Later, he would realize that he had been in shock, but of course he was not aware of it at the time.

If Brian had been thinking at all, he might have tried to locate a phone. But even had he been able to grasp the idea, then he would have had to decide who to call, what to say, and, well. All that was something else altogether. His only concern regarding a phone, in any case, was that his own cell phone was gone, in his jacket, with his car. No car. No jacket. No cell phone. No phone call. Shock simplified everything; thinking became quite linear.

 

 

Under extreme stress, human beings revert to instinct. And Brian’s instinct was to curl up the essence of his self underneath the surface he displayed, a surface that was more image than substance. To shut the world out as completely as he needed, as he absolutely positively must at this moment, he had to get home. Home. The loft. He had ejected from his car miles from Tremont. When he came to, he started walking, comprehending only a dazed urgency to get there, to get home. Walking the entire way, he numbly plodded along, not feeling his feet on the pavement, and certainly not feeling…

No. Nothing but an urgent instinct to get to the loft. Not exactly a demand, this was far more than that. Certainly not a scream, but maybe something like the echoes of a scream from way, way, way far off. He had the odd, disconnected sensation that this weird lack of focus was essential, that this sensation of being wrapped up in cotton were the only thing keeping him moving. If it were stripped away, something else might come too close, an overwhelming screech. He did not exactly think of this; he was simply distantly aware that the cottony numbness was important. Any direct thought was held at bay by this strange distance, this sucking vacuum that surrounded him, through which penetrated only a strangely thrumming, urgent echo of something that might be a scream if he tried to clear away the sense of cotton blanketing him. The sensation moved him home, and that was enough. Home, Brian. Home to the loft.

It was three o’clock in the morning, and the streets were deserted. Not a good time to be out; the thought flashed through his head like an advertising banner, flashing almost palpably before him, and he giggled at the warning that blinked on and off in his consciousness. It’s bad to be out in the dark; you might get hurt. Memory of a long-off boast, isn’t that part of the thrill? The unknown, the danger…

The giggling seemed to come from somewhere else, and its nearness startled him. Then he realized it was coming from him, and it wasn’t stopping even when he thought maybe it should. The weird sound echoed through the empty air.

Home. Home.

Home.

 

 

Justin woke upon hearing the loft door open. He had been home since midnight, having returned early from Babylon. He took PIFA classes Friday afternoons, and then had filled in an evening shift as a favor to Debbie when the diner’s dishwasher had simply not shown up. He hadn’t been in the mood to party with Brian, and so he had made an early night of it despite the fact that they had made plans to celebrate Brian’s landing a tough account. There had been a vicious competition between Kinnetik and three other ad agencies, including a fairly prestigious New York firm. But the days Justin would have stayed to party just because Brian had wanted him to were long past.

“Hey,” he called as he heard Brian pass through the bedroom on the way to the bathroom. Justin couldn’t see him; since removing the fixture over their bed, light only came in at night from the street lights outside the windows. Justin’s eyes fell on the clock face, the faintly illuminated arms pointing toward 3:35.

Brian walked by, into the bathroom, and shut the door without a word.

Shit. Justin took a deep breath. Was Brian pissed? Justin had felt pretty bad about leaving early. Michael hadn’t been able to come out, Emmett was throwing a party for some charity event, and Ted had cut his partying way back and wasn’t around. Brian had actually asked Justin to hang out. Directly.

“Just one more, promise, I’ll make it worth your while,” Brian had cajoled, slipping his arm around Justin’s waist and sliding his hand down his hip, behind his ass, between his leg, skimming his balls.

Tempting. But no. “I can’t, I really feel like hell. But you stay, enjoy.”

“Fine,” Brian had shrugged, turning away as Justin hesitated for a fraction of a second. But again, no. They weren’t at that dysfunctional place any more, and Justin was damned if he was going to slip back into any sort of belief that he needed to take care of Brian before he took care of himself. That was Michael’s position; well, it used to be. Michael had a whole family of his own now, and somehow he and Brian were maintaining a much healthier friendship, whether because Michael was drawing his lines, or Brian had become more secure in general, Justin didn’t care. It was good for both of them. Hell, Justin thought, it’s good for me.

But he wasn’t going to become young Mikey II, no way. And Justin had really felt like shit. So he had cast one last look at Brian’s back as Brian walked away, as Brian had already begun to cast his gaze around the dance floor to see who was available. Justin shook his head, but accepted the fact that Brian could, and would, take care of his own needs, whatever they were, whatever drove him. And so would Justin. In any case, the tricking had cut back since Justin had moved in. Not that they discussed it, and not that it had disappeared entirely, for either of them. There was no requirement, and had been no discussion; they did not discuss a physical commitment to each other alone. Maybe they were headed in that direction. Maybe one day they would be there. Not today, but maybe some day. Fuck, Justin went whole weeks without anyone else touching him. In fact, it had been almost a month this time. Most likely, that day would arrive for Brian with his AARP memberships. Maybe not. Who knew?

Justin didn’t really care. He was content. He listened to the shower running, and dozed while waiting for Brian to come out of the bathroom. Maybe Brian would let Justin make up his refusal to stay at Babylon without words. Certainly, that was Justin’s favorite method. God, he hated to talk to Brian about serious shit. It was so much easier to just fucking let it happen and go with the flow. That seemed the best way to work and live with Brian Kinney. Maybe he’d get a chance to make up for leaving early, for leaving Brian alone. And Brian had been alone; all those tricks, nameless, faceless… it wasn’t exactly company. In fact, sometimes Justin felt really sad for Brian when he watched him, after a bad day, run through one, two, three or more blowjobs from anonymous backroom sources in a row. Anonymous sex may provide solace for the single self, but it didn’t provide a connection to the world outside the self. And it was there that one found peace. Fuck, how did he know this at 20, and Brian didn’t know this at 32? Or did he know, and just rejected the idea? If that was the case, what did it say about his conscious desire to self-destruct? And how sad was that?

Justin had long made a conscious decision to be patient. But talking would never change any of it; Brian was what he was. And Justin felt himself letting go of the hope that he would find a way out of Brian’s self-destructive lifestyle. Actively trying to change Brian only made him resent the effort, and strained their relationship. As if they needed more stress between them. And, as Daphne so helpfully reminded him any time he lost his mind and professed some starry twinkified hope of a better Brian: “People don’t change for anyone but themselves. And then only because they have to, not because they want to.”

On that thought, Justin slipped into sleep, hoping that Brian had saved most of himself for what awaited him at home. One thing that was never difficult between them was the sex. And with that thought, Justin dozed off.

He had no idea what snapped him so abruptly awake, nor for how long he had been drifting in a half-sleep, but he suspected it had been a while. The shower was still running. And as the cobwebs of sleep cleared from his head, he became aware that the light illuminating the outer room was not that of the street lamps outside the window. Instead, there was a strange angle to the shadows in the bedroom, an odd cast to the light. He sat up and grabbed his sweat pants from off of the floor, drawing them on and lifting himself out of bed. He crossed to the top of the bedroom steps, and looked out into the loft.

The front door was wide open. The hall light spilled in across the floor.

Well, fuck. Brian must be in quite the mood. He never left the door open, no matter how wasted he was. Not after the robbery: with the amount of grief he had visited on Justin’s head, anal retentive behavior regarding the door was to be expected on Brian’s part. Justin walked slowly down the steps. Brian couldn’t be that wasted, Justin thought as he pulled the door shut and locked it, securing the alarm. Wasted Brian usually just passed out on the couch. After shutting the door.

How long had he been in the shower? Justin wondered. The familiar dim light from the street filtered in through the windows as Justin moved back to the bedroom. And realized, in the dark of the loft, that the light in the bathroom was off.

It would be pitch black in there. Justin felt the first stirrings of unease as he moved cautiously toward the bathroom. He stared at the door, uncertain about what he should do next. He was probably being ridiculous, worrying needlessly. But still…

The dark bathroom. The shower, running for… he glanced at the bedroom clock. Forty minutes?

“Brian?”

No reply, of course, not through the door and over the water. Justin pushed the door open. He had been right; it was pitch black in here. “Brian?”

No answer. Okay, this was not right. Justin walked in, announcing, “I’m turning on the light. Okay?” And he flipped the light on.

Brian was still in the shower, but he was on the floor, huddled against the wall in a fetal position, not moving, his arms around his legs, knees up in his chest, forehead on his knees. The water beat onto his head.

Justin stepped over to the stall cautiously, and opened the door. The water was ice cold. “Brian? What’s going on?” He turned the water off. Brian didn’t move. Justin reached down, and touched his shoulder, and Brian flinched, pulling away, without lifting his head. He merely twisted his body sideways, almost cringing. Justin squatted down, somewhat at a loss. “Brian?”

And then he saw the blood.

He hadn’t noticed it while the shower was going, but with the water off, a steady, thin stream of crimson flowed down from under Brian’s body toward the drain. It was not stopping.

“Oh, fuck,” Justin whispered. With the sudden change in Justin’s tone, Brian lifted his head.

 

 

Justin saw a developing black eye and swelling cheekbone. They stared at each other. “Brian, what happened?” But he received no reply, just an oddly blank look. Asking questions about what happened was not going to help right now. “You’re bleeding. Can I check and see? Will you stand up for me?”

Brian stood, a puppet on strings. He closed his eyes and swayed, leaning against the wall to catch a sudden imbalance. Justin stayed kneeling at Brian’s feet and looked up Brian’s body. He saw that brian’s side was turning purple, but there were no openings on his skin, nothing like a knife having done any work… and then Justin saw where the blood was coming from.

Justin left the shower stall and went to the closet. He got out three of the towels he kept for his art work, clean but ragged. He went back into the bathroom, breathing deeply but steadily in an effort to keep his heart from racing. He felt cold panic spasming through his limbs, but kept the reaction tightly reined. Brian had slid back down the wall, back onto his haunches. Justin ran water over one of the towels he brought back with him.

“Stand up,” he said. When Brian complied, he wiped the blood carefully from Brian’s ankle, up his thigh, and then held one of the dry towels up between his legs. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“No.”

Brian hadn’t opened his eyes. He began to slide back down the wall.

“Brian…”

“No.”

Justin leaned toward him. “Something’s torn inside you. You’re bleeding, badly. Is the car in the garage?”

Just a head shake.

“Is the car outside?”

“I don’t know where the fucking car is!” Brian yelled, suddenly, loudly, raising his head and glaring wildly at Justin, who flinched back. Just as suddenly as the outburst came, Brian seemed to collapse back into himself. His head dropped back onto his knees. Justin noticed that the wet towel under him was turning pink. He made up his mind, and stood.

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Brian had expended his energy in the earlier shout, and this was more whimper. He attempted to get up, but he swayed, and leaned to the side in an almost drunken pitch, sitting back down abruptly. His hand clutched at his head. Justin practically ran into the bedroom and snatched the phone from its cradle, and dialed 911.

“Emergency operator, do you require fire, ambulance or police?”

“Ambulance,” Justin answered.

“Sir, may I have your address and to whom am I speaking?”

Justin gave the address and his name.

“What is the nature of the emergency?”

“My boyfriend’s been assaulted,” Justin answered. Now that he was speaking to someone in a position to assist, he felt the panic begin to take over. “He’s bleeding, I was sleeping when he came in and he got into the shower for about forty minutes, and it isn’t stopping…”

“All right, Justin. We have an ambulance on the way, they’ll be there in five minutes. Can you tell me the extent of his injuries?”

“He’s beat up, his face… he’s got a black eye, and I think his cheek is swelling, maybe his ribs…” Justin couldn’t avoid the worst. “I think… I think he was raped,” Justin finished, closing his eyes.

“Is he bleeding from the anus?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay, is he bleeding anywhere else?”

“Justin, damn it…”

He heard Brian’s voice, weakly calling from the bathroom. He shook himself and stood, walking back into the bathroom. “He’s not bleeding anywhere else that I can see, but like I said, I think he might have some broken ribs, and his cheekbone… his eye’s swollen. Hang on.” He took the phone away from his ear. “Five minutes, Brian.”

“Is he conscious?”

“Yes… wait, just a sec… Brian? Brian!” Justin dropped the phone even as he dropped himself down to the shower floor. He placed his hand under Brian’s jaw line, and gently lifted his face. Brian’s head rolled sideward. “Fuck, he just passed out!”

“Okay, Justin, calm down. What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

“Oh, oh, right. It’s Brian. He was out, at the club, I was asleep. What can I do?”

“You should try to staunch the bleeding, if you can, press a towel to the site.”

“Yeah… I did that. Oh, damn, he’s still wet, he’s on the floor, shit, I can’t lift him.…”

“Don’t move him. Dry him off if you can and get a blanket around him. He’s probably in shock. Can you feel a pulse?”

“Shit…” Justin moaned, and probed at Brian’s neck where he felt the pulse still beating, quickly but strong enough. He conveyed the information to the emergency operator, before rushing to comply with the rest of the instructions. He dried Brian’s skin with the dry towel discarded to the side of the shower stall, and he had just put a blanket around Brian’s limp form, when the door buzzed.

He ran across the loft, almost falling down the bedroom stairs, to hit the door buzzer. “Ambulance?”

 

“EMT,” was the reply. As if it could be anyone else, Justin thought, somewhat hysterically. He waited for the two EMTs to come up in the elevator. They brought a stretcher, and Justin stepped back, trembling. And then he fell apart.

 

 

 

“Sir? Are you Justin Taylor?”

 

Justin pushed himself away from the hospital wall. He had been unable to sit, so he had paced the length of the waiting room, waiting for anyone to leave surgery, and come talk to him. He looked over at the woman who had just entered the waiting room. She was small, birdlike. He wondered if she were a nurse, but she was wearing black pants and a button-down shirt. This is not what he had come to expect from medical personnel. He had no idea who would come to speak to him. He had only ever been on the other side of emergency services. He had never had to wait, depending on others to tell him what the fuck was happening.

 

Justin had not called anyone. He knew it was irrational, but he really didn’t want to. Deb would yell at him for not calling, but he didn’t want or need any support until he had a handle on this, until he had a handle on himself. He kept thinking that Brian would be so angry if he spread this news around. It was all too overwhelming. He had no idea what to say to anyone, or even if he was entirely capable of speaking coherently. He had to get his own shaking under control, and then he had to figure out what to tell people.

 

He had heard nothing since the doctor had spoken to him about the operation. Justin had had enough presence of mind prior to the ambulance trip to grab the paperwork granting him authorization for Brian’s medical decisions. Brian had lectured him about the forms, and they had gone through drills concerning the papers’ location in Brian’s desk drawer, just underneath the paperwork authorizing Brian to speak for Justin (Brian had put Justin’s papers on top, commenting with grim not-quite-humor, that he was much more likely to need Justin’s paperwork than Justin was to need his). Now Justin was thankful for Brian’s paranoia concerning Justin’s blasé attitude toward details. The hospital personnel had, of course, moved to take care of the most urgent problems without Justin needing to make any decisions at all. But because of that piece of paper, Justin had been able to accompany Brian into the emergency room, to stay at his side as he was urgently assessed, and to have a nurse keep him up to date on everything happening. He was then escorted to a quiet waiting room that was specially reserved for family members. And he began to fall apart.

 

And thank god, with that simple little paper, no one had even mentioned contacting Brian’s nuclear family. Not with Justin and his papers and their terse legal jargon. The doctor automatically came to Justin with the x-rays, explaining that the rectal bleeding was due to a nicked artery that needed to repaired. And a lacerated liver, apparently. They were still assessing Brian’s condition. So Justin waited. And paced. And watched the clock. And took deep breaths, and stalked around the room, focusing on getting his oddly souply leg muscles back under control, instead of thinking of the last glimpse he had had of Brian. Or, more accurately, a last glimpse of Brian’s body with a field of medical people prodding at him, sticking needles in him. Brian had been so damn still as they wheeled him away to x-ray. Justin could only watch as they moved down the hall and away from where he stood, helpless. And then he had been escorted here, to this small waiting room with its soothing light blue walls and uncomfortable chairs, to wait for this little woman who waited for him to acknowledge his connection to the injured man. Hopefully just injured. Oh, god, please let Brian be okay.

 

“Yeah, that’s me,” Justin told the tiny woman, who looked at him with large, dark eyes holding not sympathy, but… what? Understanding. Maybe. Something. “And you are…?”

 

“I’m Sheila Clark. I need to speak with you about what happened.”

 

Justin suddenly recognized her. Or, more specifically, he recognized the type. Oh, fuck. Some official psychological response person. Justin knew he should be polite, but maybe he’d been around Brian long enough, and he just couldn’t bring himself to humor the woman on any level. He compromised, and was not out and out rude. “This just isn’t a good idea,” he said.

 

“What isn’t a good idea?”

 

“Exactly how many degrees in psychology do you have?”

 

Sheila smiled. “So you know the approach?”

 

“You could say that,” Justin answered. He wasn’t about to mention his own experience as the object of professional sympathy. “Professional services aren’t much help.”

 

“Yes, you would know, wouldn’t you?”

 

He had been looking away, but now he suddenly looked back, his attention sharpened. “So maybe you’ll respect my desire to be left alone right now. Unless you know how Brian’s doing? That’s the only thing I’m interested in discussing. Otherwise…” he trailed off, hoping she’d respect his desire to be left alone.

 

Sheila shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know about Mr. Kinney’s condition, no.”

 

“Then excuse me.” Justin turned his gaze into the distance again, determined to ignore her.

 

“Do you mind if I ask why you don’t want to talk to me?” Sheila made no move to leave. She actually took a seat.

 

“What services are you offering, exactly?”

 

“I serve in part as police services liaison to the Rape Crisis Center. My position qualifies me to understand that these types of crimes, well, have very different considerations, that the police haven’t historically taken into account.”

 

“Look, I understand what it’s like being the victim of a hate crime…”

 

“Rape is different.”

 

“I’m sure the police are going to call this a sexual assault, and treat it with all due serious consideration. As much as the police ever give to crimes against our community.”

 

“I treat these crimes seriously.”

 

Justin paused, closed his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “Ask me what you want.” Might as well get this over with.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I woke up when Brian came in…”

 

“So you were at home?”

 

“Yeah, I was in bed. Brian came in…”

 

“Do you know where he’d been?”

 

“Last I know, Babylon. The club. I’d been there until about midnight, but I had to go home, because it had been a long day. I was tired.” Christ, that sounded like an excuse. But that’s exactly what it was, Justin realized. Fuck.

 

His mind wandered, suddenly replaying the point in the evening when he told Brian he was too tired to hang around. But this time, in his imagination, he decided to stay, and he and Brian had headed to the back room where he had blown Brian in front of envious stares before they went home and Brian fucked him, tenderly, as he did sometimes when they were alone, and really, right now they were in bed and all this was a bad dream and he would wake up soon. As suddenly as the fantasy came to him, it fell away, and Justin felt his whole chest seize with an ache so strong that it immediately migrated to his throat, forcing a welter of tears too big to hold back. He blinked rapidly, but could not stop their sudden release from his eyes, down his cheeks. He turned his head swiftly from the woman’s view, and wiped his face, bit his lips, and took deep breaths. Forced calm. Calm. Calm.

 

“And…?”

 

He took another deep breath, and made himself speak. “And? I woke up when Brian came in. I was sort of dozing, waiting for him to get out of the shower and come to bed. I woke up about forty minutes later, and he was still in the shower.”

 

“And that was at about four-fifteen.”

 

Justin looked over at her sharply. She knew an awful lot of detailed information for a rape crisis counselor. She also didn’t talk like one of those touchy-feely emotional professionals. “You said you’re affiliated with the police department?”

 

“Yes.” Sheila held his gaze. “I’m the liaison between the Rape Crisis Center and the Pittsburgh PD.”

 

Brian had told him once that anyone you meet will tell you everything about themselves within the first ten minutes. You just need to pay attention. And ask the right questions. “Who pays you?” Justin asked.

 

“I’m paid through the city…” she saw the look he bent on her. “It’s a special position, but essentially, I work out of the police department.”

 

Right question. So, not a crisis counselor, but a legal entity. He had no idea what that meant, but he had been through the system before, hadn’t he? Justin hesitated for only a second before pulling his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialing Deb’s number.

 

“Hello?” Debbie’s voice was sleep clouded, confused, typical for someone emerging from a sound sleep at five-thirty in the morning.

 

“Debbie, it’s Justin. Is Carl there?”

 

“Justin? What’s wrong, sweetie, are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine. Please, Deb, I need to speak with Carl now. Is he there?”

 

She was suddenly very awake. “Sure, hon, just a sec.”

 

“Justin? Is something wrong?”

 

Carl’s gruff voice did so much to reassure him, that Justin felt a sudden, dizzying awareness of his situation, and the security he had cut himself off from by refusing to contact anyone. Carl was solidly connected to a side of Pittsburgh for which Justin had more than a little ambivalence. After Brian’s work against Stockwell, to say nothing of the whole Hobbes fiasco, Justin felt a great deal of apprehension regarding the police, to say nothing of Pittsburgh’s prosecutorial institutions. Carl could and would escort him safely through the civic entities that were just beginning to press in on the situation. Justin was under no illusion that Carl would deliver justice; Justin was not even thinking of that when he decided to call. But he knew Carl could personally ensure fair treatment and possibly even humane consideration. Carl could help. Why had he not considered this before now? The damn tears would drown him, Justin thought as he choked back a sob; that thing behind the tears would swallow him whole. He felt his legs wobble again as he was momentarily overwhelmed by a desire to give up to something, to someone else, to let someone else deal with all this. But then he straightened and reminded himself that while Carl may help, he would not provide any real solution. If Justin gave into tears or sleep, if he lost control in any way, if he relaxed his guard, Brian could slip away. The situation was that simple. Calling Carl had allowed him to distract himself through action, and god knows that felt better than waiting and not knowing. But that didn’t mean Justin would let Brian down now.

 

“Carl, Brian’s in the hospital. He’s been attacked.”

 

“Attacked? What happened?” Carl came fully awake. With a rustle of bed sheets in the background, Debbie did as well. Her shrill voice demanded, “Attacked? Who’s been attacked?” Shit… oh, well, alerting Deb couldn’t be avoided. Or, maybe it could, but… Shit.

 

Justin replied, “I don’t know, it happened while he was out.” He found himself struggling to say the words. He was beginning to realize that his struggle to keep this news quiet made no real sense. Brian’s attack was an attack like any other insane act of violence. He was in the hospital, for god’s sake, and not leaving any time soon. “I don’t know how he is. He’s in surgery. But, there’s a woman here claiming to be the liaison between the police and the Rape Crisis Center, and I’m not sure what she wants, and I don’t know how to talk to her.” Justin saw Sheila’s eyebrows move upwards, but he really did not give a shit. Fuck her. “I’m sorry I’m waking you up this early, but I just don’t know what the hell’s going on, and I was hoping you might help me figure out, I mean, who’s going to come and talk to me and…” He turned his back on Sheila, his voice dropping. He realized he wasn’t making a lot of sense, and he needed to pull himself together. “Look, Brian was attacked, and I’m at the hospital waiting for him in surgery, and now police are asking me questions without really telling me anything, so I’m just really… I don’t really trust them, and maybe that’s just my history, but I’d feel much better if you were here. I don’t want anyone else to know about this.”

 

In the background, he could hear Deb demanding, “What’s going on?” Carl just told her to be quiet for a moment, and she shut up. “Justin,” Carl said, “You hang on and don’t say anything to anyone, we’ll be right down. But, answer me this, were you called to the hospital?”

 

“No,” Justin answered. “Brian came home and collapsed. I called the ambulance. We came here from the loft.”

 

“Is this a rape case?”

 

Justin was becoming lucid enough that he appreciated Carl’s directness and depersonalization of the subject. Justin answered the question simply. “Yes.”

 

“Okay, listen to me. The officer is probably a police woman who works on rape cases specifically. She wants to find out what the story is without your guard up. Right now, you’re a suspect.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yeah, you. From the police’s point of view, anything’s possible and they’re trying to establish it. The significant other is often the perpetrator, especially if you called in the emergency. Of course, obviously, that’s not the case. But it often is, so they’re going to be aggressive. You just sit tight, and we’ll be right down.”

 

“Okay, Carl. Don’t let Debbie call Michael. Tell her I’ll let him know.”

 

Justin hung up, and looked over at Sheila Clark. “I have a couple of friends coming down. Carl’s a cop.”

 

She smiled. He couldn’t read the look, and he still didn’t care.

 

********

 

“Justin, my god, what happened?” He was surrounded by a huge stuffed purple coat and a red wig, and the smell of tomato sauce and faint musk that was all Debbie. Enveloped in her embrace, he could only shake his head as his throat closed up and he fought relaxing into Debbie’s expansive arms. Carl stood off to the side, talking quietly to some strange man Justin hadn’t seen up to now. Clark looked on.

 

Finally, Debbie let him go. “Justin…?”

 

Carl stepped forward. “Sheila and her partner, Rob Gonzalez.” He nodded back at the strange man. “They’re specially trained in sexual assault.”

 

“So you’re a police officer?”

 

“I… yes.” Sheila nodded.

 

“Well what the fuck!” Justin exclaimed, suddenly explosively angry. “So go do your jobs! Go catch this guy!” The police merely eyed him, and Justin turned back to Carl. “So, I’m a suspect,” he finished, swallowing his ire into the bitter tone.

 

“No,” Carl replied. Clark took a deep breath, and Carl shot her a look. “Justin is not a suspect, Clark. No way. You’ve seen his history?” She nodded, tersely. Carl turned back to Justin. “You were his first contact, and you’re his lover. That’s always the first person we talk to. But the police can move fairly quickly to dismiss that idea, and get onto the case. Right?” The last was directed over his shoulder.

 

“Right,” Clark answered, but she did not seem wholly convinced. “Justin. Brian was at Babylon?”

 

“It’s not open now!” Deb exclaimed.

 

Gonzalez ignored her. “Do you know if he drove there?”

 

“No, I…” Justin paused. “The car would be in the garage across the street from the loft, if he came home in it. Spot 16C.”

 

“Do you know the parking garage’s phone number?”

 

“No, but the address is 433 Tremont.”

 

“Okay, I’ll go see if we should look for the car. Sheila’s gonna wait here to talk to Brian when he wakes up. She’ll need to talk to him before he talks to you, okay?”

 

 

Justin was going to say something about that, but Carl spoke first. “Is Justin a suspect?” he asked.

 

“Horvath…” Clark started.

 

“Does he need a lawyer?”

 

Both police officers hesitated.

 

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Justin needed to make them understand. “Brian’s going to be conscious soon enough and he’ll let you know himself, so no, I don’t need a lawyer,” he finished harshly. Fuck this! Let them suspect whatever they wanted! Brian would wake up, and exonerate him, so fuck it. “Why don’t you go see if Brian’s car is where it should be, if it’s parked near the club, or if you should be looking for some psycho who’s off driving it! The longer you waste time grilling me, the further away he’s getting!”

 

Gonzalez gave him a long look, before turning with a nod, and left the room.

 

As he left, the doctor came in, and shut the door behind him. “Mr. Taylor?”

 

“Yes, doctor…”

 

“Hom. Mr. Kinney’s going to be fine.”

 

“Oh, thank god!” Debbie exclaimed as Justin felt every muscle in the back of his neck relax and release all muscular control down his spine to his sphincter. He drew in a breath, regaining control. Dr. Hom continued, “We’ve settled him into a recovery room.”

 

“Oh, thank god,” Deb breathed again, and Justin closed his eyes and let the pulses of relief swept through him.

 

But only for a moment. Standing straight and bringing his gaze back to the doctor, he asked, “How bad is it?”

 

“The worst of it was the liver laceration, and we took care of that. He came through the surgery just fine. He has three broken ribs…”

 

“Broken ribs, fuck that, get to it…” Deb muttered, but Justin shot a look at her, and she shut up.

 

Dr. Hom continued, “The blood loss was not as severe as it might have been; he probably passed out more from shock, and partly from the alcohol in his system. It could have been much worse. There’s tearing around the sphincter, but except for the one rent in the rectal canal that damaged the artery, there was mostly just bad tissue bruising. He’ll be in a lot of pain, but the damage itself is not catastrophic.”

 

“Holy shit, what happened?” Deb asked, looking at Justin, who just shook his head.

 

“Dr. Hom, um…” How did he ask this? “What about possible infection?”

 

“We have him on antibiotics, and of course we’ll be monitoring him…”

 

“No, I mean, what about the potential for STD’s?”

 

The doctor nodded. “Oh, of course. We believe he was assaulted with an inanimate object. We only found splinters. Nothing else. No semen, no foreign tissue.”

 

Justin just gaped.

 

Carl glanced over at Clark, and his gaze was arrested by her expression. She did not look surprised at that bit of information. While Justin and Debbie digested the last of the doctor’s remarks, Carl gestured Clark to follow him out of the room.

 

Justin watched them go, but was too intent on grilling the doctor for information. “So there’s no chance of AIDS or anything else.”

 

“Well, that’s something,” Debbie added.

 

“You’ll be able to see him in twenty minutes or so. I’ll send Janice, our nurse, back for you.”

 

“Yes. please,” Justin answered. Dr. Hom nodded, and exited. Justin turned to Debbie. “Look, Debbie.” How did he put this? Bluntly seemed best. “I don’t want you to tell anyone about this.”

 

“Not tell… Brian’s going to need his family around him!”

 

“I don’t know if that’s what he’s going to want, though. Until we know, I think it’s best we hold off crowding him. By that, I mean, with anyone. Even you.”

 

“Justin, even though Brian thinks he doesn’t need anyone, he does.”

 

“I appreciate that, but… this is different.”

 

“What, are you saying he should be ashamed because some asshole beat the shit out of him?”

 

“It has nothing to do with how he’s supposed to feel or not feel. I don’t know how he actually does feel. Debbie, it’s,” he paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “It’s Brian. With this kind of assault. He’d be upset enough that his friends see him beat up. But this kind of an assault.” He stopped, and saw that she understood. “I just don’t want to assume how he’s going to want to let people know about this.”

 

Deb studied Justin’s features, noted how wasted he looked. “Okay, maybe not all the details. But, honey, what exactly happened?”

 

Justin shook his head. “I don’t know. I just… if people find out about this, they’re going say he asked for it. People want to blame someone.”

 

“They can blame that asshole that did this!”

 

“But they won’t. Brian’s not exactly known for his caution in getting naked with strangers. Besides…” Justin hesitated. Should he confess this next bit? He hated that it was on his mind at all; it certainly did not reflect well on him. But, on the other hand, it might help keep Debbie’s mouth shut, if she thought it was for him, and not for Brian. She was oddly unsympathetic to her son’s best friend. So, fuck, it’d make Justin look bad, but it would suit his end. Very Machiavellian. Very Kinney-esque. “People will blame me.”

 

“What the fuck? Oh, fuck, you don’t need to worry about that, Carl is straightening that out right now with the cops.”

 

“Not that. I mean, people in general, they’ll think that I allowed it.”

 

“Oh, please!” Deb exclaimed. “What crap!” She saw the look on Justin’s face. “Brian makes his own decisions. What the fuck, are you telling me because he picked the wrong playmate, it’s your fault? Fuck, it’s not even his fault! Some psycho is out there, beating up gay people...”

 

“I don’t think other people are going to be so understanding, Debbie. People want someone to blame. I should reign him in, right? Isn’t that my job? They’ll blame Brian… but everyone knows how Brian is. I’m the one who should know better.”

 

“No, that’s not true, Justin.”

 

“But the thing is,” Justin continued softly, “I think maybe… maybe it should be. If I could just…”

 

“What? Control him? Brian? Oh, my sweet boy, it ain’t gonna happen in this lifetime.” She patted his cheek.

 

His face twisted under her hand. “But, it’s not just whether I can, it’s whether I should try. Everybody just accepts Brian’s tricking and all that as who he is, but I mean, why? Why should I just accept that? It’s not good for him. Shit, look at… I just… I don’t think it’s good for him. I really don’t like that he does it. Lately, I’ve just been walking away from it. Like tonight. I mean, I was tired, right, but I also didn’t want to have to deal with Brian wanting to play with someone else. Even if it included me. I can’t judge him though, I’m not going to judge him, so I’m just ignoring it, kind of letting him off to his own. And I bet he gets lonely. And bored.”

 

“So you’re to blame for his choices? Fuck that, really Sunshine. You have your own feelings. And Brian would be pissed if he thought you’d made yourself his watchdog.”

 

“Yeah, but, obviously, he could use one. Maybe since he didn’t get one growing up, he should get one sometime in his life.”

 

Justin didn’t see the grimace that passed over Debbie’s face at this last, and he continued. “Besides, I can’t exactly say that people will be wrong to think that this is, at least partially, my failure.”

 

Debbie said nothing for a long moment, just stared at him. “Okay,” she finally said, “I won’t say anything. To anyone.”

 

Bingo.

 

They stopped talking then, and it seemed a very long time before the door swung open, and a very fat woman in a nurse’s uniform entered the holding room. “Justin Taylor?” she asked. He nodded. “Brian’s in his room, I’ll take you to see him now.”

 

 

 

 

 

The nurse’s name was Janice. Janice took him to the door of room 311. Clark and Gonzalez stood at the door. Gonzalez talked in a low-pitched voice to Clark, whose arms were crossed over her chest. When they saw Justin approach in the wake of the mighty Janice, they straightened, their attention turned to him.

 

“We need to speak with Mr. Kenney,” Gonzalez said.

 

“Kinney,” Clark corrected.

 

“Kinney, right,” Gonzalez repeated.

 

Justin hated them. “Fine, but not you,” he said, nodding at Clark. Turning his head toward Gonzalez, he nodded in his direction. “You talk to him.”

 

Eyes cut Justin’s out of consideration as Clark and Gonzalez passed a not-so-private look.

 

“Uh…” Gonzalez said. “Actually, rape victims statistically respond better to women…”

 

“Because they usually are women!” Justin almost shouted. “And don’t you dare call Brian a rape victim! Oh, he’d just love that one…” he trailed off, almost muttering as his voice fell away, knowing it was a good thing Brian was heavily sedated for this. Well, besides the surgery and that. He almost started giggling. Oh, god, I am seriously losing my mind, Justin thought, mentally shaking himself. He snapped his gaze back to the police. “Okay… okay. Seriously. Brian… seriously. I know him, better than you do. Really. Fuck this.” Oh, god, what the fuck was he saying? He realized his entire body was trembling, little tremors all over the surface, as if his skin were the ocean and a huge storm was blowing. He felt a warm hand grasp his upper arm, and looked down, then up, at Janice. Her small eyes seemed to glitter at him.

 

“Justin,” she said. “The anesthesiologist and doctor are in with him. He should be just coming out of the anesthesia. You should go in.”

 

If his heart didn’t already belong to Brian, he would have given it to Janice, right then and there.

 

Clark and Gonzalez trailed behind, as Janice opened the door and ushered Justin in, her hand on his back. Dr. Hom looked up from the chart he was notating, and said, “Only two!” Clark spoke low to her partner, just before she left the room.

 

Justin walked over to stand next to another doctor who was examining one of the monitors about the bed.

 

He had never seen Brian look so pale. And he had never seen him beaten. The right side of his face bloomed one big bruise, puffing out his eye socket, his mouth ripped and swollen at the end. Justin moved as close as he could to the side of the bed, and the monitoring doctor said, “He’s coming out of it. But he’ll be very groggy.”

 

Justin nodded. He looked over at Dr. Hom.

 

“He’s doing well. He’s going to be fine.”

 

“Physically.”

 

“Physically.”

 

Justin turned his attention back to the man below him in the bed, whose eye, the one not swollen shut, fluttered. “Brian. Hey, Brian,” Justin said. He reached out and took the hand that lay on sheet, pausing to look at the long fingers, the fine grace of Brian’s bones, before twining his own fingers to hold on, holding Brian’s hand in both of his. Oh, god. Oh god oh god oh god oh god. “Brian, it’s me. It’s Justin. I’m here.”

 

The voice, barely a whisper, raspy. “Justin?... Water.”

 

Justin looked up at Dr. Hom, who nodded. He swiveled his head, looking around the room. And Janice was there, at his side with a cup of water and a straw. Justin took it, then held the straw down to Brian’s lips, watching him take it in his mouth and drink.

 

“Not too much,” Dr. Hom warned, but Brian was already releasing the straw with a small exhalation of breath.

 

“Brian, do you remember anything?” Gonzalez had moved to stand immediately to Justin’s right. It did not help that the man was so tall; Justin suppressed an urge to push him away, maybe even out of the room. Too bad his hands were otherwise occupied.

 

“Is this necessary right now?” Justin spoke as low as possible.

 

“Most cases get solved within the first 24 hours, or not at all,” the detective told him.

Justin bit his lip, and shut up.

 

“Brian,” Gonzalez continued, “Do you remember being assaulted? Do you remember the person who hit you?”

 

“Hit… um.”

 

“You were assaulted, Brian. You’re in the hospital.”

 

“Yeah… got that.”

 

Justin almost smiled, this time for real. He loved this man, did he love this man.

 

“…guy. Hot. Car. Fuck. My car?”

 

“We’re working on that, Brian. What did the guy look like?”

 

“Hot.”

 

Justin could practically hear Gonzalez’s teeth grind. “Can you describe him?”

 

“Leather…”

 

“Pants? Coat?”

 

“Coat. Black shirt. Black pants.”

 

“Was the guy black?”

 

“No… blond.”

 

Justin’s eyebrows rose imperceptibly.

 

“Okay. Can you tell me what happened?”

 

“Driving… parked. Just… hit. He hit me.”

 

“Excuse me, is this really necessary?” Justin interrupted. “Can you just ask what you need to know? He’s obviously in pain.”

 

“‘S’fine… I’m fine,” Brian said. The weakness of his voice completely belied his statement, but his voice sounded stronger than it had just a moment before. And his eye opened fully, though it still seemed to not fully focus.

 

“He’s not fine,” Justin insisted. “Hurry up.”

 

“Do you remember any distinguishing marks?”

 

“Scorpion. Tattoo, on his neck.”

 

“Where were you parked?”

 

“Alley.” Brian’s eyelid slid downward, and he turned his face away, into the pillow.

 

“Do you remember the alley? Brian?”

 

Brian didn’t answer.

 

“Okay,” Gonzalez said after watching him for a moment, and then backing away from bedside. “We’ve got a search out on the vehicle, we’ve got someone going around Liberty to take a quick look-see. We already have an APB out. I’ll come back and talk to him when he’s more awake. Justin,” he added. Justin glanced over absently. Gonzalez hesitated, then shook his head. “We’ll do our best, but…”

 

“Yeah,” Justin replied. “I know all about the justice system.” He turned back to the bed.

 

The spare doctor was long gone and had taken Janice with him. Dr. Hom hung the chart back at the bed’s foot on his own way out. “He’ll probably sleep for a while. Don’t be alarmed, it’s normal. Do you have any more questions?”

 

Justin just shook his head.

 

The doctor left. And then they were alone. Or, Justin was alone. He still held Brian’s hand in both of his. It felt warm, smooth. Limp.

 

Justin looked up Brian’s arm, dark against the white bedding, to that awful hospital gown he had been dressed in post-surgery. Underneath the sheets, his long body, almost bony. How had he not noticed how skinny Brian was? Without the animating force of Brian’s personality, Justin could see through to a fragility in the suddenly delicate, battered body. He seemed so thin.

 

Maybe this had been the way Brian had seen him in the hospital, in those first days, when he’d still been in a coma. Before Brian had stopped coming. Justin shifted his weight from leg to leg, and then sat, carefully, on the side of the bed, by Brian’s right leg, still holding onto his hand. “Brian…” he started, and then stopped. Brian was out. His words hung in the deadened air of the hospital.

 

Oh, god, he hated hospital rooms. Not hospitals, they did good things, after all, hell, the people in them had saved him, and now Brian - but the rooms where you waited, that held you, trapped in an institutional setting which deployed its forces like clockwork, a time-keeping that only served to remind you just how long was being taken between each click forward in the schedule. And you never got anywhere, just a repeated cycle of shots and tests and bad tv and interrupted sleep, and one day flowing into the next more slowly than any day ever did in the entirety of your life.

 

He hated hospital rooms. Brian would surely go mad.

 

“Brian,” he started again, firmly this time. “I’m not going to leave you. You’re going to hate this, everything about this is going to suck. But anything I can do to help you get through this… you know I will. God, I love you so much…” His throat clogged, and he stopped talking before Brian, even unconscious, detected that weakness. He took a deep breath, forcing his anger and pain back, deep back, back into his bowels. It would wait. It would have to wait.

 

“You know,” he continued, “I know this is going to be hard. And besides, who am I, anyway? The guy you sleep with more than once, nobody, really…” He stopped. Shit. He only heard that one after it came out of his mouth. What the fuck? Deep breath. Um. Shit. Okay. Okay. Start over.

 

He clutched Brian’s hand a bit tighter. “But you know what? I don’t care. I don’t care, because you don’t know how much I love you, you can’t. I just, I just don’t get why anyone would want to hurt you like this, how they could. I’m still some naïve little twink I guess sometimes, huh? Yeah, but, I wonder the same thing when I think of Hobbes, how the fuck he could have violated me like he did, and that’s what this is, isn’t it? But it’s not the same thing, because that sick fuck…” He choked up again.

 

He felt Brian’s fingers spasm, then tighten on his. “Brian?” He looked up from where he had been staring at their clasped hands, to see Brian watching him. He sat up straighter, and moved his hand from Brian’s, to his cheek, pulling back when Brian winced. “I’m sorry, you should rest.”

 

“Justin…”

 

Justin stopped in the process of rising, and he leaned forward instead. Brian whispered, “I’m fine. Not like you. Don’t be… don’t be upset. Fine. Just…. tired.”

 

Justin almost laughed in disbelief, but caught himself immediately. He did not know what to expect, really, but told himself in that moment to expect anything. He should expect this. Don’t laugh.

 

“I know,” Justin answered. He leaned down, and kissed Brian lightly on the mouth, away from the swelling. “I know. Get your rest. I’ll be here, quiet though, so you can sleep.”

 

“Yeah… you. Quiet. Right. Out... loud.”

 

Justin smiled down at the man in the bed, but the effort to speak seemed too much for Brian. His eyelids slid shut again, and he slid with them into sleep.

 

Justin watched him for a long time, vowing he would be there, anything he could do to fix this, if it was fixable, no matter what.

 

No matter what.

 

 

 

 

 

On returning to the waiting area, Justin first made sure he located the Keystone Kops. They were talking to Carl. Justin then spotted Debbie in a chair to the side, her arms crossed over her chest. When he entered the room, she stood. He stifled a groan, but crossed to her.

 

“How is he?” she asked. Her mascara had rubbed slightly off at some point that morning. It emphasized the weariness in dark circles under her eyes. She opened her arms, and Justin sank against her, grateful, for a moment anyway, to have a safe harbor to rest in. For the moment.

 

Then he pulled back. “He’s going to be fine. Physically.” Not knowing what else to say, he echoed the doctor’s words.

 

“Thank the Lord,” Debbie reached up and grasped his chin, turning his face and forcing him to look at her fully. “How are you?”

 

Who cares? Justin thought, but just shook his head. “I don’t know. Fine.”

 

“Bullshit. I know you don’t want to hear this,” Debbie continued, ushering him to sit in the chair next to hers, before she sat back down herself. “But Brian needs his family to help him through this.” She held up her hand to stop his immediate retort. “He acts like he’s big and tough, but we all know, hell, this whole thing goes to show, that Brian doesn’t always know what’s good for him. Shit, otherwise he wouldn’t push at you so hard! To say nothing of…” she trailed off.

 

You almost had me there, Justin thought, feeling his back go up, and vowing not to let his ego dictate to him. He remained silent, but vowed to be sure Brian’s voice would be heard, even when Brian himself wasn’t there.

 

“He needs the support of people who love him. Do you think being alone will be good for him?”

 

“He’s not going to be alone, Deb.”

 

She shook her head at his tone, which brooked no argument. “You think you can handle this by yourself? This is bigger than you, Justin. Trust me on this one.”

 

“It has nothing to do with that! It has to do with what HE wants!” How many times did he have to say this?

 

Debbie seemed to smirk, but her marked displeasure obviated any amusement. “You let him run you more than you should.”

 

“So I should let YOU run me.”

 

She was silent. Then she said, carefully, “Now, I know you’re upset.” There was a long pause while they engaged in a silent stare-down. She glanced away first, before looking back and saying, “Do you really think you can keep this quiet? That Brian’s in the hospital? What are you going to do, cover him up with makeup for a month while the bruises fade?”

 

At that, Justin’s shoulders slumped, and he leaned heavily back in the grungy waiting room chair. His eyes closed, as weariness, hung over from the night before caught up with him along with an adrenaline crash and lack of sleep. Right. Hiding this was not the answer. The physical display would be manifest on Brian’s body for god knows how long. And, was this sort of crime in the public domain? Would the assault get reported in the paper? No names, maybe, but if it were reported , and Brian went about his usual routine obviously beaten up, everyone would know. Their community was fairly small, after all.

He felt Debbie’s hand on his arm and opened his eyes to see Carl approach and take a seat next to Debbie.

 

“You’re not officially a suspect,” Carl said.

 

Well, no shit, Justin thought. But of course Carl meant he had been ruled out, officially. So that was something.

 

“How is he?”

 

Justin just shook his head at Carl’s question, still overcome by the sense of helplessness that continued to wash over him.

 

“We’re trying to figure out how to break this to everyone,” Debbie told Carl, though she was clearly speaking to Justin.

 

“Why tell them anything?” Carl asked, honestly curious.

 

Justin could kiss him. Seriously.

 

“Carl! What, are we going to hide this? You think we can?” She had seized on the argument, and wouldn’t let go now, especially since it actually made sense.

 

“No, honey,” he answered, much more gently than Justin could have responded to her at this point, “But why don’t you tell them he was in a car accident? It would explain why the car’s gone.”

 

Debbie frowned, but nodded. She did not look convinced.

 

A car accident, Justin thought. Why didn’t I think of that? “What have they found out?” Justin asked, turning to look for the police, who had disappeared. He looked back at Carl. “Carl?”

 

“Not much,” came the slow response. “They’re putting out a trace out on the EZ Pass in the Corvette, and tracing his credit cards. They’ll need to speak with him more when he’s more lucid. The DA’s office is going to want to talk to him at some point. You know the drill.” This last was said not unkindly, but as a gentle, firm reminder.

 

“Oh.” Again, Justin mentally kicked himself. Of course, the DA. “Okay, but, with me, they knew who did it. They barely even needed to speak with me. It’s not like I remembered anything anyway,” he finished, a slight huff of black humor escaping him.

 

“The DA starts working the case right away,” Carl told him. “They’ll send someone to talk to him.”

 

“Okay…” Justin had a feeling he should be asking more questions, but he was unable to concentrate enough to figure out the questions he should be asking. All he wanted to do was get back to Brian. So fuck all this anyway! He stood up. “I have to get back.”

 

Debbie stood as well, and pulled him into a tight hug. “You need anything, you let me know.”

 

Right now, he just needed everyone to stay away. Maybe Debbie was right; Justin had run out of any capacity for judgment. He only knew he wanted to get to Brian. “Okay, Deb,” he answered. He turned around, and walked back to Brian’s room.

 

***

 

Brian slept the rest of the day and into night, and Justin kept an exhausted watch over him, dozing fitfully in the chair at his bedside. Clark came in at some point to tell him that Brian’s EZ Pass had tracked the Corvette through tolls up to New York City, through the Lincoln Tunnel, and then nothing. She wanted to know if Brian had mentioned any acquaintance (the way she said “acquaintance” made Justin unwilling to share even the fact that he knew nothing), any acquaintance who lived or worked in the New York area.

 

“So, that’s it?” Justin asked, stepping out of the room and shutting the door firmly behind him as he followed her out. “You think the guy fled up to New York, and that’s it?”

 

For the fact that she was a small woman, her temper made her seem to rise in inches. “No, that’s not it. We talked to the bartender, and to the bouncer at your club. We have a fair description of the guy. And, of course, we’re going to talk to your boyfriend more when he wakes up.”

 

“Do me a favor, don’t call us boyfriends around Brian. And, what, you were talking to people at Babylon?”

 

“Fine, your significant other. The man whose medical status you decide, your nonboyfriend, whatever. And, yes, that’s what we do in an investigation, we go talk to people. Look, I get that you have certain issues with the police…”

 

Justin snorted, loudly.

 

Clark studied him hard. “Like I said. I get it. God knows your… god knows Brian doesn’t have a lot of friends down that way, but we hardly thought of Stockwell as King Savior, like you seem to think. He wanted to cut the budget way back on the programs that I’m officially employed under, and don’t even ask about the outreach and the drug programs.

Not all of us thought cutting those was anywhere near a good idea. And not all of us agreed with the bullshit decision that had the guy who whacked you walking the streets in no time.”

 

“You’ve really done your homework,” Justin said softly, not sure how to react, but definitely taken aback and not a little apprehensive.

 

“It’s my job. Seriously, this investigation is not going to be affected by that history, not if I have any say in it. I’m glad Kinney kicked Stockwell’s ass, the guy deserved it. No that Deekins is much better, but… Anyway. The bottom line is, I want to see the bad guys get caught. That asshole out there raping and beating gay guys. And your… Brian’s attacker is the bad guy, right? Not us. Not you. Him.”

 

Justin was definitely taken aback. “Oh. I didn’t know you thought all that.” Well, duh, how could he? Justin felt embarrassed, as though he should have known. But how could he? His experience to this point had certainly never exposed him to this. Again, he was reminded that his impulsive temper needed to be taken into account here, that it was causing him to jump to unjustified conclusions. Dammit.

 

“Yeah, well, politics interfere with my work. Which I’m generally good at when they don’t. So can we please get to catching this guy? I’m assuming we all want to do that?”

Justin nodded. “Okay… but, can you be discreet about the inquiry?”

 

“I’ll see what we can do. But I can’t promise you anything; anything we can do to get this guy off the streets is okay by me. I’m sorry if that doesn’t suit you.”

 

Justin felt a flush rise on his cheek. As he did not know what else to say, he turned his back to Clark and walked back into Brian’s room. Brian was still out of it.

 

Probably better that he miss all this.

 

***

“Justin.”

 

Justin shook his head, clearing out the sleep that held him deep in its grip. His neck ached badly, and a muscle had cramped in his left low back. His left arm was asleep.

 

“Justin.”

 

Suddenly realizing that Brian’s voice was calling him, Justin jerked abruptly awake. He sat up quickly, shaking off the pains of sleeping in a single seated position for a prolonged period of time. He looked down at Brian, whose clear gaze caught and held his.

 

“What time is it?” Brian asked, licking at his lips and grimacing at the roughness scratching his throat as he spoke. “Can you pour me some water?”

 

Justin rose from the chair, glad to move, and picked up the ugly yellow plastic pitcher. He poured some water out of it into a matching ugly yellow plastic cup. “Um, sixish, I think. AM.” Justin had not been asleep for long; he had slept no more than half an hour at a time all night. He pulled the cell phone out of his pocket to check the exact time. “Six thirty-seven.” He turned it off, after a message notifying him that Michael had called flashed up on the screen. Off and off. He tossed the phone back toward the chair and then picked up a straw to put in the cup, focusing on this simple action. He was not ready to think about Michael. He found himself hoping that Debbie had broken her word and told her son anyway, so Justin wouldn’t have to.

 

“Fuck that. No straws. I’m not 12.” Brian tried to raise his head, only to have it fall back onto the pillow. “Can you raise the bed?”

 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

 

“Yeah, you probably don’t know how,” Brian muttered, not paying attention to what Justin had said. His glance moved restlessly around the room. “Where’s a nurse?”

 

“On her rounds. Brian, look, just have a drink with the straw, I won’t tell anyone you had to use it.”

 

Brian stared at him, and then nodded slightly. He took a long drink, and watched Justin put the cup back on the side table. “I’m not a fucking invalid.”

 

Justin sat down on the bed, carefully, next to Brian’s leg, and braced himself with his hand just touching Brian’s calf. “Brian. You had surgery on your liver. It was ripped. And… in your colon area. An artery was torn. Not bad, but….”

 

Brian turned that laser-like look on him again, before turning his head on the pillow, so his eyes shifted away. Justin had trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence. There was a long pause as he watched Brian absorb the information, clearly remembering something. Brian’s eyes stared toward the ceiling, and his lips rolled inward, before he hissed at the pain stabbing the side of his mouth. “You called emergency?”

 

Justin nodded. Brian still would not look at him. “Where’s my car?”

 

“The cops think it’s in a New York chop shop as we speak.” Or parked in the Bronx. Same difference.

 

“Fuck!” Another long silence. Justin waited to see what Brian wanted to know before venturing any further information. “Cops? What… Oh. Right. There’ll be an investigation, I suppose.”

 

Justin remained silent, unsure of what Brian meant in his sarcastic emphasis on “investigation.”

 

Finally, Brian turned to look at Justin. “I suppose Mikey and Deb and the rest are out in the waiting area?”

 

Justin shook his head. Technically, Deb had gone home. “No, I thought it was best to wait until you could have visitors and make up your own mind.” Was that the right decision? Justin had no idea.

 

“Oh.” Again, Justin could not read Brian’s blank stare toward the wall. He became increasingly uneasy.

 

“Surgery? I had surgery.”

 

Justin nodded.

 

“Is there a scar?” Brian’s mouth twisted at this, and again, Justin didn’t know how to read that, at all. Was he making fun of himself? Of the situation? What the fuck was going on?

 

Disturbed, Justin took tentative hold of the situation. “Brian…”

 

“Don’t,” Brian interrupted him, his tone sharp and absolute. “Justin, just. Don’t.” He had compressed his lips as much as possible, to the point of obvious pain. “Is my face cut?”

 

“You’re pretty beat up, but no cuts,” Justin offered, uncertain again. “You have broken ribs.”

 

Brian took a deep breath. “Ow. That’s what that is. Thank god for small favors,” he muttered, and his neck muscles, which had been straining his head upward, relaxed to drop his head back on the pillow. He glanced down at himself. “What the fuck am I wearing?”

 

 

Justin said nothing. He couldn’t do this anymore. Unbidden, he felt his eyes well up, and bit down on his lips in an effort to stop the tears from spilling over.

 

Too late; Brian had seen. “Stop that!” he commanded sharply. “Don’t you fucking dare!” His hoarse voice could not disguise the commanding tone. The command was not nearly as emphatic as Justin knew Brian would like; the drugs and weariness combined to take away the force he would have put in that statement. Justin heard it, clearly. But it only made Justin lose what little control he had. He stood, and turned his back, walking away from the bed. Silence reigned, except for Justin’s hitching breath.

 

“Justin…”

 

Justin willed himself to regain control, yelling at himself in his own head, “Fuck this! Stop it! Just stop it!” Slowly, the extreme sorrow that had ambushed him yielded as he tamped it down, back toward his solar plexus, where it sat, heavy as stone. But contained. He turned to face Brian only then, his features schooled.

 

“Don’t,” Brian repeated, more gently this time. “I’m fine.”

 

“You’re not fine!” Justin would have shouted, were he not working so hard at being unemotional.

 

“I will be fine. I’m here, right? I’m alive. I’m fine.”

 

Brian needed to believe that, Justin saw, and Justin was in no condition to argue. In fact, Justin was surprised Brian managed to stay awake this long. As they spoke, his eyelids had begun falling downward, only to be yanked up to a state of willed awareness. Justin walked back to the bed.

 

“I know,” he said soothingly, taking Brian’s hand. Brian jerked his palm, but could not pull completely away, and Justin was not about to let him go. “Fine. But… I don’t think I am.” He hoped that opening up this way would help Brian see that admitting to feeling bad was not impossible, nor necessarily undesirable. While Justin was aware of the futility in hoping Brian could or would pattern his example, providing one had become second nature in their relationship. “You’re right. But I’m not okay. This…” he trailed off.

 

“Yeah… okay.” Brian’s eyelids drooped. “I’m sorry, Sunshine.”

 

Sorry? “What? Why?”

 

“Couldn’t have been much fun to go through all that.” The reply was mumbled, and Brian had turned his head away again, into the pillow.

 

Fun? “Brian…” Justin started, but Brian interrupted him, pinning him in an intense gaze.

 

“Go back to the loft, and bring me my blue silk robe. And two pairs of the grey jersey cotton sweat bottoms and the black cotton long-sleeved tops, you know, the ones I hang out in at home. The Laurens. They’re in the bottom drawer. And get the face lotion from the bathroom. Not the body lotion, make sure you bring me the face lotion, it says it on the bottle, ‘for the face.’ And my Blackberry, don’t forget that.”

 

Justin took a deep breath, but before he could reply to that last mumbled command, Brian was out again.

 

 

“Face lotion, face lotion, you have three fucking face lotions in the bathroom to say nothing of the fucking scrub, and you didn’t exactly say not to bring the body lotion, and when was the last time you wore those shirts anyway…” Justin mumbled, rummaging through the duffel bag he’d brought with him, crammed with not only the requested items, but socks, and underwear, and hair stuff, and even a hair dryer, because he was god damned if he was going to be traipsing back and forth between the loft and the hospital room because Brian was using this material shit as a means of distracting himself. Or keeping Justin away. Yeah. So, no. He’d even thrown in the eyebrow tweezers. And shampoo and conditioner, too.

 

The elevator door slid open on the third floor of the hospital, and Justin zipped the bag shut resolutely. No Blackberry. He’d left that on the desk, and was still trying to come up with a plausible reason for why he had not brought it with him. Not enough room. Couldn’t find it. Or maybe just the truth, you really should focus your energy on recovering from a major trauma because when this hits you it’s going to be a psychological freight train.

 

Or not. Justin was more afraid of the fact that so far, there hadn’t been so much as a whistle.

 

Justin paused outside the door to Brian’s room. He had nothing but time and space to think on the taxi ride to the loft and back. On the way home, he’d focused solely on the things that Brian had wanted, trying to anticipate what hadn’t been asked for. On the return trip, without the mental list to keep him occupied, he realized how easy it had been to focus on these things and block out thinking about the real issues. Block out thinking about Brian’s possible reactions to all this, once the drugs wore off. Justin wanted time to consider what had happened in the past 48 hours or so, but by the time he had forced away from the image of Brian bleeding in the shower, curled up into himself, and had started to think about how he himself had felt after Hobbes took a bat to his head, in the aftermath of pain and disorientation, the inability to use his hand, his drawing hand, the taxi had brought him back to the hospital. And Brian needed him, needed his things. He would think about all this later. Yeah, great, he was Scarlet O’Hara. Look where tomorrow got her.

 

Justin pushed the door open, to be greeted by the sight of Brian, bed raised to a reclining position (of course he had gotten someone to take care of that for him), with Clark standing on one side of the bed and an unknown woman standing next to her. They looked over when Justin entered the room, having apparently interrupted their conversation. Clark had a notepad out; a pencil poised over the paper.

 

“Hi?” Justin said, setting the bag down next to the chair he had adopted as his own. He glanced at the stranger to make clear the question was directed at her, but his gaze automatically moved to Brian. He still looked really bad; Brian’s hair was matted to his skull, and the skin around his eyes would take a while to clear, and that bruise. His face was puffy and swollen underneath the signs of having been beaten, to say nothing of the underlying pain and exhaustion. But Brian seemed lucid, at least, much more lucid than earlier.

 

“Did you bring me cigarettes?” he greeted Justin, one eye twitching slight as he attempted to raise an eyebrow. The effort failed. Justin couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.

 

“Um, you can’t smoke in a hospital,” Justin offered tentatively.

 

Brian sighed. “Then I’m going to have to get the fuck out of here, aren’t I?”

 

Clark glanced over at Justin, but she spoke to Brian. “Do you want him here for this?” she asked, the pencil remaining in its position, ready to write.

 

“Yeah, whatever,” Brian responded, rolling his head on the pillow to look over at the women. “Sunshine, this is the police officer assigned to my case. And this,” he gestured feebly with his arm, “is the counselor assigned to trauma victims for the DA’s office. You remember how helpful the DA’s office is? Well, this is them. Kim here will want me to make a statement about how all this has affected my life.”

 

Kim looked over at Justin, her expression placid, unaffected by Brian’s sarcasm. “We explained the process, in the case of an arrest.”

 

“And Sheila here,” Brian gestured at Clark, the bite clear in his voice, “wants me to describe my attack. In detail.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Justin said. “I had to make one of those impact statements when Hobbes went on trial.”

 

Brian’s body stiffened, and his gaze shifted off to the far wall, before he closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were hard and glassy. “And that did so much good, didn’t it.”

 

“Mr. Kinney, we’ve established that your partner here didn’t do this to you…”

 

Justin took a deep breath, crossed his arms over his chest and forced himself to just watch. So much for not being officially a suspect. He wondered when they were going to get over that and shut the fuck up about it. He stepped up to the bed and leaned against the railing at its foot.

 

“We went over that already. Moving on…” Brian looked down towards where Justin leaned against the bed frame. “You don’t have to listen to this.”

 

“I want to. Unless you don’t want me to.”

 

Brian hesitated, a furrow developing between his eyes as he considered. “What the hell, do what you want.”

 

Something exploded in Justin’s chest, a dread that he forced back to wherever it had come from. He could feel its traces, the threat of it, lurking, waiting for the next shot. And the next.

 

I’ll be there, he vowed, gritting his teeth. For all the shots, damn it. Bring ’em on, Brian. I can take this. Or, I will take this.

 

“So,” Clark continued, “leather pants, linen shirt, leather jacket, black lace-up work boots, blond hair to the shoulders, about 5’ 11”, maybe 175 pounds.”

 

Blond

 

“Yeah, wiry,” Brian added. “Stronger than he looked.”

 

“Don’t need to be strong to use a taser,” Clark responded. “So he tasered you and then hit you in the head with some sort of club.”

 

“Yeah, I kind of blacked out, and when I came to…” Brian stopped there, his voice falling away. No one spoke, and Brian stared at Justin, stared through him, actually, not looking at him at all. Justin saw Brian’s eyes come back into focus on his face, onto his lips actually, before Brian continued. “I don’t do that. I never… I never let guys do that to me. Get anywhere near… there. He…”

 

“Take all the time you need,” Kim put in, and Brian whipped his head around to look at her sharply, wincing at the consequent pain from the motion.

 

“I don’t need fucking time, I need that fucking night back.” He stopped, bit his lower lip, shook his head, and looked at Clark as he went on. “The doctors tell me he shoved that club up my ass while beating the shit out of me. I guess the shock had me out, because all I remember is coming to, and feeling… pain, and thinking I needed to get away from it. I grabbed the door handle and pulled, and fell into the alley, pulled my… pulled my clothes together and got the fuck out of there.”

 

“You must have took him by surprise,” Clark responded, after jotting down a few notes. “You said, there wasn’t a lot of room in the car for maneuvering.”

 

“My car,” Brian murmured. “Have you found my car?”

 

Clark shook her head. “Not yet. My partner is on it. I’ll tell you know, though, the odds are against us finding it. We tracked it to New York, we got a trace out there.”

 

“Well. Gosh, thanks.”

 

“Did you see anybody else in the alley when you fell out of the car? Was there anyone around?” Clark persevered, ignoring Brian’s sarcasm.

 

“No, the shops there close at 5pm, no one just hangs out in that part of town after dark. That’s why we went there,” Brian explained, as if to a child.

 

Clark glanced down at Justin, and he could see the patience she was exercising in that look. Kim, on the other hand, looked as if she could wait forever. Justin found that very restful. He bet Brian found her annoying as hell.

 

In any case, Justin had very different priorities than the police and the DA had. “You think you have enough for now? He’s just had a major operation.”

 

“Anything else you can think of that we didn’t cover,” Clark began.

 

Brian only snorted in response. “What the fuck do you want me to say? I got the shit beat out of me, and a club shoved up my ass. Just another victim of the gay lifestyle. It’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

 

“No one deserves to get hurt,” Kim said gently.

 

Brian turned his narrowing gaze to her. “Yeah. But not everyone’s going to think that. Just ask Sunshine here, he’s been worried about this sort of thing happening for years, haven’t you, dear?”

 

Justin’s head snapped back as if he had been struck. “Um.” He had no idea how to respond.

 

“And I don’t need to make an ‘impact statement,’” Brian continued, making air quotes around the last two words as he spoke them. He ignored Justin and turned on Kim. “I can tell you right now. I’m missing work, and I’m going to have a fucking scar which will not do me any good in trolling for the next guy to fuck. Does that answer your question? Now, all of you, get the fuck out!” He emphatically snapped his eyes closed.

 

Clark shook her head and made for the door, Kim close behind her. Justin stood there, staring, startled at the vehemence of that last order. He felt a hand on his arm as Kim passed by him, and he gazed down at her as she beckoned for him to follow.

 

“Get the orderly, Justin, I need to put on my real clothes,” Brian called after him as he exited.

 

Justin followed the police woman and counselor down the hall toward the elevators. He stopped by the nurse’s station, and found Janice. “Um, Janice?” He got her attention as she looked up at him over her bifocals. “Brian Kinney in 311? I brought him a change of clothes and he wants someone to help him into them.”

 

Janice stared at him for a moment, and shook her head. “He’ll be better off not moving much.”

 

“Yeah, well, I see what you mean. But if no one helps him he’ll try to get out of bed and do it himself.”

 

Janice’s mouth twisted to the side. “Ah. One of those. Fine, fine, I’ll get Alex to help him.”

 

“I don’t suppose you can get him a sedative? He’s kind of agitated.”

 

Janice typed rapidly into the computer, and scanned the screen. “He’s due for medication in 25 minutes.”

 

“I don’t suppose you could make it ten?” Justin flashed his best smile at her.

 

“No.” The mouth skewed even more tightly to the left. “I’ll send Alex down in 15 and I’ll come give your man his shots in 25. Just like the schedule says.”

 

So much for the famous Sunshine charm. “Okay,” Justin complied, not terribly happy but resigned. He turned around when he felt that soft hand again on his arm.

 

“Justin,” Kim said, “Can I talk to you?”

 

Before he realized her intent, he had been pulled along and sat in a chair further down the hallway. She sat carefully in the chair next to him, and reached into her bag, pulling out a couple of pamphlets.

 

“Brian will never read these,” Justin protested, even as he took the documents. He didn’t have to look at them to know what they were.

 

“They’re for you,” Kim replied, resisting his attempt to give them back. “He’s going to have a very hard time, and from what I’ve observed, he isn’t very open to the idea of help.”

 

 

Justin barked a laugh, and stopped before he became hysterical. “Um, no. Brian’s… well, he’s… honestly, I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

 

“I wanted to talk to you anyway. Are you ready for this?”

 

“For what? Ready? Is anyone?” Justin asked. “Or am I ready to stand by him as he goes through a painful recovery? Of course.”

 

But Kim was shaking her head. “Not just that. Everyone reacts differently to being attacked and raped, but in the case of men, especially, the typical reaction is rage.”

 

“Rage,” Justin repeated. How appropriate. And daunting.

 

“And that rage is often taken out on the nearest target,” Kim continued, watching him.

 

“Meaning me.”

 

“You, maybe. Maybe himself.”

 

Himself. Great. “What can I do?”

 

“Get him help, if you can.”

 

“Brian doesn’t believe in psychiatrists.”

 

“And neither do you?” Kim put in shrewdly. Justin merely shrugged. “Look,” she continued, “one of those brochures is for the Gay Men’s Health Alliance. They have people for support, to talk to. Some of them aren’t psychiatrists, they’re just men who have been through many of these issues themselves. You may want an objective ear, and it doesn’t have to be official.” She stood. “And my card’s in the Men and Rape pamphlet. So you can contact me any time you want.”

 

“Kim…” Justin hesitated. He didn’t know if he should talk to her, if he could trust her, but at the moment there was no one else.

 

She sensed his need, and sat again quickly. “Yes?”

 

“What am I supposed to do?” Out of his mouth, the words conveyed his anguish clearly, and Justin could feel the tightness he had been fighting earlier begin again. “I mean, last time I left him at the club alone, this happened to him. Are your brochures going to tell me how to deal with what to do if he wants to go out again? Or, if I should get him to try and talk about it, when he really isn’t going to want to?” He could feel a distant panic start to settle around him. Kim reached over, but Justin pulled his hand away, not wanting her to touch him again.

 

She merely pulled her hand back, unoffended. “Could you guarantee that if you had stayed at the club the other night, that this wouldn’t have happened?”

 

“Yes!” Justin almost shouted. “Yes, if I had stayed, he would have gone home with me, I could have gotten him to go home with me…” He bit off the last, hearing his elevated tone. Damn it, I can’t lose control here, I can’t, he told himself, closing his eyes, wanting to block out this woman, the hospital corridor, all of it. He opened his eyes. “I have to make phone calls, I have to call his work…”

 

“It’s not your fault,” she told him. “You didn’t choose this for him, and he didn’t choose it for himself. He’s going to experience his own guilt…”

 

“Brian doesn’t do guilt,” Justin muttered.

 

Kim looked skeptical. “Well, I think you should be prepared for the unexpected. And, I think that you should get support from the GMHA.”

 

“GMHA?”

 

“The brochure?” Kim gestured at the pamphlet, the title clearly reading “Gay Men’s Health Alliance” across the front. She stood. “And, don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll be in touch as the investigation continues.” He watched her walk down the hall, glad he hadn’t begged for help, because that was exactly what he had felt like doing. Don’t give me brochures, fix this. Find the guy and destroy him. But somebody, God, anybody, fix this.

 

Of course, life didn’t work that way. And Justin didn’t really know that woman. She had caught him in a moment of weakness, and she had been a blank page onto which he could pour out his own troubles. He knew the solutions would not come from her. He would have to guard against those weak moments, he realized. He had to be strong.

 

***

Justin stopped in the bathroom to splash cold water on his face before returning to Brian’s hospital room. When he entered, a young man was gently maneuvering Brian to lean forward before he slipped the black shirt over Brian’s head, very carefully helping Brian’s arms into the sleeves. Justin caught a glance of the bandage covering what must be quite the gash in Brian’s side, just before Alex pulled the shirt down Brian’s torso. Janice stood to the side, watching, her lips pursed. When Alex finished, Janice walked forward and drew the blanket up over Brian’s cotton-clad legs.

 

“Anything else, Mr. Kinney?” Alex asked.

 

“Yeah, call me Brian,” Brian replied with a small smile that might have been more to Brian’s purpose if the grimace of pain weren’t so obviously lurking immediately behind it. “And a blow job would be nice.”

 

Alex looked startled for a moment, and glanced quickly at Janice, who shook her head. “Sorry, not in my job description, Mr. Kinney. Brian,” Alex corrected at Brian’s look. He glanced at Janice again as he left the room.

 

“So you just couldn’t leave well enough alone,” Janice chided as she stepped up and took Brian’s arm, pushing the sleeve back and picking up one of the shots she had left on the side table. She injected him quickly and efficiently. “You wouldn’t have to have this shot ten minutes early if you hadn’t insisted on getting changed into your own clothes and probably caused yourself more pain…”

 

“Couldn’t Alex administer the shots?” Brian asked, his face not changing expression as Janice picked up the next needle and stuck him with it.

 

“It’s not Alex’s job, it’s mine. And Alex is married.”

 

“So?” Brian returned, attempting to raise his eyebrow.

 

“Hmph,” was all Janice said, as she turned toward Justin. “All changed and medicated.” She swayed towards the door.

 

“Thanks,” Justin said to her retreating figure. His voice was hoarse. He turned back to Brian.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Brian asked, scrutinizing Justin’s face. Damn it, Justin thought, his eyes must be swollen.

 

“Tired,” Justin answered.

 

“Go home,” Brian ordered. “Go to bed. And go find out when they’re going to let me out of here.”

 

Justin did none of those things; he sat in the chair, and stared across the room. “Brian…” he began. He wanted to broach the idea of the brochures that were sitting in his back pocket, to talk about what Brian had said to Clark, even to discuss Brian’s obvious hostility toward all of this, but he decided he could not possibly pick a worse time. He just shut up instead.

 

“Where’s my Blackberry?” Brian demanded, leaning back in the bed and craning his neck around.

 

“You need to recover, not get bogged down in work,” Justin answered, owning up to his refusal to follow orders.

 

“Well, fuck, did you bring a laptop?” Brian answered, still looking around the bed.

 

“No… what are you looking for?” Justin asked.

 

“One of these buttons that lower the bed…”

 

Justin walked over to the bed, and hit a button on the side. The bed declined.

 

“You knew, all along,” Brian accused, but settled back into the pillow and seemed grateful to be lying prone again.

 

“I’ll call Cynthia and let her know…”

 

“What?”

 

Was that fear Justin heard? He wasn’t sure, through the sharpness of the tone. “I’m going to tell her you were in a car accident. And, I’m going to call people and let them know, just, that you’re here. Are you ready for that?”

 

“Fine… car accident, right. Okay, that’s good.” Brian’s eyes slid closed. Either those were very good drugs, or getting changed had taken too much out of him. Or both. Justin decided it didn’t matter, he was trying to avoid thinking about more important things, again. He left the room to make some calls.

 

 

“God, Brian! You really messed up this time, didn’t you?”

Although Michael could not possibly have meant what it sounded like, given the circumstances, Justin swore he saw Brian visibly flinch at the remark. He knew he himself did.

“I’m fine, Michael.”

“At least there were no angry dads coming after you, though, huh?” Michael continued, taking the seat that Justin had been practically living in for the last few days. “So, seriously. How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Brian did not seem much better, Justin thought. The marks on him hadn’t faded much, and he seemed to be floating under the pain medications, somehow under the radar, lucid but, well, off. Since Justin’s arrival that morning, he had asked Justin only to keep the television on; Justin had turned it not to the news, but to mindless crap TV, and Brian had been surprisingly listless, not insisting on CNN. He had actually said nothing when Justin had turned the channel to Judge Judy. Brian thought she was funny.

“Aren’t there any movies on?” Brian asked, after ten minutes of the judge yelling at a woman who looked both malnourished and overweight at once.

“Uh, no, there’s no movie channel, but there’s a video player on the TV, I could go get something?”

“Go home.”

“You want something from the loft?”

Brian continued to stare at the wall beneath the television.

Justin tried again. “I can go pick up some of our movies there.”

“No Yellow Submarine.”

Justin had smiled, but realized Brian had not been kidding. Or maybe he was. His affect hadn’t changed; it was just flat. Justin couldn’t tell what Brian was thinking.

“Go home. Go to the diner. Go do what you do.”

“I’ll go to the loft, but I’m coming back. I’ll get some movies. Any preferences?”

“I don’t care.” Brian hadn’t looked at him; his gaze pointed toward the television now. The pasty fat woman was crying. “I prefer that you sleep in a bed.”

“Oh.”

“At the loft, if you want. I’m obviously not using it.”

That listless voice. Justin had not stopped watching Brian, but Brian had not met his eyes, not since this had all started, it seemed. “Brian.”

Nothing.

“Brian, look at me.”

Brian turned his head. Justin looked into his eyes, dark green and clouded. Justin had the impression he was studying the flat of Brian’s irises, the pupils’ endless blackness, but not seeing past the glistening surfaces. He said, emphatically, pushing his voice into that vacant stare, “I’m coming back.” God, please let that flatness be the pain meds.

“Bring Brando. And some whiskey.”

Justin came back with On The Waterfront. No whiskey. Brian didn’t comment.

***

The conversation in which Justin had broken the news to Michael had gone something like this:

“Michael, it’s Justin.”

“Hey, Boy Wonder! What’s up?”

“It’s Brian, actually…”

“What happened?” Michael’s tone switched from casual banter to earnest concern, in no time at all. How’d he know?

“He was in an accident.”

“What kind of accident? Car accident?”

“Yeah, after he left Babylon the other night…”

“I told him he would get in trouble, drinking all that, I told him!”

“Michael, he’s in pretty bad shape, it might be better if you didn’t lecture.”

“I’m not going to lecture, of course I won’t! Where is he? He’s all right, isn’t he?”

Pause.

“Justin! Is he all right!”

“He’s going to be.”

“Where is he?”

“We’re at Allegheny General. He can’t have visitors until tomorrow, though, and he’s undergoing some special tests…” Lie, lie, lie. Actually, visiting hours were 7am to 4pm, and then 7pm to 10pm. Justin knew exactly what the visiting hours were. He hadn’t even had to ask. “So come by around eleven, tomorrow. He really needs to rest right now.”

“How bad is it?”

“His liver had to be operated on, and he broke a couple ribs. He’s kind of beat-up looking, but other than that, he’s fine. The car’s totally trashed.” Justin felt his mouth fit itself around all those lies. They piled up like dust. Justin had no real idea of how Brian actually was, but fine? No. Brian was pretty fucking far from fine.

Michael promised to come by the next day, and Justin had gone to spend the night at the loft. Huddled up under the blankets, he buried his face in Brian’s pillow, breathed in the lingering scent, and cried. It was a long time before he slept.

He had gotten back to the hospital at 7:00 a.m. after lying awake from 4:47 onward, and it was a good thing he had because Michael showed up at 9 o’clock.

“So this is where you’ve been,” Michael said, picking up the remote and turning the television onto the Cartoon Network. “You should watch this, Justin, it’s great animation.” He had turned the volume up too loud, and Justin waited a moment before he moved to pick up the remote, switched the station to CNBC Market Watch, and turned the volume down.

“Ted was wondering where you were when you didn’t shown up at Babylon the last couple of nights. When I saw him at the diner yesterday, he asked me,” Michael continued.

“Ted knows to hold the fort down when I’m not around,” Brian replied.

“I called Cynthia,” Justin added. “She knows you won’t be in.”

“Yeah, Ted said things were under control, wherever you were… man, you really look awful,” Michael observed, studying Brian closely. “Hunter nearly shit when I told him you’d been in an accident, saying that it would be sacrilege to scar that pretty face…” Michael’s voice assumed a high-pitched tone, imitating Hunter, presumably.

“I thought he was over that,” Justin interrupted, noting how Brian tensed.

“Ted…” Brian repeated, ignoring Hunter’s remarks. “Mikey, can you go to the loft and get my phone for me? Someone’s trying to protect me from the stress of the outside world.” He hadn’t looked over at Justin. “I think it would help if I could make a few calls…”

“Actually, Michael, besides Cynthia, you’re the only one I did call,” Justin told him. He hoped Michael would feel the sense of privilege in exclusive access, and that this sense would close the circle around the three of them, and keep everyone else away. Of course, that might work if the clique was just Michael and Brian, and Michael had decided everyone else needed to be shut out. Justin didn’t know if he was finessing his argument well enough to get Michael on his side. On the other hand, how fair was it that Michael didn’t know just what was going on? His cavalier attitude was grating on Justin’s nerves, but who could Justin blame for that, really? Certainly not Brian. Only himself.

“Well, Ma knew all about it when I freaked out after you called … I was over there when you called me,” Michael explained.

Justin felt the heat creep into his cheeks. Fuck! “Um, yeah. I told her, just in case, when I was looking for you earlier, but she said she’d stay away from visiting until the weekend. When Brian’s feeling better.” In case? In case of what? But neither of the other men questioned that; Brian was too busy turning his head back toward Michael, and Justin thought his glance seemed apprehension. He didn’t know whether to be relieved that the attention was off of him, or if his stomach was too busy plummeting to care.

The two old friends stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Michael broke the silence. “Yeah, well, I think Justin might be right, Brian, in this case. You are pretty beat up. You seem so out of it. How do you feel? Is there anything I can do?”

“It was just a car accident, Mikey,” Brian answered, an edge creeping into his voice. “I’m fine.”

“Hmph.” Michael’s look was sharp, but he said nothing. Justin’s head ached.

“How’s the comic business going?”

The complete change of subject was not subtle, but served to effectively launch Michael into a long story about the previous afternoon and a potential shoplifting case that was turning into a sob story about some abused kid (great, abuse again, what was it with that subject? Was it everywhere?), who might become a possible new assistant at the store.

Justin spent this time thinking about how he could get rid of Michael, lock the door, and then shut the whole world out. He hadn’t realized that Michael had stopped talking until the silence became pronounced.

“Hey,” Michael cut into the quiet in the room, “Hey! Come back, both of you! Where are you? Unless my story was that boring…” He trailed off. “As if I need an answer to that, huh?” No one replied. “I’m sorry, you’re really totally out of it. I guess trauma can drain you pretty bad. Well, and the pain meds, apparently.” Michael chuffed a half-laugh.

“It’s the only good part of being in the hospital,” Brian answered. “Lots of drugs.”

“Brian’s on a lot of pain killers,” Justin put in.

Michael looked embarrassed. “Oh… right. Sorry, I forgot… Seriously, Brian, and don’t tell me you’re fine, how are you feeling?”

“LIKE SHIT!!!” Brian exploded, and Justin jumped. So did Michael, whose mouth dropped open as he stared at his friend, who had closed his eyes, and put his hand over his face. He spoke, his hand covering his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

Michael looked over at Justin, and mouthed, “sorry?” toward him, frowning the question in his direction. He didn’t wait for Justin’s reaction before turning back to the man in the bed. Brian continued, “It’s fine, Mikey, I’m fine, really, it’s going to be just fine, but right now I feel like shit. Okay?” He took his hand away so that he could meet Michael’s startled gaze. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Michael answered. There was an awkward pause. “I’ll get your phone for you…”

“No, it’s fine, Justin’ll get it, he needs to get the fuck out of here anyway. Why don’t you tell Ted where I am and tell him to come by on… what the fuck day is it?”

“It’s Monday,” Justin said softly.

“Monday…” Brian repeated. “Okay.” And then, more firmly, “Okay. You need to call Cynthia.” His attention rested on Justin.

“I did already,” Justin reminded him.

Michael glanced swiftly over, his eyes narrowing at Justin’s patient response. “Uh, I guess I can’t really help you out. But if you need anything, you know to call me right away, right?” Brian ignored him, while Justin nodded along. Michael sighed. “Okay, then. Brian.”

Brian turned his attention to Michael, still frowning.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Not really, Mikey. Unless you can get me out of here?”

“Not until the end of the week,” Justin said firmly.

“The master has spoken,” Michael declared, only half-kidding. He watched Brian for his response to that, but there was none. “Okay, well. I’ll come back to see you later tonight, so if you need anything, just call me. I’ll let the guys know what happened, and that you’re doing fine. If that’s okay?” The edge in his voice was evident, and he watched Justin through this last. Justin wished he would just leave already.

“All right,” Brian answered. Michael leaned over to kiss his friend’s cheek, before saying a quick “goodbye” and leaving.

Justin followed Michael out.

“Michael,” he began, as the door shut behind them.

Michael whirled around, his expression fierce, and deeply hurt. “I know, okay Justin? I know. So cut the shit about a car accident, Ma told me.”

Justin gaped at him, his stomach falling, falling. “Michael, you can’t…” Shit. Shit! His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“He’s really hurt. We can’t just sweep this under the rug. Do you think it’s doing him any good to keep all this from his friends? God, he practically lost it when I pushed him, but what else are we supposed to do? Sit here and watch him pretend nothing’s wrong?”

“Michael,” Justin replied, teeth gritting, “He’s in no shape to be approached at all, he’s just been through major trauma. Surgery. And…” And.

“You think I don’t know this is a major trauma? Do you really think this is something he should deal with on his own? Or, you know, just with you?” Michael’s voice raised, and he was close to shouting. Wow, that hurt; Justin was surprised how much. He grabbed Michael by the arm and steered him down the hall, to a sitting area out of the main hallway.

“Be quiet!” he commanded, as Michael’s face morphed into its mutinous look. God, what he must have done to hold the know-nothing demeanor while talking to Brian. Michael was not known for duplicity. But how do you bring up this subject? Especially with Brian so unwilling to speak about it?

Here, though, outside of Brian’s room, Michael’s mask had dropped, and he whispered fiercely at Justin, “He is going to need his family’s support. No not them,” Michael added when he saw Justin’s face. “Us. ALL of us.”

Justin quickly retorted, “But think about how this is going to affect Brian, if everyone knows. Can you blame him for wanting to keep this quiet? For now, for now,” Justin emphasized. “Maybe you’re right. But can we please just get on the same page here now and respect what Brian wants?”

His arms firmly crossed over his chest, Michael frowned as he considered this. “Yeah, okay, I get your point. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve known him a lot longer than you, and sometimes Brian needs help in making choices that don’t cause him more pain. Obviously, this isn’t something that Brian would want talked about, and I wouldn’t do that. You should trust me.” Michael snorted. “He should trust me.”

Justin chuffed out an exasperated breath.“Well, he doesn’t even trust me. But he didn’t exactly have a choice; I was right there. He can barely look at me.”

Michael nodded his head. “I believe that. Seriously, how is he?”

Justin could scream, in part because he could not answer the question, and really, what did Michael think? Instead of venting his frustration, he only said, “I don’t know. But I’ll let you know if I figure it out.” Justin knew that wouldn’t be good enough for Michael, but it would hold him for now. And god knew, the last thing Brian needed was to worry about what his friends were thinking, on top of everything else. Goddammit, just a week, a month, time for Brian to recover and make his own decisions about how to handle all this. Justin had not thought he’d asked for too much.

* * * * * * *

“Justin?”

“Yeah, Brian?”

“Seriously. Nobody needs to know the details.”

Silence.

“Okay?”

“Sure, okay.”

* * * * * * *

Justin entered Debbie’s house, the door flying open in front of him, slamming in his wake. He barely registered the smell of lasagna, despite the fact that he more or less had not eaten since this whole nightmare had began.

“Debbie!” he hissed on entering the kitchen.

She stared over at him, the magazine she’d been thumbing through forgotten on the kitchen table. “Sunshine? How’s Brian doing?”

“He’s for shit, obviously. Why did you tell Michael?” The table shifted as Justin leaned on it, bracing his weight on his forearms.

Debbie pursed her lips, then shoved the chair back and flipped the magazine closed as she stood. “You look like crap, you need to eat. Here.” She turned around and moved toward the pan of lasagna that was cooling on the stove.

“I’m not hungry!” Justin practically shouted. And he wasn’t, except for that gnawing sensation that registered vaguely from a distance. He had been living on coffee and cigarettes for three days. His body had begun to protest, but right now he just wanted to throw up. “I thought we agreed…”

The lasagna landed on the plate with a soft ‘splat!’ Debbie walked over and placed the dish on the table, right next to his hands. Justin didn’t so much as look at it, but continued to stare at Debbie’s back as she moved to pick up silverware.

“You want some milk?”

“Will you just answer my question!” He did not think he could feel more helpless than he did at that moment. Everything was spinning out of control. He’d needed Carl, not Debbie that night, but damn, he shouldn’t have, he really shouldn’t have. Still, when he’d called this house, the crisis that threatened his ability to stay with Brian had felt real. He had not thought of the long-term consequences while he tried to stabilize his situation any way he could. And so now here he was, Brian asking him for one fucking thing, the man who never asked for anything, and Justin was unable to deliver, because he had reached out to help himself in a moment of weakness. He should have kept his mouth shut, he KNEW he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Listen, Justin, this isn’t about just Brian. Or you,” she followed up, after slapping the silverware onto the table. “Carl told me that Brian’s attacker has done this before. Brian’s actually the latest in a series of attacks, three that they know of. It’s not just him, it’s the whole gay community that’s threatened here.”

Justin paled, slumping slightly. “Carl told you that?” But not Justin. Justin had had no idea.

“Brian’s attack is the third serious attack on a gay man in the Pittsburgh club scene in the last month and a half.”

He stared at her, at a loss for what to say.

“So, you may want to rethink keeping what happened to Brian quiet; this isn’t just about him. I’ll be damned if my son is going to clubs and living in a community where there’s a danger he doesn’t know about.” Debbie’s voice was low, and perfectly even, brooking absolutely no argument. “This is bigger than Brian’s ego. Or yours.”

What the hell did that mean? Justin felt the blood draining from his face as Debbie spoke. He stood abruptly and staggered out of Debbie’s house, lasagna untouched.

***

He found himself at the police precinct, sitting in a chair in the waiting area. A woman wept across from him.

“Justin? You called?”

He looked up to see Kim staring down at him, and he stood up. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The anger that had been boiling since his talk with Michael and raging since he had left Deb’s house had not abated.

“Tell you…”

“That there had been other attacks.”

“Oh. Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

She led him into an interrogation room, but Justin refused to sit in the proffered chair. Kim, however, sat down calmly, and watched him pace. She folded her hands on the table. “What do you want to know?”

“Who is he? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We have no idea who’s behind the assaults,” Kim replied. “All we know is that he probably began as a peeping tom. There were reports of a concentration of this activity a couple of years ago, but the perp was never caught, and frankly, it was not considered an urgent matter. But the physical description matches. More recently, we were getting reports of men being picked up and driven around by a man who wouldn’t let them out of his car. The car turned out to be stolen, so we couldn’t identify anyone. Officially, of course, that’s kidnapping, but the police department felt it was nothing to concern themselves with. No one was badly injured, just frightened.”

“Of course not,” Justin fumed. “And, of course, what could they expect, right? So how do you know about all this?”

“You should talk to Richard in the Gay Men’s Health Alliance. He’s been there eight years, and he’s been following these reports all along. Unfortunately, Richard is not a criminal investigator; he’s not a member of the police force. I tried my best, but until the problem accelerated to actual assaults, the department had more urgent matters to attend to. It wasn’t until the suspect began acting out violently that the case has shifted into full gear. The last three instances, that we know of, he’s graduated to sexual assault. If the progression continues, he may move to murder. We want to catch him before then.” She hesitated, then said, softly, “Justin, there’s speculation that he planned to kill Brian. Your partner was very lucky to escape.”

This latest blow hit Justin hard, and he just managed to pull the chair from the table before he collapsed into it. Brian… murdered? “Why haven’t you caught him?” Stupid question, but he could think of nothing else. His voice cracked at the end.

Kim seemed unaffected by Justin’s anger, his horror. “We think maybe he lives in New York. Or maybe he’s just moved on, especially since he took Brian’s car there. There is no chronological pattern in the Pittsburgh attacks; they’re so sporadic that we can’t predict them. The New York police are looking into similar cases. There’s no detectable pattern that we’ve identified, but of course it’s a much bigger city. The investigation is taking time.”

“Why Pittsburgh? Why not, I don’t know, Newark?”

“We don’t know.” Kim waited for the next question.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s an ongoing investigation, and we’re only interested in information that will help forward it. And we thought that you would only interfere.”

Justin wondered if she was thinking of Brian’s work on the Rikert case when he had been unemployed and going after Stockwell. It was likely. The case had never been solved, and Brian’s exposure of the sordid details was still an embarrassment, especially since no one had done anything about it. Of course, with Rikert dead, there didn’t seem much point, unless the police wanted to expose their own dirty laundry. And somehow, Justin did not feel that was likely.

He sat, absorbing the information. Finally, Kim said, “Gonzalez and Clark are doing good work on the case. I obviously can’t really say a lot about an ongoing investigation. Talk to Richard at the GMHA.”

Justin nodded, and stood to leave.

“And, Justin,” Kim continued, standing as well. “I’d say the best you can do in all this is stand by Brian, just be there. Don’t interfere with the police.”

“Is that what the fuck I’m supposed to do? Of course I’m going to be there for Brian, but what am I supposed to do?” Justin muttered to himself as he walked down the steps leading out of the precinct. He forcibly calmed himself as he walked down the street, but his thoughts were by no means as disciplined. How did he respect Brian’s wishes for privacy, when the community so obviously needed to be far more alarmed? Was he being selfish, as Debbie implied? What was the best thing to do, and for whom?

* * * * * * *

“You’re back. Did you bring my whiskey?”

It had been two days since Michael’s visit, and Brian’s recovery had been declared excellent by the medical staff. He certainly seemed much more lucid, and Justin had finally brought him his Blackberry and spare cell phone. They had compromised; the laptop would wait until Brian’s discharge this weekend.

“I’m back,” Justin echoed, foregoing the chair and sitting down on the side of the bed. “Do you need more pain meds?”

“I always can use more pain medications,” Brian returned, quirking an eyebrow up. Not anywhere near as high as it normally arched, but the function seemed to have returned. “And I really do want a drink.”

Justin took his hand, and laced his fingers in around Brian’s. Brian’s hand hung, limp, but Justin squeezed. “I mean…” he hesitated. Brian watched him intently. “I know Dr. Hom said you’re healing well and all, but…”

“Jesus Christ!” Brian huffed. “Spit it out.”

“Can you sit okay?”

Brian stilled. He had not spoken to Justin of that particular issue at all, although Justin knew this had been closely monitored, somewhat painfully, along with all his other injuries. “It’s fine, Sunshine, the good doctor gave me the all clear.”

“It’s just…”

“I know what it’s just,” Brian interrupted, yanking his hand away. “I had a club shoved up my ass and I was practically beaten unconscious, I know that. You know that, we both know that. It happened, it could have happened and it did. What do you want? You want me to weep my brains out because some asshole did this to me?”

“Brian…” Justin leaned forward, reached out to touch Brian’s arm.

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” Brian roared, and Justin jumped back, his stomach leaping upwards with him. Brian yanked his arm back, and then hissed as he moved too quickly. “Goddamn it…” He touched his side carefully, but nothing seemed to have been affected, and then he looked up at Justin, who appeared the proverbial deer in the headlights, his eyes large as they ever had been, and terribly liquid. “Don’t,” Brian commanded, his voice not as firm as he’d like, but still loud, certainly loud. “Justin, don’t you fucking cry on me. It’s nothing to cry about. Come on, brat, let me give you a blow job and make it all better.” He smirked, but the expression was all wrong, horrible.

Justin took a deep breath, and then let it out. He would not look at Brian as he fought to get himself under control. Later, he thought, he’d tell Brian about what he’d learned later. He just couldn’t right now. Not when he was still so confused himself, and now, dealing with Brian’s outburst. “I’m fine, Brian,” he answered. “Really.” He completely ignored the offer of the blow job. It didn’t bear acknowledging.

“Good,” Brian replied.

***

Brian knew he was asleep, but that knowledge didn’t change how he felt. He was drifting at the point between sleep and wakefulness, the brain seemingly awake, but the body asleep. He could not move, and he could not open his eyes. He sensed a presence in the room, coming closer to him, closer. A large, dark presence.

It approached inexorably, closer to where Brian lay paralyzed in bed. He twitched, a bare spasming of muscles that would not respond to his command. Panic built under his skin, even as his stupid body just lay there, not responding to the mental scream building in his brain. Nothing, barely a twitch. Screaming, screaming through his brain, disconnecting before reaching his vocal chords. “I’M AWAKE!!” Nothing.

The thing was closer. Almost on top of him. It leaned over Brian’s body, and began to move closer in and onto him; then, with an enormous effort that felt as if he were lifting a ton-weight from his brain, Brian pulled himself into consciousness, straining toward reality, a painful, merciless wrench that propelled him up into lucidity, and he came screaming out into the night, his arms spasming outward, his legs jumping with release. His body was covered in sweat, and he heard the echoes of his scream, the whimpers that followed in the nightmare’s aftermath. Blessed relief! Just darkness scattered by the flickering blue light of the television, and the wild beating of his heart. Brian stared frantically around, but no one was there except Justin who had shaken awake at the noise and was leaping to his feet.

“Brian!” No one else, just Justin coming toward his bed. Brian looked at him, gasping for air, sucking in the breath to calm his terrified body. “Brian…” Justin reached for him, but Brian yanked back, still unable to form coherent words, just knowing he did not want anyone to touch him, no one, nope, uh uh.

The gasps slowed down, and Justin stood, helpless, his hands clasping and unclasping, wringing together. As Brian continued to tremble and gasp, Justin hit the call button over the bed, and not a minute later, Janice entered the room.

“Justin?” she asked, coming in and taking a quick look at Brian.

“He had a nightmare,” Justin explained, backing a few feet from where Brian lay so Janice could approach. Brian was still shaking; he had flung the sheets off. “He woke up screaming.”

“It’s just a nightmare,” Brian said, the shakiness of his voice undermining any attempt to assert himself.

“It’s to be expected,” Janice put in, moving briskly to Brian’s bedside and snapping on the small wall-mounted lamp just over the bed. Justin squinted in the sudden light as Janice picked up Brian’s wrist firmly, resisting his attempt to draw away. She felt his pulse for a few seconds. “I’ll give him a little extra to help him sleep.” She looked down at Brian, huddled up into himself. “This will help you, honey.” She pulled the sheet back up over him.

“Fine,” Brian said, having no energy to argue, not even the “honey” thing.

He glanced over at Justin as Janice left the room to retrieve more meds. “I’m okay,” he said.

“You’re not okay,” Justin answered, his voice as shaky as Brian’s.

“Go home.”

“No.”

They looked at each other, and in the dim light, their eyes finally met fully. “You need sleep,” Brian told him, his voice back to somewhat normal register.

“So do you.”

“I’ll be able to sleep better if you stop hovering over me.”

Justin hesitated, and at that moment, Janice bustled back in. “Here you go, just a little stick, honey.” She picked up Brian’s arm, wiped the skin with antiseptic, and efficiently administered the shot. “If you need anything else, let me know, both of you.”

After she left, Justin sat back on the edge of his chair.

“Justin…” Brian began.

“I’ll go, after you fall asleep completely, okay?”

Brian looked at him, at the dark circles smudging beneath his eyes, the drawn skin around his mouth. “Go to the loft. It’s quiet there.”

“I will,” Justin promised.

“And eat something. I’m not going to fuck a stick.”

“I will.”

Good enough for Brian, who could not keep his exhaustion at bay any longer. His eyes drifted shut; the drugs obliterated his apprehension at the initial slide into darkness as he plunged down into unconsciousness.

 

And then, nothing happened.

 

Justin went back to school, and Brian went back to work – remotely, from the loft, with Cynthia stopping by to drop off and pick up work while Brian complained about being unable to go anywhere (“stupid accidents”) or do anything. Justin filled his prescriptions, brought him his pain medications, took care of his wounds, and drove him to the hospital in the Jeep, which they took out of storage.

 

“You put it in storage? Why don’t you let me drive it?”

 

“I’m already minus one car.”

 

Silence.

 

Brian put up with Justin’s driving for all of one ride, and then insisted on driving himself. He tried to think about what car he wanted to replace the Corvette, but could not come up with any good ideas. He figured, it could wait.

 

Justin tiptoed around him. The casual touching and affection had disappeared as if a tornado had touched down and dissipated, taking any semblance of intimacy with it. In a sense, Justin supposed, it had.

 

The police did nothing to keep them updated, and frankly, Justin did not really want to know. Brian only incidentally mentioned the attack, his rapist, the days and nights in the hospital. They never spoke specifically of what happened. Brian stayed in bed for ten days, and then lounged on the couch for another week and a half, complaining the entire time.

 

Justin stayed at the loft most nights, but he did not get much sleep. He lay awake, listening to Brian breathe. When he heard an increase in respiration, he would place one hand on Brian’s chest and the other on his stomach, pressing firmly and then pulsating rhythmically, as he murmured in Brian’s ear, talking him down from whatever dream had possessed him. Light touch woke Brian up in a panic, more often than not pissed at Justin for scaring the shit out of him. The rate of nightmares was slowing, but they happened with enough regularity to keep Justin exhausted.

 

Justin learned to move carefully. But that didn’t really make any difference.

 

***

 

In the middle of one work/study session, Brian yelled, “Mother fucking asshole!” seemingly out of nowhere, making Justin jump.

 

Justin stood quickly to move over to the couch.

 

“Don’t interrupt your work just because of my motherfucking backache!” Brian moaned, pushing the computer away from him and standing to stretch. “Fuck!” he yelled again, as the pain cut through him.

 

“Here,” Justin said, taking his hand and pulling him back to lie down on the couch, face-first.

 

“Yeah, don’t even think it,” Brian muttered, as Justin removed Brian’s shirt and straddled his upper thighs.

 

“Um, what?”

 

“Just because I’ve now bottomed twice in the past year, don’t get any ideas.”

 

“BRIAN!” Justin was genuinely shocked, and he stopped the gentle massage he had begun. Even if Brian were so inclined, anal sex was out for a while yet.

 

Brian huffed out what might have been a laugh.

 

“Brian,” Justin repeated, completely stunned. Did Brian genuinely equate what had happened almost four weeks ago with what Justin considered one of the most loving moments in their relationship?

 

“Oh, fuck, Justin, it’s a joke.”

 

“It isn’t funny,” Justin attempted to explain, without sounding completely self-serving in his hurt. “It’s not like…”

 

“I know what it isn’t like, don’t you tell me what it isn’t like. But fuck, what the fuck else am I supposed to do, get all maudlin and weep how my life is over? Jesus Christ. I’m just fucking uncomfortable, not dead.” This last, muffled in the couch as Brian turned his face into the cushion.

 

It was easier to address the subject with Brian’s head turned away from him. “You can talk to me about how you’re feeling…”

 

Brian lifted his head to answer. “How I’m feeling. My back hurts, my ass hurts, but it’s this motherfucking rib pain that’s really pissing me off. That’s how I feel. Okay?”

 

It wasn’t okay, but Justin did not know what else to say. Instead, he dropped his hands onto Brian’s back and lightly kneaded the muscles, focusing on the immediate problem. “My therapist told me if you break your ribs, you can get a back ache as they heal. Apparently, the muscle overcompensates for the loss of the support structure.”

 

“Yeah, you and your therapist, a couple of Chatty Cathies. And thanks for the Public Service Announcement; should I expect one about not picking up any casual fucks?”

 

Justin just shut up.

 

Brian didn’t continue, but the massage helped. It felt good. Better than good, those gentle hands on his skin. He rolled over, releasing his suddenly hard dick from his jeans. “Suck me off,” he demanded.

 

Justin hesitated, staring down into Brian’s flinty gaze. There was something so… off about this. Brian held his dick in his hand, pointing it up at Justin’s face, his other hand reaching to tug Justin downward.

 

Justin didn’t resist.

 

After, Justin returned to his project, and Brian pretended to return to his. But really, he studied Justin out of the corner of his eye. Justin had seemed so reluctant; he usually was one to dive right onto Brian when he offered any of himself. Especially his dick. What was that hesitation? He probably had been worried about hurting him. That was probably it.

 

Justin glanced over, and caught Brian’s eye, smiling a bit before returning to the computer. Brian quickly turned his own eyes back to his own screen. Was that look condescending? Had Justin not wanted to suck him off? Wait, come on. Justin, not wanting to touch him. As if. Still…

 

The next day, Brian announced he was going back to work.

 

***

 

Fine, it was fine, work was fine. Yeah, his ass was still sore, but thank god he didn’t have to submit to wound care anymore.

 

That had been truly disgusting. And completely undignified.

 

Fuck, everything about this was undignified. Facing the doctors with their clinical cut-and-dried explanations was bad enough, but the damn nurses… you could see it in their eyes. And Justin. Those looks he had. All Justin’s looks, he just kept watching, and these looks were all new. Brian didn’t know how to read them.

 

Well, he knew all about Justin’s looks. He never needed to read Justin. His gaze was lust-tinged. It always had been.

 

“ARGH.”

 

Oh, hell, did he actually growl out loud? Okay, work. Work was the refuge, here, he was in charge. Completely, absolutely. Right. He called Andrea, told her to bring him the work on the SpyWhip campaign. Then he called Ted for the projections on the campaign costs.

 

 

SpyWhip was a software program that revolutionized anti-spyware software. Instead of merely recognizing known spyware programs and requiring continual updates, it recognized the mode of programming and moved to block all programs downloading onto the computer with the recognized signature type, without requiring monthly updates.

 

Brian had been fairly skeptical, from a business point of view, even after the program was proven to work. “But aren’t the continual updates where the money is in anti-spyware software?” he had asked Randall Hicks, the creator of the program and owner of the company. “You’re telling me, with this, a person only needs to buy the software one time, forever. Where’s the profit?”

 

Hicks was 27 years old. He’d spent the last four years post-college eating Ramen Noodles, living in the space above his mother’s garage, and working on this thing. He was thin and pasty, and reminded Brian of that slimy creature from Lord of the Rings that Mikey hated and Justin insisted had gotten a raw deal. He laughed away Brian’s question. “You think I want to spend the rest of my life slogging away working? No fucking way, man, I want to either make a one-shot killing on this shit and retire to the Bahamas, or I want Norton Anti-virus or AOL to take one look at the campaign you’re going to whip up for me that kicks so much ass Norton buys me out, and then I want to retire to the Bahamas. Either way, no way am I allowing some stupid company to make me its suckpig.”

 

That had been enough for Brian. He knew what this guy needed to see. “Okay,” Brian began, “your target consumer is young, computer savvy, and the product is about whipping spyware into submission, right? The problem is, you want a campaign that appeals to the target’s love of thrill and risk, but makes clear the control factor.” Standard fare, Brian could rattle this out in a coma.

 

Hicks had nodded, following the pitch.

 

“So, I’m thinking we go with the ‘whip’ motif and do a campaign focusing on a dungeon master, lording over a group of tortured subjects, rendered anonymous. The chief fact you want to get out in the ad is that the program neutralizes all spyware, nameless, faceless. So you have something like, ‘In command, all spyware, at once,’ or, ‘One fee, spyware bound for all time.’ Obviously, that’s rough, but you need a brief text that makes clear the product buys a permanent place in the Spywhip dungeon…”

 

“That’s it!” Hicks cried. “Something like, ‘Banished to the Spywhip dungeon,’ and then like, ‘SpyWhip, one price, dominated for life…’”

 

Brian had raised an eyebrow. That was it, Kinnetic had Spywhip and Hicks. “Well, it needs some work, but…” and he had started his notes for the file.

 

Hicks had signed on.

 

Brian had been back in the office for two days when Andrea came by with the results of the photo session. Hicks was coming in two days with his two “colleagues,” as he called them, both friends from college who had helped him with writing the program, and a woman named Avalon who was handling marketing. She was a total pain in the ass, insisting that Kinnetic show them the work only a week after the actual photo session had taken place, a week before Brian could be as ready as he would like. They did have other accounts. And SpyWhip was paying their bulk in a cut of the gross, not in a single upfront fee. Avalon was hardly in a position to dictate terms.

 

Andrea handed over the series of pictures that had been taken so far, showing a blonde woman in leather . “First, the field is too crowded, I think,” she said. “I know the point is that SpyWhip can take on any number of anonymous spyware programs, but I like these…” she laid down three other pictures, “in terms of aesthetics. See? Three victims, gives much more balance and less to clutter up the thrust of the picture. And you were totally right; a male whipmaster is much more effective, especially if the audience is male. A woman with a whip made all the hetero guys in my department identify with the poor little man-programs in chains, and not the one holding the whip. You definitely have to convince Mr. Hicks that a busty blonde isn’t the way to go.”

 

The alternate pictures Andrea handed him showed a tall, muscular man all in leather, holding a whip, gazing at three hooded men, one on the rack, one locked in stocks, and the last strung up on the wall.

 

“We started discussing alternatives when you were out,” Andrea continued, “considering casting the story anachronistically. That way, the threat of sexuality of a man over men is displaced in time – for instance, the Spanish Inquisition.” She placed three other pictures down, this time the man with the whip dressed as a monk, and the tortured men in jersey and woolens, their puny chests no comparison to the man in control.

 

In every other instance, at any other time, Brian would have known immediately which way to go.

 

But he had no idea. His instincts did not speak to him. At all.

 

“Who came up with that?” he asked, hoping to gain some time.

 

“I did, actually,” Ted answered, walking into the room. “I’d been listening to Don Carlo, you know, the opera…”

 

“I know the opera, Ted. Verdi does Quasimodo.”

 

“Well, no one else did!” Andrea inserted cheerfully. “We all thought it was brilliant.”

 

Brian glanced down at the pictures. Every time he glanced between the leather man and the monk, trying to focus on the composition and impact of the picture as a whole, on the whole of each picture as a selling point, the man hanging on the wall distracted him. It was the same model in each picture, Brian could tell, despite the fact that the man was hooded. His attention was dragged to the emotion of the man on the wall. He was a model, for god’s sake, this was his job, to hang there and project a submissive demeanor.

 

Why could he not see past the terror of the hanging man?

 

“Fuck,” he muttered.

 

“Brian?” Andrea asked, confused by the length of time that had gone by since she had stopped talking.

 

“Yeah, that guy, hanging on the wall. Get rid of him.”

 

“What? But, that would break the symmetry in line there, the eye would fall off the page…”

 

“I don’t fucking care what the eye does, get rid of him!”

 

Andrea took a deep breath, and collected the pictures. “Um, sure, I’ll get something back to you tomorrow.” She dropped a picture in her hurry to leave the room, glancing over to where Ted was standing on her way out. He raised his eyebrows at her expression.

 

Ted picked up the picture she had dropped as he moved to sit in front of Brian’s desk. “You don’t think this is good? The scene hangs together – heh! Get it? Hangs?” He took in Brian’s scowl, and quickly continued, “Anyway, this is brilliant, as usual, Brian. Hicks is positioned to spread your true campaign of gay sexuality becoming the subtext of all art and aesthetics everywhere, and he won’t even know it.” Ted smiled, looking up from the photo, but the gesture was pointless, since Brian had buried his face in his hands. “Brian? Don’t you think these are good?” He was gesturing with the Spanish Inquisition shot.

 

Brian slid his hands down to cover his lower face, and then moved them to prop his head up. He was unaccountably tired. “What do you think?”

 

Nothing could be more calculated to startle Ted. “Uh… I’d have to consider it more carefully, but you know, since I did come up with the whole idea, I’m more inclined to go with my vision. Just, you know, you always make the final decision…”

 

“Fine, go with your idea. And, by the way, you’ve got the account.”

 

“Um… what?”

 

“Cut the stuttering, Ted, the account’s yours. You have an obvious grasp of this. Unless you just want to crunch numbers the rest of your life? Here’s the file…” He handed over the SpyWhip file into Ted’s disbelieving hands. “Go. Talk to Andrea. I’ll sit in on the meeting Monday, but you’re running it.”

 

“Um. Okay… Cool. Actually, yeah, great! Thanks, Bri!”

 

“Don’t fucking call me Bri.”

 

“Sorry. Mr. Kinney.”

 

Brian rolled his eyes but actually laughed. “Fuck you.”

 

“Would you like to look at the numbers forecast for the account, anyway, Brian?” Ted held out the folder he had carried in.

 

“Sure, what the hell.” Brian leaned forward in his chair, as Ted spread the sheets over his desk.

 

***

 

He woke up to a ringing cell phone, and looked around groggily. Shit. Must have passed out on the couch in the office. He sat up, passed a hand through his hair, and flipped open the cell. Justin. Great. He was being checked up on. The good little wife. He was fine. Why couldn’t Justin get that he was fine?

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Um, Brian?”

 

“Yeah, what?”

 

“I was just wondering where you were.”

 

“Working, you know, Kinnetik? Remember?”

 

“Oh. Well, it’s 10 o’clock, and I stopped by but you weren’t at the loft…”

 

“Fuck, ten? Time flies when you’re catching up.” Brian laughed. Or sleeping. Those pills had knocked him out. Truthfully, after Ted had left the office, he hadn’t been able to get anything done. He had opened the files for a couple other accounts, but had been unable to focus on anything important. The numbers all blended into each other, and every time he tried to concentrate on the concept behind a campaign’s strategy, he just could not think of the proper configuration for ad placement.

 

He had planned to go down to the Art Department to catch up on the work down there, but after meeting with Andrea, he just wanted to spare himself the censure surely coming from her, maybe even spread around the minions, his mood. He could hear the whispers, isn’t that just what happens when you’ve been in an accident, just humor him and it’ll pass. Poor guy.

 

Fuck that.

 

He flexed his hand open and closed, thinking of the talk, the judgment. Damn it. Andrea and her fucking symmetry. He knew she was right, but still. Well, it was Ted’s baby now, let him deal with it.

 

Brian ended up taking another pain pill and stretching out on the couch. He hadn’t meant to sleep five hours. Probably a good thing Justin had called him. “Fine, stay there, I’ll be back and then we’re going to Babylon.”

 

“Babylon? Brian, I don’t…”

 

Brian hung up.

 

***

 

Friday night, the club was loud and pulsating, the beat focusing attention on no single place, but on the scene in general. Still, eyes turned to Brian when he entered. “Hey, Brian, I heard you were in an accident. They said it was bad,” the bartender greeted him, waving away his money and giving him the drink for free. Brian had already had a few. Justin trailed in his wake, shaking his head at the bartender’s gesture with the bottle. Michael accepted a beer, let Brian pay for it, and leaned back against the bar.

 

“Where’s the better half?” Brian asked, leaning over Justin to talk to Michael, after knocking back the shot and gesturing for a beer.

 

“Grading papers. I thought I’d take a night, go out with my best friend.”

 

Justin watched Brian, counting four drinks now since Brian had gotten back to the loft and changed into the club clothes. Dressed in black, his clothes hugging the curves, Brian had fretted in the mirror over the fact that he wouldn’t be able to work out aerobically for another month, at least. His diet had gone to shit in the first week back as compensation, but Justin had threatened to match him bite-for-bite. Brian had scoffed that Justin was certainly chowing down at school until Justin stepped on the scale and tipped out at five pounds beneath his normal weight. Brian got pissed, ate a tuna salad sandwich, and made Justin eat two.

 

But Justin was getting no calories from alcohol so far tonight. He watched Brian turn his attention to the club scene, his gaze narrowing.

 

“See anyone interesting?” Michael asked, his eager tone matching the look he turned to follow Brian’s gaze.

 

“Yeah,” Brian breathed, stalking out onto the dance floor and grabbing a young man by his belt loop. The kid was lean, with silver-white hair. He took one look at Brian and surrendered to being pulled off to the backroom.

 

Justin turned furiously on Michael. “Why are you encouraging him? He needs to heal.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Michael retorted. “He’s getting back to normal. It’s good for him. He’s got to feel like himself again.”

 

“This isn’t the time for Brian’s normal!” Justin yelled over the music. “He was…” He stopped, and glanced around, noticing the men leaning up on the bar next to them who pretended not to listen. Always some parties interested when it concerned Brian Kinney. Shit, this was not the place. At worst, the story would be everywhere in seconds. At best, there would be new rumors of jealous twinkiness. Justin had worked hard to put such talk to rest, but the chatter always flared up, out of the background noise, waiting to be released, the vicious dogs of gossip. And it just so wasn’t true. Anymore. “He’s still not healed,” he only said, lowering his voice and moving toward Michael. “He should be taking it easy.”

 

“He is taking it easy, he’s only got one guy with him!” Michael answered, chuckling. The guy on Michael’s other side, who Justin didn’t even know, laughed as well, to himself. He stopped when he caught Justin’s Look of Death, but giggled again as soon as Justin looked away.

 

Justin turned his back on both of them, toward the bartender, and ordered a beer. What the fuck. He ignored Michael, who moved off when the guy asked him to dance. Justin sipped his beer and ignored the various men cruising him, his focus concerned with only one man in the place. So what if they talked about Justin as a jealous twink. What was more important?

 

And so what if, aside from that one blow job, Brian hadn’t touched him? Brian damn sure hadn’t touched Justin during said blow job, either. Just a quick pulling of Justin’s face down to his groin, his prick filling Justin’s throat, over his tongue and slamming back in before Justin’s lips could come into play, three short thrusts and shooting, that was all. Maybe the speed of it shouldn’t be a surprise; it had been a long time since Brian had had his cock serviced. But it hadn’t been sexy. And there had been nothing since then, no touches, no come-hither looks, nothing. So Justin had been fairly surprised when Brian had insisted on coming here, and, once here, seemed intent on fucking non-stop. He watched as Brian emerged from the backroom and dragged a second guy back without a pause. He hadn’t expected Brian to dance, not with his rib pain, but he hadn’t expected this either.

 

I am, Justin thought, completely pathetic. He knew how Brian was. And this is probably a perfectly normal reaction to being out of the loop so long. Oh, hell, to trauma. Brian was doing exactly what Michael said, getting back to his normal life. So why did watching Brian drag nameless fucks off to screw hurt so damn much?

 

Probably because his own relationship with Brian was anything but back to normal.

 

“Having a good time?” Brian asked a while later, when he finally reclaimed his place next to Justin at the bar.

 

“Not as good as you, apparently,” Justin answered, regretting his sharp reply instantly.

 

Brian’s brow cocked upward. “You should go get laid, Sunshine. Been a while since someone’s been up your ass, you might enjoy it.”

 

Justin bit his lip and turned his gaze back to the dance floor. He was not batting at that ball.

 

But damn, what was wrong with him? Clearly, Brian was acting out. I mean, Justin thought, obviously. This wasn’t about their relationship. Brian was going through something, not that Justin could understand the sexual aspect of the violation, but he sure could understand the helpless rage from being violently assaulted. Clearly, Brian’s reassertion to the top of Babylon’s fuck chain had nothing to do with his relationship with Justin. So Justin just needed to hold steady, right? Of course, Brian’s ribs had to be hurting him, maybe Justin should try to diplomatically suggest they bring someone back if that’s what Brian needed. One guy was manageable, and Brian would be in bed, anyway. On his back. And then maybe Justin could kick the guy out, and deal with the Kinney wrath. And take care of Brian’s needs himself. In his bed. On his back. Carefully, the way these guys definitely wouldn’t. Whatever it took to make sure Brian was well.

 

“Brian…” He turned back to face his partner, to make this suggestion. But Brian stopped him.

 

Brian had pulled a fabulously built young man to him and had locked lips, his tongue deep in the other man’s mouth. His hand had clasped onto the ample ass encased in leather, and he was rubbing his groin up against the man’s hips. The guy was gorgeous, Brian claiming another trick for another run.

 

“Hm…?” Brian asked, half-turning so his body twisted to face Justin, but his hips remained buried between the man’s spreading legs.

 

“Uh… um.” Justin did his best to recover. “I was just going to suggest we take someone home.”

 

“You just want to put me to bed. I told you, I’m fine, and you’re not my wife!” He practically shouted this last, before pulling the other man off toward the backroom. Number three. Or was that four?

 

Justin stood, stunned. He knew that every man in the near vicinity had heard that last, including Michael, who had returned to the bar after dismissing the other man. “Wow,” Michael said, coming up to Justin and putting his hand on his shoulder, “guess he really wants to stay!”

 

Justin didn’t even dignify that with a response, but pushed off of the bar and moved to find a couch and sit. It was going to be a long night.

 

***

 

Four. Four tricks after he walked through the door and about two hours later, Brian found Justin talking with a man dressed in sequins, mesh and heels, who was regaling Justin with the rigors of performing drag.

 

Shit, he was tired. Four tricks, four lousy blow jobs, and he didn’t even cum satisfactorily. Then again, he hadn’t exactly felt like fucking anyway. Probably why he could drag four guys in the back there in the first place; his dick remembered the motion, but his heart just wasn’t in it.

 

This fucking blew. Or, he should say, didn't.

 

And this was hardly great for his reputation. But what the hell. At the moment, Brian was too tired to care. The last trick had actually said to him, “Maybe you want to take it easy for a little while longer.”

 

Definitely time to go.

 

“Yeah, he’s not going there, so don’t even think it,” Brian said to the drag queen, taking Justin’s arm, and tugging for him to leave. He wanted to leave.

 

“We were just talking,” Justin answered, remaining as calm as he could, as they wove their way through the crowd and out into the night.

 

“I hope you got laid like I told you to,” Brian said, as they approached the Jeep.

 

“I’m not your wife, I don’t need to follow your directions.”

 

“You pissed at me?” They stopped by the bumper. Brian looked over at Justin, measuring, and Justin felt his stomach knot. He recognized that look. He hadn’t seen it since before he’d been bashed.

 

“I’m not pissed at you, Brian. But I am driving.”

 

Brian surrendered the keys easily. Too easily. “Fine.” They got into the car, and Justin pulled out to drive home through the quiet streets. Brian slumped in his seat, forcing his eyes to remain open as he watched the city slip by.

 

They did not speak again until they were on their way up the lift. “Brian…” Justin tried. He wasn’t sure what to say. Yeah, he wasn’t Brian’s wife, but to announce it so publicly. And the deep lip lock with that guy…

 

Brian was leaning heavily against the back of the elevator, his head resting on the wall, his eyes closed. “Hm?” he replied, tilting his head forward and staggering slightly.

 

Justin knew he hadn’t had that much to drink, well, for Brian, and it had been several hours. Obviously, Brian was feeling the effects of what he had just put himself through. Justin moved forward quickly, placing his body under Brian’s arm, supporting him. “You okay?”

 

“Just, tired,” Brian answered, leaning heavily. The ride back had allowed him to relax, and the strain of keeping up had proven too much.

 

Justin dismissed what he had been on the brink of saying. Instead, he opened the door and helped Brian through, bringing him to the bed and undressing him as Brian more or less passed out. Thank god the next day was Saturday. Brian could sleep.

 

Justin sat at the kitchen counter and knocked back a shot, okay, two shots of Brian’s Johnny Walker, and sat, sipping on a third. He watched the man in the bed sleep, and wondered what the fuck he should do. He did not want to stay. No matter what he told himself about Brian needing him, about this not being about himself, not really. Nonetheless, watching Brian stick his tongue into that guy’s mouth, watching his lips press up against another’s, that was fucking painful. To say nothing of the fact that he had practically dry humped the guy in front of him. The comment about Justin’s not being his wife, well, just icing at this point, but good god, that had been cruel, and nothing Brian could say would make that better. If everything were equal, he would tell Brian to fuck off, enough was enough. But nothing was equal at this point.

 

The worst part was that Brian would say nothing about any of this. The night was over, it was done. And Justin would look like the asshole for bringing up the whole rotten evening, for mentioning his own feelings here. But, damn it, it hurt. And worse, there was no way he could open the subject and not look like just what Brian had accused him of, the little wife, complaining over being taken for granted. Or worse. Much, much worse.

 

He closed up the liquor bottle, and walked over to the refrigerator, taking out two bottles of water. He took the cap off one, walked into the bedroom and placed it on the side table near Brian. He got thirsty at night after drinking, and usually woke up at some point in the night for a drink of water. Then Justin walked back into the living room and called for a cab.

 

He got back to the apartment he shared with Daphne. She was asleep. It was two in the morning, after all. He walked into his tiny closet of a room and lay down on the bed, still fully clothed. The moonlight poured through the window, bathing him in silver light. He looked through the glass at the moon’s cool serenity.

 

This can’t go on, he thought. I can’t bear this. I’m just not that strong. I am plain not strong enough for this.

 

He picked up his pillow, hugged it to his chest, buried his face in it, and allowed himself to cry, to really let go, for the first time since all this started.

 

 

When Brian woke up, Justin sat at the foot of the bed. Justin’s arms were crossed over his chest. He stared at Brian’s waking body, his eyes traveling up to meet Brian’s.

Brian frowned, and rubbed his hands over his face. “Fuck…” he moaned. “What… Fuck.” The pain in his head cut through his skull, raced down his neck and shoulders, and connected up with his ribs. He tried to lift his body up, but quickly fell back onto the mattress.

Justin stood and walked to the top of the bed, picking up the bottle of water that Brian did not remember putting there the night before. Hell, he didn’t remember much of anything from the night before. Justin unscrewed the cap from the bottle of pain meds he had in his hand, and helped Brian to sit up. Then he gave him two of the pills, and handed him the water, watching as Brian washed the pills down. After, he helped Brian lie back down.

“Are you hungry?”

Brian shut his eyes. “No. But I might throw up.”

“Seriously?”

“Not just yet. Maybe.”

Justin stood again to walk into the kitchen and retrieve a bowl. He returned to place it on the floor by the side of the bed. He sat down again, and put his hand on Brian’s chest. “Okay,” he began, “I’m going to say this. I haven’t gotten any sleep. I spent last night tailing you when I would normally have ditched you the second you started making out with another guy in front of me…”

Brian snapped his eyes open to scan Justin’s grim countenance. He might have scoffed, but honestly, his ribs felt like they had rebroken and were cutting into his lungs, and damn it, he kind of liked waking up to pills and water and someone else dealing with his pain. So he just waited.

“Yeah, Brian, that was plain mean. And so was telling me I wasn’t your wife where everyone could hear. I know damn well I’m not your wife, but I also know damn well I’m not just a guy you fuck more than once…”

“Justin…”

“No, shut up. I know you don’t really consider me the guy you fuck more than once, but it’s humiliating when you act like it. Because what else am I supposed to go on? But, right, we both know what happened to you last month and so I let you act like a total asshole because I don’t know what the fuck else I’m supposed to do, but you’re damn right I’m not your fucking wife, I’m not going to play the little martyred idiot that you seem to think defines that word.” He took a breath, terrified that if he stopped talking he’d forget what he wanted to say, and god was he tired but he needed to say this.

“Justin…”

“I’m here feeding you your fucking pills because I know you had to have pushed yourself too hard last night and I’m right, can you even move? And it isn’t because I’m your fucking wife, and sure as fuck no guy you fuck, even once or more, is ever going to do this for you. I’m doing this because I love you and I promised myself that I’d help you through whatever this is no matter how much of a bitch it is to me personally. We’re gonna get through this. So you just lay there and take your medicine and go back to sleep.”

“Justin…”

“What?”

“Can you help me to the bathroom? I gotta piss.”

As he leaned heavily on Justin’s shoulder and peed into the bowl, he said, “I know. I’m a total asshole.”

Justin didn’t reply, just watched the stream of urine as it hit the water.

“Justin?”

“What?”

“You’re tired. Come back to bed with me.”

Justin almost started crying again, this time in relief.

***

They undressed and quickly fell asleep. When Brian woke up, four pills were laid on top of the note left on the side table next to his bed. “Brian,” it read, “I’ll be back later. Call me if you need me to bring anything. Otherwise I’m getting Italian – don’t worry, no pizza. J” His phone was propped up beneath the lamp.

***

The Gay Men’s Health Alliance brochure that Kim had given to him indicated that a man named Raymond Tedeschi was on hand for counseling sessions on the weekends. Justin called before he arrived, setting up a meeting for 2:00 p.m. He now sat on the couch in the office, looking at a 40-something man, gray hair thinning, but in reasonably good shape. Justin felt comforted by the fact that after greeting him, Ray (“call me Ray”), did not take the chair behind his desk, but instead relaxed in the easy chair just next to the couch he gestured Justin to sit on.

“So, Justin, what can I do for you?”

Justin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, uneasy with what he was about to ask. “Well, I want to know, first, is this considered a counseling session? And, how confidential is this? I mean, can you tell anyone anything I say here?”

Ray shook his head, digesting and responding to the question. “I have a Master’s in psychology, and I’m a Licensed Professional Counselor, which means I’m certified by Pennsylvania to provide professional counseling services. As far as confidentiality, if you tell me in a private session that you have specific plans to injure a specific individual, I am bound by law to inform that individual, and report the threat. Otherwise, everything you tell me will be held in strict confidentiality.”

“You won’t tell anyone? At all?” Justin confirmed, knowing he wasn’t going to inform Ray that anyone else was in imminent danger. Well, Brian could be a danger to himself, but he was pretty sure that was not what Ray meant.

“Outside those conditions, I won’t share anything you tell me. What’s going on, Justin?”

Justin took a deep breath, and spilled. “My main concern,” he finished, after bringing Ray up to date on his life as of that morning, “is that I have no idea what I’m doing. Brian’s obviously haunted by this, and I want to help him, however I can. Normally, I’d be tempted to tell Brian to fuck off, I mean, he’s always out hunting for tricks, but the way he did it was way too reminiscent of something I thought we’d put behind us… or, maybe I’d just hoped. But with what happened, I really need to figure out if I’m handling this right.”

Ray looked troubled. “Before we continue this, I’m going to have to let you know where I’m coming from. You’re telling me that Brian Kinney was raped, by a man he picked up at a club, blondish, wearing leather, who tasered him and then assaulted him with a club which he violated him with.”

Justin nodded.

“Okay, now that I know what you’re talking about, you should know that this is a serial rapist. This is the third case, that we know of, inside the past eighteen months.”

“We?” Shit.

“I’ve been working with Kim, the woman who sent you here. We’re been trying to get the word out on this guy, but until Brian, the worst of the attacks were on street kids, and the rest of them were not considered serious. It’s a losing battle, but we’re waging it. Reports on this guy starting coming in over three years ago. They’ve escalated in violence alarmingly in the past year and a half. The police refuse to release the information to the public, because the assaults were just gay bashings, nothing new there, and you’ve had your own experience with how the system works with that.”

“But I was pretty much in the media spotlight for part of it, at least during the trial. I had to hide in my room. How come I haven’t heard of this guy?”

“You might have if you follow the papers, but your case was sensational because it involved upstanding citizens.” Ray’s tone was deeply ironic with that last bit. “The police blotters publish the attacks under ‘assaults,’ but they won’t connect them because of the confidentiality issue. One of the victims is a married teacher with two grade-school children.” He paused, and Justin slumped. Of course, the people who “mattered,” who could push for pursuit, wanted to keep the story out of the spotlight. Including Brian. “So you see the problem. What are you telling friends and family happened to Brian?”

The flush across Justin’s cheeks was immediate. “Car accident.”

“I’ve been hoping to get victims, at least anonymously, to allow the real story out.”

Justin shook his head. “If anyone knew about the attack, they could connect it to Brian immediately. He was in the hospital, and beat up very badly. Everyone knows about that part of it. He couldn’t be anonymous.”

Ray shrugged. “I’d like you to consider talking to him about making the details public. Not his name, of course, but the facts of what happened.”

“No way.” Justin was shaking his head even before Ray finished talking. “Brian could not bear having anyone know.” He thought of Debbie, and the guilt slammed into him like an anvil.

Ray just nodded his head. “Yes, of course. Maybe I’ll convince the next man. If he lives.”

Justin blinked. Oh, hell.

But Ray continued, “So that’s my agenda. I thought it only fair you know what it is. I’ve been following this case a long time, and I really regret Brian had to be hurt. I just think, if I push hard enough, maybe the next man won’t be. Maybe there won’t be a next time. Maybe if I had done more, this wouldn’t have happened to Brian.” He smiled apologetically. “But of course, that’s not why you’re here.”

Justin shifted on the couch. “Are you warning me that your agenda will get in the way of what I need?”

“What do you need, Justin?”

Justin took a deep breath. Well, he had already established that Ray couldn’t release any of this without anyone’s permission. And, obviously, he hadn’t released the information about any of the other victims, so that set a precedent Justin could count on. “I need to know how to handle this. Last night, Brian insisted on going out to Babylon, picking up any number of tricks, making out with another guy in front of me. Before all this, we had kind of taken that off the table. But besides that, he really physically pushed himself harder than he should have, and I took it personally. I’m in over my head, and I’m wondering how I should react to this. If I’m reacting the right way. What’s going to be good for Brian. What he needs from me, right now.”

“Denial and anger are typical behaviors for someone who is trying to reestablish his idea of ‘normal.’ Unfortunately, overdetermined behavior is not going to help him.”

“What will?”

Ray was silent, studying the younger man. “I don’t suppose you can get him into counseling?” And yourself, he thought, but Ray figured that Justin would resist.

Justin’s snort and head shake answered that question.

Ray nodded. “No, of course not. The best thing you can do is help him to understand the context of his situation.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean,” Ray answered, “Brian needs to connect to a supportive social structure that will help him feel some stability backing him. Trauma counseling is usually very helpful under these circumstances, since his understanding of the world now includes a huge demon, ready to jump out at him.” Great, Justin thought. As opposed to all the other ones. Ray continued, “Regardless of whether it ever does again or not, and most likely it won’t, he’ll feel it there, and it will affect his actions. As you see happening last night.”

Justin realized that this wasn’t helping. “Ray, I don’t think this is what I had in mind when I came in here…”

“You came in looking for a quick answer. There isn’t one.”

“So what do I DO?” Justin was becoming increasingly frustrated.

“You should let Brian know you’re there for him, but not, of course, at your own expense. Believe it or not, helping the police in catching this guy, and helping the community, will go a ways in giving Brian back his sense of control.”

“You obviously don’t know him.”

“I know he was responsible for Stockwell’s defeat.”

“But, see, that was something that he made happen, not something that happened to him! Brian’s got a specific personal storyline he wants put out there, and rape victim does not fit it! Telling people what happened is not going to help him restore his sense of himself; he’s the guy who makes things happen, not the guy things happen to.”

“Justin,” Ray responded. “Look. What I’ve been trying to tell you is this. Brian’s not in charge of this – he’s only the latest chapter in a horror story that started years ago. He’s not going to find closure as long as he tries to assert his dominance, tries to change the terms of what happened to him. He needs to accept what happened, that he was raped. He needs to face his negative feelings, and accept how they change his story of himself. To love and respect himself, despite this bad thing that happened to him. The only real way to recover is to accept that you can’t control everything, and just work on what you can, and let time heal the rest.”

Oh, god, psychobabble. Brian, loving himself? Accepting helplessness? This did not aide Justin very practically. “So how do I help him do that?”

“You might want to try talking to him about what happened, instead of treating it as something that needs to be avoided, something to be ashamed of. The rape is part of his life now, regardless of his anger and pain. If he talks about it, his feelings will emerge, and only then can they be separated from the self instead of festering inside. But that’s why it’s best to do it in a professional environment; you’ve described some fairly hostile behavior in Brian’s reactions.”

“Yeah, well, this professional environment has made me feel like shit,” Justin spat, incredibly unhappy about Ray’s so-called advice. Counseling. Counseling and going public. Did all professionals advocate for their own little world views?

Ray’s smile made clear that he was not terribly happy at the moment, either. “Looking reality in the face often makes us feel worse in the short run. But believe me, dealing with it, no matter how hard, is always better than running away. Avoidance tactics will destroy you. That’s how it works, no matter who you are. Even if you’re Brian Kinney.”

***

“What an idiot,” Justin muttered as he left the GMHA. Get Brian to talk about it, yeah, right. And that was just as far as talking to Justin. Get Brian to go public... Ha!

He marched over to the Jeep, and pulled out his cell to place an order at the Italian place, planning to swing by on his way back to the loft. His cell rang even as he pulled it from his pocket.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“Justin? I’m sorry, am I calling at a bad time?”

“No, no, Lindsay, sorry, I just have a lot on my mind. What’s up?”

“Well, I hate to ask you this at the last minute, but would you possibly be able to babysit?”

“Sure,” Justin agreed. He was always happy to sit for Gus, when he had time. “When?”

“Well… now, actually. I know! But work has an emergency that I have to be there for…”

Justin wondered what kind of emergency an art gallery could have, but Lindsay was continuing. “…and I haven’t had a chance to make arrangements.”

“Uh, well, sure. I’d like to. But, I have to be at the loft. Brian’s still in a lot of pain. I’m helping him out.”

“Yes, I know, the car accident. That’s why I didn’t call him first. Oh, shoot, do you really have to be there?”

“Yes, Lindsay, I really do. Why don’t I pick Gus up and bring him to Brian’s? I’m sure he would love to see him. And, I’ve got the Jeep, we can just toss the car seat in the back.”

“But I know Brian’s in a lot of pain, still, from what I hear. And Gus, well, he’s a two-year old. And the loft isn’t exactly baby-proof, is it?”

“But I’ll watch him. I’m sure Brian won’t mind. In fact, I’m sure he’d love Gus to be there.” Justin thought of what Ray had to say about Brian being surrounded by loving social support. Yeah, Gus could be good.

“Well… all right. Gus has been up since early, and he hasn’t had his afternoon nap, so he should be either pretty quiet or incredibly cranky. Hopefully he’ll just fall asleep. You’re sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure. Just give me your spare key; if it turns out to be too much of a problem, I’ll bring him back to your place and hang there. But, what’s a few hours?” Lindsay was living in a new apartment, since she and Mel had broken up.

“Actually, it’s overnight. I have to go to Philadelphia.”

“Oh!”

“You might want to keep Gus in his own bed.”

“Lindsay. I have to stay with Brian. It’s not negotiable. Take it or leave it.”

Lindsay took it.

***

Brian was half-asleep on the couch, watching some terrible afternoon movie, when the knock came at the door. He groaned, rolled over, and hauled his body up, hissing at the sharp pain that assaulted him everywhere. Damn, even one of Justin’s lectures wasn’t worse than the hangover and muscle aches he felt in every cell of his body. That would teach him to try and prove a point.

“Can’t you just put the shit down?” Brian grumbled on his way to the door, anticipating that Justin, as usual, was carrying too much stuff, probably the Italian food he had promised. Brian hoped he’d gotten antipasto; he was hungry, and as usual, there was nothing in the loft worth eating. In case of an overload of packages, Justin would often kick at the door and get Brian to come and open it for him.

Brian crossed the floor, hauled opened the door with some difficulty. When the person on the other side stood revealed, Brian lost his breath momentarily. He drew it in, in a ragged inhale.

“Mom.”

“Brian.” Joan Kinney stood stiffly, eyeing him. “You look terrible.”

“Well, gee, Mom, it’s good to see you too! What do you want?”

“Can I come in?”

Brian hesitated, then stepped back and made a sweeping gesture inward. He retreated to the kitchen counter, and perched on one of the stools. He didn’t think he could continue to stand. Damn it, he was not exactly up for this. He idly ran his hand over a knife that had been left on the counter. Temptation, temptation.

His mother had placed herself at the far end of the counter, and leaned slightly against it. “That Novotny woman…” she began.

“Debbie?” Brian’s head jerked up.

“Yes,” Joan agreed, snapping her own head up and down in agreement. “I ran into her in church. She was lighting a candle. Odd woman.”

A candle, Brian thought, probably for Ben. She did that sometimes, Michael had said. Odd, illogical woman.

Odd and illogical still trumped the hypocritical ice cube standing in front of him.

“She told me you had been in an accident,” Joan continued. “I thought…”

“What, mom. What did you think?” Brian demanded when she hesitated, hoping to get this over sooner rather than later.

“I thought, well, she said it was bad. And I thought, well, it wasn’t too late…”

Brian stared, taking in her gray hair, the wrinkles around her eyes, the pinched skin around her mouth. Too late. Not too late. This, from the mother who had rejected him practically out of the womb? Who had deployed him on the battleground of the war she and his father had waged, treating him more like a weapon than a viable human being? And later, using her only son as a source of income when she had never really supported him in any way that mattered? And all this even before she got an eyeful of Justin hobbling down the stairs from his bed? Too late? Was she serious? What the fuck was this?

“Mom…” he started. “I appreciate that…” He didn’t, of course. It had to be the pain meds, making him dull and tired. Unwilling to kick up shit, unable to rally an enthused resistance. Brian just wanted to say his piece and get her to leave. And then he could think about the what-the-fuck after. Or not. But still, she was his mother. “Mom,” he tried again, “Our relationship died with your believing I could molest my own nephew. Or any child. You think you can say anything to fix that?” He was genuinely surprised to hear the lack of animosity in his voice. He was tired, too damn tired for this. Hadn’t this woman put him through enough already?

Then again, maybe, just maybe…

“Oh. Oh, Brian.” She shook her head, and stared at him, her eyes welling with tears.

Was that regret he heard in her voice? Not possible.

But here she was, at his door.

“Oh, Brian,” Joan continued, shaking her head. “I’m not talking about our relationship. I’m talking about your relationship with God.”

He didn’t react for a long moment. Then, “What?” What the fuck? God? Was he really surprised by this? Oh, hell, apparently he was.

“I don’t think it was a coincidence that that Novotny woman stopped me in church to tell me you’d been hurt in a car accident. It seemed like a message straight from God, right in his House. All I could think was, if you had died, and I had not tried to get his message to you, you would be lost for eternity. How could I let God down? The accident is clearly your wake-up call. God is calling you.”

He knew his mother was a fanatic. But, looking at her face, weeping tears for his poor, lost soul, not for his own sake but due to some loveless ideology that counted him out completely, Brian felt his stomach knot up in sudden, terrible understanding of how unreachable she was, always had been, always would be. And this was his mother. Good God. No. God was not good. God was a vengeful, twisted being.

“Hey, Brian, I know I’m kind of springing this on you, but Lindsay called me and I figured you wouldn’t… mind…”

And Justin came walking through the loft door that Brian hadn’t closed in his mother’s wake. On Justin’s hip sat Gus. Gus was just waking up from the ride in the Jeep, his eyes blinking the sleep away.

Joan turned and saw Justin, and then took in the little boy he was holding. She drew her lips inward in a gesture so familiar Justin almost gasped in shock. His eyes flew to Brian’s.

“So,” Joan’s voice cut through the sudden silence, “Still corrupting the young?”

“I’m 20,” Justin replied, at a loss of what else to say. “I’m an adult.”

“Leave him alone, Mom.”

“And this is…” Joan pointed at Gus.

At that moment, Gus came fully awake. He saw his father sitting at the kitchen counter. “Da!” He cried, holding his arms out and wiggling away from Justin’s hip.

Brian stood, crossed the floor and hoisted the child against his chest. He didn’t care how much it hurt, physically. “Hey, Gus, how ya doing?” he asked, as Gus giggled and slapped his father in an ecstasy of greeting. Brian winced, and Justin moved quickly to lift Gus away, setting him down on the floor. Gus promptly flew at his father’s legs, banging into them and holding on. Well, it was better than the ribs.

Joan stood, a pillar of salt, her face like parchment. “Brian…” she croaked.

“Justin, can you take Gus to the living area? Find some cartoons.”

Justin nodded, and toted Gus over to the couch, turning the television onto the cartoon channel. Gus promptly became distracted.

Brian grabbed his mother’s elbow and pushed her toward the loft’s exit.

“Brian! Is that, is that?”

“My son, yes, I have one, believe it or not, even us evil debauched faggots have children.”

“Brian! Children… a child, property of the Lord…”

“No, mom, children are the property of no one, they’re actual autonomous human beings, with feelings, and desires, that don’t necessarily fit your bullshit prescribed catechisms of faith.” He practically shoved her out, and she stumbled slightly. Good.

“Brian, please, listen to me! You’re my son…”

“Actually, according to you, I’m just some molesting faggot. God’s rejected me, remember? But I have a loving partner, and a child who adores his parents, which is more than you’ll ever be able to say!” And he slammed the door in her face.

On the other side, Joan slapped her hand on the metal, and Brian heard her calling his name, but he ignored her to cross to the couch, where Justin was rubbing Gus’s back. “I’m sorry,” Justin whispered as Brian sat down on the couch.

Gus turned his gaze away from Spongebob, to place his hand on his father’s cheek as Brian pulled him in close. “Gus,” Brian spoke, low, against the child’s ear. “You’re the greatest kid on the entire planet. You know that?”

Gus squealed, then giggled at the feeling of Brian’s voice tickling his ear, before sitting back in the middle of the couch, turning his gaze back to the television.

Brian looked over the little boy’s head, at Justin, whose face was a study in remorse. “Oh, god, Brian, I should have called to let you know, I just figured…”

“That I’d want to see Gus. And I do. Right, Gus? You and your Da.”

Gus turned, and before either man could react, he had launched himself across the space between him and Brian, who only saved himself from increased injury by a quick catch.

Justin got up on his knees, and crawled over to put his hand on Gus’s shoulder, pulling him back a bit. “Gus, what did I tell you about your daddy being in an accident? Boo-boo?”

“Boo-boo.”

“Right. You gotta be careful.”

Gus leaned forward, and laid his head down on Brian’s thigh, shifting his face up to look at his father. He batted his eyelashes. “Hi!”

Brian bit his lips to keep from laughing. He put his hand down on Gus’s head, and pulled the fine hair through his fingers. “Hey, buddy.” Then he reached over and grabbed Justin’s sweater. “You. C’mere,” he coaxed, moving so his back hit up against the couch’s arm rest, his left leg extending down the couch length, his right leg on the floor. He pulled Justin so that his back lay against his chest, and buried his face in the juncture at Justin’s neck. Justin felt him take a deep breath. Gus watched, before turning his back to Justin’s stomach, and leaning back. Brian chuckled as he watched his son curl into Justin, mirroring the pose Justin held against Brian.

When Gus had gotten re-absorbed in the episode of Spongebob, Justin turned his head so he could see Brian’s face. “You okay?” he whispered.

“No, I’m still hungover,” Brian whispered back. “My ribs are pissed at me.”

On hearing that, Justin immediately shifted his weight forward away from the man behind him, and said, “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t…”

“No, some pressure is good.” Well, that made no sense. Who cared? Justin leaned back, carefully this time. Justin tried again, “That’s not exactly what I meant. I’m really sorry…”

“Sorry’s bullshit.” Brian paused. “And there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“I should have called,” Justin repeated.

“She was intruding. Not you,” Brian told him. He looked down at Justin’s hand, fiddling with the button on Gus’s overall strap. All Brian could see was the blonde hair, as Justin’s head had tipped downward, avoiding his gaze. Damn. His damn mother.

It had been a miracle that Justin had been there that morning at all. His presence had shocked the hell out of Brian. But if there was one morning where he needed Justin to just let things go, that had been the one. The fact that Justin had physically been in his bedroom to give that little speech of his, that had actually been, well, reassuring, yeah, he could admit that. Brian appreciated it, really, he did, and not for the reasons Justin would think. Not because Justin had asserted himself, and told him what was on his mind, although of course there was that. Not even because Justin had been there, although, of course, that was nice. No, it was that Brian had been right. He had known Justin would be fairly pissed about the night before. And yeah, the fact that he’d actually addressed his anger had kind of thrown Brian, he hadn’t really expected that, but he had known Justin was upset. And Justin had confirmed that he was! Brian. Was. Right.

Brian had no idea why he was so pleased by that, but who cared, it felt pretty good. In fact, he had woken up later that morning, floating on a haze of pain meds, feeling plain good that Justin had confirmed what Brian had known. He hadn’t really thought so much about what Justin had said past the point where he said he was going to stick around, but Brian had indeed enjoyed knowing he was right, he had enjoyed having pills and water handed to him, he had even enjoyed the note – well, not enjoyed so much as drew comfort from all that. He was in physical pain, after all; his pain was fairly serious. But the Justin stuff, none of that caused him pain. So maybe that was it. An island of ease in this whole horrible past month.

Lord, he was truly fucked up, absolutely and totally pathetic.

And Gus… now, that would have been good, to have the little man come to visit, to just have him walk through the door… well, have him carried through the door with Justin explaining how it was all Lindsay’s idea and he really wasn’t figuring out a way to make damn sure Brian wasn’t going out again tonight… as if he would be going anywhere, anyway. And then Brian could give Justin shit about being the little caretaker, and Justin could get pissed because Brian obviously hadn’t heard a word he’d said earlier, and then they would roll their eyes at each other, and hang out with Gus, and have a reason to stay home and it would all feel very normal.

Instead, his mother had arrived, telling him his attack was God’s attempt to reach him. He almost laughed. Damn, if she had known what had really happened! He’d been getting the “God’s punishment” lecture. Again.

He looked down at Justin and Gus, stretched down the couch. Justin had now tilted his head towards the TV. Both boys were wearing identical expressions, staring at the cartoon images. It would have been nice, to have Justin carry Gus in, to have the evening play out as Brian imagined it would have gone. And, no, he was not feeling sorry for himself, it wasn’t that at all, it was just that Justin knew how much he loved Gus, and had certainly been looking forward to surprising him. A much better surprise than Italian food! He bet Justin even had had such a quip prepared; Brian could just imagine. “Hey, Gus!” he would say, and Justin would smile that amazing smile and say, “Yeah, much better than Italian food, huh?” And Brian would say, “Well, I was kind of looking forward to the antipasto…” And Justin would smack his stomach, and Brian would pretend he’d hurt his ribs and Justin would look all stricken for a moment before Brian smirked at him. And then Justin would go to hit him again, but he’d of course hesitate, and Brian would actually laugh and Gus would giggle even though he would have no idea what he was laughing at.

His fucking witch of a mother had added grief to Justin’s day – hell, his week, his month. If not for her, possibly there would be none of this fucking tension stretched down the couch now, and they’d instead be sitting around the coffee table, chowing down the Italian they would have ordered as soon as settling Gus in. Yeah.

“So, what happened to my Italian?”

It took Justin a moment to figure out what Brian was talking about. “Oh! Oh, damn, I got distracted.”

“And here I’ve been, looking forward to antipasto since reading your note.”

“Oh! okay, I’ll go call in delivery.” But as Justin moved to get up, Brian tightened his arms around Justin’s chest.

“In a couple minutes.” Brian tipped his head forward, and touched his lips to Justin’s, savoring their soft firmness. “Gus was a much better delivery than Italian food.” Justin, unable to resist, moved his tongue to taste the underside of Brian’s mouth. They kissed for a drawn-out moment, and in that time Justin fully appreciated how long it had been since Brian’s lips had caressed his.

Gus giggled. It took them a few minutes to realize that he was not laughing at the cartoon.

 

“Depression”

 

Monday

 

 

To: Brian Kinney

From: Ted Schmidt

Date/Time: Monday, April 10, 2006, 7:37 a.m.

Hey, Brian, just forwarding the projections for Brown’s latest run out on the West Coast. The SpyWhip campaign is going great, btw. Thought you were coming to the meeting Friday? No big deal, we can go over it at today’s 10am.

 

 

To: Brian Kinney

From: Ted Schmidt

Date/Time: Monday, April 10, 2006, 10:46 a.m.

Hey, Brian, are your ribs acting up? I thought you’d be coming in today. Anyway, I really do need to go over the Brown numbers with you before the 1pm call from Leo.

 

 

To: Brian Kinney

From: Ted Schmidt

Date/Time: Monday, April 10, 2006, 12:17 p.m.

Uh, Brian, where are you? That deadline’s coming up for Leo at 5:00 today, and we gotta get our ducks in a row here; isn’t Leo calling at 1? Did you turn off the cell? I tried calling around, but Michael hasn’t seen you and Justin’s not picking up either.

 

 

To: Justin Taylor

From: Ted Schmidt

Date/Time: Monday, April 10, 2006, 12:37 p.m.

Hey, Justin, do you know where Brian is? If you get this before the 3 messages I left on your cell, CALL ME.

 

 

To: Brian Kinney

From: Cynthia Wyatt

Date/Time: Monday, April 10, 2006, 1:53 p.m.

Where the fuck are you? You better be hurting bad or I’ll make sure you are. You have no idea what Ted is like when he freaks out, he’d never do it in front of you but since I’m a woman, as you’ve pointed out ad nauseum, people are more comfortable “showing their vulnerability” to me. Great, you’re right again, fuck you.

 

Anyway, I’m rambling because you’ve made me nervous. You better call me. Your agency is going to hell without you. Okay, maybe not, but you should have seen Ted three minutes before the Brown call. It went fine – he really does know his shit and besides, I had all the info pulled together so all he (and you, for that matter!) had to do was recite my work. The ad’s running in InterPlay, Real Sports and the sales people will market at Foot Lockers and the other shops we discussed around San Francisco and LA, blah blah blah I’m not going to go over stuff you already know, suffice to say, Leo was fine with everything we proposed.

 

You better not be okay, or I’ll be really pissed off.

 

* * * * *

 

When Justin got to the loft after spending the day at PIFA to catch up on projects the past month’s circumstances had put him way behind on, Brian was in front of the television, watching Seinfeld.

 

“Hey!” Justin called, tossing his bag off to the side. He could only see Brian’s bare feet propped up on the couch back. The rest of him was buried away, deep in the cushions. No reply. Justin wandered over to the sitting area, and sat down in front of Brian’s knees. Brian glanced over, then back at the t.v. Justin picked up the remote and muted the sound. Brian looked down the length of his body toward the other man.

 

“Did you get in touch with Ted?” Justin asked.

 

Brian shrugged. “How was school?”

 

“Good, busy,” Justin answered. He grimaced. “Professor Bartlett was ready to kick me out of her class… again, because I’ve missed three classes. I can’t miss any more. I tried explaining to her…”

 

“What?” Brian interrupted, his voice sharp.

 

Justin’s eyes softened. “That the love of my life was in a terrible accident and I had to take care of him.”

 

“And she melted at your winsome blonde beauty and sad, doe-like gaze.”

 

“Ha. No, the bitch asked me why that was her problem. She says to me, ‘Life sucks, Justin, but them’s the breaks.’ She tells me, if I didn’t feel capable of fulfilling the basic requirements of the class, perhaps I should take it at a time in my life when I feel more ready to do so. And then she gives me this look, like, ‘I seriously doubt that day will ever come.’ Apparently, my reputation as a student is for shit, go figure. So, yeah, I’ve been working all day on getting her three projects done. One left. I rock.”

 

“I like this woman.”

 

“You would. Did you talk to Ted?”

 

Brian shrugged. “Was he looking for me?” He turned his face back to the television, to the soundless images flitting across the screen.

 

“Brian… I got emails and calls from both him and Cynthia. I told them I’d see you later, but... you never got their messages?”

 

“I turned the phones off.”

 

“And the computer.”

 

Brian shrugged again.

 

“You feeling okay?”

 

The look Brian turned on him wanted to be annoyed, but just… wasn’t.

 

“Brian?”

 

“Don’t you have homework?”

 

“Didn’t you hear me? I was working all day, so no, no more projects tonight. Do you need anything?”

 

“Thought you didn’t want to be the little woman.”

 

“Caring for the beloved is not a feminine characteristic. Even Shakespeare dedicated a chunk of his sonnets to his ‘lovely boy.’”

 

Brian groaned. “Oh, god, old enough for the homoeroticism of intro to lit.”

 

 

Justin just laughed, picked up his bag, and wandered off to read Twelfth Night.

 

***

 

When Justin came back to the couch a few hours later, Brian was asleep, his legs still draped over the back of the couch. Justin leaned in, touched Brian’s cheek, then kissed him. Brian’s eyelids opened, and he stared groggily upward.

 

“Hey… time for bed.”

 

Brian nodded, sat up, and winced. Justin sat next to him, making his body available as a prop. “Ribs?”

 

“No… yes. Everything hurts.”

 

“What did the doctor say?”

 

Another shrug.

 

“Didn’t you have an appointment?”

 

“Canceled it.”

 

“Brian.”

 

“I know,” Brian replied, the annoyance sharp in his tone now. “Don’t worry, I rescheduled.”

 

“For…”

 

“Friday at 2.”

 

Justin considered. He couldn’t miss class Friday to be sure Brian went to the doctor… could he? Oh, fuck it, no. He couldn’t. “Still hurts, though?” Justin asked, changing the subject. “Do you need any pills or something?”

 

“Weed would be good.”

 

Justin nodded. They had a bunch stashed in the bedroom.

 

A warm desire passed through Justin’s body as Brian leaned onto him and allowed himself to be helped to stand. Justin wondered if they were ever going to make love again. Or fuck. Or, whatever. Damn it, he shouldn’t be thinking this.

 

They walked up to bed, and Brian settled carefully down, allowing Justin to pull off his jeans, and draw the t-shirt over his head. Justin rolled a joint, lit it, and handed it to Brian, who took a long drag, and asked him, “You have school tomorrow?”

 

“I have to work on that painting in the morning. And a shift at the diner in the afternoon. No classes. Are you going to work?”

 

“Dunno.” Brian took a long drag. “I’ll see how I feel.” He handed the joint to Justin, closed his eyes, and drew the covers up over his body.

 

***

 

Tuesday

 

To: Justin Taylor

From: Ted Schmidt

Date/Time: Tuesday, April 11, 2006, 11:17 a.m.

Hey, Justin, did you manage to see Brian last night? Don’t mean to bug you, but have him call if he’s planning on staying home again. Let me know how long. We’re fine, of course, but I need his signature on a few things. Don’t want to just drop by the loft. Hey, maybe you could stop by Kinnetik to make sure he gets the papers? Not that I don’t trust the messenger service, but you know how it is.

 

 

To: Ted Schmidt

From: Justin Taylor

Date/Time: Tuesday, April 11, 2006, 12:30 p.m.

Sorry, forgot to let you know that Brian told me to tell you he’d be out for a little bit. I’ll drop by and get the papers.

 

 

To: Brian Kinney

From: Kim Eliot

Date/Time: Tuesday, April 11, 2006, 1:15 p.m.

Hello, Brian. Have you given any more thought to coming down to the station? I still think writing out that statement would help us. You never know what you might remember.

 

You have my number.

 

 

To: Daphne Chanders

From: Justin Taylor

Date/Time: Tuesday, April 11, 2006, 5:30 p.m.

Sorry I’ve been so scarce. Just, you know, school and Brian’s accident. I promise I’ll be around. Sometime. Don’t want to drop out without a word.

 

 

To: Justin Taylor

From: Daphne Chanders

Date/Time: Tuesday, April 11, 2006, 7:15 p.m.

Hey, I got the rent check, so it’s all good! If the new guy – Brad, don’t you know, or, no you don’t, DO YOU? – if Brad wasn't keeping me so busy, I'd pull a Debbie on you for abandoning me (or not) – but he’s keeping me pretty busy if you know what I mean! and he (and I!) appreciates that we have a bit of privacy here, since he lives three guys in 2 rooms.

 

Ugh! But, don’t feel like you need to avoid the place you pay rent to! Or, should I say, Brian pays rent to? God, where can I get me one of those?

 

Seriously, let me know when you’ll be around and we’ll have a movie night. Only, no rush. Really. Brad’s awesome.

 

***

Wednesday

 

 

To: Brian Kinney

From: Michael the Madman

Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 9:15 a.m.

Hey, Brian! We haven’t been out in a while. Wanna do something this weekend? Let me know.

 

 

To: Justin Taylor

From: Melanie Marcus

Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 10:00 a.m.

Justin, I got a follow-up from Hammerstein & Forbes – we’re FINALLY getting the ball rolling. They can’t delay any more – the judge is going to get pissed off and they know it. Looks like it’s arbitration. You ready for this?

 

 

To: Justin Taylor

From: Ted Schmidt

Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 11:34 a.m.

Thanks for the signatures. That’s all I really need. Tell him Cynthia’s pissed. Actually, don’t tell him that. Just take care of him, and let him know we’re good here, his baby’s well taken care of. Well, I can’t speak for Cynthia. But the agency’s doing great, as always.

 

* * * * *

 

Justin walked into Michael’s comic shop, and laid down his portfolio with the latest story boards for Rage’s next edition. Michael finished up a sale. He turned to pull Justin’s art work out of its folder. “Hey, this is great! Zephyr looks awesome…”

 

“Yep, beefed up the package a tad.”

 

“Great! But don’t tell Ben, he might wonder why.”

 

Justin chuckled. “I seriously doubt Ben would think anything of it. He’s a good man.”

 

“Yep, he is. Oh, great, this part of the story came together wonderful!”

 

Justin barely glanced at it; he had actually knocked the pictures off in three days. He could do that now: Rage by rote. The comic was definitely on the back burner. He really needed to catch up at the Institute. Plus, try to figure out what was up with Brian, who had been on the couch each night Justin got home for the past five days in a row. TV on. Computer and telephones off.

 

As if he could read his mind, Michael asked, “How’s he doing?”

 

“Brian?”

 

Michael just nodded in response.

 

Justin shrugged. “Not great. He’s… resting a lot.”

 

“Still in pain?”

 

“Yeah. But he’s always watching TV when I get home…”

 

“Maybe he’s wearing himself out during the day. He’s still on medication, right?”

 

“I really don’t think that’s it.”

 

“But we’re talking Brian here. He’ll be up and about soon enough. He’s still healing, right?”

 

“Maybe that’s it.” Justin gathered the illustrations into a pile, and put them back in the folder, handing it over the counter. “Here you go, all yours.”

 

Michael watched him leave, his brow furrowed.

 

***

 

To: Ted Schmidt

From: Justin Taylor

Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 4:44 p.m.

Thanks, Ted. Let me know if you need anything else. J

 

 

To: Melanie Marcus

From: Justin Taylor

Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 5:52 p.m.

Am I ready? Just tell me when and where. Aim for the head and SWING.

 

 

To: Brian Kinney

From: Sheila Clark

Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 5:20 p.m.

Please contact me about looking at the mug shots, as we discussed. And, yes, you do need to come down to the station.

 

*****

Thursday

 

 

Justin worried.

 

Brian had not left the loft in a week. He had contacted no one at work. He moved between the bed, and the couch. He watched t.v.

 

After getting home from the dinner shift at the diner, Justin sat down in his usual spot under Brian’s knees. The t.v. projected Friends reruns.

 

“Brian?” Justin asked.

 

Brian turned his gaze down the couch. His eyes were forming dark circles that weren’t going away.

 

“Don’t you think you should go into work?”

 

“Is Ted bugging you again?”

 

“What? No, he’s not bugging me at all, he’s keeping things going. I don’t mind helping out. He really has got things managed for you.”

 

“I know. That’s why I’m okay taking time off. He and Cynthia are fine.”

 

“Really… time off?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And that’s all?”

 

“What the fuck does that mean?”

 

Justin picked up the remote and turned the program off. “No motivation, avoiding work, avoiding people, sleeping excessive amounts… I’m worried.”

 

He expected Brian to snap at him, but again, all Justin got in response was a shrug. “Don’t be. It’s fine. I’m taking vacation.”

 

Justin bit his lip.

 

“Don’t you have homework?”

 

“Don’t you have a company?”

 

“If I don’t go to work, Ted and Cynthia run the place. Who does your homework for you?”

 

Well, if that didn’t trump Justin’s argument, nothing did. Justin reluctantly picked up his books, and took them to the dining table to get some studying done. He didn’t ask Brian if he wanted anything to eat; he knew when not to push. Brian wasn’t eating, either, until Justin literally handed him food. He had lost weight, and he could not afford to; he had crossed the line into too skinny. Justin took out his cell phone and ordered from the Arabic place down the street.

 

*****

Thursday night

 

Justin was happy. He had finished the third project for Professor Bartlett’s class, a charcoal of Brian’s feet sticking up over the back of the couch. He had such beautiful feet, such a pleasure to draw. He actually managed a beautifully shaded Brian’s-feet charcoal without his hand making him stop before it was done. He had also managed to stuff some couscous and hummus into Brian, plus there was plenty left over to eat the next day. He settled in under Brian’s knees to watch some art house DVD a friend from PIFA had recommended. Ten o’clock, and he had the rest of the night in which to do nothing. Hang out under Brian’s beautiful feet and watch movies. Luxury.

 

The pounding on the loft door made him jump, and he looked down the couch to Brian, whose eyelids had flown open, and whose chest heaved with a sudden intake of breath.

 

“Want me to get that?” Justin asked.

 

Brian’s lips curled into his mouth, and Justin really hoped he would shake his head, but in the end he just nodded. “Yeah. Probably Ted coming to tell me I’m broke.”

 

Justin got up and braced himself against the dizzying headrush. He chuckled slightly as it passed. “Yeah, right,” he responded, as he walked to the door, “He’s probably coming to tell you he landed a kajillion dollar account, which you would have known about if you’d read your email.”

 

“Great,” Brian muttered.

 

Justin wondered if he’d meant that to be heard. Probably not. But it wasn’t Ted on the other side of the door when Justin slid it open; it was Michael.

 

“Hey, Michael!” Justin’s greeting sounded exuberant through his surprise. He wanted to take it back and tone it down. Too late.

 

“Hey!” Michael walked in, and over to Brian’s feet. Justin shut the door and followed, taking in the dark shirt and tight black pants Michael was wearing.

 

“Hey, asshole!” Michael said, smacking Brian’s exposed ankle and falling into Justin’s place on the couch. “Let’s go out! Thursday night. Woody’s is rocking!”

 

Brian raised his eyebrows. “Do I look ready to go out?”

 

“No, but that never stopped you before. Quick shower, change of clothes, you already have that bed head look, you’re ready to go!”

 

“I don’t think so, Mikey.”

 

“Hey, no excuses now,” Michael said. Justin took in the forcefully cheerful demeanor and cringed. Oh, no. Michael was on a mission. Justin sat down at the computer and booted it up. He wanted to disrupt Michael-on-a-mission, but had no idea how. He would have to ride this one out; what else could he do?

 

And Michael continued relentlessly. “Look, a night out’s just what you need. You’ve been holed up here all week, and don’t tell me you haven’t. Plus, Boy Wonder says you’ve been acting all hermit-like…”

 

Oh, well fuck.

 

“He has, has he?”

 

“Yeah, well, he’s worried about you.”

 

Brian sat up, and turned to look at Justin. Justin stared at the computer screen, but he could feel the gaze on him.

 

“Come on, Brian, it’ll do you good to get out, have a few beers, cruise a few guys…”

 

Brian grunted, and Justin groaned quietly. Michael’s heart was in the right place, and technically, Justin agreed with him; Brian needed to get out. But he really wished Michael had consulted him first.

 

“What do you say?”

 

“I don’t think so, Mikey.”

 

Silence. Then, “You can’t just mope around here for the rest of your life.”

 

“So you came to rescue me from my moping?”

 

“Well, yeah! It’s been what, six weeks since the accident, I looked up recovery times, it says that your ribs should be all healed up. I was just worried when Justin told me that you seemed out of it…”

 

Again, the feeling of Brian’s gaze cutting into the flesh on the back of his neck.

 

“…I don’t know.”

 

“Besides, Brian, that Brandon guy is taking over Liberty, declaring himself the new stud.”

 

“So?”

 

“So? You can’t let people think you’ve given up your place.”

 

“Oh, bullshit, Mikey, I haven’t given up any place…”

 

“Haven’t you?” Michael’s voice was suddenly sharp. “You’ve been out six weeks and yeah, people know you had an accident, but it’s been long enough and they’re starting to wonder why you’re staying away from the scene…”

 

“They are? Or, YOU are?”

 

Silence. Then, “No, Brian, it isn’t like that. I’m worried about you, yeah, but I’m worried about you losing out on what really matters to you just because this thing happened… I don’t think you want it to destroy the life you’ve built up, just because…”

 

Oh, no, Justin thought. Oh, Michael, what the fuck are you doing? He wanted to say something, change the subject, but he was frozen, staring at the train that was about to wreck itself, while his carcass stalled on its tracks. MOVE, his brain screamed, FUCKING DO SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING! But he just sat there.

 

Into Brian’s silence, Michael said, “…look, I know. I know what really happened. And I’m worried about you, I think you need to deal with it, and you obviously aren’t.”

 

“Michael.” Brian’s voice was low and deadly. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

 

“Ma was at the hospital that night. Justin called her. She told me, ’cause she was worried about me being at the places where something like this could happen, but she’s worried about you too. We all are. Plus, Carl told her this guy had done this before…” Michael’s voice trailed off, as he began to realize he had made a major tactical error. Justin stood on shaking legs, and faced Brian, who sat forward on the couch, staring across the loft to the windows, his back stiff, his hands in his lap.

 

“Who else?” Brian asked, still not turning his gaze from the windows.

 

“Um, what?” Michael replied, looking as if he would shrink into the corner of the couch.

 

“WHO ELSE?! Or maybe I should ask you,” Brian said, cutting his gaze over to where Justin stood. “Who else have you told about this?”

 

“Brian, I…”

 

“No, I suppose I won’t get the truth out of you,” and he turned his gaze to Michael. “Who. Else.”

 

“Ma promised Justin she wouldn’t tell anyone else, she told me she was only telling me, but I…”

 

Brian closed his eyes.

 

“…told Ted. And, you know. Ben.”

 

“And I suppose your little foundling too. Is Rage going to get…” Brian was unable to force the word into existence; he swallowed convulsively, back down it went, down deep.

 

“Brian…” Justin started. He needed to tell him what had happened that night. He wanted to tell him his state of mind, the fear and the desperation that had driven him to call Carl, and the different fear that led to his decision to not say anything after. But he did not know where to begin; he did not know how to explain in a way Brian would be sympathetic to. Especially in this frame of mind, when he was unlikely to listen at all.

 

“Get out.” The words were spoken softly, but there was no questioning their absolute nature.

 

“What…” Michael started, but Justin had already moved to collect his work and his bag. He felt his jeans pocket to check for his key ring, which included the key to Daphne’s place.

 

“GET OUT!” Brian yelled, his roar dispelling any doubt there could be. Michael scurried toward the door, frightened.

 

Justin put on his jacket, and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. Then he turned to Brian, and said, as calmly as he could, “I want to tell you what happened.” His heart was tripping over itself so quickly, that he could feel it pushing on his rib cage.

 

“Oh, NOW you want to tell me,” Brian said, moving swiftly to where Justin stood, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him, hard, to the door. He threw Justin into the stairwell, so that he stumbled and fell, striking his hip on the floor, hard. Michael moved to help him up, but Justin scrambled out of his grip, regaining his feet on his own.

 

“Tell me by email,” Brian snarled, and slammed the door shut.

 

The two men stood, stunned, for a long moment.

 

“You want a ride somewhere?” Michael asked. His voice was very, very small.

 

Justin turned on him. He saw the pain in Michael’s eyes, but at the moment he just couldn’t care. “I don’t want shit. Stay the fuck away from me!” He turned and stomped down the stairs, leaving the elevator to Michael.

 

 

Friday

 

Another drink just would not be a good idea. Brian picked up the bottle and chugged anyway.

 

So what time was it now? He had a plan. Oh, yes, he had a plan. And, yes, he should not get too drunk because wasn’t performance said to suffer under alcohol’s overabundant influence?

 

Fuck that. He was Brian Fucking Kinney. He had performed PLENTY of times under much greater influence than he was planning for tonight. Where the fuck was all this self-doubt coming from?

 

Fuck it all. He was Brian Fucking Kinney, with a clean bill of health. More or less.

 

“Your ribs are pretty much healed, although they may feel sore for another couple of weeks yet,” the doctor had informed him earlier that afternoon. The operation incision, the other wound, that also healing nicely too. It was more or less repaired. If not good as new, then good enough.

 

“But can I fuck?” he’d asked, point blank.

 

“I would hold off on being on the receiving end of anal sex for another month, just to be safe…”

 

“Anal sex is never safe, doctor,” Brian had quipped. Besides, as if. There was only one kind of anal sex he was interested in, and it was not as a receptor.

 

Apparently, this guy had no sense of humor. He turned a stony gaze over his bifocals, pinning Brian in it. Brian remembered that look from his childhood.

 

“Mr. Kinney, you can have intercourse, but I advise you to keep to less stressful positions for the next month. I might advise you as to what I mean, but something tells me you are way ahead of me.”

 

Okay, so maybe the guy did have a sense of humor. At his patient’s expense. Brian could appreciate that.

 

A limited prescription of those weak-ass pain pills was thrown into the trash on Brian’s way out, and Brian had headed over to Woody’s to pick up some real pain killers, to have a drink, and to get his dick sucked.

 

Unfortunately, Anita was nowhere to be seen, and the population at Woody’s was composed of skanks, so he’d headed back to the loft after a couple hours, sending Ted an email informing him he’d be back on Monday and if anything was fucked up he’d have his balls. Yeah, okay, Ted would just laugh and delete the message, but he needed to remind the guy he hadn’t died. Although, god knows what Ted was thinking. It was time to get hold of the situation.

 

So yep, here he was, given the pass by the doc, and coming back to life.

 

The bang of the loft door echoed through the space as he slammed it behind him. He swore he could still hear the reverberation, hours later, through the wide spaces that spread out around him.

 

Damn, what the fuck did he do before going to Babylon that kept him interested? TV was boring as shit. He flipped aimlessly through the channels, pausing reflexively on the cartoon network before determinedly surfing past. After switching the television off and dropping the remote to the floor with a bang, he lay on his back on the couch, staring upward. He had never noticed before how high his ceiling was. Well, he’d looked, but he’d never really noticed.

 

He hauled himself up, and moved over to his work desk, booting up the computer to cruise a variety of web sites, looking for any promising leads that could come service him right now.

 

Nothing.

 

What the fuck?

 

Fine. Alcohol it was. Amazing that he hadn’t thought of this the second he had walked in the door. Enough had probably been coursing through his veins to keep him focused on the plan, and off his buzz.

 

It was at the third drink that he eschewed the glass and began chugging straight from the bottle. Then he put it down. He could call Mikey, see if he wanted to meet him at the diner… oh, fuck that, right. Mikey. Good ol’ Mikey. What the fuck had Mikey been thinking? As always, thinking of Brian, worrying about him, unable to keep his concerns to himself. Mikey never could hide anything. The real question was, what the fuck had JUSTIN… nope. Nope, uh uh. Brian wasn’t going to go there.

 

Restless, he picked up the phone and called Lindsay’s number.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, Lindz.”

 

“Brian? Hi! What’s going on?”

 

“Oh, nothing…”

 

“Nothing? Really? What do you want?”

 

“Nothing! Why do I have to want something?”

 

“You don’t. Don’t get all worked up! What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing,” Brian hissed. “Look, I just… I’m just wondering if I could stop by, see Gus.”

 

“He’s getting ready for bed.”

 

“Bed? Already?”

 

“It’s eight o’clock, Brian.”

 

“Already?”

 

Lindsay started laughing. “My god, what are you on? First you want to see Gus, now…”

 

“Is it so funny that I want to see my own son?”

 

That shut her up. “No. Brian, of course not. I just…” Long, drawn out sigh. “Why don’t you stop by tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, all right.”

 

“Brian… are you all right?”

 

“What? Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

In the silence, Brian felt a sudden urge to throw up. “Lindsay.”

 

“It’s just… after your accident…”

 

“That was almost two months ago.”

 

“But, you know…”

 

“No, I don’t know. Why don’t you explain?”

 

“Oh, Brian,” and now her voice was filled with those fucking tears, and Brian knew, he just knew that she knew. Who had told her? Did it matter? He slammed the phone down in its cradle, and when it started ringing again seconds later he picked it up and hurled it across the room; it caught the steel girder and shattered, littering the floor with tiny phone bits.

 

Well, now he had to put on his boots, and go out. In his head, Nancy Sinatra sang her song as he slammed the door behind him. “These boots were made for walking…”

 

***

 

He had several more drinks at Woody’s and sat through an interminable karaoke-ish performance before finally finding an acceptable trick to suck him off in the bathroom, wishing Mikey was there so he could get a good fucking eyeful of the Liberty Stud’s demise. Suck on this demise, Brian thought, smirking as he watched his fully erect dick push hard into the trick’s mouth. He kicked at the toilet with his heel, wishing the damn thing would get out of his boot’s way. Fucking stalls, not exactly comfortable places for this. So much better places… no, fuck that. Fucking anywhere was fine. Anywhere, anytime. Brian snapped his hips forward as the guy’s tongue traced a particularly sensitive nerve on his dickhead, and the guy choked as Brian’s cock hit the back of his throat. Just doesn’t know me the way… Brian cut off that thought before it had fully formed. He came, not very satisfyingly, pulled out and walked out of the bathroom. At the bar, he ignored the tall dark guy on the stool next to him who kept bumping his knee against his thigh, and pulled out his Blackberry. Yep, this adventure needs something, that is definitely for sure. He sent out an email.

 

Babylon. One hour. Be there.

 

He turned and eyed the dark haired man next to him, but the knee hitting his leg was seriously starting to piss him off, and he deliberately moved out of contact, turning his back. When he turned to look again, a drag queen had taken the guy’s place. “How you doing, Kinney?” the queen asked.

 

“Just fine,” Brian replied. He had no idea whom he was talking to.

 

***

 

He cruised into Babylon at 11, and already it was full, but of course the bouncer let him sail by. No likely candidates in the line, they all looked like children, all looked younger than… nope, nope, nope. His entrance into the front doors stopped any consequent thought, as the lights and the noise and the fucking smell of the place hit him, lights splashing around and the “OONTS OONTS OONTS” of the beat and the writhing bodies… yep, this was it. He elbowed his way through the crowd and made his way to the bar, leaning in through the three-deep crowd, and getting Kenny’s attention. There were perks in being known, oh, yes…

 

“JB?”

 

“Yeah,” Brian yelled back. “Hey, Kenney, who’s Brandon?”

 

Kenny stood on what seemed to be a box or something behind the bar and scanned the crowd, before pointing at the dance floor, to a shaggy-haired blond who was practically mating against his dance partner. Oh, fucking blonds, Brian thought, before his gaze lasered in on the guy dancing with him, and he practically started laughing. Goddamn Richie, could the guy have less taste? But yeah, okay, that was perfect.

 

“Brian!”

 

Brian turned around, and came face to face with Michael. “I said an hour, Mikey!”

 

Michael grinned, his happiness at having been forgiven obvious not only in the dewy, huge eyes he had turned on Brian, but in the speed with which he had responded to Brian’s earlier email. “I know, but it’s good to see you in the swing of things again!”

 

“And the Professor.” Well, shit. Ben grinned at Brian as he put his hand on Michael’s shoulder and nodded over at Brian.

 

“I’m the ride!”

 

“I bet you are!” Brian answered, and Michael laughed as he went to get drinks for them.

 

“How you doing, Brian?” Ben asked, and Brian shook off an impulse toward violence since he now knew what was behind that question.

 

“As you see,” Brian answered, toasting Ben with his shot glass instead of throwing its contents in his face. A tad dramatic, Brian thought, gulping the drink down.

 

“Indeed!” Ben answered, smiling gently. “Michael was so happy you invited him along. We don’t get out much these days, but Friday dancing…”

 

“Or, Friday fucking…”

 

Ben laughed. “Whatever!” Michael returned with drinks, and Brian decided as he watched the two interact, that it was for the best, anyway, that Ben was here, since he was about to abandon Michael anyway.

 

“Excuse me.” He handed his glass to Ben, and stalked onto the dance floor, heading toward Brandon.

 

The other man saw him coming, and lifted his head from devouring Richie’s neck. “Kinney,” he said, as Brian walked right into their clinch space. Brian barely spared a glance at the blond, just enough to wonder where the fuck the taste of the queer universe was going if this was the new hot.

 

“Richie,” Brian said, looking instead at the other man, who stared back at him. “Now.” And he turned, heading to the backroom.

 

He only needed to look to his left, at Michael laughing his head off against Ben’s chest, to know that Richie was following him without question, and that Brandon had been abandoned mid-clinch. Of course, he did not spare a glance back, until he was well inside the backroom, and located a spare foot of wall, falling back against it, and Richie was dropping to his knees, unbuttoning Brian’s jeans while Brian put his hands in his back pockets and just waited to be serviced.

 

To say that this was a spectacularly bad blow job would be an understatement. It was painful. What the fuck? Brian thought. Technique was fine, no teeth, enough depth, lips not too tense, he wasn’t even using his hands so there was no over-squeezing…

 

Shit! Brian thought as a particularly uncomfortable sensation traveled from the base of his dick upward. He yanked his hands out of his pockets and put them on Richie’s head, pushing him away from his body.

 

“What the fuck…” Richie began, his voice angry as he took in Brian buttoning up his jeans. “What the fuck, Brian? I just walked away from a hot fuck to give you a blow job and you can’t even finish it?”

 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know it was going to suck. Not in the good way,” Brian answered, not looking at the man, but already halfway out of the room.

 

“You’re such an asshole!” Brian heard the assent of more than one other voice agreeing with Richie’s parting shot, but he didn’t care, he just didn’t care, and besides it didn’t matter as the lights and gyrating bodies greeted him as he passed through the doorway into the main room. He glanced around, looking for Michael, and was struck by how many people he did not know here. Sure, he knew the bartenders, but even the third man behind the bar was a stranger, and shit, half the guys jammed into the club were underage anyway. Where was Emmett? Ted, of course, no longer visited such establishments, except on business. Richie he knew, but the guy of course hated him now, and it wasn’t as if Richie were alone in that sentiment. Brian looked around, and wondered what time it was. His muscles felt suddenly heavy. Goddamn accident. He hadn’t been able to work out in so long. But, as Justin had pointed out to him just the other day, he had actually lost weight.

 

Stop. He wasn’t thinking of Justin. Just stop.

 

He made his way back over to where Michael stood, near the bar.

 

“That was beautiful!” Michael yelled over the music. “You should have seen the look on Brandon’s face!”

 

He really hadn’t given a shit. Hadn’t even thought of Brandon’s reaction, actually, only of Michael’s. “Where’s Ben?” Brian yelled over the music.

 

“Bathroom,” Michael yelled back.

 

“Backroom?” Brian teased. “And you’re not with him?”

 

“I’m not you!” Michael replied. He grinned up at Brian. “Some of us are less on display!”

 

“And, what, thank god for that?” Brian shot back. What the fuck was Mikey saying? Brian’s mouth snapped open, before he even realized what was going to come out of it. “Good for you, Mikey, out of the line of rapists. But what the fuck, someone’s gotta put on the show.”

 

Michael looked stricken. “Brian, I didn’t mean…”

 

“Yeah, I know. You want a drink?” Brian pushed away, to the bar, and ordered three beers.

 

When he came back, Michael still looked distressed. “Brian, I just, watching Brandon’s reaction… it was just funny, is all! And watching you just walk in and take that guy… it’s just. You know I love you. I just want to see you back to normal!”

 

“Normal,” Brian repeated. He handed Michael two beers. “You and Ben enjoy.” He scanned the immediate crowd. “You!” he barked at a young guy, maybe 25, standing a few feet away. The kid looked over, black hair swaying gently with his head’s movement. Very good looking, and those lips… “Me?”

 

“Yeah, you. You drive here?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Good, you’re coming home with me.”

 

“Awesome!” The kid pushed away from the table he was leaning against and moved toward Brian.

 

“Brian, do you think it’s a good idea…” Michael’s eyes were darting between Brian and the young man whose belt Brian had grabbed.

 

“What, got a problem, Mikey? Thought you liked me back in action.” He pulled the kid roughly behind him as he walked away.

 

He stopped by the coat check to pick up his leather jacket, ignoring the kid’s hand on his arm, shrugging the kid off as he shrugged his coat on. “Oh my god, you’re so hot,” the young man said as he was pulled out of the club. “Where are we going?”

 

“Your car?” Brian answered, barely looking at him, pausing on the steps to light up a cigarette.

 

“Okay, sure.” They walked down the side street toward the main drag, and Brian had the sudden memory of a night not too long ago, Justin behind him, worry raising his normally deep voice…

 

Stop.

 

“Here we are!” The guy owned a Saturn. Well, what the fuck, it would do. Brian slid into the passenger seat, closing the door as the guy started up the car.

 

“My name’s Hu…”

 

“Don’t care.”

 

“Um. Okay.” The sound of Radiohead filled the space around them. “Where we going?”

 

“You know where Tremont is?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Go there.”

 

But Brian couldn’t stop thinking of that night with Justin following him and his trick down the alley, just after Jason Kemp, just before Stockwell… When he rolled down the window to toss the cigarette out, he realized he had no idea where they were. “Where are we?” he asked.

 

“On our way to Tremont.”

 

“This isn’t the way.” They were moving through back streets, and no other vehicles were around. The buildings looming on either side of the street were dark, probably uninhabited. Was this the business section? None that Brian knew. The street they were on was narrow. Narrow and deserted.

 

“It’s a shortcut.”

 

“Where the fuck are we?”

 

“It’s fine, really, I know the way around here.”

 

Yeah, I bet you do, Brian thought.

 

“Turn the car around and go back to Liberty.” He would remain calm. This was perfectly normal. The guy was just a jerk, that’s all, he was just being an asshole.

 

“Hey, take it easy! really, it’s just a shortcut…”

 

“Stop the fucking car and let me out!” Brian shouted, and the wheel jumped in the man’s hand. Brian reached down to the car’s door handle.

 

“Hey, buddy, it’s fine! Look, I’ll turn around…” And he turned the car into an even narrower street, between two dark warehouses.

 

That was it for Brian. He popped the door open and jumped.

 

Brian heard the car’s brakes screech as he felt his back take the brunt of the fall, and he rolled, wrenching his shoulder, into the curb, striking his face against the stone, and stopping. He scrambled to his knees, pushing himself up and running into the dark alley where he couldn’t be seen. He heard the car stop, and suddenly accelerate, taking off, and then there was silence. He leaned back against the brick wall of the building, and slid down to sit.

 

Pain, again. Dammit, that hurt his shoulder. And his cheeked was scraped. But not too bad. He was bruised, but not ripped up. Not like last time.

 

Where the fuck was he? The alley created a wind tunnel, blowing the cold night air down the neck of his jacket. He pulled it closer around him. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and he could feel his hands chapping.

 

He sat there, huddling in on himself. Had that guy been about to…? No, probably not. Probably not. But Brian’s heart continued to race anyway, and the shivers were a bit extreme for the temperature. It wasn’t that cold.

 

Okay. That had been seriously fucked up.

 

Thank god Hu or whoeverthefuck that guy was, that he didn’t know him. Otherwise, this would be all over…

 

Shit, it already was all over.

 

Brian sat, his ass going numb on the concrete, shivering. What the fuck had just happened? Twenty minutes ago, he had been in Babylon, wanting to leave, and yeah, okay, that last trick was definitely about getting the fuck out of there without his exit looking like the retreat it really was, out of an environment that seemed suddenly tedious, and boring, and… what? but still, it had been warm, and familiar.

 

And now he was here. He had just jumped out of a car.

 

Damn, it was cold. And his cheek was stinging badly. He raised his hand to his face, feeling ragged flesh. Fuck. His upper back and arm had borne the brunt of the fall, and he could already sense the residual effects that the morning would bring. Brian’s eyes slid shut. He had a sudden, wrenching desire to be back at the loft.

 

He had just jumped out of a moving car.

 

Holy shit.

 

He wanted to be back at the loft, not here in this back alley, god knows where in this god-forsaken city. On his ass, shivering.

 

I’m worried… He heard the echo of Justin’s concern, voiced just the day before.

 

“Yeah,” he whispered into the night. “Yeah, Sunshine, so am I.”

 

Justin. He closed his eyes, and saw a picture of his lover bringing him pain pills in bed. In bed, in the loft, and god, he wished he were there right now, in that picture and out of this alley. Justin.

 

His eyes snapped open, and he pushed off the alley wall. Fuck this. What, was he going to sit here, shivering, feeling sorry for himself, when he could be somewhere far more desirable?

 

He stood, reaching as he did so into the inner pocket of his jacket to pull out his Blackberry. Yup, it hadn’t fallen out anywhere, but why should it? As soon as he found a street sign, he could call up a cab and get the fuck out of here. He walked slowly to the end of the building, peering carefully around the wall. No cars. Good. He glanced to the end of the alley, to the sign posted where the alley met the street. Bingo.

 

***

 

Daphne opened the door just when he wondered if he would have to knock his knuckles raw, and her face went from sleep-filled to angry. “Oh,” she said. “You.” She stepped aside, and got a good look as Brian walked past her. “Holy shit, Brian, what happened to you?”

 

“Which room is his?” Brian asked, ignoring her. Daphne pointed to the short hall shooting off the tiny living room. “Last one.”

 

He walked down the hall, and opened Justin’s door. The light from the living room momentarily illuminated a small room, clothes, books, sketch pads and sneakers littering the floor, and Justin curled up in the twin bed against the back wall. Brian closed the door behind him, and shrugged out of his leather jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He took off his boots and socks, pulled his t-shirt over his head, and his belt clunked onto the floor as he dropped his jeans, letting them all join the mess on the floor. He kept his briefs on.

 

The room was dark with the door closed, but Brian had seen where Justin lay sleeping. He took the three steps carefully, not wanting to trip over something on the floor and wake Justin up with a body falling on top of him. When his knees connected with the side of the bed, he leaned down, placing one hand on the mattress, and drew back the side of the covers. Justin grunted, and tried to regain the departing warmth over his back. Instead, Brian slipped into the space opened up, fitting himself against Justin’s spine. He reached over Justin’s rib cage, and felt down his forearm, to his hand, twining his fingers into Justin’s. He buried his head in the tender spot where Justin’s neck met his shoulder.

 

“Brian?” Justin’s voice was groggy, and he attempted to turn around, but Brian remained plastered firmly to his back. “Fuck.”

 

Brian remained silent.

 

“Why?” Justin’s voice broke the quiet. He had woken up quickly.

 

“Why did I throw you out? Or why am I here?”

 

“Either. Both.” Justin stopped trying to turn his body around, but he withdrew his hand, only to retwine their fingers so that their palms were clasping, and he could squeeze slightly without hurting Brian’s knuckles.

 

“I’m an asshole?”

 

“No. Really.”

 

“I really am an asshole.”

 

“Yeah, and you’re exhibiting that perfectly right now. Talk to me.”

 

Brian fell quiet again. “I don’t know if I can,” he finally said.

 

“Try.” Justin paused, then tried another tack. “Why are you here?”

 

“I went to Babylon.”

 

“And…”

 

“I picked up a trick.” No need to elaborate on how many.

 

“Pretend I’m saying ‘and’ every time you want to stop, okay? And…”

 

“I don’t think I’m okay.” Brian’s voice was practically swallowed in Justin’s skin.

 

Justin allowed a pause. Then he asked, gently, “What happened?”

 

Maybe the dark helped. Every other time he was with Justin, they were in rooms with lights: the blue lights of the backroom, the light over Brian’s bed, the lights from outside the giant windows in the loft. But never, never in the dark. Here, the window looked out on… nothing, apparently, and the night was moonless. Justin could not see him. There was something very comforting about that.

 

“I freaked out and jumped out of a trick’s car. While he was driving it.”

 

“WHAT?” Justin sat up, reached over Brian to a lamp on a side table Brian hadn’t noticed earlier, and snapped it on. Justin winced in the sudden light, blinking rapidly to see. “Sit up!”

 

Brian did so, reluctantly, and Justin bent forward, running his hands over Brian’s torso, and then grabbing his chin, turning his face to look at the fresh scrape on Brian’s cheek. “How are your ribs?”

 

“They’re fine, I landed on my back. I think I bruised my shoulder, nothing serious. My jacket took the brunt of it. Farewell, Hugo.”

 

Justin ignored that. “There’s a cut on your cheek. Stay here.” Justin flung back the covers and moved to stand up, when Brian saw an enormous bruise on his hip. It was purple and black, with yellow edging. Very ugly.

 

“Wait,” Brian said, grabbing Justin’s waist before he could pull on the underwear he had picked up from the floor. “Was that…”

 

“Yeah,” Justin answered. “I hit the ground kind of hard myself.”

 

Brian looked up, his lips trembling slightly. Oh, fuck, maybe he should have waited before coming here, he was just entirely too fucked up, and apparently even emotional. SHIT. The tightening in his chest that seemed to have moved up to his throat, causing him to shake slightly, and good god, what, tears? No, no, no, no. What the FUCK. Forcibly, he swallowed a few times, beating all that back, forcing it down. Nope, this was not allowed.

 

So there was Brian’s calling card, on Justin’s hip. And he’d said too many times in the past that sorry was bullshit. So how was he supposed to apologize?

 

“I know you’re sorry,” Justin filled in for him. “And yeah, sorry IS bullshit.” He walked out of the room, and when he came back, he had a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a box of band-aids, cotton balls and antibiotic ointment. He sat down on the bed, opened the hydrogen peroxide, wet a cotton ball and moved to wipe it across Brian’s face, but Brian reached out and took his wrist, stopping him.

 

“Justin, I didn’t mean…”

 

Justin smiled slightly, and tried to divert Brian’s attention. “After your little stunt tonight, we’re gonna have matching bruises.”

 

“Not quite. You didn’t put my bruises on me.” Brian’s voice was grim.

 

“Brian…”

 

“No, stop,” Brian interrupted, not wanting him to say anything to make this okay. “When I was a kid, I promised myself that I would never, never raise my hand to anyone that I…”

 

“…love…” Justin supplied, his voice low.

 

“Yeah.” Brian had been looking at Justin’s hand, and he looked up. “I do, Justin. You’ve been good to me during all this, and I haven’t deserved it.”

 

“Yes, Brian, yes, you do.” Justin gently detached his wrist from Brian’s grip, and proceeded to clean the scrape on his face, which had traces of the street dirt still in it.

 

“I’m not putting a band-aid on my face.”

 

“If you don’t, it’ll scar. Besides, technically, I’m putting it on.”

 

“You really are the good little wife.”

 

Justin smiled, and corrected, “I thought it was the ‘good little woman.’ Big difference you know.” Turning serious, he said, “I’m not going to argue how taking care of each other is not a gendered activity. Or about your weird need to label everything. ‘Woman,’ ‘man,’ ‘muncher,’ ‘cocksucker…’”

 

“I like labels.”

 

“I’m aware. I’m not a big fan of them myself.”

 

“I know.”

 

Brian let Justin finish without further protest.

 

“There,” Justin said when he had the bandage in place. “You look very roughed up, very butch.”

 

“Isn’t that a label?” Brian half-smiled up at him.

 

“Just for you.” Justin kissed him on the forehead.

 

“Why are you doing this?” Brian asked quietly.

 

“Because you jumped out of a car and landed on your face?”

 

“No,” Brian replied. “I mean, you should yell at me and toss me out on my ass.”

 

“You need me right now.” Justin put his finger on the bandage on Brian’s face. “Brian. You were assaulted. And everything you’re going through, from what I understand, is a normal process. You think I’m going to say no when you need me?”

 

Brian shook his head. “I don’t know.” He looked away.

 

The light snapped off, and Justin leaned on Brian’s body, so Brian ended up on his back on the mattress, Justin fitting himself into his side. “Honestly? I’d have been back in this room and out of your way the second you made out with that guy in front of me, normally. But this isn’t normal. Same way, normally, you would have tossed me out on my ass the second I came crawling after you if I hadn’t been bashed.”

 

“Actually, I kind of did.”

 

Justin sighed. “No, you kind of didn’t. Anyway, my point is, life happens. And we have to accommodate each other. And besides, I love you too. So, there’s that. ”

 

“If I hadn’t been… raped… you would have left me before last night?”

 

“I didn’t leave you, you threw me out. But if you hadn’t been hurt, I don’t think you’d be acting like this.”

 

“Psychology 101 again.”

 

“Hey, you’re paying the bill, it’s only fair you get the benefit of my higher education.”

 

 

Silence. Brian put his hand on Justin’s pelvis, and stroked the bruised flesh gently. He said, “The police want me to come in and look at mug shots.”

 

“And you haven’t yet.”

 

Silence.

 

“Is that why you’ve been hiding in the loft for the last week?”

 

“I haven’t been hiding.”

 

“…”

 

“I was resting.”

 

“But not tired enough to skip clubbing and fucking around tonight.”

 

Brian pushed his nose into Justin’s neck. “That wasn’t…”

 

“Wasn’t what? What?”

 

“Okay, maybe I was worked up. At what Mikey said. And at you, too. I know you hate all the tricking.”

 

“I don’t… okay, I’m not a fan. It’s just… exposing yourself that way to total strangers makes you vulnerable. I know you say it’s part of the thrill, riding that edge, but, maybe I’m too conventional, it scares the shit out of me. Maybe I’m just being selfish, I like having you around. And yeah, I hate it that you need to find other people to satisfy you. It makes me feel inadequate.”

 

“You’re not. It’s not about you.”

 

“I know that. But I don’t feel it.”

 

Brian put his arm over Justin’s waist, and squeezed the closest ass cheek his hand came to.

 

“You should go look at mug shots.”

 

“What’s the point? I don’t really remember what the guy looks like.”

 

“You might, if you looked.”

 

“Like it would do any good.” The agitation was clear in Brian’s voice, and in the way he took his hands off Justin, and pulled back, trying to see Justin’s face, to read him. But it was too dark.

 

Justin took his hand again. “You might help stop the guy.”

 

“My days of public service are over. That Stockwell thing was only to keep the backroom open. For ME.”

 

“Fine,” Justin moved his body closer into Brian, fitting back into his side. “Maybe you can do this for me. If you can’t say you’re sorry about putting your hands on me and causing this bruise, how about going to look at mug shots as a form of penance?”

 

Brian started laughing. “Wow, the Catholic card on top of plain old guilt! You really want me to do this, huh?”

 

“It’s not just what I want, Brian, that guy is dangerous. Yeah, okay, maybe I shouldn’t have come at you from that particular angle…”

 

“No, you’d understand if I refused. You wouldn’t push me…” Brian’s lips were muffled on Justin’s shoulder.

 

Justin was beginning to see that maybe pushing Brian was not a bad thing, but he didn’t say that. He managed to ignore the sensation flooding down his body from Brian’s contact with his skin, enough to simply say, “I’ll feel better if this guy is caught. If you help, you might feel more better too.”

 

“Psychology 101 again.” Brian was quiet for a moment, then he said, “I know one way I’ll feel better, right now.” His hand moved to Justin’s back, and slid under the elastic band of his briefs, cupping his ass cheek and stroking it.

 

“Are you sure?” Justin asked.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Brian answered, his mouth moving toward Justin’s voice, until he caught the other man’s lips and held them, gently, between his own. He pulled away. “Are you?”

 

“Yes,” Justin replied. “God, yes.” His cock was already filling; Brian felt it against his stomach. His own was oddly flaccid, but felt warm, with the stirrings of desire in his loins, and he continued to kiss and lick Justin’s throat, and shoulders, feeling Justin writhe against him. He began to respond, the need rising up in him, meeting those of the body against his.

 

“Justin,” he asked, “When did you do this last?”

 

Justin took a deep breath. “Last time was you.”

 

He’d been waiting. Brian didn’t need to ask, to know. Patient, the kid was patient, a lot more than Brian ever would be. It was probably a good thing for Brian that he was.

 

Justin was not exactly patient at the moment, however. Brian heard a drawer open, Justin fumbling around, and then the familiar feel of a condom and lube pressed into his hand. He wasted no time in slipping a condom on himself, rolling Justin onto his stomach, preparing him as quickly as possible, and easing into Justin’s body. Justin’s legs spread out to accommodate the press of the other man’s body into his own, as Brian moved his chest and stomach into Justin’s back, his thighs contacting, bracketed by Justin’s legs, held by them. For the first time all night, Brian relaxed, sinking down into the welcoming flesh, feeling himself surrounded with a sensation he could find nowhere else, needing more than the physical sensations, needing confirmation of the emotional reassurance he felt washing over him, delivered in the body of this man who loved him, this man he loved.

 

 

Justin woke up, and for a moment he had no idea where he was. That Brian’s body was on top of him was not a problem; the problem was that his body was on top of a really narrow and lumpy bed. It took him a moment to remember: Brian coming to his apartment, Brian making love to him. Brian jumping out of a moving car. All the events of the last two days rushed through his consciousness, chasing away the easy comfort his body had woken into.

 

Justin’s eyelids snapped open, and he glanced down to see the top of Brian’s head. An aimless tune vibrated on his skin as Brian hummed against his sternum.

 

“What are you doing?” Justin asked, his voice groggy with departing sleep.

 

“Waiting for you to wake up.” Brian kept his head down, and Justin felt his tongue trace around his left nipple. He shivered, despite the warmth of the body pinning him in the narrow bed.

 

“Brian.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Look up.”

 

Brian hesitated, and Justin wondered about that. When Brian raised his head, he saw that the arrogance he had come to expect radiating from Brian’s face was absent. He needed to shave, and his eyes were heavy, but he looked up with a gentle caress in his gaze, and an oddly shy look that reminded Justin with a sudden stab of Gus.

 

“I want to tell you what happened.”

 

“I want to take your dick in my mouth, trace that big vein with my tongue and swallow your cum.”

 

Well, that distracted said dick, but not the rest of him. Not too much, anyway. Justin caught Brian’s jaw just as his arms began to shift downward. “Wait, Brian. I need to tell you what happened.”

 

Brian hesitated, and then nodded. He let his weight settle back down where it was, but shifted to the side, his back coming up against the wall, propping himself on one hand, the other coming down around Justin’s waist and pulling their lower bodies together. Justin wrapped his legs around Brian’s, propped himself up in a similar pose, and placed his other hand on Brian’s shoulder.

 

“I called Carl, not Deb, but she was there. I was so scared…”

 

“You don’t need to do this.” Brian’s fingers found his waist, sliding over his hip to the tense muscle at his lower back, and made small circles on the skin there.

 

“I want to.” But he hesitated. Brian waited. “I was so scared,” Justin repeated.

 

“I imagine my bleeding all over the loft was a bit much to deal with.”

 

“What… what?” He’d been so focused on what he was trying to say, but finding so difficult, that Brian’s words disrupted his focus, and threw him off.

 

“Before. At the loft. I vaguely remember getting into the shower. I don’t remember anything after that.”

 

“Oh.” Justin paused, searching Brian’s face. Brian’s eyes were closed to listen. “Do you want to talk about that?”

 

“Whatever you want.”

 

“I want to do what you want me to do. What’s right for you.”

 

Brian’s eyelids snapped open at that. “Those are two different things, and besides, I don’t want you to do that at all. No one likes a martyr. Me, least of all. Tell me what you want to tell me, and give me the courtesy of letting me react to it.”

 

“Oh.” Justin thought about that for a moment. “Fine, I think we can skip the whole 911 thing then.” Brian’s mouth quirked, although Justin didn’t see what was so funny. He ignored that, and went on. “I was waiting to hear from the doctors after they’d wheeled you off, I had no idea whether you were going to actually, um, get through okay.” His hand shifted into Brian’s hair, so grateful he had this head to touch, pulling the soft hair through his fingers. Brian arched his neck slightly, as Justin started massaging his scalp. “This woman started talking to me, I didn’t know at first that she was the police.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“That Clark woman.”

 

“Oh. I like her.”

 

“Yeah, you like women who aren’t women.”

 

“She’s a woman, she’s just not particularly feminine. Now who’s labeling?”

 

“Shit. You’re right.”

 

Brian’s eyes opened, to crinkle at the corners as he watched Justin try to fit that reversal into his self-ordered world. He leaned forward, and set his mouth upon Justin’s arm, trying to seriously listen even as his body sank into the helpless pleasure just being here afforded him. That night seemed very far away.

 

“Anyway, she didn’t tell me who she was, and she kept trying to get me to tell her what had happened, what our relationship was, and I realized after babbling for a while that something just wasn’t right. And, Jesus, everything was so fucking off about that whole night that she just tipped me right over the edge. I got her to admit she was a police person, and, I mean, with the whole Stockwell thing, I had no idea what their agenda was going to be, for you, or me, or what she was doing there at all. She wasn’t asking about any attacker, it was weird, she was just poking around at my story, and I didn’t know anything, I would have told her anything she wanted to hear about what happened to you but I didn’t know, and she kept pushing to hear something, and I was really confused and freaked out, and I had to talk to someone from the police that I thought would be on our side, so I called Carl.”

 

“And he told Deb.” Brian lifted his head to look at Justin’s face again. Justin nodded.

 

“Carl told me I was an automatic suspect. So then I thought they’d arrest me and take me away from the hospital, and I wouldn’t know what was going on. I had to stay there, I mean, leaving was not an option.”

 

“Oh, Christ, great, like you needed that.”

 

Justin ran his hand down Brian’s back, soothing the muscles that had tensed up. “Yeah, but I shouldn’t have called Carl at all, I just felt so fucking terrified and confused, and, and…”

 

“Alone.” Brian watched him. “You did nothing wrong.”

 

“I tried to get Debbie to promise she’d keep it confidential, what had happened…”

 

A snort was the only reply he got to that.

 

“But I should have told you.”

 

Brian pulled back slightly. “Yeah, you should have told me. Anything else you should tell me?” He saw the hesitation, and the way those dark blue eyes cut away from him. “Justin.”

 

“I’m suing Chris Hobbes.”

 

Like ice water down his back, the chill seized Brian by the skull and ran down the length of his spine. “Since when?” he asked carefully, unsure of what to do with this new information.

 

“I had two years to file a civil suit, and Mel convinced me, finally, to file it before the limit ran out this June. We filed last January.”

 

Brian didn’t reply, just stared at the wall across the room. Justin had painted a huge mural of impressionistic body shapes dancing across the space, a big sky above them with disco balls hanging from the clouds, almost indistinguishable from the sun at the center.

 

“You had enough to worry about, Stockwell, losing all your money, getting Kinnetik up and running…”

 

“What’s it called?”

 

“What?” What the fuck? Justin thought. “You think I named my lawsuit?”

 

“No, the mural. That’s fucking amazing.”

 

“Oh, that,” Justin dismissed, glancing across the room. “‘Forever Young.’ I just play with that, it’s not serious. Daphne says I get to cover the deposit she’s going to lose from it.”

 

“Or, the landlord can pay to have his apartment’s value skyrocket with an original Taylor gracing his dump.”

 

Justin snorted. “Yeah, right,” but he hadn’t even finished speaking before Brian rolled him onto his back and began kissing down his chest. “Now, there’s a vein somewhere on your body that wants me to lick it…”

 

Justin moaned, already hard.

 

***

 

Victim Impact Statement, Brian A. Kinney

 

Brian sat up straight and looked down at the blank sheet of paper, and then around the room he was sitting in. Great, he was in an interrogation room. The big mirror, as usual, drew his gaze, but he turned away when he realized he looked like shit. And, having seen one too many crime dramas, he was sure someone was standing behind the glass, watching him.

 

“You can bring this home and do it there, Brian,” Kim had told him, handing the form to him.

 

“No, I want to get this over with. Give me a pencil and a table.” He wanted this to stay inside the walls of the precinct, in this ugly place. He did not want to bring these thoughts out into the world with him, where he could delay, and think, and have them seep outward, away from this piece of paper. He wanted them contained in these walls, pinned onto this piece of paper, and he wanted to leave them behind when he left.

 

So Kim put him in this room, with its ugly grey walls, floor, table, ceiling, and hard metal chairs, and the mirror that kept drawing his eye like a magnet.

 

 

 

1) I haven’t been able to work. I own my own business, and the product (advertising) is sex, basically. There is at least one account I have not been able to touch because of its explicit nature, and this has affected my relationship not only with my clients, but my employees as well. After trying to deal with this situation at work for a few weeks, last week I gave up entirely and just stayed at home for an entire week, not working at all. I can’t imagine doing that if I were in my normal state.

 

 

 

Knocking on the door of the loft. Brian had been idly glancing through The Narrative of Frederick Douglass, which Justin had been raving over. “Finally, a good book to read for our American Lit class!” Brian realized upon sitting down with his cup of coffee and spying the book, that Justin had left the text here instead of taking it to school, where it would no doubt be missed. He considered bringing the book down to PIFA, since he really didn’t have anything else to do, but then he would have to put on real clothes, and go outside.

 

He rose to answer the door, wearing nothing but a pair of sweats. When he pulled the door open, there stood Ted, holding a big portfolio case. His eyes flew down to Brian’s side, where the scar from his operation had finally lost its angry red cast, but, nonetheless, slashed its way across Brian’s mid-section. It had become less defined since the operation, but was still emphatically present.

 

“Theodore.”

 

Ted yanked his eyes back up to Brian’s face. “Brian! You look…” infinitesimal pause, “good!”

 

“Cut the shit, Ted, what do you want?” Brian turned around and walked back to the sofa, not to sit, but to grab a cigarette, if only to have something to do with his hands.

 

“Uh, yeah… Can we go over to the dining room table? I have to show you the SpyWhip ads we’re going with.”

 

“Why didn’t you just email them?” Brian asked, following Ted across the loft, and standing back while Ted opened the portfolio, and lay the boards out across the table. Following Ted. Great. The world was fucking ending

 

Ted stepped back, and gestured Brian forward to look. “I did. You didn’t answer.”

 

“So you showed up here.” Good for Ted.

 

“Yeah, well, I just…”

 

Brian stopped pretending to look at the boards. He stepped away, and watched Ted struggle to figure out what to say as he stared not at Brian, but at his own work.

 

“Ted,” Brian interrupted. Ted’s head snapped up, as he realized Brian was not focused on the advertisements. “I know you know.”

 

“Uh, um, well…”

 

“It’s easier to just try and carry on with discussing the ad instead of telling me I’m completely fucked up and causing problems for the work, isn’t it?” Brian crossed his arms over his bare chest, and stared at Ted, wondering how the other man was going to react.

 

Ted sagged slightly, and placed his hands on the back of one of the chairs that surrounded the table, leaning his weight on it, and finally looking up at his boss. “Yeah. Brian, I am really sorry…”

 

“The truth is,” Brian continued, ignoring that last comment, “I can’t really deal with this campaign right now. That’s why I gave it to you. That’s why I have you, and everyone who works at Kinnetik, so that if I fall out of the universe, my baby will be nurtured nonetheless. Besides,” he finished, lifting an eyebrow, “if the ad run is a huge success, you get the credit, and if it tanks, you crash and burn, and I get to fire your ass. Maybe that’ll work off some of what Justin calls my ‘angst.’” He bit off the final ‘t’ like a cracking whip, and Ted actually laughed. Not a lot, but he laughed just a bit.

 

“It’s good, Bri, I swear to god,” Ted replied, collecting the boards and shoving them back into the case.

 

“Don’t call me Bri, loser. Now get back to work.”

 

At the doorway, Ted paused, and turned around to look, really look, back at his friend.

“Brian, are you going to be okay?”

 

“Show me the ad again in a week and I’ll let you know.”

 

“You’ll be back next week?”

 

Brian hesitated.

 

“Take as long as you like, Brian.”

 

“I’ll be back next week.”

 

“Kinnetik can survive another week without you. Two, even. After that, it implodes and sinks like the house in Poltergeist.”

 

“I’ll look at the ad next week,” Brian finally answered, suppressing a smile at Ted’s analogy. “Thursday. In the conference room. Schedule it with Cynthia.”

 

“We’ll have this running in the trades by then.”

 

“So, by then you’ll know if you still have a job. Good-bye, Theodore.” Slamming the door behind Ted was not nearly as satisfying as Brian had thought it would be. But, he had to admit, the complete lack of sympathy, outside that one bullshit ‘sorry,’ had been a lot better than he expected.

 

Fucking Schmidt.

 

 

 

2) I used to enjoy sex without thinking about it at all. It’s taken on a whole new facet, a horrifying one. I’ve become viscerally aware of how destructive sex can be; and this incident has led me to turn it on myself, like some kind of weapon. My partner, who does not have this problem, is probably the one paying the most for this. Not just through a lack of sex, although there’s that, but even more, by having to defuse the sexual grenades I’ve been throwing at him since this attack.

 

 

 

“I want you to fuck me.”

 

Justin looked up sharply from the graphic image he’d been torturing for the past two hours.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me. It’s nothing you haven’t heard a thousand times before. Not necessarily from me, but I trust you understand the request.” Brian leaned toward Justin, his face only inches away. “Now, shut down your homework, come to bed and fuck me good.” He turned and walked away, shrugging out of his shirt, and unbuttoning his pants, which he slithered out of as he slid onto the bed. Slithered and slid, yeah. Justin liked that move. He lay, naked, face down, legs spread, face pressed into the pillow.

 

“Brian.” Justin’s voice was quiet, but at least it was right next to him, as Justin had followed him and was sitting down on the bed. But he sat next to his head, not his ass, where Brian wanted him. “Look at me.”

 

Brian raised his ass instead, coming to his knees and letting them slide wide apart, his shoulders sinking into the mattress, his head buried in the pillow. He reached back, ran a hand down his back side, felt his butt cheek under his own palm, his fingers pressing at his asshole. “Come on, Sunshine, you know you want to.”

 

“No, I really don’t. Brian. Seriously. Look at me.”

 

Brian slowly let his hand relax, slipping away from his body, his arm falling down to the mattress. He felt Justin’s hand on his back, smoothing the skin, gently but firmly pushing his body back down onto the bed.

 

Justin waited a moment for Brian to face him. When he wouldn’t, Justin said, “Tell me why you want to do this.”

 

Brian kept his face pressed against the bed material, hidden. “Sounds like you already know. Why don’t you tell me.”

 

Justin’s hand continued to stroke Brian’s back. “You’re trying to prove that the attack didn’t affect you. I’m not going to participate in that. You’ll have to find someone else to help you out with that.”

 

Brian turned his head to stare up at Justin. Finally. “You think I’d ask anyone else?”

 

“I can count the number of times you’ve let me make love to you on one hand. I think about those times, more than you’d imagine. It’s completely selfish of me to not do this. I am not going to let what topping you means to me get mixed up with something that caused you that kind of pain. You’re not going to be thinking of anything except my dick when it’s inside you. That’s crass, I know, but that’s how I feel. I’m going to wait until you want me, and nothing else.”

 

Brian rolled onto his side, bringing his legs together. He took a deep breath. “Do you miss my sex drive?”

 

“No. Brian, no. You’ve been really hurt, and you need to heal. Reinflicting the original pain on yourself…” Justin paused, then continued excitedly. “You’re trying to relive the original situation so this time you can come out controlling it. Actually asking for it is a way of reconfiguring the original attack.”

 

Brian groaned, and grabbed the duvet, slipping his feet under it and drawing it up to his waist. “You know, it’s almost worth going into therapy to get you to stop analyzing me. I could say, my therapist says you’re full of shit.” The look on Justin’s face made him pause. “What?” He sat up, and leaned back against the wall.

 

Justin curled up into his side, burying his head on Brian’s chest. “Kim, that police woman, recommended this guy at the GMHA who I could talk to if I needed. So, about a week ago, I was really fucked up about everything and went to talk to him. He turned out to be more interested in trying to get me to push you into going public to protect the community, than listening to me trying to deal with what happened.”

 

“Who’d you talk to?”

 

“Guy named Ray.”

 

“Tedeschi?”

 

“You know him?” Justin lifted his head to stare up at Brian, meeting his gaze.

 

“Yeah,” Brian answered, leaning down and kissing Justin on the forehead. “He’s one of those politically correct assholes who’s willing to sacrifice every individual out there for the good of his ideology.”

 

“That’s stupid.”

 

“His mission of making the world a better place for homos – a better world in HIS image of it, of course – has taken over his compassion for anyone but those who agree with his design.”

 

“Oh.” Justin absorbed that. “Do you think he’ll spread around what I told him?”

 

“No, he’d lose his license – I’d make sure of that, in fact – and he’s not that stupid. But he may try to recontact you and follow up with what he wants. Just ignore him, he’s more inappropriate than dangerous. He keeps his observations one-on-one; too bad for him nobody else has the same confidentiality riders he does. Everybody knows about that guy.”

 

“Then why would Kim recommend him?”

 

“Because Ray’s agenda dovetails hers. If the word gets out, they’re more likely to catch the guy. They all have their own objectives, and it isn’t necessarily taking care of you. Or me. They want this guy, they want to prevent other attacks. Period. If you want a good therapist, let me find one for you.”

 

Justin was quiet for a moment, his fingers wandering to caress the skin around Brian’s scar. Brian shivered, and he took Justin’s hand to hold it still. Justin said, “I know, I have to start taking care of myself, not looking at other people like they care about what I do, or how I feel. I need to stop thinking people have my interests at heart.”

 

“You can rely on people, just not those people. You’re doing fine. Besides, you’re taking care of me superbly. And is anything else more important, really?”

 

At that, Justin smirked, and kissed the underside of Brian’s jaw. “Of course not. So, are you going to actually go talk to someone about your destructive impulses?”

 

Brian smiled back, and shook his head. “Now, why would I do that when I have you?”

 

 

 

 

3) My best friend, who’s been there for me since we were 14, doesn’t get this at all. I don’t blame him – but I…

 

 

Brian put the pen down, and stared at the sentence he had just written. Fuck. How did he describe this? How did he get these words past that tightness in his chest? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 

This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to do this. It was too hard. And he didn’t really know what the fuck he was saying anyway.

 

 

 

…but I can’t help resenting that he wants me to act like the attack never happened. I agree with him, I’d like nothing more than to put it in the past. But I just can’t, and thinking that he wants me to do that has put a major rift between us. Nothing is the same for me – everything has changed, it’s as if I’ve been knocked off this self-imposed throne into a realm of shit I’d managed to stay out of up to the attack. I don’t blame my friend – but I’ve been avoiding him. I used to really feel that no matter what, he’ll understand me. That confidence and trust has been ripped away by this experience. I used to think I could take anything to him. Now I feel the exact opposite, and I hate myself for being the one responsible for destroying something that was so meaningful to us both. Like I’ve lost something that still means the world to me.

 

 

 

 

“Brian, are you okay?”

 

“Goddamn it, I wish people would stop asking me that!”

 

“Sorry! It’s just, we’re concerned.”

 

“I’m fine. Just fucking order, Mikey, and Emmett can entertain us with the story of his three thousandth boyfriend of the week, and everything will be just perfectly fucking normal and then I won’t have to tell you that everything’s fine because it just will be!”

 

Debbie had heard Brian’s annoyance from clear across the diner, and she hurried over to the booth where the three men sat. “Hey, boys, you ready to order?”

 

Michael turned to her, his eyes swimming in hurt tears. He managed to choke out, “Yeah, burger, please.”

 

“This is Kiki’s area, isn’t it Deb?” Brian’s tone remained hard, and Debbie glanced from him to Michael.

 

“Yeah, but you seemed ready to order and she’s busy.” She brought her pen up. “What’ll it be, Brian?”

 

“Well,” Brian snapped, pushing the menu across the table top toward her, “Since you seem so prepared to take on work that really isn’t yours, I’ll have grilled chicken and vegetables with penne. And a cup of coffee.”

 

Debbie narrowed her eyes. “You know, maybe just once you should be grateful that other people are willing to come help you out. This is my diner, I’m the one who works here, not you, and I’ll decide what my place is. So be grateful.”

 

Michael stared at his mother, shocked, then looked back to Brian. Emmett’s head was similarly jerking between the two.

 

Brian seemed about to answer before he stopped himself, and shook his head. “You know what, cancel that. I’m not really hungry. Get out of the way, Michael, I’m going home.”

 

“But we’re going to Woody’s!” Michael answered, scrambling out of the way as Brian pushed past him.

 

“Not anymore,” Brian tossed off, standing up, pushing past Deb, and stalking out of the diner. Behind him, he heard Michael wail, “Brian!” in his wake. But he just couldn’t care.

 

 

 

 

4) Last major point, it’s physically very painful. My ribs haven’t totally healed, and the doctors say they may give me phantom pain my whole life. I’m a work out fanatic, and have had to stop exercising altogether while I heal. I have a gigantic scar on my abdomen. I know that’s the least of my problems, the scar. That’s what they tell me, but I worked very hard to achieve my physical condition and it’s probably beyond me forever now. Time will never get rid of these scars, never get rid of the physical ache the doctors say may plague me for the rest of my life. Maybe it’s just that that visible scar seems the focus of the residuals of all of it - my life will never be the same, and I’ll never be allowed to forget.

 

 

 

 

 

On the couch, Justin read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, as Brian thumbed through PC World magazine, checking out the placement of the SpyWhip ad.

 

“Justin.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I gave a statement to the police. About how this has affected me.”

 

“I’m really proud of you, Brian. Did you look through the mug shots, too?”

 

Brian snorted, and kicked Justin’s foot with his own. “Tomorrow.” Justin leaned back into his end of the couch and smiled.

 

 

“Bri, you are not going to believe this!”

 

Brian looked up from downloading the reports the clipping service had just sent him.

 

“You actually fucked more than one man in 24 hours? Oh, wait, sorry, that was rude. You fucked ONE man in 24 hours.” Brian smirked, taking in the expression on Ted’s face.

 

It didn’t last long; Ted broke into a gentle smile after the initial shock. “Well, it’s good to see you up to your old bitchiness,” he replied. “And I’ll have you know that I have fucked far more than 2 men in a short period of time. Of course, I was tweaked out of my mind. And I don’t remember it. And, I didn’t actually consent…”

 

That wiped Brian’s smirk clean. He pressed his lips together, schooling his face to careful neutrality. “If you don’t remember, how do you know?”

 

“It was caught on video tape. Lucky me, huh?”

 

Brian remained still, watching Ted’s gaze drift somewhere over the wall. Ted snapped back into the present, and offered a weak smile. “That’s what got me into rehab. So, I guess, the shock of seeing myself on screen like that, knowing what happened to me…” He shrugged.

 

“Are you trying to tell me that being raped was fine because of the lessons you learned?” Brian’s voice dripped sarcasm.

 

“No! No, of course not.”

 

“Good. So…”

 

“…but my life is a lot better now than it was then. Hell, it’s better now than it was even before the drugs.”

 

“Did you want something, Theodore?”

 

Ted knew the tone. “Oh! Right, you’ll never guess!”

 

Brian pushed his chair back, stretched his legs out, and folded his arms over his chest. “Since I’m the owner and CEO of this little endeavor and you are the lowly worker, I would say I don’t have to guess. I would say you’re going to tell me, or I’m going to fire your ass.” CFO, lowly worker. Whatever.

 

“Bri, if you only knew how attractive you make the whole embezzlement/Brazil thing sound sometimes… Okay, okay!” Ted actually laughed, holding his hands up. “I was just contacted by Randall Hicks…”

 

“I’m assuming he found our campaign brilliant? Although, knowing that man’s taste…” Brian shuddered, remembering the outfit Hicks had worn to their last meeting. Like Justin on a bad day. Or a day when he was pissed off at Brian, and determined to offend him. Brian’s mind skittered away. No need to punish himself.

 

Kinnetik had gone with the Spanish Inquisition theme for the SpyWhip ad, and Brian knew it was good. Really, really good. Ted had let Andrea keep in the hanging victim, and of course it had been the right thing to do. Most importantly, Brian could look at the ad critically, and see its effect, the tiny imperfections that wouldn’t have happened if he’d been on top of things.

 

So here he was, back at work, but energized by it again, such a relief! Everything was running behind, and he dove back in. Justin was back to looking worried, but it was only because Justin thought Brian was working himself too hard.

 

“Brian,” he had breathed in bed the night before after Brian had dragged himself in around midnight. “You’re still not 100%. You need to take better care of yourself.”

 

“Fine,” Brian had answered. “Call me after nine and tell me to get my ass home.” What the fuck had he been thinking? Or, not thinking, more to the point. It must have been the post-coital mellow thing. He vowed to make sure Justin was incapable of speech at that critical period from here on out.

 

Justin hadn’t really responded to that, anyway; he’d merely shrugged and said, “I think I’ll just start staying home with Daphne. I won’t worry that way.”

 

Yeah. Justin, not worry. He realized he was grinning slightly, and Ted was looking at him funny. Brian scowled, and said, “Yeah, so what does the little rat boy want now?”

 

“Actually, he wants to retire to the Bahamas.” Ted’s grin spread right across his face. “Semantic Systems bought him out.”

 

Brian’s breath stopped. “How much?”

 

“One hundred fifty million. Or thereabouts.” A small giggle escaped.

 

“And how much do we get of that?”

 

“Twenty percent.”

 

Twenty percent of a hundred and fifty million. Brian stared, and then he felt his mouth twitch at the left side, uncontrollably. He finally just stopped fighting and let himself laugh.

 

“HOLY FUCK!!!!”

 

“Yeah, not a bad return for a seventy-five thou outlay, huh?”

 

“Hey, guys, y’all seem happy.” Cynthia walked in with a sheaf of documents, which she proceeded to drop on Brian’s desk. “We’re all expecting big holiday bonuses, you know.”

 

“How do you know…” Ted gaped at her.

 

“She’s a bat. Sonic hearing,” Brian answered, picking up the papers.

 

“Nah, I bug the office,” Cynthia shot back. “You’ve got a call on line three.”

 

Brian raised an eyebrow. “I thought I wanted my calls held.”

 

“Except for a certain blond…” Ted put in, then wished he’d shut up with the look Brian shot him.

 

“Even him.”

 

“Unless it’s an emergency,” Cynthia added with a grin.

 

“Funny how much of an emergency a decent blow job becomes at certain times of the day,” Ted put in.

 

“Oh, the stories I could tell…” Cynthia went on.

 

Brian opened his mouth to say something cutting, but Cynthia cut him off instead. “It’s Don. Your Mercedes is in.”

 

She sure knew how to distract him, Ted thought, watching Brian practically lunge for the phone. Yep, dangle the luxuries and the man jumps. I’m gonna have to remember that, Ted thought.

 

***

 

Justin’s cell phone rang as he got out of class. He grinned as he noted the caller I.D. “Hey!”

 

“Hey, yourself. I have the car service waiting for you at the Administration building, right out front. Go and get in it.” Brian hung up.

 

Justin groaned. Damn it! He and Brian were going to have to have That Talk again. Justin could feel his blood rise, and he muttered, “God damn it, Kinney! How many times do I have to tell you, ask me first! Or even, make sure I’m available! I’m not your fucking puppet, what, just pull a string and bam! I jump…” He stopped muttering when he noticed the funny looks he was getting for talking to himself as he stomped across campus. Toward the Administrative building. Of course.

 

***

 

He got out of the car at the Mercedes dealership, and thanked the driver before closing the door behind him. The man drove off. Justin walked toward the building, sighing as he looked at the beautiful cars inside. One day, he thought. For now, Brian just wanted to show off his new toy. Well, fine, Justin thought, he deserves a nice car. Especially after what happened to his last one.

 

“Justin! Over here!”

 

Justin turned toward Brian’s voice, and saw him leaning up against a midnight blue CLK350 coupe. He walked over, smiling. It was a gorgeous car, classic Mercedes lines, two doors, although Justin was a bit surprised at the color; dark blue didn’t seem much like Brian. And a back seat. Definitely not Brian… well, maybe for putting the front seats down. He placed his hand on the car’s hood, and let his fingertips trail down the smooth metal as he walked toward the slim man whose lines perfectly accented the car’s. “Nice car, Brian,” he said. “Is this what you dragged me out of class for?”

 

“Your class was over at four,” Brian responded, grabbing him by the belt loop of his jeans and pulling him in to kiss, leisurely.

 

“Brian!” Justin gasped, pulling back. He got nervous when Brian touched him, outside of Liberty Avenue and its environs. Yet another leftover from the bashing. Fucking Hobbes.

 

“They’re not going to care, I just paid cash down,” Brian laughed at him, but he pulled back, and settled for burying a hand in Justin’s hair, tugging slightly and letting the strands slide through his fingers.

 

“It’s a nice car,” Justin continued, pulling away, and looking at the vehicle, peering in through the windows to the front seat.

 

“Glad you like it, since that’s not the car I picked up for myself. Meet your new car, Sunshine.”

 

Shock. Utter. Shock. Justin froze for just a moment, while his brain shorted. Brian bought him a car. Brian bought me a car! His stomach shot up into his throat at the thought, Brian bought me a car! Excited, oh, yes. Stomach flipping with the knowledge of this declaration. Brian bought me an expensive car. He loves me. He soooo loves me!!!

 

And then, of course, his brain kicked in for real. “You bought me a car? Brian, you bought me a MERCEDES?”

 

“Well…” Brian’s face screwed up as he considered how to answer.

 

“God damn it, Brian, you keep telling me that I’m not your fucking wife but then you treat me like a kept man! It’s bad enough you’re paying for school…”

 

Brian grabbed him and kissed him hard, then pulled back, and said, “Shut up. I need a car with a back seat at my disposal. And, don’t make the obvious joke. If it makes you feel better, your name’s on the title because it’s easier to deal with the insurance that way.”

 

“No it isn’t,” Justin scoffed, but Brian went on as if he hadn’t said anything.

 

“…besides, I bought this one just this afternoon…” He kicked the side of the car lightly with his boot as Justin winced… “off the floor. That’s my car, the one I ordered weeks ago.” He finished with a smirk, nodding down the parking lot, as the salesman drove up to where they stood. He parked, and exited from the deep red SL600 roadster. Justin gaped at the gorgeous, two-seat convertible.

 

“It’s burgundy,” Brian informed him as he sauntered over to the car, and touched its hood reverently. “Burgundy.”

 

Justin just gaped. “You bought two cars?”

 

Brian tore his gaze from the car and glanced back at Justin. “I told you, we really do need one with a back seat, and the roadster doesn’t have that. And, since you’re the king of the back seats…”

 

“That’s King of Babylon, thank you very much,” Justin corrected, grinning. “But, seriously. Brian. You can’t buy me a car.”

 

Brian turned to the salesman. “Are we all set, Don?”

 

“Yes, sir, Mr. Kinney,” Don replied, handing Brian the keys. “All yours. And the coupe’s keys are in the ignition, all ready for Mr. Taylor.”

 

“Justin,” Justin introduced himself, holding out his hand for Don to shake. “Thank you, these are gorgeous vehicles.”

 

“Yeah, they are, your… uh, your, um… Mr. Kinney has great taste.” Don glanced over at Brian nervously as he let go of Justin’s hand.

 

Justin poked Brian in the ribs as Brian started laughing at Don’s discomfort. “Thanks, Don,” Justin finally said.

 

Don moved over to the coupe, and took a sheaf of papers off the front seat. “Here you go, Justin. Just sign at the x’s and she’s all yours…” Justin glanced over at Brian, who watched impassively.

 

Not the time to protest, not with Don as witness. He wouldn’t embarrass Brian that way. He took a deep breath, and signed on the dotted lines.

 

Don shook Brian’s hand. “Mr. Kinney, it’s been a great pleasure.” He walked away, whistling.

 

Justin turned to Brian, arms crossed over his chest. “I can’t accept this, Brian.”

 

“Why not?” Brian leaned back on the car, pulling Justin to him, but Justin pushed away, needing the distance, if only of a few feet.

 

“I can’t drive onto campus in this! Granted, I’ll look fucking hot,” he smirked as Brian nodded, “But, seriously. The only people who drive this kind of cars are trust fund kids.”

 

“What do you care what people think?”

 

“I don’t! Well. Maybe I do. It’s just, that trust fund thing, it’s just not me.”

 

“No, you’re the one with the obscenely wealthy man in your life who wants to spoil you shamelessly.” Now Brian’s arms had crossed over his chest, but Justin was past heeding the warning signs of Brian reaching his limits.

 

“But that’s just fucking it!” Justin almost yelled. He toned his voice down, conscious they were in public. “You keep spoiling me, then you take it all back! You tell me I’m not your fucking wife, and I know that, but then you try to take care of me as if I’m the weaker half of some sort of fucked up unit, where you get to dictate my not thinking of myself in any way attached to you, god forbid! You bail me out in New York, pay for my school, but then you turn around and tell me not to think I’m in any sort of relationship! and now you go and do something so fucking sweet like buying me a car because you know I need one, and oh my GOD a Mercedes!! I love it and I want it but how can I accept it when I can’t do anything that would define me as your little woman!” He paused, shaking. God, Justin hated surprises. So much.

 

Brian’s arms had dropped to his side. He took a deep breath, and exhaled loudly. “Labels again,” he finally responded, trying to laugh a bit, but Justin was having none of it, and Brian became serious, responding to Justin’s pleading look. “When we got back together, you said you knew what to expect.”

 

“Yeah, I knew to expect nothing at all.”

 

That stopped Brian dead. “Really? That’s what you meant?”

 

“What did you hear me saying, Brian? Really.”

 

“You agreed to accept me the way I was. The tricking. The withholding which, okay, I know can come across as harsh. My lack of sentimentality. My fucked up view on life in general. AND I heard that you expected that I would take my time, on my terms, with whatever happened between us, and that you realized how fucked up and difficult I can be and you promised me you would be patient.”

 

“You heard that?” That stopped Justin’s furious momentum.

 

“Yes. That’s what I heard. But why do you think you can expect all the hard stuff, but you can’t expect that your obscenely wealthy…” He paused.

 

“What? What exactly am I to you? Define us, Mr. Label Queen.” Justin looked directly into Brian’s gaze, refusing to drop it, his eyes so vulnerable; Brian felt something just give in his chest.

 

“Justin.” Brian reached out, pulled him against him. “You should expect the material support that comes from being half of a partnership in which one of the partners makes a lot of money. You should expect that, too.”

 

“Partners?”

 

“Yes. You don’t like it? That I think of us that way?”

 

“No! I mean, yes!” Justin was so flustered for a moment, he was not certain how to answer. “I mean, yes, I like it, but it’s not exactly equal…” He pushed off Brian’s chest, and glanced at the cars.

 

Brian let out a bark of laughter. “Are you shitting me? Yeah, I make a ton of money.” He hesitated. “And you’ve been amazing in other ways, especially the last couple of months. I put you through a lot.”

 

“You were going through a lot.” Justin’s voice had come all the way down to his normal pitch.

 

“That’s what I mean,” Brian answered. “You were feeling what I was feeling.” He was looking away, and Justin reached out to touch his jaw, and turn his head back to face him. Brian had that uncertain look he’d been showing in glimpses since the night he’d thrown himself out of that trick’s car. “You grounded me.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really. Of course, I couldn’t give in and not fight it, that just wouldn’t be me…”

Justin rolled his eyes and nodded, starting to smile.

 

“…but you are not the weak one in this. You are not the little wife. There is nothing little about your role here. So I make more money. We need cars, I’ve supplied them. And when we needed…”

 

“Emotional support?” Justin supplied.

 

“Yeah, that. You bring that. See? It’s all about balance.”

 

Justin snorted, but ignored the irony. “Partners?”

 

“Yeah, partners. You bring what you have. And I do the same, in this case, cars, which we need. And you bring stability. Seriously, Justin. Fuck stupid rules. This is us, we make it work.”

 

“I would have been happy with the Jeep.”

 

“I’m just going to give the jeep to Mikey. He’ll worship it in memory of the Kinney Mystique.” Brian smirked. “And we can put up with him bitching that it’s broken down and in for repairs, over and over. And you can tell me it’s symbolic, and I’ll roll my eyes, and then we’ll argue over whose Mercedes we’re taking to Deb’s for dinner.” Brian pulled away and moved around to the driver’s side of his roadster. He slid behind the wheel, caressing it with his fingertips.

 

Justin snickered.

 

“Anyway, fuck the Jeep, it’s time for an upgrade.”

 

Justin walked over to the driver’s side door, and placed his hand over Brian’s, on the wheel. They held each other for just a moment. Then, Justin asked, “So, why does my car need a back seat?”

 

“For Gus,” Brian finally answered, looking up. “I love the roadster, so I bought it, but…” he shrugged. “He needs to be in a child seat, right? In the back? But it wasn’t like I was going to give up this car. Yeah, I know, selfish…”

 

“You deserve beautiful things that suit you, you don’t need to apologize for wanting them.”

 

“I wasn’t apologizing! And, none of us deserve shit. I wanted it, that’s all, and I can afford it, so. Plus, Kinnetik got a huge commission today, so really, the coupe was a perfect bonus. It suits all our needs. And I’m getting really sick of driving your ass to and from school. It’s incredibly inconvenient.”

 

“Hey!” Justin exclaimed, straightening up. He had been leaning down, drawn towards the pretty, sexy prettiness that was Brian Kinney. For some odd reason, Justin found him physically irresistible when he got defensive. That probably explained their entire dysfunctional relationship. “So, when you’re driving the coupe with Gus, do I get to drive this?”

 

Brian snorted loudly, not even bothering to answer, and started the car. “Go get your ass in your car and drive home. I got an extra space in the garage, just stop and ask Chuck where it is. And if he tells you the roof, tell him I’m going to kick his ass.” With that, Brian put the car in gear, and accelerated hard out of the parking lot. Justin watched the car kick up to 60 in about two seconds. “Wow,” he muttered, then turned back to the Mercedes coupe.

 

“But, I live with Daphne,” Justin thought, biting his lip. There was no WAY Brian would let him park the car there. Oh, well, that’s what cabs were for, right?

 

He opened the coupe’s door, sat in the driver’s seat, and breathed in the rich leather, the smell of new car. “Okay,” he said one last time, turning the key in the ignition. The car started so smoothly he practically couldn’t tell it was running. He looked down. At a stick shift. Oh, shit. He turned the car off, and got out, looking around for Don. Someone had to teach him to drive a stick.

 

***

 

“Hello?”

 

“Um, excuse me? Who’s this?”

 

“It’s Don, Mr. Kinney, I’m answering Justin’s phone.”

 

“Is he trying to trade up? or down?” What. The. Fuck?

 

“No, no! of course not! Just giving him a little lesson in using a manual drive.”

 

Silence. Then, a snort. “Let me talk to him.”

 

In the background, Brian heard Justin say, “I can’t talk now, I’m driving. Tell him I’m doing fine, his car is fine, it’s all fine, chill the fuck out!”

 

“Mr. Kinney, Justin’s doing very well…”

 

Brian cut him off. He didn’t have time for Don’s translations. “Yeah, yeah, I heard him. Tell him to learn fast and get his ass home.”

 

***

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t drive a stick?”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were buying me a car with a manual shift?”

 

Impasse. They smirked at each other across the kitchen. “So, how’s the ride?”

 

“It’s amazing!” Justin crossed the space to give Brian a quick hug, then moved away to open the refrigerator door. He grabbed a bottle of beer, which Brian promptly plucked out of his hand. “No drink for you, you’re going to be driving again in five minutes.”

 

“I am?”

 

“You are.”

 

“Fine.” Justin grabbed a bottle of water, swallowed a big gulp, then looked up sheepishly. “Brian?”

 

“What?”

 

“Thank you. It’s a beautiful gift.”

 

Brian rewarded him with a half-smile, but then said, “It’s really for us.”

 

“Yeah, of course. It has nothing to do with wanting to get your partner a kick-ass vehicle which he can really use…”

 

Brian snorted.

 

“When he would have been thrilled with flowers or chocolates!”

 

“Flowers and chocolates are for dykes. Please tell me you don’t still want those things.”

 

Justin shook his head. “Nope. Don’t want flowers. Just want you.” He started shrugging out of his coat, only to feel Brian’s hand at the back of his neck, holding the garment in place.

 

“Not so fast, we have to take the coupe out on the road again. Like I said, you’re driving.”

 

“Back-seat Betty,” Justin muttered.

 

“The coupe is NOT female. Back-seat Butch.”

 

“Where are we going?” Justin asked as he followed Brian out of the loft. The name was already stuck in his head. Off to drive Back-seat Betty.

 

“We are going to look at child seats, and then we are fitting Butch up with one. I called around while you were learning to drive…”

 

Justin rolled his eyes, entering the elevator as Brian punched the ground floor button. “I know how to drive.”

 

“…and The Child’s Palace has the model I want.”

 

“Why do I have to go?” Justin asked, thinking of the homework he had waiting for him.

 

“You think I’m going into a store called ‘The Child’s Palace’ alone? Hell, no.”

 

“What do you care what people think?” Justin mocked him, drawing on the perfect opening and firing.

 

Brian’s sour look assured him he’d found his mark, and Justin’s smile widened.

 

“Little shit,” Brian muttered. “Just for that, I’m telling the sales people I knocked you up.”

 

***

 

“It was fine!” Justin practically yelled at Brian’s back, as Brian preceded him into the diner.

 

“Yeah, we’re going to let you practice under my direct supervision before you drive Butch again.”

 

“Betty likes me handling her.”

 

“Yeah, cars love it when you strip their gears.”

 

Justin gritted his teeth, sliding into the booth across from Brian. “It was a very slight miscalculation. Besides, Don assured me it’s perfectly natural for it to happen at first…”

 

“You did it more than once!” Brian was about to yell further, but Debbie’s stomping over to their booth interrupted him. “Coffee, Deb?” Brian asked.

 

“How about a paper, asshole!” she practically yelled back, throwing the paper at him, folded back so the bottom of page five lay face-up.

 

“It was once,” Justin corrected, “and I did fine for a beginner!”

 

“It was not…” Brian’s voice trailed off, as he stared down at the paper. His skin turned a nasty shade of paste. Justin glanced at the paper, reading upside down.

 

“Man Killed…”

 

Shit. Justin scooted quickly out of his side of the booth and over to Brian’s, reading over his shoulder.

 

An unidentified man was attacked and killed early yesterday morning in an alley off Pickering Street in downtown Pittsburgh. He was last seen leaving Pistol, a local gay club, with a blonde man in a leather jacket. The name of the victim has not been released pending notification of relatives. Anyone with information regarding this matter is asked to call the Pittsburgh Police Department.

 

 

“Debbie!” Justin didn’t look twice at the expression, or, more accurately, the complete lack of expression on Brian’s face before he took off and followed the woman back into the kitchen, slamming in after her through the double doors where Carlos, the cook, worked. “Debbie! Stop!” He dodged the prep table and Carlos to move quickly to where she stood with her back turned to him.

“Damn it, Debbie, what…” And then he noticed that her shoulders shook.

He put a hand on her arm and turned her around. “Debbie, what the fuck? You can’t think Brian could have done something about that! Are you kidding me?”

“It was Rafferty!” she cried, her voice high pitched, tears carrying mascara down her face. Justin shook his head, confused.

“He was just a kid, just out of college. Sat on the corner stool every lunch and got waffles, waffles for lunch! I used to tell him he needed to eat better, and he’d tell me there was plenty of time for vegetables when he grew up, when he grew up… so much going for that kid, he worked as a paralegal, and fucking waffles, every day! I opened that paper and everyone in the diner’s talking about it, and, and, this didn’t have to happen!”

Justin picked up a nearby cloth, and wiped her face, clearing the dark stains as best he could. Damn, thank god he didn’t have to deal with makeup in his lifetime. Well, not as a rule, anyway. “Look,” he said, “it’s terrible what happened to Rafferty, Deb. But that is not Brian’s fault.” He glanced at Carlos, who was half-listening, and grabbed Deb by the arm to pull her back out into the diner’s seating area.

Brian was gone.

“Shit,” he muttered. He thought only a moment before realizing where his partner must have gone, and he did not let go of Debbie’s arm as he dragged her out of the diner and down the sidewalk.

Brian was leaning up against the coupe, smoking a cigarette. Sunglasses hid his eyes. He watched impassively as Justin marched up, Debbie in tow.

“I don’t need coffee so badly you bring the waitress to me,” Brian said, stubbing the cigarette out under his boot.

Justin frowned, ignoring Brian’s blithe comment. “Debbie?”

“Brian, I didn’t, I shouldn’t have done that, what I said, but I was just… I knew the kid, you know?” Her face crumbled, and the mascara started to drip again.

Brian nodded, but did not respond.

“And, I know you’ve been through a lot,” Debbie continued, “But all this is still going on!”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Brian asked, not looking at her.

“I don’t know!” she cried. “Something! You took care of Stockwell! Of course, you created him. But you fixed that!”

Brian snorted. “I didn’t create this one. There’s really nothing I can do.”

Debbie glanced over at Justin, who stared at her with his lips disappearing into a thin line. “I’m sorry, Brian. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. That was unfair of me.”

“Yeah, well,” Brian answered, taking out another cigarette and lighting it.

Debbie started to say something, but she just reached out to touch Brian’s arm before turning and walking back to work. Justin watched her as she retreated. He turned back to Brian, who dragged heavily on his smoke.

“She’s wrong.”

“No, she’s not.”

“What? Bullshit! She had no right to attack you like that.”

Brian pitched the barely smoked butt onto the ground, and stamped it out with the heel of his boot. “Her feelings aren’t wrong. Isn’t that what you keep trying to tell me?”

Justin shook his head, not understanding. Brian crossed his arms over his chest. “I still haven’t looked at mug shots.”

Justin kept watching him, still not certain of which cues he should be picking up on.

Brian took the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook out another cigarette. “So, technically, Deb’s right,” he explained, lighting yet another. “I could have done more. Whether I would or not, that’s another question.”

“She has no idea what you have or haven’t done.” Justin pointedly ignored that last comment.

“So?”

“So!” Justin grabbed the cigarette from Brian’s hand and threw it onto the cement, crushing it with a single, hard stomp. “Brian, you’ve smoked two and a half of those things in the last five minutes. If I know you, it’s more like five.”

Brian lifted an eyebrow, looked at his smashed, fresh cigarette, and then looked back up at Justin.

“Don’t punish your lungs because you’re upset.”

The look on Brian’s face probably should have told Justin to back off, but he refused to pay attention to the warning.

“She had no right to blame you for getting raped. I’m right, she isn’t, stop listening to all these people who are full of shit, who have no idea what they’re saying!” When Brain looked away, Justin pressed his body up against his side, reaching up and forcing Brian’s head around. “Do you know how thankful I am that you got away? Do you have any idea? I was THERE, goddamn it! Don’t you dare listen to that bitch…”

“Justin!”

“Listen to her tell you that this is your fault… that’s fucked! You got hurt, and that wasn’t your fault. She was acting like a total cunt…”

“Justin.” Brian’s voice was low, warning.

“I didn’t say she was a cunt, I said she was acting like one.”

“Taking lessons in lawyer-speak from Bill Clinton now?”

Justin shook his head, and grabbed at the waistline of Brian’s shirt. He clutched at Brian’s hip, and pulled himself closer into the other man’s body. Burying his head against Brian’s chest, he mumbled out, “It isn’t your fault that this guy is still out there, what were you supposed to do while he was tasering you and beating the shit out of you, HANDCUFF him and deliver him to the police? You’re not Rage, and anyway I prefer you, YOU,” and he squeezed his arms around Brian’s waist, so hard Brian winced. “Just you,” he said, and buried his head into the space just under Brian’s shoulder, and took a couple of long, shuddering breaths.

Brian frowned, and then shook his head. “Justin?” Justin wouldn’t look up, but kept his face firmly against Brian’s body. Brian dropped his arms around Justin, and pulled him closer. “It’s fine,” he murmured, “I’m here. I’m right here.”

“You might not have been, and I wish people would think of that before they go off. Just because you look okay...”

“I look fantastic. Justin,” Brian added, tilting Justin’s face upwards. “Don’t be too harsh on Deb. She was close to someone who was murdered. It’s a shock; she wasn’t thinking.”

“Well, she should think.” Justin’s mouth formed a reluctant smile against Brian’s shoulder. “Just because you look fantastic doesn’t mean you are, inside.”

“What gave me away?”

“I know you.”

“Do you now.” They stood there a moment, Brian running a hand through Justin’s hair. “You know…” He hesitated. Justin flexed his fingers, slightly digging into his waist. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous.” Justin lifted his head up, separating them slightly so he could look into Brian’s face.

“Yeah. I was wondering. How’d you like to move back in? To the loft. With me.”

“Really?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, you know I asked, or yeah, you want to move in with me?”

A huge smile spread across Justin’s face. “Oh, I want to move in. To the loft. With you. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that since I was seventeen.” He paused, frowning. “Am I being too easy? Should I play harder to get?”

Brian shook Justin’s shoulders, and then ran his hands up to tug at his hair, tilting his head back. “Don’t you dare, I like you easy.”

“Yeah, well, you got it.”

“So? Is that a yes?”

“Yes. That’s a yes.” Justin stood on his toes, lifting himself up to Brian’s mouth. “Okay, so kiss me now.”

“Yes, sir.” Brian lowered his head, and met him half-way.

***

Justin was not pleased when Brian parked his coupe, only to toss him the keys before pulling out the set to his roadster.

“Hey!” Justin called, putting his hands on his hips. “Where are you going? Don’t you want to celebrate my first day as an official resident?”

Brian actually hesitated, but then shook his head. “I have to take care of something. I’ll be back, we can celebrate then.”

Justin continued to frown.

“Whatever you want to do, when I get back,” Brian coaxed, opening the door to his car.

“What if I want you to carry me over the threshold?”

Brian snorted. “Within reason.”

“Well, that leaves out a lot,” Justin groused, his lips thinning as he watched the car leave the garage. He shook his head. He signed up for it. “Yes, I sure did,” he murmured, his mouth relaxing into a smile as he considered bringing his things over from Daphne’s.

***

Brian was shown to Clark’s desk. She brought him coffee, thank god, since he hadn’t managed to actually drink any at the diner. Brian had been wondering if his head was going to implode without a caffeine shot any time soon. Unfortunately, this shit was worse than the diner coffee, if that was possible.

Clark sat heavily in her chair. “We’re pretty sure it’s the same guy,” she said. “People who saw them leave gave a similar description. And, there’s something else we’re following up on, but I can’t confirm at the moment. Just, we’re pretty sure.”

“So I guess I should look at mug shots then.”

“Now why would I want you to look at mug shots? I only sent you 20 emails asking you to do just that.”

Brian twisted his lips into a grimace. “Yeah, you did.”

“Believe it or not, I actually understand why you wouldn’t want to. But I was kind of hoping it wouldn’t be something like this that got you to come in.” She tapped the paper on her desk.

He didn’t answer.

Clark sighed. “Right. Anyway.” She stood up. “Come with me.”

***

Two hours later, she checked into the room in which she had placed Brian. He looked up from the computer, clicking away from yet another page of pictures, and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, pushing the chair back and stretching. His back cracked. Ouch.

Clark took the seat next to him. “Well, the DNA tests on your clothes match up with the DNA tests on last night’s victim.”

“On my clothes?”

“Yeah, your partner gave permission for the police to take them that night. Unfortunately, the DNA doesn’t give us any name for a perp from the national databases. However, our DNA here matches the DNA from three assaults and two murders in New York.”

Brian blinked.

“The murders took place a month ago, and three months ago. The assaults were before that.”

“So what you’re saying is, this guy’s a serial killer.”

“We’re going to catch him.”

“HOW?” Brian exploded, then checked himself. “What the fuck? If these were serial rapes and murders of women, it would be all over the news. Why hasn’t there been any publicity?”

“We just found out about the New York connection less than 90 minutes ago. And it is big news. In New York.”

Holy shit, Brian realized, he knew that already. “The West Village club murders.”

“You got it.”

He sat, staring at her as she watched him process the information. “So now what happens?”

“The powers that be are discussing that as we speak.”

“They want to sweep it under the rug because it’s the gay community.”

“You’ve been talking to Tedeschi.”

Brian snorted. “Not in this lifetime.” He eyed her. “What’s his angle?”

“He’s pushing to break it wide open, of course. Luckily, he knows nothing about this latest. What would you want to do?”

“Me.”

“Yeah. You. One of the arguments is that the victims, in other words, you and the others, should be shielded from any potentially damaging publicity. You should get a say.”

“I never read about the New York men who had survived the attacks. They seemed to keep it fairly quiet up there. The focus was on the murders, not the assaults.”

“You can bet people up in New York know who the victims of the assaults are, though.”

Right. Brian glanced back at the computer screen, suddenly wishing for the frustration he’d been feeling an hour ago.

Rock. Hard place. Him.

 

He had not exactly expected Justin to be waiting for him at the loft’s threshold, no matter what he had said. Brian was fairly sure Justin had outgrown wanting the trappings of love, now that he was relatively assured of the real thing.

Still, Brian was expecting to find something more than Justin sitting at the computer, staring at the screen, not even looking up at him when he walked in the door. He had promised him he’d do anything he wanted, within reason. He would never admit this out loud, but he had been interested in what Justin might come up with. Thai food on a blanket on the floor? Movies? Dancing? He had been betting on movies. He had never actually gone with Justin to the movie theater; well, porn didn’t count. Okay, so, Justin had insisted that porn had not counted as a movie experience, and Brian had insisted that it counted too much as a “date.” God forbid they actually go to a regular Hollywood-type movie together.

He had been betting with himself that Justin would be up on the computer, ordering tickets, on his return. The mental machinations by which he had arrived at this conclusion successfully kept him from dwelling on the situation he had just left behind at the police station. Out of the police station, into the car, down the street, thinking of what Justin would have planned for them. No pausing to consider how desperately he wanted to leave behind what he had learned, safely left with the people who were employed to deal with it. Instead, it was so much easier to focus on imagining exactly why Justin would insist on a movie, what sort, how he would set it up, and whether Brian should give into giving the boy an actual date. And if he should get them popcorn (it went without saying that butter was out… well depending on what Justin promised in exchange). He had told Justin “whatever.” He was betting that “whatever” would be a movie date. Him. Brian Kinney. On a date to the movies. He was also betting that Justin would do it for a cheap laugh, just to watch him squirm.

But here he had arrived, home at last, pausing for effect on the threshold of the loft, and Justin continued to frown at the computer and ignore him.

Apparently, his bet was way off.

He shut the door behind him with a bang. Justin jumped, and looked over.

“Oh… hey.” He turned back to the monitor.

Brian strolled across the floor, and answered, “Hey.” He dropped his jacket over the back of the couch. Justin went back to ignoring him.

Huh. Casually making his way over to the bed platform, Brian shrugged out of his dress shirt as he mounted the steps, flexing his back muscles as the shirt dropped to the floor. He pivoted toward the closet, unbuttoning the top of his slacks.

Okay, so was this part of a strategy to lull Brian into a sense of complacency, before springing something truly wild on him? Justin’s idea of wild, of course, not Brian’s. So… what was the next choice down the list? Chinese food on the floor, on a blanket with candles? Were they just waiting for the delivery man to show up? Would Justin actually insist on being carried over the threshold, and was only trying to figure out how to ask? Brian was up for a good struggle against that idea, a struggle ending with his partner on the floor, underneath him, well inside the threshold, and Brian well inside him.

Sex. Brian realized that he was horny, incredibly turned on, more so than he had been in ages, since before… since before. Fantasies of flesh swam before him as he stood, thinking, motionless in his bedroom. He wanted to feel Justin’s body, warm and naked, writhing beneath him, begging, insisting. He wanted to feel his partner’s limbs opening up to his hands, his mouth, his cock. Focusing on the picture of the milky blond vision, Brian continued to avoid thinking of the decisions being made in the police precinct, decisions well beyond his control. The case was so much larger than he. He had only minimal say in how, or even if, it broke open. No reason to think of it. No reason at all.

Reaching out toward the closet door, his mind shied away from that unpleasant thought, and skittered back to imagining how he looked to Justin right now. Naked back. Slacks… pooling on the floor at his feet, kicked out of the way. This was the point Justin should come up the steps and pretend concern over his pants’ potential wrinkles. He would actually hang them, right before turning and brushing against Brian’s chest, or back, or ass, giving Brian every excuse to pet Justin’s hair, his shoulder, his ass. Brian smirked. Justin really was a good domestic partner. All that, and he got his suits hung nicely, too.

However, there was no noise of approaching man, lured onward by the irresistible. Frowning, Brian turned and looked back. Justin had crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chair, but only to continue staring at the screen in front of him. Brian glanced down, at the long length of his near-naked body, then back up at Justin, who continued to ignore him.

What. The. Fuck. He was practically flashing the green light, and no reaction?

Brian grabbed a pair of jeans from out of the drawer. Tossing them on quickly, along with a black tank, he slowed his impatient movement to effect a casual stroll into the living area, back to where Justin sat, deep in thought.

He knew he looked good. Hell, he looked great. And he had practically promised Justin a celebration. How often did that happen? And still, no reaction from the twink. Oh, right, ex-twink. Whatever. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Brian barked.

Startled, Justin looked up. He grimaced, actually grimaced! and then his left hand began massaging the right.

Oh, well, fuck. Brian sat down on the table, facing him directly, and said, “Justin.”

“Hobbes wants to settle.”

For a few very long moments, white noise filled Brian’s ears. Then he shook it out. “What?”

Justin took a deep breath. “I’m suing Hobbes. Well, I’ve been suing Hobbes. Well, technically, Mel and I are suing Hobbes…”

“Justin…”

“Right, okay. We filed the lawsuit a few months ago.”

Brian nodded. Yeah, he knew that already.

Justin fidgeted. “Look, nothing was happening, just delays, and then stuff was happening, but other stuff was happening…”

“Oh. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“Fuck you Brian, I didn’t want to talk about it! You, of all people, can understand that.”

Brian reached down and took Justin’s right hand away from his left to give it a more thorough massage than Justin could give himself one-handed. “What happened?”

Justin stared at him for a moment, and his lips thinned. Brian felt his hand tense, and wondered if he was going to yank it away from him. But then he relaxed, took a deep breath, and let it out. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I suppose.”

“I’m okay.” Justin pulled his hand away. He flashed a quick smile. “Really. Just, okay. We were pretty much ready to go to court, when Hobbes, well, really Hobbes’s dad, decides he wants to settle.”

“How much?”

“Million and a half.”

Brian stared, then snorted a laugh. “Shit, Sunshine, you’re rich!”

“It’s not about the money.”

“Of course not.” Brian’s skeptical tone spoke volumes.

“No, seriously. The thing that really sucks, is that I’m not even suing Hobbes, I’m suing his dad. He was four days from his 18th birthday when that happened, four days! So since he was a minor he can’t be touched. Can you believe that shit?”

Brian just continued to watch him, until Justin brought his gaze back up, and asked, “What do you think I should do?”

“It’s a lot of money.”

“It’s not about the money.”

Brian thought about that. “What’s it about?”

“I want to kill him.” He stopped, closed his eyes. “Okay, not kill him. Destroy him. Hurt him so bad he never recovers. I don’t want a million dollars, I want all the money he’ll ever have. I want to destroy him the way he destroyed me.”

Brian knew this talk did not come from the most rational place. “He didn’t destroy you,” Brian stated, firmly.

“He tried to!” No arguing that statement, nor the anger in the raised voice. “But, I can’t! So what’s the point of going after his dad? Can you believe that guy sent me an apology.”

“He sent you an apology.”

“Yeah, just, I’m terribly sorry that my son hurt you, I really wish I could go back and undo whatever it was that made him feel he needed to do this, blah, blah, blah. He even made a contribution to the GLC.”

“I bet not anywhere near a million and a half.”

“Of course not.”

“And I’m sure he told you exactly how much and to whom, and isn’t he just a great supporter of gays everywhere.”

“You know this story, then?” Justin pushed his chair back, and stood abruptly to walk over to the windows. Brian watched his back. “Of course, not a word from Hobbes, that fucker. He’s not even in town anymore. One of my supposed friends who goes to the Institute told me he’s on a grand tour of Europe. Why do these people think I want to know this stuff?

And how convenient is it that Hobbes is out of the way for this, huh? Can’t testify.” Justin turned around, and studied Brian intently. “You know, if I accept the offer, I can pay you back. For my education, and for the car.”

“I told you…”

“I know what you said!” Justin bit off. “Brian, I know what you said,” he continued, more gently, “but the truth is, I didn’t protest about the car more because I know you feel like you owe me something. And…” Justin shook his head.

“Justin.”

“Well, you’re feeling good for the first time since… since the attack. I didn’t want to do anything to disrupt that.”

Brian rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I can take care of myself. And I don’t owe you shit.”

The smile ghosted Justin’s face, very briefly. “Exactly. Because you stood by me through the bashing. And technically, if we’re going to even the score, what I deserve from you is to be thrown out of here on my ass. To be tossed out in the cold, the same way I left you cold, a great payback for everything you did for me before Ethan.”

Brian groaned. He so did not want to get into this. They had put the Ian bullshit well behind them at this point; couldn’t it just stay in the past? Apparently not. He stalked over toward where Justin stood next to the windows, the fading daylight glowing against his skin.

Justin continued, relentless, as he watched Brian approach. “I don’t deserve shit from you.”

“Nobody deserves shit from anyone,” Brian answered.

“You know what I mean,” Justin returned, ducking his head to the side as Brian came flush up against his body.

Brian bent his knees, so he was at the same level as Justin’s gaze. “What do you want?”

Startled, Justin’s eyes flew to meet his partner’s. “What?”

“I told you, we were going to celebrate. I said, you could have anything you want when I got home. I’m home. What do you want?”

Justin bit his lip. So much between them, sometimes it felt that reaching Brian was like trying to fight through a dense undergrowth, so thick that he couldn’t even see the other man. And then, with one word, one phrase, Brian took a machete to the weeds in their way. Justin wished he had that gift, but he only seemed able, most times, to get further lost in the thicket. “I want to make love to you,” he answered, right before he realized his mistake. Brian’s eyes shifted to a murky grayish-green, and he straightened his legs so he rose to his full height. “I’m sorry,” Justin said quickly. “I wasn’t thinking. Forget it.”

“No... no. I asked. That came from your gut.”

Justin snorted. “It came from somewhere.”

Brian smirked. “Yeah, right.” He studied Justin for a long moment, before leaning down, and capturing his lips between his own. He knew exactly the tone Justin would want set, just what he needed, and the first touch of lips was tentative, sweet, and Brian swept his tongue across the fullness of Justin’s bottom lip. He heard a soft gasp, just before Justin moved his own tongue to meet Brian’s, and slid across it to the sensitive flesh just inside his mouth. The kiss deepened, Justin moving his hands around Brian’s waist and pulling their bodies hard up together. He pushed his erection into the length of Brian’s thigh, felt the answering hardness press into his stomach. His hands dipped under the material of Brian’s tank top, fingertips caressing the softness of the skin at the small of his back. Warm and smooth. Brian’s tongue pressed insistently into his mouth, his teeth nipping at Justin’s lips as he pulled away to gasp, “Bed.” They stumbled up the steps, Justin tugging the shirt over Brian’s head as Brian sat down on the edge of the bed, Justin moving between his legs, his arms on Brian’s shoulders. He loved to stand between Brian’s legs while he sat; it made him feel so tall. And so in control. Justin moved his hands to card through Brian’s hair, down his neck to rest on his shoulders as he stared into his face. God, he was so beautiful, Justin thought. Brian sat still, looking up, offering himself to Justin’s perusal. High cheekbones, straight nose, full lips, perfect jaw line, and up to those gorgeous eyes gone deep green, the pupils almost fully dilated with desire. Justin found his gaze moving past the individual features to take in Brian’s overall aspect, and an openness that Brian turned only to him, only in these moments, this lack of guardedness that normally shielded him from close inspection. He waited while Justin studied him, until a small, genuine smile lifted the corner of his lips. “Like what you see?” he asked.

“Oh, god, Brian. You know I do,” Justin answered, but the question and answer broke the moment, whatever it had been, and he leaned forward, pressing Brian back onto the bed, crawling over him. His palm swept the length of Brian’s torso, down to his belly, pulling the zipper on his jeans, his mouth moving to his chest and surrounding Brian’s nipple, his teeth latching on to hold it in place while his tongue moved out to flick against the hard nub, teasing his tongue against the sensitive tip beneath it. At Brian’s moan, Justin pulled lightly with his teeth, gratified by the increase in sound below him, then let go only to suck gently at first, then harder. His fingers traced circles around Brian’s ribs, moving lower, and his mouth followed, down his torso, tongue scraping skin, leaving a damp trail behind him. Sitting up on his knees, he slid off the bed to stand again, tugging at Brian’s jeans. Brian lifted himself as Justin slid his jeans down, baring him completely. He quickly threw off his own shirt, and unbuttoned his own pants with shaking fingers as Brian watched, laughing slightly. “Need help?” he offered.

“Oh, god, yes,” Justin answered, but managed to yank his pants down even as Brian reached for him. He pushed Brian arms back, and dropped onto the bed next to him again, his lips attaching to Brian’s hip, wholly conscious of the erection just barely brushing his cheek. Brian lifted his hips, moving himself closer, but Justin placed his hand on the side of his pelvis and held him down.

Lifting his head, he looked down the lean belly, trim hips, and finally at the cock rising full and hard, the large vein throbbing at its center. His gaze continued down to Brian’s balls, hanging heavy, swollen with lust, stirring with desire. Beautiful, so fucking beautiful.

“Like what you see?” This time the question was not so humorous, but soft, and Justin glanced swiftly upward to see Brian’s gaze steadily on him.

In answer, he bent down and captured the head of Brian’s penis in his mouth, holding it there so that his lips pressed, firm and gentle, holding him in the space of his mouth, warmed by his breath but untouched by anything but the lips that held him still. He felt as much as heard Brian’s increased breathing, and the throbbing of his heart expanding the girth of his cock, and only then did he bring the tip of his tongue to barely graze a whisper of touch to the side of the nerve that ran the length of him.

“Shit… Justin… Fuck.” The groan above him was like music, and he shifted his lips across his skin, increasing the sensation he brought to bear. He brought his hand to cup beneath Brian’s balls, holding them gently, curling his hand inward, feeling their fullness, the warm, rough skin loosely resting in his palm. His mouth descended, taking more of the length in as his tongue pressed firmly down the hard shaft, then back up to curl around the tip, his lips dragging moistly upward with his tongue. Brian’s hands moved from gripping the covers of the bed, into Justin’s hair, grasping the strands before moving to press against his skull, urging him down, harder. Justin resisted the push, continuing his movements up and then down, alternating, his tongue pulling against the side, then up to the tip to linger there, swirling lazily about the head and picking up speed before descending again and almost taking in the entire length, suppressing his gag reflex as Brian’s cock pushed at the back of his throat. He felt desire swell within him, and rutted against Brian’s leg, his own body desperate for attention. But Justin was more intent on satisfying Brian, Brian who was lifting his hips in a regular rhythm, holding Justin’s head in place as he ground toward the feeling encased in Justin’s mouth, and tongue, descending as far into the warm, wet depths as he could.

The disappointed groan when Justin lifted his mouth was audible, and Brian arched his body almost involuntarily as Justin wrapped his hand around his cock. One of his balls was taken in Justin’s lips, and he sucked lightly, first one, then the other. Brian’s hand covered Justin’s over his dick, and began to move it more rapidly, but Justin stopped altogether, and raised his head from his ministrations. “Don’t cum,” Justin admonished, before returning to the slower pace he had set.

Brian took three quick breaths, and then one long one; he gave over to Justin completely, covering his face with his hands, stilling his need to urge his partner on.

Justin moved to nip at the skin at the top of his thigh, lifting Brian’s leg and setting his foot further up the bed, his knee cocked. He did the same with the other leg, pushing back on his thighs so Brian’s weight shifted onto his lower back, forcing his body to bow up. He returned to Brian’s penis, licking up the shaft, taking the head in his mouth, descending, waiting for Brian to begin responding again before he moved his mouth away, and licked down the hard length, past his balls, and lower. He pushed his legs back, and briefly looked up. Brian’s arms rested above his head, his body open, head thrown back, eyes closed, waiting. His chest rose and fell with short, shallow breaths. Justin looked down again, and moved between his legs.

He touched the entrance to Brian’s body with his tongue, tentatively, grazing the tip briefly across the flesh before moving off to the side, to nuzzle, and then suck on the flesh at the crease just where his thigh met his buttocks. His hands continued to stroke Brian’s cock, gently, and firmly by alteration, swiping his thumb across the leaking tip, ensuring Brian continued to pulse upward into his finger’s touch. He moved his lips, his mouth covering Brian’s opening, licking across it, then up the flesh just beneath the balls, then back down, to push inward, a thick trail of saliva following his tongue inward. He heard Brian gasp again, and squeezed his cock lightly with his hand as his other moved from pushing back on his thigh, to bring his forefinger to the puckered entrance, and gently pushed inward.

He could feel the moment that passion bled into apprehension, and looked up to Brian’s face. His eyes were squeezed shut. Something in the tightening of his body, something in the change of his breath, something was not right. Justin knew immediately what was happening.

He withdrew his fingers, and moved his hands to pet down Brian’s thighs, even as he kissed the skin his hands had just soothed, and then the nerve that traced between Brian’s legs up to his balls, and up his dick, still firm, though not quite so hard as it had been only moments before. He paused to lick his way around Brian’s bellybutton, nipped at his nipple on his continued ascent, before he buried his head in the crook between Brian’s shoulder and neck. He pulled their bodies together, and couldn’t help rutting slightly against Brian’s thigh. His cock was feeling terribly neglected, still full and heavy, and the need to grind against this man’s body was close to irresistible. But he was sure his movements were slow and steady; Brian could halt everything with a word.

“Justin…”

“Do you want to stop? We can stop,” Justin said, willing his body to still. Brian rolled on his side, and put his arm around Justin’s waist, pulling him in. He rolled his hips around, rubbing Justin’s cock against his stomach, making it impossibly harder.

“I don’t want to stop,” Brian answered. He moved his hand onto Justin’s ass, grasping the flesh and squeezing. His eyes fluttered shut, and he bit his lips inward. “Just, hold on a second.”

God, that felt good, Justin thought. His body throbbed, and he resonated with the desire that pulsated through him, shooting from the head of his dick, sending frissons of excitement down his thighs and back up, circling around, up his ass, to the small of his back. He trembled with it. “I’m not going to… Brian,” he reassured his partner. He knew what Brian was saying. It was no good; Brian wasn’t ready. Maybe he never would be. And that was just fine. Justin reached over his head to the top of the bed where the condoms were stashed, and took out a foil packet along with the lubricant. Sitting up, he squeezed a liberal amount of lube out onto his fingers, and reached behind himself to roll his fingers around his anus, relaxing easily into the sensation which his body was begging for, anyway. The cold tensed him up, but only for a moment.

He threw the tube aside, and ripped open the condom packet, before straddling Brian’s legs. Brian’s hands descended onto his thighs as Justin leaned forward to roll the condom over Brian’s dick, which surged up into his hand as he realized Justin’s intent. Justin leaned forward, pulling himself up Brian’s body, his legs dropping apart to spread over Brian’s hips. He moved himself into position, and pushed down, releasing his knees and descending, the pleasure and pain jolting up into his spine as Brian’s cock slid fully up into him. The breath whooshed out of his lungs.

They paused for a moment, as Justin adjusted to the feeling of Brian filling him. Brian pulled him down to lay flush against his body. He moved his hands to Justin’s ass, and caressed the flesh there before gathering it in his palms, and thrusting up hard. His hands shifted to pull down on Justin’s flanks and hold him in place. Justin held on, pushing back against the hard, hot length driving into him, whimpering with the feeling of Brian inside him, touching off the intense, familiar sensations.

Not enough. With a growl, Brian rolled Justin onto his back, pushing his legs back. His pelvis ground down to the flesh beneath him, his legs moving restlessly against the bed as he attempted to move further upward, arching into the need to satisfy the restless craving shooting through his body, the desire to thrust into the body beneath his, to never stop.

“Fuck… Brian, god,” Justin cried out, his dick rubbing against Brian’s stomach, the sensation building to climax.

Brian leaned all the way in, licked the skin at the base of Justin’s neck, nipping at the flesh. But a particularly strong sensation ripped through his body on the downstroke, and he tightened his grip on Justin’s flanks and bit down, his teeth claiming a hold on Justin’s nape. The immediate pain connected through Justin’s body, and Justin came, screaming. His ass clamped down, and Brian thrust forward, and forward again, and climaxed, emptying himself deep in Justin’s body.

Then Brian collapsed, and Justin’s legs fell apart, Brian firmly ensconced in his body, his teeth still attached to Justin’s neck. He let go, and looked down at the bite mark on his lover’s nape, before kissing the wound, licking across it, and kissing it again. Then he rolled to the side, taking Justin with him.

They lay there for a some long moments, quietly, before Brian realized Justin had dozed off. He allowed himself the luxury of staying inside Justin for a few moments, Justin’s body a warm weight against his. Finally, he pulled out, and Justin stirred, and grimaced, watching Brian tie off the condom and throw it away. “I hate that part,” he smiled, pulling his legs back from Brian’s, but shifting to rest his head more comfortably against Brian’s shoulder.

“Yeah, you do.” They lay for a long while, staring at each other. Finally, Brian said, “I would have let you.”

“I know. You didn’t want to.”

Brian watched him.

“I find it really weird that you urge me all the time to be selfish, when you really aren’t.”

“But I am.”

Justin shook his head. “But you aren’t.” He sat up, and winced. “I love being fucked by you, Brian, I’ll bottom for you for the rest of my life. It’s no hardship for me.”

“They found more victims.”

Justin was silent for a moment, absorbing this sudden change in subject. “What?” Justin did not move his head to look Brian’s way.

Brian had flung an arm over his eyes. It was easier to discuss this blind. “They tied the guy who attacked me to the guy who killed that Rafferty guy, to the West Village club murders in New York.”

Nothing. Justin didn’t say anything, just sat with his back turned.

“Apparently, the Pittsburgh police are debating whether to release this information, and if so, how much.”

“But the guy’s still out there.”

“Bingo.”

Justin moved then, laying his body next to Brian’s, pulling Brian’s arm away from his eyes and turning his head so that Brian was forced to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“I know.” He traced the mark at Justin’s nape. “I bit you.”

“I know. Brian…”

Brian sighed, his hand dropping from Justin’s neck. “Can we not talk about this?”

Justin nodded, pursed his lips, and got up to walk into the bathroom. On his way, he called back, “Oh, I decided to sue the fuck out of Hobbes’ dad. Fuck his offer.”

He moved through the doorway, but stopped at Brian’s next words, “Fuck Hobbes’ dad, why don’t you sue St. James?”

Justin froze momentarily, then turned around as Brian approach him. He laughed in astonishment. “Holy shit! I didn’t even think of that.”

Brian rolled his eyes, and asked, “How long do you have left to file? Is the statute of limitations expired?”

“Still have about a week, actually. I think. Two years from the incident, I’m pretty sure Mel said. That was what, June 8th?”

Brian knew damn well what that date was, but he ignored the question. “A good attorney can play with the exact date, might even get it from the moment charges were officially pressed, or even conviction, such as it was. That would give you a lot more wiggle room.” Brian said, moving around Justin and turning on the shower. “The first thing we’re doing tomorrow is getting you a new lawyer. One who’ll know what she’s doing. Who'll file the lawsuit against that piece of shit school tomorrow afternoon.”

“But Mel…”

“Is the worst attorney I know.” Brian stepped into the spray, letting the water soak his hair. He stepped out of the way so Justin could join him.

Justin let the water run over him, humming in contentment when Brian doused the mesh sponge with liquid soap, and ran it over his shoulders and down his chest, cupping his penis and sac to gently massage them, letting the suds run down his skin to the drain.

Brian continued, “And after we do that, I’m going to go visit a reporter I know, and leak some confidential information.”

Justin moved in closer as Brian’s hands continued to wash him, pulling the sponge around to his buttocks. Their stomachs met, and Justin felt the twinge between his legs turn into a throb. “Yeah?” he murmured against Brian’s chest, licking his clavicle and resting his hands on Brian’s lower back.

“Yeah.” Brian dropped the sponge; they were only about to get dirty again. And then they were kissing, and tomorrow could wait.

 

Negation, Final Chapter

 

 

John Finn* does not clearly remember his attack. “I woke up in a hospital bed,” he tells me. “I’d been operated on, and I was in serious pain. My partner was there, and the doctors. Everyone telling me I’d been attacked. I don’t really remember.”

 

Finn is lucky and he knows it. The police have identified his assailant as the man who murdered Rafferty Coleman last week, a criminal implicated in a series of assaults that began a year and a half ago. Police have also tied DNA evidence to the notorious West Village murders in New York City, where two men have been killed. The first murder there took place on February 24th, one week before Finn was assaulted.

 

“They’re pretty sure he meant to kill me,” Finn says, “but he hadn’t perfected his technique. We were in my car, which had bucket seats, and I managed to use that space to fight him off. I don’t remember that part very well. The tasering and trauma wiped most of my memory.”

 

Finn woke up in the hospital with broken ribs, a damaged liver that required an operation, and a torn colon, the result of being penetrated with a club.

 

 

Justin looked up from the Sunday paper’s magazine that Brian had thrown to him upon entering the loft five minutes before with coffee and the paper. So much for a lazy Sunday morning. “John Finn, that’s you?” Justin asked, receiving a terse nod in response. “It doesn’t sound like you at all,” he added.

 

“That’s kind of the point,” Brian answered, settling in behind him on the couch and looking over his shoulder at the article. Justin sat up from where he’d been stretched out on the couch, watching morning news. He shifted to accommodate Brian, setting his back against his chest.

 

According to Police Chief Kent Johnson, the New York connection has only come to light with the DNA evidence taken from the Coleman murder scene. In a brief interview, Johnson told me that the connection is currently being explored. “We didn’t want to tip off the perp that we’re onto him. When these things are kept quiet, it’s far more likely that we will be able to target the intended victim population and catch the guy.” Johnson leans back in his big leather chair, and fingers the fraternity ring on his pinky finger. “Of course, we’ll have to shift our approach now that this has come out.”

 

Despite Johnson’s assurances, an anonymous source in the Pittsburgh Police Department…

 

“Anonymous source, that’s Clarke. See, I told you she was okay.”

 

“I never said she wasn’t okay.”

 

“You’re just a big misogynist, Sunshine, admit it.”

 

“What?! Who’s the...?!!! ...oh, shut up.”

 

…an anonymous source in the Pittsburgh Police Department informs me that little is being done. “We’re short handed, absolutely,” the source states. “In general, but especially in this case. We have a good idea that the target locations are the clubs down by Liberty Avenue, but there are like, what, six or seven main clubs? And that detail consists of two officers, count ’em, two. And you want to guess how many policemen would be willing to do the undercover work necessary to catch a murderer preying on the gay scene? We have one. One cop cruising the clubs, and another one doing the foot work outside of them. We have some back up support in the office, but two officers on the street. How’s that for targeting the crime?”

 

 

“Holy shit, she could lose her job! Who’s working undercover?”

 

“Gonzalez. Don’t tell me you didn’t…”

 

“No, I got he’s gay. Did you?”

 

“Long time ago.”

 

 

The Chief takes exception to that.

 

 

“I bet he does.”

 

“Read.”

 

“How many people did you point this reporter toward?”

 

“All of them. He only talked to a few, though.”

 

Justin frowned at that. “What? Why?”

 

“Read. I’ll tell you after you finish.”

 

“There are thousands of assault reports all over this city, we can’t put police officers on every single one of them. We can definitively connect this criminal to only three crimes that have occurred inside Pittsburgh City Limits.”

 

Ray Tedeschi of The Gay Men’s Health Alliance laughs cynically when I read back Johnson’s words. “Oh, please,” Tedeschi says, setting aside a file in his impossibly crowded office. He works in a cramped room on the second floor of a small rented building, and the tiny couch he gestures me to sit on has seen far better days.

 

“Ugh, I remember that couch. Why the details? Wouldn’t it be better if he talked about the crime?”

 

“It’s a gay crime. Notice how fluidly the gay thing is worked into the story without centralizing it all at once?”

 

“Yeah, things that make you go ‘hm.’”

 

“You have gaydar. You support the right of gay men to fuck. Thus, you are not the average reader.”

 

“I’m not the average anything.”

 

Brian snorted, and nudged Justin’s shoulder with his own. “Anyway, the couch. What other piece of furniture has been mentioned in the article?”

 

“The chief’s chair… right, leather. Expensive. Got it, as opposed to Tedeschi’s ratty couch.”

 

“In one shot! The moneyed power brokers ignore the poor little guy who’s working for the victims. You’re the artist, details influence the reader’s emotion, and therefore point of view.”

 

“Yeah, and you’re the professional, paid to notice how the clueless consumers are being manipulated. And then to tell your clueless partner.”

 

“Who should read the article and let the wise one drink his coffee.”

 

Now it was Justin’s turn to snort. He turned back to the article.

 

 

“The police have known about this particular criminal for the past eighteen months. I started receiving reports of a man picking up men at clubs and driving them around, refusing to let them out of the car, as far back as spring of 2003. Most of these guys wouldn’t even report the assaults as crime, since they knew they wouldn’t find a sympathetic ear with the police. When I communicated my own more explicit information to a police liaison, I was told there was nothing that could be done.”

 

The assaults began showing up in police reports in May of 2005, when the killer began beating his victims and ejecting them from moving vehicles. The penetration rapes began later.

 

“He uses a club for both the beating and the rapes,” Tedeschi tells me. “Wait…” and he handed me the following sketch, a composite of two early reports.

 

[sketch of suspect appears in box]

 

I realize I’ve seen this before. “Yeah,” Tedeschi says, grimly, “On poster boards at the GLC, and the community health centers, the AIDS walk-in clinic, and the establishments around Liberty Avenue.” He reads from the text under the picture of the bland-looking man in dark glasses: “‘Suspect in assault and sexual abuse. 5’ 10”, 185 pounds. Blond hair, wears leather, dark tinted glasses.’”

 

So why haven’t the police done more to spotlight this serial criminal, now killer? “Two things,” Johnson tells me, looking annoyed. “One is the confidentiality issue. The crimes were already on the books as assaults. To point out that the man is a sexual predator would violate the privacy rights of the victims.”

 

 

“That is the most ridiculous argument I’ve ever heard!” Justin shouted, “Pointing out to a community that there’s a predator in its midst is a problem because the crimes were already reported?!”

 

Brian had been drinking his coffee and watching CNN; he reached his arm around Justin’s chest and drew him back, peering over his body to see what the hell Justin was ranting about. Justin pointed at the chief’s quote. “Ah. There is a tradition of not exposing victims of rape to public scrutiny.”

 

“Which is stupid,” Justin continued in the same tone, arching his back to put space between him and Brian. Brian sighed and released his arm from around Justin’s chest, as Justin turned to face him. “It’s not like it’s your fault that this happened! Why should you be ashamed of it? Facing what happened is hard! Anyone who does it is fucking brave.”

 

“I’m not ashamed,” Brian answered, keeping his voice even. “But what do you think people would say when they heard Brian Kinney had been raped?”

 

Justin stared at him for a moment, and then turned his face to the side, and away, finally turning his body back to the original position, and settling back into Brian. “Yeah, okay. It’s still stupid.”

 

“No, what’s really stupid is the favors I had to call in to get this story in Kevin Inch’s weekly column.”

 

“But he did a great job in writing it from a sympathetic viewpoint.”

 

“He didn’t write it.”

 

Justin pulled away again, and Brian sighed, setting his coffee cup down. The damn shit was cold anyway. “You wrote it.”

 

“What can I say, I’m brilliant.”

 

“Why’d you put yourself in the story? You didn’t have to.”

 

“It’s a human interest column, I can’t just report what two major dicks are fighting out at the expense of the public and expect anyone to give a shit in that particular context.”

 

“Couldn’t you have reported on the other victims?”

 

“Kevin had to do the interviews, and approve the copy. And, again, the police are not making the names of the other victims public. Neither is Tedeschi. He said he didn’t trust Kevin.” Brian shrugged. “That’s fine. Writing this was not exactly ethical,” Brian laughed. “Kevin was pretty pissed. This is all he consented to give me.”

 

“What kind of favor did he owe you?”

 

Brian smirked. “It’s not so much the favor, so much as where I threatened to collect it. Now stop squirming, read the magazine and let me watch the news.”

 

The second issue, of course, was the desire of police to supposedly lay low in the hopes that the criminal would reveal himself.

 

Instead, Rafferty Coleman is dead.

 

“I know that should have been me,” Finn says. “It’s a weird thing to consider, that I was lucky. Saved by a bucket seat, since the guy couldn’t maneuver really well when I came to. I bet, though, whoever that guy is, he won’t make the same mistake again.”

 

I asked Finn if he plans to stop going to clubs, to give up the lifestyle. Finn shrugs. “Isn’t that kind of like, letting the terrorists win?”

 

In the meantime, Pittsburgh continues on, blithely unaware that the killer stalking the streets of New York has a second hunting ground, and he’s unlikely to stop now. The question is, why isn’t anyone in Pittsburgh talking about him?

 

 

*Names have been changed.

 

Justin looked up and tilted his head back. “That’s it? What about the New York murders?”

 

Muting the television, Brian settled a hand in Justin’s hair. “Yup, that’s all you get. Word limit. And Kevin’s being a bastard. AND, we’re lucky to get what we did. Brandon Christie is the editor of the paper. Guess who was in most of the meetings I had with Stockwell about his PR?”

 

Justin groaned. “So, it’ll get buried.”

 

“Kevin was packing his desk when I left. He’s sure he’s going to be fired.”

 

“But it’s a great story!”

 

“Yep,” Brian said. “Or at least a sensational one.” He turned Justin around, and lay him against his stomach. “Don’t you worry. It’ll garner attention, and you’re right, the story is ripe to be uncovered and exposed by a real reporter. Which is why I sent a copy to a friend of mine at the Philadelphia Inquirer. They’ll pick it up, get a Pulitzer out of it.”

 

“So, your reporting days are over?”

 

“I have better things to do.” His hand settled on Justin’s rear.

 

“Ribs all better?” Justin asked, running his hands down Brian’s side, and under his shirt.

 

“Yeah… and I have got to get back to the gym.”

 

“Oh, yeah, you’re real fat,” Justin teased. His thumbs brushed against Brian’s nipples. He felt them harden to points, and a surge of desire swept through him.

 

“Actually, I’ve lost muscle tone and I’m too skinny,” Brian responded, before he fastened his lips on Justin’s skin, just below the jawline.

 

“Mmmm… but your skinny body is up for this.” It wasn’t a question.

 

Brian bucked his hips, so Justin could feel what he was about to be sitting on. “I’m up. Besides, weren’t you paying attention? If we don’t fuck, the terrorists win.”

 

Justin sat up, squirming his ass against the erection beneath him. “You wrote that whole thing to get that one line in there, didn’t you?”

 

“Maybe. It definitely was a bonus, that’s for sure.” And Brian decided they’d talked enough, and pulled Justin down towards him, encouraging the use of lips for another activity.

 

***

 

They showed up at the diner ninety minutes later. Justin hesitated when he saw Michael, Ben and Hunter sitting at one of the booths, but Brian just grabbed his hand and pulled him along. When they reached the booth, Brian slid into the seat Hunter occupied alone, bringing Justin with him.

 

“Space issues!” Hunter groused, from his position hard against the wall. Brian smirked, and hauled Justin into his lap.

 

“What… hey! I’m not a twink! I don’t do lap dances! …anymore.”

 

Michael looked over, watching this without a change in expression. Brian caught his eye and smirked. Finally, Michael smiled back. “Boy Wonder, you will always be the twink in this crowd.”

 

“That’s JT to you,” Justin responded, giving up and settling into position.

 

“Did you see this article?” Ben asked, pushing the Sunday magazine across the table toward them. It was, of course, Kevin Inch’s piece. “I don’t know who that Kevin guy is, but he deserves a medal for bringing this to the gay community’s attention.”

 

Justin picked up the article and pretended to be absorbed. It didn’t take much; he wanted to read it again, anyway. Ben looked over at Michael; they exchanged a glance. “How are you doing, Brian?” Ben asked.

 

“Just peachy. Mikey, I’m stealing your, ugh, husband, for the gym today. I need someone to whip me back in shape.”

 

“So? Hire a trainer. And do you have to do that every time you call him my husband?”

 

“I don’t blame him. I want to groan every time you get all gloopy too,” Hunter put in. “You guys are practically poster children for lovey-dovey. It’s disgusting.”

 

Michael sputtered, “You have the poster couple for PDA grinding against each other right next to you and you’re accusing me of that?”

 

Ben smiled. “I like being the poster couple for lovey-dovey.” He leaned over and kissed Michael. Hunter snorted. Ben pulled back, and continued, “Anyway… I really think this article will motivate the community. I’m going to see Tannis and Philip later about organizing a rally.”

 

“That’s a great idea!” Michael enthused.

 

“I agree,” Justin put in.

 

Brian moaned. “Oh, god, not you too.”

 

“Hey, boys!” Debbie appeared at the side of the table. “How are you all?” She smiled brightly down at Justin and Brian.

 

“Well, aren’t you Rosy the Riveter,” Brian added. “I thought you’d be on a hysteric rant over this.” He pulled the article out of Justin’s hands, and shook it at her.

 

Debbie grabbed the magazine, and swatted Brian’s head with it. “I’m proud of you, Brian.”

 

“What the fuck? What for?”

 

“You know what for.” She shook the magazine at him. “It’s a good thing this is out, now people can be warned.” The magazine left her hands, and fell to the table. Ben picked it up again. “Well, what’ll it be?” She took out her order pad.

 

Brian chose instead to slide out from under Justin and out of the booth. “I have a few things to take care of, actually,” he said.

 

“I thought you were too skinny! You need to eat, Brian.”

 

“I’ve already had my high protein breakfast,” Brian tossed out, pushing past Deb. Everyone groaned, even Justin, who covered his face with his hands. “You up for a gym session at 3?” he asked Ben, who nodded in response. “Okay then.”

 

Justin knew better than to ask Brian if he wanted company; if he had, he would have said so. But he was surprised when Brian leaned over and caught his lips in a brief but tender farewell kiss.

 

Hunter shook his head. Justin ignored him, and proceeded to order pancakes and sausage.

 

When Ben turned to talk to Hunter about a school assignment, Michael turned to speak to Justin. “You guys good?” he asked.

 

Justin hesitated, but nodded. He would have left the conversation there, but that was not Michael’s way. Michael pushed, “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

 

Justin hesitated to respond. Two days ago, he probably would not have. He might have stewed for days in a passive aggressive snit, but things had worked out and he was feeling generous. “Yeah, actually I think maybe you should have. I’m too afraid of Brian sometimes…”

 

“You?” Michael scoffed, half-kidding.

 

“Yeah, me,” Justin replied, quietly. “You’re not, and that’s good for him. I think he needs someone like me who’s sensitive to his issues, but he needs someone like you who refuses to indulge him too much too.”

 

Michael smirked. “So, you’re saying we’re a good balance for the Kinney mystique.”

 

“Ugh, please don’t repeat that to Brian.”

 

Michael just laughed. “Yeah, okay, we can plan strategy during Rage sessions. I’ll whine and kick his ass and you sooth his ego and give him space to vent.”

 

“Yeah. That’s healthy.”

 

Michael picked up his coffee cup and toasted Justin with it. “I’ll put Kinney strategizing on the next Rage agenda.”

 

“Put me on Brian’s agenda too,” Hunter added with a smirk. Ben cuffed him across the head.

 

***

 

Brian leaned against the doorframe of Ray Tedeschi’s office, glancing at the reams of paperwork, the books and pamphlets littering every spare surface. Organization, he thought. No wonder this guy gets nothing accomplished. Ray had office hours on Sundays; Brian had learned Ray’s schedule in order to send Kevin his way for the interview.

 

Ray glanced up from his computer screen to see Brian slouched in his doorway, waiting to be noticed. “Brian Kinney,” he said, pushing back slightly from the desk, and sitting up straighter. “What can I do for you?”

 

Brian noticed that the magazine supplement lay toward the side of Ray’s desk. In fact, there was a pile of supplements. “Getting ready to distribute the information?” he asked, not moving his body, but gesturing toward the stack of magazines.

 

Ray nodded, placing his hand on the front cover of the top copy. “Now that we have something to work with, we can launch from that. It helps that the paper is mainstream. And, as you know, publicity is self-generating.” He smiled. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to get that bastard Johnson to actually do something. Don’t suppose you want to help with the PR or anything for the rally? Why don’t you take a seat?”

 

Brian shook his head. “I’ll stand.” He didn’t even bother to answer the first question.

 

“So… what can I do for you?” Ray shifted uneasily, uncomfortable under Brian’s intense stare.

 

“I know you know,” Brian said, “but that’s not what I want to talk about. Justin told me he’d been here.”

 

“Yeah, well, you know I can’t talk about private sessions…”

 

Brian snorted, interrupting him. “Yeah, okay. Then let me talk about your private session with my partner.” He emphasized that last. “Justin came here because he needed something, reassurance, god knows, I don’t really get it. He didn’t get what he needed. Of course, he’ll get involved in your little rally and whateverthefuck to stop your killer, he’s like that. It’s your job to respond to other people’s needs, isn’t it? Justin forgives a lot in the name of community service.”

 

Brian had paused, and Ray realized he expected an answer. What else could he say? Brian’s posture slouched, and god knows he was not the bulkiest guy out there. So why did Ray suddenly feel he damn well better answer these questions correctly? “Well, yes, of course, I try to help people…”

 

“No, apparently, that’s not absolutely true. I’m just here to tell you, don’t make the mistake of putting your agenda in front of my partner’s needs. Justin’s a good guy. I’m not.” With that, he pushed off the door frame, and disappeared down the hall.

 

Ray leaned back abruptly in his chair, his head hitting the roll bar at the top of his cheap chair. “Shit.” He knew that session would come back to bite him in the ass one day. Yep, he’d kicked himself enough over it, so he thought, but apparently the powers that be figured he had needed one extra ass kicking.

 

Not that he thought he had been wrong in what he’d told Justin. But, saying it at all. Now that had been a serious breach. He sat up, rubbing the back of his head. Oh, well, there were more important things to do at the moment. He glanced down at the magazine, wondering which of the luckier victims was John Finn. Not that it mattered. He was just glad the rally had publicity. He’d been waiting to launch it for over a year.

 

***

 

“He misses you.” Ben didn’t say anything more than that. At least he had waited until Brian finished the bench press reps. Twenty pounds down from his usual weight load. Damn it. Six months, it would take him six months to get back in shape, according to Ben. Brian was seriously thinking of telling him to shut up about everything. Especially those annoying, "Yup, you got it, one more, good job!” It wasn’t a good job, he was twenty pounds light of a good job. And since the weights weren’t lying on his crushed-in chest, he hardly needed Ben to tell him he “got it!”

 

Brian sat up, grabbing his towel and wiping his forehead. “Yeah? Michael knows where I am.”

 

Ben grunted, moving more weights onto the bar for his round. Brian helped him, depressed at how much extra weight Ben was loading up. “He doesn’t know how to deal with the new you.”

 

“New me? What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

Ben shrugged. “Michael has a hard time with change, that’s all I’m saying. He sees your absence from the backroom at Babylon as a retreat, not a choice.”

 

“We’re going to Babylon Thursday. He can see me then.”

 

Ben just grunted again, before laying down on the bench and going through the chest press routine. Brian stood over him, spotting, glancing around the gym. Ben sat up and watched a fit young man walking by.

 

“Is that allowed, professor?” Brian asked.

 

Ben shrugged. “He’s a beautiful man. Looking’s a sign of healthy libido.”

 

“You really DO have to analyze everything!” Brian moved to take off the weights, and prepared the bench for his turn.

 

“I’m surprised you’re not running after him,” Ben added, taking the weights from the other side of the bar.

 

Brian sat down on the bench. “I need bulk, not aerobic weight loss,” he said, lifting his shirt and frowning down at the prominence of his ribs. He let the shirt drop. “I’ll keep him on reserve for next week.”

 

Ben just nodded and moved into position to spot, not mentioning that they had already discussed how much Brian should run after the lift.

 

Brian placed his hands on the bar, but then he paused, and looked up to meet Ben’s eyes. “You should talk to Michael about how I don’t always need his opinion on everything.” He hesitated, then added. “It sometimes upsets Justin.” The last was tossed off almost carelessly, even as he lifted the weight bar, effectively ending any conversation.

 

Ben knew better. Sure, it upset Justin. Justin and Michael had already made up. Ben did find it interesting, however, that Brian used Justin to serve as a rhetorical device allowing Brian to claim his own feelings.

 

Damn, Ben thought, I really do analyze everything. He stopped thinking, and focused on the work out. The real reason he hit the gym so much. Health, schmealth, working out shut up the running commentary in his head, if only for a couple hours.

 

***

 

“Brian!” Ted burst into the office, waving a sheet of paper. Brian looked up, fairly annoyed. “Cynthia let me in,” Ted added. Brian stayed silent, but raised his eyebrows. Ted sighed and walked out of the office.

 

Cynthia buzzed him on the intercom.

 

“Yes?” Brian drawled.

 

“Ted’s here. He has a check for a shitload of money for you. I’m assuming you want your millions sooner rather than later?”

 

Well, fuck, of course he did. “Yeah, okay, send him in.” Brian turned off the intercom with a flick of annoyance. These people knew him far too well. Still, he was not about to let Kinnetik slide into one of those casual hippy-dippy businesses, like SpyWhip. Speaking of which…

 

Ted entered the office, trying hard to suppress his grin and failing. “Brian. We got the SpyWhip payoff. Direct from Semantic. Thirty million dollars. Free and clear.” Ted set the bank proof down on his desk. Brain raised an eyebrow, and said, “Cynthia said it was a check.”

 

Ted rolled his eyes. “She’s creative, not finance, you don’t just walk around with a check for thirty million dollars. Well. Not officially. Not for a real business. Unless you’re a drug dealer. And they only deal in cash, I would think.”

 

“Ted.” Ted shut up. Brian stared at the piece of paper that had been set in front of him. “I’m assuming there’s more paper than this to it?”

 

“Well, YES, but I figured you’d want to see this hot off the press!”

 

“Not a bad job, Theodore.” Brian reminded himself to add a shitload of money to Ted’s Christmas bonus. Who would have thought how a good decision it would be to hire Ted Schmidt?

 

“Thanks, Bri. So… how are you going to celebrate your additional millions?” Ted took a seat. Brian wondered what he planned to stick around for.

 

“Well, we’re going to Babylon tonight…”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Why don’t you come? We’ll have some champagne. Well, sparkling juice, whatever works for you. Make all the losers drool with envy.”

 

The look on Ted’s face… well, it erased the immediate second thoughts Brian had, hearing the invitation fall out of his mouth.

 

“Really?” Ted asked, almost cautiously, a tone that belied the look.

 

“It’s a public place, Theodore. You don’t really need my express permission.”

 

“Yeah, but…” Ted shut his mouth with a snap. He knew better than to push an actual invitation from Brian Kinney. “Yeah, you know. I think I’d love a glass of sparkling grape juice later.”

 

“Okay then. So, why don’t you go off and pretend to work while you really surf the net for a new sports car? Or, more your speed, better retirement investments.”

 

“Really? I’ll be able to afford a… Porsche? Or, yeah, you’re right, I could bulk up my hedge funds?”

 

“Of course, really. You did work the SpyWhip account. At least, at the end.” Brian turned away, back to the computer.

 

Ted nodded, but he didn’t stand up immediately as Brian had hoped he would. Ted took a deep breath, and Brian could feel himself preparing to cringe. “Brian, I just want you to know. Nobody knows Finn is you.”

 

Brian’s eyebrows shot up involuntarily, and he inwardly cursed that he reacted at all. He kept his gaze firmly on the spread sheet in front of him, but now he wasn’t seeing it.

 

Ted continued, relentless. “No one’s connected your accident with the timing on the attacks reported in that article. Most people are much more concerned with the murders than the survivors. That rally on Saturday is all about Rafferty’s murder. Most people are just pissed the police kept this so quiet, and don’t care about who was actually attacked.”

 

“Don’t be naïve.” Brian’s voice was harsh. He finally turned to face Ted. “They’re talking, they’re just not talking to you, since everyone knows we’re…” He paused.

 

“Friends?” Ted ventured.

 

“Acquainted.”

 

“But Emmett would have heard something. And he hasn’t.”

 

Oh. Brian absorbed that for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and shook his head. “Well, it’ll come up eventually. So people are pissed. But after they get used to this new information, they’ll start taking it apart. And then they’ll put it together.”

 

At this point, finally, Ted stood. “You’re incredibly self-centered. And negative.”

 

Brian actually smiled. “And if I weren’t, you wouldn’t have a company to come work for every day. Now, really, I do have work…”

 

“Yeah, like accepting the bank draft. The numbers are on the paper. Don’t forget to figure in my Porsche for my cut!” Ted left.

 

Porsche. Tacky. He really hoped Ted wouldn’t get that brand. It just wasn’t him.

 

And since when had he started actually considering the facets of Ted’s personality?

 

His IM alert sounded. Justin. He clicked on the message, glad for the distraction.

 

JTtheartist: It’s 5:00. Do you know where your partner is?

 

Kinnetik: At his lawyer’s, I hope.

 

Justin had had an appointment with his new lawyer at 4:00, a much more competent attorney than Mel. In fact, Mel had gone quite pale when Justin had reached the point of his reasoning for replacing her when he brought up the St. James suit.

 

“Um, okay, I understand,” she’d said, when he had fallen silent. “It’s not really my field, I should have suggested you get another attorney months ago.”

 

Justin had kicked Brian in the shin before he could put in any additional comments.

 

JTtheartist: Nope, done .

 

Kinnetik: Loft?

 

JTtheartist: Bingo!

 

Kinnetik: How’d it go?

 

JTtheartist: Perfect, lawsuit’s filed.

 

Kinnetik: That fast?

 

JTtheartist: She did some legal voodoo that basically filed an intention to file. I think that’s what she said. Don’t ask me, but she says we’re all set.

 

Kinnetik: I’ll meet you at the loft.

 

JTtheartist: Nope, I’m going to Woody’s. Gonna go celebrate. Come find me.

 

Kinnetik: Will do.

 

JTtheartist: Soon.

 

Brian rolled his eyes, but realized he was ready to go. Well, he would be, after doing his own voodoo to clear that stellar payment.

 

Kinnetik: Meet you there. Now let me go so I can get shit done and get out of here.

 

JTtheartist: ’kay!! But just think of this perfect ass sitting on a stool at Woody’s… wasted for want of the perfect 9” dick… brushing off the scores of perfectly good offers as it saves itself up for the best orgasm you’ll ever feel…

 

JTtheartist has signed off.

 

Brian signed off himself, and leaned back in his chair, laughing. “Fuck!” He was hard.

 

****

 

Babylon. Midnight. Ted and Brian toasted the third glass of champagne (Brian) and sparkling grape juice (Ted) and tossed it back.

 

“That’s it for me,” Ted announced, watching the bodies on the dance floor. “It’s been fun, but if you don’t drink, it’s actually easier to get tired out.”

 

“Aw, you’re not that old yet, Ted!” Michael yelled over the music.

 

Brian shook his head, and met Ben’s eyes. Ben shrugged and pulled Michael back against him. “I think it’s great you came out, Ted, we never see you.” Ben clapped a hand on Ted’s shoulder. Michael looked up at Ben, then over at Ted. “Hey, yeah, we’ll see you at the diner?”

 

“Of course,” Ted said, as he moved to leave. And almost tripped over Justin, who had practically bounced off the dance floor, right into his path.

 

“Ted!” Justin shouted. “Do you dance, Ted?”

 

“I think you’ve been dancing enough for all of us,” Ted chuckled, as Justin grabbed his hand and attempted to pull him toward the dance floor. Justin had had a lot to drink.

 

But Brian had managed to get a hold of the hand Justin hadn’t latched onto Ted with. “Hey, there, Sunshine, not so fast.”

 

“Brian!” And that fast, Ted was forgotten. He smiled at Brian, who smirked back before turning his attention back to the armful of Sunshine. Ted slipped out of the club, and into the warm night. The line of people waiting to get in stretched down the block. He thought that this might be the last time he came here. Time to move on.

 

***

 

“You’re going to be soooo hung over,” Brian said, back in the club. Justin reached up, pulled his head down to meet his lips. Their mouths connected, open, tongues touching and exploring, hot recesses and a thousand nerve endings fired up. Finally, Brian pulled back. “Wanna get out of here?”

 

“You don’t want to dance?” Justin asked, pulling back and tugging his hand, half falling in the direction of the dance floor.

 

“Oh, I want to dance. With you. In private.” Brian pulled Justin in closer toward him, grinding their hips together.

 

“You can fuck me here!” Justin pulled away, almost violently, and turned around to shove his ass into Brian’s groin. He bent at the waist, and ground his rear backwards.

 

“We don’t need to see it!” Michael yelled.

 

“Hey, speak for yourself!” Emmett retorted, coming up behind Michael and giving him a peck on the cheek. “Go ahead, honey,” he called to Justin, who turned his head to see Emmett’s arrival.

 

“Okay!” Justin agreed, reaching for his pants buttons.

 

Brian stopped Justin’s movement, but made up for it by cupping his hand around Justin’s obvious erection, and rubbing his own against the proffered ass. He leaned closer, and said into Justin’s ear, “No. Let’s go home. I want to fuck you somewhere I can hold you down on a clean surface and pound into you so hard and so long you come twice in succession.”

 

Justin shivered, and moaned. The second orgasm, on the rare times it happened, was always so much more intense.

 

“But…” Michael started to say as the two men turned to him and Ben, unwrapping from each other in order to leave. Ben wrapped an arm around Michael’s chest. “Yeah. Okay. Will you be by the diner for breakfast Saturday?’

 

“Sure!” Justin responded instantly. Brian suppressed the eye roll. The boy was totally flying.

 

“Will do, Mikey. See you then?”

 

“Yep! Have a good night!”

 

“You want to dance?” Ben asked, not releasing Michael, but pulling him toward the dance floor, directing his attention away from the retreating backs of his two friends.

 

“Oh, yeah!”

 

Ben smiled. He had plans of his own.

 

****

 

“OhmygodIloveyou,” Justin groaned as the second orgasm convulsed through him. Brian held himself deep in his lover’s body, and closed his eyes as his own climax swept over him. Then he collapsed on Justin’s back. He pulled out, rolling to his side, tossing the condom away. Justin moved to curl into Brian’s chest. His hand moved down to trace the scar on Brian’s side. Brian moved his legs to capture Justin’s in his, and reached down to move his hand away from the scar.

 

“No, it’s sexy,” Justin muttered, placing a lazy kiss on Brian’s collarbone. He was passing out.

 

Brian just shook his head, wondering how Justin came up with some of this shit. But, damn, he loved that he did. He certainly never could. The damn thing was fucking ugly. But he had no doubt Justin meant it.

 

He hadn’t taken any tricks earlier that night. He wondered if Justin had noticed.

 

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t have. He just hadn’t had the inclination. He found himself looking, that was for sure. Lots of gorgeous, hot, sexy men at Babylon.

 

But he hadn’t really wanted to fuck them. And he didn’t really care that he hadn’t wanted to fuck them. It wasn’t as if the desire to fuck had left him. It just… he couldn’t explain it. The desire for random men all the time, though, tonight he hadn’t felt that insistent urge.

 

The fact that he really wasn’t concerned certainly didn’t bother him at this moment, with his arms and legs full of Justin, his body satisfied and limp. Justin moved in closer and shivered slightly. Brian reached down and pulled the covers up over them. Justin let out a deep breath. “That was…”

 

“Amazing,” Brian completed. He kissed Justin’s forehead. Amazing that this guy stuck with him through all this. Through all of it, ever since they’d met. Moving his head lower, he kissed Justin’s lips. Justin sighed, relaxing his lips and accepting the kiss, but not giving back. “Justin…”

 

“Mmmm…”

 

“You know I love you, right?”

 

“Yeah, I know, love you too.” In the next minute, Justin was making the snuffling noises that indicated he was sliding into sleep.

 

Good enough. Brian relaxed fully. He closed his eyes, and breathed in the smell of alcohol, and cigarettes, and the musky scent of Justin. Good enough.

 

End