It was three a.m. and the fucking light was still on in the living room.

“Are you ever coming to bed?” I said, trying to make my voice loud enough for Justin to hear me on the other side of the loft, but not loud enough to disturb our downstairs neighbors. Sure, I’ll fuck multiple guys at all hours of the night with all manner of noises coming out of all of us with absolutely zero regard for the neighbors whatsoever, but I’ll at least try not to shout at fucking three in the morning.

Justin -- apparently even more considerate than I and not into shouting across the loft in the middle of the night -- appeared a few seconds later at the bottom of the bedroom stairs, paintbrush in hand, smears of paint on his cheek and his forearm.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I hope so. But I have to finish this. It’s due tomorrow. And my hand’s been acting up, so I haven’t been able to work on it as much as I would have liked.”

“I’m sure that working on a painting all night is doing your hand a world of good,” I muttered. Goddamn kid, never fucking taking care of himself. Like I’ve got room to talk, though, after trying to plow through cancer and radiation treatments as if nothing-the-fuck was going on. Thank god it looked like all of that was over, finally. I’d had enough of feeling like shit, and I was ready to get back to my normal life of drinking like a fish, doing recreational drugs, and fucking everything that moved. But always coming home to Justin. Always, always coming home to Justin.

What the fuck had this kid done to me?

He basically owned my remaining ball, and honestly, I wasn’t sure I minded.

Who the fuck is this person and what did he do with Brian Kinney?

Anyway, back to the late-night painting marathon.

“I told you, I don’t have a choice,” he sighed. “I have to turn it in tomorrow, and it’s a quarter of my grade. I can’t just take a zero, or turn in something half-finished.”

“You could tell them that your boyfriend was cold and lonely and sexually starved, and you just couldn’t leave him in the bed all by himself…”

“You are not sexually starved. You just got back from Babylon a couple of hours ago. I’m sure you got plenty in the back room.”

I could hear Justin was getting exasperated and impatient now, wanting to get back to his painting. But I could also see the odd way his fingers were curling around the brush, and the way he was holding his right hand up with his left. I had no idea how the fuck he intended to get this painting done with his hand like that.

So I tried to coax him into bed.

“But they aren’t you,” I said, in a voice that was half-seductive, half-pouty. “Why don’t you come to bed for at least a couple of hours? Rest a little and let me massage your hand…”

“Brian, I’m covered in paint. I’d have to take a shower first before you’d ever let me touch the sheets.”

“I’ll make an exception, just this once.” I held my arms out in an open invitation, hoping he’d take me up on it.

“Besides, I thought you wanted to fuck. You’re sexually starved, remember? Last time I checked, hand massages and letting me rest weren’t part of that equation.”

“I could massage your hand with my dick. Kill two birds with one stone.”

“Yeah, okay,” he snorted. “Somehow I think that sounds like more work for me. Look, I’ve got to get back to this if there’s even going to be any hope that I might make it to bed before dawn.”

“Fine,” I sighed, rolling over and pulling Justin’s pillow to my chest. “Suit yourself. I’ll just lay here all alone, then.”

I knew he was probably rolling his eyes as he walked away. I didn’t have to look to know that. I did steal a glance at his ass, though.

God, I really wanted him to come to bed and fuck me. And I wanted to take care of that hand. Really, I wanted that more than the fuck.

So I got up and did that, even though he kept trying to push me off of him, saying that he really needed to get this done. Eventually, I gave up and went back to bed.

Again, who is this person? What have I become?

He never came to bed. He was still dabbing at the canvas, then standing back and cocking his head to the side like it was going to suddenly morph into something else if he looked at it at a different angle, when I climbed out of bed at seven in the morning. I took a piss and then made my way down into the living room and walked up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He turned his head to look at me over his shoulder, and I kissed him.

“Pulled an all-nighter, huh?” I said.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he replied, sounding so fucking exhausted.

“Is it done?”

“I don’t know… I still don’t like it.”

“Well, I do…” I said, letting my voice slide into a lusty tone as my hands slid south from his waist, farther down his hips and around to the front. I pressed my morning wood against his ass.

“You’re just horny,” he laughed. “You’ll say anything to get me into bed.”

“Or maybe just into the shower, so you can help me take care of this…” I moved my hips just a little against one of those perfectly round ass cheeks.

He turned around and kissed me, with that look in his eyes that clearly said that he thought I was being incorrigible, but he was going to go along with it anyway.

We fucked in the shower, and I massaged his hand and helped him wash all the paint off, and we dressed and went down to the kitchen, and I declared the painting done.

“I’m still not happy with it,” he sighed. “But it’s too late now. As it is, I’ll be lucky if it’s dry before I have to go turn it in.”

“I think it’s great.” I kissed his cheek. “Exquisite.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not. You’re never happy with your work. You’re too much of a perfectionist.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

I made coffee, and he made breakfast, and I dropped him off at PIFA before I headed to the office. He swore that the painting was dry enough to not get paint on my car interior, and he fucking better have been right or there was going to be hell to pay later. Or at least, he’d have to let me fuck him to make it up to me. Not that he wouldn’t have anyway. I spent the entire day at work thinking about what Justin and I were going to do that evening.

But when I came home from the office, I found Justin curled up on the sofa with a blanket, a steaming cup of tea and a box of tissues on the glass coffee table. He was sniffling, and when he said, “Hey,” in that raspy voice, I knew he’d pushed himself too far.

“Christ, how do you get sick so fucking fast?” I said as I shed my coat and dropped my briefcase on the kitchen table.

“I’m not sick. It’s my allergies. I don’t know why they’re so bad today, but they are.”

“Probably because you stayed up all night.” I loosened my tie and grabbed a beer out of the fridge, twisted the cap off, and took a swig. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the diner right now?”

“Yeah, Debbie sent me home. But I came here instead. Daphne has exams this week, and I didn’t want to disturb her.”

Leave it to this kid to be thinking of everybody else when he’s sick. Or has allergies, or whatever. Again, he’s a better man than I. When I’m sick, I’m mostly just pissed off. Fuck thinking of anybody else.

But when Justin is sick, it’s like I’m a totally different person. And I’m still not sure how I feel about that. But whatever -- it’s happening. Might as well go with it.

“Have you eaten?” I asked.

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled in that stuffed-up sort of way of his that, if I’m being honest, was kind of endearing. He wrapped his arms tighter around the pillow he was clutching to his chest.

I sighed and went over to the couch, took a seat next to him and wrapped my right arm around his shoulders, pulling him close to me. He laid his head on my chest. Now that I was closer, I could hear the soft whistling noise his lungs were making when he breathed.

“Jesus, Justin, have you taken your meds? Used your inhaler?”

“Yes, Brian,” he rolled his eyes. “I’ve been doing this all of my life. I know what to do.”

“I know you do, but… Christ, you sound awful. Are you sure this is just allergies?”

“What the hell else would it be?”

That was the million dollar question. It turned out that the sniffling and the sneezing were only the tip of the iceberg.

I made him soup -- homemade, even, from Debbie’s recipe that he’d left stuck to my refrigerator with a magnet after he’d read me the riot act and forced me to eat some weeks ago when I was still struggling with the goddamn radiation poisoning. Justin expressed his doubts about my cooking skills, but I didn’t see him getting up off the couch to come and help. Not that I would have let him. I do know how to cook -- I just don’t do it. Hell, I’ve been living on my own for 15 years. I couldn’t always afford takeout. I know how to feed myself.

Anyhow, he ate a little bit of the soup. I ate a lot of it, because even though I’d hassled him about it when I came home and found him making it in my kitchen after I’d kicked him out, I really did like that soup. Or maybe I really liked all of the memories it was tied to, of feeling cared for and loved and generally like someone gave a shit. The way it made me feel all warm and fuzzy even though I would have never admitted that under penalty of death. Either way, that was why I’d made it for Justin. Because I gave a shit and I wanted to take care of him.

I’m still not sure who the hell I’ve turned into or why I’m such a pushover when it comes to this kid, but, eh, it is what it is.

We went to bed early, and we were lying there together, my body curled around his and my arms hugging him to me, gently. I could still hear him wheezing, and I could tell that he couldn’t really breathe through his nose at this point. His skin felt warm against mine, like he had a slight fever. No fucking way was this just allergies.

It was around 3 a.m. when I awoke to Justin wriggling his way out of my arms and heard him quickly stumble into the bathroom. I waited a few minutes, because let’s face it, I love the kid, but who wants to watch someone else vomit? Although maybe I owed it to him after he watched me do it for two solid weeks.

When he didn’t come back out after five minutes had passed without any sounds coming out of the bathroom, I got up out of bed and went in there. I found him sitting in front of the toilet with the side of his face pressed against the porcelain at the front of the bowl.

“You alright?” I asked, even though the answer to that question was fucking obvious. Whatever. I had to start the conversation somehow.

He lifted his head slowly and nodded. His eyes were red, and his eyelids were drooping. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat.

“I don’t think it’s allergies,” he said, his voice hoarse, either from the vomiting or from the hellacious postnasal drip I was sure he had by then.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I said, reaching over to grab a washcloth off of the shelf, then running it under cool water at the faucet. I knelt down next to him and used the cloth to wipe his face. His skin felt hotter now than it had just a few hours before.

“I think you gave me food poisoning,” he rasped, closing his eyes as he leaned into my touch.

“What? I don't think so. I ate a hell of a lot more of that soup than you did, and I'm fine.”

“Yeah, but you have a normal immune system.”

“Not my fault you're like a fucking virus magnet. I don’t think the problem is my cooking.”

He mumbled, “Oh god,” before turning his head back to the toilet and retching. I sat behind him and rubbed his back and closed my eyes and tried not to look. I kept running my hand over his back in large circles, waiting until he finished and flushed the toilet.

“I thought the uncontrollable vomiting was supposed to be my thing,” I said, sort of trying to be funny, because what the hell else do you do in an awkward situation like that besides try to make some kind of a joke?

He gave me a look that told me my joke wasn’t funny and I’d better shut up, then laid his head back down on the edge of the toilet.

“Here,” I said softly, pulling him back a little so that he was lying back on me instead of lying on the toilet, which, let’s face facts, is fucking gross. He pressed his face into my chest and clung to me, and I felt that weird sort of ache that told me just how deeply I cared for this kid. It didn’t matter how much I’d tried not to over the years, I was powerless to stop it. As ridiculously romantic as it sounds, I was head-over-heels for this kid. But I would probably murder anyone who tried to get me to say that out loud.

I sat there on the bathroom floor and just held him for a long time. When my legs started going numb, and he hadn’t been sick again since the second time, I figured I should get him back into bed.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty,” I said, gently lifting him off of me and pulling myself slowly up to my feet, bringing him along with me. “Back to bed with you.”

I guided him to the bed and tucked him in, then went back around to my side and climbed in next to him. I lightly ran my hand up and down his arm, then pulled him in close to me again, protectively.

Christ, why can’t I keep my hands off of this kid, even when he’s a fucking germ factory?

We slept the rest of the night, just like that, with him sniffling and coughing and still wheezing just a little. And I didn’t mind it at all. Not one goddamn bit.

In the morning, Justin could hardly speak. What I gathered from the few words he did manage to choke out, was that his throat was really sore. I finally dug out the thermometer Lindsay made me keep in the loft for the rare occasions when I’d keep Gus overnight, and took Justin’s temperature.

Yes, he had a fever. But I think we both already knew that. And all of his symptoms were adding up to the fucking flu, which meant he was probably going to be out of commission for at least a week.

I made him stay in bed, and I called Cynthia and told her that I’d be working from home today. She sent her well wishes for Justin, and I went into the kitchen to make him some tea. I brought him the mug and some toast in bed -- grumbling to him that eating in bed was a one-time deal and he’d better at least try to not get fucking crumbs everywhere -- then settled in next to him with my laptop and a cup of coffee.

“You probably shouldn’t stay so close to me,” he said, his voice barely even a whisper. “I don’t want you to get sick too.”

“I’ll be fine. Lindsay made me get the fucking shot way back in September.”

“I just mean, with your…” He trailed off like he wasn’t sure he should say what he was going to say next. “You probably still shouldn’t be around sick people, that’s all.”

“Sunshine, I’m fine. Weren’t you just the one saying I had a normal immune system? Besides, it’s been over a month since I finished with the radiation. I have an appointment next week, and no reason to expect anything other than a clean bill of health. Now, eat your toast.”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, then down at the plate. He took a couple of bites and then set it aside. I didn’t say anything. Hell, I’ve been there. I know how it is to know that you need to eat but to feel like if you do, you’re playing with fire.

After he set the plate down on the nightstand, he nestled himself down into the pillows and closed his eyes. It wasn’t long before he was snoring, loudly, which generally made it really difficult to concentrate on my work, but I wasn’t going to hassle him about it. He was fucking sick, and, contrary to popular belief, I’m not a monster.

I finished answering my email and going through some boring-ass reports, then closed my laptop and set it aside, figuring that a nap sounded pretty good to me as well. As much as I’d hated them at the start of those god-forsaken radiation treatments, by the end, I was kind of liking the excuse to sleep in the middle of the day, even though I still pretended to hate it.

So rolled over onto my side, threw my arm over Justin, closed my eyes, and drifted off to dreamland.

I woke up an hour or two later to some not-so-pleasant sounds drifting out of the bathroom. Justin emerged a few minutes after that, drinking a glass of water and somehow looking even more pitiful than he had when I’d brought him back to bed that morning. His hair was sticking up in all directions, he had dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were flushed. He climbed back into bed, pulled his knees up to his chest and let out a little moan.

And shit, that hurt me a little bit too. I wanted to do something for him, but there really wasn’t much I could do, aside from what I was already doing. We’d been down this road before about a year ago, and that time I’d suggested going to the doctor to get whatever that medication was that was supposed to make this shit shorter or easier or something. But he’d refused. Said he hated doctors and he was allergic to too much and he didn’t want to risk it. And who could blame him? Hell, I don’t like doctors either. So I shut right up, and I didn’t make him go. And this time I wasn’t even going to suggest it.

I just cuddled up to him and kept him close to me, and hoped that the flu shot was strong enough to protect against illness caused by ridiculously overprotective boyfriend syndrome, which it was starting to seem like I had a bad case of.

I did try to get a little bit more work done while Justin slept, then I reheated some of the soup when he woke up and said he was hungry. I let him eat in the bed again, generous bastard that I am. We moved out to the sofa just as the sun was setting over the downtown skyline outside the windows. I made Justin another cup of tea, poured myself a drink, and we sat together on the sofa while I suffered through that damn “Yellow Submarine” one more time. But what the hell, it made him happy. So I’d do it, even if I had to grit my teeth.

He fell asleep on my shoulder before the movie was even over, and I ended up carrying him back to bed. It was a damn good thing nobody else could see this shit, because I’d have to kill anyone who bore witness.

I pulled the duvet up around his sleeping form, stopping for a moment to look down at him. How beautiful he was, even when he was sick as a fucking dog. Still not quite sure what the hell he saw in me, or what it was about him that had turned me into someone who took care of sick people and even fucking worried about them. At least, one sick person.

Yeah, Brian Kinney doesn’t care about anybody but himself.

You just keep telling yourself that.

And sure, I’ll help you keep up the illusion.

Even if nothing could be farther from the truth.

Just ask Justin.