brian said. “Not because he think he fucking owes it to me. Fucker doesn't owe me shit.”


I got him out of his pants and lay him back on the bed. He grabbed at me when I went to get him some water, so I lay down next to him and he slipped his fingers through mine.


“Remember when we used to play pirates,” he said to me.


“Yeah.”


“We were always too old for that shit,” he said.


“Maybe.”


“I still think he's going to be okay,” Brian whispered. “Deep down, I really do think that.” He took a shaky breath. “That's what I told him. That I really believed it. I think he knew I meant it. He was really out of it. I don't know.”


“It's good for him to hear that.”


“Do you think I'm in denial again?” There was an edge of panic in his voice. “I'm trying not to be. I'm trying really hard.”


“No, I don't think you are.”


“Do you think I'm too old to just...believe it's going to work out?”


“No,” I said to him. “No, I think this is new.”


Brian Kinney has hope. Hope.


Kind of makes “I love you” feel sort of small, huh?


“He's not going to leave me now,” Brian said. “He's been working on the walking out thing.” Brian closed his eyes, swiped at his cheeks. “He's just sleeping.”

 

We lay next to each other on the bed, holding hands, staring at the ceiling. And we waited for it to be tomorrow.

Chapter 24 - The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 3 by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Honestly, when Justin got pneumonia, it was sort of a relief. (Part 3 of 4, and not really living up to the title so much anymore...)

 

The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 3

LaVieEnRose



Honestly, when Justin got pneumonia, it was sort of a relief.


Okay, hear me out. Yes, the first few days of it sucked. He was touch and go for a little while, and he had a massive seizure, and they had to put him in a fucking medically-induced coma so his fevered little brain wouldn't twitch his brand new skin grafts right off of him. I got there the morning after they knocked him out and he had hives all over his arms, which I couldn't even lose my shit about because Jennifer already was, so I had to be all calm or else I'd freak her out even more and there was no chance in hell the doctors were gonna listen if both of us were coming at them in fucking hysterics. I like Jennifer, I do, and it's not like I think she doesn't have a right to be messed up over her kid, but...Christ, I was already taking care of one drama queen Taylor, I was kind of at capacity here.


Michael handled her, thankfully, and I barked at the doctors and otherwise caused a small disturbance until they stuck some diphenhydramine on his IV. Michael, once again, thought I was ridiculous for giving a shit about some hives when Justin was lying there with a fever of eight million and a mask helping him breathe, but none of that was going to kill him in the next two minutes and a reaction fucking could. He'd already gone into fucking anaphylactic shock during his surgery, because apparently he's allergic to anesthesia now. I don't know what the fuck we're going to do if he ever needs surgery again. I told him he better get used to the idea of aging gracefully now, while I become some sort of ancient plastic surgery queen, probably.


The Taylors themselves get the seriousness of the allergies, which is why Jennifer was a mess at the hospital that morning, and why Justin, normally irritatingly cool at hospitals, lost his fucking shit the day before when they'd tried to hang a new bag on his IV without telling him what it was. I'd already cleared the medication with the nurses, but that didn't mean I'd given them fucking permission not to clear it with him too, Christ. People have always treated him like a child since he's small and blond and has that face of his, but it's a hundred times worse now that he's Deaf. They'll act like he's out of commission and his partner gets to make all his decisions just because they don't want to bother trying to communicate with him. It's such shit.


So that day was a mess, and the next day was a mess, with his shitty oxygen levels and a concerning blip in his kidney function, but then after that all his arrows started pointing in the right direction, and once his fever got out of the thousands they woke him back up again, and a few days after that he was just kind of bitchy and stuffed up and headachey and I thought...okay, finally we are back in my wheelhouse here. Because the kid's got the worst goddamn immune system, I know this game, I know Justin sick as well as I know him healthy. I've got this.


Because what I had not got, so to speak, was this whole excruciating pain thing.


I'm sure getting hit in the head with a bat was a thoroughly uncomfortable experience, but Justin had the benefit of being comatose for most of the worst part of that and I had the benefit of being a cowardly little shit who didn't go into his room while he was awake, so the worst pain I'd ever seen the kid in before this point were migraines, which yeah, are painful, but in a this happens to people sort of way, and he'd take his meds and go to sleep and be fine the next day. No writhing around, screaming like you were pulling his skin off—oh wait, they were literally fucking pulling his skin off—for that. And then enter a pot of boiling water, and everything kind of changes.


You could say that I didn't handle it all that well, and the orderly who kept having to change the bag in the trash can I vomited in the first few times would probably agree with you. It's just...I don't do well with Justin screaming, I think we can put that down as a little fact about me now. I started throwing shit when I broke my ankle and he was screaming at the nurse's station, and I threw up everything I'd ever eaten when Justin screamed through his debridement. There's something about his Deaf voice that has some kind of power over me. He says “Brian” with that wrong little R and I'll give him anything he asks for. He laughs with no filter and I have to fucking cover my face. He screams in pain without self-consciousness, and I, well, fucking want to peel off my own skin to feel everything he's feeling.


I never claimed to be a rational person, which has proved to be convenient as my life goes on with this boy.


Anyway, having him sick was a nice distraction, at least for me. And by the time they pulled him out of the sedation again, the burns had healed enough that dressing changes, while still fucking shit, were more of the “cry and wince” kind of shit and less of the “scream like your fucking skin is still on fire” kind of shit and okay, I could handle that.


When they first woke him up he was so confused, just like the last time. This isn't my room, was the first thing he said to me. Whose room is this?


It was, of course, his room, but moving on.


First thing you do is complain, I said, my chest fucking bursting. That seems about right.


Not a complaint, he said, flinching a little when the sign touched his bandage. It's a nice room. It was just some piece of shit half-room in the Critical Care Unit, but, y'know, good for him.


Well, it's all yours, I said.


Thanks.


Anytime.


He reached out and touched my face. You've been crying, he said.


Yeah, my boyfriend's pretty messed up right now.


Justin sighed, wheezing pretty loudly. Same.


I kissed his forehead. Actually, you'd be amazed at how well I was handling this, if you were, you know, awake. Not you, though. You're not handling this well at all. Pneumonia? Come on.


Why are you always the most impressive when I'm unconscious?


Spite.


Justin raised his arms over his head, wincing when it pulled on the grafts, but he could do it. Lie down with me.


So I did, carefully arranging him so he was propped up but could still see me signing. You're still really hot, I said.


Thank you.


Yeah, yeah.


When can I go home?


I don't think anyone's talking about that at this point.


I just live here now?


Yeah.


We had such nice furniture, too.


Well, we used to. You broke our best lamp.


He yawned. If I can't see it, no one can.


That's my boy. Spite.


He curled up on my chest. Spite. He coughed for a long, long time, pulling his knees up to his chest—which again, painful, but he could fucking do it. I rubbed his back and held his shoulders still. Yuck, he said eventually.


I kissed the top of his head. Coughing means you can breathe.


He sighed and threw an arm over me. Happy to reassure, he said, and then he was out like a light and I cast my eyes towards the ceiling and smiled.


I think everyone was really waiting for me to freak out at some point between then and when Justin was well. Michael and Ben were still hanging around, and Michael was always looking at me like I was a second away from exploding when I was just calling the office or checking Justin's latest blood pressure numbers, and Ben kept looking like he was one breath from sitting me down to have some kind of heart-to-whatever-the-fuck-I-have and just ugh, spare me. And you have the benefit of perspective here thanks to the way we're telling this little tale, so you know that when I tell you that the panicking, the drunk confessions, the endearing, destructive little ways Brian Kinney shows how much he really does care after all, are behind us at this point, that that's actually how it went down. So I'm sorry to disappoint you, if that's what you're looking for. There will be no more impactful moments where it hits me that I might have lost him. There will be no drunken love rants. At no point in the story yet to come do I break down, clutching Justin's weak body to my chest.


But more on that later.


**


Anyway, you're probably disappointed in the lack of theatrics and wondering who the fuck is actually telling you this story, because this is not the flagrant mess you've grown accustomed to, so in the interest of both keeping your interest and proving to you how not-bottled-up I am, let's finally tell the fucking story of what happened, all right? It's the moment you've all been waiting for: Justin Versus the Stove.


He was making shells with clam sauce, which incidentally we've eaten hundreds of times since, so sorry if you were hoping for a bit more emotional scarring than you're getting. You'll have to settle for Justin's actual scars, which incidentally aren't nearly as impressive as he deserves after enduring an incident like this, if you ask me. The skin grafts are what they call a mesh graft, which is what they've christened the horrifying process of perforating the skin they took off his thighs to make it cover a wider area of his torso, so for a while he had this diamond pattern on him where the grafts were, but after a year or so you could see it if you were trying, but only just, and he stopped being self-conscious about taking his shirt off at the beach or the club. The burn on his arm scarred a little, and you can see something on the back of his thighs, where they took the skin from, but all in all, if you're not looking for the scars, you don't notice them. Justin says only one trick has ever mentioned it, and it turned out he'd survived a house fire, and he and Justin ended up talking—he was Deaf, Justin actually doesn't fuck hearing guys anymore as a rule, with one obvious exception—about that for a while afterwards and now they're pretty good friends. He had us over for dinner one time and he, coincidentally, makes fucking great pasta.


Anyway, Justin was making shells with clam sauce.


He had mentioned earlier that he had a headache. He's dealt with migraines ever since the bashing, and this didn't even seem like one of the bad ones, since he was up and talking and willing to eat. We had the lights dimmed in the kitchen, but when it's really bad he can't take any light at all, so I assumed he was fine. He'd gotten through work that day without issue, so I figured either it was a sinus thing, since his allergies had been bothering him, or it was the early stages of a migraine and we'd deal with it getting bad later.


He'd asked me if I would make dinner that night, but I'd had a shitty day at the office and just wanted to decompress, and I don't like cooking the way he does, so I said no, and said we could order something in if he wanted. He said it was fine, he'd do it. So: he tried to get out of it, but I didn't have to twist his arm to get him to do it. Those are both facts you have to live with.


I was keeping him company in the kitchen while he cooked because he likes to chat while he does it. He set a pot of water on to boil and told me about a new artist they were courting for a show at the gallery. A new issue of GQ had come that day and we had an ad running in it, so I was flipping through it while I watched him. I got to the ad, and I wanted to see it spread out, so I told him to hang on and turned around to open up the magazine on the counter. I was studying it, with my back turned to him, about two-feet between us in our small kitchen, for maybe twenty seconds.


I heard two things happen in rapid succession—Justin hit the floor, and the pot hit Justin—but even though it doesn't make sense, what I remember is the splash of boiling water hitting me on the arm first. I guess it all happened so fast that my brain's bound to tangle it all together.


I turned around and Justin was on the floor with the pot on top of him.


Now, there was some good luck here. The angle of the pot could have been different, and it could have gotten his face or his throat. That would have been a much, much shittier recovery—imagine Deaf in the hospital with your eyes swollen shut and you'll start to get the picture—and assuming he still catches pneumonia, that would likely have been catastrophic, because if his airways had already been compromised by the burn, he probably wouldn't have made it. He probably wouldn't have gotten through that reaction on the operating table, actually.


It could have gotten his hands, and even with the physical therapy to keep the grafts from tightening, he probably still would have lost some dexterity, which would have been a damn nightmare for signing, not to mention the weeks of recovery when he wouldn't have been able to talk at all.


Or he could have been alone.


But, I mean, excuse me if my exuberance over what could have been and wasn't is a little dimmed by the fact that such a fucking ridiculous, hideous thing happened in the first place. Justin, who very rarely has tonic clonic seizures, who has, speaking currently, only had two or three ever that weren't preceded by a good deal of notice or triggered by something obvious like a high fever or forgetting his medication, had one with no warning other than a garden variety headache, and right next to the stove where a pot of water was boiling.


Because if we're talking about ways it could have been different...it also could have been five minutes earlier, when the water wasn't hot yet. Five minutes later, once he'd stepped away from the stove. Anywhere else in the apartment. It could have, you know, not happened at all.


I'm just saying, let's not go thanking God for shit that didn't happen without looking at the full picture.


Anyway, I turned around and there he was, and I know you want to hear what I was thinking at the time, what was running through my head when I yanked the pot off of him and ripped through his shirt and saw his skin already sizzling and blistering as he jerked and made those horrible choking noises, but...honestly, it was nothing. I wasn't crying or cursing or talking to him, I was just moving on autopilot. Before the seizure was over I was on the phone to 911, and truly I don't even remember dialing. The operator told me to pour cold water on him and then hold him on his side so that's what I did, and he stopped seizing and went very, very still, and we waited for the ambulance.


They didn't rush him into surgery right away. Their first major concern—and mine, honestly—was if he'd hit his head when he fell. There's a thing with head trauma where the effect is kind of cumulative, and each one you have puts you at greater and greater risk, and since Justin's already really reached his quota when it comes to that, it's something that we need to be aware of and careful with. No ramming him into the headboard or cracking his skull on the kitchen floor, for example. So they brought in for an MRI, still unconscious, still with those fucking burns open on his chest.


And then that was okay, so he went in to get his skin grafts, and I think Zen Ben gave it to you from there. I wouldn't stop badgering the nurses for information and they eventually told me to shut up and let them do their jobs, so I was just sitting there waiting quietly so they wouldn't boot me out of the damn building when Michael and Ben showed up. I'd already called Jennifer at her little hippie commune in Northern California, and I must have texted Daphne at some point but I honestly don't remember.


It's such a cliché, saying shit was a blur, because God, it didn't feel anything like a blur at the time. It was the most sharply focused thing, every single moment in technicolor, every word someone said to me so, so important while they were saying it, and then just...gone, recorded over by this internal monologue of what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.


Because he had just been there. I turned around for twenty seconds.


And the stupid, stupid thought that kept running through my head, the three words that wouldn't goddamn leave me alone while he was in the MRI, while he was in surgery, where I knew goddamn exactly where he was but it wasn't sitting in the goddamn chair next to me, wasn't sitting on the floor with his head against my knee, wasn't back at our fucking apartment eating pasta and goddamn clam sauce with me, was where is Justin?


We have a deal, him and me.


**


Once Justin was back amongst the living: Pneumonia Edition, it was time to get him up and out of bed. He was still in a lot of pain, and still weak as hell, but the doctors were anxious to get him on his feet for at least a few steps. Michael and Ben—now that Justin had been officially declared no longer contagious—were there with the occupational therapist, ready to help stand him up and grab him in case he tried to take another swan dive, but Justin shook his head when I took his hand. “Over there,” he said, pointing to the door. “Do the thing.” It was his first foray off oxygen, and he was already breathing really hard just from sitting up.


You are such a freak, I told him, but I took a few steps backwards from the bed anyway, putting all the space between me and him that the tiny room would allow.


“What are you doing?” Michael asked me.


Don't worry about it, I said, and I quirked an eyebrow at Justin and held my arms out, and he gave me the damn sunniest smile.


It took Ben practically lifting him onto his feet, but Justin unsteadily walked the three steps to me and into my arms. I chuckled and pulled him into me, very, very carefully, feeling his bandages through my shirt, and his chest heaving with the effort to stay standing. I gently moved his arms up around my neck so I could hold up a little more of them.


I'd had to go into the office that day for a meeting I couldn't get out of, so I was still wearing my dress shoes, and Justin was barefoot. That's an uncommon set-up for us—I usually have my shoes off the second I'm home, while Justin's the one wearing his ratty sneakers everywhere and tracking dirt onto our thirteen thousand dollar rug—and it meant his head fell a cumulative two inches shorter on me than usual.


He felt so, so small.


**


Justin's first couple of days after that were rough but manageable. His fever was down but not gone, his kidneys were doing good work, but he was still having a not-insignificant amount of trouble breathing and just generally felt awful. He had to start lung therapy to keep from getting sick all over again, and on top of that physical therapy for the grafts to keep them stretching as they were healing so the skin wouldn't get too tight, which was just as comfortable as it sounds. Michael and Ben were still around, I was still using the hospital waiting room as an office, and Jennifer hadn't really internalized the news that everything was going to be okay, so she was anxious and freaking out Justin every time she started crying. The best development in the whole situation, besides, you know, that thing about how he was going to be okay, was that they moved him out of the CCU and into a regular room where visiting hours are more of a suggestion and I could start staying the night, which meant I could actually get some fucking sleep without worrying that nurses with no interpreters were going to fucking kill the boy at three AM.


We were both up at that time one night, actually, Justin wheezing too much to sleep, me in the chair looking over a press release Kinnetik was helping a company organize because they—get this—were managing a health crisis with their CEO and the stockholders were getting antsy.


It feels offensive to you to lie about someone being sick, I said. This is a very inconsiderate task they've asked of me, considering my delicate waif of a partner.


You're still going to do it, Justin said, panting.


Of course I'm going to do it. You think I can turn down work, with what this vacation is costing us? I put the file down and pulled his chart off the foot of the bed instead. Shouldn't you be doing better at this breathing thing by now?


I can breathe.


You sound like a lawnmower.


Do I? That's interesting.


I climbed up on the bed next to him, and he gave his best congested version of a sigh and leaned his head against my shoulder. I showed him the press release, and he wrinkled his nose and shrugged a little.


It feels like I'm not going to feel better for ages, he said.


I flipped through the file, looking for more information on the shareholders. You're already way better than you were yesterday.


I know.


There's really no rush, I said, and he leaned his hot forehead against my cheek and kissed my chin, then yanked himself away to start coughing some more. I got up and got him some water.


“Brian?” he said out loud, and God, his little voice.


Doooon't, I said, in my best ASL whine, and I crawled back up on the bed and kissed him. We couldn't do it very long; he'd moved from an oxygen mask to a cannula in his nose, but he still just didn't have the air for anything more than a few seconds.


He rested his forehead against mine, smiling a little, catching his breath.


You look really nice, I told him, and he laced his fingers around the back of my neck.


**


Daphne came to visit the next day, so I hung out in the waiting room to give them some privacy. I was texting Marie, Justin's boss, who was being patient and understanding as hell and said his canvas missed him—artists, man—when Jennifer came and sat down next to me.


“Hey, I thought you were at the hotel,” I said.


She shrugged and handed me a cup of coffee. “Didn't feel right.”


I nodded. Hell, Ben and Michael were still camped out here, sleeping on top of each other in two chairs over in the corner by the big window looking over the city.


Jennifer followed my gaze to them, then to Daphne inside Justin's room. “It's inspiring, isn't it?” she said. “How many people love him.”


I felt about as breathless as Justin.


“You're a good boy, you know that?” she said to me, and when she patted my cheek I leaned into her hand without really meaning to.


**


Don't, I said to Justin, when he shifted on the bed next to me when I was just trying to read my fucking book.


He stopped moving. What?


Don't rub your cock against me.


He snorted and coughed. I wasn't.


You moved, I felt your cock. It counts.


He laughed. How long has it been?


Eight days. I'm like a live wire over here.


So jerk off in my bathroom.


All I fucking do is jerk off in your bathroom.


Well, come on then, I haven't even done that! How do you think I feel?


Uh, like absolute sucking shit, if your whining is any indication.


He sighed, wheezed. True. Just go fuck my nurse, he's hot.


Don't talk to me about your nurse. He made eye contact with me at one point and I almost just went whole hog and left you. And this is when you were in a coma, too.


Justin gestured towards the door. Have at you, he's around.


I can't! Fucking Ben and Michael are like fucking armed guards out there. How are they still here? I know, I know, I'm an ungrateful asshole, but Jesus Christ, even Jennifer had gone back to Pittsburgh at this point! Justin's fever was down to a hundred and one, his cough was letting him sleep for hours at a time, and the skin grafts were healing “beautifully,” according to his surgeon.


They're convinced as soon as they leave you alone you'll do something ridiculous and self-destructive.


Like fuck your nurse?


To them, sure.


I closed my eyes and kissed the top of his head. I'm telling you, I need to go back to work just to get out of their sight for a few hours. First thing when I go back, I'm fucking an intern.


Last time you fucked an intern you got fired, remember.


I don't care. I'll fuck an intern. I'll fuck a girl. I'll fuck a plant. I'm putting my cock in something tomorrow, so help me God.


Justin got out of bed, still shaky. I hit the mattress to try to get him to look at me so I could make some joke about him being too sick to run away just because I talked about fucking a woman, but he went over to the window and closed the blinds. He came back to the bed and I helped him back on. What are you doing? I said.


He undid my jeans.


Don't, I said. You're too sick.


Shut up, he said, and his fist closed around my cock.


I arched my back on the bed and threw my head back against his pillows. Oh God.


Justin laughed.


Oh fuck. Justin. Jesus Christ. He coughed into his elbow, and I said, Don't stop. Fuck, I'm going to hell.


He didn't stop, and God, a hand job in a hospital bed has no right ranking among the best orgasms of my life, but here we are. And if after I'd started seeing straight again I propped him up carefully on some pillows, tucked a blanket around his shoulders, and then blew the goddamn shit out of him...well. Can you blame me?


**


I went back to work two days after that, which felt weird, and I stopped being grumpy about Michael and Ben sticking around because it meant Justin wasn't alone all day while I was the office. I'd forget for whole stretches, thirty minutes, an hour at a time, that everything wasn't normal, that Justin wasn't at the gallery or the studio or waiting for me at home, and then I'd remember in the middle of a meeting or writing up an invoice or sucking up to a client on the phone.


I wasn't worried, really, and I didn't exactly feel guilty for leaving him. It's hard to explain what it was. I think mostly it was that I felt bad for him, because I knew he was bored and that he wanted to be at work and that he felt like shit, and that was a weird experience for me because I don't feel bad for the kid very often. He's pretty self-sufficient.


But I'd come to the hospital after work and his eyes would light up and his burns would look better and he'd kiss me a little longer every day. His room was full of cards from Emmett, Gregory, Ted, Cynthia. I came in one day and he was standing by the window drinking coffee, in pajamas for the first time instead of a gown, and for a minute it was almost like we were at home.


I dreamed about your canvas last night, I told him that night, sitting behind him, signing on his body while I rubbed his shoulders.


“Can you get me a sketchpad?”


Yeah.


“I dreamed about you,” he said.


**


The doctors finally started talking about sending him home a little less vaguely, and Ben and Michael decided it was time to head home.


Ben hugged me, which didn't seem weird until it was actually happening, and kissed Justin's cheek and ruffled his hair and they had some sort of secret sick person conversation with their eyes. Michael hugged Justin for a long time, and when he pulled away his eyes were wet, and I tucked him into my neck.


“Thank you,” I whispered to him.


“Anytime.” He cleared his throat. “Hopefully no time too soon, okay?”


“I don't know, the kid's a mess. I can't promise anything.”


It was a funny feeling, being on our own in the hospital, because we were surrounded of course by a million patients and doctors and nurses and orderlies and visitors, and Daphne would be coming by to visit in a few hours, and Emily was going to drop by on her lunch break tomorrow, but for the time being there was no one in the room, no one in the whole hospital who really knew us, except for me and Justin.


He smiled, sitting with his legs crossed on the bed. Come sit with me, he said, and I sat on the foot of the bed and looked at him and this just...incredible wave of peace came over me, I can't even describe it. You'd think the whole thing was totally behind us and we were relaxing on some island with how calm I felt at that moment. He noticed and said, What's up with you?


Everyone trusts me to handle it from here, I said. There's nobody watching you but me.


Just like old times.


I got up and washed my hands. Let's do your bandages, okay? The nurses had officially passed that job on to me, in preparation for him going home.


He lay back on the pillows and took a deep breath, and there was barely a wheeze in it now. Okay.


**


Justin was sitting in the chair by the bed when I got in from work the next day. I pointed at him, eyebrows raised.


Not yet, he said, and I groaned. His doctor wouldn't let him go home until his fever was under a hundred degrees, and Justin sure was taking his fucking sweet time getting there.


Well, why the fuck not? I said.


I don't know, I'm just lazy I guess.


I came over and felt his forehead. You know, I am doing so much goddamn work trying to get you home, and all you have to do is cool down a degree...


I know. He held his arms up for a hug. I'm a menace. But they said I can take a shower today. I waited for you.


I touched his chest hesitantly. His bandages were gone now, which freaked me out enough without adding the spray from the shower. Are you sure that's what they said? You don't speak English very well.


He stood on his toes and kissed my nose. Come on.


Justin's shitty little shower stall was hardly the glass-walled, spacious experience we were used to, but it did the trick. I insisted on keeping his back to the spray, and he rolled his eyes but let me, and I noticed how he winced when the water hit the burn on his shoulder and didn't feel all that bad about it. He kissed me, and God, I felt fucking weightless, like I was just going to disappear up with the steam.


I tilted his head back and rinsed his hair, and he purred and made a grab for my cock that I didn't feel any need to discourage this time.


The steam loosened up the remaining crap left in his chest and he coughed some while I dressed him and dried his hair. I palmed his forehead, said, “Hmm,” and took the thermometer off the wall and held it up to him. He opened his mouth.


What are you going to do when I'm healthy again? he asked me. You'll be so bored.


Fuck your brains out, I answered easily.


Ah, yeah, that works.


The thermometer beeped and I pulled it out. Sunshine?


Yeah?


I held it up, grinning. 99.8.


**


Three hours later, Justin was leaning heavily against me in the hallway while I unlocked the door of the apartment. Jesus, why am I so tired? All I did was sit in a cab.


Well, you did almost die a week ago.


Yeah, a week.


I unlocked the door. Bed or couch?


Couch. Closer.


I settled him on the couch and he sighed and held a pillow to his chest. Are you hungry? I asked him.


Yeah. He frowned and sniffed the pillow. So, didn't we decide we weren't going to smoke in the apartment?


Ah, shit.


He cocked an eyebrow.


Give me a break, I signed over the bar as I hunted through the refrigerator. Goddamn, Ben and Michael made enough food to feed us for a year. I was very sad. Ben and Michael made me write a letter about you and flush it down the toilet.


Justin stared at me.


It made sense at the time. I held up a Tupperware thing. Pad Thai?


Ooh, yes. I stuck two plates in the microwave, and he said “Briiiiian?”


Oh my God, what.


He hugged the pillow and looked at me with those big blue eyes. Can we have people over tonight?


Justin...


Please?


You just got home. You can barely keep your head up.


I'll just sit right here. I won't move. I'll make you do absolutely everything.


God, that is tempting.


I want to see my friends, he said. Please?


I don't know why we were even bothering to go through this shit. We both knew how it was going to end up.


In an hour, Derek, Daphne, and Emily were here, showering Justin with stupid little presents and playing their music too loud and laughing over Daphne's signing mistakes. And God, I had so much work I needed to be doing, so many missed workouts at the gym, so many men out there I could be fucking now that Justin was safe and sound, but somehow all of that seemed infinitely less important right in that moment than standing in the kitchen and watching Justin smiling on the couch.


He looked up, and we made eye contact, and I saw him breathe in sharply, like the sight of me surprised him, amazed him.


I covered my mouth with my hand.


**


So, earlier, I told you I wasn't going to freak out again, and now that we're just about at the end here and you can see I meant it, might as well talk about why.


The thing is, people get sick everyday. And people who love them sit around waiting rooms and get bad news and then get good news and then sit on their beds and hold them while they cough. And then they get up together and they go and they live their lives, maybe a little bit bruised, but the truth is, most people...


It sounds ridiculous when you think about a goddamn drama queen I am about everything, but the truth is, most people get through this shit okay. It's allowed.


Ben said, the day after Justin was hurt, that Justin might feel relieved to hear that he got to just lie there and feel awful and he wasn't doing anything wrong.


All day while Justin was hurt, I watched people get up and out of bed through the windows of their rooms. I watched people laugh in the waiting rooms. I watched the nurses chat and eat chips and dance a little with the radio.


Do you think that all this time I'd been waiting for someone to show me that I just got to fucking be okay if I wanted and that wasn't doing anything wrong? That it didn't mean I didn't...that I could stop having to fucking prove it now?


Because I sort of do.


It had been three years, at that point, since Justin started losing his hearing. Two since the seizures got bad, since we really started having to rethink our lives. Fifteen days in that hospital.


Six years since I asked him to move in with me.


And every step of the way, everyone has been watching me, ready for me to fuck it up. People, God, wanting me to be torn up about him because it's the only way they'd trust that I give a shit. Well. Everyone but one person.


What if I just got to be okay with all of this? Justin is.


What if we stop making jokes about what I have in place of a heart and I get to just fucking take care of him?


It's something to consider, don't you think?


**


Did you really know I was going to be okay? Justin asked me, when I lay him carefully in the bed that night.


I didn't know. I thought.


Why?


I have no idea, I admitted, and Justin smiled a little as I lay down next to him.


He rested his head on my shoulder, and I played with his hair and looked at the ceiling.


After a while, I said, I think it might be because I'm happy nowadays.


Justin looked at me. Wow, he said.


Yeah, seriously.


He pulled himself up and kissed me.


**


So this is where I tap out. I'll let Justin finish our little saga. But I'll say one last thing, because he'll be too modest to admit it when he's wrapping shit up, and God knows that's never been one of my tragic flaws.


When this is all over, when Justin and I are old queens in some nursing home, when we're worm food six feet under, when everyone who's ever known us is long gone, three hundred years from now...they're still going to tell stories about us. They're going to put up statues. They're going to name a city.


This is the stuff of goddamn legends. They're gonna learn about us like we learned about King Arthur. They're going to perform us for their school plays. They'll celebrate his birthday like Abraham Goddamn Lincoln's. Fuck your Barnum and Bailey bullshit; we're the greatest show on earth.

 

You're fucking welcome for the front row seat.

Chapter 25 - The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 4 by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Brian kept his eyes on his paper. Stay away from the edge, okay? He got to be a little overprotective right now. I could be patient. (Part 4 of 4!)

 

The One Where Everybody's Scared, Part 4

LaVieEnRose



Three days after I got out of the hospital, I finally woke up feeling like I might not die before breakfast. This was, all things considered, a pretty major improvement, since I'd spent the past two weeks feeling like I wouldn't survive sitting up. I looked at the clock and it was just after seven. Brian wasn't there, and the past few days he'd woken me up before he went to work to kiss me and pour some water down my throat and nag me about eating, so I knew he must still be in the apartment.


I got up, slowly, feeling the grafts stretch on my chest and stomach, and padded into the living room. “Brian?” I said, craning my head into the kitchen. Nothing, but there was a pot of coffee brewed, so I poured myself a cup and saw him through the balcony door, drinking out of his favorite mug and reading the paper.


He raised an eyebrow at me when I came out. Well well well, this is quite the development. Look who's vertical.


Hi.


He pulled me down and gave me a kiss, his hand on the back of my neck. Feeling better?


I nodded. Breathing better too. Hear?


I do. He studied me. Do you want to come to Kinnetik today? I was hoping to go back to work on Monday, but that was still four days off. So far I'd really just been sleeping the whole time Brian was gone. And most of when Brian was home.


Why, do you want me to draw something?


He shook his head. Just to hang out.


I sipped my coffee. I usually like hanging out at Kinnetik, and I did want to get out of the apartment. More importantly, I knew what was going on, that Brian was antsy and nervous and feeling sort of clingy, that it was one thing to leave me alone all day when I was just going to slug around in bed and another when I could be up and about and doing things where he couldn't see me. And it was paranoid and unnecessary, but after what I'd just put him through it was hard to really blame him.


Problem was, I was also already feeling kind of nauseated and dizzy and the thought of going all the way into Queens made me so, so tired.


Maybe tomorrow? I said. I think I need another day to just sleep. Is that okay? Maybe it would be enough reassurance if he knew I wasn't going to be wandering out into the world without him.


He gave me a strange look, like he was amused by how weird I was. Of course it's okay.


I mean, I don't want you to miss me too much, I said smoothly.


He rolled his eyes.


Crying into your briefcase...


All right, all right, enough already.


I smiled and set my coffee cup down and went over to the railing and looked over the city. I used to be scared of heights when I was younger, but...I don't know, I guess when enough scary stuff happens to you, you stop being afraid of stuff that could happen because the stuff actually happening is enough all on its own. Or maybe that's some pseudo-intellectual bullshit and I just grew out of it, whatever.


I felt a tap against the back of my ankle, and I turned around. Brian had stretched his leg away from his chair enough to nudge me with his toe. It's funny. I think about how he used to say, “Hey,” all softly to get my attention, and if I focus enough I can almost kind of hear it still, and I get a little sad, but I also like the weird ways we have now, even if it means I'm constantly picking up shit he throws at me.


You rang? I said.


Brian kept his eyes on his paper. Stay away from the edge, okay?


I tilted my head and looked at him, but he didn't look up.


“Yeah, okay,” I said, and I came over and kind of crowded into him. He raised his head, finally, and moved the paper off to the side, and I straddled his lap and kissed him.


He got to be a little overprotective right now. I could be patient.


**


I managed to stay up watching TV until a record ten AM after Brian left for work before I gave up and went back to bed. I woke up around two, answered a text from Derek, thought about taking a shower, and promptly fell back asleep and didn't wake up until the light was low outside and Brian's hand was running down my spine.


“Hi,” I said.


He kissed my forehead. Hi. Good nap?


I can't believe I'm still this lazy.


Imagine if you'd gotten this sick when you were a teenager. You'd have slept for a week.


I think that literally did happen when I got sick as a teenager.


Brian considered this. True. Have you eaten? He went to the bathroom to wash his hands, and I pulled my shirt off in preparation.


“No.”


Want me to order in? Or we could heat up something Ben and Michael left. He sat down on the bed next to me and studied the healing burns. He dabbed the antibiotic cream on them, so gently, checking my face every so often to see if he was hurting me. He was, but I tried not to show it.


No, I'll make something. I winced as his finger caught on my skin, and he rested his other hand on my arm, soothing me. I breathed out, slowly. Tomato soup? Grilled cheese?


He shrugged. We can't keep eating like this every time you get sick or I'm going to weigh three hundred pounds.


I could always get sick less often.


Could you?


Maybe not.


He finished up with the cream and eased me back into my shirt. He was so gentle, his hands coming around to cup the back of my head when it came through the neck.


I'm going to make you keep putting clothes on me after I'm well, I said.


He considered this. Do I still get to take them off you?


Oh, I guess.


Then all right. He gave me a hand out of bed and waited patiently while the room swam in and out of focus. I went into the kitchen, coughing a little into my elbow, feeling the floor vibrate behind me as he followed me. You know, it's too bad you didn't come in today, Brian said, climbing up on the bar and sitting there, legs dangling. Your friend Leo came in, from the hearing aids?


Aw, yeah. I would have just been crashed out on your couch though. I was useless.


We had some new client come in too who is apparently the most gorgeous thing on God's green earth. Everyone in the office was mesmerized.


I got out a pot for the soup. Not you?


He shrugged. She's a woman.


You can still tell when women are attractive.


Brian shrugged. I don't know, can I? I guess Cynthia's pretty. And Daphne.


Wait, seriously, you can't tell? I opened a can of soup into the pot. I make this really nice tomato bisque from scratch, but that felt like waaaaay too much work. I thought that was just some shit straight guys said about men because they're paranoid of seeming gay.


So you can look at a girl and think, okay, she's hot?


Of course. It's just aesthetics. Like looking at a painting. Not to mention at this point we're so media-trained that we know what we're supposed to find attractive, like, culturally. Don't tell me an ad man doesn't know that.


This is why I need you in my art department, Brian said. One of these days I'm going to steal you away from Marie. I'll pay you better. I'll buy you an even bigger canvas.


I turned on the stove. I miss my canvas.


Maybe we can get down to the studio this weekend. If you're feeling up to it.


And you just sit there while I paint?


I've spent the past two weeks just sitting there while you slept. Painting will seem very exciting in comparison. Plus, you're sitting around watching me work tomorrow. He nodded to the stove. Do you want me to do that?


No, I'm fine.


He watched me. Okay.


I made sandwiches, fried them on the stove, and tried not to worry too much about the way Brian never, ever took his eyes off me.


The past few weeks had been, to put it mildly, fucking awful. I got to sleep through some of it, but I don't think I'll ever forget how it felt the first day, when they cleaned out my burns for the first time, or how fucking terrible I felt when I started getting sick and I was so cold and couldn't breathe for the life of me. I was so confused that I barely knew where I was most of the time, and sometimes Brian wasn't there and that was the most upsetting thing of all, and like...as if there weren't already enough pressure on him, you know?


God, I just felt so fucking bad about what I'd put him through. If you look at what a mess I was when all he did was break his ankle...fuck, I can't even imagine how I'd be if it had been Brian in that bed instead of me. I mean, I freaked out the whole time he had cancer, and he had a ninety-nine percent survival rate! No one's ever come right out and told me what they were guessing for me when I was at my worst, but I'm guessing it was a lot worse than ninety-nine percent. And he'd had to hold everything together for my mom, and for me, and all our friends texting him all the time, and to manage the language barrier with the doctors and nag everyone about my allergies all constantly and otherwise just be totally, totally on his game. And I keep fucking doing this shit to him.


So basically, if he wanted to bring me to work with him, if he wanted to stare at me when I was near a stove, that was pretty fucking reasonable. I couldn't let it go on forever, and at some point we would need to have the big heart-to-heart and maybe he'd start to ease up, but...fuck, he could have whatever he wanted for the time being.


I made him dinner, pulled him into the shower, and helped him relax the best way I knew how.


**


I woke up the next morning feeling like I could actually take a deep breath. I showed off to Brian, who raised his eyebrows and said, Okay, save some for the rest of us.


I might wear actual clothes today, I said.


He pulled me up, hooking his arms underneath mine. Come to the office with me, then. He kissed me at my hairline. You can sleep on the couch if you want.


One of these days you're going to get sick of me.


Oh, ship has sailed on that one, he said. What he actually said was train go sorry, which is a ASL idiom, and God, it was so fucking cool seeing him pick that stuff up. But you come back around.


I yawned. Like a bad pop song.


The fuck would you know about that, he said, and I laughed.


We got coffee and bagels on the way to the train and took the 1 to Times Square, then the Q into Astoria. I love the Q train because once you get into Queens it's above ground, and you get the most amazing views of Manhattan. I've been on it a million times and I still always turn and watch the moment the train comes up and the skyline just hits you. Brian always laughs at me and tells me I look like a tourist, but I don't care.


Cynthia jumped up from her desk and hugged me when I came in. Okay, careful, Brian said, speaking too. Some of his skin is still newly attached.


You look great, Cynthia said to me, which was sweet, though I'm pretty sure she didn't know how to sign you sort of still look like death warmed over, so I had to take it with a grain of salt.


Should I call Stephanie? Cynthia asked.


No, that’s okay. I didn’t really need to know what Brian was saying on his phone calls, and if Stephanie was here I’d feel weird about just ignoring her to draw or nap or whatever.


Brian and I went down the hall to his office, passing a few of his executives who I vaguely knew but whose names I couldn’t remember, so I just nodded at them. One of them mumbled something to the other on the way by and Brian rolled his eyes.


What did he say?


He didn’t know it was take your child to work day.


I stifled a laugh. Someone’s getting fired.


Brian pointed at himself as he opened the door to his office for me. Someone's getting Botox.


Kinnetik has one of my paintings as soon as you walk in, one in the art department—Maybe it will show these boring assholes what art is supposed to look like, Brian complained once—and two in Brian’s office. The space is this renovated theater, which is amazing, but it means Brian’s office doesn’t have any windows. His place back at the Baths didn’t either, so I guess he doesn’t care. It would drive me crazy!


He sat at his desk and opened up his laptop, pulling one of his little fidget toys onto his his lap to play with. Brian's inability to do anything without also doing something else is so, so goddamn cute. And is part of what makes him such a great signer. You need anything? he asked me.


I settled myself on the couch and pulled a sketchpad out of my backpack. I'm good.


What are you working on? he asked, scrolling through his email.


“Sketching what I want to do for the upper right corner of my canvas,” I said, out loud so he didn't have to keep looking up from his work.


Your voice sounds normal again, he said. You've been really hoarse.


“Yeah, my throat doesn't hurt anymore. How about you, what are you doing today?”


I have a call with Ted in an hour to talk about business back in the Pitts, except I'm sure it's mostly going to be him interrogating me about how you're doing.


“Well, I'm very interesting.”


Cynthia found a new account she wants me to court, so I'm going to do some investigative work and find out who's representing them now and what they're getting paid, see if it's even worth our time. But she's usually right. And HR just finished their final round of interviews for a new representative, so they need me to approve the candidate. I don't know when that is.


“What was Breyer here for yesterday?” I asked.


Brian leaned back in his chair. Well, their last ad was a hit with a different age bracket than we'd expected, so now we're wondering if... and he kept going and told me what he was planning and bounced ideas off me and you don't really care about the details, and frankly neither did I, I just cared about the fact that Brian was telling me and he wanted my opinion. I'll never, ever get over that. I think sometimes about when Brian and I met, and I'd watch him with other people and kind of be amazed, because even though he's always been the more quiet of the two of us, he's always talked to me. I mean, hell, he told me about him and his gym teacher after he'd known me for twenty-minutes. And after I saw that he wasn't like that with everyone, that he answers his closest friends with two words if he can manage it or a deflecting joke if he can't, I started kind of holding my breath every time I asked a question, worried I was one day going to push too hard or ask something too personal and I would be relegated to the same treatment they got. And I think a part of me still worries. I don't know, I think I'm going to wake up every day a little surprised that Brian Kinney loves me, and I think I'm good with that.


So anyway, I just sat on the couch and let the conversation wash over me until he had to do his phone call with Ted, which involved a lot of exasperated faces I tried not to laugh at, and at some point I stopped drawing what I wanted for my canvas and started drawing him again. Sue me, it's hard to concentrate when my favorite subject is right in front of me, looking devastating and dominating in his suit.


After a couple hours I was fading, though, and Brian watched me with amusement from his desk. Just go to sleep, he said.


But I'm supposed to keep you company, I said, totally already hauling my legs up on the couch.


I do somehow manage to get through the day without you most of the time, dearest. Don't put your fucking shoes—Justin, take your goddamn shoes off.


You are so fucking irritating, I said, pulling the throw pillow over my head.


Brian gave a sigh so dramatic I could almost hear it and came over to the couch, taking his suit jacket off as he walked. He lay it over top of me, then yanked my shoes off so hard it almost pulled me off the couch, and I snickered until I fell asleep, curled up small under his jacket.


He woke me up in the middle of an unsettling dream, and it took me a while to get my bearings. You okay? he asked, and for a minute I thought I must have been yelling in my sleep or something, but the dream hadn't gotten to that point yet and Brian was waking me up really gently, not in the urgent way he does when I have a nightmare.


I nodded and sat up, and when I went to rub my eyes I noticed my right hand was twitching. “Oh,” I said.


I'm keeping an eye on it, it's okay. You feel all right?


Yeah. Tired. I yawned. Hungry.


He kissed me. Let's go get lunch, then.


He took me to a Greek—because, you know, Astoria—sidewalk cafe near his office, and I had the most amazing gyro of my life. Brian watched me in disbelief as I wolfed it down. I'd say you have your appetite back.


Yay me.


How's the hand?


Behaving. One of the many perks of New York over Pittsburgh is how people don't stare at us when we sign in public. In Pittsburgh, we're an exhibit wherever we go. Here, we were probably—I mean, it's not like I could tell for sure—one of like five different languages being spoken just on this block. Par for the course. I feel like between being Brian Kinney's boy toy, the subject of a fairly high-profile Liberty Avenue hate crime, a sign language user, and now apparently someone who's at risk for falling down and having a seizure at any given moment, I've really gotten enough unasked for attention to last me a lifetime. It's nice to blend.


A woman walked past us, stuffing stuff into her a purse, and a tampon fell out and landed on the sidewalk next to Brian. He leaned out of his chair and got it and called after her, but she didn't turn around, so he shrugged and placed it on the table. Got you this.


Thank you.


Did you see that MoMa's going to run a Andy Moore exhibit?


No shit, really?


Brian nodded, sipping his espresso. Starting the Monday after next. I have to go back to Pittsburgh that weekend, but we can go during the week if you want.


Yeah. I'm gonna be so fucking swamped catching up with work, though. Doesn't matter. I'll make it work. I don't want to go without you.


You know you don't have to rush back to work, right?


Marie's not going to let me take off forever.


I don't care about Marie.


I gave him a look. I need to care about Marie. Jobs don't grow on trees for Deaf guys with no college degree and nothing on their resume but being a busboy.


You can focus on your art. I'll keep you in pretty things.


Why are you being weird? I said, even though I knew, but...at some point I needed to start gently asserting some boundaries on this.


I'm not being weird, he said, unsurprisingly. I just don't want you rushing back before you're ready because you're afraid of losing your job. If you lose it...we'll deal.


I'll be okay by Monday, I said.


If you say so.


I do, I said, and my hand took that opportunity to spasm on the table.


Brian gave me a look.


I do, I said again, and he sighed and shrugged and asked our waiter for the check.


**


The rest of our day was nice. I napped some more in his office, and sketched, and played solitaire on my phone. He pulled me into the bathroom and we fooled around, and even though he was still too skittish to really fuck me so we just blew each other, that was a pretty fucking good time. We got out of there at a reasonable hour, and he held my hand on the way to the subway, and when we got home we reheated some casserole Michael made and watched a schlocky horror movie on the couch, my feet on his lap.


Are you going to go out? I asked him. You can if you want.


Oh, I have your permission?


Yeah.


He rolled his eyes.


You're welcome.


Maybe after you're asleep.


I rolled my eyes back. Michael and Ben aren't here anymore. You don't have to sneak out.


He grinned. But I want to tuck you in. He grabbed me by the knees and pulled me closer, and I laughed and kissed him.


He didn't end up going out, though. We took a shower and messed around and I fell asleep with the lights on while he stretched out beside me with a book, and when I rolled over a few hours later the lights were off and he was wrapped around me from behind, his breath warm against my ear.


“Please don't worry like this,” I whispered into the dark.


**


I was alone when I woke up the next morning. I hated waking up to that big empty bed. We needed to get a dog or something.


There was a note on the nightstand next to me. Had to run to the office because Marcus is an idiot. Should be back by 11, will bring bagels. Go back to sleep. B.


I didn't feel like going back to sleep, though, and I definitely didn't feel like waiting until eleven for a bagel. I had a bit of a headache so I took a few Advil and took a shower, and it occurred to me that this was the first shower I'd taken by myself since before the whole incident. The bathroom felt totally huge without Brian in it. In the interests of continued firsts, I decided I'd take the monumental step of actually leaving the apartment by myself. I wanted to go to the bakery a few blocks away and get a cherry tart, and maybe one of the eclairs Brian loves. He would totally complain, but then he'd devour it the second there was no one around to prove it was him who ate it.


It was sweltering outside, but this early in the day it was still bearable. I walked to the end of the block and waited to cross over to 10th avenue, watching the cars streaming by, waiting for the walk signal.


And as I stood there, I sort of...realized that I'd had a headache when I got up, and that the last time I had a headache I'd had a seizure.


I'd had a seizure and poured boiling water on myself and almost died.


The cars stopped and people started crossing, but I just...


What if I had a seizure in the middle of the intersection? I could get hit my head on the pavement. I could get fucking run over. What the fuck was I doing just walking around out here by myself? I almost died in my own fucking home and here I was just out in the goddamn world when there were a fucking million things that could happen to me, there were so many people, and oh my God, I almost died, I almost fucking died.


Someone put a hand on me and I jumped about a foot. It was a woman, and she was talking to me, and she looked concerned and maybe like she was apologizing, and I didn't have the capacity to figure out any of that so I just signed sorry, I'm Deaf, and walked away as fast as I could, but I couldn't get back to my building without crossing the street again so I was just trapped, and I was crying and hyperventilating and making my fingers bleed trying to hold onto a fucking building and oh God, what the fuck, what the fuck.


I called Brian.


The split second where his face changed, when he went from greeting me to seeing I wasn't okay, was so, so fucking hard to watch. He started walking down the hallway, fast. Where are you?


11th and 60th. A block away from our apartment.


What the fuck? Justin, go home.


I can't. I need you.


He nodded. Okay. Sit down, okay? Sit down on the sidewalk. I'm on my way.


**


It had been forty-five minutes and I was still crying. I couldn't even really believe it. I wasn't sobbing anymore, but I was sitting on the couch just kind of breathing hard and I kept touching my face and it was still wet. Brian had fed me a Klonopin, so I was waiting for it to start working while he Skyped my therapist. She's Deaf, so obviously I was completely capable of calling her myself, except for how at that moment I wasn't capable of anything. I wasn't even really watching what he was saying.


He closed his laptop and put his hand on my back. Lauren says she can see you at four today, okay?


I nodded and wiped my face again.


He kissed my cheek, lingering with his nose against my temple. I'm going to make you some tea.


I'm sorry, you had work to do, and I...this is so stupid.


He stood up and lay his hand on my head. Shut up.


He went into the kitchen to make some tea, and I took some slow breaths and tried to fucking get a hold of myself. After a minute I said, “How are you being so calm about this? I'm acting like a fucking psycho.”


He turned around and looked at me over the bar like he was trying to decide whether to say something, and it kind of dawned on me.


You knew this was going to happen, I said.


This specifically? No.


But something like it.


He poured a mug of tea and brought it back out and set it on the table in front of me. I was hoping I was wrong.


Everything was coming together in my fucking screwed up head. It was for me, wasn't it. All that stuff you've been doing.


He shrugged a little.


God. God. I thought you were being overprotective because you were freaking out.


I figured.


But you...


I was hoping maybe it would help if you knew I was watching you. Maybe you'd feel safer. I could tell you didn't feel ready to be alone.


Sometimes the fucking...the depth of Brian, the goddamn sensitivity of him, it just fucking floors me. Even after all this time, even when I know him better than anyone ever has, I'm still goddamn amazed by just...by how fucking much he is sometimes. I can't let myself think about it too much because I get so fucking frustrated by how little everyone else understands him, how they're always trying to twist him and box him and manipulate him just so he'll look more like them, when really...I mean, who does that? Who else would bring me to work and tell me I don't have to go back to work yet and sit there and make sure I know I'm being watched when I'm cooking because he knows I need it, who else would even fucking know that? He just does all these things for me without ever expecting me to acknowledge or even notice them, he just does them because...


After all this time, I swear, it still floors me.


I shook my head slowly, soaking it all in. I really thought I was okay, I said. I wasn't trying to...


I know. He played with my hair. Willful denial is my thing, not yours.


I rubbed my face. What the fuck is this? Now you're dealing with shit in the moment and I'm the one falling apart after? Switching places, this is progress?


This isn't switching places, Brian said. You weren't bottling shit up. Your body doesn't feel like your own so you're scared right now. You barely got a chance to be scared because you were fucking unconscious. You can't...you almost died. Of course you're scared.


What about you?


I already cried for a week. Remember that bit about how you were unconscious? Drink your tea.


God. I picked up my mug and drank a few sips.


You know, if you think about it, this really is progress, Brian said. A few months ago you wanted to die and now you're terrified of it.


I choked on my tea. Oh my God, you are such a dick.


Got you to smile, though.


I set my cup down. I swear, I had no idea I was scared.


I know. Lauren'll sort you out.


But you knew, I said.


He shrugged one shoulder, a sad little smile on his face. I guess I know you pretty well.


We sat there for a little while, kind of just loosely holding each other as my breathing slowly returned to normal. Brian dropped a few kisses on the top of my head.


Eventually I said, Am I too pathetic for you to fuck right now? Because I could really use the distraction.


Brian chuckled. You've been too pathetic for me to fuck since you were seventeen. It doesn't seem to stop me.


But after he'd pulled me up and to the bedroom, and we were kissing on the bed, he paused, leaning over me, and for a second I thought maybe he'd changed his mind and I was too pathetic to fuck, and I swear I almost started crying again, as if that would help my case.


What's wrong? I said.


Nothing.


I promise you're not going to hurt me, I said. I'm healed, I'm good.


I know you are, he said, and he produced a condom out of nowhere, the way he always does, and handed it to me, and I swear I was about to unwrap it and put it on him before I realized what was going on.


He watched me, his eyes big and dark.


Come on, he said. Let's make that body feel like your own again.


So a lot of things helped, in the end. Just acknowledging that I was scared did a lot, and therapy, of course. Some of it was pushing through things that scared me and seeing that I could survive them, just like after the bashing. And some of it was just time. It always is.


But I'm not going to pretend like having proof that I still had a body that could fuck Brian Kinney until he begged for mercy wasn't pretty damn huge.


**


I went back to work on Monday like I'd planned. Brian walked me to the gallery.


You sure? he asked me, and he ran his hands up and down my arms.


No, I said, and he laughed a little.


Call me if you start bawling again.


Fuck you, I said, and after that it all felt a lot better, I don't know.


Sometimes I think all you can do for shit like this is not take it too seriously. If you're going to be freaked out and you can't even figure out if you're being irrational or not, if there is strong evidence on either side...and if you can't really do anything about it, and if you're just ready to feel better...I don't know, I think at some point you just have to kind of shrug and laugh and have a really, really hot boyfriend who brews you some tea and spreads his legs and then makes fun of you. I think that might be the only way this shit is really survivable.


It also helps to have a really, really massive canvas.


Marie gave me a huge hug and then put me straight me to work, so I didn't get a chance to sneak down and see my canvas until lunch. I smiled and smelled it and looked up at the corner I'd sketched out, and then at the ladder I'd need to climb to get up there.


I thought about falling off the ladder, breaking my head open, dying alone on the floor of my studio.


And then I took a deep breath and climbed up it anyway.

 

End Notes:

 

So just one more left in the main series, kind of an epilogue of sorts. And after that I'm gonna move on to more casual stuff in this world, because I feel like at this point I don't have a lot of long emotional development arcs to drag them through! They're pretty good now :) So I'm gonna just write little stories and not worry too much about chronology and themes and stuff like that...so if there's anything that you'd like to see, plot bunnies or situations or any sort of "deleted scenes" from the existing fics, stuff you'd like to see from someone else's POV or something you feel was skipped over too quickly or whatever, please let me know and I'll do my best. Thanks for hanging in there this long. You've almost made it!

Chapter 26 - The One Where Justin Finishes His Work by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

So, okay. Here's where we're gonna end this, with a list of shit Brian Kinney never, ever would have said if he had to voice it out loud. Things his hands said that he definitely didn't mean them to say. Maybe that seems like kind of a flippant place to finish, but... I don't know. You'll see.


 

 

The One Where Justin Finishes His Work

LaVieEnRose




Sometimes I look around at my life and wonder how the hell I got all the way here.


Like...okay. Just as an example, sometimes I think about what it used to take to get affection out of Brian.


Physical affection, sure, that was easy, and I'm not even talking about sex here. There's a reason I knew pretty early on in our...whatever it was, back then, that Brian was fucking gone over me. Little pats on my thigh when he asked me if I would get him some coffee. Palming the back of my head when he walked past me. Slinging an arm over my waist when I got back in bed if I got up to pee in the middle of the night. Fucking constantly burying his face in the crook of my neck whenever he was tired.


But actually saying something nice to me? That was an entirely different matter.


I actually still remember the first nice thing he ever said to me. I was living at Deb's, and even though he hadn't stayed over the night before, he came by in the morning to bring me to school. Again, unspoken shit, never an issue.


I was at the breakfast table sketching a picture of my mom, and I drained the last of my orange juice and kissed him. “Almost ready.”


“Mmm.” He prowled the kitchen in that way he does, picking food off everyone's plates because that way it doesn't count as him actually eating, squeezing Vic's shoulder and ruffling Deb's wig. Eventually he made his way back over to me and glanced at the picture I was drawing. “That's not bad,” he said.


That! That was the first compliment Brian ever gave me. “That's not bad.” After I'd known him for six fucking months, and I floated on air from that shit for fucking weeks!


It has always, always been a struggle to get affectionate words out of Brian, and it bothered me some when I was younger, especially after the bashing when everything was just...confusing. It's hard to explain to people what that time was like, because Brian says I started acting pretty normal after the first few months of recovery, but...God, it took like a year and a half before I felt like myself again, and I totally thought everybody knew! It wasn't even like I was trying to hide it from people; I honestly thought everyone could tell what a fucking mess I was. And even Brian couldn't. I felt like I was underwater, like everything was happening to me slower than it was happening to everyone else, and by the time I processed what was going on it was already over.


But anyway, after I finally rejoined the living, it never really bothered me that Brian didn't say stuff verbally. Brian expresses affection by touching me and giving me shit, and as someone who likes sex and living outside of my means, that works out pretty fucking well for me most of the time. I get a little sad sometimes that I never heard him say I love you before the sound went off, but honestly I'm not sure I even would have realized that he never said it if he hadn't gotten drunk and cried about it when I was twenty-five. It's just not what I expect from him. Brian Kinney doesn't say shit. He tells Michael he loves him, sure, but like he's reciting lines from a play. Which is not to say he doesn't love Michael, not at all! He totally does. But he tells him because he's trained himself to do it, and that's not what I want.


When we started signing, it didn't even cross my mind that things would change in that respect. Which I guess makes sense, I mean, it's not like I had some shortage of things to focus on when I was losing my hearing. Because if I'd really thought about it, it should have been kind of obvious, right? Give Brian Kinney, the world's most physical person, a physical language, and shit's going to be different.


But sometimes I'm still fucking amazed by the things that just...fall out of his hands. I have a few other friends who started signing later in life who say it's the same for them, that they're more impulsive when they're signing than when they're speaking, that they don't even realize they'd decided to say something until they're already saying it. And it's true for me too, but expressing myself has never been the sort of Arthurian quest for me that it is for Brian, so it's less remarkable.


As if there's anything in the world that's not less remarkable than Brian, but you know. This is already going to be a pretty sappy story—I mean, fuck, I'm supposed to be summing everything up here!— so let's keep it together while we can, people.


So, okay. Here's where we're gonna end this, with a list of shit Brian Kinney never, ever would have said if he had to voice it out loud. Things his hands said that he definitely didn't mean them to say. Maybe that seems like kind of a flippant place to finish, but...


I don't know. You'll see.


**


Ages ago, back at the loft, I was stir frying some noodles and Brian came up behind me and wrapped an arm around my chest.


“Hi,” I said.


He ran a cupped hand up and down my torso, and I shivered. He pressed a kiss to the back of my neck. My shirt, he signed on my chest.


I blushed and turned around. I know. I was cold. I won't get oil on it.


He ran his hands up and down my arms and shrugged. It's okay, he said. You look hot. He drifted over to the cabinet to start setting the table, and I stared at his back.


A second later, he froze, then turned around and looked at me with the most baffled look on his face.


What? he said. What the hell did I just...?


I started laughing so hard I almost fell over. I made fun of Brian for having a crush on me for like a week after that.


**


A couple months later we were in shower, washing the stench of onion rings and tuna melts off me after a double shift. Brian was washing my hair because my hand was useless after hours of juggling plates and pouring coffee, and because, well, he usually washes my hair. He says it's the only thing in the world I'm the right height for. Asshole.


Should I just record this conversation so you can watch it in your spare time and we can stop having it over and over again? he said. Quit the fucking diner.


“I can't,” I said out loud, since my hand was out of commission.


I know it's a great job opportunity, what with the minuscule pay, the rude customers, and the way it absolutely wrecks your hand, but—


“I can't do that to Debbie. You know I can't.”


I've been disappointing Debbie since I was fourteen. Trust me, she gets by. He tilted my head back and rinsed my hair.


“This isn't like her walking in on me smoking with Michael.” I shook the water out of my hair. “Kiki's threatening to quit all the time, and we already lost the new cook earlier this month. She counts on me.”


I'm going to find you flattened on the street one day and your last words are going to be, 'but they needed my body to fill in this pothole.'


“One thing I've always admired about you is your restraint against hyperbolizing.”


He snickered and kissed me. Sometimes when I watch him laugh, I swear I can still hear it. I could, right that minute. And then he touched my fingers to the base of his throat and hummed so I could feel it. I leaned into his collarbone and closed my eyes, and I felt him take my right hand and gently uncurl it under the hot water. My fingers shook against his palm, and he ran his other hand over the inside of my forearm.


He moved his hand underneath my chin and lifted it with two fingers. Think about the lawsuit after you pour coffee on a customer. Debbie should be begging you to quit.


“You know, it's amazing how people think you're uncaring. You express your concern so openly.”


I know, I don't get it either. He stuck his tongue in his cheek and grinned at me. You done? I nodded, and he turned off the water and we toweled off. He said, Look, we're leaving in a few months anyway. One way or another, she's going to have to get used to running shit without you. Why not have her do that before you hurt yourself?


“I'll think about it,” I said. “Okay? I'll try cutting back at least.”


He gave my hair a tug and smacked a kiss on my lips. Want to eat before we go out?


“Yeah, I'll make a salad.”


We got dressed, and he gave me a quick squeeze with his arms all the way around me. Don't go anywhere, he said casually as he walked to the kitchen to reheat some of the leftovers from our last Sunday dinner.


I laughed a little. “Where am I gonna go?”


Just generally, he signed over his shoulder. Don't go anywhere.


**


What the fuck, he signed, gasping, my dick still inside him, our first weekend in our new apartment. What the fuck, how?


**


My first week with my new job was incredibly hectic, and I was just starting to get pulled out of the really shitty depression I'd been in that whole season, and I could tell Brian was keeping an eye on me. He'd look at me sideways on the couch if I got an email after business hours, and nag me about getting enough sleep, so I knew he was worried I was overwhelmed. Which was why when I was at my desk one time looking through the portfolio of a young artist Marie was curious about early one Saturday and Brian walked in when I thought he was still asleep, I totally expected to get lectured.


He sat a coffee cup in front of me and stood there drinking his own. What are you working on? he asked me.


I scrunched up my nose, trying for adorable, and the look on his face told me I was succeeding, but only just. Up and coming artist in Georgia, I said. She's done a few local showings and I found her website, and Marie told met to put together a proposal if I want us to show her.


Can I see?


Yeah. I spread some of the prints out on the table. I mean...I don't think anyone else in New York is looking at her yet. This could be big for the gallery, we could be discovering someone who's going to be really monumental. She's only thirty. She could really be something.


Only thirty, huh? Brian said dryly, and he leafed through the prints. He paused on one and said, This is kind of great.


That's my favorite too! The proposal I'm thinking of is centered around this piece, and the one three back that kind of supports it...


Brian looked. Yeah, I can see it.


I took the coffee cup in my hands and jiggled my legs. “I keep thinking about her sitting in her apartment in like, shitty rural Georgia, just painting, with no idea this is even on the table,” I said. “If Marie likes my proposal, if it goes through...this will completely change her life. I could do that.”


That is really fucking cool, Brian signed, small, still looking through the prints.


I grinned into my cup.


**


Brian's been a wuss about hangovers for as long as I've known him. He always said once I got older I'd understand, but now I'm almost as old as he was when we met and even though I can't drink that often because of my meds, I slip up often enough to know that no, he's just a damn baby. He says that's not fair to him because I know what actually being sick feels like so I'm used to it whereas his experience consists of catching a cold once every five years, so it's worse for him proportionately. You cannot make this shit up.


I was making him breakfast to bring to him in bed one Sunday morning because I am a man of infinite patience. I had earbuds in and the volume cranked up as high as it would go so I could feel the vibrations in my ears, and I danced a little as I slipped my spatula under an omelet. I felt the floor creak over by the doorway, and when I turned around he was leaning against the refrigerator, his hair sticking up in all directions.


“Hello,” I said.


You're going to ruin what's left of your hearing doing that.


I did a mock-provocative dance for him, still holding the spatula, and he snorted and pressed his face against the refrigerator to hide how hard he was grinning.


“Do you want some aspirin?” I asked him.


Yeah. I grabbed the bottle from the cabinet, and when I turned around he said, I like your hair longer like this.


Thanks.


**


So then, at the end of July, I poured a pot of boiling water on myself, but that's old news by now. Brian was initially kind of skittish about sex after, about touching me anywhere close to where the grafts are, but he got over it and a week after I got home from the hospital he was back to fucking me as roughly as ever. Thank God.


The night before he had to go back to Pittsburgh for work, he was making me squirm and see colors and make God knows how much noise, and I shifted at one point to unpin my arm from underneath me so I could sign some dirty shit at him, and he stopped when I readjusted and said, What's wrong, am I hurting you? and God, his eyes were so big.


I'm fine, I told him, signing right against my new graft, and he kissed me and I hung on, fiercely.


**


So, like I said, he had to go back to Pittsburgh for a few days to clean up some mess Ted made, and I was swamped diving back into work and couldn't go back with him. I was still a little freaky from the whole thing and was planning to get Daphne to come stay with me at the apartment while he was gone, but I mentioned it offhand to my mom on the phone, and she said, No, I'll do it, I'll come up, with all this hope in her eyes, and I couldn't say no. I knew she'd been so freaked out by the whole ordeal, and the last time she'd seen me in person I was still laid up in the hospital bed, so I figured it would be good for both of us to kind of get some more assurance that I was doing okay. I found a Broadway show that had an interpreter that weekend and took her out for that and a nice dinner and all in all it was a really, really nice visit. Between that and work it was a lot of rushing around, though, and I still wasn't back to my old energy levels, so I was sacked out on the couch on Sunday when Brian came home. I waved, and he gave me one of those smiles that's only with his eyes.


How'd he do? he asked my mom.


Great. She hugged him. He's great.


Just tell me what I owe you for babysitting, he said.


We all had dinner together at the apartment before Mom's flight, and we told Brian about the show and he made a good job of pretending like he cared while secretly sending me death glares whenever Mom wasn't looking for making him sit through a play-by-play of a musical, and he regaled us with the story of saving Kinnetik: Pittsburgh from certain destruction, and filled me in on how Gus was doing, and Mom, who had seen him the week before, piggybacked on that, and I got to just sit there and watch them and try to stay awake, and the whole thing was so fucking domestic that Brian was probably coming out of his skin, but he hid it well. Brian had a few messages on his phone that Cynthia said were urgent, so he dived into those as soon as we were done eating, standing in the kitchen with his phone to his ear. I offered to take Mom outside to get her a cab, but she told us she was perfectly capable of hailing her own, so I told her I loved her and she kissed my cheek and squeezed me tight.


I love you, she said to me. She leaned across the counter and kissed Brian. Love you.


Love you too, he said, barely paying attention, still focused on his phone, and I tried to wait until my mother was gone to fucking gape at him, but I don't think I succeeded. He, on the other hand, managed to wait until she'd closed the door behind her before he sunk his head down to the countertop.


“What the fuck,” I said.


Oh my God, he signed without lifting his head.


“You are fucking out of control,” I said. “I'm going to have to handcuff you. Jesus Christ, what's next?”


He stood up, set down the phone, and gave me a quick kiss as he walked past me. Goodbye. It was nice seeing you. I'm going to go drown myself now.


**


I got sick again a few weeks later, just a cold, and it turned out totally fine, but we were both kind of nervous about it. I stayed home for a day, and he ended up moving things around so that he could work from home and keep an eye on me. And for some reason I just felt really fucking bad about that, I don't know. I don't fall into the guilt spiral all that much anymore, but it gets to me sometimes that this isn't what Brian signed up for, and that there's no endpoint, that I'm just going to be like this forever and he...I don't know. I just feel depressed about it sometimes, and I did that day.


I think Brian could tell because he made a big point out of not hovering, of working obviously in the office and otherwise making it clear that I wasn't the center of his universe, which was what I needed. I lay on the couch most of the day and ate junk food and coughed and felt sorry for myself. He came out of the office around noon to make himself a sandwich. Want one? he asked me.


Yeah.


He brought one out to me. I pouted at him, and he copied it back to me, and I smiled a little in spite of myself. Fever still low? he asked.


“Uh-huh.”


He gave me a hug and started nipping at my neck, his hands slipping under my shirt, and I said, “Brian...”


He hummed behind my ear.


“I'm all sweaty and gross and...sick,” I said, and I probably sounded as self-loathing as I felt.


You smell good, he said, still kissing. You smell like you.


**


I finished my canvas just as the city started to cool. It was colbalts and indigos, turquoises and fiery oranges, and it was fucking enormous and it was finished.


Brian opened a bottle of sparkling wine in my studio and we drank out of paper cups. Upstairs, the movers were setting up for the show of the artist I'd found in Georgia.


Brian got close and touched one of the sweeping lines I'd done with the brush I built myself. I let him.


Sunshine, this is stunning, he said, without looking away from it.


**


My show opened just before Christmas.


My mother and Molly came, bu the rest of the Pittsburgh crowd wouldn't be here until next week, after the holiday. I'd arranged it that way; I didn't want them in town when the first reviews came in, in case they were awful. I didn't want the pressure of reassuring everyone that I was fine.


I wasn't fine. People were starting to show up, trickle into the gallery, kiss Marie's cheek, look at my work—my work. At my huge canvas taking up an entire wall. I could see it all through the window while I paced back and forth on the balcony outside my office.


The glass doors opened and Brian stepped onto the balcony. He was wearing a new suit, head to toe black, and he looked...so fucking serene, like he was born to do just this.


So, the total opposite of how I felt, basically.


Derek and Emily just got here, Brian said.


I know.


Finally Stephanie has someone to interpret for, Brian said.


Yeah.


Since you are not there.


I know.


He leaned against the railing and sipped his drink, watching me pace. Why are you freaking out?


I looked at him incredulously, and he shrugged, all innocence and nonchalance and fucking...God, just the way he crossed his ankles as he rested on that railing. He was an artwork.


This could be it, I said.


I'm aware.


No, I mean the other it. My career could be about to be over before it even starts. They could hate it...


He finished his drink and set down the glass. They won't.


You don't know that.


Of course I do. They're going to adore you.


How do you know?


He shook his head, watching me. You are so stupid.


I know. I looked down from the balcony. Do you think I'd live if I jumped from here? I could just hit the ground and start running.


He sighed. Come here, my love.


I folded into him and took a deep breath, and we stood there for a little while, the cold air of the city surrounding us, his body keeping me warm.


Okay, I said eventually. Okay. I'm ready.

 

--the end

End Notes:

For templemarker.

 

Last fic of the main series. Thanks, y'all. It's been fun.

Chapter 27 - Emergency Contact by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Once, years before Justin lost his hearing, Brian dropped a shelf on his head. Set between seasons 3 and 4, fleshing out a reference from "The One Where Brian Isn't There." Requires absolutely no knowledge of the series, since it takes place before anything starts, and works as a canon gapfiller.

Emergency Contact

LaVieEnRose

Summary:



I had a mouth full of nails when the loft door swung open. “Hey,” I said, as best I could.


Justin circled the stool I was standing on. “Wow, a hammer and everything. This is very butch. Are we having a nervous breakdown?”


“Fuck off. Come help me with this.”


Justin dropped his messenger bag on the counter—normally he'd throw it on the couch, but, well—and dragged out another stool. “Why are you hanging a shelf?”


“Because I bought one.”


“Whhhhhy.”


“Because I have nowhere to put shit and it was cheaper than a table.” I paused, considering. “And possibly because I'm having a nervous breakdown.”


“There it is.”


“Stay down there and support it from the bottom,” I said.


“I always support from the bottom,” he said, with a cheesy grin up at me, and I did my best not to swallow some nails when I laughed. He lifted his arms above his head and head the shelf up while I worked.


I hammered for a while, and Justin chattered on about the new waitress at the diner and how Debbie was thinking of getting the booths replaced and other extraordinarily boring things that didn't bother me as much as they should have because...look, I'm not going to get sappy here, but he'd only been back for a few months and sometimes you miss having a monologue in the background. After I'd used up all my nails I said, “Okay, I think that's good, let go,” and stepped off the stool, and the shelf promptly fell right down and clocked Justin in the head.


“Fuck!” he said, clapping his hand to his head.


I laughed. “Yikes. Are you okay?”


“Fuck, don't laugh at me, that really hurt.”


“Let me see, come here.”


He took his hand away from his head and showed me a minuscule smear of blood. “I'm bleeding! Look what you did.”


“Hey, I didn't make the shelf.”


He rubbed his head. “Compelling. Fuck, this hurts.”


“Go sit. I'll get you some ice.”


He went and sat on the bed, because there was nowhere the fuck else to sit in this place anymore, and I wrapped some ice in a towel and brought it over to him. He was still pouting and rubbing his head when I got there, so I pouted back and gave him a hug. “I promise I'll never DIY again,” I said. “This is why God invented lesbians.”


He flopped back on the bed, holding the ice in place. “Do you think this gets me out of helping Daphne study tonight?”


“Sure.”


He chuckled and winced. “Why am I not surprised that's your answer?”


“Stay here. Stare at my empty, shelfless walls with me.”


“That does sound fun.”


I lay down next to him and touched his cheek. “At least let me wash the blood out of your hair.”


He smiled. “Okay.”


I didn't really think anything more of it.


**


I went out that night to the newly-restored Babylon, then woke up late Sunday morning and went to meet my trainer at the gym. I had a shower, fucked around in the steam room, and arrived home to a pitch-black loft, the lights off, the curtains drawn. It took me a minute to put it together, since that was definitely not how I left it, because Justin was supposed to be at work, first of all, and he didn't live here, second of all, and...it had been a few months, third of all.


I closed the door slowly, took off my shoes, and approached the bed as quietly as I could. “Hey,” I whispered.


Justin was curled up about as small as he can get, which is pretty fucking small, his arms around his head. “Uh-uh.”


I placed a hand on the small of his back. “Deb send you home?” She should have called me.


“Yeah.” He swallowed and shifted around some. “I threw up at the diner.”


“Eh, who hasn't.”


He groaned. “Don't make me laugh.” That did explain why he was here, though. The loft's way closer to the diner than his place is.


Still, it's a two block walk. “You should have called me, I would have come and got you.”


“S'okay,” he whispered. “Can I just sleep here for a little while?” He said it like it was a real question, like he really thought I might kick him out.


I cleared my throat. “Yeah. You take your meds?”


He shook his head a little, wincing.


“Why the fuck not?”


“At Daphne's.”


It was probably too late for them to make much of a difference, but it might help it ease up a little sooner. He once had a migraine that lasted three days, before they figured out the right meds for him. “Okay.” I leaned down and kissed his cheek. “I'll be back in half an hour.”


He sighed, sounding relieved. “Brian.”


“Don't throw up in the bed.”


I knocked at Justin's place, but when Daphne didn't answer I used my key. “Daph? Don't be naked.” Still nothing, so I made my way to Justin's fucking pig sty of a room. The only pill bottles on his nightstand were his allergy meds and his anticonvulsant, which made me realize I didn't know what the fuck he'd been doing about those on the nights he'd stayed at my place. Was he just not taking them? No wonder he had a migraine, the idiot. I poured half of each into one of the the bottles and pocketed it to live at the loft.


I dug through piles of clothes and rooted through the metric ton of art supplies on Justin's dresser, but I couldn't find another bottle of pills. I looked at my phone, winced, and then bit the bullet and called Justin.


He answered after a while. “What the fuck,” he croaked. “I thought you didn't want me to throw up in the bed.”


I kept my voice low, for all the good it would do. “I know. I'm sorry. I can't find your pills.”


He took a shivery breath. “Medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”


Really should have thought of that. “...Yeah. Here they are.”


“Can I hang up now?”


“Yeah. I'll be back soon.” I hung up, stuck the Imitrex and the painkillers in my pocket, and on my way out stopped at his fridge for some of those nasty energy drinks he likes, because sometimes caffeine helps take the edge off when he has a migraine. He was exactly where I left him when I got back to the loft, so I fed him the migraine meds and one of his allergy pills because why not and lay down next to him, because it's not like there was fucking anything else to do. I didn't have a TV anymore, and I couldn't exactly read in the dark. Justin doesn't like to be touched during a migraine, not even by the cool sheets, so I kept my hands to myself.


I must have drifted off, but at some point I was aware of him vomiting again, thankfully not in the bed. I rubbed my eyes on the way to the bathroom and squinted in the low light. “Hey.”


“Uh-uh,” he said.


“You tried that already.”


He spit into the toilet. “God. Fuck.”


“Bad one.”


“Yeah.”


I got him another painkiller and a bottle of Gatorade to wash it down with. He took one swallow and tried to hand it back to me. “Getting dehydrated's just going to make you feel worse,” I said.


He held his head. “I don't think that's possible.”


“C'mon,” I said, helping him off the floor. He was shaking so small and fiercely, like he was vibrating. “Hey,” I said, when I realized he was crying. “It'll get better. It always does.” I kissed his temple, as gently as I could. “Okay, champ. Shower or bed?”


“Bed, I can't.”


“You're fine.” I guided him back to bed, trying not to worry about the way he stumbled on the flat floor. It was dark, that was all. He lay on top of the covers and curled back up, and I lay my hand on his back.


He shivered. “Don't...”


I took my hand away. “Forgot.”


He sighed. “'M sorry.”


“Don't be stupid. Go to sleep.”


He did, and I lay there and watched him, the best I could in the low light, and continued that trying not to worry thing.


He'd be better in the morning.


**


He wasn't. He sat on the bed, cross-legged, head in his hands, while I got ready for work as quietly as I could. I still didn't have a fucking office, obviously, due to not having a fucking job, but I was doing some consulting work for an old client and I had a meeting I really couldn't afford, literally, to miss.


I crouched in front of the bed and put a hand on his knee. “Where can I bring you?” I said softly. “Debbie's? Is Daphne home?”


“Can you drop me off at the clinic?” he said, and something in my stomach fell.


I moved my hand to the back of his neck, even though it made him wince. “Christ, it's that bad?”


His voice was so tight. “They can give me a shot, I need it to stop. I can take the bus if you—”


“Stop. C'mon.”


**


There was a forty-five minute wait at the clinic. I watched Justin fill out the paperwork and paced restlessly, looking at my watch. Even if he somehow spent less than five minutes with the doctor, there was no way I'd make my meeting on time.


Fuck fuck fuck.


This was stupid. It was a headache. The kid was fine. He didn't need a babysitter.


He was finished with the forms now, hunched in a chair in the corner, the hood of his sweatshirt all the way over his head, his face hidden in his arms to block out the light. There was a baby crying nearby, which had to just be fucking torture.


I stood over him and couldn't figure out what to say.


“It's okay,” he said, and I startled; I didn't know he knew I was there. “Just go. I'm fine.”


I ran my hand over my mouth. “I'll be done by ten. Call me if you're still here and I'll pick you up.”


“Okay.”


I bent down and kissed his cheek, and he gave me a small smile. “Feel better,” I said softly.


He nodded and bit down on the hem of his sleeve.


**


My meeting ended at quarter to ten. I texted Justin to let him know, and when he didn't answer I went to the diner—closer to the clinic than the loft was, marginally—for a late breakfast and to wait out his call. Michael was still off on his little adventure with Hunter, and I looked around the diner, full of people I vaguely recognized but no one I really knew, not even Deb, and felt a kind of fucking...loneliness out of nowhere. Then Emmett showed up and morosed at me about Ted and I remembered how much I hate knowing people, so that helped. An hour of that, and still nothing from Justin, so I headed back to the loft.


When I still hadn't heard from him at noon, I tried calling his cell, and when that went straight to voicemail, the landline at Daphne's, to see if he'd made it home on his own. Nothing there either.


At two, I called the clinic.


“He was a patient there this morning,” I said.


“We can't reveal patient information,” the bored receptionist said.


“I just want to know if he's still there,” I said. “I'm his emergency contact.”


“I told you, we can't reveal that,” she said. “And unless your name is, uh, Jennifer, you're not his emergency contact.”


He put his mother down instead of me?


**


At a quarter after fucking six PM, he called me.


“What the fuck?” I said.


“Brian?” he said.


“Who the hell else would it be? Where the fuck are you?”


“Can you come?” his voice was small.


“Yes,” I said, looking for my keys. “Except where the fuck are you.”


“At the hospital.”


I froze. “You're what?”


“I'm okay. I'll explain when you get here.”


“Yeah, no,” I said, slamming the loft door behind me. “You're gonna explain now.”


“You shouldn't be on your phone while you're driving.”


“Are you fucking—”


“Fourth floor,” he said. “I'll meet you by the elevators.”


“Allegheny?”


“Yeah.”


**


Justin was sitting in the waiting room when I got out of the elevator. He got up and gave me a hug, looking...a lot better than he had that morning, so I was officially fucking lost.


I held him. “What the fuck is going on?”


“I told them my medical history in the clinic and about the thing with the shelf two days ago and they freaked out and said I had to get an MRI right away.”


I stared at him. “Why didn't you call me?”


“I didn't have time, they put me in a fucking ambulance right away. I don't know how I'm going to pay for this.”


“You didn't have time then, fine, but that was nine fucking hours ago and an MRI takes forty-five minutes.” Fuck this kid and thinking I don't know the goddamn minutia of head injuries. Fucking, fucking fuck him.


And fuck me for not goddamn realizing I should have brought him to the fucking hospital yesterday as soon as he got a headache.


“I didn't want to bother you,” Justin said.


“You didn't...I fucking told you to call me when you were done if you needed to be picked up.” It wasn't what I wanted to say, it wasn't fucking nearly what I wanted to say, but it was something and it was easy.


“I'm not done,” he said. “My fucking neurologist is here and he wants to talk to me, I'm...the nurses are going to tell me when he's ready, and I'm...I don't know why he wants to talk to me.”


I sat down. “Okay.”


“And....and I'm scared,” he said. He shrugged, blushing a little. “I just wanted you.”


“Well, I could have been here nine goddamn hours ago.”


He shifted nervously from foot to foot.


I sighed. “Sit down. How's your head feel now?”


“Better. They gave me the shot at the clinic.”


“Then I'm sure everything's fine.”


He chewed on his thumbnail, and I rolled my eyes and knocked his hand away from his mouth. “Stop. This place is a cesspool.”


“Why does he want to talk to me if everything's fine?” he said quietly.


**


It turned out, to put the fear of God in us about Justin getting any more head trauma.


“You were lucky, this time,” Dr. Bartha told us. “Very, extremely lucky. Next time that might not be the case.”


“It was barely anything,” Justin said. “It's not like I lost consciousness.”


“You don't have to,” he said. “Not with your history. Justin...after what you sustained two years ago, you're incredibly fortunate to have recovered to the degree that you have. But that's a precarious thing. Repeated head injuries can lead to a condition called chronic encephalopathy, the symptoms of which are similar to Alzheimer's disease or dementia. This is serious.”


“So what am I supposed to do?” Justin said. “You said no contact sports. I don't play contact sports. What am I supposed to do, wear a helmet all the time?”


“You're supposed to take a head injury seriously, especially when it's symptomatic,” he said, firmly but gently. “You're not supposed to wait three days to come get an MRI. You know that.”


Justin shrugged a little, looking down at his lap. “I just didn't want it to be a big deal,” he said.


“Nobody ever wants anything to be a big deal,” Dr. Bartha said, succinctly. “That's how people choke to death.”


**


Justin was quiet in the car, and in the elevator, and in the loft when I drained my first class of Beam, and my second.


Finally he said, “I'm sorry, okay?”


I slammed the glass down. “You knew you were supposed to get an MRI and you didn't say anything?”


“I thought he was just being—”


“You put your mother down as your emergency contact?”


“I didn't—”


“You sat in the hospital by yourself for seven fucking hours?”


“This is new,” he said. “You and I—”


“Oh, bullshit it's new.”


“I don't want to fuck this up,” he said. “I didn't want to get too...heavy or dependent or start...”


I snorted into my glass.


“Don't laugh at me,” he said, firmly. “I'm trying to make this work.”


“By lying to me again.”


“I didn't...” He sighed. “I didn't know if you'd want to be my emergency contact. I didn't feel up to having that conversation right then. And I...I thought I could handle the hospital thing on my own.” He shrugged, looking away. “I thought you'd be...proud of me or something later, I don't know. For being a grown-up.”


Everything I wanted to say stuck in my throat, no matter how many much I drank. Justin went up to the bedroom, and a minute later I heard the shower running. I poured and drank one more glass, then joined him, my words already starting to buzz a little in my head. Good.


I closed the shower door behind me. “Don't slip and hit your head,” I said.


“This is going to be fun, isn't it,” he said dryly.


I lathered shampoo in his hair. “This hurt?”


“No.”


We were quiet for a while while I washed him, my fingers ghosting over the scab from two days before. Eventually I tilted his head up, gently, so he was looking at me.


“I'm only gonna say this once,” I said. “So are you listening? Your brain isn't too fucked up to understand me yet?”


“So sensitive.”


“I'm your partner,” I said. “I should be your emergency contact. All right?”


His mouth quirked up in a smile. “You're my partner.”


“I said I'm only saying it once. Don't try to trick me.”


He ducked his head against my collarbone. I could feel him smiling against my skin.

 

Ah, hell. “I'm your partner,” I said again.

End Notes:

 

For sylvianguyen.

Chapter 28 - On The Table by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Gus comes to visit and sparks a conversation Justin and Brian had thus far managed to avoid. Set in late winter or early spring, shortly before Justin's 27th birthday, a couple months after the last scene in TOW Justin Finishes His Work.

 

On The Table

LaVieEnRose




I woke up to Justin pouncing on me and yelling, “GET UP!”


I pulled my pillow out from under me and over my face. Do you have any idea how loud you are? I signed. Sometimes I like to set him up like that.


“NOPE!” He started tickling me. “Get up get up get up get up get up.”


I wrestled him off of me and tossed the pillow to the side. Do you want me to kill you?


He grinned at me. Today's the day!


What day? I said, just to annoy him.


He groaned and crawled back on top of me, this time with gentle touches and kisses, so...I let him live. I trailed my hands over the scars on his chest. He said, Right now, Gus is sitting in first class all by himself while a flight attendant asks him if he wants his third cup of apple juice.


I should have gotten him a new suit. You can't sit in first class in jeans.


I can't believe he's coming.


Only took us living here for a fucking year.


Justin rolled off of me and lay on his back beside me, stretching his legs up, pointing his toes at the ceiling. I watched the ways the muscles in his feet contracted, how the sunlight through the window caught the almost translucent hairs on his legs. I swallowed, and he turned and looked at me, suddenly peaceful. So much to do this weekend, he said. His eyes were so goddamn blue, which I realize is just...the stupidest fucking thought, after this long, but goddamn were they blue right then.


And you have work to do.


He sighed. I know. He had a show coming up with a few other artists at a gallery in Brooklyn, and his agent, always antsy about deadlines, wanted everything squared away way, way faster than Justin was in the mood to square it.


But hey. The kid had an agent. The kid was good.


You know, I said. With Gus sleeping in the next room for two nights, God knows how we're going to be able to fuck.


Quietly?


You haven't done anything quietly in three years.


Justin rolled over onto his stomach and played with my hair. You would know.


I would.


Well. He kissed my throat. We have about an hour.


I closed my eyes and tilted my head back. Lead the way.


**


They just announced his flight, I told Justin, while we waited in arrivals. He wasn't really paying attention to me, though. Justin's always a bit overwhelmed in crowds, not in the painicky way he used to be, at least not most of the time, just overstimulated and fascinated. He was darting his eyes around at people hugging and kissing, stressed out families hauling luggage of the carousels, sketchy guys offering rides to tourists, and you could almost see his mind working to come up with backstories for everyone, to make up ways they all fit together. I don't know if it's an artist thing or a head injury thing, needing to make sense of the world like that. He shouldn't have to explain it.


I tapped him on the shoulder, and he shook himself a little and wrinkled his nose apologetically. How much longer? he asked.


I pointed up at the arrivals board. No reason to tell him the hearing people got to know a few minutes before he did.


Has he texted you yet?


No...yes. There it is.


Good. He bounced a little.


I laughed. Are you nervous?


Yeah, he's a kid, he flew by himself.


Well, clearly he's alive.


I want him to have a good time, he said. I haven't seen him since New Year's. We didn't go back to Pittsburgh for Christmas that year because of Justin's show, so we made a New Year's trip instead, going against the flow of ten million tourists flooding Manhattan. Ben and Michael had just finished moving into their new house, something larger and more modern so they'd have room for the new kid they were adopting without usurping a room for J.R. when she stays over or one for Hunter, in case that new job in Chicago didn't work out. There was even a spare room after that, where Justin and I had sneaked away at midnight, and I listened to everyone counting down in the living room and tapped out seconds on Justin's collarbone. I'd seen Gus since then, on one of my all too frequent trips back to Pittsburgh to clean up some mess or another at Kinnetik, but Justin rarely came with me for those. I realized on one of those trips that they'd been using Justin not coming back all that often as an excuse to slack off on their signing, so my past few visits I made it a point not to speak English to any of them, and not to respond to any of them speaking English to me. Kind of cracking the whip, so to speak. Since then they'd all gotten back on the horse somewhat, and who knows, maybe the next time Justin was lying in a hospital bed they'd get an invite if they kept that up.


Justin tugged my sleeve. There he is.


Sure enough, Gus was coming down the escalator in the world's rattiest denim jacket, headphones jammed over his head, looking like the preteen version of a lead singer in a fucking '90s emo band. He grinned when he saw us and loped his way over, and I impulsively put an arm around Justin's waist and squeezed him.


Hey, little man, I said.


Hey, big man. He hugged me, then Justin. First class is so cool. Everyone treated me like royalty or something. The grammar was off in his signing—really Englishy, which I knew was saying something coming from me, since Justin's friends are always on him about how English his signing is, never mind my hearing-ass shit—but I could understand it, so I knew Justin could too.


Justin took Gus's bag and slung it over his shoulder. Are you hungry?


Starving. Can we get pizza?


Justin laughed. We can get pizza.


There's always something so fucking...strange about seeing the two of them together, especially now that Gus has gradually grown into, you know, a human who can hold a conversation—fuck a conversation in two languages—instead of a cute blob. I mean, we all know the story here; Justin crash-landed into my life the same night Gus did. And sure, with Justin there have been bumps along the way, but for the most part...I mean, fucking shit, my relationship is old enough to hold a conversation in two languages. How the fuck did this happen?


Justin and I have never really talked about his relationship with Gus, even now, and I at least have no desire to, because there's something kind of...well, I suppose it's not a surprise coming from me that I think there's something special in the undefined, even though Justin and I couldn't live in that space forever. Gus has never called Justin anything but his name, and when he comes to art shows Justin introduces him as “my partner's kid” and has never pushed for any role in making decisions about Gus's life, not that I have more than a small one anyway. What they have seems easy, and fuck if I'm going to screw that up by making Justin have some fucking conversation about it. When Gus started calling Jen “Grandma” I was worried one might be coming, but thankfully we seemed to have dodged that bullet there too. Gus has on occasion referred to the four of us as his parents, introducing us and Mel and Lindz to his coach after a hockey game, stuff like that, and that's fine. Really, whatever the two of them decide is fine, as long as I don't have to fucking have anything to do with it. I'd just overthink things and fuck everyone up. And you know I would, so spare me.


We took a cab back into Manhattan and went to some greasy pizza place Justin loved, and of course Gus did too. Gus showed us new pictures of the baby Ben and Michael were going to China to get next month, and we made all the appropriate excited noises even though Michael was already sending us ten emails a day. And then, because I am the most indulgent motherfucker on the planet, we took Gus to Times Square, and yeah, I'll admit, I got a kick out of watching him gawk at the lights and ask us all sort of geeky sciencey questions about how the billboards worked that I didn't really know the answers to, but at least I had better guesses than Justin did. I don't know, magic, he said.


Any science classes at St. James's Academy? I asked him.


He looked around as the ads changed. I should probably go, he said.


I hadn't even thought about the fucking flashing lights. Shit. Are you feeling weird?


I'm fine, I'm just nervous.


“Gus?” I called. He was busy scaling the red steps. We gotta go, bud.


We just got here!


I said we're going, come on. I looked at Justin. No auras or anything?


Really, I'm fine, I just realized this wasn't my best idea.


I was a nervous fucking wreck on the subway, I'll admit, trying to keep an eye on Justin without freaking out Gus, and Justin was trying to reassure me without freaking out Gus, and I was getting pissed at Justin for thinking he needed to reassure me, which he absolutely did, and trying to do that without freaking out Gus, and it was...a whole thing. We got home, and I sat in the armchair and tried to decompress while Justin dug some ice cream out of the freezer and Gus leaned on the counter, chattering at Justin.


What are we going to do tomorrow? he said. I want to go to the top of the Empire State building!


“Ask your father,” Justin said. “And ask him if he wants ice cream.”


I can hear you, I said, but he couldn't see me, obviously. We have pretty good sign lines in the apartment, obviously by design, but the cut out above the bar means you can't see the armchair if you're over by the fridge. Which was why I sat there to mope around about being worried about him.


He's going to say he doesn't want any and eat yours, Gus said. Just like he always does.


Justin came out and held out a bowl of ice cream to me, giving me one of his I'm onto your bullshit looks. Unclench, he said. Everything's fine.


I sighed and pulled him onto my lap and fed him a spoonful of ice cream. You're okay, I signed, small.


I'm okay. He leaned in close for me to kiss the ice cream off his lips.


“Gross,” Gus said from the couch. “I'm like, right here.”


**


Justin, ever so conveniently, had to work the next day, so I was stuck dragging Gus to every tourist trap in the city on my own. He was kind of quiet, like he had something on his mind, and after I'd stood in line all day just for him to pout into his burger and fries when we stopped for lunch, I'd reached the end of my patience.


I trapped his foot between mine under the table. “What's with you?”


He shrugged.


“C'mon, spill.”


Gus sighed and leaned back against the booth. “Okay, so, Mama said you two moved to New York because it was like...time for you and Justin to do that. That this was the next step for you guys.”


“Okay,” I said.


“So like...are you ever going to have a baby, or what?”


I just about choked on my sandwich. “Are we what?”


“I mean, that's how it works, right? You get married, then you have a baby. You got married.”


“Gus,” I said. “Please tell me I don't have to explain to you how babies are made.”


He rolled his eyes. “Please. Gary Bluth told me all about sex, like, two years ago.”


“Okay.” I paused. “You mean real sex, right? Not the shit heterosexuals do.”


“Dad.”


“All right, all right.”


“You can make some lady have one for you,” he said. “I bet Mama would do it.”


“Too old,” I said. "It'd come out with two heads."


“Or adopt one,” he said. “Like Michael and Ben are doing.”


I sipped my water. “That's what this is about?”


He shrugged. “J.R.'s all psyched about how she's getting a new sister. And like, what is this new baby even going to be me?”


“I don't know.”


“Nothing, really. Like...my sister's getting a sister and it's not even related to me? It's dumb.”


“I can't believe you want another sister,” I said. “Am I imagining the years you've spent complaining about J.R.?”


“She's okay now.” He stirred his milkshake. “And Moms say they don't want to have any more, but if you and Justin had a kid...”


This was a delicate situation, because there was a little more to this than just telling Gus fuck no, I don't want another kid, because he would, obviously, want to know why. And Gus had, thankfully, never pulled any of that “did you even want me,” crap on me about the fact that I didn't have custody, but that didn't mean I thought we'd be in the clear if I had to go right out and say no, I don't want to raise a kid.


“I don't think it's gonna happen, bud,” I said gently. “I'm pretty happy with just you.”


He said. “But...what about Justin?”


Well.


What about Justin.


**


Gus had homework to do, so I texted Emily and offered her an exorbitant amount of money to sit around the apartment and keep an eye on him so I could go out for a few hours.


I refuse to change any diapers, she said when she showed up.


He's nine.


Wow, then I really refuse to change any diapers.


Justin was down in his usual room in Marie's studio, working on something with a sponge brush, pressing the side of his fist into the paint to get the texture right. I trailed my hand over his shoulder blades.


You lost Gus already? he said.


Yeah, somewhere in midtown. He's a street kid now. This is cool.


Thanks.


Can you take a break?


In a minute. What's up?


Have you ever thought about having a kid?


He rolled his fist over the canvas. You mean like for dinner? he signed left-handed.


Justin.


He laughed. Why are you asking me this?


I don't know. Because I never have before.


Gus said something.


Because you're, what, a year younger than I was when Lindsay got pregnant with Gus? This is when people start thinking about this shit.


“You weren't thinking about anything,” he said. “You were stoned and Lindsay got you to jack off in a cup. There was no big life decision.”


I don't know how you feel about this, I said. Doesn't that strike you as fucking weird? I know how you feel about goddamn everything because you never fucking shut up.


He shrugged, still annoyingly casual, still working on his fucking painting. “I guess I've never really given it much thought. I never thought it was on the table.”


Because you're gay?


He gave me a weird look. “Because I assumed you wouldn't want one,” he said, like it was obvious.


What the fuck does that have to do with anything?


“Hmm, I don't know,” Justin said, waving his wedding ring at me.


That's fucked up. If you want kids—


Justin rolled his eyes and didn't stop painting and altogether acted like we weren't talking about something potentially fucking relationship-ending. “Again, I never said that I—”


You never said you don't, either.


“You know, I was in such a nice little zen painter place, and then you come in here with all the entrapment...”


Would you fucking be serious right now?


He finally fucking put down the paintbrush, and looked at me with this face like he was being so goddamn indulgent. Darling. You're the one playing dumb about the fact that whether or not you want kids has anything to do with whether or not I will have kids. Can we not fucking do that?


I bowed my head. Sorry.


He came over and sat on his studio table next to me.


I don't want you to miss out on shit because of me, he said. You know I don't want that.


Yeah, and that's a really sweet fantasy and everything, but the reality is...of course I'm going to miss out on shit. I'm missing out on being married to literally any other fucker out there.


But you could be, I insisted. If you wanted—


He threw himself back on the table. You have got to stop taking the fucking...acknowledgment that there are other paths out there as me fishing for an easy exit. I chose this. I'm happy.


And I realize that, but at the same time I want you to have absolutely fucking everything that exists in the world, because I'm a fucking mess over you, so let's not act like that's a surprise.


He smiled a little and kissed me. We have to give up things for each other sometimes, he said. You had to leave Times Square last night because of me.


I stared at him. That's your example?


He laughed. Okay, maybe not the strongest comparison.


I was fucking coming out of my skin to get out of Times Square, and even if I fucking wasn't—


Okay, okay, I get it.


Jesus Christ. I thought you were supposed to be all right-brained and shit. You're giving up having children, but it's true, I did leave Times Square for you. Jesus Christ, this is what the creative-minded are coming up with these days? Pack it in.


Can I get back to my painting now?


I don't know. You can try.


He stood up. And for the record, I don't want kids.


Well, who says I don't? my hands said, for some godforsaken reason. I came around to his easel and kissed him. Maybe I want to see a tiny you running around.


You're ridiculous.


I said, You could do that if you wanted, you know. Find some nice lesbians, have the kind of arrangement I have with Gus. You might like that.


He laughed and shook his head, but there was some kind of sadness there.


What? I said.


Come on. That's definitely off the table.


Why?


No lesbian's going to pick the guy who has a chance of passing on this disease to their kids.


I believe some Deaf lesbians might.


He shook his head. I don't want to pass it on.


Seriously? I said. I would have thought you'd want a Deaf kid.


He raised an eyebrow. Do you?


I shrugged and pulled a stool up by the easel. Yeah, sure. I mean, if we were going to have one.


Which we're not.


Right.


I don't know, he said. I'd feel bad about just...handing this to some unsuspecting kid. Maybe if they were born Deaf it'd be different, but they'd be born hearing and then have their whole life change and God knows what age...it's not really a fun experience.


No, I guess not, I said.


He sighed. Maybe when we're old. Like, very old. Like sixty.


Is this some world in which we're sixty at the same time? Do you think you're eventually going to catch up with me? I'd be fine with that.


Averaged, he said. Fifty-four and sixty-six.


Then what, then you find some Deaf lesbians?


No, then we pull a Ben and Michael and rescue a stray. Two years of parenting and then we send him off to college.


I pulled him onto my lap. Yeah, we could do that. Fuck it, if I'm still alive at sixty-six, clearly Justin's doing something right. Might as well give in and let him call the shots at that point.


He kissed me. Since you're clearly dying to add another body to the apartment, though, you could always give in and let me get a pet.


I snorted. Sure.


They make dogs that detect seizures, you know, Justin said.


That's cool. So we get one of those, and then a second one to detect when your throat closes up from the first one? Do they make those?


He laughed. I'll have you know I lived with a cat for six months and I didn't die. So there.


Oh, so that's why your face was all swollen every time I saw you? I thought you were crying over me that whole time.


He kissed my nose. Some of each. He sighed. If you're not going to get me a pet, can I at least get back to work?


Can I stay and watch you?


Yeah.


Then okay.

End Notes:

I hate writing ending scenes so I've decided to be self-indulgent and just end these casual ones when I've said everything I want to say, hence the lack of a proper send-off for Gus at the end of this one. But like...is that really why we're here?

Chapter 29 - A Change of Plans by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

An innocent question from one of Justin's friends leads to him revealing something he's been keeping for a while. Also, Brian finds out about Grindr.

A Change of Plans

LaVieEnRose



Emily stretched, resting her head back against Samantha's leg. Here's what I want to know, she said, signing way too emphatically for someone who'd had three glasses of wine and was holding another one while lying on our rug that costs more than I make in three months. Why haven't we met Daphne's boyfriend?


Ooh, yes, Samantha said.


Daphne laughed, taking another handful of chips. He doesn't sign.


Well neither did Justin, before he did! Emily said.


That's very true, I said. But I've met this guy, he is hopeless.


I can't imagine dating a hearing person, Derek said. He was on the couch with his feet on my shoulder, and he'd nudge me before he talked so I'd know to turn around. I'm not going to sit on the floor when there's a perfectly good couch right here, he'd said.


Daphne said, It probably helps that I'm hearing.


Yeah, probably, Derek said. Pass the wine.


The door opened, then, and Brian came in, finally home from work at almost nine. God, I don't think about the age difference between us very often, but right then, him coming home from the office in his suit with his briefcase, and me sitting on the floor in my sweatpants surrounded by my drunk friends, God, I felt about sixteen again and like he was my dad coming home and catching us or some shit. I couldn't decide if that was kinky or gross, so I decided not to dwell on it.


Everyone waved and started signing at him all at once, and he regarded all of us with a raised eyebrow while he took his suit jacket off. Well, this is nice, he said to me, in this way that was supposed to seem sarcastic but wasn't, really. He came over and kissed Daphne, then me, so long and slow that everyone started banging on the floor and the furniture, and Samantha and Emily started making out for good measure.


Brian broke away and said, One thing they don't tell you about having a house full of Deaf people is how goddamn loud you all are.


How was work? I said.


He gave me a rough kiss on the cheek. Don't ask, he said, and walked over to the bedroom and started undressing with the fucking door open. Emily made this big show of watching, and Samantha thwacked her on the side of the head.


Daphne put her hand on my knee. He wants you.


He always wants me, I said, and I hauled myself to my feet and came over to the bedroom door. “Yes, dear?


He pulled on a tank top. How are you, how was your day?


I rested my head against the doorway, unexpectedly touched. But of course I said, You called me all the way over here to ask how my day was?


He shrugged, smiling a little. You're not drinking, right?


I rolled my eyes. No.


He pecked me on the lips. I've met that girl with Emily, right?


I think just once. Samantha. I showed him her sign name, and fingerspelled it.


She's Deaf?


Yep.


He changed into his black jeans. Are they sticking around? I want to go out. As if I couldn't tell from the clothes.


Yeah, we're gonna play this game Derek brought.


He sighed. Okay. Well I'm gonna go.


You mean you don't want a quiet evening at home playing board games?


He kissed my nose. You wouldn't know quiet if it bit you. He nodded over my shoulder. They're trying to get your attention over there.


They'd started setting up the game, so I retook my place on the floor while Brian finished getting ready. He came out a second later and sighed. All right, children. Have a good evening.


Emily said, No, you asshole, stay and play with us! What kind of hosting is this?


Brian laughed, but he did go and get a beer out of the fridge instead of running out the door right away. I don't think so, he said over the bar.


What have you got to do that's so much fucking better, huh? Emily asked him.


Brian paused, grinning over his beer. Dancing, he signed eventually.


You can dance here! Derek said. He messed around with his phone and presumably started playing something, I don't know, but he started dancing—he's got a bit more hearing than I do—and so did Daphne. Samantha and Emily and I rushed to put our hands on the couch to feel the vibrations on the phone and then started dancing too. Brian chuckled and came over, pulling me up and into his arms.


He doesn't mean dancing, Daphne said. He's gonna go fuck someone.


Brian kissed my temple. True.


No, stay here! Emily said. You can fuck Justin.


Brian made this big show of looking me over, like he was trying to decide if he thought I was attractive. I shoved him.


He can't fuck Justin, Derek said.


The fuck I can't! Brian said, making like he was going to drag me to the bedroom. You'd think he'd get sick of me shoving him!


We need him for the game, Derek said.


Samantha said, Justin, multitask!


So how does it work? Derek asked.


Gay sex? Brian asked. I can show you.


I'm straight, Derek said.


That's fine, I can show you on Justin.


Derek said, You just go to the club and...find someone?


Brian laughed. Yeah, that's generally how it's done.


Nobody goes to clubs anymore, Derek said.


Maybe not straight people, Brian said. It's still our main method of operation.


Why don't you just use Grindr? Emily asked.


I said, Oh, God.


Brian looked at me. What's Grindr?


Emily laughed. Where the fuck have you been?


He's too old, I said.


Brian raised his eyebrows at me. Excuse me?


Daphne giggled. Now you've done it.


It's an app, Samantha said. For queer men. Why we don't get one I'll never know...


Brian took out his phone. What kind of app?


It's a hook-up thing, Emily said.


Brian looked at me.


Hook-up, I fingerspelled.


You upload some pictures and a sentence or two and it tells you who's nearby who wants to fuck you, Emily said.


Brian stared at her. This thing will tell me the locations of guys who want to fuck me? From anywhere?


And the world will never be the same, I said.


Brian was already fucking with his phone. How many people do you think I can fuck before I even get to Nova? Why does it want to know how old I am?


Like I said... I said.


Brian was already on his way out the door. You good? he said to me.


I'm good.


He gave me a wave and he was gone.


That really doesn't bother you? Derek said.


What, that he finally found out about Grindr? It was bound to happen. I probably won't see him for a week now.


Not Grindr, just...him fucking other guys.


It doesn't bother them, Daphne said. They're weird.


No, I get it, Emily said, and Samantha shrugged and nodded.


Daphne kicked my foot as we started playing and said, You're not sad to be spending the night with us instead?


I shook my head. Clubs aren't as fun if you can't drink. And tricking's kind of hard now. Brian practically has to be my fucking concierge for it, helping interpret and shit, and not a lot of guys are really into that. And then the ones that go through with it, half of them are probably only doing it because they feel like it's their good deed for the day or some shit. It kind of sucks.


Emily sipped her wine. So stop fucking hearing guys, she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.


“Huh,” I said.


**


Brian was crashed on the couch when I woke up the next morning, still in his club clothes. He opened his eyes when I came out of the bedroom. Hey, he said, stretching. Didn't want to wake you. Got home before three, though!


Did you have fun?


I love Grindr. Have you tried it?


I rolled his eyes. I have a full time job, a painting career, and you fucking me four times a day. I'd barely have time to download it, yet alone use it.


He got off the couch and caught me from behind on my way to the kitchen. Only four, huh?


It's Saturday, I said. Maybe we can fit in a few more. If you're not too busy with your new toy.


He grabbed my arm and yanked me back to bed.


I watched him get dressed after, his body long and lazy and silhouetted in the window, and thought about telling him that maybe I didn't want to fuck hearing guys anymore. Maybe I could just...stop doing it, and he wouldn't notice?


Yeah right. Probably no matter what I did, he was going to jump to the conclusion that I was somehow doing it to manipulate him, but not being upfront about it meant that was basically a guarantee. I'd have to tell him, but God, telling Brian I wasn't going to go to clubs and pick up guys anymore sounded like a fucking disaster. He was going to think it was me dipping my toe in monogamy, that it was just some excuse for me to fuck around less often, and, eventually, to get him to fuck around less often, and fuck, right on the tail of this Grindr thing he would definitely think it was related and that I was secretly pissed about it or some shit...


Remember how I said I had a full time job? Okay, well, really, I have two: working for Marie and managing the goddamn neuroses of one Brian Kinney.


Honestly, though, having the I-swear-to-God-I-don't-want-monogamy conversation for the zillionth time, as much as I was not looking forward to it, was not my biggest concern about telling him. Brian, as much as he tries to act like he doesn't, has worries about the fact that we're a mixed relationship and that the vast majority of mixed relationships fail. It made him nervous when I slept with Deaf guys...not jealous, just...nervous. And as someone who'd, not too un-recently, been not-jealous-just-nervous about Brian sleeping someone younger than me, I couldn't pretend I didn't get it. Brian's got an insecure streak a mile wide, not to mention his pathological fear of holding me back from anything, so seeing me with Deaf guys gives him this idea that maybe there's something that he can't give me.


Of course, the only thing Brian hates more than his insecure streak is the fact that I know he has an insecure streak, so I couldn't exactly sit him down and hold his hand and say, now, dear, I know this makes you a little uneasy...


God. What a delicate fucking operation. Maybe I should just suck it up and keep having really shitty, uncommunicative sex with hearing guys. It's not like I used to have long conversations with them anyway.


But...you know. The fact that I was considering sleeping with guys I didn't want to sleep with in order to make my boyfriend happy was not great. And Brian would fucking fucking fucking kill me if he knew I was even considering that.


What are you thinking about? he asked me.


Breakfast, I said. His phone buzzed on the nightstand and almost fell off, but he grabbed it before it hit the ground. Well? I said.


He looked. Someone in our building.


Gonna try to catch him?


He looked up at me, the most mischievous fucking look in his eyes. Like a very tall, very horny child.


I laughed. Go.


He leaned over and kissed me, lingering for just a second. When I get back, he said, kissing my throat. Tell me what you were really thinking about.


So I, motherfucking coward that I am, left him a note as soon as he was gone and texted Daphne to meet me at the diner.


**


So what, you think he's going to take it as you rejecting him? she said.


That's a little dramatic, I said. But also...yes.


That doesn't sound like Brian, she said.


You don't...know him in that way, I said. He gets kind of antsy about Deaf/hearing stuff. I think...this decision will mean a lot more to him than it does to me. I just don't feel like doing something anymore. It's not symbolic. Fucking everything to him is symbolic.


Maybe you can phase it out slowly?


I shook my head. He'd notice right away. And jump to a worst case scenario conclusion. And then get pissed at me later when he found out I was phasing it out slowly instead of not doing something I didn't want to do.


It's just that you feel like a charity case? she said. Because I got to tell you, I don't think anyone's thinking that. You're kind of a hot little number, ears or no ears.


It's not that, really, I said. I just don't feel in control with hearing guys, you know? I feel like I just don't have enough awareness of what's going on, what they're going to do. Like that guy from Babylon, y'know?


She nodded, taking my hand.


And like...


She knit her eyebrows together. Like what?


I shook my head and sipped my water.


Justin, what?


And then all of a sudden...I wanted to tell her. I can't explain it. It was like I'd been keeping this secret for so long that I stopped thinking about why I was thinking about it, and all of a sudden I had to come up with a reason not to tell her and I came up completely empty.


Oh, okay. I sat up straight in the booth. Apparently I'm going to tell you this.


Okay, she said, and then she sat there and watched and grew steadily pale as I told her about the party at Sapperstein's house, eight years before.


So...it just kind of reminds me of that. Being with hearing guys. I mean, not as bad as that or anything, but...


Holy shit, Justin.


I'm okay, I said.


Does Brian know?


I shook my head.


You have to tell him.


He'll cry. He'll be so upset. And I'm fine about it. There's no reason to put him through that.


Does your therapist know?


I nodded.


Okay then. I guess that's enough. She reached out and touched my fingers. I love you.


I love you too, dork.


Do whatever you got to do to make Brian okay with it, she said. Because I don't really want you sleeping with hearing guys either.


**


Brian was gone when I got back to the apartment, and finally got back a little after ten that night. Take my phone, he said on the way to the shower. Hide it from me. Smash it to bits.


Overworked? I asked him.


It's too much power, he said, getting into the shower. I sat on the sink. I'm like one of those lions that gets fat while the other lions go out and catch the antelope. I can't do it. I have to stay sharp. Have to be one of those hunting lions.


So...a lioness.


He shrugged. Sure. Get in with me.


In a minute.


Right, you were going to tell me what was on your mind.


I leaned my head against the wall. Was I?


Yes, he said simply.


And I was about to say it, I was truly about to tell him I didn't want to fuck hearing guys anymore, and instead I said, I was talking to Daphne about something that happened a long time ago, and I guess I got in my head about it. I might call Lauren, see if she can fit me in.


Which was, all in all, probably a more important thing to say.


Brian narrowed his eyes. How long ago? he said.


When I was working at Babylon.


He turned off the water and wrapped a towel on his waist and came and sat down on the sink beside me. He turned sideways, his back against the wall, one foot up on the sink, that towel lazily over his legs. Like a Renaissance painting, I thought vaguely.


I was crying, all of a sudden. Not sobbing or anything, just a little bit. But still, I hadn't been expecting it and I didn't fucking know what to do with it.


Neither did Brian. He said, I didn't know you were...


I'm not, I said. I'm not...you know. In the bad place.


Okay, he said, like he didn't really believe me.


Remember that night you got arrested because Michael mouthed off to the cop?


Brian laughed a little, which helped. Fucking Michael.


And I was at that party. And I quit after?


He nodded, not laughing anymore.


They drugged us that night, I said. Me and the other guys working the party. And then brought us into this back room and...they didn't, I said quickly. I got away. But they tried to, and I kicked him in the teeth getting away, and...and that's why I quit.


Brian ran his hand over his mouth.


It was a really, really long time ago. Please don't be upset.


We kept fucking going to that club, he said.


I know.


Jesus Christ, Justin! We could have fucking switched clubs!


I know.


Why the fuck didn't you tell me when it happened?


I said, Because I was all in my head about proving to you that I could handle myself, that you didn't have to rescue me all the time, and...and then the further away we got from it the less there seemed to be any reason to tell you.


How many fucking other things have you not felt like there was a reason to tell me? He got off the sink.


Nothing, I said.


Why the fuck should I believe you? You've been holding onto this for eight years.


Please stop yelling at me, I said.


I just, he said, and he swiped his hands through his hair, and the next thing I knew he was crushing me into his collarbone. I held on tight, relaxing a little when his hand came up to cup the back of my head.


You're not supposed to do this to me, you know, he said once he'd let me go. His eyes were red. I'm not supposed to feel all this shit.


I know.


He sighed. We've got to be more careful with you.


I'm okay.


At this rate I'm gonna have to bribe some fucking...engineer to make a spare version of you to keep in the closet just in case.


I'm not going in the closet, I said, and he smiled just a little bit, shaky.


You have to tell me when shit happens, he says. Otherwise I don't know who to kill. I just run around killing people indiscriminately.


Messy.


Yeah.


I do tell you, I said. I was eighteen and stupid and...scared of you.


You've never been scared of anything, he said, and the thing about Brian is... I think he really believes that. Brian has it in his head that I'm this fearless, unstoppable person and...God, does it make me want to be a fearless unstoppable person.


It's not like I was making some point out of keeping this from you, I said. I swear, I hardly ever think about it. I told Lauren during our whole getting to know you session. That's the last time it really crossed my mind.


What brought it up now? I said.


I hedged. I didn't want to bring up the thing about sleeping with hearing guys now; it just seemed so manipulative, and it made the whole thing seem so much more serious, and it would make it even harder for Brian to believe that nothing had happened anytime recently. Nothing, just a question Daphne asked.


He looked at me carefully. But nothing happened to—


Daphne's fine, I said. We were talking about something else and something reminded me. That's all.


He sighed, and I reached for his waist, and we stayed there for a little while. We were just about eye-to-eye in that position, with me on the sink and him in front of it.


You make me crazy, he said, small.


I know.


You want to call Lauren?


It's ten o'clock, I said.


You can text her.


I...think I'm good now, actually. I breathed out. I feel good.


It would take him a while to feel good, I knew that. He'd need time to deal with this, to breathe, to stop checking me like he was going to find some trace of an eight-year-old injury.


We had time.


**


A couple weeks later, he stacked pizza boxes to bring to the recycling as the gang trailed out the front door. How the fuck do you guys eat this much? he said. You know, you're going to get fat one day. You have to. I have not been eating salads for thirty-whatever years for you to stay skinny on pizza.


You are literally always on me about being too skinny.


Are you trying to hurt me right now, is that what this is?


Yeah.


He got a beer out of the fridge. Emily was telling me about a new club that opened in Long Island City, you want to go? Could be a good after-work spot.


A gay club?


Brian has looked at me like I'm an idiot many, many times over the years, but maybe never to the degree he did just then.


I laughed. Yeah, sure. And then I just said it. I don't think I want to fuck hearing guys anymore, though.


He shrugged. Okay.


Really?


He sipped his beer. I'm assuming I'm the exception here.


I haven't decided yet.


He smirked. So...Deaf guys?


Yeah.


He considered this. Probably not as many of those.


Yeah.


You want to bend the repeat rule for that? he asked.


I shook my head. I don't need to trick as much as you do, we know that. We don't have to pretend.


Okay, he said. We can reevaluate if you're not happy.


I stared at him. How the fuck are you being so cool about this? Don't you...feel weird about it?


He shrugged. Kind of. But that's not your problem. I'll get over it.


I came over to him and kissed around his jawline. I was worried you'd be scared some Deaf guy would fall in love with me.


People are always falling in love with you anyway, Deaf and hearing, he said, looking at me with those dark eyes. You're just too stupid to notice.


Well, I can't hear them.


That must be it. He squeezed my shoulders. Still want to check out that club?


Yes please.


On the way out the door, he asked me, So how are you going to find these Deaf guys to sleep with, anyway?

 

I don't know, I said. Grindr, probably.

Chapter 30 - Long Night's Journey Into Day by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian's in Australia, and Justin isn't answering his phone.

Long Night's Journey Into Day

LaVieEnRose




My third night in Australia, I looked at the clock on the nightstand, and the trick working his hardest between my legs. I counted in my head—almost ten AM in New York—weighed the quality of the head I was getting—mediocre—cursed, and shook his shoulder. “Hey.”


He looked up.


“Sorry,” I said, more to my cock than to him. “You gotta go.”


“Are you joking?” he said.


“No.” I maneuvered out from under him and tossed him my wallet from the nightstand. “Take some cab money if you want it.”


He threw it back and stood up, throwing on his clothes. “I don't want your money, asshole.” It's hard to sound too mad with that accent, though.


“Works for me. Bye now.”


He glared at me on his way out, the door sliding anticlimactically shut behind him. I pulled the sheet around my waist, lit a cigarette, and called Justin.


He was walking briskly outside, panting a little—because he was fucking sick, but we didn't know that at the time. “G'day, mate,” he said.


I raised an eyebrow. Was that supposed to be an Australian accent?


“Yeah.”


You might be too Deaf for that at this point.


That's your opinion, he said, then immediately twisted to his elbow to sneeze three times.


Jesus, still? I said. He'd been in the middle of a shitty allergy attack last time I called, when it was night in New York and afternoon here. He'd been pitiful as fuck in bed with a box of tissues, and I'd ducked into the bathroom of the conference center and helped him figure out an additional use for them.


Now of course in retrospect we know he'd already blossomed into lovely a sinus infection at this point, but you know what they say about hindsight and shit.


All fucking night. He rubbed his eyes.


So you decided to go for a stroll outside. I said.


I didn't walk thirty blocks today, are you kidding? I just got off the subway. You've got good timing.


I shifted under the sheet. Tell me about it.


He laughed. I can't get you off right now, I'm like two blocks from the gallery. He sniffled and rubbed furiously at his nose.


You look cute, I said. Like a little animal. I am fucking garbage for Justin when his allergies are messing with him, it's goddamn embarrassing. Just tie me up in a bag, leave me on the curb and let me stink in the sun garbage. He always looks younger, and also sort of like he's been crying, and I haven't yet figured out how to not have feelings about those things.


God, I'd kicked out a trick in the middle of a blow job to talk to a snotty kid who didn't have time for phone sex and I wasn't even pissed about it. Leave me on the curb, I'm telling you.


I'm miserable, he said, and then coughed into his wrist to prove it (or because he was fucking sick, but I won't beat the horse). How was the conference today?


I stretched. Good. Saw some guy showing off this new image-editing software that looked really cool.


Oh yeah? I knew that would get him.


Amazing how far we've come from your little computer, I said, and he smiled.


When he brought his hand up to rub his eyes again, his fingers were twitching some. “How are the men?” he said, out loud.


Gorgeous. Hand giving you problems?


“Oh. Yeah, just acting up. I didn't sleep great.” He stopped. “Here now. I gotta go.”


I yawned. Okay. Have a good day. Give Marie a nice wet kiss from me.


Always. Love you.


Mmmhmm, I fingerspelled, and he laughed.


**


Four more days in Australia. Maybe by the end of it I'd finally adjust to the time difference. Just in time to head home.


Justin, it turned out, had always wanted to go to Australia, would have loved to come, was dying to come, but he had work and big problems with vertigo on planes, so it obviously wasn't an option. I wasn't exactly worried about leaving him alone for a week—in terms of mental health, he'd been stable for about a month now, and we were finally starting to catch our breath—but I didn't really like it. Daphne was going to be out of town for most of it, and he wasn't very close yet with Derek and Emily or the other friends he'd make in the city, so...I really was leaving him very alone.


I said maybe he should get someone to come stay with him, have his mom come up for the week or something, and he'd laughed, rolled his eyes, insisted he'd be fine. His antidepressants were working, our building had a doorman, he was an adult, stop scowling at me, Brian. His neurologist had lowered his anticonvulsant the week before, which I already hadn't been in love with, but Justin said the higher dosages made him feel slow and dull and he wanted to try it and it would be fine, and no, we didn't need to wait until I'd be home to keep an eye on him, because it's not like I was going to be with him every moment of every day even if I was in New York, so it didn't matter, so stop scowling at me.


Justin had just gotten home from work when I was up the next morning, feeling like I'd just fucking fallen asleep even though I'd actually been goddamn comatose for eight hours. Getting too old for this shit. I told Justin.


We were mirrors of each other, me getting into my suit, Justin sitting on the bed and pulling off his shoes. I know the feeling, he said. He looked wiped out as hell.


How was work?


We didn't get that artist we wanted, the one from London.


Oh, um...Mara someone.


Right. She's going with a gallery uptown.


Damn.


He sneezed, hard, then again, and dropped his head into his hands.


You've got to be getting sick of that, I said.


Yeah. I just took a ton of Benadryl. I'm going to sleep for a million hours. His eyes were glazed over by then, which I attributed to his allergies instead of the fever we didn't realize he had.


But still, I remember I paused as I was sliding the knot on my tie up to my throat. You know, you really don't look good.


He pawed at his nose. Thanks. He pulled on his PIFA shirt, this soft ratty thing he wears when he's not feeling well.


Yeah, anytime.


I'll feel better after I get some sleep, he said. I was up most of the night dealing with this shit.


Get some rest.


He yawned and nodded. I'll text you in the morning.


If you must.


It was strange, being in this kind of constant communication with him. Our only real extended separation at that point was when he was in LA working on the Rage movie, and while he was there we'd text a few times during the day but usually only got on the phone once a week, if that. Beyond that, if I'd had to go to New York or Chicago for the weekend, back when we lived in Pittsburgh, we'd usually go the whole stretch without talking.


Losing his hearing changed that. As we fell more into sign language over English, it meant Justin preferred video calls, where he could sign, to texts, and...well, I found I didn't exactly mind seeing him.


I guess we'd figured out a balance after all these years. I'd figured out I didn't hate doing the coupley shit nearly as much as I hated having fucking conversations about doing it, and Justin...I guess realized he didn't need to talk about much as long as I just acted like a fucking reasonable human a good eighty-percent of the time, which is about all I'm capable of offering. He and I have always had a knack for falling into things, it seems, so maybe we'd both decided to use that to our advantage instead of fighting the current, for me, or trying to nail down exactly what that current is, if you're him.


Things were good, that's what I'm trying to tell you. We'd gotten through Justin's mental health crisis, he hadn't poured boiling water on himself yet...shit was good right then. What happened next didn't really change that. Even though, as you know, Justin wouldn't be texting me in the morning.


**


Well, I guess he did technically, if you consider 1 AM his time to be morning.


I was in a meeting about, of all things, accessible advertising, biting my tongue and mentally apologizing to Justin every time the presenter used the term “hearing-impaired,” and I didn't see the text for almost an hour.


“What the fuck?” I mumbled to myself when I saw a had a text from him, counting hours in my head. Honestly I assumed it was a dirty picture or some shit. Justin gets messy as fuck on Benadryl.


But it was not, as you know, it was:


Hey I know you're in a meeting but I have that falling feeling don't freak out I just want to sleep


what the fuck are you talking about? I texted back, before I even gave myself time to think about what that meant.


And then I stood there waiting for an answer in the hallway of the fucking conference center, staring at that text, putting together in my head that, yes, he had definitely mentioned before that he gets “that falling feeling” before he has one of his larger seizures, which at that point were not tonic clonic seizures, were not anything where he lost consciousness, and why the fuck was he having one his larger seizures, no, he was having a fucking allergy attack, not a fucking seizure, and he was fine.


I called him, and when he didn't answer that call, or the next, I texted him, answer your fucking phone, justin.


I called again and growled, “See, this is the problem with you being Deaf,” and got a very dirty look from someone walking by who'd just sat through the spiel on accessibility.


I called again. Texted again.


sunshine i swear to god


answer your motherfucking phone


justin come on


I stepped outside, lit a cigarette, called Kinnetik Pittsburgh's cab company and gave them Michael's address, and was already listening to the ringback on Michael's phone when I remembered the time difference.


Whatever.


“Get up and go to New York,” I said.


Michael got in the cab, I texted Justin if you're not already dead i'm gonna kill you. michael's on his way and then I...fucking went to my next seminar, because what the hell else was I going to do? It was an hour session, so I was out in time for Michael to land in New York, and I spent the whole thing with my phone on my lap in case Justin called. He didn't, as you know, and by the time it was over I was starting to come out of my skin just a little bit, maybe. I went back to the hotel and started packing, just...to be packed.


Half an hour since Michael called from the cab. He had to be there by now. Which meant he hadn't called the second he walked in the door of the apartment, which was probably good news, because it meant he was dealing with Justin, which meant Justin was alive.


The real concern here, in case you haven't followed the saga too closely, was that Justin was upright when he had the seizure, fell, and now had a head injury. Someday I'm going to just put a fucking helmet on that kid so I can actually goddamn calm down once in a while, because every time the clumsy fucker hits his head on the top of a cabinet or gets up on a ladder at work I'm a goddamn mess thinking of the scans his doctor showed us once of people who've had multiple head traumas. It's not pretty shit. Somehow, we've managed to avoid any kind of seizure-related head injury, except for that one time that I'm sure we'll get to at some point, but that's a ways down the line.


Anyway, that's what I was thinking about as I paced around the hotel room, except for the part of me that wasn't, and that was the part of me that was making me really...uncomfortable. Because there was a part of me that wasn't panicking and was just fucking...I don't even know the word for it. Is there a word for it? Part of me kept thinking about him alone and sick in the apartment, even if he was really, on an emergency level, fine, and I kept...seeing him, in my head, thinking of shit he'd be feeling too shitty to do for himself, shit he maybe wouldn't ask Michael for.


I don't know. Maybe there's not a word for it.


Finally my phone rang, and Michael said, “Yeah, I think you want to come back,” and I sat down on the floor and closed my eyes and tried to breathe.


He was okay. Michael said he was asleep again already, and offered to wake him up, and it was tempting as fuck, but I said no. Really I just wanted Michael to turn the fucking video on and just like...point me at him, send me a picture of him, something, let me see him, but Michael's a dramatic motherfucker and I knew I needed to stay calm or he'd get all panicky and freak out Justin. So I didn't ask for that. I gave him some instructions, found a flight online, found Justin's boss's business card in a pocket of my briefcase and texted her that he wasn't coming in for a few days, texted Cynthia and told her to send whatever apologies she needed to the conference organizers for my sudden departure, and then called the front desk and checked out of my room and worked on getting the fuck out of the Southern Hemisphere.


**


It was daytime in New York by the time I got to the airport, so Cynthia called me just as I walked in the front doors.


“What the fuck do you mean, you're leaving?” she said. “I told you it was going to be boring. You said you were prepared for boring.”


“I have to get home,” I said.


There must have been something in my voice, because she paused and said, “What's wrong with Justin?” She'd been seeing more of him the past few months before he got his job, because he was depressed and alone all day and I was freaked out about him being depressed and alone all day so a lot of times I'd drag him to the office with me just to...have him underfoot, I don't know. She'd been working on her signing so she could have a simple conversation with him, and maybe that was enough for her to be able to tell that something had been off with him. Christ, she probably thought I was running home because Justin had slit his wrists in the bathtub.


“He's sick,” I said. Any other words caught in my throat. At that point, I was starting to develop a weird habit that's stuck with me to this day, something I haven't really been able to fully explain, even to Justin, which is that I really, really hate talking about him in English. To the extent that, if it were up to me, people who don't sign wouldn't even know he exists. Maybe it's just to compensate for the fact that apparently I can't goddamn shut up when I'm signing, or maybe it's because I don't like having conversations about Justin, even when he's not there, that he couldn't theoretically understand. Maybe I'm annoyed with hearing people thinking they get to know things about Justin—you know, that deeply personal stuff like his name and his job and other things people generally ask me that I get all pissy about—when they don't even bother to learn a few signs.


Who knows. But whatever the reason, I hated doing it, and I already had to keep powering through it to do it to Michael because hell if I was going to have him kill the kid because some information got lost in translation thanks to Michael's less than stellar signing, so Cynthia was getting the dregs.


“So I just...need to get home,” I finished.


“Do you want me to go the apartment?” Cynthia asked.


“No, Michael's there.”


She laughed a little. “Michael and Justin alone together?”


“They're okay nowadays.”


She was still laughing. “Justin's going to eat him alive.”


And then, suddenly, I laughed too.


**


I got to talk to Justin after I went through security.


It was a funny moment, actually, because Michael pointed the phone at him, and he looked like absolute shit, completely worn out, but the weird thing was that my first thought when I saw him wasn't worry or sadness or anything like that. Those came pretty quickly, but my immediate thought was just this kind of...hey, look, it's Justin. I was just happy to see him. It's stupid.


He was talking really slow, slurring his words and generally just having a hard time keeping up. I signed slowly for him, and he seemed to get most of it, though he was forgetting stuff a couple minutes after I said it. The main impression I got from that conversation was that he was definitely going to have another seizure. I don't really know how I can tell, because it's not as if I see all of Justin's seizures coming, but sometimes I can, and right there it was so obvious I almost forgot to tell Michael.


“I think he has a fever,” Michael said, after he'd fallen asleep, and God, that tracked, because he's always had issues with his epilepsy when he has a fever, even back when all he had were those small ones, his hand would always give him shit when he was sick, and he is the worst, the goddamn worst, at knowing when he has fever. I used to think he was trying to hide it from me and I'd get all pissy with him, but no, he just genuinely has no clue. The kid's useless.


But I should have been able to tell when he got home from work the night before. When he was sitting on the bed pulling off his shoes like they weighed fifty goddamn pounds, I should have been able to look at him and know. Damn it.


I said goodbye to Michael and went off the grid when my partner was sick for fourteen goddamn hours.


**


I'd read through all the shitty inflight magazines, finished the legal mystery novel I'd grabbed at the newsstand and already couldn't remember a word of, done four laps up and down the aisle, and I was still fucking here.


I checked my watch. Eight hours, I signed to myself. I do that sometimes. Eight hours, twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five.


The man across the aisle waved his hand at me in that special way Deaf people do to get attention. He was business-casual, decently attractive for a guy in his mid-to-late forties, wedding ring. I saw the wave out of the corner of my eye and looked over without even thinking about it. Justin's trained me well.


He nodded at my hands. Nervous flier? It took me a second to switch my brain from English to ASL, so I probably sat there gaping like an idiot for a couple seconds. He smiled indulgently.


Uh, not really, I said eventually. Just anxious to get back. He must have been an American; Australia has its own sign language, and I didn't know any of it but knew it was close to British Sign Language, which, strangely, has absolutely nothing to do with American.


Traveling for business, I assume?


I nodded. And you?


Visiting my son, he said. He's studying abroad there this semester.


Must be nice, I said.


He looked thoughtful. He's enjoying it. I worry. He has MS, and it's awfully far from home.


So it was that, and it was the sign language, and it was the fourteen hour flight, but I said, My partner has epilepsy. Just blurted it right the fuck out.


He acted like this was a normal conversational segue. How's he doing?


I'm always telling people that Justin's fine. That he's doing great. That they should stop goddamn hovering over him and treating him like a child.


And it's like I told you, right? We were past the mental health crisis. He had his job. He hadn't poured boiling water on himself. Everything was fucking hunky dory, that's what I said, right?


But look, this fucker didn't know Justin, and hell, I was never going to see him again.


Not so great, I said. I cleared my throat. How about your son?


Not so great, he said, and I turned around in my seat and faced him.


**


What's funny is, after I'd been talking to this guy for a goddamn hour, the flight attendant walked by and he stopped her and asked her if she had an updated arrival time. Asked her out loud. The guy wasn't Deaf. I never found out why he knew sign language; I imagine his son must have been Deaf, or his wife, or maybe both. But we were just two hearing sons of bitches sitting in a middle of a plane having a conversation in sign language.


I never told him I wasn't Deaf. I don't know. And Jesus Christ, I was telling this fucker everything, the whole goddamn saga, just unloading the fucking history of me and Justin, on this guy, but, you know, conveniently leaving out the parts about him losing his hearing as adult and me very much not losing my hearing as adult because...I don't know, I thought if he knew we'd probably switch to talking out loud, and I just didn't want to speak. It wasn't about people overhearing, not really, it was just...all this shit was going on with Justin at home, he was sick and I had no idea what was going on and I hadn't been able to sign about it to anyone but fucking zonked out Justin himself, and getting to do it was like finally goddamn breathing. I couldn't switch to English right then. I couldn't.


Being sick freaks him out, I think, I said. He's...I mean, I guess now it's okay, by now he would have figured it out anyway, but he got this awareness of his mortality a lot younger than he was supposed to. He didn't really get much time to walk around thinking he was invincible. They beat that out of him. So to speak.


Without people like that, there'd be no saints and poets, the guy—oh, Mark, his name was Mark—said.


I'd rather he weren't a saint or a poet, I said. He can just be happy and stupid.


Yeah, the world could use more of that, too, he said. He paused. But also more saints and poets.


I don't give a shit about what the world needs, I said.


Yeah, me neither, he said. But sometimes I have to tell myself there's some reason for this shit. Look for some silver lining.


Got to imagine it wasn't real fun to be related to one of those saints, I said.


Probably not. He smiled. But you sure do get a great story out of it.


He's not a story, I said. He's just a boy.


**


I called from my layover in LA. Michael said that, sure enough, he'd had another seizure, so at this point I knew there was probably no getting out of a hospital visit once I got back. Two fairly major seizures in that amount of time meant he needed to get dosed up with the kind of anticonvulsants that just shut him down and have his brain reset. But I couldn't tell Michael that, because the last thing I wanted to subject Justin to right now was a hospital visit with Michael's un-fluent ass. He gets nervous enough in hospitals as it is, with his drug allergies. He wasn't doing that without me.


God, I really should have listened to Mark and slept on that goddamn plane ride.


This time when Michael asked if I wanted him to wake up Justin, I was physically fucking unable to say no. He was still groggy as hell, and he looked so fucking pale and horrendous that I actually cracked and asked him if he wanted Michael to take him to the hospital, because I was half-sure he was gonna fucking drop dead before I got out of California.


It must have shown in my face, because even through his damn delirium Justin picked up on it and started trying to insist to me that he's okay, which always fucking annoys the crap out of me.


So then he gave up and lay back on the pillows and he just looked, I don't know, sleepy and feverish and soft, and I was so goddamn tired, and I don't think I've been jealous of Michael Charles Novotny since we were kids but fuck, right at that moment did I goddamn hate him for getting to lie in bed next to that while I was stuck in some fucking non-ergonomic terminal chair at LAX. Say what you want about having a chronically ill partner—or, you know, don't—but they cannot be beat for company when you just want to take a fucking nap.


I told him to drink some water and slept in uncomfortable, ten minute spurts the whole flight to New York.


**


Michael met me at the door to the apartment, and I didn't see Justin right away. In a strange turn of events, I was okay with that. It gave me a minute to get my bearings, to take a deep breath and get my game face on.


The game face that it turned out, I didn't even fucking use, because instead of putting on some brave act for Justin I just saw him sitting there on the couch and I was just...so goddamn relieved. It overwhelmed everything, just from fucking seeing him.


I breathed out and said, “Hey,” and he mouthed it back to me, maybe thinking I didn't say it out loud either, which was just...well. This is already sappy enough, so I won't say what it was.


I knelt down in front of him and he leaned his forehead into mine, and he was so hot and sweaty and shivery and here. And all of a sudden it was kind of...hilarious, how sick he was? I don't really know how to explain it. I know Michael thought we were fucking crazy, because we both kind of started laughing together, but the whole situation was just ridiculous. I left him for four days and he managed to get this sick? Who the fuck does that? And now I was here, and it was going to be fine, and he was just such a goddamn mess. Who's even this much of a mess? What is this shit? There's something kind of beautiful about the way Justin can so completely fall apart and still stay so, entirely, unmistakably himself, and if you think that's not something rare and important then why the fuck are you even here.


Who breaks and comes back together like this, over and over? Who even does it once?


And looks so fucking good doing it, Christ.


He said we should sleep before we went to the hospital, which was hard to resist when he was in front of me all sleepy and warm and smelling like him, so I picked him up and brought him to bed. I probably said thank you to Mikey before I sent him off to the pull-out couch, but who the fuck knows.


I got out of the suit I'd been wearing for thirty-six hours at that point and crawled into bed next to Justin. We didn't talk much for a little while, because he just fit so fucking well into my arms, and it's hard to sign like that. Eventually he pulled back enough to see me, blinking slowly while he watched me.


Did you miss me? he said.


Nah.


He smiled.


You know, if you wanted me to come home, you could have asked, I said. You didn't have to do this whole situation.


I told you I was jealous you got to go to Australia, he said. I had to find some way to spectacularly ruin it.


This is way better than Australia, I said.


Sucker.


I know.


I couldn't stop touching him. His shirt was just so soft, and his skin so hot underneath, and his hair fluffy and in his eyes and...God. There was nothing else.


Are you okay? I asked him. I couldn't help it.


“I'm okay,” he whispered. His hand was starting to twitch again, so I held it between mine.


Tomorrow was going to suck, I knew. We both hate hospitals, we were both exhausted as hell. Tomorrow was going to suck. But first we were going to get some fucking sleep, and Justin was going to be here.

 

My fucking saint and poet.

End Notes:

 

The events of The One Where Brian Isn't There, from Brian's point of view. The One Where Brian IS There?

Chapter 31 - Do You Look at Your Life by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin has an important decision to make, and Brian won't help.

Do You Look at Your Life

LaVieEnRose



I still don't know why you insisted on coming, I said, shifting in the shitty waiting room chair.


Justin, sitting across from me, glanced up from his magazine as little as possible. Yep, I'm a mystery. The weather was cold but the office was warm, so his coat was off but his blue and black scarf was still loose around his neck, circling the translucent skin at the base of his throat. I could see a bit of the scar on his arm poking out of the sleeve of his t-shirt. He never worries about hiding it.


The GP already said he's sure it's benign. We're gonna walk in there, he's gonna twist my remaining ball around like the wrong end of a Bop-It, I'll get the clean bill of health, we'll go home.


And then you get your trophy for surviving bringing me along with you for all of that, Justin said. He tossed his hair out of his eyes. Brian Kinney, lived through having a supportive partner. An inspiration to us all.


I never said that.


It'll look so nice on our mantle, Justin said idly, and then turned a page in his magazine. We don't even have a mantle. Asshole.


I didn't say you couldn't come, did I?


He laughed. Wow, thank you. You sit with me through eighty million doctor's appointments, but you don't tell me that I can't come to one of yours. I love equal footing.


It's different. You like me coming to yours.


He raised an eyebrow. Hmm, you're right, wherever would I have gotten the impression you didn't want me here?


I rolled my eyes. There was no way to have a rational conversation with him about this right now, not when he was doing everything in his power to hide how worried he was under twelve layers of pissy. Ever since he noticed the lump four days ago, he'd been wound up like a spring, waiting for me to get an appointment with our GP, and now this follow-up surgical consult. I'd balked when he suggested coming, and he'd countered with a pretty cutting, You're right, what possible reason could I have to believe you'd hide having cancer from me? so here he was, taking a day off of work to sit with me and wait for me to get my ball manipulated.


However, it was kind of hot when he got all bossy. And I kind of couldn't stop looking at his throat.


And arguing with him was a pretty decent distraction, which was why I kept pecking at him like a goddamn asshole. Normally when I try to pick on him when I'm in a bad mood he just ignores me, so the fact that he was engaging meant he knew what I was doing and was letting me do it, which...didn't make me less inclined to pick on him, but also wasn't unappreciated.


How's Marie getting by without you? I said.


Better than you would.


Please.


He gave me a look. If I took my eyes off you for a second you'd sprint out the front door. I'd find you on the Tilt-a-Whirl at Coney Island.


You're barely even looking at me, you're so busy pretending to read that magazine.


Fuck you, I'm reading.


Tell me one article you've read, I said, and laughed when he completely blanked. You're so full of shit.


I'm not the one pretending I'd rather be alone, he said.


Justin Taylor pretending, I said, not even knowing what I fucking meant at this point. Perish the thought.


Keep trying it, babe, he said. I'm sure you'll find something that sticks.


The nurse came around the corner and said, “Kinney?”


I reached across and tapped Justin's knee. We're up.


We followed her back to an exam room, I changed into a gown and did all the vital signs and the rundown of my medical history, and Justin sat in the chair in the corner, chewing on his thumbnail and darting his eyes back and forth between my lips and the nurse's. I tried to sign some to keep him from getting too lost, but the nurse was giving me a weird look about it and Justin eventually waved me off and said, It's okay.


It did a lot to soften me to him, though, and maybe all the questions made this all seem a bit less...trivial. After the nurse left I held out my hand to him. He sighed a little and got up and took it, and I tugged him into me and he dropped a kiss on my neck.


You look nice, he said, brushing hair off my forehead.


That's my line.


He shrugged. It's multifunctional. His eyes were so warm. His phone lit up in his pocket—his version of a ring.


You need to get that?


It's just Marie. She can wait.


The doctor came in a minute later and shook my hand, then Justin's. “Abe Krezner,” he said. “Good to meet you.”


“Brian Kinney,” I said. “Justin Taylor. Just Deaf, not unfriendly.”


“Nice to meet you,” he said to Justin, who nodded.


“So your GP didn't seem to think this was anything to worry about, but given your history it's good you're here to make sure. So, without further ado...”


I lay back on the table and Krezner here stuck his hand up my gown, and Justin stood by, arms crossed. I felt, preposterously, weird about Justin seeing this, as if he didn't know my scrotum better than he knew my face.


“That right there?” Krezner said.


“I'll take your word for it.”


“That there is a fluid-filled cyst,” Krezner said, withdrawing his hand and snapping off his gloves.


“Not cancer,” I said.


“Not cancer. You're fine.”


Everything's fine, I said to Justin, who looked kind of relieved, but not really, and honestly how much could I really blame him? I turned to Krezner and said, “Would you mind writing it down for him?” Justin cocked his head, trying to see what I was saying, but I just gave him a small smile and said, Hang on.


Krezner checked his pockets, pulled out some brochure, and scribbled on the back of it. He handed it to Justin who read it, looked up at me, and gave me a smile like I'd fucking come up with the polio vaccine or some shit.


He kissed my cheek and handed the brochure back to me. I'm going to go see what Marie wants, okay?


Hop to.


He practically skipped out of the room, and I chuckled and absentmindedly turned the brochure over in my hand. It was for an anticonvulsant, strangely enough.


“Ah, must have grabbed one of my wife's,” Krezner said. “She's a neurologist.”


“Justin takes this one,” I said, handing the brochure back.


“Oh yeah? Epilepsy or bipolar?”


“Epilepsy.”


“Well-controlled?”


“Not exactly.”


He said, “I assume you've considered surgical options.”


I didn't love talking about this without Justin here, but I don't know, I was riding a high of not having cancer. “He's post-traumatic, so they said it's not an option for him. They don't want to go digging around his brain.”


“They've just started trials on a less-invasive method,” he said. “They're doing it up at Mt. Sinai.” He opened his desk and took out a business card and wrote something on the back. “Called the Gerelta method. That's my wife's card. Do some research, give her a call if you'd like to be in the trial.”


“Okay,” I said, studying the card. “Thanks.”


**


I can't really make sense of any of this, Justin said in the office that night, studying his laptop. I mean, clearly it's about lasers. They talk about lasers a lot.


Let me see. I moved in behind him and read over his shoulder for a few sentences. Yeah, this is gibberish. Seemed like everything written about the Gerelta method so far was by neurologists, for neurologists.


He looked up at me. It can't hurt to call Dr. A, right? His neurologist—Dr. Abramowitz, but that's a lot to fingerspell.


I don't see why not.


He scratched the back of his head. You think this could really fix me?


I don't know, Sunshine.


No more seizures, he said, trying to decipher the article again.


I squeezed his shoulders and went back to my desk. Don't get your hopes up too high, okay? I said.


“Sure,” he said vaguely.


**


I had to go back to Pittsburgh the next week to meet with a client who was making noise about jumping ship now that I'd moved to New York and feed him a line of bullshit about how I was still heavily involved even though I wasn't in the state anymore, so I missed Justin's appointment with Dr. A. Luckily, I'm a much more trusting partner than he is, so I didn't worry that he'd lie to me about it afterwards.


He gave me, like, a whole epic to read about it, Justin said over the phone that night. He held up a binder. I'm still working through it.


What's your first impression? I said, from the bed in Mel and Lindz's guestroom. Whatever, easier to see Gus.


Well, there's like a twenty page long list of all the possible risks, so that's kind of intimidating.


They have to have that, I said.


He thinks I'm a candidate, though, he said. He said they'd want to do about a thousand MRIs first but he thinks I'd be approved. He wouldn't go so far as to say he recommended it though, because of the, you know, the twenty page long lists of risks. And said even if I am a candidate, it would still be riskier for me than, you know. Your nice standard epileptic.


What kinds of risks?


He shrugged. Stroke. Death. All the good ones.


Sure.


And there's more risk than regular deep brain stimulation for stuff like personality changes, loss of cognitive function, memory issues.


How have the outcomes been so far?


Mostly positive.


That's pretty vague.


He shrugged. It's still an early trial, he said. And I have a lot more reading to do.


All right, well, get busy.


What do you think I should do? he asked.


I sighed. You know I can't do that.


He stretched. If it were you I'd be bossing you around.


And if I were you I'd listen.


He made a face at me. I'll take pictures of some of these pages in the morning and send them to you and you can take a look, he said.


All right.


**


It came up the next day, at lunch with Michael, because he walked in on me reading through the literature on my laptop. We were at the diner, and he had Ivy with him in a high chair, or at least, in a high chair when Deb wasn't scooping her out to show her off to every single bored fucker who walked in. She was a cute kid, though.


“So what are the odds?” Michael said.


I knew better than to try to beat around the bush. It'd just make this fucking conversation last even longer. “About seventy-percent so far have had positive outcomes,” I said. “So either no seizures or at least fewer.”


“And the other thirty?”


“Either it didn't work at all, or they ended up significantly more disabled, or...”


“They died?”


I shrugged.


“Fuck,” Michael said, covering Ivy's ears. “You can't let him do this.”


I laughed. “Let him?”


“Don't give me that shit,” he said, and I guess he'd given up on covering her ears already. “You know if you told him not to do it he wouldn't do it.”


“Why would I tell him not to do it?”


Michael rolled his eyes and fed Ivy a bite of scrambled egg. “I don't know, maybe so he doesn't die?”


“He could die having a seizure in our apartment,” I said. “I think we've proven that at this point.”


“I thought he was allergic to surgery anyway.”


“He wouldn't have to go under general for this.”


He stared at me. “They keep you awake for brain surgery?”


“Pretty standard.”


“Holy shit.” Michael shook his head. “No way. Fuck it, I'll call him and tell him not to do it if you won't.”


“You're not telling him shit,” I said.


“Could you take that 'his body, his choice' shit down a notch?” Michael said. “It's very nice in theory, we're all very impressed by your independent lives.”


“Fuck you,” I said easily.


“We're talking about life or death here,” he said. “It's okay if you have to, you know, if you have to bend your little rules about letting him live his life if it fucking keeps him alive.”


“There are risks either way,” I said. “If he does this and it goes well, which odds are it would....once he's over that hurdle, he's got a much safer life ahead of him, not to mention he'd just fucking feel better. And he wouldn't have to feel like a burden on me, worry about me taking care of him. He'd be free.”


“Come on.”


“We're talking about the rest of his life, here,” I said. “This isn't going to go away on his own. It's a treatment like this, that's always going to come with a lot of risks, or it's being sick for the rest of his life and everything that comes with that.”


“So, what, you want him to do the surgery?”


I sipped my coffee. “I didn't say that.”


“Right. You're not even going to tell me what you want him to do.”


“You just threatened to call him.”


“Aw, come on.”


“I don't have anything I want him to do,” I said. “I see both sides of this, and it's not my job to come up with a decision.”


“You sure you're not a lawyer?”


“I'm staying neutral,” I said. “I'm Switzerland.”


“You've never been Switzerland in your life.”


I tried feeding Ivy a drop of coffee off my pinky finger and Michael swatted my hand away. “I'm turning over a new leaf,” I said.


“All right, well, if it were you, would you do it?”


“If I were having seizures, would I get in on this trial?”


“Yeah, knowing all the risks.”


Idiot, thinking that was even a question. “In a second,” I said. “Without a doubt.”


”Seriously? You have a kid.”


I shrugged. “I wouldn't be able to drive, or drink, or live my life the way I wanted to. I'd be worn out and sore and headachey all the time, and I don't want someone to take care of me. I'm not doing that shit.”


“Yeah, well, he'd be taking care of you once you turned yourself into a fucking vegetable.”


“Maybe. But this isn't about me.”


“So you're going to let him turn himself into a vegetable.”


“I'm going to let him make a choice about what he's willing to live with and what he's not,” I said.


“You think it's better to risk death than have someone take care of you,” he said. “That's what this really comes down to.”


“For me, yeah. I discovered I wasn't a fan of it during our tryst with cancer.”


“You can't hold that attitude about yourself and think you're not passing something on to him,” Michael said. “How's he supposed to believe you that being sick is nothing to be ashamed of if you act like it's some exception that only applies to him?”


“He believes it,” I said, despite how that question landed in my stomach. Look, my name sign isn't based on the sign for stubborn for nothing.


“So, what, you're going to have him cut himself open because then he'll fit the Kinney M.O. of independence? You can go back to being hands-off, he can go back to your, you know, your mold of what it means to be a man?”


I rolled my eyes.


“If you can't handle being with a sick person, that's your problem to solve, not his,” he said, in all his haughty HIV-partner glory.


I ate a bite of my omelet. “Again,” I said, staring him down. “This isn't about me.”


**


Daphne had started her internship at that point, at New York Pres downtown. I brought her the binder on her lunch break and we had salads and frozen yogurt in the cafeteria.


“Had you heard of this?” I asked her, when she'd had time to leaf through it.


“I'm an ER intern,” she said. “I'm not really anyone's first choice for neurosurgery.”


“Okay, well, what do you think?”


“Seventy percent isn't great,” she said. “A lot of risk there.”


I nodded.


“But. I think he should do it.”


“You do?”


She leaned back in her chair. “Being here day after day...the ER isn't what you'd expect, really. I mean, sure, there are car accidents, GSWs, but so many of them are people with chronic illnesses who are just...they don't have a GP or insurance and they don't know where else to go, and they've reached this breaking point.”


“That's not going to be him,” I said.


“I know it's not. But even then, you see these people who have been dealing with this shit for years, and they all kind of have this same look to them. They lose hope.”


“That's not him,” I said again.


She laced her fingers together. “I know when he lost his hearing, you guys were adamant that it wasn't going to change who he was. That it wouldn't take anything from him. But that's not what's taking something from him. This is. He feels shitty all the time. And you and I...we can't really understand the depths to which that weighs on a person. How fucking angry it makes you. We can see it, but we can't really get it. But you're seeing it happen, and I'm seeing the late stages of it, and if there's hope that that doesn't have to happen to him, I think it's worth the risk.”


I didn't say anything.


“Illness will change you,” she said. “Both of you. It already has. Maybe it doesn't have to anymore.”


“I don't want him to think he needs to fucking cure himself,” I said. “He got a whole community from being Deaf. He has a, you know, a stronger bond with Ben and Hunter and shit now that he's sick. I don't want him to think he needs to be fucking normal just because...”


“It's not about identity,” she said. “It's about what being in pain does to a person. Being Deaf isn't hurting him. But this physical shit...it wrecks you.”


**


“It makes you different,” Ben said to me on the phone. “That doesn't mean worse.”


I waited on the subway platform and didn't say anything. I still couldn't fucking believe I'd called him.


“The idea that illness is inherently bad is something that's perpetuated by an ableist society,” Ben said. “It's a prioritizing of privacy, of somehow tying in self-sufficiency and ability to perform labor as part of what makes someone a valuable person, gives someone a valuable life. It's this idea that, for some reason, a person's ability to provide for himself is more important than the human ability to care about, care for, another person. That health is worth more than goodness."


“But he's in pain,” I said.


“Everyone's in pain,” Ben said. “His is just where people have to look at it, so it makes them uncomfortable.”


“I'm not uncomfortable,” I said.


Ben said, “Living successfully with a chronic illness requires a shift in mindset. And waiting around for a cure isn't part of that mindset.”


“But it's not waiting,” I said. “It's right here. If this is what he wants...”


“And you really don't think he'd be doing it for you?” Ben said.


“No.”


“Well,” he said. “You better be really sure. Stakes are pretty high on this one.”


**


That night, Justin's hand seized up when he was carrying his laptop from the office to the living room, and it dropped and broke into pieces on the ground.


“FUCK!” he yelled.


“Jesus.” I got off the couch and examined the wreckage. You okay?


He wrapped his still-shaking hand up in the bottom of his shirt. I'm fine. Goddamn it. Goddamn it.


It was getting old anyway.


My shit wasn't backed up! Fuck! He kicked the wall.


Easy, Beckham.


This is bullshit! he said. This is such fucking, fucking bullshit!


I knew I shouldn't touch him right then, that it wouldn't do anything but add fuel to the fire. He stuck his one working hand in his hair and paced around in the tiniest circles, and I quietly cleaned up the bones of his laptop.


He finally looked at me, electricity and tears in his eyes.


It's just a laptop, I said.


No, it's not.


I know it's not, I said. But it also is.


I poured him a glass of whiskey, just one shot, because fuck the rules a little bit, and his hand twitched for twenty minutes and left him with a shitty headache afterwards. He went to bed, and I maybe started to freak out. Slightly. It's just that it felt like we were on the precipice of something here and...I went out to the balcony and smoked four cigarettes back to back until I was even more of a jittery mess, and then I followed that up with three shots of Beam for good measure.


Because of course I was not goddamn Switzerland. Are you nuts?


I paced the living room for twenty minutes and then went to the kitchen and made a cup of tea.


He was groggy when I woke him up. “What?”


Drink this, I said, and I probably looked like a fucking crazy person at this point.


“Brian, what?”


I made you this, I said.


**


He read through the binder for the millionth time the next day.


I need a more recent MRI, he said, sitting out on the balcony, where he'd usually have a sketchpad. For them to even consider me. And an EEG.


Okay, I said. We can schedule that.


He closed the binder. You're really not going to tell me what you want me to do?


I don't know what this feels like, I said.


This affects you too. Acting like it doesn't isn't helping anyone.


I'm not acting like it doesn't affect me, Jesus. I'm acting like whatever you decide...I'm going to fucking be here, okay?


He nodded a little.


And that doesn't expire, I said. You wake up in the morning and I'm going to fucking be here.


Well, unless I die from having my brain laser-zapped, he said. Don't stuff my corpse and keep it in the bed or anything.


We'll see.


He sighed. I just don't want to be harder for you that I have to be.


You're not some...function happening to me, I said. You're a person.


Thanks, John Locke.


Anytime.


I want to know what you think, he said. I need help deciding. I need help.


I think there are pluses and minuses to—


Bullshit, he said. I know you have an opinion. You always have an opinion.


I lit a cigarette and looked out over the water.


“Brian, look at me,” he said.


I didn't.


“Light me one,” he said, after a minute, so I turned back around and lit a cigarette and handed it to him. He smoked and looked pissed off and beautiful.


I know you're scared of a bad outcome from the surgery, he said. And I know you're scared of a lifetime of taking care of me. I just don't know which one you're more scared of.


Right at that moment I wanted to fucking kill him, I wanted to walk out that door and never look back, fuck what I had just said, because fuck that little shit for not knowing me better after all this time, fuck him for sitting there thinking he didn't know, fuck him for not understanding the million reasons I couldn't put what I wanted onto him right then, the least but not non-existent of which was that I was a fucking coward.


Whatever I decide, I'm putting you at risk, I said. You get that, right?


So you just decide nothing. You put the choice entirely on me so if it turns out we chose wrong, it's my fault, not yours.


Goddamn it, Justin.


We are partners, he said. You're not acting like my partner.


I'm going to be here! I said, yelling it out loud too. I told you, no matter what fucking happens, I'm going to be here, Christ, what the fuck more can you ask from me? What the fuck more is there that I haven't given you? What the fuck, what the fuck, how much more can you drag out of me, Sunshine? What the fuck do you think there is left of me?


And years from now, what's going to be left of you? he asked. When you've been playing fucking nursemaid half your fucking life—it's not all bringing me cups of tea in bed, Brian—


You think I of all goddamn people don't fucking know—


—because I didn't do the surgery or—


—stayed by your bed for goddamn days hearing you scream while they changed your fucking bandages—


—or drinking your liver to death because I did and fucking died on the table, you think you're going to be in better shape than you are now?


I don't love you that much, I said to him. This little narrative is cute and all, but you don't rip me apart the way you want to.


You're an asshole, he said, packing up the binder, stamping out the cigarette, standing up. Fine. You want me to decide this without you, I will.


Good, I said, as he went inside.


But he didn't leave the apartment this time, just the balcony. He didn't walk out.


“I'm losing my touch,” I said softly, turning back to the water.


**


Justin spent the day on the phone, calling his mother, calling Ben, calling Daphne, calling his neurologist. I spent the day orbiting him in the apartment, pointedly ignoring him and even more pointedly not leaving, because fuck him and his contradictory simultaneous high expectations and assuredness that everything will go as badly as it possibly could.


Where the fuck could he have picked up that little trait, we wonder.


“I didn't mean for this to be your life,” he said to me, after dark.


Me neither, I said. I was supposed to be dead before I was thirty-five.


He just looked at me.


So...okay? I said. Cut it out. I'm not the one saving people around here.


You could have been with some healthy version of me, I said.


Where is he, is he around? I don't see him anywhere.


I just mean—


Don't get this fucking surgery if it's to save me from something. I don't marry martyrs.


Just tell me what to do, he said miserably.


I came over to the couch and cupped his chin in my hand.


Grow up, I said.


**


He stood in the doorway of our room while I lay on the bed.


“Most of them want me to do it,” he said.


I put my book down and nodded.


They say seventy-percent is good, and even some of the thirty-percent...it just doesn't work, so I wouldn't be any different from where I am now. So most of them think I should do it. They wouldn't want to live like this, how I am now. They don't want me to live like this.


Okay, I said.


He took a deep breath. I don't want to do the surgery, and I'm sure.


You're sure.


He came and sat down on the bed next to me. I'm sure.


Oh thank God, I said, and I swear I didn't mean to, and he gave a startled kind of laugh and pulled me into his arms.


He kissed my forehead, still holding me. “I guess you're stuck with me like this,” he said.

 

“Thank God,” I whispered against his collarbone. “Thank God, thank God.”

Chapter 32 - Negotiations by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

After a brush with danger, Brian and Justin discuss their relationship dynamic.

Negotiations

LaVieEnRose



Marie was in Bali for the week, so I was...essentially running an art gallery. Okay, fine, technically Thom was in charge, since he was the assistant manager and I was the assistant to the manager, but Thom's not the one everyone was going to with their questions. All day, people were coming into my office with written notes, or the handful of signs they knew, or their best charade skills to ask me where to put something or when a show was or who needed a return phone call. It was kind of awesome. Even though it would have been way easier for them to ask Thom, they were asking me.


Still, it was almost two before I had five minutes of peace and I decided I'd finally go out in search of some food. I didn't want to be gone long or else the place was clearly going to fall apart around me, so I went to the cafe next to the gallery, used the speech-to-voice on my phone to order a sandwich and a coffee, and tucked myself away in a table in the corner. I had a floor plan of the gallery with me, and I was trying to figure out the best arrangement for a show we had starting next week. I was kind of lost in my own world with that, eating my sandwich, moving around post-it notes, and I noticed my throat was kind of itching and my eyes were kind of burning but that's not exactly noteworthy where my allergies are concerned, so...no, I did not look up and realize that everyone else in the cafe had gotten the hell out of there.


Except for one woman, who grabbed my arm, and I flinched and jerked away from her. She had the hand that wasn't clamped onto my arm tight over her ear, and was saying something to me, and it looked urgent, and I squinted and tried to read her lips but it was like there was this haze between me and her...because there was, because the fucking cafe was on fire.


I froze for a second—I fucking do that, Brian says it's a PTSD thing but I think it might just be an I'm a moron thing, but he says calling myself a moron is also a PTSD thing, and I say then how come you also call me a moron all the time, but whatever—and stammered something about how I'm Deaf and I couldn't hear the alarm.


“Come on,” she said, with an insistence I could lipread even through the smoke, and that snapped me out of it kind of and I rushed out the door with her, right past the fucking flaming oven behind the counter. Outside, all the workers and customers were standing around with their hands over their ears, and a minute later a fire truck and an ambulance pulled up, though it didn't look like anyone was hurt. The firemen ushered us all across the street, away from the building.


And then right before the firemen were going to go in, the fire inside must have hit some kind of accelerant, because it suddenly surged out the windows like the entire place had been hit with a flamethrower. The firemen rushed in, and I realized there was a good chance this was going to be mentioned on Twitter and Brian is fucking addicted and knows the cafe is right by the gallery, so it was better just to nip this in the bud.


So I texted him, hey, the cafe I was in caught on fire, I'm totally fine while everyone around me was grabbing each other, grabbing me, asking each other questions, asking me questions. The EMTs were running around checking everybody else and someone was setting up one of the little kids with oxygen.


Brian called me.


Hey, I said, making myself smile at him. See? Totally fine.


I must have been convincing, because he only sort of looked like he was about to fly into a million pieces. All right. What the fuck happened? Jesus, it's loud.


Fuck if I know.


Are you wheezing? Christ, how long were you in there? Let me hear...yeah. Make them give you some oxygen.


Okay.


You need an interpreter?


No, I'm okay. God, that was freaky. The place fucking went up in flames like a second after I got out of there. I was the last person in there.


Why the fuck were you the last person in there? he said, like it was something I'd chosen to do specifically to piss him off.


The alarm didn't have lights.


The alarm didn't have lights, he repeated, and seeing it said back made it really hit me, and fuck was I mad.


Yeah. I'm gonna go, I'm going to find the manager and Americans with Disabilities Act that fucker.


Hang on, I'm on my way.


I can handle it, I said. It would take you twenty minutes to get here.


You need oxygen first anyway, Brian said, and he hung up before I could stop him.


The EMTs came over and manhandled me and talked at me which I didn't enjoy, but it turned out once the adrenaline wore off of the whole situation I really could use some oxygen, so I was still sitting down in the back of the ambulance and hadn't had a chance to yell at anyone when Brian jogged up. He pulled me up and into a hug, looking at the burnt-out cafe. Jesus, setting yourself on fire wasn't enough, now you have to do whole buildings?


Working my way up to wiping out city blocks.


I swear, your mother must have made some deal with a witch when you were a baby. No one has this much bad luck. You really can't hear that alarm at all? Nothing?


No, it's still going? He nodded. I couldn't hear the sirens either.


He studied me. I thought you had a little more hearing left than that. You heard that lamp break last year.


Must have lost it. Or this was just too high-pitched.


He put his hand on my chest, right over the scars from my last near-frying experience. Deep breath, let me...


I did. I'm okay.


All right. He looked around. Now who the fuck do I yell at?


I can do it.


They need to be yelled at about the fucking alarm not having lights and they need to be yelled at for the fact that they didn't fucking remember that they'd just taking an order from a fucking Deaf guy a minute before the goddamn alarm went off that doesn't have lights—


I can do it, I said.


He kissed my forehead. Let me do it.


I shoved him off. What the fuck? No. I said I would do it.


Put the oxygen back on.


I'm fine, I said.


He planted his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back down into the ambulance and marched towards the closest person wearing an apron.


“Brian!” I yelled, but goddamn it, it made me start coughing and the EMT was all over me with the mask again. By the time he let me go free, Brian was well into a heated, no pun-intended, discussion with a fireman and a few employees.


I touched his arm and he barely glanced at me. Hey, one second.


Don't bother. I just wanted to tell you I'm leaving.


He turned to me this time. You're what? he said, like I was the most exasperating thing in existence.


I'm going back to work.


He pinched his nose. What the fuck is this, what are you trying to tell me?


I'm telling you I'm going to work, asshole.


He glared at me. You're not going back to work. Don't be a fucking child.


That's ironic.


He sighed and rolled his neck.


I have a show to plan, I said. You have a company to run. I'll see you tonight.


**


Turns out, I saw him less than hour later when he stalked into my office. I gave him a look from my desk and didn't get up.


He said, Everyone out there is asking what smells like burned toast.


They'll survive.


Yeah, like you did. He came over and perched on my desk in front of me. You're mad at me.


I gave him my best no shit look.


Brian groaned. I was just trying to help.


You know when I could have used your help? I said, because I'd had almost an hour to stew at this point so I was prepared.


Oh, here we go.


Yeah, three fucking months ago when I was begging you to help me decide if I should get that surgery, then I could have used your help. But now, when I fucking explicitly tell you that I want to handle something myself, you won't butt the fuck out.


That was different, he said. You were perfectly capable of making that decision on your own.


I crossed my arms.


It would be one thing if you'd had an interpreter, of course I would have let you handle it. But you didn't have one there. I asked you if you wanted me to bring one. It was just easier for me to—


That's the point! The point is that they're supposed to stand there and work to communicate with me and get it through their heads that they have a communication problem! That was the fucking point! I got up and pinned some shit to my bulletin board. You know, I get through all fucking day talking to hearing people, without an interpreter, certainly without you.


I know you do.


If I need your help, I will ask you for it, I said. Like I did when I was trying to make a decision about the surgery, I almost said, but...despite what Brian might say about me, I actually don't love beating dead horses, and I'd eventually decided on my own the same thing that he wanted in the first place so all's well that end's well, I guess.


I've got to get back to work, Brian said.


Good.


He rolled his eyes and got off the desk and was on his way out when Abigail walked in. “What's up?” I said to her, and she said something I got a few words of, and I nodded and handed her a piece of paper and a pen.


Brian lingered by the door. Do you want me to—


Oh, you have got to be kidding me, I said, and Brian threw up his hands and left.


**


I had to stay late at the gallery to take care of the work that had piled up when I was not catching on fire, and I didn't get back to the apartment until after eight. I expected Brian to be pouting, drinking, if he was even in the apartment at all, but instead he was sitting at our table, where we hardly ever eat—usually we just sit in front of the TV or sit on the cushions at the coffee table—and he got up when I came in and took my bag from me. You still smell like smoke, he said.


Yeah, I should go shower.


After you eat. I made dinner.


You made dinner?


He ducked his head and looked really young, for a moment. Okay, I warmed up the leftovers from when you made dinner. Still counts.


Does it? I said, but I was smiling. I'm the fucking worst at staying pissed at Brian.


He poured me a glass of wine—I'm not supposed to drink, but one glass is usually fine—and I took the pasta out of the oven and brought it to the table. We ate in companionable quiet for a while. He'd changed into his lounging around clothes, and I couldn't stop looking at the way his shirt clung to his shoulders. Sometimes I still can't believe a guy who looks like that decided to throw it all in with me.


He set down his fork, eventually. It's not because you're Deaf and I'm hearing, he said.


I raised an eyebrow.


It's not, he said. I just... He shrugged. Some may say I have a protectiveness streak.


I grinned despite myself and shook my head.


What's so funny?


That no one but me would ever say that.


He smiled and stuck his tongue in his cheek. That's true. But they're idiots.


Yeah.


I hulk out a little bit when you almost die, he said.


I didn't almost die.


He looked at me incredulously. The building went up in flames less than a minute after you got out of it. Christ, you've almost died so many times, you don't even notice it anymore.


I rolled my eyes, because to be honest I didn't have much of a comeback to that one.


He shrugged at his plate and ate a bite. Regardless. It's not because you're Deaf and I'm hearing. It's just because you're...you. To me.


Are you looking for the sign for 'partner?' It's like this.


You're so goddamn irritating.


You're my partner too, I said.


He widened his eyes. Really?


Who's irritating? I said, and he snickered. You'd never let me take charge in some situation like that, I said. You'd die before you played the demure little lamb while I went in and did the screaming.


He considered this. That's not because of the Deaf/hearing thing, though.


But today was, I said.


No, it wasn't. That's what I'm telling you.


That's never going to not be a factor, I said. Stuff is going to be about that even if you don't want it to be about that.


I'm not just some hearing asshole walking over you, Brian insisted. I'm your hearing partner walking over you.


I laughed. You're impossible.


Yeah, I know. He touched my plate. You done here?


Yeah. Thanks.


We took a shower, and fucked kind of languidly, and after that they day caught up with me and I ended up falling asleep early while he went out. He came to bed around one and curled up really carefully around me, like he was afraid I was going to push him away. After a few hours he probably wished I would, because I was still coughing a lot, and neither of us could get any sleep.


He switched on the light eventually. I've figured out a solution to our Deaf/hearing problems, he said, all squinty and pissed-off. Just gouge my ears out.


I smiled at him and rubbed my chest. Can you find my inhaler? I could have done it myself, obviously, but I figured it was probably in my best interest to ask him to take care of something right now. Plus I didn't feel like getting up, so, win-win.


Yeah. He got up and turned on the light in the bathroom and started hunting around the medicine cabinet. It's just not our dynamic, he said after a minute. We do this, sometimes, just pick up conversations from earlier. Somehow we never get lost.


Yeah, but why not?


I take care of things. It's how it's always been.


Yeah, and historically only one of us has really been in love with that arrangement.


He said, Really?...oh, because it's me.


There you go.


You know, you could always do us both a favor and get in fewer dire situations. Or you could, you know, fucking pay attention to your surroundings sometimes.


You're right. I should have paid more attention and heard that fire alarm.


When's the last time you used this? I can't find it.


I don't know, last time my allergies were fucked.


They should have had lights on the fire alarm, he said. And a barista should have grabbed you. But there's always the option for you to, you know, look up every once a while and take stock of what's going on around you. You disappear into your head...you can't afford to do that.


This lecturing thing is nice, is this how you're proving that you respect me as an adult capable of taking care of himself?


He held up the inhaler.


Score.


He came back to bed and handed it to me, then settled on his back with my head on my lap. What if we make a deal? he said, nuzzling my stomach.


Is this about you gouging your ears out? Because I'm on board with that.


He flicked me. You fucking look up sometimes and check if things are on fire, and I'll let you come in and do the yelling next time something almost kills me. Which might take years. Nothing's almost killed me since your father.


Cancer...?


He rolled his eyes. I had a ninety-nine percent survival rate. I had a better chance of dying in a car wreck on the way to radiation. I had a two-month-long stomach flu and you know it.


I kissed his forehead.


I know I'm not perfect with this Deaf stuff, Brian said, looking right into my eyes.


You're perfect enough of the time that I expect you to be all of the time. It's frustrating.


I'm sorry. I'll be worse most of the time so you know to expect it.


Thank you.


Breathing okay? he asked, with a yawn.


Yeah. I played with his hair. Go to sleep.


**


Two years later, I was painting in the studio when he called me from work, looking harried as hell.


Our hot water heater exploded, he said.


Holy shit. Is everyone okay?


Miraculously, yes. The building manager said it wasn't connected properly when they repaired it two weeks ago.


Jesus.


The plumbing guys are on their way, he said.


Okay.


He gave me a look. So...? I could have been gravely dismembered. I don't know if you know this, but burns can be really serious.


Can they?


So...are you coming to yell at the plumping people, or...?


Oh. Oh! Yeah, I'm on my way!


He rolled his eyes and hung up, and I hightailed it to Queens. Heads were gonna goddamn roll.

 

End Notes:

 

For Charlie. Thanks for the plot bunny!

Chapter 33 - Easy by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian walks us through a brief history of times people have gotten themselves all twisted up over Justin Taylor.

Easy

LaVieEnRose



You know as well as I do the tremendous about of baggage and bullshit I need to set aside in order for the following statement to be true, but get ready to be amazed, because here we are: I was not the first fucker on Liberty Avenue to get my little heart in a blender over our little Sunshine. That dubious honor goes to a young twink who shall remain nameless, because I have no idea what the fuck his name is.


Allow me to take us back on a journey through time. I'd just brought a client out to as chophouse a few blocks from Liberty, and when I gave my ticket to the valet, who was cruising me like a goddamn sea liner, I realized I'd seen him before, though I didn't think I'd ever fucked him. All jokes aside, those slight blonde things aren't normally my type, and he couldn't have been older than twenty, and God knows I'd learned my lesson at that point about giving any hope to a teenager. I'd known Justin for maybe two or three months at that point and was starting to give up the fantasy of shaking him any time soon.


The valet had a buddy coming over to take over his shift, and he came up to the stand while he was putting on his jacket. “You gonna see him tonight?” he asked the first kid.


“I hope so. He was there last night.”


“You talk to him?”


He grinned. “He bought me a drink. Told me I had nice eyes. He is blonder than you would believe.”


“And then bent you over in the back room...”


He shook his head. “He's not like that. He's just...he's kind. He looks at you when you're talking, and he asked me questions and he was really listening! And he has this smile...”


His buddy laughed. “You are so fucked. I'm gonna find you doodling your names together in your notebook.”


He sighed dramatically. “Mr. and Mrs. Justin Taylor.”


The other guy came back with my Jeep and I gave the twink a long look to give him something to jerk off to later and got behind the wheel.


“Huh,” I said to myself as I drove off, and I went home and changed and headed to Babylon.


Justin was there, dancing with a few guys who would have fucking split the kid in two given half a chance. I danced with Michael and drank with Emmett and at the end of the night collected the little foundling and hauled him back to the loft.


He was slowly working his way down to my cock when I said, “What's your last name?”


“Taylor,” he said, without lifting his lips away from my stomach. Figures.


I raked a hand through his hair. “Met a friend of yours today.”


“Mmm?”


“Said you bought him a drink. Told him he had nice eyes.”


“Dunno,” he said, working his tongue around my bellybutton.


Whatever. I closed my eyes as he got to my cock and concentrated on the really tremendous way he took all of me down his throat, the fucking savant, and the vague question of whether Taylor was with a Y or an I.


**


That's the way it is with Justin, has been for as long as I've known him. It happens over and over again; he meets these fuckers, and without even meaning to, they get the idea that they mean something to him. And fuck does he mean something to them. It's that face of his, inarguably, but there's more to it than that. Justin has a way of focusing on people, on making them feel like they're the only person in the world for however many minutes he's talking to them, and then Justin walks on and continues his life with no goddamn idea. And look, I'm not saying I don't have the ability to hang some fuckers up on me, but with me it's strategic, it's artful. Justin to this day does not believe me that he does that to people.


I've never worried that I'm just another one of his admirers, because, well, that's fucking ridiculous, but I'm also not under some delusion that that strange little charm of his didn't work on me; do you think I regularly tell the gym teacher story to tricks I bring home? Even so, I did at one point become a little concerned that this was some kind of mystique I'd made up about the kid and that that was perhaps a symptom of...something. But proof that this was not a quality in Justin I'd imagined came one day when Michael sat me down all furtive and urgent at the diner, a few weeks after he'd gotten serious with the professor, when I hadn't thought about that particular aspect of the Justin Taylor experience in a while, because I'd been a little busy with the new and exciting Justin Taylor experience of trying to get him not to have panic attacks in the middle of class and not to wake up screaming every single night.


So when Michael said, “Look, for both of our sakes, can you keep your boyfriend on a tighter leash?” my mind went somewhere in that neighborhood.


“What the fuck are you talking about?” I said.


He sighed and leaned towards me. “Ben came home last night going on and on about the great conversation he'd had with Justin yesterday. How he's never met someone with that kind of recall for classic literature. That he has such interesting interpretations of fucking...poetry. Yeets.”


“Yeats.”


“Whatever. I just sat there nodding like a fucking idiot. Yes, Ben, I totally know what you're talking about, Ben. I felt like a goddamn moron.”


“So they talked about poetry.”


“First it's poetry!” Michael said. “But, God, you know Justin, he's got that...that thing, about him, he's got that fucking face, soon they're gonna start talking about Buddhism and then you're one step away from the fucking kama sutra and if you think I'm gonna fuck someone who's thinking about Justin...”


I was surprised, because I'd always figured the boys to be generally immune to Justin's charms. Ted, obviously, had a hot streak a mile long for the kid, probably still does, and Michael did a bit of mooning after the whole King of Babylon fiasco, but for the most part they all treated him like he was about twelve years old, especially since...well.


I sat there and tried to keep a straight face while Michael catastrophized Ben and Justin's literary bonding and made absolutely zero promises to keep a tighter watch on Justin and somehow managed to get Michael to leave satisfied anyway. I swear, I don't even have to try with him. It's very sad.


After he was gone and I was working not to smile into the file I was going over, Debbie came over and refilled my coffee. “Well,” she said. “Sounds like Stella's getting her groove back, huh?”


“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said, but for a second I gave up on not smiling. Justin was talking.


**


So there was that boy at Daphne's party, and at least three little baby gays and one very sad girl at PIFA who found Justin's number and started calling—ones he didn't sleep with, he'd just given them advice on a project or instructions on how talk to a boy they liked or complimented their fucking shirt—while Justin desperately tried to let them down easy and also remember their names, and then, well, you know what came after that. Even if Ethan hadn't turned out to have some sort of adoring fan fetish, it wasn't any sort of surprise that he went all-in on Justin.


He was very easy to love, was what it came down to. It was the openness, the bravery, the kindness, and, like I said, the face didn't hurt. I remember once, a couple months after I met him, we were in the elevator and the woman who lived the floor below me, who never spoken a word to me in five years, turned to Justin and said she'd just gotten back from the vet because her dog was sick. Justin asked all the right questions, comforted her, assured her she was doing everything he could for the little mutt.


“Do you know her?” I asked Justin incredulously, when she got off.


He shrugged. “No. People just talk to me.”


That's what it was, really. He was smart, quick, and most of all, he was easy to talk to. And the thing is, even though it meant he had to break hearts over and over again, he liked that quality about him, probably because sure, he liked being desirable, but really because he liked talking to people. People get the impression they're the only person that exists for him because, in that moment, they are. He goes in deep right away, and he remembers things people tell him, and he looks like he listens because he is listening. Hell of a thing.


So yes, maybe you see where I'm going with this.


**


Regardless, I never understood what Justin saw in Ethan, of all people, though I did ask him once, years later. It was while he was in the process of losing his hearing, pretty far along. I think he was totally deaf in his left ear by that point and relying heavily on a hearing aid in his right, but we weren't signing much yet and he was missing a lot. It's when he was feeling really shitty, too, so we spent a lot of time smoking pot and lying around the loft, which is what we were doing when I was flipping through the paper and I came across a tiny blurb and a blurry photo of one Ethan Gold.


I balled up the sports section and threw it at Justin to get his attention. “Check this out,” I said. “Your ex is filling in at the Symphony Orchestra.”


“The what?” he said, coming over. We were doing a lot of that, too.


“Symphony Orchestra,” I said. “Look.”


He studied the article, “I see he's sticking with the soul patch,” he said eventually.


I wound my arm around his waist. “What was it like kissing someone with that thing?”


“Like licking a fuzzy postage stamp.”


I shuddered, and Justin chuckled and sat down on the couch with me and lit a cigarette and we roasted Ethan until my stomach hurt from laughing. I was lounging back against the armrest catching my breath and watching his limbs hang languidly as he smoked. And because I was stoned as shit and my filter was gone, I said, “I swear, I don't know what you saw in him. I've never understood it. Leaving here, fine, you and I were fucked. But I never got the him part of the occasion. Equation.”


Justin blew smoke through his nose and didn't say anything for a while, and I wasn't really expecting him to. A lot of my regular questions went unanswered those days just from him not hearing me, so I figured something esoteric like this didn't have great odds of getting a response, and that was all right. Like I said, I was too stoned to care about much.


But finally he said, softly, “He let me talk about the bashing.”


I blinked, and Justin shrugged, a faint smile on his face like it was nothing.


“No one else let me talk about it,” he said. “He did.”


I sucked on my cigarette as he abruptly stamped his out.


“Let's go out,” he said. “I want to go out.”


I sat there and smoked while he went and got dressed and tried to imagine being easy to talk to. Imagined being easy to love.


**


It's been a long time since I took pride in being a difficult bastard, in watching the gears turn in Justin's head when he tries to figure out the thinnest of lines between what will get him a tender touch and what will get him frozen out, a long time since I felt vindicated when he failed, since I thought that meant something grand about me.


I just...I want you to know that.


I want you to know that at this point I'd be easier if I could choose.


Anyway. This story's not about me.


**


We went to Babylon that night, and Justin danced with his arms around my neck and his eyes closed. There aren't very many places in the world where you're allowed to just not be able to fucking hear, but clubs are a good one, and God, he was so uncomfortable with all of it back then. It's hard to really imagine now.


He wanted another drink, so I went to the bar with him. He was a lot clingier then, but fuck, so was I, and I think we both figured it was going to be like that forever. It's funny, because fuck if I'm tailing Justin and ordering his drinks for him nowadays. But back then, the thought of him going to work every day on his own, ordering around the building manager when we had a problem with our ceiling, fucking thriving just fine out there in the big bad world...I never thought we'd get here. I don't think he did either.


But that night, I ordered his drink for him, and he leaned back against the bar and watched people dancing, and a guy approached him on his bad side and gave him a slow once-over. “How's it going?” he said, and I nudged Justin in a way that hopefully seemed accidental and pointed to the guy with my chin. Justin shot me a grateful look before turning around so his good ear could get in on the action. He looked the guy up and down, shot him a sly smile.


“Buy you a drink?” the guy said.


Justin held up his glass. “How about I buy you one?”


“Seven and seven,” he said, and Justin hesitated and I knew he didn't get it, and the guy kind of did this small laugh and leaned in and said it in his ear, which wouldn't have worked even if he'd done it in Justin's good ear, because he really needed to see your lips, but especially in that left ear, you might as well have been talking into his foot.


God, it was rough. Nowadays he doesn't give a shit, is fine to watch hearing people squirm while they figure out how to communicate with him, but back then he was so embarrassed all the time, and it was a goddamn struggle for me to not swoop in and just fucking manage the situation.


His smile fell, and he said, “Uh, actually,” and touched his hearing aid self-consciously, and the guy sort of took a step back from him.


“Oh, man, sorry,” he said, talking loud and slow. “I'm just gonna...look, don't worry about it, okay? Maybe I'll catch up with you later, or...”


“Sure,” Justin said, and the guy practically sprinted away from the bar.


I sipped my drink and slipped my arm around Justin's waist and waited for him to look at me. It took him a while. “Asshole,” I said. “Like he was gonna use your ears anyway.”


“I used yours that first night,” Justin said.


“So you did.”


He sighed and threw back his drink. “I used to like talking to them.”


“I know.” I knew.


**


So now you see what I was getting at, right?


People, in case you didn't know, are ableist assholes.


People are uncomfortable, and impatient, and awkward, and judgmental.


And the sad, ugly truth of it is that people don't fall in love with Justin like they used to.


People, in case you didn't know, are cowards.


**


He met me at Nova a couple weeks after he'd decided to stop having sex with hearing guys. I'd just finished a passable session in the back room, while he'd been at this Deaf party he'd heard was going to be hot. Emily was dating this girl Samantha, and her brother was gay so Justin was trying to forge a friendship there, but frankly the gay seemed like kind of a pretentious asshole, which is really Justin's niche so I don't think he appreciated sharing. Anyway, he was the one who brought Justin to the party, where he'd been hopeful he was going to get to fuck someone besides me for the first time in a month.


I saw Justin looking for me by the bar, so I stuck my hand in the air until his eyes lit up. He sidled up to me and gave me an enthusiastic kiss.


Good party? I asked him.


Horrible party. He nuzzled my neck, grinding against me. I am frustrated.


By all means, be frustrated more often.


You're going to need to fuck me for a very long time.


If I must.


And then I'm going to hire you, he said. I need an ad campaign.


I kissed the hollow of his throat and felt him purr. Oh yeah?


Yeah. It's aimed at the Deaf community and the message is: Deaf men! It's okay to be sluts! And I'll be the face.


We can model it on those Uncle Sam recruitment posters, I said. You, staring down every Deaf fucker who dares to not be a slut.


I'm Justin Taylor, and I'm here to recruit you!


He was a little more serious about it later, back at the apartment. It's just hard, he said, getting a bottle of water out of the fridge. It's such a smaller pool, and a lot of them are coupled up and not open, or they're shy, and it's just...it's not like walking into a club, where everyone's there because they want to get fucked. It's just a random assortment of gay guys.


When I make my next million we'll open a Deaf club, I said. We'll have a picture of you on the door and people only get in if they're interested in fucking you.


See, now you're getting it.


You know, you were the hottest guy in Nova tonight, I said. I'm not kidding.


Sure, because I look healthy. He shrugged. There's privilege in that. Doesn't make it the reality. It's like passing for straight.


I gave an exaggerated shudder, and he rolled his eyes.


Deaf guys don't really want someone sick either, he said. They're not saints.


Well, Christ, what are you going around telling people you're sick for? Maybe you're the reason the party was a bust. Maybe it would have been a wild orgy but you killed the mood with stories about seizures.


Yeah, that's exactly what happened.


I kissed him. You could have gone in there and talked about ebola looking like this and they'd still all want to fuck you. They're just repressed.


I don't feel hot anymore, he said. Hearing guys avoid me and I avoid them, or if I say whatever and fuck one I'm anxious the whole time. And all the guys at this party were so goddamn respectable that I felt like a fucking hustler in comparison. Being hot's not worth much when no one will touch me.


I crowded all over him. No one, huh?


He smiled, tilting his head. You really think I was the hottest guy in there?


I nipped at his jaw. Let me prove it.


His arm started seizing when we were in bed a few minutes later: nothing major, but more than his usual hand twitches. I pulled back a little, my lips still barely an inch from his, and made eye contact.


“It's okay,” he said. “I'm here, keep going.”


You sure?


He nodded and tightened his legs around my waist, so I did, laying a hand on that arm to keep tabs on it, maybe comfort it a little, I don't know. When we were finished, panting, sticky, he lay with his head on my chest, more worn out than he usually is. I played with the scar above his ear.


“What am I supposed to do if that happens when I'm with someone else?” he said softly.


I lifted his chin so he could see me answer. Then you tell them whether or not you want them to keep going.


I'm going to freak them out. I freak everybody out.


Come on, I said.


I used to turn heads.


You still do, idiot.


Yeah, but then what? Whenever I'm with other people I feel...contagious, he said. Like I should apologize to them for having to touch me. And there's always the scars on a third of my body or the occasional panic attack if someone startles me if I need something else to feel self-conscious about.


Sunshine.


“I miss being touched,” he whispered. “I miss people.”


I ran my hands up and down his body, firmly, and then I fucked him again, because what the hell else could I do, but it's not as if I was lying here wondering why that wasn't enough for him, or I was going to give some fucking lecture about who cares what other people thought, he had me. Christ. If Justin were the only guy in the world who wanted to have sex with me, I'd probably take a swan dive off our balcony. We're not straight people, or his respectable little friends. We're Brian and Justin, and we're here to recruit you.


We'll do your ad campaign. I'll find you some Deaf sluts, I promised him, mid-thrust. Just absolutely filthy Deaf guys. You want some epileptic sluts? You can have those too.


“Okay,” he said, his face tucked into my neck.


I would have done anything, but there just wasn't much I could do but make him feel hot and wanted and sated, so I did that for a long time.


**


We went back to Pittsburgh the week after that for Vic's birthday, which Deb still liked to celebrate and we usually try to make it. It was Justin's first time seeing the baby, and he loves kids so he was pretty amped. One we got there, though, he cooed over her and pinched her cheeks but demurred out of holding her every time someone tried to hand her off. He was casual about it, so I don't think anyone else really noticed, and it even took me seeing him suddenly have to check his phone or get someone a drink a couple times before I put it together.


Hold her, I signed to him, subtle, leaning in. I'll stay close.


He cast me a glance, and I tried to look encouraging, and he nodded a little and accepted Ivy next time someone tried to hand her over. I wasn't really worried—though I can't say a bit of me wasn't picturing what he did to that laptop—but I hovered for Justin's sake, making like I just wanted to poke at the baby.


Hunter was there with his new girlfriend, Alexandra—imagine trying to explain that one, hey, let's go meet my trainwreck extended family for my dead great-uncle's birthday—which was obviously exciting for Michael and Ben, but for Justin too. Hunter didn't sign much, since he was practically out of Pittsburgh when Justin was diagnosed, but the two of them had started texting back and forth pretty frequently. It was fucking weird whenever I remembered that Hunter was only three years younger than him. Now that Hunter had grown up some it was fine, but God, when he first popped into our lives he and Justin might as well have been in different generations. I don't think Justin had been that young since he was in diapers.


Justin was more interested in the girlfriend than he had any right caring about a straight person. Are you looking for a wife? I asked him, pouring myself a drink while he sat on the counter, swinging his legs. Because I think she's taken.


She knows he's positive, Justin said. I asked.


I would imagine you want to make sure all your personal shit is already out in the open before you introduce someone to Debbie, I said.


It's just nice, I think. That she'll see past it. Not a lot of people will do that.


I'm glad you haven't given up the dream that someone someday might love you, I said, feeding him a sip of my drink.


Thank you. I'm a beacon of hope. We were showing off, signing as fast as we physically could, which we always do when we're in front of the Pittsburgh people. I like to remind them how far they have to go, and it's good for the ego to see them gawk at us and our little world like they used to, sue me. Plus, look, if I can remind Justin that sign language is fucking cool and people think it's fucking cool that he knows it, so much the better.


Which didn't mean I didn't get a little prickly when Alexandra came over and said, “I think sign language is so amazing,” to Justin, because, okay, yes, it's cool, but at the same time, there's a difference between recognizing it as an interesting language and looking at it like a novelty instead of just literally what Justin uses to communicate every single day, and it's subtle. Still, I interpreted it when Justin looked at me, and Justin beamed at her in that sunshiney fashion and got to work teaching her a few signs, like he always does on the odd occasion he meets a hearing person who's not too intimidated to talk to him. I drifted back to the living room and arranged some of Deb's tchotchkes into more interesting formations, nursing my drink. Blake came over to me after a while and made small talk about Kinnetik, and the developments at Vic Grassi House, and the success of Justin's last art show, and eventually just about Justin. And when the topic settled on him, Blake switched to signing, even though he wasn't great, and...well. I appreciated that.


So he decided against the surgery? Blake said.


Yeah.


He nodded. It was risky.


Yeah, but that wasn't the whole reason. I shrugged. He's sick of changing.


Probably very sick of changing for other people.


I raised an eyebrow. That a dig?


No, not at all. This is something a lot of people I've met in situations like Justin's have to go through. Understanding that it's not them and their bodies that are the issue, that it's other people and their refusal to adapt.


Social model of disability, I said.


Ah, I see you've read up.


I hadn't. Justin told me about it.


That's something I've really always admired about Justin, Blake said, and fuck, was he blushing? Ever since I've known him I noticed it.. He has a really strong ability to see what he needs to change, where he's the one who needs to adapt, and when it's somebody else's problem and he needs to stand strong. It's very impressive.


Okay, I thought to myself, sipping my drink, after Blake had gone back to his husband. So it took a little bit longer than it used to, but this fucker was definitely in love with Justin. All right, okay, good to know.


Justin wandered over and tucked himself under my arm.


Made a friend? I asked, with a nod towards Alexandra.


She was still watching Justin, with a look in her eyes I'd seen before.


I think maybe, he said.


**


A bunch of us ended up heading out to Woody's after the party: Melanie, Michael, Hunter and Alexandra, Emmett and Drew, me and Justin. I was trying to pace myself because I'd already had a few at the party and because Justin was sitting there drinking ginger ale, but Melanie and Michael were enjoying a night of freedom from the kids and getting fucking plastered, which was pretty amusing. Before too long the two of them were up by the pool tables dancing to no music. This is the straightest thing to ever happen in Woody's, Justin said. We need to take blackmail pictures.


Drew and Emmett were watching the football game playing and having a heated discussion about the performance of one of the players, I don't know. I scratched the back of Justin's head and scanned the bar, automatically checking out my options even though I wasn't really planning on acting on anything, and my eyes fell on a kid by himself at the end of the bar, cute, dark-haired, maybe twenty-five, with a hearing aid in one ear.


Sunshine, I said.


“Hmm?”


Look.


His eyes lit up and he set his drink on the bar. If you'll excuse me, he said, and he was over there in a flash, doing his sexy lean against the bar, talking to the guy first with his voice, then a little signing. This kid definitely wasn't a fluent signer, but he knew some, and fuck, he was hanging on Justin's every word.


Justin was talking.


“Look at that,” I said softly, to no one in particular.


Drew clearly thought it was for him. “I will never get you two.”


“No, you won't.” It was funny, though, because I did sort of knew what he meant, because at the moment it struck me that the two of us were sort of opposites, in a way, not that I thought Drew was perceptive enough to pick up on what I meant, but whatever, this story's not about him.


Look, on paper, I'm a catch, we all know that, let's not bullshit. I'm fucking gorgeous, I have money, I bring straight men to their knees. And, three-balls-short-of-a-walk aside, I've got a perfectly functional body without a lot of grounds for discrimination. I look great, from a distance. It's when you get close and see the fucking stack of neuroses and baggage and hang-ups that I become...well, I would have said impossible, but we'll just go with damn near close to.


And then we have Justin, who people are writing off immediately because he's Deaf, because he's sick, because on paper he sounds like he's difficult. But underneath that...God. You have never met someone so open, honest, so goddamn able to give himself. You never will. And maybe there are fewer people nowadays who are going to take the time to see through that, maybe he's not for everyone the way he used to be, maybe it's about how deeply people love him nowadays instead of still broadly, but...God, it's easy.


“Who would have thought you two would be the most healthy couple I know,” Hunter said into his beer, and I watched Justin usher the hard of hearing kid off somewhere and concentrated all my energy on not pumping my fist in victory. The kid watched Justin go off first, his eyes tracking his ass. He was toast.


Because here's the thing. Justin hasn't lost anything. The world has.

 

People are going to be too goddamn stupid to notice it nowadays, and I'm not feeding you some line of bullshit about how that doesn't suck. All I'm saying is...just because they don't take the time to see it anymore doesn't mean anything's changed. He may not be as easy for strangers to fall head over heels for anymore, but take it from someone who knows, you bastards: he is still very easy to love.

End Notes:

For Becca_Hope.

 

From a line from "A Change of Plans" and loosely inspired by the song "Easy to Love" by the Jezebels, if you like a little music with your fic.

Chapter 34 - One Bad Day by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Everybody makes mistakes

One Bad Day

LaVieEnRose




I don't want to tell this story.


This is not how I want to see him. This is not how I want to see myself.


Damn it.


**


It started on a Friday evening, quarter to five, when Cynthia appeared at my office door with her face already in a wince.


“What,” I said. “What. If this is about the Calabretta mock ups, I am telling you, turn around, turn right the fuck around. Do not give me bad news about this account. Save yourself.”


“Lloyd says he can't get it done.”


“Lloyd is getting fired.”


“You have my unyielding support.”


“These fucking artistic geniuses who think they're too goddamn good for deadlines—” I strode over and took what Cynthia had out of her hands. “Holy shit, this is it? This is all he has done?”


“I know.”


“This is supposed to be in Calabretta's hands on the Upper West in an hour and fifteen goddamn minutes and this is what we have?” I paced the office. “Pack your shit, we're going back to Pittsburgh. We're done.”


“I'll get Calabretta on the phone, I'll tell him Lloyd's pancreas goddamn exploded—”


“Calabretta is a fucking asshole, he probably loves exploding pancreases. Fuck. Okay.” I tucked the file under my arm and grabbed my coat.


“Where are you going?” she said.


“To get an actual goddamn artist.”


Tell Justin I said hi, she signed as I left.


**

I burst into Justin's office just as he was packing up to go. Sit back down, I said.


He whined. No, no weirdness, don't be weird, I had a weird day, now you're being weird, I want to go home.


I plopped the file down on his desk. I need you to fix this.


He opened it up and made some mostly-soundless attempt at a whistle. So I see everything's working out great with Lloyd.


I need this uptown in forty-five minutes. Please. You've got to do something. I'm saying please.


Very noble of you. He opened up his desk drawers and started taking out supplies. Okay. Sit down.


Too anxious for that. I checked the clock and paced his small but nice office instead, looking at the schedule on his bulletin board, the invoices on his desk, the tiny fountain he had out on his balcony that wasn't there before. He had a few sketches on scratch paper sitting on his laptop keyboard, so I leafed through those.


“Briiiian?” he said, without looking up.


“Yes, dear,” I said out loud, because he wasn't looking at me anyway.


He didn't seem to care whether or not I'd answered him. “You're distracting me. I said sit down.”


I wanted to snark at him, but, well, he was doing me a favor, and he wouldn't even see it, so I just grumbled my way over to his window and sat down and leafed through one of his art magazines. I forced myself to stay there for ten minutes, then I got up to check on what he was doing. He glanced up from the paper, an eyebrow raised.


Could it be bolder? I said.


I'm going to go back over the outlines.


No, I mean more... I could have explained it in English, but for some reason I was blanking on the right way to sign it, and Justin looking at me impatiently didn't help. Just...bolder.


He sighed. “Okay.”


I watched him draw for a minute, then tapped the table for his attention. He looked up.


Do you want to see some of our older drafts? I can have Cynthia—


“You know every time I have to stop and talk to you I lose my place, right? If I'm doing something wrong, just say so so I can fix it and get this done.” He stretched his fingers against the back of his other hand.


This is a really important project, that's all.


“So say it.”


Use the orange, I said.


He got back to work, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, “Was that so hard?” I glared at him.


He had the mock-ups fixed in half an hour, and they were frankly beautiful. I kissed him and said, I've got to go.


Where's the office?


Broadway and 72nd.


Near that pasta place I like?


I don't know, maybe.


He put his coat on. Suddenly I know how you're thanking me for this. I'm coming with you.


I was going to thank you with blow jobs, and you want pasta?


I get blow jobs anyway. I never get pasta I don't have to make myself.


Hard to argue with that logic. Okay, fine, just...hurry.


I'm hurrying!


He's got these short fucking legs, though, and we missed the train I would have gotten if I were sprinting on my own, but there was no way we were finding a cab uptown at this hour. We got on the next train, and Justin was trying to tell me about his stressful day at work, how he did an interpreted call with this gallery in San Francisco and all they did was yell at him and they were being so mean that the interpreter looked like he was going to burst into tears, but all I wanted to do was count out seconds until six on my watch or bitch about my fucking art department.


The goddamn irony of the fact that I'm fucking an artist and I cannot for the life of stock an art department, I said.


I was talking...


Every time I hire someone, they come so fucking recommended, they're great for a month and then something like this happens.


Maybe you weren't clear about what you wanted, Justin signed, all fucking prim.


I looked at him. Excuse me?


Oh, so you can see me.


I rolled my eyes.


I'm just saying, the instructions you gave me weren't all that clear. Maybe Lloyd had the same issue.


'Get this done by six or it's our house and home' was unclear?


'Be more bold?'


We got off the train and Justin stopped me before I went down the block. Jesus, what? I said.


That's the wrong way.


What the fuck? Are you really...are you going to make me dig out the address, is that what you're doing?


I know the address is that way, but if we enter on the Broadway side we have to go in through the garage. The front door's on the other side. I've been to this building, we have a client here.


I made every goddamn effort not to strangle him. Great, then you should know that the garage is on the 72nd Street side, and the entrance is on the Broadway side.


No.


I said, Okay, you know what? Fucking fine. We'll go in the 72nd Street side.


Man, I can't wait to have dinner with you after this. You're being really pleasant.


He didn't have much to say a few minutes later, though, when we'd gone around to the 72nd side and look, tada, the fucking garage. The last thing I was doing was doubling back and walking another block at this point, so I just charged into the garage, Justin at my heels. I thought it would be a straight shot through the garage, which it turned out to not fucking be at all, and before I knew it was completely turned around, and I had to keep pulling Justin out of the way of cars that were coming from twenty different directions.


The file under my arm was getting crumpled. Goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it.


I grabbed Justin's hand and yanked him when a car horn blared from somewhere, and he was shaking.


It's okay, I said.


Yeah. But he was starting to sweat at that point, and he wasn't moving as fast as I needed him to, and...God help me, I didn't want him seeing my fucking asshole client like this, and I didn't want my client seeing him.


Stay here, okay? I said. I'm gonna run ahead and find the fucking entrance.


I don't want to be here, he said.


I know, but I'm going to be right back.


He hesitated, bouncing a little on his feet, but finally said, Okay, and I moved him out of the damn flow of traffic and fucking ran. I found the elevator two floors later, made a feeble attempt at fixing my hair, and waltzed into Calabretta's suite looking like someone who's never had a care in his life. He wanted me to have a damn drink with him, which I managed to get out of, but then he roped me into this discussion on my plans for the campaign. I cut it as short as I possibly could, but it was still ten minutes before I was in the elevator on my way back down to the garage and I really started kicking myself. He'd already looked miserable when I left him; there was a chance he was really in the thick of it now, especially when I didn't get back when I said I would. I wasn't even sure he'd still be where I left him, that he wouldn't have made some desperate escape attempt and gotten himself even more lost, or run over by one of these fucking speeding cars.


I still thought we could be okay, though, and I think at that point maybe we could have been. There was no way he was up to sitting through a meal at a restaurant, but I could have gotten him his pasta to go and brought him home and rubbed his shoulders and calmed him down and helped him through the dream he'd definitely have that night and it could have been manageable. At that point.


He had his back to me when I got out of the elevator, and I could see his shoulders heaving up and down as he breathed, his head twisting back and forth to keep up with his surroundings. I realized that what I should not, what I should absolutely fucking not do, was come up behind him and put my hand on his shoulder.


Unfortunately, I realized that after I'd already done it.


After he'd screamed, whipped around, his arms up to protect his head, and dropped to his heels sobbing in the middle of a fucking parking garage.


So at that point it wasn't really manageable.


Goddamn it. I don't want to tell this story.


**


He wouldn't move, and he wouldn't unwrap his arms from his head, and he wouldn't stop crying.


“Justin,” I said, like if I kept saying his name out loud enough times he'd finally look at me. My knees were aching from being crouched next to him for twenty fucking minutes. “Justin, you need to get up, you need to let me get you out of here.” I don't know why I was talking to him. I couldn't just say nothing, and it's not as if signing was working.


“No no no no no,” he was still fucking whimpering.


I put my hand on his wrist and tried to pull his arms off his head, but he only tightened them harder and flinched away from me with a sound like he was in pain, but I had my hand on him long enough to feel how fucking icy his skin was. This was...not fucking good.


“I have to do this now,” I said. “You're gonna hate this, but you can't stay here.” I put my hands under his arms and hauled him up to his feet. He screamed, or tried to; it was too high-pitched to really make a sound, so it was just a hiss, a gasp, and then he was vomiting on the floor of the garage. I wrapped my arm around his waist to keep him from falling, and he shook so hard it almost wasn't enough to hold him up. He coughed and choked out a few sobs.


“Why why why why why,” he whispered.


Home, I signed against his cheek, so he could feel it without having to look at me, but he flinched as soon as I touched him. I know. You don't want me right now, I know. We're going to get you home and I'm going to leave you the fuck alone, okay?


He was just staring blankly at the floor, no color in his cheeks, his skin so cold and clammy.


I hauled him out of the garage and into the city. It was getting dark now, and he shivered harder in the wind. We were only ten blocks from home, but I didn't have any delusions of getting him there without collapsing.


“Please don’t touch me,” he whimpered, and somehow that ‘please’ was what broke me, that little way he says his Ls now, fuck, fuck.


I know, but if I let go of you you’re going to fall. I’ll stop as soon as we’re in the cab, okay?


Okay. Fuck, I’m sorry, I...


Don’t. Don’t do that. You’re doing great. I stuck my arm up for a cab.


The cabbie eyed Justin as I helped him into the car and buckled him in—normally I wouldn’t bother, but with someone as fucking cursed as Justin you don’t take chances—but didn’t say anything. I gave him our address and let Justin curl up against the door of the cab, away from me.


I keep hearing it, I can’t stop hearing it.


I caught my breath. Drugs soon.


Why the fuck am I hearing you screaming, I’m not supposed to be hearing things, I’m not supposed to hear things.


Justin, look at me.


He gasped and shivered and held his head. “Oh God, oh God.”


“Is he okay?” the driver said.


“He’s fine,” I said.


**


I unlocked the door to the apartment and headed straight to his stash of anti-anxiety meds while he held himself up on the counter. I handed him a Klonopin and a glass of water, and he swallowed the pill without asking what it was. Not a good sign.


I want you to take a shower, okay? I said. You’re freezing and your clothes are dirty.


He looked embarrassed, wrecked, and fucking terrified. I...I’m sorry, I can’t, I don’t want...


He didn't want to shower with me. Who could blame him?


By yourself, all right? I’ll stay by the sink. Come on. I hovered my hand behind his back, and he let me guide him, maybe afraid my hand would come in contact with him if he didn’t move. If it works, it works.


“I’m sorry,” he whispered.


I couldn't stand that, fucking couldn't. He was here fucking telling me what he needed after I'd blown his world apart and he was going to try to apologize to me? Fuck this kid, just fuck him. I just scared the hell out of you. You don’t have to want me right now.


I’m not trying to punish you or something, I just...


I know that. I don’t feel punished. Stop explaining, all right? I know what’s going on. Not my first time at the rodeo. It was, absolutely, the worst I’d seen him in years, but I didn’t feel any need to point that out. God knows he knew as well as I did that this was bad.


I ran the shower hot while he tried to undress, no easy task with how hard he was shaking. I sat on the sink and tried to figure out what the fuck to do with him while he cried in the shower and I did my best impression of someone whose heart wasn’t breaking. I was trying to look at him without looking like I was looking at him, but he was doing too good a job actually not looking at me to notice anyway.


Is the water hot enough? I said, and I didn’t think he could see me, but he nodded.


“Why did you leave me there?” he said eventually, finally raising his head.


Because I’m a fucking, fucking idiot.


I just wish you hadn’t grabbed me...


I closed my eyes, for a second. Yeah, me too. Is the pill helping at all?


I don’t know. He shuddered and gagged. Every time I think it’s getting better it just comes back, I hear it again.


It’s gonna be okay, all right?


“I want to get out now.”


A little longer. You were really cold.


“Can you go?”


I tried not to wince. He didn’t need to fucking feel guilty about this. Yeah, you’ll be okay?


Don’t...but don’t leave the apartment.


I’ll be right in the living room. It’s okay.


Fuck goddamn it shit shit shit.


I went to the bedroom first and changed out of my suit and into the first thing I found lying around, then poured myself exactly one drink and concentrated on keeping it one drink. I wanted a cigarette, but I didn’t want to smoke inside when he was already upset, and I didn’t want to be out of earshot if he called me.


Which he didn’t. He just sobbed so hard I could hear him over the shower spray, and I forced myself to sit very, very still.


Because look, let’s not mince words here; I have fucked Justin up in every way possible. I have messed him up in ways no one else could even fucking come up with. I've sneered at him when he's at his most honest, dug in my heels when he's asked me to move an inch, thrown his mistakes back in his face years after telling him I forgive him. But there is one thing I am fucking great at, one thing I could write a fucking book about, and it's dealing with the goddamn aftermath of the bashing. Christ, who walked arm-in-fucking-arm with the kid down Liberty Avenue for hours a day until he could do it without cringing? Who came home every two hours in the middle of the workday when he was alone at the loft to remind him where he was and who the fuck was going on? Who made his therapist appointments, made sure he took his meds on schedule and never, ever made him feel like shit for needing them, who held in the fucking grocery store when he had a panic attack from a broken bottle of ketchup, me, me, me, and I do not trigger him. I do not, I do not, in case you didn’t hear me, I do not fucking trigger him.


So, you know, goodbye, au revoir, so long, and thanks for all fish. We had now reached a milestone: we could now count on exactly zero hands ways that I had not let Justin down when he needed me.


But sure, I'd just sit here on the couch waiting for him to stop crying. No problem.


He came out of the shower eventually, dressed in his own clothes, which is...not common when he’s not feeling well. He paced the living room in circles, making a growling noise when he breathed, every once in a while stopping to hold onto the wall and whisper something that may or may not have been words. Periodically he'd ask, bordering hysterical, if I was mad at him. I texted his therapist and got him an emergency appointment the next day, made a cup of tea that sat and went cold on the coffee table, and eventually planted himself in front of him on one of his laps. He flinched away like he used to when people walked towards him on the street.


You need to sit or you’re going to pass out.


He shook his head. I’m fine. His breathing was fast, shallow, and I could see his heartbeat in his throat.


Take your pulse, I said.


He pressed two fingers to his carotid and looked at his watch. 184.


I’m calling Daphne.


No...


You need someone you’re not scared to death of, and I wouldn’t hate having a doctor here in case your fucking heart explodes. Is she on call tonight?


I don't know. He sat down on the couch, suddenly, like he just couldn't stand anymore. I don't know what day it is. I'm losing time. He took a shaky breath, rocking back and forth on the couch. I'm cold again. He looked up at me, and his pupils were so dilated I could barely see any blue in his eyes.


We're gonna do another Klonopin.


He nodded, but as soon as I took a step back to where the bottle was—towards him—he jerked away, speedwalked to the bathroom, and clicked the lock. “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry,” he cried through the door.


Yeah, so I called Daphne.


“I really fucked up,” I said, and my voice broke and no, no, fuck that, Justin was doing everything he needed to get through this, I did not get to be upset, I did not get to fucking fall apart about something I goddamn did when he was just trying so goddamn fucking hard to take care of himself. I cleared my throat and cleared my throat and said, “I really freaked him out, I need you to come.”


**


Justin let Daphne into the bathroom, and I sat in the living room and listened to his ragged, piercing sobs. I knew, of course, that she was signing to him, but since I couldn't see it...God, it was so easy to picture him entirely fucking uncomforted, because that's how he sounded.


“Tell him I'm not mad at him and that I didn't leave the apartment,” I'd told her. “Make sure he knows.”


I pulled out the couch in the office because fuck if I was making him sleep next to me that night and couldn't take it any more and poured another drink. I don't think I can properly express how much every bit of me wanted to either barge into that bathroom or hit the fucking pavement and just keep running, but suffice it to say not one single goddamn bit of me wanted to stay parked in the fucking living room listening to Justin cry in the arms of someday else. There was just no fucking part of that that was okay, except for how that was exactly what he needed right now. Somebody who hadn't just made him feel utterly and completely unsafe.


After they'd been in the bathroom for nearly an hour, I heard them quietly move to the bedroom. I drifted over to the doorway despite myself and watched Daphne settle him in bed, stroking his hair and his back and telling him about a Deaf boy and his family who came into the ER the other day. Justin looked pretty drugged at this point, and he was still crying, but it was quiet, slow, tired. I rested my head against the doorframe and held on tightly.


“He'll live?” I asked.


She smiled at me, so gently I could fucking puke. “He'll live.”


Justin didn't know I was there. “Does he need anything?” I said.


“I don't think so,” she said, his face in her collarbone.


“He take his antidepressant and the seizure stuff?”


“Yeah.”


I rubbed my mouth. “Okay. I'm gonna go out to the balcony, have a cigarette.” But just as I was starting to go, Justin lifted his head off Daphne's shoulder and looked at her.


Is Brian here? Did he leave? I scared him off...


She touched his arm and nodded towards me, and Justin looked up at me. “Hi,” he whispered.


“Hi,” I said back.


He untangled himself from Daphne and crawled to the end of the bed and held his arms up to me. I came forwards, slowly, and bent down, and he fit himself into my arms, and I fought every goddamn urge to hold him tightly, to dig my fingers into his back, and just closed my eyes and smelled his hair and treated him like he was fragile, the strongest fucking person I've ever met, fragile.


I told you, I don't like this story.


I pushed my face into his shoulder and repeated get it together get it together get it together in my head until I trusted myself to pull away with a straight face. Going to sleep now?


Yeah. He looked down, then up, with the most fucking gut-wrenching attempt at a smile on his face. I think I'm in the bad place.


That seems like a reasonable conclusion. Lauren's going to see you at one tomorrow, okay?


He nodded, then sat back on the bed and dropped his head into his hands, took a shaky breath. I put my hand on his arm and he jerked away and started crying again. “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.”


Stop, I said. STOP. But he wasn't looking at me, and he didn't look at me, and eventually I just left the room.


**


I woke up on our fucking fold-out couch to him screaming his fucking lungs out. It wasn't a surprise, obviously, but no amount of anticipation really prepares you for a Deaf person fucking yelling at four o'clock in the morning. They're going to kick us out of the building one of these days.


It's not as if it was the first time he had a nightmare when I wasn't there; he'd call sometimes when I was out of town, once when he was sleeping over at Emily's, a couple times when he was with Ethan. But it was the first time I'd ever been within earshot and known that he didn't want me.


Hell of a thing.


I sat up and waited for my heartbeat to slow down before I got up and went to the open doorway of the bedroom. Daphne had the light on already, good, and she was sitting next to him in bed, trying to get him to look at her while he was balled up and shaking.


“Sit him over the side of the bed,” I said. “Get down in front of him.”


She nodded and situated him.


“He needs a minute to wake up,” I said. “He'll get there.”


Come on, Justin, she said. Look at me, come on.


“What the fuck, what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck,” he cried.


Just a dream. You're okay.


“Ask him questions,” I said. “See if he knows where he is.”


Justin, do you know where you are? Do you know what's going on?


He hesitated, then shook his head. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.


Daphne, he signed after a minute, a D tapped against his collarbone, and I breathed out, and so did she.


There you go, she said. She glanced at me in the doorway. Do you want Brian?


No, he said.


I went through the bedroom to the bathroom, out of Justin's field of vision, and fished out another pill and filled a glass of water. I came around to the foot of the bed and waited while Justin signed at Daphne, too fast for her to understand, and she said, Justin, slow down, what?


“Why didn't he save me,” I said quietly, handing the glass and the pill to her once Justin's head was down.


“What?”


“That's what he's saying. Why didn't he save me. Here.”


“Thank you,” she said, and I nodded and stepped back to the door. Daphne handed them to Justin, and he swallowed the pill and sipped the water, way too out of it to wonder where they came from.


He lay back down with his arms over his head, shuddering.


“That'll knock him out,” I said. “He won't dream anymore tonight.”


“Brian,” she said.


“Don't,” I said. “Don't you fucking dare comfort me. Stay with him.”


I went out into the living room and drank everything I could.


**


She came out twenty minutes later, of course.


“What did I say?” I said. “Just leave me alone, please.”


She sat down on the couch next to me and took the glass out of my hand. I rubbed my forehead and wondered how the fuck this girl got into my life.


“How is he?” I said after a minute.


“Asleep. He's fine. How about you?”


I snorted. “Doctor Daphne.”


“Hey, you're the one who paged me.”


“He used to call me,” I said. “When he was dating the fucking...cello player. If he had a panic attack. The two of them, they'd sit around talking about it all damn day, sure, when Justin was fine, then he'd want to discuss it, analyze it, all that shit, but when he was actually in the goddamn, the fucking throes, you think he called the boyfriend? No. He called me.”


“He didn't really love him,” she said, and that pissed me off, thinking that I was looking for some kind of assurance about his little practice relationship, that she thought I was anywhere on the same plane as caring about bullshit like that.


“I take care of this shit,” I said. “I always have. I have never, ever messed this up. Left him alone in a fucking parking garage, fucking grabbed him, he's screaming at me about hearing things..”


She put her hand on my arm.


“Do you know how hard it is for him to trust people with this?” I said. “Gregory, back in Pittsburg, Derek and Emily here, all his little friends...they don't know about prom, he hasn't told them.”


“I know.”


“He doesn't trust just anyone with this shit. You and me.” I looked at her, those big brown eyes. “We're it.”


“I've freaked him out before,” she said. “It happens. He forgave me.”


“So what, he's just going to move on and get over it eventually? We'll go back to how we were?”


“Yeah.”


“Then what the fuck's the point! What's the goddamn...what is the moral of our story here, Daphne? Why the fuck did we go through goddamn any of this?” I wasn't making any sense now, and I knew it, but I was too drunk and fucked up to care. “He gets fucking bashed in the head and it's just...it's fucking forever, and we don't even get to fucking goddamn...”


“You want a spin,” she said. “You want it to be for something.”


“I want it to mean something. Yeah.”


“It's not going to make sense,” she said. “No matter how fucking perfect you are with him, it's not going to suddenly make it make sense. And it's not going to make you suddenly not fucked up about it too.”


I rubbed my face. “Seeing him crying in that garage today...God. Oh God.”


She took my hand, and I gripped it so hard it had to hurt.


“Why the fuck did this happen to him,” I said. “What the fuck did he ever do. And it's just going to fucking...it's going to go away and come back, over and over. It's going to get better and it's going to get worse and there's no fucking pattern to it. This is just some stupid goddamn fucking day where I was a fucking idiot and all I can do is shove pills at him until it's over. There's no fucking point to this. If he's lucky he won't even remember this, it's got him so fucked up. Give me the glass back.”


“No. Have you thought about talking to someone?”


I ripped my hand away. “Christ, don't.”


“There's no way Justin hasn't tried to get you to.”


“Justin minds his own fucking business,” I said, for some ridiculous reason.


She paused, then pulled her legs up underneath herself on the couch. “You know we've never talked about it. You and me. We were both there and we've never talked about it.”


I closed my eyes and tilted my head back towards the ceiling. The silence filled the room like...like a whole bunch of teenagers in pretty clothes once filled up a hospital waiting room, crying crocodile tears for a boy they couldn't have picked out of a lineup before someone came and danced him around in front of them.


“There was blood all over your dress,” I said. “You'd looked so nice.”


“Hideous dress.”


“It wasn't so bad.” I opened my eyes and smiled at her, a little.


“I hear his mom screaming a lot,” she aid. “There was a woman in the ER the other day, and her son...” She shook her head. “Anyway, it sounded like her.”


“You handled everything,” I said. “Sat with Jen, organized the kids and shit...everyone there was glaring at me like I was the fucking anti-Christ except for you.” I swallowed. “You hugged me.”


“Yeah.”


“I would have fucking fallen apart if you weren't there.”


She smiled. “You're right, instead you held it together so admirably.”


I snorted. “Shut up.”


She tucked herself in close to me, and I put an arm around her shoulders.


“I just want a takeaway,” I said. “I want to learn something from the fact that I left him panicking in a fucking parking garage today.”


“Well, you probably won't do it again.”


“I would have thought I wouldn't have done it in the first place.”


“Maybe now you just...think about how it's not always like this,” she said. “Think about how fucking rare this is, how far he's come.”


“I knew that already,” I said.


“Okay, how about how you'd do anything to make it stop?”


“I knew that too.”


“Okay, fine. Maybe you just sit there and feel smug about how much you already know him.”


“I could fucking die over it sometimes,” I said softly, and I knew she knew what I meant, what words I wasn't saying.


“How's that feel?” she said.


I shrugged. “It's not the worst.”


“So maybe that.”


“I knew that too. He knows.”


“Bet he'd like to hear it,” she said.


I gave her a look.


“I know, I know,” she said. “It's trite, it's pedestrian. But he's scared right now. He needs more reassurance than he usually does.”


“It's not like I've never said it.”


“So then what's the problem?”


She thought I was digging my heels in, choosing sticking to my guns on some bullshit policy over just fucking giving the kid what he needed when he was miserable. I couldn't blame her.


It's just that that's not what was going on.


“He won't even look at me,” I said.


**


We always get bagels on Saturday mornings, and I figured now wasn't a time to mess with his routine more than was absolutely necessary. I was hungover as fuck and didn't even change out of the clothes I slept in, I just went out early and walked the block to the bagelry.


“You an artist?” the girl behind the counter asked me as she rung me up.


“What?”


“Your shirt. PIFA, that's an art school, right?”


“Oh. Yeah,” I said, and then I gave her a ten dollar tip for thinking I had any business wearing a shirt that said 'Class of '05.'


It was strange, trying to be quiet in the kitchen so I wouldn't wake up Daphne; it's been a long time since I worried about that, and you can get into the habit pretty quickly of taking loud phone calls and blaring the TV while your partner's sleeping. Clearly I was out of practice, because Daphne came out pretty soon after I got back, rubbing her eyes, all her hair piled on top of her head.


“Hey,” she said.


“Hey.” I nodded towards the bedroom. “So?”


“Still sleeping. His heart rate's back to normal, we'll see how it is when he wakes up.” She yawned and came over and grabbed a bagel. “I've got to go, though, I have a shift in two hours.”


“You're a wonder.”


“So I've heard.” She stood on her toes and pecked me on the cheek. “Don't beat yourself up about this, all right? You feeling guilty doesn't help him get better faster.”


“Yeah, I've learned that one by now.”


“All right, well, internalize it.”


“Thank you,” I said. “For coming. For...everything.”


“Yeah, yeah. I'm a wonder. Call me tonight, tell me how he's doing?”


“I will.”


She left, and I made coffee and thought about getting on my laptop to check some emails but knew I was probably just going to have a cigarette and pass out on the couch for a while. I was about to start implementing that when I heard the floorboards creak in the bedroom, and a minute later Justin was standing in the doorway, still looking pretty drugged and shaky.


“Hi,” he said.


Hey. Daphne had to go to work.


He nodded.


Are you hungry?


Yeah.


Come eat.


He stayed by the door.


Do you want me to go? I said.


He shook his head. No, I...


And he was so fucking frustrated with himself, in that moment, it was hard to watch. He was so goddamn angry at himself for being scared.


I'm not mad at you, he said. I want you to know I'm not mad at you.


Sunshine, I know, I said, and I probably looked as desperate as I felt, but goddamn, if he didn't stop trying to fucking reassure me I was going to fall apart in our goddamn kitchen. I know that. Come eat, okay?


He came into the kitchen and took a few bites of a bagel, tangling his fingers slightly in mine. I stood close, still, so afraid of scaring him off.


After a while he turned towards me and rested his forehead against my chin, and I heard him sigh. I rested my fingertips on his waist, so, so lightly.


I'm sorry, I signed, and he nodded. He knew. He put his arms around me. This okay? I asked.


“Yeah, it's okay.”


I love you, I signed, holding the handshape onto his chest, and he put his hand over it and held it there. Something inside me let go, and the next thing I knew I was sniffling into his fucking hair, and we just stood there like that for a really, really long time.


And I knew that everything wasn't okay yet, that he wasn't going to come back to me fully that day, or maybe the next, or the next. But we had a bag of warm bagels, and he had a therapy appointment, and I was wearing his t-shirt, and he was holding onto me.

 

I guess it's not that bad a story, in the end.

Chapter 35 - Modern Love by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

A closer look at the ten minute courthouse ceremony Brian would later call "the greatest wedding the world has ever seen" From TOW Justin Gets Better

Modern Love

LaVieEnRose


 


"Two years ago that day, we'd gotten up early, dressed in our finest jeans and ratty t-shirts, and driven ourselves up to Vermont and gotten hitched. Justin was carsick and cranky and we argued about music most of the way up and stayed in some crappy motel he paid for. Even though we were still talking then, we looked up how to say “I do,” in sign language before we got to the state house and signed it out for each other while some bored secretary married us in about two and a half minutes. We gave each other a perfunctory kiss, walked out into a cold, sunny afternoon, and had lukewarm delivery pizza as our big post-wedding meal, after we fucked up an appetite. We stayed up late looking for gay porn on the motel's pay per view and drove home in the morning, stopping at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription Justin no longer had to worry about affording."

 

It was, I am absolutely certain, the greatest wedding this world has ever seen, and you fuckers can eat your hearts out.

 

Let's expand.


**********


 

“Do you want to do it today?” I asked him at the loft one Saturday morning in April, just after he'd turned twenty-four, just before I turned thirty...whatever. We were fresh out of the shower, and his hair was starting to get long again, dripping onto his shoulders and making them sparkle in the bathroom light.


“What?”


I rolled my eyes. “Put your hearing aids in.”


“I don't know what you're saying.”


“Oh my God,” I said, and I took his hearing aids off the counter and thrust them at him. He rolled his eyes and put them in.


“Can I help you?”


“I was asking if you wanted to head up to get married today, but now I'm so goddamn annoyed with you that I think I'm just gonna put out a personal ad for literally anyone who wears their fucking hearing aids and marry him instead just to piss you off.”


“That sounds fun!” he said. “Ooh, like Deaf sister wives.” Probably we weren't thinking with a capital D Deaf back then, but there's no going back and all that.


“No, I'm not also marrying you in this scenario. I'm removing you from the loft. You're out, new Deaf guy is in.”


“We can teach other sign language, and write letters to movie theaters complaining about the captions, and have sex only you can hear...”


“No, I'm kicking you out of the loft. Goddamn, you do not hear fuckin' anything.”


He stood on his toes and kissed me. “We can do it today. Let's get it over with. How long's the drive?”


“Ten hours and change. I got you one of those motion sickness bands, we'll try it out.”


He hopped off to the kitchen. “I'll get snacks!”


“We're not eating in the car!”


“I can't hear youuuu!”


I got dressed, intentionally choosing something no one with any respect for the institution would ever wear to get married, and looked around the loft. Tried to imagine the Brian who moved in here all those years ago, what he would think about the fact that I was about to go tie to knot to some little twink so he could have health insurance. God, I could almost feel my ass getting kicked through the space-time continuum.


And then I heard Justin's fucking tuneless singing from the kitchen and thought about hearing that every day for the rest of my goddamn life and thought, well, you know. Why the hell not.


**


The fact of the matter is, I wasn't that worried about getting married. I knew Justin didn't have any delusions that this was going to change the state of our relationship. This wasn't some symbolic “taking the next step,” bullshit, and that's not me being in denial, here, it's me telling you, clearly and simply, with the benefit of perspective, that there wasn't a “next step” from where we were. We were already where we are now.


This was about legal protection, and about my neurotic need to immortalize him, but you've heard all that already. The whole 'forever,' thing didn't worry me, because it had been years since I wasn't sure that Justin would always be in my life in some way.


I think I figured that out, actually, while he was with Ethan. Because he liked the fiddler, he did, but we were never free of each other. We circled each other, made eyes at each other, were kind to each other in small, involuntary ways. So I knew...this wasn't going to end, this thing was never going to be over.Things would change, morph, maybe get bad before they got good sometimes, but freedom from this bastard had not been in the cards for a long time. I'd made peace with it.


And understand that I'm not being delusional here, I'm not even being hopeful, really; I don't think it's out of the realm of possibility that another Ethan could come along someday, or that I could get overwhelmed and take off, that Justin could someday move somewhere I wouldn't follow. It could happen. I can see situations in which we'd go weeks, months, years without seeing each other. I'm not trying to bum you out or anything, and I'm not saying I'm anticipating it, but...it could happen. It just wouldn't be the end of the world if we did, that's what I'm saying. It wouldn't be the end of anything.


We're never going to be rid of each other. I've known that since he walked out that door and still wasn't gone. I complain about him leaving, but...he can leave a hundred times. It's annoying, but it doesn't really matter, in any kind of cosmic way.


This is the kind of shit that the normal people and their normal love, they're never going to get it. We can't break up, because we're not...even that phrase is so fucking stupid, if you're trying to apply it to us. We're not the same as people who break up. That's fucking stupid.


I can't explain it to you. I'd never try. I'm just saying: it is written, it is signed, it is sealed, and that has nothing to do with a marriage license.


So in case you were expecting the story about our wedding to be all romantic, there's your romance. Now we'll get back to Justin whining in the car.


**


“This thing is not working,” Justin said, touching the band on his wrist. Ever since he started losing his hearing he'd had trouble with motion sickness, and we knew the car ride was going to be a bitch, but at least we were alone instead of him feeling like shit in an airplane full of strangers.


“You have to face forwards,” I said. “Look out the windshield.”


“I can't hear you if I'm facing forwards.”


“I'm not saying anything worth listening to.”


He reached forwards and turned up the music, again. I swatted his hands away. “Stop it. It's too loud.”


“You're just old.”


“Sure, that's the problem.”


“What?”


“Sure, that's the problem,” I said, louder. He hated if I just said 'nothing,' like most people did if he missed something, so I'd just repeat myself endlessly until he got it. You get used to it.


He was messing around on his phone. “I think you just fingerspell it,” he said. “But I can't find any footage of Deaf weddings.”


I do, I tried out.


“Yeah, like that.”


“Officiant's gonna wonder what the fuck we're doing.” I glanced over as he took a deep breath. “You need to pull over? Don't puke in the car.”


“Not yet. I'm gonna have some crackers, okay? Yeah, I'm gonna have some crackers. I'll feel so much better.”


“Christ, I'm gonna be vacuuming for a week.”


“I'll vacuum.”


“I've never fucking once seen you vacuum. Go ahead, fuck up my car.”


He nibbled on some saltines. “Isn't this our car at this point?”


“Fuck, the way you drive? No, I'll be just fine if you never get a car. I'll buy you a limo and a driver before I'll have you drive a car.”


“I can buy myself a car,” he said.


“Can you?”


“Theoretically.”


Justin had wanted to do a pre-nup, get everything squared away, but the whole thing just seemed so fucking stupid to me, I don't know. First of all, that we'd ever go through the fucking heterosexual hassle of divorcing, even if we decided we never wanted to see each other again, and second, that I'd leave the fucker destitute if we did. I've never been what one would call careful with money, and Justin had been factored in as an expense for six years at that point, much to his endless guilty bitching, so where the fuck was I supposed to gather some concern that he'd try to take all money someday? Again, just this fucking...pedestrian shit that people—and in this example we're including Justin—try to make a part of our lives, it's ridiculous.


He reached for the stereo again and I said, “Christ, weren't you just complaining that you couldn't hear me? Fuck, I should have just put you on a plane and sat you next to some stranger to puke on for two hours.”


“You'd think you'd want me to be able to hear the music,” he said. “You'd think you'd be all melancholy about the limited music days I have left and want me to experience everything the world has to offer, because you love me soooo much.”


“You would think that, wouldn't you?”


“Yeah.”


“But no. I guess I'm just full of surprises.”


“You're what?”


“Full of surprises.” I reached over and cupped the back of his head.


“Where did you tell Michael we were going?”


I snorted.“Philadelphia. Said I was bringing you to a concert.”


“See, I bet he cares that I have limited time left to hear music.”


“Yeah, he got real emotional about it. I think he wants to sign you up for one of those Make a Wish trips. Give Justin sound before it's too late! Maybe he'll start a fundraiser. You can put it towards your car.”


“When do you think people are going to find out the truth?” he said.


“Never. I want to tell them on my death bed. No, I want them to find out at the reading of the will. That's better.”


“Brian Kinney leaves all of his vast estate to Justin Taylor.”


“Yeah, and everyone kind of nods at that, I mean, Lindsay's all offended Gus didn't get it, but she's too WASPy to make a scene. And then there's a dramatic pause—”


He said, “That'll be written into the will.”


“—Oh yeah, of course, stage directions will definitely be included. And the lawyer goes...'to Justin Taylor...HIS HUSBAND.'”


“A hush falls over the room.”


“A hush? Are we talking about the same people? Debbie's going to be shrieking up a storm.”


“Why are you dying before Debbie?”


“She's immortal.”


“Anyway, to me it'll be a hush.” He shook his head a little. “That is so fucking weird.”


“What is?”


“That I'll still be Deaf then, I don't know. I get being Deaf a year from now, that's one thing. But the fact that I'm going to be Deaf when I'm old is like...I don't know. It doesn't feel real.”


“So you do it for a few years and then you outgrow it?”


“Yeah.”


“Would make a good memoir.”


“A what?


“Memoir.”


“Oh. 'Deaf Like Me.'”


“There you go.”


He yawned and stretched in his seat, making baby animal noises. “I'm gonna have to tell my mother at some point. And she's going to cry.”


“Lord.”


“Can we have cake?”


“No.”


“I'm having cake.”


“Not in the car, you're not.”


He laughed. “What if it helped motion sickness?”


“Bridge too far.”


“What?”


“Bridge too far.”


“Oh.” He paused. “Is that annoying?”


“No,” I said. He gave me a look like he didn't believe me. “It's not,” I insisted. “It's annoying when you get lost with other people but you won't ask them what they said, so then later you want me to replay the whole fucking conversation like I'm a damn tape recorder and fill in all the gaps for you.”


“No, you love it really.” He sighed. “My head hurts.”


“Probably because the music is so fucking loud.”


He shook his head. “The aids are bugging me, I'm gonna take them out.”


“You're never going to adjust to them if you keep taking them out all the time.”


“Hmm,” he said, and then took them out.


“That's not going to help you hear the music, you know?” I said.


“What?”


“That's not going to help you hear the music.”


“Still didn't get it.”


“How about this?” I said, and I reached over and put a hand on his crotch, and he laughed. I wondered then if the sound of his laugh would change someday; his audiologist had warned us that, while he'd probably always be fairly easy to understand, his voice wouldn't always sound like a hearing person's. His laugh did change, eventually, but I like it more now.


“Are you nervous?” he asked me.


I shook my head, figuring I was spared any larger discussion of it by virtue of him not being able to hear me. Why did I object to him taking out the hearing aids, again?


“Me neither. It's weird. I would have thought I'd be nervous. Daphne thinks I'm too young to get married.”


“Christ, you told Daphne?”


“I assume that's you being pissed that I told Daphne. Yes, I told Daphne.”


“Jesus, you're incorrigible.”


“I'm adorable? Thank you.”


“You damn well know that's not what I said.”


He grinned at me, the little shit.


“You are too young to get married,” I said. “You're too young for the dirty shit I did to you last night. You're too young to be going Deaf. You're useless.”


He rubbed his forehead. “Pull over, I'm gonna throw up now.”


“Okay.”


**


Vermont isn't much for luxury hotels, so our choices were either a B&B where a fucking eighty-year-old woman would ask us all sorts of questions so she could better fetishize our gay asses or some shitty motel, so we went for the shitty motel. Justin paid. It was nearly midnight at that point, since we'd stopped for food a few hours ago, so obviously the actual marriage would have to wait until tomorrow. We'd already called ahead and made our appointment, so we were good to go. “Getting married on a Sunday,” I said. “My mother would be so proud.”


Justin flopped backwards on the bed. “This place is gross. I hope you want to do this thing stoned on Benadryl tomorrow.”


“Only way I'll have you. Why the fuck are your clothes still on?”


He started taking them off, but he was too lazy to get up or even fucking sit off, so it was just some sort of strange wriggling around like a snake. I watched him, wondering if the fact that this turned me on was something I should be concerned about.


I went over to the bed and crawled on top of him, kissing where his neck met his shoulder. “Your waist is small,” I said, facing him so he could understand me.


He laughed. “Is that a compliment?”


“Yeah.”


We got undressed with a lot of urgency after that, and moved quickly—up against the headboard, bent over the rickety table, against the wall of the shower. He was practically falling asleep on his feet afterwards—he got tired so suddenly nowadays, from awake to out like a light in a heartbeat—and he blinked at his reflection while he brushed his teeth. I clamped my hands on his shoulders and he tilted his head up and smiled at me.


“What are you so happy about?” I asked him.


“I just love you a lot for some reason.”


“Jesus, you marry a kid one time and he thinks he can get all sappy.”


“You're the one who keeps saying it. Marry, marry, marry.”


“I'm excited about you having health insurance I don't have to pay for.”


“What are you gonna do with all your extra money?”


“I don't know. We'll go to Mexico. Sunbathe naked.”


“What?”


“Mexico.”


He nuzzled me. “When I'm feeling better, okay?” he said, but we never ended up going, mostly because he never really ended up feeling better.


“Need me to carry you over the threshold?” I said.


“We're not married yet.”


“True. Walk your own damn self.”


We went to bed and he promptly fell asleep with his head on my stomach, and I tugged out his hearing aids and turned on the TV and thought about telling him I loved him.


I didn't want to do it tomorrow. It was just...so fucking goddamn cliché, and it would make saying it seem so important, and God, we were already getting married, I needed to keep the heterosexuality to a minimum here. When I put too much thought in it, the idea of saying it at all seemed ridiculous, because there was no real reason to do it. It wasn't going to be a surprise to anyone. Justin obviously knew, and I knew that he knew, and he knew that I knew that he knew. No one was trying to fool anyone on anything. And he didn't need to hear it, had never asked for it. But the fact of the matter was, yeah, of course I had feelings about the fact that he was losing his hearing, Christ, and he deserved to hear it once in his life from someone who wasn't his mother or a fucking violinist, and we were running out of time.


I wanted to look nice when I told him. I'd get my hair cut, get a facial, the whole nine.


We still had a few months, the doctor said.


Justin shifted against my chest in his sleep, mumbling a little to himself.


“You okay?” I said, even though there was no possible way he could hear me.


He settled down with a sigh.


“I love you,” I said, just to try it out.


The world didn't end, so that seemed like a good omen for tomorrow.


**


Justin was gone when I woke up, and back ten minutes later with two styrofoam boxes. “Breakfast in bed!” he said.


I stretched. “You went out by yourself.” He wasn't doing much wandering around on his own at that point, because he was self-conscious about missing things people were saying.


“I went out by myself,” he said, tossing me a box. “Got you hash browns.”


“How's the weather?”


“Cold, but there's sun.”


“Feeling okay today?”


He gave me a so-so hand. “I had to get up early and draw some panels for Michael. He texted me in the middle of the night freaking the fuck out that the art for our last scene wasn't right.”


“What the fuck, he's interrupting your Philadelphia vacation?”


“I know, right? Imagine when we're in Mexico.”


“Mexico, Christ. This is the problem with that thing you do with your tongue. You did it it to me in the shower, the next thing I know I'm promising to bring you places.”


“Sorry. Should I do it again?”


“Yes, immediately.”


So we ate, and we fucked, and he made me beg, the bastard, and then we got dressed in more shitty clothes to show our continued appreciation for the institution of marriage, and off we went to the state house.


**


The woman at the reception desk had the hugest eyes I'd ever seen, and Justin, unsurprisingly, started sketching the second we were sitting down to wait.


“Oh, God, I don't like this at all,” I said. It was some weird, experimental style, and it gave me the creeps.


He laughed. “I'm just trying something.”


“This is going to haunt me. Jesus.”


“See, you would have thought you'd be freaking out about getting married...”


“And instead I'm freaking out about the creepiest fucking drawing I've ever seen. Interesting strategy.”


He got all serious and said, “Brian...you know you don't have to do this, right?”


I gave him a look and crossed my legs. “I'm the one who asked you.”


“I know, I'm just...I'm just saying. You can back out. If you want to. I won't be mad.”


“We're good, kid.”


He nodded, and after a beat said, “Well?”


“Well what?”


“Aren't you going to tell me I can back out of it and you won't be mad?”


“No, I'd be really annoyed if I drove you all the way here and got you a shitty motel and it was all for nothing.”


“Excuse you,” he said. “I got the crappy motel.”


“Oh, all right. Back out if you want.”


He shook his head, smiling a little to himself, looking down at his paper.


“I can't believe I did it,” he said after a minute. “Made an honest man out of you. All I had to do was come up with some lie about losing my hearing and bam, you throw it all in.”


I shoved him. “Twat.”


He looked up and grinned. “You believed it for a second, though, didn't you?”


“Well, you are devious enough.”


“What?”


“God, you're fucking cute.”


**


We got a guy there to contest a parking ticket to agree to be our official witness.


“Do you have anything personalized you want to say?” the officiant asked us, checking our IDs against the paperwork. He was about a million years old and looked like he could do this in his sleep, and practically was. “Vows, anything like that? Your appointment's ten minutes, so there's usually a minute or two to spare if you have anything you want to say.”


“No,” I said.


“All right. Exchanging rings?”


Justin shook his head. “Uh, no, we didn't—”


“Fine by me. Let's get this started. We're here today to participate in the marriage of Justin Taylor and Brian—” He paused and checked the paperwork, “Kinney, conforming to the rules and regulations of the State of Vermont. Join hands.”


So we did. Justin only got lost a couple of times, so all in all it went pretty smoothly. Better or worse. Richer or poorer. Sickness or health, and I pretended I didn't hear him get a little choked up on that last one.


I do, we signed, feeling a little stupid at the time. Not so much now. Now I'm really glad we didn't have our whole wedding in fucking English.


We signed the papers, shook hands with the officiant and our witness and wished him luck with his ticket, and Justin gave me a quick kiss in the hallway as we left.


“I might not have heard him right, but from what I gathered I think he really did deserve that ticket,” he said.


“No, you heard him right, he definitely did.”


“I mean, I still wish him all the best and everything, but if there'd been a fire they would have needed that hydrant.”


We walked out of the state house and blinked at the sun on the steps. Justin's hair was almost white in the light.


“Back to the motel?” he said. “I don't think there's much to do around here. We can raid the minibar.”


“Sounds good.”


He tilted his head to the side. “Are you freaking out?”


I put my hands under his thighs, pulled him up around my waist, and kissed the ever loving shit out of him.


“Oh,” he breathed, when I finally let him up for air.


**


“Is this how you pictured your wedding?” he asked me, later, lounging in the motel bed.


“I'm sorry, have you met me?”


“I know, I just want you to ask if it's how I pictured mine.”


I rolled my eyes and turned over to face him. “Okay, dear, how did you picture yours?”


He smiled a little. “I always thought I'd get married in the church where my parents did. Organ music. My cousin's kid is the right age to be a flower girl now. There'd be a huge reception, with toasts, and a slideshow. Dancing. Signature cocktails.”


“I assume you'd write your own vows.”


“Oh, of course.”


“Your mom reads First Corinthians?”


“She must.”


“Who's your wife?” I asked.


“Hmm. Kind of a hipster type. Cute, dark hair. Like the kind of girl who used to be a goth in high school, but now she just buys a lot of stuff at thrift stores because she doesn't have any money.”


I tossed a cashew into my mouth. “You know you just described Ethan.”


He froze. “Oh my God. Oh my God,” he said, and he practically fucking screamed, and I couldn't stop laughing, and shit, we laughed until we couldn't breathe. “Oh God,” he said, wheezing. “I think we just solved five years of trauma. Who needs professional help when you have a boyfriend who will roast the shit out of you?”


“It's worked for me so far.”


He covered his face with his hands and giggled, and God, that might have been just the fucking...purest, simplest moment of happiness I've ever had in my fucking mess of a life. Just right there, on that shitty motel bed, watching my fucking husband cover his face in delight because I'd called him my boyfriend.


I peeled his hands away and wrinkled my nose at him. “So what's the verdict, Sunshine? Do you miss your church wedding?”


He laughed. “Fuck. Imagine.”


“I don't know,” I said. “I bet you look hot in a tux.”


He yawned. “You can dress me sometime.”


“After I undress you,” I said, working my hands under his shirt.


“Hey, can I have a nap first? I'm tired.”


I laughed. “Yeah, you mess. Come here. Make it quick, though. There's some weird stuff I want to do to you.”


“Just a little dizzy right now,” he said, tucking himself under my arm.


“There's time.”


**


I picked a date to tell him I loved him on the drive home. I chose July 29th, because it was the date of absolutely nothing. And I thought about how he'd be surprised. How he'd smile. How fucking devastatingly handsome I would look, and how I'd say it so casually, and at first he'd wonder if he'd really hard me right, and he'd be afraid to ask, so I'd repeat it, and he'd cover his face with his hands...


Anyway, he lost all his hearing on July 12th.


It would have been nice.


**


The wedding papers went into my filing cabinet, the one picture our witness had taken for us got saved in a file on my computer, and the day after we got back, Justin had a breakdown, crying and shivering under the covers when he found out a band he loved was releasing a new album that December.


Back to real life.


I brought him dinner in bed, joked, begged, and yelled at him to get his shit together, and, when none of those worked, finally just sighed and said, “Come on, get up.”


“Leave me alone, Brian, fuck.”


“Come here.” I found his iPod and put on an old song by that band, one I knew he loved. “Aids out,” I said.


He stood up and took them out, still sniffling a little. I pulled him out to the middle of the loft.


“Here.” I put the earbuds in him, cranked the sound up as loud as it would go, and moved his arms to my waist and mine around his shoulders. “We never did our first dance.”


We stood there swaying, his cheek against my chest, continuing to ruin my shirt with his damn tears. I put a hand on the back of his head and held him there, listening to the tinny music I could hear blasting around his poor shitty ears.


“It really was a nice wedding, wasn't it?” he said, when the song was over.


“It was all right.”


He looked up at me. “What?”


His eyes were red. He looked beautiful.


“It was perfect,” I said.

 

End Notes:

 

For TrueIllusion.

Chapter 36 - A Matter of Timing by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Takes place shortly after the "The One Where Everybody's Scared" burn saga.

A Matter of Timing

LaVieEnRose



I've known Brian for practically as long as I can remember, but I think this was the first time I'd ever successfully surprised him. Okay, he was probably surprised that time I spilled an entire jug of juice all over him right before Jenny Rebecca's simchat bat, but that was unintentional. And sort of a different situation. Kind of. It still involved me, Justin, Brian, and a child.


“Um.” Brian said.


“Hi!”


“What the fuck are you...”


“Are you going to invite us in?”


He was so flustered that he actually took a step back! Ha! I rammed my way in and he said, “Um, Justin didn't tell me—”


“Justin didn't know! Is he here? Tell him to put some clothes on.”


“No, he's at his friend's...you just showed up here with—”


“A girl can't visit her most favortist brother-in-law?”


He rubbed his forehead. “It's customary to call first.”


“A girl can't surprise her most favortist brother-in-law?”


“Molly.”


“Yyyyes?”


He pointed to Luke. “Did you kidnap this child?”


“Kidnap. Such a harsh word, don't you think?”


Luke looked nervously between the two of us. “Can I use your bathroom?” he said.


Brian said, “Yeah, right there...”


“Thank you.”


Brian watched him go. “Polite kid.”


“Yeah, he’s great! And we’ve been working on his signing.”


“We?”


“Me and him. When his parents aren’t around.”


“Yeah, so speaking of—“


“God, you are so boring. Yes, they know I have him. They’re in North Carolina visiting Tanya's parents. They left him with me.”


“And they know that you brought him across state lines?”


“Gaaaaawd, where’s your sense of adventure! Remember when you were young and fun?”


He glared at me.


“Well, I remember. You brought me to the carnival that time.”


“I was trying to lose you on the midway and convince Jen to try one last time to have a kid who’s not a goddamn disaster.”


“You love us really.”


He shook his head slowly. “I am not telling your brother. You do it.”


“Awww, are you scared?”


His glare could just have just about melted ice by that point.


“Tell him I said hi!” I said. I wandered into the living room and took in the furniture and the view out to the balcony. “Wow, this is a great apartment.”


“Yeah, thanks, it's...ours...” He was so flustered, it was fucking hilarious. He said, “Speaking of, uh, so where are you staying?”


I gave him a look.


He shook his head, chuckling. “Oh, no no no.” He clapped his hands together, all fake enthusiasm. “How about the Plaza? Kids love the Plaza.”


I faked shock. “Brian, now come on! I could never spend your money like that! No, we’ll just stay here.”


“A suite.” He was begging at this point. “Room service. Pay-per-view porn once the kid falls asleep. Mini crabcakes, bottles of champagne.”


“God, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t want me here.”


He flopped down on the couch, face in the cushions, and groaned theatrically. “I'm in a fucking time loop. Nine years later and a seventeen-year-old Taylor is forcing their way into my apartment.”


“You missed me, really. Your life is so boring without me.”


He took out his phone and we waited for Justin to pick up. “Want to go to the carnival?” Brian asked me, and I laughed.


I heard the phone connect on Justin’s end, music, laughter. “Hey!” Justin said out loud.


Hello, dear. Sorry to interrupt. You’re gonna want to come home.


Luke yelled, “Wow, you can see the ocean from here!”


Brian looked at me. “They don't teach you about rivers in the second grade?”


“Guess not.”


“Three Taylors under one roof,” Brian muttered as he put his phone away. “I need a fucking drink.”


**


Justin got back about twenty minutes later, after Brian had finished a couple of drinks and Luke had curled up on the couch with his gameboy. Justin came in and I ran over and tackle-hugged him.


Brian lurked and said, “Uh, hi, skin grafts, skin grafts...”


I pulled back. “Sorry.” I missed the entire saga of the skin grafts because I was a CIT at my old camp this summer and my mother, in her infinite, let's-all-just-pretend-everything's-okay-all-the-time wisdom, decided not to bother calling me. This was the first time I'd even seen Justin since it happened, and it was like over a month ago. He still looked kind of pale and tired, actually. He got really sick while he was getting better from that, and I guess that sort of thing takes a while to fully recover from.


Justin said, How the hell did you...where's Mom?


Conference in D.C. And we took Amtrak. It's easy!


He came over and put his hand on Luke's head. “Hi, sweetheart.”


He said, Hi, Justin, and Justin ruffled his hair.


How did you get his parents to agree to this? Justin asked me.


“Um. Well.”


You stole a kid?


Brian laughed. You sound like Michael.


I didn't steal him! I said. He was left in my care.


You can't just take someone's kid out of state!


I told her that, Brian said. He was all calm now, I guess because he knew Justin would handle the yelling. He sat next to Luke on the couch and watched him play his game over his shoulder.


Nobody told me that when they left me him with me, I said. They didn't say, oh by the way, don't leave Pittsburgh.


Oh, God, they're going to call the police, Justin said.


Brian snorted. You are such a drama queen.


We're all going to prison, Justin said.


I said, I'm a minor, I'm not going to prison.


She's got a point, Brian said.


Brian, shut the fuck up. Justin turned to me. You're going home.


Dad and Tanya won't be back for another two days. You haven't seen me since my birthday, you haven't seen Luke in what, four months? I'd manage to borrow Luke for the afternoon and bring him to a park near my mom's house, which was our general strategy for getting him and Justin an hour or two together when Justin was home. I don't think he's even talked to a Deaf person since then. I'm just trying to be a good sister.


“There!” Brian said, pointing to a corner of the screen.


Luke said, “I see it!”


“Use the sword.”


“Uh-uh.”


“The sword!”


Justin stared at Brian for a second and then turned back to me. We're not used to sweet little kids here. We're used to Brian's son, who is a demon.


Hey, Brian said.


Justin said, Brian, I love him, but he is a fucking nightmare.


He's not as bad as her.


I'm not a kid, I said. I'm seventeen.


Brian cracked up, and Justin threw a pillow at him.


What? I said.


This is great, Brian said.


He thinks I'm finally getting what I deserve, Justin said.


This was my life, Brian said. For a YEAR. A year, I did this shit. 'I'm not a kid!'


It was six months at most. Justin pointed at me. You can stay for one night. One night, and if one of his parents call, you are to answer immediately and feed them a very convincing story about all the fun you two are having in Pittsburgh. And I'm not telling a six-year-old to lie to his parents, so that's your job too.


I'm seven, Luke said.


Justin looked at him.


I smiled. Told you I was working on his signing.


**


Justin took Luke to the kitchen to make dinner, and I wandered out at the balcony to look down at the water on one edge and a view of uptown on the other. God, New York was so fucking cool. I couldn't believe Justin lived here. I needed to find some older dude to shack up with too.


Brian came out a minute later and lit a cigarette.


“Gimme one,” I said.


“Yeah, no way.”


“Come on!”


“There is no chance in hell. Your mom would eat me alive.”


“My brother smokes.”


“Your brother's an idiot.”


“Well, that's true.”


“So what the hell, you're the designated babysitter for your dad now? I thought you weren't even talking to him.”


“Yeah, I wasn't, until I found out Luke was Deaf.” I shook my head. “It's such bullshit, I can't even believe it. Like, he had a kid, I knew he'd had a kid, I met him when he was a baby, but then my mom finally decided I got to fucking find out what happened with Justin when he was my age and then I just...you know, I didn't want to see him anymore.”


“Sure.”


“And then you run into him at, you know, whatever the fuck that was, and Mom told me about it and I prioritized. Deaf kid beats asshole father.” I started showing up at my dad's house all sugar and sweetness, and he was way too overwhelmed by WASPishness to ask me why the fuck I'd come back after dodging his calls for five years, and for the past ten months I'd been teaching Luke ASL and also just getting him out of that fucking freakshow of a house a couple of hours a week. “I don't know what he's going to do once I leave for college,” I said. “You'll have to come back to Pittsburgh and pick up the slack.”


“Yeah, seems likely.”


“So then I had him this weekend, and Mom was gone, so I figured what better time to abscond.”


“So he's seven,” Brian said. “Means I have ten years until another Taylor makes a trip to New York on my dime.”


“I'm not on your dime.”


“Who paid for that soda you're drinking?”


“Justin has a job! Make him pay for shit.”


The balcony door opened behind us and Justin said, “Brian?”


Brian turned around.


“Can you come chop tomatoes?”


Brian stomped out his cigarette. Yeah.


“His voice sounds different,” I said, once Justin had left.


“Does it?” Brian said vaguely.


“He can't chop his own tomatoes?”


He flicked me on the way inside. “Mind your business.”


**


Justin and Luke were really sweet together. Justin's good with kids; I've seen him with Brian's son a bunch of times and he's always been really patient and natural with him, even though he was a total dick to me when I was little, but whatever. And Luke totally loved him, even though he was still confused about how he fit into the whole Deaf/hearing thing, since he had a cochlear, so he can hear, but not perfectly—he's not great at talking on the phone, and he does okay one on one but gets lost if a lot of people are talking, and I know they make fun of him at at school—and my dad and Tanya were constantly telling him he's not Deaf. But he had this natural affinity for sign language, and I know part of that was just that he was young and it's easier for kids to learn languages, but it also totally felt like something in his brain latched onto this specifically, like it knew this was what he was supposed to be doing.


What are you doing in school? Justin asked him, once we were sitting around the table with tacos. Brian had his laptop out on the table next to his plate; Justin had told me earlier that I was lucky he was in the middle of some major campaign, because otherwise there's no way he would have been home when I showed up.


Math, Luke said. Division, he fingerspelled, not exactly right, but close enough.


Are people being nicer at school? Last year he got made fun of a lot.


Not really, Luke said.


They'll get over it, he said. People aren't mean to me anymore. He stopped and rubbed his hand.


Use your voice, moron, Brian said, barely looking up from his laptop.


“He needs to practice,” Justin said.


He can still sign if you talk. Look, I'm doing it right now.


You're a marvel, Justin signed, left-handed.


I know.


Justin got up and got an ice pack from the freezer and held it to the inside of his right arm. “What do you want to do while you're here?” he asked Luke. “You can plan our whole day tomorrow.”


Can we go to Central Park? Luke signed, badly, but not unintelligibly. Molly said there's a zoo.


Justin smiled, but he looked tired. “That sounds great.”


Brian closed his laptop and stood up. I'll find a movie.


“You're not going out?” Justin said.


Not anymore.


No, let's go out! I said. Leave Justin here with Luke. I want to see the nightlife.


Brian totally ignored me, which I was expecting anyway, and went over to Justin. I turned around in my chair to watch them.


Go lie down, Brian said, kissing his forehead.


You worry too much, Justin signed, small.


Not in this case. You want to be able to do shit tomorrow? Go lie down.


Fine, Justin said, heading to the living room. But I'm picking the movie. He's too young for James Dean.


No such thing.


Luke said, “Molly, I'm all done.”


“Okay, maybe Brian will help you find some cookies.”


He looked up hopefully. “Brian?”


Brian was barely paying attention, watching Justin over the bar. “Yeah, kiddo, check the pantry.”


Luke got up and dug around, and I caught Brian's eye. “His hand?” I said softly.


Brian shrugged. “He's nervous about it ever since...” He glanced at Luke, still buried in the pantry. Does he know?


What happened to Justin? No.


Why not? It's his brother.


He's just a kid.


You sound like your mother, Brian said, and he went out to the living room.


“I thought you liked my mother,” I called after him.


“I do,” he said. “You don't.”


**


Justin put on Guys and Dolls and babbled at Brian about Marlon Brando and Frank Sinatra until he stopped complaining, and Brian put a blanket on the floor and shoved me and Luke onto it, as if he and Justin needed the whole couch, but then pretty quickly into the movie Justin lay down with his head in Brian's lap, so maybe Brian was just anticipating that. I heard them signing to each other at one point so I ever-so-slightly adjusted myself so I could see them out of the corner of my eye.


Emily would have understood if you hadn't gone, Brian was saying.


It was her birthday. She's already pissed that you weren't there.


God, these friends of yours. Fine, I'll call her.


I didn't think it would wear me out this much. I feel like I'm back in the fucking hospital.


I know.


I can't believe I still can't handle a few hours at a party.


Brian rubbed one hand in circles on his back. You'll be good as new before you know it. It was super weird seeing him like this. Every time I'd seen Brian be concerned for Justin before it was buried under like ten tons of irony.


Justin yawned. We'll see.


You're going to be up for this zoo thing tomorrow?


Yeah.


I'll do it if you can't.


Justin wriggled around, settling himself on Brian's leg. Okay.


Stop moving around with your head that close to my cock.


I turned around then because, you know, gross.


**


Justin looked a lot better in the morning. He made waffles with strawberries and Luke and I devoured them while Brian eyed us all from behind his coffee cup.


Someday a Taylor is going to get fat, he said. They have to.


Luke said, Molly, you know what? They have a doorbell with lights on it!


And an alarm, Justin said.


Brian said, Show him the clock.


Oh, yeah, come see, Justin said, and he took Luke to his room to show him his vibrating alarm clock.


“Shakes the whole mattress,” Brian said.


“Kinky.”


He rolled his eyes, then said, “Listen, go easy on him today, okay? Tell him you're tired and want to sit down every once in a while.”


“Okay.”


He stole a bite of Justin's waffle.


“Why don't you come with us?” I said.


He shook his head. “Work.”


“It's Sunday.”


“Gotta keep Justin in pretty things.”


Justin came back in with Luke. Stop speaking English in my home.


Sorry, sorry. Brian pulled Justin into a kiss, but Justin was distracted by his plate.


Christ, how much of my waffle did you eat, I was gone for a second—


Luke said, Justin, are there monkeys? Can we see the monkeys?


Justin gave Brian a quick kiss. Duty calls.


Have fun. Stay away from boiling water.


**


Luke was a riot at the zoo, running from exhibit to exhibit, reading every single display. It was weird signing in public in them, because whenever Luke and I sign in public or I practice with my friends in Pittsburgh people are always staring, but here no one even glanced at us. New York is wild.


Justin said, It's weird, I always thought I looked like Mom, but he looks so much like me.


You don't look like Mom. I look like Mom.


Well, yeah, you're like a clone of Mom.


Just my luck.


He rolled his eyes. You are such a teenager.


No, you just idolize her because she's not dad.


You were just a kid. You don't understand what it was like back then, he said.


No, I don't. That's my point.


What is?


She doesn't tell me anything! She didn't even tell me Dad kicked you out until I was fucking twelve years old.


Justin trailed his fingers over the display in front of the lion's cage. He didn't kick me out exactly. He made rules I wasn't willing to follow.


Sticking up for mom isn't enough, now you're doing it for dad? After what he's doing to Luke?


Justin sighed. He's trying to give him a good life. He's small-minded and stubborn, but he's trying to look out for Luke.


He's trying to make him be something he's not.


Yeah, that's what straight people do. And hearing people. He shook his head. This stuff isn't black and white. Maybe there's no way for you to get it.


Because I'm hearing.


And straight.


That's such bullshit.


It's not bullshit, he insisted. All people who are inside the mainstream like that...they have someone close to them who's not living their kind of life, and they want them to do it, either because it's the only way they can imagine them being happy, or because they just don't want to look at shit that doesn't fit their...mindset.


What the fuck, who is this 'they?' I'm standing right the fuck here, I'm straight, I'm hearing, and I'm crashing on your couch and teaching your fucking little brother sign language, so don't give the whole 'oh, the normals will never understand me' bullshit. You don't want to be generalized, don't generalize.


Stereotyping majorities and minorities is so not the same thing.


Why not?


Because ours is backlash. We didn't start it.


I didn't do shit!


This is not about you, Molly.


He was starting to breathe kind of hard at that point, so I nodded to a bench and said, Can we sit for a minute?


Yeah, okay. We sat down while Luke leaned over the railing and growled at the lions.


People can learn, Justin said. Have their minds opened. Like Mom did.


I sighed.


You learn not to write people off, he said. When have to give everyone fifty chances before they finally learn how to deal with you...you learn not to write people off. You have to.


That's really depressing.


He shrugged.


She didn't even call the camp, I said. She didn't want to bother me, she said. I found out when she fucking picked me up.


I know.


You know they told me what happened at your prom was an accident.


He sighed. No, I didn't know that.


So...?


I don't know, Molly, what do you want me to say? You want me to say I get sick of applauding able-bodied straight people for being mostly good? Who does that help, saying that? He shook his head. I try not to dwell on it. If I start thinking about whose growth people want to hear about I'll lose my fucking mind. He watched Luke and said, Brian adores him, it's funny.


Does he have a brother?


Justin shook his head. Older sister.


I cannot picture Brian as the younger kid.


Sure you can. He's a brat. It all adds up. He made a face at me.


Are they close?


He laughed a little. No.


What about his parents?


Not good people.


I latched onto that, I guess. So is that it, then? Your parents have to be not so bad because his were worse?


Mom sacrificed everything for me. Do you not get that? And Dad...didn't want me to go to clubs when I was underage and hit me once.


He hit you?


Once.


You don't even see it, I said. You're so busy not wanting to be a sad story that you don't even see how fucked up people have been to you.


I don't need people to be perfect, he said. That's the difference between you and me.


Well, why not! I said, because...fucking fix me, God, just fix me at this point. Why can you walk around fucking fine with everyone being a disappointment and I can't?


He shrugged. Because I'm older? Because I have Brian? Because I don't have to listen to their bullshit all the time? I don't know.


Well, I'm sick of this, I said. I'm sick of everyone fucking keeping things from me. It's a fucked up thing our family does. I paused. And you should have called me when you were in the hospital.


I'm sorry, he said.


Luke ran over and said, Can we go to the reptile house?


Yeah, Justin said, but right then my phone started ringing. Mom. Shit.


You guys go ahead, I said. I'll catch up with you. Justin nodded and took Luke's hand, and I answered my phone. “Hi.”


“Hi, sweetie! How's your weekend with Luke? You know, I realized I forgot to tell you to water the plant on the front stoop. It's got to be getting thirsty with the weather we've been having.”


“Uh, yeah, I can do it.”


“Can you check the soil now, see how it's doing?”


“I'm, uh, not home right now, actually.”


“Oh? Where are you? You have Luke, right?”


“I have Luke. We're, um...we're with Justin.”


She paused. “Justin's in Pittsburgh?”


“No.”


“Molly.”


“Relax, okay? We're going home tonight. Justin and Brian already chewed me out.”


“Who would have thought they'd be my responsible children. For God's sake, Molly—”


“He loves Justin,” I said. “He never gets to see him.”


“Your father doesn't want Luke seeing Justin.”


“Yeah, and that's fucked up.”


“I agree with you, it's fucked up,” Mom said. “But it's not up to us.”


“That's bullshit. Something fucked up is going on and we can do something about it, how can you say it's not up to us?”


“Molly...”


“This is where he comes from,” I said. “He's his brother. This is his culture. So what, he's going to figure out that his dad's an asshole earlier than Dad wants him to? He deserves to know where he comes from. Just like...just like I deserved to know what happened to Justin.”


She was quiet for a while.


“I know,” she said eventually.


**


Justin was worn out as hell by the time we got back to the apartment. I had to give him a shove to get him into the elevator. Brian was at the bar working on his laptop and barely glanced up when we came in. Go lie down, he said. Justin kissed his cheek on the way to the bedroom and Brian smiled a little. Did you have fun? he asked Luke.


Molly let me take pictures on her phone, look.


Brian gave me a long-suffering look but moved to the couch to look through Luke's pictures with him. You know, he said to him after a while. You are really great at sign language.


Really? Luke said.


Really. It took me ages to get as good as you.


Me too, I said.


Luke beamed.


Brian came over to the fridge and got out two bottles of water. “What time's your train?” he asked me.


“Two hours from now.”


“Better head out soon.”


“Yeah, I know.”


“I gotta check Justin. How'd he do?”


“He's just tired, I think.”


“Hand didn't act up?”


“No.”


Brian went to the bedroom, and I sat on the couch and turned on cartoons for Luke and watched Brian pull Justin up. Come here, you lazy shit. Get your shoes off the duvet, Christ.


Hey.


Arms up, Brian said, and he slowly pulled Justin's shirt off him.


“I can do it.”


Brian laughed a little. I know you can do it.


It was my first time seeing the scars on Justin's chest, and God, they were bad back then. They've faded a lot now, but seeing them for that first time...fuck, it scared the shit out of me.


He could have fucking died, and I would have been playing capture the goddamn flag.


I'm not going to do this shit anymore.


**


How come Justin was so tired? Luke asked me on the train on the way home, after we'd hugged them goodbye, taken a few pictures, and Brian had slipped fifty dollars into my pocket, for some reason.


Well. Time to put my money where my mouth was.

 

Come here, I said. I'll tell you everything.

End Notes:

 

For templemarker.

Chapter 37 - Respite by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Everything is fine, and Brian has concerns about that.

Respite

LaVieEnRose



Brian paused the movie and said, Okay, that's enough.


I blinked. What?


That's three times I've tried to talk to you and you're zoned out. Go lie down.


I'm reading the subtitles!


He gave me a look. You are. Okay. What's happening in the scene?


I thought about trying to fake it, but I had to be realistic of successfully guessing what was happening, considering Brian picked this movie so it was probably some ridiculously boring and intricate subplot about business ethnics and corporate subterfuge. I'm thinking about a project, sorry. I'll pay attention.


I don't give a shit if you pay attention. You think it's hurting my feelings that you're not rapt with attention to the fucking movie? You're spacing out and losing time. Go lie down.


I'm fine.


You're being seizurey as fuck and I don't want to pick your teeth off the floor. Go to bed.


I'm not seizurey!


That's what you always say right before you swoon like a goddamn damsel.


Fine, be wrong. I threw the cushions on the floor and lay down. I'm not going to bed.


He shrugged, crossing his ankles on the table. Good enough. See you after your seizure.


I rolled over onto my back. I was thinking about that thunderstorm painting. Remember I said I wanted to do a thunderstorm painting?


Yep.


So I'm thinking about that.


Sure you are.


You are so goddamn annoying.


Look at it this way, he said, sipping his beer. Now you don't need one of those seizure alert dogs. You have me. You’re not allergic to me.


Want to bet? I definitely feel irritated.


Ha ha, he fingerspelled, slowly.


Plus a dog probably wouldn’t bother me when I was just thinking about a painting. Play the movie, at least, so I have something to do while I’m not seizing.


Fine, but you're just gonna miss it and I'll have to go back and watch it twice.


I know, I feel bad about how taxing my seizures are on you.


He pressed play and I watched the movie and made a whole point of staying focused on it and pretending I didn't notice him glancing at me every time I moved. After half an hour I rolled back onto my back and gave him a look.


Can I get up now? I said.


Shut up.

 


**


He studied me the next morning while he was slipping on his tie, his cheeks still flushed from the shower and everything that happened therein. Maybe you should work from home today.


I didn’t have to leave for another hour, so I was lounged in bed in my towel, considering breakfast. And my thunderstorm painting. Manage a gallery from home?


Yeah.


You’re seriously deranged, you know that?


He shrugged.


That performance in the shower wasn’t enough to prove I’m okay?


No, that was admirable. But...you still just seem off, he said. Your eyes aren't right.


I’m distracted about that painting, I told you. People get distracted. It’s my gentle artistic soul.


He snorted, but he didn’t relax.


Brian, I’m fine. Haven’t had so much as a hand twitch in four days.


He frowned. Maybe your meds are too high. We'd just upped them a few weeks before, when I'd fallen in the shower; I'd just tripped, people trip, but Brian was fucking convinced it was seizure-related and it was just easier to ask my neurologist to bump me back up for a little while than continue arguing with him about it.


I threw up my hands. First you're afraid I'm going to have a seizure, now my meds are, what, stopping me too much from having a seizure?


Usually your hand acts up a few times a week at least!


Yes, this is a good thing.


Not if you're a fucking zombie because your dosage is too high.


This man was going to be the fucking death of me. I'm not a zombie! I'm distracted by a painting, oh my God. I'm going to go to work, I'm going to get my shit done early, I'm going to have time to paint, everything's going to be right with the world. I got up and kissed him. You're gonna get frown lines, you know.


He swatted my hand away.


“Everything's fine,” I said. “I'm having a good week.”


Famous last words, he grumbled.


“Christ, how I put up with you before I was brain damaged, I'll never know.”


He picked me up by the waist and just...set me down somewhere different. “Bye,” he said in English.


“Have a good day, Brrrrrian,” I said, dragging out the R in the way that makes him smile.


**


Marie ran me ragged that day, chasing down invoices from a catering supplier who hadn't gotten back to us yet, calling a gallery in Munich that mishandled one of our paintings and chewing them the hell out, supervising the placement of a new sculpture in the atrium. I love my job.


I had lunch at my desk, made plans with Derek and Emily to hang out at my place after work—so much for staying late and painting, but whatever—and scrolled through some of the emails in my inbox, looking for sales. One of Brian's favorite décor sites had a vase I liked on clearance, so I sent a picture of it to him.


He emailed me back quickly. Not bad. Where do you want to put it?


Your desk at home.


Okay, he said, so I paid for it with my credit card.


He replied again a minute later with a link to a picture that was, of course, of his cock. I laughed and shifted in my desk chair.


Not bad, I wrote. Where do you want to put it?


**


I'm quitting the fucking library, Emily announced, standing on a chair and rooting around the cupboard for snacks. It's weird, watching people do things like that without caring. Get on high surfaces, drive. Boil water. It's not sad, really, it's just...I don't know. It's strange to think about the things I've learned to consider that most people don't. You don't notice until it's right in front of you.


Derek said, What the fuck are you going to do for food?


Keep stealing from Justin.


You should be a doctor, I said. Daphne's gonna make bank.


I can't even handle the fucking library, now I'm supposed to be a doctor? Christ, there's just so many fucking rules there! You have to scan every book ten thousand times into ten thousand different systems, and if one goes missing it's like a fucking federal case, and I'm like..it's a two dollar paperback. Who the fuck cares?


I think you're supposed to care about books if you work in a library, I said.


Exactly. So I'm quitting the library. Brian walked in then, and Emily waved her hand at him. Hey, hot shot, can I work for you? I hate my job and if I have to go back there one more day I will burn it down and I'm still theoretically against book burning. Probably.


Brian blinked at her. Too fast, he said. I've been speaking English all day, ease me in.


Will...you...hire...me? she signed, comically slow.


He picked her off the chair and set her on the floor. You're going to eat me out of fucking house and home, now you want me to pay you a salary?


Don't pick me up!


He does it to me all the time too, I said. Brian came up behind me and lifted me a few inches off the ground, his arms all the way around me, growling a “Hey,” into my ear that I could feel, warm and rumbly and wet. His cheek was scratchy against mine and oh, so nice.


Brian, Emily said.


He let go of me. Yeah, sure, I'll hire you. Hey Derek.


Emily jumped and probably squealed, from the way Brian winced. You will? she said.


Yeah, sure. My assistant needs an assistant because she hates doing work, and you two would get along. She signs okay and we have an interpreter. He studied her. Thirty-eight, starting salary? And I'll give you a raise after six months.


Emily stared. Thirty eight thousand dollars?


Is that enough? What's your rent?


She looked at me. Is he serious?


He's serious.


Emily hugged him, which since she's so short and he's so tall basically consisted of climbing him like a tree.


This is disqualifying, Brian said. This cannot happen.


She dropped to the floor, jumped up to kiss him, then danced her way over to the living room. I'm quitting the library!


I studied Brian, sipping my soda.


What? he said.


Oh, nothing, you're amazing and perfect and I'm madly in love with you.


He opened the fridge. I think I've heard that from someone before. Keep it in your pants, Taylor.


I pressed myself into him. Do I have to?


He studied me and made a grab for my crotch. Maybe not.


Derek said, What the fuck, I'm still in here.


**


I'm not sure you know what you're in for with Emily, I said to Brian later, when we were brushing our teeth. She's not exactly organized.


He laughed and spit. Who knows. She's Cynthia's problem now, not mine.


I can't believe you just offered her a job like that.


Why? I love making reckless decisions and throwing away my money.


Put that way, true, it seemed very in-character. You knew how much she hated that library job, I said. You were doing something nice because you like her.


Why do you make everything sound so fucking gross? Did you take a class in this? I thought they sent me copies of your class schedules, as your generous benefactor. He plugged in his razor and started shaving. Did you get to work on your painting today?


A little. Do I seem less distracted now?


He gave me a bit of a smile. A little. Hand still hasn't bothered you?


Nope, still good. Will you calm down now?


How am I not calm? I'm standing here shaving. I can't ask about your hand?


You can ask. I stood behind him while he shaved and wrapped my arms around him, burying my nose in his back to smell him for a little while. I got up on my toes to rest my chin on his shoulder and he wrinkled his nose at me in the mirror.


Don't come crying to me when I accidentally shave off a chunk of your hair, he said. You're hanging all the fuck over me lately.


I shrugged. You've been stressed out.


I'm not stressed out.


Well, you're acting weird.


He unplugged his razor and turned around, resting his fingers on my waist. I'm acting weird because you're acting weird.


I groaned. I'm distracted by a painting!


I know. He kissed me. So what happened to Derek's wrist?


Oh, he sprained it playing Frisbee golf.


He headed to the bedroom and sat on the bed, setting his alarm. Of course he did. Has he gotten it checked out yet? I can get him an appointment with the doctor who fixed my wrist last year. Brian had an issue with carpal tunnel a little while back, from signing too much. He's okay now.


I stayed in the doorway and crossed my arms.


What? he said.


Are you just going to keep rescuing my friends one by one until I have a new crisis for you to fix?


I am not rescuing anyone.


You have an addiction, I said.


That may very well be true, but it's not for saving people.


I came in and sat on the foot of the bed. You don't know what to do with yourself when there's nothing wrong with me so you're boyfriending all my friends.


I'm boyfriending them. He repeated. Emily wishes.


Brian, I said. There is nothing for you to fix. Everything is fine. You can just calm down.


Stop psychonalyzing me. You're not even doing a good job.


I crawled up the bed and into his arms. You have a hero complex.


No I don't. I'm just drawn that way. And whose fault is that? He kissed me.


You get to relax, I said. People dream of a life without problems, you know. This is supposed to be a good thing.


Then help me relax, he signed, his fingers crawling up my sides, so I did.


**


I stayed late at the studio after work the next day to put some serious work in on my thunderstorm painting. I texted Brian telling him not to wait up, but he showed up a little after midnight, sweaty and drunk and hot as all fucking fuck, lurking around my studio in his club clothes. He pressed himself behind me so I could smell his cologne and I forgot how to paint. “Oh Jesus.”


He turned me around and pressed a deep kiss into me, like he was driving it right through my body. “Hi.”


“Hi.”


I just gave someone advice at Nova.


I laughed. You what?


I gave him advice on his investments and how to talk to his boyfriend about his credit card debt.


“Huh.”


You may have been on to something last night.


Yes, I know.


He groaned, probably, and threw himself on one of my stools. So I like to have a project! Is that a crime?


I like that you like taking care of me. It works very well for us since I'm a goddamn mess. But not if you can’t relax when there’s nothing for you to fix.


He nodded to my canvas. This is beautiful so far, by the way.


Thank you.


I feel like something’s going to sneak up on me. I just...I like feeling like I’m on top of things. He got up and nipped at my ear. On top of you.


I forced myself not to melt into him. But I’m okay.


You sure? He played with my hair. Maybe a little bit of a headache or something.


Sorry.


Can I wash your brushes?


Christ, you really do need a project. Go ahead.


He went over to the sink and started working. I watched all the colors rinse over his hands.


“It’s not your job to fix everything. And you need to figure out how to be calm with me when you don’t need to fix me,” I said.


Why does every problem about me have to become a problem about you and me? Can’t I just be a neurotic loser on my own?


I came around and kissed the back of his neck. He shivered. “Okay.”


He turned around and guided his mouth around mine, parting my lips with his teeth, cradling my jaw.


“I don’t want you around because you fix me,” I whispered.


He said something that looked a lot like “Why else?”


But he hadn't said it for me to hear. He didn't want words back. So I took his hand and put it over my heart and we just stood here for a while, his forehead bowed against the top of my head. He understood.


Christ, he said eventually. Look what you've done to me.


“I know.”


What the fuck, he said. Who gave you fucking permission to make me feel this shit? What was the fucking precedent?


I shook my head.


There is... He kissed me, fiercely. There was no fucking reason for you to think I would let you do this to me.


It’s my job, I said, and he closed his eyes and said “Justin,” and I loved the way it looked on his mouth, and his face looked like I hurt him and he hugged me so tightly.


**


The next night, I lay on his lap watching Survivor and texting Daphne about her boyfriend while he rested the file he was leafing through on my head.


I tugged on his sleeve. Daphne had a fight with Rafi.


Oh yeah? he said, barely paying attention.


Yeah, she sounds upset. I bet she could use someone to get drunk with her and tell her what to do.


He studied me for a beat, then sighed and slid me off his lap. My work is never done.


Poor, long suffering Brian.


He grinned at me on the way out the door, and I turned up the TV loud enough to feel it through the floor and chuckled to myself.

 

End Notes:

For Jg1225. And also for templemarker, who asked me for boring.

Chapter 38 - A Slight Inconvenience by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin's sick on an important day, but Brian has it under control.

A Slight Inconvenience

LaVieEnRose




Derek and I both still lived with our respective parents, which was a fucking annoyance and the worst, but it's New York City so what are you gonna do? Gather at Justin's apartment every fucking time we got together, that's what. But then I had the good sense to hook up with Samantha, who had this amazing apartment in SoHo, because I fucking know how to pick them, thank you very much, so finally we could switch it up and not always eat Justin's food and smoke Brian's weed. Not that that wasn't great and everything, but since Brian was now my boss I figured I should probably show, like, an ounce more respect. Maybe. Half an ounce.


So anyway, tonight we were at Samatha's place. Her cousins were in town, and Derek invited people from his D&D group, so it was gonna be a pretty good crowd. Are Justin and Brian coming? she asked me.


Justin is. Brian can't, he has four major presentations tomorrow. Clients in all day. Very, very important.


She rolled her eyes. Oh, this is fun.


What! I'm just saying, we've been preparing for this day for a month and he's got speeches and proposals and visual aids and—


I just wanted to know if I needed to cut up some celery or some shit so Brian would have something to eat.


I was still giggling about that when her cousins got there, then Derek, then a whole bunch of D&D guys. Justin came in on their heels, and he kissed cheeks and smiled but he looked kind of pale, and after a while he camped out on the couch and got really quiet. I didn't have a whole ton of time to worry about that, though, because there were jello shots, and Samantha came up to me with one of her straps slipping down her shoulder, and the next thing I knew we were on top of the pile of coats on her bed, and her mouth was on my neck, and party, what party?


The lights flickered, and I raised a hand and signed no without looking up from the soft skin on Samantha's collarbone. They flickered again, and Samantha rolled off of me and I sat up. It was Derek, standing in the doorway and looking sheepish. What? I said.


Sorry. I think someone should text Brian. Or maybe Daphne? Justin looks like shit.


Brian, I said. Definitely Brian. What's wrong?


He's holding his head and he really doesn't look right. Derek took out his phone and texted. Okay, he said he knew it and he'll come get him.


Samantha nudged me. I thought Brian had all those presentations.


Yeah, and guess what kind of attitude he's going to be stomping around with tomorrow if he finds out I texted Daphne before him.


Samantha and I straightened ourselves up and we all went back out to the party. I sat with Justin and convinced him to drink a glass of water while Samantha managed the rest of the party and kept people from bothering him, since she still didn't know him all that well. I'd seen Justin sick, fuck, I visited him in the hospital when he had those burns, so none of this was new and scary for me. And he was okay. Just dizzy, he said, but he looked relieved when I told him Brian was on his way.


Sorry, he said. This is embarrassing.


You're so fucking weird about this shit. Relax.


Derek met Brian at the door with a quick kiss—he's getting the hang of being friends with queers, only took knowing me for fifteen goddamn years—and pointed towards the couch. Brian had a brief conversation with him I couldn't see much of, but I saw Brian sign mother so I figured he was asking Derek to tell his mom, Justin's boss, that he wouldn't be coming in the next day. Brian didn't come right over to the couch; he helped himself to a handful of chips, complimented Samantha's dress, and circled the room, watching Justin with his eyes narrowed, like he was figuring out a strategy. Finally he swept over, messed up my hair—I slapped him away—and tapped two fingers on Justin's knee.


Justin looked up and smiled a little.


I told you so, Brian said.


Don't give me that shit, this is your fault.


Fifty-fifty. Ready to go?


Justin nodded and stood up shakily. Brian stood close but didn't help him. Told you you'd get to rescue me soon enough, Justin said.


We'll see, I'm out of practice. Where's your coat?


I'll get it, I said. I went back to Samantha's bedroom and dug Justin's red coat out of the pile. Brian supervised but didn't help Justin get slowly into his jacket, then turned to me and gave me a light punch under my chin.


Watch the drinking, he said. Need you sharp tomorrow. And then he smiled like nothing was wrong, tucked Justin under his arm, and was out the door.


**


Everyone was running around in the morning getting the office ready for all the clients coming in. Cynthia had a new vase of flowers on her desk, picked up by yours truly, and we had boards and banners ready to go and switch out as the day went on and different accounts arrived. This was a multi-million dollar day, Cynthia had told me last week, and about an hour after that it hit me that she wasn't exaggerating. I had to borrow heels from my mom!


Cynthia's job was to meet the clients at the door and gush and lead them to Brian, and my job was to do everything else that she wasn't doing while she did that. I was sitting at her desk, which made me feel professional as hell, when Marcus, one of the office managers, came and dropped a note on my desk. I use the staff interpreter for meetings and things like that, but one-on-one I mostly manage on my own. I'm a decent enough lipreader and Cynthia's a serviceable signer, plus it's an office so most of the important stuff is over email anyway. It's not like I've never dealt with hearing people before.


Does Cynthia know Justin's here? I'm supposed to be setting up boards in Kinney's office and Justin's on his couch the note said.


I looked up. Justin's there to stay? I might know how to deal with hearing people, but that does not mean I'm speaking to them. I'll mouth some English words and that's usually enough for them to piece together simple sentences. Emily St. Boroughs speaks for no man. And most people in the office knew a few signs at that point anyway, and if they didn't they fucking would by the time I was done with them.


Marcus nodded.


Why is Justin here? He's sick.


“I think that's why,” he said.


What did Brian say?


“He told me to fuck off.”


He told you to fuck off?


“Yeah.”


I got up and walked as fast as I could in these fucking heels to Cynthia by the door and handed her Marcus's note. “Fuck,” she said.


He was sick last night, I said.


Yeah, Brian only brings him in when he's too sick to be on his own. Usually he just sleeps on the couch, which is fine when we don't have fucking clients coming in.


What should I do? I said.


Okay, go to Brian's office, see where he wants me to bring StarWood when they get here in fucking five minutes, and see if you can get a read on where his head is. If I have to move these meetings to Isabel, I'll do it.


I wobbled myself down the hall to Brian's office. He was sitting at his desk, writing something down. I knocked, and he waved me in without looking up.


Justin was curled up against the arm of the couch, his knees up to his chest and his face hidden in his arms, feet sticking out from under a blanket. He was shivering, not like when he has a seizure or anything, but like he was cold. I couldn't tell if he was awake, but either way he looked like he was trying really, really hard to pretend he wasn't here.


Brian stamped on the floor, and I jumped and turned around. Did you need something? he said. I learned pretty quickly on in this job that Friend Brian and Boss Brian are not the same person. He's not mean to me at work or anything, but it's not like I spend time hanging out in his office shooting the shit. And I send him emails addressed to Miiiiiiister Kinney.


I looked at Justin.


Brian waved his hand at me. Emily, he said, with a stern look. I guess Justin wasn't the only one pretending Justin wasn't here.


I said, Cynthia wants to know if you're ready.


It's eight fifty-six. Isn't StarWood coming at nine?


Yes...


Then you can assume I'm ready, can't you? He stood up and showed off his suit, doing a little spin and straightening his cuffs. Don't I look ready?


He did. Not a hair out of place. Definitely didn't look like someone with a sick boyfriend. He raised his eyebrow again, like a challenge.


I said, Do you still want to meet them in here, or...?


His expression faltered, just for a second. Uh, no. I'll meet them in the conference room. Tell Marcus to set it up. Quickly, please.


Do you want me to stay with Justin while you're—


Nope. I want you to do your job, can you do your job?


Before I could answer, Justin reached over to the table beside the couch and tried to drink from a small bottle of water, but he was shaking too hard and it fell out of his hands and spilled on the floor, and he hit the couch in frustration and balled himself back up. Brian produced some napkins from a drawer in his desk and strode over and cleaned it up, barely glancing at Justin but resting one hand on his knee. Justin pushed his face into the couch.


Well? Brian said to me, standing back up. He tugged the blanket so it covered Justin's feet.


I shook my head. Yeah. Okay. Sorry. I'll tell Cynthia the conference room. I forced myself not to turn and look at Justin again as I left, but right as I was about to go Brian stamped on the floor again, and I turned around.


Brian studied me, and he looked like my friend, all of a sudden. He's fine, he said. The medications he's on are strong and sometimes the side effects get the better of him. He'll be better tomorrow.


I felt sort of embarrassed, which was dumb as shit, because Justin was one of my best friends and he was curled up miserable; I was allowed to be concerned. But that's how Brian always is when something's wrong with Justin. He manages everything so tightly. There's no room for sympathy, or worry, or for anyone who isn't him and Justin. Businesslike.


I said, Yeah, okay.


Tell Cynthia I'm on my way to the conference room.


Okay.


Thank you.


Justin squirmed out from under the blanket and said Stop banging on the floor, to Brian.


Brian smiled at him, his eyes like melted chocolate. No.


**


The presentation went off without a hitch. I didn't even need Stephanie's interpretation to see Brian charm the fucking pants off of StarWood Electronics. They were hanging on his every fucking word, and when we said goodbye to them and got them into their limo—their limo!—I could practically see the dollar signs.


What time is it? Brian asked Cynthia as the three of us headed back from seeing them out. He was walking way faster than I wanted to in these heels.


Nearly eleven, Cynthia said.


How long until the next one?


They texted that they're going to be early, Cynthia said. Twenty minutes.


Early. Phenomenal.


Cynthia said, Marcus is flipping the conference room now.


Remind me which one this is? He led us into his office and went straight to the couch. Justin was sitting up, twisted up like a pretzel and half-asleep, and Brian sat down next to him and worked on untangling him.


Acclaim, I said.


Right. Bicycles. He pulled Justin towards him and palmed his forehead, then dug through Justin's backpack and took out one of those blood pressure machines. Justin rolled up sleeve, and I gave him a little wave, and he smiled a little and gave me one back. Did Stephenson get back to us about the comps we sent? Brian asked, fastening it around Justin's arm.


All he'd say was... Cynthia started, then looked at me. Probably a little bit complicated for her to sign, but I'd seen the emails.


He was eager to get to talk to you about it in person, I finished.


Gotta love suspense, Brian said, as Justin winced while the cuff tightened. Okay, let's make sure the comps are the first thing he sees when walks into the conference room, all right? They're fucking good, and if he has a problem with them I don't want to waste half an hour pitching him a campaign based around them if he's just going to make us come up with something new. He took the cuff off of Justin and checked the readout on the machine. Uh, all right. Change of plans. Tell Marcus we're meeting in here. He gave Justin's cheek a quick kiss.


In here? Cynthia said.


In here. Emily, could you get me some water?


I went to his water cooler in the corner and filled a plastic cup. Cynthia said, Brian, are you sure—


Yep, and it'll be completely fine. Go tell Marcus, please, we need to get set up. Cynthia left, and I brought the water back to Brian. He handed it to Justin and guided his hand up to his mouth. There you go. Wasted enough water today.


Maybe we just get Isabel to do this one? I said.


Brian shook his head, still casual as can be. Justin's just gonna hang out. Won't be any trouble, will you, Sunshine? Justin's told me that's what that sign means, that it's a nickname he's had since he was a kid and they weren't going to lose it when he went Deaf, even though we're not big on nicknames, or using names at all, really. Really the way they sign it looks more like Shower. These late in life Deafies, you can't trust 'em with anything.


Justin shook his head a little, sipping the water. No trouble.


See? Brian smiled at me, cupping the back of Justin's neck. We're fine.


Brian had Marcus set up chairs and set the boards up on the opposite side of the room from Justin, so everyone was facing away from him. He was asleep and under his blanket again before anyone came in, and they all glanced at him in confusion and Brian smoothly drew their attention away, and that was it. At one point, halfway through the presentation, their CFO asked Brian a question, and Brian answered as he walked to the closet for another blanket and lay it over Justin—who, I saw when I turned my head, had started to shiver harder—without ever pausing what he was saying or losing eye contact, striding right back over to the boards when he was done.


The guy was good.


**


Justin got up to use the bathroom and kind of wander the office while we prepared for the next client. Brian leaned against his desk, legs crossed, trying to go over our talking points for Spike Sneakers, but he kept getting distracted when Justin would walked past him. Finally he said, Hey, Forrest Gump. How about taking a breather?


Justin rubbed his forehead. Forrest Gump?


Walked across America.


Justin sat back down on the couch. I think he ran.


Well, yeah, he probably had a blood pressure higher than seven and a half over four or whatever the fuck yours was.


I feel like I'm underwater.


Well, next time don't fuck up and take your anticonvulsant twice in four hours. I told you you should have just stuck your finger down your throat when you realized, but no, someone's too prissy.


You were the one who convinced me I hadn't taken it yet, and it wouldn't have fucked me up this badly if my dosage weren't already jacked up from you being fucking paranoid! I told you I was going to crash on this much. He was shaking so much it was hard to understand some of his signs, but I got it all because I'm amazing at sign language, and Brian got it because he always knows what Justin's saying.


Brian said, Yeah, and now you have the moral high ground! Isn't that worth feeling like crap for a day?


Justin glared at him, and Brian shot back a cheesy grin.


Can you do the next one somewhere else? Justin said. I don't want them to stare at me.


No one's staring at you. You're not that interesting.


Justin pulled the blanket up over his head. Brian rolled his eyes and went over to the couch and fished out one of Justin's wrists to take his pulse.


You want to meet them in here again? Cynthia asked. She probably hadn't been able to follow the conversation between Brian and Justin.


Brian tapped his fingers over his mouth.


“Brian,” Cynthia said.


I'm thinking.


I'll stay with him, I said. Risky move, but it felt right, and Brian looked at me differently than he had when I offered that morning.


You're supposed to be learning, he said.


I learned in the first two meetings.


Brian hesitated.


I'm your assistant, I said. I'm assisting you.


You are not my assistant. You're her assistant.


Yes I am. Transitive property.


Does anyone follow you when you fingerspell that fast?


So maybe because of that, and maybe because I knew it would work, I fingerspelled Brian, nice and slowly. Not his sign name, which could theoretically be a nice respectful Mr. Kinney. Brian. I am your friend. I'm his friend. Let me help you.


Cynthia looked between the two of us, because the significance of me spelling out his name like that was definitely lost on her, but Brian got it. He's not a bad Deaf person, for a hearing guy.


All right, he said. He ran a hand absently over Justin, through the blanket. Come get me if he dies.


Okay.


On the way out of the office, he signed, small, Update me in an hour, and kissed my cheek.


**


Mostly Justin slept, and I sat at Brian's desk and put my feet up and played with his little toys and pretended this was my agency. Maybe someday. I'd never thought of myself as a white collar sort of girl, but this shit was all right. I'd be the first Deaf billionaire.


Justin stirred after a little while and looked at me. How long have I been asleep?


Just a few months. I moved up the ranks pretty quick. How you doing?


He pulled his legs up. I'll live. Just a bad day.


I tossed him a can of Play-Doh—Brian's desk has the best shit!—and he opened it up and squished it around.


Did you really take your meds twice? I asked him.


I got confused!


You're so stupid!


He tried to throw the Play-Doh with me, but he was so shaky that it just went somewhere to the right of Brian's desk.


Nice, I said.


He flopped down on the couch. Shut up.


I got up and went and sat by his feet. Come here, let's cuddle.


Okay. He squirmed around until his head was on my lap and I played with his hair.


Brian acts like such a jerk when you're sick, I said.


He yawned. I know. I love it. And I think right there is the only explanation there is for their relationship, or the only explanation anyone deserves, anyway. Justin needs someone to remind him not to take shit too seriously, and Brian needs someone to remind him that his tough act isn't fooling everyone. Keeps them mortal, I guess. So Brian acts bored and dismissive, and Justin gives him knowing glances, and...I don't know. I get it.


I laughed. Me too.


He was asleep again when I went to update Brian. I stood outside the door of the conference room, not sure if I was supposed to just walk in or wait for him to stop in his presentation and invite me, but after a second he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, still speaking, and wiggled his fingers, kind of a Well...?


Oh, okay! His nose was bleeding, but he said that was okay?


That's fine, he signed, so fucking small that anyone who wasn't looking for it would think he was just scratching his chest or something.


He said he wants to go home.


No.


Brian came back to his office about an hour later, while I was playing solitaire on his computer and Justin was checking his blood pressure again. You better not have gotten blood on my couch, you little shit.


Tons. Buckets.


Feeling better?


Justin pouted and flopped down on the cushions.


Cool, good to know.


**


I went out and got lunch for me and Cynthia and Brian, like most days, and we ate in his office while we strategized for our last meeting. Justin was half-awake, leaning on Brian with his face pressed into his side and a blanket around his shoulders. Brian ate his sandwich and sorted through files and pretty much ignored him, though even with the signing and eating he kept the arm Justin was on very still.


How many fucking products do they expect us to have ideas for? I said. And does this company even have a fucking focus? How much shit do they make?


It's the whole parent company, Brian said. And they want someone for every one of their little branches. Multi-million dollar a year advertising budget.


Holy shit, I said.


Brian nodded. Holy shit indeed.


We still need something for the silent fireworks, Cynthia said.


Brian read over a page about them. Silent fireworks. Who the fuck wants these? He took a bite of his sandwich, shook the shoulder Justin was against to dislodge him, and held the sandwich up to him. Justin made a face, but when Brian didn't move it he took a small bite, then shook his head and shoved it away.


Families with dogs, Cynthia said.


Christ, that's bleak. He looked at me. Do you want this?


You can't just market everything to Deaf people, I said.


I spent ten years marketing everything to gay people. It works.


Well, no, we don't want silent fireworks, I said. You can feel them in your stomach. It's awesome.


Brian sighed. Fuck. Abandoned by the Deaf community.


PTSD, Justin said, rubbing his forehead.


Brian turned to him, and said, Hey, what? surprisingly gently.


Veterans with PTSD, Justin said. Fourth of July is supposed to celebrate them, they hate the noise of the fireworks. Market it as being sensitive to veterans and places will be falling over themselves to show how much they support the troops.


Brian stared at him for a beat, then turned to us. See, this. This is why you shack up. He lifted Justin's chin and kissed him. My little genius.


Can I go home now?


No. He fixed the blanket over Justin's shoulders. But you might have just made us a few million dollars.


I'd rather go home.


Brian gave him a quick squeeze and let him go. You up to being left alone? I want Emily to see this one.


Justin shook his head and slid down into Brian's lap.


Okay, Brian said, chuckling a little. Cynthia, can you take this one?


She blinked. You got it, Brian. Won't let you down.


On they way out, I asked her, He's giving you a multi-million dollar meeting?


Keep a straight face, she said. You and me are going places, kid.


**


Cynthia fucking killed it. God, my boss is so fucking cool! Like, Brian's good and everything, but holy shit, Cynthia! I wished so badly in that moment that she signed better because as soon as I watched Stephanie interpret for her I realized how much fucking personality she has that she couldn't really convey yet. I couldn't wait for her to get better so we could talk more. Holy shit, I wanted her to run my life. Next time I was gonna borrow her heels.


The company loved her. The second they were gone we jumped up and down and Cynthia hugged me. I felt bad about it since like, my good friend was so sick and everything, but fuck this was just the best day.


We floated back to Brian's office, where he was asleep on the couch with Justin curled up on top of him. He opened his eyes and put a palm on Justin's head. Well?


We got it, Cynthia said.


Fuck yes. I knew you would. He carefully displaced Justin and went over to his desk while Justin rubbed his eyes. And to celebrate... he said, taking out his checkbook, and he glanced up at us and then wrote and tore two checks. Bonuses for everyone. He looked at Justin, shrugged, and wrote a third one. And a consultant's fee.


He handed them out and...what the fuck. Emily St. Boroughs. Twenty thousand dollars.


So...yeah. This was a pretty fucking great day.


Cynthia and I kind of just stood there gaping at him, and Brian grinned and clapped his hands together. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get my person out of here. He craned his neck over to Justin. Ready?


No, Justin said.


I said, You've been wanting to go home all day!


Brian laughed. What? Look at him. We're not going home and he knows it.


Justin pouted.


Brian helped him off the couch, steadying him as he wavered on his feet. I was amazing today, he said to Justin, small, intimate. And you. You were amazing.


Justin blushed. I slept on your couch and came up with an idea you would have thought of thirty seconds later.


Brian shrugged. Well, time is money. He helped Justin into his jacket. Come on. Next stop, hospital.


Oh, joy.


Thank you for a great day, Brian said, kissing my cheek, then Cynthia's. See you in the morning and we'll do it again. He slung his arm over Justin's shoulder and brought him out of the office.


Cynthia and I looked at each other, and she just laughed. Same time tomorrow? she said.


I'll be here.

End Notes:

Plain! naked! low angst! hurt/comfort! If it were up to me this would be all I write, but I try to keep it interesting for you guys. And then sometimes...I am just self-indulgent as hell.

 

Takes place a couple months after our girl Emily starts working for Brian.

Chapter 39 - All Together by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Worlds collide when Brian and Justin come home for a funeral.

All Together


6:05 AM

________ 


Justin creeps out of bed and makes coffee, checking the time on the oven clock. They don't have to leave for another hour, but he couldn't sleep.


He forgets about the squeaky floorboard and wakes Brian up when he's watching him from the bedroom doorway. Brian stretches and sits up, and Justin brings him some coffee.


I told you, Brian says. I don't need taking care of.


I always bring you coffee.


Such a good little wife, Brian says. Justin watches him, and he sighs. Sorry. Do we really have to do this?


Again, no. I can become suddenly very sick.


Brian shakes his head and sips from his mug. I'll never hear the end of it from Michael if I miss it. He'll read way, way too much into it.


That does sound like Michael.


Brian stands up and starts to dress. I swear, she scheduled it today on purpose.


It takes Justin a second to figure out that he means Claire, and another second after that to remember why today is significant. How would she even know?


Bats know everything, Brian says, and Justin laughs a little.


**


Ben is already awake, patiently sitting on the couch while Ivy hands him every one of her toy trains, then takes them back, then hands them to him again. Michael kisses the back of his head on the way to the kitchen.


“What time are they getting in?” Ben asks.


“Justin said their flight lands a little before nine. I don't know why they didn't come in last night, stay here...”


“Probably the screaming baby,” Ben says, giving her a kiss. “I thought Justin didn't fly?”


“Guess he's making an exception.”


Michael's been in a bad mood about Justin since Thursday, when Justin texted them to tell them the news, then texted again telling Michael to stop calling after Brian didn't pick up twice. “He wasn't even there when his dad died,” Michael says now. “He doesn't know how to deal with this stuff. I do.”


“I'd say he knows Brian pretty well at this point,” Ben says.


“He doesn't know his family.”


Ben gets up and hugs Michael from behind, and Michael turns and presses a kiss to his lips.


“Happy birthday,” he says softly.


Ben smiles. “Thank you. We'll do something when this is all over.”


“Might have to wait until tomorrow. Brian might...”


“I know.”


**


Emily wakes up in a hotel bed in fucking Pittsburgh with Derek's arm slung over her naked waist.


Oh, fuck.


**


Debbie tosses her apron in the dirty linens when Betty comes to take her shift. She can maybe squeeze in an hour of sleep before she has to get to the church.


She thinks about her last funeral, how it's kind of remarkable that it's been seven years since somebody she knew died.


Not that she really ever knew Joan.


 


7:10 AM

________


 


Brian counts out pills by the ticket counter at Laguardia.


“It's too early,” Justin says. “You're going to have to carry me to the gate if I take them now.”


Brian ignores him and hands Justin the sedatives and a bottle of water.


We could have just taken the train, Justin says.


I want this trip to be as short as possible, Brian says. They're flying back tonight, too. And we needed to try this sooner or later.


Why, you planning on taking me somewhere?


Sure, Brian says.


Justin shrugs and swallows the sedatives.


Night night, Brian says, guiding him to security.


**


Lindsay mashes bananas into the pancakes batter.


“Gus wants to tell him,” Melanie says.


She pauses. “Today?”


“I know.”


“God, not today.”


“He says it's better to do it in person.”


“I'm going to assume you shut that down.”


“Oh, absolutely. I told him by no fucking means. But we're going to have to keep a leash on him, sounds like.”


Lindsay shakes her head. “I'm still surprised he's even coming down.”


“He has to. It's his mother.”


“You never met her,” Lindsay says.


**


Michael wrangles Ivy's chubby legs into a pair of tights.


“Are we picking them up from the airport?” Ben asks.


Michael shakes his head. “I offered. Justin says it's under control. I guess they're renting a car.”


“Justin's really handling everything, huh?” Ben says, without thinking.


Michael, thankfully, says nothing.


**


Derek glances at Emily as the put their clothes on.


Don't, she says. We're not talking about this.


We've never done it two nights in a row, he says.


So we were stupid twice? She shakes her head. I have a girlfriend. You have a... hopeless, unrequited crush on a hearing girl.


Derek says, I just want to make sure you're not—


I'm not, she says. Come on, we have to be at the airport in an hour. Remember how to get there?


I just drove it last night, Derek says.


I was there.


 


8:21 AM

________

Justin successfully sleeps through most of the plane ride, but he wakes up twice and vomits twice, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. Brian is patient and warm beside him, glaring at anyone who complains.


We'll do a higher dose when we go to the Bahamas, Brian says. Then you'll be able to sleep the whole day once we get there.


Justin coughs, spits. Bahamas?


Sure.


The third time Justin throws up, Brian says, Hey, save something for the gravesite, and Justin kicks him and leans back in his seat, eyes closed, embarrassment heating his face.


He feels Brian drop his head to his shoulder and has to struggle not to startle. It's a an odd position for them, given the height difference. Given the power dynamic.


She wasn't always bad, Brian says, without looking at him.


Justin knows exactly what Brian's doing, knows that this is supposed to be a distraction to keep Justin from focusing on how goddamn hellacious he feels at this moment, to ground him into why they're here, what they're doing. He's done the exact same thing to Brian, drawn Brian's attention to some problem he's having to keep him from disappearing off into his head, a hundred times.


Brian doesn't really want to talk about his mother; Justin's not an idiot. But he's being vulnerable to help Justin, and that's a hell of a lot more noteworthy.


You manipulative bastard, Justin signs in front of his face.


He feels Brian chuckle.


**


Jennifer's stepping into her heels when Molly comes to ask if she can borrow some earrings.


“It feels weird,” Molly says, slipping them on. “Going to a funeral for somebody I never met.”


“I never met her either,” Jennifer says. “But funerals are to help the people living, not just for the dead.”


“That's good,” Molly says. “Because I hear she was a real bitch.”


**


Ted gets to the church early—Blake's going to meet him later, he told him he had business to attend to at Kinnetik first, lied, lied, lied—and wanders around the cemetery until he finds the grave of one Doctor Crystal. Not what it says on the stone. He hadn't gone to the funeral, hadn't visited the grave until now.


He tilts his head back at the sky and feels lucky and thinks it might rain.


**


Emmett says, “I keep thinking about my mother,” as he combs through his dresser, trying to pick a tie. “I haven't talked to her in fifteen years. Hell, for all I know she is dead.”


Drew rests a hand on his back. “Was Brian close to his?”


“Ha, no.”


“That's too bad.”


Emmett shrugs. “He never needed a family. He has us.”


“When was the last time you talked to him?” Drew says, after a beat.


Emmett doesn't say anything.


 


8:51 AM

________

 

Brian sees them first, standing in the arrivals area, after he and a drowsy Justin have changed into their suits in the airport bathroom, and he stops and takes a breath.


I didn't know you told them, he says.


Of course I did.


Emily hugs Justin first, and Derek Brian. Brian's stiff for a second, but he pushes through it and puts his arms around him. Derek's hand cups the back of his neck.


You didn't have to come all this way, he says, bending down to hug Emily once she lets go of Justin.


Don't be stupid, Derek says.


Emily says, Daphne's sorry she couldn't make it. She couldn't get off work.


I know. She texted during the flight.


Derek straightens Brian's tie, and when he reaches up and gives him a gentle smack on the cheek, Brian feels something he hasn't felt in a long time. He swallows.


He grabs Justin on the way to the car and whispers, “I love you,” in his ear, and Justin, whether or not he really understands it, smiles at him.


**


Gus pouts in the backseat, the cartoon J.R.'s watching on her iPad blaring through the subcompact.


“Dad would take my side,” he says.


“This isn't about sides,” Mama says, for the hundredth time.


Mom, who totally knows it's about sides, who hugged Gus tight the night it happened but has stayed quiet since, stays quiet now.


Mama, with her pretty blond hair and blue eyes, isn't going to get this.


Maybe Dad won't either. Maybe they're right.


**


Derek knew Justin first, can talk to Justin more easily, loves Justin dearly, would walk on hot coals for Justin, but he's fascinated by Brian.


Emily doesn't get it. She spends more time with Brian now than Justin now that they work together, has more in common with Brian, loves Brian dearly, would walk on hot coals for Brian, but remains inarguably closer to Justin. She thinks it's ridiculous when Derek asks her questions about what he's like at work, how he manages all his employees, charms all the clients.


He's just a guy, Emily always says. Not a superhero.


Brian sits in the passenger seat, looking worn out as hell, while Justin sits behind him and rubs his shoulders.


Derek maybe believes it this time.


Where are we headed? Derek asks.


Straight to the church, Brian says.


Can you even walk on church grounds without catching on fire? Derek asks him.


Guess we'll find out.


 


9:20 AM

________

 

Justin is about to enter the church when Brian grabs his arm.


Shit, he said. Shit, shit. I forgot to get an interpreter.


No, I did it, it's okay. He's coming at nine-thirty.


Brian blinks, and Justin smiles a little and opens the door to the church. Before anyone even reacts to them, he's already pawing at his nose, looking around at the ostentatious flower arrangements. Shit, I should have—


Brian takes a Claritin out of his pocket and hands it to him.


Well-oiled machine Justin says, swallowing it dry, and Brian has no time to respond with something snarky—he has to—before Debbie crushes him into a hug.


**


Lindsay turns to Melanie. “Who are they?” she whispers.


Melanie shrugs. “Friends from New York?”


The boy turns to the girl and signs something.


“Deaf friends from New York?” Melanie amends.


**


Michael sips his little cup of punch. “Jesus, Justin brought his friends?”


“I guess he wanted someone to talk to,” Ben says, shifting Ivy in his arms.


“It's a funeral, not a fucking dinner party,” Michael says. “I know it's his birthday, but you'd think he'd think about Brian today. He doesn't want a fucking audience. He probably wishes none of us were here.”


**


Jennifer kisses Brian's cheek and feels his fingers dig into her back. “I'm so sorry for your loss, honey.”


Brian nods a little. Molly stands on her toes to kiss him and Brian raises an eyebrow. Kidnap any kids today?


No, but it's only nine.


Jennifer licks her thumb and wipes a smudge off Justin's face, and Justin squirms and complains and Jennifer thinks she sees Brian smile.


 


9:22 AM

________


 


Justin hangs back when Claire approaches Brian, unsure what Brian will want from him. She hugs him, crying into his shoulder, and Brian brings up a hand to stiffly pat her back. It occurs to Justin that last time he had any interaction with Brian's family, he was hearing, and the idea of having to tell them he's Deaf just feels ridiculous. It's such an awkward conversation to have even with nice, rational people, which obviously is not on the table here.


He watches Claire when she speaks, trying to read her lips, and thinks her mouth actually looks a little like Brian's. She's telling him she's glad he's here. That it's what Mom would have wanted.


Brian's hand closes around Justin's elbow and he brings him forwards. Justin obeys.


Claire looks startled and uncomfortable and maybe a little sick, but she looks at Justin and says, “Thank you for coming.”


Justin wants to tell her he's sorry, knows he doesn't say his Rs right, doesn't want to risk it. He nods and pats her arm and feels like he's letting Brian down.


There's a spread of photos near one of the many floral arrangements Justin's been steadfastly avoiding, but he goes over when he sees Brian looking. Brian doesn't act like he notices Justin is there, but he taps subtly on a picture of Joan standing in the kitchen, holding a baby.


Amazing how much you looked like Gus, Justin says.


I did at his age, too. He points to a pot in the background of the picture. She threw that at me once.


Justin leans his head against Brian's arm.


She was pretty, Brian says. Don't you think?


Yes.


**


Michael kisses Brian, puts his hands on his cheeks, searches his face.


Brian smiles vaguely at him, then turns to Ben and shakes his hand and says “Happy birthday.”


**


Emily drinks some punch and greets the few people here she's met before: Justin's mom and sister, Brian's son, the friends who came to visit Justin in the hospital whose name she doesn't remember, who are pawing all over Brian and, Emily can't help but notice, haven't talked to Justin. Brian's people already look like a gang of misfits among all the church people coming to touch the flower displays and file into the pews, and Emily feels like an outcast of an outcast.


Derek sidles up to her with a cookie. Have you ever seen this many hearing people in your life?


It's like some sort of convention.


A woman with bright red hair comes up and gives them a gentle smile. You must be friends of Justin's, she signs. It's jerky and awkward, but Emily appreciates the effort.


She makes an effort to sign slowly. Yes, we met Justin first.


It's so good you're here to support him, she said.


Derek glances at her and and signs, small and quickly, Does she think we're here for Justin?


**


Gus never met his grandmother, but all the old ladies here keep telling him they're sorry when they find out he's Brian's son.


Gus doesn't really want to be in a church right now, but nobody asked him.


**


Reverend Tom hasn't seen Brian in years, couldn't have pictured him if he'd tried, but still recognizes him right away. It's the smirk. People rarely smirk at funerals.


“I'm so sorry,” he says to him. “I want you to know that I was with her, and she didn't suffer.”


Brian shrugs. “Okay.”


“Is, um...” He blanks on the name of the partner Brian had, all those years ago, but Brian gestures easily to the side of the room, where the man Tom met at the baths, older but still boyishly good-looking, is talking in sign language to a young woman. Tom doesn't remember knowing that he was Deaf, but isn't sure they would have told him anyway.


“We're married now,” Brian says abruptly.


Tom loses his composure, very briefly. “Brian, that's wonderful.”


Brian shrugs. “He needed health insurance.”


 


10:10 AM

_________

 

Brian looks slyly at Justin during the church service. We maybe overdid it, he says, mentally cross-referencing how many sedatives he fed him with the obvious difficulty Justin is having staying awake.


I'm sorry. I'm trying.


Go to sleep, it's okay.


I'm not sleeping through your mother's church service.


Who cares what any of these judgmental old assholes think?


I care what your friends think. Justin says. And, you know, God.


Brian has no idea if he's kidding on that last point, and he lets it go in favor of wondering when the Pittsburgh crowd because 'his friends,' not 'our friends.'


Then he wonders if they ever weren't just that, really.


Emily takes his hand on his other side.


The interpreter is effusive, and Brian can tell that some of the church ladies disapprove, don't understand that facial expressions are part of ASL grammar, think that he's being inappropriate. It occurs to Brian that his mother would absolutely hate having an interpreted service. She'd think it was tacky.


He smiles.


**


Michael knows Justin's friends are sitting up front with Brian because they need to see the interpreter. He gets it.


He does.


**


Emmett prays.


**


Melanie watches Gus stare at the huge, bloody cross.


“I know,” she whispers to him, and Gus laces their fingers.


 


11:12 AM

_________

 

Justin starts feeling off—more off—halfway through the burial. He scolds himself, hates himself, and subtly takes a step behind Brian to take himself out of view.


Derek notices. You okay? He sees Justin's arm start shaking. Oh, hey.


Brian guides him forward again—not because he sees the seizure, because he notices that a moment later—but just because he wants him, and Justin scolds himself, hates himself, and leans into Brian when Brian looks at him with a question in his eyes.


“I'm okay,” he whispers in Brian's ear, and Brian nods and takes his hand. Justin feels his fingers jerk against Brian's palm and feels safe.


Do you need to go lie down? Brian asks.


Justin shakes his head, whispers, “Don't let me fall.”


Okay. Brian pauses. Thank you.


**


Claire is trying to change. She is.


Claire recognizes that her biases are rooted in fear, that God created all of us in His image, that everything she's heard—and Claire Kinney listens—about Brian's relationship with Justin indicates that this is a good thing for her brother. Claire, despite what the world thinks of her, what she knows the world thinks of her—Claire Kinney listens—wants good things for her brother.


But Christ, does he have to hold his hand at the gravesite?


**


Emily catches Derek looking at her.


**


Debbie will always wish she'd spoken at Vic's funeral, but she doesn't think Brian will regret not speaking at this one.


 


12:10 PM

_________

 

Brian stands by the gravesite and is exhausted, to-the-bone tired, of people telling him he doesn't have to be sad.


“Whatever you're feeling is okay,” Lindsay says, out loud even though Justin is right fucking next to him, and the interpreter is busy helping Jennifer and Derek have a lively—inappropriately lively, given the setting, Brian thinks, and he likes it—conversation about gallery space in New York City. “We all know you had a complicated relationship. No one's expecting anything from you, no one thinks you're heartless.” Apparently they've had sensitivity training since his dad died, Brian thinks numbly.


“What the fuck is going on with Gus?” he asks.


“Nothing, it's nothing,” Lindsay says, in a way that is clearly not nothing, and Brian would do anything for something else to think about in this moment, not to mention the fact that something is clearly bothering his son, and he's fucking enraged.


Michael pats his arm, and the look on his face reminds Brian of a night a long time ago and a bloody hospital hallway, and he feels himself reaching out for Justin's wrist. Here.


I need to take Justin to sit down, he says, with a firm look in Justin's direction.


Justin, bless his fucking fucking fucking heart, nods immediately. Yeah, now, come on.


Michael says, His mom can take him, or his sister, right? One of his friends...


Brian can't come up with a reason why it can't be one of them, but Justin jumps in immediately. No, I want Brian. Please, Brian?


Brian shrugs a little and lets Justin pull him away from the crowd.


**


Ben takes Ivy from Michael.


“Seriously,” Michael's grumbling. “Can't put himself on the back burner for Brian for one fucking day...”


“He can't help being sick, Michael.”


“Anyone else could have taken him! Brian doesn't need to be worrying about him today, Christ.”


Ben notices one of their New York friends—Emma?—watching with her eyes narrowed.


Do you really not understand what just happened? she says, coming over to them.


Excuse me? Michael says.


She signs something too fast for Ben to understand, and, from the look on Michael's face, him either.


Michael says, I'm sorry, I don't—


She rolls her eyes. Never mind. Quit being a dick to Brian.


Michael gapes. I'm not being a dick to Brian. I'm...


She raises an eyebrow. Being a dick to Justin?


Michael doesn't say anything.


Anyone ever teach you how couples work? she says.


**


Emily cheated on her girlfriend two nights in a row and is now lecturing someone on relationships, but she saw Brian's face when he begged Justin to get him out of there so she's okay with it.


Molly comes over and puts her hand on her shoulder.


Why don't they sign better? Emily asks her.


Molly shrugs.


Didn't they have years?


Why do Lindsay and Michael still act like they're fucking in high school? Molly says. The world may never know. Trust me, it's better to be on the outskirts of this shit.


**


Gus turns to his Mom and says, “I can't do this anymore. How do you stand this?”


She sighs. “You get used to it.”


“How?”


“You take bits of yourself off until you fit.” She sighed. “You do it over and over.”


“That's fucked.”


“Language, Gus.”


“What, don't curse in a church?”


She gives him a hug.


“Mama doesn't get it,” he says.


“No, she doesn't.”


“I hate that.”


Mom kisses his forehead. “Me too.”


 


12:13 PM

_________


 


Justin says, “A little further, little more, almost there...” and leads Brian around the side of the church. They make it barely out of view before Brian stops, a hand on the cold stone to hold himself up. Justin stands on his toes to wrap himself around Brian and feels Brian grip him too hard and start to cry, and Justin is chosen, wanted, and so, so, so fucking goddamn in love.


“I know,” he says over and over, rubbing Brian's back. “I know, I'm here. I know. I love you.”


Brian pulls back after a while, panting, and Justin licks his tears off like a kitten. Brian smiles a little and leans into his hands.


She was such a bitch, Brian says. She could have just not been such a bitch.


“I know.”


Brian bows his head over Justin. Thanks for letting me use your frail body as an excuse.


No problem. You can make it up to my frail body later.


Brian kisses him. Okay.


**


Debbie starts gathering everyone up to go to her house. After a moment of consideration, she invites Claire.


Claire gives a jerky nod. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”


**


Derek texts Daphne to tell her the burial's over. She doesn't answer, but she's busy at work.


12:25 PM

__________


Brian looks up as Emily comes around the corner. Just me, Emily says, and Brian pulls her under one arm.


Updates? Justin says.


Everyone's going over to what's her name, the redheaded woman. Her house. Still don't know what the deal is with Gus. I maybe yelled at Michael a little bit. She dabs at Brian's face with her sleeve.


You should lie down once we get there, Brian says to Justin. Actually, this time. You look like shit.


Probably for the best to give Michael some time alone with you anyway, Justin says. He'll be all wounded if he doesn't get to fix you a little.


Fuck. Yeah.


Brian leads them over to the parking lot. He can see Justin and Emily signing together out of the corner of his eye. Emily tells him to shut up.


What'd I miss? Brian says.


Nothing, they both say.


Brian rolls his eyes. Christ, you're worse than Lindsay.


This has nothing to do with you or your kid, Emily says.


It has to do with my friends, he says.


**


Michael buckles Ivy into her carseat and watches Brian and Justin get into the car with Emily and Derek. He tries to figure out if he would fly up to New York if Jennifer died, but can't get past all the inconsistencies: there'd be no reason for Jennifer to be buried in New York, Justin and Jennifer have a completely different relationship from Brian and Joan, and he's known Justin for years longer than Emily and Derek have known Brian.


Michael knows that he loves Justin. He knows it.


It's just a lot easier to know it when Justin's the one in trouble, not Brian.


 

12:50 PM

__________


Justin is exhausted, to-the-bone tired. He makes it through four conversations trying to decipher the Pittsburgh crew's signing before Brian gives him a beseeching look and points at the stairs. Justin knows Brian's making a point of ordering around publicly, so they can't say that Justin bailed on him when he needed him.


It's exhausting, to-the-bone tiring, knowing these things.


Brian's younger nephew, whose name Justin can't remember, comes up to him and says what looks like, “So you're Deaf now?” Justin's a bad lip reader, but it's easier when he doesn't really care if he gets it wrong.


He nods


“Is it contagious?” he says.


Justin nods slowly, seriously, and then goes upstairs and falls asleep quickly.


**


Michael wonders how many times he's spoken to Jennifer, really. Her kid lived with his mom for almost a year. Did they ever talk?


He's pulled out of that thought when Brian wanders into the kitchen, loading up a paper plate with food.


“So, uh, Emily,” he says. “She works for you?”


“Yep.”


“She's, uh...kind of a firecracker, huh?”


“Yeah, she's a little shit.”


“She said I was being a dick to Justin.”


“Were you?” Brian says, like it's very slightly interesting.


Michael dodges the question. “Reminds me of when I used to lecture Justin about you.”


“No,” is all Brian says.


**


Emily watches Ted's signing. She's good at working with bad signers, and he's not all that terrible, really.


Ted says, So, do you speak?


Excuse me?


Justin usually speaks with us, Ted says. It's just easier that way.


Yikes, Emily fingerspells slowly.


**


Emmett can't get his head around this. Wait, you're how old?


Twenty-four, Derek says.


And you've never slept with a boy.


No, I'm straight.


I know you're straight, honey, Emmett says. I mean, before you realized you were straight, you never slept with a guy? Not once?


I've always known I was straight, Derek says.


Emmett gapes at him.


 

1:19 PM

_____________


Brian takes stock of the house. Justin's lying down upstairs. Emily's talking to the lesbians, hanging on their every badly-produced sign, but Brian doesn't think she gets to spend a lot of time around queer women, so he gets it. Michael's pouting and arguing with Debbie. Derek's still getting interrogated on heterosexuality, which is probably good for him.


So he goes to Gus, who's also pouting, but at least not arguing.


“You gonna tell me what's up?” he asks him.


“I'm not supposed to,” Gus says.


“Why?”


“You have enough on your plate, apparently.”


Brian bites into a carrot stick. “Distract me.”


“I got suspended.”


Brian raises an eyebrow.


“I told this boy in my gym class to eat shit and the teacher heard me. They said if I didn't say I was sorry I'd get suspended for a week.”


“Ha. Justin's got a story like this.”


“I doubt it.”


“Oh yeah?”


Gus shrugs.


“So why'd you do it?” Brian says.


“He told me I didn't count as a real Jew.”


“Huh,” Brian says. “Sounds like the fucker got what was coming to him.”


**


Emily goes upstairs and flops down on the bed next to Justin.


Does Brian like these friends? she asks.


Justin shifts in the bed. That's a complicated question.


Do you like them?


Justin shrugs. They're my family, he says. They're not my friends.


Justin drags himself out of bed and they go back downstairs together. Brian intercepts her and brings her out to the backyard, lights a cigarette. Tell me what's going on.


It is so not important.


Emily, please, no one in there will stop staring at me. I need a distraction. Did you and Derek sleep together?


Yeah. We do it every couple of years. It's always a mistake.


Why a mistake? You two could be good together.


Yeah, except I have a girlfriend, and he's fucking madly in love with Daphne.


Brian's eyes widen. Derek's in love with Daphne?


Yep.


Fuck, this is so much better than my dead mom. Come on, lay it on me.


**


Debbie messes up Justin's hair. Feeling better?


I'm fine.


Brian's outside with your friend.


I know.


She nods. It's nice, that they get along.


They're his friends, Justin says.


Debbie nods, but Justin gives her a strange look.


He says, You know when we're in New York, our whole social life is in sign language, right? It's not like Brian only signs to me when there's no one else around.


Debbie wants to answer, doesn't know what to say and especially how she would say it.


Justin sighs. It's okay. Never mind. The casserole's good.


Thanks, Sunshine.


 

6:28 PM

_________


Justin takes another handful of sedatives in the terminal. Emily and Derek are on their flight, and they're sharing a package of gummi worms without really looking at each other. They'll be okay, Derek had promised Justin. They always end up okay.


Derek gets up to go the bathroom and gives Brian a headlock hug on the way. Brian shoves him.


What time were you born? Brian asks Justin suddenly.


Sometime in the afternoon, I think.


Brian nods and pulls Justin into his arms. Justin smiles up at him.


Twenty-seven, Brian says.


Twenty-seven.


Brian kisses his nose. Let's do a few more.


Okay.


 


7:10 PM

_________


Brian looks through the window of the plane before it takes off. Thinks about the awkward goodbyes before they left, how far away Pittsburgh seems even though they're still on the ground. Thinks about Emily asleep on his left shoulder and Justin on his right, and Derek reaching across the aisle without looking up from his magazine to hold Justin's hand as it starts to shake.


He turns and looks out the window as the plane takes off.

 

“Bye,” he whispers, as the wheels lift.

End Notes:

For luv_u_4eva_418.

 

Tried something different here, and I don't think I'm really in love with how it turned out, but... it's written, so might as well post it, ha.

Chapter 40 - The First Five Years by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Eighty-eight percent of Deaf/hearing marriages fail in the first five years.

 

Let's check in on Brian and Justin's.

The First Five Years


Justin found the statistic pretty early, before he was even wearing hearing aids, back when the news he was going to be Deaf within a year still felt like some strange practical joke, because yeah, Justin missed some stuff if he wasn’t looking at you, yeah, he didn’t hear great at high frequencies, and yeah, sometimes he got this buzzing that was so loud he couldn’t hear what was right in front of him, but on a macro level or whatever the fuck, he was fine. So God knows what prompted Justin to look it up back then. He likes to plan and anticipate the worst case scenarios, that’s our Sunshine.


“Eighty-eight percent,” he said from his laptop.


I was putting on a shirt to go out, and I paused. “Eighty-eight?”


“Eighty-eight.”


“Christ, that’s bleak.” I came in and read over his shoulder. His hair smelled like lime and I was temporarily distracted.


“Brian.”


“This is all mixed couples?”


“Married couples, yeah.”


“Oh.” I went to the fridge and got out a bottle of water. “Then it’s just a bunch of straight people bringing down the average.”


“Deaf/hearing shotgun weddings?”


I shrugged.


“God.” Justin pushed back from the desk, rolling his chair back and forth. “And that’s just in the first five years.”


“Why do you care about married people?” I said. “We’re not married.” Yeah, yeah, famous last words.


He gave me a look that showed me how very un-married he was convinced we were, which gave me a bit of the heebie jeebies but was also, objectively, pretty fair at that point.


“You have enough to worry about without the success rate of our imaginary marriage,” I said.


“Can’t argue with that.”


I slapped him on the shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go out.”


He tilted his head back. “What?”


“Out.”


“Okay.”


**


Two months later, we were walking to the grocery store and he was almost plowed down by an SUV.


The driver looked up and slammed on the breaks at the last minute, and if he hadn't, that would have been it. Justin didn't hear it, and I was too far away to grab him.


“Jesus CHRIST!” I screamed at him, practically throwing him through the doorway and back into the safety of the loft. “You couldn’t FUCKING hear a goddamn car? You’re walking around pretending like you’re fucking fine when you can’t hear a goddamn car?”


“I’m sorry,” he said, and I realized he was shaking, which made me want to yell at him more because goddamn him for being scared and vulnerable and for getting sick again, goddamn him being small and out of reach of me, how fucking dare he, but I forced myself to take a breath and speak softly.


“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re all right.”


A week later this a few of his endless medical bills came in, and I thought about what I was paying for his free market health insurance that still wasn’t covering all this shit and did some research and looked through Kinnetik’s paperwork and considered the fact that I couldn’t fucking relax when he was out of my sight and I gathered up all my evidence and sat down across from him and said, “So about that marriage thing.”


It wasn’t until months later, when we were driving back from Vermont and he was asleep and warm and looking like a fucking angel, that I thought about the eighty-eight percent.


**


We dealt with it by joking about it, like we did just about every aspect of Justin losing his hearing.


“I still can’t believe you got married without me,” Michael said at the diner one day, while Justin was refilling our waters.


“It's fine, we're almost definitely going to get divorced anyway,” I said. “Eighty-eight percent of mixed marriages divorce in the first five years. We just saved you a plane ride.”


Justin said,“What?”


“See?” I said. “See how annoying that is? I have no choice but to divorce him.” I was signing some while I spoke around then, even though my signing was still terrible, because there’s no way it was terrible as Justin’s hearing.


He said, “No, come on, what’d I miss?”


I turned in my seat so he could see my lips. “We’re discussing our dismal odds of marital success.”


“Oh, yeah, we’re screwed,” Justin said.


“Doesn’t that scare you?” Michael said.


“We’re terrified, I said, with all the sincerity I could possibly muster. “We are quaking in our boots.”


Justin did a little quaking dance.


“I don’t know how you can be blasé about this,” Michael said. “There’s, what, basically a one in ten chance you guys won’t be divorced in five years.”


“That’s not even a proper use of statistics,” Justin said.


I said, “Sunshine, can I get a piece of apple pie?”


“Yeah,” he said, but he just dropped onto my lap and kissed me instead. Fantastic service as always at the Liberty Diner.


Michael shook his head. “I don’t know how you two are making jokes about this.”


“We've never been much for math,” Justin said. “We're gay.”


My patience was wearing thin. “What the fuck do you expect us to do, Michael, divorce now to spare you the stress of holding your breath for five years? The kid needed health insurance.”


“Most marriages fail,” Justin said.


Michael put on his haughty face. “Not gay marriages.”


“Well, there you go!” Justin said, because he has never been able to resist fucking with Michael. “We’re saved.”


“Eighty-five percent of normal gay marriages last,” Michael said. “Twelve percent of yours do.”


Justin turned to me. “Nooooormal. Does that make us abnormal?”


“I think he’s talking about you,” I stage-whispered.


“No, come on, I didn't mean—”


“So offensive.” Justin stood up. “I’m gonna go cry in the bathroom now. In the handicapped stall where I belong, Michael, don't worry.”


“Get me my pie first!” I called, as Michael sunk his head down to the table.


Justin mentioned it to me later, though, lying in bed in the afterglow, the orange light reflecting off the downy hair on the small of his back that I couldn’t stop petting. “I don't think it means us,” he said. “The statistic.”


“Of course it doesn't,” I said, because...I mean, you've been around, you know the song as well as I do at this point; breaking up is the kind of petty, everyday shit that those noooormal people do, and Justin and I are a lot of shit but we are not petty, everyday, or normal.


Justin arched his back into my hand. “I just mean...it's for Deaf people who marry hearing people who don't know how to sign. And we're learning to sign together.” He wasn't better than me yet.


“Roll over,” I said, and I cleaned him up.


“And it's Deaf people who feel like hearing people can't understand, like...what they've been through. Who have baggage and stuff. But I don't have any of that. It's not like I was born Deaf.” He played with my fingers. “There was nothing of me before you.”


“Justin.”


He shivered. “I like when you say my name.”


**


You don't need a recap. Justin met Gregory, he got better at signing than I was, I had a little bit of a freakout.


This is how it fucking happens! I yelled at him, with my voice and with my hands. You find some whole other world and this whole fucking culture and I—


You are my culture, Justin said, kissing my face, my neck. You are my culture. There was nothing of me before you.


**


I already told you that last part, Justin already told you this one. We were in New York to find our apartment, I wanted to go uptown to see Yankee Stadium—I don't know, my uncle took me there once when I was a kid, it's a nice memory—and my cab got hit and I broke my foot.


And then I was sitting in my little half-room in the ER, whatever they call those curtained off things where Justin and I typically hang out when he needs a fluid IV or we're waiting for his neurologist to tell us his brain didn't explode on his last seizure, nice and hopped up on morphine. I was thinking, naively, that the hospital had actually fucking listened for once and called Michael—I was so fucking clear, here's my next of kin if you fucking kill me, here is the emergency contact, they are different people, if you won't give me my fucking phone call the one who can fucking hear you and he'll text Justin—and then I heard Justin's voice out in the ER lobby. God, you know this story. I have to tell this story?


All right, so. There are four instances of Justin's voice that haunt the shit out of me. Four times I would gladly, without an ounce of guilt or regret, wipe from my memory if I could.


The first is from the the night he woke up from his coma after he was bashed. They eased off the sedation and pulled the tube out, and his room was a crowded mess of doctors, nurses, his mom pushing through everyone to hold his hand. I was lingering by the door, halfway in and halfway out, fucking scared to death because at that point they didn't know what kind of brain damage he was going to have. They didn't know if he'd be able to draw, speak, walk, fucking be him anymore. They kept saying what a good sign it was that he was able to breathe on his own, and what the fuck, can you imagine trying to keep a fucking game face on when that is a good sign?


The first words Justin spoke weren't really words. He's tried to describe it to me, how he felt in those first few days after he woke up—that's the first thing he remembers outside of random flashes and feelings, nothing real concrete between asking me to prom and waking up in the hospital—but he can't really explain it and I can't really listen to it, but basically he was just extremely goddamn fucking confused, and nothing anything said to him was getting through to him correctly, like all the sounds were getting jumbled up, and everything was going way, way too fast, everyone asking him questions, saying hey, squeeze my hand, move your feet, sit up, open your mouth, blink your eyes, and he couldn't keep up.


So his first words were just sounds. Garbled, choked, miserable sounds.


And I stepped backwards out that door so goddamn fast and I didn't see him awake again until he appeared in Woody's like a ghost. So, a great time for Justin, a crowning moment of heartwarming bravery from me...yeah. That shit'll stay with you.


Christ. I know now that he knew the whole time I was there every night, but still, sometimes it really just hits me that he forgave me for that shit and it makes me want to scream at him for letting someone treat him like that, and isn't that just...well, we all know what it is, we know my bullshit at this point.


Anyway, The third one you know about already—the way he screamed in the hospital when the cold air hit his burns for the first time—and the fourth we'll get to someday, keep your shirt on. We're here to talk about the second, when I was lying there with a broken foot and I heard Justin hysterical at the check-in desk.


People kept talking to him, and he doesn't lipread well, and he has panic attacks in hospitals, and, if you were paying attention back there, some bad memories associated with not being able to understand people in hospitals.


And he thought I was dead.


God, it was...it was literal fucking torture. If someone were fucking designing a torture for me, that would be it, strapped down and unable to move and fucking knowing everything is okay while I listen to Justin lose his goddamn mind over some bastard he never, ever should have been asked to give a shit about.


He was crying, telling them all this fucking information about me like he was trying to prove that he deserved to see me, God, God.


There was an orderly across the hall in the next patient's room, so I yelled until I got his attention and said, “Do you see that guy at the front desk, blond guy, young guy, go get him, get him and bring him here.”


The orderly came hesitantly out in the hall and said, “Uh, hey...”


“No, you have to...fuck, you have to go get him,” I said. “He's looking for me, he doesn't...”


Look, why I didn't go right out and say, that is a Deaf person, go get him, I don't fucking know. I don't think I was trying to protect Justin's privacy or his ego or anything. I think I just wasn't goddamn thinking clearly, because he was crying and I just...it's not even that he was crying, you have to understand that, because Justin's not that rare a crier, especially not that winter, Jesus, so I've seen that, I can handle that, it's that all he needed in the world was me, not even for me to fucking do anything, just to put his eyes on me and he would be fine, and I couldn't do anything. I could have fixed him in a literal fraction of a second, even I could not fuck this one up, but I couldn't fucking get to him, and if you haven't figured out by now that I maybe have a little bit of baggage about not being able to get to Justin when something's wrong with him...well, I want some of whatever drugs you're on.


We have plenty of systems in place for making our life work easily for us. Stuff like the layout of the furniture in the apartment, to keep sight lines as clear as possible, we picked a place that had the open concept kitchen and living room they're always losing their shit over on House Hunters. We also picked a place with floors that conduct vibration well so he can feel if I stomp and had light switches installed right by the doorway so I can flick them and let Justin know when I'm home. And there's the basic stuff, of course, like lights for the doorbell and the alarm system. Even with all of that, there's not really a magic solution for a situation where I want Justin's attention and he's facing away from me, so back when he was still losing his hearing we came up with a very sophisticated system; I throw a lot of shit. Sometimes I throw it at him, if it's something soft or he's annoying me, but a lot of the time he's kind of far away and look, I've never claimed to be an incredible athlete outside of the occasional game of racquetball and various bedroom gymnastics, so often it's less “throw something at Justin” and more “create some kind of movement in his field of vision.”


So that's why I started throwing everything I could reach, from the blankets to my shoes to the lamp to the fucking bedpan, out into the hallway, while the orderly yelled at me to cut it the fuck out. That all was strategic. It didn't work, but it was strategic.


When I could still hear Justin screaming and I knew he hadn't seen anything and I just started yelling his name, that was maybe less strategic. But he still had a little bit of hearing left back then, and I thought, you know, maybe...


I don't know. There was nothing else to throw.


And then I heard him running down the hall, and of course I know how his feet sound, and I just stared at the doorway, come on come on come on, and then he was there, this goddamn crying worn out mess, and I signed fine fine fine fine, because that was all he needed right then, because...


Christ. You know why. We all know why. But I think that even though I am so far past the delusion that I would be okay if something happened—see, I can't even say the words, I just say something happened--to Justin, there have been times when I could convince myself that Justin would be okay without me. That he would be able to pick himself up and continue. I have to believe that whenever I can or else I just...God, I goddamn hate myself for doing this to him. And right then I couldn't pretend, and nowadays I rarely can.


If someone designed a torture specifically for me, it would be knowing that someone as goddamn luminescent as Justin has pinned his life to an asshole like me.


Imagine having to live with that. Imagine waking up every morning and forgiving yourself for making Justin Taylor—we are talking about Justin Taylor here, who I have removed from the world, who I have limited, questioned, broken, ruined—cry because he was worried about you.


It's an inhuman thing to ask.


Christ, this thing that the two of us do to each other, it's fucking unnatural.This is why I can never get on board with people who think that what Justin and I have is sweet and romantic, because...are you fucking kidding me? I look at how other little couples are and I feel...you know, bored out of my mind and vaguely nauseated, but I can't pretend a bit of me doesn't think, damn, that would be fucking nice, right, not to worry about your partner goddamn fucking trying to die on you all the time? Imagine getting to goddamn relax for a fucking second?


I'm the last person in this world to say the shit that Justin and I have is healthy; how could it be? It's barely survivable. You can barely breathe. It's just having your goddamn heart outside of your body.


You would have to be a goddamn idiot to want the shit that Justin and I have. I get that it's fun to look at, it's fun to imagine, but this is a fucking nightmare, caring this much, having absolutely zero delusions that you'll be able to function if something happens to him, that he'll be able to go on without you. You think that's cute? Try not being able to sleep because you're staring at the ceiling fucking paralyzed by the fact that one of you is inevitably going to die before the other one and you are such goddamn trash for a twenty-seven-year-old chronically ill twink that you can't goddamn imagine it. People were not made to feel all this shit. God knows I wasn't, at least. And you're telling me I'm supposed to do this shit and not be jealous of every fucker out there who's never loved anyone? You're telling me not to feel some nostalgia for that?


Now before you start panicking that this story ends with me running screaming into the night, everybody calm the fuck down and remember why we're all gathered here today, all right? I've felt the skin getting ripped off my body over how much he fucking ruins me, and I've felt the twenty-nine years of voided numbness without him, and I'm waking up every day and choosing the ruin, for some mysterious goddamn reason that has a lot to do with his mouth and his ass and the way he makes me laugh and the feeling in my stomach when I look at him like I'm being twisted up inside but I kind of like it, whatever it is, I keep fucking doing it. I'm not trying to keep you in suspense here with our little thesis statement, so let's go ahead and take care of any worry; this is a story about the twelve percent, you know it is, we aaaall goddamn know it, so relax. The last scene of this story's going to be me and Justin on our fifth anniversary, okay? I promise. Just hang in there through some shit first, because God knows I have.


Anyway, so in the meantime, I did a bad job of calming him down, despite signing fine, as strongly as I could, despite signing it on his chest because Justin calm down baby you are fine, because I was crying like a little bitch from the drugs and his shaking and his goddamn voice.


The doctor came in after a while to talk to us, while Justin was clinging to me like some kind of marsupial, and I asked why the fuck people hadn't listened when I said who to call and why Justin wasn't immediately led to my room. He, of course, knew nothing about it, wasn't involved, was so sorry.


And it occurred to me that I had been scared, I had been torn apart, I had, as discussed, had my organs regularly ripped out of my body by this kid, but I had never been kept in the dark the way Justin was, and is, and will be. People don't ignore me like they'll ignore him.


There are things I won't ever understand.


**


We hit a bit of a snag our second spring in New York. I have no explanation for why it wasn't a problem our first spring living next to the park, but all of a sudden here it was. Just Justin keeping me on my toes, I guess. Because this year, for the first time in the ten—ten!—years I'd known him, Justin started snoring.


Now, I should clarify, because here you're thinking, hang on, I thought the kid had hay fever from hell, and yes, you are right, of course this was not literally the first time he was snoring. He's always done it when his allergies are acting up or when he's got a cold, but it's usually kind of a quiet little snuffling thing and is not altogether unpleasant. Maybe even kind of cute.


This, and I say this with all previously-established affection in the world for the dear boy, was not fucking cute.


The first night I jerked awake and stared at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”


He sounded like a truck. He sounded like a toilet flushing. I cannot overstate the vast amount of noise that was coming from such a small person.


And it kept goddamn happening. We tried a different antihistamine, we tried one of those fucking tea pots you stick up your nose, we tried those strips you stick to your face. Every-fucking-thing.


Justin was remarkably unsympathetic.


You've snored every night since I've met you, he said.


Yes, I know.


From your deviated septum.


And yet the person I sleep with doesn't seem to mind.


Which one?


I glared at him.


I never complained even when I was hearing, Justin said. I'm very understanding.


I don't snore like this, I said. Trust me.


Justin made a dubious noise.


I don't understand the fucking vibration of it doesn't wake you up, I said.


I'm a mystery, he said, still acting like this whole thing was a fucking joke, and look, I realize that not all of us have seizures when we don't sleep, but I still have a fucking company to run and a million cars to not be hit by on the way to work and that was becoming a challenge at this point because I couldn't goddamn sleep.


I got frustrated that night and flipped him over a little roughly, and he woke up startled and disoriented.


What the fuck? he said, turning on the light.


You're doing it again.


You scared the shit out of me, Brian. I should know better than to be rough with him when he's sleeping, because he doesn't sleep calmly, can't sleep calmly, but God, I was fucking short on sensitivity that night.


I don't know what the fuck you expect me to do! I said. I can't fucking sleep!


It's just snoring! God, get the fuck over it!


Not everyone in this house is fucking Deaf, Justin!


He got up and snatched his pillow off the bed. Maybe they should be.


Very mature, asshole! I signed at his back as he stomped off to sleep on the pull-out.


He apologized the next morning and made an allergist appointment, and I went out and bought earplugs, and we made it work for a few nights. Three days later he had a brutal asthma attack while he was at work, so he took it a lot more seriously after that. We fucked around with his meds, started him on allergy shots like he'd had when he was a kid, and he breathed and I slept.


I remembered that maybe they should be longer than I wanted to.


**


A couple months later I came home late and found him on his laptop in the office. He smiled brightly and then blew me, so, not a bad way to start my evening, then said, Oh, shit, I forgot I was making plans. Emily and Derek want to go to this concert on Friday, do you want to come?


Where?


Madison Square Garden.


Jesus. Who's playing?


Iron Maiden.


I raised an eyebrow at him. You know I hate to say it—


We can feel the beat, Brian.


What? Did he seriously think I didn't know that? That I was going to ask why they were going to a concert? Jesus Christ. I was going to ask if you'd checked about strobe lights.


Oh, shit. Yeah, I'll call.


He called the interpreting service and had them put them through to the venue, and after that song and dance finally hung up with his answer. No strobe lights. You want to come?


Yeah, sounds fun.


And it was fun, at first. Emily and I left together from work and met Derek and Justin and a couple other friends of Derek's—all Deaf, I'm their only hearing friend, besides Daph, who works way too many hours for concerts—at the Penn Station subway stop. The seats were awful, way up in the nosebleeds, but they'd chosen them strategically to be as close to the giant speakers as possible. So, you know, fantastic for them, and yeah, I got a kick out of watching Justin put his hands on the speaker and move around like he used to, but Christ, I am too old and too hearing for this shit. My ears were still ringing when we all crowded at a diner afterwards, sitting at a long table.


So, a little background here: this was the summer after I turned thirty-nine, Justin twenty-seven, and if you've got a good memory for numbers you'll remember we started learning to sign, granted languidly at first, when I was thirty-five and Justin was twenty-three. We'd been in New York for about a year and a half at that point, and we'd been friends with Derek and Emily for most of that, so it's not as if I was only signing with Justin; the vast majority of my non-sexual socializing, such as it may be, was in sign language. And now Emily had been working for me for months, so I was signing at work too.


All this to say, by this point I was a strong signer. I know this is something I'm going to be working on and improving until I die, but at that point I would have been comfortable calling myself fluent. I wasn't as quick or as beautiful as Justin or his friends, but I could say everything I want to say and understand what was said to me.


So you understand what I mean when I say that night at the diner was fucking impossible. I could barely see the people at the ends of the table, and everyone was a little drunk and signing on top of each other and there were five different conversations happening at once, and everyone hitting the table and tossing napkins at each other to get people's attention, and somehow I was the only one who was lost. Justin was a fucking social butterfly in the middle of it all, always is, trading inside jokes with Emily and signing dirty shit to me and getting to know Derek's friends we hadn't met. I wished that Daph was there so I wouldn't be the only lost hearing asshole.


Finally I managed to jump into a conversation Justin was having with Emily and one of Derek's friends. Kevin is Deaf royalty, Emily was saying. Fourth generation. His mom brought him to DPN when he was 2 years old.


Picket sign in one hand, stroller in the other, Kevin said.


DPN? Justin said, so I didn't have to. Not that I would have. I mostly just fake like I understand shit, with the Deaf kids.


Probably because they act like it's a federal offense when you don't get your references. Holy shit, oh my God, you little baby Deafie, Emily said, grabbing Justin's face. He batted her off. Deaf President Now, she said. 1988 at Gallaudet. Protest to finally get a Deaf President.


Did it work? I asked.


Sure did, Derek said.


I think it's my mom's sign that pushed it over the edge, Kevin said.


It was big, Derek said. Gallaudet in the headlines, Marlee Matlin on Ted Koppel. I do love Marlee Matlin.


You've got to take a Deaf studies class or something! one of Derek's other friends said to Justin. This is your history, you need to know your history.


Justin kind of slumped in his seat, and I glanced at him and said, It's not his history.


Emily slapped my hands. Come on, what? she said.


I mean it's great and all, but it's not like there's any reason he should know it really. He was a five-year-old hearing kid in 1988.


Justin looked at me.


You weren't born Deaf? Kevin said.


Thanks a lot, Justin said to me.


What?


Derek said, So what, the Montgomery Bus Boycotts, those aren't my history?


No, of course they are, I said. But that's different, that's genetic, that's your literal family and shit.


Derek said, Brian, are you saying all Black people are related? and I hit him with my menu.


There's studies on shit like that, Emily said. She signed something I didn't understand, past but with G-handshapes, then trauma.


I looked at Justin, who quickly fingerspelled Generational.


Thanks.


But Justin's disease is genetic, Derek said. It's literally generational.


Justin sipped his water and didn't say anything.


It's not his history, I said.


Emily rolled her eyes. Of course it's his history, and then she turned to Derek and signed something too fast for me to follow, and I picked at Justin's fries and wondered when my ears were going to stop hurting.


Justin was short with me the rest of the night, and I knew shit was going to boil over, and by the time we got home and he still hadn't said anything and God, I was sick to fucking death of waiting for it. I got undressed while he sat on the bed and played with his shoelaces.


Get your shoes off the bed, I said.


He slid them to the floor. You know, you made me feel really stupid tonight.


I gave a good reason why you shouldn't have to know something you didn't know. I'm pretty sure that's the opposite of making you feel stupid.


So you're telling me how I feel?


Christ, seriously? I'm not doing this sitcom shit with you, Sunshine.


How can you say that Deaf history isn't my history? Do you honestly believe that?


I shrugged and hung up my shirt.


And you're just fucking telling people we just met that I wasn't born Deaf?


So you're ashamed of that now?


I'm not ashamed, I just...don't want to sit around with a bunch of people discussing whether or not I'm Deaf enough for them.


Don't be ridiculous.


They couldn't tell from my signing that I wasn't born Deaf. Do you know how fucking exciting that is? And you ruined it. And why?


Stuff that happened with Deaf people in 1988 had nothing to do with you. How is this a conversation?


So, Stonewall. That's not my history?


Jesus, this kid. Of course that's your history.


How the fuck is that different?


Because if you'd been alive during Stonewall you would have been alive and fucking gay. You were alive during DPN and what were you?


I was Deaf, he said. I just didn't know it yet.


I laughed. I couldn't help it. Yeah, I don't think you need my help to make you feel stupid.


Fuck you! he said, standing up. If you're saying I was born to be gay, I was born to be Deaf too! I didn't know I was gay until I was twelve, I didn't know I was Deaf until I was twenty-three. It's not different.


Yes it fucking is.


Why?


Because...because your entire fucking life would have been different if you were born Deaf. You're here talking about culture and not wanting them to know you were a regular fucking privileged hearing asshole for twenty-three years? You think you can just sweep that under the fucking rug and I'm going to let you?


What are you, my fucking parole officer? How is it any of your business—


How is it my fucking business that you were hearing? I don't know, Sunshine, are you walking under that streetlight if you can't hear? Am I, what, learning sign language for my fucking one night stand? You're going to tell me it's none of my fucking business?


“Brian...” he said.


Don't Brian me! You don't get to fucking stand there and tell me that hearing shit didn't happen, it happened, and I don't have to feel like a fucking asshole because I wouldn't have started this shit up with you if you were Deaf, how was I supposed to know—


Nobody's saying that.


And you...fuck, you realize your life would look pretty goddamn different if you'd decided not to fuck hearing guys when you were seventeen, or did that not—


There was pity in his eyes, fucking condescending bullshit. I don't regret anything and you know that. But that doesn't mean that this isn't who I was meant to be.


I snorted.


Don't, he said. It's in my genes, and even if it weren't, even if I'd gone Deaf from, I don't know, being bashed in the head, this is...it's part of me. This is my culture.


You said I was your culture, you remember that?


You have to be happy for me that I'm not alone in this, even if you're not with me! he burst out. I do everything I can to include you but I can't not be Deaf because it leaves you behind!


Leaves me behind.


You're fucking crazy, I said.


No, that's what this is, he said. This can't be my history because it's not your history. Because you feel left out, so you have to tell yourself and fucking tell me that it's not important because your fucking ego can't handle me having a history you're not a part of.


Fuck you.


You! And don't give me that fucking face, there is no goddamn other reason why this can't be my history but...but I don't know, but Stonewall and the AIDS crisis are.


What's funny is that, of course, he was completely on the money, that I was absolutely feeling threatened and left out and altogether hearing as shit, but as soon as he said that it all of a sudden wasn't what it was about anymore.


And I laughed right in his fucking face. The AIDS crisis? You're telling me the AIDS crisis is your history?


What the fuck? You just said—


Sure I had, but remember, I had fucking switched gears completely at this point. I crowded right the fuck into him. How the fuck old are you? What fucking year were you born? You're going to tell me about the AIDS crisis, Sunshine?


If you think I am going to be outgrown by a fucking twenty-seven year old, you are fucked in the goddamn head.


He narrowed his eyes.


You're a fucking fetus, I said to him. You don't know goddamn shit, and this fucking proves it. You think you can teach me something?


Brian, what are you talking about?


You want to claim some new history and you don't even fucking know where you came from, I said. You think you can go around picking shit up that you want to claim like like this is some kind of fucking buffet.


You're an asshole, he said, and he was starting to cry at this point.


What the fuck is it you want? I yelled. You want to feel persecuted? You want to feel like you were dealing with shit when you were walking around in some fucking hearing, post-crisis golden age?


I want to feel connected to something! he said.


You're connected to me! I said. Stupid fucking hands.


It's not enough!


I paced back and forth. Fuck. Fuck. This is how it happens, you know. This is what it is.


No it's not.


You fucking decide you just want a Deaf world and I don't—


That's not what's happening, Justin said, desperately. Please don't walk away—


I'm not. I stopped pacing. I'm not.


He nodded, breathing fast, and I put my hands on him without really meaning to and rubbed up and down his shoulders.


Calm down, I said.


Yeah.


You do everything you can to include me in this, I said. Fuck, like I'm some goddamn Make a Wish kid who wants to hang out at the Deaf table.


That's not what I meant, come on. They're your friends too.


There's always going to be this wall, I said. You guys complain about hearing people like I'm not a fucking hearing person.


When we complain about straight people, we don't mean Cynthia and Derek and Daphne, Justin said. It's the same thing.


I didn't understand Emily tonight, I said. She was too fast.


I don't always understand Emily. Fucking Derek doesn't understand Emily all the time. She signs too fast.


I said, It used to be we were just... I shook my head. Everything that was going to come at you, I'd done it before. I knew how to handle it.


I know.


You're supposed to just be a smaller and better version of me.


He laughed a little and put his hand on my waist, and I pulled him into me.


I'm scared, I signed between us.


“I'm bringing you with me,” he said. “No matter where I go, I'm bringing you, you know that.”


I'm not supposed to be brought. I said. I do the bringing.


He looked up at me, his eyes big and clear like rain. “Tough shit,” he said.


I'm scared, I said again.


He reached up and kissed me, and I held onto his neck.


“Let's go to bed,” he said.


We fucked, my hands in his hair, and I held him really hard that night. He was gone when I woke up, but I could hear him shuffling around in the living room, and I was kind of disappointed when he came to the doorway and he didn't have breakfast.


I want to go somewhere, he said.


I sat up. Somewhere in particular?


Yeah. Get dressed.


We took the 1 down to Times Square, transferred to the N, then changed to the L—and look, nobody takes the fucking L, I forget the L exists—two stops east. We got off at 1st Avenue and 14th Street, in the East Village. I'd come here alone—by cab, like a civilized person—a couple months after we'd moved here but hadn't been able to find what I was looking for. Justin was clearly on a mission, but I thought it must be something different, had to be, until he were standing in front of that same red building with the crumbling fire escapes, some scaffolding in front that didn't used to be there, new shutters on the windows, but that same fucking red building with the same crumbling fire escapes, here it was.


I asked Debbie for the address this morning, Justin said.


I wasn't sure she'd still have it.


Neither was I.


So we stood there and looked up the building, and we wandered the block, and the next one, and the next one, and I told Justin stories. About when I was sixteen, seventeen, maybe, 1987, '88, and I couldn't fucking breathe in my house for one more second and I'd run away up here. Not a lot of time. Three or four, if that. Vic would swing open his door and there I'd be, a fucking panting Pittsburgh runaway, and he'd sigh and step back and I'd crash on his hideous couch while they—always they—hung posters or made Western omelets or fucked too loudly or laughed, God, so much fucking laughing.


His building was full of lecherous old queens who seemed glamorous as fuck to me then and fucking terrifying in retrospect, back when you had to beg them to use condoms and sometimes it was just too much damn work, and some feeling I could never articulate put me off bottoming until this little savant crash-landed into my life. There was a bathhouse down the block where Vic would never let me go—it was a bank now, we paused in front of it and kept walking—but the bar where I had my first bathroom blow job was still standing, so Justin and I went in and got a beer at eleven in the morning.


Everybody around here knew him, said. Everywhere he went, it was Vic, Vic, Vic.


Sounds familiar, Justin said.


I shrugged. Anyone can conquer Liberty Avenue.


It was different then. There was hope, color, but the fear of it...God, it was everywhere. I don't know when Vic got it, but he didn't know until I was in college, and that first time I came to visit then, when he was alone and the bath house was boarded shut, and the lecherous old queens in his building had aged thirty years with weight loss and CMV and terror...I didn't come again after that.


Why did you bring me here? I asked him.


He shrugged with a small smile. I wanted to know where I came from.


I played with his fingers.


You had a life before me, he said. There are things I'm never going to get. I'm as gay as you are—


No one's as gay as I am.


—but that doesn't even matter. It's still a different experience.


But I'm not as Deaf as you are, I said. And this isn't about you having a past. It's about your fucking...now. Your future.


Life isn't linear, Justin said.


Aren't you sick of me calling you out for stupid shit?


Shut up. He took a sip of my beer. Fuck, that's good. Okay. It's not linear. That stuff affects who you are now. The stuff I'm going through...yeah, it makes shit from the past look different. It goes back and gives me history. It's not linear.


I sighed and tapped my fingers on the table. He took them in his.


You don't have to feel threatened if you don't want to, he said. You can just decide that you're not.


That's fucking stupid.


Maybe, he said. But what if it's not? He smiled a little. There's like a twelve percent chance, right?


Finish this for me, I said, pushing the beer towards him. And I'll take you to see Stonewall.


He grinned.


**


So, see? We're fine. We're going to be fine.


Oh, I promised you our fifth anniversary, right?


We were in Sevilla, southern Spain, for—


No, that was our sixth.


It wasn't Amsterdam, I remember telling some guy that that was our eighth.


Hong Kong? 2016, so that would have been our ninth.


Right, our fifth was just in New York, doing fucking nothing, like we usually do. We went to Nova and I fucked in him the back room and got a nice blow job from the new bartender, and then we went to a diner and had breakfast at two AM, and we didn't get divorced.


We've never been much for math, me and him, but we're gonna die at exactly the same goddamn minute someday. And I don't care what the odds are on that.

 

Why would I.

Chapter 41 - If They Can Do It by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Brian and Justin interfere in Daphne's love life.

If They Can Do It

 

 

Justin and I were in the kitchen of his apartment making a midnight pizza between rounds of Smash Brothers when Brian came in. Justin waved with sauce on his fingers, and Brian gave me a quick kiss and told me he liked my shirt and then turned to Justin with something like curiosity and circled him with his eyes narrowed. Justin licked his fingers and watched him, an eyebrow up.


Fuck, Brian signed after a few laps, almost to himself.


Justin laughed. What?


What? Fuck. He grabbed Justin and kissed the back of his neck. God, you're fucking gorgeous.


Justin looked at his messy hands and ratty sweats. He raised an eyebrow at me and I said Don't ask me, I don't see it.


Fuck, Brian said again. Goddamn it. How do you look like this?


You are so drunk.


It's not my fault you're always walking around looking hot when I'm drunk.


Justin rolled his eyes. Sit down, I'll get you some water.


Brian hopped up on the counter next to the pizza. Derek, you don't think he's hot? What's wrong with you?


He's very cute, I said. Do you need me to leave so you can have your way with him?


No, I can fuck him whenever. Did you know that about relationships? I feel like no one ever told me that or I would have been a lot less hesitant about this shit.


Sex with strangers, Justin said, handing him a bottle of water. You were hesitant because you like sex with strangers.


But I still have sex with strangers.


I know, you're very lucky.


Goddamn, I've got a good thing going. Fuck, come here, why are you not...come here. He pulled Justin in by his shirt and kissed him roughly. Do you always smell this good?


Drink your water.


Brian took a slug from the water bottle, then reached into his pocket for his phone. Hang on, someone wants me to be hearing. He held his phone to his ear and I saw him say “Hey, Daphne.” Oof.


Justin stuck the pizza in the oven. Who's he talking to? he said. He can't read lips for shit. I'm not as good as it as Emily is, but I can recognize some stuff.


Daphne.


Brian got up and walked around the living room while he talked, kicking off his shoes between steps.


She was texting me at work today, Justin said. I guess she didn't like the answer I gave her so she's going for a second opinion.


What did you tell her?


To break up with her fucking shitty boyfriend already.


So, uh. That was interesting. I said, I know they've been fighting a lot.


Yeah, because he's a dick and she deserves ten billion times better.


No arguments here.


Brian came back to the kitchen a couple minutes later.


Please tell me you told her to break up with him, Justin said.


I've been telling her that for four months. Brian got back up on the counter. I think she might actually listen this time. She said she talked to you earlier? Why are people asking us for relationship advice?


Justin shrugged.


These morons. You're the most stable relationship we know, I said.


Brian said, Jesus, that's depressing. That just makes me feel bad for everyone involved.


You've been together for ten years, I said. You're not fooling anyone.


I think we're both still just regularly surprised we haven't killed each other yet, Justin said, kissing Brian's cheek. Brian leaned into him, eyes closed.


I tried to be casual. So what's going on with Daphne?


He's making her feel guilty about how much she works, Justin said.


I'd never actually met Daphne's boyfriend, because he didn't sign, but it seemed like every story I heard about him was negative: Rafi and Daphne are fighting again, Rafi and Daphne were supposed to go away with this weekend but now they're not, Rafi's frustrated with Daphne's schedule. A lot of that last one. And like, yeah, she was busy! She was an ER intern, for God's sake. She was working really hard and she's fucking brilliant. Of course she was busy. What kind of jerk wouldn't be patient with that?


She deserves so much better. Justin said.


Brian rubbed his mouth and glanced at me, and I looked at the floor.


Justin waved his hand until we paid attention to him. What is this, what's going on here?


You haven't told him? I asked Brian.


No, he said. I'm really just an incredible friend.


Told me what? Justin said.


I waved to Brian. Go ahead.


Oh thank God finally. Derek's in love with Daphne!


Justin gaped at me. What?


I never said 'in love with' I said.


Love, Brian fingerspelled. Love. He loves her.


Didn't you say you were a good friend? I said. Do I get to see that at some point?


Brian grinned and popped his tongue into his cheek.


Does Daphne know? Justin said.


I said, No, and she's not going to.


What!


I counted out reasons on my left hand. She's three years older than me.


Brian said, Oh no, three years?


Fuck, Justin said. Call the whole thing off.


She's a doctor. I said. She's a fucking genius, whereas I'm taking four years to get a master's degree in philosophy.


Christ, I didn't know it was in philosophy, Brian said. That is dismal.


Fuck you. And I'm Deaf and she's hearing, and the odds of that working out are like—


Twelve percent, they said in unison.


And she technically still has a boyfriend, I finished.


Not for long, Justin said. Not now that I know this.


This is why you can't tell him anything, Brian said. Dog with a bone.


I said, What am I even supposed to do?


I'd try not being a dick about her schedule, Brian said. That seems to be all it takes. Also, please her sexually. Do you know how to pleasure a woman, Derek?


Do you?


I don't know, should I find out?


No, Justin said.


Hey, you've slept with Daphne! Brian said. You can give him tips.


I said, You slept with Daphne?


Once, years ago.


Justin deflowered her, Brian said. It was very romantic.


Justin said, I'm so embarrassed about everything I did as a teenager. Especially you.


Brian grinned.


Anyway. I'm not going to be a dick about her schedule, I said. But...


Brian threw up his hands. It begins.


I threw an oven mitt at him. The fact remains that she's really fucking busy, I said. How am I supposed to get time with her? She's always at the hospital.


Brian said, Yeah, that's a tough one. Man. Who do you know who spends a lot of time at the hospital?


Justin stuck his arms up like ta da.


I'm not going to use Justin, Derek said.


Brian said, No, definitely use him.


It helps with my guilt, Justin agreed. I'm not a burden! I'm a tool!


I said, So what, I just wait around for Justin to have some kind of medical emergency?


It doesn't take long, Brian said. He gets bored if he goes more than a few weeks without trying to die.


It's true, Justin said.


We can do one right now, Brian said. Justin, boil some water.


Justin smacked him, and Brian laughed and tackled him into his arms.


See, I want this, I said.


They both immediately shook their heads. Oh God, no, Brian said. Definitely not.


Run in the other direction from this, Justin said.


There's hope for you yet, young one, Brian said. Save yourself.


You just don't want competition, I said.


Brian grinned and gave Justin a rough kiss on the cheek. That's not possible.


Seriously, you shouldn't wish for this kind of ridiculous codependent shit, Justin said. We're fucked at this point, but you still have a shot. Have a nice, healthy relationship. For nice, healthy people.


Oh look I'm asleep, Brian said.


Justin said, Shh, we have to soothe the normals.


Oh, yeah, Brian said. Illness is sad! Independent competence is good!


We love normal people, Justin said. We're very jealous.


Oh yes, Brian said. We're miserable. He nipped at Justin's neck. Don't we look miserable? Christ, your hands are beautiful. He brushed Justin's hair back. How are you?


You are so drunk, Justin said.


I said, All right, you two, enough.


They beamed at me.


I rolled my eyes. So how long until we crash the hospital?


Give me a little while, Justin said. I'm sure I'll come up with something.


**


It took four days. Brian texted me and I came over, and he presented Justin to me like a trophy. Justin looked okay, except he had hives from his wrists up to his shoulders. Jesus, what happened to you? I asked.


No idea! Justin said.


Brian clapped his hands on Justin's shoulders. But you know, someone like Justin, this could be really serious. Now, we could just give him Benadryl here and keep an eye on it, but why take chances when New York has so many great medical facilities?


How does anyone puts up with you two? I said.


No one really does, Justin said thoughtfully.


Brian said, Now, of course, I would absolutely take him myself, but unfortunately I'm just swamped with work here, I couldn't possibly get away right now. And by the time I'm done with all the...you know, all the piles of work and everything, he'd probably be dead.


Justin nodded seriously.


And I can't send him off to sit in the ER by himself. How heartless would that be? I know you wouldn't ever let that happen either.


I said, We all know what's going on here why are we doing this whole fucking show...


It's Brian, Justin said.


Brian kissed my cheek. Have fun with my boyfriend, darling. Have him back by dinner. More seriously, he said, Watch his drug allergies.


Okay.


He lifted Justin's chin and kissed him. Bye. Feel better.


Love you.


Not in front of the children!


Sorry, sorry.


**


Justin scratched a lot on the train but seemed pretty okay, and he said he wasn't having any trouble breathing or anything like that. We got to the ER, and we had all this paperwork to fill out because it wasn't Justin's usual hospital, and after a few lines his hand started to shake. I held my hand out for the pen and he gave it to me, stretching his fingers against his knee.


I don't see Daphne yet, Justin said.


Maybe she's not here today.


She's supposed to be. He pointed to the emergency contact line. Put husband, not partner. They take that more seriously.


I always forget you two are married.


Yeah, so do we.


Insurance?


He took out his wallet. Yes, the reason I'm married.


I rolled my eyes. Please, you'd be married anyway.


No, I don't think so. I don't think we ever would have gotten married if there weren't some reason for it.


Loving each other isn't a reason?


What, we love each other more if we're married? He shrugged. I don't know. Maybe it's a gay thing. But it's just weird that this thing we couldn't do for a million years is supposed to be some sort of measurement of love or commitment or whatever.


Are all gay guys like you two?


He laughed. Nobody's like us two.


I just wish I could have seen you in the white dress, that's all, I said.


Brian wore the white dress.


Drug allergies?


He tossed a list at me.


God, how are you alive?


A continued mystery.


All right, medical history. Begin the saga.


Justin paused. I'll do it, give it to me.


Your hand's all right?


Yeah, it's good. I'll do it.


All right. His business was his business.


Eventually we were escorted down a hall by a nurse who wanted to take Justin's temperature and blood pressure and stuff like that before they put him on a bed. Everything she was doing was pretty obvious and didn't really require talking, but Justin is a devious fucker and was all, We're Deaf, does anyone here know sign language? and scratched really pitifully at his wrists.


Daphne was there a minute later. God, she looked good in her scrubs. She'd look good in a paper bag, but you know.


I was hoping it was you, she said. Otherwise I'm going to embarrass myself trying to sign.


Don't be ridiculous, I said. Daphne's signing wasn't perfect, sure, but it was good and she was getting better all the time. I never had any problem understanding her. I don't think hearing people really get how accustomed we are to dealing with really, really crappy signing. Plus Daphne and Justin have been friends since they were little kids, so if they're anything like me and Emily, they could have whole conversations just with side-eyes and lip twitches.


Daphne crouched down in front of Justin and put a clip on his finger and rolled some fancy thermometer thing over his face. This is nurse work, you know.


Yeah, but you love me.


What the fuck happened, anyway?


I don't know. Must have eaten something.


She looked down his throat. You don't look too bad. You really came to the ER for a few hives?


He sighed. You know Brian. So paranoid.


Not too paranoid to stick you with this joker, she said, giving my ankle a little kick.


He's an enigma, that Brian, I said.


Daphne finished taking his blood pressure. Well, my expert opinion is that you'll live. Let's get you in a bed, and I'll give you some Benadryl and a prednisone shot and we'll watch you for a few hours.


My hero, he said.


Think you can take directions to a bed from a nurse? People are dying.


Yeah, yeah, go.


On her way back to the ER, she made quick eye contact with me, then looked at the floor with a little smile.


Oh my God, she loves you, Justin said.


Shut up.


I won't, he said, scratching. She's nervous around you! She teased you. I know her. She loves you. And now we're going to be here for a few hours, hmmm, what can you do fifteen times in a few hours...


Fifteen times?


A nurse came in then to lead us to a little cubicle, and Justin said, Remind me to tell you about the time Brian tried Viagra.


Daphne came back and talked to the nurse some, then gave Justin a shot and hooked him up to some IV fluids. Yell if you need me, she said to Justin.


He curled up on the bed. I'm good.


She didn't even look at me that time, I said to Justin.


She's busy. He nodded to where she'd gone over to stand by the desk and fill out some charts. I bet she'd like if you brought her some coffee. Lots of sugar.


I think I'm supposed to stay with you.


I'm going to call Brian and tell him I'm alive. He'll probably cry because he's so grateful. He'll confess his love. He'll sign me some sonnets. You don't really want to see that.


You really do live in a completely different world, I said.


He grinned at me. It's nice here.


I found the coffee machine, which took a really long time during which I kept hoping Daphne wasn't looking over to see me wandering around like an idiot, and eventually I slid up to her and cleared my throat and handed her a cup of coffee. She smiled—God, the smile on that girl, it could warm a New York winter.


Shouldn't you be with Justin? she said.


Eh. I don't really like him that much.


I'm surprised you came here, she said. Doesn't Justin usually go uptown?


Sure, but since Brian couldn't come...we wanted to make sure we knew there'd be someone who signed.


She grinned. You came here for me.


We came here for you.


Brian must really trust you.


Brian doesn't make decisions for him.


Still, he'll run someone down if Justin's hurt and they're in his way. Trust me.


Do you need any help with that?


She raised an eyebrow. With patient charts? I think there's about a million laws against that.


Oh. Right. Derek, you fucking idiot. Well, I'll stop distracting you then.


I started to leave, and she caught me by the arm. Her hand was warm, even through my sleeve. She had these perfect fingernails. God, I was so toast.


I was actually about to take a lunch break, she said. If you can tear yourself away from Justin a little longer? She glanced down at the floor, then back up at me.


I swallowed. Yeah, I think he'll survive.


We stopped at Justin's bed and told him we were going—he waved us off, still on the phone with Brian, and told us to leave him the fuck alone already, beaming at me the second Daphne looked anyway—and she made sure a nurse knew to page her if anything went wrong with him, and then she led me down to the cafeteria. We got sandwiches and frozen yogurt and sat at a table by the window.


I get the same thing every day, she said. You'd think I get sick of it but, I don't know.


I'm like that too, I said. I find something I like and I just have it over and over.


She sipped her soda. I broke up with my boyfriend last night, she said after a minute.


Oh, I said, my heart speeding up. I'm sorry.


She shrugged. It was never going to be what either of us wanted it to be.


What's that? I asked.


I want someone who's not going to expect me to explain myself all the time, she said. He was always asking me why, why, why. Why do you worked up about this issue, why does it matter to you what other people think, why are you getting involved in something when you barely have enough time as it is...


He wants you to care less, I said.


She nodded. He wants me to care less.


Lucky for him, he won't have trouble finding someone new. Most people aren't paying enough goddamn attention to care.


Thank you, she said. People think oh, look, we've got a Black president, everything's over, what are you complaining about now—


Haven't you heard that racism's over now?


Rafi had, Daphne says. Rafi had definitely heard that.


I shook my head. You can't date white people. They're undateable.


You think hearing people are undateable, she said, barely looking at me.


I don't know. I used to think that.


Not anymore? she said, and oh God, I hadn't really believed Justin before, but she was something about the way she asked that, the way she watched me, and I knew. You don't ask something that casually unless you're distinctly non-casual about it. Trust me, I'm Deaf; we read expressions.


She liked me, she liked me, she liked me.


I tried to be casual too. You've seen Brian and Justin.


She laughed. True. If those two drama queens can make it work—


Exactly. Should be easy as hell for rational people.


Rational people, huh?


Hey, I'm a philosopher, I said, smiling over my sandwich. My whole life is rational.


She checked her watch. I need to get back.


Okay. I'll clean this up.


She bit her nails while she watched me.


We were alone in the elevator on the way back to the ER. Some kind of Grey's Anatomy bullshit, and I knew she was thinking it too because she laughed and put her hands over her face, and I started laughing too.


Fuck it, I said, and I hit the emergency stop button, and her mouth was immediately on mine.


**


Well? Justin said. Well well well?


I kissed his cheek. You look better.


Fuck me, I'm fine! Tell me what happened! You were gone for ages!


I pulled his chair up by the bed and sat down, and he watched my face and smiled slowly.


Oh, yes. Fuck yes, he said.


Don't go buying wedding invitations yet. I don't know what it all means.


I'm amazing, he said. I should rent my shitty body out to lovelorn idiots everywhere.


The curtain opened at the end of the cubicle and Brian sauntered in, as casual as could be.


Speaking of lovelorn idiots, Justin said.


Brian raised an eyebrow. I'll ignore that because you're sick. He climbed up on to the bed.


What the hell are you doing here? Justin said.


He arranged Justin onto his chest. You know all that very important work I had to do?


Yeah.


I finished it. He kissed the top of Justin's head.


You worry too much.


I have baggage about abandoning you in hospitals. He looked over his head at me. So, how's our mission going?


Uh, pretty fucking well.


Look at that! We helped the heteros. There's our good deed for the year, Sunshine.


Justin snuggled into him. Shh, I'm sleeping.


Daphne walked by, then, and saw Brian had arrived, and looked at me and rolled her eyes a little, a smile on her pink lips.


If they can do it, I mouthed to her.


Anyone can, she finished.

 

Chapter 42 - Dear Justin by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Some of Ben's correspondence with Justin, from 2003 to 2010, as Justin's life changes.

(Helps to be very familiar with at least the first 26 fics, but you'll be fine, don't worry.)

Dear Justin

 

 


 

It didn't occur to me as significant at the time, but in the very first email Justin ever sent me, he mentioned his hand.


July 9th, 2003


Hey Ben,


I just got this month's PIFA newsletter and they're having a show I thought you might be interested in. It's a study on queer artists from the 18th and 19th centuries, some paintings, a lot of sculpture. I'd absolutely go if I were in town, but unfortunately I think I'll be eighty before they even give me a night off, let alone a weekend.


Hope everything's going well there. I miss all of you. LA's gorgeous but stressful, though thankfully no one's trying to make Rage straight yet. All I do is draw all day, which is a nice change from slinging plates at the diner, but it's rough on my hand, and then the nights spent sucking up to studio execs and trying to remember everyone's name and the name of their agent and last project and wife and mistress are rough on my soul.


Take care, and try to get a decent meal into Brian if you can,

Justin


 


Looking back on it, I wonder: did he want me to ask? Was he already reaching out about it, even back then?


I'd heard him use the word disabled for himself before then, and I remember being somewhat startled by it. We were at Babylon, not long after Brian and Justin got back together, and they were taking a break to drink and look out over the crowd. I pried myself away from Michael and Emmett and got a drink and got close enough to hear their conversation.


“The idea behind intersectionality is that people with multiple marginalizations aren't ever just one of them,” Justin was saying. “One thing is always informed by the other. And that's something people who are only marginalized in one way sometimes feel threatened by, because it's like saying that their one experience isn't enough because it's on its own.”


I think until that minute I'd assumed Brian and Justin didn't talk about anything more sophisticated than what position they were going to try that night.


Brian said, “But what they fuck do you care what those people think?”


“I don't know. I guess it's weird for me because the worst instances of discrimination I've dealt with weren't intersectional at all. The shit at PIFA, that had nothing to do with being gay. Everything at St. James, I wasn't even disabled then.”


You don't hear a lot of people casually refer to themselves as disabled, especially not back in in the early 2000s. So I was surprised just by that, but also by the fact that he said it to Brian. And also by the way Brian didn't flinch.


“But you can't really be sure of that, right?” Brian said. “I mean, the high school stuff, sure, but there's no proof that the dean wasn't thinking about the fact that you're gay. Maybe that's what it is. That you can never be sure.”


“Maybe. I don't know. Every day I sit in that class I feel like I need to face some sort of specially tailored gay, disabled experience in order to fit the mold of what they're trying to teach me.”


“Give it time. Everything bad possible happens to you eventually.”


“That's true,” Justin said, even though they had no idea what they were in for, at that point.


I remember asking Michael about it later. “Did you know Justin considers himself disabled?”


Michael spit out toothpaste. “Huh?”


“It makes sense,” I said. “I just didn't know he used the word for himself.”


“What, because of his hand?”


“Because of all the effects from the bashing, I imagine. Physical and psychological.”


Michael shook his head, laughing a little. “I'd hate to see Brian's face if he heard Justin talk about himself that way.”


I'm not sure why, but I didn't correct him. But I didn't forget that, that Justin was using the word disabled for himself long before he lost his hearing.


And that Brian, tacitly, was too.


 


April 12th, 2004


Hey-o,


I know Brian's dragging Michael to Suds and Studs tonight. Are you going, or do you want to grab dinner?


Ben


 


April 13th, 2004


Hey Ben,


Sorry for the late answer. As I'm sure you've now heard from Michael, I rained all over the Studs and Suds plan (accidentally! I actually was planning to go). I don't know what Brian told Michael by way of details, but basically I've been on an anticonvulsant since the bashing and we tried lowering it for the first time last week and everything was going fine until it...wasn't, and that was last night. I'm fine now, just tired. I spent the day sleeping in Brian's office. Want to do lunch tomorrow instead?


Justin


 


I didn't ask him any details about what happened that night, either in my follow-up email or at lunch the next day. I felt like if he wanted to tell me, he would have, which was pretty stupid, in retrospect.


Something they don't tell you about what it's like to have a chronic illness, at least in my experience, is how much time you will spend fielding questions from people who you don't want to talk to about it, strangers and Facebook friends and distant relatives, and, conversely, how much time you will spend waiting for questions that never come from people you love.


They don't want to pry, but you don't want to feel like you're boring them, or burdening them, so you just sit around waiting for the other one to talk. I suppose even though I knew about Justin's hand, even though I'd heard him use the word disabled, I didn't think of him as chronically ill at that point. The seizures weren't nearly as debilitating as they'd become a few years later after his disease changed his brain chemistry again, and he did a very, very good job hiding them from us. Still does, for the most part. I recognized them as seizures the first time I saw Justin's hand spasm—I have a cousin with epilepsy, and his presents a lot like Justin's—but when I mentioned it to Michael he was confused. “What? His hand just gets tired.”


So I assumed that's what Justin wanted everyone to think, and I assumed that that everyone included me.


Which, like I said, was stupid. Across history, across culture, one thing remains constant: we're all always looking for community,


 


January 8th, 2005


Hey Ben,


Thanks for dinner last night. That chicken was amazing, and the new paint color in the bathroom really does look good. I told you it would work out once you saw it on the wall! Brian says let us know if you two end up taking that trip to Mexico, because apparently he fucked some travel agent who mentioned a good resort, but he can't remember the name of it so he needs to track him back down. First person Brian will talk to post-coital since me, probably.


I gave some thought to your offer about auditing your class and I really, really appreciate it, but I don't think it's right for me right now. It's amazing what a relief it's been to be out of college; I don't think I realized how much it was weighing on me until I stopped. My short-term memory isn't great, so keeping track of assignments can be hard, and I can get pretty anxious in crowd situations, so large lecture halls are pretty miserable. When I do go back—if I go back—I want to be working towards something, so auditing probably doesn't make much sense anyway. And please, save me the “education for education's sake” lecture. I promise I read plenty of books.


Thanks again,

Justin


 


It's not that every email Justin sent me mentioned something about his health—after all, there were a lot of emails, as the years went on. It's just that a lot of them did.


 


November 19th, 2005


Hey you,


I remember when I was in the hospital after the bashing and earlier this year with the whole appendix fiasco that I was just drowning in downtime, so I thought I'd give you something to read. Nothing's going on with me, so it's going to be boring as hell, but I would have happily read about paint drying when I was laid up, so here's hoping you're just as desperate. Or maybe Michael brought you adequate entertainment, in which case you can just delete this. Brian's the worst at that. When I'm sick and I tell him I'm bored, he just says, “Go to sleep.” In Brian-land, if you're sick enough not to go to work, you're too sick to be conscious. Sometimes I wonder how I didn't just kill him myself when he had cancer.


They still won't let us visit you, which is pretty annoying. Michael said maybe tomorrow?


Let's see, let's see, what's going on out here...Emmett and Drew are looking for an apartment, and I'm like, didn't you two just get back together two and a half minutes ago? Debbie put up all the Christmas decorations and is already all maudlin that Brian and I are going to be in Spain. I'm trying to act like I'm sorry, for her sake, but I'm so excited I can hardly stand it. Last time we were in Europe it was just for his work, so we didn't have a ton of downtime, so this time we're doing a ton of art stuff, like the Picasso museum in Barcelona and plenty of cathedrals, even though Brian says they give him the willies.


What else, what else...they finally tore down that decrepit apartment building on the west side of Liberty Avenue. Ted said it's going to be a coffee shop, so they might take business away from the diner, but I guess I'm not supposed to worry about stuff like that. Plus the diner's a fixture, so it's not like people will stop going, right? Melanie won that escalator case she was doing. No one would tell me any details about what it was about, which I'm assuming meant it was the kind of gruesome shit that would give me nightmares. I know it should probably bother me that they coddle me like that, but...I don't know. It doesn't, most of the time. Sometimes I need some kind of reassurance that everyone hasn't just forgotten what happened to me, since no one really talks about it. I'll take what I can get.


We went to see my sister last week in her school musical. Brian got really bitchy about how Molly was clearly better than everyone, so anytime someone who had a bigger part started singing he'd get all fucking offended that Molly didn't have their part. It was cute. Molly is a really excellent singer, but she can't dance worth shit, so she's never going to get the big parts. Brian doesn't get that, but then again, neither does Molly.


Let's see...oh, Gus had a basketball game on Saturday. They lost, but he scored eight points, so that was cool. But then afterwards, we were standing around with Mel and Lindz waiting to talk to him, and Gus came out of the locker room with some friend and then he was like, “Hold on, those are my parents,” before he came over to talk to us.


And I mean, it's possibly he meant just Melanie and Lindsay, and Brian and I were just some guys hanging around, or maybe he meant Brian and Mel and Lindsay and I was the only guy hanging around, but...I don't know, there was something about the way he gestured at all of us. I can't explain it. And I don't think it's just because that's what I wanted him to mean, because I was totally freaked out by it! Mostly because I was ready for Brian to completely lose it. I mean, we're great now, me and Brian, we've been together without any real hiccups for almost three years now, I've lived in the loft for two, but still...you know Brian. You've got to be careful with him. I still think he's going to wake up next to me some day and suddenly realize he's not single and go, like, start a sex club in Cancun.


So all night after that I was totally on edge waiting for Brian to freak out. We went out afterwards with Melanie and Lindz and Gus and got dinner and the whole time I'm like watching Brian, analyzing every single thing he says, and he's acting completely normal, being all weirdly sweet and sarcastic with Gus, hitting on the waiter, baiting Mel, slipping his foot up my leg under the table, and I have it in my head that it's like...like he's being manipulatively normal, you know? Like trying to trick me. But then we got home and the normalness continued, and now it's been four days so either this is the slowest burn in history, Brian didn't hear Gus say it, or he...legitimately doesn't care.


Maybe Brian's not the crazy one anymore. Maybe it's me!


So, anyway, that's the very uneventful world outside the hospital. But here's hoping it was at least sort of entertaining to read about. And here's also hoping I can come see you tomorrow.


Feel better. We all miss you.

Justin




August 15th, 2006


Hey,


Sorry about rushing out of your place last night. I realized after I didn't even hear how the Rage meeting went. Brian filled me on everything. Thanks for going; I'm sure Michael really appreciated it.


Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for not hearing the baby monitor. I hope J.R. wasn't too upset. I guess I was just distracted or something.


See you soon,

Justin


 


We found out what was going on three and a half months later.


Michael cried the night after we got home from Debbie's house, where Brian and Justin had gathered us all to tell us the news. Part of that was the adrenaline, I think; when the two of them sat us all down like that, I think all of us, and I know Michael, were expecting to hear that Brian's cancer was back and that it had spread.


The relief when that wasn't it was pretty short-lived.


“Brian can't handle this,” Michael told me that night. “You weren't there when Justin got bashed...he can't do this, he's going to fall apart, he's going to fucking leave him. Justin's going to be fucking deaf and alone and Brian's going to drink himself to death from guilt.”


“We'll cross that bridge if we come to it, all right? We'll take care of both of them.”


Michael nodded, wiping his eyes. “I'm gonna call Hunter and let him know.”


“Good idea,” I said.


 


December 1st, 2006


Dear Justin,


No pressure to answer or anything, all right? Just wanted to check in to see if you felt like talking. I'm going to be at the diner alone for lunch if you want to join me?


Thanks for trusting all of us with your news yesterday. I'm sure the decision for when to tell us wasn't an easy one, and we're honored that you've trusted us to handle this. I know it can be hard to ask for help, but one thing I've learned is that people love to have a task they can handle, so don't be shy about telling us if you just need someone to clean the loft or work your shift at the diner or come bring dinner over. We love you and we want to help however we can, we just don't always know how.


Ben


**


Hey Ben.


Thanks for checking in. I really appreciate it. Sorry I didn't get back to you until now about lunch today; since it's after five I guess that ship has kind of sailed. Sorry. I've been sleeping a lot. My hand's really been bothering me on top of, you know, the other stuff, and I always get tired when it acts up. Brian's all over my neurologist trying to find out if all of it's tied together, like if there's a connection then somehow it'll make a difference. I don't know. I have a hard time really caring about all the medical stuff, which I know is dumb and lazy of me, so it's a good thing Brian does it. He has a filing cabinet just for stuff from doctors at this point, all alphabetized and everything. I don't ever look at it.


Anyway.


Yesterday must have been pretty intense for all of you. God, Deb crying like that was brutal. Maybe we should have sat you down each individually and told you, but...I don't know, I just don't have the stamina to go through it that many times. Brian offered to do it but that just felt so fucking cowardly to me, I don't know. It's going on with me and I can't even talk about it?


He says it's not my job to hold people's hands about it and make it easier for them. I told him maybe he should keep that in mind next time he's having a temper tantrum about me not putting the orange juice away which is very obviously NOT about me not putting the orange juice away, and he just glared at me. At least some things haven't changed.


I shouldn't sell him out like that. Yeah, he's raw right now, and he's burying stuff and drinking a lot and screaming at his assistant and beating the shit out of the treadmill, but he's here and he's trying and he's following my lead. He kept all of this a secret for months because I wasn't ready to tell people. And he's...you know. He's here and he's dealing with it and he's not running away. That's about all I can ask for. And he's been the realist here, because I keep trying to convince him that maybe the doctors were wrong and this is all some big mix-up because...I feel fine. Just tired.


So tell Michael to stop worrying, because I know he is, if he isn't already buying plane tickets because he thinks he needs to rescue Brian from this. I keep going back and forth on whether he's going to be Team Justin or Team Brian after the imminent breakup I'm sure he's imagining. Can never sort that one out. Obviously he loves Brian more than me, but he also REALLY loves being disappointed in Brian, so I might have a Cinderella story.


Anyway. We're fine. He just got home and he brought me a sandwich and he's bitching at me about how I'm going to blow my hearing out even faster if I keep turning the TV up this loud. Doesn't sound that loud to me. Guess maybe it wasn't some big mix-up! Ha.


Thanks for the invite and everything. I appreciate it, but I think I just want to be by myself for a little while. Brian can answer any questions if you have them. I just need some time to process, I guess.


I'll be fine.


Justin


 


Everyone wanted to talk about Justin losing his hearing, all the time. The boys brought it up at the diner and Babylon and at Sunday dinner, whether or not Brian and Justin were there, but especially if they weren't. Brian, God, I never thought I'd feel pity for Brian Kinney, but he couldn't fucking inhale in this town without someone interrupting to ask how Justin was.


“You'd think he was fucking dying,” Brian said idly to me one time, smoking a cigarette outside the diner.


“They're just concerned.”


“Gotta wonder where they were when he was spilling coffee all over himself and having panic attacks in crowds and dropping out of art school because he couldn't use his hand,” Brian said. “But I guess that's not as exciting.”


“You can't really compare his hand spasms to losing his hearing,” I said.


Brian said, “Why,” as slowly as you can say a one-syllable word.


 


February 10th, 2007


Hey,


Noticed you made a kind of quick exit from the diner last night. Just wanted to check in, see if everything was okay.


Ben


**


Hey Ben,


Yeah, sorry about that.


The truth is, it's kind of hard to manage everyone when Brian's not there. It's hard for me to understand everyone when they talk all over each other, but I don't want to tell them because...God, you know how these people get when you point out something they're doing wrong. It's just hours and hours of self-flagellation about it and you end up having to reassure them that they weren't doing something wrong actually after all or else they'll just slit their wrists to make it up to you. Brian has this way of correcting people where he's just an asshole about it, and that usually controls the freakout because they still get to feel self-righteous about it, but somehow I haven't mastered being a jerk the way Brian has (he would probably disagree with you).


He also just...I don't know. He fields the questions. I hate people asking me about it when he's not there because I have to manage other people and myself and


I don't know.


It's scary how much I rely on him. I'm trying really hard not to let people know, because I know they'll judge me for it. And I'm scared he's going to get overwhelmed and sick of this and bail, and I can't even say that to him because he gets all pissed off and asks what he's done in the past few years to deserve that kind of expectation, which is totally true, he's been such a fucking rock through all of this.


But I still worry.


**


Justin,


You know something funny? I've never worried that Brian was going to leave you over this. Not for a second.


I believe, without hesitation, in the magic of caretaking. That it forms a kind of bond between two people that can't be forged any other way. There's an intimacy there, a trust, and whenever the self-loathing threatens to take me over when I'm not doing well, I try not to get caught up in the image of myself, this toxic-masculinity-mandated idea that lying in a hospital bed makes me less of man, and instead think of it as an opportunity. If I were healthy, would Michael and I be connected the way we are? Would he have had a chance to turn into the person he has?


One thing I've learned not to do is ascribe regret to people who aren't showing it.


There's a magic about the human tendency to help others, and an even bigger magic in people who go above and beyond that tendency. Every once in a while you'll come across a person who has that natural affinity, who you can see come alive, who goes out of their way without fanfare or struggle.


I remember right after I met you, the way Brian would watch you. Michael casually dropped into conversation with you that he'd never complained in taking care of you after the bashing, that he never seemed overwhelmed, never wavered. Michael didn't understand what a big deal that was.


Neither does Brian.


People like us, we understand. And I think we have a way of attracting people like them. It's magnetic. We find each other. We give them something too.


It's okay to contribute a disabled person to the world. To a relationship.


Brian's been comfortable with that word for years.


He's not going anywhere.


Love,

Ben


 


March 8th, 2007


Hey Justin,


Thought I should warn you that Michael's planning a joint birthday dinner for us this Sunday, so our place instead of Deb's. Everyone should be there. Might want to start easing Brian into the idea now. Is paella okay?


Ben




March 9th, 2007


Hey,


That's fine. We have a sign language class at four on Sunday so we might be a little late, but we'll get there when we can. I'll pick up some wine.


Brian actually asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday this year, which on the Kinney scale (I just realized how much that sounds like Kinsey scale, and now I have this idea of categorizing everyone based on how attracted they are to Brian, except fucking EVERYONE would be a six) pretty much equates to hiring a parade and some fireworks. This is, unless the doctors are really really off, the last year I'm going to have any hearing, so there's kind of a weight hanging over this birthday.


Anyway, thanks of the heads up, we'll be there. And I'll try not to be a wet blanket. Happy 35th! I know it'll be a great year for you.


Justin


 


June 8th, 2007


Justin,


Well well well. Michael kept the secret for an admirable nine seconds after I arrived home from work. Kudos to Brian for managing to keep it from him as long as he did. God knows I can never hide anything from Michael. He'll get it out of you somehow.


So, a belated congratulations. I assume there's no registry? I have to get you guys something.


Ben




June 10th, 2007


Hey Ben,


Sorry for the delay. Rough couple of days.


Anyway, no, there's no registry. It wasn't really a secret, we just didn't really feel the need to tell anyone. It's just...I don't know, whatever the health insurance equivalent of a green card marriage is. Not a big deal. Emmett knows now, and he called yesterday wanting to throw us some kind of post-wedding reception and I think Brian threw the whole phone away just to be safe. Fine by me.


Thank you for the congratulations, but seriously, it's no big deal. I still hate that I missed your wedding, and I know it was a beautiful celebration of love for the two of you, and it meant a lot for you to be able to share that love with the people closest to you. That's beautiful, truly, but it's not me and Brian.


We're selfish bastards and want it all to ourselves.


Justin


 


July 14th, 2007


Hey you,


Just checking in. We love you. Michael and I will be over tonight with enough food to feed an army, so you two should be set for a few days.


You're going to be just fine, okay? Everyone's here for you. You're still you and we all know it.


Love,

Ben


 


Brian opened the door to the loft that night, looking ragged, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. He probably hadn't gone to work; Justin hadn't been discharged from the hospital after losing all his hearing two days ago until late the night before, and no one had seen them since then.


He rubbed his forehead. “Really not a good time.”


“Not a social call,” I said. “We're just dropping off food. Have you eaten?”


He sighed. “No.”


“Then let us come in and make you something. You don't even have to talk to us.”


Michael was a little surprised by this, I could tell—as hard as I'd tried on the way over, I couldn't shake him of the idea that Brian and Justin would want company and comforting—but I knew sometimes the best gift you could give someone was a promise that they could pretend that they weren't alive for a little while. And Brian, standing in the doorway right then, really, really looked like he did not want to be alive.


“I emailed Justin and told him we were coming.”


“He's been sleeping all day,” Brian said, but he stepped out of the way to let us in. We set the food on the counter, and he loped up to the bed and sat down on the edge with a gentle hand on Justin. Michael was craning his neck, trying to see.


“Help me plate,” I told him.


Brian came back a minute later, alone. “He's going to eat later,” he said.


I nodded. “Okay.”


Brian sat on a stool and dropped his head into his hands. Michael slid a plate in front of him, and Brian picked at it listlessly.


“How is he?” Michael asked, ignoring the look I gave him.


Brian cleared his throat. “Fine. Not as dizzy as he has been.”


Fine clearly wasn't the answer Michael was looking for. “That's, um, that's good. But I meant...”


Brian wiped his face. “What, Michael? Is he happy? Can he hear? What are you asking?”


“I don't know...”


“I don't have any reassurances for you right now,” Brian said. “I'll put a spin on this in a few days, I'll get a game face on for him, can you fucking just let this fucking suck for a goddamn minute?”


Michael nodded and looked down, and I started putting leftovers away. Brian whispered, “Fuck,” and threw his plate at the sink.


Michael glanced at the bedroom. “Brian—”


“I'm not going to wake him up!” Brian yelled. “He can't fucking hear me! Fuck!”


“Brian,” Michael said again, and he looked pointedly behind Brian this time, and Brian winced and pinched his nose as Justin came up behind him and started rubbing his shoulders.


“Hi, Justin,” Michael and I said together.


Justin nodded at us and moved in close to Brian, kissing his cheek and whispering something in his ear. Brian closed his eyes and leaned into him, nodding a little, his fingers tight around Justin's waist.


“Fuck,” Michael said to me later, after we left.


I thought about how Brian relaxed the second Justin touched him.


“They'll be okay,” I said.


 


July 18th, 2007


It is not your job to take care of him. This is your illness. Other people can take care of him. Take care of yourself.


Ben


**


It's my job and you can pry it from my cold dead hands. If caretaking is such a joy, don't deny me that just because I'm sick.


Justin


 


Things returned to some semblance of normal, eventually. Brian and Justin started coming out again more, and we signed with him the best we could and Brian never seemed to mind interpreting for us when we couldn't. They seemed happy, at first hesitantly, eventually genuinely. They still laughed, and danced, and were unable to keep their hands off each other in public places. Justin went back to work at the diner, and all the patrons who adored him before adored him again, and the Deaf waiter became a bit of a Liberty Avenue fixture. Everyone always wanted to show off the little bits of sign language they'd learned, and people would come up to him elsewhere, Woody's or Babylon or just on the street, to say hi to him. Brian was annoyed, but Justin was patient and encouraging.


At some point, though, we stopped seeing Justin out all that often. Brian was still around, and it's not as if we never saw Justin, so there was no worry that he'd vanished from the face of the planet, or that he and Brian had broken up or anything like that. But he missed a few Sunday dinners, didn't always come to Babylon, showed up for one beer at Woody's and bailed before the night really got going.


Eventually I asked Brian about it. “So where's Justin been lately?”


“Deaf friends,” Brian said casually, sipping his drink.


“He has new friends?” Emmett said, faux-scandalized, or potentially really-scandalized. “What about us?”


Brian looked at him like he was an idiot. “You don't sign.”


“Yeah we do!” Michael said.


Brian laughed. “Sure. Okay.”


 


April 30th, 2008


Hi Justin,


Michael showed me the new issue of Rage tonight. Absolutely gorgeous artwork as always, so beautiful job there. The story seems kind of dark, even for you guys, so I just wanted to check in and see if you were all right over there.


Love,

Ben




May 1st, 2008


Hey,


I'm just fine, thanks for checking!


Justin


 


Michael came home depressed in February of 2009. “It's really happening,” he said morosely.


I knew exactly what he was talking about, and I couldn't help but laugh. “They've been talking about it for almost a year. They got the apartment months ago. The place is all packed up. You're just now realizing it's happening?”


“He's threatened to move a million times!” Michael whined, flopping down in my lap. “There was always...I don't know, at least a chance that he would back out.”


“They need to get out of this place, Michael,” I said, petting his forehead.


“Justin needs it,” Michael said, with some of that old disdain I hadn't heard in a while. Justin would probably be pleased that Michael wasn't afraid to be pissy at him anymore, I thought idly.


“Yes,” I said. “Justin needs a fresh start, and an area with a better Deaf community than Pittsburgh's.” I kissed his forehead. “Imagine living somewhere without a Liberty Avenue. Wouldn't you want to go somewhere with people like you?”


“What about Brian?”


I laughed. “There are queers in New York, I hear.”


“He's just totally in Justin's world now,” Michael said. “And Justin's world is just...he's just like a full-time disabled person now.”


“Yeah, Michael, he is. That's not a bad thing.”


“But he only hangs out with other Deaf people! He's totally isolated himself. It's not like you only hang out with other people with HIV.”


I stared at him. “Yeah. They keep dying.”


He was quiet for a beat. “I'm sorry. I'm being a jerk.”


I sighed. “Trying to relate to people who don't share that kind of experience can be exhausting. Especially when they don't speak your language that well.”


“Okay, so...so that's fine for Justin. But what about Brian? He's just disappearing into it.”


“He's changing,” I said. “You've been on him to grow up for years.”


“How is this growing up!” Michael said. “He's still tricking. He'll probably be worse about it in New York. They're married and they still act like they're not. It's growing up just because he's—”


I love Michael, I love him to the ends of the earth, but I have long, long given up on trying to love the person he becomes where Brian Kinney is concerned. It's easier for us both that way.


“Because he's creating a life that he loves around the needs of another person,” I said. “It still counts if that person isn't you.”



April 18th, 2009


Hey Ben,


Sorry I've been off the grid for a while. I was going through a thing with adjusting my meds...it's a whole long saga, but basically they cranked my anti-convulsant up really high and I felt like a drugged out zombie for a while, and then they lowered it and I had a kind of major seizure, so I've just been basically reacclimating myself to human life.


I started a new job a few weeks ago and that's been amazing so far. I'm helping out Marie Blair, a gallery owner in Chelsea. She's this incredibly accomplished person, and her gallery's incredible. Her son's Deaf, so she signs really well, but she's never made me feel like she was hiring me for some kind of disability outreach or something. She loves my art and says she's going to show me some day, when I'm ready. I hope she tells me when that is, because I would have said I was ready now!


We went to the ballet last week for our anniversary. Have you been? It was...ridiculously romantic, so don't go spreading it around or Brian will just about die of embarrassment. But between you and me, it was absolutely incredible. Poetry in motion.


Hope you're well.


Justin


 


I remember reading that email a few times before replying back with something bland and useless about the ballet that I immediately felt cowardly for. And not a week after that, we got a phone call in the middle of the night from Brian in Australia, and Michael was off to New York. He came home two days later, and I gave Justin another day before I sent the email I probably should have written six years before.



April 27th, 2009


Justin,


How are you feeling?


**


Better, thanks. Fever's almost gone. Not back to work yet so I'm still just resting. Should be feeling a lot better in a few days.


Justin


**


That's not what I meant.


Ben


**


And after that, the floodgates were open.


 


June 16th, 2009


Ben,


I've been reading Sontag like you recommended. Thank you so, so much.


I can't stop thinking about the way we use illness as metaphors—how many times have I heard (ha) someone say someone's “deaf to” something, or someone makes a “tone-deaf” remark, and God, I never even unpacked that, I just accepted it—and that's not even touching on all the “spaz” stuff.


But I'm also thinking about kind of the inverse of that, the way we metaphorize illness. How we do everything possible to prevent physical suffering from being physical. I mean, just the act of using words for it is kind of metaphorizing it in a way, right? You're representing something literal in a non-literal way. And I guess it just..it kind of emphasizes to me the way that people who aren't experiencing this can never understand it. It's literally impossible to convey.


Because how do you even say it? “I feel like crap all the time?” That's a metaphor. And even in a less obvious sense...everyone wants to relate chronic illness to something that they've experienced, oh, so it's like having the flu but all the time, it's like how you feel after a hard work out but all the time..and how can that even come close to making them understand, since the “but all the time,” is actually the point, not the fucking...exactness of what is you feel all the time? It's the constancy that gets to me, not any specific symptom.


Anyway, thank you for the recommendation. I'm devouring it.


**


Justin,


You're very, very welcome. Now, when are you going back to school? You're a professor's dream.




July 2nd, 2009


Hey Ben,


So here's something that I can't say to anybody else.


Sometimes I hate abled people.


And not in a jealous, I wish I was them, so it's easier for me to hate them way. Not in a “I just mean the ableist assholes” way. I mean sometimes I fucking genuinely hate abled people, and this fucking society they've made, and their expectations that we all want to be like them and that the only way to have a good life is to fit into their mold of what it means to be normal.


Please tell me I'm not alone in this. Because you're also in a relationship with a healthy person and I need someone who understands how I can love Brian with every fiber of my fucking human and still look at him and think, you are part of the fucking problem and I am so goddamn tired of the problem.


And he's so good most of the time. He is. But every once in a while...it's that thing at the hockey game, or it's him freaking out the other day because I've started pronouncing words wrong, or it's the fucking sadness on his face when my arm starts shaking in public and he's waiting for me to be humiliated that someone saw, and like how do I even fault him for that because sometimes I am humiliated, but sometimes I'm not, and I just expect him to read my mind on that? Fuck, I know that's not fair. None of this is fair to him.


I am just...I am tired of how many people want to know how Brian is handling this and who tell Brian how strong he is and what an amazing partner he is like I'm a charity case he should get a government grant for supporting.


But it's not like I want people to tell me I'm brave and strong. So I don't know what I want. I just...I recognize that none of this is me being fair to him. But I just needed to tell someone that sometimes I fucking hate abled people and I need someone to know that that does and doesn't include the ones that I love and need that to just be okay.


Love,

Justin


**


Well, I don't know if it's okay, but I can definitely assure you that you're not alone.


Hating abled people is, I think, a step on the journey of accepting yourself. It's not a particularly fun one, for yourself or others, but it's an important process.


Back when you first lost your hearing, I sent you some trite bullshit about how you're still the same person you used to be, because I knew that's what you needed to hear at the time. It's what I needed to hear after I got sick. But the truth is, disability and illness are transformative. You're not the same person you were, and you know that by now. We're not the same as healthy people. Remember the Sontag quote?


**


“There is a link between imagining disease and imagining foreignness,” yeah.


I'm in such a weird fucking space with all of this because being Deaf doesn't make me sick—all my Deaf friends are healthy as hell—but it's the thing that most obviously sets me apart. And it's the thing that hearing people grapple with, and they don't even think about epilepsy. Why would they, when me being Deaf is so big and scary and obvious? It's only Deaf people who understand—and Brian, Brian is such a fucking Deaf person except when he's not, but he's never, ever a sick person, and God, that contradiction...


Anyway, it's just Deaf people who look at the epilepsy and think, okay, this is the problem, this is the disability, and a lot of them have divorced themselves so far from the idea of being disabled because Deaf pride was a thing long before disability pride was that they other me just as hard as hearing people. And even the ones who do think of themselves as disabled...it's a whole different thing to them, this idea of fucking feeling like shit all the time. It's a completely additional experience to just having a disability. It's just this endless goddamn grind.


And some people are just so uncomfortable with illness. My good friends aren't, and thank God Brian isn't, but I think maybe in my heart I kind of would have been, if I'd had the opportunity to be. I've been thinking of that other Sontag quote recently, you know the one, from AIDS and Its Metaphors? “It is not suffering as such that is most deeply feared but suffering that degrades.” God, I was so fucking torn up about this idea of the loss of dignity for the longest time. I didn't want anyone to see me as less of a person. Less of a man. All that toxic shit.


And I know I just said Brian's not like that, but fuck, he so is when he's sick, I mean, remember when he has cancer? I don't know if it's that he thinks the rules are different for him or that they're different for me, but either way, he's always...he's amazing at letting me know that he doesn't see me as a patient, that he's not afraid of me. I think I'm still kind of bent out of shape about how hard a lot of the Pittsburgh crowd has withdrawn. Lindsay can barely look at me. She doesn't know what to say. She thinks I'm...you know. A foreigner. And not in a cool, sexy, I'm gonna marry this French guy way. Oh, God, you weren't around for that. Thank your fucking stars.


 But I guess when Brian was sick, I never thought that made him less of a man, and I was so irritated by his whole "but my dignity" shtick when I just wanted him to fucking stop fighting me and let me take care of him.


So maybe it's just always different when it's ourselves, I don't know. I wish I knew how to be as kind to myself as I am to like, a fucking stranger, let alone someone I actually love.


Anyway, basically having these two different things going on with me is a fucking trip, and no one is paying attention to what I want them to pay attention to. And Brian's amazing to talk to when I'm not feeling well, always wants to hear that, wants to know what's going on, a hundred percent, but I can't imagine sitting down with him and having some philosophical conversation about chronic illness when I'm feeling okay. I just think it would make him so sad that I'm thinking about it even when I'm doing okay. I don't know.


Love,

Justin


**


Give him a chance.


Love,

Ben




The next time I saw them, Brian sat by Justin's hospital bed as Justin recovered from his burns. Brian had his feet up next to Justin's leg and a book in his hand. Illness as Metaphor.


He had pages dog-eared.


 


August 21st, 2009


Do you ever wonder why you?


Justin


**


“Nothing is more punitive than to give disease a meaning.”


**


That's what Brian said too.


Fuck. Am I allowed to say I'm lucky while I'm still coughing every five minutes and I have barely healed skin grafts all over me? 


**


Yes.


 


If Justin hadn't already mentioned to me that Brian was in Pittsburgh for a few days, I would have known by the way Michael stormed into my office after lunch one afternoon in October. No one can rile him up like Brian—or, more specifically like Brian talking about Justin.


I have to admit I was unprepared for this one, though. Justin was considering an experimental treatment for his epilepsy. It had a seventy-percent success rate, and a thirty-percent chance of major disability or death.


“Brian won't tell him not to do it,” Michael said. “I can't even...I think he wants him to do it.”


“No,” I said. “Not possible.”


“You weren't there.”


Brian called me two days later to ask me my opinion, which was surprising, and there was a desperate edge to his voice that I hadn't heard in years. He was trying to give Justin space to decide this on his own, that much was clear, but what Justin really needed—what anyone with any chronic illness experience would instantly know Justin needed—was someone to tell him that it was okay for him not to do it. That it didn't make him cowardly, complacent, or someone wallowing in victimhood.


He needed permission to not want to be cured.


 


October 11th, 2009


Justin,


So are we going to talk about it?


Ben


**


Heh. Yeah. Sorry.


I don't even know what to say. Brian keeps telling me I have to decide on my own and I just...I don't know what to do.


It's just that if you'd asked me about this hypothetically, I would have said that Brian would tell me not to do it. That it was too risky, and not worth it, and we were doing fine how we are. And that's not what happened. And he says it's just because it's up to me and he doesn't want to influence me and he'll support me whatever I decide and lots of stuff that's kind of...un-Brian. I mean, not that he doesn't usually respect what I want, because of course he does, but the 'I'll support you whatever you decide' is a little partnery for him.


So it doesn't feel real, and i'm wondering if maybe that's because he wants me to do it.


I think maybe he's been waiting for a cure this whole time. And maybe I just...what if he doesn't want to wait for something with a rate better than seventy percent? What if he won't wait?


Seventy percent isn't that bad. I would risk that for him. Of course I would.


Will you tell me what to do?


Love,

Justin


**


Justin, have you ever played bridge?


**


You know I'm twenty-six, right? I go to clubs, Ben, I don't play bridge.


**


All right, well, when you're getting ready to play a round of bridge, you go around and place bets around the table. You and your partner use codes to tell each other how many points are in your hand and what cards you have, and from there your partner knows how high to bid. You try to tell your partner what's in your hand without going right out and telling them. And when your partner asks you for something you don't have, if they bid a heart and you don't have any hearts in your hand, you bid something else to tell them you don't have what they're asking of you.


But then, say, your partner says two hearts anyway, even though you've already told them you don't have any hearts. You told them you couldn't improve on what they had, that what they have in front of them is all they're going to be getting, and they hear you and they still say, it's going to be hearts. You still have nothing to offer them, and you look at your hand and think that it would be so, so bad in hearts, that it isn't any help at all, that your partner's going to be disappointed when they see what cards you have, even though you've already told them you can't help them, and your instinct is to bid something else, anything else, because you're so afraid of the hearts.


But you don't do that. Because your partner might not have the other thing you're asking them for. If you switch to clubs, when you don't really want to be in clubs either, you're probably putting both of you in a worse position than if you just threw up your hands, said, “Pass,” and let your partner do the hearts on their own. You have to trust that your partner knows their own hand. And that even if they don't, and you might be fucked no matter what, you will get both of you in worse trouble if you make some wild guess and what would be better that isn't really based on the cards that you're looking at.


It's one of the first things they teach you when you're learning to play bridge: Don't rescue your partner.


Brian is telling you the cards that are in front of him. He's been telling you the cards that are in front of him for a very, very long time. And now he's asking for your bid, and you're looking at what you're holding and you're scared, and I understand that. And if this treatment is something that you want to try because it's something you want, then I will support you, and so will he. But if you're thinking you should try it because you're scared that you can't be what he's asking you to be, when he knows exactly what you have and he is sitting there and saying two hearts ANYWAY, when all he's ever done is tell you what he's capable of, and what he is capable of is YOU, Justin, then, well...


**


...then don't rescue your partner.


**


Don't rescue your partner.


**


I think this is illness as metaphor, by the way.


**


Yeah, yeah.


 


January 1st, 2010


Hey Ben. Happy New Year.


How did it take me this long to read Frida? I've always loved her work. I had this amazing conversation with Brian about her, and we looked through this book of her paintings and talked about how pain and illness motivate you and inspire you and then drain the shit out of you, and it was...God. He just listens. And he TALKS. A healthy person who will fucking talk to me about illness.


“You deserve the best, the very best, because you are one of the few people in this lousy world who are honest to themselves, and that is the only thing that really counts.”


I'm sure you can guess who that makes me think of.


**


“Tragedy is the most ridiculous thing.” Happy New Year, Justin.




February 14th, 2010


Hey Ben,


“I tried to drown my sorrows, but the bastards learned how to swim, and now I am overwhelmed by this decent and good feeling.”


This decent and good feeling. It's not really where you expected that sentence to go, huh?


So I've been thinking a lot about chronic illness joy.


Deafies talk about it a lot, the concept of Deaf Gain as a contrast to Hearing Loss. It's about community, and culture, and history. Richness, depth, appreciation. And all of that is so completely true and SO important to me, don't get me wrong. But that's established. That's been written and written about. Who's talking about the joys of having epilepsy, of being sick with anything?


I think there's a few reasons we don't talk about it. The main was is that, obviously, we don't feel joyful about it a lot; probably plenty of people never feel joyful about it at all. A lot of the time we're just...sick and angry and sad, and so even if we do feel good about it once in a while, we don't want to share it with people because we've been fighting so hard to make them pay attention to the fact that we're sick and angry and sad.


I think the other reason is that we're scared what people will think of us if they know we're not always miserable. That they'll think it means we're faking it for attention, or sympathy. That we want to be sick.


I didn't really turn down the treatment because of the risk. I mean...of course that was part of it. And of course if it was a hundred percent chance of success I would have done it. But I wouldn't have had a lot more complicated feelings about it than people want me to have. I didn't want to be sick when I was healthy, but I don't want to be healthy now that I'm sick. And people don't understand that. It's weird. Healthy people walk around happy the way they are, but the idea of us doing it is borderline offensive to them. Why is that? Are they really so insecure in their healthy lives that they need the rest of us to want them too?


People just have a really limited idea of what a life looks like, I think. I've noticed that ever since I threw in with Brian and it wasn't exactly the relationship people wanted for themselves, so it couldn't possibly be what I wanted either.


People mean well, but God, they're exhausting, trying to turn everyone into their clones.


Anyway, the joy. Part of it is that I think I know people quicker than I ever could before. I don't know them really well, or anything, but I immediately know if someone's worth getting to know, because so many people are dying to get away from me the second they can. I have a built-in screening process, and only people who are really worth it get through.


I also think I love Brian more than I ever could have if I were healthy, and it has nothing to do with him taking care of me. Not that that hurts.


I think I'm just not scared anymore. I mean, what's the very worst thing that can happen, I die? That's really supposed to freak me out at this point? Fuck, everything just feels so much...lower stakes than it used to. Why should I be afraid to just give Brian absolutely every single part of me? What am I saving it for?


Frida said that, too: “I love you more than my own skin.” And I'm not sure people who have health are capable of loving someone more than they love their own skin. And that's probably very great and healthy for them.


I'm not really interested in great and healthy. I'm interested in love without moderation.


And joy.


**


Tell me what else Frida said.


**


Heh. Yeah.


“I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.”


Happy Valentine's Day from us.


Love,

Justin

 

Chapter 43 - No Apologies by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

The Michael/Justin tension reaches a breaking point. (Takes place shortly after "All Together.")

No Apologies

 

 

 

Brian called me two weeks after his mother’s funeral. “Justin and I would like to request the pleasure of your company,” he said. “How’s two weekends from now?”


I knew what it was, obviously. Brian and I had barely talked since he’d gone back to New York, after the awkward way everything went down that day. This was an olive branch, probably one Justin was making him extend, if I really looked at it honestly. And that little “Justin and I,” a reminder that this wasn’t going to a rerun of the good old days, that he hadn’t forgotten that I maybe hadn’t been the greatest to Justin at the funeral, was pure Brian. Nobody can treat their partner like shit and then turn around and bare their teeth at someone who said something maybe unkind about them like Brian Kinney.


So is it any wonder I was a little, I don’t know, trepidatious about coming to visit them?


“The longer you put off seeing him the more awkward it’s going to get,” Ben said. “He reached out to you. That’s big.”


“Yeah, and who do you want to bet’s behind that?”


“Stop thinking of them as warring parties,” he said, wiping the kitchen counter. “You think people think of us that way?”


“They’re not like us,” I said.


Ben put down the sponge and planted his hands on my shoulders. “Go to New York.”


“What about the baby?”


“I think I can go three days on my own with the baby."


“Yeah, but...”


“Let Brian show you New York,” he said. “Spend some time with him when he's not in the middle of a crisis. And for God's sake, have an actual conversation with Justin. Something that's not about Brian, or Rage, or some kind of medical emergency.”


“...What else is there?”


“Anything! Ask him about his job, or his painting, or, I don't know, how his sister's doing. Ask him if he's seen any good TV shows lately. Ask him for a restaurant recommendation. Just treat him like a person. You might find out you like him.”


Seriously, this again? “I love Justin,” I said. “He's like my little brother.”


“I said like,” Ben said. “Not love.”


**


So I told Brian yes, but two days before I was scheduled to fly up he called again. “We should reschedule,” he said. “How about next weekend?”


I was literally in the middle of packing my suitcase. I was standing there holding my fucking underwear! “Next weekend?”


“Yeah, so what is that, like...no, that’s the twelfth, never mind. Weekend after that?”


What the fuck? “Weekend after...no, I have plane tickets for this weekend.”


“So get a refund.”


“They’re not refundable.”


Brian was quiet for a minute and then said, with curiosity in his voice, “You have a chronically ill husband and you buy non-refundable shit?”


“Ben’s not...” Fuck. “it’s not an issue very often.”


Brian laughed once. “Mmmkay, you can unpack that on your own time, I have a meeting in ten. This weekend will...be fine. We'll make it work.” He paused. “I’m gonna get you a hotel room.”


“Oh, I thought I would just—“ They have a pull out couch in their office, so I assumed I’d be crashing in there and we’d stay up late, drinking and smoking and shooting the shit like the old days after we stumbled home from the bars.


“I’ll cover the cost,” he said in a voice that made it clear that was the end of the discussion.


I knew I was treading on risky ground here, but I couldn't not ask. “Is Justin all right?” I assumed it had to be something with him, though I didn’t know what that had to do with me not staying in the spare room.


“He’s fine, thanks for asking,” Brian said smoothly, well-practiced.


So either that was a lie or it wasn't, and I had no idea which.


Really should have sprung for those refundable tickets.


**


I got into New York Friday evening and dropped my stuff off at a hotel in midtown. We had plans to meet for a late dinner and hit the clubs, and I was amped to pretend I was a lot younger than I was, just for a little while. Hell, if Brian could pull it off constantly, I could survive a weekend.


They met me on the sidewalk outside a trendy-looking restaurant in Chelsea. They were dressed for going out, and they both seemed happy to see me and Justin looked perfectly healthy, so I didn't know what was going on.


The restaurant was loud and bustling but the lighting wasn't too dim, which is something I've learned is the most important thing to take into consideration where Justin's concerned. Brian had this new account he'd sealed the deal with—in more than ways than one, he said, and Justin rolled his eyes—that day, and he was all animated signing about it. I was having the hardest time keeping up with him. Justin kept reminding him to slow down. I missed when he used to talk while he signed, so I could keep up better. He never did that anymore.


Brian's monologue about work and me updating Justin on the sales of our last issue of Rage got us through appetizers and half the wait for the main course. I remembered what Ben had said, so I turned to Justin and asked how the gallery was.


Good! he said. My boss is trying to get this space in the village so then we'll have two galleries.


And next the world, Brian said.


Or Harlem, Justin said. Whichever's easiest.


Probably Harlem, Brian said charitably.


So you'll help her manage both? I said.


For now. But I'm hoping, eventually...


Brian signed up high, like a marquee. The Taylor Gallery.


Don't jinx me, Justin said.


Taylor's Trappings. Sunshine's Sundries, Brian fingerspelled. Justin's...what's an art word that starts with J?


I don't know, I don't speak English. He turned back to me. You should come back in June, he said. I'm showing a few things.


Yeah, sure, I said.


We started talking about the club they were taking us to tonight, the pros and cons of it versus Babylon (cons: more expensive drinks, pros: everything else) and I don't think I would have noticed Justin going kind of quiet if not for Brian glancing at him every so often. Our food came, and Justin just kind of picked at it, and after a minute he and Brian exchanged a look and a brief conversation too fast and small for me to follow, and Justin took out his phone.


What's up? I said.


Just something going on with a friend of ours, Brian said. He might have to go take care of it. That didn't make any sense to me, because how did they know something was going on with their friend when neither of them had looked at their phones until right that second, but Brian looked at me kind of...sharply, and I felt like I shouldn't question it. Brian speared a few pieces of his pasta on his fork and held it up to Justin, and he ate it even though he'd barely touched his own food. I was too busy trying to grasp that I was now in a reality where Brian Kinney was fucking feeding someone off his fork to really analyze that.


Brian pulled my attention away with some questions about work and the baby and Ben, kind of jumping around, and Justin smiled vaguely and checked his phone a lot.


Brian paid the check kinda fast, and when we went out to the sidewalk, Justin's friend Emily was there. Brian kissed her, and she slipped her arm around Justin's waist and tucked her head on his shoulder.


Justin said, You two have met, right?


A few times, I said. And the last time was awkward as shit. Good to see you, I said.


She signed something way too fast for me, so I just kind of nodded. Brian rolled his eyes and signed back to Emily, also too fast. God, these guys must go at light speed when I'm not around. Justin and his Deaf friends, that wasn't too surprising, but I didn't know Brian was that good.


Emily laughed at whatever Brian said and the three of them kept going for a little while I suddenly became very interested in reading the menu in the window of the restaurant we'd just fucking eaten at. After a few minutes, Brian gave Justin a quick kiss, Emily and Justin waved goodbye to me, and they walked to the subway.


“Emily looks okay,” I said to Brian.


He shrugged. “I doubt either of us is that adept at reading the inner thoughts of women. Particularly Deaf women.” He started walking us towards the club.


“What's going on with her?”


“She broke up with her girlfriend a couple weeks ago.”


I looked over my shoulder at Justin and Emily walking away, their arms linked together. “She's gay?”


“Bi or...something. She slept with Derek—you know Derek?”


“Uh, I guess.”


“And now he's dating Daphne.”


“Daphne's dating a Deaf guy?”


Brian raised an eyebrow. “That's so surprising?”


“I didn't know she signed that well.”


He gave me a weird look. “She's one of our best friends.”


Brian pulled me into this club Nova, and sure enough, it was just a bigger, louder Babylon. Queers really are the same everywhere. We drank and danced and laughed and God, I felt shitty for thinking it, but fuck was it easier not having to worry about Justin understanding me or not understanding him. It's not something that you think about—I mean, who walks around feeling grateful that they're having conversations in their first language?—but fuck, you really notice it when it's not a given anymore. And I could count all the conversations I'd had with Brian in English anytime recently on...I mean, more than one hand, but not a lot of hands.


Brian grinned as we danced, tipping his face up to the lights. “God, I needed this. I needed a fucking distraction.”


“From what?”


He shook his head. “Everything.” He took my face in my hands and kissed me. “I'm glad you're here.”


I put my forehead against his neck.”I am too.”


We danced until one, and his apartment was on the way to my hotel anyway so I ended up going back with him to have a cup of coffee and sober up a little before I tried to take the subway on my own. The way Brian had expanded on the whole Emily-Derek-Daphne drama, I was a little worried I was going to walk in on her crying, as if she didn't already hate me enough, but when the elevator got up to the penthouse I could hear music coming from the apartment even before the doors opened. Brian shrugged. “Deaf life.”


“I thought they were in mourning?”


“I guess they're finished.” He unlocked the door, and there were Emily and Justin, dancing around the living room, laughing. Justin grinned when he saw us and came up and danced on Brian, and Brian smiled and gave him a deep kiss before he went to turn down the music.


So...Justin blew off going dancing with me to stay here and dance with his friend he can see any day of the week? Because let me tell you, she didn't seem shattered outside the restaurant, and she sure as fuck didn't seem shattered now. So between that, and the weird moment where I guess Justin could just psychically tell that Emily needed him because she hadn't texted him...yeah, so I was feeling a little fucking slighted.


Justin collapsed on the couch, laughing, his legs on top of Emily's. “Did you guys have fun?” he asked me, and the fact that he said it out loud seemed kind of...I don't know, like he thought I wouldn't understand him if he signed it. Brian and Emily were already deep in conversation. I caught Justin's sign name but not much else.


Yeah, it was good. How about you guys?


Justin shrugged. “Just a quiet night at home.”


Sure. Emily feeling better?


Yeah. She just needed some company.


I saw Brian ask Emily if she was staying over.


So I couldn't stay here, but Emily could?


Not to be too blunt about it or anything, but what the fuck?


Emily said no, she wasn't staying, and Brian kissed her so fucking sweetly, and then Justin gave her this big hug, so I don't know, maybe she was dying or something. She gave me this small wave out the door, and Brian gave Justin a little shove towards the bedroom and watched him go.


I felt pretty sober without the coffee, so I figured I'd get going. “Brian?”


“Yeah,” he said, still looking into the bedroom.


“I'm gonna take off, okay?”


“Yeah, okay. Thanks for tonight.”


“Sure. We're getting breakfast tomorrow, right?”


“Yeah.”


I paused by the door. “Think Justin will be there?”


“No,” he said. “Probably not.”


Couldn't socialize with a hearing person for one fucking weekend. And Ben thought I was the reason we didn't talk.


**


I was supposed to meet Brian—and, I supposed, only Brian—for breakfast at this place downtown at ten. I double-checked the address when I was still waiting at ten twenty, and called Brian when I was still waiting at ten thirty. And again at ten forty-five.


At eleven, I called Justin. He answered quickly and held a finger to his lips.


Where's Brian? I said.


He rubbed his forehead. What?


Brian? Your husband?


My...I know who Brian is.


Great, now do you know where he is?


Justin pointed the phone at the bed next to him, where Brian was sprawled out asleep with his arms stretched over his head.


Wake him up! I said.


No.


He was supposed to meet me a fucking hour ago.


Tomorrow.


What?


He sighed. Your flight home. It's tomorrow night, right?


Yeah...


He'll have breakfast with you tomorrow.


Yeah, and what the fuck about today?


He's sleeping, Justin said.


Are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?


I can't do this right now, he said. I'll talk to you tomorrow.


Yeah, so fuck that. Twenty minutes later I called Justin again.


What? Justin said.


I'm outside your door. Let me in or I start pounding.


Justin hung up the phone, but a minute later the front door swung open. I told you—


You didn't tell me shit, and I think I deserve an explanation after I came all the fucking way here to see you, and you can't sacrifice one fucking night to hang out with me and Brian can't even goddamn text me to tell me he's not coming—


I don't understand what you're saying, Justin said.


You don't know what I'm talking about?


No, I literally don't understand what you're saying, can you...use signs you know better, or something?


I'm fucking trying, Justin—


I appreciate that, but I can't understand if I can't understand.


Everybody thinks I'm the fucking problem, that's what I don't understand! They blame me for not trying hard enough with you, for having issues with you and Brian, and you're the one who cancels plans and acts like a fucking asshole when I think I deserve an explanation for being fucking stood up—


“Justin!” Brian yelled, and I noticed he sounded scared before it occurred to me that it was weird that Brian was calling Justin's name out loud at all. There was a flurry of noise from the bedroom and Brian appeared half naked in the doorway, looking wild-eyed for half a second until he found me and Justin.


“Good to see you, asshole,” I said over Justin's shoulder, and Justin frowned and turned around.


Brian crossed over to him and put his hand on his shoulder. Why are you up? he said to Justin, completely ignoring me. He palmed the back of Justin's head.


I didn't want him to wake you.


I hate martyrs. He looked at me, finally. Why the fuck are you here?


Well, apparently I can't sign well enough to—


“So fucking say it out loud,” Brian said, and it was goddamn startling to see him speak in front of Justin. Justin slipped under Brian's arm and looked up at him, then at me.


Fine. Fine. “Everyone's always fucking telling me to be nicer to him and he's the one who doesn't want the first fucking thing to do with me, who fucking blows us off our plans to hang out with Emily, who by the way hates me and also didn't really look too goddamn heartbroken, and for some reason it's fine if she stays here but you have to ship me off to a hotel, and now you're fucking standing me up so you can catch up on your beauty sleep?”


Brian watched me, working his jaw in that way he does, then said, Are you done?


I guess.


Brian looked down at Justin, studying him for a second, then said, Go lie down and don't fucking get back up again, all right?


Yeah, okay. He pawed at Brian a little on his way back, and Brian placed his hand on the small of Justin's back and gave him a little push. He watched him head back to bed, then turned to me and pushed me against the wall.


“Ow!”


Brian stuck his finger in my face, and when he spoke his voice was dangerously quiet. “I have been unbelievably goddamn patient with you,” he said. “I have let you throw a ten year hissy fit about him. But this. Shit. Ends. Now.”


“Don't act like you have some fucking moral high ground—”


He let go of me and took a few steps away from me, and when he whirled back around he was laughing. “You have no fucking idea what's going on right under your goddamn nose, you know that? It's fucking remarkable how fucking oblivious you are. You could win awards. Set records.”


“Well, why don't you fucking tell me, if I'm such a moron!”


“Great. Should we start with how he looks like absolute fucking shit right now and anyone with a goddamn pulse would notice, if they weren't too busy yelling at him? Jesus, even I wouldn't fucking yell at him right now, you think you can?”


“Now hang on—”


“Or maybe we just take it from the top, with the part where I told you this wasn't a good weekend to come down?”


“Yeah, at the last fucking minute!”


“Amazingly, Justin's fucking epilepsy doesn't give him a convenient ten day's notice before it fucks him over. It's rare for him to get any warning that he's gearing up for a rough few days, so this kind of foresight was actually pretty fucking great. Not enough for you, though! Fine, so you come anyway. And Justin promises that he's going to tell me if he starts getting auras. Which, surprise!”


I started putting the pieces together. A little late, I know. “And then he texted Emily.”


“Very good. He texted Emily because Daphne was at work and he's closer with Emily than Derek so that's what we agreed on, so he'd have someone there so he wouldn't be alone when he felt like he was going to have a massive seizure. Because even though, yes, he would have rathered be with me, he didn't want to take me away from you during your weekend here. And we came up with a whole fucking lie for the occasion because you throw a fucking ten year hissy fit when something Justin needs gets in the way of what you want, so we figured we'd put the blame on Emily instead because she doesn't give a shit what you think of her.”


“But...they were dancing.”


“Yeah, he started feeling better once they got home and he'd gotten out of the lights and the crowd so they fucking had some fun, God forbid sick people be allowed to fucking have fun.”


“So if he started feeling better, then why...”


He stared me down. “Take your time.”


I sighed. “He had a seizure after she left.”


“Theeere you go. And he had two. Big ones. Hence all the exciting lead-up.”


“And you stayed awake to watch him.”


“There you go.”


“You could have just fucking told me.”


“I really fucking couldn't.”


“You told Emily!”


He pinched his nose.


I said, “No, look, I know I'm not perfect, but I've known him for ten years, and he's fine with her staying over but not me? I came and took care of him when you were in Australia, I know what I'm doing, I think I have a fucking right to—”


“He didn't want you.”


“And that's bullshit! I love him, you know that I—”


“If you love him, then you have to fucking love him even when he doesn't want you!” Brian yelled. “You love him even when he's not cuddly and feverish and adorable, because sometimes he's an asshole because he doesn't feel well or because his fucking brain is goddamn seized up and sometimes he's an asshole because he's just a fucking asshole, and you do not get to decide that he's only worth your patience or your fucking consideration when he's a helpless nonthreatening fuck because that's the only time that you're okay with coming in so completely goddamn second, because let me fucking assure you, Michael, let me clear up any motherfucking doubt—”


“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”


“You want to decide you just don't fucking like him, you go right ahead,” he said. “But you don't get to keep telling yourself you're on his side because you think rushing in when he's on his fucking death bed earns you unrestricted access to his problems. He's a goddamn man, not a puppy down a well. Respect that, and respect his fucking choices, or stop telling yourself what a great guy you are.”


“You are so fucked,” I said. “You act like you don't fucking care about him and then expect us all to know how to treat him. I mean, what kind of example are you setting?”


He gaped at me. “Is this a fucking episode of Sesame Street? You need me to teach you how to fucking be nice to him? Is this a new skill you're learning?”


“You make it seem like Justin must fucking like people being mean to him! He stays with you!”


“I am not...no. I'm not fucking dignifying this shit. You have no idea what goes on when you're not around. No goddamn fucking idea. And while we're ending shit now? The 'mean old Brian beating up on poor little Sunshine' narrative we've constructed, that's over too. You have a genuine concern over how Justin's being treated, by all means, seriously, by all fucking means, you pull him to the side and you check with him if he's okay. But nobody ever does that, you noticed that? They just bring it up as an excuse for why they won't do more for him, because Brian doesn't so why the fuck should I? So this ends. You listen to me. He is fed and fucked and honored and loved and I make no goddamn apologies.”


I don't think I'd ever heard Brian say that many words in a row in my life.


“Now get the fuck out of our apartment,” he said. “I'm going back to sleep.”


**


I came back the next morning. Brian opened the door and raised an eyebrow.


“I got bagels,” I said.


He stepped back and let me in. I set the bag on the counter and started unpacking. He watched with his arms crossed.


“How's Justin?” I said.


“He's fine.”


I wondered if Justin made him say that.


“Any more seizures yesterday?” I said.


Brian shrugged. I guess that's all I was getting.


Okay. “Is he still asleep?” I asked.


Brian gestured to the balcony. Justin was out there with an easel, facing the water.


I said, “Do you think I should...?”


“That's really up to you, now, isn't it?”


“You're really not making this easy, you know that?”


“I know, it's very out of character for me.” But his mouth quirked into a half smile, and he ripped a piece off a bagel and chewed on it. “He likes those nasty blueberry ones.”


I pulled one out of the bag. “I know.”


Brian's laptop was open on the bar, and he went back to it, so I guessed I was on my own for my peacekeeping mission. I toasted the bagel and slathered it in butter, the way I've seen Justin take his a hundred times, and brought it and a cup of coffee out to the balcony. I set them down on the little table out there and waited until Justin had lifted his brush off the canvas before I put my hand on his arm. He still jumped a little.


Sorry, I said. I gestured towards his breakfast.


He gave me a small smile and sat down and took a bite of his bagel. Sorry about yesterday, he said. I was pretty out of it.


I laughed. That's how you act when you're out of it?


Yeah, you'd be surprised.


How are you now?


Fine, thanks.


I bit back an eye roll and looked at the water. Justin kept eating, and the silence, both literal and otherwise, kind of hung there. I remembered what Ben had told me and pointed to his canvas. What's it going to be?


A hurricane, but not...literally. I'm doing a lot of weather lately. My agent thinks it's good. He wants my next collection to have more of a theme.


I didn't know you had an agent.


He nodded.


That's really cool.


Thanks.


Is this going to be in that show you have coming up? The one you mentioned?


I don't know. Depends if the gallery owner likes it.


You don't decide what pieces to show?


Justin shook his head, and then he explained to me how the show-planning process worked, and I just...listened. It was kind of wild, Justin knowing that much more than me about something that wasn't, like, literature or drawing or whatever. Something concrete. I guess I still thought of him as like this kid.


He finished eating and went back to the canvas, and I looked inside where Brian was on his laptop and quickly averting his eyes like he hadn't been watching us.


I came around where Justin could see me and said, Hey, what's the twelfth?


“The twelfth?” he said, studying his painting.


Of April. Brian said I couldn't come next weekend because it's the twelfth.


“Oh, it's our anniversary,” Justin said vaguely, dabbing some purple paint around one corner.


Like it wasn't even a big fucking deal to him that Brian didn't want company for their anniversary. Like that didn't even impress him. God, those two pissed me off sometimes!


But, I don't know.

 

I guess maybe it's none of my business.

End Notes:

I almost called this one "Boiling Point" and then realized that would be a needlessly dark reference for this series, lol.

Chapter 44 - Absolution by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin runs into someone he'd rather forget.

Absolution

LaVieEnRose

 

 

Brian texted me around five asking me if I could come to his office after work, so once I'd finished setting up for the show we were having that weekend I took the train out to Queens. I texted Brian asking I should pick up food, and he didn't answer, but I was starving and if I was gonna go all the way to Astoria I was gonna get some damn Greek food, so I picked up some spanakopita and a couple iced teas from my favorite cafe between the subway and Kinnetik.


Emily was in the lobby when I walked in, and her eyes widened. No, get out of here, she said. Save yourself. She looked so cute in her work clothes! Like she was playing a young professional in a musical.


Brian told me to come.


God, yelling at us isn't enough, he needs to bring in a ringer? You poor precious soul.


Great. What happened?


She shook her head. I can't tell you. Business stuff. He's pissed. Marcus just went in ten minutes ago to ask him something and came out practically crying.


Eh, Brian hasn't made me cry in days, I'll be fine.


She scrunched up her face. Good luck.


Thank you. I walked down the hall to Brian's office, trying to convince myself not to be nervous, and went in without knocking when I didn't see him at his desk. He was over by his water cooler, and he looked up when I came in.


I held up the take-out bag. “Spanakopita. And don't tell me I said it wrong. I don't think I said it right when I was hearing.”


He shook his head a little. Come here.


I set the bag on the desk and went over to him, and he hugged me immediately, nose in my hair. “Aw, hey, what's wrong?” I said. “Emily said you were upset.”


He let go of me. Somehow I doubt 'upset' was the sign she used.


Maybe not.


He sat down on the couch and sighed. We lost the Yardwick account. I lost it.


Those fuckers.


He shrugged a little.


Where are they moving to?


Ignite.


With that art department? They'll regret it. I could do better work than them in my sleep.


You do. He blew out a mouthful of air, ruffling his lips. This is bad. It's a lot of money.


“Are we destitute?”


Afraid so.


Well, you can't take Emily's bonus back. She'll cut your balls off if you tell her she has to move back home.


All right. We'll have to just rob her while she's sleeping, then.


Sounds good.


He put his hands on my waist and pulled me into him. Will you still love me if I'm poor?


No, I can't imagine so.


He sighed dramatically. That's what I thought.


I straddled his lap and kissed him, slow and deep. “I can make you feel better,” I whispered.


His lips twitched. That was so fucking quiet.


“Ha. Yeah?”


“Yeah,” he said against my lips, and we kissed a while longer, his fingers skimming underneath my shirt, brushing the skin above my waistband.


Will you support us with your gallery earnings? he said.


“Sure. You want to live in a box in the Bronx, right?”


He bit his lip, trying not to smile. Box in the Bronx? Was that what that was?


“Yeah.”


God, that was cute. Your Rs are a fucking nightmare.


I shoved him and giggled as he kept crawling his hands up me. “You want me to fuck you on your couch?” I asked.


No. He slid his hands underneath my thighs and lifted me off of him, then went to the closet and took out two of the t-shirts he keeps for emergencies such as these and tossed one to me. I want to get so fucking drunk I don't remember my name, and then I want to take you home and do that thing that makes you scream so loud the neighbors complain. What the fuck are you smiling about, huh?


Emily thought you were going to yell at me.


Want me to? Out loud? I could put on a show. Wouldn't bother you, you wouldn't even know.


Neither would Emily.


Hmm. True.


I took my shirt off and pulled on the t-shirt he threw me. “It's too big.”


He rolled the sleeves up past my shoulders and messed my hair up. There.


I sat on the arm of the couch, watching him change. “You had a bad day and you wanted me,” I said.


He rolled his eyes.


“You love me so much.”


He gave me a look. Don't push your luck.


“Brian Kinney loves me.”


Justin Taylor is easy.


You calling me a slut?


Yeah.


I grinned. Okay.


Weren't you going to eat?


Oh, yeah, I forgot.


Fucking brain damaged boyfriends, Brian grouched, throwing the bag at me, and I laughed.


Did you seriously sign an S at the end of that? You have more than one brain damaged boyfriend?


Hundreds. Come on, get up. Eat on the train. Stop lying around like that trying to tempt me. We're going out.


Or we could just—


Out, Brian said, and on the way out of the office he grabbed me from behind and spun me around.


**


Most of my casual sex nowadays was from from apps or friends of friends, and because I was limiting myself to queer Deaf guys in the twenty-five to thirty-five range, it meant there wasn't all that much of it. Which was okay by me, most of the time, but sometimes it's Friday night and you're high on the lights and the thumpa thumpa and the hearing guy you're dancing with is really cute and you're thinking...eh, rules were made to be broken.


Brian was over by the bar, cruising some guy—lately he'd been trying out this slllllow slide up next to them that was such a Justin Taylor original, this fucker—and he caught my eye and gave me his little you good? head tilt, and I nodded, and he was off for the back room.


I kept dancing, considering this smiley hearing guy in front of me and wondering if he'd be willing to learn the alphabet before I fucked his brains out, just so I could feel a little self-righteous about the whole thing, and then Brian came back and grabbed me by the wrist, hard. He couldn't have been gone for more than three minutes.


“Ow. That was fast.” I looked down at my wrist. His knuckles were bleeding. “Brian, what the fuck?”


He dragged me towards the front door without looking at me.


“Stop. Brian, stop. What the fuck happened to you? Did you hit someone?”


He pulled me out of the club and started towards the subway, but I dug my heels in. We're going, now, he told me. Now.


What the fuck did you do? Tell me what's going on.


Nothing.


You fucked up your signing hand—


It's fine.


Yeah, you're fucking lucky it's fine, you could have broken your fucking hand, you don't get to tell me nothing.


He looked back towards the club, shifting his weight nervously. We have to go. We have to go now. I'll tell you at home.


Nobody's coming to kick you out. Tell me now.


He pulled on me again, almost desperately.


“Brian, stop.”


Goddamn it, Justin, would you just fucking listen to me for once in your goddamn—


“Just tell me, and I'll go!”


I ran into someone! he said. Okay?


Who! Who the fuck could you run into that you'd goddamn punch?


“Justin,” he said, and he pulled on me again. “Please.”


Stop speaking to me, you're scaring me.


Please.


Who the fuck...who, the Sap?


He tightened his jaw. No.


That Kip guy?


Who?


I don't know, Ethan?


Ethan? Why the fuck would I punch him? I have nothing against Ethan.


Who the fuck else is there?


Brian put both of his hands around my wrist this time and pulled, hard, and his eyes were so big and green in the streetlight. And because he didn't have any free hands, he said, “Justin, please,” out loud again.


And I knew.


I pulled myself free.


He's in there? I said.


Brian ran his hand over his mouth. Yeah.


The ground felt like it was moving underneath me. What the fuck is he doing here?


We can talk about it at home, please, I need to get you out of here.


I shook my head and started to go back into the club, but Brian grabbed me before I could get a step away.


“Let me go,” I said.


He pulled me away—I like our size difference most of the time but not in that fucking moment, not then—and held me against the wall on the other side of the club with one arm across my chest and signed with his fucked up bloody hand. You are not going back in there, he said.


If get to confront him, I fucking get to—


You did, Brian said. You put a fucking gun in his mouth, remember?


I'd been holding on to a little bit of hope that I was wrong, that I was being some PTSD mess who makes everything about the bashing, and Brian had actually run into that post officer who kept losing our mail or that guy who never tipped at the diner or the account he lost today or fucking anybody who wasn't Chris fucking Hobbs, and there it went.


He said, I am fucking constantly kicking myself for not putting my foot down then and I am putting my fucking foot down now, and—


Putting your foot down?


That's not what I mean, I just— He was scrambling. You don't see Brian Kinney scramble very often. So I tried to take advantage of it and get away, but he gripped me somewhere between my neck and my shoulder and said, Listen to me. Listen to me. I am begging you. I am fucking...I am actually begging, okay? He pushed his forehead against mine.


“Please,” I whispered.


He pulled away, and his eyes were shining. If he hurts you, if we go in there and he lays a hand on you, I will fucking lose my mind. I mean it. I will...I will fucking be a different person if that happens, I can't...please, please, I am begging you, please, holy shit, Justin.


You're begging?


I will get on my knees if you want me to. He was panting, and his hands were shaking when he signed. When he touched me.


“I have to fight my own battles,” I said.


No you don't.


You can't just win an argument by saying the opposite of what I say.


Yes I can, Brian said, predictably, and I started laughing a little, probably with some kind of hysterical edge but how the hell would I know?


Either way, it relieved enough of the tension that I could feel that ground moving thing again, and how fast my heart was, and how cold my skin was getting. Not good. If I went in there and tried to confront him I was going to end up some shaking, puking, panicky mess, and then I realized that I really really really didn't want him to know that I was Deaf.


God, why the fuck was he in New York? Why the fuck was he here?


Let me take you home, Brian said, cupping my face.


“Okay,” I whispered, and he closed his eyes and folded up, his forehead on my shoulder.


**


I still think you should take something, Brian said, at home.


I shook my head, sitting cross-legged on the bed while he paced in front of me. “I'm not panicking.”


I know you're not, but...


I'm okay, Brian. I didn't even see him.


You had a two-day long panic attack from a parking garage. I don't think it matters that you didn't see him.


I'm fine.


Yeah. Okay.


I sighed. That's got to be hurting your hand.


I'll bandage it up before we go to bed. He stopped pacing. Can you please just...I don't fucking know where your head is right now. You're freaking me out.


I don't know what I'm supposed to say, I said. We don't talk about this stuff.


He massaged the bridge of his nose. Seriously, this shit again? I let you talk about it. I answer your questions—


Yeah, you sit there and let me talk about it, but you don't say anything. We don't talk about it. I might as well be talking to my therapist.


He sat down across from me. That's not much of an insult.


It's not supposed to be. But it's...Brian, you're sitting here fucking bleeding, you don't think maybe you have some shit you should say?


I don't have anything you need to hear.


“Brian...”


Don't.


I sighed.


He was quiet for a long time, but he eventually said, staring down at the bed, You act like I'm keeping something from you, like this is something...strategic. I don't...I don't have anything helpful to say to you. It was horrible. It was fucking horrific. They haven't invented some new sign for what it was, so you know this. It was awful. He stood up again. When I think about it, I feel like my fucking organs are being pulled out through my nose. I want to go back in time and have never met you so it won't happen to you. I want to never fucking look at you again because I don't know how to feel all these things. It's the worst goddamn thing that's ever happened to me and I can't fucking imagine anything's ever going to beat it. I don't...I'm asking you, he said, and he was. Is any of this new information?


No. It wasn't.


Does it help you, to hear this?


No. I shook my head. No. I don't want you to be upset, it fucking feels like...


He nodded. Like your organs are being pulled out through your nose.


Yeah. I shivered. I don't know what I want, I said. I just want to not be the only fucking person in the world who's not okay with it.


Christ, I'm not—


I know, and I also can't fucking stand you being fucked up over this so...there's nothing, there's fucking nothing you can do. I'm sorry. I'm impossible. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.


Stop.


I nodded, trying to slow my breathing down.


Brian gave me a minute, undressing, bandaging his hand, coming to bed. He handed me my meds and a glass of water, and I took them, and Brian just lay sprawled out next to me for a while, watching me, tracing small circles on my bicep with his thumb.


I'm sorry, I said again. I'm trying to make sense. I really am.


He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead.


Why was he there? I said. Did he tell you?


Brian sighed, pushing my hair back. He's not going to come back.


I know that.


He closed his eyes, briefly. He lives here. He was there with his boyfriend.


“His...”


Yeah.


I flopped back on the bed. “Fuck!” I yelled, and Brian curled up with his head on my chest.


**


We didn't talk about it the next day, until he found me on Facebook.


He found me on Facebook, I told Brian.


Brian got up from the couch and came over to me and my laptop at our table. What the fuck does he want?


I don't know.


I thought last time you saw him he was pissing himself trying to get away from your scary ass.


“He was.”


Brian leaned over me, clicking through Facebook. I've seen less-gay profiles on Grindr.


His Facebook wall was gay news article after gay news article. His profile picture was him and his boyfriend. I was surprised his banner wasn't just a fucking rainbow.


This is like a bad joke, I said.


I mean, he did have you jerk him off.


Well, yeah, I figured he was closeted as fuck, but I figured he was going to die in that closet where he belongs.


Brian rubbed my shoulders. Do you want to make your profile gayer?


Kind of.


We can take pictures of you blowing me.


Okay.


I'm going to order Chinese.


Yeah. I tapped my fingers over my mouth as he dialed. He sent me a message.


Are you going to read it?


Haven't decided.


Delete it, Brian signed, talking on the phone. You want that noodle thing from last time? I do think it's really cool that he can speak in English and sign something completely different at the same time. I can't even do that.


No, it had too much garlic. Whatever that chicken is I like. I studied my screen. If I delete it I'm always going to wonder.


Well, wait until I'm off the phone, at least.


I didn't. I don't know, I wanted a minute to look at it and feel however I felt before Brian came in with his ad-man spin and managed me. I had already read it through twice by the time Brian hung up.


He studied me. Well?


He wants to have lunch.


Brian went to the fridge. And what, apologize? He handed me a bottle of water. Brian's always making me drink water instead of telling me he's worried about me. It's his thing.


Yeah.


That's nice. A lifetime of disability, but at least you get a lunch out of it. I assume he's paying. He was pissed.


I pushed my chair back from the table. He's writing a book, I said. He wants to apologize, and he wants to talk to me for the book.


He's writing a book?


He's writing a book. About overcoming internalized homophobia and how he's reformed from the worst thing he's ever done.


He's reformed. So you're better now, then?


I guess.


This is so fucked up.


I read through the message again.


Sunshine, he said. You okay?


He's writing a fucking book?


**


I went out to the balcony for a cigarette, started an angry painting, paced around the bedroom, and finally came back out to the living room.


He's writing a book? I said.


Brian turned off the TV and watched me. I know.


What I want to know is, who the fuck wants to read this? Why do people always want to read that goddamn perspective? It's the same as...you know I'm always fucking complaining about how people want to hear from fucking caregivers and not from actual sick people? It's just that but worse!


I know.


Why do people always want to hear from the fucking assholes! Why is a reformed bad guy more interesting than those of us who have just fucking stuck around living our fucking lives while we're getting run over by goddamn assholes?


Brian said, I realize this is very not the point, but I do feel obligated to say that if you felt like writing a book about being bashed, people would absolutely read it. You'd be a gay tragedy poster boy. They'd fucking put you on Ellen.


Only if I spun it as some kind of inspiration porn about how I've overcome it. Hype myself up like some famous fucking artist. Nobody wants to hear hi, It's ten years later and I'm still having seizures and panic attacks, working a regular job and living in an apartment my boyfriend pays the mortgage on. People don't want to hear about people who are disabled and just fucking...being disabled.


Everything is spin, Brian said. Every fucking story.


I sat on the arm of the couch. You're right. This isn't the point.


I know.


Do you think he's really sorry? I said.


Brian shrugged. Who cares?


It matters, right?


Why?


Whether or not I'm going to have lunch with him.


He sighed. Justin...


I have to at least consider it.


Why?


Because otherwise I'm the one stopping him from getting his fucking...and because otherwise he's sitting at home knowing that I'm still fucked up over him. He wins.


Need I remind you, again, what happened last time you saw him? As reckless and fucked-up as that was...it happened. You've already won this. It's over. Let it be over.


It's not over.


He sighed. That's not what I meant.


I have to at least consider it.


Fine. He turned the TV back on. Consider it.


**


I was lying on the bed an hour later when he appeared in the bedroom doorway, all tall and dark and menacing.


You're not meeting him without me, he said. That's not even on the table.


I know.


And you have to get an interpreter for it.


What? I don't want a fucking additional person in this shit.


Brian shook his head.


Why can't you—


I am not interpreting for him, Brian said. I will not be signing his fucking words to you.


I held my feet to keep myself from reaching out to him. “Okay.”


He started to leave, them stopped and pointed at me.


This counts as me talking about it, he said.


I smiled a little. “Noted.”


**


Are you going out? I asked Brian that night. I was sitting in bed drawing, stopping every so often to shake out my hand, and Brian was prowling around the bedroom moving shit around restlessly and generally driving me crazy..


I don't know. You're all weird.


Am I supposed to be normal right now?


Not really, but I don't want to come back to you, like, standing on the balcony with a glass of wine and Celine Dion singing about how your heart will go on.


So dramatic.


He sat down in front of me on the bed and pulled my feet into his lap, cupping his hands around them to warm them up. My circulation always gets shitty when I'm anxious. I sighed and put my sketchbook to the side.


What if he really has changed? I said.


What if he has?


Then it's got to just eat him up, right? I mean...I hate myself for shit I did in the past all the time, and I've never bashed anyone in the head.


Brian didn't say anything.


And I'm not saying he doesn't deserve to feel bad about it, I said quickly.


Okay good.


But, you know, if he's really changed...doesn't he deserve a second chance?


Say he does. Say he deserves a second chance. What does that have to do with you? Why is that your problem?


“Brian.”


No. He's out there, he has a boyfriend, he's going to clubs, he's writing a book. He clearly doesn't need your absolution. He fingerspelled it. He's a beautiful fingerspeller.


But it doesn't count if I haven't forgiven him, I said.


What do you mean, doesn't count? He can't go to gay clubs if you haven't forgiven him? Because clearly—


Like in a large, cosmic way, I said. He can't really say he's moved past it if I'm still mad at him.


Okay, so he can't really move past it. So?


So if he's really changed, then he deserves to. Right? He deserves to know that...that it's okay. That I'm okay.


Brian sighed and stood up. Are you?


Am I what?


Are you okay?


Yeah, I'm okay.


Brian leaned against the dresser, watching me.


I know I'm not...you know, I've got challenges. But I have a job, I have a family. I'm able to do most of what I want to do. I'm okay.


Brian shook his head a little.


No, come on, what? I'm telling you I'm okay.


You have been holding everybody together about this for goddamn long, haven't you? he signed, gently.


No.


Yeah. He came over and pulled me up. Just stop, okay?


I don't know how.


He kissed my forehead. Remember when you told me it's not my job to fix everything?


Yeah.


Okay, well it's not your job to reassure everyone that you're not broken just because no one can fix you. We have to just live with that. We can deal.


I sniffled and wiped my nose on my wrist, and Brian gave me this small smile, his head tilted to the side.


You are not gay Jesus, he said. You have no duty to forgive him. You don't have to tell people that you're fine.


I rested my head against his chest and he put his arms around me, one hand rubbing slowly up and down my back.


“I lied before,” I said into his shirt. “You have to fix me, actually.”


He laughed.


**


“Okay,” I said, as we got out of the shower.


Okay?


I'm going to delete the message.


He gave a sigh of relief as he plugged in his razor. I love when you come to the right decision on your own.


Yeah, don't kid yourself, you weren't really a neutral party this time, I said.


Maybe not.


I pumped out some lotion and rubbed it on my arms. “I do want to do something, though. About it.”


Okay?


“I think it's time I told Derek and Emily.”


Brian nodded slowly. You're sure?


“I want to try telling someone and not comforting them about it.”


You can't.


We'll see. Will you be there?

 

He tugged me over by my towel. “Yeah, I'll be there.”

Chapter 45 - Something New by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Brian, Justin, and Daphne tell their New York friends about the bashing, and Brian has some realizations about his new relationships here. Takes place shortly after "Absolution."

 

 

 

I came home on Monday with a new account, a headache, and takeout Thai to an empty apartment. I checked my watch—almost eight—and called Justin. He answered from his studio, his newest canvas and an incredibly loud, incredibly grating drilling noise in the background. Jesus, what is that? I said.


Sandstorm, he said. Lately he'd been painting weather.


I rolled my eyes. These fucking Deaf guys. Not that. The noise.


Oh, they're doing construction upstairs. Expanding gallery C. They've been working all day.


Christ, you're lucky you can't hear.


He grinned. I'm always lucky I can't hear.


Yeah, yeah. You know what time it is?


He looked at his watch. Yeah?


So...weren't people coming over tonight?


Oh. I pushed it until tomorrow. He rubbed his nose, all fake nonchalance.


I stared him down.


He whined and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Tomorrow, he said. I'll do it tomorrow.


Do what you want. I don't care if you never do it. But come home. I have a shitload of food here because I thought I was feeding your brood.


Justin got home half an hour later and joined me in the shower with a deep kiss. His skin felt gritty under my hands, and I watched the water run cloudy off of him. I took his arm and turned it over, looking at the fine white dust that coated his skin, caught in his hair like snow.


The fuck is this? I said.


What?


I swiped my finger down his cheek and showed it to him.


Oh. He tilted his head back under the shower spray. Construction. The whole office is dusty.


I like Marie, but one of these days I'm gonna sue her. Did you go ahead and call out for Thursday and Friday?


Very funny.


Not joking. Thursday and Friday at the latest.


He scoffed.


If you do it now you can tell Marie you're going out of town, if you want. Marie's understanding as hell, knew the deal with Justin when she hired him, but he still hates being the little lamb who has to keep taking sick days.


He said, I'm not telling her anything because I'm not missing work.


Bullshit. I sudsed up his hair. This shit is all over you.


Doesn't matter. I'm not going to get sick.


As if you don't take any fucking excuse to get sick. Lean back. Don't stay late and paint tomorrow, at least. Not until they're done with this.


I can't stay late and paint tomorrow anyway. People are coming over.


You're going to cancel again.


No I'm not.


You're going to cancel tomorrow, and you're going to get sick. Mark my words.


I am not getting sick, and I am going to tell our friends. Daphne's free tomorrow. It's better than doing it today. He closed his eyes as I rinsed him clean.


You are so full of shit.


Sorry, eyes are closed, can't hear you.


I shoved him against the shower wall and felt him up, and he smiled, eyes still closed.


“Get on your fucking knees,” he growled, and...well. I did.


**


We were each one for one, it turned out. He didn't cancel on his friends, and he was coughing when he got home the next day. Daphne was already there—she'd had her day off—and she raised an eyebrow at his hacking as she ate leftover Thai from her perch on our counter.


There's probably fucking asbestos in that shit, I groused.


There's no asbestos, Justin said.


Daphne said, Are you at least wearing a mask while they're stirring all that up?


Justin scrunched his face up. Should I be?


I stared at him. Are you fucking kidding me?


Nobody else is wearing a mask!


Yes, and as we discovered when you had that asthma attack and no inhaler, no one else there has your shitty lungs. Christ, are you new to this?


I did bring my inhaler! Justin said.


All right, that's something. It's able to learn, I said to Daphne. Put it in the file.


Noted, Daphne said.


I'll wear a mask tomorrow, Justin said, with a nasty cough.


Cool. I wiped down the counter. You can also go ahead and tell them tomorrow's your last day this week.


Justin groaned. I'm not getting sick! What time are they going to be here?


Eight, Daphne said. You're sure you're ready for this?


Nope! Justin signed over his shoulder, and he went to shower all that shit off of him.


Daphne studied me. “How about you, are you ready?” It was barely jarring to switch between languages by that point. I was used to Justin deciding whether to sign or speak based on whatever kind of whims go through that boy's head, and now with Emily at work and the staff mandated to practice at least the basics I was code-switching there every other minute too. I'd get tied up with the structure sometimes, signing just really abysmally English sentences or reading over a work email and realizing the whole thing was in ASL grammar, but beyond that I was feeling bilingual as fuck and it was doing good things to my ego.


And now I took advantage of the language change to avoid looking at her. “I don't have to do anything. I just sit there. I'm moral support.”


“Aren't advertisers supposed to be convincing?”


Now I gave her a look. “I'm going to be so lovely and comforting. You'll be amazed.”


“I would be amazed, it's true,” she said, flipping through our junk mail.


“He's not supposed to comfort them,” I said. “That's his whole challenge. Tell someone without holding their hand about it.”


“How'd that come about?”


“Uh, I realized that Justin's entire life for the past nine years has been reassuring people that he's okay because otherwise he knows they'll fucking fall apart.”


She took a bite of some eggplant. “It's probably really fucking exhausting being as loved as he is,” she said thoughtfully.


“Yeah, I really don't envy it.” I studied her. “How about you, are you ready to relive the adventure?”


“A seven-year-old died in my ER yesterday,” she said. “Last week it was a pregnant woman. At this point, I can talk about anyone who lived.”


I kissed her forehead. “Being a doctor sounds great.”


“Mmm.”


I poured two glasses of scotch and handed her one. “You know, your signing's getting really fantastic.”


She blushed. “Yeah?”


“Mmhmm.”


“Well. I've had plenty of practice lately,” she said, with a grin.


“Oh yeah, and how's that going?” She gave a fluttery sigh and rested her head against the wall, and I laughed. “I can't believe I'm fucking involved in your relationship,” I said. “I gave him advice, for God's sake. Brian Kinney, helping out the heterosexuals.”


“God bless us, every one.”


“I'm telling you, it's weird,” I said. “Being friends with a straight person. Very new to me.”


“What the fuck do you call you and me?”


I waved her off. “You don't count, you're like my sister.”


“Hey, fuck you, I've met your sister.”


“Plus it's different with guys,” I said. “Straight girls always love gay guys. It's in your DNA.”


“Yeah, remember when I said 'hey, fuck you?'”


“I've never been friends with a straight guy,” I said. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”


“Paranoid.”


I shrugged. “You don't get it.” I shouldn't have said anything. How the fuck do you explain this shit to a twenty-something who's been best friends with a gay guy since she was a kid?


How do you explain it to a straight person?


“Maybe not,” she said.


I listened to Justin cough in the shower. “Sounds bad.”


She gave me a look, sipping her drink.


“What?” I said.


“Any chance you're being a little clingy because prom stuff is in the mix?”


“I didn't realize you were on your psych rotation.”


“Ha, ha.”


“I'm not being clingy, I'm being annoyed,” I said. “He's got no fucking immune system. Can you explain that one, doctor?”


“Sure. Stress of the epilepsy. His body's essentially running a marathon every time he has a seizure. Doesn't have any strength left to fight shit off.”


I leaned against the counter. “That's immensely depressing.”


“I thought you two were very zen about this kind of thing.”


I drained my glass. “In theory.”


Her phone buzzed and she pulled it out of her pocket. “Derek's on his way. Emily's with him.”


“Okay.”


“Ready to ambush them?”


“God, they think it's just some nice social call. How the fuck do you even lead into this?


“It's like an intervention for Justin's brain,” Daphne said. “Nine years too late.”


“Derek really doesn't know any of this?”


“Not that I know of. I've never told him.”


“He went to the hospital with Justin that time.”


“Ah, yes, when it was my turn to be ambushed.”


“I figured he might have heard all the medical history from that. But Justin said he didn't know.”


“Derek minds his business,” she said. “He's really easygoing about it, he just...lets you have your own shit.”


“Huh,” I said. Hard to imagine. I was used to Justin, who had not let me have a private thought in ten years.


“Yeah, it's kind of remarkable.”


Justin came out, wearing his lounging clothes and ruffling his hair with a towel. I swallowed, and he gave me a wry look.


It's not my fault, I said.


“Mmmhmm.”


I said, They're going to be here soon. You have a game plan for this, wheezy?


Run away and leave you to do it?


Innovative.


He sat down on the couch. What if they don't think it's a big deal? What if they're like, 'so what?'


Well, then Daphne beats them up.


Please. I can beat up my own friends.


The doorbell flashed, then, and I let in Emily and Derek. Emily immediately launched into her impossibly rapid fire signing about...something work-related, it looked like, while Derek attached himself to Daphne's face like he hadn't seen her in years.


Slow down, I told Emily.


I was supposed to send Cynthia the invoice from Eyeconics and I forgot. She's going to be really mad.


You can get on the office network from my laptop. Go do it now.


Thank you thank you thank you. I love you.


She ran off to the office, and I watched Daphne and Derek drink each other's spit against the wall. I nodded to Justin. How come you don't greet me like that?


My mouth's usually full with your cock.


I tilted my head. Now?


No, not now.


I don't like it.


Once Emily had finished not running my company in the ground and Daphne and Derek had finished exhausting each other's bodies of oxygen and generally exhibiting the most straight sex I'd seen in several dozen years, they dug into the rest of the Thai food and Justin sat on the counter and tried to start signing a few times and finally said, to me, There's literally no non-awkward way to start this.


Just start it, I said. The only thing I hate more than talking about the bashing is talking about the bashing for a long period of time. Just rip off the band-aid.


Emily wrinkled her forehead. What's going on?


Are you breaking up with us? Derek said, grinning.


Oh my God, am I getting fired? Emily said, very much not grinning.


Why would I fire you? Justin said. You don't work for me. That doesn't make any sense.


I don't know! I'm distraught!


Daphne said, Just listen to him, okay?


This is so goddamn awkward. Fuck.


Derek wasn't smiling anymore. Justin, what's going on?


You want to move to the couch? I asked Justin.


He shook his head. Here's fine. So uh...something happened to me a long time ago. And it's not something I tell a lot of people. But at this point...it's started to feel weird that you guys don't know. And I don't know why, because it's not like it matters...you don't have to do anything, I just...


Rambling, I said.


Justin looked at me. What?


You're stalling. It's okay.


Emily sat down at the table, and Derek leaned against the wall, holding Daphne's hand, watching Justin really carefully.


Justin looked at me. Can you tell the first part?


You know the story, I said.


It's not the same.


It was my turn to stall.


I can do it, Daphne said. You want me to do it?


I nodded shortly, and Justin said, Yeah, that's okay.


Daphne let go of Derek's hand. So Justin and Brian were...I don't know, what do you guys want to call it, dating?


Fucking, I corrected.


Whatever. During our senior year of high school. So then Justin asked him to our prom, but Brian said no because he was having a midlife crisis.


I was not—


Do you want to tell it? she said.


Derek looked at me. How old are you, anyway?


I made a show of examining my fingernails, because I could see Justin already starting to unravel next to me, and he needed some comic relief. I couldn't possibly put a number on it. Beauty like this is ageless.


So Justin and I went together, Daphne said. But then, during the prom, Brian came and swept his way in—


I had to fuck one of the chaperones to get in, I said to Justin.


He looked at me. Did you really?


Yeah. I never told you that? Someone's dad.


He covered his face. “Oh my God.”


I would have been in earlier if not for that, I said. Our big dance could have been to some teenybopper hit instead.


So Brian came in, and he danced with Justin...and it was amazing.


I took Justin's hands away from his face and pulled him into my arms, mouthing the words of the song to him. He watched my lips, and when I whispered, “You okay?” he nodded.


Emily said, Are there pictures?


We have one, Justin said. I'll get it in a minute.


Daphne said, And then they left, and then... She held her hands out to Justin.


He looked at me. “I changed my mind.”


I shook my head.


“You do it?”


Is that what you want?


He took a slow breath in. You'll tell me if I get it wrong?


Yeah. I steadied myself on the counter behind me.


The truth is, I hate when he tells it. I hate how it happened to someone else for him, until he gets to the moment he remembers, the the impact, the—God help me—the sound, and every time, I see him hit again. Every time, he flinches when he gets to the part he remembers.


Justin said, Brian and I went out to his car. And he, uh, he put his scarf around my neck? He looked at me.


I nodded.


And he kissed me, and he said goodnight.


I nodded again.


And he told me he loved me madly, deeply, passionately, forever and ever.


Nice try, I said, and Justin shot me a weak smile, and I don't think anyone's ever fucking been prouder of anyone.


Justin shook himself off a little. And then, uh, Brian got into his car. And I started walking away. And then... He looked at me, at Daphne. How do I even explain him?


I forced myself to breathe evenly. Some guy from your school, I said, my eyes hard on Justin. He doesn't matter.


Justin cleared his throat. This guy came up behind me with a metal bat and he bashed me in the head.


There it was, the flinch.


I love sign language, I do, but goddamn, the signs for violence are fucking violent, and I could live without them.


Emily put her hands over her mouth. Derek gripped Daphne's arm.


I'm okay, Justin said.


Don't, I said, harder than I should have, probably. Don't comfort them.


Justin nodded. Can you—


Yeah, I can do the rest. I skimmed my fingers down Justin's back. I was still there, so I stayed with him until the ambulance came. For a few days they didn't know if he was going to live, but he woke up after about a week, and about a month after that he got to come home. I tangled my fingers up with Justin's, and thought about home.


Emily said, Is that why you have seizures?


Yeah.


Emily got up and put her arms around Justin. Derek kept looking back and forth between me, Justin, Daphne.


I don't understand, he said. Why did that guy...


I said, “Daph, can you—”


Yeah, she said, and she put her hand on Derek's arm, got ready to explain homophobia to him.


Derek shook his head. No, I'm sorry, it's not...I understand, I just...fuck. I didn't know people still...because you danced together? Emily and I danced together at our prom, we danced...


Emily was up on her toes, still holding Justin.


Derek said, One time I was with Emily and this girl she was dating and this guy was hassling them but that...nobody touched them, I don't...


Daphne kissed his cheek.


I could hear Emily crying a little. “We should have told them separately,” I said softly.


Daphne looked at me.


I said, She's queer, this is different for her. We should have told her alone.


Justin was watching me over Emily's shoulder, a question in his eyes. A plea.


Give her to me, I said. We can comfort her, it's okay. I'll comfort her for you. You didn't mess up.


Thank you thank you thank you, Justin said, and he turned Emily into my arms, and then he went straight to Daphne and she kissed him and held him tight. Sometimes he just needs her.


Derek stood by, his hand on Justin's back, his eyes on me.


**


Justin had a migraine that night, from the stress and from the fact that he was fucking obviously getting sick, so we kicked everyone out pretty early and he lay in bed while I cleaned up the kitchen and got some work done in the dark. At least I didn't have to be quiet.


I came in after a while and slid up next to him. This okay? I said, It's never too dark to sign, really, not in New York.


He adjusted the ice pack on his head. Yeah.


I kissed him gently. You look nice.


Thank you. He leaned into my hand and I ran my thumb over his cheek. He sighed, this feathery little thing. It went okay, right?


Yeah, it did.


You'll check in on Emily tomorrow?


You're not supposed to be worrying about that.


Yeah, I know.


I said, You should stay home tomorrow.


He shook his head, wincing.


You're gonna fuck up your lungs breathing all that shit.


I'll wear a mask. He smiled at me a little. Being so nice to me.


No. I've never been nice to you in my life.


“Love me?”


“Yeah.”


He moved in close to me, resting his head on my chest. I could feel his pulse throbbing in his temple.


“Thank you for saving me,” he whispered.


You don't have to say that every time, I signed on him.


“Do the song,” he said, so I hummed “Save the Last Dance” behind his ear until he fell asleep.


**


Being nice to Justin the night before put me in a bad mood the next morning. It always does. It didn't help that Cynthia brought me contracts for our new account that looked like they'd been drawn up by a 1L.


I pounded on the buzzer until she came in, high heels clicking on the floor. “I will take that fucking buzzer away from you,” she said.


“Who the fuck did this contract?”


“Sebastian's on paternity leave, I think Kurt's running legal right now.”


“Has Kurt been to law school? Has Kurt ever seen a contract? Can Kurt read?”


“Do you need some Midol or something?”


“This thing is a fucking mess. If I send this over to Samson we'll be sued before the ink's dry. You blink wrong and you're in breach of this thing.”


“How many ways are there to blink...”


I shoved the contract at her. “Do something about this.”


“I'll send Emily down.”


“Thank you.”


The morning went quickly. Two clients wanted to come in for consultations next week, it looked like I wasn't going to be able to get out of spending a few days in London at the end of the month, Derek invited me out for lunch but I had a meeting, Justin “wasn't getting sick” but his “allergies happened to be acting up”—the fucking brain damage on this kid sometimes, I swear—and I got in touch with Sebastian to fake enthusiasm for his baby and offer him exorbitant amounts of money to work from home.


Emily came in at one and presented me with a new contract. It still needed some tweaking, but it was serviceable, at least. Thank God, I said. Thank you. I glanced up. She was wearing a new blouse and a gray houndstooth skirt. You look nice today.


Thank you, Mr. Kinney, she fingerspelled. I rolled my eyes and she smiled.


You doing okay? I asked.


Yeah. I'm sorry about yesterday. That was embarrassing.


I snorted. You should have seen me when it happened.


I actually wanted to ask you if I could get out of here a little early today, she said. I wanted to bring Justin some ice cream or something, make sure he doesn't like...think stuff is going to be weird between us now.


Ask Cynthia.


Okay, but tell her to say yes first.


I laughed. All right. Oh, meet him outside the gallery, don't go inside. I don't need you hacking up a lung too.


You got it, Mr. Kinney.


Get the fuck out of my office.


**


Justin came home from his ice cream date hacking and wheezing and gave me a tired wave on the way to the shower. I ordered in Italian and gave him a look when he got out.


I might not feel fantastic, he said.


Maybe not. I felt his forehead. Huh, how about that?


I just got out of the shower, of course I'm hot.


He woke me up shivering in the middle of the night. At first I thought he was having a nightmare—I knew right away it wasn't a seizure; after you're jolted out of sleep five or ten times by one of those, you don't really mistake them for anything else—but when I reached over to check on him his t-shirt was soaked through with sweat. I shook him until he woke up, blinking blearily at me.


Did you just get out of the shower? I asked him.


He groaned and pushed his face into his pillow.


**


We were quiet in the morning, except for his breathing. He was still running a low fever, and Marie didn't seem surprised when he called her and told her. He packed up his stuff without too much of a discussion, and we took a cab out to the office so he wouldn't have to mess with the subway transfer, his head resting on my shoulder. I let him.


He stayed annoyingly awake. He managed a couple conference calls from my couch, worked on some Rage panels, and coughed, and coughed, and coughed. I had a light day compared to the one before, but I was still planning to get some work done, and it was almost eleven and I'd done nothing but stare at files and answer a few emails. Jesus. He was breathing like a TB victim and complaining that he was bored every five minutes. Distracting as shit.


It was also distracting that he was wearing his MoMa sweatshirt, the big one that goes all the way over his knees, and his hair was mussed up and there was a red flush under his nose and over his cheekbones, and he was beautiful.


It shouldn't have been distracting me this much. He was kind of sick. He got kind of sick a lot. He was fine. There was no reason for me to be glancing over at him every five goddamn seconds.


You don't actually need to be in your psych rotation to figure out why I was being a little clingy.


It always takes a few days to stop hearing the bat.


I wonder how long it takes for him.


“Brrrrrrrian?”


It's really mean how you do that.


“Sorry,” he said, which was exactly as fucking manipulative, with that R in the middle.


Aren't you supposed to be sleeping? I thought you were deathly ill. You see pretty healthy to me.


He sneezed for the billionth time and blew his nose.


That's more like it.


He coughed for a while. Could you be right about something other than me getting sick sometimes? It'd be a nice change of pace.


Bite me. You want the nebulizer?


Not yet. His hand started to shake, and he stretched it out on his knee. “You said soup?” he said. I'd had to bribe him to get him to come to the office. He wanted to stay home.


I pointed to the door. Your hands work. Or one of them, anyway. Ask Emily.


“I don't want to get up.”


Cynthia can hear you if you yell from here. Tell her to get Emily.


“Briaaaaaan.”


I put down the file I was looking at. Oh my God. I'm fucking garbage about his voice anyway, and that wheeze was not helping.


He smiled at me sheepishly.


You're impossible. I said.


I know. He wrinkled up his nose, trying not to sneeze, and I groaned and dropped my head down to my desk. I heard him laughing and then—


“Bri?”


I lifted my head up. Derek was standing at the door, arms full of paper bags. Huh.


I looked at Justin, who shrugged.


I got up and said, You know, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard your voice? I took the bags from him. Chinese food, going by the smell.


Give me another year and I'll have the second syllable down, Derek said.


I set the bags down on my desk and kissed his cheek. What the fuck are you doing here?


Emily told me you hadn’t had lunch. He startled a little when Justin moved on the couch. Hey, I didn’t see you there. Doesn’t my mom need you to run her life?


Sick, Justin said. Practically dying.


You don’t look that bad.


I said, Yeah, well, you can’t hear the wheeze.


Ah, fair enough. Luckily... He opened the bags and took out a container of soup. You like wonton? he asked Justin.


I love you, Justin said.


I looked through the bags as Derek brought the soup over to the couch. You really didn't know he was here? There's enough food for a fucking army.


I like Chinese food, Derek said. Fucking kids.


What do I owe you for this? I said.


No, it's on me. I rolled my eyes and took my wallet out, but he shook his head as he pulled a chair up to the desk. Stop, I mean it.


I can barely see the conversation if he sits there! Justin said.


I said, Good. Nothing to distract you. Eat your—bless you. Eat your soup and go to sleep.


Derek smiled a little as I sat down. You're funny with him.


So I've heard. I went through the bags. You really didn't know he was here? I figured you and Emily would be teaming up to parent him a little this week.


He's older than me.


He's not older than anyone.


Derek shook his head. Here to see you.


Christ, you're not here to parent me, are you?


He laughed. No. I wanted to talk to you, and since you blew me off yesterday...


You just show up at the office? You should know, last time someone was this persistent with me I ended up marrying him.


You don't scare me, Derek said, which...was strange, if you thought about it, since he was this twenty-five-year-old straight guy, and everything I'd constructed about myself was specifically to scare twenty-five-year-old straight guys.


He scooped out some rice.


If you have questions about what we told you, you can just ask, I said. God knows I've explained it to his brain-damaged ass plenty of times.


He shook his head. Daphne filled in the gaps.


All right, so what is it? I said. Is it private? Need me to smother him with a pillow?


It wouldn't take long, Justin said.


Derek shook his head, reaching into his backpack. Not private. I just wanted to get your opinion on something.


I rolled my eyes.


What? he said.


You're not here to get my opinion on anything. You're checking up on me, just like you wanted to do yesterday, and you're trying to be sly about it.


He took out a folder. Shit, what's this, then? A mysterious folder! Is it full of techniques for how to soothe Brian?


Give me that. I snatched it out of his hands and looked it over while Derek helped himself to an egg roll and Justin made some rather horrifying rasping noises. The folder was full of information about a school in Greece. Study abroad?


He nodded. All of next semester. But they're only giving me a partial scholarship and I'd have to hire my own interpreter.


I leaned back in my chair. Do you need money?


What the fuck? No, I didn't come to ask you for money. I told you, I want your opinion.


People never want my opinion, I said. They want me to fix their problems. I said it as a joke, but as soon as it was out of my hands it kind of...I don't know, hit me, so it was suddenly very important that I clarify, Except for Justin.


I don't have a problem, Derek said. I have a decision to make, and you're smart about pros and cons and shit like that. I just want to know what you'd do in my shoes.


He sat there chewing nonchalantly, like this was nothing, and I tried to remember the last time someone—except for Justin, like I said—had asked me what I thought about something.


Tried to remember if a straight person had ever, ever put me in their shoes.


I cleared my throat and looked down at the file. All right. So, Greece for philosophy.


Exactly. Back to, you know, the philosophical motherland. So that's amazing.


How would it work with the interpreter?


Yeah, so our group would have a Greek-to-English translator with us, and then my interpreter would work from them. So at this point I'm getting everything filtered twice, plus I'm thinking...it jus seems so awkward, having my own personal interpreter with me for an entire semester.


Marlee Matlin's done it for twenty years, Justin weighed in.


Go to sleep.


Derek said, Everyone I've talked to says they wish they'd taking study abroad opportunities when they were in college. Did you do it?


I shook my head, looking over the class schedule for the program. I didn't have the money.


Oh, shit, try these peapods.


I speared a few off of his plate. So you want to think about the experience, but you also want to think about your eventual goals and how this is going to look to employers. You want to teach. Are people hiring you going to care that you spent a semester in Greece? Is that a selling point?


I think so.


So that's something. You're right, these are amazing.


The soup's good too, Justin said.


Go to sleep.


I'm eating.


There's also the issue of, you know, of Daphne, Derek said.


Ah. Does she know?


He shook his head. I don't have to make a decision for a month, so I figured why rush into that conversation. He cracked open a soda. I don't know. This thing with us is pretty new, and a semester is a long time.


She wouldn't want you turn this down for her, I said.


It's not about turning it down for her. It's about...I don't know. Recognizing the relationship as an opportunity, just like study abroad is an opportunity.


This is very sappy for me, I said.


Yeah, well, I'd like to get married before I'm...however old you were when you finally gave up and admitted you had feelings. Forty-five.


I said, I can have you removed from this office, you know.


He crossed his legs. Have you two ever been apart longterm like that?


Well, there was that week I was unconscious, Justin chimed in.


I slapped the folder down. What I would not give for you to repeat that right about—


Jesus, fine! I'm sleeping, I'm sleeping. He scrunched himself up on the couch.


I turned back to Derek. He lived in LA for four months at one point.


How was that?


I shrugged. Fine.


Liar, he said, chuckling.


You need one person to not freak out, I said. Trust me, that's all it takes. And neither you or Daphne is the panicking type. You'd be fine.


How long had you two been together when he did that?


You can't measure that, I said.


What the fuck does that mean, you can't measure that? You two are on some different space-time continuum from the rest of us?


Yep.


He shoveled out more chicken. You're so annoying.


I've heard.


Was he Deaf then?


No, no, before that. I sighed. Fine. We met when he was seventeen. He moved in with me after he got out of the hospital, stayed with me for a little under a year.


Stayed with you, huh? Like a boarder?


No way was I touching this one. But he was all...he was pretty messed up still, and I was potentially not amazing about it, and eventually he went to see if he could have a relationship with someone less emotionally stunted. Realized he couldn't, came crawling back, we took down a politician, I did the whole cancer thing, he moved to LA.


Fuck. You two have been through a lot.


I gave him a look. Don't push your luck. We're not bursting into tears over Brian and Justin's greatest hits.


God, how do you walk around with an ego that size?


Years of practice.


Why'd he come back?


I adjusted my sleeve. Movie he was working on was cancelled.


What if it hadn't been?


I shrugged.


No, come on.


Why does it matter?


He hesitated. I don't know. Because I want to know that there's more to this shit than just coincidence. That people aren't just together because movies were cancelled, or because I didn't get enough of a scholarship to Greece.


But that's how it works, I said. Things happen, or they don't. What do you want me to say, that Justin and are fated from the stars?


Why do you always take everything up to eleven, he said. Sometimes I just want to hear you would have moved to LA.


Why, are you planning to make Daphne move to Greece?


Do you want me to check behind me to make sure he's asleep before he overhears you saying something nice about him?


He didn't need to; Justin wasn't asleep, I could tell, but he wasn't watching, either.


I tapped on my desk. You have to understand, this was a long time ago. He came from LA and it was another two years before he even started losing his hearing. And that was four years ago. It's been a while.


You're right, you wouldn't to let it slip how long you've had feelings for your husband.


Justin started coughing again, curling up tighter, and I watched him over Derek's shoulder. If I say I would have moved to LA, we can go back to to talking about your study abroad?


Sure.


All right. Probably, eventually, I would have moved to LA. Happy?


Yeah, pretty happy.


Why does it matter?


He flipped through the study abroad papers. I don't want you to think I'm some pathetic asshole if I end up deciding not to go to Greece because I prioritize this thing with Daphne.


So you came over to teach me about the power of true love?


Derek rolled his eyes. I came over to get your opinion. Why is that so hard to believe?


Go to Greece, that's my opinion. Send her postcards.


He nodded. I'll take it under advisement.


Good. Hang on a second. I stamped on the floor until Justin looked over. Are you okay?


He shrugged, rubbing his chest.


You want the nebulizer now?


Yeah.


Okay, hang on. I turned back to Derek. Sorry, I have to deal with this.


It's fine, I have a one-thirty class. He stood up and started clearing off my desk. Thanks for your help on this.


I said, You know you're not fooling me, right? I went over to the couch.


Fooling you? Derek said.


You think I'm all sad and damaged from talking about the bashing, so you came over with a segue into our relationship history so I'd realize all we've gotten through in the past and I wouldn't worry too much about the little lamb. I checked Justin's temperature with his forehead against my cheek—felt like 101, maybe a little lower—and started setting up the nebulizer.


Derek shook his head slowly. It must be a trip, being you.


You have no idea.


I wanted your advice, he said. I really should have had a shirt made that said that before I came.


I rubbed Justin's back as he wheezed his way into another coughing fit. My urgent advice on the study abroad decision you don't have to make for a month? Plug this in, would you?


Derek did, and I handed Justin the mouthpiece and kept rubbing circles. Okay, look, Derek said. I know you don't...make friends with straight people very often. And I thought it was just, I don't know, that you couldn't relate to them or whatever. I hadn't really given it a lot of thought.


I watched him, tangling my fingers in the hair at the back of Justin's neck.


Look, he said. You're white, you're hearing, I tend to think you're pretty untouchable. But now I get that... Derek shrugged. There's a risk there. You probably can't trust me all the way. So I wanted to come and show you that I respect your opinions and your experience and that I love you, okay?


I chewed my cheek and managed to nod a little.


He slung his backpack over his shoulder. And if I manged to do make you feel secure about Justin at the same time, well, that's just how amazing I am.


God damn you.


He grinned and squeezed Justin's knee. Bye. Feel better.


Bye, Justin said, still really struggling over there, and Derek gave me a wink on his way out. Little shit.


I sighed and leaned back on the couch, tucking Justin under my arm. There you go. You okay?


I'm okay. Are you okay?


I think I'm having feelings.


Yikes.


Yeah. How do you know if you're having feelings?


He rested his cheek on my shoulder, and I kissed his forehead.


Is this what it's supposed to be like? I asked him after a minute.


What, everything?


Yeah.


He nodded, pulling his legs up onto my lap.

 

Okay, I said, squeezing his hand as it started to shake again. Okay, I could get used to this.

Chapter 46 - Family Bonding by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Brian's out of town when Justin gets a phone call.

 

 

I was working late in the studio when I got a call, a regular call, from some number I didn't recognize with a non-New York area code. I figured it was probably Brian; he was in Philadelphia for a few days at a conference, which usually means late nights at hotel bars with prospective clients. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten drunk and forgotten I'm Deaf. I didn't know why he'd be calling from someone else's phone, but...again, very little would be a first, where drunk Brian is concerned.


I ignored the call, since I hadn't forgotten I was Deaf, and kept working on mixing the perfect shade of gray. A minute later a Facetime call came from the same number, so I mentally applauded Brian on his deductive reasoning skills and picked up.


Except it wasn't Brian. It was some girl I didn't know, and she immediately called to someone behind her and started talking to me.


“Hang on, hang on,” I said. “What?” I concentrated on her lips. “Am I Justin?”


She nodded.


“Yeah, I'm Justin. Who are you?”


She told me, probably, but I don't know what I was expecting to get from that.


“Okay, I don't...can you text me?” I said. “I'm Deaf, I don't...”


She held up a finger for me to wait and then turned the phone away from her, giving me a panoramic view of what looked like...a college party. Ah, fuck.


Sure enough, there was Molly, sitting on the floor with her head in her hands and a splotch of vomit on her shirt. Christ. At least she wasn't too out of it to give this girl my number.


“Molly,” I said. “Hey. Molly. Look at me.”


She didn't. I had no idea how loud it was at the party, or how loud I was being, really. I just knew my sister was a heap on the floor, and if some fucking college kid thought it was worth calling her brother, that couldn't be a good sign.


The original girl came back onscreen and said something that looked like a question.


I said, “Yeah, I'm in Chelsea, I'm on my way,” which probably covered whatever she was asking. “Text me where you are? The name of the dorm?”


“Okay.”


“Okay. Thank you. Someone stay with her, please.” I hung up and packed my shit up, and the text came in as I was leaving. Third North, which was not Molly's dorm, but the NYU website said it was three blocks from Union Square. I'd have to transfer if I took the train there, and I didn't want to take that long, so I stuck my arm up for a cab as soon as I got out to the street.


I stopped someone on the sidewalk when I got out of the cab. “Hi, sorry, is this Third North?'


She said something I didn't catch any of but luckily involved pointing to two buildings over, so good enough. Someone was leaning against the front door with a cigarette and he moved to let me in, and for once I was thankful that I look like a goddamn college student.


I asked him, “Hey, uh, is there a party somewhere in here?”


He said something around his cigarette, looking judgmental as fuck, so I gave up on him and headed inside. There was a steady stream of people headed up the stairs, so I just tagged along after them, and once we got to the third floor landing there were people everywhere, crowding the steps and leaking out of the dorm rooms. I could feel the bass beat from the music in my stomach, and I weaved my way around couples pressed up against the railings and water fountains.


I tapped one girl on the shoulder and she looked me skeptically up and down.


“Do you know Molly Taylor?” I asked her.


She cocked her ear towards me. “What?”


I raised my voice, probably. “Molly Taylor.”


She shook her head.


“Okay, thanks,” I said, and I kept going through the crowd, looking or anyone I recognized from the phone call. Someone grabbed my arm, and I turned around and found the girl who called me. “Oh, hey, hey,” I said.


She pointed to a nearby dorm room.


“Thank you,” I said, and she nodded. I dodged a guy running past me with his shirt off and a girl who scanned me and looked anything but skeptical and finally got into the room. Molly was curled up on the bed with her arms around her head. I put my hand on her shoulder and she shoved me off, eyes closed.


I said, “Yeah, it's me, you kind of have to look at me.”


I'm sleeping, she said.


“Get up.”


She opened her eyes and sat up slowly. My head hurts, she said, swaying some on the bed.


“Yeah, I bet. How much did you drink?”


I can't hear you.


Then you're going to have to look at me. There you go. How much did you drink?


Like two.


Yeah, okay.


Why are you here? Is this your party?


Is this my...what the hell? Do you know where you are?


She lay back down. I'm going to sleep.


Yeah, I don't think so. Come on, get up.


Don't tell Mom, she said.


Then you're probably going to want to not die of alcohol poisoning in the middle of a dorm party.


So fucking dramatic.


Your skin's cold, you're confused, and there's puke on your shirt. I'm not being dramatic. Arm around my shoulders, come on. I helped her up from the bed and caught her when she stumbled.


Brian's going to kill me, she said.


**


I considered taking her back to the apartment, I really did, but she threw up on the sidewalk as soon as we were outside, so once I'd cleaned her up and instructed her that she was not to throw up in a cab, I hauled her into one and told the driver to take us to New York Pres.


I sat her down in a chair in the waiting room, and she curled up and put her head on her knees. I gave the nurse at the front desk a smile. “Hi, is Dr. Chanders on call?”


She didn't shake her head, so I was going to assume what she said was something affirmative.


“Could you page her for me, please?”


Daphne was there in a flash, wearing a white coat over her scrubs and looking so fucking professional. Hey, hey, she said. Are you okay?


I pointed to Molly.


Oh, wow. Okay, let's get her in a bed.


I found her at a dorm party, I said. She's really out of it, do you think you need to pump her stomach?


We'll see. Come on.


Daphne got us into a little cubicle and talked to Molly some, checking her eyes and putting one of the oxygen clips on her finger, then had a nurse start an IV and made Molly blow into a breathalzyer. She looked at the readout and frowned.


Shit, I said. Is it bad?


Daphne shook her head. It's .09.


I don't know what that means.


It means she really shouldn't be this out of it.


I felt something tighten in my chest. What do you mean?


The person who called you to pick her up, can you get in touch with them?


Yeah, I have their number...they don't sign, I can do a relay service—


No, it's fine, I'll talk to them. She took my phone from me. Sit and hold her hand, okay?


I hate hearing people doing things for me normally, but this felt more like a doctor doing a medical thing for me, so I nodded. Yeah, okay. I sat by the bed and slipped Molly's hand between mine. It's funny. I spend so much time watching people's hands now, but I still hadn't realized before then how much hers looked like our mom's. She looked so much like Mom, really. I pushed her hair off her face. “You're okay.”


Whats going on?


“I don't know yet, baby. We're gonna see.”


Daphne came back and handed me my phone, then put her hand on Molly's ankle. So your friend wasn't all that helpful, but she said it looked like you lost consciousness at the party. Do you remember anything like that?


Molly shook her head, and I squeezed her hand.


Daphne said, Okay, that's okay. We want to run some tests, but we're really backed up tonight so it might be a while. We're going to get you settled in a room, okay?


I said, What tests?


Some blood tests, and an EEG and an MRI.


EEG and... I blinked. You think she had a seizure?


**


The EEG was normal—which didn't mean much, mine are normal all the time—the blood tests weren't back yet, and they finally brought her down for an MRI early in the morning. She was still there when Brian texted me asking if I was awake. He called me after I answered, lying in his hotel bed, sleepy and shirtless and so fucking hot. He squinted at me, reaching over to his nightstand for a cigarette. Hey, that's a hospital.


Yeah.


You okay? he said, lighting the cigarette. I could float away forever on the way Brian multitasks worrying about me. I don't know, it's something about the combination of Brian caring about me with Brian not being incapacitated by this shit. It's sustainable, which is just about the most refreshing word possible where me and Brian are concerned.


I said, Yeah, it's not me, it's Molly.


Molly? Her sign name is a M next to her mouth. It's based on mine; all the Taylor signs are. Mom's, Molly's, Luke's.


This girl called me from a dorm party. I thought she'd just drunk too much, but her blood alcohol level wasn't that high and Daphne—I'm at Daphne's hospital—she thinks she had a seizure.


Brian said, What? Why would she have had a seizure?


I don't know.


Yours are from the bashing, they're not genetic.


We always just assumed that, I said. Maybe I would have had them anyway and the bashing just made them happen worse, or sooner.


Where's Molly now? How is she? He was out of bed and getting dressed.


Getting a MRI.


Okay, that's good. He pulled on his shirt. Wait, you said this happened at a dorm party?


Yeah.


This was last night? Why didn't you call me?


I don't know, I kind of had my hands full.


You did all this shit alone?


I said, I went to a party and got her and brought her to Daphne. It wasn't hard.


And talked to a whole bunch of hearing people, and stayed at the hospital all night... He got his shoes on. Did you even take your meds?


Yeah, Daphne got me a dose.


You should have called me. I'm a twenty minute flight away. I could have been there. I can take care of the hearing shit so you can sit with Molly.


I didn't need you to take care of shit, I said. I handled it.


He checked his watch. I'm going to go to the airport and get a flight. I'll be there soon.


Brian—


You should have called me, he said, and then he hung up, and I resisted the urge to throw my fucking phone across the room.


**


Brian swept into the room two hours later. He kissed me, and even though I was pissed at him I found myself clinging to his collar.


I talked to Daphne, he said, and I let go of him.


You don't have to talk to Daphne, I said. I know what's going on. I can tell you.


I like Daphne, he said. He went over to the bed where Molly was sleeping and looked her over before picking her chart off the foot of the bed and leafing through it. Okay, this is okay.


They think it might just have been a freak thing, I said. I had them page Dr. A. She said it's pretty common to just have one seizure and never have another one, though obviously with her family history...


Brian said, Yeah, okay. Okay. So we just wait and see if she has another one? They're not going to start her on meds?


Not unless she has another one.


I don't like that. Who's her doctor? I'm going to talk to her doctor.


Brian.


And I'm going to see when she's getting discharged. Have you eaten?


She's getting discharged in a few hours.


Have you called your mom?


Not yet.


I can do it.


Molly doesn't want to tell her yet.


Brian checked her chart again. She has health insurance from school?


Yeah, it's taken care of.


He rubbed his hands together. Okay, well, what do you need? What can I do?


Nothing, I said. There's nothing right now.


I came back to help, there's got to be something.


I didn't ask you to come back, I said.


He gave me a look.


What? I said. I told you I had this under control. I didn't need rescuing. And now you're pissy with me that, what, you came all the way home and I don't have a task for you?


He pinched his nose. Okay, you're tired, you're stressed, you're picking a fight—


I'm not picking anything.


You should have called me. What if Daphne hadn't been here last night? What would you have done?


I would have gotten an interpreter, or I would have made it work with hearing people like I do every fucking day of my life. You have got to get rid of this image of me as someone who can't navigate hearing shit without you.


He set his jaw. I didn't say that. I know you can make it work, you can make anything work, but in an emergency situation it's just faster—


Faster to wait for you to get on a plane and come to the ER?


I could have interpreted over Skype—


I didn't need an interpreter! I managed it! It's managed!


He sighed, running his hand through his hair. I'm going to get you some coffee, he said. And I'm going to talk to her doctor about this medication thing.


I don't want coffee.


Tough shit, he said on his way out.


**


The doctor told Brian exactly what Molly had told me he'd said about how they don't start medication for just one seizure, especially when there was no direct proof Molly had had one, and told him the exact same thing he'd written down for me about when he expected to discharge her, and Brian came to the exact conclusion I already had that Molly should come back to our apartment for the night and we'd bring her back to school in the morning.


She was exhausted—nights in the hospital are pretty awful for hearing people, I'm told—and she settled in on our pull-out and watched videos on her phone in-between naps. Brian sat and talked to her out loud for a little while, and I went out to the balcony and worked on a painting, even though it was cold, just so I didn't have to watch that.


Brian came out eventually. Hey.


“Hey.”


I'm going to run to the store, there's no fucking food in this house. You need anything that's not on the list?


“No.”


We're out of that nasty cereal you like. You want more?


I shrugged, and Brian leaned against the railing.


Could you look at me, please? he said.


I put down my paintbrush. I am looking at you. I'm answering your questions, aren't I?


Sort of.


I crossed my arms. He looked out over the water for a little while.


You're pissed at me, he said.


So? You're pissed at me.


Yeah, but I know why I'm pissed at you. I don't know why you're pissed at me.


Okay, why are you pissed at me?


Because you should have called me, he said.


I said, Why? Why am I not allowed to fucking handle something on my own? Why do you not think I'm not capable of that?


Brian massaged his temple. This is not a Deaf thing.


Really? Because you were just in there fucking talking in English to my sister—


I was just making sure she understood everything the doctors said, Brian said. Her signing isn't fluent and she was pretty out of it at the hospital. I was making sure she got everything.


And she knew everything already, right?


He shrugged a little.


Because I spoke to her in English at the hospital, I said. I made sure she understood everything. I can take care of her.


I know you can, Justin, Christ.


Then why do you have to sweep in and fucking manage everything? You're badgering me about not calling you because you don't trust me to handle shit! Why else would you be mad that I didn't call you right away?


He stared at me. Are you serious right now?


What the fuck do you mean, am I serious?


He shook his head. Never mind. I'm going to the store.


Now who's walking out?


I'm not walking out. I'm going to get some fucking groceries. I'll be back in half an hour.


It only took me half of that half hour to realize that I was a fucking idiot. Okay, sue me, I was coming off of very little sleep and a lot of interactions with hearing people and Brian had been bossing me around since he got back. I wasn't at my best. I checked on Molly, told her I'd be back in a little while, and walked across the street to the bodega, where I found Brian doing his usual obsessive ritual of taking a billion years to pick out a few pieces of fruit.


He glanced at me, then back down at the apple. Fine.


“You were worried about Molly,” I said.


He sighed and put the apple down.


I said, You wanted me to call you right away because you care about Molly.


We're seriously doing this here? In a fucking bodega?


I shrugged.


Of course I was worried about Molly, come on. How did you not...you really didn't get that?


I'm sorry. I'm an idiot.


Fuck, Justin, she's my sister. You're really surprised that I think I should fucking get a call if she has a seizure?


I don't know...


You should have...I mean, Christ, you need to have a fucking revelation to figure this out? Why the fuck didn't you assume I was worried in the first place? I'm that much of an asshole? I could see the insecurity behind his eyes, and it killed me.


I said, Okay, to be fair, you didn't really come in acting worried, I said. You came in all 'Brian to the rescue,' and—


That's what I do when I'm worried! You know that. How do you not know that? I thought you fucking...


Do you know how exhausting it is trying to keep track of how every single fucking thing you do means something else? I get this right a lot of the time, but the fucking codes and signs and hidden meanings...I get exhausted sometimes. You give me a lot of hoops to jump through.


I give everyone a lot of hoops to jump through, he said.


I know that.


You're supposed to see through my shit, he said. That's what you do.


I do most of the time.


He sighed.


I'm not perfect, I said. And you're not easy.


I know.


I put my hand on his chest. “There's always the option to, you know. Give me less shit to see through."


He ducked his forehead against the top of my head. Yeah. He took a deep breath. I'm trying.


“I know.”


He pulled away from me so I could see him. I don't like this seizure thing, he said. I don't like it for her, and I don't like what it means for you.


I know.


It doesn't really matter why you have seizures, I know that, but...I don't like not knowing what I thought I knew.


I don't either.


And I hate this wait and see thing with her. I hate waiting.


We'll keep an eye on her.


She was supposed to be the good Taylor, you know. I didn't have to worry about her. She had her shit together.


I kissed him. She's okay.


Yeah, I know.


That was very good, I said. I'm very proud.


God, shut up. He shoved me away. Can we please get out of here? I still haven't been welcomed home properly.


From your long, long journey?


Yeah. Go get your fucking cereal.

 

Chapter 47 - Anniversario by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Brian gets some new perspective in Italy.

Anniversario

 

 

 

“I don't think we should do the Academie and the Uffizi on the same day,” Justin said.


I circled my tongue in the hollow of his hipbone. Okay.


“Because those are really going to be like the two Florence highlights, art-wise, so we probably want to split them up.”


Okay. I raked my fingernails up and down his sides, and he shuddered and squirmed and was blissfully quiet for a minute.


“And we can go to Siena one day,” he said. “See the frescos. We're doing our last night in Milan, right?”


I sighed, moving my mouth up to his nipple. Yes.


“So we can see The Last Supper while we're there. I heard you have to buy tickets and then it's kind of like a lottery system to see if you get in, though. But Milan will be great anyway. Shopping for you. I heard they have this sculpture—”


I raised my head. “Justin.”


“Yeah?”


Shut up. I said, and covered his mouth with mine while he laughed.


**


Emily flopped down dramatically on our couch, her legs askew like some sort of scrawny, badly-dressed doll's. What am I even going to do here all by myself? she said.


Bother Cynthia for the both of us. Move, you're on my book.


She scooted over. You gone. Derek gone.


We're gone for five days, Justin said. I think you'll survive.


Woe is me, Emily said. Woe, woe, woe.


She's just fishing for us to bring her back presents, I said to Justin, stuffing my book into my carry-on. Don't listen to her.


Justin said, What about that girl you met? Spend time with her. Have you seen my earbuds? he asked me.


Second drawer of your desk where I put all the crap you leave lying around. There's a girl?


There might be a girl, Emily said. I'm not sure yet. She sighed. How will you even get by in Italy without your lovely assistant?


You're not my assistant.


It's not too late to invite me, she said. I could carry your bags. Plan your days. Win the hearts of every Italian in a ten mile radius.


Oh, is that some service you offer me?


You could use the competition, Justin said. You're getting rusty.


You're going to regret that little remark, I said to him, and he laughed.


Emily said, Seriously, how does this even work? Do you speak Italian?


I learned a few words, I said.


Justin ticked them off on his fingers. Deaf, gay, allergic, sex.


What other words do you need? I said.


Emily nodded seriously. I've never said any other words in my life.


Justin rolled his eyes.


Very good, I said. Maybe you should be my assistant.


She grinned.


**


Justin went on his usual journey deep inside his head that he usually does when he's in crowds while I got our boarding passes. He looked around the terminal with his eyes slightly narrowed, like all these people were part of a puzzle he was trying to figure out. I waved in his face for a good five seconds before he snapped back to life. You good? I asked.


Yeah, I'm good! He smiled, bouncing a little. “Noi andiamo in Italia!”


I rubbed a smile off of my mouth. Sunshine, that was the worst thing I've ever heard.


“Grazie.”


Dear God.


I'm excited.


I pecked his cheek and counted pills out of my pocket. Excited to be drugged?


Oh yes, always. We'd had enough success sedating him for a few shorter flights at this point that the plan was “okay, that, but more.” I dropped a handful of pills into his palm—a carefully selected cocktail of sleeping pills, muscle relaxants, decongestants, and his emergency, shut-down-your-system anticonvulsant. He'd been in charge of planning it all, but given that his short-term memory is noooot fantastic, we're both more comfortable with me doling out the heavy stuff. His pill bottles at home have timers on them that tell him when he last opened them, which took us far too long to figure out.


He swallowed them with the last of his water and tossed the bottle in the recycling. Party time.


I tugged on his ear. Let's get through security before you collapse.


Good plan.


He has to get scanned with the hand thing and patted down because his skull's all bolted together—titanium, fine for MRIs, not fine for metal detectors—and he always gets antsy and flinchy about it, I don't really know why. I stood close and kept an eye on him, and the TSA agent with his stuff held up a few pill bottles and asked him if he had the prescriptions for them. Normally I let him navigate this shit on his own, but considering he was already nervous and getting a little slow from the meds and him getting tazed by the TSA would be a rather dour way to start this trip, I got his attention and signed it for him.


“Oh, front pocket of the bag,” Justin said. “That one there.”


The TSA agent found them and nodded. “Okay. You're good.”


Justin sat down and pulled his shoes back on, hands shaking a little despite the meds. I hate talking to strangers.


You speak really well, you know.


He gave me a look. So if I didn't speak well, I'd be right to be embarrassed?


Don't try to trap me. I slung his bag over my shoulder. Are you? Embarrassed?


I don't know. It's hard to explain how it feels to like...have no proof that you're saying what you think you're saying. I just hate it. It feels like I'm out of control.


You talk all the time with me, I said.


I don't need to be in control with you.


**


Our plane was delayed, only by about half an hour, but it was enough so that Justin was really, really struggling to stay awake at the gate. “Fuck,” he groaned, sinking his head into his hands, and I laughed and put my palm on his back.


Just go to sleep, I said once he looked at me.


You're not going to be able to get me on the plane if I do. Once I'm out, I'm fucking out.


You're not very big, you know.


He yawned. That's not what I've heard.


I laughed. And they say I'm the one with the dirty mind.


Stop touching me, that woman across from us already looks like she's ten seconds away from calling a conversion camp swat team to take us away.


Nah, she's just watching the signing. She wasn't, but...I don't know. I have some kind of pathological need to protect Justin from this, as if he doesn't have a more vivid picture of this shit than anyone.


When do you think we're boarding? he said, his signs all sluggish and running together.


Okay, you're slurring your words. Come here. I manhandled his head onto my shoulder and fixed the woman across the from us with a stare. “You mind? He's tired.”


Justin adjusted himself on my shoulder. “Y'say something?” Slurring his words, what did I tell you.


No, I signed into his palm, and he laced his fingers through mine, and I let him, mostly to piss off the lady.


I got him up to board, nudging him through the tarmac and to first class, which I got mainly so I'd be the only one Justin puked on if he couldn't sleep through the flight. He bunched himself up against the window the second he was sitting down, and I bullied him into putting earbuds in—it helps him with the changes in the air pressure to have his ears covered—and drinking some water, since he was about to be unconscious for six hours until we got to London.


“Love you,” he mumbled.


You're drunk.


“Mmmmmmmmhmm.”


He settled against me as I sat down, and I mumbled, “Oh Lord,” and put my arm around him, and we stayed like that all the way to London.


**


Overall, the flights were a success. He woke up once and felt like crap on the way from London to Florence, but I managed to coax him back to sleep with threats and well-timed ginger candy. Customs took forever, and he was a groggy mess that probably had the TSA people thinking I drugged him up to kidnap him international waters, but whatever. Eleven hours later, we were walking into a hotel room in Florence.


“Still tired,” Justin said, collapsing on top of the ornate bedspread while I took a look around the room. There was a huge bathtub, a minibar, and a tiny balcony that overlooked a gray cobblestoned street. These comically small cars rolled past, and a woman across the way was selling flowers and yelling at everyone who walked by. There was a view of some massive chapel through down the way, and the sunset made everything red and purple. And then there was Justin, half-asleep on the bed, mumbling things he couldn't even hear into the pillow.


Not too shabby, Kinney.


I came over to the bed and crawled on top of him, turning him over onto his back. He smiled sleepily up at me. I nibbled at his neck, and he said, “Mmm, I'm all gross from the flight.”


I don't care. I kissed him hard, playing with his tongue with my teeth.


He said, I'm so tired, like an apology.


I know, I said. It's sexy.


He stretched. “Okay, you can fuck me, but I'm not gonna do anything.” He was already undoing my jeans.


You couldn't do nothing if you tried.


He chuckled and said, Is that a challenge? and I laughed into his mouth and pinned his arms above his head.


**


We had espresso and churros at a cafe in the morning, and Justin sketched our waiter. Everyone, fucking everyone, was looking at him.


You could really clean up in this town, I said to him.


He shook his head. It's the signing.


It's the hair.


He smiled at me over his cup. Uffizi today?


You're the one who got all the tickets, you tell me.


He scrunched up his face. I feel bad.


Is that worth mentioning, from you?


He threw a napkin at me. Practically all of our plans are art stuff. What's in it for you?


I figured I'd be getting dozens and dozens of gratitude blow jobs.


He gestured carelessly. “A given.”


And I like art.


I know you do, he said, but he still looked unsure.


And we've got some clubs in there for me. I watched a guy give Justin a long look as he passed by our table. Though how I'm going to get any fucking action with you there remains to be seen. Am I invisible? I caught a guy at the counter checking me out. All right, there we go, that's more like it.


You can do clubs at home, though. You need some sort of special Italy experience.


I'm going to eat everything.


He rolled his eyes. Yeah, okay.


I am completely serious, I said. I already signed up for some boot camp thing the day we get home. I'm ready to gain ten pounds in five days.


I'll believe it when I see it.


I'm turning forty next month, in case you forgot, I told him.


How could I, with the regular doomsday reminders? Okay, so it's possible I'd been sending him some rather melancholy texts in the past few months leading up to the dreaded occasion, but I did have the decency to exaggerate the horror for comic effect. If he had to put up with me, the least I could do was make him laugh every once in a while.


So now I can get fat, I said. Utterly give up on life.


Plus, boot camp.


Exactly.


The Uffizi was fucking something. Nothing minimalist about it, that's for fucking sure. I was used to Justin's gallery, with its clean lines and white walls. This was paintings on top of paintings, all in these lavish gold frames. Deb would have felt right at home.


I like the sculptures, I told Justin, circling this one of a mom and a kid. You should do more sculptures.


I'm no good at them.


Really? I kind of figured he could do anything, art-wise.


Really. He tugged my arm. I want to see the Da Vinci drawings, come on.


There was a big tour group in the way of the sketches, though. Justin watched the tour guide with his head tilted. What's he saying?


No idea, I said. God, you can't even tell when someone's not speaking English? You really are just the worst lipreader.


Yeah, yeah. But he looked disappointed that he couldn't get anything out of the tour, and even though in this case that made him like every other hearing American bastard...I don't know, I've got a bit of a hair trigger when it comes to Justin being left out of conversations.


I tugged him towards me by the front of his shirt. He's saying, I said, That Da Vinci was the greatest artist in the world until about 1983.


You are so fucked over me, Justin said seriously. It's embarrassing for you.


Nobody has any idea what I'm saying. I'm supposed to be embarrassed for no one but the guy who regularly pisses himself in front of me?


You're teasing me about seizures?


I'm teasing you about seizures. I'm sorry. Should I tiptoe around them and act like they're not happening? I crawled my fingers underneath his shirt. You're very healthy. It's so impressive.


Fuck me in the bathroom until this tour group is done, he said, and I took him by the hand and led him over the crowd.


We checked out the clubs that night. I got a blow job in the bathroom, Justin got covered in glitter, and we came back to the hotel and fucked hard against the door to our tiny balcony, the moon hanging low in the sky.


**


We took the train to Siena the next morning. Justin sketched me, so I took pictures of him while he made faces, puffing up his cheeks and crossing his eyes.


Siena was full of arts and cathedrals and stories about saints who beat themselves. Catherine's the patron saint of fire protection, turns out, which I got a kick out of. Told Justin he should pray to her, and he nudged me with his shoulder and touched the scars on his chest.


Do you ever miss church? he asked me at one point, head tilted up to a painted ceiling.


Hi, I'm Brian Kinney.


Maybe we'll go to temple with Gus next time we're in Pittsburgh.


Uh, maybe you will.


We got postcards for Emily and Derek and Daphne and Gabe—you don't know him yet, more on that later—and Michael and Debbie and Gus. I got a pair of leather driving gloves and Justin looked through some silk scarves, draping a white one around my neck and looking at me thoughtfully.


Oh yeah? I said.


Yeah, he said, and he bought it for me.


We ate dinner outside, lit by candles, back in Florence that night, and Justin savored his one glass of wine and watched in amusement as I fucking devoured the most amazing gnocchi you've ever dreamed of. You weren't kidding, he said.


Nope. You still gonna fuck me when I'm fat?


Sure. He nodded towards the bar. That guy might not, though.


I turned around. There was a guy leaning against a stool watching me. He was good-looking—a little old for my taste, but hell, I was probably a little old for his. I'm making peace with it.


You have a good eye, he said.


Justin sipped his wine. And he has a friend.


So he did, and the two of them were watching the two of us.


I turned back to Justin and raised an eyebrow. You're gonna break your rule?


Eh, what are vacations for? he said.


I stood up and dropped money on the table. I'll be with you the whole time.


He drained his wine glass. Yeah, we'll see if they even speak English, he said, and I slapped his ass on the way to the bar.


**


Turned out they did speak a decent amount of English, and the sex was phenomenal, and after we kicked them out I tried to drag Justin off to a shower, but he whined and pulled me back on top of him. Tomorrow, he said. I'm tired now.


You're all sticky.


So are you. He put my head on his chest. “I don't mind.”


Oh, you don't mind? I kissed the hollow of his throat and he slung his leg overtop of mine and I had a hard time minding too, it turned out.


I should have paid attention to him being too tired to shower, though, because he had a seizure a few hours later, a pretty major one. I jumped awake to half of his body shaking, his breathing coming in harsh gasps.


“Hey, hey.” I turned him onto his side and reached over him to turn the light on, resting my hand on his hip until it was over. He wasn't unconscious, doesn't lose consciousness unless it's a really bad one, but he was confused and pretty out of it, moaning softly when I got out from under him and brought him some water. I know, I said, which is fucking stupid, really, because I know exactly nothing about what having a seizure feels like. But I always end up saying it. I know it sucks. Let's take a deep breath, okay?


He nodded and breathed and drank some water.


There you go. See? All good.


He set the glass down. “Back to sleep.”


Sounds good. Come here. I turned the light off and settled him in the crook of my arm. He was asleep again pretty immediately—I should really just figure out a reliable way to trigger a seizure and do that before flights, save us the time figuring out meds—and hell, you're probably expecting me to say I stayed awake all night watching him breathe, but that's not how shit works around here. I fell back asleep in under ten minutes.


I didn't wake up until almost eleven the next morning, and Justin was still asleep, so I ordered room service. When I was up answering the door I heard him get up and and go to the bathroom. Hey, I said when he came out, and I'd set the cart up by the foot of the bed. Feeling better? He was wearing the hotel robe and his hair was all pushed off to one side.


He stretched, rubbing his eyes. “Okay. Sore.” Was it bad? I don't remember anything.


Not terrible, not great. Come eat.


He lifted a lid off a plate and smiles. French toast.


That's mine.


You don't eat French toast.


You're really not getting how this works. I crammed half a piece in my mouth to make him laugh. It worked. Fuck, that shit was good.


Justin stretched, arching his back on the bed. I kept an eye on the swath of skin in the split of his robe. Are we seeing David today?


Yeah, if you're up to it.


“Mmmhmm. Just...slowly.”


We ate breakfast, and showered, and he blew me to convince he was in perfect working order, and we set off for the Galleria dell'Accademia. There's a small room of the main hall with some other sculptures, but for the most part it's really just David there. Justin circled him for ages, taking in every inch of him, and I...I don't know. Took in Justin, for the most part.


He was quiet after we left, doing that drawing in his head thing he does sometimes, and we wandered down narrow streets without any real destinations, looking in shop windows and dodging vespas. He touched my arm after a little while and asked if we could stop for a minute, so we sat on a curb and watched the people go by, his face turned up to meet the sun.


Are you happy? he asked me eventually.


What? Of course I'm happy.


You're quiet.


I gave him a look that would hopefully let him know what a fucking dumbass I thought he was. Yeah, I'm quiet when I'm happy.


He gave me a look back and then was quiet for a while. You know cats? he said finally.


I really should have saved that look. Because Jesus Christ, how are you supposed to keep a straight face around this kid? You know cats?


Heard of them, I managed to say.


I read somewhere that they don't feel happiness like humans do. Or like dogs, even. They're either content or they're not content. They're never like...joyous.


I raised an eyebrow. So I'm a cat, is that it?


Maybe.


You're the one who does the purring around here, I said, nipping his earlobe, and he laughed and leaned into me.


We wandered around a little longer, grabbing lunch at a cafe, then stopping at the San Lorenzo market, where I got a belt and Justin got this leather jacket I couldn't stop touching, and he talked me into a set of china plates even though half the time we eat out of take-out containers. Whatever, they'd look nice in our cabinet.


We went into this strange apothecary because they had air conditioning for Justin and thirty kinds of anti-aging lotions for me. There were a ton of signs in Italian, blackboards, banners, and Justin pulled up the place on his phone to see if he could find information in English. Check it out, he said. They'll custom-mix medications for you if you tell them your issues. Like that place in Chinatown.


I dabbed some lotion on the back of my hand. Luckily, that's no longer a treatment I require.


Maybe they'd make something for me, I said.


You can't even take vitamins without breaking out in hives, but yeah, let's get you on some weird herbs in a foreign country. Speaking of— I swiped some lotion on him. Let me know if you die from that before I buy it.


He flicked me. I'm going to find somewhere to sit, okay?


Yeah. I sampled a couple more lotions, decided on the first one, and swept back around to collect Justin. He looked pale, I realized, and it kind of dawned that a low-key day full of endless walking around really only counted as low-key for one of us. Give me a break, okay? He's so fucking annoying with his not complaining thing, and I'm still sort of new at this. I took our bags from him and pulled him up carefully by his wrists. Let's get room service for dinner, I said. I looked at the menu today and there's this pasta that sounds really good.


You should probably eat something other than pasta at some point.


No. It's Italy.


He looked up at me as we stepped outside, his eyes big and clear. I know what you're doing, you know.


Okay, so let me.


He sighed. Okay.


He picked at his dinner back at the room, and I could tell he was in pain. I gave him some space to zone out in front of the TV while I returned some work calls—one of the strange benefits of a Deaf/hearing relationship is that he can watch TV on mute and I can scream about my fucking incompetent office manager Marcus on the phone and neither of us is bothered by the other—and when it was over I pulled him up and out of his clothes.


“Brian...” he said.


I laughed a little. I'm not fucking you. I don't need a murder charge.


“I wouldn't die. Probably.”


I put my hands on his shoulders and led him into the bathroom, where I had the bath tub almost full. I tossed one of the pharmacy bags at him.


He looked. Bath salts?


Yeah. I pulled my shirt off. Supposed to help with muscle aches. I got the menthol ones, so it's manly. I bared my teeth at him, and he wrinkled his nose.


I got a bottle of wine from the minibar and we passed it back and forth in the tub. He was between my legs, his back against my chest, so we couldn't talk much, but I could feel him relax against me, some of the knots in his back and shoulders let go. He turned around after a while, wrapping his legs around my waist and easing me into a deep kiss.


“Mmm,” I said. “Hey.”


“Hi.” He brushed his thumb underneath my eye, and I leaned into his hand.


Today's the twelfth? I asked.


He nodded, a little bit of a smile on his lips. Four years.


I ran my hands through his hair, watching the dark streaks the water left.


“I love you,” he said.


That's good.


He laughed, this startled, fucking beautiful sound, and kissed me as I sunk us both under the water. Later, I lay him in-between cool sheets, and fucked him as gently as I've ever done anything.


**


We had plans the next day. It was our last day in Florence before we left for Milan, and we were supposed to go to the Palazzo Pitti and the Boboli Gardens, then see the Gucci Museum before we bought something fancy as fuck to wear to this fancy as fuck place where we'd had to get reservations three months in advance. And it was clear about five seconds after Justin woke up that none of that was going to happen.


Look, it sucks, but it happens. It's part of the life.


It's a lot bigger of a deal for one of us than the other one, that's what I'm trying to say. God help me, I'm not thirty and raging about spending the occasional day relaxing anymore, and I don't have to deal with the guilt thing that he does.


We have done, done, done this dance, and there's just nothing new I can say at this point. He always has to prove something to some invisible peanut gallery. We, for some reason, have to care about what the world would think about shit that no one's seeing but me and him. Every time we cancel plans because Justin doesn't feel well, I'm the saintly supportive partner, and he's the killjoy not trying hard enough.


“I can do it, I just need a minute.” He was sitting up in bed holding his head, shaking a little just from the effort of holding himself upright.


Sure you can. Lie down.


I can do it.


Or you can drop the Polly fucking Anna routine and save us both some time. Go back to sleep.


It's our last day in Florence, he said. And we're going to spend it in the hotel room?


I gave my sultriest look. If I'd had it my way, we never would have left the hotel room in the first place.


I'm guessing this isn't the way you meant.


I don't know, hot twenty-something in my bed? I'll take it how I can get it. Now would you fucking lie down? I turned the TV on. Look, we have Netflix. You want to watch your murder show?


“Yeah.” He lay down, finally, his head against my arm. “Maybe we can go out later.”


Sure.


He was okay, really; he just gets tired, and he'd overworked himself yesterday, and if we were home it wouldn't have been a big deal at all. He would have lay around and slept and I would have gone out and done whatever I did normally. He didn't need a chaperone. But I didn't have a lot of interest in going to those museums on my own, and he gets nightmares sleeping alone in strange places, so this was fine. I got a head start on some work, watched his dumb murder show, and spent plenty of the day curled up around him.


He got better as the day went on, but part of what was wearing him out so much was those tiny seizures, his hand clenching and twitching, and they don't look like much at all to an outsider but they're rough on his brain. By the end of the day he was feeling pretty okay, but his hand was just about useless.


Come to the restaurant, I said. You can eat left-handed.


He shook his head. “I don't want to go out like this.”


Come on. No one's going to notice your hand.


He sighed. “You should go. You could still make that reservation.”


I snorted. I'm not going to sit alone in a restaurant like fucking...Bruce Willis's wife.


It took him a minute. “Sixth sense?”


There you go.


Nice, he signed, his left hand moving against his clenched right.


We were out on the balcony, and Justin was smoking in that pissed-off way he does, and I was running out of patience with gently reassuring him that I wasn't not mad at him. I know he can't help it, I know it's a brain injury thing and a chronic illness thing and just a fucking him thing, but Jesus Christ, the endless apology cycles wear me down like nothing the fuck else. It is not in my nature to be sweet, it's just not, and this kid will drain every fucking last drop from me. Just fucking let me be here without it being so goddamn commented upon, Christ. Just fucking sit there and smoke your cigarette and let me be here.


And okay, yes, there was that extra edge of frustration about the fact that he fucking could go out at this point and was just choosing not to.


“You shouldn't be trapped in the room all day,” he said.


Jesus, I'm not shackled up in here like fucking...


“James Caan.”


I smiled. Very good.


And yeah, okay, we could be doing this at a restaurant instead, but who fucking cares where we are, really? He thinks I want to be somewhere else?


“You should at least check out that club,” he said. “It sounded good.”


A club's a club.


“Brian.”


“Justin,” I said, not kindly, but how would he know.


“Please, just go out for a few hours? I just need...I need to not ruin the trip, and—”


Christ, how many fucking times do I have to—


“I know,” he said. “But I don't feel it, so can you just go? Can you just go have fun?”


I pinched my nose. This is really what you want?


“Yeah.”


I...okay. But I'm bringing back food and you're going to fucking eat.


He lit another cigarette. We'll see.


I batted his cheek on my way out. “Take it easy with those.”


“What else do I have to do?”


**


The club was fun, and the guys were hot, and the sex was decent, but none of those details are important to this story so we'll skim. Honestly it was a good night but nothing noteworthy. It's like a told Justin; a club's a club, no matter what town.


It was a while until I got back, that's what's important to our little tale, though I did have some pastries from this bakery I passed that was still open. Justin was on the couch when I came in, trying to sketch something, but he was shaking his hand out once a minute and he looked frustrated.


I stretched out next to him on the couch and nuzzled his shoulder. “Hi.”


“Hey,” he said. “Did you have fun?”


Yeah. I tossed his sketchpad to the side and nuzzled at the waistband of his sweatpants. He slid down underneath me, a hand in my hair.


“Tell me,” he said.


Some day you're just going to let me blow you without a conversation.


I know, you really suffer.


I sighed and rested my chin on his stomach. I went to that club you read about. Guys were hot. Fucked some damn kid here from Greece on Spring Break.


Hot?


Yeah. And then I walked by the Arno.


Pretty?


Yeah. Lit up with these beams of light.


He sighed, turning away from my mouth. I'm sad.


I can help, I said, and he nodded, but I...I don't know, I couldn't get my head back in it. I kissed him once and sat up, and he lay there looking up at me.


What? he said.


What the fuck do you mean, you're sad? You told me to go, and now you're telling me you're sad?


I can't be sad?


Why the fuck are you telling me you're sad?


He looked at me like I was crazy. I tell you everything.


I knew it, I said. I knew this was a fucking test. I stood up.


It wasn't a test! Can't I have a fucking feeling that's not about you?


I don't know, Sunshine, can you?


He narrowed his eyes. Very nice.


I'm sorry, you're suddenly someone independent?


“Fuck you, Brian.”


Not to fucking mention, if you'd wanted to come out you could have fucking come out! You're awake, you're feeling better, you could have fucking come.


I can't go fucking dancing right now.


I suggested coming out to a dinner that I planned fucking months ago, not going to the club. And you said—


Yeah, I didn't want to go out when my hand was acting up.


Nobody out there fucking gives a shit about your hand! Nobody's looking at you!


He sighed, this fucking annoying thing he does when he wants me to know how utterly patient he's being. I couldn't sign.


So talk! So the fuck what!


“I don't like speaking in public!” he said. “You fucking know that!”


Nobody's fucking judging you! Nobody's listening to you! These people don't even speak English!


“That's not the point.”


Oh, and I'm guessing I can't understand the point because I'm just some fucking hearing asshole. Don't bother explaining your special little Deaf world to me.


Don't worry. I won't.


I started to walk to the bed to get my clothes off and turned around, halfway out of my shirt. You know what I don't fucking get?


A lot?


Fuck you. I don't get how you're all fucking delighted with your chronic illness identity until you actually fucking have symptoms, and then you don't like it. So why exactly is it that we're fine with you being sick, Justin? What exactly is it about this that you like?


“Cut it out.”


Because this is fucking part of it, I said. This is fucking all of it, what else is there? Feeling special about being part of yet another fucking minority?


“Being fucking sad sometimes is fucking part of it! And guess what, I can fucking do it on my own and it has goddamn nothing to do with you!”


Don't I fucking know it has nothing to do with me!


“We wouldn't be fighting if you weren't so fucking obsessed with finding hidden meaning in everything I say! I say go out, you should fucking go out! Not everything is a goddamn test, not everyone is fucking you!”


Then don't have me come home to you fucking pouting on the couch!


“I'm not pouting!” I said, and he was starting to cry now. “I'm just fucking angry!”


There. There it is.


“I'm not angry at you, you fucking goddamn asshole!”


Convincing.


“Well, I'm fucking mad at you now.”


I'm not fine with you being a fucking hermit because you won't speak to me in public, I said. Stay at home because you don't feel well, fine, but your hand's a fucking goddamn disaster, this is going to keep coming up.


“I know that!” he screamed. “You think I don't fucking know that?”


So deal with it! Don't fucking sit around like some fucking—


“You don't fucking tell me how to deal with this!”


Because I'm not staying at home every night because you won't—


“I TOLD YOU TO GO! I fucking TOLD YOU TO GO!”


I pinched my nose, and he stomped over to the closet and started pulling out his shit.


I said, What the fuck, you're leaving?


“I'm packing for Milan,” he said. “Because apparently I don't get a fucking choice in whether I feel well enough to go, so—”


Great, pack, I said, sitting down on the bed, but his hand had started shaking again, and when he reached up to get his suitcase off the rack on top of the closet it spasmed and he lost his grip on it. It came crashing down, right on his fucking head.


I stood up.


“Fuck!” Justin said, and we just stood there looking at each other few seconds. He said, “Maybe it's fine, we can just wait...”


We couldn't. He knew we couldn't. He knew it was almost definitely fine and we still couldn't risk it.


He sighed. Fine. Let's go.


**


The Florence emergency room was a madhouse at one AM. The receptionist didn't speak any English and just gestured at me to sit down, and there were a host of screaming babies and a lot of bloody gurneys coming through. Justin winced and closed his eyes.


I kept a hand on Justin's back and tried to get the attention of every nurse who walked by, but Justin wasn't flashy and exciting and bleeding from the eyeballs and I didn't fucking speak the language, so it was kind of an uphill battle.


Finally a nurse who looked about twelve years old came and crouched down in front of us. “Do you speak English?” I asked her.


She held her fingers up like 'a little bit.' Good enough.


“He hit his head,” I said. “He has a history...here.” I'd packed copies of his medical paperwork, obviously, so I handed one over to her. “He has to get an MRI when he gets a head injury, you know...MRI?” I fingerspelled it without meaning to, like that would fucking help.


She glanced at the papers and shook her head and handed them back to me.


“What?”


She said something in Italian and pointed us over to a gurney.


“Okay,” I said. “Okay, thank you.” Finally, getting somewhere. I shook Justin's knee and he opened his eyes. Over there, come on.


He sat down on the gurney. This is fucking stupid, I'm fine.


Well, maybe next time you won't throw a goddamn hissy fit and try to move heavy things when your hand's acting up.


Fuck you.


The nurse took his blood pressure and temperature and looked at his eyes. She asked him what seemed like a question, and Justin looked up at me, like I was going to be any fucking help.


“He's Deaf,” I said. “Sordo.”


She said, “Oh, I'm sorry,” in Italian, which I decided to pretend I didn't understand. I tried to show her his medical history again, but it was clear she couldn't read it, and she said something about a doctor and left.


We need to find someone who speaks English, I said. He was rubbing his head. Are you getting a headache?


He nodded.


Fantastic.


“Leave me alone.”


Well, look who's speaking in public.


He held up his spasming hand in something resembling a 'fuck you.' I sighed and held it between mine.


The doctor took about an hour to see us, during which Justin felt steadily worse and ended up curled up with his arms around his head, and I hassled every nurse in the Italian equivalent of the tri-state area, but nobody knew more than a few words of English and nobody would fucking look at the papers I brought. Justin was deteriorating right in front of me, and for all I fucking knew his fragile as fuck brain was swelling, and I had no way of telling anyone here that he wasn't just some normal guy with a bump on his head.


Finally the doctor came over, and he did a quick exam of Justin's eyes and his reflexes and told me in halting English that he looked okay and he could go home.


I took a deep, slow breath. “He has a history of head trauma,” I said. “His doctor at home says he needs an MRI after any head injury.”


“It's just...it is not serious,” the doctor said to me.


“I know, but for him, it's different.”


The doctor looked at Justin. “He is Deaf?”


“That's not...that's not connected. He has epilepsy, and he's had brain surgery, you know...fuck.”


He wasn't getting any of this, and I felt stupid and helpless and embarrassed and none of that mattered, none of that was as important as making sure Justin got his fucking MRI, but it was still there and it was fucking up my thought process.


“You can go home,” the doctor said to me.


“No, I can't. We're not leaving here.”


He shook his head at me.


“Damn it!” I slammed my hand against the railing of the gurney as he walked away, and Justin jumped and looked at me.


Sorry, I said.


What's going on?


I don't know, he just left.


He shivered. “Brian...”


I looked around the ER. I know. Hang in there. I'm still pissed at you. You can't die when I'm pissed at you.


Yeah, same. What are we gonna do?


Find someone who will look at your fucking medical history. I'll call the fucking embassy if I have to.


Okay.


Stay here, I said, and he nodded, and I went back up to the reception desk. “I need someone who speaks English,” I said to her, slowly and clearly.


She shook her head at me.


“Okay, hang on,” I typed it into my phone and had it say it in Italian for me.


She shrugged helplessly and gestured around. There's no one.


“There must be someone.”


A new nurse had come over to Justin's gurney, I think to try to convince him to leave, and he was miming stuff out for her, trying to make her understand, and she wasn't fucking having it, and he's really fucking good at dealing with hearing people, he's so fucking patient with them, they just have to slow down for a goddamn second and stop being so goddamn uncomfortable with the fact that he's not like them—


I said, “Listen, I know I'm the asshole American coming into someone else's fucking country demanding they speak my language, but he is sick, and I know that you can call a translator or something because we do it all the fucking time with sign language, can you...please. Someone who speaks English, he needs help.”


She just shook her head at me.


“I need help,” I said, and I swallowed all my fucking pride and I turned to this waiting room full of people and I said, “Okay, please, please, does anybody here speak English? Please.”


And this tiny woman here with a tinier kid, short dark hair and these big glasses that reminded me of Emily's, timidly raised her hand.


“You speak English,” I said to her.


She hoisted her kid in her arms. “I speak English. What's the matter?” She was heavily accented but seemed comfortable. Thank God. Thank fucking God.


“I need someone to look at these and explain them to a doctor,” I said, showing her Justin's medical history. “He has a head injury and they're saying it's minor, but I need them to know that his doctor at home says he has to have an MRI and we're not leaving without an MRI. And the drug allergies, here, those are important.”


She looked them over. “Okay. Take the baby.”


“I—” and then the kid was in my arms. “Oh. Okay.”


She pointed at Justin. “He is your friend?”


“Husband.”


“Okay. We'll say friend.”


“Fine, sure, whatever.”


She went back over to the bed with me and started talking in rapid Italian to the nurse. Justin looked at the kid in my arms. Who's this?


I shifted him to one side so I could sign. Barter system. I took him off her hands in exchange for translation services. He's ours now.


Wild.


A doctor came over to find out what was going on, and the woman pointed at the papers and then at Justin. She scrolled her finger down the page, explaining as she went, and the doctor looked skeptical at first but eventually started to nod.


“Okay,” he said to me finally. “He gets an MRI.”


**


They managed not to kill him during the MRI, and we waited for the results in a corner of the ER, Justin dozing on and off and me keeping watch, looking around and all the people in this hospital who thought I was an idiot, who thought I was hysterical and belligerent and fucking stupid, because I didn't speak their language.


At one point he woke up and reached out and touched my sleeve. I held up a cup of water for him to sip and climbed up on the bed when he nodded that he was done. I lay my cheek on his chest, and he played with my hair for a while.


Eventually I looked up at him. Is this what it's like for you all the time?


His eyes were sad and serious, and he nodded a little.


I get it, I said. I get why you don't want to give them any more of yourself than you have to.


He kissed my forehead.


**


The MRI was clear, so they'd probably go on thinking I was a hysterical overreacting idiot for years to come, but whatever. At least we got to get out of there, at around six in the morning. I used the last of my stamina to explain to the hotel staff that we needed to stay another night, cancelled our flight, and we slept for most of the day. I woke up sometime midday to Justin wheeling in a room service cart. I didn't know how he'd managed to order it and didn't feel any real need to ask. He can figure out anything.


I sat up, rubbing the sleep out of my face. You okay? I asked.


Yeah, I'm good. He sighed and sat down for the bed. So much for Milan, then, I guess?


What are you talking about?


He spread an obscene amount of butter on a roll. Our flight's tomorrow. There's no time.


I changed our flight. We're staying another day. I already texted Marie. Sorry. I would have let you do it but I didn't know how long you were going to sleep.


There was a distinct possibility he'd be pissed at me for making these decisions for him, but thank God, he smiled. We're going to Milan?


You think I sat through all this art shit and I'm going to let you bail out of the best shopping because you hit yourself in the head? Not likely. Yes, we're going to Milan.


He licked butter off his hand and smiled at me.


**


Milan was alive. Flamenco dancing, fashion, fountains, and Justin. I finally convinced him to buy him some decent goddamn clothes to wear to work, and I bought enough suits that I could get rid of the two-year-old Armani I'd still been forced to sport when my good suits were at the cleaners. We ate pizza and covered the crusts in olive oil and danced it up at the fucking gayest club we'd ever been to, and there was no back room so I brought him back to the hotel and screwed him until the neighbors banged on the walls.


“Viva Italia,” Justin whispered, and I nodded hard and swallowed him whole.


**


It's how it's always going to be, him and me. We're always going to fight in hospitals, we're always going to pin our own shit onto the other one and yell at each other when we can't yell at ourselves.


It's him, I think. He's big and he's loud and he feels everything and is everything and you can't be neutral around that. You can't.


But I'm thinking maybe it's sort of me, too.


Because, look, just for an example: a couple weeks after we got home, I got back from one of my boot camp sessions and Justin had printed up a few pictures from our trips, nothing too over the top, just a shot of the outside of the Uffizi, one of the street festival in Milan, one of me looking up at David, and he was arranging them on the fridge. He said, “I know, I know, it's kind of...homey. But I want to look at them.”


I shrugged. It's your house. You can put up pictures.


“Okay.”


I watched him arrange these three pictures like it was a fucking surgical procedure for a little while, and then I went into the office and used his nice photo paper to print out one of the pictures on my phone. I nudged him out of the way and made a space for it on the fridge.


He said, “Aw, hey.”


It was one of the ones I'd taken of him on the train to Siena. He wasn't making a face in this one, just looking out the window, his sketchpad on his lap.


Justin? I said, feeling some kind of way. Like there was applause inside of me, or something.


“Mmmhmm.”


I... Hmm. I'm not a cat.


He looked up at me. You're not a cat.


No.


He kissed me with everything in him.

 

Chapter 48 - Mixed Doubles by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Brian and Justin reevaluate their old rules.

Mixed Doubles



All right, so this is a story I've put off telling, one I've danced around and bent the truth about and mentioned kind of vaguely, because goddamn is this a hard pill for the monogamy superfans to swallow. Even people who are fine with Justin and me not being closed up all nice and tight, they still like the structure and the rules and the reassurances that there's no one out there in the entire whole world for us besides each other and other such Hallmark sentiments.


But I'm a thorough sort of man at heart, and this is an important development, so here we are. Because the truth was, the summer he was twenty-seven, Justin was tired. Even by Justin standards, Justin was tired. Had been for weeks.


“I spent three fucking hours talking to these guys,” he said, sitting slumped over on the side of the bed while I took his clothes off. “Three fucking hours and they didn't even fuck me.”


Look at your hand, I said. You couldn't have fucked anyone after that anyway.


“I know.” He flopped down on his side with a huff. “Three fucking hours of trying to find anything in common with these guys except that none of our ears work. And they didn't fuck me.”


Poor Sunshine.


“God.” He stretched as I pulled his pants off of him. “I haven't had decent sex in weeks.”


Excuse me.


“Besides with you, obviously. But God, when was the last time I brought anything new to the table here? You come home all, look at this new position this trick got me to try, and I'm like cool, let me give you the same blow jobs I've been giving you for ten years.”


I kissed him. They're good blow jobs.


He rested his forehead on mine, massaging his hand. “I'm going to have to go back to fucking hearing guys. This is impossible.”


You hate fucking hearing guys.


“What's the alternative? There are like ten slutty gay Deaf guys in the city and I've fucked them all already. And I don't want to sit around like some fucking housewife while you're out tricking, and I swear to God if you suggest the fucking m-word I'm doubling my antidepressant.”


As if I had some history of proposing monogamy. Justin lives in his own dimension. Mutton? I fingerspelled.


“Yeah, that's the one.”


I laughed and lay back on the bed, tackling him onto my chest and squeezing him until he whined. We'll figure it out, I told him. I'll start shipping in Deaf guys internationally.


Maybe I'll start fucking old guys. Nice, deaf eighty-year-olds.


Sure. It's good practice for our future.


He yawned. Okay, fuck me, but I'm going to fall asleep halfway through.


I think we've figured out why you're having trouble seducing people.


Fuck you, I am not—


I yanked his legs apart and kissed him hard, and after he fell asleep—long after I was finished with him, thank you very much—I thought about how we were going to solve this.


**


It wasn't even two weeks later that Gabriel came along.


The scene: Emily's apartment, her very first all on her own, that she could afford thanks to her new salary and a bonus from a generous benefactor. Her twenty-fifth birthday party, fifty Deaf people and me, showing up with a present—pair of shoes that cost more than she makes in a month, because goddamn does this girl need some decent shoes—and without company.


Emily squealed and wrapped her arms around me. No Justin?


Sorry. He really wanted to be here. I had to practically tie him down. Not true. He did want to come, of course, but he was feeling awful that day and honestly hadn't even considered trying to make it, because he knows his body and his limits and doesn't fuck around. It's just easier with healthy people to keep up this narrative that he'd grind himself into the ground if I didn't stop him. Healthy people like that kind of story, and I don't mind playing the wet blanket to his noble hero.


Only one present from the two of you? I don't know about this.


I kissed her cheek. Yeah, wait 'til you open it. I scanned the crowd. Who here isn't straight?


Most of them, but they're mostly girls.


I popped a couple chips in my mouth. I'll make it work.


I actually knew a fair number of people there from other get togethers, even if I couldn't remember most of their names. Daphne was there, and Derek was drunk—this was before the two of them hooked up—and overconfidently hitting on any number of girls, and it was entertaining as fuck to see him strike out over and over and just not lose hope. Between Derek's confidence, Emily's wit, and Justin's genius, someday I'm going to figure out how to bottle the shit these kids have and sell it and I'll be a billionaire. Give Emily another nice big bonus.


It was kind of funny, when I took a minute to think about it, because I was so comfortable at that point, hadn't even worried about coming to a Deaf party without Justin to babysit me, and God, it had been barely three years since I was a little bitch about going to Gregory's party back in Pittsburgh. And now here I was.


I was talking to a friend of Derek's when I noticed Gabriel. Now, at the time all I noticed was that he was hot and he had scars on his face and he was the only person here who looked like he was safely through puberty, but I'll go ahead and give you a nice intro instead of a first impression because I'm a flexible and benevolent storyteller.


Gabriel Aguero, but Justin exclusively calls him Gabe for reasons we'll get to later. His sign name is a swipe down his cheek, over the worst of his scars. He's right about halfway between me and Justin in age. Smallish and slight, maybe an inch taller than Justin, all lean muscle; he's a boxer. He's a beautifully fluid signer, but he's not chatty. He has green eyes and he watches you.


And that night he was watching me.


I nodded to Derek's friend. Who's that?


No idea, he said. Ask Emily.


She was doing the rounds refilling bowls and fetching drinks, and I snagged her on her way past. Who's small, dark and smoldering?


Uh, he's my cousin's roommate, she said. I've only met him a few times. Gabriel something.


Okay. Thanks, I said, and the next time Gabriel looked my way, I gave him The Stare and made very obvious room next to me on the couch. He played it cool, wandering through the room, making casual conversation to everyone as he went, and finally came and sat down next to me.


People are talking about you, he said to me.


Are they? Wondering if I'm the chaperone?


He laughed. I was worried they'd think I was.


We talked for a while, harmless flirty banter, and I didn't try to label what I was doing at the time, maybe didn't even really know what I was doing at the time, but I was sort of...auditioning him, you might say. He was Deaf, he was hot, he was gay, and he wasn't too closely related to Justin's friends. He was smart and well-spoken, he liked Mexican art and French movies, he was close with his family, and the scars on his face made it clear he'd survived something.


You have to see what I was thinking, here. There's no way you can't.


So how do you know Emily? he asked me eventually.


I'm her biological father.


He smiled, eyes dark and deep.


She works for me, I said. And she and my partner are little peas in a pod.


He tucked his legs underneath himself. A very Justinian move, actually. You have a partner.


I pointed to the ring. Deaf people usually notice it pretty quickly, so I'd figured he knew.


I thought maybe you had it on the wrong hand. You don't seem the marrying type.


I'm not, I said. Three years and counting.


So...what would your partner think of you sitting here flirting with me?


He'd be hideously jealous, because he'd want to fuck you.


He said, Is that right?


Yeah, you're just his type. How about you, have a partner?


I have many partners, he said, with a little toss of his head.


Good sign so far. Sexual? Romantic? Tennis?


He shrugged. Depends on the guy. Some of each, for most of them.


Including the tennis?


Sure, he said. Who doesn't like a little tennis?


Justin and I have never done that, I said. Maybe I was a little buzzed at this point.


Played tennis?


That either, he's got a bad hand, I said. But we don't...there's a one fuck only policy. No repeats.


He nodded a little.


Which was fine, before he stopped sleeping with hearing guys. I stretched, setting my glass on Emily's scratched-up coffee table. Now there's a numbers problem.


Why would anyone sleep with a hearing guy?


I laughed, possibly harder than I should, but hey, I was at a Deaf party and I passed! I'm hearing.


Really. You're an interpreter?


God no. My partner lost his hearing, so...here we are.


When was that?


Two thousand six.


He nodded thoughtfully. Recently.


Doesn't really feel like it.


He gestured towards his face. Same year I got all this.


What happened?


House fire, he said, and he pulled his shirt up and showed me a spiderweb of scars across his stomach. His skin's a lot darker than Justin's, so they were more vivid than his were, even though Justin's were less than a year old at that point. But of course they were familiar.


It was hard to ignore those abs, too. Jesus.


You've got to meet my partner, I said.


Oh yeah? What's he like?


I'd meant, of course, because of the burns, but...I don't know. Brilliant, I said instead. Fucking gorgeous. Normally I throw a 'annoying as hell' in there, but hey, I'm an ad man and I was pitching something. Sad.


He sipped his drink. Why's he sad?


I studied him for a long time, wondering if I was going to chicken the fuck out of this, then finally said, Because he needs a Deaf boyfriend, and he doesn't know how to ask for it.


Gabriel nodded slowly. Interesting.


**


Justin was on top of me the second I got through the door, already half-naked and climbing his way up me. I slid my hands under his ass and lifted him up, his legs around my waist. “Well, hey,” I said.


He nodded, kissing me. I set him on the counter, and I could tell he was frustrated I hadn't brought him straight to the bedroom, but we had talking to do. I put my hands on his waist and leaned in, smelling behind his ear. Lime shampoo and salt and paint, always paint, God this boy is a fucking drug.


“How was the party?” he asked me.


Good. I kissed his cheek. Someone's feeling better.


“Mmmhmm, for about an hour now.”


Are you hungry?


Yeah, I was gonna make like a yogurt and granola thing.


Okay. I went to the fridge and took out one of those peach Greek yogurts he's obsessed with, and he watched me with his head against the wall.


“I love you,” he said.


Yeahyeahyeah, now listen. I met someone tonight.


At a party? No way.


Shut up. I met your soulmate.


You met my soulmate.


I did.


He gave me a look.


Oh, what? I said. Are you sad I'm not your soulmate?


I don't believe in soulmates, he said, all haughty.


I crowded myself into him, dropping kisses on his neck and temple. This wasn't meant to happen, and you know it.


“I know,” he said, but he sounded sad.


I cupped his chin and made him look at me. Imagine if everyone was supposed to have something like this, I said to him, small. Nothing would ever get made. Nothing would ever be invented. No one would even get out of bed.


He nuzzled me.


None of those sad plays you like, I said. No art.


No sad stories.


Everybody still in bed.


He leaned into my hand. So you met the person who would be my soulmate if I were to be a functioning member of society?


I stirred some granola into the yogurt and drizzled some honey on top. I did.


Sounds boring.


Here.


He smiled at me while he ate. So what's his name?


Gabriel. Probably pronounced the Spanish way.


“Gabriel,” Justin tried out, completely butchering the R, as usual. One of my top three favorite things he does with his mouth.


Perfect.


He smiled at me a little. So did you fuck him?


I shook my head, ghosting my fingers over his thighs.


“Mmmm, you want me to fuck him?” he said.


I slid my hands up to his hips and gave him a squeeze. All right. Here we go. I want you to take him out to dinner.


Justin stared at me. What?


**


This is ridiculous, Justin said, flopped across the bed while I undressed.


He loves Frida Kahlo, I said. He calls his mother every week. He teaches elementary school.


Why are you telling me these things? Now I respect him. I can't fuck someone I respect.


You don't respect me?


Please, with the way I completely degrade you with my body? There's no respect.


I threw my shirt at him.


How do you even know he'd want to date me? he said.


I gave him a look. Have you seen you?


Justin groaned. We have rules, he said, sitting up. We're not even supposed to exchange names, now you're saying I should...what, get a boyfriend?


We have rules you came up with spur of the moment when you were eighteen and we were insecure as shit about what we were doing, I said. Are you insecure about us now?


He sighed.


Because personally, I couldn't be insecure about us if I tried, I said. I wish I could be insecure about us. It sounds interesting.


No, he said. I'm not insecure about us.


It makes no fucking sense to keep following those rules because...they're there, I said.


So then what rules do we follow?


I shrugged.


What, no rules?


What the fuck do we need rules for? What are we trying to prevent, here? Are you going somewhere?


“Brian.”


Come here. I crawled onto the bed and tackled him around a little.


He nuzzled my throat. You're not trying to like...hand me off, are you?


What, I'm rehoming you? Like a puppy?


He groaned and rolled around the bed. This is making me very nervous.


Well, you're usually very nervous, dear.


There have to be rules. I like rules.


The rules are kind of offensive, if you think about it, I said.


Offensive.


Yeah.


And so he thought about it. You're right. Like...the idea that we need some fucking code of conduct or we'll trip and fall and end up not together. Like we're that fragile.


I knew he'd get it. I rubbed his scalp. Look, this has always been different for us. I like casual sex because I like taking my cock on a world tour. You like casual sex because you like getting to know people and sex is your best social skill.


Thank you.


Any time.


So, what, I just call him?


I nodded.


He watched me. You promise you'll tell me if you start to freak out? You won't...you know, just get weird and find small, subtle ways to punish me?


See, how are you ever going to leave someone you know so well?


He shoved me, and I grabbed his hands and kissed him.


I promise, I said. Go have fun again.


“How about some fun here first?” Justin said, and he flipped me over on my back.


**


Gabriel and Justin went out after work that Thursday. They left when I was still at work, and by the time I got home from Nova Justin was already back and eating ice cream in his sweatpants. He waved to me with his spoon.


How was it? I sat down next to him and kissed him under his chin, feeling his stubble, always so soft, how was it always so fucking soft, mine could goddamn cut glass—against my lips. You don't smell like you fucked him.


I didn't.


Didn't go well?


No, it did, we're just...I don't know. He shifted around on the couch, tipping me on top of him. It was like an actual date. Like movie, drinks, conversation. He scrunched up his nose, that guilty face he makes. He kissed me.


That's it?


No, I...I mean...I didn't know if you'd be mad.


I put my fingers in his ice cream and licked them off while he batted me away. It was a date. I can't say I'm an expert in these things, but I assumed he'd kiss you.


He studied me for a minute, then dropped his bowl into his lap and covered his face with his hands, peeking at me between his fingers.


I laughed a little. How am I supposed to talk to you if you do that?


“I'm so scared!”


What are you scared of? Me?


He nodded, hands still in place.


Why are you scared of me?


He dropped his hands incredulously. Have you seen you?


I tackled him into my arms. How long have you known me?


I don't know. Forever.


So why do you think that I'm setting you up or something here?


I don't think it's intentional, I'm scared you're just...


Justin.


He made this little “hmmph,” noise, cheek against my shoulder.


Can you stop worrying for like five minutes?


Okay. He shifted around on the couch, cuddling into my side. Five minutes.


Okay. We'll work our way up.


We pawed at each other on the couch for a little while, but he was dripping ice cream on our Italian leather, so I grabbed his bowl and brought it into the kitchen. I was halfway there when he said, “You didn't tell me about the burns.”


I turned around and watched him, leaning against wall. No, I didn't. I didn't tell him about yours, either.


He pulled his legs up to his chest. You knew.


Yeah, I did. I figured... I shrugged. Might be nice. Someone who gets it.


He stared at me for a long time.


“How are you this amazing?” he said, quietly.


Years of trial and error.


I love you, he said. You know I love you?


Yes, I said, with a sigh to show what a great burden I bore. I went to the kitchen and rinsed his bowl out. A minute later I felt him pressed against my back, his arms around my waist. I turned around slowly and put my hands on the base of his skull, drawing them up through his hair. Are you going to call him? I asked.


He nodded, looking up at me.


That's my boy, I said.


Yes.


I kissed him. Tomorrow we'll try not worrying for six minutes.


Don't push your luck.


**


Justin went out with a few other guys near the beginning, I think because this thing with Gabriel seemed so goddamn convenient, but...hey, what can I say, I know Justin's type, and I was right. He'd still share drinks and a backroom fuck with any hot Deaf guy he could find, but gradually, slowly, Justin and Gabriel happened. Or Gabe, as Justin always called him. I told you, we'll get to that.


They went out once or twice a week, and I was still hitting the clubs four or five, so it's not like I was sitting at home waiting for my husband to come back from war, or whatever it is you're envisioning. And Justin was so desperate to show me this hadn't changed anything between us that I was paradoxically getting more surprise-middle-of-the-day blow jobs than I had in years. He calmed down after a few months when he finally got it through his metal skull that I wasn't a ticking time bomb, and things settled back to normal with us, except Justin wasn't so tired anymore.


I spent some time with Gabriel, not a ton. He'd have us both over to dinner, or he'd be hanging at the apartment watching a movie with Justin when I got home from work late. Gabriel wasn't much for clubs, but we'd go to Nova together sometimes, or go out for drinks. He was good to talk to, a great listener, and he and Justin had a lot of philosophical conversations, shit on the meaning of life that bores me to tears, because look, I'll talk to Justin about anything—I probably have talked to Justin about everything—but Sontag's about as abstract as I get, and that's...you know. It's a special circumstance.


Gabe was serious and intense and didn't laugh much, and Justin said once that that was actually the biggest difference between spending time with him and with me, because God, the two of us will crack up just from looking at each other sometimes. And it's funny, because if you'd asked me what it is Justin and I do for each other...I don't know, that wouldn't have been the first thing to come to mind. I never thought I'd be the one bringing fucking levity to someone's life, but here we are. And...well. I don't hate it.


So we all got along, really. Justin and I would continue to queen out and scream at each other once a month, so don't worry that we've evolved too much, and Justin and Gabe would clash sometimes over their very different backgrounds and the different perspectives that gave them on all the esoteric bullshit they liked to discuss. Gabe and I had, fine, some antler-bashing moments when Justin was sick, but the truth is he's a good guy. And he loved Justin, which gets you pretty far where winning points with me is concerned.


And in case you're anxious about what comes next, if violin music is playing in your pretty little head, I'll go ahead and spoil the saga for you; Justin and Gabriel never ran off together, and that big moment of relationship drama you're waiting for never came. They broke up eventually, and that was rough for Justin and a little for me, because I liked him and Justin's a handful without a ringer to take him off my hands a few times a week. Justin's dated many people, some more seriously than others, and you can keep your concern trolling to yourself because we're fine.


You still think we need a list of rules to stay together?


Look, you do whatever it is you want to do in your little bed.


**


We never told the New York friends, exactly, but the Deaf world is tiny and incestuous and word gets out. Does Justin, like, have a boyfriend? Emily asked me one day, when we were having lunch in my office.


They hadn't used the word at that point, though they would later. Yeah, I guess.


She shrugged. Okay.


Derek mentioned it a little while after that, in kind of an eye-roll “I just don't understand you people” sort of way, but that's pretty typical from him. He told Daph, who insisted on meeting Gabriel before she'd give her approval, and she made this big thing out of assuring me that she liked him, he was good to Justin, but don't worry, she still loved me best, and the whole thing was just so...unnecessary.


They accept that I fuck other people, I said to Justin one night, when we were making dinner. That's fine with them. But God forbid you fuck someone you actually like, now we need to stage an intervention to make sure I'm not suicidal.


Little boxes, Justin said.


If Michael ever finds out, we are so screwed.


He will never talk to me again, Justin said.


Of course he would. He loves you.


Not like he loves avenging you.


I thought about what he'd said about Justin at that party years ago, because you don't forget that, you can never forget that.


Let's not tell the Pittsburgh people, I said, and Justin nodded hard.


**


Well, I'm sure you can guess how that held up longterm. In November I went to Pittsburgh for a few days to see Gus and fix one of the problems Theodore always manages to create. I'd also been having issues with my phone, which sounds like a non-sequitur but don't you trust me by now that it's all going to come together? Patience, Iago, as my son would say.


My phone was shutting off without warning every once in a while, like when I was at the Pittsburgh office, for example. I hadn't noticed and turned it back on, because I was busy trying to sort out the absolute mess Ted had seen fit to deliver to Calico Luggage, so Ted came in at one point holding the office phone and said, “Bri? Justin's on the line.”


I stared at the very much not video phone in Ted's hand. “Well, I'm guessing he's got quite the interesting story to tell about spontaneously regaining his hearing.”


“It's, uh, it's an interpreter? But he says he has Justin on the—”


“Yes, I'm familiar with relay services.” I snatched the phone and held it to my ear. “Hey.”


“Hey, your phone's doing the thing again,” the interpreter said.


“Goddamn it. I gotta replace this thing,” I said, as Ted came around to my side out of the desk to check the progress I'd made. “I'm impressed you correctly guessed I would still be here fixing up this shit at almost seven.”


“I was going to call Woody's next and have them make an announcement that Brian Kinney's husband was looking for him.”


“And then I'd make a counter-announcement that Brian Kinney was no longer married.” It wasn't my first time using a relay service with Justin, but it's always weird speaking to him, and the rhythm of our conversation isn't quite right because we have to wait for the interpreter in the middle. And I couldn't hear his laugh. I like his laugh.


“Worth it.”


“What are you doing sitting around?” I said, slapping Ted's hand away from the mouse. “Don't you have plans?” He'd mentioned he was going to some play with Gabriel.


“Yeah, I'm feeling really seizure-y, though. I cancelled.”


“That sucks.”


“Yeah.”


“Is Gabriel coming over anyway? You shouldn't be alone.”


“Emily's going to come.”


“He's got to deal with this stuff sooner or later, you know.”


“I know, but I figure there's no rush for him to see me foaming at the mouth. And I just want Emily. It's fine, I wanted to keep you updated.”


“Thanks. Have her text me.”


“I will. Wish me luck.”


“Goooood luck.” I hung up and handed the phone back to Ted. “What the fuck did you do?”


He said, “I just changed the wording on—”


“Christ. Move.”


Ted moved around to the other side of the desk. “I thought Justin's female friend was Emily? And Daphne.”


“Hmm?” I looked over the press release, trying to figure out what the fuck else he'd seen fit to mess with.


“You said Gabriel. On the phone.”


“Gabriel's a guy.”


“Oh.” Another pause. “So I thought his guy friend was Derek.”


“Yeah, they're actually different people. That's why they have different names.” I backspaced out a sentence.


“Oh. Well, who's Gabriel?”


I sighed and looked up at him. “Why do you care?”


He squirmed, looking uncomfortable, but you know, it's Ted. “Justin and I have been emailing,” he said. News to me, but all right. “I thought we were...you know, I felt bad last time I saw him and I realized...look, you've been telling us for ages to make an effort, I'm making an effort.”


I raised an eyebrow.


“So I'm taking an interest,” he said. “He talks about Derek, he talks about Emily, he hasn't mentioned a Gabriel.”


I chewed on the inside of my cheek and studied him. “This doesn't get back to Michael, you understand? God, or Lindsay.”


He mimed zipping his lips, and I resisted the urge to walk out just from that.


Honestly, why the fuck I told Ted is really anyone's guess. I'd been working for hours, I was distracted with this shitty press release and a little bit of worry for Justin, being back in Pittsburgh tends to lead to me making irrational decisions...I don't know. But I said, casually, “He's a guy Justin's seeing.”


Ted blinked at me. “Seeing as in...repeatedly seeing?”


“In different situations and in different levels of undress, yes. Can you bring me the file for the campaign we did for them my last year here?”


Ted gave me a long look and then went over to the filing cabinet. He fished out the file, handed it to me wordlessly, and, after a minute said. “Are you and Justin...okay?”


“Fabulous.”


“Well...when did this happen?”


“Few months ago.”


“Justin just met this guy and...what, now he has a boyfriend? And you're just letting—”


“It was my idea,” I said, maybe a little harshly.


Ted's eyebrows just about disappeared under the remains of his hairline. “It was your...why?”


I turned back to the file. “Just leave it alone, all right?”


“He's your partner, and you—”


“I'm not everything that he needs,” I said.


His eyes did that soupy thing. “Brian, I'm sure you are.”


Christ.


“I'm absolutely not, and he's not everything I need either. Fuck, we're not goddamn robots who were created to fulfill each other's every need. He's a person. He's his own person. Not some...cure for all that ails me.”


Ted paused. “Does Justin love him?”


“Justin loves strangers,” I said. “Of course he loves him.”


“As much as he loves you?”


Well, obviously fucking not—Justin doesn't love oxygen as much as he loves me—but I didn't feel like giving Ted the reassurance he really didn't deserve.


But I looked up at Ted, God, the guy who, anytime he's in a couple, is regularly throwing himself in front of trains that aren't even headed towards them because he thinks he needs to prove something to the guy he's in a relationship with, and I sighed and gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. “Sit down.”


He did.


“Justin is not like us,” I said. “Loving people doesn't beat the shit out of him. It fucking...it restores him. Waters him like a nice little plant.”


Ted stared at me. “What the fuck?”


“I know.” I turned back to the press release. “Iiiiit's a mindfuck. Can I go back to fixing your mistakes now?”


**


I came home late one evening in February to Justin and Gabriel lounging on the couch watching some Bollywood thing. I waved to Gabriel and said, Turn it down? to Justin.


He did. Sorry. We're almost done.


How was your day? Gabriel asked me.


Fine. I loosened my tie and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. I'm about to lose my assistant, though.


Justin said, Shit, Cynthia's leaving?


I shook my head. I'm making her an executive. She's already managing five accounts on her own. It's long overdue.


Wow, Justin said. That's exciting. Gabe ran his fingers through Justin's hair.


Yeah, except there's going to be some bloodbath over Emily, now. Not looking forward to that. Are you staying for dinner? I asked Gabriel.


No, not tonight. You want to come over on Sunday, though? I'll make lasagna.


Yeah, sure.


I ordered Japanese and had a shower, and when I got out Justin and Gabriel were saying goodbye at the door. I ducked into the kitchen to give them a bit of privacy, and Justin came in a minute later and pressed his nose into my shoulder. “Mmm, wow,” he said.


What?


“Smell good.”


I turned and draped my arms over his shoulders. You good?


“Yeah, why?”


I just like asking you questions.


He got on his toes and kissed me. “I told Gabe about the Italy trip. He said to make sure to go to Siena.”


We can do that. I climbed up on the counter and took a swig from a bottle of water. You know what's funny?


“Hmm?”


You always call him 'Gabe,' when you're talking out loud. You don't say Gabriel. It's cute.


He shrugged. “Well, you know. The R.”


Hey, that's why? I stretched my legs out, caught his waist with my feet, and pulled him into me. You shouldn't be embarrassed. And hey, who the fuck are you even speaking in front of but me? I kissed him. Should I be jealous?


No one.


Good. No. Not good. You're embarrassed in front of me?


He laughed, squirming his way out of my legs. I'm not embarrassed.


Good. Because I like your Rs.


I know you do. That's why.


What's why?


He smiled, blushing a little, God. There's an R in Brian. There's an R in Gabriel. You love my Rs. They're for you.


I took his shoulders and pulled him back towards me and kissed him hard. He stayed there, running his fingers up and down my shoulder blades.


“Say it,” I whispered.


He laughed. “Brrrrrrian.”

 

I slumped against the wall, eyes closed, and somehow recovered enough strength the hop down, pick him up, and carry him off to bed.

End Notes:

 

Aaaand here's where I lose half of you! I was really nervous to write this one, but this is something that felt true to the characters for me and something I wanted to do for a while, and a few of you didn't run screaming when I mentioned it in the comments of the last one, so...here we are.

Chapter 49 - Under Pressure by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian gets a little possessive when Justin's hospitalized.

Under Pressure

LaVieEnRose




I was out to dinner with Gabe when it started in earnest. I'd felt kind of weird and bad all day, just shaky and weak and not right, but I hadn't thought it was bad enough to cancel until I was sitting in the restaurant in front of people and I had to act like some sort of functional human. I ordered water while Gabe got whiskey and I picked at my appetizer, but just the few bites I managed made me feel exponentially worse, so eventually I stopped pretending to eat and just watched Gabe tell me about the new teaching method the administration was trying to implement for his fourth graders. It wasn't like Gabe didn't know about the chronic illness stuff, and he was totally understanding when I had to cancel plans or when I fell asleep in the middle of...everything, but we'd only been dating for a few months, and I didn't really feel like we were at the point where I could stop him him the middle of a story and say, You know what, I think I'm about to throw up in a restaurant.


Gabe nodded to my dumplings. What's the matter, not good?


No, they're good.


He reached across the table and took a bite of one. Sometimes the sauce is too vinegary. This tastes okay.


Yeah, I don't know. I sipped some water, which despite being the Brian Kinney-recommended cure for everything, didn't seem to be helping here.


He tilted his head and touched my wrist. Hey. Are you okay?


I winced. I don't look good, do I?


You look beautiful. But also very bad. He laced his fingers through mine and signaled for the check.


No, I'm sorry, you should stay, I'll just—


Don't be ridiculous. My apartment's two blocks away, is that too far?


I shook my head. You might regret this.


You don't scare me.


**


I threw up in a trash can on the way to his apartment and then twice over the first half hour in his bathroom. Regretting it yet? I asked him, panting. He was kneeling next to me on the floor, eyes wide and so, so fucking worried. Like, he was looking at me for vomiting a few times the way Brian looks at me when I'm literally dying, and it was kind of fucking me up.


Of course not, he said, dabbing at my face with a washcloth. I remembered doing that when Brian had cancer. Do you want me to call Brian?


No, it's okay. I took a deep breath and leaned back against the wall. Gabe's bathroom was tiny; his whole place was tiny, this shitty walk up in Morningside that he shared with two other guys who weren't home right now and I was really, really hoping wouldn't come home while I was still puking in their bathroom. He's out, he's been stressed at work, we don't have to bother him with this.


Gabe frowned, sponging at my neck and chest. Maybe food poisoning?


I don't think so. My meds piss off my stomach sometimes, it's probably just that. I wrapped an arm around my stomach and breathed out slowly.


Hurts?


Yeah. It hurt a fucking lot actually, at the top of my stomach straight through to my back. That was new. Gabe helped me up, but as soon as my body was straightened out it got way worse, and I stopped him, gripping the sink.


He said, Baby...


Just a second. I took a couple shallow breaths and nodded. Okay. Okay.


He wrapped an arm around my waist and held me under my elbow on the way to the couch, and I balled myself up with a pillow.


God, I'm sorry, I said. This is so embarrassing.


You're still being ridiculous. He caressed my hair, and I sighed and leaned into his hand. It was weird and different, having someone be all soft with me. It made me feel like I was young, like when my mom used to take care of me. I think you have a fever, he said.


I shook my head. Just hot from throwing up everything I've ever eaten.


Fevers are dangerous for you, right? Because of seizures?


I curled up tighter around my stomach, willing myself not to throw up again because I really did not feel like getting back up. Dangerous is a very dramatic word.


I have a thermometer, I think. He kissed my forehead. Hang on.


Okay.


He got up and went to hunt around the bathroom, and I rolled slowly onto my back and looked at his water-spotted ceiling. The pain in my stomach surged, shooting all the way up to my shoulder blade, and my vision was kind of swimming, and it occurred to me that something was maybe actually going on here.


Gabe came back with the thermometer and I put it in my mouth, and while we waited for it he petted my hair and dropped kisses on my temple. I pulled it out when the display started flashing. A hundred and two. What the hell? I gasped and grabbed my side. Fuck.


Is it your appendix maybe?


I don't have an appendix. I tried to catch my breath, but the pain was climbing and things were starting to get kind of dark and spotty. I swallowed and said, Okay, call Brian, just as everything went dark.


**


If this were a nicer story I would blink my eyes open and wake up in the hospital with everything all settled, but instead this is a real, annoying story, so I wasn't even fully unconscious, just...not really motivated to stay awake. I was vaguely aware of stuff going on around me, but paying attention or opening my eyes for any stretch of time felt really over the top, and it's not like I can hear, so without my eyes I'm pretty worthless. More on that later.


Eventually someone was tapping my collarbone hard, over and over, which I hate more than anything, so obviously I knew it was Brian.


I pushed him. Stop, I hate that.


Always wakes you up, though. What's up with you? He waved his hand somewhere behind me and said, He's awake, and I felt Gabe's lips on my forehead. Brian kept watching me like I was a vaguely interesting science experiment. He always takes the not-worried thing up to eleven when other people are around.


I have a fever, I said.


Yeah, I can see that, Brian said. Why the fuck are you dating with a fever? Haven't I taught you no one wants you when you're sick?


Totally. Definitely the lesson I've—fuck! Pain shot through my stomach.


Hey, hey, Brian said. Where is it, here? He felt around my stomach, and when he got to the top I just about ripped his hand off. I don't know what kind of noise I made while I scrambled to get away, but it definitely freaked Brian out, and Gabe was all of a sudden back beside me, bracing my shoulder as I sat up, giving a stabilizing look to me and then a pissed-off one to Brian.


Brian patted my leg. You all right? he said, businesslike.


Yeah.


He smoothed his hand over my forehead. His hands were cool, manicured, smooth. Yeah, you are really warm, he said, cupping my jaw.


I made myself breathe. What is this?


He shrugged, chuckling, which made Gabe look at him incredulously. Brian didn't notice. Fuck if I know, he said. It's a hospital ticket, I know that.


Can you carry me?


Down three flights of stairs? Doubtful.


I groaned. “Fuck.”


Good news is, your panicky boyfriend called the paramedics.


Something about that wasn't adding up, but I couldn't figure it out. You called the paramedics?


He frowned, and I knew I'd gotten it wrong, and I felt weirdly guilty. No...Gabe did. You're kind of out of it, huh?


I think yeah.


Well, an ambulance ride is pretty excessive, even by your drama queen standards, Brian said.


He was unconscious, Gabe said. Calling 911 seemed pretty rational.


Brian ignored him and watched me. But they'll at least help you get out of this shitty place. You think all of this is a some extended allergic reaction? I wouldn't put it past your immune system. And this place is definitely moldy.


It's not moldy, Gabe said. And he was sick before—


Just a joke, Brian said. I shivered against a new wave of pain and Gabe squeezed my hand and kissed my cheek. Brian was busy doing triage stuff, taking my pulse, counting my breaths, stuff that the paramedics were going to do again as soon as they got here anyway.


I said, Notice anything? because I like to know what's going on, and I knew he wouldn't lie to me.


Yeah, are you freaking out?


Not especially, why?


He said, Your heartbeat is really fast. Like— I gave him a significant look before he could say panic attack fast, because Gabe didn't know all that stuff, and thank God Brian remembered and shut up. Like very fast for just pain, he recovered, and he ghosted his fingers back up my stomach. How bad is it?


I don't know, a four?


You don't look like a four.


Trust me, I said.


Nothing else really stands a chance after skin grafts, Gabe said.


Brian looked like he was trying not to say something, but he was saved by the bell, or the flashing lights, more like. Gabe got up to get the door, and Brian slapped my hand to get my attention. Real quick, he said, signing small and fast. Do you want him at the hospital? I can shake him if you want, I'll be the bad guy.


Can I have oxygen at the hospital?


Yeah, sure. You with me, Sunshine?


Maybe...sort of.


What is up with you, Brian said, with curiosity, almost to himself.


Who knows. Gabe's worried.


Gabe's been through a fire. He really shouldn't be impressed by this. He looked up at the paramedics as they came towards us, two guys who were not at all hot, as if today needed to suck any more. You want me to interpret?


For Gabe, I don't want to talk to them. You just do it.


Lazy.


I nodded and curled up, because everything was starting to get kind of splotchy again. I watched vaguely while Brian spoke to the paramedics, presumably giving them the whole medical saga, and then he interpreted while Gabe told them what happened that night. I kind of drifted in and out of it while the paramedics took my blood pressure and my temperature and all that stuff, and I swallowed and swallowed against the churning in my stomach.


Has he taken anything? the hotter of the two non-hot paramedics asked.


No, Gabe said. He has all these drug allergies, so... My hand started seizing, and Gabe was on my right side, so he's the one who picked it up and put it in his lap. I clung to his knee with my other hand.


The paramedic started going through the process of getting me into the ambulance, and Brian interpreted and then stopped abruptly and said, Hang on. Gabe, let him go.


Gabe let go of my hand. What's wrong?


“Brian, what?” I said, as a wave of dizziness hit me.


He got his hands underneath me and kind of half-carried, half-dragged me to the bathroom, and I didn't know what was going on until I was kneeling in front of the toilet vomiting again. I flailed around with my working hand and Brian grabbed it and laced his fingers through mine.


I panted when I was done. “How did you...”


He gave me his you're such an idiot and I love you, look, though he'd probably deny it gives away that last part. He started to get me up, and Gabe appeared and helped, giving me a little water to sip from.


They said only one of us can go in the ambulance with him, Gabe said. He's a pretty decent lipreader.


Brian nodded and reached into his pocket. He took a bill out of his pocket and slipped into Gabe's palm. For the cab. See you there. Let's get a move on, Sunshine.


Gabe raised his hands like he was going to say something but dropped them, kissed my cheek, and gave Brian the money back. I'm not taking your money.


Take his money, I said. Trust me, he's going to annoy the shit out of you at least get paid for it.


That's enough out of you, Brian said. Let's go figure out what the fuck you've done to yourself this time.


**


Acute pancreatitis, it turned out. They diagnosed it in about a minute and a half in the ER, took some blood, did a CAT scan, and brought me to a room where Gabe was already waiting. Brian gave him a brusque kiss on the cheek and filled him in while a nurse helped me into bed, until Gabe came over and did it for her.


How are you feeling? he asked me.


They gave me morphine, so pretty great. That was really all they could do; fluids, pain meds, and hey, oxygen, until it passed. It was probably going to be about five days, which was way more time than I wanted to take off work, but at that point I wasn't too concerned about it, because morphine.


Brian came to the bottom of the bed and flicked my foot absentmindedly until I kicked him. Should you get a catheter? he said. I don't know about you wandering around and you're getting a ton of fluids here.


Stop trying to stick things in my dick.


Brian snickered. I'm gonna get some coffee. Do you want some?


Yes please.


Are you gonna be a brat and have a seizure from the caffeine?


Maybe. I'm an enigma.


He looked at Gabe.


I'm fine, he said. Thanks.


Brian picked my arm up and made like he was checking my IV, running his fingernails gently up and down the underside of my arm.


Are you going to call Ben? I asked him.


He nodded, so subtle I barely saw it. Don't die while I'm gone.


Oh, fine.


He sauntered out of the room, and Gabe gave me a look. Are you going to be a brat and have a seizure?


Don't. I pulled him down and kissed him.


I just don't get why he puts on the act, he said. Is it just because I'm here?


No...it's not an act really. It's hard to explain. I played with the oxygen cannula. It's so weird just having something in your nose, but I really do like being on oxygen.


So he really doesn't care about you? Gabe said. But not like he really believed it.


So I laughed. No, it's just like...he's not trying to fool anyone or anything. It's just like...this is how we act. It works for us. Keeps me from worrying.


So I should be meaner to you?


No, he's got it covered. I pulled him onto the bed next to me. But if I ever get sick when he's out of town you'll probably have to yell at me and restore the balance of the universe. I yawned and nuzzled him some. He's out there calling a friend of ours who's had this before. And he has to bother the doctors about stupid stuff or he feels like he's not pulling his weight.


I get it, he said, looking around the room. I wish I'd had someone to advocate for me when I was in the hospital.


Gabe was in the hospital after his house fire for almost three weeks. He doesn't like to talk about it much, but I knew enough to say that it was categorically horrific. He was twenty-eight, the same age I was now, and he'd been home for the holidays and there were something like ten people in the house at the time, and they were all really, grievously injured. Most of them survived. Not all.


He doesn't like to talk about it. But he gets it. The chronic illness stuff, yeah, that was different, that was unfamiliar to him, but lying here in pain in a hospital bed, he got that. Brian gets me, and knows me, but aside from cancer he's been healthy his whole life. Gabe has been Deaf in the hospital and in pain we can't describe. It's not simple.


I must have drifted off, lounging on the bed with Gabe, because the next thing I knew Brian was putting a cup of coffee in my hand and cupping my cheek. That's the third floor coffee cart shit, not that garbage they give you at the nurse's station, so you better enjoy it. He grabbed the cup back as my hand started to shake.


Good save.


Years of practice. He put it in my left hand instead just as a doctor came in, with an interpreter, and told me my blood tests confirmed the pancreatitis and that it was, as expected, an adverse reaction to my anticonvulsant. Which they were now going to have to switch.


I knew I should have been focused on that, but I was sort of loopy and nauseous and I kept wondering instead what the fuck the doctor thought of our little situation here. This was just the on-call doctor, not my neurologist, so he wasn't acquainted with the whole me-and-Brian dynamic, and Gabe was the one standing by my bed protectively while Brian pretended to read a magazine while pretending to be bored, though obviously he was listening. The vibe was sort of like Gabe was my boyfriend and Brian was my parole officer.


How serious is this? Gabe asked. Pancreatitis?


With early intervention like this, the outcomes are very good, the interpreter said for us. Survival rates are upwards of 90%.


That's better than his regular daily survival rate, Brian said, and I gave him a look. He smiled at me and went back to his magazine.


The doctor said, “Unfortunately we can only let a family member stay the night, so...” he turned and looked at Brian, who was smirking in all of his man I love awkward shit glory, so I had to end this as quickly as possible.


I waved for the interpreter's attention and said, That's my husband. Gabe is, um...


Just a friend, Gabe said, and Brian's expression changed, and he studied Gabe and then looked away.


The doctor was clearly surprised but recovered quickly, and he told Gabe what time visiting hours started the next day and adjusted the flow of my fluids and told me the on-call neurologist would be there to talk to be in a little while. Brian hopped on that and was all of a sudden all Concerned Partner, pointing out my twitching hand and talking about my dosage thresholds and blood levels and lots of other stuff that made me very, very tired. I was starting to feel pretty crappy at that point, just tired and dizzy and sick, so I curled up in the bed and held my stomach and let Brian take care of it, which was kind of lazy and unfair of me, but he always tells me it's okay to have him handle the boring stuff when I'm sick if I want to, so I might as well take him up on it every once in a while.


The doctor left, and Brian went back to reading his magazine, which I realized was to give me and Gabe some semblance of privacy. Gabe kissed me, scratching the hair above my ear the way he does, and picked his bag up out of the corner. Brian stood up.


I'll call you if anything happens, Brian said.


It was a rare moment of awkwardness between them. This whole thing, this Gabe and Brian thing, had been like...impossibly smooth, to the point where even though it had been a few months and Brian was fucking blue in the face reassuring me, I was still kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop.


Except when I really thought about it, when I tried to take an objective sort of take on it...why should this be hard, really? Brian's never had a problem with me sleeping with other people, and he's never had a problem with me having friends, so why should he care that that's combined into one person? And Gabe's never been monogamous either, and he's been with people before where he wasn't their primary partner, so none of this was new to him.


It was easy with Gabe, that's what it was. The sex was...I mean, look, nothing's ever going to be like sex with Brian, but it was very very good. Gabe was kinky and versatile and open to anything and I was finally learning new shit from someone besides Brian, which hadn't happened in years. We'd talk for hours about literature and philosophy but skim around anything too personal, and I liked that. He was kind of closed off with his emotions, sort of like Brian, but unlike Brian I never felt a real urge to convince Gabe to open up.


I'm making what we had sound shallow, I guess, but it wasn't like that at all. It was just...comfortable, and we let ourselves be comfortable. And me and Brian...I mean, we're a million things, we're huge and endless and fucking, like, interstellar, but Brian fights 'comfortable' like the concept has offended him personally. And like, that doesn't mean we aren't comfortable, but we are because I manage Brian like some scared little animal, not because we're just peaceful and respectful and careful with each other's boundaries, which are three pretty ridiculous concepts in a row to try to apply to me and Brian.


And it's funny, because yeah, Brian and I are everything in the world but easy, except how we kind of are, and as nice as it was having Gabe there, I couldn't deny that feeling of relief as soon as Brian and I were alone together. My therapist says that's a PTSD thing, that I just have a really short list of people I'm a hundred percent comfortable around, and I've gotten so used to being a little on edge that I don't even exactly notice it anymore. I'll be having a great time hanging out at the apartment with Daphne and Brian, and then she leaves and I get that relief feeling like I was holding my breath and I didn't even know it. And I mean, come on, that's Daphne!


All right, come here, Brian said, and I smiled and held my arms up to him, and he bent over the bed and hugged me. He hummed behind my ear and gave me a rough kiss on the side of my head. Gorgeous.


I try.


So Ben had some complications, that's why it was so bad, Brian explained to me a little while after, when he was helping me back to bed from the bathroom. I was doing okay, but my stomach still really hurt if I stood up straight, so I walked kind of slow and hunched over, and I was breathing pretty hard by the time I was back in bed. But those are are rare, and his enzyme levels were a lot higher than yours are.


High is bad?


High is bad. He watched me replace the oxygen cannula and messed with my pillow a little.


You still seem worried, though, I said.


He shrugged. Not really about this. I'm not happy about changing your meds.


Me neither.


Gabe's worried about the wrong thing, Brian said.


I know. He doesn't know. We don't talk about seizure stuff.


Might want to before you start having seizures all over the place during this adjustment period.


Yeah, yeah.


Brian pulled the chair up to the bed and took off his shoes before he put his feet up next to me, crossing his ankles, and I played with his toes. So guess what I was doing when Gabe called? he said.


Getting a blow job from that new It boy, I said, because it was the most absurd thing I could think of.


Brian grinned.


No, I said. No fucking way. Really?


He spread his arms out wide. I'm Brian Kinney. There is nothing I cannot do.


Like, on his knees, in the back room, in front of people.... I said, and he signed Yes, after each one. That's incredible.


Brian nodded at the door. How are his blow jobs?


I smacked him. We're not doing that.


His face softened again. That sucked that he had to say he was your friend.


Yeah.


He stood up abruptly. I have to go to work tomorrow, you know?


Yeah, I know. I tried really, really hard not to look disappointed.


I'm gonna have to take a lot of time off while you're switching your meds, so I have to go in while I can.


I know. It's okay. I played with the blanket. Are you going to stay tonight?


He nodded, climbing up on the bed next to me. He fixed my oxygen cannula. Don't sneeze on me.


I wrinkled my nose. You don't have to stay. If you need to sleep.


I can sleep here. You know how I love hospitals at night.


Do you want to lurk outside my door and I'll pretend I don't see you?


He groaned and laughed. Fuck. He dropped his head onto my shoulder and stayed there for a while. I smelled his hair and closed my eyes and imagined we were home.


It was very different, being alone with Gabe when I was sick earlier and now, being alone with Brian. Gabe made me feel protected, like he was taking care of me, and Brian made me feel capable, like I didn't need to be taken care of. And I know you want me to say one of those is better than the other—I know you want me to say that Brian's is better—but it's not that simple. They're both nice. They're both really nice.


He was looking at me when I opened my eyes. Sucks you don't feel good, he said.


It's okay, I said. I don't mind.


**


I was alone when I woke up, which confused me, because I didn't think Brian would leave without saying goodbye. Then I thought maybe he had said goodbye and I just went back to sleep and forgot, because my short term memory isn't a complete disaster or anything, but it's not amazing, especially when I have a fever. I was wondering how the fuck I was supposed to entertain myself here all day when Brain strolled in, looking fucking devastating in his suit, and then I was just confused thinking I'd slept all day and he was coming in after work.


I must have looked as baffled as I felt because he chuckled and kissed me. Hey. Have you been up long?


No, I don't think so. What time is it?


A little after eight, he said, taking my backpack off his shoulder and setting it down in my chair.


In the morning?


He cocked his head. Yeah, in the morning. You're still kind of out of it? He palmed my forehead. Fever's not that high.


I yawned. Just stupid I guess.


Certainly seems that way, yeah.


What are you doing here, don't you have work?


He nodded while he opened my backpack and unpacked a few things. My laptop, my iPod, the book I'd been reading, a few DVDs, my sketchpad. He nonchalantly put a thermos and a box from my favorite bakery on my nightstand.


I bit my lip. “Brian.”


No checking your work email, you got that? I already talked to Marie.


I twisted my blanket to keep from grabbing at him. “Okay.”


All right. Don't be too entertained. Get some sleep. Call me if there's any problem with the interpreter or anything.


Okay.


He sighed, studying me. Remember when you were hearing and I could just leave you places without worrying someone would kill you?


No.


Me neither. He kissed my forehead, and I laced my fingers on the back of his neck and pulled him in for a real kiss. He closed his eyes, rubbing his hands up and down my arms.


“I love you,” I said.


He opened his eyes. Yeah, yeah. You have to raise your bed before you try that shit, though. My back's going to hurt all day.


You want some morphine?


Sure. He checked his watch. I have to go.


I know.


He gave my knee a little shake. Be safe.


Be brilliant.


As if I have a choice, he said, with a put-upon sigh, and he stuck his tongue in his cheek and smiled at me as he backed out of the room. I limped myself to the bathroom, booted up my laptop, and watched Yellow Submarine until a nurse came in for the first of many vital checks.


**


One of the hardest parts of being sick is the amount of time you spend being intractably, inescapably bored. People don't really tell you that. And you'd think if you're sick enough to be in the hospital, maybe that's different, then at least it's exciting, but no, hospitals are the most boring place of all. Even when you're really sick, seriously sick, which I wasn't this time, it all ends up coming down to the same endless stretches of time, waiting for test results, waiting for the meds to work, waiting between procedures. Even pain is boring. The same sensation for ages and ages, keeping you from even having some thought that's not about it. Boring, boring, boring.


So much of being sick is waiting. Waiting for something to change and for you to feel better enough to do something, anything. Waiting for Brian to come home from work, or get off the phone, or be done cooking dinner, just so I won't be alone for a little while.


I watched the movies Brian left me, and read my book, and tried to sleep, but part of being in the hospital is having people walk in on you every five seconds because they want more blood or a more recent temperature or one of your monitors was beeping because you rolled over on it weird and you didn't know because you're Deaf, and they only brought an interpreter in with them if the doctor was coming, so when it was just the nurses I didn't know what they were doing. And I know, I know I was supposed to call Brian if there was a problem with the interpreter, and obviously that qualified as a problem, but I just...didn't have the stamina to fight the hospital about it right then, I guess. I felt so sick that day, just headachey and dizzy and consistently seizure-y, since I was off my meds and my hand was shaking the whole day, and I just was not in the place to start being Brian's mouthpiece about the Americans with Disabilities Act.


So I just waited for time to pass, watched movies on my laptop and bad daytime shows on the TV in the corner and spent way, way too long staring at the weird flower painting on my wall. I got to my phone and returned the sweet goodnight text Gabe had sent me the night before, and sent dirty jokes to Brian every so often so he'd know I was alive, but the second time I got up to go to the bathroom my leg seized hard and I fell, which was humiliating and painful and kind of scary, so after that I called for a nurse every time I needed to get up, which would have been a hassle even if I were hearing.


By the end of the day, I was maybe coming out of my skin a little bit. I'd been on my own in the hospital at the tail end of the burn saga, when Brian went back to work a few days before I was released, and I guess this was bringing me back there in a way, to all that uneasiness and unsafety I was feeling around then, and even though I knew I was okay...I don't know, all my bad hospital memories were coming back to get me. The burns, the bashing, waiting for Brian's radiation treatments. The fever wasn't helping, and I knew the fever wasn't helping, but still...it got to the point where all the shaking I was doing wasn't just from the goddamn seizures. I almost called Brian, just to see him, but I knew he was trying to cram in as much work as he could so he could take time off with me next week. He needed to work, and I needed to just keep my fucking shit together.


But then, all of a sudden, Gabe was there. I tried to play it cool but I just about bounced off the bed, and he came over and gave me a hug that rocked me back and forth. How are you? he said.


I'm good. I'm good. Don't you have work?


He laughed. It's four. Kids are all home doing their homework. He kissed me. Where's Brian?


Had to go to work. Don't judge him, he's going to have to take time off once I'm out of here, and—


He stopped me. I'm not judging. I went to work, right? Can't exactly throw stones. He sat at the foot of the bed. How are you feeling really? Don't bullshit me.


I feel like I'm going to be signing left-handed for the rest of my life.


Yeah, I noticed that. That's a seizure thing?


I nodded. I'm okay mostly. Tired, bored, sick of being trapped in bed. Going a little crazy sitting in here while the hearing people traipse in and out.


Well. He lowered the rail on the bed. I can help with that. Hang on. He disappeared briefly and came back with a wheelchair. Come on.


Where are we going?


I was in this hospital for a million years, remember? I know all the escape routes. Let's have an adventure.


Okay, but Brian's going to be here by six.


We'll be back by six.


I took the cannula off and held myself up on my IV pole. Brian had brought me some clothes to wear, so I was in sweatpants and a t-shirt instead of the gown, which did a lot to make me feel like a human capable of going on an adventure, even if I had to be in a wheelchair while my boyfriend pushed me because my stupid epileptic body was all clenched up. Gabe had to help me situate my right leg on the footrest.


Gabe pushed the wheelchair while I manned the IV. We couldn't talk, with him behind me like that and both our hands busy, but the silence was comfortable, easy. The elevator doors were shiny enough to see our reflection, and he smiled at me in it.


He hit the button for the top floor and we went up, and Gabe parked me in the chair while he peeked around the corner. Okay, coast is clear. But we go on foot from here.


I looked skeptically at my shitty body and the IV pole.


We can do it. Eight steps. Ten, tops. I'll take the pole, and you just lean on me...there you go.


He opened a door, and we very slowly and awkwardly got ourselves up a narrow, dirty staircase. I decided about two steps from the top that this was a bad idea, because my stomach was hurting and my heart was racing and God, how was I this fucking tired, but at that point it would have been way harder to turn back, plus I didn't want to look weak, well, weaker, in front of Gabe, so I just grinned and beared it. Gabe pushed open a door at the top of the stairs, helped me up one more step, and then we were on the roof. The fresh air hit me, and I closed my eyes and breathed in and smiled.


I used to come up here all the time, Gabe said, helping me limp a few more steps. Smoke cigarettes, which I guess is kind of morbid.


Oh, fuck, you don't have one, do you?


No, I quit.


Damn.


We sat down, and I shivered a little and he took off his coat and put it over my shoulders. You good? he said.


Yeah, just need to catch my breath.


Take your time.


I tried to slow my breathing down, looking out at the view of the city. I turned to Gabe, who had his head tilted back at the sky, squinting in the fading light, and he looked beautiful.


I think it might snow tonight, he said.


Yeah? I love snow.


Me too.


Brian hates it, I said. I don't know why. Brian hates any weather that's not sixty-five and partly cloudy.


Gabe laughed. He probably had a beautiful laugh.


We stayed on the roof for about half an hour, until I started to shiver too much, and Gabe helped me up and back down the stairs, and everything was going...well, it was going, until a seizure grabbed me like a damn bandit and fell down the staircase. I didn't go head over heels or anything; Gabe caught me right away, so it was more of just a really shitty slide down four steps, but it was enough to twist my ankle at an angle ankles should not twist at.


Gabe hung onto me. Fuck. Are you okay?


Hang on.


Shit, your ankle—


I don't care about the ankle, hang on, I need to wait for this to pass. My vision was getting spotty and shitty, so I just held onto Gabe and closed my eyes and waited for the seizure to be over. I felt really crappy once it did, just echoey and hollow and bone-tired, but I took a deep breath and opened my eyes and nodded a little.


Gabe nodded towards my foot. That's definitely sprained.


I looked at Gabe and I don't know, I just started laughing, and he did too, tucking his face into my neck. I'm sorry, he said, sitting back up. I'm a terrible spotter.


Help me up?


He got me up on my foot that wasn't turning the color of an old apple and helped me back into the wheelchair. Brian's going to have me forcibly removed from Manhattan.


No, I'll tell him I fell getting to the bathroom.


Except that didn't really work, because even though it barely five, Brian was standing in the middle of my room when I got back, having what looked like a very loud argument with one of my nurses. Shit. Shit shit shit.


“Brian?” I said.


He closed his eyes, and the nurse gave him an angry look and walked out of the room as Gabe pushed me in.


Brian turned to me, very, very barely not flying off the handle. Where the fuck were you?


Somehow the roof didn't seem like the best answer. We just went for a walk.


I have been calling you for half a fucking hour, I thought you were goddamn collapsed somewhere...what the fuck happened to your ankle? Justin...


I was just so, so incredibly too tired for all of this. I wanted to kiss Gabe goodbye and get into bed with Brian and sleep for eighty million years, and nobody was going to let me do any of those things. I started to get out of the wheelchair and back into bed, and Brian rolled his eyes and came over and lifted me up and put me in the bed like I weighed about a pound and a half.


Don't put weight on that, he said. Why the fuck is your skin so cold, where were you? Were you outside? It's twenty fucking degrees—


“Brian,” I said, trying to calm him down, but it made me start coughing, and it wasn't until Brian had the cannula back in place that it occurred to me that might be playing a part in why I was feeling lightheated.


Yeah, he said, and I knew he knew what I was thinking. And your fever's goddamn definitely up—


I said, Gabe, maybe you should—


He shook his head. This was my idea, I'm not leaving you here to deal with him alone, which was very sweet and all, but I knew that Brian wasn't really mad, he was just worried, and what he needed was for me to sit him down and let him fuss over me until he was convinced I was okay, and he wasn't going to do that as long as there was another person in the room.


I said, Really, it's better if—


No, Brian said. No, I want to hear this from him.


I sighed and flopped back on my pillows and wished for a quick death.


Gabe said, He'd been in this room all day, he was miserable when I got here, and this is where I stayed after my fire so I know my way around the hospital.


He's off his seizure meds right now, Brian said. Of course he's miserable.


That's not what he means, I said.


Brian pointed at me. I have heard enough out of you.


“Jesus Christ, Brian.”


He turned back to Gabe. Where were you?


On the roof, Gabe said.


The half-second of fear on Brian's face before he covered it up with anger just about broke me the fuck open, and I hated myself, I hated myself so goddamn much for doing that to him. He has a fucking seizure disorder, Brian yelled. You don't take him up to a fucking roof!


I said, Brian, it was my choice, I'm not a child—


You are sick and not thinking clearly, Brian said, and honestly as much as I wanted to argue with that, the amount of trouble I was having just keeping up with this conversation made me begrudgingly aware that he had more of a point than I would have liked.


So I just said, We weren't near the edge.


He rubbed his mouth and asked Gabe, What happened to his ankle?


I said, Brian, can we talk about it later, please? and I know it was stupid to feel self-conscious about discussing seizures in front of Gabe because Jesus Christ, he'd literally just seen me have the one we needed to discuss, but it was just...it was too much, and I felt naked and awkward and awful watching them talk about this, and the whole thing had been sort of scary as shit and I still felt pretty awful and I just wanted to be able to tell Brian about it in a situation where if I started bawling in the middle of retelling it there wouldn't be any additional witnesses.


And Brian, of course, knew what that meant. Did you hit your head?


No. I promise.


Brian took a deep breath and turned back to Gabe. He's supposed to be here, on oxygen, monitored. Not wandering around with someone who has no idea what—


Okay, no, Gabe said. This is bullshit.


Oh God, I said.


I absolutely have a fucking idea, Gabe said. I know what it's like to be left alone all day and stuck in a little room in pain and sick and going out of your mind. What the fuck do you know about it?


Brian sneered. Yeah, I know I'm not part of your special little club, all right? You want to know what I know? I know how to keep him alive.


He's fine, Gabe said, but I knew that that barely mattered at this point. When Brian gets worried about me, he gets wound up so tight that it doesn't even matter if everything's okay, because he's already catapulted himself to the bad place and nothing but time and patience and letting him lay his hands on me is going to get him out of it. Gabe said, You judged me all fucking day yesterday thinking I was being so overprotective, and now you're losing your shit because what, I didn't coddle him enough? I let him make his own decisions about what he wanted to do?


He's trying to impress you! Brian said. He's trying to keep you from worrying! You know why the fuck I act like I'm not worried? So he doesn't have to reassure me!


I said, Okay, the effect of that is kind of ruined when you reveal all your tactics—


Brian barely looked at me. You're postictal, you're not going to remember any of this.


Yeah, you may be right.


If he has a problem with me, he can fucking tell me, Gabe said. He's not afraid of me. And I like you, Brian, I do, but I do not fucking answer to you.


Brian laughed without light in his eyes. Oh, yes you fucking do.


I felt my heartbeat, then, thrumming into my head, and a kind of static started around the outside of my vision. I took a deep breath. “Brian?”


I care about him, Gabe said. And if nothing I do is going to be good enough for you—


Then you get better! Brian said. You know how many times I've had to get better?


It just needs to be good enough for him! Gabe said. I am here for him, I'm here for him.


I swallowed against a metallic taste in my mouth and grabbed the mattress as tightly as I could. “Brian.”


He looked at me and immediately crossed to the bed. Get out, he said to Gabe.


What? I'm not—


Go get a nurse and stay outside. I mean it. Now. Go.


Gabe left, and Brian cupped my face and said, All alone now, we're fine. On your side, easy...


Everything was getting so, so fuzzy, and my stomach hurt and my head hurt and I didn't fucking want another seizure. “Brian,” I said.


Close your eyes, breathe through it. I'm going to be right here when you wake up.


I remember thinking he was overreacting, that I wasn't going to lose consciousness all the way, but fuck if the next thing I knew I was dragging myself awake to a room full of a doctor and a couple nurses and Brian, who stood by with his arms crossed, looking peaceful and professional as he oversaw the doctors. Welcome back, he said to me, all calm. I fucking love how calm he stays for seizures.


“Fuck,” I said.


I bet. That was a big one, slugger. Going for a record?


“What?”


He laughed a little. It's okay.


“I can't hear anything.”


I know. That's good.


I was so confused, but he seemed confident, so I trusted him. I couldn't figure out I was or who these people touching me were. I winced as the nurse shined a light in my eyes. “Brian...”


I know. Let them finish looking over you and we'll take a nap, okay?


“Gabe?”


Brian, he fingerspelled. I rolled my eyes, and he grinned. I don't think the bed's big enough for three, he said.


I shook my head a little, ignoring the pounding. “Is he okay?”


I've been a little busy with you.


“Can you check?”


He sighed, brushing his hand over his forehead.


“Please?” I said. “You can tell him to go home if you want. Can you...will you be nice?”


No promises, he said, and he bent over and kissed me gently before he left the room. The interpreter was there, signing to me whatever the doctor was saying, but I ignored her and watched Brian and Gabe through the window.


It's my fault, I pushed him, Gabe said. Please don't be mad at him.


Brian looked so exhausted. I'm not mad at him.


It's my fault, Gabe said. Fuck, it's my fault.


It's not your fault. God, fine, come here, Brian said, and he pulled Gabe in for a hug.


I smiled and closed my eyes.


**


This isn't...it's not exactly on topic, but it's something that I've held off talking about for a long time and now I want to say it.


It's something you need to get about Brian, and it's something that until now I haven't talked about, because honestly I get really fucking emotional when I think about it. And also because I'm worried anyone I talk to about it won't understand what a big deal it is, because people have a long history of hyping up shit about Brian that's not all that impressive and then completely, completely ignoring the absolutely incredible things he does, and this one is so wonderful and he doesn't even know it.


Brian was amazing after the bashing. And I'm not talking about being patient with me and helping me with my recovery, not right now. Of course that was amazing, but that's established. I'm talking about how...


Okay, first, you need to understand where Brian and I were after the bashing, because it's kind of automatic that you're going to compare it to how he was when I found out I was losing my hearing, because he was amazing there too so the parallels make themselves. But that was different, when I lost my hearing, and the seizures picked up, and he stuck by me, because at that point there was history, promises, something unbreakable. And I'm not saying that to take away any significance from how solidly Brian has stood with me, because it still counts, it's still everything. I'm just trying to explain how it's different.


Because after the bashing, when Brian took me in, and I could barely move my right hand and I was a PTSD-stricken mess and I couldn't remember basic directions five minutes after hearing them...Brian didn't owe me anything then, not a damn thing, and he'd never made any promises to me. There was no history. We were still in the process of falling in love then, that's what I'm saying. It wasn't settled.


Taking me in, taking care of me, that was Brian being a good person. And that's fantastic. Don't get me wrong.


But Brian continuing to fall in love with me, Brian taking my disabled ass into his bed and looking at me like a fucking sex object...that wasn't a conscious choice. That wasn't Brian trying to do the right thing. I mean, fuck, you can't look at the goddamn dirty things Brian does to me and think that's anyone's idea of a good deed. That was primal, natural, unstoppable.


And if you're not disabled, you're going to have to trust me that someone truly understanding everything that's wrong with you and then effortlessly thinking you're sex on legs, that's not something that happens everyday.


That wasn't Brian trying to do the right thing. That wasn't Brian seeing past what was wrong with me because of our history or even because of his love. That was Brian just...truly, at his core, being comfortable with disability in a way that is so, so rare.


It's something really big.


He's allowed to really, really want to keep me alive.


**


It was dark in my room when I woke up, or as dark as hospitals ever get. I had a kind of vague feeling that I'd been having a nightmare, but Brian's hands were gentle on my back and head, and I knew he'd woken me up before it got too bad. He gave me a minute to collect myself while he rearranged stuff on my nightstand.


“Hi,” I said after a minute.


Hi.


“What time is it?


A little after two. You've been sleeping for a long time. How are you feeling?


I sat up slowly. Okay. Nervous. I don't know why, though.


He sat down at the foot of the bed. The anticonvulsants are mood stabilizers too, you know.


I always forget that.


Well, you are brain damaged.


I kicked him through the covers, and he smiled a little.


“I love you,” I said.


I think you had that seizure on purpose.


“Oh yeah?”


Yeah, I figured that out about an hour ago. Very crafty way to stop us from fighting. You're pretty smart for someone who's so brain damaged.


“Stop making me laugh! My head hurts.”


He crawled up the bed and lay down next to me. Come here, you. Back to sleep.


“Are you going to stay tomorrow?”


He closed his eyes like it hurt. I can't, Sunshine.


“I know,” I said. “I'm sorry.”


Derek's going to come see you between classes, he said. And then the day after tomorrow you're going to be Emily's morning assignment. And then it's the weekend and Gabe can be here during the day if I have to go to the office.


Okay.


And then once you're out of here, you and me, a week at home, No doctors, no nurses. Just probably your fucking boyfriend barging in to tell me everything I'm doing wrong.


I kissed his nose. "Nothing wrong.”


I know, that's what I tried to tell him.


I smiled, and he rested his head on my chest and tried to go back to sleep, but my head was racing, and the bed smelled all wrong, and I was already upset thinking about another day here by myself, and my head hurt and my stupid ankle hurt, and the next thing I knew I was crying. I tried to do it softly, but Brian lifted his head up right away.


“Hey, hey,” he said.


“I'm sorry. Everything's fine. It's just the seizure, I'm not...”


He lay with his head next to mine on the pillow, watching the tears fall without touching them. After a minute he said, I have an idea, okay? Can you get up, you feel up to it?


I nodded.


Okay. Come on.


He sat me up and pulled a sweatshirt and hat over my head and very carefully got me into a pair of socks. I whined as he jostled my foot.


We should get this x-rayed tomorrow, he said.


I'm pretty sure it's just sprained.


Yeah, so am I, but we're in a hospital, might as well.


True.


He helped me into a wheelchair and hung my oxygen tank off the back. Not so fucking hard to bring oxygen, is it?


Let it go, I said.


He pushed me slowly down the halls, exchanging a couple words with some nurses on the way. He got us to the elevators and he wrinkled his nose at me in our reflection and gave me a rough kiss on the cheek.


Hit G, he told me on the elevator.


He rolled me past the front desk, past the lobby, out through the front doors. He stopped us under the awning and rubbed his hands up and down my arms to keep me warm.

 

It was snowing.

End Notes:

The antler-bashing promised in our last fic. Also, for someone who talks a big game about centering the sick character, it took me a really, really embarrassingly long time to write a hospital fic from Justin's POV, so here's that.

Chapter 50 - A Kind of Magic by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin's biggest show ever is opening on Christmas Eve, but he's not exactly feeling in the spirit of things. Brian helps.

A Kind of Magic

LaVieEnRose



Justin started crying again in November of 2010.


And look, I'm not saying he didn't have good reason. The pancreatitis ordeal was a bitch and a half. He had to stay in the hospital for almost a week, and he didn't have the benefit of being unconscious for any of it this time, and I had to leave him during the day because I knew I'd need to take time off once he was out of there and didn't have anyone but me to watch him while they'd pulled his meds, so he was alone and alert for a week in his least favorite place in the world. And that was a damn cakewalk compared to the week after, once his old meds were completely out of his system and we were slowly inching up the new ones, because anticonvulsants are mood-altering as shit and he'd just swan-dived off one and onto another, and he had a crappy allergic reaction to the first new one we tried so we had to switch to a different one and do the whole thing all over again, and seizures aren't exactly anyone's prescription for a great run of mental health either, and God knows he was having plenty of those that week.


So it was awful. I tried to make it as tolerable as I could, but I was sleep-deprived and screaming at him if he dared to get out of bed because I was sure he was going to crack his head open on the floor, so I'm going to guess that I wasn't really the soothing presence we both would have liked me to be. Michael turned forty and generally tried my patience sending me a variety of catastrophizing text messages, Daphne was miserable over Derek leaving in for Greece in a few weeks, Kinnetik was preparing for some big changes and we had our enormous holiday party coming up which is about thirty times less fun and more important than it sounds...there was a lot going on, that was my point, and that's for me. I wasn't also twenty-seven, missing one of my senses, managing a pre-existing mental illness, and having the kind of neurological crisis that would give William Williams Keen Jr. (first American brain surgeon, worked on FDR, see, you've learned something here today) nightmares.


So he got to do some crying. And I wasn't worried about it at first, not exactly, but it was fucking sad, and...well, when Justin doesn't do well, I don't do well. And that's not me trying to make this about me, that's not me trying to garner sympathy, it's just a simple, unemotional fact. It's practically science. Symbiosis, or whatever the fuck.


We weren't really doing that well that winter, that's what I'm trying to say. Even though at that point, Justin's meds were leveled. His pancreas was all shiny like new. He hadn't had a major seizure in two weeks. Still.


I woke up in the middle of the night early in December to a cold and empty bed, and I followed the muffled sounds of Justin crying to the bathroom. He was sitting on the side of the tub, biting his hand to stay quiet, and he covered his face when he saw me and sobbed softly while I leaned against the doorjamb and gave him a minute.


I'm sorry, he said eventually, wiping his face off. I'm sorry, I'm fine.


How worried do I need to be?


He shook his head. “It's not like last time.”


You'll tell me. If I need to be worried. You'll tell me.


“I'll tell you.” He took a deep breath. “It's not bad, it's just...it's just not great.”


And that's the best way I can summarize it, really. It wasn't a mental health crisis, and Justin never reached the kind of breaking point he had a year and a half before.


We just had a lot of things to get through that December, and he wasn't great, so I wasn't great.


But we, that whole collective thing, were kind of great, and this is actually a pretty nice story, in the end, so get yourself a drink and we'll talk about Christmas.


**


Despite everything that was going on, clearly I was becoming an optimist in my old age, because I came home from work late on December 21st, 2010, and I thought there was at least the vaguest of chances that Justin might be there. I hadn't seen him since he left at the crack of dawn the day before, and I stood in my empty kitchen weighing the odds that interrupting him would stress him out more with the extreme likelihood that he hadn't slept or eaten in thirty-six hours. Eventually I said fuck it, texted Gabriel that no, I hadn't heard from him, but I was going to check on him now, turned off the alarm I'd set on my phone to remind me to continue getting food sent to his studio every six hours, stopped at the Thai place on 58th and got a shit-ton of drunken noodles, and then, like Vanessa Carlton before me, made my way downtown.


I used my key to let myself into the basement studio space. Justin had his back to the door, slapping blue paint across a canvas. His studio was covered in paintings at various stages of completion, and...fuck if I was going to say it to him, but I was really hoping he'd be closer to finished by now.


It was Thursday night, and the biggest show he'd had in his life, thus far, opened on Sunday, Christmas Eve. It was him and two other artists, a “rising stars to watch,” kind of thing, and the publicity was going to be huge. It was at this big gallery in Brooklyn, way bigger than Marie's, and she'd given him the past few days off work to get his shit together after Justin's agent went and fucking last minute vetoed five of the fourteen pieces he'd been planning to show.


The other two rising stars were two guys in their thirties, both straight, abled. And then my Justin. It was a big deal.


I did a quick inventory of the state of the studio—it looked, of course, like a hurricane had hid it but that wasn't really out of the ordinary, and he had a blanket and a pillow in the corner so maybe he'd gotten a little bit of sleep, and the food I'd been sending over all looked like it had been at least picked at—and waited for him to lift his brush off the canvas before I approached him in case I startled him. I touched the small of his back, and he turned around without jumping and looked at me like he wasn't fully seeing me, the way he always does when he's in some kind of art trance.


Hi. Brian Kinney, I said. I'm looking for the guy who lives with me, have you seen him?


He put his arms up half-heartedly in the world's saddest “ta da.”


I caught his wrist and took his pulse. You're dehydrated. Sit down.


I really can't, I have to—


Half an hour, okay? I'm not saying sleep, I'm not saying come home. Give me half an hour. Routine maintenance.


He sighed and nodded and sat on one of his stools. I stuck a straw in a bottle of water and handed it to him while I doled out some noodles. Don't sign. You could text your boyfriend and tell him you're alive, you know. If you are. Even Emily mentioned how skinny you've gotten.


He massaged his temples. “Yeah.”


I like this, I said, nodding towards what he was working on.


“Thanks. I'm still trying to fill the three last slots. I don't know what I'm doing. I keep starting stuff and hating it.”


I fished out the aspirin I'd slipped in my pocket before I left and gave it to him. You take your meds last night?


He nodded. “I'd be fucked without the timers. I have no idea how long I've been here.”


Slept at all?


“A little.”


Why are you still trying to find three pieces? I thought you were set on the train tracks one.


Annie's set on it, he said. His agent. I don't think it's good.


You're an idiot. It's stunning.


It was, easily one of the top five things he's ever done, even now. He'd showed it to me when he finished it months ago and it had fucking knocked me over. It's about emptiness, and space, and that time of night when familiar places turn kind of haunted and warped, like when you're on an empty beach or alone in a parking lot, you know that feeling? There it was, in a painting. The moment something familiar becomes something completely new, just because of who's there, or who isn't.


He shrugged. “I don't feel it. I don't know. I don't really feel anything right now.”


Well, you're depressed and you haven't slept in three days.


“Even before then.”


I remember how you painted the glass in the background, in the store windows, I said. Edward Hopper is shaking somewhere.


“He's been dead since like 1965.”


Then I suppose we know where he's shaking.


Justin smiled at me, then groaned and sunk his head into his hands. “You're being so fucking great. You've sent me food from like four different countries. I never even thanked you.”


Thanked me? Christ. I haven't put up with you for ten years for us to still have to thank each other for shit. God, this kid was annoying.


“I can't even hold a decent conversation. I'm not even human right now.”


I'm not here for conversation, I said, working the muscles in his right hand. Poor fucking hand.


“Okay, I love you, but I really hope you're not about to say you're here to fuck me.”


No.


“No, I changed my mind, that felt like a really good distraction as soon as I said it.”


I chuckled and kissed his forehead. You're right. You're not a human. You're a little art-producing robot, and I'm here to feed you and water you and keep you going and then we'll worry about the rest when you're a human again.


“Don't water a robot,” he said seriously. “That's how you get electrocuted.” I snorted, and he gave me this sheepish grin and tucked his forehead against my chest. “Have I mentioned I love you?” he said.


Yeah, like literally a minute ago.


He laughed, a little hysterically, and covered his face. “I don't even remember.”


I nudged his hands away from his face and gave him his fork back. Eat. Look at your train tracks painting and come to your senses. Think you should step outside for a minute, breathe some fresh air?


He shook his head.


Remember when you used to go on and on about light? Now you paint in a basement.


So buy me a better studio.


Oh, okay.


He coughed some and rested his head on the table. “I think probably when this is all over I'm going to have a nervous breakdown,” he said. “Like, ripping off my clothes and quacking like a duck in the middle of Washington Square Park.”


That's good, That'll be new for us. Not a lot new left.


“God, I can't paint any more tonight. I'm going to lose my mind.”


What can I do?


He shrugged.


Give me one thing. Mix paint? Spray that fixer stuff?


He smiled at me a little and kissed me. You've done plenty. It's okay. I'll be okay.


This isn't worth making yourself sick over, you know.


He gave me a look.


Okay, you're right, it's absolutely worth making yourself sick over. But don't go dying or anything. There are degrees, you know.


He picked his palette back up. “You can stick around if you want. I don't know if I'm going to be good company.”


I'm used to that. Hey, that reminds me. You don't have to come on Saturday. The Kinnetik party.


He scoffed. “Don't be ridiculous. Of course I'm coming.”


I'm serious. Don't come.


“It'll look shitty if I'm not there,” he said. “And besides, all my stuff has to be done and in Brooklyn by Saturday morning anyway. It's not like I could be here working.”


“Okay.”


He got back to work, and I straightened up the studio a little, throwing away the old food containers, bullying him into taking a sip of water every once in a while. He was lost in his world again in a minute, and there was always something amazing and watching Justin work, just seeing how he made these decisions I couldn't even begin to track. If you put me in front of a canvas—Justin's tried it—I just get paralyzed. The amount of faith Justin has in himself is staggering, and he doesn't even know he has it. His brain has him tricked into thinking he's insecure.


And really, how could you be insecure when you can make what he can?


You can't be. You can't be.


He was right about one thing, though; he was pretty lousy company, so after I'd cleaned up the studio some I told him I'd be back after work the next day and started to head out to Nova, and I did go, eventually, but I ended up just holding him first without really meaning to.


“I think maybe I can't do this,” Justin said, in the smallest voice. “I think maybe I actually can't.”


That's why I keep calling you an idiot.


He breathed in, shaky, and wiped his eyes.


What does it feel like? I asked.


He shrugged a little. “Like nothing, except with crying.”


You're going to feel the thing again, I said.


“Which thing?”


Every thing.


**


He called me at work the next day with bloodshot eyes and paint in his hair. “You're sure about the train tracks painting?”


I am one thousand percent sure about the train tracks painting, I said, minimizing my email and opening up the website for our pharmacy.


He sighed. “Okay. I'm trusting you.”


Good. How are you?


He looked around his studio like he was seeing it for the first time. I think I'm making progress.


I hit the button on my desk that flashes a light on Emily's. You're wheezing, did you know that?


He shook his head.


You should really get some fresh air.


Okay. Um, which of these is better? He showed me two paintings, each of them about three-quarters of the way finished as far as I could tell.


The green.


He sighed. I like the purple more.


I do too, but technically the green is the stronger piece.


He studied them critically.


Do what you want, I said. But if you save the purple we can hang it on the wall by the balcony door.


“What if I save the green?”


No, I don't like the green. He laughed, and I looked up as Emily came in. I've got to go, I said. Are you coming home tonight? You could really use a bed. And a shower.


“I don't think so.”


I'll come by late tonight and help you pack up.


“I'm not going to be ready to pack up.”


Sure you will. I hung up and looked at Emily. Hi.


She held up two dresses. Which one for tomorrow?


I was on a roll here. The red.


She frowned at them. I like the black.


Red's a better dress.


Then maybe I should save it for the art opening.


Whatever. Did you find out what the problem was with Morgan? Are they coming tomorrow?


Oh, yeah. The wife broke her hip a couple weeks ago so they weren't sure about making the trip, so I have a limo coming to pick them up.


You're amazing.


I know.


If you leave me for Cynthia I'll die, I said. I want you to know that. I'll die on the floor.


It's not leaving you for Cynthia, she said. It would be leaving her for you. Cynthia was moving up to executive in the spring, after the fiscal year, which meant I was going to be out an assistant unless Emily jumped ship over to me. Which she was going to do, goddamn it, because I was not losing both her and Cynthia in one fell swoop. Disagree with that course of events.


Dead. On the floor.


Did you need something or were you just checking on Morgan?


Have you talked to Daphne?


Is this Kinnetik business?


No, none of this is Kinnetik business. I counted out tasks on my fingers. I need you to send flowers to Daphne—daisies—but have the card say 'Love Justin.'


They're not breaking up just because he's going to Greece, are they?


No, she's just sad.


Okay.


There's a pharmacy on sixty-first and West End and I need you to get a Taskrabbit to pick up a prescription there, birthday is March eleventh—


I know Justin's birthday.


—beautiful—and have that delivered to his studio, as well as...uh, there's a deli on 16th street, I don't remember the name, but get some matzoh ball soup delivered. And one of those black and white cookies.


To the studio?


To the studio.


She nodded. Okay. She paused. How is he?


He's...keeping it together.


Best we can hope for, I guess.


My thoughts exactly.


How's the show going to be?


I said, The show's going to be phenomenal.


**


I stayed at the club until late, because it was going to be my last time out until at least Tuesday, what with Gus and Lindsay coming in tomorrow for the party and everyone else the next day for the opening and for Christmas, and also because I figured the later I showed up the less likely Justin would panic when I started wrapping up canvases. I got to his studio around two, six hours before everything needed to be packed and ready to go. I brought him cinnamon sugar doughnuts—I'd had something healthy delivered for dinner, so hopefully he wouldn't end up with rickets before this was all over—and a whole box of coffee.


I set everything on the table, where he was sitting with an ice pack on his arm, staring at the green painting.


I ran my fingers up and down his back, pausing with my hand behind his lung. Breathe. He did, and I nodded. Better.


“Yeah, someone sent me an inhaler.”


I guess you've got a secret admirer.


One who sends me drugs?


Yeah, that's the best kind.


He looked at the doughnuts and groaned. “You're being so nice and doing all this shit and meanwhile I don't even think I can do the flirty banter right now.”


Flirty? Jesus. No thank you. Is that why you like me? You think I'm flirting when I'm being genuinely mean to you?


“Seriously, I don't...have a personality right now. I'm just trying to figure out why the fuck this thing isn't working for me. I've fucking given up on figuring out why the train tracks one isn't working but I'm going to figure out what this one needs.”


I handed him a cup of coffee and put two doughnuts on a napkin and slid them over. Where are the ones you're sure about?


He pointed to a corner, and I went over and started wrapping. I heard him stand up behind me and say, “I can help.”


I turned around halfway. You're going to do most of them, I'm just taking care of a few. Sit, eat.


I wrapped four canvases, including this geometric one I was going to be really, really pissed if someone bought from under me, and was working on a fifth when I heard him get up again, and a minute later he was cursing out loud, quietly, pacing back and forth.


I waved for his attention. What's up?


“I don't know what it needs. I can't...fuck fuck fuck.”


I sighed and went back to him. Justin.


“Don't.”


Okay.


“And my fucking hand is a fucking mess anyway, even if I figure it out I don't know if I can—”


All right. Time for me to do what I do best. Or, well. Second-best.


I kissed him. Hard enough that our teeth knocked together, and he had to take several staggering steps backwards until he hit the wall. I held his head in place with one hand, directed his jaw to follow mine. I didn't let up until I felt him gasp in a quick breath.


“Um,” he said.


You need some inspiration? I said.


“Oh God yes,” he said, but I stopped him when he reached for my jeans.


No hands, I said, and he nodded hard, panting, kissing my neck and my ears and my mouth, and I pinned his arms up over his head and reached the other under the hem of his shirt. His skin was warm, his stomach pulsing with his heartbeat.


“Brian,” he whispered.


Again, I signed, getting down on my knees, my hand on his hand.


He took a shuddering breath through his teeth. “Brian.”


Don't think. I said. Stop thinking, and then I yanked down his jeans and hooked my hands in his hip bones, licking along the hollows. I could taste how stressed he was, different from his usual sex sweat, fear and salt and turpentine and the sweetness of his skin.


He covered his face when I took him in my mouth, and I dragged my fingernails up and down his sides and gripped his thighs and generally, God help me, I'm going to say it, used every technique I'd picked up from this boy over the past ten years. Justin squirmed underneath me, his legs shaking, his fist pounding against the wall, and I traced my fingers in the sensitive skin behind his knees, so soft, always so soft.


“No,” Justin whimpered, which does not actually mean 'no'—trust me, there's a safe word, he's fine—it's just him being overwhelmed and exposed and carried away, but I comforted him anyway, my hands on his thigh and his poor sore wrist. His hand gripped my hair, and I decided I'd allow him to bend the no hands rule because goddamn it felt so good, and it was all I could do not to haul him up and sit him on my shoulders, and I settled for holding on to him for dear fucking life, taking him down my throat like I was never letting him out, and shuddered and shivered and gasped “Brian, oh, fuck,” and I swallowed and he groaned and cursed and covered his face, and I licked him, carefully, clean.


He grabbed me by the strap of my tank top and pulled me up and against him, and he kissed me until I was wondering where his fucking inhaler was and then he pushed me off him and said, “Gold. It needs gold.”


I clapped my hands on his shoulders. There you go.


**


I wrapped up a few more paintings and went home and fell into bed around four. I'm usually a pretty light sleeper, and Justin by now had lost whatever small awareness he ever had about how damn loud he is, but somehow I missed the door opening and his footsteps into the apartment, and I didn't wake up until he was sliding into bed next to me a little bit after ten in the morning.


No, I said, pushing him off of me.


He buried his face in his pillow, and I rolled him over and made him look at me.


You're so gross, I said. You've been in that fucking basement for three days. Go take a shower.


“Too tired. I'll drown.”


Christ, I said, and I got out of bed and hauled him to the bathroom by his collar.


He was, obviously, practically falling asleep in the shower. I scrubbed off his sweat and washed the paint out of his hair. “It's done now,” he said. “Everything's in Brooklyn. Too late to make any changes.”


You did it, I said.


He sighed. “We don't know that yet.”


Five new paintings, three days, and no major seizures. You did it.


“Four paintings.” He tilted his head up to the spray. “The train tracks are old.”


Regardless.


He held his head. “God. What if I picked the wrong ones? What if my agent hates these even more than the other ones?”


It's over now, Raincloud. It's done.


“The critics could fucking tear me apart. If they don't think I belong in a rising star show, they are not going to be gentle.”


You don't need them to be gentle. I nipped at his ear. You don't even like gentle.


He was quiet for a while, then shook his head fast, like he was clearing it. “What time's the party tonight?”


I scoffed. You're not going to the party.


“Don't. I told you I'm going.” He ran his lemongrass soap over my chest. “It'll be good for me. I get to not be an artist for a night. I'm just your little wife.”


Yuck. I don't want a wife.


“Too bad.”


Great. We have to be out of here by six. You can sleep until then. I'm meeting Lindsay and Gus for lunch.


“I should come to that.”


You absolutely should not. It's a fucking miracle you've held it together on this little sleep. Let's not push our luck. They'll understand.


They probably won't. No one ever does.


I ghosted my fingers up his arms.


“I don't mean you,” he said.


I lay my finger on his lips. I know.


I worked on uncurling the muscles in his hand, and he cried a little, just from pain and stress and bone-deep exhaustion. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen him that tired. Maybe right after the bashing, when he couldn't sleep at all without screaming. Showers helped back then, and this one would too, even if he didn't know it yet. He wasn't going to be able to relax if he still smelled like his studio, plus given his sensitive goddamn skin he was lucky he hadn't already broken out in hives from having paint on him for this long. I used the lemongrass soap and the mint stuff that would feel cold on his muscles and rinsed him with cool water. I kissed him under his eye and said, Okay, Hugh Jackman.


“...Hugh Jackman?”


I don't know, he cries in a lot of movies.


He yawned. “Not your best.”


Whatever. Bedtime.


He was snoring before I pulled the sheet over him, and I smiled and kissed the back of his neck. He was home.


I lay down and slept better than I had all week, even while he whimpered beside me.


**


I woke up a few hours later and dealt and answered the barrage of scheduling texts that had come in—Molly had blown up the Taylor group chat trying to figure out when Jennifer was getting here and was she supposed to meet her at the airport, Michael couldn't remember the name of his hotel, Deb wanted to know if rhinestones were appropriate for an art opening, which I couldn't imagine knowing how to answer—took care of some last minute minor crises for the party, which largely consisted of bossing Emily around, sent Emily a flower arrangement that put the one she got Daphne's to shame with I WILL PAY YOU DOUBLE WHAT CYNTHIA WILL on the card, left a granola bar and a bottle of water on the nightstand, halfway woke a very groggy Justin and told him I was leaving, wrote a note telling him I'd left when I could see telling him had gone straight through one of the holes in his brain and into the abyss, and headed in to midtown for lunch.


A nice thing about having visitors in New York is they're all so fucking delighted to be in New York that you don't really have to do much to entertain them. Lindsey and Gus were already all a-flutter when I got there just from the cabs and the buildings and shit. We met at this hole-in-the-wall pasta place on seventh. I'd just been in Pittsburgh six weeks before so there wasn't a whole lot of catching up to do, and the party tonight was going to be boring and all of us knew it, so not a lot to discuss there. All that to say, it didn't take long for the conversation to turn to Justin's show, which was a lot more interesting to Lindsay than the night she was about to spend carting Gus around like a show pony and explaining her relationship to me over and over. Could hardly blame her.


I said, “The pieces are beautiful. It's his best work.”


Lindsay watched me over her wine glass. “That sounds like there's a 'but' coming.”


“There's no but.”


“For once,” she said, laughing, and I laughed too.


“Just...do me a favor and don't ask him about it tonight?” I said. “Let him not think about it for a night.”


“He should be proud!” Lindsay said. “He's worked so hard, he deserves this.”


“It's not that,” I said. “He's proud. He's just...” God, how the fuck was I supposed to explain this? I hate the part of my life when I have to remember how to talk to people who aren't Justin. “He's second-guessing everything,” I settled on. “He's stressed. So just...give him a night off. Tomorrow you can ask him all the art questions you want.”


“Do I have to ask him art questions?” Gus said. “Because I don't have art questions.”


“No, talk to him about anything else in the world,” I said. “He'll be so relieved.”


I said goodbye to them outside the restaurant, and Lindsay lingered after she kissed me, studying me with her hand on my cheek. “You look tired,” she said.


I scoffed. “I look beautiful.”


“Are you okay? You and Justin?”


I forced patience into myself and nodded. I have to look at Lindsay and Melanie sometimes to get where she's coming from on shit like this, because Lindsay's already telling me, oh, we're on the rocks right now, you know, marriage has its rough stretches, and that's just...I don't know. Further proof that Justin and I are in some different dimension, because sure, we freak out and scream at each other, but we don't...have rough stretches. What, we're just supposed to not want to be with each other sometimes? Because he's sick, or depressed, or I'm stressed about work, or he's driving me crazy? That's supposed to have something to do with this thing between us? I honestly don't understand it. Other people are wild as shit.


I said, “He's just...he's in the thick of it right now. I can get him through bad patches. He gets us through all the normal shit, I can get us through bad patches.”


She sighed. “I hate to see you just...getting through things.”


Goddamn, was I sick of this. Sick of these people who would rather see me sleepwalking alone than tied to an imperfect person.


“We like a project,” I said. “We're good.”


**


Emily—in the red dress—looked around critically at our decorated lobby. I still think we should have gotten a tree.


Spoken like someone who's never witnessed Justin's sinuses around a Christmas tree. Trust me, it's for the best. Plus my kid's Jewish, I need to be inclusive.


We were stationed by the door, greeting every boring motherfucker who came in like they were the kings of Sheba or wherever the fuck. I shook hands, slapped backs, laughed at things I hoped were meant to be jokes, and tried not to laugh at Emily’s crude ASL nicknames for everyone.


She looked out the door. Penis nose is approaching.


Emily.


Don’t Emily me. Take a good look at this guy’s nose and tell me I’m wrong.


So I did, and then I had to try to not absolutely lose my shit the whole time this guy was talking to us.


Justin came out and handed me a drink and let me, “And this is my partner, Justin Taylor,” him over and over. He hates this shit, I know, hates being arm candy, hates feeling shown around, especially to hearing people who inevitably yell in his face or ask mind-numbingly insensitive questions, but he’ll grin and bear it a few times a year. He looked fucking stunning in his Prada, head to toe shades of steel gray, his eyes lit up like candles. You’d never have guessed how exhausted he was.


When most of the guests had arrived I left Emily to handle the stragglers and joined the party with Justin, my hand on the small of his back. Hanging fun? I asked him, while we shined plastic grins at the clients.


I'm okay, he said.


Not what I asked.


He gave a look—somehow smug and dubious at the same time, how does he do that?—and sipped his club soda. I do think this party could use more strippers.


I'll keep that in mind for next year, I said. Harris came over, from Spike Sneakers, and I shook his hand and, “You remember Justin”ed and Justin shined his fakest, most dazzling smile.


Could have sprung for more food, too, if you ask me, Justin said.


Like I haven't fed you enough this week, I said, without breaking my conversation with Harris.


You'd have died eight years ago if I didn't feed you, don't give me that. You look hot in that suit, fuck.


Trying to talk to this boring motherfucker here...


Maybe we should be the strippers this year.


Justin, I said, raising my drink to cover my grin and making up some bullshit for Harris about how impressed Justin was with Spike's latest shoe release.


Fine, fine. Justin did a quick scan of the room. Holy shit, that guy's nose looks just like a dick.


I choked on my drink.


**


So the party continued: we drank and kissed client ass, Gus upended a tray of crab cakes, I gave a few toasts—in English, but we had an interpreter, obviously—and Justin circled the room and cleaned up Gus and...played wife, basically, and I tried to keep back any guilt or disgust I might feel about that. It was all I could do not to grab every heterosexual fucker here who thought we were such a great example of how the gays are Just Like Us and go on about Justin's boyfriend or the trick I had brought, literally and figuratively, to his damn knees the night before. Fuck, if Gabriel had been in town instead of Mexico City for Christmas I probably would have bribed him into showing up and fucking my sweet husband over by the ice sculpture. As it was I just made unsubtly inappropriate eyes at our cocktail waiter and traded complaints with Emily from across the room.


Cynthia sidled up next to me, martini glass in hand. “What are you and Emily talking about?” she said. She's just as good at talking while smiling as I am. That's why she was getting promoted.


“Aw, you can't follow?”


Cynthia shot me a death glare without losing her smile. “She's not going to pick you just because your signing's better. Mine is improving.”


I clucked my tongue and gave her a sad head shake. “Not fast enough.”


“You are such a dick. She's not going to pick you.”


“We'll find you a great new assistant, don't worry.”


She sipped her drink. “Speaking of brilliant Deaf people...”


“Oh yes?”


“Excited for tomorrow?”


“Of course.”


“Where is he?”


I gestured to the other end of the lobby with my glass, where Justin was having an interpreter-aided conversation with Lindsay.


“I'm surprised he even came with the opening tomorrow,” she said.


“I am too.”


She eyed a caterer walking by. “I need a cream puff,” she said, and clicked off after him.


I was talking to the Starwood guys not long after that when Justin came up to me, close enough so I could smell that his drink wasn't just club soda anymore. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye as he rested his cheek, just for a second, against my shoulder. It was enough.


I cut the conversation with Starwood as smoothly as I could and guided Justin a few steps away. What's wrong with you?


Nothing.


I confiscated his drink, the moron. Don't bullshit me.


It's one drink, relax. As if you could put up with these people sober for as long as I have.


That was pretty valid, but it wasn't just the drink. He was starting to crack, and probably you couldn't tell if you weren't me, but, well, for better or for worse, I'm the only fucker I've figured out how to be, so here we were. Do you need to go home?


Stop making a scene.


I'm not making a scene, Christ. We're standing here having a casual conversation.


People are looking at us.


We could be talking about broccoli and these assholes would be looking at us. We're the most exciting thing they've seen this season.


Justin sighed. Everything's fine, he said, but he ducked his head to rub his forehead, and when he did I got a clear shot of Lindsay watching us and looking concerned. And nervous.


It was enough.


I clenched my jaw. What did she say to you?


Nothing.


I gave him his drink back and strode towards Lindsay, ignoring Justin's soft “Brian.” I touched Emily's arm on the way and said, Keep an eye on Justin.


I must have looked like I meant business, because it was possibly the first time ever she didn't give me shit when I asked her for something. Okay.


I crossed to Lindsay and Gus and put my hand on Gus's shoulder. “Go talk to Justin about that video game you're playing.”


“Uh, can I talk to him about my critical reading grade, because—”


“Sure, sure, whatever,” I said, shoving him towards Justin and closing my hand around Lindsay's elbow. I speedwalked her out of the lobby and down the floor to my office, catching her when she stumbled a little her in high heels. I closed the door of my office and pointed at her. “What did you say to him?”


“To Gus?”


“Don't play dumb with me.”


“It was good!” she said. “I told him good things!”


“Lindsay, I'm running out of patience here.”


“I told him how proud we were of him,” she said. “I said I couldn't imagine how excited he must be and he deserved it and we were all so proud of him.”


I pinched my nose. “You told him you can't imagine how excited he must be?”


“How is that—”


“He's not excited!” I yelled. “Can't he go five goddamn minutes without someone telling him what he has to feel? Jesus fucking Christ, what part of 'don't talk to him about it' was so hard for you to understand?”


“I'm sorry,” she said. “I am. I thought since it was something positive—”


“You have no idea what's positive for him! You don't fucking know him!”


She put her hand on my arm, and I shook her off and paced a few steps back and forth.


“I have to go,” I said. “I have to end this goddamn party.” I walked out and left her in my office and collided with Justin in the hallway.


She didn't do anything wrong, he said. Did you yell at her?


“No.” I pulled him into me with one arm and dropped a kiss on his ear, willing myself to calm the fuck down.


“She was being nice,” Justin said. “I'm okay. I am.”


I let him go and ran my hand over my mouth. I'm going to start winding this down.


“Brian, I'm okay.”


Well, that's good, because it will probably take me hours to get these boring fuckers out of here.


Justin shot me a weak smile.


Go hang out with Emily. I told her to keep an eye on you so she's probably panicking she's getting fired for you getting out of her sight.


He laughed a little. “Okay.”


I went back to the lobby, dismissed the bartenders, and threatened the caterers on pain of death not to bring out any more food. Those two things combined did the lion's share of convincing people it was time to pack it in, and I had Cynthia plant bugs in a few ears about how late it was getting even though it was barely eleven. It was maybe forty minutes later that Emily came up to me, while I was working on ushering Harris out of here, and rested a hand on my back. I'm going to take him to Starbucks, okay?


I reached for my wallet and she smacked me. Thank you, I said.


Shut up. See you soon.


Half an hour later, the clients were finally gone, Gus and Lindsay were in a cab back to their hotel, and Marcus and Isabel were there to supervise the caterers packing up. Cynthia kissed my cheek and said, Go home. I'll see you tomorrow.


Thank you. I pulled my coat on and jogged to the Starbucks two blocks away—probably the longest distance between a place and a Starbucks in the whole fucking city. They were sitting at a table, and Emily was signing too quickly for me to grab context, animated and bright, and he was smiling at her kind of vaguely, his cup held to the inside of his right wrist to put some heat on the muscles there. I put my hand on his shoulder and he leaned his cheek against it.


I handed Emily forty dollars. For your cab.


Brian.


Just take my fucking money.


She rolled her eyes. Fine. Thank you.


Justin was quiet in our cab, looking out the window and twisting his hands in his lap, still adjusting to the idea that he didn't have to pretend to be fine anymore. I gave him space, pretending I had something on my phone to do. We took the bridge into Manhattan, the light ahead of us like a runway, and when Justin sank down with his head in his hands I lay my hand across his back without looking at him.


I got out of my suit while he stood by the closet, looking kind of haunted and lost. I got his attention and said, casually, Shoes first, then pants, because sometimes when he's overwhelmed something like “get undressed” is too vague for him, and he needs it in steps. Executive dysfunction. Brain damage thing.


He sat on the bed and pulled his shoes off, but he didn't take off his pants. “I want to go out,” he said.


I looked at him sideways while I hung up my suit. We're not going out.


“I want to go out.”


You've had four hours of sleep in the past three days. You're going to bed.


I want to go to Nova. I want to dance and be around people and lights and—


Or you can get in bed, and I'll make you hot chocolate—


He shook his head hard.


You've been around people all night, I said. You're confused and you're freaking out a little—


I'm not confused!


Okay. I held up my hands. “Okay.”


“I want to feel something!” he said. “I want...the music and the lights and...” He paced. “I want to feel something, I want to feel it, I...”


Sunshine. I put my hand on his waist.


“No, you don't understand, I...” He was crying again, and I kept searching his face like it was going to tell me what the fuck was going on. But I didn't know. He didn't know.


So I kissed him, at first just this gentle comforting thing, but...it's us, so pretty quickly I was taking his clothes off and I had him pinned underneath me on the bed while he scratched the fuck out of my back and begged his tongue against mine. He was still crying, which wasn't exactly a turn on, but it's not as if he really has to turn me on at this point. It's us.


“Please,” he kept whispering, and I just said, It's okay, you're okay, probably looking annoyed and exasperated between the kisses and the gropes and the crying, and I licked the dip of his collarbone and he sobbed and clung as I thrust into him.


He cried, his hands scrambling on me like he was trying not to fall, and I held onto his hair and fucked him like it would keep him, I don't know, keep him in place, and I marked his neck and chest with my mouth, mindful of where his shirt collar would fall tomorrow, or as mindful as I can be of anything when Justin is writhing and naked under me, writhing and naked and crying. He came with a throaty sob, and I followed a minute later, whispering his name into his hair, arms around his neck as he arched himself against me.


I'd been rough on him, so there was aftercare: cleaning him up, getting some ice for the bruises around his shoulder. He touched the scratches on my back but I said, Badge of honor and had him leave them.


We lay facing each other in bed. He wasn't crying anymore.


I think I get to be worried now, I said.


I don't know what's wrong with me, he said.


You're going through a bad patch. Your meds got messed up. It happens.


He shook his head a little. “I think this is just me. Like even...even pre-bashing me. I feel like my entire fucking life is me trying to actually feel the right thing at the right time and just...faking it. I'm not here. I'm not in the moment, I'm too...it's like there's this delay between when things happen and when I actually experience them. I mean, fuck, it's how I ended up with Ethan.” He covered his eyes. “It's just like somehow I've managed to fool everyone into thinking I'm present and that I respond to things like some kind of normal person and it's all just...sometimes I want to pay someone to follow me around and fucking like, hit me when something bad happens so I'll actually have the right feeling at the right time as something for once.”


Is it easier to say all that when you can't hear yourself?


“Yeah, you have no idea.”


Sounds nice. Let's not pay someone to follow you around and hit you.


“I make my own money, I can do with it what I want.”


I smiled at him a little.


“I am just so goddamn messed up,” he said. “I think people just don't see that. Even you. I'm just this fucked up goddamn mess who bursts into tears every thirty seconds and can't take the idea that people expect things from him and want him to be happy because he's not happy and he's letting everyone down and freaks out in crowds and can't figure out how to take his fucking clothes off when he's overwhelmed and I just...I am such a goddamn mess, Brian. I'm a fucking disaster.” He paused. “Well? Anything to say on that?”


Um...I love you anyway?


He laughed, covering his face, then said, No, you're supposed to say I'm not a fucking disaster.


Well, I would, but I figured it would be unkind to blatantly lie to you when you're this messed up.


He kicked me and ducked his head into my collarbone. I finger-combed his hair for a while.


“I'm so scared the person you're in love with doesn't even really exist, and I've just tricked you or something,” he said.


I picked his head up. Really? What's that like?


He groaned, rolling back on his pillows. “Goddddd. Look at us.”


See, and we were worried with the Deaf/hearing thing we wouldn't have enough in common.


He laughed and held his stomach. “Stop. You're such a jerk.”


Didn't you say you were going to be nicer to me?


He flipped on top of me, covering me with his mouth. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, and he kissed me under the chin and around my neck.


Yeah, this works, I said, and he chuckled a little and rubbed his cheek against mine.


“Can we do this every time I cry?” he said. “You just fuck me so hard it breaks a few bones?”


So now I'm the person following you around hitting you, huh?


“Maybe,” he said, nuzzling his nose against my cheek.


I can't think when you do that. What did you ask me? Okay to whatever.


“Cool thanks.”


I put my arms all the way around him and rolled us back and forth a few times. You're gonna be okay, I said, depositing him next to me.


He blew air out of his mouth. How the fuck am I going to get through tomorrow?


Drugs?


He shook his head sadly.


Alcohol?


“Negative.”


Me? I climbed carefully on top of him. Fucking all the bad feelings out of you?


“You,” he whispered, and we went again.


**


The morning went okay. Justin gave me his phone as soon as he woke up and told me not to let him have it until he left on pain of death, so I got to keep him from being stressed about everyone arriving in the city and being so so so excited for him, at least for a few hours. He made French toast and read the paper while he ate. This time next week there'd be an article in there about him. Small, but it would be there.


What are you wearing tonight? he asked me.


Pinstripes.


The Versace?


Yeah.


Hot. He sipped his juice. I guess I'll just bring my suit down with me now. Doesn't really make sense to come home once I'm out. He was about to head to Brooklyn to supervise setting up the collection and do a little bit of pre-show press, and I had about eight hundred people from Pittsburgh to organize and entertain and generally keep from bothering Justin at all costs, so we probably weren't going to meet back up until just before the show.


What time is Stephanie getting there? I asked.


Two, they said that's when the interviews are starting. I'll manage fine until then. He took a deep breath and nodded.


I watched him. You want a Klonopin?


He shook his head.


You want to bring one in case you want it later?


No. I'm going to be fine.


I kissed the tip of his nose, then his mouth. I know you are.


**


I met the Pittsburgh crowd in Tribeca for lunch, including Molly, who I had lunch with most Sundays anyway, and rascaly little J.R. and Ivy who really had no business coming up to an art opening, but here they were. “Nobody wanted to stay back and watch 'em!” Deb explained, while Carl shook my hand. “We all wanted to be here.”


We got a massive table at Nobu and ate sushi and got a little day drunk, and honestly it was pretty nice. I had a moment of marveling at how much more easily I could follow a group conversation in my first language—I managed to convince myself, frequently, that my signing was as strong as my English and that just was not the case—and just fell into it, answering questions about Justin's art and lying about his mental state. It was easy, was always so easy to convince these people of whatever I wanted them to believe. No twenty-five-year-old cocky Deaf kids calling me on anything I tried to pull. I told these people Justin was fine, and even Lindsay, who'd seen me lose my shit about him the night before, seemed to believe me.


Honestly it's hard to believe I didn't get bored in Pittsburgh a lot faster than I did. Using the language I was born into to manage people who'd believe that the sky was orange if I told them it was? Thank God for Justin, honestly, skeptical right from the start, or I would have had a stroke long before his ears blew.


But, well. For a break, for a change, it was nice.


“So this is a bigger deal than his other show, right?” Carl said.


I nodded, pinching a piece of salmon with my chopsticks. "Bigger gallery, more pieces, way more press."


“Our Sunshine's moving up in the world!” Debbie said. “Didn't I always tell you? Destined for great things!”


“He must be so excited,” Michael said.


Lindsay was probably trying to catch my eye, but I was too busy showering them with enthusiasm to check. “Oh, absolutely,” I said.


“This might be the biggest day of his life,” Melanie said.


“Yeah, could be.”


“He must be trying to memorize every second of it,” she said. “This is a day he's going to want to remember forever.”


I nodded.


J.R. sneaked her cucumber onto Ben's place. “Gross.”


**


As much as I wanted to abscond away to the office for a couple hours, I had to watch these people like goddamn hawks to keep them from texting Justin, so I took them to Battery Park to see the boats and to Chelsea to see the highline and to Coney Fucking Island to do whatever the fuck, and at five they finally headed back to the hotel to get changed for dinner, and I went back to the apartment, sent quick shitty answers to a few shitty emails, got changed, and met Derek, Emily, and Daph for pre-show diner food and strategizing.


Just stop anyone who looks like they could be from Pittsburgh who tries to speak to him, I said.


Emily said, I can't memorize all your Pittsburgh people.


Anyone with bad fashion sense, I said. Even if they're not from Pittsburgh, no one with bad fashion sense should be talking to Justin. They'll give him ideas.


You think he's going to be better after the opening's over, or is he going to be like this the whole time the show's going? Derek said. I ask this because I love him and also because I'm leaving before the show closes.


Daphne dropped her head on his shoulder. Stop.


I don't think this is because of the show, I said. It's just bad timing.


Making everything worse, Daphne said.


I said, Yeah, that. And also... I shrugged. He's missing it. It's this huge event in his life and he's just...missing it.


Emily frowned and dropped her chin in his hand.


I shook my shoulders off. It's not the end of the world. It's fine, I said. It's fine. I dragged a fry through some ketchup. He's just missing it.


**


Just like the year before, at a much smaller gallery for a much smaller show, people were starting to show up and mill around and sip their champagne and there was no Justin. I did a circle of the room, thanking the press, meeting the other artists, “I'm Justin Taylor's partner”ing myself, and finally Justin answered my text with just the words loading dock.


He was sitting outside in his black wool coat, smoking a cigarette and swinging his legs, looking out at the Manhattan bridge. I sat down beside him. He wasn't crying, but he wasn't okay.


Are we going to do this every show? I asked him, slipping an arm over his shoulders briefly to warm him up.


He took a long pull on the cigarette. “Are you going to fuck all the bad feelings out of me? Because we should probably find somewhere warmer for that.”


We can, but it that doesn't seem to really be working.


He didn't say anything for a while. “The other artists, they've been freaking out all day,” he said. “They're excited and anxious and fucking yelling at everyone for hanging their pictures an inch too far to the left or whatever and I just...I don't feel it. I don't feel anything. The journalists who were here, every single one of them asked about the train tracks painting and I had to think of something to say and I don't feel it.”


This is going to get better, I said. You get that, right?


It doesn't feel real. I don't know.


Well, yeah, of course it doesn't. That's part of it. That feeling like it's going to last forever. We've done this before, you know? This isn't new, it just sucks, but we've done this. It comes back. Christ, of course you don't feel the train tracks painting right now, it's about fucking...magic, it's magic, and you're not supposed to feel magic right now. You're not supposed to be feeling the magic.


It feels like I never did. Like it was just...like it's always been like this.


Yeah, but it wasn't, because you painted it once. You made a fucking painting about magic. You don't do that if you've never felt anything. It'll come back.


“Even if I did feel it once, that doesn't mean it's coming back. How do you even know?”


Am I ever wrong?


“That's your reasoning? Because yeah, you're definitely sometimes wrong.”


Okay, but in my defense you're not supposed to remember those times.


He laughed and slipped his gloved fingers between mine. “I love you.”


So, see, that's nice.


He let go of my hand and ran his hands down his face. “God. You've done so much for me this week, you got everyone up here to see me and you've been so patient and you're fucking...you're open and present and here and in color and I'm just...I'm black and white, I'm sleepwalking.”


Sleepwalking. Hang on, I said. Hang on, is that what this is? I took him by the knees and spun him so he was facing me straight on. You think you...you what, you owe me some kind of...what, some kind of response?


“Not owe, exactly, just...”


I took a deep breath that hurt my lungs and said, All right. For the sake of argument, let's say you're right, okay? That this isn't just some medication reaction, that this isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Just...let's say that. Okay?


“Okay,” he said.


Justin, Christ, look at your fucking life. You've felt more in twenty-seven years, you've given me...God, Justin, come on. Look what you've fucking done. It's okay to check out for a little while.


He looked skeptical.


Come on, I said. You think you're sleepwalking for a week? I sleepwalked for twenty-nine years and I ended up pretty okay. You can afford a few weeks. You need the next twenty-nine years? We can do the next twenty-nine years.


He looked up at me, his eyes big and clear.


Yeah, I said. You take your time, Sunshine.


He kissed me, gentle and slow.


But we do have to go inside now, I added. The take your time was on more of a macro scale.


He smiled.


**


Justin hates being arm candy, hates being shown off. I have given up pretending I also hate these things. I think I was meant to be a kept boy and ended up living an extremely incorrect life.


I got drinks, kissed cheeks, and remembered names and careers and connections for Justin and was his little human teleprompter behind people's heads. Stephanie was there to interpret, so I was half bodyguard and half decoration and I fucking liked it that way. Justin held up nicely, smiling his Hollywood smile and coming up with eloquent descriptions of the techniques behind all his paintings, if not the feelings. The reporters definitely seemed more interested in Justin than the other artists, and I caught a few pissed off whispers about it, but fuck them. So maybe it was initially less about the art and more about Justin's smile, or his ass, or his non-functional ears or the fact that he had a man at his elbow instead of a woman, who could say. But it got to the art eventually, and once you get to Justin's art, no one ever wants to talk about anything else.


I kissed his cheek and excused myself while he was talking to a reporter from the Village Voice and went to really look at the exhibit, because I was curious about these other artists, and I'd been so busy schmoozing with Justin that I really hadn't gotten to look at his pieces hung either. I did a lap, working my way through the other two guys. They were fine. Good, even. But then there was Justin, and just...look, there was no comparison. That's not just me being...me. There was no comparison.


I moved way through his pieces, the green—and gold—and his best thunderstorm, and the geometric one that already had an offer on it, the bastards. And then there it was. Train tracks. There was a small group paused in front of it, so I hung back a little and waited for them to step out of the way and...there it was. The glass and the familiar with the unfamiliar, the empty space and the fucking magic.


I felt Justin's hand on my elbow, but I didn't look away from the painting. I couldn't. And then I heard him say, “Brian,” really softly, and when I shook my head a little, for some reason, I realized I was crying. Not bawling like a baby or anything—that fun little story was still a few months off—but just crying a little like I was suddenly the type of asshole who cried at paintings.


Or maybe I'd been that kind of asshole this whole time, and I'd just never seen a painting good enough until right then.


“Oh,” Justin said beside me.


I pulled myself the fuck together and looked at him, and he was staring at me with this ghost of a smile on his lips.


I shrugged, embarrassed. You know.


“The magic?” he said.


I nodded and swallowed. The magic.


He turned to his painting and I watched a slow, genuine smile light up his whole face.

 

Magic.

End Notes:

 

#50!! Wanted something that had something new--note that explicit rating--but also felt kind of tonally like a summary of the series, so...here we go. Kind of a sequel in spirit to "The One Where Justin Cries All Winter," because I like that one.

Chapter 51 - Promises by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

A problem at Kinnetik has ramifications for Brian and Justin, and neither of them handles it all that well.

Promises

LaVieEnRose



So we've established that I have no shortage of affection for Justin and certainly, Lord help me, no shortage of patience, that I am more than happy to share with him my bed, my bank account, my life, but when he walked into my office mid-afternoon in February I wanted him to be literally anywhere else in the world. He tried to say hi and I greeted him instead with Not now. Prince fucking Charming, that's me.


He scratched absently at his arm. What's up?


I really can't...we fired Marcus this morning.


Oh, wow. Why?


What about me gave him the impression I had time to talk about this right now? Because he hadn't been doing half the shit he said he was doing, he was just fucking lying about it for goddamn months, so now I'm trying to pick up the slack and figure out what clients he didn't check in with and what accounts he didn't charge and what paperwork he didn't file, and I screamed at Emily and now she's crying and I don't...what the fuck are you even doing here?


He ran his hand over his mouth, which is absolutely a mannerism he stole from me, and on another day I might have found that endearing. Nothing.


Okay, you're obviously lying, but I don't have time to deal with that right now.


He cracked a smile. Yeah, but it's nothing. We can talk about it later. He leaned over my desk and gave me a quick kiss before he headed out, and I swear I was about to throw something at him, maybe even something soft, who knows, to get his attention and give him something at least adjacent to an apology, but then I got another email from Cynthia about e-fucking-nother way Marcus had completely fucking screwed us over, and by the time I even glanced up from that Justin was gone.


Half an hour later, I'd pretty much forgotten he was ever there.


**


I didn't get home that night until almost eleven. I was fucking starving and had really been hoping Justin had made something, but instead he was just lying on the couch and there was an empty bowl in the sink and a box of cereal on the counter, because God forbid he ever actually clean up a goddamn thing. I threw my briefcase on the chair and kicked off my shoes and was grateful to not have to give a shit about how loud I was, though probably I wouldn't have cared anyway right then.


“Hi,” Justin said.


I checked the fridge. Why is there no fucking food in this house?


He shrugged and twisted to his elbow and sneezed a few times, which was enough to jog my memory about his day, at least.


I said, You didn't go to work today, you'd think you could go to the store.


I did go to work, he said. I took a couple hours off, that's all.


I sighed and came into the living room, loosening my tie. How'd the allergist go?


Fine.


It seems like they didn't magically fix you.


Yeah, I hate when they don't do that. He dug his knuckle into his eye until I slapped his hand away.


Did you get a daily inhaler prescription?


He doesn't think I need it yet.


I shrugged. Okay. I'm going to order pizza or something. Not that we can fucking afford it. You know we lost eighty thousand dollars today?


He sat up. We what?


Yeah. Well, actually, we lost it fucking months ago, and Marcus just didn't feel the need to tell us until now. You're lucky we already put the fucking deposit down on this Italy trip... I picked up the phone and called for pizza, and Justin turned the TV on. I ranted about fucking Marcus while I waited for the pizza and got the pizza and ate way too goddamn much of the pizza, and Justin sort of listened and mostly worked his way through a box of tissues and glared at me when I batted his hand away from his eyes. Eat some of this, I told him. You weren't this skinny when you were a teenager, for God's sake.


He sneezed and shook his head. “I can't taste anything.” His voice was hoarse, quiet.


I nudged my foot against his. What did you come by to tell me earlier?


“Oh. I sold the green painting. The gallery called today. So now we're only down seventy-eight and a half thousand dollars.”


Guess we can go to Italy after all, I said, which was the closest he was going to get to an apology, and he knew it.


“Yeah, guess so.” He leaned his head against my shoulder but pulled away a second later to cough.


I rubbed his back. You really don't sound good, you know.


“I'll take your word for it.” He coughed a little more. “I'm gonna shower. Are you coming?”


I looked him up and down, that too-skinny, still perfectly-working body, and wanted to very, very badly. I have to work.


Okay. He scratched his wrist. You're going to be working late again tomorrow too, I'm guessing?


Yeah, why?


“Nothing, I just have that movie with Gabe, so I won't be here either. So you don't have to cry into your files about poor Sunshine all on his own.”


Thank God.


He smacked me on the head on the way to the shower, and I poured myself a drink and settled in for a long night.


Which, it turned out, was even longer than anticipated, because when I finally fell into bed around three, Justin, as if he'd been fucking saving it for the instant I was ready to sleep, started snoring. “Are you fucking kidding me,” I growled, and I put every effort I had left into not rolling him over as roughly as I could.


He woke up as I was rolling him onto his stomach. “Don't want to,” he mumbled. “Don't feel good,” except he was wriggling and spreading his legs out.


I contemplated that, and how fucking tired I was, and shook his shoulder until he looked at me. Do you want to or not, what the fuck is this?


He rolled to his back. “Yeah, but I can't breathe on my stomach.”


I kissed him roughly. Once I'm done with you you're turning back over.


“No...”


I fucked him hard enough to work him into a good sweat and to hopefully take the edge off the fucking coiled up aggression I was holding in my stomach, but I was still pissed off when we were done, though feeling more warmly to the guy who'd just made me purr like a damn kitten, at least. I cleaned him off and watched with amusement as he coughed up all the crap I'd loosened up in his chest. Better? I asked.


He spit into a wad of tissues. “Ugh. Gross.”


Maybe sex is the cure for snoring. Come here.


No, I don't want to be on the wet spot.


Shut up and come here.


He grumbled and fit himself into the crook of my arm, and I swatted him on the back of the head when he sneezed pathetically into my chest. He squirmed around trying to get comfortable, slinging his leg over mine, readjusting every time I steadfastly stopped him from trying to fall asleep on his back.


Eventually I caught him in something someone a less charitable person might call a headlock and pinned him in place. Stay, I signed in his face.


He struggled against it a little but gave up finally, cheek on my chest. I could feel him watching me, so I closed my eyes, but he said, “Brian?” with his fucked up R that cut through the sleep I was finally, finally falling into.


“Yeah?” I said, hugging him into me, eyes still closed. He could get it off my lips.


He fit his forehead against my neck. “Nothing.”


I kissed the top of his head as I drifted off. “Kay.”


I was almost, almost asleep, so fucking close, when he started snoring again.


**


So, okay, look, it was day two of this Marcus crap, he had the goddamn nerve to make noise about filing wrongful termination while I was literally still in the process of discovering more things he'd fucked up, and I was running on about ten solid minutes of sleep and had used up any decency I had apologizing to Emily for yelling at her the day before,


All this to explain why I was, once again, not the sweetest to Justin when he interrupted my work day, this time with a phone call a little after five. Really can't talk, I said.


He was walking to the subway, and he said something out loud, the hand that wasn't holding his phone scratching underneath his collar, but he doesn't know he has to raise his voice over the construction and shit that he walks past.


Street noise, I said. Sign.


Did you go to the pharmacy last week?


What are you talking about?


Last week, I think it was Wednesday? You said you were going to go.


No, that was when the train was down so I just took a cab straight home from work. Gently getting Justin to remember on his own that two things happened on the same day is always kind of a Herculean task, and it wasn't one I was really feeling like undertaking right then. Cynthia was already in the doorway with an armful of what I could only assume was more bad news.


Oh. Right.


From what I can see, your legs work fine, I said. You go to the pharmacy.


Yeah, I am. I was just checking that you didn't already go and just leave my meds somewhere—


Sunshine, I do not have time for this. “Come in,” I said to Cynthia.


She said, “If I'm interrupting—”


“No, he's interrupting.”


Fuck you, Justin said.


What the fuck, you read lips now?


I'm going to go to the pharmacy now so I don't have seizures, Justin said. And then I'm going to go out with my boyfriend who's a lot nicer than you are.


Yes, I know he's nicer than I am, that's literally what he's for.


Cynthia said, “Why don't I give you two—”


“No, we're done.” I hung up and turned to her. “How bad is it?”


Cynthia said, “Uh, well, we haven't paid the rent on the office in three months and they've been making noise about evicting us. How bad would you say that is?”


“Well, I don't know. They can't evict us if I fucking burn this place to the ground.”


**


I got home before nine to do the rest of the work from the apartment because I physically couldn't stand to be at the office any longer. I was, somehow, once again surprised by the lack of food in the refrigerator, not to mention by Justin on the couch. I shook him by the knee and said, What happened to your date?


“Cancelled.”


Couldn't have gone to the store, then?


“I ordered groceries. They'll be here in the morning.”


At least there was beer. I got one out and held one up for him, but he shook his head. Is the gallery giving you a direct deposit on the painting money, or did they write you a check?


“They wrote me a check.” He sat up a little, stretching his hand as it started shaking. “Is it really that dire that we're giving a shit about my painting money?”


No, I just didn't see it in the bank account today and I was wondering if you'd fucking lost it.


“I didn't lose it.” He pulled his legs in to make room for me on the couch. “I just haven't deposited it yet.”


“Okay.” I took a swig of my beer. God, what a fucking day. What's up with you, why did you cancel? I ask because I need to know if you're too sick to survive on your own if I fucking throw myself off the balcony.


“You know, we talk about throwing ourselves off that balcony a lot.”


Yeah, the new place I move us into because we'll no longer be able to afford this probably shouldn't have a balcony. We'll have to switch to threatening to drink bleach.


“Comforting. I feel really good about your mental state right now.”


I rolled my eyes. I'm fine. It's not like I'm you.


“Wow, thanks.”


I nodded to his hand. That's been going for a while.


“I guess.”


Give it to me. That why you cancelled?


“No, headache.”


I massaged his hand. Migraine?


He shook his head, scratching the back of his neck. “Just sinuses.”


Yeah, your voice still sounds like crap. And your eyes are swollen. And you've been scratching for two days, you're driving me crazy. Do you have hives? Let me see.


He sneezed and let me pull on him and check his skin.


Yeah, look at this. Seriously, your allergist was just fine with this?


What was he going to do, lock me in a plastic bubble?


Yeah, I guess.


He scratched his wrists, watching me. “You look really tired,” he said.


Yeah, well. You kept me up all fucking night.


He looked down. “Yeah. I can sleep in the office until the meds kick in.”


I didn't like it, and I felt like an asshole, but what the fuck could I do? I couldn't keep dealing with this crap on zero sleep, and God knows he fits better on the pull-out than I do. Okay. I kissed him, gentler than I was feeling. I have to get back to work. Order something for dinner, I'm fucking starving.


I set up shop in the office and combed through receipts and barely glanced up when Justin put a few sushi rolls next to me an hour later. I finally got up for a break when I heard him in the shower, but I ended up just watching him cough in the steam instead of doing anything to him.


You need to go back to the fucking doctor, I said. You're like this in fucking February, what's your plan for June?


He scratched the hives on his wrist. “I don't know yet.”


He seriously didn't give you any new prescriptions for this shit? Maybe he prescribed like ten things and your interpreter was just a moron.


Yeah, maybe. He washed my arms, fingers catching my collarbone. “You should sleep in tomorrow. You deserve it.” He got up on his toes and kissed me. “I'll make you breakfast.”


I can't, I have to go back to the office first thing.


On Saturday?


I shrugged.


“Fucking Marcus.”


Yeah, you can say that again.


Fucking Marcus.


I smiled a little without really meaning to. Bilingual perks.


“Yeah.”


I went back to the office got some more worked done and snapped at Justin when he coughed too much and made way more fucking noise than was necessary pulling out the couch and he snapped at me when he wanted to sleep and the light from my laptop was bothering him. Eventually I couldn't fucking concentrate over his snoring anyway, so I moved to the bedroom and kept sorting through old emails until my eyes wouldn't stay open anymore.


I couldn't sleep, though, which was goddamn ridiculous after being awake for this long. I cursed the traffic noise, cursed the lights on in the building next door, cursed the soft snoring I could still hear from two rooms away, and I tossed and turned in a bed that felt somehow impossibly large and finally gave up and went to the office and turned the light on.


Come on, I said, while he blinked blearily up at me.


“What?”


The bed's got the fucking...hypoallergenic everything. You shouldn't be sleeping in here.


He was so confused. He's always at his worst right after he wakes up. “Do you...okay, do you want to switch or—”


I sighed. Come to bed, Justin.


“Oh. Okay.”


He snored like a damn train, and I was worn out enough that I slept on top of him just fucking fine.


**


He was still fast asleep when I left for the office the next morning, and when my phone rang around eleven I figured it was him bitching at me for leaving him to take care of the grocery delivery singlehanded, but it was Emily, who doesn't normally call me. There's an app the Deaf kids like where we send short videos back and forth, like a signing version of texting, and that's how I usually communicate with her.


She was standing in her bright little kitchen Daphne and I helped her decorate. She said, Fuck, are you still at the fucking office? Go home. Your husband misses you.


Probably not, I've just been yelling at him for two days.


Hmm, what's that like?


I gave her a simpering look. Can I help you, darling?


Yeah, so...I get dental insurance, right?


Of course.


Okay, that's what I thought, but I went to the dentist last week and I just got a letter saying my insurance was denied.


What? Let me see.


I can fucking read English, you know. Here. She held it up to the camera.


I read it and sat back in my chair. God fucking damn it, Marcus. Hang on. I started searching through the files Cynthia dropped off yesterday afternoon. How much is the bill for? I'll cover it, don't worry about that, okay?


Don't be ridiculous.


I'm not. You're my employee, I take care of you, this is my job. I stopped halfway through the pile, staring at the page in front of me. He didn't renew any of the health insurance. It all expired at the beginning of last week.


Jesus, is there anything this fucker didn't screw up?


This is...this can't be right.


You can fix it, right?


Yeah, in a few weeks, but...


I kept staring at this paper, like it was going to tell me anything other than the fucking obvious truth of the situation.


Emily waved until I looked at her. What is it?


I have to go home, I said.


What's wrong?


My partner's a fucking liar.


**


Justin was putting away the grocery delivery when I got home. “Hey, I didn't think you'd be home for a while.” He held up the box he was holding. “They had those shells they were out of for a few weeks. I thought I'd make clam sauce tonight.”


You didn't go to the doctor, did you?


He set the box down slowly. “I went,” he said carefully.


And then they kicked you out because you didn't have health insurance? Justin, look at me. I slammed my hand on the counter, and he jumped. Look at me.


He did, barely.


Why the fuck didn't you tell me? I said.


“I was going to. I came to the office to tell you, but...you haven't exactly been easy to talk to these past few days, and—”


No, I said. Absolutely not. You do not get to not tell me big and important shit because I'm a little fucking cranky. That is not how this works.


You were already stressed, you didn't need—


Yes, I absolutely needed to know about this, because this does not just affect you, this is three hundred employees who I am responsible for, who trust me, and you have known for three days that I wasn't taking care of them and you didn't tell me. And you know what, this fucking is about you, because you knew that I wasn't taking care of you and you didn't tell me, and that's fucking fucked up.


I'm fine, Justin said.


You can't sleep, you can barely fucking breathe, and you had me fucking believing that a doctor fucking saw you and thought this was okay! I thought you were fine!


Calm down, he said. I am fine. I've had allergies my whole fucking life, it's not a big deal.


Bullshit. Bullshit. And what if something had fucking happened to you? What we'd had some kind of emergency? When exactly the fuck were you planning on telling me this?


When I came to your fucking office to tell you, and I—


I what? I wasn't a perfect fucking gentleman to you, so you made up some fucking lie about selling your painting?


He set his jaw. That wasn't a lie. I sold my painting.


Then where the fuck's the money, Justin?


He crossed his arms.


You spent it at the pharmacy, I realized. You got the meds out of pocket.


“My anticonvulsant was out, I needed—”


How much were they?


He chewed the inside of his cheek. Eight hundred dollars.


You spent eight hundred fucking dollars so you wouldn't have to have a conversation with me.


No, I spent eight hundred fucking dollars because I needed my prescription that day and even if I had told you, you couldn't have—


I took a few steps back from him. This is such bullshit, I said. Hiding shit like this from me, fucking lying to my face, this is not a goddamn marriage.


He scoffed. “Don't act like the fact that we're married has something to do with our fucking standard of behavior, we got married so—”


“We got married so you could FUCKING HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE!” I screamed at him, out loud.


He stood there staring at me and looking so fucking small, like he'd fucking never seen the world before or something.


I ran my hand over my mouth. Did you get that?


“Yeah.”


I'm sorry. I should have signed it. He doesn't only deserve people speaking his language when they're not mad at him, that's not how it works.


Just like I don't only deserve the fucking truth about his goddamn health when I'm being sweet to him.


He shrugged a little.


You have to explain it to me, I said. You have to tell me what the fuck made you think it was okay to fucking look at me and lie to me about this.


You don't understand.


I swear to God, I'm making sure they put him down as the cause of death when I'm mercifully dragged from this world. I...understand that I don't understand, that's why I'm telling you to explain it to me.


It is different for me, he said. Trying to fucking...have a conversation with someone who's mad, it's different for me.


I rolled my eyes. Don't make this a brain damage thing.


No, I'm making this a brain damage thing! he said, and he was shaking a little. You don't understand how fucking scary the world is to me! It is not the same!


So, what, you're scared of me, that's it? I snap at you because I'm having a bad fucking day and I'm too scary for you to talk to?


Don't make fun of me! he said.


I'm not—


Yes you are, and you don't fucking get it! he said. I am in fucking...I think about the worst case scenario all the goddamn time, okay? I am prepared for the worst fucking thing that can happen all the time, I can't stop.


I said, Well, what the fuck is the worst fucking case here? What do you think I'm going to do, fucking hit you because you give me bad news about our fucking health insurance?


“Of course not.”


Then what?


“I don't know!” he said, covering his face with his hands. “I was just scared, okay? I'm scared all the fucking time. You think you're the only one thinking what if there's an emergency? I've been walking around afraid to fucking breathe, I don't...” He raked his hands through his hair and dropped his arms.


I know, okay? I said. I do know that you're scared all the time.


He shook his head. You're always saying I'm fearless.


Well...yeah, look at you. You go out and do shit anyway.


He laughed a little, and I could hear the tears in the back of his throat and Jesus, I'm only human. “I don't do anything. I didn't even argue with the receptionist at the office about the insurance. I just said okay and left. The interpreter probably went home and told her interpreter friends what a pushover I am.”


You can't be scared of me, I said. It's been ten fucking years and...and I have baggage about this, you can't be scared of me.


“You could always be nicer to me,” he grumbled, but he fit himself into my arms. I held him for a while and willed myself to calm down, running my hand up and down his back.


What if I wrap you in bubble wrap until you have health insurance again? I asked when we broke apart. Does that count as nice?


“Yeah, that'd be okay.”


I gave him an easy smack on the cheek. Don't lie to me anymore.


“Okay.”


I'll get this insurance thing sorted out. I looked at the pasta on the counter. Maybe don't boil water until then. I think those skin grafts were expensive.


He made a face at the joke and then sneezed twenty thousand times and pawed at his eyes. I knocked his hand away and tilted my head to the side, watching him.


I know you're miserable, I said. You really wanted that appointment. Set up a new one, I'll come with you, I'll explain we're paying out of pocket.


He shook his head. I can wait, it's fine, he said. I sighed, and he put his hand on my arm. “Hey, what?”


I shrugged. This is why we got married. So I could do this thing for you. This one thing. And I fucked it up.


You didn't fuck it up.


I should have been on top of this shit.


He placed his hand on my chest. I looked down at it for a little while.


I think you can divorce me now, if you want, I said. I think you'd be within your rights.


“Okay,” he said. “I'll keep that in mind.”


I ran my hand over his hair a few times. I have to go back to the office. I'll call as soon as I get there and start fixing this.


“Okay,” he said, but as I was leaving he said, “Brian?” and God, he sounded so fucking nervous.


I turned around.


He shrugged, looking right at me. It's why we went up to Vermont and signed a piece of paper, he said. That's all.


I swallowed. I know.


And I could get it through my work, he said. It's not as good as your policy, but I could—


I shook my head. No, I'm going to fix this.


Okay, but...you get my point, right? I don't need you for this anymore.


I didn't say anything.


He raised his arms up and dropped them. I'm here, okay? I don't need you to do this thing for me anymore and here I am.


I nodded a little.


And I'd do it again right now, he said. Marry your fucking useless, uninsured ass.


I loved him a lot right then.


So I said, There is nothing useless about my ass.


I could still hear him laughing as I closed the door, took a deep breath, and I headed back to the office. Because I had shit to take care of, because fuck it, he didn't fucking feel good and I'd stood in a courthouse in goddamn Vermont and made a promise about that.

 

And also because if I didn't get him that allergist appointment he was fucking never going to stop snoring.

End Notes:

idk they'd been really nice to each other in the last few and I was getting bored. Do me a favor and don't play the blame game in the comments? They're both messing up; it happens.


While I've got you here, I make all these fanvids of these two crazy kids and they were just sitting on my laptop, so I put them on on a youtube channel. You can see those here if such things interest you: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCNaZG-SGtzMh1c2UTvNe-nQ There is, in fact, a 24 part Brian and Justin: The Musical if that's something you need.

 

kay I'll shut up now. also there's now an email address in my profile in case you want to reach me. Okay, actually shutting up.

Chapter 52 - Laying on of Hands by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin's short two senses for a few days, and it's a nightmare.

Laying on of Hands

LaVieEnRose



I know this sounds so weirdly specific—and trust me, it did to me too—but one of the first things they teach you in ASL classes is not to throw pieces of paper at a Deaf person to get their attention. It became a running joke with me and Brian, long before I had lost enough hearing to warrant special attention-getting techniques. He'd throw something heavy and dangerous at me and then be like, “Hey, it's not a piece of paper,” or he'd actually throw paper at me and I'd give him some over-the-top horrified, “Brian, no.”


So the reasoning is that a piece of paper has edges and could theoretically catch you in the eye, and maybe that sounds kind of paranoid, but Deaf people are really, really protective about their eyes. Way more so than their hands, and probably the first thing you think of when you think about signing is hands, but there are ways around that. Hell, if anyone knows about being Deaf with a fucked-up hand, it's me. But if you're Deaf and you can't see someone signing at you, that's kind of an issue. And it's not that there aren't solutions for that too—Deaf-blind people exist and aren't all that uncommon, and there are whole adaptations of sign language and interpreting for working with them—but it's obviously a pretty major deal. And it's really, really isolating.


We never really stopped making fun of the paper rule—though nowadays Brian mostly throws socks at me, which means I haven't worn a matching pair of socks in years, because of course after he takes off his own sock and throws it at me he steals my nice matched pairs—but we did get kind of collectively nervous about eye stuff, the way we get collectively nervous over most things we can't control. Mostly it just meant Brian bitched at me every time my allergies were bad and I had the audacity to rub my eyes.


Which brought us to where we were at the start of this story, which was standing in our bathroom a couple days before my twenty-eighth birthday, Brian with a bottle of eye drops, me with my head back and one hand holding a tissue under my nose and the other sloooowly inching up towards my eyes, because maybe if I was subtle enough—


Stop.


I glared at him, blowing my nose. We'd had a warm, wet winter, which was giving way to an early, pollinated spring, and I was doing about how you'd expect with that. Our health insurance was back in the saddle or whatever, so I'd gone to the allergist earlier that day and come home with a a couple new medications, including these prescription eye drops that I'd been trying to psych myself into using for the past ten minutes before Brian finally snatched them away and said he'd do it. Sue me, I've always had a thing about sticking things in my eyes and I'm a little extra nervous about it after four years of scaremongering!


He said, Okay, think you can go without sneezing for a ninety seconds?


No.


Well, I have the utmost faith in you. Head back.


I pinched the tissues around my nose with one hand and gripped the counter with the other while Brian pried my eye open and squeezed out a few drops. I flinched when the first one hit my eye, but managed to stay still after that. He moved to the other, working quickly, and I stood there with my eyes closed, trying to keep the drops in, and felt Brian run his hands up and down my arms. I blinked eventually, and my vision swam and focused on him, standing there looking so fucking hot in his white tank top and smarmy smile.


Better? he asked.


I don't know. Stings. And they made my nose run.


Everything makes your nose run. He kissed me between my eyes and gave me a little nudge. Shower, come on.


I don't want to.


The steam felt good on my sinuses, and Brian's hands were gentle and sure. He'd been really careful with me since the whole health insurance fiasco, and it was sort of weird but also nice. He washed my hair, shielding my itchy eyes from the shampoo. We ought to shave your head again, he said.


No.


Pollen gets caught in your hair.


I tried to argue but sneezed instead, and he sighed and pulled me into his chest.


You'll feel better tomorrow, he said. Meds will help.


That, friends, is what he call dramatic irony.


**


There's also just some regular old irony, which is that it turned out I was really allergic to my allergy eye drops. One of these days Brian's going to return me to the pound. I woke up in the morning feeling this awful heaviness in my face and my chest, and my eyes were burning like they were full of smoke.


And also I couldn't see.


My eyelids were so swollen that I couldn't even do more than crack my eyes open, and when I did that my vision was super blurry and it hurt so much that I automatically slammed them shut again.


I couldn't fucking see.


Um. Okay okay okay.


I groped around next to me for Brian and grabbed him by the arm and squeezed really hard. He flinched and pulled his arm away from me, and I said, “No I can't see I can't see I can't see.” And look, I'm used to talking without being able to hear at this point, I'm used to it, but it's still fucking weird, and really the only way I know I'm making sound is I see Brian react to it, and without that it was like...I had no proof. Nothing.


His hands were on me, sitting me up, and I held onto him for dear fucking life. It was fucking me up that I couldn't even prove that it was Brian, and like, that's fucking stupid because he felt like Brian and he smelled like Brian and also, you know, who the fuck else would it be, but I couldn't prove it.


His fingers brushed under my eye, and it stung like crazy and I flinched away. “No no no, it hurts, don't.” I had this vague thought that I might have been totally ugly as shit right now, with my eyes swollen shut. And I know Brian and I are way past that shit, and I've looked like total crap in front of him on basically innumerable occasions at that point, but, you know, still. I like to look nice for him.


And obviously that didn't fucking matter right now because I couldn't fucking see so we kind of had some more pressing issues at hand, but I think I was so fucking freaked out by that that I was looking for anything else to think about, I don't know. Like how I was grabbing Brian and I was for some reason super aware of the little hairs on the backs of his wrists and wondering if I was pulling them, if I was hurting him. And these sheets were kind of scratchy, we should really get new ones, and I could feel a little bit of a breeze on my skin and that better have been the fan and not Brian opening the windows when I was already fucking allergic as shit, I mean for God's sake my fucking eyes were swollen shut and I couldn't fucking see—


I felt him brush my hair away from my face, then the bed shake as he got up.


“No no don't go! Brian—”


His hands were back on me again, hesitating, and then he grabbed my hand hard and fit it around his, and I felt his thumb sticking through his fingers, his hand shaking slightly back and forth. Bathroom. Smart, my Brian, so goddamn smart. Okay. Okay.


I said, “Okay, um, can you hurry, can you come back because I can't see anything, I don't...”


He kissed my cheek, and then his hands were off me, and I felt just...bereft. Lost at sea. I pulled my legs up and hugged them, and it felt like so damn long before the bed sank back down and he put an arm around my shoulders. He manipulated my fingers into a W and then tapped them against my chin. Water. Okay. I nodded, and he put the cup in my hand and I drank. His hand rubbed up and down my back, roughly, firmly.


I felt two of his fingers swipe in a cross on my upper arm—hospital—and then he did that one-finger scratch into my palm. That's hard to translate to English, but you put it at the end of questions sometimes. Usually if you're kind of nervous about asking it, but here I think it was just so I'd know he was asking, not telling.


Which was good, because I was not going to the fucking hospital. I shook my head hard. There was no fucking way I was going to be around a whole bunch of hearing people with a whole bunch of drugs when I couldn't even fucking see what they were doing. No way. No fucking way.


All right, he signed on my chest, and then he hugged me. I felt his breath on my temple, and I twisted my hands in his shirt until he pried one free. Medicine, he signed onto my palm, and he handed me a few pills, different shapes and sizes. Fun fact: medicine is the same sign as poison. I guess there's that irony again.


I hate, hate, hate taking meds and not knowing what they are. You don't grow up with a million drug allergies and feel okay doing that.


I tossed them down my throat and held out my hand for the glass.


**


Brian brought me out to the living room and sat me on the couch, and I scratched anxiously at the leather every second he wasn't touching me until I felt the floorboards move and then he slapped my hands. He sat down next to me and guided my head into his lap, and I flinched when a cold cloth came down over my eyes. He spread his palm over my chest. My heart was beating like a fucking hummingbird, and he rubbed over it like it would slow it down.


I said, “This is...um. This is pretty scary.”


He rubbed his hand in circles. It could have been please, but I think it was just comforting. It kind of reminded me of back when...I don't know, when we were new, and the only way Brian fucking knew how to communicate was through touch. I used to lie in bed with him after we'd had sex, waiting for him to kick me out, fucking dying of joy every time his fingers brushed my hair.


But that was a long time ago.


“I'm not handling this well,” I said. “In case you were thinking that maybe, you know, okay, this is probably something pretty freaky for Justin but he's handling it well, I am not handling it well.”


He didn't do anything for a minute and I cursed myself for overwhelming him, too much too much too much, I was too clingy and too pathetic and he was going to leave and I would have nothing and I couldn't goddamn see, I was going to be left here alone and I couldn't fucking see—


But then he kissed my forehead.


“It's temporary,” I said. “It'll go away.”


He made my hand into a fist and rocked it. Yes.


“Okay. Okay.” I tried for a deep breath. “I'm tired,” I said. “It's the dark, I think. Maybe the panic a little bit.”


Medicine, he said on my palm again.


“Oh. Benadryl?”


Yes, he had my hand say again. He fingerspelled something into my palm, but it was long and I didn't get it at all. I shook my head, and he ran his fingers along my hairline.


I shivered. “Don't you have to go to work?” I wasn't even thinking about my work. God, if Brian's going to take me back to the pound, God only knows what Marie's going to find to do to me at some point.


He pinched my fingers together. No.


“Okay. Um...don't leave the apartment, okay? Just...just until this gets better, can you...you don't have to hold my hand the whole time or anything, just...if you could be here if I...fuck. Fuck. I'm suffocating you.” I tried to slow my breathing down but I couldn't, and I clung to his leg. “Christ, I'm so goddamn fucking pathetic, I just...I feel like I'm not even talking right now, I feel like I'm not fucking existing.”


He folded my hand into a Y and pushed it down firmly. Stay.


“Okay,” I said. “Okay. I'm sorry.”


He kept rubbing circles on my chest until I fell asleep.


**


I woke up still on the couch, and I automatically tried to open my eyes to nothing but pain and blurred colors, and I winced and poked at my swollen eyelids. Jesus. I had to look like a fucking ogre.


Brian wasn't there, as far as I could tell, anyway. For all I knew he was sitting right next to me on the couch and just not touching me. Jesus Christ, this was fucking ridiculous. I didn't fucking know anything.


Also I really had to pee.


I got off the couch and felt my way over to the bathroom, and it was scary as shit but I know my apartment and I had a moment of okay, maybe I can get through this, maybe this is manageable, except then my fucking allergies remembered that goddamn blinding me just wasn't enough, and I sneezed and tripped on the rug and ran into the side table and the next thing I knew I was on my ass on the floor and there was some kind of sharp pain in my palm.


I jumped as hands grabbing my shoulders and my arm, but obviously it was Brian, first of all because why would it be anyone else, and also because, all panic aside, I think I could lose a few more senses and I'd still know Brian's hands. “Hi,” I said. “I fell.”


He squished my fingers into a D-handshape and shook my elbow. Where?


“Where did I fall?”


I didn't need to see his no, you idiot look to feel it.


“Oh, where was I going? Bathroom,” I said. “I think I hurt my hand. The other one.”


He picked it up and turned it over, then helped haul me off the floor and to the bathroom. He planted me where I hoped to God was in front of the toilet and then guided me to the sink, and when I was done washing my hands he took my left and bandaged it up.


“Glass?” I asked him. He probably would have told me already, except the sign for glass is touching your teeth with your fingernail and gross, I didn't want his fingers in my mouth.


Yes, he made my right hand say.


“Great.”


I felt his fingers lift my chin, hesitantly, like a question, and I knew. I nodded a little, hoping I didn't look as desperate for it as I was, and then he was kissing me, and God, it was so nice, soft and gentle and sweet. I rested my hand on his chest and his hands massaged my scalp. He used to do that a lot when I was losing my hearing, when I was dizzy and scared all the time.


“I must look like a fucking nightmare,” I said.


Yes, he made me sign, and I groaned and covered my face. He hugged me.


I love you, I signed, and he tapped his fist against mine.


**


I ended up lying back down in bed because I don't know, it was closer, but one thing about not having any hearing or vision, aside from the complete goddamn terror of it, is that it's pretty fucking boring. It's not like I could read or watch TV. Brian brought me my iPod, and I cranked up the sound on that, but in the past year I'd stopped being able to hear that at all, even the low frequencies, even as loud as I could make it, so it didn't really do much. Brian was next to me with his laptop, but he had to work so he couldn't really keep entertaining me, and I felt bad enough about being this fucking needy as it was. He gave me a can of Play-doh to mess with and every once in a while would change out the washcloth over my eyes. I flinched every time.


“Can you get me a sleeping pill?” I asked Brian eventually. “I just want to be unconscious until this is over.”


He didn't respond for a minute, probably because he was just finishing whatever he was typing, but it gave me such an eerie feeling, like he was mad at me or he'd gotten up and I didn't know it or like I thought I'd spoken but I really hadn't, but then he squeezed my hand and I felt him get up. He sat down on my other side a minute later and gave me a pill and some water, and took the glass back when I was done.


“I miss you,” I said, without really meaning to.


He took my hand and shaped it into a Y, shook it back and forth. Me too.


**


I slept for some undetermined amount of time, but I woke up with this distinct sense of dread before I even consciously realized that something new was wrong. And then I tried to swallow, and I couldn't, and breathe, and I could, sort of, but something was really not right here, and probably I should have figured out before then that a reaction bad enough to literally swell my eyes shut was likely going to have some more effects, but look, I was not at my best.


Especially not right that minute, because I couldn't exactly breathe that well.


“Brian?” I sat up and immediately felt really, really lightheaded, and my stomach dropped like I was on a rollercoaster. Shit. “Brian?”


Nothing. Fuck.


“Brian! Brian, this is bad, I need...shit!”


My heart was going so goddamn fast, and I felt like I was going to throw up and I didn't know if that was the reaction or the fact that I was freaking the fuck out, but either way it certainly wasn't helping the feeling that I was about to fucking die sitting here in my bed. I felt around desperately at the nightstand and the bed next to me, because maybe if I could find my phone I could figure out how to call him.


Nothing.


“Brian! I screamed, and I knew it had to be loud because it hurt my throat, my throat that was fucking swelling smaller and smaller by the goddamn second. “Brian, I fucking...Brian, where the fuck are you, you said you would stay, Bri—”


And then he was there, grabbing my hands, slamming one of them against the other. Stop.


“No, something's wrong, I need—”


He forced my hand into a C and moved it in a circle in front of my face.


“What do you mean you're...” Fuck, I couldn't breathe. “You're looking? You had the Benadryl this morning, you know where...Brian, come back, I can't breathe, Brian. Brian!” I folded up and pushed my face into my knees. “God, fuck. Fuck. Can you please hurry, can you—” I tried to take a breath and it got stuck somewhere in my chest. “Um, I think this is bad, I think maybe I need—”


His hands were on me again, suddenly, yanking down the waistband of my sweatpants, and before I could process what happening pain shot through my thigh and down my leg.


“Fuck!” I said, but already I could breathe easier, and my head felt heavier, and I thought maybe I actually wouldn't die in the next two minutes. I held Brian's wrist in place. “Count to ten, then take it out.” His other hand rubbed up and down my calf. Fuck, he'd never done this before. I wouldn't even have been sure he knew how. My mom gave me an epipen once as a kid, but besides that I'd never had anyone do it but me.


After ten seconds, Brian took it out and rubbed the spot on my leg. He nudged me over gently and got up on the bed beside me, an arm around my shoulders. His lips brushed my ear, and I felt him say something out loud.


I nodded and said, I'm okay. I'm okay now.


He crushed me against his collarbone and kissed the top of my head and stayed there for a long time. I could feel his heart pounding underneath my cheek. Just as fast as mine.


**


The next time I woke up, Brian had his hands on me, shaking me, so at least I knew where he was. But I also felt really shitty and really, really just wanted to go back to sleep.


I had no idea how long it had been. This whole ordeal could have been going on for three hours or three days. I didn't even know if it was day or night.


I felt, very simply and undramatically, like I was losing my fucking mind.


He sat me up, and I said, “Stop,” but he didn't. He put socks on my feet and pulled a hoodie over my head. “No,” I said. “No no, I'm not going anywhere.”


Doctor, he signed on my wrist.


“No! I told you no.”


He took my hands and I thought he was going to sign something, but instead he just laced them together and brought them up to his face, and I felt his lips and the stubble on his chin.


Begging.


Damn it.


“Okay,” I said. “But don't...let anybody look at me. And if you let go of me at any point I swear to God I am going to lose my shit. Loudly and publicly.”


He kissed me next to one fucked-up eye and pulled my shoes on.


I held onto his elbow on the way out of the apartment, only running into our furniture twice, and hid my face against his shoulder on the elevator as soon as it stopped and we didn't get off because that meant there was someone around who wasn't Brian, and I didn't want them to see my fucked up face, and I didn't want them to see any part of me when I couldn't see them, just like I don't like people who aren't Brian hearing my voice. I thought he might get kind of annoyed at that and shove me off, actually—Brian has this big problem with me being embarrassed about medical stuff—but he put his hand on the back of my neck and kept it there. I must really have looked bad.


My hay fever started acting up again once we were outside, just to add injury to injury, and it took us a while to get in the cab, so there was plenty of time for me to take a level up in misery. Brian stuffed some tissues in my hand, and I spent the car ride hunched over blowing my nose and trying to stop myself from panicking that my throat was going to close up again. Brian's hand stayed on my back.


“I hate this,” I said.


I know, he signed on my temple.


“I want to go home.”


He rubbed my back.


“I'm mad at you for this,” I said. “I agreed to this because I love you so I'm trying to not die for you, but I want you to know that I'm not happy about not just staying at home alone and dying there.”


I felt his hand stutter on my back, and I knew he was laughing. Good.


“I really don't want to do this, though,” I said. The car stopped, and I felt Brian's hands on my cheeks wiping off tears I hadn't realized were there. “Just allergies,” I said, which honestly might have been true, I had no idea. My body was clearly just doing things without asking me that day.


He pulled my hood down low over my face.


Thank you, I said.


I spent the ride up in the elevator trying to figure out what doctor this was, if this was my allergist or the GP or we'd come to some urgent care thing, but I couldn't piece it together. It smelled like the same antiseptic they use everywhere, and I'd never paid enough attention to the layout of anywhere to know it well enough. I never paid attention.


Jesus Christ, what if this wasn't temporary? What if underneath the swelling I'd really, really fucked up my eyes, and I hadn't been paying attention?


I pulled my feet up on the chair in the waiting room and put my face in my knees and cried for a while, and Brian sat next to me filling out paperwork and running his fingers over my shoulders. Everyone was probably staring at me. Brian got up to turn the paperwork back in, and it felt like he was gone for a million years, and when I felt a hand on my shoulder I jumped. He did his name sign on my temple, and I nodded, trying to slow down my breathing, but my chest felt all tight again and I was really scared the reaction was getting bad again.


I can't breathe, I said to him.


He took my hands and fanned out my fingers, drawing them together in front of my chest. Scared.


No, something's wrong, I can't...I want to go home. It's not safe here. I hate this. Please can we go home?


He put his arm around my shoulders and drew me into his chest.


“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I'm sorry, I'm so goddamn fucking pathetic, I'm so fucking useless.”


He squeezed me a little too hard. I can recognize a “shut up,” from Brian without words, so I did. He probably didn't need me rehashing the exact thoughts he was already having and trying as hard as he could to shove down.


After a while he gave me a little shake and stood up, pulling me up to my feet with him. I clung onto his arm with both hands as we started walking, and I counted steps, five six seven eight nine, feeling like I was falling the whole time, wondering how far away the exam room could possibly be, fourteen fifteen sixteen, and then someone, someone not Brian, bumped into my shoulder,


“Fuck!” I said, and I put my arms up to protect my head because that is what I do, I wonder why, and Brian's hands were on my shoulders, bracing me, and I could almost see his face, that hard look he gives me, the you're okay, that leaves no room for debate, except I couldn't, actually, see him, and the terror felt like something goddamn physical, like something crawling from my stomach up to my throat.


We were moving again, and Brian took my hand and put it on the exam table and I climbed up onto it, feeling him settle in beside me and pull my hoodie over my head. There was a blood pressure cuff fastened around my arm, and I flinched—I hadn't realized we weren't alone—and tucked my face in Brian's arm. He held onto the hair at the back of my neck. I rested my fingers at the base of his throat and felt it vibrate as he talked to the nurse. I should be doing it. I could talk. I was sitting here fucking useless and making him do everything, but I could explain what happened, I should be doing this, I should—


Stop, Brian made my hands say, suddenly.


Okay.


**


The doctor's appointment was categorically awful. It was gloved hands on me, cold and clingy and unfamiliar, and Brian doing shit like squeezing my jaw to tell me to open my mouth or tapping my chest to tell me when to breathe when the stethoscope moved on my chest. When the doctor—and remember, I still had no idea what fucking doctor this was (it was my allergist, if you care)—pried my eyes open and it felt like someone was breathing fire into them, I scrambled against Brian, signed Make them stop, as frantically as I could, and tried to make out anything but blurry, painful colors. I was getting wheezy again from crying so fucking much and having the allergy attack from hell, and Brian fit my inhaler into my palm.


I'd barely finished using it when I smelled alcohol and felt a cold swipe against the top of my arm. I grabbed at Brian. “No.”


He took my hands and held them tightly.


“No, I don't want, I don't know what it is—“ I gritted my teeth as a needle sank into my shoulder and I said a lot of prayers I'd mostly forgotten that this was a safe drug, that Brian had cleared it first and hadn't messed up and I wasn't going to fucking die in on an exam table.


Brian dabbed my face with a tissue.


Can we go home now, please, I said.


He signed something on my chin that felt like Soon, but it turned out there was another shot first, and then more of them talking, and looking at me, and touching me, and then we got back into a cab, and when we got out there was this horrible moment when I figured out that we weren't home yet, that this was somewhere else, and God, I don't know when the last time was I felt the kind of up naked hopelessness that I did when I realized that. Medicine (poison) Brian signed on me, and he made my hands say chair, stand, which one? and I said chair and let him just leave me there, because I was so fucking tired and everything hurt and I wanted to ball up as small as I could and never, ever exist again. But as soon as Brian wasn't touching me, I regretted it, and it was everything I could do not to just start fucking screaming for him in the middle of the fucking pharmacy. Every time the air changed, from someone walking past me or standing close to me or doing whatever the fuck people here were doing, how the hell would I know, I felt this swinging sense of dread in my chest, and I was so on edge waiting for Brian to grab me again, telling myself not to freak the fuck out when Brian grabbed me again, that it was all I could think about. I tried counting again, like I did for the steps in the doctor's office, but it didn't help. Nothing was helping.


The shots hadn't helped. I still couldn't open my eyes. I still couldn't see through them when the doctor had forced them open.


What if this wasn't getting better?


And I'm not proud of myself for what I thought next, or for the things I had said already and the things I was going to say soon. This is not the kind of person I want to be or the way I want to think about disabled people. It goes against fucking everything I believe about the value of disabled lives. My only defense is that I was scared. I was really fucking scared.


Because I sat there and thought: if this isn't going away, I am not saddling Brian with this. I will do whatever the fuck it takes to push him away.


I'm not proud.


There was a little tap on my cheek, next to my mouth. My name. I lifted my head and felt Brian fit his arms around me, a paper bag in his hand.


And I thought, oh God, I will do whatever the fuck it takes to keep him, and I was so confused and so guilty and I've spent a lot of time hating myself but I don't think I've ever hated myself like that.


And it wasn't even over.


**


I fell asleep as soon as we got home, and when Brian woke me up some indeterminate amount of time later he made me eat a banana and drink some water. He gave me a bunch of pills and I rolled them around in my hand. “What are they?”


He fingerspelled into my palm, but as hard as I tried I couldn't get it. It's not like we'd practiced this.


“Again?” I asked, and he did, over and over, but I couldn't figure it out, and eventually I just gave up and took them, even though it made my anxiety spike right back up again.


He squeezed my shoulders, and I found his waist and held him for a little while. I felt him take a deep breath, and then he was tilting my held back and his fingers touched my eye.


I pulled away. “What are you doing?”


He put my hand around his, and I felt a tiny bottle and no, hell no.


“No.” I scrambled back on the bed. “No no no, we're not.”


He took my chin and pushed my head back again.


“Brian, no!”


He grabbed my hands and signed, Different.


“I know they're different, that doesn't mean they're safe!”


Help, he signed on my palm.


“The last ones were supposed to help and look what happened! What if it makes it worse, no, you can't, I won't let you.”


He bent one of my fingers into a hook. Need.


“No!” I said, I tried to get away but he grabbed me by the jaw and tilted my head back again. I pulled back as hard as I could and crashed onto the floor. My heels skidded on the floor as I tried to get back up, but Brian was fucking sitting on my legs.


So I started hitting him.


“I said no, let me go, let me go!” I yelled, but Brian pinned my hands with his elbows and pried my eyes open and it hurt so goddamn much and I screamed and sobbed while he put drops in my eyes. It burned like I can't even describe, and when Brian got off of me and let me go I just stayed where I was on the floor and cried for a really long time.


He signed a few things on me—Sorry, know, scared, but eventually stopped touching me. But I knew he was still there.


“How the fuck do you stand this?” I said, when I could breathe again. “What the fuck is wrong with you, why are you here? What the fuck kind of masochist are you to stay here with me? What's goddamn wrong with you?”


I tried to imagine the look he must have on his face, and I couldn't, because I'd never said anything like this before.


So I kept going.


“I'm fucking useless!” I said. “I'm a pathetic worthless goddamn excuse for a person, I'm fucking nothing, all I do is suck everything you fucking have out of you, I take from you and take from you and I give you nothing, and now you can't even talk to me, I can't even fucking cross a room by myself, I won't even just be a goddamn man and take my fucking medicine, I'm fucking shit! Why are you here? Why haven't you fucking suffocated me with a pillow and just goddamn been done with it, what the fuck is the matter with you? What are you fucking waiting for? Do you think I'm going to be less of a fucking disappointment someday? Do you think I'm ever going to be anything more than a fucking complete waste of goddamn space? Give up! Fucking give up, Brian!”


I tried to get up, and he caught my elbow, and he was shaking.


“Brian?” I put my hand on his chest.


He was crying. Fucking...fucking really crying, like I was crying, sobbing crying, and in the ten years that I'd known Brian I'd never seen him do that.


Not that I was seeing it now. I felt it in the heaving, shaking breaths, in the way his head was bent and his shoulders shook, how he fell into my hands when I brought them up to his face.


“Oh God,” I said. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” I must have felt so goddamn fragile to him, and here I was screaming on the floor like he was torturing me because he was trying to give me my fucking medicine, Jesus, could I fucking possibly be worse? “You didn't hurt me, okay? I'm okay.” I got up on my knees and kissed his cheeks over and over. “I'm okay. I'm okay.”


He nudged my cheek with his nose until my mouth was on his, and I gave him easy kisses and whispered, “I'm sorry, I'll get better, I'll do better.” He shook his head and took my hands like he wanted to say something, but he kept starting things and then stopping and I swear I could almost hear his frustration, so I said, “It's okay,” and kissed him some more and he gave into it, and because we're us we were out of our clothes pretty quickly, and he had me back on the floor with his hand underneath my head, his tongue working circles on my neck.


I felt lube on me, cold, and his hands squeezing the hell out of my waist, but right when I was expecting to feel him thrust into me and God was I so fucking ready for a touch I didn't have to figure out, a touch I knew like I know his face, he paused, and it took me a second to figure out why.


“Yeah, it's okay, it's good,” I said, and he pushed inside me and covered me with his whole body, and for the first time in some goddamn unknown stretch of time I felt safe.


**


It was light when I woke up next.


It was light.


It was light.


**


I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Everything was a little blurry, like there was some kind of film over my eyes.


I looked at myself in the mirror and grimaced. My eyes were still red as shit, and there were hives on my left eyelid that still kept me from opening it all the way. I squinted at my watch until it came into focus: just after five. PM, judging by the quality of the light outside. Who the fuck even knew what day it was.


I splashed some water on my face and went back to the bedroom, wondering if Brian had noticed I was better and gone to work, just as he appeared in the bedroom doorway from the living room.


He stared at me, then hesitantly signed, Sunshine?


“Sunshine,” I confirmed, and he breathed out and leaned his forehead against the doorjamb. His eyes looked swollen, too, and there was stubble on his cheeks like he hadn't shaved in days, and he was beautiful.


How are you feeling? he asked me.


“Okay. Kind of out of it, maybe. Am I due for meds?”


He nodded and pointed to the nightstand, and I took Benadryl and the second day of a pack of prednisone and put the eye drops in myself, because, I don't know, I needed to prove something, I guess. Brian stayed where he was and watched me.


I'm going out, he said abruptly.


“Yeah, okay,” I said. What the fuck could I say? He was clearly a second away from coming apart. How the fuck could anyone be okay after what I'd just put him through? How does anyone survive that?


But that didn't mean I wanted him to go. None of this did.


I came out into the living room when he was almost at the front door. “Brian?” I said.


His hand paused on the doorknob.


“Is it, um.” I felt so stupid asking. “Is it my birthday?”


He turned around. His eyes were completely blank.


Yesterday, he said. Your birthday was yesterday.


“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”


He left.


I slept a little more, and then ate my first actual meal in God knows how long and settled into catching up on my work email and letting my mom and Gabe and my friends know that I was functioning again. It turned out Brian had been keeping them all pretty updated. Brian texted me around one to say he was staying over at Daphne's and to remind me to do the eye drops again before bed. It was just easier not to have feelings about that, so...whatever. I went to bed alone, woke up to an empty apartment with my vision pretty much back to normal, and went to work. Afterwards I couldn't stand the thought of just sitting around at home waiting to see if Brian would show up, and I didn't feel up to covering for him to Gabe, so I ended up at Emily's apartment in Sunnyside. She made tea and macaroni and cheese and we watched old seasons of Project Runway.


I tried blindfolding myself, after Brian told me, she said, while we were washing dishes. I lasted about twenty minutes before I thought I would fucking die. I don't know how you lasted three days.


I didn't really have much of a choice.


She winced. I'm like those people who say they don't know how we stand being Deaf, aren't I?


Trust me, I've been dealing with that same kind of guilt. There are happy Deaf blind people out there, and I'm sure I could adapt to it if I had to, but...God, I don't know.


You know what we should do? she said. Volunteer, put in some time helping out Deaf blind people. Learn to interpret for them or something, I don't know.


I put down the plate I was doing. That is fucking exactly what we should do. Jesus Christ. That's the first thing that's made me feel somewhat okay in four days. Thank you.


Just wait for the party I'm going to throw you this weekend, she said. Then you'll be good as new.


And just like that I was doom and gloom again. God, every year I think my birthday can't get worse. Was all fucking depressed for my twenty-sixth, Brian's mom's funeral was on my twenty-seventh, and then I fucking miss my twenty-eighth.


You didn't miss it. We just delayed it.


Yeah, well, this weekend might not be delayed enough. We'll see if Brian's even talking to me.


He can't seriously be mad at you for this, she said.


He's not mad, he just...this commitment stuff is still a lot for him. The idea of me being dependent on him, it's a lot. He feels suffocated pretty easily, and it's this delicate dance all the time not to make him freak the fuck out, and I wasn't exactly being delicate. I shook my head. You should have...God, the way he cried when I told him I was a useless shit and he should leave me. It's gonna fucking haunt me.


She studied me.


What? I said.


Well, what does that have to do with commitment and stuff? Crying during that?


Because he felt overwhelmed and he wanted to bail on me and he hated himself for wanting to bail on me and there I was putting everything he was thinking and didn't want to be thinking into words?


So Brian's secretly been thinking a whole lot of ableist crap about how you're a burden? Doesn't sound like a guy whose best friends are all Deaf.


Then why? I said. Why else would he have been crying?


She gave me a look of exaggerated patience. How about because someone was saying really mean things about the person he loves more than anyone in the entire world who was scared out of his mind and trying his best, and he couldn't tell them they weren't true?


Oh.


**


Brian was on the couch with a beer when I got home, and he looked so goddamn contrite that any anger I had for him drained right out of me. And let's be honest, it wasn't that much. He pulled his leg in to make room for me and I sat down beside him. He stretched his arm casually over the top of the couch, like some shy guy on a first date, and I rolled my eyes a little and tucked myself into him.


He took a swig from his beer. Do we have to talk about it? he said, not really looking at me.


“No.”


Okay.


We watched the basketball game he had on for a little while.


Don't be that miserable again, he said suddenly. I don't like it.


I smiled a little. “Okay.”


Okay.


I swallowed. “And I'll...I'll try not to be so hard on myself.” I flicked my eyes up to him. “Okay?”


He kept looking at the TV, running his thumb around the mouth of his bottle.


Good, he said after a minute, still facing forwards, and I caught the beginning of a smile on his face. Do that.

 

I could have looked at him forever.

Chapter 53 - Like Diamonds by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian's perspective on the events of "A Laying on of Hands," and what happened afterwards.

Like Diamonds

LaVieEnRose




Long before he took a steel bat to the head, before the seizures and the PTSD and the memory issues and the panic attacks, miles and miles before he lost his hearing, Justin had allergies. He's the only one in his whole family with them, so God knows where his body got that bright idea, and Jennifer mentioned to me off-hand once that they were even worse when he was a kid, which to me seems scientifically impossible but I suppose she would know.


All of this is going to be important later. I'm not just spouting out trivia for the halibut, as my dear old man used to say.


It's also important that before any of that stuff I mentioned up there, back when Justin was just a bratty, fearless, brilliant adolescent, so we're talking about the kid who walked into Babylon and took his shirt off, who took himself out to Liberty Avenue on a school night, went home with sex god and total stranger Brian Kinney...yeah, yeah, you know the saga, I'm just making sure you're really picturing what a confident, untouchable fucker that kid used to be before Chris Hobbs stole that right alongside the endurance of his right hand, his ability to accurately assess whether a situation requires him to freak out, and his absolute confidence that he won't piss himself in public...


Way the hell back then, Justin was already embarrassed as fuck about his allergies.


I, in all honesty, thought it was a lot funny and maybe a little cute, though fuck if I would have admitted it to anyone at the time or even recognized that's what I was thinking, but look at all my fucking character growth in my old age. The maudlin garbage I am for allergic Justin is previously established—look, he bats at his eyes and paws at his nose and scrunches up his face and I don't know, it all just fucking works, leave me alone—and it used to be that the humiliation and the frustration kind of added to the whole effect, because I didn't used to worry about Justin being humiliated and frustrated. I didn't used to worry about him at all.


I don't know when I was really aware of them, because we met in September and I wasn't seeing him all the damn time until November, and he generally doesn't have a lot of problems through the winter. I know one night in the spring we were sprawled out on the bed, sticky and panting and laughing because right in the damn middle of fucking him he'd remembered something funny that happened at school that day that he'd wanted to tell me and he'd been fucking mid-groan and stopped to go “Oh man I forgot to tell you about my English class” and for some reason that just fucking cracked me up, him going from sex maniac to schoolboy in the blink of an eye, and we were still kind of chuckling over it. He'd been sneezy all that night, and when I'd met him at Woody's earlier he'd actually apologized for it, and I remember I said, “Why are you apologizing?” as an actual, non-rhetorical question, because it seemed so unlike him and was so entirely unnecessary, and he'd just shrugged and changed the subject.


Now I was lying there with him and I was about to stretch to the nightstand and get a cigarette, then I looked at him and his wheezing and figured that probably wasn't the best idea. I nudged his shoulder with my elbow, still laughing a little. “Where's your inhaler?”


He looked at me, kind of startled. “What?”


I repeated myself and, knowing the never ending irony of life, probably threw in a comment asking if he was deaf or something. He hauled himself up and dug it out of the pocket of his jeans, still giving me kind of a nervous look. I didn't dissect it at the time, obviously, and didn't realize any significance of it then, but I'm pretty sure that's the first time I'd even said the word. I noticed the lump of it in his back pocket one of the first times he came to the loft, but I never really thought much of it. He carried it with him sometimes and not others, and when he had it I took it as a sign that I should charitably fuck him on his back so he could breathe a little easier. He had a cold while he was living there and it took up permanent residence on the nightstand, but I never actually saw him use it. I'd never seen him use it.


He stood there holding it now, looking self-conscious as fuck.


I laughed. “Are you kidding me right now?”


He whined.


“You realize I had my tongue in your ass ten minutes ago? I think you can probably use your inhaler in front of me.”


“Brian...”


“Oh my God.” I hauled myself up. “You're in luck, I have to piss anyway.” I lumbered off to the bathroom and heard the hiss of the spray behind me as I went.


I just chalked it up to him being a weird fucking kid and didn't think much of it.


We won't analyze that too much right now, but like I said, this is all going to be important later. All you need to keep in mind for now is that there was shit under the surface long before Justin was having seizures, long before he lost his hearing, and long before...all right. No need to spoil the whole thing right away. We'll get to it.


**


So anyway, through the years, Justin's allergies were always around, and it's not as if they've never been an actual problem—there was the time at Debbie's when his throat closed up because the genius thought he'd try pesto, or the week he spent broken out head to toe in hives when our laundry service changed detergents, at this point too many drug reactions to count that somehow haven't killed him yet, and, obviously worse than any of that, the fucking snoring—but for the most part they're in the background. They made him kind of sleepy and soft in the summers and the mornings and added some background noise to the loft that I found I didn't hate, and they made him look simultaneously beautiful and like warmed over shit, with his puffy eyes and the whistle when be breathed, for the six months he spent living with the fiddler and his cat, which I didn't exactly appreciate at the time, but whatever. They gave him trouble when he was out in LA, the heat and the smog and the stress, and he spent his first week back kind of sick while he was still getting that out of his system, which was a good excuse for me to keep him in bed, which I didn't mind. And they were worse in New York than in Pittsburgh, because of the air quality and the fact that we're idiots who got an apartment by Central Park, but look, we like Central Park, and most years we caught the sinus infections before they gave him fevers and seizures so usually it was okay.


Except then came that spring where we finally got him to the allergist after I heroically reinstated our health insurance, because he inevitably has to go at the beginning of every allergy season because he forgets that what he feels like is normal for him and gets kind of panicky about it and also because he's sad and he can't breathe. The frustration isn't really cute anymore, if you haven't picked up on that, because surprise surprise, I do worry about him nowadays, and neither is the embarrassment, because we're still rarely more than ten minutes out of me having my tongue up his ass at any given time, and because any amount of embarrassment with regards to health stuff at this point is a fucking annoying waste of time, and if you'd sat through the number of lectures I have about ableism you'd be annoyed to see them ignored too.


And I couldn't figure that the fuck out. Why Justin and I could be having these fucking conversations about how illness is nothing to be ashamed of, how capitalism has determined our societal ideal of what it means to be a valuable person, all of this fucking enlightened shit this kid brings to the table, and then the next minute that was fucking out the window because I'd said the wrong thing or glanced at him the wrong way or had the fucking audacity to not know what to do.


Example. A few months before the incident we're here to discuss, back when we were in that awful phase of adjusting his meds after the pancreatitis thing...God, he was having four, five fairly major seizures a day, it was fucking brutal. I wouldn't ask anyone to go through what he was that week. His muscles were all knotted up and painful, and he had these horrendous migraines, and he was covered in bruises from his body fucking throwing itself around. It was awful. There's a reason he hasn't talked to you about that time and I doubt he will. I don't really want to either, but there's a little anecdote we need, which is that during one of the nights that week he seized in his sleep and wet the bed, which...look, was going to fucking happen at some point, and it was honestly strange we'd gone through three days of this sucking shit without it, and it's not as if Justin and I aren't well-acquainted with each other's bodily fluids at this point so I can't say I was all that pressed about it. The whole right side of his body was pretty shot after that, and he was only half-conscious anyway, so I helped him to the chair in the corner that he usually just uses as a depository for his fucking dirty clothes until he was ready to shower and stripped the sheets off the bed. He held his head, his elbows on his knees, and I crouched down in front of him once I was done.


Doing okay? I asked.


He took a shaky breath and said a “yeah,” that sounded more like a “no,” and not because of his voice.


I gave him a small kiss. Shower. Nice and hot. It'll feel good on your back. Ready?


He shook his head.


Okay. I ran my hand down his arm. Take a minute. Is this side back online yet, let me see...


He pulled away from me. “Stop.”


I guess that's a yes then.


“I can shower by myself,” he said, slowly getting out of the chair.


I watched him struggle to stand on his own. I...don't think you can, actually.


“Brian!”


Stop being a fucking diva and let me help you.


He breathed hard for a long time, working through something in his head that I wasn't privy to, and finally whispered, “Fine.” He covered his face through the whole shower, like if he couldn't see then he wasn't really there.


That's going to come back later too, as you know.


I figured he was just fucked up from the seizure, that he wasn't thinking clearly. Or that I'd messed up. Because that wasn't him, being ashamed like that of something that wasn't his fault. Not anymore, not after everything we'd been through. He couldn't still be that guy who wouldn't use his inhaler in front of me—I mean, he'll use his inhaler in front of me now—after ten goddamn years. This was the guy who read books about chronic illness theory, who gave his Deaf friends shit for avoiding the word disabled, who was out to change the goddamn world. So the problem was not him.


It was the circumstances, the seizure and the delirium and the pain, or it was me. Because you don't see this fucking iridescent kid and think that he's wrong. It's not something your mind is going to jump to, him being wrong.


You have to understand that.


I mean, Jesus, imagine me in his shoes, standing in the shower while my partner cleaned me up. Think about what a goddamn terror I would be, Sontag and all.


It really doesn't seem like he's going to be the one of us to mess up this situation, right?


I realize I'm giving away a lot of the punchline here, but Justin's already told you the plot of this little tale, so whatever. You already know where this is going. Let's just fucking get into it.


**


So, the allergist appointment. I didn't go with him; I don't tag along to his doctor's appointments as a general rule, only if it's an emergency and he can't get an interpreter or if it's something new and scary, and this was neither of the two. He came home with a bunch of new prescriptions, so I knew he'd actually fucking gone this time, and he was kind of charmingly nervous about the eye drops, and honestly they're hard for him to wrangle with his bad hand anyway, so I'm the one who put the shit in his eyes that gave him the worst reaction he'd had in years, whatever. I heard him having a rough time during the night, snuffling around and rubbing his face, but I just threw an arm over him and went back to sleep.


And then it was six in the morning and he was waking me up with a fucking vice grip on my wrist and telling me he couldn't see. It was pretty obvious right away that the eye drops were the issue, because the reaction was really focused on his eyes and he had these kind of heartbreaking red streaks down his cheeks where the drops had run out of his eyes after I put them in.


You can't see me at all? I asked. Look at me, look at me, nothing?


Yeah. Nothing.


“Jesus Christ, Justin,” I said out loud, because, you know. Why the fuck not.


He was already freaking out, so I got him a Klonopin with his regular allergy stuff along with a shitload of extra Benadryl, and I asked him if he wanted to go to the hospital but he just about lost his shit at that, and I couldn't exactly blame him. Sitting at home in bed was scaring him enough, and honestly I was surprised he'd even accepted the meds I brought him. Asking him to sit on a gurney while strangers injected him with God knows what was a fucking of a lot to ask him, though of course I'd end up making him do it the next day.


I wasn't too worried at that point. The reaction seemed localized and he was breathing okay, and his pulse was good, and if it had been anywhere else on his body he would have slapped some calamine on it and gone to work.


He was just really scared, and that was hard to watch.


But I wasn't too worried, at that point.


He slept a lot that first day, which at that point I still had hope would be the only day, while I kept an eye on him and tried to get as much work done as I could. We were still in crisis mode after the whole Marcus thing, and I really, really couldn't afford to stay home today, but what the fuck could I do? I managed calls to the office and to clients in-between calling Justin's allergist, who told me to bring him in and I said no, and Daphne, who told me to bring him to his allergist and I said no, so then she sighed and told me to keep dosing him up with Benadryl and to put compresses on his eyes, so I kept doing that even though he hated it, because I have a pretty fucking high tolerance for doing things to Justin that he hates where medical situations are concerned, but even I wasn't dragging him out of the apartment when he was that confused and that vulnerable. Some things are a fucking bridge too far.


And again, we know of course that I would end up doing it, so whatever.


I was on the phone with Emily at one point, going over some billing statements I needed her to follow up on. She listened and took notes and got through all the business shit and then said, How is he?


Sleeping. Freaked out. It's kind of like when we were terrible signers and could barely talk to each other, but at least he could fucking see me then. I rubbed my forehead. Any tips?


She shrugged. I'm from a Deaf family. I've been signing since I was five months old. I've never had anything like this.


Yeah, but your eyes suck.


And I wear glasses, asshole. There was a crash out in the living room and I must have jumped or something, because Emily said, What?


Noise. I have to go. I hung up and went out to the living room, where Justin was on the floor tangled up in what used to be our glass-topped side table. “Why the fuck are you getting up on your own?” I said. I'd been talking to him a lot out loud that day, because, again, why the fuck not, and because it made me feel at least slightly less alone in this. I could only say about one word actually to him at a time, signing them on him or manipulating his hands to sign them himself, so it's not like we could have real conversations.


I got him to sign where and waited for his brain to click together that I was asking him where the fuck he was going, and then I took him to the bathroom to pee and get the glass out of his palm, because we didn't already have enough going on without throwing that into the mix. I could barely look him in the face. With his eyes closed like that he didn't even look like himself.


“You're okay,” I said softly, when he gasped as I prodded at his cut. “I know. You're okay, Sunshine.” When I was done I picked his chin up. There was some tears under his eyes, and but I couldn't tell if he was actually crying or it was just the reaction making his eyes water. I hadn't been able to tell all day.


But he nodded a little and leaned in and I kissed him, and he tasted the way he was supposed to.


**


I figured I shouldn't leave him unsupervised after that little stunt, so I moved my laptop to the bed and lay there next to him while we got some work done. He was less scared than he had been earlier and moved on to being bored out of his mind, and there wasn't exactly much I could do about it. I couldn't fuck him because I had eighty thousand tons of work to do and besides I tried it once and it sated him for all of twenty minutes, and what the hell else was he supposed to do, it's not like he could draw or read or mess around on his computer. I even tried googling “how to entertain Deaf blind people” in between updating spreadsheets, but the results were fucking depressing and depended on having at least some sight or hearing, which Justin didn't right then, or they were gardening, and he was still sneezing every thirty seconds as it was, or knitting, and good Lord spare me. So I dug through my wide assortment of office fidget toys and got him a can of Play-doh and a stress ball and whatever else I could think of. “This is like having a toddler again,” I complained to him, shoving his hands off me as I tried to work. Whatever, he didn't know.


Day turned into evening and he asked for a sleeping pill, which sounded like a bang-up idea to me. I'd put compress after compress on his eyes and they weren't looking any better, so it seemed like we'd be doing another day at home. If this kept up maybe I could convince him to come to the office with me and hang out on the couch, but Christ, how was I supposed to convince him of anything when I couldn't fucking talk to him?


And what about his job, and his life? What about his fucking paintings?


It's not that I thought this was going to last forever or anything but...how the fuck long was it going to last?


“I miss you,” he said, when I got him the sleeping pill, and that was kind of rough, because Jesus, of course he did, he was locked in his body. He missed everything.


But it was also the moment when I realized that I fucking missed him. That I hadn't had a conversation with him in almost twenty-four hours, and that was, apparently, too much for me. That it had been nine years since we'd gone this long without at least texting each other a joke or some shit. Nine goddamn years. How the fuck did I...


Look, I'm not saying that you shouldn't make connections with people because who knows if they're going to wake up one morning blind and Deaf and you're not prepared. I'm not saying that, because that would be ridiculous.


But also...it was pretty fucking scary to miss him after twenty-four hours when I was looking right at him.


And you know what? I fucking dealt with that. I took the fear of fucking commitment that that realization made rear its ugly little head and I dealt with it, and that's not what this story is about.


It's not, which is what made the stuff that came next all the more confusing.


But before any of that, I told him I missed him and gave him a sleeping pill and another triple dose of Benadryl and he slept for sixteen hours.


**


In the morning I made the requisite calls to Cynthia and Marie and figured it was time to fill in Gabriel and his mother. I didn't know how much detail he'd want Gabriel to have, if they were still in the stage where Justin wanted to come across as someone cool and sexy who didn't have his eyes swollen shut, so I was vague with him and I underplayed it to Jennifer because she can be panicky, and then I figured I better tell Molly because she gets all bratty when we don't tell her things, and she was the sensitive person we all know and love and wanted pictures to blackmail him with later, which I did not give her, because even I have my limits to how mean I'll be to Justin.


I was working in the office and thinking that I should probably get him up soon and give him more meds and make him drink something and half-wondering if Daphne would come here and give him an IV of Benadryl and fluids so he could coma his way through all of this when he called my name. He sounded freaked out, but he doesn't know how his voice sounds anymore so sometimes he calls me like something's wrong and then he just asks me if I want cheese in my eggs or some shit, so I wasn't too concerned at that point. And then I saw him.


So okay, at this point I'd seen Justin use his epipen twice, in two very different circumstances, once at Deb's for the aforementioned pesto incident when everyone was there and rushing around us freaking out and generally getting on my last nerve, and once at the loft, calm and quiet in the middle of the night. We never actually figured out what the trigger was for that. Both times, though, he did it himself, because he's a big boy and because even though I'm better now than I used to be after ten million blood tests and IVs with him, I might not be the biggest fan of needles. Neither is he, for the record, which is probably why both times I was the one telling him that he needed it, while he hemmed and hawed and pretended Benadryl could cover it while his breathing closed to nothing.


You don't forget how he sounds in times like that, that's my point. So while you can definitely make the case that I should have stabbed him with the thing thirty hours earlier when this reaction started, any idiot who knew him and had seen this before would have gone for the epipen the second they heard the way he was breathing when I walked into the bedroom. This wasn't much of a judgment call.


I searched the nightstand drawer first, and when I came up empty I went to the bathroom and started hunting through the medicine cabinet and the vanity, but I was rushing and it wasn't until I was already out of the bedroom that I realized Justin didn't know I'd been in there in the first place. He was yelling for me and feeling around the bed next to him like maybe I was there and he didn't know it, and of course I wanted to reassure him, but I also really wanted to find that fucking epipen and that seemed a little more vital.


Except Justin was panicking, Justin was getting worse, and eventually I growled, “Fuck,” and stumbled back into the bedroom, where I grabbed Justin's hands and slammed together in the harshest stop I could manage, because I couldn't look for something when he was screaming like that, I couldn't think when he was screaming like that, and he was not fucking breathing well enough to afford to be screaming like that, God, he sounded so fucking bad.


I told him I was looking, but that just confused him more because the dumbass hadn't figured out that he needed his fucking epipen instead of another dose of Benadryl, and by the time he realized it, by the time he asked for it in this broken voice, I'd finally fucking found it, still stashed in Justin's travel bag with some ratty spare toothbrush and a dried-out stick of deodorant, is this guy trying to die, what if I hadn't checked that bag, I almost put it aside without checking it, and I ran it back to him and pulled down his waistband, pulled the cap off, and pushed it into his leg until it clicked and he gasped.


Breathing.


“All right,” I said. “That's better, huh? That's better now.”


I started to pull it out but he reminded me to count to ten, so calm and rational and brave, and I pulled it out after and set it on the nightstand and thumbed off the tiny spot of blood on his leg. I looked at the hives on his cheeks and around his ears and down to his neck and I looked at his poor fucking eyes and I thought about how he really, really hadn't wanted me to put those eyedrops in two days before and...God. What do you even say?


Trick question, since I couldn't fucking talk to him.


I kissed his temple and whispered “I'm sorry,” in his ear, and he said, I'm okay, and the next thing I knew I was hugging him so hard I'm surprised his head didn't pop off.


“Don't do that again,” I growled at him. “You've been breathing since you were a baby, it's not that fucking hard.”


He was shaking a little, from the epinephrine and the loneliness and the goddamn terror, and I couldn't hold him tightly enough to make him stop. I kept readjusting my hold on him to figure out some way to keep him still, but I couldn't do it.


But he kept holding onto me.


“I know,” I whispered. “I know. Doing so well.”


Sometime in there I realized it was his birthday.


**


I got him back to sleep eventually, thanks in no small part to the shitload of Benadryl I was regularly feeding him, and I moved my work back into the bedroom so I could listen to him breathe but I was nervous and distracted every time he coughed or fucking rolled over. At one point I put my laptop to the side and closed my eyes and plugged my ears just to try to get some sense of what it was like.


It's fucking intolerable, asking me to watch him experience something I haven't. It had been intolerable for nine—ten—years since that night in the parking garage and it was intolerable now.


I told him once that he's supposed to be a smaller, better version of me. New shit isn't supposed to get him, and it continues to be goddamn unacceptable that it does, and the fact that I am supposed to sit here and...I mean, what the fuck is that? How the fuck am I supposed to lie around watching like some helpless shit while he goes through something I don't understand? Who the goddamn hell's idea was it that everything that touches him doesn't go through me?


I will never understand this goddamn world.


I will never understand how anyone could want to feel the shit I feel about him.


Intolerable.


But hey, like I said, I fucking dealt with it, like I fucking deal with it every day of my goddamn existence, I do it for the life and the smile and for eggs in the morning and theory discussions and cracking up in the middle of sex and the naked, unromantic fact that I cannot go twenty-four hours without him, and this isn't a story about that.


**


I called his allergist, who obviously told me to take him to the emergency room, because he's probably legally obligated to or some shit.


“I'm not doing that to him,” I said. “He can't communicate, he's scared out of his mind, he doesn't know what's going on. Can you just call in a prescription, please? He needs those...the ones that come in the cardboard pack that make him a raging asshole for a week.”


He laughed a little. “Prednisone.”


“Sure. Can you call it in?”


“Not without examining him.”


“I don't...think you're getting the depths of how isolated he is. I'm sitting next to him right now talking to you and he has no idea. He can't...I can't explain to him what you're doing to him, and we're talking about a guy who's having a massive allergic reaction to a medication you prescribed. So you want, what, him to just trust you implicitly, when the last time he was there, when he could actually talk to you, you nearly killed him?”


“Mister...”


“Kinney. And I can't even explain to him that you're asking that absolutely fucking ridiculous thing of him, because he can't communicate. You don't...” I took a deep breath. “You don't understand how much he likes to talk.”


“We need to see him,” his doctor insisted. “And we can give him a steroid injection in the office that will give him relief a lot faster than just the pills.”


I chewed my lip and looked at Justin on the bed. “You really should have led with that. When can you see him?”


**


One of the hardest things after Justin was bashed—I mean, not immediately after he was bashed, because at that point the hardest things were stuff like, you know, worrying that I'd fucking killed him, but a few months down the line when he was living with me—was getting him to leave the loft.


I knew it was important, that there was no way he was going to get better unless he got out there and fucking...saw that the world was the same as when he left it, but he was so much better when he was at the loft. It only took a week there, maybe two, before I was seeing flashes of the old him when we were alone, when he'd tell some joke or send me a sideways look, or he'd smile. And then I'd bring him out into the real world and he'd shrink back down, turn into that scared, miserable facsimile of himself.


And God, it wasn't even just that. As soon as I was out of the loft with him, all I saw was a million things that could fucking kill him. Everything was a threat. It was so much easier just to keep him home, where everything was familiar and predictable and controlled, and it's not like he was fighting to flee the coop. Until, of course, he was, and I had to hurry up and get on board with him going back to school and dancing on tables and drawing comics about the bashing and other assorted shit I wasn't ready for, but that's not really relevant here because we didn't really have to worry about Justin raring to go brave the world without his sight, because of course it ended up coming back the next day and because...because even Justin has his goddamn limits, okay? He has his limits. Let the fuck up on him, for God's sake.


Anyway. None of that's important. I just mention it because bringing him out of the apartment that day, bringing him to the doctor, it felt like when I used to make him walk up and down Liberty Avenue. He was terrified, and I saw something that could kill him everywhere I looked.


I'm telling you. Fucking intolerable.


He cried in the cab and told me he was mad at me, which you might think was difficult to hear but really wasn't, since I was pretty mad at me for this too, so it was nice to be on the same page as him for once in this fucking ordeal. Somehow despite the fact that his blood was mostly Benadryl at this point his hay fever acted up again from being outside the apartment, and that was just so goddamn sad to watch, this fucking trivial annoying shit on top of this un-trivial fucking torture. I handed him tissues and rubbed his back.


The waiting room was, for some reason, goddamn packed, and more than a few people winced when they saw Justin even though I had the hood of his ratty old sweatshirt pulled as low as it would go. I parked him in a seat and got his paperwork, but as soon as I sat back down with him the fucking stress of the situation started making me crazy, and I was staring at the paperwork blanking on shit like his middle name and his insurance number. “I'm losing my mind here, Sunshine,” I said to him, spreading my palm on his back. He had his feet up on the chair and his face hidden in his knees, the fucking picture of misery. I got up to turn in the paperwork and he jumped when I touched him when I came back, and I mumbled an exasperated “Sweetheart,” and did my name sign on his temple, the B and then the K against his forehead.


I can't breathe, he said, but as someone who'd just seen him not able to breathe, I considered myself an expert on that, and he was okay, just panicking. I tried to tell him that, made his hands sign scared, over his chest, but Jesus, how reassuring is that, do you think? Oh, you're scared and terrified and vulnerable as shit? Let me just make you sign the word 'scared' to add that to the mix.


He said, No, something's wrong, I can't...I want to go home. It's not safe here. I hate this. Please can we go home?


Justin hates hospitals like no one I've ever seen, but he's usually able to push past it, and on the rare occasion he's not I barely know what to say even when he can fucking see me. So I just put my arm around his shoulders and pulled him in tightly.


He said, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so goddamn pathetic.”


All right. So...just to make sure you're up to speed: he couldn't see, he couldn't hear, a couple hours earlier he'd needed a damn epipen, he was out in public with little idea of where he even was, and he was telling me that he thought he had a medical concern that needed addressing and telling me that, because he was in a place that knew smelled like antiseptic and medicine and other things he's fucking allergic to, he'd probably be safer at home. Sure, he was wrong, but he was working off the information he had, and he was being proactive about something he thought I needed to know to keep him safe.


Look, no one likes calling things pathetic as much as I do, and I'm honestly not seeing it anywhere in here.


So I was honest-to-God confused when he said that. I truly didn't fucking get it, not like I was going to get it later. I just tightened my arm around him so he'd know I was listening and waited for our name to get called. His name.


“Taylor?” the nurse called, and I gave him a little shake and pulled him up. The nurse started chattering at him, and I was cutting her off and explaining what was going on, which meant I wasn't paying enough attention to stop someone from shoulder-checking Justin on their way out. It's amazing how often that happens to him. I get that he's short and everything, but he's not fucking invisible.


I told the guy to watch where the fuck he was going and braced Justin's biceps while he calmed down. He'd put his arms around his head right away, which just...every once in a while I get this reminder that, no matter how much distance we get from it, no matter how much more pressing, immediate, actual shit is going on, it is always, always going to come back to the bashing for him. That's what's at the end of every road, that's what's been fucking done to him.


Look, there's nothing to do about it, it doesn't matter, it's just his life. But I'm telling you a nice and complete story, and that's what I remembered right then.


And it's something you need to get, if you want to understand Justin. He's playing on a different game board from everyone else. It's like what I was saying before, how after the bashing I could walk a street I'd walked a thousand times, nothing changed, but it was a different place if I had Justin with me. He's here with us, but he's not really with us. He's in this sort of...this PTSD alternate reality, and it's a lot like this world in a lot of ways, and it's not a problem, and we find ways to reach each other. But what'd he'd said to me a few weeks before this, that things are scarier for him than they are for most other people...that's not self-centered and it's not bullshit. He's living in a scarier world that looks like our world.


You have to understand that.


Anyway, I mumbled, “God, you're going to need a forty-eight hour therapy session when this shit is over,” and dragged him to the exam room.


He'd lost a little weight, because I hadn't been able to convince him to eat for two days, but we'd get that back. I showed him where the exam table was and let him get himself up there, because he's not a child, and took a spot next to him.


The nurse said, “Uh, you can just sit—”


“No,” I said, adjusting Justin's sweatshirt so he'd know I was there. “Do whatever, I'm just...I'm staying here.”


The doctor came in, and they took his blood pressure, which was still a little lower than I would have liked, and pried open his eyes to look into them. I came around in front of him so I could get a glimpse of what we were working with and also so, in case he had any vision through those fucked up eyes—God, they were red and weeping and miserable—he'd see me and not just his fucking doctor. But he didn't react at all except to wince when they were touched.


“I've never seen a reaction like this to these drops,” his doctor said.


“Yeah, well, he's allergic to Tylenol, he doesn't play by the rules.” I took his hands so he would stop signing make them stop at me. He started coughing when they put the stethoscope on his chest, and there was a wheeze at the end of it so I dug his inhaler out of my pocket and gave it to him. The nurse started setting up a nebulizer treatment, and I said, “Okay, yeah, he likes those,” and she smiled at me like she felt sorry for me, which was annoying but not entirely inappropriate, given the absolute bullshit of this situation, so I let it go.


“We're going to give him some steroid injections to bring down the swelling,” his doctor said. “And I would really advise you to ride this out at the hospital.”


I shook my head.


He sighed. “ I'll send you home with a prescription for prednisone, and some steroid eye drops, and an epipen to replace the one you used. And if you need to use another one, for the love of all that is holy, call 911.”


I nodded, even though I didn't mean it, and helped Justin out of his sweatshirt so they could do the shots. He knew what was happening as soon as he felt the alcohol swab on his arm, and...well, like I said, he doesn't like needles. He said, “No,” out loud, and he doesn't speak out loud in front of people who aren't me.


I took his hands.


“No, I don't want, I don't know what it is—” he said, and I whispered, “I know, I know, it's okay, I promise it's okay,” as they gave him the shot and he cried.


**


He was shutting down by the time we got to the pharmacy, like he does after a panic attack or a nightmare. He was also a shaky mess from being pumped full of drugs for the past two days, and it occurred me that the fact that he hadn't had a seizure from the epipen was probably the one stroke of good luck we were getting this year, so it was all downhill from here, so I wasn't surprised when I pidgin-signed my way through asking him if he wanted to stand in line with me or sit and wait he said he wanted to sit. But I fucking hated leaving him there, with strangers sitting next to him and coming and going and living their stupid little lives around him, and from where I was standing I could see four different drugs on the shelves that I knew for a fact would kill him, and I don't know, it's like I thought they were going to jump out and bite him or some shit.


I told you before; when he does bad, I do bad. That's the ugly magic in play here.


I got his drugs and checked them twice and came over to him and signed his name on his cheek. Our first ASL teacher gave him that name, because of his smile. Sunny little Sunshine, going into the class he had to take because he was losing his fucking hearing, terrified beyond all reason, losing the only life he'd ever known, smiling.


He wasn't smiling now.


**


He fell asleep as soon as we got home, which seemed more like a defense mechanism than anything, but I wasn't going to fight him on it. I tucked the blanket around him in a way even I could recognize as protective and set to work returning the handful of calls about him and the fucking bucketload from work, but eventually I couldn't put it off any longer. He had to get some food in him, so I gave him a banana because it was, you know, identifiable and easy, and punched out his first dose of prednisone. He asked what it was, so I fingerspelled it into his palm, over and over, but he wasn't getting it. I tried doing it into my own hand to see if I would have been able to figure it out, and no, it was just a bunch of half shapes.


He made a face as soon as he'd swallowed them, though, and said, “Ugh, I know what that was. Fucking nothing tastes like prednisone.”


I tucked his hair behind his ear. His breathing was still pretty junky, but he looked like maybe the swelling around his eyes had gone down a little, which was good since I was about to fuck with them. I took a minute to try to ground him, running my hands up and down his arms, letting him kind of paw at me, and then I took his chin in my hand and tilted his head back. He pulled away the second my finger brushed his eye.


“What are you doing?”


I let him feel the eye drop bottle.


“No, no no no, we're not.” He backed up from me as fast as he could, his back slamming against the headboard.


I took a deep breath and tried again, but he was not having it. I tried to explain to him that these weren't the same ones I'd put in him a few days before, because God, of course he was skittish about letting me put something in his eyes, but he fucking needed these, these were going to help, and he wasn't listening, but how the fuck was he supposed to listen when he couldn't see me?


I grabbed his chin again, and he pulled away so hard he fell off the bed, and in his efforts to get away he ended up backing himself into a corner, so it was pretty easy for me to put my legs on top of his and hold him still. He started hitting me, not hard or anything, just ineffectual shit trying to get me off of him, and I know he knows how to hit and it's like he wasn't even trying, like he was too tired and out of it to even defend himself.


He kept screaming no, telling me to let him go, and I just...went into a fucking trance about it, shoved it all down and did what fucking had to be done. He was crying, so God knows if the drops were even going to fucking stay in, but I held his eyelids back and put them in and held my breath while he sobbed.


I got off of him and scooted back some to give him some air. I tried signing a few things on him, but he was pulling back and away and I knew he didn't want to be touched right then, so I gave him space and listened to his hoarse, panicked breathing. I leaned against the bed and closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to swallow away the tightening in my throat every time he whimpered.


Finally he talked, and I was ready for the begging, the anger, the “I told you not to”s, the “this is my body”s, I was going to sit there and I was going to take it, but...well. That's not what happened.


“How the fuck do you stand this? What the fuck is wrong with you, why are you here? What the fuck kind of masochist are you to stay here with me? What's goddamn wrong with you?”


His voice didn't sound like his, and I'm not talking about his fucked up Rs or Ss or the fact that he was wheezing like a fucking thunderstorm, it was the pitch of it, the lowness, this anger I hadn't heard from him since...well, ironically, since he refused to be thrown out of the loft almost exactly seven years before, but more on that later.


I said, “Justin, stop. You can't throw this fucking pity party when I can't even yell at you for it.”


“I'm fucking useless!” he yelled over me, because how the hell would he know. “I'm a pathetic worthless goddamn excuse for a person, I'm fucking nothing, all I do is suck everything you fucking have out of you—”


“Shut up.”


“I take from you and take from you and I give you nothing, and now you can't even talk to me, I can't even fucking cross a room by myself—”


“You need help right now, people need help, people need help sometimes—”


“I'm fucking shit! Why are you here? Why haven't you fucking suffocated me with a pillow and just goddamn been done with it, what the fuck is the matter with you?”


“Don't even fucking joke about that, asshole.”


“What are you fucking waiting for? Do you think I'm going to be less of a fucking disappointment someday?”


“I'm not waiting—”


“Do you think I'm ever going to be anything more than a fucking complete waste of goddamn space? Give up! Fucking give up, Brian!”


All right.


So here's what you need to understand.


I had given Justin Taylor everything I had, and I'm not saying here what you probably think I'm saying, so hang on and just listen.


I'd given him everything that I had. I had bled for him, wept him, fucking ripped myself wide open for him, gone against every fucking thing I'd ever believed, left the only home I ever knew, turned my life upside down, felt fear and despair and goddamn passion the likes of which you fuckers will never see in your goddamn lives, I had ripped out pieces of myself for him to hold and protect, ripped out pieces of myself one by fucking one and traded them with parts of him, I was walking around with another fucking person's life inside my body and my life all the hell over there balled up and locked in a body that wasn't working, I am just trying to get you to fucking understand...


It's not that I resented it, it's not that I regretted it, it's not that I would do a goddamn thing differently, it's not that if I had more to give it wouldn't be immediately his, it's just that I didn't. I was sitting here watching him sob and think that I didn't want him and that he didn't deserve me, as if he didn't deserve a fuck of a lot better than goddamn me, and this was where ten fucking years had gotten him, this was how much I had managed to reassure and soothe and secure him. None. Nothing. I had done nothing for him, I had gotten him nowhere, he was telling me to smother him with a motherfucking pillow because he didn't think he was good enough to have me pry open his eyes and torture him, and even that, all of that, in and of itself would not have necessarily been a problem, except that I had given him everything I had.


Do you see what I'm saying now? There were no additional tricks up my sleeve. There was nothing new I'd thought of to try, there was no secret untapped part of me that I had not given him and given him in full. He needed more, and that would not have been a problem except that I did not have it. I had given Justin Taylor everything, and he needed more, and I didn't have it.


Just, you know. So you understand what was going on right then.


Then he started reassuring me that I hadn't hurt him, fucking trying to comfort me, and I swear to God in that moment I would have killed him to shut him up, I would have destroyed every part of myself that he was holding, but I couldn't get my mouth off of his skin.


**


His sight came back the next day, and I got out of that apartment as fast as I goddamn could. I went to Nova and drank everything I could get into my mouth and fooled around with a dancer on the couches and watched a drag queen hit a guy in the face with her stiletto, and then I drank some more, and then I went somewhere else and drank there, and then when there was nothing left to drink I went to Daphne's.


She's on call half the nights, which I didn't take into account when I was banging on her door at two AM, but turned out she was home.


She said, “Brian, what...”


I can't go home.


“...Okay. Come in.”


I stumbled into her tiny apartment and flopped down on her couch and listened to her bang around the kitchen. It seemed incredibly loud. She came with a glass of water. “What did you take?” she asked.


“Nothing, I'm too old for that shit.”


“Okay, well why did you drink, like, the East River? Justin's better, right?”


I sat up. “How do you figure that?”


“Well, you're here, and also he told me.”


“I should be here even if he's...not better,” I said. “I should have. I should have left him alone.”


“Okay, well that's idiotic.”


“He's going to leave me,” I said.


She rolled her eyes and sat down next to me. “He's not going to leave you, come on.”


“No, he's going to leave me. And you know what? He should. I hope he does.”


“What the fuck are you talking about?”


“I'm not good for him,” I said. “In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm actively bad for him.” I drank some water. “Do you remember...remember a year and a half ago, when he was thinking about having that...the surgery thing. The lasers.”


“What does that have to do—”


“I was talking to Michael about it, and he asked what I would do if it were me, would I do the surgery. I said of course I would, that I couldn't live the way Justin was living. I said I couldn't do it. But that that was me, that wasn't him. And Michael said...Michael says to me, how do you think you can be around him believing that about myself and think that he's...he's not going to believe that he's the exception, if you think being sick is something for you to be ashamed of he's not going to believe you that he shouldn't be ashamed.”


Daphne watched me. “Okay.”


“Okay well he's not the exception, I'm the exception, first of fucking all, like it's fine for anyone else, I just don't want...it's not for me, I'm not supposed to be on that side of it, I do the taking care of, but that's not...that's not even the fucking point, okay? It doesn't matter, that doesn't matter, because Michael was right. He can't be around me believing that and be okay with himself. I thought he could and you...Daph, the things he fucking said today.”


“He was upset. He wasn't thinking clearly.”


“How the fuck can I expect anyone to be sick in front of me?” I said. “I drilled it into his fucking head that...God, I threw him out of the loft, do you get that? When it was me, I threw him out of the loft. I did whatever the fuck I could to show him how fucking unacceptable it was for a person to need help. And now I think...what, I think that's undoable? It's not undoable. He should fucking run. This is not him, he is smart and sensitive and thoughtful and I am killing him.”


She watched me her, hand running through my hair. “People say stuff they don't mean when they're scared,” she said. “He didn't mean that stuff any more than you meant it when you threw him out of the loft.”


“I absolutely meant that,” I said. “I one hundred percent meant that, I thought he didn't deserve to have to fucking deal with a sick person and that I didn't have anything to offer him. I believed that with every goddamn part of me, and if I got sick again tomorrow I'd believe that again.”


“Brian,” she said.


“So how the fuck,” I said. “How the fuck do I pretend that I have any goddamn business being in his life? I'm infecting him. He doesn't believe that shit, he reads the books, he knows it's not true, but he knows I believe it. He's not embarrassed to be sick, he's embarrassed for me to see him. He should be with someone like you. He should be with someone like goddamn anyone else.”


She lay me down and pulled my shoes off, then my pants.


“He is good,” I said. “He is good with everyone else and I make him hate himself. I hope he leaves me.”


**


I did not, obviously, hope that he left me, so I went home with my tail between my legs and Justin and I spent a few weeks being inordinately nice to each other. It was very weird. I'll spare you the details.


I didn't really know what the fuck was going on with him. I knew why I was being careful as fuck, but I didn't know why the hell he was being careful with me. It was almost like he was...apologetic, or something.


He kept making meals. Like, the fridge was full of food, he'd gained back the weight he lost, we'd had dinner two hours ago, and he was asking me if he should make something.


Why don't you paint instead? I said. You haven't painted anything in ages.


Can I draw you?


Yeah, where do you want me?


There's fine. He fished out a sketchpad and sat in the arm chair, cross-legged and scrunched up because he never sits correctly on anything, and that was the kind of thing I was noticing in that period because I was sure that I didn't have much longer to notice them.


I stretched out on the couch and watched TV and listened to the soft scratch of his pencil against the paper. Way back the hell when, the first few times he slept over, I used to wake up to that sound and think someone was trying to pick the lock on my front door.


I heard the pencil stutter on the paper. That didn't happen, back then.


He cursed softly and massaged his hand.


I waved until he looked at me. You okay? I normally don't even acknowledge seizures this minor, but like I said, I was being nice to him.


He averted his eyes. “Yeah, I'm fine.”


I watched him, tonguing the inside of my cheek. Do you want the heating pad?


“No, I'm okay. It's nothing.”


I can—


“Brian.” He tilted his head to the side, the world's smallest smile on his face. “I'm okay.” He stretched his hand out and showed it to me. “See?”


Okay. Good.


He picked up his pencil and got back to work.


**


Who knows how long we would have gone being so goddamn cordial if Gabriel hadn't called me mid-afternoon one Saturday, when I was walking home from the gym. I frowned and checked the time on my watch, mumbled, “Well, I don't like this one fucking bit,” because Justin had just left to go to some matinee with him an hour ago, so I accepted the call really, really expecting to see an emergency.


Instead, there was Gabriel at the fucking grocery store.


Hey, I said.


Hey, how are you?


Uh, I'm fine. Was my watch wrong? Why the fuck was he at the grocery store and not the theater? Maybe they decided to skip it and just stay in and cook something. That sounded like Justin. What's up, everything okay?


Yeah, everything's fine. You know that soup Justin makes, that shrimp noodle one?


Sure.


What's the spice in that? He told me and I can't...


Oh, there's a ton in there, there's lemongrass and anise and cloves...cinnamon. I paused. There's something else.


Yeah, I'm blanking.


I snapped my fingers and fingerspelled. Cardamom.


That is it. Thank you.


Sure. I stopped at the corner to wait for the light. Not that it's not always a pleasure to see you, but wouldn't it have been easier just to ask him?


Probably, but he didn't answer his phone.


The walk signal flashed, but I didn't move.


He's not with you?


What?


I shook my head. Nothing. Uh, good luck with your soup, okay?


Yeah, thanks.


I hung up the phone and looked up at my building and decided that whole niceness thing was officially over.


**


He seemed kind of dazed when he got back to the apartment an hour or so later. He gave me a vague smile as he hung up his messenger bag. Hey. I thought you were going to the office today.


I was sitting on a stool at the counter, playing with a rocks glass.


He glanced at it. “Um...everything okay?”


Why wouldn't everything be okay?


“Well, it's two in the afternoon.”


Where were you?


He took a bottle of water out of the fridge and gave me a strange look. “I told you, I was—”


Don't. Do not waste my fucking time.


He didn't say anything.


Gabriel called me, I said. He wants your fucking soup recipe. And you didn't answer your phone. So where the fuck were you?


“I...”


You realize, I said, That I don't fucking give a shit what you do with yourself? Go swim in the Hudson, carry out a hit on someone in the Bronx, fucking...go to Staten Island, I don't care, you can go dive for nuclear waste in New Jersey for all I fucking care, just don't goddamn—


“Brian.”


If you're going to leave, can you just fucking do it already?


“What are you talking about? I just got home.”


No. No. Where were you?


I...I was at therapy, he said.


Do I look like a fucking idiot? Therapy's on Wednesdays.


He scuffed his shoes on the floor. “Lauren thought I should start coming in twice a week.”


I set my jaw. For how long?


An hour, same as—


No, how long have you been going to therapy twice a week?


Since the eye thing.


I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath. To prioritize. Are you okay?


He shrugged, scratching a couple hives in the inside of his elbow; save the fucking eyedrops from hell, the new prescriptions were helping, but there was no magic bullet. “I've been anxious. The nightmares have been worse, you know that.”


Not that you've talked to me about it.


“Brian...”


You know I don't fucking care if you go to more therapy.


“Okay, well, that's kind of confusing, since you're yelling at me about me going to more therapy—”


I have been nothing but the fucking picture of a supportive partner about this therapy shit and you goddamn know it. I am yelling at you about the fucking lying!


He sighed and walked around to the living room to sit on the couch, and I turned around on the stool, watching him. I didn't want to overwhelm you.


Overwhelm me?


Listen, after that whole...I put you through the fucking ringer this month, you know that. I'm just trying not to...you didn't need to worry about this therapy thing, so why worry you with it?


There was a whistle in my head, like a train. A fucking speeding train. What the fuck do I have to do to deserve to know things? Will you just tell me?


“Brian, what?”


What more is it that you need from me?


Nothing, what are you talking about?


No, you know what, it doesn't matter. You need to...look, you need to know this. I don't fucking have anything else. I have nothing more, there isn't...there's nothing more. So if this isn't enough, if you need...you need to fucking know that, I don't have anything else.


He continued looking at me like I was making up the signs I was using. “Brian, I have no idea what you're talking about.”


I can't be what you need me to be! I am fucking...I can't be anything more than this.


I'm not...I didn't ask you—


I can't fucking be a person who you won't lie to! I can't be a person who you won't always think kind of wants to smother you with a goddamn pillow! I've been trying it for goddamn years and it still hasn't worked, what the fuck do you think I'm going to figure out at this point?


“Um...can you figure out how to stop yelling at me when I'm really fucking confused?'


I ran my hand over my mouth. Yeah, okay.


“Okay.”


He shifted uncomfortably on the couch. I'm sorry I lied. I really didn't think...it just didn't seem worth the conversation. You said yourself, you don't care where I go.


Yeah. I had no goddamn fight left in me. I was so sick of sitting there waiting for him to leave.


He tucked his legs underneath him. Um...I love you?


I sighed. Don't. Not right now.


Not if he was about to get up and fucking go. If everything I had for him wasn't enough, I wasn't going to goddamn give him what I did have. And I wasn't taking fucking charity from him.


He pulled his lips into his mouth. I'm confused.


I mean, your brain doesn't work.


I don't think that's why.


Well, again... I ran my hands down my face. I need a shower. You want a shower?


Yeah, okay.


Come on.


We found ways not to talk the rest of the weekend.


**


So now we were past the niceness and we were just being plain naked terrified of each other and having a lot of sex, and who knows how long that phase would have lasted if not for another interruption from an even more unlikely source.


This one came around six o'clock on Monday evening. I was still at the office, getting briefed by Cynthia on a client meeting she'd had earlier that day; her official move from assistant to executive was all of two weeks away, and she was ready, though we still hadn't resolved our custody battle over Emily. She was telling me the deadlines the client gave her for their new campaign and we were working out if we could get the studio for a photoshoot and get our art department to do the editing in that time frame, but I was having a hard time concentrating when my phone would not stop buzzing on my desk. Eventually I sighed and said, “Hang on, let me make sure he's not dead.” He'd told me he was going to go home after work and paint there, so, you know, who the fuck knew where he actually was and what he was actually doing.


It wasn't him, though. It was a series of texts from the number I have saved as “The Bad Seed.”


briiiiiian can you bring me soup please I'm dying


seriously I am the sickest person in the world and my roommate is such a bitch


brian pleeeeease


i need that chicken soup from that place????


I put my phone down and mumbled, “Jesus Christ.”


“Everything all right?”


“Yeah. So we can do a photo shoot on Wednesday, and if we can get Spike to push back their deadline, we can tell the art department to bump that and—” My phone buzzed again. “I swear to God.”


“Do you need to—”


“No, it's just my sister. Shoot an email to Spike to and see if they'll push their deadline back a week, all right? And go ahead and book the studio time. We'll make it work.”


“Okay.”


I glared at my phone as it buzzed again. “I have to take care of this.”


“Good luck.”


“Jesus, I'll need it.”


**


An hour later, I was in one of NYU's freshman dorms with “that chicken soup from that place,” because if I'm good for one fucking thing it's being ineffectually helpful to sick Taylors.


Molly opened the door and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Oh, I love you. I knew you'd come.”


“Yeah, you don't look like you're dying. Get in bed.”


Her dorm room was the same goddamn disaster it always was. Justin and I helped move her in with all these fucking organizational shit from Ikea and her way of thanking us was to leave her drawers hanging open and her clothes all over the ground. Maybe she was sick because her roommate was poisoning her. I would.


She hopped up onto the bed. “No, I'm definitely dying. Hear?” She coughed and, okay, it was a real cough, but she still looked pretty damn okay. She was wearing jeans, for god's sake.


“You know, when last time you had a medical issue it was a damn seizure, you should probably be more clear with people before making them cross into a different fucking borough for you.”


“Oh my God, you live in Manhattan, you were coming anyway.”


I put my hand on her forehead. “You don't even have a fever, are you kidding me?”


“I do too! 99.8.”


“Jesus Christ. Eat your fucking soup.”


She dug into it and I put some laundry in a hamper because I couldn't fucking exist in this place as is. “I knew I should have texted Justin instead,” she said. “He's much nicer than you are.”


“Yeah, no one's debating that.”


“He would have brought me soup without all the fucking remarks.”


“He wouldn't bring you shit, because he has no immune system and doesn't go around spending time with sick people. I'm going to to have to to take some kind of decontamination shower.”


“Aha! So you admit I'm sick.”


I glared at her and picked a bra up between two fingers. “Yeah, I admit you have a cold.”


“Yeah, and it's terrible. It's the worst. It's the worst cold anyone's ever had in the history of existence.”


“You know, your brother complains less than this when he's actually dying.”


“Yeah, well, that's because he internalized all that 'Taylors don't complain,' garbage. Whereas I am being countercultural. I'm a rebel. I'm a revolutionary.”


I stopped gathering laundry. “What are you talking about?”


“Uh, I'm talking about the fact that what you think is whining is actually a political statement.”


“'Taylors don't complain,' what is that?”


She rolled her eyes and stuffed some soup in her mouth. I should have Justin make that shrimp noodle thing, I realized vaguely. It's the only thing I want when I'm sick. “Oh, you know. Dumb WASPy bullshit. Stiff upper lip and all of that. They drilled it into us when we were kids, so now I complain thoroughly and loudly and Justin...I don't know. Whatever it is Justin does.”


Remember when I said it was going to be important that Justin was weird about his allergies before he lost his hearing, before the bashing, before me?


Remember when I said he's a smaller, better version of me?


Maybe sometimes he's just smaller.


“It's not about me,” I said.


Molly rolled her yees. “No, duh, I'm the sick one, it's about me. Did you get me bread or something? Like a roll?”


“I have to go.”


“Crackers?”


“No! Call me if your fever goes up!” I called on my way out the door.


**


It's not about me, I repeated to Justin, twenty minutes later, panting in the living room where he was painting over a drop cloth.


He looked at me with mild curiosity. “You're home early.”


I wasn't out, I was—oh, hang on. I went to the kitchen and washed my hands, then came back and pointed at him again. It's not about me.


He put down his paintbrush and turned around. Okay, I'll bite. What are you talking about?


Remember when I threw you out of the loft?


You'll have to be more specific.


When I had cancer, and I threw you out.


Wow, what a fun memory to be surprised by. Yes, I remember.


I took his hands and pulled him over to the couch. That wasn't about you. That was my shit.


Oh, I'm very aware that that wasn't about me.


Shut up. All that shit you said, what am I doing here and what's wrong with me and I why was I still with you...that wasn't about me. That wasn't a you, Brian. That was a generic you. Right?


He studied me, his eyes narrowed. “What? Brian, of course it wasn't about you. Is that what—”


I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a kiss so rough I'm surprised it didn't snap his fucking neck. His hands went up in surprise, and then one hesitantly, delicately rested on the back of my neck while I swallowed him goddamn whole. Took every fucking bit of him I could get.


He pulled back too soon, panting, his hand still on my neck. “Sorry, I...I can't breathe through my nose.” Looking down. Embarrassed.


“It's okay.” I kissed him once more, fast, and let him go. It's okay. Listen, I thought...this is my baggage, this 'man up,' bullshit.


I realize you want to be special, dear, but most of the world is raised with that baggage.


Okay, but you...you read books! You write ten paragraph emails to Ben on disability theory! You're supposed to be all evolved and shit.


He sighed and leaned back against the couch. You think I'm perfect.


I laughed. Do you know how fucking much you annoy me? I definitely don't think you're perfect.


“No, you do. You think that I'm like...that I have this inherent perfectness and every time I do something dumb or shitty it's some like...betrayal of myself. But all that dumb and shitty stuff is just me. I'm not a saint, Brian.”


I don't know. I kissed his neck. You look pretty good to me.


He sighed and lolled his head back. “I'm trying to be good.”


I know.


Going to therapy twice a week. Trying to be better.


I don't need you to be perfect, I said. I just need you not to fucking lie to me. Okay?


He nodded. “I know. I'll stop. I don't even realize it until I'm doing it, I just...” He shook his head. “I'll stop.”


Okay, and in return I'm going to make you a shirt that says 'Brian, this is not about you' and you have to wear it all the time.


That's a reward?


Yeah.


He nuzzled my cheek. “Okay.”


I tried very hard not to get distracted. Just fucking tell me you don't want to tell me something, I'll leave you alone. Just stop fucking lying.


“Okay.” He closed his eyes. “I'm trying. I'm just...fuck. I'm so scared of overwhelming you.”


Justin, I signed on his cheek.


He opened his eyes.


God, how do you not know this by now? I said between kisses. Fuck. Overwhelm me. What the fuck else do you think there is of me?


“Brian,” he whispered.


That's why you're here, I said. Believe me.


He looked at me, his eyes so big and blue and clear. Okay.

 

End Notes:

 

Somehow this became the longest thing in the universe?

Chapter 54 - Ducks in a Row by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

“Look,” I said. “You don't run in and play hearing savior to the Deaf kids. Trust me. Trust me. I have screwed this up more times than I can count. No matter how much you think this time is different, no matter how much it feels like an exception, you do not rescue the Deaf kids.”


“But—”


“Do not rescue the Deaf kids.”


She stared at me.

 

“Do not,” I said, “rescue the Deaf kids.”

Ducks in a Row

LaVieEnRose



So I guess the first of our little stories happened sometime in early December of 2010, when Justin was having one of the few decent days he did during that period. I suggested we invite Gabriel over so he didn't forget what Justin looked like, since between the pancreatitis and the seizures and now this fun bout of depression he'd been a little off the grid for going on a month. Plus Gabriel's a better cook than Justin and I was hungry.


He came over with arms full of groceries and immediately put Justin to work, and I applauded myself on my brilliant plan and sat on the counter and flipped through the mail and prepared to be served a meal by my husband and his boyfriend. I'd known monogamous people were missing out for as long as I'd known there was an alternative, but finally I had concrete proof. Before long the kitchen smelled like teriyaki and lime.


I can take everything these kids can throw at me, Gabriel was saying, checking the temperature on the stove. I've been doing this for ten years, there's nothing I haven't seen. I've seen actual gang fights break out over who has more of those rubber band bracelets than another kid.


Justin laughed, pulling the bones out of a chicken thigh.


When I was a kid it was Swatch watches, I said.


Gabriel nodded. Me too, I caught a little of that. He pointed at Justin. What about him?


I said, I don't know, Pokemon cards or something.


Molly was Pokemon cards, Justin said. How old do you think I am?


I've never known, I said, and Justin wrinkled his nose.


So with the kids, I'm fine, Gabriel continued. But then we get to parent teacher conferences and I want to throw it all in and become...I don't know. A fisherman.


I don't like fish, Justin said. I don't like their eyes.


Gabriel ignored him, because after four months he was getting used to managing the kind of bullshit that spills out of Justin's hands. You'd think that people who send their kids to a Deaf school would be less skeptical about their kids having a Deaf teacher, but I swear to God, half these parents... He shook his head. God, I hate hearing people. No offense, he said to me.


Justin said, It's fine, he hates hearing people too.


That's true, I said. Though I probably also hate most Deaf people. I just don't know that many. I like you. I guess Justin's okay.


Yeah, he'll do. Gabriel kissed his cheek, and Justin grinned and blushed and I bit my lip to keep from smiling. Seriously, I got to sit here and watch Justin be happy without having to fucking do anything? Why doesn't everyone do this?


We sat down for some fucking incredible stir fry and the conversation shifted to Justin's show, which was coming up soon and wasn't a completely stressful experience yet because his agent hadn't vetoed those paintings, so he thought it was done. That lasted us through most of the meal, and I was already clearing plates when Gabriel brought up this hole in the wall gallery he'd stumbled on the other day. Justin was enthralled and said he'd go by the next day after work, and Gabriel started talking about this one painting Justin couldn't miss. It's down the east hallway, he said.


Justin said, Can you write it down?


It's easy. And then it's the second door...maybe the third, and there's another hall and it's at the end of that, and then on the left wall near the top.


Justin looked at me with something somewhere between amusement and panic, and I rolled my eyes and went to my desk. I plunked a piece of paper and a pencil in front of Gabe. Write it down.


Gabriel shrugged a little and started drawing a map, and I said to Justin, behind Gabriel's head, Just tell him.


Justin chewed on the inside of his cheek.


He doesn't need the details, but someday he's going to need you to remember something and you're going to get both of you killed.


Justin sighed and waited for Gabriel to look up. My short-term memory isn't the best, he said. So stuff like this gets kind of lost.


Gabriel was all teacher about it. What kinds of things are hard?


It's not a big deal, Justin said. Really it's...nothing.


I said, No, it's not nothing, and sat back down at the table. Want to completely break his brain?


Justin swatted at me. I am not a circus act.


Sure you are. Gabriel, tell him a phone number.


Justin groaned and flopped back in his chair.


Gabriel looked between the two of us. I don't know...


I said, No, come on, you won't hurt him. Find a number, sign it fast. I reached over and nudged Justin's temple. Is your head going to explode? Justin snapped his teeth but smiled at me.


Gabriel still looked nervous, but he took out his phone, scrolled through, and signed a phone number to Justin. Justin blinked and did a good job of covering for that computer malfunction sort of look he gets in his eyes, but I know it well.


Did you get it? I asked him, reaching back to play with the hair on the back of his neck.


He glared at me, but in that way where he's trying not to smile. Yes.


Okay, so what was the first number?


He breathed out all angry through his nose, and I laughed. There was a four, he said.


Yes dear, somewhere in those ten numbers, there's a four, but I asked for the first number.


You're a jerk and I hate you, he said, and I shrugged nonchalantly, but the truth is this was the easiest way to do this. Show it at its worst but play it off like a joke. Get it all over with in one fell swoop, while I showed Gabriel it was nothing to take too seriously.


Come on, you can do it, I said. Starts with a f...


Well, you already said it's not a four, he said.


And you remembered! It's a miracle!


He balled up his napkin and threw it at me.


I caught it. Second number?


You proved your point, okay?


I got up and kissed the top of his head on my way to the kitchen. You earned ice cream.


Oh yeah?


You remembered that five...sort of. I dug through the fridge and found an old carton of the full-fat shit Justin keeps buying even though I threaten him every time and scooped some out for each of them while I watched them over the counter.


So what do you at work? Gabe said. People must always be telling you numbers.


Most stuff gets written down anyway, since they're all hearing, Justin says. I record the interpreted calls so I can watch them as many times as I need. And I make up songs or whatever.


Gabriel raised an eyebrow. Songs?


Yeah, sure. To help me remember stuff.


I set the bowls on the table. He has ways, I said. He always makes it work. I slid Gabriel's bowl in front of him and caught his eye. Just give him one thing a time, I signed, small. He's a genius. Don't overthink it.


Justin licked both sides of his spoon and pretended he didn't see.


Thank you, he said to me later, when we were brushing our teeth.


Gross, for what?


He spit. Helping me earlier, with Gabriel.


I wasn't helping you, I was helping him. You're very exhausting, you know. I don't want him falling asleep at work because he's all worried about you and then his five-year-olds revolt or something.


Fifth grade. Not five year olds.


Whatever. The police would want to talk to us, it would be a whole thing...I don't have time for that. I'm a busy man. I already spend so much fucking time waiting for you remember phone numbers.


This is really convincing.


It should be. I said. Or you know, if it's not the kids revolting, it'll be him interrupting you when you're concentrating and you'll do that thing where your head spins around like—


Linda Blair.


—very good, and you'll I don't know, breathe fire at him, knowing you. And he's already had enough fire-related trauma for one lifetime.


That is true.


See? I said. It takes two people to handle you. He can't do this alone. If anyone knows that it's me.


“Poor you.” He stood on his toes and kissed me, and I held him up when he tried to put his heels down. He smiled, running his fingernails up and down the back of my neck. “You want this thing to work,” he said. “With me and Gabe.”


I kissed him and set him back down.


You love me a whole lot, Justin said.


That doesn't sound like me.


“Even so.”


Strange.


It's because I'm fantastic. And you like Deaf people.


I laughed and squeezed him. God, you drive me crazy.


I stand here through all of that bullshit, and I'm the one driving you crazy?


I guess that shows how naturally more annoying you are than me.


He said, I guess so. Want me to fuck you?


Oh, you're just going to slip that in there?


“Mmmhmm.” He kissed me. In more ways than one.


**


All right, so zoom us forward four or five months, past the early spring, the eye thing and Justin's aborted birthday, our few weeks of weirdness, and Italy about a half second after that was over. After the fucking non-stop sprint of shit we'd endured from November until April, we actually got a miraculous few months of calm. Marie acquired a new gallery in the East Village, and Justin was working most days down there helping them get it settled, so he was being challenged at work again after feeling really stagnant for a while (more on that later). His show in December had been a wild success—you should have seen the article on him—so he was painting every spare minute, and his agent had to put a limit on the number of commissions she'd let him accept because she was worried about him getting overexposed. He and Gabriel were good, he and I were good, and this was before the whole California saga and all the good and the bad that came with that—again, more on that later—so we were all complacent and shit.


Cynthia was officially no longer my assistant, which was great for her and deeply tragic for me, and Emily had decided she'd try out being both our assistants, under the logic that she'd basically been doing that already anyway, and...fair enough, so we were giving that a shot. She'd started dating Gwen—you'll see plenty of her—who could actually keep up with her. Derek was sending us all postcards and was going to be home at the beginning of June, Justin caught a cold at the start of May that hit him pretty hard but other than that was feeling well, I nabbed four new clients and Cynthia and Isabel each got three, all the crap Marcus had put us through was a blip in the rearview, I turned forty and didn't swan dive off the Chrysler building...in general, shit was as good as it gets around here, and, well. Not to get too sappy about it, but nowadays that's not faint praise. Listen, if you're goddamn forty with a twenty-eight year old partner, particularly one who looks and laughs and fucks like Justin Taylor, you don't have much to complain about.


So everything was clipping along nicely. I was in the office one afternoon in late May, brainstorming campaigns and messing with a fidget toy and buying some random shit for Justin because I like him and I like shopping. Cynthia came in all conspiratorially, and I raised an eyebrow.


“Can you take a look at this?” she said.


It was an invoice, nothing out of the ordinary. “This is fine and you know it. What do you really want?”


She bit her lip. “Emily's on the phone with Justin.”


“Personal calls during work? The nerve. You want a new assistant? You should get a new assistant. I'll take her off your hands.”


Cynthia rolled her eyes. “They're talking about that volunteer thing they're doing. The one she's been so excited about.”


“I'm familiar.” After the whole incident with Justin's eyes, I guess he'd felt guilty for being completely fucking miserable in a situation some people have to live in all the time, because Justin's finest skill is feeling guilty for shit he has no business feeling guilty about. He and Emily decided they wanted to do some work for Deaf blind people and learn to interpret for them, which sounded pretty damn cool, but it's annoying what a good person Justin is because it just keeps making me look worse and worse. That's why I have to keep buying him shit. Gotta keep whatever upper hand I have left.


“Did Justin tell you there's a problem with it? They were talking about it...I don't know, my signing's not that great, but it looked like she was saying the agency won't work with them, and they were strategizing about it.”


I stopped twirling my pen. “Why the fuck wouldn't they work with them?”


“Emily was saying something about getting them to change their policy. I guess they don't train Deaf interpreters.”


I sighed and put my feet up on my desk. “An agency that works for the Deaf blind being discriminatory. Isn't that just the way of the fucking world.”


“Justin hasn't said anything to you about it?”


“Nope. Last I heard they were looking into it.”


“Okay...so what are we going to do?”


I laughed. “What do you mean, what are we going to do?”


“You love Justin, I love Emily.”


I waited.


“Aaaand you love Emily, and I love Justin...”


“Cynthia.”


“Yes.”


“Your point?”


“You're protective of them, you can't fool me. And they're being discriminated against! You said it yourself.”


“Yeah, they are. It sucks.”


“So if they're not going to listen to Deaf people, we need to go down there and...you know. Issue them some lawyery stuff.”


“You're a lawyer now?”


“I make a fantastic fake lawyer.”


I picked some lint off my sleeve. “Did Emily ask you for help?”


“No, but—”


“Did Justin?”


“Brian.”


“Look,” I said. “You don't run in and play hearing savior to the Deaf kids. Trust me. Trust me. I have screwed this up more times than I can count. No matter how much you think this time is different, no matter how much it feels like an exception, you do not rescue the Deaf kids.”


“But—”


“Do not rescue the Deaf kids.”


She stared at me.


“Do not,” I said, “rescue the Deaf kids.”


She huffed out a breath. “Fine.”


“They will ask if they need help. They're very good at that. But they have tricks up their sleeves we can't fucking dream of. They can handle it.”


“So what do we do?”


“Nothing. Hype Emily up over some project she hands in to you to make her feel all capable and shit. And then stop eavesdropping on her phone calls.”


So that's essentially what I did, but Emily and Justin, inseparable though they may be, are very different, and they each need their own approach. Emily, God love her, is the easy half of the dynamic duo. I found the most hideous inspirational kitten picture I could find, this little gray thing with a cape and “You can do it!” at the bottom, and sent it to her. She was in my office in under a minute.


What the fuck, she said.


I grinned.


That's the worst thing I've ever seen.


You don't appreciate my support?


Support for what?


I shrugged.


It's abysmal. I like kittens, you know. Why are you trying to make me hate kittens?


I looked at her with as much sincerity as I could possibly manage. Because I love you and I want you to feel encouraged.


I'm going to vomit, she said.


I grinned. Not in my office.


Can I get back to work now?


Yes! Newly invigorated with the kind of confidence you can only get from the encouragement of a supportive boss.


Whatever helps you sleep at night, old man, she said, but there was a strut when she left the room and both of us knew it. Nothing gets Emily amped like the opportunity to scold me.


Justin's more delicate and less fun, but, well, what else is new. I stayed around the kitchen that night while he painted tiny patterns on the white tiles over the oven. He'd been talking about doing it for a while, and the fact that he was suddenly getting a project done was the only sign he was frustrated about something else. He still hadn't said anything about the agency, which was fine. We'd agreed that he couldn't lie to me, not that he had to tell me every damn detail of his day.


He chatted to me kind of aimlessly while he worked, and I couldn't say much back, since he was focused, but I hung out and listened and waited for him to take a break. He pulled back and studied what he'd done. “What do you think?”


It's good. I looked down and signed, very casually—like I said, delicate, delicate—Hey, did you know that you're amazing and you can do anything?


Not as fun, like I said, but I do like the way it makes him blush.


A week later, Emily and Justin were working for the agency. I bought myself a tie, gave Emily a raise, and fucked Justin until he cried for mercy.


**


Derek finally came home in mid-June, and after Daphne commandeered him to herself for a weekend we were permitted visiting rights, which, of course, meant that we had a party. We all gathered at Daphne's apartment with just about everyone Derek had ever met, and Justin kissed him and signed to him so fast even I got lost, and Derek grabbed me in a bear hug and I looked around at everyone in the same room and felt myself breathe deeper than I had in months, despite the damn vice grip he had around my lungs. It was like something clicked into place, I don't know.


The party was good. Loud enough to make clubs seem like a quiet night at home, like most Deaf parties are, and definitely packed with more straight people than I think any event requires, but good. Gwen was there, and she and Emily were all over each other to the point that I eventually started playing bartender so I could water down Emily's drinks, because as much as I appreciate public sex she's about ninety pounds soaking wet and was already sloppy as fuck an hour into the shindig. Justin wasn't feeling great in a very mild sort of way, so he kept drifting over to me. It was a humid summer, even by New York standards, and his hair was longer then and starting to curl and I couldn't stop touching it whenever he was close.


Derek came over at one point and made a drink and drummed on my arm. Justin looks good.


Yeah, he's had a good couple of months. Hands off, though. He's taken.


Hilarious. You know I think your signing improved while I was gone.


Fuck off. So was it everything you dreamed of and more? I asked. Vital to your philosophical development? Are you ready to climb up on a mountain and tell people the meaning of life?


Not yet, but I think I gained ten pounds on olive oil alone.


So, six on one hand...


Exactly. He looked across the room, and I followed his gaze over to Daphne.


I waved for his attention. She really is beautiful, I said.


Oh, God, yeah.


And a doctor. I shook my head a little. You are really dating up.


Shut up, I don't think she's realized. But he seemed kind of sad.


I tasted the drink he'd made, confiscated that shit immediately, and fixed him something actually palatable, or did the best I could do with the awful cheap shit Daphne buys. I need to start stocking their bars if I'm going to keep hanging around their apartments. I nudged him and handed it over.


He sighed. It's been different. Since I've been back.


Different how?


It's like we're new again, he said. Just kind of awkward and...kind of formal? I don't know. We were in such a great place and I'm worried I threw it away for a trip that was nice and all but...it was a trip.


You've been apart for a while, I said. I think it's natural for things to be a little uncomfortable.


So what do I do?


Uh...remind her of stuff the two of you loved before you left. Take her to the same places, do the same things. Once things start to feel familiar again you'll be fine.


He narrowed his eyes. You're just making that up, aren't you?


Yeah, but if this works I'm going to give this advice to dozens of people. You're my focus group.


As if you know a dozen people.


I know a hundred people.


Fuck, a hundred?


I'm saying.


Were you and Justin like that after he lived in L.A.? Kind of uncomfortable at first?


I choked on a laugh. Me and Justin? No. Me and Justin have never been uncomfortable. But I've read about it in books.


What have you read about? Justin asked, appearing beside me. I hooked a arm around his neck and kissed him.


Relationship problems, Derek said.


Justin said, Ooh, what are those? I snickered. No one, literally no one, can jump in on a bit like Justin.


Derek said, God, you two are annoying.


I looked over at the couch. Okay, I'm going to get Emily some water. I looked Justin up and down. Mmm, wow.


I know.


You good?


I'm good.


Derek groaned. You two are adorable and I'm destroyed by it.


I filled a cup with water and clapped my hand on Derek's shoulder. She's amazing, and you treat her like she's amazing. That trumps a lot. You'll be fine.


Derek said, On behalf of straight people everywhere—


Don't.


Thank you for your service, Derek said.


Stop.


Your certificate is in the mail, Justin said. It will be on your gravestone. Brian Kinney. Loving father. Adequate partner. Advancer of heterosexuality.


Like I said. No one commits to a bit faster.


I raised an eyebrow at him. Adequate?


He shrugged sadly.


Adequate.


Don't look at me, I didn't write your gravestone. You promised you'd kill me first, remember?I'm long gone.


Justin Taylor, I said. Brilliant artist. Fantastic lay. Fucking asshole.


Adequate partner! You forgot adequate partner?


Did I, though? I said, backing out of the kitchen, and I grinned at the look on his face.


For the life of me I don't know how you found two people to put up with you, I saw Derek tell Justin.


I laughed to myself and force-fed Emily some water.


**


So all those stories are little variations on a theme, and the whole summary happened about a month after the party. We were both stuck at home on a Saturday night because there was this vicious thunderstorm happening, and the rain beating against the windows sounded like someone running. Justin wasn't feeling great anyway, was medicated to the gills to keep a migraine at bay. I was stretched out in the bay window while he sketched me. The thunder was loud as hell, and I kept bugging Justin asking if he could hear it. He gets nothing at any sort of high-frequency, but sometimes he'll get a bit of something low and loud. He kept saying no, and then there was this clap right overhead and he jumped and I cracked up.


You okay? I said.


“Jesus,” he said, his hand on his chest. “I don't know how long it's been since I last heard something.”


Weird?


“So weird. You really walk around doing that all the time?”


Yeah, I'm great at it.


So impressive.


Justin kept drawing, and I stretched and looked out the window and noticed the streetlamps were flickering. I didn't think much of it, and there was a low whine of our appliances shutting down, and the whole apartment was plunged into darkness. The kind of darkness you don't usually get in New York, because the everything outside, all the buildings around us, all that ambient light, went out too.


“Brian?”


I took my phone out of my pocket and used it to light myself. Hey.


“Jesus, I thought it was my fucking eyes again for a second.”


Is your phone charged?


“It's plugged in now.”


I used mine to light my way to his nightstand and checked his. Twenty percent. Fantastic. I came back to the couch and handed it to him. We have candles, right?


“What?”


I angled my phone back towards myself. Candles.


“We should...cabinet in the bathroom. I think there's a flashlight in the kitchen, I'll check.”


Justin came up empty on the flashlight, but he was right about the candles. For once it comes in handy that he's a hopeless romantic. I lit a bunch and set up some kind of altar on the counter between the kitchen and the living room.


Feeling seizure-y? I asked him. His eyes looked dark in the candlelight.


“No.”


Good. I'm having visions of you knocking these over and setting our fucking apartment on fire.


Justin studied them and took a step back.


Yeah, good call. I checked my phone again. Jesus. They're saying this all of Manhattan and Brooklyn and parts of Queens and the Bronx.


Justin nodded. Gabriel says it's out where he is.


Save your battery, dumbass. Is Daphne at the hospital?


Yeah, I think so.


So Derek's probably alone at her place. He didn't technically live there, but he hung out there most of the time because...well, he lived with his mother.


I can text him.


I already did, he's not answering. Neither's Emily. I studied my phone, then sighed and put into my pocket. How's your head?


It's okay.


Okay. I'm gonna go. You stay here.


You're going where? It's a blackout. God, can you imagine Nova right now? People must be getting trampled...


I stood there impatiently while he drifted off wherever he goes when he's imagining stuff. Justin?


“Hmm?”


I'm going. Keep your seizures away from the candles.


Wait, where are you going?


I gave him a look, and he rolled his eyes.


You have a savior complex, he said, which, fine, but I also had a pretty fucking good memory of how freaked out Justin had been when he couldn't see, so if they were in that situation...


Save your fucking battery unless there's an emergency, I told him, and God damn it all, I went out to rescue the Deaf kids.


**


Derek texted me when I was in the cab on the way to his place. took me forever to find my phone, he said.


are you at daphne's?


yeah. she's at the hospital.


you have a flashlight?


the one on my phone. you'd think a doctor would be prepared for shit.


all right, i'm on my way.


oh man seriously?? sweet


The buzzer to get into Daphne's building was out with the power, so I texted Derek from the sidewalk and waited for him to come on. Christ, it's freaky in there, he said. All the dark hallways and shit.


Have you heard from Emily? I asked, getting back into the cab I'd kept waiting.


He shook his head. I know she wasn't feeling well earlier, maybe she's sleeping?


Great. Fuck. If she's sick...okay, you should go back to my place, there's candles, we have food, and I'll stay in Queens with her.


What?


I can't bring her back to the apartment if she's sick, I can't do that to Justin.


No, it's just cramps.


Oh okay, fantastic. I mean, not for her, but...


Derek was right about freaky; the whole city was unnaturally dark, and the streets were crammed with people looking for cabs with the subway stations closed. I texted Justin as we went over the bridge, so dark it was almost invisible.


He good? Derek asked.


Yeah, he's fine. Why the fuck isn't Emily...


I'm sure she's fine, Derek said. Maybe her phone's dead.


So she's sitting there in the complete dark, alone? That's not fine. I breathed out and rolled my neck in a circle.


You need to take some of those nice drugs Justin has, Derek said.


Yeah, yeah, shut it.


Emily's block was even darker than our street in Manhattan. Her buzzer was out too, but Derek had a key. We rang Emily's doorbell an idiotic six times before it occurred to us that it wouldn't be lighting up in there, so Derek unlocked the door and we swung the lights of our phone around the kitchen and living room. Nothing.


Derek turned his light on himself. Maybe she's not here?


I kind of hope not, otherwise we're about to scare the shit out of her. She doesn't have a gun, does she?


Did you just ask me if Emily has a gun? Emily St. Boroughs?


Yeah, okay.


We bounced the lights off whatever we could and stomped our feet and basically did whatever the hell we could to alert her we were there. I heard movement in her bedroom and grabbed Derek's arm and nodded to the bedroom door, where Emily suddenly appeared holding her bedside lamp like a weapon. Derek pointed his light at me, I pointed mine at us, and she dropped the lamp and breathed out, leaning against her doorway.


Jesus fucking Christ! she said. Scared me to death.


Derek said, You're going to fight off intruders with a lamp? That's the best you can do?


No, I have a bat, but I was hoping it was Brian or Justin and didn't want to give them some fucking PTSD spiral—


Yeah, team lamp, I said. You can do a lot with a lamp. I went over and gave her a hug. Why didn't you answer your phone?


It's dead. I was just going to sit here in the dark until it got light. Or I died.


Come do that at my apartment instead. Get whatever shit you need for a few days. I handed her my phone. Here.


No, I'm scared. Come with me.


Yeah, okay.


**


Half an hour later I was ushering them both into the apartment. Justin was at the stove making hot chocolate, and I cupped the back of his neck and kissed him.


I looked at the crease between his eyes. Your head hurts, I said, small.


Just a little.


Go sit, I've got this.


Emily went with him, but Derek stayed in the kitchen and got mugs out. I took them from him and nudged him towards the living room. Go sit with them.


Why?


Just...sit on the couch with Emily and Justin.


He shrugged and went and sat with them, slinging an arm over Emily's shoulders. I brought the hot chocolate out to them and checked my watch. Okay, you need meds, I said to Justin, and pointed at Emily. And you need something, is aspirin okay, we don't have Tylenol... I looked back at Justin. I need to get you a fan or something.


You need to relax, he said to me.


Our air conditioner's out and you have seizures when you get hot.


Brian, he said gently. Take a breath. Look at us.


So I did. I sat in the chair and looked at them flickering in the candlelight, perfectly arranged on the couch, all of them safe and happy and in one place, and...okay.


What is with him? Derek said.


It's because we're Deaf, Emily says. He thinks he has to protect us.


Then why didn't he get Gabriel? Derek said.


Gabriel's fine, Justin checked on him, I said, but they ignored me. Justin just watched me, a little bit of a smile on his face. He was radiant.


Okay, it's because we're young, then, Emily said.


Derek said, No, he didn't get Daphne.


Daphne's at work, I said.


Emily shook her head and laughed. It's because we're young and Deaf. That's it.


So, what, we're incompetent? Derek said.


No, we're like Justin, she said. We're his little extensions of Justin.


I rolled my eyes. Drink your fucking hot chocolate.


We give him all the credit for the polyamory thing, meanwhile you're fucking raising three of him, Emily said.


I'm not raising anyone, lamp-girl. I just...I like you all in one place.


She giggled. You love him too much for just one person, you have to go spreading it around and shit.


Justin watched me.

 

We're going to get new friends, okay? I said to him, and his eyes glittered over the rim of his mug.

Chapter 55 - From New York by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin gets an opportunity he can't pass up, but it's a little too familiar for Brian.

From New York

LaVieEnRose



It happened in August of 2011. I came home from work and Justin was in the office, signing to someone on his videophone setup, the thing he only digs out for the professional shit. I stuck my hand in the doorway, and he smiled and signed, one minute? I gave him a thumbs-up, wrinkled my nose when he blew a kiss at me, and went to the bedroom to get changed.


I was in the bathroom fixing my hair when he called, “Hey, I'm all done.” Too loud, but what can you do. I came back and leaned against the doorway, and he whistled—with no sound, this guy—and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Wow.”


I'm going out. You want to come?


Yeah, sure. I need to get changed. But he didn't get up.


Well...?


He tilted his head to the side. How was your day?


Christ, you're transparent. Tell me about the phone call, darling.


He spun around once in his office chair. I was talking to Marie about maybe could I take a sabbatical this fall.


Oh yeah? it sounded good to me. He'd been struggling to find time to get his own work done in-between helping Marie out with now two galleries, and pushing himself that hard was shitty for his health and meant he ended up having to take time off anyway. If he was willing to put a stop the never-ending guilt spirals every time he took a sick day, so much the better. It's not like we really needed his income, and he was pulling in a decent amount on commissions anyway. What'd she say?


She was hesitant at first, until I told her it was because I got a job offer from Samir Rahal. He watched me, pulling his lips between his teeth.


You...Samir Rahal?


He nodded.


Actual...


“Yeah.”


Holy shit, Sunshine. A little background here. Samir Rahal was an art world darling, a household name in the right kind of households, and probably one of Justin's favorite living artists. We'd seen his exhibit a couple months ago at MoMa, and Justin had a book of his work. He'd started out as a graffiti artist and gone on to be some sort of post-neo-expressonist figurehead. Loud stuff, political stuff, crazy amounts of detail work. The big three: color, anger, and sex.


I know.


When did this happen? I said.


I don't know, like...an hour ago? He ran his hand through his hair. I called Marie right away.


So you talked to him?


Justin nodded. Someone told him about my work I was doing, and he saw the train tracks...you know he does all that urban stuff, and now he's doing this huge mural project, it's...it's enormous, and a big fucking deal, and he wants me to be his apprentice. He said he wants my perspective, I guess...because I'm gay and disabled, so he's probably going to be disappointed by how boring I am.


I laughed. I couldn't take my eyes off him.


He wants to teach me. And pay me.


Justin. Fuck.


He bounced a little, looking nervous. Are you proud of me?


Take your pants off and I'll show you.


He grinned. I haven't said yes yet.


Why the fuck not? Marie said it was okay. Call him back right now.


Justin clasped his hands in his lap. “It's in LA.”


I will deny to my dying day the punched-in-the-stomach sound I made. LA.


He nodded, watching me.


For how long?


Three or four months, he thinks. He'd um, he'd put me up in apartment or something, he said...he said somewhere nice.


You know that I can't...I can't leave town for three or four months.


He sighed. “I know.”


I nodded slowly. Okay then.


“Okay?”


Okay.


He smiled a little. Okay.


Come on. We're going dancing.


**


“So he's really going to take it?” Daphne said.


“Are you kidding? This is his dream job. Once in a fucking lifetime shit. Of course he's taking it.”


She threw back her shot with a wince and a quick headshake. We were at this bar I'd come to like, this dive about a block away from the hospital where Daphne worked where a lot of the doctors hung out. It was about the only to hang out with her, since she worked every minute she wasn't sleeping, and Derek had a tutoring job downtown so he was in the area enough and Emily was a young queer so she was going to be in the Village anyway, so it had sort of become our de facto hangout spot. It wasn't a gay bar, but there were always plenty here anyway given the area, plus I had Nova for that shit. This was for drinking and bitching. Quality time with the kids and all that.


Derek wasn't there that night—he has some group of other friends he cheats on us with a few times a month—but Emily was there, and Gwen. Gwen was a veterinary surgeon, twenty-nine and from Minnesota. She drank whiskey straight and had hacked-off blonde hair and a whole lot of tattoos and she fostered kittens so she was always making Justin sneeze, but I liked her besides that. She and Emily had been together for about six months at that point, and from what I could tell they were playing it about the way I do, hooking up with other people at parties or clubs but going home together. Honestly, and I say this with as much of my bullshit pushed aside as I physically can, I think that's the most realistic way to do this. The way Justin does it, with Gabe and with the guys after Gabe, is good for him, and the way Daphne and Derek do it—yeah, I'll spoil the ending here, they're still together—somehow works for them, because straight people are just playing with a whole different deck of cards, I guess, but I think fucking around but letting one person in is the most foolproof strategy. Hell, if a relationship methodology works for me, I imagine just about any bastard could make it work.


Anyway, Gwen and Emily were over by the pool tables, cracking each other up with dirty jokes and making out against the pillar in the middle of the bar. I was keeping an eye on them because there were way too many fucking creepy straight guys watching them, but the signing would probably be enough to keep anyone from actually approaching them. People get freaked about signing. Salespeople fucking ignore me if they see me talking with Justin. As if I go to stores to show myself around. Pamper me, fuckers.


“Has he told Gabriel yet?” Daphne asked me.


“I don't know. Gabriel's got like twenty boyfriends he's juggling, he'll be fine. Probably grateful to have one less plate in the air. Though Justin's definitely his favorite.”


“Maybe they all think they're his favorite.”


“Hmm. Maybe.”


“All right, look,” she said. She was three shots deep at that point and starting to show it. “Take it from someone who just did four months without their boyfriend. It fucking sucks.”


I waved her off. “Derek was on a different continent. Justin's going to be a five hour plane ride. I'll see him. God knows I'll have to go out and weep at his bedside at some point, knowing him.”


“Yeah, that's another thing.”


“That Derek's all shiny and healthy?”


“Justin's plenty shiny,” Daphne said, and I smiled a little. “Is it even...doable?”


“He can do anything.”


She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know he can do anything, but that week we went snowboarding took a shit ton of preparation, and he wasn't alone for that.”


I downed my shot and motioned the bartender for another for each of us. “Well, it's a shit ton of preparation.”


“I bet.”


I sighed and threw down my next shot. “He hasn't had a major seizure since we got his new meds sorted out. Fucking eye drama aside, he's been pretty healthy for like...Jesus, almost a year now. Maybe he's all fixed and shit, assuming these meds don't try to fucking poison him like the last ones. He doesn't want to tell Rahal. Which I think is fucking bullshit. The guy already thinks Justin's interesting because his ears are nothing to write home about, he'd probably love the epilepsy. Think it gives him perspective instead of bruises. Which it does,” I granted. “Also bruises.”


“It's like you save all your words up for when you're drunk.”


“Eh, fuck off.” We clinked glasses and downed the next round. “He wants to do this,” I said. “He has to do this. He'll figure out how to make it work for him.”


“And how about for you?”


“I'll be fine.” I looked around the bar. Where's Emily?


“She's right there. Christ, you're wasted.”


She needs some water.


“You need some water. You know, some day you're going to have to talk about yourself.”


I scoffed. “I talk about myself.”


“Oh yeah? With who?”


I gave her a look.


She gave me one back. “So how's that going to work when he's gone?”


**


I'm going to miss pizza, Justin mused, as we walked home from this hole-in-the-wall place a few blocks from the apartment. California has the fucking worst pizza.


You loved it, though. LA.


He nodded. It'll be nice to see the beach.


We have beaches.


Okay, it'll be nice to see a beach that's not covered in trash. He stuck two cigarettes between his lips, lit them both, and handed one to me. I watched the gentle way his hand shook. It was a cool evening, for August in the city, and his hair was blowing around a little.


Well, don't go falling in love with it, I said. And not in that fake way like when I told you not to fall in New York but I really meant that you should. I'm not moving to fucking LA.


You've never even been to LA. You might like it.


There was some attitude there, so I raised an eyebrow and he looked away. No. None of that shit. I snapped in his face until he looked back at me. You can't still be pissed at me for not visiting you, I said. It was eight fucking years ago.


You kept saying you were going to come...


Yeah, and stuff came up.


Do you think I'm an idiot?


I looked at him sweetly. Do you want me to answer that?


He huffed out an irritated puff of smoke. Nothing came up. You were trying to...to do some slow fade out of my life like a fucking coward in case I didn't come back, even though I never gave you any fucking reason to believe I wasn't coming back.


What the fuck's your point, dear? I'm not going to do that this time, so why the fuck does it matter?


Why aren't you going to do it this time? he said.


I stared at him. You seriously think I'm going to, what, fucking ghost you when you get to LA? Emily taught me about ghosting.


No, I want you to say why it is that you won't.


Because it's been eight fucking years since then! Because you fucking...we live together, I'm wearing this fucking ring, are you seriously asking for a fucking commitment ceremony on eleventh avenue?


No, I'm asking you to tell me the fucking truth about why this time is different. He stamped out his cigarette and held the door of our building open for me.


I just fucking... I hit the button for the elevator and sighed. Can you just tell me what the fuck it is you want me to say instead of trying to fucking trap me into something? I hate this shit. I could see some people in the lobby watching us in that corner-of-the-eye way they think is sneaky. We'd lived here for two and a half years, but non-signing hearing people never get over gawking at sign language.


We got onto the elevator, and Justin said, out loud, now that we were alone, “You're going to come see me because I'm sick. You're going to call all the time and be in constant contact because otherwise you're going to be worried I'm dead. That's why this time is different.”


Would you rather I didn't care if you were dead?


“I didn't say that.” We got off the elevator and I unlocked our front door. “I just think you're using it as an excuse not to think about...anything else about me leaving,” he continued.


Okay, I'll bite. What am I supposed to be thinking about that's more important than, say, you alone in an emergency room with no one who speaks your language?


“You.” He pulled his shirt over his head. “Here alone.”


Yeah, the people in the ER speak my language.


“I'm not talking about fucking...can we for a second not talk about fucking emergencies? I'm talking about regular goddamn life.”


This shit is your regular life, and you're acting like it's not even a consideration—


So what, you don't want me to go because I'm sick?


Of course I want you to go. You fucking know that. But you're leaving in two weeks and you're not talking about finding doctors and modifying the apartment, you're talking about parties and studio spaces and fucking pizza. I yanked my jeans off.


“Because I'm trying to get you to fucking calm down. All you're talking about is—”


I kissed him, hard enough to hurt him, not entirely by accident. What am I, a yappy dog in a thunderstorm? I said when we broke apart. I don't need to be fucking managed.


“That's a lot coming from you,” he said, panting.


Bite me.


He did, while I pulled him down onto the bed. Last time I was gone, you were a mess, he said, as I climbed on top of him. And you're already drinking more now, already coming home late trashed, and I haven't even left yet.


You were a mess when you got home last time, I said. You were sick as shit from the crappy air out there, just like you're going to be this time. Not me.


“You,” he insisted, his hands busy on my cock, while I tongued the skin behind his ear. “You were tricking like some twenty-five year old and snorting anything you could fit up your nose. You would have thought I was in a fucking coma again.”


I kissed him. Charming.


“You don't do well when we're separate,” he said, groaning as I worked my mouth around his nipple and groped around for a condom. “I know it and you know it, so I don't know who the fuck you're performing for right now.”


Performing? I said, pushing into him.


“Oh, fuck.” He hissed in a breath. “Maybe you don't know it. Maybe that's the problem.”


God knows what your problem is, I said, my elbows propped on either side of him so I could sign, his knees jabbing me in the chest, pointy and painful and so fucking good in the midst of this absolute bullshit.


“Not my problem, your problem,” he said, clasping his hands behind my neck. “You're focusing on all this health stuff to distract you from the actual part that's scaring you.”


I grabbed his wrists and pinned his hands underneath him. Are you fucking kidding me? You think I want to be thinking about this shit? You think I wouldn't rather be—twist your hip out, there—thinking about fucking wallowing here by myself, wouldn't rather think about goddamn anything other than you fucking unconscious alone on the other side of the country? This isn't fun for me, Justin.


He kissed me. “Harder.”


Yeah. I would love to get this fucking shit out of my brain, okay? This is not something I'm doing for fun, but I keep fucking seeing it, and you won't goddamn...


“I don't want to think about it all the time.”


I don't either! Too fucking bad! Jesus Christ. This good?


“Yeah. So what, you can't think about how you're going to feel because—”


I can't think about else. And I know it's fucking driving you crazy but think about how goddamn fucking crazy it's making me.


“That's not how I want you to picture me.”


Yeah, and I want to picture you lying out by the ocean or painting or fucking safe and sick in bed at the very goddamn least but you haven't even faxed over your fucking records—


“Well, I don't want to picture you fucking—fuck—drinking yourself to death.”


I'll be fine, Christ,, it's a few months, as long as I know you're not—


“I just.” He panted. “I don't want you to not come like last time but I want you to come because you fucking miss me, not because you think I'm some fucking delicate—”


Sunshine, I am fucking you as hard as I can right now, you're not—


“I found a neurologist out there,” he said. “So you have to take care of yourself here too.”


Of course I'm going to fucking miss you, I said, and he drew in a breath and scrambled his hands out from underneath him and we came at the same time.


**


The week before he left went fast. We shipped out a bunch of his shit and made a ton of phone calls. I took him to Nova and out for an expensive dinner and fucked his brains out more times than I could count. He stayed over at Gabe's one night and I paced the empty apartment and felt like I was losing my fucking mind, because goddamn, did it feel empty over one fucking night.


So maybe because of that, and maybe because I watched in amazement while he spent a full two and a half minutes trying to figure out why the toaster oven wasn't working before he figured out that it wasn't plugged in and I realized expecting him to hook up his doorbell and alarm himself was just asking for his Californian visitors to get electrocuted, I suggested I fly out to LA with him and stay the first night to make sure he was settled in, and he agreed too quickly for either of us to really pretend he was just humoring me. I'd been wondering how the hell he was going to get his sedated ass off the flight and into a cab and to the right address without finding his half-unconscious self sex trafficked anyway, so at least this was one fewer thing to worry about.


We had everyone over for a makeshift party the night before he left. The usual gang, plus Molly and Gabriel. They gave him useless presents we'd have to find room for in his suitcase and Molly drank too much and hit on Derek and Emily cried a little. Justin was stressed and feeling it, so he was sitting on the floor next to me with his head on my shoulder, just kind of taking it all in. it was a little more of a hint that I like him than I'll usually allow in public, but every time I meant to shake him off I kept not doing it.


He got tired early, and his arm was shaking and making it hard to sign, so I kicked everyone out while they made promises about postcards and Skype and care packages. You would have thought the kid was going off to war. I kissed his forehead and told him to go to bed, swallowing against the little noise he made when my lips touched his skin, and I cleaned up the pizza boxes and beer bottles and brushed my teeth and put Justin's shampoo under the sink. He watched me from the bed, his hands clasped around his ankles, stretching out his back.


“It's not our last night together,” he said. “We have tomorrow, in LA.”


Is that your way of saying we're not having sex tonight? I'd already known, obviously, by fucking looking at him, but he'd think something was wrong if I didn't give him a little bit of a hard time.


“Yeah. I don't feel good.”


I came over to the bed and nudged him onto his stomach and worked out some of the knots around his shoulders. He rolled back over eventually, bumping his nose against my chin, and we pawed at each other lazily for a little while, kissing, looking.


“I'm scared,” he whispered.


You're usually scared.


“I'm scared of something real this time.”


I traced my thumb over his cheekbone. You're supposed to tell me that you're going to be fine, and I'm being neurotic.


“I will tomorrow.”


“Okay.”


He covered his face with his hands. “I'm going to fucking let everyone down. I'm going to call in sick all the time and Rahal's going to think I'm a fucking flake and he'll slander me to the art world and I'll die disgraced and penniless.”


I peeled his hands away. At least you're hot.


“There is that.”


He wants your delicate disabled soul, remember?


“Yeah, it's just a question of whether he wants the delicate disabled body when it's in front of him being all...”


Delicate and disabled?


“Yeah.”


I nuzzled the soft hairs under his bellybutton. It's a good body.


“Brian...”


Fucking ferocious body.


He whimpered as I bit down on his hipbone.


Stay still, I said.


“Okay,” he whispered.


It's okay.


**


Our flight out to LA was early, and Justin was quiet, chewing on his nails as I tried to straighten up his fucking train wreck of a carry-on bag. I bullied him into eating something and he slept the whole plane ride, his hand twitching on my lap.


I'd been to the LA airport on layovers but never actually stepped outside of it, so this was my first time seeing the palm trees and the mountains and getting hit with a level of sunlight that shouldn't be allowed. Justin shook out a pair of sunglasses and instantly looked like belonged here. People in this town pay thousands to get that blond.


I wonder what the Deaf community's like here, Justin said. I know there's a Deaf theater.


Don't, I said.


What?


You know where there's a great Deaf community? New York City.


He rolled his eyes. You are so paranoid. I've been here before, remember? I'm not going to get suddenly swept away.


You'd been to New York before I convinced you to move there, too.


Oh, you convinced me, that's how it went down? I thought I was the one with the fucked up memory.


The cab took us off the highway and through neighborhood after neighborhood of high, stuccoed houses. I kept waiting for the glorified dorm I'd pictured Justin staying in, until we pulled into the driveway of a goddamn mansion. A turquoise mansion, of all fucking things.


Who owns this place? Justin asked me, and then nodded to the cab driver. I interpreted.


“Hell if I know,” the driver said. “It's always rented out to someone or other. Most of the houses in this neighborhood are like that. People come and go.” I signed it all to Justin.


People coming and going, Justin said. Sounds like our apartment.


Or Debbie's house.


Justin laughed. I hope it's decorated just like hers.


No such luck. It was modern and minimalist, with high ceilings and and an echo that wouldn't bother Justin. We separated and did separate laps around the downstairs, and I tried not to think about the sound of our shoes on the hard floors, how many fucking hard floors there were...


He hadn't had a major seizure in months. He hadn't had a major seizure in months.


But that didn't mean he hadn't had ones where the muscles in his leg gave out and he ended up on the floor, or ones where he got disoriented and lost in our tiny goddamn apartment,


I checked the fridge—there was food, someone had gotten him food—and ran my hand over the kitchen countertops. I didn't hear Justin's footsteps anymore, so I circled back around and found him staring up at an enormous marble staircase.


No expense spared, huh? I asked him.


“I feel like I'm looking at my own death,” he said.


I laughed a little and pulled him into me with one arm. There's a downstairs bedroom.


He breathed out. Good. He looked around, spinning in a slow circle. I keep expecting to like, run into another person. All of this can't be for me.


“If there's someone else here, they're very quiet.”


That's good, so am I.


I snorted and kissed his forehead. No you're not.


He grinned. “Prove it.”


So I made him scream in several different rooms of his mansion, then we recharged with some goddamn incredible Chinese food, and Justin unpacked for about thirty seconds before he fell asleep on the wood floor in the foyer, and I hooked up his alarm and his doorbell and put up reminders on his fridge—his address and phone number here, contact information for interpreters, medication timelines, my phone number, his work schedule. I put sheets on the bed.


I looked at Justin sleeping with his neck at an awkward angle on the floor and dug the whiskey bottle out of his suitcase.


He always tastes like salt, always has, and late that night it reminded me of seawater, of beaches without trash, like it had always been there on his skin and I just hadn't identified it, and I was terrified.


**


He had his first day of work the next morning, so I left early. He was quiet, and his eyes were a little red, but it might have just been the shitty air. He made coffee and walked me outside. He was wearing this old t-shirt of mine, and his feet were bare, and I felt like something was being physically pried out of me.


I looked away from him. I am such a drama queen.


He smiled faintly. “I like the company.”


I could hear my cab approaching, and it was so hard to believe that I was the one who was about to get in it and go, because even though I knew it was really just semantics that had me leaving him here instead of him leaving me in New York, it felt so goddamn incorrect, so cosmically unbalanced for me to be the one walking away.


And Justin doesn't even walk away anymore, not really. He's been working on that.


I put my palm on his back and drew him into me, and I felt him bite down on the shoulder of my shirt. I moved my hand to his neck and whispered a “shh” even though he couldn't hear it and wasn't making any noise.


He pulled away and ran his hands down my arms. “Your heart is going really fast.”


“Yeah.”


He swallowed and forced a smile. What should I wear today?


Haven't I taught you anything?


I think I might get paint on the Prada.


I scoffed. Not Prada.


Gucci? Armani? I gave him a look, and he suddenly broke into his Sunshine smile. Oh, nothing?


There you go. Best foot forward.


I don't think anyone would be looking at my feet. The cab pulled up, and Justin breathed in sharply and bounced a little on his toes. “Okay. Okay. This is fine.”


I nodded.


“It's just space.”


I closed my eyes and kept nodding.


“When—” he said, and then cleared his throat, and I opened my eyes. “When will you be back?”


I don't know yet, I said. But...soon. Once you're all settled. You can show me LA.


Or we could just stay in and fuck in the mansion.


Or we could stay in and fuck in the mansion.


Don't start blowing off our friends, he said. If your signing gets all rusty I'm going to be really pissed.


I saw right through that, obviously—he just wanted me to promise I wouldn't be alone (like he'll be, my brain filled in helpfully) but I kissed him between the eyes and said, “Okay.”


He was a couple breaths away from losing it, I could tell, and if I was here when that started I was going to miss my fucking flight. So I took his face in my hands and I kissed him with my eyes closed, so I wouldn't have to look at him, so I couldn't, look at him, and his eyelashes were damp against my cheek.


I broke away to let him breathe.


“Later,” he breathed.


I kissed him fast, finally. Later.


And then I left him there.


**


It was evening by the time I was back in New York. The apartment felt enormous, a thousand square feet bigger, all empty spaces and silences. It's such a joke that Justin thinks he's quiet, he's the fucking loudest, snoring and sighing and shuffling around, vocalizing when he's signing when he's excited, purring like a motor when I touch him, blasting his music and laughing with his friends and leaving his shit goddamn everywhere, every fucking surface usually has something of his on it, his shirts or his paints or his empty bowls. I took his shampoo back out and went to the bar by the hospital.


There was no one there at first, but after an hour I felt a hand come down on my shoulder and Derek was there, signaling the bartender for two more of whatever I was drinking at that point, and he sat with me without talking for a while, just drinking and letting me pretend to care about the baseball game playing over the bar and every once in a while giving me a little nudge on the arm. Daphne came after, still in her scrubs, full of stories she probably shouldn't have been telling us about missing cups of piss and a guy who hacked off his own hand, and then it was Emily and Gwen, pulling me up to dance with them, blanketing me with kisses.


A song came on that Justin used to love, back when he could hear, one he'd just tried to sing the week before without any fucking regard for the tune, and I felt drunk and drowning and didn't know I was crying until their arms were around me.


I slept on Daphne's couch that first night, and Emily's the second, and then I went home to that huge goddamn bed.


**


Time passed, eventually. Justin was gone for a week, and two. I turned off the captions on the TV. I put his shampoo away again. Michael called every day with poorly disguised checks on my well-being, and Derek and Daph and Emily dragged me out a lot, and I fucked around Nova when they didn't. I went to the standing Sunday brunches with Molly, and we signed the whole time. I avoided home and quiet places unless I was late at the office, and I missed a few of Justin's calls and screamed at him when he missed mine.


“Didn't you say you weren't going to be such a miserable bastard?” he asked me.


I took in his peeling sunburn, his shitty wheeze, his shaking hand. Didn't you say you'd be fine?


He was fine, usually. He did Skype sessions with his therapist and kept his head above water. He liked his substitute neurologist. He emailed me pictures of the murals in progress, and they were incredible. He had funny stories about everyone around him trying to learn to sign and fucking up terribly, but trying. Stories about orgies with hearing people that were all of a sudden on the table for him, it seemed. Stories about people staring at him and asking him insensitive questions at parties that I was apparently supposed to find amusing instead of infuriating.


“I love it here,” Justin said, and I answered in monosyllables and hated both of us.


**


It wasn't always that bad.


I woke up horny and confused in the middle of the night from a dream I couldn't remember but could still smell, all lime and paint, and I had the light on and my phone propped in front of me before I really processed what I was doing, or what the fuck time it was.


He was still awake, though, eating a bowl of cereal in his big empty kitchen. He smiled at me and waved his spoon.


I yawned. Bedtime snack?


“Uh-huh.”


I wish I was your bedtime snack.


He grinned and got up and went to his bedroom—without even putting the bowl in the fucking sink, of course—and started pulling off his clothes. “All right,” he said. “So if I was there...”


After we'd talked each other off—didn't take long—we stretched out in our beds and looked at each other for a while. I set my phone on his pillow.


“When are you coming?” he said, softly. It was the first time he'd asked since I left.


I stretched. Next weekend. Not two days from now next weekend, but...the next one, that weekend.


He sat up. “Really?”


Yeah, I have the tickets already. I was going to surprise you, but... I shrugged.


“Brian, really? Shut up, really?”


Think you could tear yourself away from your society life?


“No,” he said. “But I think I can drag you with me. You might need some new clothes, though.”


Oh Lord. Three weeks in Hollywood and he's a snob.


“I'm not in Hollywood, you rube.”


Whatever.


He ran his fingers through his hair, and I felt a pang of jealousy that was actually painful. “I can't believe you're going to be here. I have to clean.”


Hire someone.


“Yeah.”


I yawned and burrowed into my pillow. You sound better, I said. Breathing...sounds better.


“Yeah, it rained today. Everyone was amazed. I told them it rains all the time in New York and I don't think they believed me. They don't think anywhere isn't actually just LA, somewhere else.”


It doesn't rain all the time, I said. Just sometimes.


“I talked to Emily today.”


“Mmm, yeah?” I said, too tired to pick my hands up.


“Yeah, well, I mean, I talk to her everyday, but we talked for a long time today. Has she talked to you about what's going on with her parents?”


I nodded, eyes closed, letting his voice break over me like a wave on the beach.


“So it sounds like things are getting better, but she's been so stressed out...thank God she has Gwen, I really like her, do you like her?”


I nodded again, I think. I was so tired, and his voice...


“They're talking about moving in together which is...so fast, but I guess if they're just talking about it...and I guess technically I was living with you for the first time a lot sooner than this, but look how that turned out. Though if I hadn't run away to New York then, who knows...” and he babbled on and on the way he does, and he couldn't hear it and I was half-asleep, and it was beautiful.


**


There was plenty of shit between then and now, though. Justin had a bad week over there, where his interpreter was out and he didn't like his replacement, and he got triggered and freaked out at a party and earned himself a seizure in the bathroom of a mansion that wasn't his and a two-day migraine as a result. I had to fire yet another person from the damn art department which I don't actually enjoy, contrary to popular belief, and it meant I was short-staffed from the bicycle campaign, Lindsay was having some sort of discipline issue with Gus that she for some reason thought I would have some damn clue how to deal with, the bathroom sink started leaking...just inconsequential, exhausting bullshit, most of which Justin could have handled in a second if he was here—the maintenance staff always listens to him and fucking ignores me—but, well, he fucking wasn't.


So I was sitting at home feeling sorry for myself and listening to my dripping sink and waiting for it to be late enough to justify going out without feeling so completely goddamn pathetic, when there was a knock on the door and I gave up all hope of not being pathetic and let myself believe, for a second, that it was him, even though I knew it was probably Derek or Emily trying to coax me into some more wholesome form of distraction.


It wasn't Justin, of course, but it wasn't Derek or Emily either. It was Gabriel, his arms full of grocery bags. He thrust them into my arms and came inside.


I couldn't stop thinking about how Justin told me one time he didn't trust you to know how to turn on the microwave, Gabriel said. So I figured someone better come over and make sure you don't starve.


I set the bags on the counter. Tonight's actually not—


Yeah, I'm sure no night would have been good. Just sit the fuck down and let me make you dinner.


So...whatever the fuck, I did, because I'd lost just about all the fight I had in me at that point and because Gabriel was unloading the ingredients to Justin's shrimp noodle soup and I was suddenly starving. I sat at the table and closed my eyes while he cooked and pretended I was about to hear the kind of abysmal tuneless singing that usually comes with cooking noises in this house, but Gabriel was quiet. For the best, really.


We were quiet while we ate, too. I was sure he was going to to force me to launch into some dialogue about Justin, but he never did. He asked me casual questions about work and the new theme nights at Nova, and I found things to ask his roommates and his boxing.


But eventually I said, Are you going to visit him?


I don't know, he said, settling back thoughtfully in his chair. He hasn't asked me to. When are you going?


Saturday.


Took you long enough, he said.


I glared at him, and he just shrugged.


I have baggage, I said, and maybe he was expecting me to expand on that, but just those two signs took a fucking monumental effort, were more of a confession than I'd given in years.


Don't fuck this up, he said. It's a privilege, to get what we do. You know that.


I cleared my throat. Remember in April when he knocked his whole fucking painting off the balcony?


Gabriel laughed. Oh God, he was convinced he'd killed someone.


Did he ever tell you about when he was a kid and he thought you made motorcycles by cutting cars in half?


Fuck, and he tried to saw open his dad's with his fucking—


The safety scissors, yeah.


You know the one where he broke his ankle just fucking—


Just walking, yes, I said, laughing, and we roasted the fuck out of him for the rest of the evening.


**


I lay in bed that night and looked at the clock.


Four more days. Four thousand more miles.

 

It was just space.

End Notes:

 

Part 1 of what'll be a 3 story plot arc! The next part's in Justin's POV, and the third's going to be from one of the Pittsburgh people, but I haven't decided which. Who would you like to hear from?

Chapter 56 - To California by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin hasn't been on his own in a long time.

To California

LaVieEnRose



I lived a double life in LA, and I didn't tell anyone for a long time, not even Brian. It wasn't the plan or anything, and every single fucking day I said I was going to cut it out, but then...I don't know.


I guess it started my first night there when I woke up on the floor. I'd kicked off the covers before I flailed my way out of bed, so I had kind of a soft landing onto them, so I was okay. And it wasn't even a seizure, just a nightmare. I always have nightmares when I sleep alone in weird places. Brian had told me I should call him when it happened, but by the time I was awake enough to be aware of what was going on, I was way less freaked out about the dream than by the fact that I'd landed on the floor. And I couldn't tell him about that. I couldn't. He leaves me alone for one night and I'm one well-placed quilt away from scrambling my brains on the other side of the country? No way.


So I got up and went to the living room, and I took all the cushions off the couch and set them up around the bed. And then I stood there and stared at it.


This...I look like a crazy person, I signed to myself. I'm a crazy person.


I still couldn't sleep.


**


Outside the house, I was dazzling. I was on fire.


Samir was amazing. He was dynamic, hilarious, and completely unafraid of me and my interpreter, which is fucking rare. From the first time I met him at the site of our mural, he talked straight to me, watched me while I was signing, and used the signs he picked up confidently and un-self-consciously.


He had a mansion in West Hollywood and he threw parties almost every night, fucking just like the ones Brett threw my last time out here. I never brought an interpreter because I didn't want it to feel like business, so I mimed and smiled and wrote things down and maybe I was a bit of a sideshow act, and maybe I sort of hated it, but everyone was so damn nice. Twenty-something girls in skimpy bikinis wanted to mother me, and guys Brian's age thought it was hot when I shut them down with a glare and they wanted me to dominate the shit out of them, so I did.


I went to just about every party. I jumped in the pool, and I danced to a rhythm I could feel through the concrete patio. I fucked boys in bedrooms that no one ever slept in with sea air ruffling chiffon curtains. I laughed and let people touch my hair and when they begged me to teach them signs I did, over and over again. People who were too wasted to remember their own names wanted to know how to fingerspell them. I didn't drink the champagne or snort lines of coke off Samir's glass tables, and everyone inferred a dark past from that and it made them love me more.


I didn't drink the champagne or do all that coke, except that every once in a while I did, and I took risks, and I didn't tell anyone what was wrong with me, and I hid my shaking hand at work and shook alone in Samir's golden bathrooms at the parties. I went surfing, and once skydiving. I roughhoused in the pool. I let people touch me who didn't speak my language, who wouldn't have understood me if I'd told them to stop.


I made no good friends but a fucking bucketload of casual ones, and there was always someone to get lunch with or go to the beach or dance at a club. I worked my goddamn ass off for Samir, and I learned techniques and theory and patience I'd never dreamed of, and we were making a new fixture of downtown Los Angeles. We were creating a world. And I was dazzling.


And I'd come home every night with skin tight from the sun and the first thing I'd see when I walked in was that marble staircase, and every stupid thing I'd done, every choice I'd made that could have gone sofuckingbadly came back and hit me like a...well.


So I would drag those couch cushions around with me everywhere. I'd lie on them on the floor when I watched TV instead of sitting anywhere I could fall from. I put them around my chair when I was in the kitchen, on the rare occassions I didn't eat cross-legged on the floor where it was safer. I never slept without a padded surface around my bed, even though I didn't fell out of it after that first night.


I went to a home goods store and got a bar for the shower in case my leg gave out when I was in there. I never, ever used the stove. I never had anyone over, not anyone.


I never once went up those marble stairs.


I lived a double life and I didn't tell anybody because how could I fucking expect anyone to understand? I didn't understand myself.


I can live okay when I'm on my own, but I can't really understand anything.


But I was making great art.


**


If I was awake and at home, I was probably on the phone with someone. Emily and I had a whole cooking show thing, where we'd make dinner together—never with the stove, never the stove—and Saturday mornings I'd sit down with Daphne, and Derek sent me videos all the time. And there was Molly and my mom, and Gabriel, and Gus once a week or so, and Michael and Ben and Emmett sometimes.


And, of course, there was Brian. Not as much as I wanted and not as much as he needed, but there was Brian.


He was a jerk at first, but I knew he would be, so whatever. I wasn't sure what way to play it, so I started off at first telling him how great I was doing and how much fun I was having and how much I wished he was there, and when that didn't work I tried giving him small problems to fix, and when that didn't work I just waited for him to get the fuck over himself, and that was what did it for the most part.


I was strategic with medical stuff, showing him enough hand shaking that it would look like I wasn't hiding anything while actually hiding everything that he couldn't fix from four thousand miles away, but two and a half weeks into it I wouldn't pick up the phone because it had been a long day out in the heat and the smog and three people at work had told me I was wheezing and I'd done a great job smiling and telling them I was fine but that was not going to work on Brian. I texted him excuse after excuse why I couldn't talk right then but I forgot to scroll up and verify the stories I was making up, and my memory was being a traitorous bastard and selling me the fuck out. He wasn't buying any of it, and he kept calling, and kept calling, and finally told me that if I didn't pick up he was going to get on a plane, and I resisted every urge to say yes, fucking get on a plane, come and get me, what the fucking fuck was I thinking, and picked up the phone and as soon as he got a good look at me he screamed at me for twenty minutes before he got to asking how I was feeling.


But when I called four hours later, five in the morning his time, because I felt like there was a fist around my throat, he said, Okay, that's all right, you're doing great.


So, you know, what the fuck do you do with that? I carefully aimed the phone away from the cushions on the floor and stayed on the phone with him until I could breathe, and he stayed with me.


We did better after that. He called me when he was at the bar with our friends just to tell me a dirty joke, and I called him when I was dressed up to go out and looking hot. We kept things light for a little while, and I had Emily give me regular Brian reports and told her enough about what was going on with me for her to give him regular Justin reports, and maybe that was going to be the way we did it, and maybe that would be fine. Dysfunctional and ridiculous and regressive right back to where we were eight years ago, but maybe that was what we had to be. Maybe all that growth or whatever was bullshit.


Until he called once, panting and wild-eyed, after a nightmare, and I soothed him and distracted him and otherwise showed him I didn't die on a parking garage floor, and then I called him when I had a migraine so bad that I swear to God I was wishing I had.


It's been like this for hours, I said. It's like fucking...fuck, this hurts. I squeezed my eyes shut and buried my face in my pillow. “Fuck!”


When I finally felt like the minimal light in my room wouldn't sear through my skull, I opened my eyes enough to see him. His hands were tented over his lips, and his eyes were wide and focused right on me.


“I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm sorry, don't worry, I'm fine.”


Stop, he said.


“No, I—”


I'm not scared, he said. I'm not worried. You're alone and you're crying. It's sad. That's all. Stop talking and put your head down.


You learn a few things in eight years.


**


And then, one Saturday morning a month after I'd left, his cab pulled up in front of my house. I swear to God, the three seconds between when the cab stopped and when Brian stepped out were the longest three seconds that have ever existed in the history of the universe. But then the door opened and there he was, in a suit like he always wears to fly, not a hair out of place because he primped in the airport bathroom, he wanted to look good for me, and oh God, he looked so, so goddamn good.


I ran towards him, and he laughed and dropped his bag on the ground and held his arms up and stood there looking so fucking cocky, just waiting for me throw myself on him, and God, I did. I jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist and kissed the hell out of him.


Oh my God, he signed, small, when I broke away, and at first I thought he was making fun of me, but then the look on his face was just...this awe.


“What?” I said.


He shook his head, spun me around, and kissed me so hard.


**


I'd put the cushions back on the couch before Brian came, and tucked away most of the neurotic notes I'd left myself around the house, and otherwise tried to make it look like the home of someone who who thought he was less delicate than a fabrege egg. Jesus, I couldn't stand the thought of him...of him finding out the things I was doing and thinking I was overreacting, even though I knew that I was. The idea that Brian, who knows the shit going on with my health better than I do, would look at something I was doing and think that I didn't need it, gave me this horrible feeling in my stomach, like it would mean he thought I didn't need any help at all. Like he'd think I was making all of this up, or something. And I know that's stupid, that Brian's never been like that at all, but...this is the shit that chronic illness does to you. You get so used to people telling you that you don't look sick that you start to think that maybe you just want to be.


And it doesn't really help to make you feel less crazy if you're making all the accommodations for seizures that you're not even having. Jesus, no wonder I was taking all these risks when I was out of the house. Was I supposed to just not be goddamn sick of myself?


I don't think there was anything I could have done to that house that Brian would have noticed right then, though. I could have burned the whole thing down as long as I'd left a bed somewhere in the rubble, and that would have been fine with him. Hell, we could have made do just fine without a bed.


God, Brian's body, Brian's legs wrapped around my body, Brian's mouth on me and his fingers tangled up with mine. He's such a fucking perfectionist, such a goddamn control freak, that I thought he would want our first time in a while to be all choreographed and planned and perfect, and maybe that's what he'd meant to do, but there was this fucking desperation and hunger and sloppiness about him, like he couldn't decide what the fuck to do to me first. God, it was so fucking hot. He works so fucking hard to keep his composure, but Brian Kinney visibly turned on anywhere outside his cock is the sexiest fucking thing in the universe. He doesn't get like that with anyone but me.


We lay together for hours, fucking and kissing and laughing, and then we made breakfast together, and he kept coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around me and whispering God knows what in my ear, and he gave me this kiss on the neck so rough it felt like a bite, and I couldn't stop smiling. I used the stove without even thinking about it.


**


I don't know how you stand this heat, Brian complained, as we walked from where our Uber dropped us off. That's one thing New York definitely has over LA: decent public transportation. I didn't have a car out here and I hadn't had a neuro clear me to drive in years anyway, so I was spending a fucking fortune on cars to take me around.


It helps that it's not humid, I said. Dry heat is more bearable.


He pulled on his collar. Jesus, says who?


I don't know, I don't mind it. No seizures.


What the fuck's your hand doing, then?


I looked at it. It's just excited.


Mine too, he said, and made a grab for my crotch in the middle of the goddamn sidewalk.


Samir wasn't at the mural today—he has a very strict “no work on weekends” policy that someday I'll convince Brian is the key to success—so it was just a couple of security guards and a few of the assistants slapping sealer on the parts we'd finished. They waved to me and shook hands with Brian, and I took him over to the parts I'd worked on.


See this here, how it looks 3D? That's foreshortening, I've been trying to nail it for ages, I always cheat it for the comic book, but Samir taught me how to do it in like five minutes.


He smiled faintly that way he always does when he looks at my stuff, like he's sort of stoned or something, and I crowded myself under his arm while he took in the mural and tried to imagine how it looked to someone who hadn't been staring at it for a month.


He gave me this tight, brief squeeze around the shoulders, his eyes scanning back and forth across the mural, and it said everything.


We got lunch at this trendy sushi place I liked and watched the people go by with their tiny dogs and their dye jobs and their aviator sunglasses. Brian trapped my foot between his under the table, and he told me about his fight with the maintenance guy and the party Derek threw last weekend and how Molly slept through her psych midterm and made up this tragic story about her sick brother to convince her TA to let her retake it, and I told him about the Jehovah's Witnesses who came to Emily's door when we were on Skype and this girl from Samir's house who told me she felt Deaf, like, in her soul, and the assistant who asked me if I was horny when she meant to ask if I was hungry, and then he took me shopping out on Rodeo Drive and we ate ice cream on the beach and by the time we got home that evening my stomach hurt from laughing so much. I think one of the underrated things about me and Brian, underneath all the bullshit and the neuroses and hell, even the sex, is just how well we fucking get along, how much I like his stupid jokes and he gets my obscure references, and we've always been like that, from the very first night we met. We just fucking like each other. I brought him to one of Samir's parties that night and expected him to do a lot of coke and fuck a club boy or maybe to be cool and disaffected and look around disdainfully at the stars and starfuckers, but instead we just shared a joint and made out on a pool float for two hours. We took a car home and walked around my neighborhood for a little while, and I was exhausted and sore and kind of wobbly. You want to go back? he asked me, really casually, in that bored way he does, and when I shook my head he stuck his elbow out a little bit and I held on, and we walked like that for a while. The sidewalk was narrow, not like New York, and the houses all had black fences and hedges in front, and there were all these tiny birds and a couple ahead of us kissing under a streetlight.


Is it quiet? I asked him.


He nodded and kissed my cheek. There's some music coming from one of these houses, I can kind of hear that. And the birds. And that streetlamp's buzzing. Besides that, quiet. I like when he does that. I could almost imagine everything.


I could almost hear his voice. Had a busy night? I kissed the top of his arm.


His phone must have made a noise or something, because he pulled it out of his pocket with an irritated look in his face. It's fucking midnight in New York, they can't leave me alone?


Who is it?


Just Laura with work shit. We're talking about trying to buy out the dry cleaner's next door so we can get some more space, and apparently this is something I need to be involved in every goddamn step of the way.


I started thinking about office politics and CCed emails and meeting confirmations and I felt the same kind of throat tightening that makes me sleep with a barrier of pillows around my bed, and I shook my head fast. I can't even think about going back to work, I said.


So don't think about it, he said easily.


Okay.


So we talked about my neighbors who were always setting bonfires in their yard, and what they were going to do for Emily's birthday and the present I'd sent to her, and then we went home and made mad, passionate love and I fell asleep without anything but Brian to keep me safe.


**


You seem like you're doing well, he said offhand, the next day. He was cleaning the stove while I read the paper at the kitchen table.


“Uh, I am, I think,” I said, though I didn't really know. It's the kind of thing that my brain freezes up about. Whenever someone asks me how I'm doing I always have to stand there looking for evidence one way or the other, because I never just know. And then of course they really just want me to say “Fine, thank you,” so they're wondering what the fuck's taking me so long.


And Brian goddamn knows me, so he said, Do you have any idea if that's true?


“No,” I said, and he chuckled. “But it sounds good.”


You're still breathing like a fucking freight train, but besides that.


“Yeah, bound to happen.”


Does he have a new estimate for when you're going to be done?


“Early to mid-January.”


He nodded.


“Will you come again?” I asked him.


He shrugged. Sure.


“Hey fun fact did you know that you're the most amazing person who's ever lived in the whole world?”


He rolled his eyes.


“It's just a question, God. I can't ask questions now?”


I thought it was a fun fact.


“I'm a multitasker.”


He set a cup of tea on the table in front of me. Multitask that with your weepy goodbye, then. I have to get going.


I'm not weepy, I said, but once he was packing up I did start to come apart just a little bit. Everything just felt so safe with him here, so fucking sustainable, and once he left there'd be no one to make out with at the parties, no excuse not to dance and drink and smile for the hearing people, and the house would convert back into some horror show of hazards, and I wasn't going to laugh until my stomach hurt or fuck someone who cradled my head when he lay me down.


He sighed and hugged me when I wiped my eyes. Baby, he said, a blend of name-calling and exasperation, and affection.


“I know.”


I walked him out to the waiting car and he kissed me, his thumb stroking up and down my jaw, and I tried not to cling. He'll come back, he'll come back, he'll come back.


Tell everyone I say hi, I said. Try to like, eat a fucking vegetable once in awhile.


Dream big.


Yeah, I know.


He kissed my forehead and rubbed up and down my arms, studying me with this tongue in his cheek.


I rolled my eyes. “Just say it, you freak.”


No, he said, with the most beautifully defiant grin, and God, that was so much better.


**


I almost wish you hadn't come, I said on the phone to Brian a few days later, and I felt like such an asshole and was about to apologize when he shook his head a little and said, No, I know, me too.


It sent us right back to where we were a month ago, was the thing. Emily said he seemed depressed but didn't give me details, which was pretty fair since I was making her promise not to tell him how I was crying every time she hung up because I was so damn lonely. Brian and I texted all the time but kept making really shitty excuses not to get on the phone with each other, until eventually one of us would freak out and call in the middle of the goddamn night.


Things settled down eventually, like they did the first time he left. This time I knew when he'd be back again because he'd bought tickets basically as soon as he got home when we were still in the crazy stage, so that helped, having a date to look forward to. And work was going well. I was learning a ton, and painting at a pace that actually worked for me, and Samir was kind and patient and jokingly stern. It kind of reminded me of how Brian was with Gus, actually, which probably should have made me feel infantalized but I don't know, being out there all by myself made me scramble for any sign I could find that someone nearby cared about me.


I think some people just aren't meant to be on their own, and the sad thing is I don't think I used to be one of them, but I think am now, and it's just so fucking hard whenever I think about the fact that there are aspects of my personality that aren't...me, that aren't innate, that were never supposed to be there. And the thing is, you can never be sure. Maybe if I could easily divide myself up into what was me and what was...well, what was the bashing, essentially, then all of this would be simpler, but Brian told me a long time ago that I couldn't cut myself up like that—that he didn't cut me up like that—so I try not to, because he's right. That's how you end up resenting yourself, and looking at your life as this before and after and thinking of being sick as something that happened to you, something that was put on top of you, instead of something that you are, and that's no way to live, walking around feeling like a victim like that. Feeling like something was taken from you.


You don't want to live that way. So you don't, most of the time.


But I'd gone out and bought more pillows to line the floors, and I left notes for myself all over the house. Remember your keys on my front door. Set your alarm on my nightstand. It's October on my closet.


Brian loves you inside my silverware drawer.


**


But he called me three days before he was supposed to come down, on the first day of November. I needed to get rid of that October post-it. And all the other post-its. And hide my obsessive number of pillows.


Except maybe I didn't, because as soon as I saw his face I knew he wasn't coming.


“Noooo,” I said. “No no no, what?”


He ran a hand down his face. How do you do that?


“Is Gus okay? I just talked to him yesterday—”


He smiled a little. You call Gus?


“Yeah, of course.”


He's fine.


“Then what is it, work? You can do it here, I won't bother you.”


He gave me a look that showed how much belief he had in my ability not to bother him. I'm sick, he said.


I sat up. Are you okay? Did you go to the doctor? Is it—


Sunshine, I'm fine. It's a cold.


Do you have a fever?


No. I'm fine.


Okay, then come. I'll take care of you. I'll be a slutty nurse.


He sighed, and my stomach sank.


It's because of me, I said.


I get a cold, I'm down for a day and a half. When you catch it, and you will, you're down for two weeks, and that's if we're lucky and it doesn't settle right in your shitty lungs.


I dropped my chin on my knees. “They're not so bad.”


He shook his head a little. Last time you caught a cold you were knocked on your ass.


I could catch a cold from work. At the grocery store. On the bus.


Compelling.


I pulled a loose string off my pillowcase.


Don't pout, he said.


“You have to make sure you're getting enough fluids,” I said.


I always get enough fluids, he said.


“I don't know if that's a blow job joke or a whiskey one.”


Whiskey, Jesus. Dirty mind. Listen, Sunshine, it's not all bad. You're still going to get company this weekend, all right? I'm sending you a ringer.


“Who?”


He shrugged. I guess we'll see.


I was expecting Emily, maybe Daphne if she could get the time off work, but it was Gabe. And at first it was amazing—no, the whole weekend with Gabe was amazing, it wasn't that. He's not much for parties, and it turned out I really liked having an excuse to stay in my house for the weekend, and it didn't feel as safe as when Brian was there, but it was definitely a huge step up still from being on my own. It was the longest uninterrupted stretch Gabe and I had ever spent together, not to mention the first time I'd spent literally any in-person time with a Deaf person since I left, and that was fucking great. With hearing people I always have to be so aware of stuff I literally can't actually be aware of, how loud I'm being in every situation. Even with Brian, I try to be aware of that. So it was nice to have a break from just...all of it. Gabe had already spent a decent amount of time in LA, so he was happy to just lay around on the couch and watch horror movies and make me dinner, and God, it was nice. My hand was giving me trouble that weekend and he was patient and a little worried and I drank that right up, and the sex was great, it's always great, so...yes, that part was amazing.


What wasn't amazing was that as soon as the immediate excitement of Gabe being there wore off, I knew Brian had lied to me. I can't explain how I knew, but I did. And I spent the whole weekend acting shiny and happy with Gabe and trying not to think about it, but every time Brian's name came up in our conversations or on my phone or in my head, I had to clamp down how fucking furious I was. I got through the time Gabe was there on a few short text messages, but he called about an hour after he left and I bit the bullet and sat on my re-pillow-surrounded bed and picked up.


He was in his lounging around clothes, white tank top and black jeans, and I wanted to scream. Did you have fun? he asked.


“Yeah.”


He lit a cigarette. Sad he's gone? I'm sure he'll come back if you ask.


“You're not sick, are you?”


He didn't say anything.


“What the fuck, Brian.”


Look...I knew you missed him. And I knew it would feel weird for you to invite him—


He could have come any weekend, I said. You didn't have to give him yours.


You don't have that much free time.


Bullshit. Bullshit! You don't get to make that decision for me! It's...you and him are not the same, you can't just fucking trade back and forth like some sort of boyfriend exchange program and think I'm going to be fine with it!


He pinched his forehead. I thought you would be happy to see him.


I was, but...but I wanted... It was all too goddamn much, the fact that I'd gotten to see Gabe, that Brian had supported me seeing Gabe, that he was running my fucking life and making decisions for me and he was sitting there looking like he looked and I missed him like it was something physical and I was so fucking mad at him, it was too much.


He said, Sunshine, come on.


“How are you fine with this!” I said. “Didn't you want to see me?”


He rolled his eyes and took a drag on his cigarette.


Then what the fuck, why did you lie? Why did you send Gabe here like some fucking babysitter for a kid you don't want to deal with? Why aren't you here?


Justin—


“Stop fucking sneering at me like I'm being fucking ridiculous!”


I couldn't do it, okay? he said. Damn it!


“Brian?”


I couldn't fucking leave again, all right?


“But you...but you planned the trip.”


Yeah, just about the fucking second I got home when I was fucking...going crazy wanting to see you again, and then it got closer and closer and all I could fucking think about was it was going to be two days and then I was going to have to go again, and about how leaving last time was...it was just easier not to come.


“But I'm here for two more months,” I said.


I know.


“So...so what, I just don't get to see you for two more months because you can't stand saying goodbye?”


I don't know, I don't know! God! He got up and paced a few steps away from his phone. I never fucking asked for this!


You told me to come here! You told me you wanted to—


Not fucking LA, you! I never fucking asked for you, I never gave you any goddamn impression that I was capable of handling this shit, and here you are asking me to just fucking—


“We're doing this again?”


You keep fucking expecting me to be able to handle this, to fucking...


“It's been ten years!”


Every night with you is like the first fucking one, you son of a bitch, don't try to fucking tell me there's some way to adapt to this shit that you do to me.


“People live with this,” I said. “People feel these things and they aren't miserable—”


They fucking don't and you know it.


“I know.”


And don't you sit there and fucking act like you were fine, like I'm the only one—


“THAT'S WHY I NEED YOU HERE!” I screamed, and we kept going around in circles until we were both ragged and breathless and hysterical and nothing, fucking nothing was resolved.


I wish we loved each other just a little bit less, I said eventually.


He laughed bitterly. Finally something we agree on.


**


So then I got sick, because how else do any of my stories ever reach their conclusion?


I started feeling really crappy at work one Thursday in mid-November, just dizzy and echoey and out of sorts. I bailed out of plans that night and went straight home, and I threw up when I tried to eat and ended up lying in bed with all these muscle spasms. If I was at home I would have taken my emergency anticonvulsant, the stronger one, but if I take that and still have a seizure it's like a huge fucking deal, and there was no one here to watch me and see if I did, so it felt like...I don't know, if I didn't take it then there wasn't as much of a risk. I realize now of course that that doesn't make any sense, but I wasn't exactly thinking clearly. I went ahead and texted Samir that I was staying home the next day, and I texted Brian and told him what was going on and asked him to check in on me in the morning, and at the last minute I decided to sleep on the cushions on the floor instead of in the bed.


That was probably a good call, because obviously I don't know for sure what happened when I was asleep, but the way my muscles were screaming when I woke up gave me a pretty good idea. I dragged myself up and closed the blinds because the sunlight was killing me, and I was trying to decide whether I was going to throw up again when Brian texted asking me how I was feeling.


I said pretty bad but i'm ok, i'm gonna go back to sleep because otherwise if I missed a call he was going to have the fucking paramedics sent to my house or something, and I didn't want to get back on the ground so I curled up in bed. Everything hurt so goddamn bad, my head and my neck and my shoulders, and I didn't think I was actually going to be able to sleep when I felt this shitty, but the idea of keeping an eye on my phone and lifting my arm up to text felt impossibly difficult.


So I just lay there for God knows how long, but in retrospect it must have been at least six hours. It was kind of like when my eyes were fucked up again, because I had them closed the whole time and I wasn't doing anything, but this time I was too sick to care. I lay there and took these shallow breaths because it hurt too much to take anything else, and I felt so goddamn awful that counting those breaths was about all the entertainment I could handle. I knew it wouldn't last; I'd been here before. All you can do is just lie there and breathe and wait for it to pass. So I did that, and everything kind of drifted by, time and the light changing through the blinds.


And then at some point, the feeling of the air in the room changed, like it was lighter, or something, and I smelled his cologne, and I whispered, “Oh God, please don't be a dream, please don't be a dream,” and I felt the bed dip down next to me. I said, “If you're a murderer who smells like Brian, you can just go for it, I'm not going to fight.”


He kissed my cheek and I tried very very hard not to cry.


“Hi,” I said. “Hi. I love you. Fuck. I love you so much.”


He kissed me again, next to my eye, and I knew he was telling me to open them. So I did, and there he was, and this time he wasn't in a suit and he wasn't primped in the airport bathroom. He looked tired and peaceful and beautiful and I swear my heart just about stopped, just looking at him.


He gave me a small smile and signed, Breathe.


So I did, slow and deep, and he did it with me.


Breathe, he said again, and we kept going until I fell asleep.


**


Brian woke me up a few times to give me meds and make me drink some water and help me to the bathroom to throw up the meds and the water, but it was morning on Saturday before I really rejoined the living. Brian wasn't there, but there was a bottle of water and a granola bar on the nightstand next to me and a note saying he'd gone out for groceries because your fridge is a fucking disgrace.


My fridge. So he'd seen all the notes.


I sat up and looked around. He'd left all the pillows where they were.


Fuck.


I got out of bed and used the bathroom and washed my face and felt slightly more human. I wandered into the kitchen where he was putting groceries away, and he held out his arms when he saw me and I folded into them.


“Hi,” I said, and he gave me three kisses on my forehead all in a row, which made me smile.


Feeling better? he asked me.


“Yeah, thanks.”


Sit down, I'll get you some water.


I did, pulling my legs up onto the chair with me. “I can't believe you came all this way.”


Yeah, I knew something was wrong.


“Probably not as bad as you thought.”


No, it was literally exactly what I thought.


“Guess you know me pretty well.”


He rolled his eyes and handed me a cup of water, and I pulled him down and kissed him, the first real kiss since he'd gotten here. He stayed close afterwards, eyes closed, a little bit of a smile on his lips.


How long are you here? I asked.


He squeezed my hands and sat down across from me at the table. A week.


“Really? Hey, really?”


And you're taking a few of those days off, all right? You look like shit.


“Yeah, I know. Okay.”


He tapped his fingernails on the table. So we need to talk, you know. About how this fucking house looks.


My stomach tightened. “Yeah, I know.”


Either it's been worse than you're telling me...


I shook my head.


He kept his eyes on me. Or you've been really scared.


I chewed the inside of my cheek.


He sighed and took my hand, playing with my fingers. Why didn't you tell me?


Because there isn't anything to tell, really. I've been fine. I go out in the world and I...I'm all brave and social and everything's fine, it really is. And then I come back here and just...


You're scared.


“Paranoid is more like it. I know it doesn't make any sense.”


It makes fucking perfect sense.


I shook my head.


Yeah, Sunshine, it does. Of course you're not going to be scared in front of people you don't know. You have PTSD, dumbass. You're going to bottle it all up and keep yourself from feeling vulnerable in front of people who could hurt you and then come home and it's gonna boil over.


I winced. Maybe not the best metaphor.


He wrinkled his nose and kissed my hand.


I said. You know I haven't even gone up the stairs? Not once. And like, what are the odds that I would fall on them? It would almost definitely be fine.


You know most people don't deal with this, right? he said. Most people don't have to walk around feeling reassured by the fact that they probably won't have a major seizure at any given time. That's not supposed to be comforting, that it's a small chance. Any chance at all is fucking scary. The shit that you think is supposed to be making you feel better wouldn't comfort anyone else either.


I sighed and sipped my water. So what do I do?


Fuck if I know. Not live alone, if it were up to me, but... He shrugged. What does your therapist say?


I haven't told her.


Well, maybe start there. And this week you can just let me do the worrying, all right? Take a break.


I think that was a big part of it, honestly. The fact of the matter is Brian's a better caretaker than I am, probably always has been, and even though I have the benefit of being inside my body and knowing exactly how things feel, something about this comes naturally for him and not for me. He's able to worry without getting incapacitated by it, and I'd gotten really complacent about having that around. I'd feel worse about it if he didn't like it, but he keeps telling me he does, so...


Jesus, this is like coming up for air, he said that night, when he counted out my pills for me, and I knew exactly what he meant.


We weren't made for each other, but we've certainly grown that way.


**


Brian made me a little nest of pillows in the living room, and I hung out there when I was watching TV or working on my laptop, but I didn't set them up around the bed or drag them around the house with me anymore. We went upstairs once, together. It was nothing special. He told me to stop being a fucking audacious moron at the parties.


He helped me figure out which of the notes to myself where actually helpful and which ones were paranoia, but after he left I opened my silverware drawer and found one we'd missed: Brian loves you.

 

And underneath it, in his beautiful, cramped writing: Good.

Chapter 57 - And Back Again by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin's been in LA for four months, but will he make it home for Christmas?

And Back Again

LaVieEnRose



One time like a million years ago, all eighty or whatever of us were at the zoo, me and J.R. and Mom and Mama and Ben and Michael and Dad and Justin. J.R. was little, like four or five maybe, and she was running around screaming about all the animals like we wouldn't know they were there if she didn't tell us, and Michael was overreacting by acting like it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen and Dad was overreacting by acting like he was going to throw himself into the wolf exhibit. I was sharing this big thing of popcorn with Mom and Justin. He must have not been totally Deaf then because he was wearing a hearing aid and we weren't signing, and that's so weird for me to think about because I always like, insert signing into all my old memories with Justin even though I know it's not right, but it's just so weird to think about Justin being hearing. It just doesn't fit him at all.


Anyway, Dad was antsy and whining about everything, and J.R. was freaking out because we were about to get to the big cats and that was what she'd wanted to see the most all day, and she was all, “Justin, we're going to see the lions!” and Dad took a handful of Justin's shirt and yanked him backwards and said, “Nnnnno. Justin and I are going to go find the back room.”


“What?” I said, and Mom rolled her eyes in that don't ask way she's always doing with Dad.


Justin said, “No, come on, I want to see the cheetahs.” Dad bared his teeth and growled at him, and Justin rolled his eyes. “Fine, I guess you deserve a break. We'll catch up with you guys later?” he said, handing the popcorn over to me, as Dad kept pulling at his shirt.


Mom rolled her eyes after they walked away. “Yet again...”


“Don't start,” Mama said.


Michael said, “What?”


Mom shrugged and tossed a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “Brian pushes him around. I was just telling Lindz this morning—”


“Yes, and I told you to leave it alone,” Mama said.


Michael said, “Leave what alone?”


Mom rolled her eyes and gave Mom some 'I'm sorry' smile. “Brian says jump, Justin says how high.”


Michael shrugged and linked arms with Ben. “That's how love is.”


“Sure, if it's both ways,” Mom said. “But Brian pushes him around. Brian calls the shots. What Brian wants, Brian gets.”


“It's what works for them,” Mama said. “They've made it this way how long without a hitch now?”


“Eh,” Mom said. “Justin deserves better.”


Mama looked at me and J.R. and said “Mel...”


“All right, all right, I'm dropping it. It's dropped. Consider it dropped!”


I thought about that all the time, though.


**


Three days before Christmas when I was eleven, I called a hiatus on me and J.R.'s epic Mario Kart battle and went downstairs to make a sandwich, and Moms were immediately all over me asking if I'd cleaned my room and were my first semester grades up and was I going to the mall with Grandma Jen today or tomorrow and blah blah blah blah blah.


“Tomorrow, God,” I said, when they finally let me get a word in.


“Good, then you can help us clean up this place today,” Mom said. “You know your father's getting here tomorrow night.”


I said, “Are they staying here or with Grandma?”


“Here, it's just Dad.”


I stuffed a handful of chips into my mouth. “Justin's not coming?”


Mama kissed the top of my head on her way out to the living room. “No.”


“But it's Christmas,” I said to Mom. Mom and and J.R. and I are Jewish, but basically everyone else in this enormous family isn't, so Christmas has always been a huge deal around here. It's all right. Nobody gets too churchy about it, and I ignore the big felt Jesus painting Debbie puts up—I mean, most of us do, that thing is creepy. “He said he was gonna try to come.”


“He did try. It didn't work. Don't put that fucking filthy knife on my nice clean countertops, put it in the sink, c'mon.”


“He can't miss Christmas.”


“Christmas happens in California too.”


“Not when you're all by yourself.”


“Maybe even wash that knife! What an adventure that would be.”


I ignored her and took my sandwich upstairs and continued kicking J.R.'s ass even though I was one handed, and I kind of forgot about the whole Justin and Christmas thing until he called me later that night.


Before he moved to LA, I used to call him and Dad once a week on Sunday nights, and they'd sit in front of the computer and talk to me together. Now I had to do separate calls with them, and look, it's fine and I love them and all, but meant twice as much time on the phone and it's not like either of them ever had anything that interesting going on in their lives, and they just wanted to hear about how home was and home was boring and for me to repeat the same stories about school that I'd already told Moms. They were good if I needed advice but, you know, I have my life under control most of the time, and it's not like there weren't fifty billion adults here already all up in my case telling me what to do all the damn time.


Hey, I said. So what's the deal with you not coming home for Christmas? You don't actually have to work on Christmas, do you? Just come for the day or something.


He shook his head. God, you need to take an actual sign language class. Your grammar is a nightmare.


Yeah, so you keep telling me, but you understand me, so...


Don't ever tell any Deaf people you know me. I'll just be embarrassed.


Whatever, it's not like I knew any other Deaf people, besides Derek and Emily and Luke, and they loved me. And could understand me, thank you very much.


Justin said, And listen, I am coming home for Christmas. That's why I called.


Moms said you weren't.


Moms don't know. It's a surprise.


Why's it a surprise?


To torment your father.


I sat up. Dad doesn't know? Okay, this was getting minorly interesting.


No, he's the point of the the surprise. He's always pulling shit over on me, he's due. But I need your help, okay?


Yeah, okay.


Grandma knows because she's picking me up at the airport, and Debbie knows because...well, it's Debbie, and she was calling me every five minutes crying about how I wasn't coming for Christmas otherwise.


Yeah, that sounds like her.


Right, and blabbing all of this to your father also sounds like her. That's why I need you.


What am I supposed to do, gag her?


He laughed. Your dad's coming down with Molly and Daphne tomorrow. What did I tell you? A hundred adults in my life. But I'm not getting there until the next night. So you have to play bodyguard for me, all right? Grandma or Debbie comes near him, you do whatever on earth it takes to keep them from spilling the beans.


So gag her.


Sure. And do me a favor and really ham it up, all right? How sad you are that poor Justin can't make it home for Christmas. Make him really miserable about it.


You two are a mess.


Yeah, yeah. See you soon! Merry Christmas!


**


Dad was already at the house when Grandma Jen and I got home from the mall the next day, so my bodyguard duties started right away. I hugged him and supervised Grandma asking him about his flight and showing him a sweater we'd bought for Justin and asking Dad if Justin would like it, and it was such a shame he wouldn't be there to open it on Christmas morning. She was real smooth.


Dad got super mopey as soon as Justin was mentioned and was all I don't know, how do I know what he likes, in sign language, because he slips into sign language a lot when he's talking about Justin, and then he sat on the couch and pouted and made J.R.'s dolls either make out or fight each other. Mama came over and snatched them away from him. “Are you going to sulk this whole time you're here?” she asked him.


“Maybe.” He picked at the couch. “Yes.”


“I'm so glad you decided to stay here!”


“Speaking of,” Grandma said, with a kiss to Dad's cheek. “I should get home and see Molly. We'll see you all tomorrow!” She gave me a squeeze. “Bye, sweetie.”


Once she was gone, Dad sighed and kind of prowled around the living room, and I said, “It doesn't feel right not having him here.”


He gave me a look.


“I mean, have you ever done Christmas without him?”


“Christmas is stupid,” he said.


“Do you at least get to see him for New Year's?” I'm so evil.


“Gus,” he said.


“All right, all right, jeez.” But I couldn't resist. “Does he even have anyone to spend Christmas with? I mean, he's not going to be all alone, right?”


”Gus.”


Okay, I figured I probably should let it go before he drove himself to the airport and flew out to LA right as Justin was leaving. “Well, come see what I got him, at least.”


That brightened him up, even though he tried to hide it with, “I don't care what you got him. What did you get me?” There's no better way to distract him than by bringing up shopping. My dad is a stereotype.


Before long Mama had dinner ready, and we lit candles and sang the blessing because it was the third night of Hanukkah. Moms gave me this thing of M&Ms with Gs on them and Dad gave me and J.R. both cash, which was fine by me but he and Mom got into some argument about it, and before I knew it I'd gotten through the first day of Dad's visit without blowing Justin's cover. I texted him an all clear once I was in bed.


Tomorrow's where the real work begins, Justin said.


I can handle it.


I heard my dad's phone ring in the guest room a little while later, and when I went to the bathroom to get some water, ages later, I could still hear him signing when I walked by. He laughed a little as I passed his door.


**


It was dicey first thing when Dad asked me if I wanted to go to the diner for breakfast. Grandma Jen keeping her mouth shut around Dad was one thing. Debbie was a whole different matter.


“I was just there like two days ago,” I said.


“Michael says he's going to be there,” he said.


I said, “You realize I see Michael like all the time, right?”


“Hunter's here. You don't see him all the time. And I want to see the baby.”


“We're going to see them all tonight,” I said. “We can save money if we eat here.”


“Save money? Who the fuck are you?” Dad said.


J.R. appeared from nowhere and betrayed me all, “I want to see Ivy!” She's obsessed. It's easy to love your little sister if you don't have to live with her, I imagine. “Can I come?” As if Dad would say to no to her. She has him wrapped around her finger.


Dad drummed on her shoulders and said, “Who else? Gus? Women?”


Moms said they had to stay home and get started on the cookies they said they'd bring tonight, and I couldn't exactly let Dad be around Debbie without me when I'd promised Justin I was his bodyguard. So we trekked over to the diner, where Hunter ruffled my hair and J.R. skipped off to sit with her dads, and Dad kissed Michael and the baby and was about to slide in across from me when Debbie saw him and crushed him in a hug.


“Good Lord,” he said.


She pulled him away and held him at arms' length and gave him this look like he was dying or something. “Honey. How are you?”


“I'm fine, mother.” He freed himself and got into the booth.


“It's just not right,” she said. “Seeing you here without Sunshine. Like salt with no pepper.”


“He's got a life,” Dad said, picking up the menu. “Got a job. Busy busy.”


“Still, you'd think he'd find some way to be here...I don't know, maybe he'll—”


I caught her eye and made a slashing moment across my throat.


Dad saw me but, thankfully, misinterpreted. “You don't need to protect me,” he said. “I'm not going to burst into tears at the sound of his name.”


“Whose name?” Michael said, coming back from the counter with a stack of napkins.


Dad tapped one finger next to his mouth, Justin's sign name, while he scanned the menu like it might have changed sometime in the past million years.


“How's he liking the job?” Michael said.


“He loves it,” Dad said flatly. “Loves the parties, love she sun, loves getting to actually paint instead of doing a bunch of administrative crap all the time.”


“Bet it's nice to be there this time of year,” Ben said.


Dad said, “Yeah, he doesn't like the cold,” softly.


“When did you get to see him last?” Ben asked.


Dad shrugged. “He was sick in November.”


“Has he been back to New York since he left?”


Dad shook his head and scratched the surface of the table.


I said, “All right, enough of the third degree. Are we eating, or what?”


We ordered, and Dad reached across the table and tapped his fork against mine. He looked so damn depressed that I swear I almost caved and told him right there. I tried to focus on how happy he was going to be in eight more hours. We just had to make it eight more hours.


**


We made it seven before Dad figured it out. After all of that! What a letdown.


I mean, he was like a fucking detective or something! After we lit the candles for Hanukkah we went to Debbie's house for Christmas Eve dinner, and everyone was hugging Dad and Hunter because the rest of us see each other all the time, but Dad's eyes were all narrow and he said, “Something's wrong here.”


“Yeah, I know,” Debbie said. “Ivy broke one of my reindeer. How's Santa gonna find the house without Rudolph?” She picked Ivy up and kissed her.


“No, it...” Dad looked around the room. “Doesn't smell like Christmas.”


“The gingerbread's not out of the oven,” Carl said. “We put little hats on 'em this year!”


Emmett's eyes lit up. “Hats, you say!”


Dad shook his head. “It's not...it's the tree. That's a fake tree.” He looked at Debbie. “Why is there a fake tree?”


“It's better for the environment!” Debbie said.


“Bullshit. You fucking love real trees.”


“Watch your fucking language in front of the k-i-d-s,” Debbie called over her shoulder on the way to the kitchen.


“There is only one reason there would be a fake tree,” Dad said. He looked around the room, studying our faces, and since Grandma was at the airport getting Justin as we spoke and Debbie had bailed the hell out of there, he settled on me. “You. You know something.”


“I don't know anything!”


“Gus Abraham Peterson-Marcus—”


“Oh my God, Dad.”


He pointed at me. “You can't lie on Christmas. Haven't you seen Love Actually?”


“Why have you seen Love Actually?” Emmett wondered, picking through the fruit salad.


“Because my boyfriend's a fucking sap. And he's coming, isn't he?”


Ted said, “Bri...”


Dad kept staring at me, and I broke.


“Can you at least act surprised?” I said.


Everyone started “Oh my God”ing and “Wait, what”ing and “Did he just say”ing all on top of each other, and Dad just shook his head in the middle of it all. “That fucker, thinking he can pull something over on me,” he said. “The fuck does he get off...”


“I didn't ruin it!” Debbie called from the kitchen. “I want it on record.”


That brought on a whole 'nother stream of “Ma, you knew?” and “Good for you, Deb!” and “Wait, who else knew?” and Dad was still the eye of the hurricane, all calm, still shaking is head.


“That asshole,” he said. “He's going to pay for this shit.”


“That's not exactly in the Christmas spirit, Dad.”


“You're Jewish, what the fuck do you care?”


“Can't you just be happy that he's coming?” I pleaded.


“I'm always happiest when Justin's regretting the day he was born,” Dad said, and he laughed maniacally and bit a cookie in half.


**


I was in the kitchen with Dad, who'd already looked up Justin's flight and was checking his watch every thirty seconds, when we heard the front door open and there was a whole flurry of noise, Emmett and Blake and everyone exclaiming as Justin came in with Molly and Grandma. I gave Dad a look like, “Well?” but he ignored me and sipped his drink like he had no idea what was going on, even though his ears were pricked up like a cat's, so I rolled my eyes and went over and gave Justin a hug.


He kissed the top of my head and then swatted my cheek. You told him.


Ow. I did not.


Justin gestured to the kitchen and gave me a look.


He figured it out, it's not my fault!


Justin groaned and went over to the kitchen and stood behind Dad. I followed him—hell, all of us followed him, we all wanted to see the big reunion—but Dad just stayed where he was, facing away from Justin.


Justin cleared his throat loudly. Dad didn't react. Justin reached next to Dad and got a cookie off the table, his arm practically against Dad's cheek, and still Dad ignored him, and after a minute he got up and went into the living room without even glancing at Justin.


Justin shook his head, looking after him. Two can play this game, asshole, he said.


**


The funny thing was that the whole time Dad was pretending Justin wasn't there, he was still signing, because Dad never, ever speaks in front of Justin. It's kind of sweet.


Of course, the stuff he was saying was entirely, one hundred percent to piss off Justin.


I went to this exhibit at MoMa the other day, he was telling Blake.


Oh yeah?


You know Gertrude Abercrombie?


No, I don't think so.


Oh, she's just this artist. Dad sipped his drink. I don't think she's actually very good.


Justin glared at him from across the room.


**


“Does anyone need another drink?” Justin asked at one point.


Everyone told him they were fine and looked at Dad rolling his empty glass between his hands.


“Rrrreally?” Justin said, drawing out the R, which he doesn't pronounce that well to begin with. “Nobody needs another drrrrink? Okay then.”


I will murder him, Dad signed after Justin looked away.


**


Justin planted himself in front of the fridge when Dad caved and went to get himself his own drink. Dad tried to maneuver around him, but Justin wouldn't budge, and finally Dad signed excuse me, without looking at him and faked to one side and grabbed the fridge door when Justin went to block him.


That counts! That counts as talking to me!


Dad just sipped his drink on his way out of the kitchen.


**


You have to stop this, I said. This is traumatizing.


You'll survive, Dad said.


You can't do this to me. I'm the child of a broken home.


You are not from a broken home.


Are my parents married? Broken home.


He coughed and waved his wedding ring in my face.


That's not what...and it doesn't even count because you won't talk to him.


He's going to break first.


This is painful.


Gus.


What?


Who raised you to be no fucking fun? He looked up as Justin came out of the bathroom, then said to me, It's kind of hot in here, isn't it?


I said, No, it's not at all hot in here.


No, I think it is, Dad said, and he pulled his sweater over his head, excruciatingly slowly, so he was just standing there in this white t-shirt. Is he looking?


Traumatized. Traumatized for life.


**


Everyone was clearing plates after dinner except for Dad and Molly and I, who were sitting on the couch hiding out from doing work, and Justin, who wandered out and said, Finally, I've been waiting for a spot on this couch to be free all night, before he sat right on top of Dad like he wasn't there, and Dad had to cover his mouth to keep from busting up laughing. Molly smacked Justin on the back of the head, but he ignored her too, as well as half the people cleaning up who stopped and came out into the living room because the Brian and Justin show was a lot more interesting than the dishes.


Justin and I had a whole conversation while he wiggled around on Dad's lap, and Dad tilted his head back and didn't lay a hand on him.


This is child abuse, I said.


**


Hunter put some music on after the dishes were done, and Justin got this look in his eye and tugged on Emmett's hand. Can I borrow your husband? he said to Drew, and Drew nodded all “go ahead” and Justin tugged Emmett out to the middle of the floor. He let Emmett show him the beat and then started dancing all up on him, his arms around Emmett's neck and Emmett's hands on his waist. He whispered something in Emmett's ear, and Emmett laughed and slipped his hands into Justin's back pockets. Thank God Grandma had gone home already.


Dad watched, drumming his fingers on his glass, looking like a spring about to...spring.


Justin stretched his arms up over his head, eyes closed, and Emmett ran his fingers through Justin's hair. Justin leaned into him and arched his back.


Dad gnawed on the inside of his cheek. All our heads were going back and forth between them like we were watching a tennis match.


Justin—Good Lord—put his lips on Emmett's neck.


Dad drained his glass, stood up, and crossed the room in a split second, and then he had Justin gripped by the biceps and pinned against the wall, his feet a couple inches off the ground, and he slammed their mouths together. Justin banged on the wall behind him, laughing, and the rest of us clapped and cheered and stomped our feet on the floor.


Okay, that's enough, I said eventually. This is a different kind of child abuse now.


Aw, let them, Mom said, not that they were paying any attention to us anyway.


Dad detached himself from Justin's face and they both panted for a few seconds, and then Dad said, You're a fucking tease, you know that?


Teases don't follow through.


Upstairs?


Upstairs.


Dad put him down and chased him up the stairs, and Emmett held his arms up like, “Tada.”


**


I don't know when they got home or how they got there, because they were still upstairs when we left and I didn't see them get back to Moms' house, but the next morning they waltzed down for breakfast all Merry Christmas. Dad poured coffee while Justin hung onto the back of his shirt with his forehead against his back. Dad was making that smarmy face he does when he's trying not to smile.


J.R. hopped up and down. Come on, I want to go!


Justin yawned, and Dad pulled him in under his arm. Presents at Debbie's?


Mama kissed her cheek. “Go get dressed.” Dad and I both interpreted for Justin.


“I want to go in pajamas!” J.R. said.


Dad tangled his fingers in Justin's hair. You want to stay here? he said, small.


No, I want to do presents.


I don't have a present for you. I didn't think you were coming.


I want to see the kids open theirs! And I have something for you.


You're shaky.


I'm cold, he said, and Dad wrapped his arms all the way around him.


Maybe go get dressed? Mom said.


Dad nodded and nudged Justin towards the stairs. Sweater. Go go go.


Mom gave Mama a look as they went up the stairs. “See? Some things never change.”


**


It wasn't the whole crowd from last night, just us and the Novotny-Bruckners. Carl and Hunter made huge stacks of blueberry pancakes and Ivy, J.R. and I ripped into our presents while Moms took pictures and kissed under the mistletoe and Ben and Michael cuddled on the couch. Dad and Justin were splitting the armchair, Dad in it with Justin perched on the arm. Justin was wearing Dad's sweater because he didn't have cold weather clothes to bring with him from LA, and Dad kept smacking his hands when he pulled it over his knees and bunched up the sleeves and bitched at him about stretching it out, so at first when I looked over and they were arguing in small signs between the two of them, I thought it was just that, until I looked a little closer.


I can't believe we're talking about this, Dad was saying.


We're not, Justin said. God. It was a passing remark.


I told you I'm not leaving. We have roots...we have a life.


I know. It's fine.


Christ, I put my foot down about one fucking thing, and you just needle at me, with this passive-aggressive—


Cut it out. You're ruining Christmas.


I'm ruining Christmas. I want to stay with our family, and I'm ruining Christmas.


Justin rolled his eyes and put on a smile and said, “J.R., that one's from me.”


I absentmindedly braided Ivy's hair and pretended I hadn't been watching.


**


I cornered Mom in the kitchen a little while later, when she was throwing away wrapping paper. She made a face at me. “Seven hours until Hanukkah.”


“Ha. Yeah. Mom?”


“Yeah, honey.”


“Do you know if Dad and Justin are...talking about moving back here?”


She stopped and turned around, leaning against the counter. “Not that I know of. Why?”


“I don't know, I just...”


She sighed. “I know you miss having them close, honey. I do too. But this isn't...this isn't the right place for them. I don't know if it ever really was, but especially now. You know the kind of memories this place has for Justin, what he's been through here. And the kind of opportunities he has in New York with his art, and to be with other Deaf people...”


“I know.”


“And hey. It's an excuse to visit New York, right?” She kissed my forehead.


“Yeah, totally. I wouldn't...I wouldn't ask Justin to move back here.”


“And that,” she said. “Is what makes you such a good boy. Come on! You've still got Nana and Grandpa's present to open. They put, like, double the amount of postage on it they needed, so I bet it's good.”


I laughed a little and said, “Okay, I'm coming.” She tweaked me on the nose and went back into the living room, but I stayed where I was for a minute and watched Dad and Justin look pissed at each other in the armchair.


I would never ask Justin to move back to Pittsburgh.


So why the hell was Dad?


**


I got to ask him about it a little later, when he went out for a cigarette after another sign-whispered argument with Justin, and I followed him and sat down next to him on the freezing cold porch. He raised an eyebrow at me and ran his hand briskly up and down my back to warm me up.


No point beating around the bush when it was zero fucking degrees out here. “You shouldn't make Justin move back here,” I said.


He took a drag on his cigarette and didn't say anything.


“He wasn't happy when he was here,” I said. “I remember. All this...bad stuff happened to him here, and he's this big artist in New York.”


“He sure is.”


“And I know you think that we like...that we need you or whatever. But we're fine here. I mean, I have Moms and Michael and Ben and I can always come see you and you can always come here...like I miss you and all, Dad, but we're not like...suffering. Everyone's doing fine. You don't have to come here and rescue us.”


Dad looked at me through all of that and then said, “Gus, my darling, what the fuck are you talking about?”


“I saw you guys arguing about moving.”


Dad shook his head. “Well, it's a good thing you don't need us, because nobody's coming back to Pittsburgh. That's not even on the table.”


“Okay, but—”


“He loves LA,” Dad said. “He said, would you ever consider moving to LA, and maybe I overreacted a little, but I've seen this coming for four fucking months, I told him not to fall in love with it, and...” He sighed and sucked on his cigarette.


“I don't want you to move to LA,” I said.


“I don't either.”


“Okay, then you won't.”


He laughed a little.


“What?” I said. “If you don't want to do something it won't happen. Mom's always going on about how you push Justin around.”


“Well, that doesn't surprise me,” he said, but he shook his head. “Justin's the one who leads, I just...God, if I was pushing Justin around I'd get us both goddamn killed. He knows where he's going. He always does.”


“So what, he calls the shots? No way.”


“You're fooled by the hair and the smile,” he said. “It happens. But trust me, if he...” He stopped and looked at me. “None of this leaves this fucking room, by the way. Porch. Whatever.”


“Okay, well what about that time at the zoo?”


“Gus, again, what the fuck—”


“That's when Mom said it the first time,” I said. “He wanted to see the lions, you said no and pulled him away.”


Dad groaned. “I wanted to see the lions. He's allergic to cats. None of you people know how to pay any goddamn attention...”


The back door opened before I could respond to that and Justin came and sat down on Dad's other side. You shouldn't be out here, Dad said. You don't even have a coat.


I'm okay.


Dad rolled his eyes and started to take his coat off.


Stop. I'm fine. He reached into the pocket of Dad's coat and got a cigarette. “Gus, let me talk to your dad for a minute?”


Yeah, okay. I went back inside, and I know I shouldn't have, but I ended up watching them through the kitchen window. It's just way, way too easy to spy on people signing, if you have a good angle. And I had a good angle, and I'd been working so hard at my signing!


I have...I have done a lot for you, Dad was saying.


I know you have.


New York...look, I'm not trying to pull some bullshit about how I didn't want to be there, but that was for you. I wanted to be there mostly because I knew it would be amazing for you.


I know.


And now we have this life and these people...


Justin said, And I love those people. You know I do.


So what's the problem?


My life, he said. My life is the problem. I think about going back to what I was doing there and I just...LA was lifechanging. I was important. I was wanted. I've learned so fucking much, and I can't just go back to what I was doing and pretend I'm the same person. I lived on my own for four months with a fucking head full of epilepsy and I made it work. I can't pretend I'm not a person who knows how fucking...how much I can do.


I'm not asking you to, Justin, Christ.


I know you're not, but...but that's what it's going to be like, if I go back and everything's exactly how it was. I'm going to forget everything I can do.


Dad said, I will do this, if you ask me to. I will pick up everything and I will move to LA if you ask me to. But please. Please do not ask me to.


I won't, Justin said. I'm not.


Okay, Dad said, and they kissed for a little while. Dad took his coat off and put it around Justin when they were done, and this time Justin let him.


Justin said, I just get so goddamn depressed when I think about going right back to where I was.


So quit your fucking job, Justin.


What?


Don't go straight back to being Marie's lackey. Quit your job.


And do what?


Paint.


I don't make enough—


Enough for what, us to grow our bank account at the exact same rate we have been? We're fine, Sunshine. Quit your job.


He shook his head a little. I can't.


Dad tugged on his hands. You took that job because you needed proof that you could be Deaf and work a regular job, he said. Can you even like...imagine needing that now, thinking that that possibly isn't true? You're so fucking far past that. At some point don't we get to stop proving how fucking ordinary you can be and let you be brilliant? We have this safety net. Use it.


Justin watched him. I could quit my job.


You can quit your job, Dad said, and he pulled Justin into his arms.


**


Morning turned to afternoon, and we had lunch and Ivy fell asleep surrounded by toys and J.R. curled up with her new video game. “Is that all of them?” Debbie asked, checking under the tree. Dad interpreted.


One more, Justin said, and he took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Dad.


The fuck is this? Dad said, and everyone pounced on him about his language. Justin just shrugged.


Dad opened it and took out a picture, and he stared at it for a second, then up at Justin, then back at the picture and up at Justin again.


What is it, what is it? J.R. said.


Dad said, Is this...


Justin nodded, and Dad grabbed him into a hug while Justin laughed.


Now we were all going, What is it, what is it?


Dad cleared his throat and ran his hand over his mouth. It's his mural, he said, and he held out the picture so we could see it. It's finished.


I'm coming home, Justin said, and Dad hid his face in his neck, and he beamed.


End Notes:

 

Aaaaand the LA arc is over! That was fun :) It's possible there will be more stories later from during this time if there's anything you guys want to see or I think of something that would be fun to do with them long-distance, but for now, moving on to...uh. Something. As always, hit me up with any burning desires or holes you'd like to see filled!

Chapter 58 - At Home in the World by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

What's fair and what's not isn't as straightforward as it used to be.

At Home in the World

LaVieEnRose



Our first normal night at home, I had a dream completely in sign language.


It'd taken a little while to get him home; we'd flown out to LA right after Christmas to take care of a few loose ends with his project and get his shit packed up. We had a surprisingly romantic New Year's Eve just the two of us in the living room of his rented mansion surrounded by his boxes, sipping champagne and watching the ball drop three hours early in the city we were about to rejoin.


Justin, to his credit, didn't whine about leaving this place he loved to go back to a life he still felt ambivalent about, even though the transition sucked for him as much as it really could. He had a bad flight and a seizure on the way, and then Marie was less then thrilled about him quitting after she'd kept his position open for him during the fall and made him feel really shitty about it, which I tried not to hold against Derek but maybe I spent a few days glaring at him anyway, and then the change from sixty-five degrees in LA to negative three in New York basically punched his shitty immune system in the face and we ended up with bronchitis, a quick hospital stay, and a week coughing in his sleep on the couch at Kinnetik. So after all of that was sorted out, after I could figuratively breathe because he was back, he was here, he was in the apartment, he was here, and he could literally breathe because there wasn't, y'know, shit clogging up his lungs, that's when I had that dream in sign language.


Is that noteworthy? Justin asked me, sitting on the bed while I got dressed for work.


Yeah, I've never had one before.


Seriously? Actually true biz, ASL idiom.


Yeah, I mean, sometimes you'll be signing in them, or if Derek or Emily's there. But in this it was everyone. Michael was there, he was signing. And just, y'know, those fake dream people. All signing.


He stretched. “It's funny it took this long. Daph started ages ago.”


How about you? Do you dream with sound?


He thought about it. “No, I don't think so. Sometimes people are speaking and I know what they're saying, but I don't like...hear it, even in my dream. I don't think my brain remembers what hearing is.”


What are you doing today? I asked.


Touring studio spaces! He couldn't exactly use Marie's anymore. Maybe I can find somewhere that's not a fucking basement.


I was so fucking happy he'd quit that job, I can't even describe. Yeah, it had been decent money, but he was making a fair amount doing commissions, and he wasn't happy with all the menial administrative shit he had to do and...honestly, he's a creative type with an unpredictable chronic illness. The 9-5 life was not for him. He was doing a ton of volunteer work with the DeafBlind institute and helping out with a few projects at Kinnetik, so he still had reasons to get out of the house, which I think he was worried about.


I said, Hey, do you think this means I'm bilingual now?


“You're already bilingual.”


I think you're only bilingual if you think in the second language. You can't be translating in your head.


You don't think in ASL?


I shook my head and knotted my tie.


“Not ever?”


No. I think in English and just...sign it.


That's probably why your grammar's such garbage.


Hey, fuck off.


“It's probably my fault,” he said. “I'm always talking to you in English. Dragging you out of it.”


Yeah, why do you do that, anyway?


“I don't know. Habit.” He got up and put me into my suit jacket, running his hands up my chest. “Sometimes my hands are busy.”


“Mmm, yeah.” I fit my hands around his waist while he watched my lips. “Mine too.”


“And it just seems nicer to you,” he said. “You do so much to me. You learned this whole language for me. Least I can do is speak yours.”


I squeezed his waist and let him go. It's weird, isn't it? That we have different...primary languages.


He smiled a little. “This is just occurring to you?”


I don't know. We both speak both.


“I don't think in English,” he said, with a kiss.


He was right, of course. And none of this was news, really. And I probably shouldn't have let it get to me the way it did, but I don't think I even realized it had at the time.


**


So it just so happened that that day we had a new client come in, and it turned out I didn't hate his guts.


His name was Travis Loudner, just moved to the city, originally from Philadelphia. He was around my age but looked a few years older, with some gray above his ears, but it worked for him—kind of a Ben Bruckner sexy professor vibe. He'd been investing in companies since his twenties, made a good load of money, and finally he was striking out with his own project: something something longer lasting car batteries. Boring shit, but the kind of boring shit that rakes in cash, if you market it correctly. Enter Kinney.


He had good ideas without trying to run the project, was social without drawing us off track, smart but not a know-it-all...look, I liked the guy, and it had been a while since I liked anyone, particularly given the parade of morons I usually have to deal with on the job.


So I was in a good mood when I got home, and it helped when I walked in to Justin sitting cross-legged in one of the kitchen chairs—why he can't sit correctly in a chair, ever, continues to be a mystery to me—with a glass of wine and a bunch of papers spread out in front of him, and something incredible-smelling simmering on the stove. Sometimes this marriage shit is not the worst. I drummed on his shoulders and kissed him deeply when he lifted his head up.


How'd it go today? I asked him.


Okay, I guess. The broker was really thrown by the Deaf thing, so that was annoying, but I liked some of the places she showed me. He kept signing but said out loud, “Brian, Jesus Christ, don't stick your fingers in that, it's hot.”


It's good.


“Vindaloo.”


I know what it is, I was eating curry before you were goddamn born.


“Oh, Joan was making curry for dinner?”


Maybe not. You didn't have an interpreter with you?


What did I need an interpreter for? It's looking around spaces and reading spec sheets. I can do that perfectly well without a hearing person holding my hand.


And you found some you liked, despite the broker?


Yeah, you want to see?


That depends. I pulled out a chair. Can I hold your hand?


He chuckled and slipped his fingers between mine. “Someone's in a good mood.”


Yeah, I had a good day. I picked up his spec sheets and set one aside immediately. “No.”


“What?”


No.


He rolled his eyes. “I can lipread 'no.' I'm asking why.”


It's Washington Heights, you're not working up there.


“You are such a snob.”


You can't hear the gunshots, Sunshine.


“Neither can you, since you've never been up of 85th street.”


Say it again.


He kissed my cheek. “Street street street.”


I picked up the next sheet. Now this one...


That's my favorite. Look at the skylight.


East Village, see, that's more like it


He gave me a look. And the management seems competent, the building is well-kept, and the light is amazing.


And it's close to the bar!


You're impossible, he said, and I got up and served us plates of curry. I flirted with him all through dinner because it was making him blush like a damn schoolboy and God, you sign five sweet words to Justin and it gets him more hot and bothered than a whole string of dirty talk. He was all the fuck over me before dinner was even finished, and I hauled him off to the bedroom and fucked him until he screamed.


He pawed at me when I tried to get up after. “Hug me really tight,” he said quietly.


So I did, but only for a minute. I want to go out. You want to come?


“Depends. Bar or Nova?”


Friends or strangers? Hearing or Deaf?


I smacked his ass. Nova. I want to dance.


He shook his head. “You want a blowjob.”


Can you blame me?


It's not my fault you fucked me too fast to give you one.


It's not my fault you're so hot I had to fuck you right away, I said, and he rolled his eyes but smiled. I'll be back in a while.


“Love you. Bring me back a present.” He says that sometimes, no matter where the fuck I'm going. I could tell him I was going to the proctologist and he'd ask me for a party favor.


Maybe not the best example.


Anyway, I kissed him and traipsed over to Nova and got a blow job and that was fine. I had a drink and danced for a bit and headed back to the bar for drink two, and then I heard someone say, “Kinney?” over the music, and who the fuck was it but Travis Loudner.


“Well, how about that?” I said.


He shook my hand with a smile. “I knew you were gay.”


“Yeah, I knew you were gay too.”


He looked around. “This your scene?”


I shrugged, because hell if that wasn't a multilayered question at this point. “Is it yours?”


He grinned kind of ruefully. “Not really. But, you know, new in town, newly single, figured I should get my lay of the land.”


“Newly single, huh?”


“After fifteen years.”


“Jesus.”


“And don't worry,” he said. “I'm not hitting on you. I see the ring.”


What's funny is he didn't seem like he was hitting on me. And because there's no reason for you to have to sit around wondering if another shoe's going to drop: I never slept with Travis. That's not where this story is going.


“Want to get out of here and get a drink somewhere?” I said. “Not a euphemism.”


He considered it. “Yeah, sure.”


I hadn't made a friend on my own since I was fucking fourteen.


**


“It was the kids thing,” Travis explained, while we sipped beers and watched the Knicks game at some borderline-gay borderline-sports bar a block form the club. “He wanted them, I didn't, and we both eventually got tired of pretending we still believed the other one might change his mind. He's already with some new guy. They'll probably have a kid shipped in from overseas by the summer. You have kids?”


“I have a boy, but not...I don't raise him. He's back in Pittsburgh.”


“Oof, Pittsburgh.”


“You got that right.”


“So no kids for you and your partner?”


“He says no, but...who knows what he's going to want down the line. I like kids, but I like handing them back to their moms.” I watched the ref signal an offensive foul. “Bad call.”


“Tell me about it. What does he do, your partner?”


“He's an artist. Paintings, mostly.”


“Oh yeah? He good?”


“He's very good.”


He took out his phone. “He have a website? What's his name?”


“Yeah, Justin Taylor. T-a-y-l-o-r.” I looked over at his phone. “And he's older than he looks, I swear.”


“Yeah, he'd just about have to be.” He scrolled through the image results. “Yeah, these are really great. I mean, fuck all I know about art, but.”


“He's been pretty successful the past few years,” I said. “It's fun to watch. And he does a lot of volunteer work because he's like a good person and shit.”


He laughed. “What's he like?”


I shrugged. “He's all right.”


“Nah, come on.”


“All right, he's a nightmare. He's stubborn as hell and manipulative as shit, and he's a fucking genius so he knows how to do it and he's got that face so he gets away with it. He's impossible.” I grinned into my drink. “He's amazing.”


He smiled. “You sound happy.”


Eh, what the hell. “Yeah, I'm very happy.”


“So why are you out without him?”


“Eh, cuffed but not dead. We get our own lives. And he doesn't really like this kind of scene anymore.”


“Not the slutty type?”


“No, he's slutty as fuck. He just doesn't hang out with hearing people.”


His brow furrowed. “With what?”


I laughed. “Oh, fuck, he's Deaf. I forgot to mention.” I was more used to having to tell people I was hearing than tell people Justin was Deaf.


“He's Deaf? So you, what, know sign language?”


“I do.”


“That's very cool. I wish I knew another language. I studied Russian literature in college but fuck if I could speak any of it now.”


I signaled the bartender for another beer. “Well, you should learn sign language, then. Otherwise you're never gonna meet my partner.”


“What, he doesn't talk to...what'd you call us?”


He didn't even know the word. “This is wild. Hearing people. And no, not for fun, anyway. All our friend are Deaf, or they sign.”


“Even yours?” he said casually, looking up at the TV.


“Uh, yeah. I guess so.”


“What happened to the separate lives?”


“Huh,” I said.


**


I hung out with Travis three times in the following weeks. We got dinner once, and I played wingman and got him laid at a gay bar too tacky to go to regularly, but good for this sort of thing. We went to a Knicks game.


Justin was confused.


So what is he, your boyfriend? he asked one Saturday, while we were grocery shopping.


What? No, he's not my boyfriend, Christ. He's a friend.


Well...are you sleeping with him?


No, I don't sleep with my friends.


He read the back of a bag of potato chips. Shopping with Justin takes decades. You sleep with all your friends.


I snatched the bag away and put it back. No fucking chips in the apartment. No, dear, that's you.


Justin thought about this, then widened his eyes. Oh, God, that is me.


I know.


I get us mixed up.


Well, you get most things mixed up.


He craned his neck over the crowd. How's the line up there?


Long, not that it fucking matters since there are five things in this cart. Can you fucking pick a cereal and let's get on with it?


He glared at me, but he did.


He's coming over for the game tonight, I said.


Ooh, sports. Justin rolled his eyes. I'll go to Daphne's.


You don't have to scamper off. He wants to meet you. And it's just basketball, nothing...you know. Violent.


Justin made a face. Why?


Why isn't basketball violent? Take it up with James Naismith.


Inventor of basketball, I'm guessing?


I kissed him. Good boy.


He swatted me off. Why does he want to meet me?


I don't know, he's under the impression you might be interesting.


That's a shame.


Don't I know it.


Justin rolled the cart back and forth. Well...does he sign?


That'd be a pretty big coincidence.


Yeah, I know.


I scratched up and down his back. I'll interpret.


I know. But I don't want to...you know. Make him uncomfortable.


He's not uncomfortable.


Most hearing people are.


I rolled my eyes and tossed a box of rice into the cart. He's a nice guy, he wants to meet you. Quit overthinking it. Plenty of hearing people like you.


Who, you?


Gross, I don't like you.


See, so that's even one fewer than I thought, he pouted.


I picked him up with a squeeze and set him back down. Can we get the fuck out of here, please?


Yeah. You know your boyfriend's going to expect you to have chips in the house.


Good thing I don't answer to my boyfriends, I said, nudging him towards the check-out line.


**


Justin was doing his pacing thing before Travis got there, the one he only does when he's nervous or when he's had one of those seizures that makes him not know where the fuck he is. I was banking on the first one.


You deal with hearing people all the time, I told him. You just did the broker.


“I didn't care if the broker liked me,” he said.


You are so neurotic.


No, that's you.


No, that's both of us. There was a knock on the door, and I nodded towards it. He's here.


He didn't ring the bell.


How's he supposed to know it lights up?


You could have told him...


I don't run through a list of your Deaf toys every time I meet someone, I said, and I kissed him on the way to the door.


“Fine. None of my Deaf toys for you tonight then.”


I glared at him and opened the door. Travis shook my hand, shifting the six pack under his arm. “You hear the Hawks small forward broke his ankle?” he said.


“Shit, we might have a chance after all.”


“Nice place you got here,” he said, coming in and setting the beer on the counter. “You own or rent?”


“Own, Jesus, I'm not throwing money away.” I glanced at Justin. Just talking real estate.


Great.


I cleared my throat. “This is Justin.” I showed him Justin's sign name. May I present Travis.


“Very nice to meet you finally,” Travis said to Justin.


Nice to meet you.


“I was just, uh, telling Brian this is quite a place you have here.”


Justin looked at me. I got “Brian.”


Not bad, I said, because by Justin's usual lipreading standards, picking out anything from a stranger was noteworthy. He likes the apartment. You want a beer?


He shook his head.


Travis said to me, “Y'know, I'm not sure I really believed that you knew sign language until this minute. Though you could still be faking it for all I know.”


I rolled my eyes and interpreted for Justin.


It's true, you really don't seem smart enough, Justin said.


Cute. That's cute.


Justin came into the kitchen and produced chips from somewhere, the bastard, and he poured them into a bowl and arranged a bunch of different dips, and we settled in and watched the game. I made an effort to interpret for Justin, but he had a sketchpad out because he doesn't care about basketball so he was half-focused on that, and most of the conversation was about the basketball game which again, he didn't care about, and also didn't know all the signs for, because it's a lot of technical words and why the fuck would I know the signs for technical words Justin doesn't care about? So he was getting bits and pieces of the conversation, so it would have made sense for him to be kind of annoyed, but he wasn't acting annoyed. He was acting altogether like himself, except the 'himself' he was acting like was the one who still disappears somewhere inside his head when he's in crowds. He was faking his way through pretty adequately, but, well, I know him. He gets this calculating look behind his eyes, like he's trying to figure something out.


What is with you? I asked him at one point.


Nothing.


You don't like him?


He seems fine.


Are you feeling bad, what?


He glanced at Travis. Cut it out.


He doesn't know what we're saying.


He knows we're saying something.


“See, you see that guy?” Travis said.


“Yeah, what about him?”


“He was a recruit right out of high school but he ended up being a benchwarmer because they got that hotshot point guard from Duke, but then the Duke kid's had a habit of getting into foul trouble in the second halves so he's been getting some court time after all.”


Justin looked at me, and I just...froze. There was a lot of words in there.


Just basketball stuff? Justin said after a minute.


Yeah.


He set his sketchpad aside. I'm going to go to Emily's, I think.


Yeah. Okay.


**


Travis left around ten, and I texted Justin, half-expecting him to passive-aggressively stay at Emily's overnight, but he was home about an hour later. He took off his coat and scarf and spent an annoyingly long time hanging them up.


How's Emily? I said.


She's fine. Gwen's all settled in.


I still think it's too early for them to be living together.


He shrugged. They've been together almost a year. We'd been together like negative two months the first time we lived together.


Not sure we're a shining example in that regard.


Yeah, maybe not.


I leaned my head against the wall. Are you mad at me or what? I don't like this suspense.


He sighed. No. I don't know. Not mad.


Then what?


He shrugged. I'm sad, I guess. I'm uncomfortable. I didn't like that.


I don't get it. You deal with hearing people all the time.


“Yeah, because I don't have any choice. They run the fucking world.” He went into the kitchen and got a bottle of water. “This was different. That's out there, this was...here. In my space.”


In your space.


“I don't like people talking in front of me, but I have to deal with it all the time out there, and I...deal with it. I don't want to have to deal with it here. I don't like other people getting to hear your voice and not me, and I don't like people saying God knows what in front of me. In my house.”


It's my house too.


I know that.


So I'm not allowed to have hearing people over? To my fucking house?


He sighed. I didn't say that. I said it makes me sad.


So what, I'm just supposed to do stuff that makes you sad?


“Yeah, I guess.”


I opened another beer. This is a test.


“Jesus fucking Christ, it's not a test.”


It's a test.


“Why do you always think I'm testing you when I don't fucking test you? I don't do that, Brian.”


Don't.


He glared at me. “Where's that fucking shirt you were going to make that says 'Brian, this is not about you?'”


It is fucking about me! You're upset because of something I did.


That doesn't mean you did something wrong. Sometimes I'm sad. Sometimes my life is fucking goddamn sad.


I don't know why, but that...that fucking pissed me off. Your life is sad. Your life is sad. I don't sit through twenty billion fucking lectures on ableism and the Deaf community for you to get to tell me your life is sad when it's convenient for you.


He crossed his arms.


I'm not fucking allowed to have friends, but your life is sad.


“God, you are such a fucking drama queen.”


I live my fucking life around you! I yelled at him. Do you not fucking get that? All my goddamn fucking friends are Deaf, Justin! All we fucking do is Deaf stuff! I'm not Deaf! You fucking talk to me in English just to make sure I don't forget that I don't really fit in!


That's not why and you know it. I do it to fucking be nice—


Yeah, to coddle the fucking hearing guy, I get it. You want to be nice to me? Let me fucking use my first language in my house with someone for one night without throwing a fucking hissy fit!


This is it, he said. This is why mixed marriages fail.


No, you know what? This is why marriages fail, Sunshine, because people won't fucking compromise. You want a hundred percent Deaf life and you want to make sure I know that I'm no more but an honorary fucking member, but God forbid I be a fucking hearing person, I have to just be a fucking second-rate Deaf imitation—


“I compromise every fucking day!” he yelled at me. “What the fuck do you know about it?”


Not with me! I said. You compromise out the fuck there, you don't compromise with me!


You're supposed to be safe!


Safe? What the fuck are you talking about?


“You are so fucking stupid,” he growled, on his way past me to the bedroom.


“And hearing!” I simcommed as I followed him. “Don't forget, I'm fucking fucking fucking fucking hearing!”


He stopped and sighed and ran his hands down his face, and God, he looked so fucking exhausted, and all of a sudden I was too.


Come here, I said.


He looked at me. “What?”


Just...come here, I said, and he did, and I put my arms around him and kissed the crown of his head. He gave this little frustrated sigh and rubbed his palm up and down the small of my back. I let him go and and smacked his cheek. I love you.


“The fuck is with you tonight,” he said.


You're really frustrating and it makes me crazy.


“Yeah.”


I sat down on the bed. I don't know what the fuck to do about this. Deafening me continues to seem like the solution.


He smiled ruefully. “You don't have to do anything.”


I get to have hearing friends. I'm allowed.


“Yeah, well, I'm allowed to be sad without you punishing me for it.”


Yeah, that's fair. I took him by the wrists and pulled him into me. You're sad, huh.


“Yeah.”


How bad is it?


“Bad,” he whispered.


I tugged him down and kissed him. “Better?”


He watched my lips and shook his head, and I sighed, brought him to my lap, and held him there for a long time, not fucking understanding anything.


**


I dove into work the next day, signing everything I could get my hands on, barking at the art department, micromanaging accounting. I was full of the kind of frustrated energy you can only fix with money, sex, and cigarettes, and I'm trying to cut back on one and it was a bit too ten AM for another, so here we were.


Emily was in my office taking notes on an office memo I needed her to draft for...listen, it's boring, you don't care. I barely cared, and it's my fucking company. Anyway, she was about to leave when I stopped her and said, Can I ask you something?


Sure, that's why you pay me the big bucks.


You've never dated a hearing person, right?


She shook her head.


Would you ever?


Ew, no.


Even if they signed.


She shook her head. Sorry.


Why is that?


She sat down on my couch. I don't know. My whole family's Deaf. My life is Deaf, my culture's Deaf. Everything I need is here, so why waste time with someone who's never going to fully understand it? No offense.


So do you hate dealing with hearing people all day here?


No, I don't hate it, it's just...it's work. I can never just be myself, I always have to be...on. I don't want to bring that into a relationship.


I leaned back in my chair. What did Justin tell you last night?


Nothing, he wouldn't talk. He seemed kind of freaked out.


Jesus, freaked out? I realize he's a PTSD mess but...I brought a friend home. We watched a basketball game. I didn't even make him socialize, he sat there and drew.


What, a hearing friend?


Yeah.


Emily made a face. Since when do you have hearing friends?


So I met someone who doesn't sign. That's a crime?


Why is everything always up to eleven immediately with you? Everything's a crime or not a crime.


Well, that's just how the law works, Emily.


She waved her hand dismissively. Law.


I changed my entire life when he lost his hearing, I said. I learned a new language, I moved, I made new friends...and I love it, but can you fucking...can he fucking appreciate that it's tiring having to use my second language all of the time?


It's his second language too.


Not really, not anymore. I'm not comfortable in it the way he is. I probably won't ever be. What the fuck am I supposed to do?


Well, you could try not bringing up the stuff you've done so he could live a normal life as some kind of trump card to win points in an argument.


I gave her a look. I don't.


She sighed and flopped back on the couch. Look, what the fuck do I know about mixed relationships. Ask Derek or something. Ask Daphne, if it's so relaxing to talk to a hearing person.


You just said you want your relationship to be somewhere you can relax, I said. Why is that fair for you and not me?


Why is it fair that the world is run by people like you and not people like me? she said.


I said, Okay, but...that's not my fault.


She groaned. It's not about fault! Crime and not crime, I'm telling you....people can just tell you that things fucking suck without blaming you for them.


I took a deep breath. I realize there are a lot of things you're left out of, every single fucking day. And I'm not saying that that's fair.


It's not about feeling left out, she said. I mean, it is, but it's also... She stood up and wandered over to my desk, thinking. It's scary, to be around people who know that you can't hear what they say. Who know that they can say anything in front of you and you won't know what it is. It's scary. This isn't about us having our feelings hurt.


I watched her.


Every Deaf girl I know has a story about... She shook her head. And maybe it's different from Justin because he grew up hearing or because he's a guy, I don't know. But I'm not going to feel safe when two hearing people are talking in front of me. Two hearing men. I'm not.


But it happens all the time, I said.


Yeah, but does that mean I have to have it in my house? Your house?


His house, you mean.


She shrugged. Look, you're not out there trying to ban Tylenol from the world, but you don't keep it in the apartment.


That's different. He's stupid, he'd eat it by accident.


It's bad out there, she said. It's bad out there for everyone but it's worse for us.


And I thought about what she was saying, and then my fucking slow as fuck brain thought about what happened to Justin years ago at that goddamn party, back when he was hearing, back when people were talking in front of him and he didn't understand what was going on.


You're supposed to be safe, he'd said.


I shook my head. It's not different for him.


Yeah, I didn't really think it was.


Thanks, Emily. I stood up and kissed her cheek. Don't ever date a hearing person.


No worries there.


**


Justin had therapy that afternoon and always liked to go to his studio for a few hours afterwards, so I didn't see him until that evening. “Hey,” he said. “I brought Japanese.” He stared at me. “What are you doing?”


Replacing our bedroom door.


“I...can see that. Have you forgotten what happened last time you attempted home renovations?”


Um...yes.


He pointed to his head.


Ah, right. Well, keep a safe distance, then, but I'm almost done.


He came over and did not keep a safe distance. Incorrigible. What was wrong with our old door?


This one's supposed to be more soundproof, he said. According to the guy at the store, I don't know. Could have been bullshitting me.


Soundproof?


I finished screwing in the door and stepped back and looked at it. Good.


“Brian...”


I turned to him. I think our room should be a sanctuary.


A sanctuary.


Yeah.


What the fuck are you talking about?


I don't think anyone should speak in our room, ever, I said. Including you.


He tilted his head, watching me.


It's...you know. It's a sanctuary. If anyone speaks in it we, I don't know. Have a séance. Exorcise it.


So...no one who doesn't sign in our room, he said.


Yeah. I mean, when's the last time someone was, anyway.


And you don't speak in there. And I don't speak in there.


I shook my head.


He came over to me and played with my shirt, then looked up at me, his eyes big and blue.


I said, You deserve a place where you understand absolutely everything that's going on. And I think it should be here. And I think it should be with me.


You just want free license to fill the living room with hearing people.


Yeah, you caught me.


He looked at the door, leaning into my shoulder.


The world's bad enough, I said. Sex and sleep, they...they should be different.


Can I still laugh?


Yeah.


Can I still scream?


I guess we should find out.


**


He could, we decided, and afterwards we lay next to each other. That door was more soundproof, I think. I couldn't hear the hum of the fridge or the elevator moving between floors. Just silence. And his breathing.


Hug me really tight, he said.

 

So I did.

End Notes:

idk I feel like with *gestures around* THE WORLD, we could all use a little reminder today of what we deserve. Love to everyone suffering through the news cycle.

Chapter 59 - No Safer Place by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Eleven years later, the same group is at the same hospital, waiting for Justin to wake up.

 

No Safer Place


So why didn't you go? I asked Brian, while he lined up his pool cue.

 

“Go where?” he said. He took the shot and straightened up, watching the 10 ball sink into the hole. Jennifer's birthday extravaganza? He shrugged. Molly didn't even go.

 

Yeah, but Molly and her have all that tension. You and Jennifer are all best buds.


Exactly why I don't have to go. I'm already her favorite. He took a swig of his beer. Why didn't you go? She practically raised you.

 

Hey, my parents raised me. They're good people. And I would love to have gone, but sick people keep coming to the hospital. It's really annoying.

 

He smiled at me a little. Your signing's getting really good.

 

Well, you know. I looked to the other end of the bar, where Derek was dancing with Gwen and Emily. Loads of practice. We probably didn't need to be signing, really, since they were all the way over there, but it was good manners in case they looked over and the music was loud in here anyway.

 

He wrinkled his nose at me. Yeah, I know how that works.

 

So is Justin having fun?

 

Yeah, I think so. He said the party was good, and Mel and Lindz brought Luke, so he got to see him. At some point they became the default babysitters for Justin's dad's kid. I don't think he's any more on board with the gay thing or the Deaf thing, I think he just got worn down by Debbie and Mel and Jennifer camping out on his front porch. He's an asshole, but he's also fucking spineless, so it didn't surprise me that he'd sucked at standing his shitty ground.

 

When's he getting back?


It was supposed to be tonight, but he wasn't feeling well so he's staying until tomorrow.

 

Benefits of a flexible schedule.


Yeah, it's... He shook his head a little. Honestly it's been amazing. He'll actually rest when he's sick now. It's a fucking miracle.

 

Derek and company had drifted from the little dance floor back to the bar, and Emily waved us over. Shots! she announced when we got there.

 

Brian groaned and sat down. Too old.


Yeah, yeah, we know, you're a million. Shots!

 

Brian's phone rang and he said, Saved by the bell, and took it out. He looked at the screen and frowned. Don't like that, he signed, small.

 

What's wrong? I said.

 

It's Jennifer. I can't imagine this is good. He looked at the others. I have to get this, sorry.


No, go ahead, Derek said, and Emily waved him off and ordered a round of shots from the bartender, who was used to figuring out her miming by now. Gwen watched her with a smile on her face.

 

Brian took a step or two away from us out of courtesy, but the music was a little lower now and Brian's phone voice isn't exactly quiet, so I heard him say, “Hey, Jen, what's...slow down. Okay, well are you...he what? What the fuck happened?”

 

Derek nudged me and nodded towards Brian, tapped his ear.

 

Yeah, I said. He was right, something's wrong with Justin. I would have known even if I hadn't been able to hear him. Brian doesn't make that face for anything else.

 

“Okay, then...Jen, stop, I just...I can't understand you when you...he...no, what do you mean, what are you talking about? Well is he...okay, just, I'll be there as soon as...”

 

Something's really wrong, I said. I got up to see if Brian wanted me to take the phone, but he'd hung up by the time I got over to him. He stayed where he was, staring at his phone like he wasn't quite sure what it was.

 

I put my hand on his arm, and he flinched.

 

I need to go to the airport, he said, without looking at me.

 

“Okay.” I scratched gently up and down his arm, trying to bring him back to life. I know how he disappears into worst case scenarios in his head when something's wrong. I know it all too well. “I'm coming with you.”

 

He shook his head. “You have work...”

 

“I'll figure that out. Get your coat.”

 

He kept staring at his phone. “His MRI is clear but he hasn't woken up. Why won't he wake up?”

 

I swallowed agains the feeling in my stomach. “I don't know. We're going to go see him, okay? Get your coat.” I went back to the bar and got mine and kissed Derek. I have to go.

 

He and Emily both said, Wait, what's going on?

 

I don't really know. He's in the hospital, it's...Brian's upset.

 

Gwen said, Oh my God...

 

I put my hand on Derek's arm. Can you call Molly? Jennifer won't tell her, she's always keeping things from her.


Yeah, of course, but what do I tell her?

 

Tell her...that, and tell her I'll call her as soon as I know what's going on.

 

Brian came back with his coat, and Derek and Emily and Gwen were immediately all over him asking what was going on, if he was okay. I don't know, Brian kept saying. I don't know, I don't know.

 

Gwen tugged me to her and showed me her phone. There's a flight out in an hour and a half.

 

Thank you. Okay, we have to go then. You ready? I said to Brian.

 

He nodded vaguely, looking around the bar.

 

“Brian.”

 

Yeah. Okay, yeah.

 

Derek and Emily kissed his cheeks, Derek kissed me and whispered in my ear that he loved me, and I led Brian out of there with my hand on his back. He struggled with the zipper on his coat while I hailed a cab.

 

Abruptly, he said, “Did you know you can stop breathing during a seizure? I always check if he's breathing after the bad ones. I thought I was being paranoid.”

 

I looked at him. “He stopped breathing?”

 

He kept fucking with his zipper. “I didn't know that could happen. Nobody ever told me that.”

 

**

 

Brian gave me his credit card to get tickets but was otherwise pretty useless at the airport, distracted in that way of his where he just looks pissed-off at everyone. I had to keep nudging him along, forwards in line, towards the security line, through the x-ray machine.

 

The TSA guy eyed us warily. “No luggage?”

 

“It's an emergency,” I said. Hopefully Molly had left some clothes at Jennifer's I could borrow. I didn't think I had anything at my parents' house.

 

“I should call,” Brian mumbled on our way to the terminal. “I should see if there's an update, I should call. He, um, he hadn't woken up, but maybe he's awake now.”

 

He stopped in the middle of the flow of traffic between terminal 14 and 15 and stared and took out his phone and looked at it for a long time, and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was: if there was news, Jennifer would have called.

 

He wasn't awake, but until he heard Jennifer say it, there was hope that maybe he was.

 

I said, “You know, the flight's going to board soon. Maybe we just get on now, and then we can call when we land.”

 

Brian nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, he won't...um, Justin won't know that I didn't call. He won't be mad. He's Deaf, so...he won't know.”

 

“Yeah, he won't know. It's okay.”

 

He grabbed my arm after a few more steps. “You can't let me fuck this up, okay?”

 

“You're not going to fuck it up.”

 

“No, you, me, Justin, Jennifer, Allegheny General, this did not...I didn't do well with this last time. You have to not let me fuck this up again.”

 

“This isn't like last time.”

 

“Sure,” he said absently. “Sure, yeah, I know.”

 

“Brian?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I won't let you fuck it up.”

 

He closed his eyes and breathed out. “Okay. Okay.”

 

He drank on the flight, and scuttled his feet on the carpet, and halfway through put his hand around mine and kept it there.

 

“Come on, Justin,” I whispered.

 

**

 

Jennifer called at some point during the flight. Brian listened to the message while we stood in the aisle and waited while people pulled their luggage out of the overhead compartments.

 

“Anything?” I asked.

 

He shook his head. “They did another MRI, it was still clear.”

 

“That's good,” I said. “Imagine how bitchy he'd be if they had to shave his head again.”

 

He laughed hollowly, then stuffed his phone in his pocket, suddenly angry. “What the fuck is taking people so long? Check your fucking bag, live a little.”

 

“Seriously.”

 

“I don't know what's fucking going on,” Brian said.

 

“We'll get the whole story when we're there.”

 

“No, I mean...I know all the shit that could happen, what the MRI could show, I know, you know, subdural hematomas and epidural hematomas, that's what he had last time, and...the one that sounds like a spider.”

 

“Subarachnoid hemorrhage.”

 

“Yeah, see, I know those, but...but his fucking MRI is clear? And Jennifer's saying all this shit about how long he didn't fucking have oxygen, and I don't...I don't know what this means.”

 

I closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them he was watching me.

 

“It's bad, isn't it,” he said.

 

“I don't know. I don't know how long he didn't have oxygen.”

 

“But he might not wake up. That's what that face was. He might not wake up. Or he's going to wake up and he's not...he's not going to be there.”

 

“It...it depends how long he didn't have oxygen.”

 

“Would he have stopped breathing if he didn't hit his head?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

“He was standing when he had the seizure,” Brian said. “That's what she said. He was standing up.”

 

I had no idea where he was going with this. “Okay.”

 

“He told me that he wasn't feeling well,” he said. “He cancelled his flight, he moved it to tomorrow, because he wasn't feeling well.”

 

“I know...”

 

“Why the fuck was he standing up?”

 

**

 

Justin's the reason I decided to be a doctor.

 

Not because the doctors were heroes who saved him after he was bashed; I mean, they acted fast and did well, but after being a medical resident for a few years I wasn't about to call every doctor doing their job a hero. It's nothing like that.

 

I just remember how at the time, it seemed like none of them were moving fast enough, and that made me so, so angry. I was sitting there in the waiting room, or in that hallway with Brian, or I was just wandering the fucking floor like a ghost, and I'd see all these doctors walking so, so slowly. Leaning on the nurse's station and talking to each other. Having a snack. Joking around. And of course now I know that's because what happened to Justin is not out of the ordinary. It's not especially horrific. And you can't get bogged down in that shit or you can't do what you need to do. I get it.

 

They were all so brusque and businesslike about it, because this is a brusque business, but I remember I overheard one doctor giving a rundown of Justin's status to another, and at the end she said, “Jesus, and at his fucking prom, too?”

 

“I know,” the other one said.

 

“Awful. Just because he's gay. Awful.”

 

And then she kept on doing her job.

 

You don't have to be a robot in order for things not to weigh you down.

 

You don't have to laugh.

 

So I figured there needed to be more doctors like her in the world. Enter Daphne.

 

Right here at Allegheny, eleven years ago with these same people. And here we were again.

 

**

 

The guy at the front desk gave us visitor's badges and pointed us towards the CCU, as if we didn't know where it was. The nurse there frowned and typed. “You said Kinney?”

 

“No, my name is Kinney, his name is Taylor.”

 

“Well, we have a family-only policy—”

 

“They have different last names,” I said. “They're still family.”

 

She looked at me. “And you are...?”

 

Brian slammed his hand on the counter. “Will you just tell me where my fucking husband—”

 

“Brian!”

 

We turned around, as if there was any question who that voice belonged to, and Debbie crushed us into a hug. “Hi, Powerpuff,” she said to me, with a kiss to my cheek.

 

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don't tell me everyone's fucking camped out here.”

 

“Well, that's what I wanted to do, but Jen said maybe we hold off on that until Sunshine's...well. Until he's feeling a little better. But I called her to see if she was coming for Mah Jong this week and she told me what was going on and I wasn't exactly going to let her fucking sit here by herself, they won't let me in with him but I can stay out in the—”

 

“Debbie,” I said, because Brian looked like he was about to vomit on the CCU floor. “Where is Justin?”

 

A doctor stopped on the way past us. “Are you Brian?”

 

“Yes,” Brian said.

 

“Great. I'm Jillian Trufoe, I'm Justin's doctor. Walk with me, we'll talk.”

 

He pointed at me. “She's coming too, she's...she's a doctor.”

 

“I'm Justin's sister,” I said. Brian nodded.

 

The doctor looked at me.

 

“Half-sister,” I added.

 

“All right. Come with me.” She led the three of us down a hall, talking briskly as she went. “So Justin came in with head trauma after a seizure. Because of his history, as you know the head trauma was our most immediate concern. A head CT in the ER and an MRI after were both clear. He has a grade three concussion, which is serious and can require a long recovery, but there's no sign of any bleeding or damage. We need a repeat MRI and that was clear as well.”

 

“Okay,” Brian said. “That all sounds good. Why isn't this good?”

 

“Normally with a grade three concussion you'd see a loss of consciousness of under five minutes,” she said. “Justin's been unconscious at this point for over two hours.”

 

“He...he gets tired after seizures,” Brian said, an edge of desperation in his voice. “He gets tired, maybe he's sleeping...and he's Deaf, you know he's Deaf, right? Because if you talk to him, he's not...gonna hear you.”

 

His doctor stopped and looked at us with the serious face they teach us in medical school, and Brian turned away and stared into the room of someone who was not Justin.

 

“Justin wasn't breathing after the seizure,” she said. “His mother did CPR at her house, and the paramedics were able to get him an airway en route to the hospital. But...we're not sure how long he was without oxygen. So right now we're just waiting to see where we are when he wakes up.”

 

Debbie put her hand on Brian's shoulder, and he looked at me with his eyes wide.

 

I said, “You've done an EEG?”

 

“We did, and it was clear.”

 

“So you are expecting him to wake up,” I said, and Brian cursed a little and took a step backwards.

 

“We're just...on Justin's time right now.”

 

“Is he breathing on his own?” I said.

 

Brian paced a few more steps away from us, and back.

 

“Not yet,” his doctor said. “He's still intubated for the time being. We're hoping he starts breathing over that soon.” She looked at Brian. “Given Justin's medical history, it's not unexpected that he's taking a little longer to shake things than we might hope. We're going to do this on his timetable.”

 

“Sure,” Brian said vaguely, still staring into a stranger's room like he was going to recognize him any second.

 

The doctor put her hand on his arm. “I can take you to see him now, okay? His mom's in there with him.”

 

Brian looked kind of surprised, like he'd forgotten about seeing Justin sometime in the last few minutes. We were losing him, I could tell, but that didn't mean I knew what the fuck to do about it. Last time I remember watching Brian, taking notes mentally on how much he loved Justin because Justin would want to know, when he woke up, how torn up Brian had been about him. And it was so much easier to think about that, to prepare for how we'd giggle about how Brian was soooo totally gone about him, than to think about...about what was actually going on. About my best friend in the fucking universe.

 

Now Justin already knew how much Brian loved him (if he knew anything at all, Jesus, Justin, be okay, be okay) so what the fuck was I supposed to be thinking about? How the fuck was I supposed to look at Brian now?

 

I needed to just be a doctor about this.

 

Debbie stayed out in the hallway and mumbled something about calling to check in at the diner, and I followed Brian into Justin's room. Justin was propped up and intubated, with a bandage over his forehead and a bruise spreading down to his cheekbone. Jennifer stood up from her spot next to the bed and held her hand to her chest, reaching out to us. I went and hugged her while Brian stalked around the bed, looking at Justin from every angle.

 

“I'm so glad you're here,” Jennifer said to us. “I don't know how...they keep saying we just have to wait, I don't...”

 

Brian took Justin's hand and signed a “B” into it, watching me and Jennifer like he was trying to figure out what we were doing here. “What's...” he said, gesturing to the bandage.

 

Jennifer cleared her throat. “Just a few stitches.”

 

He stared at her. “He fell on his fucking face?”

 

She took a shaky breath.

 

“Where was he?” Brian demanded. “The tile in the kitchen? The stone in the bathroom? Was he on the stairs, where was he?”

 

I said, “Brian, it doesn't matter.”

 

“How the fuck did this happen?” Brian said.

 

Jennifer said, “He just...”

 

“He told me he didn't feel well,” Brian said. “He must have told you. He doesn't feel well, he's supposed to stay goddamn horizontal until it passes, he doesn't go walking around, so why the fuck was he up?”

 

“I don't know—”

 

“Why weren't you with him?”

 

Jennifer put her hands over her face, and I stepped between them and put my hand on her shoulder.

 

This is not saving him, I said to Brian, because if we kept yelling out loud someone was going to kick us the hell out.

 

He breathed out hard through his nose.

 

She gave him CPR at the house. She called 911. This could have happened at his studio or on the sidewalk. He poured boiling water on himself when you were what, three feet away from him? This is not her fault.

 

Brian stared at me so long I was worried my signing was too jacked up for him to understand, but all of a sudden something in his face changed, like something clicking in place, and he whispered, “Oh God,” and walked out of the room.

 

I sat Jennifer down and went after him.

 

“Hey.” I grabbed his arm, and he shook me off. I planted myself in front of him and grabbed him again. “Hey,” I said. “You fucking just made me promise you wouldn't mess this up.”

 

“I'm not leaving, I just...” He looked around at nothing, tugged on the sleeves of his shirt, raked his hand through his hair. I already fucked this up.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“Oh God, oh God,” he said. “He should have gotten the fucking surgery.”

 

“What surgery?”

 

“Four years ago, the fucking—”

 

“What, the clinical trial?”

 

Yes.

 

I felt my heart in my throat. “Brian, no.”

 

“He knew I didn't want him to do it so he didn't do it, and...there was a seventy percent chance it would have fucking fixed him. What the fuck are the chances he gets through this without major goddamn deficits? What are the chances he lives to be eighty-fucking-five without...Christ, he's going to stop breathing now?” He shook his head. “It's not seventy percent, Daph.”

 

“Brian, they cancelled that fucking trial because people were—”

 

“People were having longterm side effects, yeah, I read the report. You know what you need to have to have longterm effects? A fucking longterm life.”

 

“He didn't want—”

 

“Who the fuck cares what he wants! You think he knows what's best for him? He's fucking brain damaged, for God's sake...”

 

“Brian, look at me.”

 

He glanced at me, then away.

 

Look at me, I said, and he did. I said I wouldn't let you fuck this up and I meant it. And none of this, blaming yourself, blaming Jennifer, is helping Justin. So get your fucking ass back in that room and sit down and hold his hand.

 

He stuck his tongue in his cheek. You know, I think you're his half-sister on Craig's side. You're kind of a dick.


Come on, asshole.

 

**

 

So we just sat in that room for a long time. Every once in a while Debbie would pull us outside for a cup of coffee. Derek called me with the girls—he was sleeping over at their place, Molly was there too—before they went to bed. Brian called Michael at some point and managed to convince him not to run the horde out to the hospital. But mostly we just sat in that tiny room with Justin, watching his chest rise and fall with the ventilator and the doctors walk in, check him, walk out, no change, no change.

 

Brian didn't fall apart. I thought he would, since Justin wasn't unconscious—usually when Justin's sick, when he's with us, Brian's primary goal is keeping him together by sheer force of will, and that usually involves a mixture of rolling his eyes like Justin's being a drama queen and micromanaging his every move—but I guess having me and Jennifer here was the same effect, like he still felt he needed to hold it together for us.

 

“He's got to be in pain, right?” Brian said, the first word anyone had spoken in an hour.

 

“They're giving him something,” I said.

 

“You think he's having nightmares?” he said, like it was slightly interesting.

 

“I don't know,” I said.

 

“He looks worse that he did when we got here,” he said.

 

“It's just the bruise developing.”

 

“He's falling apart right in front of us,” Brian said. “We're just sitting here and he's getting worse by the minute.”

 

I slept for half an hour here and there, scrunched up in a chair that wasn't actually as uncomfortable as it looked. Michael showed up around seven and stayed outside the window with a duffel bag. Brian took it and stayed stiff for a long time while Michael hugged him, and then he dug his hands into Michael's back and cried for even longer.

 

**

 

At around nine, Brian's head snapped up, and he narrowed his eyes while he watched Justin.

 

“What?” Jennifer and I said.

 

Brian shook his head a little, eyes fixed on Justin's face. “Something's wrong.”

 

Justin looked the exact same to me, but fuck if a minute later he didn't start gagging on the tube down his throat, and I whispered, “Oh thank God,” while Brian and Jennifer freaked out.

 

“He's choking!” Jennifer said.

 

“No, no, it's good,” I said. “He's breathing over the tube, it's good.” I hit the call button over Justin's bed.

 

“It's good?” Jennifer said.

 

“It means he can breathe on his own,” I said.

 

Brian stood at the foot of the bed, his hand around Justin's ankle. “It's not good, he doesn't like it. He's...it's hurting him, he wants it out.”

 

“They're going to take it out,” I said. “He's waking up, Brian, go hold his hand.”

 

Brian nodded and moved next to Justin, flattening his palm on Justin's chest. Hey, Sunshine, how about you open your eyes? You're missing all my best signing.

 

He kept choking on the tube, and his doctor came in with a few nurses. “Okay, now we're talking!” she said.

 

“He doesn't like it,” Brian said.

 

“Well, let's get it out of him. Sandra, get the mask—good. Okay, Justin, we're going to—”

 

“He's Deaf,” Brian, Jennifer and I said together. Brian signed it.

 

“Right. Can you get him to open his eyes?”

 

Brian gave her a blank look. “...how?”

 

“Mm, good point. All right. We need you to take a step back...great,” she said, and they extubated Justin and put an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Justin slowly opened his eyes, and Brian took a step back.

 

“He needs an interpreter,” Brian said.

 

The doctor said, “Sandra, can you—” and Sandra nodded and left.

 

“I can do it for now?” I asked Brian, and he nodded and stepped to the side. Justin watched him but looked away when the doctor and I approached the bed.

 

She said, “Hi, Justin, I'm Dr. Trufoe. Can you squeeze my hand?”

 

I signed it, and Justin looked between me and the doctor. His hand stayed still in his.

 

“How about you move one finger?” she said.

 

Brian cleared his throat. “He's confused, he doesn't know who to look at, can I just...”

 

His doctor nodded and stepped to the side, and Brian picked up Justin's hand and waited for Justin to look at him.

 

Hey there, Sunshine. Welcome back. Quite the production here. Think you can squeeze my hand? Justin still looked confused, but we saw his fingers tighten around Brian's, and Brian grinned. “Now what?” he asked, still watching Justin.

 

“Wiggle his toes,” the doctor said. Brian signed it, and Justin did. “Now if he could say something.”

 

“Can he sign it?” Brian said, eyes still on Justin, signing, You're good, you're doing great. “He won't want to speak right now.”

 

Justin looked around the room, looking miserable as hell.

 

Hey, it's okay, Brian said.

 

“Signing is fine,” the doctor said, and Brian let go of his hands.

 

Hurts, Justin said, and Brian nodded and bent down and kissed his forehead.

 

I said, Justin, do you remember what happened?

 

He kept looking around the room with something like panic in his eyes, and finally he said, his voice hoarse and pained and right on the edge of tears, “I want Brian, can someone call Brian?”

 

Brian made a noise like a trapped animal and backed up until he hit the wall.

 

**

 

Justin fell back asleep pretty quickly, and we all interrogated the doctor.

 

“Is this the concussion or the oxygen deprivation?” Brian said.

 

“It's hard to say,” she said. “It's very normal after an injury like this for him to be confused, to have some issues with his memory. It's probably not permanent.”

 

“He already has trouble with his memory,” Brian said. “Ever since...that's been an ongoing issue.”

 

“He's sedated and in pain right now,” his doctor said. “That's going to make anyone confused. With a grade 3 concussion, symptoms can last for a while. We'll do another MRI today if he's not showing any more improvement, but I would be very surprised if that's the case.” She patted Brian's arm. “This is good,” she said. “He's awake, he's responsive, he's breathing. All of this is good. Give him time.”

 

“When can I get him out of here?” Brian said. “I want him in a helicopter to a hospital in New York yesterday.”

 

“It's not a good idea to move him right now,” his doctor said. “Not when he's already disoriented.”

 

“He's disoriented because this is where he spent the worst two months of his life!” Brian said.

 

I said, “Brian.”

 

Brian turned to me. “He's looking right at me and he thinks I'm not here,” he said, his voice breaking. “Why do you think he thinks that, Daphne?”

 

I swallowed. “He's just confused.”

 

“He's not going to get well here,” Brian said.

 

**

 

Jennifer updated everyone and continued to keep them at bay and then went home for a shower and a quick nap. I called my mom who said she'd bring me some clothes—I'd left some ugly old stuff at her place when I moved—and Brian and I went back to keeping silent vigil while Justin slept.

 

He woke up a little while later, and Brian stirred from where he was half asleep next to the bed, Justin's hand loosely in his. He ran a hand down his face and said, Hey.

 

Justin made a frustrated noise.

 

I know. It feels really fucked up, I know.

 

I knew it was just a dream, Justin said sluggishly.

 

Brian pushed his hair back, carefully, from the bandage on his forehead. What the fuck are you talking about? he said gently.

 

All of it, he said. I knew it was too good to be true.

 

I still didn't know what he was talking about, but I saw the realization fall on Brian's face, and he tilted his head to the side. So all of this was a dream, huh? Nice try. I know I look good, but I don't look thirty.

 

Justin reached up and touched his face. You look good.

 

Well, you do still look about goddamn eighteen, so there's that. But hey, all this was too good to be true? Ethan, he's part of your idyllic fantasy? That whole boiling water thing? How about giving me cancer, what the fuck was with that? We're going to have words, if that was your idea of a good time.

 

Complaining to me about your stupid cancer when I'm lying here dying, Justin bitched.

 

Brian grinned and kissed his cheek, then snapped his fingers a couple inches from Justin's face. Can you hear that?

 

Justin shook his head.

 

Probably not a dream, then.

 

Play with my hair until I fall asleep.


Okay.

 

**

 

People came to the hospital every once in a while, drifting in and out of the waiting room and the hallway outside Justin's room, but Brian and Justin and I and sometimes Jennifer stayed in here alone, like actors in the play they were watching. The doctors came in and hour and adjusted the flow of Justin's oxygen and the tilt of the bed. He didn't have to get another MRI, because he knew who Brian was and begged Brian not to move him, and nothing was going to beat those two things. Which is probably why Brian stopped talking about bringing him back to New York, for a little while. If Justin said stay, he was staying.

 

I went out to the bathroom to brush my teeth and get something from the vending machine and ended up falling asleep in the waiting room on top of Lindsay for some undetermined amount of time. I dragged my groggy self back to to Justin's room, where he was vomiting again. Brian was up on the bed next to him, holding the basin, his other arm firmly around Justin's shoulders.

 

“The fuck are you wearing?” I said to Brian.

 

He rolled his eyes. “It's Emmett's, Justin puked on all of mine and he's the only person in the goddamn state over five foot seven.”

 

“Well, Ben, but he's a bit...broader.”

 

Brian glared at me and kissed Justin's temple. Finished?

 

Justin coughed and nodded. If you put me in a helicopter I will fucking murder you.

 

Yeah, yeah, I know. Brian handed the basin to me and I went to rinse it out. I don't know how long you think I can stay in Pittsburgh without coming out of my skin, though.


Yeah, poor Brian. Stop making Daphne do all the gross parts.

 

She's a doctor. And excuse me, all the gross parts? She's not the one who's been puked on three times this hour.

 

You seem less confused than last time you were up, I said.

 

Justin shook his head and winced a little, and Brian said, He still doesn't know what's going on, he's just going with it.

 

My current theory is Brian tried to kill me and now he feels bad about it, Justin said.

 

That's just because he's not sure who anyone is other than me.


I know it's Daphne. Justin rested against Brian's shoulder, and Brian slipped his arm under Justin's legs and hauled them into his lap. I want to go home.


You just told me not to move you.


I don't remember.

 

I know.

 

He gestured at his legs. You did move me.

 

You really do complain a lot, you know.

 

He groaned and wrapped his arms around his head, folding himself in half on Brian's lap.

 

Brian rubbed his back. “Can you see about more painkillers?” he asked me.

 

“Yeah, I'm on it.”

 

**

 

Justin spent most of the afternoon crying because he couldn't remember anything that was going on, and because his head hurt, and he couldn't stop throwing up, and mostly because he was having wild fucking mood swings and he didn't know why. He upset his mother and pissed off Brian.

 

Stop yelling at your mother, Brian told him, like he hadn't been yelling at her twenty-four hours ago.

 

Justin was mean and confused and clingy and didn't like when Brian wasn't within arms reach. Brian was exhausted and worried and irritated and didn't like not being in New York.

 

What day is it? Brian quizzed him.

 

Justin was holding his head. “I don't know. Leave me alone.”

 

It's Thursday.

 

“Why aren't you at work?”

 

Brian gestured to him.

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

What did you have for dinner?

 

“Debbie...brought something.”

 

Lasagna, right. You remember what your temperature was? They just checked it.

 

Justin gave him a look. “I wouldn't remember that on a regular day.”

 

Ninety-nine three. Two nines and a three. He did a little dance, pointing at Justin. You've got this.

 

Justin smiled a little.

 

What day is it?


Thursday.


Good. What'd you have for dinner?

 

He shrugged. Debbie probably brought something.


Sunshine, come on. You're not even trying.

 

“I'm tired, Brian.”

 

I said, He just needs to rest. It'll come back.

 

He's been resting all day. Justin. What's your temperature?

 

Justin made a frustrated noise.

 

Two nines, and...


I don't know! Leave me alone. His hand started shaking, and he hit the bed with the other.

 

Brian sighed and got back on the bed. He brought Justin's hand to his lips and said, We can take a break for a little while.

 

**

 

Justin wanted to talk to Emily and Derek, but he was on a screen ban for at least a week, so I propped up the phone and watched what they said and signed it all out to Justin. Derek talked to me a little at the end, just telling me he missed me, and I must have had some look on my face because Justin looked all smug when I got off the phone.

 

Oh, what, I said.

 

When are you two getting married?


Jesus, I don't know.


You've been dating for like...how long? I don't know. My memory's a mess.

 

I sat down on the foot of the bed. Jennifer and Brian were in here too, but they were both asleep, Jennifer in the armchair and Brian in a wheelchair we stole a while ago. Almost two years.


Get married already, God. I'm bored.


We have time.

 

When do you have to leave?


Tomorrow.

 

He nodded a little. You'll probably have to remind me a few times.


That's okay, I said. Brian stirred a little in the wheelchair, and I said, It was like this a lot last time.


What?

 

Before you woke up. Your mom would go home when it got too late, or she'd fall asleep out in the waiting room sometimes if she was too tired to make it to the car. I'd sneak out of the house and come by, and Brian would be in here, just watching you.


I remember that, Justin said.

 

You do not. You were in a coma.

 

Doesn't matter. I remember. He smiled at me a little as his eyes were closing. I remembered something. Tell Brian.

 

**

 

I don't know when I fell asleep stretched out across a few seats in the waiting room—honestly I don't even remember coming out here—but at some point here was a hand on my back and I jumped about a foot in the air.

 

Brian had his hands up. “Whoa, whoa. You okay?”

 

“Yeah, I...yeah. Is Justin—”

 

“He's fine. C'mon, honey.”

 

I got groggily to my feet and let Brian put me in my coat and lead me towards the elevator. “Where are we going?” I asked eventually. God, I don't know if I've ever been that tired. I thought vaguely that my hair must look so terrible. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion.

 

“Shh.”

 

The air in the parking lot was so cold it felt like it was biting me. It was dark, but the sky was the kind of dark blue that made me think the sun was going to rise soon. Brian unlocked Michael's car and opened the passenger side door for me.

 

“We're not running away, are we?” I said.

 

“Daphne.”

 

“I'm not supposed to...let you run away.” I think I fell asleep for a second in the middle of the sentence.

 

“I'm going right back,” he said. “Left a little note for Justin and everything. His mom's there.”

 

That was about all the pushing I could do right about then, so I closed my eyes and rested my cheek against the window. His hand grazed up and down my back.

 

I woke up when the car stopped at Michael's house. Brian opened the front door and let me in and nodded to the stairs.

 

“Guest room,” he said softly. “Second door on the right, come on.”

 

He pulled back the covers while I took my shoes and pants off and squirmed into bed. “Here,” he said, producing a bottle of water out of nowhere, and he kissed my forehead and started to go.

 

“Wait, what about you?”

 

“I have to go back.”

 

“Lie down just for a minute.”

 

He stayed by the door, considering it, and then his face softened. “Yeah, okay.” He took his shoes off and got into bed next to me, and I fussed around with the covers until he finally said, “God, shut up,” and threw an arm over me. “This always shuts up Justin.”

 

I closed my eyes and listened to him breathe for a while.

 

“He's gonna be okay,” I said, with the last of my energy.

 

I thought he'd fallen asleep at first, but just before I fell asleep I'm pretty sure I heard him whisper, “Thank you.”

 

 

End Notes:

There will be a follow-up from Justin's POV, where we start our next big plot arc!

 

Chapter 60 - You Must Remember This by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin's got a long road back to where he was before the accident, Brian's being unprecedentedly amazing, and there is something, something in the back of Justin's mind that he just can't quite recall...

You Must Remember This

LaVieEnRose




It was important. It was important, and it was big, and I swore I wasn't going to forget it. I repeated it to myself over and over. It was important. I didn't write it down, there was some reason why I didn't—


The lights flickered off and on, and I looked up. Brian was standing in the doorway. He didn't have his coat, so he must not have just gotten here. He must have been here already. We must have already talked.


He looked nice.


You all right over there? he asked me.


Sure. What are you doing?


Just getting the paperwork, remember?


I nodded a little.


He gave me a small smile. Big day.


I looked around at my Post-its. Brian will be here at 7 AM. Don't pull out the IV. Your nurse's name is Sandra. Finally I found one on my IV pole: You're going home today.


In LA my notes were this paranoid joke.


We're not flying, right? I said. I don't want to fly.


He sighed, and I knew we must have been over this already, and I felt this stab of guilt for disappointing him. He said, No, I rented a car. How's the pain right now?


I think it's okay. I looked around at all my notes. Are you sure I'm ready?


You're not going to get better here, he said stubbornly. Even I couldn't forget how many times he'd said that. Brian has even more of a bone to pick with this hospital than I do. You follow the one rule and we'll be fine. Remember the rule?


Yes. Hang on.


Take your time.


It was important. It was important, and I swore I wasn't going to forget it. No wandering off!


There you go. He came over and gave me a kiss. Head of the class.


I wouldn't worry about me wandering anywhere, I said. I still felt like I was underwater all the time and looked kinda drunk when I walked. And you might think this is some kind of foreshadowing that I'm going to wander off at the end of this and find myself lost in Brooklyn or something, but it didn't happen. If anything the concussion made me want to be surgically attached to Brian, so I wasn't striking out on my own. I'd cry when he left me at OT like some sort of kid getting dropped off at preschool.


Sorry. That's all down the line, I just...


It's hard to tell any of this in order. It was hard to tell what order anything was really in.


Because the whole thing felt eleven years old anyway.


Emily told me something, I remembered...later, at some point. Brian was helping me out of bed and into the wheelchair my nurse—what was her name, what was her name—had waiting.


Oh yeah? he said, distracted, fussing with the bandage on my forehead.


Brian.


What?


Were you here? She said it was important. I didn't want to forget it, but...


When?


Last night.


He shook his head. Emily's in New York, you didn't talk to her last night.


She called after you left.


Okay, he said, in that it's not worth arguing with my concussed partner way. I could practically hear how he would have said it, I swear.


She did, I said, as the nurse pushed me down the hall. Give me my backpack, I can carry it.


It's fine, I got it.


Let me do something, I said, and he shrugged and set it on my lap. And she did, I said.


I think maybe it wasn't last night, he said, infuriatingly gently. You're on screen rest.


Yeah, she called me anyway. And she told me not to tell you.


He laughed. So why are you telling me? You're a terrible friend.


Because I forgot she told me not to tell you. Also I sort of forgot you weren't there, and I was hoping you'd tell me what she said, because she told me it was important but that I shouldn't write it down because...she wants me to remember it.


Oh, that's nice. Remind me to pay her overtime for fucking with you after hours. He took the backpack off my lap and watched me get up from the wheelchair after we broke through the hospital front doors. All good?


Yeah. How far's the car?


He pointed to a steel gray Camry.


Wow, you really lucked out.


Yeah, she's a looker. Want me to bring it around?


No, I can do it.


He didn't hover on the way to the car, just walked slowly like it was his idea while he scrolled through his phone. Fucking idiots, he signed to himself. Cynthia says he does that even when there are no Deaf people around, talks to himself a little in sign language when he's thinking. I love him so goddamn much.


“When are you going back to work?” I asked him, because on the other hand I felt like if I tried to sign while I was walking right now I'd probably fall on my face. Again.


Tomorrow, I have to dive back in. Figured you could sleep just as well on the couch there as you can at home.


I'll be in OT during the day anyway. I had a few weeks of strength and balance exercises and working on my memory and emotional control and all the other shit that falls out of me every time I take a hard object to the skull.


Not until next week, he said, unlocking the car.


“What?”


Doctor said rest for a week, then start.


After the bashing I started right away.


After the bashing you needed to learn how to fucking walk again. This is different. Most of the treatment is just resting.


I took a few tries to work the door handle—my depth perception wasn't completely back on board yet—but Brian let me figure it out. Once we were in the car he tossed a pillow at me that he'd made appear from God knows where and tucked a blanket around my waist and I felt safe. He had that stubborn, pissed-off face on that he always gets when I make him worry about me and he's just furious about all his feelings.


“You're blushing,” I said.


Shut up.


**


Driving was definitely better than any other form of transportation would have been, but I still got so goddamn horrendously sick about two hours into the drive. We sat on the shoulder for ages while I leaned out the door and puked and shook and puked some more, and Brian crouched on the ground in front of me and wiped sweat off my forehead and tried to get me to take sips of water. The sun was in my eyes and it was making my head hurt like I can't even explain,


It let up for half a minute and Brian guided my head back against the seat. Catch your breath. You're all right.


I'm sorry, this is fucking disgusting.


You're fine. Christ, you poor thing. You want your inhaler?


No, I'm okay.


Okay, he said, and I closed my eyes for a while and just breathed. His hand was cool on my cheek, and his thumb brushed over my eyebrow. I signed I love you, and felt his hand close around mine.


“Must be hurting your knees,” I said, opening my eyes.


Well, the alternative is sitting in your puke, he said, and I laughed a little and groaned.


I'll be fine, I said. Stop looking so worried, it's fucking heartbreaking.


I'm not worried, he, you know, lied. This didn't happen last time, he added.


Yeah, it did, I said, breathing my way through a new bout of vertigo. The first few weeks I'd do this for hours.


Brian shook his head, concern creasing his eyebrows.


“During the day,” I said, patting his hand. “You weren't there.”


He stared at me for a second without blinking, then said, Fuck. And what more was there really to say other than that? I think he'd really convinced himself that he'd gotten the full story just from lurking there at nights, and...look, I had no interest in guilting him over eleven-year-old mistakes, but he hadn't. He wasn't the expert at this that he thought that he was.


But him beating himself for it wasn't what I wanted, and it wouldn't help anything.


“It's okay,” I said. “I'm gonna be sick again.”


Okay, Sunshine.


**


I don't remember getting home, or my first night back at the apartment. I know I had some vague dream about trying to remember what Emily told me, and when Brian woke me up in the morning I was stressed and headachey and basically felt like I'd fallen asleep about five seconds before Brian woke me up.


Brian handed me a handful of pills. Good morning, Harry Potter.


What?


He gestured to his forehead.


Right. I took a deep breath. I can't go to the office. I am too fucking sick.


Give it a minute, he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror.


I glared at him, but he was right; after a few minutes awake I still felt goddamn awful, but maybe not like I was going to die. I got up and went to the closet and tried to decide on something to wear, but it felt like...impossible. I can't explain it, but I'm not new to it, either. It pops up every once in a while anyway, and while I was in the hospital after the bashing asking me if I wanted green beans or carrots with dinner would freeze me up for the rest of the night.


As a general rule, Brian doesn't jump in and help me with stuff unless I ask—he will stand calmly by while I spend ten minutes working through a two-sentence exchange with a hearing person—but the standards for dealing with my shitty executive function are different because sometimes I'll get so paralyzed that I can't even explain to him what's going on, so he's learned to step in pretty early. He took out a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and handed them to me.


I can't wear sweatpants to the office. You're in fucking Gucci.


You're going to sleep all day. Wear something comfortable.


People are going to see us and think you're my fucking lawyer for my DUI case.


I was still on screen rest, so I brought the novel I was reading and a book of puzzles I got from the train station on my way to Pittsburgh and a few snacks, and I rested on Brian's shoulder in the cab on the way out to Queens.


You know what's going on? he asked me at one point, small. Where we're going?


Yeah. We're going to the office because you love me too to be without me for a whole day.


You're very aggravating, you know, he said, and I laughed.


Emily was sitting at her desk at the front of Kinnetik, where Cynthia used to be before she became an executive. She jumped up when we came in, and judging by the look on Brian's face made some very high-pitched noise, and ran towards us.


Gently please, gently please, Brian said, and Emily slowed herself down and hugged me. Brian kept a hand on the back of my head.


She got up on her toes and hugged Brian, who rolled his eyes at me behind her head. I missed you! she said.


We missed you too, I said.


She turned to Brian and explained something about a stack of papers she'd left for him and the thousand phone calls he needed to return and I wavered on my feet a little. Brian nodded for Emily to go with us to the office and kept watching her on the way. He shoved me towards the couch and went to his desk with Emily and started talking about...I don't know, work stuff, I couldn't bring myself to care right then. Everything was throbbing.


I waved for Emily's attention. We talked the other night, right? You called me?


Yeah, she said, and I gave Brian a look like ha.


What did you tell me?


I didn't tell you anything, she said. I asked you something.


Okay...?


She shrugged. You'll remember when it's time.


That's not how it works.


Is he going to be magically cured by the power of friendship? Brian asked.


Emily laughed and I tried to remember that mood swings were part of concussion recovery and it probably wasn't justified that I wanted to cut her out of my life forever for that. You shouldn't think about it until you're in a better spot, she said. So when you remember it...that's how you'll know you're ready for it.


The question is the answer, Brian said. Very Ben.


Just be patient, Emily said. There's no rush.


She left, and I flopped down on the couch and crossed my arms. “Just be patient. Oh, okay. What the fuck does she know about it?”


Brian smirked. Now, now, Raincloud.


Who the fuck does she think she is?


Well, she's pretty much your soulmate. Christ, I got a lot of work to do. What do you need before I dive into this? He went over to the closet and got out a blanket and a pillow, and after he tucked the pillow around my shoulders he gave me a little nudge under the chin and kissed me. Hi, he said, mouthing or saying it out loud too, and smiling.


“Hi.”


Decaf? He brushed my hair back. Emily has some tea bags, I think.


I'm okay.


He put his forehead against mine for a second. And you should eat something.


You worry too much.


I'm telling you, once I have you settled here I'm ignoring you for eight hours.


I'm okay.


Suit yourself, he said with a shrug, and he sauntered back to his desk and booted up his computer. I scrunched myself up on the couch and took out my puzzle book and got to work on a crossword.


Brian's pledge to ignore me for eight hours lasted a very impressive eleven minutes. He threw a balled up piece of paper at me and it smacked my crossword right at 23 Down.


I held it up to him. “A hazard, Brian.”


What are you doing?


I threw the paper back at him. Crossword. Seven letters, former full-sized Buick?


LeSabre. You're supposed to be resting.


I'm resting.


Sleeping. Doctor told you to get what, sixteen hours a day? Tick tock, he fingerspelled.


I'm not going to get smart again if all I do is sleep all day.


No, you literally are. Your brain just needs time to recover.


What I need is OT.


And you'll get it. After a week of sleeping sixteen hours a day.


I sighed and slumped back against the couch.


Look, I get that you're frustrated, Brian said. And I hear you, really. But I'm not pulling this out of my ass. Your neurologist told you all this. You remember?


I don't know. Maybe.


Quit scowling. That's how you get wrinkles, you know.


It took every ounce of restraint my rattled brain had left not to say something snarky about well, you would know, and only because I knew if I did say it I'd have to hold his hand about it for weeks. Yeah, Brian, you don't look like you're twenty-five, it's a national tragedy. At least your fucking memory works and you don't have to worry you're going to fall down and spray brain matter across the floor.


Christ, I was insufferable.


He stomped on the floor, and I looked over.


He watched me steadily. Everything all right over there? I was breathing kind of fast, I guess.


I, um... God, just like that, the entire conversation was gone. I remembered it later—I mean, I'm telling you this fucking story—but right then, I couldn't find it for the life of me. I don't remember what we were talking about.


He's always so fucking patient. It's like back when I was losing my hearing, and the hearing aids weren't catching everything, and he had to repeat himself over and over, and he'd just do it endlessly. He never got frustrated or said never mind and like...everyone got frustrated and said never mind. But not Brian. He'd just say it over and over until I got it. Your crossword puzzle, and how your neurologist told you that you're supposed to be sleeping and not doing crossword puzzles. And how beautiful you look.


Well. Now how was I supposed to remember what I was talking about?


Because Christ. He doesn't say shit like that unless I've just scared him to fucking death.


I'm sorry, I said. That I stopped breathing.


Yeah, what the hell was that? he said, making this show of flipping through a file, like he was bored. Don't do that again.


Okay. I love you.


I know, he said, with mock annoyance. You keep telling me.


Sorry, I said. You know, memory and all that.


His eyes were like melted chocolate. Sunshine, he said eventually.


Yeah?


Get some rest.


I would have gotten up and flew at that minute if he'd told me to. Okay.


**


I woke up God knows how long later disoriented as hell. It took me forever to figure out where I was, and Brian's office doesn't have any windows so I had no idea what time it was, if it was even still light outside, so that didn't help at all. Brian was at his desk talking to someone on the phone, and that was confusing at first, because he only does that in front of me at the office usually and I hadn't fucking figured out that he was at the office yet, and he'd dimmed the lights in the office and that confused me because he never did that, and God, my head hurt so fucking much that it was kind of hard to breathe without screaming.


I hate head injuries. I hate them. I can deal with most of this shit but I fucking hate head injuries, and one of the things that was so fucking scary was how much it felt like after the bashing, not just physically but emotionally. I'd been such a panicked, jumpy mess for ages after the bashing, and I'd just chalked that up to PTSD, to the sheer fucking horrible fact that the bashing happened, not what it actually was, and I'm not saying that wasn't a factor or anything, but the doctors at the hospital this time kept assuring me when I'd burst into tears at goddamn nothing or get fucking terrified at a sudden movement that all of that was super normal after a head injury, that a lot of people have issues with moods and fear and stability, and just...I hate finding out that I don't know my body as well as I thought that I did. I thought all of that was psychiatric and it turned out it—or some of it, at least—was physical? Why the fuck didn't anyone tell me that eleven years ago, when I was hating myself for being crazy? A huge percentage of people who survive major head injuries end up on antidepressants and fucked up with nightmares and scared to leave their houses, because our fucking brains are dented or whatever the hell, even the ones who don't have a horrifying story behind it. Nobody thought to tell me that until I split open my forehead in my mother's house?


And of course none of that fucking mattered, but my brain wasn't exactly great at figuring out what mattered, because I had a fucking head injury. And Jesus Christ goddamn did it hurt. I'd been getting these brutal headaches on and off since the incident, and they were less frequent every day, but they were still fucking crippling, for lack of a better word.


That was why Brian had dimmed the lights, I realized, because he knew I'd wake up with a headache, and figuring that out was enough for me to be a little more sure of what was going on. I closed my eyes and balled up with my arms around my head, and a minute later I felt Brian's hand gently trail up my leg.


“Sometimes I wish I'd just died,” I said. “Back then.” I opened my eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.”


He gave me a small smile. It's okay. Sometimes you're really fucking annoying and I wish you did too.


I snorted and pressed my hand to my forehead. “Oof.”


I know this is fucking awful.


You've been so good to me.


Well, don't draw attention to it, he said. You know me.


Right. Sorry.


He touched my head. I just want to do things for you, so I figured I'd ride it out and hover until I get mad at you for making me feel things and shun you for a week.


Circle of Brian.


He kissed me. See, look whose memory works.


“My head feels so goddamn bad, Brian.”


Okay, well...I'll sit with you for a while.


That'll help?


He scoffed like he was offended and said, Of course. I made room for him on the couch, and he sat down next to me and pulled my feet up into his lap. I rolled onto my back and watched him.


“Gabe hasn't called,” I said. It had been this nagging worry over the past week, this thing I had to remember and then forget and then remember again.


He didn't look up from the file he was leafing through. You're on screen rest.


“Brian.”


He sighed and turned to me. I talked to him some during the first few days. He was worried about you.


During the first few days. So what about since then?


Brian shrugged like it didn't matter. I told him you'd be resting for a while. Derek and Daphne and Emily all want to visit and I told them no too.


So you told Gabe no?


He didn't say anything, which pretty much said everything.


He's going to bail, I said. This is too much for him.


If he bails, he's a fucking idiot.


This would be too much for almost anyone.


Oh, yeah, doing work sitting on the couch instead of in a chair, Brian signed drolly. This is a fucking hardship, right here.


Yeah, because that's all this is.


He turned a page in the file. You know, you're not really as much of a challenge as you'd like to be. You're pretty fucking straightforward. No one has to struggle to unravel the great mysteries of how to make Justin Taylor feel a little better. I sleep like a baby.


You're just saying that to make me feel better.


And it's not exactly wearing me out, is it? Point proven.


People are going to get sick of holding my fucking hand, I said. I'm a fucking adult, I should be...I shouldn't need all this...


What did you say you were going to do about all this self-loathing timesuck bullshit? he said, bored, but when I didn't answer for a while he gave me an expectant look.


“Um...” God, it was right there, it was right fucking there, but I had no idea. I couldn't even figure it out from context because I was fucking losing the context, it was falling right through me like a sink with an open drain. “I don't...I don't remember.”


He looked kind of stricken and then he gathered me up into his arms, and I stayed there for a long time.


**


It turned out, after all my eagerness to get to occupational therapy, I fucking hated it. I don't know why I was surprised, since I'd hated it after the bashing too, but everything in the goddamn world was a surprise right now since I had the memory of a goldfish, so there you go.


Gabe did come back into my life around then with excuses about how he'd been busy and he'd wanted to give me space to recover and I accepted them, but I think that was kind of the beginning of the end for us. The next chapter in this little saga didn't help, of course, and it probably also didn't do our relationship a lot of favors that I was a fucking asshole for a few weeks. Mostly to Brian, because everyone else had the good sense to avoid me as much as possible, and if Brian was going to be a fucking hero and stick around, he was going to stick around for me destroying our apartment and his self-esteem and my fucking life, because goddamn take that, hero.


I just...I hated OT. I hated being pushed and tested because I fucking failed all the time. I couldn't say the alphabet backwards past X and they wouldn't stop fucking asking me. I couldn't remember the stupid flash cards or recite the fucking little rhymes they taught me. I dropped the tiny objects they had me pick up, and my hand was so fucked up from how hard they were working me that I hadn't drawn so much as a goddamn stick figure in weeks and I could barely fucking sign. And I hated when I was out of OT and my therapist and neurologist and fucking Brian told me I wasn't allowed to do anything more mentally straining than relace my fucking shoes, so I was bored out my fucking mind and still on a screen ban so I couldn't Skype with my friends or call my fucking family, Brian wouldn't fuck me because he was convinced he'd hurt me and honestly he probably would have, I had panic attacks every fucking time I left the apartment, where I got goddamn lost between the kitchen and the bathroom, nothing tasted the way it was supposed to, my head still hurt so much that I wanted to just fucking cut it off and be done already, I'd go from feeling like things were maybe looking up to wanting to goddamn die at the drop of a hat, and I still couldn't fucking remember what Emily had asked me and she wouldn't just fucking tell me, and Brian was being so fucking nice to me that he barely seemed like Brian and I didn't deserve any of it, and none of it, not any of it, felt like it was ever going to get better.


I mean, it barely fucking got better after the bashing, right? So why the fuck would it get better now?


Brian waltzed into the rehab room to pick me up after work one day. Well, you made another interpreter quit, so we have to find a new one. Again.


I was trying to bat a ball between my hands even though my occupational therapist had already bailed out on me today because goddamn it, I could do this, I could do this. “He was awful. He was slow as shit and he made the OT think I was stupid because it was taking me forever to answer his questions. Why don't you just do it?”


Because I have a job, and it pays a lot better than being an interpreter.


My hand shook and I dropped the ball. “Damn it!”


All right, Bruce Banner, that's enough for today.


I kicked the ball across the room.


That was pretty good, actually, he said. Hand-eye coordination and shit. Or foot-eye, I guess.


“Shut up, Brian, Jesus! I didn't ask for some fucking third-rate comedic commentary on my goddamn situation."


Oddly specific.


I sat down on the floor and massaged my hand. “I want to quit.”


You want to quit while you're here, and then you want to work yourself to the bone once you're home.


“Yeah, I guess I'm goddamn complicated after all, huh?”


He came over to me. Did you really have to sit down here? You have plans for getting back up?


“I can do it,” I said, but of course I couldn't. Nothing about my fucking body was behaving well enough to get up without using my hands, and my right hand felt like it would leave by protest if I put any weight on it.


Brian put his hands under his elbows and lifted me up.


“I said I could do it,” I said.


Yeah, I heard you.


“Congrats.”


He smirked at me.


“Christ, how do you stand this? You really came here to take me home? You want to go home with this?”


He kissed my forehead. Well, you're sick, dear, and irritability is an actual symptom. I don't get mad at you for sneezing when your allergies are bad.


“Yeah, just snoring,” I said.


Plus it's kind of funny.


I pulled away from him. “Fuck you, it's not funny.”


I'm sorry, but...yeah.


“How is this funny!”


Well, you're just... he gestured at me. You're very small and you're very angry.


“Brian!”


I'm sorry. You can hit me with your tiny fists if you want.


I kicked the table and cursed.


Okay, point taken. You can do actual damage. Largely to yourself. Can we go home now? I think the people here are going to start giving me condolence casseroles for being married to such an asshole.


“Yeah, more of that,” I said. “I'm fearsome. I'm a very effectual tornado of rage.”


Okay, so you want to hit me and cause actual damage?


“I mean, deep down in my heart of hearts? Probably not.”


However.


“Yeah, however.”


He kissed me. What did you do today?


“I don't remember,” I said, and then I started crying and got mad at Brian for trying to comfort me because, you know, I was a fucking treat.


We went home and he shoved me into the shower with three kisses all in a row and an order not to crack my head open, and when I got out he was setting two plates of spaghetti—basically the most complicated thing he can manage on his own—on the kitchen table. He made dramatic eye contact while he dropped three—three!—pieces of garlic bread on my plate, then he dimmed the lights some and lit a few candles for the table.


What's all this? I said.


Sit.


So I did, and I chewed his undercooked spaghetti for a long time and watched the way his eyes glittered in the candlelight. For dessert he produced a box of cannolis from the bakery I love, and then he tugged me over to the floor cushions and sat behind me, his legs on either side of me, and rubbed my shoulders so deeply it was hard to speak.


He turned me around a little. Do you want a Deaf person at OT with you? Derek's only teaching three days a week, I bet he'd do it. And I can assign it to Emily. Cynthia will deal.


I nodded and felt like I was going to cry, a-fucking-gain.


Okay. He kissed my cheek. Good.


I cleared my throat. “What the fuck is all this?”


He shrugged. They don't know how to deal with a Deaf person. You need a Deaf advocate.


“Not that. All of this.”


Oh, this? He dug his thumbs into my shoulders.


I moaned. “This.”


He trailed a collection of kisses up my neck. I'm killing you with kindness.


**


It did get better, of course, and I stopped being a total dick, so that's a relief for you I'm sure. Derek or Emily came to OT with me, and they didn't always stay the whole time or anything, but it was just such a fucking relief to not be the only Deaf person in the room, and to get a second perspective on whether the interpreters were fucking up or it really was taking me too long to figure out the tasks the therapist was giving me (some of each). I started doing better, and following conversations more, and the headaches weren't every day and neither were the panic attacks. I decided to actually be nice to Brian, which annoyed him and made me happy, so that was fun. I got to use screens, so I could watch TV and call Gus and get back in touch with Gabe, and I started painting again, which made a pretty huge difference in my mood. My stuff was still kind of angry and bad, but just the fact that I was making something was enough to make me feel like less of an entire waste of space.


On the other hand, I was still sexually frustrated as shit and starting to feel decent enough that I was actually aware of the fact that was sexually frustrated as shit. Also Emily, despite spending a million hours a day with me, wouldn't tell me what it was she asked me.


You need a goal, Emily said. You get better, then you remember. That's your goal.


Yeah, sorry, but sex with my husband is my goal.


Two goals are better than one, or whatever the fuck.


So whichever goal it was (the sex. It was the sex) I worked my ass off at OT that day and was rewarded with a fucking hideous headache later. I didn't tell Brian, because I was trying this new thing where I wasn't the whiniest bastard in the world, but I didn't try to hide it or anything either, so he knew. He was getting some work done at home—I still wasn't really at the leave me alone by myself for stretches of time stage, so he didn't stay late at the office or go out unless there was someone else here with me, which had to be chafing—so he was busy, but every time he passed by where I was sacked out on the couch he'd run his hand over my shoulders or something, just little things that let me know that he saw me and he got it, and it was nice.


I was just tired, just to the fucking bone tired. It was fucking confusing, trying to get back to where I was, because sometimes I was supposed to rest and sometimes I was supposed to work my ass off, and I had to switch between those things based on other people's schedules and where I was and not how I was actually feeling at the time. And even times like this, when I was supposed to be taking it easy and my body was cashed out anyway, my mind would be going a million miles a minute trying to fit every thing together, sending me these panicked signals like I was forgetting something important, and I knew this wasn't the kind of rest my concussed fucking head needed and I couldn't do anything but lie there and spin out about it.


I wandered into the bedroom at some point and curled up there instead, and I think I drifted off for a little while but I was awake when Brian appeared in the doorway, watching me like he was trying to figure something out.


What? I said. No speaking allowed in the bedroom.


You know, he said, slowly approaching the bed. For someone who's sick as often as you are, you really don't get enough sexy nurse.


I really, really don't.


Brian crawled up from the foot of the bed and lifted the hem of my shirt, the stubble around his mouth scratching my stomach and oh, so good. Where does it hurt, Mr. Taylor?


I hissed in a breath. Lower.


Lower, huh.


Yeah.


He slid my pants down past my hips. You just relax, okay?


Okay, I said, and I did, maybe for the first time since all of this started.


**


So maybe that was the magic bullet. Not the sex, really, just actually, really turning my shitty brain off long enough to let it reboot. I'm not saying I woke up the next morning back to normal or anything. I'm just saying I woke up in the middle of the night and I remembered.


I sat up and turned on the light. Holy shit.


Brian shielded his eyes. What's wrong? Lie down.


Emily wants to have a baby.


He snorted. No she doesn't.


No, that's what she told me. That night in the hospital. She wants to have a baby.


Brian blinked at me. Didn't she say she asked you something?


She did.


It took him a minute.


Huh, he said.


I laughed a little. Yeah.

 

We lay there and stared at the ceiling.

Chapter 61 - Sparks Fly by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin's trying to make a big decision, and Brian doesn't understand his hesitation. Things get heated.

Sparks Fly

LaVieEnRose



So Spike's calling at two-fifteen, Emily said, while I sat there and nodded and pretended like this was any normal briefing, and that I wasn't wondering what those owl eyes of hers would look like on an infant. I'm going to have the comps couriered over to them by one if I have to go down to the art department and draw them myself. And then courier them. Myself.


Can you draw? I said.


I do great doodles of tornados picking up houses. They'll love them.


Sounds great.


She checked her list. And Isabel wants to consult with you on her campaign for that anti-aging serum.


Sounds homophobic, but okay. Tell her noon is fine.


Okay. What do you think of Isabel's assistant?


Oh, he sucks.


Okay great. Didn't know if it was just me.


No, he's categorically the worst, but she likes him for some reason. I don't think she realizes she could have an assistant who actually doesn't make her life more difficult. Do me a favor and don't tell her? Don't go getting yourself poached.


She clucked her tongue. But it would be so exciting to work for all the executives.


Found my moment. I already don't know what we're going to do when you go on maternity leave, I said, watching her.


She grinned, slowly. He remembered.


He remembered. How the fuck did you not talk to me about this?


Oh, I'm sorry, boss, I didn't realize you were privy to what I do with my body.


Jesus Christ, you're exhausting.


She shifted nervously from foot to foot. Is he going to do it?


He's still mulling it over.


Do you want him to do it?


I gave her a look. Do I want a baby around who looks like Justin who I have to take zero responsibility for? You really asking me this?


Yeah, yeah, never mind.


Just make sure you get all the legal stuff squared away before he goes squirting anything up you. You're going to want to get contracts and a lawyer, make sure you're protected and everything. Do you have a legal interpreter you like?


Yeah, I can use the one from when I signed my lease. Though I'm not really worried about Justin screwing me over.


I shook my head. Doesn't matter, this is you and your kid. Get it in writing. And it's for Justin's protection too. I studied her. You're sure about this? You're pretty fucking young.


I'm not that young. And Gwen's thirty.


You don't want to get married first? They'd legalized it in New York the year before, so you no longer had to make the New England sojourn Justin and I did back in the day.


She shook her head. I don't want to get married. We couldn't get married for thousands of years, and we did just fine. We don't need a heterosexual stamp of approval to have a baby.


I'd marry this girl if she weren't so against marriage. Finally. Yes. Thank you.


No offense.


Offense? We did it for the health insurance, not to take the next step in our little relationship.


Oh, the rings are a health insurance stipulation, huh?


I glared, and she grinned at me as she backed out of my office.


Convince him, okay? she said. Lots of paperwork. He's not going to be on the hook for money or custody or anything like that. Just some semen and you get to borrow a baby when you want it.


I don't think it's going to take a lot of convincing, I said. He likes kids. I paused. You realize I'm going to spoil the fuck out of this baby, right?


Counting on it!


**


It was, incidentally, Justin's birthday, and for the first time in years he was actually in decent shape for it. Not that he was a hundred percent back to where he was before this latest bout of sucking misery—he was still having a lot of trouble with his hand, and he was sleeping fourteen hours a day, and he still had these brutal migraines a few times a week and a constant low-level headache (and that, I am sorry to say, never got better; Justin's head hurts all of the time now)—but his memory was for the most part back to where it was, he wasn't losing his temper over, you know, literally nothing, and the cut on his forehead had faded to a light pink scar. All the lights at Nova were still too much for him, but he was up for a few hours at the bar with our friends, so that's what we did, even though his one-drink limit meant he nursed a beer all night while the rest of us did shots.


The baby stuff came up pretty quickly.


I just don't see why you don't ask Brian, Justin said. He makes cute kids.


I'm too old, I said. It'd come out with three eyes.


He's too tall! Emily said. I can't fit that baby in my uterus. And I can't have a baby with a hearing person. My body would know it's hearing sperm and spit it right back out.


I was hearing until I was twenty-three, though, Justin said. You've got better odds of a Deaf baby with Derek.


Veto, Daphne said. Those are my babies.


Derek said, I'm only Deaf because I was a preemie, there's no chance of me passing it on. At least with you there's some hope that even if it's born hearing it won't always be. A trapdoor.


Losing your hearing is actually not fun, though, Justin said.


Derek shrugged. I don't remember.


Emily waved a hand to shut us up. None of this is a concern. She counted it out on her fingers. Both my parents are Deaf. All four of my grandparents. Three brothers, two nieces, five nephews, even though one of my brother's wives is hearing—Deaf, Deaf, Deaf. St. Boroughs don't make hearing babies.


You know my sister had a seizure once, Justin said. So they could be genetic.


I'm not scared of your epileptic sperm! Emily said.


Gwen ordered another round. As long as you give her the blue eyes, she's happy.


Emily grabbed Justin by the chin. Can you blame me? Look at those eyes.


Can't have blue eyes if you have brown eyes, Daphne said.


We'll see about that, Emily said.


Derek said, What the fuck are you going to do about a last name? St. Boroughs doesn't exactly hyphenate.


Hyphenate it anyway, Gwen said. Get the kid hating us right off the bat.


This is so cool, Molly said, reaching for another shot before I batted her hand away. Mom's going to be so fucking happy.


Oh, yeah, she's a good grandmother, too, I said. Gus cleans up.


Have you told Gus yet? Molly asked.


I shook my head. He'll be here tomorrow. Might as well tell him in person. He was coming up for a week, spring break in the big city.


We don't even know if there's anything to tell him yet, Justin said.


I know, I know. Emily kissed his cheek. Take your time.


Justin sipped his beer and changed the subject.


I leaned on him on the way to the subway a few hours later, while he was escorting my drunk ass to the subway. Twenty-nine, I said. Wow wow wow.


“Watch out for that—the crack there, Brian.”


Met you. Had a baby.


“You sure did.”


I was twenty-eight when Lindsay got pregnant, though. So you're behind. I nibbled on his ear as we walked. You would make such pretty babies.


“Christ, you're trashed.”


I hope it has your voice.


I don't think this is a good idea, he said.


What, fucking you on the sidewalk?


No, that's fine. But I don't think I'd be any good at raising a kid.


“Psshh,” I said. You don't have to raise anything. The mommies do the work. You get to hold a baby when you want to and then he grows up and you get him for spring break. I paused at the steps for the subway so Justin could get on the side of me with the railing. Gus turned out fine and God knows you'll do better than I did.


Gus is a terror.


Yeah, but he's cute. Besides, who cares if you get a terror? I caught him when he slipped a little on the stairs. That’s the moms’ problem, again. And maybe you’ll be lucky and get a girl.


You’re saying girls are better? Have you met Molly?


True. Plus I think Gus might stage a revolt if he gets a third sister. Hey, I guess your kid will be Jewish too, right? With Gwen. We got down to the subway platform, and Justin stayed a body length away from the edge, like always.


“Brian, I don’t even know if I’m going to do it,” he said out loud, which was weird for him to do when there were other people around like this, and it definitely startled the ones who’d been watching us sign.


Yeah, I know, and why the fuck is that?


Justin shrugged and laughed coldly and looked around the platform and otherwise made it very clear he'd rather be anywhere in the world but here having this conversation. Because...what fucking kid would want me as a father?


No, I said. I am too fucking drunk to deal with this bullshit.


Yeah, I know, he said as the train pulled up, and I instinctively put a hand on him. I just always do.


See? he said.


What the fuck are you talking about?


Nothing. He kissed me. Let's go home. Birthday sex.


All of a sudden everything else seemed utterly unimportant. Yes. Birthday sex.


**


We didn't continue that conversation for a while, because, well, there was a lot of birthday sex, and then Gus came. He wanted to see a show and we couldn't find anything interpreted, but Justin told us to go anyway, so Gus and I saw some musical that wasn't half bad and ate pretzels from a street cart and walked around for a while. I'd seen him when I was in Pittsburgh while Justin was hurt, but I hadn't exactly gotten to spend a lot of quality time with him, so he filled me in on school and his Bar Mitzvah prep and how things were going with the family. I'd kept Justin from having any visitors because he was so overwhelmed just from goddamn existing, but it meant that they were all hassling me all the time about how he was doing and I didn't kid myself that part of the reason they'd decided to send Gus up here spur of the moment was to play spy. I didn't mind all that much. They were worried about Justin. A month ago he'd bashed his head open on the floor and they weren't sure if he was going to wake up. They fucking should be worried about him.


“You can barely see the scar on his forehead,” Gus said.


“Yeah, it should fade pretty good.”


“That's too bad. Scars are cool.”


It was so, so goddamn hard not to tell him about Justin and Emily, but Justin still hadn't technically said yes yet, even though honestly the thought that he wouldn't eventually hadn't really crossed my mind at that point, and he and Gus were going to be alone together the whole next day while I was at work, so I figured Justin would tell him then. For someone with a (recovering, let's give credit where credit is due) tendency towards lying, Justin can't keep good news to himself for anything.


I got home late and Gus was asleep in front of the TV and Justin was at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, working on our taxes. I used to have Ted do mine, obviously, but Justin always did his own and when we got married he took them over and...I don't know, I haven't been audited yet.


There's really no reason for me to earn any money at all, he said. Your tax bracket just takes it all. I might as well give up painting entirely. Or just start giving them away for free.


You say that every year.


He turned a sheet over. Well, you know. Me and my memory.


What'd you two get into today?


Met. He didn't hate it.


Between musicals and art, maybe we'll make a gay out of him yet. I poured myself some wine.


Do you think you can get home early-ish on Friday? Gabriel asked me to get dinner and I don't want to just abandon Gus. I can reschedule with Gabriel if you want.


No, that should be fine. I leaned against the counter and sipped my wine and watched him. Are you two okay?


God, who knows. I guess. He hasn't bailed, I guess.


Have you told him about the baby thing? Did you tell Gus? Did he beg for a brother?


Justin sighed and sat back in his chair. I haven't told either of them. I don't know yet that there's anything to tell.


I rolled my eyes. You know you're going to do it. It's Emily.


Yeah, and Emily deserves a stable, reliable guy to be the father. And so does her baby.


Is this about passing your disease on? Because you heard her, the kid's probably going to be born Deaf anyway.


No, not really.


Then what?


He pulled his legs up. A month ago I was in a fucking coma.


Yeah, for like twelve hours. Drama queen.


This shit keeps happening. It's going to keep happening. This kid's going to grow up and as soon as it gets some grasp of what's going on it's going to have to worry about me. Worry about its dad. What the fuck kind of parenting is that? How's he going to feel when he's having his graduation and no, Dad can't come because he had another fucking seizure, or maybe because he's just freaking out at the idea of being trapped in a room with a bunch of people. This isn't me doing some self-pitying shit, this is...this is reality. I deal with this and it's fine, but what kind of an asshole would I be to bring someone else into this horror show? I'm not capable, Brian. You tell me I don't have to raise it, I just get to hold a baby whenever I want? You're really going to trust my shaky fucking self with a baby? I wouldn't. Nobody should. I'm a hazard. I would be terrified to even be around a tiny baby. And you think I should love one?


I'd like to say that what I did next was planned and deliberate, that I was trying to get a certain reaction out of him.


In reality I was just fucking...well. It's not pretty, but I was disgusted.


I set the wine glass down.


When did you become this person? I asked him. When did this happen?


What?


Because this isn't a head injury thing, this was before. This has...been happening. And I just let you do it. Where the fuck did your spark go? When did you become this scared...I mean, do you think this is something you have to do? You think what, if you don't worry about something, no one else will? Because Jesus Christ, this isn't you. And you know what, you're right, this guy wouldn't be a good dad. You'd raise a kid who's just...weak.


Justin moved his wine glass away, carefully. Are you calling me a coward?


If the shoe fits.


Wow. Fuck you, Brian.


You've been disabled since you were eighteen, I told him. And you have been out there pushing limits the entire time, being reckless, doing stupid shit, and I am there to pull you back. And now what the fuck am I supposed to do when you don't have the balls to, to what, hold a baby because you might have a seizure? You said you wanted things to be different when you came back from California, is this it, is this different? Your fucking mansion filled with pillows—


This is such bullshit! You fucking freak out and assume I'm dead if I don't answer my phone, but I'm not allowed to—


That's my fucking job! I said, and it occurred to me vaguely that one of the perks of sign language was I could goddamn scream at him without waking up Gus ten feet away. You want me to fucking go into how much I worry about you, would that make you feel better?


No.


I can barely fucking sleep, I can't get a goddamn thought through my head, I...it's every fucking minute of my goddamn life I am scared that you aren't okay, and for what? So you can get out there and live your fucking life and know someone is on top of shit, not so you can fucking lie around like some sad sack of shit and steal my fucking job.


You're fucking crazy.


I worry, that's my job, you roll your eyes and tell me I'm overreacting and fucking do whatever you were going to do anyway, that's your job.


Justin narrowed his eyes. That was the set up when I was a relatively healthy little shit joining the Pink fucking Posse, not now.


Why not?


Because you're not overreacting anymore!


So what? I yelled. So what, so you get to decide on your own that you just get to stop doing this little dance we've been doing for ten fucking years? Bullshit. Bullshit. You can't just stop, you don't get to decide on your own that we're not who we used to be anymore. You don't get to stop.


Justin stood up. You're calling me weak for being scared of something that's happening in my own goddamn body because you think you have some sort of fucking executive license over me? Fuck you, Brian.


I shrugged and faked nonchalance because that's my go-to, it's always my fucking go-to. I'm just wondering where my fearless little shit is, all right, it was an innocent fucking question—


Oh, bullshit it was. You get to stand there and tell me how you don't sleep like a fucking martyr and you're a hero but I'm scared for a while and you think you have grounds to tell me I'm pathetic. What's next, my hand goes out so I'm weak?


No, Jesus, that's a fucking symptom. Have all the goddamn symptoms you want.


Being scared is a fucking symptom, you fucking asshole!


Yeah, and you fight it! You've been fighting it for goddamn years and I'm looking back on it now and wondering when the fuck it was that you stopped. When you just fucking gradually started being this person who lets this shit push you around, because this isn't my Justin. I don't know who this is.


Don't fucking manipulate me with your 'my Justin' bullshit. I'm not Sunshiney enough for you?


No.


He pointed to the hall. There's the door, Brian. I'm not good enough for you, leave. Go find someone who will make Gus the brother of your dreams because it's not fucking me. You'll get some goddamn cowardly baby raised by a fucking wimp, I guess.


You're fine, I said, because how was he not getting this? You're just not Justin. And you're in there, somewhere, I just...I don't know when the fear took you over.


Jesus Christ, maybe when fucking terrifying things kept happening to me over and over! He was crying a little now. Don't stand there and tell me you haven't been freaked out, you've been coddling me for fucking weeks and now all of a sudden I just, what, I have to be over it?


I was coddling you because you were sick, I said. You're fine now.


I'm not fine! he exploded. I'm not fucking fine!


My job! I yelled back. Stop taking my fucking job! Christ, you think I don't know you're not fine, am I a fucking idiot? I see you. I see you. I know. Do you need something I am not giving you? Tell me.


No.


Then shut the fuck up and let me do my fucking job. Let me goddamn tell you you're fine while I fucking fix you behind the goddamn scenes, Jesus, do you seriously not get how this works?


He sat down heavily. Well, what the fuck is my job, then?


You...enjoy your fucking life. You light shit up. You just...you have the spark.


So, again, you're the martyr, and I'm manic pixie dream husband. Disabled inspiration porn overcoming the odds. I don't know why the fuck you think that's me, that was never me.


It's not overcoming, Christ, it's just fucking existing around them instead of throwing in the fucking towel! I will throw in the fucking towel for you when you go too far. And Christ, I'm the martyr? Fuck, you're the one bitching and moaning that your kid would have to find out you're not fucking invincible! Guess the fuck what, asshole, it happens. My parents are dead, your dad might as well be. Every kid fucking finds that shit out.


Not when they're fucking little, they're supposed to get—


Say Emily has a kid with some nice healthy guy, who's to say he doesn't get hit by a bus next week or, I don't know, hit on the fucking head?


Screw you.


I'm serious! This shit is not fucking predictable, it just goddamn happens. Fuck, I fell in love with a healthy person. There aren't fucking guarantees. Things change. Nobody can promise this kid a healthy father.


He drained the last of his wine, and I took a deep breath and came and sat down at the table across from him.


Are you okay? I asked him.


No, I'm really mad at you.


In an actual way or a brain damage way?


Some of each, he said primly, and I smiled a little bit.


I just miss who you used to be, I said. I want my bratty kid back.


He laughed bitterly and looked up at me. You think I don't miss it?


I didn't know if you'd noticed. I hadn't really.


I'd noticed, Justin said. I just don't know what to do about it. And I'm thinking passing the neuroses on another generation might not be the solution.


Won't know 'til you try, I said, and he rolled his eyes.


**


We didn't really talk much more about it, or about anything, for the next few days. We played the happy couple in front of Gus and barely spoke when we were on our own. We had sex every night without making eye contact. Justin got a migraine and I brought him an ice pack and covered him with a light blanket and told Gus to leave him alone, but I didn't stay with him.


Gus and I were watching a movie when he got home on Friday from his date with Gabriel earlier than I was expecting. He waved and made a little smalltalk with Gus before he asked if he could talk to me in the kitchen. He stood on his toes and kissed me when I came in.


Hey, I said.


Hey. He cleared his throat and dropped back to the floor. I had that meeting with the building manager today. He said since the studio's a rental I can't change the floors, and the best bet is to put down mats or something. Neither of us really loved him alone all the time in a place with tile floors.


Yeah, that's what I figured.


Me too. So I'll find some of those.


So...is that what you wanted to talk about? I mean, not that I'm not happy to end the cold war, but...


Gabriel and I broke up.


Fuck. Okay. Shit. Come here. I pulled him into a hug and held him there for a long time. He pushed his face into my shoulder. What the fuck happened? I asked him, once I'd let him go.


He doesn't like kids. He's a fucking teacher, but he doesn't like babies. He said if I did this thing with Emily he didn't want to be with me. So..here we are.


I put a hand on the counter. So, wait, you've decided to do it?


He looked at me like I was crazy. No, I haven't decided anything. I broke up with him. I'm not going to be fucking held hostage like that. He didn't even want to have a conversation about it, he just said, well, it's this or me. That's not a relationship. I'm not a choose your own fucking adventure book, I'm a person.


I did everything I could not to smile, not to tilt my head back and thank the goddamn stars.


Of course Justin caught me anyway. I thought you liked Gabriel, the fuck is this?


No, I do, it's just... I gestured at him. This. Thank fucking God. There you are.


He raised his arms a little. Here I am.


Twenty-nine looks good on you, kid.


**


Two weeks later, Justin came by Kinnetik in the middle of the day, and he sat on my lap in my desk chair and we made out for a while.


I like this whole you not having a day job thing, I said.


He brushed the hair off my face. I called our lawyer today.


Finally wising up and leaving me, huh?


Well, you know what every good divorce needs?


I raised an eyebrow. A kid?


He nodded. Let's up the goddamn ante.


You are going to be a great dad, I signed, my lips brushing his.

 

After a long minute, he said, I know.

Chapter 62 - Five by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Sometimes bodies don't do what they're supposed to.

Five




Gwen kissed me. You're going to have to look at some point.


No I don't.


Well, you have work in half an hour, and I have spay day. They schedule all the spays and neuters for the same day every week, and Gwen spends the whole day in the animal OR. She can get a uterus out of a cat in two and a half minutes.


Maybe someone spayed me. I flopped backwards on the bed. And that's why I can't get pregnant.


It's only been three months.


Four, if this is negative. Jesus, I'm twenty-six years old, I'm supposed to get pregnant just from looking at a sperm. There's something wrong with me.


It's early to take the test anyway, she said, sitting next to me on the bed and kissing my neck. Maybe we wait a couple days.


I sighed. I already peed on the thing, might as well look.


Yeah, you don't want to have peed for nothing.


Exactly. I took a deep breath and picked up the pregnancy test. Fuck.


Gwen sighed and gave me a hug. We have all the time in the world, baby.


Maybe not. It seems my ovaries have already shriveled up.


She took my face between her hands and kissed me. I love you, she said. Even if you're barren.


I laughed even though my eyes were still kind of teary and batted at her. Why do I tell you anything? I shouldn't even tell you if I get pregnant. You can find out when I'm at the hospital and I spit it out.


Then who's going to wait on you hand and foot while you're pregnant?


Hmm. Good point. Though probably not worth thinking about since it seems I'm never going to be pregnant.


We can try the test again tomorrow, she said. Today was a long shot anyway. I've got to go.


Yeah, me too.


**


I do the same thing every morning, which I like. I've always found routines kind of hypnotizing, and I needed that especially today. I needed to stop being sad infertile Emily and be awesome assistant Emily, and what better way to do that than to put my heels on on the subway and click my way over to the cafe next to Kinnetik to get morning orders for my bosses. The barista there knows me and likes to show off the couple of signs she's picked up. She signed Everyday? when I came in.


I shook my head and held up four fingers with my left hand. I ran my fingers over the first three and signed, Everyday. Same, then pointed to the last one. Large coffee, two sugars. Justin was starting at the office today, working on a new campaign for the hearing aid guys. I don't usually make a habit of bringing stuff to the art department people, but it's different when one of them has agreed to sire me a child. Also he's my best friend and all that.


I'm the first one at Kinnetik every morning besides the office manager. I get Cynthia and Brian's files on their desks and order their emails by priority. And I line their coffees up on my desk for them to grab the second they come in. Today they had a meeting first thing with Isabel, just a staff thing, no clients for me to get sorted, which was too bad. I liked getting the clients all settled before Brian and Cynthia got in. They never knew what the fuck to make of the Deaf assistant.


Cynthia and Brian breezed by and grabbed their coffees, and I pointed to the extra and said, Justin.


Went straight downstairs, bring it down? Brian said. I gotta go.


Yeah, sure. Good luck.


He headed for the staff room and I brought Justin's coffee to the elevator and down to the art department. People were starting to come in, and I waved and said good morning and basked in the way they signed it back to me. Jerky and uncomfortable, but they were doing it.


Justin was standing by the boards, speaking out loud to one of the art interns. It weirds me the fuck out when I see him do that! He looks like a fucking hearing person. He stopped when he saw me and smiled. Is that mine?


Being the boss's husband comes with perks.


You're my hero.


I handed him the coffee and he drank about half of it on the spot, before he set it down clumsily and said, Oh, shit, wait. Well?


Negative.


He sighed. Are you okay? He gave me a hug.


Yeah. I'm sad.


It's me. It's got to be me. I fried my sperm with my anticonvulsants.


That's not a thing.


Maybe they have PTSD and they're hiding up in my abdomen.


That's...really not a thing.


Or maybe they're just too fucking gay to know their way around a cervix.


Okay, that could be it. One of the perks of sign language is getting to talk about your cervix in a room full of business professionals. You want to sleep over tonight? I'm taking another test in the morning, maybe if we're both together it'll give it like...extra mojo.


Okay, but I don't want to watch you pee.


I left him to sketch and went back up to desk and started going through some of Brian and Cynthia's less important emails and did some of the assistant stuff I should probably hate but kind of love: arranging to pick up Cynthia's dry cleaning, calling the hotel Brian was staying at in a few weeks and demanding he get an east-facing room. Brian jerked his head at me when he left the meeting, so I came into his office with the new files the courier had dropped off while he was in. Eyeconic, I said.


Okay great. And the stuff from Tullers is—


Uh, it's under... I moved a file out of the way. Here.


Good. All right. Did you hear back from Lewinthal on the deadline for the cleats campaign?


I didn't, but I already emailed him again to follow up.


He can just get it when he fucking gets it, then. He took his suit jacket off and sat down. You got the hotel reservations?


All taken care of.


He checked one of the files on his desk. Can you keep tabs on the hearing aid progress downstairs, and set up conference calls with the top ten percents for sometime next week, and...who was it who needed the gift basket?


Lindsay Ashfield, but you wanted to wait until next week for that.


Did I? Fuck it, let's do it now.


On it, I said. Anything else?


That's it, thanks. Oh, today was test day, right? I shrugged, and he chewed the inside of his mouth. I'm sorry.


Another shrug.


He leaned forwards and said, Have you met the guy Justin's seeing? he said, kind of gossipy. Clearly trying to distract me.


I didn't hate it. Calvin? Yeah, he's Gwen's friend, I met him before Justin did.


What do you think?


He's like...the most attractive person I've ever seen in real life.


Jesus, right? Justin asked me what I thought of him and I'm like...I honestly don't know a thing about him because every time he talks to me I just look into his eyes and start imagining running down a beach in slow motion.


Yeah, I don't know how Justin landed that.


Brian laughed. Me neither.


He looks like Ronan Farrow.


Oh, fuck, he does look like Ronan Farrow. He's gay, y'know.


Calvin? I figured since he's fucking your husband.


Brian rolled his eyes. Ronan Farrow.


But not Deaf! I said on my way out.


**


 


Brian let me off work a little early—I think he felt sorry for me and my empty uterus—and Justin had already gone home at noon because he can't really work full days with the headaches he gets, so I figured we’s be starting our sleepover early, but he didn’t come until seven, Brian in tow. Not crashing the party, just wanted to see how the thunderstorm looks hung up, he said, but we exchanged a glance and I knew Justin hasn’t felt up to making the trip out here on his own. It’s two trains and a transfer at Times Square to get from their place to mine, and Justin’s had a lot of trouble with maps and stuff since the concussion in February.


Still, I showed him where we’d hung Justin’s painting and Brian glanced at it and said it looked good, then gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, Asleep by midnight, okay? Shouldn’t be hard. Make sure he doesn't forget his meds, he's had trouble.


Okay, I said, and he got Justin’s attention and gave him an obscenely long kiss goodbye.


Justin and I smoked a little pot and ordered pizza and made popcorn and watched a million episodes of Switched at Birth and messed around with Gwen's tarot cards.


Justin dealt out a card for me. Ace of cups.


What does that mean?


Well, you've got this bird-like thing diving into a cup, so...suicide?


I rolled onto my back. Sounds good.


Or maybe it can swim.


It's dive-bombing right into that cup, I said. There's no hope.


Maybe it's my sperm dive-bombing into your uterus.


Or maybe it's my uterine lining dive-bombing out of my vagina.


That's...vivid.


I sighed and reached for another slice of pizza.


How long does it usually take? I said.


Eighty-percent of healthy women my age are pregnant in the first three months. And we were now at four.


Oh.


I nodded a little.


I really think it's me, he said. Do you want me to go to a doctor, get it...I don't know, tested?


No. It's me. I can tell.


He rolled his eyes. How can you tell?


Because I know my body. It's the same way you can tell when you're going to have a seizure.


Oh, the room's spinning and there's a metallic taste in your mouth?


Yes, I said stubbornly.


You should talk to a doctor then, he said. Talk to Daphne. I'll come with you if you want.


Gwen came home, then, before I had to answer. I got up and kissed her, her hands running up and down my sides, and Justin stayed on the floor but stretched his arms up for a hug.


Let me change out of these clothes first so I don't kill your allergies, she said, and he made a heart with his hands and she blew him three kisses on her way to our bedroom. Gwen's all mother hen with my friends—well, except Brian, because you can't—even though Justin's like only a year younger than her. It's just how she is. She came out in pajamas and sat in the armchair and ate pizza.


We asked her about spay day and she told us about the kittens she worked on and we squealed about that for a while—kittens never get old—and then Gwen asked how stuff was going with Calvin.


He's sweet, Justin said. And he's, um...


Incredibly good-looking? I filled in.


That. But I think, I don't know, he might be a little...


Moronic? Gwen filled in.


He laughed. I was going to say 'simple.'


How's the sex? I asked.


It's okay. I think he's one of those people who's so pretty he never really learned to try. He stretched. It's not going to last, but I'm going to enjoy looking at him while it does.


Gwen asked Justin how he was feeling, and she always does it by asking these specific questions, and he always kind of lights up about it. He wants to talk about this stuff, wants to feel like people give a shit, but he's also got his pride or his WASPy manners or whatever so unless you ask him direct questions he'll tell you oh, I'm fine while he's like, hemorrhaging from the eyes.


She's going to be such a fucking good mom, Justin said, when Gwen had left to take a shower.


I know.


He massaged his right hand for a little while, then said, Is she worried about having a sick kid, maybe?


No. Kids get sick, she says.


I'm scared it's going to be sick and then resent me for making it be born.


Do you wish you weren't born? I asked.


Well, sometimes, but I have depression. I'm a bad focus group. He leaned forwards and kissed my cheek. We will get there, he said. Taking a test again tomorrow, right? Maybe tomorrow.


Yeah. Maybe.


**


It wasn't.


On Sunday I went to my parent's place in Chelsea for our usual family dinner. Brothers, nephews cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, all crammed into my parents' apartment. We do it every week. It's awesome.


I don't see what all the rush is for anyway, my oldest brother said to me. You can just borrow one of mine.


Mom sighed and said, like she always does, I just think you're going to look back and wish you'd have gotten married.


I'm not getting married.


But we love Gwen!


That's good, because she's sticking around.


Then why not— she said, and I waved my hands to shut her up.


Kids these days, my brother said.


Gwen did magic tricks and amazing my nephews while Derek helped me set the table. He usually comes to these, since we've been close since we were little so he's basically part of the family. He brought Daphne once but even Justin can't keep up with how fast my family signs. Daphne didn't stand a chance. There were people all around us, going in and out with platters and silverware and babies, but nobody stuck around long enough to catch much of me and Derek's conversation.


Derek looked at Gwen. It's so funny you ended up with someone like her, he said to me.


I narrowed my eyes. Why?


She's so wholesome.


I thought about what we'd gotten into the night before. She's not that wholesome.


And now a kid.


Well. Maybe.


He shook his head a little.


What?


I just didn't think I'd see you settle down like this, that's all.


What's that supposed to mean? You're all playing house with Daphne.


I didn't say I never thought I'd settle down, he said. I knew I would. But you were always, you know. The yang to my yin.


I'm plenty yang, I said.


I just... He shrugged. Would you be having a baby if she weren't around?


Without her eighty thousand salary, would I be trying to get pregnant right now? Probably not.


That's not what I mean.


I set down the stack of napkins. I've always wanted kids. I didn't think I was going to partner up either, but I always knew I was going to have kids. You know I love kids.


Okay, he said, but with a bit of that “look who snapped” face and I just don't take that from a man, I fucking don't. Don't look around at some pretend audience to make sure they know that a girl's crazy just because you don't have a comeback. Not even my best friend, no.


I said, Don't stand there fucking smirking like I'm making shit up. I'm doing what I always said I would. I'm not the one who changed the rules around here.


Really? This is about Daphne?


I didn't say anything about Daphne.


Bullshit. We get it, you don't like her. Everyone gets it.


I like her.


Then why haven't you talked to her about... He gestured to my pelvis.


Was that my uterus or my vagina?


Uterus, Jesus.


She's an ER doctor, I said. I don't think she does a whole lot with fertility.


She had an OB rotation.


It's not like I'm fucking infertile.


I didn't say you were.


It's just taking a little longer than I wanted, I said. I don't need to talk to a doctor.


He shook his head and didn't say anything.


What?


You'd think with how much you like Justin you'd be more trusting of his taste in friends.


I like Daphne! Christ, how many times do I fucking have to say it?


Until it sounds real? I don't know.


I like Daphne. I shrugged. I don't like her with you.


There it is.


Motherfuck. How is it a surprise that I don't support this?


You like Brian just fine.


And I like Daphne! It's not about not liking them.


You don't tell Justin he shouldn't be with a hearing person.


It's different, they were together before Justin went Deaf. He didn't grow up in this like we did. Imagine looking back at fifteen-year-old Derek and telling him he's going to end up shacking up with a hearing girl. And then standing here and telling me I'm the one who didn't stick to the fucking plan.


He shook his head. You're jealous.


I'd completely given up on setting the table at this point. I'm jealous of a hearing girl, you want to run that by me again? What, you think because you and I don't fuck once a year anymore I'm sitting at home crying about what I've lost?


So prove it, he said. Talk to her!


She can't help me! She can't do anything!


I felt hands clap on my shoulders and I jumped. Everything good out here?


Everything's great, I said. Find out what's taking Mom so fucking long with the macaroni.


**


Gwen took out her earrings and stepped out of her shoes once we were home. Are you going to tell me what you're mad about?


It's not you.


I know it's not me. She tugged me down to the bed and pressed her lips against mine. I'm amazing.


I laughed and straddled her lap and just...decompressed for a while, smelling her lilac shampoo while she kissed my neck and drummed her fingers up and down my back. I sighed a little and rested my forehead against her cheek.


What's wrong, baby, she said.


Derek thinks I don't like Daphne.


I've always thought you liked her.


I do!


She tucked my hair behind my ear. So why does he think you don't?


He thinks I'm jealous.


I think it's normal to be kind of jealous of the people dating your best friends, she said. You see them less, you stop being the person they confide everything in...it's natural.


Yeah, maybe. Ugh. I don't think it's even that, though, I think it's just...I mean, she's a doctor. I'm a fucking administrative assistant.


Executive assistant.


I get coffee. She saves lives. And she's older than me and she's fucking...she looks like a model, I look like an extra in the orphanage scene of a community theatre production of Oliver Twist.


Gwen laughed and kissed me. You're beautiful.


She's accomplished, and she's successful, and...


Gwen watched me. And she's hearing?


I blew out a mouthful of air. Do you hate me?


You're allowed to be intimidated by a hearing person, Gwen said. I promise it doesn't make you less Deaf-strong.


I just don't get why she has to date one of our people, I said. What, there's some shortage on hearing guys? She could have anyone she wanted.


So Derek doesn't deserve her?


No, he sucks.


She laughed a little, then said, There was a girl at vet school kind of like that. Beautiful, smart, hearing. She was top of our class, got the best score on every test. And she was nice to me, which just made me feel bad about hating her, and then I didn't want to feel bad about hating her so that made me hate her even more.


So what'd you do? Gwen never tells stories that don't have a point.


One time it was New Year's Eve and I just decided...I didn't want to live like this anymore, wasting all this energy on someone who wasn't actually hurting me. Because it wasn't hurting her, it was just hurting me. And it's not fun, walking around with hate like that. So I just decided to stop.


Oh, just like that?


She shrugged. It's not like once you decide it it just goes away, but...you start making decisions to shut down the thoughts when they come up, and eventually they come up less and less often.


I don't hate Daphne, though, I said.


She kissed me. Then it should be no problem.


God, you're annoying, I said, and I shoved her down on her back.


**


Daphne sipped her beer as she looked through the paperwork. And all this is recent? We were meeting at that bar we like close to her hospital. Just the two of us.


Yeah, I got it done before I started trying to get pregnant, I signed, a little slower than usual.


I'm not an expert on this stuff, but all of this looks really good, she said. Vaccines and immunity are all up to date. Not on any medications that would affect fertility. You've been taking folic acid, avoiding alcohol?


Yeah, since we started trying.


Daphne shook her head, flipping through the pages again. From everything I see here, you should be pregnant. Justin got tested too?


Just for STDs and stuff.


The problem might be him, or there might be no problem.


Eighty percent of healthy women are pregnant by now.


Yeah, which means twenty percent aren't, Daphne said gently. Someone has to be in that twenty percent.


Yeah, but I was valedictorian.


Daphne smiled a little. Me too. She set the papers aside. So if I were you I would keep doing what you're doing for a few months, give it some time. But you should make a doctor's appointment if you think it would make you feel better, there's no harm in it. They can run more blood work and do an exam.


I hate doctors, I said. I don't like using interpreters at all unless I absolutely have to; it's fine for presentations or work meetings or whatever, but in one-on-one situations I'd really just rather work it out with a hearing person than add a third party in the mix, and that's not an option for medical situations where you really need to be able to communicate well. So having an additional person in the room while a doctor shoved her hand in me and secretly thought about how sad it was that I was trying to add another Deaf baby to the world? God, not until I couldn't avoid it.


I can come with you, if you want? Daphne said. If you want an advocate there.


Because you're hearing?


She gave me a look. Because I'm a doctor. And a woman.


God, I am such a bitch sometimes. I wish I were pregnant so I could blame the hormones.


Also I just wish I were pregnant.


Thanks, I said. But I think you're right. I think I'll just give it time.


She squeezed my hand, and I let her.


**


I'm ovulating, I told Gwen one morning a week or so later, while we were getting ready for work.


I can tell, you're glowing.


Shut up.


She grinned. So Justin's going to come over after work and jerk off?


Yeah. Or he's still at the office working on that project, so maybe he'll just do it at lunch in the bathroom. I can get pregnant on the job.


Knowing the kind of sexual energy Brain exudes, I'd bet it wouldn't be the first Kinnetik baby.


You know how he loves perpetuating family values.


Brian and Cynthia swung by my desk for their coffees, as always. You know we have a meeting at nine? Cynthia asked me.


Yep, with Remson. Everything's set up, Stephanie will be there to interpret.


Great. Brian's going to sit in, he's worked with them before.


Ew, Brian's going to be there? Never mind.


I met them in the conference room with a couple people from marketing and some from the art department—not Justin. Brian breezed past me on his way to Cynthia's right. Today's the day? he signed to me, subtly.


Don't jinx me.


The guys from Remson came in and exchanged a lot of handshakes and boring small talk that Stephanie interpreted for me. “So, I hear we have a new product to discuss?” Cynthia said.


“Yes.” Remson opened up his file and passed a fact sheet to each of us. “We're still working on a catchy name for it—hopefully can help us out with that.”


“Well, that's what we do,” Brian said.


“It's a new treatment for infertility in women,” he said.


Fuck.


“Ten percent of women in the United States struggle with infertility,” Remson said. “That's 6.1 million women, in the U.S. alone. And it can cause significant relationship distress, depression, and not to mention costs families hundreds of thousands of dollars of treatment.”


Cynthia, who didn't know about any of my shit but had a sister who'd had trouble getting pregnant, started asking Remson how this compared to various other drugs on the market, while I sat there half-watching Samantha and half wishing I could get swallowed up by the earth.


Relationship distress. Depression. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.


“It's one of the hardest medical conditions for women to deal with, emotionally,” Remson said. “They struggle with feeling like they're less of a woman, that they're failing at a biological imperative that—”


Can I go? I said to Brian. He'd already been watching me.


He nodded, and I got up and exited as unobtrusively as I could. I saw Cynthia look at Brian questioningly, and at that minute I didn't care what he told her, if he made up some excuse or he told her the truth right in front of a bunch of fucking executives, I didn't care, I just needed to fucking get out of there instead of sitting and listening to some fucking men tell me I should feel like I'm failing to be a goddamn fucking woman because my fucking body isn't...


I went to the ally behind Kinnetik and tried to calm down, but I kept breathing fast no matter how much I tried not to. I crouched down on my heels because the ground was too gross to sit but I couldn't stand up, and everything felt like it was tunneling in around me.


There was a hand on my shoulder and I jumped. Justin.


Brian told me to take you home, he said.


No, I don't need...I'm fine, I just...I just...


Okay. He crouched down next to me. It's okay, take your time.


But it didn't matter how much time he gave me, I couldn't pull my fucking self together. I kept trying to explain to him what was going on, and I did, in bits and pieces, but I wasn't making any fucking sense and I knew it, and I couldn't stop breathing like I'd just been sprinting or something. I just...I can't...it won't...I keep trying, and...


Justin was so patient, just watching me, nodding, tucking my hair behind my ear.


I think I'm going crazy, I said.


No.


No, I do, I just...I don't know what's wrong with me.


Justin was quiet for a minute. It's awful, he said eventually, hitting the sign hard, when your body won't do what you trusted it to do.


I felt something let go inside of me and I just cried.


**


Justin made me a mug of hot chocolate back at my apartment. That Remson guy always struck me as a shithead. Even if he is sort of how Brian got Kinnetik in the first place.


Don't insult him, I said, sitting on the couch with my laptop. I might need that infertility drug if this keeps up. Are you gonna jerk off any time soon, or what?


I just got a blow job like an hour ago. Give me time to refill the tank.


You're supposed to be abstaining!


I quit smoking for you, I'm not quitting sex. What are you looking at?


Stuff about artificial insemination. I'm trying to figure out if our odds are higher if we do this at a doctor's office instead of here. I scrolled down the page. Holy shit. Look at this.


He sat down next to me. Where?


This. Look. With artificial insemination, you have a ten to fifteen percent chance of conceiving every cycle. Are you...why the fuck didn't anyone tell me this?


Well, how high is it for just regular sex?


Like sixty! Jesus Christ, it takes six fucking months of this to equal the chance of one week for the fucking heteros? I flopped back on the couch. You'd think someone would have fucking told me that instead of telling me I'm supposed to feel like less of a woman! Fuck! I've been sitting around thinking it's me when like...Jesus, ten to fifteen percent every time? That's nothing.


Versus sixty percent for sex, he said.


Yeah.


He looked at me.


What?


I mean... He gestured towards my computer. Sixty versus ten.


Yeah, but...


He raised an eyebrow.


Are you messing with me? I said.


That'd be really cruel of me. Would you...I mean, do you want to?


Do I want to? I have sex with guys...you know, semi-regularly. Or I did before this whole adventure started. You don't have sex with girls!


It won't kill me, he said, and he pulled his shirt off.


I covered my face. Justin! I said, peeking through my fingers.


Do you want to? I just figured...


Are you sure?


You want a baby, he said. I want to give you one. I'd rather not be jerking off in your bathroom for six more months.


I couldn't believe this was fucking happening. Sixty percent, I said.


Sixty percent.


Okay, I said, and he kissed me.


**


Derek choked on his beer. So you two have just...been sleeping together. We were crowded around our usual table at the bar. Sparkling water for me, since I was done ovulating and hopefully, hopefully, like two days pregnant at this point.


Twice a day this week, Justin said. Like brushing your teeth.


Except instead of a toothbrush it's Justin's penis, Gwen said.


I said, And instead of a mouth, it's—


Okay, okay, we get it, Derek said.


Brian sipped a glass of Jim, watching Justin with his eyes slightly narrowed.


So how was it? Derek asked Justin.


He shrugged. It's fine. I don't mind sex with women, I just wouldn't make a career out of it.


I actively hate sex with men, Gwen said.


Well, men are awful, Daphne said, and Derek pretended to be wounded.


He said, This means we've all slept with each other, you know. By the transitive property. This was the missing link.


Justin shook his head. We already had.


Really?


Justin nodded and pointed around the table. Brian to me, me to Daphne, Daphne to you, you to Emily, Emily to Gwen.


Fuck, I said. We're sluts.


Look at superstud Justin here, Derek said. Just bedding women left and right.


Justin rolled his eyes.


What does gorgeous Calvin think of what a ladykiller his boyfriend is? Daphne said.


Justin said, You all are impossible. I was performing a civic duty. And why are you looking at me like that? he said to Brian.


Gwen said, Wait, are you mad that they slept together? I'm not even mad.


I'm mad, but not about that, Brian said.


Justin snorted. This is turning him on and he doesn't like it.


I should not be turned on by talking about you having sex with women!


But you are, Justin finished.


Yes, I am, and I'm fucking...Jesus Christ, get your coat.


Justin laughed as Brian stalked up to pay our tab. I am so topping him tonight.


We should get going too, Gwen said to me. Spay day tomorrow.


Okay.


She went to the bathroom, and so did Derek, so it was just me and Daphne at the table for a minute.


Did you know? I asked. I couldn't help it. That the odds were so much lower with artificial insemination?


No, of course not. I would have told you.


Right. Sorry.


She drummed her fingers on the table. So now we've slept with all the same guys.


Well...I'd slept with plenty of others, and hopefully so had she, but I guess she meant in our little group or whatever. Yeah. First one to Brian wins, I guess.


She laughed. That'll be the day. She shook her head a little, her cheeks pink like she as cold. You know I've always been kind of intimidated by you.


I choked on literally nothing. By me?


You sign so fast. You've got all this history with Derek. She shrugged.


I felt warm, somewhere in the pit of my stomach. You don't have to be intimidated by me, I said. I mean...I don't want you to be.


Oh, I'm not anymore, she said. Now you're just another pathetic girl who's slept with Justin.


I burst out laughing, and she grinned.


**


Where the fuck is my shoe? Gwen said one morning, a few weeks later. I had it last night, this apartment's the size of a fucking postage stamp, how far could it...


I waved my hand for her attention, but she was too busy ranting to herself.


I swear to God, the next shoes I buy are going to be hot fucking pink, fuck these eco-friendly shoes that try to camouflage or some shit.


I waved my arm up over my head, and finally she looked at me.


What? she said. Do you know where my shoe is?


No, sorry.


Then what, I have to—

 

I held out a pregnancy test and watched a smile break across her face.

Chapter 63 - Ah, Wilderness by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin is not the outdoorsy type.

Ah, Wilderness

LaVieEnRose



Justin was cross-legged in the passenger seat of the 'vette, concentrating on the map open over his lap like he'd never fucking heard of GPS. “You're going to go left up here,” he said.


All right. Quick question, though. Where the fuck are we going?


I told you, it's a surprise. Do you not know what this sign means? I can fingerspell it for you.


I flicked him on the shoulder—I don't knock his head around anymore, because the slightest fucking nudge will send him into a migraine nowadays—and he laughed. His laugh has changed some over the years, lacks restraint and self-consciousness now, and it's mesmerizing.


Does it count as you taking me somewhere if I'm the one driving? I said.


Well, that's the hazard of only one of us having a valid driver's license. Left again.


He'd woken me up that morning with his ugly-ass duffel bag already packed and told me it was time for me to get a belated birthday present. We'd gone down to the garage where the Corvette lived and I'd been driving ever since. We were on some backwoods road in upstate New York, an hour and change outside the city. There were trees on either side of us as far as the eye could see, and Justin had already worked his way through most of a bag of gummi worms and half a pack of travel tissues.


If this is some fucking fairy gathering... I said.


This is a present for you, remember? You'll like it.


I like the city, too. And your face leaks less there.


Turn here.


A couple more turns and I pulled into a tiny, empty campground. I looked at Justin, thinking this must be a mistake, but he grinned at me and got out of the car.


Camping, I said.


He shrugged.


You hate camping! I said.


I don't hate camping.


I counted off items on the fingers of my left hand. You hate the outdoors. You hate being dirty. You hate bugs. I don't know how you feel about peeing oudoors, but I'm going to guess it's not your favorite.


He laughed. “All of that is true for you too, and yet you inexplicably love camping. And we've never done it.”


No, we haven't, because you—bless you. Exactly. You are allergic to everything that grows, crawls, bites, and stings.


I took a Benadryl.


Seems to be doing a bang-up job.


He spread his arms out wide. “It's a present! I love you! You like camping, I brought you camping! Christ, shut the fuck up about something for once in your miserable life!”


It's so hard to keep my fucking composure when this kid gets bossy. Did you even pack a tent? Have you heard of tents?


It's in the trunk, asshole.


Can I fuck you in it?


If you can set it up. You may have mentioned I'm not the outdoorsy type.


Oh, I can fucking set it up, I said, and I grabbed him and grinned.


He took me camping. What the fuck are you supposed to do with this, huh?


**


Justin was, definitely, not the ourdoorsy type, but he looked kind of hot in his hiking boots and insulated vest he'd packed for the occasion, even though it was pushing ninety damn degrees out here. He was holding a stake for me to drive when his hand started twitching and I paused, hammer at the ready. Do you want me to take off a finger? Use your left hand.


He switched, tucking his right hand protectively against his chest in that way that really shouldn't make me feel things. “So why do you like camping anyway?” he said. “It seems like the kind of thing people with functional fathers like, so that'd rule us out.”


How did you even find out about this place? I signed one-handed as I hammered, instead of answering.


“Molly. Came here with some guy.”


And he didn't murder her?


“I was disappointed too. Hang on,” he said, then sneezed so hard he almost fell over. I tried not to laugh, and he pointed at me. Shut up.


Didn't say a word, promise. And I'm done hammering this anyway. You want to collect some firewood while I finish setting this up?


So rugged. He kissed me. Okay.


By the time I had the tent set up, Justin had gathered a decent amount of sticks, and we were both hot and dirty and batting gnats away from our face. I gave the tent an appreciative once-over, feeling primal in a way I didn't quite mind. Look at me, fuckin' providing.


I looked at Justin and his eyes starting to swell and his hair curling at his neck with sweat. Like a fucking Renaissance painting. I cleared my throat and looked away.


“What?” he said.


Nothing. I wanted to get him clean, out of the air, in that very urgent sort of way that makes me want to run for the fucking hills, even after all these years. Want to go swimming?


I didn't pack swimsuits.


I don't see anyone around.


The lake was cold as hell, even in July, and it took me a minute to catch my breath after I jumped off the dock. Justin stood buck-ass naked at the end, lowering one foot into the water. What if there are leeches or something?


I brought my hands up above the water, treading water with my legs. You really aren't the outdoorsy type, are you?


I went straight from Catholic school to your loft, what do you think? He swiped his foot through the water and shivered.


I grabbed his ankle and gave him a tug.


He caught himself. “Don't,” he said, that kind of pseudo-stern where he's trying not smile, and God, is there anything in the world less convincing? I grabbed him around the legs and pulled him into the water. He came up, sputtering, and slapped at me while I eased his legs around my waist. “Oh my God, it's fucking freezing, you fucking jerk!”


I grinned.


“I hate you. I hate you so much.” He took a deep breath, adjusting, and settled down, wrapping his arms loosely around my neck. He sighed just a little, like he didn't know he was doing it, and I listened to the water stilling around us.


“How are your eyes?” I asked him.


He watched my lips. “How are...something.”


I took one hand off his back and touched next to his eye.


“Oh.” He readjusted his legs around me. “Good.” He scrunched his nose up and rubbed it against the back of my hand.


“Wow, thank you,” I said.


“Yeah, any time.”


He backed us up against the dock and I kissed him for a long time, the sun lighting up gold in his hair, the water warmer and warmer by the minute.


**


Dare me to eat that? Justin said, pointing at some kind of berry.


No. Stop telling me to dare you to eat things.


I can't believe you got me to hike, he said.


Neither can I. Doing okay?


He nodded. Nowadays Justin is always in pain, has been since that last concussion. He has drugs for when it gets bad—not narcotics, but close to it—but most of the time it's at a low level he can live around, and he doesn't like to talk about it even when it's bad. I think it makes him feel worse to focus on it.


You wouldn't think it to look at him. That whole 'look at this brave sick person' thing makes us both equally nauseous, but it's not him trying to prove anything or deny something, he just...does what he needs to do. He's functional.


Christ. Functional. It's a word that had been coming to me lately, when he picked up my dry cleaning and I picked up his prescriptions, when we cut vegetables side by side or brushed our teeth at one mirror, because...I mean look, obviously the probability of me ever being in any sort of relationship was an asymptote creeping as close it possibly could to zero, but if you'd asked me, however the fuck many years ago, to try to imagine it, if you'd said hey, Brian, I'm from the fucking future and I can somehow guarantee that you will find yourself waking up next to one guy every morning and not wanting to blow your brains out...look, if you'd somehow convinced me to believe that shit and asked me to describe what I thought that relationship would be like, I think I would have been pretty on the mark for quite a bit of things about this little thing me and Justin have going.


The sex, that would be a given. If you'd have gotten me to wrap my head around cuffing myself, I hope I'd have the common sense to figure that the sex would be goddamn interstellar. The fights, sure. The laughter, if I'd been uncynical enough to really think about it, yeah, I would have reasoned I'd be with someone who makes me laugh, even though, or maybe because, not all that many people do, though I think I'm getting easier in my old age. I think I would have imagined I'd be with someone like Justin, too, if you'd asked me to pick someone out of the ether, and I'm not talking physically here, I just mean a creative type, a younger guy, a brat, a genius, someone to keep me alive.


So all of that I think I actually would have sussed out—I do have an ounce more self-awareness than it says on the tin, for better or for worse—but I'm not sure I ever would have imagined the goddamn functionality of the thing. The fact that it's not just sex and fights and laughter, that there's a steadiness, a fucking drumbeat keeping time to the whole mess...it doesn't sound like me, and let's not give him too much credit because on his own it doesn't sound much like Justin either. This is something we created from nothing, some kind of sustainable relationship we made up with no role models, fucking sprang it from our collective mind like Athena out of Zeus. And God knows I can do a lot of bellyaching about how what Justin and I have is a ridiculous drag through some traumatic goddamn mud, is torture and heartbreak and goddamn Sisyphean, so it's probably fucking significant that I'm also the one telling you that every single minute of my life is easier with Justin than without Justin and God have mercy on the boy, every part of his is easier with me than without me...when he is sick, when I am a miserable bastard, that is not nothing.


He rested his hand on my arm as we kept moving uphill. “I still can't believe you like hiking. This is a very new, butch Brian.”


I'm surprised you even knew I liked camping.


Michael mentioned it once and I tucked it away for future use.


I knew you still had your stalker instincts in there somewhere.


He nodded and coughed a little. Air is like...thick, he said.


Just to you. I hope the kid doesn't get your fucking allergies.


Yeah, me too. He paused. I feel better than I have in a while.


I looked him over. Could have fooled me.


He laughed, ducking his head, and now I had to catch my breath for a second. I just mean I feel...I don't know. I was worried coming back to New York would feel like going backwards. With the baby I feel like...okay. Something's different. I'm not just stepping back into the same old life.


So fuck the baby and its hypothetical allergies, basically.


Exactly. This is about me. He sneezed and shook his head a little like he was trying to clear it. Damn.


Non-hypothetical allergies?


Yeah, I'm getting my ass kicked. He was starting to wheeze.


We can stop right up here.


Okay.


Doing great, I said, then rolled my eyes at myself. Jesus.


Justin rolled his eyes at me too. Go team.


We got the the observation point and I gave Justin some space and explored the edge and checked out the strength of the railing—this is shit you learn to do, you don't really think about it—while he sat on a rock and caught his breath. I came back to him eventually, nudging him with my hip until he made room for me, and let him rub his eyes on the rough cuff of my windbreaker.


He looked out at the sunset, tangling his feet up with mine. Wow.


Yeah, it's not bad.


Wish I had an easel up here.


Kind of trite.


Yeah, but look at that orange, he said, and he took his phone out and got a few pictures.


We started back to camp before it got too dark. Justin was hanging in there but beginning to get a little wobbly, and I kept a hand hovered behind his back. But we made it down without incident, and I squeezed his shoulders as he sat heavily and started working on lighting the fire.


Okay, Sunshine?


He nodded. I am fucking starving, though. There's a cooler in the car, can you get it? He slapped a mosquito off his arm.


You really did come prepared. I watched his hand shake around the matches. You got this?


“Yeah, I'm good.”


Okay.


We speared hot dogs on sticks because, you know, what's a little tetanus, and roasted them over the fire. Justin taught me some dumb campfire song he knew, complete with hand motions, and even though I steadfastly refused to do it because Christ, I still have a limit or two, I get a kick out of his awful tuneless singing.


Where did you even learn that? I asked him.


I went camping! When I was a kid. Hiking, fishing, the whole ordeal.


I nibbled on his neck. Were you a boy scout?


No, thank God. Though that probably would have been better than just me and Craig out in the wilderness. At least in boy scouts you get hand jobs in the cabins, I assume.


Father son bonding, huh?


Oh yeah. Justin looked into the fire. Dad throwing a fit because he could never set the tent up right. Talking about how we didn't do this often enough to justify what he spent on sleeping bags, hiking boots, canteens, because I never wanted to do it because I was too much of a sissy. Snapping at me if I dared to complain that I was the most miserably allergic kid on the planet. And then undercooked fish for dinner!


And you don't even like fish.


I do not. But hey, at least he taught me some songs.


I guess Gus should thank me for never making him do this, I said, and I didn't mean for that fucking...twinge of self-loathing to come out, but I guess it did, because Justin's eyes got all soft.


He said, How come you didn't?


The moms did it a few times and he hated it.


He clucked his tongue. You can take the new one.


I snorted. Not if it gets your allergies.


Nah, be like Craig. Tell him it builds character. He smiled at me. So what about you, were you a boy scout?


God, no. Jack said it was queer. Joan said it was for Protestants.


Justin laughed. Which is worse?


God only knows.


And here you are, camping with a queer Protestant.


Clearly they were right to be worried, I said, and I hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him into a slow kiss.


It drives me fucking crazy that Justin's life was shit before I got there. It really...it gets under my skin more than anything has any goddamn right to. I just figure, you know, I'm the only one who's allowed to be mean to him, and honestly the fact that he had the bad luck to throw it all in with such a handful is really enough bad luck for one lifetime, so what the fuck was he doing having shit happen to him before I was even around? Who the fuck okayed that? I just don't have any say over who got to bend and bruise him, who got to change him? That just has nothing to do with me, somehow?


Then again, I show up and eight months later he's got an epidural hematoma, so let's not act like he's all nice and safe with Rage here to save the day or some bullshit.


We made out for a while I listened to crickets and to frogs screaming over by the lake and Justin listened to, I don't know, the blood rushing in his head, if that, and I was just about to say fuck his delicate damn skin and fuck him on the dirty leaves when he pulled away and started rooting around the cooler until he unearthed a bag of marshmallows.


“No,” I said.


Too dark. Can't read your lips.


Liar.


If I'm camping, I'm having s'mores! And you have to make your own because otherwise you're going to say you're going to have a bite of mine and then eat the entire thing.


Christ, we are so fucking married. All right, hand them over.


Justin speared his marshmallow and circled the fire to find a good spot, concentrating like this was a damn scientific procedure, before he eventually settled on a spot on the other side from me. I could see him well in the glow from the flames, and there was a look in his eye I didn't really like, just this...absence of him that I catch sometimes, so I went with my instincts and crossed over to him and pulled him back from the fire with my hands on his waist. I'd barely moved him when his arm spasmed and launched his stick into the fire.


You good? I said.


“Yeah.” It was still shaking pretty badly, and he pulled it into his chest with his left arm. He nodded towards the fire and his burnt to a crisp marshmallow that was a little too symbolic for my tastes. “Thanks for that.”


Anytime.


“You owe me a new marshmallow.”


**


I woke up sometime in pitch black, after some cramped and awkward but not half-bad tent sex, to a sleeping bag with no Justin inside of it. I felt around the tent in case he'd rolled away, but there was no sign of him. I couldn't find the flashlight, either, so he'd probably just gone out to pee somewhere, but when he didn't come back for a while I dragged myself up and out of the tent.


Christ, there were a lot of stars. You forget, living in the city. And I felt fucking fifteen again, for a minute.


There was just enough light from the stars for me to make out Justin sitting by where our fire was before we put it out, his head tilted back watching the sky.


I came over and put my hand on his shoulder, and he jumped. I smiled a little. Sorry.


He clicked on the flashlight and set it up in front of us like a torch. Hi.


Hi. Stargazing?


Yeah. I couldn't sleep. He was hurting, I could tell. Probably his neck.


I sat down next to him. You take anything?


Just some more Benadryl. He was scratching a lot, and I caught his arm and looked at it.


Are these hives or mosquito bites?


I don't even know, he said, and then he laughed a little and covered his face. Okay, you win, all right? I hate camping.


That's all I'm saying.


I hate sleeping on the ground when my back already hurts and breathing in all this smoke when I'm already wheezing, I hate mosquitos, I hate lakes that probably have leeches, and I hate hiking, and I hate outside!


I grabbed him and buried my face in his neck so he couldn't see how hard I was smiling.


“And what's more,” he said, shoving me away. “I don't think anybody in the world should like it, because it's horrible and I totally, totally don't get why you do!”


It was the Novotnys, I said. Debbie...you know, single parent, wanted to prove she could out-dad the dads. She used to take Michael camping all the time, and they started taking me.


He watched me.


Sometimes Vic would come, sometimes not. And...I didn't particularly like the mosquitos and the hiking and the sleeping on the ground either. But, we never...I mean, before them, I'd never done anything like that. This Leave it to Beaver, nuclear family bullshit. And sure, we were an aging gay, a biological drag queen, and two horny fourteen-year-olds, but...I don't know. It felt like a family, when I was out here.


Well, now I feel bad.


I laughed and kissed his cheek, and he settled in against my shoulder.


“I never really felt that until you,” he said softly, and God, what do you do with that, how do you fucking cope when he's pressed up against you and the sky is dripping stars and he's breathing all wheezy and he says this shit? Where's the instruction manual for how to fucking...bottle that up?


Well, it wasn't fucking out there with me in the wilderness, which is why I ended up saying, You know where I feel like a family nowadays?


Where?


New York.


He sighed a little. Where there's air conditioning.


And Thai delivery.


Mattresses.


Showers.


Justin laughed. That sounds good to me..


I looked at his skin fucking glittering in the moonlight. Yeah. I kissed his temple. Me too.

 

End Notes:

Brian and Justin needed some pointless, fluffy alone time, so...here we are. Would love your requests <3

Chapter 64 - House Call by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Brian still gives good advice, even when he and Justin both have the flu.

House Call

LaVieEnRose




Daphne got home around one, while I was still awake in bed kicking some bug catching contest ass in Pokemon, and shimmied out of her clothes and into bed next to me. I spread my palm on the small of her back and kissed her forehead. “Hi.”


She scooted up on the bed to get her hands free. Hi. How was your day?


My students are idiots. How was yours?


My patients are idiots.


We should run away.


She kissed me for a while, and I played with the soft curls at the back of her neck before she covered up her hair for sleep. She stretched, rolling herself on top of me, and said, Did Emily say if Brian was back in today?


Yeah, he wasn't.


And he's not even working from home? She sighed when I shook my head. You have to go over there tomorrow.


I whined. He's going to yell at me.


He's too sick to work, he's probably too sick to yell.


He's probably fine by now and just staying there for Justin.


She shook her head. Then he'd be working from home.


Ugh, she had a point. Okay, I'll check on them after my morning class. Make them some soup or whatever.


She kissed me. I love you. You're perfect. Never leave. She settled down with her head on my chest and fell immediately to sleep in that weird way she does. I sighed and fished the silk cap off the nightstand to cover her hair with and felt her breath against my skin as she snored quietly.


I blinked, and took a deep breath.


Fuck, I said to myself.


**


I hit Brian and Justin's doorbell the next day around noon, over and over and over when they didn't answer. Finally the door swung open and Brian was there, looking like absolute warmed-over shit with stubble on his face and the worst bedhead I've ever seen, wearing Justin's ratty old PIFA t-shirt. He squinted at me, like he wasn't quite sure who I was, then sighed. We were hoping it was someone here to kill us. He took a few steps backwards and signed into the bedroom, No luck, it's just Derek.


Nice to see you too, I said.


What the fuck are you doing here? You don't want to be here. It's a den of contagion. He gestured to the various medical supplies spread out over the coffee table and the dusting of balled-up tissues on the floor.


I had the shot, I said. And I need your help. Also I'm going to take care of you.


What the fuck, you think we didn't have the shot? He has the immune system of a micropreemie, you think we didn't get the shot? He turned back to the bedroom. Why didn't you make smarter friends? he said to Justin.


I set my backpack down and started rooting through it. How are you guys?


I'm fine. He's like dying or something, I don't know. Brian, obviously not fine, sat down heavily on the couch.


Why the fuck aren't you in bed? I asked him.


Well, the doorbell wouldn't stop going off...


I pointed to his laptop sitting on the coffee table. You weren't in bed, you can't fool me. Go cuddle with your husband. I'll bring this shit in.


Brian scoffed. I'm not just going to lie around in bed all day. He pointed to the bedroom. But he is not to get up, so don't listen to any of his shit. He's dizzy as shit and last thing we need is him cracking his fucking head open. Again.


Well, I'm glad you're fine, I said, even though he clearly wasn't. Because I need your advice about something.


Brian spread out his arms, leaning back tiredly on the couch. Consult the oracle.


In a minute. I'm going to make you guys some soup first. I held up a can.


You come all the way here to make us canned soup? You didn't even get deli soup? This is all we've earned after all this time? He squinted at me. And why is it you here, anyway? We have an actual doctor in the family.


Yeah, with actual patients. And Emily's knocked up and busy covering your ass at work, and Molly's over at her boyfriend's and she said she wouldn't do it anyway because Justin never takes care of her when she's sick.


He can't, he...oh my God that girl is a monster. He turned his head and looked into the bedroom, so I figured Justin was making some kind of noise, then reached half-heartedly to the coffee table. Hand me the thermometer? I'm too weak. I'm overcome.


I rolled my eyes and and handed it to him, and Brian hauled himself up and lumbered over to the bedroom. I followed and stayed by the doorway, watching Brian shove the thermometer somewhere near Justin's face and rub a hand up and down his back. I could barely make out which parts of Justin were which; he was curled up into just about the tightest ball he could manage, coughing.


When Brian looked up, I said, Daphne told me to ask if you guys were on Tamiflu? She said it's too late to start it now.


No, he's so allergic that I can't even take it without him reacting. Learned that the fun way! He smoothed his hand over Justin's hair without looking at him.


I bet.


He reached down and took the thermometer out of Justin's mouth, then groaned. Are you kidding me with this shit? he said to Justin, who pulled the pillow over his head. This is an unnecessary fever. Are you trying to die, is that the goal? Get that fucking thing off your face before you suffocate.


Justin moved the pillow and just looked at Brian for a minute, and Brian's face softened and he left for the kitchen. I followed him. Sorry he's not signing much, Brian said. He's having a lot of trouble with his hand. He doesn't have a voice either, so it's not like I'm at an advantage. He opened the fridge and took out a jug of orange juice.


It's okay. How have the seizures been? I knew he always had a hard time when he had a fever. I'd seen him have about a zillion small ones, things I barely even noticed that he'd talk right through, arm or hand twitches or times he just kind of zone out of the conversation, and several kind of medium ones where he had to sit down and wait for it to be over and then he'd be really tired after, but only one major one at that point.


Nothing big yet, Brian said. A lot of small ones. Counting our blessings, I guess.


He poured a glass of juice while I rinsed off the thermometer and held it up to him pointedly. He glared at me, nostrils flaring, then snatched it away and stuck it in his mouth. I hid a smile while I put a pot on the stove.


See? he said after a minute. Hundred and one. Practically normal.


That's a stretch.


Well, it's not exactly the hundred and four he has going on. He looked towards the bedroom again as he put the juice away. He is really wheezing a lot, damn.


Uh...maybe he should go to the hospital?


He can't, he's all delirious, he can't take care of himself at a hospital right now. They'd give him an antiviral and he'd start, I don't know, bleeding from the eyes. He needs me to be there cracking skulls and I'm...maybe not at my best. He got a lid and a straw out of a cabinet.


I can take him.


What the fuck, I'm sick and you're trying to take my fucking boyfriend away from me? he said, all exaggerated horror. That's low, Derek.


Jesus Christ.


I get to take care of him. It's all I have left.


All right, all right.


I'm wasting away. It's my hour of need, Derek.


Oh my God, shut up.


He grinned and brought the cup into the bedroom, where he handed it to me while he carefully sat up Justin. Justin flinched like it was hurting him, and Brian slowed down, helping him lean forwards over his legs. Deep breath, Brian said, and he frowned when Justin started coughing. Where the fuck's the inhaler...


It's right next to you, I said.


He blinked at the nightstand. Oh. I could see the fever in his eyes really for the first time.


Maybe you should sit for a minute, I said.


Quit hovering. He snatched the cup from me and handed Justin the inhaler. I'm fine. Sunshine. Use that, don't just stare at it.


Justin held the cup up to Brian.


Brian shook his head. No, it's yours. Justin didn't budge, and Brian sighed and took a sip from the straw. There, happy?


Justin seemed confused by the question, and Brian bent down and kissed his forehead, leaving his lips there for a second.


Inhaler now, please, Brian said, and Justin did, giving me a tired wave.


What time is it? Justin asked Brian.


It does not matter what time it is, Brian said, with something sort of close to patience. Stop fucking asking me.


Brian's sick, Justin said to me, left-handed, and Brian rolled his eyes and caught Justin's right hand in his.


Yeah, I know, I said. Tell him to sit down.


Justin looked plaintively up at Brian, and Brian, after a beat, nudged Justin over with his hip and sat down beside him.


Just until you fall asleep. He touched Justin's forehead and Justin shivered and pulled away, and Brian signed, Sorry, and rubbed his hands together to warm them up. Justin started coughing again, and Brian said, Easy, okay.


I went back to the kitchen and got started on the soup and was almost done when Brian came padding in, looking somehow even more exhausted than before. He asleep? I asked.


Brian nodded and leaned against the counter. God, he's really sick.


You're not looking so great yourself there.


Brian scratched the surface of the counter. It freaks me out when he's like...incapacitated like this. Normally when he's sick he's still present. He fights really hard for that.


Has it been like this the whole time?


No, I think he’s at the worst of it now. He was kind of okay yesterday, just really wiped out, and then last night it got really rough, started having a lot of trouble...and he’s still trying to worry about me, which is fucking annoying.


He loves you.


It’s because he can’t breathe. It's freaking him out, and he knows something’s wrong but his fever’s too high for him to figure out what it is. It’s pretty sad actually. He gave me a mocking look. Or it’s because he loves me.


You're such a dick.


He shrugged. I don't know why everyone always tries to turn Justin being terrified into something sweet. Why is that, because his face looks like that, so everything that happens to him is harmless and adorable? Because we know what's going on, so we're not scared, so that means it's okay? The problem is that he's miserable, not that there's an actual threat. He's miserable. That's not cute.


All right, all right.


He hates not being able to breathe. He's used to other shit, he's not used to this.


You know, there also is the factor that you actually are sick, so...maybe he's just worried because his husband's sick. I know that's difficult for you to imagine, having never been in a similar position.


He glared at me.


Go sit on the couch, I'll bring you soup. Should I bring Justin some?


No, he'll eat later. Let him sleep. He went back to the couch without any more arguing and curled up against one end, looking into the bedroom. He looked a lot younger than I'd ever seen him, and for a minute I could kind of picture how he must have looked when he and Justin met, back when apparently he was some superstud or whatever.


I brought a bowl of soup to the couch and checked his fever with my palm. He still made a face, but when he made eye contact he smiled, just a little bit.


Chicken and dumpling, I said. My favorite when I'm sick.


From a can?


Marie really strike you as much of a cook?


Brian tucked into his soup, and I checked on Justin to make sure he was still sleeping before I sat down by Brian's feet. Brian ate like he was starving, coughed a little, then said, All right. You have something to ask me?


Advice.


Right. The oracle.


It's a shopping thing.


Jesus, fucking finally. Are we throwing out all your clothes and starting from scratch or is this a gradual thing? Are we going now? Justin wouldn't be any help anyway so we could like cram him into a backpack or something, bring him along.


I shoved him. My clothes are fine.


Are they, though? He nodded towards the bedroom. He's awake, can he see you?


I think so. I waved until Justin looked at me. We're out here, okay?


Justin nodded, looking confused.


He need anything? Brian asked.


I turned back to Justin. You okay?


What time is it? Justin asked anxiously.


Back to Brian. Asking the time.


Yeah, he's been really stressed about that. He thinks he's supposed to be somewhere. Tell him it's bedtime.


So I did, and Justin seemed to sort of accept that and lay back down, but I could still see him tossing and turning out of the corner of my eye.


Tell him he looks nice, Brian said.


What? No.


Brian looked at me like I was the dumbest child he'd ever seen. Tell him Brian says he looks beautiful. It'll relax him.


And, you know, fuck if it didn't work.


It means I know he doesn't feel well, Brian said. He doesn't like to complain and then gets freaked out that maybe people don't know. It's fine. So...not your clothes. This is really disappointing.


Hopefully not for long.


All right, so what are we shopping for? Vehicle? Real estate? Russian orphan?


A ring.


Brian kind of froze, and I realized I was nervous, and then this huge smile broke across his face. I'd honestly never seen anything like it, not on him. He kind of looked...well. Sort of like Justin, if you want to know the truth.


Yes, he said. Yes, fuck yes.


Damn, this is unexpected. You're usually pretty ambivalent on marriage.


Well, I have a fever. And I might be ambivalent on marriage, but I am not ambivalent on jewelry. Or Daphne. And Daphne deserves the most goddamn beautiful fucking diamond this world has ever seen. He studied me. You're going to have to borrow some money. This is too big for you. I'll give you some money.


I do not need your fucking money.


Daphne needs a thirty thousand dollar diamond.


Daphne will get an eight thousand dollar diamond and she will love it.


Brian shook his head slowly. She's going to say no. She knows what she's worth.


The fuck did your ring cost?


Forty-two dollars, Brian said proudly. I know what I'm worth, too.


I snorted. All right, get your laptop, let's look.


Brian fished out his computer and in a flash was on a website and entering all sorts of parameters: karat size, clarity, cushion cut, platinum...do some guys just come with this stuff programmed in, what the hell? These guys are a client, Brian said. I can get you a deal. Find some you like and we'll go look at them tomorrow.


Tomorrow.


Yeah, okay, not tomorrow. But soon. He glanced towards the bedroom. Hang on. He put the laptop aside and started to get up.


I stopped him. No, I'm taking care of you two, I'll do it.


He studied me like I was going over some kind of assessment, then sighed and pointed to a box of tissues. He's sneezing a lot, check if he can breathe around it. And see if he'll take a decongestant. He doesn't have to, they make him anxious, so...his call. Check his temperature?


I tossed him the thermometer as I got up. You first.


Yes, mother.


I went into the bedroom and jeez, Brian wasn't kidding about sneezing a lot. Bless you, damn. Are you going for a record? I handed him the tissue box.


He sneezed a few hundred more times and blew his nose. How's Brian?


Making him take his temperature now. He's okay.


He wants to go out, he's getting stir-crazy. Don't let him.


He's not going anywhere with you like this, I said. He started coughing again, lightly at first and then hard enough to double him over, and I came around next to him and rubbed circles on his back. Brian appeared in the doorway and leaned against it, watching Justin with that gentle kind of amusement he always pulls out when Justin's sick.


101.3, warden, he said to me.


Justin frowned. That's up a little.


Yeah, I wouldn't worry about that if I were you, Bradley Cooper.


Bradley Cooper? I said.


He's really hot, Justin said. Fever joke.


Ah, of course.


Brian came over to the bed and pulled Justin into a kiss, then slipped the thermometer between his lips. He placed a hand on Justin's forehead, then his cheek, frowning, then went to the bathroom and ran a washcloth under the sink.


Could have sworn I told him to let me take care of you, I said to Justin.


He likes it. I worry about him because I'm scared he's going to die if I don't, he does it because he likes thinking about me because he's madly in love with me.


i saw that, you know, Brian said from the bathroom. Don't think I'm letting you get away with that just because you're acting like you're at death's door from the fucking flu.


You've been married for five years, I said. I think the secret's out.


No, Brian said. No one knows. He came back to the bedroom and lay the cloth over the back of Justin's neck. Justin shivered and held his arms up for a hug, and Brian gave him one, with an eye roll. How's your head?


Justin shook his head and sneezed.


You want meds for that?


No, they keep me awake.


Don't think wild horses could do that right now.


Probably could with my allergies.


Brian's eyes were so damn warm, and it wasn't the fever. Yeah, probably. Speaking of, you need your inhaler again, Darth Vader. How is that thermometer not done yet, you still climbing?


I guess so.


There we go, Brian said, and he took it out and chewed the inside of his cheek. Yeah, you're up, love. Hanging in there?


Yeah, I'm good. He reached up and touched Brian's cheek, and Brian closed his eyes for a second. Justin's hand started to shake against Brian's face, and Brian opened his eyes and gave it a quick kiss before he guided it to Justin's lap.


How are you? Justin asked, left-handed.


I'm okay. Worried.


Yeah, me too.


Brian gave him his inhaler and kissed his cheek. That's because you're delirious.


Probably not, but I'm not confident enough to be sure of that.


Brian laughed and kissed his nose, which set up another round of sneezing. Yikes, he said, with a small laugh. He looked up at me and said with one hand, while he rubbed Justin's back with the other, Maybe some soup now?


Yeah, I'll warm some up.


Thanks.


I heated some soup back up and Brian helped Justin out to the living room and set him on the floor cushions to eat. He had a pretty significant seizure after he was finished, and he didn't lose consciousness but he was so, so tired afterwards, shivering from the after effects and holding onto himself. He talked out loud to Brian a little bit but Brian said he wasn't making a lot of sense.


Can you pick him up? Brian asked me, and God, he looked fucking...shattered to ask me that, like he was failing.


Yeah, I think so. You need to drink some water.


He nodded a little, eyes on Justin. I picked him up—I work out, and he's not heavy—and got him back in bed, and he fell asleep just about immediately. Brian was still standing where I left him, running a hand over his mouth, so I got him back on the couch and brought him a glass of water, which he drained in about a second and a half.


He shook his head quickly. Rings.


We don't have to—


No, rings, come on.


Okay.


We scrolled through rings for I don't know how long, comparing tons of them side by side. Every time Brian liked one he was like, I'm just going to add it to the cart, just so we don't lose it, and before long there a hundred thousand dollars of engagement rings in my cart and I was so fucking scared he was going to buy them all in some feverish stupor.


How are you going to ask her? he asked me eventually.


Oh, fuck, I haven't even thought about it.


Don't do it in public, he said. Not with Daphne. Something low-key.


You think she wants something low-key and a thirty thousand dollar ring.


I was vetoed on the thirty thousand dollar ring, he said. If you recall. He shook his head. You're going to mess it up. You should let me do it.


You propose to Daphne?


Don't worry, I'll tell her it's for you.


I leaned back against the couch. How'd you ask Justin?


Oh, it was very romantic. I brought him Kinnetik's health insurance policy and an estimate of what his medical care was going to cost on his current insurance that I was already fucking paying for and what it would cost him to get him a better plan and told him it would save me some money if we got married.


That is romantic. What did he say?


He said he didn't want to get married.


Seriously? Why?


Brian tapped a few keys, studying a ring. Uh, if I had to guess? I'd say because...he didn't want to get married.


I will never understand you two.


No you will not. He startled suddenly and looked towards the bedroom doorway, where Justin was standing there leaning against it. Jesus, scared the shit out of me. Grab him, he said to me.


Yeah, hey, I said, and I got and wrapped an arm around Justin's waist before his legs gave out. Where are we going, bathroom?


“Brian,” Justin said, which I could lipread just fine, and Brian held out an arm while he typed with the other. I helped Justin over to the couch with his shaky legs, and Brian held Justin into him and ran his hand up and down his arm to warm him up, looking at the screen.


Diamond rings? Justin said.


Yeah, figured I'd get you something sparkly and we could do it right this time. Christ, you're a mess. He plucked a tissue out of the box on the table and swiped at Justin's nose.


Are you going to wear a white dress?


Sure. Brian shivered a little, and Justin tugged the blanket off the back of the couch and put it over his shoulders. Thank you, Brian said.


What time is it? Justin asked.


You don't have to be anywhere.


I just want to know if it's time for bed.


You've been sleeping all day, Brian said, kissing his nose.


Yeah, but you haven't.


Brian studied him. Maybe I could use a nap.


Justin nodded.


And maybe a hand job.


Okay, but I'm gonna do it...very slow.


Brian laughed and said, Okay, and stood up with a hand on the couch before he helped up Justin. You going to stick around for this? he asked me.


No, I'm okay, I said. Call me when the fever breaks and we'll go shopping.


All right. Brian got Justin to the doorway of the bedroom, then said, Just make her dinner and ask her. Keep it simple.


Yeah, okay. Thanks.


What's going on? Justin said.


Nothing.


I feel awful. The walls are moving.


I know. Me too. Bed.


**


I made dinner for Daphne that night, even though I didn't have a ring yet. Just for practice, or something. She came home from work and gave me a long hug. God, I had such a fucking long day, she said. This is just what I needed. How are Brian and Justin, did you go?


I went. They're going to live, I'm pretty sure. Oh, hang on. I went over to the stove. There's garlic bread.


You made garlic bread?


Yeah, it's your favorite.


She stood at the entrance to the kitchen, watching me with this funny look on her face.


What? I said. It's not your favorite?


No, it is.


Okay then...


Derek, she said.


Yeah?


Will you marry me?

End Notes:

 

Y'all, I got a queer as folk tattoo today does it get more trash?

Chapter 65 - A Story in Two Parts by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

A complete history of Justin vs. Tamiflu, expanding on a reference from "House Call."

A Story in Two Parts

LaVieEnRose




“You have to go to the doctor,” I said, looking at the thermometer. “I think you're going to die.”


“What?”


I raised my voice. “You're dying!”


“I am not.” Justin was on his back on the bed at the loft, leaving sweat stains on my nine hundred dollar duvet cover because he was too hot to get under it. This was a little before he lost all his hearing, back when he was still lipreading and relying on the aids, a month or two before we got married. Roughly his twenty-fourth birthday, if that helps. We're going on a journey through time, children.


I looked at his hand twitching. “No, I think you're dying.”


He huffed out a breath and sat up. He'd texted me all pissy half an hour before, telling me Deb was sending him home early from the diner and he needed the tips tonight and this was such bullshit, and I figured he'd been having trouble with the vertigo or maybe with his hand and Deb had taken pity on the poor soon-to-be-Deafened lad, but then he walked in here looking like he'd come from a goddamn sweat lodge and I'd touched his forehead and practically fucking burned myself. Lindsay had made me get a thermometer the first time Gus stayed with me as a baby, so I had it for this foundling as well. It had been useful on numerous occasions, because as I know I've mentioned before, Justin is absolute fucking shit at telling when he has a fever. It just turns off whatever part of his brain it is that he normally uses.


“It's a cold,” he said.


“Yesterday you were fine and today you have a fever of a hundred and three. That's not a cold.”


“So it's the flu.”


“Or it's something with your disease. I'm going to call your neurologist.” Obviously nowadays I don't make Justin's fucking appointments for him, but you have to remember that at this point he couldn't talk on the phone but couldn't sign well enough for an interpreter, either, so he wasn't independent the way he was before he lost his hearing or the way he is now, just stuck in this shitty limbo. I just wrote you a whole nice story about how functional we are? We were getting by, back then, but we were limping. We were not functional.


He looked cute with his hearing aids, though. I miss them sometimes.


“My disease does not cause fevers,” he said.


“Could be a reaction to your meds,” I said, which was, as you will see, ironic.


“What?” Remember that?


“Could be a reaction. Sunshine, lie down, Jesus, you look like you're going to pass out.”


“I maybe don't feel so good.”


“I can't believe you fucking went to work.”


“What?”


“You shouldn't have gone to work. Lie down. I'll get you some water.”


His neurologist's office was closed, so I was planning to just call in the morning, but he kept getting worse and worse as the night went on and it was freaking me out. I'm good at a lot of things when it comes to Justin's health, but I don't do well when I'm watching him slowly deteriorate and I'm doing nothing to stop it., when it feels like he's being slowly and physically pulled from me minute by minute. And maybe I was a little more anxious about it that usual that night, because maybe it was a fucking microcosm of what we'd been going through for the past goddamn year, just sitting and watching and waiting while Justin's hearing dwindled down to nothing, which at that point felt fucking catastrophic, and nothing, fucking nothing, could stop it. Not to stretch the metaphor too thin or take all the subtlety out of our little plot, but I have watched enough hits come barreling towards my boy that I cannot stop. Enough.


So that night was hard. Justin and I weren't anyone's definition of new at that point, but it was still five years ago so all that progress we've made at, you know, communicating with each other, and I'm not talking in a language way, just in a...not being a fucking trainwreck way, was still excitingly to come, and I was lacking a lot of experience I'd get later when it came to taking care of Justin and putting shit wrong with Justin in perspective.


So I hadn't reached my peak, and this was far from the worst I would ever see Justin and, of course, far from the worst I'd already seen him even at that point, due to the lack of blood pouring from his brain, but it was rough. He had awful nightmares, which he'd been struggling with since he got his prognosis, and he was vomiting and shaking out of his skin with chills, and just like every time he gets really sick his shitty lungs and shittier hand were giving him nothing but trouble. He had a migraine from the fever, which I couldn't get down for the life of me, and the hearing aids were making him miserable so he took them out, but he was too dizzy and confused to focus well on my lips so he wasn't getting much at all.


At one point I just sat on the floor of the shower with him and held him, and that was okay, that felt like I was doing something, but most of the night I spent trying to keep him still in bed when the shivers shook the whole platform and trying to bring him back to reality without words after nightmares and trying to get enough fluids in him to replace what he was losing in the sweat and vomit and fucking tears.


So I ended up taking him to urgent care as soon as it opened. I called Cynthia and told her to cancel my morning meeting and got Justin a bottle of water and bullied him into putting his aids in and got him out to the car, where he rested his forehead against the cool window and panted the whole way. I ran my fingers down his spine and just...at this point was so fucking convinced that this was related to his condition, that something really fucking bad was going on.


And then of course they stuck a swab up his nose as soon as we got to urgent care and told us it was just the damn flu. Drama queen. They didn't give much of a shit about the whole situation with his ears and basically shrugged it off and talked to me instead of him, which didn't piss us off back then like it does now, but the words “asthma” and “flu” together seemed to get them all very excited. They strapped him into a nebulizer treatment to try to get his lungs back in the saddle, and I'd never seen one of those before at that point—Justin did them when he was a kid, but I wasn't all acquainted with them like I'd later be when he got pneumonia after he was burned or bronchitis after California or a couple hideous asthma attacks for no goddamn reason at all—and it kind of freaked me out. I hadn't really been worrying about his breathing because whatever, he always wheezes when he's sick, but they were treating it like a big deal and the mask looked like it might hurt and I was just fucking gutted that I'd let it get this bad, frankly.


But Justin was calm, looked like he liked it.


“Is it good?” I asked him, and I was quiet because I felt like a fucking idiot in front of the doctors, but quiet didn't really work with Justin at that point.


He couldn't say his catchphrase with the mask, so he just wrinkled his eyebrows.


“The mask,” I said a little louder. “Is it good?”


He nodded and gave me this little smile underneath it, and I took his hands.


“I'm sorry,” I said, for some goddamn reason, and when he gave me his little 'what' look again I just kissed his forehead.


The doctor made all this noise about Justin being high-risk, which was not news to me in any sort of macro way but still not something I really enjoyed hearing, and said since he'd been sick for under forty-eight hours he could get started on Tamiflu, so now you know where this little story's going. Justin of course was worried about his allergies, and he was having a lot of trouble following what the doctor was saying anyway, but they assured us it wasn't an antibiotic and there was no reason to believe he'd have any problem with it whatsoever and, you know, other such complete bullshit. And that point Justin was on a ton of different medications to manage his condition and he'd reacted to easily half of the ones we tried and had to pull, but most of the reactions were mild or at least manageable.


Justin fell asleep in the car on the way to the pharmacy, so I left him there and went in to grab the prescription. Cynthia called while I was waiting in line and told me the meeting I'd tried to cancel had refused to be cancelled, only postponed, and whatever the fuck client it was, who can remember, had insisted on seeing me this afternoon.


“Remember when I told you last year Justin was going through a major health crisis and I'd need to fucking stay home sometimes?” I said, on my way back to the car.


“Yeah, but I figured he'd have left you by now.”


I tossed the pharmacy bag on Justin's lap and he awoke with a start. “Still alive?” I asked him.


He opened the pill bottle, using the inside of his wrist instead of his hand. “What?”


“Are you still alive over there?”


“Yeah.”


“Think you could come to Kinnetik for a few hours?”


He whined and swallowed the pill.


“I know, but I have to go in.”


“Just drop me off at home,” he said. “You have to stop and get a suit anyway.”


“Yeah, start a new medication in the loft by yourself, that's a good idea. How about if I drop you off at Debbie's?” I said, dripping sweetness. “Let her fuss over you. Feed you soup. Fluff your pillows.”


“Ugh, fine. I'll go to Kinnetik. Don't let anyone talk to me.”


“I never do.”


I waved Ted off with warnings of “Contagion! Contagion! Be gone!” and deposited Justin on my office couch. This was before the New York office, where I keep pillows and blankets in the closet as a matter of course, but I'd snagged the blue blanket he liked from home when I was grabbing my suit. “All right.” I kissed his forehead to get his temperature and gave his glassy eyes a once over. “You need anything?”


“No, I'm okay.” He gave me this small smile.


I put a bottle of water in his lap and said, “Try to get some sleep. I should be done in an hour. Conference room C if you need me.”


“B?”


C, I signed, and he smiled a little and coughed into his elbow. “Back soon.”


So I went to conference room C shook hands and slapped backs and presented some shit and otherwise charmed the pants off—in a metaphorical way only, this time, my poor partner was on his death bed and these guys were like sixty—whoever the fuck these clients were, they're not important. What is important is about half an hour later Justin appeared outside the glass doors of the conference room, and I knew he wouldn't be bothering me if it weren't bad.


What's up? I signed through the door.


My throat's closing up. Our signing was pretty shitty back then, but that one's pretty straightforward. Throat. Strangle.


Fuck.


Ted said, “Bri, is everything—”


“Someone call 911,” I said, and I strode out to the hallway and pulled Justin down to the floor. “Hi. You're going to be fine, understand?”


Justin nodded, but his eyes were wide and God, his breathing was fucking terrible, I don't even know how he made it down the fucking hallway. He was working so goddamn fucking hard trying to suck air down a throat that almost swollen entirely fucking shut.


And my job was to stay entirely fucking calm, which is honestly my default state when something's wrong with Justin. I just...I don't know. You know how Justin says black isn't its own color, it's all the other colors at once, or whatever? It's like that. Too many feelings at once and it turns into nothing. Or maybe I'm just genuinely fucking good at something for once without it being some sad example of my emotional baggage, but let's not get our hopes up. “Someone's calling 911,” I told him, with a glance towards the room where Cynthia was already on the phone and the clients were bumbling around. “Do you have your epipen?”


He wasn't following. He was too freaked out. “I don't...”


I pointed at my lips. “Look at me. Epipen.”


He tried to talk and it just came out as this awful choked noise, and my fucking genius who at that point was not comfortable code switching and who was in the middle of a horrible fucking reaction still thought to switch to signing. I don't have it.


“That's okay, there's one in the car. Not a problem.” I snapped my fingers at Ted in the conference room and he came rushing out.


“Holy shit, Justin, are you—”


I put my keys in his hand and tried to turn my head so Justin couldn't read my lips. “Get the epipen from my glove box and fucking run.”


He nodded and sprinted off, and I gave Justin an eye roll like he was overreacting and casually caught his wrist so I could keep tabs on his pulse. He had these awful hives all the way up his arms. “Paramedics are going to be here any minute, they're close,” I said.


Justin pulled in these weak little breaths, watching me with this pure naked terror that made my stomach ache. Every breath pulled in the skin at the base of his throat, because he was pulling in air so forcefully, he was trying so fucking goddamn hard to keep breathing.


He could do this for two more minutes, maybe.


“Throat's probably going to be sore tonight,” I said, even though I knew he couldn't pay enough attention to know what I was saying. “I'll think about what would be good for dinner. Although it's possible they might still have you in the hospital. You never eat the hospital food, we need to find something there you don't hate. I keep telling you their lasagna isn't half bad.” Come on, Ted, come on.


“Bri...”


“I know. You need to stay awake, though, okay? Ted's coming back with the epipen and you've got to do it, I don't know how.” I of course knew how, but he wasn't getting any fucking permission to lose consciousness.


Justin whimpered, one hand clutching his throat.


“I know,” I said. “Look at me. I know. I know I'm acting like a cavalier son of a bitch but I know, okay?”


He nodded frantically.


“I'm right here with you. I see you. I'm here.”


He grappled around for my hand and I laced my fingers through his. He squeezed, hard, and I nodded encouragingly and squeezed back.


“I know, Sunshine. I'm here.”


And then so was Ted, thank fucking God, panting and dripping in sweat and looking almost as bad as Justin, to tell you the truth, but he's at a bit of an inherent disadvantage in that comparison. I was all fucking ready to stab him, but Justin shook his head and held out his hand for it, so I let him do it. He likes to be in control when he can.


It wasn't the first time I'd seen him use his epipen, and obviously I've seen it and done it since, but it always amazes me how instantaneously it works. It's literally a second every time, less time than he even leaves the needle in for, before he gasps in that first breath. I hadn't realized how fucking gray he was until the color rushed back into his face and oh God, okay, he was going to live, he was not going to die in the fucking Kinnetik hallway from a goddamn flu medication, okay, okay.


“Jesus Christ,” Ted was saying next to me. “Holy shit, what the fuck happened?”


I said, “I need you to clear out the hallway and the path to my office, and then wait outside for the paramedics and direct them there when they get here. No fucking rubberneckers, all right?”


“Yeah, of course. Justin...”


“He's fine,” I said. “I've got him.” I took Justin's wrist. “Okay, Jan Brady, you ready to get up?”


Justin squinted at me. “Did you say Jan Brady?”


“Yeah, good job.”


He kept looking at me blankly.


“She had an allergy episode,” I said impatiently. “I'm gonna haul you up, okay? Hang onto me, I know—you're shaky, I know.” His legs were jittery as hell, from the reaction and the epinepherine. He gripped my arm and I slipped my arm around his waist. “There you go. Not much further. Paramedics any minute, I'm telling you.” I helped him down to the couch and sat down next to him. “Okay, all alone finally. Come here, fuck.”


He nodded and put his arms around my neck, and I buried my face in his shoulder and listened to him wheeze. I could feel his heart pounding up against my chest, and he was shaking so hard, and he was holding on to me and he was here.


“You okay?” I said into his ear.


He nodded, and I gave him a squeeze and let him go. He immediately pulled the blanket around himself, shivering.


“Christ, I completely forgot you have the fucking flu,” I said. I put my hand on his forehead. “Oh, Jesus. Hey.”


“Hi.”


“You're going to get so fucking spoiled this week, you hear me? You want a TV? New computer? Hey, we're getting married, you want to get married?” Yeah, so I was babbling at this point.


He squinted at me. “What?”


“You can have anything you want.”


He shivered. “Can I have another blanket?”


“Okay, I don't...fuck, I don't have another blanket.”


“Okay.”


“I'm sorry. Shit.”


“It's okay.”


“Fuck.”


“Brian.” He took my hand. “It's okay.”


“Your breathing's getting really bad again.”


“Yeah, I know.”


The paramedics showed up right then, though, thank fucking God, and they gave him another epipen on the spot and took their sweet fucking time taking his pulse and his temperature—104.2, can you fucking imagine, on top of this shit—before they had me help him out to the ambulance.


“You're a lot better company than you were last time we did this,” I said to him, as they slipped an oxygen mask over his mouth.


“What, conscious?”


“Yeah.”


Everything went pretty smoothly once we got to the hospital; if there two things hospitals know how to handle, it's flus and allergic reactions. I was all over everyone's ass making sure they didn't give him anything he hadn't had his whole goddamn life, and I called Jennifer and told him what was going on and let her and Ted handle spreading the word to the family. I knew the loft would be full of food by the time we got home, which was a small favor, though fuck if Justin was eating anything more complicated than cereal and apples for a few days until his allergies calmed down. Once he gets really triggered like this he reacts to fucking everything for a little while. During hayfever season he can't eat half the shit he usually can because he's so reactive, and we both have to switch to shampoo with no smell or he'll sneeze his little head off.


I got up on the bed with him after I was finished making phone calls, and he sighed a little and leaned into my shoulder. He had a light oxygen mask on still but his breathing was pretty okay, just softly wheezy like it had been in the morning. He was getting fluids and Benadryl by IV, and his hives were mostly gone. He was just feverish, mostly, and so tired. He had this red flush around his eyes and nose and over his cheekbones, and I thought about this song Justin had been listening to a lot, blasting through his headphones so loudly I could hear it from across the loft—you're not ill, and I'm not dead, doesn't that make us a perfect pair?


“God, you are so fucking beautiful,” I said to him, and he smiled a little through the mask.


**


So that was Justin's first encounter with Tamiflu, and definitely the most exciting, but since, when it comes to Justin, nothing is ever simple and nothing is ever finished, and if you'll allow me one more moment of sappiness, thank the fucking goddamn celestial expanse for that, never finished, never finished...well, in this case it's a bit unfortunate because it means there's a part two.


This was a few years later, January or February of 2010, just before he turned twenty-seven. We'd moved to New York in late winter the year before, so this was our first time living through he whole thing. It's not that it was colder than Pittsburgh, because it wasn't, it was just the sheer goddamn number of people packed into every indoor space, germy shoulder to germy shoulder, everywhere you went. Justin and I got flu shots, we always do, but a kid sneezed in his fucking face on the subway and sure enough, two days later he was stretched out on the floor cushions giggling that the lights bouncing off the walls looked like elephants, delirious little motherfucker.


It wasn't his worst flu by any means, wasn't that fucking swine flu shit people were dying from, but it kept him out of work for a while and gave him his first tonic-clonic seizure since the bashing, besides the one he probably, but not definitely, had when he had that sinus infection and I was out of town. Now, these days, I've done every kind of seizure under the sun, and sure, Justin doesn't have a ton of tonic-clonics, a few a year a maybe, but we've got a lot of years under our belt at this point. I could do them in my sleep. There's the fun exciting worry he's going to stop goddamn breathing—well, he never breathes during them, which isn't fun, but he usually starts back up as soon as he's done—but for the most part if he's not pouring boiling water on himself or cracking his skull on the floor, a seizure is a seizure is a seizure.


Back then I was pretty fucking freaked out by it, and I blame him for what happened next, because stress lowers the immune system so it's his fault that I got sick.


Justin catches every fucking thing that comes his way, and look, I give him a lot of shit about how I need to put him in a bubble, but I get it. Epilepsy like he has is goddam brutal on the immune system. Every seizure he has, even the tiny ones that he has every day, put way, way more stress on his body than he lets on, than he even fully notices at this point. It's frustrating at the end of the day sometimes when he's stupid and slow until I remember his brain fires astronomically more signals per day than it's supposed to. He doesn't have fight left for viruses.


That's him. I have plenty of fight for viruses, and living with Justin is probably some sort of biological experiment. The same way Daph's around sick people all the time at work and hardly ever gets anything, I rarely catch anything from Justin. And honestly, I'm not careful. A stranger shakes my hand and I want to boil myself, I'm in the shower before a trick even leaves, and Christ, nowadays I can't even believe I used to go around kissing people on the mouth, but with Justin...eh. We practically live in each other's pockets, and I think any pretenses of squeamishness where the other one's concerned vanished somewhere around my second week of radiation.


So, anyway, I never get sick from him—anytime we're both sick it's almost always me catching something first and isolating myself the fuck away from him in some hotel room and still, somehow, giving it to him—but this time I did. It didn't hit until he was through the worst of his flu, which was great and all, but it added to the strangeness of the situation, where I was sick and Justin wasn't and I wasn't fleeing the premises. I was still kind of on edge, convinced he'd find some way to catch it back from me or something. Give me a break, my entire life philosophy is fucking based on keeping Justin away from sick people, and here I was being the sick person.


Wear gloves, I said to him.


“Oh my God, shut up.” He kissed my cheek and pulled the sheets over me. “You are the worst patient.” This was before that whole 'no English in the bedroom' thing.


I grabbed at him. Come here.


He got into bed beside me and curled around me from behind, and I was very glad he couldn't hear the little sigh I did. “I called our doctor and got him to call in a prescription for that flu stuff,” he said, his chin up on my shoulder so he could see my response.


What flu stuff?


“The stuff that almost killed me a few years ago.”


I shook my head. Don't need it.


“Don't be like that, this sucks.” He kissed my cheek. “Cut it short while you can.”


If I get medicine you're allergic to you'll probably take it by mistake, I said. You're pretty dumb.


“I don't use your shaving cream that gives me hives. I think I can manage not to take your meds.” He pet my hair. “I'll go to the pharmacy in the morning and pick it up.”


You're not going to the pharmacy, I said stubbornly. It's full of fucking sick people.


He went to the pharmacy, the bastard, before I was even awake the next morning, and he shook me awake gently with the pills and a glass of water. Go wash your hands, I told him.


He rolled his eyes and went to the bathroom while I took the meds. “I told the pharmacist I'm allergic,” he called into the bedroom as he did, way too fucking loudly, and even though I had a headache, God, I'm such a sucker for when Justin's just Deaf as shit. “He said it's not an issue, but that if I'm nervous we shouldn't have unprotected sex until you're off of it. I told him my husband's basically a condom ad.”


I can't even imagine having sex right now, I said.


“That's a first.” He toed off his shoes and looked so fucking warm and soft that I was making fucking grabby-hands to try to get him back in bed. He shushed me and crawled in beside me, dropping kisses on my neck and collarbone. “Fever doesn't feel too high,” he murmured.


Yeah, I'm fighting it off.


“My big strong man.” He kissed along my jaw. “You want me to fuck you?”


Yeah, but I'm all sweaty and gross.


He shook his head, hands already slipping under the covers. “It's hot. Primal.”


I tilted my head back on the pillow, and his lips were on my throat in that way I can't goddamn resist. Okay.


Justin doesn't top all that much, doesn't do it with most of his boyfriends. He used to do it more when he was younger, but I think that was more about proving something to himself and, honestly, to me. There's a stigma, and Justin's a confident and enlightened fucker but if we've learned anything from the saga of the internalized ableism, no one's immune to this kind of shit. There will be more on that later, but for the time being we'll just say that Justin doesn't top as much as he used to because he doesn't actually prefer it, but God, what a waste, because he's talented as hell. Not that he's not a goddamn master artist from the bottom, don't get me wrong, but I'm happy to give him the chance to showcase his entire repertoire once in a while. I mean, everyone remembers Picasso for the paintings, but I like that little penguin drawing, you know?


And it's just nice to lie there when you're sick, to feel wanted and sufficient and sure, loved. Maybe it's not so bad to be Justin after all.


He cleaned me up afterwards, and I let him, and I felt sick and sleepy and safe. He took my temperature and gave me some cough medicine and I just...kept letting him.


You're my best friend, I said at one point.


He snorted. “You're delirious.”


I am so fucked over you.


What's it like?


Not bad, I said, and I hadn't been letting him kiss me on the mouth before that, but I did then.


I whined until he lay down with me, and he stretched out on my chest, sweat gluing our bodies together. It occurred to me that he was still kind of sick, and I tangled my fingers in his hair and felt him breathe until I fell asleep.


I woke up feeling muggy and shitty. Justin had closed the curtains and turned the lights off before we fell asleep, but the light in the bathroom was on, glowing under the door. I didn't hear the shower running, but when a few minutes passed and he didn't come back, I was worried he was sick again. I dragged myself up, coughing, and tried the door, since it's not like I could knock. He was standing in front of the sink, rooting through the medicine cabinet.


I stamped on the floor until he looked over. Hey, are you...holy shit. He had this huge swath of hives across most of his chest and all the way down one arm and over that side of his face. And they were worse than his usual hives, more like blisters, like when he was burned.


I'm trying to find that calamine...


Yeah, sit, hey. Did you take Benadryl?


He nodded, sitting on the edge of the tub. I can breathe okay and everything. How are you feeling?


I'm fine, Christ. I took out his epipen just in case, even though it made him flinch, and found the bottle of calamine. Okay, come here.


I don't...think you should touch me.


I studied him. Are you okay? He didn't look like he was panicking.


No, it's not a PTSD thing, I... He held out his arm. “It's exactly where I was lying on you. See? I was on top of you on my stomach, I had this cheek down...”


I blinked. It's the fucking Tamiflu?


“I think it's in your sweat.”


I took one!


“I know,” he said sheepishly.


I pinched the bridge of my nose and started laughing, and then I couldn't stop. Jesus Christ, who has allergies like this? What the fuck even is this?


He threw a towel at me. You're so mean to me.


I fucking told you I didn't want to take that shit. All right, put the lotion on, I'm going to go strip the sheets off the bed. I'll sleep in the office until this shit is out of my system.


No, you're sick, I'll sleep in the office.


I don't think so, allergy boy. Are you gonna die if I kiss your head?


He glared at me. No, but you might.


I laughed and gave him a light kiss on the forehead. Come on. We're having cereal for dinner.



End Notes:

 

So this contradicts a bit with something Brian told us in "Like Diamonds," and we're just going to be fine with that because...it's fanfic, it's not that serious.

 

I realized while answering comments of the last one that I've never made it clear how much I love answering questions about why I did certain things, how I write the series, what kinds of plans I have, what certain lines mean or whether something has happened before or basically just like ANYTHING having to do with this series, so please always feel free to ask any questions you might have! I could babble about this 'verse forever.

Chapter 66 - Gender Reveal by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian showed Justin the world. It just wasn't the same world for both of them.

Gender Reveal

LaVieEnRose



So the fall of 2012 was clipping along pretty nicely. Emily was lightly pregnant with my future little niece or nephew or whatever the fuck you want to call the bean, Derek and Daph were engaged, the little sons of bitches, and back in Pittsburgh Gus turned twelve and dove deep into his Bar Mitzvah prep and Carl finally got Debbie to retire from the goddamn diner and even Ted and Blake had caught the baby fever and were talking about adopting, so look at all of us developing as characters.


Speaking of fever, yeah, Justin and I dealt with that goddamn bitch of a flu, so that was a bit of a blip in the radar. I was a useless sack of shit for four days and then got better like a normal person, whereas Justin played a long game of chicken with an actual medical emergency and ended up no worse for the wear, eventually, though he did drag around a shitty dry cough for almost a month after the fever finally broke, and it took him a long time to get whatever energy he even has back.


But for the most part, everything was going well as we closed out November.


I flicked the light switch in the office. Ready to go?


Yeah, sorry. Justin tucked his legs up on his chair.


Everything okay?


Yeah, it's just...it's that guy I'm doing that commission for, you know the piece with the quadrants? He's being a dick.


What's he doing?


Just trying to push me around, make me feel like I'm not worth what I charged him.


Want me to beat him up?


No, I can beat up my own clients. He stood up. Anyway, yeah, let me just change my shirt.


I leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom while he got dressed. Is Calvin coming tonight?


Yeah, he said he was.


I did my best imitation of the Justin Taylor puppy dog eyes. Justin?


Oh, God, what.


I coupled the eyes with my most dazzling smile. Can I fuck your boyfriend?


“Brian!”


Hey, no talking in the bedroom. Now we're going to have to burn sage or something. I considered his sinuses. Maybe not.


You're not supposed to sleep with my boyfriends, he said.


I know, but in my defense he's very hot and I'm in love with him.


You've had like two conversations with him.


Okay, but...he's very hot.


Justin pulled his shirt over his head. He's seriously not even that good in bed. He's extremely average.


So why are you dating him?


He's very hot, Justin said.


Yeah, he is. I still want to fuck him.


He rolled his eyes. I'll think about it.


That's all I'm asking.


You know he's like an exclusive top.


That's what they all say. There are very few exclusive tops left in the world.


Yeah, yeah, you guys are a dying breed. What will the world do without you?


Oh, boohoo, you had your tongue in my ass two days ago.


We made out for a while on the subway on the way down the bar, Justin's nose cold against my cheek. I scratched the back of his neck while we climbed up the stairs.


When's Emily's appointment? I asked him.


Thursday. She was getting another ultrasound, and they'd be able to tell the sex this time, so it was all pretty exciting.


What do you think it's going to be?


I have no idea. I thought I'd have a hunch one way or the other but...nothing. We started down the sidewalk. It was snowing just a little.


I was the same way with Gus.


What did you want him to be?


I shrugged. Boy.


Yeah, me too.


Really!


We stopped and waited for the light to change. You're surprised?


Yeah, you love girls. Emily, Daphne, Molly, Gwen, Debbie, Cynthia, the lesbians, his mother. It takes Justin a while to warm up to a guy, but he loves women from the get go.


I do love girls. He blew on his hands to warm them up, and I took his left one between mine. I don't know. If I have a girl I'm going to worry about it all the time.


You worry no matter what flavor of kid it is. That's why I'm going to have so much fun with yours. Not my problem. You don't worry about Gus, right?


Of course I worry about Gus.


Yeah, well. You worry about everything. Your brain doesn't work.


And I'd worry a fuck of a lot more if he was a girl, Justin said.


Yeah, because all the guys we know totally have their lives together.


We stomped our shoes on the mat outside the bar and I brushed snow off his shoulders, and we opened the door and ducked into the bar. Justin and Emily pulled those aforementioned puppy dog eyes a few months ago and got the manager to agree to raise the lights up a little when they're here, so it's a little brighter and easier to sign nowadays. Gwen and Emily held their arms up for hugs, Calvin shook my hand and planted a kiss on Justin that made me very confused about who I wanted to fuck the most, and Daphne pulled me over to look at some weird rash Derek had, because when it comes to allergies I'm the real doctor here. I ordered a round of shots for the non-pregnant and non-epileptic among us.


Calvin was all over Justin, who was blushing up a storm, and God, it was so goddamn hot I could barely hold a conversation, but eventually we got to an argument about whether Emily and Gwen were going to tell us the sex of the baby once they found out.


How am I supposed to know what clothes to buy? Daphne said.


Buy it whatever, Emily said.


We're not concerned about the specifics of the presents we get, Gwen said. Our main priority is just getting a lot.


It's just so cisnormative, Emily fingerspelled. I mean, we get a picture of whether or not it has a penis, and based on that we make all these fucking assumptions about its life.


Okay, I hear you, but that's the world, Daphne said. You can't just name it Blanket and have no one know what sex it is until it's old enough to sort out its gender identity. Maybe in a hundred years you can do that. It's not the world now.


Someone has to do it first, Emily said.


Justin said, Right, but shouldn't those people be like...trans parents, not a bunch of cis people sitting around speculating on what non-cis people would want?


It's not like we don't know trans people, Emily said. And we're queers, we have to look out for each other.


Just tell us, I said. You don't have to cut into a pink or blue cake or some shit. I let you fuck my husband, you owe me.


Gwen nodded at Calvin. He fucks your husband, what does he owe you?


Well... I started, and Justin kicked me under the table and wrinkled his nose.


What? Calvin said.


We broke off into groups after a while; Derek, Calvin, and Justin played some pool, Gwen and Emily danced, and Daphne made some offhand comment about the Penguins that I latched onto, so we were hanging out at the table debating shit and I was trying not to come in my pants like a fucking teenager every time Calvin put his hands on Justin, when my phone rang and my phone told me it was the Bad Seed. That's weird, I said. It's Molly, she never calls me.


Wasn't she coming tonight? Daphne said.


Yeah, I thought.


Daphne nodded towards the bathrooms. Quieter over there.


I nodded and ducked over to the wall where there was probably a payphone once, and now there was just a lot of graffiti about straight people. I hit accept on the call. “Mol?”


“Can you come get me?” Her voice sounded serious, but she wasn't crying or anything, not that I could hear.


“What? Where are you?”


“Uh, this Starbucks. It's by Brittany Hall, 10th and...something. I think it's Broadway?”


“Uh...by Union Square?”


“Yeah.”


Not her dorm. “What are you doing up there?”


“Can you just come? Please? I'm in the back, can you come in and get me?”


“Yeah. What's going on?”


“Don't tell Justin,” she said, and she hung up before I could respond to that.


Don't tell Justin. Yeah, that was going to end well. How'd it go when he kept something about Molly from me? But, fuck, maybe it was better for me to go up there and assess the situation before I worried Justin. If you think I jump to the worst case scenario at the slightest provocation, you've never seen Justin the literal second something throws off his routine. Fuck.


I went back to Daphne and said, “I've got to go.”


“What's going on?”


“I don't know yet. She doesn't want Justin to know, can you, I don't know, tell him Michael was having some meltdown and I had to get out of here and talk to him.”


“I...okay.”


“Thank you.” I kissed her cheek, glanced at Justin lining up his pool shot, his back to me, and slipped out of the bar.


I got on the 4 at Fulton Street and took it straight up to Union Square, and then it was two blocks and one trip up and down the wrong one before I found Molly's Starbucks. The door tinkled all Christmassy as I went in, and the whole place was bright and spicy and warm. Happy.


I couldn't find Molly at first, but I saw her get up from a table in the back. She's small and thin, like Justin, so she's easy to lose when she's not being, you know, obscenely loud, which she usually is. She was wearing leggings and a big hoodie, not anything she would have worn to meet us at the bar, and she had the hood pulled down so I couldn't really see her face.


I stayed where I was while she came towards me, throwing away some kind of wrapper, and I said, “Hey...” but she just took my hand and pulled me back out to the sidewalk.


“Where's your coat?” I said, and she just shook her head, and I took mine off and put it around her shoulders. “Molly...”


“I'm fine,” she said, and she sounded sure.


“I just came all the way up here, you're sitting in some fucking Starbucks you apparently couldn't leave by yourself, you don't have a goddamn coat, and all I get is 'I'm fine?'”


She sighed and reached her hands up and lowered the hood of her sweatshirt. Her nose was hugely swollen, and there was some dried blood underneath, and a bruise starting to blossom under one of her eyes, purple in the light pouring out of the cheery goddamn Starbucks.


“He knows where I live,” she said.


“Okay, sweetheart, come on.”


**


“I can't stay here,” she said. She'd had a shower, and she was curled up on our couch wearing one of my t-shirts and a pair of Justin's sweatpants. “I'll just, I'll go to a hotel or something.”


“Oh yeah?” I said from the kitchen. “With what money?”


“Okay, so I'll go to a friend's place, or I'll stay at Daphne's, or...”


“Would you cut it the fuck out? You're not going anywhere.” I came into the living room and handed her a cup of tea. “Here.”


She made a face. “I hate tea.”


“Yeah, so do I, but that stuff makes Justin's mouth itch so no one's going to drink it unless you do.” I held up a bag of ice bundled in a towel. “Let me see that nose.”


She let me hold it on her face. “I don't want to be here when Justin gets back.” She signed his name automatically when she said it out loud. I do it too. I don't even really think his name in English anymore. It's hard to explain.


“Molly, I'm not keeping this from Justin.”


“You promised.”


“I absolutely did no such thing.”


Her lip shook. “But why?”


“Because you're his sister, and because I don't do that shit, and because you didn't fucking do anything wrong. Why don't you want him to know?” She winced while I adjusted the ice. “Easy, here.”


“He's going to fucking...judge me. I don't know.”


“Yeah, Justin Taylor, who took a bat to the head from a guy he jerked off, is going to judge someone for getting hit by her boyfriend. That sounds right. Drink your tea.”


“He didn't forgive the guy who bashed him in the head and let him bash him again,” she said.


I lowered the ice. “He did this before.”


She shrugged.


“I...” Everything was clicking together in my head. “Your wrist was sprained. You said it was intramurals.” She couldn't sign for a week.


“See why I don't want Justin to know? He'll judge me.”


“Justin won't judge me.”


“You're judging me.”


I shook my head and put the ice back, because Jesus, what the fuck was I supposed to say? She knows better than that. I fucking taught her better than that.


“We're gonna call the police in the morning, all right?” I said. “Get this sorted out. Probably should have taken some pictures before we started icing this, but the bruises will be worse in the morning anyway.”


“Great,” she said.


“We'll get you moved into a new dorm.”


“I don't want to change dorms.”


“We'll get you moved into a new dorm,” I repeated. “And you'll probably need a restraining order.”


She sighed and hugged a pillow to her chest. “Christ.” She nodded to the coffee table, where my phone was ringing. Justin?


“Yeah. Here we go.” I picked up the phone, pointing the camera away from Molly. Hey, stud.


Oh, hey. He was walking down the sidewalk. I didn't think you were going to pick up. I didn't know if you were off with Michael.


Are you heading home already?


Yeah, I'm not feeling great.


Need me to come get you?


He shook his head. Derek offered to come with me, but I'm fine. Just a headache.


He always has a headache. You mean a migraine.


Semantics. A fun sign.


I took a deep breath. So Molly's here.


Molly's there? At the apartment?


Yeah. I wasn't talking to Michael. She called me and told me to pick her up and not to tell you.


And you're telling me? You're a bad brother.


Justin.


“Jeez, what.”


She...I want to prepare you. She's got a black eye. Her nose looks broken.


Molly pulled a pillow over her face, and I ran my hand up and down her ankle.


Justin stopped walking. What the fuck happened?


Her boyfriend. Justin, she's here now, she's safe.


He started walking again, fast in the opposite direction.


Where the fuck are you going? I said to him.


Where do you think? I'm getting a fucking cab.


I stood up. Stop it. Stop it right now.


Molly took the pillow off her face. “Brian?”


Everything's fine, I said to her, and I kissed her hand and took the phone into the bedroom. Justin, stop.


I know where that fucker lives.


Fucking stop right now, I swear to God. My heart was up in my throat, and I knew I was yelling at him and I knew this wasn't the way to stop him, but Jesus Fucking Christ if somebody hit him...


That's my sister, he said.


I know. I know it's your sister. And she got punched in the fucking face and this should be about her. And if you go charging up there and you get yourself hurt, if someone hits you in the face and you have to go to the fucking hospital, it's not going to be about her.


It was a low tactic, I know, but I was not cleaning up another bloody Taylor that night.


Justin looked at me, and I could see the debate going on in his head, could see how fucking desperately he needed to do this, that he needed to be the type of man who did this. Who could do this.


I know, I told him. I'm sorry. Please come home.


He made that frustrated noise he does when he's signing and his shitty hand won't move fast enough for his brain.


I know, I said. I took a deep breath. You cannot get hurt.


She got hurt.


That's why.


He made the noise again, running his hand over his mouth the way I do. He got that from me.


So I did what he does. I took a deep breath and said, I need you safe. Come home.


“Okay,” he whispered.


I kissed my fingers and touched them the screen. Take the elevator.


**


Justin got home about fifteen minutes later. He made a beeline to the couch and looked Molly over, and she crawled up into his lap and he put his arms all the way around her.


They stayed like that for a long time, and I gave them a minute, cleaning up the kitchen and answering a work email and otherwise wasting time, before I came around to Justin's field of vision. Can I see her to ice her face? I said.


He shook his head.


Then can I see you? Your hand's been seized up for twenty minutes.


“No.”


You going to take something for your head?


“No,” he said again, but that was enough for Molly to kind of startle and shake herself free, and I gave her the ice and both of them a painkiller because why the fuck not and got to work trying to loosen up his hand.


“We need to get a security guard or something at her dorm,” he said.


She's switching dorms.


“Yeah, that's better.” He winced as I tried to uncurl one of his fingers. “Jesus, Brian—”


Sorry.


Molly was quiet, and maybe it was having Justin home, maybe it was the pill, maybe it was just all the adrenaline running out of her, or maybe it was that gross tea, but she got really tired pretty soon after that, and Justin went and made a bed for her in the office. I gave him some space after she went to bed because I could tell he was like a live wire, and he smoked a couple cigarettes out on the balcony while I took a shower, and when I came out he was sitting on the bed with his laptop.


What are you doing? I asked, small.


Looking up the procedure for reporting it to NYU. It looks like we can get an escort to go to her classes with her.


She'd never go for that. It's Molly. How are you feeling?


He shrugged. Pain's bad tonight. Can't imagine it's as bad as her face.


I sat down on the bed in front of him, my legs crossed, shaking my head a little.


He closed his laptop and set it aside. What?


It's just...it's Molly. I can't believe this happened to Molly.


I know.


This wasn't the first time, I said. He sprained her fucking wrist and she didn't tell anyone. And she stayed.


He shrugged a shoulder. It's what happens. How many second chances did Joan give Jack?


I scoffed. Different.


It's not different.


Joan was weak as shit, I said. This is Molly. You don't picture this shit happening to someone like Molly.


Justin quirked an eyebrow. I am really surprised to hear you say that.


Why? I've been a feminist for like three years, I'm pretty new at this. I'm gonna say some fucked up shit.


No, because you're gay.


What the fuck are you talking about?


He leaned back against the head board and rubbed a knot in his shoulder with one hand. This has really never happened to you? Nothing like this?


Again, what the fuck are you talking about? You want me to get that?


No, it's okay.


Is this bashing stuff?


No, not really. Chris Hobbs was not my boyfriend.


Yeah, I'm very aware of who Chris Hobbs was.


He shot me an apologetic look.


Justin?


Yeah.


Who hit you?


I'm not talking about that specifically, I just mean—


Did Ethan hit you?


Ethan? He snorted. Ethan couldn't kill a bug.


Not one of your boyfriends now.


No, I'm not saying... He sighed. None of my boyfriends have ever hit me. I'm just talking about stuff going too far, limits getting pushed. Not as black and white as what happened to Molly, just stuff that's not good. Stuff that happens to us.


I kept staring at him.


He said, Okay, like...like Sapperstein's party.


I felt something crawling in my throat. Fuck, I don't want to talk about—


Or that guy at Babylon who choked me that time, or the one at Pistol that time who wouldn't take his hand off my mouth, or just, like, parties in California, or that—


Wait, what parties in California?


Just parties, I don't know, where there were a lot of drugs and a lot of people into intense shit and stuff got...it got out of hand. Come on, you know what I'm talking about.


I stared at him.


You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? he said.


This isn't a Deaf thing, is it.


He shook his head a little.


Well then, what the fuck? I said. Trying to be gentle. Trying to not think about what the fuck happened to Justin at those parties, what the fuck he didn't think was bad enough to tell me but bad enough to list along with someone goddamn choking him, with that fucking fucking thing at the Sap's.


You don't worry, do you? he said, small, curious. And I didn't know what the fuck to make of that, given the fact that I felt I was being swallowed by a goddamn boa constrictor, Molly in office and Justin here in front of me, and now he's telling me I don't worry, but he noticed and waved his hand and amended it. You don't worry that people know. You don't walk around worried.


I haven't been bashed, I said, as gently as I possibly fucking good. I fingerspelled 'bashed' instead of signing it. I couldn't do it, I just did it a minute ago, I just... I'm not...the world doesn't look as scary to me.


It's not about that, he said. You pass and I don't, and we never talk about this.


You pass, come on.


I really don't. People know. They always have. They knew before I did.


I rolled my eyes and looked away.


He snapped his fingers and I looked at him. Does it make you uncomfortable? I said. What, less attracted to me?


Stop being stupid.


I don't think I am being stupid. You called me stud on the phone earlier, that's the joke, right?


It's not a joke, it's just--


I'm not the muscled-up guys you bring home, Justin said. And I'm fine with that. I'm fine with who I am. I'm fine with not passing. But...look, sometimes I try to forget that you and me walk through the world in different ways.


I wish you passed because you'd be safer, I said. Not because of what it says about...Jesus, come on.


But you worry about me because I'm me, he said. Because I'm Deaf or because I'm sick or because I'm yours, not because this is something that's a common experience that guys like me go through, and that's what I'm trying to say. I mean, Jesus, this is why I'm scared of having a girl, because the kid probably won't be gay and even if he is he'll probably pass, but it's all girls.


It's not all of them.


Yes it is. It's the Joans and it's the Mollys.


What happened to you in California? I said, something boiling up inside me.


He sighed. Nothing. This isn't about that.


If it's nothing then it won't take you much time to tell me.


Jesus, Brian, the same thing that happens to guys like me at parties like those, that's why I'm trying to fucking tell you! We get pushed around and laughed at and twisted and convinced and played with, it's not...it's not Gary Sap's fucking lounge, it's not your boyfriend breaking your fucking nose, but it's not good. And that's just fucking normal.


That is not normal! I yelled at him.


Yes it is! It fucking shouldn't be, but it is, Brian.


What the fucking fuck! I got off the bed and paced to the other side of the room. What the fuck, you're just going to sit here and tell me this is what life is like for you? What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, Justin? I just let you walk out the fucking door tomorrow back into this, that's what you expect me to do?


None of this is about you.


Bull fucking shit it isn't! Who started taking you those parties, huh? If it weren't for me you would be still be walking back and forth on Liberty Avenue waiting for someone to flip you over, don't give me that not about me crap. I showed you the fucking world, Jasmine, and now you're here telling me—


It's not like it's all bad, he said.


You don't fucking tell me shit! How the fuck am I supposed to...you said you were going to stop fucking lying to me, you goddamn fucking liar!


So I'm supposed to tell you every time a guy makes me uncomfortable.


Yes.


That's not fucking possible, Brian. You're not being reasonable.


I signed so hard it hurt. Someone lay a fucking hand on my kid out there and my fucking partner is scaring the shit out of me, so no, I'm not going to be fucking reasonable right now!


Okay, he said. Okay.


We were quiet for a long minute.


What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, I said eventually.


I don't know.


What the fuck am I supposed to do if you have a girl?


He put his hands up, helplessly.


**


We took Molly to the police station the next morning, and the day after that, she went back to school. Justin lent her a scarf—we still needed to go back to her dorm and get her things—and wound it around her face to cover up her nose.


You come right back here after class, okay? I said to her. Justin will be here all day. He can come get you if you need him.


I'll be fine, she said.


He gave her a hug.


I'm going to get the dorm thing sorted out, she said. I'm going to reach out to housing and get a transfer, make sure he wont't be able to find out where it is.


Maybe we worry about that next week, I said. For now it's...let's just not worry about that right now. Just come home.


“Okay,” she whispered.


Justin looked at me after she left, while I got my shit together to leave for work. What? I said.


I think you just watch us, Justin said. I think that's all you can do.


You need to stop trying to be me, I said.


And he kept his eyes locked on mine. Maybe you need to stop going places I can't follow.


What the fuck are you talking about?


Maybe you need to turn around, you look over your shoulder, and you see if I'm safe where we're going. You look around at the guys you're with, at the girls in the room, fucking...wherever, and you look around and you see if they are safe where you're going. And you make the rooms safe or you don't fucking make the rooms.


I breathed out through my nose.


You didn't let me punch that guy, Justin said. You're having Molly stay here. Why did you do those?


I glared at him, and he rested his hand on my chest.


Love them too, he said. He sighed and wrinkled his nose. Now I'm gonna go yell at a guy who thinks he can push me around about a painting.


Yeah you are.


**


That evening we all met at the bar, Derek and Daphne, Gwen and Emily, Molly and a new story about intramurals for the group. Justin stayed by her side.


Will you just fucking tell us, Daphne said. This is torture.


Emily sighed. First of all, I think everyone needs to keep in mind that gender is a construct, and that just because our baby is born with certain types of organs doesn't say anything about how it will eventually decide to determine his hers or their gender identity—


We know, we know, I said. Fucking tell us already.


Gwen and Emily looked at each other with the sappiest goddamn eyes, and then Gwen said, It's a girl. We're having a girl.


Everyone cheered and banged on the table and generally freaked out the hearies at the bar, and everyone was all over Gwen and Emily and then Justin with hugs and kisses and oh my God I knew its and I totally thoughts and it took a while before I could catch Justin's eye.


I wondered if she'd look like Molly.


You okay? I asked him.


He nodded, lips quirking into a smile. Yeah. I love her.


And, well...


I mean, you'll see how I felt about the little nugget in good time.

 

Fuck. God help me, with these fucking Taylors. Teach me how to watch them.

Chapter 67 - Miranda by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin doesn't know what's going on.

Miranda

LaVieEnRose



There was this moment, at some point in some place, where I looked around and felt like I'd just been spawned there. Like, I came with no history, no anything, like I was some character and this was the first page anyone had ever written about me.


It's not the only time that's happened to me, but it was the only time it's happened to me when I'm alone.


And anyway, the fact that it's happened before, that you can afterwards put together what happened and that it's happened before, isn't much comfort when you are standing somewhere you don't know and you have no memory of where you are or why you're there or how you got there and what you're doing and what it is you're supposed to do. Or who you are.


And also when it's very cold and you don't think you're wearing enough clothes.


I shivered and sneezed and looked around for a street sign, but there was nothing and I couldn't figure out why, and everything didn't...look right. Where were the people?


Everything was coming to me in snapshots. Blink, and a new piece of information.


It was really dark.


My feet hurt.


My knees hurt.


My head really, really, really hurt, and then all of a sudden I was on my hands and knees vomiting and I couldn't get back up. The ground felt like it was moving, and I scraped my palms against the ground trying to grab onto it, but it wasn't working. It kept...slipping. I don't know. Everything was slipping.


And then there were these lights on the ground around me, swinging around like searchlights, and I couldn't figure out what was going on, but they made my head hurt so goddamn bad, and I was sure I was about to throw up again, but then all of a sudden someone pulled me up to my feet, roughly, not at all like Brian would have done it, not Brian at all.


I hadn't been able to remember Brian's name until then.


The person shined a flashlight in my eyes and I put my hands up over my face as pain ripped across my eyes. Stop stop stop I took my hands away to sign, and then there were hands around my wrists, and I couldn't sign anymore.


No.


“Let go of me!” I couldn't see anything with the lights in my eyes, and I ripped away as hard as I could and tried to sign again, and then all of a sudden I was on the ground with a knee against my back and my cheek against the pavement.


Oh God. Oh fuck.


“No no no I can't hit my head, I can't.”


The knee pressed down on my back.


“Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”


They were still shining those fucking flashlights at me, and then I felt my hands getting cuffed behind my back, what the fuck, what the fucking fuck was going on.


They were probably reading me my rights, I thought dully as they led me to the car.


**


I know I should have told them I was Deaf right away.


I know I should have told them I had epilepsy and asked them to breathalyze me instead of just assuming I was drunk.


I know I shouldn't have ripped my hands away and I should have been sweet and I shouldn't have tried to sign because it looks aggressive to people who don't know and I should have just fucking, fucking told them I was Deaf.


It's really great and helpful how I know all of that now, when I'm the kind of calm, functional, rational that doesn't scare cops into arresting me, right?


**


I was so freezing fucking cold at the police station that I couldn't even function, but at least there weren't lights in my eyes anymore.


I stood in some fucking hallway while a man patted up and down my body and I tried not to fucking lose my shit at the hands on me. Brian Brian Brian I'm supposed to tell you when I'm uncomfortable, I promised—


I needed to sit. Everything was spinning.


A policewoman said something to me.


I squinted at her lips. “Am I what?”


Are you.... Damn. Are you on...


“Am I on drugs? No, I'm cold, I...I'm...”


I hate speaking out loud with strangers. I hate it so goddamn much.


But my fucking hands were still behind my back.


They checked my pockets. My wallet and my phone weren't in there. Neither were my keys. Where the hell was my shit? Where was my fucking coat? I was just in a shitty t-shirt, this old one I wear where I'm painting. Was I painting?


What happened, what happened, what happened...


“I need my hands back, please,” I said.


The pulled me along to a desk, and a guy asked me something with his head down. I could barely even see his lips move.


I said, “I don't...”


He looked up at me. “What's your name?” he said.


God fucking help me, it took me a minute. “Justin Taylor. I'm Deaf,” I finally fucking said. I don't think I really realized I hadn't said it. “I need an interpreter, is an interpreter coming?”


The policemen all started talking to each other around me, and one disappeared down the hallway.


“I think I need to sit down,” I said. “I think I'm sick.”


The officer behind the desk turned the form he was filling out towards me and pointed at the next line. The word swam in front of me and I blinked at it until it came into focus.


“Um, March eleventh. 1983.”


The next line. Address.


Fuck fuck fuck.


“I, um...”


Goddamn it, Justin. Goddamn it you, you worthless sucking piece of sucking shit. You know this. You know this.


I could have described my living room to you in perfect detail. I could have listed every single thing Brian had on his desk. I could have drawn it, exactly, if they would free my fucking hands.


But I couldn't find the address for the fucking life of me, and sometimes I just...I just hate myself so goddamn much.


“I don't know,” I said.


He wrote a note. Are you homeless?


“No, I'm not homeless, I just...I can't remember right now, I'm not good with numbers and...I just need a minute. It's West End Avenue, I just can't remember the number.”


He gave me this once-over, and no, you fucking asshole, I don't look like I belong on West End Avenue when I'm standing here half-frozen and shaking and my dirty old t-shirt's ripped because someone fucking pushed me on the ground and I think my cheek is bleeding and if I hit my head Brian is going to be so mad at me—


Brian.


“Can somebody call my boyfriend? I don't...I don't know where he is. I'm supposed to know where he is, he's going to be mad.” That didn't make any fucking sense. He was going to be mad at me for hitting my head, not for not knowing where he was. Nothing was coming out right. “I need to sit down.”


He said something to me but I didn't get it because something deep inside my brain said Justin you put me down right the fuck now, and my hands were still cuffed behind me, so I sat down on the floor and put my head between my knees. Everything grayed out in front of me, speckling on the sides like static on a bad TV reception, and my arm and both legs started shaking. Fuck, fuck fuck.


This was too many seizures in a short amount of time, I thought, because on some level I must have known that that's what happened, that I'd had a seizure at my studio and I'd been confused and upset and fucking fucking stupid and I'd wandered out without my coat and my phone and my wallet and tried to walk home and I'd gotten lost in the park.


Too many. Brian was going to be mad.


There were hands on me, yanking me to my feet, and I said, “No no no stop please stop,” but they didn't. The guy pushed me at the desk, and between his body and the desk shoved against my stomach I managed to stay up, but my brain was still going no sit down sit down sit down and Brian would be so fucking mad at me for not sitting.


“Can somebody...” I took a deep breath as my arm jerked behind me, pulling the fuck out of my shoulder blade, mother fuck that hurt. “Can somebody please call my boyfriend?”


The policeman behind the desk pointed out the next line on the form, under my empty address. Goddamn, it was hard to read this shit right now, with my vision this shitty. They were going to expect me to read stuff, I realized. They were going to write notes to me and think I was getting it.


This was really bad.


“His name is Brian,” I said. “His number is...”


Fuck.


Fuck.


You stupid goddamn useless fucking shit.


“It has a three in it,” I whispered.


What the fuck good was an interpreter going to do me if I couldn't fucking tell them anything?


The problem wasn't the language barrier. The problem was me.


You stupid goddamn useless pathetic helpless worthless fucking shit.


I swallowed. “His name's Brian.”


I didn't even tell them his last name.


I don't even know if I knew it.


**


They dragged me along through getting fingerprinted and getting my picture taken. They kept writing down questions and shoving them at me, scary fucking questions: have you ever been arrested before, what kinds of drugs are in your system, do you have somewhere to go once you're released.


At some point I thought to ask what I was being arrested for.


Drunk and disorderly conduct and resisting arrest, he said, and I didn't really get how I could be arrested for resisting arrest because don't you have to be getting arrested in the first place for that to happen, and that got all stuck and tangled up in my brain so it was fucking ages before I even thought to say, “But I don't drink.”


They thought I was crazy, I realized vaguely. They probably didn't believe that I couldn't really hear, not when my voice is pretty okay. It was one of those times I wished I still wore a hearing aid, even though they don't do anything for me anymore, just as a fucking prop.


All they had to do was slow down and listen to me.


Sometimes I hate abled people so much that I feel like I'm going to goddamn breathe fire.


They eventually shoved me in this holding cell with a few other people, which at least meant that I wasn't handcuffed anymore. I sat on the floor and put my arms around myself and considered this grimy, dusty fucking floor and how I was goddamn definitely going to get sick from this. God, Brian was going to be pissed. I just shook the cough from that fucking flu.


I'm not sure I can really explain at that point how goddamn shitty I felt. I was just..done. I don't know when I last felt that bad. Maybe right when I woke up after I'd had that seizure and hit my head at my mom's house? But Brian was there then, and even if I wasn't quite sure who he was at first, I knew he was somebody safe. And there were meds, and a bed, and it wasn't this horrendously cold.


Everything hurt so goddamn bad. All my muscles were sore from spasming so much, and my head was throbbing, and my throat hurt. And everything was coming to my so slowly, like I was in quicksand, and there were hands signing in my brain somewhere, this is bad this is bad this is bad, and I knew I wasn't supposed to feel like this without telling Brian, and he was going to be so mad at me.


My arm was shaking again, and it was for some reason so important that none of the other people in the cell saw me. I don't know, I was already clearly a fucking wreck, in here with actual fucking criminals, and I didn't want them to think I was any more vulnerable than I already obviously was.


Brian would find me. If I didn't come home and it got too late, he'd start calling hospitals and police stations. He'd find me.


Unless I told him I was staying overnight at the studio.


Unless he'd already given up and decided I was dead.


Or I died.


I could die here tonight. I could keep having seizures until my breathing stopped, or I hit my head on the floor.


My stomach turned over suddenly, and before there was any time to think about the other people in this holding cell I was crawling to the toilet in the back of the cell and puking so violently I thought maybe it was this, this was what was going to kill me. It was like fire, from my stomach up through my throat, and my nose was running and my eyes were tearing everywhere and it felt like it was goddamn never going to stop, and I could barely breathe around it, and fuck, I wanted Brian so badly. I can't even explain what it's like to want someone that much. It was like a part of my body was missing.


Finally, God, I ran out of anything in my stomach, and I leaned against the wall by the toilet, panting. The migraine was so goddamn bad at that point. I tried to remember the last time I'd had one that awful. They were terrible after my last head injury, but I think the last ones that hit this level were the ones I was having in the few months after the bashing. I remember the first one scared Brian so bad. He sat next to me on the bed barely moving, afraid to touch me, afraid to look away.


Someone crouched down in front of me, some woman in the holding cell in a skimpy outfit, and she dabbed at my forehead a little. Young women like her are always trying to mother me. Kind of hard to blame her right then.


I'm okay, I said, and obviously she didn't know what I was saying, but when I was signing I looked at my hands and I saw my bracelet.


My fucking bracelet.


I brought it close to my face until the words stopped fading in and out of focus.


JUSTIN TAYLOR

DEAF, USES ASL

EPILEPSY

NO OXAZOLIDINEDIONE


And there, on the last line.


Brian's phone number.


I crawled to the front of the cell and I stuck my wrist to the bars and I just goddamn yelled until somebody listened to me.


**


They brought me into a small room a little while after that, I guess one of the interrogation rooms. Still no interpreter. Just two detectives and me.


They slid a piece of paper across the table to me. Double sided, tiny print that my headache did not want to let me make out. Then a pen.


“You want me to sign this?” I said.


They nodded.


I looked it over. It was thick legal language and it was all getting stuck and tangled up in my head, but honestly I'm not sure if even at my best I would have been entirely sure of what signing this would have me agree to. That I was drunk? That I wasn't mistreated by the police? That I wasn't angry? That I was waiving my rights to do goddamn anything about any of this?


“I'm not signing anything without a lawyer here,” I said. “And definitely not without an interpreter.”


The detectives looked at each other, and then one leaned to me and started speaking.


“No, I don't understand you,” I said. “And I'm not signing anything.”


He started to speak or anything, but they both startled and looked towards the door. I looked too, but there was nothing to see. Just noise outside, I guessed. The older of the two nodded to the other, and the young guy slipped out of the interrogation room.


The detective leaned back in his chair and asked me “Do you” something. He looked kind of like my dad, I realized.


“Do I what?”


He said it again.


“Do I...was that need? Do I need anything?”


He nodded.


“Yeah, I need a hospital.”


He tapped the paper.


“What, you'll let me go if I sign it?”


Another nod.


“I'm sick, I'm not stupid. You don't want me to die here any more than I do.” Pain ripped through my forehead and my hand skipped and jumped on the table. “Jesus, again?” I leaned forwards on the table and held my head with my left hand.


The young detective came back, looking kind of freaked out, and he said, What do you believe? to me.


Because this whole thing was making soooo much fucking sense already. Since when this fucker know sign language, and why was he doing some St. Peter at the gates bullshit?


“What?” I said.


He signed it again.


“What do I believe?”


He shook his head, but he kept fucking saying it. What do you believe?


“Okay, so you don't know what you're signing,” I said. Justin, think, fucking think. You is pretty close to your, could be that. Maybe he just has his eyebrows down because he fucking does, maybe he's not asking a question, so then what could be here. And believe is very close to the sign for—


I sat up.


“My husband's here?”


**


I held it together until Brian walked through the door, disheveled and fired-up and fucking furious, and he blew right past the detectives and pulled me up and into his arms, and I started crying like someone had opened some kind of valve inside me. I don't think I could have let him go for goddamn anything in that second. You could have told me the world was literally going to end unless I let go of Brian and I would have hung on.


He was so warm.


But he pushed me off of him after a few seconds and held me at arm's length. Jesus Christ.


Everything swam. I need to sit.


Yeah, here. He guided me to the chair and took his jacket off and put it around me. I need to speak out loud for a minute, okay?


Okay, but— I said, but he'd already turned to the detectives and started fucking shouting at them, so hard the muscles in his neck were straining. And look, the whole thing was very gratifying and everything, but if Brian got arrested for beating up a cop we were never fucking getting out of here.


So I tugged on his arm. Brian.


Hang on, he signed without stopping, or looking at me.


“Brian!”


He took a deep breath through his nose and looked down at me, and his frown deepened. What's wrong with your eyes?


I've had three seizures since I got here and I can't get warm. Sometimes you just have to be direct.


His lower lip twitched. Justin.


Please can you take me to the hospital?


Yeah, Sunshine. We're going now, come on.


**


I couldn't stop crying in the cab on the way to the hospital. I knew I was scaring the shit out of Brian, but I couldn't stop. He kept trying to ask me questions, why were you in the park, why didn't you have your coat, why did they arrest you if you didn't do anything, and I was so confused and overwhelmed and so scared that he was going to yell at me and I had never felt this sick in my entire life.


I don't understand, Brian was saying. I don't understand how this happened.


I squeezed the ever loving fuck out of my head as my arm started shaking. “Brian, it's doing it again.”


I see. I see it, baby.


**


I couldn't stop shivering in the ER, and Brian took his shirt off and pulled it over my head. He hauled my legs up into his lap and held me.


I got an MRI, a shitton of anticonvulsants, warmed IV fluids.


Outside of my hospital room, Brian screamed at Daphne in sign language, the fastest signing I've ever seen from him. Slow down, slow down, she kept saying, and Brian was crying and wild-eyed and shaking down to his feet in fury, why the fuck did they do this to him?


I fell in and out, missed a lot, slept a lot. Every time I was awake, Brian was in the room, stripped down and raw like I've never seen him, barking questions at me like I was back in the interrogation room.


Why were you in the park?


“I don't know. I must have had a seizure at my studio and wandered after.” I wondered what I was working on when it happened. I hoped it wasn't that cliff painting. That one was going to be so fucking good. If I'd ruined it...


Why did the police approach you?


I threw up and I was just in a t-shirt, they thought I was drunk.


He paced around my room. Why did they push you to the ground?


“I don't know! Because I was signing and that freaked them out, I guess.”


Why were you signing at hearing people?


“Because I was confused!”


When did you tell them you were Deaf?


“I don't know. At the station.”


Why didn't you tell them right away?


“I don't know.”


Why didn't you tell them? he screamed at me.


“I don't know!”


Why didn't you tell them?


“I didn't remember! Stop yelling at me, stop yelling at me!”


He left my room and didn't come back for a long time.


**


Derek came in when some amount of time had passed, God knows. Minutes, hours, days. My MRI was clear and I wasn't having seizures anymore with the strong as fuck stuff they were giving me through the IV, but the heavy duty anticonvulsants make me so, so out of it, and it's not as if I'd had a great grasp on reality going into it. Derek came right to the bed and hugged me, and it occurred to me that if I were black those cops would have fucking killed me.


Don't ever get arrested, I told him, cupping his face in my hand.


He nodded a little, and finally someone else just looked as fucking sad as I was.


**


You need to eat, Brian said.


“I can't, I still feel really nauseous.”


He prowled my room like a tiger and stopped by the window, looking out over the cars in the parking lot with a look on his face like they'd personally offended him.


Why didn't you show them the bracelet, he said after a minute.


God, I could not keep doing this. I did, eventually.


Why eventually?


I forgot it was there. My arms were behind my back.


Why didn't they check for it?


I don't know. They probably don't do it as a matter of course. They're not paramedics.


Did you tell them you were having a seizure when you had your first one at the station?


I don't remember. I don't think so.


Why not?


I don't know. I guess I thought they...like they already knew or something. I know that doesn't make sense.


He paced, his hands in fists.


I cleared my throat. “Brian, I'm sorry.”


He laughed a little without looking at me.


“If...if it happens again I'll do better, okay? I promise.” I must have sounded desperate, but I couldn't help it, I was so fucking scared he was about to leave again. “I'm sorry. I'll be better.”


He stopped pacing and turned to look at me with this absolute blankness on his face, this total confusion, and I watched, so gradually, while understanding rose into his eyes.


Justin, he said, slowly.


Yeah.


Justin. He looked like he was afraid to talk to me, I don't know. That's what it felt like. Do you think that I'm angry at you?


“Yeah, I mean...” I tried to say, but God knows how it must have come out, because I could feel tears coming back up my throat. God, I hate these fucking meds.


But Brian said, Okay, okay, it's okay, and he pulled the chair up by the bed and he took one of my hands between both of his and kissed it, and he stayed like that for a long time. And he didn't ask me to explain what happened anymore.


**


Okay, Brian said, standing at the foot of the bed. Let me hear it.


I took a deep breath. “I'm Deaf. I have rights. My husband's number is on my bracelet.”


Good. Again.


“I'm Deaf. I have rights. My husband's number is on my bracelet.”


Again, work really hard at that R in rights, okay? It's a little unclear right now, they might not get what that word is.


I tried really, really hard to remember how an R was supposed to feel in my mouth. “I'm Deaf. I have rights. My husband's number is on my bracelet.”


Closer, again.


“I'm Deaf. I have rights.”


He watched me and nodded.

 

“I'm Deaf,” I said. “I have rights.”

End Notes:

 

So instead of bringing them to Pittsburgh to announce the baby...here's this heavy as hell thing and the start of what will probably be a 3-story arc. THEN they can go to Pittsburgh, or PIttsburgh might come between stories 2 and 3. We'll see.

Chapter 68 - And to Hold by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian has some shit to work through. His perspective during "Miranda," and what happens after.

And to Hold

LaVieEnRose



About thirteen hours before Justin was arrested for being sick and Deaf in a public place, we were up early making pancakes. Justin was wearing sweatpants and one of my old tank tops, casually working the whisk with his left hand while I kissed the back of his neck and wound the hair there around my finger.


“You smell really good,” he said.


I hummed behind his ear and kissed his cheek hard enough to knock him over.


I had the radio on nice and loud, and it switched to some song I hadn't heard in years. I tugged Justin away from the counter and over to the radio and put his hand against the speaker.


“Mmm, okay,” Justin said, dancing a little, and he laughed when I pulled him into my arms and spun us around. He draped his arms loosely around my neck and smacked me on the back of the head with the spatula. I pouted, and he got up on his toes to kiss the tip of my nose.


You're a good dancer, I said to him.


How the fuck would you know? he said, and I laughed into his neck and then hauled him over to the couch and made him pay.


Afterwards, he crawled his way up my body and planted kisses on my mouth. His hair was falling into his eyes, and his skin was so soft it was like I shouldn't even touch it.


“I love you,” he said, and then hauled himself abruptly off the couch. “Hungry!”


I lay there and watched him pour batter onto the skillet and sing tunelessly to himself and dance around to music he couldn't hear and could not fucking goddamn believe I'd somehow gotten this.


So that's where we were just before.


**


He was fine that evening when I got home from work, too. Maybe a little quiet, but nothing out of the ordinary; hes an artist, he gets quiet sometimes. We had sex and took a shower and he made dinner and we ate on the floor and he told me about his day at the DeafBlind institute and I told him about my day with my boring clients and it was all very normal. Emily texted us asking if we wanted to go to the bar, but I was in an involved pursuit of this guy I'd seen at Nova the past two nights and Justin wanted to go to his studio. He was working on this painting he was really excited about. I hadn't seen it yet, but he'd shown me a picture of his progress. It was this wide shot, this landscape, gorgeous orange and turquoise swirled through the sky, and this cliff, and it takes a minute of looking at it before you notice the two figures standing right, right at the edge.


“It's my Landscape with the Fall of Icarus,” Justin had explained.


Now you just need your Auden. Is that Calvin? I said.


Oh, God, Calvin couldn't even spell Auden, he'd said.


He'd kissed me before he left and said not to be surprised if I beat him home. I watched his ass on the way out the door and then went and got dressed and bundled the hell up because it was about no degrees outside and headed to Nova for a night like any fuckin' other.


**


Sometimes, when something bad is going on with Justin and I'm not there, I get a feeling.


At this point, I've come to terms with the fucking extent to which I fail to function when Justin and I are apart for any length of time, and I could either have been mad about that or laugh about it, and...well, it's a thing with me and Justin, so I decided to laugh about it, so keep that in mind when I'm a miserable, humorless bastard later in this little saga. I mean, no one but Justin is allowed to tease me about it—I'm not that evolved—but between the two of us we've made running jokes out of the fact that I don't know where anything in the apartment is without him there to tell me, and I never remember to pick up the dry cleaning or go to bed at a decent hour or feed myself or...listen, I can keep Justin alive through any health crisis in the book, that's my thing, but Christ I've gotten sloppy on the minutia of day to day living. That's his territory, and I just...get weird when he's not around. Probably the binge drinking out of loneliness doesn't help, but why split hairs on the issue?


So it's possible my little psychic party trick is just an extension of that, but who could say. All I know is that sometimes—and it's not by any means every time—when Justin's away from me and something bad happens, I get a feeling in my gut that I should check in. It's how I knew to go back to the hospital after he'd had his appendix out and he was supposed to be recovering fine and something told me to go back. It's why I showed up at the PIFA quad one time when he was having a panic attack. I went to the diner for lunch once unplanned and he'd sliced his palm open and needed fourteen stitches. Just shit like that.


So anyway, here we were at...well, if it were anyone else, I would say one of the worst nights of his life, but I don't imagine this cracked Justin's top ten, so here we were at a night, and one would hope I would have had some sort of feeling that Justin was in trouble.


But no. Not a thing.


Justin was having damn near continuous seizures, Justin was hypothermic as shit, Justin was pushed to the ground and handcuffed and yelled at and so goddamn scared, and I just kept dancing. So you have to live with that, because so do I.


**


The phone call came when I was walking from the subway station back to the apartment. A minute earlier and I would have been underground, so, you know, we really should thank our lucky stars!


It was some New York number I didn't recognize, and I was a little on edge because of what had happened with Molly two weeks before, so I picked it up right away. “Hello?”


“Is this Brian Taylor?” a man's voice said.


How the fuck do you even answer that? “Uh, no such person. You looking for Brian Kinney?”


“Uh...” I heard papers being shuffled around.


“I'm who you're looking for,” I said impatiently. “Who is this?”


“This is Sergeant MacArthur, from New York's 10th precinct.”


At this point I was sure it was Molly, that she'd called me her brother and they'd assumed we had the same last name. “Shit. Okay.”


“We brought a guy in a few hours ago, says he's your partner.”


I stopped walking. “Justin's there?”


“Yes sir.”


So at this point, I was thinking my little masked avenger had been out on some sort of vandalism mission, you know the sort of thing he'll get into, and I was mostly just irritated that he'd lied and told me he was going to be at his studio. Is it that fucking hard just to tell me things? What the fuck does he think I'm going to do?


“All right,” I said. “He's Deaf, have you given him an interpreter? Does he know what's going on?”


“We're working on the interpreter.”


I sighed. “What's your address?”


He gave it to me, and I held my arm up for a cab and maybe fumed a little bit in the backseat, but Jesus Christ, Justin. Jennifer's such a nice lady. How did she end up with these fucking hell-raisers?


I showed up at the precinct and let them get a free grope in and let the desk jockey shove some forms at me. They were half-filled out with Justin's name and birthday, and for his emergency contact it just said “Brian,” with no number and last name, so I can't say I was a big fan of that.


“Why didn't he fill out the rest of this?” I said, as I wrote in his social security number. Also, where the fuck was he?


“He didn't know it.”


I stopped. “What the fuck are you talking about?”


“He didn't know your address or your phone number,” he said, with a significant look at me that he thought was conveying something very different from what it was, because all the pieces were coming together for me now, and I could feel this dread uncurling in my stomach.


Because listen. Justin blanking on his social, fine, Justin's not great with numbers, he doesn't need that one all that often, that one's plausible. But our address? No, not even he's going to lose that. And my phone number's on his fucking bracelet, so even if he couldn't remember that, all he needed to do was look at it.


So things were coming together.


I tried very hard to keep my voice steady. “What did you arrest him for?”


“Drunk and disorderly conduct. He was wandering around Central Park.”


Deep breath. Deep breath. “He doesn't drink. He has epilepsy, sometimes after he has a seizure he's—”

don't say violent, I realized right in time, “—confused and argumentative. He's not drunk.”


There were a couple more detectives now, and they were all sort of looking at me in this way that seemed kind of...nervous and guilty, and I didn't like that one fucking bit.


One officer said, “Sir, he vomited in the park—”


“He does that after seizures.”


“He was slurring his words—”


“He's Deaf.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “And after you brought him in he still couldn't answer these questions? What about...twenty minutes later, half an hour? How the fuck long has he been here?”


“Sir—”


“Is he still confused?” I said. “Is he somewhere in this goddamn station and he doesn't know what's going on?”


They looked at each other.


“He has a medical alert bracelet,” I said. “Have you asked him if he needs help? You have to have a fucking doctor here or something, right, has anybody looked at him? How long had he been here before somebody called me?”


One officer said, “He's in a room now with...here,” she said, as another detective came up. “He's been with him.”


I turned to him. “Bring him here to me right now.”


“We have some forms we need him to—”


“No. He's not signing anything, he is confused and scared and this is not his language, he's not doing shit without an interpreter and you have not provided him with one. This is a bullshit arrest and all of you know it now, so give him to me and let me take him home before I sue every single goddamn person who's ever set foot in this precinct.”


“Sir, we still need—”


“Ohhhh you motherfuckers are going to regret this.” I turned to the cop who'd come out of Justin's room. “You go back in there and you sign this, okay? Watch me.” I signed Your husband is here, to him, because my name sign has two handshapes and you can't ask hearing people to do two different handshapes in one sign, their heads explode. “Show it to me.”


He did a passable job signing it and I waved him off and took out my cellphone and called the fuckin' Novotny-Horvaths.


“Get a copy of his arrest report,” Carl said. “That's the first thing you're going to need. They won't have an official report yet, but there should be notes, and they're required to let you see them.”


“I want to see the notes from his arrest,” I said to the officer behind the desk. “Now.”


Carl said, “Brian, you should probably get a lawyer down there.”


“I don't have time to get a lawyer. He's sick and I'm taking him home.” Now that he'd know I was here he'd know not to fucking sign anything, at least, and all these officers were rushing around whispering to each other and I knew they were a minute away from caving and bringing him out here.


The guy behind the desk said, “The notes aren't on official record here.”


“I have the chief of the Pittsburgh police on the line,” I said. “Do you want to hand me the notes or not?”


He did, it turned out, and I thanked Carl and hung up so I could read through them.


Now. Couple things stood out for me here.


First of all, Justin was 'suspect,' throughout, though nowhere could I find where he'd actually done anything besides puke in one of Manhattan's many parks, which I have since looked up and no, that's not a crime.


Second, it mentioned that Justin was “improperly dressed for the weather.”


Third, it said he was, “held on the ground and restrained.”


So that's when it occurred to me that maybe Justin was disoriented not just because he'd a seizure, but because they'd thrown his goddamn concussion-prone skull to the ground.


And the fourth, the time on the arrest notes was 9:13.


It was almost three.


I turned to whoever the fuck was closest to me and I said, in the steadiest voice I could manage. “You hurt him and he didn't fucking do anything. He is sick and he was lost and you hurt him, and if you do not bring me to him right now I will buy this precinct and turn it into a fucking Starbucks, where is my husband?”


Two officers looked at each other, and one nodded to the other. “He's free to go.”


“Bring me to him.”


I followed the detective down a hallway and then another one, feeling like I was choking on my goddamn heart, and then he unlocked a door and there was Justin. He was staring resolutely at the detective across the table from him, all steel and fire, but when the cop looked over at me so did Justin, and his shoulders let go and he started crying, like he knew it was safe now, and fuck, fuck, I was about to fly into pieces, because he looked awful. His cheek was scraped, and he was shivering so hard and all he was wearing was this thin ratty t-shirt. They couldn't have given him a fucking blanket?


I pulled him up and into me, and his skin was like ice. I covered the back of his neck with my palm, just trying to warm whatever of him I could, but I could feel how weak his legs were and I knew standing up this long had to be killing him. I got him back into a chair and got permission from him to use my voice, and then I turned to these two detectives and...maybe I queened out a little bit.


“He has been here for six fucking hours looking like this and none of you motherfuckers thought you might have a bigger problem on your hands than a couple of drinks? And Jesus Fucking Christ, even if he was drunk, this is how you'd treat him, you put him in a fucking frigid cell and let him goddamn freeze, why, because he speaks a different fucking language from you? Fucking look at him! Have you looked at him? What was your goddamn fucking plan if he died in this room, forge his signature on this little fucking contract promising it's not your fault? Because fucking believe me, if he sustained any kind of damage from this, if you harmed a hair on his fucking head—”


Justin was tugging on me, and I signed Hold on, but I stopped and looked down when he said my name, because his voice sounded so fucked up, like it was coming from underwater. His eyes were completely dilated, and he was so shocky, breathing shallow and sweating through his shitty t-shirt.


And he looked straight at me, and he just packed all of the bullshit away and he told me, fearless and honest and goddamn incredible, I've had three seizures since I got here and I can't get warm.


Three seizures. Three fucking seizures, after the initial one, in six hours.


Please can you take me to the hospital? he said.


Do you know how much he fucking hates the hospital? You can't. It is fucking impossible to understand how much Justin hates that place, because no one in the world has as much right to hate it as he does.


“I'm taking him now,” I said to the cops, and we got the fuck out of there without signing a damn thing.


**


The hospital was awful.


I flagged down a nurse I knew and asked her to get Daphne, and everything went really fast: IV fluids to warm him up, a MRI, an EEG, boatloads of anticonvulsants to get him stable. Justin curled up on his bed into the smallest ball he could manage and couldn't fucking explain any of this to me, how the fuck this had happened, what did he need, was he okay.


They hurt him, I said to Daphne, outside his room, signing because it was the only way I wouldn't get thrown out for screaming. They're the fucking goddamn police and I know they're not saints but they're not supposed to fucking...he needed help, he was sick and alone and they hurt him. They took him, they fucking removed him from the goddamn street and took him away and they hurt him.


Slow down, she said. I can't follow when you sign that fast.


He didn't do anything wrong! Why the fuck did they do it? His fucking crime was being disabled in public and they could have fucking killed him, why the fuck did this happen? Why the fuck did they do this to him?


This is the world, she said, forcefully. This is happening all over the fucking country and you think Justin is immune why, because he's white?


Because he's mine!


We are all yours, Brian! Look around at your fucking friends and look at who's getting shot by the police and get your head out of your ass! This is the fucking world, and you stop yelling at a young black woman about it and you get in there and you hold his fucking hand.


So, of course, I screamed at Justin instead.


I don't like myself either, if that helps you.


**


So life went on.


Justin got out of the hospital. I went back to work. Emily went to the studio in the morning and got Justin's wallet and phone, because he didn't want to go, and he wasn't really in any shape to go anywhere at first anyway.


How did it look? I asked her.


Like there was a fight in there, she said. Paint all over the floor.


Jesus.


She started to go, and I said, Are you afraid of the police?


She shrugged and said, Yeah. We all are.


Well. I wasn't.


**


Justin spent the better part of a week sleeping twenty hours a day as he got the seizures and the drugs and the cold he'd caught from that dirty fucking police station out of his system. After that, he worked through it all the way he works through everything. He went to therapy, he painted—not at his studio—and he kept his head down until he was functional again. Justin knows how to get himself through horrible shit happening to him. Lord knows he's done it enough times.


And I just...was so angry I could barely breathe.


I know the obvious read is that I wasn't really mad at Justin, that I was mad at the situation and I was deflecting, but you have to understand that I was really, really fucking goddamn mad at Justin for everything he'd ever done in his fucking life. I was mad at him for having his studio where it was. I was mad at him for moving us to New York. I was mad at him for talking me into this life, talking me into staying, talking me into giving a shit about him, for being born when I was just some sixth-grade fucker sitting in class trying to simplify fractions, for being incandescent and flawless like a fucking diamond, for being sick, for following me out into that fucking parking garage, and for getting arrested.


The fact that none of that is his fault was very inconsequential.


What I'm trying to tell you is that Justin and I were the worst we'd been in a very long time, in the wake of this horrible thing that happened to him, and I knew I was being a fucking asshole, that I was coming home late and yelling at him over nothing and blowing off plans and treating him like shit, and I couldn't stop.


“Jesus Christ, Brian, just get the fuck over it already,” he snapped at me one time. “It happened. It's over.”


But he still wasn't leaving the house, and I was mad at him for that. How fucking dare you tell me not to be angry when you're still scared, because what the fuck else am I supposed to be?


**


Christmas was coming up. Derek and Daph were staying in the city this year, but Justin and I we were going home to finally tell the Pittsburgh people about the baby.


I got on Skype with Michael to work through travel plans while Justin was taking a nap. The cold was hanging on, nothing serious, but it was messing with his sleep and he doesn't function well sleep-deprived.


“How's he doing?” Michael asked me.


“Oh, he's great,” I said. “He went to therapy, worked through everything, now he's all nice and whole and healed.”


Michael quirked an eyebrow. “Isn't that a good thing?”


“Well, world's still the same fucked up place that it was last week, he's just okay with it now, so you tell me if anything's really improved.”


“I know that you're worried about him,” Michael said.


“It's not that I'm worried about him.”


Michael rolled his eyes. “Bullshit you're not. Can you drop the fucking act already? Something really goddamn fucking scary happened to him. He's your partner. Of course you're worried about him. The universe won't end if you admit Brian Kinney has a little soft and fuzzy inside of him, all right?”


I rolled my eyes.


“At least it could have been worse, right?” he said. “I mean, Justin's okay.”


“Sure.”


“Come on, what?”


I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “Remember when we got arrested because you were having your Oedipal crisis over your mom and Horvath?”


“Uh...”


“You were being a genuine fucking jackass to that cop and what did they do to us? They put us in a cell for a few hours and we went home. Nobody shoved you on the ground. Nobody fucking..denied you medical care. Jesus, you know who really got punished that night because we were in jail?'


“Who?”


I shook my head. “Never mind.”


“We had Carl show up and save our asses,” Michael said. “Who knows what would have happened if they didn't.”


“Yeah, well, I know exactly what would have happened to Justin if I hadn't shown up for him.”


“But you will,” Michael said. “You're always going to show up. So it's okay.”


I shook my head slowly. “What the fuck do you think I am? A fucking superhero?”


“Yes,” Michael said.


It's such a mild word, worried.


**


Even if I had some sort of magical ability to always be at the right place for Justin at the right time—and I think we have proven pretty unequivocally at this point that I did not—there was also the the small problem that it wasn't just Justin, which explains why I made a fucking ass out of myself at work about a week after Justin was arrested. We had these two guys from this potential new client come in—spoiler, we would not get them—to meet with Isabel, and I was in the conference room gathering up the comps from the meeting I'd just finished when Emily brought them in before theirs began. She showed them to their seats and gesture-asked them if they'd like anything to drink. She wasn't even signing, just miming, so it's not as if she was speaking her language to them. They shook their heads.


I got their attention. Are these the guys from Bootstrap?


Yeah, what is it, some software thing?


Why isn't Isabel's assistant doing this? I thought Cynthia had you riding billing's ass today.


Because he's useless. Back to work for me.


So while I was just trying to, you know, have a fucking conversation with my assistant about her work assignment for the day, one of these Bootstrap guys turned the other and said, “What is this, you think, some kind of charity program?”


“Yeah, probably a community outreach thing. You can get a tax write-off if you hire handicapped people.”


And, I don't know, my soul temporarily left my body, or whatever the fuck.


“It's disabled,” I said, simcomming.


They startled. “I'm sorry...?”


“It's disabled, not handicapped,” I continued. “And Emily wasn't hired for an exchange program, she was hired because she's the best assistant in this place, which is why she brought you in here and got you settled when it's not even her job, and why she figured out a way to ask you if she could get you anything that wasn't even in her language. And you...what, think that makes her a charity case, because she can't hear the bigoted shit you're spouting?”


Emily signed my name, and there are no honorifics or anything like that in ASL, so technically this could have been a nice respectful Mr. Kinney, but, you know, it was not.


The guy said, “Look, we didn't mean—”


“She gets to have a job and be out in the world,” I said. “Even if it makes you uncomfortable! Fucking imagine that!”


And then Isabel walked in and said, “I'm sorry, is there a problem here?”


So, like I said. We didn't get that client.


Isabel and Cynthia mutually decided that with all the stress I'd been under I could use the rest of the day off. How thoughtful of them. I left our little meeting in Cynthia's office after the client had been, I assumed, ass-kissed ten ways to Sunday, and went to my office to pack up my shit. Emily came in.


What the fuck was that? she said.


I've been excused for the rest of the day.


That's not what I'm talking about. What the fuck were you thinking yelling at that client like that?


I stopped packing. Watch it. I am your boss. Do not talk to me here like I'm your friend.


Oh, so that was you being my boss, not my friend? You could have lost me my fucking job making me look like I'm the oversensitive lamb who needs to be protected against the big bad hearing people.


I shook my head. You wouldn't say that if you knew what they were saying.


I know what they were saying, Brian, I read their fucking lips!


I always forget not everyone is as terrible at that as Justin is.


And people say a lot worse all the fucking time, she said.


Why do people keep fucking telling me that there is other bad shit that could have happened when something fucked up happens! Is that supposed to fucking make me feel better?


She stared me down. I didn't come in here to comfort you, Brian. She fingerspelled my name this time, to remove any damn doubt of what kind of dynamic was going on here.


Yeah, clearly.


What the fuck is going on with you? she said. Something shitty happened to Justin. Stop being a dick to all of us about it. “I'm your boss.” Fuck you.


I sighed.


Go home, she said. Get your fucking head on straight. Stop making yourself miserable over this. It happened. It's over. He's okay.


I looked at her.


We're okay, she said.


And maybe that would have been the magic bullet that fixed everything, maybe that would have been enough, except then I got back to the apartment and expecting to have to explain to Justin what the fuck I'd just done and he wasn't there.


I flicked lights all over the apartment to call him, as if there was any chance I wouldn't have run into him, and I checked the balcony like it wasn't five degrees outside. I checked my watch. A little after two. He had therapy but that ended at eleven.


He'd felt kind of shitty when I left that morning. That cold wasn't letting go. He hadn't had a fever but he could have started running one and when he has a fever he has seizures.


Fuck fuck fuck fuck.


He wasn't answering his phone.


I tried to remember where the fuck his therapist's office was. Uptown somewhere, eighty-something and...fuck. Sixth? Seventh?


I kept calling him, and I was just about to give up and start calling hospitals and goddamn fucking fucking police stations when I heard the door unlock and he walked through the door casual as could be, in his scarf and his white leather jacket, and I held onto the counter so I didn't fucking collapse onto the living room floor.


“Uh, hey,” he said. “What are you doing here?”


Where the fuck were you?


He tugged his gloves off with his teeth, wrinkling his nose against a sneeze. “I went for a walk.”


A walk.


He gave up and sneezed. “Ugh. Yeah.”


You're sick.


Like barely.


It's fucking freezing cold outside.


Coat, scarf, hat, gloves. Are you going to tell me why you're home?


They sent me home for having an emotional outburst.


“Ha.” When I didn't say anything, his brow furrowed. Are you serious?


I shrugged.


“Well, um...are you hungry?”


Why didn't you answer your phone?


Did you call me?


I was trying so, so very hard not to throttle him.


He looked at his phone Oh, it died. I think I need the battery replaced. It keeps going from twenty to nothing in like a second. He went to the bedroom to plug it in, and I followed him like a fucking stalker.


That's all? Oh, it died?


What do you want me to do, prostrate myself? Yeah. It died.


God fucking damn it.


Okay, he said, with that pseudo-patience that he apparently thinks is calming or some bullshit. I get that you're scared, but you need to stop yelling at me. This is getting really old.


Maybe I should go to therapy, I sneered.


Yeah, maybe you should.


Well, we can't all be so sweet and well-adjusted, can we, Sunshine? Can't all just fucking walk around like nothing bad happened. Someone has to fucking take care of shit around here.


I'm not letting you pick a fight with me, he said. And I'm not walking around like nothing bad happened. I'm walking around like...


Like what?


Like there is...I don't know, like there's life after something bad happens.


That's beautiful, I said. That's very touching. Are you writing a book?


Fuck you, Brian.


I knew he'd let me pick a fight with him.


All I asked was for you to stop fucking yelling at me and you're turning it around on me, he said. And you know what? You need to stop fucking yelling. I'm sorry you made it forty-one years without realizing life isn't fair.


Throwing that forty-one shit in my face like he's not the pettiest asshole on the planet. You know what I've been wondering? I asked him.


He sat down on the bed and blew his nose. No.


What if I hadn't picked up the phone that night? What if I'd been in the club, or on the subway?


I don't know, Justin said.


Or what if it it happened when you were out in LA? Or when I was out of town?


I don't know.


Yeah, well, you know what? 'I don't know' is not an option. You need to fucking know.


Do you know? he said. Because if you know, you can go ahead and tell me. I'm fine with letting you get the win on this one.


I glared at him and paced the room.


If you were out of town you...I don't know. You'd tell Daphne and she'd come get me.


Daphne cannot go into a police station and start yelling at people! he said.


He winced. Yeah.


It is just me, do you get that? Look at who our fucking friends are. Look at this fucking family we've...it is just me. If something happens and I'm not there...what the fucking fuck? I am the only person between these people and the fucking world. When did I agree to this fucking responsibility to seven goddamn people?


Justin counted to himself and only got to six.


The baby, I said, small.


Right. He pulled his legs up on the bed. Is that was this is?


It's that, it's this, it's...it's me bringing home hearing people and realizing it reminds you of getting fucking assaulted, it's Molly getting hit by her boyfriend and it's fuckers talking about Emily at work and Daphne at the hospital and it's fucking...everywhere I turn I am just finding out one more fucking terrible thing after another. And it's fucked up. I am supposed to be the source of all the fucking problems in your life.


He laughed. What?


Everything bad that happens to you has always been because of me. And now...


He rolled his eyes. Your ego is fucking unmanageable.


Fuck off, Justin.


He tried to do his signature sigh-through-his-nose thing, but he was too fucking stuffed up.


And you should not be out wandering around right now, I told him.


So what, I stay at home all the time just in case someone arrests me?


You're too scared to go to your fucking studio, don't act like I'm keeping you here against your will.


Fuck you.


I started to leave the bedroom, and he threw an empty water bottle from his nightstand at me. Don't fucking walk away from me.


He should have let me go, honestly. He did not want to fucking talk to me right then. What would you have fucking done in LA, Justin?


I don't know.


That's because there isn't a fucking answer! I said. There is nothing. If I hadn't been there you would have died in that fucking police station.


Do you honestly think I don't fucking know that?


Then stop—


Stop what? he yelled. What the fuck am I fucking doing that I can stop doing? Because I will stop it, do you think at this point I care about my fucking pride or my freedom or my goddamn...tell me what I need to do to stay alive and I will fucking do it, I am scared out of my fucking mind.


You're not acting scared.


Just because I'm not going around fucking screaming at people like a goddamn asshole does not mean I'm not fucking acting scared, Brian! What the fuck should I do, be a fucking dick to my partner like you are?


Yes.


He stood up. Because that's what makes sense to you, but that doesn't...you are not the problem here. I am not the problem. The fucking world is the problem. And you're yelling at me like it's me.


I can't fix the fucking world! I said. I can fix you.


He looked himself over, slowly, then right back at me and held eye contact.


That's low, I said. Even for you, that's fucking low.


Brian.


I promised you, I told him. I fucking promised you.


What are you talking about?


In a goddamn fucking courthouse in fucking New England, is that ringing any bells, Sunshine?


You didn't promise to fucking save the world! Nobody is asking you to fix anything!


I have to! I said. I fucking have to!


Why?


Because I don't know how to exist in a world where you can't! I said. Damn it! Damn it! I kicked the foot of the bed and he flinched. Sorry.


He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away.


I don't know what the fuck to do if I don't fix things, I said. This isn't about me having a fucking complex, I...there is so much fucking bad out there and I don't know how to watch it hurt all of you. I don't know what else I can do for you.


I just want you to tell me it wasn't my fault, Justin said.


So there are moments where your whole life kind of shifts, where reality just...tilts, and that was one of them.


Hang on, hang on, I said. You think I think this was your fault?


He shrugged, barely looking at me.


Do you...Justin, do you think this was your fault?


I...I'm working through it with Lauren, I'm trying...


All right, look. I know you're rolling your eyes. I know you knew Justin needed this a long time before I did, but to be fair you have the benefit of getting his perspective first on this whole epic, and also...well, you're probably a more well-adjusted fucker than I am, congratulations. But I swear to God, it had not occurred to me that Justin thought this was his fault. Sure, he apologized in the hospital, but I thought that was because he thought I was mad at him—which I wasn't, for the record, and yeah, I know what I said back there about all the ways I was mad at him, but don't pretend like you didn't see right the fuck through that, let's not waste any more time here—not because he thought he actually had anything to apologize for.


Look, I know I don't say sweetheart, but...God, sweetheart.


I ran my hand over my mouth. Wow, okay, I really fucked up here, I said.


He looked at me.


It's okay, I've got this. I don't think I've ever been so fucking sure of my ability to course correct a situation, so thank God for small favors, I guess. Come here, I said.


God help me, he hesitated. Probably I shouldn't go around fucking kicking things.


It's okay, I said. I need to hold you, come here.


He came over to me, and I pulled him up to my neck and held him close for a long time, my arms crossed behind his back to pull him all the way in. Okay, Justin. Okay.


I let him go and tilted his chin up so he was looking right at me. This was not your fault.


God, there is nothing in the world as blue as those eyes.


You did everything you could possibly have done, I said. You did everything right. You tried as hard as you possibly fucking could have in a situation you never should have been in, and it was not your fault. This was not your fault.


I could have done better.


No, you couldn't have. I kissed him. You were fucking sick as shit and you did so, so goddamn well.


I didn't even remember our address. I didn't tell them I was Deaf, I...


You, I said forcefully, my finger against his chest. Stayed alive in an unlivable situation until I got there. That was all you had to do. That is all you fucking ever have to do.


You can't always be there to rescue me, he said.


And what the fuck was there to say? No, I couldn't be. It wasn't possible.


There is not an answer to this shit, and if you think that's frustrating...you have no fucking idea.


I leaned my forehead against Justin's and stayed there for a long time.


And in the minuscule space between our faces I signed, Watch me.


**


After sex and showers and dinner, Justin asked me if I'd go to his studio with him. Got to face it sooner or later, he said on the way there. God, I hope I didn't ruin that painting. It was going to be such a fucking great painting.


You might not have been near it when it happened, I said. I hadn't told him Emily said his studio looked like a fucking warzone.


We both needed a minute to collect ourselves when we got there. There was paint everywhere, and a stool knocked over, and a smear on the floor that looked an awful lot like blood, and...God, it was just so fucking easy to form the reenactment, to see Justin seizing here, alone.


I squeezed his shoulder and kissed his cheek and started cleaning up, and he stood there frozen for half a minute before he went over and checked his easel.


I sorted through some of the canvases he had propped against a wall. I don't think any of these got damaged, I said, but he wasn't looking at me.


“Oh, fuck,” he said.


I came over.


“It's fucking ruined,” he said. “Look.”


God, it really was a fucking fantastic painting. He'd learned a lot from Samir last year, and it showed. The perspective was incredible, the foreshortening—he taught me that word—that made it feel like some of the clouds were close enough to touch and some of them were way off in the distance.


And that couple standing on the edge of the cliff, at risk.


Justin touched the canvas underneath them. He must have been working on them when it happened, because there was a long streak of paint coming off of them, jagged and broken and slicing the canvas in half, and through it, a scratch, where Justin's fingernail must have caught the canvas and dragged its way down as he fell.


“Fuck,” he said. “God, it was going to be so good.”


It was a painting about standing on the edge a cliff. About this whole fucking world around you, and then there you are, small, standing on the edge of a cliff. With someone next to you.


And then the world fucking ends.


You have to look at this like an ad man for a second, all right?


Sunshine? I said.


He looked up at me.


I don't know if I should say this, I said. I mean, it's probably insensitive as shit.


What, I ruined my masterpiece?


No, I said. Uh...you need to trust me on this, okay?


Okay...


I pointed to the canvas, too afraid to touch. This is going to make you famous.

 

End Notes:

 

Figured out how to combine part 3 with the Pittsburgh story, so that's next.

Chapter 69 - Tidings by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian and Justin come home for Christmas in the aftermath of "Miranda," with news.

Tidings

LaVieEnRose



Hunter was staying with his girlfriend in Chicago for Christmas, which was a fucking blow, but at least we were getting Brian and Justin. Usually when they come to town they stay at Jennifer's, or sometimes Mel and Lindz's, but Jennifer's place is small and Justin's scary sister Molly was home too, and Lindsay was having her studio redone so their place was kind of a disaster. We spent December 23rd vacuuming and picking up Ivy's toys just for her to stubbornly put them back exactly where they were. Ben walked into the living room a little after six, hanging up the phone. “That was Brian,” he said. “They're dropping off Molly and they're going to say hi to Jennifer, then they'll be here.”


I was at Ivy's play table, helping her draw buttons on her snowman picture. “You ready to see Uncle Brian and Uncle Justin?” I asked her.


“Yeah,” she said. “Do they have presents?”


Ben laughed and kissed the top of her head.


I was looking forward to seeing them; all the shit that had happened to Justin the past few weeks was fucking scary, and I'd just feel better once I could put my hands on him and see he was okay, not to mention talk to Brian and find out how he was actually dealing with this whole mess. Every time we'd talked he'd seemed kind of...edgy, so I was ready for Brian at his Brianest.


He was in his version of a good mood when they got here, though. He smirked at our Christmas decorations and gave me a sloppy kiss while Ben hugged Justin. You look great, Ben said to him. I like the hair.


Yeah, I like to give Brian something to grab.


Brian ruffled Ivy's hair, and Justin wrinkled his nose at me with a smile and held out his arms. I hugged him and kissed his cheek. We missed you, I said to him.


We missed you too. New York's awfully quiet without you all.


Oh, you proud of that joke?


He grinned. Yeah.


How's your mom? Ben asked, kissing Justin's cheek.


“She's good. She's all verklmept about Molly's nose being crooked now.”


What happened to Molly? I said.


“Oh, uh, intramurals at school. She broke her nose.”


Jennifer's being dramatic, Brian said. I broke my nose once, I lived.


When did you break your nose? I said.


Last year, Brian said, catching Justin in a brief headlock. Justin punched me in the face.


“He deserved it, he was in my way,” Justin said.


Brian snickered, then rolled his eyes at our confusion. He caught me with his elbow. He was not conscious at the time.


Ben suggested something for dinner, Justin negotiated, and before long we were all in the kitchen slicing vegetables and getting udon boiled for a stir fry. Justin helped Ivy up on her stool and had her help him wash peppers in the sink.


“This one's called a green pepper,” he said to her. “Makes sense, huh? So what do you think this one is?”


“A red pepper?”


“Yep! Do you know the sign for red?”


She did it; we picked a preschool for her that teaches a little bit of sign language, and we work on it here with her too sometimes. Not as much as we should.


Justin beamed. “Perfect! And this one's a bell pepper, see how it's shaped?”


Brian leaned against the counter, watching them with a smile he couldn't quite hide. Ben came up behind Ivy and kissed the top of her head.


Ivy said, “Justin, your voice sounds funny.”


Ben and I winced, and Justin looked up at Brian for a translation. “No, don't...” I said.


Brian laughed. He knows his voice is funny, he said, and he signed it to Justin.


Justin said, “That's because I can't hear what my voice sounds like! Do you want to try it?”


She nodded, and Justin nodded to Brian, and Brian came behind Ivy and put his hands over her ears. She squealed.


Hi, Ivy, Justin signed to her. Her sign name is an I snaking upwards, like ivy going up a wall.


Hi, Justin, she said.


Brian laughed and took his hands off Ivy's ears. “You have to say it out loud, kid. That's the point.”


“Oh!” she said, and when he put his ears back she said, “Hi, Justin!” and her eyes got all wide. “Hi, Justin!” she shouted, and Brian snickered, dropping his hands. “I heard it the second time,” she said.


“You're better at this then I am, then,” Justin said. Brian pressed a kiss to Justin's cheek on his way to check the stove.


We ate and chitchatted about developments, Ted and Blake's struggles with the adoption process, Ma's adjustment to retirement, Derek and Daphne's wedding planning. Brian did some interpreting, but mostly we made do. Justin's fine speaking out loud to us and he's really fucking patient with trying to figure out what you're saying, and I'm not as embarrassed to make mistakes around him as I used to be. Ben put Ivy to bed and I opened up a bottle of wine, and we sat around the living room and gradually the conversation drifted to what had happened to Justin at the police station. He told us the whole thing out loud while Brian watched, filling in gaps with a few signs when Justin got confused. “It's all kind of jumbled for me,” Justin said. “It's hard to remember what order everything happened in.”


It's so goddamn awful, Ben said. I read about it happening to Deaf guy out in Seattle.


Justin nodded. “I feel really guilty all the time thinking about like...the people who don't have Brians.”


Just do more volunteer work, Brian said. That's what you always do when you feel guilty.


It's true, I do, Justin said.


Are you going to, uh... I tried to figure out how to sign it. Press charges or anything?


Justin looked at Brian, and Brian said, Say it out loud? to me.


No, it's okay, I said, and I just fingerspelled it, even though my fingerspelling's ugly as hell.


“Oh, no, uh...” Justin looked at Brian. “We decided not to do that.”


Seriously? I said. I'd have thought Brian would have fourteen different lawyers on the case already.


Brian reached to the coffee table for the wine bottle and refilled his glass. He's got enough going on right now, he doesn't need the stress. Police and media hounding him and shit. That's how you get seizures. He said it all really casually, but with that kind of look at me that I know means he wants me to shut up.


“To be fair, just about everything seems to be how I get seizures,” Justin said, and Brian gave him a side-eye.


Honestly I couldn't blame Justin for wanting to just pull back and let this blow over, especially when you think about how many times he's been let down by the police, and how the media made a fucking disaster out of the bashing and didn't help him at all. I was just surprised that Brian was letting him drop it. But I guess it goes to show that at the end of the day, Brian's going to put what Justin wants—not to mention Justin's health—above his need for justice. Above anything. And God, as much as I wanted to see those policemen get what they deserved...fuck, it warms your fucking heart, right? Brian Kinney, stepping down for his man? Who would have thought we'd all live to see that.


So what else has been going on, Justin? Ben said. How's the art?


Brian leaned back on the couch, looking smarmy. Yes, Justin, how's the art?


Justin rolled his eyes.


Ask them, Brian said. Get their opinion.


I don't want to talk about it, Justin said.


Well, we have to talk about something.


Justin pulled his legs up on the couch. “Want to do a test run for tomorrow?”


Brian raised an eyebrow. Do you?


Justin grinned. “Yeah.”


What's going on? I said.


Justin turned that smile on us and God, sometimes I swear I don't know how Brian gets anything done. “You know our friend Emily?” he said. “She and her partner are having a baby.”


Oh, that's wonderful, Ben said.


Justin nodded. “She's due in early April.”


So that was nice and all, but they were sitting there with these looks on their faces like there was more to it, and I think it dawned on me and Ben at the same time. We both pointed to Brian and said, Wait, are you—


Brian shook his head, his eyes smiling over his wine glass, and gestured carelessly to Justin.


Justin, holy shit! we exclaimed, and we got off the loveseat and came over and hugged him and kissed him and he beamed and Brian nudged him over and over with his foot until Justin laughed and grabbed it.


“Okay, I know you have questions,” Justin said. “Go ahead, ask the questions. God knows they're not going to be too shy to ask me anything tomorrow, so...prepare me.” Prepare was a little hard to understand—Justin's Rs aren't great—and Brian fingerspelled it quickly, subtly. I don't think he ever has any trouble understanding Justin, but hey we're always having to translate Ivy's lisp for people and I don't get what's so hard to parse out there.


Does anyone know yet? Ben asked.


I mean, our friends in New York. Daphne. And my mom and Molly.


Did you sleep with her? I asked, and Brian cracked up. I think he'd laughed more that night that I'd seen in years, honestly. He was fucking...illuminated.


“I did,” Justin said.


How was it?


“It was okay. I'd recommend her to a friend.”


Do you know the sex of the baby? Ben said.


Justin nodded. “It's a girl. She's excited.”


Name? I said.


“Emily says she knows but she's not telling.”


Which I think is bullshit, Brian said. He got to name Gus, I should get veto power here.


“Emily didn't find that compelling,” Justin said.


It's going to be something weird, Brian said. She's such a weird girl. This baby's going to be named Halicarnassus. We made him fingerspell that a few times before we got it, and I was still lost. Halicar-who?


Whatever she picks is fine, Justin said. It's her baby, I'm just...well, I don't have to explain it to you guys.


I said, So is the baby going to be...


Justin smiled at me encouragingly. “You can ask. You think Debbie's going to be PC? Lay it on me.”


Is the baby going to be Deaf? I said. I don't know how that works.


Justin said, “Sure, so Emily's Deafness is...” He paused and turned to Brian and said, “Actually this is a lot of English for me, can you—”


Sure, Brian said, and he interpreted while Justin signed. “Emily's Deafness is dominant, we're pretty sure, since so much of her family is Deaf. So if she inherited dominant Deafness from one of her parents, she has a seventy-five percent chance of having a Deaf baby. And if she got it from both then it's a hundred.”


How does your disease play into it? Ben asked.


“So my disease is dominant,” Brian said, but, you know, actually Justin. “So there's also a fifty percent chance of her inheriting that.”


“Would that cause any other symptoms if she's already Deaf?” I asked out loud, because fuck if I know the sign for “symptoms,” and Brian signed it.


“No,” Justin said. “The seizures and everything, that's from the bashing. Molly may have had one once but...we don't know. And nobody else in my family has them so we're thinking that's not a big concern.”


So if she's not born Deaf but she does get your disease, I said. She'll lose her hearing when she's an adult?


“No, probably when she's a kid, like three or four,” Justin said. “I'm a weird case, they don't actually know why it took me so long to lose mine.”


Bad luck, Brian said, which I figured was sarcastic because I mean...not losing it until you're an adult seems like pretty good luck to me, but Justin said, Yeah, seriously.


I didn't understand at that point why Emily didn't just adopt—I mean, adoption's great, look at Ives—if the odds were so great that she was going to have a Deaf kid, and even though I'd understand it more after everything that would go down the next day...I'll be honest, I still don't totally get it. I mean, I have three kids, and it just seems to me that when you love a kid, you want it to have the easiest life possible. I have a sick kid, and Hunter's doing great and everything but...God, I worry about him constantly. I don't understand bringing a kid into the world you know is going to be disadvantaged. It seems like you should give them the best shot they can get.


I figured maybe it was hard for two Deaf lesbians to adopt. Ben and I didn't have the easiest time, and Ted and Blake here hitting walls everywhere they looked. Maybe this was their only choice.


We stayed up for a while longer, thinking of the most ridiculous names Emily could pick for the baby: my favorites were Mercury, suggested by Ben, and no English name at all, only a sign name, suggested by Justin. Justin got tired pretty early—he'd been sneezy, and at first I thought we didn't vacuum well enough or something, but Brian said he was getting over a cold—and he headed to bed. Brian mentioned once that ever since that concussion last winter, Justin has a headache all the time. Literally all the time. I can't even imagine that, so I kind of just choose to believe that Brian's exaggerating.


Ben had to get some work done on his manuscript, so he kissed me and said goodnight to Brian and disappeared into the study, and Brian pulled a joint out of his pocket and raised his eyebrows, and a minute were out on the upstairs balcony in the bitter goddamn cold, staring up at a clear sky and sharing a joint. And I thought back to twelve fucking years ago, Brian and I on a rooftop, and a baby. God, that was the night we met Justin. Twelve years.


Brian was just as beautiful as he'd always been, his profile cut by the light bleeding out from the hallway, a calmness in his face that never used to be there, and I knew it wasn't just the weed.


“I was expecting you to be a mess,” I admitted. “You'd been sounding really stressed on the phone.”


He let out a mouthful of smoke, drawing some of the cold night air back into his lungs. “It's never as hard as it's supposed to be,” he said softly.


I didn't know what the fuck to make of that, so I just said, “So how about this fuckin' baby?”


He smiled, just a little. “How about it.”


“Who would have thought. You and Justin having a baby.”


“Hang on,” he said. “Justin and I are not having a baby.” He always signs Justin's name when he says it. Two taps by your mouth, for that smile. “Justin is having a baby.”


“Oh, so you're not going to love it?”


He gave me an incredulous look. “Of course I'm going to love it, what the fuck does that have to do with anything? That doesn't make her my kid. Christ, of course I'm going to love Justin's kid.” He shook his head and reached for the joints. “You people and your fuckin' boxes.”


Whatever. Brian Kinney just used the word 'love' twice in one breath like it was nothing.


I said, “Is he really not going to at least file a complaint or something?”


“About what, the baby?” he said, fake-bored.


“Brian.”


“Mikey,” he mocked, and then he shook his head and looked out over the backyard. “I told you, he has enough on his plate. He doesn't need them trying to twist it around and craft some narrative where it's his fault. He's supposed to be avoiding stress, so...he's avoiding stress.”


“And that's fine with you. Letting them get away with this, you're just going to let Justin drop it.”


“He has to think about his health,” Brian said.


“I'm sure you could talk him into it, I mean...doesn't he want to make sure this doesn't happen to somebody else?”


“Leave it,” Brian said, and that that was the end of the conversation.


We talked a little bit about plans for tomorrow—Brian and Justin were going to Mel and Lindz's in the morning to see them and Gus and Justin's brother Luke, who's about the same age as J.R. and plays with her all the time, and then we had our traditional Christmas Eve dinner at Ma's where they were going to break the news to everyone else about the baby—and after a while Brian's ears pricked up and he stopped in the middle of a sentence and snubbed out the joint.


“What?” I said.


He turned on his heel and went back inside without a word, and I followed him down the hall and to the guest room. “Oh, hey...” I said, because Justin was balled up really small, taking these fast breaths, and Brian knelt by the bed and motioned for me to stay by the door.


Brian rested his hand on Justin's hip and shook him, and Justin flinched and flailed, and I wondered if maybe it was a nightmare, not a seizure, when Justin punched him in the face. Brian stayed out of his way this time and sat Justin up on the side of the bed, and Justin kept breathing fast, shaking his head back and forth. Brian turned the light on by the bed and signed a little to him, but his back was to me so I couldn't see what he was saying. Justin signed yes, and then no, and then covered his face with his hands, and Brian nodded and pushed his hair out of his eyes, keeping his hand cupped around the back of Justin's head.


I said, “Brian, can I get anything?”


He shook his head. “He just needs a minute,” he said, his voice calm. “He'll go back to sleep.” He signed Fine, on Justin's chest, and Justin took one hand off his face to close his fingers around it. Brian leaned forwards and kissed the edge of his mouth. He got Justin lying back down a minute later, signed something that made Justin laugh a little, and a minute later Justin was snoring.


Brian looked at my face and snorted. “Yeah, that's his superpower nowadays. Sixty to zero in three seconds.” He glanced at Justin. “I should probably lie down with him, we don't want him...y'know, yelling, waking up the kid.”


Because, you know, God forbid that he admit that he just wants to lie down with him. I have no idea how Justin puts up with this.


“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I should go check on her anyway.”


I checked on Ivy—fast asleep—and then on Ben—practically asleep on top of his laptop, so I nudged him up to bed—and did one more pass by Brian and Justin on my way to bed. Brian was still awake, scrolling through his phone, probably answering a work email or two before bed.


His head was propped up on Justin's chest, and the way Justin's arm was around him looked almost...protective.


I've witnessed Brian getting blown by three guys at once, but I'm pretty sure that's the most intimate way I've ever seen him.


**


Everything was normal in the morning. Ben and I got Ivy fed and dressed while Justin and Brian bickered about Justin never being ready on time and Brian never eating a vegetable. They left to go to Mel and Lindsay's and I went to the shop—I was closing early, but you gotta get those last minute Christmas sales—while Ben took Ivy to the park for a few hours.


They were back and Ivy was down for her nap and I was already home from closing up the shop when Brian and Justin got home, shaking snow off themselves. Coffee, Justin said, shivering, and immediately started fixing some, and Brian kissed my cheek and asked me why the fuck I'd let Gus do that to his hair, couldn't he count on me for anything?


How's Luke? I asked Justin.


Justin shook out a filter. “He's good. I wish his signing was coming along faster, but it's not bad. We need to tell Gus to sign with him more,” he said to Brian, and Brian nodded.


How well does he hear? I asked Justin.


“I don't know, it's hard for me to conceptualize,” he said, and I couldn't miss Brian biting back a smile at the way Justin totally butchered the word. “He can talk one-on-one with someone without trouble if it's somewhere quiet, but he has trouble in group conversations or if he can't see someone's lips. And his grades aren't good, and I think that's why, because he's a really smart kid.”


I've been reading about...how do you sign it? What he has? Ben said, taking out sandwich supplies for lunch.


“Cochlear implants?” Justin said. “That...depends on how you feel about them. Some people just do CI, like this, that's neutral. Or you can do it all gently with two fingers, if you like them...or there's this.” He curved two fingers in hooks and smacked them behind his ear. “Like a snakebite.”


Deafies are vivid, Brian said. Ask him how to say abortion.


Ben said, Yeah, I was reading that the Deaf community is really against the implants?


Justin made an ehhh face. “It's not that clear cut. It's more the attitude around it than the device itself. I probably would have gotten one if I'd been a candidate.”


But you're glad you didn't, right? I said.


Brian watched Justin.


“I don't know,” Justin said. “I guess so, since I probably never would have bothered learning to sign and making my Deaf friends if I'd gotten one. And that's the problem, is people get CIs, babies get them, and then the parents decide okay, that's it, they're fixed now, and instead they have a kid who's struggling to keep up in the hearing world but doesn't get all the positives of being Deaf. He's just nowhere. But if I could get one now, with no risks, and still get to keep signing and have everything I have now? Yeah, I'd consider it.”


I didn't know that, Brian said.


Justin shrugged a little. “It's not like it matters.”


True.


“But I know who I am,” Justin said. “I know that I'm Deaf even if I get some sound back. It would just...make life a little easier. It wouldn't change who I am. So I mean...I don't have as much of a problem with them as a lot of Deaf people. But I grew up hearing, my perspective's different.”


So if it were up to you, if your baby's born Deaf, what would you do? I said.


Justin laughed a little, and poured some coffee. “Not up to me.”


But if it were.


“I don't know. I'd definitely consider it. But that baby would still be growing up signing, going to Deaf school, knowing its history, knowing that it's Deaf. If it gets all that and it can hear enough to be safer...I don't know. Sounds like the best of both worlds.” He sipped his coffee. “But it's not breaking my heart that we're not doing it.”


Emily would never consider it? Ben asked, and Justin and Brian both laughed.


“Emily is third-generation Deaf,” Justin said. “Emily wouldn't speak out loud if you put a gun to her head. She puts the pride in Deaf pride. And the Deaf.”


I shook my head a little, and I swear I was trying to be subtle, but Justin so caught me.


“Aw, come on,” he said. “It's nice to be Deaf! I promise.”


Yeah, I know, I said, even though I didn't, really. And I get Emily wanting to have her own kid, but she really wants a Deaf kid? Like...if she could choose?


Justin nodded, and Brian said, I'd want a Deaf kid. I'm thinking of doing something to Gus.


Justin ignored him and we started making sandwiches. “Most people want kids like them,” Justin said after a minute. “Mel wanted Jewish kids, Daph and Derek want a black kid. It's...yeah, it's a harder life, but you're passing down culture, history, richness. It's harder, but it's fuller.”


I mean, that's the same as being gay, though, I said. And I don't care if my kids are gay.


Justin thought about that. “That's different, I think. Being gay is something everyone kind of does alone at first, and then you find your people. It's not passed on, it's not family.”


But your family isn't Deaf, Michael said. I mean, except for Luke.


“Again.” Justin spread mustard on a slice of bread. “This is about Emily, not me.”


The kid would still be in the Deaf community though, right? Ben said. Even if it was hearing?


Justin looked at Brian. “You want to take this one?”


It's not the same, Brian said. You're in, but...it's not the same.


You'll always be Deaf to me, Justin said, and Brian swatted him on the ass.


I just... I started, and Brian said, Oh, Christ, Michael, give it a rest.


Justin held up his hand. It's okay. What is it?


I just don't know why you'd choose to bring a kid into the world who's going to definitely have a harder life, I said.


Justin leaned back against the counter. “Disabled people don't wish that we weren't born,” he said. “I think people get the idea that...we're taking this hypothetical kid who could be abled and choosing to have it be disabled instead, or something. But this baby's either going to exist as a disabled person or it's not going to exist at all. That's the choice, not abled or disabled. Disabled or nothing.” He smiled a little, eyes on Brian. “We like being alive.”


Brian stuck his tongue in his cheek.


**


Brian wanted to drive separately to Ma's, but Ben said it was wasteful and Justin said he didn't mind riding bitch between between Brian and Ivy's carseat, so he was overruled and we piled into the SUV and headed over for Christmas Eve dinner. Ben was driving, and Ivy was reading her sheep book, and Brian and Justin were having some signed conversation that seemed way to small and fast to even be real. I wasn't catching a damn thing, but they were cracking each other up with whatever it was. Justin rested his head against the seat and just kind of looked at Brian, all this warmth in his eyes, and Brian scrunched up his nose and signed something that made Justin laugh and hide his face in his hands.


Jesus Christ. And it kind of occurred to me then...God, when was the last time I'd been around these two when there wasn't some kind of crisis happening? Nobody tells you about the day-to-day stuff, so you kind of fill in the blanks yourself, and I don't know. Most of the updates I get from up there are crisis and sickness and tragedy and I guess that's just how I've filled in the blanks of what I wasn't seeing. More of the same. I'd turned Brian into this sainted hero, Justin into this tortured martyr but...I mean not to get to Ma about it, but around all the drama, Christ, were they just fucking flirting with each other all the time?


And then, of course, we got some drama, because a mile or two away from Mom's, lights started flashing in the rearview and I heard a siren chirp.


“Fuck,” I said, while Ben pulled over. “Were you speeding?”


“No, it's that damn taillight. I told you we should have gotten it fixed.”


I turned around to check on Ivy as Ben parked the car. She was fine, but Justin had a death grip on Brian's hand, and they weren't laughing any more.


Don't sign, Brian said to him, small. No sudden moves.


I know.


I started to ask Justin if he was okay, but Brian snapped, “Don't sign, just turn around,” so I did. But I caught Justin's eye in the rearview and mouthed, “It's okay,” and he nodded a little. God, I couldn't even imagine how freaky this must be for him. He was squeezing the fucking life out of Brian back there and what, you think I blamed him?


The cop walked up to Ben's window and told us about the taillight and asked for Ben's license. Justin was watching him intently, and Brian's hand that Justin wasn't gripping was rested on Justin's knee, signing OK OK OK over and over.


“Hi!” Ivy said from her carseat, and the officer flashed her a smile before he turned back to Ben.


“Could I see your license and registration, please?” he said, and Ben handed them over, and the officer signed his flashlight on the license and said, “Novotny-Bruckner? As in Debbie Novotny?”


“That's my mother-in-law,” Ben said. And, of course, the chief of police's wife, and this guy knew it.


He handed back the license and said, “Get that taillight fixed, all right?”


“Yes sir,” Ben said. “Merry Christmas.”


“To yours as well,” he said, and he went back to his car.


“We are getting that fixed on Monday,” Ben said to me.


“Yeah, yeah.” I looked into the backseat to check on Justin. He looked okay, but Brian was still holding his hand.


See? Justin said to him. It's okay.


Oh.


**


We got to Ma's, and everyone immediately pounced all over Brian and Justin and covered them in hugs and kisses and generally ignored me and Ben, but Ma, as always, greeted Ivy like she hadn't seen her in years, even though she watches her three times a week, and then Ivy ran off to follow JR around, like always. I said hi to Molly and to Jennifer, who I hadn't seen in a couple weeks, and Mom fussed over Justin and said he looked skinny and ushered everyone in to eat. We all crowded around the living room, sitting on the floor and piled on the couch and in mismatched chairs, just the way it always is when there's this many of us. I wondered if Emily and her partner and the baby would be here next year.


Justin and Brian maybe thought they'd wait for a lull in the conversation to announce it, or something, but of course that never came. Everyone was having conversation on top of conversation, some signed, most not, and Justin kept looking back and forth between people trying to follow what was going on. Eventually Brian waved his hands above his head until people looked over and said, Justin has an announcement to make.


“What was that?” about half of us mumbled, and the other half jumped on top of each other to translate it.


Will you interpret? Justin asked Brian.


You don't want to speak?


Justin shook his head.


Yeah, okay. Go ahead.


Justin signed, and Brian said, “My friend Emily and her partner are expecting a baby, and I'm the father.”


Everyone kind of erupted with “Brian, that's great!” and Brian rolled his eyes so far they almost fell out of his head.


Not me, Brian, he said. Christ, I'm interpreting. Justin. Justin is the father.


Still counts! Gus said. Still mine, I call it. He rested his chin on Justin's knee and looked up at him plaintively. Tell me it's a boy.


Justin wrinkled his nose, and Gus groaned and banged his forehead against Justin's leg. Justin laughed and put his hand in Gus's hair.


Lindsay said, “And the baby's...healthy?” Brian captured the pause in his interpretation.


Well, she's negative four months old, Justin said, while Brian spoke. But yeah, everything looks fine. She's even measuring a little big for her age.


Carl said, “Emily's partner, is he, uh,”


Brian fingerspelled, he to Justin.


“She,” Justin said. “Gwen.”


Melanie high-fived Lindsay.


“Is she hearing?” Carl asked.


Justin watched Brian and shook his head.


“How does that work exactly?” Ted said. “Like...how do you know if it's crying?”


They make baby monitors that flash when they pick up noise, Justin said.


“But that can't tell between the different kinds of cries,” Lindsay said. “Babies cry differently when they're hungry, when they're in pain, when they're scared...”


Deaf people have been having babies for thousands of years, Justin said. We make it work.


Lindsay said, “So when will you know if the baby is Deaf?”


They'll do it at the hospital, Justin said. Right after she's born.


“Is that something that you...that you and Emily are concerned about?”


Molly got up and left the room.


Um...we'll be fine either way, Justin said. But we're hoping for a Deaf baby.


Everyone went kind of quiet.


Drew said, “Wait...you want the kid to be Deaf?”


“Most moms want their kids to be like them!” Brian burst, signing while he spoke. “This is not revolutionary!” He turned to Justin. Sorry.


It's okay. Justin looked really tired.


Can I— Brian said, and Justin nodded, and Brian started speaking while he signed again. “Did you know that Deaf people have hundreds of years of storytelling traditions? Story formats that don't exist outside of the Deaf community? Stuff that has been quite literally handed down from generation to generation.”


“Okay...” Emmett said.


“So there's history,” Brian said. “There's tradition. There's stuff that you're born to inherit. Emily loves her life. Justin loves his life.” Brian looked at Justin. Yeah?


He nodded, watching Brian so intently.


She's going to love her life, Brian said to him.


Ted said, Justin, what about your seizures?


“What about my seizures?” Justin said out loud, sounding exhausted as fuck.


I mean, are you worried...


Justin took a deep breath and, to my surprise, put a smile on his face. “She's not even born yet, and we have a whole room full of people worrying about her,” he said. “I think no matter what, she's going to be okay.”


I want to take him home soon, Brian signed to me, small.


Yeah, okay, I said.


**


We used Ivy as an excuse and left early, with promises we'd see everyone tomorrow for Christmas morning, and drove home. Ben put Ivy to bed, and Brian gave Justin a pill and stuck by his side on the way up the stairs. “Can you keep an eye on him for a minute?” he asked me, after he'd left Justin in their room. “I need a cigarette, and he wants me to call Emily and check in.”


“Yeah, he okay?”


“Yeah, the headaches get bad sometimes,” he said, while he filled a bag up with ice. “It happens a lot after crowds...all the lights and movement to him, it's like noise to us. Migraine trigger.”


“Not that Ma's house isn't noisy to us.”


“Christ, true.”


“I can't imagine everyone jumping down his throat helped either.”


“Yeeeeah, no.” He handed me the bag. “Bring him that.”


“Yeah, okay.”


Brian went outside, and I knocked softly on the guest room door like a fucking moron before I remembered, oh yeah, and went in. Justin had changed into sweats and was lying on top of the covers, but he must have felt my footsteps because he opened his eyes before I got to the bed. “Hey.”


Hey, doing okay?


“Yeah, it's just a headache. Sorry, I'm an awful guest.”


Please, we were all dying to get out of there.


He took the ice from me and held it on the back of his neck.


Justin, are you okay? I said after a minute.


“Yeah, I told you, it's just—”


Not that.


He nodded a little. Yeah, I'm okay.


It must be so fucking exhausting, I said.


“What exactly?”


This, I said. Us.


He was quiet for a minute. “It's just that I have to do it over and over,” he said eventually. “I don't mind the questions, but no one ever learns. No one ever listens. And then even if they do, there's always someone else. It's just...” He shrugged. “It never ends. I get really tired.”


You did a really great job tonight, I said.


He shrugged. “Brian did.”


Oh, and where'd Brian learn about Deaf storytelling, the history channel?


Justin smiled and blushed a little. I started to go, and I was almost out the door when he said, “Do you think he's happy?”


I turned around.


I just...he seems happy, right? Justin said. Do you think he's happy?


I said, Justin, I don't think I've ever seen him this happy in my life.


Justin nodded. He seems really happy.


It is...stunning how much he loves you.


Justin's face broke into a smile, despite the headache. “I know, right?”


**


And look, just in case you don't believe me, the next morning Brian woke up before Justin, and he was in the kitchen drinking coffee while Ivy bounced around and screamed about Christmas, and I was just going to ask if Brian thought Justin would be up soon when Brian perked up at a sound on the stairs, and a minute later Justin came up behind Brian and wrapped his arms around him, and Jesus, the fucking smile that flashed across Brian's face, just for a second, just for half a second...I swear to God, you will never see anything that beautiful.


He's so goddamn beautiful.


Ivy was dying to go to Ma's and get the presents part of the day started, but we could all tell Justin was still feeling a little sketchy, so we stalled her by letting her open up her new art set so he had some time to kind of stretch and eat something and prepare himself. He ended up on the floor next to Ivy, helping her draw different kinds of fruits. She's really into that right now. And then at one point he said, without looking up, “Brian, tell them about the painting.”


Yeah?


“Yeah, I want their opinion.”


So Brian leaned back on the couch with a cup of coffee and told us about this painting Justin had been working on when he had his seizure before he got arrested, and how it was originally this really stunning piece about risk and trust and companionship at the edge of the world, and when you combine that with the fact that it was damaged by his seizure, that the actual canvas was ripped by his fingernail, it became this really visceral, scary like...tribute to epilepsy, to how everything can just go wrong in a second.


So you add in the story about the arrest, Brian said. And...this painting is a blank check. It's a career.


“It's a career based on being a disabled artist,” Justin said. “It feels sleazy.”


There's a whole community of Deaf artists doing art based on being Deaf, Brian said.


“Yeah, but I don't like that art.”


Still, it's an established niche.


“That's just it,” Justin said. “It's a niche. And something like this feels like...like I'm pushing this narrative about how sad it is to be sick. It feels like a step back for us.” He looked up at Ben. “What do you think?”


I think... Ben started, and then stopped and looked at Brian. Will you interpret? I want to get this right.


Sure, Brian said.


Ben said, “I think there's definitely the issue that the prevailing narrative of illness for so long has been that despair, the tragedy, the victimhood. And because of that, now we have the counternarrative, celebrating it, embracing illness.”


Justin nodded. But then that's still a single story.


“Exactly,” Ben said. “It's just as incomplete as only showing the misery, but we hated the misery storyline so much—and who could blame us—that we've convinced ourselves that painting a picture of all sunshines and roses is the ultimate goal. When really it's a stepping stone. So maybe you're beyond it. Maybe you can have those nuanced conversations when people ask you about it. Talk about the good and the bad.”


“So what's the goal then?” Justin said. “What's the narrative we're supposed to try for? What's going to feel right?”


“I think ultimately it's not to have to fit a narrative at all,” Ben said. “To stop being stories and just be people.”


Justin looked at Brian. “Is that what you think?”


I think this has taken so fucking much from you, Brian said. I think you get to take back whatever you can.


Justin kept his eyes on him. “I'll talk to my agent about it,” he said. “But I'm going to file a complaint against the police department.”


Huh.


Brian sighed. Justin...


“I'll take care of myself,” he said. “But that's taking something back too.”


I...cannot have them hurt you again.


He shrugged. “That's the deal, take it or leave it.”


Damn it, okay. God, you're impossible. Come here.


No, I have to go get dressed for Christmas.


Okay, well will you borrow a warmer coat from Michael, please? I hate your fucking ratty thing.


Fine, fine.


I went to the closet with Justin to find something while Ben put Ivy's new fruit drawing up on the fridge. You know, I said to Justin. You're going to be a great dad.


Justin blushed. “You think?”


Please. You can handle Brian Kinney, I said to him. I think you can manage a baby.


He smiled.

 

End Notes:

I have the next SIX stories planned, aren't you proud

Chapter 70 - Typical by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

What a normal, non-crisis day looks like for the Taylor/Kinney household nowadays.

Typical

LaVieEnRose




8:05 AM


I woke up to the feeling of Brian's nose against my cheek, and I raised my chin to meet my lips with his without opening my eyes. My head was pounding, but just softly in the background, nothing unmanageable. I smiled and hummed as Brian's lips moved down to my throat, and I just lay there feeling every bit of that for a minute before I felt awake enough to open my eyes and start my day with some naked Brian.


He was not naked, so that sucked. He was already in his suit, every hair in place, his briefcase in one hand and my meds in the other. I frowned a little as I sat up. I don't get up every morning when Brian does, but I usually do, and I make coffee and force him to eat a piece of fruit and, you know, straighten his tie and chit chat with him about what's in the paper, suck him off if we have time. It's kind of stupid, but I like it. And even if I don't feel up to getting out of bed first thing, I almost always wake up when he does, and, you know, throw things at him from my sick bed until he agrees to eat a piece of fruit.


I didn't even feel you get up, I said.


He nodded, handing me my pills and a glass of water. Yeah, you were really sleeping. He kissed me after I'd taken them. You okay?


Yeah, just tired.


Okay. He nuzzled the side of my head and gave me a rough kiss on the ear. I've got to run, I have that hardware meeting at nine.


I yawned. Kinky.


What are you doing today?


I have lunch with my agent, and therapy later. And I want to go to the studio and get some work done. I yawned again, Christ. And sleep.


He laughed. Okay. Text me if you want me to bring home dinner.


No, I'll make something. I flopped back down on the pillows. Bye, darling.


He pulled the comforter all the way up over my head on his way out the door.


**


8:32 AM


I woke up to my phone buzzing under my pillow, and I groaned as I unearthed it. Brian, it informed me, along with a picture of Brian slack-jawed on a pillow with the worst bedhead you can possible imagine. He's always threatening to delete that picture off my phone when I'm sleeping. As if I couldn't get another one in a second! He' bitches at me about snoring but he's the one who drools everywhere. No wonder he's never let guys sleep over. He's so embarrassing. All of Pittsburgh and half of New York would have blackmail material.


I hit accept and there he was sitting at his desk, still looking perfect. And guilty. He shined this big smile at me. I prefer the drooling version to this bullshit.


Noooo, I fingerspelled, with plenty of Os.


He kept smiling. Hi. My lovely partner. The apple of my eye. My sweet, sweet Justin.


I glared at him.


He said, You look really nice today, did I mention?


God, enough. What did you forget?


The file for this meeting. It's on my desk.


And when can I expect Emily here to pick it up? I said, mimicking that simpering fucking smile of his.


The meeting's at nine, he said. She doesn't have time to get there and back.


I hauled myself out of bed. I swear, I am going to start stapling your fucking belongings to you—


Take the train, it'll be faster.


Fuck you, I'll take whatever I want. It was going to be the train. It was faster.


You're gorgeous! Hurry your lazy ass up! he said, and I rolled my eyes and hung up.


**


8:45 AM


I was reading through this file on the subway because good Lord was I bored and I had nothing else to do, but wow, this file was just making me bored-er. I have no idea why Brian likes his job.


The woman next to me tapped me on the shoulder and made a face like she was asking me for a favor. I got “I'm sorry,” at the beginning and that was it.


I signed, Sorry, Deaf. Most people recognize the sign for Deaf, or at least can suss it out. Or maybe they just use good deductive reasoning skills to figure out why someone is signing at them.


She kind of stumbled over what looked like an apology, like people usually do.


I cleared my throat. “Do you need directions?”


She nodded.


“Here, I have this...” I took out my phone and opened it up to the subway app.


She crowded in close to me to look at it. “Oh, thank you. Um...”


I showed her the sign.


Thank you, she said, and I smiled at her.


**


8:51 AM


I waved to Emily and kissed my fingers and tapped them on her stomach on my way to Brian's office and walked backwards down the hall so she could go on and on reminding me about her ultrasound appointment tomorrow. I backed straight into Steve, one of the social media guys, and he gave me this suuuuuper irritated look and Emily had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from cracking up. I made a face at her and imitated Steve's pissy walk the rest of the way to Brian's office.


“Help has arrived!” I announced, arms spread wide.


Brian raised any eyebrow.


I spun in a circle. “It's J.T., here to save to save our intrepid hero!”


Brian shook his head. That was too many Rs. You need to ration yourself.


“Neverrrrr!”


He held out his hand for the file and I brought it over. Thank you, he said.


Yeah, yeah.


He gave me a nauseatingly sincere look. Have I mentioned lately that I love you?


I don't know, you say it so often, who could possibly keep track.


He snickered. Seriously, you saved my ass with this. So, take your pants off.


Your meeting's in...seven minutes.


Is that a challenge?


I do believe it is, Mr. Kinney.


He yanked me around to his side of the desk.


**


9:48 AM


I stopped for coffee on my way back home. The barista I know wasn't there, and instead it was some kid who looked barely out of high school. I typed up what I wanted on my phone and showed it to him, and he asked me a question, looking down at the register.


I said, Sorry, I'm Deaf, but he wasn't looking at me. He asked it again, so I took my phone and typed, could you write it down? I'm Deaf, but before I could show it to him he rolled his eyes and motioned to the next person in line.


My coffee wasn't what I ordered, but I drank it anyway.


**


10:11 AM


Sleep.


**


12:20 PM


“So the Village Voice wants to do a write-up on this,” Annie, my agent said, while I watched the interpreter. “They've been wanting to do a feature on artists with disabilities and they think this is the perfect lynchpin.”


Disabled artists, I corrected.


“I'm sorry?”


I shrugged. Never mind.


“And there's an Epilepsy Advocate magazine and they want to talk to you. I think it's possible we could talk them up to a cover story. I'm going to do my best.”


I want to make sure they show a few of my other paintings too, I said. The train tracks, the big canvas. Maybe one of the Brian ones. So I don't come off like some sort of...one-trick epilepsy pony.


“I completely agree with you,” Annie said, and I took a deep breath and nodded.


**


1:35 PM


My phone started flashing while I was mixing up the perfect shade of cerulean. Brian again. I put my paintbrush in my mouth and answered.


He was walking down some sidewalk. Hey, where are you? he said.


I looked sloooooowly around the studio. Hmm, paint, painting clothes, paintbrush, painting...


He rolled his eyes. Turns out I have to meet a client in Manhattan for lunch. I'm up by seventieth and seventh. Come meet me and fuck me in the bathroom.


I took my paintbrush out of my mouth and made a “Pshh,” noise, hopefully. “No, but you can come meet me and fuck me at the studio.”


He glared at me.


I went all the way out to your office for you today already! I said. Your turn.


He kept glaring and hung up.


**


2:40 PM


Brian waltzed into my studio like fuckin' sexual energy incarnated and slammed his mouth against mine. Fucker would not shut up, he said, working the buttons on his shirt. Fucking droning on and on about his awful marketing ideas...


Clients are the worst, I agreed.


He lifted me up by my thighs and set me on one of my tables and searched the hollow of my throat with his tongue. I tilted my head back and took a deep breath.


What time's therapy? he asked, without taking his mouth off me.


“Not until four, we're fine.”


He kissed me, hands around my ears. How was lunch with Annie? He pulled his shirt off.


“I'm gonna be an Epilepsy Magazine cover boy.”


Good. He tugged my shirt over my head.


“Is it?”


Every mom with an epileptic kid's going to want one of your paintings. Show their kid what they can do. Your hand's going to fall off.


“My poor epileptic hand.”


That's my boy, Brian said, and he shoved me down on my back, one hand so, so carefully cupped around the back of my head.


**


4:28 PM


So I can't really sort this out, I said. I don't know if this is just an internalized ableism thing I need to work through, or if it makes sense to be worried that this could really damage my career and set me up as someone whose paintings you buy when you want to support a cause, not when you want an actual great piece of art.


I think there's a difference between how Brian and your agent are looking at it, and how you are, Lauren said. They're looking to market you, you're looking to market your art. Neither of those is wrong, but it's something you're going to have to figure out how you want to negotiate.


They know what works, I said. It's their job.


Have you stopped to think about what your goals are, as an artist? she said. Do you want to be famous?


I paused. I always...assumed I did. I mean, doesn't everybody?


Many people, sure.


I want people to hear what I have to say, I said. So to speak.


She smiled a little.


But there's a lot more I want to say besides “epilepsy is sad and scary.” Disability-positive stuff. Stuff that has nothing to do with disability at all. So if this is just a foot in the door, that's fine, but what if I...


She waited.


What if this becomes all I am? she said.


How could it?


I don't know. What if all anyone will buy from me are seizure paintings?


Then you stop selling them, she said.


I thought about it.


What's going to happen to you? she said. If you give this a shot, decide you don't like where it's going, and say, okay, no more epilepsy talk, no more Deaf talk, I won't make these paintings anymore, I won't take these questions.


Then the audience goes away.


But it wasn't an audience for what you wanted to say anyway. So you're not really losing anything.


My agent would be mad, I said.


Your agent works for you.


Still.


She waited. Would Brian be mad?


I shook my head. Brian would understand. He doesn't care if I make money.


So, really, what's the worst that could happen?


I shrugged and picked a loose thread off a pillow.


You get caught up, she told me. It wasn't the first time. You worry about worst-case scenarios that you can't even put a finger on, just an abstract sense of dread that the worst could happen. But you have to look at what the worst really is. What's going to happen if your agent's mad at you? Do you think she'll hurt you?


No, of course not. I shook my head. I just feel like any time something slightly bad happens I'm just going to die, or something.


Or anytime there's the possibility of something bad happening.


Yeah.


So all the time, she said gently.


I sighed. Yeah.


**


5:33 PM


Sleep.


**


7:25 PM


I woke up feeling awful, just dizzy and nauseous and useless, and it took me a few deep breaths before I felt like I could sit up and ease myself out of bed. I stretched my my arms while I walked out to the kitchen to get started on dinner. Jambalaya, because you have to trick Brian into eating vegetables like he's a four-year-old.


He got home while I was sauteing the onions and bell pepper and celery and came up behind me in the kitchen, nuzzling behind my ear. I turned around and kissed him, just quick at first, but it never stays quick with us. He ran his hands through my hair and down my back, digging his fingertips into the sorest muscles. He can always find them.


How was your day? I asked him.


He nodded, skimming his fingers under my shirt. Good day. Hardware meeting went well. Hired a new mail room manager. Emily let me feel the baby kick. He kissed my cheek. She's like you in your sleep. Squirmy. He tucked my hair behind my ears. How are you?


I'm good.


Good. I need a shower.


I gestured towards the stove.


Come in once it's simmering, he said. He thumbed a spot on my wrist. Want to get this paint off you.


So considerate.


I added broth and rice to the jambalaya, turned the heat down to low, and joined Brian in the shower to get nice and clean and fucked, and then we got out and ate but I was feeling really shitty by then from the temperature changes and all the standing. I didn't say anything to Brian, but I wasn't trying to hide it, either, so he knew, but he also knew I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, so he didn't hover. He just sat down on the couch and turned on the TV and stretched one arm out over the top of the couch, like he had his arm around an invisible person. Yeah, well, fuck you invisible person. I settled down next to him with my head on his lap, and he played with my fingers while he turned on this ridiculously shitty CW show that I think we're never going to stop pretending we're watching ironically.


That guy's hot, Brian said absently at one point, about the guest star of the week.


Seriously?


What, you don't think so?


He looks like my old Chemistry teacher.


Uh, yeah, I remember him, he was hot.


I rolled my eyes and thought about how Brian used to bring me to school a lot back when I was living at Debbie's. Sometimes I'd slept over the night before, on a couple of occasions he'd crashed with me in Michael's old room, but a lot of the times he'd just...come by in the mornings and pick me up and take me to school, like it was nothing. And it's not like it was on his way to work. It wasn't on any kind of schedule, so it's not like Debbie was making him do it. He'd just waltz in like he lived there, steal a few bites of whatever I was eating, banter back and forth with Vic, and then haul me up by my tie or my hair and put me in the Jeep. Sometimes we'd make out in front of the school like...well, teenagers, or I'd blow him at a stoplight or something, but a lot of the times we'd barely even touch on those trips. We just talked about a test I had or some dumb thing Michael had said or something Gus had learned how to do or whatever, and we'd go to the drive-thru Starbucks sometimes and then sit outside my school and drink coffee and Brian would make up sordid backstories on all the students and teachers who walked by.


It was kind of a magical time, in a way, that whole period when I was living at Debbie's and Brian and I were just getting closer and closer every single day but never talking about it, and it didn't feel like we were avoiding the subject or anything, it was just like...we didn't need to talk about it. We were like magnets getting pulled gradually together, and neither of us was worried about it. I mean, that was before my brains got scrambled, so I didn't worry about anything, and Brian...Brian liked having me around, and that was that.


I wish I could go back and tell that seventeen-year-old kid where we are now. I think he'd breeze right over the Deaf and disabled part once he heard that Brian and I were married.


And I could tell him not to go to prom, while I was at it.


Anyway.


I have to go, he said when it was over, looking into my eyes while he messed with my bangs. I told Travis I was going to meet him at Nova.


Okay.


He leaned over and kissed me, so so softly. You want to come?


No. I might go back to the studio for a while.


He shook his head. You're fading, stay home.


You just asked me to Nova!


Only because I knew you'd say no.


I gnashed my teeth at him, and he grinned and kissed the bridge of my nose.


I'll be home late, he said. Gather your laundry, they're picking it up tomorrow.


Okay.


**


10:10 PM


I'd finished cleaning the kitchen and gathering laundry and calling my mom, and by then there was no chance I was going back to the studio. I lay on the couch for a while because I felt so pathetic going to bed this early when I'd been sleeping all day anyway, swiping through Tinder looking for Deaf guys and half-watching whatever sitcom was on. Eventually my head started to really bother me, so I took my meds and washed my face and crawled into bed. I watched the streetlamp blinking irregularly from my window.


I missed Brian.


**


2:18 AM


I woke up to the feeling of Brian slipping into bed beside me. I rolled over and rubbed my cheek against his. Did you have fun? I said. I'd fallen asleep with the lights on, and Brian had turned off most of them but left the lamp on his nightstand on.


Yeah, it was okay.


I settled myself on his chest. Good. We lay like that for a while, kind of pawing at each other, each of us tired.


Feels like I barely saw you today, he said after a while.


I know, it was weird, I said.


He played with my hair. Tomorrow will be better.


I pushed my nose into his neck. Can't wait.

 

End Notes:

Look, you said you wanted one where nothing happens...

 

Chapter 71 - A House in Virginia by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin's started seeing someone, and Brian's not having the easiest time with it...but not for the reason either of them thinks.

A House in Virginia

LaVieEnRose



So here we were In January, and New York was a gray frozen wasteland, but we continued to clip along. My little avenger got one police officer fired and another one suspended and sold his seizure painting for four thousand dollars, his largest sale yet, and I let him take me out to a fancy dinner and buy me some pretty things. Emily was pregnant as shit and doing well. Isabel was nominated for a major ad award and leveraging it to pull in tons of new business, and yet still insisted that she had no interest in starting and managing her own agency, so thank God for small favors. Molly was dating a new guy who seemed like he didn't want to punch her in the face. Michael bought a second storefront for his business. I found Prada shoes on sale. Justin's health was decent. All in all, not bad, for entering categorically the worst month of the calendar.


I came home from the gym midday one Saturday and Justin was home—he'd been out to check out an exhibit at Marie's new gallery when I left—and curled up on the couch with a mug and his socked feet up on the table. He looked cozy, and I lingered for a minute after I kissed him, just taking him in.


“Guess what?” he said.


No. I sat down next to him on the couch and pulled his feet into my lap.


I met a cute guy at the gallery and I have a date.


You just ran into a Deaf guy?


I just ran into a Deaf guy. It's not that big of a coincidence. Marie tries to hire Deaf people.


Is he the new you?


No, she does have a new Deaf me, but she's a girl. Evan's on the construction team for the new space, but he's an artist too.


Evan.


Justin nodded and showed me his sign name. He's young, he's like twenty-six. It's weird. I've never dated anyone younger than me. I don't think I've even slept with anyone younger than me.


Yeah, that was once me too. Doesn't last. He was a month and change away from thirty, at that point.


Might end now. We're going out tomorrow. He shifted himself around so he was underneath my arm, and I kissed the side of his neck and smiled when he hummed.


**


Before this, Justin had been dating Calvin, who was nice enough and hotter than any person has a right to be but wasn't much in the conversation department, Justin said, and he's not just in this for the sex, he wants the friendship, the camaraderie, the debates...you know, the whole relationship caboodle. I don't know if they had some official break up or if they just gradually fell out of each other's lives. They'd still sleep together sometimes if they ran into each other at parties—Calvin was a casual friend of Gwen's—but for the most part their little tryst was finished, and Justin had never been serious with him to begin with. He was the Gabriel rebound, and now that that was out of his system I think he was looking for something more steady, husband notwithstanding.


And if you can't tell from that whole explanation up there, I was in a fucking good place about all of this, not that I ever really hadn't been, and I continued to believe that having someone who would take Justin off my hands a night or two a week, teach him some new tricks to bring home to me, and just generally be an extra set of eyes and hands on him if something went wrong was about the best deal a guy could ask for. So it would be reasonable of you to expect that I would continue to be nice and well-adjusted about whoever Justin chose to date.


Enter Evan, and before you jump down my throat the second we reach our first little punchline about him...wait it out, all right? There's more to me and Justin's little tale than meets the eye. There always is with us.


**


I was in the home office working on a press release when Justin came home from his first date with Evan. He called in “Hey,” but that was it, and I could hear him puttering around out in the kitchen for a long time. Doing dishes, which means there's something on his mind, since usually I have to fucking move heaven and earth to get him to remember to at least fucking let something soak, Jesus.


So I lumbered into the kitchen so we could get the little heart-to-heart underway. How'd it go? I said.


Justin leaned against the counter and thought for a minute. Good. He's really like...earnest? He's so interested in everything I say.


What a nice change for you that must be, I said.


He laughed. It's definitely a different vibe. But he still looked kind of nervous, and I stood there faux-patiently while he chewed on his thumbnail for a little before he finally said, He's positive.


Jesus. And he's how old?


Twenty-six, yeah. Same age as Hunter.


Fuck. How's he doing?


It's pretty new to him, he was only diagnosed two years ago, but he thinks he's had it since he was a teenager. He was in denial for a while at first...he's still getting back on track from that. He seems like he has a good attitude about it now. He says he's healthy right now, but he's not undetectable.


I cleared my throat. So you're both bottoms. How the fuck's that going to work?


“Brian.”


I sighed.


You and I have never had a conversation about this, he said. About whether this is a dealbreaker.


I would have given anything in that moment for a trap door out of our kitchen. We've both slept with positive guys.


Sure, as a one-off. This could potentially be a regular thing. It's...we should have a conversation.


Okay, you want a conversation? I don't like it. There's my conversation.


He chewed the inside of his mouth.


Did you sleep with him tonight?


He shook his head.


Okay, so...be friends. Have a friend you don't sleep with. Think you can do that?


He clicked his tongue. “Wow, we're just jumping right to pissy, huh?”


Because I know what this is! You say you want to have a conversation, but what you're really going to do is stand there and pout until I give in and let you put yourself at risk.


“I'm not going to do anything that we don't agree to,” Justin said, dripping that condescending patience of his. “I told him I needed to talk to you, so I was hoping, I don't know, maybe to talk to you.”


Okay, well I've told you I don't like it.


What about PrEP? he fingerspelled.


What about PrEP?


“It's approved now, Michael's on it...”


Yeah, I know about PrEP, Justin, we did the fucking campaign.


“That was a good campaign.”


Yeah, thanks.


“So putting me on it is like...vertical integration, or something.” He got a bottle of water out of the fridge.


Sorry, vertical...


Integration, he signed.


Integration. Yeah. Because you did so well last time you took an antiviral?


“It's not the same drug.”


You're fucking allergic to everything. What the fuck is even the plan if you do get infected, Sunshine? How many of the drugs do you think you'll be able to take? The fact that we've found an anticonvulsant that doesn't cover you in hives is a goddamn miracle. You want to add HIV to the mix?


The chances of me getting infected are so small. He's working on getting it under control, he'll be undetectable, I'll top him, whatever, we'll be safe.


Then do it! I said. You're already made up your fucking mind, so why are we going through this big fucking fake conversation?


I've made up my mind for me, he said. But this isn't just about me. This puts you at risk too. You get a say.


I told you my say.


You told me your say about me, he said. I want your say about you.


And what the fuck was I supposed to tell him? Yeah, I was a little nervous about Justin having regular sex with someone positive, but fuck, it's not like I was asking the status of everyone I slept with, and if Evan got himself to undetectable he'd be a statistically safer fuck than some random trick from Nova.


So I was supposed to stand here and pretend the reason I was worried was because of some minuscule risk that Justin would get infected and then infect me? Especially when...Christ, at that point I hadn't even started to unravel the real reason this was filling me up with dread, and even if I had I wouldn't have said it because I was feeling pathetic enough as it was.


Instead I went with something else, something still true, something that at the time felt like it was my biggest reason. Sunshine, I'm more worried he's going to give you something else, okay? If he gets sick...fuck, your immune system's probably worse than his is. Between the drugs he takes to keep his allergies at bay, the toll the seizures take on his body, and just generally the joke of a constitution he's always had, Justin gets sick if you look at him funny.


Justin didn't say anything.


He winds up in the hospital for pneumonia or an infection or something..and I mean, this is assuming he hasn't already given it to you, or even that you didn't give it to him, you can't be within fifty yards of the place. And I know you. You're going to want to be there. I don't think you should be with a sick person. You're just going to hand stuff back and forth.


He considered this, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can't just not date people because they might get sick. Where would we be then?”


It's different for me. I'm not at the same kind of risk—


But I'm asking you to make the decision for you, he said. Not for me.


Who the fuck's going to be taking care of you all these times you get sick?


No one has a gun to your head.


Jesus, don't.


Then don't leverage taking care of me like it's something I have to fucking earn. You do it or you don't. You don't want me to feel guilty? Don't fucking hang it over my head.


Okay. Okay. He was right, that was the wrong fucking move, and I could feel him slipping away from me and I couldn't piece together why yet but maybe I was panicking a little. I trust you, okay? I know you'll be safe.


“I don't...want to push you. But I can't...I can't discriminate against a sick person, Brian, please don't...”


Fuck. Okay. I didn't put that together. And wouldn't that just be the fucking theme of this fucking tale, me not fucking getting all the sick little nuances, but there'll be plenty of time for that. Jesus, of course you can't.


He was breathing kind of fast.


I said, But who you choose to fuck is not...political. It's not making a statement.


Sex is so political, he said. It's the most fucking political thing there is.


I don't want you to date this guy because you think you need to prove that you're a good person, I said plainly.


He shook his head. That's not it, he's...you'd like him, he's funny and he's smart and...you'd like him.


Next you're going to ask me if we can get a puppy, I groused.


He kept watching me.


You are going to be safe, I told him. I mean fucking condoms for blow jobs safe. You are going to get tested every three months. You are going to keep your fucking distance if he gets sick.


Justin nodded.


I sighed. Okay, Rob Thomas, come here.


Rob Thomas?


He wrote a song about having a partner with chronic illness. It's not bad. Come here.


He did, and I put my hands on his face and brought him up for a kiss.


You know you scare the shit out of me, right? I said to him, small.


Yeah.


I pressed my lips to his forehead. Okay then.


**


So Justin and Evan started dating.


I assume you'd like to know a little more about him than his status, so here we go. Fit, cheerful, not half the artist Justin was but still very talented, not the most ambitious but open-minded and perceptive. He was into the club scene so between the two of us we dragged Justin out more often, and we'd dance together when Justin got tired, and he was energetic and happy and cute as hell, with blue eyes and dark curly hair. Justin said his apartment was a complete shithole, and he wasn't making much nailing up shelves at the gallery, so we'd have him over sometimes just to give him a good meal or a place to sleep when his heat went out, and I know Justin insisted on lending him money so he could get his meds on a few occasions, which Evan always paid back. He was a sweet kid.


And he absolutely adored Justin. He liked me fine, but God, did he love Justin. He watched him with this reverence, hung onto his every word, got his advice on every decision he made. If Justin was in the room, Evan was watching Justin, and it's never been a problem for me when Justin gets the appreciation he deserves, so why should it have been a problem now?


Why indeed.


I never relaxed, and I was starting to figure out why, ever-so-gradually.


Meanwhile Justin did like the commercials said and talked to his doctor about PrEP, and then he did like he does and had a horrific allergic reaction as soon as he'd taken his second dose, so that was off the table. Evan made noise about them breaking up after that, and Justin asked me again if I needed them to, but Christ, I was still fucking catching my breath from that reaction and reveling in him being fucking alive, I would have bought him that fucking puppy if he'd asked. Of course I told him to do whatever he wanted.


So they didn't break up.


**


I came home from work one night the first week of February and Justin and Evan were in the kitchen, laughing and chopping up herbs and dancing around to some really loud music; Evan's very hard of hearing, lost his hearing when he was two, but he's not completely Deaf, so there's a lot of really loud music with him. I flicked the lights on and off as fast as I could—just a dumb thing I do, I don't know, you take amusement where you can find it—to announce my presence and gave Justin a quick kiss while I clapped my hands on Evan's shoulders.


Let me see the hearing aid mock-ups, Justin said. Evan kissed my cheek.


I don't have them, I said.


Are you shitting me?


Do not get me started. Have I mentioned I hate my art department?


A million times.


Yeah, well, make it a million and one. You're going to have to come in tomorrow and work on this, I just...I'm losing my mind.


I can't tomorrow, I have the neurologist. He never used to talk about this shit in front of Gabriel, or Calvin, not if he could possibly help it.


Yeah. Friday?


Okay.


I surveyed the kitchen here. What are we making here?


Pasta primavera, Evan said.


Justin said, Can he stay for dinner?


He's fucking cooking the dinner, of course he can stay.


There's this documentary we wanted to watch on Basquiat, and he doesn't get the channel. Thought you'd like it too.


Sure.


So we ate on the floor cushions in front of the TV and watched the documentary, and it was nice. Justin's art history knowledge is pretty fucking unparalleled, but somehow I always forget, so it's fun to see him spout off facts and dates he learned before his brain stopped being able to retain that kind of shit. Evan hadn't had much in the way of education, was tossed into mainstream school without an interpreter and fucked over by the system and dropped out when he was sixteen, so he was fucking enthralled, watching Justin like he hung the damn moon. Justin was basking.


At one point, though, Justin's eyes went blank and he zoned out for a few seconds, and I pounced on it immediately, and so, to my surprise, did Evan. Seizure, seizure! we signed at him.


Justin, back among the living, said, What the fuck are you talking about?


Absence seizure, Evan said. I told you you get them! That was totally one right there.


How the fuck did he know this shit?


I've been trying to tell him that for a fucking year, I said.


Nothing happened! Justin said.


I said, Yeah, not noticing or remembering them is a fucking characteristic of absence seizures. Tell your fucking neurologist.


She's just going to want to change my meds around again, Justin said. And I can't, I'm so sick of the adjustments.


More sick of them than of seizures? I said.


Justin said, I don't know, maybe. The side effects are worse than the fucking symptoms sometimes.


Evan stole a bite of bread from Justin's plate. Yeah, I know that game.


Justin stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth. Evan, shit, how did the interview go?


Oh my God, I didn't tell you?


Justin shook his head.


What interview? I said.


He got a job interview for this graphic design thing, Justin said.


Entry-level, Evan said. Very, very entry-level.


Justin said, That's still—


No, it is not still anything, Evan said. I am so not getting this job.


Justin sighed and sat back on the pillows. What happened?


So everything was going well. I was following everything, passing fine.


I said, Wait, passing for what, straight?


Evan laughed. No, I don't pass for straight. For hearing.


I said, Hang on, you did this whole fucking thing in English?


I was raised oral, Evan said. I read lips really well. I didn't even learn to sign until my teens.


And you speak?


“I speak all the time,” he said, out loud. Totally clear.


I laughed, startled, and pointed at Justin. He speaks better than you do.


Yeah, shut it.


Evan said, So everything was going great. And then at one point, it's kind of hot in the room where the interview is, and I'm wearing that blazer you stole from Brian, so it's kind of long on me, goes over my wrists.


I looked at Justin. You gave him my blazer?


You never wear it.


Give him your clothes!


I'm too little, Justin said, squishing himself under my arm and making puppy eyes at me. I growled and kissed his forehead.


So I take the blazer off, Evan said. And my sleeve rides up and I realize... He held out out his wrist with his medical alert bracelet, a lot like Justin's.


What? I said.


Justin winced. You forgot to take it off.


I forgot to take it off. And I look at it, and she looks at it, and the whole energy of the interview just changes. All of a sudden the mood is just...it's totally different. And it ended really quickly after that.


Justin sighed and squeezed Evan's hand. I'm sorry.


Okay, hang on a second. You really think, what, because they saw a medical alert bracelet they're not going to hire you? That's...


That's what? Justin said.


I just think that's a little far-fetched, I said.


Evan exchanged looks with Justin, like they thought I couldn't see it, and I can't say I liked that one fucking bit.


You learn to recognize discrimination, Evan said.


You also get used to healthy people telling you it isn't there, Justin said.


Nice, I said.


Justin shrugged. This is what always happens. I mean, how many times have straight people told you 'no, that isn't homophobic, you're imagining it, it's just a coincidence?' It looks like a coincidence from the outside.


People get a look on their face when they find out you're sick, Evan said. You can tell in a split second how they're going to handle it.


Justin nodded. Instantly.


Okay, well that's illegal, I said.


So? Evan said.


So they can't do it. You could sue their asses.


It's only illegal if you can prove they did it, Evan said. They can say it's just because I messed up in my interview, or I didn't have the qualifications, or there was a stronger candidate.


Maybe there was, I said, and they threw up their hands.


We can tell, Justin said. We can tell.


Evan said, Anyway, it just sucks. There's this new drug I wanted to get on but my insurance right now doesn't cover it. I need to get something better.


Ben's on it, Justin said to me. He said his T-cell count, like, skyrocketed.


Would have been nice, Evan said with a sigh.


**


Michael called me the next day while I was swamped trying to pull together the fucking comps for the new hearing aid campaign, plus Cynthia needed my opinion on a meeting she had later that day, and Emily was having trouble getting the building management people to listen to her, and basically the point is that Michael didn't have my full attention. He had some question to ask me about investment options—our little boy's all grown up—and after I regaled him with my brilliant advice I ended up asking him about Ben's new drug.


“Yeah, he's been doing really well on it,” Michael said. “He started, uh, two months ago, I think? It's pretty experimental so I wasn't sure about it, but two of his friends were on it and doing well so he wanted to give it a shot. And it's been good!”


I stapled...something. “Does he talk to you about stuff like that, or just his HIV friends?”


“He talks to me.”


“Do you feel like you...I don't know, that you understand it as well as the friends do, or not?”


“I mean, I know Ben. And it's just a thing he deals with, it's not like it's his identity or whatever.”


Right, how could I have forgotten Michael's whole crusade about that. Emily waved from my doorway and held up a contract and I'd been waiting for, and I waved her over while I hunted around for a pen.


“Brian, why are you asking this stuff?” Michael said. “You're not...you're okay, right?”


I kept searching for a pen. “Yeah, it's just this guy Justin's seeing.”


Like I said.


I was distracted.


I winced, found a pen, signed the contract, and signed, I just told Michael that Justin has a boyfriend, to Emily.


Her eyes went wide. Justin's going to murder you.


Yeah, if Michael doesn't murder him first. Give me a minute here.


She nodded, signed, Good luck, and got the hell out of there as quickly as as the fetus would allow.


Michael had been quiet this whole time. Finally he said, “I'm sorry, did you say Justin's seeing someone?”


I tried to sound as bored as possible. “He doesn't sleep with hearing guys anymore. Except for me. Aren't as many options to choose from, means he has to do some repeats.” I'd spare Michael the part about Justin having, you know, romantic and emotional connections with these guys, because he couldn't fucking handle it and I actually do prefer Justin un-murdered.


“And you're...you're what, fine with that?”


“I am fine with that. It's been going on for years.”


“Years?”


“And you've seen firsthand that Justin and I are just fine.”


“I just don't—”


I said, “Look, this really isn't any of your business.”


“Uh, yeah, if Justin's sleeping with a guy with HIV, that puts you at risk, and that is my business.”


“Wow, pot, kettle...”


“You were concerned about me with Ben, don't give me that shit. And Ben's my fucking...he's my soulmate. There's no other guy for me. I mean, clearly there are other guys for Justin.”


“Michael.”


“I'm just saying, who the fuck is this guy? I get that there's a smaller pool or whatever, but aren't there any healthy Deaf guys to choose from?”


“Yeah, he's dated healthy Deaf guys before.”


“All right, so...point him towards one of them, Jesus.”


“He likes that he's sick,” I said.


“That's...what?”


“He wants to date a sick person,” I said.


“Well that's fucked up.”


I leaned back in my chair. “How's that fucked up? Justin's sick. He wants someone who understands him.”


“You understand him, and you're healthy,” Michael said.


I didn't say anything.


**


Justin, responsible little fucker that he is, told his doctor that we said he'd been having absence seizures, and as predicted, she nudged up his meds, and as predicted he got sick. He had two fairly large seizures in one evening, because paradoxically his anticonvulsant being too high will make him have seizures sometimes, because the world will apparently come to a fucking end if it ever considers cutting Justin some slack on anything at all, and we spent the whole night camped out on the bathroom floor while he vomited and shivered harder than I'd ever seen. I rubbed his back and couldn't shake the feeling that he was being poisoned, and I remembered how goddamn awful I'd felt during radiation, how I couldn't believe the cancer itself could actually be nastier than the shit they were pumping into me.


I put a pillow under his head and he lay on his back on the tile floor, making these fucking heartbreaking pained noises when he breathed, and after a while I lay down next to him, and we didn't talk, barely even touched, but he took my hand and brought it up to his cheek, our fingers laced together, and we just stayed there for a long time.


I finally convinced him to get in bed around four, and he steadfastly refused to get out in the morning and Christ, it's not like I'd gotten any fucking sleep either, so whatever, I called Emily and told her I needed a sick day. Justin wasn't having seizures anymore, but he was feeling awful, just sore and dizzy and miserable, and there was nothing to do but just give him time to adjust to the new dose. At around ten he said he'd eat, but only this specific milkshake from this place a few blocks away that doesn't deliver, so I made the voyage, and when I got home I could hear him signing from the bedroom. We'd bent our no-talking rule that day—we do that sometimes when he's really sick—because his bad hand was bothering him so much.


But, you know, apparently not that much. He was still curled up small in bed, but he was signing animatedly to his phone. Laughing.


I stood in the doorway and waved until I got his attention and held up his milkshake. Am I interrupting?


I've got to go, he said to his phone, and he giggled and hung up. Sorry, he said to me.


I helped him sit up. Supposed to be resting that hand.


“Yeah, I know. Slow, slow—”


I got you. I propped him up on some pillows. Who was that? I put a straw in his milkshake and kept a hand on it while he worked out his grip. You got it?


“Yeah.” He sipped. Evan.


Everything okay?


“Yeah, he just wanted to see how I'm feeling.” He took a slow breath in between sips of his milkshake. “This is hard.”


Yeah, just take it slow.


Justin worked through half the milkshake before he shook his head and handed it back to me, and I kissed him and helped him lie back down. How'd I do? he asked me.


I weighed how much of the milkshake was left. Not bad. C+.


He shivered and gave me a weak smile and said, “Cs get degrees,” and I was just, I don't know, maybe a little mesmerized by him joking around right now. I kissed the bridge of his nose and ran my hands down his arms, massaging out some of the tension until he fell back asleep.


I called his neurologist's office and left a message with the receptionist for her to call me back, went for a quick jog since I imagined I wouldn't be able to get out and hit the gym tonight, took a shower, mindlessly ate leftovers of something Justin had made a few nights before, and had just settled in to answer a few emails when the doorbell rang. It was Evan, with two paper shopping bags, one of which he handed to me. “Blazer,” he said. “I couldn't afford to get it dry cleaned, but...thanks for letting me borrow it.”


It's...fine. Uh, Justin's asleep.


He shifted the other bag to the side. I know. I thought I could make you guys dinner? He bought all the stuff for the pasta primavera the other night so I thought I'd make it up to him.


That's sweet and everything, but he's really sick.


Evan said, He's not contagious, right? He said it was from his meds.


No, he's not, I just...I don't think he's really feeling up to visitors right now.


He gave me a weird look. I'm not a visitor.


I sighed and stepped to the side to let him in. I don't know when he's going to be up.


That's okay. He put the bag down on the counter and looked up at me. You don't have to entertain me or anything. I'll just make something and get out of here and he can have it when he wakes up.


Okay, well...what kind of an asshole would I have to be to object to that? But I still felt weird about leaving him alone in my kitchen. I sat down on one of the stools at the counter and watched him unload supplies. If someone was going to cook for Justin I should probably make sure it wasn't something he was fucking allergic to, I reasoned. But it was just chicken soup, nothing fancy.


He shrugged kind of sheepishly. I'm not really much of a cook, but...it's what I know how to do, and when I'm sick it makes me feel better to know someone cares enough to cook for me.


I swallowed. You know I'm feeding him, right? He's not fucking starving.


He gave me a strange look. Of course I know that.


He fucking knows someone cares enough to cook for him. I know I'm not fucking Padma Lakshmi but I can get him what he needs.


Evan carefully put down the knife and said, Brian, Justin told me you were fine with this whole arrangement. That he'd dated guys before and it wasn't an issue for you.


It's not.


Okay, so...do you just not like me? Is this something we can work through?


No, I like you, I just...


He kept watching me.


You've known him for a month, I said. I get that you like him, and look, I'm happy for you, but you don't know what he needs. You think you come in here with some kind of perspective, but you're just...he doesn't like having people hanging around when he's not feeling well.


He called me earlier.


Because he didn't want you to worry!


Evan said, You don't understand—


No, you don't understand. You are not an exception to the rules. He is still him, and I am still me. So fucking spare the sympathetic looks about how I couldn't possibly empathize with what he's going through as well as you could. I've known him for twelve fucking years. He has epilepsy. His meds make him sick sometimes. He's fine. We're not making it into some kind of... I gestured at him, and, yeah, I did it carelessly.


Evan stood his fucking ground.


“Some kind of what, Brian?” he said, his arms crossed. “A death sentence?”


I caught my breath, but before I could say anything, Christ, before I'd even thought of what to say to dig myself out of this mess, Evan's eyes flicked over my shoulder.


Baby, go back to bed, he said. Great.


Justin said, “Brian, what's going on?”


I turned around. Justin was leaning against the doorway, still looking shaky. And also suspicious as hell.


Nothing, I said. You look fucking awful, will you go lie down, please?


I want to know what's going on here.


I brought over some stuff so Brian can make you soup, Evan said. He crossed the living room and gave Justin a quick kiss. And now I'm going to go.


Justin clung to his shirt a little, and I forced myself not to look away.


I'll check on you tomorrow, okay? Evan said, and when Justin nodded he left without even a glance in my direction. That kid was fucking ice cold.


And damn it, I liked him. It all would have been so much fucking easier if I didn't.


Justin started talking before the door was even shut behind him. “Are you going to tell me what the fuck that was or not?” I said.


Not.


“Brian.”


Will you fucking go back to bed before you pass out?


“I asked you if you had a problem with me dating him,” he said. He sounded so fucking tired. “I gave you plenty of opportunities to object. I've checked in with you, given you the chance to change your mind.”


And I told you it's fine.


“So at some point are you going to start acting like it's fine, or...”


I breathed out and paced around a little.


“You can't just tell me it's fine and then act like a fucking...I don't even know what you were acting like. I don't know what the fuck I just walked in on except you both looked like you were going to choke each other.”


If you don't know what's going on, maybe you should fucking stay out of it.


“Right, because this has nothing to do with me.”


I didn't say that.


“You need to make an actual fucking decision over whether or not you have a problem with him being sick.”


I don't have a problem with him being sick! I burst. I have a problem with him being sick and you being sick, okay? Christ!


His brow furrowed. “Is this about us passing stuff back and forth? Because I'm pretty sure I didn't catch a medication side effect from him.”


No, I said, and I watched him, slowly, get it.


“Brian,” he said softly.


Look. I'm not trying to be dramatic here, I'm not trying to wax fucking poetic about the situation, I'm just giving you the truth as naked and plain as I can, which is that, even though I have experienced time after fucking time, I still don't think it's possible for me to really explain to you how it feels to have Justin slowly pulled away from you. How it feels to stand there with your feet stuck in the fucking ground while he is being gradually and ruthlessly taken by illness, injury, someone else, himself. The kind of fucking panic that causes, it makes you fucking crazy. It's a feeling that defies all possible rationality. I'm not trying to be cute, here. I'm just trying to make you understand why I was being a fucking asshole.


You can't watch this boy get closer and closer to the door and not lose your fucking mind a little bit.


You're jealous? he said.


So, of course, I sneered. No, I'm not jealous. I'm just...


When I didn't ever finish that sentence, he tried, “Jealous?” in English this time, and I rolled my eyes. “Brian, Jesus,” he said, exasperated. “What do you think is going to happen here? You don't trust me?”


Of course I trust you.


“Then what?”


It's just...you're both sick. You're both Deaf. You're both artists. You're young. I don't really see where...I mean what the fuck is it that you're not getting from him? What am I doing here? Buying you shit? Picking up the pieces when you need help? Insurance? What are you getting from this?


You know that's not true.


I know, but what if it...becomes true? I don't know.


And Justin just watched me, so calmly, while I was having a fucking queen out, and said, “This is good, actually.”


What the fuck are you talking about?


He pushed himself off the door and came over to me, and God, he was such a fucking mess, I didn't have any fucking choice but to put my hands on him.


You used to think all you were was what you did for me, he said, looking up at me. Now you know you want to be more. That's good. That's really good.


Not if I'm not, I said, small.


Justin shrugged a little, his eyes still on me. “He understands me,” he said. “I don't want to be understood all the time. Sometimes I want someone who thinks i'm kind of magical and mysterious and interesting."


I think you're magical, I felt myself sign, and God, I don't even know. I told you all fucking rationality had left the building at that point. I can't even tell you how fucking desperate I was for him not to goddamn move.


And I want someone I think is magical and mysterious and interesting too, he said. I can't...I can't be bogged down in this all the time. I need you. I get so fucking wrapped up in my head and in all of this and then you come home and you fucking remind me that there's a world outside of my body, and you sit down and you fucking tell me what you did today and I just...I want that. I need that.


I swallowed and raked my fingers through his hair. You want to hear about my day?


“I love hearing about your day.”


I closed my eyes, just for a second. Can I make you some soup while you do it, because you look like you're going to die.


I don't know, Justin said. You can try.


**


A few days later, I was pacing the apartment when Justin got home from his studio. He gave me a funny look. “Everything okay there, uh, Leo DiCaprio in the Aviator?”


I stopped pacing. You mean Howard Hughes?


He winced. Yeah.


And the best you could come up with is 'Leo DiCaprio in the Aviator.' Christ, you are such a '90s fag.


“And whose fault is that?”


Don't look at me, that was before I got there. He's been gay the whole time.


He took off his scarf. Are you going to tell me why you're wearing a hole in our overpriced rug?


Yeah. I have an idea and I need your approval.


“Well, lay it on me.”


I clapped my hands. I want to give Evan a job.


“You...at Kinnetik?”


My art department is shit. You know this. A million and one complaints, remember?


I remember.


And he's...I mean, he's no you, but he's good, and he's hard working. And we have an interpreter so he wouldn't have to pretend to be a fucking hearing person.


And you have really good health insurance, Justin said.


We have such fucking good health insurance.


Justin bounced a little on his feet. “Brian.”


But if it makes you uncomfortable or if you think it's not a good idea—

 

He ran across the room and kissed the hell out of me, and with his face crushed the fuck against mine I finally, finally felt like I could breathe again.

End Notes:

 

And that's 400k words!

Chapter 72 - Adaptation by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin's working on his bad habits.

Adaptation

LaVieEnRose



Brian and I grew up in really different houses, and I think he forgets that. I can't really blame him. I mean, now, looking at the two of us side by side, him in is Hugo Boss and me in my paint-splattered sweats, which of us are you going to guess came from money? But it comes up every once in a while, and it's always funny for both of us when it does, because after this many years as a Society Man Brian's acclimated pretty well, but some of this shit is still inbred.


Like one time when we got an invitation for Isabel's daughter's dressage tournament.


There's a horse on this invitation, Brian said to me. Is this like...clothes for horses?


No, it's horse dancing.


He stared at me. Did I forget how to sign? Did you just say horse dancing?


Yeah, you make the horse move to a rhythm, and it's like graceful stepping...it's a whole thing. I think it's pretty hard to do. If Elizabeth is competing she's probably really good.


Horse dancing.


I shrugged.


Please tell me you didn't do this.


Me on a horse?


True. He held up the envelope. So I guess you're not coming with me to this thing.


No, my throat would close up. You're going to go?


Sure, he said, turning the invitation over. I want to see a horse dance.


It's not just country club bullshit, though. I mean, the two of us are just a couple of fuckin' white Christians, on the one hand, but on the other there's a very, very different vibe in a Mayflower-spawned WASPy mid-century proto-McMansion than in a rented-by-the-month second-generation Irish Catholic spilt-level. And it's something we're constantly figuring out, discovering little ways our baggage is still weighing us down, because Jesus, for two guys who both came from some fucked up families, we're carrying around some different crap.


Like, for example, in the Taylor household, we did not yell.


Sure, Dad bent the rules a little when he found out I was gay, or when he had a bad day at the office, or when mom didn't have dinner ready the minute he wanted him to, but it was always very clear that that was an exclusive man of the house privilege that mom and Molly certainly didn't have and that I probably never would either if I didn't stop being such a submissive pansy-ass limp-wristed shrinking violet and other such euphemisms for a certain kind of boy. The rest of us tiptoed around him, closed doors, averted our eyes, pretended we didn't hear him, smiled for the family pictures. You didn't cry, you didn't flinch, and you never, ever yelled back.


When a storm is coming, you either find a safe place to hide or you get the fuck out of there, and I became very good at both of those things. I hid myself in half-truths and downright lies, saying what I needed to say and being the person I needed to be so I wouldn't be the one on the receiving end of an explosion or, if Dad was feeling a little more composed, a silent treatment or a long, long guilt trip. And when I couldn't hide, I got the fuck out.


Which brings us to Brian, and Brian is well...Rage.


I'm not saying Brian yells at me all the time, or yells at other people all the time, and no matter what he tells himself when he's at his most self-loathing, he's nothing like my dad. But no one's ever accused Brian Kinney of not being assertive, and he's long past his days when he'd punish me in some passive-aggressive way when I did something to piss him off, because I told him how much I hated that and how much my fucking PTSD-brain was not getting all the non-verbal shit he was trying to tell me, and he changed. He changed for me. He doesn't yell at me—okay, sometimes he does, he's not perfect, but he always apologizes so, so fast—because he knows it freaks me out, and he tries really really hard to just tell me what's wrong as soon as he figures it out (which sometimes takes him a little while but hey, it's not like my emotional awareness is all that flawless) because he knows that if he's just hinting around waiting for me to put shit together, it's not going to happen, I don't work that way anymore.


So I told Brian what I need and he's changed. And it's not all the time and it's not perfect, but he tries, and he tries really hard. And that's...I mean, let's be real, that barely scratches the surface of what Brian's done for me, how he's fucking turned his life over for me and what I need. He moved to New York. He learned sign language. He became, like, the world's foremost epilepsy expert. He married me. He pays roughly ten million dollars a month to keep me fed and clothed and happy.


And in all that time he's asked two things of me: stop lying and stop walking out.


When you see a storm coming, stay.


So...I'm working on it.


**


It's not as if it's only an issue with Brian. It's just not how I operate, and I can't pretend losing my hearing hasn't' made it easier for me to just...be unobtrusive. People tend to ignore me anyway just because they don't know how to talk to me and the fact that I exist makes them uncomfortable. That's not to say there's not plenty of stuff I manage; obviously I take care of Brian, but I also handle everything with building management, and I do our taxes and handle our investments, and obviously I do fine negotiating a hearing world when Brian's not around. It's just...my definition of negotiating it means letting a lot more things go than Brian would. Than Brian does.


And sometimes, okay, sometimes he's not right. Sometimes it is better not to fight every little fucking thing.


And sometimes I'm a coward. I don't know. It's hard for me to explain, and I don't know how much of it was how I was raised and how much is the bashing and how much is just something about me, but I just really, really don't want to upset anybody, ever. To like a pathological degree.


My therapist is always asking me, what's the worst that could happen? And it's decent question, because it's like...okay, yeah, one time a guy bashed me in the head, fine, is that really enough for me to think that's going to happen every time someone doesn't like me? And it's not like I do think that on any kind of logical level. And my dad never hit me besides that bitch slap that one time, and of course Brian never has, and I know he never would. But I don't know, I just feel like if someone's mad at me the world is just going to end, or something. Thank God for Klonopin?


Like I said: it's not just an issue with Brian. I don't want to piss off anyone. And that includes not wanting to do stuff that wouldn't piss off any reasonable person, just to be safe. Like send my food back at a restaurant when it isn't what I ordered, for example, as was the case one Saturday morning in December, when Brian and I were getting breakfast at this little cafe before he went in to the office for a few hours and I went to my studio. He had a couple files spread out on our tiny table and was taking notes in one of them, and I poked morosely at my waffle as the waitress walked off.


What's with you? Brian asked.


Nothing.


He flipped to a new file. You don't like waffles now?


I like waffles.


So eat. Too fucking skinny, it's like sleeping next to a fucking cancer patient around here. He waved a hand dismissively. I'm allowed to say that.


It's not what I ordered. I wanted French Toast.


He gave me a sooo? look. So why'd you take it? Send it back.


It's fine.


It's clearly not that fine, because you're sitting there moping like someone pissed in it. Send it back.


Can you do it?


Justin, what the fuck do I look like, your butler? I'm trying to get this file sorted.


I shrunk down in my seat. It's fine.


Okay then, great. Eat up.


So I did, but they didn't taste right and I was all embarrassed that Brian was seeing me be a fucking coward, so I just kind of picked at it and drank my juice while Brian grumbled his way through his eggs. Brian paid, and we stepped out into the cold sunny morning, and I had this kind of nervous feeling in my stomach that I couldn't place at the time, and I ended up asking Brian if I could come to the office with him instead of going to my studio, like a fucking kid. I think I made up some excuse about wanting to use their printer or something, I don't know.


Okay, but I've got to get shit done, he told me.


Yeah, that's fine.


I didn't do anything with the printer, obviously. I just sat down on Brian's couch and sketched for a while, and he didn't ask me what the fuck I was doing because he had all this work to get through. I was sneezing and my eyes were itching and I grumbled at one point that Brian needed to clean in here more often. There was no one else in the office but us, and it's not like this was the first time I was there with him on the weekend, but the whole thing felt kind of eerie for some reason, and I could feel my heartbeat in my head, and at some point I figured out that something wasn't right here.


I said, “Brian, can you come here? I don't feel good.”


He probably thought I was going to have a seizure; I did too, at the time. He came over, not too fast, not too worried, just quietly concerned in that calm way of his. Let's get all this off, come on, he said, because I was still in my coat and my scarf and the last thing I needed was to choke myself in it.


But once he took off my scarf I saw him say, “Oh, Sunshine,” and then he put my scarf to the side and said, Hang on. He went back to his desk and opened his bottom drawer and rooted around for a minute. He came back with a bottle of Benadryl. Two big swallows, okay?


This is a reaction?


Yeah, you have hives on your neck. Drink. He watched me. There you go. Bless you. Deep breath, let me hear...okay. That's not so bad. Use your inhaler though, okay?


You have an epipen?


Yeah, you want it?


I shook my head. Just in case.


Yeah, you're all set. He ran his hands up and down my arms while I took my inhaler. You good? Reactions really freak him out.


I breathed in slowly. “Yeah, I think so.”


Okay. He kept touching me. See, this is why we don't fucking eat food that isn't what we ordered.


“I had to.”


He was so frustrated with me. Sunshine, I—


“I know you don't,” I said. “I know you don't fucking understand me, nobody understands me, I don't understand me.”


There was so much he wanted to say, but even Brian wasn't going to argue with me right then. He sighed and pushed my hair back and said, Okay. Have some more Benadryl, sneezy. Everything's okay.


I swallowed and swallowed. “Okay.”


**


So it wasn't always about Brian, but because most of my life is about Brian...it was usually about Brian.


I mean look, in my defense, Brian's a fucking drama queen, and I don't think it's that ridiculous that I believe that sometimes it's just easier not to tell him stuff he's going to fly off the handle about, because sometimes it's just truly not a big fucking deal, and he realizes that eventually, but not until after there's a whole queen-out-dust-up that sometimes I just don't fucking feel up for. But then of course if I don't tell him stuff and then he finds out later, you're looking at a way bigger queen-out-dust-up, so yeah, I guess the better option is to just be upfront with him, or he could always, you know, take it down like, half a notch.


But, you know. He's done enough for me and he just worries about me and honestly he has plenty of cause to and I'm trying to be good.


So I had to try to break some habits the winter of the whole police thing, when my therapist noticed that I was basically an endless pit of despair and I was having trouble leaving the house and talking to people and like, functioning in society. I always struggle in the winters anyway, and obviously the whole incident didn't help. I was already seeing Lauren twice a week and I was struggling even with making those so she didn't want to make me add another session, but she did want to add another medication just until I was through the bad patch, and I was game because I was having, you know, the bad thoughts again, and I don't actually enjoy having the bad thoughts.


I was walking home with this new prescription in my hand, and already I was trying to come up with a plan of how I was going to handle this with Brian. It's not like he micromanages my medical stuff or anything, but generally he doles out my meds because the bottles aren't the easiest for me to work with my hand and I'm not great at remembering whether or not I've already taken them and just because, honestly, we both prefer it that way so it's not really anyone's damn business.


So I was trying to figure out how I was going to do this, was I going to take this new one at a different time and how was I going to keep track of whether I'd taken them, maybe I could set an alarm on my phone but what if Brian saw it, maybe I should take it when I take all the others but I'd need to figure out a different place to keep it, and what if I forgot, and how was I going to explain it if I ended up being allergic and I'd need to make sure I wasn't by myself for a few days because I really shouldn't try new drugs on my own, and it wasn't until I'd sorted through all these options in my head that I remembered, oh right, I'm not supposed to be fucking doing this.


I dragged myself home and shuffled up to where Brian was sitting with his laptop at the kitchen counter. He laughed a little when he saw me. Yes, dear? Any reason you look like you're going to the gallows?


I shifted my weight back and forth on my feet.


Spit it out, he said.


I took the pill bottle out of my pocket and handed it to him. Lauren wants to add this one to the rotation.


He tried so, so hard to not have any expression, but I know his face too well. He was crushed that I wasn't stable, and mad at himself for not noticing, and worried about me starting a new medication, and God, it was so so fucking much, and this is why it's just easier not to tell him things. I wanted to just fucking turn and run out the door so badly at that moment, I can't even explain. Not run away long term or anything, just...just not be there until there were fewer feelings in the room, I don't know.


After a minute he nodded and set the bottle down. Okay. We'll keep an eye on you for a few days, make sure it goes down easy.


Yeah.


He kept watching me. Hey.


“Hey.”


What's up, are you okay?


I shrugged and swallowed. Yeah, it's just with everything going on, she thought...I could stand to be a little happier right now.


No, of course, I mean, at this moment, are you okay?


What?


He rested his chin on his hand, his eyes boring right into me. Sunshine, you're shaking.


“Oh.”


You look like you're about to cry, are you about to cry?


“Yeah.”


Justin. What's wrong?


“I don't know.” I put my hands over my face. “I'm sorry, I...this is so fucking stupid.” I just fucking hated that I'd made him worry about me, and here he was worrying about me for being upset about making him worry about me. I am such a fucking fuck-up. But sometimes it's just fucking crushing, how much it means to Brian that I'm okay, because I am not fucking okay and I can't breathe, and God, could I be more of a fucking ungrateful bastard?


He loves me so much and it is so fucking scary because sometimes I don't even feel like I can stay here. Not here with Brian, just...here.


He peeled my hands off my face and looked into my eyes, and he saw everything, and God, how do you get through life with someone who can see everything you're thinking?


How does anyone get through life without it?


Okay, come here, he said, and I crushed myself into his collarbone and he held me for a long time. So good, he said with a kiss to my forehead, after he'd let me go. My good boy. Just right.


So I'm working on the lying.


**


The walking out is a whole different challenge, because God, sometimes Brian's just a fucking dick, and my instinct is to get the fuck out of there until it blows over, but that doesn't work with him because he just gets pissed off that I left on top of whatever it was he was already pissed about. And it's hard to remember to be sweet and considerate of his preferred ways of handling conflict when I'm in the moment, because usually I'm pissed at him too!


I compromise by leaving the room or going out to the balcony or something, so it's not like I'm making myself unavailable, I'm just putting some distance between the two of us to give me a minute to get my thoughts together, because Brian fights fast and sometimes I get tangled up and confused. Brian usually just follows me and keeps signing at me, but sometimes just taking those few steps away from him is enough for me to catch my breath and refocus, or I close my eyes for a second so he can't talk to me and that gives me a minute...I have strategies, that's what I'm saying, and they're not strategies Brian particularly likes, but at least I'm not leaving. And I'd never really found out what I would do if I couldn't have those strategies, if I couldn't get a minute.


Until the end of December, the day after we'd come back from visiting Pittsburgh for Christmas. Emily and Gwen decided last minute they wanted to have a New Year's Eve party, so of course I told them we'd go, but it turned out Brian's super fucking boring client was throwing a thing with a whole bunch of other super fucking boring people, and okay, fine, sucks to be Brian, except it turned out Brian had told him I would also be attending and hadn't even bothered to tell me, and now he was telling me I couldn't say no. The whole argument happened to come up after we'd come home from the bar with our friends, and I'd had a couple drinks because whatever, it had been a stressful week and Brian was there to make sure I didn't have seizures, and my tolerance is in the toilet since I barely drink these days, and Brian had had way more than a couple drinks because...he's Brian, so neither of us was at our most sober and sweet.


I said, Just tell them I'm sick or something, Jesus.


So then I'm the asshole who didn't stay with his sick partner on New Year's. No dice.


Then tell them, sorry, you had to stay home with your sick partner and come to Emily's with me!


I have to network, he said. I can drum up a lot of business here, and it's a chance for them to see me outside the office. I'll look like a human being and not a corporate robot.


That sounds nice, do I get to see that version of you sometime?


And having you there is good for business.


I barked out a laugh. Good for business! Which is it, the gay thing or the young thing or the sick thing or the Deaf thing, which of those makes you look like a sainted hero for having me as as your little wife. Can I guess?


Clients want someone my age to be married, he said. It makes me look more reliable. And the fact that it's to a guy means they get to applaud themselves for being all open-minded. It's just a good marketing tool.


Yeah, except it's not actually 'just a good marketing tool,' it's us and our fucking New Year's that we have to spend sucking up to some clients instead of with our friends. Because what I really wanted was to kiss you at midnight in front of a bunch of people applauding themselves for not having a problem with us.


God, you're such a fucking girl.


Great, you misogynistic prick, does that mean I can go to Emily's now, since I no longer support the homosexual agenda?


Brian snickered cruelly as he poured another drink. You know, you'd think with the fucking importance my income has in this family—


Don't fucking try to act like I'm not supportive. Do I say fucking anything when you blow off plans to work? Do I give you shit when you come home in a bad mood and take it out on me?


Just not supportive enough to give up one night of your fucking life.


It's New Year's! It's New Year's with a fucking room full of ancient straight hearing people. I'm gonna be fucking miserable, and why, just so I can be your arm candy? Whatever little boost you're going to get from having me there, that's really worth it?


He was in my face, all squinty and drunk and mean. Jesus, fucking sue a guy for wanting to spend New Year's with you—


Oh, yes, this whole thing is so fucking romantic.


Did you consider that maybe I would also rather spend New Year's with our friends? he signed at me. But I do things I don't want to do because that's my fucking responsibility. I make sacrifices for this family. What the fuck do you do?


I make this family have a fucking soul.


He laughed in my face. Well, isn't that fucking adorable. What percentage of the mortgage does that cover? Does that cover your copays, Sunshine?


You see why I want to fucking walk out sometimes?


But he was standing right in front of me, and when I tried to take a step around him, he blocked me, and when I closed my eyes he put his hands on my face—not rough or anything, but enough so I couldn't forget he was there, which was what he wanted. So I was stuck and he wouldn't give me a fucking second, and when I opened my eyes he was signing again, and I just...broke the fucking cardinal rule of the Taylor clan.


I yelled.


I didn't even fucking yell words, I just fucking screamed. And of course I couldn't hear it, but I could feel it in my throat and in my chest, and I just kept shouting for, I don't know, as many seconds as I could. My lung capacity isn't exactly anything to write home about.


Brian jumped about a foot when I started screaming, and after I was done he just kind of gaped at me, and then he started laughing, a little at first and slowly building. He set his glass down on the bookshelf and said, What the fuck was that?


I was already kind of embarrassed. You wouldn't let me leave.


That's why you have to leave? he said, laughing harder. Because otherwise you're going to start screaming like a crazy person?


I shrugged. Apparently.


He swiped his hand over his mouth, trying to stop laughing, but it was no use. You fucking freak, he said, the same way a normal person might say I love you. God, come here. He put one broad palm on my back and pulled me into a kiss, then mussed up my hair with both of his hands. You little wild animal.


Yeah.


He kissed me again and touched his forehead against mine.


Look. I have to go to this fucking boring as shit thing, and it's going to suck, and it would suck a little bit less if you were there with me. Please? And he looked at me with, you know, those eyes.


See, you could have just done that, I said. Fucking just asked me if I would do something instead of ordering me around.


I know. He sighed and kissed my cheek. I'm working on it.

End Notes:

 

For ThatAj.

Chapter 73 - And Many More by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin turns 30, Brian takes him on a day trip, nothing happens. Ohhhh it's so little and pointless...

 

And Many More

LaVieEnRose



I woke up before Justin on March 11th, 2013. He'd come home tipsy after what Evan had sworn up and down had been his one allotted drink—now that Justin's mostly sober his tolerance is for shit—and fallen asleep on top of me after a spectacular exchange of blow jobs, even by our standards, thank you very much, and I wasn't surprised that he was still conked out. It was early, and his hair was damn near platinum in the sun, and the blinds left long shadows from the curve of his ass to the small of his back. His eyes were a little puffy already from the pollen, and he was whispering to himself in his sleep in that way he does, and...well. He was thirty years old.


He'd made it thirty fucking years.


**


I heard him stirring in the bedroom while I was halfway through making pancakes, and I looked up to see him rubbing his eyes in the doorway. He'd pulled on a pair of sweatpants, those ridiculously old, ridiculously soft gray ones that are almost, but not quite, thin enough to see through.


I said, I was going to bring you breakfast in bed, you know.


He pouted at me, but he was smiling, really. My boy's a trooper. No blindfolded queening out for him.


Well, he probably would queen out if I blindfolded him, but he gets a Deaf pass for that.


You don't look a day over twenty-five and you know it, I said.


He wrinkled his nose.


Did you take your meds?


Not yet. They're my job, really.


I'll get them. Come sit.


He'd set places for us at the counter and was cooking the pancakes when I got back. His hands were busy with the spatula, so I filled a glass of water and got his attention and opened my mouth. He copied, and I tilted the pills into his mouth and held the glass to his lips.


He swallowed. “Thank you,” he said, and he got on his toes and kissed me. I don't know if you even have time to eat these. You're going to be late.


I shook my head and poured some of the coffee I'd put on before I started on the pancakes. No work today.


He frowned a little. Isn't it Monday?


I took the day off.


He blushed and flipped a pancake. “You didn't have to do that. Really, I'm fine. I'm not even going to spend more than a few hours at most checking the mirror for gray hairs.”


I took tomorrow off too.


He watched me, a bit of a smile starting to show up on his lips. Are we going somewhere?


I cleared my throat and sat down my mug. Sit down. I'll finish these.


**


We showered and fucked and dressed, I grabbed the bag I'd packed the night before, threw in a few last minute essentials, and we walked to the garage where we keep the 'vette. We stopped for coffee on the way and drank as we went. Justin's hair blew into his eyes, and he pawed at his nose with the back of his wrist.


What did you get me? he asked.


Nothing, I got you a trip.


That's not a present. I need something I can touch. Preferably something expensive. Remember what I got you for your thirtieth?


Dried out cake and a coffin?


He thought back. Why did we think that was funny?


I tucked him under my arm as we took a corner. Because no one we knew was sick.


**


“Anyway,” Justin said, as I unlocked the car. “That's not what I got you for your birthday, that was the girls. I got you—”


The ugliest shirt the world has ever seen, I remember.


“I don't know why you think you have any taste in clothes,” he said. “Just because you're hot, you've gotten it into your head that you can dance and dress.”


Hot people can do everything, I said, getting into the car. It's in that contract I signed when I sold my soul.


Oh, I'm familiar with it.


I looked him over appreciatively. I know you are.


He messed with the radio even though we were still underground because I suppose he lost his logic along with his hearing. “You never even wore that shirt.”


I absolutely did, I said. While you were in the hospital.


“Which time?”


I gave him a look as I backed the car out. The first time.


Did you really?


Yeah, it was part of the whole sadness outfit. Scarf, shirt.


Whiskey.


Whiskey.


Did you wear it to the hospital?


We drove out into the New York sun and the radio roared to life. Oh yes. Eventually that nurse—the mean one, Carla?


Oh, God.


Yeah, she yelled at me to take a bath.


Justin laughed. She would.


I really took that grieving widow thing as far as it would get me. I had it down to an art.


He smiled at me.


**


We argued about music most of the way out of the city. Justin kept stealing my phone and putting on loud shit.


You are completely missing the tone of this trip, I said. This is very low-key. This is a two cowboys driving over the wild west sort of situation.


Cowboys don't drive. They ride horses.


Your allergies are not my responsibility.


And this isn't the wild west.


Geography's not my responsibility either. We used to have trouble signing and driving, but we're pretty good at it by now even though we don't drive anywhere more than once a month at most. Sign language has all these rules about eye contact—basically, do it—but we're fucking great at having conversations where we barely glance at each other, where we shouldn't be catching everything the other one's saying but we somehow do anyway. It's just about the mood, I said. We're supposed to be looking at the windows thinking about the passage of time while a voiceover plays our inner thoughts. Yours can have subtitles.


What the hell does that have to do with the music?


Come on, you remember those scenes in movies. You need some Harry Nilsson or something.


I don't know who that is. I'm thirty, not...whatever you are.


I looked at him sideways, and he shined that bright smile directly at me, the little shit.


God. Thirty. Older than I was when I met him. It felt...impossible that he should be older than a time when I knew he existed, when the fucking universe started. It was some fucking hole in the space time continuum. All the fucking shit he's been through, and...fuck, my life had barely started at his age. I'd barely felt anything.


He leaned his head back against the seat and watched me.


Quiet music, I said.


But I can't hear the quiet music.


You can't hear the loud music, either.


True.


I put on something soft but with a good bass beat, and he put his hand over the speaker and seemed satisfied. It gets loud part of the way in, though, so when it was coming up I looked over at him and said, Okay, you ready? Three, two... I pointed at the speaker, and my put my fingers over mine so I could feel it too.


Justin grinned.


Yeah, you like that? I said.


He nodded.


I knocked his head to the side, carefully. Good.


**


I took Justin to a beach town in Connecticut. It was gray and windy and barely above fifty degrees, and I parked our car right on the beach because there was no one there to stop us. Most of the shops were still boarded up for the season, and there was one woman sweeping the sidewalk and, way down at the other end of the beach, a couple walking the opposite direction.


Besides that, just the cloudy sky and the ocean and us.


Justin got out of the car and looked confused for a few seconds while he watched the water, then turned to me with amazement in his eyes. I can breathe.


I know you can.


He took a slow, deep breath. Wow.


Good?


Good.


Let's sit.


I spread one blanket out on the sand and put another around Justin's shoulders after he sat down. We really should think about getting a second place, I said.


Can we afford that?


Not yet, but maybe in a few years. Just somewhere to get away to in the summers where you'll be a little less miserable.


He lay back, pulling his blanket around himself like a bat wrapped up in its wings. “I like this.”


We took our shoes off despite the chill and buried our feet in the sand. Justin dug out the sketchpad I'd packed and drew for a while, and I closed my eyes and listened to the soft scratch of his pencil and the roar of the waves. There were some seagulls circling above us, calling out to each other, and two people laughing off in the distance.


I don't feel bad that Justin can't hear very often. He's happy.


I felt him shift next to me, and then his lips against my neck, and I smiled and pulled him in to me. We pushed and pulled at each other for a little while, kicking up sand, and when I opened my eyes he kissed me and showed me his drawing. It was me, from behind, standing at the edge of the ocean with my jeans rolled up to my calves.


Sign it, I said.


He rolled his eyes and did. I've always loved his signature. It hasn't changed. One of the only things about him that hasn't.


And date it, I said.


He grinned. March eleventh.


Twenty-thirteen.


Twenty-thirteen.


Justin got up and stretched, then slowly bent over backwards and arched his back until his palms hit the sand. His shirt rode up, and I watched the muscles around his waist stretch and pull. He's more flexible than I am, and I'm sometimes goddamn amazed watching the way his body works, how much strength he has. I notice during sex, or when he's punching me in the fucking face during a seizure, but God help me I forget other times.


I rested my chin on my knees and watched him. He chuckled a little as he straightened himself back up. “What?”


Nothing.


“You love me?”


Yeah, are you surprised?


He sat down next to me. “Every single day.”


Well, you're brain-damaged.


He laughed with his head back, and God, the fucking irony that he could breathe out here.


**


We went down to the water eventually, and of course it was goddamn freezing. Justin kept splashing me, so I grabbed him from behind with my arms around the waist and spun him around, and he kicked his feet in the air and screamed loud enough to wake the dead.


**


“So come on,” Justin said, as we walked down the boardwalk with ice cream cones from the one place we found open. “What did you get me really?”


Nothing.


“Brian.”


I don't actually like you that much.


He held out his ice cream cone. “Trade,” he said. I licked his and held out mine for him to taste. He made a face. “I don't like it.”


Then why do you always want to trade?


“Someday you might pick something good.” He licked a drip off his hand. “What did you get me?”


Nothing. In all seriousness, buying presents for Justin is a bit of a tricky affair. You don't want to ever get him something big, because he doesn't do all that well with surprises. Big things need to be brought up gently, discussed, planned, which I prefer anyway, so that's fine. And if he needs something small throughout the year I just get it for him. I told you. You get a trip.


This is barely a trip.


Hey. What happened to, wow, I can breathe?


He waved his hand. “Novelty's worn off.”


I couldn't exactly sweep you away to Spain, I said. Emily's about ninety weeks pregnant. Figured you'd want to be close in case your daughter makes an early appearance.


He licked his ice cream thoughtfully. “This is my last birthday not being a father.”


Guess you have to get all the irresponsible out of your system now, then.


He looked a little sad. And tired. “I think those days are over.”


You want to sit for a minute?


“Yeah.”


We sat down on a bench facing the water and looked out over the empty beach. Justin's head was bothering him, I could tell, and I gave him a minute, not watching him, just trailing my fingers lightly up and down his back so he'd know I noticed. He sat back eventually with a small sigh, his eyes closed, and I watched him and how goddamn young he still seemed. People don't know shit to look at him. You wouldn't give him credit for what he's been through, what he goes through, not if you didn't know.


He opened his eyes and watched me watch him for a little while. “What are you thinking about?” he asked me, after a minute.


I'm thinking, I said, how I think it's goddamn amazing that you're still alive.


He smiled a little bit.


I took his hand and gave it a quick kiss before I turned back out to the water. Try to stay here, okay? I said, casually.


I saw him nod next to me, and a minute later he dropped his head onto my shoulder.


It wasn't that long ago that the idea of losing Justin—I can say it now: of Justin dying—scared me so bad it was paralyzing just to think about. And I'm not going to pretend that I'm some well-adjusted bastard all the time now, and that if—when—the time comes, I'm going to be all goddamn zen about it. But I think that, even though it's not as if Justin's terminally ill or anything fucking dramatic like that, when you spend this many years in this kind of precarious position, you develop a relationship with the things that scare you. You have to. Pain and illness and yeah, death...you come to an understanding. You get used to their presence, even if you don't like them. And it can actually become kind of a symbiotic relationship, if you let it. You can allow these things to scare the shit out of you, or you can allow your fucking self to look at this boy next to you and think, Goddamn, Goddamn, thank you, every morning until...well, until.


Like I said. I'm not going to pretend I'm like this all the time.


But tonight I would bring him back to the hotel room I rented and get into the enormous bath tub they'd promised us and fuck him between cool sheets and give him a cashmere hoodie and the softest pair of jeans I could find, because he deserves to have clothes that don't hurt him. And when we got home I'd show him the tentative itinerary I'd come up with and let him start planning for me to sweep him away to Spain for our anniversary, just the way we both like it. And he can't promise me anything, but that's okay. We can make plans. We like making plans.


Thirty years, and here's to however many more.

 

End Notes:

 

I feel the need to clarify that there will never be a death fic in this series, so that's not what we're headed towards. I don't do break-ups and I don't do death. Not for my sick characters, anyway :)

Chapter 74 - Welcome by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin's daughter is born.

Welcome

LaVieEnRose



Emily called me at two o'clock on Thursday, March 28th, when I was at home grading some seriously depressing papers from students who clearly hadn't been listening to a fucking word I'd been saying in the past few weeks, but you know, hooray academia. Brian know you're making personal calls? I said.


My water just broke on Brian's Prada shoes, so I think he can't be more pissed at me than he already is.


Your water broke.


Ta da, she fingerspelled.


Shit. Okay. Where's Gwen?


In surgery, it's fine, she'll be done in an hour, and this is going to be a while anyway.


Do you need me to come get you?


She shook her head. Brian's taking me. Can you go get Justin and come to the hospital with him? Brian says he's at his studio.


I get to tell Justin? Yeah, sure. What hospital?


Pres. Daphne's hospital. Think you can find it?


Yeah, I think I'm familiar. Good luck! Don't spit the kid out until I get there.


I'd been to Justin's studio before but I couldn't remember exactly how to get there, so I looked up the address—Daphne has all this stuff written down, she's amazing—and took a cab there because whatever, special occasion and all that. I headed into the building, found the number for Justin's unit, and opened the door. He was sitting on his ratty little couch with a bag of ice on his wrist, reading one of those mystery novels he's always carrying around. He glanced up at me and raised an eyebrow.


Hard at work, I see, I said.


Oh, you know, the creative process. He stood up and stretched. Want to get lunch?


Sure, how does the hospital cafeteria sound?


Uh, bland. Why, we meeting Daphne?


You're really not putting this together? Christ, you're stupid.


I've heard that, yeah.


Get your shit packed up and let's go, darling. You're having a baby.


He blinked at me. I'm...


Emily and Brian are at the hospital. Gwen is on her way. I'm here to get you.


He threw his arms around my neck, and I laughed and hugged him.


Holy shit, he said as he lowered himself back down to flat feet.


Come on, Dad.


**


Brian was in the waiting room of the maternity ward when Justin and I got there. He gave us a small smile as he stood up, straightening his cuffs, and he kissed me and pulled Justin in under his arm.


Who's with Emily? I asked.


No one right now, they're sticking things up her and she said she'd just as well not have her boss in there with her for that. But she wants one of you until Gwen gets here because, to quote her, they've seen it before.


Okay, so at least we know she hasn't lost her dazzling manners, I said.


Brian looked Justin up and down. Wow.


You think?


He touched Justin's hair. I haven't seen you in hours, where have you been?


It was you, you were at work.


I'm going to have to stop doing that.


Working?


Yeah.


I said, Guys, literally any other time.


Brian said, Sorry. Room 2319.


I'll go, Justin said. He got on his toes to kiss Brian's cheek and scampered down the hall. Brian watched him go.


I squeezed Brian's arm. How are you?


I'm good, he said. This doesn't really involve me. He shook his head a little. It's...very weird to be in a hospital and not worried about Justin. It's freaking me out.


Want me to like, flash some lights in his face, give you something to worry about?


You're a good friend.


I try.


He nodded towards the hallway. You're going to miss the show. You don't have to babysit me.


I'm not. I am going to go see if I can find Daphne, though. You need anything?


Brian rolled his eyes. Like I said. Barely involves me. I wouldn't even be here until the baby was cleaned off and bundled up if Emily hadn't spilled her amniotic fluid at my office.


I said, So you're still here why?


He looked at me like I was crazy. I can't leave Justin at a hospital.


Very healthy thing you two have going on.


Mmhmm. Say hi to your girlfriend for me when you're interrupting her while she's trying to save lives.


Fiance! I signed on my way to the elevator.


I found Daphne pretty quickly once I was down in the ER without having to ask anyone, which is good since I definitely haven't practiced pronouncing her last name. She was by the nurse's station filling out a chart, and when I touched her back she said something without looking up.


“Hi?” I said.


She looked up and laughed. Sorry, I thought you were this orderly who won't leave me alone. She got on her toes and gave me a quick kiss. What are you doing here, is everything okay? She looked around, presumably for Justin.


Everything's good. Emily's in labor.


Oh, that's great. She's doing okay?


I haven't seen her yet. Wanted to come update you. I kissed her. And maybe some of this.


She laughed a little. Okay, I'm off at ten, I'll come up and check on how it's going then.


Emily and Daphne have kind of a weird relationship that I've managed to avoid getting too involved in. Emily didn't have a lot of close female friends growing up—I mean, really it was just her and me, most of the time—and Daphne said she didn't either, so I think maybe that's part of it, that neither of them is really used to having another girl around all the time. Or maybe they just don't like each other, I don't know. Emily doesn't like that Daphne's hearing, and Daphne...I don't know, maybe doesn't like that Emily's slept with me? Like I said, I try not to get involved.


I went back to the elevators, and the doors opened as I walked up and there was Gwen. Hey! I said, and gave her a hug. You know Emily's not down here.


I know, I can't find any signs for maternity or whatever and these hearing people are useless. I was going to see if Daphne could tell me where.


I guided her back to the elevator. Fourth floor.


Jesus, thank you. How is she?


Haven't seen her. Justin's with her now.


Brian wasn't in the waiting room anymore when we got up there, but I remembered the room number and led Gwen down there. Emily was pacing the room in a hospital gown, and she bounced a little and held up her arms when she saw Gwen. Gwen hugged her and had a quick conversation with her, asking how she was feeling, and I gave them some privacy and went and sat next to Justin. He made a face and picked off some of the animal fur Gwen had left on my clothes.


How's she been? I asked him.


Good, contractions aren't too bad yet, she says. They're going to give her an epidural pretty soon. I think. She doesn't want an interpreter so I'm just going off of Emily's lipreading.


I waved until Emily looked over. You're not getting an interpreter?


Hmm, yeah, most important moment of my life, who do I really want there? My girlfriend, the baby's dads, my best friend, and a stranger. Sounds great.


Justin raised his hand. I'm not going to be in here when she's born, for the record.


Emily said, Are you kidding?


Are you kidding? he said. You think I can handle all that blood? Noooo, I'll see her when she's...clean.


She waved her hand. You and your trauma.


He sneezed and nudged me away from him. I know, it's very tiring for you.


Brian came in a minute later with a paper bag from the cafeteria. He kissed Gwen's cheek and handed the bag to Emily. Should you be walking around? he asked her.


Yeah, getting it out of my system before the epidural. Ooh, blueberry. Love you.


Brian said, I'm going on a supply run, what do we need?


Everything's packed in a blue bag by the door of my apartment, Emily said. Just didn't think to fucking bring it to work.


Brian pointed at me. Need anything?


No, I'm good.


He moved over to Justin. Sketchpad, meds—including Claritin, apparently, what the fuck...


Justin pointed to Gwen.


Okay, and a change of clothes for Gwen. He turned to Emily. Do you want a video camera or something, document the...


She gave him a look.


Okay, fine, don't document the magic. See if I care. Not my kid. He leaned over and kissed Justin. I'll be back in a little while. You're good?


Brian, I'm fine. I'm not in the hospital.


Strange. All very strange.


Emily's contractions picked up after Brian left, and we sent Justin out to talk to the hearies, but his lipreading is for shit so I came with him as some sort of two-headed Deaf interpreting act. We should get Evan here, Justin said as we looked for a nurse. The way he lipreads, he's practically a fucking hearing person.


We flagged down a nurse and Justin said his friend needed an epidural and the nurse said something I was reasonably sure was “Okay, I'll tell her doctor,” and we lingered outside after the doctor went in. This is very medieval, Justin said to me. The men standing outside the delivery room.


No one's delivering anything for hours, I said. Who knew childbirth was so boring?


What do you think they're going to name it? Justin asked.


They haven't told you?


He shook his head. What, have they told you?


No, of course not, but I'm not the dad.


Brian's convinced it's going to be something super weird, he said. He says Emily's going to ruin her life right off the bat.


I mean...her dolls had some weird fucking names.


Oh, God, Justin said.


We went back in after the doctor left. Emily was settled in the bed now with a million monitors attached to her, and Gwen was French braiding her hair out of her face. I'm a great French braider. Better than Gwen, but I had just enough tact not to say anything.


Justin and I pulled our chairs up to the foot of the bed and entertained ourselves with poking Emily's feet for a while and asking her if she could feel it. Justin went down to the gift shop and got a deck of cards, and we played Egyptian Ratscrew until his hand started to ache. He stretched his fingers, looking at one of Emily's monitors. What's that one? he said.


Gwen looked. I think that's the baby's heart rate.


It was higher before, right?


We all looked at it.


I don't know, I said.


Gwen looked at Emily. How do you feel?


I don't know...okay, I think. She poked at her stomach. You good in there?


If something was wrong, an alarm would be going off or something, right? Gwen said. Do you think that would have lights?


Would you be able to hear that? Justin asked me.


No, I don't think so. But someone would come...


We watched the door for a minute, but nobody came in.


I guess it's okay? I said.


Justin pointed to the monitor. It dropped again.


Emily hit Gwen's arm. Go get someone. Gwen nodded and kissed her cheek and charged out the door, and I got up and took her place to hold Emily's hand.


I'm scared, she said to me.


Everything's fine. You've got a whole army here.


Justin kept watching the monitor, his eyes narrowed, like he could keep it from dropping any more by sheer force of will.


Gwen came back a minute later with a nurse, who said something to Emily, who squinted at her and signed to Justin, Make her say it again. Justin spoke out loud, and the nurse talked again, but none of us got it this time either, and the nurse just shook her head and reached up under Emily's gown.


Wow, okay, Emily said.


Justin said, No, I don't like that.


When this is all over I'll borrow your therapist.


Justin stood protectively next to her. Yeah, she's good.


The nurse came up from between Emily's legs, snapped off her gloves, and said something to us.


You know we're all Deaf, right? Justin simcommed. Can you just, I don't know, give us a thumbs-up if everything's okay?


She did, but she didn't look even sort of fucking reassuring. Don't they teach you a poker face in medical school?


What the fuck, Emily said to Gwen, just as the nurse got up and left. What the fuck, are you kidding? Where the fuck is she going, is she getting someone?


I don't know, Gwen said. How do you feel?


I feel fucking weird as shit, but there's a needle in my spine and a baby in my cervix, I don't know what the fuck is normal.


Justin said, Emily...I think we need a hearing person.


Nobody ever needed a hearing person, Emily said, adjusting herself on the bed.


Justin looked at the monitor. It dropped again. I'm calling Brian.


Brian doesn't know the first thing about any of this shit, Emily said. She looked at me.


He can still interpret, Gwen said. We can get him on the phone with your doctor, and—


Emily, I said.


The rest of them weren't putting it together, but she was. She looked down, then up at me, then down, then up at me again.


Okay, she said. Go.


**


Daphne wasn't where I left her, which was really inconvenient, and when I scanned the ER I couldn't find her anywhere. There was something going on, must have been a big car accident or something, because there were a whooole bunch of bloody people, and I said a quick thank you to Emily in my head for sending me on this errand instead of Justin.


I flagged down the first doctor I saw and said, I'm just going to sign to you and hopefully you'll get the idea that you should find the doctor who knows sign language.


She held up a finger like one minute, and walked away, and thirty seconds later Daphne was walking up, all fucking business in her scrubs. She said, Baby, I can't talk right now, we just got this—


It's Emily, something's wrong. We need you.


Her eyes were wide. Derek, I'm not a maternity expert, I've delivered like, five babies ever, this is not my—


You sign. Nobody is listening to us, no one is telling us anything, we need you. She doesn't have an interpreter, Daphne, she's scared. Justin's scared. I'm scared. We need you.


She looked around the ER, then up at me.


Okay, she said. Okay, come on.


We rode up in the elevator and I led her to Emily's room, where she said a few words and blew off a nurse who tried to stop us. She entered the room and immediately was all fucking take-charge, rubbing her hands with antiseptic and pulling on a pair of gloves. Justin, out, she said.


He said, No, I—


You get panicky and you're already wheezing, this is my room now, you're out.


Justin glared at her and left with a threat to call Brian, like he wasn't already about to do that. Daphne came up to Emily's head and checked all her monitors. Hi there. How are you feeling?


She started feeling dizzy a few minutes ago, Gwen said.


Daphne nodded. Let's go ahead and get this oxygen mask on you, okay? Here we go...good. So the baby's heart rate is a little slow. I want to check how far you're dilated, is that okay?


Just with your hand, right?


Uh-huh, just a few fingers.


Emily nodded and scooted down on the bed as best she could, and Gwen and I helped get her feet into the footrest things. I petted her hair and kissed her forehead while Daphne examined her, trying to get my heartbeat to slow down.


Daphne emerged and took off her gloves. Okay. Great job. Do you know your doctor's name?


She shook her head.


That's okay, I'll find out.


Gwen said, Tell us what's going on.


She's not very dilated yet and with the baby's heart rate this low I think we need to be considering a C-section, but I'm not an expert, Daphne said. I need to go talk to her doctor right now.


Emily started crying, and Daphne came to the head of the bed and put her hand over the oxygen mask.


Listen to me, she said to Emily. Are you listening?


Emily nodded.


I am not going to let anything happen to you or this baby, okay? That's a promise.


And when Daphne came back with Emily's doctor who examined her again and told us, interpreted through Daphne, that she wanted to get Emily in for a C-section right now, the first thing Emily said, I want Daphne there.


**


If it was medieval back when Justin and I were waiting outside Emily's room, you'd need a whole different era for this. Gwen, Daphne, and Emily in the operating room, and me, Brian, and Justin in chairs in the waiting room tapping our feet on the floor. Brian was doing his usual shit, making sure the nurses knew who we were for updates, getting us coffee, fussing over Justin.


Justin shivered in his seat in the waiting room. It's just so violent. I hate surgery.


Doctors do a million C-sections every day. Brian handed him a cup of coffee. It's got to be one of the most routine surgeries there is. Not exactly drilling burr holes in a skull. He looked at me. Coffee?


I told you, I'm fine.


He turned back to Justin. How's your hand?


It's good. I'm good.


This is so fucking weird, sitting in a hospital waiting room with you here.


You're not technically sitting, I pointed out. I don't think you've sat down since we got here.


Brian ignored me and shifted his weight around, the way Justin does when he's nervous. What can I do? he asked Justin.


I expected Justin to shut him up and tell him to sit down, like I'd been doing since they took Emily away, but Justin rubbed the back of his neck and said, Can you get me a bagel from the cafeteria? And maybe some tea, that blueberry green stuff?


Yes.


And can you call Molly and update her? And my mom?


He tilted Justin's chin up and kissed him. Yes. Use your fucking inhaler if you start coughing again. He pointed at me. Watch him.


I said, Oh my God, will you just go already?


Brian scratched the back of Justin's head, gave me a mock glare, and disappeared towards the elevators. I raised an eyebrow at Justin. Bagel and tea?


It helps him to have something to do, trust me. Hospitals make him anxious. I don't think he's really internalized that we can be inside a hospital without him needing to protect me from imminent death. Bagel's the least I can do.


Can I ask you a question?


Oh, God, yes, please. Justin took a swig of his coffee and set it to the side. Anything to distract me from what they are probably doing to Emily right now. He shuddered. God, they have to cut all the way—


Nope. Brian. We're talking about Brian.


Right. He took a deep breath. Brian.


I said, So what's his situation with the baby? Like...how are they going to be related?


The same as me and his son, I assume.


Which is...?


I don't know, Justin said. We've never really talked about it. It's just kind of...natural, I guess? I don't make decisions about his life or anything, but I mean, Brian barely does either. He's calling this baby his sister. He knows I love him.


What does he call you?


Justin, he fingerspelled. It's never been a thing, it's just easy. But...I don't really know. Brian didn't even think he was going to love Gus until after he was born. I don't know how he thinks he's going to feel about this one, when it's not even his.


I nodded.


I'm just trying not to pressure him, Justin said. Gus looks just fucking like him, so he had that immediate connection, seeing him and realizing, oh fuck, that's mine. It's biological. If he doesn't look at this new baby and feel that right away...I don't want him to think he's letting me down, or that I'm going to think that means anything, or that it means he won't love her once he gets to know her.


I smiled a little and leaned back in my chair.


What? he said.


I just think it's funny that everyone thinks he's the one who takes care of you.


Hey, Justin said. He does take care of me. That doesn't go anywhere.


Brian came back a few minutes later and handed Justin a bag and a cup. He put a hand on Justin's chest and signed, Breathe.


Justin did.


Good. He kissed Justin's cheek and nodded towards the hallway. Look who's coming.


It was Daphne, still with her hair back in a scrub cap, and she smiled at us as she was coming, so there wasn't really any suspense, but I still didn't relax until she got to us and said, Emily is doing great. She's in recovery now, Gwen's with her. And you, she said to Justin. Have a beautiful, six pound, two ounce baby girl.


Justin put his hand over his mouth, and Brian drew him into a hug and kissed the top of his head. Emily's really okay? Brian said.


She's great, Daphne said.


Brian breathed out slowly. Okay.


Daphne said, She needs to be in recovery for a few hours. The baby's in there with her now. Once she's moved back to her room you guys can go see her and meet the baby. Right now she needs to rest. She took a deep breath. And I need to get back to work.


We all swarmed her with hugs and kisses like we were on cue, thanking her over and over again.


You guys know I didn't perform the surgery, right? Daphne said. I hung out up by her head with Gwen.


Shut up, I said. Let us love you.


She looked up at me with those fucking brown eyes I would start a goddamn war for. Okay.


**


Two hours later, Gwen came and got us, and we followed slowly to her room, nudging Justin ahead of us.


Emily looked tired and pale, but she was smiling, and she waved us off when we went over to check on her. I know you want to see the baby, she said. Go see the baby.


You first, Justin said. He'd been getting progressively more and more antsy as we waited; he really, really doesn't like hospitals, Brian had explained with a shrug. But anyway, he was still fussing over Emily, checking her monitors and touching her hair and asking her if she was in pain, when Gwen tugged me and Brian over to the tiny crib in the corner.


She was sleeping, bundled up in a blanket so she was just a little head and a hat. She had this layer of blonde fuzz peeking out from under the brim of her hat, and she yawned in her sleep and kicked her feet a little.


Brian stared at her like she was...I don't know, like he hadn't really believed that she was going to be here, and now she was. He ran his hand over his mouth and reached out and touched her cheek, hesitantly.


Oh, fuck, he signed to himself, small. Oh my God.


Gwen laughed a little. Pick her up, she won't break.


So Brian did, and she fussed a little and Brian went “Shhh,” and cradled her in the crook of his arm, and she blinked her eyes open, and they were so goddamn blue, and Brian pulled his lips into his mouth and looked up at Justin, then back down at her face.


“Hi, baby,” I saw him say. He looked up at me, this fucking illuminated smile on his face, and nodded to Justin, so I went over and got him.


Justin looked almost scared, but Brian nodded to him encouragingly and transferred the baby from his arms to Justin's. Justin put his pinky in her palm and she wrapped her fingers around it, and Brian took a few steps back and turned away from us for a second, and I gave him a minute.


She's beautiful, I told Emily and Gwen, and they beamed from the bed. What's her name?


They looked at each other. We need Justin's approval, Emily said, and Justin nodded and handed the baby to me before he went over to sign secretly with them. She was so soft and warm. Kind of like holding a cat.


Really? I saw Justin say, and they nodded, and Justin did this kind of bouncing thing like he was trying not to cry, and Gwen laughed and gave him this enormous hug.


“Brian,” I said, and he turned around all fake nonchalant and came over and took the baby from me, which I had a feeling he was going to be doing a lot of. You want to know her name? I said.


Sure, Brian said vaguely, staring down at her.


Gwen stamped her feet until he looked up, then held out her hand to Emily, and Emily said, All right, fuckers. Meet Jane Taylor Klein-Buroughs.


Justin wiped his eyes and I laughed and tackled him under my arm.


Jane, Brian fingerspelled to her, nice and slowly. He tapped her on the nose. That's you.


**


We were all still in the room taking turns with the baby—Jane—while Emily napped on and off when Daphne came in after her shift, in her street clothes this time. She shook Jane's foot and kissed Justin's cheek and then came over to me and slid into my arms. She's cute, huh? she said to me.


Very.


She glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Ours will be cuter.


Oh, without question.


Gwen was on the bed, Emily curled up against her. Daph was perched on the arm of my chair with her legs in my lap. And Justin was on Brian's lap, Jane in his arms, Brian wrapped all the way around both of them. I can't even describe the mood in that room right then. It was like for just a couple minutes everything was right in the world.


And then the doctor came in with this somber look on her face, and...God, I don't know what everyone else was thinking, but I was full of this fucking dread right away. Emily was barely awake and that probably made all of this more upsetting for her, because she immediately started looking around for the baby and Brian got her attention and said, Here, she's here. She's fine.


The doctor started talking, and I lipread enough of it to get what was going on. Brian was immediately pissed off, Emily and Gwen were frantic trying to figure out what she'd said, but Daphne just held up her hand for the doctor to stop and went over to the girls by the bed.


She's saying, Daphne said. That Jane passed her Deaf test.

 

Gwen started laughing, Justin tried to stop Brian from yelling at the doctor, baby Jane slept, and Emily, my Emily, threw her arms around Daphne.

End Notes:

 

I am becoming a sap in my old age.

Chapter 75 - Keep Breathing by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin has bronchitis. Brian's in his wheelhouse.

Keep Breathing

LaVieEnRose



Okay. Brian shut off the TV. That's a hundred.


I sneezed for what was, apparently, the hundred and first, second, and third time. “Christ. Is it really?”


In half an hour. Are you okay?


I nodded. “Just itchy.”


This is insane. I think you're going to die. He pulled out yet another handful of tissues and stuffed them into my palm. I've known you for thirty five thousand years, I have never seen your allergies this bad.


I rubbed my face, wishing there was some way to scratch my sinuses. They've never been this bad. I don't know what's going on.


The pollen count is fucking unbelievable, but this is still pretty excessive. Jesus, bless you.


We haven't even been outside. I'd been having a rough week—allergy-wise, it was Jane's first week on earth so in other respects I was doing pretty well—but I'd woken up that Saturday so fucking miserable that Brian kept making me go over everything I'd eaten the night before, because neither of us could believe this could just be environmental. I'd taken a triple dose of Benadryl, Brian put masking tape over the seams of the windows and the balcony door and ordered me into the bathroom while he vacuumed the whole apartment, where I had the first of the five showers I would take over the course of the day. No use. You would have thought I'd spent the whole day with a cat pressed to my face.


Yeah, I told you, I think you're going to die.


I groaned and rubbed my eyes and tried—and failed—to go ten seconds without sneezing. “You swear it's going to rain tomorrow?”


Brian knocked my hands away from my eyes. Supposed to start tonight. Five more hours. Wash all this shit out of the air.


Okay. I coughed into my elbow. I can do five hours.


That's good, because I'm thinking you have no choice.


I groaned and flopped down on my back, and he patted my leg.


At least it's not seizures, he said.


I'd kill for seizures right now. At least I'd be unconscious.


You're too unlucky to go around tempting fate like that. And you should already be unconscious for the amount of Benadryl we've pumped into you anyway. Bless you, Christ, this is not rational. You want some tea?


I nodded. I got some of that local honey that's supposed to—


Yeah, I think we're past the point of the magical healing powers of local honey.


I pouted. Do it anyway.


He got up and kissed my forehead and headed to the kitchen, and I panted around my clogged up throat and wondered if wishing for death right now was something I needed to report to my therapist or if it was really just good sense at this point. I'd go with the latter.


He put the kettle on and waved over the counter until my bleary eyes settled on him, then said, What I don't understand is why your immune system can't be bothered to do a fucking thing about any germ that comes your way, but you breathe in one fucking speck of pollen and it's like yeah, don't worry, let me send out the fucking battalion.


“I'm an enigma.”


He shook his head. Jesus Christ, your voice. I can barely understand you, you are so stuffed up.


I shrugged.


He leaned against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room and watched me with a mixture of concern and amusement. What does it feel like?


Like my face is full of ants. Very, very itchy ants.


He tilted his head to the side. Can you take more Benadryl?


I blinked at my watch until it came into focus. Not yet. I can take my fucking inhaler, where the hell...


On the coffee table. You need to go back to the fucking allergist. Or maybe find a new one who's willing to try some sort of radical sinus-removal surgery.


I'm allergic to anesthesia.


At this point I'm going to say you're more allergic to pollen.


I laughed a little, which made me cough some more, and then I sneezed five times without catching my fucking breath and kicked the tissue box. “Oh my God.”


Brian stuck his tongue in his cheek and smiled at me. Your fucking voice. OhbyGod, he fingerspelled.


I'm glad someone's enjoying this.


Well, you are pretty cute.

 

He went back into the kitchen and came back with some tea and a wet paper towel. He set the mug on the coffee table and nudged me until I was sitting up, then held the paper towel over my eyes. It felt goddamn amazing, and I sighed and said, Thanks.


I felt him kiss my cheek. I stayed there as long as I possibly fucking could before I had to pull away and sneeze again. He pouted at me, a little bit of laughter in his eyes, and I pouted back until he kissed the bridge of my nose.


You, he said. Are going to be fine.


I sighed, which made him frown a little and put his hand on my chest. Yeah, I know, I said.


**


The rain helped, a lot, as did the next dose of Benadryl. Brian fucked me hard but goddamn sweetly, chuckling and nipping at my jaw when I couldn't quit sneezing, and I fell asleep propped up on his chest so I could breathe a little better.


Which ended up being kind of ironic, since I woke up in the middle of the night feeling like I was drowning. Well, not entirely drowning. It wasn't terrifying, just super, super uncomfortable. Is there such a thing as halfway drowning?


I started coughing before my eyes were even open and sat up and found my inhaler on the nightstand. The sheets were sticking to me with sweat, and I felt totally crappy, just dizzy and shivery and out of it, and it was hard to stop coughing long enough to even get my inhaler in my mouth. My whole chest felt heavy and clogged, and it reminded me of this fucking terrible asthma attack I'd had back when I was living with Ethan, where he'd paced around restlessly and made me even more scared, freaking out and asking me if he should call an ambulance, or Brian.


The lamp on Brian's side switched on and I felt him move to the edge of the bed next to me. Hey, you're all right, he said. Wow, that sounds bad.


I sucked in a breath. Yeah?


Yeah, you are really fucking wheezing. He put his hand on my back and rubbed about a circle and a half before he paused. You're warm. He moved his hand up to my forehead, then my cheek. Oh, yeah, look at that. Well, I think we solved the mystery of why your allergies were so bad.


Not allergies?


He laughed a little. No, definitely allergies, they've just also made you sick. He kissed my cheek. Hang on a second.


I nodded and coughed painfully as he got up and went to the bathroom. Everything kind of slid in and out of reality without Brian there to keep me grounded. My chest was really fucking hurting, and I couldn't figure out how to time my breathing to use my inhaler again, not that it had done me any damn good the first time. Plus I couldn't stop shivering even though I wasn't cold, and I couldn't figure that out for some reason, because every time I get sick my brain acts like it's the first time.


Another bout of coughing crashed its way out of my chest, and Brian came back a minute later and gave me a rough kiss on the temple. Ready? he asked me, and after I nodded he slipped an arm under my knees and lifted me up. I tucked my face into his neck, and he kissed my forehead as we walked. He's so goddamn gentle with me when I don't feel good.


He set me down on the floor of the bathroom, where the shower was running and the room was already filling up with steam. Good? he asked me, and I nodded and gulped down the air. All right, good. He sat down in front of me and ran his hands up and down my legs, watching me with intensity in his eyes and a small smile on his lips.


I can't breathe, I said.


He nodded. I got that impression, yeah. Let the steam work, give it time. Does your throat hurt?


I swallowed and nodded. Just a cold?


No dice. That doesn't sound like just your asthma cough. Something's in your chest.


Fuck.


He shook his head calmly. It's okay, we've got this.


I don't want to go to the hospital.


He looked at me like I was crazy, and God, nothing in the world has ever calmed me down that quickly. No one's talking about taking you to the fucking hospital. You have a low fever and a cough. They don't want this shit, you're boring. He flattened his palm on my chest and chewed the inside of his cheek. Yikes, there's some shit in there. You do have to cough that up or you're gonna die. No pressure.


I leaned my head back against the wall. Too tired.


All right, well, you've had a good run.


I coughed and shivered. “Brian.”


Ohhh, your voice is gone. He ran his hand down my arm, then brought his hand up to tuck my hair behind my ear. Chest hurts a lot?


I nodded and doubled over with a sudden coughing fit, and Brian rubbed circles on my back and handed me tissues.


Spit, he said.


I did.


Good. Stay put.


It's fine. This is where I live now. I lay down on the floor. It's nice here.


He dug through the cabinet under the sink and unearthed the nebulizer I get for special occasions such as these, and in a minute he'd set up a treatment and slipped the mouthpiece into my hand. He was calmly attentive while I breathed in the medicine, running a cool washcloth over my skin to bring the fever down, handing me tissues when I started coughing, just sitting and resting his chin on his knees and watching me like I was beautiful.


He switched the machine off when it started stuttering. Did that help at all?


I nodded and took a slow breath in. It didn't feel quite as hard as it had been before, and it hurt a little less.


Good. He moved behind me, his legs on either side of me, and kissed the back of my neck. Cough, he signed on my chest.


I sneezed instead and tried to squirm away from him, because I didn't want to fucking cough any more, but he held me firmly across the shoulders with one arm and clapped my back with the heel of his other hand, and it hurt and I tried to get away, but the touch made my lungs itch and I started coughing, hard. Brian hit for a while before he switched to rubbing, comforting, and I coughed up all sorts of nasty shit for what felt like forever. When I finally took in a breath I didn't have to cough through, it was clearer, and I nodded and turned around and burrowed into Brian's arms. He gave me a strong kiss on the forehead and said, Good job.


Don't make me do that again.


Oh, you're going to love tomorrow, then. He gave me a squeeze and let me go. Bedtime now, come on.


I held my arms up and he rolled his eyes and stood up, then bent over and picked me up.


Oh, Lord, he complained, then he brought me back to the bedroom and tossed me unceremoniously onto the bed. One of these days I'm going to throw my fucking back out doing this shit.


I snuggled into Brian's pillow. “I'll take care of you.”


That's very sweet, Kathleen Turner. He got into bed next to me and tucked me under his arm, and I rested my head against his chest and felt so goddamn shitty. I know, he signed on me, small, as he pulled me into his chest, and I fell asleep there.


**


It was light when I woke up, and at first I thought maybe I didn't feel all that bad, and then I started coughing and felt like I was never going to be able to stop, so, you know, that was fun while it lasted.


Brian wasn't there, but there was a humidifier sputtering on the nightstand, so he must have been out at some point, because I don't think we used to own that. I blew my nose for twenty hundred hours and felt kind of shivery and gross, so I pulled on some sweatpants and one of Brian's t-shirts and wandered out in the living room, still hacking into my elbow like some heroine dying in some old movie.


Brian was sitting on the counter talking on the phone to someone, and he stretched out his arm and held his palm out to me when he saw me. I lumbered over and fit my forehead into his hand.


101? he signed, still talking to whoever the fuck. He touched my cheek with the back of his hand. Maybe 102.


Somewhere in there, I think.


Go take your meds.


Can I have cough medicine?


I don't know, do you want to die? No, you cannot have cough medicine.


I scowled at him and went back to the bedroom and took my meds—he'd left them for me in a little paper cup on the nightstand like I was in a psych ward or some shit—and came back out to the living room, but between getting dressed and making two trips in I was totally out of breath at this point. I sat down heavily on the couch, and Brian came over and finished his phone call with me tucked into his side.


He hung up and I said, Who was that?


Fake-Emily, she's starting tomorrow. He kissed my cheek. Asked me what that noise was.


Noise?


Wheezing, dearest.


Oh. It's bad?


He chuckled. Yeah, it's extremely bad. Are you hungry?


I nodded.


Good. Bring your nebulizer out here and I'll make some toast. Tea or juice?


The choice was like fucking impossible for some reason. I shrugged.


Okay. He looked at me critically. Do you need me to get the nebulizer?


“Yeah,” I said, banking on my voice sounding appropriately pitiful, and I could tell by his eye roll that it worked.


He set up the nebulizer treatment on the kitchen counter and I dragged myself over and sat on one of the stools while he made breakfast. He said, You're not gonna like this, but if that doesn't help we're going to have to go to Urgent Care.


You're right, I don't like it.


I hear you, Sunshine, but your lips are kind of purple, here. I don't think this is pneumonia or anything, but you really don't sound good.


It'll help. I rubbed my chest. It's just bronchitis.


Yeah, and last time you had bronchitis you had to spend a night in the hospital because we couldn't get your fucking asthma under control. Why can't you just have seizures? We're so good at seizures.


I thought we were too unlucky to joke about that.


Who's joking? You want the grape jam or strawberry?


I rested my head against the wall. Strawberry.


I'm going to order groceries later, so take a look at the list and see if you want to add anything.


Okay. I took the mouthpiece out to cough for a little while. Have you heard from Emily?


No, not today. You want me to call her?


Yeah.


How do you feel?


Not so bad actually. I mean...symptomatic as shit, but if you'd told me this was just a really shitty asthma attack I would believe you, you know?


He nodded. Yeah, you seem like yourself.


Yeah.


He studied me. Sunshine, your lungs should not be crapping out like this all the time. Your fucking allergist needs to do something about this shit. Brian likes my neurologist and our GP, but my allergist is always your fucking allergist. Brian thinks if he were any good I'd be symptom-free, which makes literally no sense since he doesn't expect my neurologist to stop all my seizures. You can't reason with Brian.


It's not all the time. And all they did at the hospital was put me on nebs all day. I can do that here. It's helping. My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out and opened a text from Emily. It was picture of Janie in a bright blue onesie, wide awake and sprawled out on her back. I grinned and held it out to Brian.


She is awfully cute, Brian said.


She looks just like Emily.


He rolled his eyes. Sure.


She does, look at her nose.


Brian put a plate of toast in front of me and poured a glass of juice. I shut off the nebulizer and took a deep breath, eyebrows raised, and he nodded. Better, he said. Eat.


Eating fucking exhausted the shit out of me, it was ridiculous. I had to keep stopping to cough, and all the chewing and swallowing was like fucking aerobic exercise. I was just so out of breath. Brian cleaned the kitchen and made a phone call and didn't hover, but he did stop me when I tried to get up.


Finish your juice, he said. You need to thin out all that crap in your chest.


I dropped my chin onto my hand. “I wanted to see the baby today.”


Well, tough shit.


“Yeah.”


We need to figure out what to do about tomorrow, he said. I don't think you're going to be well enough to come in but it's a shitty day for me to miss.


I'll be fine here. I sneezed and rubbed my eyes.


Yeah, we'll see. This is why you need a healthy boyfriend to babysit you.


That's why I keep you around, I said, with my biggest smile.


No, you keep me around for my money, and I have to go to work to earn that. Drink, dear.


By the time I'd gotten through that glass, and the second one Brian made me drink right on top of it, I was completely spent. Brian guided me back to bed with hand on the back of my head. I'm going to get some work done in the office, okay? he said, as he pulled the comforter up over me. I'm going to put the nebulizer on you in an hour, but you don't have to wake up.


I blinked up at him. “You did that through the night, didn't you?” Now that I thought about it, I had vague memories of waking up just a little bit and feeling the mouthpiece slip between my teeth.


He kissed my nose.


“You are so fucked over me.”


Well, you are pretty cute when you're all sniffly. He rubbed up and down my arm. Get some rest. Call my phone if you need me, don't try to use your fucking voice.


“Okay.”


What did I just tell you? He checked my temperature with his palm and kissed my cheek. Okay. Sleep well.


I hugged his pillow to my chest. Okay. I love you.


He gave me a little smack on the small of my back on his way out of the room, and I closed my eyes and tried not to cough long enough to drift off.


**


I woke up feeling just fucking awful, like my chest was being crushed. I reached out for my phone and called Brian, then turned my face into my pillow and coughed until my mouth tasted like blood.


I felt him sit down next to me on the bed and rub my back. Once I gathered up enough air to turn my face to him he said, Sit up, you'll breathe better.


“Brian,” I said as he moved me.


I know. He frowned and wiped my eyes. Hey, come on, what's this about?


I shook my head. Just from the coughing. I tried for a deep breath, but it snagged and made me cough some more. Am I just scared because I have a fever? Because I was beginning to think maybe Urgent Care wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.


I'm sure that's not helping. You want a shower?


Will you fuck me? If he'd fuck me, that probably meant I wasn't about to die.


Yeah, I'll fuck you. Might help calm you down.


I nodded. I get freaked out sometimes when I can't breathe; Brian's well-enough acquainted with that at this point. That's why he tells me all that stuff like, if x happens we have to go to Urgent Care. It's concrete stuff I can focus on, and it's also a way for him to say, I know, I see you, I'm watching.


Come on, he said.


He ran the shower really hot, despite the fever, and he pulled me into the steam and hugged me into his chest, his arms loose around me. He gave me a little space when I started coughing but he kept his hands on me, and when I spit shit at the shower drain he just said, Good, and I thanked whoever the fuck for the zillionth time that Brian's pathological germ fear has me as a blind spot.


I must sound awful, I said.


He washed my hair. You sound sick.


Yeah.


He fucked me really slow, from behind so I could brace myself on the shower wall, and when I coughed he kept going, following the rhythm of my body, rubbing soothing circles on my chest. It took me for-fucking-ever to come, because I couldn't goddamn focus, but he was patient and told me to shut up when I tried to apologize, and when I finally did I felt all this fucking tension fall out of me, and I nodded when he asked if I felt better and he kissed me on the mouth for the first time since I'd been sick.


I don't know how you stay so goddamn pleasant, he said, small. I will never understand how you don't just scream and never stop.


I don't know how to take that kind of compliment, so I just said, Well, I can't breathe, and he laughed and ducked his head against my shoulder.


He wrapped me up in our biggest towel afterwards, rubbing my hair dry and prodding me to take some more allergy meds, and then he got into bed with me and I watched the rain still coming down outside.


We'll try sitting up this time, he said, positioning himself up against the headboard, and I pulled the comforter over both of us and fell asleep held up against him.


**


He made soup for dinner and we ate it on the couch while we watched whatever sitcom reruns were on. I was still doing neb treatments all the time and they were helping a lot, and by that point I felt less frantically breathless and more just kind of generally shitty. The fever was up a little bit and I was really starting to notice it now, and my hand was finally acting it up and making it hard to hold the spoon, so between that and the coughing spells it took me fucking forever to get the bowl down. I sat on the floor because holding the bowl and the spoon was way too much effort, and Brian stayed on the couch and rubbed his foot up and down my back when I coughed. It was nice.


I think I can come to the office tomorrow, I said.


Yeah?


Yeah, I'll be okay.


He watched me, this really indecipherable look on his face, and I squirmed.


What? I said.


You just...know yourself so fucking well. You know your body. You fucking...stay calm and you say what you need. He took a swig from his beer.


I blushed and looked down at my soup. “It's just bronchitis.”


Brian shifted around on the couch, and I looked up at him. He seemed agitated, all of a sudden. Christ, he said. How the fuck do you do this? I know we don't do this, but fuck, aren't you sick of this? Aren't you mad?


I shrugged.


Shrug? Shrug? Goddamn, you're irritating.


I laughed and settled back on the floor. We're really doing this?


Yeah, we're doing this.


I don't have a choice, I said. Things happen to me, I wait for them to be over. There's no choice involved.


Bullshit. There's a choice. If I were in your shoes, I was choose to be a complete asshole.


I laughed and coughed. And where would that get you?


From experience I would have to say, with your patient ass taking care of me regardless.


You're the patient one around here.


Brian laughed. I want it in writing.


It's so fucking strange that you think what I do is hard, I said.


He looked at me incredulously. Do you realize you don't have enough oxygen to say that out loud? Yeah, you're really having an easy time of things.


I just do what I have to do, I said. How was he not getting this? There's nothing fucking amazing about literally just laying low and surviving shit. I don't even have to do anything. Hell, you've been sticking nebs in my mouth all day. I mean what am I supposed to do, die because I'm tired?


Like I said. Be a raging asshole.


That's just even more exhausting. I waved my hand at him. And what you do. What you do is exhausting.


He shook his head and sipped his beer. I do not understand what part of this you think is so hard. You're cuddly and you're sweet as hell, what part of this exactly is supposed to be the torture?


Being scared all the time, I said. Worrying about me.


Sunshine. He set his beer down. Do you really think I'm even the smallest goddamn fraction as scared as you are when something bad happens to you?


I didn't really know how to answer that.


I don't have PTSD, I'm not missing a chunk of my brain, and I'm not inside a body that has fucking horrible things happening to it. I don't think I'm fucking physically capable of being as scared as you are. Stop making up some story where I'm miserable about this, okay? I wasn't scared today.


“Okay,” I whispered painfully, and he cocked his head to the side.


Justin, I'm fine, he said. I'm not waiting to be saved.


I just love you.


Come on, I know that. Did you finish your soup?


I nodded.


Good. He turned off the TV. Time for bed, wheezy.

 

In a minute, I said, and I got up on the couch and crawled on top of him and lay my head on his chest. And I stayed there for a really long time, just feeling him breathe.

End Notes:

I realized we didn't really have any where Justin was non-emergency sick and we got to see how Brian handles it when there aren't any spectators.

 

Also I really just needed some pure, indulgent, minorly-sick Justin, so here we are. Ask me for more of him, I dare ya.

Chapter 76 - Hiatus by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

S3. Justin has an asthma attack from Ethan's cat, and Brian's getting sick of waiting. Requires no knowledge of the series.

Hiatus

LaVieEnRose



A million years ago, when Justin was living with the fiddler, his eyes were always swollen.


It's not as if I was keeping watch over him, or anything like that, and honestly that's not even me being in denial here. I was trying my fucking hardest not to goddamn look at him at all, so there was no careful monitoring of the boy's condition happening, not at that point. But he still worked at the diner and I still had to live in this town, so I saw him, and I did notice, after it was literally every time, that Justin's eyes were always swollen.


I was paying my bill at the counter one afternoon and Kiki came over to Debbie and started whispering, if you can call it whispering when it's as loud as most people shouting. “I don't think he's happy with the new boyfriend,” Kiki said.


“Who?” Deb said.


Kiki gave me a long, pointed look I ignored, then turned back to Deb. “He always looks like he's just been crying, have you noticed?” she said. “I think it's the boyfriend.”


“It's his allergies,” I said, drawing it out so I'd sound nice and bored.


They both had the nerve to look at me like they hadn't known I was there.


“He's not crying,” I said. “He has allergies.” I took my change back from Debbie. “He's perfectly happy.”


**


The weather cooled down, though, and Justin's allergies didn't hibernate like they were supposed to. At first when the temperature dropped and Justin was sneezing every damn time I saw him I assumed he'd caught a cold, and it brought back uncomfortable memories of him in the loft the winter before, curled up impossibly small under a blanket on the couch. I figured he probably didn't have much cash for anything other than essentials, so I bought a bag of those nasty cherry cough drops he loves and if I ate at the diner without any fucking rubberneckers I'd leave a few with my tip. He always thanked me.


A month passed, though, and the sneezing never stopped, and the swelling around his eyes didn't go down, and I'd hear him coughing in the diner's back room. His shift ended one day while I was still at the diner, and I tapped my fingers on the table as he left, then mumbled, “Fuck it,” and got up and followed him out to the sidewalk. “Justin?” I said, over the bells on the door tinkling behind me. His name felt strange in my mouth, and I wondered how long it had been since I'd said it out loud.


He turned around and gave me a vague smile, rubbing one eye as he walked over. He'd done the poster for me at this point, showed up at the Carnivale, all that jazz, and we were friendly to each other.


His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and his skin was pale where it wasn't flushed pink under his nose. His hair was longer by then and his bangs never lay right. I'd given up trying not to look at him.


I put my hands in my pockets. “I'm going to ask you a personal question, okay?”


He bit back a grin. “I'm sure I'm powerless to stop you.” He was wheezing softly, but he usually does when it's cold. I didn't think much of that at the time.


“Do you need money?”


He shook his head, which honestly wasn't what I had been expecting, which was something closer to go to hell, Brian and a determined stomp away that would absolutely confirm that he did need money. This...maybe meant he actually didn't.


“Okay...” I said. “You can afford your meds and everything?”


Now he just looked confused. “Yeah, I have insurance through school, remember? It has drug coverage.”


“Oh. Right.”


“I pay like twenty dollars a month for everything.” The look on his face dared me to ask him if he had twenty dollars.


I felt fucking impossibly awkward. “Okay. Well...good. Glad you're doing well.”


“Thanks. You too. I'll see you around.”


Ethan called me eight hours later.


**


The call was from Justin's phone. Otherwise I probably wouldn't have picked up.


It wasn't the first time he'd called me in the middle of the night. The bashing was only just over a year behind us at this point, and he was still not okay in ways that took me goddamn ages to even start to see. Until the last month or so of us living together, the nightmares had been mostly under control. Maybe once every two weeks he'd have a whole dragged out hyperventilating affair, and in-between he'd have mornings he'd be shaky and out of sorts for a while, but it was nothing compared to the shit we'd endured when he first moved in. And when he started losing his hearing, though obviously that was a ways down the line.


Though I am not going to pretend I don't look back on those phone calls he'd make when he was living with Ethan, when he'd call me crying from the bathroom because I was the only one who could convince him not to hurt himself to try to shut up the screaming inside of him, and remember when he'd asked me to repeat things. I'd assumed he was just panicking and not paying attention. And maybe that's all it was.


He's always hated phone calls. He's always zoned out during conversations and it's always been hard to get his attention.


Now, it's possible those are just personality quirks. The narrative is that Justin didn't start losing his hearing until his twenties. And maybe he didn't.


And it's not as if it matters.


But yes, sometimes I wonder.


Anyway, when my phone rang at three in the morning and I groped for it on the nightstand and saw his number, I took a deep breath and sat up, prepared to talk him down from a panic attack. It had been a while, but it's not really something you forget how to do. I just needed a minute to steel myself for him crying, honestly. You don't get used to that.


I picked up the phone and said, “Evening, Sunshine.”


But there was no panicked breathing on the other line, just a weird sort of whistle in the background, and then a voice that was definitely not Justin's said, “Brian?”


“Who the fuck is this?”


“It's Ethan.”


I got out of bed. “What the fuck do you want?”


“I think something's wrong with Justin.”


“You think something's wrong with Justin?” I pulled on a pair of jeans.


“Okay...something's wrong with Justin.”


“Well, where the fuck is he? Put him on the phone.”


“He can't...he's not...” And then I pieced together what that whistling in the background was.


And really, really hoped that it wasn't, because I had never heard him sound that bad, not when he'd fucked up his lungs sobbing through the worst of the panic attacks, not the time he had the brilliant idea to help Debbie rake leaves, not when he'd come down with goddamn walking pneumonia the year before. “Ethan.”


“Yeah.”


“Is that his breathing?”


“Yeah.”


“What the fuck.”


“His inhaler's not working,” Ethan said. “I don't know what—”


“What the fuck do you mean, you don't know what to do? It's pretty goddamn straightforward, you need to take him to the fucking hospital.”


“He won't go.”


“Yeah, he hates it. Tell him I say he has to go.”


Ethan says, “The student insurance doesn't cover ambulances, and we don't have a car.” We. “Can you just—”


“Text me your address, and do not fucking kill him before I get there,” I growled, and hung up.


**


Ethan's building was about a sneeze away from collapse, so, you know, risky bet bringing Justin here, and that was before I'd even seen the inside. Ethan had unlocked the door for me, sensitive little fellow that he is, and the first thing I saw when I came in was a fucking cat pacing the floor.


Now, let me get one thing out of the way, because this is true and I'm going to assume something you wouldn't have guessed about me; I'm actually quite fond of cats. Michael and Debbie had one when we were in high school, this ancient all black tomcat named Doug, and I thought he was the shit. They're affectionate and they're clean and they mind their own fucking business, unlike dogs always trying to worm their way into your crotch. What's not to like?


Well, Justin—who also likes them, because he has never had any innate sense whatsoever of what's good for him, and thank my fucking stars for that—is fucking mind-numbingly allergic, to the extent that he once pet a stray outside the diner—like I said—and his entire arm broke out in hives. God only fucking knows how his liver hadn't failed from the fucking astronomical doses of his allergy meds he must have been taking to survive living with one.


And if that weren't enough, the entire place was carpeted, which Justin cannot do, and it was a fucking dusty pig sty, and there was a splotch of mold on the ceiling and...I mean, Christ, do I need to go on?


What the fucking goddamn fuck was he thinking living here?


So I was all piss and vinegar as I stormed into the bedroom, and maybe you'd think the sight of little Sunshine wheezing his brains out would lessen that but yeah, no. And God, he was a fucking mess, too. He was sitting on the side of the bed with his arms wrapped all the way around his chest, and Ethan was pacing in front of him, bothering him with questions he couldn't answer about did he want some fucking water or something.


“Help has arrived,” I said. Ethan looked up and made that Oh thank God face that men usually do when they see me, but Justin did't even react, which didn't give me a good feeling about how aware he still was of what was around him because...I mean, say what you want about Sunshine's little time off, here, but we can always get something out of each other.


I came around to his side of the bed and crouched in front of him and lifted his chin until he met my eyes. Sweat was beading on his forehead from the effort of fucking getting air in, and his breathing was choked and wet and squeezed to almost nothing, and he had enough hives that I wished I'd brought the fucking epipen. He didn't even look scared, just...resigned.


“No,” I told him. “None of that. You are not dying in this shithole.”


“What the fuck are you talking about, dying?” Ethan said. “No one's dying. Nobody's fucking dying.”


“Does he have an off switch?” I asked Justin, taking his pulse.


Justin tried to suck in a breath, and I can't pretend that watching him struggle like that wasn't making my own chest feel tight. You try fucking listening to how hard he has to work to do shit that should be easy and not have feelings about it.


“We're going to the hospital now,” I said. “Don't give me any shit.”


He just nodded, and...you have to understand what a big fucking deal it is for Justin to not put up a fight about going to the hospital. How goddamn terrible he has to feel to give in to that.


I nodded for Ethan to come around to Justin's other side. I leaned into Justin's ear, growled, “You have a lot of fucking explaining to do,” gave him a rough kiss on the cheek, and we hauled him off to the emergency room.


**


It took, and I say this as objectively as possible, a fucking scary amount of intervention that night before Justin was breathing again. I was stuck filling out paperwork for most of it, guessing at shit like Justin's medication dosages and current weight—he'd definitely lost some—while Ethan fussed around like a worried fucking mother. Which, speaking of: I was not calling Jennifer. That was his fucking responsibility now.


Every couple of minutes I'd stop to ask myself why the fuck I was still here, but I never ended up leaving. The doctors were fucking worried about Justin and ended up admitting him for the night, and it took all these fucking antihistamines and steroids and ages on oxygen before his lungs were in working order again, and I wasn't even with him for most of it because...I don't know. Ethan was.


But eventually Ethan left—to call Jennifer—and Justin and I were alone. He had an IV and a mask over his mouth and he looked very young, sitting there with his chin on his knees, breathing so carefully like he was afraid it was going to be snatched away from him again any moment.


“Are you going to yell at me?” he said.


“You bet your fucking ass I'm going to yell at you.”


“I'm really sick. Can you do it later?”


“No, I didn't do it when I was at that fucking shithole apartment, this is the later. What the fucking fuck were you thinking?”


“I—”


“You have no fucking business thinking you can survive living in that fucking mold-infested shithole with a goddamn cat. I ought to have fucking killed you myself. You looked me in the eyes today and told me you were fine.”


“I told you I could afford my medicine,” he said. He was so hoarse. I shouldn't have been yelling at him right then.


“Don't you fucking split hairs with me, Sunshine. I was under the fucking understanding you weren't being a total goddamn fucking moron, but—”


“Under what fucking understanding?” I said. “What, when you chose Ethan as my fucking babysitter? I didn't get your approval. Why is it any of your fucking business where I live?”


“You know exactly why it's my fucking business and don't you give me that shit.”


Fuck him for acting like this was over. Like this could ever be over.


But he said, “I know, I know,” and then wheezed his way into an absolutely fucking wrecked bout of coughing. I got him some water.


“This isn't a fucking joke,” I said. “I've never known you to be this goddamn reckless. I have half a mind to call your fucking shrink and tell her you're suicidal, because I can't think of any other fucking reason you'd think to live in a place like that.”


“Fuck off, Brian,” he said, so tired.


“What did you think was going to happen? I am honestly asking you. You thought what, true love could conquer all, is that it? Even allergies? Who raised you to be this fucking stupid, because I know it wasn't your mother and it sure as fuck wasn't me.”


He sneezed pathetically.


“Answer me,” I said.


“Answer what?”


“If this is over,” I said. “If this has been enough to snap you out of your little fucking fairy tale and you're ready to stop fucking playing Leave it to Beaver with allergies or whatever you want to call this horror show of a home life you've concocted.”


He blinked at me. “What, you think I'm going to leave him because I had an asthma attack? I'll figure out a solution, Brian.”


“You know what the fucking solution is.”


“What, go back to waiting for you to spare me a fucking glance and feeling like shit all the time?”


“How exactly the fuck do you feel right now?”


“It's the apartment!” he yelled, or as close as he could. “It's not the fucking relationship! I'm not taking this as some fucking sign from God, and you can cut it the fuck out with lecturing me like I fucking owe you some—”


“Owe me what, your fucking health? Your goddamn life?”


He pinched his nose.


“If you're honestly telling me you're going back to that fucking death trap because you want to prove to me how fucking goddamn independent you are—”


“I am not proving fucking anything to you, Jesus Christ! This has nothing to do with you!”


“This was cute at first,” I said. “You and the fiddler, you've got the dark and light thing going on, you're all fresh-faced and full of dreams, you're fucking artists, it's very sweet, I get it.”


“Fuck you,” he said.


“All I fucking asked is if it was over. You think he's going to choose you over the furball?”


“And all I fucking did was tell you you were fucking crazy for thinking this was going to end things. It's not a fucking experiment, Brian.”


“Oh, so you're happy? That's what you're telling me?”


He set his jaw. “He loves me.”


“Of course he fucking loves you!” I said. “He doesn't fucking know you!” Fuck this kid. Fuck him to the fucking ground. “He's known you for five fucking minutes, he loves your smile and your ass and your fucking spaghetti bolognese, you want to see how long that lasts? Wait until you've been in his fucking face for two years, you won't take no for a goddamn answer on the pettiest fucking shit, you leave your fucking shit everywhere and you scare him half to death every time he fucking blinks, wait until he fully fucking internalizes what a reckless goddamn shit you are and what bad fucking decisions you're so fucking convinced you're mature enough to make, you wait and see if he loves you when he's been waking up beside you for a fucking year and falling asleep next to you every fucking night and he's watching you walk out the fucking door and scraping you off the fucking floor of a goddamn parking garage, you let me know if he's still fucking buying you roses.”


Justin wheezed and watched me.


“No one should be buying you fucking roses,” I said.


He swallowed and whispered, “Brian, I'm too fucking sick for this.”


“I know.”


“If you have something to say, can you just...”


I was so goddamn tired at this point, you have to understand.


I said, “I just want to know if you're ready to come home.”


He looked at me for a long time.


“No,” he said. “Not yet.”


I ran my hand over my mouth. “Okay. Well you're not going back to that fucking apartment.”


Ethan came in and went straight to Justin and hugged him for a long time. Justin clung, but he watched me over his shoulder.


“How do you feel?” Ethan said, pressing a kiss to Justin's forehead. “God, you scared the shit out of me.”


“I'm okay,” Justin said. “I swear this hardly ever happens. But...we have to make some changes or it's going to happen again.”


“Of course,” Ethan said. “First thing tomorrow I'm going to call about getting the place cleaned. Like really cleaned. Do you think Daphne would let us crash at her place while that's getting done?”


“He can't live with a cat,” I said.


Ethan looked at me. Justin looked down.


“Look at him,” I said. “He can't live with a cat. It's amazing it took him this long before this happened. He's been walking around looking like shit for months. So what are you going to do?”


He wasn't going to give up the cat for a guy he'd been fucking for a few months.


Ethan kissed next to Justin's eye. “Baby, of course. My mom can take Wolfie.”


“I'm sorry,” Justin said.


“Shh, no. You should have told me. Why didn't you tell me?”


He can't, I wanted to scream, but I didn't. It wasn't my place anymore.


God. He was giving up the cat.


Goddamn it. He fucking loved him.

 

I left the hospital.

End Notes:

Y'all I don't even know what happened here.

Chapter 77 - The Thing About Fairy Tales by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin's breakup with Ethan and reunification with Brian... How I think it should have gone. Requires no knowledge of the series. (Has small references to some series stuff and Hiatus, but you're fine if you haven't read them.)

The Thing About Fairy Tales

LaVieEnRose



So...where does this leave us?


Together. Because I'm not signing.


“You're home late,” Ethan said, as I dropped my keys in the basket by the door and kicked back on the door until the bloated wood squeaked its way into the frame. He was holding a bottle of wine, and I could see the soft glow of candles peeking out from the bedroom.


“Yeah, I had to meet with the student affairs coordinator.”


He scrunched his eyebrows.


“She sent me and email and I was freaking out all day thinking I was in trouble,” she said. “Turns out they want to feature me on the PIFA website.”


He took my coat from me and hung it up. “Why, because of your last show?”


“I don't know. She didn't say, but she made this whole thing about how she wants me to tell my story, so I'm thinking it's some disability initiative thing.”


He kissed me with a small sigh. “I keep telling you,” he said. “Nobody but you sees yourself that way.”


I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah, I know.” I nodded towards the wine. “So what's this for? Christ, this stuff is expensive.”


He took my hand and pulled me into the bedroom. He'd put a tablecloth over the trunk where he keeps his clothes, and the makeshift table was set with glasses and small plates and a red rose.


And I realized for the first time that he looked nervous, and I knew.


“I've decided to sign the contract,” he said, needlessly.


**


There's nothing noble about being poor.


Where did you hear that?


I found Brian in the back room, got the guy on his knees to fuck off, and shoved Brian back against the wall. He rolled his eyes.


So what you need to know is that before this, Brian and I had been doing pretty fucking well. I wouldn't call us friends, but we were cordial, and we weren't unkind to each other, and Brian came and got me when I was suffocating in Ethan's fucking apartment and he asked me if I was ready to come home.


And what I said was Not yet.


I'm rehashing this so you understand that...before tonight, there had been some inevitability here. There was a ticking clock.


And now he had smashed it or I was about to fucking smash it, I didn't know, but it was gone. It was over.


He stared me down.


“You had no fucking right to talk to him,” I said. You had no fucking right to go behind my back and ruin my goddamn life like some petty jealous little junior high fuck. You ruined my fucking life, Brian, are you happy?”


Brian didn't even flinch. “You should be happy for him. He's going to be a big success. Don't you love him? Don't you want him to be happy?”


“Fuck off!”


He smirked, shaking his head slightly. “Go home and celebrate with your husband.”


“What the fuck do you want me to celebrate? What happens to me now?” he said.


“Christ, me, me, me. You think he should throw away his future for a boy he's been fucking for six months? You feel good asking someone you love passionately, deeply, truly to do that? Is that your idea of true love, Sunshine?”


I felt like I was falling, like the sticky, sparkly ground under me had fucking disappeared, I don't know.


All this time he'd been poking around in my business, leaving me ridiculous tips at the diner, hiring me to make his fucking posters, and I honest to God thought it was because he still cared about me. And goddamn did I feel like a fucking idiot for that right then, because the truth was so obvious and tangible and curling its fucking lip:


He was waiting for the exact perfect moment to fuck over my life.


He wanted to make sure he was the center of it when everything fell down around me. Again.


And then he waved his hand dismissively and lit a cigarette. “You'll be fine. You're always fine.”


I was standing in front of him feeling like I was going to come apart, like if anybody brushed up against me I would literally come out of my goddamn skin, and the person who was supposed to know me better than anyone in the world was telling me I was always fine.


Honestly I think that hurt more than anything. It is fucking excruciating to find out people haven't been seeing you.


That you have been so fucking disastrously goddamn wrong about everything and everybody around you.


I thought I felt about as fucking bad as I possibly could right in that minute, but you know: ha.


Still, it took me a moment before I could leave, before I could make myself stop searching his face looking for something, any hint of regret for what he'd done to me. Anything to make me feel less fucking stupid for believing he'd given a shit about me all this time. I wanted him to fucking lead me on for one more second just so I'd feel like less of a fool.


He didn't, but on my way out I heard him say, “See, this is the thing about fairy tales, Sonny Boy,” and I didn't wait around to let him finish, because goddamn I needed whatever tiny victory I could get.


Someone touched my wrist on the way out of the club and I thought I would die.


**


Justin, you almost died coming out. How could you go back in, for anyone?


I don't want to talk about it.


I walked away from my little smoke break with Daphne after Ethan introduced me as his cousin—his fucking cousin—and headed back towards Liberty. I had a shift in half a hour and negative time to dwell on this shit, though I didn't know how the fuck I was going to get through six hours there with the trouble my hand was giving me. I hadn't slept well the night before and it always gives me shit when I'm overtired. And, really, I hadn't slept well in a while at this point. A week, maybe. Time was all blurring together, conversations were getting fuzzy and far away and everything seemed out of color, and I'd had enough therapy at this point to know those were bad signs but not enough to want to do anything about that.


I turned the corner by the diner and was about to go inside when I saw this guy and this girl waiting for the walk signal at the corner. It took me a second to figure out where I knew them, but as soon as I did I was suddenly very aware of my heartbeat and the bottom of my throat and their overly delicate relationship to each other.


It was Mark and Emily (not my Emily—this is real life and Emily is a common name). They were in my graduating class at St. James, and what you need to understand if I'm going to tell this accurately is they'd never really given me any shit. Mark was on the football team so he laughed along with some jokes, and Emily was a cheerleader so she'd probably sneered at me if I ever dared to talk to her, but I had no reason to expect that they were going to come over here and start hassling me. And I definitely had no reason to believe they would ever actually cause me any physical harm.


It's important for clarity that you know that I wasn't actually in any danger when I had a massive fucking panic attack because I saw some straight people who knew me when I was in the closet.


Like I was again.


I don't remember ducking into the alley by the diner, but the next thing I knew I was leaning against the wall by the dumpster, my vision spotting out, as sure I was going to fucking die because I couldn't breathe as I was that night at Ethan's—my—apartment. I heard voices that I recognized but couldn't place, and for a minute I was sure, fucking sure, that it was Mark and Emily and a fucking baseball bat and I've already told you that isn't rational but I swear to you, this is not a metaphor; in that moment I was absolutely sure that I was going to die.


“Fuck off, go inside,” I heard, and there's no time in the world where I wouldn't know that voice. I couldn't lift my head up, couldn't see anything in my periphery, but in a moment Brian's shoes were in front of me, an inch away from mine, and I felt like there were ants under every bit of my skin.


“Go away,” I gasped.


“Justin.”


“Don't touch me, I mean it. Oh my God.”


He was quiet for a minute, then he said, his voice low, “What the fuck happened?”


“Go.”


“Did someone hurt you?”


“You fucking hurt me!” I sucked in a breath. “You ruined my fucking goddamn life and I can't think and I can't breathe and it's not safe and nothing is goddamn ever going to be—”


“It's okay,” he said, in that fake-exasperated way he does.


“Can you please just go?”


“Stop being a fucking twat, I'm not going to—” he said, and he reached out and put his hand on my arm when I fucking told him not to, I told him, nobody was listening, nobody fucking saw me in the entire world, and everything flashed white.


So then I was balled up on the ground with my arms protecting my head because no no no no no you are not going to hit me.


“Please,” I whispered.


“Fuck!” Brian said, and his voice didn't sound like his at this point. “Jesus, what the fuck...”


It took me a very long time to be able to speak.


He crouched down in front of me. “Okay. Okay. Just...just take a minute, Sunshine.”


Yeah, no. “Are you happy now?” I screamed at him. “Did you get what you fucking goddamn wanted?”


“Justin, breathe.”


I finally looked up at him, and he was pale, frozen, like he had been after a panic attack a very very long time ago, when I woke up on his bed—our bed—bathed in blue light. A lifetime ago, I would say, if I didn't already have a very clear before and after this lifetime, but we'll get to that.


Who the fuck am I kidding. We were already in that. We're always goddamn in that and nobody will goddamn listen when I tell them.


“What the hell did you think would happen?” I managed to say.


He shook his head a little. “I didn't...” he said, and if I was in any other sort of state I might have appreciated that I'd finally fucking surprised Brian Kinney.


You're always fine.


“You fucking idiot,” I said.


He didn't object.


“Well, I'm going to break up with him!” I said. “I can't fucking live like this! I'm going to go home today and break up with him, so, congratulations. You got what you wanted.”


I'd never seen his eyes that big.


I sucked in a breath. “Now will you get. The fuck. Out of here.”


**


So Brian left me in the alleyway and then I left Ethan, and then I had a very, very hard month. The period after I left Ethan was a lot harder than the one after I left Brian, and the reason why doesn't make me a very good person, but here we are.


It wasn't because I'd left Brian and gone right to Ethan, and this time I was leaving Ethan and going to nothing, though I'm not going to pretend that wasn't a factor. I hadn't been single since...well, it's debatable since when, but it had been a long time, we know that. And now here I was crashing on Daphne's couch, going to school, going to work, and falling asleep alone. I'm not going to tell you that didn't suck, but it wasn't why I was ducking into the diner bathroom to fucking cry during my breaks, why I failed two tests in a row and why I called in sick once a week when I literally couldn't get myself to put my feet on the floor.


The upside was now that I wasn't living with Ethan my allergies were better than they'd been in half a year, so at least I had enough oxygen for all my fucking crying.


The reason it was harder is before, when I walked out on Brian, I hadn't really lost anyone.


I'd known Brian and I weren't really done. You couldn't have been in the same zip code as Brian and I and not felt the fucking sexual tension the whole time I was Ethan. I told you; I heard the ticking clock. And I know that that isn't fair to Ethan or to Brian, but I already warned you that I wasn't a good person and...it's not like I planned for this to happen. And it's not as if I ever asked Brian to wait for me.


But I knew that he was. And I had a really, really nice time with Ethan for a lot of months. But it didn't feel sustainable. It always felt fragile.


I'm not going to pretend it wasn't really, really nice while it was.


But in the background there was always Brian, Brian, Brian, like a heartbeat. Like a safety net. And I already said that that wasn't fair to him, so leave me alone.


And anyway, now he was gone, because he was not the fucking person I thought he was, and I couldn't go home because it was never my home, and Brian wasn't asking me to anymore.


And Brian was not my person, because Brian thought I would be fine with something I couldn't be fine with, and God, wasn't that just the crux of the fucking problem to begin with? Brian not paying any fucking attention the whole time we were together, treating me like...treating me like someone who doesn't need reassurance because that's who he'd prefer I was.


Well, it wasn't the real me, and the guy I thought was just being patient when me because he wanted me to be happy...God, he felt just as fake.


We weren't talking anymore. I could barely fucking look at him when he came into the diner, and I wasn't up for making small talk with anyone, least of all him. My tips took a nosedive because I couldn't smile and my hand was acting up so I was dropping plates and my ass was deflating along with my appetite. I didn't trick or go out or see anybody. I lost my academic scholarship. I'd catch Brian looking at me when I was working and I couldn't even gather up any feelings about that, and God, I've always had feelings about Brian looking at me. Everything was unraveling.


I lost both of them in one day.


“You should get back out there,” Daphne said. “Meet somebody new.”


“I think I need to be alone for a while,” I said. But it felt like I was going to be alone forever.


**


So I'd been barely awake when I wasn't muffling sobs into my apron for about five weeks when I got a phone call from PIFA, and if you recall I'd been failing tests and losing scholarships so I was pretty sure I was about to be thrown out and honestly I couldn't bring myself to care.


But it was yet another person from student affairs.


“So as you know, you're required to complete an internship this coming semester,” she said. “And someone saw your work and requested you. I guess that website profile really paid off!”


I am not an idiot. “Where's the request from?”


“Uh, it's an advertising agency, let me check...”


“Yeah,” I said. “I'm sure it is.”


**


You can make a whole story out of me accepting the job at Vanguard because I wanted to see Brian, or because I wanted to spite Brian, or...I don't know, something with Brian, and look, I'm not saying there wasn't an undercurrent of something still there because as stated I'm not an idiot and I'm also, you know, wise to how this story ends, but honestly I think the main reason I went to Vanguard was because I needed a fucking internship and I was too goddamn depressed to find anything on my own.


And once I figured that out, I was pretty sure that's why Brian had gotten me the job. Because he'd seen poor sad little Sunshine at the diner and thought he wasn't capable of finding his own job. And if you think the fact that I just admitted that that was, well, kind of true meant that I wouldn't be pissed at him for thinking it...ha.


The job was good for me, though, and that was clear pretty much immediately. I needed some sort of new challenge, and the Vanguard art department was dynamic and talented and scared to death of Brian, which added a little extra amusement. I didn't tell anyone that I knew him, and existing in the same space as him with no one knowing we were connected made me feel powerful in a way nothing had in a very long time.


He called me into his office at the end of my first week. It was late, almost seven, and I had been about to leave, and to my surprise he looked like he was on his way out too. I tried to remember if he'd ever come home before seven when we lived together. Even back right after the bashing, when I was still too shaky to be alone for a whole day and he would come and check in on me and sometimes stay at the loft for lunch, he'd go back to work and stay until eight at the earliest. But I guess he wasn't partner then.


Still, seeing him all packed up and ready to go didn't exactly endear him to me, not that I think anything could have at this point.


I crossed my arms and stood in front of his desk.


“You can sit,” he said.


I didn't. “Did you need something, Mr. Kinney?”


He cocked an eyebrow, but only for a second. “It's customary to check on new employees at the end of the first week and make sure they're settling in.”


“Yes, I know,” I say. “Because Mr. Vance already did.”


“Yes, I know,” he mimicked. “But I thought you might feel more comfortable talking to me.”


I gave him my sweetest smile. “You thought wrong.”


He walked around to my side of the desk and leaned against it, legs crossed at the ankles. “You're finding everything okay?”


“Yeah, I found the bathroom all by my little self.”


“No problems so far?”


“Not a one.”


“Any questions, then?”


“Uh, yeah, just the one. Why the fuck am I here?”


He shrugged. “Don't ask me, you took the job.”


“You offered it.”


“Me? You think I'm in charge of hiring interns? What the fuck do you think I do all day, twiddle my thumbs and think of schemes to...what is it exactly you think I'm doing here, trying to win you back?”


“I think maybe you felt bad about fucking up my life and thought you'd throw me a rescue for old time's sake.”


“I don't and I didn't.”


I gave him a look. “You'r really going to pretend it's a coincidence I'm here?”


He made a big show of asking like the conversation bored him. “I didn't do it for you.”


I snorted.


“Believe it or don't,” he said. “But I didn't. No skin off my ass.” He picked a file off his desk and handed it to me. “I want you to take the lead on strategizing for the new Eyeconic campaign. They didn't like the last thing they came up with down there and you're our freshest blood, so...come up with something brilliant.”


“Oh. Okay.”


He kept watching me. “Take your ideas to Angela and she'll run them up to me. And if you have any questions about what you can get done in the amount of time we have—”


“I ask Garrett.”


“You ask Garrett.” He nodded. “Good.” He looked at me. “How are you getting here, you're taking the bus?”


“Yeah.”


“Talk to Annette in billing and she can get you bus passes for free. And you need to get your badge still.”


I started to leave.


“Also?” he said. “We have really good accommodations available for disabled employees, so if there's anything you need and you're not getting, talk to Maria in HR, all right?”


I turned around and looked at him.


He shrugged, all casual. “Or you can talk to me, but I'm getting the feeling that's not gonna happen.”


“It's nice you're still capable of learning new information. At your age.”


“Don't flirt with your boss.”


“Ohhh, I assure you I am not.”


**


So I settled in at Vanguard. I liked the people I worked with and I avoided the hell out of Brian. Not that it was hard; there were about nine layers of management between me and Mr. Kinney himself (oh, come on, you know the end of this story, I've got to sneak some kind of affection in here) so it's not like he had his finger on the pulse of all our daily activities, but he still found his way down to the art department once a day or so to circle around and check on all of us. He never spent any extra time on me or treated me like anything other than a regular employee, and at the time I wasn't as familiar as I am now with how Brian runs a company, so I didn't know if the micromanaging was something he did all the time or something for my dubious benefit, and it's not like I could really ask. (Answer: Brian, surprising no one, micromanages whether or not I'm there.)


Speaking of micromanaging, I'd noticed that when the other interns and I got our tasks for the day, mine was way more itemized than everyone else's. They'd get maybe five bullet points to complete, whereas I would have easily fifty, not because I had more work, but because all of mine was broken down into all these sub-steps. And like...I'm not going to lie, it was helpful, and it meant I wasn't nearly as confused as the other interns constantly were, but I didn't know why Brian—because I had to assume it was Brian—wanted me here if he thought I was such a fucking idiot that I couldn't figure out stuff that everyone else could.


We'll get back to that later.


I was messing around on my computer with the new logo idea for Eyeconic in the middle of my second week when Garrett came up behind me and said something I didn't hear. I turned towards him. “Sorry, what?”


“Try purple for this bit,” he said.


I changed the color, and he nodded. “That's really good,” he said. “Do me a favor, print that out and run it upstairs?”


Upstairs meant to Brian. “Uh, I think Cameron wanted to get some face time with—”


“Cameron didn't put together this logo,” Garrett said. “Bring it up.”


Oookay then. I printed out some comps and took the elevator back up to Brian's office. I knocked on his door and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Kinney?” with none of the aforementioned affection.


He held up his hand without looking up from his computer. I brought it over.


He glanced at it, then rolled his chair back and gave it a longer look. “Well,” he said. “This is lovely.”


“I'll report that back.”


He raised an eyebrow. “That's it? Do you know how rare praise from me is? Ask around. Did you do this?”


“Yes.”


“Starting to believe I didn't hire you out of charity now?”


I shifted my weight to my other foot. “Can I do anything else for you, Mr. Kinney?”


“Uh, yeah, actually, quick question. Are you going to be a little bitch the entire time you're working here, or is there some kind of timetable?”


I glared at him.


“Is that my answer?” he said. “Because that could still be a limited-time-only sort of death stare.”


“Fuck you.”


“Language, Taylor.”


“I'm not being a little bitch. I'm just not going to come in here all fucking peppy and happy to see you when you ruined my fucking relationship.”


“We're really going to do this? Okay.” He rolled his eyes and got up and shut the door. “I did not,” he said. “Ruin your pathetic little relationship.”


“You told him to take the deal.”


He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them he looked straight at me. “I'm sorry that I freaked you out like that. That was fucked up and I didn't see it coming.”


I swallowed. “I don't want to talk about that.”


“Yeah, I know, you want to talk about your...” He sighed and looked away, then back to me. “Okay. Fine. You want to hear the truth, I'll tell you the truth. Your relationship or whatever the fuck you want to call it was ruined the second the agent offered Ethan that deal and it didn't bother him enough to turn it down for himself, only for you. There was no coming back from that. It was over then and there was no fixing it. He was going to turn down the deal for you, and he would have resented you for holding him back, and you would have hated yourself for taking the opportunity from him.”


I didn't say anything.


“You know I'm right,” he said, lightly.


“I don't know shit.”


“Finally something we can agree on.”


“We were happy,” I said, and then I winced at how goddamn pathetic I was and the mocking that was definitely about to take place.


But he looked me right in the eyes and said, “I know you were.” He cleared his throat and went back to his desk. “But that wasn't...” He shrugged. “It was a fairy tale.”


“What the fuck do you know about it?”


“I know how you treat people you love,” he said, simply, like it was fucking nothing.


I wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Or run. Or stay.


Brian flipped through some papers. “And if you really loved him, you wouldn't have asked him to sacrifice his future for you,” he said.


“I didn't—”


“And if he really loved you,” Brian said, as gently as he's ever said anything. “He never would have asked you to hide.”


I bought that for a second before I realized how these events actually fucking went down. “You asked me to hide,” I said. “You talked him into it, you put me in that fucking position.”


I waited for the well, I don't love you.


“I know,” he said softly, and when I kept staring him down, he shrugged at me. “What do you want from me? I said sorry. One apology per customer.”


“I want you to say you shouldn't have gotten involved,” I said. “That you should have just fucking let our relationship run itself into the ground if you're so fucking smart and it was going to happen anyway.”


He blinked slowly and pulled his lips into his mouth. “I wouldn't have done if it I'd thought it would scare you like that.”


That was the best I was going to get out of him and I knew it, so...okay. “Why are you being so nice to me?”


“Because something bad happened to you, Christ. I'm not a monster.”


“I just want to know why you did it. If I don't deserve to be in that situation, if the relationship was going to fail anyway, why fucking intervene?”


“Because...fuck, you both were going to martyr yourselves to death. He's talented, he deserves the deal.”


“Like you give a shit about him.”


“No, but lack of ambition kills my sex drive, and we can't have that.” He bit his lip and looked at me. “And you would have stayed with him after he turned it down, even when he was blaming you for it and treating you like shit, because you would have felt obligated after he'd made this fucking sacrifice for you. And you would have been miserable, and he would have been miserable to you. And you...” He shrugged. “Jesus, if we're talking about things you don't deserve.”


“It is not your job to protect me,” I said.


“I never said it was. Sometimes I do volunteer work.”


I watched him. “So you didn't do it because...I mean, you weren't trying to break us up so you could...”


He scoffed. “What, sit here and watch you run in slow motion into my arms? Okay, fine, I wasn't anticipating the panic attack, but I think I'm smart enough to know you weren't going to fucking like me interfering. And do you see me trying to get you back?”


“No,” I said softly.


“Okay then.” He sighed and ran his hand over his eyes. “I'm sorry that Ethan got this offer,” he said. “It was an unwinnable situation for you, and it's not fair, and it's nobody's fault. But there was no saving the two of you after it happened.”


I looked down.


He said, “And this is what I tried to fucking tell you at Babylon that night about fairy tales.”


“Yeah, I get it, they're not real.”


“Christ, can I finish a fucking sentence around here?”


“Sorry.”


He tapped his fingers on the desk, and I looked up.


“They're real,” he said, his eyes so dark and warm on mine. “They just have endings.”


**


A month passed at Vanguard. Vance praised my work. My grades went back up. I got out of bed every morning.


I...stopped avoiding Brian. It was just a lot of work, okay? And I already had a lot of work. And it's not like I was seeing him all the time. He was a partner. I was a little intern.


I was at the vending machine one day when he came up next to me and said, “Have you had a look at Mitchell's bangs?”


“Uh, I have been trying very hard not to.”


“Is that a fireable offense, do you think?”


“You're so bad.”


“Don't flirt with your boss,” he growled in my ear, and he smacked my back with a manilla folder on his way down the hall.


**


He came down to the art department early once, when I was the only one in—the shitty bus schedule meant I either had to get in fifteen minutes early or half an hour late—and held up the newest issue of Rage.


I laughed, the first time I'd laughed with him in...God, and he grinned. “What,” I said, “Do you want me to sign it?”


“I like the trumpet,” he said. “Did I forget you playing the trumpet?”


“Somehow I don't think that's something you'd forget.”


“At least it wasn't a violin,” he said, and I threw an eraser at him.


**


The next time he was in the art department was this shitty all-hands-on-deck situation where we had to redo these mock-ups at the last minute. It felt like every fucking person who worked at the company was down there barking orders, and I was having trouble making out what anyone was saying with all the noise, and I was drawing as fast as I could and my hand was not having it, and the whole thing was so goddamn stressful.


I didn't even realize Brian was behind me until I heard his voice in my ear. “Take a break,” he said.


“No, I can't—”


“It's fine,” he said. “Take a break.”


I went outside and took a few deep breaths, and just when I was about to come back in, Brian came out.


“You good?” he said. He handed me a cup of coffee.


I held it to the inside of my wrist. “Yeah. Thanks.”


“Don't kill yourself over this,” he said. “It's just fuckin' advertising. Not the end of the world.”


“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”


**


I knocked on his office door one day and he beckoned me with two fingers without looking up. “Are you any good at Minesweeper?” he said.


“I'm amazing. Are you going to Mel and Lindz's thing on Saturday?”


“Yeah, Lindsey will have my balls if I don't.”


“Could youuu maybe pick me up? And bring me home after? Their house is so fucking annoying to get to.”


He groaned. “Fine.”


“Thank youuuuu.”


“Uh, quick question.”


I paused at the door. “Hmm?”


“Where the fuck are you living now?”


I laughed. “Oh, shit. I'm at Daph's.”


He thought about this. “Does she even have a second bedroom?”


“She has a very nice couch.”


“You make great decisions.”


“Oh, I'm aware.”


“Text me her address, I don't know it.”


“Okay.”


**


“So what the fuck is going on with you two?” Daphne asked me that night, as I was getting ready. “Are you back together?”


“God no. We're...” I pulled my shirt off. “I don't know. I guess we're friends.”


“Friends,” she repeated.


“Yeah.” I didn't know what else to call it. We sent jokey emails back and forth a couple times a week. We'd go out for lunch sometimes if Brian heard of some new restaurant he wanted to try and he'd catch me up on whatever updates I wasn't already getting from Michael or Debbie or that I hadn't overheard at the diner. We didn't ever talk about anything heavy, but sometimes he'd ask me an opinion on something he wanted to buy and then go ahead and buy it anyway or he'd ask me how about a homework assignment, and sometimes we'd even bring up stuff from when we were together: remember the time we saw that guy wearing two hats, remember when Emmett was in the paper for hitting that guy in the eye with a stiletto, remember when Debbie made that completely inedible lemon meringue pie, remember, remember, remember.


“Sexy friends?” Daphne said.


“No! Just...regular friends.”


“Well..have you worked out any of the shit from why you broke up? Are you still mad at him?”


“We don't have to work anything out,” I said. “That's the beauty of being casual friends.”


She snorted. “We'll see how long that lasts.”


“It'll last,” I said.


**


We stopped at the drive-thru on the way back from Mel and Lindz's because our dinner there there had made Debbie's lemon meringue pie seem like, I don't know, food. We parked and ate fries and Brian scrolled through the radio.


“Did you hear Michael made them rip up the contract?” Brian said. “I'm sure that won't end up biting anyone in the ass.”


“Christ, that's fucking stupid.”


“I know.”


“And I know a thing or two about ripping up contracts.”


“I'm saying!”


I laughed and stuffed some fries in my mouth. “You know she's worried about you. Lindsay.”


“She's always worried about me. It's very grating.”


“She asked me if you were sleeping.”


“What'd you tell her?”


“I said with how shitty you look you better not be sleeping, or we're going to have to run your blood work or something.”


“Ha, ha.” He nodded at my hand shaking. “You okay?”


“Yeah, it's fine.”


“What...the fuck are you doing to those fries.”


I looked down. “What?”


“Are you dipping them in mustard?”


“Yeah, why.”


“I can't believe I used to let you cook for me,” he said.


I shoved him, and he tried one of the fries in mustard and the look of abject horror he shot me made me cover my face, I was laughing so hard. He knocked my head to the side as I caught my breath and groused that I was going to give myself another fucking asthma attack.


“Fuck,” I said, wiping my eyes.


Brian watched me sideways for a second, and then “Bad Moon Rising,” came on the radio, and Brian sang, “Theeeere's a bathroom on the right,” and tossed a fry into his mouth.


Daphne gave me a look when I got home.


“We're friends,” I said.


“Sure. Naked friends.”


**


I didn't go out much during that time, but, you know, a boy's got to eat, so I'd hit up Babylon to bring a trick into the back room from time to time. Brian was, without exception, always there, usually in the center of the dance floor with a drink in his hand, and he was, without exception, always tweaked out of his fucking mind.


I never approached him at Babylon. It just felt like a line I shouldn't cross, and he never mentioned seeing me there and I never mentioned going.


But then there was this one night, and I guess in retrospect this was the start of shit really hitting the fan, but it hardly felt like anything at first. I'd had a frustrating evening trying to get this homework assignment done, this research assignment on Renoir that felt too massive for me to know where to start and I ended up just staring at the assignment like it was written in a different language for an hour before I decided I needed to get out of the house and fuck all the confusion out of me, so here I was. I was at the bar getting a drink, scoping out my target for the evening, and the next thing I knew there were his hands on my waist and his cologne in the air like a drug and voice in my hair, dangerous and low: “Dance with me.”


He was fucking spent that night, his pupils dilated to all hell, his skin hot and dry against my cheek, and I heard the weak “Okay,” come out of me before I'd even decided to say it, but was there really any chance I was going to say anything else?


He pulled me to the dance floor and draped his arms over my neck and rested his forehead against mine, and we moved together to the music, and God, something inside me literally hurt from how much I'd missed this. I've always loved dancing with him—I still do—and I'd let myself forget it, but here we were moving together like one body and I'd forgotten how easy it was, how the curve of his body fit into the curve of mine and we didn't have to talk and we didn't have to think and holy fucking shit he was so goddamn sexy, and I'd forgotten how much sense we made.


We kept dancing, and he kept buying me drinks, and the part of me that wanted to prove Daphne wrong was very, very dwarfed by the part of me that couldn't remember exactly what his lips tasted like.


If you've never been that close to someone who you want so badly, never been breathing with your lips one inch, half an inch, a quarter of an inch away from his...I don't know how to describe it. It hurts. Your heartbeat becomes your whole body. His heartbeat.


He's wrong for you.


He's not the person you thought he was.


He didn't know what would scare you.


He doesn't see you.


But right then he was looking right at me.


One of his hands was on my waist, and then my hips, and then my thigh, and the smell of his sweat was heady and sweet and everything I'd ever wanted, and then—


He pulled away, suddenly, and nodded to someone over my shoulder. “I'm gonna go,” he told me.


I said, “Brian,” and God knows what I was even going to say after that, if I even knew any words at that moment that weren't his name, but I put my hand on his chest and he shook his head and slid my hand off of him and his fingers were so warm around my wrist and then he was gone, disappeared into the back room with some guy he snagged without even stopping.


I turned my head up and caught my breath and was for the first time aware of how very much I'd had to drink, and I honestly considered going home and just jerking off thinking about Brian like I'd been doing for the rest of this fucking month, but but two guys pulled me in to dance with them and I let myself go, eventually pulling the sluttier of the two into the back room so I could come and go home.


The guy clearly had an agenda, turning his back to me right away and arching himself against the wall, so I rolled on a condom and leaned into his shoulder and tried to lose myself in the way he moaned as I fit inside of him, but the alcohol and the adrenaline and the bass beat in my stomach were competing for my attention and this guy wasn't enough. I looked around and I honestly don't think I was looking for Brian, not consciously at least, but, well...Deb said it the best, all those years ago, didn't she?


Everybody's looking for Brian.


And there he was, a few groaning couples down from me, leaning against the wall, his eyes unfocused and straight ahead. And maybe he'd already known I was there and had been glancing over from time to time, I don't know, but it wasn't a second after I'd found him that he turned his head and looked at me, and then away, and then back to me and not away, this time.


His lips parted slightly, and his breathing picked up, and I thrust faster into this guy on the wall, and there was so much in Brian's eyes, arousal and pain and and drugs and me, and I know I'm no expert on sound but I swear at that moment I could almost hear his whisper, the things he used to say to me in the dark, and I came without looking up from his lips.


**


I didn't know how the fuck I was going to face him at work the next day, but to be fair I didn't know how the fuck I was going to walk or talk or breathe at work the next day, because holy Christ was I hungover. I was nineteen fucking years old, I was supposed to be able to drink whatever I wanted! I have the worst luck with this shit.


My hand was completely out of commission that day, but, well, Brian wasn't kidding about those disability accommodations. I tipped off Maria in HR that I was having a bad day, and if she could tell it was because I'd drunk the Monongahela River she kept that revelation to herself, and I don't know what she told Angela but whatever it was, Angela told me to ignore my assignment for the day—which, strangely, already didn't involve any more use of my hand than was strictly necessary, a lot of supervising and consulting and other stuff that really didn't seem like intern work, but hey—and sit in on some meetings this morning and report back to her what projects were going to be coming in.


Brian wasn't in the first two meetings, and at first I thought maybe he'd stayed home, because God, I don't know what drugs he'd had in his system before we met up, but it sure as fuck was something, and once we were dancing he definitely drank more than I did. But there he was in the third meeting, looking tired but no more tired than he always looked lately, and he presented a few new clients to the marketing team with his usual swagger and smile and never looked at me, but when the meeting was over he pressed a bottle of water into my hand.


The room was sort of spinning, so I stayed there as it emptied and sipped from the bottle, and eventually it was just me and Cynthia still in there. “You all right there, slugger?” she said to me.


“Heh. Yeah. Long night.”


"I can see that."


“Brian didn't say anything, did he?” I said, then winced.


But she just laughed. “Like I'd tell you if he did. I like my job.” She swept some leftover papers off the table. “But he didn't.”


“Ugh.”


I was about to blurt out that I didn't know how the fuck he was functioning, but I thankfully had a little bit more common sense than that buried somewhere under the nausea, and also it occurred to me that...given what I'd seen of Brian every time I went to Babylon, and given he looked exactly as tired today as he did every morning...fuck.


I said, “Um, Cynthia?” as she was leaving.


She turned around. “Yeah, sweet potato.” She always liked me.


“Is Brian...okay? Like is everything okay with...” I'd just seen Gus, it couldn't be Gus. “I don't know, with everything?”


She crossed her arms and watched me.


“I know it's not my business,” I said quickly. “It's just that...I mean, I think he's been going out a lot and uh...drinking a lot, and I remember he was like that when his dad died and when he was turning thirty so...I just wondered if something was going on, I guess.”


“Justin,” she said. “Seriously?”


“I know. It's not my business. Just um...can you tell me when it started? I can figure it out from that.”


She gave me this long, long look, and you're going to think I should have figured it out from that—fuck, you probably can't believe that I hadn't figured it out already—but...well, that's kind of the point of this little story, isn't it?


“I'd say it's been going on for about eight months now,” she said, and I counted back in my head, and then I counted again, while she watched me, that's the moment when I swear to God I physically felt something click in place in my head.


And I know you're frustrated with me. I'm frustrated with me too. But I honestly, I swear to God, it legitimately did not occur to me until that second that Brian was sad that I'd left him. Yes, he'd asked me if I wanted to come back a few times, but I thought that was because he thought I needed to be rescued, like he was offering to take me in like...I don't know, like whatever the fuck Ben and Michael were doing with Hunter. I didn't think it was because he wanted me back, because he, God forbid, missed me. When he'd interfered with Ethan and the contract I thought, okay, fuck, maybe he does want me back after all if he's willing to go through all this underhanded shit to try to make me single, but he'd explained that one away and fuck if that had ever sounded like him to begin with.


I swear to God, I hadn't known he was hurt.


And you probably don't believe me, but you don't know what it's like in my head.


And neither did Brian.


**


The day dragged, because I was still on rest for my hand, and rest meant time to think, and the only thought in my head was you hurt Brian. I ducked into the bathroom at lunch and just sat by myself in the stall for ages, breathing into my shitty hand and trying not to fucking freak out or...I don't know, punish myself for what I'd done to him.


I swear to God I never meant to hurt him. And I know that that doesn't matter because I did anyway, and I know I'm not a good person in this story, but fuck, you have got to believe me.


He let me go. I asked him if he cared if I left and he didn't say anything.


So I thought he didn't.


And God help me, I was still so, so goddamn confused.


I managed to keep myself in some semblance of togetherness through the day. The art department cleared out, and I made excuses why I had to stay late and went upstairs where I could watch the executives go. Brian hadn't left yet; he probably left earlier nowadays so there'd be more time to go out, I realized. Christ.


But that evening he stayed because, I don't know, maybe the universe couldn't handle one more fucking night of us not having this conversation. Fuck, I didn't think I could take more minute.


I knocked on his door as soon as the last person left. He raised his head, and he looked almost...afraid of me? It was weird. I must have looked really serious or something.


“Can I talk to you?” I said.


He leaned back and gestured carelessly for me to come in, and I shut the door behind me and pulled one of his chairs up on the other side of the desk and sat.


For a moment I thought I was never going to get the words out, that they'd just stay in my throat until I choked on them, and then without even meaning to I was talking.


“Did you care when I left?”


He was confused. “When?”


“When I...when I left, when I really left. At the Rage party.”


“What the fuck? Why are we talking about this?”


“Because I...” I shook my head. “Did you not want me to go?”


He just stared at me.


“I don't know what that means,” I said. “The way you're looking at me, I don't know what that means.” And I think that was the first time I ever said anything to him to that effect.


“What the fuck are you trying to get here?” he asked me.


“Nothing, I'm not trying to manipulate you or anything, I just—”


“So why are you asking me these fucking stupid questions?”


“Because I'm fucking stupid!” I said. “Because I don't know the answers.”


He still looked so unsure, like I was a dog that maybe might bite him. “You don't know if I cared that you left.”


I shook my head.


“What the fuck,” he said plainly.


“I still don't know what that means,” I whispered.


He got up and paced around some. “Jesus Christ, Justin. You lived with me for a fucking year. We fucking...you think you just walked out the door and I what, shrugged it off?”


“You acted like—”


“What the fuck do you think I am?” he said. “Jesus, I realize I'm not a fucking Novotny boohooing about every fucking thing that comes my way, but do you think I'm a fucking robot? You think someone that I...that you could walk out and it's nothing?”


“Someone that you what?”


He shook his head and pointed at me. “You're not tricking me into some shit.”


“I'm not trying to trick you into anything!”


“Oh, bullshit.”


“I don't know the end of that sentence,” I said.


He sneered at me. “Don't give me that faux-innocent shit. That was a lot cuter when you were a virgin.”


“Did you love me?”


He pointed to the door instantly. “Get out.”


“Brian.”


“I am your fucking boss, get out of my office.”


“Michael said you loved me,” I said. “And I thought—”


“You thought what?”


“You didn't come to Vermont!” I yelled. “You got me a fucking hustler for my birthday! You wouldn't stay home one night with me and have the stupid fucking picnic on the floor, you wouldn't...you laughed at me. You rolled your eyes at me, you didn't—”


“I didn't what? I didn't buy you flowers? I didn't serenade you with violin music?”


“I don't care about any of that!”


“Then what the fuck is it you want?”


“I want to understand one fucking thing that is happening to me!” I yelled. “I want to understand what the fucking goddamn fuck happened the last year of my life because it's like it happened to somebody else and I can't even remember it and nothing is making sense and you won't just fucking tell me—”


“I never needed to tell you!” he yelled.


“That was—”


“You want to fucking count out off evidence on your fingers, Sunshine, I can do it too.” He loomed over me. “Being mean to me has never really worked. You can't push me away. I'm onto you. Brian Kinney gives a shit.”


“That was before.”


“You don't get to come in here and cry to me that you left because you didn't get your fucking platitudes when you—”


“I'm not asking for platitudes!”


“—are the one who was in that loft the very first night reading my fucking mind, knowing where my hand was going when no one had ever fucking touched you before—”


I got up. “That was before!”


“—forcing your way in and never letting me have a goddamn thought and being fucking everything and now you're trying to come in here telling me all of that was—”


“BEFORE!” I screamed. “Before before before, it was BEFORE!”


“Before what?” he yelled back, but the words had barely left his mouth before he knew, and everything changed for him in that second. I know because he told me later, but I knew in that moment, too, and I am, as we have discovered, very, very bad at knowing things in the moment from people's faces. But even I couldn't miss this.


Brian reeled. He took steps back from me and he turned around with his hands over his eyes, and he made a noise like...well. Like he'd been hit.


“I'm sorry,” I whispered.


“Don't.” He turned back around to me. “The whole...It's about that?


“It's always about that! This is...I live there.”


“Jesus, it was a fucking year.”


And all of a sudden I wasn't sorry anymore. “I fucking know how long ago it was, Brian.”


“No, I—”


“This is it,” I said. “This is why I went to Ethan.”


Brian shut up, then, and watched me.


“He wasn't looking at me waiting for me to be a person who fucking died at his goddamn prom,” I said, and goddamn I hated myself so much for crying but there was no stopping it at this point. “He wasn't waiting around tapping his foot wondering why the hell I wasn't fixed yet. He didn't know Sunshine. He knew this fucked up piece of shit who can't read a goddamn situation and who needs to hear the fucking words and I know that's not who you fucking want and it's not who I want either but it's what he fucking got and he was there and you didn't see it, you didn't see me! I was fucking dying not knowing what the fuck was going on in whatever the fuck you want to call whatever the fuck we were doing and you didn't see it! You never saw me! You think I'm the same person and you're tired of waiting for me to get the hell over it and so am I but here we fucking are, here I am, this is all I have to offer and you think it's some pathetic little faggot who needs someone to fucking buy him roses so why am I even here?”


Brian ran his hands down his face. “Fuck.”


I laughed or cried or something. “That's it?”


“No, Jesus, give me a minute.”


But I didn't. I got the fuck out of there.


And yet again, he didn't stop me.


I went back down to the art department, ostensibly to get my shit and go home, but once I was down there I just...God, broke the fuck down. I sat on one of the stools and held my head and cried so hard I thought I would throw up.


I felt just...unloveable. That's the only way I can describe it.


I finally pulled myself together enough that I thought I could get through the bus ride back home—Daphne's—before bursting into tears again, so I got up and started shoving my shit into my messenger bag, and while I was doing it my eyes fell on one of the old schedules I'd gotten, those itemized lists of all the steps it took to complete a task.


And I don't know why it clicked for me then and not before. Maybe because I was already beating myself up for being fucked up from the bashing, or maybe because the fucking universe couldn't take me not getting it for one more goddamn second.


But all of a sudden it made sense.


I remembered mornings standing paralyzed in the loft because I wanted to make an omelet and goddamn it I knew how to make an omelet but I couldn't break it down in my head and the entire thing felt so big and overwhelming. Times Brian told me to pick a movie for us to watch and I'd start crying. When he'd tell me to come to bed and I couldn't decide if I should take off my pants first or my shirt and so I would just stand there, afraid to get it wrong.


And well, friends.


I finally got it.


**


I waited until late to go to the loft, but when he opened the door he was still in the clothes he'd worn to work, his jacket off, his tie loose and disheveled around his neck. He looked so tired. He was beautiful.


“You wrote out detailed task lists for me because of my shitty executive functioning,” I said, which is probably not the way most people would start a conversation that they were hoping would be ridiculously romantic, but Brian and I are not most people.


He turned around and went back into the loft, but he didn't close the door, so I followed. It all looked how I remembered, new coffee table notwithstanding.


He poured himself a drink.


“You knew I wasn't fine,” I said.


“Well-adjusted people don't normally burst into tears in my office, no.”


“Not tonight,” I said. “This whole time.”


He would tell me how to make omelets, step by step.


He would hold me and help me pick the movie.


He would stand behind me and whisper, “Shirt first, I'll do your pants.”


He told me to take a break because my hand was bothering me and told me advertising was not the end of the world.


I cleared my throat. “You offered me accommodations,” I said. “For disabled employees.”


He drained the glass.


“You called me disabled,” I said.


“You are disabled,” he said, sounding annoyed, but I knew he wasn't.


I knew he wasn't.


“No, I know,” I said. “It's just...you know, too.”


“Well, you've fucked up your hand jobs enough times,” he said, and I smiled a little and dropped my bag on the floor.


“You did see me,” I said.


He sat down on one of the stools at the counter. “Let's not give me too much credit. I just spent two hours researching difficulties with nonverbal cues with PTSD and frontal lobe trauma. Could have done that a year and a half ago.”


“Well, I could have told you.”


He ran his hand over his face. “Yeah, telling me's always on the table.” He sighed. “Justin, I'm never going to be the...I'm not the guy who's going to write your name in lights. I'm not.”


I probably shouldn't, given my shitty brain, given the fucking fragility of the situation, have known we were talking about getting back together before that moment, but I don't know, it didn't surprise me. “Why is everything all or nothing with you?” I said gently. “I'm not asking for fucking...” I shook my head. “You know what you said at the hospital?”


He shrugged a little.


“You were saying that that...what he had for me, he didn't know me, we hadn't been through all that shit, so it wasn't really love, it was just...”


“Violin music,” we said, together.


I nodded. “See, I thought you were saying no one could ever love me after they'd been through all that.”


Brian made that noise again. ”Fuck.”


“And that's...not what you were saying, was it?”


“Jesus Christ.”


“Okay, I'll take that as a no.” I sat down carefully on the back of the couch, facing him. “So I'm not asking for anything you don't mean, I'm just...I just want the things that you do mean. Jesus, trust me, after Ethan, I've had enough of the metaphors.”


He watched me. “Of the violin music.”


“Yeah.”


He got up heavily and came and sat next to me, drink in hand, and for a minute we were just quiet, looking out at the empty loft and the street sign blinking through the window.


Except I thought I was starting to hear that clock ticking again.


“You got me that job for you,” I said. “That's why you said it wasn't for me.”


He drank with a shrug, and then he looked at me sideways and, honest to fucking God, steeled himself and said, “Yes,” and holy shit, I was ready to jump back in with him right then and there.


Brian Kinney meant yes so he said yes, because I asked him to.


Can you even...God. Anyway.


“You wanted to keep an eye on me,” I said. “You wanted to see that I was okay.”


“Well, that panic attack was pretty fucking scary,” he said lightly. “And you were moping around the diner like someone sold your pony. Figured someone needed to be keeping watch, making sure you didn't do a swan dive off wherever the fuck you were living nowadays, and God knows the rest of this family's fucking useless. You ever tried getting Michael to check his voicemail?”


“So why didn't you tell me that?”


He shrugged again. “Thought you might take offense. Some I don't need looking after bullshit.”


I thought about that. “I think right now I need to know that somebody saw that I was struggling,” I said. “And that...they thought I deserved to get what I needed to...not.”


It took me a minute to get the courage to look at him, but when I did, he was looking at me, and our faces were so, so close.


“What else do you need,” he said, softly.


Here goes.


“Maybe...” I swallowed. “Maybe something that doesn't have an ending.” I had to lighten that up a little. “Even when you're kicking and screaming for one.”


Brian was still for just a second, then he nodded slowly. “I might know just the thing.”


“Okay. Um.” I looked down and put my hand on his wrist because I couldn't not touch him anymore. “What do you need?”


“You know what I need.”


“I think maybe the thing is that I don't, actually.”


He groaned and put his head back. “You are really testing me.”


“I know. You're so close, though.”


“I know.”


“Think about the things I'm going to do to you with my tongue after you say it.”


“I need a drink first,” he said, and he got up and started towards the kitchen, and I laughed a little and looked around the loft to try to...I don't know. Collect myself. I figured I'd have a minute.


But he spoke before he'd had the drink. Before he made it all the way to the kitchen.


“I need you to come home.”


He was standing there barefoot in half of a suit. Looking right at me.


“That's it,” he said.


“That can't be it.”


He popped his tongue into his cheek. “Sure it can.”


And of course it wouldn't be it. Of course we would continue asking each other for things, begging, pushing each other, sreaming at each other, for the rest of our goddamn lives. He's never going to be everything I want him to be, and God knows I won't be either.


It's not a fairy tale.


Fairy tales have endings. 


"Okay," I said.


And I couldn't wait any longer. I couldn't. But I still somehow managed to walk towards him slowly, and he stood right where he was, looking so incredibly goddamn sure, and I got up on my toes and I put my arms around his neck and I kissed him.


There are moments in your life where everything makes sense, even if you're me. If you're lucky, maybe you get two or three, your whole life. I swear to God, I only need that one. I'm good now.


Kissing Brian was like pulling into port after you've been at sea. It was coming up for air. It was something I'd forgotten that I'd given up on trying to remember. He had the front of my shirt clenched in his fist, and I had my hands on his face, and the loft could have gone up in fucking flames around us and I would not have stopped kissing him. I wouldn't even have noticed.


His lips were so gentle, and he was being so patient, but he cupped the back of my head and pulled me in closer and he made this desperate noise in his throat without taking his mouth off of mine and he felt so vulnerable to me, so fucking open, and I would have done anything in the goddamn world to protect him from ever being hurt again. I would take down a lion. I would fight an army. I would get him the fuck out of this loft if it caught on fire.


Because I was home again.

 

And it never ended.

Chapter 78 - Flashback by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Claire needs to talk to Brian, but she finds someone else instead.

Flashback

LaVieEnRose



I remember the first time I ever came to New York.


I was sixteen. Dad had won some money at the track, said it was time Brian and I got some fucking culture, for God's sake. We drove, and he cursed at the traffic. Mom wore gloves and Brian complained that he was carsick and Dad complained about Brian, and I sat there behind Daddy and looked out the window and imagined the millions of other lives happening in this city, all these tiny windows holding families with different stories.


All the other things I could have been.


Mom and Dad took us to one museum and one dinner and then had a drunk fight back at the hotel room, and when the first vase flew across the room I took Brian out and we stopped in some alleway and shared a joint he'd gotten from one of his no-good eighth-grade friends. He held his breath for longer than I could, and while he let it out, he told me he was gay. He'd just turned eleven.


**


The last Saturday in April of 2013 was my first time coming back here since. I had the address I'd gotten from my mother's funeral registry and nothing else, not even a change of clothes, which I couldn't imagine I'd need anyway, since I doubted Brian would be offering to let me stay the night.


I gave a taxi driver the address of the building and fiddled with my hands as he weaved through traffic. I remembered my mother's gloves.


Brian's building was on this beautiful, tree-lined block close to the park, with a view of the water on the other side. I told the doorman I was Brian Kinney's sister, and he nodded towards the elevator and said, “Remember to use the doorbell.” I didn't know what to make of that, but there was a small, framed sign on their door that said Please ring the bell. So I did.


There was no answer for a while, but just as I was about to leave, the door opened, and there was Justin, and I realized I had no idea why I'd just rung the bell when my brother's partner is Deaf.


I'd met Justin officially, such as it was, at Mother's funeral, but I'd been familiar with him beforehand. He and Brian had been together for a long time, after all, and he'd been involved in that whole...regrettable affair with John. I'd looked him up on occasion and seen articles about him taking the New York art scene by storm. Interviews where he'd talked about his partner, and about losing his hearing.


I didn't know any sign language. I didn't even know if he'd recognize me.


But he did, I could tell right away. He narrowed his eyes at me and pointed behind him and shook his head.


I said, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...”


He watched my mouth carefully, then held out a finger for me to wait and took his phone out of his pocket. He typed something on it and handed it to me: Brian's not here.


“Oh. I'm sorry, I...” I had no idea where to go. I hadn't even considered this. Jesus, Claire. “I'll come back.”


I started to walk away, but he sighed and put his hand on my arm, then reached into his pocket and took out his wallet.


It took me a second to realize what he was doing. “No, no, stop. Jesus. I don't want your money.” God, he looked half my age. The entire thing was so humiliating, and I couldn't believe I'd come here, and all I wanted in the world was to get out of that hallway as quickly as possible and pretend this had never happened.


But for some reason I didn't keep walking, and Justin kept studying me, and after a minute he stepped sideways out of the doorway, nodded to the apartment.


“Are you sure?” I said. “I don't want to...”


He shrugged and went inside, leaving the door open, and I...had nowhere else to go. I followed and shut the door behind me and looked around a surprisingly bright entryway into a surprisingly massive apartment. It was like of those places you see in shows about New York and everyone goes off about how the apartments aren't actually that big...well, here this one was. It was bigger than Brian's place back in Pittsburgh, and the furniture looked just as expensive but besides that it couldn't have been more different.


Everything was colorful, from the bright red front door to the yellow accent wall in the living room to the art hanging just about everywhere, presumably Justin's. There were photos on the refrigerator of people I recognized from Pittsburgh—and Michael, of course I knew Michael—and a couple I didn't know but thought I'd seen at Mother's funeral. There were a few photos spread out on the kitchen counter that looked like they were from somewhere in Europe. There was one of Brian. He looked happy.


It was messier than I'd expected; Brian's always been fastidious. There were dirty plates in the sink and laundry basket sitting on a chair in the living room and a collection of empty glasses on the coffee table along with a box of tissues, an inhaler, and a small stuffed animal. And a baby monitor.


A baby?


He must have been sitting. Aside from the stuffed animal, nothing here said baby, and even though of course I knew Brian had a son—I rarely saw him, but I sent him a Christmas present every year—I couldn't imagine him actually raising a kid.


But then again, I couldn't have imagined him living in a place with primary colors, photographs, and a boyfriend, either.


Justin lightly knocked on the wall, and I looked at him. He made a cup with his hand and raised it to his mouth, eyebrows raised.


“Oh, sure, um...”


He held three fingers to his chin.


“I don't...”


He crossed to the refrigerator and opened it and held up a pitcher of water.


“Oh. Sure, thank you.”


He nodded and filled two glasses, and I noticed his hand shook as he lifted the pitcher, and I wondered if I was making him nervous. I gave him a little space and looked around the living room, touching the spines of the books on their shelves—mystery novels, mostly, and art books, fashion retrospectives, tons of essay collections—and drifting over to this turquoise and gold painting hanging next to it. I heard Justin come out of the kitchen, and he handed me a glass when I turned around.


“Is this yours?” I asked him.


He flattened his palm on his chest, eyebrows up.


“Yeah.”


He nodded.


“It's beautiful.”


He smiled and mouthed, “Thank you,” then gestured towards the couch. I sat down, feeling impossibly awkward.


I said. “I'm sorry, do you know...when Brian will be home?”


He watched me, but I could tell from the almost wince on his face that he didn't understand.


“Brian?” I said again.


Justin nodded.


“Back.” I pointed around us. “Here.”


Justin nodded and went over to the clock on the wall and pointed to the three. A little under an hour. Okay. I could do this. Anyone can be in an impossibly awkward situation for an hour. But before either of us had to come up with some way to fill the silence, a baby started crying somewhere behind me.


Justin, of course, didn't react, but I said, “Oh, there's—” and he frowned, but then the baby monitor on the coffee table started flashing, and he pointed to his ear, then behind me, and nodded with a small smile before he disappeared to go check on the baby. I picked up the baby monitor and looked at it. I had no idea they made things like this. That must have been how he knew the doorbell rang, I realized. Still a Deaf babysitter seemed like a strange choice. What was he going to do in an emergency?


He came out a minute later holding a very small baby, couldn't have been older than a month, still screaming her lungs out. He smiled at me kind of sheepishly while he bounced her. She had a ton of hair for such a little thing, a little blonde curl sticking to her forehead, and she kicked her feet in frustration.


“Well, look at this,” I said, without even meaning to. “Hi there. Aren't you beautiful? Mad, but beautiful.”


Justin pointed to his ear and scrunched up his face.


“Loud?” I said. “Yeah, she's loud.”


He grinned, then poked her chest a little and did a thumbs-up.


“Good lungs? I would say so.”


He kissed her forehead a few times, signed something to her with his hand to his forehead, not that she was watching, then brought her into the kitchen and I saw him trying to juggle her and the refrigerator door, so I got up and followed. He pointed to a bottle sitting in the door, and I nodded and took it out to microwave it.


And for some reason I just started talking. Maybe because the baby was screaming so loudly that he wouldn't have been able to hear me anyway, maybe just because I felt so goddamn awkward and I that's when I tend to babble or maybe...I don't know. There's something about looking at a baby. “I remember when Brian was a baby, we didn't have a microwave. Had to heat milk up on the stove. Took forever, and he would scream and scream...” I looked at him. “I don't know if your mother would have had one. I'm not sure how old you are. You can't be as young as you look.”


He just watched me, bouncing the baby.


“Sorry,” I said.


He shrugged a little.


“Do you have...” I said, and I mimed writing, and he pointed to the counter, where I found a pad of paper and a pen. He followed me over, and I was distracted for a minute by the photographs on here. Flamenco dancers. A cathedral. Justin kissing Brian's cheek while Brian held the camera and made a face.


I wrote, How old is she?


He held up five fingers.


“Five weeks?”


He nodded.


Do you take care of her a lot? I wrote.


He shook his head and shifted her onto his shoulder. When her parents go back to work I will, he wrote. Right now they're staying home with her. He paused. This is actually my first time having her alone. I used to take care of my sister, but that was a long time ago. And I was nine, so they didn't really expect me to do much.


I remembered being six years old, my mother shoving a squirming, screaming bundle in my arms— just for a minute, Claire, can you please contribute to this family for one minute, I just need to lie down.


The microwave beeped, and I got the bottle out of the microwave and handed it to him. He tested the temperature on the inside of his wrist and immediately rinsed it off in the sink, and I noticed a few small red spots on different parts of his arm. He saw me looking and just shrugged a little.


He sat down with the baby in one of the kitchen chairs and tried to feed her, but she was still fussing and kicking and not cooperating, and Justin kept trying to aim the bottle at her mouth but she kept squirming away. He put the bottle down and stroked her hair a little, and caught one of her tiny hands in his and kissed it, but she didn't calm down.


I watched him struggle until I couldn't stand it anymore. I pulled up a chair in front of them, then touched Justin's arm and nodded towards the baby, “Can I...?”


He looked confused. I held out my hands.


He hesitated, for a second, but he handed me the baby.


God, I couldn't remember when I'd last held one, but it felt like coming home, have a little one squirming around in my arms. “Okay, see?” I said to Justin, and I brushed the baby's cheek with the bottle nipple and waited for her to turn her mouth right to it. “Just like that.”


Justin took her foot and shook it gently while she drank. The baby looked up at me, and she had the most beautiful blue eyes I'd ever seen, and I looked up at Justin and he was looking at me too and...well. Of course I knew. She didn't actually look much like him—she had his coloring, but the shape of her face was different, her chin and her nose—but those eyes were unmistakable.


“She's yours, isn't she?” I said.


He tilted his head, looking at me, and I remembered what he'd done earlier when I asked him if the painting was his, that flat hand on his chest. I pointed to the baby, then held my hand out to him the same way.


He smiled and nodded.


“What's her name?” I asked.


Justin got up and got the paper and pencil from the counter. I tucked the baby into my arm while she drank. He sat down next to me, but the pencil skittered on the page, and he stopped and tucked his hand into his pocket. I thought maybe he didn't understand me, so I picked up the pencil to write the question down, but he shook his head and stopped me and held up a finger on his left hand. After a minute he took his hand out of his pocket, stretched it, and wrote, Janie, his handwriting a little worse than it had been before.


“Janie.” I said. I petted her hair while she drank. “Hi, Janie. You're beautiful.”


Justin looked like he was about to write something, but he just played with her foot instead.


But she doesn't live here? I wrote down. Janie finished her bottle, and I said, “Uh, do you have a cloth, or...”


He squinted at me for a second, then snapped his fingers with this jubilant sort of expression, and...okay. I got it, right there. It was a good smile. He got up and got a washcloth and handed it to me, and I turned Janie over my shoulder to burp her. He sat down and reached for a little, but I said, “No, it's fine, I don't think you need more of those hives.” I don't think he got it, but he settled back in his chair anyway.


She lives with her moms, Justin wrote. I don't have custody or anything like that. Like Brian with Gus.


I stared at the word moms for a long time, keeping my face as neutral as I could, but when I looked up at Justin I knew he knew what I was thinking, and he was just waiting to see if I was going to say it.


But I can't help it. I was holding this beautiful baby, and it was heartbreaking that she was starting out life already with something so untraditional. That her father was going to be a guy who couldn't figure out how to feed her when she was over a month old, and she was going to have to live her whole life explaining her life to people, and that her first example of a great love was going to be...


Justin was still waiting.


I said, “I'm sorry, I just...” and he tapped his finger on the paper, which gave me a minute to think about what I wanted to say. And I'm glad it did.


I know I'm disappointing to you, I wrote.


Justin studied the paper for a long moment, and I finished burping Janie and brought her back down into my arms.


And then Justin cleared his throat, which startled the hell out of me, but not as much as when he said, “You know, I'm a lot more patient than Brian is.”


It would be hard not to be, I wrote, and he smiled at me.


**


“So this is where we stayed,” Justin said. We were sitting on the floor of the living room, Janie on her back on a blanket. Justin passed me a photograph. “They're called paradores, and it's like hotels but some of them are inside castles or in palaces or other old places, so instead of just staying in some building you're built into the cities. So it meant we could travel around to all these different places and really see all of them.” He showed me another picture of this amazing view off the side of a cliff. “We had to drive on all these tiny roads on these cliffs like this, and every time Brian took his hands off the wheel to sign I would scream at him.”


It was still hard for me to imagine Brian signing, even though I'd seen a bit of it at the funeral. Was learning sign language hard? I wrote down on the piece of paper we were rapidly filling up.


“Yeah,” he said simply. He showed me another picture. “Here, Brian with Janie the day after she was born. That's our...my sister with him.”


Brian was sitting in an arm chair at the hospital looking down at the newborn's face, and he looked absolutely mesmerized. I remembered feeling that way when my sons were born. Thinking of all the opportunities that were still out there for them. All the different people they could grow up to be.


And Brian. I remembered being six years old, holding that baby in the kitchen, telling him it was going to get better.


I wish I'd had a piece of paper and a minute to pause back in this same city all those years ago, because when he told me he was gay, the first thing I said was, “Don't ever say that to anyone again.”


I was trying to protect him. I swear I think I was.


He hates me, I wrote down.


“He doesn't hate you,” Justin said.


He wanted me to shake off everything we were taught right away, I wrote. He wouldn't give me any time.


Justin carefully picked up Janie and lay her down on her stomach. “The thing is,” he said. “That we have to be patient with people every single day. That's what being gay is. Holding straight people's hands about it. And Brian...isn't much for handholding.”


What about you?


He shrugged. “Well, gay people can have different personalities. Plus I'm so used to it, I mean.” He pointed to his ears. “I have to reassure the normal people a lot.”


I was about to ask him something, God knows what, I guess if it ever got easier, if he wishes he were different, was there anything anyone could have done back then to make it better, when I heard the front door open, and the lights flicked off and on in the entryway. Justin gave me a here goes nothing look and the two of us stood up.


Brian walked in, loosening his tie, and he looked, I swear, more relaxed than I'd seen him in my entire life, for about a fraction of a second until his eyes landed on me, and then his expression hardened immediately and he crossed the room and cupped Justin's face in his hand. Justin started signing quickly, and it was so hard to believe that Brian, the boy I grew up with, the boy I used to know, could possibly understand this whole language I didn't know a word, but he started signing back to Justin, somehow faster, and the two of them were overlapping and interrupting each other, and Brian kept watching him and kept signing as he came over and picked Janie off the floor and into his arms, his eyes never leaving what Justin was saying. He bounced her a little and seemed to calm down through whatever Justin was saying, but when he was done he signed something short to Justin, who came over and took the baby into the kitchen.


Brian turned me to me. “What are you doing here?”


“I needed to talk to you.”


“You can't just surprise him like that.”


“I thought you'd be here, it's a Saturday afternoon.”


“Have you heard of phones?”


“I just...”


He pinched his nose. “How much?”


“What?”


“How much money do you need?”


“I didn't come for your money, Brian.”


He bent down and picked up the pictures Justin had left on the floor and started stacking the glasses on the table. “Come home to a fucking pig sty...”


I glanced at the kitchen. “Was he...is he upset? That I'm here?”


“No, he's fine, I'm upset that you're here. He doesn't...people fuck up his schedule, he gets freaked out, I have to deal with it.”


“Is he freaked out?”


Brian clenched his jaw. “No.”


“So...okay.”


There was a crash in the kitchen, a pot or something falling, and Justin called, “Sorry!” and Brian bit his lip and laughed a little, and that did a lot for the tension. I kind of wondered if Justin maybe did that on purpose.


“So what's going on?” he said. “What do you need?”


“I don't need anything, I...”


He waited, arms crossed.


“My son, my little one,” I said. “He told me last week that he's...”


Brian waited. “Starts with a g.”


“Okay, okay.”


“So what, you want to know if I've seen him go-go dancing at our sodomite clubs? Can't say I have. Can't say I'm sure I'd fucking recognize him.”


“I just wanted to ask if he could talk to you,” I said.


Brian watched me steadily. “Talk to me.”


“I thought maybe you'd have...I don't know. Some advice or something.”


“So what, you're not going to try to scare him straight?”


“Jesus, Brian, I'm uncomfortable, I'm not a monster. Is that really what you think of me?”


He looked away and didn't say anything, and I watched Justin bounce the baby in the kitchen and thought about how very small my little brother used to be. How I used to promise him I would keep him safe from everything in the world.


You can say a lot about me but I swear to God I tried.


How old was Daddy when he learned to feed Brian? I had no memories of him doing it. Not one.


I said, “Anyway, I think...I think maybe I'll ask Justin if he'll talk to him instead.”


Brian nodded slowly, and the look his eyes...well, if I didn't know better I'd say I saw a bit of respect. “Justin's a good listener.”


“I know.”


Brian turned to the kitchen and signed something to Justin, who glanced at me and then nodded, and Brian took a business card out of his pocket and wrote down a phone number on it, handed it to me. “Your son can text him.”


I took a deep breath. “Okay.”


Brian walked me to the door, and before I left I said. “Brian, your daughter's lovely.”


“She's not...” He sighed, then looked into the kitchen at Justin and the baby. His face softened into something like a smirk and he turned to me and shrugged. “Thank you.”


I turned to go, and as I shut the door behind me I saw Brian go into the kitchen and take Janie from Justin. He signed something quick to Justin, his tongue in his cheek, and then Justin raised himself up on his feet and Brian kissed the side of his nose.


And I thought...if this is the first example of a great love this baby is going to see, maybe she could do a lot worse.

 

End Notes:

 

And now back to our regularly scheduled stories! Takes place about a month after "Keep Breathing."

 

 

Got a busy weekend coming up and the next one is still awfully unformed in my head (I need to figure out a first scene?? Whose idea was this!) So it might be a little while <3

Chapter 79 - Into My Night by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin can't sleep.

Into My Night

LaVieEnRose



So before I get started here...I know most people don't understand what I'm doing with Justin. A lot of my friends act like I'm selling myself short, dating this guy who's never going to be fully committed to just me, but I feel like...I mean, I don't want to derail this into some sad story when I've barely gotten this thing off the ground as it is, but where I am in my life right now...I am just starting to get my shit together. I don't need the pressure of being someone's everything and I don't have room for someone to be mine. Usually when you have a boyfriend, you have to shape yourself, sort of, become everything that he needs in a relationship and figure out how to contort him so he's everything you need in yours.


And Justin and I are just...ourselves, and I never have to worry that I'm not everything he needs, because he can just go somewhere else.


And do you know how fucking great it is to have someone who just gets it? Like, Justin's not positive or anything, but I don't have to come with some excuse if I need to cancel because I'm just feeling like shit, and I don't have to worry that he's going to think I'm exaggerating if someone said something discriminatory and crappy to me. And like...have you seen him? Okay, sue me, so I'll take him however I can get him.


Anyway. So I guess this whole thing started when Justin and I were hanging out at his apartment on a Saturday afternoon. I'd come over midday and made lunch and had some dumb argument with Brian about the progress we were making on a campaign for a new client until Justin snapped at both of us so shut up. Then Brian had left to do whatever the hell he does, and Justin and I had sex—on the pull-out in his spare room, I had never even gone into his bedroom, at that point, though that was about to change—and made lunch and now we were lounging around the couch with this cheesy horror movie we'd found on demand. Justin was resting against the arm of the couch with his feet on my lap, and I was half-watching the movie and half playing this dumb game on my phone that I'm obsessed with, but I noticed Justin kept squirming around.


I looked over I noticed he looked kind of...out of it. Like he wasn't really watching the movie, and he was fussing with one of his ears. He gets a ringing in them sometimes from his condition that made him lose his hearing, but this didn't look like that. This looked like something else.


I shook his knee. You okay?


He looked at me for too long before he answered. Yeah, I'm fine, why?


I don't think you're fine. You seem really seizurey right now, am I reading that right? I'd seen Justin have plenty of small seizures at that point, and a few bigger ones that affected more than one part of his body, but never any where he'd lost consciousness. But at soon as we'd started dating I'd done all this research so I'd know exactly what to do if it happened, so I felt really ready.


He looked confused. Maybe.


I paused the movie. Yeah, you're gonna lie down. Come on. I got up and tugged him off the couch and helped him lie down on the floor. He was still looking at me kind of suspiciously, like he wasn't totally sure who I was or what I was up to, but as soon as I'd gotten a pillow under his head he started seizing.


It was definitely nothing like the ones I'd seen before. This was more like a seizure from a movie or something, like what you picture in your head when you think about them. It was like he was choking, and I knew he wasn't, and his lips turned purple which was scary even though I knew that was normal. I got him onto his side and then took my hands off him like I was supposed to, and I got the timer going on my phone so I'd know how long it lasted. It's okay, I told him, even though of course he couldn't see me, because...I don't know, maybe he could somehow sense it or something. It's almost over. You're doing really good. It's going to stop soon, okay? Don't worry. I looked at the timer running on my phone. Don't worry.


The seizure stopped after two minutes and ten seconds, but it felt like so much longer. He woke up right after it, but only for about half a minute, and I told him it was okay and he should go to sleep and he listened, not that he really had much other choice with how tired he was after all that. I knew I didn't have to call an ambulance or anything since he was breathing fine, but I didn't know where Brian was besides not here so I figured I should call him. His number was on Justin's medalert bracelet—I have one too, but mine doesn't have a phone number, because my best friends are Deaf and I wouldn't want them getting bothered anyway—but I had his number in my phone already because we send each other dumb shit we find on the internet sometimes. I don't like texting—I was mainstreamed and didn't learn to sign until I was a teenager and it was generally a shitshow and anyway my written English is kind of a disaster, which is another reason I'm lucky I can draw—but Brian doesn't get judgey about my shitty grammar and spelling. Neither does Justin, of course, but that's more of a given.


Brian picked up pretty quickly. He was, from the looks of it, on a treadmill, sweating and panting and looking really goddamn hot. He raised an eyebrow at me.


Hi, I said. Justin had a seizure. Uh, a tonic-clonic one? But he's okay.


Brian turned down the speed on the treadmill but kept moving. Just now?


Yeah, it's over now.


He's sleeping now? Breathing's fine?


Yeah. He woke up for a minute but then he fell asleep.


Brian nodded. Didn't hit his head or anything?


No, he was already lying down.


All right, good. He looked at his watch. Okay, I can get back in like...half an hour? You can stay until then?


Of course.


He should sleep the whole time. If he wakes up he's probably going to be a total jerk, so try not to hold it against him.


It's fine. It's totally fine.


He gave me a skeptical look. Can you handle this?


Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine.


He didn't look convinced, but he said, Good. Hold down the fort. If he has another one in the next fifteen minutes, call an ambulance, then call me. Got it?


I took a deep breath. Yeah. Got it.


He didn't have another one. Mostly he slept, but he'd wake up every few minutes to mumble something I couldn't even kind of lipread and hit the floor in frustration and fall back asleep. I put a blanket over him and rubbed his back and told him it was okay and played my stupid phone game and waited for Brian to get back.


He waltzed in about twenty minutes later. He gave me a wave and crouched down next to Justin. How's the patient? he asked me, brushing Justin's hair away from his face.


He's been waking up a lot, but just for a minute or two every time. I think he's okay? He's okay, right?


Brian was stretching out Justin's arms and legs, testing all the joints with his fingers to make sure Justin hadn't hurt himself. This one's always been loose, he said, small, when one of Justin's elbows looked like it bent a little further back than it should, and there was something so intimate about Brian knowing that that I felt like, I don't know, I was intruding or something. Yeah, he's good, Brian said. He did great. He shook Justin by the shoulder until he woke up. Rise and shine.


Justin took a long time to wake up, but when he did he immediately slapped his hands away. Go away.


Well, well, look who's talking.


I put my hand on Justin's leg.


Need to wake up for just a little while, Brian said.


I don't want to.


I know you don't, Brian said. Here we go, okay?


No, fuck off, Justin said, but Brian just laughed a little and sat him up carefully anyway, nice and slow, arranging Justin's arms around his neck to pick him up. Justin started crying, which made my stomach twist, because I'd never seen that before and I was scared he was hurting, and I must have had some kind of look on my face because Brian got my attention and pointed to his lips, since he couldn't really sign with his arms full of Justin.


“He cries after seizures,” Brian said. He's really good at speaking clearly for lipreading. “His brain's traumatized. He's okay.”


Can I touch?


“Yeah. Here.” He shifted himself closer to me, pulling Justin up onto his lap, and Justin tucked himself into Brian and I stroked his hair. It's always so soft and it smells like lime.


I said, “I didn't do this, did I?”


“I don't know, did you do something?”


“No...”


Brian shook his head. “Just happens sometimes. A few times a year he gets one of these big ones. Unless you flashed lights in his eyes or got him drunk, you're innocent.”


“What about both of at the same time, do they cancel each other out?”


He snorted and stood up slowly, Justin hoisted in his arms. Justin clung onto Brian's neck and pulled himself in tightly, and Brian said, “Aww,” and gave him a kiss on top of the head. “Tell him he's okay,” he said to me.


I got where Justin could see me and signed, You're okay, Justin, and he nodded and kept his eyes on me, so I followed them into the bedroom and sat hesitantly on the side of the bed. Their room wasn't as big as I thought it would be—their apartment's so enormous—but it was bright and full of art and the sheets felt expensive. Brian lay him down on the bed and asked him a few questions, just checking if he knew what happened and if he needed anything. Justin kept reaching out to Brian, but when Brian put his hands on him Justin would go, No, don't hold me, all pissed off as if he'd told Brian a million times, and Brian was trying very very hard not to laugh. It was kind of funny. And Brian didn't seem scared at all, and that was doing a lot to calm me down. Probably Justin too, if Justin were even aware enough to be scared.


Eventually Brian was satisfied that Justin wasn't any more out if it than he was supposed to be, and Justin reached out for my hand and promptly fell back asleep.


Brian kissed Justin's forehead, looked at me like he was...I don't know, almost like he was sizing me up, and said, You know, I still really need a fucking shower. Left the gym without one for this drama queen. Think you could stick around and keep an eye on him?


I sat up straighter. Yeah. I've got this. Don't worry.


He tilted his head to the side and said, I can see that.


So Brian took a shower, and I watched over Justin, and when Brian got out he shook my hand and then laughed and said I'm just kidding and gave me a hug and told me I'd done a good job today, and I guess that was sort of practice for what came next.


**


I didn't see Justin for a few days, though we sent videos back and forth through that. He had a rough time recovering from the seizure, just dealing with a lot of mood swings and confusion and generally feeling shitty, and I had a doctor's appointment and got bad news about my T-cells so I wasn't much in the mood for company anyway. It was kind of weird, too, because I knew he was coming to Kinnetik a few of those days to just hang out where Brian could watch him, but he didn't ask for me to come up to see him so I didn't bother him. God knows I get it, so it didn't hurt my feelings or anything. When I'm sick I just want to be by myself. Normally Emily, Jane's mom, would have been seeing him, since she's in and out of Brian's office all the time, but she was still on maternity leave and anyway she didn't like me so she probably wouldn't have been giving me reports anyway.


Justin and I met up near the end of the week at this cafe uptown in Manhattan, close to where I live. He'd said he was feeling better, but he looked fucking terrible, and he was having all this trouble following the conversation, and like, it was just me and him, it's not like it was some complicated thing to keep track of. Eventually I reached across the table and poked him, and he grabbed my finger and twisted it around.


You need to go home, I said. Have you been to the doctor?


He nodded and yawned. It's just because I haven't been sleeping well.


Nightmares?


He shook his head. I just don't fall asleep. Ever since the seizure I can't fucking fall asleep it's like I shook out the part of my brain that knows how to do it..


Is that normal?


It's never happened to me before. My neurologist said it's not that uncommon. God, I've slept like three hours a night since and it's...getting to me.


Can you take something?


Yeah, I'm gonna take a ton of Benadryl tonight. I'm allergic to all the hardcore shit, but Benadryl always knocks me out.


I brought him to the subway and asked if he wanted me to bring him home, but he gave me that soft kind of look he does and told me he'd be fine. He got up on his toes to kiss me, and I sighed a bit at the feeling of his lips on mine. His body was against mine, and I could actually feel how tired he was. His whole body was shaking, just a little, like he was vibrating, and honestly I was pissed off at Brian for not forcing him to cancel on me.


Go home and take a lot of Benadryl, I said. I rested my forehead against his and breathed him in for a minute, tried to breathe into him calm, comfort, health. Three things I'm generally not super full of, but I gave them to him anyway, somehow.


Or I tried. I really tried.


**


I barely heard from Justin for two days. I figured he was probably sleeping for most of it, but midday on Friday I was working on textures for the different layers of an ad for athletic socks when Alice tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Mr. Kinney wants to see you.” She signed Brian's name while she said it. Everyone here knows a couple signs, and there's an interpreter I use when we have team meetings or if a client comes in and I want to make sure I get every single word, but for the most part I read lips and speak while I'm at Kinnetik. Honestly, that's fine with me. Makes me feel like the twelve years of speech therapy weren't a complete waste of time, and I still sign way more here, between the interpreter and the little bits everyone knows and Emily, when she deigns to speak to me, and Brian, on the very rare occasion I even see him during the day.


I'd heard rumors earlier in the day that Brian was in a rage about something, so I went up to his office pretty nervous, wondering if I was going to get fired or something. I don't really know why Brian hired me in the first place since it seems like all I do is piss him off. I opened his door a little. “Mr. Kinney?”


He waved me in with two fingers and then waited for the door to shut behind me. Not work stuff, he said.


Oh. Then hi, Brian, I fingerspelled.


Hello. He looked really tired, I realized. Not like Justin had looked before or anything, but still not great. He watched me as I approached his desk, then leaned forwards and said, really solemnly, I need you to take my husband.


Oh, wow, I said. What are you looking for in exchange? I don't have any goats, if that's what you're after.


He bit back a grin. Ha. I have to go to Chicago tonight because everyone is a fucking idiot. My flight's in an hour. It's just overnight, which would be...you know, annoying as fuck, but fine, except that Justin now hasn't slept at all in... He checked his watch. Fifty-one hours.


Not at all?


Brian sighed. No. He's at home right now lying in a dark room and is still awake as of a very bitchy text an hour ago.


He said he was going to take a ton of Benadryl.


He did, and it made him even more fucking tired but he still couldn't sleep and that...wasn't good. He shook his head a little. Yeah, that wasn't good for him. He shrugged.


Has this ever happened before?


Not really. He's had nightmares since...


Sure.


But this is different, this isn't anxiety, this is just his brain not fucking working.


So what do we do?


Well, eventually he falls asleep, but until then he's a fucking basket case. Which is why I'm arranging a little slumber party for him tonight. Daphne has work, Emily's busy with the baby, and...he wants you anyway, so. Take him tonight?


Sure, but...he can't come to my apartment.


What, roommates?


Yeah, of course I have roommates, I'm twenty-six and I live in Manhattan, I have five roommates.


You have a six-bedroom apartment?


I have a two-bedroom apartment.


Brian stared at me like he'd never heard of such a thing despite, you know, living in a two-bedroom. So you sleep—


That's not the problem, I said. The problem is there's no air conditioning and there's something growing on the bathroom ceiling and I have no fucking clue when we vacuumed last.


Do we not pay you? Brian said. The fuck is this?


I'm saving up.


Sure, if you live that long.


I shrugged. So far so good. Brian had no idea then that my mold-infested shithole was a palace compared to other places I'd lived. I didn't see any reason to tell him. It's not something I really talked about. Justin knew, but...Justin's got that face, I don't know. You end up telling him things. Brian has no such face.


Brian studied me for a second, then shook his head a little and mumbled something I couldn't see.


“What?”


Nothing, he said. Sorry. Okay. So you can't take Justin back to your death trap. Can you stay over at the apartment tonight? He really just...he needs someone there, and it's amazing he hasn't had a fucking seizure from being awake this long and I'm...he needs someone with him.


I said, Yeah, of course. I paused. Do you think he'll sleep tonight?


Brian blew air through his lips. He better.


**


I got to Justin's apartment at around ten, just before Brian had to leave for the airport. He opened the door and gave me a brace yourself face.


Still hasn't slept? I asked.


No, and he's...not pleasant.


What's going on?


He's mad at me for leaving. He's mad at his brain for not working. He's mad at fucking everything because he hasn't slept in sixty hours and doesn't know what the fuck's going on. He led me into the living room, where Justin was sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. Brian took a handful of his hair and tugged it up until Justin was looking at him. Look who's here. I have to go.


Fine. Go.


Justin.


Justin slumped back on the couch and glared at him. He was pale and sweaty and looked too tired to move, but he still glared at Brian like he was going to kill him.


Evan will take better care of you, Brian said. He's much nicer than I am.


I don't need to be taken care of, Justin said. I'm not sick.


Yeah, well. You look great.


I don't need a babysitter, he said. I just need to sleep.


Now, is that any way to talk about your boyfriend who's taking a night out of his busy life to watch your hostile little ass?


Justin kept glaring, but his expression softened a little, and when Brian crowded into his space Justin leaned forwards and let Brian put his arms around him.


Brian put both hands on Justin's cheeks and kissed him. Sleep, he signed over Justin's face, and Justin took a shaky breath in.


Brian messed up on my hair on his way out and said to me, small, Please watch him for seizures.


I will.


His meds for tonight and the morning are on the nightstand, divided up already. I fed and watered him already but try to make him have something in the morning. You have everything you need?


I'm fine.


Brian glanced at Justin. Uh, try not to hover, just—


I don't hover. He'll be fine.


Yeah.


You're going to miss your flight, I said. I'll call you in the morning.


He studied me for a long time, and Justin looked from one of us to the other, chewing on his nails. Finally Brian shrugged, sighed, and nudged Justin's foot around with his for a minute and then finally left, bitching about how he was going to miss his flight, and I sat down on the couch next to Justin. Hi, I said.


He rested his head on my shoulder and sighed.


I brought movies, I signed in front of him. Really boring movies. And no blood.


You can't bore me into sleeping, he said, sitting up. We tried that. My brain's just fucking broken.


Yeah, well, relaxing can't hurt.


Are all positive people this fucking zen?


I'm not zen, I said. I'm a carefully repressed ball of rage. Easily mistaken. Come on, documentary about vinyl siding or dramatization of a game show law suit from the 1950s?


Jesus.


I play to win, Taylor.


We got through all of the game show movie and half of the vinyl documentary before I started worrying that I was going to fall asleep out of boredom. Justin's hand had been bothering him a lot, but no major seizures. It was clear he felt like total garbage, though. He was still shaking like he was at the cafe, and even though it was warm in the apartment he kept bundling himself up in blankets, and whenever he tried to talk he'd get frustrated and give up halfway through when he forgot what he was going to say.


Time to lie down, I said, when his blinking was getting slower and slower. I made sure he had his meds and nudged him when he was nodding off while he brushed his teeth. You're so going to sleep, I said. Look at you.


You know what happens to people who get their hopes up.


No, what?


They end up awake and crying at four AM. His hand shook and he dropped the toothbrush. Fuck.


Come on.


Yeah. He started to steer me into the bedroom, but I stopped him, and he looked at me confused.


I rubbed the back of my neck. That's Brian's bed.


It's my bed too.


I tugged him towards the office, and he sighed and followed me. I pulled out the couch and Justin took sheets out of the closed and made the bed. We'd never spent a night together before. I'd slept over here a few times when the heat went out in my apartment, but it was always me in here, Brian and Justin in the bedroom.


We kissed for a while after we lay down, but then Justin dropped his head back on the pillow and said, I'm sorry. I'm too tired.


I know. Come here.


He took a shaky breath. I don't think I can sleep.


I pulled him into me, and he tucked his face into my neck and stretched his arm over my chest. It's hard to explain it, but I could just feel how miserable he was. I know that doesn't really make sense. But it was something physical, the way his body was tensed up and trembling and his breath was heavy and shallow against my skin, and I felt so goddamn protective of him, I can't even tell you.


Nobody's trusted me to take care of them for a really, really long time.


So I held him and I rolled us back and forth for a while until I felt some of his muscles relax, and then I lay on my back with him against me and felt his breath and waited for it to even out. I stayed awake for a long time, at least an hour, waiting for him to fall asleep, stroking his hair when he got agitated, but at some point I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up the darkness was a little different, black starting to turn into blue, and Justin wasn't there. I wrapped the top sheet around myself and went into the living room, where I found him was sitting on at the bay window with one of his knees hugged up to his chin and his other foot trailing on the floor, looking out at the sky.


I sat across from him in the window, stretching the sheet out so it covered him as well. He gave me this rueful little smile and rested his forehead against the window.


No luck? I asked.


He shook his head and took a slow breath in. I think it's the clouds.


Come again?


You see the clouds? he said, and there was something different in his eyes, some kind of desperation that hadn't been there before, and I felt like he wasn't fully sure that I was really there. God, I hated myself for falling asleep. Sometime in those hours he'd hit some kind of breaking point, and I'd left him alone.


I leaned forwards and put my hands around his ankles.


They're all heavy, Justin said, looking out the window. They're full of rain. I think it's the air pressure..you know, the pressure systems. So I think that if it rained I could sleep.


Okay, I said.


I could die.


You're not going to die.


People die from insomnia, Justin said, looking at me with those wild eyes shining. It's called fatal familial insomnia and you can't sleep and then you go crazy and you die. He watched me intently, and it felt like he was waiting for something, begging for an answer I didn't have.


Come here, I said, and he crawled across the window seat and into my arms. I wrapped him up in the sheet and ran my hands up and down his back while he shivered.


I don't know if I'm going to die, Justin said. I don't know why this is happening. He wrapped an arm around himself. Maybe I should get really drunk.


Yeah, I think you have enough seizure triggers onboard as it is.


Yeah.


How about some herbal tea?


He sighed and ran his hands down his face. Yeah, okay.


I kept my hand on his back on the way to the kitchen, and he switched on the light and we both stood there squinting and blinking for a minute. Justin sat at the small kitchen table and put his head in his hands while I started some water boiling and dug around his cabinets for anything that didn't have caffeine.


He was crying when I turned back around.


No, hey hey hey.


I'm sorry. You should just go, this is embarrassing, I'm embarrassing.


You've been awake for three days. You're not supposed to be okay.


I can't do this, he said. I can't do another day of this, I'm going to fucking...I don't know, I'm going to take a bottle of pills or something, I can't do this.


Okay, you're not doing that.


I know. I'm sorry. Fuck. This is fucking torture. I'm losing my fucking mind.


I poured him a cup of tea and squeezed his shoulders. I'll be right back, okay?


Yeah.


I went back to the office, turned the light on, found my phone, and called Brian. It took three rings for him to pick up, shirtless and squinty and pissed off. Fuck, he said. Where is he, what happened?


He's in the kitchen.


Tell me what's going on.


I took a deep breath. I think you need to come home.


**


Brian and I sat on the couch while Justin paced in front of us. Sunshine, sit, Brian said exhaustedly.


Justin shook his head, but he did stop walking, like he did every time he got some new terrible idea. Maybe we should go to Nova.


Brian said, Okay, it's eleven in the morning, first of all, and also the last thing your fucking brain needs right now is strobe lights.


It'll tire me out.


Being tired is not the problem. Sit.


I could die, Justin said to Brian.


You are not going to die.


People die from insomnia.


You do not have fatal familial insomnia, Brian said, who had clearly been through this speech before. You are not dying. You are freaking out because your brain isn't working correctly because it went through a trauma and it needs some fucking babying right now. So will you sit down.


Justin vibrated and bit down on his thumb. I keep seeing things moving.


Yes, you're hallucinating because you've been awake for three days. Sit. Down.


I finally said, He doesn't want to sit down.


Stay out of it, Brian said.


He feels like he's coming out of his skin, he can't be still right now. Look at him.


Justin said, Don't fight.


Nobody's fighting, Brian and I said together.


Justin pressed his palms to his eyes until one of his arms started shaking, and when he took his hands away his cheeks were streaked with tears. I can't do this, he said. God, why the fuck are you two even here? How do you fucking—


Stop, Brian said. None of that.


Brian got up and tried to put his arms around Justin, but Justin flinched away and held his hands up, and Brian held his up too.


I need help, Justin said, after a minute.


I know, Brian said simply, with this small smile, like this wasn't a big admission at all. Like Justin was telling him what color the sky was, or something.


Justin nodded desperately.


You stay here, okay? he said. Evan and I are going to go talk about the plan.


Well, I was pretty fucking excited to hear there was a plan. I followed Brian into the kitchen and said, So...


Brian ran his hand over his mouth. What the fuck are we going to do?


Oh.


He can't go on like this, Brian said. He doesn't...he's never asked for help like that.


I nodded.


Brian breathed out slowly. Fuck.


Do we just take him to the hospital?


He never sleeps in hospitals, there's no way. He can't sleep outside of his bed.


Shit. I bit my lip.


He noticed. What?


We slept in the office last night, I said.


He stared at me. Why?


You didn't say if I could sleep in your bed and I just...


He held up a hand to stop me Yeah, okay, that's fair. He chewed on his cheek, thinking. Okay, fuck it. Come on.


He led me back to the living room, where he snagged Justin by the sleeve and pulled him with us into the bedroom. He pulled Justin's shirt up over his head and pulled on something else that looked soft and too big for him. He nodded towards the bed.


I can't, Justin said.


You're just going to lie down, Brian said. You're not going to sleep. We're not even turning the lights off. You're just going to lie down with us and close your eyes so you don't hallucinate something and jump off the fucking building. And you're shivering, don't the covers look nice?


He nodded, slowly.


Come on, love.


Justin lay down on one side of the bed, but Brian nudged him towards the middle and then nodded to me, and we got into the bed on either side of him. He wouldn't keep his eyes shut and he kept tossing around, but Brian just rested his hand on his chest and otherwise ignored him. So...do you have any plans this weekend? he asked me.


Um...not really, I said.


Brian fixed me with a long look and said, “Talk.”


“Oh, um...” I glanced at Justin, the back at Brian. I was going to go grocery shopping tomorrow. And I need to buy a train ticket, I want to go to Boston next month.


Is that where you're from?


I shook my head. I'm from LA.


Oh, I didn't know that. He loves LA.


Yeah, not me.


When'd you come here?


When I was sixteen, after I dropped out.


Why New York?


I shrugged. As far away as I could get. How'd you two end up here?


Deaf community's a lot bigger here than in Pittsburgh, Brian said. So's the art scene. And advertising. Basically we'd outgrown Pittsburgh. You like it here?


I don't really think about it much, I said. It's just...where I am. There are some bad memories. I paused. What about you?


Yeah, I like it. Better than fucking Pittsburgh, anyway. What's your favorite place in the city?


It was weird, having a conversation with Brian like this. Having him ask me more questions in five minutes than he had the entire time I'd known him. And I knew he was just creating some sort of backdrop for Justin, who'd watch a line or two of our conversation, drift out, drift back in, but...still.


Maybe the highline? I said.


He nodded and stretched out, casually smoothing a hand over Justin's hair. Highline's great. I like Battery Park, seeing the boats.


My friend works on one of the ships down there, I said.


The tour boats?


Yeah, it's like a working ship? I don't know all the boat words, but you have to like haul the ropes and everything to make it run. Like an actual boat. There's no motor or anything. And they get the tourists to help run it.


That's really cool. We should take him, he likes boats. He gets seasick, though. Ever since he lost his hearing he's had issues with that.


How long ago was that?


Brian scratched his head. That'd have been...Jesus, about seven years now, it started. Can't believe it's been that long.


It's funny, that you had no idea this would be your life.


Tell me about it.


Well, you sign really well, I said. Not that I've been doing it that much longer than you have.


Thanks. Did you see they're doing an Amber Adams show at MoMa?


I don't think I know her.


Oh, she's good. Tons of color in her paintings, but I really like her sketches. I'm going to go with him when he's feeling better, you want to come?


Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks.


Brian started to say something else, and then he looked down and smiled, then gave me a small nod.


Justin was asleep.


He held his fist up over Justin's head, I grinned and tapped mine against it, and we so, so carefully lay down, pressed against either side of him. I looked out the window and noticed, right before I fell asleep, that it had started to rain.

 

None of us moved for a very long time.

End Notes:

 

If you like a little music with your fics, song for this one is Insomnia by IAMX.

Chapter 80 - Kindred by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Brian really only knows how to take care of Justin.

Kindred

LaVieEnRose



I was jotting down notes for an afternoon meeting when Alice, head of the art department, appeared at my doorway. “Mr. Kinney?”


“Hmm,” I said, and when that apparently wasn't enough to get her to speak, I looked up and raised an eyebrow.


She looked nervous. “Can Justin come in?”


I put down my pen. “No, Justin cannot come in.” Justin was preparing for a small show at the end of the week, nothing major, but enough so he had some press stuff to take care of and, because he's him, a last-minute painting he wanted to get done. Also, he did not fucking work here. “Justin is not the custodian you can call in when you can't clean up your own shit.”


“Well, then, this is what you're giving to Lukavics.” She approached my desk and hanged me a folder.


I opened it and flipped through a series of images, then closed the folder and set it carefully on my desk. “Are you shitting me?”


“I wasn't on this project,” she said. “I'm supervising the Brown mockups and you know they're gorgeous.”


“The entire fucking department is your responsibility.”


“I can only work with what I have,” Alice said. “If you keep bringing in snotty Parsons interns who think they're too good to get paint on their hands, I have to work with the snotty Parsons interns.”


“I thought Evan was on this. This is not Evan.”


“Evan hasn't been in in three days.”


“He what?”


Alice sighed. “Frankly, Mr. Kinney, I like the kid, I do, but we've had a lot of problems with him. He's missed a lot of days, he has issues understanding written directions, and God forbid we need him to write something down. He's a great artist, but he just...he isn't meshing well with the team, and he's disappeared for three days without explanation. And don't look at me like that. Emily's Deaf and everyone loves her. And I just came in here begging you to call Justin.”


I studied her.


She said, “So, now that you've seen what we have to work with...are you going to call Justin?”


I tossed the file back at her. “No. I am not calling Justin. Fix your own shit.”


I did end up calling Justin as soon as she was out of my office, of course, but not to get him in here to clean up after my embarrassment of an art department. He was at his studio curled up on his ratty couch. He'd been feeling shitty when I left that morning and he still didn't look great, but at least he'd made it out of the apartment.


How's it going? I asked him.


He stretched. Okay. I got a little done. I'm just so tired today.


Have you eaten?


He yawned and nodded.


Let me hear your voice.


“Hi Brian.”


Hi. When did you talk to Evan last?


Saturday, maybe? I texted him yesterday but I haven't heard back. Why?


He hasn't been to work in a few days. Think he's sick.


Justin sat up. What kind of sick?


I don't know.


Okay. I'll call him. It took under the time to answer three emails before he called me back. “Can you hear me?” he said. There are some people in his studio building who work with power tools, and of course Justin has no idea it's going on until he's choking on the dust.


Yeah, what's the verdict?


“He wouldn't pick up his phone, but he texted me. He said it's just a cold. But he wouldn't miss work for a cold. And why wouldn't he pick up the phone?”


I pressed the button to light up Emily's desk. Because he doesn't want you to see him and worry.


“Yeah, exactly.” He paused. “Brian, I think—”


No.


“His roommates are jerks, he needs someone to check on him.”


We had an agreement, remember? You're not going up there.


He watched me.


You will get sick, I said. You will get sick a week before your show, and we know exactly what a cold will do to your lungs and a fever will do to your seizures. No. We knew this would happen, this was a condition of it. Have some soup sent to his place, that's all you can do.


“Okay,” Justin said softly.


Emily came in, and I told Justin, I have to go. Get back to work. I beckoned Emily over. How would you like an assignment?


What the fuck do you think I do all day, sit around twiddling my thumbs?


Yes, but this is a special assignment.


She cocked an eyebrow.


So Evan—oh, come on, what, I said, when she rolled her eyes.


I'm just wondering when my salary is going to start reflecting all the babysitting I do for that boy.


Honestly, I understood her frustration. Emily's a college-educated, talented, white-collar-as-shit executive assistant to two of the partners of the firm. She keeps this place running. And ever since Evan started working here, on top of all her actual duties she was constantly getting called down to the art department to deal with...well. Those problems Alice had mentioned earlier.


He's making me look bad, Emily said. Sheldon asked me if I needed him to write an email for me. Sheldon!


Yikes.


Jesus, he's a moron, he's the last person I'd ask for help if I needed it, which I do not. Who the fuck does he think writes all of Cynthia's emails? 'Cause it's not Cynthia.


I hear you, I said. I do. I'm going to talk to them about using you to be a Deaf interpreter, okay? And look, just say no when they ask you for shit. Make up some task you have to do for me. I'll back you up.


Okay. Thank you.


I paused. Now I need you to go to Manhattan and check on him.


Manhattan? In the daytime? No, I think not.


He's sick, I said. Someone needs to at least scope out the situation.


I can't be around sick people! I have a newborn!


Well, I can't either, I have a Justin.


She gave me a look. If you get sick, you keep your distance from Justin for a few days. I'm sure he'll be very understanding. If I get sick, what's the plan? Are you going to breastfeed our daughter?


Is that a challenge?


You're really not as cute as you think you are.


Well, that's just patently untrue.


Emily checked her phone. Cynthia wants me. Actual work to do! Ask Derek to go or something.


Yeah, right. As if there was any mystery how this little standoff was going to end. An hour after work ended I was outside Evan's door ringing his doorbell.


It took a while, but after a long wait the door opened and there was Evan looking like absolute warmed-over shit, shirtless and sweaty in ancient stained sweatpants. He squinted at me like he didn't quite recognize me, then sighed.


“This is really sweet and everything, but I'm fine.”


You look great. I waited. Well...?


Um...thank you for coming?


I rolled my eyes and shouldered my way past him. Evan's on the tall side, but I still had an inch and easily forty pounds on him, plus I wasn't swaying around like grass in the breeze.


“I didn't...I haven't cleaned,” he said.


You could say that again. Every surface in this tiny kitchen-slash-living-room-slash-someone's bedroom was covered in clothes, papers, dirty plates, art supplies. This is what Justin would live like if I up and croaked.


Where are all those roommates I keep hearing about?


Two of them work nights, two of them are out of town, one's in his room. He wobbled into the kitchen, muffling a seriously ugly cough into his elbow, and started working through the massive pile of dishes in the sink.


Have you been to the doctor? I asked.


He nodded. Just a virus. He thinks I'll fight it off fine.


Good. Leave the dishes, I'll do them later. Though he didn't have a fucking dishwasher. I am such a saint.


Anyway, he snorted. You're not doing my dishes.


You have a thermometer?


No.


That's okay, I'm good at this. I lay my palm over his forehead. Hundred two and a half. You shouldn't be up.


He sighed and turned to me, arms crossed.


I don't get it, I say. Aren't you the one who bursts in all Florence Nightingale if Justin has so much as a stomachache?


Yeah, because that's what Justin likes, he said. I am not Justin.


I know that, I said, but honestly, did I? Yeah, so maybe I'd expected to walk in here and for Evan to flop down on his bed and moan until I took care of everything. I mean sue me, they're young, they're sick, they clearly like each other, so yeah, I expect them to behave pretty similarly, and it's been a while since I played nurse to anyone other than Justin.


But, okay, hey, it's not like I couldn't relate to someone who was resistant to admit he needed some help. Ringing any bells? I came over to the sink and helped him wash dishes, biding my time until he admitted he needed to sit down, but I got distracted by his medalert bracelet sliding around his wrist. All it had was his name and that he was Deaf and HIV positive. That left a lot of extra space. Trust me, I know exactly how much those bracelets can fit from playing the exciting game of which of Justin's allergies earns a slot.


You don't have an emergency number on that? I said.


“I think people know 911.”


You don't have a friend? Roommate?


“My friends are Deaf, and my roommates are...not my friends.”


Parents?


“No,” he said. He took a shaky breath, coughed a little, and turned to me. “Look, Brian...”


I'm not leaving. You're sick and you're running yourself ragged.


“What, doing dishes? I stayed home from work. I'm resting.”


Look, I know this game, okay? I said. I got a ball removed and fried with radiation and I fought Justin tooth and nail when he tried to take care of me until—


Can I guess? he said.


I shrugged.


Until you were talked into believing that it doesn't make you less of a man to need help every once in a while, and even though it never felt natural, you accepted that you needed help and it would have been stupid to reject it based on your pride.


Well.


That's not the situation, he said, with a small shrug. I'm not turning down help that I need. I'm not in denial, and I'm not ashamed, and I'm not embarrassed. I just really prefer to deal with shit on my own.


You're doing dishes.


Well, yeah, I'm embarrassed about my shitty apartment. I'm not embarrassed about being sick. He walked back to the living room and sat down on the mattress on the floor. I'm not a nut you need to crack. I've been sick for a long time, I know what I like. And I like my space.


I raised an eyebrow. You think I can't not hover?


I've seen you with Justin.


Yeah, Justin likes hovering. Doesn't mean it's my only mode.


He leaned back against the couch. I really don't need anything.


Yeah, but if I go back home after being here for twenty minutes, Justin's going to march his ass uptown all unsatisfied and before we know it he'll have some colony of whatever this thing you're growing living in his chest.


He watched me skeptically. “You think you can sit here and watch TV with me and not bother me?”


You'll be amazed.


He shrugged and fished the remote out of a crack between his mattress—this was where he fucking slept, it hit me, this mattress on the floor of his living room—and turned on the TV. Let's see you try.


**


Yeeeah, so it was a little harder than I anticipated, because Christ, he was sick, the kind of sick that would freak out Justin if he were going through it. And I know that's not a fair statement, really, that you can't compare these things directly to each other, because Evan would obviously be freaked out by a seizure that Justin would barely notice nowadays, but Evan was coughing and shivering and making the kinds of noises when he breathes that mean Justin needs to be swept off to Urgent Care, and he just blew his nose and bundled up a blanket and looked unconcerned.


All of that paled in comparison to the strangeness of watching TV without subtitles.


Can you hear that? I asked him. I knew he had some hearing. More than Justin, anyway, who really has just about nothing left.


He shook his head.


You can turn on captions. I'm pretty used to them.


My roommates hate them, so I never think to do it, he said. And I can't read that fast anyway.


So you just...don't know what's going on.


He shrugged. Pretty used to it.


I don't get it, I said. You didn't grow up signing, right?


No. The speech therapist at school would use a few, but I wasn't fluent or anything.


So all you had was English. So why the fuck wasn't he more comfortable with it?


He shrugged. I didn't really have anything. I kind of just grew up without a language. I can speak English fine, and I can lipread it, but if you ask me to really think about it or about grammar rules or whatever...I don't understand any of that. I can't, like...sit down and read a book. I don't get all the descriptions or the subtext or whatever. I can tell you what the sentences mean, but not...just like the meanings of the words.


I thought about Justin's mystery novels, and...I don't know, between the sickness and the Deafness, maybe this was when it occurred to me how much of how I see the world, at this goddamn point in my life, is filtered through Justin and his experiences. Deaf is Justin, sick is Justin, born in the '80s is Justin...it doesn't matter that I'm close to half a dozen people who fit several of those criteria. They're all just variations on Justin.


It's an embarrassing thing to realize, but probably not as embarrassing as it should be.


So how'd you learn to sign? I said.


He coughed for a long time, then finally got up and got himself some water. Youtube videos, he said, wheezing as he sat back down. And then after I dropped out I hitchhiked out here and met up with some Deaf people I'd met online. I lived with them for a while but then we got evicted and we squatted in this fucking...I think maybe it used to be a clothing factory? Up in the Bronx. There were rats like this big. He showed me with his hands.


What about your family?


They found out I was gay, he said.


I propped my elbow on the couch and watched him.


So that's probably when I got it, I don't know, I said. I was already pretty sick by the time I found out, so I don't...I don't know when exactly it was. But when I was living in the factory there was a lot of...well.


Sex?


I was going to say heroin, but yeah, there was also sex.


I balked at him. Seriously?


You really think I'm this sweet kid who hasn't seen shit, he said. Why, because I'm smiley? I don't think that I can take care of myself because I have some bullshit agenda I'm trying to prove. I know that I can because I've done it for a fucking long time at this point. I know how to make myself comfortable. Nobody else does.


I think you're a sweet kid because Justin's a sweet kid, I said, because what the fuck, why not try for some honesty, if he was gonna talk about heroin I could talk about my damn boyfriend. Everything bad that's ever happened to Justin came at him out of nowhere, just fucking plowed him down like a truck. But he came from out of a fucking picture book.


He rested his head back against the couch. Not everyone is Justin.


I don't have a lot of experience with non-Justins, I admitted.


He watched me. You're doing fine.


You know you've got to get out of this fucking apartment, I told him. I pointed to a leak in the ceiling. It's going to make you sick. If it isn't already.


Did you not hear about the factory? I've survived worse.


How much have you saved up for a new place? You should meet with my money guy, see if—


Okay, remember when I said you were doing fine? Never mind.


God forbid you have a place you can bring your boyfriend back to where you don't sleep on the goddamn floor.


I don't need to be rescued, he said. I mean, do you not hear how my life is going here? I have health insurance, I have a boyfriend, I have a job, I have a place to live with a front door that locks. Do you think anyone was there to hold my hand when I was diagnosed? My friends who weren't fucking dead already weren't...no. I did it myself and I pulled myself out if it just like I taught myself sign language and got a voice. I do it myself. I didn't have anyone to visit me at the hospital, I didn't have anyone telling me not to just give up and stop going to doctors and stop trying to get better when nobody else in the whole world cared if I did. I did it myself. And now everything's getting better and I did it without handouts. I can do this myself.


You can't, actually, because you're not going to have a job for long because if you keep pissing off Alice and not following office protocol, you're going to get fired, and I can't save you from that.


So, what, I'm going to get fired for being sick?


You're going to get fired for just not coming in instead of calling in sick.


I don't know how all this shit works, he said, and I realized that there was a good chance his big old welcome packet went not understood.


That's my point, I said. Look, I'm not trying to take away credit for getting yourself where you have. It's impressive as shit. But this is a new environment full of all kinds of bullshit rules and tasks that people expect you to know. So you need a little fucking instructing right now.


He watched me.


You don't have to like it, I said. You don't have to have any big revelations about how being taken care of actually isn't that bad. I get it, you like to handle your own shit. But you need some help right now.


With work, he said, curling up on the mattress and pulling his sheet around him. Nothing else.


Okay.


I'm going to sleep now.


Good.


Are you staying?


Sure am.


He rolled his eyes and pulled the sheet up over his head.


**


So I stayed, while Evan coughed and coughed and shivered and soaked his sheets in sweat, and kept my distance and watched him and worried. I stayed while his roommates traipsed in and out like he wasn't even sick, like he wasn't even there, turning on the lights and talking loud enough for him to hear and stomping around by his fucking bed and acting like they couldn't see any either of us. And I was still there, dozing on the couch sometime in the middle of the night, when I woke up to his roommates' stupid loud voices over by the bathroom door. A bunch of them were crowded by the cracked bathroom door, bitching that they had to pee or calling in asking Evan if he was okay, like he could fucking hear them. ”Move,” I said, and they did, with a few “who the fuck is he”s for good measure, and I squeezed into the tiny bathroom where Evan was engaged in the most violent goddamn vomiting I've ever seen, and I live with Justin of migraine fame.


I wet a vaguely clean-looking washcloth and sat down behind him, sponging off his forehead and the back of his neck. Evan gasped and choked for a while and finally said, “I'm okay, I'm okay.”


I know you are.


He flushed the toilet and leaned back against the wall.


Come here. I tugged him gently into me.


“No, I don't—”


I know you don't like it. It's going to help. Come here. I tucked his hot forehead against my shoulder and blew cool air on the back of his neck. He let out a sob, and I said, “Shh, I know,” and put my arms around him.


In that moment he felt so goddamn much like Justin, and the fact that he didn't let go of the tension in the shoulders and cling to me, let himself be comforted...God, I know it's not about me, but it was fucking excruciating.


But he did stop fighting me, and that was good enough for tonight.


“Can I have some water?” he whispered after a while, and I kissed the top of his head.


**


I got back home around eight, when Evan's fever was a little lower and he was sleeping soundly on his mattress. I took a shower first thing and then crawled in bed next to a still-sleeping Justin, who stirred a little and was all over me immediately, sexy and stretchy, asking me questions about Evan and kissing me before I could answer them.


Can I just hold you for a minute? I asked.


Yeah, what's up with you?


I need you to stay safe, okay? I said, and I buried my face in his hair and I swear to God I thought I'd never let go of him.


**


Evan got well and came back to work. He came to my office and we went over the forms he'd signed without understanding, and he got along better with Alice. They kept bothering Emily, and she complained to me.


I'll talk to them about not bothering you, I said.


Thank you.


I paused. Fuck it. But Emily? He hasn't had the advantages you have. He didn't get your education. He hasn't had your opportunities.


She watched me.


It's just something to think about, I said, and she nodded a little.


**


I showed up on Evan's doorstep again a few weeks later. You know I'm fine, right? he said.


I got you a present. Don't be a little bitch about it. I handed him a medalert bracelet. The same as his old one, but with an had an additional line of text.


Evan Murdoch

Deaf, HIV

and my phone number.


He looked at it, then up at me, skepticism in his eyes.


Come on, is this really the worst thing in the world? I said. Someone calls me and tells me you fucking died, what do you care? You'll be dead.


You can't save me, he said.


I'm not trying to. Christ. It's a bracelet. And Justin says I overreact.


All right. He took off his old bracelet and put his new one on. But this doesn't mean I belong to anyone now, or something. I'm still a lone wolf.


Yeah, well, here's the thing about being a lone wolf, I said.


He raised an eyebrow.


I shrugged. It's better in a pack.

 

And he smiled.

End Notes:

 

Aaand that's officially all the stories I had planned, so feel free to drop me requests! Anything, anything at all, but you know what I like and what I don't by now, so... Your call if you want to play the odds.

Chapter 81 - Outrageous Fortune by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Justin's daughter has a medical emergency, and not everyone feels the same way about it.

Outrageous Fortune

LaVieEnRose



You could say I was being a little careful with Justin in the fall of 2013, which I only mention because we need to get it out of the way for this little tale to unravel. I'm not patting myself on the back for it, and it's not something I even noticed at the time, but as the weather was starting to cool down, so heated up that little kernel of Justin-panic I normally manage to keep under some semblance of control (let me live in my delusion, please).


Some of the reasons for this were nothing new. This is your partner on ragweed, for one, so he was pathetic to begin with, and he'd been working nonstop all summer, doing magazine interviews and commissions and flying around the country and generally taking the fucking world by storm, but that meant spending more time away from me than he had since LA, and let's not pretend it's news that I get a little twitchy when we're separated. And...yeah, there was also something else, this nagging thought I hadn't really unpacked that started when Evan got sick and it just a lingered, even though he was doing better. I don't want to act like this was some dramatic shift in the dynamics between the two of us, or even something really on my mind, it was just...there, in the background, barely noticed, adding a touch of color to everything.


Kinnetik was in the middle of acquiring this tiny ad firm with disproportionately talented personnel, so we were figuring out who was getting folded in and who we were letting go. I was pulling long days at the office, going in early and staying late, so yet again, barely seeing Justin. I woke up one morning and he was already out of bed, so, you know, fuck whatever time together we did get, I guess. He was sitting with his laptop at the kitchen table. He got up and poured me a cup of coffee when he felt my footsteps, and I peeked at his computer screen.


It's winter already? I said.


Justin furrowed his brow, lifting up on his toes to kiss me. It's October.


I tapped his screen and sipped my coffee—he puts this French vanilla shit in it, and as much as I sneer at it it's fucking good. Reading about plane crashes. That's winter. Justin's internet searches are one of the most reliable ways to track his mood; when he's slipping, it's all famines and missing children. And he has a hard time in winters, especially since he lost his hearing. I think it's the shorter days. He's always liked light—he's a fucking artist, and if you've seen him come alive under the Babylon spotlights like I have you'll understand—but it means more to him now that he can't hear. Light's his everything, so I think the seasonal depression hits him extra hard. Or maybe I'm full of shit, whatever, but regardless his mood's been dipping every winter for years now.


Justin chewed his thumbnail.


Did you sleep? I asked him. He hadn't had another round of going three days without sleep, thank whatever, but ever since that seizure that in June he'd been struggling with insomnia off and on. Just another problem to add to the pile. We were thinking about changing his meds, but that was just such a fucking awful undertaking, especially if he was already feeling shaky with mental health stuff. We would end up doing it, of course, a few months later, when his white blood cell count and his platelets took a fun nosedive, but hey, all in good time. Merry Christmas!


But for now he nodded. “Some.”


Well, small favors. I sipped my coffee and studied him. Therapy today?


“Yeah.”


Maybe mention this.


He sighed. “Yeah.”


I raked my knuckles over his cheek and kissed him. “Hey,” I said.


“Hey.”


Shower.


He nodded, stole a sip of my coffee, and let me pull him into the bathroom. I picked him up and fucked him with his legs around my waist, and he did a good job of convincing me I didn't need to be worried about him, I'll tell you that much. I was still panting when we got out of the shower, and I snagged him from behind and kissed his ear while he was shaving. What are you doing today? I signed in the mirror. He was back to having a semi-regular schedule, now that Emily was back at work and he watched the baby two days a week, but this wasn't one of those days.


He dragged the razor down his face. “Studio in the morning, therapy in the afternoon. Lunch with Daph.”


Good.


He gave me a look. “You don't have to worry about me. I'm okay.”


I'm just happy I can blame Daphne if I come home to you all depressed. She saw you last, you're her problem now.


He rinsed his face. “You need to get me on a babysitting schedule like Jane.”


Yeah, seems so.


He turned around and pouted at me. I kissed his nose.


I know I'm an annoying micromanager who treats you like a child, I said. Does knowing it absolve me?


No.


Then I'm out of ideas.


It's fine, he said, with a deep, put-upon sigh. Artforum said I'm one of the most exciting new voices of the New York intentism movement.


I remember.


Without you to knock me down a peg I'd probably let it go to my head.


Start bragging about it all the time. Force it into everyday conversation.


Exactly.


Well, we couldn't have that, I said, and maybe you'd think all of this would make me coddle him a little less for the next, I don't know, five minutes, but just then a text came in and I read it and looked at Justin and decided, nope, let's coddle.


“What's up?” Justin said.


My one o'clock meeting is now a nine o'clock, I said. I lie pretty well for someone who rarely does it.


Fuck, can you make it?


I need to hurry.


I'll help.


I let him do up my tie while I slipped into my shoes, feeling guilty as shit the whole time, and he kissed me while he handed me my briefcase. Have a good day, I told him.


He cocked his head to the side. Yeah, you too. Are you okay?


I'm great. I kissed him. Everything's fine.


**


I could hear Jane screaming before the door was even open. Emily looked harried as shit, her hair halfway done, her blouse on but still wearing sweatpants.


Well, I just lied to my boyfriend, I announced.


I never told you to lie. I'm innocent. She waved me in and started signing too fast for me to follow.


Slow down, I said.


Gwen was already gone when I realized the baby was sick, she's in surgery, I can't bother her. She's never been sick before. I don't know what's wrong.


Well, I can tell you one thing, she didn't get Justin's shitty lungs. I followed Emily to Jane's bassinet, where she was red-faced and screaming in a blue nightgown. She was getting bigger fast, and she was sitting up on her own and signing babytalk nonsense to herself most of the time. Generally a really happy baby, but not at the moment. Hey, monster, I said, and I picked her up and held her cheek against mine. Warm and clammy, but not that hot. What's her temperature?


A little over a hundred and two.


I kissed Janie's forehead and rocked her back and forth. That's okay in a six-month old.


She's barely six months.


Babies get sick, I said. She's okay. Gus used to run fevers all the time, he's healthy as a horse now. Did she nurse this morning?


Emily nodded a little, still bouncing anxiously. Janie started to quiet down a little in my arms.


All right, well the gospel of one Debbie Novotny says if they're eating and they're breathing, you don't worry too much with a baby. And as far as I know she hasn't killed any. I handed her back to Emily. Call Gwen if the fever doesn't go down or she starts throwing up. God knows she has more medical knowledge than I do.


That's cats.


She's not that different from a cat. I signed cat cat cat at Janie and grinned when she took a swipe at her face to imitate me. She's talking, I said to Emily. She'll live. I rubbed Jane's back. I'll tell Cynthia you're not coming in.


Thank you.


I kissed Janie's cheek, then Emily's. She's fine, Mom, I said.


Emily nodded.


**


You could spend a long time unpacking why I didn't tell Justin. I was, as we've established, already being a little gentle with him, and I knew that if I told him he'd rush right out to Queens and get himself a nice case of whatever Jane had, and at this point I knew I'd be in hot water for not telling him right away so clearly my only choice was to hide from him for the rest of our lives. And as to why I didn't tell him immediately, please review reasons A and B. Justin catastrophizes, did before he even had a run-in with an aluminum bat, and in the long run he's usually glad that I triaged a situation before I brought him into it. Usually. Okay, a lot more glad than I am when he tries to do the same to me, anyway.


It's not like I didn't have enough to keep me busy that day. Emily does so much that I forget that one of her most important duties is keeping people and their bullshit concerns they think need to be reported to upper management the fuck out of my office. Without her, it was amazing how many people came traipsing in here to tell me they had a deadline problem or a HR concern or a or a hangnail.


Evan came in twenty minutes before the big meeting that had not actually been moved from one PM to nine AM. “Hey,” he said. “I have the final boards for Trava. They wanted me to bring it up because you are scaring everyone. What do you think they think our relationship is?”


They just know I like Deaf people. Or, more accurately, hate hearing people. Also I'm not scary. Also, bolt the fucking doors shut before somebody else comes in here.


He laughed and held the boards up.


Yes. Beautiful. Thank you.


Sure. So what's with the easy walk into your office? Normally I have to get past your dragon.


My dragon is home today. Jane's sick. And Justin does not know, so—


Evan mimed handcuffing his wrists—think zipping lips. Is she okay?


Yeah, she's fine, she's got a fever. I just want to tell Justin in person in case he gets it in his head to march out and see her. I can hold him back, he's pretty small. Are you sitting in on this meeting?


Uh, yeah, if I'm invited.


Stephanie's here anyway to interpret for Emily, so otherwise she's just signing at a bunch of hearing people.


You weren't kidding about hating hearing people.


I don't kid. Stay in here until the meeting so no one else can bother me.


Okay. Want to help me choose an apartment?


Jesus, yes, I said, and he gave me his phone and we spent a while going through pictures of places that looked slightly less likely to give him tetanus than his current digs. Baby steps.


We strolled into the conference room at one, and I shook hands with the Trava Tea people. It was our first potential new client acquisition since the merger so it was important meeting; we were showing off to a whole new group of people and presenting a different team than we had before. None of this fucking matters, just take my word for it that it was a big meeting. I was up presenting with Isabel and Max, the head of the firm we'd acquired, when my phone started vibrating on the table. I nodded for Isabel's assistant to check it for me—having an epileptic partner means you don't ignore calls—and he glanced at the screen and signed Emily's name to me, and something in my chest went cold.


She knew when this meeting was. She wouldn't just call for nothing.


I apologized quietly and took my phone off the table and stepped outside the conference room. “Come on come on come on,” I whispered, waiting for the call to connect, and I had to close my eyes for a second when I immediately recognized a hospital hallway behind Emily's tear-streaked face. She didn't have the baby.


What happened? I said. Where is she?


They took her away, there's no interpreter, I don't know what's going on. She started crying again. She so rarely cries.


Emily. What the fuck happened?


She had a seizure, I didn't know what to do...I knew what to do during it, I didn't know what to do after, I brought her here and I typed it out on my phone and they just took her and someone said something about getting a fucking social worker and...I don't know where she is.


Okay, so a couple things here. I did already know that, as fucking scary as I'm sure it is to see a six-month-old have a seizure, febrile seizures aren't uncommon—J.R. had one when she was about this age, never had another—in babies and that Jane was almost definitely fine. And I knew that getting a social worker to talk to a panicky mother did not mean that anyone was trying to take Jane away from her parents. And I knew that this meeting I'd just walked out of was really fucking goddamn important.


But Emily was crying and Jane had had a fucking seizure, and I stood there signing some kind of nonsense trying to calm Emily down wondering what the fuck I was going to do. I could send Stephanie down there to interpret, but she hates medical work, and Emily doesn't even fucking like interpreters, but goddamn I could not skip out on this meeting, and I was working through all of this when the doors to the conference room opened and Evan came out.


He said, “Brian, I'll go.”


No, I—


—need to finish this meeting. I'm oral, I can interpret.


You shouldn't be hanging around hospitals.


My T-cells are great, I can show you my fucking blood work. I love Jane, I want to go. You can meet us there as soon as the meeting's finished. Be my boss and tell me to go.


I hesitated for another sentence and then handed him my phone, and he gave me his so at least I'd have something as he signed rapidly at the screen on his way out of the building.


I watched him go, took a deep breath, and waltzed back into the conference room with a smile on my face.


**


I caught up with them an hour later in the emergency room of a tiny Queens hospital. I found Gwen first and she hugged me for a long time. Evan found us a minute later, Janie in his arms, and I just about came out of my fucking skin waiting for him to get over with her. Hey, little one, hey, baby, I said. She stretched out an arm to me and I lifted her up. She felt a little cooler than she had this morning, and her eyes looked less glassy. Okay, there she is. I kissed her forehead. Good baby. She tucked her face into my neck and I palmed the back of her head. “Where's Emily?” I asked Evan, since my hands were full.


Calling her mom. They said we can go soon, they're just getting the discharge papers.


You see that? I said to Janie. You get to go home. I took her hand and made her sign it. Home. I looked around. Where’s Justin?


Evan and Gwen just stood there, looking guilty as fuck.


I set my jaw. Nobody called Justin?


Evan said, You said not to tell him!


That was before she had a seizure! It is hard to sign with your arms full of sick baby.


Emily came back, still shaky but a lot better than she’d looked on the phone. Gwen kissed her, and Evan put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her. Emily leaned her head against Evan and took Jane’s hand when I lowered her enough for her to reach. How‘s my girl? I’m so sorry, Jane.


She’s great, I said. Look how comfortable she is here. She’s gonna be a heart surgeon. I kissed her cheek and handed her to Emily, who tipped Jane against her shoulder and bounced her gently.


They said it's really common and she's okay, Emily said. She, unsurprisingly, had no problem balancing signing and baby. They said a lot of little kids have febrile seizures and it doesn't make it more likely they're going to have epilepsy. She winced a little and said, Not that that would be the worst thing, I just—


It's okay, I said. He's not here. It's fine. I put my hand on Jane's back. Speaking of...who's going to tell him?


They all looked at me except Janie, who stuck her thumb in her mouth and snuggled into Emily.


I said, Yeah, those are the faces I was expecting.


Emily said, He's going to be so upset and I just...I'm so tired.


Jesus, marry a guy once and you become all fucking responsible for his emotional well-being...


Emily rested her cheek against the top of Jane's head. Yeah, it's very hard to be you.


**


So I picked up Italian from this place Justin likes that's gonna make us both too fat to move one of these days and set the table when he texted saying he was on his way home from the studio. Which meant, of course, that he was all goddamn suspicious the second he got home, the psychic little shit. “Why are we eating at the table?” he said, which, I guess, fair enough. Usually the table's reserved for company or serious shit, and other times we like the cushions at the coffee table. Easier transition to getting him on his back after.


The pasta still needed a few more minutes to heat up, so okay, I guess we were doing this now. I came over while he dropped his messenger bag on the floor and put my hands o his shoulders for a second before I started signing. Jane is home now and she's fine, but she had to go to the ER today because she had a febrile seizure.


The small noise Justin made at seizure, God, it goes straight to your throat.


They're really common, they don't mean anything, I said. J.R. had one, you remember?


He shook his head.


Yeah, you were living in L.A. then, we might not even have told you because it wasn't a big deal. Emily knew exactly what to do. Got her right on her side, took her straight to the hospital. She knows seizures. Emily had done two tonic-clonic seizures with Justin at this point, and she was my favorite person to have with him besides Daphne. She called me one time afterwards and said Your husband had a fucking seizure again, while she was opening my fridge and getting a bottle of juice out. Iconic.


Can I go over? Justin said.


No, not until she hasn't had a fever for twenty-four hours. But Emily said you can Facetime with her tonight.


Have you seen her?


Yeah, I went and saw her at the hospital. She's okay.


How long after?


Did I see her? I said. About an hour, maybe two.


How did she seem, was she upset? Did she seem like she was in pain, or...


Okay, so. I'm going to try to keep my fucking dignity about this, but...look, this is the fucking thing about Justin, this is what you have to understand. There were three adults in that ER who love the shit out of that baby, but all of us were comforted by the fact that Jane was going to be fine. And then in fucking comes Justin, under a minute into the situation, and he's asking how she was feeling.


I don't know how the world would work without people like him.


I put my hand on the back of his neck to pull him into me and kissed his forehead. She seemed like herself, I said. She was alert. She recognized me. Not postictal. You know how kids are. They bounce back.


Justin took a shaky breath and nodded.


Are you okay? I asked.


Yeah. I just...God. Of all the fucking things to happen to her. I fucking hate seizures.


I know. You want to sit?


He shook his head, but he did lean against the wall by the bookshelf. She's so fucking little. They feel so bad, I just...God. If I did this to her...


You didn't.


But if I did--


Then you made a kid whose parents know how to deal with seizures, I said. Emily was on top of this, and Gwen would have been, and you would have been too. Fuck, even me or Evan or Derek or Daphne...you've made her an army. You did that. This could have been so much worse. Something kind of clicked together in my head, and I must have made a face or something because Justin noticed.


What?


No, it's nothing, it's like...barely related.


He tugged on my sleeve. Tell me.


It's not even about Jane, it's about you. Fucking everything comes back to him, sooner or later, and there's really no need for us to analyze that after this long, we're not going to find any new surprises. I've been all fucking torn up over you since Evan got sick and I just figured it out.


Yeah, I noticed you'd been weird.


Of course he did. What if you hadn't decided to learn to sign? I said. A lot of people don't. Or what if you had, but I hadn't, and I'd just made you read my lips forever?


Justin watched me, and I sat down on the back of the couch.


All this shit that's happened to you is rough, but it could have been so much fucking worse, I said. We always had health insurance. We always had people there to pick up the slack when I fucked up. And I just...God, all this shit has happened and we're okay. You're okay. I shrugged. I feel lucky. I don't feel lucky all that often.


Justin nodded a little.


Jane's lucky too, I said.


He kept nodding, but after a minute he said, really softly, “Is it okay if I don't feel lucky right this minute?”


Oof.


Yeah. I got up and came over to him. Yeah, that's okay. Come here.

 

The timer went off on the oven, but I stayed where I was, my chin on top of his head, and held him for a long time.

End Notes:

 

Next four stories are planned, score.

Chapter 82 - Saturday Morning by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Molly needs a brother, and Brian fills in for Justin.

Saturday Morning

LaVieEnRose



The third Friday night of October, I was in bed reading a review of Justin's latest show—okay, it barely mentioned him, but there fifty fucking artists there and he was one of them it, damn it—in Art in America (yeah, that's right. Art in America) when the guy himself leaned against the doorway between the bathroom and the bedroom and sneezed five times in a row.


I lowered the magazine and raised an eyebrow.


I have been doing that all fucking day, he said, pawing at his nose. I'm going to call the super tomorrow about getting our ducts cleaned. I don't think he did it this year.


He did it in September.


Justin looked skeptical.


Yes, you were here painting and you kept getting mad at him for walking on your drop cloth. You were doing that yellow painting with the triangles.


Oh, you hated that one.


Yes, I'm happy it sold so I never have to look at it again.


I hope it gets famous, Justin said. I hope it's on my Wikipedia page so you have to see it everyday when you sadness-Google me after I die.


Yeah, Kandinsky, speaking of? That's not allergies. You're getting sick.


He did some sort of stuffy-nose, sore-throat version of a scoff.


Keep up the skepticism as long as you can. It'll be nice entertainment for you when you're feeling like shit tomorrow.


It's just sneezing. It's allergies.


Five times.


Well, my allergies take sneezing very seriously. He covered his face with his arms and sneezed hard. Tada, he fingerspelled, as he wandered back into the bathroom.


Sure, in multiples of three.


He raised an eyebrow while he put lotion on his neck. “What the fuck are you talking about?”


I sighed and put the magazine down. You sneeze in multiples of three for your allergies. Anything else means you're getting sick. You've seriously never noticed this?


He stared at me. “You're a freak.”


At least I don't have a cold. Unlike some people.


You are so obsessed with me, he said. It's really embarrassing for you.


I'm not obsessed with you. You just live here and, I don't know if you know this, but you're not exactly quiet.


I'm quiet as a mouse, he said, knocking a whole load of shit off the bathroom counter.


Jesus Christ. Come to bed, you sick piece of shit.


I can't be getting sick, Justin said. He stripped bare and crawled up the bed, dropping kisses on his way up my neck. I titled my head back. I have things to do, he said.


Oh yeah?


He nodded and ran a hand down my chest. Fuck all the dust out of me.


It's not dust.


Fuck me anyway.


I kissed him hard. Okay.


**


Guess who was sick as shit the next morning? Justin drank tea and winced when he swallowed and coughed into his elbow. He ran a low fever that made his hand act up, and he seemed unreasonably nervous about the whole thing, pacing back and forth and chewing on his thumbnail.


I sat on the couch answering a couple work emails. It's a cold, Sunshine, relax. Come sit.


“I'm supposed to do something today.”


Your next show's not for two weeks. You've got time.


“No, I...”


I looked up at him.


He blew out a mouthful of air and clapped his hands together, palm against claw. “Okay! So you're not going to get mad at me for not telling you this, because this was me respecting somebody else's privacy, not being sneaky. Right? Right. Great.”


Ha, yeah, no promises there. Spit it out.


He whined and shifted his weight between feet and otherwise tried my patience for thirty seconds before he finally said, I'm supposed to take Molly to the doctor today.


I stood up. Because you know how I love it when you keep stuff from me about Molly. Jesus Christ.


It's not like that.


What's wrong with Molly?


Nothing, she's fine.


So she needs you to take you to the doctor secretly why?


She's getting...a procedure, Justin said, and he looked at me meaningfully, chewing on the inside of his cheek.


Oh. Oh. Okay.


Yeah. She doesn't want to be alone. Can you take her?


Yeah, what time?


Eleven.


I checked my watch and nodded. How's she feeling, is she nervous?


No, I don't think so. But you know her. I don't think she'd tell me if she was.


Yeah, true.


Are you mad at me?


I sighed. No, you were right. It's her business.


He sat down at the counter, wheezing a little. “Okay. Good. That one was kind of a nail-biter in the 'is this lying to Brian' category.”


Sunshine's final exam.


“Yeah.”


Try to eat something while I'm gone. I'll be back in...how long does this take?


He shrugged.


All right. I'll be back.


**


Molly answered the door looking the same as always, wearing her ratty pink North Face jacket and earmuffs. Justin, you've grown.


He's sick.


Jesus, why bother asking him to do anything.


“Hey,” I said, and okay, maybe I was a bit snappy, but I hate that with a fucking passion. You include Justin in your plans, you give him responsibilities, and you have a backup plan if he needs to cancel and you tell him it's no big deal. This is 101 shit.


“Oh, don't tell me how to talk about Justin, I've been around a fuck of a lot longer than you have.” There was no fire behind it, though. “So he told you?”


“He did.”


“I'm not going to get a lecture, am I?”


“Who the fuck do you think I am?”


“A Catholic.”


“Ah, yes, and a devout one. Come on, I brought the car.”


“We're driving?”


I shrugged. I'd thought she might like the privacy, and I didn't know how she was going to feel after it was over. “We used to go for drives,” I said. The famed St. James Academy was just a hop skip from Liberty Avenue—they're fucking trying to turn these kids gay, I swear—and if she was there late for play rehearsal or lacrosse practice I used to pick her up after work, and we'd drive around and get ice cream and make fun of whatever annoying shit Justin had been doing lately. She was the only one who would let me bitch about him without taking it all seriously, and I was the only one who didn't nag her about cursing every second fucking word.“We don't do that anymore.”


“Maybe that's when I fell off the path of righteousness. Not enough drives.”


“Nah,” I said. “Like you said, you've been around a fuck of a lot longer than I have.”


She shoved me and snickered and we headed out to the car.


**


Molly gave me directions to Eastside Gynecology and messed with the stereo as we drove. It was only a handful of blocks, but Manhattan traffic meant there was plenty of time for Molly to switch between radio stations eighty-two times.


“You sure you didn't get Justin's disease?” I said. “Nobody who can hear should have this kind of taste in music.”


“It's not my fault I can't even tell what anything is with the bass up this high.”


“He likes it.”


“You are such a sucker.”


“Yeah, well,” I said, because what argument do I have left for that at this point.


She stretched and put her feet up on the dashboard. “He okay?”


“Yeah, he's fine. He just has a cold.”


“Been getting a lot of colds.”


“His immune system sucks shit. And he's been working hard, traveling a lot.”


“Weather's getting cold.”


“Yeah.”


She sighed and blew on her hands. “I hate the winter.”


“Eh, you get a break from school, at least.”


“Not for ages.”


“This is your senior year, right?”


“Sure is.”


“Christ. Time flies.” I stopped behind a cab driver screaming at the cab next to him. “So what's the plan when you're done, you gonna come work for me? I seem to be the Kinney home for wayward youth.”


“Emily is a mother with Balenciaga heels. She is not wayward.”


“All queers are wayward.”


“You have new pictures of Janie?”


I handed her my phone, and she opened up my pictures and groaned. “I don't know if I'm hoping that's my brother's dick or hoping it isn't.”


I glanced at the screen. “That's him.”


“Ugh. Congrats, Justin.”


“Congrats, me.”


She scrolled through and found the ones of Jane, fully recovered from her ER adventure. “Ohhh, come on. Look at that face.”


“Yeah, she's a looker.”


“Is she coming to brunch tomorrow?” Justin and I typically had brunch with Molly every Sunday, though I imagined he'd be sitting this one out.


“Fuck if I know, I don't do her schedule. I have no responsibilities where that kid is concerned. I'ts amazing. Ask Justin.” I looked at her. “You gonna be feeling up for it?”


“Yeah, they said I'd feel fine by the end of today.” She played with the zipper on her hoodie. “You ever done this before? Brought someone?”


“I don't have a lot of straight friends.”


“I don't know. Maybe your sister.”


“When my sister got pregnant she got married. In the grand tradition of Joan Kinney.”


Molly shook her head and looked out the window. “I can't imagine getting married.”


“Justin wasn't that much older than you,” I said, just to bait her.


“That doesn't count. Neither of you even wanted to get married.”


“Well.” Can't argue with that. “Most straight people do. Daphne used to say she'd never get married, now I'm her fiance's fucking best man.”


“Yeah, I'm a bridesmaid.”


Justin too.


She tightened her bootlace. “How do you know you want to spend the rest of your life with someone?”


“Oh, Jesus. Did you think when I said we should take more drives I meant we should have more fucking heart-to-hearts? Because I did not. I meant we should make fun of your brother more.”


“I just don't feel like I'm ever going to feel that sure about someone,” she said. “By the time he was my age, you and him were all fucking settled. I feel like I'm just...waiting for my life to actually start. He was a fucking adult.”


“He wasn't supposed to be. You're not supposed to grow up that fast. That...wasn't supposed to happen.”


She looked skepitcal.


“I'm serious,” I said. “You're what, you're about to turn twenty-two?”


“Yeah.”


“All right, when I was twenty-two, I was fucking my way through Carnegie Mellon, spending money I definitely did not have on booze and shitty weekend trips with Michael and eating unseasoned ramen because I couldn't afford the kind that comes in the cups, living in this absolute shithole about half the size of your dorm room...and that was everybody. I threw away my bills because they scared the shit out of me and somehow also didn't fucking mean anything. That's twenty-two. It's not living the last fucking year of your life before you find out you're losing your hearing and wondering how the fuck you're going to afford your medications and realizing your best choice is to marry the guy you fell into bed with six years ago and never climbed out. That's not...we're not gonna strive to be like Justin, here.”


“Come on,” she said. “What does it feel like? The never climbing out part.”


I groaned as I took the car around a turn. “It's not like...God. I can't believe I'm doing this. Okay. It's not about knowing you want to spend the rest of your life with someone. It's just waking up and going...I want to spend today with him. And then you wake up the next day and you want to fucking spend that day with him too. And maybe you don't want him in your fucking face every minute but you always want...you want to know where he is. You want to know how he's doing. And you keep waking up and you keep wanting that every day and...I mean, enough days of that, your lives get all fucking tangled together and you're driving his sister to the clinic.”


“But you're going to be with him forever, right?”


I shrugged. “Sure.”


“So there must have been some point where that started. Where you looked at him and you thought, this is going to last. That's the part I can't wrap my head around.”


“Well yeah,” I said. “But that had nothing to do with getting married. Maybe for straight people.”


“No, I know,” she said. “So when was it?”


“When the fucker took a bat to the head and still wouldn't stop showing up at my door,” I said. “Figured if that didn't get rid of him, nothing was going to.”


She watched me. “You've known that long?”


“Yeah.”


“Well, that's oddly romantic.”


“Yeah, that's my speciality.”


She said, “Jesus, how long ago even was that now?”


“I don't know. A million years.” I shrugged as I pulled us into a parking space at a lot by the clinic. “Look, Molly, okay, you want me to level with you?”


“Yes please.”


“At the end of the day...all that forever shit, all this fucking commitment, it's just finding someone who you fucking like. The rest of it's just a lot of bullshit. People fucking talk themselves in circles about it and make it sound like the most fucking horrifying goddamn thing you can imagine and they leave out the fact that what you're really doing is negotiating waking up next to your favorite person. It's not that fucking complex.”


“So love makes you dumb.”


“Well, a lot of people could stand to be a little dumber. God knows Taylors could.”


She chewed on her cheek, like Justin does. “What if I don't find that person?”


“Eh, then you hang out with us forever. It could be worse. You ready to go?”


She looked up at the clinic. “Yeah, let's be a grown-up.”


**


Between the ER visit for Jane and now this, I was really expanding my resume for off-brand hospital visits. If I kept this up I was going to lose my reputation as an expert in the needs of exactly one person and one person only. Molly looks a lot like Justin when she's nervous, has a lot of the same mannerisms, so she was ticking some of my boxes, so to speak, while we were sitting in the waiting room listening for her name.


I said, “Mol?”


“Yeah.”


“This was your choice, right? No one's forcing you into this?”


She gave me a look.


“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But I have to check.”


“I'm just scared it's gonna hurt,” she said, and just like that she wasn't really like Justin at all, because Justin...well, Justin and pain have reached a sort of peace treaty at this point. I'm pretty sure you could walk up to him and stab him and he'd figure out a way to incorporate it into his day.


“They'll give you something, right?”


“Yeah, they said they would.”


“Am I going to come in with you, or...”


She shook her head. “That's a little much.”


“Yeah, fair.”


“I'll be fine. It only takes like ten minutes after they start.”


They called her pretty soon after that, and I stayed out in the waiting room with a bunch of women and felt awkward as shit and texted Justin to see how he was holding up. He said he was mostly okay but that he couldn't stay awake, which could obviously have just been the cold or the fever but can be an epilepsy thing. I drummed my fingers on my thigh and tried to entertain myself guessing what all the people in here were in for, but that quickly got depressing as shit, so I ended up flipping through some magazine and reading about menopause symptoms. I'd determined pretty much definitively that Justin wasn't in menopause by the time Molly came back out to the waiting room. She looked the same as before. Maybe a little tired. I had a weird flashback to coming out of radiation to Justin waiting for me, scanning me up and down like he expected to be able to see the cancer coming out through my pores. I always felt fine immediately after. It didn't hit until later.


“Have you eaten?” I asked her.


“Yeah, I had oatmeal this morning.”


“Better than ramen, I guess.”


She smiled a little.


“Come back to the apartment,” I said. “Justin's just sleeping, it's quiet.”


“Yeah, okay.”


We walked out to the car and Molly put her feet back on the dashboard and fucked with the radio some more. I rolled my eyes and smacked her hand away.


“You should be nice to me,” she said.


“If I were nice to Justin after every doctor's appointment I'd never get anything done.”


“You really just see me as Justin with a lot of hair, huh?”


“I have a Taylor threshold.”


“I don't know what that means.”


“Yeah, none of us do.”


Molly leaned against the window on the way home, and I thought she was asleep until I saw her tighten her arm around her stomach and wince. I watched her sideways.


“You do look a lot like him,” I said quietly.


“Yeah, I know.”


“Almost there.”


She nodded.


I brought the car back to the lot and hailed a cab to take us the three blocks back to the apartment, even though she said she didn't need it. We went up to the apartment, and I sat her on the couch and went to set up the pull-out in the office. I checked on Justin on the way, who was back in bed sleeping soundly. Good.


I nudged Molly into the office and gave her Justin's heating pad and a couple of Advil. “You want to talk or anything?” I said to her.


“I think I've put you through enough for one day.”


“Nah, I'm on a roll now.”


She smiled, her eyes already drooping. “I just want to sleep.”


“Good. I wasn't really on a roll.”


She stretched. “Sure you were.”


I kissed her forehead and wrapped the heating pad around her waist. “Yell if you need me.”


“Okay.”


I went back to the living room to get some work down but saw Justin sit up in bed out of the corner of my eye. Well hey, I said.


“How is she?” he croaked. His hand was cramped up and useless in his lap.


She's good. She's sleeping in the office. I nodded at his hand. You good?


“Yeah,” he said, and he sneezed into his elbow and coughed for a while.


No, you're hurting. Hang on. I changed my clothes and crawled into bed with him. His right arm was knotted up to the elbow. Yeah, look at this, I said.


“It's okay.” He swallowed painfully. “She's all right? Do you think she's sad or anything?”


I shook my head and massaged around his wrist. He made a small noise of pain and tangled up our legs, resting his head on my chest.


“You're a good brother,” he said hoarsely.

 

Yeah, well. I gave him a slow kiss. I like my family.

End Notes:

 

the next one's going to be in someone's POV besides Brian's, for the first time in...let's not check how long.

Chapter 83 - Bring Your Daughter to Work Day by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

There's a baby in the office, and Cynthia is not amused.

Bring Your Daughter to Work Day

LaVieEnRose



I'd sent Emily three texts by the time she came rushing in through Kinnetik's front doors, baby in one hand and heels in the other. She dropped the heels on the floor and stepped into them. I know, I know, I'm sorry. Can you take her for just—


No, this is an eight hundred dollar dress. I've seen what my sisters' babies do to their clothes. Where have you been? Brown's going to be here in twenty minutes.


I know, I'm sorry. Justin cancelled on me and I couldn't get a sitter.


I stared at her. You mean, until you found someone who's going to come here and collect the baby in the next nineteen minutes.


Emily winced. Yeah, about that.


Emily! We have three client meetings today, you have I don't even know how many with Brian—


I'm going to make it work.


With a baby in the office.


She's great. Great baby. No trouble.


Yeah, well, the no trouble baby was currently getting spit all over Emily's hair. See why I don't hold them?


Call down to art department and make sure they're ready, I said. The conference room needs to be set up ASAP.


On it. You got it. It's happening.


I gave her a look that I'm sure conveyed how very much I doubted it was happening and went to check the progress of the conference room and impulse-stopped in Brian's office on the way back. “Your husband better be dying,” I said.


He looked up from his computer. “Good morning. To what do we owe the good wishes?”


“Justin cancelled on Emily?”


“Uh, yeah, he woke up with a cold.” He picked up a pen and scribbled a note. “Why do you give a shit?”


“Because there is a baby out in our reception area right now.”


He looked up. “There's a baby here?”


“That's what I'm saying.”


Brian stood up, doing the worst job of disguising a smile that anyone's ever done. “Well, let me go check out this situation.”


“Oh my God.”


He walked backwards, giving me a look like he was disappointed in me. “Cynthia, we can't just have babies in the office unassessed,” he said. He opened the office door and headed to the reception area. “As the senior partner at this firm, it's my responsibility to make sure everything's running smoothly.”


“Jesus Christ.”


I followed him out to Emily's desk, where she was standing and signing to someone on the phone while she bounced Jane on her hip, who was squawking like some sort of small bird. She stretched her arms out to Brian, and he picked her up and said, Hi, hi there. How are you?


I said, What happened to making sure things ran smoothly?


Well, I didn't know it was this baby.


You absolutely did.


Hi Jane. He kissed her cheek twice, and she put her hand on Brian's face. Okay, so not only was Emily going to be distracted, but Brian was going to be useless the rest of the fucking day. He said, Come on, Jane, I'll teach you how to write a memo. He waved for Emily's attention. I'm taking her, okay?


Yeah, please, all yours.


I don't think so, I said.


Brian waved his hand dismissively at me as he walked away with the baby.


“We have Brown in...godddddamn it.” I turned to Emily. Progress?


Someone from art is coming up, and Leah's setting up the conference room now. You know, maybe this place should get a daycare. I'm not the only one with a kid.


Great idea. Think we can get it set up in the next ten minutes?


It'll be fine, Emily said. See, I don't even have her anymore.


Right, because Brian does.


Oh. Right. I should get her back before he has that meeting.


You also have that meeting, I...Jesus, I said as she walked away from me. I am talking to no one.


I followed Emily to Brian's office because what the fuck else was I going to do. Brian was, it seemed, getting Jane's opinion on an invoice. Are we paying him too much? he asked her. That seems like a lot of money to me. What do you think we should pay him?


Jane pointed to the invoice.


No, that's a bank account number, that would be much too much. You're not a good manager.


“Brian,” I said.


Don't speak in front of the Deaf baby!


I took a deep breath. Give her to Emily.


Emily needs to be in the Brown meeting.


You need to be in the Brown meeting.


Oh. True. He studied the baby. Maybe...


No, I said.


Emily said, I can sit the meeting out. It's my fault she's here.


Technically it's Justin's fault, Brian said, shifting Jane to his other hip.


There was a knock on the door and Evan stuck his head in. “Mr. Kinney, I have—” He looked up from his boards. Oh my goodness, look who's here! He came over and took the baby from Brian. Hi there, Miss Jane, are you here for a consult? You need an ad campaign? I can put something together. He kissed her and said, Is Justin here?


I said, We really need to—


Brian ignored me. He has a cold, he said to Evan. So Emily's short a babysitter.


He's been getting a lot of colds, Evan said, fixing one of the snaps on Jane's onesie.


A few.


No, he just got over that one two weeks ago, and there was one before that.


Brian just said, “Hmm,” and took the baby back.


No, give her to Evan, I said. He can watch her through the meeting.


Yeah, it's no problem, he said. I can take her downstairs, teach her how to fingerpaint.


Do not let her fingerpaint with that acrylic shit, Emily said. She'll eat it.


I was joking. He held out his hands to Brian, who gave her back to him. Okay, we're going downstairs so Mom and Dad can work, byyyye Mom and Dad.


Brian said, I'm not...oh, whatever.


Emily waved. Make good choices!

 

Isabel's assistant stuck his head in and told us Brown was here, and the three of us went to the conference room where I wondered why the hell anybody had babies.

End Notes:

 

just a tiny thing, with the dubious honor of being the first fic in the series that doesn't have both Brian and Justin in it. But we're about to start a major thing that will more than make up for that... Buckle up. But first some sweetness.

Chapter 84 - Pause by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Something is very wrong.

Pause

LaVieEnRose



Well, let's fucking get into it then.


In the fall of 2013, Justin caught three colds over a six week period.


I minimized, rationalized, contextualized. He's got that shitty immune system, and he was traveling a lot and eating like shit and stressed about a show right after another and spending a lot of time with a six-month-old germ factory. Of course he was getting sick. And I was busy at work with the merger shit, and everything sort of ran together anyway, so it's not like I was keeping an exact count of how many days Justin spent curled up sniffling with a cup of tea. The kind of shit he has to deal with, we have to deal with, and I'm expected to get bent out of shape out of a few fucking colds?


Three. In a six week period.


That ain't normal, kids. Not even for Justin. And when cold number four—four in seven weeks—cropped up about two days after he'd turned the corner with his last one, it got to the point where even I couldn't feign ignorance, and we all know I minored in that in college.


Justin touched the base of his throat while he poked at his sinuses in the bathroom mirror. “I think it was that fucking guy at the gallery waving that gross fucking handkerchief around,” he said. “Some fucking germ biome experiment in the making.”


I stood behind him and chewed on my thumbnail. You have a fever?


“No, I don't think so. God, this is fucking ridiculous. I can't even remember the last time I could breathe through my fucking nose.” He sneezed and groaned in a way that sounded hoarse, painful. “Speaking of. It begins.”


I sat by the sink and watched him blow his nose. His shirt was off, and I was trying to figure out if he'd lost weight.


“You want a shower?” he asked me. “I just took one a few hours ago, but the steam might be nice.” He sneezed and pawed at his nose. “Our neighbors are going to start complaining you're keeping a biohazard in the building.”


What do you weigh now?


Rude. I don't know. He turned the shower on. You coming?


Yeah, in a minute.


He stripped out of his jeans and got into the shower. I watched him go foggy through the glass, like some kind of mirage. Something that could just disappear.


I cleared my throat and waved for his attention. Hey, sneezy?


Yeah?


When were you tested last?


He tilted his head back into the spray. “Uh...September?”


You think maybe it's time to do that again? I said, as casually as anyone's ever fucking said this shit. I could feel my heartbeat up in my ears.


He stayed still for a long moment, rinsing his hair, and then he gave this congested little sigh and looked at me.


“It hadn't even fucking occurred to me,” he said. “How pathetic is that?”


I shrugged a little. Took me a while too. It's better to know.


You think I have it.


You keep getting sick, Sunshine. I don't know what to think.


He turned off the shower, wrapped himself up in a towel, and came and sat next to me on the counter. I tugged him into my side, even though he got my clothes wet. He sneezed hard and I ran my hand up and down his back.


I'll call the doctor tomorrow, okay? I said. He'll fit us in, he loves you.


You should get tested too.


Yeah, I'm due anyway. My last one was June or something.


Justin played with my fingers. Maybe you'll have it and I don't. That would be funny.


Yeah, I prefer irony over health. Irony's a fun sign.


See, you think you're being sarcastic, but that's why this relationship works.


I smiled a little and kissed his forehead. Don't call it a relationship, that's disgusting.


“I feel like I'm supposed to be freaking out and crying or something,” he said.


I shrugged. Whatever you want's fine.


He swung his legs. I want to take a shower.


Then come on.


I fucked him in the shower and again once we went to bed, and he took his meds and rubbed lotion down his legs. I watched the way his muscles stretched. He had lost weight, I think.


Are you going to be mad at me? he asked. If I do have it?


I lay there and watched him. I think a little, yeah.


He nodded.


But not for long.


Yeah, I know. He put the lotion down. Will you be mad at Evan?


I'd like to think no.


He laughed, just a little. Me too.


Come here.


He lay back on the pillows and I rested my head on his chest and listened to his heart flutter. I ran a hand up his side, trying to slow it down.


What are we going to do? he asked. If I'm positive.


Figure out a medication you can take. I'll start on PrEP and we'll see if you react from me taking it. We'll figure it out.


You're making it sound like it's no big deal.


No, I'm making it sound like it's a chronic illness and we might have some experience managing chronic illnesses.


Can we cut the bullshit just for five seconds?


I lifted my head up and kissed his nose. No.


You're going to keep acting like it would be fine if I had it up until I have it?


Yeah.


Right, and then what? Then you fall apart and drink every liquor store in midtown and I leave you out of guilt and run off with some band of orphans and start a circus.


What's your act?


Handstands.


You are stretchy. I lowered my cheek back to his chest. Breathing sounds okay.


“I'm sorry, Brian,” he whispered.


Shh, don't talk. I said, and I stayed awake for a long time after he fell asleep, feeling his warm skin underneath me, listening to his heartbeat. Here here here here.


I woke up to him screaming.


Whoa, whoa, hey, hey. I switched on the light. Jesus, take it easy.


He sat up, panting.


I took a few seconds to catch my breath. Christ, who needs a gym membership when you have a partner who will graciously scream you out of a deep sleep a couple times a month. I sat next to him and gave him a minute to calm himself down, brushing his sweaty hair away from his face and giving his shoulder a quick squeeze.


Better now? I asked after a while.


Yeah. He groaned a little and sunk his head into his hands. “Fuck.”


I know, I said, even though he wasn't looking at me.


**


So between the lack of sleep and the nightmare and the worry that my boyfriend might have yet another incurable, life-altering disease, I was maybe a little cranky at work the next day. Our GP agreed to see us that afternoon, so I was going to cut out early and meet Justin there. I'd tried to get him to come to work with me, but no luck. He'd said he wanted to get some studio time in. You'd have thought he was fucking dying tomorrow.


Christ.


Evan came in at one point with some papers from the art department. Need you to sign off on this. They want a new one of those smart boards down there.


I beckoned him over. And they send you to do their bidding?


I don't think anyone else even comes upstairs anymore. I think they live there like mole people.


I looked over the forms. Yeah, this is fine. I signed at the bottom and glanced at him as I handed it back. How are you?


Uh, fine. Why?


There was no way I was having him self-flagellate about it before I even knew if there was anything to have feelings about. God knows I had enough on my plate managing Justin's guilt spirals. I can't ask about the well-being of my...whatever you are?


Okay, can I ask about yours? Because you look like shit.


No you may not.


He rolled his eyes. Good talk, Brian.


Yeah. You need anything?


Just a new smart board, he said, collecting the papers from me, the medical bracelet with my phone number dangling off his wrist.


He looked good. Healthy.


Okay, I said. Good.


**


You might expect that Justin and I had some sort of soul-bearing heart to heart in the doctor's office while we waited twenty minutes for our test results, but having an interpreter sitting in the room with you really kills your chances to have a deep personal conversation. Thank God.


Justin's cold had progressed stupidly quickly over the course of the day, and he sat on the exam table and sniffled while I crossed my legs in a chair next to the interpreter. What'd you get done today? I asked him.


He sneezed. I'm doing that zoo thing. This abstract piece. Lots of texture.


Get a lot done?


Some. I slept a lot. He sighed a little. Can't stay awake lately.


Yeah, I know.


He scratched a couple of hives on his wrist—he always gets a few at doctor's offices, just from the fucking residue of a hundred medications he's allergic to, and the greatest fucking irony in the world is that Justin Taylor isn't safe in hospitals, and oh boy will we get to that—and said, You want to get sushi on the way home?


That's like three times this week.


I don't feel like cooking.


I didn't say you have to cook, just fucking something besides sushi.


Maybe if you didn't order the same thing every time you wouldn't get sick of it.


I know what I like.


Variety is the spice of life, Brian.


Oh, don't I know it. Why, just last week at Nova—


He kicked me and shot a pointed look at the interpreter, but she was just sitting there reading her book.


You care too much what straight people think, I said. Fucking obvious statement of the century.


I just don't want to confuse her. If she thinks I'm the slutty one she's going to mix up which one of us is positive.


Don't talk like that, I said, and he sighed and put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, so at least we didn't have to talk anymore.


I squeezed his ankle when the door opened and our doctor came in. He sat down in his wheely chair and glided his way over to us and said, “Okay, so.”


Justin reached for my hand. I let him.


“Negative,” he said. “Neither of you has HIV.”


Justin breathed out and sunk his head into his hands and generally looked about as relieved as the doctor didn't.


Something else is wrong, I said.


The doctor nodded.


I tugged Justin's sleeve. Something else is wrong.


Justin straightened up. With me or with Brian? It's always weird hearing an interpreter speak for him, hearing her phrase stuff a little bit differently than I know Justin means. Like here, she said, “With me or with him?” even though I knew Justin would have used my name there, would have wanted the doctor to know the fucking...seriousness with which he takes me, God, I don't know, the fucking importance this kid places on me and whether I'm okay. It's not like it matters; I mean, I'm barely making sense. It's just a thing.


With you, I signed, small, because I knew. The doctor wasn't looking at me.


He said, “Justin, I want you to get in to see your neurologist right away.”


How right away? Justin said.


“Tonight.”


**


So I did warn you about this before, but I suppose I've kept the full story in suspense long enough, so here's what we found out at seven PM, sitting in an exam room at the hospital where we'd met Justin's neurologist.


In an uncommon but really not as fucking rare as it should be side effect, Justin's anticonvulsant was destroying his bone marrow. His white blood cell and platelet counts were what his neurologist kindly described as catastrophic.


“Honestly, it's a miracle you've only been catching colds,” she said. She was wearing a mask. So were the nurse and the interpreter.


And then there was Justin and me, sitting there like a fucking science experiment, his hand attached to my thigh.


“Right now, you're vulnerable to anything and everything, and you're not able to fight infections off the way you should,” the doctor said. “This isn't the sort of immuncompromise that you're used to. This is...this is very serious.”


Justin mostly just looked pissed. And stuffed-up.


I handed him a wad of tissues from my pocket and said, So what are you going to do about it?


“We need to pull your anticonvulsant immediately,” she said. “There's no way around it.”


We're not even going to taper it down? Justin said. Even when he was in the fucking hospital with pancreatitis, we tapered it.


She shook her head, and I ran my hand over my mouth and stood up and paced around a little. Justin watched me.


“Justin, you're headed rapidly for a complication called aplastic anemia,” she said. “We can reverse it now, but you continue taking it you'll get to the point where your only treatment option is a bone marrow transplant. We can't risk that.”


Look at the interpreter, I said to him.


Justin watched her give the whole spiel, then said, Okay, so...what happens? I'm just not taking anything?


We'll start working you up on a new one right away, she said. We'll build you up on a new dose of that as quickly as we safely can.


What the fuck are you talking about, safely? I said. This last one nearly fucking killed him, you're about to have him on nothing, and you think you have some kind of grounds to talk to us about safely?


What the fuck good is that doing? Justin said to me.


Shut up, Sunshine.


Sit down, he said, firmly enough that I did. Justin wasn't feeling anything right then. Justin was on autopilot, and...look, if you've seen the way this kid can panic, it would scar eyou too to see him shut down.


You're not going home, I said, and then I turned to his doctor. We're admitting him, right? We're knocking him out so he doesn't have to be awake for the fucking plethora of seizures coming his way? I fingerspelled 'plethora' to make sure there was no goddamn mistaking the kind of hell she was sending Justin into.


I don't want to be admitted, Justin said.


I don't want to hear it, I said, and he folded his arms and pulled his legs up on his seat.


But his doctor said, “Ordinarily, yes, that's what we would do.”


The fuck do you mean, ordinarily? I said.


She sighed. “The hospital is the worst place you can be if you have a compromised immune system,” she said. “I don't like even having him in the building for this. If we decide to admit him, he'll need to be in complete isolation, and even then it's no guarantee he won't pick up an infection he won't be able to fight off.”


Isolation, I said.


So just to be super clear about this, we're talking about Justin alone in some insulated box in his least favorite place in the world where he can't understand the language, surrounded by medications that can kill him in a minute or less, either heavily sedated or fucked out of his mind from seizures. Just so you've got the whole fucking picture here.


“I don't want that,” Justin said softly, and how he wasn't just screaming continues to be fucking beyond me.


The doctor nodded.


Without me, I said. Would he get an interpreter?


“We couldn't have any extra personnel in—”


Unbelievable. I thought I fucking liked her. It's not extra.


“I know,” she said.


So he'd be in a room by himself not understanding anything that was going on, unconscious for most of it, without me there, and we, what, trust someone not to give him shit he's allergic to and pray to whoever the fuck we can think of that despite all that he doesn't still catch something?


“Yes,” she said. “If we admit him.”


Justin looked at me and shook his head, his eyes as round as quarters.


No, I said. No, we're going home.


**


And so we settled in for a quarantine. Dr. A said we'd try to get Justin up to a therapeutic dose of his new anticonvulsant in ten days, and then we could bring him in and get his blood redrawn and find out if he had, you know. A fucking immune system.


I went to the office and got all the files I'd need for a nice long horrendous vacation because fuck if he was getting left alone and fuck if I was bringing him to the office for everyone to cough on. He ordered groceries and FaceTimed with the baby and got some kind of makeshift second opinion from Daphne, who told him if he set so much as a toe outside the apartment before his white count was up she'd kill him herself to save some time.


They all want to bring shit, he said, sprawled out on the couch. Food. Medicine. Whatever we need.


No.


“I know,” he said softly. “It's just...it's weird. I feel fine. I just feel like I have a cold.”


Well, twelve hours from now you're going to feel like hell, so at least that'll be cleared up.


I should have made you go to the studio and get my painting.


I sat down beside him on the couch. You're not going to be up to painting. You know that.


He leaned back, squirming his legs into my lap. “Jesus, it's like standing there waiting for a truck to hit you. This is so fucked.”


He was correct. This was totally and completely fucked.


Are you scared? I asked him.


“Yeah.”


I ran my hand up and down his leg. I couldn't bring myself to muster up some kind of reassurance, because Jesus, what was there even to say? We could be careful, and God knows we knew what we were doing with seizures at this point, but there was still risk, and he was still going to feel like absolute hell.


And right now he was sitting here with his fucking feet on my lap and the doctors had told us all this fucking horrible shit, but he was sitting here and his feet were on my lap and he was fine.


I can't goddamn explain what was being asked of us here. That he had to just sit here and wait for his body to start to revolt.


It is fucking unnatural, the things the world has asked Justin to do.


I cleared my throat and shook his head. Where do you want to be? We should make a base.


“On the floor here is fine,” he said softly. “I don't want to just stay in bed.” Of course he didn't. He didn't feel sick, and everyone kept telling him he was sick. This all felt like some awful fucking joke to me, and I wasn't the fucking punchline.


You should eat something, I said. No fucking sushi, that was for sure. Nothing we hadn't goddamn sanitized.


Yeah, in a little while.


So first we set up a nest for him on the floor, and God, there is nothing more fucking depressing than preparing for a seizure, there just isn't. It's normally something we have to rush, because Justin gets a minute, maybe two of warning typically before one of his big ones, and that's rough enough, him being at least partially capable of helping ready his body to be goddamn fucking ravaged, but this was worse. It reminded me of his sad fucking mansion in LA where he'd put out all these safety measures because there wasn't anybody around to keep an eye on him. He went and changed into one of my old v-necks, nothing with a crew neck that could choke him or straps that could strangle him, and I lay out the floor cushions and moved the furniture back and tried not to think about why I was doing it, that there was a bottle of pills sitting on his nightstand that would make him not have seizures and the reason he couldn't take them still seemed so completely fucking abstract. At that point.


I hugged him and felt him shiver. Fever's up, I think, I said.


Yeah, maybe I'd have seizures anyway. God, I'm gonna piss myself, aren't I?


Oh, yeah, I'd put money on that.


Great. He took a shaky breath. When do you think it's going to start?


I don't know. Maybe like five AM?


You should try to get some sleep before then.


I held up my hand. I'm telling you right now, we're not going to do this.


He knit his brow.


This worrying about Brian because this is so fucking hard on him thing, we're not doing this. You have no fucking immune system and your brain's about to explode, we're not going to fret about me not getting a full eight hours. I just...that's just too fucking irritating, I'm not going to entertain that. Just...come on, please? I'm saying please, here, can we skip the poor poor caregiver stuff? We have enough on our plate without the martyr Olympics.


He considered this. Okay, but you have to promise to like break your finger or something when this is over so I get something to do.


You can break my nose again if you want.


Yeah, okay. He shuddered and sat down. Fuck.


All right?


Just scared.


Put a movie on, I said. I'm going to warm up something to eat, okay?


He made some noise of vague agreement, and I went to the kitchen but paused on the way and just looked at him, and you have to understand here, the way he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, how goddamn scared he looked...I had to give him something in that moment, you understand? It was fucking imperative that I give him something.


I stamped on the floor until he looked at me, his eyes that kind of big and sad that makes you think you're looking at someone who knows exactly how fucking unfair the world is, who has seen all the goddamn ugly there is out there. And you didn't save him.


It was imperative, that's what I'm telling you, for me to say something to him.


You know I can handle this, right? I said.


He still looked scared, but he nodded.


I smiled in a way I hope to God was reassuring. I've got this. I know what to do.


He nodded again, a little more confident, and I forced myself to walk slowly to the kitchen where I crouched down on the floor and leaned against the refrigerator and just breathed for a minute, in and out through my nose, listening to the clock in the living room count down seconds until he'd be in hell.


And then I got up and made him dinner.


**


So we waited out our time. I loaded him up on painkillers and some muscle relaxers to try to take the edge off all this shit, and he took his fucking comically tiny dose of the new anticonvulsant and didn't have an allergic reaction, so at least goddamn something went okay. We ate on the floor and then put some music on and danced for a while and then realized we should probably have sex because God knows when we'd next get a chance to, but he got upset because I wouldn't kiss him on the mouth 'cause I was fucking scared to death of giving his non-functional immune system something else to fight with, and even though he knew that some part of him kind of thought it was because he had a cold, and I don't know, it hurt his feelings or something. Leave him alone, he was having a rough fucking night, he got to kind of be a little bitch right now.


We put a movie in and lay on the floor and dozed on and off. I was maybe eighty percent awake when Justin said, “I think it's starting.”


I sat up, stretching. How do you feel?


“Uh, the colors are too bright.” He took a deep breath and let it out, eyes closed. “Fuck fuck fuck.”


I didn't want to lay him on his side until I knew if he was going to lose consciousness; it was just gonna upset him if this was a small seizure and I went and acted like it was something major. And sure enough, it was a small one, more or less. His leg shook like it was being electrocuted and he said his vision was fuzzy, but it wasn't anything awful. All done? I asked him when he stilled, and he nodded and sipped some water.


“I'm going to be fucked for signing soon,” he said.


I know.


He lay down on his back. “Head's starting to hurt.”


Your head always hurts.


“Oh yeah,” he said softly. His voice was so hoarse.


I think you are sick after all, I said, brushing his bangs off his forehead.


“Yeah. I feel it now.”


**


It wasn't until around seven in the morning that we really hit trouble. Justin's hand had been clenched up for hours and he'd had a few absence seizures which he doesn't even notice unless someone tells him and I didn't feel any real need to alert him to. I was on the couch answering a few work emails while he watched some boring as fuck TED talk muted on the TV, which usually means he's trying to sleep. I knew he was bored as hell, but he just doesn't have a lot of options when he can't use his hands. His cold was bothering him too, because it's not like he was getting any real fucking rest, and the way his doctor had talked about his immune system I kept expecting to blink and all of a sudden he'd have ebola or something, but really he was just lying there sneezing a lot and shivering as his fever dipped and rose. Honestly it was a familiar kind of soundtrack while I worked, and I was letting him just hang out in the background of my consciousness until with no warning he was making noises like he was choking.


This is why we keep him on the ground.


I got him on his side and stayed behind him—I might be an expert at these things, but I really prefer not to look at him during, given the choice—and held him still and counted seconds while his body shook. The whole thing was short, under a minute, and he took a rattling breath in and turned over onto his back, looking up at me.


Hi there, I said.


“Hey,” he whispered.


Wasn't too violent, I said. I think you're okay.


“Don't feel good,” he whispered, and I swallowed.


Yeah, your body's not giving you a lot of help with that cold.


“I'm tired now,” he said.


You want to get in bed for a little while?


Even that fucked up, he knew it wasn't a little while. He knew this was giving up.


“Yeah,” he whispered, and I nodded shortly and picked him up.


**


Time kind of stopped mattering after that. Measuring in hours slipped away in favor of measuring seconds, minutes, for seizures. Day and night were less important than when Justin was awake and when he wasn't. When he was seizing and when he wasn't. I set alarms to make sure he was taking his new anticonvulsant the goddamn moment he was due for each dose, and I kept feeding him painkillers and muscle relaxants because fucking look at him, but besides that...everything felt really, really unimportant. Our friends kept texting me asking me how he was and I couldn't bring myself to reply with anything more than the bare minimum. I hadn't even bothered to tell anyone in Pittsburgh. Jenn was gonna fucking kill me.


It just...everything that wasn't in the room with me right then felt fucking fake, and there was nothing in the room but me, Justin, epilepsy, his fucking unbattled cold, and walls that felt like they were getting closer and closer by the second.


It was hard to believe this was ever going to feel like home again and not a hospital. Our room filled up with every medical supply we have: his nebulizer, the humidifier, the blood pressure cuff, thermometers, tissues. I washed my hands so many times my skin started to crack. One minute I was thinking about sealing the doors and windows, like we have to sometimes when his allergies are really bad, and the next I was fucking absconding out to the balcony to gulp down fresh air like I was drowning, trying to pretend I couldn't hear him asking me if he could come outside, just for a second, just for a second.


Seconds didn't mean anything unless they were in seizures. I told him no, over and over. No, you can't come outside. No, you can't go to the bathroom by yourself. No, you can't get up. No, you can't have cough medicine. No, you can't draw.


Fucking promising him every other minute I wouldn't make him go to the hospital. Like I was going to put him in a fucking cab right now, or have some goddamn paramedics put their hands all over him. He'd catch bubonic plague before we even made it through the front doors, fuck.


I was holding onto the railing on the balcony and remembered that I could breathe when I heard him call me from the bedroom. He was sitting up in bed, shivering and holding himself. His sinuses were starting to swell.


Hey, I said. What do you need?


“Can I take a shower? I feel so fucking gross, I want a shower. I feel okay right now.”


He needed a win right then.


Yeah, I said. Yeah, okay. Come on.


He couldn't really walk on his own at that point; his brain had either given up on sending signals to the right side of his body or else was sending so goddamn many that they were cancelling each other out, who knows. Honestly the physical symptoms of seizures, the pain and the headaches and the exhaustion, are fucking awful, don't get me wrong, but the worst part is what the fucking unnatural amount of activity going on in his brain and how completely that neurologically fucks him up. He's tried to explain it to me, but I think it's probably impossible to understand unless you've lived it, and I wouldn't wish this on goddamn anyone. I wouldn't even wish it on me, and let's not get into what a mindfuck that is in and of itself.


It's basically his brain just fucking screaming, that's the best way he's been able to describe it.


I got him to the bathroom and helped him sit on the bath mat while I ran the shower. He painstakingly undressed himself, and I let him, as rare as it is under any circumstance for me to let him take his clothes off himself, because I knew right now he needed to do something on his own. I leaned against the shower enclosure and crossed my arms, watching him, and chuckled a little when he got stuck in the neck of his t-shirt and signed Help dramatically above his head. I crouched down and pulled it off him, and he smiled at me.


All good, Sunshine?


He wrinkled his nose.


No? Raincloud?


“Thunderstorm,” he said, his voice small and painful, while he stretched his arms up above his head.


I like thunderstorms. Here we go.


I helped him up and into the shower and washed his hair and let him drag soap over me. He made a grab for my cock, but I stopped him and said, Your hand's going to spasm and you'll squeeze it off.


“The risk is part of it.”


Yeah, gonna disagree with you there. At least you didn't try to blow me.


He gnashed his teeth and I shuddered, and he laughed a little.


I kept a hand under his elbow to help him stay up, but it was clear this wasn't going to work longterm. His legs were shaking, and he was so goddamn tired. I watched his white-knuckle grip on the door handle.


You want to sit?


He shook his head. He was getting frustrated.


Okay...how about this, come here. I lifted him up by his thighs and he came willingly, wrapping his arms around my neck. Normally I'd get at least a hand free to sign and trust him to hold himself up—he can cling like a damn chimp—but, well. These were not normal circumstances. “Okay?” I asked him. He watched my lips and nodded.


I backed us under the shower spray and he tilted his head back and closed his eyes and breathed, and when he started sucking water off my neck I nudged his chin up with mine and kissed him, hard and long, holding him up against the shower wall, his legs tight around my waist with every bit of strength he had left.


Not to take this too goddamn far, but that's how I see Justin, when I close my eyes. Sick as hell, squeezing the hell out of me, giving me every single bit of himself that he has.


Not to take this too goddamn far. But that's how I'll remember him.


Of course it got worse from there.


**


We actually had a few hours mostly off, where Justin's hand shook most of the time and his whole arm more than occasionally, but nothing more violent than that, and I actually thought maybe the new meds were starting to kick in. I got him to eat some of that gross brown rice he likes, we got a few hours of sleep, and I thought maybe, maybe, we were nearing the end of this shit which is...almost hilarious, in retrospect.


I woke up at one point to the bed shaking. He was conscious but clearly not real happy about that, his warms wrapped around his head, and both his legs were going pretty haywire. I tugged him gently into me and let him hide his face in my neck until it was over.


He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Was hoping not to wake you.”


I kissed his forehead. You're a moron.


“Yeah.” He drew in a ragged breath. “Since you're up, can you help me to the bathroom?” It hurt him to say it. It's so fucked up. Justin would never, ever think less of anyone else for asking for help, but...well. You've been on this journey a long time. You know the deal.


So I helped him up as casually as I could and once we were there took my hands off him and washed my hands for the eight hundredth time and brushed my teeth and poked at my pores in the mirror so he wouldn't feel like he was being hovered over while he peed. Did you break out when you were a teenager? I asked him.


“You knew me when I was a teenager.”


Before that.


He came over and washed his hands, dragging his right leg a little. “Sometimes.”


I didn't, and Claire told me that meant I was going to get wrinkles earlier. I think she was right.


“Claire was right about something?”


You know what they say about broken clocks.


He sneezed and looked at his reflection. “Christ, I look like death.” He did look pretty fucking awful. His eyes had this glaze over them and there was a dull layer of sweat on his skin. “Look at my sinuses.”


Yeah. Brave of you to try out a new look when you're this sick.


He snorted, and I grinned. “You know how I live to inspire,” he said. He gripped the counter and breathed out slowly.


I watched him warily and waited for him to open his eyes. You okay? Let's not have a seizure in the bathroom, please. Floor's pretty hard.


“We should go now,” he said, his voice flat. He wasn't even scared anymore. He was just so fucking tired.


I wrapped my arm around his waist and started to bring him back to the bedroom, but he stopped me after a step. “Floor. Floor now.”


“Shit,” I said. I started lowering him to the ground, but he was unconscious and seizing just about immediately. “Shit shit shit,” I mumbled, catching him under the shoulder blades, and I managed to get him onto the floor with his head pillowed safely on my lap. I watched his limbs hit the floor and tried not to imagine the bruises he was giving himself. “Easy, easy,” I said, rubbing a circle on his back. “Finish this up and we'll go back to bed.” His leg jerked violently, and I said, “Shh, easy, come on. Give it a rest.”


It kept going, one minute, two, two and a half. “Shit.” He made this horrible miserable noise, and I said, “Justin, c'mon, you're okay.” I kept counting seconds in my head, watching his fucking lips turn purple and wondering what the goddamn shit I was going to do if this didn't stop, but finally, finally, it ended. It took another fucking harrowing five seconds before he started breathing, but he did eventually, pulling in air like he'd been drowning. “Okay.” I bent down and buried my face in his hair. “Okay, Sunshine.”


“Brian?”


I moved him onto his back, looking up at me. Hey. That was bad, how are you?


“I'm sorry.”


Stop.


“What's wrong, Brian?”


Jesus. Nothing, everything's okay.


“I think I'm cold.”


We're going to go back to bed. I just need to get out from under you first, so I need to sit you up, okay?


“Sure,” he said vaguely, but as soon as I moved him off of me he groaned and turned and vomited on the bathroom floor. Damn. I really should have seen that one coming.


“Ah, shit,” I said, while he stammered out apologies. Justin, it's fine, Christ, relax. I got him situated against the shower enclosure, dropped a towel over the mess to deal with in a minute, and ran a washcloth under some cold water. Better? I asked him, while I cleaned off his face and helped him sip some water.


“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, goddamn it, shit.”


You're fine.


“I don't know what's going on,” he said, and God, the fucking honesty in his face.


You don't need to know. I pushed his hair back. I've got it.


“I just threw up on the floor.”


You sure did, yeah.


“What the fuck?” His eyes were shining. “Brian, what the fuck? I'm so sorry.”


It's okay. I kissed his forehead. Try to calm down, okay?


He laughed with just no fucking joy. “What the fuck is going on?”


You had a seizure.


“I don't think so.”


Okay...trust me on this one. I'm going to pick you up, all right?


He shook his head and winced. “Too big.”


God, he is so fucking weird after seizures. Let's check, I said, and he nodded and let me pull him up. I kept a hand around his head and lay him slowly on the bed, cognizant of the way he winced as his joints moved. Okay. I pulled the covers over him and held the thermometer up. Open.


He did, and I felt down his body while I waited for the beep, checking him for injuries. He watched me and clearly had no fucking idea what I was doing, but he let me move him around.


Okay, I think you're good, I said. I pulled the thermometer out at the beep. A little under a hundred and one. Hey, that's not bad. All right.


“Brian, I want to go to sleep.”


Get to it, I told him, and he was out right away. I breathed out and ran my hands down my face and thought about all the places I could be that were not full of vomit and illness and misery, Palm Springs and Miami and Bermuda and Aspen and fucking Bangkok and anywhere that was not my fucking hospital room of an apartment. Thought about the sun beating down, a drink in my hand, Justin beautiful in white.


Justin was there, in the fantasies. That's what I'm trying to get across, you fucking vultures.


So, you know. I shook my head at myself and came back to reality and went to clean up the bathroom, and was just throwing towels in the laundry basket when I heard Justin start seizing again, not ten minutes after his last one had ended.


“No, no, no, are you fucking kidding me?” I rushed back to the bedroom and pulled the covers off him before he could suffocate himself and grabbed him before he fell off the bed. “Shit shit shit shit. How much fucking more of this is he supposed...Justin, come on. Come on.”


It lasted for three fucking minutes.


And I almost threw in the towel and called an ambulance right then and let them take him away and put him in isolation. And knowing how the rest of this story played out, I think that if I had done that he would have died a few days later.


So thank God for being fucking paralyzed with fear, I guess.


He gasped in those choked breaths when he was done and shivered so hard that for a second I thought he was still seizing, and I stayed on my knees next to the bed and went, Hey, hey, hey, waiting for him to look at me, but he turned and buried his face in the pillow instead and just started sobbing. And I'm not talking the usual crying he does after seizure when his brain's just so fucking confused that it can't cope. This was just fucking wrenching, painful crying, like I hadn't seen from him in years, like I maybe hadn't ever seen from him at all.


You have never seen someone that wrung out. You don't know what that does to a person.


And neither do I, not really, but I got up onto the bed and held him and said, “I know, Sunshine, I know,” anyway, I said that goddamn lie over and over while he cried so hard I thought he'd forget to breathe again.


He hit the mattress with his fist and cried and was just so goddamn fucking overwhelmed and I swear to God in that moment I would have done anything. I would have fucking done anything in the world to make him stop.


I covered his body with mine and kissed the exposed skin on the back of his neck, but nothing I did made any fucking difference. This wasn't rational crying. He didn't have any fucking rationality left in him.


He was just being fucking goddamn tortured by his own brain, and everyone has a breaking point. Even him.


He fell asleep eventually, as suddenly as he had before, and I got out from under him, went out to the balcony and thought about bats coming towards my boy and other things that I could not stop and I crumpled at the waist and screamed as loud as I could until I ran out of air, and people who weren't Justin yelled at me to shut up.


I think that was somewhere around day four.


**


“Brian?”


I startled awake and tried to get my bearings. Apparently I'd come to the kitchen to get some coffee and just fucking fallen asleep with my head on the counter. I grimaced and slapped my cheeks on the way to the bedroom. Hey. What's wrong? He'd been okay when I last saw him, curled up with one of his mystery novels. I think. It was all blending together.


He was sitting up in bed now, looking exhausted.


Did I miss one? I said.


“Yeah.”


Sorry. I fell asleep standing up.


He laughed a little. “Sounds right.”


You okay?


“I think my shoulder popped out.”


I raised an eyebrow. Yeah, I don't think so. I know what this one feels like. You'd know if your shoulder popped out.


“Okaaaay,” he said. “In that case, I know my shoulder popped out.”


I sighed. Okay, let me see.


“Be careful, it hurts.”


I sat down behind him on the bed and felt around his shoulder. I stopped, then compared it to the other, then went back to the first.


“I mentioned it hurts, right? How long are you going to poke at it?”


I came around where he could see me. Your shoulder's out.


“I know.”


You dislocated your fucking shoulder and you're acting like you have a paper cut.


“Can you put it back in? I tried to do it myself but I couldn't get the angle right.”


You tried to...okay, no, I'm going to get you some ice and we'll figure out how to fucking splint this thing until we can get you to a hospital.


“I am not sitting around with a dislocated shoulder for a fucking week, just put it back in. It'll stop hurting as soon as you do it.”


It absolutely will not stop hurting as soon as I do it. I was taking Vicodin for a week.


“Yeah, well, you really like Vicodin. It'll feel better, at least.” He looked at me with those fucking puppy eyes. “Please? It hurts.”


Jesus. I don't even know what I'm fucking doing. Hold still.


It wasn't that hard, actually. I held him by the neck with one hand and the arm by the other and winced at the cracking noise when his shoulder fit back into place.


“Fuck,” Justin said. “God, that's so much better.” He rotated his arm in a slow circle. “Thank you.”


Let me get you some ice.


“Okay. Thanks.”


Christ, as if he didn't have enough to deal with. I filled a bag with ice and brought it back to him. At least for once I fucking know what you're going through, right?


He smiled. “Thanks. It really feels okay now.”


You don't have to do some macho shit.


“I'm not,” he said.


I studied him. When this happened to me I was in fucking agony.


He shrugged—with that fucking shoulder. “I'm not trying to ride a bike.”


Justin.


“What do you want me to say? Maybe it was only a little bit out or something, I don't know. It's just not that bad.”


I want you to tell me that you're not in so much goddamn pain all the time that you barely fucking notice your shoulder dislocating.


“I noticed it.”


Justin.


He sighed and looked away from me.


“Jesus Christ,” I whispered, and I held the ice against his back.


**


Time kept drifting by, and the new anticonvulsant kind of started working, and I had a vague hope that a day would come when I would not be scared out of my mind. I fucked him carefully one night and we lay next to each other afterwards while he coughed and we looked at the ceiling.


I miss the baby, he said.


I know.


Do you think I have an immune system yet?


I don't know. Maybe.


He didn't.


**


We took a shower where I didn't have to hold him. He made himself a sandwich. We had sex. I caught up on the work I'd missed—still from home, we were still prisoners in our hermetically sealed apartment, but it was something. We FaceTimed with the baby. We watched a movie in the living room. He went ten hours without a major seizure. Things were looking up.


Except his fever didn't break, and one night, the goddamn night before we were going to go to the doctor's office and get his blood tested to see if he could brave the outside world again, he woke me up shaking my arm. I reached out to him automatically but it took me a minute to find him; he was sitting up, and his thin t-shirt was soaked through with sweat.


And he sounded like he was breathing through a wet sponge.

 

“Oh fuck,” I whispered.

End Notes:

 

I warned ya...

Chapter 85 - Stop by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Something is very, VERY wrong. (Starts immediately where "Pause" let off.)

 

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LaVieEnRose



The very first time I had an asthma attack was when I had a cold. I was five, and I remember waking up in my bed and trying to call my mom, but I couldn't catch my breath. I thought there was something wrong with the room, because I guess I'd seen a cartoon or something where the bad guy took all the air out of a cave or something because, you know, cartoons, and that's what it felt like, like there just wasn't any air. It didn't even occur to me that it was something wrong with me. It was the environment.


And maybe that's a metaphor for how I looked at this whole fucking thing that went down after the hell of pulling my anticonvulsant the fall my immune system crashed, how even when I was sitting on the side of my bed panting while Brian paced in front of me I still didn't really believe, in my heart of hearts, that my body could be as sick as the doctors told me and as sick as it felt, because that just sounded so fucking ridiculous and overdramatic that it couldn't actually be happening to me in my actual life, or maybe it's just further proof that oxygen deprivation makes you fucking stupid.


I'd known something was wrong when I went to bed, but God, I just so, so fucking didn't want something to be wrong, not after the whole fucking ordeal we'd just been through. My new anticonvulsant was finally up to a dose that was actually doing something, but I was still so goddamn wrecked from the week of near constant seizures that when I felt shittier that night than I had for a few days I just decided, you know what, no, we're not doing this, and I wrapped my denial around me like another blanket and went to sleep.


And then I woke up in the middle of the night and my lungs were on fire. Just like when I was a fucking kid and I blamed the room, that's what I'd thought at first, when I first woke up and I was really disoriented, that the apartment must be on fire, because I couldn't breathe and I was so hot. My shirt was sticking to me, and my next thought was that was why I couldn't breathe, like my shirt was too tight and it was strangling me. Listen, you're going to have to deal with a lot of my weird ideas through this, so you might as well get used to them now.


Maybe it's possible to get used to not being able to breathe, the way I'm used to any seizure that doesn't knock me completely unconscious. Maybe if it happens to you all the time you can get a hang of it, but I don't know. It seems impossible. There's just this panic that it's going to get worse, and that if you stop concentrating for even a second you're never going to breathe again, and there's always that part of your brain that says if you just tried harder you could do it, if you just really really work at this breath then it'll work, you're not doing everything you could. It's your fault.


Maybe it's just me, I don't know.


The point I'm (ironically) long-windedly getting to here is that when I can't breathe, that's the focus. Which explains why Brian and I started the night at a bit of an impasse, because he was really fixated on the fever, which I could not have given less of a shit about, because I couldn't fucking breathe and my inhaler wasn't doing shit.


Brian was crouched in front of me, his hand across my forehead. Take your temperature.


I shook my head. “Neb,” I managed to choke out, because my fucking hand wasn't letting me sign, but God, it was so fucking hard to talk.


After.


I shook my head.


Justin, Jesus Christ, it's thirty seconds, take your fucking temperature.


I glared at him. “Will you be...nice to me while...”


Jesus. Sure. I'll be nice to you for thirty seconds. Shut the fuck up, he said, kind of gently, at least, and I took the thermometer from him and stuck it in my mouth.


And you know what, fuck that it's thirty seconds bullshit, because it was thirty seconds trying to keep my mouth closed when I could barely fucking breathe to begin with, and when the thermometer started blinking red I shoved it at Brian without looking at it. “Neb, please?” I managed to say, but he was just staring at the readout.


Is this right? he said.


“How the...hh. How the fuck should I know?”


Breathe, he signed without looking at me.


“I can't.”


This can't be right, he signed, small, almost to himself. You're sitting here talking to me, how can this be right?


“Brian.”


Sweetheart, wait, he said on his way to the bathroom, and I kicked the bed in frustration and sank my head down to my hands. I felt like if I could just take one good breath in, then everything would be okay. Just one decent breath, just one, and I kept thinking, okay, this next one, maybe this next one will be it, maybe this time it won't be so bad, but I could feel my lungs filling up as I sat there.


Brian came and got me a minute later, and I didn't know why I couldn't just do the neb in bed but okay, whatever, fine, but when he got me to the bathroom the shower was running, and I thought he was trying to make me breathe steam first like he did when I had bronchitis—he gets a little anxious about me using the nebulizer sometimes because it makes me jittery and he thinks it's going to give me a seizure, and there's just no goddamn reasoning with his weird ideas sometimes—and that was really frustrating because I was already hot as hell and I felt about ten billion times worse than I had when I had bronchitis, and he wasn't fucking listening.


And it was also confusing because the room wasn't steamy, and I couldn't figure that out, but then he took off my clothes and his and brought me into the shower and the water was fucking ice cold.


I want you try stepping into a cold shower right now, with nice, fully-functioning lungs, and see how it makes your breathing feel.


I would have been sobbing if I'd had any air for it.


I wasn't hot anymore, not at all. Every drop of water on my skin hurt so much, and I tried to pull away but Brian put his arms around me so tightly I couldn't move. I've never shivered that hard in my life.


“No, why?” I choked out.


You're okay, he signed in the tiny space between us. You're okay, you're okay, you are going to be fine.


“It hurts, I don't like it.”


I know.


“C-col—” I started to say, but my voice got stuck somewhere in my chest and I started coughing until I thought I was never going to stop. Brian lowered us down to the floor and I tried like hell to get away from the water because it felt like there was ice in my lungs already, rattling around and taking all the space and choking me, and the cold water was making it so much worse and he wasn't listening, and I couldn't talk—


I scrambled around the whole coughing fit, trying to get out of the spray, trying to grab onto the tile floor because I felt like I was about to slip off the fucking edge of the world, and I ended up on my hands and knees with my forehead on the ground, the water beating down on my back because I give up I give up I give up, and Brian's hand was underneath me rubbing circles on my chest, maybe soothing me, maybe sorry, maybe please.


It felt like a fucking year before he let me go and turned the water off. I probably would have just stayed there balled up and crying on the floor forever, but he came back with our biggest towel and wrapped it around me and carried me back to bed. I shivered and tried to pull the covers over me, but he shook his head and took them away from me. “No...” I said.


Shh. He put the thermometer back in my mouth and brushed my hair away from my face. His hands were so gentle. He opened my jaw really carefully when the thermometer started beeping, and after he looked at the readout he ran his hand over his mouth.


“What does it say?” I said.


He stayed perfectly still for a couple seconds, then he shook his head a little, then leaned down and touched his forehead to mine, eyes closed. His skin was really cold.


“Brian?”


He pulled back just an inch or two and put his hands on my face. He took a deep breath and said, “Okay,” out loud. His hands kept moving around, my forehead, my cheeks, my neck, like he was trying to cover all of me at once but he couldn't. “Okay.”


You're scaring me.


He shook his head. Don't be scared. You still want a neb?


I nodded hard, and he started making one. I felt really dizzy and spacey once his hands were off me, so I curled up and coughed for a while and let myself in and out. I was aware at some point that he was on the phone, which seemed kind of rude when I was Deaf and sick and like right here, and then for some reason I was absolutely sure that he was calling the hospital to get my little isolation room ready. Like, once I thought of that, there was no doubt in my mind that that was what was happening. I was totally sure.


And the thought of being separated from him right then...I don't even care how pathetic this is. It scared me worse than not breathing.


I need Brian when I'm sick, nowadays, just mentally. It's not even that I need him to do anything—though of course he does everything, he's...he's everything—but I just need him physically there. I can't even explain the degree to which he calms me down. I don't know how people get by without someone like him, I really don't.


He was moving around the whole time he was talking, going from our room to the bedroom, laying washcloths over me, snapping pieces of the nebulizer together. He was talking kind of frantically into the phone, just judging by the look on his face, and that was weird because he doesn't really get frantic and I couldn't figure out why he would be upset at someone from the hospital. Maybe they couldn't find my records again. That happened once and he got really mad.


“Brian,” I said.


He reached out and took my hand but otherwise ignored me, so that was weird for a number of different reasons.


“Brian,” I said. “I don't want to go...” I started coughing.


I saw him say “Hang on,” into the phone, then he said, Sunshine, what?


“I don't want to go to the hospital.”


You have to understand that I had literally no hope that this would work. In our life, I've asked Brian to not take me to the hospital roughly eighty billion times, and he's listened exactly zero.


But right now he watched me.


“I don't want to be alone,” I said.


We're gonna come back to that. I didn't realize it was significant at the time.


But he watched me for a long time and then said, It's just Daphne. I'm getting her to call in some antibiotics.


I couldn't fucking believe it. “No hospital?”


No hospital.


“Thank you,” I said, and he pulled his lips into his mouth and nodded.


**


I don't remember much more from that night. I know I was awake on and off. There was a seizure. Brian sponged me off and told me some dumb long dirty joke at one point that I couldn't follow but I liked that he was telling it. I know now that Daphne was there, but at the time I figured I was dreaming, since no one had been allowed to visit me before that.


When I really woke up it was light and I was alone. There was a nebulizer mask over my face and medicine in my mouth, but it didn't feel like it was doing much good. I breathed in slowly, experimentally, and it burned up to my throat, and when I wrapped my fingers around my lungs to help them exhale I could feel them stuttering, stopping. I really wanted to take them out of my body and wring them out like wet mops. That's how they felt, just...clogged and soaked.


I sat up and coughed for a while and then slowly got out of bed. I made it about three steps before I realized this was asinine, but at that point I was closer to the doorway than the bed so I just wobbled there while the room spun and clung to the doorframe and tried to focus my eyes. I found Brian eventually, walking around the kitchen, yet again on the phone. Yeah we get it, Brian, you're hearing, jeez. Talking seemed like waaaay too much work, so I just rested my head against the wall and waited for him to see me and wondered idly if I was going to faint before he did.


Luckily, he didn't take long. He did a double-take and signed, What the fuck, at me, spoke into the phone, hung up, and walked quickly over to me. Yeah, no, I don't think so, he said, corralling me back into bed.


“No,” I agreed, flopping down on my back and panting for a while. I flinched when he stuck a thermometer in my ear. “Whoa, when'd we get that?”


Daphne, since you can't fucking breathe when I put anything in your mouth.


“We could test that.”


He snorted. I'll pass, Fantine. Hold that there, he said, and I coughed a little and held the thermometer while he shook out some pills. Finished, he signed to me with one hand, and I took the thermometer out and looked at it.


104.6. “Whoa.”


He glanced at it. That's actually down.


“Oh.”


Pretty much. Here, he said. He handed me some pills and a bottle of water that he helped me balance. How do you feel? he asked me.


Uh...sick.


He played with my fingers for a minute, then sighed, which I tried not to watch with complete jealousy, and fished something out from under me. You keep taking this off in your sleep, he said, hooking an oxygen cannula around my ears. I thought you liked oxygen.


Oxygen? “Where did we get all this stuff?”


Daphne brought it. You don't remember?


“Maybe.”


She checked you out. Listened to your chest. Got you antibiotics.


I smiled a little. You remembered which ones don't kill me.


He put his hands up in some very lackluster applause, and I smiled a little more.


“She thinks I can fight this off?” I said.


He nodded and crawled over me and onto the bed, then rested his head on my chest, one arm draped over my stomach. It made it a little harder to breathe, but it's not like it made that much of a difference at that point. I ran my fingers through his hair for a while and felt him relax under me, and I just let him stay like that for a while while the room sort of swam.


“You okay?” I said after a while.


He lifted his head. Yeah, I'm okay. He rubbed his palm over my chest. Sounds bad in there.


Feels pretty bad.


He crawled up the bed and kissed me really softly, not long enough to steal my air. What do you need right now? he asked, small.


Not much I don't think. Another neb.


He nodded. You need to drink some water.


Okay.


Can't believe you're not seizing right now. He smoothed his hand over my head. Your brain is deep-frying.


I'm a mystery.


Think you could eat?


I shook my head.


Okay, he said, which struck me as kind of weird. Usually he nags me to death about not eating enough, and I knew I'd dropped some weight since this whole thing started.


But before I could ask him about it I was all of a sudden, so, so goddamn tired, like I'd been hit my a wave. “Oh,” I said, struggling to keep my eyes open.


Brian laughed a little. Drink your water first, here. He held it up to my lips and I sipped slowly. Good boy.


“'M trying,” I said. I pulled in a slow breath. “Ouch.”


You can't sleep flat like that, you need to prop up.


“You do it,” I said, and he probably did, but fuck if I was awake for it. I was out like that.


When I next woke up is when it started to get really bad. Brian was there, sitting me up and adjusting the flow of the oxygen before I was even fully awake. My chest hurt so fucking badly and my arm was seizing, and I tried to talk but my throat felt like it was too small and my heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my head, and my sinuses were swollen and painful and I couldn't swallow, and oh God holy shit it was so hard to breathe. I tried to talk, I don't even know to say what, and I started coughing instead, and I couldn't get air in between them and oh God, it was so fucking scary. I was just sputtering and suffocating and hitting my chest with my fist to try to knock some of this shit loose before it choked me to death, and Brian kept his arm around my shoulders and held the nebulizer mask over my face and somehow got the trash can into my lap before I coughed so much I threw up.


I spit and shivered and tried to swallow the water Brian gave me, and I sniffled and wiped my nose on my sleeve while Brian took my temperature. I tried to ask him what it was, but my arm was still shaking and when I tried to talk I just started coughing again, oh God, make it stop, make it stop.


I breathed the medicine for a while and when Brian asked if I wanted to try the water again I nodded, and this time I swallowed a little. I gasped and tried to breathe through the fire licking its way up my chest and said, “Am I talking?”


He brushed my hair back. You're talking.


“Brian, something's wrong.”


I know.


“I think I'm sick.”


He kissed my cheek. His nose was so cold against my temple.


I can't even imagine how awful I must have sounded, drowning all over the fucking bed. Sometimes I'm really glad I can't hear.


The fever felt like it was cooking me from the inside out, but my real problem was that right at that moment, I just wanted to stop breathing. It was too fucking hard and it hurt too much and I just didn't want to do it anymore. I'm not saying I wanted to die. I just didn't want to have to breathe.


So that wasn't good.


“Brian,” I said. “I think...hh. I think we need to go.”


He shook his head, palming the back of my neck and watching me like I was the saddest fucking thing he'd ever seen. I've never seen his eyes that big.


I coughed for a while. “Hospital,” I said. “I need to go.”


He took a breath that seemed impossibly deep and said, No.


All right, so...that wasn't expected.


“What?”


You saw what your neurologist said. It's not safe.


“They'll put me...isolation, they said, they could.”


Even that isn't a guarantee. You can't do an allergic reaction right now, you'll fucking crumble up into dust right now if someone so much as thinks about sneezing near you, and the way you're breathing they'd probably stick a tube down your throat and that fucking always gives you pneumonia.


“I already have pneumonia,” I said, which in retrospect was a pretty reasonable objection, but he rolled his eyes like it was stupid.


He got out of bed—no, come back—and started counting out pills. No hospital, he said. We can do this here.


It must not have been as bad as it felt. I told you I get panicky when I can't breathe. I have some sort of nothing asthma attack and I get all convinced I'm going to die, and Brian is the one whose job it is to be rational, to let me know when it's really a problem.


And he was telling me we could do this here.


So it must not have been that bad.


“I'm scared,” I said.


But I told you not to be. He gave me some pills. It took me a few tries to swallow them, but I did.


“I need you to hold me,” I said.


He nodded. Yeah, I know. Come here.


**


So like I said, it got really bad.


My memories from that time are all jumbled up and either super vague or hideously vivid. I sort of remember sitting up in bed with Brian behind me propping me up, and he was holding one of my Frida Kahlo books on my lap while I turned the pages. I remember watching him yell at someone on the phone and thinking something must be wrong at Kinnetik and wondering why he wasn't at work. I think at one point he took me out to the balcony because I remember being really worried a bird was going to touch me, I don't know. He definitely packed me in ice once, bags under my arms and on my neck and between my legs, because I'll never forget how fucking awful that felt.


There's a lot of coughing. So much goddamn coughing. Brian's eyes were always red and I think I asked him about pollen at one point even though it was November and he doesn't have allergies. He let me take a hot shower at one point and sat on the floor with me and it felt so nice.


I was curled up on the bathroom floor with my arms around my head at some time, I think it was night, God knows how many days into this, and my lungs reminded me of when Brian's car broke down a few years ago and the engine kept turning over but it wouldn't start. “Please can we go to the hospital?” I said.


He was sitting on the floor across from me, leaning against the shower enclosure with a whiskey glass in his hand, which didn't make a lot of sense but then again neither did anything else. Like the fact that I was asking to go to the hospital, and that when I did he just rolled his eyes and said, Justin, stop.


“It's really...hard to breathe.”


He looked away from me and drained his glass.


“I don't think...” I said, and I had so much I wanted to say, but God, it was so hard to talk, and I was so tired.


And I guess he was sick of listening to me anyway, because he slammed the glass down on the floor.


You will be alone, he said. Do you understand that? They will grab you and they will put you in a box and they will take you away from me and nobody will touch you. Do you understand?


“But—”


You told me you didn't want to be alone. You told me that. And now, of all fucking times, you're trying to be the one who what, doesn't make the decisions around here?


But—


Come on. We're going back to bed, he said, and he lay beside me on the bed and held me so tightly it hurt.


**


Speaking of hurting.


Brian was shaking me, hard, and there was so much pressure in my head that it felt like it was going to explode, and he wouldn't stop moving me which was pretty mean because I was pretty sure I'd just had a seizure and could be fucking wait a minute? I reached out and slapped him away from me, and finally he stopped shaking me and wrapped his palm around my neck, and I was like, sure he was going to strangle me. I don't know. Seizures are fucking weird. So I kept pushing him away and finally opened my eyes, and his face was close to mine and I was convinced he was taking up all the air, because clearly someone was, because I was so dizzy that I couldn't really believe I was lying still, and I could see the tips of my fingers and I was pretty sure they weren't supposed to be purple like this.


Brian cupped my cheek and I pushed him away. Leave me alone, I said.


Brian looked kind of sweaty and sexy and out of breath, like after he's been running on the treadmill, and I wondered if he'd been at the gym when I had the seizure like that time with Evan. How'd he get back here so fast? Did we have a treadmill?


You weren't breathing, he said.


I couldn't figure out why that was such a big fucking deal, because I never breathe during seizures. “Okay, well...” I gasped for a while. “I'm breathing now, right?”


Yeah. Yeah, you are.


This was so fucking obvious, how was he not getting it? “Okay...so now leave me alone.”


He bit his lip, and then he started laughing, which was okay, but then he didn't stop laughing and he looked kind of crazy, and he buried his face in my hair which definitely counted as touching me and I tried to push him away, but he signed I love you into my hand when I tried to tackle him off of me, and I was so so so tired anyway.


**


“Brian?” I said.


He looked at the thermometer. His hands were shaking and his eyes looked puffy. Yeah, Sunshine.


“I think I...” I stopped and shook my head. There was no way I was getting through a full sentence with this amount of air. I think I'll be okay by myself.


He set the thermometer down, really slowly, really controlled.


You'll be okay? he said, and there was fire in his eyes. You'll be okay, oh, isn't that great. Isn't that just fucking precious. He took a few steps away from the bed and turned back to me. You'll be okay, Satine, that's lovely, what the fuck about me?


“Brian.”


He shook his head.


I gave him a minute, then cleared my throat and said, “Satine?”


You never saw Moulin Rouge?


I shook my head.


God. He raked his hand through his hair. It's awful.


**


I woke up once feeling nauseous and sore and awful and he wasn't there. I thought for a second maybe that meant I was better, but as soon as I tried to sit up I realized that was definitely not the case. I slumped back on the pillows and panted and stared at the ceiling and imagined having the kind of energy to call him. What would I even tell him? I didn't know what I needed. I didn't know how to help me.


A minute later, though, there was a glass of water and a straw in front of me, and I looked up and there was Daphne. She had on gloves and one of those surgical masks, but I knew she was smiling. I know her eyes.


“Are you real?” I asked her.


I'm real, she said. It was weird, her signing with all that stuff on her. Like watching someone underwater. Drink.


I took a few sips of the water. Where's Brian? I said, while she put the thermometer in my ear.


He went out for a little while.


I relaxed. “Good. That's good.” He'd been stuck in here so long.


She checked the thermometer. Hey, you're under 105. Let's get that mask on you, here...


“Can I give a toast?” I said. “At your wedding?”


She was taking my pulse. Yeah, you want to start writing it now?


“Yeah. Is Brian okay?”


Brian's fine.


“Molly?”


She's with Emily, she's good.


“Evan?”


Also with Emily.


Everybody's okay, I said.


She dabbed at my chest and neck with a washcloth. Everyone's okay.


**


I woke up the next time to a firm kiss on my cheek, and at first I was happy because it meant Brian was home, but then I breathed in and the faint smell of cigarette smoke hit me, and it made my throat itch and then clench and then I was coughing so, so hard.


Brian sat me up and put his arm around me and I coughed and coughed and threw up and coughed and tried to breathe in but every time my throat would start burning and I'd start again, and fuck, this entire time I hadn't coughed like that, and I could tell it was freaking out Brian, and every breath I managed to suck in was like breathing through a fucking coffee stirrer and holy fuck it hurt so bad. I tried to push him away, get the smoke away, but he thought I was just panicking and he clung harder and oh God.


“Go...”


Justin, stop.


“No—”


I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have left. You have to stop.


Fuck, fuck, he thought I was being a little bitch because he'd left for a few hours? He wasn't getting it, he wasn't going to let me go, I was going to fucking suffocate on a bit of secondhand smoke and motherfuck how did I get here, I was fine, I was strong.


Smoke, I managed to sign eventually.


Sunshine, there's no smoke. You're sick.


Damn it. Damn it! Clothes.


And for an awful second I thought he still wasn't getting it, and then I saw him say ”Fuck,” out loud, and he got up and stripped out of his clothes and threw them out into the living room, then went into the bathroom. He came back a minute later, soaking wet, and picked me up and wrapped me in a towel and set me on the bathroom floor before he went back to finish his shower. I crawled over to the toilet and threw up for a while. I lay down on the floor and tried to cool off and eventually felt a hand in my hair. I slowly rolled over until I was on my side, facing him. He was sitting on the floor with a towel around his waist, his legs drawn up to his chest.


Justin, he said, and then stopped and ran his hand over his mouth.


“Shhh.” I reached out and patted his leg. “It's all right now.”


**


I couldn't stop shaking at one point, just from pain. My head and my chest and my skin and every fucking nerve in my body, and I flailed on the bed and shook and shook and probably screamed, I don't know if I could make any noise at that point.


If I was dying, would you tell me? I asked him.


No.


Okay.


**


At one point during one night I had to get out of bed. I had to.


It's hard to explain. It was kind of like...okay, one time back at PIFA I gave blood, and afterwards I was standing up talking to my friend who had come in, and I started feeling kind of dizzy and shitty, but I was trying to just get through this conversation without showing it because I was embarrassed or something, I don't know, and she wasn't a good friend and it wasn't that bad or anything. But then all of a sudden, it was like there was this voice in my head said sit down right now, and I did it without even thinking about it, right there on the ground, and a second later everything got all spotty. The voice didn't give me any reason or anything; it wasn't sit down before you faint, it was just sit down. And I had to listen.


That's what this was like. Something said you have to go, right now.


I pulled the cannula out of my nose and got out out of bed and made it about a step before my jello legs just collapsed right out from under me, but that was fine. I could crawl if I needed to. I kept going towards the door.


The light switched on and Brian was in front of me, wild-eyed and bed-headed. Justin, what are you doing? Are you awake?


“I'm awake.” I tried to crawl past him, but one of my legs started seizing and I stopped and pounded my fist on the floor, once, and then looked up at him. “I need...” I said, and then ran out of air.


He nodded, watching me.


I need you to pick me up.


Yeah, okay. Where are we going, bathroom?


I shook my head.


Okay, back in bed then, come on. He put his hand on my forehead. Christ.


“No, I have to go.”


What are you talking about?


I panted for a while, Brian's hands on my shoulders. “The baby.”


The baby? She's not here.


I know that. I have to go to her.


Justin, she's...in Queens, you have pneumonia, it's 4 in the morning. You can Facetime with her in the morning, okay?


I shook her head. It has to be now, I have to see her right now.


The voice in my head wasn't telling me why.


Brian cupped my chin in his hand.


I have to see my daughter, I said.


Brian said something that looked like “Oh God,” and put his lips against my forehead.


I was so fucking tired, and I felt myself being pulled back out, and I said, “No, no,” but Brian picked me up and put me back in the bed. “No,” I said, but I was too tired to fight, and Brian hugged me close to him. “No, Jane,” I said, and I whispered her name a few more times before I fell asleep.


**


And then I woke up and it was light. The sun coming through my window hurt my eyes, and my chest still ached when I breathed, but everything felt...clearer.


Brian was asleep with his head on my chest. I didn't want to wake him, but I really had to use the bathroom, and judging by my attempt last night I really shouldn't be wandering around on my own.


I ran my hand through his hair and leaned down and kissed the top of his head.


He startled and sat up.


“Hey, it's okay,” I said.


Fuck. I didn't mean to fall asleep. You okay?


I coughed and nodded. “Have to pee.”


He sat up, stretching one arm across his body, and checked the time on his watch. About time for meds, too.


Okay.


He got up and came around to my side of the bed, and I scooched myself over and put my feet on the floor. Brian gave me this kind of curious look while he shook the pills out, then put his hand on my forehead, frowned, moved it to my cheek.


What? I said.


He handed me the pills and some water and stuck the thermometer in my ear while I took them.


“I like this ear thermometer thing,” I said. “Good development.”


Stop talking, he said, and I laughed a little. He pulled the thermometer out and checked the display. He stared at it like it was, I don't know, some other language, or something.


Let me see, I said, and he turned it around to me. 102 exactly. That's good, right?


He just said, Come on, let's get you to the bathroom.


I pulled myself up with his arm and swayed my way to the bathroom, but I felt a lot steadier than I had last night. I can do it, I said when we got to the toilet, and he hung out by the sinks and watched me with his thumbnail in his mouth.


I washed my hands and coughed for a while and chanced a look at my reflection. Jesus. I hadn't shaved in God knows how long, and there were bags under my eyes the size of continents. And how much fucking weight had I lost?


Speaking of. “I think I'm hungry?”


Brian blinked at me. What?


I'm hungry.


He kept staring at me for a second, then he grabbed me and pulled me into the tightest hug I've ever had.


“Brian, you're squashing me!”


**


I didn't end up eating that time, actually, because as soon as Brian got me to the couch I fell immediately the fuck back asleep, but I woke up a few hours later and ate some toast between pulls on the nebulizer. The next time I woke up, I watched a little bit of a movie with my head on Brian's lap. I managed to text a few people the next time, and that night I Facetimed with the baby.


It was the slowest goddamn fucking recovery in the world, and you're going to hear a lot more about it, because...God, it seemed like I wouldn't be better for years. The fever would spike sometimes at night, though never as high as it had been when I was really sick, and it took ages for my breathing to get back to normal and for me to have enough energy to stay awake for more than half an hour at a stretch. It so fucking slow, and it seemed like every day was either a setback or the tiniest most babiest step forwards you can even imagine.


But I got better.


**


Brian had to you know, work, so he started going back, at first just for a few hours, then half days, then full days. I had a home nurse stay with me if he was going to be gone for more than an hour or two, and that sucked because it was embarrassing and she didn't sign and I hate being stared at, but there wasn't really any way around it. I still couldn't reliably get around the apartment by myself, and I was on way too many medications for me to keep straight, and because my breathing was still really compromised I needed someone there in case I had a seizure. The nurse always wore a mask and gloves, which I knew was for my protection, not hers, but still made me feel like a biohazard. And I still wasn't allowed to have any other visitors, so I hadn't seen Evan or my friends or my family in forever. It was so weird every time I thought about them, because it felt like, I don't know, like the whole world must have been paused while I was going through this. I guess that's shitty and selfish of me, but it was just so goddamn weird that the whole time I'd been here locked up and sick out of my mind, people were working and shopping and eating and talking and laughing and getting older. I still felt like I was in this weird state of suspended animation. Not quite sick and not quite well.


Brian had recovered from everything pretty well, as best as I could tell. He was a little short with me, which I expected, but he didn't do anything wild or reckless or disappear for days at a time or anything like that. He slept with his ear against my chest every night and asked the nurse for a full report on how I did every evening, and we took showers and watched movies and he'd suck me off and let me watch while he jerked off, which was about all I was capable of doing. Still pretty hot, to be honest. He started complaining about me keeping him up at night coughing, so that was how I knew everything would be okay.


I was sacked the fuck out on the couch one night while he made dinner, and I waved for his attention and said, What the fuck are you doing to that broccoli?


He looked at the bowl, then at me. Uh, boiling it?


Don't boil it!


You have no immune system, Mimi. I'm boiling anything you put in your mouth.


Rent, Brian? Seriously?


He looked at me like he didn't even know who I was. La Boheme.


You can't boil broccoli.


Oh, just watch me, he said, and he tossed it into a pot.


Boiled vegetables lose between twenty-two and thirty-four percent of their vitamin C! Next time I get sick it's going to be your fault for depriving me of valuable nutrients! How are you not dead yet? You're eating some of that broccoli, you know. Even if it is a third less nutritious than it could be.


Brian shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his face.


And what's so funny? I said.


He grinned for real and looked away, and then fingerspelled, He's baaaaack.


**


So I guess that would be the end of our little story, except one day, about a week after Brian went back to work full-time, Daphne had a day off and she came to stay with me instead of the nurse. God, it was so much better. I almost forgot I was sick, for some of it. We watched movies and she made popcorn and she made it feel like we were just hanging out regularly. She filled me in on how everyone was doing and said they couldn't wait to see me.


But of course I had to take like twenty naps over the course of the day, and they always hit me so fucking suddenly. I lay back on the couch and groaned. I can't believe I'm this fucking tired still.


Well, you did almost die.


I rolled my eyes. You sound like me. I was such a fucking drama queen. I swear I thought I was dying at one point. I don't know how Brian puts up with me.


She raised an eyebrow.


What? I said.


She sighed and leaned on her elbow. You weren't being a drama queen. You don't know this? You were really, really sick.


Yeah, I know, but...


I don't think you do, she said. When he called me, that first night when you get sick? He said, Daphne, I think he's dying on me.


“No, but...”


She just nodded.


And I thought about some things he'd said.


If I was dying, would you tell me?


No.


And I thought about the names he'd called me when I was sick. Satine, who I'd looked up eventually. Fantine. Mimi.


They all had something in common.


No, I said. I asked him to take me the hospital, he said I didn't...


We can do this here.


The hospital would have been risky as shit, she said. I didn't want you there either. He probably was just weighing how dangerous it was.


They will grab you and they will put you in a box and they will take you away from me.


Yeah, I said, even though I knew it wasn't that. Yeah. Maybe.


**


I woke up later on my bed, even though I didn't remember getting there. It was dark outside, and I could smell the steam from the shower. I sat up, gave myself a minute to get my bearings, and went into the bathroom, holding onto the wall for support.


Brian looked up when I opened the shower door. Hey, I was gonna get you after this. How was Daphne?


You didn't want me to die alone, I said.


I stared at him, waiting for him to deny it. Yell at me. Cry. Anything.


He was still for a while, suds in his hair, and then he said, Would you prefer that I wanted you to die alone?


“Jesus Christ, Brian.”


There was an edge of irritation in him. What does it matter now? You didn't die.


“I just...” And God, what could I even say? The things that I ask him to do for me, the feelings that I ask him to have, the fucking duty that he owes to me and this relationship...how do you wake up next to somebody you love everyday and ask him to do that? How do you kiss him and send him off to work and expect him to be able to bear this? “Fuck, Brian, are you okay? I am so sorry, I can't—”


Stop, he said, in my face, dead fucking serious. You stop that right now. You understand me?


“Yeah.”


No, you...you understand me, okay, but I want to see you say it, you got it? This happened to you. You were almost killed by your fucking medication that's supposed to save your life. You had seizures for a week. You dislocated your shoulder. You got pneumonia. You couldn't see your friends or your baby. You almost died.


I watched him.


Say it, he said.


It happened to me.


What did?


I got sick. I almost died.


He was bent down at my eye level, his gaze fixed on me. Yes. Now. Are you okay?


I thought I was going to say yes, I really did. I was all fucking ready. And then, somehow...it was that voice in my head again. The one you can't ignore. Shake your head and start bawling your fucking eyes out.


So I did, and Brian said, That's right, that's right, and his arms came around me and held me so tight.


“I'm not okay. I'm not okay.”


He nodded and kissed my cheek.

 

I took as deep a breath as I could. “I will be,” I said into his chest, like a promise, a benediction. “I will be.”

Chapter 86 - Atypical by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Set two weeks or so after "Stop." A follow-up of sorts to "Typical," this time from Brian's perspective. What a day looks like right now.

Atypical

LaVieEnRose



7:13 AM


I woke up to Justin smacking me in the fucking face, little, ineffectual hits with the backs of his hands. He's always been squirmy in his sleep, and I've learned to sleep through it and just roll around with him for the most part, but ever since he got sick it'd been worse. He was still wearing oxygen to sleep, or at least he was allegedly, because he kept taking off his fucking cannula flailing around. I reached up, eyes, still closed, and felt around his nose to see if it was still in. No. Of course. And then he sneezed on me for thanks. Christ. The pneumonia had largely cleared up, but he was still dealing with a sinus infection and infections in both ears, one of which was pretty nasty. His home nurse said in anyone else they'd be worried about hearing loss from it. Wouldn't that have been kind of hilarious? Justin never loses his hearing, we get through all this shit with his seizures, and in the end he goes deaf from a bad cold.


He sniffled and batted my hand away from his face. “Itchy,” he mumbled.


I scooted up the bed and kissed his neck until he opened his eyes. His skin was warm, but that was to be expected. He'd been running fevers at night pretty regularly, but they usually went down once he was up. Or as up as he was getting these days, anyway. Mostly he was just rotating between naps in various places of the apartment: the couch, a nest of pillows on the floor, the bay window, the bathroom floor one time when he was too tired to make it back to bed.


Up, I told him.


He made a hmmph, noise and rubbed his face.


I got up and smacked his legs with the pillow. Up, you lazy twat. You wake me up before my alarm, you're gonna jerk me off in the shower.


Back to sleep.


Up. You need breakfast before I go. Hazel demands I hand you over with a full tank of gas. It's in the rental agreement. Hazel was his nurse who stayed with him during the day. I liked her, as nurses go—I'm generally not a fan—and she and Justin got along pretty well for a relationship that consistented mostly of pointing and nodding and medicating.


Speaking of. I counted out pills while he gave some very wheezy version of a yawn, handed him a bottle of water, and took his temperature out of the less-diseased of his two ears. He swore it didn't hurt, which was...fucking hard to believe. 101.2, I told him. Good. Same as yesterday morning, right?


He nodded and yawned again. I lifted his chin and gave him a slow kiss until he had to pull away to breathe.


Shower, I told him. You're gross. He wasn't—he gets all warm and soft when he's sick and...look, it works—but he needed the steam first thing in the morning. The antibiotics took care of all the fucking bacteria in his lungs, but they were still clogged all to shit and his breathing sounded like when you scrape ice off your fucking car. He had to just keep coughing until they were clear, no way around it, but it was painful for him and he had enough time gathering enough air to even do it in the first place. The steam helped.


I helped him up and put a hand under his elbow on the way to the bathroom, but he could make that distance okay on his own, really. I kissed his cheek and nudged him towards the scale before I started the shower.


He stepped on it and said, “Up a fifth from yesterday.”


That's nothing.


It's a fifth.


You haven't even pissed yet.


Stop micromanaging my dick. He stepped into the shower and shook his hair in the spray.


“Mmm.” I kissed him. Nothing micro about it.


We made out for a while under the spray, but he got shaky fast, so he sat down on the stool I finally thought to buy and I let him jerk me off like the charitable fucker I am. I needed to find some tactful way to ask Hazel when he'd be up for blow jobs again, but this worked for now; Justin was all sleepy and sexy, and I finished fast, well before the steam hit his lungs and he started coughing. Good boy, I said, and he made a face like he didn't love the compliment, as if I was going to buy that, before he doubled over and coughed for a long, long time. I washed my hair.


 


**


 


7:40 AM


I set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast and a protein shake in front of Justin. Leave your nose alone. Clean your plate. Hazel, working in tandem with the hospital, had him on a 3500 calorie a day diet to try to put back on some of the twenty-two fucking pounds he's dropped over the past two months, which any regular idiot would be overjoyed to follow, but he was still having a lot of trouble with his appetite, not to mention with just finding the fucking breath control to eat. I gave him a heating pad to hold onto his bad ear and drank a cup of coffee while I leafed through the paper. DOW's up 410 today, I said.


“About time.”


Speaking of...think it's about time we start looking for a new place? Maybe this is a sign.


“A one day bump in the stock market is our sign?”


When did you become such a cynic? It was going to be a long process anyway, listing the apartment, finding a buyer. And it would be at least half a year before he'd be healthy enough to move.


He waved his fork at me dismissively. “I don't want to move.”


I could be closer to work, you could get your bath tub...


“Anywhere closer to work is gonna be farther from my studio, and Evan.”


Evan's not going to be in Washington Heights forever, so help me God, and if we move to the East side we're closer to Molly, Emily and the baby, Derek and Daphne...work...


Studio.


We can get a place that's big enough for studio space inside of it.


“Oh, we cannot.”


I laughed a little. Okay, maybe not, but we can find you a new studio.


I like my studio.


You'd also like a bath tub.


He pushed his plate away.


Justin. He'd barely fucking touched it.


If I eat any more right now I'm gonna throw up. I told you I can't stand eating first thing like this.


Not first thing. Drink the shake, at least. I still hadn't gotten used to this role reversal, me nagging him over food.


I'll work on it.


You gotta keep your strength up.


He sneezed and cleared his throat. For my long day of coughing?


Yeah. The doorbell rang, and I finished my mug and went to answer the door. Hazel was already scrubbing herself with hand sanitizer up to the elbows. See, I told you I liked her. I knew Justin didn't like having a nurse here, but he was being a good sport about it. I couldn't keep staying home, and he didn't have nearly the immunity required to come to the office with me, let alone ride the fucking subway, but he just wasn't up to being alone yet. He couldn't get around the apartment well on his own and he didn't have the energy to make himself food or keep track of his meds. He just needed a hand right now, and if it happened to be from someone with seizure training, so much the better.


“Hey, sugar,” she said. Every time. “How's he doing today?”


“He's good. Got him to shower and he ate a little. I think he's feeling better than yesterday.”


“Fever this morning?”


“Yeah, and his breathing's bad, and he says he's nauseous. He's sneezy and that ear still looks like a fucking nightmare.”


She set her bag down. “Did you try doing a compress?” She was always leaving me with homework.


“Yeah, last night. I don't know if it helped.”


“All right, we'll keep trying.”


I went around to the living room side of the counter and helped Justin off his stool. I gotta run, I said to him.


He nodded heavily and waved to Hazel, and I tilted his head up and kissed him. He pulled away after a few seconds and rested his hand on my chest. “Need to lie down,” he said. He was wheezing pretty badly and his eyes were already falling shut. He'd been awake for almost an hour at that point, and that was about as long as he could go in a stretch.


Yeah, that's fine. She's used to you being boring, I said.


He yawned and coughed. Fuck off.


Have a good day, dear, I said. Cough up lots of shit for me.


Kinky, he said, flopping down on the couch.


 


**


 


8:42 AM


I picked up my coffee from Emily's desk on my way into Kinnetik. Jenkins contract? I asked her.


On your desk. Isabel wants to know if she can meet with you at ten instead of nine-thirty, she's running late.


What time's the stemware meeting?


Eleven.


Yeah, okay.


How's the patient?


He's fine. My standard response, because how the fuck else do you describe what's going on? He still couldn't have visitors, not until his blood tests were a little better, so there was no point in worrying them about him when there was nothing they could do but give him time and space. And besides, I mean, Jesus, compared to how he had been? He was fucking phenomenal. He was the fucking picture of health. How's Molly? Molly had been living on Emily's couch for two weeks now and was showing no signs of stopping. We'll get to that.


Emily wrinkled her nose. She's going out with some friends tonight, so that's good. Does Justin know anything about...?


He does not, and we're going to keep it that way. He has enough to worry about.


Okay, but she can't stay there forever. My sex life was just getting back to normal. Now I don't know how loud I can be.


I shook my head a little, admirning. Reminiscing. Deaf sex is a miracle. Justin was gonna be well someday. Someday. Someday.


Don't I know it.


I cleared my throat. Anyway, Molly's slept on my couch too. Trust me, she's heard worse. I raised my coffee cup to her and headed towards the stairs. Tell billing I need those estimates for next month before this meeting! They get until ten now.


On it.


I took the stairs down to the basement, doing my best to ignore the pitches of three different guys asking me for more money or more time off or could Kinnetik do a campain for their shitty business idea, and waltzed my way into the art department. I could smell the paint and glue as soon as I walked in, and I stopped and took a deep breath through my nose. It's like a damn sedative.


I waved across the art room to get Evan's attention. Fifth of a pound.


He blew air out of his mouth. That's nothing.


He's trying.


Breathing?


Still bad. Fever's low.


How's that gross ear?


So fucking gross. You have a card? Evan had been making Justin Get Well cards everyday, just little jokey things, but he's a good artist so they were usually pretty nice. And Justin liked them.


Not yet. Are you going home for lunch?


Nope! Whole day! Office! Working!


Evan gave me a skeptical look that I...might have completely deserved. It was possible that I hadn't yet spent a whole day here without having to go back to the apartment for some reason or another. Sue me, Justin's a demanding little shit, and he gets on Facetime with those eyes and that cough of his and I'm only a fucking child of men, here.


There were some guys here installing our new copy machine, and I made eyes at one of them on my way out of the art department and got a blow job half a stairway up by the electrical closet. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander.


 


**


 


10:04 AM


“So sorry I'm late,” Isabel said. “My daughter has the flu and...it's a whole thing. How's Justin doing?”


“He's fine,” I said, and after the meeting I scrubbed myself raw.


 


**


 


12:08 PM


My office phone rang a bit before lunch. A rarer occurance than you might think; Sam, our receptionist, knows I don't ever fucking want to talk to anyone. Most people get told I'm in a meeting, or, if they're really persistant, they get moved on to Emily and the relay service, which usually scares them away. People will fucking run for the hills before they'll have a slightly awkward interaction with a Deaf person. Remarkable.


I picked up my phone. “Kinney.”


“Schmidt,” he said, in what I assume was meant to be an imitation of my voice. “You see the DOW?”


“Sure did.”


“Could have sworn you'd be calling me begging to sell something.”


“Eh, not yet. Saving up for a pony for Justin.”


“How's he doing?”


“The real reason you've called.” I put on the voice and everything, but I can't say I was all that bothered by people wanting to know how Justin was doing. He almost fucking died, and I was not in the slighest bit interested in letting them call Justin with their neuroses about it, nor was he really up for keeping up with his communications yet. He'd send a few texts before bed every night and Facetime with the baby a few times a week. Besides that he was off the grid. It was just too damn much for him at this point, trying to keep up with everything, trying to fucking manage all the worry coming at him from a dozen directions. Which was fine. I'm the managerial type, if you haven't noticed.


“It's all anyone here's talking about,” he said. “So how's he doing?”


“He's good,” I said. “He's doing very well.”


Ted sighed. “I'm so relieved. Will be a big relief to see him.”


“That's not gonna be for a while.”


“Well, Thanksgiving's in two weeks, so I figured...”


I actually laughed out loud. “We're not coming to Thanksgiving.”


“You're not?”


“Jesus, absolutely not.” Obviously getting on a train or a fucking airplane with him was out of the question, but even if I drove us there, there's no way he had the immune system or the fucking stamina to deal with all of them for the holiday.


“Christmas?” Ted said.


“I would be shocked.”


“I don't understand,” Ted said. “You said he was doing well.”


“He is, he's...” Jesus, how do you fucking explain this? How do you explain that two weeks before you were watching him die on your bathroom floor so at this point you're not really broken up over the fact that he's not up for a fucking vacation?


Well, if you're talking to Theodore Schmidt, you use numbers.


I said, “In a healthy person who gets pneumonia—so we're talking your average fucker, your yous or mes—you can see cloudy lungs on a chest x-ray six months after they get over pneumonia. Six months, and their lungs still aren't completely clear. And he hasn't had a single chest x-ray in all of this, we don't even know what kind of long-term effect this might have for his lungs, if there's any kind of scarring or permanent damage, because we can't get him to a hospital, we can't even get him through the door right now. He's got all these concurrent infections we still need to take care of, and he's so immunocopromised that fighting those off is a whole 'nother ordeal. So he's all day dragging around this congestion in his lungs, barely able to breathe, trying to fight off this other shit...he's tired. He's so fucking tired. I can't bring him home for Thanksgiving. I can't even bring him out to the fucking sidewalk. He'd fall asleep and then he'd die.”


“So...how long are we talking?”


“There might not...be the kind of nice little endpoint you're looking for. He's on oxygen at night now, he won't always be. He's taking antibiotics, he won't always be. His immune system will come back, I don't know when the fuck. His lungs will clear up, if they're not scarred. He'll get some energy back. But this is measured in months. Maybe a year.”


“Fuck.”


“Yeah.”


“What about his career?”


“It'll wait.” What other fucking choice was there? Get up, Justin, start painting, the art world is forgetting you? If Justin could make himself well because he was scared of wasting time, the kid would never be sick a day in his life.


“So you're just going to do this for a year?”


“I'm not doing anything,” I said, and okay, maybe I was getting a pissed off at that point, sue me. “I'm sitting at my desk right now, I'm living my fucking life, he's living his. We're just not coming home for Thanksgiving.”


“All right, well, you better be the one to tell Debbie. I'm not doing it for you.”


“Okay, thank you. I don't have enough on my plate right now, so that's good.”


“I thought everything was all hunky-dory.”


“Theodore.”


“All right, all right. I do need to go over this budget proposal with you,” he said, and then he talked my ear off with that boring shit for twenty minutes while I got steadily more and more irritated, and when I finally got off the call I did a lap around the offices to cool myself down and barked at a few interns and got scolded by Emily and when that didn't take the edge off, gave up and called my little human Xanax.


He was awake, though I woudn't really have felt bad about waking him if he wasn't; the one upside of all this was that insomnia was a thing of the past. Kid was falling asleep in the middle of sentences. He had the nebulizer mask on and he was curled up in the armchair under his favorite blue blanket. He gave me a little wave and then tried to paw at his nose even though a fucking mask was there.


I breathed out and felt everything just...I don't know. Get quiet, no pun intended. Hey, Sunshine.


He coughed a little. “Hi, Brian.” His voice was muffled through the mask, soft.


You doing okay?


He nodded and adjusted the blanket, and just doing those two damn things exhausted him so much that he rested his head against the wing on the chair and panted for a bit.


You look nice, I said.


He smiled at me.


Have you eaten?


A little. He sneezed and rubbed his chest. Nothing tastes right.


Because you're stuffed up.


Yeah. He gave this small sigh. I was going to call you soon, actually. We got test results.


You're just bringing this up now? Hazel had taken his blood a few days before and sent it in so we could find out what the fuck his white blood cell count was. Normal was over four thousand. When they first diagnosed him, at his neurologist's office, he'd been at 380. They said he was lucky he wasn't getting infections just from the normal bacteria you have in your fucking mouth.


He'd been on meds now for two weeks to try to bring his white count up, so we were hoping...


He said, Yeah, because it's shitty news.


How bad?


620.


Damn it. I sighed.


I'm sorry, he said.


Don't fucking apologize, you're trying. You okay?


I'm fine, I just...I'd like to leave this fucking apartment someday. He couldn't go anywhere until he was above a thousand or have any company—with masks and gloves and a strict no-touching policy—until eight hundred.


At least it's higher, I said.


I don't want to talk about it anymore.


Yeah, okay.


He shrugged a little. What's up with you, rough day?


Just annoying. Ted had to call and talk my ear off about Pittsburgh budget shit. Martin messed up the contracts for Eyeconic so I had to get those redone and Madge is pissed.


He watched me, his eyes closing.


I laughed. You're falling asleep.


No I'm not.


Sure. Try to eat.


Try not to kill Martin.


After I hung up I sat there for a minute, tapping my fingers on the desk, and finally I mumbled, “Oh, fuck it,” and went down to the art department. Evan had his head down, sketching on one of the drafting tables, his tongue in his cheek in concentration, looking so much like Justin when he focuses that it made my chest hurt a little for my boy who couldn't stay awake long enough to draw a stick figure. Christ, this month had taken a toll on my game face.


I knocked on the drafting table and he saw my hand and looked up. It took him about half a second to read my face and roll his eyes.


You are so predictable, he said.


Yeah. You have a card?


I have a card. Hang on.


I nodded and tapped my foot impatiently.


 


**


 


1:24 PM


Hazel gave me the same look Evan did. “Don't you have to work one of these days?” she said while I hung up my coat and set a box on the counter. “What the hell do you executive types do?”


I went to the kitchen and started scrubbing my hands. “I'll have you know I made an intern cry today. Duties filled. How's he doing?”


“He's good. Walked from the bedroom to the kitchen on his own.”


I swished some Listerine around my mouth and spit. “Six twenty?”


“I was hoping for higher too. And he's fighting me on food. I think he's getting less scared of me, so that's a bummer.”


I gestured toward the box. “Eclairs.”


“Steaks would be better.”


“He'll eat eclairs.”


“Y'know, I still think some IV antibiotics would have him feeling so much better. I don't know how he's not screaming with that ear like that.”


“I agree with you, but the PICC line sounds like a fucking death trap.” That's an IV line that goes from a vein in your arm up through your superior vena cava—basically, right into your heart. It lasts a lot longer than an IV into a weak vein like the back of your hand or some shit, but...“He gets an infection from that, he gets endocartitis, then what.” He had to shave with an electric razor so he wouldn't risk cutting his skin, he spiked a fever for two days and had his whole arm swell up from the blood draw, but sure, let's stick something into his heart. More importantly, Justin didn't want to do it.


“Then you get off the internet, that's what.”


“He can't get into the hospital to get it inserted anyway, and you keep being a disappointment who can't do it here.”


“Okay, I show up here one morning and you've built me a surgical wing, I'll give him a PICC line.”


“See, now we're negotiating.” I dried my hands. “This is what the executives do all day, by the way.”


“Oh, go feed him some eclairs.”


Justin was asleep in the armchair, exactly where he'd been when I hung up the phone. I grabbed the box from the bakery, pulled up the ottoman to sit on, and kissed Justin's warm cheek. It took him a couple slow blinks to successfully open his eyes. Fucking precious as shit.


“Heyyy,” he said. He scooted over a little, and I rolled my eyes at him but crammed myself into the arm chair as best I could. He slung his legs over my lap and rested his head on his chest. “You're supposed to be making us money.”


Nobody there was telling me how amazing I was. Here. I handed him the box.


He opened it, then snuggled against my shirt. Brian, you're amazing.


That's more like it.


He slowly worked his way through an eclair while I just...decompressed, I guess, hanging out in the armchair with my cheek resting on top of his head, listening to his scratchy breathing. He got tired halfway through and turned himself into me, panting, and I massaged the palm of his bad hand. I knew I needed to get back to work soon, but fuck, he was warm and sleepy and he seemed sick today, and his legs on top of me were making it kind of hard to move.


You don't have to worry so much, he said. Really, I'm okay. I'm sad about the number, I'm not like...I'll be fine.


I'm not worried.


You keep coming home in the middle of the day.


Yeah, well, I keep having crappy days.


Oh, yeah, what's wrong with them?


I have to talk to people, advertising is boring, my boyfriend's sick...


He gave me a look, and I wrinkled my nose at him.


You can't be comfortable all balled up like this, I said. Let me put you back in bed.


He shook his head. I hate staying in bed all day.


I lifted his chin to kiss around his neck, and he hummed and smiled.


You have to go, he said.


Yeah, I know. I put my hand on his chest and listened to his junky damn wheezing. You want oxygen?


He shrugged.


Yeah, that means yes. “Hazel?”


She brought the oxygen tank out here and got him set up, and I put drops in his ears and made out with him for a while and then got the hell back to work.


 


**


 


4:12 PM


Daphne called right as I was finishing up an email to Brown. “Hey, you have a second?” I said. I'd texted her a few hours ago asking me to call me when she had a chance.


“Maybe sixty. What's up?”


“I've been thinking about what we talked about.”


“Okay.”


“I think...yeah, I think if you can, postpone.”


“Yeah?”


“His white blood cell count is 620.”


“Christ. How the fuck did he fight off that pneumonia?”


“At this point I'm thinking sheer force of will.” I leaned forward onto my desk. “If it was just a matter of him still being tired from the pneumonia, he'd work around that, but at this point I don't know if he's going to have the immune system for travel and a crowd six months from now.”


“Okay,” she said. “I'll talk to Derek.”


I said, “If there are fees or anything—”


“Stop.”


“No. You're rescheduling for us, we want to pay.”


“Do you realize how much money his mother has? We're not hurting here. You want to worry about something? Be worried about how the fuck you're going to tell Justin we're postponing.”


“You could always do it for me.”


“Yeah, you're right. I have to rearrange an entire wedding, but I definitely have time to reassure Justin about it.”


I groaned.


“So...how are you going to tell him?”


“What do you mean? I'm just going to fucking tell him.”


“You think he's going to be fine with that?”


“No, he's going to fucking hate it, but what's the other option, tell him no, your mom just couldn't make it that weekend so we're pushing it forward six months? He's sick, he's not stupid.”


I heard Daphne talk to someone on her end, then she said, “I've got to go, we have a car accident coming in.”


“All right. Break a...well.”


 


6:25 PM


“I like you getting home this early,” Justin said. He was sitting at the counter, propped up on his elbow while I heated up pork chops, sniffling into a tissue now that he was done sneezing fifty times. “I should almost die more often.”


Is that even possible?


“It's important to have goals. Don't overcook those.” He sneezed four times and fussed with his sinuses. “Oh my God, enough.”


Do you think you even have allergies right now with your immune system this shot?


“I don't know. Feed me some walnuts.” He leaned his head against the wall looking at me warmly, and I reached across and the counter and batted at his cheek.


Go sit at the table, I'm almost done here. You need a hand?


“Let me see.” He got off the stool and was wobbly immediately. “Yes, definitely.”


I got him into the kitchen and at the table and poured a glass of water for him and a beer for me. I loaded his plate up with meat and vegetables and sat down across from him, and we chatted about our days—reading and sleeping for him, you already heard the spiel for me—for a while. He took a break halfway through eating to sit with the nebulizer, and I got up and cleaned the kitchen and sent a few texts and checked the time.


“Can I have the other eclair for dessert?” Justin asked me.


How old are you? Why are you asking me permission?


“You bought them.”


Because I'm trying to fatten you up, Twiggy. Go wild. Finish your dinner first.


He shoved a fork full of string beans into his mouth, and I finished Lysoling every surface known to man—I'd even fucking spray down Evan's cards before Justin handled them—and sat back down at the table. He offered me a sip of his protein shake and I snorted and shook my head. Those things are nasty.


I took a deep breath and said, I talked to Daphne today.


Everything okay?


Yeah. You can't tell him she was interrupted by some big car accident; he'd be on the internet in thirty seconds looking up the victims and crying like he knew them. Kid's gonna fucking choke on his own heart someday. So she and Derek decided to postpone the wedding.


I told you I didn't want that.


I know.


Did you tell her that you think they should?


Yeah, I did.


He wheeze-sighed and sat back in his chair, taking a pissed-off pull on the nebulizer.


I know, I said. I get it, okay? You don't want to cause a fuss, you don't want to be a complication. But they don't want to get married without you, and that's their choice, not yours. And you can't be ready in six months.


Yes I can.


Justin.


Six months is so long, he said. I'm going to be better in six months. I have to be.


You have to understand that there's a kind of baggage there—a kind of need—that I don't get, that I'm fucking never going to get. The closest experience I have is when I had cancer, and that was ten thousand years ago and lasted two months, and I had a whole fucking horde of people telling me exactly what to expect and when I was going to feel better. Justin was flying blind here, and all he had were ten people, all but two of them who he couldn't even be in the same room with, telling him he had to be patient and tough and more fucking careful than is literally biologically possible, or he was going to die. Of course he needed this to be fucking over. He was scared to wake up every morning. He was scared to breathe. He was scared to touch me. And now he had to sit there and accept that that wasn't going to be over six months from now?


Yeah, he did, but don't pretend that's not a monstrous thing to ask.


So I said, I know this is frustrating.


You have no idea.


You're going to sit there and be a bitch to me? I'm looking out for you.


Fine. He turned off the nebuilzer. “Tell me why it's fine for me to still be like this six months from now.”


No one's talking about not making any progress between now and six months, I said. It's just going to be slow. It's fucked up, but we have to just be patient.


“We.”


I sighed. You.


He pulled his legs up onto his chair.


Everyone's willing to wait, I said.


Not everyone.


Can instead of sitting there being pissy about people fucking rescheduling a wedding for you, maybe you take a second to appreciate that people love you enough to reschedule a wedding for you? Not everything is a fucking insult. Would it goddamn kill you to let people be nice to you? Does it really have to be the end of your fucking world every time?


He stared me down.


Everything is going to be the same six months from now, I said, and maybe you're the fucking genius who sees the trap I'd just set and walked right the fuck into. Everyone is willing to wait for you.


He slammed his palm down on the table and said, “Bullshit,” and yeah, that's when I got it.


Justin, I said, after giving him a minute, but he shook his head and looked away. I checked my watch, cursed under my breath, and got his attention. I have to go.


Okay.


I stood up and put my plate in the sink. Finish eating and be in bed by the time I get back, okay?


Yeah.


Justin.


I'm fine, go.


 


**


 


7:12 PM


Running late, Emily said.


Give me a break, I'm a tight schedule here.


You're the one who won't take a night off.


It's not for me. I waved to Gwen and headed to the living room, where Janie was sitting on her mat, picking up rubber bands and dropping them into a cup. She was signing to herself with her other hand—not really saying anything I could decipher, just babbling, but it was fucking cool to see her working it out.


I stomped on the floor until she looked over—she just learned that one recently—and she gave me that fucking smile and crawled over. There she is, there's my girl. I let her crawl over and then scooped her up. She smelled like baby shampoo and her thin curls were still damp. I kissed her cheek three times and squeezed her until she squeaked. How are you?


She signed something that was maybe a proto-version of Cup and pointed to her mat.


Yeah, I can see that. You want to show me? Come on. I brought her back to her mat and sat her down.


Put her by the table, Gwen said. Maybe she'll show you her new trick.


Yeah, I told Justin I'd try to get it recorded. She won't do it on Facetime; she gets so fucking excited when she sees Justin that I'll she'll do is squeal and show him her toys. I set her down by the table and put her cup and rubber bands on it and said, Hey, you want to get them? but she made a noise like an angry pterodactyl, so I said, All right, jeez, and got them back down for her. She peacefully took all the rubber bands out of the cup and handed them to me one by one.


So Molly really did go out? I said to Gwen.


She nodded. I think it's the first time she's gone anywhere besides to class. You've got to talk to her.


This is girl shit.


No, you pig, this is Justin shit. This is on you.


Jesus, what the fuck isn't. Yeah, okay. I set one of Janie's rubber bands up on the table, and she looked up at it thoughtfully.


How's he doing? Gwen asked me.


He's...today was rough. His lungs were giving him more trouble than they have been, and he got tests back and he's not improving as quickly as he wanted, and he found out Daphne and Derek are going to push the wedding back for him and he's...you know. Being very Justin about it.


Jane signed Mom at Emily as she walked by and pointed to the rubber band on the table.


You want it? You can get it yourself, Emily told her.


It must be fucking awful feeling like that for this long, Gwen said. And knowing it's not going away any time soon.


Oh, absolutely, it's a fucking nightmare. I just don't know what the fuck he wants me to do about it that I'm not already doing.


Probably nothing, Gwen said, and I didn't have a lot of time to just...sit there and fucking let that sink in, because she pointed at the baby and I grabbed my phone. Sure enough, Jane grabbed the edge of the table and pulled herself to standing.


Emily kissed the top of her head. Did you get it? she asked me.


Got it.


Emily waved at camera. Hi, Justin. We miss you.


 


**


8:48 PM


Justin had done the dishes when I got home, which I guess was impressive, but really it just meant he'd probably worn himself the fuck out doing something I could have handled in a minute and a half. He was in bed, coughing and crying a little bit into his pillow. I couldn't touch him until I'd fucking sanitized myself and I figured he'd probably want a minute anyway, so I stepped on the creaky floorboards by the bed so he'd know I was there and went and took a shower and brushed my teeth. I crawled up behind him on the bed after, trying not to drip on him so he wouldn't get chilled, and dropped kisses on his neck and shoulders until he rolled over and looked at me.


“Hey,” he said softly.


I lay my finger gently over his lips. Too healthy for that shit now. Here. I helped him get the oxygen cannula in place. He let me.


How is she? he asked.


She's real good. Come here.


He backed into me and I rubbed his back for a while, feeling those wheezy breaths leak out of him. He sniffled and wiped his eyes on his sleeve every so often.


I know you don't want to talk about it, I said after a while. But I'm so damn sorry you feel this bad.


He rested his cheek against my hand.


I can't fucking imagine not knowing when you're going to feel okay again.


He cleared his throat. Did she pull up tonight?


Yeah, you want to see?


He nodded, and I helped him prop up against me and pulled the video up on my phone. I watched him instead of the video, the smile that broke over his face when she stood. God, she's so strong.


I put my nose in his hair. Yeah, she is.


She remembers me, right?


You talk to her every day, come on.


What if she thinks I don't care about her because I don't come to see her?


I think that's probably a little sophisticated for her. She only stood up because she wanted a rubber band.


Justin laughed and cried a little bit, and I nudged his head into the crook of my shoulder and massaged the back of his neck.


She's waiting for you, I said after a minute. She's not going anywhere. Nobody is.


He swallowed and nodded a little.


Take your time, I said.

 

Chapter 87 - Sister Winter by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Molly's having a hard time going back to normal after the events of "Pause" and "Stop."

Sister Winter

LaVieEnRose



Justin's the one who told me what was going on with his immune system, back when it all started.


So they have to take me off my anticonvulsant right away, he said. He was pacing the apartment while he talked to me. Brian, he'd told me, was at the pharmacy, picking up supplies or whatever. So I'm probably going to be off the grid for like a week.


I was in my dorm, surrounded by study guides for my physics midterm and cliff notes of four books I was supposed to have read. You're going to be having seizures for a week?


My roommate yelled, “Hey, Molly's doing sign language!” out our door, and like three people came in to gawk at me. It was this running game on my floor, catch Molly signing! Never mind that, you know, she was trying to have a fucking conversation. They wanted to look at how cute and quirky my signing was. Imagine if they'd known I was talking about fucking seizures.


That's the plan, he said. It's been a couple months since I scared the shit out of Brian. We were getting bored.


How the fuck are you going to be safe? You should wear a helmet.


I really should wear a helmet. No, Brian's not going to let me be upright anyway.


Kinky.


One must hope.


I don't even fucking know what to say, I said.


People think I'm some sort of expert at this, but the thing is, when I was growing up, Justin was healthy. Even after he got hurt and he started having seizures, everyone sheltered me from it for such a long time. It wasn't until he started losing his hearing when I was fourteen that anybody even fucking thought to clue me in to what was going on to my own fucking brother, and not until I came back here for college that anyone started looking at me like a fucking adult who deserves to be told things while they're happening.


I'm going to be fine, Justin said. It's going to be a shitty week and then I'll be fine.


What about this immune system thing?


“God, this is so cool,” my roommate's friend said.


That's why I'm gonna be locked in here like fucking Rapunzel for a while. They're giving me meds to boost my white count, in a week or two I'll be good as new.


Okay, um, I have finals coming up, and this paper, but I can talk to my—


He furrowed his brow. Molly, you're fine, I don't need anything from you. You keep doing your shit, and Brian's going to text you through all of this and keep you updated, okay? And in a couple weeks this will be a dumb story of the time Justin's meds fucked him up again.


Yeah, I said. Okay.


So...you know. He was still trying to coddle me, and that was not what happened. I didn't look Justin in the eye and talk to him again for over a month.


**


Brian texted me every day during the ordeal, never anything detailed, just, still having seizures, still alive. But about a week and a half after it all started, when Justin himself had texted me the day before telling me he was doing a lot better and the worst was behind them now, Brian called me when I was walkng to class. I took off one of my gloves and rooted around my jacket pocket for my phone. “What's wrong?” I said. He never calls me.


“Molly,” he said, and he sounded almost like he was surprised that it was me, which made no sense at all since he'd called me. “Hey. So Justin's sick, okay?”


“What are you talking about?”


“He...he's sick, honey.”


“Why are you calling me that?” It sounded like a joke. Like he was mocking me. That's the only way I can explain it, because it was so super not Brian.


“You need to go home.” His voice was wrong, like he was the one who was sick.


“I'm...on campus, I have class.”


“No, to Pittsburgh, you need to go home to Pittsburgh. Your mom wants you home.”


“That makes...Brian, what the fuck, why does my mom want me in Pittsburgh if Justin's sick here?”


“I don't have time to fucking play she-said she-said with you two,” he snapped. “Your mother wants you home, I want you with someone, can you please not argue with me and just go to the airport. I'll buy your ticket and text you a boarding pass.”


“You're not buying me shit. I'm not leaving the fucking state if something...what is going on with Justin? Let me talk to him.”


“He can't talk right now.”


“Then I'm going to class,” I said, even though I totally wasn't, I was just trying to like...blackmailing Brian or something. Like he would be so upset about me, I don't know, threatening to attend a lecture that he would put Justin on the phone? I know it doesn't make any sense.


There was a pause, and then he said “Go to your dorm.”


“I'm not—”


“You don't have to go to Pittsburgh, just go be in your fucking dorm until I figure out what to do with you. Shit. I have to go.”


“Brian—” I said, but he was gone. I stood there on that stupid sidewalk and stared at my phone and wondered why the fuck all these people walking past me were just continuing on as if everything was normal. How my fucking world could be coming apart like this and nobody around me could give less of a shit.


That feeling didn't really go away.


I don't even remember going back to my dorm. I just know at some point I was sitting on my bed still staring at my fucking phone and there was a knock on my door. It was Gwen, still in her scrubs from the animal hospital where she works.


Hey, she said. She held up an empty duffel bag. Let's pack up everything you need for a little while, okay? Clothes, laptop. Stuff for school.


Are we going to Justin's?


She shook her head. We think you should come stay with us for a while.


You mean Brian thinks.


She squeezed my arm. Come on. I'll help you pack. Emily's making a bed for you. You can hang out with the baby.


She started talking more once we were on the subway. So I don't know too much, she said, even though I hadn't asked. I'd just been staring at this stupid poster in front of me. It was some mattress advertisement and it was all these different drawings of different animals lying on mattresses, and I couldn't figure it out. I dont know. Nothing was making sense.


Okay, I said.


I know Daphne went over there last night.


I thought he couldn't have visitors.


Brian made an exception, I guess.


I tilted my head back.


She said she was going to come over after work and tell us what was going on.


So she did. Her shift ended and she sat with me on the sheet covering the couch while Emily paced with the baby and Gwen twisted her hands in her lap. She told us that Justin had pneumonia and a high fever and she'd gone over there last night and gotten him oxygen and the strongest antibiotics he wasn't allergic to, and that they couldn't go to the hospital because his immune system wasn't strong enough.


How the fuck does a person get too sick for a hospital? Isn't that like being too dead for a graveyard?


Emily and Gwen asked a lot of questions, how was he when you saw him (mostly asleep), was he scared (no, didn't seem to be), can Brian handle this (yes). Gwen told Emily that we needed to eat, should we order pizza or something, and Emily nodded and gave me the baby and she and Gwen went to another room for a minute, because I guess ordering pizza is some kind of group activity. I sat Jane on my knee and bounced her a little.


Daphne ran a finger down Jane's leg and then said said, softly, “Do you have any questions for me?”


I had nothing but questions, but somehow none of them were turning into words, or signs. I took a deep breath and looked down at the top of Jane's head.


I knew she couldn't hear me, but I still felt like I shouldn't ask if her father was going to live with her sitting right there.


So I just shook my head.


“Okay,” she said. “Well, if you think of anything—” but then the light started flashing in the entryway for their doorbell. Daphne answered the door and Evan was there. Justin's boyfriend. They think I don't know but y'know.


He was holding a bunch of plastic bags and he said, “Brian told me to come here, I...I brought food, I should cook. Someone should cook for you guys.”


Daphne ushered him in and I went to tell the girls to stop ordering pizza, I guess, and Evan set the bags down on the counter and came over and kissed Jane. He gave me a long look and squeezed my arm but didn't say anything.


We were sitting there in silence, except for Jane, who was banging on the tray of her high chair, eating whatever Evan cooked, I don't remember, but halfway through Daphne's phone started ringing. She checked it, signed Brian's name, and Emily, Gwen, and Evan all waved for her to take it. Daphne held the phone up to her ear. “Hey. Okay, slow down. Can I hear? Just hold the phone...yeah, okay.” She got up and walked a few steps away from the table.


Emily waved her hand at me. What's going on?


Hang on.


“Yeah, try sitting him up a little. What? No, you can...yeah, you can adjust it. You don't want to do it too high beuase it won't be comfortable and it can actually suppress...yeah, exactly. You can just test it and see how it feels on you. Has he...okay. Yeah, you can keep those coming, it's fine. He needs to—right. Okay. You're on it. Do you want...are you sure. Okay. Okay.”


I don't know, I said to Emily.


“Yeah, that's...do a Benadryl or a Klonopin, something to calm him down.”


He's uspet, I said.


Brian?


No. Justin.


“Yeah, be reassuring,” Daphne said. “Just calm voice, hands...yeah, well, it's scary. He's going to be scared. No, he doesn't...Brian. No. He doesn't. Listen, I'm at Emily's, I can be there in...okay. All right. Okay. Well...call if you change your mind. Yeah. Send him out love.” She hung up and stayed where she was for a second, and then she turned around and came back to the table. “Okay,” she said.


Are you going over? I said.


No, Brian doesn't want me going in and out any more than I have to. It's a risk to Justin every time. He's right. Can you pass the potatoes?


He's upset? Evan said.


He's agitated because he can't breathe well, it's really common. Just a natural response to that.


Because not being able to breathe is natural, I guess.


But sure. I passed the potatoes.


**


The next week was this like, excrutiatingly slow blur, if that makes any sense.


I went to class, sometimes. I lay on the couch a lot. Emily and Evan kept going to work. Emily was staying late all the time trying to keep stuff together at Kinnetik without Brian there. Daphne and Derek and Evan were in and out at weird hours, sitting around playing on their phones, playing endless games of Monopoly with me on the living room floor. Brian barely ever texted us, and he never called anyone but Daphne, but he called her all the time. She said she hadn't been back over there.


I never went back to my dorm. I spent a lot of time just lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, watching Emily and Gwen have stupid little conversations about regular life, who was going to drop off the dry cleaning, where was Jane's teething ring. They all just...kept living.


Why are you always cooking? I asked Evan one night.


He was slicing up a bell pepper, and at first I thought he wasn't going to answer me, but then he paused and said, “A few years back, when all my friends were getting sick, we all sort of...found jobs to do. Just little things so everyone's loved ones didn't have to worry about stupid shit like cleaning or picking up mail or going to the laundromat...”


Or cooking.


“Or cooking, yeah.”


Nobody else in this apartment ever talked to me. Signing at someone who spoke back to me was so fucking familiar.


So that's why you're not freaking out, I said. You're used to this.


“I am, yeah.”


He preheated the oven, and I said, Evan?


Yeah?


Did your friends...


He watched me, the world's smallest smile on his lips. He has beautiful eyes. Some of them are just fine, he said.


I nodded, and I'd be mad at a lot of people before this whole thing was over, but I was never mad at Evan after that.


**


I was on my back on my couch-bed staring up at the ceiling around 7 PM one evening, but I'd been awake for so long that it felt like the middle of the night, I don't know. Emily and Gwen were in the kitchen, and Jane was on her mat next to me on the floor, banging her doll against the table leg. She had like four stuffed animals spread out around her. People kept buying her toys this week.


I was holding my phone, because I was always holding my phone, and I jumped a little when it buzzed. It was a text from Brian, the first one I'd gotten in days. It just said, call me alone.


I could hear my heartbeat throbbing somewhere behind my eyes, and everything just kind of shrunk until there was nothing but me and that phone screen, but somehow I calmly got up and walked around the baby and stepped out into the hallway of the apartment building and called him.


His voice was hoarse, tired. “Hey, Molly.”


“If he's dead just tell me.”


“Jesus. He's right here.”


“Okay.”


He cleared his throat. “Do you want to talk to him? I can wake him up.”


“What?” He'd never even offered to have Justin text me, let alone talk to me. And wake him up? “He needs to rest, he...”


“I know, but I think...honey. I think you should talk to him.”


“Did he ask to talk to me?”


“No, he's not...he doesn't know what's going on.”


My mouth was dry. “He's getting worse. That's what you're saying.”


“He doesn't know,” he said quickly. “He doesn't know that.”


“So what, you want me to lie to him? Tell him everything's going to be fine?”


“I don't need you to tell him anything,” Brian said. “I just think you should talk to him. Talk about the weather, talk about school, talk about whatever the fuck you want.”


“You want me to have some fucking last conversation with him,” I said. “You think I'm going to, what, to have some kind of closure, or going to give him permission to die? I'm not, I'm not going to do that, and fuck you for asking me to. Are you making the rounds with everyone?”


“Just you,” he said quietly.


“Well, I don't want to talk to him. And don't you give me some fucking shit about how I'm going to regret that because he's going to be fine and I already fucking regret everything so you're too goddamn late.”


We were quiet for a while.


“He's waking up,” Brian said eventually. “I have to go.”


“Good. Go.”


I hung up and put my hand on the wall and took a few deep breaths. I could hear voices below me in the stairwell, some girls laughing as they got home, and it all felt so fucking ridiculous, like someone has put them there specifically to make this whole situation feel even more over the top and unreal than it already did. Like, nothing could be that ironic just for no reason. None of this could be for no goddamn reason.


I came back into the apartment. Emily was on the mat with the baby, and she looked up at me with a question in her eyes.


I said, Is it okay if I take a bath? Does anyone need the bathroom?


She asked Gwen in the kitchen—for once it was just the three of us there—and then shook her head and told me to go ahead. So I was in the bathtub, rinsing my face with a washcloth and whispering “Okay okay okay,” when I heard Emily make some sort of excited squeak from the living room and both their footsteps rushing around. I scrambled out of the bath tub and wrapped myself in a towel and stumbled out of the bathroom. What happened? I said. What's going on?


They weren't looking at me. Gwen was rushing around, looking for something, while Emily sat on the floor looking delighted about...the baby.


Found it! Gwen held up her phone. Will she do it again?


I don't know! Jane. Jane. Who's that? She pointed at Gwen. Look, who's that?


God, she is just the best baby, Gwen said. This is amazing.


Emily pulled Jane onto her lap, and when she adjusted herself I guess she finally saw me, because she said, Oh, Molly... and Gwen looked over at me.


I crossed my arms.


Jane said her first word, Gwen said.


You're celebrating Jane saying her first word, I said.


They at least had the fucking decency to look ashamed.


So what was it? I said. What did she say?


Mom, Emily said.


That's good, I said. You won't even have to bother teaching her the other one.


Molly, Emily said, but I shook my head and shut myself in the bathroom for a long time.


**


A few nights later at around ten, maybe a week after I'd come to Emily's, I was sitting on the floor at the coffee table. I'd been staring at the same page in my collected works of Shakespeare for God knows how long, not really absorbing anything. Everyone was there that night: Evan, Derek and Daphne. Nobody was really doing anything. Emily was crying a little and wiping her face like she was pissed at herself. Daphne was between Derek's legs, her eyes closed while he rubbed her shoulders. Evan was curled up under a blanket in the armchair, playing some game on his phone he'd barely looked up from in an hour and twisting his medical bracelet around his wrist.


Nobody had said anything for a long time when Daphne's phone rang. I looked up, and so did everyone else when she fished it out of her pocket. She checked the display and swallowed, and like always everyone nodded, go go go.


Daphne picked up the phone and said, “Hey. Whoa whoa whoa, slow down. Brian.” She cleared her throat. “Okay. He said...okay, but he meant—okay. Okay.”


Everyone was watching Daphne's lips, totally still.


“How is he now, what's...Brian. You need to slow down, okay?”


I stared down at All's Well that Ends Well. There's place and means for every man alive.


“Okay,” Daphne said. “I'm on my way, you need to hold it together until I get there, you understand? You stay in that room with him. Understood? Okay. I'll be there in twenty minutes.” She hung up the phone and went to the hook by the door for her hook.


What's going on? Everyone asked her. How's Justin, what's happening?


She said, I'm sorry, I don't have time, I have to go right now. She wrapped her scarf around her neck and she was gone.


What did she say? Derek asked me.


I kind of froze, but Evan waved his hand and said, Brian's upset. I think Daphne's going to take over for him for a little while. He looked at me. Right?


I...yeah. I think so. The book in front of me looked like it was moving. Everything was moving. And I was just staying still.


Emily left and went into her room. Gwen followed her.


Evan said, “Molly, are you okay?”


I need to make a phone call, I said. I got off the floor and stood up. I saw Evan get down on the floor and reach for Derek's hand on my way to the kitchen.


I sat down o the floor in front of the refrigerator and called my mom.


We'd been texting back and forth a lot that week, but I hadn't called her. She kept offering to come to New York, but it didn't really make sense. Her whole support system was in Pittsburgh, and if she came here she'd just be staying at a hotel by herself, and it's not like we could even see Justin. And this whole time I'd felt like having her here would make this whole thing so much more...real. I'd have to manage her feelings and her worry and her signing isn't amazing and just...I don't know. If she was still in Pittsburgh it meant it couldn't really be that bad. And I know that's stupid. I know.


“Molly?” she said. “Molly, honey, what's going on?” She was already crying, and just like that I felt my throat tighten and the top of my mouth start to ache.


“I think he's gonna die,” I said. I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them as tight as I could.


“No, no, tell me what's going on,” she said.


“Brian called and he was really upset and Daphne just ran out of here and...Mom, I-I don't think we're ever going to see him again.”


“No,” she said. “No.”


I sat there on the floor and told her I loved her and cried on the phone with her for ages, and then Evan came in and made Justin's shrimp soup for everyone.


**


I was sitting on the floor the next night rolling one of Jane's balls back and forth. No one had heard from Brian since that morning.


Evan handed me a mug and said, “No news is good news.”


No news is no news, I said. That's all.


He shrugged a little. It's just something people say.


If it's good news then that means he's well, I said. And I don't think he's well.


**


But he did get well, as you know. On Saturday I woke up to noise in the kitchen, Emily and Gwen making French toast and Jane banging on the tray of her high chair. Emily waved to be excitedly when I sat up. Justin's fever's down, she said. He's eating. The antibiotics are working.


Daphne's going to go over and check on him after work, Gwen said. But Brian said Justin might feel up to calling us for a few minutes after he gets some more sleep. Isn't that amazing? She pulled Emily under her arm and kissed her cheek.


You talked to Brian? I said.


He called about an hour ago, Gwen said. We didn't want to wake you, we know you haven't been sleeping much.


I checked my phone. There was a missed call from Brian from about an hour and a half before, and a few text messages. The most recent one just said, we did it, molly.


We? I didn't do anything. I sat here in this apartment and made my mother cry.


I looked up when I heard stomping on the floor. You okay? Gwen asked me.


Oh, yeah. Um...this is great. I'm so glad, oh my God, I said, and I made all the right noises and the right faces until they started smiling again and I wondered what the goddamn fuck was wrong with me. Because I didn't feel relieved. I wasn't happy. I wasn't...anything.


Daphne came over that evening and said he looked so much better, that his fever was staying down and his breathing was better and he was more alert than he'd been in a week, but he still had a lot of recovery ahead of him and it was going to be a while before he'd be up to having visitors. Daphne had to wear all this protective gear when she'd been in there these past few times, mask and gloves and everything.


Justin texted me hi, sometime that night, and I sat there staring at it for a long time, just his name there at the top of the text, his fingers talking to me, before I typed hi back, and then added I love you in hopes that would get rid of this fucking awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. It didn't.


He actually called the next evening and FaceTimed with Jane. We'd been kind of worried that she wouldn't remember him, but she totally squealed and held up her pink elephant and pointed at the screen over and over.


Emily said, Molly, come say hi! but I made up some excuse about studying or not wanting to overwhelm him or distract from the baby and I kept making those excuses every time he called, every single day. And after a week of that, Brian started coming over every evening to see visit with Jane for a little before she went to bed, and he would joke around with the girls and update us on Justin and it's not like I avoided him entirely, but I always found something to be busy with when he was there, a shower I needed to take or dishes I had to do or an essay to write, and I could tell he was catching on and wondering why I was doing it but I didn't even know why I was doing it so what was I supposed to tell him?


Everyone was going back to work. Everyone was laughing. Everyone was back to normal.


Except for me and Justin, a whole borough apart, because I never moved back to my dorm.


**


I woke up one Wednesday the same way I had every morning for the past couple of weeks: to the sound of a baby babbling. Emily and Gwen have a baby monitor that flashes a light when she makes noise, but see, there's thing about flashing lights. They don't really work when you're asleep. So I was always the one to get the baby in the morning. What would they even fucking do without me?


Okay actually, she probably only made any noise at all because she'd figured out that it made people come and get her, and without me here she probably never would have made the association, but...what was I supposed to do, just let her be alone?


I kicked my blanket off of me and got off the couch where I guess I lived now and padded into Jane's room. It has green walls and all these wooden ducks. She was sitting up in her crib, chewing on her fingers, and when she saw me she squawked—did you know Deaf babies are super loud and threw her arms up in the air.


Good morning, I said to her. I picked her up and kissed her cheek. Are you hungry? I bet you are.


I brought her to the kitchen and started the coffee for the girls like I do every morning. I texted Justin to tell him good morning and set Janie in her high chair. Emily came in after the coffee was finished, and she kissed the baby and took the mug I handed her.


Are you going to class today? she asked me.


I don't know.


She gave me a look.


When did you become such a mom? I asked her.


Huh, I don't know, Emily said, rolling her eyes towards Jane, who was signing Mom mom mom since I said it.


Lately I could see it on Gwen and Emily all the time, that they were one sign away from asking me when I was going to get off their couch and go back to my dorm. I knew they wanted me gone. I'd been here for almost a month and I'm not an idiot.


And I didn't even want to be here, that was the weirdest part. Everytime I watched them get ready for work and cook dinner together and kiss and laugh I would get so goddamn pissed off at them for some reason I couldn't even figure out, but I still didn't want to leave. I didn't know where else to go. And going back to my dorm would just be like...going back in time, or something. It felt impossible. It felt fake.


So I tried to help out with the baby and keep the apartment clean and I paid for groceries sometimes and I tried to keep my bad fucking attitude to myself but I could tell, I could tell I was on thin ice here.


And that's why I said, I'm going out with some of my friends tonight, even though I had no such plans.


She raised her eyerbows.


I know I've been...around all the time, I said. I thought I should get out of your hair, at least for a few hours.


We're just worried about you, she said.


I'm fine.


She sipped her coffee. Okay. Well, I'm glad you're going to see your friends. We're going to Facetime with Justin tonight after work if you're here. She was watching me.


I hadn't talked to him, not once. We both knew it.


Sure, I said. If I'm here.


We both knew I wouldn't be.


Gwen came out and the two of them started signing back and forth about Gwen's schedule and these shoes Emily wanted to buy and whether the milk was still good and I watchedt hem like they were a play.


**


I stood waiting for the train at the aboveground station by Emily and Gwen's apartments, blowing on my hands because my gloves are thin and shitty and it had gotten really cold that week, and most of my good cold weather clothes were still back at my dorm. And because I'd been standing here for twenty minutes and had let two trains go by, because the thought of going to my Shakespeare discussion was for some reason really huge and overwhelming.


I stood there wishing I could decide if I didn't know what was wrong with me or if I didn't know what was wrong with anyone else.


Another train pulled up, and I watched a blonde woman in a black pea coat step forwards into the yellow bar at the edge of the track. I imagined her jumping in front of the train, the blood. She'd be gone in a blur, probably too fast for us to see any blood. She'd just be here one second and then totally gone, just wiped off this planet without a fucking trace. No thoughts, no feelings. That's the difference between being a person and being a nothing. A second and a couple inches.


A pidgeon tugged a fry out of a trash can.


I got on the train.


**


All my classes lately had been kind of...blurry. It's like when the teachers talk in Charlie Brown. That's what everyone's voices sound like.


I always sat next to this girl whose name I think I used to know, and her hair was always flat-ironed and she always had eyeliner on at nine in the morning and she smelled like daisies and I was just fascinated by her, because who has that kind of time? Who has the focus for things like that? And she was always so prepared for class, too. She used regular pencils and they were always perfectly sharpened and she always had a spare one sitting on her desk in front of her just in case. Who was this girl? Who were these people?


“Molly,” my TA said, when we were packing up to go. “Can I speak with you for a minute?”


I hate questions you can't say no to, because Jesus, would I have said no to that one. I dragged my feet to the front of the room as the classroom cleared out.


“What's going on with you?” she said.


“Um...nothing?”


“You've missed the past two discussion sessions.”


“I'm here now.”


“You didn't participate. Your last paper wasn't at all up to your usual standards. Is something wrong?”


“No.”


“Are you having trouble keeping up in your classes?”


“Everything's fine,” I said. “I guess I've just been busy.”


She studied me for a long time and finally sighed. “Okay. Well, I hope to see you next week, then.”


I left the building and sat on a bench outside and felt the cold bite at my cheeks. Justin sent me a text about the TV show he was watching. My mom asked me if I was coming home for Thanksgiving or was I going to spend it with Justin.


I watched the people walk past me and tilted my head back and looked up at the sky.


**


So I didn't actually have plans that night with friends, but I went to a bar where a lot of students hang out, so it wasn't a surprise that after two whiskey cokes I heard someone go, “Taylor! Hey, Taylor!” It was Eric, this guy who lived in my dorm and who I'd had a few classes with and slept with a time or two. He was sitting with a group of people who I sort of vaguely knew in that way where you could pick them out of a police lineup but you didn't know their names. But they had a pitcher of something, so that was enough for me. I sat down and shook a plastic cup off the stack.


“We're drinking to forget our Calc midterm,” Eric said.


“Well, they are,” this one girl (Samantha? Sarah? I fingerspelled some possibilities under the table but none of them felt right) said. “I'm drinking to forget my stupid boyfriend.”


That set them off, and they all started talking over themselves trying to explain the problem what whatshername's shitty boyfriend, and I listened vaguely and finished my margarita and finished another one and when Jamie Jaylee Jacey (Janie?) was talking about how she hadn't gotten dick in months and I was applauding myself on not saying well at least that means you won't end up pregnant or getting your nose broken but then L...something was bitching that his parents weren't giving him enough money for this ski vacation they said they were going to send him on and I did say, without really meaning to, “Can I ask you a question?” in that way that words kind of fall out of your mouth after five drinks.


I guess I didn't sound very innocent, because L-whoever immediately looked all suspicious and was like, “Okaaaaaay.”


“Why does any of this matter?” I said. “Like when you look at this objectively, if you really...if you like squint real hard and look at these little problems you all are having, who fucking cares?”


Eric said, “What the fuck's with you?”


“I just want to know if you guys are aware that there are people out there with actual goddamn fucking problems,” I said. “It's a simple question, yes or no, I just want to know if you know that you are fucking whiny specks in a universe where people are actually having life or death shit going on and you're worried about Vail or your fucking dick appointments. Don't bother, don't bother, I'm leaving, keep your fucking 'look at the crazy' chick looks to yourself, I'm going. Oh and fuck all of you by the way.”


The train ride to Queens would have taken forever, so I ended up getting into a cab and taking it back to Emily and Gwen's. The apartment was mostly dark, but Emily and Gwen were on the couch watching a movie or something, looking all fucking cozy. Emily paused the TV while I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water that I drank in about five second, then refilled.


She came into the kitchen and gave me a once-over. Are you okay?


I'm great.


You're trashed.


Yeah, well, why shouldn't I be? I started rooting around the cabinet for cookies.


Because it's a school night, and you were wandering the city by yourself, and because you're tracking mud into my kitchen.


I slammed the cabinet shut. Can I ask you something? I asked, because, you know, apparently I was on a fucking roll tonight.


Sure.


How are you fine?


What?


Justin almost died, I said. He almost died in his fucking apartment two weeks ago, and everyone's all fixed and back to normal. And I would just like to know how the fuck that is, because I would like to be fixed and back to normal now. I would like to not be lying awake still planning the speech I was going to give at his fucking funeral, but I can't, I can't stop, and I just want to know how you're so fucking fine with the fact that your supposed best friend almost stopped existing, that your baby almost never saw her father again, how is that just fine? What the fuck kind of person are you actually?


Gwen came in somewhere in the middle of that, I don't know.


Emily said, Okay, you're drunk, I'm not doing this with you right now.


It's not like I haven't been thinking this the whole fucking time! I said. Even before we knew he was going to be okay, you two kept living your little normal lives, so I don't why it's a surprise to me that it's over and now you're fine. You and Brian are just going to hang out with the baby and laugh and tell jokes like my brother's not still goddamn on oxygen, like he couldn't get sick again any second, like you didn't just fucking live through... anything. None of this was anything to you, was it? Do you even care about him?


Gwen said, Molly, you should go to bed, but I'd gotten to Emily, I could tell. Good.


Of course I care about him, she said. I've been keeping Brian's entire fucking company above water so he could focus on Justin, so don't act like I haven't been doing my part for this family.


Family? What family. This isn't your fucking family. My brother fucks you a few times to get you pregnant, you think you're family?


Gwen said, Okay, we're going to put this on hold until tomorrow.


Stay out of it, I told her. I turned back to Emily. When Justin was dying, Brian called me so I could say goodbye to him. Did he call you?


She narrowed her eyes.


You're not his fucking family, I said. You've known him for five years, don't stand there like that means something.


Emily said, All right, you know what? and I was so ready to be yelled at. I was so scared and I wanted it so goddamn much; I was so ready to fucking feel something.


But Gwen put her hand on Emily's arm and said, Stop, to her.


If you think I'm going to let some twenty-year-old straight girl tell me what family is—


She's drunk and upset, Gwen said. God knows she has a right to be. Let it go.


Emily shook her head and left the kitchen, and Gwen stood there looking so goddamn much like my mom when she'd say I just don't understand you, Molly, and I put my head down.


But she just said, Get some sleep.


**


At least I don't get hangovers.


I pretended I didn't hear the baby in the morning and hid under my blanket like a coward until all three of them were gone, and then threw on the first clothes I could find and grabbed a granola bar on my way out the door and still somehow made it to my philosophy lecture on time. I was sitting there trying to listen and take notes and act like a competent student or human being, and then halfway through the lecture the door opened and Brian strolled in like he owned the lecture hall, and my heart fell just about down to my feet.


My professor stopped mid-sentence and said, “Um, excuse me—”


“One second.” Brian scanned the rows of students, eyes narrowed, and when he saw me signed, Come on, you're excused.


Everyone's head twisted to me.


Justin? I managed to say.


He shook his head, his eyes gentle. Justin's fine. Come on.


I stuffed my textbook and my notebook into my tote bag and scooted past some people and down the center aisle and Brian held the door for me and we left. “What the fuck?” I asked him. “What's going on?”


“We need to talk.”


“I was in class!”


“Yeah, but I had free time now, and I care more about my schedule than your...whatever that was. Come on, I came all the way back to Manhattan for you. Have you eaten?”


“No.”


“I'll buy you a bagel.”


**


We got bagels and hot chocolate and ate them on a bench in Washington Square Park. I watched women walk by with strollers, laughing quietly with each other. A little kid ran by crying that he'd lost his mitten, and his dad scooped him up.


Brian seemed to be in no fucking hurry to explain to me why he'd pulled me out of class. He crossed his foot over his knee and chewed on his onion bagel and sipped from his cup and tilted his face back to take in the sun.


Eventually I couldn't take it any more.”Did the girls send you to throw me out?”


“No one's throwing you out.”


“I was a total bitch to Emily last night.”


“So I heard.”


I dropped my chin into my hand and stared straight ahead. “So they did call you.”


“They're worried about you. They're lesbians. It's what they do.”


“Mmm.”


“And I'm sick of making excuses to Justin about why you won't talk to him. Eventually he's going to worry too.” He paused. “He'll be joining an illustrious crew.”


“What, you don't have enough to worry about?”


“I do,” he said easily. “So let's get this sorted out and check a thing off my list.”


I scuffed my shoes on the ground.


“Have you thought about talking to someone?”


I snorted. “What, like a therapist?”


“Sure, there are campus resources I'm sure. I can help you set something up.”


“I don't know.”


“Justin likes his. He's climbing the walls until he's healthy enough to Skype with her. So to speak. Can't really climb walls either right now. Kind of an army-crawing the walls sort of deal.”


“How the fuck are you joking about this?”


He shrugged. “Gotta do something. He hates talking around it, acting like it didn't happen. So do I. And if you cry too much you get dehydrated, that's no good.”


“You're still joking.”


“You know who won't joke? A therapist. She'd be all understanding and serious.”


“I don't know why I have to see a therapist when I'm the one who's being fucking normal. It's everyone else who's acting like our lives didn't just almost fucking explode. They're all fine.” I looked up at him. “Are you fine?”


He kept eye contact. “I'm okay.”


”How?”


He laughed a little. “Your guess is as good as mine. I don't know. I wasn't in the same situation you were. I wasn't sitting around waiting and hoping for a text every day, I was there, I could help. I know Taylors. They really don't cope well with not being able to do anything.”


“So that's the only difference, you were with him?”


He groaned a little. “I don't know. I like taking care of him, is that a crime?”


“This wasn't ordinary taking care of him.”


“Yeah, but it's not just...Okay. I wasn't just with him. He was with me.”


“What the fuck are you talking about?”


He groaned some more. “He was with me. It wasn't like I was doing it alone, or taking care of some fucking stranger. Yeah, he was out of it and asleep a lot and he wasn't the most himself that he's ever been. But he was there. He was with me. I...work well with Justin.”


“It's not exactly easy work.”


He rubbed his forehead. “It's not...God. Okay. It's like I have two categories of things, all right?”


“Okay.”


“I have hard, and I have...for Justin.”


I watched him.


“Come on, you know what I'm saying,” he said. “I'd fucking...I'd swim the East River, I'd swim the fucking...it's for Justin.”


“God,” I said. “You really love him.”


“Well, keep your voice down. He still thinks I keep him around for his shrimp scampi.”


“I don't know how to be okay anymore,” I said. “I'm so fucking scared.”


“Yeah, we're all scared. It's scary.”


“You don't seem scared.”


“I'm waking up next to him every morning. He's there, he's coughing all over me, I know he's okay.” He paused. “So why won't you see him?”


“He can't see anyone.”


“You hide when he calls the baby.”


“I don't...”


He waited.


“Are you mad at him?” he asked after a minute.


“What kind of a bitch would I be to be mad at my brother for amost dying,” I said.


“Well...you'd be mad at him for scaring the shit out of you.” He watched me. “I get mad at him sometimes.”


“What do you do?”


“Write letters and flush them down the toilet. Sometimes I just scream.”


“Smart.”


He shrugged. “As long as it doesn't bother him it doesn't really matter what I do. It's just about...not putting it on him. You figure out ways that don't hurt him.”


“I'm not hurting him.”


“No. But you can't avoid him forever.”


“How do you get over it? Being mad? The letters do it?”


“He didn't do anything wrong,” Brian said. “Be upset for a while, sure, but at some point if you're mad at him for this you're just mad at him for not dying.”


I didn't say anything.


“And...okay, Molly. Normally I'd just say, look, you take care of this shit for however long you need to take care of it, come deal with it when you've got your shit put together.”


“But he's going to figure out I'm avoiding him.”


“No, this isn't about him. You have to be on top of this stuff. You have to be more careful than most people do because this shit, depression and stuff, this runs in your family. You have to be on top of this. The people who care about you, they have to be on top of it.”


I gave him a sappy look. “You care about me.”


“Jesus, I meant Emily and Gwen.”


I rested my head on his shoulder.


“So you'll talk to someone?” he said. “That's my reward for this display?”


“Yeah, I guess.”


“Good.”


“Except I still don't know how to talk to Justin.”


He thought for a minute. “Come by Kinnetik tonight. Around eight. I might have an idea.” He tossed his bagel wrapper at the trash.


**


Emily got home with the baby at around seven-thirty, right when I was about to go. Hey, I'm sorry, I know I need to talk to you, I said. But I have to run and meet Brian.


I know, he told me. Here. She moved Janie into my arms.


No, I—


I know what's going on, I work with Brian. Take the baby with you.


Brian wants me to bring her?


Yes. Now go, before you're late.


I stared at her.


Come on, what? she said.


You're helping me fix things and you're letting me stay here and I've been such a bitch to you.


Yeah, well, she said. That's what family is. Now go.


**


Brian was just closing up the office when I got there. Hey, there you are. He took Jane out of my arms and held her up. Wow, look how tall.


Emily said I was supposed to bring her.


Emily was right. Come on.


Where are we going?


He looked at me. You're feeling all right?


You mean besides the crushing feeling of despair?


Yeah, no colds, no cough, no fever.


I swallowed. “We're going to see Justin?”


How about you? he asked Jane. You feeling okay?


I thought he couldn't have visitors.


Yeah, he can't, Brian said. Which is why you're only going to stay for a few minutes, you're going to wear a mask and gloves, so's he, and you're going to stay five feet away from him at all times.


“I...”


And it's not going to be awkward, Brian said. Because he's going to be so excited to see the baby that he's barely going to fucking notice you're there. Once again, I'm a genius. Come on. He kissed her cheek and hoisted her up on his hip. Let's get a move on. You didn't bring a fucking stroller? Jesus.


**


Brian opened the front door of the apartment and immediately pointed to a bottle of hand sanitizer by the door. He rubbed his hands briskly and said, “Do her hands too. Gloves here...masks here. I'll go get him.”


“How come you don't have to wear a mask?”


“I'm immune to the diseases of mortals,” he said over his shoulder on his way to the bedroom.


Okay, Jane, I said, rubbing up her arms with sanitizer. We need to not make Dad sick, okay? It's important.


She watched me.


You're going to do great, I told her. I have to put this weird thing on now, I said, and I put a mask over my nose and mouth and pulled on gloves.


Brian came out of the bedroom a minute later, his hand under Justin's elbow. Justin was still half-asleep and rubbing his eyes, and his mask covered half of his face, but you still couldn't miss his smile when he saw us.


Remember, no touching, Brian said. I mean it.


Justin nodded and lowered himself to the couch.


You good? Brian asked.


Justin nodded again, his eyes still on us. Hi, he said.


I took a deep breath. Hi. You look good.


I look like shit, he said.


Yeah, you look like shit, I said, and we both laughed a little bit.


Can I see her? he said.


I nodded and set her down on the rug, and she crawled cautiously towards Justin. The mask probably freaked her out, but she didn't stop.


No touching, Brian said, leaning against the wall.


I know, I know, Justin said. He pulled his legs up to his chest and watched her. Hi, Jane.


Jane looked up at him and said, Dad, and Brian slipped his arm around my shoulders.

 

Chapter 88 - Gratitude by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

“I have just been informed,” Brian said, with an edge in his voice that told me not to ask questions. “That we are having Thanksgiving.”

Gratitude

LaVieEnRose



It all started when Ma found out Brian and Justin weren't coming home for Thanksgiving. Honestly, it was kind of amazing this was the first year they hadn't, the way Brian sneers at holidays, but I guess Justin had managed to corral him ever November before. Hunter was spending it in Chicago with his girlfriend's family, and Emmett and Drew were in France for a few months, and Melanie and Lindsay had taken the kids down to Melanie's mom's because she wasn't doing well, so we were already gearing up for a smaller Thanksgiving than usual, and I guess Brian and Justin also missing it was more than Ma could bear, because she called me and said, “Brian and Sunshine are staying in New York,” like she was giving me the news they were being sent off to be executed.


“Well, that's not really that surprising, is it?” I said. “Justin's probably not up for traveling.” He'd been really, really sick, and until a few weeks before this we didn't even know if...God. It was fucking scary. We couldn't get in touch with Brian at all for over a week, not a phone call, not a text, nothing. I had to get all my updates from Ma, who got them from Jennifer, who got them from Molly, but even they didn't know much because Brian wasn't really talking to them either. We had to keep going around just living our lives, and we were all jumping every time the phone rang because...ugh, I can't even say it. We kept sleeping over at each other's houses like fucking kids because none of us wanted to be alone. Even though we're all partnered up now, it still didn't feel like enough. I found out later that all their friends were doing the same thing in New York, just being together.


“They could drive! It's not like he has to be on an airplane with the great fucking unwashed.”


“I'm sure he'll be feeling better in time for Christmas.”


“They said they were gonna bring my little grandbaby! I haven't seen her since fucking July!”


“Ma.”


“I want you to go up there,” she said.


“Ma!”


“It's Thanksgiving, they're up there alone, somebody needs to check on them and make sure they're all right. Bring them some fucking food 'cause God knows they're probably going to be eating goddamn Kung Pao if we don't intervene.”


“I haven't been invited!”


“Invited? Who the fuck do you think you are, the Queen of Kashmir? Call them and tell them I said you're fucking coming.”


So I called Brian that afternoon, the Saturday before Thanksgiving. “Yyyyello,” he said. I'd talked to him a fair amount the past week, just trying to check in and see if he was...I don't know, somehow managing to hold himself together despite all this happening. But he always sounded so normal.


“Hi.”


“Hi there. Justin, do you mind—”


“What?”


“Oh, he's throwing up again. While I'm busy on the phone, just bad manners all around.”


“Jesus, be nice to him.”


“Well, Michael, he's Deaf. Roasting him behind his back is one of the perks. Sunshine, learn to aim.”


“Maybe I should call back.”


“Oh, if you're trying to find a time to call when Justin isn't vomiting, I'm afraid you're going to find precious few.”


“What's wrong?”


“Nothing, the meds to boost his white count make him nauseous. Plus he's, you know. Coughing up a lot of shit. It's a party! So...how can I help you?”


“Well...I'm supposed to tell you that I'm coming to New York next week.”


“Whhhhhy?”


“Thanksgiving?”


“Oh. We're not having Thanksgiving.”


“Well, Thursday's gonna happen, and it's going to be Thanksgiving, and Ma's shitting at the thought of the two of you up there by yourselves.”


“We're always up here by ourselves. We do just fine. Stay with your mommy. Ah shit, gotta go. Buh-bye.”


I was about to call my mother and tell her that exactly what I thought would happen happened, when not two minutes later my phone rang again. “Uh, hi.”


“Apparently,” Brian said. “We are having Thanksgiving.”


“I thought—”


“I have just been informed,” Brian said, with an edge in his voice that told me not to ask questions. “That we are having Thanksgiving.”


I bit back a grin. “Right.” I guess even Brian Kinney can get a little what my partner wants, my partner gets after a scare like they'd had. “Well. I'll get in on Wednesday.”


“Just to be clear,” Brian said. “You will not stay here. I'll put you up in a nice hotel. Dinner will not go late. It will be in sign language. You will not wake up Justin. You will not say, why is he sleeping through dinner, I thought Thanksgiving was his idea. You will not stare at Justin when he coughs more than is rational for a human to survive. You will wear a mask. You will wear gloves. Despite the gloves, you will wash your hands so often that when you are done washing your hands, oh, look, it's time to start washing them again. You will not touch him, unless I yell grab him, in which case you will drop whatever you are holding, his child not excepted, and grab him. You will not comment on how skinny he is. You will not cross onto the island of Manhattan if you have so much as a sniffle. “


“Do you think you're scaring me away? You're not scaring me away. I think this is all very sweet.”


“Good. That's why I came up with these rules. For your entertainment.”


“I know about immunodeficiency, Brian. I'm on board for whatever it takes.”


“Good,” he said. “Also? Justin's boyfriend's going to be here.”


“Jesus, really?”


“He's nice. You'll like him.”


“I'll behave.” Pretty sure Justin could have whatever the fuck he wanted right now as far as I was concerned.


“You could cause a big scene if you want. Justin would probably find it amusing.”


“I'll see you next week, Brian.”


**


Brian opened the door on Thanksgiving and immediately zoomed in on the tin in my hands. “What the fuck is that?” He was, I should note, not wearing a mask or gloves.


“Cookies.”


“Are you shitting me?”


“My mom made them!”


“Leave them in the hallway.”


“What?”


“Yeah, I've seen your mother's hygiene, we're not gonna have Justin literally goddamn die of food poisoning.”


“You're telling me, what, he cooked all of this up in a sterile lab?”


“You think Justin's up to cooking a fucking Thanksgiving dinner? Jesus, you're about to be disappointed in his recovery. Catered, catered, catered. Lots of people with hairnets. Now leave that fucking tin in the hallway. Hand sanitizer and masks on your left! Justin's awake, get him while you can. Good to see ya, Mikey.” He squirted some crap on his own hands and rubbed them together on his way back into the kitchen.


I set the cookies on the floor—whatever, they're dry anyway—and sanitized myself and put on a mask and some gloves. The apartment was sparkling, and there was a tray of bruschetta out on the counter and like five kinds of wine. Justin was taking plates out of a cabinet, and he looked over and grinned when I came in. And yeah, he'd lost a lot of weight and he was in sweats and he didn't look great or anything, but Christ, I'd been expecting a lot worse after that little intro. I put my hand on my chest and I must have looked fucking dumb, like a proud parent or something, because he rolled his eyes at me, but he was still smiling.


It's really good to see you, I told him.


You too. How was your flight? There was a whistle when he breathed that I could hear even from my five feet away.


Brain touched Justin's elbow. You mind if I put some music on?


Yeah, go ahead. Justin said, and Brian put on something quiet. I thought that was sweet, I don't know. Brian asking if it was okay that something happened that Justin couldn't hear. Everyone should be here soon, Justin said. He stood up on his toes to reach a high shelf, and Brian reached over and kept a hand lightly on the small of his back.


Your mom's not coming, right?


Justin shook his head. “She and Molly are doing a spa thing.”


So...how are you feeling? I asked him.


“Much better. You know I had this idea for our next issue, I've been really anxious to get back to work.”


Brian shook his head at me subtly over Justin's shoulder.


Whenever you're ready, I said. I've been busy with the store, there's no rush.


Justin started to answer but instead started coughing, this horrible wet growling kind of thing. I must have looked kind of alarmed because Brian said, Yeah, he does that, and kept getting plates down. Justin had his face buried in his sleeve and the other hand white-knuckling the counter, and it kept going and going and I wondered how he was getting any fucking air at all while Brian took out glasses and silverware like nothing was fucking happening. When Justin finally, finally stopped, he was panting and his lips looked kind of blue, and I said, “Uh, grab?” to Brian.


Brian shook his head. He's fine. He rubbed Justin's back and said, That's enough, Katrina Ivanova. Or something like that; how does he fingerspell so quickly? Go sit.


I said, “Brian, I don't think he can breathe.”


He can't ever breathe, you'll get used to it. And then he asked me to grab something from the bedroom but fuck if I can read fingerspelling that fast.


Get what?


It's like..a small machine. On his nightstand. Don't touch the bed. Go. As I left, I saw him cock his head to Justin's level and sign something small to him.


Brian was helping Justin into a chair when I got back to living room. I hadn't noticed it before, but Justin was shivering. “I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine,” he said, batting Brian's hands off of him. His voice was hoarse and kind of hollow-sounding, like when the wind blows around tree branches.


Are you cold? I asked him, looking around for a blanket.


Justin shook his head, and Brian said, He's just tired. How fucking tired do you have to be to start shaking?


Justin messed around with the machine and sucked on this misting thing that looked like some kind of medical cigar, still wheezing in this way that sounded totally painful. He had this bad asthma attack at the shop once when he and I were working on Rage, and he sounded worse now than he did then and both of them were acting like it was nothing. He was curled up calmly in the arm chair, and Brian was already fucking back in the kitchen, washing his hands and taking pies out of the fridge and sticking them in the oven. He signed something to Justin that I didn't catch, but it made Justin laugh and cough some.


I came into the kitchen and said, “Brian?”


“Hmm?”


“What the fuck is going on with him, is he okay?”


“What, the sneezing? He has a sinus infection. And allergies, still, somehow. The things I have learned about antibodies...does this look done to you?”


“Not the fucking...he can't breathe. I thought he was over the pneumonia.”


“Don't worry, he's not contagious.”


“That's not what I—”


The doorbell rang and lights flashed in the hallway. Brian looked at me and pointed at the door, and from the living room so did Justin, so I guess this was my job. I answered the door and immediately Emily and her partner Gwen were in here like a flurry, taking off their coats and kissing my cheeks, and they immediately sanitized themselves and put on masks and gloves. Clearly they were used to these procedures. Jane was crying, and Emily immediately marched into the kitchen and handed her to Brian. Yours. Your problem.


Brian kissed Jane and took her over to the sink to wash her hands. “New gloves,” he said to me while he did, so I peeled mine off, threw them away, and put on a new pair.


Gwen went into the living room and sat on the couch and started talking to Justin, way too fast for me to follow, and Emily opened the oven and peeked inside.


“Wow, look at this big girl!” I said to Jane.


Brian signed something I couldn't even sort of understand, with his arms full of baby.


“What?”


He pointed to the baby and signed, Deaf.


Oh. Right. Hi, Jane.


Jane stuck her fingers in her mouth and watched me, and Brian grumbled, “Why do I bother.” Emily came over and tucked Jane's hair behind her ear, and Brian signed something to her I didn't get.


Good, but I wanted pecan, Emily said.


I thought about it, but I decided Justin's almost died enough this month.


Justin came into the kitchen then, Gwen under his elbow to support him in I guess some sort of exception to the no-touching rule. And then he tugged on Brian's sleeve, and Brain lowered the baby enough for Justin to kiss her cheek a few times before he went to the sink and washed his hands and face. He produced a mask from somewhere and put it on afterwards. It was different from ours, some cloth thing with a valve on it. We were just wearing crappy disposable ones.


You're done coughing? Brian asked him.


I'm never done coughing.


Brian cocked his head to the side with something like sympathy. True.


Smells nice in here.


Yes, we're very impressed you can breathe through your nose. Sit, you look like shit.


How's he doing today? Emily asked Brian, which I thought was weird, right in front of Justin, because it's not like Brian was going to give her a straight answer with him sitting right there. Like, why not ask Justin?


Brian narrowed his eyes, looking at Justin, and passed the baby to me. Better, I think. Better than yesterday. He's able to get around a little more. He turned back to Justin. What do you think, better than yesterday?


Yeah, better than yesterday. He tugged his mask down quickly and sneezed into the crook of his elbow.


Everyone milled around for a while, moving our masks to the side to drink wine and eat appetizers and cough, if you're Justin. Brian and Emily managed the food, even though Brian kept snapping at her to go sit down and let him handle it. Justin stayed in a chair in the kitchen, kind of supervising everything, and Brian actually listened when Justin told him to adjust the temperature on the oven or let the sweet potatoes sit for a minute. I ended up on the living room floor on a blanket with Janie and Gwen, helping Jane fit pegs in holes and doing a really bad job of discussing developmental milestones with Gwen, but, you know, trying. Jane already had a few signs down, and she was Mom mom moming Gwen every minute when she wanted her attention. How old is she? I asked.


Almost nine months.


Holy shit.


Deaf babies talk earlier than hearing babies, she said. Signing's more natural for babies. That's why hearing parents are all doing baby sign.


Yeah. I think my five-year-old's a better signer than I am.


Kids are amazing with picking up languages. We're going to try to get her reading as soon as we can. That can sometimes be a process with Deaf kids if you don't start early and really connect it to signing for them. Like Evan, he never really got the chance.


Evan?


Yeah, Justin's boyfriend. You haven't met him?


Not yet.


Purest soul on earth.


And that was about the only preparation I got for Evan, because he arrived just a few minutes later. I opened the door, and he came in already wearing a cloth mask like the one Justin was wearing, and he gave me a curious look over top of it while he took his coat off and rubbed in hand sanitizer. “Are you Michael?” he said, his voice muffled through the mask.


I lowered mine. “Yeah, are you...hearing?” I thought the whole point of Justin...dating or whatever was not sleeping with hearing guys. Except for Brian.


He laughed a little. “No.”


“Oh.” Sorry, I... None of Justin's Deaf friends ever spoke to me besides him.


“You're fine. I'm Evan. I'd shake your hand, but...”


Yeah. Uh. Of course.


Evan went into the kitchen and said hi to everyone and put his hand on Justin's shoulder, and Justin reached up and gave him a quick kiss through their masks. Evan asked Brian what he could help with, and Brian waved him off like a fly and Evan laughed and knocked Brian's head to the side on his way to the oven.


You want to help? Brian said to him. Put Edmund Tyrone here to bed, he's annoying me trying to show off.


“M'fine,” Justin said, but his head was resting in his hand and he was clearly falling asleep at the table.


Evan signed something quick to Justin and Justin nodded heavily, and Evan pulled him up and steered him out of the kitchen. They had a small argument in the living room that ended, I gathered, in Justin flopping down on the couch instead of in bed and falling right asleep as compromise. I moved out of Emily's way as she pulled containers of gravy out of the refrigerator and joined Brian wiping up a spill by the sink. “So, uh, that no touching rule varies from person to person?” I said.


“Yeah, it's a complicated algorithim. It's a points-based system. You've earned a three-second hug goodbye later. Don't ask any more questions and maybe you'll get up to five. Go help Emily.”


In all seriousness, there was some sort of...I don't know, vibe, there, where everyone seemed to know their place. Gwen played with the baby in the living room and kept an eye on Justin. Emily and Brian flitted around each other in the kitchen without really talking, barely acknowledging each other, but somehow never in each other's way. I guess they'd worked together long enough at that point to know each other's patterns. Every once in a while one they'd sign a word, maybe two at each other, and the other one would get a whole set of directions just from that.


Daphne and Derek got there soon after, and holy fuck, Daphne's signing was so much better than mine. Derek had to be reminded of stuff more than the others did, and Brian and Emily were constantly nagging him, don't touch that, wash your hands, put that down, stop eating that, but all of that seemed to fall into their rhythm too, like Derek was their little puppy they had to corrall. Daphne just emminated calmness, rescuing the macaroni from burning and catching wine glasses before they spilled and pulling out a stethoscope to check Justin while he slept.


I couldn't stop watching Brian and Evan. I would have thought there would be...I don't know, some kind of rivalry between them. I mean, okay, so Brian was apparently so secure about their relationship that he'd let Justin have a fucking boyfriend, whatever, but Evan had to be jealous of Brian, right? I mean, this was his boyfriend's husband. He got to live with Justin and make plans with him and kiss him without a mask. So I assumed there would be tension.


There wasn't. Evan was young and energetic and pretty much never left Brian's side, and...God help me, it reminded me of a million years ago, a certain other guy who followed Brian around like an adoring fan. But Brian was different nowadays, and there was none of that old eye-rolling or sneering. Brian hooked his arm around Evan's neck and dragged him around by his shirt, and Evan drummed on Brian's shoulder blades, and in-between they had these tiny, impercitable conversations that barely looked like ASL, and they'd keep these absolutely straight faces with each other, eyes locked, jaws tight, and then one of them would break and they'd bust up laughing. They carved the turkey together, bitching that the other one was doing it wrong like an old married couple, and at one point Evan said something that made Brian casually lean over and kiss his forehead.


If I didn't know better...


Daphne was over by the couch, sticking a thermometer in Justin's ear that he slept right through, and I said, “Can I ask you something?”


“Sure.”


“Brian and uh, Evan, are they...”


She raised an eyebrow. “Are they what?” She laughed. “Sleeping together? God, no. I don't think they even kiss. They're just cuddly like that.”


I didn't feel the need to point out that kissing would be a lot bigger deal for Brian than sleeping with him would be. Daphne might know Justin and Brian pretty well, but she's still straight. “Well, what the fuck are they, then? They're like gazing into each other's fucking eyes.”


Daphne snorted. “You sound like your mom.”


“I'm just curious.”


She said, “Okay, have you ever loved like...a movie or a TV show or a band like so incredibly much, and some of your friends are like, yeah, it's cool, but they don't get it the way you do, so you can't talk about it as much as you want, and you have to kind of tone it down and act normal, and you feel like you're going to explode because all you want to do is like dissect and analayze and theorize about this thing you love, but your friends are sick of you and want you to shut up?”


“Uh, yeah, literally every day of my life.”


“Okay great. So then you meet someone, finally, who's as obsessed with the thing as you are, and you can talk about it for hours and hours and neither of you gets bored or judges you for how crazy you are about it and you can just totally geek out about it together and the world is full of rainbows?”


“Sure.”


She gestured towards Evan and Brian. “Tada.”


Well. Fair enough, I guess.


Anyway, it was time to eat. We made an extended buffet section out of the little kitchen table and all the counters while Emily and Gwen set the table in the living room. Everyone took up plates and started filling them, and when Evan picked one up Brian signed two to him subtly, and Evan nodded and started fixing another while Brian went out to the couch. I watched him lean over the couch and wake Justin up so gently, brushing his hair out of his eyes and rubbing his back when he started to cough. Justin was talking, and he sounded pretty out of it; I heard him anxiously ask what time it was, if he'd missed Thanksgiving, if Brian was mad at him. I couldn't see what Brian signed to him, but it seemed to calm him down. “Brian?” Evan said, and Brian looked over and nodded at him, and Evan set the second plate down next to Brian's at the table as Brian got Justin slowly off the couch.


I sat between Brian and Daph and dug into some seriously good food. The table was a flurry of movement, Emily feeding the baby, plates being traded back and forth—not to Justin—so people could try things, everyone jumping up to refill wine glasses or grab a second helping of something. Justin mostly picked at his food and watched the conversations, though he didn't really join in. He still looked mostly asleep, and he was turning away from the table to cough pretty frequently. Brian didn't hover, just argued with Gwen over the proper way to serve sweet potatoes and talked to me about Gus and Evan about...I could never really figure out what, some kind of art thing, but he'd nudge Justin every so often and Justin would take a real bite of something. Eventually he pulled his legs up onto his chair, elbows on his knees, and kind of rested his head against his forearms, watching everyone and smiling a little. Brian reached over without looking at him and checked the temperature of his forehead and his cheek, and Justin relaxed under his hand.


I said, So aren't all your parents mad at you for missing Thanksgiving?


Justin squeezed Evan's hand, and Emily said, We were planning to go to Pittsburgh anyway this year. My family does a big dinner on Saturday usually.


Mine's not close, Gwen said. Ugly divorce. I usually work Thanksgivings.


My parents were pretty understanding what with everything going on with Justin, Daphne said.


Derek said, My mom too.


You make it sound like this is my last Thanksgiving ever, Justin complained, and Brian smiled and kissed his cheek.


Emily started signing fast, and Brian glanced at me and then interpreted. “Last Thanksgiving would probably be a little more mournful than this.”


Sitting shiva but with turkey, Gwen said.


This does seem really...cheery, I said. You guys are amazing.


Daphne laughed. Amazing at what?


You're just all...here. Celebrating. Happy.


“That's enough,” Brian said softly.


It's a holiday, Derek said. Generally they're happy, right? Don't you guys write all those songs about them? He looked at Daphne and she nodded and kissed him.


I said, No, I just meant...with all that all of you have been through this month.


We didn't really do much, Derek said. Well, Brian did.


Brian waved his fork dismissively.


And Evan did all that cooking, Derek said.


Evan did his best dismissive Brian impression, and Brian snorted.


But we mostly sat around being sad, Derek said. It wasn't that much work.


I said, I just know when my husband's been sick, or when my uncle—


This wasn't like that, Brian said.


It's just hard to bounce back from...seeing that, I said. I just think you're impressive.


But they just told you they didn't do anything, Justin said, suddenly.


Brian looked at him curiously.


Except Brian, Justin said.


I don't know, Brian said easily. I didn't cook. Evan laughed and kicked him.


All they did was worry about me, Justin said. That's not...they love me, they're supposed to worry sometimes.


I said, No, I know.


I'm not going to apologize for that, he said. I'm really sick of...feeling like I have some sort of explaining to do. I didn't do anything wrong.


Brian kept watching Justin with the oddest little smile on his face.


Don't get too excited, Justin said to him. I'm sure it's temporary.


Still, Brian said.


I said, I'm sorry, I didn't...mean it like that.


Justin just shrugged and said Okay, and shoved a big bite of turkey in his mouth.


Brian looked at Justin appreciatively, then turned to me with his eyes narrowed. “Two second hug goodbye,” he said darkly.


“What! You said—”


“I have spoken,” he said, then he turned to Emily and complained Jane was dripping gravy on his floor.


**


Everyone trickled out after dinner, first the girls with the baby, then Daphne and Derek. Evan stayed for a while, sprawled on the sofa and trapped under Justin, fast asleep with his head against Evan's sweater, and I helped Brian finish cleaning up the kitchen, and we talked about Gus and Ben and Hunter and J.R. and Ivy and Ma and Evan played on his phone and rubbed Justin's back every time he coughed.


Eventually Evan left, slipping off his mask to kiss Justin's forehead and exchanging a handshake with me and a back-slapping hug with Brian, and I figured it was time for me to clear out. Justin was trying to stay standing and it was clearly taking every ounce of energy he had left. Brian hugged me, his hand on the back of my neck, and I pulled Justin into my arms and held him for a long time, looking defiantly at Brian.


Well, now I just have to throw the whole Justin away, Brian said.


I let go of him, and Brian wound an arm around Justin's waist and pulled into him. Thanks for coming, Mikey, he said.


Come back sometime, Justin said.


I said, Yeah, any time. You know where to find me.


Brian rested his hand on top of Justin's head. We'll be here.

 

End Notes:

 

I need to know if there's anything y'all are dying to see in this recovery arc, if there are any stories or plots you want me to hit...lemme know!

Chapter 89 - Indoor Living by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Quarantine isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Indoor Living

LaVieEnRose



One Thursday night I was curled up on the couch in the office, wearing my mask and squished up as close as I could get to the air purifier and looking out the window at the moon hanging low over the city. I could just make out some people down on the street, disappearing in the darkness and reappearing under lamp posts. I barely even really noticed the vibration through the floor, but I could tell when it stopped, and a minute later Brian appeared in the doorway. He sighed, looking at me. Your eyes.


I pressed the back of my hand against one of them. “Bad?”


Yeah. You okay?


I nodded and moved the mask out of the way to sneeze a few times. Normally I'd never be in the apartment while Brian was vacuuming. Okay, let's be real, normally Brian would never fucking vacuum; that's what cleaning services are for. But we couldn't have people traipsing through the apartment right now, and I'd get wheezy—wheezier—if we went more than a few days without dusting and vacuuming, and I couldn't get out of the house and not breathe in all the shit Brian was stirring up while he cleaned, so...here we were, me and my mask and my air purifier and my swollen eyes.


Brian said, I'm done in there, just give everything a few minutes to settle down and you should be good.


I coughed a little. Okay.


You're having trouble. Come on, you need to wash this crap off you.


He brought me to the shower and rinsed me off, sucking water off my collarbone, and got handsy with me under the spray. I missed full-on, drag-out, screaming sex like I cannot fucking explain, and even though I could probably have managed getting fucked by then, if Brian took it slow, I couldn't risk any kind of skin tear, and every time I'd tried to top Brian I'd ended up getting too winded and having to tap out. Brian was frustrated, because, you know, that, and also because even though we hadn't talked about it I knew he hadn't been tricking that much—he'd do it at the gym sometimes because the options felt healthier than the club kids at Nova, I guess, and because he could shower right after instead of waiting until he got home, since last time he'd gone out dancing he'd come home and taken a half hour shower and said he felt like he'd been swimming in germ soup—and a man can only live on hand jobs for so long. Just another thing to add to the list, but if I was being honest I spent a lot less time concentrating on sex than I did the creeping sensation that the apartment was getting smaller and smaller.


“What day is it?” I asked Brian, as he washed my hair.


Seventh. You are so stuffed up. He tilted my head back under the water.


Seventh. I tried to remember what day it was that we were sitting in my neurologist's office, hearing I had the same number of white blood cells as an underfed kitten. It was the fourth or the fifth of November, I think. Over a month ago.


I'd been in this apartment for over a month. It was too cold to go out on the balcony for more than a minute or two, but I'd do that every once in a while, just to gulp down some fresh air even though it made my chest burn like it was on fire, but my immunologist—over email, because I couldn't actually go to a doctor's appointment, hadn't seen my fucking therapist in a month—kept reminding me how important it was to stay warm, not to put any stress on my immune system than I absolutely had to. Brian took that really seriously and was always putting socks on me.


Still, when I was sneezing again the second we were out of the shower, I said, I need to open a window for a little. This dust is driving me crazy.


He looked at me critically. Yeah, okay. Put a hoodie on. Socks. What did I tell you?


I pulled the chair in the bedroom over the window and put on warm clothes and curled up next to it. Brian had goosebumps on his skin and he shivered a little while he changed, and normally I wouldn't have been able to take my eyes off that, not for a second, but I kept turning away tonight and looking out at the water, the street, the moon, the people.


I started to shake after a little while, even though I tried to hide it, and Brian came up behind me and wrapped his arms all the way around me, kissing up my cheek. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and slipped them underneath my sweatshirt, and I tilted my head back and exposed my throat for him to nuzzle.


I felt my heart speed up, and God, I wanted him so badly, but I felt kind of dizzy and out-of-it, and I didn't know why.


Cold air's hurting your lungs, he signed on me.


It is? Oh. It turns out you can get used to not breathing, a little.


Sounds bad. Time to warm up.


He closed the window and pulled me up and brought me to the bed, fussing with the covers for so long that I eventually figured out he was being over the top on purpose to make me laugh. Brian can always tell when I'm having a rough night, mentally, but I think it's hard for him to see the difference between when I'm just feeling a little down and when I'm really...on the brink of something. To be fair, it can be hard for me too.


It wasn't really that night.


You look hot all bundled up, he said.


Still, he made me happy.


Yeah, like a sexy Eskimo, I said.


He crawled on top of me, carefully keeping his weight off my chest. He kissed one eyelid, then the other. Poor allergies, he signed on me, his hands, my nose.


Kind of the least of my worries.


I think right now that'd be seizures, he said, and he took my legs and played with them, pushing my knees up to my chest, stretching them back out. Hazel thinks I made them up.


Probably not, since I did seizure-fling a cup at her last week.


None for two days. Very impressive. He bent my knee a few times. So strong, look at this.


There haven't been many this week, I said, and he nodded.


Having to change your meds might end up being good in the long run. These work better than the last ones.


I didn't answer, because what could I really say? He was right, of course; it was good that I was going to be on meds that reduced my seizures more than the last couple we'd tried did, and on a macro scale that mattered a lot more than the fact that I felt horrible right now.


On the other hand, I felt really horrible right now.


And he noticed, tilting his head to the side as he put my legs down. You are really having a hard time with the breathing thing tonight, huh?


It's not the best.


That's allergies?


I nodded and snuffled into a handful of tissues.


Deep breath...yeah, okay. Back on oxygen tonight.


Brian had been trying to wean me off of it at night—I think it freaked him out, I don't know—but honestly I hated the nights we did without it. I always felt shitty and gaspy and like I couldn't fall asleep because if I did I'd just stop breathing forever.


I put the cannula in place and we made out for a while, and after a while Brian started grinding against me, maybe unconsciously at first, but he kept going and I nodded, even though I was so out of breath already. He kept going, not too fast, checking in every once in a while to make sure I was okay, but we both came quickly and around the same time, in our pants like fucking teenagers, and there was no way I was gathering up the energy or the oxygen to shower again and Brian knew it, so he stripped out of his sweatpants and cleaned me up a little with some tissues and a lot with his mouth. He curled up around me, tugging on the neck of my sweatshirt so he could kiss my shoulders. Love me? I said, and he nodded and buried his face in the crook of my neck. We stayed there for a while before he got my meds and turned out the lights and set his alarm and apologized sleepily for messing up my allergies and conked out hugging my arm to his chest, and every second he wasn't talking to me, looking at me, the temporary calm drained out of me and half an hour later I was right back where I was, feeling the walls move and still very, very awake.


It was so stupid. I couldn't stay awake for the life of me during the day, but as soon as night came around and I was actually supposed to be asleep, I'd lie here feeling like I was going to come out of my skin if I stayed still. I was itchy and miserable and still sneezing all the time and trying not to wake up Brian, and the whole thing just fucking sucked.


I got up after an hour. The oxygen tank is heavy as shit and normally when I walk around with it I just pull it behind me, even though Brian bitches that I'm scuffing up the floors, but I must assume that's pretty loud, so I lifted it up and set it down every few steps when I got tired, some kind of weird three-legged limp out to the living room, me, socked feet, oxyen tank. I wanted to get over to the window seat, but I got so tired before I even made it to the couch, so I ended up sitting cross legged on the rug trying to catch my breath and crane my neck so I could see outside at the same time.


I realized the balcony doors were closer, and if I stood by them maybe I'd be able to see more than just the railing, so I got up and hauled the oxygen tank a few more steps but it became clear pretty quickly I wasn't make it all the way there. I sat back down and tried to cough quietly, and then I was hit with that sudden wave of tired like I fucking am nowadays, the kind of thing that used to mean a seizure but now just meant I have the stamina of an arthritic goldfish, and the next thing I knew I was waking up kind of groggy God knows how long after, still curled up on the rug. I was groggy and confused and stuffed up and I tried to stand up and was very confused by the tugging on the cannula until I remembered the oxygen tank, and I tried to pick it up but I couldn't pick it up and stand at the same time and I couldn't figure out what order to do them and everything was so heavy and hard and eventually I just went, “Brian? Brian?”


He came stumbling out of the bedroom a minute later, squinty and bedheaded. What the fuck? Did you have a seizure?


“No, I just...” God, I was so sleepy. “I got up for a minute.”


You're on the floor.


I pointed to the tank. “It's too heavy.”


Yeah, I know, that's why you're supposed to stay put. He lifted it easily and pulled me up. Come on.


I want to see the stars. I stumbled a little, and he caught me.


Bed, he said firmly, and he half-dragged, half-carried me back. Don't get up again, moron, he signed, already well on his way to falling back asleep, and he pinned me close to him with his arm across my chest like a seatbelt and I looked up at the ceiling and wondered how high it was and thought about the glue traps my dad used to put under the sink and behind the radiator and I thought, I wonder if this is how mice feel.


**


I felt really sick in the morning. I wouldn't get up to shower or have breakfast, and after a while Brian gave up trying and I sat there and panted while he rushed around, bitching that he couldn't find the tie he wanted.


“Can you stay?” I said.


I won't leave until Hazel gets here, he said, barely looking at me.


“No, I mean...can you stay here today? Just for an hour?”


I have a meeting at nine.


“Can I come with you?”


He finally stopped moving around and turned to me. Justin, come on.


I think I'm getting sick again, I said, which would probably have been a lot more alarming for him if I didn't say it every fucking morning, but in my defense I felt like I was getting sick again every fucking morning and last time I did I almost goddamn died so I figured I got to be a little antsy about that right now.


He sighed. What's wrong? I could see him counting minutes in his head. Time he was wasting reassuring me.


My sinuses hurt.


His face softened a little. Yeah, I fucked up your allergies last night.


My throat hurts.


That's...your allergies.


I sneezed a few times and he gave me that head tilt and plucked a few tissues out and cupped them over my nose. See? I said.


Yeah, again...


I think I'm sick.


He kissed my forehead. You don't have a fever, he said. Your shitty ear looks better. You're not sick again.


Can you please stay?


Another kiss, between the eyes this time. Babysitting is Hazel's job, he said. I pulled away, and he groaned and sat down on the foot of the bed. It's a joke.


Sure.


Sunshine, what the fuck do you want from me, here? I have a meeting, and you know you can't come to the office.


I'll wear a mask.


He stood up. Stop making me be the asshole.


“Nobody's got a gun to your head,” I mumbled while he started searching the room again.


He held up his tie.


“Hooray,” I said flatly, hopefully.


You're going to get frown lines, you know.


“I can't breathe,” I said softly.


He bent over the bed and pulled me into his arms, and I clung for a long time.


I'll come home at lunch, he said. Try to rest until then, okay?


I was going to try to paint today. I hadn't accomplished a fucking thing in God knows how long.


I tried to talk and just started coughing, and I never know when a fit starts whether it's going to be a normal one or one of the one that doesn't fucking stop, but Brian can somehow always tell. He braced me under his arm and got the trash can onto my lap before I coughed so hard I threw up. It took a good four minutes before I could draw in a breath that didn't make my lungs freak immediately right back out. That feels a lot longer than it sounds.


There we go, Brian said. All done now. You're all done.


Yeah.


He took the trash can away. I think for all these drugs to work you're supposed to keep them down for more than ten minutes, he said, rubbing a circle on my back and handing me some water to sip.


I panted. Sorry.


Pneumonia's really not a good time, huh, he said.


“Yeah, it's not my favorite.”


He paused. I know it's a bad day. I see it, okay? I do.


A bad day. It wasn't a bad day.


But fuck. He was trying. I nodded.


I'll bring you clam chowder from that fucking hole in the wall you're obsessed with. And garlic bread. Okay?


“Yeah,” I said, but I still couldn't catch my fucking breath. “I need to go outside.”


He shook his head. It's twenty degrees and sleeting.


“I can't breathe in here.”


That's your lungs. It's not the room. Cold air's going to fuck you up even more. He looked at me for a long moment, then opened up the dresser and took out one of his sweaters. I put my arms up and let him pull it over my head and arrange the collar. There.


All fixed now, I said, not as bitter as I'd intended. It was just really warm inside that sweater, and it smelled like him.


Good. He nodded towards the living room. Doorbell.


Okay. Can you—


Yeah, I'll tell her you're having a rough morning.


Okay. Thanks. Brian debriefed Hazel every morning and she gave him a report every evening. I didn't know exactly what they said to each other, and it was the kind of thing that I had a vague feeling I would care about if I weren't so busy feeling like trash on a cracker. As it was...whatever. Let them handle me.


He lifted my chin and gave me a long kiss. Get some sleep. I'll fuck Evan in the copy room for you.


Wow, do not do that.


He laughed. Later.


**


I always felt kind of bad for sleeping when Hazel was there. I know it's dumb. Brian was constantly reminding me that she's not some guest I'm here to entertain, and she'd actually prefer to get paid to sit on the couch watching her telenovelas while I sleep or read or whatever, but...I don't know. It's just so fucking weird having someone in your house all the time, a total stranger who's going to touch you and who you're supposed to tell if you're feeling bad and who opens up your refrigerator and takes out the food your partner left for you like she lives here. And it's not that I didn't like Hazel, because I did, actually. She never acted like I was bothering her or overreacting when I was worried that a zit was a staph infection or when I couldn't make up my mind whether or not I wanted a neb or oxygen or to go to bed, and she didn't hover over me either, and Brian liked her and that was more important, honestly, since he was the one talking to her. Because she didn't sign, and it's just...


I probably can't explain to you how isolating it is to be around someone all day who doesn't speak your language. It's worse than being alone, because you can't relax, but you can't communicate, either. And obviously I could talk to her in English—and I did—but all she could do was point and nod and sign the few things she'd picked up, food, medicine, Brian, help and it was just...it was uncomfortable, being around her and not being able to communicate with her and not knowing how to be myself with her in my house, and I couldn't even begin to read her lips or judge her facial expressions with the mask in place, and it was another thing that made the whole apartment feel like...well.


I slept most of the morning and woke up a little bit before Brian got back feeling really heavy and dizzy and nauseous. I'd been having a hard time waking up ever since I first got sick, and some days were just worse than others, which was fucking frustrating because everyone kept telling me I was getting better and I couldn't figure out if they were wrong or I was wrong or if they knew I wasn't getting better and they were just fucking lying to me to keep me calm.


The whole thing was so fucking surreal, because everyone kept talking about when I was sick like it was something in the past and I kept worrying about getting sick again like the last round of it was over, and here I was feeling so fucking goddamn awful that three months ago if I'd felt like this it would have scared the shit out of me. I don't really know how to describe it. It was kind of like having a really awful flu on top of a shitty allergy attack. It was just so fucking exhausting and so, so depressing, and it didn't feel like it was ever going to get better.


Hazel came in, masked and gloved, when I started coughing, and she turned the humidifer on and put my oxygen back in place and rubbed my back while I tried to suck air in through these fucking cement factories I called lungs nowadays. She gave me some water and helped me to the bathroom and I gradually started to feel a little more human. I wanted to be out of bed when Brian got here for lunch, so I grabbed a sketchpad and a pencil and settled down in the bay window in the living room. I watched people stream by on the sidewalk and three people who looked like they were arguing on the corner, and I tried to draw them, no pressure, just shaping them out, but my hand felt heavy and sloppy and just moving the pencil was so goddamn exhausting that I had to set it aside after a couple minutes. I set it down carefully and pressed my forehead against the window, watching the cabs drive out of view.


Hazel got off the couch a couple minutes later and went to the door, so I knew Brian was home. They talked for a few minutes, then he came over, rubbing hand sanitizer between his palms. He sat down across from me on the window seat, pulling his long legs up against mine. He handed me a paper bag with soup and some bread and picked up the sketchpad. I looked away while he leafed through my attempts for the day, but he raised his eyes when I sneezed a few times.


Still? he said.


Yeah, it hasn't stopped.


Had Benadryl?


I sneezed again and wiped my nose on some napkins. I don't know. Ask Hazel.


Hazel thinks you're depressed.


That's very perceptive, seeing as she's seen my prescriptions.


Yeah, well, she thinks you're in the bad place. Eat.


I took the lid off the soup. What did you tell her?


I told her after being this sick for this long probably anyone would be depressed.


I stretched my legs out on top of his and looked out the window. He stole a piece of my garlic bread and chewed it while he watched me.


Are you trying to see inside my brain? I asked him.


Yeah.


I leaned my head against the wall.


You're skyping with Lauren, right? he said.


Yeah.


I need to be worried?


I shrugged a little. I'm not happy. There's nothing we can do.


He ran his palm up and down my leg. Jane and Emily are coming over on Sunday. And Evan said he'd text you, did he?


I shrugged. Haven't looked.


He wants to come over tonight, watch movies, make you dinner. Listen to you cough.


He's Deaf.


He's hard-of-hearing, trust me, he can hear that cough. He squeezed my knee. Maybe he can stay over. Slumber party.


Every visit with me is a slumber party.


True.


He still looked so goddamn worried. He was trying so hard. And I just couldn't think of anything to say to be reassuring that he wouldn't see right through, and that would make him even sadder.


So I just said, When are my next blood tests?


He studied me, head cocked to the side, then said, Two more weeks.


What if we did it this week?


I don't...think you're going to get any change this week, Sunshine.


That x-ray version works on my bone marrow now?


He shrugged. We can if you want. But it's just going to make you feel more defeated if we rush it and you don't get what you want.


Who needs Lauren when I already have you?


Jesus, who needs you when I already have an asshole preteen?


I kicked his knee. You.


He sighed deeply. Apparently. Eat your soup.


I ate for a while and looked out the window, and he read emails on his phone, absentmindedly cupping my bare feet in his lap every once in a while. Socks he signed to himself, really small, like he didn't know he was doing it, and I just...wished so hard that the swell of love inside of me was enough to make me happy. I fucking hated that it wasn't.


“There's got to be somewhere I can go,” I said softly, after a minute.


He looked up. What?


I said there's got to be somewhere I can go. I know I can't breathe outside and I can't be around people but there's got to be somewhere...


Somewhere inside, warm, clean, without people?


Yeah.


He held up a hand and gestured around us.


Somewhere else, I said.


Someday I'll get you a summer home, he said, in that smarmy way I'm not supposed to know is sincere.


I leaned my head against the wall. By the beach.


By the beach.


I imagined the wind off the sea and closed my eyes.


**


Evan came home from work that evening with Brian, their arms full of groceries, talking out loud to each other as they came in the front door. It's so fucking weird to see Evan talk. I always forget he can. Evan unloaded bags in the kitchen while Brian got the day's wrap up from Hazel. She waved to me on her way out the door, and Brian came over to where I was curled up on the couch, rubbing antiseptic between his hands, his face creased with concern. I used to love that look. Used to revel in the proof that he cared about me.


I'm okay, I said.


You should have called me. She should have called me.


It really wasn't anything. I didn't even fall. I was out of bed, my vision started tunneling in, she got me back in bed.


And you're sure it wasn't a seizure.


Hazel would know.


He sighed and kissed my forehead. I thought we were past the fainting thing.


Shitty blood counts.


Lack of oxygen.


Why not both? I said, and sneezed hard enough that Brian winced.


How do you feel now? he said.


I just shook my head a little.


He studied me for a minute, then nodded. Okay. Stay where you are, get some rest. We're going to make dinner.


He's going to make dinner.


I'm incredible company. Lie down, he said, mock-exasperated.


So I lay there and watched Brian and Evan in the kitchen. They have this really funny relationship that I've never seen Brian have with any of the other guys I've dated or even with anyone. I guess the closest comparison is Michael, or maybe Derek, but also kind of...me? It's hard to explain. Brian and Evan aren't together in any sort of romantic or sexual way, but they're also not super...not together. Evan makes Brian laugh more than anyone besides me, and Evan totally follows Brian around a puppy. They're also both goddamn obsessed with me, and I'm always catching them talking about me and stilling their hands when I walk into the room or changing the subject in some way they probably think is natural. It's good. They both needed someone to talk about this medical shit, and God knows I wasn't...present enough yet to be that person for either of them. So normally I'm happy to watch them. It makes me feel glad that they have each other, and safe that they care about me, but tonight...


Nothing was how it was supposed to be tonight, and it just made me feel too goddamn important when I wanted to disappear, and too goddamn held together when I wanted to...


I watched them bitch about the right way to cook a chicken and shove each other around and laugh and talk about my allergies and my sleep schedule. At one point I started coughing really violently, and when it didn’t let up I saw them kind of hurrying around in the kitchen, and after a minute Brian came in with a heating pad that he held onto my chest while I tried to stop, and that helped a lot. When I was done he just hugged me, really gently.


We ate roast chicken at the coffee table sitting on the floor cushions, but by then I was just feeling awful, and I was making no efforts to hide it. They didn’t even nag me about eating, and they always nag me about eating, so I knew I must have looked about as bad as I felt. Jesus, come here, Evan said abruptly at one point, and he pulled me into him and I took deep breaths through my nose so I wouldn’t throw up or pass out again, and I think I fell asleep there for a while with my head on his shoulder.


We ended up on the couch watching Singin’ in the Rain—combines me and Evan’s love of musicals, though I only like ones I saw before I went Deaf, with Brian’s fetish for movies made before anyone he’s ever met was born—with my head in Brian’s lap and my feet in Evan’s. I was coughing pretty constantly, even after Brian got me oxygen, and he kept a tight grip on my shoulder, steady, reassuring, while Evan patted my leg when the fits got bad. Eventually it was all just too fucking much, the motion of the movie and the coughing and the pain and the fucking get me off this couch, and I turned and pushed my face into Brian's leg, my nails digging through his jeans, and he rested his palm on my head while Evan stretched out behind me, twisting his leg around mine, and for just a second, just a little second, there with all those hands on me I didn't feel trapped. I felt like a bird in a nest.


It only lasted a second.


Evan didn't sleep over because I was clearly crashing tonight, and I thought I was fine with that, I really did, and then as he was leaving I was craning my neck to seek the hallway through the open door and after it shut I started crying a little.


Jesus Christ, Brian said. He can come back tomorrow.


“No, it's not...” I said, but I could breathe and cry at the same time, so I just shook my head and let Brian hold the oxygen mask over my face for a while. He was being sweet, handing me tissues and telling me to breathe, but it was so fucking frustrating that I couldn't talk and that he thought I was crying because, what, my boyfriend had gone home?


I tried to get ahold of myself, but I was so upset and freaked out and fucking...desperate, and even after I'd stopped crying I just sat there shaking. Brian was trying to soothe me, but he kept saying, I know, I know, and at one point I just snapped.


“You don't fucking know,” I said.


He stayed still for a minute, then got up abruptly and went to the kitchen. He was cleaning up, allegedly, but even I could tell he was mostly just making a lot of noise.


He threw a pan into the sink and turned to me over the counter. You know, I'm getting pretty fucking sick of this, Justin.


I coughed into my elbow. Maybe we are on the same page, then.


I get that you feel like shit. And I get that that's fucking awful and endless and you have to do it by yourself and nobody understands. But I did not do this you, and I'm getting pretty tired of being the bad guy when I'm...


When you're what? I said. Going out there and working and holding the family together? You think this is the set up I wanted?


I'm not having a good time here either.


Try it on top of not being able to breathe.


It's not my fucking fault! he said, throwing down a dish rag. I didn't kill your fucking immune system, I didn't give you pneumonia, I'm not the one making the fucking rules here.


I know you're not.


I get that you're fucking frustrated but I'm doing everything I can. I bring you stuff. I go visit the baby. I let people come over. I let you lie all over your fucking boyfriend and you're probably going to get fucking sick from that but I do it so you won't be miserable and it's not enough.


I must have had some kind of look on my face from that, some kind of giveaway of the panic I felt rising up in me, because his expression changed.


I didn't mean it, he said. You're not going to get sick.


I took a slow breath in.


You're fine, he said. You're not going to get sick, okay? You're okay.


I sunk my head into my hands and tried to calm down and not think about the billions of fucking germs everywhere in the world all the fucking time trying to fucking kill me. A minute later I felt Brian's hand on the back of my head.


I'm sorry, I said. I know I'm being awful to you. I'll do better, okay?


He shrugged.


It's not...I started, and he watched me, waiting, but eventually I just shook my head and looked away. Because what the fuck could I say to him? He was doing everything for me. And none of this was his fault. There was no point making him feel bad about shit he couldn't do anything about. And he could bring me heating pads and put me on oxygen and make me feel a little better, so if he thought that was the issue...


It's really bad tonight, isn't it? he said.


Yeah.


It hurts?


We hadn't really talked about that. He's pretty used to me being sick at this point, but he gets upset about me being in pain. I nodded just a little.


He said we had to shower before bed, and after my little germ freakout I was more than happy to oblige, so I let him bring me in and begged him to run the water as hot as it would go. He held me tightly, keeping me upright when I started coughing, and I clung and tried not to hit his chest with my fist.


We went to bed after and he lay down next to me, stroking my cheek with one hand and just kind of...taking me in, I guess, I don't know. He had probably been planning on going out that night, especially if Evan was going to stay over to babysit me, and now he was stuck here with his bitchy partner who was too sick to fuck, going to bed at barely midnight.


“I'm trying,” I whispered, and Brian nodded and rested his head on my chest, and I remember thinking that maybe everything was going to be okay, and then...well, then the next morning happened.


It started out okay. I woke up and it was sunny outside. Brian wasn't there. I sat up and felt almost sort of okay, and I decided I was going to go sit out on the balcony before Brian could stop me. And as soon as I decided that, it became this absolutely primal need, worse that it had even been the day before. I don't really know how to describe it, it was like...if I didn't get outside right then I was going to die, or something.


So then of course as soon as I got up my leg started seizing and I fell.


I landed kind of awkwardly, but I wasn't hurt or anything. Still, I couldn't get up, not until my leg was done shaking and probably not on my own for at least ten minutes after that because it was going to be weak and I was going to be all seizurey and stupid, and somehow that was just...that was the breaking point. I don't know. I started crying, way harder than I had the night before, and then I was just screaming for I don't know how long, screaming and sobbing and hitting the floor and kicking the bed and forgetting how the fuck to breathe, and at some point I looked up and Brian was standing in the doorway, frozen, his eyes huge on me.


I was scaring the everloving shit out of him, and that just made me cry harder.


“I can't do this,” I got out eventually. “I have to get outside, I can't stay inside anymore, I can't stand in this fucking apartment, I can't...” I tried to get up but ended up stumbling and landing on my knees, and I gripped my hair with one hand and my shirt with the other because if I didn't hold onto myself I was going to fucking fall into pieces. “I'm so scared all the time and I can't breathe and everything is happening without me and this fucking apartment never changes and there's a whole world out there but it feels like it's not even there, and...I'm doing it again, I'm doing it again, I'm yelling at you when it's not your fault, I know, I—”


Stop. He came towards me and knelt down in front of me. You yell, you go ahead, you yell.


“I can't do this anymore, I've been here for a month, I'm going crazy, I'm losing my fucking mind. I can't, I can't...” I gasped for air, Brian's hands on my shoulders keeping me from fucking crumpling into a ball on the floor. “I know all of this is to keep me alive but holy shit I can't do this, I feel like I'm dying anyway, I feel like I already died.”


I just cried for the longest time, too hard to look at him, and we stayed there on the floor. He was signing something and finally I pulled myself together enough to look at him. His eyes were bright, and he was crying, just a little, not like I was, and he said, I'm here with you, I am with you, I am with you, over and over.


And I nodded and held onto him because God, what the fuck else could he offer me besides that, besides the promise that if I was going to go through hell he was going to do it too, that if something was going to hurt me it was going to hurt him too? Because he wasn't going through what I was, and he never could, and God, neither of us would ever want him to. But he was with me, he was down with me on the fucking floor of our apartment while I fell apart, and...sometimes you just need someone to see what is happening to you. Sometimes that's all anyone can do.


He picked me up eventually, once I'd started to quiet down, and brought me to bed and put oxygen on me because he said my lips were purple, and he lay behind me on the bed and held me for a long time. I must have really worn myself out, because the next thing I knew I was waking up and it was already starting to get dark outside. Brian was gone again, and I the memory of the morning kind of hit me like a truck. God, he was probably calling the fucking psych ward to see if they had a nice clean room so he could drop me off without having my death on his conscience.


I coughed and stretched and pulled myself out of bed and slowly made my way out to the door. It was shut, which was kind of weird, because we usually leave it open unless there's company, so I had a vague thought that Brian might have had someone over, but that wasn't what was going on at all.


Our living room was covered in pictures, taped to every wall. The cliffs in Spain, the art museums in Florence, Brian on his back on a fountain in Milan, me eating octopus in Hong Kong. The sunset from that dumb camping trip the year before. Jane at Rockaway Beach. The two of us in LA, him squinting up at the sun, me looking up at him. Hundreds and hundreds of fucking pictures, covering the entire living room, and Brian taping up more as I stood there, his back to me.


“Brian?” I said.


He kind of froze, then slowly turned around looking kind of sheepish which is an odd look on Brian. You weren't supposed to see it until I was done.


“I...what are you doing?”


He shrugged. You can't go out in the world. Thought I'd try to bring it to you.


I bit my lip and touched a picture on the wall next to me. Brian standing on our hotel balcony in Sevilla, his features sharp but his eyes soft.


“Is it really all still out there?” I said, glad I couldn't hear how fucking stupid I sounded.


But Brian nodded, watching me.


It misses you too, he said. It can't wait for you to come home.


“Soon?”


He nodded. Soon.


I took a deep a breath as I could. “Okay.”

 

End Notes:

aaaand that's 500k! wow wow wow.

Chapter 90 - How Far We've Come by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Evan takes over with Justin when Brian catches a cold.

How Far We've Come

LaVieEnRose



I lost most of my hearing when I was two years old. Meningitis. Since I grew up non-signing, I rely on hearing aids, which let me pick up ambient noise and sometimes, if the environment is exactly right, a word or two, but mostly just get by on lipreading, which I'm either really good at or people have just been letting me be wrong about everything they're saying for twenty-seven years.


Now I have Deaf friends and I sign, so most of my social life is through that, but I always figured when it came to work I'd spend my whole life lipreading and smiling patiently while people said my accent was so interesting and tried to guess where I was from and comforting them and promising them they weren't bad people after they realized I was Deaf, and honestly I was fine with that. And I guess assuming I'd be fine with something and then getting weirdly blindsided by some other kind of amazing alternative that I never considered is sort of the theme of this story, and I guess when it comes down to it it is, on all levels, always because of Brian.


Because, you know, enter my job at Kinnetik. Where people sign to me. And sure, most of them not very well, and I still end up doing a lot of lipreading, but even just a sign or two before they start talking to tell me what the topic is is incredibly helpful. Like this Tuesday, when Nicole signed Finished? and asked, “Are the comps for Meyers finished?”


“Meyers?” I like to double check. She nodded, and I picked up the boards for Henderson and found the Meyers comps underneath. “Yeah, Brett did the last pass this morning.”


Upstairs? she signed. Code for Brian. It is always, but always, my job to run stuff up to show Brian. I don't know how they got anything done before I got here, since they're clearly all terrified of him. I have no idea what they think our relationship is. I'm sure they'd never imagine we were together in any way or that I was with Justin, since all of them have Brian and Justin has their OTP or whatever and just the knowledge that Brian fucks around would probably make their heads explode, let alone that Justin has a boyfriend. And even then they still wouldn't understand me and Brian. I don't know. I'm scared to ask and find out they all think I'm like Brian's foster son or something.


I took the comps up the stairs, sending Justin a quick text on my way—he was still stuck at home all the time, so I tried to entertain him throughout the day however I could with dumb jokes or selfies or little anecdotes about Brian—and waved to Emily at her desk.


Out back, she said. And tell him I said he has ten minutes to get his ass back in here. We have talking points to go over before the meeting. Aside from everyone at Kinnetik knowing a few signs, the fact that I work with another Deaf person, even if it's Emily who still scares the shit out of me, is so, so cool. And then the fucking CEO is a fluent signer, like...how many other companies can say that? Clients think it's so cool, even if they have no use whatsoever for sign language, because they think it means Brian's really smart and creative. Which it does. Trust me as someone who picked up sign language as an adult: it's not easy, and Brian didn't have the natural, like, longing for it that Justin and I did. And still he's self-conscious about his signing; he hides it well, but you can tell sometimes, whenever he stumbles at all or has to ask someone to slow down he gets all sullen, and like, we all stumble and ask people to slow down sometimes.


I took the back door and went out to the alleyway where Brian was leaning against the wall smoking. He startled a little when I came out but then relaxed. Hey.


Weren't you quitting?


Not a cigarette.


I crossed my arms. “You're getting high at work?”


Yeah, you gonna tell my boss?


“Maybe.”


I have a new client meeting at ten.


“And...?”


And I get nervous, sue me. He pulled me in under his arm and held the joint to my lips, and I took a slow drag and held it. We leaned against the building, his arm still loosely around my neck, and I rubbed my hands together to warm them up.


I let my breath out. “How's Justin?” It was his first week on his own; his home nurse was coming and checking him a few times a week to adjust his meds or take his vital signs or I don't know, whatever Brian wasn't licensed to do, I guess, but for the most part he was alone for the first time since this all went down. Justin had been begging for it, and I got that, but it made Brian nervous, which I got too. Justin's first day on his own, Brian was calling him every half hour and Justin complained he couldn't sleep, so the next day they'd just stayed on Facetime the whole day, I think, because every time I came into Brian's office Justin was on his phone just sleeping or reading or something. Brian's calmed down since then. A little.


Brian pinched the joint between his teeth. He's good. Seizure around midnight, nothing too rough but it gave him a headache. Officially gained a pound this week as of this morning.


The blood tests are next week?


Yeah, here's hoping. He took a drag off the joint. We've got to get him out of that apartment. He's having all these fucking panic attacks. Popping Klonopin like candy to keep from tearing his hair out.


I don't know how you stay inside for a month.


Well, that's Justin. Doing impossible shit because he has no other choice. He was trying to hide his pride, but he couldn't, it was right there in his hands. Do you know how amazing it is to have someone who loves your boyfriend as much as you do? All my friends want me to shut up because all I want to do is talk about Justin, and then...then there's Brian.


He's amazing, I said.


He made breakfast this morning.


He did?


Yeah. Eggs and toast, start to finish, only sat to rest once.


Holy shit.


Brian grinned like he couldn't help it, because, I mean, who else is he gonna brag to about Justin making breakfast? He'd been dying to tell someone all morning. He's getting well.


He's getting well.


He laughed a little and pulled me in and kissed the top of my head. Jesus. All right. What have you got for me?


“Oh, Meyers, here.”


I handed him the folder and watched while he leafed through. He looked tired, I noticed, but I didn't think much of it until he swallowed and his fingers went to the base of his throat. Deaf people notice little movements like that, because it looks like someone's about to start speaking, and we also notice facial expressions, like the little wince I saw in Brian through that swallow.


“Um...Brian?”


He raised an eyebrow, eyes still on the folder.


“You're not getting sick, are you?”


I don't get sick, he signed without looking up.


“Wow, are you being studied, or...?”


He closed the folder and gave me a look.


“Is this like a Jack Spratt and his wife thing, you and Justin?”


Do you ever shut up?


I tried it once.


Not for you?


No, I didn't like it.


He paused, going through something in his head. The wife doesn't get a name?


“Uh...Mrs. Spratt.”


That's bleak, he said.


I didn't write it.


I'm not getting sick, he said. If I were getting sick, Justin would be sick.


And Justin's making breakfast.


Justin's making breakfast. He handed me the folder back. These are good, but tell Lou to stop being lazy with font. Everyone can tell.


Sure. You've got to get back in to Emily.


Yeah, yeah. He handed me the rest of the joint and fucked up my hair. See you.


“Drink some orange juice,” I called after him, and he flicked me off over his shoulder.


**


Yeah, so four hours later we got a call down at the art department, and Nicole got my attention and signed, Brian. He was sitting at his desk when I got in, looking like he'd just heard the company was going to be liquidated.


“Hi?” I tried.


Don't get close.


“Uh oh.”


He gave me a long look and finally said, I'm getting sick.


“Oof.”


Pretty much.


You okay?


What the fuck? Yeah, I'm fine, it's a cold.


“Yeah.”


He sighed. He says he still feels fine, or, you know, as fine as he's capable of feeling right now. But I feel like we're on borrowed fucking time here. He rubbed his forehead. God, if he gets this he's going to get really fucking sick again...


You don't know that.


It started with a cold last time...


When his immune system was what, half of what it is now? He's getting better.


I should have kept my distance. I've been all fucking over him.


He would have lost his fucking mind without that and you know it.


He dropped his chin into his hand and looked at me.


Not your fault, I said.


He sighed and flicked his eyes away. You have to go easy on Brian when it comes to big pronouncements like that, but sometimes he needs to hear them.


Well, I can never go home, he said. I'm gonna have to go out tonight and buy a new suit so I don't come to work tomorrow in the same clothes like a fucking sorority girl on a walk of shame.


And I know how much you hate shopping.


I'll just get a hotel room for a few nights until I'm sure this is out of my system.


Obviously I knew where this was going. Can Justin do a few nights on his own?


He can't. Brian stacked some papers. You're healthy?


I'm healthy.


You have plans, or...?


No, of course I'll stay with him. I paused. I haven't been alone with him since he got sick.


He shrugged. You wash your hands a lot, you remind him whether or not he took his meds yet if he forgets, you stay within arm's reach in case he gets dizzy. It's not hard.


Then why do you look scared as hell?


He glared at me, then said, Because I haven't been away from him since he got sick.


You can call constantly.


Yeah, that's... He played with a pen. Gonna happen.


He's going to be fine. I won't let him be scared.


God, if he gets sick...


I said, Then we will deal with it.


He nodded a little.


Leave here early, I said. Have Emily book you a nice room, get some fucking rest. Get well soon and come home to him. I'll hold down the fort.


He fixed me with a that sarcastic smile of his, but his eyes were warm. Have I told you I love you?


Only with that sneer.


He wrinkled his nose. Get out of my office.


**


I went home after work to shower and get meds and clothes and everything else I'd need for a few days at Brian and Justin's. Our past few visits, they'd dropped the gloves and mask rule for me, but I still had to scrub in, obviously. I carry hand sanitizer with me all the time because I hate germs almost as much as Justin does, so I rubbed that between my palms before I hit the doorbell. Justin answered, and I gave him a quick peck on the cheek before I went to the kitchen to wash up to my elbows and rinse my mouth with Listerine. Justin watched me, leaning against the counter. His hair was all soft and fluffy and messed up from sleep, and he was wearing this dark green sweatshirt that lit up his eyes.


He still, if you'll forgive the awful choice of words, takes my fucking breath away every time.


I laughed a little. You look fucking terrified right now.


I'm half-convinced Brian's dying of ebola or something and neither of you wants to tell me.


Brian has a sore throat, I said. He's fine. We just don't want you to catch it and then—


Get ebola.


Yeah. I gave him a slow kiss, just taking him in for a minute. His skin was cool, but his breathing was stuttered and labored, like it always was nowadays. I pulled away and tucked his hair behind his ear. How are you feeling?


Good. He rubbed his fist absentmindedly over his chest. I can't imagine that's going to last.


You caught like eighty colds before we figured out was wrong with you and only one of them turned into pneumonia. Your immune system's getting better. You'll be fine if you get sick.


Yeah, but my lungs are already swamps.


Just means you've had practice. I caught his elbow when he started to waver a little. Go sit.


He yawned his way over to a chair and slumped over the kitchen table. He stretched the fingers of his right hand against his cheek.


Did you draw today? I asked him.


He nodded. A little. Hard to get too into it when I can't stay awake for more than an hour. He started coughing suddenly; it's low and it's loud, so I can usually hear it pretty well. I rubbed my hands together to warm them up and came over and held one to his chest and one to his back. I could feel his heart really pounding. It's frustrating for me when someone says anything about Justin just staying home resting all the time, because I know what sick is like. I know how hard he's working.


I kissed his temple when he was done. All good.


All good. He took a shaky breath. How was your day?


I laughed and got up and washed my hands. Brian called Lou out for his shitty font choices.


About time! I just about died when Brian showed me that last Eyeconic piece. I can't believe that made it to print.


I had nothing to do with it.


I know, I know.


You want spaghetti? He fucking loves spaghetti. It's kind of excessive.


Yeah. He started to get up. I can help.


It's spaghetti. Kind of a one person job. Sit, you're not breathing well.


I started spaghetti and made some garlic bread and got him some water when he kept coughing again. I was watching him pant and wondering if I should get him on oxygen—he said he was okay, but I think he was just worried about being trouble in that way that he does—when Brian called me. I got Justin's attention and signed Brian's name while I accepted the call.


Brian was sitting on a hotel bed, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt he must have bought after work. And knowing him, the sweatpants cost three hundred dollars. Everyone alive? he said.


Yeah, how are you feeling?


He rolled his eyes and yeah, fair enough. He looked kind of tired, but at this point I'm used to seeing Justin taken apart by illness, so it was hard to blame for Brian for not giving much of a shit about the beginnings of a cold on anyone else. Is Justin awake?


Yeah, he's right here. Can you do me favor and tell me how his breathing sounds?


He blinked and said, I sort of forgot that aspect of not having a hearing person around.


There are other ways to track it. We'll be fine.


Yeah, I just... He ran his hand over his mouth. I've been listening to him breathe for a long time now. Yeah, hand him over.


I gave my phone a good once-over with the Clorox wipes they have on every surface now, washed my hands, and handed it to Justin and signed, Breathe for him. Justin smiled a little at Brian and signed to him while he tried some deep breaths, asking Brian how his day was and how he was feeling. He started coughing eventually and held the phone out to me, and I rubbed circles on his back with one hand and took the phone with the other.


It's wet, Brian said. He looked nervous. I think it's worse than it was yesterday. That cough sounds bad.


“Yeah, I can hear the cough a little.”


He can show you how to set the nebulizer up. The bottles can be hard for him to manage with his hand.


I looked at him still coughing. He's kind of busy.


Okay, yeah, I can talk you through it. Come on.


I brought the phone with me into the bedroom and sat on the floor with the nebulizer, phone propped up against the wall, while Brian gave me instructions. He paused abruptly at one point and said, Do you think he's getting sick?


I snapped two pieces of the thing together. “Can't tell.” I looked around. “Oh. You don't speak in here, right? Sorry.”


Justin breaks that rule all the time, it's fine. He swallowed and rubbed the base of his throat. I can't tell either.


“Hard to be sure right now unless he starts running a fever, I guess.”


And he's not.


“No.” I chewed on my cheek. “If he starts to, what do I do?”


Call me.


“Well, yeah, I figured that much.”


He shrugged and sighed. It's not like we can take him to the hospital. We'll get Daphne to check him out. Try to keep his fucking asthma from losing its shit, pray to whoever the fuck the fever doesn't spike and it doesn't settle in his lungs. He rubbed his forehead. You have to watch him for seizures if he gets a fever.


“I know.” I held up the nebulizer. “Good?”


Yeah, that looks right. He chewed on his thumbnail.


“Brian.”


He raised an eyebrow. Why can you say your Rs when you've been Deaf for a million years and Justin is just a fucking disaster?


“Speech therapy. Get some rest.”


He rolled his eyes and looked away.


“I've got him,” I said. “You know I've got him.”


He looked back at me and didn't say anything for a while.


It's funny. With everyone else, all of Brian and Justin's friends—my friends? I don't know—Brian will never let on how worried he is. They all know, obviously, but it's like some weird kind of play they've all agreed to put on. I think Justin likes it, so maybe that's why. He feels guilty if he thinks Brian's too concerned about him, and he also has PTSD and kind of jumps to the worst possible scenario all the time and is pretty sure he's going to die just about constantly, so I think Brian downplaying everything is to manage that too.


But Brian, when it's just him and me? It's different. And I don't know if that's anything special about me...I mean, I don't know if there is anything special about me it could even be about. Maybe Brian just really needed a person he could show all the worry to and I came around at the right time.


Maybe it's just that I don't crack under pressure so he knows he won't scare me off. I guess that's a thing about me.


Is he freaking out? Brian said.


He's nervous. He's not freaking out.


He sighed. Tell him it'll be fine.


I know. I pointed towards the doorway. I think I hear him coughing, is that—


Yeah, he's coughing.


Okay. I'm going to bring him this. Get some fucking rest. Are you eating?


I'll order something.


Okay, well...do that, or I'm sending Molly.


Christ, you know how to threaten a guy. All right.


I hung up the phone and brought the nebulizer back out to Justin. He was mostly asleep with his head on the table, so I shook his shoulder gently and gave him the mouthpiece before I went and rescued the pot of spaghetti off the stove.


He said, Are you sure I can't help with—


You can sit there and breathe your damn medicine.


I like when you get bossy.


I know you do.


I served us both and lit a candle for the table so it'd feel a little special, and we ate and talked and coughed a lot, if you're him. He was doing so much better than he had been a few weeks ago, when sitting up through a whole meal would have been a pretty impossible ask, and now here he was eating and holding a whole conversation. But it was hard to ignore that he seemed to be having more trouble breathing than he had been for the past few days, and when he twisted away from the table to sneeze as we were finishing up he turned back to me looking like he'd just been issued his death warrant.


You're a sneezy person, I said. I wouldn't read into it. Might be the candle.


I'm screwed. You knew I'm screwed. Brian knows I'm screwed. The fucking candle probably knows I'm screwed.


Jane had a cold last week and you didn't get it.


I don't regularly have my tongue in Jane's mouth.


Glad to hear it. Clean your plate.


We stretched out on the floor of the living room after dinner and I made some progress on this ridiculously long RPG game we've been playing on the system Brian got him as an early Christmas present when his quarantine started. Justin can't play for very long because of his hand, but he likes to watch too. We played cards for a little while when we hit a wall in the game, and I let him paint my toenails. Basically we've come up with about a million and a half small ways to entertain ourselves while we're waiting for him to be up for sex again.


I was watching Justin and trying to act like I wasn't watching Justin, and he was trying to act like he didn't know I was watching him...it was a whole thing. He was sneezing and blowing his nose a lot, and normally I would have passed that off as those monster allergies of his, but given the circumstances I think we both knew what was going on.


I put clean sheets on the bed and we showered before we got in to keep them that way. Justin took his meds and then asked me twice if he'd taken his meds yet, which was...really super adorable, and I had him take his temperature—normal—while I took mine and tugged out my hearing aids. Justin put on a huge sweatshirt and hugged Brian's pillow, and I sat up and had him curl up against me, his head on my chest.


Did I take my meds? he asked sleepily, and I tried not to laugh.


Yes.


He laughed, too. Sorry. Used to Brian doing it.


You're good. You want to call him?


He nodded and settled in against me, and I tucked him under my arm and called Brian with my other hand. Brian was in his hotel bed, looking tired but okay, though there was a bit of a pink flush around his nose that Justin gestured to right away.


Now you know why I can't take you seriously when your hayfever's bad, Brian said.


Justin sneezed on cue and rubbed his nose against my shirt. I rolled my eyes at Brian and signed Bless you in Justin's face.


Brian said, You sick, buddy?


Justin sighed a little. Not sure.


Fever? Brian said. I shook my head. Okay. Good. Let me hear you talk?


Justin said something, his breath soft against my shirt. I couldn't see his lips well enough to understand what it was, but it made Brian smile, then shake his head.


You're really hoarse, he said.


I've been coughing all day.


God, your breathing.


No fever, Brian, he said.


Brian chewed on his fingernail. Yeah, I know.


Justin stretched and got the oxygen cannula from the night table and started the flow on the tank as I helped him hook it over his head. See? Justin said. Breathing.


Yeah, good job, Brian said, small.


Justin rested his head back on me, twisting one hand in my shirt. I want to go to sleep now, he signed with the other.


Get to it, Brian said, and Justin was asleep about half a minute later. I adjusted the phone a little so I could see Brian, slipping my hand under Justin's sweatshirt to rub his back.


“Hey,” I said.


He looked so fucking tired suddenly. He's sick.


“Yeah, I think so.”


Jesus.


“He just feels stuffed up,” I said, rubbing the heel of my hand behind his lungs. “More than usual.”


Maybe I should just fucking come home.


“No.”


If he's already caught it...


I have him.


Brian watched me.


“I have him, Brian.”


He swallowed and shook his head briefly. Plug the phone in, set up by his side of the bed.


I did, watching him over Justin's shoulder. “You're going to stay on?”


Yeah. I need to hear him breathe.


There are some things that Brian only, only says to me. Not even to Justin.


There are moments I believe maybe there is something special about me. Even if those moments sometimes coincide with Brian not trusting me to keep our boyfriend alive.


Okay, I said, and I wrapped myself around Justin and went to sleep while Brian watched over us.


**


I woke up to my watch alarm buzzing the next morning. Justin was sleeping still, wound around me like an octopus, and as I sat up a little bit, adjusting him on me, I saw Brian waving at me from the phone. He was half-dressed, his tie unknotted around his collar.


“Hey,” I said.


I was trying to figure out how the fuck I was going to wake you up. Check him.


I felt his forehead. No fever. Are you going to work?


Of course I'm fucking going to work.


You're sick.


Somehow I think I'll survive. You're staying there, I already emailed Nicole.


I stretched. “Okay.” Like I'm gonna complain about a day off with Justin?


Wake him up, let me see him, Brian said, so I shook Justin gently until he started coughing and slowly opened his eyes. He sighed and nuzzled my shirt for a little while, and I moved the phone around to where he and Brian could see each other.


How are you? Brian asked him.


My throat hurts. He batted at his nose. Stuffed up.


Can you breathe?


Justin took a deep breath and nodded, coughing a little. I got up out from under him and got his meds and took his temperature. 98.3 I signed to Brian.


You definitely have a cold, Brian said. I can't believe I thought I wouldn't be able to tell.


Am I dying?


Brian gave him a look. No.


You always say that, Justin said with a stretch and a sneeze.


Yeah, and you're still alive.


Justin looked like he accepted that, but a minute later he sat up and rubbed his hand over his mouth. His eyes were shining.


I said, Hey, what? You heard him. You're going to be fine.


Justin shook his head. I know, just...


Sunshine, Brian said. What?


I'm going to have to stay inside longer, right? Justin said.


We knew there would be setbacks, Brian said in a minute, and Justin sank his head down to his hands. Brian wanted to talk to him and tried to get me to make him look up, but Justin just shook me off when I tried.


“Give him a minute,” I said.


Brian sighed. “Yeah.”


I brought the phone with me into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth and wash up and take my meds while Brian lectured me like I'd never heard of a sick person before. You have to make sure he coughs, Brian said. And just medicate the shit out of his lungs. And watch him for seizures.


“I know, Brian.”


He doesn't like decongestants, they make his heart race, but he's got to do it so he doesn't get a sinus infection.


I rooted through the medicine cabinet. “Okay.”


He needs...he likes toast when he's sick.


“Okay,” I said.


Brian sighed and looked at his watch. I have to go. Is he pissed?


“No, he's not pissed, come on. He's scared.”


Yeah, well, I'm scared too.


Not the same. “He's not scared he's going to die,” I said, and I felt something inside me shaking. “He's scared he's never going to get well.”


The words kind of caught, and I cleared my throat and looked away for a minute. Brian was watching me when I looked back.


Are you okay? he asked me.


Yeah, I'm fine. I'm sorry.


No...


“Really,” I said. “I'm fine. I don't want to do this.”


He licked his lips. Okay. Fuck, I'm going to be late. Can you tell him...fuck, I don't know.


I know. It's okay.


Okay.


I hung up and went back into the bedroom with Justin's meds. I gave them to him with some water, and he said Thank you, and took them.


Justin? I said.


Yeah.


It's not always going to feel this bad.


**


Mostly Justin slept. I'd thought he was tired before, but God, this just robbed him of any energy he'd had, and it was hard to watch because it made it so clear how fucking hard he'd been pushing himself to get better, to be social, to act normal these past few weeks, and now easily all that drive was just stolen from him. He curled up small under a few blankets from the couch and just slept, waking up every few hours to drink some tea and do a nebulizer treatment and apologize to me, like he was supposed to be entertaining me or something.


I'm making way more progress on this video game without your horrible advice, I said, and he kicked me and fell back asleep.


But he started to feel warm in the early afternoon. At first I just took the blanket off of him and kind of, you know, hoped, but he started shivering a little in his sleep, and when I checked his temperature it was 100.3. Damn it.


I woke him up. You can take Advil, right? You've got a bit of a fever.


Fuck.


It's okay. A little over a hundred. Pretty normal for a cold.


Justin nodded a little. He was shaking, and I don't think just from the fever. I can take Advil, but I might not be supposed to so we can monitor it.


Yeah.


Call Brian?


I gave him a hug. Okay. You are fine, okay? Remember? Eighty million colds and only pneumonia once.


Yeah. Yeah, I know.


I called Brian at the office. He was talking to someone off camera, looked like something about a deadline, and he signed What's up? to me without looking at me.


“I'll wait.”


He stopped talking and looked at me. Fuck. What?


He's okay. Finish up, I'll talk to you when you're alone. I kissed Justin's cheek and took the phone into the bedroom. He didn't need to see Brian freak out about this. He was scared enough as it was.


Brian sent whoever out of his office and said, Where is he?


He's on the couch. He's fine. He has a low fever.


Brian looked like I'd punched him.


Low. Like, the kind of fever you run when you have a cold.


God, he's going to get sick again, fuck...


I just need to know if I should give him Advil to try to keep him from having seizures or if we let it go so we can monitor it.


Brian ran his hand over his mouth. I did this.


You didn't do anything.


He was so fucking sick.


Brian, I need you to calm down long enough for us to make a decision here.


I'm calm. I'm calm.


“Okay, no you're not.”


Fuck you.


“Brian, you're not fucking calm!” I said. “Jesus, of course you're not! Last time he was sick he almost died, no one is expecting you to not fucking be scared right now.”


He watched me, pulling his lips into his mouth. He almost died.


“He almost fucking died.”


He was there, and he...


“Yes.”


And if this gets bad again—


“Then that would be really bad. Yes. This is scary. You are supposed to be scared right now.”


Brian was quiet for a long time, looking at me and breathing hard, but everything was right there in his eyes, and in that moment I would have fucking died for Brian Kinney, I swear to God, I would get in front of a train.


This is the Brian nobody else gets to see.


“I know,” I told him. “I know. But right now we need to figure out a plan, okay?”


He blinked and looked down for a second. Yeah. Nothing to bring the fever down unless it hits 101, then medicate him and call me and we need to get his nurse over there right away.


“Okay. Good.”


Is he okay?


“He's scared. He's okay. I'll bring you to him in a minute.” Once you've got your game face on, obviously, but he didn't need me to say that.


He took a minute, shuffling the papers around on his desk just to have something to do while he pulled himself together. Finally he looked up at me and said, Christ, you're keeping me together, you're keeping Justin together.


I shrugged.


Who the fuck is taking care of you with this shit? he said.


“I'm good at this. Being good at something is kind of its own comfort.”


He stared at me. Jesus, finally. Right?


**


Brian was right; this was a setback, and it took Justin a long time to bounce back to where he had been before this cold, and it was frustrating and he was miserable.


But his fever never went above a hundred and one.


I wanted him diligently that first day, and Brian stayed on Facetime that night while Justin and I took turns waking up and putting him on the nebulizer. We napped on the living room floor the next day, Justin under my arm, and his warm-not-hot forehead tucked against my neck.


We were stretched out on the floor cushions in the early evening, surrounded by empty soup bowls and tea mugs. Justin wasn't breathing well, between the cold and his asthma and working through the old pneumonia had really been struggling all day, and he was lying on his side watching me play our video game.


I still feel like these last few weeks didn't really happen, he said. Like this is all some extended seizure dream, or something. The whole thing's just like...ridiculous.


I paused the game. Did I ever tell you about when I got really sick?


He shook his head.


Yeah, I don't really talk about it much. I lay down facing him. I'd known something was wrong for a while, but I'd seen so many of my friends...I just didn't want to believe it so I kept pretending it wasn't happening. And then one day I collapse at the grocery store and I'm in the hospital with a tube down my throat because I can't breathe on my own and I don't know where I am or who anyone is but a nurse is asking me what my religion is because she wants to know if I want a priest or a rabbi there.


Jesus, Justin said.


This asshole doctor told me I had HIV and I was irresponsible and reckless and I was probably going to die. And I wasn't even scared, because the whole thing seemed like...


Fake, Justin said.


Exactly. I wasn't going to die. I was me. This was someone else's life, not mine. This kind of shit doesn't happen to me. These big stories, I'm just...me.


He nodded and stretched.


But you know, I said. That's kind of how I feel about meeting you.


He stopped stretching and watched me.


These big stories don't happen to me, I said. But here you are.


Evan, he said.


So it's good, I think, I said. It's good to live big lives.


**


We took a long shower that night that helped Justin cough for a while but made him a little dizzy, so after a lot of work I convinced him to curl up and wait for me in bed while I finished cleaning up the kitchen. I called Brian for his nightly update, and for company. He sort of looked like crap too.


Maybe call out for work tomorrow, I said.


He shrugged. It's Friday. I'll sleep this weekend, good as new by Monday. He was sitting at the little desk in his hotel room, propped up on his elbow. How's he doing?


I rinsed a plate and stuck it in the dishwasher. “He's good. Very sneezy.”


Brian cracked a smile like he didn't mean to. Yeah, that's Justin.


“He's in bed already. We'll do the neb thing like we did last night, that seemed to hold him off. He said normally if his lungs were this shitty he'd go on steroids, but...”


Yeah, not an option right now.


“Yeah.”


Is he hurting?


“You know him, he doesn't talk about it.”


Yeah. He's acting like himself? He's not out of it?


I shook my head and wiped down the counter with bleach. “Same old same old.”


He bit his lip. That was cute.


“Shut up.”


That too. Is his fever gone?


I shook my head.


Shit.


“Staying low. 100.2.”


It's still a fever. Fuck.


I put the sponge down. He has a cold. It's the kind of low fever you're supposed to have when you're fighting off a cold.


Yeah, but—


“Brian.”


He sighed.


Repeat what I just said, I said.


He has a cold.


The second part.


He glared at me. It's normal for when you're fighting off a cold.


That last part again.


He understood, then. His eyes softened. Fighting off a cold.


There you go. He's fighting it off.


Brian pulled his legs up onto the chair and took a deep breath.


He has a cold, and he's fighting it off, I said. His immune system's weak, but it's there now. He's fighting it off.


He is... Amazing, incredible, miraculous but that's a lot for Brian.


I know he is, I said, and his eyes glowed like candles.


It had been almost a year since I met Justin, and back then, the fact that he had a husband was fine because I was busy and not looking for anything serious and he was gorgeous and fuck, who cared that he was married, I would have dated him if he was on fire. Brian was a concession I was willing to make, and it's fucking wild to me now that I ever felt that way. I hate that I felt that way, when I look at Brian.


I'm not saying that, if the fucking world exploded and Brian and Justin broke up, I wouldn't still want to be with Justin. Of course I would. It's Justin; I'd still date him if he were on fire. But it's not...I would lose something. I would just have a boyfriend, then. And what I need isn't a boyfriend. I've had boyfriends.


What I never had before was a family.


Brian said, Bring me in, let me say goodnight?


Yeah, of course. I need to plug you in anyway so you can keep watch.


He shook his head a little.


What? I said.


I don't need to stay on tonight, he said. It's okay. I trust you. God only knows what face I must have made, because he rolled his eyes right away. Don't get sappy on me.


Never.


That's my boy, he said. Come on, let's go see him.

 

Chapter 91 - Until the Scenery Changes by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian keeps looking at real estate listings.

Until the Scenery Changes

LaVieEnRose




Brian studying me, pacing around me in circles. I don't know... he said.


I bounced on my feet. “I'm ready I'm ready I'm ready,” I said, through the mask.


He shook his head mock-seriously. It's a big step. And you know, I'm kind of tired. Maybe we just wait until tomorrow.


“Brian.”


The weather's not good. We should hold out for a better day.


“Oh my God I will mow you down.”


All right, all right. Jeez. He opened the front door. World, meet Justin Taylor. Justin Taylor, world.


It was all still there.


**


I had to wear the mask, and I couldn't go to big public venues or ride the subway, and I couldn't touch my face or share anyone's food and I had to wash my hands every eleven minutes and I still couldn't stay awake for more than a few hours at a time so big outings were out of the question.


But I was free.


Our friends probably shattered the ear drums of every hearing person in the place when Brian and I got to the bar last night. They jumped up and down and threw themselves on me and then mothered the fuck out of me and made me sit down and fell over themselves to get me water when I started coughing. Brian batted them all off with an eye roll and doused me in hand sanitizer, and we all sat around our usual table and they drank their beers and broke into a million conversations and I just...couldn't believe it. Everything was so normal.


Brian leaned in close to me. Doing okay? he signed, with a quick kiss above the strap on my mask.


Yeah, I'm good.


We talked a little about Derek and Daphne's wedding and about how Jane was doing and Derek's fantasy football league and the leak in Evan's apartment, and it was just so fucking nice, letting it all wash over me. I didn't talk much, and to be honest I was even more tired than I'd anticipated and I could tell there was a very good chance I was going to fall asleep inside this fucking bar at some point in the very near future, but God, I would have stayed there forever. Brian kept his hand on the back of my neck and massaged under my skull.


At one point Daphne cringed when the door opened. We have got to find a bar that's not so close to the hospital, she said. Every time a patient's family sees me here they give me shit the next day.


We chose this place because it was close to the hospital, Brian said. You're the one always complaining you don't have time to go anywhere far.


I'm thinking of transferring, Daphne said. The ER is so fucking cliquey at my hospital.


We're going to have to find a new hospital probably, Brian said.


I looked at him. We are?


Yeah, I mean, not for regular appointments or anything, but for emergency stuff.


Why?


He looked at me like I was an idiot. When we move?


You're moving? Emily said.


No, I said.


Brian took a swig of his beer. We're moving.


Did I miss a conversation? I said.


You do fall asleep when I'm talking a lot.


When did we agree that we were moving? I said.


He waved me away. We're moving. I'm sick of that apartment. Ready for a change.


Molly cut in with some thing about school before I could answer, and the conversation flowed to that and then a Kinnetik thing and then my blood tests, and coughed and glared at Brian for a while but ultimately was too fucking tired to keep it up. Eventually the girls got up to dance and Derek asked if we wanted to play some pool, but Brian said, He's crashing, I got to take him home, and as much as I wanted to argue I knew he was right. By the time I'd hugged everyone goodbye I was practically falling asleep on my feet, and Brian pulled me into him and laughed in a way I could feel in his chest and let me lean on him on our way out of the bar. He gave me a hug out on the sidewalk. So tired, he teased.


“Shh, I'm sleeping.”


I napped on his shoulder in the cab and fell asleep again later in the shower, and I sat on the bathroom counter like a useless lump while Brian dressed me and fed me my meds. I can't believe I'm this tired, I signed, sloppy as shit.


Well, you were on your death bed.


Weeks ago. My arm started shaking. Hey.


Aw, you really are tired. The seizures are always worse when I don't get enough sleep. He took my arm between his hands and held it carefully until the seizure stopped. You good?


I leaned my head against the wall. “Yeah, I'm good.”


He kissed my cheek. Carry you?


“Yeah.”


He slipped his arm underneath my knees and lifted me up and brought me to bed. I hugged my pillow to my chest while he crawled up next to me. You're hot all sleepy, he said.


I'm hot always.


He rested his hand on my small of the back. Can't wait to fuck you.


I stretched. “Sure you can.”


He laughed. Apparently.


I rolled onto my back and pulled him and kissed him for a long time. “Soon,” I said, and he nodded. Even if I'd had the doctor's okay for sex at that point, I couldn't imagine scrounging up the energy to do anything but lie there I'd had my muscles removed while he fucked me. Though at this point, fuck, we probably wouldn't have complained about that. This was the longest we'd gone without having sex since I was in LA, and the longest I'd gone without having sex with someone since...God, I guess since I was seventeen. I missed it, and sometimes I really missed it, but a lot of the time it was just sort of a vague thing at the back of my mind. That's how fucking tired I was.


So how was the real world? he asked me. Everything you remembered?


Amazing. Thank you.


He smiled and lay down next to me, helping me arrange myself on his chest. I ran my fingers up and down his stomach and felt him sigh softly.


“We're not really going to move, are we?” I said. “I'm too sick.”


He kissed my forehead. Not talking about dragging you out of here next week.


“Why drag me out of here at all?”


Go to sleep, Sunshine. We can talk about it tomorrow.


My eyes were already closing against my will. “Okay,” I said.


**


So...this is pretty embarrassing, but at that point I kind of thought Brian must have thought, despite all possible evidence to the contrary, that I actually wanted to move, because I couldn't imagine he'd be bringing it up otherwise.


And I know, I know, that's proof of, to quote the man himself, what a spoiled fucking brat I am, that my first instinct when Brian suggests something like it's his idea is that it's actually something in my best interests. Orrrr maybe it's proof that I know what an incredible partner I have and that I know how much Brian loves me and it's actually me being grateful and not a spoiled brat? Eh? Maybe? Worth a shot?


All jokes aside, nothing else really made sense. Brian loved this apartment. Brian had always loved this apartment. It was sort of far from work, yeah, and but it was close to Nova and the gym and the bar. He loved the appliances and the balcony and the location overlooking the water and our cherry cabinets and oak floor and marble bathroom. He loved the yellow wall in the living room and the red front door.


He'd always loved this place.


So why would he want to move now?


**


I felt kind of crappy the next morning, but I still dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen to make Brian coffee, because I was on a mission. Not a subtle mission, obviously, judging by the way Brian eyed me over his coffee mug. What's with this new vertical thing? he said.


Just trying something.


Sure.


I smiled at him sweetly.


Oh, God, what.


Can I come to the office with you?


He gave me that Sunshine, come on face but didn't immediately shoot me down, so that was better than I was expecting.


You'll be able to keep an eye on me all day, Emily will be there, Evan...


Yeah, and two hundred other people, and you're supposed to avoid public spaces.


As if any of those people come into your office.


He gave me a look and set down his coffee cup, but I could tell he was thinking about it.


I'm not going to be wandering around, I said. On the couch, all day. Sleeping. Lots of sleep.


He sighed.


I won't bother you. I just... I bit my lip. I've been dying to do this for weeks now. You know I hate being alone all day. Yeah, yeah, I'm a manipulative shit, but it's not like it wasn't true.


You wear the mask.


I nodded quickly. The whole time.


All right. Go pack the nebulizer. And hurry the fuck up, please, this little display is making me late.


I continued the display by getting up on my toes and squeezing him around the neck, but hey, I didn't hear him complaining. Ha, ha.


We took a cab to Kinnetik and God, going over the bridge was about the most exciting thing I'd ever done in my whole life. Brian rolled his eyes at me practically hanging my head out the window like a dog. The driver's going to think I'd had you kidnapped and locked in a tower.


I mean...


Watch it.


We sanitized ourselves as soon as we got out of the cab, and Brian batted my hand away when I reached for the handle on the Kinnetik front door. I got some weird looks for the mask from people I kind of vaguely recognized. I wondered how much they knew about what had been going on the past month. Brian had taken time off work when I was really sick, obviously, so they must have known something was up at some point. I don't know how much he told them. It was so fucking weird how much had gone on while I was sick that I didn't know about, and how much of it I could only muster up the vaguest of interest about. There were so many details about what had happened to me, the order of events and how exactly Brian had gotten me through certain things and how the fuck my doctors knew what was going on that I just never got the answer to because I never really bothered to ask. It's hard to explain how stuff like that, stuff that you'd normally care about or at least be curious about, just stops mattering when you're a certain level of sick. There comes a point where your feelings about anything outside of your own body become dulled, and it...i don't like that. Being sick has given me community and understanding and family and the kind of love from the people around me that most people can only dream about, and I adore that, but it's also made me meaner and more selfish and that's just...I have to live with that. We all do.


I waved to Sam, the receptionist, and stood by clinging to his elbow a little bit while Brian talked to him for a minute. Sam nodded, and Brian tucked me under his arm and guided me to his office.


Everyone's staring at me, I said. I think it's the mask. They think I'm contagious.


He shook his head. You're loud.


I am?


Your breathing.


“Oh.”


I'd sort of forgotten, he said.


Once we got to his office I went to his closet and got out the blankets and pillows he keeps in there, I guess just for me, while he went to his desk and booted up his laptop. You need anything? he asked me.


Maybe some tea? Thanks.


He nodded and pressed the button on his desk. Why the fuck do these people send me these bullshit emails...


I sat down and started setting up the nebulizer but stopped halfway through. Will this be loud? I don't remember.


No, it's not loud.


I dropped a piece of it and picked it up.


That was kind of loud, Brian said.


It's so weird that I can't remember, I said.


Well, you're brain-damaged.


Emily came in, responding to the button Brian pressed that turns on a light on her desk, and she smiled when she saw me, looking real cute in her little work outfit. Brian asked for some tea and for some sort of report thing, I don't know. It all made me very tired.


She left, and he looked at me with laughter in his eyes. You okay? You look half-dead.


“Yeah. I can't...I do one fucking thing and I feel like I ran a fucking marathon.”


He sipped his coffee and looked at something on his computer. You're working on half the oxygen you're supposed to have. It's exhausting. Lie down.


“I should see Evan first.”


No, we said no wandering.


I don't think I was physically capable of fighting him any more on that, honestly. I was out like a light before Emily even got back with my tea.


Which didn't end up working out so well, because I had this really hideous nightmare. I'd been having them a lot since I got sick, I think from both the fucking terror of the past few weeks and kind of a subconscious panic about feeling like I couldn't breathe, and I kept waking up with my heart pounding sure I would have died if I hadn't woken up right then. This one was really bad, though, and I dreamed that someone had their hand over my nose and mouth and wouldn't let go and I kept trying to scream for Brian but I wasn't making any sound, and I guess I must have thrashed myself off the couch because I woke up on the floor with my blanket twisted around me like a straitjacket.


Brian looked up from his desk. You okay?


My stupid half-asleep brain was convinced the blanket was why I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't get it off me fast enough. Brian crossed the room and knelt down in front of me and helped me unwind it. Easy, you're all right, he signed.


I shook my head and tried to catch my breath.


He kept his hands to himself, watching me. You know where you are?


I wasn't sure.


Yeah, you're not used to being places, huh? He wiped my cheeks off. Look at you. You are such a mess. It's okay. He gave me a hug, and I held onto him and tried to stop shaking. Good. There you go. He kissed my cheek and let me go.


I'm sorry...


Shh.


I wasn't done being a fucking disaster, though. I balled up against the couch and cried for a while, and Brian waited and palmed the back of my head and laughed a little when my runny nose made me start sneezing.


Christ, look at you.


I hid my face in my arms for a little and tried for some deep breaths. He tapped me on the shoulder a minute later and handed me the nebulizer mouthpiece, and I said Thank you, and breathed from that for a while as he rubbed my back.


He watched me. Prom stuff?


I shook my head. Sick stuff.


He took my hand and kissed between my eyes. Okay.


**


We had lunch in Brian's office with Emily and Evan, and that was nice. The two of them have such a weird dynamic. Emily gets kind of annoyed and eye-rolly with him, but that's just how Emily is, but Evan's shitty self-esteem and his baggage about being a burden mean he's convinced it means Emily hates him, so then he tries to please her and that just makes her more annoyed and eye-rolly and the whole thing continues. And meanwhile Emily fucking likes him! She just thinks he's overeager. Which he is, but I love it about him.


I fell asleep again after lunch and woke up feeling kind of dizzy and nauseous. Brian beckoned me over when I sat up, and I dragged myself up and to his desk. “Lap, I can't stand up,” I told him, and he groaned and made room for me, twisting to the side so I could still see him sign.


He pointed to his screen and a real estate listing for a condo on the Upper East side.


It's nice, I said.


Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Look at the tub in this one. I could fucking lose you in that thing.


The dream.


Seriously. And it's right by the train. He kissed the side of my head. No balcony, though, and I don't really want to go back to that. So I think it's not the one.


Are you actually being serious right now?


What?


We never even had a conversation about this. You just...what, decided that I want to move?


He leaned back against the chair, watching me.


Moving is...stressful, and hard. And where we live right now works. It's not too far from anything. And we've been there for years. It's our home. Remember when you found that apartment?


He didn't say anything.


I didn't even want to see it because I thought the neighborhood was too stuffy, but you said, come on, let's go look? And we walked into that corporate as fuck building and I was so skeptical, and then we got up there and the whole place was filled with sunlight, and you told me I could paint a wall yellow, and you stood there in the empty living room and looked around said Sunshine, imagine an easel right here...


He took my fingers and played with them.


“You love that apartment,” I said. “I love that apartment. I don't want to move.”


Get up, he said.


“What?'


Get. Up.


I stood up shakily, holding onto the arm of the desk chair. “Brian...”


He started at his watch. It's six. Let's go home.


“I...okay.”


He didn't talk to me on the way out of the office, but he carried my backpack and let me hold onto his arm. I was feeling pretty fucking awful and was really wishing there was some way just to teleport back home. I took deep breaths in the cab and tried not to throw up while Brian played with his phone and ignored me and otherwise made me sort of pissed off and confused. Once we were home I sat on the couch and worked on catching my breath while Brian went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a drink. Great sign.


“I don't get what the hell you expected from me,” I said to him, a glass and a half later. “I know you think you know everything I'm thinking all the fucking time and I'll admit you're usually pretty good at it, but...you missed the mark on this one. I'm happy here, and I'm not just going to all of a sudden agree that we're moving without even the decency of a conversation. I'm not a teenager following you around anymore. I don't want to move, you can't just...decide that I want to move.”


I did not decide that you want to move.


“Okay...well then...”


I understand that you don't want to move, okay? Trust me, it's very fucking clear.


“Why are you yelling at me?”


He brought his glass into the living room with me and stalked around for a while like a caged lion. I twisted my hands in my lap.


“It's, um...sweet of you to try to make me happy?” I tried. “But I don't need a bathtub or a bigger place. I'm okay here.”


Jesus Christ, Justin, enough. I realize you don't want to move, okay? That's very fucking clear.


“Um...”


He stopped walking and faced me. I want to move, he said. Okay? I want this. I don't want to fucking live in this apartment. It's not... He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose.


“Brian?”


It's not home anymore! he burst. It doesn't...this doesn't fucking feel like home anymore. It's...


“Brian,” I said again. But not a question this time.


This is the place where you cried on the fucking floor because you felt so trapped that you said you felt like you were dead, he said. It's...I had to turn our bedroom into a fucking hospital room to keep you alive, I just see the fucking machines, I...you stopped breathing right there, a foot from where you're sitting right now, I thought...


I swallowed and watched him.


I can't stay in this place where you had the worst month of your life, he said. I know that you can and you're strong and you're okay but I...I have to get you out of this place. I can't relax here, it's not... He shook his head. It's not home anymore.


How do you breathe when someone says these things to you, even if your fucking lungs work?


But still. Moving won't make all this shit go away, I said. And new and bad shit is going to happen wherever we go. We can't run away from that. You're the one always reminding me this is going to be a slow recovery. I don't want you thinking you put me in some new apartment—


With a bathtub.


—with a bathtub, and now everything's going to be okay. I've done that false hope thing. It doesn't help.


He sat down next to me on the couch and said, I know. I hear you, okay?


I nodded.


I know it's not rational.


Wow, Brian Kinney admitting he's not rational.


Alert the media. Only took thirty-whatever years.


“Um—”


Don't.


I mimed handcuffing my wrists.


He rubbed his forehead. I know it doesn't make any sense. I just feel like I”ll never be able to look at this place and not see where I locked you up. It's like that fucking hospital in Pittsburgh, it's just...I see you everywhere.


I'm probably going to be at the new place too.


And you're still going to be sick. I know. I told you it's not rational. I know.


I nodded a little.


He traced a finger around the rim of his glass and set it down on the coffee table. Look, I know...let’s not shit ourselves, I know that I’m not usually the one who makes these kinds of decisions.


I smiled a little.


And I’m not trying to fucking change that, and I know...I know I’m asking you for something you don’t want to do, but I...I moved to New York for you and I would have moved to LA and I need you to do this one. I need you to let me put you somewhere safe and this isn't...please can you do this one.


As if he needed to list the things he'd done for me. Like I didn't know them. Like it mattered anyway. Do you honestly think there’s any fucking question?


It’s Brian. Versus four walls and a floor. Are you kidding?


“Baby, of course,” I said. “Of course. We'll move.”


He closed his eyes and ducked his forehead against mine.


“I love you,” I said softly. “You know that?”


I know that.


“Good.” I kissed the side of his nose. “Good. We'll move.”

 

And so we moved. But that's a whole different story.

End Notes:

 

This goes out to us smiling through our homophobic relatives this week. i love you.

Chapter 92 - If My Heart Was a House by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian searches for a new place for him and Justin to live, but nothing feels quite right...

If My Heart Was a House

LaVieEnRose



I met Heidi at a Starbucks on the Upper East Side. Her hair was shorter than when she sold us the apartment-formerly-known-as-home, and she had a wedding ring she hadn't had back then, and, God help me, I fucking thought good for her before I could stop myself. Fuck, at some point you just stop fighting it, and if this isn't a story about that, Lord knows what is.


She smiled and shook my hand. “Justin's not joining us?”


“Prior engagement. I'll bring him pictures when we break for lunch. Where are we starting?” I'd sent her an email week ago detailing what we needed: plenty of light and no stairs for Justin, open concept for the sight lines, three bedrooms so we could have a separate office and guest room, and a location closer to Kinnetik.


She showed me a folder with a few listings. “There's a place a few blocks from here that I'd like to show you, and one a few blocks towards the park I think might be the one. And I've got a wild card or two in there as well, depending how you feel about those first two.”


I leafed through the listings. Practically identical photos of bright, empty rooms, with hardwood floors and white walls. Nothing special, but neither was our current place, before we filled it up.


“Let's get to it,” I said it.


Heidi chatted to me as we walked to the building, asking me about Kinnetik and Gus and Justin, and I told her about the merger and Gus's Bar Mitzvah prep and Justin's latest art show, though of course that was months ago because he'd barely picked up as much as a pencil in weeks.


The first apartment was on the sixth floor of good-looking building a block away from the park. It was big and hit everything I'd asked for, but the ceilings were lower than our last place and made the place feel more cramped, and there wasn't any sort of outdoor space. The second apartment was pretty much perfect, but it was a pet-friendly building and we rode up on the elevator with two dogs, so that wasn't doable. Justin would fucking sneeze this place to rubble. Animals fuck up his sinuses like nothing else.


“Okay then,” Heidi said. “Balcony, high ceilings, no pets.”


“If you heard him snore you'd understand.”


The next place was nice, but there was no bodega on the block, and we'd gotten pretty spoiled by that at the last locale.


“Are you sure you want to move?” Heidi said as we left. “You're not acting like someone who wants to move.”


“Trust me,” I said. “I want to move.”


“Well, I think you'll like this next space.”


It was clear as soon as we walked in that she had me pegged. Immediately, it reminded me of the Pittsburgh loft. It was a converted warehouse building, Heidi said, now prized by “rich hipster fuckers like you,” and it was truly impressive. Floor to ceiling windows, tall ceilings, an open floor plan perfect for signing. The appliances were new and impressive, there was a small but functional balcony, three bedrooms, and it was right on the subway line. Shiny chrome and dark wood. Cold.


Ten years ago, this would have been a done deal.


Truthfully, if you had asked me hypothetically five minutes before I walked in, I would have told you it would be a done deal today. And here I was standing the middle of this incredible space, and...Lord help me, I was acting like someone who didn't actually want to move.


And you need to fucking trust me that I wanted to fucking move.


I took a lot of pictures and made all the right noises, but I could tell it wasn't the reaction Heidi was hoping for. She sighed and shook her head. “You're impossible without Justin, anyone ever tell you that?”


“No, first time.”


She rolled her eyes. “Let's break for lunch, and hopefully he can talk some sense into you. I'll call my office and see what else we have to show you.”


“Go team,” I said, scrolling through the pictures on my phone, and then we parted ways and I headed to the hospital.


**


I scrubbed my hands, stepped into Justin's hospital room, and let out a breath. Hey.


Justin was curled up in his arm chair with a book, his IV snaking out from under his sweatshirt. He smiled at me. Hey.


He was fine, before you get all worried. He had a skin infection we'd thought was was just a rash, but thank God for Hazel because she took one look at it and said he needed to get to the hospital for IV antibiotics like, yesterday. Since they'd caught it early he was fine, he'd been in there for a few days and would be out in a few more, and it wasn't like he felt especially sick or anything, so it was just a sort of annoying vacation. His immune system wasn't trashed enough anymore that he had to be in complete isolation, and he was doing okay with everyone who came in wearing masks and gowns over their clothes. Mostly he was just bored, and after him being in the apartment literal every minute for a month and a half, it felt very strange to have him missing.


I toed my shoes off and came over and kissed him. How was your day? I said. I'd seen him early that morning, before I met with Heidi, so I already knew the doctors had managed not to kill him overnight.


Boring. Daphne stopped by earlier. They added some saline because I'm a little dehydrated. I went for a walk around the nurse's station. Stop me when you've had enough of the excitement.


Stop.


He sneezed and wrinkled his nose. Were you around a dog?


That's amazing, I was around a dog. I took off my jacket and hung it over in the corner, away from him. We could make some money off of that.


Come see the amazing allergic boy?


I mean, if we're gonna do your fucking allergies anyway. I stretched out on his bed. Come here and I'll show you pictures.


He got up slowly and pushed his IV pole to the bed, and I squished to the side to make room for him and felt my heart slow down as he pressed himself into my side. I kissed the side of his forehead and smoothed his hair back, and he tucked against my shoulder while he leafed through Heidi's folder and scrolled through the pictures on my phone. I looked over his shoulder at first, but I don't know, I'd just seen the places and didn't really feel like looking at them again, so I ended up just studying the way his hair curled around his ears and watching the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheek stretch and jump when he blinked.


“I like this one,” he said. “I like all of these. Heidi has good taste.”


I guess a few of them are okay.


“What about this one?” he said. “I love the block this one's on. And the architecture's gorgeous.”


It's a hundred square feet smaller than what we have now, with part of that in another bedroom. We'd feel cramped.


“This one?”


Look how low the ceilings are.


“Okay, this one.”


That's the one with the dogs.


“I'd do okay with dogs just...around,” he said. “Our building has cats, I survive.”


The cats don't ride the elevator with you. And honestly, right now even that arrangement was just...unacceptable, I don't know. I'm not saying Justin was miserable over it or anything, but I also don't think you can convince me he wasn't waking up snifflier than he needed to be, and...I mean, Christ, you try looking at your partner who's in the hospital for a fucking rash and then wanting to put him anywhere less than hermetically sealed.


And I couldn't see Justin, this Justin, my Justin, in any of these places, and something just...wasn't right.


“Okay, come on, this one's amazing,” he said. He'd found the loft-alike, of course. “This has Brian Kinney all over it.”


That's what Heidi said.


“So...? Come on, we loved the loft. This is beautiful.”


It feels like going backwards.


“Not everything is symbolic,” he said. “Sometimes a great place to live is just a great place to live.”


I shook my head a little and flipped through the pictures. Something just isn't clicking. I can't put my finger on it.


“Okay, well...I would live in any of these places. So I want credit for being agreeable.”


I'll make a note. I tapped my fingers over my mouth. Something's not right.


“You'll figure it out,” he said, his voice weak, sleepy. “You always do.”


Worn out from your exciting day?


“I mentioned I walked around the nurse's station, right?”


Yeah, you own this place.


He nodded, eyes closing.


One day, Simba...


He snickered and pinched me, and I smiled.


**


Back to the real world.


Leaving Justin at the hospital...fucking sucks, to put it simply, and I'm always in a bad mood for a while afterwards. If there's anything in this world to reliably get under my skin it's Justin not being where he's supposed to be, and “by himself in a hospital” definitely qualifies. Evan was babysitting while Gwen and Emily were out of town and Molly was busy with finals, and Justin didn't really feel like any visitors outside of them. I think he felt embarrassed about making a fuss when he didn't really feel sick or anything. I don't know. The kid's nuts.


Regardless, I wasn't really in the best of spirits when I met back up with Heidi to see three more apartments. At least I had the awareness to know that I was being a fucking asshole, because she was showing me places that checked every box, that should have been perfect, and...she was right, I was acting like someone who didn't want to move. I wasn't giving anywhere a fair shot. And there's a reason I blame the fucking hospital for it, because aside from my general unpleasantness there was a throbbing thought that hit as soon as Heidi unlocked every front door: this is not where Justin belongs.


Which probably would have been at least slightly less annoying if I had any fucking idea where he did belong. It wasn't the hospital, it wasn't where we were living now, it sure as fuck wasn't Pittsburg, and it wasn't any of these apartments.


“Can you try to articulate the problem?” Heidi said, at least making an effort to sound patient.


“They're not...they feel like boxes,” I said. “Like some place temporary. I don't want to move him again after this, it's hard on him, and...this needs to be perfect.”


And I don't know what the hell I was expecting from her, but it wasn't for her to cross her arms thoughtfully and say, “Have you thought about a house?”


I scoffed. “You got a house in Manhattan?”


“Don't you work in Queens?”


“We're not moving to Queens.”


She shrugged. “Okay.”


I paused. Studied her. “Where in Queens?”


“Flushing, probably. Right on the 7. Thriving downtown. Fifteen minutes from your office. Half an hour from Times Square. I've sold three places there this week.”


Fifteen minutes from Jane. “I don't know, that's pretty...suburban.”


She nodded. “It's quieter than Manhattan, definitely.”


Quieter.


“A house is a lot to manage,” I said. “I never pictured us as house people.”


“That's true,” she said. “Something goes wrong with a house, there's no building manager, no maintenance staff. You have to figure it out on your own. Helps to be handy. And there will be a yard and possibly a garden to take care of, depending what neighborhood you pick there might be a homeowner's association or a community safety program. Having a house is definitely a job, something to take care of. And maybe that's not your thing.”


I laughed a little. “It's not. It's not my thing. It's Justin's. Fuck.”


“You want to see a few?”


I was about to nod, then I said, “Houses have stairs. He can't...he hates stairs, with his epilepsy. He doesn't breathe well, I can't make him do stairs every day.”


“Let me see what I can find,” she said.


**


It was the very first house she showed me. It was light blue, there were trees out front, it was a block from the train, and the second we stopped in front of it, I knew.


I barged into Justin's hospital room two hours later. Hey hey hey.


He was fast asleep, passed out on his stomach. Of course.


I came over to the bed and kissed the back of his neck until he rolled over. Wake up, lazy. We need to talk.


He yawned and coughed, messing with the cannula in his nose. He made absolutely no attempt at sitting up, so I rolled my eyes and adjusted the tilt of the bed. He whined.


Scoot over, I said, and fit myself in next to him.


“Well someone's excited.”


Open mind, all right? I said, and after he nodded I handed him the folder.


He was still at first, then he reached out and touched the picture on the listing. “Where is this?”


Flushing.


“Flushing? Jesus, why not Hoboken.”


It's twenty minutes from the city on the 7.


“Are you serious, I...when did we start considering a house?”


I took a deep breath. It's six bedrooms, three bathrooms.


“This isn't one level, I...”


He didn't want to say he couldn't do the stairs. There was nobody else here and we both knew he couldn't do stairs every day and he still didn't want to say it.


It is fucking heartbreaking what the world has done to him.


I know, I said gently. It's made to be rented out, it's designed as like a two family house, which means there are three bedrooms on the main floor, including the master. You don’t fucking ever have to go upstairs if you don’t want to. I can use that for my office and for storage. Everything you need is on one floor.


He was quiet.


The kitchen is the size of our living room now. You'd fucking love it, look. And this wall, I checked the floor plan, it's not load-bearing, so we can knock it down. And then all of this is open, you can see from one end of the floor to the other. You can watch TV while you cook, we can sign to each other from opposite sides...anything. And then the master bedroom and the bathroom are right off of this—there are three bathrooms—but fucking look at this one. It’s bigger than our fucking bedroom. Look at that bath tub. Imagine soaking in that when you're sick.


I was moving too fast for him. The whole main floor would be open?


The whole thing. Not like now where we can only see each other over the one counter if I’m in the kitchen. Like the loft. And it’s fifteen minutes from work, and there’s studio space nearby, or... I turned a page in the file. Or you can use the basement, if you don’t mind the stairs, or I was thinking that could work as a space for Evan?


He looked up at me.


I swallowed. It’s got its own entrance so he could have some privacy, but if you want it for a studio...there are six bedrooms. He can stay anywhere. Jane can have her own. You can have an office for administrative shit. One of them can be a fucking closet. Six bedrooms.


“I...”


We can have the car there, we don't have to pay to keep it somewhere anymore, and we could actually drive without it being a huge goddamn hassle. And look at the yard, okay? You can plant vegetables.


“Can we afford this?”


One point three.


“Seriously?”


Yeah. Once we sell the apartment we've turned a profit.


He swallowed and flipped through the folder a few times. “Brian...do you really want this?”


This feels right, I said. I think we'd be comfortable here.


I don't want to have to deal with your domesticity freak out when you realize you don't live in a fuckpad anymore, he said.


I gave him the sincere look he can't resist and repeated his words back to him. Sometimes a nice place to live is just a nice place to live. Not everything is symbolic.


But it was symbolic; of fucking course it was. And I don't mean in any sort of big dramatic settling down way—Queens is still New York—but just in the sense that it was something different. It was Justin and I doing something we hadn't done before, a month after we weren't sure we'd ever get to do anything together again, new or otherwise. It was showing us that...God, if our lives were going to get fucking shattered, maybe we could get a good look at the pieces and make something that worked better instead of trying to cram the old thing back together.


And it was a garden and a bathtub and a space for Evan and a huge open floor and it was...it was more than we had had before.


And I could drive again, and be at work in one subway transfer instead of two, and he could paint when he didn't feel well enough to leave home, and go outside without having to see people, and we wouldn't have to worry about pet fur in the vents or waking up neighbors with our music or his coughing.


It felt safe.


Isn't this what you always wanted? I said to him.


He took a deep a breath as he could and looked up at me, his eyes wet. You'll really buy me a house?


Yeah, I'll buy you a house. So what do you say, Simba? You want a whole place to be yours?


He smiled.

 

End Notes:

If my heart was a house, you'd be home.

Chapter 93 - Home for the Holidays by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Our boys face some demons.

Home for the Holidays

LaVieEnRose



Here's a thought, Brian said, sitting on the kitchen counter with his laptop. Make one cookie that isn't two-thirds frosting.


Justin looked thoughtfully down at the pan we were decorating. “No.”


I like them with a lot of frosting, I said, putting little candy balls on a very-frosted Christmas tree. That's the best part.


Justin said, Brian's not going to eat them anyway, so I don't see why he gets a vote.


I don't want to look at them, Brian said.


Justin licked a smudge of green frosting off his hand. Luckily they'll be going to Derek's office party tomorrow and you'll never have to see them again.


I looked at Brian. How come we're not having a party this year?


Because I didn't have time to organize one given my delicate waif of a partner.


Justin rolled his eyes and said, Because he hates them and this year he had a good excuse not to do it given his delicate waif of a partner.


That too, Brian said, typing something with his other hand.


Sick Justin is really the gift that keeps on giving, Justin said. Now that I can have sex again there aren't even any downsides.


Besides the not breathing thing, I said, and he waved his hand dismissively.


It has been convenient, Brian said. I've gotten out of like four meetings because I said I needed to get home to you. I didn't even come home.


Incredible, Justin said.


Brian ticked things off on his fingers. I didn't have to go to that shitty play with a client, your mom send us care packages every week for a month...and, most importantly, it got us out of Pittsburgh Christmas. Thank you, sick Justin.


Hey, it got me a house, Justin said. They were moving into this beautiful house in Queens in a few months, as soon as some renovations were finished. It was really exciting, even if there was kind of this gnawing feeling in my stomach about it because I lived up in Washington Heights, so it meant it was going to take me about two hours to get to them in the new place versus forty minutes on the A train now, and I was scared I was never going to see them.


I cleared my throat. Wait, you're not going home for Christmas?


He’s barely out of the hospital, Brian said. He’s not up for that yet.


Gus is going to come up next week for a late Christmas, Justin said. Going home is just a lot of kids and a lot of germs, that’s all. Otherwise I could do it, I’m ready.


Brian caught my eye and said exactly what he thought of that in a glance, and I got to say, I was with Brian on this one. I knew how hard Justin was working to get better, but I also knew he was running himself ragged trying to get back to where he was and a lot of times it backfired in the end. Last weekend he’d come with me and Jane to the park and played with her for a few hours, and the whole next day he was sacked out in bed in pain and barely able to move while Brian and I puttered around the apartment and snapped at each other because we were so worried.


So what’s the plan for actual Christmas? I asked. Are you going to Emily’s?


Justin said, They’re doing Christmas morning at Emily's parents' house, then they're coming over here in the afternoon. You can come over then or sleep over, whichever. He piped way too much icing along the edge of a cookie.


I said, Oh, I actually... Ugh. It was going to come out sooner or later. I can't make it.


You're not going to be alone on Christmas, Justin said.


I won't be, I have plans.


Brain raised an eyebrow.


Plans with who? Justin said, which, you know, fair question. I'd lost most of my close friends before I even met Brian and Justin, and the others had either moved away or we'd grown apart. I had a few I'd still try to see, but there was just so much baggage there now, so much we were all trying not to think about, and it was impossible not to think about it when we were together and it was so obvious who was missing.


I have to try not to think about that stuff.


I took a deep breath. I've been talking a little to my mom. And she invited me home for Christmas. So I'm going to go.


To LA? Justin said.


I nodded. I'm leaving the day after tomorrow.


I didn't know you were in touch with your mom, Justin said.


I shrugged. It's early, we haven't really talked about...anything substantial. I don't know if anything's going to come of it.


Justin said, I think it's great.


You do?


I do. At the very least you'll have closure, and hopefully she's had some time to think about things and she wants to change. He lifted my chin and kissed me. You're amazing. Brian, are you seeing this?


Yep, Brian fingerspelled, his face flat. Our boyfriend's all grown up and making nice with his abusive parents.


They didn't abuse me, I said.


They threw you out of your house.


So did Justin's dad.


Brian made this face like, and? and I guess fair enough.


Don't listen to him, Justin said to me. What you're doing is really brave.


That's one word for it, Brian said.


Justin gave him a look. Maybe they've changed.


People don't change.


Oh really, Justin said, and he waved his wedding ring in Brian's face. Brian rolled his eyes.


People don't change without the introduction of major life-altering illness, Brian amended.


You were fucked for me long before that.


Ah, yes, but I didn't realize it until that whole, you know... he gestured to Justin's head. Situation.


'You know, situation,' are you referring to me taking a bat to the skull?


He winced. Are you fine with this just to bother me?


I'm fine with this? That's fun. Tell Lauren, she'll be so proud. He pointed to me. And, I mean, if we're saying that change requires life-altering illness—


They don't know I'm positive, I said.


Justin stared at me. Seriously?


Yeah. And they're not going to find out.


Oh, this is good, I like this, Brian said. This is a great plan.


I'm trying to just be functional with them, I said. I'm walking around with their last name, I might as well know how to talk to them.


Sure, Brian said. And all it costs is putting yourself in danger and being a completely different person.


We’re a phone call away if anything goes wrong, Justin said to him.


A phone call and four thousand miles.


Justin gave me a rueful smile. The dark side of being one of Brian’s ducklings.


I don’t have ducklings, he said. I have admirers.


You are so full of shit, Justin said, and then he stopped and rested his hand on the table and took a shaky breath. Brian and I looked at each other and he nodded to me, since I was in Justin's field of vision and Brian wasn't.


Go lie down, I said to him.


Justin shook his head and coughed into his elbow. I want to finish this.


Sounds bad, Brian said with a sigh, and he put his laptop aside and stood up.


We’ll finish, I said to Justin.


He gave me a look. You’re spending too much time with Brian.


We’re all spending too much time with Brian. Lie down.


Brian took the piping bag away from Justin and nudged him towards the living room. I finished up the cookies while Brian got him settled, and he came back in while I was packing them away. I've gotten way too complacent with that fucking wheeze, he said. I barely hear it anymore.


Me neither.


Hilarious. He felt kind of warm too.


“He okay?”


Yeah, I made him check, he doesn’t have a fever. I think it’s just from hanging out around the oven. He sighed and stretched. Please tell me I don't have to decorate cookies. I don't love him that much.


I laughed. I’m all done here. Just help me clean up.


He packed cookies for a while, then said, You know this is a bad fucking idea.


What, eating Justin's baking?


Haha, he fingerspelled flatly.


I sighed. “I'm trying to be a grown up or whatever.”


Grown ups or whatever know when to say 'fuck no' to shitty people trying to get back into their lives.


“They're my family,” he said. “I owe them a second chance.”


You don't know owe anybody shit, he said.


“Can't you just be supportive?”


Like a nice bra?


“Yeah.”


Fine. But don't come crying to me when it sucks.


**


Like the prophet Miley Cyrus foretold, I hopped off the plane at LAX, though without the dream or the cardigan, at noon Pacific time on Christmas Eve. It was my first time back here in over ten years. Back then I'd hitchhiked with a hundred and forty dollars in my pocket. Now I had a ticket I paid for with my salaried job, clothes that fit me, a backpack full of protease inhibitors, and someone I had to call and tell I'd landed safely. What a difference a decade makes.


I called Justin while I walked to baggage claim, and he picked up from his studio. He had a paintbrush in his mouth and he hadn't shaved and he looked hot as hell. You made it! he said.


This was a bad idea. Now I'm going to have ASL-brain. I need to think English.


I could talk to you. It's funny; I know Justin talks out loud to Brian pretty often—I do too—but I never picture him doing it, because, for someone who grew up hearing, Justin is so non-oral. It's easy to forget he hasn't been signing his whole life, and it's totally weird to me that he and Brian used to just...be two hearing guys together. It feels so fake.


I said, No, I don't read lips well over video. And you don't read them well at all.


He scrunched his nose up and glared at me.


How are you? I said. You're not supposed to be working yet.


I'm just dabbling. And fuck me, I'm fine, how are you? Are you scared?


I think I'm past scared and my system got overwhelmed and now I'm emotionless.


So you're a robot.


It seems so, yeah.


He tilted his head to the side. You're going to be great. They've had ten years. They're ready to deal. People don't...the world isn't like it was ten years ago. His eyes were so fucking beautiful. Imagine not being proud of you.


They don't even know me.


That's what this trip is for, right?


I had no idea how to answer that one, because I guess I was still hoping it would be that but I knew, even at that point, that it wouldn't, and luckily—or something—I was saved—or something—because I got to baggage claim and there was my mom. Holding a sign with my name on it like she thought I wouldn't recognize her. Or maybe just to be cute? I didn't...I couldn't remember enough about her personality to know if she'd do that, and I don't think that was really something I'd realized, that I'd forgotten her that much, and I was all of a sudden so, so sad.


She put one hand to her mouth and waved a little with the sign, and I said goodbye and I love you to Justin and went over and dropped my backpack and hugged her. The smell of her hit me like a wave. Lilac and baby powder. I'd forgotten that too and here it was.


I heard her say something in my good ear, so I pulled away from her so I could see her lips. “How was your flight?” she said.


“It was fine. Um...thank you for coming to get me. I could have taken a cab.”


“No, I wanted to see you.”


“Is Dad here?”


“He's back at the house. Getting the house ready for the party.”


Oh, God, the party. Every year they throw these huge Christmas parties, everyone on the block. I always hated them because my mom freaked out about the house not being perfect and cried every time and it was too many people and I couldn't follow the conversations. I'd wondered if maybe they stopped doing them after I left. I guess not.


“Is that tonight?”


She nodded. “Everyone's so excited to see you.” She looked me up and down. “Look at you. All grown up.”


I put on a smile and followed her out into the heat.


**


Really, my whole life in New York started around Christmas, a few months after I came to the city. I don't remember when it was exactly, but I know it was snowing through the windows of this seedy apartment where I'd come with Danny and Amir, two of the guys I was living with. I was standing around with my little red cup of something that tasted awful and there he was across the room, half-naked with hands all over him and a smile that could light up the world, and it was like every single thing in the world, in the universe, was pointing at him, and that was the night I met Adam.


He asked me where I was from. He always looked right at me and spoke so clearly.


“Nowhere,” I said.


“Then you came to the right place.”


It didn't feel like Christmas here in LA, with the heat and everything, but God, it felt like Christmas with him. For three years, it felt like Christmas.


**


The Christmas party at my parents' house was like looking through one of the fun house mirrors. The same house. The same people, plus or minus a few, ten years older. Everything seemed small, and I don't mean that in some kind of figurative way, I mean the place literally felt too small. When I'd walked into my old bedroom to drop my stuff off and change, all my stuff was still there, the posters and the books I'd had when I was sixteen and didn't bring with me after my parents caught me with this boy from algebra class, and it all seemed tiny, like the bed was made for a doll, or something. I don't know.


I played the good son at the party, circulating, offering to grab drinks for people, nodding and smiling at things I couldn't quite lipread. The room was busy and loud and my hearing aids were picking up all the ambient shit and driving me crazy, but my parents would notice if I took them out and think that meant I wasn't trying. They'd worry people would notice they were gone and think that meant I wasn't trying to communicate with them.


It's funny the things you don't forget.


My father had still barely looked at me. He averted his eyes and shook my hand and told me it was good to see me when I got to the house, and since then he'd just found other things to do. It really wasn't hard to tell which of them had invited me home for Christmas, not that there was ever any doubt in the first place. She wasn't the one who kicked me out.


I told people about work and was vague about when I started and let people believe I'd gone to new York for the job and hoped they hadn't remembered I left before I finished high school. I let people think I'd graduated and made vague allusions to fake plans to go back to school, because everyone always likes hearing that, and it gives them an in to babble at me about their college experience, which people apparently never grow out of looking for any excuse to do.


Before I knew it I'd constructed this whole narrative about my life in New York. Ambitious, successful, and sexless. Everything these people wanted from me. None of them knew I signed every day at home, or that I was gay, or that I was sick.


I was talking to Mrs. Avrams from the house in the corner when my phone buzzed. I apologized and checked it quickly. It was a text from Justin asking how things were going, so I left it to answer later, but when I looked back up at Mrs. Avrams she had that face hearing people get when you don't understand them. Embarrassed and annoyed all at once.


I said, “I'm sorry, what did you say?”


She gave me a patronizing smile and said, “Who's that?”


I thought she meant Justin at first, and I was trying to figure out how she'd seen his name in the quick flash of my phone. And then I realized that she obviously meant the picture on my lock screen: Jane when she was a few months old, wrapped up in her sheep blanket.


“Oh, that's my...” I never know what to call Jane. When people ask when I'm out with her I just say I'm babysitting. “My friend's baby.”


“She's beautiful.”


I imagine telling them that she's Deaf. That she's signing already. That she calls me Dad, because she calls every man she meets Dad, and she knows the sign for sheep so now we can ask her if she wants her sheep blanket, and she'll say yes. What kind of hearing baby could do that?


“Thank you,” I said. I didn't sign it.


**


Adam was maybe the worst signer I'd ever seen. I would teach him something, sign it for him over and over, and it would fall out of his head a minute later.


“I don't have a brain for learning,” he told me once.


“Oh yeah, what's your brain for?”


“Thieving and general debauchey,” he said.


And God, he was good for it. The world lay down for Adam like a lover. One flick of that smile and people would do anything for more. He was...well.


He was a drug.


My friends worried, lectured, said they never saw me anymore, or they got sucked in right along with me. But Adam chose me. For some godforsaken fucking reason, he chose me.


He was a terrible signer, but God, he was so encouraging of me learning. He shoplifted sign language dictionaries and syntax books. He sat with me in the library for hours while I watched videos. He gave me money to take classes. He told me I was doing well when I wanted to give up.


He always knew how to cheer me up. Not that it was complicated. After a while I loved two things and two things only: Adam and drugs.


**


I sat on my bed in my childhood room and watched the clock tick from 11:59 to midnight. From Not-Christmas to Christmas.


Maybe I should have picked a different time of year to come back. I thought being out of the city would be easier, that there would be fewer things to remind me, but I just felt guilty and shitty for not being there. And I missed Justin. He knew I had a hard time with Christmas, and that was another reason I left. I didn't want to rain on Jane's first Christmas morning with all my depressing shit, and I didn't want him worrying about me, and I didn't...know how to share what I was feeling with him. It wasn't fair. How do you fucking talk to your boyfriend about missing your old boyfriend?


But I called anyway, and the phone had rung twice before I remembered the time difference. I cursed and was about to hang up, but Brian picked up before I could. He was in bed, but the lights were on and he didn't look like I'd woken him.


You okay? he said.


Yeah. I'm sorry. I messed up the math.


We were up.


Yeah, I called Justin's phone, right?


Brian angled my phone so I could see Justin propped up on his chest. He was awake, but a lot sleepier than Brian, and Brian had one arm around him and his fingers massaging the back of Justin's neck.


Seizure? I asked.


Brian shook his head. Nightmare. He moved the phone back to himself. Drugs are starting to kick in now.


“Bad one?” I said, and Brian nodded a little. Justin gets these brutal nightmares from when he was attacked as a teenager, and they'd been worse since he got sick a couple months before. The bashing left him with this overwhelming fear of dying, so something like this...it really fucked him up. Justin does a good job of hiding it most of the time, but he lives his life assuming the worst possible thing that could possibly happen is going to happen, and yeah, that can be sort of annoying, but how do you fault someone for that when they go to their fucking prom and almost get murdered?


He's fine, Brian said, and I could tell from the way he was angling his signing that he meant for Justin to see it too. He got the good drugs, he's safe. Everything's okay now. Could use a neb while we're up, though, you want to stay with him?


I nodded and waited while Brian got up and switched the phone to Justin's hand. Justin sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Hey.


You okay?


He nodded and coughed a little. Bad dream.


So I hear. Can you breathe?


Sort of. You don't have to worry, he said sleepily. Brian has me.


I know, I just... I shrugged.


How was the party? he said.


It was fine. Weird.


You look tired, he said.


You look tired. I rubbed my forehead. I am, I'm just like...this is so draining. I was this fucking perfect little caricature of myself all night, and I”m so used to smiling and being sweet.


I know you are.


So I thought it would be easy, I said. Because I'm used to it. I don't know why it's not easy this time.


Because it's your mom, Justin said, taking the nebulizer mouthpiece from Brian somewhere off-camera and sucking on it with a little more desperation than he probably wanted me to see.


I'll be fine, I said. I'm just tired, it's not...a thing. Are you okay?


Didn't you ask me that already? Meds really were kicking in.


I know, I just...


He tilted his head to the side. Not like you to be nervous like this.


I know, it's just the...everything.


Justin looked above the camera, then back to me. Brian wants to know if you've taken your meds.


Not yet. I will.


He says you were supposed to take them five hours ago.


I'll do it as soon as I'm off here. I watched Justin look above the camera again. What's he saying now?


He's bitching about you so we won't catch him giving a shit. He took the mouthpiece out and coughed for a while, and Brian's hands appeared to hold his shoulders in place.


And I'm a fucking idiot because I didn't even think about the fact that my sound was up really loud on my phone because I'd had earbuds in listening to music on the plane, and here Justin was coughing like he was goddamn dying, until my bedroom door starting opening. I signed Shit, I have to go, to Justin and hung up quickly as my mom came in.


“Hi,” I said.


“Sorry,” she said. “I thought I heard something.”


“Just watching something on my phone, sorry,” I said. “Do you need help cleaning up or anything?”


She shook her head and looked around my room. I couldn't look away, in case she started talking, so I had to just sit there and watch her take in all my old belongings and get sadder and sadder.


She said something I couldn't make out because she was walking and half-turned away from me as she crossed over to my bookshelf, then she took something off the very bottom shelf and held it up to me. It was this old beat-up book of fairy tales. I think it was hers when she was a kid.


“I loved reading these to you,” she said. She came over and sat on the foot of the bed and opened the book into her lap. “We'd sit here and you'd squish into my side...”


I twisted my hands.


“We were so close,” she said.


I didn't say anything, and after a minute she patted the book cover and set it on the bed and got up to leave, and I knew I should just let her go, I knew this was manipulative bullshit, but I just...couldn't write her off completely. She's my mom.


And she's not the one who kicked me out.


“Why did you keep everything?” I said.


She turned around.


“All of this...” I gestured around. “It's like a memorial. It's like I died.”


“We love you,” she said.


“You threw me out of the house.”


“That's not what happened.”


“I was there,” I said. “I know what Dad said. I know what happened.”


“He didn't throw you out. Maybe you...misunderstood him.”


I stared at her.


She watched me.


“He told me if I wasn't his son I couldn't live in his house,” I said.


She didn't say anything.


“Isn't that what he said?”


“It was ten years ago, Evan,” she said. “I don't remember anymore.”


“I do,” I said.


**


It got dark eventually. Adam and I ran out of money so we ran out of drugs. We turned into monsters, but not to each other. Mostly not to each other.


Our friends faded out, one by one. Lily wouldn't watch us destroy ourselves. Danny went back to St. Louis. Amir killed himself when he found out he was positive. We lost Adele and Leo to infections. Rob went to prison. I still don't know what happened to Angie. I've tried to find her. The police didn't care.


But I had Adam, at the end of every day, at the beginning of every morning. Those hands and that smile, as we got thinner and sicker and meaner and still he loved me. God, he loved me.


**


I spent Christmas Day out of the house as much as I could, wandering around the places I grew up and trying to feel anything for them. I was half-convinced all day I was going to run into someone I knew, but I never did. I took a bus out to where Justin's mural was and felt something there right away, so I took a selfie with it and he replied back with about a million hearts.


I was going back to New York the next morning, and that was keeping me going like a heartbeat, but first I had to go back to the house for a Christmas dinner with my family and...well. That's where everything kind of went to shit.


It started with my dad asking me about my job in New York, which he hadn't heard about even though I'd talked about it the whole party because he'd been steadfastly avoiding me, and even now I could barely read his lips with the way he kept his head down and his eyes away from me, but okay. I talked about the job at Kinnetik and alluded to my salary because I knew it would impress him.


He said, “Good. This is why it was so important you do all that speech therapy, learn to talk. There's this guy I see at the grocery store, you can't talk to him at all. All he can do is push carts.”


I cut a slice of ham very slowly and then said, “I actually sign some at work.”


“What do you mean?” he said.


“Like, sign language,” I said. “I learned it when I moved to the city and a few people at work know it, so I use it there.”


“What do you need to know sign language for?” he said. “You talk.”


“Not all of my friends do,” I said. “I have Deaf friends in the city, I use it to talk to them.”


“I just don't understand that,” he said. “Why learn a language that hardly anyone knows?”


“Because lipreading and speaking is really, really hard,” I said. “And why should we have to do oit when there's a language for us?”


“To participate in society,” he said. “Instead of further isolating yourself into...whatever you want to call it.”


“Communities? Families?”


He rolled his eyes and said something at his plate that I couldn't make out, and I sat there feeling stupid and shitty.


And angry.


“I have people,” I said. “In New York. I have people.”


“So that's what your mother and I tell our friends?” he said. “Our son, who we raised, cared for, poured thousands of dollars and hours of time into making sure he could participate in the real world, he's isolating himself and throwing away everything we gave him, but he has people?”


My mother said something to him, but I wasn't looking at her to catch it.


“What is it exactly that you think that I owe you?” I said.


“It's not about what you owe me, damn it, it's what you owe yourself. Not making yourself any more fucking isolated than...”


“Which of these exactly did I choose to be?” I said. “Deaf or gay?”


I got up from the table and went into the living room without waiting for an answer, I swear just to clear my head for a minute, I was going to go back in and put on a smile and apologize for losing my temper, but I was walking in little circles trying to calm myself down, my mom came in.


“Don't,” I said. “Don't apologize for him.”


She always did that. You don't forget.


“You don't understand how hard this is, Evan,” she said. She looked like she was about to cry.


“I don't understand?”


“You don't understand how much this hurts,” she said. “To know that your baby won't ever have a family. To look at someone you love and know that they're going to die alone.”


I froze.


**


Ten minutes later I was sobbing on the floor of my fucking childhood bathroom.


They don't know, I said. They don't fucking understand anything.


Justin was watching me, eyes big. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.


I can't do this, I need to get out of this fucking house, I don't know what I thought...


You thought maybe they'd changed, he said. You gave them the benefit of the doubt and you wanted them to be good people because that's who you are.


They're telling me I can't have a family but I did. I had one. It was there, it happened, it was real. I had it.


Evan, he said, pain on his face.


I miss Adam, I said, before I could stop myself. I miss him so much.


Baby, I know. I know you do.


It''s like I'm missing a fucking part of my body and they have no idea he even existed, it's like he was never here, but he was here, he was here and I was there and I know it was real, I said, and I cried until I couldn't move.


**


It was some sketchy shit we got from some sketchy guy but when you don't really worry about that at the time because your whole life feels fake once you get in that deep. When I told Justin big stories don't happen to me, that wasn't a lie, because the whole thing with Adam still feels fake. One reason I don't talk about it—not the biggest one, but a reason—is part of me feels like I'm making it up when I do. That's how fucking frenetic the whole thing was. That's how high we were. Consequences and risks aren't real because this cannot be real. You go from a nice house in LA to squatting in New York and shooting herion? I mean, who fucking does that? That's not you. That was never going to be your life. You fell in love with a pretty boy and this is where you ended up? That can't happen. That's not your life. That's a character in a movie.


Which I guess means we really should have seen it coming, because how do those movies end? With one of them blue-lipped on the floor with a needle in his arm.


I did CPR for twenty-five minutes before the paramedics got there.


Adam was in a coma for two days and he died on December 26th, seven years ago.


Three weeks after that I collapsed in that supermarket and found out I was positive, which wasn't much of a surprise but still felt like one, somehow.


Turns out, you get news like that and all you really want is some more of the shit that got you there in the first place.


So I fucked around for a while and my friends screamed and cried and told me they wouldn't watch me kill myself and I guess I just walked past a rehab place at the right time one night. I don't know how else to explain it. There wasn't any big breaking point because how many of those did I really have left? What else could even fucking happen to me?


I don't know how to explain how I survived getting clean except that I already wanted to die from losing him and somehow that made it easier. I already felt as bad as I was ever going to feel.


Andrea Gibson said it, in a poem Justin loves that I don't fully understand, but I get this line: when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back.


Maybe that's supposed to be inspirational, but it just makes me think...God, you get so, so sick of being hit. You pull yourself together just to make it stop.


It's not that it's easier to forget. It's just that you don't have any other way to get up every morning.


I can still see his smile, oh God. Oh God.


**


My mom offered to drive me to the airport in the morning, but I got an Uber.


“Are you going to come back?” she said. She was crying. I dont' know where dad was.


“I don't know,” I said.


“We made a mistake,” she said. “Ten years ago, we shoudn't have...”


I didn't say anything.


“We made a mistake,” she said.


My phone buzzed that my Uber was here. I hitched my backpack up my shoulder.


“You made a mistake twenty-five years ago when I lost my hearing,” I said.


When I got into the car, I signed, Hi, I'm Deaf, to my driver, settled back, and really, really fucking felt the silence.


**


I used to squish under her arm and watch her read fairy tales. I couldn't look at the pictures. I had to watch her mouth.


She used to make oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and I loved them so much.


She used to hold me when the kids at school were mean to me.


She called me little bear.


She didn't throw me out. But she didn't stop him.


**


I got off the plane in New York and walked to to arrivals to get a cab and there was Brian, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He tilted his head when I stopped in front of him and dropped my backpack on the floor.


Justin wanted to be here, he said. But, you know.


You were right, I said. It was a mistake.


And just like fucking that I was crying in the middle of the airport, and Brian knit his eyebrows together.


“Everyone who's ever fucking loved me is gone,” I said. “Adam and my parents and my friends and....they're all fucking dead, everyone who's ever loved me is gone, and I—”


I felt his hands grab my shoulders and pull me into him, and I pushed my face into his neck and held on for dear fucking life.


**


Brian was stony-faced and quiet in the cab back to his place. He nudged me to the kitchen sink to wash up once we got inside and I watched him through the cut out over the counter as he went to the living room and pulled Justin off the couch and into his arms, and when he finally let go of him he pushed Justin's hair back and cupped his cheek and there was something almost frantic about it.


What's wrong? Justin said.


Evan was crying.


Is he okay?


Yeah, I just...


Justin watched him.


The last time I was fucking hit with this you were godamn dying on a garage floor, can I just—


Yeah, okay, Justin said, and he let Brian pore over him, checking his temperature, kissing his cheek, putting a hand on his chest to feel his breathing or his heartbeat.


Brian closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Justin's. I dried my hands on a towel.


“I'm okay,” I saw Justin say. “We're okay.”


**


I fell asleep on the couch for a while and woke up with Justin's hand in my hair.


How do you do it? I said. How do you fucking live with the shit that happened to you? I can't think about it. And now I'm thinking about it, and I can't think about it.


I think about it every single second of every day, he said.


I balled myself up small and squished into him. Are we fucked up for life?


Yeah, he said. But at least we don't have to fucking apologize to anyone about it.


Brian came over after a little while and put on a movie, and I sat between them and watched Brian drink and Justin cough and held each of their hands in one of mine. Brian got up abruptly at one point and got a big roll of paper, and Justin helped him uncurl it over our laps. Blueprints for the new house.


See here? Brian said, pointing.


Yeah.


That's your room.


Justin rested his cheek against my shoulder, and Brian pointed out some more stuff in the house, and I still felt very, very sad.

 

But I also felt like I was home.

End Notes:

So uh...this one's really rough. If you have ideas for a happy one next, let me know? It's not quite time to move them into the new house but I'm not sure what to do with them until then, so...feel free to guide me.

Chapter 94 - Meeting in the Middle by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin's working on his self-advocacy, and Brian has a lot of feelings about it.

Meeting in the Middle

LaVieEnRose



We all know the little lamb's had a rough time of it these last few go arounds, so let this story serve as a reminder that Justin Taylor, in health or in fucking sickness, is a goddamn force of nature.


And don't you fucking dare think you're allowed to call him a little lamb, but that should go without saying.


**


A couple days after Christmas, Justin and I went out to Flushing to see the house. It's the world's fucking easiest subway ride from midtown—get on at one end of the 7 and get off at the other—but he wasn't cleared for crowded transport yet, so rather than spend the cab fare I got the car, picked him up at his studio, and we took the bridge, since the tunnel gives him nightmares sometimes, and hell, why would anyone prefer the tunnel anyway? Justin was having a good day and was feeling amped that he'd gotten some work done for the first time in a while, so we cranked up songs he'd known since he was a kid and sang along on the drive to Queens.


The construction team was there, tearing down walls and fixing the bannister and generally stirring up a lot of shit that makes Justin not breathe, but he was still wearing a mask when he was outside of the apartment anyway, so he was pretty okay. He was, naturally, entirely unbothered by the construction noise, so he wandered around the house calmly while I had to step outside and talk to Cynthia about some fucking work crisis. It was the first time Justin had been back here since we put the offer in, and that was right after he'd gotten out of the hospital and as excited as he had been to see it and okay the buy, he was having a really awful day, could barely walk more than a couple of steps on his own, so I'm not sure how much of it he honestly remembered from that. Most of his tour that day was sitting against the wall that was currently being demolished, watching one end of a Facetime call on his phone while I walked around the house with mine. By the time we got back to the apartment, that artist brain of his had mapped out where all of our shit would go, even as sick as he was.


I came back inside after fixing Kinnetik yet again to Justin very much not where I'd left him. I found him eventually in the master bathroom, looking thoughtfully at the tub.


I put my hand on his shoulder. That main room is going to be enormous once the wall's down.


Bigger than the loft, do you think?


Close. What's on your mind?


He said something out loud, but fuck if I could hear him over the jackhammers or whatever the fuck, plus it's always kind of hard to understand him through the mask.


Sign, I said. It's loud.


Sorry. I don't think I like this.


The tub? It was fucking enormous. I figured it would be his favorite part of the house.


He shook his head. The steps.


Oh. The tub was raised off the ground with three steps leading up to it.


We'll put a bar in that you can hold onto, I said. And we can put mats on the steps so they won't be slippery.


I don't know, he said. I'm going to want to take baths when I feel like shit, and that's when I won't want to do stairs.


You're not going to be using it when you're home alone anyway, I said, because that's yet another fucking thing epilepsy's taken from him that I have to pretend doesn't make me furious on his behalf because who the fuck does that help. I can help you with the stairs.


He shook his head, eyes still narrowed and focused on the steps. I don't like them. Would you mind if we got the tub lowered, so it's sunken into the floor? Is that even possible?


Sure, with enough money anything's possible. You want to ask them?


Yeah, I think I'm going to. He took out his phone and started typing out a note, which is how he does a lot of his communication with hearing people when he wants to be precise. I watched him for a little while, trying not to smile, and then kissed his cheek and said, I'm going to take some measurements in the space upstairs.


Sure, he said absently, totally focused on his note, and I laughed a little as I passed the construction workers on my way up the stairs. They had no idea what they were in for.


**


Justin was working on floor plans that night when I got out of the shower, drawing little boxes where everything would go. The main floor had the open space that would serve as a living room, kitchen, and dining room, with some work space for Justin and a door opening out to the deck and backyard. Off that, the spare bedroom for Jane, our bedroom and bath, and the extra room we were converting into a walk-in closet. Upstairs had my office, a small home gym, and another guest bedroom, and that left the basement for Evan to do whatever the fuck he wanted. It had its own kitchen and bathroom since it was set up for a second resident, was essentially a separate studio apartment, so he'd have his own space for just about the first time in his life.


Justin had been napping when I got in the shower, or else he would have joined me, so I wasn't expecting to see him up, but there he was sitting at the counter, his hair fluffy and messed-up from sleep, his tongue between his teeth in concentraton as he drew. I rested my head against the doorframe and caught my breath.


He noticed me. “What?”


Nothing. Making progress?


“Just trying to figure out all the bookshelves.”


I came up behind him and hung out there for a minute, looking over his plans—how does he draw such perfect squares? I realize in the grand scheme of Justin's artistic feats this is pretty minor, but seriously, who sits down and draws a perfect square?—and running my hands over his shoulders. He tilted his head back eventually, and I smiled and kissed him. Are you hungry? I asked him. He was finally starting to looking a little less skeletal, but he still had a lot of weight left to put back on and his appetite was unpredictible. He still had to be on all these antibiotics off and on, and they made him nauseous, and his breathing was a big distraction for him.


“Yeah, I was gonna take the salmon filets out in a minute.”


I went around into the kitchen, daydreaming a little about when everything would be one room, and studied him over the counter while I opened the fridge. I didn't want to get ahead of myself, but I thought there might be some pink in the boy's cheeks today. How are you feeling? I said. You look good.


“Thanks.” He stretched a little. “Pretty good. Trying not to push myself too much until after the party.” Emily was having a New Year's Eve party in a few days, and Justin had gotten the okay from his doctor to go as long as he wore a mask and didn't spend too long out in the cold.


That's quite the change of pace.


“Hmm?”


I'm used to corralling you.


I've never been corralled.


Still, it's important to have goals.


He made a noise that was pretty successfully skeptical for someone who hadn't heard a peep in six years, then turned and coughed into his elbow for a while. He was fighting for air a little, but he didn't sound like he was going to to drop dead too imminently, so I gave him some space and put a pan on for the salmon. I took my phone out to set a timer—we generally do that instead of using the oven timer, since our phones can light up for alarms—and noticed I had a message.


Who's calling me and leaving me a damn message after eight? I said.


Justin erased something in the floor plan. “Hearing person.”


I knew I didn't like them. I hit play on the message and tucked my phone against my ear while I swirled oil around the pan. It's the construction company, I told Justin.


He raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”


Yeah, you could say that. I sighed and hung up. They said they can't do the tub sunken because of how it'll cut into the basement ceiling.


I already asked Evan, it's fine with him. He keeps reminding me he's just a guest there.


I don't have time to unpack that right now.


You and me both.


They say it's a building code thing, he said. We'll put a bar on the wall. On the left side so you can grip it well.


That would be my right side getting out of the tub.


True. Okay, both sides.


Justin clicked his pen, thinking. It's an accessibility issue, right?


I nodded.


I didn't tell them that back at the house. You think there's a chance that overrides the building code?


It might. I have no idea.


What's their number?


I fingerspelled it to him, nice and slowly, letting him scribble down each digit before it had a chance to fall through one of the holes in his brain. Okay, I'm gonna call, he said. You've got the salmon?


Yeah, how much garlic?


“Just like a shit ton.”


Okay.


Justin set his phone up on the counter and called the relay service and had them connect him with the construction company. He had the sound on on his phone for God knows what reason so I could hear the interpreter speaking what Justin was signing. Listening to people interpret for Justin can be frustrating sometimes because sometimes they'll just phrase stuff in a way that I know isn't exactly what he means, because I can still hear Justin's voice in my head when he signs, but interpreting for him is not my job. And it's not as if the meaning's wrong, it just...doesn't sound exactly like Justin. This interpreter was good, though. I have had to step in a few times when they're just goddamn awful, like the time one of them misunderstood what Justin was saying about a symptom at a neurologist appointment and almost lead them down the completely wrong path, or when the one at Janie's naming ceremony kept referring to Gwen and Emily as her “mom and dad,” every time Justin signed parents.


I mostly just listened while the interpreter argued Justin's point and every once in a while glanced up at him, staying calm but fucking resiliant while he schooled these fuckers on the ADA, while I cooked the salmon and made a salad, thinking vaguely to myself that Justin had implied he would be the one making dinner but hey, he had to eat my cooking now so he was going to suffer for it too.


It was clear after about fifteen minutes of this though that they weren't listening to him. He was repeating himself and getting frustrated, and the interpreter was starting to have an edge in her voice on his behalf from the pissed-off way he was signing. And that's fine, and normally I'd let these assholes keep poking the bear until they were stuck with the whole wrath of Justin, but his breathing was starting to get involved, and I had hopes of fucking him tonight so those lungs needed to keep working. Wrap it up, I signed to him, when he started hacking into his elbow, and I gave him a hang tight squeeze on the shoulder on my way to the bedroom to get his inhaler. He used to get really freaked out when he couldn't breathe—who wouldn't—but as this whole saga continued he'd started to be really calm about it, and frankly that was a hard thing to watch, both because it was depressing as fuck and because it meant he wasn't always noticing when he needed to step back and take a non-metaphorical breather. I'd just said that thing about corralling him, but...fuck, my main goddamn role since he'd gotten sick was managing that fucking can-do attitude of his because no, Justin, sometinmes you can't do. Getting Justin to accept the help he needs has always, always been a struggle, against his pride and his shame and his internalized ableism and his goddamn stubbornness and yes, maybe still some youthful short-sightedness, so I wasn't exactly champing at the bit here to convince him he should be fine with stairs up to his bathtub. Justin being the one to handle problems with people we'd hired was about the furthest thing from new—I hate it, and he's better at it anyway, so it's always fallen to him—but doing it for something that just he needed was.


But he still needed to breathe.


I got back with his inhaler just as he was ending the call. Came on quick, I said, watching him wheeze.


I think the dust back at the house didn't help.


Probably not, no. It was an adjustment, having to keep this stuff at the forefront. Justin's always had asthma, but it used to be so far down the list of concerns. He'd wheeze when the pollen count was high and he'd had a few scary attacks through the years and it meant even before his immune system was trashed he'd hang onto colds for a long time, but we'd never really had to worry about it before a few months ago. I think it was worse when he was a kid, so he was more used to thinking about it than I was, but he'd still gotten complacent over the years. And now we just didn't know what sort of long-term effects he was going to have from this bout of pneumonia, and here he was getting used to this new normal, and...well.


Just, y'know, add it to the pile. I sat on a stool next to him and propped up on my elbow on the counter.


I thought I looked good, he said, his eyes warm.


You do. You don't sound good.


Just getting it all out of my system before the party.


Oh, is that how it works?


He nodded.


So what did they say? I said.


He held up a finger for me to wait and took another hit of the inhaler.


Yeah, take your time. I'll finish up dinner.


I can do it.


It's okay.


I cooked the salmon and steamed some green beans and set the coffee table with plates and a glass of wine for me and half a glass for Justin. He was sounding a little better already, and he came over and lay down the floor cushions and he told me about the conversation with the construction company while we ate.


“Basically they don't know shit about the ADA,” he said. “You'd think they'd just signed it into law.”


So they're not budging.


He shook his head. And honestly, I was talking out of my ass trying to get them to. It made me realize how much I don't really know about legal protections either. Usually I just threaten to sue people and hope they don't call my bluff.


You didn't do that here?


He shook his head. “With all the shit they know about building codes, they were going to call my bluff. The interpreter was fucking using legal signs I don't know! I'm out of my depth here.”


So what's the plan? Stairs?


He snorted and reached for his wine. “No. No stairs. I'm going to do some research and maybe call our lawyer tomorrow if I can't find the answer on my own. But mark my words, that tub is not having stairs.”


I bit back a smile with a forkful of salmon. Consider them marked.


We went out after dinner, just to the bar for an hour or so to see everyone. Daphne was transferring hospitals at the end of the month, moving up to midtown, and between that and Molly graduating this spring we wouldn't have much of a reason to trek down to the village anymore. There was a bar in Sunnyside near Emily's apartment that I liked a lot, and I was already planting the seeds in everyone's minds that that would be our new spot. As hard as I'd balked initially at moving out of Manhattan, fuck, I was all in at this point. Big cities have always been more Justin's thing than mine anyway, and nowadays a bit of stimulation goes a long way with him. Meanehile I'm happier being the biggest motherfucker in a smaller pond.


Justin wanted to stay at the bar even after I could see him getting tired, and he dug his heels in and insisting he was okay when I tried to tug him out of there. It took a pile of dirty little sweet nothings in his ear—metaphorically speaking, the boy is Deaf—about what I was going to do to him if he let me bring home to get him to budge, and then, of course, I had to pay up. Such a hardship.


His doctor had given us a whole damn heap of warnings about easing back into sex slowly, and honestly after this many fucking years of this shit I'm self-aware enough to know that even if she hadn't I would have been careful with him. You don't get through an experience like we'd weathered the past few months without a few scars; you just don't. So of course we were skittish. Of course every time I laid so much as a fucking finger on him there were hands in my head signing don't hurt him, don't hurt him, for the love of God don't you fucking hurt him. You can't imagine how hard it was to convince myself to put a hand on him.


At the same time, I hadn't fucked him in two months and I'm only human, for God's sake.


So I nipped so carefully at his neck and cradled his head when I lay him down and went through half a bottle of lube every night, and no, it wasn't the drag-out, break-your-fucking-bones sex we're both awfully fond of, but it was sex and it was Justin and there's no combination of those two factors that hasn't worked for me.


God, he just felt so fucking good. I hadn't been tricking much these past few months because there was always the worry in the back of my mind that I'd bring home a cold or the flu or fucking gonorrhea and kill him, but even if I had...Christ, we're not going to pretend there's anything out there like Justin, are we? There's some kind of awful joke in here about epilepsy or allergies and hyper-responsiveness, but...fuck, no one responds to stimuli like Justin does, no one's that fucking alive and goddamn reactive, fucking lightning in a bottle, this boy, pushing back against me before I've even closed around him, reaching up to meet my lips before I realize I'm coming towards him. Justin was made to be touched, turned on, teased. Given things.


So then of course we come full circle on that awful joke thing and his arm started seizing while I was inside of him. I paused, panting, and rested my forehead against his cheek, dropping a kiss on his neck. You okay?


“Yeah.”


Want a break?


He shook his head, kissing me.


It was all the way from his fingers to his shoulder, though, and it had to be painful. He wrapped his legs around my neck and dug his heels into my shoulderblades, trying to get me to keep thrusting, but I shook my head and pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead and blew on his neck to cool him down a little.


He shivered. “Brian...” He hates making me stop. He hates stopping.


Patient, I signed over his lips, kissing him as soon as my thumb passed his mouth. No rush.


His arm stilled eventually, fingers still clenched, and I ran my hand down his arm and carefully uncurled his hand. He watched me.


Good? I asked.


“Good,” he said, and we kept going.


**


Justin was up coughing a lot of the night, but he was still out of bed before I was in the morning, which used to be fairly common but wasn't nowadays. I found him in the office when I got up, reading something on his laptop. I started some coffee brewing and stamped on the floor of the office doorway.


He looked up and smiled at me. Hi.


Doing research?


He nodded.


Did you eat yet?


Not yet.


You want cinnamon rolls?


“Yeah.”


Well, come make them, then, I'm not your waiter.


You're not eating them anyway. I'll do them later, I'm not really hungry yet.


We gotta be out the door in forty-five.


He rolled back in his chair. I thought I'd stay here today. I have to call our lawyer, and I wanted to get some studio time in too.


“Oh,” I said out loud.


He smiled a little. Is that a problem?


I stalled. Of course it wasn't a problem, not really, but...he'd been coming to work with me every day for three weeks now, except when he was in the hospital. So maybe I'd gotten used to it, sue me. I thought you liked coming to the office, I said eventually.


He laughed. “I do. But I can't tag along forever.”


That's what I thought when you were seventeen, and look how that worked out.


At some point I have to start working again,


I don't know about you going to the studio.


Okay, well, we'll see if I go, and then I'll tell you what happened, and then you'll know.


And maybe I should have hidden how I felt about this a little better, but I'd just fucking woken up, so okay, maybe I pinched the bridge of my nose and leaned against the doorframe.


He crossed his arms and watched me.


You are so sick, I said to him. I don't want to micromanage you here, but I know you're getting used to it and it's like you don't see it.


“I'm getting better.”


You are. I know you are. But you are supposed to be resting for months. Months, Justin.


“I can't just sit around and do nothing.”


There's a lot between nothing and going to your studio when you were up a lot through the night and your breathing's bad and it's ten degrees out there.


He sighed, with that ugly wheeze he didn't even fucking realize was there, and what do you do about that?


You are not supposed to feel like this, I told him. This feels okay because you've been feeling so goddamn awful for so long, but this is not normal. It's not your normal.


But I can do this, he said. This is managable.


And if you push yourself too hard, it's never going to get better than managable. And you're going to get sick again.


He spun around in a slow circle.


I know you mean to be responsible, I told him. I know you're not trying to run yourself ragged, I know. You're just...very fucking adaptable. You bend and you bend and you bend until...


I thought you liked that, he said, going for the joke.


It scares me, I said, somehow.


He watched me.


I wish you could fucking be in my body for a minute, I told him. See what all us normal fuckers are walking around feeling like. We're tired just listening to you breathe.


“I just want to move on,” he said quietly.


You will. I came over and took his hands and pulled him up. Plenty of time, remember?


He nodded and let me pull him into his arms, and I breathed out, face buried in his hair. He's fine he's fine he's fine. God, I needed to not live in this fucking apartment anymore. I needed him to not be in this fucking apartment.


We separated and I squeezed his hands and let him go. You can paint at the office, he said. We have a whole department for it.


It's easier to handle the lawyer stuff here, he said.


I sighed, and he ran his hands up and down my arms.


“I haven't been on my own since this all started,” he said. Before he was well enough to come to the office, I used to stay on Facetime all day because I was sure he'd end up falling or fainting or not fucking breathing and need me to get home—and let me be clear that all of those things absolutely fucking happened at least once, so this is not just paranoia—so...no, he wasn't wrong. Let me handle this on my own.


I studied him.


I can do this, he said. I'm okay.


I sighed and kissed his forehead. Eat before I go.


He stood on his toes and pressed his lips to mine. Okay.


**


So I spent the whole day fucking worrying, basically. I snapped at Emily and Cynthia and anyone else who dared to talk to me, and I kept finding dumb excuses to text Justin and he was indulgent and acted like it was completely reasonable that I needed him to tell me right now whether we were running low on trash bags or if he had anything that needed to go to the dry cleaner's before Emily's party.


Evan came in with a sketchbook at around eleven and frowned at my empty couch.


Home alone today, I said. He's all grown up.


“Well, shit, I was hoping he could help me out with this sketch.”


Too bad.


Yeah, too bad for you, you're the one who has to present this ugly fucking ad. He pulled a chair up in front of my desk and sat down. You look grumpy.


I look beautiful. Are you coming over tonight?


He shook his head. I told Emily I'd do a liquor store run with her for tomorrow. I'll probably just stay over there after.


Yeah, that'll probably be a project.


Knowing her. Justin okay?


I tapped my fingers on the desk and said, Yeah, I think I need a sick person on this one.


At your service.


So you don't like help when you're sick because you just...fucking like being alone. It's not some big dramatic thing.


Right.


I can understand that, and I can understand the fucking shame spiral I fall into, and I'm not saying Justin doesn't do some of that too, but there's also this part of him that just fucking...he doesn't see what he needs. He's so used to feeling like shit that other alternatives stop occuring to him and he just plows on. And I'm just fucking terrified he's going to decide he's better and this is normal and start taking risks and...I don't know what to do here. I can't make him see this stuff.


But we're there to make sure that doesn't happen.


I don't want to be his fucking parole officer. He doesn't want that either. I rubbed my forehead. He's working himself to death right now trying to get them to take some stairs out of the house.


So that he can get around easier.


Yeah.


So that's what we want, right? Realizing that he needs something? Asking for it?


And the thing was...yes, of course, in the longterm. But right now? Right now I just want him to sleep, I said.


He called during my lunch break, while I was picking at a sandwich and rather despondently shopping for ties online. He was still in his chair in the office, curled up with his legs up on the chair.


I called our lawyer's office, he said immediately. But his secretary said he's out of town until the fourth.


Guess we can't get divorced this week then.


I know. But then I remembered my mom's boyfriend is a lawyer—


Right, I forgot about that.


So I called him.


I nodded.


“And basically...” He sighed, wheezing. “The long and short of it is, I have a right to have it done, but they have a right not to be the ones to do it.”


So we find someone else to do it.


“I don't want to do that,” he said. “People can just keep saying no, and before we know it this thing's been dragged on for months. And I did my research when I found these guys in the first place. They're the best. I want them to do it. There's a way to get this, I just haven't figured out how yet. I will.”


And there was, of course, no doubt in my mind that he would, and he did. I'm honestly aiming to not get sappy here, but I don't know how to describe to someone what it's like to know someone the way that I know Justin. I see what he's capable of like it's already happened and I'm watching it in reverse, I...there was no point in this little saga that I forgot what a fucking force of nature he is, and I want that known, because...because I do, I don't know.


He was fucking beautiful sitting there scheming.


Have you been up since I left? I asked him.


He nodded, blinking a little slowly.


That was almost five hours awake. He hadn't gone that long yet. Sleep on it, I said casually. Bed is where I get all my best ideas.


Yeah, but not sleeping. He yawned and coughed some.


I tiilted my head and watched him. Maybe not.


He smiled at me, pulling the cuffs of his sleeves over his hands. “How's work without me?”


Quiet.


“What's that like?”


Funny.


He twisted his hands. “My tub's not going to have stairs,” he said.


No, it won't.


“I'll sleep on it.”


That's my boy.


**


Justin jumped on me the second I got home from work, arms around my neck and legs around my waist. Christ, he didn't weigh a fucking thing these days. I kissed his cheek and set him on the kitchen counter. “Hi?” I said.


He grinned at me. “I did it.”


Tell me.


“I paid a lot of money!”


I laughed. I couldn't fucking help it. Phenomenal.


“I called them and told them how much we'd pay them to do it and all of a sudden they weren't so worried about building codes anymore.”


I kissed the tip of his nose. I love when you use my money to solve your problems.


He beamed. “I know you do.”


God, you're so fucking cute.


“I know that too.”


We pushed and pulled at each other for awhile, him swinging his legs on the counter, me warming his hands between mine.


I knew you could do it, you know, I said after a minute.


“Oh, you want the credit?”


Yeah.


He smiled and watched me.You taught me everything I know.


What a coincidence.


He caught my hand between his and kissed it.


So did you rest today? I asked him. Up for a celebration?


He sighed theatrically. I don't know. You might have to convince me.


That'd be quite the change.


He laughed, his head back.


**


I got stuck at the office until eight the next night, on fucking New Year's Eve, and with the traffic it was almost nine by the time I got back. I expected Justin to be standing by the door ready to chew me out, but he was nowhere to be found when I walked into the apartment. I flicked the lights on and off, and when that didn't make him magically appear, I headed towards the bedroom and heard the shower running.


I opened the bathroom door and waved for his attention. Hey, we need to leave soon.


Okay.


Okay. I stepped back into the bedroom to change my clothes and try to decide if I had time for a shower, but before I'd made up my mind the water turned off and a minute later Justin was leaning against the doorway, a towel around his waist.


I held up two shirts. Which?


You're asking me for style advice?


Color advice.


He rested his head against the wall. “Brian?”


Yeah? I said, rooting throught the closet.


“Would you hate if we didn't go?”


I stopped and stepped back from the closet and looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since we got home. He was pale, and breathing hard, and looked just about dead on his feet.


“Hey,” I said.


I just...I'm really not feeling good, he said.


Do you have a fever?


He shook his head. I'm just so tired, and it's so fucking cold out there, and then we have to go to Queens and get back here and there's no fucking way I can stay awake until midnight. You can go if you want. You should go.


I ran my hand over my mouth.


I'm sorry, he said. Are you disappointed, I didn't—


Sunshine, I said. I am so fucking proud of you.


You are?


I kissed his cheek. Get dressed. I'll make some popcorn.


**


At midnight, I watched the ball drop on TV, heard faint fireworks outside, and looked at Justin fast asleep next to me.

 

Happy New Year, I signed to him, with a kiss next to his ear. It's going to get better now.

Chapter 95 - Permanence by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin gets some news, and Brian makes some decisions.

Permanence

LaVieEnRose



For my eighth birthday, my parents gave me a Swatch watch with a transparent face, so you could see the inner workings of it. I loved it. Seeing the wheels overlap and turn, the strangely shaped cut-outs that all had a specific purpose for being exactly where and how they were, the little bounce each time the second hand moved. I couldn't stop looking at other watches after that, ones where you couldn't see the insides, and trying to imagine all the gears underneath. My dad had this huge heavy watch, the kind that costs a million dollars, but I would look at it and think, underneath all that leather and chrome, it's the same pile of gears that mine is, a thousand tiny parts that have to work together perfectly just to do this one thing, just to point at the time. And my dad's watch wasn't a status symbol, wasn't an accessory, wasn't anything except for a thousand moving parts, and nobody saw it that way but me. And all of a sudden I was so aware of how fake everything was, how all we could see of the whole world were the non-transparent covers to keep us from seeing what was actually doing the work.


And even when I was that little, there was this sense of...this is too much information. I'm not supposed to see this.


So now I was sitting on the edge of my bed thinking about how many muscles in my body were involved in taking a breath. The mystery was gone and I felt every single bit of my body, saw every single tiny piece moving to do the smallest thing.


I wasn't supposed to know that.


And the thing is, once you know it, that's it. And everything going on outside your body just becomes so fucking unimportant, because there's so much here to worry about.


I watched Brian rush around the apartment looking for his other shoe, and it's like I was watching a play or something.


God, it was hard to breathe.


He held it up and grinned. Finally. Ready to go?


I smiled. “Yeah.”


**


When you are sick, when you are very sick, it's like there's a wall between you and the rest of the world. I'm not talking about the usual distance I feel between myself and healthy people, because this isn't something that feels metaphorical or even psychological, this feels like...a literal, actual wall. Healthy people, they don't even notice. Other sick people see it, and they get what's going on with you, but even they can't break through it because this has nothing to do with empathy or camaraderie. This is just...you reach a point where your body is so fucked up that nothing that's happening outside of it can matter to you. You don't have room for it to matter.


And that's one thing when you're lying in a hospital bed trying to get better and that's all anyone wants from you and all you want of yourself, and another when it has been two months and you are trying to live your life and stop thinking about breathing.


Things outside your body sort of just...happen, and you just kind of let them without really noticing. One minute you're sitting on your bed thinking about breathing and then you're on the couch in your partner's office, staring at an empty page in a sketchpad, thinking about breathing.


Brian tossed an eraser at me to get my attention. You think getting out of here by four is early enough?


“Maybe. Kind of pushing it.”


I don't think I could leave before that.


“I can go by myself,” I said, even though I really didn't want to, and he didn't want me to.


He just shrugged. I think four will be fine.


My breath snagged and I started coughing, and it must have not sounded too bad because Brian ignored it. He was pretty used to it by then. How could you not be? Probably everyone in the office was used to it, because he said I was pretty loud. He knows I don't like to be hovered over unless I'm really struggling, though. My friends still get pretty freaked out by it, and they're on top of me trying to get me water and asking me if I need anything, but there's really nothing to do but just wait for it to stop, and the attention just makes me feel like I'm bothering everyone, that they're counting down minutes until I stop.


The coughing was my least favorite part of this, I think. Half the time in bad fits I'd end up gagging or vomiting, and it was so fucking exhausting and it made my mouth taste like blood and my chest ache, and I always felt even wheezier when the fits died down than I had before I started, even though they were supposedly clearing my lungs out.


I felt really dizzy and weird once I was done coughing, and I rubbed my face for a minute before I could focus back on Brian. He was squinting at something on his laptop screen, and I took a slow breath and leaned back against the couch.


He must have known I was watching him, because he said, Did you want to see the new mockups for the hearing aid campaign? I just got them.


Getting up sounded really hard, and honestly I just couldn't bring myself to care.


Every single day this went on I was just becoming a shittier person, and I had no idea how to stop it.


“Maybe in a little while,” I said.


He glanced at me, then back at his computer screen. Nervous about today? he said, all pseudo-casual. I don't know if he honestly still believes I don't see through that.


“I don't know. Not really. Anything the tests are going to show is already there, now we're just going to know about it.”


Maybe you'll get a fancy new inhaler, he said. Pseudo-mocking, this time. I see through that one too.


“Maybe I'll get a discount code for oxygen tanks.”


Yeah, maybe.


“Or a spot in a care facility so I can finally get out of your hair.”


He tapped on his keyboard and didn't look at me. Don't talk like that, okay?


Healthy people hate sick humor. “Yeah, okay.”


He leaned back in his chair, looking at his screen. “Hear what you've been missing.” That's terrible, right?


“Yeah, that's really bad.”


Don't give me that face, I didn't come up with it.


My fucking throat clenched and I started coughing again with no damn warning, and it must have sounded bad this time because he looked up and cocked an eyebrow, and a minute later he went over to the closet and got another blanket out, and he put it around my shoulders and bent over to kiss my temple.


Ride it out, big guy, he signed, small. It'll stop.


It didn't feel like it would, though. It would just pause for a little while. My whole fucking life was divided into coughing and not coughing right this minute.


My territory had gone from the whole fucking world to inside my apartment to inside my fucking lungs. I'd been with Brian all morning, but if he'd stepped out of my sight just then and you asked me what he was wearing, I'd have no goddamn clue. That wasn't in my lungs.


Brian held out a box of tissues to me, and I grabbed a handful and moved the mask out of the way to spit out the crap I'd hacked up. Good, Brian said.


I snorted. “Thanks.”


I need to get Kleenex as a client, he said thoughtfully, looking at the box.


Vertically integrate your boyfriend, this spring at Kinnetik.


He tilted my chin up and kissed my forehead. He's a businessman after all.


I drew in a slow breath and felt it growl in my chest. Brian tilted his head to the side.


See, you're still congested, he said. That's not scarring. That'll go away.


I didn't see the point of arguing about it when we were going to have a real answer in a few hours. I didn't know how to tell Brian that this desperate, stubborn optimism he'll fall into when he's in denial was fucking exhausting. “Yeah. Maybe.”


Lie down, you don't look good.


I curled up on the couch and kind of drifted in and out for a while, drawing a line or two every so often, or watching Brian type or people walk by outside his glass doors. I knew Brian had all these meetings later, and I always hate that, because I don't like being in his office without him. I always feel like I'm not supposed to be here and I'm going to get in trouble or something, which I know is stupid.


Evan came in at one point, which on the one hand was great because I love him but also it was just another person I was supposed to pay attention to, so that was kind of stressful. He smiled at me—he always beams at me like he hasn't seen me in years—and came over and gave me a quick kiss through the mask, tangling his fingers in the hair at the back of my neck. How are you? he asked me.


I'm fine. I'm good.


I saw Brian sign something to him out of the corner of my eye, and Evan went over to the desk and handed him some forms. The traded a few questions and answers back and forth, boring business stuff I couldn't even begin to pretend to care about, as excited as I should have been to see Evan thriving, and finally Brian signed the forms and handed them back.


Evan took the papers back and then looked at Brian's signature for a long time. Brian finally stamped his foot to get his attention and gave him a well? sort of look.


Do you like your name? Evan asked him.


Sure, it's how I know if people are talking to me.


No, I mean like...the Kinney part.


I started coughing again, and Brian came over and checked my temperature with the back of his hand without looking at me. Darling, what the fuck are you talking about? he said to Evan, then he turned to me and said, Lie down, but there was no point doing that until I was done coughing.


Evan leaned over and rubbed my back. Well, you hate your parents, right? Fuck, this hurt.


They're dead, Brian said.


Before that, you didn't like them, right?


Is this work day therapy some sort of new initiative? Because I definitely didn't sign off on it. Is that what I just signed?


I hate my name, he said. Ever since Christmas I just...don't want their name anymore.


So change it, Brian said.


I don't have anything to change it to. I used to think about doing my mother's maiden name but...not anymore. He shook his head a little. Whatever. Is he okay?


Doesn't have a fever.


X-ray's today, right?


It is.


It used to bother me when people talked about me like I wasn't there, but at this point I was happy to not be expected to contribute. I finally stopped coughing and flopped down on my back to pant for a while. I really wanted to force in a good deep breath, because I was feeling lightheaded as hell, but I knew that would just piss off my lungs and start the coughing up again, so I had to force myself to be really careful and measured.


I closed my eyes and kind of drifted out for a while, and when I opened them Evan was gone, the blanket was pulled over me, and Brian was at his desk talking on the phone to someone. He waved when he saw me looking and said, My meeting's in ten, after that I'm getting lunch ordered in. You've got to eat, okay?


I nodded a little. “Was I asleep?”


He cocked his head a little. You're so hoarse. Yeah, you were asleep. You've been coughing a lot today.


“I always cough a lot.”


I'm putting it in proportion. Are you okay?


I nodded. I think it's good. I've been too tired to cough mostly. I had, and I am not exaggerating, literally no idea if this was true. That was way too much perspective for me right now, when the most complicated thought I was capable of seemed to be ow with the occasional make it stop for variety. Some days I needed to push it aside so bad, needed to pretend that everything was okay because if this was going to be my fucking life then I needed to be fine with it and I needed to be fine with it now, and other days it just...consumed me.


It always consumed me. Whether you're living your life in spite of it or not living your life because of it...either way, it's about that.


Do you want someone here with you during the meeting?


No, I'm okay.


He shook his head a little while he hung up the phone and jotted something down on a notepad. Quiet today.


“I know. Sorry.” I took a slow breath and tried to come up with...anything. “Who's your meeting with?”


Sal Harris, you know that guy from the cereal company? He apparently had some new great idea. Doesn't he always.


I nodded, though if you'd asked me to repeat that back I wouldn't have gotten a word of it.


Sunshine.


“Sorry. Yeah.”


Everything's going to be fine.


“Yeah, yeah, I know.”


**


Some blur of time later, we were sitting in my immunologist's office while Brian flipped through a copy of Arthritis Monthly.


“What the hell is taking so long?”


Well, there's a lot to look at, Brian said, without looking up from the magazine. You've got the whole right lung, and then right when you're done with that, there's a left lung.


“What if I get sick from being here?”


You're not going to get sick, he said. Pseudo-bored.


“I feel sick, though.”


Yeah, well, you are sick.


I sneezed a few times like I was proving a point, went to chew on my nails and got stopped by the mask, then pulled my legs up on the chair, then put them back down again. I thought about getting up to walk around a little, but then my hand started seizing and I didn't really feel like moving, and Brian finally glanced up at me and this time set the magazine aside.


What do you think of this situation with Evan? he asked me.


I couldn't find it for the life of me. “What situation with Evan?”


With his name.


“Oh. I don't know.”


Is this something he's talked about to you before?


“No, I don't think so.”


He sighed and pulled my shaking hand onto his lap. Where the fuck are you today?


“I don't know. I'm sorry. I think I've...hit a wall with this, or something.”


Well, guess that was bound to happen.


I swallowed and nodded.


We're going to get some good news now, he said. This is going to be over soon.


Soon? I said skeptically.


He shrugged. Sure. Before you know it.


“I don't even care,” I said, even though of course I did, except for how I didn't fucking care about anything. “At this point I want to just fucking make it out alive.”


Don't talk like that, come on.


Sometimes I say shit to Brian that I shouldn't just because at this point I'm so used to telling Brian every fucking thought that runs through my head. “I know.”


It was another ten minutes before my doctor came in with the interpreter, and they shook hands with Brian and waved at immunocompromised me, and maybe it's just because I'm Deaf so I'm good with facial expressions, but I knew this wasn't good news right away.


She pinned the x-rays up so we could see them. “So here are your lungs,” she said, while I looked back and forth between the interpreter and the slides. They looked...I don't know, fine, but what do I know about chest x-rays? “And I brought this for you so you can see the difference,” she said, putting up another set of x-rays. “This is about what we'd expect to see in someone two months out of pneumonia.”


Oh.


“Given your immune system, this isn't that much of a surprise,” she said. “But it's still more clouding than we were hoping for. And that will clear up, eventually. But it's taking longer than we'd like.”


Brian took my hand, and I said, So what do we do?


“First, we're going to go back on antibiotics, because the stuff in your lungs is a great habitat for bacteria and that's not something we can risk. The congestion, the cloudiness you see here, that will clear up on its own. You need to keep coughing, keep doing the home remedies, steam, humidifiers, staying hydrated...everything you've been working on.”


Okay, I said.


“But the concern,” she said, “is that after this much lung trauma for this long, it's a reasonable assumption that—and we don't know how much at this point—but that there's going to be some degree of permanent damage.”


**


Brian and I don't sit next to each other that often because we can't really talk well that way, but when we got home we did for a while, just sat there on the couch staring straight ahead, our fingers laced together, Brian's lips rough against the side of my hand.


Permanent.


Well. We knew it was a possibility.


Fuck possibilities. I knew. I could tell. I knew.


But Brian, he'd been in denial. A few hours ago he'd been telling me there was no permanent damage. He was hopeful. He needed to not have another fucking...something permanent.


He was going to crash and I was going to spiral and I just...I could barely fucking bring myself to feel anything about it because all I could think was fuck, I can't goddamn breathe.


I must have been making some kind of noise, I don't know, because after a while of just sitting there staring at the fucking wall with him he kissed my hand and said, Okay, love, so small I barely saw it, then gave my hand a quick kiss and let me go. He stood up and said, I'm going to make dinner, okay?


I just want to go to bed, I feel like shit.


He ran his hand over his mouth. Okay. You've got to get up in a few hours, though.


I had to shower before I got into bed, so I loped into the bathroom and started the water, and then I stood there looking at myself in the mirror for a while until it started to fog up. Trying to convince myself that...I don't know. All the things people told me about this fucking body were actually happening to me. The whole thing seemed so fucking ridiculous.


And then I got in under the hot water and coughed, and coughed, and coughed.


**


I woke up after a few hours feeling dizzy and shivery and also thirsty, so I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and socks and wandered out of the bedroom. The lights were off in the living room but on in the kitchen, and Brian and Evan were at the table with wine glasses and empty plates in front of them. Brian was facing the doorway, and he looked up when I came in. Feeling better? he said. Evan turned around and smiled at me a little.


I shrugged and lumbered over to the fridge.


Need anything? Evan asked.


I shook my head and took a glass out of the cabinet and filled it with water. Just ignore me.


You need to eat, Evan said, but I just shook my head. The antibiotics were already making me feel nauseous as shit, not to mention the fucking coughing.


Brian said, “It's okay, leave him alone,” out loud to Evan, probably thinking I wouldn't get it, but I lipread Brian pretty well. Still, I appreciated being ignored, since I'd honestly meant it when I asked. I was not up for socializing right now, but I also didn't really feel up to hauling myself back across the apartment, so I just leaned against the counter and sipped my water.


And they went back to their conversation. Is the process hard? Evan asked him.


I've never done it, but I don't think so. People do it every day.


I'd need an interpreter. I can't read all those legal forms.


Yeah, of course.


And I still don't know what to change it to, Evan said. Maybe I have no last name. I'm like Madonna. Or RuPaul.


Veto.


Evan laughed a little. I don't know! I guess I just pick something random that sounds good. But I don't know. Ideally it's something that makes me feel attached to...anything. Part of something. My name now isn't doing that.


Evan New York. Evan Deaf. Evan Kinnetik.


God, so many choices.


I started coughing then, and didn't stop, and Brian got up after a minute and planting his hands on my shoulders, holding me still. I don't think very often about how much bigger Brian is than me, but it's useful for stuff like this. He put a palm on my chest when I was done and covered the whole thing. Warm. Okay? he asked.


I nodded.


He guided me to the kitchen table and sat me down. Time to eat now, he said, dropping a kiss on my cheek.


Okay.


**


I don't often think about the period right after I found out I was losing my hearing. Mostly because it's just ridiculous and embarrassing to try to put myself in a place where I'm upset about going Deaf, since...I mean, you've been following this saga, obviously I wouldn't trade that for the world, but also because it was a really fucking depressing time.


Because Jesus, anyone would have been floored by that, right? I mean one day everything's fine, and then we go to the audiologist because I've missed a few things and I'm having trouble with phone calls and honestly, to humor Brian, because I'm not convinced this isn't all in his head, and I'm thinking the absolute worst case scenario is I'm going to need to get something sharp jammed into my ear and pull out some sort of horrific blockage, or, even worse, maybe I'm going to have to wear a hearing aid, perish the thought, how am I going to get laid at Babylon with a fucking hearing aid...


and then, well.


I spent a few days in denial, and we went to another doctor for a second opinion, and I spent ages online trying to find any proof at all that what was happening to me could not be happening to me outside of I'm me, and this is not my life, and then...it hit and it hit hard. I wouldn't get out of bed, I wouldn't see anybody, and I wouldn't stop crying.


And Brian just let me. Don't get me wrong, eventually we got to the point where he was yelling at me to stop moping and telling me to take a fucking shower and pick up my fucking clothes and leave the damn loft, but if you'd asked me hypothetically I think I would have guessed he'd be doing that right away, and that's not what happened. He gave me time just to fucking fall apart over it, and he would just lie in bed next to me and play with my hair and make me sip water so I didn't get fucking dehydrated.


And part of that I'm sure was that his world was falling apart too, that he needed that time to mourn and not speak about it just as much as I did.


What freaked me out, and I think I was even aware of this at the time, wasn't that I was losing my hearing as much as that I was losing my hearing forever. I'd think I'd be coming to terms with it and that I was going to be okay, and then all of a sudden it would hit me that in five years or ten years or fifty years I would still be Deaf, and I'd start thinking about all the major life events I was going to be Deaf for, and it would all just hit me like a fucking train all over again. I've never been good at permanence. I got freaked out about it when Brian and I first got married, I got freaked out about it when I lost my hearing, I got freaked out when my neurologist said she didn't expect I'd ever get to go off my anticonvulsants, and I was freaked out about it now.


So that first week after finding out my lungs were never going to go all the way back to the low level of shitty I was used to was...familiar.


I wouldn't get out of bed. I wouldn't see anybody. I wouldn't stop crying.


Conveniently, I caught a cold, which made the staying in bed easier, though it made the crying harder, but I managed. The cold didn't develop into anything, and I never even ran a fever, but I felt fucking awful and we had to keep an eye on it, obviously, so Brian stayed home for a few days to push meds and juice and soup, and I was basically a lump that contributed nothing and ate when Brian said eat and slept when Brian said sleep and a lot of time when he hadn't, and I didn't even bother trying to make conversation with the guy who was putting his whole fucking life on hold to watch me hack shit up.


But maybe he needed time to mourn and not speak too.


**


The cold passed, and Brian went back to work, and I stayed home while he called me a few times a day, probably because he was concerned I was going to swan dive off the balcony if he didn't. I went to Sunday brunch with him and Molly and watched her talk about her classes. I made my therapy appointments. I visited Jane and bounced her on my lap while Emily and Brian had secret conversations with each other, and I wondered when Jane would be old enough to realize there was something wrong with her dad. How long could I hide it from her?


I'd jerk Brian off in the shower but couldn't scrounge up the enthusiasm for anything much else. Evan came over a lot of nights and watched movies with us or made dinner. I did a few half-assed paintings that even he couldn't pretend were good.


A little time passed, that's what I'm saying. And my lungs cleared up a little bit. And I breathed a little easier. And I didn't get well.


**


It's just embarrassing at this point, I said to Evan, sitting on the floor around the coffee table while Brian was at Nova. I feel like someone's crazy aunt on Facebook who's convinced she has half a medical dictionary wrong with her.


He dug into a box of crackers, his medical bracelet catching on the cardboard tab. We have similar ones, both with Brian's phone number on them in case of an emergency. Do you honestly think you're the first disabled person in history to have problems lead to other problems? he said. You didn't invent this. Shit accumulates. You got attacked, that gave you seizures, you had to take medication for the seizures, the medication made you sick. That's how these things happen. It's like my shitty kidney, this stuff isn't a coincidence.


I just don't know how much more I can ask him to take.


Has he been complaining?


Of course not. It's Brian. He only complains about work and bad hair days.


I really don't think he's like...annoyed with you.


I shrugged and chewed on a cracker.


Why don't you ask him?


I can't.


Why not?


Because...I'm afraid he'll answer, I said. I don't think he's annoyed with me either, I know Brian, but there's a possibility that he is and I can't fucking handle it. And even though Brian is Brian, there is still the off chance that if I ask him about his feelings he might, God forbid, tell me about his feelings, and I don't have room for that right now.


Evan nodded, watching me.


I can't listen to him be sad about this yet. I'm going to end up feeling like I have to apologize to him and I don't want to apologize to him. And I know, I know, he doesn't want me to either, but if he's not doing well then I'm not doing well and I just...I can't hear him not doing well right now. I barely have room for myself. I sunk my head down into one hand. God, I am just the worst fucking boyfriend.


Evan kept eating crackers, looking casual as hell. Actually, you're giving me permission not to have to care about your feelings when I get sick. So I think you're being a pretty damn good boyfriend, actually.


I picked my head up.


Nobody says this shit, he said. Nobody tells us it's okay for stuff about us to be about us. He shook his head a little. Feels good to hear it.


And that...I don't know. That was big. Hearing that I was still somehow good for someone when I was like this, even though I know, I know, the point of this narrative is supposed to be that I didn't have to be good for anyone right now...it helped. It helped a lot.


But still. What about Brian?


Someday Brian will get sick and he'll know he has permission too.


I thought about when Brian had cancer, how fucking pissed I would have been if he'd tried to make it about how I was feeling. How he almost ruined us trying to protect me from it.


I just don't want to be his patient forever, I said. I don't want him to stop looking at me the way he does.


He won't. He's fucking obsessed with you.


And even if I'm being the nice, you know, Lorax of the sick here or whatever, that's pulling me further away from him. I need to not forget how to talk to at least one healthy person, and I feel like I'm just...I can't relate to them anymore.


Evan wrinkled his nose. I'm not worried about you and Brian. Nobody is worried about you and Brian. He smiled at me, gently. Stop pretending like you have to be. That's not the story.


**


Brian got back from Nova a little bit after Evan left. He tossed me a wave over his shoulder and headed straight to the shower, and I gave him a few minutes to disinfect himself before I came in. He had his eyes closed, with his head underneath the spray, but I could tell he heard me from the little smile when I opened the door. He reached out and pulled me into him without opening his eyes, and we stayed like that for a while, until he tilted my chin up and eased me into a long kiss. He was already getting hard against my side, and I rolled my eyes inside that I'd ever worried Brian wouldn't be attracted to me. I'm so fucking neurotic sometimes. Can you blame me for wanting to apologize for living with me?


We kissed for a while, our arms lazily around each other, and eventually he let me off to breathe and ran my hands down my arms. How's Evan?


He's good. Took Jane to the playground today.


What does a ten-month-old even do at the playground?


People-watch, same as Evan. I took a slow breath in and out, testing. The steam was helping.


I tried to think of what Brian could have said to me when he had cancer that wouldn't have made me want to punch him.


I tried to think about how I felt, and by “I” I don't mean my fucking body.


I found it eventually. Thank you for being patient with me.


People like to be thanked more than they like to be apologized to.


And it worked. He nodded and lifted my jaw and kissed me again, and I let him swallow me whole until I ran out of breath. I closed my eyes and lay my forehead on his chin, resting.


I pulled back and kissed his cheek. “Can you fuck me really hard?”


Yeah, okay.


And for a minute, for just a minute somewhere in there, I forgot I had a body.


**


Trust me, no one would have been happier than me if one good fuck chased all my problems away, but...this is, unfortunately, life. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling like the room was spinning, and I sat with my feet on the floor and tried to catch my breath while Brian put an oxygen mask over my face and rubbed circles on my back.


You need to go to the hospital? he asked me gently.


I shook my head. Just wait.


Okay.


We stayed there for a long time. I concentrated on letting go of every muscle, one by one, sitting up straight, taking my time. My heartbeat.


It got a little better, but Brian and I stayed where we were, just being together, not talking.


After a long time, he said, What's it like?


Getting thrown in the ocean, I said. You're all tangled up and you don't know when you can breathe.


He kept watching me, and that's when I realized that wasn't what he was asking.


Okay. It's like the opposite of being Deaf, I said. It's like you can hear everybody but they can't hear you.


He nodded and pulled me in close.


**


When it happened again the next night I started getting anxious.


What if this is as good as it's going to get? I said.


It's not. You saw the x-ray.


Do you think I'll know when I'm done getting better? Can they tell? Will they tell me?


And the third night, when I cried and said, I don't feel connected to anything, I feel like I'm going to blow away, he waited until I pulled myself together and then told me to get up.


“Why?”


We're going on a trip.


“It's four in the morning.”


I know. Bundle up. I'll be right back. Put the mask on.


Okay, well, sue me, being sick didn't kill my sense of curiosity, especially where Brian's schemes are concerned. I hauled myself and into a few sweaters, and Brian came back ten minutes later and told me the car was waiting outside. Half an hour later we were pulling up at the house.


Good? Brian asked me as he helped me out of the car.


I nodded with no real damn clue what he was talking about, and he unlocked the front door and let us into the house and turned on the lights.


It was a mess; construction was still ongoing, and the whole main room was full of raw wood and nails. Brian guided me around some scaffolding and into the kitchen. There was a little heater here for the construction workers, so he turned that on, then he reached into a half-constructed cabinet, set two champagne flutes on the half-constructed counter, and then opened the refrigerator.


“What...”


He held up of course, a bottle of champagne.


“Yeah, what?”


He laughed a little and poured two glasses. I got it for when we moved in, but...hell. I can buy another bottle. He handed one to me. Figured we could use a toast tonight.


Um...for what?


For... He shrugged. Same thing it was originally going to be for. Starting out something new.


What, the exciting adventure of Justin's shitty lungs?


But he said, Yes, sincerely.


I looked down at the champagne, and he took small steps towards me until I looked back up.


It's kind of remarkable, if you think about it, he signed, sultry, low, and I just had this moment, watching him sign one-handed, thinking about how comfortable he was signing and how far we'd come, my God. After all this time. There's still something new.


I put my glass down, and so did he, and he pulled me close and we stayed there for a while, swaying a little bit. I could feel his heart under my hand, and the worry that somehow any of this was going to pull me and Brian apart drained out of me. No, I can't always relate to healthy people, but fuck, I can always relate to him. We're stubborn bastards; anything that's supposed to put distance between us just makes us closer out of spite.


He was with me.


I feel like I've just been being the worst, I said, before I could stop myself.


He just shook his head a little.


I don't even know what's going on with Evan, I haven't been paying any goddamn attention.


He waved me off. I've got that under control, don't worry about that. We're not worrying about anything tonight. Tonight we're celebrating.


I watched him.


To starting new journeys and shit, he said.


I don't think this one's going to have an end, Brian.


He tapped his glass against mine. I've got nowhere to be.


**


Try adding some shading here, I said.


Evan moved his pencil.


No, not— I laughed and moved his hand. Going this way. There you go.


The lights flicked on and off in the hallway and Brian walked into the kitchen a second later, hair still wet from the gym. One of these days he's gonna get sick from walking around like that. He has to! He waved to us and went to wash his hands, dropping a stack of mail next to the sink.


Good, I said to Evan. That's perfect. “Hi, honey.”


Brian turned around. Hi, brat. He picked up the mail and started leafing through. What are we doing here, art class?


And for free, Evan said.


Just showing him a few tricks, I said.


Brian nodded to Evan. Are you staying for dinner?


Yeah, sure. Thanks.


Justin, you've got to do one of those protein shakes tonight.


I know, I know.


Brian set a magazine down on the counter and then said, Oh hey.


“What?”


He tore open a padded envelope, tipped something into his hand, examined it, and then tossed it to Evan with the smallest smile. Happy birthday.


Not my birthday. He uncurled his hand; it was a medical bracelet, just like the one he already had. You've already done this grand gesture, Brian.


He's getting forgetful in his old age, I said.


Brian just shrugged a little and left the kitchen, flicking me on the shoulder on his way.


Evan turned the bracelet over in his hand, looking at it curiously, but a second later he stopped and just stared at it, and then he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth.


What? I said.


Brian... he said, and then he held it out for me to see.

 

Evan M. Taylor

Chapter 96 - The Big Easy by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian plans a bachelor party for a heterosexual.

The Big Easy

LaVieEnRose



The planning for this started, of course, months before, way back before he had any idea what we'd be in for that winter. Justin and his, unbeknownst to us, gradually failing immune system were shaving in the bathroom mirror while I sat on the bathroom counter in an apartment we had no clue we'd be out of before a year was up. I'm thinking last week of January? I said. At this point, Daphne and Derek were still planning to get married in June, so the timing made more sense. Before Derek's students come back and all that tax season shit starts up. Would that work for you?


Justin tapped his razor on the faucet. “Yeah. I have that show at the beginning of February, but a weekend away shouldn't be a problem.” He would, of course, not end up having that show.


That's my hard worker.


“That's me.” He paused. “Do I even come to this?”


What? Of course.


“Bachelor party is for groomsmen. I'm not a groomsman.” Justin was on Daphne's side, along with Molly, Emily (Gwen was bringing the flower girl down the aisle), a friend of Daphne's from medical school and a couple of her cousins. The groomsmen were me, Evan, and a handful of Derek's very straight friends.


It's for all the guys.


“Says who?”


The best man.


“I'm pretty sure the point of bachelor parties is not having your husband there,” he said.


I waved my hand. He wants you there. And it's not like I need to get away from you in order to misbehave. Pretty sure you've seen half of gay Manhattan choke on my cock at this point.


“Plus, what the fuck kind of trouble are you going to get into at a bachelor party for a heterosexual?”


I groaned and tapped my head against the wall. How the fuck do I even plan this? Who ever heard of a big raging party... for straight people?


“Just...imagine you're straight.”


Ugh, no.


He laughed, rinsing his face. “A regular evening of debauchery for a heterosexual Brian Kinney is probably a straight bachelor party.”


Say that again.


He pecked me on the lips. “Debauchery.”


I touched a spot on his cheek where he'd nicked himself shaving and kissed him for a long time, and then I yanked him into the bedroom and didn't think about heterosexuals for a while.


**


A week or two later, I turned around on one of the counter stools when I heard him finally emerge from the bedroom. Wow, you are alive after all. I was getting ready to call your mother and tell her to get a black dress.


Black is cliché, he said with a yawn. She'd do a navy.


You realize you've been asleep for fourteen hours?


Leave me alone, I don't feel good.


I don't care about your problems. Come look at this hotel I found for the bachelor party.


He lumbered over and kissed me on the cheek, barely glancing at my laptop screen on his way into the kitchen. “It's nice.”


I waited until he'd gotten out cereal and a bowl and turned back to me over the counter. It's not nice. It's fucking extravagant as shit. It's a palace. Your face is bleeding again.


He tapped his finger over the shaving cut. “How has this not healed yet?” He went over to the sink and ripped off a paper towel.


I waved at him. Excuse me, Alexei Nikolaevich? One fucking second of your attention, please.


“Hilarious. What?”


I'm making this reservation, all right? Last week of January.


He poured a glass of juice. “Where even is this?”


I gave him a look that hopefully conveyed what a stupid question I thought that was. Vegas.


“Seriously?”


What?


“Vegas is awful.”


When the fuck have you been to Vegas? I'd never been.


“When I did that show out there two years ago? You were in Germany for the...whatever conference. I slept with that Deaf contortionist?”


Oh, fuck, right.


It's awful, he said. The next time someone asks for an example of 'visual noise,' tell them Vegas.


But that's the point! It's alive, it's bright. There are strippers.


It's grimy and depressing, Justin said. And you can find strippers anywhere.


All right, your highness, where do you think we should go?


Justin shrugged. He'd already checked out of the conversation in favor of reading the back of his cereal box, because he's the literal easiest person in the world to distract. Attention span of a damn guppy. I rolled my eyes and went back to scrolling through pictures of the hotel. There was...a lot of visual noise.


“New Orleans,” Justin said after a minute.


I looked up. Remind me the sign for that?


He showed it to me.


New Orleans.


“Yeah. Get out of the cold for a while, get drunk on Bourbon Street. Plenty of gay clubs. Plenty of straight clubs. I'm sure they have strippers. Show your tits and get some beads, whatever. Then Derek passes out drunk with his straight friends and you and me have a threesome with some Cajun guy.”


Well. Hard to argue with all that, don't you think? New Orleans it was.


He cleared his throat. “I think I'm getting a cold.”


Jesus, another one?


“Yeah, I don't know. Maybe it's just allergies.”


**


So all right, now it was the last weekend of January, we'd been through all of the fabulous events of that winter, and I was standing in the living room with my suitcase on the floor next to me and Justin crossing his arms and trying to look stern while he wheezed like a train.


It's just not a good weekend for this, I said.


He cocked an eyebrow.


I have that campaign due next week, and the stuff with the house—


“Cynthia is taking care of the campaign, and I'm taking care of the house.”


I worked my jaw.


“You're the best man,” Justin said. “You have to be at the bachelor party. It's two days.”


Sure. Just two days, nine states, and fifteen hundred miles. What could possibly go wrong?


He couldn't come, obviously; even if he'd had the immune system for an airport and being trapped in a metal tube with a bunch of germy motherfuckers for three hours, the travel alone would have taken all the energy he has and he'd have nothing for the party. He wasn't pouting about it, didn't even want to come because he knew he'd have a lousy time. It was something I'd noticed from him in the past few months. You stop wanting things other people want if you know they'll make you miserable. You let go of shit. Readjust.


Which, I suppose, is why I wanted to stay here too. I cupped the back of his neck and rested my forehead against the top of his head for a minute.


“I'm fine,” he said softly. “If anything goes wrong I just call Daphne.”


I pulled back. I still think you get someone to stay with you.


I haven't had a night on my own in months, he said. I'm looking forward to painting and sleeping and watching awful TV without someone bothering me all the time. He poked me in the side. I can get started on packing without you trying to keep shit we should have thrown away back in Pittsburgh.


So this whole immune system saga was a ploy to get me out of here.


You caught me.


I sighed and pushed and pulled at his shirt for a little while.


I'll be fine, Justin said, and the thing is, I wasn't even scared that he wouldn't be. I seriously wasn't. I wasn't worried that Justin was going to fucking die because he was alone for a weekend; I was worried he was going to have one of his nights where he feels like shit and there would be no one here to help him take care of himself, take his mind off of it, whatever.


I picked up the handle of my suitcase and studied him. Eat, okay? I said.


I will.


And breathe.


That too. Text me when your plane lands. Have fun. Be safe.


I spread my hand on his back and pulled him into my neck for a while, and when he kept nibbling at me I raised his chin and gave him a long kiss. Every time I was going to pull away and get out the door I kept... not.


“You okay?” he said softly.


Yeah, I'm okay.


“You're going to miss your flight,” he whispered.


I breathed in behind his ear, slowly, and smelled lime and salt, and gave him a firm kiss on the side of his neck. Be good, I told him.


Never.


I smacked his cheek. Don't throw away my shit. And I left him there.


**


I met the boys at the airport and exchanged fist-bumps and back-slapping hugs with and Derek and Brandon and TJ, Derek's friends from high school, who were your typical bro-type straight guys but nice enough, and I've spent long enough in the corporate world to know how to deal with that type. Evan's a lot less comfortable with guys like that, and he was hanging back fiddling on his phone while the boys jumped all over me.


How's Justin? Derek asked.


I shrugged. He's good. Sends his love.


He's not mad?


No, he's not mad.


Brandon said something to Derek about needing snacks for the flight, and I gave them some cash and waved them off to a Hudson News and slid up next to Evan. He kissed my cheek and tugged his earbuds out and his hearing aids back in. “You worried?” he said.


I cannot even begin to explain to you what a fucking relief it is to have someone you don't have to pretend to be a well-adjusted human in front of. He's had a bunch of bad nights this week, and he gets really agitated and air-hungry, and I think without someone there to calm him down he's just going to be miserable.


“You think he'll be okay?”


Yeah, he'll be fine, he's been fine. He just feels like shit.


“And he doesn't want to bother anyone.”


Yeah. He'll call Daphne if it's an emergency, but he's not going to call if it's two in the morning and he can't sleep because he can't stop coughing.


Evan blew air out of his mouth. I feel like I should have stayed with him.


I know the feeling.


You're the best man, you had to come.


He wouldn't have let us anyway.


He twisted his bracelet. “It'll be fun, right? Get out of the city for a while?” He was nervous. He never goes anywhere.


You're asking if a weekend I planned is going to be fun? Who the fuck do you think I am?


Are we looking at naked girls?


Yeah. We'll get through it somehow.


Derek's a bit of a nervous flier, so I sat by him and let him squeeze my hand as we took off. It was weird flying without a drugged-up Justin drooling on my shoulder. Now that Cynthia was a partner I didn't have to travel as much for business, and when I did Justin usually came along. Most of the traveling we'd done that past year was around the country for various shows of his, though of course that was before. I spent most of the flight sharing a bag of Bugles with Derek and working through a few contracts on my laptop. Justin had forwarded me some paperwork about the apartment sale—we'd found a buyer the week before—and he'd already handled it with the lawyer, but I gave it a cursory glance just so I'd feel useful.


New Orleans was balmy and warm and alive and I knew the second we got out of a surprisingly podunk airport and into a cab that Justin had chosen well. Billboards for music and clubs lit up the freeway, and the boys stuck their hands out the window and rode the air as we drove at speeds you can't ever reach in the city. We stopped at the hotel—I found some fancy shit here too—and dropped off our bags, I texted Justin to tell him we'd arrived safely, we made ourselves look goddamn gorgeous, and off we trotted to Bourbon Street.


We went to this fancy as hell restaurant and ate our weight in steaks, then got some ridiculously sweet, ridiculously strong drinks called hand grenades that came with little plastic bombs for decoration and got us fucking obliterated, and we wandered the shops and dipped in and out of clubs and bars and watch girls dance in the street. I walked past this mural at one point, all blues and golds and electricity, and I tugged Evan over and we just studied it for a while without saying anything.


We ended up, once we were fucking hammered, at topless dancing place—with women, to clarify, because I am a benevolent God. I entertained myself watching Evan unwind with each shot and start laughing with Derek's friends and trying to figure out which of these girls I would be attracted to in a bizarro universe. Eventually I realized I was picking all the short blondes, which probably should have bothered me more than it did.


It was the jog I needed, however, to realize through my liquor-haze that Justin never answered my text telling we'd landed. Hmm. I was sitting at the bar, halfway through typing a new text asking if he'd died, when Derek's hand landed heavily on my shoulder and he sat down unsteadily next to me. “Jack and Coke,” he said to the bartender, who I could tell didn't get it at all. Derek's voice is never easy to understand—he's my best friend, and I don't always get everything—and the slur of God knows how many drinks wasn't helping. I bit back a smile when the bartender gave me a look and ordered him something a fuck of a lot better than a Jack and Coke, and Derek leaned his head against my arm.


Daphne's prettier than all these girls, he said.


Not really a fair fight. She's a goddess.


Derek slumped over the bar. Here's what I'm worried about, though.


Lay it on me.


He took a deep breath like he was about to say something very important, then signed, She makes more money than I do.


And...?


She's probably always going to make more money than I do. Significantly more!


That's a feature, not a bug, I said.


He sighed.


You think, what, it makes you less of a man? I said.


I just don't want her to resent me.


I shrugged. I don't resent Justin.


But it's not fair.


That's not...a thing, I said. You don't keep score like that. She's not going to look at you like some fucking...insurance write-off. It's just money. It doesn't matter. I make more money, that's not fair to me, he's a hell of a lot kinder than I am and has to deal with me, that's not fair to him. There's never a shortage of shit to point out, if you're looking for it.


And he's sick.


No, that one's fine. My phone buzzed on the bar and startled the shit out of me—perhaps I was a bit more drunk than I thought—and I needed a minute to focus my eyes before I could make out Justin's name and the text, and I felt myself smile.


Hey sorry. Was asleep. Having fun?


long nap


What else is new?


You good? I signed at the phone.


Derek nudged me. That's not going to work.


Oh. I texted it instead.


I'm good, Justin said. Call me when you go to sleep. Love you.


You. I put my phone down and turned back to Derek. He lives.


Derek was watching me, eyes drunk and hazy. This is the stuff they tell you is hard, he said. That's why they bother putting it in the vows. Stick with you for richer and poorer. Sickness and health.


Yeah, because they're too chickenshit to say 'I'll stick with you even when your pain in the ass personality drives me up a fucking wall.' Look, I don't know who came up with this story that dealing with life, with the fucking realities of actually existing, and here we are talking about money, and we are talking about illness, is normal when you're on your own but all of a sudden a valid source of conflict when you're with your fucking person—is it really a revolutionary fucking realization that everything is easier with him than without?—but I have a good idea why he came up with it. All that shit, all these goddamn reasons that Hollywood and Dear Abby or whoever the hell has decided is really the problem in people's boring fucking relationship...people come up with this shit because they don't want to admit that their problems aren't from the fucking superhuman burden of dealing with real life, they're from their own frustrating, ugly, impossible selves, and look, Justin and I have no shortage of flaws, but being too proud to admit those flaws is not fucking one of them. He drives me crazy and it's not easy, but that's not because we're acting out some goddamn play of what a marriage is supposed to look like. It's because it's him and it's me. To the ends of the goddamn earth, God, thank God. It's him and it's me.


Derek finished his drink and said, I'm sleepy.


You and my kid both, Christ. Come on.


Evan, in contrast, was not at all sleepy, and he chattered at Derek's friends the whole walk back to the hotel and bounced and grabbed my sleeve and Brian look at that'd for ten blocks, while I kept an arm around Derek's waist to make sure he stayed upright. I corralled them into the elevator and up to our suite, and I waved the others off to their rooms and helped Derek out of his shoes and pants.


“You're good to me,” he said.


Drink some water, here.


Gonna be a good wedding, he said. Gonna be a good life.


Yes.


It's all thanks to Justin, you know?


I know.


I got him settled in bed with the trash can next to him for good measure and he was snoring before I'd even left the room. I figured Brandon and TJ could take care of their own damn selves, but I am not a man of no responsibilities, so I stopped at the room next to mine and watched Evan battle his shirt and lose for an inordinate amount of time. He finally looked up and saw me and broke into a sloppy grin. “Brian.”


In the flesh. Need help?


He finally wrestled his shirt off and onto the floor. “No.”


Well done.


He flopped down on the bed and held his arms up for a hug. I rolled my eyes and came over and kissed his cheek and turn his hearing aids out.


Did you take your meds? I asked.


He nodded and squirmed underneath the covers.


Good. I shifted my weight around. Are you okay in here? A dumb question, yeah, but sue me; I was drunk and Justin has brutal nightmares if he sleeps somewhere strange by himself. But he nodded and burrowed into his pillow, signing I love you, to me with a hand he pried out from underneath him.


I went to my room and called Justin as I stripped out of my clothes. He was sitting on the floor with a box between his legs, wheezing in that soft way that sounds like a lullaby.


My night owl, I said.


Everyone made it back in one piece?


I nodded and sat down on the bed. They're trashed.


You're trashed.


Maybe. What are you doing?


He held up a few books. Deciding what to bring and what to donate.


How are you feeling?


“Good.”


I lay down on the bed and propped the phone up next to me. You look beautiful.


Thank you. So do you. Tell me about your night, did you have fun?


I nodded, trying to keep my eyes open. Colorful. Would have better with you.


“Christ. You really are drunk.”


I smiled and pulled the comforter over me. I miss you.


“That's embarrassing.”


I laughed, and then I couldn't fucking stop laughing, and he just sat there grinning at me, fucking luminescent.


Don't throw my books away, I said.


“Yeah, we'll see.” His eyes were so warm. “I miss you too.”

 

We said goodnight, and I took a deep breath and rolled over onto my back and closed my eyes and listened to an unfamiliar city, pretending I was in New York.

End Notes:

 

Thanks for your patience!

Chapter 97 - The Best Medicine by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian and Justin spend a whole day in bed.

The Best Medicine

LaVieEnRose



Brian and I spent a Friday night at the bar with our friends, and I don't know, it was just one of those nights where we're fucking kids again who can't keep their hands off each other. He ended up fucking me in the bathroom stall, my back pinned back against the wall for the kind of rough, rushed, spit sex we hadn't had in months, and God, fuck the apartment, fuck the new house, this was home. He drank, we danced, we laughed...it was amazing, and electric, and exhausting, and I woke up in the middle of the night hours later feeling about as sore and shitty as expected, but it was worth it. I curled up through a coughing fit, because that's what I do now when I wake up, and Brian kind of quarter-woke up and nuzzled the back of my neck a little.


I didn't want to get up because the bed was so warm and nice and Brian's cheek was pleasantly scratchy against my skin, but as much as I tried to ignore it I really needed some water after all that coughing, and at some point in the night I'd apparently—Brian's not the only master of the quarter-wake up—drunk the bottle Brian had become obsessive about making sure I have on the nightstand since I got sick. So after ten minutes of trying to pretend I didn't care about my dry as fuck mouth I sighed and got up and trudged to the bathroom. I felt kind of weird and I couldn't put my finger on why, which always is so annoying in retrospect, but it's kind of like...you know when you think back on your dreams, you can't believe that dream-you totally accepted everything that was happening and didn't realize you were dreaming? Well, pre-seizure me rarely puts together your vision is spotting out because you're about to have a seizure, dumbass.


Anyway, I peed and drank half a glass of water before my leg promptly gave out and I fell to the floor, taking half the shit on our bathroom counter along with me. One of my arms was still working and I caught myself with the knob on the cabinet, so I was okay besides my tailbone hurting like a bitch, but my leg was jerking hard against the tile and I felt really nauseous and echoey. I figured all the shit falling on the floor must have made a ton of noise, so I closed my eyes and rested my head against the cabinet and just waited for Brian to get there.


When I felt his footsteps I signed, I'm okay, without opening my eyes, and a few seconds later I felt his hand scratch lightly on the back of my neck as he walked around the bathroom, I guess picking up the shit I had knocked over. He lifted up my leg, and I said, Careful, because my seizing limbs have a habit of clocking the fuck out of him, but I think he thought I meant it hurt because he handled me really gently, slipping a folded towel under my leg so it wasn't banging right on the tile, which felt a lot better. He sat down next to me and put his hand between my head and the cabinet, and I kept my eyes closed until it was over.


Finally my leg stopped shaking, but it took a long time and I felt really bad afterwards. I leaned into Brian and panted, and he tucked my head into his neck and we stayed like that for a while.


“Okay,” I said eventually, and he nodded and gave me a firm kiss and helped me to my feet. Everything was kind of swimming, so he let me move slowly back to the bed, where he pulled back the covers for me and messed with the pillows some. He ran his hands over me to check for injuries—I'd dislocated my elbow a few seizures ago—but I nodded to him that everything was okay, besides the killer bruises I'd probably have in the morning. And this fucking headache.


He crawled into bed next to me and arranged me on his chest. Stay in bed now, he said, and I nodded and drifted to sleep.


In the morning I felt pretty okay. A little dizzy and a lot sore, but not so bad. Brian wasn't there, but he hadn't left a note so I figured he was still in the apartment somewhere. I sat up and got my feet on the floor and fell into my morning coughing fit, and when I looked up Brian was in the doorway, smiling at me a little and wiping his hands on a dishrag.


I swallowed. “Morning.”


He stuffed the rag into the pocket of his sweatpants. Good morning, Sunshine, he said, in that smarmy way, but he was still smiling at me. You remember last night?


I nodded.


His face got a little more serious. How are you feeling? You have a little bit of a fever.


I do?


Just a little. I'm keeping an eye on it. Your breathing doesn't sound too bad so far.


No, it's all right. I raised my arms up, feeling my muscles stretch and protest. He stayed in the doorway, watching me, and a cloud moved outside our window and the sun hit his face, and...God, he's so fucking beautiful.There are lines around his eyes when he smiles now. I have to tell him he hasn't aged, but of course he has. Like a fucking wine.


We kind of just watched each other for too long a moment, both of us smiling a little, neither of us saying anything, and then I started to get up and he said, What are you doing?


I'm hungry. I tested my body weight on my leg. It felt a little shaky, but not terrible, though the blood rushing to the bruises wasn't great.


I'm making breakfast.


You are?


Yeah, I'll bring it to you.


I laughed. I'm okay. I can get out of bed.


He came over to me, slowly, and gave me a kiss that felt like it would never stop. Of course you can, he signed, small against me, when he finally let me breathe. But why would you?


**


We ate eggs in bed—overcooked, but I don't turn up my nose at an opportunity to eat food I don't have to make myself—and had sex and took a nap and had sex again. The fever stayed low but still made me feel like crap after a while, but Brian monitored it diligently and there's a lot of comfort in that. There was something kind of erotic in the way he was poring over me that day, and I could tell he was leaning into it too, showering me with attention and keeping me from moving, bossing me and asking me questions and holding my wrists above my head, checking my skin and listening to my breathing and kissing the bruises on my hip. A domination thing, sure, but more than that. People don't talk about Brian's tenderness, the way his hands are always so goddamn gentle, and that's for everyone, not just me. But especially for me.


“I hope Jane gets your fingers,” I mumbled at one point while I was falling asleep, and I didn't figure out until later why he was laughing as I drifted off. I just floated away on the rumble of it under my cheek.


When I woke up he was sprawled halfway on top of me, his cheek on my bare stomach and one arm and one leg slung over me, scrolling through work emails on his laptop. I coughed for a while, dislodging him as little as I could, and played with his hair while he traced around my belly button.


He kissed my stomach and sat up a little, rubbing the stubble on his cheek. I'm going to give you razor burn.


“It's okay.”


He propped himself up on his elbow. Oh, you don't look good.


“No?”


He shook his head a little and reached out and felt my forehead. How do you feel?


A little sick. Not bad.


Fever's probably what gave you that seizure.


Yeah, probably. Most of my seizures lately had had some sort of definite trigger, which was a nice change of pace. Obviously the situation that required me to switch meds was about as shitty as it possibly could have been, but it did seem like the new meds were an improvement. And not just because they didn't destroy my bone marrow.


He scooted up the bed and lay his head next to mine on the pillow. Your leg's fucked. All black and blue. You've got to stop having seizures in the bathroom


I'll work on that. Not that it mattered; we were just a few weeks away from moving, and the house was a lot more seizure-proof than the apartment, since we renovated everything. We had cork floors throughout the house—carpet would have been nice, but what up, allergies—and rugs in the living room and mats in the kitchen and bathroom. All the counters and tables had rounded corners so I could stop falling and stabbing myself on shit, and we had a couple grab bars in the shower and around the bath. Basically it was seizure-heaven, and ever since we'd planned it out the apartment seemed like a death trap in comparison.


Brian brushed my hair off my forehead, and I sighed and leaned into his hand.


“We're supposed to be packing,” I said.


He shrugged. Tomorrow.


“I can get up.”


But your head hurts, he said, which was kind of funny, since I hadn't mentioned that.


“My head always hurts.”


He kissed the bridge of my nose. I know.


Can't stay in bed every day my head hurts.


Like I'd let you.


You've never complained about me in bed before.


He snickered and pulled me in under his arm, and we tugged and pushed at each other for a little while in something someone who isn't Brian Kinney might describe as 'cuddling.' I nuzzled under his chin and buried my nose in his neck. He always smells like leather and mint, since the very first night I met him.


Give me one day, he signed, small. Let me give you one day.


I don't think about it much anymore—I don't let myself think about it—but when I think about how much I love Brian, how I would feel if I were in his shoes...it's fucking unbearable, I know it is. When I'm really sick, of course I know Brian's worried, but I think I have to block out how scared he is on a day-to-day basis, all the things he takes into consideration for me, all the small things he worries about and takes care of so I don't have to, or else I fall into the guilt spiral and that doesn't help anyone. But when I think about when he had cancer and how fucking scared I was if he so much as cleared his throat, thinking he was getting some infection and he was going to die...God. And I know, I know Brian wants me out there living my life. Of course he does. That doesn't mean asking him to do anything other than wrap me in bubble wrap and keep me locked in a tower isn't fucking inhumane.


“I love you,” I whispered, and he closed his eyes and breathed it in like I'd breathed in him.


**


“I think I've forgotten how to draw,” I said as I fucked around with some oil pastels, a plate of toast crumbs down by my feet and the nebulizer in my mouth. I was supposed to be coming up with a draft of the piece I was going to make for our living room at the new house, but everything I did lately was so fucking boring. “Will you still love me if I'm pointless?”


He was stretching on the bed next to me. Maybe. We'll find a use for you. We'll keep you in a glass box and make people pay to look at you.


“I knew you'd think of something. Can we do that anyway? I think that sounds better than drawing.”


He chewed on his lip, biting back a smile. He's so fucking easy.


“Drrrrawing,” I said, and he groaned and hid his face in the pillow. He flopped his arm up over his head, and I watched the strip of skin above his waistband where his shirt rode up. He has this perfect glowing skin, even in the middle of summer. I don't know how he does it.


He said once—when he was drunk, obviously—that he calls me Sunshine because I create light, like it comes out of me. But God, irony of ironies, because no one in the history of the fucking world has ever glowed like Brian Kinney.


I smeared orange and yellow and pink pastels with my fingers until I captured the fucking miracle of that strip of skin and then I kept going, sketching out the curve of his waist and the soft folds of his t-shirt and the gold in his eyes and in his hair and after a minute he sat up so he could see it, and then he looked at me and smiled a little and just said, Justin.


**


It's hard to hate your body when it's with Brian's body.


You forget that this is, objectively speaking, a mess of a body, a body that shakes and freezes and doesn't always breathe, when it is with Brian's body, because it fits so perfectly into his, and nothing that fits into something this perfect could be bad. No body that makes Brian's breath flutter in the way I can feel through his throat and into my lips, that makes him squeeze his eyes shut in pleasure so hard it hurts, could be a bad body.


His mouth on my ear, his hands growling, God, your body, your body, you can't hate your body.


**


The sun went down, and Brian stretched up against me like a cat and dropped his chin to my shoulder.


I think I'm cured now, I said.


I knew it.


I kissed him, and he brought his face up to nuzzle against me, and I felt so, so goddamn safe.


Tomorrow we'll get up, I said.


He nodded a little.


Today we sleep.


He pulled me closer, somehow, with one arm, and I rested my cheek on his chest and felt his heartbeat, slow and steady like rain.


This counts as cured.

 

End Notes:

 

I am still here, y'all need to trust me. I have not abandoned you. I am just busy. Is okay.

Chapter 98 - Pack up Your Troubles by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian and Justin prepare for their next big move.

Pack up Your Troubles

LaVieEnRose



Emily came into the office just before six, Jane balanced on her hip. Is Evan gone?


Yeah, he had a doctor's appointment. Hi, Janie. That's a nice dress. How was daycare?


She hit Sarah's kid, Emily said.


That's my girl.


Emily looked at me at my desk, still fucking surrounded with paperwork. Are you working late? I want someone to babysit.


I'm not staying, but I have plans.


Damn. Justin too?


I nodded and came over and took Jane so Emily could get her coat on. She signed Dad dad dad, when I kissed her cheek.


Damn, Emily said. I wanted to go dancing.


Bring Jane. I swayed with her a little. She can dance.


Yeah, that's an idea.


She gave my desk a look. Are those the Jacobson proofs?


I'm not staying.


Sure you're not.


I told you. Plans. Get out of here.


Cynthia was my next visitor, twenty minutes later. “Are you going to be here late?”


“No.”


She held up a folder. “The proofs for Tyson just came in and sooooomeone needs to look over them and send feedback to art.”


“Oh, someone like you?”


“I have a date. With one of those guys who has his name at the ends of movies.”


“I'm not staying late. I've been here until nine twice this week.”


“Yeah, if you know how many days you've worked late, you're not working late enough.”


“I have a sick husband,” I said. “I know when I'm not there. I'm going home tonight.”


“Then I guess art isn't getting their feedback.”


“This doesn't break my heart.”


As soon as the clock struck six, I stuck in a pair of ear buds and walked to the subway station, then took the N to Queensboro plaza and the 7 west into the city. One of the last few times I'd be making this trip. I looked out the window while the train was above ground. It might have been finally starting to get warm.


I took the elevator up to the apartment, unlocked the front door, and switched the light on and off instinctively, but Justin was sitting in the middle of the living room floor with a box in front of him. I smiled without meaning to. “Hey,” I breathed.


“You made it!”


You had doubts?


“Did I think you'd find a way to get out of packing? You have to ask that?”


I went to the kitchen and washed my hands, then came out to the living room and bent over and kissed him. Can't let you throw all my shit away. Hi.


“Hi.”


How was your day?


“Good. Painted. Slept. Called my mom. Oh, she wants to know if she should come up here for Jane's birthday or we're going to go home. She'll bring Gus if she comes.”


She should come. Did you eat?


“I ate. I picked up the dry cleaning. And I made an appointment with the fixtures guy, to look at the faucets and doorknobs and everything—”


Right, yeah.


“So that's on Saturday.” He clapped his hands together. “And I did this!” he said, looking down at the box in front of him. Which was not that large. And about halfway packed.


It was going to be a long night. I'll order pizza, I said, and he beamed at me.


**


“This we can donate,” Justin said as he rooted around the closet.


I threw a balled up sock at him so he'd look at me. You realize the house is huge compared to this place, right? We don't have to downsize.


You are such a fucking hoarder! You never wear this.


Will you get out of my fucking clothes? I said. Come help with this shit. He was starting to sneeze from rooting around the back of the closet, and he’d already been a little wobbly from being on his feet that long.


He sat down heavily on the floor next to me, wheezing in, you know, his way, and pulled out the bottom drawer of my nightstand. “Man, there’s a lot of crap in here.”


I’d already been packing up the art supplies and sweaters he had stuffed in his. Yeah, these are bottomless.


He started sifting through the drawer. “Oh.”


I raised an eyebrow at him.


Nothing, he said. It's just all medical stuff, pretty much. I guess it makes sense that'd be on your side, I just hadn't thought about it.


Oh. Yeah. No reason he should have assumed it would be on my side, honestly. It's not like in normal situations Justin doesn't take care of the vast majority of this shit without any babysitting from me. The past few months just hadn't been a normal situation.


“Well, we don't need all of this anymore,” he said, and he got to work sorting through it, separating stuff we were still using—oxygen cannulas, Vogmasks—from stuff we weren't, which basically was just empty prescription bottles. He took forever going over each thing, and it was...it is not easy, to sit there quietly and sit on your hands while Justin decides whether he still needs the bottle of medicine that gives him hives and stomachaches and bone-splitting migraines but stops the coughing long enough for him to fall asleep.


A minute ago I'd been complaining about him throwing things out.


Come on, get a move on, I said, when he'd spent two minutes contemplating a blood pressure cuff.


“Sorry, there's...God. There's a lot here.”


Yeah, that's why we're moving. Come on. I went back to packing up some of his clothes, and Justin kept going, but he was slow and I could tell it was getting to him. Figuring out what he will and won't need in the future is the kind of executive functioning he struggles with anyway, and his tendency to jump to the worst case scenario is usually as annoying as it is oddly charming, but right now it was really scaring the shit out of him, because I could see his brain working through all the circumstances under which he'd need all this stuff again.


I nudged him with my foot. Okay, Melvin Udall. I'll finish this.


I don't have OCD.


Yeah, and you're deathly allergic to dogs, the world is full of imperfect analogies. Go get the boxes in the closet in the office.


“I'm fine.”


Sunshine. I fixed him with those eyes that will get me anything from him. Let me do this, okay?


“Control freak,” he groused, and I gave him a what do you want from me, shrug, and he hauled himself up off the floor, giving me a little smack on the back of the head on his way to the office. I took a deep breath and got through as much of the box as I could before he got back. Christ, we really could put a hospital to shame. I filled the trash bag with everything he didn't use at least once a week, as long as it could be easily replaced.


Justin came back a few minutes later, balancing a heavy box. He sat down on the floor with it, panting a little.


I spared him a glance. You need your inhaler?


“I'm fine.”


All right. I don't even know what's in that one.


He opened the lid and leafed through. “Looks like mostly my stuff. Invoices and proposals and stuff. All of this can go.”


Well, make sure none of it's from this year.


He nodded, and we worked quietly for a little while he rifled through the papers and had no idea how much goddamn noise he was making and I went into the bathroom and got some of the shit from under the sink. Ancient toothbrushes, half-finished bottles of shampoo. And more hospital crap.


After a while he laughed a little and said, “Bri, come look at this.”


I got up and stretched and went back to the bedroom. He held up a stack up papers.


I said, What are those, drawings? That's weird. Where'd those come from?


He ignored me. These are so old. You really are a fucking hoarder, you know. We could get you on one of those shows.


Most of the drawings were of me, of course, and God, I looked like a fucking kid. Christ. These are old.


“I forgot how good I used to be,” he said softly, and before I could ask him what the fuck he was talking about he smiled and showed me one. “This has got to be one of the earliest naked Brians.”


Yeah, you don't remember that one?


He shook his head.


Well, you are brain damaged. That's from your show, the one at the center.


“Huh,” he said, and then, “No, that can't be right. I sold that one, I remember. My first sale ever.”


I chewed the inside of my cheek, and after a moment he broke into that fucking Sunshine smile.


“You bought it?” he said.


I sighed.


“Christ, you really love me.”


I mean, not as much as I love drawings of my cock, but sure.


He studied the drawing, his smile fading just a little. “God. I could never do this now.”


You drew my cock yesterday.


He shook his head. “Just these fine lines, here, see? Look how small and precise these are.”


And as much as I wanted to deny it, to scoff and call him a drama princess or whatever the hell...he was right. Justin's style is boldness, looseness, bigness, and some of that is...I mean, look at this fucker, he's tucked in a pretty little package but he's about as big and bold as they come, but some of that is also how he's adapted. Because he's right. He doesn't have the hand control for that anymore.


“I forget sometimes,” he said softly.


That you can't do things?


He shook his head. That it wasn't always like this.


I cleared my throat. And you used to be hearing, too, I said, and thank God that made him laugh a little. I bent over and kissed his forehead and took the drawing away from him.


We can throw it out, he said.


Are you kidding? I paid good money for this. I looked it over. The shading on my throat's not quite right, is it?


What are you talking about?


Well, if the light source is here, that part...see?


He nudged me. Stop making me feel bad.


I rolled my eyes. You'd never make that mistake nowadays. That's my point.


He watched me.


Fuck fine lines, I said. You figured out light.


**


We took a break to have sex and eat some more pizza and ended up sprawled out on the living room floor for a while, just resting and running our hands over each other. We got up eventually and I packed up books and DVDs while Justin worked on the kitchen, until he told me he was feeling weird so I went in to keep an eye on him since there's about ninety different ways for him to kill himself during a seizure in the kitchen. He didn't even end up having one; he was just feeling crappy from lifting heavy shit and having his brains fucked out of him. I told you. Drama princess. But it was a nice excuse for me to sit there and do nothing but watch him while he did the actual work, which is probably a bit too obvious of a metaphor for my taste, but we press on.


Kitchen at the house is huge, I said. We'll have to get you some new toys.


“Yeah?”


Sure. Cappuccino machine. Waffle iron. Whatever. He likes to cook.


“Um, did you know that you're amazing and I love you?”


Sounds familiar, yeah.


“My new studio's enormous too,” he said. “I'm gonna have to actually paint or something.”


Wild.


“I know.” He straightened up and leaned against the counter and looked at me. “Do you think I'm complacent?”


I tried not to smile at how he'd completely butchered the word. No, I think you're tired.


“I used to not even be able to live with myself if I wasn't making something,” he said. “And now it's like...I've barely done anything in months and I don't hate myself for it.”


And this is a problem?


“I don't know.”


Remember how you were all glowing with fucking pride when I got it through my head that I was worth more to you than the shit I do for you?


“Oh, have you settled on that conclusion? That's news.”


It comes and goes. But you see my point.


“But it's not like I'm just painting to have value to you. This is like...”


We don't need the money.


“It's not the money. It's like...cosmic shit. Some reason for taking up space on the planet.”


You're not very big.


He gave me a look.


You think your therapist would be happy that you feel like you don't have to apologize for just existing?


“Oh, who knows with her.”


I laughed. You're doing fine, my child.


“Yeah, yeah.” He shrugged. “I'm worried that I don't even count as an artist anymore. That people are going to judge me for just...being some little homemaker.”


I raised an eyebrow. Now who's got the internalized misogyny?


“God, why do I teach you anything.”


I've been wondering that for years. Do you want to steal some paintings from the Met and we'll tell people they're yours so they'll think you're still painting?


Yeah, that sounds good.


Okay, we'll do that. I came over and kissed him. You'll paint when you're ready.


“Yeah.” He wheezed out a sigh. “And in the meantime, cappuccinos!”


And waffles.


“I deserve new toys even when I'm not working,” he said, as if the new toys weren't shit he was going to use to make stuff for me. He still thinks he's the one winning out.


He's a trip.


Imagine that, I said, and he smiled up at me.


**


“You have to do this,” Justin said, his hands full of CDs. “How the fuck am I supposed to know which ones to keep?”


Revolutionary idea: stop throwing away my shit.


“I know Evan likes this one...”


The ones on top are probably the ones I put on the most. I used to not play music, back in the first few years after Justin lost his hearing, but he doesn't usually mind anymore. I always ask, but most of the time he says he doesn't care.


After a few more minutes of leafing through the CDs, though, he said, “No, you do it, this is making me sad.”


I finished packing up the lamp I was working on and came and clapped my hands on his shoulders from behind—carefully—-and kissed the crown of his head. He tilted back to look at me and wrinkled his nose.


Poor Deaf Justin, I signed on his face.


Yes, it's very tragic.


I gave him a light smack on the ass and took the CDs from him, and he took my post at the lamps. I packed up CDs and even set aside a few to donate like the martyr I am, but when I got near the bottom of the stack I stopped and smiled a little and got Justin's attention. Do you remember this one?


“I mean, I know what it is. I don't remember what it sounds like.”


You used to love this one, I said. Back at the loft I'd come home and you'd be dancing around to it while you painted.


He smiled.


I put the CD in and turned up the volume; fuck the neighbors, we were leaving soon anyway. He stayed where he was, watching me, while I slowly crowded into his space. You were so fucking hot, I said.


How about now?


I gave him a nonchalant little shrug and led him over to the speaker, and he put his fingers against it and felt the beat. After half a verse of the first song, he smiled.


You remember? I said.


He nodded and fit himself into my arms, and I danced him around the living room for a while.


So fucking hot.


**


“I remember our first night here,” Justin said, when the living room was almost empty. “We didn't have any furniture. We ate Chinese food on the floor.”


After you got lost in Central Park.


Oh, God, that's right.


Now we'll have a whole new borough to get lost in, I said.


He tucked himself under my arm, and I sighed a little and pulled him in close to me.


Whole new house, he said after a minute.


Yeah. To fill up with unnecessary invoices, ugly sweaters, old drawings.


Hospital shit, he said.


I nodded and kissed his forehead. I can't wait.

 

Chapter 99 - Stitches by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin has a seizure, but it's Brian who ends up in the ER. They're okay.

Stitches

LaVieEnRose



On your average day, my ER is not active. We're pretty under the radar as resort towns go, especially this time of year when it's too cold to get in the water. Most of the traffic we do get is tourists, since this town has a permanent population of about six, and that includes me and the rest of the hospital staff, but for anything major we have to send them to a bigger hospital about twenty miles away, so...it's a lot of weird rashes and swimmer's ear.


And then every once in a while something actually happens in this town, and there's a five-car-and-one-school bus accident and we're the closet hospital, and all of a sudden our ER is flooded, and it's very exciting for everyone. And this was that day, and the ER was seeing more activity than it had in a month, which meant the two guys who came in for something unrelated got triaged by Katie and were determined to not be dying, so they weren't getting seen any time soon. I didn't pay much attention to them, honestly. The taller guy had his jacket halfway off and slung protectively over the blond one who was tucked under his arm, so that was kind of sweet, but I was a little busy trying to figure out if the EMTs had found the foot of a guy who came in without his, soooo...


But at some point during the evening I was behind the intake desk trying to reach the family members of people in the accident, and I looked up and the blond guy was standing in front of me, leaning on the desk. He looked pretty wrecked, shaky and pale and sweaty, which on an ordinary day would have gotten him a VIP ticket through, but, like I said. Not an ordinary day.


But then he said, “My husband...there's something wrong with my husband. I think we've been waiting for a long time. I think there's something wrong. I'm here with my husband.”


“Okay,” I said. I looked where I was pretty sure they'd been sitting, but the seats were empty. “Where is he?”


He stared at me like he wasn't quite sure if I was there. “Um, it...he cut himself. I cut him.”


“You cut him?”


“I had a knife.”


“You had...sir, are you saying you attacked your husband?” I put my hand on the phone.


“I'm sorry, I don't...” He wobbled and steadied himself on the counter. No matter what he'd done to husband, he certainly didn't seem like any sort of threat now. He could barely stay on his feet.


I noticed a medical bracelet on his wrist. “Can I see that?”


“Can you...what?”


I looked back at where I was pretty sure he'd been sitting, but the seats were empty. “Sir, where is your husband?”


He just said, “I'm sorry,” again, but a second later the question got answered for me. ”Where did he go?” a voice barked out from across the waiting room, and just about everyone jumped...except the guy in front of me, who didn't react at all.


The tall guy was standing in the middle of the waiting room, one hand wrapped in a towel and held to his chest while he looked around, the expression on his face somewhere between frantic and murderous. “The guy who was here, where the fuck is he?”


I waited for the blond guy to say something, but he still didn't react, so after a beat I put my hand in the air and said, “Um, sir?”


He looked at me and his face relaxed and then hardened again in a second, and he speedwalked over to me. He put the hand he wasn't cradling on the smaller guy's shoulder, and he startled and looked up at him.


“Justin,” the taller guy breathed, and he pulled him in briefly before he held him out at arm's length and looked at him intensely. “Go sit down.”


“I don't...”


“God, how are you fucking...Look at me.” He pointed to the chairs. “Go sit down. You understand?”


“Sit down?”


“Yes.”


“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He started to go, then stopped and touched the towel around the other guy's hand.


“No. Sit.”


Justin nodded heavily and went over to the chairs. He was unsteady on his feet, and the other guy watched him until he'd sat down and folded up, his face hidden in his knees, and then sighed and ran his non-swaddled hand down his face. “Did he say anything?” he said to me. All the panicked energy he'd had a minute ago had drained right out of him.


“Sir, what's your name?”


“Brian. Kinney. That was Justin. Did he say anything?”


“Did he hurt you?”


“He talked to you. Out loud?”


“Out...”


“He's Deaf. He didn't mention that?”


“No, he didn't—”


“Christ, Justin.” Brian exhaled.“What did he say?”


“He said he hurt you. Mr. Kinney, is there someone you'd like us to—”


“Jesus, he's so confused. He didn't hurt me. He was holding a knife and he had a seizure and I grabbed it before it fell on him.” He considered his towel-wrapped hand. “Poorly.”


I looked over at Justin. “He had a seizure? Did you tell that to the triage nurse?”


Brian set his jaw. “He's not the patient.”


“If he had a seizure he needs to be checked out.”


“He's epileptic, he has a lot of seizures.”


“Even so—”


“He's allergic to everything and he's immunocompromised. You don't have his records, you don't speak his language, and I know what he needs. Nobody is laying a hand on him, you understand? Just leave him alone.”


“Mr. Kinney...”


“I wouldn't have brought him here except we're here alone and I couldn't leave him and I needed to...” He looked away, them back at me, hard. “It's my right hand.”


“I understand.”


“No you don't, I....he's Deaf, our friends are Deaf, my kid's Deaf. This is my signing hand and it needs to be okay.” He kept looking at me, like if he were serious enough I could click my heels together and un-stab his hand.


“I really think Justin should be looked at,” I said.


“No. I'm getting my hand fixed and I'm taking him out of this fucking...cesspool. He hates hospitals, he doesn't know where he is, he just...he wants to go home. I just need to get my hand fixed.” Some of the desperation from before was starting to show again. He must have been in pain. Grabbing a falling knife. Yikes. He'd be lucky if he hadn't snapped some tendons.


“We're going to get you through as soon as we can, okay?”


“Yeah, okay. Thank you.” He started to walk away, then stopped and said, “Do you have an interpreter here?”


“A...”


“A sign language interpreter. ASL.”


I'd worked here for four years, since I got out of school, and this was the first time we'd ever had that request. And I hated the answer I had to give. “It's...we're a small hospital.”


He ran his hand over his mouth. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay.” He went back to where Justin was sitting, readjusted his hand against his chest, and pulled Justin into his side, resting his lips against his temple.


I got pulled in to help with one of the car crash victims, and the next time I saw Brian and Justin was when I was setting up their gurney and Stephanie lead them over. Justin was shivering, and when I pointed Brian towards the gurney, he said, “No, he needs to lie down.”


Justin looked up at him and said something in sign language, looking confused.


“You can lie down right here,” Brian said. “It's okay.”


Justin just watched him.


“You are so bad at reading lips. It's a bed. Lie down. Come on.” He guided Justin to the gurney and helped him onto it. “Jesus, easy,” he said, even though Justin wasn't looking at him anymore. “It's okay. You're okay. I know.” Justin curled up on the gurney with his arms wrapped around his head, and Brian said, “I know,” again.


I pointed to the chair, the one that's supposed to be for the family member of the patient and not the patient himself, but hey. “Sit.”


Brian did, but he still looked uneasy and his eyes kept darting over to Justin. This was going to hurt, so I figured that was probably my way to distract him.


“How long have you been married?” I asked.


He shrugged a little, watching Justin shift on the gurney. “I don't know.”


“You said you have a kid?”


“Uh, yeah, I have a son. He's thirteen.”


“And he's Deaf too?” I started unwrapping his hand, slowly.


“No, that's...that's Justin's daughter.” He swallowed and looked away from Justin and watched me mess with his hand. “Her mom...uh, she was born Deaf, it's hereditary.”


“Justin wasn't?”


He shook his head a little.


“Does he hear at all now?”


“No. And I can't sign with my left hand and he doesn't read lips, so this needs—”


“I understand.”


Justin breathed in sharply then and let it out in a whimper, and Brian winced but said to me, “He doesn't want anything, he's fine, he doesn't know he's doing it.”


I said, “You know, we have a neurologist here—”


“No. I know what he needs.” He hissed as I finished unwrapping the towel from his hand. “God.”


It was hard to tell how bad the wound was on sight. Hand wounds bleed like crazy whether or not they're serious. “I'm going to clean this up and then we'll get a doctor to take a look and figure out what our next steps are, okay?”


His brow furrowed. “What do you mean, next steps? You stitch it up, I go home.”


“Depending on the type of damage, it's possible this might need surgery.”


“I can't have surgery.”


“If you—”


“I need to take him home,” Brian said.


“You told me that what you need is to keep function in this hand,” I said, as I got a betadine swab ready. “You're going to want to do what the doctor says.”


Brian breathed out in frustration and put his head back against the chair as I cleaned off his hand. We were quiet for a few minutes while I worked, the silence punctuated by occasional noises of pain from Justin, and eventually a quiet, “Brian?”


Brian reached over and put his left hand on Justin's back. Justin started coughing, and it sounded bad, hoarse and hollow and hacking, and I raised an eyebrow at Brian.


“Pre-existing condition,” Brian said shortly. “He's fine.” I dabbed at his palm and he hissed in through his teeth. “Easy with that, come on,” he said.


“Didn't they give you something while you were waiting?”


“Yeah, but I'm not known for my pain tolerance.” He glanced over at Justin as he started to sit up. “And on the other hand. Hey. Don't look.”


Justin stared at Brian's hand, his face scrunched in concern, until Brian snapped the fingers of his left hand in his face and pointed to his lips.


“Don't look,” he said. “Are you okay?”


Justin started to sign something, then stopped.


Brian rolled his eyes and sighed. “He doesn't understand that he can still sign,” he said to me.


“What?”


“He...he's not used to be speaking in front of him, he doesn't know where he is, he's...he's used to being postictal but I'm usually not bleeding and speaking to him out loud in an unfamiliar hospital when he's trying to calm his brain down.”


Justin looked from me to Brian and back again. “Um...”


Brian looked at him. “Sunshine.”


“Yeah. Yes. Okay.” He paused. “Sunshine?”


Brian nodded.


“Okay. Yes.”


Brian tilted his head to the side a little and looked at Justin, and Justin pulled his lips into his mouth, and they held eye contact for a minute before Brian nodded and turned to me. “Can we turn the lights down in here maybe?”


“No, it's either on or off.”


“Yeah.” He looked at Justin. “Sorry. I know.”


Justin took a shaky breath and started signing, and Brian said, “Okay, there we go,” and watched him intently. It was...really cool, honestly, and the fact that Brian and I were both watching the same thing and I was getting absolutely nothing from it and Brian was understanding all of it was such a mind-trip.


Except when Justin finally stopped, Brian said, nice and calmly to him, “Okay, so that didn't make any sense.”


Justin squinted at his lips.


“You're fine,” Brian said said. “You're just scared and your brain's traumatized so you're losing your mind a little bit. Everything's okay.”


He gestured towards Brian's hand.


“It's a cut. I'll be fine.”


Justin signed something.


“Yeah, I know. I'm sorry.” Brian turned back to me. “He doesn't understand me.”


“Do you want a pen and paper?”


“I can't write with my...oh, hang on.” He took his phone out of his pocket. “God, I'm an idiot,” he said into the phone, and then held it out to Justin, who read it and smiled. “Speech to text,” he said to me.


“Smart.”


“Yeah, it took me two hours to think of, I'm a genius. Anything you want to say to him? Namely that I'm going to be fine and he can stop worrying?” He held the phone up to me.


I gave Brian a look that showed exactly how likely I was to be manipulated. “I'm going to finish cleaning this up and then we'll have a doctor here to look at it and figure out what our next steps are. We're going to take good care of him.”


Brian glared at me but showed the phone to Justin, and Justin nodded and said, “Thank you.”


“Of course.”


Justin reached for the phone, and Brian said, “No, you can still sign, I still understand you. God, you are stupid after seizures. I'm just going to text this to you,” he said, and then he hit something on his phone and smiled a little when Justin's phone vibrating in his pocket made him jump.


Justin read it and signed to Brian.


“Yeah, I know,” Brian said. “One gimp hand is plenty for the both of us. I'm going to be fine.”


Justin read the text and rubbed his circle in a fist on his chest.


“Cut it out,” Brian said. “You got a bed, I got morphine. We're going to be fine. Can you lie down now, please? You're shaking.” He watched Justin read the text and lie down, his arms curled around his head, then shook his head a little and looked at me. “He's not usually like this. He's...frighteningly smart.”


“Seizures are rough.”


“Yeah, sure seems like.” He took Justin's hand and squeezed it, then let go. “I don't know how the fuck he does it all the time.”


“How often does he have them?”


“Not as much as he used to. A few times a week, but they're usually small. He doesn't have big ones like this very often. This...was a bad one.” He took a deep breath. “He's been so sick, and we're moving in two weeks and he's been stressed and getting these headaches so I thought a weekend away might...and he likes to cook, and he was feeling okay, but he hadn't slept well the night before and that's a trigger for him.”


“That's a common one,” I said.


“He poured boiling water on himself once but I was right there this time, I could grab it. Would have fucking stabbed him in the stomach, but I grabbed it.”


“Yeah, I can see that.”


“He feels really sick right now. I've got to get him out of the light. I don't usually talk this much.”


“It's the pain. Does weird things to people. One guy once recited the whole Gettysburg address to me.”


“Yeah. He doesn't know what's going on.” Brian reached out and pushed some of Justin's hair out of his eyes. “I think he has a fever.”


I nodded and took the thermometer off the wall and ran it over his forehead. “Hundred point three.”


“God. Great. I've got to get him out of here.”


I taped some gauze over Brian's palm. “Well, I've cleaned you up here, and I didn't see any muscle.”


He shuddered. “Good?”


“Very good. I'm going to get the doctor here to look at you, okay, and we'll get you out of here as soon as we can.”


“Yeah, okay.”


I pointed at Justin. “You sure you don't want someone to look at him?”


Brian shook his head. “He hates doctors and no one here can talk to him and this isn't his hospital. He's okay. He just feels really bad.”


I let the doctor know that he was ready to be seen and stopped at the nurse's station to do some paperwork. The next time I looked over, Justin was fidgeting around uncomfortably on the gurney, and Brian got up from his chair and climbed onto it, carefully shifting Justin against him and pillowing his head on his chest.


When the doctor let me know he was heading over there and asked me to get a tray, they were still on the gurney, but now Justin was vomiting into a bedpan, Brian's arm firmly around his shoulders.


“I thought this was a cut hand,” the doctor said.


“He's not the patient.” I looked at Brian. “Right?”


“Right,” Brian said. He kissed Justin's temple. “I told you the lights were too fucking bright in here.” He held his bandaged hand out to the doctor without looking away from Justin.


The doctor took the dressing off Brian's hand and examined it while I got rid of Justin's bedpan and brought him some water and took his temperature again. Brian paused in his explanation of his injury when he saw me get the thermometer out and said, “About a hundred and one?”


“Point three, yeah. You don't even want a Tylenol or something?”


Brian laughed a little. “He's very allergic.”


“To Tylenol?”


“I wasn't kidding about it being every fucking drug. We have everything we need back at the house, I just need to get him there.” He sighed when Justin whimpered again and put his hand on his back. “I know. I'm sorry.” Justin wrapped his arms around Brian's waist and hid his face in his side, and Brian said, “Oh,” softly and rubbed his left hand in a circle on his back. “I know.”


The doctor tested the sensation in Brian's fingers and had him move each one individually. Brian complied while he kept soothing Justin, and when Justin lifted his head and signed what looked like some anxious questions, Brian kissed his forehead and guided his head back to his shoulder.


“Well, Brian, you're a lucky man.”


He looked down at the head on his shoulder. “Yeah, so I've heard.”


“Everything here looks superficial. We'll stitch it up, and assuming it heals well, the only memory of this will be a small scar.”


He breathed out heavily, then said, “Would you mind writing that down? He'll think I'm downplaying it if I don't provide him with official documentation.”


“He's Deaf,” I explained to the doctor.


Brian ran his fingers absently through Justin's hair. “He worries.”


“It'll all be in your discharge notes,” the doctor said.


Brian said, “We can go home?”


“I'll stitch this and bandage it and Charlotte here will give you aftercare instructions. And then, yes, you can go home.”


Brian took Justin's hand and moved it for him, touching it to Justin's chin and then his cheek, and Justin nuzzled his shoulder. “You have a fever,” Brian said to him quietly, and Justin watched his lips and shook his head a little, and Brian said, “It's okay,” and Justin nodded.


“Just going to give you a shot to numb this up and then I'll stitch it,” the doctor said.


Brian nodded and shifted a little, squaring his shoulders, and Justin said, “Brian,” and then pointed to the doctor and then his chin. Brian made a motion like a gun with his left hand.


“He doesn't like shots,” Justin said to the doctor.


Brian snorted and tugged Justin's sleeve. “Sunshine, it's fine.”


“I don't know what you're saying,” Justin said, barely looking at him, still focused on the doctor. “It must not be important.”


Brian laughed and put his arm around Justin's waist, pulling him into him. “You can protect me.”


Brian watched the shot and the stitching with one eye closed while Justin kept a diligent eye, every once in a while getting Brian's attention and signing something to him that made Brian laugh or wrinkle his nose. Justin mouthed “I love you,” to him, and Brian tapped their foreheads together, very gently.


Once his hand was stitched, the doctor left me to bandage it up and deliver aftercare instructions. “So, you'll need to see your doctor in seven days,” I said. “And they'll either take the stitches out then or tell you need to wait a few more days. But ten days, tops, you should be good as new.”


“But permanently disfigured,” he said with a sigh.


“Palm's full of lines,” I said. “You won't even be able to tell.”


“When will I be able to sign?” he said.


“As soon as it doesn't hurt,” I said. “Be mindful and don't pull the stitches. But I imagine by tomorrow you'll be able to do a little.”


“Good. Okay.”


“Next time,” I said. “You grab him, not the knife.”


“I grabbed him too.” He rested his cheek on top of Justin's head. “I always grab him.”


“Is he okay?” Justin said to me, softly, and he smiled when I gave him a thumbs up.


Discharge papers always take forever to get together, and by the time I brought them back, Justin was asleep, curled up on top of Brian, his breath coming in hoarse wheezes and his brow furrowed. Brian was running the fingers of his bandaged hand up and down Justin's back, playing with his phone with his other hand.


“Here you are, sir,” I said, presenting the clipboard to him with a flourish.


He signed the papers. “How are the people in the accident?”


“Mostly okay, thanks.”


“Mostly okay's pretty good these days,” he said, carefully resettling Justin as he handed the clipboard back to me.


“When are you headed back home?”


“Tomorrow, if he's feeling up to it.”


“I want you to bring him back in the morning if he's not doing better.”


Brian gave me a little smile. “No.”


“Yeah, that's what I figured. Be more careful, okay? He's very cute. Not worth losing fingers.”


Brian rolled his eyes and gently shook Justin awake. It took him a while to really drag himself back to consciousness, and he rubbed at his eyes and blinked around in confusion, first at the emergency room, then at Brian.


“Did you get hurt?” he said to Brian.


Brian laughed a little. “We'll talk about it tomorrow, okay? Time to go home.”


I could tell by the look on Justin's face that he didn't follow, but when Brian nudged him to his feet he got up willingly, holding onto Brian's arm. Brian nodded towards the exit and started to lead him out, but Justin stopped him and turned around and hugged me.


“Thank you,” he said. He felt shaky and warm and fragile, and Brian was chewing on his cheek and trying not to smile over his shoulder, and yeah, okay, I got it.

 

“Worth a few fingers, right?” Brian said to me, and he winked at me, put his arm around Justin's waist, and led him out the door.

Chapter 100 - Gonna Make This Place Your Home by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian and Justin move to their new house.

Gonna Make This Place Your Home

LaVieEnRose



I showed up at Justin and Brian's building on an irritatingly cold morning in late February with muffins and coffees. I pressed the doorbell with my elbow, since my hands were full, and waited. Then hit it again. And again.


Finally, Brian answered, looking all bedheady and pissed off. Why are you here?


“You told me to come. Let me in, I'm cold.”


He moved out of the way. I told you to come in the morning.


“It's morning.”


It's six-thirty!


“And your movers come at eight, and you still have shit to pack.” I set the cupholder and the paper bag down on the kitchen counter and washed my hands. “Your coffee's on the left, Justin's is in the middle. Yours has almond milk so don't let him drink it.”


He sipped. Stop trying to kill your boyfriend.


“Stop drinking regular milk and then bitching that you have a stomachache.” (It wouldn't kill him. At worst he'd get an itchy mouth. Brian is a drama queen.)


He peeked into the paper bag. You know he's your job today.


“I figured. How is he?”


He shrugged and just said, Sick.


Justin had a massive seizure a week and a half ago when the two of them were on vacation, and he’d been having a lot of trouble shaking it completely off. Brian even said it was a really bad one, and coming from Brian that's saying a lot. Justin was so out of it that he didn’t even notice he’d dislocated his elbow again until the next day, and Brian was not pleased with himself for not realizing, even though he had a pretty good excuse for being distracted that night. But his palm was fully healed, and Justin was out of the sling and now just had brace in his elbow, but he still was having a lot of trouble concentrating or staying awake, and his headaches had been worse than usual and he was just really...shivery. I'd slept over a few nights before, after Brian and I loaded up his car with the stuff of mine that was going to the new house and dropped it off there—which was not much, because it's not like I was giving up my apartment and actually moving in, and anyway Brian said absolutely not was my secondhand mattress darkening his doorway, and bought me some new one that weighed a million pounds and came curled up in a roll—and Justin had gone to bed at nine with a migraine while Brian and I split a tab of E at Nova. And we were still less tired the morning after than Justin was.


“Is he asleep?” I asked.


Brian shook his head while he crammed half a muffin into his mouth. Shower. I don’t know when he got up. I didn’t wake up until someone kept ringing the doorbell.


What's wrong with him?


His breathing isn’t terrible? I don’t know, looking for something positive to say.


I sighed. “And how are you, dear.”


Tired!


“Oh, poor you. You know I had to wake up at five to get here.”


You're up at five anyway. I like to run early in the morning. Brian and Justin both find that horrifying.


“Regardless. Drink your coffee. I’m gonna get Justin. Is Molly still coming?”


Allegedly. It involves manual labor, so I assume she'll conveniently forget.


I went into the bathroom. Justin was standing under the shower spray, his head back and his eyes closed, looking goddamn luminescent. He was finally back to a good weight, and he'd given up on shaving because it kept irritating his skin and it wasn't that easy for him to manage with his bad hand anyway, so he had this dark blonde scruff on his face and it was honestly pretty great. Brian was completely obsessed with it. It was really funny. Whenever Justin was in the room he couldn't take his eyes off him, and he was always running his knuckles up and down Justin's cheek.


I flicked the lights on and off to get his attention, and he opened his eyes and smiled at me. The bathroom looked strange without our toothbrushes in a cup and Justin's nebulizer pieces drying on the counter or Brian's fifty anti-aging creams on the shelf above the sink.


How long have you been in here? I asked him.


He coughed a little. Just trying to get warm. I wasn't expecting you this early.


Yeah, neither was Brian. I watched him wash his hair. You're not supposed to be bending that elbow.


I'll stop in a minute. Have you eaten?


Yeah, I brought muffins.


Oh, so Brian's already cursed you out. And then inhaled two of them.


He should really be in some scientific study on self control.


Justin turned off the water, and I shook out the towel he'd left hung up; my boy's always prepared. I put it around his shoulders and brought it up to ruffle his hair dry. He smiled up at me when I wrapped it back around his shoulders, then pulled me in for a soft kiss.


How are you? he asked me.


Good. I ran my hands up and down his arms to warm him up. We need to get clothes on you.


Who are you and what have you done with Evan?


I followed him to his room and sat on the bed while he got dressed. Are you excited? I asked him.


Yeah. He pulled his shirt over his head, wincing a little as it jostled his bad elbow. Nervous. How about you?


I didn't really know how to answer that—I didn't want him thinking I was under some impression that the house was mine like it was Brian and Justin's, and it was just...such a fucking important line to walk—so I just shrugged a little.


How did Brian seem? he asked.


Fine. Relaxed, for Brian.


Justin stepped into a pair of jeans, jumping a little to pull them up, and I bit back a smile. I'm waiting for him to freak out, Justin said.


Why would he freak out? This was his idea.


When he was my age, Brian would barely keep groceries in the loft because it was too domestic.


Well, that was like twenty years ago.


Justin laughed. Lord.


Did he freak out when you moved here? I said.


No, but that was leaving a fuckpad in Pittsburgh for a fuckpad in New York.


This is...a very respectable two-bedroom apartment.


Still, he said. No one feels domesticated by moving to New York City. Now we're putting Brian Kinney in a cute little two-story? In the suburbs?


Flushing isn't a suburb. I actually really like Flushing. I didn't spend much time in Queens before I met Brian and Justin, but once I started working at Kinnetik I made a point to get familiar. And Flushing is really cool. It kind of reminds me of the Lower East Side here in Manhattan. Cramped and colorful. Amazing food.


I don't think Brian's ever lived in a place with more than one bathroom in his life, Justin said. I just don't want him to get to the house, realize he bought a house, and then disappear for a week and then I find him in a club in New Jersey passed out with glitter all over him and his pants stolen.


Why not? I said, and he laughed. I pulled him close to me by the hem of his shirt and he came willingly. I was sitting on the bed and he was standing, so he was taller than me, which was funny. I eased him down and kissed him.


You worry too much, I said.


You're the first person who's ever told me that, he said, and kudos to him for managing to keep a straight face.


Come on, let's finish packing up the last minute stuff. Movers will be here soon.


We put the last of the bedroom stuff into a suitcase and went back out to the living room. Brian was on the phone, trying to tell the movers where they should park, and I watched his lips and interpreted for Justin. I'm pretty practiced at reading Brian's lips from when he talks in meetings and stuff at work. Of course there's always an interpreter there, but...I don't know. I like watching him.


The movers figured it out eventually and showed up just after eight, three guys who looked like they might be related. Brian shook their hands while Justin fell into a coughing fit in the kitchen. “Brian Kinney,” he said, then pointed at us. “Evan Taylor. Justin. Don't bother Justin.”


I was pretty much on don't bother Justin duty, making sure he didn't try to lift anything and forcing him to sit down on the floor and take a break and catch his breath every now and then. Every once in a while I'd answer a question from the movers or help pick something up, but mostly Brian was on top of all of that. He was Boss Man Kinnetik Brian, managing everyone and surveying his territory and walking around with that perpetually pissed off look on his face. He spent a lot of time out on the street directing things into the trunk, while I gave directions upstairs.


I met him down on the street at one point, where he was helping haul the mattress up into the truck. This counts as cardio for three days, he said to me. I want it on record.


Noted. Can Justin lift anything? Like light things?


No, his fucking elbow is dislocated. He shouldn't even be signing.


Yeah, that's what I told him, but he told me to ask you.


Well, tell him I said he's supposed to listen to you. He wiped his hands on his jeans. How's he doing?


Remember when you were looking for something positive to say and you said his breathing wasn't terrible?


Yeah.


Okay, well now he's not breathing well.


God. Not a good day. What does he need?


I think just to lie down. And not have moving people looking at him sideways every time me coughs. I'm wondering if I should go over to the house with him now? I can bring some stuff with me and start unpacking, and there's a bed down in the basement already that he can sleep on. I didn't want to call it my bed. I don't know. I didn't buy it.


Brian thought about that for about two seconds before he nodded. Yes. Good. Very good. You want to drive? Do you know how to drive stick?


I don't know how to drive period.


You can't drive?


No.


He gave me a long look, then shook his head. Okay, that's for next week. Here, you still need the keys for the house... He gave me his keys, then took his wallet out and gave me money for a cab. I knew better than to bother protesting at this point.


“Thanks.”


Don't unpack. Lie down with him.


I kissed his cheek. “Okay. See you soon.”


Justin slept on my shoulder most of the cab ride, and I nudged him awake and held onto his elbow on the way down to the basement. He was really anxious about not helping and kept asking if Brian was mad at him, but eventually I got him to lie down on my chest on the mattress. I put my hand under his sweatshirt and felt the scratchy rumble of his breathing.


You can put an easel there, he signed sleepily.


I stroked his hair and worried a little bit. Yeah. I didn't have an easel, though.


It's a nice house, he said, stretching.


It is.


I hope Brian likes it.


He'll be able to wake up a lot later now. Closer to work.


Justin nodded, his eyes drooping, and I made myself sort of crazy wondering if I was supposed to read into the fact that he didn't say you can wake up later too, Evan or if it was just him falling asleep or if it was so obvious I wasn't supposed to need a response, except what direction was it supposed to be obvious in...


Justin and Brian don't spell stuff out. That's the thing about them. They've been together for twenty million years and they don't really need to say stuff to each other anymore, and it's also just not in either of their personalities to do grand gestures and stuff like that. They're everyday sort of people, and I love that about them, because God, what kind of person with my history wouldn't want the goddamn reassurance that there's going to be an everyday? So they're understated and kind of sarcastic and they work with jokes and nuance and touching and I love that. I do.


But sometimes I just really need a straight answer on exactly to what degree I'm living in this house, and the thought of actually asking was the only thing less comfortable than living with not knowing.


So I just kept picking at clues.


Is Brian okay? Justin asked as he was falling asleep.


Brian's fine. He loves you. Wants you to rest.


Are you okay?


I'm great. I love you. I want you to rest.


He laughed a little. Rest from what? I haven't done anything.


Breathing. Close your eyes. I pulled his hand between mine as it started to shake. Okay, easy.


He fell asleep pretty quickly after that—even little seizures like that are so goddamn exhausting, I don't know how he does it—and after I was sure he was settled I crawled out from under him and went upstairs and started unpacking stuff in the kitchen. They'd knocked down a wall in here so the kitchen was open into the living room, so really the whole house was one massive room, besides the bedrooms, the upstairs, and the basement. The cork floors made my footsteps feel soft and wood beams crisscrossed the high ceiling. It was warm here.


The movers got there not long after, with Brian and, a little surprisingly, Molly in tow. She was wearing sunglasses and a massive NYU sweatshirt and her hair was in a messy bun on top of her head. She came and gave me a hug and pouted. Brian's making me carry things.


I hate him, I said, and she nodded strongly. Brian flicked me in the back of the head on my way out to the moving truck, and I smiled a little.


“He's asleep?” he asked me, our hands full trying to double-team a box that was full of...I don't know, rocks, if I had to guess.


“Yeah. I don't know how long he'll let himself rest. He's convinced he should be helping.”


Brian sighed. “Justin.”


“His hand was seizing earlier.”


“Yeah, it was doing it all night too. I'm going to figure out how to fucking schedule the bad days for weekends and bank holidays.”


“He's stressed. It was always going to be a bad day.”


“Yeah, you're probably right.”


He went down to check on Justin while Molly and I directed the movers. She peeked into the smallest bedroom on the main floor that they'd converted into a closet. This is the dream, she said.


Seriously.


This is quite the step up from your fucking shithole, she said.


If you think my current place is a shithole, you should see what it's a step up from.


Well, you'll like living here, she said, and then she scrunched her nose up—she looks so much like Justin when she does that—and said, What?


What, 'what?'


What was that face?


There was no face.


Oh, bullshit. I know when you have a face.


This is a big day for Brian and Justin, I said. It's their first house! It's a whole milestone. I don't want to...intrude.


She stared at me. You're a moron.


No, I'm careful. You could learn a thing or two.


She laughed. Yeah, I could tiptoe around everyone like you do! Or I could actually get what I want!


What I want is not to ruin this for them, I said.


Oh, yeah, that's you. Just running around ruining shit. And that's them! Fragile as glass, Brian and Justin.


I groaned. If I give you twenty dollars, will you walk up to Brian and say so, is Evan moving in or what?


I don't know. Give me twenty dollars and find out.


“Justin thinks he's going to have some domesticity freak out,” I said a little later, while we put some of Justins books on the shelf.


You mean you don't?


“Wait, seriously?”


You weren't around the first time my mom called him her son-in-law. He like, wouldn't even look at Justin for hours. Trust me, the guy's got issues.


“That was a long time ago. They're married now. He calls you his sister.”


Listen, I'm hoping for the best too. I'm just saying, don't be surprised if there's some shit that comes out tonight once everything's quiet and it really hits him what he's done.


Brian came back upstairs a few minutes later. He clapped his hands on my shoulder and kissed the top of Molly's head without saying anything. How's he doing? I asked.


Still sleeping. I put the nebulizer on him. He dragged his fingers carelessly across my shoulder blades. Are you drinking enough?


I'm fine.


How about you, Lilith, you need anything?


Molly shook her head. Someone taller than me to do the top shelf books.


Yeah, I'll finish this. Can you go watch the movers? One of them just brought in my six thousand dollar Terzani lamp like it was a flat-packed chair from Ikea.


“Yeah, yeah,” she said, and went out the door to bust some balls.


“Ikea has some good chairs,” I said.


If only you could hear the things that come out of your mouth.


Do we need to be worried? I said, once Molly couldn't see.


He shook his head. He already looks better than he did back at the apartment. Getting his color back.


Maybe it's the lighting.


Without a Terzani lamp installed? Impossible.


Keep your pretention out of my basement, I said, my basement before I could stop myself. Brian just smirked, which didn't give me much. Brian will smirk at anything.


The movers were done by three, and Brian shook their hands and tipped them what I'm sure was some exorbitant amount and the house felt so huge once they were gone. We kind of stood around for a minute like we didn't know what to do, and then drifted around doing various things; Brian unpacked dishes in the kitchen, I swept up the dirt we'd tracked in, Molly flopped down on the couch and said if she had to move one more inch she would probably die. I wandered into the kitchen to ask Brian if we should think about food, and halfway through Brian stretched out one arm without taking his eyes off me, and a minute later Justin appeared underneath it. Sometimes it's like hearing people have superpowers, I swear.


Hey, how are you feeling? I asked him.


He yawned and gave me a thumbs-up.


The girls will be here pretty soon with pizza, Brian said. He touched Justin's chin to get his attention. You hungry?


Justin nodded.


Good. That's good.


I think I want to take a bath, Justin said.


Go for it.


Yeah?


That's what it's here for. Get to it. He studied him. Bring Evan, you look seizurey.


Their tub is fucking enormous, like a small swimming pool. It took forever to fill up, so we fooled around for a while, nipping at each other while I peeled his clothes off of him. I sat on the edge of the tub and he straddled me and we made out for a while.


Someone's got some energy back, I said.


He smiled and laced his hands behind my neck.


God, you're fucking beautiful, I said.


“I was thinking the same thing,” he said.


The tub filled eventually, he sighed as she sank into the water. I laughed. “Good?”


Oh my God, this is everything. Holy shit. I'm never getting out. You'll have to bury me in this.


That just sounds convenient.


He grinned, and God, it just lights ups his whole face. You sound like Brian.


Occupational hazard.


Don't I know it. He shifted some in the water. I'm sorry I didn't help today.


There's still plenty to unpack.


Good. He took a deep breath. Except I'm never getting out of this tub.


We can bring you some boxes in here. And you can kind of just fling stuff at the shelves.


You always have an innovative solution.


That's from my tragic backstory as a street kid, I said, and he smiled and reached out of the water and took my hand.


He didn't end up having a seizure, so that was a nice surprise. He got out and we went back out to the main room just as Emily and Gwen arrived with pizza and the baby. Justin couldn't pick Jane up with his shitty elbow, so I grabbed her instead and we took her on a tour to see her room and the backyard. She didn't really care, because she's, you know, ten months old, she was happy to see Justin and that was sweet.


We ate pizza and lay around the half-unpacked room and I couldn't help but fucking marvel at this place, now that it was full of people signing. The lighting was amazing, and the sight lines were so clear that you could see what someone was saying from the kitchen as soon as you walked in the front door. I went upstairs to look at what Brian had done with the office and the gym and what Molly had already declared was her room, and then I stepped out onto the balcony and looked down at the quiet street and the not-quite-distant twinkling lights of downtown Flushing. I wondered if you could hear the train.


It was cold, but I didn't feel cold.


Daphne and Derek came over a little later, and after everyone had unpacked for a while we opened up a few bottles of wine and sat around the living room, laughing at Daphne's stories about her nightmare patients and making faces for the zillions of pictures Emily took. I sat on the floor with Jane, playing with her toy piano that probably makes noise, but all she cares about is that it lights up. Justin was asleep, his legs slung over Brian's lap, and Brian signed with one hand and held Justin's head steady against his neck with the other.


Everyone left before too late, and I lingered by the door feeling awkward and not sure if I was supposed to go. Molly smacked me as she pulled on her coat. Ask them, she said.


What if you stay over too? Then it wouldn't just be me. More normal. Okay, so I was a little desperate.


I have a dick appointment, she said. And you have to find this out sooner or later. Just ask. How else are you going to know? Bye bye, darling.


Brian was cleaning up in the kitchen, but as I came back from saying goodbyes he looked like he heard something and went over to the open door of their bedroom. He leaned against the doorframe, smiling just a little, and signed, small, You okay? You need anything?


He watched whatever Justin said, then turned around and saw me watching and looked a little sheepish. How are you? he asked me.


“I'm...I'm good.”


He nodded. Okay.


He went back to the kitchen, and I followed him, and we tidied up quietly for a while, rinsing out wine glasses and loading the dishwasher. The mood was relaxed, but something about Brian seemed...charged, electric, and suddenly he put down the plate he was holding and held himself up on the counter, and before I could ask if he was okay he turned to me and he had his lip pulled into his mouth and he was smiling, he was smiling so much.


We did it, he said to me. His eyes were sparkling. We got Justin into a house.


You can't not smile looking at that. You can't. “We did it,” I said.


He laughed and grabbed me and twirled me around, and then he kissed me, soft, quick, and tapped his forehead against mine.


I don't know if I can explain what it feels like. I don't think there are words.


We did it. We did it.


And when we were done cleaning the kitchen and Brian said he needed to get some work done, he said, You're not leaving, right?


No, I said. I'm not leaving.

End Notes:

 

Number 100! Had to make it a milestone.

Chapter 101 - Underwater by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin can't breathe so well.

Underwater

LaVieEnRose




Okay, come on, you know the drill. Hard as you can, blow blow blow.


I sat over the edge of the bed in our room in the new house, my feet planted on the floor and still feeling like I was moving, like I was on a ship rocking on the sea. Brian stood in front of me, his phone in one hand and his eyes on me. He didn't look scared, but he didn't look exactly relaxed, either. God knows I wasn't.


My doctor had warned me ever since my lungs began their new scarred existence that this was going to be a more miserable allergy season than I could really anticipate, and less than forty-eight hours into it I could confirm they were onto something. It was barely March, and I'd still woken up that morning completely stuffed up, coughing like I hadn't since I was really sick months ago. It was a Sunday, so we'd all been at home, and I spent half the day sneezing and the other half hiding in the bathtub dreaming about not being alive. I finally fell asleep a little after midnight, thanks to a lot of tea and Klonopin because not being able to breathe was really starting to freak me out, and now it was three in the morning and my chest felt like someone was sitting on it and everything was really starting to swim.


Brian had woken me up, sitting me up in bed and thrusting my inhaler into my hand before I was even fully aware of what was going on, and after I did a peak flow reading to see how much air I was even getting out he put me right on the nebulizer and started getting stuff ready for the hospital. Now we were checking if the neb had even taken the edge off.


I blew as hard as I could into the peak flow meter and handed it back to Brian, because focusing my eyes on a number seemed like a lot of work. He rubbed my back and watched the screen, waiting for the result. As soon as it lit up he was on the phone.


We're going?


Yeah, Sunshine, 124, he signed, with the phone between his ear and his shoulder. This isn't getting better. We've got to make a field trip.


At that point I would have agreed to have my arms pulled off if he told me it would make me feel better. I signed Okay, and tried to breathe while Brian talked into the phone.


You need to put a mask on, okay? he said. I'm going to go tell Evan we're going.


I don't want to wear a mask. It felt like there was a hand over my mouth already; the idea of putting another layer over it was fucking horrifying.


You can't breathe the pollen out there. Put it on. Can you get you get your shoes on?


I said yes, but once he was gone I just... didn't. I just stayed exactly where I was. I couldn't remember exactly where my shoes were and getting up to look for them sounded impossibly hard, and also I kept forgetting what it was I was supposed to be looking for. I did manage to get a mask on, but it felt so awful I immediately pushed it off and let it hang around my neck.


Brian came back, off the phone now, and he produced my shoes from...somewhere and knelt down in front of me and put them on without pausing. They're going to have an interpreter waiting for us, Brian said. They're all ready for you. He gave me a quick kiss and pulled the mask back into place.


“No...”


Yeah, you have to. I know.


He pulled me up and wrapped an arm around my waist and led me out to the driveway. Driving you to the hospital, he said, as he slid into the car next to me. Haven't done this in a while, huh? He was talking to me really gently, and I couldn't quite figure it out. He wasn't rushing. He adjusted his rearview mirror.


I was maybe about to ask him about that, but then I sneezed instead, and that tired me out so much that I forgot what I was doing.


At least this is letting us check out the new ER for the first time when you're not dying, Brian said while he drove, and I didn't know whether to be relieved by the news that I wasn't dying or very concerned that I was dying and Brian and didn't seem to realize.


We got to the hospital quickly, and Brian parked and half-lifted me out of the car and set me on my feet. We're the Deaf guy with the asthma attack, Brian signed—and presumably simcommed—to the nurse at the front desk. She motioned to someone, and a woman came over and quickly introduced herself as the interpreter, and someone else put me in a wheelchair. Mask off now, kid.


We'd faxed over all my medical records ages ago in preparation for...this, basically, but Brian still gave them the abridged version while a nurse took my vitals. She put her stethoscope to my chest and turned around to say something to a doctor, and I looked at the interpreter to find out what it was, but she was busy telling the doctor what Brian was signing.


I grabbed his hand to get his attention, and shut him up. Can you just speak English? I need the interpreter.


Yeah. Sorry. Yeah.


It was kind of weird for Brian to be talking about me right in front of me in a language I couldn't understand, but I was too out of it to really care. I motioned for the interpreter and told her I thought it was getting worse, and she spoke to the doctor. I saw Brian's attention slide away from his conversation with the nurse and over to her.


We're going to give you some shots now, okay? the doctor said to me, through the interpreter, and I nodded hard. Brian hates shots and doesn't even sort of understand how I'm okay with them, how when I'm sitting here and I can't breathe a quick sting is just about the least of my worries, so he took my hand when the doctor swabbed off my shoulder.


One, two, three shots, and I felt my lungs let go. They still ached like hell, and my skin sort of felt like it was vibrating now, but at least I could breathe. Making a lot more noise now, Brian said, kissing my cheek.


That's good, right?


Yeah, that's very good.


They strapped a nebulizer on me and started an IV line, and my numbers started heading the right way so they pretty much left me alone. Brian made conversation with the interpreter about the pollen count and I drank in medicine and straddled the line between epinephrine-induced jitters and bone-deep exhaustion. Brian scratched his fingernails in light circles over my back. Better now? he asked.


A little. This still didn't feel sustainable in the least, but at least it didn't hurt as much to pull in air. Yeah.


I should text Evan, tell him we're not getting rid of you tonight after all.


Was he worried?


Brian shook his head. I told him you were fine, we just needed to get this taken care of.


“Yeah.” I sighed as best I could. Fuck, you two have that meeting tomorrow. It was a big fucking deal. They had a client coming in all the way from China.


We'll be fine. I used to do meetings a lot bigger than this one after an hour of quality sleep passed out on the couches at Babylon.


Yeah, but you were a lot younger then, I said, and he pinched me.


They sent us home a little before six with a prescription for steroids and a long list of directions we already knew. I was half-asleep when Brian loaded me into the car and fully-asleep when he pulled me back out of it. Evan was up already, dressed to go out for a run, and he gave me a hug as soon as I came in the door. You okay?


I nodded.


It's just asthma, right? he said, with a glance at Brian. Not an infection.


Just asthma, I said. Not contagious.


He kissed my forehead. I wasn't worried about that.


I need to lie down.


Brian walked with me to the bedroom, his hand under my elbow, and got me settled in bed. I closed my eyes and pulled my arms over my face and opened my mouth when he tapped my lip with the nebulizer mouthpiece. I fell asleep in about half a second.


And it felt like another half a second when he was shaking me awake. I shook my head and curled up small and coughed, and coughed, and coughed. I actually couldn't fucking believe how shitty I felt, which was saying something after the couple of months I'd had. And this time I didn't even have a fever to float away on. I silently cursed every time I'd complained before this that I couldn't breathe. I thought that wasn't breathing?


I opened my eyes when the coughing finally stopped. Brian was standing over me, already dressed for work. He handed me a a coffee mug. Caffeine will help.


What time is it?


A little after seven. Come here. He stuck a thermometer in my ear and waited. Good. No fever. Gotta get up.


I can't get up.


From here to the car to the couch in the office. Barely moving.


I held the coffee cup to my chest to try to ease how fucking badly it hurt. “Can I just stay here?”


God, your voice. No. He counted out pills. We've got to go. Drink that. You need to stay hydrated, and we can't do any of the fun ways. He handed me the pills. Here. Fucking blasting you with steroids.


I need my inhaler first.


He shook his head. I just took you off the neb ten minutes ago.


I don't care, I said, and he shrugged and handed it to me.


It took a while to get me dressed and up, and by the time we went out to the main room I was just about ready to curl up and die. I was starting to sneeze again, and I can feel every breath leaking out of me and squeaking on the way in. Oh, honey, Evan said when he saw me.


Don't, I'm okay, I said, and he nodded and hugged me. He knows I hate when people are upset when I don't feel well, because he hates it too. You feel guilty and shitty and responsible and I just...did not want to deal with that.


Which didn't really explain why I was kind of pissed at Brian for thinking I was at all up to coming into the office, but that probably wasn't much more complicated than that I really, really wanted to lie down right this second.


They usually take the train to work, but we drove today. My eyes were burning just from the half a minute outside, and I curled up in a ball in the passenger seat and coughed the whole way to Kinnetik. Brian and Evan left me alone mostly, but Brian did reach over at one point and tap his finger next to my mouth. My name.


Evan had to go straight down to art to get ready for this meeting—it was some kind of all-day affair, with all these different departments doing different presentations, and of course Brian had to oversee the whole thing—so he kissed my cheek and left as soon as we were through the front door. Brian took his coffee off Emily's desk and she handed him a huge stack of files. She also had an enormous vase of flowers on her desk, and I was pretty sure I was never going to stop sneezing.


Emily glared at Brian. You're supposed to tell me when he's coming in so I don't put out fucking flowers.


I've had a lot on my plate, he said, barely looking up from one of the files. Can you get him settled, please?


Emily shot him one more dirty look and put her hand on my waist and walked me into Brian's office. Bless you, bless you, bless you, she said, thrusting a box of tissues at me. Why are you here? Those clients are coming today and...you should be in bed. What is going on with you? You look like shit.


I slumped back into the couch and tried to catch my breath enough to blow my nose. I had an asthma attack last night, he didn't want to leave me.


Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're still having an asthma attack.


I'm aware.


Is Brian?


Of course. But what the fuck else could he do? You said it yourself. Those clients.


Brian came in then, reading through a file as he walked to his desk. Neb, he signed to me, without looking up.


I sucked in a breath. “Can you do it?”


He set down the files. Yeah. He came over and sat next to me on the couch and started setting up the nebulizer, reaching out every so often to scratch me gently around the ribs, which felt nice. He talked to Emily about preparations for the client while he did it, then added, Can you get him some tea? and she nodded and went. You're starting to get quiet again, he said to me.


Yeah.


He handed me the mask for the nebulizer. Are you cold?


I nodded, and he got up and took one out of the closet and put it around my shoulders. His hands were really gentle on me. Okay. There you go. He palmed my forehead. Good.


I reached out to him and he came, and I just clung for a minute, and he let me, rubbing his hand in circles on my back. He pressed a kiss to my ear, and I wiped my eyes when we pulled away.


You need anything? he said.


I coughed and shook my head.


I'm going to be in and out of here all day, he said.


I know.


Okay. Try to sleep. You'll feel better soon.


Can Emily get rid of the flowers?


Yeah, I'll tell her. He frowned at the file in his hand and signed, That's not right, to himself, small.


What's wrong?


Uh...this figure isn't the latest...God. Let me check. He went over to this desk and booted up his laptop and a minute later he was barking orders to someone on the phone, and he didn't even look up when Emily came in and gave a mug of tea.


Is Jane here? I asked. Maybe she would help me take my mind off this shit.


She's with my mom on Mondays.


Oh, right.


Brian waved Emily over and started asking her something about one of the files, and they started arguing about...something, I don't know, I think a software thing, and I closed my eyes and curled up and coughed for a long time. I tried to hold each of my breaths for a little while to give the nebulizer a better shot at doing fucking anything, but I'd just end up falling into another coughing fit every time. My mouth tasted coppery and everything was getting spotty, and I couldn't imagine how fucking loud this coughing must be. Hopefully the Chinese clients were Deaf.


I felt Brian's hand on my head after about twenty minutes of that fucking shit. I have to go meet with art.


Yeah.


Do you want me to get someone to stay with you?


Who? He'd need Emily there with him, and Evan, obviously, was art.


He sighed and scratched behind my ear. I don't know.


No. I don't want people looking at me.


Okay. I'll be back in...I don't know. Depends if they fucking listen to me. He bent down and kissed my cheek. Keep it up. Think about what you want for lunch.


I shook my head.


Yes, he said. I'll be back soon.


It just got worse as the day went on. I don't do great without Brian when I really don't feel well—I just get panicky, and he's the only one who can calm me down—and he didn't come back for ages. Sitting still wasn't working at all, because I felt this primal need to rip my ribcage open, but I didn't have the breath to pace around like I wanted to, so I just shook my legs and pulled at my hair and tried to do fucking anything to make me feel like my skin wasn't shrinking around me. I turned on the fan and let it blow in my face and tried to convince my body to just let the air in, but it was so goddamn exhausting and it wasn't getting any better, no matter how many times I started the nebulizer up again.


Brian finally came back, sign-bitching to himself or maybe to me about how long that meeting had taken and that marketing always finds a way to co-opt meetings and then fuck them up in a spectacular fashion or whatever else was going on, I don't know. He barely looked at me for a few minutes while he got that out of his system and went to his desk to shuffle stuff around and curse at his computer, and then finally he put down the shit he was holding and turned to me. You doing okay?


I shrugged.


You look nice.


I look like shit.


Even so.


I sneezed and rubbed my eyes. Did you get rid of those flowers?


Shit. I forgot. I'll do it now.


I curled up on the couch and pulled the blanket over my head. Brian came back a few minutes later and pulled it off. Yeah, that'll help you breathe.


I coughed and glared at him.


You thought about what you want for lunch?


I can't eat.


Need to keep your strength up, he said, going back to his laptop.


“You sound like Debbie.”


He gave me a look.


I just want to go home, I said.


What could you do at home that you can't do here?


Cough without bothering people.


Everyone's used to you.


Die in peace.


Cute. He came over and scratched behind my ear. I'll try to get out of here as early as I can. I know this sucks.


I nodded a little. How long are you in here?


Not long. I have another thing coming up. He sat down next to me and guided my head to his shoulder and sat with me for a while. We couldn't really see each other well enough to talk, but he rubbed my back and kissed my forehead every so often.


“I love you,” I said.


He sat me up gently. I think it's time for more Benadryl.


Are you trying to shut me up?


He laughed. No. You just sound really stuffed up.


I took more while you were in the meeting.


Oh. Okay.


I started sneezing again, and he rested his hand on the back of my head until I was done. I coughed and rubbed my eyes and felt like I was losing my fucking mind. Everything was really starting to spin, and my throat felt tight.


I have to go, Brian said, small.


I blew my nose. “Okay.”


He kissed my cheek. Feel better, he said, and I nodded heavily and lay down.


I managed to sleep a little bit, but I woke up gasping and choking with a splitting headache. I leaned forwards with my hands on my knees and tried to get my heart to slow down. This is bad, a voice in my head was saying. This is bad, this is bad.


My inhaler actually helped a little, and by the time Brian came in a few minutes later I'd calmed down some. He was walking fast and looked harried, and he set his briefcase down on top of his filing cabinet. Hi. How are you?


That depends. Can you overdose on Albuterol?


I don't know. Let's find out. He came over and sat on the ottoman in front of me an pulled my bad hand into his lap. Today has been such a shitshow, he said, one handed, his other massaging my palm. The client's going to take one look at our first presentation and head right back to JFK.


I stifled a sneeze into my shoulder. “You're too hard on yourself.”


No such thing as too hard, he said, and I rolled my eyes. Emily's ordering you soup, since you were unhelpful.


“Yeah.”


He tilted his head to the side and looked at me. You can do this. You've had allergies your whole life.


“I know.”


At least it's not an infection, right?


I nodded, and he squeezed my hand and gave it back to me.


“You must be tired,” I said. “Up all night.”


Yeah, we'll crash tonight. Steroids should have kicked in by then. You'll feel a lot better. Evan's got his volunteer-whatever tonight, but we can order in, watch a movie.


“Yeah.”


He raised an eyebrow.


I'm not chatty right now, I said.


Yeah, I can see that. Do you want me to blow you in the bathroom?


I wheezed out a sigh. “No.”


You want to get back on the neb?


Did you bring oxygen?


Does it look like I brought oxygen?


I crossed my arms.


Air here is good, he said. Get back on the neb.


So I did, curling up under the blanket and feeling pretty sorry for myself while Brian took a phone call. Evan came in with lunch after a while and sat crosslegged on the ottoman.


If I eat I'll die, I said.


I'm reasonably sure that's an exaggeration, he said.


Is that sure enough to risk it?


It's soup. Practically drinking.


You win this round.


So I picked at the soup while Brian and Evan dug into Thai food and made fun of just about everyone they'd had to deal with that morning. The clients were coming right after lunch, and Brian was getting nervous and hiding it behind his usual disguise of boredom and annoyance. He complained about his food, complained about Evan's hair, complained about the clients, and complained about me. It's soup, not a fucking Hieronymus Bosch. Stop marveling at it and eat.


Just because I knew he was only picking at me because he was nervous at the meeting did not mean I was any more in the mood for it. “Back off, Brian.”


Blow your nose, Christ.


I started getting worse pretty suddenly about halfway through the lunch break. I took another dose of Benadryl because my eyes were burning and and my face felt like it was throbbing. I was lightheaded as hell, and I would have gladly given all of Brian's money to someone who could make me stop sneezing.


I figured it was just the meds wearing off, but a few minutes after it started getting really bad, Emily opened the office doors. We have a problem, she said to Brian.


I have enough problems. What?


The clients are here.


Brian checked his watch. They're early. Fuck.


That's not the problem.


No, that's definitely a problem.


One of them is blind, Emily said.


Brian was already up, shuffling through files. That's not a problem. Stephanie can work with their translator if you need to talk to him.


He has a service dog.


Okay...? Oh.


Yeah.


Shit. Brian turned and looked at me, and I slumped back on the couch and daydreamed about being swallowed up by the earth. On a normal day I could have dealt with being in the office with a dog; I'd be sniffly, but it would be fine. This was not a normal day.


Evan squeezed my hand.


Brian turned to Emily. Okay. We move the meeting in Conference B to Conference E so at least it's a little further from him. Call the cleaning company and tell them they're coming tomorrow and fucking sanitizing this place.


Okay.


And you, he said to me. Do not leave this office.


Haven't exactly been doing a lot of that anyway.


You'll be fine. If you can survive an evening with your mom's boyfriend's Great Dane, you'll survive this.


My lungs were functional then.


He pinched the bridge of his nose. I don't know what else to do.


I didn't either. The obvious answer, of course, was I could just go home, but that meant dealing with the cab driver by myself when I sounded like I was dying of tuberculosis and then being home alone for hours, and even though Brian was going to be busy with these meetings the whole afternoon, he'd still be close by if I was here. He'd still check on me. I'd still know that he could get to me in a second if I needed him.


And I just...I was past the point where I felt okay being away from him. I hit a point, and once I'm there, I turn into the clingiest motherfucker imaginable, and I never know I'm there until someone—me—floats the idea of being separated from Brian and I feel like my world's going to end.


And now he had to go to this meeting.


Evan kissed me and told me to keep breathing, Emily left to call the cleaning service, and Brian came over to me and planted a hand on my shoulder. Okay. You're fine. Stay on the neb, take a nap, I'll come in when I can. Keep the doors shut.


I'm not going to be getting up.


That's my boy, he said, and I smiled as best I could and he kissed me and then he was gone.


I did get up, actually, because I had to pee, and then I ended up staying in Brians bathroom looking at at how my throat pulled in when I breathed and trying to convince myself that this was okay. If it was bad, Brian would know, I said. If it were really bad, he wouldn't have gone to that meeting.


I was too itchy and antsy to sit back down, so I paced the office until everything started getting spotty, then I sat on the floor because the couch was too far away and coughed for a hundred years. My throat felt like someone had taken sandpaper to it, and all the air felt hot in my lungs, like I was breathing in a campfire.


Right. Neb. The cold mist felt nice, at the very least.


Brian came back, clearly in a hurry. “How'd it go?” I asked, and he winced.


Don't talk. I only have a minute, put your head back.


As antsy as eyedrops make me, I really didn't care right then. I looked up and tried not to flinch when Brian squeezed drops into my eyes. I blinked and waited for him to be clear again.


Better? he asked me.


Yeah, I said, with a sneeze.


Bless you. Still breathing?


I shrugged.


I've got to run. He kissed my cheek. Keep it up.


The afternoon passed really, really slowly. Brian came in whenever he could, and Evan when he couldn't, but I was still alone for long stretches of time and I got to a point where I couldn't do much more than sit and shiver. Every minute my chest was getting tighter and tighter, and I was starting to get really fucking scared.


Finally Brian came in. They loved us, he said. Three million dollar deal. I'm gonna buy you something pretty.


I tried a smile. Where's Evan?


Had to run out for his volunteer shift. Told me I have to make you dinner, so I hope you want take-out.


I can't eat.


Brian went to his desk and packed up his stuff. Thanks for being a champ today, he said. He picked up his briefcase. Ready to go?


I can't get up.


Sure you can. Come on. He came over to me and offered his hand, then sighed and took his phone out of his pocket. Can people just...


“Can I have an epipen?”


He glanced up from his phone. What?


I sucked in a breath. Can I have an epipen?


He dropped down to a crouch in front of me. What are you talking about? Did you eat something? He took my wrist and checked my pulse.


“No, just...” I said, and I gestured around me and tried to breathe.


Brian kept looking at me in confusion, and then suddenly it was like...like he'd been hit, or something. His face fell, and he went back on his heels a little, and I swear I could almost hear the small noise he made.


Christ, it's that bad? he said.


I breathed in and shivered.


Yeah, sweetheart, hang on. He went to his desk drawer and was back a second later, sitting down next to me and tugging down the waistband of my sweatpants. I closed my eyes and felt pressure, and a sharp skin, and then air. Brian rubbed my back and took the needle out.


You okay? he said.


I nodded.


We should go to the hospital.


I just want to go home. Please?


He rubbed his hand over his mouth. Justin... he said, and then he shook his head and looked away from me. And seeing him look like that hurt worse than my fucking lungs.


“I'm okay,” I said, and he turned back to me and God, his eyes were so wide. He nodded and swallowed.


Let's go home, he said.


He was quiet in the car, but he kept a hand on me and I caught him looking over at me a lot. Once we were home he nudged me gently as we went through the front door. Go run a bath, he said. I'll be there in a minute.


I still felt kind of floaty and weird from the epipen, but at least I could breathe a lot better. I ran the water as hot as it would go and sat down on the edge and waited for it to fill. I thought about taking my clothes off but that sounded like way too much work.


Brian came in when the tub was about halfway full, talking on the phone and carrying a mug. He handed it to me and said, Do you want to go to the allergist tomorrow or the next day?


Next day. I needed a day not to move. I sipped from the mug and probably made a face at how weird it tasted.


Turmeric, Brian fingerspelled. Supposed to help. He hung up the phone. Okay. Eleven on Wednesday. Arms up, come on.


He took my clothes off, then his, and eased us both into the water, me nestled between his legs. The hot water felt goddamn amazing, and I took a slow breath and coughed and coughed. Brian held me still.


Warm? he signed in front of my face once I was done, and I nodded. He wrapped his arms around my chest and just held me for a while, and I leaned back into him and closed my eyes and let myself drift away, covering his hand with mine when he signed I'm sorry, on my chest.


We stayed in the water for a long time, and he washed my hair and made me drink all the weird turmeric stuff and wrapped me up in like four towels when we were done. He dried my hair carefully, then brought me to our room and dressed me in soft clothes and checked my peak flow. Okay, he said. You're doing okay. You want oxygen or neb?


Oxygen, I said, and he nodded and got me set up with the cannula. He lay down next to me on the bed, looking at me, and brushed my hair out of my eyes.


Justin, he said.


“Hi.”


“Hi.” He sighed. I think sometimes I have to tell myself that it can't possibly be as miserable as it looks.


“I am glad it's not an infection,” I said, and he shook his head and kissed my forehead.


This counts, he said. You count.


**


I woke up breathless and a little panicked some amount of time after, I don't know. It was dark, and Brian and Evan were asleep on either side of me, Evan in front, Brian behind. Evan's a heavy sleeper and he takes his aids out at night, but Brian stirred as soon as I started coughing and sat me up carefully and helped me to the edge of the bed. He handed me the nebulizer mouthpiece and sat with me the whole time, rubbing his palm in circles on my chest.


The treatment helped, but not that much, and it made me jittery and upset. I just felt like...I don't know, like it was never going to get better, like I was never going to feel like I was sure I would get to keep breathing.


Brian took my hands and pulled me up and out of our bedroom. At first I thought we were going to run another bath, but then he took me, of all places, to Jane's room. He sat down in the rocking chair and said, Come here.


“What?”


Come here, he insisted, and I sat down on his lap, feeling impossibly awkward, but then he arranged me so my legs were scrunched up and I was kind of just this ball on top of him, and he tucked my head onto his shoulder and set the chair in motion, and I just felt something inside me kind of curl up and slow down.


We rocked without talking for a long time.


Eventually he said, so small I almost missed it, I did this when you were really sick. Do you remember?


No.


Your fever was so high. He rested his cheek against the top of my head. I think that was the highest it got. You'd had a seizure and you couldn't stop crying.


I held onto his shirt.


So I took you out to the recliner in the living room and I just rocked you for a while. Like this.


I felt his heartbeat, and the easy whisper of his breath going in and out.


You like this, he said. You like this when you feel really terrible.

 

I closed my eyes, buried my face in his neck, and let the rhythm carry me back to sleep. Like a ship, I thought as I drifted off. Floating.

End Notes:

Just pure h/c nothingness.

 

Also I know I've been really awful about replying to comments but I swear I read and love them. I just get dumb anxiety about answering them. I'm neurotic. But thank you for leaving them and please don't stop.

Chapter 102 - Michael and Evan by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Michael comes to stay at the house for a weekend while Brian's out of town.

Michael and Evan

LaVieEnRose



I was just closing up the shop on a Monday night when a FaceTime call came in from Justin. I finished wishing goodbye to a a kid who clearly had some kind of comic book trust fund for how often he came in here and picked up. Hey!


Justin grinned. Hey. He was sitting in the armchair he loves. He'd grown out some scruff and somehow it made him look even younger. The kid's a wonder. How are you?


Good, good. And you look about a hundred times better. I'd talked to him the week before, when Brian had called me and said, I need to go to the gym, can you make sure he doesn't fucking die, and I'd stayed on the line with an unbelievably allergic Justin for an hour. He'd been too tired to hold much of a conversation, so I'd mostly just watched him wheeze and rub pitifully at his swollen eyes.


“The wonders of prednisone,” he said, and I know enough about immune systems to know that him having to be on an immunosuppressant, given the state of his system, was probably a rough decision. But at least he could breathe now. “Is this a good time to talk?”


Yeah, just finishing up for the day. Everything okay?


He nodded and coughed a little. “Everything's fine. I just have a question for you!” His snapped above the camera for a minute and he nodded, pointed, and signed something way too fast for me to understand. “Sorry,” he said to me. “New house, no one can remember where anything is.”


You're fine. So. Question?


“Yeah! Sooooo are you busy this weekend?”


No busier than any other weekend.


“So what would you say about coming up here? I was thinking about the storylines you ran past me and I just had this burst of Rage-inspiration and I want to see what we can get done if we're both in the same space. Look.” He held up a sketchpad and showed me some...incredibly badass panels. “They're just drafts.”


They're amazing.


“Brian's gone this weekend, so we could actually get stuff done without him trying to make us go out and do things. It is my weekend with the baby but she's a lot less work than Brian.”


Who isn't?


“Me, besides that no one.” Hard to argue with that. “And you could see the new house! We've got a whole guest room and everything. Please come? I'd love to see you.”


Where's Brian going?


“Seattle for a conference. He doesn't leave until Friday night, so if you get here early enough you can see him. And he'll be back on Sunday.”


Okay, so it didn't take a genius to figure out what was really going on here. And I don't mean that in any cynical way; I had no doubt that Justin genuinely wanted to see me and get some work done on Rage, and I wasn't at all annoyed at being asked to come babysit. But I figured, yeah, that was what was really going on. Brian was going away for a weekend and he'd called me to watch Justin while he went to the gym. Of course he couldn't be alone for a whole weekend. And with the baby to take care of? He needed a hand. And with all the friends they have in New York...yeah, maybe I was a little flattered to have been asked.


I need to check with Ben, but that should be fine, I said.


Ben of course thought it was great, and the trip was on. I had to stay at the shop too late on Friday to get to New York before Brian left, unfortunately, but I'd see him on Sunday when he got back. Their new place is a lot closer to the airport than the apartment in Manhattan, so it was just a short cab ride after a short flight. Easy peasy.


I'd seen pictures of the house, of course, but a part of me was still convinced that, I don't know, this was some elaborate prank and Brian and Justin were really living on the hundred and nineteenth floor of a renovated art gallery in Chelsea or something, with a nightclub on the first floor and an eligible gay bachelor on each of the other hundred and seventeen. But...no, it really was a light blue house with little trees underneath the windows and a mailbox and a light on the front porch. It was decently sized, not as big as our place, but this was New York, not Pittsburgh, and there were only two of them versus three, sometimes four, sometimes five of us.


I rang the bell and watched the lights flash to through the windows, smiling a little to myself. Justin answered the door a minute later, Jane in his arms. I kissed his cheek and said Need to wash my hands, and he pointed to some hand sanitizer on a tiny table right by the door with their keys and the mail. Of course.


I rubbed it between my palms and looked around. The whole room was open, bigger than their entire last apartment, with an area with couches and chairs and a TV and a cluster of bookshelves and the kitchen down at the other end. There was a playpen on the floor and stuff on all the surfaces; art supplies, tissue boxes, baby toys, small little sculptures. The ceilings were high, with criss-crossing wooden beams, and despite the clutter everything looked, unsurprisingly, very clean. And of course there were paintings everywhere, bold streaks of turquoise and golden yellow and deep red.


I barely noticed all of that, though, because of how loud the music was. I didn't know how they didn't have neighbors coming over to complain. Justin said something to me out loud as he set the baby down, but God knows what it was.


Music, I signed.


There's music playing? he said, and it's so funny; obviously I know Justin is Deaf, but there aren't very many instances where it's blatantly obvious that he can't hear something—it just doesn't come up that often—and it's always kind of hilarious when it does. I think of Justin being Deaf the way I'd think about someone speaking Spanish instead of English, I guess. I forget—not on any logical level, obviously, but just like...you know—that it means that he literally can't hear things. So I guess I'm an idiot, basically.


So I laughed a little, and Justin rolled his eyes at himself and went over to the stereo. He has to have it really loud, Justin said, pointing towards the kitchen for the he, and once he'd turned off the music Evan, Justin's boyfriend, stood up from where he'd, apparently, been crouched down behind the kitchen counter. He smiled sheepishly when he saw me.


Sorry, I didn't know you'd gotten here. Hi!


Hi. It's good to see you again.


You too. We'd met a few months before at Thanksgiving, and he'd been around a time or two when I'd been FaceTiming with Brian or Justin. And...look, I'm not going to pretend I didn't find the whole arrangement super weird—I mean, what exactly was his and Brian's relationship, again?—but he seemed nice enough and of course it made sense that someone would be here with Justin between when Brian left and I arrived.


Shoes off? Justin asked me.


Oh, yeah, of course. I toed them off and left them by the door, next to two pairs of ratty sneakers I couldn't believe Brian hadn't thrown out while they were sleeping. The floors felt oddly soft under my feet, with a bouncy sort of give that was really pleasant to walk on, and at first I figured that was for the baby and thought it was funny they'd design the floors for her when she didn't even live here full time, and then I realized, of course. Seizures. That's depressing. Imagine having to have that conversation with your husband. “Let's talk about what floors would work the best when you fall and lose consciousness!” How do you even broach that shit?


Evan waved for Justin's attention and held up a stuffed rabbit. Look what I found.


In the cabinet?


Yep. Evan came out from behind the island and showed it to Jane. Is this your rabbit?


Yes! she signed, holding out her other hand for it.


Justin said, I've been turning this whole house over... Jane, did you put your rabbit in the kitchen?


She clapped her hands.


He fingerspelled something and she made this really cute noise of excitement. All right, give it to her, he said to Evan.


Evan gave her the rabbit and kissed Justin on the cheek. “Can I get you something to drink or anything?” Evan asked me. “I was about to put on some coffee.” Justin watched his lips.


Seemed kind of late for coffee, but sure, what the hell. “Yeah, thanks. I mean—” Yes, that—


He held up his hand. “I read lips really well. You're fine.”


“Right. Yeah.”


Justin signed something I couldn't see to Evan, and he responded back so quickly it didn't even look like the same language that I supposedly know, and they went back and forth for a minute signing at hyperspeed before Evan laughed a little and started making coffee. Jane pulled herself up on the edge of the coffee table and started cruising around it, and I sat down on the rug next to Justin. He smiled at me.


Is she walking yet? I asked.


“She's so close. Any day now. But the girls made me promise I wouldn't let them miss it, so I guess I have to knock her over if she tries this weekend.” He turned and coughed harshly into the inside of his elbow. It wasn't as bad as it had been when I was here for Thanksgiving, when he was still barely finished with the pneumonia runaround, but I heard a lot of it in the background since then when I was talking to Brian—usually followed by Brian yelling at his Deaf husband to shut up—and this sounded worse than it had in a while.


Are you sick? I asked him.


He shook his head. “Allergies. It's a lot better than it was. I had this whole hives and sinus infection thing going on last week. Brian said he was going to ball me up and keep me in a Ziploc bag.”


But it's getting better?


He nodded, rubbing his nose against his wrist. “Very strong meds. And we're going to try to get away to the beach for a while.”


At least you don't still live right next to the park.


“Yeah, seriously.”


Jane baby-talk signed something to Justin that I couldn't make out. He cocked his head to the side and said, Do you want crackers? and she nodded and put her arms up. Justin stood up and scooped her up and brought her into the kitchen. Evan looked up from the coffee maker when they came in and kissed Jane's cheek, then signed something small to Justin, touched his face, and kissed him gently. It was still kind of weird to see Justin kiss someone who wasn't Brian, but it was sweet.


Justin came back in a minute later and set Jane down on the floor and a plate of crackers on the coffee table, and she pulled up and munched on them. I moved to the couch, and Justin stayed on the floor, catching Jane when she fell and entertaining her with stuffed animals, and we talked about Rage some but kept getting off topic and onto Brian, Ben, Ma. Justin was coughing a lot but seemed relaxed, listening to my stories with his elbow propped on the coffee table and smiling at Jane whenever she looked at him.


Evan came in after a little while and handed a cup of coffee to me and one to Justin. He set some cream and sugar on the side table and I dug in, but Justin drank his straight and made a face. He'd always taken it a light before.


“It's medicinal,” he explained to me. “Caffeine's good for lungs.”


It doesn't keep you up?


Nothing in the world could keep me up.


We kept talking for a while, mostly about Jane. I kept expecting Evan to head out now that I was here, but he seemed perfectly settled in on the couch, asking me and Justin questions about the comic book and squirming his feet into Justin's lap.


Justin got up eventually to put Jane to bed, and Evan kissed her goodnight and went to clean up in the kitchen. I went in to help him, because like...what else was I supposed to do, but he waved me away when I tried to help with the dishes. “You're a guest,” he said, and I didn't really know how to respond to that.


So I just said, Are Emily and Gwen out of town?


“No, they're home. Justin just takes her on Wednesdays and every other weekend.”


Even with Brian gone?


Evan laughed a little. He had a nice laugh. It reminded me of Justin's: un-self-conscious. “Brian doesn't really do much with her. I mean, he loves her and he does the fun stuff, but I don't think I've ever seen him change a diaper.”


He's the one who has to get up when she cries in the middle of the night, though, right? Who else is going to hear it?


“Well, she sleeps through the night now, she's almost a year old. And I think before that he just kicked Justin until he got up.”


Justin came back from putting Jane down pretty soon after that. He was sneezing a lot, which he'd been doing most of the evening, but he was starting to look really worn out from it. Evan frowned a little and held out a tissue box. You need anything?


Justin shook his head and blew his nose.


You should get some sleep, I told him. We've got all day tomorrow to work.


He rubbed at an eye until Evan batted his hand away. Yeah, maybe you're right. He turned to Evan. We should sleep on this floor, I don't want to do the stairs in the middle of the night if she needs something.


Okay, Evan said, and that was confusing for a number of reasons. I didn't realize Evan was going to be staying over, for one, and also I knew Brian and Justin's room was on this floor precisely so Justin wouldn't have to do the stairs all the time. Where else would they sleep?


But, you know, it wasn't really any of my business, so I let them point me towards the guest room and went upstairs. It wasn't late, but I was worn out from traveling and Ben and I go to bed pretty early these days anyway, so I lay down on their guest mattress that probably cost more than my mortgage. I fell asleep to the sound of Justin coughing softly a floor below me.


Which was definitely not the coughing that woke me up a few hours later. I stirred awake to a harsh kind of barking coming from below me, and as soon as I was aware of what it was I sat up. This sounded awful, wet and choking, and I didn't know what the hell to do. I checked the time on my phone. Just after 2 AM, and given the time difference, I knew Brian would still be awake.


He picked up pretty quickly. “Yyyyyep?”


“Hey. Uh. I just woke up. Justin's really coughing.”


“Yeah, he does that,” he said, sounding bored.


“Not like he was earlier. It sounds really bad.”


“It gets worse at night. Congestion gets stuck in his chest.”


“Should I go down there?”


“No. He'll yell if he needs you.”


That really, really didn't sound like Justin, who way back when used to work eight hour days on the comic book with me without telling me he hadn't slept for two days because he didn't want to “make a big deal out of it.” But that seemed unwise to point out to Brian, who tends to get a little prickly at the suggestion that he doesn't know exactly what Justin's going to do at any given moment, so I just said, “I'm not sure he can yell. He sounds like he's barely breathing.”


“Yeah, he is barely breathing,” Brian said, sounding a bit irritated now. “Welcome to the last few months. I'm sure he's fine. Evan's got him.”


How did he know Evan had stayed over? I didn't have time to ask about that, though, before there was a noise downstairs that sounded a lot like a sob. “Brian, I think he's crying.”


Brian didn't answer at first, then he said, “Yeah, he does that most nights.”


“Jesus, Brian, he cries?”


“It's very scary not being able to breathe,” Brian snapped. “He's okay. Evan's got him.”


“I'm...”


“You're what, Michael?”


I'm supposed to take care of him, I wanted to say, but...I mean, it's not like anyone had said that out loud, and I didn't want to be the first one to do it. You spell something out to Brian that he doesn't want spelled out, and he gets spooked and digs his heels in and starts disagreeing with you just for the sake of disagreeing. Years of practice dealing with him have taught me a thing or two.


“He'll go back to sleep soon,” Brian said. “You should too.”


“Yeah. Okay.”


“And Mikey?”


“Yeah.”


He paused, just for a second. “Don't tell him you heard. He doesn't know how loud he is.”


“Okay.”


I did fall back asleep eventually, even though Justin was still coughing when I did. I woke up at around nine to Jane making happy baby noises downstairs, and once I was halfway down the stairs I could hear her clapping on the tray of her high chair and Justin and Evan making the kind of quiet signing noises I've only ever notice Justin do when he's signing to another Deaf person. He's quieter with Brian or with me, but I think he gets more hyped up when he's with other Deaf people.


He definitely signs faster. Brian's a hell of a lot better than I am, obviously, but I still understand most of what they say to each other, at least when they're not trying to be sneaky. And I get most of Brian's half of the conversation when I see him sign to Emily or Derek. But as it's a Deaf person talking to a Deaf person...that's it. It's like a totally different kind of sign language.


So basically I didn't understand a word Justin and Evan were saying to each other when I came downstairs. Part of that was that their hands were constantly full as they flitted around with spatulas and milk jugs and spoons and stuff, and I can never figure out anything anyone's saying when they have to modify for stuff with their hands. But it was also just so fast and casual, and they never seemed to need to check if the other one was looking at them, and...God. I have no idea.


Justin was still coughing and his eyes looked pink and swollen, but he seemed happy as he heated up the griddle. He smiled when he saw me. “Hey! Pancakes?”


Yeah, thank you. Can I help? I kissed Jane's cheek and poured myself some coffee.


No, just sit, we've got it, Evan said.


“Have to put my diner training to good use,” Justin said.


I sat down at the island and watched them, testing myself to see what signs I could catch here and there. Evan said...something about Jane, and Justin laughed and shook his head while he poured pancake batter onto the griddle. Justin signed something quickly with his left hand before bringing to his right wrist to hold it steady, and Evan took a few pill bottles out of the cabinet and shook them out, filled a glass of water, and held them up to Justin, who kept pouring batter while he let Evan tip the pills into his mouth, took a sip of the water, and gave him a brief kiss.


Jane banged on the tray of her high chair until they looked over and signed something on her cheek, her fingers splayed, and then a very cute please. Justin nodded, finished pouring the batter, and went to the fridge and took out a carton of strawberries, which he placed on the island and started slicing up for her. “Michael, do you want strawberries?” A lot of Rs in that word for him.


Yeah, a few. Thanks.


Justin nodded and kept slicing, but a few strawberries in his hand started shaking and the knife skidded on the cutting board. I've seen Justin's hand act up about a thousand times and I know he just prefers if you act like you don't notice, so I glanced away casually and pretended like I was reading something in the paper, but he turned and got Evan's attention and said, Can you finish this? with his left hand. Evan nodded and came and took over, and Justin went to keep an eye on the pancakes, stretching out his right hand with his left.


I'd never seen Justin ask anyone but Brian for help before. He must really trust Evan.


They finished up the pancakes, and I set the table and carried the high chair over, and we dug into the pancakes while Justin fed Jane strawberries. What are you doing today? Justin asked Evan. They were signing slower now for me.


Getting my hair cut. And I told the girls I'd go to IKEA with them.


Oh, get me a new serving bowl.


Like Brian would let IKEA into the house, Evan said. I laughed.


Justin grinned. He doesn't need to know. He licked syrup off his hand. Do you know what happened to those new markers? We might want to use them today.


I think they're down in my room, Evan said. I can grab them.


His room?


I didn't get a chance to ask about that for a while. After breakfast, we cleared the table and Evan kissed Justin and was out the door, and we got to work on the comic book. We do a ton of work remotely, obviously, and that works fine, emailing each other back and forth, but it's always amazing how much more we're able to accomplish whenever we get an opportunity to be in the same room together. Ideas flow from me to him and back again and it's like we barely even have to talk.


We were interrupted some that day by Jane, of course, and Justin kept apologizing, but I didn't mind. She reminded me a lot of Ivy when she was that age, and it honestly made me kind of jealous that he still had a little baby and I didn't. Maybe I could talk Ben into another one.


We took a break for a late lunch, and finally I just couldn't keep it in anymore. Does Evan live here?


I was expecting Justin to either scoff at the idea or give me a yeah, obviously stare, but instead he just tilted his head and looked kind of thoughtful.


“I don't know,” he said, chewing. “I mean he still has his apartment, I think. But he's here most of the time. He has a room and everything. I don't know! Haven't really thought about it.”


I could know Brian and Justin for a hundred years and I will never fucking understand them. How do you not care whether or not someone lives in your house!


We worked for most of the day, except for an hour or two when Justin needed to sleep, which I used as an excuse to bother the baby with stuffed animals and call Ben, and we got a ton finished. Evan came home in the evening with a blue glass serving bowl and plenty of stories about Gwen and Emily fighting at IKEA, and Brian called while we were making dinner and told Evan he liked his haircut and made Justin laugh until he had to sit down.


We put in a movie after Jane went to bed, one of the recent superhero ones I'd seen, of course, but they hadn't. Justin had been quiet since about halfway through dinner, except for an increasingly loud wheeze, and it was weird being the only one who could hear that, because I didn't know if I should say anything. Finally I caught Evan's eye when Justin was looking at his phone and signed, He sounds bad.


Evan nodded. I know. Thanks.


Does he need anything?


“He's got it,” Evan said softly. “He'll tell us if he needs help.”


Justin fell asleep a little while after that, his head down in Evan's lap, and Evan felt his forehead and his cheek and ran his hand up and down Justin's arm. I offered to turn it off so they could go to bed, but he told me it was fine and made jokes with me the rest of the movie, twisting Justin's hair around his fingers. He shook him awake gently when it was over and let him sit on the couch holding his head while he finished cleaning up the kitchen and went to check on Jane.


I kissed Justin's cheek. Get some rest. Feel better.


He smiled weakly. Thanks.


Let me know if you need help, I said to Evan, and he nodded.


I went upstairs to give them some space, and when I looked down from the landing Evan was crouched in front of him, signing something I couldn't see. There was a lot of coughing after that, but they were quiet by the time I fell asleep. I woke up a few times during the night, though, to Justin sounding worse than he had the night before. Once I heard Evan talking quietly, and that took me a minute to figure out until I realized that they'd probably called Brian. Good. Maybe he could come home early.


The house was quiet and dark when I got up the next morning a little after eight. I put on a pot of coffee and startled when Evan came in the front door, sweaty and panting and tugging out a pair of ear buds and toeing off his shoes. I looked at his outfit. You're a runner?


“I am. Is he up? I need to get the pollen off me.”


I haven't seen him. Do you want me to check?


“No, he's probably sleeping still. He was up a lot of the night. I'll just take a quick shower and go in.”


So I kept the coffee going and was just pouring a few mugs when Evan came out of the bedroom, hair wet, closing the door behind him. “Yeah, he's going to try to sleep some more,” he said. “I think he just needs to rest today. Sorry. I know he wanted to work more.”


No, no, it's fine. Is he okay?


He nodded with a shrug. “Allergies are really bad today. What time's your flight?”


Nine tonight.


He nodded. “Brian will be back around five-thirty, so you'll get to see him.”


That was the time I already knew, so seemed like he wasn't coming home early. Does he need anything? Medicine?


“He's taken it all. Oh, reminds me.” He went to the kitchen and got a pill bottle down and shook out a purple pill that he swallowed dry.


Topiridol? I fingerspelled, probably incorrectly.


He blinked. “I totally forgot your husband's positive.”


And my son. Who's the same age as you, I think.


He laughed. “Wow.”


How are you liking that one? Ben looked into it but he has a history of pancreatitis, so he couldn't. More words to fingerspell wrong!


“Ah, yeah. It's okay. I only started a few weeks ago. I have kidney disease so I have to keep switching around, trying to find something that isn't too harsh on them.”


That must be rough.


He shrugged. “I don't have any symptoms yet, really, it's just kind of...there. Something to worry about later.” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”


Sure.


“You're negative, right?”


I nodded.


“Does that...does it work? A positive and a negative person together?”


Yeah. It's hard sometimes, but...I like that I can take care of him. If something goes wrong. Makes us both feel safer that one of us is healthy.


It took me about two seconds to realize that was not the right thing to say. Evan looked away.


I waved for his attention. But I bet it's really good to have someone who understands, too.


He shrugged a shoulder. “Everyone's shit is different. We're all just trying to understand with whatever we have to work with.”


He's a good kid.


**


Justin stayed in his room most of the day, though I don't know how much he slept. I could hear him coughing pretty constantly through the morning. He came out at around noon to eat something and say goodbye to the baby and had the worst sneezing fit I've ever seen, and we loaded him up with tissues and nudged him back to his room. God, that shit looked miserable. Evan went to the grocery store and brought Jane back to Emily and Gwen's, and I went upstairs to Brian's office and scanned the work we'd gotten done the day before.


Evan came home from dropping off Jane and looked at the clock. I've got to run back out.


Where are you going?


He went to the sink and washed his hands. “Airport, I want to meet Brian. Justin was hoping to do it, but...”


That's nice of you.


“It's good to have someone waiting for you when you come home, right?” he said, and I couldn't argue with that; I was already looking forward to seeing Ben and Ivy at arrivals in a few hours. “You're fine here?”


Yeah, he's just been sleeping.


About half an hour after Evan left, though, I heard him stir. I turned the volume down on the TV and sure enough, a minute later his bedroom door opened and he leaned against it, panting and messy-haired and generally looking like he'd been through a fight. I turned off the TV. Hey. How are you?


He nodded and coughed. “Better yeah.” His voice was wrecked.


Evan left to go meet Brian. They'll be home pretty soon.


“Yeah.” He rubbed his eye with the back of his wrist. “I wanted to be awake when he got here.”


I gestured to the couch next to me, and he hesitated, stretching his arms across his body.


“I think I want a bath?” he said. “Is that okay?”


I laughed. Yeah, of course that's okay.


He didn't move for a minute, then he rolled his eyes and chuckled a little. “You have to come with me.”


Oh...what?


“I'm epileptic, I can't take baths by myself. You have to hang out and make sure I don't die. That's why I asked if it was okay. Do you mind? I can wait until they're home if you'd rather.”


No. I stood up. No, let me help.


“Great. Thanks.”


I'll be honest, I felt pretty awkward about the whole thing, but Justin made it all pretty natural. There was a chair in their bathroom, probably for this specific thing, and Justin ran the bath and got himself a glass of water while I sat down. “You can read or play on your phone or whatever,” he said to me, undressing like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You'll hear if something happens.”


Sure, yeah.


He got into the tub and breathed a wheezy sigh of relief, and I checked the store inventory on my phone and re-ordered a few of the counter impulse buys that were running low. Justin was quiet, just coughing and moving around the water every once in a while.


Eventually he said, “I'm sorry we didn't get to get more work done.”


Don't worry about it. We did a ton yesterday.


“I know.” He stretched his leg out of the water and leaned forward to touch his toes. “But I was looking forward to having the whole weekend.”


And maybe—okay, definitely—it should have clicked before then, but that was the moment I realized I'd actually been invited here to work on Rage this whole time. Justin didn't need me to take care of him. And if he did, he would have gone right out and asked, like he did here.


Brian was right. I hate when that happens.


“Huh,” I said.


He looked at me. “What?”


Nothing.


He closed his eyes and relaxed back in the water.


Justin got out of the bath and went back to his room to get dressed and sit with the nebulizer for a while, and I got online to check the status of my flight and let Ben know everything was on schedule. I was just finishing that up when the front door opened and Brian and Evan came in, signing to each other and taking off their shoes. Brian rubbed his hands with sanitizer and gave me a distracted kiss, darting his eyes around the room. “Where is he?”


He's in your room. He's fine.


Brian looked at me like I was crazy. I know he's fine, he said, and charged towards their bedroom, but before he got there Justin came out and smiled and said, “Hey,” and and Brian closed the space between them in about a millisecond, cupping Justin's cheek and damn near swallowing him whole.


Evan chuckled. “I'm going to get some stuff together and get out of here.”


Where are you going?


“My apartment. Something tells me they're going to want some privacy tonight.” He kissed my cheek. “Thank you for coming. Come back soon.”


Yeah, of course. Take care of yourself.


“I will.”


Brian and Justin and I ordered pizza and showed Brian the work we'd gotten done, and he regaled us with hilarious stories from his conference and asked us about Jane and teased Justin when he kept sneezing, and it was really nice, even if I could tell they were counting down the seconds until I left for the airport so they could jump each other's bones. Justin still seemed really sick and worn out, but Brian was still looking at him like he didn't even notice, which was sweet. I guess after a while you don't really see it anymore.


Except finally, right when I was leaving, after I'd kissed Justin goodbye and brought my bag to the front door, Brian hugged me and said, “Was good to see you, Mikey.”


“Yeah, maybe next time we'll work our way up to fifteen minutes.”


He rolled his eyes. “Let's not get hasty.” He stuck his tongue in his cheek and looked away from me, then back, and said really softly, “So how'd he do?” All fake-casual like he does.


I reached out and squeezed his wrist and looked at Justin behind him, curled up and half-asleep on the couch.

 

“He's good,” I said. “He's got it under control. He'll let you know.”

End Notes:

Sometimes I just give up trying to find a title.

Chapter 103 - Unsaid by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin gets some test results, Brian gets a new account, and they end up saying a lot of things out loud.

Unsaid

LaVieEnRose



I was like an anxious puppy waiting for Brian and Evan to get home from work that Thursday, waiting by the front door practically fucking bouncing up and down when Brian pulled into the driveway. And then they were so fucking goddamn slow getting out of the car! Like I hadn't already been waiting for hours!


They came in finally, and Brian gave me a bemused look as he kissed me. Why are you vertical? Evan nuzzled his nose against my cheek on the way to wash his hands.


Shut up, I'm vertical like a quarter of the time.


He looked unconvinced, but then he smiled and drummed on my shoulders a few times and said, We got Disney.


I'd...completely fucking forgotten that meeting was today in all the excitement of the past few hours, which was ridiculous since it was all they'd been talking about for weeks. Which was understandable because I mean...come on. It's fucking Disney.


I knew it! I said. I knew you would!


Brian's smile grew, nice and slowly, and then he picked me up and spun me around and kissed me. Evan grinned at us from the kitchen.


This means you're getting your beach house, you know, Brian said.


I bit my lip and bounced a little. I'm getting my beach house.


They're coming back tomorrow for more strategizing, he said. But we shook on it today. We're in. Jane's going to the fucking Taj Mahal of preschools. Evan's going to get some clothes that actually fit him.


My clothes are fine!


And you. Brian kissed me between my eyes. Are getting your beach house. Out of the pollen, he said, and he kissed the tip of my nose when I scrunched it up.


You're amazing and I love you, I said.


He sighed deeply. I know. My burden to bear.


What are you going to get? I asked him.


I assumed you'd let me use your beach house.


Oh, maybe, I said. I tugged on his shirt. I have news.


Brian raised an eyebrow. You have news?


I unlocked my phone, opened up the email, and held it up to him. Evan came over as he took it and squished in next to him to see, and Brian instinctively slung his arm over his neck and pulled him in, running his hand over Evan's head as he read. He saw it before Evan did, and he squeezed him close and looked up at me, his eyes glowing, his lip between his teeth.


Evan touched the screen. Is that your white blood cell count?


I nodded.


That's... He looked up at Brian. That's normal, right?


That's normal, Brian said, watching me.


It's very, very low normal, I said. It's like the lowest it can be and still be normal.


But it's normal! Evan said.


I nodded, and he bounced over and hugged me, and I squeezed him tight and buried my nose in his shoulder. Brian just watched me, his thumb in his mouth, and when we locked eyes he tilted his head to the side.


You really just had to steal my beach house thunder, didn't you? he said, and I grinned.


Everything was so perfect, for a little.


**


We went out to celebrate Kinnetik's boatloads of cash and my barely-functional immune system at Sidetracks, the bar in Sunnyside next to the train—get it, Sidetracks—where we gather nowadays. Emily came out, of course, to commemorate the massive bonus she'd be getting,and Daph had to work but Derek came.


So you're fixed? Derek said to me.


It's still the low end of normal, I said.


Brian sipped his beer. His lungs are still bullshit.


Emily nudged me. But you can come to Orlando, right?


You're going to Orlando?


Next month, Emily said. The Disney people are flying us out. We need to see the product, obviously!


I looked at Evan. And you? He's... we love Evan, but as far as Kinnetik's concerned he's not exactly essential personnel.


I was going to stay with you, he said.


No, come, Emily said. She was getting excited. Both of you come, and we'll bring Gwen and Jane and we'll make it a whole thing!


Evan said, Oh my God, Jane at Disney.


Derek said, You have to get her ears!


Brian smiled a little but waved for their attention and said, Justin can't do Disney World. I mouthed “Thank you,” to him, and he winked at me.


Emily said, Why not?


Brian said, It's walking all day, he gets too tired, which was, obviously, true, but hadn't even occurred to me. I was more focused on the crowds, the people, the four hours on a plane breathing the germs of those crowds and people...


Yeah, you'd push him, Emily said. You can rent wheelchairs there. We did it after my mom had knee surgery.


Brian tapped his lips. That's got to be a great tricep workout.


Disney's like, the best place in the world to use a wheelchair, Emily said. It's so accessible.


Brian pointed at her and set down his bottle. This sounds like an ad campaign.


Oh, it's a fucking ad campaign all right. I have ideas.


How are they with signing?


Amazing, Emily said, and like that she and Brian were off in advertising world, and Evan and Derek were off in oh my God pictures of Jane with princesses world, and I was...i n the actual world, trying to swallow down some very vague panic.


Something with a good bass beat started playing, and Emily pulled Evan up to dance—those two are like joined at the hip nowadays—and Derek went to order another drink. Brian gave me a look over his beer bottle.


“Can I help you?” I asked him.


I don't know, he said, and then he pulled my stool closer to his and we made out for a while, and that was nice. We broke away eventually so I could breathe, and he watched me while he sipped his beer.


“Once again, can I help you?”


What's up with you?


I don't know. Nothing. I traced the rim of my water glass. You don't really want to go to Disney World, do you?


He shrugged. I've got to go anyway.


“Yeah.”


We should probably see if we can borrow Gus for it. If he finds out after the fact he'll throw a shitfit. Do you want a drink?


I shook my head.


One won't hurt you.


I'm okay.


You need to relax.


Yeah, I know.


Brian seemed a little keyed-up too, not in a bad way, just kind of energized. He was happy; I was doing better, he'd gotten this huge account. He was happy. And I was being a stick in the mud.


Thank God Evan came bouncing over a minute later. I want to go out, he said to Brian.


Brian slapped his hand on the table. Fuck yes. I have E.


Thank GOD. Yes.


You just brought E with you? I said.


Yeah, why wouldn't I? They're both still just club kids at heart, now with a respectable house in the suburbs.


Don't you have a huge meeting tomorrow? I said.


They gave me identical what are you talking about faces. These two are incorrigible. Half a tab, Brian said.


Yeah, half a tab, Evan said. He looked at Brian. Each, right?


Well, obviously each, we're not toddlers. Brian poked me. You coming? Test out that new immune system? No E for you.


No, Evan agreed. Seizures just kill the whole mood.


I rolled my eyes. No, I'm tired. I'm going to go home.


Come for a little while, Evan said.


I won't be fun.


You're never fun, Brian said. We like you anyway.


You're going to pay for that.


He grinned.


I kissed Brian, then Evan, making sure Evan's kiss was a lot longer. Brian flicked my shoulder. I'll see you at home, I said. Have fun.


We'd taken the train here—my first subway ride since my immune system crashed, very weird—and I knew they assumed I'd take it back, but the tracks are elevated here and the closest stop with an elevator was six blocks in the wrong direction, and I thought about the people and the grime and I just...hailed a cab, where I had my phone say my address to the cab driver and kept my hands pulled into my sleeves. I got home and got in the shower and tried to get myself to snap out of whatever the fuck was pulling me down. We were rich. I had white blood cells. My husband and boyfriend were out having fun together. This is the stuff of dreams.


I stayed in the shower for a long time, then got out and sat on oxygen for a while because I thought maybe that was my problem, but that didn't help, so then I moved to the couch and flipped through TV channels and tried to just zone out for a while. I was considering texting Brian and Evan because my catastrophe brain was starting to think maybe they'd overdosed and died even though it wasn't even late, when the front door opened and there they were, laughing and knocking each other around.


I pointed to the hand sanitizer.


We're going to stop coddling you soon, Brian said, but they used it. Evan came over and kissed me.


You should have seen the guy Brian hooked up with, he said. I think he was on Law and Order.


Everyone's been on Law and Order, I said.


Not you, Brian said. I stuck my tongue out at him, and he grinned and licked his teeth.


Evan bent over and squeezed me as Brian went to the kitchen. God, you're beautiful. I smiled at him and kissed the bridge of his nose.


Brian came back with two bottles of water and handed one to me and nudged Evan's shoulder with the other. You don't drink enough, he said to Evan.


I drink vodka.


I'm not reassured.


Sounds like a you problem.


Brian tugged on my wrist. Come take a shower.


I took a shower.


Come take another shower.


We're abandoning Evan.


Evan wants to paint, Brian said.


He bounced. I'm going to paint!


He's been talking about it since the E hit, Brian said. He kissed Evan's cheek and gave his hand holding the water bottle a shake. I mean it, okay?


I know, I know.


E always makes Brian handsy as hell, and he was all over me in the shower, running his fingers through my hair and sucking water off my neck. He nuzzled the scruff on my cheek. Why's it so soft, he said. I love it.


You're high.


He nodded and kissed me.


We fucked in the shower, and then again once we were settled in bed, and Brian counted out my meds and made me double check them before I took them, and I felt really safe and taken care of and warm with his body wrapped around mine, which made it all the more startling when I dreamed that my lungs were filling up with blood and my skin was sloughing off and my throat was clogged with bile and I woke up in a pure fucking panic absolutely fucking sure that I was going to die.


The light was on, and Brian was kneeling in front of me, his eyes soft and his hair wild. Justin. Justin.


No, I— I couldn't fucking breathe.


You're okay. Just a dream. You're home, everything's okay.


I can't breathe.


Yes you can, come on.


My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears and my stomach. The whole room was spinning. “I can't—”


Okay. Brian moved to the bed and sat next to me. You're hyperventilating. You need to slow down.


How the fuck was I supposed to slow down when I couldn't fucking breathe? I sucked in a breath and started coughing and couldn't stop. I'm going to die, I told him.


Justin, you're fine. You're just pissing off your lungs breathing like that.


Oxygen...


Once you slow down, he said.


No, I said, but after that I couldn't argue anymore because all I could do was cough. Brian tried to touch me and I flinched away and wrapped my arms around my head and sobbed and coughed and coughed and fucking coughed.


Finally I could focus on Brian, and he was just sitting there perfectly still, his eyes focused on me. Can you breathe through your nose? he asked.


I shook my head.


Okay. Pursed lips then. Slow in. One. Two. Three.


I shook my head.


You can do it, come on.


I gave it a shot and immediately started coughing again. It's not going to work, I can't breathe, Brian I can't breathe.


No, that was good. Do it again. Nice and slow, in...out now. Slow. You can do it.


I choked on a sob.


Shh, stop. Slow. You're safe. You can breathe.


It took so many fucking repetitions of sitting there breathing before I was convinced I might not die that night. He hesitantly reached for my hand once I'd stopped coughing for real, and I nodded and tucked myself into his shoulder.


He pulled back and looked at me. Hey, are you..


I wiped my eyes. “What?”


He shook his head a little. Are you having a seizure?


What?


Christ, you're shaking so fucking hard, I thought...Okay. Come here. He pulled me into his arms and we stayed like that for a long time, my fingernails digging into his shirt.


He got up and got me a Klonopin after a while, and I shrugged when he asked me if I wanted to talk about it so he didn't push. We lay down together as the pill started to kick in, and he kept his arms around me and nuzzled at my cheek. He was beginning to fall back asleep, and he reached up and cupped my cheek.


It's okay, he signed, his eyes closing.


I nodded, and he kissed me and rested his forehead against mine.


The next thing I knew it was morning, and Brian was still sprawled out on top of me, his brow slightly furrowed like it always is when he sleeps, like it's something that requires a lot of concentration. He looked beautiful and very exhausted in the light, and I stretched carefully to my phone to check the time. About forty minutes until his alarm was set to go off, and given the E and the fact that he'd spent half the night after the E up with his hysterical partner, I figured he could use every last one of them.


However, I was feeling a little like a shaky anxious mess who needed comfort, so, you know, thank God for polyamory. I squirmed slowly out of the bed so I wouldn't wake him and walked out into the main room. I expected Evan to be up already—he usually gets up super early to run, then has a shower and messes around on his laptop until Brian and I get up for breakfast—but the lights were still off in here and nothing looked disturbed. Guess Brian wasn't the only one shaking off a hangover.


I went to the staircase in the hall behind the kitchen and made my way down carefully. We'd had railings installed on both sides of all the stairs in the house so I could always hang on with my good hand, and it was amazing what a difference it made. Evan was sleeping with his arms up over his head, like he always does, and the sun streamed through his window and made lines on his cheek. I crawled up onto the bed and dropped kisses down his jawline until he opened his eyes.


“Hey,” he mouthed, and I did it back. He freed a hand from underneath me and signed, How are you?


Okay. Did you do your painting?


He nodded to the other side of the room, and I rolled over onto my back to look. Evan's basement is big, like a second version of our main room upstairs, complete with its own kitchen and bathroom. He'd set up an easel, I think a hand-me-down of mine, over by the far end, and there was a half-finished painting of a vase of flowers.


I like it, I said.


He stretched. Thank you. He traced his hand down my side, tangling up my shirt at my waist.


I think I scared Brian last night, I said.


He tugged me closer. What happened?


Nightmare. Couldn't breathe.


He frowned and kissed me gently. He's still asleep?


Yeah.


You should be too.


I wanted someone.


Oh, just anyone?


Yeah, doesn't matter.


He laughed and rolled over onto his back, pulling me on top of him. I kissed his neck and slipped my hands under his shirt and felt his throat flutter under my lips. He smelled like sugar and cream and we fooled around for a while. It was slow and sleepy and really nice, and we were still tangled up when the lights flicked from the top of the stairs. I let Evan handle the yelling up the stairs—Brian always makes fun of me because I never know how loud to be—and a minute later Brian came down the stairs. Hello, kittens, he said, and I laughed into Evan's shirt.


How are you feeling? Evan asked him.


Ready to charm the pants off Disney. Coffee's on.


Evan stretched and nudged me. Move, he said, and I pouted and slid off him. He kissed my cheek three times and hauled himself out of bed.


Brian let Evan go up the stairs but caught me by the wrist on my way. Hey.


“Hey.”


You okay?


I nodded, and he pulled me into him with his hand on the back of my head. I kissed his neck. “I'm sorry.”


He stroked my hair a few times, then let me go. Do you want to come to the office today? he asked, pseudo-casual.


I shook my head. I didn't want to be alone, really, but they were busy and it wasn't a good day for me to be underfoot, and I was okay. “I want to go to my studio, get some work done.”


“Okay.” Brian squeezed my hand between both of his, just for a second. Come eat, sneezy.


“Yeah.”


Brian nagged me into eating some toast and Evan into staying hydrated and we both nagged Brian into eating something with actual vitamins, and then I kissed them and sent them off to work. I did want to get to the studio, but the physical stress of last night kind of hit me like a train, and I ended up going back to bed and sleeping like a rock for a few hours. I woke up feeling kind of vaguely uneasy, like I'd had a nightmare I didn't quite remember, which is a pretty regular occurrence but got to me more than it usually did. I shook it off and ate some lunch and got dressed and headed to the studio. It's just two subway stops away, but I got a car.


I was working on this three dimensional mixed-media thing, which was...not at all up my alley, but I'd had an idea and figured what did I have to lose? It's not like the household was counting on me to rake in cash. Why not fuck around with some weird stuff?


I was melting glass and sticking it together when my phone started flashing and Brian's picture popped up. I swiped it with my elbow. “Hi.”


He was sitting at his desk, looking fucking devastating. Hey, Brancusi. Working hard?


“Something like that. What's up?”


He rolled his chair back and forth a little. Just saying hi.


He was worried. Brian. I smiled at him. “Hi. How are the meetings going?”


Good. He tapped on his keyboard or a minute. You seen the pollen counts in Orlando?


I cleared my throat. “No. You know if you're pushing me you won't be able to talk to me."


I don't want to talk to you anyway. Seriously, this is amazing. None of those fucking London planes that make you sneeze your head off. I think when this trip is over I might just leave you there permanently.


“Yeah, I remember when I was a kid I didn't have to take my meds when we went because the stuff that grows there is so different.”


I didn't know you'd been.


“Everyone goes when they're a kid.”


Not me.


“Yeah, but your childhood was exceedingly tragic.”


Yours wasn't exactly a Thomas Kincaide. He chewed the inside of his cheek. So, what, you didn't like it?


I shrugged. “Can we talk about something else?”


He tapped his fingers over his mouth, studying me. Sure.


I showed him my progress on the sculpture.


Not bad.


“Thanks. You want chicken piccata tonight?”


He kept studying me. Okay.


I squirmed. “I'm gonna get back to work, okay? I'll see you tonight. I love you.”


Yeah, he said, his eyes a little narrowed. Okay.


I hung up the phone and tried to slow my heart down.


**


Brian and Evan came home late and exhausted, and Brian filled up a glass of whiskey right away, and one for Evan. He held up the bottle to me and I shook my head.


Meetings all goddamn day, Brian said. I need a humanity detox.


They're so happy all the time, Evan said. Does that mean we need to be happy when we go there?


No, Brian said. If they can be smiley Floridians up here, we can be sullen New Yorkers there.


I'm wearing black the whole trip, Evan said.


Is there any other color? Brian said, then gestured carelessly to me. Sorry.


I rolled my eyes and coughed into my elbow. Chicken's in the oven.


Evan kissed my cheek. How was your day? Did you get to the studio?


I glued some shit together.


We talked more about my project and Evan's painting and Gus's hockey game as we got dinner ready, so that was okay. But then a few minutes into dinner the conversation about Gus turned into a conversation about whether or not Gus would be able to come to Disney World, and Brian was all on my case about how I was picking at my food but I couldn't breathe right and my stomach was tightening up and they were just sitting there talking about interpreters at Disney like everything was already fine and set in stone and this was fucking ridiculous.


Do you have to pay for a wheelchair? Evan asked.


I think it's like twenty-five dollars a day, Brian said.


Should be free.


Yeah. Probably trying to keep abled kids from taking them all to skip lines.


Evan shook his head. I hate abled people.


We're the worst.


I shouldn't be renting out wheelchairs anyway, I said finally. They're for people who can't walk. I can walk.


Brian looked at me like I was an idiot. No, anyone who literally can't walk wouldn't need to rent a wheelchair, they'd have come with their own. It's for people who can't walk around Disney World. Which you can't.


Maybe I could, I said. For some reason.


You get out of breath going to the mailbox, Sunshine, but sure, let's see you conquer the Magic Kingdom.


Everyone would judge me, I said. They'd see me stand up to get on a fucking ride or whatever and think I'm one of those abled people faking.


So they get a free lecture on invisible disabilities, Brian said. Lucky them.


I'm not a fucking skeleton in science class, I said. I'm not a learning tool.


You can't let being worried about other people stop you from getting what you need, Evan said. You know that.


I felt my heartbeat throb in my head. Nobody's staring at you, I said. What the fuck do you know about it?


Don't fucking yell at him, Brian said, but Evan can take care of himself.


I don't know what's bothering you, but it's not me, Evan said. Take the attitude somewhere else.


I pushed my chair back from the table and planted my hands on my knees and tried to slow my breathing down. Brian finished his whiskey glass and set it down.


Would you excuse us for a moment? he said to Evan.


Evan gestured like by all means, get my asshole boyfriend away from me, and Brian took me by the wrist and removed me from the kitchen. He brought me into our room and closed the door.


Okay, he said. What the fuck is going on with you?


I started passive-aggressively stripping the bed, since apparently I was a prisoner in here and our sheets were due to be changed anyway. Brian half-heartedly helped me.


Why don't you want to go to Disney World? he said after a minute.


“I never said I didn't want to go.”


I'm sorry, I've known you how long?


I glared at him, and he glared right back.


I dropped the sheet. Fine. I don't want to go.


Yes, if you recall I said that part already. I'm asking why.


I raked my hand through my hair. We made Daphne and Derek postpone their wedding, I said. That was supposed to be next month.


I know that.


We made them move it because I wouldn't be well in time, and now I'm going off to Disney World? How is that fair to them?


They've already moved it. Can't unring the bell. I'm pretty sure their annoyance is paled in comparison to how happy they are that you're doing better than we expected. That's actually a good thing.


“I'm not doing better!” I said. “Why do you just get to decide what I'm ready for?”


All right, as much as I love being accused of baseless shit, I didn't break into your doctor's office and rig your blood tests, Sunshine.


“It's barely normal! I could still get sick. It's still so fucking risky, and for what? So I can be miserable and anxious and scared the whole time if we go?”


He watched me steadily. I think you're scared already.


That pissed me off, him standing there all smug like he'd cracked some fucking code. “Yeah, okay? Fine, I'm fucking scared. I'm scared all the time. You proud of yourself that you figured that one out?”


Well, you could have fucking told me.


“So what, so you could tell me that I should be over it by now?”


What the fuck are you talking about?


“Everyone's fine!” I said. “Everyone's celebrating the fucking blood test results, which is the fucking reasonable thing to do, and I'm the mess who can't be happy because he's, I don't know, crazy or paranoid or just used to being sick at this point and in love with the attention. But I can't...”


Brian was still staring at me like I was speaking some other language. How the fuck are you supposed to be over this? he asked. You almost died, your entire fucking life has changed, you feel terrible literally all the time. Who the fuck would be over that in five months?


Then why did you think I was!


I don't know, you're you. You're...weird.


I'm weird.


He groaned. I have to spell this out? You've been through a lot more than your average person and you... you pull through, okay? You're frighteningly tough.


That's very sweet and all, but it doesn't really hold up when everyone else is fine I'm the only one still a fucking mess.


He ran his hand over his mouth and looked away, and oh. I guess Brian wasn't going to be the only one to have that little revelation today.


“Jesus, you are?” I said.


He looked at me.


Why didn't you tell me? I said.


I can't tell you! he said. I can never fucking tell you because you feel guilty and terrible and beat yourself up about it and make a big deal out of poor Brian has to watch you be sick!


“Tell me anyway,” I said.


Jesus, what do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you I don't sleep? That I can fucking...God, that I can hear the scarring every single time you breathe? That every time I hear you fall or something break and every time you can't stop coughing or you tell me I can't breathe my mind goes...God! There is a whole fucking world out there trying to kill my partner and I can't tell you fucking anything about it because you feel guilty. You hate yourself.


I tried to catch my breath. “I didn't...I didn't know it was that bad.”


Yeah, well, same to you. You're the one always skipping off to your studio and shit when I'm fucking losing my mind trying to get you to take a fucking nap.


I'm not scared of just...pushing myself too far, I said. I'm just scared of catching something new.


You don't need to catch anything new! he exploded. Jesus, look at you, you're already—


He stopped and shook his head and looked away, and I felt everything kind of...I don't know, shift. Like the room moved.


“Brian, I'm not going to die,” I said.


He nodded, but he still didn't look at me.


“I'm not,” I insisted.


He flicked his eyes back to me and nodded again, bigger this time. Okay.


I sat down on the bed. “You're right,” I said. “I don't know how to not feel fucking awful about the fact that you worry about me. And I can't make you stop. I can't fix it.”


He rolled his eyes and sat down across from me. You can't fix it because it's not a problem. Me being worried about you is not a fucking malfunction. You're sick. I'm supposed to worry. We're not the only fucking people in the world doing this, Justin. Sick people have partners. We didn't invent this. We're doing what we're supposed to do.


I shook my head. Most people don't have someone they worry about this much.


He watched me, not blinking. Say it again.


Most people don't... I nodded. “Okay.”


Being scared means you are still here with me, he said. It's a feature, not a bug.


I squirmed my way in next to him and under his arm, and he sighed and pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. We stayed like that for a little while.


“I don't know how to explain it,” I said finally. “I'm not scared of anything inside of me. I'm just scared of out there.”


Probably because you're used to your body trying to fucking kill you, and the outside stuff is a lot newer, he said. And probably also because you have PTSD and you're afraid of crowds already.


God! I groaned. Why do I never fucking figure out when it's a PTSD thing?


I have no idea. It's truly remarkable.


I flopped down on my back on the half-unmade bed. “Why do you want me to go?” I said. “Why do you care?”


He shrugged. I don't know. This is my job. I'm in the fucking business of accessibility here. I can't exactly let your world get smaller just because you're getting sicker. That's not the story.


It's weird that that was what really helped me, but it was. Just the casual way he said I was getting sicker, the fact that he saw it when I thought that he didn't...I don't think that's something you can understand, if you're not sick, but sometimes all you fucking need is someone to tell you that it's all real. Someone noticing before you have to tell them is...it doesn't get old.


The test said I'm better and I still feel terrible, I said, because hey, now I could say it too. Now I had permission.


The tests say your immune system is better, he said. You're still epileptic as shit and your lungs are like coral reefs.


“Yuck.”


He shrugged.


I think it scared me that people would expect me to be well now, I said. That they were getting bored of this and now, look, finally, we get to move on.


No, you're a fucking disaster still.


“Okay good.”


He took a minute, chewing on the inside of his mouth, then said, I didn't want to get all sappy about it in front of your boyfriend and make him think I like you or something, but...you know I'm so proud of you, right?


I squirmed. “Ew. For what?”


Those test results you hate.


“No, be proud of me for shit I actually do. All I did was show up and get my blood taken. My immune system got better on its own, it just happened.”


That is exactly my point, he said. You sat back. You were patient. You hung in there and you took care of yourself and you let something happen to you. He watched me. And I know that was really fucking scary for you.


I sighed and coughed a little.


But good things can happen to you too, Raincloud, he said. Let them.


I leaned forwards and kissed him, so softly.


“Okay,” I said. “You can push me.”

 

Chapter 104 - Comfort by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Bad days come in different forms.

Comfort

LaVieEnRose



Generally if I have the time I call Justin instead of texting him, nowadays. It's easier for him, both mentally and with his bad hand, to talk in ASL, and honestly it makes things go a lot faster on my end because he's pretty infuriating to text with. He'll send me one word answers and I don't know if he's pissed at me or if he's drifted off into his distracted artist headspace, but he wears everything he thinks on his damn face so it's just a timesaver to call him.


Like, for example, when I called him one Friday at the end of the day to see if he needed me to stop at the grocery store on the way home. I'd been rushing around all fucking day trying to do shit for our clients in China who were having some sort of PR crisis they wouldn't give us the details of, which was extremely fucking inconvenient, and now it was nearly seven and we were finally getting out of there. Justin answered, and he was lying on the couch with that confused, suspicious look on his face. So I knew in about zero seconds.


Oh, hello, I said. How was your seizure?


He squinted at me. “I had a seizure?”


Definitely. You okay?


He dropped his head down. “I couldn't figure out why I felt so weird.”


I know. You hurt yourself?


He shook his head, pawing at one eye. His poor fucking eyes, seriously. They'd been swollen and weepy for weeks no matter what we did, and it was fucking with his vision, making it hard for him to see what people were signing if they weren't close. One of the first goddamn things his mother ever said to me was see that he takes his allergy medicine and I remember at the time wondering how big a deal that could actually be, and then spring hit and he ceased to be function normally unless he took ridiculous doses of three different kinds of prescription shit and I realized oh, okay, so he's defective, send him back to the manufacturer, exchange him for a new one, but...you know, thirteen years later and here he is on my couch, rubbing his poor goddamn eyes. He needed to go back to the fucking allergist. These meds weren't doing shit.


Stop, I said.


He dropped his hand, frustrated. “The colors aren't right.”


They'll get better.


“I hope so,” he said, sounding so dubious I almost laughed.


Do you remember anything? I asked him.


He shrugged a little. “Breakfast.”


Yeah.


He sat up a little, wincing. Am I home?


Yeah, Smerdyakov, you're home. I'll be there pretty soon, all right? We'll order in dinner.


“Okay.” He looked around. “Is Evan here?”


No, he's with me. I'll bring him.


“Okay.”


Lie down and close your eyes. I hung up just as Emily came in with a bunch more papers. Are those the faxes?


Yeah. It's...a lot more than I expected.


I've got to go home, but I can work on these there.


Okay. Emily's been my assistant—and Justin's friend—long enough to know not to question when I say I need to go home.


You know where Evan is?


Down in daycare, I think.


Text him and tell him we need to go, please? And see if there's anything on your desk I need to bring with me, and forward me the notes from the three o'clock meeting.


Okay. Are you coming in tomorrow?


I headed to my desk and shut down my laptop. I don't know yet. Depends if they fucking get back to us on anything more specific I can do.


Disney better never put us through this shit.


I'll burn them down.


Evan came in a few minutes later with his messenger bag—a hand-me-down of Justin's—once I was packed up. “Hey. Jane walked.”


I looked up. You're kidding me.


“Nope.”


God. Do not tell the parents. If they find out they missed it—


“Oh, yeah, lips sealed, wrists bound, whatever. We'll be shocked and amazed when she takes her first steps this weekend. Are we going to the store?”


No, not tonight. Justin had a seizure, we've got to get home.


“Is he okay?”


Yeah, he's pretty out of it, though. I don't want him alone too long, I feel like he's going to wander. I'm sure we all remember the fun incident with the police in the park, and just a couple weeks ago he ended up three blocks away without his phone or his shoes after a seizure. Always fun! He's not sure where he is.


Want me to call him from the car?


Hopefully he's asleep.


He was, at least by the time we got home, curled up exactly where he had been when I'd called, breathing noisily and shifting around. I put his hand on his waist to wake him up and checked his head and his bad elbow. He rubbed his eyes until I batted his hand away.


“Hey,” he said.


Hey. You gonna live?


He nodded and sat up, slowly. “Tired.”


You can go back to sleep. I moved my finger in front of his face and watched his eyes track it. You seem better already. I don't think it was a really bad one. I think I just caught you right after it.


He nodded. “I was at the studio until four, so it couldn't have been long ago.”


See, already remembering stuff.


Evan had had a long day too and wanted to unwind, and sadly I had roughly eight hundred too many pages of memos to go through to join him, so he went to Manhattan to meet some friends of Derek's and I worked through the paperwork from the couch instead of going up to the office, which was annoying and inconvenient. Justin hung out with me, sleeping on and off and watching TV on mute, eerily un-talkative when he was awake for his usual self, but not uncommon when he's working through a seizure hangover. He forgets signs, and he loses track of time so he doesn't realize how long he's been quiet. Plus he's just plain fucking tired. I kept half an eye on him while I worked and reached over and rubbed his shoulders when I had a free hand. He'd had his birthday last week, and I'd commemorated the occasion by giving him this long as hell massage, which was supposed to largely just be foreplay for some incredible orgasms, and while of course it was that as well it was hard not to notice how much more easily he moved around the next day, how he seemed to have grown an inch overnight, and, okay, it's not like I was going to do the whole two-hour affair with the oils every night, but I could at least be more consistent about doing something.


I was drafting some bullshit to go out to the Chinese company's shareholders while Justin messed around in the kitchen when I got an email forward from Emily marked URGENT. “Great,” I mumbled, opening up the attachment, and I didn't move until Justin stomped on the floor a minute later. We don't do a ton of that anymore—the cork doesn't carry vibration well, so it doesn't work for getting his or Evan's attention—but, you know, he was confused, and I was hearing. He was cradling his bad hand to his chest and holding an ice pack to his jaw with the other.


Their CEO fucking killed someone, I said.


“What?”


That's their PR nightmare they've been hiding from us. Their CEO's a fucking murderer and now I have to convince half of Asia not to jump ship. Jesus Christ. This is... Jesus Christ.


“What are you going to do?”


I have no goddamn idea. Are you okay?


“Yeah,” he said, adjusting the ice pack. In case you've forgotten, and I couldn't exactly blame you because I try my damndest to forget it myself, ever since that concussion he had at his mom's house a few years back, Justin's head always hurts. Not that it gave him a lot of pain-free stretches before that, since the bashing, but he used to at least get some relief, and he doesn't anymore. And he somehow manages to live with that without losing his fucking mind. But since his allergies have been bad he's been getting a lot of sinus headaches, and even those are nothing compared to the migraines he sometimes gets. Usually after seizures. It had been a while since he'd had a really bad one.


I've got to go upstairs and handle this, I need all my shit.


“Okay.”


I gathered up my papers with a sigh. You need anything before I go? Did you take something?


“I think it's just sinuses.”


Take something anyway.


He nodded heavily.


And then sit down, you look dead. You want a movie in?


He nodded on his way to the kitchen to root through the cabinet that houses the pill bottles. “Whatever's fine.”


I picked some true crime thing he'd seen before so hopefully it wouldn't keep him awake and watched him struggle to get his hand to cooperate long enough to open the pill bottle. Come here, I said, and he brought it over and I opened it for him and shook out one. Under your tongue...good.


He made a face at the taste, and I kissed his forehead and let him lean into me for a second.


Yell up if you need me, I said.


He nodded. “I'll be fine.”


Okay.


I went upstairs to the office and got on the phone and turned on the computer and generally started trying to put out this fucking fire the best I could. Between dealing with the translators and then getting interpreters on the line so I didn't have to spend twenty minutes after each call typing up a summary for Emily, the whole thing was a damn nightmare. The company was being cagey as hell about what exactly had happened, which was about zero percent helpful, and if they had just told us the truth six hours ago I could have been actually helping this whole time instead of putting together vague fucking press releases about how every business goes through its ups and downs. Yeah. Not every business has a fucking axe murderer for CEO. (I had no idea if he used an axe. They wouldn't fucking tell me anything.)


I didn't hear from Justin until about an hour later when there was a crash from downstairs while I was in the middle of a phone call. It wasn't particularly loud, but that's only so reassuring. Shit, I signed, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear. But a second later Justin called up, “I'm okay!” in that hoarse, stuffed-up, way-too-loud way of his, and I snorted and covered it with a cough.


I got off the phone about twenty minutes later and went downstairs to survey the damage. No sign of Justin in the main room, but I found him curled up in bed on top of the covers, his movie playing on the TV in here instead. I probably should have put him here in the first place.


I came around so I was in front of him. What'd you break?


He laughed a little. Nothing. I tripped over the table.


Seizure or stupid?


Neither. I couldn't see it, my vision was spotting out.


Aura? That meant we were really in for it.


Yeah. He was being brave.


I reached down and cupped the back of his head. Okay. Evan will be home soon. What can I get you?


Washcloth?


Yeah, cold?


He nodded.


You should drink some water.


It wouldn't stay down.


All the more reason.


He shook his head and closed his eyes, shuddering a little. I went and soaked a washcloth in cold water and checked the temperature of his forehead—a little warm, but he usually runs hot when he has migraines—before I draped it over him.


How's your serial killer? he asked me.


I laughed and groaned. God. We need to take a vacation after this, okay?


Buy my beach house.


No, I said a vacation, not a fucking business transaction.


How are you the one who makes money in this family?


Yeah, I ask myself that every day. I watched him shift around a little on the bed. Justin rarely lets pain show, and even he can't keep a straight face through migraines, and it was rough watching him try to joke around because I knew he was doing it to put me at ease. You sure you want the movie on? I said.


Yeah. The light hurts him, obviously, but he can't sign in pitch black and he gets so goddamn bored when he has migraines. He's Deaf. What the fuck is he supposed to do lying in a pitch-black room with nothing to distract him?


My phone started ringing, and I have it set so it flashes too, and Justin winced. Sorry, I said, and lay one hand carefully over his eyes as I checked the display, then sighed and took it away. I have to take this.


I'm fine, it's okay.


Yeah, okay. I bent down and kissed his cheek, very very lightly; he doesn't really like any kind of touch when he has a migraine, can't even pull the sheets over him. Later.


“Later.”


And immediately I was sucked back into the PR nightmare from hell, juggling phone calls back and forth to the company with conference calls with marketing to see what the fuck they recommended and legal to see if getting out of this contract was the right call, or if we could even do it, then touching base with Emily, who was trying to pull together as many details as she could about exactly what the fuck happened and who the hell was in charge of this company now and how likely were they to end up in prison before our contract ran out.


It went on well into the night, thanks to the time difference, and it was hours before I left the upstairs. Downstairs was eerily quiet and I kept forgetting Justin was even home, since normally he's loud as all hell. Every once in a while I'd hear quick footsteps and a few minutes later the toilet flushing, and all I could do was mumble, “Hang in there, buddy,” in-between dashing off emails. On the rare times I was off the phone, I didn't hear much from downstairs for a while, just quiet coughing often enough that I knew he wasn't sleeping; the sleep-coughing is always a lot more brutal.


Evan texted me telling me he was home at around two—he uses the separate basement entrance when he comes home late, so he won't wake me up—and I asked him to check on Justin. It was almost two hours after that that when he showed up at the door to my office, looking tired as hell.


I had just gotten off the phone with a HR guy in China and was writing up a summary of it for Emily. Hey. Why are you still up?


He shrugged. I've been with him.


Yeah. How's he doing?


I think he's in a lot of pain. Can you help?


I looked around at the massive piles of shit I needed to do. “Uh...yeah.” I stood up. Is he talking? He tends to get really quiet when he's hurting.


Evan shook his head.


Yeah. Okay.


Justin was close to where I'd left him hours ago, balled up with his arms around his head. The lights were low but not off, and his breath was coming in harsh, shallow gasps, something between a wheeze and a whimper, and I tried to ignore the tight feeling that gave me in my stomach.


His eyes were closed, so I gave his hand a light squeeze so he'd know I was there. He squeezed back.


I turned to Evan and said, Can you grab my phone and my laptop?


“Yeah.”


Thanks. I sat down carefully on the other side of the bed as Evan left, and Justin slowly rolled over to his back and looked at me.


“Hi,” he whispered.


Hi. Any better?


“Not yet.” He took a deep breath in and shuddered, and I...struggled to keep my hands to myself, honestly, because I knew it would feel like electricity on him. But it's hard, it's fucking hard to try to rationalize that Justin is fine, that migraines are unpleasant as shit but not dangerous, when there's that idiotic part of my brain that won't stop screaming JUSTIN'S IN PAIN like one of those never-ending car alarms. I'm pretty calm about him being sick unless he's actually dying, probably because he's calm about it and that helps a lot. But he's got this high as fuck pain tolerance, and when that's surpassed, it's like he's not even here. And he's the one who knows how to deal with shit. I just follow him.


He's sick all the time. He's not in pain like this all the time. We don't...we're not experts at this.


I'm going to stay with you, I said. Doesn't look like either of us was getting any sleep anyway.


He blinked at me, and I wondered if he could even make out what I was saying around the auras. And how swollen his eyes were. They looked especially bad, actually, even by his standards. Maybe we needed to start getting this place cleaned twice a week.


Evan came back and handed me my laptop and my phone. You're going to stay down here? he said.


Yeah. You should sleep, okay? You did good. My signing moved the bed some, and Justin whimpered. Sorry, sorry I said. It's okay.


Evan nodded, already fucking half-asleep on his feet, shook an I love you, at us and headed downstairs.

 

Close your eyes, I told Justin, and he did, and I turned the brightness down on my laptop as far as it would go and concentrated on moving as little as I could.


Justin was still for a while, coughing too lightly to really help him breathe every once in a while and shivering more than I would have liked. I know Justin's migraines, and at that point I was pretty much was waiting on my signal, and after about half an hour he opened his eyes and said, “Brian,” and I nodded, finished the sentence I was typing, set my laptop to the side, and got him to the bathroom.


Normally I just hang out with him and rub his back when he throws up, but he didn't want that right now. I got him a towel and to kneel on so he wouldn't be right against the floor and filled up a glass of water. He didn't have much in his stomach, just the water and Gatorade Evan had convinced him to choke down, and I winced at how raw his throat sounded. When he was finally done he curled up, his arms folded on the toilet seat and his head down, and just sobbed a little, and I said, Oh, kid, and felt my stomach up in my throat.


I crouched down next to him and rested my hand lightly on his back, even though it made him shiver. I found his chin to sign Water, on it, and he slowly lifted his head and took the glass from me. His breathing was sounding pretty terrible at this point. He was wheezing so loudly I kept thinking he was talking. His hand shook violently around the glass, but he still managed to rinse his mouth out and drink a little. “God,” he whispered.


It's going to get better soon, I said. You're almost through it.


He set the water glass down on the floor and panted. I sat down next to him and watched.


We can go to the hospital if you want, I said. Get a shot, make it stop.


He shook his head just a little. The lights.


The lights, yeah. Okay.


He sneezed suddenly, hard, then groaned and held his head.


God, yeah, I said. I bet that's not fun.


He sneezed a few more times and said, “Fuck. Oh my God,” driving his hand into his forehead.


Okay, give it a rest. I cupped a tissue over his nose and gave him a very light kiss on his temple when he sneezed again. Easy. He choked out a sob, and I said, Justin, easy.


“Back to bed,” he whispered, and I nodded and picked him up, probably more relieved than I should have been by the way he pulled himself reflexively into my neck. I lay him back down on his spot in the bed and checked my phone. I'd missed three fucking calls in that time.


So I settled in next to him and started returning calls while Justin sniffled and sneezed and shivered next to me. And like, look, Justin's standards for a normal amount of sneezing are about eighty times higher than your average person's, but this still seemed like a lot considering his allergies had been sort of okay the past few days and nothing had changed since then. I looked around the room like I was expecting to see a dog I'd somehow missed, and my eyes landed on the clock on the wall. Shit.


A little background here: most of Justin's meds—his anticonvulsant, antidepressant, the meds to raise his white count and simultaneously the ones to calm his asthma down which suppress his immune system, because this life is a fucking joke sometimes—are once a day affairs. He takes them in the mornings.


His allergy meds are twice a day.


You didn't keep your meds down, did you? I asked.


I tried twice.


Okay, time for round three. I reached over him to his nightstand.


“It's not going to work,” he said. “I'm going to be puking again any minute.”


Damn it. Okay. Use your inhaler at least.


So he did, but the taste made him nauseous, so, yep, back to the bathroom for us. His shirt rode up around his waist and I saw a smattering of hives on the small of his back. Jesus, he cannot catch a break. Who gets hives from hay fever?


He tried to take a bath, but there was no water temperature that wasn't excruciating on his skin. He ended up having a seizure after we tried, which I think was because of how fucking badly the hot water hurt him, frankly. It wasn't a very bad one, and honestly it was probably a blessing in disguise because it wiped him out so badly that he finally fell asleep despite the pain. I put the oxygen mask on him once he was out and got back on the phone, but I was getting fuzzy and stupid from lack of sleep and hours of being on-edge watching him. Everything felt like it was taking too long to get to me, like I was hearing everything that wasn't his breathing on some sort of delay.


I ended up on the phone with Emily at around five, when I was just about ready to call it quits. She was on her couch in sweats and looked about how I felt. They can wait a few hours, she said. We need to sleep.


Yeah. Thanks for staying up. Everyone else had bailed out hours ago. Amateurs. Between Jane and Justin, the two of us are used to the occasional all-nighter.


Yeah. Is Justin feeling better?


No, he's... I took a deep breath. He's really hurting.


Brian, hey...


This is stupid, I said. He's fine, he's going to be fine, I'm just...he makes these noises when he's in pain and he doesn't even know that he's making them, he's not trying to fucking get attention or make a big deal out of it because he doesn't even know he's doing it.


Brian.


I did this, I said. All of it. The seizures, his fucked-up lungs, his goddamn immune system. The fucking pain. All of this because I didn't walk him back into the fucking prom.


Stop, she said.


I pinched the bridge of my nose for a minute until my eyes stopped swimming and I could focus on her.


You're tired and being a drama queen, she said plainly. Someone you love is in pain so you're sad about it. That's not because it's your fault. It's because it's five in the fucking morning and you're sleep-deprived and dumb. And you love him.


God. As if boohooing on the phone to a twenty-nine-year-old weren't embarrassing enough.


Get some sleep, she said. Everything's going to be better in the morning.


I don't remember falling asleep, but I startled awake around eleven, vaguely out of sorts from some dream I couldn't remember. Justin wasn't there, but I heard movement around the main room and I could tell it was him. I stretched to my phone and texted come here while moving as little as I could, and a minute later he appeared in the doorway holding a mug of coffee in one hand and a tissue over his nose with the other. His hair was tousled and curling over his ears, his eyes were brutally pink and swollen, and there was a patch of hives going behind his ear and disappearing into the scruff around his jaw. He was beautiful.


Hi, I said. Did you sleep?


He nodded and sneezed four times, but aside from a small wince after he seemed okay.


I smiled a little. Your head's better.


Another nod and sneeze.


You took your meds this morning, yeah?


He sniffled into his tissue and lowered it. “Yeah. Still paying for missing the night dose.” His voice was thick and hoarse, tired.


At least it doesn't hurt, right?


He nodded, his breath already hitching its way into another sneeze.


I sat up. You look cute like that. Come here.


He came over, pouting a little, and fit himself into my arms. His breathing was softly wheezy but actually not all that bad, which was a welcome surprise. Looked like we were finally going to get out of something unscathed.


I kissed his cheek. You did good yesterday. I know that sucked.


He attacked his eyes with the back of his hand. “I'm so itchy.”


I have to see what the fuck I slept through, get back to work.


He sneezed and nodded. “Are you going into the office?”


I don't think so, I should have everything I need here. We'll see.


I ended up staying home, partly Emily said she was going to go anyway so she could take care of things there, partly because I was still exhausted and didn't feel like putting on real clothes, partly in case Justin's migraine came back, and partly because as it happens Evan wasn't feeling well either. The side effects of his meds get to him more some days than others, and he was just having a rough one. By now I'd gotten used to Evan and was starting to get it through my head that he doesn't exile himself because he actually wants attention but feels guilty about it and like he doesn't deserve it, but because he genuinely prefers being alone when he doesn't feel well. Sue me; I'd spent thirteen years managing that first thing.


So I largely left Evan alone, but I wanted to be around in case things went sideways, and every few hours I'd piss him off by checking on him to make sure he was still alive. In between I was back to work, pacing the main floor while I managed conference calls and ran up and down from the office to handle faxes and root through paperwork. I figured Justin might go to his studio now that he was feeling better, but he curled up in his favorite chair by the TV and watched game shows or some shit and generally radiated waves of I'm in a bad mood whenever I had a minute to talk to him. I figured he was worn out from the migraine and cut him some slack, for the most part, though I was getting pretty fucking annoyed picking balled up tissues off the floor every two minutes.


I'd jumped right into work without eating and by two I was starving, and the ducklings needed to eat too. I waved for Justin's attention while I was on hold waiting for the Mandarin translator to work through some new documents. Can you make something for lunch?


He looked at me all annoyed. What?


I'm sorry, did I interrupt something important? Your boyfriend needs to eat. And so do you. And so do I.


Can't you do it?


Jesus, Justin, you don't think I'm a little busy?


He stood up, blowing his nose, and mumbled something about not being my wife.


Very nice, Sunshine, thanks.


Justin sneezed his way over to the kitchen and washed his hands and got stuff out for sandwiches. He drove the heel of his hand into his eye and said something I couldn't make out, between the hold music and how stuffed-up he was.


What?


He held up a hand for me to wait, sneezed hard, and then said, Do you want mustard?


Yeah, just— I said, then stopped and waited for him to finish sneezing so he could actually fucking see what I was saying, but it took so long that the translator got back on the phone, so I got distracted, and a minute later Justin was throwing a dish rag at me. Jesus, what?


I asked you a question, he said.


I'm trying to manage two fucking conversations in three different languages, maybe be a little patient.


Patient? I'm fucking making you lunch, he said, and sneezed again.


Yeah, and a very hygienic lunch at that.


Then make your own goddamn fucking food! he said, and stomped back over to the TV like the fucking child he is, and I rolled my eyes and went over and made the fucking sandwiches, because apparently staying up all night taking care of the fucking business that supports this family isn't enough of a contribution. And look, I was not unsympathetic to the fact that he'd had a terrible night, but mine hadn't exactly been peachy either, and it's not like I was acting for the fucking moon right now. If Justin didn't ever do anything the day after he didn't feel well, he'd never fucking do anything.


I made lunch for me and Evan—Justin could starve, whatever—and brought Evan's down and ate mine and then felt bad and made a sandwich for Justin, but he just picked at it anyway so I went back to being pissed off. Emily's coming over to drop off some files, I said. Think maybe you could keep your tissues in the trash can while she's here so she thinks we have some semblance of civility here?


He blew his nose and glared at me.


Cool, thanks for the help.


Emily showed up. She was dressed business casual even though there hadn't been anyone in the office but her. That's my girl. She handed me a stack of files and said, They shouldn't need much, but you should check everything.


Thank you. Seriously.


I did want to point something out for you, there's one form that wasn't familiar at all and I'm not sure I did it right.


Yeah, they have some archaic stuff in their file.


“Bri, can you close the door, please?” Justin said. Whined.


I rolled my eyes and said, Come in, to Emily and closed the door behind her. She took her shoes off and raised an eyebrow at Justin.


You okay? she said.


He shrugged, pulling his legs up into the chair.


Emily and I sat on the couch and went over a few of the forms. There ended up being a few that we had to retool, so it took a bit. Not her fault; this was all above her pay grade to begin with, and God knows how much sleep she'd had either. Justin was still breathing okay, but he was sneezing pretty constantly by that point and he just looked exhausted. Eventually he got up in frustration and went to our bedroom and closed the door without saying anything.


Yikes, Emily fingerspelled.


Yeah, he puked up his allergy meds last night. And behold. I have never seen anyone with allergies like his. I thought his meds weren't working but no, apparently it actually could get worse.


That must suck.


I shrugged. He's been dealing with it since he was a baby. I've seen pictures of him Jane's age with his eyes swollen like they are now. He's used to it.


She raised an eyebrow.


He's breathing okay, I said. He's fine. It's just allergies.


That didn't look like just anything to me, she said, and I fucking felt my heartbeat speed up, that fucking car alarm part of my brain convinced I'd missed something.


You think it's bad? I said.


I didn't say that, she said, turning back to the contract in her lap. I think it looks miserable.


She left pretty soon after that, with orders for me to take a break for a few hours, which was probably for the best since I was pretty distracted after that. I went down to check on Evan—sleeping, no fever—and then opened the door to our bedroom and Justin was crying, and God, if everything hadn't already shifted a minute ago with Emily, here we were.


And for some reason the first thing I thought of was way back when, when he was just this seventeen-year-old who didn't want to let me know he wasn't too cool to feel anything, he used to say it was just allergies when he was crying.


How long had Justin been calling this thing he fucking hated just allergies? How long had I been doing it?


Because he hates them. And I knew he did. He hates them with a kind of single-minded intensity he'd never grant epilepsy or his shitty lungs or, well, obviously not being Deaf. They don't give him some broader understanding of the world, or connect him to people, or teach him to slow down; they just make him fucking distracted and foggy and itchy and miserable, and they have for a lot longer than I've been around.


And yeah, maybe it fucking occurred to me then that I worried less about his allergies because they were the one goddamn thing wrong with the boy that we knew were inarguably, unequivocally not my fault, and I didn't at all like what that said about me and why I give him the care that I do and I was extremely ready for that to not be a factor in play in this little life we have.


He sneezed as I sat down next to him on the bed. God, that had to be getting old.


I kissed his cheek and signed Bless you, small.


He rubbed his eye. Thanks.


You want to talk about it?


He shrugged. It's so fucking itchy.


Yeah. You hate itchy. I do know some things about him, even if I fucking forget I do sometimes.


He nodded, pawing at his nose. It's just...everywhere and I can't get away from it and it all just...sometimes it just reminds me that all of this is going to be here forever, and that it's not even fucking noteworthy.


God.


And the thing is, I knew this about him. I'm all busy being fucking relieved that we're back around our baseline, but the baseline is the thing that gets to Justin. He prefers one really bad night to the constant, throbbing reminder that he's going to be dealing with this shit for the rest of his life. I have a lot more trouble with the sharpness, the incidents, maybe because that's something I can conceptualize a lot more than the fucking endless slog of just existing. My brain screams about Justin being in pain because my brain physically cannot fucking scream about Justin not feeling well, because it's fucking constant, and I just...I know it intellectually, but I have to remove myself from the emotion of that somewhat because he is here and he is mine and he is sick and I can't fix it, and he does not get to remove himself from it. Not for a second.


And Jesus, how much must it fucking suck to feel like the times you get attention, affection, patience, are during the aberrations, during the nights when nobody sleeps, when those don't come around all that much? I mean, what does that say about what you can expect in the day-to-day? About what you deserve?


It's really just fucking amazing how much I can mess up still.


But hey, if I get to be dazzled by his ability to keep going, I can be dazzled by mine too.


Will you watch a movie with me? I said.


He blew his nose. Don't you need to work?


Even God rested for a day. Come on.


I got him settled on the couch and got him a new box of tissues and another dose of Benadryl and a cool washcloths, and I found a movie he'd already seen a few times—he doesn't like new stuff when he's having a bad day—and encouraged him to curl up into me. He lay his legs across my lap, and I rubbed his shoulders and took turns holding the washcloth over each of his eyes. I let him wipe his damn nose on my shirt because whatever, he's the one who does the laundry, and before too long I felt him start to relax. It's really not so hard, comforting him. It's not so hard at all.


It's going to be here forever.

 

But I am too.

End Notes:

 

At some point i'm going to write something that's not just pure h/c, but really like...am i actually?

Chapter 105 - Capable by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian gives a driving lesson.

Capable

LaVieEnRose



I somehow woke up at six, even though Justin, crappy lungs and all, had slept down here with me and blown me into a coma five hours before, disentangled myself carefully from his octopus limbs, and changed into my running clothes and went out. My last few days my runs had been disappointing, and I couldn't put my finger on why. I just felt sluggish, and my times had been slow, so I ended up staying out for an hour and a half trying to basically pound the energy back into me. I limped my way back through the basement entrance after a disappointing eleven-and-a-half miles and got straight into the shower to rinse off the sweat and the pollen and this fucking exhaustion, and by the time I got out Justin was gone. I got dressed and headed upstairs, where he was stretched out on the couch with a book and the TV on, and I kissed him and bumped my nose against his and then went to the kitchen and squeezed my wet hair out on Brian. He reached up and tackled me into a weak headlock without looking up from the paper.


“How'd you sleep?” I asked him.


Good. It's weird how you miss the wheezing. Not weird how you don't miss being kicked in the leg. You?


Great. Your husband gives a mean blow job.


He set the newspaper down. From his first one, too. I didn't even teach him. It's like he was born with it. I always forget Brian was Justin's first everything.


He's a demon.


Probably. Oh, by the way?


“Hmm?”


Today's the day, he said, as I poured myself a cup of coffee.


“Today is not the day.”


He sipped casually from his mug. Oh, but it is.


“Maybe tomorrow.”


He shook his head. Today.


“Maybe next week. Or never!”


He pointed to his lips; he always lets me know when he wants me to lipread. It's nice. “Today. Today today today.” He waved his hand for Justin's attention when he wandered in with his nose still stuck in his book. He and I went to the bookstore yesterday and he picked up some more of these mystery novels he's obsessed with, and they are seriously impossible to rip him away from. Justin. Justin. Justin.


Justin waved his hand back, still reading.


No, you have to—hi. Hello there. Good morning.


What? Justin said.


Today's the day.


Justin brightened up. Oh, it is?


It is.


Yay. Okay. Soon? I'm going to the studio later.


Yeah, like an hour. Eat something.


He wandered over to the stove and opened the cabinet and pulled out a pan, but he knocked the whole stack under it loose either because his hand shook or he's just generally clumsy as hell, and as he turned away from the cabinet a ton of pans fell out and crashed onto the stove and the floor. Brian and I both jumped about a foot—I'm pretty hard of hearing, but that was loud—but Justin didn't even notice.


God, he's just...so Deaf, Brian said, and I laughed. Brian took Justin by the arm and turned him around.


Oh, wow, Justin said. Sorry. He got down on the floor and picked the pans up, and Brian put his hands under his elbows when he was done and lifted him up to his feet, since that kind of maneuvering is pretty hard for him.


You want eggs? Justin asked me.


I kissed him. Yeah.


Don't put any fucking spinach in mine, Brian said.


Oh you're getting spinach. You haven't had a vegetable in two days.


You know, I did live before you were around forcing your health shit down my throat.


Barely, Justin said, and Brian gnashed his teeth and smacked his ass, dropping a kiss on the crown of his head.


How about we just eat eggs and then that's it for the day? I said. Justin can take a nap! You love naps.


You're going to be great, Justin said.


Easy for you to say, I grumbled, and went and slumped in a chair at the kitchen table while Justin cooked.


You know, most children are very excited about learning to drive, Brian said.


Oh, bite me.


He laughed. It'll be fun.


It'll be something, all right.


**


So Brian drove us deeper into the suburbs until we found a big, largely empty parking lot, then got out and the two of us switched places. Justin was sprawled out in the backseat, working on the forms for...some kind of homeowner's insurance thing, I think? I don't know. I can barely read regular English, let alone that legal shit. I didn't get anything at the book store.


Why are there three pedals? I said. There's supposed to be two.


It's a manual, so you have the clutch, too, Brian said patiently. That's the one on the left.


Justin said something out loud—I could hear his voice, but facing away from him I had no chance of making out the words—and Brian waved his hand to shut him up.


What did he say? I said.


That we should have rented an automatic. And he's full of shit. Once you learn to drive a manual, you can drive an automatic in your sleep. And since we don't have an automatic car, seems more useful for you to learn to drive this one.


“Or you could sell this one,” I said. “Get an automatic. This one looks pretty old.”


I'm not getting a fucking automatic. I already live in a house. Next stop after an automatic is capped teeth and a beer belly. Can you hear his breathing?


No.


Brian turned around halfway. Where is your inhaler?


I don't need it yet, Justin said.


Brian rolled his eyes and turned back to me. Your left foot works the clutch, right foot for the other two. Go ahead and press down on the clutch.


“Is the car going to move?”


It's...not even on. Jesus Christ.


There was some kind of noise behind me, and I said, “What was that?”


Nothing. He coughed.


“He's laughing at me!”


Yeah. Try to just be grateful he's alive. That's what I do when he's annoying as shit.


Justin tugged Brian's sleeve and said, What's my social security number? and Brian signed it over his shoulder as he watched me.


I pressed down on the clutch and cranked the key when Brian nodded. “Oh God oh God oh God.”


The parking brake is on. You're fine.


“Okay. Yeah.”


And now we're going to take off the parking brake.


“Brian...”


You have to learn to drive. What if I'm out of town and Justin starts foaming at the mouth or whatever?


I'd call an ambulance.


You're Deaf.


You make a strong point.


So first you check to make sure the gear shift is in neutral.


Is it in neutral?


It's in neutral. Now we're going to release the parking brake...good. Press down on the brake. No, that one stays on the clutch. Other foot. You're going to want to look straight ahead now...how deaf are you, can you hear me if I talk to you?


“I'll hear that you're talking, but I won't get the words if I'm not looking at you.”


Your aids are all the way up?


“Yeah, this is good as it gets.”


Why didn't your parents get you a cochlear, anyway? he said. They seem like the cochlear type.


“Money. And they didn't love the idea of killing the hearing I do have to get the implant. Said it would make me too dependent on it.”


That's incredibly depressing, Brian said.


“Yeah.”


Did you want one?


“Yeah.”


Do you still?


“Sometimes. This is a weird time to be having this conversation.” It also was weird to be speaking out loud so much in front of Justin, but he wasn't paying any attention to us anyway. He was deeply involved in filling out those forms, his left hand around his right wrist to keep it steady. He uses adaptations when he signs to work with his hand that people have to get accustomed to when they first meet him. He always switches to his left hand for number, because those need fine motor skills, and sometimes for fingerspelling. He does some signs with his right hand in a loose fist instead of the handshape they're supposed to have. It's really not hard to understand at all, once you're used to it.


The truth is he signs better than I do, and his English is...I mean, you can't compare my English to his.


So yeah, his hand doesn't work and that sucks, but if I'd had language growing up I would have known how to fill out those forms, you know?


I would know how to drive.


My parents told me it wasn't safe, I said quickly. That what if I didn't hear sirens.


Safest place in the world you can be is right here with me and Justin, he said, casually, like it was nothing. They make wider rearview mirrors for Deaf drivers, we'll get you one. Let's move into first gear.


I took a deep breath and shifted the way Brian told me.


Now you're going to ease up on the brake pedal, Brian said. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. And now start to let go of the clutch...nice and slow.


I saw Justin look up from his paperwork in the rearview mirror. Hey, we're moving!


Brian was turned in his seat to face me. Once you're off the brake, move your foot to the accelerator and start pressing down. Gentle.


We surged forwards. “Oh God.”


Okay, more gently than that. Just use your big toe.


Fuck, we were really moving now. I tried to slow my breathing down. “Did you teach Justin to drive?”


No, he knew before I met him.


“Can he drive stick?” I said.


If Brian could tell I was just trying to distract myself a little, he let me get away with it. Yeah, he learned on a manual when he was fifteen. He spent that summer with his uncle and he taught him. Doing okay?


I nodded. “I need to turn, right?”


Yeah, if you don't want to drive into the store. Start that now. Ease off the accelerator, take it slow. You've got room.


I started turning. I could hear Justin making some kind of noise behind me. “Did he say something?”


Just coughing. He's okay.


“He's driven this car?”


Yeah, back before the seizures got bad. He used to like driving.


“That was before he lost his hearing, right?”


Neurological changes with his disease, yeah. They pulled his license about a year later. This is helping? Talking about Justin.


“Yeah.”


Okay. This is a good turn. How was your run today?


“Good.” I shook my head. “Not good. I was slow.”


Faster than me, I'm sure. He turned around in his seat and had a short conversation with Justin that I couldn't see without taking my eyes of the road, which was not happening.


I said, “Brian, what's he doing?”


Brian turned back around. Wheezing.


“We should go home.”


He'd wheeze there too. Look at that! You turned. Let's build your speed back up.


I pressed on the accelerator—gently—and managed not to jump when the the car sped up. Brian took a bottle of water out of the glove compartment and passed it back to Justin.


“Distract me,” I said.


You're not supposed to be distracted while you're driving.


“I'm going too fast.”


He looked at the speedometer. You're going fifteen.


“Yeah, every hour.”


He sighed. Disney.


“Disney. Yeah. It's coming up.”


It is.


“Is he going to be ready?”


He just needs to sit in a chair and look pretty. And I think we're off the hook for pushing him, because Gus is weirdly excited about it.


“You're supposed to be making me less nervous.”


What do you think he's going to do, push him into a lake full of alligators? He watched Justin say something and then batted him away.


“I mean now, sort of,” I said. “But no, just..I haven't met Gus.” I turned again and built my speed back up.


Good, very good. Gus is thirteen. He's sweet. Pretty non-scary.


“What am I supposed to tell him I am?”


He looked at me like I was an idiot. Unless they've come up with some new term for it, I'm thinking...Justin's boyfriend?


“He's a kid!”


I'm not saying give him a fucking diagram of your preferred sex positions, but he's a teenager, not a puritan, and he's not exactly unfamiliar with non-traditional families. He'll be fine. Okay, you're watching that meter?


“Um...should I be?”


Yeah. When you get to 3000 you're going to shift into second gear.


“I'm going to what?”


I'll show you, he said, then rolled his eyes.


“What?”


He's running his mouth about what RPM he thinks he should be in before you shift. You're supposed to be doing our fucking insurance forms and you haven't driven a car in ten years because your brain doesn't work. Veto.


“Brian...”


You're fine. The car might jerk a little. Just keep doing what you're doing. You're going to press down on the clutch and...right to here? Okay?


I took a deep breath. “Yeah.”


Now.


The car definitely jerked and it was definitely somewhat terrifying, but then we didn't die.


“Like changing gears on a bike, I said.


Exactly. Well done. Do a few laps and then we'll go over parking.


We practiced parking for a while, which I liked a lot more than driving because it involved going very slowly, but eventually Brian said Justin's eyes looked too bad and we needed to go home. I don't know what happened there, but he'd been really conscious of Justin's allergies lately, and he was sort of openly concerned about it in this way that was very...not Brian. Not that Brian's not usually concerned about Justin; of course he is. But it's usually a lot more shielded, I think because that's how he keeps Justin from getting panicky, but with this it was almost like he was making an effort to let Justin know he was worried. So...not weird for your normal person, probably, but weird for Brian.


Brian drove us back to the house, and I turned around in the passenger sat and talked to Justin on the way back. His eyes did look pretty awful, and he was sneezing a lot. I can never hear him wheezing—it's too soft and high-pitched—but I can tell when he's having trouble by the way he scratches his chest with his thumb, like he's trying to unlock it.


Brian kissed each of Justin's cheeks when we got inside and nudged him towards the shower. I went into the kitchen to get a snack, and Brian drifted in after me, half-heartedly straightening up the kitchen like he always does when he wants to eat but he's being a queen about calories. He'd end up eating half a box of cookies as soon as my back was turned.


He seems sad lately, I said.


Yeah. He hasn't felt even somewhat decent in a while. It's wearing on him. He just needs a good day. He gets a good day, he remembers good days are possible, he keeps going. Needs one fucking good day.


“Maybe in Disney.”


Maybe.


“You think he's up for it?”


Brian leaned against the counter. Yeah. It's going to take adapting, but I don't think anything he needs is going to be insurmountable. There will be half a million of us there. There will be someone who doesn't mind going back to the hotel and sleeping midday. Lord knows that sounds good to me.


And that's...you know. That's Brian. That right there, the shrug, the nonchalance, the complete lack of bullshit, the way he somehow manages to say in the same breath that Justin absolutely needs help and that it's not a big deal. That's Brian.


Why are you looking at me like that? he said.


I'm just thinking how nice it was of you to force me to learn to drive.


He laughed a little and rolled his eyes.


You want me to be able to do everything, I said. It's nice.


You think I did this for you? he said, without missing a beat. No. I'm sick of having to drive him everywhere. Brian, take me to the studio, I got new paints. Brian, take me to the store, we're out of avocado. Brian, take me to the hospital, I'm dying. Enough already. You take half of it.


“Yeah, yeah.”


He wrinkled his nose at me.


“I love you,” I said. “You have to hear it sometimes.”


God, spend an hour with a guy and he's head over heels. Remind me to tell Lindsay I haven't lost my touch.


“You are so full of shit,” I said.


He pushed himself off the counter and pecked my cheek. Every minute of every day. I'm gonna go rinse him off. You're okay?


“Yeah, I'm good.”


A little pale.


“I just need a nap.”


Okay. He studied me. You did good today.


I felt like I grew an inch right then. “Yeah?”


Yeah, you didn't kill anyone. That's always a good sign for your first lesson.


I laughed and let him go, but right as I was about to head downstairs I saw him wave out of the corner of my eye. “Yeah?”


He was leaning in the doorway. You can, you know? he said. Do anything.


“Yeah,” I said. “I think maybe I can.”

 

End Notes:

For ThatAj. Happy slightly early birthday, ThatAJ!!

 

Note: I don't actually know how to drive a stick shift so excuse my errors.

Chapter 106 - The Happiest Place on Earth by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Thirteen-year-old Gus joins a branch of his untraditional family tree on a trip to Disney World.

The Happiest Place on Earth

LaVieEnRose



So Dad and Aunt Emily went down to Disney World a few days before the rest of us did to take care of all the business stuff, and then the rest of us were going down to meet them for the fun part. That meant I had to take two planes, one to get to New York to meet up with everyone, and then one with them down to Orlando. But I didn't mind. I like flying, even though Moms still get weird about me doing it alone, like I haven't been going up to visit Dad and Justin by myself for years. Mama always gets sort of weepy, like it might be the last time she'll ever see me. JR usually gets sulky because she wants to come, and this time was even worse because...I mean, who wouldn't want to go to Disney World? But if they'd brought her, they would have had to have brought Ivy, and then they would have had to have brought Michael and Ben, and it was just...I got it.


Derek was the one who met me at the airport, which was awesome because he's really cool. Much too cool to be friends with my dad. He remembered the dumb secret handshake we made up last time I was here and did it with me right away.


Are you coming to Disney? I asked him as we walked.


He shook his head. It's expensive.


You know my dad would have paid.


Oh, I'm sure. He rolled his eyes. It's okay. Daphne's not really a Disney person, and this was supposed to be the weekend we got married, before we put it off, and she's kind of sad about it. I just want to do something nice for her this weekend.


That is like so grown-up.


I know, right? It's weird.


We got a cab, and I made sure to pay for it like my dad told me on the phone I had to. I have a credit card that he pays for, but my moms never let me use it for anything unless I'm in New York. You'll have to take a lot of pictures, Derek said. I want Jane in some ears.


We all do. Did Gwen get out of having to work? She's the one who usually takes pictures.


Yeah, she's going. He counted on his fingers. Brian and Emily are already there. Gwen's flying down tonight. Then you and Justin are tomorrow? he said, except he didn't say you and Justin, he said you and Justin and some sign name I didn't know, like a half-E and then the letters VN.


I said, Wait, who?


Evan, he fingerspelled slower.


Who's Evan?


You don't... He shook his head. Oh hell no. I am not doing this. This is not my burden to bear.


This is really dumb, but my first thought was that they'd had another baby or something and not told me. Derek, who is Evan?


He sighed deeply, ran both his hands down his face, said, I'm going to kill Brian, then said, He's Justin's boyfriend.


Okay, so I knew that Dad and Justin weren't, you know, your typical married people, because it's like super important to Dad that I know that, to a really annoying degree. But uh...a boyfriend? Who was coming on vacation with us?


Maybe Derek read my mind or something, because he said, He works with Brian and Emily.


So then why isn't he already there?


That's just the executives.


I..totally pictured him as one of the executives without even really thinking about it. Because like...Justin is married to my dad. I know what he likes.


And then I realized there was something pretty important I didn't know.


Is he Deaf? I asked.


Yeah, he's Deaf.


I didn't say much the rest of the way to their house, just kind of...thinking about all that, I guess. The cab got to Dad and Justin's house and Derek did the handshake again and I hauled my stuff out of the cab. I'd seen the house on FaceTime, but it seemed smaller in person. I liked the blue, though, and they still had a sign on the door saying to ring the bell, which made it feel like their place right away.


Dad had come back to Pittsburgh for a few days a couple weeks ago and also a couple weeks before that, but I hadn't seem Justin in ages, not since before he was really sick a few months ago. Nobody even told me about that until it was over. My moms were whispering to each other all the time and seemed really upset but kept putting on these fake smiles and telling me everything was fine and not to worry. Dad was really pissed when he found out they'd lied to me about it. “We do not tell Justin's kids that he's invincible,” he said. “Him getting sick will not be a goddamn fall from grace.”


“This isn't about him being sick,” Mama had hissed.


Dad just shrugged and said, “That won't be a fall from grace either,” but I don't know what that meant. I don't even really know what a fall from grace is.


Justin answered the door and I wrapped him in the biggest hug ever, and he laughed and squeezed me tight. Oh my God, he said when we broke away, and he put one hand on top of his head and one on top of mine, comparing.


Almost, I said.


“God. You really are your father's son.”


You're pretty short.


Shut up. Come in.


I did, closing the door behind me and slipping out of my shoes. You look skinny, I said.


Ugh, don't say that. How was your flight?


Fine. Quick. I looked around, taking in the living room, and finally saw Jane crawling across the floor. I zoomed over and intercepted her, and she made this surprised kind of squawk and kicked her feet a little as I picked her up. Oh my God, you're so big. She's almost as tall as you too, Justin.


Both of you can leave, he said, and I laughed and kissed Jane's forehead.


She probably doesn't remember me, I said.


She's a baby, she doesn't remember what she had for lunch.


It sucked, though, honestly, that I didn't see her more often. Babies are a lot less annoying than sisters who can talk, and watching her pick up sign language is so cool. I can't really understand her at all, because all her signs are baby-talky and not quite right, but it's pretty awesome to watch her handshapes get better and stuff. Justin said she'll be a better signer than I am by the time she's three or four, and I don't even think he was trying to make fun of me. It's not even that I'm that bad. Deaf babies just have superpowers.


Justin said, “Do you have anything you need for Disney? We have time to run out.”


No, I have everything. Mom made me pack a visor and SPF nine million. Your voice sounds hoarse.


Allergies! Still waiting to see if she's going to get them. I think her eyes look pink lately but Brian says I'm imagining it.


What about Evan? I said, just kind of...I don't know, testing. I said it really nonchalantly and shit.


And he answered the same way. “Evan always agrees with your father, it's very annoying.” He took Jane out of my arms when she started to squirm and bounced her a little.


Where is he?


“Taking a nap, but he should be up soon.” He tilted his head to the side. “Oh, wow. Have you never met him?”


I didn't even know he existed until five minutes ago, I said, so so much for my plan to be nonchalant. But you know what they say, if you can't be a shit to your family...


And Justin just waved his hand anyway. “He fits in so well we forget to mention him. We don't even notice he's here. Are you hungry?”


Yeah.


“I'll make you a grilled cheese.”


He put Jane in her high chair and gave her some crackers, then started melting butter in a pan. The kitchen was kind of part of the living room, with just the island separating it. It was cool. It kind of reminded me of an airport, or my hockey stadium. Just a big open space.


How's your cough? I asked him.


“Pretty stable.”


Is it going to get better?


“No, probably not.”


How do you feel?


He smiled a little. “I'm okay, sweetheart. You're not supposed to worry about me.”


Does that work with Dad? Everyone's always telling me I'm just like Dad.


“He is supposed to worry about me. Big difference.”


I think I am too.


Oh yeah? Is that in the rules?


Yeah.


I ate my sandwich while Justin cleaned up some of Jane's stuff and I told him about how everyone back in the Pitts was doing. I'd seen Grandma about a week ago so I told him about that, since he hadn't seen her for a while, and he told me about Molly's new boyfriend and Derek's new apartment, and Jane banged on her tray until I took her out. I was dancing her around and singing some wordless shit to her that I was making up because whatever, she can't hear, when I heard someone walking up stairs and then this guy came in from the hall behind the kitchen. He was tall, almost as tall as my dad, and he had dark curly hair and big brown eyes.


He saw me and sighed. “I overslept. What an entrance. Hi. I'm Evan.” I could tell he was Deaf from his voice, just because at this point I know pretty well from Justin how Deaf voices sound, but he spoke really clearly. Honestly better than Justin. Dad says Justin used to sound different but I don't really remember.


“Hi,” I said.


How was your flight? he asked me.


“Fine.”


“Be nice,” Justin said to me. “He's scared of you.”


Evan nudged him. I saw that.


“Saw what?”


Very funny. He turned back to me. Have you told your dad you made it?


No, I said, and maybe I should have been more polite or whatever, but...I was not going to let this guy think he had some authority to order me around about calling my dad. You're here dating my dad's husband. You call my dad.


But Justin said, Do that. And call your moms too. And don't forget you have to practice your Haftorah before you go to bed.


I know, I know. Okay.


I don't want you to stay up late. We have to get out of here pretty early tomorrow.


So I called my moms and texted Dad and practiced my Haftorah while Justin and Evan put Jane to bed and did some last minute packing and had some incredibly boring conversation about possibly maybe painting one wall in the living room but maybe they shouldn't but maybe they should and God, maybe it was all some diabolical plan to make me fall asleep on the spot, I don't know. I was kind of keeping an eye on Evan, I don't know, but he seemed okay. Maybe kind of boring, but he told me a few things about himself over the evening that I tucked away. He was an artist. He was somewhere in his late twenties. He and Justin signed to each other too fast for me to understand.


Justin nudged me up to the guest room at around eleven and came to check on me a little while later. You need anything? he asked me.


No. I watched how he leaned against my doorframe. You look tired.


He nodded. I'm going to bed now.


How's your breathing?


I told you you're not supposed to worry about that stuff.


Asking isn't worrying. It's just asking.


He came in and kissed my forehead. I made a face.


You excited? he asked me.


Yeah. You?


He smiled a little. “Sure. Will be fun to see Jane there.”


Can we get her a magic wand?


“Yeah. Lights out, okay? Flight's early.”


Okay.


“Love you.”


Love you.


He started to go, and at the last second I reached out and grabbed his wrist.


“Yeah?” he said.


Everything's okay with you and Dad, right?


He tilted his head. Are you asking or worrying?


Worrying.


He squeezed my hand and let it go. “You don't ever have to worry about that, okay? We're a done deal. He's stuck with me.”


Yeah. Okay.


“Sleep well, Gus.”


Night, Justin.


**


We got up early, and Justin and Evan made breakfast and did that kind of stuff that always comes up when you're trying to go anywhere with a baby—I have like twelve sisters, I've been around—and we headed to the airport. I was starting to get seriously excited, and Jane obviously didn't really understand what was going on but she was feeding off the vibe and was happy and bubbly in her car seat, signing Dog and Bike and whatever else she saw out the window of our Uber.


We had a lot of stuff to wrangle, between our suitcases and Jane's stroller and everything, and I'd been watching Justin cough all morning, which meant he had to keep moving aside the mask he had to wear until we got to Orlando because of the germs in the airport and the plane and everything, and that meant people were already looking at him like he had the bubonic plague or something and I could tell he noticed and was not enjoying it, which meant he was definitely going to love this next thing I said! I nudged him before we went to security. You should get a wheelchair, I said. Practice for Disney.


I need to push the stroller.


Evan can push the stroller, I said. And I can push you. Like I said. Practice for Disney.


He shook his head.


You don't want to tire yourself out before we even get there, I said. I'll go up to the front desk and ask, okay? You don't even have to do anything.


This is not your job, he said to me.


It's not a job, Jesus Christ. Why do you make everything such a big deal? You'll feel better sitting down, we'll feel better not worrying about you running yourself too hard.


Justin looked at Evan, who cocked an eyebrow.


Would you do it if Brian were here? Evan said.


Justin rolled his eyes. I'd have to.


Well, he told you to make sure you do all the shit he'd do it if he were here. Let's get a wheelchair.


So I went up to the desk and asked, but it turns out it's not like Disney where you can just get a wheelchair and they leave you alone, because at the airport the wheelchair comes with a person to push you around who looks like they'd rather be doing anything but that, so that pissed me off, because like...Justin was already uncomfortable enough, and now this guy was acting like it was this huge burden to push him through security. When I totally would have done it and I could tell Justin didn't love being pushed by a stranger anyway. He carried Jane on his lap and Evan took care of our suitcases and I pushed the stroller and carried my backpack. I noticed after a while that Evan was keeping a hand on the wheelchair all the time, like he wanted Justin to know that this airport guy couldn't run off with him or something. And I liked that. You don't take control away from Justin; I'd known that since he screamed at Dad in the middle of Moms's anniversary party when Dad pulled his hearing aids out because Justin said he was getting a headache. You don't make that decision for him. It wasn't just pride that made him not want to get pushed around the airport. Or, I had to assume, Disney.


So I kind of thought about that but I didn't really know what to do about it or anything. We got to the gate, and the person pushing Justin just kind of left us there, so...okay. I touched Justin's arm. Can I go to the shop and get a soda?


How far?


You know I flew here by myself, right? Whole airport, by myself? Two airports.


Gus.


I rolled my eyes. Right there, see?


Okay. Do you need money?


I have Dad's credit card.


“What a coincidence, me too.”


I went to the newsstand and got some drinks and a magazine and some snacks. When I got back, Evan was in the bathroom, and Justin had moved out of the wheelchair and into one of the seats at the terminal. He has to take all these drugs when he flies to make sure he doesn't have a seizure or feel really sick, and they were starting to kick in and he looked pretty tired.


I sat next to him and split open a pack of Lifesavers, and he closed his eyes automatically and waited for me to give him one, and I didn't look when I took mine. We held our hands out and opened them at the same time. Red for him, green for me.


You get your wish, he said, and I laughed and pumped my fist. It's kind of stupid, but we've been doing it forever. Back when I was a little kid I used to share Lifesavers with my dad when he took me to the theater or a museum or something, and I'd always whine when I got green ones because I don't really like them. Then once Justin told me that the green ones were magic, and whoever gets the green one gets to make a wish, and...I don't know. It's not like I believed him, but it still made it more fun.


Next one's mine, Justin said.


Yeah, we'll see. I closed my eyes and made a wish.


**


The plane trip was pretty uneventful. Justin slept through most of it with his head on Evan's shoulder, and I watched movies on my laptop and ate pretzels while Evan played on his phone. Once we got to the airport there was a whole designated line and shuttle for people going to Disney, so that was pretty cool. I hadn't been since I was really little so I didn't remember anything specific, just something vaguely with a Snow White ride that scared the shit out of me and eating a lot of those ice cream bars that are shaped like Mickey.


They played this intro-to-Disney World movie on the shuttle, and it had captions! So that was nice. The shuttle went to all the Disney hotels, starting with the really super goddamn fancy ones, so uh...we got off pretty early. God, vacations with my dad are the fucking best. My moms are always telling me all eight million of us piled into one hotel room is “part of the experience.”


Evan said he'd handle checking in, even though I offered to do it, and Justin and I were standing around marveling at the million-foot ceiling when I heard this kind of “mmmph” noise from Justin and I looked and my dad had appeared out of nowhere, wrapping Justin in a bear hug from behind. Justin smiled, resting his hands on Dad's arm, and Dad kind of swayed him back and forth a few times before he turned him around and pulled him into the kind of kiss that they're apparently never going to be too old to do in public. So, yeah, looked like Dad and Justin were fine!


They sucked face for a while and finally stopped and Dad asked him a few questions about the flight and me and how he was feeling, and then Evan came over and Dad smiled and hooked his arm around his neck and kissed him, thankfully a lot shorter than how he'd kissed Justin. And then, finally, he sighed heavily and turned to me and offered his fist to tap, then snorted and gave me a rough hug and mussed up my hair.


So, this place is a shit hole, right? he said, and I laughed. He bent down and gave Jane a kiss in her stroller.


“Where are the girls?” Justin said.


Out at the pool. I told them I'd bring the baby out. He brushed Justin's hair off his forehead and frowned a little.


“Drugged up,” Justin said softly.


Yeah, I know.


Are we going to the park today? I asked.


Pool today, Dad said. Parks tomorrow.


I was about to complain, but Dad gave me a warning look, and I realized okay, yeah, Justin probably needed some time to get all the drugs out of his system. And hey, it had been a long winter and a cold spring. Pool sounded nice.


“Do I get my own room?” I asked Dad as we brought our stuff upstairs.


“No, you're with dear old Dad.”


“You're not rooming with Justin?”


“You ask a looooooot of questions,” he sing-songed.


Whaaatever. I changed into my swimsuit and followed Dad's directions down to this seriously massive swimming pool. Emily was wearing this blue bikini and looked, uh, wow, and she and Gwen hugged me and we talked about plans for tomorrow and I got about a third of what Emily said, which is pretty good for me.


I got in the water with Jane and she squealed loud enough to scare a lot of hearing people and kicked around the water, and just as I was handing her off to Gwen I heard something I hadn't heard in...kind of a while. My dad was laughing.


He was sitting sideways on one of the lounge chairs on the pool deck while Evan sat on one of the little plastic tables across from him, and in-between them Justin was stretched out on his own chair, looking a little sick and a lot tired, signing something I was too far away to see that made both of them laugh and Dad lean forwards and tuck his head briefly into Justin's neck.


Justin looked like total shit and my dad was so fucking happy he was here.


**


We had dinner at the bananas fancy hotel restaurant, and then Gwen and I took the ferry to Downtown Disney. I bought souvenirs for Moms and we got ice cream sundaes at the Godiva store, even though we'd totally had dessert at dinner. Justin and Emily were cuddled up together in a hanging chair in the hotel lobby when we got back, Jane napping on Emily's chest, and he said Dad and Evan were out checking out the nightlife. They came back drunk and laughing a little while after, and we all played cards in me and Dad's room for a while and it was fun because Dad and Evan were totally wasted and trying to act like they weren't, but they kept messing up all the rules and forgetting what they were doing and it was really funny. But then Emily and Gwen had to go and put the baby to bed and it was getting late and Justin was starting to cough more and more, so Dad signed a whole bunch of stuff at him and Evan that was way too fast and sloppy for me to follow and sent them off to their room next door to ours. Justin was breathing in this loud way that kind of scared me, but after they left Dad squeezed the back of my neck.


“He's okay,” he said. “Don't worry.”


“I sleep by myself every night, you know? You can go with him. I'll be fine.”


He rolled his eyes. “Thank you for for the permission, sir.”


“God, shut up.”


“Justin's fine. If I changed my plans every time he got wheezy I'd never get anything done.”


But sometime in the middle of the night I woke up to this weird noise, and since I was mostly asleep and I don't think I'd ever heard anything like that before it took me a minute to figure out it was Justin in the next room. He was breathing so loudly that I could hear it through the walls, and he was coughing so much and then I realized he was crying.


So I knew, obviously, that Justin had nightmares a lot, because...he has them a lot. But I'd always just seen him kind of startle awake from a nap and then my Dad would squeeze his shoulder and everything would be fine, or maybe for the really bad ones I'd get up to pee in the middle of the night when I was staying at their apartment and Dad would be up making Justin some tea to help him go back to sleep. I don't know when I found out about what happened to Justin when I was a baby that gives him those nightmares. Obviously someone must have told me at some point, but it feels like something I've always known.


Anyway. So of course I knew he had nightmares. But usually he could breathe. And always Dad was with him.


So I sat up to wake him up and tell him, to, you know, get his ass in there, and then kind of jumped because he was awake, sitting on the foot of his bed facing Justin's room, rubbing one hand over his mouth.


“Dad?” I said.


He startled. “Go back to sleep.”


“What's going on?”


“He has nightmares when he sleeps in new places,” he said. “I should have...he's okay.”


“He's wheezing really bad...”


“It's the scarring.” He kept watching the wall. “It's not as bad as it sounds.”


“How do you know that?”


He just rubbed his mouth and didn't say anything.


“Aren't you going to go?” I said.


“No. He's okay.”


“Dad...” I said, just as Justin sobbed, and Dad squeezed his eyes shut and ducked his head a little.


“He's okay,” he said, firmly, after a minute, but Justin still sounded just as bad as he had when I woke up. “Go back to sleep.”


I lay back down because I didn't know what else to do, and when I fell back asleep Justin was still crying and Dad was still sitting exactly where he was.


In the morning, nobody mentioned it.


**


We had breakfast at the hotel—I ate about ninety Micky Mouse waffles—and then we got on the shuttle to go to the Magic Kingdom. Dad was being handsy with Justin, the way he always is, signing on him and hooking his arm around his neck and poking his cheek to get his attention, but he was also all over Evan. I'm used to him being like that with Michael, but besides him he's not like that with just anyone, and it was weird to see him be cuddly with someone who wasn't Justin.


Justin's eyes were puffy—he has really bad allergies—and I could tell Dad was kind of worried about it because he kept touching Justin's cheekbones really carefully and resting the back of his hand over Justin's eyes until Justin batted him away. Jane was all excited watching the people and trying to figure out what was going on, and Gwen and Evan were going on and and on about all the stuff they were going to buy her. Evan was the first one of us off the shuttle, and he waved his hand for Justin and Dad's attention when they stepped up and signed something I didn't catch, but Justin and Dad clearly both got it because they started arguing about it, and Emily joined in when she got off and then I was completely lost because nobody signs as fast as Emily. If I don't get the topic as soon as people start signing, I never, ever figure it out. I just get more and more lost.


I tugged on my dad's elbow. “What's going on?”


“They have transport chairs to get you from the shuttle to where you rent the real wheelchairs,” Dad said, without taking his eyes off Justin's signing. “He doesn't want one.”


I can walk, Justin said. Everyone just saw me walking.


Dad looked exasperated as shit. Sweetheart, it's not about walking. It's about stamina.


I can get there.


I know you can, Dad said. But the percentage of your energy that's going to use up is not worth it. We can take this one, you can save it for shit we can't do for you.


Justin kind of bounced a little, looking anxious and looking at the wheelchair.


You were going to use one in a few minutes anyway, Dad said.


I know. I didn't think it was now. He'd imagined it in his head what it would it would be like, went over it over and over, and now that it was different, even in a little way, it was throwing him off. I know Justin.


And Dad does too. He came in kind of close to Justin and signed, Do you want to sit down? all small and quiet.


He nodded, just a little.


Okay. Sit. I have you.


Justin sat down in the wheelchair, and I went to take the handles, but Dad shook his head and handed Jane off to Emily. “Let me do it,” he said to me, softly.


“You said I could do it!”


“You can, just...let me start him off, okay?”


So I backed off and let Dad easily start it in motion. Justin leaned his head back and asked if he was heavy, and Dad rolled his eyes. “You weigh seven pounds,” he said, and nodded at me to sign it for him, and that kind of became my job, interpreting for the two of them since they couldn't really talk while Dad was pushing. So that was pretty fun.


We switched Justin to a different wheelchair at the entrance and followed the crowds down this little street filled with shops and to the castle. There were a lot of other people in wheelchairs, most of them in the rented ones like Justin was, and I think that made him relax some about the whole thing. Dad drummed on his shoulders a little whenever we had to stop.


We went on about eighty million rides. It was cool having that many people there because there was always someone who wanted to do something. We didn't get to skip the lines with the wheelchair, but we did get a different line and a lot of times that ended up being shorter, so it was pretty cool. Justin signed to every cast member who talked to him and tried to show him where to go that he was Deaf, and a few of them knew a few signs, which was cool. Most of them didn't, but none of them seemed uncomfortable miming stuff out for us and making it work, and Dad and I just pretended we were Deaf too and let them do it.


Emily loves roller coasters, so she and I went on Space Mountain and Splash Mountain and Thunder Mountain Railroad over and over. Dad was being...you know, Dad, rolling his eyes at the lines and the rides and the general happiness, but he behaved himself mostly. He let me push Justin and split a Dole Whip with Evan. Justin carried Jane on his lap—so now he weighed about nine pounds—and pointed out all the princesses and everything, and she shrieked every time.


At one point I was waiting outside the bathroom with Dad and Evan. We'd just come out of this long line and then the Peter Pan ride so we were kind of antsy. Justin had gone in without the wheelchair, so I was sitting in it and rolling back and forth. Dad and Evan were chatting about something work-related, I don't know, and that Evan just tipped forwards onto his hands and did a handstand.


“Whoa!” I said.


Dad shrugged. “He does that.”


“How?”


Evan walked a few steps on his hands, then tilted himself back onto his feet. He wiped his hands on his jeans and looked between us. “What did I miss?”


He doesn't know a lot of limber twenty-somethings, Dad said. Justin's been all locked up for about as long as he can remember.


Evan laughed a little. “I can teach you,” he said to me. “You want to learn?”


“Seriously?”


“Yeah, it's not hard. We'll get you up against the wall, come on.”


So I got out of the wheelchair and went over to the side of the bathroom, and Evan showed me how to lock my elbows and keep my core still and helped me get myself up against the wall. He smiled at me, upside-down. “You're a natural.”


“Yeah?”


“Yeah.”


Jane started fussing after we came out of one of the shows (they had an interpreter there! Too cool). Gwen was holding her, and Justin asked Gwen if she was hungry with one hand while Dad stretched out his other arm, working his fingers around Justin's elbow.


I can get food, I said. I took Jane from Emily. Come on, you can show me what you want.


Evan and Justin and Dad and Emily were immediately all over me going, We don't know about her and nuts yet, at the same time, and oh my God, guys, relax. I put Jane in her stroller and brought her to a nearby food stand to get a look at what they had, turning the stroller around once we were in line so she could talk to me, which she did, babbling about the people in line and the roller coaster she could see and a plane overhead. I don't understand a lot of her baby talk signing, but that's okay. She doesn't mind. She's just a really observant little kid. Maybe she's gonna be an artist.


Dad clamped his hands down heavily on my shoulders. “Hey.”


“What's up?”


“Figured you could use a hand carrying everything.”


“Hmm. Probably.” I looked back over at the group. Emily and Gwen were signing up a storm, and Evan was pushing Justin in circles, making him do wheelies.


“You like him?” Dad said after a minute, all fake-casual like he does.


“Who, Justin? Yeah, I guess he's okay.”


Dad rolled his eyes.


“He's nice,” I said. “He obviously loves Justin.”


“Yeah, any idiot could see that.”


“Gee, thanks.”


“Anytime.”


We scooted up a little in line, and I said, “Can I ask you something?”


“I suppose I'm powerless to stop you.”


“You and Evan,” I said.


“Yeah?”


“Are you like...you know.”


Dad shuddered. “God no. He's twenty-eight.”


“Okay, well, Justin was seventeen...”


“One, Justin is an ageless demon, and two, you're...not supposed to know the seventeen part.”


“I can count.”


“Yeah, I always forget you learned how to do that.”


“Okay,” I said. “So you're not sleeping together.”


“Correct.”


“So he's like...he's just Justin's boyfriend, not yours.”


And then he just made this weird face and didn't say anything!


“Dad, what.”


“It's...”


“What, complicated?”


He rolled his eyes. “It's not complicated at all, it's just not...” He groaned. “I'm used to people who just let me live my life without poking at me all the time.”


“Boohoo.”


“He's...Justin's, so he's mine,” he said. “I don't know how else to explain it.”


“You could try being normal.”


“I'm not going to start that now. I'm very old.”


“Just give me a word,” I said. “Evan is my dad's...”


He cleared his throat and said, “What are you getting to eat?”


God!


**


We went to dinner at Downtown Disney that night and then hung out at the resort for a while, and the next day we did Epcot and Hollywood Studios. At one point in the afternoon Gwen had taken Jane back to the hotel for a nap, and Emily and Evan and Dad wanted to do Tower of Terror but I don't like drops and Justin thought it might hurt his neck, so he and I went and looked at some shops and then just hung out and rested for a little while. The streets in Hollywood Studios are all cobblestones, and he was getting kind of sore from rolling around on them, I think. But he'd been sort of quiet all day.


I sat on a bench and stretched my foot out and nudged him in the knee. You okay?


He gave me a tired smile. Kind of embarrassing to be tired when all you're doing is sitting.


To be fair, it doesn't exactly take a lot to embarrass you.


He stretched some, pulling his legs up on the seat of the wheelchair. “You may be right.”


Why is that? I said. You really think people are judging you for needing a wheelchair?


He sighed, wheezing. “It's not that exactly. It's more like...I think this is hard for healthy people to understand.”


So I waited patiently.


He said, “I don't think you ever get rid of the fear that people are going to think you're making a big deal out of nothing,” he said. “You always think...someone is rolling their eyes because they know I can walk and they think I'm being a drama queen. Someone thinks I just like the attention. Someone thinks I'm making it up.”


Those people sound like assholes.


“Sure, except there's a part of me that's convinced that they're right.”


These people who don't even exist.


He shrugged. “Yeah.”


I rolled the wheelchair around a little with my foot. I don't know why you think you're supposed to push yourself as hard as you possibly can, that that's something people want from you, I said. We actually want you to have a good time and not feel like shit. Why do you think you have to prove something? It's a vacation.


“Because making it easier for me means making it harder for everyone else,” he said. “Someone has to push me.”


We're practically fighting over pushing you. It's fun.


“I make your dad worry.”


My dad would worry anyway, I said. He always finds something to worry about and micromanage. It's what he does. And when he's with you... I shook my head a little.


“No, what?” he said.


I just don't think you know how different he is when you're not around. He's just all energy and frustration and nothing to do with it, and then when you're here...you give him something he can help. I don't think you get how much you comfort him.


“God,” he said. “When did you get so fucking grown up?”


Ugh. Don't remind me.


He laughed. “What?”


Just...all this Bar Mitzvah stuff, everyone's always talking to me about how I'm about to be a man and I just don't...feel ready.


“Why not?”


I don't know. I look at my dad, and all the shit he does an takes care of and like...I don't even understand what he does at his job.


“God, me neither.”


And with me and Jane and now he has a house and—no offense—the stuff with you—


“None taken.”


—and I know becoming a Bar Mitzvah doesn't mean anyone actually expects me to be an adult all of a sudden, but it's still like...it's closer to that. And it all seems really impossible.


Justin studied me. “People really have been telling you your whole life how much like him you are, huh?”


Yeah, yeah. I know what you're going to say. Big shoes to fill.


“They're absolutely big, sure, but they're also just specific. An you are a lot like him, but at the same time...I mean, I've met a lot of people. And trust me. There is only one Brian Kinney.”


Thank God for that.


“Amen.” He rolled himself around a little to face me head-on. “Your father is amazing,” he said. “He's the most brilliant, kind, considerate person I've ever met and he has no idea how great he is. And that's a rough way to live. And it's not your only option.”


I nodded a little.


He said, “I remember when I found out I was losing my hearing, I had all these ideas about what that was going to look like, but...going Deaf doesn't look like I thought it would. Being an adult probably isn't going to look like what you think it does either. You don't have to be a Brian. You can be a Melanie, or an Emily, or a Emmett, or a Ben, or a Derek, or a Daphne...or a Gus. The world is full of types of people. There actually isn't some rule book. For people. Relationships. There's no one checking to make sure you fit into a mold. You can be whatever anything you want.”


I think I want to make something a little bit better for someone.


“Something tells me that won't be hard for you,” he said.


**


Every time I rolled over in bed that night and woke up a little I could hear Justin coughing, and at one point I opened my eyes because I heard the door close and saw Dad's bed was empty, the covers thrown to the side. He was back the next time I woke up, though, and there in the morning, and we made small talk while we got dressed and ready. He was terse and grunty. He probably didn't get a lot of sleep.


We were just getting our stuff together to head out when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” I said, and Dad rolled his eyes and said, They're literally all Deaf, on his way to the door. Oh yeah.


It was Evan, dressed and alone. They signed to each other, too small and fast for me to see, but pretty quickly Dad turned to me and said, “I'm gonna stay with Justin, okay? Go to Animal Kingdom with Evan and the girls.”


“You're not coming?”


“He's having a really bad day,” Dad said. “He needs a break.”


“No, of course, I just thought...” I gestured to Evan, a little.


“Animal Kingdom's my favorite,” Evan said. I kept forgetting how well he read lips. “I don't want to miss it.”


Dad came over and fixed the strap on my backpack. “Go on the safari,” he said. “See the Lion King show.” He smirked a little, then said, so softly I almost missed it, “Let me be here today?”


Oh. He wasn't sad about missing Animal Kingdom at all.


And yeah, a tiny part of me was disappointed he wasn't coming with me. But he brought me to Disney World and he'd spent the past two days walking around going on rides with me. It was a very tiny part.


“Yeah, of course,” I said. “Be nice to him.”


“Ugh. I'll try.”


The three of us left together, and Dad went into their room. I couldn't see Justin from the hall, but I could see the way my Dad's face relaxed when he saw him, how all the tension from this morning just melted away in a second.


And I thought...I know he was right, and there are a million people out there that I could be.


But I think I want to be someone who can do that.


I think I'd like being a Justin.

 

End Notes:

 

Aaaaand deep breath before the next one.

Chapter 107 - In Place Of by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

The Taylor-Kinney household has some role-shifting when something goes wrong with Evan. It's not easy.

In Place Of

LaVieEnRose



It started on a Tuesday night, a little over a week after we got back from Disney. We'd had a really nice day, even if I'd been feeling really low-energy ever since we got back, and it was getting to the point where people were asking me about it at work. But we finished up this campaign and Brian liked it, and then he and I picked up Korean barbecue on the way home from work and we ate on the floor and Justin told us about his lunch meeting with his agent and showed us some of his new sketches, and Brian tried to hide how proud, and relieved, he was that Justin was working again. Afterwards Brian went and worked out in the gym upstairs and Justin and I fooled around and cleaned the kitchen, and then Justin hopped in the shower with Brian while I dozed off on the couch, and then we all flopped around the TV and watched this film noir thing. I couldn't really follow what was happening, but it was still nice, lying stretched out on the couch while Justin drew and Brian tossed popcorn into Justin's mouth.


And then at one point I reached forwards and stretched my legs out on the table and I saw Brian look at me and then away and then back again. I was wearing a pair of Justin's sweatpants and he's pretty small so they were short on me, which of course I didn't realize was significant in the moment, but...you kind of have to know in order for the story to make sense.


Brian got kind of quiet after that moment, and I noticed it in sort of this uneasy way. He got up pretty quickly when the movie was over and brought the popcorn bowls into the sink and nudged a yawning and wheezy Justin off to bed. He went to clean up the kitchen without saying anything to me, so I went down to my basement and felt like I'd done something wrong.


My basement is really nice. I have a pretty big kitchen in one half, and a little dining table where Justin and I play cards or work with textiles sometimes. I have my own bathroom down here, and a really big bed, and tons of space or my dresser and a desk and an easel. I still spent most of my time up in the main house, but it was a really good space. I hadn't been back to my apartment in weeks.


I'd brushed my teeth and changed and gotten into bed when my lights flashed from the top of the stairs. I didn't know if it was someone who could hear me or not, so I stuck my arm out in view of the stairs and gave a thumbs up, and a minute later Brian came down, walking slowly, wiping his hands with a dishtowel. He looked nervous.


Justin's going to order groceries tomorrow, he said. Wanted you to look at the list.


“Right. I forgot.”


Brian nodded a little but didn't move to go back up the stairs, and a moment later he came and sat on the foot of my bed and took a deep breath. I tried to figure out if he'd ever been there before.


So, we need to talk, he said, and I was confused when he'd asked me about groceries a minute before he was absolutely, definitely kicking me out. And I just...I didn't know what I'd done wrong, and of course I still had my apartment but I didn't want to go back, it was so warm and safe good here and what did I do, maybe I could fix it, why did I have to go?


“Okay?” I managed to say.


And when Brian said, with all this fucking gravitas, Your ankles are swollen...I laughed. It was so entirely not what I was expecting that I actually laughed.


“What?” I said.


He very gently pulled my quilt off my legs and eased my feet out on top of it. Your ankles are swollen, he said. See?


Huh. That was weird, but it didn't seem meaningful until I looked up at Brian watching me and...oh.


Oh.


You need to make a doctor's appointment, okay? he said.


“I...”


You haven't been feeling well for a while, he said, small.


I hadn't told him that.


“My T cells are fine,” I said. “I'm healthy, I...everything's fine.”


“I know,” he said.


They'd told me eighteen months before that they had to switch my meds because my kidney function had dropped and that even if it progressed I probably wouldn't have symptoms for years, and it probably wouldn't. That I just need to keep an eye out. Not worry about it. Live my life.


He looked really sad.


I swallowed. “My kidneys are failing, aren't they.”


He sighed a little, pulling my feet onto his lap. I know brains and lungs and immune systems, he said. This isn't my area. I have some reading to do.


“Yeah. Me too. Oh, God. How the fuck am I going to tell him?”


I'll do it, he said. Don't worry about that.


“He's going to panic...”


Brian shook his head. He'll be fine. He's really good. You should have seen him when I had cancer. Very no-nonsense. You'll like it.


I nodded and pinched the bridge of my nose. He gave me a minute, then touched my elbow to get my attention.


You need to have an interpreter with you at the doctor, okay? he said. I know you don't like them, but you need to make sure you understand everything. Maybe get a CDI. A CDI is a Certified Deaf Interpreter, and they come with your standard hearing interpreter sometimes and work as a team. The hearing interpreter makes sure the English is getting signed accurately, and then the CDI makes sure that what the hearing interpreter's signing is understood by the Deaf person. They're really useful for sensitive stuff where you want to make sure communication is as clear as it could possibly be, and also for Deaf people who aren't a hundred percent comfortable in English or ASL, because they can adapt to that, so...yeah, three for three, here. My English isn't great, my ASL isn't amazing, and...yeah. This seemed pretty fucking sensitive.


Yeah, I said. Okay.


Do you want me to come with you?


“No, no. I'm okay.”


He nodded, small, but after a minute he said, Can I come with you anyway?


**


I woke up the next morning, bailed on my usual run, and went upstairs to a main room already bright and alive. Justin was in his pajamas and at the kitchen table on his laptop, curled up in some unnatural position like he always is, and Brian was standing at the counter, already dressed for work, reading the paper and sipping coffee. There might have been music playing, it was hard to tell. Brian waved for Justin's attention when he saw me come up, and Justin unbunched himself and came over and kissed me. Good morning, he said.


Morning.


He tugged me over to the kitchen table. I made you breakfast.


Oatmeal?


Low sodium, low phosphorous, low potassium. And I put raspberries in it.


What did I tell you? Brian said. He's bossy.


Justin sat down across the table from me, pulling his legs back up on the chair, watching me expectantly. He looked...calm, and well-rested, which I'll be honest were two things I was not expecting.


Have you made the appointment yet? he asked.


It's seven in the morning.


Okay, well...do it on your lunch break. He tapped my bowl. Eat.


I did. Oatmeal's not that bad really. Justin picked at a plate of fruit—he doesn't like eating first thing—and let me steal a few pieces. Brian kept reading the paper and ignored us for the most part, though he shook out Justin's pills and fed them to him at one point.


How are you feeling? I asked him, and he rolled his eyes.


Brian watched Justin, sipping his coffee, then turned to me and said, Breathing was good last night. Small seizure around two AM.


“Okay, that's not so bad,” I said, and Justin wrinkled his nose and ate a strawberry. His hair was really fluffy and so bright in the light streaming in through the window.


You're going to the studio today, right? Brian said to him.


Yeah, I think so. I want to start sketching on the canvas some. Maybe I'll come to the office for lunch.


So he can hover and make sure you make the appointment, Brian said to me.


Justin nudged him. Shut up, he said, and Brian gave him a smarmy smile.


I can babysit him by myself for a day, Brian said. Get your work done. Haven't painted in goddamn months. Not even sure what the point of you is anymore.


It's a mystery.


He leaned over and kissed one of Justin's cheek and smacked the other one gently. Go get dressed, he said to me. We're going to be late.


“Well,” I said later, as he and I walked to the train.


See? Brian said. I told you. Don't worry about him handling it.


**

I had, unsurprisingly, a bitch of a time focusing at work that day. Now that I knew something was probably wrong, the fact that I was foggy and forgetful and short-tempered seemed so much more...significant, and I was also just so, so tired. I took a break at ten to get a relay service to call my doctor, and when that was over instead of going back to work I somehow ended up in Brian's office.


He was on the phone, but he motioned for me to come in and I sat down on his couch and pulled loose strings out of one of the pillows. It smelled like Justin.


Brian hung up the phone and raised an eyebrow at me. You okay?


I shrugged.


Need something, or just wanted company? Or are you here to destroy my furniture?


Not company, I said.


Ah, right, of course. The lone wolf. It drives Brian--and Justin--crazy that I don't like to be coddled when I'm not feeling well, but it's just...I don't know. I guess it's because I've been on my own for as long as I have, and even when I wasn't I just never had the kind of relationship with my parents where they were going to come and cuddle me because I had a stomachache. I know what I need, and I don't have to explain anything and I trust myself and I can do it all on my own. Why bother bringing another person into this shit? What do I get out of that? What does anyone?


I just don't need a lot.


"I made the appointment," I said. "Today at six."


He nodded, frowning slightly at something on his computer screen. Did you get an interpreter?


"It's at the hospital, they have one on staff."


CDI?


"I'll be fine."


Brian shook his head. You're not going to get all of it from a hearing interpreter. They're going to fingerspell a ton of words and you won't know what they mean and you're not going to know what's going on. Justin has a hard time with doctor's appointments without a CDI, and he's a lot more comfortable with English than you are.


I can't just make a CDI appear out of nowhere.


So we get someone non-certified. Emily's done some Deaf interpreting. Is she free tonight?


I don't want Emily.


She's literally the best signer I've ever met. She'll make you understand everything.


I know, I just...I don't want her to know all this stuff. I'm not ready for people to know. I paused. Can Justin do it?


You want a stronger signer than Justin, he said. And he can't hang around hospitals anyway, he can't come.


Oh. Right.


Brian raised an eyebrow, studying me. Did you want him to?


No, I just...thought since you were coming.


He shrugged a little. Justin stand-in.


Yeah. Can you do it?


Interpret? If Justin's signing isn't good enough, Lord knows mine isn't. And I'm not even Deaf. Can't exactly be a Deaf interpreter.


Wait, you're not Deaf?


He rolled his eyes, looked at his computer, and said, small, He wanted to come.


“Yeah? He didn't have a germ freakout?”


Brian shook his head.


“That's a good sign,” I said. “He's starting to actually believe that his immune system's stronger.”


Brian typed for a minute without saying anything, then turned to me all business and said, You're going to tell me when I need to stop the interpreter and explain something.


I nodded.


Okay. He studied me. You should go home.


“No.”


You're in no shape to work today. You're just gonna fuck up the new account.


“If I go home I'm just going to think,” I said. “I need to be distracted.”


Jane's there, she's plenty distracting.


“Only if you're hearing.”


I'm your boss, Brian said. Go home.


“You're not my boss. You're like my boss's boss's boss.”


I don't think that's the argument you think it is.


“I'm gonna stay,” I said, standing up. “We can leave here and go to the doctor after work.”


God, you make Justin look easy.


I chewed on the inside of my mouth. It could still be nothing, right? I could be fine.


He just watched me, and I knew he didn't know what to say.


“It's been a while since you did this with someone who wasn't used to it, huh,” I said.


Yeah.


I swallowed. “Guess I'm going to get used to it soon enough.”


**


They weighed me at the doctor, and took my blood, and poked at my ankles, and talked at me for a long time. Brian stopped the interpreter a lot at the doctor's office, even when I didn't ask him to, which...was good, because I kept getting too lost to know what to ask.


He stopped the appointment every time the interpreter fingerspelled something and asked if I knew what it meant. You need to sign the concept, he said to the interpreter. He doesn't know these medical terms.


I fingerspelled, Electric..?


Electrolytes, Brian said to me. Levels of minerals in your blood. It's the stuff that's in Gatorade.


Ibuprofen. Creatinine. Uremia.


Dialysis.


A lot of words to spell.


**


Justin was waiting by the door when we got back, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. Brian kissed his forehead and sat him down, and I sat down next to him and took his hand and was really glad that Brian was clearly going to handle this, because God, I was so so tired.


So right now we're really just waiting, Brian said. They took some blood and they're running tests, and then we'll know what's going on.


Justin squeezed my hand. But they do think this is his kidneys.


Brian nodded. They could tell he was sick. They just don't really know why. The tests will tell us more about where we are right now and what our next steps are.


Do they think it's your meds? Justin asked me.


They don't know, I said.


Are they going to change them?


I leaned back on the couch. I don't know.


Okay. Justin kissed my cheek. You're tired, we don't have to talk about this now. How was work?


And then he just...let me talk about work instead of the fact that my fucking organs weren't working, and he sat there and asked me questions about the boards I was working on and my two coworkers who won't stop flirting with each other like that was the most important thing going on here. Like that was what he really cared about.


He was so goddamn normal, sitting there curled up in his sweatpants and Brian's old ratty t-shirt and his hair was curly behind his ears and fuck, I loved him so much, and he laughed when I told him stories from work.


Brian got up and started straightening up as soon as we were off the topic of kidneys, and after a little while he wandered into the kitchen and then abruptly interrupted our conversation. Did you eat? he asked Justin.


No, I was waiting for you guys.


No, not...did you eat lunch. Have you eaten today?


You saw me eat.


I saw you poke at some fruit, did you have lunch?


Yeah, I ate with Jane.


What did you have?


Jesus. Half a sandwich.


Half...okay. You're having a protein shake with dinner.


I had one last night!


You're not losing any more fucking weight on my watch. I'm not arguing about this.


Justin rolled his eyes as Brian went back into the kitchen. Ignore him.


You are skinny.


I'm fine. He's just trying not to suffocate you so he's taking it out on me.


I think I want to go lie down for a while, I said.


He nodded and kissed me. Okay, he said. Text me if you need anything.


Okay, I said, but we both knew I wouldn't.


I didn't need anything.


**


I kind of checked out while we waited for test results. Part of it was that I just felt like shit, like my body knew that I was onto it now it was done being subtle, but I also just...I don't know. It's like I'd told Brian. I wasn't used to this. I'd been positive for years, but I hadn't really been sick since I was first diagnosed. It was just a thing hanging out in the background. I'd always been fine.


Justin was...I really can't overstate how incredible Justin was. He was just normal, but not in a way that seemed forced and fake. There was never any pretense that he wasn't acting normal because he knew I wanted him to act normal. The whole thing was acknowledged, honest, somehow fucking...light, I don't know. He just smiled at me a lot, the same slow, gentle smile he's always had, and he joked with me and asked if he could get me anything and did a lot of research and translated a lot of scary-looking webpages from English to ASL so I'd understand what was going on, when I asked him, and then went right back to talking about movies or art or sex. He was just...there, taking me out for lunch during the workday or making dinner or doing these beautiful sketches of me. Just around, all the time, steady and sweet and so goddamn easy. It was still kind of weird, because he's, you know, him, and I'm used to doing little things for him to make his life a little easier, so this was a role reversal in a way. But he made it seem so natural, like we'd been doing this the whole time.


And then on the other hand we have Brian. Wound up like a spring and...yeah. Like Justin said. Channeling it into micromanaging Justin's every move. And don't get me wrong, he hassled me too, paging me up to his office every five minutes to ask me some banal question that did not need answering and then right when I was about to leave, oh by the way areyoudrinkingwaterdidyoutakeyourmedshaveyouheardfromthedoctor, but he was fucking all over Justin. He really needed to just carry a sign that said “Justin, go lie down,” to save some time, because fuck was he saying it all the time. And what was weird was that Justin was, by his standards, fine. It was April, so his allergies were still giving him hell and his hand was acting up now that he was working more, but for the most part, doing well, and Brian was all over him like a parent who thinks their teenager is on drugs. Though I guess Brian wouldn't have much of a leg to stand on if that were the case.


I missed drinking.


Time just...passed. Three days, four days, five, with no test results. On Thursday night I couldn't sleep. I felt anxious and itchy and sore and I tossed around bed for a while before I got up to make myself some tea. Turned out I was out of tea bags, so I crept up the stairs to borrow some from Brian and Justin. I went into the kitchen, lights off, and rooted around in the cabinet, and when I turned around and there was a person standing behind me I jumped about a foot.


Brian turned the lights on. Sorry, he said. I forgot you wouldn't have your aids in. Normally I would have been able to hear a little bit of him coming up behind me, but I take my hearing aids out to go to sleep and without them I really don't hear much of anything.


What happens if you mix a heart attack with kidney failure? I said. You think they cancel each other out and I'm good to go now?


He snorted. Why are you up?


I held up the tea box. “What about you?” He didn't look like he'd just been woken up, and I didn't think I'd been loud. “Up with Justin?”


You really can't hear without your aids in, huh?


“Not at all. Why, is he coughing?”


Yeah. He's fine. Just loud, you know how he is. Maybe.


I laughed a little, and Brian quirked up the side of his mouth.


He's okay, Brian said. Just keeping me up. Heard you moving around out here, wanted to see what was up.


Too bad you can't turn your ears off.


Yeah, seriously. He turned around and looked back towards the bedroom.


“Brian?”


He turned to face me. Yeah. You should go back to bed. Supposed to be resting.


“Supposed to be waiting, not resting.”


Potato tomato. Go. Bed. He was already back in his room by the time I made it to the stairs.


I didn't sleep well, even after making tea, and I felt pretty awful by the time my alarm went off. I dragged myself upstairs for breakfast and Justin, curled up on the couch, took one look at me and waved for Brian's attention. He's staying home, Justin said.


Brian came out of the kitchen and said, Yeah, okay.


Think you could eat? Justin said.


Not yet. I don't know.


That's okay. We can watch a movie if you want.


I think I'm just going to sleep some more, I said, feeling oddly guilty about...what, not being any trouble for him?


Brian came out of the kitchen with coffee and put one mug against Justin's chest and held it there. “You need anything?” he asked me.


I shook my head. “Just gonna sleep.”


“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'll tell art,” Brian said. Justin took the coffee mug from him and Brian turned to him and started signing as I went back downstairs, asking him, now, if he needed anything. Justin would probably give him something to do. He's always telling me to give Brian a small task or something so he won't just be a ball of useless nervous energy, but...I don't know. I can never think of anything I want to ask him for.


I curled up in bed and slept on and off for most of the day. Justin woke me up a few times to make me eat some toast and sip some water, which was kind of confusing because he doesn't come downstairs that often; I usually go up to him. I woke up with more finality sometime in the late afternoon, and he was in my kitchen mincing garlic with his left hand. He put down the knife when he saw me stir. Hi, he said. Soup soon.


I stretched and nodded to his right hand, held close to his chest the way he does. Work a lot today?


Some, he said, still left-handed. My agent wants drafts. He came and sat on the foot of the bed and smiled at me. How are you feeling? You look a little better.


I just wish I knew what was going on.


I know.


I feel like I don't even know if I get to feel bad and stay home from work, you know? Like until it has a name...I could just be making it up.


He nodded a little. Yeah. Back when I was losing my hearing they told me I'd probably feel fine, I'd just go Deaf. And then I just felt dizzy and shitty all the time and I felt like...


Yeah. Exactly.


But you know your body, he said. You don't run half-marathons without knowing your body. You know when you need to rest.


Yeah. Maybe. I leaned forwards and kissed him. How are you? You look tired.


He smiled. I always look tired.


True. It looks good on you.


He crawled up on the bed next to me and we messed around for a while, just lazily, but Justin was still panting by the time he pulled back and said Soup's ready, and I nodded. He got up and took a few steps to the kitchen before he stopped and steadied himself, breathing hard.


I stretched as far as I could and brushed my fingers against his arm. Justin.


He smiled at me. I'm okay.


You need to go? You can go. The air's a little damper down here since it's underground, and sometimes that feels good to him and sometimes it's just too hard for him to breathe. You never know.


I'm good, really. Just lost my balance a little.


He does that. Okay, I said. I kept an eye on him while he went over to the stove and ladled out some soup, ready to leap up if he looked seizurey, but he was okay. He coughed lightly into his shoulder and carried the soup with his left hand.


“Bed or table?” he said, out loud. It's always weird reading his lips. I don't do it often.


Bed, yeah.


He brought me the soup—it's this spicy shrimp noodle thing he always makes when one of us is sick, and it's so good—and hung out on the bed with me and read some of his book while I ate. It was a little closer to hovering than I usually like when I'm sick, but...I don't know. I wasn't hating it, and that was kind of confusing. He's just really warm, and he always smells so good, and I felt a lot less scared that I had in a while. I don't know. It was weird.


I'd almost finished my soup when my phone started flashing on my nightstand. I reached over and looked at the screen. It's your husband,I told Justin.


Tell him to bring home pizza.


I swiped to answer the phone to a very pissed-off looking Brian walking to the subway. “Hi?” I said.


Are you okay? You look like shit.


“I'm fine. What's with you?”


I've been trying to call Justin and he won't answer his phone, and I was about to ask where he was but I can barely fucking hear you over...Christ. Both of you stay where you are. I'm getting in a cab. He hung up.


You didn't ask for pizza, Justin said, barely looking up from his book.


I didn't get a chance, he's throwing some kind of fit.


Imagine if I only got pizza when Brian isn't throwing a fit, he said. I'd forget what it tastes like.


Brian was back ten minutes later, coming down the stairs all fire and fury. Why the fuck are you down here? he said to Justin.


Why do you think?


You can't... He pinched the bridge of his nose. Justin. None of your shit is down here.


I expected Justin to argue or roll his eyes but he just said, I know, with his eyes on Brian, and something unspoken happened between them.


Okay, Brian said, with a little nod, and then he came over to Justin and helped him up, his hands really gentle on him the way they always are. I'll be back in a minute, he said to me. Don't move. He kept a hand on Justin's back and guided him towards the stairs, and he stayed behind him on the way up. Stairs are rough for Justin, and they took them slowly.


I felt...strange once they were gone, like a part of me just wasn't...right. I couldn't explain it and I didn't like it, and by the time Brian came back about ten minutes later I was in a shitty mood from it. Brian was back to being all keyed up and pissed off, and he fixed my covers like they'd personally offended him. I batted him away.


He sighed. We should call your doctor, you look like shit.


“And they'll do what, scan my blood faster? I'm just tired.”


What did you do today?


“I hung out with Justin. Is that allowed?”


He rolled his eyes. Don't act like any of this is me trying to keep you from Justin.


“Any of what, are we finally going to name what you've been doing?”


Which is what, exactly?


“Fucking...micromanaging Justin's every move.” I learned that word from people complaining about Brian at work. “You're treating him like a child.”


You don't know what you're talking about.


“I know he's capable as shit and he's been amazing with this, and Christ, you're the one who told me I didn't have to worry about him with this, that he could handle it!”


Yeah, why do you think you don't need to worry about him?


“Oh yeah, Saint Brian taking care of everything. And you're so subtle about it, too.”


He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.


He's fine, I said. Look at him. You're driving him crazy acting like he's not fine when he's fine.


Brian just watched me and didn't move.


Waiting for me to get it.


“He's not fine, is he,” I said.


Brian sighed and pulled my chair up to the foot of the bed and sat down.


“No,” he said. “He's not fine.”


But he's acting—


Yeah. That's what he does. He puts things in boxes. He doesn't...it's a brain injury thing. He categorizes. He shrugged. It's a Justin thing.


“Tell me what's wrong.”


It's nothing I can't handle.


“Tell me.”


He sighed. He can't breathe. He's upstairs on a neb right now, we might have to go to urgent care.


I felt cold. “I didn't know.”


You can't hear the wheezing. I know.


“He was up last night because he couldn't breathe.”


Last night was bad, yeah.


“It's worse because he's anxious, right? Because he's worried and he's not sleeping so the seizures get worse, he couldn't use his hand today, I thought it was because he was working...”


I have him, Brian said. If he needs to go to urgent care I'll take him to urgent care. I'm not new at this. I got it.


“I'm hurting him. I'm doing this to him. I can't...fuck.”


He's going to be fine.


“I can't do this to him.”


So what are you going to do?


“I don't know.”


You're going to, what, leave him for his own protection? Yeah, take it from me, he's not a big fan of that move.


“I can't fucking...I know what this is like, I can't put him through this.”


Don't do this martyr shit.


“You don't know what the fuck this is asking of him!”


Like fuck I don't.


“I've watched a boyfriend die, Brian.”


His jaw tightened. Yeah. So have I.


“Yeah, well mine didn't bitch out right at the end and live,” I said, and Brian's face stayed serious but I saw him snort like he couldn't help it, and a minute later we were both laughing. Brian moved reached out and took my hand and kind of just played with my sleeve as we slowed down, and I let him.


He's tough, Brian said after a while. He's too tough for his own good. He just...runs himself ragged.


“You said he was good when you were sick.”


Yeah, he was. For a month he held it together, never let me see a crack. And then the day after my last round of radiation I got a call from his school that that he'd fainted in class, and it turned out he'd forgotten to have a fucking sip of water for four days. He runs himself ragged. He's very polite about waiting until you're well to fall apart, but...


But I'm not getting well.


He nodded a little.


So what the fuck do we do?


We wait for him to figure out the balance, Brian said. He'll get there. This isn't...he's not naturally good at this. I'm not good at being sick, he's not good at being well. He will learn how to do it without being a fucking fall-apart mess as soon as he's away from you. Just needs some time.


“Trying to coddle him isn't going to help.”


He looked away. You don't understand.


“Yeah I do.”


He sighed. Yeah, you do. He looked back at me. You know what the problem is here.


I do.


He's not well, Brian said, almost to himself. He ran his hand over his mouth. That's the thing. He has to be the well one in your little equation and he's not well.


“I know.”


I... He paused. You don't see Brian search for words very often, even in his second language. I have to...my fucking... He paused and took a deep breath. I am here to keep him safe. And I can't lose sight of that just because I want to fucking glue myself to your side right now.


I laughed a little. “You're incorrigible.”


Good word.


“Got it from Justin.”


God, imagine him trying to say those Rs. He took a deep breath. Look, I know you usually... He shrugged a little. I'm giving him shit in front of you for a reason, you know? I don't want you to worry that he's not taken care of if you can't do it for a while.


I can't imagine ever worrying about that, I said.


Brian nodded. Okay. Okay. Good.


We just sat for a while, kind of...decompressing from both of us expressing more feelings than we typically do over the course of a couple months, and eventually Brian got out of the chair and lifted my chin and gave me a brusque kiss on the forehead.


What do you need right now? he said.


“I think just to sleep some more. And maybe for you to check and make sure he's breathing. Tell me if you take him in, okay? And tell him not to come down the fucking stairs when he can't breathe again.”


Oh, trust me, I have. He didn't even have his inhaler on him.


“Jesus.”


Yeah, he's a moron. Okay. Yell if you need anything.


“Yeah, Thanks.”


I figured that would be the end of my night, pretty much—I mean, that's really enough for anyone, right?—so I sent a sappy text to Justin telling him to feel better and stop being an idiot and went to sleep for a while, but I woke up around midnight feeling really, really wrong. I stumbled to my bathroom and threw up about a second after I was awake, and afterwards I was dizzy and out of breath and just drenched in sweat. I dug around under my sink until I found a thermometer, and my stomach twisted when I saw 102.4.


Okay, I said to myself. Okay, okay, okay.


I went back to my room and started throwing stuff in my backpack—a shirt, my phone charger, some socks, Justin's hoodie. My meds were upstairs, so I went up and started rooting around the cabinets. I was sort of vaguely aware of Justin and Brian on the couch, Justin tucked into Brian's side with his legs over his lap and the nebulizer mask on, mostly asleep, but I didn't really register that they were there until the lights flickered and they were both coming towards me.


Justin said, Baby— and took a step towards me, and I held up my hand.


Don't, I said. Stay away.


Justin said, Evan, what...


I mean it, I said to him, and I nodded to Brian and beckoned him over, and I took his wrist and put his hand on my forehead.


“Shit,” he said.


“Yeah.” I pointed at Justin as he took another step forwards. “He's trying it again.”


Brian turned and shook his head at him. No. You listen to him, you stay where you are.


“I can't be here,” I said. “I can't be here with him.”


Tell me what's going on, Justin said.


Brian said, He has a fever.


“Of course he has a fever, look at him.”


So you can't— I started.


It's probably not contagious, Justin said.


Brian said, Sunshine, he could have an infection. We don't know what it is.


My immune system—


—is still in no shape to be around sick people. No.


You're not taking him from me.


Justin...


He can't leave, Justin said. He's sick.


You're sick, I said.


Brian said, Both of you let me think.


I'll go, Justin said. You stay here and I'll go somewhere.


All your stuff is here, I said. You're allergic to everywhere that isn't here. You have to stay. I need to sit down.


Brian pulled out a chair for me and guided me down. Where are you planning on going?


My apartment.


Your...what? You still have your fucking apartment? He turned to Justin. Did you know this?


Don't get me started, Justin said.


Okay, you're not going back to that shithole, Brian said. He lay his hand on the back of my neck, then touched my cheek. God. Hang on. He went to the sink and washed his hands, then went over to Justin and put his hand on his arm and they signed to each other for a few minutes.


I held my head and tried to stop the room from spinning.


Brian came over to me after a little and helped me to my feet. Okay. We're going to a hotel.


“We? No...”


You're not going by yourself.


“'I'll be okay.”


No, Evan. You're not going to win this one.


“Justin...”


Justin will be fine. We'll call Emily and Gwen, they'll come here and stay with him.


That wasn't what I meant, but I was too dizzy to remember what I had meant exactly. So I moved on to something else. “You're supposed to stay with Justin.”


He glanced at Justin, then pointed at his lips and said, “Look at me.”


“Okay.”


“He's scared. He wants to be with you so badly. He is not going to breathe if I'm not with you.”


“My head hurts really bad,” I whispered.


We're going to go now, okay? Come on. I have you.


Justin had been rushing around with my backpack, filling it up with supplies, and he handed it to Brian and stood by, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, his lip in his mouth. Brian signed, It's okay, to him firmly.


“I love you,” Justin said.


Brian nodded and pointed to me and said, Tell him.


“I love you I love you I love you,” Justin said to me.


I love you, I said. Don't cry. You have to breathe. I'm okay.


Brian help me up and got me out to the car, and Justin stood in the doorway as we pulled out, twisting his hands, saying, “I love you I love you I love you,” like a prayer.


**


Brian hung up the phone. Fucking no one is helpful at two in the morning.


I blinked up at the hotel ceiling. “The lights are pretty.”


God, you're wasted.


“What did the nurse say?”


Wait and see, keep an eye on you. Everyone in the known fucking universe telling me to keep an eye on you.


“Guess you should keep an eye on me, then.”


Yeah, only that doesn't seem to be working, Prometheus.


“I don't know that word.”


Yeah. He stole fire. He sat down on the edge of my bed. You gonna live?


Justin will kill you if I don't.


Yes he will. He pushed my hair off my forehead and sighed. You poor son of a bitch. Hurts?


Yeah. I'm okay. How's Justin?


Brian looked at his phone. Still texting me trying to convince me to bring you home.


No.


Yeah, I know. I think he likes you or something, I don't know.


I breathed in and out, slowly. “Room's spinning.”


He nodded and ran his hand up and down my arm.


I swallowed. Emily's there?


She's there.


I never told her about me. She's gonna be mad I didn't tell her.


Plenty of time for that. He touched his fingers to my cheek, and I shivered.


“Brian...”


He took his hand away. Too much?


“Yeah. Don't hover.”


You are such a pain in the ass.


“Yeah.”


Brian got me some water and fixed my covers, bitching about how weird it was to be sleeping in a different bed from a sick person, before I fell asleep. After that it's kind of a blur. I was awake some and asleep some. I vomited until I thought I might die.


I got very, very scared, sitting there on the floor of the hotel bathroom. Brian wasn't making jokes.


He looked at the thermometer. We're not waiting any more.


I don't remember how we got to the hospital, if Brian called an ambulance or if we drove. I remember not knowing if I should watch Brian's lips or people's signing and being so, so cold and telling someone I thought I was drowning.


They're going to fix it, Brian told me. He was sitting on the gurney with me, holding me against him.


I was crying. I remember that. “I w-want Justin,” I said, and trust me, no one was more surprised than me. But God, in that moment, scared out of my fucking mind, feeling like I might actually die that night, I wanted him more than I wanted oxygen. If you've never had Justin when something's wrong, I don't think I can explain what it feels like to do it without him.


And I felt bad about it, even in the moment, because Brian was right here with me and I was asking for somebody else, and God, this is why you don't want people, this is why you never let them know, but he just said, I know. I know you do. Okay, if Justin was here...he'd hold your hand, yeah?


I nodded hard, and Brian took my hand and laced our fingers together.


He'd make up stories, he said with his other hand. He'd talk about all the people and why they were here.


“Yeah.”


Okay, see that woman over there? he said, and he told me what was wrong with everyone and how we were all going to be okay until everything went black.


I woke up vague and scared a few times, but it was day by the time anything was really clear. My aids were in, so I could hear kind of background noise. I still had my bracelet with Brian's name. There were two IV lines going into my arm, both of them filled up with blood and attached to a machine. I recognized that from the websites.


I felt foggy, but a lot better.


Justin was sitting in a chair near the foot of the bed. He had a mask on, one of the germ ones, and his shoulders were going up and down when he breathed. His head was bowed, so he hadn't noticed I was awake.


Maybe it was right then, or maybe I fell back asleep and lost a little time, but Brian came in with two cups of coffee. He put them on table next to Justin and crouched down in front of him, asking him really gentle questions about how he was feeling, if he could get him anything. Justin mostly shook his head a lot and acted like he wasn't really listening.


God, Brian said eventually, almost to himself. I was going to protect you from one thing. Just one fucking thing.


Justin didn't say anything, but after a few seconds he leaned forwards and rested his forehead against Brian's, and they both closed their eyes, and that's how they were when I fell back asleep.


**


I stayed in the hospital for three days. Brian went back to work after the first day, but someone was with me the whole time. Usually Justin, but when he went back to the house to shower or get a few hours of sleep, Emily would be there, or Gwen, or Derek or Daph. Brian came every evening after work to complain about the art department and make Justin eat.


It...wasn't the worst, having people around. I was too sick to be self-conscious, for the most part, and it was just a relief to not have to give a shit about anything because someone else was on top of it. I'd never really let go like that.


I guess I'd never really had anyone to be on top of it.


So I figured, okay. When it's really really bad like this, maybe I can have some backup.


Maybe I'm allowed that.


**


I left the hospital at around nine at night. Brian and Justin were both there for discharge, and we were quiet mostly, but not in a bad way. Justin was having inexplicably terrible hay fever, even by his standards, just sneezing like you would not believe, and Brian was teasing him about it and Justin was smacking him and it did a lot to lighten the mood.


We've got to start your driving lessons back up, Brian said on our way to the car.


I don't know, I said.


I do. Next week. We'll try backing up.


I sat in the backseat on on the drive home, watching Brian and Justin have a low-key argument about whether or not some celebrity Justin mentioned was gay. We pulled up at the house and they helped me haul my stuff in, and I stood in the main room feeling like I'd been gone a lot longer than I really had.


We made dinner without really discussing it, each of us just taking care of our own part and coming together when we needed to. Justin talked about a phone call he'd had with his agent that day while we ate, and Brian stepped out at one point to take a call from work, and it wall somehow very normal and very subdued at the same time.


As we were doing the dishes, Justin said, So we can figure out what you want to do about work. If you want to cut back to part-time or go on short-term disability.


Short-term, I said.


He put a plate in the dish washer. Yep. Back before you know it.


I'm going to take you to dialysis on Wednesdays, and Justin's going to do Mondays and Fridays, Brian said.


I can go by myself. It's just sitting there.


Let him help, was all Brian said.


I was still tired, so I went down and got in bed not long after dinner. But it felt strange being back in my bed. Being alone. There was this gnawing kind of feeling in my stomach and I couldn't figure it out, because I didn't even really feel sick, just...nervous. I paced around the basement for a little while and finally went upstairs, still not really sure what I was doing.


Brian and Justin were curled up on the couch watching some movie, and they looked up when I came in. You okay? Justin asked.


Yeah.


Something wrong? Brian said.


I shook my head and twisted my hands.


Evan, Brian said. What's wrong?


I think I want Justin?


Justin frowned. Do you feel okay?


Yeah. Sorry. I'm fine. Sorry. I started to go, and he reached out and grabbed me.


Come here, he said.


He stretched out his arm, and I got on the couch next to him and pulled my legs up, resting my head on his chest. His t-shirt was so soft under my cheek, and I could feel his heartbeat and his scratchy breathing.

 

You okay? Justin signed on me, and I nodded and pushed my face into his ribs. I slept like a baby, right there.

End Notes:

 

I have been working up to this arc for a WHILE now. Hope you like!

Chapter 108 - Better by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin might not be the best at multitasking.

Better

LaVieEnRose



I was sprawled out on our bed with my laptop when Brian got home. He looked sexy and tired in his club clothes. You're home early, I said.


He raised an eyebrow. It's three.


“Oh. Wow.”


Why the fuck are you still up?


“I was reading, I guess I lost track of time. Have you heard of peritoneal dialysis?”


He sat down next to me on the bed, a strange look on his face. No.


“You can do it at home. You do it every night while you sleep. It's supposed to be a little safer than hemodialysis and you don't have to go into the center all the time.”


Justin.


“You do have to have this small surgery to get a tube in your stomach. I don't know how he feels about surgery.”


Justin.


“What?”


What the fuck is going on with your breathing?


I shrugged, scrolling down the webpage I was reading. “It's a little rough tonight.”


Sunshine, you sound horrible. Like I'm feeling very confused that you didn't die while I was gone horrible.


Well, I do like to surprise you.


He sighed and put his hand on my back. Jesus. You don't feel how hard you're working?


I've told you I don't notice. Fun fact: you can get used to it after all.


Do you also lack the ability to check your peak flow when I'm not here?


Yes, it's very confusing. All the buttons.


It's one button.


Well, I'm brain-damaged.


Did you take your meds?


Not yet. They said his creatinine was high last time, right?


Borderline. He handed me my peak flow meter. Here.


I rolled onto my back and blew into it as hard as I could, then coughed while we waited for the readout. How was the club? I asked.


Thrilling as always. Got a blow job from that guy who was there last time.


The one whose eyes are too close together? I hadn't gone out in a while, but Brian gives me updates.


That's the one. Looks like a bird. Good mouth, though. He looked down at the peak flow reading. Yeah, Che Guevara, you're at one-eighty.


“Oh.”


He sighed and looked at me. I know you're distracted. I get it. But you have got to pay more attention. I mean it.


“I know, I just...”


I know. He nodded at my laptop. Close that. Websites will be here in the morning.


I shut my laptop and crawled between the covers while Brian fixed a nebulizer treatment for me. He went to take a quick shower, and I drank in medicine and looked up at the ceiling and tried to get my heart to slow down.


Brian slipped into bed beside me a little while later, his body warm against mine, his arms snaking their way around me.


You have to be careful, he said, sleepy. Need you okay.


“Yeah,” I said. “So does he.”


**


I got up before Brian and Evan to make them breakfast, like I usually do: poached eggs and an English muffin for Evan, avocado toast for Brian. Evan used to get up before the rest of us to go out for a run, but he hadn't done that in a while. Brian thought he was depressed. I thought he probably just didn't feel well.


Brian came in when I was mostly done and pressed a kiss to my temple. Did you sleep? he said.


“I think so.”


Going to take it easy today, right?


“Yeah.”


He tipped my pills into my mouth and sipped coffee and leafed through the paper, and Evan came up a few minutes later, looking like he'd survived some kind of battle like he usually does in the mornings. He squeezed me around the waist from behind and kissed the back of my neck, and he and Brian had some conversation I couldn't make out with my back to them, but I could see Brian laugh a little, so that was nice.


I think I'm going to call my doctor today, I said as they were eating, and I was picking at a few strawberries.


That sounds like an excellent idea, Brian said lightly, and Evan nodded hard.


I want to get tested, I said.


Brian frowned and slipped a piece of his toast onto my plate. You got tested last month. Have you two even been having sex?


Evan did kind of a so-so hand. How are you going to have sex with him when he's breathing like that? he said. I'm afraid I'm going to kill him.


I mean, I do it, but I'm heartless, Brian said. If he's gonna choke anyway, might as well be on my cock.


Gentlemen, I said.


Evan said, Eh. I'm tired anyway. I'll let you choke him.


Okay, but if his technique gets stale I'm blaming you.


I'm not talking about HIV testing, I said, big so they couldn't ignore me. I want to get tested to see if I'm a match.


Brian immediately laughed, and Evan just rolled his eyes and shook his head.


What? I said. Shouldn't we know?


Brian looked across the table at Evan. Do you want to take turns? Go back and forth?


Sounds good, Evan said.


You're allergic to anesthesia, Brian said.


Okay, there are alternatives—


There is a zero percent chance your lungs would hold up through surgery, Evan said.


That's an exaggeration.


They would literally never approve you with your medical history.


You need two kidneys for all the meds you take.


Plus your organs probably aren't in fantastic shape anyway from what you've put them through.


You would absolutely get an infection from getting cut open.


You also get pneumonia any time anyone think about putting a tube down your throat.


I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair.


Evan reached over and pinched me. You're sweet. But you're not giving me a kidney. Too sick.


What are you going to do, then? I said. Have you even told your parents?


I'm not telling them.


Even Brian told his mom when he got cancer, I said.


Brian laughed. Oh no I did not. Debbie did.


Debbie told her?


Yep, he fingerspelled. His phone flashed on the table and he picked it up and glanced at the screen and put it back down.


Yeah, that makes more sense, I said.


How would I even explain it to them? Evan said. Hey, Mom and Dad, my kidneys are failing because I've had to take this super hardcore meds for this disease I haven't told you I have that you think all gay people get but really I got because I really like heroin!


What's heroin like? Brian asked.


It's pretty fucking good, Brian.


They could be a match, I said.


They'd never do it, Evan said. And I wouldn't want it. Would you want new lungs from your dad?


I'd take new lungs from Rasputin if he was offering.


Evan looked at Brian.


Russian bad guy, Brian said. Very dead. He nudged my plate. Eat that, please.


I pushed Brian's toast around my plate and thought about new lungs, and all the reasons I could never have them, and felt stupid and selfish for wanting them when mine worked pretty fine, stupid and selfish and awful for thinking about me at all.


He can stay healthy on dialysis for years, Brian said. Plenty of time to find someone. He checked his watch. We've got to go. He leaned over and kissed my cheek. Sleep today.


Yeah.


I'll see you at four? Evan said. I go with him to dialysis on Mondays and Fridays. Wednesdays I have the baby so Brian does it.


Yeah, I'll be there.


Evan looked at me for a long few seconds, then he said, small, It's too bad they don't have dialysis for lungs.


I smiled and shook my head a little, just to clear it, just to do something. You're not supposed to be worrying about me.


Bullshit. Let me do my job.


I started coughing, and by the time I could say, Let me do mine, they were already out the door. So I said it to myself.


Let me do mine.


**


It was weird being in the house alone nowadays. Before I was used to it, since I was always alone during the week unless Jane was here or I was at Kinnetik, but now Evan worked half-days, mornings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to allow for dialysis and afternoons on Tuesdays and Thursdays to allow for him to sleep in the days after he had all his blood removed and put back in, and I don't know. The house felt still when I was here and they weren't, and it was too much space to think. I wished I could get a cat or something. Ethan's might have almost put me into respiratory arrest, but besides that he was good company.


I cleaned up from breakfast and did a call with my agent and worked on some of the sketches I had around the house, since I hadn't made it out to the studio in a while. We get the place cleaned on Mondays and Thursdays so I have to get out then, but yesterday instead of going to the studio I'd just taken the train to the library and scrolled through websites on kidney donation.


I did the laundry—Brian doesn't understand why I won't just send it out, but it's such a waste of money, plus I like to cut out interaction with strangers, especially when I'm asking them to do something for me, whenever possible—and brought Evan's downstairs, even though he'd brought it up for me because they don't like me doing the stairs when they're not here...but they're overprotective. I wanted to change his sheets anyway, because he'd been getting chills and night sweats lately, but then...yeah, okay, going back up the stairs seemed hard, and I knew I wasn't breathing all that well, and Brian called when I was still down in the basement catching my breath. Shit. I took the stairs as quickly as I could and picked up once I was back on the couch, panting a little.


Why do you look like you just ran a marathon, Brian asked, in that vaguely-interested way of his, half-watching me while he did something on his computer. He's always calling me when he's too busy to actually have a conversation.


Oh, I didn't tell you? New York Marathon was today.


Oh yeah? Funny, you'd think I would have heard about that from someone other than you.


Yeah, it's kind of an invitation only thing this year. I had to blow de Blasio to get in.


And how'd you do?


“Fourth place.”


Not your best.


“Well, you know. I haven't been training.”


He finished up whatever he was doing and looked at me with a sigh. Justin.


“Hi.”


Hello. You're supposed to be resting.


“I am, see? Couch.”


You are so full of shit.


“You like me, though.”


Apparently. He leaned back in his chair.


“Did you call for a reason, or just to berate me?”


He frowned a little. Sorry, just to...


Berate, I fingerspelled.


This is berating?


“Yes. I feel berated.”


He rolled his eyes. I wanted to see if you were meeting Evan at the center or picking him up here.


“Meeting him there. Unless he needs me to come get him?”


No, he's fine. Just was wondering if I'd get to blow you in the conference room. Oh well.


“You can blow me tonight.”


He sighed theatrically. If I have the time. Who knows.


“God, the burdens you bear.”


You have got to stop with these Rs. I'm supposed to be concentrating.


“On what?”


I don't know. Probably advertising or something.


“Mmm.”


He tilted his head to the side a little, his mouth smarmy but his eyes warm. Why are you fingerspelling with your left hand?


Variety, I fingerspelled. With my left.


You know it's acting up because you haven't slept.


“I sleep.”


You have three hours before you have to meet Evan. Get some sleep.


“Maybe.”


You know he can do this on his own.


“I know,” I said, and, in all likelihood, he would be doing this alone pretty soon. He...has issues with this sort of thing, asking people to go even the smallest amount out of their way for him, and the truth is that even though he's worn out after dialysis, the process itself is pretty un-scary, unless you're like Brian and can't do needles. He just sits in a comfy chair for three hours hooked up to the machine and watches TV or naps.


But I don't know. It's basically a hospital, and there's nothing I hate like being alone in hospitals.


But I...you know. Can't say that to Brian.


Then again, since when did I ever have to say stuff to Brian? You have to remember he's not you, he said, gently.


“I know.”


I had to learn it too. We're used to the yous of the world.


If I ever get dialysis you have to come with me every time.


He bit back a smile. I know, dear.


Not really.


I know that too.


I sighed and coughed some. I did the laundry.


How nice. Go to sleep.


I laughed. And coughed. You're insane.


And your hand is clenched up.


“Have you seen Evan?”


Yeah, he followed me to work.


“Brian.”


No, I haven't seen him since we got here.


“Call him up or something.”


I'm sure I would have heard if he'd died.


“Ha.”


Evan is fine. He's doing well and he's surrounded by people. You are alone and look like shit. Do I really have to spell this out?


“There's nothing new going on with me. It's the same shit as always.”


Your same shit as always is not exactly reassuring, Sunshine. Go lie down before dialysis.


I chewed on my thumbnail, and after a minute he softened some.


I know it's been bad.


The nightmares. Yeah.


You gonna tell your therapist?


I did.


Okay. He watched me. You want to keep your phone on and I'll watch you?


I shook my head. You can't do anything to wake me up.


Yeah. True.


I'll be fine, I said.


Call me when you wake up.


Okay.


I fucked around the house a little while longer, putting laundry away, but the truth was I hadn't been sleeping well for a while now and I really was starting to feel kind of weird. I turned the ceiling fan on and lay on the bed and closed my eyes and tried to convince myself I was on the beach.


I wasn't even aware of falling asleep, but I woke up half an hour later drenched in sweat with a very clear image of Evan's brain split open, and I curled up with my head down on the foot of the bed for a long, long time.


I took a shower, and then it was time to go.


**


I always look at the other people when I'm in waiting rooms. Sometimes it's nice. At the psychiatrist, I get to wonder what's wrong with everyone and speculate about their lives and look for clues on which of us is the most messed up, and that's kind of fun. The allergist is nice, because Brian and Evan are both annoyingly allergy-free, so there's something kind of comforting and communal about being in a room with a bunch of other red-eyed, sniffly people, and since I have, in Brian's expert opinions, the worst hay fever that's ever existed in the known universe, no one there can scare me too much. The pulmonologist...I don't love, because a lot of people there are on oxygen 24/7 and I know that that's...likely for me, eventually, and it's something I'd rather not think about, which of course means I think about it constantly. And the neurologist...yeah. There are some things it's better not to know. But I can't look away.


Most people getting dialysis look healthy. A few of them are bald and sickly, but most of them are like Evan, and you'd never know. The kids go to the pediatric unit, so Evan's always the youngest one here.


He won't still be on dialysis when he's the age of the people here, so this doesn't really tell us much about what the future looks like.


Sometimes it's better not to know, and I wished I knew if this was one of those times or not.


Evan was quiet today. He'd been in a pretty bad mood since all of this started, and it's not like I could blame him, and he wasn't taking it out on me and Brian any more than he could possibly help it. But he still didn't really seem like himself, and I...you know. Missed him.


He played with my fingers while he scrolled through playlists on his phone. He was wearing my old PIFA t-shirt. He said it made people take him seriously at work.


Did you see Jane today? I tried. He loves Jane.


He just shook his head.


That new hire started yesterday, right? I said. How's she fitting in?


He shook his head. Next week.


Oh. Right.


He sighed and put his phone down. I'm sorry. I'm being the worst.


Shut up. You're fine.


He leaned back in the arm chair, and I tried not to look at the blood going in and out of his arm. I'm just tired.


I know.


Yeah, I can tell. He watched me. I'm supposed to take care of you.


Oh yeah? I said. What's that like?


He laughed a little and hid his face in his shoulder, and God, he's fucking breath taking. Jesus. What would we do without Brian?


Literally die.


You're not wrong.


I will never understand how he doesn't get tired, I said.


Evan shrugged. He loves this shit. He probably fed me poison to sabotage my kidneys because he was getting bored of you.


Compelling, if he ever cooked.


Hmm. Guess it was the HIV after all.


**


Evan always gets so tired after dialysis. He fell asleep on my shoulder on the cab on the way home, and then he napped on the couch for a few hours while I worked on a few commissions I'd had come in lately, computer stuff, but my hand was giving me a lot of trouble and eventually I was just doing more harm than good on these pieces so I put them away and started on dinner. Brian got home a little after seven, and he woke Evan up an talked to him a little bit before he came over to the kitchen where I was layering noodles for lasagna.


He leaned his head against the refrigerator, watching me. “Hi,” he said to me, in English, like he does sometimes. Usually when my hands are full, like the fact that I can't sign means he doesn't think to at first either. It's funny.


“Hi. How was your day?”


Annoying. How was yours? He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders, squeezing around my neck a little as I worked. Breathe, he signed on my chest, and I did, in and out, slowly.


“It was fine,” I said. “House looks nice, yeah?”


He nodded, moving back around where I could see him. He was still watching me kind of carefully.


“Dialysis went okay. Everything I've read says it's normal that he's this tired. It's supposed to get better.”


He nodded towards the lasagna. Can he eat that?


“Yeah, I'm using the vegan cheese.”


Um...yum?


“It's not bad.” I watched him check his phone again. “Why are you glued to that thing lately? Are you cheating on me?”


Every chance I get, he said, without missing a beat, and I laughed. Just waiting for an email. He drummed his fingers on my arm absentmindedly—he's always doing that, just touching my body in these small, non-sexual ways, like he doesn't quite realize it isn't a part of his, and I love it—and said, You know, I'm pretty sure I could handle lasagna.


“Brian, I've always told you you could do anything you set your mind to.”


Thank you, Jennifer.


I made a face.


Sit, he said, a little more firmly.


“I'm breathing okay.”


You don't look good, Justin, he said. Sit.


I thought he was full of shit, frankly, but I don't know, it seemed too hard to argue, and I wanted to check on Evan anyway. I went back into the living room and sat with him on the couch—he was mostly awake, sort of, and looking pale and cuddly—and let Brian finish making dinner. I continued thinking that Brian was making something from nothing until about half an hour after we'd finished eating—the vegan stuff really isn't bad, and it's way lower in phosphorous—when we were all sprawled out in various places in the living room and I started to feel...off, like everything was tilting a little. Brian was in the armchair, working on something on his laptop, and Evan was stretched out beside me on the couch, dozing on and off but right now paying pretty close attention to the heist movie we were watching; subtitles are too fast for him, so he has to work hard to follow movies. He ends up lipreading a lot of them, which blows my mind. I can't even lipread in real life.


Anyway. I felt very off, and sometimes it just...comes on like that, and no amount of Oh God please no does anything to stop it, and eventually you come to terms with that.


But God, Evan was so tired. He didn't need this.


So I made sure he wasn't looking at me and then said, “I'm gonna have a seizure.”


Brian didn't even look up from his laptop. When? Almost done with this. You learn how to fit this shit into your life.


“Maybe three minutes?”


That's enough. Hang on.


“Not a lot I can do about that.”


So you say.


My stomach twisted and and a metallic taste flooded my mouth. “Oh. Not three minutes.”


He closed the laptop and put it aside. Okay. Get on the floor.


“I don't want to do it in front of him.”


Floor. Now, Brian said, and he started moving the coffee table away and throwing pillows on the floor, and Evan of course immediately knew what that meant and started helping. And that's the end of what I remember for a while.


The next thing I knew I was lying in bed, and the lights were off and we were under the covers and Brian was asleep, his arm slung over my waist. I had this horrible headache and I felt nauseous as shit and still super seizuery, and a couple second later my right side started shaking, from my shoulder down to my foot. Brian stirred a little but didn't wake up all the way, so I nudged him until he did. “Need you,” I said.


He dragged his hand over his eyes and sat up slowly, switching on the lamp next to me. God, again? he said, squinting in the light. He ran his hand carefully down my seizing side. Sunshine. This is your third.


“I don't remember.” It was hard to talk, like my teeth weren't the right size for my mouth.


I know. Second one was bad.


“Did I scare Evan?”


He's seen you have plenty of seizures, he knows the drill. He sighed a little as I finally stopped shaking. This is a lot, though, buddy.


“I don't feel right.”


Yeah, I can't imagine you would. For someone who's never had a seizure, Brian's always been really understanding of how hard they are to weather out neurologically. Even the ones that don't look like all that much feel fucking awful, like every neuron in your brain is crying.


He tugged me into him gently and encouraged me to curl up on him, and I remember thinking that I still felt charged, electric, not just wiped out and finished like I usually do after a seizure, and sure enough time passed in some sort of half-conscious blur and at some point, still the middle of the night, Brian was trying to get me to look at him.


Hey. Are you awake? He was crouched down on the floor next to the bed, his hand on my shoulder, and he looked kind of scared. Just kind of, but he doesn't usually get scared.


“I think so.” I took a shaky breath in. “Oh God.”


I know. He tucked his hand around my ear. I know. That's three this hour, little one. They're not stopping. I need to give you a shot, okay?


It's not that I mind getting shots that much—I mean, I don't love it, but you get used to them—but the emergency shot for seizures is this huge dose of Klonopin, because I'm allergic to most of the other first-line treatments, and it makes me completely useless for ages. I can't think or move or stay awake, I'm just...useless.


But constant seizures like this are not only incredibly un-fun, they also put you at risk for brain damage, and Brian will be the first one to tell you I can't afford any more of that. And with how much he needs needles, if he says he's going to give me a shot, it means I fucking need a shot.


Okay, I signed, and he kissed my cheek very softly and got up. The way healthy people can get off the floor without using their hands will never cease to amaze me, and for some reason that was what I focused on, really hard. I'm so weird after seizures. “How do you do that?” I said to Brian when he got back from the bathroom and sat on the bed next to me.


How do I what? He sat me up carefully, propping me up against him. There we go. Okay. He swabbed the top of my shoulder with an alcohol wipe. No infections for you.


“How do you do...the thing.”


I don't know. Practice.


“Oh. Okay.”


He pulled the cap off the syringe with his teeth. Okay, ready? he signed with his left hand.


I nodded, and he pushed the needle neatly into my shoulder. I pulled in a breath, and he kissed my cheek.


Done, he said.


How long does it take?


About an hour.


“I'm gonna have another one before then.”


I know. Come here. He pulled me carefully into his arms. I'll stay up. You sleep.


“Bad dreams,” I said. “Seizure dreams.”


Those aren't dreams.


“Oh.”


He rubbed his hand in circles on my chest. I told you you were going to get sick, you know? You have to sleep.


“I can't.” I pulled in a breath. “It's really bad. I see things and I can't move.”


He kept rubbing. Shot will help with that, too.


Can we have sex?


No, too sick.


“Okay.”


He squeezed my arm. Trying to relax?


“Yeah.”


Other ways to do that. Come here.


He got me on my stomach and got some lotion on me, the nice hypoallergenic stuff, and pushed his thumbs into the muscles on my back and neck for a long time. I hadn't realized how much I hurt until he started, and I got a little panicked when he touched the really knotted ones, because I just felt so fucking...exposed, I don't know, and I know that's stupid because I mean, it's Brian, but I don't know, I just felt really vulnerable and fragile and it's not a way I like feeling. He got it, though, without me having to say anything, and he was so patient, letting me take my time to relax, unclench, breathe.


I was vaguely aware of another seizure soon after that, but really it's a blur for a while. I have very faint memories of Brian stirring me awake to drink some water and take my meds a few times and helping me to the bathroom at one point, but I was so, so completely out of it from the shot. I slept like the dead for ages, and eventually I would start waking up for maybe thirty seconds, a minute at once, long enough to look around the room and sort of halfway consider getting up, but finally I woke up and it didn't seem completely impossible. I tipped onto my feet and stretched, feeling like I'd been hit my a goddamn truck, and padded out into the living room. It was dark outside, but the lights were still on in the living room, and Brian was there, doing sit-ups on the floor while he watched something on TV.


“Brian,” I said.


He startled and stood up, smiling a little. It lives.


“Possibly. What day is it?”


Still Saturday.


That was still too hard to work out. “How long was I asleep?”


Not that long. Sixteen hours.


Oh, that's not so bad. I've been known to knock out for two days after one of those shots.


He came over and gave me a hug. That was scary, he said.


How many was it total?


Seven.


“Christ.”


He nodded and kissed my forehead. Most of them pretty bad. I was fucking sure I must have forgotten your meds, but I checked the timers. You were just that sleep deprived.


“Making up for it now, I guess.”


Should try to eat something before you crash again.


I nodded and yawned. “I'm starving.”


Good.


I followed him into the kitchen and sat down at the counter, resting my chin in my hand. “Where's Evan?”


Sleeping, it's pretty late. He came in and said goodnight to you before he went to bed.


“I don't remember.”


Well, you were Deaf and asleep.


It's true.


He made me a sandwich with grape jam and sunflower seed butter—it's like peanut butter, presumably, but without the anaphylactic shock—and cleaned up the kitchen while I ate. He was quiet, not in a way that seemed bad, but I still felt so fucking uneasy. Something didn't feel right.


He checked his phone again.


“Are you okay?” I asked him.


He looked at me. Yeah, I'm good. Been weird not having you around.


“Nice to get a break once in a while, I'm sure,” I said, smiling at him, and he smiled back and came and sat across from me.


Your eyes are having trouble focusing, he said.


I laughed. “I know. I'm so fucking tired.” I sighed. “It feels like I'm missing something.”


That's just the drugs. Everything's okay.


“Are you mad at me? For not sleeping?”


He took a bite of my sandwich and shook his head thoughtfully. Not mad. It's frustrating that...I told you you were going to make yourself sick, I saw it coming, and you did it anyway. That's frustrating.


“I know.”


You don't have to torture yourself to prove that you care about him, he said. No one's measuring whether or not you give a shit by how fucked up this all makes you. Trust me on that one.


“That's not what I'm doing,” I said, and he shrugged like he didn't believe me. “It's not,” I insisted.


We've just got to get you to the point where you can have a sick partner without having to martyr yourself out about it, he said. You'll get there.


“I don't want to talk about this anymore.”


He sighed. Okay.


And I swear, even though I'd just said I didn't want to talk about it, I was going to try to explain it to Brian, I really was, but fuck if instead I didn't just start bawling. It was too much, the drugs and the seizures and the fucking enormity of all of this, and I was so tired and felt so goddamn fucking wretched and I hadn't even been awake for ten minutes and I still felt like I was messing everything up.


Brian rolled his eyes and said, Oh, Lord, come here, and he came over to my side of the counter and held me for awhile. I was way too fucking tired for this, and it didn't take much crying before I was seriously lightheaded and this close to just falling asleep mid-sob. Brian took me back to bed and fucked me a little to calm me down, and I went to sleep with him inside me, my hands twisted up in his shirt.


I was useless the whole rest of the weekend. I got up a few times to pee and Brain forced a protein shake down my throat at one point, but for the most I was just sacked out completely. Every time I woke up I felt nauseous and confused and I'd end up falling back asleep in a matter of a few minutes. At some point Brian woke me up and gave me meds and told me he was going to work and that I should call him if I woke up, and for some reason that was really confusing so I just went back to sleep. It was evening by the time I opened my eyes again, and I felt more alert but also really shitty and shivery, and I wandered out into the living room to see if anyone was home who could fix me.


Brian was there alone again, sitting in the kitchen with a rocks glass, and I immediately felt that ball in my stomach that I get whenever I realize something's wrong with Brian.


“What happened?” I said.


He jumped. Jesus.


“Brian?”


He shook his head, then pinched the bridge of his nose, drained his glass, and filled it again. Come here, he said, and when I got close enough he held out his phone.


It took a while for me to piece together what I was looking at. It was an email telling Brian they were sorry, but his test results were in and he was not a suitable kidney match for Evan.


I set the phone down. “Brian.”


He drank.


“You got tested?”


He shrugged. Of course.


“You were going to have surgery? You don't even like shots.”


He looked at me like I was crazy. Nobody likes shots, he said.


Okay, but—


I'm O negative, I thought... He set his glass down and looked away from me. Damn it, he said, and he pinched the bridge of his nose again and oh. Oh.


I had known that Brian loved Evan, of course I did, but I don't know that I believed that I knew it until that minute.


I pulled up a chair next to him and kneeled on it so we were the same height.


He pushed the heels of his hand into his eyes, sniffed hard, and then turned to me. Why are you up, do you need something?


I shook my head, because I honestly had no memory of needing anything anymore—and that's what Brian doesn't get, that's what I can't convince anyone isn't some romantic hyperbole, it's not being self-sacrificing and it's not trying to score martyr points, it's my fucking brain and it doesn't remember when they are crying and that is not sweet and innocent when it gives you seven seizures that they have to hold you through—and kissed him, both his cheeks, all over his face, over and over. He resisted for half of a second and then leaned into me, resting his forehead against my temple and holding onto my waist. I kept going, working my lips down his neck, thanking, comforting, and God, in that moment I would have given everything I've ever had to honor Brian Kinney, burned my whole life like a sacrifice. In that moment I was put on this fucking earth to draw attention to this man, to show everyone that inside of his bullshit is this person, this person who I of course would not actually show, never. I hold him safely and secretly because if anyone fucking hurts him I will burn the fucking world, burn it all like a sacrifice because you don't deserve this goodness, nobody does. Not this much. Not what Brian has to give.


Let them ignore it. Let them not see him. Keep your greedy hands away.


Keep him fucking safe so help me God.


We kept kissing, grabbing at each other, and he stood up and brought me with him, my legs around his waist, and carried me to the shower. He fucked me roughly, desperately, my back against the glass and my hands in his hair, and I felt something I hadn't in God, so fucking long: that maybe I was actually doing one thing right.


And then it was two hours later and I bolted up from some sort of three-quarters awake state.


Brian, less than three quarters awake, reached out and tried to pull me back down. Shh. It's okay. Back to sleep.


“I'm not having a nightmare, I...it's Monday.”


He stretched, dragging his hand across his eyes, and looked at his watch. It's two AM, so no, it's Tuesday. Now that that's settled, can we go back to sleep.


“No, I...fuck. Shit. Brian, I didn't take Evan to dialysis. I slept through dialysis.”


He didn't get it. So...?


So did he go?? Did he miss it?


Of course he didn't miss it, come on.


Did he go by himself? He's not ready, he still gets scared, he—


Justin. He didn't go by himself. I took a half day and went with him. Everything's fine. Now, I just got laid for the first time in four days, this is the first time in God knows how long that your breathing hasn't kept me up, can we please, please, please, go back to sleep.


I got up out of bed, and Brian sighed and turned on the light.


Justin.


Don't. I want to fucking hurt myself right now, okay? Don't tell me to just go to sleep.


He watched me. Okay. Come where I can reach you.


I clenched my fists and crawled back on the bed. He put his hand around my elbow for a second, like he was checking if I was there, then took a deep breath. Okay. Why is this a problem? You were sick. I covered for you. Evan is fine.


“It's my job,” I said. “I'm supposed to do it.”


But you don't have to, Brian said. That's the beauty of this whole polyamory thing.


“What if someone told you you didn't have to take care of me? And they'd do it?”


He looked away for a second, and even as fucked up as I was I knew he did not want me to see what hearing that would feel like to him.


There are some things it's better not to know, and I'm pretty sure the real overwhelming amount that Brian loves me and what that does to him is probably one of them. I don't know how to live with myself for what I do to him, sometimes.


“You would be mad,” I said softly.


He swallowed and looked back at me. I...would be mad, yes.


I let him hold onto my wrists for a minute.


I'm not just anyone, though, he said after a while. It's not like I'm some stranger swooping in and taking him away from you.


“I know. I'm not talking about not letting you do anything, I just...I want to do some and I'm just fucking it up and over and over again. I'm not here for him. I'm not present. I'm so fucking bogged down in my own shit.”


You have to be, Justin. Look what fucking happened to you this weekend because you didn't sleep.


“That's my point!” I said. “There's something fucking wrong with me, I can't—”


Yes, it's called epilepsy.


“Not that,” I said. “I can't...I can't take care of people.” I was breathing fast but I couldn't stop. Brian adjusted his fingers on my wrist, and I knew he was trying to be casual about checking my pulse, which was honestly valid but didn't do a lot to make me feel like someone who wasn't a fucking attention-stealing drama queen. “You knew I was awful at this. Before I was even fucking like this, you knew. You didn't even tell me when you got sick.”


He stared at me blankly. That had nothing to do with you, what?


“Clearly people can sense that I can't deal with it. That I'm going to make it all about me.”


Are we...are we in the same reality? Sunshine, we're trying to make it about you. We would fucking love a minute to make this about you. You're the one who won't do it.


“Because I don't care!” I said. “I just...I do not fucking care. And it's not some kind of martyr thing where I secretly want everyone to notice how fucking self-sacrificing I am and then...I don't know, chastise themselves for ignoring me and shower me in attention and tell me how brave and selfless I've been. I know that's what people think.”


Nobody thinks that.


“I would think that.”


He shrugged. Of somebody else, maybe. We know you. That isn't you.


I sucked in a breath as carefully as I could, but it made me start coughing anyway. Brian sighed and pulled me over to my side of the bed, and a minute later the oxygen mask was in my hand. I breathed from it for a while.


Better? he asked.


I cleared my throat and swallowed. “Yeah.”


Okay.


“Do you know...” I started, but I lost my breath, gave up, and put the mask back on. Do you know how frustrating it is to not be well right now? How fucking bored I am by own shit and the fact that I still have to deal with it? Going through the motions like any of it has any goddamn significance to me, I...I'm not trying to sacrifice because I'm some fucking hero or whatever, I just don't care. And I don't know if this is some brain damage thing where I can't think about two things at once or...I don't know, but I can't bring myself to be at all interested in the same old shit that's going on with me. And I still have to be. I don't get to just turn this off. And that's fucking frustrating as shit.


Brian just watched me and nodded.


I need to not feel terrible right now so that I can take care of him. And I know that's impossible and I know there's nothing you can do but I would really, really like if you would make me well for a while. I don't want anyone else to take care of him. I want to do it.


He kissed my forehead. I know.


Can you do it for me for a little bit? I said, small.


“What, take care of him?”


I shook my head.


He quirked up the side of his mouth. Be sick?


I sighed and coughed a little. “Yeah.”


He smiled and gave my cheek a quick nuzzle. You know I would.


“Yeah, I know.” I had to lighten the mood a little. You'd be fucking annoying as shit, though.


Without a doubt.


I decompressed for a minute, and Brian squeezed my knees eventually and said, Here's the thing. Do you think I wake up every day enthused about epilepsy and lung scarring? These weren't my majors in college, wheezy. I don't have some inherent fascination with this shit. Of course you don't think it's interesting. Of course you think it's boring and exhausting. It is. You feel like total shit every day. How long is that supposed to be a novel experience?


I shrugged.


But you are not boring and exhausting, Brian said. You are interesting.


I watched him.


So we need to take care of you, okay?


“Maybe,” I said petulantly, and he laughed and tugged me close to him.


Pretty soon all this kidney failure shit, that's going to be boring too, he said. It's going to start to feel like real life. And you're still going to give a shit because it's Evan, even if dialysis starts to feel like just the tiresome, nine hour a week slog it is.


I rested my cheek against him.


And you are still going to be here, Brian said. With this brain, and these lungs.


“I just want to be well. Just for a little while.”


Justin, I know, he said, and God, the pain in that. I had to stop.


I played with his fingers for a little and said, Do you get used to being worried?


Yeah, you do. Like you got used to being sick.


But being sick is really bad right now.


Yeah, he said. Sometimes it's really bad.


I squished into him, and he was too tired to even really complain when took his arm and fit it around me. He rubbed up and down my arm, slowing gradually until I thought he'd fallen asleep.


But finally he said, This is who you are now, signing on my chest. This is who you've been for a long time.


I took a slow breath in.


This is who he wants, Brian said. This is how he loves you.


I stayed perfectly skill, scared to speak, scared to move.


He loves you so much, Brian said, as his eyes closed.


**


He was already gone when I woke up the next morning. I hadn't even felt him get up! That shot was some powerful shit, but I felt like it was finally working its way out of me.


There was a note on the nightstand next to me, something about how he woke me up to give me my meds but I probably didn't remember—true—and he was going to be a disaster in his meeting today, thank you very much, and could I please try to schedule my next breakdown for normal business hours? There was also what I believe was supposed to be a pornographic sketch, which was poorly drawn but still appreciated.


It was a Tuesday morning, which meant Evan would still be home, resting after dialysis. God, when was the last time I'd even seen him?


He was there when I went out to the living room, on the couch under my favorite blanket. He smiled and held his arms out to me, and I held him for a long time. We kissed and fooled around and finally looked at each other for a while.


I'm sorry, I said to him.


For what?


Disappearing, I said.


You were sort of comatose.


Not that. Just...before that.


He nodded like he got it, then said, Just be here with me. That's it.


I know, but...


Be sick with me, he insisted. That's it.


I took a deep breath and felt it scrape in my lungs.

 

Okay, I said. I think I can do that.

Chapter 109 - Come On by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian makes an unpopular decision for reasons nobody quite understands.

Come On

LaVieEnRose



So...okay.


In the middle of April, I had to head back to Pittsburgh to take care of some last minute tax bullshit. Ordinarily Justin probably would have come—he was at the point where he could do some light travel and he generally likes the occasional trip to the homestead—but he was anxious still about leaving Evan, though he'd settled into a pretty comfortable routine with this dialysis shit, and even though Justin had been getting better about not completely fucking annoying his own self in favor of staying up all night worrying about kidneys, he ended up getting hit with another round of allergic bronchitis a few days before I left. He was mostly okay, and his breathing wasn't that much more abysmal than it usually is, but he was so wiped out by it, the way he usually was when he got sick since last fall that I was apparently taking my time getting used to. He just didn't have the energy to power through acute stuff the way he used to. Which, believe it or not, is a fucking relief a lot of the time, when I feel like half of what I do is (metaphorically) sitting on him to get him to rest, damn it, but it's still unsettling to see your kid who's usually wound up like an Energizer bunny reduced to a bit of blonde hair peeking out from under the comforter for two days straight.


So I got his prescriptions filled and kissed his germy self goodbye and hightailed it picturesque Pittsburgh on my own. Ted had managed not to burn our Pittsburgh branch to the ground for another year, so thank God for small favors, and it turned out it was actually thriving. And combined with the year we'd had in New York...he had ideas.


London, specifically.


“At this point you're leaving money on the table not going international,” he said.


“It's not like we're hurting,” I said.


“I doubt any of your employees would complain about a raise,” Ted said. “Jane might need braces. Weren't you talking about a summer home? And you know you want a good-sized emergency fund, for Justin.” He showed me some paperwork. “I've been doing the preliminary legwork here. You've got the interest. This would work.”


“And I'm assuming I'd have to be in London for this.”


He shrugged. “Six weeks. Eight, tops.”


I shook my head.


“Where's your sense of adventure?” he said.


“Immunocompromised.”


He rolled his eyes and told me to think about it, which I did not, for a few hours anyway. Ted and I went to Woody's to meet up with the crowd. I hadn't been there in almost a year. Exactly nothing had changed. Ben and Michael were having some conversation that Ben thought was a philosophical debate and Michael thought was a genuine argument and I didn't have the energy to clue either one in. Emmett was single again, this week, and mourning into his Cosmo and eyeing boys ten years too young who were too busy eyeing me, thank you very much. They asked me how Justin and Evan were doing, but in that quick way where they wanted me to say that they were fine so we could move on, so I did, and then they had some choice comments about our living situation and some rather invasive assumptions about our sex life that I avoided by ducking into a bathroom stall with a short, dark stranger and invading his mouth instead. They were discussing Melanie and Lindsay's relationship problems when I got back, who were not present, to clarify, rolling them around and dissecting them and jumping to conclusions and generally acting like they were a fucking panel of experts, and the whole thing was just...how the fuck did I used to stand this all the time? Christ, and Justin says I complain too much.


Ted at one point said I looked tired, and Michael's eyes got all melty and sympathetic and he said, “Of course he's tired, he has so much on his plate,” and then, of course, they wanted to talk about poor Justin's lungs, when it was in the context of me looking like I was going to fall asleep at the bar. Anything to divert the blame from themselves for being boring as shit. They'd put someone with that insomnia disease Justin's obsessed with to sleep.


I realize I'm being uncharitable here, but I'm trying to prove a point. Or, more accurately, prove a line: how I got from point A to point B. Lord knows I have some explaining to do.


I was staying in a hotel that trip; normally I would have stayed with Gus and the girls, but they were on some sort of southwestern road trip, and Michael and Ben and Jen had of course all offered their guest room but Christ, I'm an adult, I can get a hotel room. I ducked out of the festivities fairly early and went back, savored a cigarette on the balcony, and then called the mothership.


The boys were cuddled up in me and Justin's bed, the comforter bunched up around them. Justin had a mug of tea in his lap and Evan was wearing Justin's MoMa hoodie and lying with his head on Justin's knee and my green tea face mask smeared inexpertly over his face. They said “Hi Brian!” in unison and then giggled like teenagers.


I bit my lip. Hi, girls. Having a sleepover?


They laughed again, which led to Justin coughing, that soft, deep, rumbly one he gets when he's sick. Like a cat purring.


You know you're supposed to keep your distance, I told Evan.


He stretched his arms around Justin's waist. “Oh well.”


And how could I argue, really? It's not as if I wanted Justin alone. How's he doing?


Hundred and two, Evan said. No seizures.


He's tired, I said, and Justin nodded heavily.


We've been sleeping on and off, Evan said. Watching movies. He looked up at Justin. He looks nice, though, don't you think?


Well, he was wearing one of my old black tank tops, so his skin was milky and almost translucent, and his hair was fluffy and mussed up and there was a feverish flush across his cheek and a red tinge around his nose, and he was sleepy and smiley and there's nothing wrong with my eyesight, so...


I'm just trying to explain how I got to point B. And you need to understand how much easier it is to sit on FaceTime with these boys than to stay at Woody's with the crowd.


It's night and day.


What's on your arm? I asked Evan.


Just a rash, he said. Dialysis thing.


We put calamine on it, Justin said with a yawn, and a cough. He stretched and said, How is everyone?


So I regaled them with anecdotes from the gang, exaggerating for effect where necessary, and they egged me on and asked questions and laughed in all the right places, and it was just...listen, I don't want to beat the dead horse here, you get what I'm saying. It was different. They were tired—they were sick—and they were curled up in bed and they were hundreds of miles away, but Christ, was this the most awake I'd been since I left.


And maybe you understand why that meant that, after they'd fallen asleep on the phone, the nebulizer mask over Justin's face and the two of them curled up together like kittens, it took about a minute and a half after I'd hung up for me to call Ted and tell him yes, okay, let's do it, I'll go to London.


Maybe you'll understand it, because fuck if I did at the time.


**


I got home a few days later and, in vintage-Kinney fashion, avoided the topic for as long as possible. I fucked my wheezy-ass husband and gave him his antibiotics and helped Evan with dinner while he filled me in on what I'd missed at work here. I called Derek and consulted with him about bow ties. I sent Molly flowers for her graduation I'd missed when I was gone. It wasn't until after we'd finished dinner, when Justin was sprawled out on top on the floor cushions, his limbs bent at the kind of strange angles only a flexile epileptic can pull off, and Evan was hanging backwards off the armchair, stretching down to the floor and making us decipher his upside-down signing, that Justin said, So did Ted have any brilliant ideas to run by you?


And I'd been feeling this nagging fucking guilt since I told Ted I'd do it, coupled with being pissed off at myself and a little at the two of them for the fact that I felt guilty when all I was doing was getting us more money that I, let's be honest, essentially just funnel right into the two of them, so maybe I was ready to talk at this point.


He wants to open up a new office, I said.


Justin wrinkled his forehead. Ted's leaving Pittsburgh?


I rolled my eyes. No, not him personally. He wants Kinnetik to open another office.


One glance at Justin and I knew he already knew what was happening. Christ, this kid's mind is frightening. He sat up all snippy and took a sip of my wine glass without saying anything, which didn't do a lot to ease me down.


Evan, who may be brilliant but has not, thank God, learned the art of burrowing into my every fucking thought, didn't suspect a thing. “Where?” Evan he said.


I watched Justin. London, I said, and Justin snorted humorlessly.


So who would run it? Evan said. Isabel?


No, there are some ideas for that already, I said. Essentially a pre-existing firm we would buy, train, re-brand. They'd get to keep their leadership and run it themselves but with the Kinnetik name on it. We get a cut of the profits.


“Sounds like a lot of work,” Evan said, walking his hands back and forth over the rug.


For a lot of money.


“You don't need more money.”


Everyone always needs money.


So would Isabel go to London and train them? Evan said, and...


“Yes, Brian,” Justin said, that wine glass held rather carelessly over rug that cost almost, but not quite, as much as his last painting had gone for. “Would Isabel go to London?”


I couldn't look at him, and I hated myself for that almost as much as I hated him. I turned to Evan. I wouldn't trust anyone but me to set it up.


He straightened up, righting himself in the chair. So you'd...do it remotely?


Justin got up an started clearing plates off the coffee table.


No, I said.


Evan squinted like he wasn't extremely sure who I was. But you said no. You can't go to London. He pointed. “Justin can't go to London.”


Sweet kid. Still want to tie him up and gag him every once in a while, and not in a cute way.


Justin, I said, but he wouldn't look at me. I slammed my hand down on the coffee table when he went to grab another plate; it doesn't scare him since he doesn't hear, just gets his attention.


But he just glared at me and brought the dishes into the kitchen. I rolled my eyes and got up and followed him, Evan at my heels.


Justin tossed our very not-unbreakable dishes at the sink. How long?


God. Six weeks.


So twelve weeks.


Ted promised no more than eight.


So twelve.


“Wait,” Evan said, and I turned and looked at him. You're going to London? he said.


Of course he's going, Justin said. He's never met an unnecessary money-making opportunity he didn't like.


I worked my jaw. It's not unnecessary. It's never unnecessary.


“We don't need any more fucking money, Brian! We have a beautiful house! You wear fifteen thousand dollar suits! We were talking about getting a beach house!”


That was before some stuff came up, he said. Now we have to buy a kidney.


I feel like that's not how it works, Evan said.


I waved my hand. Regardless. This shit is expensive.


Evan scoffed. “I'm not taking your money.”


I pinched my nose. Have we found your mute button?


“You cannot go to London right now,” Justin said. “Not with...no.”


You know, I seem to recall you getting the opportunity to go to California for a few months and me being the very fucking picture of supportive—


He laughed coldly. “Apples and oranges and you know it.


No, what I see is yet another fucking example of me being willing to bend over backwards for you but God forbid I ask you to fucking tolerate—


Somewhere in there Evan left the kitchen and quietly went downstairs. He doesn't like when we fight.


Don't you fucking try to spin this into something other than you feeling guilty for making some big fucking decision without even consulting me, Justin said. This has nothing to do with California, I would never go to California right now and you fucking know it. I wouldn't leave him right now.


You couldn't go to California right now, I said, like an idiot.


And he looked at me appropriately. “Yes, that is also my point.


I ran my hand over my mouth and looked away from him.


“I mean, what the fuck, Brian?” he said. “Are you going to make me ask it? You're going to make me stand here like a fucking child and ask who's going to take care of me?”


You'll be fine.


“You just fucking got through telling me that it's okay if I can't take care of him all the time, that you're here to do it. So that was just bullshit?”


It's not like I'm leaving you stranded on a fucking island, he said. You have half a dozen people here at your beck and call. You're not alone.


He shook his head and started washing dishes. “You know, I am always fucking telling you, don't burn yourself out on this, take a break, go for a walk, see a movie, fuck a healthy person, do something to remind yourself that you are not stuck in this shit just because we are—”


I bit down on my back teeth. I don't need a break.


“—so maybe this whole time I should have been offering to let you go to a different goddamn continent, maybe it's my fault for not seeing that you needed to get away from us to that fucking degree, but I'll admit, you got me, even I didn't see this one coming. Congratulations.”


I put my hand on his elbow. “Justin.”


He pulled away from me, not violently, but it was enough to shake a cough loose, and once he started he couldn't stop, and lord help me, I'd fucking forgotten in this how sick he was. The cough was bad, and he was shivery and unsteady and I knew his fever had gone up, and he was pale and small and...God. We've got three parts of this story to get through, I can't give away the punch line now, so let's just have it suffice to say that I needed him to sit down.


Come here, I said, and he let me guide him to a chair. You shouldn't be out of bed, Christ.


He worked to catch his breath. “I'm fine.”


You're not fine.


“Well, I'm going to have to be, aren't I?” he said, and I sat back in my chair and watched him wheeze for a while.


This has nothing to do with you, I said, eventually, and I like to think that even I have the self-awareness to have known at that point that that lie was balder than over-fifties night at Nova. I just...we have the opportunity to be international. I could be the CEO of a fucking international company.


“So what?”


So that fucking means something to me, Justin. I can't just...sit around and rest on my laurels, that's not me.


“So this is the Justin-is-tying-me-down freak out.”


My patience was wearing thing. I just said this isn't about you.


“This ambition is going to kill you one day.”


Yeah, well, you would know, wouldn't you?


He ignored me. “People relax, you know. People get to a point where they have what they want and they relax and they enjoy their life.”


Don't fucking pull that shit on me.


You're going to sit there and kid yourself into thinking London will make you happy? You won't be happy until your fucking face is a billboard in Times Square.


Enough. You don't think I'm happy?


He started to say something.


Shut the fuck up, Justin, I said.


He pulled his lips into his mouth, and I got up and took a few steps away to calm myself down. He stood up too, and I turned back to him and struggled to keep my hands steady as I spoke.


I have had about enough of this fucking narrative, I told him, steadily, deliberately. I chose this life. I wake up every fucking morning and I choose this life and I do not do it reluctantly and don't you dare act like I don't do it with vigor and a goddamn smile. I work my fucking ass off to keep you clothed and drugged and fucked and loved, I get you everything there is in the fucking world, I got you this house, I asked you to marry me, I lie next to you every night so you can keep me up with your fucking breathing and kick the shit out of me in your sleep and then I wake up in the morning and I thank fucking anyone that I am where I am so don't you dare fucking try to turn this into some story about how I am not happy when I have been grinding my fucking bones to show you that this is where I want to be and you and your fucking baggage will just not believe it. This is what I want and I know it every fucking minute and screw you for refusing to believe a goddamn word that comes out of my mouth. How the fuck am I supposed to prove it? What the fuck else do I have to do to show you that I like my life?


Stay in it,” Justin said, and even in the moment I acknowledged I'd walked right into that one.


So maybe that made it easier for me to take a deep breath and put on the smarmy smile and the eyes he can't resist and say, Come here.


His face didn't change, but he let himself be pulled. I folded him into my arms and put a hand on the back of his head and listened to his weak breathing. He was working really hard. He probably didn't even notice.


I pulled back enough so he could see my signing. I'll buy you your beach house when I get home, I said, aiming for sultry. Really big beach house.


“I don't need a beach house, Brian.”


What do you need? I kissed his cheeks, over and over. I'll buy you new clothes. An espresso machine. Car and driver. Pony.


He shook his head and pulled away from me and left the kitchen.


“Yeah, you're welcome,” I mumbled, and I started drinking.


**


That was, by far, the longest conversation Justin and I had between that day and when I left for London three weeks later.


Part of that was that he was so fucking sick, sicker than he'd been in a while. The bronchitis got worse instead of better and hung around for a long time, and the cough was so brutal it made his throat bleed. We managed it without talking much; he'd wake me up in the middle of the night with a simple shake when he was struggling and let me medicate him and rub his back but not hold him, and he told me when he had doctor's appointments but didn't ask me to come. He got better, slowly, but it took a lot out of him. He lost ten pounds he'd fought tooth and nail to get in the first place, and his stamina took a pretty major hit. I'd come home most days from work and he'd be asleep, either on the couch or in bed, and I'd usually tell Evan to make sure he ate something and then crawl into bed next to him silently at night.


We were still fucking, obviously, but that was about it.


Evan was quiet with me too but at least had the decency to look kind of ashamed about it, while Justin alternating between high and mighty bitchy and aggressively normal, asking me if I'd seen our small saucepan and telling me he'd picked up dry cleaning. Justin changed his day with the baby from Wednesdays to Thursdays so he could take over my Wednesday dialysis shift, and I thought I'd be grateful to get a few extra hours back, but...I don't know, that was usually the only time each week Evan and I had alone together, and I'd gotten used to it.


But the point of all of this was adjustment to things like that. Going to bed without unloading about my day. Making plans without consultation. Not hearing Justin's laugh.


Practice makes perfect.


**


Can I come visit? Derek asked me, at lunch a week before I left. I was gonna miss that fucker.


Of course. You and Daphne. Emily will be flying over a few times for some of the big meetings.


What about your coven? Evan could do dialysis anywhere, right?


He could, but...no, I don't think they'll come out. Justin's miserable on long flights and I'm just going to be running from meeting to meeting after he gets there.


So you'll come back to visit?


I shrugged.


Come on, Derek said. You're just not going to see him for three months?


Two months.


Whatever.


We've done it before, I said.


Derek looked skeptical, but....I don't know, at that point I wasn't especially pressed about missing Justin, to be perfectly honest. I've told you this already, but...it just doesn't matter. We can go two months, three months. We could go years. That stuff is so...it's laughable to think that shit matters. This is written already. It's signed and sealed.


Nobody remembers how long Liz and Dick weren't together. You remember that they were.


As long as it wasn't forever, I wasn't scared, and that's a little clue for you to keep in mind.


I seem to recall some heavy drinking when he was in California, Derek said.


I shrugged and stole a bite of food from his plate. That was different.


How is that different?


He's the one who left.


**


Justin, in a passive-aggressive move that surprised absolutely no one, scheduled a haircut the same time I had to leave for the airport. I swear they teach Protestants this shit at Sunday school. Evan, a screaming Catholic after my own heart, maybe actually was a little surprised, but frankly I was happy to skip the little goodbye scene. I fucked him hard the night before and let him refuse to make eye contact, but when he tried to avoid kissing me on the mouth I nudged my lips along his jaw until he gave in, and I put one hand in his hair and the other where his knotted-up spine curled into the small of his back.


We didn't talk for a long, long time, and I was almost asleep when he whispered, “Don't go.” It was the first words he'd spoken to me in over a day.


He was gone when I woke up the next morning, and I had to leave by ten, so that was that, then.


**


Evan rode along with me to the airport. His idea. We talked idly on the way there, work stuff, what I was going to do while I was there, how the New York branch would manage without me, when Emily would be coming out, stuff like that. Things neither of us really cared that much about in the moment.


I was starting to feel kin of sick about it, and then I was angry at them for the fact that I felt sick about it, so the whole thing was just...


Evan handed me my bags by the elevator and said, “Brian. Why are you doing this?” and in that moment I could not, fucking could not come up with a reason, which was in and of itself the fucking point.


Christ, who can't come up with a reason to expand their company internationally?


He shook his head a little when I didn't answer. “You know, I love you, but if this comes down to sides—”


There are no sides.


“But if—”


I know, I said. Come here. I hugged him for a long time, my hand on the back of his neck, and gave him a rough kiss on the cheek. Okay. You take care of yourself.


“Yeah.”


Make sure he eats.


He nodded.


There's a spare epipen in the medicine cabinet in our bedroom. I took a deep breath. Don't let him sleep alone too much. He gets nightmares.


“I know.”


“He, um.” I swallowed. He does this thing sometimes when the coughing's really bad, he kind of panics and he tries holding his breath but that just makes it worse, you can't let him do that.


“I know.”


You have to run the air conditioner as soon as it gets hot. He'll give you some shit about saving the planet but he has seizures when he gets hot, he'll tell you he's fine but he's not.


“Brian, I'll take care of him. It's okay.”


I raked my hand through my hair. Yeah. Of course. Yeah.


“We'll be right here when you get back.”


I nodded a little.


Just... He chewed on his lip. Don't take too long.


I know, I said. I know.


**


I got to London a little after midnight local time, just past seven PM in New York. I checked into the hotel where I'd be living for some number of months, and checked my phone. Justin hadn't responded to my text telling him I'd landed, but he'd turned read receipts on so I would know he'd seen it, and, okay, two could play this bullshit game, so I found a Thai food place that delivered late night and ordered shit with as much coconut milk and peanuts as I could find and relished every bite.


But at around three AM the city was quiet outside my hotel and the food was gone and porn wasn't keeping my attention, and I stretched across the bed for my phone and texted Justin, what are you wearing?


The read receipt popped up pretty immediately, but he didn't type anything. I wasn't exactly surprised, but I definitely was a few minutes later when he called me.


He was lying on his side on our bed, propped up on an elbow with his chin in his hand. He was wearing, for the record, a NYU shirt he stole from Molly ages ago, the really soft navy blue one with the splotch of green paint on the sleeve, and it made his eyes look really really blue.


Your haircut looks nice, I said.


He watched me, looking very guarded. “Thanks.”


I rolled onto my back, adjusting myself on the pillows. Where's Evan?


He shrugged. Okay then.


I have my first meeting in five hours, I said.


He was quiet for a while, and at first I thought he wasn't going to say anything, and I was...not too pressed about that, honestly, because I was just lying there and looking at him and goddamn, his eyes, but suddenly he said, “Who's it with?”


The CEO of the firm here. Going to convince him why he wants to join the Kinnetik family.


He stretched. “You're pretty good at that, in my experience.”


How are you feeling?


“I don't want to talk about that.”


Do you want to talk about my meeting?


He snorted. “No.” He shifted on the bed, sliding a hand down the front of his sweatpants. “I don't want to talk.”


Fine by me.


We did end up talking, though, just dirty shit while we got each other off, nothing revolutionary. I came before he did, so I got to watch him, his closed eyes and his slightly parted lip, his brow creased in concentration. The moment it broke over him and the sadness afterwards.


I watched him clean himself off and we lay there panting. He wasn't really looking at me anymore.


I wish you were here, I said, even though I wasn't quite sure he would see it.


At first I thought I didn't, but a minute later he said, “No, you don't.”


I pulled my lips into my mouth.


He turned back to the phone. “Goodnight, Brian.”


Good night, I said, and he was gone.


I took another shower and brushed my teeth and turned off the lights and stared up at the ceiling.

 

Tried to get use to the quiet.

Chapter 110 - Come Out by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

If Justin wanted Brian to know he was having a hard time, he could tell him, and if Brian wanted to know how Justin was doing, he could ask, and if knowing Justin needed him was enough to keep him here, he never would have left.

Come Out

LaVieEnRose



“So are they like broken up?” Nina said.


We were at lunch at this little cafe in the West Village. Nina's one of my only friends from when I first moved to New York who I still see regularly. The rest of us will get together what we say is once a month, but always ends up being more like every three. It's hard. We have really different lives now, and a lot of the people who used to link us all together are gone, and and Brian's never had any interest in meeting them and Justin will gamely show up and smile every once in a while but doesn't really get anything out of socializing with hearing people.


She'd finished filling me in on what was going on with her—new cool roommate, same shitty job—and then I'd given her the update on my very strange life since Brian left for London a week ago.


“No, God no,” I said. “They're not...they're Brian and Justin. They're like the perfect couple.”


She squinted at me. Nina's really good about making sure I can read her lips; she always faces me straight on and doesn't mumble. “They're living in separate continents from each other, they're sleeping with other people, and they're not speaking to each other.”


“Well...yeah.”


“Hmm,” she said. “That's some perfect couple.”


**


Things were...very weird.


I was still talking to Brian and, obviously, to Justin, and both of them were acting pretty normal. Justin was maybe kind of quiet, but he was working a lot and doing a lot of cooking and didn't seem particularly sad, and it's not like I can't see through the shit he puts up pretty well at this point. Brian was also working a lot and doing a lot of ordering take out and he didn't seem sad either, and yeah, he's a bit harder to read than Justin, but I'm not exactly a stranger to him either. I would have expected Brian would be all over me poking for details about how Justin was doing, but he didn't, and Justin never asked me about Brian either. They were just...being, but both of them seemed like they had a light missing. I didn't really love the paintings Justin was finishing. Brian seemed tired.


He called after lunch, while I was walking towards the subway. “Why are you in a suit?” I asked him. “It's Saturday.”


I'm in a suit tomorrow, too, he said. These people don't sleep. He was walking too, presumably headed back to his hotel after a day of meetings. On a Saturday.


“Are we rich yet?”


Always, darling. How's Tina?


“Nina.”


Whatever.


He'd been doing this the past few times, asking me questions about my life that I knew he didn't care about, because generally our conversations revolve around work or Justin, and I didn't want to tell him how much everyone at work was relaxing without him there busting our balls, and he didn't want to talk about Justin.


“She's fine,” I said.


Did you tell her you were giving up your fucking apartment?


I rolled my eyes. “Yes.”


Good. Did you ask her for a kidney?


“Must have slipped my mind.”


You know, at some point you're going to have to tell people.


“I told Emily.”


No, Emily found out because we needed her to watch Justin when you were in the hospital.


I hadn't seen him sign Justin's name in a few days at that point. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, and Brian didn't say anything.


I said, “She said Derek knows,” mostly just to rescue us from the awkward.


He looked simultaneously relieved and sheepish. Yeah. Sorry. I didn't realize it was a secret.


“It's not a secret exactly, it's just...” I sighed on my way up the stairs to the subway. “I don't want people thinking I expect them to run out and get tested.”


You're deranged.


“You didn't tell anyone when you had cancer.”


Sure I did. I was just a fucking dumbass about it for two months first.


“Okay, so I'm still in the fucking dumbass stage.” I watched him. “Are you sleeping?”


Yes, dear. Just jet lag. He shrugged. Have you moved into my room yet?


“No.”


You should.


“I sleep in there sometimes.”


He nodded a little. Okay.


“You know, I'm on my way home now if you want to talk to him.”


Oh, thank you. I actually lost his phone number, so the only way I can reach him is if you mediate our interactions.


“See, you joke, but you really could use someone to do that for you, just...in general.”


Ah, and you joke, but my interactions with people are what's going to keep you in pretty things. He gave my clothes a once-over. Or put you in pretty things in the first place.


“Dream big.”


One must. He checked his watch. Speaking of interactions, I have to get some drinks with some horribly boring fuckers, and then I have a club to check out.


Hopefully the guys there will be less boring.


Hopefully they won't talk enough for me to find out. He kissed his fingers and flicked the screen. Be good.


Yeah, you too. I hung up and bit my lip as the train rushed into the station.


**


Justin wanted to try out this new recipe, so we went to the grocery store. It's just a few blocks away so I just walk when I'm on my own or with Brian, but Justin and I get Ubers, since he can't drive and so far my driving skills extended to being able to, sometimes, not stall out Brian's car when I crept around parking lots. Justin stood on the edge of the shopping cart and scanned the shelves while I pushed him, letting him glide a few feet ahead of me and then catching up. We couldn't talk much like this, but we didn't really need to.


Justin pointed to a high shelf, and I grabbed a bottle of sesame oil.


I wrapped my arms around his waist as I put my hands back on the cart, and I felt him smile, somehow. He tilted his head back and nuzzled at my jaw a little.


I can't say that was the first time this week that I'd thought about how this is what it would be like, if it were...you know, just me and Justin. We'd have this nice little life. He'd find kidney-friendly recipes and I'd help him reach things.


It would be a very nice life.


But it's like pastels when you're used to to technicolor.


I nudged the cart forward and let him go, and caught him again.


**


Pastel or no, Justin and I were good.


He cried a little the day Brian left, but he wanted company, maybe attention a little, so we cuddled up on the couch for a while and he talked about how frustrated and disappointed and goddamn confused he was and shredded a bunch of tissues with shaky hands, but after that he didn't want to talk about it. He picked himself up and continued like he does after every shitty thing that happens to him. And he was so fucking kind to me, not demanding, not hovering, effortlessly taking over the things Brian usually does for me without expecting me to do the same for him.


I did, though, of course, where I could. I counted out his pills in the mornings because I know it stresses him out and made sure he was eating because he forgets. I caught when he was having absence seizures and told him to go to bed, and I started sleeping with my hearing aids in so I would wake up when he was coughing badly, though he was beginning to get comfortable with waking me up when he was scared. There wasn't much I could do, but he needed someone to keep him calm when he felt like he was never going to breathe again, so I'd hold his hand and kiss his ears and promise him it would get better.


I know we don't have sex like he and Brian do—I'm not into everything, and Justin would of course never push me—but we did what we do and it's fucking amazing. We texted each other dirty shit during the work day and I worked knots out of his legs in the evenings while he read his mystery novels.


He was working a ton, creating a bunch of new pieces and tidying up some old ones, but he still came with me to every dialysis session, even though I told him he didn't have to. Half the time I just ended up sleeping through them, but Justin said he liked to be there.


We were at the center one Wednesday, and he had his phone out to show me pictures of the piece he'd finished that morning. He had paint in his hair and hadn't had time to go home to shower between the studio and here, so he was wearing one of my knit caps and he looked adorable and about twenty years old. He was sore from standing at his easel all day, and it's dumb because the dialysis room has these really comfy armchairs for the patients and then just these regular chairs for our families, but like...I feel fine most of the time, I can sit in the regular chair, but Justin won't ever let me. He had a pretty bad seizure here once and everybody in here, naturally, freaked the fuck out, and even then I had to give him a whole you are the patient now thing before he would agree to sit in the fucking armchair. He was so embarrassed. People in here always watch us kind of curiously anyway, but between the gay thing and the sign language thing and the forty-years-younger-than-everyone-else thing, I can't really blame them.


Today at least I'd convinced him to sling his legs over my lap, and I was squeezing the muscles around his knees with my free hand while the other one had to stay still with the leads in it. Brian, when he's here, sits on that side so he can keep an eye on it, but Justin's not great with blood.


Justin held his phone where I could see it and scrolled through pictures. So...I think it's done now. I sent pictures to my agent.


It's nice.


He laughed. You hate it.


I don't hate it!


It's not your favorite, he said diplomatically.


It's not my favorite. It was just...angry, in this way I don't usually expect from Justin's paintings. They're always bold and passionate, don't get me wrong, and they'll always make sure you feel something, but they're usually more complicated. Haunting. He does a lot with empty space and perspective and distance, stuff about isolation and unfamiliarity in the everyday. It's not usually this obvious.


I'm no genius, but you don't have to be one to add two things together here. He wasn't feeling very complicated right now. He was just mad.


And sad.


We'll see what my agent thinks, he said. There's a show with a last minute opening she's trying to get me into next week.


“That's awesome.”


Ella Alexander's in it, he said, with an eye roll. She's this trust fund artist from Brooklyn who Justin has decided is his nemesis. She was mean to him when they first showed together last year, made some comment about his color palette being derivative of some up-and-comer on the West coast who doesn't hold a candle to my boy here, and he's had a bone to pick with her ever since. They cross paths a lot at industry events and they'e shown together twice more, and they always sneer at each other over their wine glasses and count each other's sales on their fingers.


Oh, so you have to be in it.


Exactly. He scrolled through some more of his photos, looking at some of his in-progress works, head tilted slightly to the side.


Fuck it. I hope Brian has time to go to the Tate while he's there, I said.


Justin signed a non-committal Yeah, as he kept studying the photos.


How much free time does he even have?


I don't know, Justin said.


How do you think it's all going?


I don't know, he said. Why don't you ask him?


I sighed and flopped back in the chair, and Justin looked at me and smiled a little bit and opened up the browser on his phone.


Look, let's make this for dinner, he said, and he squished in close to show me the recipe and I gave in and pulled him onto my lap .


**


Justin was getting by, and he was seeing our friends and hanging out with the baby and taking care of me and getting his work done, but the paintings weren't the only clue that all of that was...hard.


He worked all day on Brian's birthday, on a Saturday, and was quiet during the day when I texted him to check in. I called Brian to make sure he was doing something to celebrate—turned out Emily was flying in the next day, so she was going to drag him out to a belated dinner—and went for a run. We'd had plans to meet Derek and Daph and Molly at our usual bar in Sunnyside, but Justin didn't show and texted me that he wouldn't be home until late. I figured he was pulling a late night at the studio, and I was still awake around one, watching Youtube videos in my bed, when I felt stuttery footsteps on my ceiling. Two sets of footsteps.


I came up the stairs and Justin was pressed against the wall next to the front door, getting handsy with some guy with slicked-back hair an a leather jacket. So...okay. Justin doesn't bring guys home very often, and when he does it's usually for some sort of group thing with him and Brian or occasionally him and me, but he always runs that by me first. He hooks up with guys when he goes out—I do too, though I usually stop short of anything I'd consider sex, though...you know, sometimes guys are gorgeous—but he only sleeps with Deaf guys (with one obvious exception) and he doesn't just find those out and about often.


And, you know. I thought he was at the studio.


I banged on the wall to get his attention, and he nudged the guys lips off his cheek and grinned at me. Hi. Did I wake you up? Sorry sorry.


You're not supposed to be drinking.


“Who's this?” the guy said.


Uh...I'm his boyfriend, I said, simcomming.


“Oh, sorry, man, I didn't—”


“Hang on.” I turned to Justin. Is he hearing?


Probably, Justin said. Would be a pretty big coincidence!


The guy said, “Uh, what's with the...” and did the kind of oh-so-charming hand flapping hearing people do when they're trying to imitate sign language.


He doesn't know you're Deaf? I said to Justin.


Justin laughed. “Whoops.”


I'm sure you two had a great conversation about how you want this evening to go, I said, because fuck this bullshit. Justin's had a million and one bad experiences with hearing guys who don't understand his boundaries and push him too far, which is why he doesn't do this shit, and he would fucking kill me if I brought a stranger home without at least some sort of agreement about boundaries. Justin can't read lips. This guy could have fucking looked right at him and told him he was going to go home with him and murder him in his living room and he'd have no idea.


You're being boring, Justin said.


Yeah, I should let you have a seizure while you're blowing a stranger instead, that would be more exciting. You remember what happened last time you drank?


He laughed. “That would be exciting.”


The guy said, “Um, what—”


I pointed at him. “You need to go.”


“I—”


Brian would give him cab money. “Do you need me to call you a car?”


“Uh...sure. Thanks.”


I got the guy an Uber and he was gone in three minutes, and I made Justin drink some water and coaxed him into the shower. He was whining about me being a killjoy but was already kind of petering out, and suddenly halfway through the shower he said, Are you mad at me?


Not as mad as your body's going to be a in a few hours, I said.


It didn't take a few hours. Forty-five minutes after we were out of the shower I was sitting on the bathroom floor rubbing his back while he threw up, his right arm shaking uncontrollably and not stopping. It went on for hours, long past the point where there was anything left in his stomach. This was probably more than just alcohol but I didn't really feel like pushing him about it right now. I wasn't mad anymore.


“Damn it,” he said out loud, crying, shivering. “Damn it damn it damn it damn it.”


Shh, have some water.


He tried sipping some but it came right back up, and he rested his forehead on the toilet seat and sobbed.


I know. I know it feels awful.


I just wanted to forget for a night, he said.


I know.


I'm so fucking sad.


“Baby, I know. Come here,” I said, and I pulled him into my arms and held him for a long time.


Brian called the next morning, while Justin was still asleep, to ask me some question about the art for a campaign we'd done a few months ago that he wanted to brag to the London people about. I'd moved on from being pissed off at Justin to being pissed off at Brian and I wasn't exactly subtle about it.


What the fuck is with you? he said eventually.


“I just think you've been there a while to still have to be charming them, that's all. Aren't they supposed to be begging to have your name on the door by now?”


He blinked at me. Do you have a problem, dear?


“Yeah, I have a problem. You're halfway across the world and it sounds like it might be for nothing. Here's hoping the New York branch doesn't go to shit without you and we're destitute and I don't even have my apartment anymore.”


Christ, I go to London for three weeks and it's like being in a Dickens novel. Are you going to tell me what's really wrong?


The temptation to tell him about last night was...large, but it was not my place to spill Justin's shit to him. If Justin wanted Brian to know he was having a hard time, he could tell him, and if Brian wanted to know how Justin was doing, he could ask, and if knowing Justin needed him was enough to keep him here, he never would have left.


But Christ, I had to do something.


“He has a show next week,” I said.


Brian sighed and looked away.


“So I should assume you're not coming?”


I would if I could. You know that.


“Do I?”


You know, I do this to take care of the two of you, he said. This is what I do for this family. I might not be sweet and nurturing like the two of you but I fucking provide. This is my job.


“Yeah, so you keep reminding us. Do we get a discount for all the guilt trips, or is that something we suck up and accept since we're just the little wives while you're out doing things we could neeeever understand?”


He smiled humorlessly. You really have left your little starter home in the past, huh?


“Fuck you, Brian. Make money or don't make money, but don't hold it over our heads like we're demanding it. I could get a job you don't pay for. Justin's paintings sell for thousands. We'd be fine.” We'd be fine without you, and I knew he heard it and he didn't like it.


You know what, I have a meeting to get to, he said. Maybe afterwards I'll see if I can find a partner who will appreciate the hours of work I put in for him.


“Make sure you find a healthy one this time,” I said. “I wouldn't want you to have to face any more stress.”


He hung up.


I'm pretty sure that was my first fight with Brian.


Justin was standing behind me when I turned around, so I gave him a look. Don't go celebrating that I'm on your side, I said. I'm plenty pissed at you too. I wasn't, really, but fuck if I was going to become some bargaining chip in this little whatever the hell. It's not like we all didn't know where I'd end up if this whole thing exploded, but...let them have a little bit of doubt about it. Whatever incentive to keep things from exploding that I could find, y'know?


Anyway, he smiled a little. Noted. You okay?


Yeah. Your husband's an asshole. Couldn't help it.


I've noticed!


How are you feeling?


Um...extremely embarrassed. He wrinkled his nose. I'm really sorry.


I sighed and held my hand out, and he came over and fit himself into me. He still felt pretty shaky, but a lot better than last night. I kissed his forehead. Don't do that again.


Yeah, you're telling me. Thanks for saving me.


I folded both hands on top of his head and kept them there for a minute. He smiled up at me.


For the record, he said. I really am okay. I mean, I'm sad, but I'm not...I'm okay. Please believe me.


I do. And I did. Justin falters, but he doesn't break. He can survive anything. I mean, look at the shit he's been through. You're telling me I was supposed to be worried he'd fall apart because his husband was in London for a few months? He was just sad. He could do it.


And he did.


**


I didn't talk to Brian for a week, outside of a Kinnetik-related very terse text or two. Emily came back from London and told me Brian seemed okay but sad, and that once he started drinking every night he asked her a lot about me and Justin.


I told him you were fine, she said.


And we were. We had a busy week preparing for Justin's show, but it went beautifully. He wore purple and looked devastatingly gorgeous, and the critics were dazzled. He was so busy that his interpreter had to take two breaks before the night was over. I stepped in during them and did my best interpreter impression, which was pretty fun, and Justin was really impressed by how well I did.


We celebrated afterwards and Justin fell asleep, but I was too amped up from the night. I mean...he was amazing. He'd been showing his old stuff, so I actually liked it, and he was just so fucking charming, managing these hearing people and answering their stupid questions like they were interesting and just enchanting absolutely everyone, and I got to be there. I got to help!


So I couldn't sleep, which is why I answered my phone when Brian called at five AM his time. I took the phone into the kitchen. He was drunk and unshaven and very tired, leaning over his desk with his chin in his hand.


“Go to sleep,” I told him.


He rubbed at one eye. How'd it go?


“He was amazing. You didn't send flowers.”


He snorted. Seemed ill-advised.


“Maybe.”


How many did he sell?


“Four.”


He finished his drink Christ. He's scary.


“I know.”


That must be more than that witch Ella.


“Yeah, she just sold one.” I paused. “Wait. I didn't tell you Ella was there.”


He shrugged. Justin must have mentioned it.


I blinked. “You talked to Justin?”


What the fuck are you talking about? I talk to Justin all the time.


“You what?”


Jesus Christ, what did you think, I just hadn't spoken to him in three weeks?


“Uh, yes.”


He looked at me like he fucking pitied me. Evan.


God, I felt like such a fucking idiot! “You never mention it!”


You never asked!


“He doesn't mention it!”


I'm going to guess you never asked...


“When I ask him a question about you he just says to ask you!”


Brian stared at me. Yes, he's making sure he knows you have his support to continue having a relationship with me even though me and him are fighting? Obviously?


“God!”


Brian shook his head, looking kind of stunned. Man. People really do not get us.


“But you are fighting,” I said. “You just said it.”


He shrugged a little. What do you want me to say, that we're great right now? No, we're not great.


“But you're talking.”


He sighed. It's me and Justin, he said. I learned a new language for him. We're always talking.


The next day at breakfast I said, So you and Brian are talking, right? casually to Justin.


He was reading the review of his show and loving every word. Yeah, of course, he said, barely looking up.


God!


**


A few days later, Justin stopped me in the morning—we slept together most nights, but honestly I sleep better by myself, so sometimes we split—when I went to kiss him. Don't. I'm getting sick.


What's wrong?


He pointed to his throat and slumped down at the kitchen table.


Between the white stuff taking up residence in throat and the fact that Janie had strep the week before, the diagnosis wasn't exactly a mystery. He called his doctor and got an appointment for that day, and sure enough, by the time the rapid test came back positive and the antibiotics had been called in, he could barely swallow and he had a fever of a hundred and two. Justin's body does not play around.


There's only one antibiotic Justin can take, but luckily it's the one typically prescribed for strep, so we felt like we were in the clear here. I stayed home from work and made him tea and honey and watched movies with him and monitored his fever and we didn't worry. Even when a day passed and he wasn't any better. And then two. And then three.


And then we started to worry.


The coughing hurt so much it made his eyes tear up. His throat was too swollen for solid food. By the fourth day, it took him three tries to get his meds down in the morning, he'd stopped eating completely, and his temperature hadn't been below a hundred and four in twenty-four hours.


We're going to the hospital, I told him.


He was shivering under three blankets on the couch, the nebulizer mask over his face. He shook his head. The meds will work.


The meds are not working. You're getting worse. He had a rash on his chest now and his glands were getting too swollen for him to breathe. We have to go now.


Tomorrow. I'll go tomorrow if it's not better. Please? I can't sleep there. I want to sleep.


Two hours after that the fever spiked another degree and he started talking about the walls moving, so yeah, no. I got an Uber and took him to the emergency room, where they promptly took my Justin away from me and told me I wasn't family.


“His family isn't here,” I said. Christ, even Molly was away, on some post-graduation trip in India. “He's delirious, he can't make decisions right now. I'm his person.”


They said something to me I didn't get, power of...something? They were working on getting an interpreter but I said the first priority was getting one in there with Justin, not one out here with me. She pointed to a name on the paperwork. Power of attorney. Brian Kinney.


“Brian isn't here,” I said. “He's in London. It's three in the morning there.”


They were telling me stuff I understood but only on a word-by-word level, stuff about taking his blood and his medical history and re-checking his...something, and they had all of these forms that they were going to ask him to sign because there was no one here to sign them but he was too sick to read, he'd been to sick to read for days, God, I should have brought him here so much sooner, I never should have brought him here at all—


I called Brian.


He picked up after three rings, disheveled and reaching for the light. “Fuck,” he said.


I'm sorry, I'm sorry.


Tell me.


They won't let me do anything, I said. They won't let me sign off on anything or fucking...be with him.


What?


“They said I'm not family, so I can't—”


Shit. Shit, I should have taken care of this before I left. They won't even let you fucking sit with him?


I shook my head. They took him away, they said they had to do tests.


Where's your interpreter?


“They only have one, he's with Justin. They're trying to find another one. But his fever's really high, I don't think he—”


No, no, he won't be talking. Brian ran his hand through his hair. Tell them I said to let you do everything.


I bit my lip. Can you tell them?


Yeah. Hand over the phone.


So I did, to whatever nurse I could grab first. She talked to Brian for a long time, and I couldn't really figure out much of what was going on—I caught a lot of Mister Kinney, but it's hard to lip read half of a conversation because you're missing so much context—but eventually she handed back the phone to me, looking pissed.


Brian was all fired up, too, but he was calming himself down now. Okay. They're going to take you to him now.


Thank God. Thank God. “Um...Brian, I don't know what to do.”


Make him feel like he's at home the best you can. Watch him for seizures, keep an eye on his breathing—


“No, I...I know how to take care of Justin. I don't know how to handle the doctors.”


Right. Of course. Okay. He took a deep breath. They need to figure out why the antibiotics aren't working.


They're not working?


They're not working. They need to run tests, and you have to nag them to rush the results. You need to be on them constantly asking them what their plan is. Treat the nurses well, make them love you. Bond with that one I just yelled at about what a fucking asshole I am or something, make yourself the good guy. Ask about every single drug they give you and cross-reference it with the list. Just...just advocate for him. You're his voice, okay?


“I'm his voice. Yes.”


Evan? You can do this.


I nodded. “I can do this.”


And I thought I could, for a few hours. Justin was fucking miserably sick, curled up in the hospital bed with his arms around his head, shivering, and I got a nurse to get me a sponge and some warm water and I wiped his skin down over and over. They'd taken blood already, so while we were waiting for results there wasn't much for me to do. They'd given him an IV of his antibiotics and they said that might be all it took, just a stronger dose, so mostly I just sat by his bed and watched his oxygen levels and promised him it was going to get better soon.


He was really out of it from the fever, quiet the way he only gets when he's really sick. I kept my hand against his cheek and focused on not letting him forget that he wasn't alone anymore. But mostly I just tried to get him to sleep, even though people were coming in constantly and poking at him and moving him around. I started asking people if they could wait, when they came in ten minutes after another one wrote to adjust his fluids or check his blood pressure—yes, I understand this needs to happen, I said over and over, but it does it have to happen right now? I was surprised by how often they'd agree to wait a little while.


All of a sudden, though, his test results were back and that stopped.


Justin was sleeping, and I didn't want anyone to wake him up, so I stepped out into the hallway to talk to the doctor. He had the interpreter with him, but I still couldn't even begin to follow what was going on. Every other word was fingerspelled, and I couldn't figure it out fast enough and even if I could have I wouldn't have known what the fuck the words he was fingerspelling meant. But the doctor looked urgent and concerned and I'd left my boyfriend in there by himself and the doctor said, “So we need you to make a decision,” and holy shit, what??


Daphne was in Pittsburgh, or I would have called here ages ago, and there were no hearing people around who I trusted, who knew Justin and what he needs and what I need for him. So I called Brian. At least it was daylight there now.


He picked up fast. Where is he? he said.


He's sleeping, he's okay. I don't know what the fuck they're saying to me. Emily's there, right? I was pretty sure she had flown out for a few meetings.


Yeah, she's in her room. He got up.


I need her to Deaf interpret. I looked at the interpreter. That's okay?


Of course, he said, and Brian speedwalked to Emily's room and explained it all to her quickly, texting her as he went, and explained it all to her for about ten seconds before she nodded and took the phone away.


Hi, sweetheart, she said to me. Let me see the interpreter.


He signed it all out again, and I held Brian and Emily where they could see him and watched them. Emily wasn't saying anything yet, but I had to watch Brian's face slowly change and I realized this was really fucking bad.


Okay, Emily said, and I turned the phone back to myself. His immune system isn't where it should be. It's lower than it was before.


No...


It's nowhere near as bad as it was a few months ago, Emily said. But it's dropped some. That's why he's so sick.


But they're giving him more antibiotics, I said. He's on an IV. So that's stronger than just taking the pills.


We didn't get that far, Emily said.


The interpreter waved for my attention and I looked up. Hang on, I said to Emily, and watched him sign. Okay. They want to switch the antibiotic.


No, Brian said immediately.


I watched the interpreter. Brian, they're saying this one isn't going to work.


Brian stood up and walked a few steps away, then, back, his hand over his mouth.


What do they want to switch him to? I asked the interpreter.


Penicillin. I was ready for that, so I got the fingerspelling.


He's allergic, I said immediately.


How allergic?


I went back to the phone. “What happens if Justin has penicillin?” I asked Brian.


He will die, Brian said flatly.


“Um...okay. Okay.” I turned back to the interpreter. I am his voice. “We can't do penicillin. They cannot come near him with that.”


He conferred with the doctor briefly, then fingerspelled something else to me, something a lot longer, and all the letters jumbled together in my head. I held up the phone so Emily and Brian could see, and as soon as he was done spelling it again Brian was shaking his head.


Cephalosporin, Emily fingerspelled to me, slower.


No, Brian said.


Is he allergic to that? That's not on the list.


He's never had it, Brian said. They're allergenic as shit, of course he's allergic, no one's just ever been stupid enough to try to give it to him with his history.


But what if he's not? I said.


Brian pinched the bridge of his nose.


“Brian, they have to give him something,” I said.


Can they fucking test it first? he said. Rub some on his fucking arm, something.


“Yes,” I said, without bothering to check first, because fuck that. “Yes, I'll make them.”


Brian swallowed and nodded.


I told the doctor they weren't putting shit into his bloodstream until they allergy tested him, signed whatever papers they needed, and turned back to the phone as soon as he'd left to get supplies. I need you to come home, I told Brian.


He looked pained. You can do this. You're doing really well.


“I'm being his voice,” I said. “And I need you to come home.”


He blinked, swallowed, and nodded. Yeah. I'm coming.


**


Justin got a small rash when they tested the antibiotic on his arm.


This is your call, I told him.


He shook his head. I don't fucking know what's going on, I can't make calls.


I don't want to hurt you.


You won't, he said. Whatever you pick is right.


He was shivering and struggling to breathe and he looked so fucking sick but he didn't look scared.


He trusted me.


Okay, I said. We're going to do it.


Justin nodded. Okay.


Brian's coming, I said, and Justin closed his eyes and breathed out slowly.


**


Well, add cephalosporins to the list, because Justin was incredibly fucking allergic. Not two minutes after they'd put the IV in he was absolutely wrecked with hives, and twenty minutes after that his asthma flared up. They gave him IVs of Benadryl and steroids and I sponged his skin off and made sure he didn't panic. He didn't.


And he didn't die.


**


I must have drifted off, because at some point a hand came down on my shoulder, and there he was.


“Hi,” I breathed, but he was already on his way over to the bed. He took Justin's chart off the bottom and skimmed it while he circled the bed, touching the rash on Justin's arm.


Jesus Christ, love, he signed to himself.


“I'm sorry,” I said.


He shook his head a little without looking at me. You did good. You did real good.


Justin stirred the next time Brian touched his arm. He dragged his wrist over his swollen eyes and said, “Hey,” all calm, like he'd seen Brian five minutes ago.


“Hey,” Brian said back, the same way. Is your throat closing up? He opened his mouth, and Justin mirrored him. Okay. You're okay.


Justin nodded.


I figured they could use a minute, and also that Brian could probably use some coffee, and God knows I could, so I stepped outside and went down to the cafeteria and took my time coming back. I thought Justin would probably be back asleep when I got back—he hadn't been staying awake for more than twenty minutes in a stretch since the reaction started and totally wore him out—but he was still awake, now with Brian curled up around him on the bed.


How long can you stay? Justin was asking.


Hopefully long enough to get you out of here. We'll see. How's your head?


Hurts. Justin shifted on the bed. Mostly I'm itchy.


I bet. Come here. He pulled his sleeves down over his hands and rubbed them back and forth over Justin's skin, and Justin relaxed and closed his eyes like he was taking in sun on a beach. Brian laughed a little and dropped kisses on Justin's cheeks.


I set his coffee down on the counter by the door and backed out of the room. I figured I should call Emily and let her know that Brian had made it here and it sounded like he was going to be staying for a few days. Or maybe I should go home and get us all a change of clothes.


Both, I decided, so I filled in Emily and started heading towards the doors, but on my way out I heard jogging footsteps behind me and felt a hand on my arm, and when I turned around, Brian grabbed me into the tightest hug of my fucking life.


I felt myself smile.

 

End Notes:

 

Part 2 of a 3 part arc.

Chapter 111 - Come Here by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian explains why he went to London.

Come Here

LaVieEnRose



London without Justin had been...fine.


I ate at nice restaurants with important people. I smiled and shopped and bought drinks and fucked men with pretty accents. I signed contracts and shook hands.


It was all fine.


I just couldn't sleep.


**


The truth is, being away didn't feel as different as I thought it would, not the first time I left. There was no real sense of being away from Justin on any sort of important level. It felt very temporary; it felt like just physical distance. I was a plane ride away, and sure, it was a long plane ride, but we were still existing in the same metaphysical space, and as anyone who's existed in the same metaphysical space as Justin can tell you...you don't not notice that.


So I would have liked to have had him here, sure, but there wasn't any sort of desperation about it, and it's important that you understand that. I was doing okay without him, but that's not because I was strong, or resilient, or learning anything.


It's because he was never really gone. The space between us could be closed by one ocean, eight hours, one text message, one FaceTime phone sex session.


He was never really gone, when I was in London.


And that scared the everlasting shit out of me.


I'll explain.


**


But first, he got sick, like he is wont to do. He'd mentioned to me that he wasn't feeling well and he was on antibiotics, but I hadn't pushed for more information, even though I wanted it. All of the talking we were doing at that point felt...precipitous, like we were one wrong move or one missed text away from falling out of each other's lives completely, so we were being careful with each other in this way that was so goddamn not us, so when Evan called and he was in the hospital, yeah, a part of me thought, okay, at least I fucking know what this is.


After a four day stint in the hospital for fuckin' strep throat, my little drama queen was finally home. He had to keep taking oral doses of an antibiotic he was mind-numbingly allergic to, but so far it was Justin: 4, anaphylactic shock: 0, so there was hope we could keep that one up, at least. He was back on meds to raise his white count, since that had tanked again, removing all hope that that was a one-time issue, but it wasn't bad enough that he needed to be on full quarantine. His fever was down below a hundred and two. He'd lost twelve pounds since I'd left for London, but he was eating again now. He was breathing thanks to high doses of steroids, and not having seizures, thanks to jacking his anti-convulsant into oblivion. .


There was no reason I needed to stay, in other words.


Okay, croaky, I said, while I peeled back the covers on the bed. Home sweet home. Get in.


“When's your flight?” he asked me.


Please stop talking. I cannot explain to you how awful his voice sounded. You have never heard anyone so hoarse in your life. It was like there were fucking holes in his throat and the air was escaping before he could force out a sound, and then the sound that did come out was like a duet between a cricket and a wood saw. Not until tomorrow morning. I wasn't sure what time they'd let you go today.


He stretched, slipping under the covers. We can have sex.


That was certainly the hope, but I'm not convinced yet. I could fucking kill you for dragging me all the way back here and then being too sick to fuck me.


Like you would have come home if I wasn't, he said, and, uh, ouch, that stung, especially since it didn't even seem like he was saying to be vindictive. He was too tired for that shit, already burrowing into his pillow and making raspy versions of his usual sleepy noises, which was no help at all at making the gnawing feeling in my chest go away.


We'll see how you're feeling tonight, I said. You need anything now?


He shrugged. Tea maybe.


Okay. Go to sleep until I bring it, I said, and he nodded and nuzzled his pillow.


Evan was slumped over the kitchen table half asleep. I flicked his arm when I came out and he blinked up at me.


Go to sleep, I said.


He put his head down on the table. “Okay.”


Not here.


He dragged himself mostly upright, his chin in his hand. “How come you have to go back to London, anyway?”


Like I hadn't already been over this five times with Justin. It would make no sense not go back now, I said, filling up the kettle with my other hand. I'm almost done over there. If I give up now it was all for nothing.


“Make no sense except you'd get to stay here with us.”


I'll be home before you know it.


“That's what you said the first time,” he said. “And trust me, we...knowed it. Knew it.”


Evan.


He whined and rubbed his eyes. “I want to stay up in case his fever goes back up.”


I've got him, I'm here until the morning. Go get some sleep. You're lucky you haven't caught this shit as it is, you know. Strep's contagious.


“You don't scare me.”


I hauled him up and nudged him towards the stairs. Bed, I said, and he made a grumpy noise and kissed my cheek on his way down.


Justin was asleep when I got back and, from the looks of it, in the very early stages of a nightmare. Normally I'd wait it out a little, see if he could get himself out of it, but I figured the lad had had enough stress this week. I put my hand on the small of his back and shook him gently, then gave him a bit of space to pull himself together on his own. He'd rather do it himself, when he can.


“Hey,” he said after a minute.


Hey. Tea, here.


“Thank you,” he croaked, taking the mug. He'd been doing that since I got back: thanking me for shit, like it was something he needed to do, and it...I didn't like it.


I got undressed slowly and crawled into bed next to him while he drank. He was still having a hard time swallowing, sad to say, but he was giving it the good ol' college try, and I propped myself up my elbow and played with his hair a little while I watched him.


You look sick still, I said.


He nodded, setting the mug on the nightstand. “It's the hives.”


Why the fuck did you take so long to go to the hospital?


It's hard to tell when things are...things. I thought I'd be fine.


You have to be careful, Justin.


He chewed on his cheek.


Come here, I said, and he gave me a skeptical look to let me know he was still pissed at me—it's not like we'd had much of a chance to talk, since he hadn't been awake more than twenty minutes in a stretch since I'd gotten here—but he scooted closer, and I moved carefully on top of him, keeping my weight off of his body. He felt so small and fragile underneath me, and God, these hives. I needed to check them.


I took his clothes of carefully and skimmed my hands over him. “Scratch,” he said, but I didn't. I checked him with my fingers and my lips, feeling the blood warm so close to the surface, the way the worst patches throbbed on his neck and the insides of his wrists. I soothed them with my tongue and whispers of cool air. He shivered underneath me and and made a grab for my waist.


I pinned his hands back down. “No. Still.”


He glared at me. He hates that.


You're sick, I said. Stay still.


I touched his swollen nymph nodes and checked his temperature with my forehead against his, and when I kissed him he pushed off against the bed, pressing himself into me.


I placed him back where he was. No.


“God—”


I shook my head and kissed him deeply before he could hurt his throat bitching any more, and I worked my hands down his body, scratching lightly at his skin, feeling him wheeze when he breathed in sharply. Poor asthma, I said, small.


“Fuck me,” he hissed, grabbing at me again.


I pinned his wrists up above his head. Gently, I said, half just to fucking rile him up at this point.


”Fine,” he said, and he groaned when my nails dug into his itchy skin.


He had a rough night later, nauseous from the meds and a small seizure and teary and mad about me leaving the next day, and we were up a lot when he was throwing up or coughing or scared.


It was the best sleep I'd had in weeks.


**


I don't think it's important to go into how he shook the next day when I was leaving, shivered like without me touching him he was freezing.


I don't think I need to tell you the rationales I gave to them over and over, how it wasn't much longer now, how I needed to see this through, how it would all be worth it in the end.


I do think you need to know that I acted busy and annoyed and important all the way out the door, and that when I was in the terminal and they called my flight to board I went into the bathroom and sobbed like a fucking child because of how overwhelmingly, unbearably, impossibly I did not want to get on that plane.


We've gone over how the plane was just distance and being away from him didn't really matter, right? Okay, well fuck that, because now his immune system was bad again and the reaction could get worse at any time and, oh right, he'd almost died from a goddamn childhood illness.


Do you have any idea what it feels like to not have a hand on him?


And I know you probably think I should be used to this by now because it keeps happening, but that, in the words of one Justin Taylor, is exactly my point.


God, God. I could have been looking at him right then and instead I was looking at the door of a goddamn bathroom stall.


It hurts less to be the one to go, but goddamn, it is not enough. I was going 3500 miles away and if I had learned one fucking thing watching him cry in hospital beds all these years it was this: this is no goddamn world to travel alone.


And this boy is no goddamn place to keep your heart.


It felt like I was leaving a fucking part of me behind and I do not mean that in a sweet way. I mean that it felt like my body was physically coming apart in that fucking airport bathroom. I loosened my tie. I did the stupid breathing exercises I make Justin do. I tried to forget that the thought of being even an inch further away from where I already was goddamn unbearable.


Which is exactly why I had to do it, but first I was going to cry like I hadn't in years.


**


So that second time I was in London, after I get back? Now it felt like he was gone.


And I recognized even at the time that this was faulty as shit, because we were talking all the time, much more than we had the first time out. He was still pissed at me, but coming home once had made all of it seem more...manageable and temporary, I guess. I would be done here in a month, hopefully less. There was nothing unsurvivable about that.


Except that I was goddamn miserable and I couldn't really figure out why. My appetite was gone, and I started getting these tension headaches every evening. All the colors everywhere seemed...dull, washed out. London as a city had lost all of its appeal, and I spent all the time I wasn't in meetings or schmoozing clients in my hotel room watching TV. Whenever Emily was here we'd call Gwen to FaceTime with Jane, and fuck, she was getting so big. I called Gus a lot and bought him a lot of shit he didn't need.


And I called Justin a lot. And bought him a lot of shit, but that's nothing new.


He got better, slowly. He was a fucking trooper about those antibiotics, taking them dutifully even though they made him feel worse than the strep did and somehow not clawing off all of his skin. He was back to work and helping Evan and he seemed to be having a much easier time of it than he did before. Things weren't, you know, a hundred percent, but he smiled at me. He told me he loved me.


His world seemed to still have color in it, so that was annoying.


I don't want to make it sound like he wasn't having a hard time with this, because...it's Justin we're talking about; him being more heartless than I am is not on the table. He'd cry a little sometimes when we talked at night, and whenever he fell asleep on the phone he was always very carefully squished onto his side of the bed, which is ironic since when I'm actually there he sprawls all over me like a damn starfish, but whatever.


He was getting by, though.


So what the fuck was wrong with me?


**


One Friday evening I was in the office I was renting talking to Alisha, who was going to head up the office here. She was young, just turned thirty-five, incredibly successful, confident and pulled-together and gorgeous to boot. Kinney with an accent.


Emily was there, with her interpreter, and Alisha had two assistants with her, and we were going over..I don't know. Some contract thing. Everything was just about set in stone at this point. This time next month, we'd be pulling in pounds hand over fist, or whatever the fuck.


I checked my watch—almost nine. “Christ,” I said. “You should go home.”


She shrugged. “Nine? This is nothing.”


“Your husband's going to forget what you look like.”


She snorted. “Like that depends on whether I'm there or not. Don't think we've looked at each other in years.”


“Well,” I said, because what the fuck else could I?


“It's business,” she said simply. “He and I have the same priorities.” She smiled and tapped the contract in front of her. “Works out great for everyone.”


So that was rolling around in my head, I suppose, when I got back to the hotel after the additional hour of work Alisha had dragged us through. I smoked a cigarette—fuck was I gonna have to shake that again quick in two weeks before I got back to Justin and his lungs—and took a shower and when none of that did anything to quiet down the buzzing in my brain, I called America.


It was a little after six in New York, and Justin and Evan answered together, sprawled out on the living room floor on the cushions, some kind of early '00s rock shit Evan loves playing softly in the background. They were both half-naked and sweaty and giggly, so, y'know, no mystery there, and their legs were tangled up in the kind of strange angles only a flexible 28-year-old and loose-jointed epileptic can pull off. Justin had a mug of something, and he smiled at me over the rim.


I breathed in. Hey.


“Hi Brian,” they said together, and my stomach flipped. Justin's R.


You doing okay? I asked both of them. Justin.


They nodded. I had dialysis today, Evan said, like that was any different from every Friday, but I didn't mind.


How do you feel?I asked him.


Squeaky clean, he said, wriggling around on Justin. Like a rubber duck.


I bit back a smile and looked at Justin. How's the breathing?


He took a slow breath or me to listen in. It's good. Slept a lot today.


You did?


“Uh-huh.”


My boy. Good. That's really good.


He smiled and sipped from his mug.


Tea? I said.


Hot chocolate. Evan made it.


With cream, he said. For him. Not for me.


He's trying to fatten me back up, Justin said, and Evan nodded and leaned his head against Justin's arm.


Imagine forgetting these faces.


God.


They were okay. They were fine. They were happy and cuddly and healthy, relatively, and they didn't need me to rush home and save anything.


But the second I got the phone I texted Emily and told her she could finish out the rest of this herself, and I bought a ticket home before I could stop myself. Before I could talk myself out of it and remind myself why I was doing this an what it meant that I didn't want to do it anymore, before I could think about the money or the reputation or the fucking boiling risk of it all, all I thought about was the life, the life, the life.


Because, God, Jesus mother of fucking God.


I just wanted to be there.


**


It was Saturday morning in New York when I got back. I unlocked the door and there they were, sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast. I dropped my suitcase on the floor and went straight to the sink to wash my hands.


“Um—” Justin said.


“Brian?”


I kissed Evan's cheek. Hi, darling.


“Hi...”


Justin's lips were slightly parted. His hair was messed up and beautiful. He had a speck of grape jam on the side of his hand. He was wearing one of my old tank tops and there was a bandaid on his shoulder from his allergy shots.


You are a fucking masterpiece, I said, accidentally.


“Brian, what are you—”


Sorry, I said to Evan, and I took Justin by the wrists and, as gently as I could, dragged him to our bedroom and picked him up and kissed the shit out of him with his back against the wall.


“How long are you—” he said, when I let him breathe, and I shook my head and kissed him hard.


Clothes off, I said. I'm home. I'm home now.


**


It was mid-afternoon by the time we got out of bed, and only then because we were both fucking starving. Evan was nowhere to be found; he was probably downstairs sleeping. He's always tired the day after dialysis.


“You really think Emily can handle everything alone?” he asked, while he made us sandwiches. I was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing our top sheet because I didn't feel like getting dressed and it smelled like him and I was letting myself have this.


Yeah. Its just signing shit at this point. She's been forging my signature for years.


“So I still don't..really get it,” he said, bringing plates to the table. “Last time you were on FaceTime with us and everything was great, you decided to go to London. So this time you decide to come home? There's just something about us being stable that makes you switch continents?”


I put my fingers around his wrist. I thought you were working on gaining weight.


“Brian.”


I sighed and slumped back in my chair. Can I please eat before the interrogation?


He nudged my plate towards me, and we were quiet for a little while we ate. He sipped from his water glass, his hand shaking just a little the way it always does. He wasn't nervous.


He gave me an admirable three minutes of peace before he said, “You did leave because of me, didn't you?”


I'm very bad at lying to Justin, and I'd done so goddamn much of it the past few months. My quota was reached.


Still, you don't go far in this business without learning how to soften a blow or two. I came back because of you too, though.


“Brian, I'm not trying to...” He sighed and reached across the table to play with my fingers for a little. “I told you I want you to take breaks when you need them, and I meant it.”


I don't want breaks.


“I'm not mad at you. I just want to know...if this is something you're going to have to do every ten years, if this is all going to build up and become too much and you have to get away rom me for a few months and...you know. Breathe. Figuratively speaking. Literally speaking.”


Sorry, literally? I have to double-check his words every once in a while, the hard ones.


“Yeah. I know that this is a lot. That we're a lot. I'm a lot. People get worn out with this shit. It's natural.”


Yeah, see, here's the thing: he doesn't get breaks from it, and he's the one who actually has that shit inside of him. So the fact that he was sitting here telling me calmly that it was okay if I needed a break—and let me absolutely goddamn fucking clear that I did not, and that was not what was happening here—was just about as infuriating as something was possible to be.


Do you understand how much time Justin has to spend bending over backwards to make sure people aren't too uncomfortable with the fact that he isn't healthy?


Do not put me on that list.


I do a lot of shit wrong but do not put this one on me.


“I can try to be less overwhelming,” he said.


You know I don't want that, I said. None of this sounds like us.


“That's what I thought too,” I said. “I don't know anymore.”


I pinched the bridge of my nose. “God.”


Justin was quiet for a minute, scratching the surface of the coffee table. “Did it help?” he said, after a while. “Having some distance from this?”


I laughed. I had to. Did it help?


He nodded.


Christ, it didn't... I shook my head. Do you have any idea how much worse it is not being here? Hearing you cough through a the damn phone lines, trying to fucking guess how your fever is instead of feeling it, seeing that damn look in your eyes that you're going to have a seizure and there's not a damn thing I can do about it? Feeling...God. I still feel it.


He called me my fourth day in London and asked me if I would fucking please stop eating shit he was allergic to because his throat hadn't stopped itching since I left. This shit is not a metaphor, and he knows.


I can't get away from you, I said. You're in my fucking bones. There's no plane ride. There's nothing.


“But you want to,” Justin said softly. “You want to get away from me. Or wanted to. That's what you're saying.”


I wanted to know what it would feel like.


Okay, but why?


I got up and leaned against the counter, facing him. Christ, Justin. Why do you think?


He breathed out, so slowly.


“Oh,” he said softly.


I looked away from him.


“I'm not going to die,” he said.


Yeah, so you keep telling me.


“Brian.”


I ran my hand over my mouth. I was sitting there watching the two of you on FaceTime and Christ, you weren't even doing anything, you were just being there, and you two are both... I swallowed and closed my eyes.


Because...look, okay? Can you try for a second to imagine what this is like?


I am not trying to get too woe-is-me about this. I'm not. Trust me, when all the bullshit is said and done, I am very understanding of the fact that the guy who comes home and sees and talks to and fucks and sleeps next to Justin Taylor every night has very little room to complain about anything other than snoring. Trust me. I understand. There are all of two bastards on this earth who get that and I can complain about a hell of a lot but I don't now how someone would complain about this.


And now I'm about to, because can you imagine what it goddamn feels like when your motivation to get up every morning, your fucking will to get through the day, your breath and your blood and your fucking personality, every single thing about you that makes you you, is kept inside one very small, very breakable person?


Very breakable.


And then Christ, if that weren't enough, let's throw another one into the mix. Let's just spread this shit around in as many fragile places as possible. Who the fuck comes up with this stuff?


I just needed to know if I could do it, I said.


He bit his lip. “We haven't really talked about this, have we?”


I took a moment and then sat back down at the table. No.


I don't think I used to need to. The possibility of Justin dying from all of this...it had been there, in the background, for a long time, but not the way it had been since this fall. And maybe this had all been building since then, I don't know. God knows I'd been fucking terrified ever since.


“Okay,” he said, sort of business-like, and I smiled a little in spite of everything. “Evan is not going to die, first of all. People are fine on dialysis for years and then they get transplants and they're fine. The mortality rate is like seven percent a year and that's factoring in a bunch of old people. He's not going to die.” He paused. “He sort of thinks he's dying.”


I know he thinks he's dying.


“He sees death everywhere. He's like me and seeing ways you could get a concussion.”


I let myself laugh.


“So he's not going anywhere,” Justin said.


We were quiet, probably because we both knew what was coming next.


Do you think you're going to die? I asked him. Honestly.


He shook his head. Not anytime soon, no. I don't...feel tired like that.


Things can hit you so fucking fast, though.


This fall I knew I was dying, he said.


I remember. You can't really forget.


So I think...I think even if it's fast, you get a feeling. I think I'd know.


“God.” I ran my hands down my face. God. I don't know how to make that enough. Do you worry about it?


I worry about everything, you know me. But I worry more that...I'm going to feel like this forever.


You worry you won't die.


He smiled ruefully. Well, I wasn't going to say it.


I snorted, and he played with my sleeve, and a minute later I stood up and helped him to his feet and just hugged him for a while, feeling his heartbeat slow and steady and even against my stomach. I buried my nose in his hair and just rested, while he ran his hand up and down my back.


Tell me how to be brave, I said, small.


He pulled back a little. “Ever since he got sick I do this thing. I wake up every morning and I say to myself: we're making it out of today alive. And then the next day we do it again.”


Can you say it to me too?


“Okay.”


Now, please.


He looked up at me. “We are making it out of today alive.” And then he started coughing, my boy, and he blushed a little and apologized when he was done. “Bad timing.”


I shook my head.


“I am sorry,” he said. “I know you hate when I say it, but...I'm sorry that I scare you. I'm sorry I'm like this.”


It's hard to stay calm when he does that, but I make myself.


Here's the thing, I said eventually. I hate that you feel awful and I hate that there's this risk and I know that you don't want to do this forever and I get that, but I really need you to stay exactly like this for a very long time, okay?


Christ, you really do like your life.


Yeah, I told you. It's embarrassing.


**


We had some more sex after that, because we sort of had to, and then I went to take a shower, finally, but Justin said he was too tired and when I came out he was asleep. I figured he deserved a break. I could hear Evan moving around in the basement, so I flicked the lights on at the top of the stairs and went and sat on the bottom after he called me down. He was doing dishes in his little kichenette, and he had earbuds in, which he took out and replaced with his hearing aids, and he looked peaceful.


“Hi,” he said.


Hey. Sorry I kind of blew you off earlier.


“Yes, I was startled by the lack of a tearful reunion.”


I rolled my eyes, and he smiled.


“So are you really back?” he said.


Yeah. Flaked out at the last minute. A Kinney speciality tradition.


“The deal will still go through, right?”


Yeah, of course. I'm not that stupid.


He made a face like he wasn't sure, and I wrinkled my nose at him.


How'd you know? I said. About being here for good.


“Justin caught me up while you were in the shower.”


Oh, fantastic. What else did he tell you? I said. It's not like he didn't deserve the explanation for why I left—I did disappear on him as well—but...God, you can't tell Justin anything.


But Evan just shrugged all smugly and went back to his dishes. And for a blessed minute I thought we were avoiding the heart-to-heart—I really do have a limit with these things, despite what my recent behavior would suggest—but then he said, “You know...”


I groaned and banged my head against his bannister.


“You know,” he said. “I decided I was done after Adam died.”


And then I shut up, because I'm pretty sure I'd heard Evan say Adam's name all of once, ever. He doesn't talk about this.


“I just didn't want to go through that again, and I felt like...like nothing else would ever measure up to how much I loved him, so what was the point?”


If this is a story about how Justin dying will actually be the prequel to my real great love, you can spare me, I said. I'm not being sweet and romantic when I say there isn't someone else out there for me. That's not a nice thing.


“Adam was not a prequel,” he said, calmly, but his voice was firm.


I nodded and ducked my head. Sorry.


“My point,” he said. “Is that sometimes you meet a person who's so big and bright that you forget the rules you've made. I'm going to guess you have some idea of what I'm talking about.”


He turned around to put some dishes away while I, I don't know, got a fucking hold of myself. When he turned back around I said, What does it feel like?


He shook his head. You don't need to know.


I might..


“No, you don't, Brian. There's no preparing for this. There's nothing I can say to ease you into this, and no two-month vacation that will give you a trial run for it.”


I sighed.


“It's horrible,” he said. “It's unimaginably, indescribably horrible, and you don't need to think about it because it won't prepare you. There is no preparing for it.”


How the fuck are we supposed to love him? I said.


Evan smiled a little and shrugged one shoulder. How could you not?


I slumped back against the wall. “Goddddd.”


Evan laughed, coming over and looking at me through the rails in the bannister. “I'm not sure I got that exactly, but I get the idea.”


I pouted at him, and he laughed a little more.


“The bottom line is that people are what matter,” he said. “You think that it's principles or preparation or rules or fucking...fear, even, but then every single fucking time it turns out, no, it's just the people.”


Christ, how much more needs to happen to you before you get hard and jaded?


“I don't know. Guess we'll see.” He held onto the bannister and rocked back and forth some while I stood up. “And it does...it helps that I wouldn't be alone this time,” he said.


I kicked him gently through the bannister rails and didn't look at him. That thing I said. About there only being him. I took a deep breath. You know I...


He held up a hand. You don't have to do it.


Thank God.


**


I headed to the office for a few hours to see what kind of disarray they'd left me here in the colonies, then called home to see what the pests wanted me to bring home for dinner. Evan said Justin was still sleeping, so I figured we'd just order in something later.


He was awake when I got home, but only barely, his eyes still a little red and sleepy. He was sitting at the foot of the bed rubbing lotion on his legs, and he smiled at me when he saw me in the doorway.


“Doing okay?” he asked me.


I nodded and came in and flopped down next to him on the bed, my face in the comforter. I'm going to be a mess if you die, I said.


He laughed. “Okay, it's on the record. Do you feel better now?”


No. I turned my head towards him. But I don't think I need to.


He watched me, his eyes warm.


I'm just really happy with you, I said.


Let it happen, babe.


I rolled my eyes and turned my face back to the bed. Don't call me babe.


I felt him move next to, and a minute later he was rolling me over, straddling my waist with his greasy legs. I fought him but only barely, playing with the soft hair on his thighs.


Good things can happen to you too, Raincloud, he said. Let them.


I groaned and covered my face with my hands. God. Don't fucking go anywhere.


“We are making it out of today alive,” he said.


I took a deep breath. We are making it out of today alive.


We.

 

End Notes:

 

I...don't know what to do next, so please let me know what you'd like to see!

Chapter 112 - Saltwater by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

The gang comes to check out Brian and Justin's beach house and have a lovely weekend, but not without a few hiccups.

Saltwater

LaVieEnRose



Early evening on a Thursday, and I should have been filling out charts or pumping the stomach of a drunk seventeen-year-old, and instead I was curled up in a window seat on the Long Island Railroad, wearing a straw hat I'd bought especially for the occasion while my fiance slept on my shoulder. Who would have thought, back at the esteemed St. James Academy, that befriending the cute blond boy who sat by himself with the sketchpad would pay out these kind of dividends?


He and Brian and Evan had spent the week in Montauk at their beach house, except it wasn't technically their beach house yet? It was a whole thing, because whatever place they got they'd need to zhuzh it up, make it fully accessible for Justin and fully bougie for Brian, but obviously they couldn't do that until after they'd inked a deal, so the previous owner of this one was letting them do some sort of trial run to see if they wanted to make it all official. And because this weekend was Evan's birthday, and because Brian can't even decide to buy a tie without getting input from everyone on his contacts list, here I was taking a long weekend to scope the place out. And get some sun.


Emily was walking up and down the aisle with Jane, making up stories about the other people on the train to keep her entertained. Largely it consisted making fun of what people were wearing, but hey, they didn't know. And there's Aunt Daphne, Emily said.


I waved to her.


She looks very cute in her hat, Emily said to Jane. We like her hat.


Thank you, Jane. Her name sign is the I-handshape shaken—a hybrid between a J and blue, for her eyes. Mine is just DC, my initials, though I supposed that would be changing soon.


Montauk is a little further out from the Hamptons, about a three hour train ride from the city. It's a little quieter and artsier and more expensive, but still a hop skip jump from the nightlife, so right up their alley nowadays. Their house was, naturally, right on the beach, and I did not even want to know how much they were paying for it. I guess with that Disney money and the London office they didn't think about that stuff at this point. Whatever. With everything they had going on, they deserved to have one thing they didn't have to worry about. Let 'em be filthy rich.


The house was just a five minute cab ride from the station. We rolled the windows down and let the late-June air flood in, making waves with our hands. Everything smelled like sunscreen and salt and my skin was sticking to the cab seats. Derek was still sleepy, nuzzling the space between my shoulder and my neck, and Jane babbled to herself with her hands from Gwen's lap.


The house was, of course, right on the beach, up a winding driveway. It was paneled in light wood with a wrap-around deck, a back yard, and a private walkway down to the beach. There were white linen curtains in the windows, and everything looked open and airy, like something out of a book.


God, Derek said to me as we got out of the cab. This has got to be five million.


“No way,” I said.


Derek waved to Emily, who'd seen the paperwork—Brian runs evvvverything past her—but so far been tight-lipped. Or tight-fingered. Five million? he asked.


Emily shrugged cryptically but subtly pointed up.


Holy shit, I said.


Emily laughed. If Justin insists, then Brian insists.


Justin opened the door as we approached and took Jane and kissed her over and over. Hi, sweetie, hi, my baby. Hi hi hi! he said to us, then motioned for our bags. Let me help you—


Take the baby and go sit, I said. He looked good, though. The air out here really was nice.


He rolled his eyes but went back inside with the baby, yelling to Brian that we were here as he walked. Molly looked up from the couch when we came in and waved with a hand still holding the remote. Very loud, she said to Justin.


Brian needs to hear me.


Oh, trust me, he heard you.


The inside was like a light version of their loft back in Pittsburgh, with an open floor plan and stools at the counter and beams criss-crossing the ceiling. There was a wide, curved staircase at one end, and one side was all doors and windows opening onto a patio and the yard. You could see the ocean crashing below us from here. Incredible.


Justin set Jane down on the floor and she immediately toddled around exploring. His shirt was off and he was still skinny, but he had a bit of a sunburn on his shoulders and across his cheeks that did a lot to make him look more alive. How was the trip? he asked us. I'll have to take the train if I'm ever coming up without Brian.


Derek said, Not bad at all. Slept. He kissed Justin's cheek. Beer?


Yeah, in the fridge, help yourself.


Brian came in from outside, shiny with sunscreen, wearing sunglasses that probably cost more than my rent. He ran his hand across Justin's shoulders on his way to take our bags. He kissed my cheek. “Welcome to our humble abode.” We'd seen him since he'd been home from London, of course, but only a few times, and it was still this unbelievable relief that he was home. Things felt right again.


Where's the birthday boy? I asked.


“Outside. I don't think he's been inside voluntarily since we got here.” He came up behind Derek at the fridge and hugged him around the waist from behind, lifting him a few inches of the ground before dropping him unceremoniously to the floor, and I bit back a smile. He took the beer away from Derek. Don't drink that. I'm making margaritas. He studied Justin. Virgin for you.


And Evan. Justin sat down at the counter. And Jane.


Ah, yes, my wards. Except lazy demon over there gets alcohol. It makes her more pleasant. Marginally. “Excuse me, lazy demon?”


“Go away,” Molly said without turning around.


“Can you show our guests to their rooms?”


“I'm a guest.”


“To be a guest you have to be invited, my sweet.”


Molly groaned and pulled herself off the couch. Okay, she said to us. Come on. Emily slung her arm over her shoulders on our way up the stairs.


The upstairs was smaller than the downstairs because half the floor was taken up by an enormous sheltered deck with lounge chairs and a hot tub. Molly pointed to rooms as we passed. Brian, Justin, and Evan. Me. Daphne and Derek. Emily, Gwen, baby.


I dropped my suitcase in our room. It was small but nice, and it smelled like lemons. What are they going to do about the stairs? I asked Molly. Justin didn't like stairs even when his lungs worked well, just because of the fall risk, and now they really wear him out. Their house in Queens has stairs, but because of the layout Justin does't have to do them everyday. Not the case here.


They haven't decided, Molly said. Justin says it's fine, he can do them once a day, Brian says don't be stupid, Justin says okay fine, how about one of those chairs that bring you up, Brian says those are ugly and wants to put in an elevator, Justin says there's no point in something that expensive...around and around they go.


You buy an eight million dollar beach house and this is where you're pinching pennies, Derek said. Makes sense.


Molly shrugged. The house is for all of them. The elevator's just for him. You know Justin.


I hope they get the chair, Derek said later, when we were changing into swimsuits. I've been on an elevator. I've always wanted to ride on one of those chairs.


Brian was whipping up margaritas in the blender when we got back downstairs, and Justin was sitting on the kitchen floor helping Gwen put sunscreen on a very squirmy baby. I leaned against the counter next to Brian and he gave me a once-over. “Cute suit.”


“Oh, you just like that my tits are out.”


“You know me so well.”


“House is beautiful,” I said.


He glanced behind him at Justin. “You heard him breathe?”


“It's amazing.”


“I think he's sneezed twice today.”


“You ever bringing him home?”


Brian laughed. “No.”


Justin appeared, standing on his toes and kissing Brian's cheek. “Hi hearies.”


We'll stop, we'll stop, Brian said.


Justin tugged my hand. Come see the outside, he said to me.


I turned to Derek. You coming?


I'm going to help Brian, he said. Meet you out there. Brian stuck a lime in Derek's mouth and poured him a tequila shot. Ah, helping. Brian put a highball glass in my hand on my way out the door. Good man.


Evan was stretched out in a lounge chair on the small lawn, earbuds in and sunglasses on. I got some margarita on my fingers and flicked it at him, and he flinched and smiled at me, sitting up and putting his hearing aids in. “You're here!” He got up and hugged me. “Wow, look at you in that suit.”


I need to spend more time half-naked with gay guys, I said. It's very good for the self-esteem. I looked around. Jesus Christ, this is amazing. The yard was small, about ten feet wide, and then there was a small set of stairs leading down to the sand. Fifteen feet later the waves were breaking.


A year ago I was practically homeless, Evan said. I think this is a fairy tale.


Justin nodded. Cinderella with kidney failure.


Everyone came out soon after that. Derek chased me down the stairs and into the fucking freezing cold water, and Brian hauled Justin over his shoulder and carried him down while he kicked his back in protest. We stayed in the water for ages, taking turns stepping out to hold Janie's hand for her to shriek while the water rushed over her toes. Derek put me on his shoulders and had us chicken-fight Emily and Gwen, who we beat every time, and then Evan and Molly, who we definitely did not. We flopped down on towels on the sand after a few hours, too fucking tired to move until Brian coaxed us in with the promise of more margaritas, and we ate tacos and ice cream and tequila in their backyard until it got dark. Brian was in full host mode, refilling glasses and laughing at jokes and catching up on everything he'd missed while he was in London.


Justin was bright and awake and had color in his cheeks, and it was frankly amazing and Brian wouldn't stop looking at him, and everyone stayed cheery even when he got more breathless as the night went on. Evan seemed tired, and Brian kept an eye on him, but really, everything was good. Derek's skin glowed in the fading light, and I leaned back in his arms, smelling his sunscreen and watching Jane shift around, half-asleep huddled up to Justin.


She's cute, huh? Derek said to me.


I looked at her, then up at him.


What? he said.


Nothing. She's cute.


I wasn't used to staying up late nowadays, with my early shifts, so Derek and I showered and went to bed early, cuddled under crisp sheets while the waves roared us a lullaby.


**


Thanks to the aforementioned early shift, I was the first one up the next morning, besides Gwen and the baby, who were already out playing in the sand. I made coffee and waved at them from the backyard, watching the way Jane screamed with laughter every time she ruined Gwen's progress, and how Gwen gamely built it back up just for her to destroy again.


When nine o'clock rolled around and I was starving, I rooted through the cabinets and found enough stuff to cobble together some French toast and bacon. I figured the smell would wake everyone up, but that strategy only works on Derek, apparently. He came down and we made out against the refrigerator for a while, then I sent him up to get Emily—I know better than to wake up Molly for anything short of nuclear war—and I went to check on the boys. I opened their door quietly and bit back a laugh. Brian was sprawled out in the center of the bed, Justin's legs piled on top of his and his head pillowed on his chest, and his other arm was stretched underneath Evan, who was balled up tightly around his pillow, his forehead resting on Brian's wrist. It's funny; God knows how many times Brian had woken up tangled up between two guys, but he probably never pictured it going like this.


I knocked softly, and he stirred and looked at me, then the two boys, looking kind of charmingly sheepish. “Imagine trying to get up to piss in the middle of the night,” he said to me. He stretched around Justin to the nightstand and checked his phone. That side of the bed was crowded with Justin's nebulizer and a few pill bottles, and an oxygen tank on the floor next to the bed.


“Obstacle course,” I said.


“Mmmhmm. And the extra limbs make the seizures all the more exciting.” He turned his head slightly to drop a kiss on Justin's temple, and Justin mumbled in annoyance and nuzzled Brian's chest. “Everything okay?” Brian said to me.


“Everything's great. I made breakfast.”


“You're perfect. I'll wake them up. It's a bit of a process.”


I went back downstairs and helped Derek set the table, and a few minutes later the three of them came down the stairs, stretching and yawning. Justin held onto the railing but still lost his footing and slipped on one of the stairs, but Brian caught him instantly, his hands under Justin's elbows. We exclaimed over Evan and told him happy birthday and he smiled shyly and kind of ducked behind Brian. Twenty-nine, Brian said, and he and Justin grinned at each other.


Molly actually ended up waking up before we ate everything, in a strange turn of events, and Gwen and the baby came in and we all flitted around the kitchen and the living room, refilling our plates and eating on the couch or on the floor, talking about our plans for the day. Emily and Gwen wanted to go into town and do some shopping. Evan was talking about joining them, until Brian came up behind him and tapped his shoulder. You see what time it is? Brian said to him.


Evan checked the clock on the wall. Oh, damn. Okay.


What's up? Derek said.


We have to go back to the city, Evan said. Have to leave by noon.


Dialysis? I asked, and Evan nodded. There's no center around here?


They don't want him switching yet, since he's new, Brian said. He caught my eye and said, softly, “He's had a rough couple of sessions,” and I nodded.


How often do you have to do it? Derek asked.


Three times a week, Evan said.


Molly asked if it hurt, and then Emily wanted to know what the status was with finding a donor—we'd all been tested, except for Gwen who has a bleeding disorder, and Justin, and none of us had matched—and Evan seemed a little bit overwhelmed. I was actually about to step in, but I saw Brian and Justin catch each other's eye, and then Justin jumped in and asked Gwen if they ever did dialysis on pets, and she started talking about using it on cats how it had saved a kitten in her office recently, and that flowed into more weird questions from the vet clinic and Evan rested his head on Justin's shoulder.


We lazily got ready after breakfast, and after the girls and Jane went into town and Brian and Evan got in the car to head back to the city, Derek, Molly, Justin and I headed down to the beach. Derek and Molly were in the water immediately, but I didn't want to get my hair wet again and Justin told me he didn't want to get in either. “Exhausting,” he said, spreading down a towel next to mine, at an angle so we could see each other's signing, and flopping down.


Swimming, or Molly and Derek? I said, and he laughed. And the sound of his laugh, honestly, was kind of startling. I'd gotten used to how breathless he usually sounded, and now...he was still wheezy, don't get me wrong, but this was different.


I smiled at him.


“What?” he said.


Nothing. Just thinking Brian would probably pay twenty million for a house that has you breathing like this.


He wrinkled his nose and grinned. “We're already talking about schedules. Seeing how often he can get away, how often we're comfortable with me being alone up here...it's complicated.”


We just caught up on everything for a while: how my parents were (fine, moving to Florida), how Jennifer was (fine, still thought Evan was a friend who was staying with them, still kind of pissed at Brian about London but would never admit it), how work was (fine, I liked my new hospital, and Justin had a small show in two weeks). We talked about wedding stuff, and I pulled out my phone to show him pictures from my most recent fitting, and then we started talking about what everyone else was wearing, Derek and Brian and my ridiculously fashionable aunt, and Jane, in her flower girl dress.


She's going to steal the show, I said, and Justin smiled to himself, looking up at the blue sky. After a minute I said, What's it like?


“What, having a kid?”


I nodded.


He shrugged. “I barely remember what it's like not having one at this point. Been half my life.”


True.


He stretched for a minute, then said, “Sometimes if I'm having a bad night and I can't calm down, Brian will just...” He smiled a little and signed their names a few times. “Over and over.”


And it helps?


“Yeah. Reminder that there's stuff outside the room. Outside my body. Outside that night. They're always real.”


I looked out to the water and said, before I could convince myself not to, We haven't talked about it.


“You and Derek?”


I nodded. Please don't tell me how dumb it is that I'm four months from my wedding and we haven't discussed kids. I know.


“Brian and I didn't talk about it until like two years after we got married.”


I think a lot of how you and Brian got married probably didn't follow what Miss Manners would suggest.


“Hmm. Possibly.” He stretched his legs into the air, pointing his toes and letting them go. “When we did talk about it finally I told him I didn't want any of my own. So even if you had talked about it might not be enough. Sometimes people change their minds.”


I do want kids, I said. I've always wanted kids. But now I'm looking at my life and I don't know how to make it work. I don't want my kids raised by nannies like I was. And I'm scared he'll just say he doesn't want them at all, so there's really...there's no good outcome to the conversation.


“It's Derek,” Justin said. “He wants kids.”


With a doctor who's never home? Or God, what if he thinks I'm going to stop working and be some kind of housewife?


“You'll make it work,” he said. “You two make everything work.” He checked the time on his phone. “Evan should be starting now.”


We were quiet for a while, just taking in the sun, and after a while I got up and stretched out in the sand, bending over backwards and working out sore muscles in my back. Justin watched me, a thoughtful look on his face.


I laughed and straightened up. “What?”


Can I paint you?


You've painted me a million times.


No, I mean...


Oh, shit! Naked?


If you'll let me.


I laughed. Sure, what the hell, you've seen it before. Tomorrow?


Tomorrow.


He went inside not long after that—he has to be careful about getting too hot, since it's a seizure trigger for him—and I read a little and took a nap and let Derek drag me in for lunch a few hours later. The girl were back from the shops, and Gwen was sunbathing on the lawn while Emily cuddled on the couch with Justin and kept an eye on Jane watching some kind of kiddie TV.


We made sandwiches and started day drinking and went through all the shit Emily and Gwen bought, roasting their home décor choices (seriously, swans?). Most of us were in the living room playing various party video games and vaguely discussing dinner when Brian and Evan got back. Evan gave us a tired wave but went straight upstairs without even really looking at us. Justin immediately got off the couch and followed him up the stairs. Brian kept an eye on him until he was at the top, then sauntered over to the couch and fucked up Molly's hair.


Is he okay? Emily said.


Brian rolled his eyes. He's fine, he's just tired. You know Justin. Worries. He leaned over us to get some chips, and while he was bent over said, “Can you check him in a little while?” softly in my ear. I nodded as subtly as I could. Brian went over to the kitchen to get a beer, and Derek glanced at him and then got up and went after him. He can read Brian's energy really well, and he's amazing at calming him down without being over the top about it.


I waited twenty minutes before making eye contact with Brian, who by then was sprawled out on the floor resting against Derek's legs, pretending to watch the game he was playing an idly rolling a ball back and forth with Jane. He nodded a little, and I made some excuse about calling my mom and headed upstairs. I grabbed my blood pressure cuff and my stethoscope from my bag—Derek laughed at me for packing them, but goes to show you never know!—and slowly opened the door to their room.


They were both awake, and dressed, blessedly. The TV was on and Evan was lying with his head on Justin's chest while Justin wound his curls around his finger. I held up the blood pressure cuff, and Evan slowly sat up.


He's still feeling woozy, Justin said. And his heartbeat's really fast.


I nodded and sat down on the side of the bed, sticking my stethoscope in. Muscle cramps? I asked Evan.


Yeah, my legs. He breathed in slowly when I put the stethoscope to his chest.


Dizziness worse when you sit up?


Yeah.


I listened to his chest for a little while—sounded good—and then put the blood pressure cuff around his arm. Probably they just took out a little too much fluid. Let them know next time that they need to re-evaluate your dry weight.


“Okay.”


I held the stethoscope to the inside of his arm while I tightened the cuff. Yeah, still pretty low, I said as I let it go. I'll get you something salty to drink, should help.


You know what they say, Justin said, winding himself around Evan. Tears, sweat, or the sea. Nothing salt water can't fix.


After a few hours he and Justin came back downstairs. Evan still looked exhausted as hell, but Brian casually draped a blanket over his lap and told us not to hover. Justin stuck by him in the arm chair while the rest of us pulled together dinner, seafood and salad and tons of wine, and Brian came over to their chair every so often, bringing them food to taste and going back and adjusting the spices based on their opinions, taking Evan's pulse with his fingers on his neck and bringing Justin a Benadryl when his eyes got a little swollen.


“Happy to be back?” I asked him softly, when he was at the stove adding a dash of cayenne to the shrimp, at Justin's request.


He just smirked a little, and I thought he wasn't going to say anything, but after a minute he said, “Like coming up for air.”


Emily and Gwen surprised us after dinner with cupcakes they'd bought while they were out, and we made Evan make a wish and blow out a candle, and Jane got hers all over her face, and then we lay around the living room and Justin and I told stories about our high school and Derek and Emily told stories about theirs and we laughed until our stomachs hurt while Evan slept on Brian's shoulder.


**


Justin and I got started on our painting pretty early the next day. He offered to to do it in my room so it would be private, but if I was going to be naked I was going to be out in the sun, thank you very much, so I just stripped down and lay out in their little backyard. We were kind of giggly and awkward about it at first, but after a while it was fine. Plus it was pretty funny watching everyone wake up and discover us one-by-one. Emily and Gwen were all shocked and giggly. Derek flicked Justin in the shoulder. Evan blushed bright pink and everyone made fun of him.


“Why don't I have tits like that?” Molly whined when she came out.


Brian, who was out here reading the paper, spared me a glance, then shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “Taylors are scrawny.”


The whole thing was kind of funny, just how comfortable it was, and how after a joke or two nobody made a big deal out of it, and people wandered in and out to see how the painting was going or to head out to the beach or to ask me some question about the wedding. It was just...normal, and as I lay there and watched Justin paint I got sort of emotional about this whole thing. How unlikely it was that we'd all come together. What if I hadn't made friends with Justin, back in high school? What if he hadn't gone to Liberty Avenue that night? What if he hadn't met Derek's mother at his friend's art show? What if Emily had stayed home from the party where she met Gwen? What if Justin hadn't been at the gallery the night Evan was putting up shelves? What if we hadn't made it through all this bullshit we've weathered?


And why was I worried that a kid I might have would be raised by strangers?


 


**


We took a break to eat lunch and rest Justin's hand, and we crowded around the backyard and ate burgers and corn on the cob that Gwen grilled up. I flopped down on the grass—I'd put some clothes on—while Derek sat behind me and tied my hair into twists. I always kind of zone out when Derek does my hair, but I still heard Justin, standing up next to me with Jane in his arms, say, in a voice that didn't sound entirely like his, “Someone take the baby.”


Brian and I both got up immediately, but I was closer and took her first. Justin sank slowly down to one knee, hanging onto the bottom of one of the lounge chairs, and Brian was there immediately, crouching down and putting a hand on his shoulder.


“Can he breathe?” Molly said.


Brian nodded, watching Justin. Seizure. It's a weird one. Justin tried to put his head down, and Brian said, No, no, sneezy, not in the grass. He motioned for Derek to come over, and he got up immediately and helped Brian pull Justin up and onto one of the chairs. Cold washcloth, he signed to Evan, who nodded and went inside. Justin held his head and breathed erratically, and Molly came over next to him and took his hand. He's okay, Brian said to her. Just need to cool him down.


Is he conscious? Emily asked.


Brian studied Justin. Not really. He rubbed his back. It's okay, Justin.


“Why isn't he shaking?” Molly said.


“Sometimes he doesn't.”


Evan came back with a cold washcloth and draped it over Justin's neck, and he shuddered while Brian comforted him and blew cold air on the insides of his wrists.


Derek said, Do you need help bringing him in?


I don't want to move him right now if we don't have to, Brian said. It'll hurt him, he's really locked up.


I walked a few steps away, and Derek came over and touched my arm. “You okay?” he said to me.


Of course, I'm fine. I just don't want Jane to see and get scared. I shifted her against my shoulder, and Derek smiled a little and gave my arm a squeeze.


Evan and Brian got Justin inside a few minutes later, and we all kind of flowed in after them, hovering and acting like we weren't hovering. Derek got Justin some ice water and Brian sat next to him and patiently encouraged him to sip it. Justin was really shaken up, crying a little and shivering and looking very lost. Seizures are just fucking brutal. I see a ton of them in the ER and everyone is just wrecked after. It's amazing Justin weathers them as well as he does.


Brian and Evan had us give him some space and encouraged him to lie down on the couch once he'd finished his water, and after about ten minutes he fell asleep, his arms wrapped around his head. Brian came into the kitchen and clapped his hands on Derek's shoulders and kissed my cheek.


Is he okay? Emily asked.


He's just fine. Should probably stay out of the heat for the rest of the day, though.


We all ended up staying inside mostly. Brian answered some work emails, Molly called her boyfriend, Gwen and I played Scrabble, and Emily and Evan and Derek, after he'd finished my hair, made dinner. We all sort of flitted around without talking too much, everyone keeping an eye on Justin, and it was quiet but not subdued, really. Just peaceful. And it struck me as so significant that Brian knew that Justin wouldn't want to be sequestered away, and that he was okay with honoring that. That it didn't scare him or anger him to have Justin here, exposed and upset and vulnerable. They trusted us with that just like I trusted them to see me stretched out and naked.


Speaking of. I slipped outside at one point as it was getting dark to look at the painting. It wasn't finished yet, but it was still fucking awesome. I felt an arm move around my shoulders and smelled Brian's cologne and leaned into him a little, and we just looked at it together for a while.


“He really is good,” Brian said softly.


We woke him up to make him eat dinner and sat around after drinking wine and making plans for the rest of the summer. Justin was quiet, watching us all with a small smile while Evan rubbed his shoulders. Eventually the girls kissed everyone goodnight and went to put the baby to bed. Derek went to take a shower, Molly left to start her skincare routine, and I picked up the board games we'd started and never finished while Justin dozed on the couch and Brian and Evan cleaned up the kitchen. I looked up often enough to catch bits of their conversation. Mostly it was light stuff, what they needed to get at the store when they went home tomorrow, gossip about someone at work, light obsessing over Justin the way only the two of them can. Brian asked him a few questions about how he was feeling, and when Evan kept yawning he took a plate out of his hands and kissed him and nudged him towards the stairs.


I got up and came into the kitchen and took the plate from him in turn. “I've got it,” I said.


He rolled his eyes.


“Go lie down with them,” I said. “I can wash some dishes.”


He sighed, but let me, switching off lamps and straightening up a few things on his way to the couch. He woke Justin up gently, his hand on his waist, and helped him pull himself off the couch. He followed while Justin dragged himself to the foot of the stairs, then put his arms up over his head, eyebrows raised. Justin nodded heavily and copied, and Brian picked him up easily and carried him up.


I was floaty on my feelings from that and the quiet from the dark kitchen when I went up to my room. Derek was just getting out of the shower, and he smelled so fucking good, and I buried my nose in his neck for a while and and he cupped the small of my back.


I pulled away impulsively and said, I want to have kids. I want this. I want more of this.


He frowned a little. Of course we'll have kids.


Yeah?


I figure in a few years, yeah. Once you're done with your residency and you're making enough money that I can stop working. He got into bed.


I stared. You want to stay home with them?


He shrugged. Yeah, of course.


God. God. I love you so fucking much.


He smiled and pulled me towards him, and we kissed for a long, long time.


We're going to have a good family, he said after, small. I could hear Justin coughing softly in the next room.

 

I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against my fiance's. We already do.

End Notes:

Y'all said you wanted fluff.

Chapter 113 - Problem Solving by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian can't always fix everything.

Problem Solving

LaVieEnRose



Evan leaned on my office door until it opened a little bit past six and made that scrunched-up face that always comes before someone asks you a favor. “Miiiister Kinney?”


Do not tell me Aquatics isn't finished.


He kept making the face.


Find a new place to live.


He rolled his eyes. They wanted me to ask you if Justin can come in tomorrow and help finish it.


They don't think you can ask Justin?


I'm pretty sure the art department does not know I'm fucking the CEO's husband, no.


Hmm.


He said, I could finish it myself tomorrow but I'm leaving at noon to get my blood removed.


Well, I'm not asking him. He's in a shitty mood, I'm not talking to him any more than I have to. He'd been sending me a host of charming, whiny texts all goddamn day, complaining that he was dying of various symptoms, you know Justin. He had just cause to complain right now, even by his standards. After a week of feeling decent at the beach house he'd come home to this pollinated nightmare, and our neighbors mowed their damn lawn first thing so he got a sinus infection about fifteen minutes after getting back. The antibiotics, miracle of miracles, were working, and he was fine, but he was still headachey and stuffed up and uncomfortable, and it was messing with his sleep and making him irritable. Honestly the whole thing was kind of amusing. Bitchy Justin has its appeal. He tries so hard to make everyone so fucking comfortable with him, so it's always fun when he just fucking throws that out and complains as much as any normal bastard would in his situation.


Btu still, there are only so many whiny texts a man can take over one work day.


Evan sighed. Are you going home soon? I'm going to head out.


With Aquatics unfinished.


I'm a rebel. And my boss left.


I looked at myself like I might be a ghost. Oh, he did?


He rolled his eyes. Goodbye, Brian. I'm going to go fuck your husband.


Not so fast.I closed my laptop. I'm leaving too.


Thank God. I am way too tired. A small hand reached up from behind him and tugged on his pants, and he turned around. Oh, hello.


I smiled a little, and Jane held her arms up in the air. Evan picked her up.


Where's mom? he asked her, and Jane pointed out into the lobby.


Horse, she said, which was not exactly novel for her. She was going through this stage where she was obsessed with horses. Horse toys. Horse pajamas. Horse TV shows. It was...a lot.


Did you lose your horse? Evan asked her. Where's your toy?


Mom, she said, nuzzling into Evan's collar. She signed horse about ninety more times before Emily came in, which we didn't think anything of at the time.


But then Emily asked me, Did you see the email?


What email?


From the daycare. They sent it out to all the parents.


I said, So why would they send it to me? Christ, I'm not...whatever. I opened my computer back up.


Tell them that next time you storm down there all who gave my daughter a pistachio, Emily said.


That's just good advertising rhetoric.


Evan copied me, fingerspelling rhetoric to himself a few times. I'd have to teach him that word later.


I scrolled through my email. I don't see...okay, yeah, there it is.


So a little background here. Isabel's assistant had a kid named Alice. Alice and Jane were apparently best friends. How a sixteen-month-old who's afraid of closets and says good morning to the toilet every day could have a best friend was a question I had asked many times, trust me, but no matter. Alice was turning three, and, presumably using Isabel's connections at whatever the fuck stables there are in New York, since her daughter, if you'll recall, is very into horse-dancing, was having a pony-riding, horse-petting sort of birthday extravaganza and inviting the whole daycare group.


Hence, horse.


This is going to be the best day of her life, Emily said. They're inviting all the parents. We'll record it and use this at her wedding.


She's not getting married, I said. She's a bohemian. Evan tried that word to himself too, but he didn't get it. I could tell he was a little lost in the conversation, between not seeing the email and us throwing out English words and Emily's beautiful, but very quick signing. I'd catch him up after she left.


She kissed Evan's cheek and took Jane from him. This Saturday. Tell Justin, okay?


Yeah, I said, because, clearly, I am missing a part of my brain, which I realized about half a second after Emily left. Oh, fuck.


What? Evan said.


I waved him over to read the email. Justin can't go to this, right? I said. Evan has a better memory for this shit than I do, what's completely off-limits and what isn't.


Justin absolutely cannot go to this.


Oh, good, I said. I'm sure this will be fine.


**


That was tabled when we first got home because I couldn't fucking find Justin, and there's a specific type of fear that comes from misplacing your Deaf epileptic. I finally found him in the bathroom, which I hadn't even checked at first because I didn't hear the shower running. He was in the bathtub with a washcloth over his eyes. I flicked some water at him and he swatted at me lazily without moving it.


I went to tell Evan that he wasn't dead, then came back and pulled up the chair we keep in here and peeled the washcloth off. That's fun that the rules about you bathing alone changed today, I wasn't aware.


I'm trying to drown, he said. Obviously. He looked so fucking awful, good lord. He had the flush underneath his ears and across his cheeks that he gets when he has a fever, and his sinuses were so goddamn swollen and his eyes were puffy. So, I mean, let's cut the bullshit; he looked beautiful—no one wears sickness like one Justin Taylor—but goddamn that had to hurt.


I rolled up my pant legs—I'd already changed into sweatpants after getting home, before I'd realized my partner had gone rogue—and moved from my chair to the floor next to the tub—remember how he got them to build it into the floor?—and slid my legs into the water. Justin shifted around until he was sitting between my legs, like I'd intended him to, facing away from me, his head against my knee. I massaged the back of his neck for a little before I moved up to his cheekbones, which I knew he wouldn't like as much, but it would help his sinuses drain. He let me for a while but batted me off when he couldn't quit sneezing, so I gave him a break and washed his hair, digging my thumbs into his temples. He wiped his nose on his washcloth and sighed softly, wheezy and sad.


This is why it's hard to get annoyed when he's being a cranky bastard. He's just unhappy.


He turned around in the water and faced me after I'd rinsed his hair. “How was your day?” he said.


Boring. Meetings. Art wants you to come in and help with something tomorrow.


He shrugged a little. “Maybe.”


Yeah. How was yours?


“Oh, delightful. Coughed, wheezed, and sneezed, what's not to love?” He dug the heel of his hand into his palm. “God, I'm so itchy.” He sneezed hard, then winced and touches his sinuses carefully. “God.” Making sneezing hurt is really just low, where crimes against Justin are concerned.


Bless you.


He shook his head.


No? Can't bless you?


“I'm cursed.”


Yeah, well, that's why you need the blessing.


He sunk a little deeper in the water. “Why are you being nice to me? I don't like it.”


In my defense you don't like anything right now.


He considered this. “True.”


I pulled my legs out of the water. Come on. This water's too hot, your fever's probably up.


I dried his hair with a towel and let him hold onto me for stability while he got into some pajamas and took his temperature—a little under 102, nothing dire. He shivered his way into bed.


You have to get up and eat in an hour, I told him, and he rolled his eyes. Yeah, I know, forced to eat dinners someone else makes. Such a hardship.


“Oh, you're making dinner?” he said skeptically.


Takeout chefs at the Thai place are people too.


He snorted and groaned. “Don't.”


Okay, okay. I kissed the bridge of his nose and squinted by way of apology when it made him sneeze. You're cute all irritated like that.


He batted at me, but he was smiling.


Up in an hour, I said. I mean it, and he nodded and rolled over so his head was in the pillow.


The cuffs of my sweatpants were wet, so I changed, and then I ended up going through my closet and pulling out some shit I never wear that I thought Evan could fit into so I could bring it down before Justin snatched it all away and donated it when I wasn't looking, as he is wont to do. I heard him shifting around behind me and I figured he was just uncomfortable, but I guess he'd decided to look at his phone before he conked out because a minute later I heard him say, “Oh,” softly, and I when I turned around he was sitting up and looking at his phone.


Right. The email. All the parents.


**


Because this makes a ton of sense, Justin ranted while he set the table. Let's put a one-year-old on a horse. That works.


I think someone holds her, Evan said diplomatically.


This is going to turn her into some sort of high-ponytail plaid-skirt St. James Academy snob, Justin said. This is where it starts. Horse parties.


That's good, Molly will finally have some company, I said.


And you know what, she could be allergic to horses! We don't know! You're telling me none of the kids in that daycare have allergies? Did they ask first? Or what if someone gets kicked by a pony? Is Kinnetik going to be liable for that?


Water or juice? I asked him, and he sat down heavily in his chair and pouted.


He got quiet as dinner went on, though, and Evan and I kept glancing at each other while Justin picked at his food. She's really going to love this, Justin said eventually. This is going to be the best day of her little life so far.


We'll record it for you, Evan said.


Yeah, I know. It just sucks. He sneezed hard and rubbed his face. God. I need to go take something, I'm too fucking itchy.


You didn't eat enough, I said.


You try eating when you can't fucking taste anything and you can't goddamn breathe and you can't stop sneezing for more than four and a half fucking seconds. He sneezed again and tossed his fork down. “God.”


Go take a Benadryl and find something on TV, Evan said, and Justin dragged himself up and over to the drawer where we keep his meds, but his hand started shaking when he was trying to get the pills out and he dropped them. He kicked the cabinets in frustration.


Okay, loud, I said. I got up and picked the box off the floor; bending down like that isn't the easiest for him. Let me see your hand.


He shook his head. It's fine.


Okay.


I can't fucking do anything, he said, and he didn't say it big or dramatic or anything, but still, that's not the kind of sentiment you get from ra ra let's fight ableism Justin very often. And it's not a good sign when you do get it. Like, time to call his therapist's after hours emergency line not a good sign.


Sunshine, I said.


But he made eye contact with me. That was something.


I punched out the pills and handed them to him and filled a glass of water. I nodded towards his left hand. You got it?


“Yeah.” He drank after I tipped the pill into his mouth. He sneezed and even that sounded just... defeated, worn out.


He doesn't do well when he doesn't get a break, and he wasn't getting breaks here.


Go get settled on the couch, I said. We'll be in in a minute.


I sat back down once he'd left and Evan and I kind of half-heartedly kept eating. He's got to get to this fucking party, I said. We need to figure this out. He needs a win. He hasn't felt okay for a fucking minute since we got home. And it's not like I could just whisk him off to the beach house; even if it weren't mid-construction now that we'd decided to buy it, there were logistical issues in play here. I needed to be in the office most days, and Evan's dialysis made travel complicated anyway, and Justin couldn't exactly be in a house alone with everyone who knows him two hours away. That's not something that works in our life.


It was just one fucking logistical nightmare after another for him, and Christ, he just wanted to see his fucking daughter ride a horse. How is that so much to ask? Why does fucking everything have to be so much to ask for him?


Christ. I try not to get like this either, but this shit is so fucking unfair.


How are we going to do it? Evan said.


I don't know. Maybe with a mask. There's got to be something. He'd figure out something if he were in our shoes. He's always coming up with solutions for shit. He'd probably solve this one before we were in bed that night.


He didn't, though. He was quiet while we watched a movie, breathing in his soft scratchy way that he does when he's not too sick, sneezing a little less and blinking a little slower as the Benadryl kicked in. About halfway through he shifted on the couch so his cheek was pressed against my arm, and that did a lot to, I don't know, calm me down, I guess. Evan fell asleep in the armchair during the movie, and he'd been having a hard time sleeping lately so we just covered him with a blanket and turned out the light—he fucking loves that armchair, he'd be fine—and had him sleep there for the night. Justin did a neb treatment in bed while I took a shower, and when I got back and we got into bed everything seemed a lot more peaceful, but not much happier.


How allergic are you to horses? I said, as we peeled back the covers.


His mouth quirked into a smile. “Like on a scale of one to ten?”


On a scale of those cherry lollipops you eat anyway to...a wasp. Made out of Tylenol. Covered in dog hair.


“A wasp, made out of Tylenol, covered in dog hair.”


Yeah. It's the Taylor allergy scale.


He laughed a little and sat down on the bed and rubbed some lotion on his arms. “I don't know. Somewhere between...cats and oak trees?”


That's not good.


“It's been years since I was around one. I was a kid and it was at a birthday party and I had to go home, I don't remember a lot of specifics.”


So maybe you're not even allergic anymore.


“Ah, yes, that does sound like me.”


I sighed and got into bed next to him, resting my head on his thigh.


He played with my hair. “Even if I magically did outgrow it, there's still dust and hay and grass and it's out in the sun...”


I nuzzled him a little and kissed the side of his leg, and he scratched the back of my neck.


“Just not doable,” he said softly.


I'll figure it out.


He sneezed before he could say anything and flopped back wearily on the pillows, and I skimmed my lips up his body. He watched me with those poor damn swollen eyes, and I reached up and brushed the hair off his forehead.


Itchy, I said, small.


He nodded, his nose twitching.


I kissed the hollow of his throat. Sensitive.


He shivered a little. “Brian...”


Doesn't have to be all bad, I said, and I handled him so gently that night.


**


Justin showed up in my office at around eleven the next day, once again not where I'd left him. I hung up the phone and waved him over. Hi. Everything okay?


He nodded. Was feeling better so I thought I'd come do the Aquatics thing before dialysis. He pressed a quick kiss to my mouth. “Hi.”


How did it go?


“It's finished now, they're gonna bring the boards up soon. I think it's good.”


I laced my fingers behind his neck and pulled him onto my lap. “Thank you.” He felt a little warm still, but he looked better than he did yesterday. Considering his fucking immune system, it's always some kind of miracle when he just...gets better on his own. Seems very fake.


We kissed for a while until Emily came in and said there was a call I needed to take, so I rolled my eyes and did my actual job while Justin and Emily talked for a while, mostly gossiping about a mutual casual friend of theirs whose wife had just left her. Emily had gone back to her desk by the time I was off the phone, and Justin was over by the couch examining his painting that hangs over the couch in that critical way of his. I should have done something different here, he said when he saw me looking at him.


Don't touch my painting. When do you need to leave?


Twenty minutes.


Want to blow me?


He shook his head regretfully. Too stuffed up. You can blow me.


Okay.


He came back to the desk and leaned over and kissed me. I just breathed him in for a minute.


Did you and Emily talk about the party? I asked him.


He shrugged. Told her I wasn't coming. She understood. But he looked sad. He'd looked sad since he got here. Since yesterday.


I thought of some solutions, I said.


He rolled his eyes.


No, I did, come here. I yanked him around so he could see my screen. So there's a visitor's center here, see? And it looks like it has a decent view of where the ponies are. So you could stay up there.


“That's...extremely far away.”


We could get you binoculars.


“So I'm the guy with binoculars creeping on a child's birthday party?”


Hmm. We could get you one of those beekeeper suits.


“Brian.”


Do you think I can't find a beekeeper suit? I can find one.


“I would scare the shit out of the kids.”


We'd tell them you were an astronaut.


He sighed a little and sat on the corner of my desk. It's sweet of you to try to fix this.


Gross.


But there isn't a solution here. I can't go to this party.


I'll figure it out.


Brian. There isn't a way.


Yeah, well, we'll see what you say after I find one.


“I didn't ask you to find one!” he burst.


I stared at him, shaking my head slowly. You're fucking exhausting, you know that?


He rolled his eyes and stood up.


You pout around like a fucking child when you don't get what you want, and then you throw a hissy fit when I try to help.


“You can't help,” he said. “Not this time.”


You don't know that.


“Yes I do, Brian! And so do you. You know there's no way I can go to this party.”


So what am I supposed to do?


Just let it suck, he said. It fucking sucks. I can't see my daughter have this amazing experience. It sucks. He shrugged. Whatever. Sometimes things suck.


Wow, what a deep lesson.


I'm allowed to be unhappy sometimes that shit isn't fair to me, he said. It doesn't mean I'm expecting you to solve it.


Okay, well...I don't like when you're unhappy.


“Now who's pouting?”


I wrinkled my nose.


I need to dig out my “Brian, this is not about you,” t-shirt again, he said.


Yeah, so it would seem.


He came back over and perched on my lap, and we kissed for a while. I was pretty much ready to stop talking about horses and get his pants off at this point.


But one thing. This doesn't mean I have to go to this party and film her on the horse, right?


He laughed. “No. You can stay home with me and we can drink wine and make love and lots of other things we couldn't do if we were at a children's birthday party.”


After all these years you underestimate me.


He grinned.


I slid one hand under his shirt. That does sound a lot more fun than pony rides.

 

“Yeah,” he said softly. His puffy eyes glowed. “It doesn't have to be all bad.”

Chapter 114 - Safe House by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin has a nightmare at the beach house.

Safe House

LaVieEnRose



Honestly I should have seen it coming, though I think I still wouldn't have guessed it'd be as bad as it was. All the harbingers were there, though. We'd been at the beach house for two days and everything had been fine, so that should have been our first clue that everything was due to go to shit at some point. We'd found a local dialysis center so Evan didn't have to trek back to the city three times a week, I was gradually adjusting Kinnetik to the idea of me spending more time remote, and Justin spent all of four hours on his easel pulling together a masterpiece that would take any other fucker a lifetime.


So everything was pretty fucking peachy, and then Thursday rolled around, and Evan wasn't feeling well so he was snippy and that made Justin nervous because we're all used to Evan being rainbows and marshmallows even when he's bleeding from the eyes. It's a good sign that he's willing to be an asshole to us when he's feeling bad, because he's spent so many years having to be so fucking accommodating, but at the same time you can't really be short with Justin without him assuming he's done something horrible and falling into a guilt spiral, which may have had something to do with the seizure Justin had later, but more likely that was just God realizing we'd had too many good days and Evan being cranky wasn't enough drama on its own for the Kinney-Taylor clan. It wasn't an awful seizure, but it wasn't great; he didn't lose consciousness, but he did drop, and he was holding a bowl at the time and he hates when he breaks things. He was okay after, but he had a headache worse than his usual and the whole day he was a little bit spacey, needing questions repeated and messing up some of his handshapes in his signs.


I didn't think much of it—seizures aren't exactly the kind of thing we alter our days for around here—and we continued the day as planned, grabbing lobster rolls at this shack down the way and lounging around on the back lawn with margaritas and fucking in the outdoor shower while Evan napped. He'd wanted to see this action movie new release—movies without a lot of dialogue are good for him, easier for him to follow since he doesn't read quickly enough for subtitles—and we agreed because he wasn't feeling well and we're charitable, but it ended up being more graphically violent than we expected and both of us were a little edgy keeping an eye on Justin, who was sprawled out on the floor working with some oil pastels and told us he was fine and he wasn't really paying attention anyway. But it's like I said. All the warnings were there.


It's just that the beach was supposed to be...I don't know. Safe. It's stupid. It's just that it had been a while since Justin had a nightmare that bad.


Even though there are a ton of rooms at the beach house we always end up sharing when we're here, I don't know, and Justin usually sleeps in the middle for an extra bit of insurance against seizing himself off the side of the bed, and because he's a slut, but that night he hadn't felt like hands on him—again, signs—so he'd fallen asleep curled up separate while Evan worked on burrowing his way into my collarbone. He takes meds to sleep on his bad days because he's in pain, and Justin takes them every night because his brain doesn't work, and I'd had a few drinks during the movie, so we were all sleeping pretty hard that night and so God knows how long Justin was trapped in that bullshit before anyone woke up. He's not a quiet sleeper, so I've gotten used to sleeping through some wheezing and rolling and small seizures, and at first I thought that was all this was. I reached over without opening my eyes and put my hand on his back and rubbed in a light circle, which is sometimes enough to get him out of the early stages of a nightmare and doesn't do shit for a seizure but y'know, nothing else does anyway, so why not clear my conscience a bit that I tried.


As soon as I touched him, though, I could feel how hard he was shaking, and it wasn't his usual seizure jerking, where it's unsteady, dramatic. This was small and tense but nonstop and powerful, like I'd accidentally left him on vibrate or something. I thought maybe he was cold—he doesn't regulate temperature well, and his body freaks the fuck out pretty dramatically when he's off by a few degrees—so I pulled the quilt over him and started to pull him closer, and then he screamed.


“Jesus mother of fucking Christ,” I said. “Okay. Okay.”


Justin's normally more of the whimpery than the screaming type for nightmares, but it still isn't as rare as such a thing, you know, should be, but Deaf screaming isn't something easy to get used to, and, well, neither is Justin fucking terrified, for reasons we won't embarrass ourselves going into. I sat up, dislodging an oblivious Evan with nothing more than a small noise of protest, and climbed over Justin to get on the floor by the side of the bed to get the oxygen mask, because he doesn't really have the lungs for the sort of trauma he's been through nowadays. I switched on the lamp by his bed—Evan was already out again and didn't even flinch—and tapped Justin firmly on the collarbone as I pulled the mask over his nose and mouth.


His eyes flew open, but I could tell that he wasn't really with me yet.


Wake up, I signed firmly.


He watched me, chest heaving, still shaking like it was the only thing he knew how to do.


Come back to me now, I said.


It took a long time, a lot of him fighting against the nightmare trying to pull him back under, but finally I saw some awareness in his eyes as they darted over my face like he still wasn't quite sure who I was. I offered my hands so he could pull himself up, and he did, slowly, one hand over the oxygen mask like he would breathe better the harder he pushed it into his face. He was exhaling with his mouth open, these panicky, half-vocalized things, and it reminded me of when Jane starts to cry and she gets so worked up that she screams at some pitch you can't even hear, and it's like it's silent, but she's screaming.


I kissed his cheek.


“He has a gun,” Justin said.


No one has a gun.


“I felt it, I...”


We're at the safe house, bud. Nothing's gonna happen.


“I can't hear.” If you think it doesn't break my heart a little that a part of Justin still thinks something's wrong when he wakes up scared and he can't hear, well.


But I just signed Deaf, and he nodded like that makes sense, like always. He shivered and gagged, and I cupped my hand around the back of his neck.


“God,” he whispered.


Been a while since one was this bad, huh?


He nodded hard and then kind of collapsed in on himself with a sob, and I swallowed and rubbed his back and waited for the tears to dry up so I could coax him back to sleep, like I normally do. Sometimes he doesn't even remember in the morning, though that seemed like a pipe dream this time. Fuck, he wouldn't even stop crying, no matter how long I waited it out.


It's fucking awful, the stuff I can't get to.


After a while it started to seem like he was getting worse instead of better, and I felt like if he kept crying like this he was gonna work himself into either an asthma attack or a seizure, whichever came first. And he was also starting the thing where he apologizes, which pisses me the fuck off, so finally I said, Come on. Change of scenery.


I eased the mask off him and pulled him up in my arms—I don't trust him on the stairs when he's at his least shaky, thanks—and brought him downstairs. Justin was quiet, breathing heavy into my chest and twisting his hand in my shirt, but I could tell he was already starting to calm down. Sometimes you just need to get away from the fucking bed. I set him down when we got to the bottom of the stairs, and he got himself to one of the stools at the counter and put his head in his hands. I turned the lights on low and started making him some tea with a healthy slug of bourbon.


“It's been fifteen years,” Justin said after a while.


I shook my head. None of that. Doesn't matter.


“Yeah, I know.”


Hurting anywhere?


No.


Okay.


He ran his hands down his face. God, I could use a cigarette.


Yeah, I bet. Me too, frankly.


Did I wake up Evan?


He'd be down here if you had.


True. He took a shaky breath in. I'm sorry. For waking you.


I shrugged. Nothing to do tomorrow.


Still.


You want to talk about it?


He shook his head hard.


I put the mug down in front of him. Okay.


He was quiet while he drank, and I wiped down the counters to have something to do besides watch him and listened to his wheezy breathing and the mug trembling against the tile every time he sat it down, and the waves crashing outside. The city seemed very, very far away, and so did everyone we knew, and so did Chris Hobbs.


Just me and Justin for a little while.


It's not always this bad, is it? I asked him, when I couldn't not anymore.


“No.”


Promise.


He looked up at me, his eyes pink and puffy and warm. I promise.


I swallowed. Okay.


He stood up, still unsteady, but better. Let's go outside. I want to smell the ocean.


Just for a minute. You're not getting fucking pneumonia again.


He led me out through the back door, and we sat on one of the lounge chairs facing the beach, him perched carefully between my legs. I scratched circles on his back and tried to remember what I'd been dreaming about before the banshee here woke me up. I remembered feeling vaguely scared, so it must have been something with him.


“What does it sound like?” he asked abruptly.


I turned him so he could see me. You don't remember?


He shook his head.


I looked out at the ocean. Like applause.

 

He settled back into my arms, and I kissed the back of his neck and felt him breathe.

End Notes:

 

Hi. This is categorically NOTHING and it's so short, but it's the first thing I've finished in ages and I wanted to post SOMETHING. I've missed these boys too much.

Chapter 115 - Three of Us by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian and Justin have a bad night. Evan's there.

Three of Us

LaVieEnRose



It started out really subtle. Justin was quiet when Brian and I got home from work, and we ordered in because he didn't feel like cooking, but...sometimes Justin is quiet and doesn't feel like cooking. Doesn't always mean something. He went to their room to lie down after dinner, and Brian said he'd had a bunch of small seizures the night before so he was probably worn out from that. His hand was completely frozen when he woke up this morning, he said, while we cleaned up after dinner. I had to bend his fingers back.


“Ouch.”


Yeah, not fun.


We'd had a long day too, back-to-back client meetings, so we wanted to go out and blow off some steam, so we left a note for Justin and took the train into the city. I couldn't roll or even drink anymore with the kidney shit, and if Brian had anything other than a shot or two at the beginning of the night I didn't notice. We danced together for a while before I split off with some tall blonde and and Brian disappeared into the back room. Brian came out eventually and told me with a two-finger wave that it was time to go, and we compared notes on the train and I twirled around one of the subway poles while he sat and smirked at me, and he pulled me close when I sat back down.


We were laughing about this horrible dancer we'd seen at the club when we opened the front door to the house, and Justin was standing in the living room with no color in his face.


He looked scared as hell, and he had that lost look in his eyes he gets before or after a seizure, so at first I thought that was what was going on, but Brian signed wheezing as he crossed over to him and then, yeah, I saw the way Justin's shoulders were heaving and how the skin at the base of his neck pulled in when he breathed.


I hate that someone has to tell me. I don't wish I could hear very often, but I really, really wish I could hear Justin's breathing.


Brian sat Justin down on the couch and then started to head to the bedroom, but I said, No, I'll get it, and Brian nodded and sat down next to Justin, leaning in to him and asking him small questions, how long this had been going on, if he needed a hospital. Justin struggled and covered his face with his hands.


I bought the nebulizer out and set up a treatment as quickly as I could, but Justin had clearly already just used it so it needed to be rinsed out and re-set and my hands were shaking and I kept dropping pieces. I should have just let Brian do it, but he was totally focused on Justin now, flattening one hand over his chest, his face creased into an expression I couldn't identify quite yet.


Finally I had the mouthpiece ready and I handed it to Justin, who sucked on it like he was drowning because I guess in a way he was. I sat on the floor with my chin on his knee, and I felt Brian's hand come down on my shoulder and give it a quick squeeze. Justin took my hand, and he was shaking.


Did anything cause this? Brian asked him.


Justin shook his head and signed, Just happened, one-handed.


God, asthma fucking sucks, Brian said, and Justin nodded hard.


We stayed like that for a long time, just watching Justin try to breathe as it very, very slowly got better. Brian would wince every once in a while when Justin pulled in a breath, and that's when I identified the look on his face. It was sympathy, which probably doesn't sound that noteworthy, except that Brian really, really rarely seems to feel bad for Justin. Or anyone, for that matter, but especially for Justin.


The nebulizer shut off, and Justin leaned back on the couch, running his hands through his sweaty hair. Brian took the mouthpiece from him and said, Let me hear, and Justin breathed in and out slowly. Better, Brian said. Let's grab a Benadryl and put you on oxygen. Think we can get out of hauling you to the hospital, at least.


Justin nodded and flopped down on his side, curling his knees up to his chest to cough, and Brian squeezed his hand and gave it a quick kiss before he headed to the kitchen.


You want some tea? I asked Justin, and he nodded and reached out to me, and I stayed close to him for a minute, playing with his hair and letting him push and pull at my shirt. He gets really antsy for asthma attacks.


When he let me go I went into the kitchen after Brian, who was taking an awfully long time to shake out a Benadryl and haul out the oxygen tank. He was leaning over with his hands planted on the counter and his head down.


“Brian,” I said, and he snapped his head up.


He tried a smirk. Someday you're going to teach Justin to say Rs and my heart's going to break.


“Are you okay?”


Fine. He reached up to the medicine cabinet and got out the Benadryl, and Justin's other night meds. “Sick, sick, sick,” he said, probably just to himself.


“Yeah.”


You should go to bed. It's late.


“I'm pretty awake now.”


Do you want to take him tonight? he said without looking at me.


He's usually really clingy after Justin's asthma attacks. They scare Brian in a way seizures don't.


“It's okay,” I said.


No, take him. He looked up at me. Please?


I can count on one hand the number of times Brian has said please to me.


Sure, I said.


We got Justin his meds and had him sit on oxygen for about half an hour, and once he started to fall asleep Brian picked him up and carried him down to the basement while I brought the oxygen tank. If Justin thought it was weird that he was sleeping down here with me tonight, he was too tired to say anything about it, and Brian kissed his face a few times before he went upstairs, squeezing my hand on his way out of the room.


Justin slept soundly, curled up really small, his brow a little furrowed and his arms wrapped around himself. You'd probably think he was having a nightmare, if you didn't know him well, but that actually means he isn't; when he sleeps like that he's comforting himself. It means he's handling everything okay.


And I was just...awake, hour after hour, watching the rafters criss-crossing my ceiling in the dim light bleeding in through my window. It was two last time I'd looked at the clock, had to be almost two-thirty now, and I had work in the morning. I should have been sleep.


I kept noticing the rafters move a little, dip slightly, bend, let go, as someone walked around upstairs.


He should have been asleep too.


I kissed Justin's cheek and climbed carefully out of bed and went up the stairs. Brian was sitting on the couch, the lights low and a glass of whiskey in his hand. There was a variety of crap around him—files, mostly, stuff like that.


You guys okay, Sunshine? he signed without raising his head.


“Yes, dear.”


He laughed a little, still reading. I thought you got up those stairs pretty quick for Justin. Everything okay?


“Yeah.”


He moved stuff off the couch next to him, and I sat down and pulled the throw onto my lap. He drained his glass, his head tilted back.


“You look tired,” I said.


He reached to the coffee table to set the glass down. “Yeah, I am.”


“Maybe sleep.”


Why are you up?


I shrugged.


Yeah, me too.


“What are you doing?”


He held up the file in his hands. Justin made some changes to his will, wanted me to take a look at it before it goes to our lawyer.


I nodded.


I can get Emily to interpret it so you can give it a look too, he said, because we both knew I wouldn't understand all that legal language if I tried to read it.


“Okay.”


He settled back in to the paperwork with a sigh, and I just sat and watched him for a while. His beard was a couple days grown out. Brian Kinney could never have real bags under his eyes, but they were a little puffy. I wondered if the will sounded like a lawyer, or if it sounded like Justin. If Brian could hear Justin's voice listing what he'd want to happen if he died.


“Why is he changing it?” I asked Brian, when I couldn't not anymore. “Is something wrong?”


He shook his head a little. Just adding you.


Oh. “I should make one,” I realized.


Nothing's going to happen to you, he signed without looking up.


I rested my head against the back of the couch.


After a minute Brian reached to the coffee table for his glass before he remembered it was empty. “Damn.”


“I've got it,” I said, but when I stood up and picked it up he tugged me over by the hem of my shirt—Justin's shirt—and kissed me, lingering a little and clinging to the hair on the back of my neck. Like he didn't want to be alone, even for the minute it would take me to cross to the kitchen.


Brian only kisses me when he's looking for comfort.


I kissed his forehead firmly, like I was saying something, and he let me go.


I filled his glass back up with whiskey and snuck a sip on my way back to the couch. Brian didn't reach for it right away when I sat back down, but after a minute he stood up abruptly and fished around on the cluttered bookshelf. He came back to me with a small storage box and handed it to me. Something to do, he signed, small.


I took the lid off the box. Inside was a messy collection of photos. I recognized a few of them—one Emily took of me and Brian and Justin cracking up in the kitchen of the beach house, and one of the two of them together at our coworker's wedding, gorgeous in their silver suits, Brian's hand on Justin's waist. But a lot of them were older, before I met them. Before they even came to New York. Before Justin lost his hearing, judging by this one of him with earbuds in, head tilted up to a building I didn't recognize.


I looked up at Brian, but he'd already turned back to the will.


So I started looking through the pictures. Halfway through a little batch of their trip to Italy I noticed some of them had writing on the back. Usually it was just a date, but a few had a word or two, mostly Brian's handwriting, a few Justin's. Uffizi. That boring party. Molly's graduation. One of Justin when he was probably about twenty-five: one week before.


All of them were of Justin.


It was kind of surprising and kind of not, at the same time. I knew Brian liked taking pictures, and I knew Brian liked not throwing things away, and obviously I knew Brian liked Justin, but somehow the fact that all these pictures were hanging out in a box in plain view all this time was really weird to me. It seemed like the kind of thing Brian would have tucked away privately, but maybe that would have meant admitting they were something significant.


Or maybe he really didn't mind if people found them.


You never really know, with Brian.


He turned a page in the will and circled something with his pen and I kept going through the photos for a while. There were a bunch of Justin and Janie right after she was born. A sweet one of Justin and his mom. Justin making a face at the camera and Michael kissing his cheek.


A ton of hospital ones, because Brian takes a picture or two of Justin most times he's there. We're not trying to forget this, he said to me once, when I asked him why. It's not traumatic. It's his life. Justin making faces at the camera in hospital gowns, Justin curled up in the bed asleep, Justin drugged to the gills and smiling.


He looked really young in one, and the hospital didn't look familiar. I checked the date on the back; May 2001. Oh.


I saw Brian move out of the corner of my eye, and I looked up to him pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, I can't do this tonight,” he said. He's so easy to lipread. Even when he's not talking to me.


“So don't,” I said. “It's okay.”


It's not okay, he said, and then he turned to me, something like desperation in his eyes. This is how it's going to happen someday.


No.


Yes, he insisted. One day he's going to try to breathe and he won't be able to and that will be it. Someday he's going to try and it just won't work.


“That's a long time from now,” I said.


He's going to be so scared, Brian said, and he swallowed and swallowed. I've spent so much time thinking about what I would fucking feel like when he died, what it would feel like to not have him here. But I just fucking realized that he's going to hate dying. That's the last thing he's going to feel, he's going to be fucking terrified, and there won't be anything I can do. He's going to hate it.


“Shut up.” I took Brian's face in my hands and looked at him hard. “Shut up shut up shut up. You're freaking out because you're reading his will. This is all ages from now. Justin is fine. He's sleeping.”


“God,” Brian said. “Fuck,” and I moved to his lap and kissed the tears off his cheeks, over and over and over again. He dug his fingers into my back and we just held on for a while, me and Brian and all these pictures of Justin.


Eventually he pulled back a little, head bowed. He's coughing.


Okay. We'll go down in a minute.


Brian looked at me for a second, then grabbed me impulsively and hugged me close, and after a second of that he pushed me away from him so I could see his lips. “Don't,” he said.


“I won't.”


“Go anywhere.”


“I won't, Brian.”


“If he—”


“I won't leave you alone.”


Brian nodded and swallowed, and swallowed.


We are making it out of today alive, I said to him.


He took a deep breath. We are making it out of today alive. He needs oxygen.


Okay. Come on.


We left the will and the photos and the whiskey where they were—Justin would find them the next day, and give us both shit about being drama queens, which we would vehemently deny—and went down to the basement. I got the oxygen mask back over Justin's face and Brian curled up behind him, burying his nose in the back of Justin's neck and pulling me down to the bed with them.


And we stayed like that for a long time, the three of us.

 

End Notes:

 

I kinda want to do something with Emily next I think if y'all have any ideas for her!

Chapter 116 - Compound by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

An interpreter comes into the ER for our heroes.

Compound

LaVieEnRose



I'm a freelance interpreter, which means I take any job that comes up and seems interesting, and a lot of times that means strange hours and last-minute assignments, which is how I ended up in an ER in Queens midday on a Thursday for an urgent request. I didn't know much going in—you rarely do for these last-minute jobs—but I knew it was a Deaf couple there after an accident, and I had my patient's name.


“Evan Taylor?” I asked at the front desk when I arrived, and they pointed me towards a curtained-off gurney. I opened the curtain and found two young-looking guys, one on the gurney cradling his towel-wrapped arm, and the other standing by protectively, his thumbnail in his mouth. Evan? I said to the one on the gurney, and he nodded.


“We're both Deaf,” he said. I wasn't surprised that he spoke; it couldn't have been easy to sign with his arm like that, and a lot of my clients voice for themselves. “We'll both speak, but he doesn't read lips well.” He pointed to the other guy and fingerspelled Justin and his sign name.


Nice to meet you, I said to him, and he nodded, looking nervous. Have you been seen by a doctor yet? I asked Evan.


He shook his head. They said... he started, and then he looked at Justin for help.


Justin jumped in smoothly. They said they're backed up. Same thing they always say. He's in a lot of pain, I want them to give him something.


I'm okay, Evan said. I don't need anything. I don't really feel it right now, I think.


That's the shock, Justin said. His hands were shaking a little.


Evan noticed. You need to sit down, he signed, slowly, awkwardly.


I'm fine.


You just had a seizure.


Justin waved his hand. I've always just had a seizure.


I looked between the two of them. What...exactly happened here? I say. If you're going to be explaining things to doctors, it's best to have a working understanding of it beforehand, and now I wasn't even certain which one of these was the patient.


“He had a seizure,” Evan said.


Justin watched his lips. We were on the stairs.


“I was behind him.”


And then...we fell.


Evan nodded towards his arm. Yep, he fingerspelled.


Justin asked Evan what the hell was taking someone so long, a name sign I didn't know. Brian, Justin clarified to me.


His husband, Evan said, or tried to, one-handed. He's hearing.


Less than a minute later the curtain swung open and a man walked in, dressed in a suit and tie and looking harried as hell. Brian, I had to assume. He went straight to Evan and hugged him with one arm, pulling Evan's head to his chest with the palm of his hand, while he glared absolute daggers at Justin.


What did I do! Justin said.


You text me “hospital 911” and that's it?


We were in a hurry!


I thought it was you! I just spent ten fucking minutes at the check-in desk yelling at the nurses for misplacing you before it even fucking occurred to me to ask about Evan. What the hell happened?


There was a pause, like neither of them wanted to speak, then, Justin had a seizure on the stairs, Evan said, small, and Brian pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a minute. Evan watched him, but Justin looked down at the ground.


After a moment Brian shook himself off and straightened up, business-like. Let me see your arm, he said, and Evan shook his head.


It's gross.


I don't care.


There's a lot of blood, Evan said, with a hard look at Brian, and for some reason that made Brian nod and back off and turn his attention to Justin instead.


Why is he standing up?


Because he's annoying.


Sit, Brian said to him, and then turned to me and said, Interpreter?


That's me.


Has a doctor been in yet?


Not yet, I said.


“Jesus Christ,” Brian muttered. “Okay.” He palmed the back of Evan's neck. You're okay.


“I know.”


What happened, you cut it?


“Not...exactly.”


Brian gave him a look. The fuck does that mean? You said there was blood.


Evan glanced at Justin, then looked at Brian and said, “I think it's broken.”


You think it's broken?


“The bone went through the skin.”


Brian's face dropped and he took a slow breath in through his nose. Well, yes, that sounds like it's probably fucking broken, Evan.


“I'm sorry.”


Stop. Brian looked up at Justin. Everything's okay.


Justin chewed the inside of his cheek.


You need to sit down, Brian said, suddenly very gentle. You look really sick.


“I think I need to sit down,” Justin said, and Brian nodded and helped him into the chair, where Justin immediately curled up with his arms around himself. He was shaking.


He didn't hit his head, did he? Brian asked Evan.


Evan shook his head. “I caught him,” he said, and Brian kissed his cheek.


We waited about five more minutes before the doctor showed up. Evan was starting to get really uncomfortable, and Brian alternated between soothing him and checking on Justin, whose arm had started shaking continuously. You didn't bring anything for him, did you? he said to Evan.


“No. I'm sorry.”


They'll have stuff here.


The doctor came in, finally, clicking a pen and stuffing it in his pocket. “Evan Taylor?” he said, and I started interpreting.


“Hi,” he said.


“Let's get a look at that arm,” he said, and Brian stepped between Evan and Justin and took Evan's other hand as the doctor unwound the towel from Evan's arm. “Oh, wow,” the doctor said.


Yeah, he had that right. His arm was absolutely mangled, a mess of blood and skin and...yep, that's bone. Brian gagged and took a step back, then came back to the gurney and squeezed Evan's hand.


The doctor immediately called the nurse to get Evan some morphine, and Evan said, “Justin,” to Brian, who nodded and said, “Could we get some Klonopin for him? He's epileptic and he's not doing well.”


“Yeah, we can do that,” the doctor said. “That how this happened?”


Evan told them the story of the seizure on the stairs, and a nurse came and gave Justin a few pills and started an IV on Evan. “What are they giving me?” he asked Brian.


Morphine, Brian fingerspelled, slowly.


Evan shook his head hard. “I don't want that.”


Who the fuck doesn't want...oh.


Evan looked at the doctor, then back at Brian, his eyes big.


Brian said, Sweetheart, your wrist is shattered. We don't have a choice here. We're watching you, it's okay. He nodded to the nurse, who started an injection into his IV line.


“Oh, whoa,” Evan said.


Yeah, enjoy it, kid, Brian said.


Evan took a slow breath in.


I know, Brian said. You need it. It's okay.


Evan shook a little, and Brian adjusted the pillows behind his back. Justin had been sleeping, or close to it, but he stirred to take the pills the nurse handed him. “Brian?”


Eyes to yourself, Brian said to him. Be a good boy and take your meds.


“Shut up. How's Evan?”


Don't look, Brian said sharply, still standing between them.


“I know,” Justin said.


The doctor started winding gauze around Evan's arm, and Brian said, Wait, you're not going to fix it?


“That'll happen in surgery,” the doctor said. “Right now we're just trying to keep the wound as sterile as possible.”


Justin watched me interpret. He needs surgery?


Brian said, His arm is in pieces. Kind of a foregone conclusion.


He's never had surgery before, Justin said.


He'll join our illustrious club. Brian turned back to Evan. No big deal. They fix arms every day. I assume.


Evan took a deep breath in. “He should get checked out. Make sure he didn't get hurt.”


I'm not hurt, Justin said after I interpreted. I feel fine.


You feel fine, Brian repeated. You are a walking seizure.


Justin pouted. “I'm not even standing up.”


The constant switches between English and ASL were making my head spin, but none of them seemed to have a problem. I wondered if Brian was an interpreter, though he was awfully well dressed.


“I'm going to give you a shot of an antibiotic,” the doctor said to Evan, and after Evan nodded he injected something into the IV. Justin immediately sneezed a few times, and Brian turned to him incredulously.


You have got to be kidding me.


Leave me alone.


It's all the way over there.


Leave me alone! he said, and sneezed again, and Brian rolled his eyes.


“When is the surgery gonna be?” Evan asked the doctor.


Within the next few hours. We need to get some imaging done first, and then we'll get you on the schedule.


“You should take him home,” Evan said to Brian.


“Yeah, that sounds very likely.”


“He's little. Pick him up and move him.”


Brian shook his head.


“I don't want him here.”


“Bullshit you don't. Let me worry about him. You worry about the bone coming out of your arm.”


Evan took in a shaky breath.


Drugs kicking in? Brian said.


“Yeah.”


All right. Brian palmed the back of his neck. You're okay.


The radiologist came to take Evan away, and Brian asked Evan if he wanted me to go with them, but Evan said, “No, stay with Justin, I'm sure he's got questions,” and sure enough, as soon as he was gone Justin started peppering the doctor with questions about the surgery and Evan's recovery and asking how Evan being HIV+ and in kidney failure, neither of which seemed to be news to the doctor, was going to affect everything. Brian stood by and texted some people and jumped in in a few places to clarify what Justin meant when his signing got a little muddled, but otherwise didn't interrupt.


Once Justin seemed satisfied, Brian said, And now you, to him.


Really, I'm okay. I just have a headache.


You're having absence seizures. You need to sleep. And Evan was right, you should get checked out. Couldn't hurt to get an MRI.


I didn't hit my head. I didn't even lose consciousness all the way. I don't need an MRI.


Let the doctor check you.


Justin glanced at the doctor, and me.


What? Brian said, exasperated.


Nothing.


Tell me.


I'm freaked out and I don't want hands on me right now, okay? he signed, small.


Brian softened a little. I told you not to look.


He shrugged. It doesn't matter. It's the smell.


Blood and hospitals, yeah. Okay. He sighed. Can I check you?


Justin nodded a little, and Brian crouched next to his chair and pushed Justin's sleeves up one by one, carefully running his hands over Justin's elbows and wrists. He brought his hands up to his neck and cupped the back of his head, and Justin winced.


I know. Sorry. Good so far.


He worked his way down, bending each of Justin's knees, then stopped when he got to the floor. He groaned and lowered his forehead to rest on Justin's thigh.


“What?” Justin said quietly.


Brian lifted his head and then Justin's foot, gently, to show him a swollen and purple ankle.


“Oh,” Justin said.


Justin.


“I'm sorry.”


How do you not feel that?


“I don't know.”


You have to... Brian raised his hands and dropped them back down in frustration. You have to feel things.


“I know. I will. I'm sorry.”


The doctor examined Justin's ankle and determined it was a bad sprain but not a break, and he had it wrapped up in an ace bandage before Evan got back from imaging. His arm was heavily splinted now, and he waved drunkenly at Justin and Brian when the rolled his bed back in.


Brian rested his hand on top of his head. “The drugs are okay with his kidneys?” he asked the doctor.


“We'll have him on dialysis right after surgery to help get everything out of his system,” he says. “And we'll want to keep him for a day or two to keep an eye on him, since kidney patients can have a hard time coming out of anesthesia.”


Brian turned to Justin. You get all that?


Justin watched me and nodded.


So no freaking out if he doesn't wake up right away, Brian said.


“I am so not the one who freaks out!” He got out of his chair as Evan got settled.


Brian said, Justin, your fucking ankle—


“Okay, so help me then,” Justin said, and Brian glared at him but came over and helped him over to Evan's bed. Justin climbed up on Evan's good side.


Evan said “Heyyyyy,” drunkenly and bundled Justin under his arm. “How's he doing?” he asked Brian.


He keeps having seizures, it's annoying.


Evan tapped the tip of Justin's nose. “Drugs will kick in soon. Drugs are good.”


God, I am going to have my hands full keeping painkillers away from you, aren't I.


“Yyyyyep.”


Practice for your fucking transplant, I guess. He ran his fingers absently through Justin's hair. He asleep?


“Almost,” Evan said.


Good. Been driving me fucking crazy trying to stay awake. You in any pain?


“A little. 'sokay.”


You sound like Justin when you slur your words like that.


Evan yawned. “They took my hearing aids out for the...pictures.”


I can see that.


“Mm, right.”


Brian sighed and pulled the chair up. I have always been so fucking worried about those stairs.


“At least I was there.”


That doesn't seem to have worked out too well for us, kiddo.


“He needs a....what's the word.”


Elevator.


“I know the sign, what's the word.”


Brian fingerspelled it.


“Elevator. Yeah.”


He doesn't want one.


“I know.”


Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. He's so fucking aggravating, the things he'll accept and not accept. He has a seizure disorder and he can't fucking breathe, why does he think he has to do stairs?


“We don't want people to say we're lazy,” Evan said.


“Nobody thinks that.”


“Someone, always, is thinking that,” Evan said. “Trust me. There's always that one person.”


One person can't be enough.


“But it is.”


But it can't be, Brian insisted. He needs to be safe.


“It's his choice.”


It's your arm.


Evan shrugged his good shoulder.


I want him to not have to think about everything, Brian said. He doesn't even know how many things other people do without worrying. You probably don't either.


“Maybe it's better that way,” Evan said.


Brian sighed and leaned back in his chair.


“You chose this,” Evan said. “You chose sick people.”


Oh, bullshit I did. I chose a mouthy teenager and he picked you out of an art gallery. He stood up and adjusted Evan's blanket.


“Poor Brian.”


I'm the only one in here not drugged to oblivion. You're damn right poor Brian.


“You'd be so bored if we were healthy.”


Brian bent down and kissed his cheek. Yeah, probably.


Well, I officially did not understand what the situation was here, that was for sure.


Brian and Justin both got a little uneasy when they came to take Evan in for his surgery. Brian repeated the questions Justin had already asked about Evan's medical history, and Justin had to be reminded over and over that they couldn't take Evan away until he let go of him. No weepy goodbyes, Brian said, eventually strong-arming Justin away from the bed. We'll see you in a few hours. They watched Evan get pushed away, Justin leaning his weight off his bad ankle, Brian brushing his fingers up and down Justin's back.


They asked me to stick around to interpret any medical updates, so I got some coffee and sat down near them in the waiting room. Justin was rubbing his temples a lot and Brian kept encouraging him to sleep and knocking his fingers away from his mouth.


We're going to have to be careful with him when he's recovering, Brian said. They're going to prescribe something. Percocet or something like that.


One of us just needs to be in charge of them.


You want to do it?


Justin laughed. No.


Brian Kinney, stopping someone from doing drugs.


Truly, call the Vatican.


Doing okay?


I just wish they'd update us.


Yeah, they're busy digging around, I guess.


Justin shuddered.


Sorry.


He rubbed his forehead again.


Why don't you sleep some? Brian said gently. I'll wake you up if anyone comes out.


Justin shook his head, and Brian elbowed him.


What?


What's with you? Brian said.


Justin sighed. This is my fault.


God, stop. Don't make me sit through this.


Justin rolled his eyes.


I'm serious, this is such a fucking waste of time.


We're in a waiting room.


Did you take your meds? Did someone know you were on the stairs?


“Yeah.”


Okay. Then it's not your fucking fault. Now can you just, Brian said, and gestured to his thigh, and Justin shifted in his seat and lay down with his head on Brian's leg.


“This isn't usually what I'd be doing in your lap,” Justin griped, and Brian laughed and flicked him.

 

 

Justin was asleep soon after, and Brian said, “Good, that's good,” softly to himself.


I came over to him and said, “I'm going to grab another cup of coffee. You need anything?”

 

No, I'm okay, Brian said. I'm good right here.

Chapter 117 - Lovers in a Dangerous Time by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

This all hits different for sick people.

 

This story references the current COVID-19 pandemic. Please skip it if you’re not in a place to read about it.

Lovers in a Dangerous Time

LaVieEnRose



The question is when to tell Brian. The question, always, is when to tell Brian.


It's risky either way. If I tell him too early, I might be freaking him out over nothing, and Brian, for all his supposed stoicism, freaks the fuck out like no one I've ever seen. He saves the crying screaming queen-outs for very special occasions, but still he winds up so physically that I can see it when I look at him and he's waiting for the readout on a thermometer or a peak flow meter or a blood pressure cuff. And if it's nothing, if I scared him for no reason, it still takes him ages to let himself go again, and until then he's a bundle of nerves radiating energy like a caged animal, pacing our bamboo floors and growling at anyone who tries to calm him down, because I'm fine, leave me alone, damn it. The subtext there is always the same, too: why are you worried about ME? And that does not stop breaking your heart.


But tell him too late and I risk him figuring it out before I tell him, and then there's him pulling out his hair, holding me by the shoulders, taking my wrists between his fingers, letting me go just long enough to lecture You have to notice, you have to pay attention.


And of course sometimes there's a virus and people are lying in a makeshift hospital in Central Park, and if you wait too long to tell him, your brain reminds you over and over, maybe you'll die.


But it might just be nothing.


**


I came out of the bedroom and leaned against the doorframe. Evan was on the couch, doing something on his laptop, and Brian was staring out the window with his thumbnail in his mouth. He'd been doing a lot of that. We kept reminding each other not to touch our faces, but that's hard in ASL. You touch your teeth for glass, or nut. Your nose for funny, boring, do you mind. Cheek for girl. Tomorrow. Home.


You touch other people. We touched other people.


Now there was no one outside: no traffic, no joggers, no one walking their dogs.


At least this time it wasn't just me locked up.


Leaving the house had to be essential. Healthcare work, food you couldn't get delivered, medical appointments that couldn't happen over the phone. That meant Brian and I were set here, and he would have been content just Lysoling our deliveries to his heart's content if not for one little problem.


Did anyone there seem sick? Brian was asking him.


It's a dialysis clinic, Evan said. They all seem sick. He wore a mask to the appointments and sterilized himself as well as he could afterwards, but we still couldn't be sure. No one could be.


There's got to be a solution here, Brian said.


I'm keeping my distance from Justin. He was.


You're in kidney failure and your T-cells aren't great, Brian said, exasperated. You can't get this shit either.


Evan just rubbed his forehead--how do you have a conversation you've had a hundred times already when there's nothing new to say, no one new to talk to, nothing new in the entire world besides a virus--and I cleared my throat. Brian looked up at me, then Evan.


How's Emily? he said. We'd been on Facetime.


Good. Jane’s complaining about not going to the park. I paused. I’m having some trouble breathing. I don’t think it’s anything.


(Shortness of breath, coughing, headaches, fever, respiratory failure. Brian signed the list of symptoms to us weeks ago, then blinked and said, Did they read your fucking diary? Is this a joke? And then he went out to the porch and smoked five cigarettes and didn’t talk to anyone for six hours.)


He came over to me now and palmed my forehead and cheek, then relaxed a little and said, Your asthma needs to read the room.


Yeah, seriously.


He ran his hands over my shoulders. Pollen’s bad?


Been sneezing a lot. Not a symptom, thankfully.


Okay. Go do your neb. I think you’ll live.


He came into the bedroom when I was halfway done and sat on the bed next to me. He reached out with a sigh and rubbed a circle on my back.


Better? he said.


I nodded.


Breathe, he signed, and I did.

 

**


All my doctor’s appointments were virtual now. Video calls with me, a doctor, and an interpreter. This time it was my GP, making sure I was staying inside, washing my hands, still standing.


Do we have any idea when this is going to end? I said.


She shook her head sadly. “Unfortunately if you’re keeping up with the news, you know everything I do about a timeline.”


And there’s still no real progress on a treatment, I said.


You know there’s not, Brian said, from over by the sink.


You're not a doctor, I said to him, which in retrospect is probably one of the meanest things I've ever said to him, but he just rolled his eyes and went back to loading the dishwasher.


And of course, my doctor just shook her head. "I wish I had something to tell you."


Brian's just worrying...


“We're all worried about you," she said, and I had this vision of the entire city of New York, sitting around fretting about Justin's little lungs. "All we can do is make sure you're keeping up with your medications--"


I am.


"--and keep the guidelines going. As little contact with the outside world as possible until this is over."


I live with someone in dialysis.


Brian shook water off his hands.


"It's about minimizing the chances of exposure," my doctor said. "We'll do whatever we can."


I'll die if I get this, right?


We don't know that, Brian said without looking at me.


"We don't know that," my doctor said.


**


I woke up in the middle of the night scared out of my goddamn mind, which isn't that uncommon, and alone, which is.


It took me a few panicked moments to piece it together. Right. Evan had a rough dialysis and was dehydrated and fainted on the kitchen floor before dinner. Brian was sleeping down there to keep an eye on him, because I was supposed to stay six feet away. And I had been.


I couldn't stop shaking and thinking about choking and every time I tried to close my eyes I saw sirens and blood. "Brian? Brian!"


He was up a minute later, rubbing hand sanitizer between his palms. He hit the light. You okay? he said.


I nodded, still catching my breath. Is Evan okay?


Fine, sleeping. I was too.


"Sorry."


He sighed. Bad dream?


I felt my chin shaking. "Yeah," I said, and he crawled across the bed and put his arms around me. I blew my nose and rested my head into the crook of my neck. He played with my hair.


You want to tell me? he asked after a while.


And the thing was, I did want to tell him. I wanted to talk about how much this reminded me of being trapped in quarantine after my immune system tanked, and how much that fucked me up, how I couldn’t be in a room with a closed door for months afterwards without a panic attack. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t think I could do it again. That I’d end up overdosing on my anti-anxiety meds, accidentally or maybe not, if I had to stay in the house without an endpoint for much longer. I wanted to tell him how goddamn terrified I was of getting sick, of a virus that tears at lung tissue when mine was scarred and shitty to begin with, and how worried I was that Brian would get it, or Jane, or God forbid Evan. I wanted to tell him that I measured every single one of my breaths to see if I was okay, that every second I was counting, judging, evaluating, panicking.


But I couldn’t.


I couldn’t be scared, because Brian’s entire persona was designed to keep me from being scared. That was his job. To worry, plan, protect, so that I could live. If I was freaking out about my health, it meant he wasn’t doing his job. He’d blame himself.


It was his job. To worry, plan, protect, count, judge, evaluate. Panic.


Being scared was Brian’s job.


I had to be brave for him but I was so scared.


“Just prom stuff,” I said, the only thing Brian had almost, almost come to terms with not fixing, and he nodded and kissed my temple.


**


There were press conferences every day. More and more somber. Never somber enough. We didn’t watch most of them, for obvious reasons—Brian has on more than one occasion threatened to deafen himself so he doesn’t have to hear the asshole tell another fucking lie—but we had it on that day while Brian answered emails in the arm chair, Evan worked on drafts of a new mock-up on his laptop on the couch, and I sat on the floor, fucking around on my phone and thinking idly that I should probably paint something.


The asshole himself was talking, and I watched the captions scroll through at the bottom of the screen. Talking about how important it was that we reopen everything as soon as possible, because the economy, the stock market. Reminding us again that healthy people would be fine. Reassuring that most of the people dying were those with underlying conditions. Implication: they were dying anyway. It's not the virus's fault. It's not my fault.


Brian stood up abruptly and walked a few steps away, then came back and planted his hands on the back of the arm chair and glared at the screen.


Problem, dearest? I fingerspelled.


What the fuck is that? he said. Why do they keep fucking saying that shit about people with underlying conditions like it's a goddamn comfort? Who is that comforting?


Healthy people, Evan said.


What about you? Brian said.


I love him so, so much, but sometimes it is so exhausting teaching someone stuff you wish you didn't know.


They don't think about us, I said. They think disabled people aren't smart enough or present enough to be watching the news. They think we're institutionalized.


That's bullshit. Everyone becomes disabled if they live long enough.


I know that and you know that...


Brian ran his hand through his hair, and when he turned to me there was pain in his eyes. This is Stockwell all over again, he said.


"Brian."


He didn't care if queers died. He didn't want them to, he didn't not want them to, he literally did not fucking care. They were expendable. And now this. Sick people are just going to die so go ahead and relight Broadway.


"Cuomo's not going to--"


Sick people are watching, Brian said, staring at the screen again. They're important.


**


My mom’s signing has improved, but it’s not fantastic, and she has trouble understanding me over Skype, so most is the time we text chat when we’re not together. I asked her how everyone at home was doing, and she promised me everyone was healthy and safe. Deb was going crazy with the diner closed, and Michael was obsessively disinfecting, but everyone was okay. Gus and Luke and all the other kids were doing fine.


“We’re all just worried about you,” she typed.


“I know.” I had heard it so, so many times.


I’m not sure I can explain what it feels like to know that the happiness of so many people hangs on you staying healthy. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. It’s amazing how many care about me, and how much. But...it’s hard not to wish that what they needed was something I could control. Or something that at least felt somewhat likely. Because sometimes staying healthy seems downright impossible, and I don’t even get a chance to worry about how that affects me, what I need to do to keep myself going through it, because I’m too busy feeling guilty for putting everyone else through it.


It’s a part of being sick that people don’t think about, and it’s one of the most exhausting.


And sometimes there’s a virus and you cannot, cannot, promise them that you will be fine.


“We’re good over here,” I said.


**


Evan came home from dialysis freaking out. He refused to come inside and made Brian come out with a bucket of soap and water and a change of clothes.


Someone was coughing, he said. He and Brian looked at each other. This isn’t working.


The decision was made quickly and unemotionally. As much baggage I have about saying it, my seizures and occasional failures to breathe mean it doesn’t make a lot of sense for me to be alone, and all our friends had essential jobs and still had to leave the house, so there wasn’t anyone I could stay with and be safer.


Evan had to go. A phone call to Emily and Gwen, twenty minutes to pack, and it was done.


I’ll send you so many pictures of Jane, he said to me. I couldn’t even hug him goodbye.


How long do you think it will be? I asked him, trying not to hyperventilate.


You did thirty years without me, he said. It’s just time.


But it doesn’t end. Evan and I, we know that. It doesn’t matter when the world starts turning again. We’ll still be standing still. People will go back to their lives and forget about us again. Talk about us like we’re not listening. Like we’re not people.


It was never normal.


Brian held him for a long time at the door, and I just couldn’t fucking watch it, so I went back to our room and sat on the bed, staring at the floor. Brian came in a few minutes later and sat down next to me, and I knew he was gone.


And we sat there and watched ourselves get old.


I’m really, really, really in the bad place, I said after a while.


Brian didn’t move for a minute, and then he took one hand and lay it on my back.

 

Breathe, he said.

End Notes:

This takes place sort of ephemerally out of timeline. I will go back to the existing storylines, but a lot of people asked me how my boys were handling this, and as a sick person I had some stuff to say anyway.

Chapter 118 - Haunted by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Evan's past resurfaces, and Brian caves to the pressure.

Haunted

LaVieEnRose



Brian was already awake when I got up, which is less uncommon than it used to be but still always throws off my Saturday routine. I kicked the covers off and wandered out of bed, stretching my arms across my body. Evan was in front of the TV, bunched up with his sling, and he barely acknowledged me when I passed by him. Kind of par for the course for him the past couple of days, but I still didn't love it. I trailed my hand over his leg on my way to the kitchen, and he caught my fingers in his for a second.


Brian was at the counter, dressed in his blue suit with a cup of coffee and the paper. He glanced up at me when I came up. Morning.


“Hi.”


Feeling okay?


“Yeah.”


You were breathing really loud last night. I almost got you up.


“Sorry.”


He shrugged.


“Are you going into the office?”


Yeah, once I have you two fed and watered. He went to the cabinet and took out my pills. You want a Benadryl? You're still really wheezing.


“Okay.” I glanced back at Evan and sat down on one of the bar stools. “I think he's depressed.”


I've been telling you that for months.


“You think all sick people are depressed.”


I know all of two sick people. They both just happen to be depressed.


“This is new. He barely leaves the house since he got hurt,” I say. “He just sits and watches TV. He doesn't want to talk.”


It's hard for him to sign one-handed.


“Oh, so he's talking to you?” I said, and I could tell by Brian's face that he wasn't. “He doesn't want to have sex, he never has anyone over.”


He doesn't want to have sex?


“I knew that would get your attention.”


He shattered his tibia, Brian said. He's in pain. I don't think he's going through some new mental health crisis.


“Okay, well, I think he is. He's not acting like himself. He's just...blank.”


Brian poured me a cup of coffee. So what's your big plan?


“I don't even know what helps me when I'm depressed.”


Baths and expensive gifts.


“Neither of which he likes,” I said, knowing full well Brian was going to buy us both some shit anyway, because his two strategies for any problem are throw money at it and spoil Justin. Not that I'm complaining on either front. Being sick got me two houses!


Brian handed me my meds. Did you see that bill? he said, pointing to the counter.


I picked it up. “The fuck is this?”


Insurance company's denying your last hospital stay. You gotta call them. Brian's useless when it comes to arguing this shit. He just starts screaming obscenity-filled versions of the Americans with Disabilities Act.


“Why don't they just give me money without questioning me at this point?”


Who could say. God knows that's what I do.


I scanned the bill while Brian did the combination lock—Michael's birthday, a number we knew and Evan didn't—for the cabinet where we'd been keeping Evan's Percocet. Brian handled most of the dosing, both because my short-term memory sucks and I'm hideously allergic to it. “Which one was the last one?” I said, turning the bill over.


No idea. Check the date.


“Uh...November 20th?”


Brian thought for a minute, crossing to the living room to give Evan his meds. You had the flu, right? That really high fever.


“Was that seriously the last time I was hospitalized?”


Look at you.


“Yeah, I'm on a roll.” I put the bill down for later. “They're trying to argue an immunocompromised asthmatic can't go to the hospital for the flu? Yeah, good luck with that.”


Brian watched Evan take his meds and asked him, What are your plans today? in his forced-casual way.


Evan swallowed the pills. Nothing.


Once I get this pitch firmed up, work should be pretty quiet next week, Brian said. I was thinking we could head to the beach house, maybe on Wednesday, stay through the weekend.


That sounds good, I said, watching Evan. He loves the beach house.


But he just shrugged his good shoulder. That's fine.


Brian paused, maybe waiting for more, but eventually he said, I have to go in and work on the Myers campaign. He ran his hand absently down Evan's arm and said Stop coughing, to me.


I would love to.


Call me if he isn't breathing, he said to Evan.


Does he sound bad?


Yeah, he's working hard. Keep the sling on, all right? I shouldn't be gone too long.


Okay, Evan said, and he moved his legs off the couch and said, Come sit with me, to me as Brian left.


I sat down on his good side and burrowed into him, and he put an arm around me and worked the sore muscles in-between my ribs. It was nice, and I felt close to him for the first time in a while, maybe since he'd gotten hurt. He'd just been different, quiet, standoffish, and it didn't feel right. It felt like back before he was here.


He still didn't talk to me much, but I guess it was hard for him with one arm in a sling and the other one wrapped around me. He shrugged when I asked questions and eventually I just gave up and watched his show with him. It was one of those baking competition shows he loves, even though he can't bake worth shit. After an episode and a half I realized he was asleep, and I stayed still as long as I could but my body doesn't really let me stay in one position for too long before it starts to ache, so I squirmed out carefully and covered him with a blanket, then slowly took his hearing aids out and set them on the table next to him. I did a load of laundry and got on the phone with the insurance company and got that sorted out, and I thought about cleaning the kitchen but my back was really bothering me and I felt like my chest wouldn't open all the way, probably because, you know, it doesn't, so I lay down on the floor and did some stretches for a little while.


Brian called around noon, looking kind of agitated. There's more work here than I thought, he said. I might not be home until kind of late.


It was kind of weird for him to call just to tell me that. I'm used to him just showing up when he shows up. So I just said, Okay.


Why are you on the floor?


PT.


By yourself? He usually helps stretch me.


I was sore. It's not like Evan can do much.


Where is he?


I held up the phone so he could see him sleeping on the couch.


Okay, Brian said. He looked kind of nervous.


What? I said.


Nothing. Just I don't know how long I'm going to be here.


I can take care of him.


Yeah, Brian said. Yeah. Okay. Take something, you look like shit.


Anything in particular, or...?


Gabapentin. Albuterol. Penicillin. I don't care. Dealer's choice. I've got to go.


So I took some crap but it didn't really help, because nothing really does, and then I felt myself getting kind of down about that like I do sometimes so I shot an email to my therapist and got started on making me and Evan something for lunch. I was just about to get him up when he came into the kitchen, looking a little sick and sweaty.


You okay? I said.


Fine. He scratched his chest, looking around. Where's Brian?


Still at the office. I made you lunch.


Do you know when he'll be back?


He said not until late. Why?


Evan didn't say anything.


I can call him... I said.


He shook his head. No. It's fine. He gave me a hug with his good arm. Thanks for lunch.


Yeah, anytime.


I sat with him and let him bully me into eating, but for the most part he was quiet, and he didn't eat much either. He kept looking at the clock, and it was obvious he was worried about something. I figured it had to be a work thing; Brian staying late unexpectedly, especially on a weekend, usually means someone screwed up, and Evan is completely terrified of screwing up at work, which is ridiculous since he probably has more job security than anyone on the planet, but that's Evan. Look at him funny and he'll be convinced we're about to ask him to move out.


I'm sure everything's fine, I said, but I thought about how anxious Brian seemed on the phone and it honestly made me kind of worried that Evan had messed something up, and that Brian was struggling to cover for him. Great. Exactly what we needed right now.


I texted Brian subtly to try to get some intel, but he didn't answer me. I knew he was working on something for some clients in India, so maybe he was in a meeting with them. What time was it in India?


Evan got up without eating much, helped me clean up, then sat in front of the TV shaking his knee while I sat down and started sketching him. That usually calms him down when he's anxious. Works on Brian too. But this time, every time I looked up from my paper I could see Evan getting more and more wound up, and eventually he stood up and said, Brian should be back by now, right?


I think it's still going to be a while, I said gently.


Evan ran his hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in his curls.


Is there anything I can do? I said.


He watched me. I'm okay.


You're obviously not okay. What's going on?


He bit his lip and then said, in a rush, Can I have a pill?


You mean Percocet?


He nodded, and I checked my watch.


Not for another three hours. You're hurting?


Yeah.


I'm sorry. I'll get you some ice, okay? Maybe some aspirin to take the edge off?


He bit his thumbnail, like Brian does. Yeah. Okay. Thanks.


And I still didn't put together what was going on. I went to the freezer and got one of the ice packs Brian uses for his shoulder after he works out and I use for my migraines or when I hurt myself after seizures. I helped him wrap it around his arm, and I noticed how cold his skin was, and how much he was shaking, and when the ice didn't help at all, and when he looked at the clock again and asked me again when Brian would be home...


Well. That's when it started to click.


I told Evan I was going to get him some aspirin and I went into the kitchen, and once I was sure he wasn't watching me I unlocked the cabinet with his medication.


There were a few pills left in the bottle. Maybe fewer than there should have been, but I wasn't sure. Evan broke his arm two weeks ago, but he'd had surgery, so maybe they'd given him pills for longer than usual. After I'd burned myself I was on narcotics for a month.


Except then I noticed the date on the bottle. The prescription was filled four days ago. For thirty pills.


And there were four left.


And the name of the doctor wasn't the doctor we'd seen in the ER.


I put the pills away, locked the safe and looked at my boyfriend shivering on the couch, and I was so mad it was like something was alive inside of me.


I marched to the living room and took him by his good wrist. Come on, I said.


What? Where are we going?


Brian.


**


The thing about Evan is that he's glowing and soft-skinned and big eyed like he's never been touched by the world. He's amazed by waterfalls, redwood trees, volcanoes. He lights up at floral flavors and French food and has never met a baby or an animal that he doesn't want to be friends with. He's scared of the mildest horror movies and spiders and doesn't like when he can hear a loud noise. He donates to youth shelters and food banks and groups for prison reform. He gets food on himself when he eats. He laughs at any joke. He is pure, and easy, and good. And he is a heroin addict.


**


Evan didn't say anything the whole subway ride. He played with the strap of his sling and jiggled his legs and sweated and shook.


He could tell from my face that I knew.


I'm sorry, he said when we were on the platform transferring to the N/Q that would take us to Kinnetik.


Why didn't you tell me? I said. People were staring at us, because we were signing. People thought we looked cool and had no fucking idea that my household was falling apart.


I didn't want you to stop me.


It didn't make sense. If one of me or Brian was going to cave and give it to someone, you'd think it would be me, right? I'm softer, I'm more sensitive, I'm a hell of a lot more naive.


How did you get him to do it? I said.


Evan pulled his lip into his mouth and looked at me like he didn't want to tell me, and what more could there possibly be to this that would make it worse? What could he possibly say that would hurt more than I was already hurting?


It wasn't very hard, he said, and yeah, there it was.


I kept my hand on Evan on our way to Kinnetik from the subway stop, but once we got there I didn’t have much of a plan. Evan gets really freaked out when Brian and I fight, and, well, this was going to be a big one. But I wasn’t about to leave him by himself. I don’t know the first thing about getting any drug harder than E, but Evan does, and with all of this obviously crashing around him I didn’t trust him not to run off somewhere. Because apparently I couldn’t trust him at all.


But he wasn’t the one I was mad at.


You have to understand that. Evan was hurting and vulnerable and he was trusting us to keep him safe. Locking up the cabinet was his idea, when we first got home from the hospital. He knew this was going to be a struggle for him and he was trying to stay clean. And Brian and I promised him we would be on top of it.


Brian promised.


Thankfully, Brian wasn't the only one working that Saturday. Emily was at her desk, typing something, and she glanced up when we approached her deck. Hi. Brian's in a meeting.


I don't care. I thrust Evan towards her. Watch him.


What?


I mean it! I said, and I went straight to Brian's office.


He was at his desk, talking to someone on the webcam. Ted, probably, since I saw him roll his eyes and say “Justin,” when I came in.


Get off the phone, I said.


The fuck is your problem?


Hang up the fucking phone right now.


Jesus, fine. Sit down, will you? he said, but I didn't. I stayed right where I was as he wrapped up the call and stood up from his desk, fixing his cuffs. Your breathing sounds awful, you know.


I don't care.


Wow, I'm excited for this conversation. He sighed. Okay. What is it? A bit of worry crossed his face. Where's Evan?


Out there with Emily, I said, and he relaxed a little. Why, I said, Were you worried he was out in some drug den?


His eyebrows creased. What the fuck are you talking about?


I saw his pills, Brian.


Okay...?


“Don't,” I said. “Don't act like I'm crazy.”


He pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but I could tell he was nervous. In a different context, I'd think it was sexy.


“I don't think I've ever been this mad at you in my life,” I said.


He blinked. It's not a big deal, okay?


You fucking idiot.


I have it under control.


Do you know what you sound like right now?


Justin, use your inhaler.


You're giving him extra drugs and getting him sketchy new prescriptions—


I have a schedule, it's not like I'm handing him—


It's exactly like you're handing him a fucking needle, what do you think he's going to do when the pills run out, just say, okay, okay, that's it, I'm done?


He won't be in pain anymore, he won't need them.


He's an addict! I screamed, with my hands and with my voice. He's sick and you're fucking him up!


Brian didn't say anything.


And don't pretend like you don't know it, because if you didn't know you were doing something wrong you wouldn't have kept it a secret from me. You know what you're doing is fucked up and you feel guilty.


No.


Look me in the eye and tell me you're not in over your head.


He looked down, and then up at me, and didn't say anything.


Brian, what the fuck were you thinking?


He's in pain, Brian said tightly.


He's an addict.


He's still in pain.


Okay, so what? So he's in some pain after surgery, that's liveable! People take narcotics for a few days and then they deal!


Brian shook his head. You don't understand.


I don't understand pain?


He's my responsibility, Brian said.


Exactly, which is why—


I could do something! Brian exploded. He's in pain and I could actually goddamn do something about it! For once! Jesus!


I gaped at him. This is about me?


He looked away.


“You're using your fucking baggage about me as a reason to throw our fucking boyfriend back into addiction, that's what this is?”


He came to me crying.


“People cry, Brian!”


For once, he said again. For once I had the fucking solution.


“It's not a solution! It's just a different problem!”


I have it under control! He ran his hand through his hair, shaking. I can take care of him! I can take care of him! His eyes shifted, and he gestured exhaustedly over my shoulder. Emily's here, he said, and I turned around.


Evan really doesn't look good, she says. I think you should take him home.


I looked at Brian.


What's wrong with him? Brian said.


God, he really wasn't getting it. And I wasn't mad anymore. I was just tired, and so, so sad.


I said, He's in withdrawal, Brian.


**


The night was hellish, and we don't need to get too far into it. There's no reason to make a spectacle out of what Evan went through. God knows I know what it's like to be the type of person they've decided privacy doesn't apply to anymore. You don't live through four surgeons staring into your skull, let alone the rest of the bullshit I've weathered, and come out without a bit of a desire to lock yourself away. Because as much of this is about Evan's right to privacy, and it is, it's also about me. Evan is a part of me. He's my blood.


But God, I felt so far away from him that night, further than I had even in the past couple of weeks. And it's not like Brian and I were in the same place. We worked together without talking to take care of him, the way we can, but I didn't comfort him and I shook him off on the rare occasion he tried to comfort me.


So, okay, he was angry and desperate and scared and he begged and bargained and was so goddamn sick that even Brian got scared, and there were more than a few times where he looked at me panicked and worn, should we just give it to him, and more than a few times where I almost said yes. Almost.


But then, I don't know what happened. We got through the worst of it, or Evan just got too tired, and he stopped asking. He lay in his bed and cried softly, and Brian slipped upstairs to allegedly check on work, but I think he just needed a minute to collect himself.


I'm such an idiot, Evan said to me, moving his hands as little as he possibly could.


You're not an idiot.


I'm so sorry.


I'm not mad at you.


You should be.


I sighed and shifted on the bed, brushing a curl off his forehead.


Brian was just trying to help, Evan said.


I don't want to talk about Brian.


Evan was quiet for a minute, then said, He just wanted me to feel better.


Come on, I know that.


He has to sit there every day and watch us feel like shit, Evan said. And he can't make it about him. He has to just sit there.


What am I supposed to do about that? I say. He can't just be allowed to drug you up because it makes him feel useful.


Why not? Evan said, with a weak smile. Sorry. Probably too early for addict humor.


I lay down beside him on his sweaty sheets, and he tangled his fingers in my hair.


I try to give him things to do, I say.


I know you do.


But I can't....I can't be worried about how this affects him all the time. This can't be about him.


Evan laughed a little and winced. Imagine how pissed he'd be if you tried to make it about him.


I try to give him little things to do.


I need to do better at that.


It's not your problem, I said. He needs to get used to this. We're not going anywhere.


He doesn't want us to, Evan said with a yawn. He just wants to feel like we're better with him than without him.


That stuck, I don't know. Maybe just because Brian came back downstairs right then, so we couldn't talk anymore, so those last signs kind of hung in the air. I was starting to feel pretty shitty from being down on the floor with Evan so much, so I went upstairs to take a shower and lie down. Brian came up about an hour later.


He's asleep, Brian said. I set the alarm so we'll know if he tries to make an escape.


Okay.


He sat down on the foot of the bed, his legs crossed like he was in school. He looked...scared of me, but I was too tired to be mad anymore.


I know it kills you that you can't fix us, I said.


It's not about fixing you, Brian said. I can barely help you. I see these knotted up muscles in your back and I lie awake listening to you fight to breathe, and nothing I do seems to even make a dent. You're just miserable all the time. He shrugged one shoulder. It felt really good to have something.


I know. I know.


You okay? You don't look good.


I stretched one arm behind my head. Just sore. Can you help me with PT?


He stood up. Yeah. Come on. He helped me stand up.

 

His hands were so, so gentle.

End Notes:

 

I'm not super happy with how this turned out but...I miss posting, so. If you have any ideas for things you'd like to see, please let me know! I have one planned.

Chapter 119 - Overnight by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Everyone gets locked in at Kinnetik.

Overnight

LaVieEnRose



Daphne makes fun of me for it, but I don't really like staying in the apartment alone when she's not around. It's not that I won't do it—of course I'll do it—but given the choice, yeah, I'd rather crash at a friend's house the nights she stays at the hospital or when she goes to visit her mom or whatever. The place just feels kind of haunted when she's gone, like she's there but she isn't, and some weird hidden part of me goes crazy and thinks maybe she's never coming home. I guess it's still hard for me to fully buy that a girl like her really picked me. She's a doctor, and a genius, and the motivated kind of person who goes to conferences across the country to learn how to be a better doctor and a genius, which is why I'd been crashing at Brian's house for the past two nights. Daphne was coming home tonight, though, so I woke up Friday morning in Brian's guest room and stretched and felt happy.


Evan and Brian were over in the kitchen when I came down, drinking coffee while Evan sat at the counter and ate breakfast and Brian flipped through the newspaper. Evan must have said something out loud, because Brian laughed. It’s so weird that half the people I know just walk around talking when I’m not around. Daphne and Brian have lunch and don’t sign at all! Wild.


You know this is going to eat me alive, Brian said.


Evan shrugged and said something in English.


A hint. Anything.


I told you they're famous.


Jesus, there are half a billion fucking famous people.


That seems false.


How do I even know this is someone interesting? You think I don't see famous people every day? I'm not that easy to impress. You have no idea the campaigns I get.


I...literally design your campaigns.


Shut up. Brian nodded to me and handed me a cup of coffee.


What's going on? I said.


Someone famous is at Evan's NA meetings and he won't tell me who.


They're not that famous, Evan said.


If you recognized them, they're famous. Brian's always teasing Evan about being uncultured.


Evan snapped his fingers next to his ear and then said, Say something, to Brian.


I never know what to say when you ask me that, Brian simcommed.


Yeah, I can't hear shit.


That's not generally one of your skills, love.


Do we have spare batteries?


Check the drawer by the microwave. You need a new aid, you know. That one keeps crapping out.


Insurance doesn't want to cover it.


Brian rolled his eyes. I don't know why you say these things to me. He turned to me while Evan rooted through the drawer. How'd you sleep?


Great. I bet it's some Broadway star. At the meetings.


He doesn't know Broadway stars.


Former child actor, then.


Yeah, that narrows it down.


Don't you need to get going? I said.


Yeah, soon. Come by the office this afternoon, we'll get lunch.


Okay.


Justin came out of the bedroom then, rubbing his eyes, his hair a mess. He looked really bad, even by Justin-in-the-morning standards, just really sweaty and deathly pale.


Brian tilted his head to the side, a small smile on his face. Good morning.


Hey. I just threw up, Justin said. I was the nearest to him, and he took my arm and held on for support when he got close enough. I slipped my arm around his waist.


Brian said, Why'd you do that?


Just for fun, I guess.


How do you feel now? Brian said, while Evan filled a glass of water.


Lightheaded.


Seizure, then?


Yeah, I think so.


Been a while since you had a weird seizure, Brian said. You were due for one.


Justin sipped the water, the glass shaking dangerously. Lucky me.


Go get dressed, Brian said.


Justin made puppy-dog eyes at him.


Brian covered his eyes with one hand. Your powers are useless here, he signed with the other. 


Justin said something out loud, and Brian sighed and dropped his hand off his face.


Big day today, Brian said. I can't.


I can stay here with Derek.


Brian shook his head. Not after a seizure like that. When you look like that.


Brian.


Justin, he echoed. You're stuck with me. Get over it and go get dressed.


Justin sighed, let go of me, and headed back to his room. Brian and Evan exchanged a quick look after he was gone, and then Evan got out some cereal while Brian counted out pills for Justin.


Neither of them were looking at me, so I said "Is he okay?" out loud.


Brian looked up. Sorry, what? My voicing sucks, it's fine.


Justin, is he okay?


Brian shrugged. He'll live. He's not great.


I don't mind staying here and keeping an eye on him.


No, he's mine today. Thanks, Brian said, and Evan gave me a look like I shouldn't press it.


We sat down and ate some breakfast and Brian asked if Evan was going to a meeting during his lunch break or after work today, and we chatted a little about how that was going. I was kind of raised in an ivory tower when it comes to things like this, and I guess the image I had of a drug addict was a lot more...I don't know, ragged and sinister. Evan's just my sweet, smiley friend, Justin's boyfriend, Brian's...well. Brian's.


Brian kissed his cheek while they were clearing the table and said, small, Can you see what's taking him so long? and Evan nodded and ducked out of the kitchen. Brian briefly balanced a plate on my head and then gave me a little swat on the side of my head.


"Hey," I said.


He shrugged.


Still want me to come for lunch? I said.


A guy's gotta eat.


Evan came out a few minutes later, his hand on a groggy Justin. He fell back asleep, Evan said.


Brian kissed Justin's forehead. Of course you did. You don't feel warm.


Can we take the car? Justin said.


Yeah, we can.


I had a meeting at the school in the morning, so they dropped me off at the subway station on their way to Kinnetik and I had an uneventful morning and I dropped by Brian's office around noon. Emily was doing video relay with a client, and she signed Wait, for me when I started to head into Brian's office. That girl has too much power.


Client dropped in unexpectedly, Emily said. He had to pull something together fast.


They just came in and demanded a presentation?


They were in town and thought they'd check on the progress of their campaign. She rolled her eyes. What are you doing here, anyway? Isn't Daphne home today? Shouldn't you be showering her with affection and cunnilingus?


Not until this evening. I'm supposed to have lunch with the boss, but I guess that won't be for a while. I stretched. I guess I'll go see what Evan's doing.


His job, probably.


You're in a mood.


She gestured to the phone. My marketing director is in a mood. I'm in a reaction to that mood.


Where's Justin?


In there with Brian and the pop-ins. They do it all the time, Brian just tells people to ignore him.


Brian does love telling people to ignore him.


She typed something quickly. Indeed.


How's he doing? I said.


He's okay.


He looked like hell this morning.


I mean, he doesn't look amazing, but I think he's okay. I haven't really gotten to talk to him, I've been fucking swamped. And he's been sleeping every time I went in.


I hung out in the waiting room and watched people come and go, talking of Michelangelo, etc. It was kind of fun seeing Emily do her job for the first five minutes, since I know her in more of the no-clothes-and-tequila context than the business casual one, but there's only so long that watching someone type can really capture your attention, so mostly I just played games on my phone until the clients finally left Brian's office. He poked his head out and waved me in.


Sorry, he said. I could not get rid of them. He'd gotten some new furniture for the office since I was last here. Looked nice.


Justin, as reported, looked okay. He was leafing through through a file of Brian's, and while Brian and I discussed where to order lunch from—we were going to go out, but Brian smoothly suggested delivery and I knew it was because he wanted to make sure Justin ate something—he cut in every so often with a question or a suggestion for the campaign he was looking at. By the time we'd settled on Indian, Justin was already sketching something. Brian came and looked over his shoulder while he was on the phone.


See how this— Justin started, and Brian cut him off with a nod.


Good, he said. That's very good.


I sat on the couch with Justin and Brian rolled around in his desk chair while we waited for the food to arrive. We talked mostly about Evan and how he was doing. Brian was really worried about him, I could tell, and Justin was mostly quiet but would chime in once in a while with a reassurance—he's okay, he's fine, he's fine.


I want to get him back in school, Brian said.


Justin barely looked up from his sketch. We've talked about this.


You talked about this and I listened to you because you're very frail and I feel bad for you.


Ah, that does sound like our dynamic.


Exactly.


He's not interested.


He's so smart and he's so lost so much of the time, Brian said. You don't notice his face when you start signing fast. We get him in some actual ASL classes, some English classes, whatever. He'll thrive.


He doesn't want to do it.


He's just scared.


He just had a relapse, Justin said. Should we really be scaring him right now?


I just...


He's okay, Justin said. You don't have to fix this.


Brian sulked and sat back in his chair. Fuck you. I never have to fix anything.


Justin gave him a look.


It's a calling, Brian said. Not a compulsion.


I don't think you can ignore callings, either.


Brian gestured towards his ears and said, Like you would know, and Justin laughed. Brian turned to me, smirking a little, and said, Do you think I'm a controlling bastard?


It's part of your charm, I said.


You should have seen him when I met him, Justin said. It was like pulling teeth to get him to admit he gave a shit about anyone but himself. And now look at him. Fretting over our boyfriend's education.


I am not fretting.


Sure.


Fine, let his potential go untapped. See if I care.


He's not untapped. He's a brilliant artist, Justin said.


Yeah, that's true. He was quiet for a minute, then turned to me. What do you think of Evan's signing?


It's not bad.


It's not as good as Justin's.


It's hard to compare someone else's signing to Justin's because his is adaptive, with his hand. He doesn't sign some things the textbook way. It's easy to understand once you get used to it. Like an accent. Still. No, it's not.


And it's not as good as mine.


Brian has an accent too, just from being hearing. Unless someone's a CODA—Child of Deaf Adult, so signing from birth—you can always tell they're hearing. Even the best interpreters. It's mostly the way they move their mouths. Still. No.


He was practically born Deaf, Brian says. He should be leaving us in the dust.


But you guys took a ton of classes.


Exactly my point, Brian said. He paused. Actually I want to take another class.


Justin rolled his eyes. You're fluent.


I could be more fluent. You say shit sometimes I don't catch.


That's just because you're old, not because you're hearing, Justin said, and Brian flicked him off. At least you know that sign, Justin said.


They were being cute, but the whole thing made me a little sad. I knew Brian felt insecure about being hearing. Daphne does too, even though her signing is beyond amazing for how long she's been learning. I don't think Molly does, but her signing's also really good, and she probably has never felt insecure about anything in her life, knowing her. It's just not all that common for hearing people to make the effort to come into our spaces, and on the rare occasion we do we're trained like puppies to be so grateful that we accommodate all sorts of terrible signing. So I don't know why Brian is convinced it's such a hardship for us to slow down the smallest bit and ax some of our weirder slang for him. But I know how I feel when I'm trying to keep up with Daphne's hearing friends. Which is why I avoid them as much as possible.


It's pretty amazing that Brian willingly surrounds himself with Deaf people.


The food came soon after that, and Brian nagged Justin about eating and stole naan off my plate after saying he didn't want any, just normal lunchtime with Brian stuff. Evan and Emily were eating lunch out at Emily's desk, and I could see them cracking up and showing each other stuff on Emily's laptop. Brian said they were loud, but he was smiling. He smiled through most of lunch, actually—not in like an over-the-top way or anything like that, he just seemed really relaxed. Justin too, even though his energy was obviously slipping away and I could tell he was in pain. But neither of them talked about it, and it didn't seem like they were avoiding it, it was just like...they didn't need to talk about it. They're so used to this stuff, and maybe that should have made me sad, but right then I felt happy for them. Maybe they made it look easy because it was easy.


So everything was kind of normal and nice and then I tried to head home and the front doors wouldn't open.


I went to Emily's desk. Let me out.


She was back to work, typing so fast it was hard to believe she was actually forming words. She raised an eyebrow at me.


Your doors are locked.


That's weird.


Yeah, so...unlock them.


Do I look like a custodian? Ask the building manager.


Okay, who's the—


Arielle, she fingerspelled, and then waved me off and got back to work as if that were anywhere near a sufficient amount of information.


Still, with the Kinnetik staff's basic ASL and my expert pointing and miming, I eventually found my way to Arielle's office. She led me back to the front door, where she tried all sorts of keys and codes and cursing, by the look of it, and eventually came to the same conclusion I had. The door was locked.


I went back to Brian's office. He was sitting on the couch next to Justin, leaning towards him and asking him something. I stomped on the floor.


Brian looked up. If you stay here any longer I'm going to have to start paying you. I don't want to.


I think we're locked in.


What the fuck are you talking about?


Arielle is—


Brian showed me her sign name.


Arielle—thanks—is on the phone with your security people right now. The doors won't open. Is there a back door or something?


They're all on the same system, Justin said.


Then...let's hope there's not a fire?


Brian cursed and stormed out of the office. I looked at Justin, expecting us to trade “Oh Brian, such a drama queen” expressions, but Justin had his “I mean business” face on instead, and he followed Brian out of the office. Okay. I tagged along.


I couldn't really follow what was going on, though. Brian was signing some, asides to Emily telling her to call this person and this person and this person, but mostly he was barking orders at the people huddled up around them. Justin kept his eyes intently on Brian, and I mostly watched Emily.


Evan came up from art at one point, his messenger bag across his chest. What's going on? he asked me.


I think we're stuck in here.


That's...not great.


No. My fiancees's waiting for me.


He gave me a look.


And some of us have meds we need to take, I added.


Yeah, there you go.


Would you be okay? If we couldn't get home?


Evan laughed a little. For how long?


Um... I watched Brian yell into the phone. I'm thinking it might be a little.


I have dialysis tomorrow...


I looked at Justin, who was speaking out loud to someone I didn't know. I said, What about Justin?


Justin.... Evan pulled his lip into his mouth. We need to not be stuck in here.


After a few minutes of rushing around, Brian beckoned Evan over. Can you interpret? he asked.


Yeah, of course, he said, and he started speaking while Brian signed and told us all, essentially, that there was some kind of electrical problem at the security company that handled the locks, and they wouldn't be able to fix it until tomorrow morning.


So we were trapped here for the night.


Justin gave Brian's elbow a tug and Brian just said, I know, without really looking at him.


Brian fielded questions for a while, but I could tell from the way his hands were shaking when he signed—just a little, but I know Brian—that he was starting to unravel. Sure enough, after a little while he did this sign that's hard to translate into English, but it's literally pushing the conversation to the side, and turned to Emily and said, Can you take this? and she took his place, signing while Evan interpreted, with Justin jumping in to clarify every so often. Brian went back to his office, and I followed.


I let him slam things around his desk for a while before I said, You okay?


I have sixteen kids in daycare, two pregnant women, a diabetic, a kidney patient... He looked away and ran his hand over his mouth.


And Justin, I said gently.


He sighed heavily.


Will he be okay?


Who the fuck knows. Stuff can go sideways in a minute with him.


But they could at home, too.


He gave me a look like I was an idiot. And then I could take my little delicate flower to the hospital.


Okay true. I came over and put my hand around his wrist, briefly. It's just one night. Will he be okay for one night?


He shrugged. As long as he doesn't need oxygen.


Does he usually?


Sometimes. You never know.


What if he needs it and he doesn't get it? I said, but Brian just shook his head.


I called Daphne and explained the situation to her, and she was the understanding angel we know and love. There was a good amount of food in the staff room and Emily keeps a lot of granola bars and stuff at her desk, so while it's not like we got a full dinner or anything, there was at least stuff to snack on. Brian was all anxious about Justin eating enough, which I thought was just him being his anxious self until Evan mentioned casually that hunger is a seizure trigger. I probably should have known that.


Everyone was kind of just hanging out, playing card games and listening to music and showing each other YouTube videos, and the kids were having a great time sprinting around the place, but Justin was definitely starting to fade. In all the excitement I'd kind of forgotten what bad shape he'd been in this morning, and he'd probably been able to power through the day knowing he could go home and collapse after. Now he was pale and shaky as hell, and we all kept telling him to sit down.


And I think it was Brian's attitude about the whole thing, the frantic energy with which he kept sequestering Justin away, that made me realize that every single one of us stuck here was accidentally intruding on something private. Justin did not want to be seen like this. He works so hard to keep up a front when there are people around. And now there were all these people, practically strangers, who kept asking Brian if his partner was okay. I kept catching Brian and Evan in hallways or empty conference rooms, signing small to each other—is he okay, he's okay, is he still okay, he doesn't look okay.


When it got late, people headed to their offices or the staff room or the conference room floors to sleep, and Brian grabbed me and Emily and Jane and Justin and Evan and coralled us into his office. Nobody really seemed surprised by that. Brian loves his Deaf people. He turned the lamp on on his desk so we'd have enough to light to sign and said, Justin needs the couch, okay?


We all agreed, obviously, except for, of course, Justin. Emily should take it.


Sexist, Emily said. I can sleep on the floor. You can't.


I can, it's not like I'll die.


Brian said, Ah, yes, our standard of care, not dying. This isn't a negotiation. You'll be screaming in pain tomorrow and I don't want to deal with it. Lie down, you look like shit.


Justin did, reluctantly, and Brian and I got blankets and pillows out of his closet and made makeshift beds on the floor. It was cold down there, and Brian pulled me into him for warmth, his other arm protectively around Evan. Justin was shifting around a lot on the couch, and eventually Brian kicked it and told him to cut it the fuck out and go to sleep.


The next thing I remember was sometime in the very early morning, maybe two or three, and I woke up a little and adjusted myself on the floor. Evan was still there, sprawled out next to me, but Brian wasn't, and I lifted my head a little and saw him sitting on the couch. Justin had his feet planted on the floor and one hand pressed against his chest, and I could see his shoulders moving while he breathed. Brian had a hand on his back, and they were just sitting there, not talking, not even moving, absolutely still except for Justin's breathing.


And I thought about Brian earlier, who couldn't even say what would happen if Justin couldn't get oxygen. Like he couldn't bear to put it into words. And I looked at them now and thought...how even could you? How do you take a moment like this, Brian watching Justin struggle and there's nothing he can do, and put it into words?


Maybe they don't talk about it because it isn't weighing on them. Maybe they don't talk about it because...not because it's too horrible or anything like that, but just too private, too intimate, to speak about. I think it's possible that being in a relationship when you're sick, or when the other person is sick, is something that they haven't figured out the words for. Because what I saw that night between Brian and Justin was so goddamn heavy that I don't know how you'd even begin to distill it.


There are some things you just can't share, even when it's two o'clock in the morning and you're staring right at them.


**


Justin looked like warmed-over shit in the morning, but none of us really looked our best after our little sleepover party, so he blended in at least a little. They unlocked the doors first thing, and Brian deposited Justin on a bench outside the front door before he went to get the car. Are you coming with? he asked me.


No, I'll walk to the subway. I looked at Justin. Are you guys going to be okay?


Brian shrugged one shoulder. Used to it, he said, small, and I felt like a door was being cracked open.


I really do think you're a superhero, I said. Just in case you ever forget.


I'm a spectator.


Sure.


He rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue in his cheek. Thanks, Dad.


I punched his shoulder. Take good care of him.


I will.


I kissed his cheek, and Justin's, and Evan's, and then started the walk towards the subway. Twenty minutes and I'd be with Daphne. And I was going to ask her some questions about seizure triggers and how to help someone who needs to be on oxygen.

 

For now the sun was beating down on me, and I was in love, and I was part of something really, really big.

Chapter 120 - How to Be Alone by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin has a problem, and a solution.

How to Be Alone

LaVieEnRose



I was at my desk, finishing up a concept write-up for the most boring motherfucking client you could possibly imagine, when Evan knocked on my door and stuck his head in.


Hey, I said. Want to get lunch?


He shook his head. I have to get back to work. Have you talked to Justin?


I'd bitched at him before we left that morning about why he goes through ten different fucking water glasses a day, but I didn't think that was what he had in mind. No, why?


I wanted to ask him for advice on the mock-up I'm doing but I can't get him to answer the phone. I've been trying for an hour. And he seemed sick this morning.


He seems sick every morning. But he had been a little spacey. Still, He's probably sleeping.


His phone would wake him up. He sleeps with it under his pillow, so the vibrate will get him.


Sometimes it doesn't.


Yeah...


I sighed. What do you want me to do, Evan, run out to Flushing in the middle of the day to make sure he hasn't fallen and he can't get up? I have work to do.


I can go check on him.


You have work to do. My phone started ringing, and I checked the caller ID. I have to take this. I'll keep trying him, okay?


Okay.


He's probably fine. You know he sleeps like it's a sport.


Yeah. Okay.


Evan left, and I took the call, and while I charmed the pants off a mercifully less-boring client I spun my Rubik's cube and doodled dirty shit on a napkin and made a dick out of Play-doh and otherwise distracted myself from thinking about anything other than the call. Once it was over I went through and answered a few emails, but I noticed my responses were a little more testy than one might like, and I drummed my nails on my desk.


I called Justin. Once, twice. Three times.


Goddamn it, I said, and I ran out to Flushing in the middle of the day to make sure he hadn't fallen and he couldn't get up.


I flashed the lights on and off when I entered, but there was no sign of him in the living room or the kitchen. I didn't really worry about that, not until I checked our bedroom and the bathroom and he wasn't there either.


Obviously he could have gone out, but then he would have his phone on him, so this wasn't looking too great. I checked Evan's basement, and the upstairs, even though Justin never even goes up there, and then, finally, I thought to check the back porch, where he likes to paint on the rare intersection of days when the weather's nice but his allergies aren't killing him. Sure enough, his easel was set up, and his painting was half finished, and Justin was a fully unconscious heap on the porch.


“Shit.” I knelt down next to him and checked his pulse, and when that was strong and his breathing was okay I calmed down a pretty significant amount. “God, I hate when Evan's right.” I tapped on Justin's collarbone. “Come on, time to get up.”


He stirred a little but didn't really wake up. He did grab at his head a little bit and made a noise that let me know he was in pain, so that was kind of rough. I picked him up, trying to keep his head still on my shoulder so it wouldn't jostle too badly, and brought him inside and to bed.


All that excitement woke him up a little, and he shivered and blinked at me. “Brian?”


Hey. You remember anything? I thought about how long Evan had been trying to reach him, and my stomach did an unflattering flip. I think you were out there for a while, Sunshine.


“Brian?”


Yeah. I know. I ran my hand over his head, feeling for a bump. Are you cold?


He shuddered. Brian.


Yeah, you've got that part down. Good job. I kept checking him for injuries, but I wasn't finding anything. But it wasn't normal for him to be unconscious for that long after a seizure.


Unless it was a very, very bad one.


I called Evan, and God, the look on his face when he realized I was at home. Oh no, he said.


Get your stuff and come home, okay? It's okay.


What happened?


Just a seizure. We've got to take him in, though. I don't know if he hit his head. Goddamn it.


Evan was already gathering his things. “How is he?”


Pretty out of it. I think he's asleep again. He's going to be fucking miserable at the hospital. I so hate having to bring him in after seizures. At least when I have to haul him in for an asthma attack he knows what's going on. He's so fucking dumb when he's postictal.


I squeezed his hand.


“We should have brought him with us today,” Evan said, like I wasn't already thinking it. Reviewing every single minute this morning where I'd said anything other than come sit in the office, come do nothing and come out of your skin with boredom but be where I can see you.


Just hurry, I said.


**


The hospital fucking sucked, as predicted. They didn't admit him, which meant we never got a decent bed, just a stall in the ER when they weren't hauling him away for one test or another. It was becoming clearer and clearer that it must have been a fucking awful seizure, because Justin was miserably sick, shaking and vomiting and retaining exactly no information about what was going on and where he was. We finally got the all-clear to send him home at about ten at night, and he slept in the backseat while I drove us home and didn't even stir when I brought him to bed and Evan retreated to the basement. I shook Justin awake to give him his meds, changed out of my clothes, slung an arm over Justin to keep him still, and slept like a fucking rock.


He was still fast asleep when I woke up in the morning, which wasn't surprising, but I could hear Evan moving around, so I got up and headed to the kitchen, where he immediately handed me a cup of coffee. Just a lovely kid.


“How is he?” he asked.


Slept through the night. He's still out.


“Are you going to drug him up today?” Sometimes after a major seizure he gets a huge dose of Klonopin, but that knocks him on his ass for ages.


Only if he wants it. I sipped the coffee. Thank God it's Saturday. I don't want to pull him out of bed.


“Low-key today.”


Definitely. Pick out some movies for when he wakes up.


That ended up being sooner than I expected. Justin came wandering out when Evan and I were cleaning up breakfast, yawning and rubbing his eyes.


Hey, I said, probably a little more eagerly than my self-esteem would like. How are you feeling?


He did a so-so hand.


You remember anything?


He shrugged. Hospital, vaguely.


Yeah, they were all very impressed with you. Sounds like this was one for the books.


Another shrug. Don't remember. He was clearly just beat.


I came over and kissed his cheek. Go sit on the couch. Evan's got movies lined up. You want coffee?


Yeah, like a bucket.


Okay.


So we settled down on the couch, Justin sprawled on top of me and Evan like a bird in a nest. He was so locked up, couldn’t really move well at all, so I tried to massage some of the tension out of his muscles while Evan did an inane Pirates of the Caribbean commentary to make him smile. After the second movie Justin asked to be drugged up, and I could tell he was really feeling it, so I dosed him up with benzos and the good painkillers and he was snoring before I’d closed the bedroom door.


I haven’t seen him this bad in a while, I said to Evan.


It must have been bad. Did it scare him?


He hasn’t said anything. I don’t know that he would. I signed. It must have.


Sometimes the enormity of how fucking unfair this all is just hits me like a truck. How is Justin supposed to just fucking adjust, even after all this time, to something that is by definition unpredictable? How do you plan to completely lose your autonomy at random intervals, in ways that could hurt or even kill you? How do you ask someone as independent as Justin to live with a disease that means it’s dangerous to leave him home alone for a day, an hour, a minute?


I try not to think about it, I try so hard, but what I wouldn’t do to rip that fucker Hobbs from limb to limb. You don’t do this to someone. You don’t take this much. Justin loves his life, Justin works so hard to love his life, but there is always a part of him that wishes he’d just died and you cannot make that fact stop hurting.


Dying would have been a lot easier for him.


That doesn’t stop hurting.


I hadn’t even wanted to check on him.


“Brian,” Evan said, and I shook my head a little.


He didn’t eat breakfast. Let’s order in from that Mediterranean place he loves. Maybe he’ll eat something when he wakes up.


You okay?


 I’m fine, I just don’t know how I’m going to leave him alone again.


**


Turns out Justin had been having similar thoughts. I came into our room to check on him a few times and for a couple he was awake, looking at something on his phone. I didn’t think anything of it until we sat down for dinner and he said, I’ve been thinking, while Evan handed me a whiskey. Just a lovely, lovely kid.


I hate when you do that. You’re here to look pretty.


I’ve been thinking, Justin said sternly. That I want to see about getting a service dog.


I sighed. Justin.


Evan lit up like a damn Christmas tree. We're getting a dog?


We are not getting a dog, I said.


I thought service dogs were for blind people, said Evan, who lacks Justin’s robust disability studies background.


They’re for all sorts of things, Justin said. But I want a seizure alert one.


How can it tell if you’re going to have a seizure? Evan said.


We don’t really know. They can sense something we can’t. But they can let you know in time to get to safe place. And that's not even it, they can lie on you during it to keep you from hurting yourself, help wake you up after...you can even get special phones with like one button on them, so if I'm unconscious he can call you guys or 911 or whatever we program it to do.


Sunshine, I said.


It would be really good for me.


Yeah, I agree with you, it would be a great solution in a world where you weren't horribly allergic. Remember the saga of him and Ethan and the cat? Yeah, dogs are worse.


There are hypoallergenic dogs, he fingerspelled.


Hypoallergenic means less allergenic, I said, mostly for Evan's sake, since I knew Justin already fucking knew this. It doesn't mean not at all.


We still have a garden, Justin said. We still have a lawn. We've made the decision that those things are worth it.


We've made the decision that the homeowner's association would come after us with pitchforks if we had a nice pile of dirt as a front yard.


So a homeowner's association is a bigger incentive than my seizure disorder.


Don't twist my fucking words. It wasn't cute when you were seventeen, it's not cute now.


Poodles make amazing service dogs and they're great for allergies, Justin said. I could at least meet with them and see how much I react.


It was clear to both of us that we were getting nowhere here, so we turned to Evan.


This sounds like it would be amazing if we could make it work, he said.


I said, I know that it would be, but his fucking lungs...


He should meet with them, Evan said. We should know if it's on the table.


I don't even want a fucking dog, I said.


**


So that weekend we drove out to a poodle rescue in New Jersey. Jesus Christ, the words in that sentence. At some point you just don't have any dignity left. You get used to it.


They were kind of cute, in a weird, curly way. They weren't shaved down into some stupid cut like I'd imagined, and they came in about eighty different sizes, apparently. These weren't trained service dogs, and if Justin got one he'd be going through an agency that handled that kind of thing, so they were just running around playing fetch and....I don't know, whatever dogs do. Seriously, I'm not a fucking dog person.


Anyway, I barely paid attention to the dogs, even though Evan was having the time of his life; I was busy watching Justin like a hawk. He'd been a little wheezy that morning to begin with, and it certainly didn't get better while we were there, but it didn't seem like it got a lot worse. But his eyes got red and weepy and I could hear how congested he was when he spoke. We stayed for about half an hour, which was enough time to be sure that he was definitely allergic. He sneezed his head off on the drive home, but thankfully his breathing stayed pretty okay. I shoved him towards the shower as soon as we got home and a few minutes later figured I should get the dander off me, too, and followed him in. He leaned his head back and let me wash his hair.


I'm sorry, I said. I know you were excited about this.


He rinsed his hair out and shook it. “I still want to do it.”


Justin.


“There were like fifteen of them there in her tiny house and it was a really manageable reaction. One dog here? I'll be fine.”


This isn't a negotiation, I said, and he gave me a look and got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.


“You're right,” he said. “It's not.”


I turned off the water. What the fuck are you talking about?


“It's not a negotiation. This is a medical treatment that I'm choosing for my health—"


God, come on—


“And just like any medical treatment, there are side effects, but I'm the one who gets to decide whether I can live with the side effects, just like if this was some new pill. And I'm telling you what I can live with and what I can't. And I can live with some sneezing but I can't live like this any longer."


God.


You can't argue with this kid.


And worse than that, you don't even want to argue with him.


I took a deep breath. You'll start allergy shots right away.


Obviously.


I'm not taking it for walks.


His mouth twitched. “Okay.”


And I don't want some huge thing hulking around the house. Be a good gay and get a little dog.


“Okay.”


And it doesn't sleep on our bed. You snore enough as it is.


“Okay.”


And if...Justin, if you're suffering, you tell me. I won't make you get rid of it, but let me help figure out a solution.


“I will,” he said, his eyes so big and so goddamn blue. “I always do.”


I covered my face with one hand and said, God, you two are going to be the death of me, and Justin made some kind of squealing noise, so loud and ridiculous and Deaf and happy, and wrapped himself around my neck.

 

Chapter 121 - Sinai by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Evan's feeling drawn to something, and Brian and Justin have feelings about that.

Sinai

LaVieEnRose



My alarm went off at nine AM on Saturday. Justin was sleeping down here with me, and he stirred at the vibration and buried his face in my collarbone. I lifted his face and we kissed for a while. He was so warm and his hair was so soft, and he was breathing in that careful way that he does when he's trying not to trigger anything, gentle little breaths, and it made me love him.


Going for a run? he asked.


Yeah, I said, hoping he wouldn't be awake enough to notice the extra set of very-much not running clothes I'd stuff into my backpack before I left.


Have fun be safe I love you. He buried his face in his pillow and coughed some.


I rubbed his back. I can stay, I said, when he'd lifted his head up. A part of me wanted him to tell me not to go. Then I wouldn't be lying to him, at least not today.


But he said, You're ridiculous, I'm fine. I'm going to go wheeze at Brian to manipulate him into making me breakfast.


Save me something, I said, and he nodded and kissed me again. Yeah, save me some of that too, I said, and he laughed and we fooled around a little, and then he went upstairs and I got dressed and went to the subway.


**


I got back three hours later. Brian was sprawled out on the couch, half-watching whatever was on TV, and Justin was on his laptop at the kitchen table.


I toed my shoes off. Hey.


Brian checked his watch. That's a long run.


I'd sprinted around the block a few times to get sweaty and out of breath. I still want to do a marathon, I said.


You cannot do a marathon in kidney failure, Brian said, bored.


I can do anything I set my mind to.


Like die, for instance.


Very dramatic.


You know normal people pee blood after marathons, Brian said. You already do it like it's a fun hobby you enjoy.


Maybe I do. I stomped until Justin looked over. Hi. I'm here and I love you.


Cool, Justin said vaguely, already back to whatever he was looking at.


Brian snickered. This is why I don't even bother. It's nothing personal, though; it's just really hard to get to Justin when he's distracted. I don't know if that's a brain injury thing or a him thing.


Three years, Justin said to himself. That can't be right.


Brian waved his arm in the air until Justin looked over. What's three years?


The wait list for getting a dog. They say average is one to two years but it can be as much as three.


How many seizures can you have in that time? Brian asked.


That sounds like a challenge.


If you don't want to wait three years, follow the age-old advice, Brian said.


“What's that?” I said.


Brian turned to me and said, “Throw money at it.”


Justin clearly already knew this answer, because he said, How much?


How much do you want the dog?


Justin laughed, shaking his head. You are going to regret that answer.


Start with a hundred, Brian said, and Justin nodded as he typed.


“A hundred?” I asked Brian, because that didn't seem likely to do a lot of good.


Thousand.


“Oh. Wow.”


Sticker price on these is about thirty. Figure it can't hurt to go above and beyond.


“Is that really fair, though? I mean, some people don't have the choice to just pay more.”


He rolled his eyes. And some people have manageable seizures. Or no seizures at all! The premise here isn't really that Justin's life has him spoiled, is it? Let him have his money.


I just mean—


Justin waved for our attention and said, I just looked at the clock—were you gone for like three hours?


Who wants some fresh coffee? I said.


**


The next Saturday, Justin wasn’t with me so it was easier to sneak out. When I got home, Brian was at the table with his laptop and earbuds in, and he raised an eyebrow at me.


What are you watching? I asked.


This boring as fuck conference in Paris. The London office is there. Where were you?


Running.


With your backpack?


“Um...yeah.”


He looked at his watch. It's after noon. Don’t you usually go out early?


Crap. “Why the third degree?”


He muttered something that looked a lot like, “Why do you think?”


“What?”


He sighed and looked up. Nothing.


“Don’t do that shit.” You don’t do that to a Deaf person. “Tell me what you said.”


I was just talking to myself.


I stared him down.


I’m just wondering why you’re being sketchy as hell, that’s all.


“I’m going downstairs now.”


Great.


**


The next Saturday, they were both waiting for me. Brian’s eyes were red. Justin just looked pissed.


Empty your backpack, Brian said.


“What?” I said, and he came over and took my backpack off of me. “Hey—“


Are you using again? Justin said. His eyes were steady on me.


What are you talking about?


Brian shook my backpack out onto the floor, then got to work unzipping all the little pockets.


You're gone all the time, you're clearly lying about where you're going—


God. You thought I was using again?


And maybe I should have been angry, or scared, but I couldn't help it; I just felt sad for them. I hated what I'd put them through that their minds went there. I hated that it hadn't even crossed my minds that they'd think that. Justin's told me how much he struggles with seeing the worry on our faces, and there it was, for me. It's hard enough when they worry about my fucking kidneys. This was something I did. And I know, I know, addiction is a disease and it's not my fault but...isn't it?


Justin's eyes softened. You're not?


No, I'm not.


He ran his hands down his face. God. Okay. So what the hell is going on? He looked over my shoulder at Brian. What's that?


Brian showed him my clothes.


Are you seeing someone? Justin said. Why wouldn't you just tell us?


I'm not seeing anyone you don't know about. Since I was, at the time, two dates and two hand jobs deep with this guy Stephen, who is unimportant both in this story and the larger scheme of things.


Brian picked through my clothes like they offended him. Then what's with the Sunday best?


Ugh. It's Saturday.


It's a figure of speech.


No, it's not, because...because that's about church, and I've been going to synagogue.


They both blinked at me.


You've been...going to synagogue, Justin said.


I was so tired, all of a sudden. Deaf synagogue, in Manhattan. With Gwen and Emily and Jane. Call them if you don't believe me.


We believe you, I just—


What the fuck are you going there for? Brian said. Do they, what, need you to watch Jane?


No, they have a daycare there. I go for the services. I've been doing it for a few months now.


Brian and Justin did that thing where they look at each other and say something without saying anything.


Why is this such a shock? I said.


Justin said, Well, honey, you're not Jewish.


Here we go. I'm thinking of converting.


Converting? Brian fingerspelled.


Yeah.


So now he's found God, Brian said to Justin. This is that NA crap, I told you, they're a fucking cult—


Yeah, a big scary Jewish cult, I said. This has nothing to do with that.


All that surrendering to a higher power bullshit—


That's Christian, Justin said. He's saying he wants to be Jewish.


It's not that I want to be, I said. It just...it feels like I finally belong somewhere.


Brian rolled his eyes and stomped into the kitchen, and Justin sighed and gave me a small smile.


Don't worry about him, he said.


I knew he wouldn't take it well.


He'll come around. And I think it's great.


You do?


Justin nodded and gestured towards the back door, and we went out to the back porch and sat down at the lawn table. Justin looked fucking stunning in the sunlight, his hair like a halo. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs and gave me a small smile.


Okay, he said. So get me up to speed.


God, I loved him so much in that moment. I mean, always, too, but in that moment. I've just been thinking a lot lately about...about God and stuff. And obviously I was raised Catholic but that's just so full of bad memories for me, and, y'know Emily converted, so she kind of gets it, even though she did it for Gwen and Jane and she's not really religious, but...but I don't know, she told me some stuff about what made Judaism different from Christianity and it just...it sounded like what I was looking for.


Justin nodded thoughtfully as I spoke.


Do you ever...think about that stuff? I said. I know Brian thinks religion is for the weak. I don't know where you stand.


Brian has baggage, Justin says. A lot of church-related baggage that I'll never understand. I guess...I guess if pressed I would call myself a Christian.


You would?


I believe there's something up there, and I have all the privilege that comes from being raised Christian in this fucked up world, so I don't feel like I have license to try to divorce myself from that just because I'm gay.


Yeah.


He reached for my hand quickly. Not that that's what you're doing.


Yeah...


Oh, sweetheart. He sighed. Listen, I'm the wrong person to be asking, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. I went to Sunday school for a year when I was eight and we'd go to church on Christmas and Easter. I'm a casual at best.


I just want to feel like I belong to something bigger than just this family, I said. And I think I'm starting to.


Then that's amazing, Justin said.


Except. But I need Brian to be on board.


Justin sighed. Why?


Because...he's Brian.


Justin's eyes softened. You still feel like you owe him something.


He gave me a job and a place to live and his fucking husband and he pays for everything...


And he's not going to stop doing those things because he doesn't agree with how you spend your Saturdays.


I'm still the new kid in this family.


This family didn't exist until you were in it, Justin said. You were always in this family. And he wants to do those things for you. He loves you.


I know that. But I don't want to disappoint him. I felt my chin shaking a little. I don't want him to think I'm weak.


**


I stayed down in my basement for the rest of the weekend. Justin came down some, but Brian didn't, and I was too chickenshit to face him. I read some of the books I'd borrowed from Emily and organized my closet. A thrilling weekend for all.


Monday morning I had no choice but to face Brian, but when I went upstairs to see if he was ready to leave for work, he wasn't out in the kitchen. I walked past their bedroom, and the door was open, and I could see Justin curled up on himself sitting on the foot of the bed, like he was trying to make himself as small as he possibly could.


Brian came over with a shirt and helped him into it. There you go. It's okay.


Justin drew in a sharp breath when Brian rotated his shoulder, and I had to stop myself from charging in there, protecting him.


Perfect, Brian said, once the shirt was on. Okay. My boy. He tucked Justin's hair behind his ear. Good.


Justin was in so much pain that he was shaking just from sitting there, and Brian slipped one arm under his legs and carefully moved him back under the covers. Justin immediately balled up, his arms around his head, and Brian crouched down next to the bed and asked him a few questions I couldn't see, but I saw Justin shake his head no.


Brian came to the doorway. If he was surprised or pissed to see me there he didn't show it. Hey.


Is he coming in with us?


Brian shook his head. I'm going to work from home today.


Okay.


He's hurting bad. It kept him up all night.


Can I do anything?


Brian shook his head. Bring home the Johnson proofs? I want to take another look at them.


Okay. I pointed to the bedroom. I heard something.


Brian nodded a little. He's crying.


“Oh...”


Brian reached around my neck and massaged it a little. It's okay.


“Why is he hurting so bad?”


I don't know. I think it's just a bad day. I'm going to stay with him.


Two days ago he was reassuring me on the back porch and now he's in pain so bad he's crying for no real reason. Just because that's what his life is.


And without even meaning to, I thought: Hakadosh Baruch Hu yimalei rachamin alav. May God overflow with compassion upon him.


**


I came home at lunch with the Johnson proofs. Brian was on the couch, files on either side of him, his laptop on his knees. “How's Justin?” I said.


Asleep, finally.


“Drugged up?”


You bet.


I sighed and lowered myself into the armchair. “You ever wonder what it feels like?


Every single day.


He hadn't really looked at me since I'd come in.


Brian, I signed, so he'd have to, and he sighed and put his work aside.


What?


Why are you so uncomfortable about this?


About what? he tried, but I just gave him a look, and he rolled his eyes and said, I just didn't think you were this kind of person, that's all.


Justin believes in God. That doesn't seem to bother you.


Justin's not a part of any fucking institution, for one thing, but also he's...you know, he's him. He's an idealist. He's hopeful. Head up in wherever the fuck. You're supposed to be down in the trenches with me.


I am, I said. That's Judaism. It's about doing the work. Doing good work.


Religion is a way for people who can't handle their problems to weasel out of them by blaming them on God, or the devil, or people around them being sinners, and to soothe themselves with this fairy tale that everything will be better someday.


“You're talking about Christianity,” I said. “That's all you know. You don't know anything about this.”


It's all the same, he said.


It's not. There's no devil, there's no Hell, there's no sinners. There's not even some concrete idea of heaven. It's about being present in this life and paying forward everything you can. It's about how to take care of your family.


You don't need religion for that shit, Brian said. I don't need a God to take care of my people.


“Okay, well maybe I do,” I said. “Maybe that's the only thing that's been holding me together recently, okay?”


He watched me.


I don't know how to get by any longer without believing that maybe, and I mean really maybe, there is somewhere we go after this. For Adam, and...


He softened some.


“And now here I am, I have a life-threatening illness,” I said.


Nothing’s going to happen to you, Brian said immediately. Like always.


“But it might, and it’s comforting that that might not be the end of...of everything, and that all this shit I’m going through, it’s for something. I have a job to do while I’m here. I’m supposed to be making the world better.”


Brian watched me.


I mean, you get it, right? I said. Aren’t you....I mean, when Justin...


He looked away from me immediately.


“If Justin dies,” I said quietly. “Doesn’t it helps to think maybe he’ll be somewhere?”


Brian was still for a moment, then he got up and did a lap around the living room. I thought he was mad, but then he paused by the kitchen and said, You know there used to be a wall here? like it was mildly interesting.


“I...yeah.”


We tore it down so we could sign without anything in the way. And the floors were different too, when we bought it. We replaced them with cork so he wouldn’t hurt himself when he had seizures. And we had the bath tub sunken into the floor.


“I know all that.”


This, he said, indicating a line running down his finger, is from an x-acto knife, when we were packing up paintings for his first show, back in Pittsburgh. Needed stitches. This— he pulled the sleeve of his t-shirt up his shoulder—is from when he poured boiling water on himself during a seizure. The green paint on the bottom of my shoe? That’s his. He got me this watch for my thirty-fifth birthday. This freckle on my arm, that’s what I stared at and stared at and stared at when he told me he loved me for the first time, and I couldn’t look at him.


I clasped my hands together to stay quiet.


I know where he’ll be, Brian said. He’s everywhere.


“You know what’s funny?” I said.


What.


“That was the most Jewish thing I’ve ever heard.”


He rolled his eyes. Don’t label me.


“I won’t. This is about me.”


Brian sighed and said, You deserve something that’s about you.


That was probably the best I was going to get. It was plenty.


 


**


 


What if I don’t make a good Jew? I asked.


Gwen waved her hand. I’m a terrible Jew. You’ll keep me company.


What if I’m just appropriating a minority religion?


She laughed. That sounds like Justin.


Yeah.


That’s not how it works.


But how do I know if this is right?


She leaned forwards and squeezed my hands. There’s this line in the Torah, about when God handed it down to the people, and everyone was standing at Mt. Sinai.


Like the hospital, I thought vaguely. 


And God says, I’m making this covenant not just with you, but with every Jew still to come. Every single one, whether you’re born Jewish or you convert. Every single Jewish soul was on that mountain. So the only question you have to answer is: were you on the mountain? 


And of course Justin’s words repeated in my head. They always do. You were always in this family.


You can believe these things are a coincidence if you want to. But I didn’t want to anymore.


I think I was on the mountain, I said.

 

Chapter 122 - Befriend by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin doesn't make new friends very often. Especially not hearing ones.

Befriend

LaVieEnRose



“I might take an art class,” Evan said, checking the expiration date on a bottle of ketchup.


I threw away two heads of lettuce that were past their prime. Cleaning out the refrigerator: the kind of exciting stuff the two of us get into when Justin's away at his studio all day. Without someone to smother we both resort to coddling the house instead. “Of all the classes you could take. An art class?”


“It seemed relevant to my career. Did you know I work in an art department?”


“Yes, a job you got by being a brilliant artist.”


“I'm no Justin.”


He wasn't, but that's not really a fair place to set the bar for anyone. “You're great.”


“One can always improve.”


We were just talking out loud because my hands were full, but honestly, it's nice to have a break and get to speak English every once in a while. Pretty much my entire social life is Deaf at this point, and I don't mind it, but it is an extra bit of effort, a part of you that never gets to fully relax. And Evan's such a good fucking lipreader and so comfortable speaking that it's honestly all the same to him, so why not take advantage of Justin being out of the house? I obviously adore sign language, but sometimes...God bless Evan's abusive oral upbringing, all hail English.


The differences in Evan and Justin's hearing never fail to fascinate me, I can't help it. I was so used to Justin, who hears absolutely nothing and lipreads like a newborn, that getting adjusted to Evan, who with his aids and his lipreading can catch just about everything you're saying if you're facing him and the room is quiet, was a completely new kettle of fish, or whatever the fuck. Justin gets lost so easily, between the Deafness and the holes in his brain, and it's hard to watch, and it's also easy for people who don't know him well not to see what a fucking genius he is, but God, he has thoughts and ideas and suggestions for fucking everything and I can't remember the last time I didn't run a campaign idea by him or get him to tweak something the art department churns out before it runs. Whereas Evan displays competence so goddamn perfectly that I can be two minutes into a monologue before I remember he doesn't have the language foundation to really grasp stuff like figurative language, metaphor, wordplay, in either ASL or English.


Anyway. It's just different.


So I said, “Take an English class. Work on your writing.” I know the kid like the back of my hand and sometimes I stare at emails from him wondering what in God's name they're supposed to mean.


He shook his head. “I'd be embarrassed.”


“Don't be stupid.”


“See, it's starting already.”


My phone started ringing, and I dug it out of my pocket and checked the screen. An immensely unflattering picture of Justin. I waved my hand at Evan. “Our keeper calls.”


“Our what now?”


Justin.


“Ask him if he wants me to keep this roast beef.”


I hit answer and propped the phone up on the counter. Justin was walking home from the subway, bundled up and breathless. Where’s your fucking coat? I said. All jokes aside, getting Justin and his newborn marsupial immune system to wear enough fucking clothes is a goddamn full-time job.


I gave it to someone.


You gave your coat to someone.


Well, lent it. I have a good reason!


Okay, let's hear a good reason for giving away your coat when it's twenty-five degrees outside.


How about I just saved someone’s life . Hi Evan!


I put down the orange I was holding. You did what the fuck?


Okay, so I’m at Queensboro plaza waiting for the transfer, and there’s this girl next to me, maybe like Evan’s age, pretty, just like messing with her phone or whatever, and the next thing you know...seizure!


You had a seizure? Evan and I said together.


God, no, pay attention. She did. Right there on the subway platform. She could have fallen onto the train tracks if I wasn't there!


Jesus, I said. That's been a shared nightmare of Justin and mine and hell, probably Evan's.


I grabbed her and got her on her side and like...I don't even remember it, it happened so fast. I was like made of adrenaline.


How long did it last? Evan said.


Maybe thirty seconds? It wasn't a super bad one, I don't think. Brian probably wouldn't even have noticed.


I do love ignoring seizures, I said. The other night he had one when I was trying to sleep and I put a pillow over my head, which was nicer than where I wanted to put it.


Justin said, So I stayed with her until the ambulance came, and she was shivering so I gave her my coat. And I put my name and address in her phone so she can send it back, so see? I did not lose my coat.


You're still outside freezing your tits off, I bitched.


I'm fine.


You're going to get sick. Why didn't you fucking call me to pick you up?


Because I'm invincible! Justin says. I save girls from certain death!


I grabbed my keys. Where are you now?


Like two blocks away, he said, and I put the keys down. I'll be there in a second.


It was more than a second, but eventually Justin came through the door in a burst of cold air, blowing into his hands—because of course he didn't have gloves, either. Evan went over and wrapped him up in a hug and a blanket while I glared from the kitchen.


Your powers are useless, old man, Justin said to me.


Don't come crying to me when you're up all night coughing, I said.


He didn't come crying to me, obviously, but of course it kept me awake, which was not as much of a problem as the fact that it kept him awake, so that put me in a bad mood and I was mad at Justin and mad at the cold and mad at his fucking savior complex and mad at his fucking scarred lungs. Sue me, I'm protective over Justin's sleep. He has chronic pain which keeps him up enough and is worse when he isn't rested, and epilepsy itself has a ton to do with sleep. Sometimes he can't be roused for twenty hours, yeah, but other times it's been two days and he's barely closed his eyes to blink. He has seizures when he doesn't get enough sleep. I'm not a fan.


He was hard to rouse in the morning, headachy with his muscles locked up, bitching with his hands and his voice any time I tried to move him. I got him a bottle of water and some oatmeal because he’s deranged and actually likes it better when it’s cold and gluey and left them on the bedside table for him. I’d been stepping back a bit from work lately, because why the fuck not, we’re rich as sin and I have a sick husband I, despite the three hundred-dollar moisturizer, am not getting any younger, but I still needed to go into the office for a few hours. I checked on Evan—fine, sleeping in after he’d spent the night out with some of his hearing friends—and headed out.


The house was pretty quiet when I got back; Justin was sitting at his easel, drafting something out with pencil, and Evan was on the couch, half-watching something muted on the TV while he played with his phone. Silence is hard to come by with these two, so you savor it when you get it, and it was nice.


I was torn between starting something for dinner and yanking Justin away from his painting for a quick fuck in the bedroom when there was a soft knock on the door. Was probably a solicitor, since everyone who knows us knows to ring the bell. I signed door for the Deaf kids and hauled myself out of the arm chair and over to the door.


It was a girl, about Evan's age, tall, hair as blonde as Justin's but probably not natural. She was holding Justin's coat, so it didn't take me very long to put it together.


“I'm looking for Justin?” she said.


“He's here.” I waved for Justin's attention and turned back to the girl. “You're the—”


“The girl who did the impression of a drowning fish on the subway platform, yeah.”


“Can fish drown?”


“Sure.”


“Well, Justin does such impressions regularly, as I'm sure he told you.”


“I don't really remember much,” she said.


“Yeah, I guess you wouldn't.”


“Everyone at the hospital knew him, though. Somehow word got around that Justin Taylor saved me and all the nurses wanted my autograph.”


“Yeah, they all have a crush on him,” I said, just as Justin finally came to the door. He smiled at her and mouthed, 'thank you,' when she handed him the coat back.


How are you feeling? Justin said, with a glance to me so I'd know to interpret.


The girl looked at me initially but once I nodded her back to Justin, she faced him while she spoke. “Still kind of crappy. They ran all these tests but they still don't know why it happened, or if it's going to happen again.” Shit. I 'd just assumed this girl was an experienced epileptic, for some reason. I hadn't thought that it was her first one. That's got to be so fucking scary.


No wonder you track down the guy who saved you instead of sticking his jacket in the mail.


I could tell Justin was going through the same thought process, and he stepped back from the door to give her room to come in. She stepped inside and slipped out of her boots, and I got Evan's attention and sim-commed, “This is...” before I realized I had no idea what her name was.


“Sorry,” she said. “April.”


April, I fingerspelled to the boys, and I made the rest of the introductions while Justin took her coat. She looked nervous, and I tried to remember the last time we'd had a non-signer in the house. I wasn't sure it had ever happened. “Evan reads lips,” I said to her. “Justin does not.”


“Yeah...I remember that a little. He kind of ignored the paramedics and just talked to me.”


“He'll probably talk in a little while,” I said. “He's shy about his voice.” Justin was watching us, and I signed, Just talking about you, to him, kindly, and he smiled a little.


Drink? he said to April, a pretty intuitive sign.


“Um, water would be...” she said, looking at me, and I showed her the sign. Water. “Thank you?” So I showed her that one too. Justin smiled and went to get it, and April sat down on the couch next to Evan.


Evan said, She's the girl who had the seizure?


Yeah.


“Is that the sign for it?” April said. Another intuitive one, but still, sharp of her to catch an individual sign without context. “Seizure?”


Evan demonstrated it.


Seizure, she said. “I guess I should learn that one.”


Justin came back with glasses of water and Evan made room on the couch between him and April, and when April started to talk to Justin and then stopped herself, looking a little lost in that way hearing people sometimes do, Justin smiled a little and held up a finger and then pulled his phone out of his pocket and presumably opened up his speech to text app he's a big fan of.


April said, “So...this has happened to you too?”


Justin read it off his phone, then nodded and started typing.


I waved to Evan and said, Let's leave them alone for a while.


Justin alone with a hearing person?


He'll let us know if he needs us. Let them talk seizure stuff.


So Evan and I made ourselves busy fixing something for lunch and cleaning up a bit and generally flirting around and pretending not to keep an eye on Justin with a hearing person. It’s not that we were hovering, because Justin can absolutely handle himself with hearing people; he just doesn’t like it, and yeah, I’m a little sensitive about Justin being in situations he doesn’t like when he's home and safe and should be experiencing whatever meager amount of comfort the world offers him.


But Justin was holding his own. He was talking a little, and laughing a lot, and April was a little teary—Justin always is the day after a bad seizure too—but laughing along with him, and typing question after question into his phone. Justin was patient, open, dazzling. I mean, it's Justin. If a stranger didn't fall immediately in love with him I'd worry we'd slipped into an alternate reality. By the time half an hour passed, they'd stopped talking medical stuff and moved straight into a ASL lesson. I dropped by with some snacks and a pill for Justin because I could tell his head was bothering him, and Justin sim-commed, You should have Brian teach you, not me.


You learned at the same time I did, I sim-commed back.


Yeah, but you didn't have Deaf friends back then. You weren't immersed in it. God help me, his Rs.


That's true.


Though, from the looks of things, having a Deaf friend wasn't going to be a problem for April.


**


Sure enough, the next time we all gathered at the bar in Sunnyside, April came. Gwen was home with Jane, but everyone else was there, and Emily was getting riotously drunk to celebrate having the night off from parenting, so that was pretty fun. April gravitated towards Molly and Daphne, who sim-commed for her, and I tried to too but kept forgetting. God, Justin has me well-trained.


Once you get good at signing, you won't want to sim-comm, Daphne told her. Makes getting the grammar right so much harder.


“I don't think I'm ever going to get good,” April said.


It takes time, Daphne said. A lot of time.


April and I had a moment alone at the pool tables, when everyone else was either up at the bar or back at the table. “Do you think I'm being ridiculous?” she said. “Trying to get to know him when I don't even speak his language?”


“I'm a little biased on this one,” I said, with a wave of the ol' wedding ring.


“I guess you did learn a whole new language for him.”


I lined up a shot. “I did indeed.”


“He told me the whole story, how he started losing his hearing and everything. Typed it all out. He was younger than I am now, which like...I don't know how you deal with that.”


“I don't either.”


“I can't even deal with a seizure,” she said, and this shadow passed over her face, and it kind of struck me, I don't know, what a monumental experience this was for her. I didn't know her well, but from what I'd heard it sounded like she'd had a fairly cushy life, and then all of a sudden she has this near death experience and no one can tell her why or if it's going to happen again.


Justin has me used to it, but sometimes I remember that most people don't have to worry about losing control like that. Most people are like me, even if in my little life it sometimes feels like being healthy is the anomaly.


“He hates them too,” I said. “If it's any consolation. He has them all the time and he hates them. I don't think you can get over being overwhelmed by seizures. They're overwhelming by definition.”


She rubbed her forehead. “I'm so freaked out by the complications he's had from the meds.”


“That's not typical. You don't have to worry about that.”


“I know. They don't even have me on anything right now. They said not unless it happens again.” She looked over at the table, where everyone was talking. “God. I am never going to understand that.”


“I can't understand that,” I said. Between the distance and Emily's drunken signing and everyone interrupting each other, I couldn't catch anything.


“I don't know if that's comforting or demoralizing.”


I took a shot and knocked the 9-ball into the corner. “I choose comforting.”


“Does it really just like...click at some point?” she said. “I mean, I know I'm miles away from that, I know like four signs. But it's like...I only know one language. I took Spanish in school but like, I don't speak it.”


“There's not really one time that it clicks,” I said. “It's more like...it clicks and unclicks over and over.” Back when I was learning I'd have these days where I really felt, if you'll excuse the timely metaphor, that I was behind the 8-ball, and I was really making progress, back when Justin and I were figuring out it together and we'd manage a real conversation about what we wanted for dinner or what time we were going out, just basic shit like that, and God, we felt like superheros. I still remember the grin he'd get when he realized we'd understood each other, this slow, incredible thing that I wasn't seeing often enough in that time because he was so fucking scared of what was happening. But there's something magical about being able to communicate. Especially about being able to communicate with Justin.


But there were other times, fuck, there still are, when I see two Deaf people talking to each other or I try to jump in in the middle of a conversation without having context, that I feel like I'm back in ASL I again, learning how to sign my goddamn name. It doesn't bother me as much as it used to, but that's through sheer force of will and sheer force of will alone. It doesn't stop nagging when there's a part of Justin that you can't access. That's that magic again.


“He doesn't usually bother with hearing people,” I said. “He hasn't made a new hearing friend in...I don't think he's ever made a hearing friend.”


She squirmed a little, and I was reminded of how young she was. “So why me?”


I'd thought about it, obviously, why her, and I didn't think it was because she was brave or resilient or clearly tenacious as all hell, though all those things seemed to be true. And I can't say it didn't irritate me a little at first, because...God, I'm always trying to convince Justin to spend half a fucking hour at a party getting to know some clients and it's like pulling teeth, and now here he was willingly going out with someone who couldn't talk to him.


But I knew why. Of course I knew why.


“You're his family,” I said. “You're in the seizure network.”


Justin hates hearing people, but not as much as he loves sick people.


“God, you are driving me crazy with that 8-ball,” she said. “Let me do it.”


“All right.”


**


We headed out not too long after that because I could tell Justin was starting to fade. April signed Good night pretty beautifully which got everyone very excited, and Evan and Justin and I traded embarrassing stories about mistakes we made when we were learning to sign all the way back to the apartment. The fact that Evan taught himself with hardly any exposure still blows my mind. The kid is so fucking smart and he has no idea.


Justin we already knew was brilliant, so no surprises there.


I gave the kids their meds and kissed them goodnight and all my other assorted duties, and then Justin and I retreated to have a shower and sex and lay together in bed making out for a while, so that was pleasant. Justin was really tired and it was making him cuddly and moany and pretty hot. I brushed his hair out of his eyes and kissed his forehead, and he smiled sleepily up at me.


You're such a fucking good person, I said.


He yawned. “It's annoying?”


Incredibly, I said, and he laughed and tucked his head into the crook of my neck.


I wasn't aware of falling asleep, but I definitely know when I woke up: when Justin punched me in the fucking face. Honestly I'm partially to blame. I sleep on his right, and that's the side that seizes.


I sat up a little, rubbing my nose, and turned him onto his side and pulled him carefully into my chest. I just rode his waves for a while, my hand on the back of his head to keep it from slamming against my shoulder. It was just a partial complex seizure, which sometimes I'll just let him have on his own, but it was a violent one, and it went on for a while. He moaned when it was over, and rolled over onto his stomach, not fully awake. I rubbed his back up and down and kissed the nape of his neck. Eventually he turned back over and faced me.


“Hey,” I said.


“Hey,” he mouthed back, and I smiled a little and ran a finger down his cheek. “Just trying to sleep,” he said, so fucking sadly.


I know. Any minute now.


He blinked slowly.


Come here. I guided him into me, moving him so fucking carefully because I knew his muscles had to be killing him after that. I watched him for signs of pain as I put my leg onto him, and when he reacted with a nuzzle into my chest I pulled him closer, burying my nose in his hair, smelling his sweat and his shampoo.


“Love you,” he mumbled.


You're okay, I signed on his chest, and we fell asleep like that.


It's just normal for us. That's just something that happens.


**


A couple weeks later, April was over again, watching a movie with Justin and writing notes back and forth, laughing and shoveling down handfuls of popcorn, kid stuff. She showed off her sign language and it was clear she'd been studying, so that was sweet of her, and Justin just beamed. So everything was fine, and then I was up in the office getting some work done while Evan did a grocery store run, and Justin's voice cut through the air like a knife.


“BRIAN!”


So I ran downstairs, obviously, thinking he was hurt or something, but no, he was on his knees next to the couch, and April was on the floor in front of him, seizing badly.


God. She'd so hoped it was just the one.


Okay, I said. Get her on her side...yeah, like that. It was fucking surreal, talking Justin through how to manage a seizure. We'd been through so many of them that it seemed ridiculous that he didn't know exactly what to do. But why would he have ever thought to learn? Start a timer on your phone, okay? I held April in place and unzipped her hoodie so she wouldn't choke herself with it. “You're okay,” I told her. “It's going to be over soon.”


“Brian.” Justin said. “Her lips are turning blue.”


That happens sometimes. It's okay. You have the timer?


He nodded.


We just wait, then. It won't be long.


And it wasn't, though it was a little past when I would have liked, but nothing that meant I needed to call an ambulance for her, which I knew would be a miserable experience for everyone involved.. She could rest for a little while.


Why isn't she waking up? Justin said.


It takes a while after big ones like that. Good to just let her rest. Getting her up onto the couch seemed difficult when she was basically dead weight, so Justin got a pillow and a blanket and we set up a makeshift bed around her on the floor.


Use your inhaler, I told Justin.


I'm okay.

 

You sound like shit. Sit down.


Justin sat on the couch and pulled his legs up, watching her.


I'm going to get you some water, I said. And I'm going to call your neurologist and see if he can see her this week. I don't want her going to some fucking makeshift doctor she finds on the damn internet.


“Yeah,” Justin said absently.


I went into the kitchen, more to just give him a minute than anything, and dialed the phone and made the call and did all the things and the whole time I was just so fucking mad. I was angry that Justin had to see that. That now he knew what it was like. There are so few goddamn things I've managed to protect him from and my whole goddamn life is watching each remaining one get ripped away. And what the fuck happens at the end of that? What's the goddamn point of me once Justin has been hurt every way he can be, once I didn't stop it?


I'm just saying I have a job, here.


I came out of the kitchen and handed Justin a glass of water. You okay? I said.


I'm so sorry.


I couldn't fucking tolerate that, so I just ran my hand down my face and didn't say anything.


“Is it always that bad?” he said.


No.


“God, I can't believe you have to fucking do that all the time.”


Sunshine, that is not what you should be taking away from seeing that.


He took a shaky breath and looked down on the floor.


It's what I have to take away, he said.


It's so easy to forget how much this all scares him. God, he acts so fucking brave all the time. Every once in a while I'll catch him on his laptop researching complications, death rates, bad outcomes, and he'll have the same look on his face he had now, and I'll remember.


So what the fuck is the point of me, if I can't keep him from being scared.


You saw me handle it, I said. I know what I'm doing.


You shouldn't have to.


I don't mind.


He rubbed his hand over his mouth. Is she in pain? he said, and my heart just goddamn broke.


Yeah, she is.


I don't remember, he said.


I know. Come here.


I pulled him up into my arms and just held him for a little while, and Justin tucked his forehead against my chest and took some deep breaths. I ran my hand up and down his back and listened to him wheeze.


“What if you weren't here?” he said eventually, and I knew what he was really asking.


I tilted his chin up with one finger.


I'll always be here, I said.

 

End Notes:

 

Thank you SO SO SO much to Cher, Hannah, Julie, and Deborah for supporting this fic!! If you'd like to join the hype squad you can follow me on twitter at https://twitter.com/LaVieEnRoseFic.

Chapter 123 - Coming of Age by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Two major life events intersect for Evan and Gus. Justin manages both.

Coming of Age

LaVieEnRose



Do you want to go down tomorrow night or Friday? Brian said.


“Tooooomorrow,” I said, slowly, bringing plates to the sink. “I think. I might have to be there when my show closes, but I don't think they actually need me there. I don't want to be there. They'll make me lift things.”


What about your cripple perks?


“Everyone's disabled nowadays. I've lost my leverage.”


Not me.


Well, give it time, I said, and Brian laughed a little. I read some theory thing a while ago that said that everyone becomes disabled if they live long enough, which is totally true and something you never think about, and Brian really latched onto that. He pulls it out all the time with able-bodied people who act like giving accommodations is such a big deal, like they won't need them themselves someday.


No, Brian said. I'm going to die suddenly and beautifully. Imagine how annoying I'd be disabled. We can't risk it.


I'll take your word for it, I said, because Lord knows I won't still be around when Brian's ox-adjacent constitution finally gives out. It's okay. It helps to joke about stuff.


He knocked my head to the side, gently, and I kissed his shoulder and helped him load the dishwasher. It was just this nice kind of evening, and talking about our plans to go to Pittsburgh for Gus's Bar Mitzvah was exciting, even if it was going to be the first time Evan met all the Pittsburgh people—including my mother—and that was kind of nerve-wracking. But he was so excited to see the Bar Mtizvah, to witness this big Jewish event, because he's been working on converting which is so cool and I'm so happy for him.


We were going to drive down, partially because Evan really loves road trips, but mostly because flying is such an ordeal for me nowadays and always leaves me feeling wretched for a while afterwards. Brian hates long drives but he’s good to me and doesn’t complain. Probably partially because he’s the one who has to deal with my body completely falling apart on airplanes.


Okay, so if we get down there by Thursday night we have all of Friday to do whatever, and then the service Saturday morning, Brian said.


That’s better, I think.


Why is there so much goddamn food left on your plate, I swear...


Leave me alone.


Why the fuck am I doing dishes? This is not my job. Where is your boyfriend?


“Why is it that whenever he does something like go back to school or nail a campaign board or pick up the dry cleaning without being asked it's all I love our boyfriend, look at our boyfriend go but the second he doesn't do the dishes it's, Sunshine, where's your boyfriend?”


It's a mystery.


I rolled my eyes. He's in the basement working on his essay. Evan, as previously implied, was back in school, taking an English class at the local community college, which was amazing and a really big deal for him, because he's so self-conscious about his written English—I would say something about his spoken English too but well, how the fuck should I know—but he knows it's been holding him back at work and keeping people from taking him seriously. It's one of the areas where I'm really lucky I didn't lose my hearing until I was older. Emily and Derek always talk about how hard it was to learn, and even though they had the best Deaf education money can buy growing up and for the most part read and write beautifully, every once in a while I'll get a text from them that has some not-quite-right turn of phrase. It's charming, and also a good reminder of the fact that this shit is really, really tricky if you didn't grow up hearing. It's honestly amazing Evan got through as much high school as he did, and that he reads as well as he does.


Brian, thinking similarly, smiled in that way that makes his eyes sparkle and said, Writing an essay. How about that.


I see he's our boyfriend again.


We did the dishes quietly for a while, Brian nudging me with his hip every so often, and then he turned to his left and signed something and I saw Evan had appeared in the kitchen, this strange expression on his face.


It's going fine, he told Brian, who presumably had asked about his essay.


I dried my hands on a dishtowel. “Sweetheart, what's wrong?” Brian put his hand on my back.


Evan started to sign, then stopped and shook his head a little.


Evan, Brian fingerspelled, deliberately, every letter, not the quick EVN he uses for his name sign.


Baby? I said.


Evan took a deep breath. I got an email from my mom.


Delete it, Brian and I said together. Sue me, we're not big fans of the parents who raised Evan completely cut off from his community, who didn't give him the chance to have a language or people who understood him, and who threw him out of the house the second they found out he was gay. They're the reason Evan came to New York with nothing, that he fell into drugs and homelessness and all the other he somehow, thank you God, managed to drag himself out of. As far as I'm concerned, they're the reason he's positive, the reason he's in kidney failure.


My mother's incredible, but broadly speaking we don't do great with parents around here.


I was going to but then I...didn't.


Brian rolled his eyes and looked away because otherwise Evan would see the worry in his face and, well, there are some parts of Brian that he still only shows to me.


What did it say? I said gently.


Evan paused for a long time and then said, My father's dead.


**


“I don't like this,” I said, as I rubbed lotion on my legs and stretched on the bed and got ready for bed, without Evan.


Brian spit into the sink. It's what he wants.


“He always wants to be alone when something's wrong. That doesn't mean that's what's healthy for him.”


And being smothered isn't necessarily healthy just because it's what you want.


“His father died. He's upset, you saw him. He shouldn't be alone tonight.”


He didn't even like his father.


“You didn't like your parents either, and you still had a rough time when they died.”


He gave me a look.


“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to acknowledge that you have feelings.”


Well, don't let it happen again.


I flopped down on the bed. “I just don't know what to do here. When your mother died I just hung around and waited for you to need me. I don't know if that's even going to happen with Evan.”


Brian climbed next to me and stroked my hair for a minute. Evan...has a lot of experience with people dying.


And he never talks about Adam. He's clearly not great at handling it. God, do you think there’s going to be a funeral?


Probably.


“Do you think he’ll want to go?”


Brian snorted. I don’t care what he wants. He’s not going. And before you play the but your parents card again, I went because Michael would have a shit fit if I didn’t. We’ll have a shit fit if he does.


“He might want to say goodbye.”


He said goodbye when the bastard threw him out of the house. Said it in English, he added pointedly.


Hmm. Annoyingly valid.


Brian pulled the blankets up and took my right leg—I’ve had trouble moving it lately when I'm tired, it’s like the signals don't get through—and casually lifted it up and placed it under the covers. It’s just one of those little things he does that makes my heart swell (not literally, thank God; I have enough going on). He just takes care of everything, like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.


“We have to take care of him,” I said.


Brian nuzzled my neck. We’ll watch him all weekend.


“Yeah. Okay.”


**


I had to spend the day closing out my art show so that they wouldn't mind when I bailed out early, so I ordered Brian to keep an eye on Evan and text me with updates, which he didn't do nearly frequently enough because he's an old man who doesn't understand the expectations of texting. Around one he sent me a short video of him saying, He's fine, he's working on a painting in the basement, it's very angry, think it'll turn out well, I packed your shit for the trip, I love you so that sated me a bit.


I got home at around four to shower and get ready to go, and then Brian and I had to have some sex because he looked really hot today so we were kind of delayed by that, and we were discussing whether to order in a quick dinner or just grab something on the road, despite Brian's horror at having food in the car, when Evan finally came up from the basement.


Are you all packed? Brian asked him.


Evan ruffled the hair on the back of his head, not really looking at us. Brian stomped on the floor until he did.


I think...would it be really bad if I didn't go?


My heart dropped a little. But you were so excited for it.


I know. I just don't think I can stand to be around like, big crowds of people celebrating and being happy right now.


Brian would call that cognitive dissonance, I thought vaguely. Everyone will understand, I say. I turned to Brian. I should stay here with him.


Evan waved his hand to stop me. You absolutely should not. You are not missing your kid's Bar Mitzvah.


But you'll be going to dialysis alone this way and coming home to an empty house—


I want to be alone, Evan said. Really. I just need a few days to just...it'll be good for me. I promise.


I looked at Brian, who shrugged.


He's not you, he said.


I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.


You'll call us, I told him.


Okay.


And you'll call Emily if you need anything while we're gone.


I will.


I went to him and hugged him tightly. My Evan.


**


“I still think I'm being the worst for leaving him,” I said in the car.


Gus would be devastated if you weren't there.


“I know...I would be too.”


Brian turned the music up so I could feel it, and we were quiet for a bit, while he drove and I watched the scenery roll by. I was already starting to feel kind of crappy, which wasn't a great sign for this car trip, or this weekend, but I didn't want to tell Brian yet. He was already a little on edge, partly because of Evan, partly because facing the Pittsburgh crowd always gets him kinda tightly wound. They're just a lot. It used to really bother me that they spoke all the time and I missed out on a ton of conversations, but now...I don't know. I have my own people now in New York. I don't need them anymore, which would feel a lot crueler if they weren't the ones who had, for the most part, largely decided I wasn't worth learning to talk to.


Maybe I was a little on edge too.


Brian picked up on it, like he always does. It's going to be painless, he said. Two days. We were staying at Ben and Michael's because Michael pretty much insisted, and because my mom's condo isn't really big enough and if we get a hotel room it's this whole thing where everyone feels insulted.


My right arm started seizing a little while after that, banging against the car door, and I grabbed it with my left and yanked it into my lap.


Brian took a hand off the steering wheel and adjusted my grip Easy, he said. Be gentle with yourself.


**


It had been a while since we'd been back in Pittsburgh, so even though we didn't get in until late everyone was at Michael and Ben's to make a big deal out of it, which pissed Brian off because he knew I wasn't feeling well and a surprise party was just about the last thing I needed. But we were charming and smiled as much as we could and I tried to understand their terrible signing and it wasn't that bad. Brian had a few drinks and then ushered me upstairs when no one was looking. We had sex and lay in bed together and laughed about how we'd ghosted our own party as we heard the crowd downstairs slowly peter out.


Want the good stuff tonight? he asked me, counting out pills. Sometimes I take a really heavy duty sleeping pill to effectively knock me out, and Brian obviously knows I have trouble sleeping in places other than our bed, and Evan's.


No, I don't want to be groggy tomorrow.


Big day, Brian agreed.


Our boy becomes a man.


Brian handed me my pills and crawled up on the bed beside me. Thankfully through a different process from last time I had a boy become a man, he said, and I laughed.


Probably less fun for Gus, though.


Hmm, singing in Hebrew versus getting your brains fucked out. It's a tough call. He stretched out next to me. God, that boy's going to be a nightmare when he starts dating.


Kinney, but straight.


Brian shuddered. Words that should never be signed.


I nuzzled into his neck. “Poor Brian.”


He wrapped his arms around me and rocked us back and forth a few times. No, he said. I'm okay.


**


I couldn't sleep, though, even with Brian cashed out on top of me, his arm winding around my waist. I was worried about Evan, and also feeling kind of crappy and seizure-y, and also very, very hungry. Eventually I gave up and slipped out from under Brian's arm and hauled myself out of bed. My right leg was predictably being weird, trembling underneath me and threatening to give out with every step, and by the time I made it to the top of the stairs I knew there was no way this was going to work. I sat down there to rest and tried to decide whether I was going to go back to bed brute force sleep or make Brian go downstairs and fix me a sandwich, but a minute later I felt footsteps behind me, and then there was a tap on my shoulder and Ben sat down next to me.


“Did I wake you up?” I said.


I was still up. Getting some writing done. You okay?


“Yeah, just hungry. And my body doesn't think stairs are on the itinerary.” I probably butchered that word.


Want help?


“Mmhmm,” I said, and he pulled me up carefully and got on my bad side and we went slowly down the stairs, his hand on my waist. It's still hard for me to accept help from people besides Brian—and hell, sometimes including Brian, when my mental health is really for shit—but Ben is one of the easiest. He knows how to not make a big deal out of it, and he's one of the only Pittsburgh people I still talk to regularly. We email all the time.


He kept his arm around me until we were in the kitchen, and I settled myself into a chair and slowly stretched out my leg. Leftover lasagna? Ben fingerspelled. He fingerspells a lot. It's okay, but kind of exhausting to read.


“Sounds perfect, thanks.”


Ben worked peacefully in the kitchen and I sat there and took in the calm, breathing it in like air. He set a plate in front of me and said, So...


“Yeah?”


Is everything okay?


“Yeah, my leg's just been awful. Brian wants me to get my anti-convulsant upped and I just like...I'd be a zombie. A zombie who feels like shit. I'm not a fan.”


Ben smiled a bit. I meant because Evan's not here. I was looking forward to meeting him finally.


“Oh. Oh. No, everything's fine, just...his dad died a few days ago.”


Oh, I'm sorry.


“I think he just felt strange being in a room full of people celebrating right now.”


Of course.


I ate a bite and shook my head a little. “I don't know what to do. It's so different from when Brian's mother died. I felt like he and I were together then, like it was us against...all the expectations, I guess. But I feel so far away from Evan.”


I lost my father when I was about his age.


“Were you close?”


Ben sighed. It was complicated. I think with fathers it almost always is.


“Evan's dad kicked him out of the house.”


What about when he was young?


I thought about it for a minute. “I'm not sure. He doesn't talk about the past unless he can't help it. His is....not good.” But all of that was once he was outed, after he came to New York. I didn't know what his childhood in LA was like.


It breaks my heart sometimes how little I know about Evan before he got to me, and it makes me feel like the worst partner in the world. But every time he's forced into talking about it it's just this fucking black hole of misery. It's so hard to believe that Evan, my Evan, has been through as much as he has. It doesn't make sense that that much could happen to someone. It makes even less sense that it could happen to someone I'm supposed to protect. And I know, I know I wasn't there yet, he wasn't my responsibility back then, but...time doesn't work like that when you're in love. You should have seen how white Brian turned the time I mentioned offhand that I was hit by a car when I was younger. It just doesn't matter. We've always been holding each other.


But I don't know about his childhood.


“He lost his first partner,” I said. “And a lot of his friends.” I winced and said, “And now I am remembering that you too lost your first partner and a lot of your friends.”


Ben smiled kindly. It's one of the hazards of staying alive.


“He's dealt with so much. And now this, and it's hitting him harder than I would have guessed, and I don't know what to do.”


I think all boys grow up idolizing their dad, Ben said. When they die, there's this feeling that you have to take their place. That what they carried is yours now.


I nodded a little.


Evan is sick, right? Ben said gently.


“He's so sick.”


So he has a relationship with death. Like we do.


“Yeah.”


Evan was probably not expecting to outlive his father, Ben said.


**


We spent Friday morning with Gus, helping him with some last minute prep work, but I started to feel fucking awful around one so Brian called it quits and took me back to Ben and Michael's. Thank God, he said, as he got me settled on the bed. If I had to listen to Lindsay freak out about one more thing I was going to lose my fucking mind. You okay?


“Not sure,” I said. It was hard to focus on his signing. “Room's spinning.”


We should call Evan.


“Yeah. In a minute.”


What do you need?


“To throw up, probably, but I don't want to. Come lie down with me for a little.”


He sighed like this was some big burden and lay down next to me, hugging me into his chest. Your breathing sounds bad. I think you're just oxygen-deprived.


“Maybe.”


You know...


“Oh Lord.”


You feel like crap because you were on your feet all day and you don't get enough oxygen to do that anymore, Brian said. Between that and your shitty leg...


“I don't like where this is going.”


We can go to the medical supply store and rent you a wheelchair for tomorrow. It'll take like five minutes of my precious time. Done and done.


“It'll steal attention away from Gus. Everyone will be asking about it.”


Anyone who's surprised has no right to be asking about it.


“Yeah, like that's ever stopped anyone.”


Brian sighed and squeezed me. I just don't want to be carrying you around all day. Bad for my back.


“That would certainly get attention.”


Big Freak the Mighty energy, yeah.


I yawned. I just need to sleep. That'll fix me.


Oh, really? That's new and exciting.


I exist to thrill you, I said, and Brian ran kisses down my neck.


**


I thought about Evan all that night and brought it up to Brian the next morning, when we were getting dressed for the service. I think Evan should be in therapy, I said.


Was that even a question?


I mean...he's not.


Brian snorted. You try talking to him about it.


You mean you have? I knew Brian had come around a lot on therapy after seeing how much it helped me, but this was a surprise.


A million times. You haven't?


Well now I felt like the worst boyfriend to ever exist. He seems so well-adjusted.


Brian gave me a look.


“What?”


Nothing, I just know this other sick kid who seems really well-adjusted and actually has a lot of shit to unpack...


“Evan makes me look like a trainwreck and you know it.”


Evan is scared of his trauma, Brian said. Whereas you run headfirst into yours like it can't possibly hurt you again. You're both exhausting.


“What about you?”


Brian shrugged. My trauma is your trauma.


I wish someone had told me that you could fall in love ten million times. Fall in love with two people. Fall in love every day with the best man you've ever known.


“Evan's trauma should be our trauma too,” I said.


Again. Try telling him that.


“God, I just force it on everyone whether they like it or not.”


You're sick. It's what you need.


“He's sick too.”


And is he getting what he needs?


“No.”


Okay then.


**


Synagogues aren't ornate like churches are, but it was still beautiful in its own way, with people laughing in the hallways and flyers everywhere for youth sport leagues and support groups. Brian and I put on tallits and kippahs and took our place with the family. Gus was up at the bimah, and that's the end of Hebrew words I know. Evan taught me those.


There was an interpreter there, which ended up being really cool because the service was all in Hebrew, so no one really understood what was going on except Melanie, who'd been to a million of these, and me and Brian, who watched the interpreter. The best part was Gus's Torah portion, because while he was up there singing in Hebrew—Brian told me he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, poor kid—we could actually follow what he was saying.


Brian was quiet during the service, contemplative, and his eyes switched between Gus and the interpreter and me, even though I wasn't doing anything interesting. I'd had nightmares that I'd have some dramatic seizure right in the middle of the service, but that didn't happen. Ben said I wasn't even breathing very loudly.


There was a brunch reception afterwards, where we hugged Gus and he rolled his eyes and hugged us back and everyone flitted around drinking tiny paper cups of wine and talking about...I don't know, whatever hearing people talk about. I wanted to find the interpreter and thank her, but as soon as we entered the room Brian put his hand on my shoulder and said, Bathroom.


Have fun. So I went in by myself and tried my hardest not to cling to anyone who knew a lick of sign language, which meant I did a lot of smiling and nodding when hearing people tried to talk to me. There were bagels, so it wasn't the worst, but eventually I started wondering what the hell was taking Brian so long. I asked Melanie for directions to the bathroom and made my way there. Brian was by the sinks, his head bowed, taking these heavy breaths.


“Brian?”


He jumped. Come here, he said. There were tears on his cheeks.


“Brian, what the hell?” I went to him and held him. “What's wrong?”


He shook his head.


“Did you call Evan, is something—”


No, no, nothing like that. He kissed my forehead and laughed a little. I was just thinking.


About Gus growing up?


Yeah, sort of.


I ran my hand up and down his arm. “Time flies, huh?”


It's not that, it's... He swallowed and looked away from me for a second. You were there the night he was born. And now he's a man.


I nodded, but Brian looked at me like I wasn't quite getting it.


You're still here, he said, and I caught my breath and hugged him so tight.


**


We had a few hours to rest before the party, so we went back to Michael and Ben's and slept and fucked and called Evan, but he didn't pick up. He sent us a quick text telling us he was okay.


Don't love that, Brian said, and I didn't either.


But there wasn't much time to think about it before we were ushered off with the crowd. There were formal portraits, soooo many formal portraits, of Gus and Melanie and Lindsay and Gus and Melanie and Lindsay and Brian and Gus and Melanie and Gus with Brian and me and Gus with Melanie and Lindsay and Brian and me and it went on and on until I was really regretting not letting Brian rent that wheelchair. He totally knew, too, and he gave me this smarmy smile as he held me up by my waist.


The party was cute, a lot of Gus's little teenybopper friends running around, but there was food and an open bar and music that I could feel through the floor and everything was celebrating Gus so we were satisfied. There was a little slideshow with pictures of him from birth until now, and Brian covered his face with his hand. I'm ancient, he said. I'm a relic.


Brian pulled me up to dance for one of the slow songs, and we swayed back and forth, nothing fancy because I was tired as hell, but it was nice, my fingers laced through his and held between our chests, his eyes on me.


Want to do thirteen more? he signed to me.


Yeah, okay.


When the song was over he kissed my cheek and said, I'm going to check on Evan.


Thank you.


He was back pretty quickly, coming back to our table and taking my arm. I think we should go.


What?


He's about to fall apart. We should be there.


I looked at Gus, playing some game the DJ was hosting with a bunch of his friends. He won't care.


He absolutely will not. Come on, we need to sneak out or else we'll never make it out of here.


So we did, and despite the reason we were sneaking out it was kind of fun. We felt like bandits. Brian had driven us to the party, so we got right into our car and went to Ben and Michael's to get our stuff—we'd explain later—and then got the hell out of town.


Go to sleep, Brian told me as we got on the highway. You've been on your feet for hours.


He didn't have to tell me twice. I curled up against the door and worried about Evan until I fell asleep.


It was past 1 AM by the time we got home. Brian had woken me up a few miles back because for me waking up can be kind of a long process, so I wasn't too horribly groggy when we pulled up the house. “I missed it,” I said.


You're ridiculous.


“I know.”


The lights were off on the main level, but we could see a glow coming up from the basement. Brian started towards the stairs, but I put my hand on his arm.


Let me go in first, I said.


He...


You can come on a little strong.


The corner of Brian's mouth quirked up.


Come down in a little, okay? But let me start.


Brian swept his arm like be my guest and kissed the top of my head, and I carefully made my way down the stairs. Evan was sitting on his bed, twisting his hands together, and he didn't see me until I was already most of the way down.


He was crying, but he laughed a little. What are you doing here?


Brian thought you needed rescuing.


When does Brian not think I need rescuing? Come here.


I stood in front of him on the bed and he wrapped his arms around my waist, pressing his face into my shirt. I could feel him crying a little, and I let him stay just like that for a while, my fingers scratching gently on the back of his head.


Eventually he swallowed and turned his head up to me. How was the trip?


It was good. I wiped his tears off. Gus became a man.


Yeah, Evan said. I think I did too.

 

Chapter 124 - Split Level by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Brian has his hands full, but doesn't really mind.

 

Split Level

LaVieEnRose



It started, in a strange aberration of the usual, with Evan getting sick, not Justin. He had an access port on his arm for dialysis, basically a lump in one of the veins in his arm, and one day he was saying, My site feels kind of hot and the next he was vomiting and running a fever of a hundred and three.


He wasn’t contagious or anything, so that was something, and since he actually has an immune system unlike some people, he started on antibiotics and he was going to be fine, but he was seriously out of commission for a couple days until those kicked in. I tried to get him to move upstairs, not knowing the second sword of bullshit that would soon fall on our heads, Damocles-style, but he would barely move from his turtle-on-its back position sprawled out on his mattress. Justin and I brought him saltines and ginger ale and took turns rubbing his back while he curled around the toilet.


Is this how I die? he asked me.


Sure seems like it.


Damn. Tell Justin I love him.


He’s...literally right next to you, how fucking delirious are you?


So of course, of course, two days into that Justin started wheezing like a freight train while we were eating dinner, and by the time I corralled him into bed he was stuffed up and choking on his own throat and sporting a fever to rival Evan’s.


How the fuck are you always catching colds? I said, throwing a box of tissues at him. You don’t go anywhere! He just sneezed and pulled the comforter over his head.


Obviously a cold on most people is an inconvenience at most, but Justin...well, you’ve hung around for this entire goddamn saga, for some reason; you don’t need me to explain this shit to you. And the last thing Evan needed right now was to catch it, so I sequestered Justin in our room, washed my hands, and went down to regale Evan with the story of Justin’s latest trip down the well.


“Is he okay?” Evan said.


He is right now. I already know his asthma’s going to give him hell. He's wheezing a ton already and it just started.


Evan waved me back up the stairs.


I was going to stay with you tonight...


“Yeah, before Justin needed you. Go.”


So I went, only because I was already setting an alarm on my phone to wake up and go check on Evan in a few hours. I'd been working from home the last two days anyway with Evan this sick. What's a day more? Hell, maybe I'd really go rogue and take an entire day off. Depended how much Justin kept me up.


Which ended up being...a lot. That alarm turned out to be useless because I was never asleep for more than twenty minutes at a time anyway. Justin was really going through it. He sat on the side of the bed and panted in these wet breaths while I set the nebulizer up, and he kept gripping the front of his shirt and pulling it away from himself, which I knew meant he was getting kind of frantic, trying to get rid of anything that could be obstructing his breathing even the tiniest bit. I knelt in front of him and brushed his sweaty hair back and kissed his cheek while he sucked on the neb. It's okay, I told him, because it was; I know when it's not. It feels worse than it is, I know.


I dosed him up with every decongestant I could find, plus a nice sleeping pill to try to stop the decongestants from keeping him up, and eventually coaxed him back to sleep with oxygen and a cool cloth on his forehead and a few pillows to prop him up and maybe a couple of threats, and once he was settled I sanitized myself and went down to the basement.


Evan was asleep, sprawled out awkwardly on top of his bedspread, so I roused him and reorganized him and checked to see how his infection was looking—gross--and changed the dressing on that. Evan was groggy from the fever, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and yawning and generally being pretty adorable.


“How's Justin?” he said.


I have a feeling I'm going to be answering that a lot.


“Could always let me upstairs with him.”


Yeah, and give you a virus on top of this. That'd be fun.


Evan scowled.


Justin is fine. Fever's not too high.


“Trouble breathing?”


Nothing I can't handle.


Evan flopped down on his pillows. “We've never both been sick before.”


You're both sick always.


“You know what I mean.”


I leaned down and kissed his forehead. Like I said. Nothing I can't handle.


I knew I should get some sleep while they were both settled, but I felt pretty awake now from all of that, so I decided I'd prepare for the fun day we had coming for us. I fixed some food for both of them so all I'd have to do later was microwave something, and I sent an email to Emily telling her Evan and I weren't coming in. Justin had left out a drop cloth and a bunch of painting supplies before he started feeling really shitty, so I put those away, and by then Justin was coughing pretty badly.


He'd slipped down off the pillows, so I adjusted him and replaced the washcloth on his forehead. He sneezed and rubbed the base of his throat and said, of course, “How's Evan?”


Fine. Sleeping.


“You should be down there with him.”


I don't think so, Darth Vader.


Justin groaned and covered his face with his hands. There is nothing, nothing, that Justin hates more in the world than being too sick to help the people he loves. He usually finds a way to do it anyway, which is brave but also fucking annoying because he needs to rest, but sometimes he just can't do shit, or I don't let him, and it really fucks with his head and makes him feel useless and infantilized and burdensome and all the other things I can't get him to stop calling himself when the lights are out and his head's in the wrong place.


And that might be what I hate most in the world.


Move over, I said, but I climbed into bed next to him before he could, wrapping my arms loosely around him so he wouldn't feel even more suffocated. I signed I'm sorry you don't feel good, on his chest, the stupid shit I say when I'm tired, and he covered my hand with his and I fell asleep there.


It was pretty light out by the time I woke up, and I wasn't sure why until I heard a weak “Brian? Brian?” coming up the stairs. Thank God I hadn't closed the bedroom door, I guess. I got up, trying not to disturb Justin, who stirred a little but didn't wake up, and made my way downstairs, rubbing the stubble on my cheeks.


Evan was lying on the floor of his bathroom. “Hi.”


I tilted my head and looked at him.


“I can't move.”


Muscles cramped up?


“Yes indeed.”


You're dehydrated. I bent down and helped him up, and he winced as I pulled him to his feet. I don't even know how much I can give you to drink. He has to be really careful with his fluid intake. Kidney failure thing. I have to call your doctor once it's a reasonable hour.


“Okay.” Evan crawled to the center of his bed and wrapped his favorite thin little blanket around his shoulders. “Justin?”


Sleeping. Take your temperature.


I got a bottle of Gatorade for Evan because fuck it, if he needed some extra dialysis from it then he needed some extra dialysis, and then made some tea and went to wake up Justin. He coughed for a while, and I put the mug against his chest so he'd have something warm there.


Morning, Sunshine. Meds and you can go back to sleep.


He shook his head. I want to check on Evan.


He's fine, I was just down there. His fever's down a little. I palmed his forehead. Unlike yours. If this is the damn flu...


Justin shook his head, swiping his hand under his nose. “It's just a cold.” God, he was so stuffed up. I have never known someone to get sick as fast as Justin does, even back when he had white blood cells and shit. It's like his body's trying to burn through it all at once, get it over with, except it...you know. Can't. It's kind of sad.


Drink that tea, then I want you on a neb. Feeling seizurey?


No.


Small blessings.


He stretched, and he looked so warm and stretchy and soft that it was very hard not to crawl back into bed beside him. But he said, I want a shower.


Sounds doable. Tea first.


Justin likes sex when he's sick. I mean, he likes it all the time, but something about feeling like crap makes him want me to fuck his brains out, and I can't say I'm complaining. Hell, it's the best medicine I know. And it's sometimes the only way to convince Justin to use the fucking shower stool without complaining, since he likes it in here with the steam when he doesn't feel well.


So I fucked him the way he likes it, and he rested his hot little forehead against my collarbone, his arms around my neck, and once he was a bit weak from that and the hot air and his cold I picked him up and dried him off and dropped him unceremoniously on the bed. I threw warm clothes at him and watched with a little sadness as he covered himself up.


Neb now, I said, and he nodded and set it up, and I figured now was as good a time as any to make sure Evan was sleeping, so I got dressed and headed downstairs and nope, there he was on the bathroom floor again, so I collected and replaced him and tried to suggest he eat something, but he held his stomach and groaned and threw his pillow at me.


I think I like Sick Justin better, I said.


We all like Sick Justin better.


I needed to eat something, anyway, so I sliced up an avocado and took out some guava juice and was just pouring a glass when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around with an eyebrow up.


“Hi,” Justin said.


“Hi.” Why are you out of bed?


“I'm hungry.”


I held up the avocado. Do you want this?


He shook his head.


Toast?


Scrambled eggs.


Okay. Go sit, please. Your breathing's freaking me out.


He lumbered over to the kitchen table and slumped down in a chair, and I smiled at him a little while I fixed some eggs for him. He smiled back.


“Do you need to sleep?” he asked me. His voice was so wrecked from coughing.


Yeah. I will in a little.


I can take a shift with Evan.


I don't want you getting him sick.


Justin nodded a little and coughed. Maybe we should call for backup.


Are you kidding? I was born for this.


And the thing is, I don't know if that's true, if I was born for this or if I've been molded into it, but at this point, what does it matter? This is what I do. This is where I'm comfortable.


Do you have any idea what it feels like to look at the person who turns your stomach inside out and sets your ribcage on fire and burrows his way into the front of your brain and know that you're making his life a little bit better because you're cracking some eggs in a pan?


Don't even try to imagine it, honestly, not if you don't have a sick partner. Because this is the thing people don't understand. They talk endlessly about how hard it must be, and I'm not saying it isn't, I'm not saying I cherish the nights I spend awake counting his breaths or screaming at a nurse in the hallway of a hospital but it is also easy. It is so, so easy to help someone who's sick, when their needs are right there in front of you, laid out like clothes that need folding. Justin is complicated as shit, don't get me wrong—what genius isn't—but taking care of him is easy. It's feeding and watering. It's holding and comforting. It's making scrambled eggs.


Multiply that by two, and really, what the fuck do I have to complain about?


No outsider was going to come in and break our little world open, not now.


I brought him the plate and tilted his face up to kiss his forehead. I want you to sleep after this. Your fever's up again.


“Okay. Love you.”


I squeezed his shoulders. I'm going to bring a plate down to Evan, see if I can get him to eat some. Bed after you're done eating, I mean it.


Yeah, yeah, I heard you.


That's a first.


Evan was watching something on his laptop, lying in a very pathetic heap, at least on the bed this time. I held up the scrambled eggs.


“Two bites,” he said.


“Three.”


“Fine.” He stretched out his arms, and I rolled my eyes and came over to the bed and let him pull me down. “You look tired.”


Yeah, Justin's loud.


“Maybe call—”


I don't need to call anyone. He's got a cold and an asthma attack, you have an infection that's getting better. I'm in my element, here.


“You still only have two hands.”


That's never stopped me before.


Evan finished his three bites and even took a fourth, the good sport, and then shook his head and handed the plate back to me.


Okay, I said. Thank you. I heard a loud, ominous thump upstairs, and I stood up.


“What?”


Justin. I'll be back soon. I went up the stairs and found Justin in an awkward sprawl on the kitchen floor. Definitely expected you to be seizing right now, I said.


“I figured.”


Leg just gave out? I said. He's been having all this trouble with his right leg recently, and it wasn't surprising that the fever and the exhaustion would take it out of commission. I gotcha, c'mon... I got him back in bed and on oxygen and cupped his face in my hand. Stay in bed.


How's Evan?


He's staying in bed.


“Oh my God, Brian.”


Yeah, you can't hear your breathing. Rest, please.


He flopped down on the pillows and fell asleep so quickly I was wondering if he'd actually had a seizure after all, when Evan called “Brian?” and I washed my hands and went back downstairs.


Hey, I said.


“Hi. Is Justin okay?”


Justin is fine. How are you?


“Sick.”


It's true.


“I threw up again.”


Yeah, you need some more medicine. Hang on. So I went back upstairs to grab that, but Justin was coughing really badly, so first I stopped him there to once again prop him up and rub his chest for a little, then I grabbed stomach medicine for Evan and brought it back to him.


Evan swallowed it and said, Now go be with Justin.


I shook my head. We're on your turn now.


“I'm not going to get worse all of a sudden. He might. Go up there and listen to him breathe.”


God, I was so fucking tired I didn't even feel like I could make it back up the stairs, but Evan looked at me imploringly until I did. I went back to our room where Justin was awake again, struggling to breathe, and I lay down beside him and just watched, because sometimes that's all he needs, just to know that someone sees it. And sometimes there's not much more I can do other than that.


“Hi,” he wheezed.


Hi. You look beautiful.


He smiled weakly. You need to sleep.


I nodded and nuzzled the pillow for a little.


“Is Evan—”


Evan is fine. Everything's fine. I tapped his chest. Besides that.


“Yeah.”


Come here, I said, and I helped him lean against my chest and slung my leg on top of him to keep him there. Sleep now.


“Mmmhmm.”


I closed my eyes and listened to Evan's TV show downstairs, the soft rumble of Justin's breathing, and the blissful, beautiful calm of two sick boys in bed, as I drifted off to sleep.

 

End Notes:

There is no point to this one whatsoever.

Chapter 125 - Hey Jealousy by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Someone's interested in Evan. Brian and Justin react...differently.

 

I like working at Kinnetick, don’t get me wrong. I get to see Evan and Brian everyday, and on a lot of days I see Justin, who, according to Brian, is my little “soulmate,”—and obviously having a job surrounded by people who sign at least a little is the kind of situation a lot of Deaf people can only dream of. I always figured I’d have to work for a Deaf organization or at a Deaf school to get that kind of access unless I wanted an interpreter following me around all day, and no offense to those people at those organizations doing great work but those jobs don’t exactly...pay, and no offense to interpreters but oh God spare me having a stalker.

 

So Kinnetik is a sweet gig, and trust me, I’ve looked up what the average salary is for an executive assistant on Glassdoor and what Brian pays me is frankly ridiculous, so...yeah, not complaining. 

 

So. That being said.

 

It is not the most exciting place in the world.

 

Brian, whose hard-on for advertising is matched only by his hard-on for Justin, is always going on about how fast-paced the ad world is, how it always keeps you on your toes, no day is the same, not your average fucking desk job for average fucking people, that’s for sure, and all respect necessary to my dear boss but he’s so full of shit. An office job is an office job and most of what I do is relaying emails to Brian and relaying deadlines from Brian. Every day. Look, it’s fine, and it’s cute that Brian is so amped about it, but most days there’s nothing too exciting going on at Kinnetik. It’s kind of fun when the clients come in and we have to put on presentations, and sometimes Lucy brings in croissants, but all in all...yeah. Not much happens.

 

Which is why it was very exciting when they hired the hottest man in the entire world in all of the history of time.

 

Obviously this needed discussing immediately, so I took my coffee break down in the art room.

 

His name is Alexander, but he goes by AJ, I said. He’s thirty-one and he’s from Maryland. He went to AU—American University. And he was valedictorian.

 

Evan was doing something with tissue paper and glue. How do you know all this?

 

I read his personnel file, obviously.

 

And what’s he doing here?

 

New VP of accounting. Pretty flashy for his age.

 

Accounting. So we care why?

 

Because he’s an Adonis.

 

Evan quirked up an eyebrow.

 

Greek guy, I explained. Very hot. Like very. Like...if I don’t sleep with him Gwen will actually be mad at me, that’s how hot.

 

Okay, you have my attention.

 

He looks like Zac Efron. But tall.

 

High School Musical Zac Efron or traveling the world eating pasta Zac Efron?

Greatest Showman Zac Efron.

 

Motherfuck.

 

That’s what I’m saying.

 

Is he gay? Evan said.

 

God I hope not.

 

Only one way to find out.

 

Conveniently, I had some invoices I needed to bring over to accounting, so I told Evan’s boss that I needed to borrow him for a moment and he rolled his eyes because...yeah, the two Deaf kids skipping off together is rarely actually business related, fine, but can they prove it? Evan and I make sure to sign fast and throw in as much slang as possible when we’re talking to each other, and a few signs we made up just for good measure, to make sure the hearies can’t understand us. Keeps them on their toes.

 

So Evan and I went up to the third floor, making our serious faves at each other in the elevator full of executives, and then headed over to accounting. The plan, of course, was to drop off the invoices as quickly as possible and then scurry around looking like we belonged until we found a good spot to spy on AJ a little bit. Just some light stalking. Hey, it worked for Brian and Justin. Evan and I may both be in committed relationships, but neither of us is shackled with monogamy. If there’s a new hot guy at Kinnetik, one of us has to try him out. Preferably me.

 

Anyway, the plan was immediately foiled, because Meredith, who’s in charge of the Hapberg account, had to argue with me for ten minutes about like, one line item on the invoice, and she doesn’t sign really so we had to write everything back and forth and her handwriting was truly abysmal so the whole thing was a chore and a half and not nearly as exciting as ogling new hires. So Evan, unsurprisingly, dipped out after like a minute and a half of that to explore on his own, and it took me a while to find him once Meredith finally gave in and admitted I was right.

 

I finally found him in the hallway near the water fountain. Talking to AJ.

 

Oh, this bastard, I said to myself. Fucking Evan and his fucking oral upbringing! Give me ten minutes with AJ and I'd let him know what oral really means and I think you know what I'm saying.

 

But no, all Evan had to do was talk. Boring, boring, boring.

 

Oh well. Odds are he was straight, so it wouldn't matter how much speaking Evan did, he'd never—

 

AJ laughed and placed his hand delicately on Evan's arm.

 

Goddamn it.

 

**

 

I went into Brian's office after lunch with some forms for him to sign. We talked about our travel reservations for a trip coming up—Paris, darling—and the possibility of the new client we were going to sign there, what kind of ideas I had for the campaign. Normal stuff.

 

How's Justin? I said when we were done.

 

Good. At his studio. He heard from the dog people yesterday and it sounds like that's finally getting underway.

 

Brian with a pet.

 

He fixed me with a look. It's not a pet. And it's definitely not mine.

 

Sure.

 

He rolled his eyes and turned back to his paperwork, but I did a little dance in my heels until he looked back up at me.

 

Yes? he fingerspelled slowly.

 

Have you met AJ?

 

Who the fuck is AJ?

 

The new accounting VP. I thought you hired him.

 

No, Isabel did. Something wrong with him?

 

Only that I think there was a glitch in the universe that allowed someone that beautiful to be conceived, I said.

 

Brian tapped around on his computer for a minute and then said, There's no picture up for his badge yet.

 

He just started today. I was here when he came in. I think my heart stopped for a moment.

 

Better looking than me?

 

I gave him a pitying look.

 

This I gotta see.

 

Well, feast your eyes, I said, and I took out my phone and showed him the picture I'd snapped of him talking to Evan. Just some light stalking.

 

Brian stared at it for a long minute and then said, Holy fucking shit.

 

That's all I'm saying.

 

Why is he here? He should be in fucking Milan doing a feature in Italian Vogue.

 

And yet. He graces us with our presence. I held out my hand for my phone, but Brian kept looking at it, contemplatively. What?

 

Brian handed the phone back, slowly. What's he doing talking to Evan?

 

**

 

I went over to the Big House—that's what Jane calls it, compared to our little apartment—the night after so Jane could have some time with her dad and I could have some time with Brian's wine. Jane sat on the couch with Justin and explained her coloring books to him, and Brian floated around organizing things and straightening bookshelves and sipping from his glass. It was peaceful.

 

Where's Evan tonight? I asked.

 

Brian shrugged, but Justin said, He has a date.

 

Brian stared at him. What?

 

Justin said. Yeah, he didn't tell you? He's out with that guy from Kinnetik. The sign for Kinnetik, in case you were wondering, is the K from Brian's sign name, tapped twice.

 

AJ? Brian said.

 

I don't know, I guess so.

 

God! I said. I flopped back on the floor.

 

Justin said, What's with you? to Brian.

 

Nothing. I don't care.

 

I do! I said. Why did he have to be gay? What were the odds? Why why why? I saw him first!

 

I always forget you fuck guys, Brian said.

 

I sat up. Seriously? I'm not exactly quiet about being pansexual. Never have been.

 

I don’t know, you’re married to a woman, Brian said. I just think of you as gay.

 

I am gay, I said. It’s an umbrella term.

 

You kids and your shit.

 

Yeah, because we totally invented multi-sexuality. You know Pride was created by a bisexual woman so like, you’re welcome.

 

Ah, yes, because of my deep love of parades, Brian said.

 

We had fun that one year, Justin said, one-handed, the other tickling Jane who was writhing around on the couch.

 

I was happy you were doing better. We would have had fun in line at the DMV too.

I’m just saying, I said. That a lot of what you think is exclusively gay and exclusively male was actually given to you by queer women.

 

Thank you, queer women, Brian said gamely. His eyes darted over to Justin. You okay?

 

I’m fine.

 

Heavy breathing. Take a break.

 

Justin did, handing Jane back her coloring book and slumping against the couch. Have I ever told you what a pain you are when Evan’s not here and you have no one else to fuss over?

 

Maybe he should stay home, then, Brian said.

 

We put Jane to bed here so I could stay later, and I was still there, finishing up a late dinner with Brian and Justin, when Evan got home from his date. He rubbed sanitizer between his hands and came over and kissed Justin.

 

Did you have fun? Justin asked.

 

Yeah! We went to a play. It was good! We need to go to more plays.

 

Did they have an interpreter? Brian asked.

 

No, they had those listening devices you can connect your aids too. Worked great. AJ was really curious about how it worked, asked all these questions. It was cute. He’s really nice. I met his dog!

 

So that’s why Justin’s sneezing, Brian said. Did you fuck him?

 

A lady never tells, Evan said smoothly, taking a spot at the table.

 

Justin looked delighted for him, but I was about ready to curl up and die from jealousy. And so, by the looks of him, was Brian. Ha. Whenever anyone else gets to some new guy first he gets so pissy.

 

Are you going to see him again? Justin asked.

 

Yeah, he wants to take me to this new Chinese place on Friday.

 

Brian cut angrily into his chicken.

 

**

 

I ended up staying over in their guest room because Gwen would have already been asleep by the time I got back anyway, and when I woke up Brian was still sleeping, naturally, but Justin was in the kitchen giving Jane her breakfast. He was chattering away to her and she was hanging on every word, repeating half his signs back at him and laughing every time he smiled at her. They're magical.

 

He grinned when he saw me. Good morning! I came over and gave him a hug. We're both short so it works well. We fit together. Little soulmates.

 

Do you want to take Jane to the playground before I have to go to work?

 

I absolutely do.

 

We walked the few blocks to the playground, Justin pushing Jane in the stroller, and chatted about Jane's development and Evan's date and AJ's body and eventually got around to the conversation we'd had with Brian the afternoon before. I don't think he was listening to me, I said. In one ear, out the other.

 

Brian's views on queer culture can be...irritatingly retro, Justin said. I've had to teach him so much shit, and he still thinks of himself as my gateway to all things gay. I'm not even sure he believed in bisexuality until I beat him over the head with it.

 

This isn't even a bi thing as much as a girl thing, I said, bending down to let Jane out of the stroller so she could run around the jungle gym. I've run into this my whole life. You guys include us...to a point. But there's always this like...wall we hit, where at the end of the day you're convinced that women just can't be as gay as men can. You have straight people and gay men as the two dichotomies, and then queer women are just over there being not really straight, but not nontraditional and iconoclastic enough to be really gay. You guys think that gay men have some secret, super-gay room that we don't have access too, when really you're the most white bread of queer there can possibly be, and you guys are the ones missing out on the deeper stuff that women, and trans people, and people of color have access to. You are not the Platonic ideal of homosexuality.

 

You're absolutely right.

 

I know I am.

 

God, I wish I signed as well as you do.

 

Everyone does.

 

**

 

Justin was worn out by the time we got back to the park, which is always a risk with him, and he ended up having a seizure while we were fixing breakfast and flinging a plate across the floor. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, he said to Evan while he picked up the pieces, and Brian snickered into his coffee.

 

You're fine, Evan said. Go sit down.

 

Guess who's coming to work with us today! Brian said brightly, and Justin smacked him with his clenched-up hand. Don't have seizures if you don't want to deal with the consequences, Brian said with a shrug.

 

So we all trekked to the subway, Justin riding on Evan's back and Brian pushing the stroller while the two of us discussed a new campaign pitch that was supposed to be coming in today. It finally showed up in my inbox just before lunch, and I got up and walked to Brian's office to let him know but stopped when I could see him and Justin having an intense conversation through the glass doors and well...you know. Some light eavesdropping would go well with my light stalking.

 

You're insane, Justin was saying.

 

Yeah, well, you haven't seen the guy.

 

How he looks is incredibly not important.

 

Of course it’s important.

 

I both could and couldn’t believe that Brian was still obsessing over this. He gets turned down once at the club and it’s all he’ll talk about for the next week. You’re not twenty-five anymore, Brian! None of us are! Get the fuck over it! But I guess it’s part of his charm. Still, you’d think he’d get over himself and let Evan enjoy something, with all that he has to deal with.

 

But then Brian said, Do you remember what happened the last time some gorgeous guy came in and swept him off his feet? and it was a different ‘he’ from when he was talking about it how beautiful AJ is; you can tell these things in ASL.

 

He was talking about Evan.

 

And how about you? Brian added.

 

That was a million years ago. It’s not the same at all, Justin said gently.

 

Why not?

 

Because he’s happy now. Everyone is happy how we are.

 

He could leave.

 

He’s not going to leave.

 

He could, though.

 

Brian.

 

Maybe we should ask him to leave before he can leave us.

 

You are so damaged.

 

Holy shit. He wasn’t jealous of Evan for going out with AJ.

 

He was jealous of AJ for going out with Evan.

 

Sometimes you just don’t know whether to laugh or cry, right?

 

Brian started fussing over Justin’s headache after that, so I gave them a minute and then opened the door. Brian?

 

He shook out a blanket and put it over Justin. What’s up?

 

The new pitch is in.

 

Oh. Good.

 

I said, Justin, need anything?

 

I’m good, he said, but Brian signed coffee behind him, and I nodded. And then I went over and gave Brian a hug. We don’t fit together as easily.

 

What the fuck? he said.

 

For taking care of everything, I said.

 

Justin pulls his weight, trust me, Brian said, and I thought of Justin's soft signing as he reassured Brian, the gentle way Brian lay the blanket on top of Justin, and everything made so much sense.

 

**

 

Evan and Gwen and Jane and I went to services on Saturday at the Deaf synagogue in Manhattan. We mingled afterwards, having cookies and wine and chatting with everyone. That's a normal part of synagogues, I've learned, but when it's a Deaf synagogue, oh Lord. Deaf Jews have got to be the most connected group of anyone in the world. Everyone knows everyone. And neither Jews or Deaf people know how to shut up, so you can imagine how busy the social hour is. I love it. They welcomed me in with open arms when I converted, and now they were doing the same to Evan.

 

Evan was still a little shy talking to people here he didn't know well, still thought he didn't quite belong, but he was getting better. I watched him talk to a woman I knew from the daycare here, exclaiming over how cute her new baby was, and eventually he came back to me with a sheepish smile.

 

I love it here, he said.

 

They love you too.

 

Everyone keeps asking me why I'm not eating, he says. I'm still full from dinner last night with AJ.

 

How was that?

 

It was really nice. He's very worldly. Been everywhere. Seems older than he is. He has all these friends who are positive so that's sort of a relief, not having to teach him about it.

 

I couldn't stop myself. So what are you...planning to do with him? Like long term?

Long term? Like, you date him now, you sleep with him, you have fun...what's the endgame.

 

There's no endgame, Evan says. He'll fit into my life until he doesn't.

 

I just want to make sure you're not in over your head, that's all, I said, though it wasn't, really.

 

Evan rolled his eyes. You sound like Brian. He's been so goddamn weird about all of this.

 

Brian worries about you, you know.

 

Of course I know that.

 

No, I mean... I sighed. He worries. About you.

 

Evan blinked at me.

 

Don't make him worry about this, I said.

 

Yeah. Yeah, okay.

 

It was Justin's weekend with Jane, so she and Evan and I went back to their house to drop her off. Brian was on the couch, looking through mock-ups we'd had Justin tweak for us.

 

Have fun? he asked, barely looking up.

 

Yeah. Evan went over and kissed Brian's cheek. Brian cocked an eyebrow at him. But it's good to be home, Evan said.

 

Brian looked at him for a long moment, then tilted his head up, nudging his nose against Evan's.

 

End Notes:

Thank you so much to Cesy, Britt, M., Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Hannah, Julie, and Deborah for sponsoring! Join our little family over at twitter.com/LaVieEnRoseFic.

 

Have some vague ideas for what I want to write next, but I'm always down for ideas! What are your wildest dreams?

Chapter 126 - A Ballet by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian says it all the time: "Justin pulls his weight."

“You know, I gotta say, I don't know if I really would have thought Brian was a nice guy if I didn't hear it from you,” AJ said, while we were walking back to the subway after a play.


I laughed. “Yeah, he hides it well.”


“Actually,” he said. “I probably would have figured it out after I met Justin.” They'd run into each other a few times now; I'd never brought AJ back to the house, but Justin had been feeling sketchy for the past week so he'd been spending a lot of time at Kinnetik, and they'd met there. Justin was so pissed that they met when he looked like shit! In Justin's opinion, anyway. He could never look like shit, really.


“Yeah, he's sweet to Justin.” Brian's sweet to me too, obviously, but at work we have to stay pretty professional. The situation with the three of us is kind of an open secret, and HR knows all about it, obviously—Brian made sure of that, for my protection—but yeah, we try to keep things above board within Kinnetik's walls, especially if we're not alone. It's just simpler that way, and it makes things easier for Justin. Fewer pitying looks from people who think his husband is cheating on him with his employee. “It's funny, I don't think he knows he is, but people comment on it all the time. Not to his face, thank God.”


“Probably because of Justin's, you know. Situation.”


“Situation?” I thought he meant the situation with me, for some reason.


AJ shrugged. “I asked around a little about him. Since he didn't look well.”


“Oh. Yeah. It's okay.”


“Someone who stands by their partner through all that has got to be a good person.”


Something about that rubbed me the wrong way, but I wasn't quite sure what at the time. “It's in the vows,” I said. “In sickness and in health.”


“People say it, but not everyone's up to making sacrifices like that.”


Hmm. Sacrifices.


**


Brian was wiping down the kitchen counters when I got home. Hello, darling. Had a good night?


It was okay. Brian was unexpectedly insecure about me seeing someone regularly, so I was careful not to gush about AJ too much. Justin told me he was afraid I was going to leave them, which was like...so not in the realm of possibility—this is my family—but I gotta admit it was kind of flattering that Brian was worried about it. Where's Justin?


Asleep. He had a weird seizure like an hour ago.


I came over and started unloading the dishwasher. “Weird how?”


The actual seizure wasn't that bad, but he was so confused after. He didn't know where he was and he kept getting really pissed that 'fucking Brian' wasn't there. It was funny, but kinda sad. I just gave up reassuring him 'cause it wasn't doing shit anyway and drugged him up instead.


Poor kid.


Yeah. He leaned against the counter, facing me. I've been thinking we should get away for a while.


Sounds good. Beach house?


Brian shook his head. Too cold. An island or something. Somewhere with clubs for us and warm places to sleep for him. He hates the cold so much, I want to get him out of here.


I shook my head and laughed.


What?


I just think it's funny that you act like you're going to surprise Justin with this trip when we both know he'll be the one planning the entire thing.


Maybe.


If it was in your hands we'd show up at the airport empty-handed with no tickets.


Well, that's why I have Emily. He laughed a little. And Justin.


That's all I'm saying. “Um.” I examined a dish I pulled out of the dishwasher. “This is not clean.”


Brian looked over. Did Justin not run it?


No, they’re wet, they’re just not clean.


Fuck. Brian came and looked at the dishwasher. I think it’s broken again.


What did you do last time?


What did I do? I stood here and looked pretty while Justin fixed it. I don’t do manual labor.


“So we just sit here with wet dirty dishes until Justin wakes up.”


Brian looked at me and shrugged.


Justin did wake up, about an hour later, when Brian and I had cleaned the rest of the dishes and were crashed on the couch watching whatever game show is on this time of night. He came out of their room rubbing his eyes and Brian said, Thank God, you gotta fix something.


Justin sighed and said, Hang on, I’m gonna throw up first and disappeared into the bathroom. 


Brian frowned and stood up, stretching, and took the blanket off the back of the couch. He watched the bathroom door.


Justin came out quickly, sweating and shaking. Okay, what’s broken?


Brian rolled his eyes. Later, come here, he said, and he wrapped Justin up in the blanket and hugged him tightly.


**


Justin was working on the dishwasher when I got up the next morning. Brian handed me a cup of coffee and said, “No run today?”


“Way too cold. I'm surprised you don't have Justin all bundled up.” He's neurotic about Justin getting cold.


He snorted. He's not going outside.


Justin put his tools down and said, Okay, that should do it. Brian bent down and put his hands under Justin's elbows and lifted him to his feet, since Justin can't really get up on his own.


Same thing as last time? I said.


I hope so, or else I fixed a problem we don't have.


Brian had made breakfast while Justin was working, so we sat down and ate. Brian counted out Justin's meds and said, So when do you think would be good?


I don't have anything showing until the middle of next month, Justin said. So really I can go anytime. I'll have to check with Emily and Gwen about my schedule with Jane.


Can you pull up my calendar, see what I have coming up?


Sure. Justin went to the counter and opened up his laptop. What about you? he asked me. Anything to factor into vacation timing?


I don't know, I guess whenever my boss says it's okay, I said, and Brian flicked me off. Where are we going?


Brian shrugged, but Justin said, St. Lucia. Best dialysis set-up in the Caribbean. We can get a resort close to the hospital.


Good night life in St. Lucia, Brian said approvingly.


I know. Justin tapped on the computer. You look pretty free in two weeks.


When did Emily update it last?


Looks like...seven last night.


All right, sounds good. Two weeks. Brian sighed and leaned back in his chair. I suppose I can wait that long. Justin, come sit.


I want to make reservations, Justin said.


After you eat something, come here.


Justin glared at him.


You're shaking. Come.


You're the one who asked me to check your calendar, Justin complained, but he came back to the table, kissing Brian on the way. Brian stalled him, winding his arms around his waist and looking up into his face, but finally let him go so he could sit. I smiled a little. What? Justin said.


Nothing, I said. You're cute.


You're cute, Justin countered, swiping some whipped cream on my nose.


We chatted about the trip through breakfast—what Brian and I wanted to do, how Justin was supposed to feel no pressure to do anything at all and was allowed to sleep through the entire trip if he wanted without feeling guilty about it, Jesus Christ Justin—and ended up running kind of late. Brian grabbed his keys while I put on my coat.


For the love of God stay inside, Brian told Justin. It's fucking freezing out there.


Okay, Justin said, but when we were almost at the door he must have said something out loud because Brian stopped and turned around. Justin grabbed a file from the table next to the sofa and handed it to Brian—contracts he'd been looking over the night before. Don't forget these.


Brian gave a sigh of relief. Sunshine.


Yes. Now go. He kissed me. I'll see you at dialysis at one.


I will go with him, Brian said. Stay inside.


Can't hear you! Justin said, and he waved us off and headed to the kitchen to clean up.


**


Justin, obviously, was at the dialysis clinic when I got there. Brian didn't even bother coming with me because we both knew it was useless trying to keep Justin away from it. He was also, obviously, shivering and sneezing from being out in the cold, and the first thing I did was take my coat off and put it around his shoulders.


Brian would kill me if I didn't tell you to take a cab home, I said.


He pulled the coat around himself. Sadly I think Brian is right on this one. Oh. I wasn't expecting him to give in on that one. He must have really been cold, poor thing. I frowned and blew on his hands.


We settled down in the dialysis room and a nurse got me set up while Justin took out his phone to show me pictures of the piece he'd been working on at home; I like looking at his art while I'm getting my blood all squeaky clean. He pointed out a technique he was using that I wasn't familiar with, and we talked about that for a while and I watched the circulation slowly return to his lips and the tips of his fingers.


He noticed me looking. What?


Nothing. You're beautiful.


You're beautiful, he said, and kissed me.


Once the art talk got stale he moved on to showing me pictures of the resort where we'd be staying in St. Lucia. Is it booked? I asked.


Yep, five nights. Got the resort, got the plane tickets, all settled. I'm working on an itinerary for day trips and stuff.


Sleeping on the beach. That's your itinerary.


I'll sleep, I'll sleep.


I ended up drifting off a little during dialysis; I usually do. The chairs are so comfortable and it's just so goddamn boring, and Justin always plays with my hair until I fall asleep. I woke up about half an hour before dialysis was over, and Justin was signing to his phone.


Look, it's going to be fine, he was saying. This sucks, but it's not the end of the world, and you're not going to let it ruin something else. We're not throwing good money on top of bad, remember? Fuck that account, but we're not letting it drag down another.


I leaned against the headrest and watched him.


Right, we're...exactly. Yes. You know all this, I'm just repeating you back to you. You've been charming people since I was a sperm and an egg, remember?


I laughed, and Justin looked at me sideways and smiled a little.


Okay, Justin said to his phone. Get going before you're late. You got this. I love you.


He hung up and turned to me.


What account did he lose? I asked.


Myers.


I didn't like them anyway. Is he okay?


Yeah, he's good, Justin said, and he leaned over and kissed me.


**


I went home with Justin—in a cab, thank you very much—and then fell asleep on the couch, like I always say I'm not going to do and then do, every time I have dialysis. It's not my fault. Justin was working on his painting a few feet away from me, and the smell of the acrylics and the soft way he tilts his head when he's comforting are basically sedatives.


I woke up before Brian got home, and he dragged Justin out for a shower and they came back later in lounging clothes. Brian seemed calm, not like someone who'd just lost a big account, so I didn't mention it. He flopped down next to me on the couch and watched Justin sort laundry on the floor. He watched TV with me for a while, his arm loosely around my shoulders, but eventually he got antsy and shifted around on the couch. I'm bored, he said to me.


I'm sorry, dear.


You need anything?


I shook my head, and he huffed and took a few pairs of socks out of the laundry basket and started throwing them at Justin. He caught them in his left hand without looking up.


Justin. Justin. Justin.


He finished the shirt he was folding and raised an eyebrow at Brian.


What do you need?


A cup of tea and a painkiller, Justin said immediately, easily.


On it, Brian said, and he kissed the top of Justin's head on the way to the kitchen. Justin kept folding, smiling a little to himself. I stretched out on the couch and pulled the blanket over me and felt safe.


**


We ate dinner in the basement down in my kitchen, just for a change of pace, and afterwards Justin and I flopped down on my bed while Brian sat in my chair and played with my fidget toys. Justin was telling us dirty jokes, and we were laughing until my stomach hurt and Brian had to wipe his eyes. At some point Brian pulled his phone out of his pocket and groaned. Why do these car insurance people keep emailing me?


Because you need to call them, Justin said. They've been trying to get in touch with you for a month and all you do is whine about it. True.


God, I hate this shit, Brian says. Also true. It's funny; Brian loves bossing people around at work, but the second he's home he doesn't want to talk to anyone, let alone negotiate with them. Brian still likes to go out, but there's not a lot of conversation at clubs, and now that he's getting older he spends more nights at home, cooking or fucking my boyfriend or playing board games or otherwise not calling the insurance company.


Do you want me to do it? Justin asked.


Yes please.


Justin laughed. Even though he has to do phone calls through a relay service and it's more complicated than if Brian does it, Justin doesn't mind stuff like this. He's always having to call and argue with his insurance company, and he's the one who takes care of scheduling maintenance for the house that he can't do himself. Justin just likes people a lot more than Brian does, I think. Okay. I'll call tomorrow.


My hero, Brian said, and a little later when they were going up the stairs to bed, Justin slipped on the staircase—he's been having trouble with his leg—and Brian was right behind him and caught him like it was nothing.


**


By the next day, our trip to St. Lucia was totally planned. Justin emailed us each copies of the itinerary that we'd probably never end up sticking to because stuff always comes up with us, but Justin is nothing if not optimistic.


He was at the office that day because he'd had a lot of trouble breathing overnight and Brian wanted to make sure he wasn't coming down with something. He caught up on sleep on the couch while Brian worked.


AJ came down to my work station mid-morning and asked if I wanted to go this sushi place for lunch, and I would have said yes if I hadn't spent the last few hours wishing I could see for myself that Justin was breathing okay. “I'm going to eat with Brian, I think,” I said. “Justin's here today.”


“Yeah, I was just in his office. Kinney seemed kind of worried.” And he said it like it was sad.


The thing is, people don't see Justin. They see a list of issues or a kicked puppy, and the worst part is that Justin knows that. He lives his whole life knowing that people have written him off. That they think they've figured out what the dynamic of this relationship is, saintly Brian and his sick little partner, because for some reason, everyone assumes that Justin requires support all the time but that Brian Kinney somehow rolls out of bed and is Brian Kinney, makes all this money and runs all these lives, with no one pushing him there.


People don't see Justin. They see Brian.


Brian says it all the time, casually, over and over: “Justin pulls his weight.” But he doesn't, really. He pulls Brian's. And mine. And we take care of him. And no one is burdened. No one is making sacrifices. We're all just doing the parts that we love.


We make sense, and we make sense because of Justin. He's the lynchpin; that's not a secret. And he is funny and kind and generous and organized and neurotic and handy and he is sick, and every part of that is important. Every bit of Justin is why this works.


But that's not for AJ to know. It's not for anyone to know but Brian and Justin. And me.


So I just said, “You know, Brian would be a complete mess without Justin there.” I stretched my fingers out, wishing I could sign right now. “We all would be.”

 

End Notes:

Thank you so much to Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M., Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Hannah, Julie, and Deborah for sponsoring this fic! You guys make me cry.

 

For teasers and vague thoughts about what I'm writing, you can follow at twitter.com/LaVieEnRoseFic. Always taking suggestions for what you'd like to see in this world!

Chapter 127 - The Ballad of the Ugliest Lamp On the Face of the Earth by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin's art opening doesn't go as planned, and there's not much Brian can do about it.

The Ballad of the Ugliest Lamp On the Face of the Earth

LaVieEnRose



That is, Justin said, coming out of our room with his tie halfway done, The ugliest lamp on the face of the earth.


Exactly what you want to hear after you just spent an hour putting the fucking thing together. What’s wrong with it?


It looks like you stole it from a hospital! Why does everything you pick out have to be so fucking...sterile? This is not the loft.


It’s also not a child’s playroom.


Oh my God. At least put it in the office upstairs so I don’t have to look at it.


No. It goes right there, I said, copying Jane’s favorite phrase to make him smile. He did, but only barely. I ran my hands up and down his arms. Nervous?


A little. We were just about to leave for the opening of the biggest show he’d had in quite a while. The whole thing felt a little off, partly because for the first time in about a year Justin actually liked the pieces he was showing, and we weren’t used to him really caring about the critics said because of that, and also because Evan and Emily and Gwen wouldn’t be there, because they were taking Jane to Emily’s parents’ place for Passover and Justin, obviously, had insisted they didn’t miss it on his behalf. Derek was coming, but Daph had to work, so all in all the whole thing felt...strange. Like it was a really big deal and also simultaneously like it wasn’t actually happening.


Hard part’s over, I said, taking his tie off and tossing it to the side despite his small noise of protest, and opening the top button of his shirt. Paintings are done. Now we show up and reap what you’ve sowed.


And fuck in the bathroom.


Yes, obviously that. I locked eyes with him for a moment, then brought his lips up to mine. He rested just the tips of his fingers on my waist and kissed me, and the whole thing felt delicate and beautiful.


We’d decided to take the car so we could make an easy escape once we got sick of the crowd. Plus—and not to give away too much of the plot—but with Justin it’s always a good idea to have an exit strategy in case things go south. He was quiet in the car, fiddling with the knob for the air conditioner and generally bugging the shit out of me, but by the time we got to the gallery in Brooklyn, about a forty-five minute drive, he’d calmed down a bit. He let out a breath. There’s Derek.


Go ahead in with him and find the interpreter. I’ll park.


By the time I got into the gallery, Justin was already making the rounds, watching the interpreter and smiling in all the right places. I kissed Derek’s cheek and downed a champagne flute.


I don't like this one, Derek said, gesturing towards one of the paintings.


Really? That's one of my favorites.


It's creepy.


It's him. See? I pointed out parts of the canvas. That's his heart, there's the lungs, feet...ears. His brain, here. It's him.


Yeah, if he were put through a blender.


I gave him a look.


Aaaand that's how it feels to be in his body, Derek put together. Got it. It's still creepy.


I looked around with a sigh. I should work the room, talk him up.


The burdens you bear.


It's hard to be the wife of a celebrity. You'll understand soon, when Daphne wins her Harper Avery or whatever the fuck.


Is that the thing from Grey's Anatomy? That's for surgeons.


That's your objection?


I circled the room and talked to some boring motherfuckers and said “Yes, I'm his husband,” about nine hundred times. Honestly, it's not that bad. It's always kind of fun to be in a room with people who recognize, or at least have the potential to recognize, what a fucking genius Justin is. He's spent so much of his life surrounded by people who wouldn't know their ass from a Kandinsky.


It is frustrating, though, that he didn't have this kind of success before he lost his hearing. Don't get me wrong, he does fine, but I wish he'd had a chance to experience this world when it was more accessible for him. All these doors should be open; he belongs here. But instead every reporter hesitates to approach him, every review harps on his Deafness even when what he's showing as nothing to do with it. The people here to see the collection were talking to me instead of him, and it wasn't because I was infinitely better dressed. Well, not just because, anyway.


It's fine, and he manages, but it just gets to me sometimes. That the world won't just let him be him. There's no goddamn reason for more people to not know sign language. There just isn't. Learn the fucking alphabet at least, something.


I came to his side eventually and put my hand under his elbow. Having fun? I asked him, and then held my hand out to the interpreter. Brian, nice to meet you.


You too.


I think people are responding well? he said. I don't know. I can never tell. They acted interested in what I had to say. See that guy?


Ugly fucker, isn't he.


He's from the New York Times and he's been looking at that piece for like fifteen minutes. I don't know if I should be hopeful or very concerned.


I kissed his cheek. Go for hopeful.


Okay.


Maybe Justin couldn't see it, but I could; Justin had these people wound around his little finger. I watched the critics gaze at his eyes and his ass and his brushwork and yeah, there's nothing in there not to love, and they knew it.


He's incandescent, my little bastard.


So everything was going great, but if you remember my little foreshadowing earlier then you're just sitting there waiting for the shit to hit the fan, so let's get on with it. About an hour and a half into the show I was just coming back from the bathroom and helping myself to another glass of champagne when there was a crash from the other end of the gallery, that hollow thump I know way too well, and Justin was on the floor.


No one knew whether to jump back or to put their hands on him, which meant everyone was just fucking in my way. Derek and I got to him at the same time, and we worked without pausing to talk—turning him on his side, cupping his head so it wouldn't hit against the ground, and shielding him from the onlookers as best we could. Someone said something about calling an ambulance, and I shouted, “No, he's fine. This happens. Just give him some room.”


It was a bad one. Justin's lips turned blue and his body twisted in on itself. He wet his pants, which I knew would be the part of doing this in public he'd hate the most, so I took my jacket off immediately and draped it over him like a blanket before anyone but Derek could see. It lasted for over two minutes. When it finally stopped and I heard him take in a rattling breath, I lowered my forehead down on to his chest and just stayed there for a second, wishing I'd seen it coming, wishing he'd never have to find out about this, wishing I'd kept him home and never let another soul get their eyes on him, not ever.


You, and this is a you-you, not some general you, do not understand how precious something is until it is broken in front of you. And I'm not even talking about Justin himself, not really. I mean this semblance of normal we'd managed to project to the public, the idea that epilepsy was just a cute quirk he sometimes painted about, the hope that my boy seizing on the floor would not be mentioned in the Arts and Leisure section of the New York Times.


You do not know what it feels like to have that stolen.


But right now I just needed to get Justin off the floor.


“Okay, sweetheart,” I said, very softly. “Okay, come on.”


Do you want to go to the hospital? Derek asked me. He looked calm, bless him.


I shook my head. I want to take him home. Can you stay with him while I go get the car? Try to get him up a little.


Of course, Derek said, and I left before I could overthink it. He'd be fine with Derek. He'd be safe.


I walked the two blocks to where I'd parked the car with my head down and my hands in my pockets, trying not to punch every goddamn storefront I passed, yell at every person, kick every fire hydrant.


This was supposed to be his night.


He'd been perfect.


He hadn't been drinking. He'd gotten enough sleep. He took his meds.


He went to his fucking prom with the person he liked just like everybody goddamn else.


He didn't do anything wrong.


By the time I got back to the car, Justin and Derek were on a bench outside the gallery, Derek's arm around Justin's shoulder, Justin's head in his hands. I pulled the car up and came over to him, squatted down in front of him. Hey, I said, but he didn't look at me. I lifted his chin with two fingers and waited for his eyes to settle on me. Hey. How are you?


He pulled in a slow breath, wheezing a little harder than I'd like.


I know. Come on. I helped him up, Derek on his other side, and we walked him slowly to the car. Are you coming? I asked Derek, sort of hoping he'd say no. I just didn't want anyone else around right now, even him.


He said, I think I should go back in there and see if I can smooth things over some. Try to redirect them back to the art.


Thank you. Thank you.


Call me in the morning and tell me how he is, okay?


I will.


Justin fell asleep pretty immediately, which I expected, and at first I turned the music up loud to try to stop myself from thinking, but then I get paranoid that I couldn't hear his breathing so I turned it off. The traffic on the BQE was awful, and it was almost an hour before we were even back in Queens. Fucking Brooklyn.


Justin startled awake when I turned off the car. I guess the rumbling was keeping him asleep. Gus used to love sleeping to the vacuum cleaner, I thought vaguely.


I touched his shoulder. Hey. You ready to go in?


He stared at me like he wasn't quite sure I was, then said, “Tell me what happened.”


Don't worry about that right now.


He turned and stared through the windshield, and I watched his profile and I could see it coming together in his head. Fuck this genius kid. Fuck fuck fuck.


“The gallery,” he said softly.


Let me take you inside and get you cleaned up.


He looked at me, his eyes wild and so clear. “Were we still at the gallery?”


Sometimes I really wish I knew how to lie to him. But I didn't even need to say anything here. He knew.


“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” he whispered, and the next thing I knew he was hitting the dashboard, kicking the car door, screaming in this way I think only Deaf people can. This scream that gets you right at the base of your stomach, that's so full of pain and exhaustion and honesty that we can't really dream of.


I tried to stop him at first—I didn't want him to hurt himself—but then I figured you know fucking what? If there was ever a time he gets to hurt himself hitting things if he wants to, here we are, and I just sat there fucking uselessly and watched him bloody his knuckles up and dent my car. He was this little hurricane of movement, and when he finally stopped thrashing and started sobbing I gathered him up and brought him inside. He let me, wrapping his legs around my waist and burying his face in my shoulder.


Evan wasn't home yet, and the house was dark and silent. I brought him to the bathroom and set him on the counter to take his clothes off, then bundled him up immediately in a robe when I saw how hard he was still shaking. I ran the shower hot and stripped and led him in with me, setting him carefully on the shower stool.


He was still crying, but in this quiet, absent way now, like he didn't even realize he was doing it. He just looked haunted, and I knew he was trying to remember what happened, trying to figure out exactly how bad this was. Working on some reality where somehow people didn't see.


He shouldn't be embarrassed about this. We both know that, so don't fucking start, okay? We can talk all day about how it's nothing to be ashamed of, but the fact of the matter is you don't want to fall and shake and turn blue and piss your pants at your art opening either, so shut the fuck. God knows what I'd be doing if it was me. I wouldn't be fucking having events if there was a risk that would happen to me, that's for goddamn sure. I probably wouldn't ever leave the house.


So he gets to have a breaking point. There has to at some point be a goddamn limit for what we demand he handle.


And there in the shower his bad leg gave out, and even though he was sitting it made him lose his grip on the ground and fall off the stool, and while I got down on the floor to check if he was okay he just put his face in his knees and...gave up, I don't know how else to describe it. He was just defeated. There was no anger anymore, just this bone-deep exhaustion and profound goddamn sadness, and I sat there wondering how much it's possible to take from one person and have there still be a person left.


I carried him out of the shower, wrapped him in a towel, and we just sat on the floor for a while, Justin in my arms, cradled between my chest and my tented knees, that thousand-yard stare stuck on his face.


“I wish he'd fucking killed me,” Justin said softly.


I know, baby, I said. I know.


**


Justin slept like a rock, thanks to the seizure, his head tucked into my collarbone. He had a nightmare around three AM, but I was able to coax him back to sleep after a little while, and besides that the night was thankfully uneventful. It's always a crapshoot when he has tonic clonic seizures whether it's going to be the first of a cluster, so it was a small favor that this one seemed to be a standalone. Turned out it, you know, wasn't, just to continue the tradition of spoiling the fun times ahead, but at least he had a break.


He was still asleep when I woke up. I checked him for injuries as well as I could without waking him up and then went to the kitchen to drown myself in coffee and make something for him to eat. Evan was at the counter looking at the paper, and when he looked up at me he was ghost-white.


“What the fuck happened last night?” he said.


“Shit. What does it say?”


“It says the artist collapsed at the show and something about it...somber...something. What does somber mean?”


Sad. I came over and looked at the review. ...added a somber reminder of the realities of life as a disabled young man. God, fuck me in the face. “Shit. Shiiiiiiit.”


“Is he okay??”


“Yeah.” I gave Evan a hug. Yeah, he's sleeping it off right now.


“He must be so—”


“He is.” I waved at the newspaper. “Do not let him see that.”


“They liked most of the pieces...”


“It doesn't matter right now.”


I gave Evan his meds and asked questions about Passover that I didn't pay attention to the answers to while I made coffee and waffles and listened for sounds of stirring in the bedroom. I didn't hear anything, but when I brought a tray of food in Justin was just waking up, sitting up slowly and stretching his knotted-up muscles.


I helped him sit up against some pillows and set the tray on his lap. Breakfast in bed, I said, settling down beside him.


It's not my birthday, he said, eyes downcast.


I gave him a look. You're sick.


“Yeah.” He prodded at the waffle with the tip of his fork. “Thanks.”


Yeah, anytime. I rested my head on the pillows. How are you feeling?


“You know in Wizard of Oz when the witch gets crushed by the house?”


Evocative.


“I try.”


He ate slowly, which was honestly more than I was expecting. I just lay there and watched him, how goddamn fucking beautiful he was with his puffy eyes and the morning sun in his hair. He's like a sculpture come to life.


How much do you remember? I asked, when I couldn't not anymore.


He shrugged. “Enough.”


Yeah. I played with his napkin. I need to call Derek. He was really worried about you.


“Shouldn't be. He knows better.”


This was a pretty bad one.


“If I was at home it would have been nothing,” he said, and...okay, it wouldn't have been nothing—we stop the day for tonic-clonic seizures, I'm not a monster—but I knew what he meant. We wouldn't be lying here awkwardly in bed together after, unsure of what to say to each other, dancing around the real crux of what happened.


I cleared my throat. I want you to call your therapist today, okay?


He rubbed his forehead. “Why.”


You said some dark shit last night, that's all.


“Okay.”


Do you still....feel like that? Light of day and all?


“I don't know,” he said. “I don't remember.” But I could tell he did.


So I just lay there for a while, tangling my legs in the comforter, watching him eat, waiting until he felt like he could talk. It's Justin. He always talks eventually. He has to talk about everything. It used to drive me crazy.


And he did, eventually. “You know that theory that disability is a construct, and that the issue is really that the world isn't accessible, not the problems with our individual bodies? And like...no one would be disabled if the world were just built with everyone in mind?”


The social model of disability. I read. And I referenced this earlier, you'll recall.


“Yeah.”


“I always liked that,” Justin said.


Me too.


“But here's the thing,” Justin said. “The world could be the safest, most accessible place you can imagine, and I would still be having seizures in the middle of my art openings.”


I watched him.


“So how exactly,” he said, his voice breaking. “Am I supposed to not hate myself a little for that?”


**


I know you want this to be the part of the story where I come up with something to say to make it all better, but the truth is, I can't. I can't fix this. I can't promise Justin it will never happen again, that he'll never have a seizure in public or in the bathtub or while he's driving or while he's giving a fucking blow job and all other kinds of situations that would really, really suck. I do not have that kind of power, and fuck Chris goddamn Hobbs for wielding that power like its own weapon. There is no punishment deep enough for him, and I have to reconcile that with not wishing that Justin was well.


Because we are disability-positive, as a family. It's something that's important to us, for Justin, but also for Evan and Jane and everybody. We look on the bright side. We call out ableism. We embrace what makes us different, makes us special, gives us culture and community.


But make no goddamn mistake about all that: it is hard sometimes.


It is hard, it is hard. Justin is in pain.


**


Justin slept most of the day, in bed or curled up on the couch around Evan, who held him like a baby bird. He was feeling better by the evening, and he got on his email to respond to the eight billion worried laypeople who were at the show or heard about the show or read the newspaper. It was all really fucking irritating just to witness, but Emily texted me, what a drama queen which made me smile, so there was that.


Things went south around nine at night. Evan was out at the clubs so it was just Justin and me, and he was sitting on the couch holding his head and looking as pale as I've ever seen him. I got him painkillers and put a cold washcloth on the back of his neck, but nothing was really helping. I'd spent half the day fucking crying, if I'm being honest with you, so I had a headache too, but...yeah. This was kind of a different thing. I was in the kitchen considering calling Daphne to tell me whether I needed to take him in, and I had my back turned for a fucking second, and of course then that's when there was another crash just like at the gallery and well, you know what was going on.


He'd tumbled off the couch and taken half of the side table with him, so I carefully moved him out of anything broken that could hurt him and then let him do his thing, stroking his hair until it was over. This one was a lot shorter, thankfully, and when it was over I just lay there next to him on the floor and pulled him into me, and we stayed like that for a while, staring up at the ceiling.


Until I started laughing, just a little at first, but then I couldn't stop.


Justin looked up at me, somewhere between confused and amused.


You broke the lamp, I said, and Justin covered his face with his hands and laughed until he cried.

 

End Notes:

Thank you to Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M., Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Hannah, Julie, and Deborah, who probably did't want something quite this angsty, but here you are.

 

Follow at twitter.com/LaVieEnRose for updates and chatting and such!

Chapter 128 - Guardian of the Sick by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin finally gets his service dog, but there's trouble afoot.

Guardian of the Sick

by LaVieEnRose

 

Every once in a while, the Jennifer half of me takes over and I become a nice person, a saintly sister, or sister-in-law, or whatever the fuck you'd call what I am to Evan, in this case. Brian and Justin were in Pennsylvania for two weeks at the dog place, getting Justin used to the dog and Justin used to her in some kind of service dog boot camp situation. Justin had asked me to be available for Evan, because of how his kidneys don't work, and because he hasn't been feeling well, don't press him about it, don't hover. So I brought him groceries after dialysis one night because I figured he'd be tired, and we ended up having dinner together and staying up late watching the kind of horror movies Justin can't sit through. And after that it kind of became a tradition. On dialysis days I'd come over, help him cook something or give up and order in, and we'd crash out on the couch and laugh while people got murdered and then fall asleep, sometimes me in the guest room and him in the basement, sometimes crashed out on the couch together when we were too tired to move.


I like Evan. Too bad he's gay. And like, married to my brothers.


One night, the day before Justin and Brian were scheduled to come home, I could tell he was feeling really crappy. He didn't have a lot of color in his face and he didn't talk much during dinner. He fell asleep on the couch halfway through the movie, so I covered him up with a blanket and...I don't know, I felt weird about just going back to my room for some reason, so I ended up lying on the floor on the big fluffy cushions they have and watching YouTube videos until I fell asleep.


My phone woke me up the next morning. Brian on FaceTime. I groaned and rolled over and answered. “What.”


He gave me a big smile. “Good morning, princess.”


“God, fuck off. What time is it?”


“It's past ten, get over yourself. Why are you at my house?”


“Purely to annoy you.”


“Joke's on you, I'm glad you're there. I was trying to reach Evan but he didn't pick up.”


I held the phone up so he could see Evan still sleeping on the couch.


Brian frowned. “He never sleeps this late.”


“I don't think he was feeling well last night.”


“Yeah, that's why I'm calling. All right.”


I stretched. “How's dog world?”


“Justin's out there with her right now practicing lying on the ground for her. Because his allergies weren't bad enough, let's throw in some grass.”


“What does she do when he lies on the ground?”


“Lies on his chest, licks his face, tries to wake him up. And if he doesn't get up in a minute or so, runs and gets the phone with the big red button. Calls me. Tada.”


“That's so cool.”


“She needs to practice on him having seizures, right? So she gets used to detecting them. And they ask us, do we need to do something to trigger a seizure...”


“Ha.”


“I was like yeah, wait five minutes, going five minutes without a seizure is one of his triggers.”


“Are they bonding?”


“Yeah, Justin's in love.”


“How about you?”


“Sure,” he said with an eye-roll. Poor Brian. Dog on all his furniture.


“Are you still coming home today?” I said.


“Yeah, leaving in a few hours.”


“You and Justin and Martha.”


“And Martha.” He shook his head. “She couldn't be named something Justin could actually say, no.”


“Too easy. She'll learn ASL soon enough anyway.”


“Yeah, I know.”


I looked up. “I think Evan's waking up.” I put my hand on his knee. Hi.


“Let me see him,” Brian said, and I handed the phone up to Evan, who rubbed his eyes and smiled and started signing, asking questions about Justin and the dog first, then moving on to presumably answer Brian's, telling him he felt fine, yes he made all his dialysis appointments, no there was nothing to worry about.


I got up, yawning, and trekked to the kitchen to make something for breakfast. Evan came in a few minutes later, off the phone now, and clapped his hands on my shoulders. He looked...tired. Really tired.


Maybe you should rest until they get home, I said. You're going to want to play with the dog.


“I'm okay.” He opened the refrigerator. “Don't you need to get home?” he said. I'd been studying pretty non-stop these days. Senior year and all that.


I looked at the way his hand shook on the handle of the refrigerator. I think I'll stay. If that's okay.


“Yeah, you want to meet Martha?” He did her name sign, an M shaking slightly back and forth.


Of course.


“It's going to be so fun having a dog around here,” he said. “I'm gonna teach her to do all kinds of tricks. Mostly ones that involve harassing Brian.”


We had breakfast, or I did; Evan didn't really eat. I didn't draw attention to it. Are you excited for them to get home? I asked.


“I've never been away from them this long,” he said. “And it's weird...I've never stayed in the house without them at all. I was ready for them to tell me I needed to stay somewhere else.”


You're deranged.


“Yeah, I know.”


We cleaned up the dishes and I pushed my luck and said, You sure you don't want to lie down?


He gave me this sheepish kind of smile and said, “Maybe I should for a little while.”


That's all I'm saying. I nudged him towards the basement door. Go. I'll make sure you're awake before they get here.


I'd brought some books with me, so I just hung out and studied a little and pretended I was studying and actually watched TV a lot. Evan got up on his own about an hour before Brian and Justin came back, and he still didn't look good but after a shower and some sleep he at least didn't seem like he was about to keel over. He was getting really antsy waiting for the guys to get home, and it was pretty cute. It's fun to see someone like effusively, blatantly love Justin. Obviously Brian adores him, but his way is full of eye-rolls and snarky comments and, well, that's how I love people, I don't need to see more of that. Evan's way is novel.


I waved at Evan when I heard the key turn in the lock and then there they were, Brian and Justin and the smallest, blackest, fluffiest poodle you can imagine. “Ohhhh my God,” I said, dropping to my knees immediately. “Hi Martha! Hi hi hi!”


She watched Justin, who went over to Evan and gave him a firm kiss and then a tight hug. Missed you, Justin said. You should have come.


Evan laughed. They didn't even want Brian there. True: I'd heard the whole saga. They try to avoid having extra people there, and with Justin they obviously already needed an interpreter, so they were already like okay, that's plenty, but between his shitty breathing and the seizures it's just not feasible for Justin to be on his own for two weeks. So they let him bring one person, and they picked Brian because there wasn't a dialysis center close to the dog training place, and also probably because Brian's the most likely to have a nervous breakdown from being away from Justin for two weeks. See, people think I don't pay attention!


Brian narrowed his eyes a little at Evan, like he was thinking, but got distracted by Martha wandering into the house. “Okay, yes, this is home. Don't pee in here.”


Justin hugged me and said, Isn't she cute?


Adorable. Does she really work?


Yeah, it's really cool. You'll see.


And I did, about an hour later, when we were eating lunch and catching up. Martha had been sleeping with her head on Justin's knee, when all of a sudden she sat up and barked sharply and nudged Justin's hand.


Here we go, Brian said.


I feel fine!


Yes, Baruch Spinoza, that's the point of her.


Sure enough, a few seconds later Justin's arm started shaking. He reached out with his other hand and scratched Martha's head. “Good girl.”


What's the point of her barking? I asked.


Brian pointed at himself.


Ah, of course.


The seizure finished, and Justin rested his head on Evan's shoulder. Tired now. Evan kissed his forehead.


Brian stealthily fed Martha a cracker. “Good girl,” he said softly.


**


The next time I saw Martha (and Brian and Justin and Evan too, but that's not nearly as exciting) was at the bar with everyone a few nights later. Justin was bright and animated and Martha just lay under the table at his feet, and I kept forgetting she was there. She looked so cute in her service dog harness.


How big is she? Emily asked.


Twelve pounds, Justin said. We wanted a small one so she'd be easier for me to manage. And it's not like she's doing anything she really needs strength for. She's not supposed to catch me.


My job, Brian said, pecking him on the cheek.


Evan was quiet, leaning on his elbow and running his finger around the rim of his water glass, but he smiled in the right places and chimed in to tease Justin some. Brian went up to the bar to get another round, and I came with him to help carry. We leaned against the bar while we waited, and Brian looked over at the table, all of them grabbing each other for attention and signing on top of each other's hands, with a smile in his eyes.


He's so happy, he said.


“I think so too.”


“He's doing stuff on his own again,” Brian said. “He's been holed up since what happened at the art opening. Yesterday he went to his studio. He stopped at the fucking grocery store on his way home.”


“He doesn't have to be as scared.”


“It's...” Brian took a deep, shaky breath. “Wow.”


“Martha for president.” I chewed the inside of my mouth. “So how's Evan?”


“He's okay,” Brian said, a little too quickly if you ask me.


“He seems really tired.”


“Dialysis is a bitch.”


“When does he get a kidney?”


“The million dollar question,” Brian said. “If he gets sicker they'll move him up the list. Until then we just wait.”


“You don't think he's getting sicker?”


Brian looked at me sideways.


“I'm just asking,” I said.


“If something was wrong, he would tell me,” Brian said.


“It's Evan. Would he?”


Brian didn't take his eyes off him. “Yes.”


**


I went out to lunch with Justin and Martha a few days later, at this cute cafe in Chelsea. The waitress cooed over Martha and brought her a bowl of water, and Martha was sweet and quiet until Justin started wheezing halfway through and she whined and nudged his pocket until he took his inhaler out.


She's good, I said.


She's bossy.


I went back to the house with him after because I was desperate for any excuse to avoid studying. It was cool to watch Martha navigate the city. She stayed so calm even in huge swaths of people, and she had no hesitation about stepping into elevators or onto the subway. I wasn't allowed to pet her, which was annoying.


She sticks really close to you, I said.


She does it at home too. It makes Brian and Evan laugh. I'm always tripping over her because she sticks to me like glue.


Does she like Brian and Evan?


I think so. But she knows what her job is. Guardian of the sick.


Brian was at the office when we got back, but Evan was there, asleep on the couch. Justin woke him up with a soft kiss and asked him if he wanted some coffee. I can get it, Evan said, but Justin shook his head and pulled a blanket over him.


I followed Justin to the kitchen. Are we worried? I said.


We are trying very hard not to be worried.


Brian keeps saying he's fine.


Yeah, I know.


So what is it going to take for him to realize there's a problem?


He knows. He's just.. He shrugged. He's trying very hard not to be worried.


And right then Brian came in, pulling off his jacket and tossing his briefcase onto the table by the door.


He's going to have to talk about it at some point, I said.


“Well, no time like the present.” He waved Brian over to the kitchen, and Brian came over and brushed his lips with a quick kiss.


You good? Brian said. He reached down and rubbed Martha's head, and she trotted into the living room.


“I'm good. Evan was asleep again when I got back.”


Brian shrugged. He was home alone and bored, what else is he going to do.?


“Uh, literally anything. I think we need to get him to make a doctor's appointment. Something isn't right.”


Of course something isn't right. He has HIV and he's in kidney failure. But he's managing. We don't need to worry about him.


Guys? I said.


“I think it's getting worse,” Justin said. “I don't think the dialysis is working as well as it was.”

 

We don't have options if the dialysis isn't working, Brian said.


Justin watched him steadily, and he looked old suddenly, older than Brian.


It has to be working, Brian said. He's fine.


Guys, I said, and finally they looked at me.


I pointed to the couch.


Martha was perched at the end of the couch, her ears alert. Guarding Evan.

 

End Notes:

THANK YOU FOREVER to Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M., Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Hannah, Julie, and Deborah for sponsoring. My HEART.

 

Don't forget to follow for updates at twitter.com/LaVieEnRosefic!

Chapter 129 - The Week it Didn't Stop Raining by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

A long time ago, someone called Justin a princess locked in a tower.

The Week it Didn't Stop Raining

LaVieEnRose



A lot happened in a short period of time.


I had what was, Brian promised me two days after when I still couldn't move without crying, the worst seizure I'd ever had. At least this time I was home for it, and Martha apparently barked like crazy and got Brian there immediately, but yeah, he said it was bad, really bad, and he was so careful with me afterwards that I knew it must have scared the shit out of him. And I can't remember the last time I felt that horrible after one, and for that length of time. So that of course meant there was an emergency neurologist appointment where they fucked with my meds for the millionth time, and just like every time I got sick and so fucked up in the head that I kept telling Brian that someone was poisoning me, which I'm sure was a great time for him.


And my show closed, and I didn't sell much, and I could tell the gallery wasn't happy with me, and it's not like the show was full of great memories for me either and God, it was supposed to be so big, and my allergies were a mess and Brian was blaming Martha even though it was fucking May, so that was stressful and I kept being convinced he was going to take her away from me, and I was too sick to go to Molly's graduation and that was awful and then. And then there was Evan.


And I couldn't move without crying. First because of the seizure. Then because of everything.


**


This isn't something the three of us shared with anyone outside of the house, but Martha is supposed to help for depression, too. I thought service dogs were just for one thing, like you had to pick one if you were like me and had seventy-eight things wrong with you, but it turns out the dog is tailored to the person, not the condition. So Martha knows Deaf tricks, and seizure tricks, and asthma tricks. And mental health tricks.


For example, she tries to get me out of bed.


I'm not getting up today, I told her.


She cocked her head and watched me.


There's nothing good out there. I don't feel good. I'm going to sleep today.


She nuzzled my hand.


Brian will walk you. I pulled the blanket up over my head. Leave me alone.


It was just bad today.


It had been raining for almost a week.


It was Evan.


Martha kept licking my hand.


I'll let you out in the backyard so you can run around, I said. Just give me a minute.


But I don't know how much time passed between when I said that and when Brian came in and spooned me in the bed, me under the covers, him on top. I rolled over and faced him, and he gave me that calm smile he always does when my head isn't on straight.


Are you getting up today? he asked me.


I shook my head.


You need to eat something. And take a shower.


Just go away if I'm so gross.


He sighed and stroked my hair off my forehead.


Sorry, I said.


That's okay.


How is he?


He's sleeping. I'm bringing him to the doctor in a few hours.


Is he mad at me?


Brian sighed. I don't even know how many times he'd had to answer that at this point. No one is mad at you.


I'm being awful. I'm making this about me.


You're sick as hell. This isn't not about you.


“I'm not sick, I'm just...pathetic.”


Brian looked at me for a long time, and I was so sure, and so terrified, that he was about to agree with me.


I guess that's proof of how fucked up I was, that I thought that.


Instead he said, Sunshine. Set it all aside for a second, okay? Do I need to be worried?


His eyes were so beautiful.


He wasn't asking about the seizures or my allergies or the med adjustment.


I usually only get like this in the winter.


Maybe if it would just stop raining.


“Yeah,” I said softly, and he nodded and kept playing with my hair.


**


It's okay if you hate me for being self-centered and useless and horrible. Really, it is.


I don't know how to explain what it feels like.


I'm sorry. This isn't a good story. And you probably just want to hear about what was going on with Evan, not about what clinical depression is. That's what I wanted to think about, anyway.


It's okay if you hate me. I promise, it's fine.


**


Presenting Martha, Evan said, letting her back into my room. She had a lovely time chasing squirrels.


She probably hates me for not taking her out.


Not the vibe I get. He crawled up on the bed next to me and put his arms around me. I tucked my forehead against his chin and just stayed there for a little while, breathing him in.


How are you, are you okay? I said.


Just tired. So so so tired.


Martha hopped up on the bed and settled down between us with a sigh.


Brian’s going to fix it, I said.


I know. He ran his hands down my sides. Who’s gonna fix you?


Martha.


Ah, okay.


I took as deep a breath as I could. I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm like this. I don't know why I have to be like this.


It's just bad sometimes, Evan says. But it doesn't always feel like this, okay?


Please don't comfort me.


That's not very convincing when you're crying...


I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. “You can't comfort me about you. You can't. I won't look at it.”


Evan peeled my hands off my face.


I'm comforting you about you, he said. Ohhh, Justin, he fingerspelled, and he pulled me onto his chest and held me there.


**


Brian stood at the foot of the bed. Okay. I've got to go. Evan's doctor's appointment.


“Okay.”


He put a granola bar and a bottle of water on the bedside table. And there's a painkiller here if you need it.


“Okay. Thanks.”


He ran his hand down his face and said, I hid the razors in the bathroom.


“Okay.”


I don't have to do the knives, right? You're not going to go to the kitchen?


“No. It's okay.”


I'll be back in an hour. Maybe two.


“I'll be fine, I promise.”


He came to the bed and I sat up, and he guided me into a hug, his fingers working some of the knots in my back. I felt him say something in my ear and kiss my cheek.


“Please don't worry about me,” I said. “I don't want anyone to worry.”


He pulled away enough to wipe my cheeks off with his thumbs.


Is it still raining? I said, and he nodded and ran his palm across the back of my neck.


**


The house felt so, so empty without them, and I'm pretty sure if I didn't have Martha napping on my knee I would have lost my goddamn mind and become convinced I was the only thing left in the world.


I scratched her head and tried to find the energy to turn on a TV show or open up a book. Something. Everything just seemed so incredibly impossibly hard. All I wanted to do was call Evan and find out how the appointment was going, but I was so scared of what he might tell me that I didn't even reach for the phone.


I pulled the comforter up over my head. My whole body was throbbing like a sprained ankle, and I kind of felt like I was going to have a seizure but Martha wasn't doing anything, so this must just have been...how I felt now. I'd probably fucked myself up forever with that last seizure. It was probably never going to get any better. I would never get out of bed, I'd never be there for Evan, this dog was a waste of Brian's money because I was going to be too sick forever to go anywhere and do anything and even if I wasn't I was going to be too depressed to go anywhere and do anything. I don't even need to be sick to be useless. I will take any excuse to twist a situation and make it about how helpless I am. I'm that desperate for attention or that incapable of taking care of myself because I'm lazy or stupid or selfish or something. There has got to be something that I am that's making me act like this.


God, I wanted Brian back.


I eventually dragged myself up and to the bathroom and God help me made a half-hearted attempt to look for the razors, and then I thought I should probably give myself a change of scenery before I lost my entire mind and I rode the momentum of being already standing over to the couch. I curled up with Evan's favorite blanket and thought about making some tea, but it seemed really hard and besides I'd told Brian I wouldn't go into the kitchen, and he'd worry if he got home and found out I did.


Martha nudged my pocket until my inhaler came out and oh, right, I couldn't breathe. Because God forbid I get over my fucking self and get up and move. Fucked if you do, fucked if you don't.


God. It really is okay if you hate me. I don't know how you couldn't.


I fell asleep there on the couch, and the next thing I knew Brian was rousing me gently, pulling my legs up into his lap. I rubbed my eyes and felt relief cover me up like a quilt. Brian was here. It would be okay now.


And then I woke up enough to remember why Brian was gone.


How are you? he asked me. You got out of bed, are you okay?


I can't tell if you're proud or concerned.


I am, literally always, both.


I smiled a little. Where is he?


Downstairs.


My stomach felt cold. It's bad, isn't it? Otherwise he would be telling me and not you.


Brian sighed and squeezed my foot. It's about what we expected. His kidney function's still going down. Dialysis isn't as effective as it used to be.


“He needs a kidney.”


They're moving him up on the list.


“We're running out of time.”


It's not that dire yet. He's okay.


I can't lose him.


You won't, Brian said firmly.


I nodded a little, but I didn't believe it. I didn't believe anything, I don't think, except for Brian's hands on me.


Come here, he said, and he pulled me closer and ran his thumbs over the soft skin on the insides of my forearms. How's Martha?


“Good. She thinks I'm pathetic.”


Well, if you were all nice and healed she'd be very bored.


My chin started shaking.


Oh, come on, he said gently.


I'm sorry.


You just need rest, Brian said. Like he was certain.


But it felt like it was never going to get better.


**


It did, of course. The next day I was feeling motivated enough to make cookies for Evan. I even got Brian to help me.


His favorite cookies are peanut butter, I said.


His favorite Justin is probably one not in anaphylactic shock.


So we made snickerdoodles, and Brian ate half the batter, and he swiped a stripe of flour on my cheek and I actually laughed, for the first time in a long time. Evan came up and rested on the couch while he watched us work, and he was so grateful and embarrassed and overwhelmed by cookies, of all things, this boy.


I was really worn out afterwards and lay in the bath tub for a long time. Brian hung out in the bathroom with me—Martha's too small to pull me out if I have a seizure in the bathtub, so someone still has to be around, though Martha doesn't seem to know that and parks herself by the tub like a statue—and entertained me with dumb shit he found on his phone, old pictures of us, stupid texts from Gus.


I was still a level of miserable that didn't feel liveable long-term, but it was okay for right now.


I am so not emotionally ready for Evan to have major surgery, Brian said.


Brian Kinney just said the word emotion.


I've grown.


I know.


But not enough to be okay with Evan having surgery. Last time one of us had something major it was you getting your head sewn back on.


I don't think that's exactly what it was.


You were asleep, what do you know.


I stretched one leg up. “Getting his arm fixed was pretty major.”


No, doesn't count.


“Getting your ball removed?”


Definitely doesn't count.


“I wonder what it feels like,” I said. “To have an organ—organs--that are just...failing.”


Brian raised an eyebrow at me.


What?


Your lungs, dear.


“They're not failing. They're just...not so good. They're not actively getting worse.”


Brian laughed. That's the benchmark? Whether it's getting worse, not how bad it is now?


“I make the rules.”


Yeah, maybe not this time. He leaned forwards, towards me. Justin. You have got to stop downplaying this shit going on with you. It's what's fucking with your head. You think you're not allowed to be sick because he is, and that's just not reality. We've been over this. Nobody is looking at this situation going, God, I can't believe Justin has the nerve to still be sick while Evan's kidneys are failing.


“That's not what's going on. We have been over this.”


Okay, Brian said. So tell me, why are you so upset?


Because I'm brain damaged and they messed with my anticonvulsants.


He watched me.


Okay. Fine. And because for all we know, I could have been a match for him.


Brian softened. Sunshine.


“If I had just been more careful. If I hadn't gotten sick when my immune system was trashed, I wouldn't have gotten pneumonia, my lungs wouldn't have gotten damaged, I'd be able to have that fucking major surgery and give him a kidney.


“You're probably not a match.”


But I could be. And we don't even know. I don't even get a chance to save him.


You realize there was absolutely nothing you could do to keep from getting sick when your immune system was trashed.


I sighed and coughed a little. I know. I just can't stand feeling useless like this. And I have to feel like this all the fucking time. And it's not going to stop. And sometimes that's just...overwhelming to sit here and make you do everything.


I only do everything because of you, he said, casually.


I watched him.


What? he said. I wouldn't have found Evan on my own. I wouldn't have my head out of my ass enough to take care of myself, let alone someone else. I wouldn't fucking...God, I wouldn't get out of bed, you know this. You know what you do to me.


I rubbed my chest and thought about this.


Everything, this house, this family, this fucking...peace that we have, tenuous though it may be, is because of you. You really don't see that?


“I don't think you understand how much I absolutely despise myself.”


The stories are named after the maidens stuck in the tower, you know. The princess trapped in the castle. The delicate flower who needs to be saved.


“But I want to be the knight.”


No one remembers the knight, Brian scoffed. He's a lackey. Brian lowered his face, so close to mine. But they'll remember you.


**


I realize that's not supposed to be what you want to hear.


Maybe you read that and you thought wow, that wasn't the right thing to say. Brian really fucked up this time. He should have told Justin how strong and capable he is, that he's going to be the one to save Evan in the end.


Maybe you're not sick and you should shut up.


I think I do care if you hate me, actually.


I don't blame you for it, not yet. But I do care.


**


Evan was sick that night, and I spent it awake with him in the basement, telling him stories and giving him cool washcloths and telling him to squeeze my hand as hard as it hurts, and he wouldn't. Brian came and got me in the morning and carried me up the stairs because I was so tired, and when I woke up he and Evan were both gone. Dialysis.


Martha looked at me from the foot of the bed.


“Come on, baby girl,” I said. “Let's go for a walk.”


I didn't want to stray too far from the house, so I took her a few blocks, back and forth. We live about halfway up a hill, and from two blocks away you can stand at the corner and see everything, the bodegas and the bicycles and our beautiful house and I watched the people move around us and I looked at my dog and I....


We wouldn't have come to New York if not for me. Brian never would have expanded his offices to here, to London, to Hong Kong next year. He still would have aged, or he might not have treated his cancer and he might not still be alive.


Evan would be in a shitty shared apartment with people who didn't care about him if not for me. And he would still be in kidney failure, or he might have gotten sick and not had the money to do anything and might not still be alive.


The knights leave their lives to rescue the princess in the tower. Suitors come from all over to deliver her love letters in her fortress. The world changes, but she stays the same, her castle overseeing everything, her presence the reason that everyone keeps coming back.


You think she's fragile but she is the most stable thing that there is.


I stood there with my steady legs and looked at my world.


The sun was out.

 

Chapter 130 - Duty of Care by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian has very little to complain about. But very little isn't nothing.

Duty of Care

LaVieEnRose



I woke up to Justin, half-asleep and sexy and so warm, curled around me with his hand running up and down my stomach. Yes please. I tilted his face up and kissed him slowly, sinking in to the feeling of him gradually pushing into me, his legs and his fingers and his lips, as I woke him up.


I broke away eventually to let him catch his breath and trailed my lips down his neck. Hi, I said.


“Good morning.” He stretched like a cat, his back arched, and I wanted him like I cannot even explain.


Fuck, why bother trying. How are you feeling?


Better. That was every morning, lately. He’d gone from being miserable constantly to waking up okay and fading as the day went on, which at least was an improvement. Usually by the time he was crying or getting irrationally angry or looking at Wikipedia pages of most gruesome deaths it was late enough for me to corral him into bed. And then he’d wake up and say, better.


Good, I said. Then roll over, and his laugh was like little bells.


**


After I showered with Justin and got him all nice and medicated, it was time to head down to the other sick bed.


Having Evan very sick was strange. Not just because it was Evan and not Justin, though that was part of it; Evan really, really doesn’t like hovering, and Justin needs...not to be coddled, but to be watched, to know that someone recognizes that things could get dicey and they’re around to step in if necessary. And that, really, was what was strange, because when Justin’s really sick, it’s an emergency. It’s constant monitoring and medicating and fear and uncertainty and he’s so, so scared because he’s usually too feverish or postictal or under-oxygenated or all three to really know what’s going on.


But this...this wasn’t an emergency. Evan wasn’t particularly scared, and he didn’t need constant care or attention.


Really he just slept, and we waited.


He wasn't working anymore, and he had to get dialysis daily instead of three times a week, which essentially ate up all of his time, but at least he could sleep in the armchairs there. He was quiet and calm and had a very whatever happens happens attitude about the whole kidney situation that I found very annoying, but hey, if he could rest while Justin and I ran around like chickens with our heads cut off trying to figure out how we were going to get out of this one, so much the better.


I went down to the basement and sat carefully on the side of the bed, placing a hand on his back. He stretched and gave me a sleepy smile, and I handed him his hearing aids and his meds off his bedside table.


Doing okay? I asked him.


He nodded. Low fever, I think.


Yeah, I can see it in your eyes. I went to his dresser and got out some jeans and a hoodie since he was shivering a bit. Justin has one too. I'm going to kill you two if you caught something.


He stretched. “I think it's just a thing.”


Yeah, me too. Justin's not coughing, so, you know, call the Vatican.


“The what?”


It's where the pope lives. I tossed him his clothes. You need help getting dressed?


Just getting up, I think.


I took his hands and pulled him up; it's an adjustment not to have to worry about his joints when I do that. Justin's are always so painful. I went to his kitchen and did a little cleaning up while he got dressed. He's normally pretty tidy, but...yeah. He's so tired. And that's the kind of help Evan will accept more readily than hands-on stuff, so it works out okay. Meanwhile Justin loses his mind if you move his stuff.


“How is he today?” Evan said while he hopped into his pants.


He's good. He slept well and then I fucked his brains out.


“Good, good.” He wavered a little on his feet.


Dizzy?


“Yeah. Just really tired.”


Didn't like that. You just woke up.


He shrugged a little.


Well, you'll be able to sleep again soon. Dialysis in twenty.


“Is Justin coming?”


No, you get me today. He said he’s working on a project.


“Oh yeah?”


I didn’t ask any questions. Don’t want to jinx it.


“Yeah, seriously.”


I’m just glad that suck of a show didn’t put him off art entirely.


Evan got up the stairs okay, but he was tired enough that I didn’t want to make him walk to the subway, so after saying goodbye to Justin we took the car and I dropped him off in front of the dialysis center. By the time I got in he was settled in his chair, already half asleep. He used to look so much healthier than everyone else here. Now he fit right in.


Except that he had me with him, and we were signing, and we were laughing. Evan loves old photos almost as much as he loves Justin, so I’d had Jennifer send me some ancient ones of him and I brought along some that I had, and we made fun of Justin’s hair and clothing choices and lost our minds at the ones of him in his school plays. He was a five-year-old wise man in a Christmas pageant. Imagine.


He was talking in his sleep the other night, I said.


In English or sign?


English. It sounded like there was some problem involving sheep he was reluctantly in charge of figuring out.


Evan laughed with his head back. I love him so much.


Yeah, he’s okay. I’d like him more if he breathed better. He’d been struggling a little too much when we left, and it was annoying.


I kind of want him back on prednisone. He didn’t even come close to spelling it right.


I kind of do too, but it’s such an ordeal. I’m going to start making him do nebs more, though. He’s lazy and just uses his inhaler even when he has the time.


We’ve got to teach Martha how to set up a nebulizer.


That’d be a trick. Let’s teach her to do dialysis.


He laughed. I don’t mind coming in. These chairs are more comfortable than my bed.


I frowned and played with his hair a little.


His eyes were starting to fall closed. Justin’s scared, he said.


In fairness, he has PTSD. He’s usually scared.


“I don’t want him to worry about me.”


Yeah, tough luck. He doesn’t want you to worry about him either.


“Sure he does.”


I chuckled. Yeah, you’re probably right. I think after being sick for this long, negotiating people’s concern is the way Justin knows how to relate to the world. He doesn’t get to participate the way he wants to, but he gets to be watched, and that lets him know he’s still a part of people’s lives. And there’s also the fact that people who care about Justin should be worried about him. The kid’s a mess. So it makes him feel, well, loved.


And Evan? Well, most of the people who worried about him have disappeared. He's a little gun-shy when it comes to believing people are going to stick around, and...well, takes one to know one, right?


Understanding Justin, to the extent I believe any of this cosmic crap, I know is what I was fucking put here to do, and it's been fifteen years and I'm still confused as fuck by him half the time; he's a complex kid, and he changes every goddamn day, This is my big, lifetime journey, and don't get me wrong, I've said it before and I'll say it a hundred times: I am fully, deeply aware that I have very little to complain about here. I might not have the self-actualization to always act like it, but you've got to trust me when I say that I am absolutely cognizant of the fact that life with Justin is hallowed ground. That doesn't mean it's easy, and it doesn't mean I'm asking it to be. I'm just pointing out a contrast here.


Evan is easy. He's so easy, because he's just me dipped in sugar. I get him, instinctively, and I'm never surprised when Justin's frustrated with or baffled by Evan because God knows I've stepped on all the same land mines myself. The only time I fuck up with Evan is when I overthink and try to treat him like Justin. These two, they're light and dark, except I'm not really sure which of them is which, blond hair notwithstanding.


Justin challenges me every day, and God knows every night in bed, and I would have given up and stagnated and probably drunk myself to death by now out of sheer boredom without that.


And Evan is easy.


The point I am making is that I have the self-awareness at this point--thanks to both of them--to know that I would be lost without either of them.


So of course they both have to be viciously, horribly sick. Someone up there was really leafing through my lists of baggage, realized I was missing abandonment issues, and decided to throw these two at me.


Evan's blinks were growing longer and longer.


You should sleep, babe, I said.


He yawned. You'll be bored.


You're here to get your blood cleaned, not to entertain me. I tipped his head onto my shoulder and signed sleep in his face.


He folded into me, pulling his legs up onto the armchair, and I stayed as still as I could for a long time.


**


Justin didn’t show me what project he was working on—something on his computer, judging by the lack of paint all over my living room—but he was exhausted by the time we got back. His hand was all clenched up and his allergies were bad, which is as good a way as any to tell that he’s overworked himself. I got Evan settled in bed first with a snack and a movie that he’d probably fall asleep ten minutes into, and then I nudged Justin towards a shower and a bottle of Benadryl, and then we had lunch and shot the shit about Evan, the same way Evan and I talk about him when he’s not around. I wonder if that means the two of them talk about me. They better.


Justin left after lunch despite my better judgment to take Martha out for a walk, and with him gone and Evan asleep I felt restless. I answered some work emails and texted Emily about a few upcoming meetings, and I went ahead and made some meals for Evan that he could just microwave when he wanted them and stashed them in his refrigerator, and then I worked out for a while in the gym upstairs and had a shower and was seriously considering opening up Grindr for an early evening fuck when Justin came home, thank goodness, so I blew him in our bathroom and he thanked me with a brutal asthma attack about an hour later that frankly, any idiot could have seen coming—there’s a reason I hadn’t had him do the sucking—but it was bad and he was scared and all in all it wasn’t a great situation. Martha ran around the house and brought him every inhaler she could find—four—before finally settling down with her chin on Justin’s foot and whining anxiously.


Evan came lumbering up at some point, once I'd gotten Justin fucking breathing again, and I reassured him that it was fine and under control and nothing he needed to worry about it, all that shit, but in all honesty I was used to having him with me for things like this, used to having another set of hands and someone to bounce ideas off of, and doing this just the two of us was disconcerting to say the least. And what was I supposed to do if things went sideways and I needed to haul Justin in to the ER, just leave Evan here by himself? With no kidneys?


“He’s hurting,” Justin said, after Evan had gone back downstairs.


You think so?


“Yeah, I can tell.” He pulled in a shaky breath.


I was making, not to put too fine a fucking point on it, a great effort to not come apart at the seams love that night. It’s not that any one thing was overwhelming, it was just...everything, and I was so laser focused on every inhale from him that it was making me crazy every time his breath caught, and Evan didn’t usually sleep quite this much, and I hadn’t known he was in pain.


“You okay?” Justin asked me while he was putting lotion on his legs before bed, his voice hoarse.


Just all in my head.


He nodded and coughed. “Sign of the times.”


Yeah, sure is. Roll over, I'll do your back. I could massage out the muscles in his back, monitor his breathing, and not have to fucking talk. Kind of the trifecta at the moment.


He fell asleep there, with my hands on him, and I arranged him carefully on top of me and turned out the light and tried not to read into the fact that he felt a little warm. Justin runs warm. It's not usually anything to worry about.


Usually.


Remember earlier, when I said that I realize I have very little to complain about? This isn't contradicting that, because very little isn't nothing, and if I had to find something to pick at in this life I get to have everyday it would be that I'm not sure if I've really slept in the past ten years.


You don't sleep when your partner could have a seizure, or stop breathing.


So I pulled out my phone and scrolled through Grindr and read an article about this new development going up in the Bronx and other such noteworthy affairs and I did fall asleep, about an hour later, to the sound of him wheezing softly and fussing against my skin. But I woke up two hours later and he was struggling, and there was something going around the office, and he felt warm.


You see why you don't sleep?


I didn't know whether to wake him up. I never, fucking ever, know whether to wake him up.


And nights like this, I remember when I didn't used to worry. That first year, when he was fine, when he was a person who could get a cold or a flu and shake it off, when head trauma and seizures and white blood cell counts were so, so far away from what we'd think about, which was generally just harder, longer, more. I used to not lie awake in the middle of the night memorizing the stuttering of his breathing, waiting for a change. And there didn't used to be another boy downstairs with his own shitty immune system and even shittier kidneys who couldn't afford to get sick either.


I didn't think he was sick, not really. He was just a little warm. And I hadn't been to the office in days.


But there was something going around. People hacking into their damn hands like they never went to kindergarten. Remember when the words "respiratory infection" didn't make you feel like you'd been stabbed?


He was really struggling.


Remember when you didn't know him at all?


He needed to rest. He gets so, so goddamn tired. Just like Evan, it's fucking exhausting having a body that's not doing the simple shit it's supposed to do. Justin's lung capacity, when he's at his absolute best, is about sixty percent of normal. He runs around and paints his ass off and walks the dog and takes care of me and Evan and himself at sixty percent. He gets so tired. He fights through the seizures like you fight a riptide. Every single part of him is telling him to shut down, and he won't.


So I don't like to wake him up.


Sometimes he's just warm when he sleeps. It probably wasn't a fever. The wheezing and the asthma attack were from his allergies that get so goddamn bad, and he took Martha for that long walk outside today. Sometimes he has to go outside. He can't take being trapped.


He'd be so much safer if he were trapped.


Here's what I want to know: how do you justify taking any sort of risk when the possible consequences are this extreme? I'm supposed to feel bad that he can't work or go for a walk or see his little friends when the net result is that it keeps him alive?


But he has that fucking face when he wants something, and I'm not his fucking keeper as much as at this point I'd fucking love the relief of that, and...it was going around my office. He didn't go there. I brought it here.


If he was sick.


This is why you don't sleep, and on top of that, always on top of all that, was Evan, who hadn't come up for dinner, who hadn't come up to say goodnight, who had, as far as I could tell, been asleep for twenty of the past twenty-four hours, and if you think that wasn't freaking me the fuck out then I don't know how you've hung on to this story for this long.


How many hours do you have to sleep before you're not really alive?


So that fun question was floating in my mind, and I wanted to be down there with Evan—honestly, before the asthma attack, I'd been planning to stay down there with Evan tonight, in case he needed anything—but the thought of leaving Justin...no.


But I did eventually leave him, just for a minute. I moved him carefully off my chest, scratched Martha's head as I went past her bed, and went down to the basement. The lights were on, and Evan was sleeping on top of the covers, his neck craned in an awkward position, his phone in his hand and his hearing aids still in. So like, you see the kind of responsibility I have here, right? The contract I've signed to take care of these two, and what happens when I let something slide?


I woke him up gently. Hey, hey. How are you feeling?


He rubbed his eyes. “Not so good.” From him, that's a lot.


I couldn't very easily bring Justin down here—he comes with too many damn supplies, and the basement's not great for his allergies—and...well. I remembered what Evan had said, and our bed was definitely more comfortable than a recliner at the dialysis center, at least.


Come on, I said, and I helped him up and waited patiently while he wrapped his blanket around himself before I guided him up the stairs.


“Justin's okay?”


He's fine. Come on.


He figured out what was going on fairly quickly—this was, I am forced to disclose, not the first time I'd had this sort of psychotic break and needed them both in one place—and followed me to our room. Normally I'd put him on Justin's other side, since Justin charmingly drifts towards the middle of the bed anyway, but tonight he was hugging the side of the bed with one arm and his chest with the other, like it was hurting him, and....well, I wasn't exactly going to move him. So I crawled into the bed and brought Evan in on my other side. Justin immediately rolled back into me—still keeping that iron grip on his chest, I noticed—but Evan stayed on his own; he's cuddly with Justin, but usually only with me once he's already asleep.


“You okay?” I asked him, my arms full of Justin.


“Yeah. What's going on?”


Well, you know what they say about honesty. “Just worried about you today.”


He nodded. “I am too, a little.” He reached over me and touched Justin's shoulder, stroking his thumb up and down his bicep. “Heavy breathing.”


“I know.”


Evan nuzzled his pillow, his eyes already falling closed. “Y'got it? I'm sorry...”


“I've got it. You're fine. Go to sleep.”


I closed my eyes and listened while his breathing evened out and Justin's didn't, and I tracked the time passing with Justin's heartbeat.


**


He was, just like the day before, better in the morning. He stretched and smiled at me and raised an eyebrow at Evan burrowed into my side.


You fell asleep too early, I said. I got lonely.


“Uh-huh.”


I had to go into the office, and I almost hauled them both in with me, but Justin convinced me I was being neurotic with assurances that they would be fine here where there wasn't a virus going around and I wasn't supposed to be with them every second of every day and this is why we got the dog, Brian and lots of other annoyingly reasonable things like that. So I went, and they stayed, and I concentrated on not calling them every half-hour, and also not calling the hospital and hassling them to hurry up and get a kidney, and if they had some buy-one-get-one-free situation where we could throw in some lungs for Justin, so much the better. I just like...did advertising.


Emily poked her head in at about one. Hey. Justin's here.


Yeah, send him in. He okay?


Seems fine.


And he did. He came in, Martha at his heels, and leaned over the desk and kissed me. Hey.


Hey. Is Evan—


Evan is fine. He's awake and working on his English homework.


He needs to drop that class.


Let him have something. Can I use your printer?


Yeah, of course. Project finished?


He nodded. Can I pull it up?


I rolled my chair back from the computer. Be my guest.


He tapped around on my keyboard for a bit and finally maximized an image. It was this gorgeous, multi-colored portrait of Evan, laughing with his head back, his curls loose and wild, his arms crossed over his legs. I knew the photo Justin had used for reference, but God, it's incredible what Justin can do. How much more like himself Evan looked here than he ever could in any photograph. There's movement in what Justin makes, somehow. There's life.


HIS SMILE COULD SAVE THE WORLD.

YOUR GENOROSITY COULD SAVE HIS.

Find out more at kidneyfund.org


“I might need more from you than just your printer,” Justin said sheepishly.


I kissed him hard. I'll get it everywhere.


**


Another night, another round of Justin rubbing lotion on his legs, another nagging feeling that something wasn't right.


“Are you going to share with the class?” Justin asked me.


Do you think....if it's okay with Evan. Do you think he should move up here with us until he gets his kidney?


Justin's lips moved into this slow, beautiful smile. “Yeah?”


Yeah, I think so.


Justin wrapped his arms around his legs and rocked back and forth a little, watching me. His eyes were like oceans.


You wouldn't want to change anything either.

 

End Notes:

Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, Deborah. WOW this list is getting so long. Thank you so so so much for supporting this series.

 

As always, I'm at twitter.com/LaVieEnRose.

Chapter 131 - A Bigger Boat by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Our boys go shopping, at a familiar furniture store.

A Bigger Boat

LaVieEnRose



So my job is still boring as fuck, but at least I'm assistant manager now. I'll still take the occasional appointment, but since I don't work on commission anymore it's not a top priority. But every once in a while people will request me, because I'm just that good at taking their money and exchanging it for fancy furniture.


Kinney-Taylor, Tuesday, two o'clock. I didn't recognize the name, but as soon as I saw the two hot guys signing it all came rushing back. Oh yes! The guys I borderline-scammed so I could eavesdrop on their conversation about wedding rings! Good times, good times.


They had a third guy with them this time, a cute wheelchair-user with brown curly hair, and a service dog with a leash wound around the blond's wrist. The taller one—I didn't remember his name—nodded at me as I click click clicked across the floor in my heels. Charlie, right? he said.


I showed him my name sign—it's just cat, because that was my first word as a baby.


Brian, I shook hands with him, and then the other two, as they introduced themselves—Justin, that's right, with the hair color of my dreams, and Evan, with the texture. Beautiful people just find each other and leave no one for the rest of us. It's really not fair.


And we're all signers? I said, and they all nodded. Great, I hate interpreting.


Me too, Brian said. He gestured towards Evan. I make him do it. He lipreads like a hearing person.


Your standards are just low because Justin is shockingly bad at it, Evan said.


What can I help you guys with today? I said.


We need a new bed, Brian says. We have a queen right now, and it's time to upgrade.


Are we thinking king, or California king?


King's wider, right? Justin said, and I nodded. Well, wider's good, since there are three of us.


I blinked. Three of you.


Brian cocked an eyebrow and signed in front of each of them: One, two, three.


I know, I just didn't realize—


Three people, one bed, Brian said.


Okay. Hell, it's New York, and I'm an open-minded woman. We can get everything in the store in a king, but let me show you some of the king models we have. They're the ones that look best at that size, in my opinion.


They followed me, Justin pushing the wheelchair with the dog trotting behind him, Brian resting his hand on the back of Justin's head. Evan was marveling at everything like a kid in a museum, but Justin and Brian seemed kind of rich and bored like most of the people who come through here. Justin drummed on Evan's shoulders.


So this is all mahogany, I said. Very stately.


Brian looked at Justin.


It's too serious, Justin said. Our house is airier.


Does it look big enough to you? Brian said. It doesn't look big enough.


This is the biggest bed there is, Justin said.


They do make bigger beds, called Wyoming kings or Alaska kings, I said. But for those you'd need to do a custom order, have something made. I can show you which of our brands have that option.


This is too much trouble, Evan said. I can just stay in the basement.


Brian and Justin both hushed him.


Let's try a lighter frame, I said. It might make it seem more spacious.


We kept walking, and Evan pointed to this huge dresser we have and never sell because it's goddamn enormous.


Ugly, Justin said.


I think that would almost fit all your pills.


Oh my God, fuck you.


I do think three people can fit comfortably in a king, I said to Brian. If you're not inclined to go the custom route.


Brian looked over at the other two. Yeah...maybe.


We got to another bedroom set up, and this time Justin nodded approvingly when Brian checked for his opinion. I like the lines of it.


He's an artist, Brian and Evan told me at the same time.


Is it big enough? Justin asked Brian.


I don't know...


You can get on it and see, I said. Just don't judge the mattress.


Justin got on the bed first, and Brian watched him while he locked the wheelchair and helped Evan out. Justin winced a little when he climbed up, and Brian said, We might need something closer to the ground.


We have options, I said.


Brian helped Evan out of the wheelchair and up onto the bed. He pushed Justin playfully once they were both down, and Justin pushed him back, and Brian said, Now now, children, and lay down on one side, glancing towards them with a bit of a smile on his face that he quickly wiped away with his palm.


What do you think? I said.


Evan kissed Justin's shoulder. It's good.


It's tight, Brian said. Justin can't move.


Justin sat up, with a bit of effort. I can move.


You can move now, but when you're sick or freaking out and don't want hands on you, then what? You have no space.


Charlie really doesn't need to hear all this.


We're not getting a bed that's too small because you don't want to talk about your fucking nightmares.


He has a point, Evan said to Justin.


Shut it.


Brian got up from the bed. So, he said to me. Let's talk custom. He looked at the other two. You two stay where you are.


Justin snorted and got up. You're not picking out furniture without me. God knows what you'll get.


I'll run it by you. Lean on the wheelchair, at least, please.


Justin rolled his eyes, helping Evan back into the chair. Fine.


I walked with Brian towards the check-out desk to show him some catalogs, and he spoke to me quietly. “This is important to get right,” he said.


“I understand.”


“They're both...I mean, you can tell, they're really sick. This needs to be a comfortable place for them. I want them to be happy. This shouldn't be something they have to worry about.”


Justin and Evan were still by the bed they'd tried out. Justin was pushing Evan slowly back and forth on just the back wheels, and Evan reached up and kissed Justin underneath his chin.


“Well, a custom bed is a good way to spoil someone,” I said.


“That's the idea. So walk me through what we've got here.”


We decided on a Wyoming king—nice and wide, without any extra length they didn't need. I showed him our brands that would custom-make a frame to fit the mattress, once they special ordered one of those, and he picked out a few he liked and then turned around to get a look at Evan and Justin. They were having the dog do tricks and feeding her treats, and Evan signed, Tell her to do my English homework, and Justin laughed with his head back. Brian rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and he waved until Justin looked over.


Justin came up and Brian knocked his head gently to the side. Okay, what do we have? Justin said, and Brian showed him the options. Oh, definitely this one.


See, I would have picked the right one. You don't have to babysit me.


Justin stood on his toes and kissed Brian's cheek. Prove it.


I walked Brian through the order form while Justin drifted back over to Evan and sat down on his lap. Every time I looked over, they were fucking around and laughing, challenging each other to pick the ugliest thing in the store, realizing with delight that now that there would be plenty of room Brian couldn't object to the dog being on the bed, putting their foreheads together and wrinkling their noses.


I rang up Brian and nodded behind him and said, “For the record?”


He looked, laughed a little.


“They seem pretty happy to me,” I said.

 

End Notes:

Thank you so so much to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, and Deborah for supporting this series.

 

Join the team or just follow for updates! you're gonna want them for this next one... twitter.com/LaVieEnRose

Chapter 132 - Love, Justin (Part 1) by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

More letters between Ben and Justin, spanning from Pause to Unsaid.

Love, Justin (Part 1)

LaVieEnRose



Everything changed for Justin—for everyone, I think—in the fall of 2013. It started, for me, the same way most things with Justin do: with an email.


November 4th, 2013


Hey Ben.


So I wanted to fill you in on what's going on before you hear it from Michael via Brian. He agreed to hold off until I had a chance to tell the people I want to. I just got off the phone with Molly explaining everything, and I've talked to my mom and to Evan, that guy I'm seeing, and my friends here...so sorry if I seem a little robotic talking about this. It's like the more people I tell the less real it seems.


Basically I had a bad reaction to my anticonvulsants, and my body started attacking my bone marrow, so my immune system is kind of...not. It's why I keep catching colds all the time. Apparently I'm really lucky that colds are all I've caught, which I think freaks Brian out more than this. Nothing gets to him like realizing things could have been worse and he didn't know at the time. It's like he thinks we're going to go back in time and live out the other scenarios. I don't know. He just likes to know what's going on. I do too.


Sorry. I'm babbling.


They have to take me off my anticonvulsant right away and introduce a new one, but they have to titer those up, you can't just start on the full dose right away. So there's going to be a period where I'm on basically no anti-seizure meds for the first time since I was bashed.


We're not really anticipating that that's going to go well.


Brian's preparing the apartment for all the seizures I'm about to have, probably starting in the next few hours. It's pretty dark, planning for something like this, and there's nothing we can do to stop it. And it's not like I can just go to the hospital because I'd probably catch something, so they'd have to put me in isolation and I wouldn't even get an interpreter, or Brian.


Anyway, I wanted to let you know because I'm not sure how much I'm going to be able to communicate for the next few days until they can build up the new anticonvulsant. Brian said he's going to medicate me to sleep through this as much as possible. I'm hoping it won't be too bad. Maybe it won't be too bad?


See you on the other side,

Justin


**


Justin--


Okay, thank you for letting us know. I told Michael, and he's on the phone with Brian right now. Just about as frantic as you would expect. I hope you know how loved you are.


This is probably going to be hell. But you're going to come out of it stronger, and with yet another incredible story of a storm you've weathered.


Sorry. I know you hate that kind of talk. It's true, though. Every period of acute illness I've faced has made me a stronger person in the long run, healthier mentally at the very least. I think it's good for our bodies to be pushed to the limit every once in a while, for us to get to see how much we can really take. It's hideously unfun at the time, but it's a kind of strength healthy people rarely, if ever, get the chance to find in themselves.


Anyway, I hope you're not reading this, and that instead you're blissfully asleep and that you remember none of this. Because fuck being stronger. I'd rather you got some rest.


Love,

Ben


Michael and I spent a few days on tenterhooks, jumping every time the phone rang, waiting for news, but all we got were a few sporadic texts from Brian: still alive, still seizing. I can't tell you what a relief it was when my inbox finally lit up.



November 7th, 2013


Ben,


Well, I am back amongst the somewhat-neurologically stable. It was a rough as hell few days, but I guess it could have been worse. Brian's clearly wrung the fuck out, and I feel bad about that, but when I ask how he's doing he just about bites my head off. So business as usual, basically.


I've still got the cold I started out with and it doesn't seem to be getting much better, but I guess three days of seizures don't do much to fight off a virus. I haven't had a seizure in about six hours, but this is the first time I've felt okay enough to sit up and look at the computer.


As you requested, I don't remember much of the past few days, I just know I feel really, really, really exhausted. And very sore. And this cold is getting on my nerves.


But I'm on the new anticonvulsant, so it should get better from here.


More updates soon. And I need to hear about how everything's going over there; I am so sick of just talking about me. You must be sick of it too.


Shutting up now!

Love,

Justin


 


Eight hours later, all of us in Pittsburgh got a text from Brian.


Justin's sick. It's bad. Don't call.


We begged for details, texted him over and over, and Michael of course tried calling regardless, but Brian didn't answer his phone, and even Michael, in all his panic, knew not to call Justin. We did eventually get some more details, from Jennifer via Debbie, but even those were scattered. Justin had pneumonia. His immune system was still trashed.


“Why isn't he in the hospital?” Michael asked me.


“I don't know. When he was having seizures he said it was because he'd be in isolation, wouldn't get an interpreter.”


“Who does he need to talk to?? He's sick as shit, is he even awake?”


“I don't know. I don't know.”


November 10th, 2013


Dear Justin,


We love you so much. I know we'll hear from you soon.


Ben


 


And then the phone rang in the middle of the night. I sleep on the side with the phone on the night table, so I got to it first, while Michael rubbed his eyes and sat up.


“Brian?” I said.


“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, wrecked. “Where's Michael?”


“He's here, do you want me to—”


“He's a hundred and six,” Brian said, before I could hand off the phone.


“He's what?”


“His fever.”


“Holy shit.”


“It's a hundred and six and he can't breathe. He's trying so hard and he can't breathe.” He took a shaky breath in. “He's sitting on the bed right now trying to breathe and he can't. I don't know if he even knows I'm here.”


“Brian, maybe—”


“I think he's going to die,” Brian says. “I think I'm waiting for him to die on me.”


There was nothing I wanted to do more than reassure him, but the words weren't coming. I wanted to be there, to put my arms around Justin and know for myself just how bad the situation was, if Brian was just stressed and tired and panicking or if...


How was I supposed to comfort Brian when I couldn't even finish the sentence? When I couldn't, when the time came, confront the reality that Justin and I discussed all the time, that we promised each other and ourselves we'd meet bravely?


But not like this. Not when he thought he was getting better. Not when he didn't know what was happening.


Michael stared at me, his eyes wide. I put the phone on speaker and said, “Brian, you need to take him to the hospital. I know it's risky, but—”


“No.”


Michael said, “Brian—”


“His last fucking moments are not going to be locked in a room by himself when he has no fucking idea what's going on! He is safe here. He's with me. I'm not taking that away.”


It was maybe the first time I grasped how much Brian loved him.


“I need to call his sister,” Brian said absently, his voice soft all of a sudden. “I should do that...”


“Brian,” Michael said.


“I have to go,” Brian said, and the line went dead.


November 11th, 2013


Not like this, Justin.


It's not time.


Ben


 


The next few days were impossibly slow. We tried to go about our lives. We texted Brian and never got any answers. Debbie said the updates Jennifer was getting were sporadic as well. “No news is good news,” Debbie said. “We just have to be patient with Sunshine.”


“I never thought it was this serious,” Michael said to me at one point. “Brian would always...you know, he was so casual about it, I never thought I needed to worry about Justin, really. I didn't know it was this bad.”


“I don't think it was before,” I said. “But I don't think it's going to go back to how it was now.”


“If he makes it through this,” Michael said.


“He will,” I said.


It was such a reversal of roles. Usually I'm the one trying to keep Michael grounded, to keep him in tune with the universe. But now I was faced with something I couldn't accept, and I couldn't help thinking how disappointed Justin would be with me. Justin would be trusting me, of all people, to stay realistic and hold everyone up. I've dealt with death. I live with death. I'm supposed to guide everyone over the river Styx, so to speak. And here I was with my heels dug in the sand.


It's just...I think this gets lost in how much Justin's been through, but he's so young. He was thirty when all of this was happening. Younger than I was when I met Michael. He had a whole life left to go.


Justin had a severe seizure disorder, yes, but he didn't have a terminal illness. When we talked about his disease shortening his life, we were talking about him dying in his late sixties or early seventies, not thirty. And for this sudden complication to come along and try to steal him away within the span of a week...it didn't feel real. And we couldn't see Justin, or talk to him, so it was almost like it wasn't happening. Like a very, very bad joke, and Justin was going to pop out at the end and shout “Surprise!”


And, well, that didn't happen. But we did get a text from Brian on November 13th: Feeling better today. Still sleeping a lot. Don't call.


“Does that mean he's going to be okay?” Michael said, and I thought about what okay meant.


I'd seen enough people slip down the drain. They get sick that first time and then they never really get out of it. It's what I was afraid was happening years ago, when I was hospitalized for pancreatitis. Luckily, there had been no lasting effects from that.


That seemed unlikely here.


Nevertheless, I felt, ironically, like I could breathe again when my inbox lit up the next day.


November 15th, 2013


Hi.


I haven't read the emails you sent, sorry. I have so many to go through. But I wanted to let you know I'm doing better. I'm still sleeping nonstop, but Brian says that's okay.


Wanted to check in with you while I was up. How are you?


Love,

Justin


He asked how I was.


If you don't see the magic of this boy by now, I don't know what to tell you.


 


November 22nd, 2013


Hi Ben,


It's funny getting well, because every day I feel like okay, I'm alert and aware now, I know what's going on, and then the next day I'm so much MORE alert and aware that I'm like, wow, yesterday Justin was delusional, he was still fogy as shit, but now I know what's going on! And then the next day it's the same thing. By the time I'm done with this I will truly have all my chakras open, so watch out.


Brian's getting back to normal too. He acts pretty okay for the most part, and he started going back to work again. But the past few nights he's had these really brutal nightmares, just thinking I'm sick again. My therapist—over webcam, of course—says that both of us probably have PTSD from this, which is good because we were really squeezing the bashing trauma dry at this point.


Physically it’s still a challenge; I’m still so tired, and I still have a sinus infection and an ear infection and the remains of pneumonia just hanging out in my lungs, but my doctor says in a few months I’ll be good as new. Or else I won’t be, and then we have to talk permanent damage, and let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, Brian says. He’s sure it’s all going to be fine, except at night when he shakes and clings to me. I really can’t imagine what these past few weeks were like for him. I don’t think he wants me to think about it. He says I need to just focus on getting better, and I guess that’s really the biggest thing I can do to help him anyway.


I just don’t know how he does it. When he had cancer I was a mess, and that was, well, he’d be the first to tell you that was not a huge thing in retrospect. And I know, I know, don’t rescue your partner. And I’m not talking about running away and sparing him the pain of loving me or anything like that. I just wish I was easier for him.


Well, I’ve been awake for an award-winning three hours, so time for me to pass out again. Love to Michael.


Justin


November 25th, 2013


Hey Justin,


Michael’s delighted to be coming up for Thanksgiving. Sorry I can’t make it; Hunter’s coming home and I don’t want him arriving at an empty house. Plus we’d have to get someone to watch Ivy, and Debbie’s getting a little old to chase after all the kids while she makes a four-course dinner.


Please don’t push yourself just because Michael’s going to be there. I’ve already prepped him from what you’ve told me and he knows not to expect you to perform for him. Just relax and enjoy the day.


Love,

Ben


November 29th, 2013

Dear Ben,


Thanksgiving was really nice! I actually stayed awake for some of it, so that was very exciting for everyone. And Michael met Evan, which was so funny. I kept waiting to see if he was gonna fight Evan on Brian’s behalf.


Everything’s going okay over here. Recovery continues to be the slowest thing ever, but it’s happening. I hope Michael didn’t come home with like horror stories about how bad my cough sounds or whatever. Brian says it’s disgusting, but obviously I wouldn’t know.


 I haven’t even thought about drawing anything. And what’s weird is I don’t even feel bad about it. I feel like I don’t even know if I’ll ever draw again, and that if I don’t it’s just...fine. I guess that’s proof of how tired I am if anything is. Evan had pneumonia back when we was diagnosed, and he said it took him about a month to feel back to normal. So I’ve kind of got December 8th as this date in my mind. That I’ll be better by then and we can have a normal Christmas. I think it’ll just be a quiet one here with me and Brian and Evan. Mom and Molly are doing this whole spa week, which they definitely both deserve.


I haven’t been able to leave the apartment still which is...hard, but at least I can have people over now. They have to stay away from me and wear masks and stuff, but still, I get to see them. It was just Brian and my nurse and every once in a while Evan for ages. Molly brought Jane one time, and that was amazing, even though I wasn’t allowed to hold her.


It just feels like everything’s on pause right now. Except time is still moving and my daughter is getting older and...I guess it’s just me that’s on pause. Except I’m getting better.


Only it doesn’t really feel like it, and I’m starting to get a little scared.


Love,

Justin


December 7th, 2013


Hey Justin,


I thought I’d check in because tomorrow’s the day you’ve been counting down to. And I know you were hoping to be further along than you are.


So I thought, as much as it will probably make you cringe to hear it, that I should make sure you know how incredibly proud of you all of us are. I know what it feels like to think that there's a timeline on when you need to get well, that otherwise people are going to get tired of you and think you're malingering and stop caring. But that so rarely really happens, and it's not happening now. We're not staring at a ticking clock wondering why you're not getting better faster. Brian calls us every day and tells us how much progress you're making. He tries to sound nonchalant about it, you know Brian, but even he can't.


You can take all the time you need.


Love,

Ben


**


Ben,


You're right. Today I couldn't breathe when I woke up, fainted getting out of bed, and had a horrible fight with Brian about how sick he's getting of me being an asshole, so yes, I was hoping to be further along than this.


I don't know what the fuck Brian's been telling you, but I'm not making any progress than I can see. I can barely stand up in the shower. I'm not allowed to leave the apartment or even go out on the balcony. I haven't seen my friends since Thanksgiving. There is nothing to be proud of here. I'm a fucking useless piece of shit and it's not getting any better.


You know Brian has to sit me up every morning and put me on the side of the bed and help me get dressed? Does he mention that? Does he talk about the nurse that stays with me during the day and brings me to the bathroom, because I can't get there on my own? Has he mentioned I'm still not cleared to have sex?


Evan was WELL by now.


With untreated HIV.


Doesn't really look good, does it?


And it's a sweet narrative that everyone's being patient and waiting, but I have a daughter getting older by the second who I'm still not strong enough to hold, and there are younger, better artists coming up every day to take my place, and I don't know how long my boyfriend's going to wait for me to get better and I know Brian isn't going to leave but goddamn would he make himself miserable staying, and at this point, I don't see any other alternative.


So yeah. Thanks for recognizing that I might be a little disappointed tomorrow.


Justin


**


My dear Justin,


We all love you so goddamn much. We talk about you all the time. And from what Brian tells me about your friends up there, you have the city wrapped around your finger. You've only been there for a few years, and you had friends camped out in a house waiting for news when you were sick. Molly was here briefly over Christmas, and you should see how she talks about you when you're not around. And how everyone hounded her for information on how you were doing.


I know it doesn't feel like it. I know. I know it feels like everything is moving on without you, and that we might forget that you're there, and that you can't keep up right now.


I know it doesn't feel like it. But life is revolving around you right now, sweetheart. And that's because it's a beautiful human instinct, to rally around the sickest one. But it's also because of you.


Love,

Ben


December 8th, 2013


Hey Ben,


Sorry about that email yesterday. I had a complete breakdown this morning and Brian and I screamed and cried and he held me for a while and then he put all these photos up around the apartment so I wouldn't feel so trapped. He's...God. You know a few days ago he got drunk and maudlin and told me how lucky he was to have me? It was weird and cute but like...God I don't know what I did to keep him. I don't know if I don't deserve him or if every single sick person deserves him, but it's definitely one of the two.


Anyway, I'm sorry for snapping at you. I was really...not functioning well. It's still hard, but something about bawling like a baby to Brian just makes everything better. And we're going to talk to my doctor about moving up the date I can break quarantine, even if it is risky. I think I finally convinced Brian that my mental health is as fucked up as my physical health and we have to try to weigh them both. I don't even know what I'm capable of doing out of the apartment, but even just sitting outside for a little while would be nice. Or going to a coffee shop! Or the library! God, I have to stop before I get weepy again.


Thanks for putting up with me.


Love,

Justin




December 15th, 2013


Jus,


Brian just called Michael and asked a shitload of questions about getting an inspection before you buy a house. Something to share with the class?


Ben


**


Haha yeah about that...


so it's been kind of an eventful week. I'm actually in the hospital right now—I'M FINE, just a skin infection. It's very weird being here when I feel basically okay. And Brian was supposed to be looking for new apartments because...it's a long story, but basically he told me he thought it was time for us to move on from where we live now and I agreed. And now that Evan's spending more time with us it would be nice to have a bigger place. So we were going to look at places, but then I got sick and ended up here, so Brian had to do it solo, which is like...very weird!


It's funny, I think most people would assume just because of, like, heteronormativity, that Brian does all this stuff and makes all these decisions, and I don't want to make it sound like he's not totally capable of doing that because he is, I mean, he runs a whole company, but he doesn't actually like being the boss nearly as much as he likes not having a boss. Having to be above other people is just the unfortunate consequence of being on top. He doesn't really like it. And he's also just...not practical, doesn't think about stuff like, you know, HOME INSPECTIONS, just gets an idea in his head and goes full steam ahead, so...normally when there's a contract involved, that's my area. So if one of us was to go look at apartments alone, it would totally be me. And we would have ended up with a perfectly nice apartment.


But I'm stuck here, so Brian went on his own, so of course he decided that I need a house and he's buying me a house.


Eeeeeee.


Love,

Justin


**


December 25th, 2013


Dear Ben,


How do you help someone who's lost someone they really loved?


Evan's lover before me died a few years ago, and he's home now for the holidays and it's all hitting him and I can't help. And I just wish so much that I'd gotten to meet him, so I'd have something to say about him, but I don't, and Evan never talks about him. I barely know anything about him.


It's been a long time since I've thought of myself as the one who's still around.


Merry Christmas,

Justin


**


Hi Justin,


I don't know if you remember, but years ago, the man who infected me, someone who I loved very much, died pretty suddenly. So I can try to tell you what it feels like to be in Evan's shoes, but more importantly what I can tell you was how amazing Michael was.


But the truth is, judging by your last message, I'm not sure you need to hear any of it.


What I was worried with Michael was that my grief would make him jealous, insecure. But it didn't, and that was an incredible gift that he gave me, and judging by the way you've talked about Evan's partner here, you're doing the same for him. And honestly I think given your history that's rather incredible. You and Brian were each other's real great loves, and you've never had to move on from each other, and it certainly doesn't seem like you ever will. And yet you understand that Evan's love for his late partner doesn't mean he loves you any less. I suppose you would, given your set-up with Brian and Evan, but it's still heartening to see.


You're doing fine, my boy.


Ben




December 29th, 2013


Ben—


I think part of it—and dear God don't mention this to Michael—is...well, absolutely it's what you said, that I have experience loving both Brian and Evan and not loving either less because of it, but I think actually I learned that from Ethan. Because—and this is the part we can't tell anyone, because nobody wants to hear it—I did love Ethan very much, and of course sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he hadn't gotten that contract and I hadn't had to end things. Like Brian said way back then, as soon as he got the offer of representation that came with the stipulation that he closet himself, there was no hope for us, and it wasn't anybody's fault. And now of course Ethan's out and partnered and wildly successful, and I suppose that's just the way things go.


Anyway, my point is, I loved Ethan very much, but God, at no point did I stop loving Brian. And...this is probably crass to say, but I almost had to pretend that he was dead. It was the only way I could avoid imagining what if, what if.


So I suppose I'm contradicting myself since then I thought I couldn't really love Brian and someone else at the same time, and now I know that I can. Or maybe I just didn't really love Ethan as much as I love Evan, and that seems more reasonable, since, besides the obvious exception, I can't imagine loving anyone as much as I love Evan.


He's home now, thank God, and we're never letting him go back to LA again, Brian says. We showed him his room in the new house.


I hope your Christmas was lovely. It's funny, back when I had that ridiculous December 8th deadline in mind, I was hoping for a nice Christmas, and it turned out we did have a really sweet one, just me and Brian and Jane and Emily and Gwen. I'm still tired, but I'm so, so much better. So I don't want you all to worry about me or anything like that. I have a doctor's appointment coming up on Monday and Brian's so sure they're going to tell me there's no permanent damage and everything's clearing up on its own, it just needs time. So I'm trying to be sure of that too.


Now I have to get back to fighting a contractor about a bath tub. Long story. Wish me luck.


Happy New Year

Justin




January 4th, 2014


Hi Justin,


Just checking in to see how that scan went. We’ve been talking about you so much that Ivy came home from school with a drawing of lungs. 


Miss you,

Ben


He'd told us that the scan was that day. So I waited. And waited. And finally called him, and then Brian, neither of whom answered.


“They're probably out celebrating,” Michael said. “Justin told you he was getting better, right?”


And finally, an email.


 


 


January 8th, 2014




Hey Ben.


You know what, I am so sick of talking about pneumonia and lungs and seizures and blood counts. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about the house.


I’ve always kind of dreamed of this, you know? Back when I lived at the loft, I dreamed of having a place that was me and Brian’s, not just Brian’s with me allowed there. And don’t get me wrong, this apartment totally fulfilled that, but back then I always used to imagine a house with a yard and trees and I don’t know, a dog, even though I’m like deathly allergic to all three of those things, I know. But it feels like everything’s really happening now that it’s a house, I don’t know. This is a Brian I never dreamed I would have gotten. And it was his idea. He wanted to move, for me—it’s complicated—and he wanted the house. For me.


Today I’m deciding not to feel guilty about how much Brian has given me and does for me and instead I am going to revel in how much this brilliant man loves me.


He loves me SO much. Me.


All my shit and he just...anyway.


The house is beautiful. Our bedroom is on the main level so I don’t have to go up and down stairs every day. Evan has his own place in the basement so he can be with us when he wants but be on his own sometimes too, which he likes. We have so many bedrooms that Brian gets a gym and an office upstairs and we're turning one of the downstairs rooms into a closet, and we still have a room for Jane on the main floor and another guest room on the top. And God, you would not believe the bath tub (which I got sorted out)! It's really the most incredible place I've ever seen and I can't believe it's going to be my home in just a few weeks. Brian took me there the the other night and it's still a mess of construction and everything, but we drank champagne and danced a little and just for a moment everything seemed okay, you know? It really feels like in the new house, things are going to be different.


That's why Brian wanted to move. The apartment felt like a hospital to him, and all he could see was me sick everywhere. So the new house is going to be different. It has to.


Love,

Justin


**


Justin--


The scan results??


Ben


February 10th, 2014


Hey Ben—


Sorry for the radio silence. We’ve been so busy getting ready for the move. Only a few more weeks now!


The apartment is really still tonight and it’s weird, after all the bustling around we’ve been doing packing and throwing shit out. Brian and Evan are both in New Orleans for Derek’s bachelor party. I was supposed to be there, obviously, but my blood counts still aren’t where they need to be for plane travel and general debauchery, so here we are. It’s my first night alone since I got sick, and it’s strange. I’m not worried, exactly, but it’s kind of spooky. It’s also sort of nice, though. I spend so much time worrying about not bothering people, or scaring them. Even Brian and Evan, I still stress out sometimes because I can see on their faces how concerned they are even when they try to hide it, and I just feel bad about taking up that much of their time or attention. I don’t think I was really meant to be this big a part of people’s lives. I think it’s this role I’ve been thrust into and I try to make the best of it and see the positives of being the center of attention—and there are plenty of positives—but it’s still just not natural for me. Brian always talks about how easy I am, and I believe that I used to be. I think I’m supposed to be easy. 


But, you know. It is what it is.


Brian just called all drunk and adorable from his hotel room, so that was nice. I know I should sleep, but it’s weird when I’m here alone and there’s no like, signals that it’s time to wind down. I hadn’t realized it, but I guess I’m kind of used to watching Brian stretch and drink some decaf and straighten up a little while he turns off the lights in the apartment. Even on nights he goes out, he kind of sees me to bed before he goes, and, I don’t know. I’m a creature of habit.


But I do like being on my own, I think. For a little while. It’s good to see that I can take care of myself. I need a reminder of that sometimes.


Hope you’re doing well. Love to Michael and Ivy.


Justin


February 27th, 2013


Dear Justin,


Happy moving day! Hope the transition from the apartment to the new house is as easy and painless as a move can possibly be. Don't push yourself too hard, and send us pictures as everything gets set up! Having an extra cup of coffee this morning on your behalf.


I took a look at those drafts you sent me last week, and while of course it's a relief to me that you're creating again...are you doing it just to be a relief to people? Something to keep an eye on, I think. I know you said Brian's been worried about you because you haven't been working, but the only reason he cares about it is for reassurance that you're okay. He's looking for everything to be back to the way it was before you got so sick a few months ago. But it's okay if you're not there yet, and you don't owe anyone going back to work right now. It's only been a few months. I promise the up and comers aren't that quick. The art world isn't going to forget you if you take six months, a year to recover.


Just something to think about. Enjoy today as much as you can! Can't wait to see the place.


Ben


**


Hey Ben—


Thank you for the well wishes!! Me and my still-healing shoulder have been banished to the basement of the new house while everyone works on unloading stuff upstairs. Cripple perks.


Molly’s here, and Emily and Gwen and Jen and Daphne and Derek are all coming over in a few hours to see the place and hopefully bring us pizza. I think that’s what will make this place feel like home: having everyone here, me probably lying around feeling like shit while everyone talks and laughs. I love that. I love just getting to be sick around my favorite people, getting to just watch them without anyone pressuring me to participate or making a big deal about me. Brian and I are talking about getting a daybed for the living room so I can literally just be in a bed but still be, like, out in the open, being part of things, instead of shut in my room. But I think between the house and the floor cushions we're just fine.


God, I can't wait to see how it looks with all our stuff moved in.


I can't believe we're here.


Facetime tonight so I can show you the place?


Love,

Justin


March 15th, 2013


Hi Ben—


Thanks for letting us borrow Michael this coming weekend! Looking forward to getting some work done on the comic book for the first time in...God, who knows how long. I keep getting fan letters from horny gay teenagers begging for another issue. Or nude pictures of me. Kids these days, man. Though I suppose I don't have a lot of room to talk.


Wish you could come too, but I totally understand not wanting to leave Ivy, especially with Melanie and Lindsay already out of town. We need to find a time to get you up here, though!


The house continues to be amazing. Having Evan around all the time is fucking...it's such a relief, I think, for both me and Brian, just for me to know that he's here and okay, and for Brian to know that he has someone else to turn to if I need something and his hands are full. Three is just easier than two, I think. I don't know why more people don't do this. You never have to figure out anything by yourself. There's always at least one other person. That's pretty valuable when the part of you that makes confident decisions got a little bashed in once upon a time.


Anyway! Looking forward to seeing Michael. If you wanted to nudge him to bring some of Debbie's oatmeal cookies as a housewarming gift...I wouldn't complain. Brian would, but he'd also eat way more than his fair share. He's so queer.


Love,

Justin




March 20th, 2013


Dear Justin,


Okay. So Michael gave me the rundown.


Sweetheart.


I didn't know it was that bad.


Are you okay?


Love,

Ben


**


Ben—


I'm okay.


As you might have guessed, those test results back in January weren't great. I'm sorry. I just couldn't stand talking about it with anyone but Brian and Evan. We'd all been so hopeful, and then to find out there was all this permanent damage...


It's not usually as bad as it is right now. Allergy season's hitting me hard. I had an asthma attack two weeks ago so bad I needed an epipen at Kinnetik, so that's a fun thing that happened.


It will get better than it is right now, my doctor says. There's still some stuff that's clearing up that will clear up. But there's a lot of scarring, and that's not going to get better.


Brian says it's something new and exciting for us. And not in like a sarcastic way. He says it's amazing that after this long we can still have something we've never been through before.


I can't believe I have him.


I also can't believe that my lungs are fucked up forever and the real reason I can't talk about it is because I am so fucking goddamn angry.


All the stuff we've learned about disability positivity? All the theory and community and everything Frida said? It's out the fucking window. I'm not positive about this. I'm not seeing things more clearly or expanding my consciousness or seeing a better part of humanity. I'm fucking suffocating.


So I have to not think about it and I have to not talk about it because on top of feeling like absolute sucking shit all the time, I'm so fucking ashamed of being this terrible version of the sick person that I want to be. That I'm supposed to be. I feel like a stupid stereotype in some stupid movie who's all angry and bitter and then some abled person's going to come around and save me, and I don't want anyone to save me, and I certainly don't want to meet a new abled person, that's for goddamn sure.


I just want to save myself. I just want to breathe.


So can you spin this? Can you show me how this is actually bringing me closer to something, and turn me back into a fuck-the-ableds sick person instead of a fuck-my-body sick person? Because I really liked the first one a lot better. He was a crusader. I don't know what I am now.


I'm just so, so goddamn sick of myself. And I'm so tired of feeling this way. And I don't know the social model of disability works when I just feel like absolute shit all the time and that's not the fault of capitalism or inaccessibility or whatever the fuck, it's just what's going on inside my literal body. I know how to be okay with being disabled and I am, most of the time, but we both know I've struggled a lot with being okay with being sick and it's hitting me hard now. I'm not proud of being sick, and I don't like being sick. I try so hard not to complain because Jesus Christ what's the point besides annoying people, but I feel horrible all of the time and it's not going to stop and it's not doing anything good for anyone. Least of all me.


I just want to feel okay. I remember when I felt okay. Back when I was a kid I could do anything.


So...help? Make this all fit into some philosophy? Make me the disabled poster boy again?


Because I'm not. I'm not okay.


Justin


**


Justin—


All that theory all those quotes about disability are there to make you, a disabled person, feel better in the world. If they're not working, throw them out. They're not a mandate. And they are certainly not a mandate not to grieve what you've lost.


Could I spin this? Yes, I've had HIV for twenty years, and for many of those years I haven't felt how I'd want to. I could spin this. But I'm not going to.


You are not a model, Justin. You're a person. You are your own person, and how your feelings affect or look to other people should not be the your first or your second or your third concern. Your feelings are about you, and right now they aren't here to motivate others; they're here to validate you. What has happened to you sucks. Your mind is giving you permission to hurt.


You don't owe it to anyone to be the perfect sick person. You don't owe anyone anything.


Love,

Ben


April 3rd, 2013


Ben—


Brian does this funny thing when we fight. Afterwards, he tells me I was brave.


He knows he's hard to stand up to, and he knows that thanks to my PTSD it's hard for me to stand up to anyone at all, an he wants me to be able to do it. Even when it's because I disagree with him, sometimes about things he's convinced are life or death. He is impressed. Brian doesn't tell me that I'm brave when I'm in the hospital with a tube down my throat—and thank God for that, because I have no interest in being praised for doing things I would gladly opt out of given the choice—but he says I'm brave when we fight.


He loves me.


This comes up because we had this fight last night. About Disney World, of all things. I got these test results that said my white blood cell counts are normal, and Kinnetik is working on this Disney account so they have to go to Orlando anyway, so Brian and Emily had the idea that we should all just go down there for a cute little vacation. And I was still just so scared that I was going to get sick, even though the test results said I probably won't.


Brian pointed out that I'm already sick, and it was one of those moments where it hits me how much he worries about me, and how no test results are going to change that. He has to listen to me breathe every day.


And he says my job is to be brave. That he's there to catch me or reel me back in. I'm supposed to fight. I'm supposed to be brave.


I know you said I don't owe anyone anything, but I think I do owe Brian this. I think I owe him being as loud and brilliant and fucking...Sunshiney as I can be.


Not a lot of people are bold enough to saddle me with responsibilities right now. Brian is.


He's brave.


And we're going to Disney World.


Love,

Justin


 


I read the email and smiled.


He was pushing back against what I'd said.


He was going to be just fine.

 

End Notes:

There will be a part 2 soon! It was just getting really long.


Thank you thank you thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, and Deborah for supporting this series.

 

Follow for updates and general babbling about the series! Come ask me questions! twitter.com/LaVieEnRose

Chapter 133 - Talking About It by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian's not one for acknowledging his trauma, but Justin doesn't have much of a choice.

Talking About It

LaVieEnRose



Justin told me he had PTSD on our third date. We were walking back to the subway from the theater, where we'd seen this interpreted performance of an off-Broadway play that I didn't even sort of understand, but it was way too early in the relationship (God, what relationship—I was still just thanking God that someone who looks like Justin had even noticed me) for me to let Justin know that. We'd just crossed 8th Avenue and some guy brushed past us and shoulder-checked Justin. I'd seen his lips to know he'd said “Excuse me,” but obviously Justin didn't, and he wasn't expecting it.


And he didn't melt down or anything. Honestly Justin's PTSD from the bashing was fairly well managed by the time I came along. He has nightmares, and he startles if you approach him the wrong way, but that's usually all it is, a startle. And that's all it was this time. His hands went up, and he froze, and I said, Are you okay? while he shook himself out.


Fine, he said with a smile. Sorry. PTSD thing.


Oh, I'm sorry.


He shrugged, still with that little smile. Someone tried to kill me once.


I didn't know if he was joking or not, so I said, No shit.


He just nodded, put an arm around my waist, and kept talking about the play.


I know a lot more about it now, obviously. It's one of Brian's favorite diagnoses, whenever anything's going on with Justin that he can't explain. I swear, Justin will snap at him over using the rest of the jam, and Brian will give me this look like, see? PTSD. He says I have it, too, from walking in and seeing Adam that day. Emily's a little jumpy in hospitals nowadays and Brian says it's because Jane's birth was traumatic. For someone with such an aversion to like, the idea of sitting down with a therapist for like, one hour Jesus Christ Brian just give it a try, he loves diagnosing other people's mental illnesses.


I asked Justin about that once, actually, back when he sat me down and told me the full story of the bashing, long after our third date. We talked about what happened, and how it connected to the seizures, what he'd had to go through for physical therapy, how he felt about it now, all that stuff, and then I finally asked, How is Brian, from seeing all that?


Justin smiled a bit, cocked his head to the side. Nobody ever asks that, he said, and maybe that was a sign or the start of something, some harbinger of how much I was going to love Brian and how close that would bring me and Justin, I don't know. He struggles with it, Justin says. He definitely has some demons about it. But he says he's okay.


I know that game well, so I just nodded.


It's Brian, Justin said. He never admits anything.


So this is a story about that.


**


I was thinking about that conversation kind of idly one evening after dialysis stopped working, when I was slung over the armchair in the living room. I wondered if I would have PTSD from all of this. If I lived.

 

There was a movie playing on the TV that none of us were watching, and Justin was on the couch with his legs across Brian's lap and his head tucked into his shoulder. Brian rubbed up and down his back with one hand and looked at the thermometer in his other. He set it down with a sigh. Yeah. That's definitely a fever.


Bronchitis again? I said, watching how Justin's shoulder blades came together when he breathed.


I think so, Brian said. Justin gets bronchitis a lot, between his damaged lungs, his crappy immune system, and his allergies. The good news is it's not contagious. The bad news is everything else.


“Want me to get the neb?” I asked.


Brian shook his head. You rest. I'll get it. He put his arms around Justin and rocked them both from side to side, just a little. He eased Justin off his lap, carefully stepped over Martha on the ground and headed for their room—our room. He trailed his fingers over my shoulders on the way. Doing okay? he asked me.


It was kind of a rough question. I felt really terrible all the time nowadays, just so nauseated and dizzy and tired, and Brian knew that. There was just nothing to do but wait. We were all waiting. Brian was on edge and micromanaging everything, Justin was, of course, staying aggressively normal and keeping us all taped together, and I was....I don't know.


Maybe I was giving up. I know that sounds dramatic, but it wasn't really. My body was already doing it for me, and it's really, really hard to have a lot of fight in you when your body is actively dying. That's what organ failure is, I mean, a part of my body was dead. That's fucked up, right? Justin's lungs might be half-useless, but that's because they're damaged, not because they're actually...dead. Do you know how fucking weird it is for part of you to actually, literally be dead? It's creepy as shit.


And I just...I can't really describe what it feels like, to be that sick. Justin knew, of course, and Brian understood as well as a healthy person can, so at least I didn't have to explain it to them. But it's just...you don't feel like you're really in the world. You're in some liminal space—that's what Justin's always painting, liminal spaces—between life and death. It's like you're being haunted but by yourself.


And of course you also just feel like warmed over shit, but that's less poetic.


Anyway, that thing I said about Justin keeping us all sane? It's harder when he's sick, and he was really sick tonight. Brian had been willing to entertain the idea that it was just a random low fever and a horrible asthma day for a few hours, but now that the fever had spiked it was clear he was going through it. After I told Brian I was fine and he disappeared into the bedroom, Justin pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around himself.


You need anything? I asked him.


He shook his head. I really don't feel that bad, it's okay. He stretched. I don't think it's a bad one.


Okay.


God, I haven't been paying attention to this movie at all.


No one has, I said, just as Martha got up and barked and nudged Justin's hand. Uh-oh.


Damn it.


“Brian?” I called.


Brian came back in and set the nebulizer on the coffee table. Yeah, I heard. We need to get that fever down, Sunshine.


Justin nodded and covered his face with his left hand while the other one started shaking all the way up to his shoulder. Brian sat down next to him and sandwiched Justin's right hand carefully between his own. Justin was sweaty and breathless when it was over, and he coughed into his elbow while Brian rubbed his back.


I wanted to go over there so fucking badly, but I was so, so tired.


Justin drew in a slow breath. I'm okay. Really. I don't want to stress out Evan.


You're not stressing me out, I said.


See, you're not stressing him out.


Justin reached for the neb and started setting it up, and Brian brushed some hair off his face. I'm gonna start running a bath to bring your temperature down, he said. You're going to hate it.


Not too cold.


It'll be warm. He looked at me. Let's go ahead and get you to bed.


I stretched. “You might need help with him.”


He's fine. It's a bad cold. We do this all the time. He came over and helped me out of the chair, keeping his hands near me as I wobbled a little. All right?


“Yeah.”


Say goodnight, Justin.


Justin yawned. Goodnight, Justin.


Cute. Brian gave my shoulders a squeeze. Yell if you need me.


He went into the master bathroom to start the tub, and Justin went with me into the bedroom, pulling back the sheets for me and getting the heating pad on the small of my back while Martha sat at his feet. You've been quiet today, he said to me, settling down on the edge of the bed and stroking my arm. You okay?


I'm okay. Just tired.


Justin coughed and breathed in slowly, and I gave his wrist a squeeze.


How do you feel? I asked him.


Feverish, but not so bad. Nothing that should worry you.


I wasn't worried, really. I know you mostly hear about the disasters, but Justin's sick all the time, and most of the those aren't a big deal. We have a life that allows him to rest, and a lot of time that's all that he needs. Rest, meds, Brian, and Martha. And maybe me.


I pulled myself up and kissed his cheek. You look cute all flushed.


Oh, fuck off, he said, and then kissed me deeply. His lips were warm against mine, and I breathed cool air into him, rested my hand on his chest to feel it working. He pulled back just a little and rested his forehead against mine. We are making it out of tonight alive.


We are making it out of tonight alive.


He kissed the bridge of my nose. That's my boy.


We talked a little more as I drifted off, just idle chatter about what we were going to do tomorrow—sleep, mostly—and I played with the sleeve of his shirt and felt safe. Brian came in before I was all the way asleep and rested his hand across my forehead and helped Justin up and into the bathroom, Martha at their heels. They left the bathroom door open to the bedroom, just out of habit I guess, and I took my hearing aids out and watched them joke around, pushing and pulling at each other and laughing while Brian undressed Justin, and I smiled and closed my eyes and went to sleep. When I rolled over about an hour later, Brian was fast asleep next to me, and I rested my cheek against his back and everything was okay.


**


So of course, I woke up some time later in the middle of the night to Brian scrambling out from under me. He kicked me sort of in his scramble out of the bed, so I pulled myself up and closed my eyes and swallowed against the wave of dizziness that tried to bring me back under. “Brian?”


It was clear pretty quickly what was going on. I'd seen enough of Justin's nightmares to know. He was on his back, crying with his fists pressed into his eyes, his legs thrashing around like he was trying to break free of something. He was gasping for air, and once I put my aids in I could hear him screaming.


Brian crouched down next to the bed. He put his hands on Justin, signed fine fine fine fine on his chest, then fussed with the oxygen tank and got the mask over Justin's nose and mouth.


I turned the light on so I could read his lips. “What do you need?”


I—


“Just talk, it's fine, your hands are full.”


“I'm trying to figure out if he's awake or not...” He ran his hand down Justin's cheek but pulled away when Justin flinched and started crying harder. “I think he's awake.”


“Can he breathe? I can't hear him.”


“It's swampy, but I've heard worse. His fever's high.” He rubbed his palm in circles on Justin's chest. “Come on, Sunshine,” he said, but Justin just screamed again and rolled onto his side, rolling into a ball and sobbing into his pillow. My stomach twisted.


“Can you get up?” Brian asked me.


I nodded. “What do you need?”


“Klonopin, in the medicine cabinet? Oh it'll say...” He fingerspelled. Clonazapam.


“Clo...okay.”


“Just grab anything that might be it, I'll double-check.” He lay the back of his hand on Justin's temple, and this time he didn't jerk away. “God, he's warm.” The first night Justin's sick, he always spikes a high fever. Every time. It wouldn't be a big deal if not for the seizures. And the nightmares. And it's not as if Justin's never been sick down in the basement with me, or that he's never had a nightmare even when he didn't have a fever fucking him up and leaving him unsure of where he is, but...this was the worst one, I think. I'd never seen him cry like this.


I want five minutes with the guy who did this to him. Just five minutes.


I went into the bathroom and looked through the medicine cabinet, and by the time I'd found a few bottles that seemed like possible candidates, Brian had Justin sitting up and answering a few questions, where he was, what year it was, how he was feeling, if he could breathe okay. Justin seemed really panicky about the last two, and Brian talked him down gently: you have a fever, it's making everything seem a lot worse than it is, you're breathing, I can hear you, you're breathing. I sat down on the edge of the bed next to Justin and kissed his cheek, and he leaned into me a little, panting. I handed Brian the bottles and he picked out the right one and gave a pill to Justin.


You're still shaking, I said to Justin, putting an arm around him.


I'm so fucking scared.


You're safe now, I said, and Brian nodded and kissed him gently.


Justin cried a little more and pushed his palms into his cheeks, and Brian just ran his hands over him, like he was looking for some magical way to touch him that would make it all go away.


It's over now, he said. You're safe now.


It's going to happen again, Justin said.


Brian shook his head. I did too.


Someday, Justin insisted. It's going to happen again. He looked at Brian, desperate, begging. You can't promise me it won't happen again.


And we both knew that was true. That Brian would never, ever, make a promise to Justin that he wasn't sure he could keep. He said, “Fuck,” and took Justin's hand's in his and pressed them to his lips.


Justin shivered. “I'm sorry.”


Brian shook his head, and when he looked up at Justin his eyes were shining.


I'm okay, Justin said.


It shouldn't have happened. I should have stopped it.


Justin's chin shook, and Brian got up on his knees and wrapped his arms around Justin, holding him close with one hand, so gentle, on the back of his head.


It hurts, physically hurts, to know how much Brian needs nothing to ever hurt Justin and how deeply he knows that he can't stop it.


And, God, it's not as if I wouldn't do anything to, to wrap him up and protect him. And I didn't even know the full story yet, even though I thought I did at the time.


Justin started coughing after that, first softly, but then harder and harder as he couldn't hold it back anymore. Brian braced his shoulder to keep him from falling forwards. “I hate when I can hear the scarring,” he said to me.


“I can't tell.”


“Yeah. It's ugly.” He sighed and ran his palm up and down Justin's back.


I'm okay, Justin said, when the coughing stopped.


Brian put a hand on Justin's chest. You poor fucking thing.


You always get sappy in the middle of the night, Justin said. Embarrassing me in front of Evan.


Yeah, put it on my tab. Can you go back to sleep?


He shook his head. I'm just going to go out to the living room. Watch TV for a while, try to turn my brain off.


I can come, I said.


You have dialysis tomorrow, Justin said, as if I didn't have dialysis every day, but whatever, he was right that I would just fall asleep the second we hit the couch anyway.


I'll come, Brian said. Age before beauty and all that.


I don't need a chaperone, really, Justin said.


But Brian just laughed a little. Let me try to turn my brain back off too, okay?


Justin tilted his head to the side, looking at him, and said, Yeah. Yeah, okay.


Sometimes I'm glad I can't hear the screaming.


**


My vibrating alarm under my pillow woke me up to an empty bed at nine, but a minute later Brian was there, already dressed and ready to go. Rise and shine, Shivers, he said, and I sat up and stretched.


Where's Justin?


Out on the back deck with Martha. Convinced me some sunlight would do him good. I think it might be his sinuses after all. He's been sneezing like a banshee all morning.


What's a banshee?


Like a very loud witch. He handed me my hearing aids and my meds. You about ready to go?


I want to take a shower first.


Okay. No fainting.


Dream big.


I showered, didn't faint, got dressed, and went out to the main room to get something to eat and go out to the deck and see Justin. He was sitting on the edge of the deck, throwing a ball to Martha, who was just about losing her mind fetching it, she was so excited. She's always amped in the mornings.


“Hey,” he said, and held his arms up to me. I leaned over and hugged him. How are you today? he said.


Same as always. How's the infection? Fever doesn't feel too high.


It's not bad. It's always worse at night.


Brian came out and stomped on the deck for our attention. Ready? he asked me.


Yeah. I turned to Justin. Duty calls. Martha scampered over and licked my hand as I stood up.


Have fun, Justin said. Bring me back a present. He always says that when we leave him alone.


Brian and I got in the car to head to dialysis, and we did what we always do when we leave Justin alone: obsess about him. Thank God we have each other. No one else in the world would put up with us.


“Did he ever get back to sleep?”


He did, around five.


“What about you?”


As soon as he was settled.


That was pretty awful.


Brian nodded. It's not usually that bad. The ones about the bashing are quieter, at least.


It took me a minute to understand what he was saying. This wasn't about the bashing?


Brian shook his head. This was about being sick.


“I...oh.”


He glanced at me. Sometimes when he gets a fever he gets really scared he's going to get really sick again. And he dreams he's back there and it's as bad as it was the last time.


“God.” God. Sometimes the fucking enormity of everything Justin's been through just hits me like a truck. It's too much. It's too much for one person, and it's certainly too much for a person as sweet, as goddamn trusting, despite everything, as Justin. And I know, I know he's resilient as fuck—if not he wouldn't be here—but that doesn't mean he should have to be, over and over again. It's not fair that going to sleep should be a fucking roulette wheel to see what trauma he'll end up reliving. It's not fair that even with all he's lived through, we can't promise him safety, security...life.


“I can't die on him,” I realized.


No, Brian said. You can't.


We pulled up to the dialysis place, and as always I got out of the car so that Brian could park and meet me inside. As I was starting to walk away he hit the horn, loud enough for me to hear, and I turned back around and looked at him through the open passenger window.


“Yeah?” I said.


He was looking straight ahead, then he finally turned to me, his tongue in his cheek, and said, You can't die on me either.

 

End Notes:

Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, and Deborah for supporting this series!!

 

Part 2 of Love Justin is still coming, don't worry. It'll be the next one or the one after, we'll see.

Chapter 134 - Date Night by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

Brian and Justin spend an evening in Manhattan.

Date Night

LaVieEnRose



Justin wanted to check out this art opening in Manhattan, and I wanted to try this new restaurant in the area, and Evan was having a sleepover at Emily's, so it seemed like as good a night as any for a date night. Plans we make are always sort of tentative, pending how Justin's feeling when the time comes, which requires all sorts of finesse because Justin hates canceling plans partially because he feels guilty in that way he does, but mostly because...he just plain hates canceling plans. He wants to get out there and do things and experience life and meet people. He really doesn't have the personality for someone who needs to stay home a lot of the time, and that's hard, seeing him caged the way he is. Especially since I'm the one doing it most of the time, holding him back, no you can't, stay in bed, not tonight, it's time to go home. I didn't sign up to be his jailer, but he didn't sign up for just about any of this, and since we've previously established that I would chew off my own arm if it would prevent Justin from getting a hangnail, moderating him isn't a big ask.


Regardless, tonight he was feeling good. He looked good, too, dressed in jewel tones, his skin like fuckin' marble. I still get a kick out of toting him around, maybe more so now that I'm older and I have to some extent come to terms with the fact that I don't have the curb appeal I once did. Justin's still got it. People stare.


Some of that, of course, is the signing.


I forget it's not normal; I really do. At Kinnetik I'm always signing to people who know all of three signs to get by with Emily because I forget everyone isn't bilingual. But then we go out in public and people point and gawk and I remember, we're communicating in something most people think of as a cute party trick instead of a legitimate language. Tourists walk around speaking all sorts of shit and no one gives them any trouble, but the second you use your hands you're a fucking street performer. Anyway.


Justin slipped Martha into her service dog harness and she wagged her tail. She’s never really off duty, since Justin, as we know, is not picky about where or when he has seizures or forgets to breathe, but she takes it extra seriously when we’re out and about. It’s fun for her, they told us at the training place, which is the kind of twisted shit I enjoy. Hey, at least someone’s getting a kick out of seizures.


It was warm out, but I still saw Justin into a leather jacket because they refrigerate the fuck out of these art galleries, and he looked hot bundled up as we headed to the subway. Tell me about this artist? I said.


He’s supposed to be this big up and comer, Justin said. Apparently he’s doing some sort of post-modern sculpture work. Incorporating digital techniques, so could be interesting. Justin, obviously, used to be quite technologically influenced himself, back when he was still on the animation track, but once he discovered he could wield a paintbrush as easily as his computer stylus, that was pretty much it for drawing. And as much as I liked the computer stuff...thank God, honestly. The man isn't an animator; he's a fucking fine artist. Artforum named him as one of the frontrunners in his field, for fuck's sake.


Granted that was a couple years ago, but we don't talk about that part. We're on Justin's timetable in this little life, and fuck the rest of it.


Martha alerted Justin as we stepped into the station, and of course there were no fucking benches, but I found him a railing to lean against and managed to get him some semblance of privacy. Amazing what you can do with a little time. It ended up being small, barely more than a hand tremor. We got to figure out how to get her to ignore those, Justin said, with his left.


Better safe than sorry.


Christ, Kinney, what have I done to you.


I slung an arm over him and nibbled his neck a little on the train, and he’s a whore for public displays of affection so he was practically crawling down my pants, so as soon as we got to the gallery we found the bathroom and I fucked him up against the side of a stall, my hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, Martha standing guard outside the door. Just the usual date night shenanigans.


Once I’d cleaned him up and dressed him we ventured out into the gallery. Justin was flushed and beautiful and I had a hard time pulling up any interest in the art, but he studied it all carefully, his eyes slightly narrowed. I gave him some space to explore on his own and did a round myself, checking out some sculpture work and some abstract paintings, none of which seemed entirely special to me. I met Justin eventually at a sculpture in the middle of the gallery. He was circling it slowly, completely oblivious to the youngish guy standing close to him and trying to chat him up. I nudged him, cocked my head towards the guy, and raised an eyebrow, and Justin glanced at him and wrinkled his nose a little at me. Okay. Not interested. Just trying to be a supportive partner.


How about this, then? I asked, pointing to the sculpture. It kind of looked like an elephant, but I wasn't sure if that was intentional or not. It was just called “Untitled,” which was unhelpful and seemed lazy as shit, but Justin hates coming up with names for his pieces too. Maybe it's an artist thing.


Come here, Justin said. He led me around to the side of the sculpture, Martha's nails clicking delicately on the wood floor.


What am I looking at? I said.


On the foot, there. There's this speck of green paint.


I looked, and sure enough there was.


Okay? I said.


So...what the fuck is that? Is it intentional? It can't be an accident. It can't be that nobody saw that. It has to be intentional. What the hell is the point of it?


I love when Justin gets all fired up about art.


I have no answers for you, I said.


Well, that's very frustrating. You should come up with something.


Oh, I'll come up with something all right, I said, and I grabbed his crotch in the middle of the gallery.


**


We walked to dinner in comfortable quiet. Martha stopped to pee in a gutter and Justin took a hit of his inhaler, and I looked around and took in the city for a little while. It had been, despite what we swore to ourselves when we moved out to Flushing, a hot minute since I'd been in Manhattan, and as much as I love our house and our yard and our little life, I do miss it. But who knows if Kinnetic would have even risen how it did if we'd tried to make it here instead of in Queens, and who do we have to thank for that? This wheezy little genius here. There's just so fucking little to complain about.


Justin was a little spacey at dinner. Not in a bad way—I can see a seizure from a mile away, and so, obviously can Martha, and she was napping under the table—just clearly thinking.


Care to share with the class? I said, helping myself to a bite of his salad.


What did you think of that exhibit? he said. That's a Justin thing. You ask him his opinion, and he asks you yours right back. I used to think it was annoying, but over time I realized it was an insecurity thing. You have to give him permission to either love or hate something, or he'll worry he's insulting something you love or hyping up something you thought was banal. Disagreements are hard for him. Do you really need me to spell out why?


Of course the fact remains that he picked the wrong fucking partner for that particular need, but how is that news, and regardless, even an old dog can learn new tricks with the right incentive. And have you seen that smile? You'd roll over and beg too.


So you go neutral. I liked a few of the pieces, I said. That blue painting with the purple center?


Yeah, that one was okay.


But nothing I was considering buying. Even though we still need a piece for Molly's room and you won't make anything.


He took a moment. “I thought it was really...uninspiring,” he said eventually. “He's supposed to be this big up-and-comer and this like, new authentic voice in the art movement, and I thought it was really derivative of every show I've seen in the past two years. And I didn't particularly like it the first time I saw it.”


All right, so you wasted an evening. Not the worst thing in the world.


“It's not just that,” he said. “I just feel so disconnected. Like we've entered this new art movement while I was sick and not producing and now I'm behind and I don't even like what I'm supposed to be making.”


Who says you're supposed to be making it?


“This is what's big,” Justin said. “This is what's selling.”


So....who says you have to sell?


He twirled some pasta around his fork while he processed that.


“My goal has always been to be as successful as possible,” he says. “To be as close to a household name as artists even get nowadays.”


You're the one always saying we have plenty of money.


“It's not about the money really. It's about...you know, doing something that matters. The longevity of it. Y'know, when Gilgamesh sails back in and sees his city walls. Creating something is how you live forever.”


And you've created masterpieces, I pointed out.


He shrugged. “I could do more. I could be doing so much more. People are forgetting me every day. I'm just not showing often enough, or producing enough pieces, or keeping up with the trends. I spend too much time incapacitated.”


Sorry, what was—


Incapacitated, he fingerspelled. I don't know why he bothers speaking with me anymore, honestly. It's not as if it's hard for me to code switch back and forth, hearing him in English and responding back in ASL, but it's not that much easier for me than just signing the whole thing. I think he does when he doesn't want to feel himself speak, if that makes sense. When he speaks out loud the words fall out of him easier because he doesn't have to hear them. He can almost pretend it isn't happening, that he isn't admitting the things he is.


Like that he spends large portions of his life incapacitated, for instance.


And how do we feel about that? I asked.


He rolled his eyes. I honestly don't know anymore. I think I've lost perspective on it.


It's just what is.


Yeah. He wheezed out a sigh and sat back in his chair. I don't know. The goal was always to be famous. Isn't it everyone's? I mean, you keep expanding.


And as you astutely pointed out, that ambition will probably kill me one day. You don't need another thing trying to kill you.


So what do I do? Stop painting?


Of course not, I said. But what if you didn't give a shit about the trends? What if you didn't have to care about whether or not it would sell?


He thought about this.


And I've got news for you, I said. There's plenty of patrons out there who don't like the current trends either. Just paint for them. Or hell, paint for us. Paint all the walls.


That's not how someone gets famous, he said.


You're famous in our house, I said.


He smiled a little. That's really what I wanted.


I know.


**


Justin was worn out by the time we headed home. He rested his head against my shoulder on the subway while I watched the lights break into the skyline as the train lifted out of Manhattan. Back to Queens, where there's a mural of Justin's in Forest Hills. Back to where my boy is famous.


Not that he has to be. He's not for public view, is the thing. His paintings, sure, but he's...he's this fucking tough-as-nails person and maybe I know a thing or two about that, but I don't know about being open, unprotected. He has to fight every second he's out there in the world. He gets so tired.


He's not for your consumption. But a date night every once in a while doesn't suck.


I fucked him gently in the shower and harder in bed, and Justin kissed my chin and lay his cheek against my chest while I played with his damp hair.


“This was a good night,” Justin said sleepily, and I scratched lightly on the nape of his neck.

 

End Notes:

 

it's my birthday today! I'm hiding in bed until my friends drag me out because i am THIRTY.

 

Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, and Deborah for supporting this series!!

 

Part 2 of Love, Justin is next! It has a surprise at the end...

Chapter 135 - Pain Management by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Sometimes Justin feels like screaming.

Pain Management

LaVieEnRose

 


So life was slower, for a little while. 


Evan was officially end-stage, and we had advertisements out all over the city and Brian was constantly checking his email and we were just...waiting. I had a small show, my first one since The Incident, and it went okay, and I had a few good doctor's appointment where my lungs and my immune system were looking better than expected, so that was something to keep us afloat, at least. Kinnetik was opening up their Hong Kong office so you'd think Brian would be busy with that, but instead he handed it all over to Isabel and started officially working from home two days a week. Part of it was Evan, obviously, since he wasn't working anymore and was either at home or at the dialysis clinic all the time, but part of it I think was just this feeling of calm that had settled over all of us dulling Brian's ambitious streak, despite the kidney failure, despite that ticking clock. We're pretty good at illness around here, and having nothing to do but sit and wait and be together was comfortable in a way I've given up trying to make people understand.


But today was one of the days Brian was supposed to drag himself to the office, so he was up getting ready while Evan dressed for dialysis and they talked to each other about whether I went to the store yesterday and did I get oat mlk and other such things I had a very difficult time following because I felt like I was being crushed.


That's the best way I can describe it. Brian and Evan have asked me, and that's what I can come up with, that I'm being crushed under a truck or a boulder or something.


It doesn't happen very often, but some days I just wake up and it hurts so much that I just...lose all sense of perspective and reason. Because logically of course I know it won't last forever, and that's the kind of mindfulness my therapist always has me work on, and I'm not saying it doesn't help a little, but...I'm just saying there's a point you hit where the fact that it can't last forever stops mattering because the possibility that it might last even one more second is just impossible to accept. There's no amount of time that it's okay.


I was lying as still as I could, Martha curled up by my stomach, but Brian waved and put a hand on me so I knew I was supposed to get up. There's some triage he has to do before he can get to work, even on good days, to see what meds I need and to try to get me to eat something. I sat up slowly, holding my breath as the room spun and my vision spotted out. I could see Brian in front of me, signing something to Evan, but I couldn't make out what it was. He turned to me and said, You okay? casually, but his expression changed as he looked at me, face softening, eyebrows coming together a little. Oh, you're not okay.


I took a deep breath in through my nose and let it out slowly. I swear I wanted to talk, but I just...can't, when it's like this. Signing hurts too much, and I don't trust myself not to just start crying or screaming if I open my mouth. And I just plain don't know what to say. It's like my brain won't start up. But Brian knows I can't talk when it's bad. He just nodded. I saw him talk to Evan about me, but I couldn't really process it. All the signs ran together and I was distracted trying to swallow down the waves of panic that kept swelling up. I wanted to rip my way out of my skin. I wanted to break all my bones. I wanted to do something, anything, to feel different in any goddamn way from what I was feeling.


Evan came over and kissed my cheek, really softly. I have to go, he told me. Brian was already taking off his suit jacket, so I knew he was staying with me. I didn't really feel guilty. We're past that. But of course Evan couldn't miss dialysis. I was supposed to go with him, and I absolutely did feel guilty about that. I shuddered and tried to talk, but Evan was gone by the time it felt possible.


I looked up at Brian, who dropped to a crouch in front of me.


Hey, slugger, he fingerspelled. He felt my forehead and said, Good, then carefully moved me forwards a little so he could put his ear against his back and listen to me breathe. He sat back up and nodded at me, then gave Martha's collar a tug. I'm going to take her out and start a bath, okay? I know you need meds. I'll be right back.


I swear I meant to say something, but a wave of pain went through me and I closed my eyes and shuddered, and when I opened them he was gone. I pulled my legs up on the bed, letting my breath flutter in the back of my throat and trying to convince myself that was as good as screaming, and pushed my face into my knees. After a few minutes I felt Brian's weight on the bed next to me, and I uncurled a little bit and pressed my face under his arm, biting down on his shirt.


Breathe, he signed on my chest, and I did. He rubbed circles on my back and kissed the top of my head, and when I pulled away a little to look at him he was watching me. It always gets better, he said. The mantra I was working on with my therapist. Breathe....out. It always gets better. He handed me some pills, more than usual, so I knew he was drugging me up. I don't take opiods because they scare me with Evan's history and I'm allergic to every one I've tried anyway, but I get high doses of gabapentin when the pain's bad which is enough to make me kind of stoned and out-of-it, which sounded fine for today.


Bath should be ready now, Brian said, and the thought of moving made me kind of panicked and it must have shown in my face because he said, We'll go really slow. Want me to carry you?


Making decisions was so far outside my realm of ability right then, and after a pause Brian just nodded and gradually arranged me around his neck and slipped his arm under my knees. The jostling when he lifted me made me sick to my stomach, but he held me really close to him and let me hide my face in his neck. 


It always gets better. It always gets better.


The hot water was shocking and overwhelming and I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek. Brian undressed and slipped into the bath behind me, his arms loosely around me, and kissed the back of my neck. I was shaking really hard and black spots kept dancing in my field of vision. The bath will help, I forced myself to think. The water will loosen your muscles up and it'll help. You'll be okay. You're not in any danger and that's what matters. That's what's important. Your boyfriend is in fucking kidney failure. You can deal with some benign pain.


Brian took my bad hand and started slowly uncurling my clenched fingers, and I must have made some noise because he stopped after a finger or two. Okay, he said, shifting around in the bath so I could see him. We'll try that again later.


I tried to say something, apologize for being such a drama queen, tell him that he didn't have to look so worried, that we both knew this was categorically nothing and it wasn't dangerous and I was fine, but when I spoke the words didn't feel right in my mouth and my breath caught in my throat I could tell from the look on his face that I wasn't doing it right. He brushed the hair off my forehead and said, Just rest, so I closed my eyes and tried to remember all the techniques I'd been working on with my therapist for days like this. A couple months ago I'd had a bad pain day for one of our appointments, and until then we'd been focusing on something completely different, I don't even remember what, but five minutes into that session she said, Okay, we need to look at our priorities here, and since then we'd mostly been doing pain management. Which meant mindfulness, being aware of what's going on, tuning into your body.


Which is not exactly what your first instinct is when your body feels like an open wound.


I will talk about feeling sick as much as anyone wants but I do not want to talk about pain. You can joke about being sick. You can describe it. You can sleep. You can still be a fucking person.


Pain like this....you lose touch with yourself.


Worse, you lose touch with everyone else. And not being able to connect to Brian, when he's right in front of you doing everything he can, everything you could ever dream of...


It always gets better. It always gets better.


The meds started to kick in, and between that and the pain and the hot water I was feeling pretty woozy by the time Brian helped me out of the bath. He helped me towel off and supported me under my elbows on the way back to bed. I figured he'd go get his laptop and get some work done, but instead he lay down next to me, flattening his palm over my back. Martha hopped up on the bed--she'd been standing guard by the bath tub--and curled up around my legs.


I watched Brian and thought about all the things I wanted to say but I couldn't get myself to move. 


Just rest, he said again, and I closed my eyes and everything went blissfully dark.


**


When I woke up, the meds were working; the pain was still awful, but it felt a little less dire and I was kind of embarrassed I'd made such a big deal out of it. I sat up slowly, trying to stretch myself out. All my muscles felt like they were going to snap like rubber bands, and my head was throbbing.


Brian padded in from the living room. Any better? he said.


"Yeah." I took a few deep breaths against a wave of nausea. "What time is it?"


A little after ten. You should sleep some more.


"Have to pee."


Need help?


"I can do it, I think," and I did, veeeeery slowly, and then limped myself back to bed. Brian pulled the covers back for me and I crawled in.


I should get Evan's wheelchair out, Brian said. We got just a cheap chair for him to use for trips to the grocery store and stuff like that, since he gets so tired nowadays.


I flopped down on the pillows. "I'm not going anywhere."


All right.


"Godddd." I took a long breath in and let it leak out of me. 


Hanging in there?


"I keep starting to scream and then stopping myself."


Brian nodded and sat down next to me on the bed. Would PT help?


"I don't know." I sighed. "Yeah, probably."


Brian got the yoga mat out of the closet and I transferred slowly to the floor, and then I lay down on my back and he helped me stretch out for a while. We didn't talk much, since his hands were busy and I was starting to get kind of overwhelmed again. It hurt like a bitch, getting moved around like that. I think Martha's going to kill me, Brian said at one point, and sure enough she was sitting next to me on the floor watching him very, very closely. She's a little protective.


When it was over I was feeling kind of sweaty and breathless and I still hurt like hell, but it was a different sort of pain now, and it felt better, productive. Brian asked me if I wanted to get up but I wasn't ready to move yet, so I just closed my eyes and lay there for a while. Eventually I peeked an eye open and tried to find my voice. "Is Evan okay?"


He's fine, texted me about an hour ago.


I swallowed. "Okay."


Think it's time for more drugs, babe.


"You always think it's time for more drugs," I said, and he laughed. I scratched Martha's head and hauled myself off the floor, wincing.


Brian hovered a little. Got it?


“Yeah. Unsteady.”


It's the meds.


“I know.” I tucked myself back into bed and tried to find a position that didn't feel like knives were going through me. “Yeah.” I swallowed. “Drugs please.”


Coming right up.


**


I woke up feeling lighter.


Martha was curled up at the foot of the bed, and Brian was next to me, reading one of my mystery novels. I rolled over and stretched. “The butler did it.”


Hilarious, he said, setting the book aside. How are you feeling?


“Okay. Sore.” But he looked gorgeous and peaceful and I wanted him. I scooted myself over until my lips were on his collarbone, and he pretended to resist for a minute before he nudged my mouth up to meet his.


I could get you off like this, he said.


“No you couldn't.”


No hands. Just like this. He tangled his legs up with mine and rubbed up against me and oh, okay, turns out he could.


He convinced me to eat something after that, and I tailed him into the kitchen and curled up at the bar with the sheet around me while he heated up some pasta I'd made the night before. Evan will be home soon, he said.


How's he doing?


He's fine. I told him you're doing better.


I nodded. It still hurt to move, but it was bearable. Back to normal, almost. I feel bad that you stayed home from work.


You feel bad about everything.


True, but I want to talk about this particular thing.


You needed a hand.


“I hate needing things when I'm not in any, like, danger,” I said. “It just feels so...self-indulgent, to sit around and expect people to take care of me when I'm categorically fine. Taking care of me wasn't like...medically necessary. I would have still been fine eventually if you'd just ignored me and gone to work.”


I was not put on this earth just to keep you alive, Brian said. That's not the gold standard here. I'm not a fucking...ventilator.


I rested my chin on my hand. “Okay. Why were you put here?”


Some bratty kid wasn't getting enough attention, I guess. He put a plate down in front of me.


I took a bite. “I'm sorry you were worried.”


He shrugged, his eyes warm. It always gets better.

 

End Notes:

 

Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, and Deborah for supporting this series!

Chapter 136 - Dirty Magic by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian and Evan run into a familiar face at the club.

Dirty Magic

LaVieEnRose



Kidney failure is very weird because one day you're stuck in bed because your blood is full of toxins and it's making you hallucinate and you're trying to get your boyfriend to explain to you why there are centipedes crawling across the ceiling, and then like two days after you're feeling right as rain and you're getting dressed to go out clubbing with that boyfriend's husband.


We'd both totally expected Justin to veto, but surprisingly he was completely on board. It'll be good for you, he said, dabbing paint on his easel in the middle of the living room. Dancing's good medicine. You've been cooped up here for too long.


In our defense, we've been trying to keep the place hermetically sealed, Brian said—not a word I knew, but I could figure it out from context. Justin had been having this horrible allergy attack all day that was finally winding down now that he was totally stoned on Benadryl, but his eyes were still puffy and Brian said he was wheezing a little.


Are you okay here alone? I asked him.


I am perfectly fine, Justin said patiently. I'm going to finish this layer and then I'm going to text Emily about Jane's play date this weekend and then I'm going to clean the kitchen and then I'm going to take Martha out and then I'm going to go to bed.


Stop, it's too engrossing, Brian said.


Justin sneezed a few times and rubbed his eye. Yes, I lead a very interesting life, he said, and Brian made a face at him and kissed his nose. Justin was happy, though. He likes having his list of chores. He likes our little life. We'd offered to bring him out with us, of course, to make it a more low-key evening that he could actually enjoy, but he didn't want to and we weren't surprised. Justin was never as into the club scene as Brian was, Brian says, and the seizures and his lungs were a good excuse for him to have his quiet time at home. He needs that, I think. We're both artists, but I'm an artist in the sense that I draw well. Justin's an artist because his brain is just...different, magical, and it needs time alone in order to churn out the masterpieces he can.


Plus he probably gets annoyed with us hovering all the time and likes having the odd evening where he can cough as much as he wants and no one bothers him about it.


Brian got Justin's meds out for him and told him to do a nebulizer treatment before bed and for God's sake take a shower between taking the dog outside and getting in bed and don't forget to set the alarm and other light fussing disguised as bossiness, and Justin gave it back to us with his usual safety lecture about drugs and strangers and leaving drinks unattended--which, you'll see, turned out  to be very ironic--then told us to bring him back a present, like he always does, and then we were out the door.


It is such a goddamn relief having that dog with him, Brian said. Martha has a phone that can call Brian in an emergency. So cool.


Still, he's always putting up a front like Martha is this huge imposition. I'm going to tell Justin you said that.


You wouldn't dare.


We went to a club in Long Island City and danced until we got tired, then sat at a high top table and checked out the scene. Brian took two shots as soon as we got there but now was peacefully nursing a bourbon, and I obviously couldn't drink but was getting a contact buzz just from the lights and the bass pounding in the floor and the beautiful boys. Brian leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, strobe lights bouncing off his hair. He eye-fucked a tall blond walking past and then gave me a sly smile.


What? I said.


Nothing. Just good to see you back in your element.


I tilted my head back and took in the strobe lights like they were sunlight at the beach. I love dancing.


Always liked that about you.


You must have gone out all the time when you were my age.


Twenty-nine? Ha. Yeah, constantly. He sipped his drink. Year I met Justin.


I know. I laughed a little. What trips me up is the idea of you being single for twenty-nine years.


Not all of us are peacefully coupled by twenty-six.


I know, but you're just so... I searched for the sign. I don't know. Settled.


Never.


You know what I mean. You and Justin are just such a done deal. It's hard to imagine one of you without the other.


Yes, that's called codependency, Brian fingerspelled. I've made my peace with this.


Don't bullshit me, I said. You two are fucking blissful.


That didn't start at twenty-nine, Brian said. That took a long time.


I said, That's hard to imagine.


He was a headstrong teenager, I was an emotionally stunted mess. Hell, for all intents and purposes, we're still those things. We're still not exactly going on Dr. Phil as the example of an ideal couple.


Why, because he's sick?


No, of course not, he said, which obviously was the answer I was expecting, but...I don't know. I need to check sometimes. Just because...I don't know. It's hard to explain to someone who doesn't see it. I'm not used to that. I spent years with everyone telling me what a shitty job I was doing with him, bawling me out constantly for fucking it up. They used to take bets on when we'd break up.


Used to, I emphasized.


He shrugged. Half of Pittsburgh is still holding their breath waiting for me to screw it all up.


You haven't lived in Pittsburgh in ten years, I said, just as something distracted me over at the bar. A guy falling off a stool, crashing into an awkward pile on the floor. He struggled to pull himself to his feet. Damn, he's wasted.


Brian looked, then turned back to me with a strange look in his eyes.


What?


I know that guy, he said.


You do? I took a closer look, but I didn't recognize him.


He used to date Justin.


He's Deaf?


Brian shook his head.


Justin dated a hearing guy?


He was hearing at the time, Brian said, watching the guy at the bar.


But that didn't make sense with the timeline I knew, that Brian and Justin had only done casual hookups and one night stands until after Justin went Deaf and stopped wanting to fuck around with hearing guys. And of course I knew that Brian was Justin's first, so it's not like Justin could have dated him before he met Brian.


Before I could ask for clarification, though, Brian looked back at the bar. Christ, he is really fucked up.


I looked. Someone was chatting him up now, but he looked like he was having trouble staying standing.


He should fucking not be going off to the back room with someone right now, I said.


No shit. 


I could tell a bouncer or something...


They'd just throw him out on the street. Or drag him into the back room themselves. He stood up.


What are you doing? I said.


He sighed and said, Who even knows at this point, and I laughed a little. He's wasted, he's probably on something, Brian said. I am not a man devoid of responsibilities. Let's get him home.


So I followed Brian over to the bar, where he tapped the guy on the shoulder and said something I couldn't lipread from my angle, and the guy squinted at him and then just kind of...collapsed. Brian caught him underneath his arms.


“Christ,” Brian said.


“Is he conscious?”


“I think so. He's definitely roofied.” He maneuvered his hand free to fingerspell the last word.


What's his name? I said.


“Um...shit. I know this. Ethan? I think.”


"Ethan," I said, trying my best to gauge my volume against the music. "You okay?"


He blinked, but barely.


"We're going to take you home, okay?" I said.


Brian freed half of his hand to point at his lips and said, "I don't even know if he lives here. He might just be visiting."


"All right, well hopefully he wakes up enough to tell us."


"You okay to help?" Brian said. "I don't need two twinks collapsed on me."


"I'm going to pretend I couldn't lipread that. Asshole."


I got under one of probably-Ethan's arms and helped Brian haul him out of the place and into a cab. Brian got into the front seat after we'd dragged Ethan into the back, said something to the driver, then turned around in his seat to face me. Any hope of getting an address out of  him?


I poked Ethan and even slapped his cheek a few times, but he was totally out of it. "Yeah...no."


Brian cast his eyes up to the heavens. Justin is going to owe me a hundred blow jobs for this.


Obviously I knew where this was going. What other choice did we have? For surprising him in the middle of the night  with his unconscious ex-boyfriend? This is a service you're offering him?


Shut up.


So Brian told the cab driver our address and we rode back to Flushing, Ethan's legs slung over my lap. He woke up a little bit on the drive home, mumbling some things I couldn’t lipread and Brian said he couldn’t understand either. When we got to the house and helped him out of the car he tried to fight us off a little, but there was no strength behind it. Brian balanced him against his hip while he unlocked the door, and then we all kind of tumbled in and there was Justin, curled up on the couch under his blue blanket.


He stood up. “Um...”


Brian checked his watch, leaving me to wrestle Ethan inside. It’s almost two. What the fuck are you doing up?


Allergies...why do you have a...guy?


You told us to bring you back a present, Brian said. Allergies are that bad?


I... Justin said, watching while I got Ethan sprawled out on the couch. He stopped and narrowed his eyes. Is that Ethan?


Is it? Brian said. I hadn’t noticed.


Brian...


We found him like this at the club, I said. Really, extremely wasted. Brian recognized him.


Justin looked at Brian, who shrugged.


We figured we should take him home before somebody else did, I said.


No, I mean...obviously I'm glad you didn't just leave him there, Justin said, though you could have fooled me from the look on his face. I'm just, um...


He likes to know what's going to happen. He likes his to-do lists. He likes his little life, undisturbed by the sudden appearance of a guy he used to date...when, exactly?


You're wheezing, Brian said.


I'm always wheezing, Justin said vaguely, watching Ethan shift on the couch.


Brian gave him a soft, brief kiss and went into the kitchen to root around the med drawer. You two should go to bed, he said to me, and I got Justin's attention and relayed it to him.


No, no, I should stay up and keep an eye on him, Justin said.


Brian rolled his eyes. That would be something. Welcome back to consciousness, Ethan! Here's Justin having constant seizures because he didn't sleep. Why don't you two catch up?


Justin glared at him, and Brian gave him a grin that was more like baring his teeth and dropped some pills into his palm.


If you can't sleep after that much Benadryl we'll call Ripley's Believe it or Not, Brian said.


Justin sneezed and pawed at his eye, and Brian softened and pulled him in under his arm.


You two go to bed, Brian said. I'll hang out here with him.


"Brian..."


Brian nothing, he  said. You both need to sleep. It's in your handbooks. Go.


Justin looked at me, like he was asking for permission, so I took his hand and tugged at him gently, and he followed me, Martha trotting behind him. He sat on the side of the bed and undressed slowly while I slipped out of my own clothes. He had some hives on his arms, and I grazed my fingers over them and kissed him softly.


He leaned into me. This is so weird, he said.


When's the last time you saw him?


I ran into him once not long after I lost all my hearing. He doesn't sign, so it's not like we could really talk.


I can help you tomorrow, I said, and he nodded vaguely. 


I saw him a few years before that too, at some afterparty for this indie band. We were...friendly, I guess.


Bad break up?


You could say that. He sighed. I don't know. I was nineteen. Everything seemed very enormous at the time.


And I just felt...cold inside, I don't know. Because I knew I wasn't going to like what I was about to hear. I thought you were with Brian when you were nineteen.


I was, except for the...I don't know, five months or so I was with Ethan.


I didn't know you guys broke up.


Justin shrugged a shoulder, pulling on this big old t-shirt of Brian's he likes to wear to sleep. I cheated, he called me out, I left. Like I said. Everything's a big deal when you're a teenager. Or even emotionally a teenager, in Brian's case.


I thought you guys just did like...one night stands.


We did. Hence I was cheating. Justin pulled back the covers and got in bed, and I crawled in beside him, lying backwards on the bed with my head on his ankles so I could watch him sign. He reached down and played with my fingers for a moment. I don't know, he said. I was stupid, obviously. But I was dealing with like, a shitload of PTSD at the time, and so was Brian, of course, so we just weren't connecting the way I needed us to. And Ethan was...romantic, and easy, and he let me talk about the bashing, which Brian really didn't, back then.


So...what happened?


He got this record deal that required him to go back into the closet, and after what coming out did to me the first time...


Yeah.


I wasn't going to do that again. So I ended it, and probably not as kindly as I could have, and he didn't take it well, and we, you know, blocked each other's numbers and didn't run into each other for four years. He's not exactly the club type, which makes tonight especially weird. Plus I don't know why he's in New York. Maybe he had a show or something. He's pretty successful.


And then you got back together with Brian.


Not immediately. We both had some groveling to do. But eventually, yes.


Wait. Weren't you living at the loft then?


Before Ethan? Yes.


So...


Justin smiled a little. I moved in with Ethan, yes.


God. You guys must have been really serious. My stomach felt heavy.


He rolled his eyes. We had rings.


And that just...God. Because Justin and I don't even have rings. And I'm not pointing that out because I was jealous, because that wasn't the issue.


It was that all this time, I thought Justin and Brian had been...I don't know, not perfect, I'm not stupid, but kind of...perfect in how imperfect they were, if that makes sense? Like, the way they stood by each other through all this trauma and through all of each other's neuroses, how they argued and cried and fucking switched languages and always were just there for each other, for fifteen years now. It wasn't that they were this model of an ideal relationship, it's that they were something else entirely from every other relationship I'd seen. Something that could bend and stretch and twist as much as it would ever need to and never break. Something binding these two together from before they'd even met. I know I sound dramatic and ridiculous and I knew at the time that I was being dramatic and ridiculous but...if you haven't met Brian and Justin, you can't understand. But everyone who knows them gets it. It's like each of them is holding a part of the other one, like there's no way to separate them cleanly anymore, or maybe ever.


Let Brian call it codependence if he wants. But it's the kind of thing that makes you believe in fate, destinies. Magic. 


Except it turns out you could separate them. That something as banal as someone having an affair was enough to crush the blood and bone holding the two of them together.


So...what did that say about my place, if my archetype wasn't as stable as I thought? Where did that put me?


Evan, Justin said gently.


Sorry. Just in my head.


Do you want to get rings?


No, no. It's not that. I crawled up the bed and lay down next to him. Do you think Brian's sad out there, thinking about back then?


No, Justin said. Brian found a lost lamb to rescue. That's all he's thinking about.


Yeah.


Justin kissed my eyelids. Go to sleep, he said, and I pulled him and kissed him for a long time. Holding on.


Justin fell asleep pretty quickly, but I couldn't, not until I did something. I crept out of bed and into the living room. Brian was in the kitchen making some coffee, Ethan still passed out on the couch. He raised an eyebrow when he saw me. Didn't I send you to bed?


"Yeah."


Well?


"I love you," I said.


Ew, gross, Brian said. He tackled me into a hug.


 


**


Justin and I woke up at the same time the next morning. Our own kind of dirty magic, I guess. I should go check on them, Justin said, but I held him by his wrist until he stopped trying to get up and we fooled around under the covers for a while. He's incredible always, but especially in the mornings, his hair white-blond in the sunlight and his eyes sleepy and sparkly. 


We got up eventually, showered, took the dog outside, and then ventured into the living room. Brian was in the armchair, watching TV and looking generally like someone who'd stayed up all night. Ethan was fast asleep under a blanket.


Justin frowned. He's still out?


Brian shook his head, stretching. He's woken up a few times. Can't tell if he recognizes me. He's still pretty groggy. He yawned and said, Allergies better today?


Yeah, Justin said, even though he'd been sneezing since we woke up. Evan's a little wobbly.


Just kind of dizzy, I said. I checked the time. I had dialysis in about an hour. I should eat something.


I'll make some more coffee, Justin said, and Brian nodded strongly.


I followed Justin into the kitchen and had a bowl of cereal while he was making coffee, and he was just filling up mugs by the time I finished. I took mine, and one for Brian--two's a lot for Justin to juggle, with his hand--and followed him out to the living room, where Ethan was waking up. 


He sat up and blinked in the sunlight, running a hand through his hair. He narrowed his eyes. "Justin?"


Justin signed Justin, back at him and handed him the mug of coffee he'd meant for himself.


"Right," Ethan said. "Sorry. Um..." Sorry.


Justin raised his eyebrows.


"Uh, learned a little in elementary school," Ethan said. School. It was kind of more like paper, but thought that counts, I guess. And Justin nodded and sat down on the arm of Brian's chair.


"How are you feeling?" Justin said.


"Uh...been better," Ethan said, but he signed, Fine, so I got Justin's attention and interpreted instead. "What the fuck happened?"


"Found you at a club in Long Island City," Brian sim-commed. "Think someone put something in your drink."


"God. Fuck."


Brian shrugged a little. "Happens to the best of us," he said, and I wondered, somehow for the first time in this whole ordeal, if it had ever happened to him, how he managed to recognize it so quickly. 


Ethan was watching Justin kind of curiously, and I didn't get why until Brian caught my eye and said, "His breathing." Of course. Daphne said once that it's pretty scary for people who aren't used to it. "He's all right," Brian said to Ethan, not sim-comming this time. "He's doing all right."


Justin watched his lips and then looked at Ethan, but he adjusted himself in the chair so he was leaning against Brian. Brian reached his hand around him and scratched lightly on his back, behind his ribs. 


It turned out Ethan was just visiting the city for a few days, and he actually had to get on a train for a few hours. Justin insisted that he get something to eat first, so he went to the kitchen and started making something while Brian turned to me. 


Don't you need to be getting ready?


Yeah, in a minute, I said. And don't say you're coming with me. You look like shit, they'll probably put you on dialysis instead by accident.


He rolled his eyes. Justin's going to want to play nurse to Ethan.


I know. I'm fine by myself.


Did Justin take his meds yet?


I don't think so.


He got up and went to the kitchen, and I stayed where I was and watched instead of going to get dressed right away. Brian shook out Justin's meds and then tapped him on the shoulder, and Justin opened his mouth and let Brian tip the pills down his throat. Brian poured a cup of coffee and smiled at him.


What? Justin said.


Just reveling in how awkward this is for you.


Justin covered his face. Stop.


Brian handed him the coffee cup. Do you want me to call Gabe? Calvin? Should we get Daphne over here? Oh, and Emily, you've slept with her too.


I'm going to kill you.


Maybe you should revisit some other decisions you made at that age, Brian said. I do miss the hair.


Don't hold your breath.


You're one to talk, wheezy.


This is just so fucking bizarre, Justin said. Evan was asking me all about it last night and I was just...


A lifetime ago.


It really was. It doesn't even feel possible that he should be here. Like he's crossing dimensions or something. He kissed Brian. Thank you. For rescuing him.


I couldn't live with myself if I didn't take every opportunity I could to rub your past mistakes in your face.


Yes, I do love that about you.


Next time someone's going off about what a genius you are, I'll remember to go, well, there was this time...


You're the only one who ever goes off about what a genius I am, Justin said.


Brian had no comeback to this, so he just bit his lip and gave Justin sultry looks until Justin rolled his eyes and got on his tiptoes and kissed him for a while. 


And I felt warm again. Because God, who else but the two of them could weather something like this with absolutely no tension, no rehashing of old drama? They were okay. 


And maybe it wasn't always like that. Maybe they hadn't always been perfect, like I'd thought. Like I'd wanted. Maybe the magic isn't what kept them together for fifteen years. Maybe the magic is the fact that they've been together for fifteen years. 


Fifteen fucking years, with illness and injury and disaster and change and children and lovers. You don't go through all of that to get snippy about an ex-boyfriend on the couch, and not everybody gets that. But they do. 


They're just on the same team. That's the thing.


Maybe me too.


I looked at Ethan, who was looking at Brian and Justin. "They seem happy," he said.


"Yeah," I said. "They're perfect."

 

End Notes:

 

Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, and Deborah for supporting this series! If you want to join the squad and be part of the dirty magic, follow me at twitter.com/LaVieEnRosefic :)

Chapter 137 - Three Acts by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Our interpreter from "Compound" works three medical appointments for Justin.

Three Acts

LaVieEnRose



I recognized the name as soon as I accepted the assignment, and sure enough, when I walked into the doctor’s office there was Justin, the same guy I’d interpreted for when his...boyfriend?—whatever Evan was to him—broke his arm. Evan wasn’t here this time, or Justin’s husband, Brian. Only Justin, sitting in a waiting room and looking relatively cheerful, for someone at a doctor’s office. He looked up and smiled when I approached. Good to see you again, he said. There was a dog at his feet in a service harness who I didn't remember seeing before.


You too! I said.


I'm glad you were available, he said. I thought you did a great job at the hospital that night. This should be significantly less exciting. He reached out and scratched the dog's head. This is Martha.


What are we in for today?


Trouble breathing, he said.


Asthma? I wasn't exactly surprised, considering I'd heard plenty of labored breathing from him the last time, when he wasn't even the patient.



Among other things.


How’s Evan doing?


Something passed over his face, but after a beat he smiled at me. Arm’s all fixed up.


Good, good.


Justin and the doctor—Ramsey—were clearly familiar with each other. They greeted each other warmly and Ramsey didn’t seem at all surprised by my presence. “Always good to see you, though I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. You look good.”


I’ve gained a little weight, Justin said. Brian’s always getting me ice cream. He stopped to finger spell Brian’s name for me after using his name sign, but I told him I remembered, and he smiled.


“So what’s going on today?” Ramsey said, placing a stethoscope against Justin’s back. 


Justin coughed reflexively and then couldn’t stop, and once it had settled a bit he said, That.


Coughing?


It’s constant, Justin said. It keeps me up, it keeps Brian up. It’s been over a year now since I got sick.


Ramsey sighed. “I know. I know it’s frustrating. This is the unfortunate reality of lung scarring.”


It’s not going to get better, Justin summarized.


“At this point, I would expect that you’ve recovered as much as you’re going to.”


Justin tilted his head back and took a minute to digest this. Then he turned back to the doctor, all business, and cleared his throat. “There has to be some kind of medication that will help.”


If Ramsey was surprised to hear Justin speak out loud, he didn’t show it. “With the coughing?”


Yeah. I’m not even asking to breathe better, just to be...quieter. If there’s nothing left in my lungs that I can clear out, there’s no reason I need to be coughing this much.


“You know that cough suppressants and asthma generally don’t mix."


Neither do my allergies and literally any medication, and I still manage to take sixty pills a day, Justin said. There has to be something.


So Ramsey tapped around on his computer for a while, and then called a colleague to come in and consult with him, and then there was a small group of doctors listening to Justin breathe and going over his list of allergies and generally, from what I could see, making him nervous as hell. And the end result? There was nothing they could give him. 


Justin set his jaw and twisted his hands in his lap.


"I'm sorry," Ramsey said to him, as the other doctors cleared out.


Justin put on a smile. It's all right. I'll be fine.



**


A month later, I got a text from a scheduler at an interpreting agency I freelance for telling me they had an appointment for someone who put me down as their preferred interpreter. Always flattering when that happens, and all the better when it's someone you've enjoyed working with. Justin fit the bill.


Despite what he'd assured the doctor at the end of the last appointment, he certainly didn't look fine. I met him already in the exam room this time, where he was pale and short of breath, one arm wrapped around his waist. Evan was with him this time, frowning and holding Justin's hand in his, Martha's leash around his wrist.

 

 

But Evan smiled a little when he saw me. Thanks for coming, he said, and Justin just nodded. He was sweating a little.


Not a problem. You all right, Justin?


I'm okay, he said.


Something's wrong, Evan said. He started hurting last night and it's getting worse.


I'm going to get you some water, I said. It's not exactly in my job description, but God, look at him.


Ramsey came in soon after I got back. He sat down on his rolling stool, his face creased with concern, and touched Justin's knee. "Okay, what's going on?"


Justin took a shaky, shallow breath. I was up last night--


He couldn't breathe well, Evan cut in, then turned to me and said, Sorry. Interruptions aren't the easiest to interpret, but it was fine; I'm good at my job.


I wasn't really all the way awake, but I remember feeling something....and then when I woke up this morning it was really sore. Here, he said, gesturing towards his side.


It hurts when he breathes, Evan said.  

 

 

Justin put his hand on Evan's arm and looked at the doctor apologetically. I'm sure it's just a pulled muscle or something.


You have the highest pain tolerance of anyone I've ever met, Evan said, and I thought back to that sprained ankle at the hospital that he hadn't even noticed. It's not a pulled muscle.


Ramsey rolled up to Justin and started listening to his breathing, but Martha got up suddenly and barked once, then nudged Justin’s hand.


Damn it, Justin said. Sorry. I’m going to have a seizure.


“Do you need anything?” Ramsey said, adjusting the tilt of the table so Justin could lie down. The seizures didn’t appear to be news to him, which didn’t surprise me, the way I’d heard them talked about before. Still, I was nervous. I’d never seen a seizure before. Evan got off the table and gave Justin some space, but he kept holding his hand. Martha paced.


"I don't think so," Justin said. "We'll see." His leg and his arm started shaking a moment later, and it looked painful and frightening and kind of awful, but Justin looked relieved. "Okay, yeah, it's fine." We all just waited for it to be over. It lasted about two minutes.


How's your head? Evan asked him.


"I'm okay." It was probably hard to sign after that; his right arm was still clenched and a little twisted. "You can go ahead," he told Ramsey. "Sorry."


"Don't apologize." Ramsey put the stethoscope against Justin's back and listened to him breathe, and then he felt around Justin's ribcage. Justin was still until Ramsey hit a certain spot, when he flinched and hissed. "Sorry," Ramsey said. "I'll try to be gentle."


"I'm okay," Justin said, which I was beginning to realize he said quite a lot.


Ramsey felt around the space some more, then sat back in his stool and asked Justin if he’d been in any sort of accident lately.


“What kind of accident?” Justin said.


“Anything where there could have been some kind of trauma to your ribs. A car accident, or a fall.”


Justin watched me and shook his head.


Evan’s eyes were hard. “What’s wrong with him?”


“I need to do a chest x-ray to be sure,” he said. “But it feels like he might have cracked some ribs.”


Justin said, “How? I told you, I haven’t done anything. I’ve painted and slept and had nice, gentle, non-rib breaking sex.” I was kind of grateful I didn’t have to interpret that. Though it would have been kind of fun to figure out how to sign.


Ramsey sighed. “It is possible to break ribs from coughing.”


Justin tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling as soon as I’d signed it, but Evan did not.


“You’re telling me,” Evan said. “That he came in here asking for a way to cough less and you couldn’t give him anything, and now you’re saying he coughed so much he gave himself a serious injury?”


I signed it for Justin, who said, It’s not that serious. I’ll be okay.


Evan got off the exam table. I’m calling Brian, he said.


I went with Justin to get x-rayed, and we had just gotten back when Brian came through the door. He gave Evan a brusque kiss on the cheek and said, Let me see, to Justin as he rubbed Martha's head.


Justin pulled up the hem of his shirt, and Brian looked at the bruises on his side. His fingers were twitching, clearly itching to touch, but he didn't. 

 

 

Okay, he said, and Justin put his shirt down. Brian palmed the side of Justin's head and guided it into his chest, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. You should have told me. I was up with you.


I told you something hurt.


Yeah. I thought it was just a pulled muscle or something.


So did I.


Brian sighed, closed his eyes briefly, then turned to me. Hi. Taking care of them?


They're taking care of themselves, I said, and Brian smiled a little.


Ramsey came in soon after that and shook hands with a now very stern-faced Brian, who had his hand firmly on Justin's shoulder. He put the x-rays up for us to see and said, "Right here." 


It's broken? Brian asked.


"Cracked," Ramsey said. "Three of them, right here."


"Jesus Christ," Evan mumbled, and Brian glanced at him, then back at the doctor.


So what now? he said. You tape them up, he tries not to kill himself coughing for the next however many weeks?


Ramsey said, "We actually can't tape them up."


Brian stared. You're shitting me. You just leave him like this? He's in pain.


"We will of course prescribe him something for the pain," Ramsey said. "But the major complication of cracked ribs is that it's too painful to take deep breaths, and when the lungs aren't filled all the way, there's a possibility of developing pneumonia."


Don't say that word to him, Brian said sharply, thankfully to the doctor and not to me. Not that it would have stopped me, obviously, but it's always nice when people understand that I have to do my job, even if it's telling my client something that's going to scare the shit out of them.

 

 

Justin pulled his lower lip in between his teeth, and Evan cursed and took a few steps away from the exam table. 


Brian just watched the doctor. His lungs already don't expand all the way because of the scarring, he said. So that's going to be worse now. And he could get sick.


"It is the most common major complication from cracked ribs. And obviously given Justin's medical history it's particularly worrying."

 

 

Just checking, by medical history you do you mean his asthma, his seizures, or just the simple fact that he almost died a year ago from the same sickness you’re threatening him with now?


"Brian," Justin said softly.


No one's talking to you, Brian said without looking at him. I want to know what the plan is to keep him safe. Tell me you have one.


Ramsey took a beat, then said, "We're going to watch him very closely."


We already do that, Brian said, his teeth gritted. Justin laughed just a little and rubbed his forehead.


"And Justin, you need to focus on taking deep breaths, even if it hurts."


He can't do that, Evan said. The scarring...you’re his fucking pulmonologist, you know he can't do that.


"As deep as you can," Ramsey amended. 


Brian and Evan looked at Justin.


“Well...I guess I’ll do that then,” Justin said. He took a deep breath in, slowly, and winced a little. 


Brian watched him and shook his head.


I’ll be fine, Justin said.


**



When I saw I was the requested interpreter for an ER job early one Thursday morning, I sat on the subway and steeled myself, trying to prepare for what I was still hoping against hope wasn’t coming.


I actually saw Martha first, her paws pacing underneath the edge of a curtained-off gurney. I saw Evan then, a few feet away, arguing with a doctor. He sounded like he was holding his own, but I still waited until he glanced my way and said, Do you need me?


He shook his head. I’m fine, go wait with Justin.


So I pulled back the curtain to the cubicle. Brian and Justin were sitting on the gurney, both watching a nurse who was fiddling with Justin's IV. Justin was in a thin hospital gown with a blanket around his shoulders, shivering terribly despite Brian's arm firm around his shoulders holding him tightly into his side. He had a bulky mask over his face but was still gulping down shallow breaths, coughing so hard it would have folded him in half if Brian weren't holding him up.


Brian looked up at me, his eyes blank, and just said, "It came on really suddenly."


Where do you need me?


He looked at Justin, but he was pressing his palms into his eyes, tears pooling on the upper rim of the mask. Brian took a slow breath in and said, Just hang out in case the doctor comes back, I think. Unless Evan needs you?


He said he was okay.


Yeah, he's good at this. He scratched Justin's back absently, adjusting him so his legs were slung over one of Brian's. "Evan's pissed. They want to intubate him."


"God, really?" I looked at Justin.


Brian shrugged. "He can't breathe."


"Evan doesn't want it?"


"Justin doesn't want it," Brian corrected, holding Justin still when he started coughing again.


I nodded.


"It hurts, and it scares him..." Brian shook his head. "They have to take him away for it," he added, softly, his eyes on Justin, who was taking several tries to pull in a breath. Easy, you've got it, Brian said. Justin coughed, weakly this time, and a few tears leaked out. Brian checked the temperature of his forehead and mumbled, "Jesus," to himself before pulling Justin in tighter. 


It was awful, to put it plainly, not just to see someone that sick, but to see the entire facade he'd been keeping break down. Justin had been tirelessly telling them that it would be fine, reassuring people about his own fragility, and now he was just done. We'd used him up.


"He has a migraine," Brian said suddenly. "From the fever. That's what he's really upset about. They won't turn the lights down."


I didn't know how to say that I didn't think a migraine was his biggest problem right now, and Brian's eyes challenged me to try. And I got it; maybe the migraine didn't mean anything to the doctors, but it felt significant to Justin. And that's where Brian's loyalties lay.


Justin shivered and choked out a sob, and Brian bent over so they were making eye contact and said, We're at the hospital and they're going to take care of you. I know, I know this is hell. I know.


I want to go home, Justin said, and Brian shook his head. I can’t breathe.


I know.


I told you, Justin said with a sob. I told you it was going to happen again.


And we are going to power the fuck through it, Brian said firmly. Just like we did last time.


Justin kept crying. I’m so tired.


Brian swallowed and pulled him in closer, somehow.


Evan and the doctor came into the cubicle, and I could tell right away that Evan hadn’t been successful. He looked—well, fine compared to Justin, but pale and worn out objectively. Martha stood up immediately and guarded Justin, and Evan shook his head at her and pulled her harness gently away from the gurney.


The doctor explained, in way too many words when you’re talking to someone in respiratory distress, that Justin’s oxygen levels weren’t improving and at this point they had no choice but to intubate him.


Justin shook his head hard and looked at Brian. Tell him no, he said, shivering somehow harder. Do English.


But Brian just studied Justin, looked down at his chest and said, small, Come here. He moved Justin carefully and put his ear against his back. After a few of Justin’s labored breaths, he said “Okay,” softly and straightened up.


Tell them no, Justin said.


Brian brushed Justin’s hair off his forehead. Sweetheart. I don’t think you can do this much longer.


Yes I can.


You’re working so hard.


And then Justin started crying, really crying now, panicked gasping. Evan knelt down in front of him and put his hands on his knees while Brian gripped his shoulders and tried to get him to look at him.


I don’t want it, Justin said. I don’t want them to take me away, I don’t want to die alone.


Brian pinched the bridge of his nose and Evan rushed in and started reassuring him—both of them, really—but before he could get far in Martha barked, suddenly, and nosed at Justin’s hand. Brian and Evan quickly disentangled themselves from Justin and lay him down on the gurney, and Justin waited, his hands covering his face.


Brian said, Please let it be— and Evan nodded hard, and they were interrupted by Justin having a massive seizure, nothing like the one I’d seen in the doctor’s office. The doctor ran over to him and called for backup, and several doctors and nurses swarmed.


I expected Brian and Evan to be scared, but they breathed out and said, “Oh thank God,” in unison.


I must have looked as confused as I felt, because Evan looked at me and laughed a little and said, “He’ll sleep now. He hasn’t been able to sleep.”


The doctors got the seizure under control quickly, and Brian nodded when they turned to him. "You can intubate him now," he said. The doctors started to move, and Brian grabbed the closest one by the arm and added, "Don't hurt a hair on his fucking head."



**




I stuck around for a few hours interpreting the odd message to Evan, but otherwise just lingering around with nothing much to do, which isn't as awkward as it sounds; a lot of interpreting is just sitting on-call, waiting to be needed. 


Eventually I had to leave, though. I had another job across town that I'd agreed to weeks before. About half an hour before I had to go I left the waiting room and went to find Brian and Evan to let them know I was going, so they'd have time to make sure my replacement was ready. And to see how Justin was doing.


Evan wasn't there, but Martha was, sleeping on the floor beside Justin's bed, and Brian, in a chair at the foot of the bed with a cup of coffee held between both hands, his eyes on Justin, who was still and asleep with a small tube going into his mouth. I cleared my throat and Brian looked at me and nodded a little. "You can go if you need to," he said.


"I do, in a bit," I said. "Annie Alister is going to take over, do you know her?"


Brian said, "Yeah, we've had her. She's fine. Boys really like you, though."


"I'm glad. Where's Evan?"


"Dialysis. My kids are a mess."


I laughed a little. "How's Justin?"


"He hasn't woken up yet," Brian said. "He's pretty sedated. They said he'd probably sleep for a while." He rubbed his eyes. "It's a mindfuck not hearing him breathe. Used to it."


"Can I get you anything?"


"Not your job."


"Fuck my job for a second."


"I just wish I could do it sometimes," Brian said softly. "Not all of it, I couldn't...Justin always says it, he's right, I'd be a nightmare. But every once in a while, put me through it instead of them. Give them a damn break."


"Your part isn't easy either," I said.


"I'm just watching them. It's all I do, I sit and watch them. Pretend like there's anything I can do that will make a difference, when really it's just...one way or another, I end up back here, waiting for someone to wake up."


Brian was on-call too, I realized.


He took a sip from his cup. "I don't even know what it's like," he said. "He doesn't get one day where he doesn't have to think about what he's feeling. Just one day. I live with him and I see it in all its fucking glory and I still can't wrap my head around that part."


"You can tell how loved he is, you know," I said. "He's surrounded by it. That isn't regular."


"Loving a sick person is the deepest thing in the fucking world," Brian said flatly. "And it's also like pushing that boulder up a goddamn hill." He shook his head a little. "It's not about him being healthy or about him living as long as a normal person. It's just...you want him to feel okay. You want him to enjoy it while he's here. All of it."


"I'm not sure anyone really does that," I said. "Sick or not."


"I'm fine with him being the first." He narrowed his eyes at the bed and stood up. Justin looked the same to me, but Brian reached out and put a hand on his ankle just as Justin opened his eyes. Brian gave him a minute to look around, remember what was going on ,and then said, How are you?


Justin blinked slowly. Hurts.


Brian nodded and got up on the bed next to him, very slowly. Don't try to move, remember.


I know.


God knows how. Fever's so high I'm surprised you remember your damn name.


Tired.


Yeah, that's the drugs. And the seizure. And the pneumonia, that too.


What should we do? Justin asked, looking a little worried and a lot confused.


But Brian just gave him a little smile. We can lie here. Look up at the stars. Remember when we went on that awful camping trip?


You're mean.


Look. Brian shifted a little, facing up to the ceiling. Stars. As soon as Justin looked, though, Brian turned his gaze back to Justin, and that's where he stayed, watching Justin while he tried to find stars on the speckled hospital ceiling.


Justin noticed eventually. You're supposed to be stargazing.


Who says I'm not?


Justin's mouth twitched around the tube. Sun's a star, he said. He was starting to fall asleep again.


Yeah. Brian said. Yeah it is, Justin.

 

End Notes:

 

I actually feel bad about this one.

Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, Deborah, and Abby for supporting this series! For updates and such and such, follow me at twitter.com/LaVieEnRosefic

Chapter 138 - Love Justin (Part 2) by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

More letters between Ben and Justin, starting right after "Three Acts."

Love Justin (Part 2)

LaVieEnRose

Summary:


 


Dear Ben,


Thank you for the photos of flowers. Everyone’s always wondering what they should send when I’m in the hospital and these were perfect. Brian and I had a good laugh and he put them up around my room. Makes the place a lot more cheery.


I know Brian's keeping you guys updated, but just so you can hear it straight from me, I'm doing okay. The first few days I was here were awful, but it never got as bad as it was last year, when I had no immune system to speak of. The whole concept of pneumonia still scares the shit out of me ever since then, and obviously being intubated is no one's idea of a good time, but I don't think anyone was all that scared I was going to die this time. Except maybe Evan, but well. He's got death on his mind lately.


Brian stayed with me all through those first few days--Evan was here when he could be, but dialysis and the amount of sleep he needs eat up a lot of his time--but he's gone back to work now, so I'm alone a lot until he comes in the evening. It's a little lonely, but mostly it's just boring. There's an interpreter but she's not always around when the doctors come in and since we don't go to the same hospital as Daphne anymore, there's not really anyone around who signs when Evan and Brian aren't here. So mostly I just draw, and cough, and sleep. It's amazing how much I need to sleep. Brian says it's normal and that when I got sick last time I slept for over twenty hours a day while I was getting better. I don't really remember that time, which makes sense since I slept through most of it!


There's no way to tell yet if there's going to be any new lasting damage from this round, but my doctor's hopeful that there won't be since we caught it on time and intubated me early. Which I fought tooth and nail, because it's the worst feeling in the fucking world, having that thing down your throat, but I guess it was a good idea. Which means Brian was right. Damn it!


...I just totally fell asleep in the middle of writing this email. I should probably send it before that happens again.


Love,


Justin




**


Hey Ben and Mikey. 


Justin wanted to check in but he’s too tired to email, so here I am doing his bidding. Kid had a DAY. Nice surprise allergic reaction to a drug he’s had a hundred times before. The degree to which he cannot catch a break is legitimately hysterical, from a cosmic perspective. Not so funny when there’s a doctor calling you in the middle of a new client meeting to tell you they might have to stick the tube back down your little patient’s throat, but hey, we make do.


He’s all right now, just pukey and coated in hives and veeeeeery sleepy from the drugs. As if he wasn’t groggy enough already from having his lungs playing chicken with shutting down. He’s woken up a few times to mumble some bullshit about renewing some kind of car registration thing that I apparently need to take care of since he’s indisposed. The burdens I bear. Oh, and he’s slurred out something about emailing you, so here I am.


Don’t try calling tonight. He needs to rest.


Brian


 


**


Michael looked over my shoulder while I was reading. “How is he?”


I read the email twice, then a third time. Practically heard Brian’s voice, snarking, stretching its way around how worried he was.


“He’s really sick,” I said quietly.


 


**

 

Hey Ben,


Sorry for the silence!! Fuck my allergies. Especially when the doctors were making noise about maybe sending me home next week, and now they’re like oh, setback, complications, blah blah blah...this is gonna be longer than the hospital stay after I got burned. Which is just so ridiculous. I poured exactly ZERO boiling things on myself this time and they still won’t let me go.


Reaction’s mostly cleared up now. I’m still itchy and sneezing every ten seconds but I can breathe pretty well. They have me in lung therapy for the pneumonia, which is about as fun as it sounds. Lots of blowing in tubes.


It's still quiet and boring here. Brian took Martha away this morning and is keeping her at the house for a while, and I miss her and it's lonelier here without her. Plus now I can't just push the call button every time I'm going to have a seizure because now they can sneak up on me. Evan stayed over last night, though, and that was sweet. And Brian will be here tonight, and tomorrow Derek and Emily are coming over for a movie marathon. So don't worry. No one's forgotten me yet.


Oh my God, enough hospital stuff. Send me more Ivy pics? Have you seen Gus lately?? My mom came up to visit earlier this week and told me about bringing him to the Pirates game last weekend. How is your book coming? I keep re-reading the chapters you've sent me so far. I still absolutely love these characters, and it's such a good way to keep my mind off everything.


Gotta go, nurse is here. Lung therapy!


Love,

Justin


 


**


I read that email a few times and tried to get less pissed off, and when it didn't work I gave up and called Brian.


"Kinney."


"Hey. You took Martha away?"


Brian groaned. "He is such a fucking tattletale. Can we do this later? I just poured a whiskey and water and it would taste so much better without this conversation."


"I thought you were always happy to discuss Justin with people who were worried about him."


"I am," Brian said, without snark, because, to  his credit, he was. Brian's never acted like Justin's friends don't have just cause to worry about him, and although he might curate what information he shares--which I respect, it's Justin's privacy--he's never intentionally misleading. He has no patience for dramatics, obviously, but if you ask Brian calmly how Justin's doing, he'll tell you. "That doesn't extend to fielding accusations from people who don't know the full story."


And maybe you can see what I was walking into here, and God knows I should have, but...well. We'll get more into that later. "Do you understand what  it does to a disabled person to have their lifelines taken away?" I said instead. "Especially for Justin, with how he feels about hospitals, and how vulnerable he is there with no one who speaks his language--"


"Please, tell me more about sign language," Brian said. "I beg you."


"--and now he doesn't even know when he's going to have seizures."


"Shit, you're right. What was I thinking, taking his dog away for absolutely no reason? What a silly decision I've made."


The smugness in his voice had me realizing what a hole I'd just dug myself, but it wasn't as if I could backtrack now. "Okay, so are you going to tell me the reason?"


"I don't really see why I should," Brian said lightly.


"Is it some kind of hospital policy? Because I can help you figure out--"


"As if there's any hospital battle I need help with," he scoffed. "The hospital was happy to have her. I took her away because he's allergic to her."


I swallowed. "He is?"


"Yes, and normally he powers his way through it, but after an allergy attack like the one he had he's insanely reactive and everything drives him nuts, no pun intended. We tried to make it work, but she was giving him asthma attacks and hives around his mouth and sneezing fits where he couldn't fucking catch his breath. I took her away, he cried, now he's recovering."


I didn't know what to say.


"Now," Brian said. "Are you going to continue your lecture on disability rights, professor, or can I hang up and enjoy a drink before I go to the hospital and take care of my sick husband?"


"You can go."


"You're a peach. Buh-bye."=


I couldn't get over how embarrassed I felt about the whole thing, so I ended up relaying the saga to Michael when we were lying in bed that night. "I really don't know what I was thinking," I concluded. "Brian knows what Justin needs like the back of his hand. Of course if he did something like this it's for a good reason."


"Brian's definition of 'good reason' doesn't always line up with popular opinion, to be fair," Michael said.


I shook my head. "Justin just pushes this button for me," I said. "I think it's that he tries so hard to project this image that everything's okay. So when I see through that, I feel like I'm onto something. Like I have to act on it, as if Brian isn't ten steps ahead of me."


"It's easy to forget that, though. Brian doesn't exactly broadcast how hard he works for Justin."


"It's like I think because we're both sick that I'm automatically on some higher level with him," I said. "And that sounds nice and everything, and it was a useful concept when I was teaching him about disability positivity, but how true is it really? How much do I really know based on the virtue of us both having fucked-up immune systems?"


"It's more than that, you know it is," Michael said. "There's...part of this that healthy people can't access. You know it, I know it. Justin knows it and Brian knows it."


"But there has to be some point at which hard work trumps that," I said. "Brian's in there every day, learning every inch of what Justin needs. I'm all the way over here. So when does he know more than me?"


"He knows the practical stuff," Michael said. "But he doesn't know what it feels like."


"I don't know what being as sick as Justin feels like," I said, finally. "I act like we're on the same level, but I'm not as sick as him, and, knock on wood, I won't be for quite some time."


"That doesn't matter. You know what it feels like to...be in it. To be scared."


"Do you really think there's no point at which a healthy person can fully understand?"


"I don't know," Michael said. "But  I do know that's what Brian thinks."


 


**


 


Dear Justin,


Cut Brian some slack, my dear. He loves you so much.


Ben




**


Hi Ben.


I don't feel like myself today.


Brian's the one who put it into words. I had a seizure last night at around four in the morning. It wasn't a terrible one, but it wasn't great, either. I felt really weird after, mood-wise, which just happens sometimes, but it always kind of throws me. I ended up calling Brian, even though it was the middle of the night, and telling him I'd had a seizure and kind of getting worked up about it, and he was really patient and gentle with me even though it was four in the morning and I have, like, ninety seizures a day. He still treats each one like it's a big deal, and I absolutely love that about him, because every single seizure feels fucking shattering for a little while after it's over, when I'm still trying to get my brain to stop moving or whatever.


Brian stayed on the phone until I fell asleep, but when I woke up I still felt really grouchy and my short-term memory really sucked. I couldn't remember if the nurses had already been in and stuff like that. Brian came over in the morning to spend the day with me, since he doesn’t go to the office on Fridays anymore, and I was all sullen and pissy and I thought he’d get annoyed at me for that, but he just sat there quietly and found something on TV and we watched that for a while. Evan came in after dialysis and asked how I was, and that’s when Brian said, he doesn’t feel like himself today.


So I’m someone else today, I guess.


Love to Ivy and Michael.


J




**


Hi Ben,


Still in the hospital. 


I’m so worried about Evan.


He hasn't been to see me in two days now. Hasn't even called. I can't remember the last time I went that long without talking to him. He's just sleeping all the time, Brian says. Brian wakes him up for meds and food and dialysis and otherwise he's just sleeping.


It reminds me of how I feel right now, just too fucking spent to do anything, and I don't...I don't like the idea that Evan could be feeling how I'm feeling.


I'm also worried it's worse than that and Brian's downplaying it to me. Does he do that when I'm sick?


Brian's talking about having him admitted. He says it's just because it would be more convenient to have both of us in the same place so he wouldn't have to keep running back and forth, but...well, obviously that's bullshit. I can see how worried he is, and it's not about me anymore. I'm getting well.


So I'm scared.

 

**

 

Justin--


You both do it when you're sick. You're still in the hospital and you're acting like Brian doesn't have a reason to be worried about you. Downplaying. 


He does the same thing. I don't think it's intentional, from either of you. I think you still, after all this time, truly don't understand how much harder your life is than it's supposed to be. I know you're reading this and shaking your head, saying that I just don't understand, that it's really not that bad. And honey, if that's what keeps you going, that's fine. But it breaks my heart every time you say you're complaining too much, or try to change the subject off of yourself when I finally get you to dive into how you feel. There is so much more complaining you could do. 


With Brian I think it's a little different. He's very matter-of-fact when you're sick. He puts it all into context, makes it all make sense, and I think that’s because it’s how it looks to him. He doesn’t make it sound overwhelming, even when logically it should be, because he’s not overwhelmed.


You two make a pretty good pair.


Love,


Ben


 


**


 


Dear Ben,


Emily spent most of the day here with me. She hit on my nurse and took a nap curled up on my bed with me and we watched Project Runway DVDs. She made me laugh about a zillion times, which totally fucked up my breathing but was so worth it. Brian’s been kind of somber the past few days, just wanting to sort of prop up on the bed and breathe me in and relax, so it was nice to have some levity.


My friend April’s coming by tonight. Have I told you about her?


She’s hearing, which is kind of wild on its own before you even add in the fact that she doesn’t sign. She’s learning, and she’s working hard, but she has a life and a job (she’s a photographer, so cool, and has taken these gorgeous pictures of me and Brian and Evan) and, as you know, ASL is hard. So we mostly talk by writing things back and forth or using apps. I don’t know which is more amazing: that she’s patient enough to deal with me, or I’m patient enough to deal with her. And it doesn’t even feel like a chore to me, and she keeps coming back and learning new signs and everything so I don’t think she’s miserable having me in her life either.


It’s because we’re family. The same way I can interrupt Deaf people I’ve never met and immediately be invited into the conversation, I can see a girl having a seizure in a subway station and all of a sudden language doesn’t matter.   She wasn’t diagnosed epileptic before that, and since then she’s had a handful more seizures so she’s official now. And all of hers are tonic clonic, too. Shitty luck. At least she doesn’t have them very often.


I didn’t realize until I met her that I didn’t know a single other epileptic, and now I don’t understand how I got by. Molly’s had one seizure, but that was a fluke and she doesn’t remember any of it, so she can’t really relate. April GETS it. She doesn’t have any complications like I do, thank God, but she knows exactly what it feels like to wake up hurt and sick and confused. 


Knowing disabled and sick people with any condition is obviously a blessing and so important. But the specificity of this...I’m sure I don’t have to explain it to you. You know enough people with HIV to know it’s different from talking to, say, me. Not that this isn’t meaningful! Oh, you know what I mean. I’m going to stop talking myself into a corner now.


Justin

 

**


My feelings weren’t hurt, of course. I’d often recognized how lucky I was to have a disease that, in my circles at least, was understood and discussed and taken seriously. Justin over and over again had to go through the process of explaining his conditions to people who’d never heard of them, or at least didn’t know anything substantive. First the disease that made him lose his hearing, then post-traumatic epilepsy when he couldn’t hide the seizures anymore, then his immune system and the lung scarring. And that’s not even to mention having to hold everyone’s hand about his PTSD from the bashing.


It occurs to me every so often just how much Justin has had to do alone. Specifically, without Brian.


And yet, Brian has always been there. Brian has never let Justin be taken away by trauma, pain, illness.


Meanwhile just the gap between positive and negative between me and Michael can sometimes feel insurmountable.


I’m not saying that what Michael and I have isn’t stable, and beautiful, and deep, and important.


I’m just saying...God. There’s a reason the two of them turn heads. They’re a mythological happening. They’re an event. People stop and watch when a parade goes by, after all. They’re a celebration. 


 


**

 

Ben,


I’m HOOOOOOME!


I mean, I have to go back to the hospital for outpatient lung therapy every day for a while, yeah yeah yeah, but home!! 


It's always weird coming back after a long hospital stay. The house feels enormous. And I get to see Martha again!! And sleep beside Evan and Brian and know that they're okay!


And they are okay, for the most part. Brian is exhausted, and he's being really careful with me, handling me all gently and dressing me in his clothes. He's a lot more willing to take time off from work than he used to be, which makes me incredibly happy. I used to freak myself out thinking about having a heart attack or something from working too hard. Now Emily says he hasn't been in the office in a week. Good. 


Evan...I don't know. It's hard. I don't want to get too far into specifics because he's more private than I am, but...he seems really resigned now. And what scares me is Brian kind of does too. It's just quiet here. Nobody's panicking, it's just like...I kind of feel like Brian and Evan are sleepwalking, except for the bursts of energy from Brian where he takes out his worry on an unsuspecting client or the treadmill or the box of condoms in the nightstand, not to be too graphic. Evan doesn't have bursts of energy like that. Evan sleeps.


Speaking of, I'm falling asleep, so I'll sign off for now. Love from us.


Think good thoughts for Evan, please.


Justin

 

**


Hey Ben,


Thank you for the care package!! Very excited about the hot chocolate. I think I squealed or something because Brian laughed at me.


I've been thinking a lot lately about Pittsburgh and about family and about what we found there and what we've found here and just...the sheer unlikelihood of something like that happening twice. In two different states, in two different languages...two different lifetimes, really. The people I've managed to attract are so fucking beautiful, and I don't know what I did to deserve that. 


I guess I'm thinking about this stuff because April texted me earlier saying she wants to talk to me about something important, and I felt this immediate concern, and I realized....God, I really just can't stop picking up people. Every time I think there's no way there's another person out there who wants to deal with me, one comes along, and they want to talk to me about things. Even when they don't speak my language.


I hope everything's okay with her. She's on her way here now, so I should go.


Evan's hanging in there.


Love,


Justin


 

 

End Notes:

Hmmmm what could April have to talk about?

 

Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, Deborah, and Abby for supporting this series! For updates and such and such, follow me at twitter.com/LaVieEnRosefic.

Chapter 139 - April Showers by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

April reflects on what Justin, and others, have given her.

April Showers

LaVieEnRose



I guess the first thing I need to tell you is that I have a lot of friends, and there's no way to say that without sounding like a jerk. But it's true, and it's something I need to get across for this story to make sense. 


I’m in a band; I play bass. We’re not any good, and we’ve given up trying to actually get gigs anywhere and it’s hard to find a place to practice so we hardly ever even play anymore, to be honest, so it’s kind of a band in name only,  but it still means I have a family here. Mackenzie, Jonah, Tommy, Deja, and me. 


I came to the city for college, where I did two years before I started getting steady freelance work and dropped out, and Mackenzie and Tommy collected me in one of our intro classes, and I met Deja through work—she’s a model—and Mackenzie dated Jonah for a hot minute and then we adopted him, so we’ve all been tight for a few years now. They’re good friends, real friends, the kind you can FaceTime without warning and show up at each other’s apartments. The kind that stays with you in the hospital after you have a seizure on a train platform.


That’s what I’m trying to explain: I already had good people. I wasn’t searching for anything.


Justin found me anyway.


**


"Do you ever feel haunted?" I asked Justin one time, writing back and forth on a piece of paper, like we usually do when it's just the two of us together. I can sign a little to him, but I don't really understand much of what he says back unless he signs really, really slowly and just uses the same twenty signs over and over. Writing is easier.


"There are cultures who say epileptics are cursed," Justin wrote back. "Possessed by evil spirits."


"Not that really," I said. "I just feel sometimes like I have this like...weight of every sick person who came before me inside of me. Like they're all counting on me for something."


I felt absolutely crazy spelling this out, but Justin read it and nodded a little.


"That doesn't really go away," he wrote.


"Do you know what they want?"


"Not yet."


**

My friends didn't drop me when the seizures started. Not when I had the first one on the subway platform. Not when I had one while I was at work, photographing a fashion show. Not at Deja's birthday party. Never. They supported me and shielded me and treated me the same way they always had. "Nothing's changed," they reassured me, while I was cycling through meds that made me zombified or manic and nothing in-between, while I was throwing myself into learning a new language. "Nothing's changed."


They're good friends. They're still my friends.


But the issue is that I changed.


**


Justin's friends were good to me right off the bat. One of them was a doctor, and even though neurology wasn't her thing she knew a lot just from being close to Justin, so she answered a lot of questions I had at the beginning. His Deaf friends were patient with me and complimented my signing. Brian, his husband, was snarky in a way that took be a little to get used to, and at first I thought he didn't like me, but then I had a seizure at his house one time and he insisted I sleep over there and checked on me during the night and got me a neurologist appointment for the next day and I realized, oh. 


But I wasn't close to any of them the way I was to Justin, until one day I came by to meet him for lunch like we'd planned and Evan answered the door. 



"Oh hey!" he said, clearly not expecting me, but bright and shiny just the same, like he'd been every time I'd seen him. But he also looked just the slightest bit panicked. "Did you have plans with Justin?" He's Deaf, but the way he talks and lipreads you wouldn't even know, which is probably a bad thing to say, but there it is.



Anyway, it was clear where this one was going. "Yeah. It's okay, really." 


"Yeah, he was up all night with trouble breathing and he's being feeling so shitty today, and he just fell asleep like half an hour ago--" 


"Really, it's okay," I said. "We have a policy about not apologizing for this stuff." Justin's idea, after I felt horrible cancelling plans one day when I was zonked out on the new meds and couldn't get myself out of bed. "We have to apologize to enough people," he'd said. "Let's shave the list down a little."


"You came all the way out here," Evan said. "Have lunch with me."


"You don't have to--" 


"Brian's not here and Justin's asleep," he said. "I'd be all by myself otherwise. Keep me company?"


It was a little awkward, but I'd come all the way out to Flushing and I was hungry and the few conversations I'd had with Evan at that point had been nice, so I figured what the hell. We ate finger foods at the coffee table in the living room, and Evan poured iced tea and stretched his legs out on the carpet.


I could hear Justin coughing, sounding strangled and miserable. This was before the saga where he broke his ribs and then got pneumonia, so I wasn't as well-versed on how bad his lungs are as I am now. "He's been having a lot of trouble breathing lately, hasn't he?" he said. Last time we'd gone out to a movie, we'd had to take a cab the two blocks back to the subway station because Justin couldn't catch his breath enough to walk that far.


"He has all this scarring from when he had pneumonia last year," Evan said. "He's always had asthma but he used to just use his inhaler every once in a while and he'd be fine. Now his lungs are already like this--" Evan held his hand up in a fist, almost closed. "So anything that sets them off at all is a big problem."


"It's so fucked up," I said. "That the meds ended up totally screwing him over like that. They're supposed to help."


Evan shrugged and popped an olive into his mouth. "Meds are what killed my kidneys, too. It happens." He softened a little. "It doesn't mean it's going to happen to you."


"It's not that," I said, and it wasn't. "It's just not fair."


We talked about other stuff then, mostly Justin and this show he had coming up. It was so clear that Evan just worshipped the ground Justin walked on, which I thought was really sweet considering they'd been together for a long time. My longest relationship lasted all of six months so I don't really have much to go on in that area, but...I don't know. The way Evan lit up when he talked about Justin--even when he had been talking about Justin being sick--seemed rare and important.

 

 

But then again, that was also, I was realizing, just Evan. He got excited when I talked about a shoot I'd done and bounced up and down when he realized there was leftover apple pie we could share. He was in kidney failure, sick as hell, and smiling at me and inviting me into his little world.


If I'm haunted by sick people, I'm haunted by that too. And that's rare and important and it's something you need to understand.


**

Justin can't smoke, obviously, but Brian always gets us edibles for when I sleep over. We lay on our backs on the porch with our heads together, texting each other back and forth. The stars looked like they were moving just a little, like diamonds catching the light.


Am I allowed to hate healthy people? I said.


Justin laughed so loud when he read the text. "Oh God, she really is one of us," he said, and I reached behind my head to put my hand over his mouth.


I typed, It's not that I HATE them really, it's just...


You don't have to explain, he typed back. 


And that's it, really, isn't it?


I didn't have to explain. That's the point.


** 


 Brian had pulled me aside when Justin and I started getting close and told me that I needed to understand that at some point or another he was going to get really sick. That that was just reality, that it was always lurking around a corner, and I needed to start preparing myself for it now or it would just be worse for Justin when it happened and I wasn't ready.


And I listened to that, I did, but still, when Justin got pneumonia it was horrible. He had a tube down his throat for a while, and even after it was out he was just stuck in this never ending fight to breathe. His fever didn't go down for ages, and for a while I wasn't even allowed to visit him in his room. No one but Brian was. Not even Evan.


So I'd sit in the waiting room with Evan and he'd smile a little when I arrived and show me pictures Brian had taken of Justin in his hospital room and ask me how I was doing. He'd tell me about how Brian would sneak him into Justin's room when the nurses weren't looking, and how he and Justin would Facetime while Evan was having dialysis, even though Justin couldn't stay awake for more than ten minutes in a stretch, at first. I could tell Evan was trying to keep me calm and I hated that he thought I needed it, and hated even more than he was right. 


"How do you get used to this?" I asked him one day, finally.


"What other choice do I have?" he said.


After Justin was home from the hospital, I had a seizure one time while I was visiting him. I woke up in his bed with him, and I started crying, like I usually do after seizures, and he squeezed my hand while Martha licked my arm.


"Does it ever stop feeling this fucking awful?" I sobbed, and Evan, who I hadn't really realized was there, interpreted it for me.


Evan was getting worse. No one had told me. Nobody needed to.


"No," Justin said softly. "Not really," and Evan bent over and kissed my cheek.


**


And my friends, my good friends, thought it was crazy.


"I know he's helped you and everything, but you don't owe him something this big," Jonah said.


"This isn't about Justin," I said, though of course it was, but it also wasn't. It was about Brian. It was about Daphne and Emily and Derek. 


It was, of course, about Evan. 


"It's about my family," I said, and I got a blood test.

 

End Notes:

Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, Deborah, and Abby for supporting this series! For updates and such and such, follow me at twitter.com/LaVieEnRosefic.

Chapter 140 - Awaited by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

It's a big day for Evan, but it's not easy for Justin.

Awaited

LaVieEnRose



The alarm went off at the ungodly hour of four-thirty AM, and let me tell you, it was the most beautiful fucking sound I’d ever heard.


I pawed at my eyes and fished the alarm from where it was vibrating under Evan’s pillow and started the process of rousing Justin. He needed to sleep propped up while he was still pneumatic as hell, so I’d gotten into the habit of sleeping sitting up with him between my legs and against my chest. He was awake for about two and a half seconds before he grabbed the trash can next to the bed and threw up.


“Uh, good morning,” I said out loud. He wasn’t looking at me anyway.


He panted and groaned while Evan stirred next to me.


I checked Justin’s forehead and reached to the nightstand for the water glass. Hi there, I said to him.


“Mmm,” Justin said.


Sleep well?


“I’m gonna have a seizure,” he said, all in a rush.


Martha’s not alerting. You just feel weird from puking your brains out.


Give her a minute, Justin said, and sure enough thirty seconds later she barked and nuzzled his hand and started spinning in circles.


All right, all right, I said, and I lay him down just as he started seizing. It wasn't a terrible one, but it wasn't great, either, and once it was over I palmed the back of his head and said, You okay? but he just curled up on himself and coughed in that awful sick way he'd been doing for the past few weeks. Cut it out, I said. There are too many things wrong with you.


Evan snorted from where he was getting dressed at the foot of the bed. I sighed and stretched over to the nightstand to start setting up the nebulizer, which was still drying in pieces from when we'd used it right before bed. Pneumonia things. "You know you can't leave him now," Evan said.


Oh, I'm leaving him.


"Don't, he's too sick."


That's why I paid the big bucks for Martha. Eight pounds of pitch-black, fluffy security blanket. I stuck the nebulizer mouthpiece somewhere near Justin's face and got up to start getting ready. How are you feeling? I asked Evan.


"Okay. Really, I'll be fine on my own."


Not on the table. Drop it. I stood up to start getting dressed and tucked the covers gently over a still-shaking Justin. I angled myself so he could see me. You can go back to sleep, I said to him. It's not like we're bringing you along.


"Fuck." Justin pulled the pillow off his head. "It's today." He'd still been kind of out of it in the ten days since we'd been home, running fevers intermittently and missing sleep in favor of coughing. This has been a dicey one, honestly. It wasn't as bad as last year when he'd been circling the drain with a vigor, but there'd been some risk this time as well, and we all, excuse the expression, breathed a big sigh of relief once the tube could come out and his numbers started moving in the right direction. Pneumonia's never going to be something he can shrug off, and his doctors made it all too clear that it's always going to be lurking in the shadows waiting for an opportunity to try to kill him again. Fun stuff! But hey, us: 2, pneumonia: 0.


Did you think we were awake at the crack of dawn for kicks? I said. Yeah, it's today.


"Shit." He sat up and ran his hands down his face. I'll get ready, he said, and got up and headed towards the bathroom.


You're not coming! I said, futily, to his back, and then turned to Evan. He's not coming.


I know he's not coming.


Okay. I went over to the bathroom door and watched Justin rinse the trash can and brush his teeth. You realize you just had a seizure, I said to him. Moments ago.


He spat. I remember.


I tried to make my eyes soft regardless of the fact that he was being annoying as fuck. Go lie down.


"I want to see you guys off, at least," he said, so, okay, I felt a lot more warm now that at least it was clear he knew he wasn't about to join us sitting around a hospital all day.

We'd already agreed that he could come to the hospital for the important part--he'd be there when Evan went into surgery, and when he woke up--but besides that, there was nothing he could do there that he couldn't do here. Waiting is waiting, and spending extended time at the hospital would have been a dubious proceeding even if he wasn't still getting over pneumonia, and as it was there was no way he was in any shape to wait around in uncomfortable chairs in that fucking germ factory. Someday they need to make a hospital that doesn't have any fucking sick people in it. I know what I said.


You've seen us. We're off. Go to bed.


Evan double-checked his hospital bag while I got Justin's meds, with an additional anti-nausea pill for good measure. "Klonopin," Justin said, which I didn't love because that meant he was still feeling seizurey, but I grabbed him one.


You know... I said.


He took the pills. "You are not staying here with me."


Obviously I'm not staying here with you. I was going to say I could drop you off at Emily's if you'd rather have some company.


He shook his head. "We planned this all out. I'll be fine on my own."


That plan was assuming you didn't have a seizure the second you woke up.


"What a stupid assumption," Justin said and well, hard to argue with that one. "I'm staying here. Bed."


Hard to argue with that one either. Yeah, bed. Okay. I picked up his bad leg and put it back under the covers, so maybe he'd be forced to stay in place this time. He frowned and squirmed around some but didn't get up.


Evan kissed him and gave him a hug. We'll call a ton, he said. The actual procedure wasn't until the afternoon; we just had to get there early for a hundred tests and shit. And you'll see Brian, obviously. I was going to be running back and forth between here and the hospital all day. Kind of a given. The past few months taking care of both of them had been practice, and now we were on the Olympics.


Justin was clinging to Evan, and I figured I should give them some time on their own, so I went out to the kitchen and poured myself some guava juice. Evan couldn't eat this morning, but I figured I should, so I scarfed down half of a croissant that Justin had ordered from the bakery the day before.


Evan came out and raised an eyebrow.


Carbs don't count if nobody catches you, I said.


"I'm pretty sure I just caught you."


I tossed down the last bite. Prove it.


He rolled his eyes.


You ready? I said.


Ready as I'll ever be.


All right. Let's go get you a kidney.


**


It's funny how relaxed we were, really. I mean, I was nervous as hell about Evan going under the night, and I'd been staying up the past few nights reading anesthesia horror stories and other worst case scenarios and generally doing my best Justin impression, since he was busy sleeping off his infection, but besides that, the whole thing was pretty subdued. We checked Evan into the hospital which, when you're not there for an emergency, is essentially like checking into a very non-luxury hotel. "Is April here?" Evan asked the nurse. We had an interpreter here, this guy Dean who the boys really like, but Evan wasn't using him much. It's funny actually watching him try to be patient and use an interpreter, because he always ends up cutting them off because he already knows what's being said. Justin just stares when he does it; it's like a superpower to him.


The nurse nodded. "She's a few rooms down. You can go see her after we get your vitals."


"How's she doing?" Evan said. "She's not...having second thoughts, right?"


"She's great," the nurse said, and Evan smiled.


By the time they were done with his vitals he was falling asleep--he'd been having a bad week, and they couldn't get the nice new organ in him fast enough as far as I was concerned--so I ended up making the trip to April's room by myself. She was in a gown with an IV but besides that looked the same as ever, reading a magazine and listening to something on her phone.


She looked over at me and smiled, and I covered my eyes. She laughed. "What?"


"I'm afraid to interact with you in any way."


"Oh my God, I am not going to change my mind."


"I will say no words and make no gestures." But I lowered my hand and nodded to the vase of flowers on her nightstand. "Those from Justin?"


"Yeah, they're beautiful."


"Violets are his favorites. 'course he can't actually be anywhere near them."


"That's very him."


"Indeed." I crossed over to her bed and absentmindedly rearranged the magazines on her nightstand. I felt awkward, in a way. I like April, but I didn't know her that well, and now here she was saving Evan's life. What do you say in that situation? 'Thanks?' I settled for, "You nervous?" and then kicked myself because oh my God if I talked her out of this--


"Breathe," she said, and I coughed out a laugh. "A little," she said. "But it's supposed to be way less of a recovery for me than it is for Evan. How's he doing, he feeling okay?"


I shrugged. "Sick today. He's sleeping. We were up a lot last night with Weezer's greatest hits over there."


She laughed. "That's cute."


"Yeah, I don't get to use music metaphors much nowadays."


"And how's, uh..."


"Rivers Cuomo?"


"That's the one."


"He’s fine. Also sleeping, hopefully. He had a complex partial this morning that wore him out." April likes when you used seizure lingo with her. Makes her feel like she's part of the club, I think, and not the new girl who we have to talk to in layman's terms. "Once Evan's all settled in I'll go back and check on him. Unless you need anything."


She shook her head. "Some of my friends are going to come by once it's a reasonable hour."


"Yeah, some of ours too. They all want to see you."


She smiled.


"You're really, uh." I adjusted the covers over her feet. "You're really...I mean, you're doing something here, you know?"


"You're welcome, Brian," she said.


**


I lurked around Evan's room watching him sleep for a while and took it upon myself to bother some doctors to make sure they were on top of Evan's medical history--amazingly, no one seemed surprised that their kidney transplant patient was in kidney failure, but you can never be too careful with these playing-God-motherfuckers--and, when I was satisfied no one at the hospital would kill the kid if I left for a few hours, went home to check on the other charge. Justin should have been awake by now, though the seizure might have thrown off his schedule. But sure enough, up he was, in the kitchen going through the rather heartbreaking motions of trying to feed himself when he couldn't breathe. I leaned against the refrigerator and watched him try to time out his breaths between spoonfuls of oatmeal, and God, I'm only fucking human.


Take a break, I said.


He shook his head. I just need to get this down. Eating is such a fucking struggle for him. The meds he's on leave him with no appetite whatsoever, but an empty stomach is a seizure trigger for him. It's just...yet another fucking thing that makes me want to punch walls. Push it down, Kinney.


There's time, I said. Let's get your breathing under control.


"It's not..." he paused and inhaled. "That bad."


You can't get three words out.


He dropped his spoon into his bowl, so goddamn frustrated, and rubbed his fist over his sternum.


So I came over to him all sexy and slow and pulled him up with my hands under his elbows and said, Let me help, two signs I know he can't resist, not when I say them like that. He looked up at me, clearly onto me, but the asthma attack beat out his stubbornness--and as relieved as that makes me, I hate it so goddamn much--and he nodded. I nudged him towards the living room. Go get comfortable.


I cleaned up breakfast, checked the timers on his pill bottles to make sure he'd taken his meds, fed Martha, and generally otherwise stalled to give Justin a chance to get in the right headspace to be helped. But he was getting a little panicky by the time I got to the couch with the nebulizer. Sorry, I said as I handed him the mouthpiece. Sometimes I don't time it quite right, and this was a bad day.


And it fucking sucked that it was, God. We were supposed to be celebrating today, and he couldn't get past his own body. I hate when he's locked in like that, and God knows he hates it more.


"How's Evan?" he said, like he was reciting something from a script. Justin.


He's fine. Concentrate on what you're doing.


He closed his eyes and breathed from the nebulizer for a while, and I tried not to be too goddamn alarmed by how deep the wheeze was in his chest and how his shoulder blades came together when he breathed. Sometimes at night I'll lie there and try to breathe the way he does, but I can never make it more than a minute.


The neb did help, though. Justin’s hands had been rigid and shaking—both of them, not just his right, and that’s a sneaky way I can tell when his breathing is freaking him out that he doesn’t know about, he tenses his hands—but they gradually started to still and uncurl, and I heard a bit more air moving through those lungs of his. I rubbed some of the tension out of his shoulders. “There you go,” I said softly, to no one. Let’s get you back in bed.


“I still need to eat.”


I’ll bring you something. I helped him up and gave him a light swat on the ass.


So I did, and then we had sex, and I couldn't fuck him roughly the way I knew he wanted me to--and let's not look too deeply into why Justin wants you to hurt him when his body's at his most fucked up, because God knows I spend all my time trying not to--so I made sure to mark up his pretty skin a little so he'd get something out of it at least.


"When do they go to pre-op?" Justin said after I'd cleaned him up. He was resting on a pile of pillows, his arms around his chest.


Not for a few more hours. I can hang out here for a while. He's just sleeping.


He shook his head. "You should go."


Yeah?


"Yeah. I'm not good company."


I rested my head on my pillow and looked at him. You're fine. He did seem off, though, had been distant even during sex, and I didn't really know what that was. I chalked it up to him just not feeling well, but....he rarely feels well, and we still manage to connect just fine.


Before he could say anything, though, the lights flashed and the doorbell rang. Who's that? Justin said.


No idea.


He sat up. Do you think something's wrong with Evan?


And, what, they sent a representative from the hospital over to inform us? Pretty sure they'd call.


"Oh." He relaxed a little. "Yeah."


Clearly he wasn't going anywhere, so I hauled myself up and went to answer the door. Emily and Derek, immediately bouncy and happy and all over me, and I thought finally. Finally someone is celebrating this. Who would have thought I'd ever thought Justin and Evan were being too fucking blase, of all things. Usually I'm trying to wind my little energizer bunnies down.


I closed my eyes and hugged Derek tight while Emily waved her hands in applause. I thought I was meeting you at the hospital, I said to them.


We wanted to celebrate with Justin a little first, Emily said.


We figured he might feel kind of left out if we're all gathered at the hospital, Derek said. This is a big deal. He should be part of it.


Plus we brought snacks, Emily said, holding up her tote bag.


I kissed her cheek. I'll go get him.


Justin was out of bed when I got back to our room, leaning against the dresser and chewing on his thumbnail. Emily and Derek, I said. Here to celebrate the great organ transfer with you.


I thought they were going to see Evan.


They wanted to see you first. Apparently they like you or something.


Justin didn't say anything.


They're out in our living room. So they probably expect us to emerge from this room at some point, I said.


He just kept chewing on his nail. I stared him down, and finally he wheezed out a sigh and said, Do you think you can get them to leave?


Justin.


I feel like shit.


I know, but--


I'll just bring everybody down, he said. I'm not...in the space they want me to be in.


You need to call your psychiatrist, you know. He hadn't been seen since this pneumonia shit.


What I need is to catch my fucking breath.


I know, I said gently.


He took a minute, eyes flashing with something I couldn't quite access. I can't be what they want right now, he said eventually. And I don't want to make this about me.


What's going on? I said. Are you just worried about him? Obviously he wanted the transplant, we'd all been dying waiting for the transplant, but that doesn't mean it's not a lot for Justin and his medical trauma. He's terrified of blood, and someone's cutting into two of his favorite people and digging around in there.


But he paused for too long before he said, Yeah.


But what could I do? Like I said, I couldn't access it. The thing about Justin is, when he wants to be locked up, it's not often, but he's locked up. Justin's vulnerability is so conditional, and maybe because he doesn't get to control when it comes out physically, when it comes to his feelings, Justin's selective as fuck. And he looked me right in the eye while he kept it from me here. Whatever was eating at him wasn't for me, not right now.


So I just held out my arms and waited for him to come to me. He did, folding his arms up to his chest as he leaned into me, and I kissed the crown of his head and scratched lightly up and down his back.


I could feel how frustrated he was. He didn't want today to be a bad day for him. He didn't want to be in his head. He wanted to be focused on Evan, and he wasn't, and the fact that he wasn't was killing him.


I let him go and kissed his forehead. Get some sleep, he said. Paint me something. Get the thoughts out one way or another.


Okay. He breathed out, and it snagged and made him cough a little. I frowned and rubbed a circle on his back. I love you, he said.


Of course, you okay?


He nodded and pushed himself up to kiss me, and I tilted his chin up with my fingers.


Evan's going to be fine, I said.


Something--something--passed over Justin's face. "Yeah. I know."


**


So I told Derek and Emily that Justin was sleeping off a seizure--not quite a lie? Maybe?--and they left food for him and wrote him a cute note and that was that, off we went to the hospital, where Evan was a much better host and let them pour over him with hugs and kisses. We wheeled him over to April's room and all hung out there for a while, with the interpreter there to help April out, and we shot the shit about what kind of favor we were going to ask her for next. Eventually they told us it was almost time to go down to pre-op and Evan needed to go back to his room and have some final blood tests.


Emily and Derek said goodbye to everyone, and I squeezed April's hands before we left her room. Her friends had come by earlier and her mom was on her way, but right now we were leaving her alone.


"See you after," she said to me.


"Yeah." I swallowed. "Have a good sleep."


Evan was having some anxiety, and they said his heart rate was a little high, so they gave him a low dose of a sedative which rather hilariously drugged him right up. I needed to go get Justin so they could see each other before Evan went under, but it was hard to leave when Evan was all sleepy and clingy and, well, about to be sliced open.


"What if I wake up during surgery?" Evan said.


Then we sue them for ten million dollars and I buy you kids a ski house.


"We can't use a ski house," he said, blinking slowly. "Asthma."


Okay, what do you want then.


He thought it over. "Restaurant."


I laughed. Okay. I'll buy you a restaurant.


"Only if I wake up during surgery."


Of course.


"Otherwise I don't want one.


Okay.


**


The doctors started making noises about bringing Evan to pre-op pretty soon after that, so I figured it was time for me to go collect Justin, who was still sick enough that I was feeling indulgent about chauffeuring him. Leaving Evan made me unexpectedly nervous, like they were going to whisk him away to surgery the second I left him alone. I pinched the sleeve of his hospital gown between two fingers and tried not to think too much about...anything.


I was still in my head until I got home and Justin was crying, which tends to quiet everything else down.


He wasn't sobbing or anything, but he was sitting cross-legged on the bed with the nebulizer and his eyes and nose were pink and runny. I rested my head against the doorway and looked at him. Hi, I said.


He sighed. "Hey. Time to go?"


I nodded to the nebulizer. You can finish that first.


"Okay." He wiped his eye on the back of his hand. "Did he have fun with Emily and Derek?"


Yeah, I think so. And I thought, he's probably just feeling a little left out, meaning left out of the celebration, the excitement, because he was busy being sick and isolated, and then it hit me. That's when I realized, oh.


He's feeling a little left out.


The point of Evan, before we knew him and the point of him became Evan,, was that he understood what Justin was going through. They were both sick and would never get well. And of course this wasn't a magic cure--Evan would still be positive, and anti-rejection meds are no joke--but he'd gotten a lot sicker since this kidney shit started, and, well...that's about when Justin got really sick too. Not getting better meant something different, something a lot less bearable, than it did back when they met.


So of course Justin wanted it for Evan. Of course he did.


But God, you try listening to those lungs and telling me Justin can't be jealous.


I sat down on the foot of the bed and put my hands on Justin's feet. He watched me.


I swear to you that I will help you, I said to him.


He tilted his head to the side. You do help me.


You know what I mean.


He shrugged. It's just reality.


Fuck reality.


"I just get sad sometimes," he said softly.


It will get better than it is right now, I said. You know that, right? You're still getting over pneumonia.


I know.


And we will...I will improve the baseline. I am going to figure it out. There are more drugs we can try, and therapies...


"Okay," Justin said softly. "Okay, we'll try that." He took as deep a breath as he could. "Is he mad at me?"


He doesn't even know you're having a rough time. Not that he'd be mad if he did.


"Today should be about him, not me."


It is.


"For you, too."


Well, I fingerspelled, because what could I say?. It's not supposed to be about him for me?


Like I said, I'm only human.


I am happy, Justin said.


I know you are. I stroked his hair. You just can't breathe.


"Yeah. That."


I took his hands and squeezed them to stop myself from saying more, stop myself from spilling the sappy shit I'll say to him in the dark sometimes. He knew and gave me a rueful smile. Little shit.


I can ask April for her lungs if you want, I said, and Justin's startled laugh filled the room.


I hugged him close and willed air into him and thought nothing more complicated than oh, Justin, for a little while.


Because what do you do when you would do anything, but nothing would really work? Sure, there were drugs and therapies, there were ways we could make a dent, and there was sheer force of fucking will, both mine and his, which God knows you don't want to be on the wrong side of. But there wasn't a transplant waiting for Justin, because the bottom line was he wasn't dying. He was uncomfortable and he was sick and he was limited, but they don't give out donor lungs for that. Without a kidney, Evan would maybe have lasted a few more weeks, months if we were lucky. Justin was, by that metric, doing just fine.


And he is doing just fine. I don't want you getting all sad for him. He's all right.


It's just hard sometimes. And it's harder alone.


So I said, Evan's not going to forget what this was like, you know? He's not going to turn into some healthy asshole overnight.


I know. He wiped his eyes. I just feel far away from him lately.


Yeah, he's been quiet.


And it's hard to believe that this won't just...make that bigger.


He's not going anywhere, I said.


"I haven't really been sick like this on my own yet," he said softly. "I don't want to get locked in it by myself."


I nodded.


"Do you think he'll come back to me?" Justin said.


I think that's why he's doing this, I said.


The nebulizer shut off and Justin placed it on the nightstand. "We've got to go."


If you want to stay here...


"No, no, of course not."


Okay.


He got up, coughing lightly into his elbow.


I'd miss them, I said suddenly. If you got new lungs.


"Yeah?"


Yeah, they talk to me when you're asleep.


He came over and fit himself into my arms. "I'm trying not to be such a miserable bastard," he said softly.


I freed myself to sign, That's very relatable, and he laughed, then got up on his toes and kissed me gently. I tried not to cling.


"I love you," he said.


Two in one day.


"I know. I'm getting soft."


I put my arms around his waist and just looked at him for a while.


I swear to you I will help you, I said again, eventually, when I couldn't anymore. When the thought of saying anything else, save the obvious alternative, was too much to bear.


He rested his forehead against mine.


God, you're strong, I said.


"What's next, I inspire you?"


Yeah.


He pulled back with a wheezy sigh. All I really need is for people to...see it.


I do.


I know you do. But I'm...scared he won't anymore.


It's Evan, I said. He's obsessed with you.


"He's far away, lately."


Yeah, he's got his feet in two worlds right now.


Dead and alive.


Yeah. He's going to choose yours. And he will once the choice is healthy and sick, too. He'll choose yours.


He watched me. "How do you know?"


I ran a few fingers down his bicep.


Who wouldn't? I said.

 

End Notes:

 

Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, Deborah, and Abby for supporting this series! For updates and such and such, follow me at twitter.com/LaVieEnRosefic.

Chapter 141 - Sleeping with Ghosts by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Evan goes under anesthesia.

Sleeping with Ghosts

LaVieEnRose



I was maybe starting to freak out a little when Brian and Justin came in to my hospital room, and I reached out to them like a life preserver. Justin was wearing his red jacket and he looked like he was ready to go apple picking or something. God, I'd missed him today.


He hugged me for a long time, and I dug my fingers into his back and pushed my face in his shoulder. "Hey, hey," he said in my ear, and I pulled back to look at him. "You're okay," he said.


I took a deep breath. I am so fucking scared, I said. I'm not like Justin, having major fucking medical procedures every half minute. I take my meds and I sit in a chair for dialysis and that is it. Not exactly major surgery. There was the thing with my arm, but that wasn't...this. Martha put her front paws up on the bed and I scratched her head. 


You are going to do amazing, Justin said.


What if this is a mistake?


It's not a mistake, Brian said, pseudo-bored.


I could be okay on dialysis for who knows how much longer--


Not, Brian said. Not much longer.


--and now I could die on the table. I could go in there and never wake up. Right now. Today.


Yeah, and Justin could have a seizure at any moment and hit his head on the floor and there goes him. You don't impress me.


Justin rolled his eyes. You are not going to die on the table, he said. It's a very safe surgery. Statistically--


Look what you've done, Brian said. Now he's going to Encyclopedia Brown us to death.


Oh my God, shut up, Justin said, and Brian smirked and pulled him in under his arm.


I watched them.


Don't, Justin said. Don't look at us like that.


Like what?


Like you're memorizing our faces. Like this is how you're going to remember us when you're in heaven or some shit like that. I refuse to be memorable.


You're insane, I said.


Good. More of that.


The doctor came in then, and a handful of nurses, and everything got really serious really quickly. Brian and Justin stepped out of the way while they messed with my IV and talked me through the procedure one more time, and I knew I should be watching the interpreter but I kept looking back at Justin, under Brian's arm. Trying to be brave.


What if I didn't see him again? 


What if there wasn't a heaven? 


Adam always said...


You are safe, Justin said, just as they injected me with a sedative, and this beautiful golden light surrounded me and I closed my eyes and nodded.


I barely remember the operating room, the table, the rabbi who said a prayer before they put the mask over my face. But I remember leaving Brian and Justin in that hospital room, their eyes on me, Brian's chin resting on top of Justin's head and his hands on his shoulders.


"Don't you dare," Brian said to me, and I nodded as they pushed me away, and I repeated it to myself as the surgeon put the mask on me and told me to count backwards from a hundred.


And I fell asleep.


**


I'm at a cafe, and he sits across from me with his ratty hair, a cigarette, track marks, and that goddamn smile.


"About time you got here," he says. He looks like a blond wolf, but not in a scary way. Just scruffy, wild. 


"I thought I'd given you plenty of time to clean up," I say.


He grins. "Never."


Somehow I know that I can't touch him, that if I reach across the table and put a hand on him he'll be gone. But I want it so badly that it feels like a sixth sense, like there's the sound of him and the smell of him but there's also just Adam, under my skin like the people Brian told me about who get magnets implanted in their fingertips so they can feel electricity. Adam. Adam. Adam.


"You look beautiful," he says to me.


"I feel like I'm glowing."


"You are."


"How come you never sign to me?"


He shrugs a little. "You can't picture it."


"I guess not." He was always so terrible. But I can read his lips like it's nothing, could probably pick his voice out even in a crowd just from remembering how it rumbled in my ear when we made love. Evan. Adam.


"God, I miss you so much," I whisper.


His eyes glitter at me. "So what is this, then?" he says, teasing. "Life-saving surgery?"


"I know."


"We were supposed to live fast and die young," Adam says.


"No. We were supposed to grow old together."


"Yeah." He nods a little bit. "Yeah, that too."


I don't know how to explain how it feels to live your life--a life you love very much--without someone who's simply supposed to be there. Adam and I were a done deal from the night we met at that party. Everyone knew it, we knew it. We loved in the screaming, blistering way, but we started to calm down, too, made the home, the family, cooked dinner together. We would have gone the distance, is what I'm saying. And we were supposed to.


It is that Adam and I are not together, and then it occurs to me that I could get up and move from my spot in front of him and take the empty spot in the booth beside him. Sit on his side. Touch him.


It occurs to me that I could do that, and that's how I know what that would mean.


"So what," I say. "You're here to collect me?"


"You brought me here," he says. "I just wanted to see you."


I close my eyes and take a deep breath through my nose, inhaling smoke and leather and drugs I can practically taste. "God. God, I miss you."


"You know you can see me anytime."


"I know." I dream about him all the time, but this is different; we both know it. This isn't going to get twisted and ugly and scary, end with the needle in his arm and his blue skin. He's not the one in control this time.


"So why now?" Adam says.


"You know why."


Adam looks at the empty space next to him.


"A part of me did want to die," I say. "During all of this. The kidney failure, the dialysis...a part of me did think, maybe I'll just die and then I'll get to..."


"You can see me anytime," he says again.


"I can look at you like you're an exhibit in a zoo," I say. "It's not the same."


He watches me steadily. "And yet here you are. Saving that life."


"You know why," I say, suddenly shy. As if there's any question that this is what Adam would have wanted for me. To be loved.


He looks around. "Why here?"


"It's where I came on our first date," I say. I hadn't realized until I said it. "After I met him at the gallery that day."


"I bet you got a chocolate croissant."


"I did."


He smiles at me.


"He understands," I say. "All this shit I've been through, he gets it. You never had to be sick. Well. Except for the heroin."


"Are you angry?" he asks. "It's my fault. Squeaky clean when you met me."


"I'm not angry," I say. "If I were healthy I never would have had him." I watch the way his fingers tangle with his teaspoon. "You seem different."


"Yeah?"


"You're usually angry."


Adam did not want to die.


He watches me with just a hint of a smile on his face.


"You are," I insist. "I remember when I found out I was positive, when I was so sick, you were screaming at me. Telling me you were scared, and you needed me. Cursing at me."


"Ah, the good old days. Remember that fight we had in the village that time?"


"God, I almost left you right there."


He laughs, and God, I can't hear it, but I almost can, because he's laughed in my ear so many times, biting my neck and grabbing the skin above my hips. Adam. Evan.


"What's it like?" I ask, because I can't not anymore. "I've been so close to it for months now and I still don't know what it's like."


"Being dead?"


"Mmm."


He shrugs. "It's whatever you think it is. This is your cafe. I'm just here because you brought me here."


"Come home with me, then."


He laughs.


"I mean it," I say, because I'm asleep and the floor is moving and it seems the smallest bit possible. "Come home. You can stay with us. Everything will be perfect."


"They don't want me."


"Of course they want you."


He looks at himself. At the track marks.


"You might have to change a little," I admit.


"I don't change," he says. "I'm dead."


My stomach feels cold. "Yeah. I know."


He sips his coffee--he puts so much cream in it that it's practically just milk--and I take a moment just to memorize every inch of him, how his skin creases at his knuckles, his dirty fingernails, his incredible green eyes, everything.


It's just excruciating.


"I need you to be okay so badly that it destroys me," I say. "I walk around all day worrying about if you're okay, which is so fucking stupid because you're dead. And I still worry that you're not okay because I don't know how to not worry about someone I love this much."


His eyes are soft. "Do you think I'm okay?" he says gently.


"I don't know. You seem different, I told you."


"I couldn't just leave you here the way you were," he says. "Of course I tried to get you to come. You were half-dead already."


"You could argue I'm half-dead again now."


He shakes his head slowly.


"So what," I say. "You don't want me anymore?"


He shrugs carelessly. "I'm at peace."


I laugh. I can't help it. "You can't be at peace. You are a lot of fucking things, but you are not at peace." He is a flurry of movement, energy, ideas. Hands where they shouldn't be and oh God, where they should. But never peace. "You have never been at peace as long as I've known you."


But he says, "And you've never been taken care of before."


I blink. I swallow and search for something to say and realized a detail that isn’t right. “You don’t have a cookie.”


“What?”


“Whenever we’d go to a cafe. I always get a chocolate croissant, you always get a peanut butter cookie.”


“Not anymore.”


“I thought dead people don’t change.”


“I don’t,” he said. “You do.”


I understand. “Justin’s allergic.”


He nods. 


“You’re looking after Justin,” I breathe.


And Adam reaches across the table and takes my hand. And he doesn't disappear. And I feel the warmth of his fingers and my insides feel like I'm on a rollercoaster.

 

 

"It’s time for you to go back there now," he says to me. "And you tell him I said..." He pauses, then hesitantly brings his hand to his chin. Thank you.



**


I still felt fingers in mine, but now they were squeezing, rubbing circles on the back of my hand. Opening my eyes felt impossible, and it took a few tries, but then there he was, that rush of gold light and then Justin, in his jacket, those blue eyes.


You did it, I said to him.


He smiled indulgently, brushing my hair off my forehead. I didn't do anything. You did it all. 


No, I said. I saw Brian now, and Martha. But Justin. Justin. You did it. Adam knows you.


Justin nodded, still so warm, calm.


He loves you, I said.

 

End Notes:

 

Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, Deborah, and Abby for supporting this series! For updates and such and such, follow me at twitter.com/LaVieEnRosefic.

Chapter 142 - A Consult by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

A new hire gets some tips from Justin at Kinnetik.

A Consult

LaVieEnRose



I'd been working at Kinetic for all of six weeks when Barnaby came up to me and said, "Sonia. I need you to take the lead on the mock-ups for the Levinson campaign."


Hang on. Remember how I said I'd been here six weeks? "I thought Evan was on that campaign." I didn't actually know Evan very well; he'd been on some kind of leave and had only come in for a few afternoons since I'd been hired, but everyone talked about him with some pretty intense reverence, and I'd seen a few campaigns he'd worked on and they were really good.


"That was when Levinson wasn't due for ten more weeks," Barnaby said. "It's moved up, it's due tomorrow, and Evan isn't back from leave until--" 


"I'm sorry, did you just say tomorrow?" 


He gave me a look. "I've seen your resume. Don't act like you haven't done bigger work with more pressure."


"This is pretty big damn work." And pretty big damn pressure.


"Yes. It's one of our most lucrative campaigns, and it goes right up to Brian." So not just one of the partners, oh no, Brian Kinney, Kinetik himself. Barnaby clapped me on the shoulder. "I'll get you the file. Don't screw it up."


So I set aside everything else I was working on and basically any other thought I had in my entire life and focused completely on this campaign. It was for sneakers, nothing too exciting or original, but I somehow had to make it seem exciting and original, so...great. I took about an hour to draw out a mock-up of an ad with three male models and, after getting Barnaby's seal of approval, ran it up to Kinney.


His assistant wasn't at her desk, so I went straight in. Brian himself was on the phone and didn't even glance up when I entered, but there was another guy in there, sitting on the couch, blond, slight, good-looking. He raised his eyebrows at me.


I held up the mock-up, and he nodded and reached out his hand for it. 


"Uh...I'm supposed to bring it straight to Kinney." 


"To Kinney?" he said, and I nodded. "I'm Kinney for the time being. Let me see." He had a stack of files on the table in front of him, so it seemed somewhat legit, even if he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and lounged on the couch like he owned the place. With a dog at his feet.


I handed him the mock-up and pulled a chair up to the other side of the coffee table. 


He opened the folder. "I'm Deaf, by the way, so don't try talking to me while I'm looking at this."


This wasn't all that surprising; Kinney's assistant is Deaf, after all, so I knew that Brian knew sign language. It didn't shock me that there'd be another Deaf person working here. Maybe he was some kind of temp, filling in for Emily.


He gave my sketch a long look and said, "This won't work."


"We can't get the models?" I said.


"No idea what you're saying. See, look at this." He set the drawing on the table and turned it around to face me. "His feet wouldn't be in the shot. See where you have this one's knee? The bottom of his leg wouldn't bend like that, it would take up space over here and crowd the other one out of the shot." 


"Okay, they don't have to pose exactly how I--"


"Still can't read lips. What you should do is have one of them..." He put his foot up on the coffee table, but it seemed difficult for him, maybe painful, like his leg didn't bend easily. "Hmm." He waved for Brian's attention and signed something, and Brian put his foot up on the desk without pausing in his phone conversation. 


Justin said, "That's how you should do it. The way his knee cocks out a little naturally, it'll highlight the shape of the top of the shoe."


I blinked. "Okay. I really think I should get Kinney's perspective before I redraw the entire--" 


"Again, not getting a word." He tapped the page. "Redraw it and bring it back up. By noon if you can."


I must have just gaped at him, but he gave me a smile and went back to the book he was reading, and Kinney was still on the phone, so I just...left, fuming internally and wondering what the fuck just happened.


"What did he say?" Barnaby asked me when I got back downstairs. 


"I didn't even get to him," I said. "His new assistant or whoever gatekeeped me and told me to make all these changes. Who the fuck is this guy?"


"What guy?"


"I don't know, he was in Kinney's office. Blond, Deaf."


Barnaby's eyes widened. "Justin's here?" He tapped next to his mouth when he said his name.


"I guess?"


Barnaby pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's Brian's husband."


"Okay, so why is Brian's husband trying to make artistic decisions?"


"Justin," Barnaby said, doing the mouth thing again. "Justin Taylor."


"Justin..."


"Yes."


"Justin Taylor as in--" As in Art Forum, New York Magazine, and the New York Times Art and Design section. 


"That's the one." 


Christ, talk about a power couple.


"He's a brilliant artist and he's been married to our top advertising executive for ten years," Barnaby said. "He comes in every once in a while and offers some advice when art comes through the door. Word to the wise? Take it. If anyone knows what Kinney's looking for, it's him." 


"Yeah, no shit. Okay."


So I sat back down at my desk and tried to remember the stuff Justin had told me that I hadn't really been paying attention to at the time, and I redrew the ad. I got Barnaby's okay, yet again, but this time he said, "Run it by Justin."


"You know I don't know sign language, right?"


"There's an interpreter around," he said, which was very helpful, thank you, so I just went back up to Brian's office. Emily was at her desk this time, and I could see through the glass doors of Kinney's office that Justin wasn't in there, just Brian reading something on his computer screen. I could bring this straight to him...


I sighed and said, "I'm looking for Justin?" to Emily. I tapped next to my mouth like Barnaby had.


She raised an eyebrow and did the same thing, mouthing, "Justin?"


"Yeah."


She gave me a weird look but eventually shrugged. She signed something that looked like snapping a stick in half and then moved her hands like walls.


"Break room?" I said.


She gave me a thumbs up.


"Okay. Thank you."


I walked down the hallway past the accounting department to the break room. Justin was standing at the microwave with his back to me. 


I said, "Justin?" rolled my eyes at myself, and then went over and tapped him on the shoulder. 


He turned around and said, "Oh, good, another draft?"


"Yeah." I handed him the file and watched him spread it out over the table. It was kind of surreal that Justin Taylor was looking over my work. That I was this close to him. That I just touched him. Also now that I was standing over his shoulder I could hear this somewhat alarming wheeze every time he breathed, and I wondered if he knew he was doing it.


"This is really good," he said. He looked at the pencil in my hand. "Can I...?"


I gave it to him, and he immediately erased and sketched and erased and sketched and I just stood there, marveling at the way lines poured out of his fingers like there wasn't even a pencil there. I love watching people draw who can really draw, and God, he could. I had an art teacher explain to me once that the difference between an artist and a regular person is that an artist sees everything in lines, and that's why they can translate it to paper. Justin drew the lines like he could feel them.


"So something like this," Justin said, and there it was, my idea but better in just about every single fucking way. 


"You're kind of amazing," I said, and I could tell by the way he watched my lips that he didn't quite get what I was saying. All's the better. How embarrassing. I pointed at the door to the break room and said, "I'm going to go color this."


"You're gonna go do something! Okay! Good luck!" He grinned at me, and wow, that smile was just as impressive as the drawing.


Okay, way to go, Kinney.


I went downstairs to polish and color the mock-up, and finally, finally, I had something I felt confident in bringing up to Kinney. I grabbed an iPad with the proof on it so I could show Brian a few font options and ran it back upstairs, where I practically collided with Kinney in the hallway before I made it to his office. He was talking to Cynthia, one of the other partners, and he seemed stressed.


"--all over my ass about getting this in, like he didn't just fucking change the deadline this morning, I'm supposed to be at the fucking hospital by now--" 


Cynthia nodded to me, and Brian stopped and turned to me.


"You're Sonia, right?" he said.


"I am."


"You have the Levinson proofs? Fucking pricks." 


"Right here."


He took the iPad from me and immediately his lips twitched into half of a smile. "I see you've met my husband."


"He's incredible."


"Mmhmm." He was about to say something else, but his eyes shifted next to me when Emily came up beside me and started signing so fast I couldn't believe anyone could understand it. Brian said something to her and then looked back to me. "Have to deal with a mess in payroll. Leave this on my desk and I'll take a closer look at it after. Do not bother Justin." He turned to Cynthia againn. "Did the cleaning crew fucking come last night? He's having another goddamn asthma attack."


Cynthia signed something to Emily, who signed something to Brian, and then they were all overlapping and talking over each other and it seemed like my cue to leave. I went down the hall to Kinney's office, breezing past Emily's obviously empty desk. Justin was on the couch again. I have asthma, and the way he was breathing made my chest ache with sympathy. He had a nebulizer mouthpiece in his hand, which he tried to put down when I came in, but I said, "Don't you dare," and I could tell from his rueful smile that he understood. "Are you okay?" 


He reached for the iPad.


I said, "Kinney said--"


He rolled his eyes and held his hand out more insistently, so I gave it to him. He held the mouthpiece between his teeth and scrolled through the mock-ups I'd made, then shook his head. "Do you have..." he stopped and wheezed. "A blank one?"


I nodded. "Keep scrolling. Are you sure you're--"


"Oh, here, okay," he said, and then he got to work messing around with the font while I stood there awkwardly and listened to him struggle to breathe. He barely seemed to notice, except when he turned to the side to cough harshly into his elbow. Eventually he handed the iPad back, with a new typeface and font placement, and...yep, this was perfect.


"Thank you," I said, and he nodded and smiled. I went to leave the iPad on Kinney's desk, but before I could leave, Brian himself walked in. He paid no attention to me and immediately started signing to Justin, asking him questions, judging by his facial expressions.


"I'm o..." Justin said, but then stopped and wheezed out a breath, and Kinney's eyes got a little wide. He sat down next to Justin on the couch, signed something to him, and pressed a hand to his chest. Justin shook his head.


"Can I do anything?" I said. 


Kinney said, "This actually isn't that bad."


"Oh."


"Pretty much," he said, with a sigh, signing while he spoke. "We're working on it." He stood up and came over to his desk and looked at the iPad. "Wow, so am I just giving Justin your salary today, or..."


"I am very grateful. Buying him flowers."


Brian snorted and gestured to his face. "Not flowers."


"Oh. Maybe not."


"I barely did...hh. Anything," Justin contributed from the couch.


"You shut your mouth and breathe," Brian said. He turned to me. "However much you had to do with it, this is good. Thanks for rushing."


"Sure. And um..." I glanced at Justin.


"Like this," Brian said, touching his hand to his chin and bringing it out. I copied it at Justin, who smiled. "You should see what he can do when he can breathe," Brian said. 


"I have, actually. I saw his show a few months ago at the Weller gallery. I had no idea he was your husband." 


I saw a warmth in Kinney I hadn't seen before, and hadn't really been able to imagine before that moment. "It's very strange, I agree."


"You sure I can't get him anything?"


"Emily's on it," Brian said. "Go jump in on the Eriks campaign. Take it easy. You did good work today. I'm learning the value of not working yourself to the bone," he said, with a look over my shoulder at Justin.


"Sure. I'll bring up a mock-up in a few hours?"


He shook his head. "We're getting out of here. Put him to bed."


"I am relieved to hear that."


"Yeah, people generally are." He gave Justin a small smile. "No one lets you do anything, huh? Poor Sunshine."


"Fuck...you," he wheezed, but he was smiling. "I saved your ass today."


"Yeah, what else is new." He handed the iPad back to me and said, "Keep up the good work, you two." 

 

End Notes:

you may notice some of my fics have vanished! Ao3 is investigating me for abuse of their terms of service for thanking people for supporting my stories, and they put some of my fics on lockdown. if you need them, you can DM me on twitter and I can email them to you, but hopefully they'll be back up soon. if not i guess i can repost them but then they'll be out of order and i'll be furious! whatever.

 

in the meantime I STILL GIVE THANKS SO HA! Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, Deborah, Abby, and Dabrina for supporting this series! Twitter.com/LaVieEnRosefic.

Chapter 143 - In From the Rain by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed.

In From the Rain

LaVieEnRose



After a long day of researching drug therapies and clinical trials and, I don't know, shamans, whatever the fuck would help this kid's lungs, and an all-too-brief evening of fucking his brains out, I woke up twice in one night to Martha barking one evening in November. Once isn't a rare occurrence; Justin has a lot of seizures at night, and her little brain isn't evolved enough to know that unless the little cub is dying, I probably don't really care. That was the case tonight. She barked and whined until I woke up, and I groaned and rolled over and triaged Justin with my eyes closed. He was seizing pretty hard, but when I signed Fine? on his chest he said, "Mmhmm," and his breathing didn't sound too wheezy with each stuttered gasp he was taking, so I just pulled him into my chest and let him shake against me as I fell back asleep.


The next time she woke me up, it felt like I'd barely fallen back asleep. But the bed was empty, and Martha was barking like crazy.


"He's in the fucking bathroom," I said, because she's a clingy fucker and sometimes gets panicky when she can't get to Justin, and I figured in his post-seizure haze he might have shut her out of the bathroom without thinking. She kept barking, though, and I realized she wasn't in the room either. I groaned and got up and headed to the bathroom to see if Justin had fallen down a well in there, but neither of them were in there. Well. Didn't love that.


"Martha?" I called, but she wasn't barking anymore. I padded out into the living room and turned the light on, but he wasn't in there or in the kitchen. I was about to check the basement--he missed Evan, maybe he'd gone down there to curl up with his stuff--when I heard scratching at the balcony door, and I looked and there was Martha. She saw me and barked shortly.


Oh, did I mention it was pouring rain? And thirty-five degrees?


"Jesus Christ," I growled, and I stamped over and opened the door. This is what I get for not setting the fucking alarm, but you try getting up and getting chores done after one of Justin's blowjobs. Shit will put you into a coma.


And sure enough, there he was, standing in the middle of the yard getting soaked to the bone. Just where you want your immunocompromised severe asthmatic! Fucker was going to wake up with another lungful of pneumonia at this rate. Martha spun around in circles on the deck when I opened the door, and I nudged her inside and went over to Justin.


Despite the fucking freezing rain, this had to be approached delicately; he was probably just postictal from the seizure, which is when he gets spacy and weird and makes very strange decisions--he once tried to cram the entire contents of our fridge into the blender, packaging and all, broke the fuck out of that thing--but he's also been known on rare occassions to sleepwalk during night terrors and, well...you don't want to startle him during one of those unless you're jonesing for an all-day panic attack.


I placed my hand lightly on his arm, and he startled a little and looked at me. He wasn't quite there in his eyes, but I could tell he was awake. Postictal. Small favors, I guessed. Thank God he hadn't wandered further than the backyard.


Still, his skin was icy under my hand. Not your best idea, I said to him, and I gave him a pull and led him inside. He followed, stumbling a little, Martha at his heels.


I led them both to the bathroom and immediately started running as hot a bath as I could. Christ, I was cold, and I'd only been out there for a minute. How long was he there before Martha woke me up?


Clothes off, I told him. I was trying so fucking hard not to be pissed at him, because I know, I know, it's not his fault that he can't be logical after seizures, but Christ, how many times had we talked about this, planned for it, made strategies to help him remember not to trust his brain to make decisions when things didn't feel right? And he'd just been so sick, practically fucking dying on me in that ER cubicle.


Anyway, we wouldn’t be us if I didn’t give him a hard time just because his poor brain was all addled. This was a strong plan for someone allergic to the cold, I said. What are we doing next, hiking Everest in springtime?


He sneezed suddenly and looked startled by it, which did a lot to warm me to him. Figuratively speaking, since I was still freezing my damn tits off.


Clothes, I said. Come on.


He struggled out of his wet clothes, wheezing steadily but not horribly. He wasn’t shivering, though, and I didn’t love that. I stripped out of my own clothes and went to help him, running my hands up and down him to try to get some warmth back into him. The tub was far from full by the time his clothes were off, so I tugged his hand and led him to the bedroom. Martha jumped up on the foot of the bed, so everything was going to smell like wet dog now. Whatever. I got Justin into bed--his bad leg wasn't behaving, so he needed a little help--and bundled him up in the comforter. We have a thermometer in the nightstand anyway, so I went ahead and stuck that in his ear.


Ninety-four and a half, I told him.


He just looked at me, his eyes wide and a little lost.


I cupped his chin in my hand. It's okay. I'm going to get you something warm to drink while the tub fills up. I don't want you to move, understand? I picked up Martha and set her on his lap for a little extra heat. She snuggled into him, blissful. That dog sure does love her human.


Justin just blinked at me.


Understand? I prompted.


"Understand," he said softly, which is how you'd respond with ASL grammar, not English. Poor brain. I lifted his chin and kissed his freezing forehead before heading to the kitchen, where I put the pot on to boil and wondered vaguely how the fuck this became my life, getting up at four in the morning to brew a cup of tea for my goddamn boyfriend whose brain wouldn't let him stay in from the cold.


Once again, I'm not complaining, but that doesn't make it not a little ridiculous.


I was just adding the disgusting amount of honey he likes in his tea when I heard footsteps and Martha's clicking heels behind me. A second later Justin pressed himself against my back, comforter still bundled around him.


I turned around. You said you understood.


He sneezed again. At least he was shivering now.


I took the mug and held it against his chest to try to get some warmth back to those lungs. I wondered if he'd remember any of this in the morning. Probably not. The half an hour or so after a seizure is always lost time for him, longer after bad ones, and I had a sinking feeling suspiciously close to guilt that this one had been worse than I'd realized.


I put my arm around his shoulders and guided him back to bed, and he sat cross-legged and sipped from the cup with shaking hands. I checked the temperature of his cheek with the back of my hand. Still icy.


All right, don't get any ideas, I grouched at him. I unwound the comforter from around him, trying not to feel anything about the small whimper he gave when the air touched his skin, and wrapped myself around him instead, skin to skin, covering as much of him as I could. I arranged the comforter around whatever part of him I couldn't shield, and Martha came and helped by trying to worm her way in-between us until I shoved her off to Justin's feet.


"Cold," Justin whispered, and it hit me then that he'd probably been miserable, wanted to come outside when he'd been out there, that he hadn't been able to figure out how or he hadn't felt like he was allowed or whatever the fuck it is that his brain does to him, and Christ, it's so hard not to feel your fucking heart breaking sometimes.


You're safe now, I signed on him, small.


"I was looking for Evan."


Still in the hospital, remember? He'll be home tomorrow.


He took a deep breath, and I thought he was going to say anything, but he just sneezed again. I adjusted my grip around him, letting my chin rest on top of his head. It just fits there really well. I felt him relax against me a little, despite the shivering, and I whispered, "Good," to myself and gave him a tight squeeze.


After a few minutes of that I figured the bath had to be ready, so I let him go, ignoring his protests, and nudged him into the bathroom. Not for the first time, I thanked past-Justin for having the foresight to get rid of those damn stairs leading to the tub, since this way he could just sit down on the side and slide right in. He hissed as the hot water hit his skin, and I followed after him and arranged him between my legs.


You'd think that when he's like this it'd be hard to reconcile the fact that a few hours ago he'd been doing shit to me so dirty that I legitimately wonder where he learned it, but it's not, really. It's hard to explain how Justin is so unmistakably Justin in every situation, which is why on the very rare occasions he isn't, when he's so sick that he doesn't have his personality or his smile or his spark, it's so fucking upsetting. Because most of the time, whether he's fucking me senseless or shivering in my arms...it's all part of the same thing. It's the same vulnerability, the same willingness to give himself to me, in both situations. It's...well, it's trust, I guess, and fuck, I guessed a lot of things about how my life would go but I never saw that one coming. Have you met me? You really think I'm trustworthy?


Turns out I fucking am, I'm holding my sick husband like he's precious, so eat your heart out.


We stayed in the water for a long time, adjusting every so often as he stretched his muscles out as each one unfroze. He was sniffling a lot, so I stretched to the tissue box on top of the toilet and grabbed a handful, and he blew his nose and made a face. Good, I said.


"I'm sorry," he said.


Tell it to your dog. She was freezing her tail off out there.


"Sorry Martha," he said with a yawn. He rolled over so his head was against my chest.


Sleepy, I signed on him.


"Yeah." He kept trying to get handsy with me, though, so at least I knew he was feeling better. I decided to be charitable and let him jerk me off, and then I figured hell, might as well make sure all his extremities were still in working order as well, so we fooled around until the water cooled and he started shivering again. I got him bundled up in a towel and put him in sweatpants and a cashmere sweater before I let him crawl back into bed.


You're not going to remember any of this, I said to him.


"Yes I will," he said, like always.


Sure, I said, and he hugged his pillow to his chest and fell the fuck asleep. God. I forget sometimes because he has so many, and because I guess I need to forget, but seizures are fucking brutal. They really are just a fucking monster of a thing. He was going to have an awful headache in the morning. Not that he'd mention it.


I climbed into bed behind him and draped my arm over him, feeling the last of the shivers leave his body. Martha flopped down in Evan's spot with a sigh. "This is your last night of that," I warned her, but she just rolled onto her back and looked at me until I reached out to scratch her belly.


I put my lips against the cold rim of Justin's ear, wound my leg around his waist, and stayed right there until I fell asleep.


**


He was gone in the morning. How the fuck does he slip out of bed like that? Fucker needs to learn to stay put. I sat up and stretched and thought about how absurdly large this bed was to be in alone.


Luckily Justin came padding in a minute later, as pink-cheeked and healthy-looking as he gets, his hair mussed and fluffy. I held my arms out instinctively. Pathetic, what this kid does to you.


"I made breakfast," he said with a yawn, coming over and hugging me. He pulled at the sweater he was still wearing. "Did you dress me last night?"


I snorted. I told you you wouldn't remember.


"I said I would? Hmm. Brain-damaged."


I kissed the bridge of his nose. How are you feeling?


"Okay." He made a face. "Was I awful?"


You were sweet, I said. Don't worry about it. You did probably tank your immune system though. No fucking way you're coming to the hospital for discharge.


I thought he'd argue, or at least ask questions, but he just shrugged and said, "Okay," so I knew he wasn't feeling well. I sighed and ran my hands up and down his back.


"Brian?"


Yeah.


He looked at me with those fucking eyes and said, Would you take Martha out? It's really cold.


I looked up at him and tried my hardest not to laugh. Sometimes you think like your heart's going to break, sure, but other times it's his and God, who would have fucking thought this feeling was even possible. Like you swallowed the damn sun.


Yeah, I said. Come here. And I kissed him for a long time.

 

End Notes:

 

Thank you to Meg, Anita, Sam, Parker, Cotton, Cesy, Britt, M, Mary, Nair, Tami, Cher, Julie, Hannah, Deborah, Abby, Ricki, and Dabrina for supporting this series! Twitter.com/LaVieEnRosefic.

Chapter 144 - Miracle by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian tries to keep his promises.

Miracle

LaVieEnRose



A lot happened my first few weeks home from the hospital. Or I guess...one big thing happened, and you’d think it would have been dramatic and awful but it was so quiet and soft. So before we get into it...I guess that’s what I want you to know, that we’re okay. But I also want you to know that there isn’t a miracle at the end of this story. There isn’t a magic fix. Not everyone can just have surgery and get better.


Anyway.


I had to stay in the hospital for a day longer than they’d estimated, and it felt like a lifetime. I cannot tell you how good it was to be home. I kept sleeping upstairs with Justin and Brian because the first night when I tried to go down to the basement Brian rolled his eyes and shoved me towards the bedroom, but having my space in the basement again for my easel and my snacks and my clothes and shit, after a week of living out of a bag in a hospital room, was great. I don’t know how Justin deals with those long hospital stays. I guess in a way he doesn’t, and I guess in a way that’s what this story’s about.


I felt pretty okay by the time I was discharged, better than I had in the weeks before surgery, definitely. The meds I had to take made me super sick so I was throwing up every day, but my doctors promised my body would adjust to them. My incision was still sore and in general I was still really tired, but other than that things were definitely looking up. I wasn’t just walking around feeling like I was dying all the time, so that was nice. And I also felt...it’s stupid, since it was just a dream, obviously, but I kind of felt like...closure, I guess. Adam loved lasagna, I said casually during dinner one night, and they both dropped their forks.


So I was good. Brian was doing well too; I could tell having the surgery behind us had really calmed him down. He was taking some time off of work just as I was going back and was deep into research mode instead, looking up clinical trials and stuff for Justin. He’d spend most evenings on his laptop, occasionally looking up to ask Justin if he was allergic to such and such drug or if he’d already tried whatever physical therapy technique. The answer was always yes.


Which was maybe why Justin wasn’t so good.


I didn’t really notice at first, for a lot of reasons, the largest few being that I was distracted by my own shit, that Justin struggling is a subtle kind of a monster, and that it was winter, and he always has a hard time with depression in winter. Brian and I are used to keeping an eye on him once it starts to get dark early in the day, and he has one of those lamps that’s supposed to cheer him up and as soon as there’s a sunny day we’re always bundling him up and shoving him outside to soak it up. He was going to his therapy appointments and taking his meds, so it didn’t seem like there was really anything to worry about.


It didn’t seem like it was getting worse.


**


Brian decided to take advantage of his time off and my recovery to go to Pittsburgh for a long weekend to see Gus. We were both invited, obviously, but it would have been my first time meeting all the Pittsburgh people and that just sounded like a lot when I was still recovering, and Justin said he had to work on an art piece which is what Justin usually says when he's making an excuse to get out of something, and I could tell Brian was kind of worried about it, since Justin usually jumps at the chance to visit Gus.


Try to get him out of the house, he said to me. Take him out for dinner one night, or something.


I can take him to Deaf synagogue with me.


If you must.


We'll be fine, I said. His breathing's been solid for like a week now. I'm getting better every day. We're fine.


He gave me a look while he zipped his overnight bag. Nothing pisses off Brian Kinney like getting caught worrying.


It was kind of funny having the house to ourselves, me and Justin, because we'd both been too sick to be left alone together for a long time now. Brian left and we made popcorn and ate it on the floor cushions and watched movies and used Martha to dramatically re-enact the scenes and were generally way louder and more annoying than we'll ever be when Brian's around, but we make each other laugh. We made out for a long time, but he kept shifting positions in this way where I could tell he was in pain and couldn't get comfortable, so I figured I'd, well, lay him down and stretch him out. We started slipping out of our clothes, and that's when I noticed a neat row of cuts, maybe two days old, on the inside of Justin's arm.


A thing you need to understand is that Justin is perpetually injured. Seizures will do that. It's rarely anything serious, but he's always dotted with bruises and we have a whole collection of splints for when he dislocates various things. Scratches and cuts aren't common, but they're not unheard of. We do our best to keep the house safe for him but, well. There's no magic fix, like I said.


This didn't look like that. I knew exactly what this looked like, even if I didn't think I'd ever seen it before.


So it's not that I didn't know what it was. It's that I really, really didn't want it to be that.


I caught his wrist between my hands. What happened?


Martha, he said immediately. Startled her when I picked her up. My fault.


It's not that I believed him. It's just that I really, really wanted to.


Okay, I said, and I pressed my lips against his neck.


**


I thought about that a lot while Brian was gone, and I watched Justin really closely, but he seemed fine. Maybe a little annoyed with me eventually. Why are you babysitting me? he said. You're the one who just had surgery.


'Just' is kind of overstating things.


After Brian came home, I thought about saying something about a thousand times, but I just…didn’t. I told myself that Brian must have seen them if they were still there—it’s not like Justin spends much time clothed when Brian’s around—and that if they weren’t still there then that was proof enough that I was overreacting and it was nothing to worry about.


Everything kind of went to shit the third night after Brian got back. We'd had dinner and there was a movie on that no one was watching, and everyone was kind of stressed because Brian was in a bad mood and Justin wasn't feeling well and everything just felt tense and uncomfortable. I was on the couch with Justin, who was in the middle of an awful allergy attack that was making him kind of crazy, so I was trying to simultaneously distract him and remind him to breathe. Brian was in the armchair radiating silent waves of fury because he'd spent the past two weeks trying to get Justin enrolled in this clinical trial for...something, and now he'd just been rejected because he had a history of, you guessed it, bad allergic reactions.


I didn't really understand what Brian was doing, if I was being honest, because every time I'd looked up lung scarring the internet said the same thing. It's permanent. There's no treatment for it. That's it. I'd asked Justin about that and Justin had just shrugged and looked away and said, Let him try.


Now Justin sneezed six times and hit the arm of the couch in frustration. Bless you, Brian signed without looking up from his laptop. Justin clawed at his eyes until I took his hands away.


"How's his breathing?" I asked Brian. I had my hand on Justin's back to try to feel it, but it's still hard for me to tell sometimes.


"He's fine," Brian said, still staring at the screen, which didn't seem at all accurate, but...okay.


Justin watched Brian for a long minute and then waved for his attention. Maybe there’s something with lasers.


Brian blinked at him. What?


Lasers. Like removing the scar tissue with— He sneezed and rubbed the base of his throat. Yeah. Lasers.


You really think I haven't looked into lasers?


Justin shrugged.


Christ, it's the first thing I checked. There are no trials on it. There are no trials with anything except shit you don't qualify for because you're too fucking sick for them to bother trying to cure.


Maybe--


You can't help with this, Brian snapped. You have no idea what I've already tried. I will figure this out.


Justin chewed the inside of his cheek, and I said, “Brian,” softly. Sternly.


Brian just typed for a while, glaring at his screen like he hadn’t heard me, but eventually he sighed and spared Justin a glance. Sorry, he said, so short it was barely a sign.


It’s fine.


It’s just a lot—


Yeah. A lot of pressure. He stood up. I get it, he said, and he walked to the bedroom with his head down, Martha at his heels.


Brian ran his hand down his face, and I put the movie on pause and got up.


Brian said, What, you’re storming out too?


"I'm not storming out. Neither was he. He can't breathe."


Brian looked down and said, Yeah. Go.


So I followed Justin into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. He was sitting on the side of the bed looking completely wrung out, counting out pills with one hand and pulling at his sternum with the other.


I pulled the chair up to the bed and curled up on the seat along with some of Justin's dirty clothes he always throws there. Drives Brian crazy. Can I do anything? I said.


He looked up at me with a small, rueful smile and shrugged one shoulder.


Yeah, I said. Yeah, I know.


It just means so fucking much to him, Justin said. It's so important to him that...God. I feel like such an asshole saying this. He closed his eyes briefly, and then signed it all in a rush. It feels so personal to him that I'm okay that he loses sight of the fact that this...this is not actually about him. This does not belong to him. Me being sick is not a story where he's the main character. God, I'm the fucking worst.


I didn't really know exactly what he meant, so I just listened. It's so rare Justin will open up about being frustrated with Brian in any way that I'm always really careful not to do anything that could be construed as shutting him down when he actually does it. Obviously it's normal for them to get frustrated with each other sometimes, but Justin....I don't know, it's like he thinks he's not allowed to complain, I guess because of everything Brian does for him. He thinks he's supposed to just sit around being grateful all the time, and God, how fucked up is that? It's not like he asked to need anything.


But he shuts up and he measures his words and he just....takes it out on himself.


So I guess that was my line of thinking when I said, Come on, let's get you to sleep, and took his arms to help him out of his shirt. And turned them over, casually, with a glance so quick he wouldn't see.


There were more cuts there. Fresh ones, maybe a day or two old, almost up to the inside of his elbow this time.


God, I had no idea what the fuck to do. But I knew I wasn’t going to figure it out in a split second standing right there, so I just pretended I didn’t see and pulled a sweatshirt over his head and felt fucking awful. Like every second that I was letting him exist like that, letting him believe nobody knew that he was hurting himself, I was letting him down. Maybe because I was.


It’s not like Justin and I were new. I was supposed to know at this point how to reach him. But this was new, and…God, the shit he’s asked to weather. If this was helping him, maybe I should just let it be? All treatments have side effects, right?


Yeah, sure, except a. knowing our luck if he kept this up he’d end up getting tetanus and die and b. Justin was hurting himself, and I couldn’t logic my way into making that okay.


So I chatted to him about...I don't know, something, mostly just to distract him while I assessed his breathing. I can’t hear it, obviously, but I’ve gotten pretty good at telling how he’s doing by watching him for a few breaths and seeing how fast they are, if they’re even, how much he moves his shoulders. It still seemed pretty sketchy, so I asked him if he thought he should be on oxygen tonight and he nodded heavily and set it up. I just stood by--he can do it himself, obviously, but he's never really loved being alone--and then kissed him and pulled the covers over him. He put his arms around my neck when I started to stand up, so I stayed for a moment, just kind of resting my lips against his.


He kissed me finally and let go. You're so good to me, he said, but like it made him sad.


It's not very hard, I said, and he nodded a little and kissed me again.


I watched him shift around in the bed for a little while he tried in vain to find some position that didn't hurt him, and then eventually turned off the light and went back to the main room. Brian was out of the chair now, loading the dishwasher in an angry sort of way. I leaned against the counter and watched him.


There was no way, there was just no way, that Brian hadn't seen those cuts.


He was avoiding looking at me.


"We need to talk," I said.


Fabulous.


I scratched at the marble countertop until he sighed and put the dish down.


Okay, he said. What?


"I think you need to back off," I said. "With this miracle cure thing. I don't think it's helping."


Of course it's not helping, he said. I haven't found the solution yet. No one said the process was going to be a fucking party.


"What I'm saying is I don't think the process is worth it for him. He's falling apart."


No, he was falling apart when you were in the fucking hospital and he was a mess thinking he couldn't be fixed. You weren't there. I promised him I would find something. He was practically begging me.


Yes, because he wanted the solution, not this fucking...parade of one disappointment after the other. You're not listening to me.

 

 

Okay, well I don't know what the fuck either of you expected from me.


This isn't about you.


These things take time, Brian said. If the solution were easy, obviously we would have found it by now. But there's new studies, and case reports, and doctors in fucking Bangladesh I have to talk to--


"I don't think he can do this anymore."


He'll do what he needs to do.


Have you seen those cuts on his arms?


Brian thinks of himself as this master of human relations, but God, he's a terrible liar. He gives everything away in his eyes in an instant.


"He's not okay," I said. "He's hurting himself."


He turned back to the dishes. I have it under control.


"You have it under control."


He nodded a little.


"Okay, and that means...what? Are we taking him to a doctor? Does his therapist know?"


It means, Brian said. That I have it handled.


"Well, it's worse than it was a few days ago, so it doesn't really seem handled."


I will take care of it.


"Oh, so without me."


He didn't say anything.


"This is such bullshit! Why is it that the second something gets serious with him, that's where my little Justin privileges end? I've been here way too fucking long to be treated like....like you're doing me a favor by giving me access to him. I am not a guest."


Brian worked his jaw. That is not how I treat you.


"You knew this was going on and you didn't talk to me about it--"


Sounds like you knew too. Could really say the same thing about you, couldn't we?


"I didn't want to freak you out."


He gave me a look like, and?


"Yeah, and when I realized it was something that we needed to be freaked out about, I came to you. When exactly were you planning to talk about this with me?"


"Jesus Christ!" Brian said. It's a couple cuts! The amount of fucking pain he's in all the time, we just decide that's okay, that's fine, but he gets to control a tiny bit of it and we're going to make that a huge problem?


So when you said you were going to handle it, what you meant was that you were going to completely ignore it. Got it.


It's a few cuts! he said. Haven't you ever done it?


No, I haven't. And the problem isn't the little cuts, fucking obviously, it's that he feels like making them. That he's already in this horrendous amount of pain and he thinks he should be in more.


Brian didn't say anything.


Doesn't that upset you?


Something flashed in his eyes. Don't you ever, he said. Don't you ever try fucking tell me how I feel about Justin.


It is so goddamn exhausting sometimes, Christ. Playing along with this shit.


God. Fuck you, Brian.




**




In a strange twist, it was actually Justin who ended up bringing it up, though I guess he didn't really mean to. But at breakfast the next morning, he either didn't notice the terseness between me and Brian or pretended not to, and he calmly told Brian that he wasn't going to be applying for a clinical trial they'd been discussing.


Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. And why the fuck not?


Because I don't want to go through all that testing and exposure just to get rejected again. Last time I went through one of these I got sick and then I didn't get in.


That doesn't mean it's going to happen again.


They're looking for otherwise healthy people with lung scarring. They're not going to take the immunocompromised epileptic. It's a needless risk. I'm not doing it. He got up and brought his plate to the sink.


Brian very much did not look at me. Or Justin. He stared down at his plate and took a deep breath, then finally got up and started helping Justin clear the table. We'll find something else then, he said, with this kind of forced brightness that was very not-Brian. No big deal.


Justin leaned against the sink. I think I'm done.


I was so fucking proud of him for going out and saying it, I can't even tell you.


Brian shook his head a little. We'll find something.


I don't think we will. At this point it's just false hope.


You've said that before.


I don't need to be fixed, Justin said. I've told you that a thousand times.


Yeah, when you're not crying into your nebulizer that you can't get a lung transplant.


Don't be a dick. I'll adapt. I've adapted and adapted and adapted and I will adapt to this too.


Brian grabbed his arm and turned it over and said, Is that what this is? Is this adapting?


Justin had sleeves on, so there wasn't really anything to see, but it still stuck and kind of hung there between us in the kitchen.


Justin calmly took his arm back and signaled for Martha. I'm going to go get some work done at the studio, he said.


Yeah, Brian said. You do that.




**




Justin had a seizure at about 3 AM that night and woke up the next morning with a migraine. It didn't seem too awful at first, and Brian and I kind of orbited each other, getting him meds and cold washcloths and taking Martha out, but it got worse as the day went on. By early evening we had all the lights off in the house and the curtains drawn in the bedroom, and I stood by the door and watched Brian sit on the bed, a hand hovering over Justin, scared to touch him. Justin was curled up and sobbing, his arms wrapped around his head. I watched his shoulders shake against the mattress. He only cries like that for migraines.


Brian got up eventually and very slowly closed the bedroom door behind him. He walked over to the table by the couch and turned on a lamp so we could see each other a little.


Are we taking him to the hospital? I said.


Brian shook his head a little. I don't think I can do that.


I understood, obviously--Justin of course hates the hospital anyway, but they're a special kind of hell with a migraine--but I was still surprised Brian went out and said it. Yeah. Okay.


He swallowed and looked down, and I could see his eyes shining a little in the lamp light. He took a deep breath and said, I can't fix it.


"Okay," I said. "That's okay."


He nodded a little, his chin shaking, and I reached out and touched his wrist. He nodded again, harder this time, and when I hugged him he clung, his fingers digging into my back, his face in my shoulder.


"I know," I whispered. "I know, you love him so much."


He pulled back and wiped his eyes and said, And I know that you...I fucking never meant that you don't love him, that you shouldn't get to--


I know.


I just... He tried to catch his breath. I don't know....you know. The words? He looked at me kind of desperately.


"...the words."


For this stuff. That I. You know. He took a shaky breath in. That I feel.


Brian. "Okay." I pushed his hair out of his eyes and kissed his cheek. "Okay. That's okay."


I'm supposed to fix him.


"No. You are supposed to stay. That's it."


Okay. Okay. I'll stay.


"Good. That's really good. I love you."


He nodded, and I pulled him in and held him for a long time.


**


We kept the lights dim the next day, but Justin was feeling a lot better. We ended up all napping together midday since we hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the night before, we we all woke up around the same time and just lay there, draped over each other, reaching out every so often to check our phones or run a few fingers down each other's arms.


It was quiet, and then Justin sat up and picked up his hands. I just can't fucking believe how disappointed I can still get, he said. After all this time. Every time I think, okay, there cannot possibly still be a part of me clinging to this stupid hope that...there's going to be a miracle, and I'm going to...I mean, if not get all the way better, at least back to how I was before. And then it turns out, nope, there it is. Every time I think I've come to terms with the fact that I can't get better I find some new, stupid part of me that can't stand one more minute of not being better.


I just can't even fucking imagine, Brian said. I just have no idea what it feels like.


Justin shrugged a little, nodded. I appreciate that.


Brian reached out and played with Justin's fingers. After a long moment, he said, I don't think there's a solution out there.

 

 

I know.


Maybe in a few years they'll come up with something new or something, but... Brian shook his head. I don't think I can fix you. I don't think I can make you feel better.


Justin breathed out. Thank you.


Brian kept holding Justin's hand and gently turned his arm over. He wasn't wearing sleeves this time.


That doesn't mean you get to make yourself feel worse, Brian said. That's not the deal.


Justin chewed on the inside of his cheek. I know. I'm sorry.


I kissed his cheek.


I'm talking to my therapist about it, he said. We're working on it.


You need to be happier, Brian said. That one I can do.


I don't know if that's true either.


Brian shook his head. Not going to work this time. I'm not giving up on that one.


Justin's eyes were warm. Okay. He put his arm around my shoulder and tugged me into him, and I cuddled into his side, watching Brian.


Why do you do it? Brian said, small. I never asked.


I wish I knew, honestly. It just...makes sense, somehow. Something else to think about, I guess.


Well, Brian said. That we can do. He reached over to me and pulled both of us into him.


There's not a magic cure. But there's the three of us.


There is still some kind of magic.

 

Chapter 145 - Second City by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Justin and company go to Chicago for a major art event, and Justin reconsiders his goals.

Second City

LaVieEnRose



I scrolled down the page and hovered my mouse over the buy button. “Okay, you're absolutely sure?” I said.


Brian was standing by the foot of the bed, rearranging his socks or whatever the fuck he does. He gave me a look in the mirror.


“No, I mean like, a hundred percent, completely, eighty million percent sure.”


Before you purchase those entirely refundable tickets, you mean? he said. You don't buy non-refundables when you have a chronic illness. Rookie mistake.


“The tickets are a metaphor for the whole planning experience,” I said. “Plane, hotel, finding the passports, it's all setting the ball in motion.”


The passports are in the filing cabinet in my office, Brian said. And I don't know if you were aware, but you don't actually need a passport to go to Chicago. Brand new law, I think.


“Well, that's good, since I think Evan's is about to expire.” I chewed on my lip. “He and I really could do this alone, you know? If you can't...”


He turned around and leaned against the dresser, giving me an amused look. Do you not want me there?


I groaned and flopped down on the bed, narrowly missing my laptop. And my dog. “Of course I want you there, it's just...it's a lot of work to take off! I used to have to beg you to take a three-day weekend and now you're volunteering to take two weeks off. I feel bad.”


But you're not concerned about Evan taking two weeks off.


“I don't generally worry for Evan's job security, no.”


Oh, so you worry about mine? My position at Kinnetik seem particularly tenuous to you? The sign he used for tenuous was just fragile--there's a lot of that in ASL, which is better than any spoken language when it comes to describing visuals but rather depressingly lacking at distinguishing between concepts with almost, but not exactly, identical meanings—but I knew the word Brian meant in English. I can always do that with Brian. Sometimes he'll sign something and have me write down in English what he's saying because it freaks him out how I always get exactly the words he was thinking. I can't do that with anyone else. Obviously not with Evan, since it’s not like he thinks in coherent English sentences that way. He’s all vibes.


“Yours is just very important, I said. It's what keeps me in pretty things.


Brian smiled with his eyes and said, Well, maybe not after this.


He was exaggerating a little—I'm never going to be able to compete with the amount of money Brian brings in, it's fine—but...honestly not all that much. This wasn’t even so much an art show as a, like, extended celebration of me, as completely bizarre as that is to say. This gallery owner in Chicago had to come to New York for my last show and I guess really liked, me, because now he’d created a whole exhibit, a retrospective, press tour…it was a big fucking deal.


I’m not missing this, Brian said simply, and I pulled my legs up and watched him.


**


Evan was so psyched for the trip, it was funny. The last time we all went away together was St. Lucia, but that was before we got Martha and before he got his new kidney, so the two of us both had a lot more independence now that we did then. We spent most of our time in St. Lucia sleeping in beach chairs while Brian sampled every whiskey at the swim-up bar.


I was excited too, obviously, just a little tempered by my usual worries about accessibility and worst case scenarios and generally the anticipated stress of interacting with journalists and critics and, well, people. The first event was this welcome dinner the gallery was hosting for me, so the itinerary the event coordinator sent me had us flying in the morning of. Oh, amateurs. We scheduled a flight midday the day before, obviously. Jumping off a plane and going straight to dinner? Yeah, that’s healthy shit.


Flying with Martha was surprisingly easy, between her service dog vest which made her status pretty obvious and her size which made her too tiny for anyone to really care about anyway. I’d been so worried about it beforehand and had called the airline like seven times to make sure they knew I was coming with her and that it was okay and that no one on the flight was deathly allergic to dogs. Besides you, Brian groused, but Brian is a drama queen. Although I guess I’m not really one to talk, given the aforementioned seven phone calls.


Brian tried to talk me into a wheelchair at the airport but the terminal wasn’t too far and I was feeling okay and I didn’t know if that would worry Martha, so I just walked. Evan had his earbuds in and his denim jacket on and looked like some hot indie rock star walking with one hand in his pocket and the other pulling his suitcase along. Brian wasn’t wearing a suit but he was dressed well, always is to fly, and I leaned my head against his shoulder at the gate while he counted out drugs for me.


This trip was kind of a big deal for the three of us as a unit, too, because we’d sat down and had the big discussion and decided we were sick of being in some sort of polyamorous version of a closet. Evan was all worried about how it was going to affect my career, and honestly I was a little nervous about that too, but the thought of spending this week introducing Evan like he was some kind of third party, a friend or a cousin or God forbid an assistant…I couldn’t do it. If the hospital could deal with the Justin has two boyfriends set-up, so could some arthouse freaks.


There was one other issue with the three of us traveling together, though. I’m really concerned about how I’m going to get enough sex this week, I said to Brian, while Evan was in the bathroom. We share a room most of the time at home, but it’s a big house; it’s never hard for me to sneak away with one of them. Now we were all going to be trapped in the same hotel room for a week, and ever since Evan started feeling better he and I had been….active, and Brian and I weren’t exactly in any sort of dry spell either. Brian and Evan don’t have sex with each other, so it’s not like threesomes were on the table, and I don’t think any of us would be comfortable with like, two of us having sex while the other one is just….around, watching. No judgment to people with that arrangement, it just ain’t us, babe. I intentionally don’t do a lot of digging into the nature of Evan and Brian’s relationship, and I’m not exactly eager to go around nudging them to their limits. What they have is beautiful and delicate and I am the luckiest fucker in the world, so…let’s not go breaking anything.


But Brian just shrugged and said, I figured we’d just be taking turns fucking you in the shower. We got the accessible room and all that. Bars in the shower. Great for being disabled and getting the brains fucked out of you.


Oh. I paused. Now I’m worried you guys are gonna wear me out.


The burdens you bear, Brian said dryly, and he turned a page in his magazine.


When Brian and I fly we usually do first class so it’s just two across, but since there were three of us we figured, fuck it, we’ll slum it for two and a half hours. It’s not like we mind being squished together. Evan took the window so he could daydream to his heart’s content, Brain had the aisle so there was room for his mile-long legs, and I was content in the middle, Martha dozing on my feet. I tested both their shoulders against my cheek and decided Evan’s cardigan was softer than Brian’s jacket, so he got the dubious honor of being my pillow for the first hour of the flight. I was drugged to all hell, so I fell asleep quickly, but I had these awful dreams about seizures and teeth and blood and I felt my body jerk when I woke up.


I saw Brian first, absorbed in his book, but I turned to Evan when he slipped his fingers into mine. I looked up at him and he brushed my hair off my forehead. You okay? he said.


I took a slow breath. I think so.


Bad dream?


Yeah. I blinked a few times, trying to focus. God, I’m stoned.


He took one of his earbuds and handed it to me, and I gave him a dubious look but put it in.


Anything? he asked me.


I shook my head. Maybe a bit of vibration on the bass beat, but I wasn’t positive I wasn’t imagining it.


The sound was obviously up high already, but he turned it up the rest of the way. Now?


No.


He chuckled. You are so Deaf.


Thanks.


Evan put the earbud back in and I settled down on his shoulder again, but I couldn’t fall back asleep, even though I was so tired. I reached out to Brian, and he lifted his hand to his mouth and gave my fingers a quick kiss without really looking at me. He was reading–it’s funny, actually, what he was reading. It was a friend of Lindsay’s who published her first book a handful of years ago, and Lindsay had given like everybody she’d ever met a copy as a gift, and Brian rolled his eyes about it at first but was bored one night and read it and now he’s like totally obsessed with her. He follows her on Twitter and subscribes to her newsletter and loses his shit when a new book comes out. It’s cute. He’s always trying to get me to read them but they’re so depressing!


You want a snack? he asked me.


My stomach flipped at the thought. I shook my head.


Want to fuck in the bathroom?


We literally know someone who died that way. I yawned.


He finally gave me more than just a glance to see my signing. Oh, hey there, asthma.


Oh yeah?


Yeah, I can hear that wheeze over the engine.


That means nothing to me.


He reached down into his carry on and pulled out an inhaler and some menthol cough drops. I have the portable neb if you want it.


I know. I’m okay.


Surprised you’re not puking your guts out.


It’s still definitely on the table. I shook the inhaler and took two hits from it, and Brian ran his palm in slow circles over my back.


How’s Martha? he asked me.


She’s good. Sleeping. I think she likes flying more than I do.


Low bar to clear. We’re almost there, he said. Anything I can do?


I wrinkled my nose at him.


Sorry, he said. He held up his book. The sick character just died.


Ah, yeah, that’ll do it.


Sure will. He patted his shoulder. Rest here for now.


 


**


 


Getting from the airplane into the hotel is without a doubt the hardest part of traveling for me. I have a hard time moving after I’ve been sitting still for a long time, and the drugs have never fully worn off so I’m always really out-of-it. See, this is why we don’t fly in day-of! Brian kept his hand on the back of my head as we went down the fucking endless hallways that were making me really wish I’d requested that wheelchair back in New York. It’s hard to get one on arrival if you didn’t have it for departure. Airport things. Martha kept looking up at me while we walked.


I will get you a wheelchair, Brain said, pseudo-patient, for the third time.


I’m okay, I said, but I let Evan slip his arm around my waist and half-drag me to the cab stand.


The gallery was putting us up in a nice hotel, but I’m inevitably allergic to….everywhere, it’s just a matter of degree. This place didn’t seem too bad. I was sneezing as soon as we got to the room, but I didn’t break out in hives or anything so, you know, small favors.


Brian glanced at me while he was taking off his jacket. Must be fucking exhausting, he signed, small, to Evan.


I know.


“I’m sitting right here,” I said.


Christ, blow your nose.


I was just in a bad mood at that point, I think. Traveling fucking sucks, and I was so tired, and I felt like shit, and…this was supposed to be my big week of being a successful artist, not yet-another-week of being the invalid boyfriend. I don’t know. I don’t get angry about it all very often, but I was…well, maybe not angry, at least annoyed. People were spending all this money and making all these accommodations and I was still a disaster. It’s just hard not to hate yourself sometimes.


Brian can always see when I’m starting to spiral, and he came over to me and nudged me towards the bed. Naptime.


You guys too.


They took their shoes off and Brian got me out of my clothes–making the decent point that if I stayed in the clothes I wore on the plane too long, I probably would break out in hives–and into some sweats, and I curled up in the middle of the bed with both of them around me and Martha on my feet. You want a bedtime story? Brain teased me.


I nuzzled the pillow. Yeah.


He sighed heavily and said, Once upon a time there was this brilliant artist… and I smiled and then closed my eyes, so he was off the hook. Sometimes I have nightmares when I sleep in weird places, but not that time.


 


**


 


We spent the evening just relaxing.I could tell Evan was kind of antsy to get out and explore, but Brian had been to Chicago several times before and promised him the nightlife was nothing to write home about. He’d already agreed to take Evan out for some touristy stuff, Navy Pier and all that, over the next couple days while I was busy with interviews and straightening paintings or whatever else they made me do.


After a good night’s sleep I felt a lot more human and was kind of embarrassed about what a downer I’d been the day before. Like, this was a huge fucking deal, people were taking so much time out of their lives for me, and I was going to pout about how I didn’t like the plane ride?


So I put a smile on my face in the morning and swapped sex partners in the shower, which ended up going pretty smoothly, and Brian high-fived Evan on his way out of the bathroom like he was tagging him into a relay, and that made me laugh. After I was all clean and sated I got on my laptop and found us a brunch place within walking distance of the hotel. It was kind of cold and dreary outside but, well, it’s Chicago.


Evan seemed jittery while we were eating, and I trapped his foot between mine under the table. He smiled at me, looking adorable and a little guilty.


Oh my God, what, I said.


I want to go see the gallery today, he said.


I laughed. Tomorrow. It was a whole thing: welcome dinner tonight, then tomorrow morning the big reveal of the exhibit.


Yes but see the thing is…I want to see it today.


They have the whole tour planned for us tomorrow!


Just a preview, Evan said. I have to see what pieces they chose!


It’s one more day!


I simply cannot, he said. I cannot wait another day. We have to sneak in.


I looked to Brian for help.


Brian wiped his mouth on his napkin and said, No. Not today. But I will take you to the Mexican Art History Museum, how’s that?


Oh, I suppose it’s something.


Brian tapped my knuckles with the tines of his fork. You want to come?


It’s always such a fucking complicated question, whether I want to go somewhere. I have to take into account what I’ve already done and what I still need to do and try to gauge how much I can afford to do in one day, and on top of that purely intellectual exercise is the fact that I am so fucking goddamn tired all of the time. So of course things sound interesting and exciting and I want to do them, but it’s all always so…abstract, because it’s so far overshadowed by the rushing oh my God I’m so tired that just smothers everything like a duvet. All I’d done so far today was take a shower and have some sex and walk two blocks and eat breakfast, and I still felt completely spent, and I still had to get through the whole event tonight.


But what the fuck was I going to do, waste the whole trip here just so I could sleep? Because it’s not like I wake up and I’m not tired anymore. I usually feel more exhausted when I wake up than I did before .It does nothing. It’s literally just a waste of time.


Of course, yeah, I said, and Evan smiled at me.


 


**


The Mexican history museum was gorgeous, and inspiring, and enormous, and after about twenty minutes of wandering I was pretty sure I was going to die. I kept looking at Martha wondering why she wasn’t alerting because holy shit did I feel terrible, but no seizure ever came. I just carried on feeling like trash.


Evan was kind of hypnotized by the art, taking a lot of pictures with his tablet and sketching something every so often, but Brian was not-so-subtly watching me. Eventually he interrupted Evan standing mesmerized at a portrait and said, We need to find somewhere with a bench.


Sure, Evan said, already back to looking at the painting.


Right, but…now, though.


Right. Sorry.


You want to stay here?


No, no, we can go. Evan came over to me and slipped his arm around my waist. You can’t get Martha to bring you a chair? he asked me, scanning me the way he does, the way they both do.


No, she’s lazy.


He tugged me a little. Come on. Let’s sit.


We tried a few different rooms before we found a small gallery with a bench, but it was backless which is like…the bane of my damn existence. Still, it was better than nothing, so I sat down, and Brian took a spot next to me and put his arm around my waist to give me some support. He knows. Evan was immediately transfixed by a few pieces in here, so I watched him move around slowly while I caught my breath.


Doing okay? Brian asked me, small.


I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so worn out.


You have got to start being easier on yourself around travel, he said. It’s always really hard for you. This isn’t new.


I shrugged a little. I’m frustrated today.


He nodded. It used to really bother Brian that I’d have days when I just…can’t, when I sink into the self-loathing or, okay, a little bit of self-pity. Brian, thank God, loves disability theory. Latched onto it immediately, which was a fucking miracle. But that meant it took him a little while to accept the fact that I’d have days when I wasn’t gung-ho disability-positive, when it just was a little too annoying or a little too inconvenient or a little too much for me to believe everything that I wish I could always believe. He lets me have that space now.


In pain? he asked.


Just my head a little.


You want to go?


Yeah. You can stay here, though.


He glanced at Evan. You sure?


Yeah.


I can walk you back at least.


I’m just gonna get in a cab. Stay with him.


He tilted his head to the side and looked at me, but he nodded, and I got up and went over to Evan and told him I was going. I had basically the same conversation with him and eventually convinced him I didn’t need him to babysit me either, and I left them there.


A few cabs drove right past me when the drivers saw Martha–it’s illegal to turn someone down because of a service dog, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen–but finally one picked me up. I showed him the address I’d typed in on my phone and let myself go a little limp in the backseat, reaching out every so often to scratch Martha’s head. The elevator up to the hotel made me nauseous, and I took my shoes off and crawled straight into bed.


I missed Emily, suddenly. I thought about her apartment, all cluttered and mismatched with stuff she stole from her parents, and I wanted to be there so badly, just lying on her couch with Jane playing on the rug in front of me, watching some subtitled sitcom while Emily and Gwen made out in the kitchen. I don’t know why that was specifically where I wanted to be, but once it fell into my head I missed it so much.


This was so dumb. We’d been gone one night.


I wrapped my arms around the pillow and squeezed my eyes shut.


 


**


I felt a little better by the time Evan woke me up. He crawled up on the bed beside me and lay his head down on my pillow.


“Hi,” I said.


Brian says time to get ready.


My allergies were acting up again, so I took another shower and some more pills and then started to get ready for dinner. When Evan or I travel by ourselves we just live out of my suitcases, but Brian, I’m sure surprising no one, is the type to unpack and carefully hang everything as soon as he checks in, and he does our bags too because it drives him so crazy. The ensemble we’d picked out for tonight was hung up and ready to go. Emerald green shirt, gray wool pants. Brian said a suit would be too stuffy, and he’s the one who pays attention to what people wear at these art events, so I trust him.


Brain watched me get dressed while Evan shaved in the bathroom. Get excited, Brian said.


I know, I’m trying. I looked at him. Are you ready?


He straightened his tie–of course he was wearing one. I don’t look like arm candy?


You do. I just mean with… I said, with a head jerk towards the bathroom.


Ah. I’ll take care of it. Hi, I’m Brian, and this is the man who sleeps with my husband.


I rolled my eyes.


They’ll think it’s very cosmopolitan, probably, Brian said. A little New York flair for their dreary midwestern lives.


It’s not the sex people usually have trouble with, I said.


Tell that to the lifetime of badgering I’ve received for not keeping it in my pants.


Okay, well, it’s not 2003, so I’m ignoring that, I said, and he glared at me. All right, if you’re so bold, how about, hi, I’m Brian, and this is the man in a loving and committed relationship with my husband.


Just….so many terrible words in there.


“Mmhmm.”


I liked the ‘Brian’ part.


I knew you would. I put my hand against the wall and stayed there for a moment to catch my breath. Brian leaned over and kissed my cheek. I said You know how they keep writing reviews that go on about how I’m disabled and then they’re like oh yeah, there was some art there? I don’t want them to blather on about my unique polyamorous lifestyle either. I’m so sick of existing. Can I just be a recluse and the paintings appear in the world and no one knows where they came from?


You would get sick of that in six months and you know it, he said. You’d climb the walls and bemoan that you weren’t getting enough attention. You’re not as fame-averse as you’d like to believe, you know.


Yeah, maybe. I sighed. I’m not fame-averse. This just… I gestured up and down myself. Isn’t the person I want to be famous.


He looked a little sad, but then he shrugged one shoulder and said, Tough shit. That’s what you got.


Yeah.


Plenty of nice healthy people don’t have shit worth being famous for. No one’s writing any kind of article about them. He ran his hands up and down my arm. Kind of a Facts of Life thing. Take the good and the bad, et cetera.


I could just be healthy and rich like you, I said.


No one’s going to remember me, he said easily.


He says that kind of thing sometimes, and it always makes me sad for him, which I guess is sort of the point, in a way. Showing me that there are still things I have for him to be jealous of. They’ll remember you too, I said. After all, you’re one of Justin Taylor’s many lovers.


He snickered and grabbed my waist. A fixture of his unique polyamorous lifestyle.


And he’s disabled!


We’d planned out our hotel so it would be close to the gallery, and the restaurant was right around the corner from there, so we just walked. The street was gray and–predictably–windy, and it was colder than it was at home in New York. There weren’t as many people on the streets as I’m used to, and it made everything seem kind of sad, I don’t know. Even out in Queens, New York is so alive, and this seemed kind of frozen.

 

There was a woman waiting outside the restaurant, and she obviously recognized me and started signing. Mr. Taylor! she said, which is a little awkward in ASL; we don’t really use honorifics. I’m Adriana, your interpreter. It’s so nice to meet you.


I showed her my sign name, then introduced Brian and Evan. Brian’s my husband, I said. Evan is my boyfriend. Might as well give it a trial run.


She blinked. I’m sorry–


Brain and Evan signed husband and boyfriend, respectively.


She smiled uncertainly. Very artsy, I suppose! What did I tell ya. Shall we go in?


We entered the restaurant and Adriana led us to a private room in the back. As soon as we walked in, there was this flurry of movement, people standing up, talking at me, coming over to kiss my cheek. I watched Adriana as each one introduced themselves to me. The gallery owner, the publicist, the show coordinator. Journalists. People telling me they’d been a fan of me for years.


I took a deep breath and smiled.


 


**


 


It was more of a cocktail party than a dinner, really. A lot of mingling and moving around from table to table, though after a while I kind of planted myself and let people flow to and away from me because I figured I was the guest of honor and I got to do this, and honestly after an hour I was beyond exhausted. It’s not that I don’t like these events–Brian was right, I definitely have a Tinkerbell side that dies if I don’t get applause–it’s just that they’re so much to juggle. Dealing with the interpreter and people overlapping and talking over each other and grabbing my hand to get my attention, and side conversations and laughter and just a billion other things that I miss when I’m in a group setting with people who don’t sign. At least the Brian and Evan situation didn’t seem to be a thing, because honestly…no one was paying much attention to Brian and Evan. They were tucked away at other tables, having whatever conversations they were having with whoever drifted away from my table, but for the most part? People were focused on me. And just me.


I honestly hadn’t realized what a big deal this was.


Brian came over to my table while Adriana was on a break and I was checking something on my phone because….what else was I supposed to do while my interpreter was on a break. He glanced behind his shoulder and said, Do you like her?


Adriana? She’s fine. Why?


He sipped his drink. Is she your interpreter this whole trip?


I think so. Is something wrong?


He shrugged a little. If you like her it’s fine. You feel like you’re getting everything?


I’m doing okay.


She just doesn’t sound like you. That always bothers Brian, when interpreters don’t voice my signing the way Brian knows that I would do it if I were speaking. Interpreting isn’t an exact science; there’s a million ways to say a sentence and get the same gist across. Brain doesn’t like it when their way isn’t the exact same as mine. It doesn’t bother me as much, I guess because how would I know? But it is always kind of weird when I’m in situations where I have an interpreter and Brian’s speaking out loud and the interpreter signs for him and I’m like…no, that’s not right. That’s not Brian. Like I said. I always know what Brian means.


As long as she’s not making me sound like an idiot, I said.


No, you’re good. He tapped my empty glass. What are you drinking?


Nothing, club soda.


Want another?


I can get it. I wanted to stretch my legs, anyway; I’d been sitting there for ages now. It was one of those high chairs, and Brian put his hand under my elbow on my way off of it, just the casual things that he does. As I took Martha’s leash and headed over to the bar, I saw him start to strike up a conversation with one of the publicity people sitting at my table, and he was doing…I don’t know if anyone but me would recognize it, but it was his advertising smile, the one he uses on clients when he needs to be his most charming. And I don’t know, I just loved that he was pulling it out for me. That I was important enough for him to sell.


I was waiting in a short line at the bar when I felt Martha’s paws on my leg, and she nudged me behind my knee. I looked at her, and she sat and looked at me expectantly, her ears kind of askew. She worries, you can see it in her expression.


“Shit,” I said. “Okay.” First priority: get the fuck out of this room. I slipped out of line and down the first hallway I found, just hoping against hope this was the way to the bathroom. At least it was out of view, wherever it was. My vision started getting kind of weird halfway down the hall, and I had to stop and balance myself against the wall. But finally, men’s room. Thank God.


Mercifully, it was empty. I thought about going into one of the stalls just in case someone came in, but I didn’t want to risk hitting my head on the fucking toilet, so I just held onto the sink and lowered myself slowly to the floor. I felt very awful very quickly, pressure building from my feet to my head like a wave, and then everything got dark and empty and terrifying, the way it does. I felt my leg shaking against the floor, and I was vaguely aware of Martha pacing in anxious circles next to me, but mostly I just tried to breathe and waited for it to be over.


Maybe about a minute later I felt the air move and I knew someone had opened the bathroom door, but I still couldn’t see much so I couldn’t really do anything about it. After a few seconds, though, I felt a hand on my cheek, and I breathed out when I recognized his rings and the feel of his fingers. Evan.


Things started to come back, slowly. My leg stilled, and the metallic taste left my mouth, and finally I could see him, crouched in front of me, patient. He wiped sweat off my forehead and squeezed my shoulder.


“Did…” I stopped and breathed. “Did anyone out there notice?” It is very, very convenient after seizures that Evan can read lips.


Everything’s fine. Brian’s out there charming them. I’m going to text him now and tell him you’re okay.


“Okay.” I swallowed. “Okay, I need to get up.”


Take your time. When you’re ready I’ll get an uber.


I shook my head–oof, bad idea. “I have to go back to the party.”


Baby. No you don’t.


“I’m not just going to ghost my own party. Help me up?”


He did, slowly. Martha was still weaving her way around my feet. I rinsed my face off in the sink and made a definite effort not to look at myself in the mirror. But I did see how Evan was watching me, how sad he looked.


I touched his arm. I’m okay.


I know you’re okay. Let me take you back to the hotel.


I took a deep breath and tried very, very hard not to let those words sink in. Not to picture darkness, and a bed, and a room without strangers. I couldn’t think about that right now. I couldn’t.


Soon, I said. Just let me wrap things up here.


But God, it was another two hours, easily. Every time I thought it was winding down, someone new would show up to introduce themselves to me or, fuck, to pull me aside with Adriana to tell me how much one of my pieces meant to them, and it was so incredibly sweet and exactly what every artist fucking dreams of and all I wanted in the world was for it to be over. I smiled and shook hands and tried my best to remember what the right things were to say and then to say them. Evan and Brian mostly stuck together by my side, and when they did step away from me I could see them having these conversations with small, quick hands: when is this going to be over, I want to get him out of here, he doesn’t look good, when is this going to be over.

 

Finally it was. We stood outside saying our last goodbyes to everyone, and by the time Adriana left I had an iron grip on Brian’s elbow to stay standing. “I can’t walk home,” I said, the second we were alone.


Evan got a car already, it’s on its way.


I nodded and leaned into him, my face in his chest, and I felt him sigh before he put his arms around me.


I started fading fast when we were in the car. I was so nauseous and dizzy and I felt like time wasn’t passing at the right speed, I don’t know. They half-dragged me out of the car and up to the hotel room, and I sat on the side of the bed and slowly undressed while they had some worried kind of argument about what meds to give me that I was way too tired to participate in. Halfway through unbuttoning my shirt I just got so, so tired and kind of gave up, and Brian crouched down in front of me and did the rest without taking his eyes off what Evan was saying.


They eventually came to some sort of agreement and gave me a handful of pills and I said I wanted oxygen and Evan nodded and set it up. I wanted to sleep between them and just feel kind of…protected, but the logistics of the oxygen mean I really need to be on the edge. Which ended up being a good thing when I woke up in the middle of the night and stumbled to the bathroom to puke my brains out. God, what an awful fucking night.


Martha was anxious, and I tapped her paw to get her attention. Go get Brian, I said, and she trotted out of the bathroom. I don’t know what method she picked to terrorize Brian into waking up, but a minute later she came back with him right behind.


He squinted in the light and rubbed the stubble on his face. Justin. You okay? and just that, I don’t know, almost pushed me over the edge. Something about Brian’s calm way of expressing concern still makes me want to burst into tears, even after all these years.


I shook my head. “No, not right now.” I’m honest at night too. And it’s easier to do it in English, when I can’t hear myself, and that part of me that constantly chants shut up shut up shut up shut up can almost pretend I’m not complaining.


Yeah. Really hurting, huh? Man. What a shitty night. He bent down and helped me up and God, his hands were so gentle. Breathing’s sounded better, too.


“I don’t even care about that.” I shivered. “I’m trying not to start screaming. I don’t know.” Another wave of nausea hit me and I closed my eyes, and when I opened them Brian was messing with his phone. He must have brought it in with him when Martha woke him up to triage, in case he needed to call for help. He thinks of everything. “What are you doing?”


Checking if you can have more gabapentin or if it’ll kill you.


“I’m okay with either outcome.’


Ha ha, he fingerspelled flatly. Okay, we can do a little more. Take two. He caught me as my feet slipped on the floor. Easy, tiger.


“Oh God. Fuck.”


No. No screaming. We have neighbors.


“You don’t give a shit about the neighbors.”


True, but I don’t need them calling the fucking police on me. And it’ll fuck up your lungs anyway. You want a bath? You’re shivering.


“I don’t know, I can’t…” I shook my head. I hit a wall where I just can’t decide things anymore.


Okay, let’s just go back to bed, all right? I want to get you warm.


I rinsed my mouth out and sipped some water and took the pills, but I started to freak out a little–okay, a little more--when Brian got me back into bed. “No no no no no,” I said when he tried to get one of my legs from the floor up onto the bed. “Don’t move it don’t move it–”


I know. I know. But he tried to move my leg again, and I could tell by the feeling in my throat that I made some kind of noise. He cupped the back of my head and looked at me. Okay. That’s okay. We’ll stop.


I started crying then because…Jesus, I couldn’t even get back into bed? And everything just hurt so much and Brian was so worried and I was scared I was going to wake up Evan and I just wanted to be back at home so badly, with our bed that’s low enough to the ground that I can get into it, and our sheets that don’t make my skin itch, and a tomorrow that wasn’t full of events and obligations and hearing people and forcing myself to smile.


Brian just held my wrists carefully in his hands and waited it out, and eventually I felt the meds and maybe just the exhaustion start to kick in, and everything got kind of soft and swimmy. Brian asked if I was ready to try moving again, and when I nodded he helped me again, so carefully, lifting my legs up and putting them on the bed. It still hurt, and I tensed completely up, but it wasn’t unbearable this time.


He got himself behind me and arranged me on his chest, and I breathed in the smell of him and tried to calm myself down. I was so aware that we only had a few hours left before we had to get up and go to the gallery preview, and it just seemed…impossible, having to deal with this and then be a functioning human on only a couple hours of sleep, if I even got that much. If we did.


“Ow, ow, ow,” I whispered, and Brian ran his hand gently over my head. He covered me with the comforter and wrapped his arms all the way around me.


I know, he signed on me. I know. I’m sorry.


Soon everything went blissfully dark.


**


Brain side-eyed me when I threw up again after we were all awake. This is not just pain, he said. You must have eaten something.


I held onto the door frame and leaned my head against the wall. No, it’s definitely pain.


God knows what was in those tapas you were scarfing down–


“I gave them my food allergies ahead of time.”


Doesn’t mean they listened. Take a Benadryl. Humor me.


“Yeah, okay.”


I don’t know if he was right that it was allergy-related or it just helped to get a little stoned on antihistamines, but I was feeling better by the time we needed to leave for the gallery. Evan and Brian were both a little subdued and obviously watching me, but they were so excited to see the exhibit. Especially Evan. And of course I was too, even if I was having a hard time really…radiating that.


We went around the corner for bagels–bad idea, did not help with how much I missed New York–and then met Adriana outside the gallery. When we went inside, the woman at the front desk jumped up and shook my hand and chatted at me the whole time as she led us to the space, telling me how much she loved my pieces and how amazing it was to meet me in person. Brian, of course, jumped right on that and started telling her half-lies about how in-demand I was. Evan was kind of spacing out already, taking in the aesthetics of the place, and I just loved them both so much.


Finally we met up with some of the gallery owners we’d met last night, they hugged us like old friends, moved a curtain to the side, and…wow.


Of course this was far from my first show, but I’d had precious few that were just mine, and not me as part of a series of artists.


This was…this was me. On every wall. New pieces, ancient pieces, pieces I hadn’t seen in years that they’d convinced buyers to loan out. Drawings, oil paintings, watercolors. There were plaques everywhere talking about me and my process and my technique and my story and yeah, some of it was cringey disability-porn or look at the queer who got bashed in the head-porn, but some of it wasn’t. Some of it was just….me, where I went to school and how my goals developed and what my vision was for a particular collection.


Evan gave me a tight squeeze around my shoulders, and then we all kind of split off and toured it on our own, just taking everything in. I met Brian in front of one of the self-portraits. What a half-assed job they did, huh? he said, and I laughed and he stuck his tongue in his cheek.


So that was pretty great.


**


Miraculously, I kept feeling better as the day went on. The opening was that night and I didn’t want to push my luck, so I went back to the hotel to rest for a few hours while Brian and Evan went out and did some kind of walking tour of Chicago’s gay district, I don’t know. I hear the word ‘walking’ and I’m already opting out. I didn’t end up napping, but I stretched out and watched TV and FaceTimed Jane and just…decompressed. Got ready for the night.

 

Brian and Evan came back with presents–Trans Rights t-shirts and gay icon coffee mugs and sex toys–and we showered and got ready kind of leisurely. Evan had turned some music on and Brian and him were talking about it, which obviously could not have interested me less, but I didn’t mind. It’s nice seeing them bond. Brian had gotten Evan these really high-tech hearing aids recently so now Evan could hook them up to bluetooth and hear music a lot better than he could before, so they were talking about that and how different things sounded. I was happy for him. I don’t actually miss music as much as I thought I would, honestly. It was one of the things I used to get really upset about back when I was losing my hearing, but nowadays, I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t remember it well enough for it to bother me. But Evan loves it, always has, and it’s exciting for him that he can hear it decently for the first time since he was a baby.


Brian frowned a little when he saw what I was wearing, then shook his head and told me to get out of my shirt and pulled a sweater over my head instead. This isn’t the outfit we planned, I said.


I didn’t realize the gallery would be a fucking icebox. Practically had icicles hanging from my nipples there this morning. He put my coat over my shoulders. Where are your gloves?


The gallery had offered to send a limo to bring us to the opening, but that felt ridiculous for two blocks, so we walked. It was raining a little, and I didn’t want Martha smelling like wet dog all night, so I picked her up and tucked her into my jacket and carried her to the gallery like that.


We should be high for this, Evan said. They like taking E before they go to my shows. It’s a good time for them, obviously, and they get added amusement out of me being scared to death they’re going to embarass me.


I don’t exactly have a Chicago supplier, Brian said. Sunshine, give me that dog before you give yourself another damn sneezing fit, he said, and I chuckled to myself as I don’t want a dog Kinney bundled a toy poodle under his arm, carefully adjusting her paws to make sure she was comfortable.


We were arriving to the opening fashionably late, of course, so there were already people milling around and drinking and looking at the pieces. I met up with Adriana and got a flute of champagne mostly just to make signing a little harder–I didn’t want to babble, and having to navigate the glass would make me more thoughtful–and off we went to talk to the press.


I’d been a little overly-cynical yesterday with Brian,but the truth is, you really never know what you’re going to get when it comes to press interviews. Some of them have read up on you and seen the stock questions you’re always asked and they come prepared with insightful, new topics, and others…googled you on the way over and want to know how your deafness connects to your art and don’t take a minute to consider that you’ve been asked that at every event for the past ten years.It’s just such a crapshoot.


But tonight was mostly good! There were some boring questions, obviously, especially at the beginning of the interviews, and after I mentioned having a boyfriend–did I kind of force it in? Sure, maybe, but we had an agenda here–there were a few follow-up questions on that, but most of the interviews were actually really interesting. They focused a lot on specific pieces, asking me about the influences and the thought processes and the techniques, and that was fun since a lot of the pieces were old as hell, so I had to think back and try to remember, which was hard but a good time. Brian was talking to a couple journalists as well, with Evan by his side. Evan wasn’t saying much; his hearing aids aren’t much use in environments like this, with a lot of people talking, and I knew he was worried about misunderstanding something, or being misunderstood. Still, I saw Brian pull him in a few times, just little sim-commed Isn’t that right, Evan?s and stuff like that. Just making sure the reporters couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there.


More and more people kept coming, and before long the gallery was packed, which was amazing, obviously but…it was a lot of people, and they kept nudging past me and brushing against me while I was trying to focus. I was talking to a reporter who was asking me about a bunch of different works and I kept getting the dates tangled up and confused and I couldn’t remember what order I’d finished anything in, and then he wanted to talk about some of the digital art pieces they’d collected that were some of the first decent things I’d finished after I was bashed, so we were veering kind of close to talking about that, and…I could feel my throat starting to get a little tight. I sipped the champagne but it didn’t really help, and I felt Martha bump her nose against my ankle. Not a true alert, just a nudge. She knows when I need to be grounded, and when maybe I need a suggestion to get the fuck out of there.


I cut the interview short and told Adriana I was going to take a break. I wanted to just find a spot that wasn’t surrounded by people but Jesus, it was packed in here, and I could feel myself starting to sweat and breathe kind of heavy. Why did Brian tell me it was going to be cold in here? I was boiling alive.


And then his hand was on my elbow, and everything, blissfully, slowed down a little. It’s hard for me to make eye contact when I’m anxious, but I forced myself into it, and he watched me steadily.


What did they say to you? he said.


Nothing, I’m fine.


Bullshit you’re fine. Which one–

 

“Brian, no one did anything wrong.” I breathed out slowly. I’m going to take a walk around the block, get some air.


He licked his lips. Yeah, okay. By yourself?


Yeah, I just need a minute. Tell Evan I’m okay.


Yeah.


I shouldered my way out of the gallery as unobtrusively as I could and got out to the sidewalk and took a deep breath with my eyes closed. Martha was starting to do a little pee dance anyway, so I took her over to the gutter and gave her a minute while I looked out at a city that was still too frozen and quiet. I wondered how far the river was from here, if it made sense to try to walk to it. My bad leg felt kind of iffy, so probably not. I’d just circle the block once, calm down, and get back in there.


Except after I’d finished my lap and gotten back around to the front of the gallery, I just could not convince myself to go back in there, to smile and laugh and talk to more hearing people about dates I couldn’t remember and times in my life I didn’t want to relive, to get packed in like a sardine with everyone staring at me so I couldn’t even use my inhaler or let my hand twitch in peace. So I did another circle around the block, and then another, and when I got back from the fourth, Brain was outside the gallery doors, signing at his phone.


He glanced up at me, said, Justin’s back, laughed at something the person said, then said goodbye and hung up.


Derek? I guessed.


Wanted to see how everything was going. I guess he likes you.


Wonders never cease. I took my inhaler out and shook it, and Brian watched me with his head a little tilted.


He was quiet while I used it and breathed out and stuck it back in my pocket and shuffled my feet and otherwise stalled going back inside.


I don’t even know where my head is right now, I said. I thought I was panicking but I’m not even, I just…


He just waited.


I think I’m grieving? I said. God, that sounds stupid. What the fuck is wrong with me.


Grieving, he fingerspelled. Clarifying.


Yeah.


Just from seeing the old pieces, or…


“No, not that, I just…” I gestured towards the gallery. “This is what I dreamed of. This was the fucking….ideal. And now I’m out here trying to get away from it and it’s like I’m watching my fucking dream die right in front of me, and it’s my own fault. Nobody took it away from me. It’s right here and I can’t enjoy it. So then what the fuck is even the goal anymore?”


Why can’t you enjoy it? The crowd?


“I don’t know. That’s part of it. But just…it’s like I said before. They’re not even asking me questions about being sick and I still feel them avoiding the questions about me being sick and that’ almost worse? I don’t want to be this person. Not on like…I’m not talking about some cosmic scale or whatever. I’m fine with my life.”


He nodded.


“But when I’m being all…Artist Justin, when I’m in there selling myself like a product….this is not the product I want to be selling. It’s fucking…it’s private, the life I live now.”


It’s intimate.


“Yeah, it is.” I sighed. But this was the dream, and I’m wasting it. And I don’t know how to stop hating that the Justin of fifteen years ago wanted this so fucking badly and now I have it and I’m not enjoying it. He would be so ashamed of me.


He doesn’t exist.


I shrugged.


No, Brian insisted. This is important, because I have been here, where you are. I have based every fucking decision around what some hypothetical twenty-five-year-old Brian would have to say about my life, and you know where that got me? You know how long that pushed you away?


“I’m acutely aware of how long, yeah.”


Look, Brian said. I am not going to feed you some line of bullshit about how you’ve accomplished more than that teenage version of you could have ever dreamed of, and all the obstacles you’ve had to take into consideration that there’s no way he could have seen coming, because none of that really matters. Not when the naked truth is that he can’t judge you because he doesn’t exist. He’s gone. He’s not a hologram somewhere grading your performance. He’s gone. He changed into you, because that’s what he had to do to survive. All he gets to do is thank you for keeping him alive. That’s where his jurisdiction ends. Because, and I cannot stress this enough: he is not around anymore.


“I know. You’re right. I know.” I shook my head a little. “I think I need permission to let it go. Even if being that recluse and letting the paintings appear…you were right, that’s not my platonic ideal of what my career would be like, but it’s my second choice and second choice in your dream job isn’t that fucking bad, so I just need to feel like I can just...compromise. Like doing that isn’t being some massive disappointment to myself. To you.”


What do you think I want from you, Justin?


I shrugged. “To be happy.”


Okay, so…internalize that. I didn’t sign up for this because I wanted to be on page six.


“But maybe I did.” I groaned and titled my head back. “I don’t even know! I have no idea what I actually want and what I’ve just been like…parroting that I used to want.”


I have…no idea what that word was, I’m sorry.


Parroting, I fingerspelled. Is that even English?


Sure.


I just wish I knew what was me, I said. What’s who I actually am and what’s…what all of this fucking illness has shaped me into.


Why is artist you the real you and sick you is a facet? he said. If being sick gets to be just some bonus identity set on top of you, can’t we look at all of this– he gestured towards the gallery --the same way?


I thought about that.


Fame-chasing Justin doesn’t outrank every other kind of Justin in there, Brian said. That’s all I’m saying. He doesn’t have to win every time.


I don’t know if I know how to be an artist anymore without the champagne and the plane tickets and the ass-kissing, I said plainly. I think that’s been the goal for so long that I just…I don’t know how to just create things anymore.


Well, that sounds like a problem, Brian said.


“I don’t know. Maybe I need to sell some clay bowls at craft fairs. Bring my ego down a few notches.”


And…again, your mind goes straight to selling.


“Oh, God.”


This is not why I make money, you know? Brian said gently. I don’t do it for you to….keep up.


“This is not your fault.”


He shrugged. I’ve been forcefeeding you capitalism good since you were a teenager.


“And as we’ve established, I should be capable of outthinking a seventeen-year-old iteration of myself.”


He smiled a little and fingerspelled iteration.


It’s my dad, it’s society, it’s…you know, it’s being a man. I want to contribute.


Color, Brian insisted. You contribute color.


“Yeah, I know.”


Even if you don’t sell, he said. Just means more for me, right?


I got up on my toes and kissed him, which was nice, but when I lowered myself back down he was frowning. What? I said.


No, I didn’t….I didn’t realize how bad you were breathing until you got close.


“Oh.”


He pushed my hair back. Are you okay?


I nodded.


Yeah. He cupped his hand around my ribs to feel my lungs. You are really not sounding good. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t the point of this whole conversation, but you…do not sound good.


I’ll keep an eye on it, I promise.


Yeah…


Don’t be worried. I glanced behind him. Okay. Let’s go back in.


He watched me, chewing on his lip.


It will be fine, I said. Let’s go back in and get this done.


**


And it was fine, mostly, though I did start to feel really run down after about another hour. The crowd had thinned out some, so that was better, but I was really starting to feel myself breathing, and a couple people had asked if I was okay. Just like the night before at dinner, Evan and Brian were watching me and talking about me, and I felt bad for making them worry and embarrassed that strangers were noticing and also just generally like shit because I couldn’t breathe. At least when I’d been epileptic as fuck the other night I had the benefit of being kind of spacy and out-of-it. Small favors.


I did end up ducking out early, when breathing was just getting too painful. Fucking rich people and their fucking cologne. I nodded to Evan across the room, and he signaled to Brian, and immediately they started saying goodbyes for me while I slipped out and waited for them outside.


Okay, Brain said as they came out, and Evan put my coat around me. How are we doing?


Really locked up. I bent over with my hands on my knees and tried to let out a breath. Oh, wow.


Evan was getting a cab when I straightened back up, but Brian was watching me carefully. He said, Hospital…?


God no.


Wow, shocking answer.


I’m not going to some weird hospital with weird doctors where they’ll probably kill me with their weird medicine. Holy shit I can’t breathe.


Getting mixed messages here, Sunshine.


Do not make fun of me right now! I said, and he cracked a smile. I just need oxygen. Everything swam a little and God, my chest hurt. Yeah. Oxygen.


A cab pulled up, and Brian ushered me into it and then climbed into the front seat while Evan got in on my other side. Evan put his hand on my knee and looked at me sympathetically.


The show was beautiful, he said. I’m so proud of you.


You’re sweet. I tried a breath. Fuck.


We have a plan.


And they definitely did. Evan was out of the cab like a rocket as soon as it pulled up at the hotel, while Brian paid and helped me get out. We were alone in the elevator, and he hugged me into him, his hand rubbing roughly up and down my back like it would force the air into me, and you know what, it did help a little. By the time we got to the room, Evan had the nebulizer already set up, and I started on that while they helped me out of my clothes and into bed.


It was already late, but all of us stayed up for ages, just trying to stay on top of this. It never got to a point where they put their foot down about going to the hospital, but it never got….super far from that point, either. The neb and the oxygen helped enough to keep it from getting worse, but they didn’t really help it get better. Every time I finished a round on the nebulizer and was still wheezing up a storm they looked so worried and defeated. Eventually I convinced them that we all needed to sleep, and I promised that if it was still this bad in the morning we could skip the scheduled brunch with the gallery people and go to urgent care. Evan was exhausted as fuck from all of this, worrying and rushing around and trying to keep up with hearing people for hours, plus his meds wear him out. He fell asleep with his head resting on my hip, but Brian shook his head when I tried to get him to lie down. He was tense.


You need to sleep, I told him.


No, I need to hold a fucking vigil and make sure you don’t stop breathing. Try to make some deals with God about it. I may need to sacrifice some goats or something.


God, everything ached so much. Do you always stay awake when it’s bad? I’m sorry…


He shook his head. Only sometimes. I want to. Go to sleep. I’ll keep the nebs going.

 

I felt guilty as shit but God, wild horses couldn’t have kept me awake at that point. I woke up a little a few times during the night to Brian adjusting me, but finally I rolled over and he was next to me, asleep, and my lungs my felt a little lighter. I checked my watch–a little after five AM–and rested my cheek against his chest and went back to sleep.


When the alarm went off at nine, it was still hard to breathe, but not nearly as bad as it had been. Still, I set up the neb first thing so my lungs wouldn’t get any ideas. Brian and Evan got up, and they were both clearly dragging. Evan asked Brian what the schedule was for today, and Brian listed it for him–the brunch, then a newspaper interview, then the gallery had gotten us tickets to…something. I don’t know. Brian looked about as exhausted saying it as I felt watching it.


Evan said, Are we doing brunch or are we going to urgent care?


It’s up to him, Brian said, and they both looked at me.


I was breathing better at that point. I didn’t really need to go to urgent care. And I thought about the brunch, and the newspaper interview, and the tickets, and then tomorrow another day at the gallery, and the college class I was supposed to speak to, and the meetings with local artists they’d set up, and the consultation on the new gallery wing, and God, more interviews, and then another day, and another…


And I said, Can we just go home?


They stayed very still. To New York? Brian said eventually.


Yeah. Like…today. Can we just…fuck all of this, can we go home?


Thank God, they said in unison, and I dropped my head into my hands and laughed.


 

End Notes:

I can no longer risk thanking you all 'cause I think next time AO3 is gonna ban-hammer me, but....thanks!

 

twitter.com/lavieenrose

Chapter 146 - The Origin of Love by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

It's time for some conversations we've been avoiding.

The Origin of Love

LaVieEnRose



It all started, as far too many stories do, with Emily being a fucking dork.


Now, obviously I’m fond of the girl, but let’s be real here; she has never found a geeky pastime she couldn’t throw her ninety-pound weight behind. This time, it was costume-making. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it, but Emily makes a lot of her own clothes and now that I say it, you can totally picture it, right?) and somehow she’d finagled herself onto the backstage crew of an off-off-off Broadway show.


Remind me, I said to her as she stood in front of my desk, dangling three tickets in my face. Aren’t you Deaf?


She flicked me off. Hedwig transcends hearing. It’s a queer cultural touchstone. You should be fucking ashamed of yourself that you’ve never seen it.


Oh, I am. Truly, I cry myself to sleep. It’s honestly insensitive of you to bring up such a touchy subject in the workplace.


Good, I hope it traumatizes you.


My bashing trauma getting a little stale?


Incredibly. I’m sick of being asked to care about things that happened before you met me.


All bullshit aside? Obsessed with this girl.


She dropped the tickets on my desk. This Saturday. It means so much to me. Please come. The boys will love it.


I picked up the tickets. I assume there will be an interpreter there.


No, I’m giving you tickets for Evan and Justin on a night with no interpreter. Do I look like an idiot?


In that blazer? You don’t want to know what I think you look like.


You are such a dick. You’ll be there?


I sighed. Yeah, why not.


Thank you, boss, she said, skipping out of my office.


I hope you didn’t sew that blazer! I signed after her.


**


Saturday was, incidentally, the day before Justin’s birthday, so I had already made plans, thank you very much, to take them up to the beach house and drown them in lobster rolls and tequila, but, all right, that could wait. So I made a pre-show reservation at a steakhouse instead and goddamn were they excited about the whole proceeding. Christ, you’d think I keep them locked up or some shit.


Evan was downstairs getting dressed–he still keeps most of his clothes in the basement even though he sleeps up here–while Justin and I showered and picked out something to wear and Justin babbled at me about the history of the show and the theater and probably musicals as an institution, I don’t know. For someone with reasonably severe short-term memory loss, he does find a lot of shit to bore me with. At one point he climbed his way up onto my back while I was going through the closet, and I reached my hands around to cup the back of his head and spun him around, slowly.


Once we were dressed and ready to go and Justin had all his assorted accessories packed, we bundled up and headed to Long Island City. They were both beautiful in the candlelight in the restaurant, and Evan made me laugh with his wide-eyes at the prices, and Justin made me laugh by how utterly disaffected he was by them. I never realize what a fucking snob I’ve raised Justin into until I have Evan to contrast him with. Justin will spend money like it’s on fire. Good for him.


After a fabulous dinner, we had to wait a bit outside the theater before it opened, which I didn’t love, but it wasn’t too long, and Justin still sounded okay when we got inside. Emily had, of course, gotten us seats right in front of the interpreter, and Justin sat between the two of us and started poring over the program with Evan. I opened mine too because, you know, what the hell. I got Justin’s attention after a minute. This is like a two person show?


Essentially. There’s Hedwig, obviously, and then Yitzhak, this one. The character’s a drag queen but the actor is always a woman. He’d never seen the show either, but he’d, as we previously established, done his research.


That’s weird.


It’s a show about gender, really.


So…honestly? The show was pretty fucking great. We don’t go to interpreted things that often, and I always forget how much I like the experience of getting to enjoy something alongside Justin where we both just get to relax and use our language, because even after all these years yeah, it’s a lot easier for me to just sit back and let my ears do their thing than watch someone signing, and I get to do it guilt-free when there’s an interpreter around. The music was heavy and loud enough for the boys to get something from it too, and the actors were talented as hell and the interpreters, when I looked over at them, seemed very good. Justin was mesmerized next to me, grabbing my hand when the bass dropped and darting his eyes between the interpreter and the stage and honestly? Just watching him was the best part for me. But we know that.


Holy shit, he said when it was over. Did you like it?


Actually, yeah. I craned my head around Justin to see Evan. You good?


He looked pretty stunned. Um. Wow.


All right, all right, point Emily.


Speaking of, we’d promised her we’d stick around after the show, so we met her at the stage door and she came out and squealed and hugged us and generally acted like she hadn’t seen us in years. Do you want to meet the actors? she asked us.


Justin and Evan were of course all over that. I caught her eye and said, Can we do it inside? with a little nod towards Justin.


Of course, she said smoothly, and she led us through the door and into the backstage, chattering at us about what everything was and where everyone worked. It was cute to see her so excited, even if it did get me thinking about how she never was lit up this way talking about advertising and oh God what if she left to pursue doing this full-time or some shit, because I have never encountered someone else’s happiness that I can’t pathologize and make a problem for myself, and boy howdy if that isn’t just the entire point of this little tale, but we’ll get there.


We stopped by the costume shop to look around a bit and grab Emily’s interpreter, and then she led us to a makeup room where the actors were back in their street clothes. The girl who played Yitzhak–Thalia, I remembered from the program–was teasing Hedwig about messing up a line near the end of the show, and Hedwig threw a wig at her.


They obviously didn’t sign, but they waved to Emily when they saw her, and she introduced us through the interpreter. Justin’s unpredictable with new people, iridescent sometimes and timid others, but he was amped and flirty tonight and was immediately snagging the interpreter and leaning against the wall by Hedwig’s makeup table, asking him questions and complimenting his performance and otherwise getting this guy to fall instantly in love with him, you know how he does it. I bit back a laugh and left him to it and looked around for Evan, but he’d drifted to the other side of the room and was talking to Thalia. I watched that for a minute–I’ve always kind of liked watching Evan talk to hearing people, it’s just impressive as shit–and then Emily asked me if I’d noticed such and such thing about the costumes, which of course I hadn’t, so of course she had to tell me all the fuck about it. Anyway, the point is we were in that dressing room for a decent amount of time, maybe twenty minutes, while Justin made a new friend and Evan…well, I wasn’t paying too much attention to Evan, and ain’t that just the rub.


When we finally got out of there, Justin wanted ice cream, despite the twenty-degree weather, and, well, birthday and all that, so we stopped somewhere on the way home. God, that was amazing! Justin said, as we walked to the ice cream place. Fuck. I am going to be thinking about that for weeks. And the way they used color in that last transition…God. There’s a painting there, I just need to find it.


With the orange light into the blue? I said.


Yes! I need to figure out how to get that wash I’m thinking of…man. Maybe this is a watercolor piece? That seems so weird given how vivid everything was, but…


I said, You have that new set you haven’t even broken into yet, the one we got from that shop in Chelsea–


Yes! Oh, I forgot all about those. Yes yes yes.


I chewed the inside of my cheek and tucked him under my arm and felt him sigh against my chest. I turned to Evan, who seemed thoughtful, looking around as we walked in that way he does, like he’s seeing something new. Good night? I asked him.


He nodded. Show was incredible.


And you made a new friend.


He laughed a little. She gave me her number.


Of course she did, I said with an eye roll.


He showed me the contact in his phone. How do you say her name?


Pretend the H isn’t there.


“Talia?”


I nodded and opened the door for them. They had a brief, playful argument about ice cream flavors that I heroically indulged, and then we ordered and sat down and dug in.


She didn’t know you were gay? Justin said.


Evan shrugged. I told her you were my boyfriend.


I guess someone in a show like this is probably pretty open-minded about that sort of shit, Justin said. Good for her. Shooting her shot, as the kids say.


We don’t say that, Evan said.


Justin smiled and settled back in his chair. He gets so stoned on good art. What was your favorite part? he asked us.


I gave Evan a beat to answer first, but when he didn’t, I shrugged and said, Origin of Love.


Yeah, Justin said, all happy. Me too.


I don’t think I really got that one, Evan said, which made sense; the whole thing was an allegory, and Evan has a hard time going from metaphorical to literal sometimes.


It’s a retelling of this old story, Justin said. It’s from the Symposium, right? he asked me.


I think so.


Plato, he told Evan. Big important old philosopher. And he told the story to Evan again–this legend that each of us was once two people squished together, either two guys or two girls or one of each, but the gods got pissy and split us up, and now we’re all running around looking for the person who used to literally be our other half. And the way we recognize them is by looking for someone who’s been damaged–by the gods and the separation, or by whatever–the same way we have.


So, what, there’s just one person for everyone? Evan said, and maybe you can see the fucking parade of sirens and red flags that this should have set off, but I didn’t really, at the time. We were just so relaxed. Justin was so happy.


Yeah, that’s the point of that story, at least, Justin said. But the musical at large is kind of questioning this idea that you need another person to complete you.


And what, it’s all just predestined? Evan said. Whether it’s going to be a girl or a boy? Who exactly it is? There’s one person out there for you and all of that’s just…done?


According to Plato? Yeah.


Evan sat back in his chair, and there was something in his eyes, and yeah, that’s the point where the mood started to shift, or it was for everyone but Evan, I guess.


Justin picked up on it too. Again, no one’s saying it’s true.


You said it was your favorite part of the show, though, Evan said. Both of you did.


Justin and I sort of just sat there, avoiding eye contact, playing with our food. Not talking.


You have to understand. Years with Evan, and this? This had never really happened. We had no idea of knowing if this was a big deal. If this was something that really bothered him or if he was just in a weird mood and feeling left out because we understood something he hadn’t or…you know? How the fuck was I supposed to know whether or not this was going to end up being a fucking thing?


It’s just that this had all gone so fucking smoothly. This whole time.


Eventually Justin reached over to Evan and laced their fingers together, and Evan squeezed his hand and kind of circled back to what Justin had said earlier about the lightning in the show, and we talked about that for a while. But Evan still seemed distracted, and abruptly he said, She was really good, wasn’t she? Thalia.


Yeah, she was, Justin said.


And she was… He rubbed the back of his neck. She was pretty, right? Like at the end of the show, and when we saw her in the dressing room.


Justin gave me a quick confused glance before he turned back to Evan. Yeah…she was.


I think… Evan rubbed his forehead. I think I’m going to text her?


Justin gave me another strange look that I have to assume I was returning. Okay…?


I think I’m going to ask her out, Evan said.


**


I cornered Justin the second we were alone together, after we’d gotten home and Evan had gone to shower. He was on the bed putting lotion on, and I shook his foot to get his attention. Has he ever been with a girl before? I said.


“I don’t think so.”


Has he ever said anything to you about being interested in one?


“No, I don’t think so.”


It’s really fucking irritating how calm you’re being.


He shrugged. It’s a little weird, but I don’t think this is any sort of crisis.


What if it gets serious?


He’s dated plenty of people. It never gets that serious.


He’s never dated a girl. It’s different.


What, he’s going to discover the majesty of sex with women and then go running for the hills? Even if it turns out he is bi, that doesn’t mean he’s going to like being with women more.


She can give him something we can’t. We’re already giving him everything we have.


Are we?


What are you talking about? I shook my head. And what if she becomes some….let’s say it gets serious. Let’s say all of a sudden we have a woman entangled in all of this. Is that what you want? Is that what you pictured?


I don’t particularly want another guy entangled in all of this either.


Whoever Evan dates is to some degree dating us too. I don’t date women.


He wrinkled his nose. You kind of sound like an ass right now.


I know. I know. I just…I didn’t plan for this.


You didn’t plan for Evan at all.


I gave him a look. You dating people was my idea.


Yeah, me casually dating people. Don’t act like either of us saw Evan coming.


I sighed and flopped down next to him on the bed. He ran his knuckles up and down my cheek, and I reached out and played with the soft hair on his legs.


“Do you think we hurt his feelings tonight?” Justin said softly. “With that conversation?”


I don’t know.


“I don’t see how we couldn’t have,” he said, looking down.


I’ve told you I don’t believe in that soulmate shit, I said, which…was not a lie, because I had in fact told him that, but we’ll get more into that later.


For now Justin just kind of gave me a look that said everything, and too much, and still made me want to run for the hills a little bit, after all these years.


I just feel guilty all the time, Justin said. I feel like what we ask of him is unfair and I just…


I sat up a little. I didn’t know that.


There is nothing in the world like you and me, Justin said. And everyone knows it, and let’s be honest, we’re not exactly subtle about it.


It’s kind of hard to be low-key about you when I have to keep pulling you from the jaws of death.


Yeah, well, that’s part of it.


I propped myself up on my elbow to face him. You know I love him.


I do know that. And so does he.


But… I took a deep breath and gestured between me and Justin. I can’t pretend that it’s…


Justin bit his lip and nodded. Yeah. I know. See why I feel guilty?


**


We avoided the subject with Evan for the rest of the night, and no one mentioned it the next day, either. Justin wasn’t feeling fantastic, so we had a low-key birthday for him. April came over for an hour or two to get high and play cards with him, like they always do, and then Molly and Daphne and Derek brought take-out for dinner. Evan seemed happy and normal enough through all of it, so I tried to be too. Justin was wiped out as hell by the time Daphne and Derek left, and he didn’t have a fever but his oxygen was a little low, so Evan and I bullied him into an early bedtime and then watched some heist movie while I worked on my laptop and Evan played on his phone and I very much did not ask who he was talking to.


Things still felt weird as shit on Monday. We said goodbye to Justin and rode the train together in near-silence, then he went down to art and I went to my office and just lost myself in paperwork for a while. Emily came in with an issue from accounting, some kind of payroll glitch, and I guess she could tell my head was very much not in the game. What is up with you today? she said, after she’d pointed me to the figure I needed to look at for the third time.


Nothing, I said, and then immediately followed up that compelling answer with a convincingly casual, How well do you know the actors? From your show.


She shrugged. They don’t sign, so…


Yeah.


Marty’s married, he’s from Long Island, they have a dog.


Thalia?


Uh, she’s young. I think twenty-four? She’s nice.


Is she straight?


She seems bi to me, but I don’t know for sure. Why on earth do you care?


I hesitated. Did you always know? That you were bi?


Well, I’m pan, but I assume the nuance is lost on you.


That’s correct.


No, I didn’t always know. Figured it out late high school, I think.


So you thought you were gay or straight before that?


Straight, I knew I liked guys.


That’s probably the way it usually goes, right?


She shrugged. I guess so. It’s the default, so…


Right.


I was supposed to like guys and I liked guys, so I figured, yeah, everything’s fine and good and normal. There was no reason for me to go out and explore other things. And then I kind of got hit in the head with it.


But it…can happen the other way.


Well, yeah, of course. Brian, what the fuck is this? You’re not…


I pinched the bridge of my nose.


Okay, sorry. Obviously not you. Justin?


I shook my head a little.


She started to say something and then stopped.


Yeah, I said. There you go.


With Thalia? She clucked her tongue. Why always hearies with him? He is so irritating.


You don’t seem surprised.


No, I’m surprised. I’m not shocked. She shrugged. This stuff is fluid.


Not for everyone.


Yes, yes, we know, Brian Kinney is the solid six of Kinsey’s dreams. But Justin’s a little more bi than you are, maybe Evan’s a little more than that. Is that a problem?


I said, Obviously it’s not a problem, which I am aware contradicted with me explicitly acting like it was a problem.


And she raised her eyebrows at me. Historically you have…struggled with bisexuality.


Yeah, but Justin’s always making me develop as a human being, it’s really annoying.


Evan dating a girl isn’t inherently different from him dating a guy, Emily said. Has he told her he’s positive?


Probably not yet. I’m sure he will. And he’s undetectable, so it’s not really a risk to her.


She seems nice, Emily said. And she’s clearly a nice modern, open-minded woman if she wants to date a guy who came to see her very subversive genderqueer show…with his two boyfriends. I say give her a shot and don’t worry until there’s something to worry about.


I nodded a little.


He deserves this, right?


He deserves whatever he wants, I said, so quickly. Without even thinking about it.


**


Things went back to normal, mostly. The weird tension between Evan and us dried up…mostly, and we lived our regular lives for a few weeks. A couple times Evan showed me a text from Thalia where she used a turn of phrase he didn’t understand, and once or twice he had me proofread something he wrote to see if it made sense, since his English grammar still leaves a lot to be desired, but besides that he didn’t talk about her and we didn’t ask. He went out a couple nights a week, presumably with her sometimes, but also still went to see Emily’s house to see Jane and went clubbing with me. Things were…sustainable, at the very least, if not perfect. Justin seemed okay, and, well, we all know that’s kind of my benchmark for if things are acceptable. So it was fine.


So, speaking of Justin being okay. One Friday night in mid-April I was still at the office when it was pushing eight, trying to finish a draft of a budget proposal for a client we were wooing. Everyone else at the office was gone, including Evan, who’d left around six and told me he was going out. I was running a few numbers through my calculator when Justin called.


He was at his studio, sitting on his couch, and as soon as I saw him I knew we were in a little trouble. He was so pale, and wheezing in that way that makes my own chest ache, and he had his thumbnail in his mouth and he looked a little scared. Are you leaving soon? he asked me.


I closed my laptop. I’m thinking I’m leaving right now.


Yeah. Yeah, okay.


You call an ambulance if you need one, okay? I said, and he nodded.


I forced myself to pack up calmly and took a cab to the studio, since it would be quicker than the train this time of night. I texted Justin on the way to see how he was doing and tell him he was on my way, and he said he was okay but also that he loved me, which I didn’t love because it seemed a bit too…you know. Last words-y. Not a fan of him pulling that one out in serious situations.


At his building, I took the stairs two at a time rather than wait for the elevator and used my key to let myself in. He was right where he’d been when I called, but the wheeze was quieter and weaker now, which happens when he’s not pulling in enough air to make that hideous racket we all know and love. I sat down next to him on the couch and he buried his face in my neck and clung onto my shirt. Martha pawed at my leg.


I lifted Justin’s chin to make him look at me. We need to go to the hospital.


He shook his head. Shocking!


And look, I know how much he hates it, so I try not to push it unless it’s really, really non-negotiable, because I want him to know that when I insist on it, I’m fucking insisting. So here I just sighed and said, You want to go home?


A fierce nod.


Yeah. Okay. Cab’s waiting outside. Get up nice and slow, hold onto me…


He spent the cab ride curled up, his fist rubbing circles on his sternum, and once we got home I ushered him in and got him all nice and medicated and eventually got the story of the evening out of him: someone in an adjacent studio was using some kind of chemical that had bothered him a bit when he got in, but his inhaler was handling it, until it wasn’t. Normally he’d be a little combative about that, preparing to fight back while I started up some lecture about how he should have left right away and he has to be more careful and all that shit he’s heard a hundred times, but today he was quiet, looking down and pulling at the stitches in the comforter, and God, I could tell he just felt so fucking awful, and that he’d been so miserable sitting there waiting for me to get there and not knowing if he’d waited too long to call. So yeah. The lecture didn’t really happen.


The nebulizer did help, though, and after he’d switched from that to oxygen and he sounded better–I mean, don’t get me wrong, still no one’s, even his, definition of great, but better–I brushed his hair off his forehead and said, I’m going to go fill Evan in, let him know where we’re at. It’s kind of an unwritten rule around here that we keep each other updated on shit like this, just to make sure that if Justin changes hands whoever’s on duty has the latest status report. And also, you know. We care.


Justin nodded. Is he home?


Yeah, I saw his keys when we came in.


So! Maybe you see where this portion of our lovely tale is headed. But look, you can see why I was distracted, right? Fuck, if you’d seen Justin back at the studio…God, you would get why I went down into the basement without flashing the lights at the top of the stairs to let Evan know I was there, which I swear I fucking never do.


But I did, and yeah, there he was in bed with Thalia.


I said something along the lines of “Oh fucking Jesus fucking Christ,” out loud as I covered my eyes, which meant that Thalia heard me, which meant there was a scream and then squawking and rustling, during which I very, very much did not look.


Finally, Evan’s voice. “Brian, what the fuck?”


Sorry, I said, eyes still closed. Sorry. I didn’t know she was here.


“You can… hang on. Okay. You can open your eyes now.”


I did, slowly. Thalia had Evan’s shirt on now, and the blanket pulled up to her chest. Evan was up and in a pair of sweatpants. He looked somewhere between embarrassed and pissed off. But closer to pissed off.


You don’t flash the lights? he said.


I….thought I did. I forgot.


He sighed. I didn’t even know you were home.


I haven’t been for long. I caught Thalia’s eye and said, Sorry.


She looked at Evan.


“He says he’s sorry,” he said, and okay, it’s not like I expected her to be fluent or anything, but he hadn’t taught her to sign at all?


Whatever. At least this meant I wasn’t airing Justin’s business to her. I picked Justin up from the studio, I said. He had an asthma attack. That’s what I was coming to tell you.


He sighed. Damn. Is he okay?


Yeah. It was bad, though.


He looked at Thalia, then back to me. Do you need me?


Oof.


Uh, no, I said. I guess not.


I’ll be up a little while, he said, with some finality. Very obviously my cue to leave.


So…I mean, what could I do? I left. I could hear Justin coughing as I went up the stairs, which was actually a good sign; he hadn’t had enough air to cough before. I went back in and stood at the foot of the bed and looked him over. Doing okay?


He stretched out happily. I love breathing.


That’s my boy.


What’s wrong?


Because I love nothing more than laying my burdens on Justin when he’s inches from the sweet release of death, I said, I just walked in on Evan and his girlfriend.


“Ah. In repose?”


Indeed. You still sound really wheezy.


He sat up a little. Was Evan pissed?


I think so. I mean, he knew it was an accident, but…


Was she okay?


I shrugged. I covered my eyes right away.


“Well, he said he was going out,” Justin said. “He should have just told us he’d be down there with her and not to bother him, right? I don’t know why he’s sneaking around.” He wheezed out a sigh. “Of course I know why he’s sneaking around.”


I groaned and crawled up the bed and flopped down next to him. It’s so weird. It’s been a month and it’s still so fucking weird. I put my hand around his ribs to feel a few of his breaths.


Justin coughed lightly and said, “Well, we don’t know her. I’m sure that’s part of it.”


I guess. Can we start a steroid course tonight? You’re still struggling.


“Okay.” He tangled our fingers together, then clapped his hands. “I know what we’re going to do. Let’s get to know her. Invite her to do something this weekend.”


This weekend. Yeah. I’m still considering hauling you off to urgent care, Sunshine. Let’s not go making any plans bigger than naps and nebulizers.


“We’ll invite her over for dinner,” Justin said. “I have to eat.”


She doesn’t sign.


“You guys will be there to help. I’ve faked my way through worse.” He rubbed his chest. “Right now we’re setting ourselves up like adversaries.”


I fingerspelled, Ad…? Adversaries. Got it.


“We invite her over, we get to know her, we make everyone feel more comfortable with the situation. And maybe we get a better idea of what they’re looking for, you know? Where they see themselves in the future.”


If she’s going to be moving into our basement?


“Dinner,” Justin said firmly. “Let’s start with dinner.”


Come lie down with me.


**


And so Sunday night we had Thalia over for dinner. Justin was still wheezing like a damn freight train but swore to us he felt all right, and to his credit he was acting normal, just…noisy. He roasted a chicken and Evan and I helped with a couple side dishes, and Thalia showed up right on time. Evan met her at the door and kissed her cheek and they had a quiet conversation, and then he led her over to me and Justin.


“Hi,” she said to me. “I am so sorry about last night.”


“No, no,” I sim-commed. “My fault.”


She turned to Justin with a shy smile. “Hi, Justin.”


“Hi!”


“I feel so bad that I don’t sign,” she said. “Coming in here and just expecting you guys to accommodate me.”


Justin watched me interpret and then shook his head. “You are not doing anything of the sort. You’re our guest. Come sit.”


We’d set the table deliberately, with her and Justin on one side and Evan and I on the other, so Evan could read her lips and Justin could see one of us interpreting for her. The consequence of being next to Justin, though, was she immediately was freaked the fuck out by his breathing, as people tend to be. She glanced at us and said, “Is he okay?”


“You can ask him,” Evan and I said in unison. Reflex.


“Right. Sorry.” She turned to Justin and gave him a thumbs up, which he returned, a little confused.


You’re scaring her with your Darth Vader impression, I explained to him.


“Oh.” Justin ducked his head, chuckling, and God, I am such a sucker for that. He glows. “I’m okay.”


“I’ve actually always wanted to learn sign language,” Thalia said, while we were passing food around. “Hopefully this will be the kick in the pants to actually do it. Although I’m worried I’m too old.”


I shook my head. “Justin was about your age when we started learning. I was in my thirties.”


“Oh, wow.” She spooned out some asparagus. “Did you ever consider not learning, or was it always the plan?”


“I think we knew we’d need sign language to get by,” I sim-commed. “But initially we saw it as more like…an adaptation to English so that he and I could communicate. We didn’t really imagine we’d have this whole sign language life, and know all these Deaf people.” I looked at Justin, “Yeah?”


“Oh, yeah, definitely not,” he said. “We…definitely did not picture this.”


“I love that,” Thalia said. “I mean, obviously not that you had to go through that, but like…that you’ve turned it into this beautiful thing. I’ve been doing some reading on Deaf culture recently. Incredible.”


Justin watched me interpret and said, “Yeah, I wouldn’t go back for anything.” I smiled at him.


“I hope if something like that ever happened to me, I’d figure out how to adapt half as well,” Thalia said. “I’m one of those really irritating people who has like, a five-year plan, and if anything happens to throw it off I like, lose my mind. So of course I choose the most unpredictable career ever.”


Evan said, “What’s your five-year plan?” and even from next to him I could see the warmth in his eyes.


She blushed a little. “Okay, next five years, maybe just more of this. But ten years? I don’t know.” She gestured around. “What you guys have. A house. Stability. Settle down. Kids maybe, marriage, the whole nine.”


“We’re not that settled,” I said, and I know, I know, you’re sick of me, but I swear I said it lightly. I was not making it a thing.


“Well, you got married, right?”


“Justin needed health insurance,” I said.


Speaking of Justin, he was starting to get lost, I could tell. I was doing my best to interpret, but I’m really just not that good, and he was having trouble trying to track who he was supposed to be looking at at any given time, and probably getting confused about when I was talking and when I was signing for Thalia. And on top of interpreting I was also, you know, kind of trying to eat, and additionally getting distracted by the ever-increasing wheeze from across the table.


“Well, obviously you two aren’t into monogamy,” Thalia said. “Which is fine! I’m the last one to judge. I was in kind of a similar situation to this while I was in college.” She took a bite of her chicken. “But I think…I don’t know, I guess at my core I’m more traditional than I’d like to admit. There’s a part of me that just think about how much easier it would be if I weren’t trying to blaze my own path all the time. I’m not saying I’m ever going to be a fucking housewife or anything, but the idea of letting myself fall into those comfortable roles…I don’t know, there’s some appeal.”


I shrugged. “Sure. I guess for some people.”


She nodded and sipped her drink and then said, “I mean, Evan did it, right? With Adam.”


And I just froze. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.


He told her about Adam.


He told her about Adam? I knew…fuck, I knew he was in a better place with this stuff since whatever kind of epiphany he had when he was under anesthesia, but it was still…


He told her about Adam.


Justin looked between all of us, his brow furrowed, and waved for my attention. What did she say? he said to me, and I wanted to tell him but my hands just…wouldn’t move.


Evan looked at me expectantly for a minute, then sighed and said matter-of-factly, She said I did the monogamy thing when I was with Adam.


And I just hated the look on Justin’s face. Because I knew, immediately, that he was right where I was, that he wasn’t going to be the voice of reason calming me down anymore. That calming down was no longer the reasonable thing to do.


He hides it so well, but I could see it in his eyes.


Evan, meanwhile, chewed and swallowed and then sim-commed. I did do it with Adam. And I liked it very much. We were really happy.


He segued into asking Thalia something, some question about herself and a show she had coming up, I don’t even know. I spent the whole rest of the dinner smiling, nodding, watching Evan and Thalia make eyes at each other, and watching Justin try to breathe.


**


“Okay,” I said, closing the door to the bedroom, where I’d brought Justin ostensibly to medicate him while Evan and Thalia had dessert. That was fucked up, right? I’m not imagining things? That was fucked up?


Justin sat down heavily on the bed. It was…


Weird? Concerning? Terrifying? I have no shortage of signs here.


Yeah. It was.


Oh God. I sat down facing him. You’re supposed to be talking me down here. This is really bad, isn’t it?


Justin just looked…shell-shocked. I don’t know.


He practically said he wanted to run off and get married to the nice Jewish girl and have two point five kids.


“No, he…” Justin shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “We’ve talked about kids, he just wants Jane, he’s good.”


Okay. Okay. So not kids. But he still…I am not imagining how that went down, am I?


No, you’re not. He’d talked to her about Adam.


He talked to her about Adam. And fuck, I didn’t know he and Adam were fucking monogamous, did you?


I think maybe I knew that. I’m not sure. He rubbed his forehead.


This is so fucked. He’s actually going to leave us. Are you okay?


Yeah.


If not her, I mean…somebody else, right? Some girl or guy who’s going to come along and offer him what we literally can’t. He wants the tradition. He wants the fucking Christmas cards. Holy shit.


This was too good to be true. This whole fucking time, I knew it, it was going too goddamn smoothly. Like, who the fuck’s story is this? Justin and I are trucking along just fine, and then we meet this fucking guy who happens to be Deaf and happens to be sick and happens to be an artist and happens to want to live with us forever and ever happily ever after… like what the fuck is that? How the fuck did I just believe that this was something I was going to get to have?


Breathe, Justin said to me.


Yeah, you’re one to talk.


He won’t… he won’t leave us, Justin said. Right? He loves us. He’s happy here.


I am not saying this to throw this in your face, I’m not, but–


I know, Justin said, because of course he didn’t need me to finish the thought. But I was ten years younger than him and a PTSD-ridden mess and it was an emotional decision. This is not the same situation.


That’s the thing. He didn’t sound emotional at dinner, right? You could tell this was shit he’d been thinking about. This was logic. He’s rationalizing his way right out the door.


Maybe he’s talking about like… the future, Justin said. You know? Like after… He shrugged. Me. If something happens.


No, he’s staying if something happens to you. We’ve talked about this.


His lips parted.


Of course. There was a knock on the door, so I was blessedly saved from having to ruminate on that one anymore. I signed Evan’s name to Justin and opened the door.


Hey, Evan said to Justin. Doing okay?


He nodded. Is Thalia still here?


She just left.


We nodded.


So…? Evan said.


She’s nice, Justin said. She’s really nice.


Okay, well, obviously something’s up.


Justin wheezed out a sigh. We’re just a little worried, I guess.


Worried.


About what this means for us.


I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t for Evan to roll his eyes away from us, take a deep breath, and then say, You know what?


Justin and I glanced at each other.


I am so fucking frustrated with how you two are handling this, Evan said. I have never dated a girl before, I’ve never even been interested in one, and now I’m in this new and scary situation and I don’t know what any of this means for me and who I am, and not once has either of you asked me how I’m feeling or how I’m doing or given me any kind of support. I have Emily blowing up my phone checking on me and sending me links to articles she thinks might help. What have I gotten from either of you? You’ve made it entirely about yourselves and how it affects you from day one.


Hang on, I said, because you don’t come for Justin like that, but Justin shook his head and put his hand on my arm.


You’re right, Justin said to him. I don’t think either of us was under the impression we’d done a great job handling this. But you’re right.


Evan shrugged. Okay. Thanks.


We’re kind of freaking the fuck out, I said. It wasn’t like…we’re just distracted.


He sighed. Why are you freaking out?


God. I built my entire life for so many fucking years around avoiding conversations just like this one. And here I was in one with not one, but two guys. How the fuck do I get myself into these situations?


I gestured out to the dining table. That was alarming, all right? It kind of sounds like you’re unsatisfied with this whole situation and you’ve been doing this for a while and now you’re ready to go back to your monogamous happy place or whatever the fuck.


Okay, Evan said. I’m dating Thalia because I like Thalia. Not because I’m unhappy or unsatisfied here. All right?


I took a deep breath, and I saw Justin at least attempt to as well. Okay, I said Okay.


We were all quiet for a minute, before Evan, after a few tries raising his hands and not speaking, finally said, But that doesn’t mean that I’m happy and satisfied.


I swear to God I felt my stomach hit the floor.


“Oh God,” I whispered. I turned to Justin. God, he’s leaving.


“I’m not…” Evan sighed. We should talk about this, right? We should be able to talk about this.


And look, I knew he was right, and I knew that of course it was also right that we were having this conversation with Justin, since obviously he was pretty involved in the whole situation. But in that moment, God, I was just so fucking pissed that Justin was here for this, that he had to deal with this kind of stress and frustration and anger–and fine, the anger was coming from me–when he already wasn’t feeling well.


So I said, Yeah, we should. So explain why this is just coming up now? If it’s apparently been building, why the fuck didn’t you say anything?


Because I was scared, Evan said. You know I was scared.


Scared of us? Yeah, we’re terrifying. I put a hand on Justin’s back to feel his breathing.


Scared of fucking this up. Is he okay?


I shrugged. So how the fuck where we supposed to know something was wrong if you didn’t say something?


He’s not saying we were supposed to know, Justin said, small.


Yeah, I’m not, Evan said. He rubbed his forehead. But you know, it’s also kind of fucking common sense, isn’t it? I’ve been third-wheeling around here for years–


That is not how we see you, Justin and I said some version of, together.


It’s how everyone sees me! Evan said. You don’t have to deal with the fucking pitying looks from people who think I’m satisfied with being the president of Brian and Justin’s fan club. All my friends asking me, but don’t you want something more, don’t you want to come first. I mean, Jesus, put yourself in my position, he said, to me. How would you feel?


You are not me.


Oh, bullshit I’m not you.


I never wanted to be in a fucking relationship at all! I said. You think I have some list of what my ideal fucking arrangement looks like?


Justin put his hand on my wrist, gently, and then turned to Evan. What is it that you need? he said to him. I’ve said we could get rings.


Yeah, get rings, I said. Here, take mine.


Evan said, “Jesus Christ, Brian, shut the fuck up,” and then turned to Justin. It’s not about that. I just feel like I lift right out of this. Like if I left, you guys would be fine and you’d just go on being you. Meanwhile I’d have no money, no place to live…I wouldn’t even have any friends. I’m almost thirty fucking years old and I still feel like some sort of kept boy and I don’t like it.


But I’m asking how to fix that, Justin said. I hear you, I do, but I don’t know the solutions. There’s not some magic bullet we’ve been keeping from you.


Okay. Buying the house, that was your decision, and I get that we weren’t in the same place then as we were now, but if you decided to move again, would I even be included?


Of course you would, I said.


Evan just shrugged. You guys decided I would move up to this room, not me. When stuff goes really sideways with Justin, Brian makes the decisions and I hear about it later. I am always finding things out after the fact. It’s, ‘oh, we made this choice that affects all our lives, now let’s go tell Evan about it.’


There wasn’t much we could say to that one.


What if I decided I wanted another kid, he said. Would we even talk about that, would that be on the table? Or would that just be time for me to go and find someone else?


Of course we would talk about it, Justin said.


But I would never ask you guys, he said. I would shove it down and make myself smaller and fit into this life, your life, and don’t you think that’s a problem?


Justin said, Yeah, I do.


Your friends in Pittsburgh besides Michael don’t even know I exist.


I said, Do you honestly care about–


Justin’s mom, he said, and…yeah. That one was hard to argue with.


So we didn’t. We just stayed so still, the silence ringing all around us.


Evan said, I-I just don’t know if there’s a way at this point to make this fair to everyone. To me. And even if all that were fixed, even if somehow we were all three legally fucking married and… He sighed and turned to me, gestured between us. There’s still this.


What the fuck do you mean, this?


“Brian,” Justin said.


This is about sex? I said.


No, Evan said. It’s not about sex. He looked at Justin. Baby, can you breathe?


Yeah.


If it’s not about sex…


It’s not, Evan said.


You have to understand how fucking exhausted I was by this point. And how absolutely sure I was that we’d lost him.


So I just shrugged.


Evan said after a beat. Okay. He ran his hand through his hair. I just need to let myself think about this stuff, I think. I’ve spent way too long trying not to.


Great, I said. Think away.


Yeah, he said. I’m going to take a shower.


He took his time getting his stuff together and then went into the bathroom and shut the door. I sat down on the bed next to Justin, but I felt like I wasn’t really there, or like I didn’t have a body. I don’t know.


I can’t explain the extent to which I had not seen this coming.


And I know, I know it was a billion years ago, and again, I am not trying to rub Justin’s face in this, but the fact remained that I was about to lose someone again because I couldn’t say the pretty little words they wanted to hear and I just wanted to throw myself into the sun.


Justin took my hand, and I squeezed it.


This is so fucked up, I said eventually.


Justin took a minute, then said, “He’s right, though.”


He’s not right.


“Yeah, he is. Everything he said was valid. And it’s good. It’s good that he’s telling us all of this. It means he trusts us.”


I don’t think any part of this could be construed as ‘good.’


“We’re being selfish and I don’t want to do it anymore. This is about him and his journey and…yeah, I am officially Team Evan Finding Himself.”


You’re scared to death.


“Yeah, I am. But this needs to not be about me. Or you.” He took a shaky breath. “If you want something to take your mind off it, I think I have a fever.”


Yeah? I palmed his forehead. Shit. Yeah, you’re burning up. God.


It was a good distraction, sick as it is to say. At least I fucking knew what to do about this one; I can do a fever with Justin on autopilot. I got him drugged up and settled in bed, then I took Martha out–she was not pleased about being separated from Justin, probably knew he was sick before he did–and then went to clean up our illustrious dinner party. I ended up zoning out in front of the TV with a bottle of whiskey, which completely wasn’t me staying out of the bedroom until after I knew Evan would be asleep. But if it happened to work out that way, hey. And it did, since I didn’t brave the bedroom until after one AM. Evan was in his usual spot, hugging Justin into his chest, and everything looked so peaceful and normal that it made me want to throw up.


I rolled over in the middle of the night and both of them were gone. The bathroom light glowed from under the door, and I could hear the tub running. I got up and stretched and made my way over to the bathroom. They were angled away from me and watching each other and didn’t see me open the door, and I started to wave my hand, let them know I was there, and then I just…didn’t.


Justin was shivering and breathing hard, sitting on the side of the tub while it filled, and Evan palmed the back of his head and kissed his forehead. Do you want some tea? Evan asked him.


Justin shook his head. Stay with me.


I’d come right back, clingy. He gave him a gentle hug. You’re really hot.


Thanks.


Yeah, anytime. Bath is almost ready.


It’s not too cold, is it?


It’s warm. You’re going to wish it was hotter, but I need to get that fever down, baby.


Okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I woke you up.


I’m not. Hang in there, okay? I’ve got you. Come here.


I inched the door closed and went back to bed and buried my face in a pillow that smelled like both of them.


**


Justin’s fever was still pretty high in the morning, and he wasn’t sweating, so it didn’t look like it’d be breaking any time soon. I woke him up to take his meds and drink some water. His breathing wasn’t actually terrible, but he was so tired, and as soon as he swallowed the pills he curled up on top of Evan and went back to sleep.


I nodded to him and told Evan, Do you want to stay home with him? I’ll tell art.


“You sure?”


I shrugged. He shouldn’t be alone with a fever this high.


“No, I know, I just thought…”


Well, obviously I knew what he thought. And why he thought it. That was kind of the point, wasn’t it?


So I just shrugged, and Evan nodded a little, and I bent down and kissed Justin’s hot forehead and then lifted Evan’s chin a bit to kiss him, gently, too.


And I left.


The morning was absolute shit. I couldn’t focus for anything. I had this headache I could feel behind my eyes and I didn’t think it was because I’d caught whatever Justin was incubating. I snapped at everyone who dared to speak to me, I zoned out in meetings, and I had this tight feeling at the bottom of my throat that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times I swallowed. My hands kept shaking whenever I tried to hold anything, and periodically I’d have this feeling like the room or my field of vision or something was getting smaller and smaller and it would be kind of hard to breathe.


What’s wrong with you? Emily asked me, but I just told her Justin was sick and I was stressed about it and that seemed to satisfy her. When really, Justin was the fucking last thing on my mind, and Christ, how often can I say that one?


I thought about ordering lunch but everything I could think to eat turned my stomach, and I ended up pacing my office and considering tearing my fucking hair out. I texted Justin to see if he was awake–maybe he could fucking talk me down–but he didn’t answer. So, okay, fuck it. Clearly work wasn’t happening. Clearly calming the fuck down wasn’t happening.


So I sent another text: I need you. meet me at Demetriou’s and got the fuck out of the office.


**


Demetriou’s is a cafe about a block away from the office, which means it’s a bit of a journey for Derek from midtown, but fuck if he wasn’t there in half an hour. I got up immediately and hugged him. Whoa, he said. Are you okay?


I shook my head as I sat back down, and then I just…recounted the whole tale to him. He knew about Evan dating Thalia, so I sped through that part and focused on the massacre of a dinner party we’d hosted, the conversation with Justin after, then with Evan, then with Justin again. Seeing Justin and Evan together later that night. It could not be more obvious that it’s me, I concluded. I’m the problem. He’s a little pissed at Justin for some stuff, fine, but nothing relationship-ending. And then there’s me, and….Justin and I are both going to lose him and it’s my fault. And I feel…I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking think. All day I’ve just…I can’t fucking believe how not okay I am.


Did he say he was leaving?


I shook my head. He is. I can tell.


Yeah, and you have a strong habit of jumping to worst-case scenarios.


Have you seen the shit that happens to me? I shook my head. I can’t believe I thought this would work out.


All right, Derek said. So Evan wants something more from both of you, and maybe primarily from you. Why is that a catastrophe?


I don’t have anything more, I said. He needs me…he needs what I have for Justin. I can’t make that happen. I don’t even know how Justin made it happen. How the fuck do I duplicate that? How do I… I don’t have it in me. I can’t double that.


Derek nodded for a minute, thinking, then he said, Who’s the first person you ever loved?


I shrugged a shoulder. Justin.


No, like, any kind of love. Your mom, or…?


I sighed. I must have, at some point. I don’t know. Maybe my sister. Maybe not until Michael.


And after that?


I thought about it. Debbie and Vic, I guess. Lindsay.


And then at some point, Gus, Justin, your people here. Including Evan.


God, this kid was lucky I liked him. But I nodded.


So that’s a long list of people for someone who doesn’t do love, right?


I have never said…it’s the romantic shit that I struggle with. I’ve never made any claims that I don’t love my friends, my son.


And you’ve gotten to a point where you’ll admit that you love romantically too.


I rolled my eyes. Obviously.


I’m just trying to point out the progress you’ve made here, Derek said. That’s all.


That doesn’t mean I can suddenly grow a whole fucking extra chamber of whatever the fuck part of me to try to fit another one of what I have for Justin. I can’t.


Did he ask you to? Evan. Did he really ask you to do that?


He said there’s a problem with him and me. That we aren’t as connected. I know what that means. He sees me every fucking day with Justin and I just assumed he’d never be fucking jealous of that? These fucking people out there, running around living their ordinary lives with no fucking idea, fine, but Evan’s in the house seeing it every day, could not get more fucking front row…and he sees what Justin and I have?


I thought he’d what, turn away and be happy with what he had?


The thing is that I did, and I knew exactly why, too. Justin loves him so goddamn much, I said. He gets everything Justin has. And I thought that was enough. I didn’t think….who the fuck would care about what they get from me when they get Justin?


Someone who loves you. You knew that he loved you.


I shrugged.


Did you or didn’t you?


I did. Probably not as much as he loves Justin. Why would he?


So we’ve got to stop with that, Derek said gently. This quantifying thing. It’s not helping. Love isn’t something you can count.


I don’t feel about anyone else the way I feel about Justin, I said flatly. That’s quantifiable. That’s a fact.


Do you love him more than you love Gus?


I narrowed my eyes. What?


He sipped his drink. Should be a simple question, right? If it’s so easily quantifiable, okay, who do you love more, Justin or Gus?


That’s a stupid question.


Why?


Because it’s totally fucking different. How I feel about my son and how I feel about my partner are not the same.


Oh, so it’s almost like it’s not quantifiable?


Okay, fine, no, not in that example.


Why did you text me to meet you instead of Daphne?


Because I wanted to talk to you about this.


So you love me more than Daphne?


No, I don’t–


He was on a roll now, though. Which of those people you listed would you rather sleep with? Which one would you call to help you hide a body? Who are you taking to a movie? Who are you staying up all night talking to? Whose laugh is your favorite? Who can you be the most yourself around?


I get what you’re going for, but the answer to all of those is Justin, I said. The answer will always be Justin.


All right, he said. That’s fine. Tell me–why do you think that is?


How the fuck should I know?


I want you to think back to when you met Justin, he said. And everything you two have been through. All of it.


I don’t want to think about that, I said immediately.


Derek was so gentle. Because it’s traumatic, right? It’s so much.


There’s just…yeah. There’s a lot.


So how exactly do you think you can be expected to replicate that with someone else? Someone you haven’t weathered all of that with?


So I’m just fucked then?


No, because you feel something for Evan, obviously, or you wouldn’t be sitting here freaking the fuck out about the possibility of him leaving. You just haven’t examined it, and you don’t recognize it because it didn’t grow around years and years of holding each other through trauma. It happened when you were happy. It happened when there wasn’t an empty space inside of you for him to fill.


I thought about that.


What all of this shit has been about is just trying to get you to recognize that love is individual, and that it’s not finite, and that literally no one loves two people exactly the same way, he said. But that doesn’t mean that what you have for Evan is necessarily not enough. Especially if you’ve never taken the time to fucking communicate to him, how is he even supposed to know whether it’s enough?


Okay, but what if I fucking figure out how to communicate it to him and…and it isn’t, it’s not enough.


Derek reached over and covered my hand with his.


Okay, he said. But what if it is?


**


So I continued avoiding work for the rest of the day. Instead, I wrote. I made lists. I crossed shit out and rewrote it. I did the kind of horrifying emotional work that just considering would have had me putting a gun in my mouth fifteen years ago, and I am not going to bullshit you and tell you it was a great time. It fucking sucked. But by the end of the work day I had some thoughts sorted out. I had hope, even if it was just a fucking glimmer.


First I needed to check on Justin, obviously. He was right about where I left him, fast asleep, though he’d changed into clean pajamas at some point. He was still flushed and shivery, but he felt a little cooler. There was a glass of ice water on the nightstand next to him, and a note from Evan saying he was downstairs painting and Justin should text him if he woke up. And he loved him.


It’s just so fucking easy for some people, and God, it’s just not fucking fair. I’m over it. It’s not fucking fair.


I had a shot of whiskey for good measure and then stopped at the top of the stairs to the basement and very much flashed the lights, thank you very much, before I headed down the stairs. Evan was at his easel, music playing from his speakers. It was too early in the painting to really tell what it was, but he had a reference photo up. The view from our beach house.


He put his paintbrush down and switched off the music. “Hey.”


Hey. This looks good so far.


“Thanks.”


I like the color blending here.


Yeah, Justin showed me how to do that. Did you check on him?


I nodded. Still asleep.


He’s been out all day. I think we should take him to the doctor tomorrow if his fever’s not down.


Yeah, probably. I took a deep breath and shuffled my feet on the ground. So….all right, listen. About yesterday.


He shook his head. I shouldn’t have ambushed you guys with all of that.


No, that was brave. Don’t backtrack now. Just, um…I need to say some things, okay?


Yeah, okay.


Okay. Fifteen years ago, when I met Justin…okay. I’m just…


He looked at me expectantly.


Sorry. I’m just trying to figure out how to get across to you what a goddamn disaster I was at the time. I was about to turn thirty and I was a mess about that. My relationships with my friends, with Michael, were just a toxic mix between codependency and neglect. I was fucking different guys every night. I didn’t even let them sleep over, I didn’t know their names. I’d go out and hook up with three guys and then come home and get drunk and pass out. I had issues with honestly, God knows how many substances. It was cocaine to get up in the morning and alcohol to get to sleep, and everyone just fucking let me becuase I would have bit the head off of anyone who tried to stop me. I was about to turn thirty and having some existential fucking crisis about how my enternal boyhood was finally coming to a close, the only thing in the world I had holding me together was my job. And then one night I look across the street and…


Evan watched me.


It was not love at first sight or anything like that. He was just something different, at first, and then we started talking and I actually fucking wanted to talk to him, and…whatever, so we got together. And then my dad died. And his parents got divorced. And then prom, and…


You don’t have to talk about that, Evan said.


Well, that’s good, because I still…fucking can’t, I still have not found the words or the signs for that. I don’t think they exist. And that’s going to fucking always be the biggest thing, but there’s also…I had cancer, and he lost his hearing, and he got so sick, and my mother, and those burns, and…there’s a lot that’s happened. There’s a lot. And I’m telling you this for a reason, I swear, that there have been times in my life where I know for a fact that if I hadn’t had him there, I mean, if I hadn’t seen his face or fucking felt him right that second, that I wouldn’t have survived. And that’s the fucking God’s honest truth. And it’s not pretty. It’s not sweet. We have grown around each other like fucking gnarled-up trees, and that is time, and that is trauma, and I’m telling you this for a reason. I swear I am. I need you to understand that when I met Justin every single part of me was fucking…if not broken, at least unfinished. I was grasping at straws. I was grabbing a boy out from under a streetlight just to feel something. I need you to understand because you don’t know that Brian, you have never met that Brian, and that is my point, okay?


“Okay,” he said softly.


Okay. Because I need you to understand that by the time you showed up, Justin and I, we were in a great place. We had friends and an apartment and a marriage and we were happy and I was good. I wasn’t looking for anything. I was done. You were here for him, not for me.


“I know that.”


But here you are anyway, I said. And I don’t mean in the house, I don’t mean in my life, I mean… I gestured at myself. Here you are. Okay?


He nodded slowly.


You got in when there was no space and no time and no fucking deep-down urge to grab someone to cling to in the dark. There was no dark. There was no perfectly-shaped hole for you to fit into. You just came, and you are you, and now I am so terrified of what my life and my brain and my fucking heart look like without you in them. I am scared to death. I was a fucking mess at work today.


I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–


Do not. Do not apologize. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I know I’m not good at this. I just…I don’t have the words or the signs for this either. But I need to try to make you understand this.


He sat down on the bed and watched me.


I don’t think there’s another Justin out there for me. The reason I don’t believe in soulmates is because I don’t think there was even supposed to be Justin. I don’t think that the way I feel about him is healthy or normal or…or felt by every other fucking bastard out there in the world. And yes, if I’m looking at someone like in that song and I’m seeing the same pain on them that’s in me, of course that’s Justin, because we’ve been through so much shit together that how could it not be Justin. But when…Evan, if I think about seeing someone for the first time and seeing yourself in them? That’s not Justin.


He pulled his lips into his mouth.


You are…you are very, extremely important to me. And I need you to know that. You are important enough that I’m not going to feed you some line of bullshit about feeling the same way for the two of you, because it’s not the same. What I feel for you is not as painful, and it’s not as poetic. But it is not less.


“Okay,” he whispered.


It is so goddamn important to me that you are happy and safe and honored, I said. If something bad happens to you, I will burn down this fucking world. That’s what I can offer you. And I can tell you that all today I was trying to make myself wish that I hadn’t met you and I could not do it, and that if you turned around and left today and I never saw you again, I would still fucking be grateful. I would not go back. I was finished and content and happy before you, and I would not go back to it.


Can I talk now?


Jesus, please. I don’t think I can talk for a few years now. I think I’m done.


“I was never going to leave,” he said. “And I’m sorry if I made you think I was. You guys are my world. I’m just…” He shrugged. “I’m trying to figure out what my future is going to look like. I’m about to turn thirty and I have all these ideas in my head of what I always expected settling down was going to look like, and I’m trying to figure out what I actually want and what society has just convinced me I want. I don’t want to do the conventional thing because I’m supposed to, but I also don’t want to not do the conventional thing just because I think I only want it because I’m supposed to. You know?”


God, I felt like I could breathe for the first time all day. I wondered if this was how Justin felt, when we the drugs would finally kick in. Speaking of, This is Justin in Chicago all over again, I said. I’ve heard a lot of this lately.


“Mm. Must be going around.” He sighed. “I don’t know. That’s why I don’t think it’s fair that I put this on you and Justin, because it’s nothing you’re doing wrong, really. It’s just something I’m going through.”


Okay, but if there is something you can want that we’re not giving you, you should tell us. You weren’t wrong about that.


I mean, I’d like a cat.


Yeah, wouldn’t we all.


He groaned. “God. I just don’t want to feel like I’m settling. You know?


Yeah. Not to minimize what you’re going through or anything, but…that’s thirty. That’s a turning thirty thing.


Awesome.


Yeah, well, you could be picking up seventeen-year-olds under streetlamps, so we'll call it a win.


And I didn’t tell him this, because I didn’t want to manipulate him, but I’ll lay some of my wisdom on you, since you’ve made it this far: there is always an element of settling in relationships. Al-fucking-ways, no matter how much you think you’ve risen above it. We act like being open means we don’t deal with that, when the reality is that there are still just so many hours in a day, and you’re never going to get to spend every single one with whoever it is you want to be with at any given time, and Christ, even if you get to, half the time you’re going to end up arguing or boring each other or falling asleep. You can’t always live your life like you want to. Especially not if you’re sick. Especially not if someone you…you know. If there is not a guarantee of how long your people will be around.


But I wouldn’t go back. Okay?


Anyway, I didn’t say any of that. I just pointed at the ceiling and said, I think I hear Justin getting up.


Okay. Do you have him? I want to keep working on this, if I can.


Yeah, of course. He needed a minute, obviously, but fuck, who could blame him. Upstairs if you need me.


“Yeah. Brian?”


I paused on the stairs. Yeah.


“You did good.”


**


Justin was indeed awake when I got upstairs, and his fever had dropped enough that I felt like I could have a good conversation with him that night and leave him alone the next morning. I went down to the art department at lunch, after I’d had a few phone calls with my lawyer, and waved to Evan across the room.


Come to lunch with me? I said.


He looked around at his work. Yeah, sure.


I took him around the corner to this cuban place he loves, and as he slid into his seat he said, “So what’s up? Is Justin okay?”


He’s fine, and we’re not talking about him.


He laughed. We always talk about him.


We’d come back to that. First, I took some paperwork out of my briefcase and pushed it across the table to him. Now. I’m not expecting you to sign any of this now. You should get an interpreter to go over it with you. But…you can start looking it over.


“Okay…”


The first one’s for the house, I said. We want to get your name on the deed.


I didn’t pay for the house.


Neither did Justin. Who cares. I flipped to the second contract. This is Justin’s power of attorney. This means that if–when–he’s not able to make medical decisions for himself, you’re cleared to do it. Same as me.


He nodded slowly. “Yes. Yeah. Okay.”


And I don’t have paperwork for this one because I’m not involved, but I think you should talk to Emily and Gwen and Justin and try to get something on file for Jane. Maybe not official custody or anything like that, but some piece of paper that says if God forbid anything ever happens to Emily and Gwen, that’s your kid. God knows you put in the work with her. That’s your kid.


His chin shook a little at that one, and I had to look away.


None of this is me trying to lock you in, to be clear, I said.


“No, I…I didn’t think it was.”


If you ever do decide to leave, you should leave with something, I said. Or if something ever happens to me, or to Justin, I don’t want you to have to deal with some fucking lawyer saying the house isn’t yours. This is your life. You own it. Okay?


He swallowed. Okay.


And there’s one more thing, if you want it, I said. We’ll tell the Pittsburgh people about you. And Justin’s mom. And we will define it however you want us to define it and disclose however much you want us to disclose. I paused. But there’s a catch for this one.


A catch.


I nodded. I want you to talk. To me, right now.


Talk. About what?


About you. About growing up in LA. About when you ran away to New York. About Adam.


He held eye contact.


I want you and I to sit here and have lunch and have a conversation about something that isn’t Justin. I want to know you better.


He laughed. So what is this, a date?


I guess…yeah. I guess it’s a date.


Evan leaned back in his chair watching me, with his arms crossed. A smile on his face. “Okay, Kinney.”


“Okay.”


The waiter came, and we ordered food, and Evan talked. About LA, and running away to New York, and Adam. And I sat there and ate my food and watched this boy and his words and the way the sunlight shone spots on his cheek, and the way the whole world stopped when he smiled and I thought, maybe not forever, maybe right in this moment… but this is my favorite laugh.


And that is something.


All in all, not a bad first date.

 

Chapter 147 - Jellyfish by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

A week at the beach, where everyone takes a breather....so to speak.

Jellyfish

LaVieEnRose



What does next week look like for you two? Brian asked us one evening in May, while he was on the couch on his laptop, and Evan and Martha and I were flopped on the floor. Evan was scrolling through Twitter on his phone, and I was painting Evan’s toenails purple. Martha was mostly contemplating the state of the world, I think.


What does it look like? I repeated. A lot like most weeks. I kind of picture the days going up like this, and then you get to the weekend and they make a hook.


Yeah? Evan said. I always picture all the days just in a circle.


Ooh, interesting!


I am returning both of you for store credit, Brian said, and Evan and I looked at each other and giggled. Can I start over?


I swiped some nail polish on Evan. “As many times as you like, dear.”


He flicked me off and said, I don’t have a lot of stuff due next week and I think I can do all my meetings remotely. I would like to go to the beach house. How does that sound?


Yes, I said immediately. I’m doing nothing. I had thrilling plans to read a book.


He turned to Evan. How about you, kid?


Evan wiggled his toes. I guess if my boss says it’s okay.


He says it’s okay.


Cool!


So that weekend, we packed up our shit and loaded up the car and headed out to the beach house. It was only early May, so not really warm enough for swimming and sunbathing, but I didn’t mind. I love it there. I spend so much time at home that it’s nice just to see different walls for a while, plus my hayfever’s waaay better out by the water. Evan let me ride shotgun since I get carsick pretty easily, and they blasted music and screamed the lyrics aloud and I just smiled and leaned against the window and watched them. And enjoyed the quiet! I know Brian can’t sing, and, well, Evan is Deaf, so I’m guessing he’s not the greatest either. Sometimes the quiet is okay!


It was just nice, after the unsettling few weeks we’d just had, to get away and relax and be happy just the three of us, and everything felt so normal and nice. I didn’t know the details of everything that had gone down with Brian and Evan–I knew they’d talked, and obviously Brian ran the legal decisions by me before he presented them to Evan–but I was okay taking a step back and letting them work this one out themselves. It’s probably healthier for all of us that they have some stuff between the two of them that isn’t centered around me. Even if I do like the attention. I’m spoiled.


It was sunny and cool when we got to the beach house, and we changed into white linens–but of course–and went for a walk downtown. Evan hoisted me onto his back when I got tired, and I just marveled at how strong he was nowadays. The anti-rejection meds made him feel like shit some days, and obviously he was still positive, but…wow. Kidney transplants are magical.


We got lobster rolls on the dock for dinner and I trailed my toes in the water and scratched Martha’s head and watched Evan and Brian arguing about lobster condiments and looked out at the sunset and just…


Something’s going to go wrong in this story, obviously. There’d be nothing to talk about if something didn’t. But I just want you to know that this feeling never goes away. Me and Evan and Brian and the sun and the sea.


**


We slept in the next morning. Brian and Evan did a few meetings and some other remote stuff and I read and napped and took the dog for a long walk and otherwise enjoyed my lifestyle as a houseboy. I made a huge thing of nachos for lunch and plenty of margaritas and we ate on the porch looking over the ocean.


Here’s an idea, I said. What if we never go back?


We do have jobs, Evan said. And friends. And a child.


Make them come to us! Except for the jobs. The jobs are not invited.


I’m not sure they’d all fit in the house, Evan said.


Brian will just need to buy us some more houses.


Probably difficult if he doesn’t have a job, Evan said.


Brian had been checking his phone, but he saw me sign his name. What is Brian doing?


Spending money indiscriminately.


He smiled like he was trying not to. I love that face. That sounds more like a Sunshine thing than a Brian thing.


Oh, please. You’re just as bad as I am. How much did that shirt cost?


He looked down at his chest. You bought me this shirt.


“Oh. Hmm.”


We ventured down to the water when we were done eating. Evan was collecting seashells, and Brian sat in the sand with a book and every once in a while glanced up at Evan with a ghost of a smile on his face. I felt like annoying Brian, so I hung all over him for a little and asked him questions about his book while he was trying to read that he gamely answered. Eventually I decided to give him a break, so I rolled up the legs of my pants and waded into the water a bit. I was in there for maybe two minutes when I felt a sudden, sharp pain on the back of my ankle.


“Hey,” I said, and picked my foot up.


Evan has that Justin-radar, so he was on me immediately. What’s wrong?


I’m not sure.


Did you cut yourself?


I shook my head and looked at the back of my ankle. There was a small red mark there, maybe a little swollen. I think something bit me?


Evan scanned the water and then pointed at a wave rushing back into the sea. Jellyfish.


“Hmm.”


He watched me carefully. Ever been stung before?


I shook my head.


Brian had wandered over by now, with Martha at his heels. What’s up? he said. I was still standing on one foot, so he put his hand on my arm to steady me.


He got stung by a jellyfish, Evan said.


Okay. Brian helped me limp back to the sand, then took a look at my ankle. It doesn’t look too bad. How do you feel?


Fine, it just stings a little.


Are we supposed to pee on it? Evan asked.


I shook my head. Urban legend. And it’s not that bad.


I assume you can be allergic to jellyfish stings, Brian said. And similarly I assume that you are.


I tested putting weight on that foot. Not bad. Why, because I’m allergic to bees?


Because you’re allergic to everything, but yes, bees are on my mind.


Let’s continue this conversation inside, Evan said. Where there’s Benadryl. You need me to carry you?


No, I’m okay. Just stay close, I guess. Waiting to see if I’m going to have an allergic reaction to something is maybe my least favorite activity in the universe. I hate having to be aware of my body to that extent, having to do those constant check-ins, because all of a sudden everything feels like a symptom and I get so completely paranoid and I don’t even know what’s a problem and what isn’t. It sucks.


We got inside and Brian sat me on the couch while Evan looked up jellyfish stings on his phone. You look okay, Brian said. How’s the breathing?


Normal.


It says vinegar, Evan said. Or hot water. Once we get the barbs out. Are there barbs? What’s a barb?


Like…the stinger. Brian examined my ankle. I don’t see any.


Yeah, it’s really not that bad, I said. I think it barely got me.


Tell that to your immune system.


So far it seems to agree.


Brian sighed and leaned his elbow against the back of the couch, watching me. Brian hates allergic reactions. We don’t do them often enough for him to be comfortable with them, so he feels like he doesn’t know what he’s doing and…well. He doesn’t handle that well.


“Whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen,” I said to him, softly.


He nodded a little.


“We’ll deal.”


He nodded again. What do you want right now?


“Uh…let’s go ahead and do Benadryl. It can’t hurt. And if vinegar takes the sting out, let’s do that. It’s starting to bug me."


We didn’t have any vinegar, turned out, so we just did hot compresses on it, which helped a little. I said we should watch a movie so we had something to do other than obsessively monitor my symptoms, and I made them promise not to look at me every five seconds as long as I swore to keep them updated if anything started to feel weird. Evan curled up in the armchair that he loves with his favorite blanket, angled perfectly so he could see me, and Brian motioned for me to put his legs up in his lap, and he held the compresses to my ankle and checked the site every once in a while, but mostly they kept their end of the deal and at least pretended to watch the movie.


How’s it look? I asked Brian after a while.


Swollen. I don’t know if it’s normal. Still feeling okay?


“Yeah.” And I did, for about twenty more minutes, and then I just started to feel kind of…off. “Okay,” I said. “It’s kind of hard to swallow.”


Brian paused the movie, and Evan said, What did he say? I missed it.


Hard to swallow, I said.


How bad? Evan asked.


It’s not terrible, it just feels weird. I took a slow breath in. I could feel myself wheezing, but it didn’t feel much worse than usual. We have the epipen?


Right here, Evan said. Brian was being so quiet, just watching me, and I knew he was scared. He took my hand.


Okay, hang on to that, I said, and right when I said it I swear my whole fucking body went up in hives, all at once. I was looking at my arm and then all of a sudden the entire thing was covered, and I felt them crawl up my neck and onto my face. “Oh. Okay. So that’s a reaction.”


Oh, Sunshine, Brian said, small.


It’s okay. I took the Benadryl bottle off the table and had a few more swallows. “Damn it.”


Brian ran his thumb over my knuckles.


Can I just not be allergic to one fucking thing? I took a slow breath to keep myself from scratching my skin off.


Epipen? Brian asked.


Epipen’s for two systems, I said. This is all just skin.


You can’t swallow, he said.


That’s just swelling, it’s the same thing.


Brian turned my wrist over to take my pulse. Forgot to pack the fucking pulse ox.


Yeah. I can breathe okay so far. Can we put the movie back on?


No, not right now, Evan said. We need to watch you.


Yeah. I closed my eyes. Yeah, okay. I started to scratch and Brian immediately knocked my hand away.


We sat there for a few minutes, kind of squished together on the couch, the two of them sandwiching me in. Is the hospital close? Evan asked Brian.


Yeah, it’s pretty close. Brian still had his fingers on my wrist, tracking my pulse, and suddenly his eyes went wide and he tapped my knee a few times. Heart rate just dropped.


Yeah? I said, and then a few seconds later I got completely lightheaded and I felt my stomach drop. Oh. There it is. I felt Martha nudge her nose against my hand. i know, honey.


Brian and Evan both kind of scrambled for the epipen, and Evan grabbed it first and got it into my hand. I pulled the cap off with my teeth and pushed the needle into my thigh. It hurt a little, but it’s not terrible. Mostly I just put off using epipens because they’re expensive as shit–I know, Brian would kill me if he knew–and just because they’re such a fucking ordeal. You’re supposed to go to the hospital every time you use one and like ugh, spare me. And if an epipen doesn’t stop a reaction it’s like this huge fucking deal, so it’s always like…it’s good to have it there in my back pocket as an option, and once that option’s used up it’s like well, hope’s gone, off to the fucking worst place on earth!


It did help, though; I could tell right away. My breathing hadn’t been horrible, but it was easier now, and obviously my heart sped right back up. My skin still felt awful, but I could swallow.


Oh, it’s better, Evan said. It’s getting better. He’d never seen me use an epipen before, I realized. Hooray for relationship milestones.


I nodded. Do we have more?


Two more, Brian said. And if we get down to one, we go to the hospital.


Yeah. Okay. That’s fair. I sneezed a few times. Ugh.


Bless you. Do you want another one?


I shrugged. Have it ready, I guess. I’m fine right now.


I didn’t end up needing another one. I took some more Benadryl, but the reaction didn’t get really bad again, and soon I was just covered in hives and so, so, so goddamn tired. My actual ankle was hugely swollen now. No jellyfish for Justin, I guess. Probably good to know, though what was I gonna do about it? Not a whole lot I could do to prepare for this one. It’s not like I was never going to go in the ocean again. I guess next time I’d know to do the epipen right away.


Brian and Evan wouldn’t let me go up to bed where I wouldn’t be watched, which was fair enough and honestly fine by me. I could have fallen asleep standing up at that point, throbbing ankle and all. I curled up on the couch and let Evan cover me with a blanket and tried not to scratch, and I fell asleep in about a second with Martha tucked under my chin.


I was having a bit of a nightmare, something just vague and dark and unsettling, when Evan woke me up later. You okay? he asked me, pushing my hair back.


I nodded and nuzzled into my pillow.


How are you feeling?


Itchy, mostly, but I still felt kind of fuzzy and out-of-it, and my chest was hurting some. Kinda bad.


Time for dinner, okay? Can you come to the table?


Yeah, I can. I wrestled with the blanket for a bit and finally freed myself and dragged my feet into the kitchen, stumbling at first when I was unprepared for how fucking much my ankle was going to be throbbing. Evan scratched the back of my head as we walked. Brian turned away from the stove and took the front of my shirt to pull me into a hug.


Those hives look awful, he said once he’d let me go.


I think they’re on my eyelids?


Jesus. Sit down and get excited for your bland dinner.


I get a whole allergy diet after bad reactions, where we cut out anything I could possibly even think about reacting to. Which meant that instead of the salmon teriyaki we’d had planned for that evening, I got a nice plate of white rice, plain broccoli, and grilled chicken.


And they were having the same thing. You guys could have had actual food, I told them.


It’s food, Evan said. There’s protein. There are calories.


We might not be going to the hospital, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have hospital food, Brian said, and I laughed.


They asked me a few questions through dinner about how I was feeling, but mostly we talked about other stuff, the work they’d gotten done that day, a text Evan had gotten from Emily about daycare for Jane. We danced around talking about what we were going to do tomorrow; we’d had plans to do some shopping downtown during the day and then check out the bars once it got dark, but obviously that was kind of up in the air now. I tried to join in the conversation but mostly concentrated on staying awake. Swallowing was feeling a little weird again. Nothing dire, but it made eating take a little extra effort, and it was wearing me out, trying to time that out with my breathing and everything.


Brain cleared the plates after dinner and said, Should we finish that movie?


Yeah, might as well, I said, since it was about all I had the energy for anyway. Can you help me walk, my fucking ankle–


Yeah, come here, he said, and he wrapped an arm around my waist and helped me limp over to the couch. I curled up between them with the blanket around me and drifted in and out of sleep. I barely stirred when Brian carried me up to bed a few hours later.


I woke up in the middle of the night feeling dizzy and nauseated. Martha was peacefully asleep at the foot of the bed, so I knew it wasn’t a seizure and I probably wasn’t dying, but ugh. They’d put me down on the edge of the bed so I could have oxygen through the night, so I shook whoever was next to me without really caring which one it was, and laughed a little when his first reaction was to pull me in a headlock to stop me from bothering him. Brian.


“I need some Benadryl,” I told him.


Nightstand, Sunshine, he signed with his eyes closed.


“Yeah. Can you be with me for a minute?”


He nodded, eyes still closed, and hugged me close to him, then slowly sat up and rubbed his eyes. You scared?


“No, I just feel awful.”


Do you want another epipen? I left it next to you.


I shook my head and drank some Benadryl.


Let me hear you breathe, he said, and after I took a few breaths he nodded. Okay. He ran his fingers over my skin. I think the hives are going down. How’s your ankle?


It hurts. Feels hot. I shook my head a little. I hate this.


I know.


I hate fucking up all our plans and having to feel like shit for God knows how long because of some stupid little non-incident.


You just hate reactions, Brian corrected gently.


I…do really hate reactions.


You’re going to feel a lot better tomorrow, he said, and I must have stiffened a little bit when he said that, because he added, Hey, none of that. We’re still going to take it easy.


Yeah.


He sighed. Sunshine. He tucked my hair behind my ear. Okay. Can you do me a favor?


I nodded.


Just let us take of this, okay?


I nudged him. You’re the one who didn’t want to wake up.


Oh, you can’t trust sleeping Brian’s opinions. He kissed my cheek. Listen, I’m tired, you’re tired. Just don’t fight it tomorrow. This beach trip was originally for your birthday, remember?


We’re past my birthday at this point.


Trivialities. Let us take care of you.


It’s just scary right now, I said, hoping he wouldn’t make me explain. It was just… all that shit had gone down with Evan so recently, and I know, I know that wasn’t about me being too much to handle. But everything always comes back to that fear for me, that I’m going to push people away or ask for too much and they’re going to realize how much easier life would be without me. And on top of that, Brian and Evan were busy forming this new bond just the two of them, and that was amazing and fantastic and I didn’t want to get in the way of that by essentially waving my arms and going no, remember, this is the Justin Show, everyone re-center around me, please.


Fucking jellyfish.


Stop it, Brian said.


“Yeah, I know.”


I know you’re having a hard time with this right now, Brian said. So I need you to push through that, okay? Don’t give us a hard time tomorrow.


Can I just sleep?


You can absolutely just sleep.


Now?


He laughed and pressed a kiss into my hairline. Yeah, right now.


**


Brian woke me up at some point for meds, but I went right back to sleep after and, true to my word, slept through the rest of the morning. It was bright and sunny when I really woke up. I stretched, expecting the bed to be empty, and ran right into Brian, who was propped up next to me watching TV.


Uh, excuse me, he said.


“Sorry.” I rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”


A little past noon. He looked me over. God, those hives. How are you feeling?


Not great. I sat up slowly. Are you babysitting me?


He shrugged. Your breathing’s not great.


It feels like normal. I looked around. Where’s my dog?


Evan took her to the dog park, since I was watching you.


“Oh, that’s good.” She loves dog parks, or at least that’s what I’ve heard, since I’ve never taken her myself. I’m allergic enough to the outdoors without throwing a horde of dogs in the mix.


Yeah, figured I’d give your sinuses a bit of a break, too. You shouldn’t have slept with her last night when you’re this allergic. You were sneezing a ton this morning.


Don’t remember. I need her.


You can need her on the floor, too. He turned the TV off. Think you could eat? I think Evan made you a sandwich before he left.


“Yeah, okay.”


Let’s see that ankle.


I pulled my leg out from under the covers and uh, wow.


Holy shit, Brian said. Fuck, that’s swollen.


“Ouch.”


Sunshine, Christ, your allergies. Okay.


“I’m sorry…”


That’s not what I mean and you know it. I’m a little worried. It’s so easy for him to say this shit nowadays, and God, even with the guilt I was feeling I floated on that a little bit. Does it hurt?


It’s just sore. And itchy.


Can you walk?


Yeah…


He rolled his eyes and got up and came around to my side of the bed. Come here, he said, and I climbed him like a tree. Bliss.


I kissed him softly. “Sex before we eat.”


Mmmm. His eyes closed, his forehead against mine. Yeah. Shower?


“No, here.”


Okay.


**


I felt pretty sick all day. It never got terrible or scary like right after I was stung, but I was just so sensitive that everything was setting me off and I was so, so exhausted. My usual headache was worse than usual, flirting with turning into a migraine, and Brian was right, my breathing was not fantastic. But hey, no seizures.


I tried to keep my promise to Brian and just let them take care of me. It was so hard to get out of the mindset that I was ruining something, even though I knew this wasn’t like an important vacation or anything, but honestly for most of the day I felt too shitty to really care about much else. And honestly? I was trying to shelve the whole ‘I’m a burden’ thing largely because I know it’s fucking annoying. How many times have I made them reassure me about that, and I keep coming back to it? It’s boring and irritating and a next-door-neighbor to fishing for compliments. Brian’s been telling me he likes taking care of me for ten years, and Evan jumped right in as soon as he showed up. Even if I couldn’t trust it, God, the least I could do was fucking act like I did and take ‘tiptoeing around me’ off their already long to-do list.


So for most of the day, I stayed on the couch and just watched them. Evan had grabbed some more supplies while he was out with Martha, and Brian carefully wrapped my ankle with gauze and hydrocortisone cream. They made me food. I took an oatmeal bath to try to get the hives down, and Evan sat with me through that and made me laugh with dirty jokes he found online. The headache started to really bother me after that. I curled up in Brian’s robe on the couch, and he came behind me and massaged my scalp for a while. I can’t take that kind of touch when I have a migraine, but for a regular headache? Blissful. “You are a very good man,” I said, and I felt him laugh behind me.


I fell the fuck asleep right there in his arms, and when I woke up I was tucked neatly into bed, Martha snoring beside me. It’s eerie how he can just carry me without waking me up. I petted Martha for a little while and then hauled myself out of bed. I tested my weight on my ankle–still throbbing, but not awful–and limped to the stairs and down to the kitchen. Evan and Brian were making dinner and talking about me and how I was doing, and I just felt kind of bad about that, I don’t know. Like they’d been working on their ability to talk about things that weren’t me, and now here I was having another stupid crisis and making them regress. Normally I love the kind of attention I get from them, and…well, I still kind of loved it, but now I felt bad about loving it and it was this whole thing.


Evan looked up and saw me and God, the way his face lit up. He nudged Brian and smiled at me. How are you feeling? Your skin looks so much better.


I’m okay. Just tired, mostly. I stretched. Do I get real food for dinner?


You do not! Brian said.


I laughed a little. Okay.


You need anything? Brian asked.


No, I don’t think so. I’m going to take Martha out and then sit out on the beach for a little while, if that’s okay?


He gave me a weird look. Yeah, it’s okay. Stay away from jellyfish.


You’re hilarious, I said.


I took a blanket outside and sat down on the sand and looked out at the ocean for a while, just trying to…I don’t know, shake off whatever it was I was feeling. A few minutes later Evan appeared beside me, settling down on the blanket and stretching his legs out. “Hi,” I said.


“Hi.” He put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick squeeze. You okay?


I sighed. I don’t know. I’m having emotions.


That’s too bad. Lay it on me.


I’m just irritated with myself and going through the guilt spiral that you guys have to do all this shit for me–


You know we really didn’t do much, right? You pretty much just slept.


And that’s the other thing, I know that when I get in this place it means you have to reassure me and tell me it’s okay and that that’s fucking tedious for you because you tell me over and over again that it’s fine and I never seem to fucking internalize it. So instead of just having to deal with me being sick, you also have to deal with, oh good, let’s go through stroking Justin’s precious little feelings again. I’m so sick of myself. I just need to find a switch somewhere in my brain that will turn these thoughts off, because it’s been fucking years and years and it’s clear you guys aren’t about to leave me because you’re overwhelmed by a jellyfish sting, and yet…part of me still fucking needs to hear that you’re not going to leave me over a jellyfish sting. God. And now I think you’re going to leave me just because I’m this fucking annoying.


If it helps, this is far from the most annoying thing about you, Evan said, and I snorted and shoved him and we kind of play-wrestled for a little while, which helps. We ended up lying down facing each other on the banket, Martha flopped down on her back between us.


I think I just feel stagnant, I said. It’s almost easier when it’s some major crisis and I’m really sick or something because…I mean, it sucks, but at least I can tell myself okay, I’m going to grow from this, I’m learning something. What the fuck did I learn here except, I don’t know, pack an epipen if I’m going in the ocean?


Okay, but aren’t you all against making sickness metaphorical and symbolic? Every moment isn’t supposed to mean something. It’s just real life.


It just feels like a waste of time.


He shrugged. What’s being wasted? We wanted to come to the beach house and have a nice time. We still are. Everything’s still moving forward, everything’s okay. You know how Brian always takes pictures of you when you’re in the hospital?


Yeah.


Because that’s not some pause in the middle of real life. You’re not holding us up. This is just life. Our life.


I groaned. You and Brian just went through this whole big thing and had this whole emotional fucking growth moment and come out all transformed and amazing and now I’m like, hey hey hey look at me! I’ve got the same old shit!


Right, but you realize…the whole talk that Brian and I had. You know that was you, right?


I shook my head. I had a fever of like a hundred and twelve, I had nothing to do with it. I went to sleep and when I woke up Brian said ‘hey let’s get Evan on the deed for the house’ and everything had been fixed without me. Not that I’m complaining, but yeah.


Evan laughed. It was so not without you. Where do you think Brian learned to talk about his feelings, Oprah? That never could have happened without you. And me feeling safe enough to say all that stuff in the first place? That was you, babe. I’ve never had a place where I could do that before. That was you..


I kissed him, softly.


You do plenty around here, he said. Even with your ankle bandaged up. Okay? We see it. I wish you could.


The princess in the tower.


Yeah. Everyone’s always coming back to you.


I moved over on the blanket so we were a little more tangled up, and we stayed like that for a while, watching the waves while the sun went down and Brian finished up dinner inside.

 

It was a beautiful day.

End Notes:

 

Little bit of cool down between the last one and, um, the next one.

Chapter 148 - Mother's Day by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Brian's not used to standing on the sidelines of an emergency.

Mother's Day

LaVieEnRose



Evan pointed out the screen, his beer dangling dangerously from his fingers. “Okay, wait, what was that one?”


Foul. Pass interference.


“So he…got in the way of the other guy catching the ball?”


Yep, So automatic first down where the foul was called.


“Is that a common one?”


Yeah, happens all the time.


He settled back on the couch, tucking himself under my arm. “I think if they happen all the time they shouldn’t be fouls. Like they should just incorporate them into the game at that point.”


You’ve seen all of two football games and you’re rewriting the rules.


“You’ve always telling me I’m a fast learner.”


Tell that to the driver’s license you still don’t have.


He got up a few minutes later to get another beer and narrowed his eyes as he turned towards the window. “Uh. Molly’s here.”


Molly’s here?


“Coming up the driveway.”


I don’t know why that girl has a fucking moral objection to calling first. I sighed and stretched. All right, let her in. So much for a quiet evening.


Evan opened the front door and said hi to Molly, and I held my beer out to her without really looking up. “Here. Catch up.”


She didn’t take it. “Where’s Justin?”


I turned the volume down on the game. Sleeping. He had a seizure.


Wake him up.


I snorted. No. You ever tried waking postictal Justin up before he’s ready to be conscious? Once I roused him really gently to tell him hey, the gallery just called and one of your paintings sold, isn’t that nice, and he told me he hoped I got hit by the F train. I mean, Christ, of all trains.


Evan sat down on the arm of the couch. “Is something wrong?”


I can’t… She shook her head. I just…something happened.


Okay. I turned the TV off. What do you mean, something happened?


I need to talk to Justin first. Can you wake him up?


The real problem wasn’t that he’d be an asshole, obviously. He’s only been out for half an hour. He’s going to start seizing again if we force him up, and he’s not going to be able to process anything we tell him right now.


“Goddamn it,” she whispered.


“Molly,” I said.


Just get your fucking laptop and find plane tickets, she said. We have to go home.


I felt Evan reach for my hand, and I squeezed his fingers without really meaning to. My stomach felt cold. Tell me what happened, I said.


She bounced a little on the balls of her feet and then said, It’s Mom, and my stomach fell to the floor.


**


We were still working on getting tickets, the three of us crowded around my laptop on the kitchen counter, when Justin emerged from the bedroom, his hair messed up and his eyes squinty, Martha following behind and watching him. I checked my watch and shook my head. It hasn’t even been an hour. Go back to sleep.


Why… he tried, but his hand was all clenched up. “Why is Molly here?”


She started to say something, but I put my hand on her arm to stop her. It can wait. He’s still postictal. Why are you up?


“I…needed something. Why is Molly here?”


I sighed. Do you remember what you needed?


“No.” But he had his hand pressed up this cheekbone, like he does when he’s getting a migraine.


I got up and grabbed his meds and came over to him while I opened the bottles. Under your tongue, here.


He let me, but then said, “Why is Molly here?” again, and I could hear tears behind his voice. Nothing fucks him up after a seizure like something messing with his routine. He’s already confused enough just by his fucking normal life without throwing something new in there. And obviously he knows Molly like he knows himself, and he could tell she was upset, even if he was too fucked up to really register that what he was seeing. Of course he was overwhelmed. And he didn’t even have a fraction of the story yet. God.


Will you sit down at least, please? I said and, small mercies, he let me lead him over to the couch. Did you sleep at all?


“I don’t know. What’s going on?”


We… I looked at Molly and shook my head. You need to sleep a little more. You have to understand, this wasn’t me coddling him; I just felt like he literally would not have been able to understand if I’d told him then. I was worried he’s get completely upset without even understanding why, and then he’d fall back asleep, and then he’d wake up and remember that something was wrong but have no idea what and we would have had to go through the whole fucking thing over again.


He’d already started to shake just from being so, so tired. “Does Molly need me?”


She will in a little while. You don’t have to go back to bed, just sleep right here. Okay?


And I swear, I actually thought I was going to win one for once in my fucking life. I thought I had it. But as soon as I started to lay him down, he stiffened and set his face in that determined expression I have never, not ever, managed to break through, and said, “Tell me what’s going on.”


Sunshine.


“It’s Friday night, Molly and Evan are in the kitchen, we’re all at home, I’m groggy because I had a seizure. See? I can handle it. What’s going on?”


Damn it. Goddamn it.


What I was not going to do, at the very least, was tell him this in front of Molly. I knew he’d want to have a game face on for her, and he didn’t need to be worried about how she would take whatever reaction he needed to have. I beckoned Evan over and said, small, Take Molly…somewhere, okay? Here, take Martha, go for a walk.


I don’t know if I should take Martha. He doesn’t look good.


I’m not going to leave him, I said, and Evan nodded and picked Martha up, then went over to Molly and nudged her out the door. Molly didn’t put up the fight I was expecting; maybe deep down she didn’t want to be the one to tell Justin this. Who would?


I ran my palm down my face and gave Justin’s hand a quick kiss. Your mom was in a car accident.


“Um.” He shook his head a little and swallowed. “Uh, yeah. Okay.”


Molly doesn’t have a lot of information. I know she’s in surgery right now and I know it’s…it’s not great.


“What kind of surgery?”


I don’t know.


“Who did Molly talk to?”


Craig. I didn’t have a ton of details on the matter, but I knew in the past couple years the two of them had become…well, not friends exactly, but friendly acquaintances, at least, largely because of Luke getting sort of entangled up with Gus and Mel and Lindz and the rest of them and Craig doing what he does best and caving to whatever stronger influences come his way. The rules of who hospitals will and will not contact during emergencies have never been clear to me, since when you’re relying on them to not discriminate against you for being gay or Deaf or both it’s really a luck of the draw situation, but it wasn’t ridiculous that Craig would be in the know. Jennifer hadn’t dated anyone seriously in a while, and she didn’t have any other family in Pittsburgh.


Justin nodded slowly, then said, “Fuck.”


I know.


“Is she gonna be…”


I licked my lips and took his hand. I hope so.


He nodded again and swiped at his eye. I’ll never understand how he does that, cries so softly that I don’t even fucking notice. He cleared his throat. Okay. When’s the next plane?


Eleven o’clock tonight, but…Sunshine, I don’t think you’re going to be able to get on a plane in three hours. Your head’s already killing you.


I can do it if I need to.


I know you can, but you’re going to be so sick by the time we get there, you won’t be able to do anything. It makes more sense to rest tonight and get a plane tomorrow.


Let’s drive, then.


It’s not as if I hadn’t considered it. It’s a lot easier on Justin, but it’s still not a cakewalk, with how motion sick he gets. Are you sure? It’s seven hours.


So we’ll get there almost as fast as we would on the plane, if we leave now. I can sit in a car. I’ll be fine.


We’ll need to get a rental. My car won’t fit all of us.


Okay, so we’ll get a rental.


Let me call the car service.


Yeah. I can start packing.


Please just sit, I said. I promised Evan I’d watch you.


I was still on the phone with the rental car place when Evan and Molly and Martha came back. Justin and Molly had some small conversation I couldn’t see, and then he hugged her for a long time and she dug her fingers into his back. Evan kissed Justin’s cheek.


I waved for Evan’s attention and then said, We’re going to drive. Can you start packing?


Yeah. He touched Justin’s arm and said, Listen, if it’s easier for you, I can stay here. I don’t want you to have to deal with me and…everyone right now.


No, Justin said.


This isn’t a test, Evan said. I mean it. This does not need to be a Here’s Evan, Our New Costar moment.


I mean it too. I want you there. Please come. I…I can’t do this without you.


Evan looked at me.


Come, I said. We’re probably going to be avoiding them all anyway. I’m guessing Justin doesn’t want the Pittsburgh crew camped out in the hospital waiting room.


Oh, Jesus, Justin said. Yeah, let’s keep this quiet for now. Is that okay?


Okay with who, them? I said. Who the fuck cares what they think about this? Sorry we didn’t invite everyone to Jennifer’s car accident? Please.


Debbie’s going to fucking kill me for not telling her, Justin said.


She’ll have plenty of time for that later, I said, then nodded to Evan. You’re coming. Start packing.


By the time we’d finished packing–Justin comes with a lot of supplies, and we didn’t know how long we were going to be down there–the rental car had arrived, along with Molly’s boyfriend, this nice enough, if somewhat bland, guy named Cameron who she’d been dating for about six months at that point. Molly called Craig to see if there was any more news, but there really wasn’t. She was still in surgery. There was a lot of internal bleeding. They still didn’t know.


Do you think you can sleep? I asked Justin as we got into the car.


I think so. Maybe.


Try to, okay? You’re shaking a ton. He could barely fasten his seatbelt.


He did, eventually, probably because I’d had him load up on Benadryl to power him through being trapped in an enclosed space with a dog for seven hours. He had an ice pack on his neck for the migraine, and he twisted his hands for a while in the passenger seat and I kept thinking he was about to say something, but finally he curled up with his knees up to his chest and fell asleep against the window. I kept an eye on him, but Martha slept peacefully in his lap and never gave any sign he was headed for another seizure, and she usually wakes him up for nightmares, too, so I figured he was probably okay. Or, you know, as okay as he could be, given the circumstances.


The car ride was mostly quiet. Molly and Cameron talked a little bit, but Evan couldn’t really read their lips from the angle he had, and Cameron had learned a handful of signs to talk to Justin but wasn’t anywhere near conversational. I made eye contact with Evan in the rearview mirror a few times, but what was there really to say? He’d give me this half-smile and I gave him one back, and I was just filled with this overwhelming relief that he was here. that I didn’t have to somehow figure out what the fuck to do in this situation by myself.


We’d never dealt with this. I had no idea how he was going to react. No one close to Justin had ever died.


Not that she…


We stopped about two hours out at a diner in Bedford to piss and eat something and stretch out. They clearly hadn’t heard of service dogs in this hellhole and the waiter gave Justin some shit about Martha that neither of us was in any mood to deal with, so Justin just started signing really fast at him until he gave up and let us in. We sat in a booth by the window and looked out at the parking lot. It was about one in the morning and everything felt so soft and fake.


I think Evan and I were the calmest, just by virtue of the fact that, well, it wasn’t our mother, and also…we’d done this. We’d sat around waiting for news from hospitals. Molly had some experience with that too, obviously, but she was used to having her updates managed and curated. Now we all knew she was the one Craig was going to call, and she couldn’t stop checking her phone.


And then there was Justin, who’d virtually never been on this side of the proverbial table before. We shouldn’t be stopping, he said, not for the first time since we’d pulled over.


Starving yourself will not make her surgery go any faster, I said, as bored as I could. You need to be in fighting shape when you get there. I lined his meds up on the table.


Should I try calling? Molly said.


He’d call if there was news, I said.


I could tell they were both irritated with me for being calm, and I exchanged looks and shrugs with Evan about it, because…yeah, okay, but what was the alternative, I start queening out in the middle of a diner and they have to take care of me, too? It was my job to be annoyingly stable. I might not have known much about what to do here, but I knew that nothing pissed me off more than outsiders coming to me with their fucking feelings when something was wrong with Justin. You project outwards; you take that shit elsewhere. Well, now Molly and Justin were at the center of this mess, and me, Evan, and our buddy Cameron here, our job was to be normal so the two of them could fall apart.


Not that either of them really were. Molly twisted her fingers up in the cuffs of her jacket and gave Cameron one-word answers when he tried to talk to her, and Justin dutifully took his meds and then scratched a hole in the knee of his jeans. I took his hand eventually when he was driving me fucking crazy, and he let me.


We ate in largely uncomfortable silence until Molly let her fork clatter to her plate. “This is fucking ridiculous,” she said. “How can he not have more information than this? I mean, are talking like she tore some fucking cartliage in her knee or are they in there trying to sew her head back on?”


Molly, you’re not signing, I said, just…as a reflex, I guess, because it was so surprising to me that she wouldn’t sign when Justin was right here.


It’s okay, Justin said.


“I can’t…fucking think in two languages right now,” Molly said, simcomming this time. Molly’s a strong signer, strong enough that I forget a lot of the time that she’s not really fluent to the degree that the rest of us are. She learned later than I did, for one, and also I’m singing at work, when I go out, obviously at home. Molly spends a fair amount of time with Justin and the rest of the Deaf kids, but she has her own life, and she’s not signing unless she’s with us.


Don’t worry about it, Justin said to her. I understand anyway.


**


It was exactly three AM when we pulled into the parking lot of Allegheny General. Hardly my first three AM awake here, I thought vaguely.


Justin and I could navigate the place easily, obviously, but even I was surprised by how quickly we found a familiar face, and even more surprised that that familiar face was Luke, at a vending machine between the elevators and the fifth floor waiting room. It’d been a while since I’d seen him. He was a lot taller, and he’d grown out of being the exact spitting image of Molly and Justin, but he still had that blond hair, and obviously his CI.


“Lukey,” Molly said, and when he didn’t notice–CIs are not a miracle–she jogged up to him and touched his shoulder.


“Molly!” He dropped the candy bar he was holding and hugged her tight. “I didn’t know if you were gonna come.” He ran over to Justin and hugged him. Hi, Justin. And Martha.


Hi, sweetheart. Where’s your dad?


Luke pointed behind him to the waiting room, then said, “Hi, Brian.”


Hey, Luke. Little past your bedtime, isn’t it?


I could tell he didn’t understand–apparently I’d been a little optimistic about how his signing was coming along–and he looked to Justin for help. “Oh,” he said, after Justin interpreted for him. “Yeah. I’m not really tired though. I don’t know. I’m worried about your mom.”


You should go home, honey, Justin said to him. Where’s your mom?


“She’s here with Dad.”


I’d never met Craig’s wife, Tanya, but against all odds from what I’d heard from Molly she sounded like a decent person. I was kind of snarly at first that she’d put a CI in Luke rather than teach him how to sign, and then Justin showed me the statistics on what percentage of parents actually learn sign language for their kids. It’s bleak. So I guess I can’t judge her too much for that. Obviously she had the questionable taste to marry Craig, but Luke seemed happy and healthy enough for someone raised with that asshole, so it seemed like she was tempering him a bit. Hell of a way to spend your one precious life, isn’t it: compensating for a shitty husband. But that’s straight people for you, I guess.


Luke led us down to the waiting room, which was pretty empty this time of night. Craig and Tanya stood up when they saw us, and Craig gave Molly a rather awkward hug and said, “Hi, honey.”


“Yeah, hey. Uh, this is my boyfriend, Cameron. Hi, Tanya.”


Craig turned to Tanya and said, “My son, Justin,” and waved his hand vaguely in my direction and said, “Brian,” and then made eye contact with me long enough to nod, which was a warmer welcome than I’d been expecting, not that I had really been in my feelings one way or another about Craig’s reaction to me.


Justin said shook his hand and said, “Um, this is Evan, he–”


Nope, Evan said immediately. No title, not necessary, Evan’s fine. “Nice to meet you,” he added to Craig, who looked a little confused but nodded a little.


“Is Mom still in surgery?” Molly asked.


“They said she got out about an hour ago, but they still have her in recovery. They said we can see her tomorrow, if…everything goes well tonight.”


I signed it for Justin; we hadn’t even bothered trying to get an interpreter at this time of night. “What was the surgery?” Justin said.


“Repairing her hip and her ribs, and there was something with, uh…”


“Her spleen,” Tanya said gently.


“Yeah. They had to take her spleen out. And there was some other internal bleeding.” Craig sighed. “A lot of internal bleeding.”


“But is she going to be okay?” Molly said.


Craig kind of faltered there, good man in a storm that he is, and Tanya stepped in. “They told us they would know a lot more tomorrow based on how the recovery from this surgery goes,” she said. “It’s possible there are going to need to be follow-up surgeries. They said right now we really just need to see how tonight and tomorrow go.”


Molly wasn’t handling this all that well, and Cameron put his arm around her shoulders. Justin was calm, just watching me sign.


Everyone gradually sat down and shared what meager additional information there was, and Craig asked Molly some polite questions about New York and essentially ignored the child he couldn’t talk to, but honestly at that point I think Justin was too wrecked to notice. He was holding it together, but I could tell he was in pain, and his breathing was sounding really swampy. Craig and Tanya kept glancing at him when the wheezing got especially bad, and Justin at least pretended not to notice. Molly was sitting next to him, and she reached behind him at one point to scratch lightly between his shoulder blades.


I caught Evan’s eye and got him to follow me a few steps away. We’re not sitting around here all night, I said to him. Can you start…easing him into that fact?


Yeah, okay. Where are we going?


That proved to be the real challenge, actually; Justin agreed to leaving and coming back in the morning surprisingly easily. I don’t want Molly thinking she needs to wait around here all night, he said to me privately, and if setting a good example for his sister was what would get him to fucking take care of himself, far be it from me to argue. But that meant, obviously, that he was sending Molly and Cameron to Jennifer’s condo, which wasn’t really big enough for us to cram into as well. We couldn’t exactly get a decent hotel room at three in the morning, and I wasn’t putting Justin in some raggedy motel. Obviously crashing with Craig here was low on our list of options, and I could have called Melanie and Lindsay, but Gus was naturally going to have some feelings about finding out his grandmother was in critical condition that I figured we’d all rather not navigate with no notice in the middle of the night.


So I called Michael.


“Brian? Christ, it’s the middle of the–what’s going on? Is–?”


“He’s fine.”


“Fuck. Jesus. Okay.”


I told him the whole spiel and of course he said he’d get the guest room ready, and then we hugged Luke and told Tanya and Craig thanks for sticking around and we’d see them tomorrow, dropped Molly and Cameron off at the condo, and hightailed it to Michael’s. They opened the front door as soon as we pulled into the driveway and met us as we got out of the car to take our bags. Ben hugged Justin for a long time–they’re close–and Michael me, and then of course they were all over themselves apologizing and saying hi to Evan. It was too dark out here for the boys to talk much, so I ushered everyone inside, a hand on Justin’s back to keep him steady.


Any of you need some tea? Ben asked. Maybe spiked?


Justin nodded heavily, and yeah, what the hell, so we all had some tea with a hefty slug of whiskey and just decompressed in the living room for a bit. They didn’t make Justin talk, thankfully, and he mostly stared into his mug with Martha curled at his feet while Evan and I asked questions about Ivy and Hunter and Debbie or whatever the fuck else wasn’t Jennifer.


Justin took a shuddery breath and wiped his eyes, and I just felt…far from him in this way I couldn’t explain. It’s just that nothing’s really touched Justin in a way that hasn’t also gotten me before. I’d never really just sat and watched him feel something without also being down there in the weeds.


I took his hand.


We should all probably get some sleep, Evan said. He tucked Justin’s hair behind his ear. Can you sleep?


Yeah. Yeah, of course.


Except…yeah, not so much, it turned out. We crammed ourselves into the queen bed in their guest room, Justin on the edge with oxygen and me in the middle, and Evan was out just about the second he took his hearing aids out, and I would have been too if I had the power to turn off my ears, but unfortunately here we are, and Justin was struggling. Ben and Michael are neat, but ‘neat’ and ‘clean enough for Justin’ are two very different beasts, and obviously we hadn’t given them a ton of notice that we were coming for them to sterilize the place. So basically he was trying to sleep but his allergies were trying to kill him, and it seemed like they were winning. I lay there feeling some ambivalent emotion between extreme sympathy and extreme annoyance while he wheezed and sneezed and rubbed the shit out of his eyes, and when he fell into a coughing fit that seemed like it was never going to end, I sighed and ran my hand up and down his arm, comforting, while Martha paced the floor in agitated circles.


Finally he rolled over onto his back with a groan. “I’m sorry.”


I shrugged. Not your fault.


“I don’t–” he cut himself off with a sneeze. “Ugh. I don’t think this is going to stop. Maybe you should sleep on the couch? I’m sorry.”


I suppose it’s progress that you didn’t offer to sleep on the couch. I said, and he smiled ruefully. I ran my hand down my face. Let’s give your meds a chance to kick in. You want to get some air?


I kind of want more of that tea.


Come on. I waited patiently while he untangled himself from the sheets and eased off the bed, then slid out behind him, careful not to disturb Evan, and I followed him out of the guest room, Martha at our heels. Justin paused at the top of the stairs to let me go ahead of him: seizure protocol.


He sank heavily into a chair as soon as we were in the kitchen, so I started getting out the stuff to make tea. I waved for his attention after a minute. You want to talk?


He shrugged and reached down to give Martha a few scratches, then said, “I’m trying to remember the last conversation I had with her. Like, a real conversation, you know?”


Seeing as I could count the lifetime number of ‘real conversations’ I’d had with anyone other than him on one hand, I seemed like the wrong person to weigh in on this one, So I nodded.


“And I can’t remember. I have no idea when the last time was that we really talked. I just feel like the worst son in the world.”


That’s fucking stupid. You two are close.


“We used to be close,” he said. “And then I went Deaf, and she didn’t really learn to sign, and I pulled away. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”


You also moved out of state, and grew up, I said. Normal, grown-up stuff. Nothing there that makes you a bad son.


It did kind of get me thinking, though. I hadn’t really made a secret out of the fact that I resented the people in Justin’s life who hadn’t put in the required effort to keep talking to him after he lost his hearing, and that included Jennifer. I couldn’t deny that these past few years there’d been a little flame of anger deep down whenever we were dealing with her. And that’s not to say that she and I weren’t…that we didn’t get along. We did, and so did she and Justin. But that nagging feeling was always there.


And now it just seemed so fucking unimportant. Which was very bizarre, because language access for Justin is rarely a backburner sort of issue for me, but Christ, I guess anything can be put in proportion under the right circumstances. Because no, she was not a great signer, and she could have tried harder, but she did try. There was something. And there was never any question that she loved Justin, and obviously that gives someone a fair amount of points where I’m concerned.


“God.” He wiped his eyes. “It’s fucked up. I miss her. It’s not like…you know, if it was an ordinary fucking day, that I would have seen her or whatever. And now it’s like I don’t know how to go another minute without talking to her. Do you think she’s in pain?”


I sat down at the table and slid the mug across from him. I don’t know.


“Are you okay?”


Yeah, I’m fine. I shrugged. Doing the husband thing.


He laughed a little. “You’re doing fine.”


So are you.


**


Exhaustion won out eventually, and we both ended up getting some sleep. I woke up early and had to fight every instinct to bury my nose in Justin’s hair and pass back out, but once the memories of the night before started coming back…well, I woke up a little.


I sat up and checked my phone–nothing, presumably Molly was still asleep–and then called the hospital to see what they could tell me. Unsurprisingly I couldn’t get any details about them, but luckily I speak hospital, so I knew what it meant when they told me Jennifer’s condition was “serious.” Still not out of the woods, but a step up from critical. A good sign, if not a great one.


Justin fussed into his pillow a little. His eyes were really swollen, from crying or allergies or both.


I didn’t want to wake him yet, but I needed a cup of coffee like I couldn’t describe, so I maneuvered myself out between the two of them and climbed over the foot of the bed. Evan stirred as I got dressed. “Any news?” he said.


Not really. She’s alive.


“That counts as news.”


I sighed. I guess. Go back to sleep.


Where are you going?


Coffee. I’ll bring back food. Stay with him?


Evan nodded and squirmed closer to Justin, nuzzling his face into his hair, and I felt an irrational pang of jealousy considering I’d gotten up on my own accord. And honestly, as tempting as getting back in that warm bed with those two boys was on an intellectual level, I was too agitated at that point. Just antsy. I didn’t really get it, but I didn’t feel right.


I signaled Martha up and took her for a quick walk, dropped her back off with the boys, and then left. And yes, there are a hundred thousand places to get coffee in this town, and yes, I passed by any number of them on my way to the Liberty Diner and any one of them would have been a better choice, but…I don’t know. I felt like something familiar, and I was kind of walking on autopilot at that point, and I figured it was so fucking early that the chances of running into anyone I knew were infinitessimal.


Yeah, first person I saw was Debbie. Behind the counter, screeching my name, jolting me back fifteen years in an instant. “When the fuck did you get here?” she said, throwing her arms around me, and over her shoulder I saw Emmett and Lindsay rise up from a table in the corner and begin their descent. Christ.


“I thought you retired,” I said.


“Oh, you know, I like to come in every now and then for a shift. It’s not good to have too much free time! Makes you old. Gives you hemorrhoids. All that crap. Where’s Sunshine?”


“Back at the hotel.” No need to rat Michael out as a co-conspirator. I kissed Lindsay’s cheek. “Fuck are you two doing here at this hour?”


“Emmett’s planning an event for the center!” Lindsay said. “And with his schedule now that he’s got all those contracts, plus we’re both early risers, you know how I’ve always–”


You could have stayed in bed, Kinney. No one had a gun to your head.


“Sit, sit!” Emmett said, and they ushered me over to their booth. “I am just dying to hear all about New York.”


I said, “Just…generally New York? All of it?”


“Yes! I haven’t been there in years. Tell me everything that’s changed.”


“Uh. The bodegas are banks.” I looked up at Debbie. “Coffee?”


“Sure thing, sweetheart. You know you look half-dead. Long night?”


“You could say that.”


She chuckled as she headed back behind the counter. “Good for you and Justin! Keeping it hot after all these years.”


“Yeah, just doing our civic duty.” I rubbed my eyes, and when I stopped, Lindsay was watching me with her mom face on. Oh Lord.


“You really do look tired,” she said softly. “How’s Justin?”


And I probably should have just slapped on a grin and said he was great, but I don’t know. It felt wrong to lie about it, like it was bad luck or something. Like the universe was going to hear me say Justin was hunky-dory while his mom was unconscious and go oh, cool, he doesn’t need her, let me sharpen my scythe.


“Something’s wrong with Justin?” Emmett said.


“There are at any given time at least five things wrong with Justin,” I said, which is the kind of dark humor that flies well in New York but apparently not here, because they just got all uncomfortable. God. “He’s hanging in there, like he always does.”


Debbie put a mug in front of me and says, “You two will come by the house later, won’t you? How long are you here?”


“Uh…not sure yet.” I flashed her a smile and took a sip. “And I don’t know if he’s feeling up to socializing. I’ll check with him. He had a rough night.”


“You should have stayed with him!” Debbie said. “We’ll deliver! We have a Doordash now, didya know that?”


“Evan has him,” I said, which just fell out of my mouth, but then I realized this was most definitely the move. We were supposed to be telling the Pittsburgh people about him anyway, and what better way to distract from the actual situation at hand than to introduce a surprise love interest?


So when the obvious, “Who’s Evan?” question followed, I responded with a casual shrug and an offhand “Justin’s boyfriend,” that I knew would invite plenty of distraction. And boy, was I not wrong.


Justin’s boyfriend?”


“The fuck do you mean, boyfriend?”


“Did you two break up?


“He’s cheating on you?”


“How long have you known about this?”


“What, so you’re not enough for him all of a sudden?” (Bet you can guess who chimed in with that one.)


“Wait, so are you sleeping with him too?”


“He lives in your house?”


I could do these questions in my sleep, naturally, and I plowed through them easily and lazily, but I don’t know, the whole thing just made me kind of sad. It’s not that I think the setup that the three of us have is for everyone, but it was depressing how quickly they’d write it off because it was new and unfamiliar and…well, let’s use the word: queer. The fact that two gay people and the self-proclamied Ally of the Year couldn’t accept a relationship because it was unconventional just bummed me out, frankly. And maybe this makes me sound like some snobby New Yorker, I don’t know, but Christ, the world is so much bigger and stranger and more subversive than two men exchanging rings. And here we were just sitting around judging something we didn’t understand like we hadn’t been judged our whole life by people who didn’t understand.


It just reminded me why I hated coming back here. These people, they make boxes for everyone, and God forbid you stray out of them. They want to hold you and study you and criticize you for exactly the traits they want to hold you and study you and criticize you for, thank you very much. Trap you in eternal boyhood and then sell tickets for it.


Whatever. I told them about Evan’s kidney transplant to garner some sympathy from the healthy people and get them to stop thinking of him as the antichrist, I pulled out my phone and showed them a couple of pictures of the three of us clearly not miserable, whatever whatever whatever. Help them sleep at night. And once I couldn’t fucking take it anymore I changed the subject to Gus and let myself sink into Lindsay talking about him for a while, and that helped. I was still so goddamn irritated, though. From the Evan thing, obviously, but also I recognized that I was pissed at them for not asking or caring about how Jennifer was doing, which was obviously insane of me since I hadn’t told them about Jennifer and didn’t want them to know. But some irrational part of me thought that they should have, I don’t know, figured it out, and it pissed me off that we were sitting here picking my love life apart and eating hash browns when Jennifer was fighting for her life and Justin was terrified.


But, again. No one held a gun to my head and made me come here.


I finally convinced them I better get back to my poor sick greedy cheating husband and Debbie loaded me up with blueberry pancakes and to-go cups of hot chocolate and sent me on my way. Evan was in the living room when I got back, drawing with Ivy at her art table. I pulled him up and kissed him.


“What was that for?” he asked me.


Very happy to see you. I held my arms out to Ivy and hugged her. Where is everyone?


“Ben had an early class. Michael’s in the kitchen I think. Justin’s showering. Martha’s watching him.”


How is he?


“I’m not sure. I think he got sick of me hovering. He’s quiet. Have you heard from Molly at all?”


Not yet.


“Yeah, neither have we.”


I brought the food into the kitchen and started unloading everything. Michael was making breakfast for Ivy, and he looked over at my haul and raised an eyebrow. “You went to the diner?”


“Yeah, I know. Big mistake.”


“Ma was there?”


“Mmhmm. And Emmett and Lindsay.”


“God. Did you tell them what’s going on?”


I shook my head. “Justin doesn’t want people to know yet. I think he just…doesn’t want to tell them until there’s something to tell, y’know? Otherwise they’re all just going to be nagging him for an update every two minutes.”


“That must have been hard,” Michael said. “Hiding that from them.”


“It’s fine.”


“Brian…”


Mikey…


“I just want to make sure you’re, you know. Getting the support you need.”


“I’m fine. This isn’t about me.”


“She’s your mother-in-law. And I know you guys are close.”


“Michael. It’s not about me.”


“I just want you to know that–”


“Jesus Christ! I’m fine. Drop it.” I heard someone on the stairs. “Shut up, he’s coming down.”


“He can’t hear us…”


I wasn’t really in the mood to admit he had a point, so I went and met Justin and Martha at the stairs. I held out my arms, eyebrows up, and he smiled just a little and pulled himself up and into me.


I kissed his cheek and let him go. Your breathing sounds terrible.


I’m just stressed. You haven’t heard from Molly, have you?


No. I’ll call her in a minute. Come eat something. You take your meds?


He nodded and went into the kitchen, where Michael pushed food at him and nagged him about hearing him coughing last night and he was so sorry and what could he do to make Justin more comfortable and Justin did the kind of minimizing and demuring that I’d normally never stand for, but I just let him. He didn’t have it in him to advocate for himself right now. Couldn’t really blame him. I’d make sure to go over the place with a vacuum and wash the bedding in hot water before he tried to sleep in there again, which would probably do a lot to take the edge off.


I tried not to study him too obviously while he and Evan ate pancakes and Michael fed the kid, but I don’t know, it was hard. His hands were shaky, and he really wasn’t breathing well, and he just wasn’t in a state where I wanted him out and seen by people and dealing with shit. All the shit with Jennifer aside, I would have wanted to take care of him today, so it just felt fucking awful to think about the day he had in front of him.


My phone rang when everyone was cleaning up. Molly. I answered, and Justin leaned against the counter and watched me.


“What’s going on?” I said.


She was tired, but calm. “She made it through the night. Hasn’t woken up yet. We’re heading over to the hospital now. Are you guys coming?”


I looked at Justin. “Yeah, we’ll be there soon.”


**


I saw Jennifer, but not for long. We were only allowed in there two at once, so after Justin was sure he could handle it, I left so Molly could come in. Evan, Cameron and I sat awkwardly in the waiting room looking at their backs through the window, Justin’s arm around Molly’s shoulders, Jennifer lying there covered in tubes and bruises.


It’s funny. I’m pretty much a pro at waiting around hospitals, but I was doing a shit job of it today. I kept getting up to pace around and peer through a window and check the clock on the wall, like I wasn’t wearing a watch, or like any amount of time passing really meant anything today.


“So they think she’s going to wake up today?“ Cameron asked us.


“Yeah, they’re hoping so.” We’d gotten a bit more information from a doctor and an interpreter when we arrived. They’d seemed…somewhat hopeful? It’s hard to say. Our doctors in New York knew to just give it to us straight, but I couldn’t read these guys.


“How’s Molly doing?” Evan asked Cameron.


“She’s kind of a mess. I mean, I would be too, no judgments here. I don’t know, their relationship is weird. She and her mom talk on the phone like three times a week. And usually end up fighting. Molly’s always all fired up about something she said. But you can tell she loves her a lot. There was a lot of crying and raging last night.”


You get all that? I asked Evan, and he nodded.


“What about Justin?” Cameron said. He did the sign name. Good man.


“Justin…doesn’t really get to fall apart,” Evan said. “Stakes are pretty high if he doesn’t take care of himself.”


“Yeah. That’s fucked.”


“It kind of is, yeah.”


And that’s kind of just the fucking crux of it all, isn’t it? And it’s Evan too; he has to watch himself, monitor shit, track symptoms and medications and side effects. And it’s me, because obviously we’ve established the duty I have in play here, what’s my responsibility in this little life. We don’t get to fall apart around here.


After a couple hours I was coming out of my skin, so I went to the door of Jennifer’s room and waved for Justin’s attention. He was playing cards with Molly at a little table at the foot of the bed, and he came over and gave me a hug.


Doing okay? I said, and he nodded. “Molly, you need anything?”


She shook her head.


I’m going to go back to Michael’s and try to allergy-proof the place. Evan’s going to stay here with you. Okay?


“Okay. I’m probably going to head back soon too. I’m really tired.”


I kissed his forehead. Sounds good.


I managed to finish vacuuming before he and Evan got back to the house, but the sheets were still in the dryer, so he watched an episode of something and did a very needed nebulizer treatment and then went up to bed. Evan pulled together something for lunch, and I sat with my laptop and pretended to work and mostly just stared at my desktop while Michael got Ivy ready for her nap.


Evan came over and rubbed my shoulders, and I sighed and felt myself relax. “Come eat, please,” he said. So I did.


Michael joined us, and we ate sandwiches without really talking. “Why are you staring at me?“ I sim-commed–it’s just easier, otherwise I’d be turning and translating myself to Michael every ten seconds–to Evan eventually. I wasn’t really snapping at him, I was just…tired.


“Because you look like shit and I’m worried about you.”


“There is nothing to be…this is not about me.”


He won’t talk about it, Michael said. I tried.


“I’m here for Justin,” I said. “I don’t know why we’re acting like there’s any reality where my job here isn’t to be here for Justin.”


No one’s saying that, Michael said. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have feelings about it too.


“Justin doesn’t need to deal with my feelings right now,” I said.


“We’re not asking you to unload on Justin,” Michael said. “But I’m…we’re here, and we care about you.”


I looked across the table at Evan.


He put his chin in his hand, watching me, and shrugged a little. “Justin’s not here.”


“I don’t…” I said, and signed. “I don’t know what you want me to say. She’s the first person I met who loved Justin. Nobody else I knew fucking…but she did. She got it.” I tried looking at Michael, but he had that puppy dog expression on his face and the whole thing just meant too fucking much to him, so I turned back to Evan, who was steady, patient, calm. “She was the first person who thought I was good for him. And it…” I laughed a little. “It took her a while, trust me. As it should have. But she came around before anyone else did. Everyone else was still telling me all the time how I was fucking it up and how I wasn’t good enough and it wasn’t me so I couldn’t do it. Shouldn’t do it. But not her.”


I chanced a glance at Michael there, and he looked a little hurt or maybe a little ashamed. I didn’t really have a lot of feelings about that right now.


“She was there for him when nobody else was,” I said. “She’s picked up the slack for me a million times and never held it against me and she has loved me and, um, she might die. So that’s…yeah. That’s where I’m at, I guess.” I blinked down at the table and tried to get everything to stop swimming. I felt like I couldn’t remember the rhythm you were supposed to use to breathe. God, how does Justin fucking feel all this shit all the time?


“Brian,” Michael said, but Evan said, “Give him a minute.”


But I was saved from having to talk anymore, thank God, by my phone ringing in my pocket. I wiped my face off and pulled it out. Molly, I told them, and answered it. “Hey, what’s going on?”


“Is Justin there? He’s not answering his phone.”


“He’s asleep upstairs. Are you okay?”


“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” I could hear her smiling. “Mom’s awake.”


**


After the rushing and the hugging and the crying and the celebrating, there was calm. Molly was down in the cafeteria with Cameron. I was standing in the waiting room. And Justin was in his mother’s hospital room, introducing her to his boyfriend in slow, careful sign language.


Justin laughed and swiped at his eyes, and Jennifer reached out and took Evan’s hand.


I went in a while later, after Evan and Justin had stepped out to update our friends in New York. I pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down heavily. “Well,” I said to her. “Quite an ordeal.”


Jennifer smiled at me. “I’m so glad you were here for him.”


“Yeah, you know.” I shrugged. “There’s nowhere else.”


“Still. I have to say it.”

 

“I know.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Welcome back, Mom.”

Chapter 149 - Fear by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Evan does something unexpected, and Brian and Justin deal with the aftermath.

Fear

LaVieEnRose



I dropped a stack of files on Brian’s desk that weighed more than I do. I found them, I said.


He stared at me. You found…what, every file in the building? What the fuck is this?


It’s all the research we have on the effect of color schemes on consumer perception. Why the fuck isn’t this digitized? Why does this exist?


Same reason as always: because Marcus was a piece of shit. Jesus. Grab a chair.


I pulled a chair up to his desk and sat down. You know, when I agreed to be your assistant, I was thinking there would be more galas involved.


He gave me a look and handed me a file.


We seriously have to do this tonight? I said. It’s past eight.


Presentation’s tomorrow.


Don’t you miss your family? They love you very much, you know.


My family is at some emo-rock concert with April having the time of their little lives.


I could be at a concert right now?


And instead you’re here with me. He shot me a sappy smile. Isn’t it funny how life works out? It’s truly a magical journey.


I better get so much overtime for this.


That is not how salaried jobs work, my dear.


Hmmph. You better buy me some shoes.


I will buy you some shoes.


So we started going through these hideously boring files and taking hideously boring notes, stopping every once in a while to share anything that seemed remotely useful for this presentation tomorrow. It was for this company that was making…you know what? You don’t care. Why would you. It was an advertising thing. I don’t even care.


Brian crossed his feet up on the desk. He looked pretty content, considering we were in an empty office doing the most boring work of my life. And also considering that Justin’s mom was barely out of the hospital and Justin himself had been sick the past week. I was surprised to hear he was out at a concert, actually. Guess he was feeling better.


I was actually about to ask about him to try to keep myself from falling asleep on Brian’s desk when Brian looked up from his file and over my shoulder. Hey, what are you doing here? he said. His eyes narrowed. What’s wrong?


I turned around. Justin was in the doorway with Martha at his feet, breathing hard. He started to sign something but then winced and brought his hand to his chest.


Brian put the file down and got over there immediately, and I followed, obviously, and cleared my crap off the couch so there was room for him. Brian sat him down and handed him his inhaler. What the fuck is going on? Brian said. I thought you were in Brooklyn.


I was.


So you’re here in the middle of your concert when you can’t breathe…why?


Justin tried to breathe and started coughing instead. He grabbed for me kind of frantically, and I took his hand and sat down next to him.


Easy, I said. Let it happen. It’s gonna stop. There you go, nice slow breath.


Brian said, Sunshine, what the fuck is going on? God, listen to you.


He closed his eyes briefly. I’m okay. He swallowed. You have to go.


Uh, where?


He licked his lips and said, Evan was arrested.


Evan was what?


Holy shit, what? I said.


Justin dug a card out of his pocket and handed it to Brian. They said he’s here.


Justin, what the fuck happened?


This guy tried to mug us and he… Justin rubbed his chest and shook his head. Evan fucking lost it. He beat the shit out of him.


I said, No, Evan wouldn’t–


Yeah, I know, Justin said. But he did.


He… Brian rubbed his forehead. Mother of fuck. Where is April?


They took her to make a statement. I think they just didn’t bother with me when they realized I couldn’t hear them, so I came here.


Brian rolled his eyes. You know, when you can’t breathe, calling’s always a nice alternative to taking the subway across boroughs.


This didn’t seem like something I should tell you over the phone.


I tend to make exceptions when it comes to keeping you alive. He stood up and got his jacket. Is Evan okay? Is he hurt?


No, he’s okay. April too.


And you’re fucking dying on my couch. Okay.


Brian left to go bail Evan out with instructions for me to get Justin in a cab and take him home. So much for our presentation, I guess, not that I was complaining. The office is only a short cab ride away from their house, but by the time we got there he was already doing a little better. Still, I made him set up the nebulizer and get in bed, and I made it an admirable ten minutes sitting there with my fingers laced watching him wheeze before I started hounding him for information.


I just don’t get it, I said. I’ve never seen Evan kill a bug, I said.


It was…not normal. He shook his head. It was like he was possessed or something.


So it’s not like he just stopped the guy from mugging you guys, he like…


Kept hitting him.


Since when does Evan know how to fight? Did he actually–


He beat the shit out of him. Justin said plainly, and then he took a shaky breath in and I realized, ohhhh. He was freaking out. I hadn’t noticed at first because I’d contributed the gasping and complete lack of color in his face to the asthma attack, but…yeah, this one was pretty obvious. Justin doesn’t even like to see someone get punched in a movie. His own boyfriend going action hero right in front of him? Yikes.


I clapped my hands on Justin’s knees. So I’m thinking it’s time to dip into your medicine cabinet. For more than just lung stuff.


Probably. Uh…benzos, something.


Okay. I’ll go look. You okay by yourself?


I have no fucking idea. Yeah.


In shock a little.


Yeah, maybe.


I went into the bathroom and propped my phone up on the sink while I called Brian. He didn’t pick up, but he called me back a minute later, when I was still rooting through the medicine cabinet. He was in some white room that looked a lot like a hospital waiting room. I’d pictured police stations a lot grungier.


What’s going on? I said.


Just waiting for paperwork and shit. I don’t know how long it will take.


Have you seen Evan?


He nodded.


How is he?


Not hurt. Won’t talk to me. I have no idea what’s going on.


Are they like, pressing charges?


He put a guy with no weapon in the hospital. Yeah, he’s going to need a good lawyer. He worked his jaw for a minute, then said, Justin okay?


I think his breathing’s better, but he’s pretty panicky. I’m going to drug him.


Fuck, of course he is. Yeah. I’ll be home as soon as I can. You’re all right to stay?


Yeah, it’s fine. Want me to cancel some meetings tomorrow?


God. Yeah. Fuck. Of all fucking days for Evan to lose his goddamn mind. This still makes no sense.


It’s Evan. I’m sure he had a good reason to…


To practically fucking kill someone? Yeah. I definitely hope he had a good reason. I’ll talk to you soon.


I brought Justin a few bottles that looked promising and let him decide what to take, then cuddled with him in bed to watch movies until he calmed down. But he didn’t, really. He wasn’t actively freaking out, but I could feel how fast his heartbeat stayed from where I had my head resting on his chest, and he was having a hard time staying still even with me on top of him. Finally the drugs hit him hard enough that he fell asleep, and I crept out into the living room, figuring Brian and Evan and April would be back soon.


Turned out they weren’t, and I was nodding off myself when the front door finally opened and the three of them came inside. Evan gave me a small wave. He looked untouched.


There’s coffee on, I said, sitting up.


Thanks, Brian said. How’s Justin?


Sleeping. I checked on him a little while ago.


I’m going to let him know we’re back, he said, and he headed into the bedroom without a glance in Evan’s direction. April and I exchanged looks, then we followed Evan into the kitchen.


So what happens now? I asked Evan.


I don’t know. I guess I get a court date. I have no idea how these things work. He seemed…bored, almost, but I could tell it was a cover. He was freaked out too. He leaned against the counter and put his arms around himself.


Brian came out, then, so I asked him. What happens now, he pays a fine?


Now we find a lawyer who can spin this as self-defense and get it thrown out, Brian said. He looked at Evan, hard, until Evan gave up and made eye contact, then said, Do you have a record?


I don’t know. I’ve been arrested before.


You don’t know if you’ve ever been convicted of anything?


I was a junkie, Brian. My memories of the time aren’t particularly clear.


Is that what’s going on now, are you using?


Christ. No.


At least that would be a fucking explanation.


April’s eyes were darting between the two of them, but I could tell she was totally lost. I’d have to recap for her later. I was about to ask them to slow down for her–yeah, yeah, Emily being nice to a hearing person, miracles do happen–when Martha came running out of the bedroom and over to Evan, jumping on his leg and licking his hand. Justin followed slowly behind, and he stayed on the other side of the kitchen, holding himself up on the wall.


Evan crouched down and rubbed Martha’s head. Hey, baby girl. I’m okay. He straightened up and tried to get Justin’s attention, but Justin shook his head and looked away from him. Evan took a step towards him, and Justin stepped back, his hands up. Justin.


Not now, Justin said.


Evan took a beat and looked away and took a slow breath in. Yeah. I’m going to…yeah, he said, and he kissed Martha’s head and headed down the stairs to the basement.


Brian pinched between his eyes, then went over to Justin and pulled him into a hug. It’s okay, he said to him. God, you still cannot breathe.


Are you okay? April asked him.


He nodded. Just PTSD stuff.


How’s your stomach? she said.


Justin didn’t say anything, and Brian narrowed his eyes and looked at him. What’s she talking about?


It’s not important, Justin said.


Brian let go of him, and Justin stumbled. What the fuck is going on?


Justin still didn’t say anything, so we looked at April.


She said, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…maybe I’m confused. My signing is so bad.


No, Brian said. I don’t think you’re confused. He took a slow, steadying breath. Tell me what happened, please.


Okay, April said, and she started explaining. Her signing, like she said, wasn’t great, but I’m pretty good at bad signers, and between what she could sign and what she could gesture and reading her lips–she still sim-coms a lot–I could visualize what she was saying pretty well. We were inside for the concert and Justin was wheezing a lot. It was really crowded and hot in there, so Evan said we should go outside and get some air. I guess I noticed there was this guy watching us, but I thought…you know. People stare at signing. She shrugged.


Keep going, Brian said. He’d gone back over to Justin, who still looked like he was about a second’s notice away from running the fuck out of here, and was absentmindedly massaging his bad hand while he watched April.


We got outside and Justin was leaning against the wall. He had his inhaler, he wasn’t breathing well. I went to this pretzel stand halfway down the block to get him some water. Evan took Martha to the curb, but he was facing Justin, he was watching him. I was in line, I was looking too. And I saw that guy from inside come out and he came close to Justin, and I was pissed because he had a cigarette and Justin already couldn’t breathe. Evan was about to go over and say something, but I think the guy didn’t see us and thought Justin was alone.


Brain was absolutely still.


Justin didn’t notice him because he was…


Justin was busy trying to breathe, Brian said tightly.


Yeah. and then…the guy punched him in his stomach and took his wallet.


Brian tilted his head up at the ceiling.


It happened really fast, April said. I ran over, obviously, but Evan was right there. And then he…he hit him and got him on the ground and he just kept hitting him.


Okay. Brian swallowed and took a deep breath. Okay.


We all stood there, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t take long.


Brian pushed Justin down into a chair and said, What the fuck. What the fuck, Justin?


I’m fine, Justin said.


You’re fine. You get punched in the stomach during a fucking asthma attack, you show up at my office about to keel over, you still can’t catch your breath, you’re fucking fine?


I said I’m–


Why didn’t you tell me?


I’m sorry… April said to Justin, but he mouthed, “It’s okay.”


I didn’t think it was important, Justin said to Brian.


Brian clenched his hands into fists.


Not because I don’t…think I’m important, Justin said. Okay? But it doesn’t excuse what Evan did.


I don’t fucking care what Evan did right now! He pulled up a chair across from Justin. Jesus, Sunshine.


April and I had both been gradually getting the fuck out of there, and this was our final cue. Brian needed us to get out of there so he’d have permission to stop yelling and just feel whatever the fuck he needed to feel about Justin getting targeted, again. April dipped off into the guest room, where I figured she’d be staying for the night. And I went down to the basement.


I flashed the lights at the top of the stairs and then came down. Evan was cross-legged on his bed, his hands clasped in his lap, his head down. I sat down in front of him and ran my hand up and down his arm, waiting for him to look up at me. When he finally did, it was just for a second, and his eyes were shining.


I really fucked up, he said.


I leaned towards him and kissed his forehead, and he started crying.


I fucked up really bad, he said. I’m going to go to jail. I fucked up everything.


You are not going to go to jail. You know Brian would never let that happen.


Brian is so mad at me!


That doesn’t matter. He loves you.


Justin can’t even look at me.


He’s been scared before. He’ll be okay.


I’m not supposed to scare him! He thrust his hands in his hair and then said, I just…I saw that guy hit him and I just…I lost it. I don’t even remember doing it.


Where did you learn…to do that?


He shrugged. I lived on the street. It’s not my first time fighting someone. But I…that’s not who I am anymore. I don’t want to be that person. That person’s a fucking junkie, I can’t…I cannot be that person.


It’s so fucking easy to forget everything that Evan lived through before we met him. You have to understand, he’s just so fucking sweet. It’s hard to imagine the stuff from his past actually happened to him.


I never really thought about how much of that was intentional. Evan not wanting to be that person. Evan not wanting us to know that person.


I keep thinking about that guy coming towards him and I still feel like I’m being electrocuted or something, Evan said. I just…I have never been that angry in my life. I wanted to kill him. I really did. Everyone keeps telling me the guy’s going to be okay and I know that’s good news and everything but it doesn’t feel like good news. He hurt Justin. I want him dead. He shook his head slowly. I can’t believe I’m thinking these things and it’s all I can think.


Okay, this does not make you a bad person, I said. That’s not what’s going on here.


No, I’m pretty sure it is.


You have based a very large part of your identity on keeping Justin safe, I said. It is not crazy that when that’s threatened right in front of you, your response isn’t completely rational.


There’s a big gap between ‘not rational’ and ‘wishing death on another human being.’ Christ, and it’s not even that I wished it, I fucking…I could have killed him, Emily.


But you didn’t. It’s going to be okay.


That’s all it took. I lost my fucking mind, now I’m going to lose my fucking life here and God knows what else. What the fuck? How do I fucking…that’s all it takes? I turn into a fucking monster? He started crying harder. Brian’s going to kick me out.


Brian would never. And if he tries, I’ll just tell him I’ll quit, and you know he’s useless without me.


He was still crying, but he laughed a little bit.


Besides, if anyone understands going crazy over Justin, it’s Brian, right?


He doesn’t really seem like he understands.


Well, he didn’t have the whole story. April just filled him in up there. Her signing’s getting good.


He nodded and wiped his eyes.


Why didn’t you tell him what happened?


He pulled at his blanket. I don’t know. I just didn’t want to think about it, I guess. I still don’t. He wiped his eyes. Are you staying over?


Yeah. Gwen says it’s okay.


Can you stay down here with me?


Yeah, of course.


I went to pee and get my makeup off in his bathroom, and he got some sweats out for me to change into. Evan’s got a foot on me, so I was a little clumsy wearing his clothes and then curling up behind him to be the big spoon once we were in his bed, but I made it work. I rested my head against his shoulder while he cried a little and just…I don’t know, tried to reconcile everything I knew about him into one person. And I tried to imagine what it would be like to be Brian or Evan. Because obviously I love Justin, but I’m not in the thick of it every day. I get to go home and take a deep breath and recharge. What’s waiting for them at home besides more stress, more worry, and more of Justin being a goddamn angel to remind you that he doesn’t deserve any of the shit that happens to him?


I don’t really get how you don’t go crazy, is what I’m saying.


And then, finally, I figured out that the person missing in this story of the thing that happened to Justin was Justin. So until I fell asleep, I wondered about him.


**


We slept late, or at least I did. When I stretched and opened my eyes, Evan was sitting in his little kitchenette with a cup of tea, playing on his phone. I waved at him.


Hey, he said. His eyes were red. Sleep okay?


Sure. I yawned and sat up. How is everyone?


He shrugged and said, small, I haven’t been upstairs.


Well, no time like the present. Come on.


He hesitated.


We’re not hiding out down here all day. Don’t you want to see how Justin is?


Of course.


So come on, then. I went over to the table and clapped my hands on his shoulders, then helped him out of the chair. I’ve got you, okay?


Love you.


Yeah yeah yeah. Come on, Muhammad Ali.


There was no sign of Justin when we got upstairs, though, just Brian at the kitchen table with his laptop. He glanced up at us when we came up the stairs, then back at his screen. There’s coffee, he said.


I went over to pour some for us, and Evan said, How’s Justin?


Brian shrugged. Asleep.


Nightmares, I’m guessing?


Brian snorted. Be grateful you couldn’t hear the screaming.


Evan scuffed his feet on the floor and then said, Brian, I’m sorry.


Brian closed the laptop and turned to him. I don’t know what to say. I thought you had more self-control than this. I didn’t think you were the kind of person who could do this in the first place.


I’m not, Evan said.


Yeah, that’s what’s not adding up.


I said, Jesus Christ, cut him some slack.


Brain said, He doesn’t need you to defend him.


Okay, I’m gonna do it anyway. What would you have done in his shoes?


I have been in his shoes! Brian said, standing up. I was in that fucking parking garage with the guy, holding the weapon he’d just used to bash Justin’s head in, you think I don’t know what it feels like? Yeah, I broke his fucking kneecap, but I didn’t kill him.


I didn’t kill anyone either, Evan said. And it’s not the same.


Yeah, it’s not the same, I saw Justin’s fucking brain matter sprayed out on the concrete, you saw him take one punch–


It’s not the same because Justin is not the same! Evan said. He ran his hand through his hair. Look, I am not discounting what you had to see, and the fucking shock of that must have been…goddamn unreal, but that’s the thing, it was a shock. It was Justin healthy and fine in front of you one second and not the next, but that’s not what happened here. He was starting to cry again. He’s sick, and I worry about him every fucking second. I am so scared all the time.


Sweetheart, I know, but–


No! This guy, he went after Justin because he couldn’t breathe and probably because he was Deaf. He targeted him specifically for all the fucking reasons that I want to keep him safe, that’s what someone saw and that’s why they hurt him, and I didn’t stop it in time. And he could have really hurt him, you heard him after! And yeah, it was one punch, but that’s all it takes now. I was so scared. I am always so fucking scared.


I didn’t… Brian sighed. You’ve always handled all of this so well.


Evan’s chin shook. Aren’t you scared?


Yeah. Of course I am. Brian sat back down. Okay. Lay it on me.


Um, I’m just… He wiped his eyes. I’m scared every time I’m out with him that someone’s going to hurt him, that they’re going to do something to trigger a seizure or mess up his breathing. Even when I’m alone I’m always noticing stuff, stairs or uneven surfaces or flashing lights. Sometimes he’s asleep and he doesn’t answer his phone and I get really scared. Or if his allergies are bad, I start worrying it’s because of something I ate or brought home on my clothes and I’m making it worse. And I’m scared he’s going to fall in the shower. And I don’t like when he eats out at restaurants because we don’t know what’s in the food. And I’m just. I’m worried he’s not happy. He cries a lot and he says he’s okay and his therapist is supposed to be making that better so why is he still crying? And I can’t hear what his breathing sounds like so what if it’s bad and I miss it? And what if the oxygen stops working in the middle of the night and we’re asleep? Or his meds could start doing that thing with his bone marrow again, it happened before. Or um. He could be hurting. Like right now, his back and his head hurt a lot of the time, so what if it’s bad right now.


Jesus.


Brian looked away from him and nodded a little. Okay. Yeah. Okay.


Evan put his arms around himself.


Okay, Brian said. So here’s the thing. All of that is…it’s overwhelming. And I know that.


Yeah.


But what we have to remember, what he always need to keep in mind, is that he knows every single bad thing that could happen just as much as we do. He is seeing every possibility, and he’s the one who has to actually feel those things. So every single thing that scares you scares him ten times more. I promise you that. I try to keep things from him, I try to manage stuff so he doesn’t have to worry about it, and it never, not once, works. He is hypervigilant, and he is very aware of the situation he’s in, and he is very scared. He paused. And see the thing is, now he’s scared of you too.


Evan nodded.


And I don’t know how to fix that except time. But I know that he can’t live with someone violent. It’s not fair to him.


Please don’t kick me out.


I am not kicking you out. But I’m asking you if this is too much for you.


Evan shook his head hard.


All right. Well…then we need to figure out how to deal with this.


Evan wiped his cheeks off. Okay. He gestured a little. Justin’s here.


So he was; Brian’s much-too-tall body was in my way, but when he turned around I saw Justin standing in the living room, looking young and kind of sick in his sweats. Brain gave himself a quick shake and then held his arm out, and Justin came and tucked himself underneath, watching Evan.


Brian got his attention. Where are we, med-wise? Need a refill?


Maybe half a pill? Justin said, and Brian nodded and kissed the top of his head and came over to the cabinet above my head to root around. Justin tilted his head and looked at Evan with a sigh. Hey.


How are you? Evan said. How’s your breathing?


I’m okay, he said gently. Are you okay?


Evan shook his head and started crying again, and I was about to go to him–I can only take so fucking much–but Justin got there first. He stood up on his toes and put his arms around him, and Evan buried his face in Justin’s hair. Brian turned around, pill in hand, and leaned against the counter, watching. I looked up at him, and he rested his hand on top of my head.


Evan pulled away just enough to sign. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I won’t do it again. Please don’t be mad.


Justin kissed him. I’m not mad.


You’re scared of me.


Yeah, well, I’m brain-damaged. I’ll get over it. He lowered himself back to flat feet.


I was just so…


I know, Justin said. But we’re not going to have me turn you into someone you don’t want to be. Okay? That’s not how it’s going to go.


I couldn’t keep you safe.


And that is not the last time that’s going to happen, Justin said. Ask Brian.


Unfortunately accurate, Brian said.


I think. Um. Evan wrung his hands a little. I think maybe I should talk to someone.


Brian threw up his hands. Jesus Christ! I try for years to get this kid into therapy, Justin gets it with one conversation?


Justin laughed a little and hugged Evan. I think that’s a really good idea.


Well, obviously it’s a good fucking idea, Brian said. I was going to ease him into it, fuck… He rolled his eyes and came over and put his arm around Evan’s shoulders to pull him into his chest, then tugged Justin in against his other shoulder. Justin held his hand out to me, and I let him pull me in-between them all, and I just breathed in the feeling of them all safe and here and together. Evan squeezed around my waist.


Brian let us go and kissed our forehead and said he was going to make breakfast, and Justin sat down with me at the table and asked me questions about Jane. And Evan just stood in the kitchen, watching everyone, until Brian got his attention and said, Relax now, sonny boy.


Yeah?


Yeah. It’s gonna be okay now. It’s gonna be okay for a long time.

 

Chapter 150 - Interlude by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Everyone settles down after the events of "Fear."

Interlude

LaVieEnRose



“Okay,” Louis said. “So in the past year, you’ve had a kidney transplant, you experienced an addiction relapse, your father died, your mother-in-law was in a serious accident, and you were arrested for battery charges.”


“And my boyfriend almost died like, eight or nine times in there.”


“Well.” He put his pen down and gave me a small smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”


I took a deep breath and scratched the arm of the couch. “Me too.”


**


Justin dabbed paint on his canvas. I still don’t understand having a hearing therapist.


I shrugged and hugged one of our throw pillows to my chest. I cared more about finding someone gay. My new hearing aids are good. Plus it’s one-on-one, facing each other, no distractions, in a silent room. Even you could lipread in that situation.


Bet you ten dollars I could not.


I still feel nervous with Deaf people, I said. I’d spend the whole time worrying he was judging my signing or…I don’t know, deciding that I’m not Deaf enough to count.


Yeah, I know what that’s like.


Please. You’re capital D Deaf.


Yeah, for less than ten years.


That’s barely longer than I’ve been signing. I shrugged. I’m comfortable with English. It’s still my first language. As much as anything is, anyway.


It’s my first language too, he said. Sometimes you let go of your firsts.


Tell that to the first guy you slept with.


Brian came in with a cup of coffee. What are we talking about, deflowering Justin? Recommend.


I’ll keep that in mind, I said.


Brian moved behind Justin to see the canvas. “Oh,” he said. Wow.


Justin looked at him, eyebrow up.


Brian set his coffee cup on the table. Is this…wow. He picked his cup back up and took a sip, so pseudo-casual. Are you selling this one?


Yeah.


Brian nodded slowly, looking at the canvas.


I don’t…have to sell it.


What? No, it’s fine. It’s good. He lifted his cup to the easel. Good painting.


Justin laughed a little. Thanks.


I said, I’m going to make dinner tonight, okay?


Brian laughed. Why? Fair enough. We don’t do a lot of cooking around here, and if anyone does it’s usually Justin.


I used to cook all the time before you guys made me lazy, I said.


“He’s atoning,” Justin said to Brian.


I said, Didn’t I just mention I can read lips?


“Sure, but I’m banking on you not knowing what atoning means.”


Well…I have a guess.


Justin sighed. I’m just ready for everything to go back to normal.


Speaking of. I checked my watch. I have to get going.


You want a ride? Brian asked.


I shook my head, standing up. I’ll just take the bus.


Doesn’t that take like an hour? Justin said.


Well…that’s why I’m leaving now.


They looked at each other, then at me, and Brian shrugged. Suit yourself.


Take a break soon, okay? I said to Justin. Bye, Martha.


Brian came behind Justin as I left, his chin on top of Justin’s head, looking at his painting.


**


“So how’s community service going?” Louis asked.


“It’s okay.”


He waited.


Okay, fine. “I don’t actually mind it,” I said. “I’m picking up trash at Rockaway. Now that it’s getting kind of cold there aren’t a ton of people around, so it’s mostly just me and, you know. The other felons. And they’re not very chatty. They’re mostly pretty old. So it’s just, you now. Me and my thoughts. I didn’t realize before this that I don’t really spend much time alone…at all. At work there’s always a million people there. At home we’re always doing something. And we go out a lot, me and Brian.”


“And Brian’s at work too, right?”


“Yeah. I mean, we’re on different floors and everything, but I see him during the day. He checks on me. And sometimes we have lunch together.”


“Sounds like you’re with Brian a lot of the time.”


I shrugged. “He takes care of me.”


“I know you two recently had that big relationship talk, right?”


I nodded. “Things have been better since then. And then I went and did this, so…”


“Are things not good anymore?”


“No, they are. It’s just…I don’t know.” I picked at a hole in my jeans. “He didn’t used to worry that I was overwhelmed. He thought I had everything together. And I kind of liked that. Because he gets very in his feelings sometimes about Justin, so I was like…the steady one. Which was cool. I mean, I’m a lot younger than he is, and here it felt like he was relying on me for something. Now I’m scared I’m just one more person he has to manage.”


“How are him and Justin, since what happened?”


“Really good.”


“And you and Justin?”


“We’re okay. I guess we feel kind of…cautious? I’ve never freaked him out like that before. It’s almost like we’re trying too hard to be normal.”


“What do you think needs to happen?” Louis said. “What would get things actually back to normal?”


“Brian says it’ll just take time. I don’t know. I just feel so guilty all the time. And I know they’re sick of me apologizing. So I just…don’t really say anything, because that’s all I want to say.” I paused. “I don’t think I really get this community service thing.”


“In what way?’


“I mean, yay picking up trash, but what does that have to do with what I did? How is me picking up trash on beaches making it up to the guy I hurt?”


“Do you want to make it up to him?”


“He hasn’t exactly come and apologized to Justin. So no.”


“So you’re apologizing to Justin instead.”


“Well. I’m also picking up trash.”


**


I was in the kitchen a couple weeks later, working on my laptop in the late evening, when Brian came in. He trailed his hand over my shoulders in that way that makes me shiver. What are you doing? he asked me.


“Anger management homework.” I propped up on my elbow and faced him.


And what are we learning?


“Beating people up baaaad.”


He took a bakery box out of the fridge. Someone teach you to fight like that, or you just figured it out?


“Adam. Gave me some tips, at least, after I got jumped one time.”


“You got jumped?”


“Drug dealers like to get paid, turns out.”


Brian cut two slices of coffee cake and brought a plate and a fork to me. How long were you homeless? he asked, sitting down at the table.


“I mostly had a place to sleep. I’d crash on people’s floors, or in warehouses where people were squatting. Shelters sometimes. I didn’t spend that many nights, you know, under the bridge in a cardboard box or whatever. People steal all your shit when you do that.”


He shook his head a little.


“Don’t be sad. If it helps, I was very high all the time.”


That is something. He shrugged. I don’t know. It just all makes more and more sense, I guess.


My inner feral street kid. Yeah. I looked at him. You okay?


Yeah. Just tired recently.


We’ve been busy.


I don’t know. Been a quiet week.


“Can I do anything?”


What, infuse me with caffeine?


“I don’t know. Just anything.” I chewed on the side of my thumb.


Yeah, actually, now that you mention it, it would be cool if you would stop feeling guilty for existing and acting like you’re afraid of us.


“Okay, but in my defense I am very afraid of you right now.”


This is your home, and you’re wanted, Brian said. That doesn’t go away because you fuck up. He looked up as Justin came into the kitchen. Where have you been? We’re eating your cake.


I can see that. I was on the phone with my agent, Justin said, leaning over to steal a bite of my cake. And, uh, Brian? Quick question.


Yes?


Are you in a bidding war for my painting?


What painting?


I mean, any of my paintings, but the one I finished last week. The pink sunrise one.


Brian made his face completely unconvincingly blank. Oh. No.


No, you are not in a bidding war for my painting.


No.


Okay, Justin said. Because she says there’s a bidding war happening for that painting.


That’s cool. Hope it goes high.


Sure, Justin said, and he rolled his eyes at me, and I smiled.


**


“So Brian reminded me that everything that scares me scares Justin even more,” I told Louis. “And he’s right. It’s important to remember that this all hits Justin harder.”


“Isn’t that a bit like telling someone not to complain because there are starving children in Africa?” Louis said.


“I mean…if the starving child from Africa was living in your house listening to complain, they might have a point.”


He nodded a little, conceding.


“Plus…stuff that’s about Justin needs to center Justin. Sick theory 101.”


“Sure, but there’s also the oxygen mask theory. That you need to take care of yourself so that you can take care of him.”


“I’m not…arguing with that,” I say. “I mean…okay. I acknowledge that that’s something I have trouble with. But I agree that it’s valid.” I was getting so good at therapy language. “But I can, you know, sit down and have a beer and a bubble bath or whatever the fuck without making Justin’s illness about me.”


“How does Justin feel about all this?”


“If you so much as suggest that any aspect of Justin might be a burden in any situation, he’ll shatter into eight hundred pieces.”


“Well,” Louis said. “That sensitivity in and of itself sounds like a burden you have to bear, doesn’t it?”


I shrugged. “He knows that. He’s working on it.”


“All right.” Louis said. “We can pivot. We’ve talked a lot about your relationship with Brian and Justin as a unit. What about your relationship with each one separately?”


“Which do you want to start with?”


“Which do you you want to start with?”


“I so knew you were going to say that.” I laughed a little. “Justin.”


“Go on.”


I felt myself smiling without meaning to. “I don’t know what to say about Justin. He…he woke me up. I’d pulled my life together, but I was sleepwalking, you know? And then I met him. And he is…so kind, and so funny, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt as safe in my entire life as I do when I’m with him. He just…he notices everything? You can’t get anything past him, which can be kind of annoying, but at the same time, like…you always know that he’s on the ball and he has stuff taken care of. He’s also the most unbelievably talented person I’ve ever met. I’m seriously stunned all the time that I even know someone with his skill, let alone am with him. You should see the painting he finished recently, he just…God. He’s kind of famous but he should be so much more famous. I seriously think he’s the greatest living painter. I guess I’m biased. But I really think that.”


“What do you think Justin likes about you?”


That took me longer. “I think…he doesn’t have to explain himself to me. I understand what he’s going through because we’re both dealing with health stuff and we both have weird artist brains and we’re close to the same age. We grew up in really similar houses. I think being with me has always been really easy and comfortable for him. And I think he really likes that I’m someone that he can look out for, someone who trusts him. He likes kind of being in charge of me, and I like it too. Also the sex is pretty mindblowing.”


“Do you see yourself with him long term?”


“Well…I don’t always know how long he’s going to be around. But I’m never leaving Justin.”


**


We were all flopped around the living room one night, watching the finale of one of those trashy Netflix dating shows with a bunch of straight people in ridiculous situations. Brian pretends he watches these to indulge us, but he loves them. He was in the armchair on his laptop while Justin and I entertained each other with a running commentary on the show. Justin had a cold and an ear infection so he’d been a little low-energy all day, but he was feeling okay now. Brian was leaving for a week-long business trip the next morning that he wasn’t really looking forward to, so that was kind of hanging over our heads, but it was a nice evening. I’d spent a few hours picking up trash, so I was sore, but in a good way.


“Fuck,” I saw Brian say, out of the corner of my eye. I looked over, and he was typing with a pissed-off look on his face.


What’s wrong? I said.


He’s losing the auction for my painting, Justin said.


No, Brian said.


You know, I will give you the painting, Justin said. You just have to ask.


Brian didn’t say anything, but he dug his credit card out of his pocket and started typing it in.


This is a bit circular, don’t you think? Justin said. This is money I could be spending on pretty things.


You can spend it on pretty things once I win your goddamn painting, Brian grumbled, and Justin laughed and ducked his head.


Brian was gone in the morning before we woke up, which was kind of sad, but he left us notes reminding us how to set the alarm and where some emergency supplies were, as if we’d never been alone in the house before. I still had to go to work, so I kissed Justin goodbye and texted him dirty shit throughout the day, and that night we went out for Italian food and people-watched in Battery Park and had a lot of sex. No complaints.


The whole week was really lovely, actually. We had Jane on Wednesday and took her to the playground and out for crepes. On Thursday we went to the bar and saw our friends and danced under the blue lights. And in-between we called Brian and baked cookies and watched way too much TV and I did my community service and it was just nice.


I got off work early on Friday–Brian must never find out how lax Kinnetik gets when he’s not there–and I was in the kitchen doing dishes at around four when I felt something on my leg. I looked down, and Martha was pawing at my leg, looking up at me intently. “Ah shit. Okay, I’m coming.”


I followed her out in the living room. Justin was pale, staring with his eyes narrowed at some invisible point on the wall. I sat down next to him and touched his arm. You okay?


He turned to me like he wasn’t quite seeing me. “I…um.”


Let’s lie down on the floor, okay? I’ll come with you. I moved the coffee table out of the way and dropped cushions down on the floor and got him settled. It wasn’t a tonic-clonic seizure, turned out, but he did shake pretty badly and he looked really upset through the whole thing. It lasted a while, too. I talked to him gently the whole time while Martha watched him diligently. When it was over he ran a hand through his sweaty hair.


Hi, I said. You with me?


He took a shaky breath. “Yeah.”


What do you need?


“Um…some water, maybe?”


I’ll be right back.


I got him a glass of water and helped him back up onto the couch. He told me he didn’t want to go to bed, and we’d been planning a low-key evening anyway, so I just made some popcorn and cuddled up with him on the couch and put on this murder mystery movie we’d been looking forward to that was finally streaming. Justin was exhausted, breathing heavy, and rubbing his face on my shirt, and it was clear about halfway through the movie that there was no way he was going to make it through. I hit pause.


He covered his face. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so wiped out from that.


It was a pretty big one. Come on, let’s take a nap. I bet Brian will be home when you wake up.


I coaxed him to bed but he didn’t fall asleep right away. We lay there facing each other, and he leaned over and kissed me gently.


How’s therapy going? he asked me.


I propped up on my elbow. Okay, I think. I’m still not sure if I like it.


He laughed. Neither am I.


I was really surprised by how tired it made me. It’s like I went for a run or something.


Yeah, it’ll do that. Feeling all the feelings. Do you think it’s helping?


I think so…I don’t know. Maybe you need to almost die and see if I freak out less.


Well, shouldn’t be long.


I laughed a little.


I’m sorry, you know? he said. I know, I know, you hate hearing it.


Can I just ask you something?


Of course.


Is it like…okay to tell you when I’m worried? Does it make you feel bad?


He shook his head, thoughtfully. No, you can tell me that. I mean…I expect you to be worried sometimes, you know? I think that’s natural. I just don’t want you to be miserable.


I’m not.


He gave me a sleepy smile, burrowing deeper into his pillow. He said, Brian said this thing one time. That worrying about me means I’m still here to be worried about. He said it’s a feature, not a bug.


That, I said, one of my favorite ASL idioms. That. Exactly.


Yeah?


Yes.


Justin smiled. Good. I really liked that.


**


“What about your relationship with Brian?” Louis said.


I laughed a little. “We have what, fifteen minutes left? I can’t fit all of Brian into there.”


“Eh, give it a shot.”


“Mm.” I tried to figure out where to start. “I don’t think he liked me at first. I didn’t really like him! But he just…Brian cares more about other people than anyone I’ve ever met. And it’s funny because people who don’t know Brian really don’t know him. Like, the initial impression he gives off is…very far from reality. But it’s not like he’s trying to hide it, it’s just…I don’t think he realizes how good he is. He does this truly incredible, selfless things for people, and he doesn’t even recognize that these are things that not everyone would do. He doesn’t see it. And there’s just this like…purity in the way that he cares about people, because he only does things that he wants to do. And what he wants to do is make your life a little bit easier. That’s honestly how he wants to be spending his time. And I think that’s so rare. He’s just honest, in a way people aren’t honest.”


“And what do you think he likes about you?”


“It’s…it’s not easy between us like it is with me and Justin. Brian and I aren’t always on the same page. But we just have these moments where we just…and I think he feels that too. I think we both hold out for those moments when we absolutely understand every single thing about each other, just for a minute. And he trusts me with Justin. Or…he did. God, I hope he still does.”


“And do you think you’ll be with Brian long term as well?”


“Well, he and I aren’t…” I said, and then I stopped and said what I really meant instead. “Yes. There’s no world in which I’m not with Brian.”


**


Brian had texted me from the airport to tell me he had to pick something up and he’d be home a little later than expected. Justin was still asleep when he arrived, and I got up and hugged him. Brian put his bags down and put his arms around me, his hand on the back of my head. After a minute he tilted my face up to look at him. Everything okay?


I nodded. Just missed you.


He tweaked my chin. I missed you too. Look. He picked up a paper-wrapped package and tore the corner open, and I started laughing. Justin’s painting.


You won!


You have no idea how fucking expensive this was.


You’re insane.


Yeah. He took my hand and tugged me. Help me figure out where to hang it.

 

“Okay.” I wrapped my arms around his waist and pushed my face into his shirt, breathing him in. “In a minute.”

Chapter 151 - The Art of Introductions by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

After a scare, Brian opens up a bit about Justin.

The Art of Introductions

LaVieEnRose



I guess in retrospect it began a few hours before that, but for me, it all started at three AM on a Saturday night, in my shitty Brooklyn apartment I share with my three roommates and, that night, with Evan. We were asleep, squished into my double bed, when I jumped awake to the loudest fucking beeping I’d ever heard in my life. I thought there was some kind of fire alarm going off at first, and then my sleep-brain finally recognized it as Evan’s ringtone. His phone buzzes and lights up too, but obviously he needs it that loud if there’s any chance he’s going to hear it. It was under his pillow, doing the aforementioned buzzing and lighting up while it screamed, but he just mumbled and rolled over, nuzzling his pillow, not really awake at all.


I fished the phone out and saw Brian’s name on the display, trying to start a Facetime call. And I knew enough about Evan’s home life for my stomach to sink.


Evan hadn’t ever been too specific with me about everything going on with Justin. I knew he had epilepsy, and I’d heard him breathe, so obviously I knew something was up there, but Evan hadn’t offered up any details and I hadn’t asked, even though I was curious. I’d met Justin a handful of times–more than Brian, at least–but since he’s Deaf and I don’t know sign language, I still didn’t really know him. Evan would interpret, but…I don’t know, it still felt like talking to Evan. I didn’t really feel like I knew much about what Justin was like, so it felt pretty gross to like, pry into his health history when I didn’t even know him as a human.


But yeah. I had enough context to know this wasn’t good. I turned on the light and shook Evan awake, but the phone had been ringing for a bit at that point, so I answered it before the call could decline.


Brain was–shit–very obviously in a hospital, standing in some hallway with people rushing around. He was in a thin t-shirt and his hair was messed up, and his eyes were wild and red. He looked at me like he was confused, signed something, and then shook his head a little and said, “Evan.”


“Yeah, he’s right here, just a second.” I shook Evan again and this time he rolled over and squinted at me. “it’s Brian,” I said to him.


Evan groaned and pushed himself up and took the phone. “Hey, is…” he started, and then his voice kind of died while he watched Brian sign. The color fell out of his face and he covered his mouth with his hand. There was something so fucking eerie about the whole situation, that I was sitting where I could see the phone and we were both watching Brian do the same thing, but to me it meant nothing, and to Evan it was everything.


He started scrambling out of bed, trying to hold the phone and sign and get dressed all at the same time, and I said, “Give me the phone,” and held it for him so he could see the screen while he rushed around my tiny bedroom, getting his stuff together. He nodded to me eventually and I handed it back to him, and he signed a few more things and then put the phone in the pocket of his jeans. He ran his hand through his hair, looking at me but not really looking at me. “Um…” he said.


“You need to go, right?”


“Yeah, I’m sorry…”


“No, no. How are you going to get there? There aren’t going to be cabs out here this late. Maybe if we start walking towards the bridge, but…”


“I’ll just take the train.”


“I’ll walk with you.”


He shook his head. “I don’t want you walking back by yourself.”


“I’ll be okay.”


Another headshake. “I’m gonna go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”


“Okay. I hope everything’s okay…”


“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, me too.”


**


He didn’t call me tomorrow, or the next day. I got a few texts from him throughout that week, short, vague, and at unpredictable times, so I knew Justin was okay, but not a whole lot else. And after a week of that? I don’t know, I’d kind of had it. Even though it was closer to stalking than I would have preferred, it got to the point where I didn’t know what else to do besides just go to the house.


I didn’t want to show up empty-handed, so I spent the whole day cooking and went over with my arms full at around 6 PM on Saturday. Obviously I’d texted Evan to give him a heads up, but he ignored that text just as he had the last five. Which I understood, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I was looking for his attention right now. I just…couldn’t take another day of not knowing what was going on.


I rang the doorbell and waited a long time before the door opened, and there was Brian in a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans, unshaved, looking like warmed over shit. For some reason it hadn’t even occurred to me that he might be the one to answer the door, I don’t know, and I felt immediately like I’d made a mistake coming here.


He looked at me for a second too long, like he couldn’t place me right away, and then said, “Hey, Thalia.”


“Hi.” I shifted my weight. “Sorry, just…is Evan here?’


“No, he’s, uh…” He gestured vaguely. “He’s at the hospital. I, um…” He rubbed his forehead. “Um. Sorry.”


“No…are you okay?”


“I’m okay. Evan’s at the hospital, sorry. With Justin.” He touched next to his mouth when he said his name. “They sent me back here to sleep some.”


“You look like you could use it,” I said gently.


“Yeah, I…” he dropped his hands. “Tried. Can’t.”


I was just standing there with my arms full of food, so I said, “I can come back later, or…”


“Oh. I mean, come in, yeah.” He stepped out of the way and stood by the doorway while I went to the kitchen, looking around with this vaguely lost expression on his face.


“Brian?” I said.


He shook himself off, closed the door, and followed me in. “Sorry.” He laughed a little. “I kind of forget what to do when Justin’s not here.”


I unloaded my bags and took out a dish of macaroni and cheese to heat up. “How is he?”


“Oh. He’s fine. Mostly he’s just sleeping a lot, now,” Brian said. “A lot more than usual. I asked if that’s normal, I thought maybe it was a side effect of one of the meds, because he…yeah, he’s out. But they said he’s probably just worn out from what he went through.” He sighed and dropped his chin into his hand.


I was pretty sure that was the most words Brian had ever spoken to me.


I’d had a few conversations with Brian over the couple of months I’d been seeing Evan, but I didn’t really know him, and I’d definitely never seen him like this. Brian was always composed, collected, almost rehearsed. He was charming, definitely, but there was something a little bit…insincere? I don’t want to sound mean. Evan loves him and he’d always been nice to me, but I didn’t really feel like I had any idea who he was.


And now he was in this awful situation, and I was virtually a stranger coming into his house and bothering him, and if you’d asked me, this is where I would have guessed he’d be the most closed off. But here he was telling me that he wasn’t sleeping and that he didn’t know what to do without Justin. He just seemed…raw. Real. Maybe he was just too worn out to bother being guarded.


Or maybe he…


So I’m an actor, you know? It’s my job to get inside people, try to be in their heads. And just the way those words had fallen out of him so easily, when he’d barely been able to get a sentence out before…I don’t know, I just felt like maybe he wanted to talk about Justin. That maybe after an ordeal like they’d been through–I didn’t know details, but I knew it was something–that he needed someone to say it out loud to to try to make it all make sense.


And he was probably used to talking about Justin, right? I don’t know how you’d have a chronically ill partner and not get used to answering questions from worried people about how they were doing. Maybe this would bring some normalcy back.


So I said, “Can I ask what happened? Evan hasn’t really been up to talking.”


And he said, “Oh, yeah, sure.” Just like that. He cleared his throat. “He uh…So he hadn’t been feeling right all day. He was really low-energy and he told me a few times that he wasn’t feeling good. But he didn’t have a fever, wasn’t having seizures. Breathing wasn’t great. I figured it was allergies, he…has these fucking awful allergies. It’s usually that. I thought it was that.”


Oof. “You can’t blame yourself for not knowing,” I said.


He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t, not really. Not after all this time. It’s just…I don’t know. It’s sad. It’s objectively sad when he’s really sick and no one realizes.”


I nodded a little. The truth was, except for the very little I’d gotten out of Evan, most of what I knew about being very sick or about being with a very sick person was just stuff I’d absorbed from books and movies or…I don’t know, scenarios I’d worked out in my head about what it would feel like or how I would act. I hadn’t really had anyone with a chronic illness in my life before all this.


“So the day was pretty normal,” Brian said. “He wasn’t feeling well, but…you know. He doesn’t feel well a lot. And so…you know, normal day, whatever, we went to bed. And that night he woke me up, shook my arm. And I heard him breathing right away and it sounded…strange. Wet, which is never a good sign, but kind of…I don’t know. Really wet. So pretty clear off the bat something was wrong.”


I put the dish in the oven and poured us both some water. It felt strange, moving around this kitchen like it was mine, but not as strange as standing still, staring.


“He sat on the side of the bed, and…let’s see. Yeah. He was sitting on the side of the bed, his hand like this on his chest, and he said he felt like his lungs were filling up.” His eyes were narrowed a little, looking at nothing in particular, and between that and the soft, halting way he was speaking, I don’t know, it almost was like he was watching the memory play back in real time and narrating to me as he saw it. “I asked him if we needed to go to the hospital, which…he always fights me. I was pretty sure we needed to, but I knew he would fight me. And he said, um. He said, ‘you need to call an ambulance.’’ He nodded a little. “Yeah. He’s never said that before. Do you need help finding anything?”


“I’m okay.”


He cleared his throat. “Right. So…uh, yeah, anyway. I called the ambulance. Told them, you know, he has asthma, he can’t breathe, sounds congested, but I wasn’t…that’s what I thought it was, you know? He didn’t feel feverish so I thought, what could this be but some awful asthma attack? I told them he was Deaf and I needed to help him stay calm, so they let me get off the phone. And we waited, and I sat with him and gave him oxygen and tried to talk him through it, but…it was getting worse. He was coughing, which, you know, whatever, but then he started choking up this bloody foam which, uh, that was new, didn’t really seem like a good sign, and then he started telling me that he’d never felt like this before. That this was something different. So that finally kind of clicked for me and from that point…” He shook his head.


For a moment I thought he was done talking, and then he started speaking again, his voice softer.


“Eventually he told me…he, um.. That he thought he might die. He knew…” He gestured a little. “You know, I’d want to hear it. Would want a warning.” He cleared his throat. “So he let me know that was on the table. But…you know. I knew that already at that point. you could tell. It was really bad by then. It felt like the ambulance was taking forever and I almost just picked him up and took him to the car, but it came, and they, you know, they did some stuff, and I got to ride with him, and they were rushing around in the back doing all kinds of whatever but, uh, even with all that, by the time we got there they said he was in respiratory failure and he, uh. He wasn’t really conscious.”


I didn’t really mean to, but I reached across the bar and took his hand. He didn’t exactly hold on, but he didn’t pull away, either.


“They took him away in the ER, worked on him for a while,” Brian said, still like he was reciting lines. “They wouldn’t let me in. I called Evan. Uh, you know that part.”


Obviously logically he couldn’t have called Evan before that point, but…I don’t know, it hadn’t really registered for me until then that the Brian I saw that night over Facetime had already been through the fucking unimaginable shit he’d just described to me. That, God, he’d just been scared out of his fucking mind, was still scared out of his fucking mind, and I'd picked up that phone with no idea.


"They came out and they told me…they said, ‘He’s stable. We’re worried about him.’ That’s what they said. These total fucking strangers, they were worried about him.” He cleared his throat. “But, uh, they let me see him then. That was good.” His voice was low now, so much that I could barely hear it. “He was awake…drugged up, tired. He was sweet. Joking with me.”


“What happened?” I said. “Evan didn’t tell me.”


“Oh, he probably didn’t even know the English term for it,” Brain said, normal volume again, casual as could be. “Pulmonary edema. Fluid in your lungs, basically. And that actually opened up this whole other can of bullshit, because it turns out the most common causes of that are lung cancer and heart failure.”


“Oh…”


He waved his hand. “No, no, I mean, it can also be caused by just having shitty lungs, just…most people don’t have lungs shitty enough for it to happen very often. But obviously they had to check to see if he had lung cancer or heart failure, so that was another process. And it’s not like we were ever actually that worried about that possibility, but…you know. There in the back of our minds until they ruled that out, so that was a whole thing. And meanwhile he’s just…” Brian shrugged. “He’s sick, he was really sick.”


“Will he be home soon?”


“Yeah, he will. He’s back to worrying about me and whether I’m sleeping enough, so. Business as usual.”


I tapped my fingers on the counter a few times, then said, “Brian?”


“Mmm.”


“What’s Justin like?”


He laughed a little. “What?”


“I don’t…know him. What’s he like?”


“Evan doesn’t talk about him?”


“Sometimes.”


“What does he say?”


“That he’s kind. Thoughtful. Really talented.”


Brian nodded to the kitchen wall next to us. “That’s one of his paintings, there.”


“Oh.” I don’t really know much about visual art, to be honest, but I liked the colors. “It’s beautiful.”


But I was waiting for more, and I guess he could tell, because he laughed kind of awkwardly and said, “I don’t really know where to start.”


“Well…pretend I don’t know anything.”


“It’s just…I don’t really like talking about him in English.”


“Oh.”


“It’s just weird, you know? He should be able to understand things that are about him.”


So maybe that’s why he was pausing so much relaying that night to me, why he sounded stilted and uncomfortable. Because I was coming in here asking him to use the wrong language to talk about something that was already impossible.


God. I’d really thought I was helping.


I started kind of packing my shit up, and Brian was quiet, and then he said, “He was born in Erie.”


I paused.


“Close to Pittsburgh,” Brian said. “He has a little sister, Molly, and a half-brother who’s almost a teenager now. She lives in Manhattan now, Luke’s in Pittsburgh. He started losing his hearing when he was twenty-three. When he was eighteen he had a severe traumatic brain injury, and a lot of the issues he has now stem from that. And he’s one of the most incredible artists currently living. And that’s not me talking, that’s multiple sources. Objective fact.”


I sat down across from him.


“He…” Brian pulled his lips into his mouth and paused. “He can see goodness in people when other people can’t. He just notices everything, it’s like he’s here to research all of us and report back to someone. There’s this newness about him no matter how old he gets where he’s just fascinated with everything and where he appreciates all these tiny things that other people wouldn’t even think to take note of. It’s always, look, the neighbors changed their mailbox, that must be because they’re having that new baby, which I know because of a package I saw them get the other day, oh, look at the way the light scatters when it goes through those tree branches, look at how happy Evan was when you surprised him with that croissant, we need to do more things like that, it’s just…he notices. He’s fired up and he argues like he had his lines planned in advance, which is terrifying. Fiercely protective of Evan and what he considers Evan’s God-given right to have whatever he wants at any given time, but who could blame him for that, given…anyway. His working memory isn’t what it was, and you should have seen him back then, but he still collects information the best he can, analyzes it, makes pictures out of it that explain everything: the weather, politics. You. Which means that when he can’t understand something he gets overwhelmed, paralyzed. Doesn’t like crowds. Has a lot of seizures. Allergic to fucking everything. In constant, intractable pain, which he will do his best to make you forget, and it affects every single part of his life. Gracious. Patient. Ashamed. A lot of trouble with his right hand. Incredible signer. Intuitive. Ingenious. Fucking…doesn’t age. Kinky. Laughs with his whole body. Catches every fucking germ that comes his way. I call him Sunshine sometimes.” He shrugged a little. “Thirty-two.”


“Is he really?”


“I told you. Doesn’t age.”


‘God.” I breathed out. “I wish I could…know him.”


Brian nodded slowly and said, “Well. He’s not going anywhere.”


**


 


Evan texted me three days later, saying he’d been the worst and he was so sorry, and of course I told him he hadn’t been and he shouldn’t be. He told me everything was a lot better now and asked if I wanted to come over to play this video game we’d been messing with before all of this happened.


Brian answered the door again.


“Please tell me he’s actually here this time,” I said.


He snorted. “Downstairs. Come in. We’re still working through that mac and cheese, by the way. That’s some good shit.”


“Old family recipe,” I said, coming in and taking off my jacket.


Justin was on the couch, wearing sweats and working on something on his laptop. He waved a little and said, “Good to see you.”


“You too. Um. Wait,” I said, and I hesitantly raised my hands. I’m glad you’re okay, I said, hesitantly, and Justin beamed. “Did I do that right?” I asked Brian.

 

Brian’s eyes glowed, and he placed his hand gently between Justin’s shoulders. “Yeah. That was perfect.”

Chapter 152 - Happiness by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Just a really good day.

Happiness

LaVieEnRose



I woke up drowning in pillows, balled up on the side of the bed with Martha slung over my legs and sunlight streaming through the windows. I didn’t see anyone else in the room, but after I drifted off to sleep for a few more minutes and finally yawned and stretched, I felt a hand smooth over my forehead, and I smiled and opened my eyes. “Hi.”


Brian leaned down and kissed me, slowly, and I played with the collar of his t-shirt.


How is it today? he asked.


I stretched again. Not bad.


Did you sleep?


“Mmhmm.”


Good. Ready?


I nodded and held my arms up, and he carefully slid me out from under Martha and the comforter and helped me right myself on the edge of the bed. Everything spun for a minute, and he waited patiently while I held onto his arm, eyes closed, before I gave him the okay and he set me on the floor.


I put my arm around his waist on the way to the bathroom. “Someday my chest isn’t going to feel like this, right?”


Yeah, it’ll stop hurting.


Brian already had the shower running, and steam was starting to fog up the mirrors and the glass walls. He helped me sit on the bamboo stool we have, took a minute to step under the spray and take a deep breath, his head back, and then got to work on me, washing my hair and running soap down my arms. I felt myself melt.


“What do you have to do today?” I asked him.


Not a damn thing.


“Me neither.”


Brian nodded in approval and took the handheld showerhead off the wall to rinse my shoulders. He held it close to the back of my neck so the water could knead out some of the knots there, and I shivered and breathed out.


He chuckled. Good?


“God yes.”


He held it there for a while, then had me hang onto it while he crouched down and started soaping up my feet and legs. I looked at him there, on the ground for me, handling me so carefully, and I waited for the shame I usually get about making him take of me to wash over me and it just…it didn’t come. Part of it was just that I was so tired and I’d just been through a pretty major medical emergency and even I couldn’t convince myself that I didn’t deserve to be handled with some care right now, but part of it was also that I was looking at him and feeling something very distinctly not small and guilty about the fact that Brian Kinney was washing my feet like I was his king. Mmm. Yeah. Not small and guilty. Not meek and weak. Not the vein I was thinking in at all.


“I want to top you,” I said to him.


He laughed. From the shower stool? He surveyed the distance between me and the floor. I don’t think I bend that way anymore. Wait ‘til we’re back in bed, then you can.


Hmm. Not good enough. “Suck me off, then.”


What, right now?


“Right now. Stop and suck me off.”


He looked up at me, and I saw him cluck his tongue the way he does. Bossy.


“Yes. What are you waiting for?”


He kept staring me down, just to fucking piss me off, and then cracked a smile. Not a damn thing, he said, adjusting his angle.


**


Sickness and caretaking and duty and concern…they can mean what you want them to mean. That’s all I’m saying.


They can mean bringing Brian Kinney to his knees, and that can mean whatever the fuck you want it to mean.


No one gets to say that you have to be a sad story.


**


Okay, I…no. Evan frustration-thrashed the comforter. No.


You just kicked the dog.


I’m sorry, Martha. He squirmed until he was next to me on the pillows. I don’t know why I thought I could fucking take this class. I can’t read.


You can read.


I just…whoever told me I could speak English lied to me. Look. He showed me the page. This paragraph is so long. It’s like a page! I don’t know how to remember the beginning by the time I get to the end. And it keeps changing what it’s talking about and saying things that don’t make sense.


I read it over and said, Okay, show me what doesn’t make sense.


Here, this sentence. All her life she’d been fighting against a current, and now she’d found a harbor. I have no idea what this is. I know what all those words mean individually, but…what is she talking about? She was supposed to be talking about this guy she’s going to marry, and now all of a sudden there’s a harbor?


It’s a metaphor, I said. Not a literal harbor. It’s a feeling.


Doesn’t current mean ‘now?’ How do you have A now?


It does, but it also means tides, like in the water. That’s what it’s talking about here.


But she’s not in the water. Is she in the water?


No, I said, but I started coughing before I could explain any further. Since I got sick a few weeks ago it kept coming on suddenly like that.


Evan looked up from his book when it didn’t let up. Oxygen?


I shook my head and took a few steadying breaths, trying to get it under control. Metaphors are there to make everything more visual. So that instead of just decoding a sentence word-by-word, you can picture what’s going on.


But I can’t do that, he said. I have to read the words and then figure out what all the words mean and remember where they are in the sentence and what every part of the sentence is referring to and then remember the sentence that came before it and somehow I’m supposed to just know that she’s not actually in the water when it’s telling me she’s in the water.


I pointed to the nightstand. Can you hand me that sketchpad?


He grabbed it for me, then a pencil, and snuggled into my shoulder as I started sketching. He loves watching me draw, and I love him watching me, so it works out.


So imagine a boat, I said left-handed as I drew. Fighting against the current. It keeps beating it back…see? I drew a figure on the deck, holding onto the line. She’s trying to sail this…so how would her face look? What would she be feeling?


Tired.


Yeah.


Frustrated. Overwhelmed. Scared, maybe.


Right. I drew that expression on her. And so here’s the harbor. You know that word?


Boats, right? Where they leave.


Where they leave, but also where they come in from the sea, I stretched out my hand a little, then sketched a few sailboats. So she’s been out at sea for ages, fighting this current, and then she sees this harbor. So how’s she going to feel?


Relieved. Safe. Happy.


I erased her expression and drew that in instead. See? There.


Evan studied the picture. Okay. I get it now.


It’ll get easier, I said. It will. You’re just practicing.


All right, well, stick around. I might need you again next paragraph.


I will.


**


I don’t know what it is about hospital trips that make me sleep like I’m in a coma for weeks afterwards. Logic would say that it has something to do with the fact that I was sick enough to be in the hospital in the first place, but I don’t know. I think it’s some kind of dark hospital witchcraft they do to me while I’m in inpatient. Horrible places.


I kept just falling asleep in the middle of doing things, and it’s not like I was doing anything particularly exhausting. One minute I was on the couch folding laundry and watching a Mexican art documentary with Evan, and the next I was in bed, startling myself awake.


Brian’s hand appeared on my arm. Hey, it’s okay.


I nodded and started coughing, and Brian helped me sit up and handed me a bottle of water from the nightstand. I leaned against the headboard and sipped, looking around the room and trying to figure out what time it was. Early evening, maybe.


Brian was sitting in a chair next to the bed, and he had one of my sketch pads. Drawing me? I asked him.


He made a face. Trying to.


Let me see, I said, and he climbed over me on the bed and settled down on my other side, handed it to me. Brian would never tell you this, but he’s actually not a bad artist. He gets overwhelmed trying to come up with stuff out of nowhere, but he does a pretty good job of drawing what’s in front of him.


Still, not perfect. You can fix it, he said, and I laughed and…fixed it a little. God, he said. I don’t know how you do that.


A lot of figure drawing is just studying, I said. Once you know anatomy well, you can make anything look right.


He watched me re-shade my face and said, Anatomy, huh?


Anatomy and light.


He nuzzled my cheek impatiently while I worked, and finally I huffed out a sigh and put the pencil down and turned to him, and he kissed me deeply, urgently. I cupped his jaw in my hand and held onto the soft hair over his ears.


He rested his forehead against mine.


“You should draw more often,” I told him.


He shrugged and kissed me again. Just something to do when you’re asleep.


“You don’t have more important things to do?”


Can’t think of any.


You really do get sappy after I’ve been sick.


He pouted at me, leaning back against the pillows. I know.


I shook my head sadly. Where’s the emotionally repressed asshole I fell in love with?


Oh, he’ll be back in a few days, I’m sure.


“Hey, no, wait,” I said, and Brian laughed with his head back.


**


I was on the couch the next time I woke up, and I felt kind of dizzy and disoriented, so I stayed still at first and just watched Brian and Evan. They were setting the table for dinner, and Evan was laughing at something Brian said. From the way they were moving I was pretty sure there was music on, and I smiled and nuzzled my pillow.


Is he still asleep? Brian asked.


I think so, Evan said. I’ll get him in a minute. He set a plate down. I like his hands.


Brian nodded thoughtfully. They’re good hands.


Delicate.


They are. Which you wouldn’t expect, since…


Evan nodded knowingly. God, these two. Obsessed.


I hauled myself up eventually and kissed them both and we had dinner Evan made, pasta with Alfredo sauce and peas and asparagus, so good. Evan checked his phone as we were finishing up and said, Kel wants to know if we’re coming out tonight, to Brian. Casual clubbing friend they’d made. Also their drug dealer.


Brian thought it over. Do you want to?


I think so. He looked at me. If you’re okay.


I’m okay. You should go.


Evan said, Let’s go. I want to dance.


Brian hedged.


Come on, Evan said. You don’t want to dance?


Brian thought for another moment, then said, Let’s have everyone over instead.


Everyone?


Everyone. Derek, Daph, Molly, April, the girls. Thalia if you want. Invite Kel, I don’t care.


So Evan started making calls while Brian and I cleaned up. “You don’t have to do this,” I said to him.


Ah, I do hate socializing, you’re right.


“You can go out,” I said. “Go dance. I’ll be fine.”


He shrugged. Everyone I want to dance with tonight is here.


And so everyone came over. We put Jane to bed in her room and had edibles on the floor and blasted music and danced. Brian pulled me up and put his arms around my neck, touching our foreheads together.


I looked at the people dancing around us. Is this even a slow song?


That’s never stopped us before.


Everyone got drunk. April leaned her head against my shoulder and told me she loved me. Thalia couldn’t make it, but she came up in conversation, specifically one that began with Emily asking Evan, So how bi are you? and Evan saying, I don’t know, want to find out? and ended with the two of them making out on the couch.


Gwen cracked up; really, we all did, once we got a look at the sheer bewilderment on Brian’s face. I… He gestured to them. What. No.


You are such a slut, how does this faze you? April said.


I’ve calmed in my old age, Brian said, as if he weren’t still having back room group sex twice a week. Kinneys don’t lose their spots. And I never fuck my friends.


Really?


Really. Strangers and Justin. And I leave sleeping with our friends to him.


I don’t sleep with all my friends, I said.


Brian gave me a skeptical look.


Okay, but…I get curious! I said, and he laughed and kissed me, tilting me back on his arm.


It was just so nice. At some point we all ended up tangled in some huge pile on the floor. Brian disentangled himself to go check on the baby at one point, and when he came back he stared at the pile of us and said, Where are my two? and Evan and I threw up our arms at our opposite ends of the knot and yelled “HERE WE ARE!” and God, Brian’s smile.


Daphne and Derek went home when it got late, but everyone else stayed over, some in Molly’s room, some in the basement, some in Brian’s office upstairs. The perks of having a large house. Evan realized we’d need more coffee in the morning so he took Martha on a walk down the block to the bodega, and I sat on the couch, doing a nebulizer treatment and watching Brian clean the kitchen.


We should go to the beach house next weekend, I said to him.


Sounds perfect.


I leaned my head against the couch and just looked at him.


He caught me as he was putting a dish away and quirked up his mouth. What?


I shrugged. Just happy I’m here.


God, me too, he said, so quickly.

 

I hugged a pillow to my chest, breathed in medicine, and waited to be carried off to bed. And I kept watching Brian.

Chapter 153 - Forever Hold Your Peace by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Daphne's wedding, finally.

Forever Hold Your Peace

LaVieEnRose

 


 

I remember when Brian and Justin showed me the new house for the first time. I looked at all the space and the new floors and the tall ceilings and I thought, I’m gonna live in a fucking mansion.


Well, fuck that! Because—and I say this with nothing but love for our house—actual mansions? Wow. Whole new ballgame.


Me and Brian and the rest of the groomsmen had been sequestered with Derek in this one wing of the mansion for the past half-dozen hours, getting dressed up and photographed and rearranged and photographed some more. Derek was off somewhere now, getting pictures taken with his parents, I think, which was probably an adventure given what I knew about Marie and her ex. The rest of us were lounging around what I guess was someone’s bedroom, back when people lived here. Derek’s high school—college? I couldn’t remember—friends had brought a video game system and were playing together on the floor, while Brian sat in this huge green armchair, messing with his phone.


I drifted over to the window and looked out at the grounds, then got Brian’s attention and said, People are arriving. I could have said it out loud, obviously, and let him keep doing whatever he was doing, but all of Derek’s friends were Deaf and I didn’t want to speak in front of them, even if they weren’t in the conversation. It’s just rude.


Oh yeah? Brian said, not even bothering to feign interest. I didn’t know what was up with him. He’d been kind of pissy since we got here, getting more tense as the day went on. He was great when Derek was here, doing the supportive best man thing, smiling in the pictures and planting his hands on Derek’s shoulders and calming him down when he almost had a panic attack over his cumber…something not fitting correctly. But now that Derek was out of the room he was just kind of sullen and weird.


I looked down at the people starting to file in and take seats. I recognized a few—April, Emily’s family, some doctor friends of Daphne’s I’d met once or twice—but not very many. I had fun for a bit watching people and trying to guess if they were Deaf or hearing before I caught them talking to anyone, and then I turned from the window and went over to Brian. He didn’t really look up, but he made room for me to sit on the arm of the chair, so I did. I reached a hand around and massaged the back of his neck, and I felt him relax a little.


I just realized I’ve never been to a wedding before, I said.


He set his phone down. I actually haven’t been to many either.


Yeah?


Michael and Ben’s, Ted and Blake’s. A few work people.


And yours.


I was indeed at mine.


I looked around. Bet it wasn’t quite like this.


He snorted. No, not exactly. Though to be fair I’m not sure there’s anyone on earth who could out-fancy the combined forces of Marie and the Chanders.


I looked at one of the many fancy plates of food on the table close to us. Hungry?


He shrugged.


Chocolate covered pineapple, I say. Look. You love pineapple, we never have it because it in the house because of Justin, now’s your chance!


He sighed and picked his phone back up, and I sighed, imitating him, and slid off the arm of the chair and onto his lap. He put an arm around my waist and squeezed me.


It’ll probably start soon, right? I said.


Probably. We’ve been holed up here for a fucking year.


Is that what you’re so cranky about? You’re bored?


He glared at me. I am bored. But I’m not cranky.


You are not at your most pleasant, dear. When he didn’t argue, I nudged him. What’s wrong?


Nothing… he said. I waited, and he groaned. I just don’t get why it has to be set up like this.


Set up like what?


You know…Derek’s people over here, Daphne’s over in the other wing. Totally separate.


And I totally busted up laughing.


What? he said.


You miss Justin?


Get off me.


Oh my God. You’ve been a miserable bastard all day because you weren’t allowed to see Justin for a few hours?


Okay, well, first of all it’s been like seven hours. And also–


God. I kissed his cheek. I love you so much.


I thought I told you to get off me.


I was still laughing to myself when I went into the en suite bathroom—do you even call this a bathroom? It was like two rooms: one for the sinks, then a smaller one with a toilet. What even is that. I was washing my hands when all of a sudden I got hit with this awful wave of nausea. It happens sometimes, but this was a particularly bad one. My stomach hurt, and I was lightheaded, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe quite right. I planted my hands on the sink and closed my eyes, swallowing.


I felt the air move as the door opened, and then heard my name—which, let me just say, I still wasn’t used to. I’d gotten these new aids a few months ago, and I could hear better now than I had since…ever, since before I got meningitis as a kid. Obviously there’s no magic bullet, and there was no way I would have heard my name here if Brian hadn’t said it loud but even the idea that I could hear and recognize my name, with my eyes closed? Crazy.


I felt his hand on my shoulder. He turned on the sink, and a moment later held a cold washcloth to my forehead. I breathed out and turned into his arms, and he held me, resting his lips against my temple.


Eventually I nodded, and he pulled back and looked at me. Better? he said.


“I think so. Still dizzy.”


You’re going to the doctor this week.


“It’s just the meds.”


Great, then it will be a quick appointment. Brian’s a little paranoid that every time I feel weird, it’s because my body’s rejecting my kidney transplant. And I got why he was scared–rejection would be a whole fucking ordeal–but I needed to not be worried about it all the time. Imagining worst-case scenarios is comforting in some weird way to Justin, like nothing can sneak up on him if he’s considered it already, but…yeah. Not how I operate. I’ll take some blissful ignorance, thanks.


I squeezed his arm. I’m okay.


He was about to say something, but then I guess someone knocked on the door, because he turned around and opened it. Derek was there, looking about how I felt. Brian laughed a little and patted him on the back. You all right there?


My parents are…a lot. And there’s some kind of issue with the seating chart–


No, Brian said. Why the fuck are they bothering you about the seating chart?


I don’t know, I’m supposed to–


You’re supposed to relax and enjoy the day, he said. Go sit down, eat some fancy fruit. I’ll find out what’s going on.


Derek laughed a little as Brian strode out of the bathroom. I picked a good best man.


He’s channeling all of his Justin energy.


He does love a project.


Brian came back into the suite about ten minutes later and assured us everything was handled, and we all hung out and egged on the guys playing video games for a while and Brian went back to sulking and then the photographer came in and told us it was time for our formals and then for Derek and Daphne to do their first look photos, and then we’d take pictures with the whole wedding party. Amazingly, Brian perked up at that! What a coincidence!


We all stood up to get ready, and Brian looked down at his chest while Derek put a flower on him. Is that a peony? he said.


Fuck if I know, Derek said. Daphne picked it.


I think it’s a peony. one of the other guys said, and when we looked at him he shrugged. I like flowers.


Are Daphne’s people getting these too? Brian said. For example, Justin?


Derek said, Yeah, I think so.


Brian looked at me, trying not to laugh. Oh, that’s not going to end well.


A moment of silence for the pictures, I said, and Brian grinned and ducked his head.


We went outside and took some pictures together, then Derek left to meet Daphne. Brian was doing a horrible job of looking casual, glancing up the path every so often, and eventually he looked down, smiling a little, and yep, sure enough, here came Daphne’s bridal party. Molly and Emily looked beautiful in their purple dresses. Martha even had a purple bow.


Brian pretended to adjust his cuffs or something, I don’t know, and waited for Justin to come over to us. I kissed Justin and laughed a little. Your eyes are already swelling.


Yeah, I’m gonna die.


Brian looked up, then, and pulled Justin under his arm. Doing okay?


Yeah, you?


I’m good now.


Daphne and Derek came back then, and all of us who hadn’t seen her yet just about lost our shit at Daphne in her dress. It had a corset back and lace sleeves and she looked like she was poured into it and…wow. And then we all had to make fun of Brian for tearing up, so that delayed the pictures a little more, but finally we all squished together for some more formals that Justin, as predicted, kept sneezing and ruining. Brian laughed and pulled him under his arm.


I’m sorry, Justin said. I’m so allergic to flowers.


I told you to take it off, Daphne said.


I want to match!


The photographer said he’d gotten what he needed, and we had a few minutes before the ceremony started. Brian said, I’m going to find something clinical-strength for Jane Fairfax over here, and left to search for antihistamines, and I nagged Justin until he agreed to sit down and drink some water, at the very least, then hugged Daphne and tried not to cry and helped Emily with a shoe problem.


I look like a cupcake, Emily said to me.


I’m not sure this purple is anyone’s color, I said diplomatically. Not even Justin’s, and I’d thought he could pull off anything. But he still looked beautiful. So did she.


Brian came back and tipped pills down Justin’s throat and straightened my tie and then it was time to get in position. We peeked around the corner at the people filed into their seats. There was a string quartet playing and I could hear them, a little bit, and then the coordinator told us it was time to start walking out.


Derek went first, and then we walked out in pairs–Brian and Justin, then me and Emily. once we were all in position, Gwen came down the aisle with Jane in her little white dress and I just about lost it right there, and then the music changed and Daphne floated out with her dad, and Derek started crying like he hadn’t just seen her a second ago and Brian rolled his eyes and gave him a quick squeeze.


The ceremony was beautiful. The officiant spoke English with an interpreter next to him, but Daphne and Derek did all their stuff in sign language, except when Derek said, “I do,” out loud and Daphne had to stop and wipe her eyes.


I kept an eye on Justin through the ceremony, and so did Brian, obviously, but he did okay, though his eyes were starting to swell up and he was leaning against Molly a little more as the ceremony got towards the end. I think I was focusing on him in part because I felt awkward getting emotional standing next to Derek’s friends who I didn’t really know, but I had Brian on my other side and at one point he just reached down and laced our fingers together and squeezed my hand and…well. I got a little weepy after that.


They kissed, and we cheered and waved our hands in the air, and then we were off to cocktail hour. Brian nudged Justin to go sit down and we got drinks and mingled and threatened to push Derek in the pool and generally had a lovely time until it was time to sit down, and then we had dinner and then Justin gave a speech about Daphne that was so beautiful it made me cry, and Brian gave one about Derek that was so fucking funny it made me cry even more, so Jesus, I was really setting records tonight.


Alcohol helped, though, as did the dance floor opening, and Molly and Brian and I stayed there just about all night. Justin joined us for a few songs, but he was exhausted and mostly hung out on some lounge furniture with Emily, but he looked happy. The bass beat dropped off at one point while we were on the dance floor, and Brian said, slow song, to me, and I smiled and put my arms around his neck, and he put his around my waist and held me close.


He was looking at me, and finally I laughed and said, What?


He shrugged and licked his lips and then said, “Do you want to get married?”


“What, to you?” I joked.


He didn’t look away, didn’t stop smiling. “To anyone.”


“I used to.”


He nodded a little.


“What are we going to do?” I said. “Change some laws?”


“We took down a governor, you know.”


“Eh, a candidate.”


“There’s symbols,” Brian said. “Stuff we can do.”


“You just want to throw a party.”


“I do like parties.”


“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not really into symbols.”


He adjusted his arms around my waist. “What are you into?”


“Just…reality,” I said. “Being here.”


He kissed my forehead. “To being here.”


“To being here.”


**


I was peacefully drunk, braiding Molly’s hair while she, even more peacefully drunk, lay down in my lap, when the DJ stopped the music to make some announcement. I couldn’t see the interpreter from where I was sitting, so I nudged Molly, and she said Last song, with her eyes closed. I could tell by the way people were pairing up that it was something slow.


Justin nudged me. Want to dance?


I looked down at Molly, then at Brian on the dance floor. No, you go ahead, I said, and he kissed my cheek and headed to the dance floor. Brian starting unpinning the flower from his jacket as soon as he saw Justin coming, and he smiled with his eyes closed when Justin pushed himself up on his toes and hugged him.


I sat there and watched them sway under the twinkly lights, watched Brian tip his head back and laugh at something Justin said, watched all the people I loved in one place.


To being here.

 

End Notes:



This is really not up to my standards tbh and I debated whether or not to post it, and I'm annoyed that this is #150! Truth is, my wedding was a few weeks ago and it was a stressful experience for me, so writing about a wedding was just noooot fun and I clearly just wanted to skim over it. But I wanted #150 to be something important, and I know you guys have been waiting for the wedding. So hopefully you like this little fic more than I do.

Chapter 154 - Pride by LaVieEnRose
Author's Notes:

 

Molly's figuring some things about herself.

Pride

LaVieEnRose



I usually finish but work before Cameron does–nice thing about working for tech bros is they all like to get home and do…i don’t know, whatever the fuck tech bros do–so I was already at his apartment by the time he got home, drinking a whiskey lemonade and working through Real Housewives episodes he’s always bitching I let pile up on the DVR. He came in and dropped his shit on the counter, then came over to the couch and started crawling his way up me.


“Excuse me,” I said.


He kissed me. “Hi.”


“Hi.”


“I ordered groceries,” he said. “They’ll be here in an hour. And I got the stuff to make that shrimp linguine you love.”


I adjusted myself under him and rested my hand on the back of his neck. “Oh yeah?”


“Mmhmm. And I figured afterwards we could watch a movie, have a few drinks…”


“I, uh.” I reached for my phone. “I was actually going to go out to the bar for a few hours. See Justin and everyone. He just texted.”


“Oh.” Cameron doesn’t usually come when I go out with Justin’s friends, since he doesn’t sign. “We can do the shrimp tomorrow.”


I gave him a quick kiss and got up. “You’re the best.”


“Don’t stay out too late,” he said. “Not giving up on all those plans.”


“Ha. Yeah.” I went over to the hook by the door and put on my jacket. “I might just go back to my apartment after, I don’t know. I’ll let you know.”


“You know,” he said. “You wouldn’t ever have to go back to your apartment if your apartment was here.”


“Ha. Yeah. I’ll text you.”


I walked to the subway, my hands in my pockets, cursing the knot in my stomach with every step.


Why do you do this?


Why do you ALWAYS do this?


Some guy catcalled me outside the station. I got on the train.


**


Daphne and Derek had just gotten home from their honeymoon, so we were kind of celebrating them being home, even though they’d only been gone for a week. We don’t really need an excuse to go out. Brian had to stay late at the office taking care of, I don’t know, some kind of advertising emergency, and Gwen was with the baby, so it was just me and Emily and Evan and Justin and Derek and Daph. Justin was sitting on the pool table making out with Evan, and Derek went to the bar to get more drinks. The music switched to this song that had been fucking everywhere lately, something about how if the singer didn’t have sex with this guy right now she’d like die, or something.


God, I hate this song, I said.


Me too, Emily said, and I shoved her and she laughed. What is it?


I pulled up the lyrics on my phone and handed it to her. It’s just stupid, I said. The other day I started like…paying attention to how much music revolves around sex. And it’s weird. It’s weird to talk about one thing that much. And it’s not just music, it’s movies, TV, it’s fucking everything.


What’s wrong with sex? Emily said.


Nothing. I just think it’s objectively strange that everyone is so focused on this one thing. There are so many things out there that are like…so much better? And it creates this expectation that it’s going to be the best thing in the world.


Emily gave me kind of a funny look and sipped her drink. I can’t think of anything I like more than sex.


No, come on.


She shrugged.


Seriously?


What’s not to like?


I don’t know, the expectation and the obligation and it’s just…it’s fine. I don’t get what the big deal is.


Do you have orgasms? Daphne asked me.


Eventually, yeah. I like orgasms. But it’s a lot of work to get ten seconds of that. I can do it a lot faster on my own, and without having to…you know. Do all that crap to someone.


Daphne was doing a more sensitive job of it, but they were both kind of looking at me like I was growing a second head.


Is it your favorite thing? I asked Daphne.


She thought about it. Sometimes. I mean, sure, I’m not always in the mood. Sometimes I think I like the anticipation more than actually doing it. You know, thinking about it, dirty talk, foreplay. That can be the best part.


Yeah, that’s good shit, Emily said.


Derek came back, so we changed the subject, and I tried to act normal but mostly just sat there feeling…lied to, I guess, is the best way to describe it. Lied to by Emily and Daphne and by these stupid songs and by the almost ten years at that point that I’d been sexually active. I couldn’t figure out why everyone was so fucking committed to keeping up this myth that sex was incredible and transformative and life-defining when it was at best fine and so, so incredibly not worth the constant nagging sense of obligation.


I used to have sex because it made me feel cool. .


I guess I thought that’s why we all were doing it.


I looked at Evan and Justin all the fuck over each other on the other side of the bar. Laughing, gripping each other.


When we were packing up to go, Daphne put her hand on my arm and said, “How well do you know April?”


“Uh, not very well, I guess. Why?”


Daphne nodded slowly. “I think you should text her. Talk to her about this stuff.”


“What stuff?”


She just shrugged, but then she said, “Maybe google ‘asexuality,’ too.”


I started with that one, obviously, after I made some excuse to Cameron about how it was getting late and I was just going to crash at Justin’s house. Brian was home, and maybe he could tell I was kind of in a mood, because he pecked at me a little, asking me condescending questions and making fun of my clothes the way he does when he wants you to know you’re being watched, but after I blew him off and he shrugged and took his wards off to bed, I crawled between the covers in my room and searched on my phone for a while.


Whatever moment of clarity Daphne was hoping I’d get definitely didn’t come, probably because nothing I was reading really made any sense. Everything seemed like it contradicted itself. Asexual people don’t like sex, except some of them too. Okay but they don’t crave sex, except wait yeah some of them do. Okay, so they just don’t experience sexual attraction, and honestly when I looked deep down into my little heart I didn’t even know what the fuck that even meant. How the hell was I supposed to know if I experienced that? Is that just something everyone else knew?


I put my phone down and lay on my back, looking up at the ceiling.


What the fuck did any of this matter, anyway? Why did I need to find some word to describe not being obsessed with something?


I thought about Brian and Evan and Justin, curled up together a few rooms away in their shared bed because they can’t stand to be away from each other. How fucking deliriously happy the three of them were. How Justin risked everything as a teenager because of Brian–because he loved him, sure, but at first just because he couldn’t keep his hands off of him. I mean, God, Justin broke out of our homophobic house when he was seventeen to go find a stranger to have sex with.


And it had taken me this long to figure out that there was something I…wasn’t getting? Didn’t have?


I picked up my phone. I didn’t have April’s number, but I followed her on Instagram. I scrolled through her profile. A million pictures of her and her friends, playing in their band together, shooting fashion shows. Pictures of her and Justin and her and Evan. Cute selfies. Her dog. Stuff she’d baked. No boyfriends, from what I could tell, or girlfriends.


I took a deep breath and messaged her.


**


I met April a few days later at a Korean barbeque place in Forest Hills. We made small talk for a bit, talking about the process of learning to sign and laughing about our various ASL mishaps, mostly, and then I finally said, “Can I ask you a question?” because, you know, why beat around the bush. No pun intended. Oy.


“Ask away.”


“Are you asexual?”


“Oh, who knows.” She sipped her drink. “I’m not much of a labels person. I just do my own thing.”


“Does that…thing include sex?”


“Not really. Sometimes I’m really drunk and there’s someone nice around and I convince myself it’ll be fun.”


“Is it?”


“Not really.”


“I’ve had a lot of sex,” I said. “Like…I’m not, you know, Brian, but I’ve slept with plenty of people. And I think maybe…I’m not gay. It’s not that. I slept with a girl once. It was…I don’t know. The same.”


“I tried that too.”


“Did you grow up feeling different?” I said. “Because I didn’t…think I was different. It was like, I was waiting for something to hit me and for it all to make sense and for me to get obsessed with sex, and then that didn’t happen so I just figured okay, that’s something they made up to make movies more interesting or whatever and I started having sex and I figured everyone was just…I thought I was the same as everyone else.”


“I guess I kind of knew,” she said.


“I didn’t know.”


“You don’t have to claim an identity in order to not have sex, if that’s what you want,” she said. “You can just not have sex.”


“But I don’t want to be…God, what is it I don’t want to be, uncool? I’m fucking pathetic.”


“Nah, I get that. Society and shit.”


“I keep picturing Brian,” I say.


“Brian is pretty much the polar opposite of asexual, yeah. I want to write a paper on him.”


“He’d think I’m a freak. He’d feel sorry for me. He’d think I need to be…fixed, or something.”


“He might be feel bad for you that you don’t love something he loves,” she said. “But he’d come around. No one’s really reacted that badly to me. Which, I should clarify, is information from a small sample size, because I don’t tell a whole ton of people.”


“Oh. Should Daphne not have–”


She waved her hand. “No, it’s fine. It’s not a secret, it’s just not really anyone’s business. And whether or not you have sex doesn’t need to be anyone’s business either. Or what you decide to call yourself, or not call yourself. We’re not morally obligated to march in parades.”


“What if I’m not sure?”


“Nothing’s set in stone. Try it out for a while, see how you like it.”


“I don’t want to let people down,” I said, softly.


She nodded a little, her eyes soft. “That’s probably what got you here, huh?”


I swallowed until I could say. “The thing is…I just want to be normal. I want to want what other people do. And I don’t want to have to explain myself to anyone.”


April reached across the table and took my hand. “That’s a shame,” she said solemnly, and I laughed and wiped my eyes.


**


So I sat with it all for a few weeks. I tried having sex and tried being really…intentional about it, really tried to be in the moment, tried to focus on Cameron in front of me instead of disappearing into my head. I went to the therapist I’d seen on and off since Justin got really sick and talked to her about it. I met with April again. I read God knows how many articles and forum posts and finally I felt…I don’t know, if not at peace, at least something kind of next door to it.


But I couldn’t shake this feeling that I wanted approval, and trust me, I tried. I do a decent job of acting like I don’t care what people think, but…I was raised in the Taylor household, after all. I give the old college try fighting against all that shit, but conformity was still baked into me like a nice demiglace. Or something.


Specifically I wanted Brian’s approval, and I realize needing your brother-in-law to sign off on your sexual decision is abnormal and I need to be examined, but…it also kind of makes sense, right? If you have someone close to you who bases their entire fucking, like, persona off of something, you want it to beo kay with him that you’re rejecting that, right? Because if he says it’s okay, that must mean it’s really okay.


I was over at their house having dinner about a month after I’d had that first conversation at the bar. Gwen was out of town somewhere, so Evan was staying over at Emily’s to help with Jane, so it was just me and Brian and Justin. Justin had been having a lot of trouble with his hand and he was worn out and probably hurting from that, so dinner was kind of quiet, but it was nice. We had this family vacation coming up, Cancun with Mom and her new boyfriend, so we were talking about the logistics of that, making plans, speculating about the boyfriend, shit like that.


Eventually Brian got up to bring some dishes to the sink and I said, I want to tell you guys something, simcomming since Brian’s back was to me.


Are you breaking up with us? Brian asked over his shoulder.


I mean it, I said, and Brian turned to face me, leaning against the counter, his eyebrow arched.


“Is everything okay?” Justin said.


Everything’s fine. I just…figured something out recently, and I want to tell you guys. And it’s not like, something that you need to know. But I want you to know it.


Brian wiggled his fingers a little, kind of like an okay…?


I’ve been doing a lot of reading and a lot of thinking about it and I think I’m not going to have sex anymore. At least not for a while.


Brian said, What’s a while?


I don’t know. It’s indefinite.


Why the fuck would you do that? he said. Are you sick?


No, I’m not sick. I just realized that I don’t really enjoy it and I’ve just been doing it because I feel like I’m supposed to.


Brain snorted. Sounds like Cameron’s not all he’s cracked up to be.


Cameron’s great. This has nothing to do with that. This has been going on a lot longer than he’s been around.


How long? Brian said.


My whole life. Or as long as I’ve been having sex, at least. I kept waiting for something to click and it never did. I looked at Justin, but he was just watching me, not saying anything.


Meanwhile Brian sauntered to the table and sat back down. This is probably the part where I’m supposed to ease you into the idea that you might be a lesbian, but let’s speed it up a little. Welcome!


I’m not a lesbian, I said. I’ve tried that, it didn’t work either.


You had sex with a woman and didn’t tell us? He shook his head sadly. Hate crime.


Can you listen to me, please? This is important.


He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Listening.


I’m still working on the labels aspect of it, but I think I’m probably asexual, I said. Like April. Who I assume has at least talked to Justin about it. I looked at him again.


He shrugged a little and said, Yeah, she has.


Okay then. So that means…I don’t feel attracted to people the way other people do. I don’t want to have sex with them. And at least for me it means I don’t really enjoy it while I’m doing it.


Brian said, How the fuck do you not enjoy sex?


I just don’t, I don’t know.


It doesn’t feel good? Physically? It’s sex.


Yeah, I get it, it’s your entire personality.


Brian kind of paused and frowned and crossed his arms. Looked away at me, over to Justin.


And I felt like a huge asshole. “Sorry,” I mumbled.


He shrugged.


I’m sorry. It’s not. I’m just…trying to explain this, sorry. I took a deep breath. Yes, it feels good, but so do…I don’t know, sleeping and bubble baths and cookie dough ice cream and laughing until it hurts and like, a million other things, and none of them come with this astronomical pressure and expectation and obligation. And I do, you know, own a vibrator. All the fun, none of the hassle.


Okay, but it’s more than just the sensation, right? Brian said. Otherwise we’d all just jack off.


I don’t really get why we don’t.


It’s about…being in the same place as someone, he said. Being completely in the same moment as someone else at the same time. Feeling them on you. Knowing they want you. I don’t know. Connection and shit.


See, I don’t like the idea that people want me, I said. That’s always really just…grossed me out, I don’t know. Turning people on makes me feel like I’m wearing some kind of costume or something, it’s not me. And honestly? I don’t feel connected when I’m doing it. I feel like I’m doing all this work to try to do something for someone else which, I’m sorry, isn’t fun for me and makes me kind of uncomfortable. Like…do you like giving blow jobs?


“Of course.”


I don’t get that at all. I get nothing at all out of it. It’s just obligation. I’m sick of it. And there are a million ways to connect with people besides sex.


Yeah, but–


No. Deep, meaningful, maybe romantic connections, without sex. I mean…can you maybe think of an example of that?


Brian started to say something, then stopped. He pointed at me, slowly.


There you go, I said.


And slowly, he nodded. Yeah. Yeah, okay. You got me. I’m on board.


I laughed without meaning to. Yeah?


Yeah, I mean… He shrugged. Pretty compelling argument. I do like that kid a lot.


And then Justin said, “Brian,” like he was pissed.


I turned to him. Oh, you have something to say finally?


Justin wheezed out a sigh. I think you’re jumping to a lot of conclusions and closing yourself off to a lot of things, that’s all.


I’m not talking about welding my vagina shut, Justin, I said, and Brian snorted. But this isn’t something I decided today. I’ve been uncomfortable my whole life.


So why didn’t you say anything, if you were that uncomfortable? It doesn’t make sense.


I just wanted to be normal, I guess.


You are normal, Justin said.


Brian held up a hand. You don’t really like when people say that to you.


Excuse me?


I’m just saying, when people pull the ‘I don’t even see you as disabled, Justin!’ thing, you’re not a fan.


She’s not disabled, Brian.


I didn’t say I was, I said.


Brian sat back with a shrug. I just thought you might want to rephrase, that’s all.


Justin gave him a long look, then turned back to me with this condescending expression I wanted to slap right off his face. Listen. You’ve had some awful trauma with people you’ve dated. I know that.


This has nothing to do with that.


I don’t think you can know that, honey. How do you know this isn’t a reaction to that? I think maybe you’re afraid to open up, and that’s totally natural.


That’s not what this is.


I think maybe you just haven’t found the right person yet, he said.


Wow. Wow! Maybe you just haven’t found the right girl yet! Fuck you!


Brian sighed. Guys…


No! I said. Fuck you, Justin, Jesus! You’re supposed to support me!


I’m trying to help find a solution.


I’m not fucking broken, I said, standing up. And you know what? None of this is your fucking business anyway, I just thought maybe you might be interested in what’s going on with me and maybe have my back through something like I have yours But whatever. Okay. Good to know.


Molly.


Fuck you, I said, and I cried on the subway all the way home.


**


Justin texted me a few hours later asking if we could talk, but I ignored him because fuck Justin. So I wasn’t really surprised when he showed up at my apartment the next day.


Still, fuck Justin. I don’t want to talk to you.


Yeah, I don’t blame you. Can I come in anyway?


No.


What if I tell you I’m here to apologize?


I kind of figured that part out.


Okay…what if I tell you that there are very few situations in which one person is completely, entirely, a hundred percent wrong, and this is one of them?


Getting closer. You mean you, right?


He rolled his eyes. Move, he said, and I stepped out of the way and let him inside. He let Martha off her leash and she hopped up on my couch and curled up in a little ball.


Did Brian make you come? I said.


Justin sat down. “No. Though he did chew me out, you’ll be happy to know.


Kinky, I said, and Justin rolled his eyes. I was worried he’d think I was a freak. Guess he saved all that for you.


He shook his head. “That’s not it. Sit with me?”


I did, but I kept glaring at him.


He said, “The way I acted and the stuff I said was shitty, and I’m not trying to make an excuse for that. You came to us with something really personal and important and I acted like an asshole.”


No arguments so far.


He propped his elbow on the back of the couch and looked at me. “I think it freaked me out to think that all this time you’d been having these sexual experiences that you didn’t want to have. I didn’t want it to be true that people have been…” He cleared his throat. “That people have done things to you that you didn’t want them to do. And I didn’t know and I didn’t stop it.”


It’s not like that, I said. Nobody took advantage of me.


“I need to not make it about me that you’ve been unhappy. But it kills me that I didn’t notice. And that…maybe I set this example that pushed you into this, made you think you had to go out and fuck people just because I was.”


I don’t really pay that much attention to you, I said, and he nudged me.


“Do I make you uncomfortable?” he said.


What, by fucking your boyfriends everywhere? I don’t care. I’m not allergic to sex. People can have it in my, you know, vicinity. I guess preferably not my brother. Okay, final answer, yes, stop having sex to make me more comfortable.


He rolled his eyes. “Look. You have to tell me things, okay?”


Because you take them so well?


“I usually do!” He covered his face. “I have to know what’s going on so I can protect you. And I didn’t know this was going on and I know, I know, it’s not like you were keeping some secret from me. But I can’t believe I didn’t see something. That I didn’t take care of you.”


Is this you not making it about you?


“Apparently this is as good as it gets, yeah.”


I’m okay, I said. I don’t need you to retroactively stop me from ever having sex. I’m not traumatized. I’m just exhausted. Okay?


“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I just…” He sighed. “I wanted you to have an easy life, and now you have to do the coming out thing. You weren’t supposed to have to know what this part’s like.”


I don’t know, I said. I think it’s different. You always knew you were different. I thought everybody felt the same way as me and nobody wanted to say it. It’s like…getting a bucket of cold water poured on me, or something. Like this whole time I’ve been oblivious to what the world actually is. I shrugged. I need to figure out how to move on from that.


“What’s going to happen with Cameron?”


God. I don’t know. We’re having conversations. I’m sure we’re going to have a lot more.


“Fun.”


Yeah, it’s a blast.


“Well…you’ve got me. Okay?”


I know. Thanks.


“And if anyone gives you shit, you tell me and I’ll beat them up.”


You’ll send Brian to beat them up.


“Well, one of the two.” He tilted his head to the side. “How do you feel?”


I feel… Scared. Unsure. Embarrassed.


Loved.

 

I feel free, I said.

 

End Notes:

 

This fic is dedicated to people who keep requesting explicit sex scenes from me. I gotta spell this out? Please stop doing it!

This story archived at http://www.kinnetikdreams.com/viewstory.php?sid=1334