I.

Brian sat in the same spot for hours. On a stool at the kitchen island in his loft, his head cradled in his folded arms. The chill of the marble countertop felt soothing against his bare forearms and eased a bit of his rising panic. Turning his head slowly he once again looked at the offending paper laying on the countertop next to him.

Just one word... eight letters. He couldn't deny it - and he had fucking well tried to, over and over.  Now, that single piece of paper taunted him with its own ass kicking bit of reality.

Fuck.

 II.

He had known it could happen. He just never thought it actually would. He was always so fucking careful! Yet the reality behind that one little word would change his life forever. Their lives... 

God...

Justin.

How could he tell him that after everything they had endured, the life they planned would never be the same?

With one long exhale, he walked to the liquor cart and poured himself several fingers of Beam. His hand trembled only slightly as he raised the glass and, as tightly coiled as he was at the moment, he considered that a fucking miracle.

Fuck!

III.

His hand shook. He watched the booze dance against the facets cut into the side of the glass - those eight pointed facets of the design. Eight pointed facets. Eight little letters. Brian didn't believe in the mystical, but this had to be a damned omen.

He couldn't raise the glass to his lips. Could no longer enjoy the beauty of the crystal or the temporary escape it contained.

Fucking number eight.

He vaulted the glass against the loft door and stood, trying to reconcile himself to his future, as panic rose inside him and liquor slid down the metal.   

Fuck.

IV.

He shrugged his messenger bag on his shoulder, juggled his portfolio and the small bag of groceries and fought the elevator door. It's been a long day and he just wanted a hot shower, a quick dinner and to finish that crap essay for art theory. With Gus visiting, their regular clinic appointment, extra shifts at the diner, he'd just put the damned thing off too long. Tonight... it had to be done tonight.

No stress.

Sure.

Pulling back the heavy door, listening as the cables groaned under the weight, he could tell immediately that something was very wrong.

Shit.

V.

Brian stood rigid in the middle of the room. The loft was permeated with a very strong odor of bourbon. Fuck... This didn't bode well.

"Hey," Justin said.

"Hey," Brian returned.  But he didn't move.  

Justin placed the groceries on the counter, his portfolio next to the desk and his messenger bag on the floor. He walked back to the kitchen to put away the groceries. He'd give Brian some time to... what? He wasn't sure. Just time. He knew his lover and pressing him to talk would just close him off. Better to just wait.

No stress. Right.

Shit.

VI.

"I picked up stuff to make that chicken portobello dish you like." Small talk. Everyday things. Don't push. Justin kept up the mantra as he put the mushrooms in the prep sink.

"Yeah... uh... good. That's fine." Brian hadn't yet looked at Justin.

"Just give me a few minutes to shower and I'll get dinner started."

"Sure. You go shower."

The young man walked toward the bathroom, dropping his clothes haphazardly along the way. He looked quizzically back over his shoulder at Brian's still figure. What the hell is going on, he wondered to himself. And stubbed his toe.

Shit!

VII.

Hearing the shower running, Brian shook himself loose from his panic. He had no idea how he was supposed to deal with this. He walked over and took a bottle of water from the fridge, trying to ease the nausea that he had been fighting all day. Running the cold bottle over his forehead, he sat back on the island stool and waited for Justin to come out of the bathroom. He had to tell him.

He heard the shower turn off, heard a drawer open and visualized Justin pulling on his sweat pants and t-shirt. He got hard.

Fuck.

VIII.

Justin walked out of the bedroom, and Brian was again awed by the pure beauty of his boy. God, he was an amazing young man. So much ahead of him - graduation, New York, success in the art world. A whole fucking exciting life.

And now... and now Brian had to tell him this. Another slight wave of nausea hit and Brian swallowed back the saliva pooling in his mouth. Shit. Brian didn't do scared!

"I'll start dinner. It's a quick fix."

"Justin... c'mere."

"S'up?" Justin ran his tongue up Brian's throat.

"Got my test results back today."

Oh, Jesus...

Shit.

IX.

No, Brian.

Don't say it. Just fucking don't say it. Please.

His heart had stopped. He was sure of it. It couldn't beat if this was happening. It just fucking couldn't beat.

"Bri..." he managed to rasp out.

"Justin... Sunshine... breathe."

"I can't."

Brian kissed him gently on the forehead, reached over and picked up the printout , handed it to his boy and... waited. 

And waited.

For Justin to look at the paper.

For Justin to read the paper.

For the... yeah... there it is.

"Oh, God... Brian... Um... At least you're not Positive... Mommy."

He fucking grins.

Fucker.