BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 35-FUSION

NATE ROCKFORD’S POV


when my love for life is running dry,
you come and pour yourself on me

Just being back in the city was re-energizing you that night. It’d been years since you and Sarah had spent a night in this sort of town, but she was exactly right when she said that it was what you needed. You always felt invigorated after hanging out with Brian; he made you laugh, and he was so fearless, so energetic about ideas and making money, he made you feel young again. Sometimes you felt guilty afterward, like you were a parasite living quietly of his enthusiastic, unstoppable fountain of youth.

You’d come to the city to sing at funeral for a young man you never knew who didn’t live to see thirty, and, suddenly, there was a spring in your step. You didn’t know it, but there was something strange brewing in the cosmos that night. Initially, it would affect others more than you, but in the end—like they always say—for better or worse—what goes around comes around.

You called Sarah from the cab, and she answered immediately, telling you that she was back at the hotel, and asking you, “How much have you had to drink?”

“Two glasses of wine. That’s it.”

You could hear the pleasure in her voice, “So, you’re up for this tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“There’s a package for you at the front desk. Pick it up. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

You hung up and leaned back in the cab, smiling as you could feel yourself getting hard, and because you were in a cab and because you’d never break a rule before Sarah was going to allow you a little wish fulfillment, you just took the edge of your phone and ran it up and down the clothed outline of your cock as you fantasized about the rest of the evening.

*********************


you ask me to enter, but then you make me crawl

When you stepped inside the lobby of the hotel, it seemed oddly quiet, and the smiling gentleman behind the front desk greeted you by name when you were still several feet away, “Good evening, Mr. Rockford.”

“Good evening.”

“What can I do for you sir?”

“I believe there’s a package for me?”

“Just a moment.”

You took the package into the men’s room and opened it. There was a note inside, folded in half, that read: before you come upstairs. You stuck it your pocket and pulled out the contents of the envelope: a black leather collar and a matching cock ring.

When you exited the rest room a few minutes later, you were wearing both; the envelope was in the trash.

You rode the elevator with a much younger couple who were drunk and alternating between arguing and molesting each other, and when the elevator opened at your floor, you gladly stepped out and walked to your room. In front of your door, you unbuttoned the top two buttons of your dress shirt, cleared your mind, and knocked.

……

When the door opened, Sarah smiled at you as she attached the hook on the end your leash through the collar you were wearing, and then allowed you to come inside. You were still standing while she shut and locked the door, standing and smiling because everything was perfect—the tiny red candles burning everywhere, the music, the restraints affixed to the four corners of the bed, a bottle of something chilling in a bucket of ice, her hair was down, and she was wearing the slinky black nightgown that you like. When she kissed you, there was licorice in her mouth.

And then you were on your knees, and, oh god, her shoes…

*********************
ALAN HARPER’S POV


echoes of angels that won’t return

“There are some things about a man you just don’t need to know,” Leo was telling you as he watched Nate in the men’s room. “I mean, I’m glad he’s feeling better, but enough already.”

And you were pretending to agree with him and nodding your head all the while plotting which part of Chris’s body you should punch first because after seeing what Daniel and Zeek had uncovered, you were extremely fucking pissed. But Vic was standing on the opposite side of you telling you that it was pointless, that he was dead, and that you needed to trust him, “There’s no gratification in pummeling a dead guy, trust me.”

“You beat the fuck out of Jack all the time,” you retorted.

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Vic said.

“How?”

“I don’t know; we’re sort of family.”

“That’s idiotic,” you told him.

“I know, but go figure.”

You looked over at Chris again, and he was still there, frozen over Cody, plastered in anger. “Whatever.”

……

According to Vic, what happened next was another AfterDeath anomaly, and it began by pulling your mother and Jack to the televisions, and the five of you stood there confused as a reel began to run backwards, very, very fast, starting with Chris’s broken body on the ground. It rose back up into the air, back into the lift, and then rewound for years—a baby born, a marriage, a job offer, a college degree, crying on his bathroom floor, shitting in his pants because Justin stuck a pistol in his mouth.

“Fuck,” you said.

“Shh,” Vic said. “I’ve only heard about this.”

And then Justin running home to Brian with his tail between his legs after he’d just come from a night with Cody, threatening and harassing people in the streets.

“This makes no sense,” you said to no one in particular.

And then faster still, a street party, something about no car, a victory, lost jobs, a villain, deceit, reunions, separations, a comic book, coming clean, lying, cheating, symphonies, a week alone in the snow.

“Is that The Rockford?” Leo asked.

“Vermont,” Vic said.

Brian having lunch with Leo, and then on a plane reading something—according to Leo, “That’s our annual report,”-- taking notes, fucking a flight attendant the minute the seat belt light had gone off. A decision made after an argument.

Justin in art class struggling and failing; Brian in bed with Justin struggling and failing. Justin nothing like the boy he used to be. A trial by farce.

Ambulances, paramedics, pushing everybody out of the way as you moved closer to the screen. Brian not making it to Justin in time; Chris falling to the ground, the blow that wiped the smile off Justin’s face.

A young man in a tuxedo, whose mother was proud of him, who was about to go to his senior prom and then graduate from high school a week later.

A much older man who was alone in his apartment with only two things on his bathroom counter--a glass of whiskey and a lit cigarette balanced in an ashtray he’d swiped from his father when he was just a kid--as he shaved. His black tuxedo hanging behind him, its reflection in the mirror—still in the plastic bag from the dry cleaners.

“God, he’s exactly like me sometimes,” Jack said.

“He knows,” Vic told him. “Believe me, he knows.”

And then it wasn’t about Pittsburgh anymore; it was about a subway ride back in the city, and you turned to Vic, “Why did it change?”

“Don’t ask me,” he said.

*********************


just a stranger on the bus
trying to make his way home

The strangest thing about the AfterDeath had been your ability to feel other people’s emotions; not everyone’s, but definitely the people you cared about. And for the most part that had been a painful, exhausting experience, wearing the grief of so many like a lead apron. But what happened next was a treat, a relief; the lead apron was gone. You could feel yourself riding the subway, but it wasn’t the you you were when you died, it was you at sixteen, a high-school dropout on an early spring day, wearing a pair of jeans that looked like they’d been shot with a BB gun. You could feel excitement, the naïve freedom of youth, and the power of a talent you didn’t know you had because while it was you on that subway, it was you inside someone else. You could feel the hand that wasn’t yours as it sketched the subway car you were riding in in minute detail, watch the page as every inch of it was covered in a snapshot of your surroundings. You didn’t want it to end; it was such a rush, made you feel like you were sitting inside yourself finally in control.

But it wasn’t you.

It was Justin.

And when the screen went blank, you turned to Vic, shaking your hand like it had fallen asleep, “Could you feel that?”

He shook his head and smiled, “No.”

“I could feel that. It’s like I was doing it.”

“Maybe you were a puppeteer,” Vic said.

“No, I was literally inside him. It’s like we were doing it together.”

“You’d have to be,” Vic said, “Because he can’t do that anymore.”

*********************


and so our sun is sinking low
and your spirit's close behind

“You’re probably getting close to the end,” Vic told you after the televisions went off again and after you’d put the remote back on Cody’s chest.

“The end of what?”

“Your movie.”

“How do you know?” you asked as the two of you sat down at the picnic table and started shuffling a deck of cards. “You cut; I’ll deal.”

“That feeling you had, that incredible feeling, that usually comes toward the end,” Vic explained.

You didn’t want to believe what he was telling you, so you pushed it out of your head, started talking about something else, “Aces are wild. Why was Justin in the city that day?”

“He was running away.”

“From who?” you asked.

“Brian.”

“I thought he loved Brian.”

“He did.”

“Then that makes no sense.”

Vic laughed and then showed you his winning hand, “I know. Go figure.”

*********************
BRIAN’S POV


you’ve got your ball,
you’ve got your chain

You are no more and no less than the sum of everything you’ve ever done, an endless paper chain of choice and circumstance, each link bound by obligation to deliver you to the next, each assigned equal weight and measure until it’s behind you. And this mantra that you so proudly espoused at every opportunity--no apologies, no regrets--it was ultimately no different than a shot of whiskey or denial stuck up your nose or someone’s ass. It was a trick, a clever slogan designed to distract the buyer from the truth—that the moments that brought you to that hotel room that night were not paper chains or feathers, they were rocks. And they didn’t float, they sank. And though their weight made every step of the journey forward increasingly harder, they were also, paradoxically, a foundation.

Like it or not.

……

“Turn it off,” Justin told you when Cooper started to repeat himself, so you did, and the room seemed suddenly darker than before, darker than it ever had. You lay down on your back, finally tired, and were surprised when Justin put neither space nor sheets between you. You were going to say something, and then decided against it, letting your fingers converse with him instead as they stroked his hair. His body felt twice as heavy as usual, his head weighing on your chest.

Sometimes when you’re in bed with Justin and it’s quiet, you lay there and let yourself revisit the man you used to be—the one who brought you to where you were--the man that truly believed that love was like jury duty—you know it’s going to happen sooner or later; you’ll do anything to get out of it, and when you all else fails, you just go and do it.

And that was part of your problem.

Because you didn’t know much about jury duty when it was your turn to show up, and being Brian Kinney, you wouldn’t take a seat in the jury box with twelve of your peers. No, you sat squarely on the lone witness stand thinking it a throne, proudly suffered the prosecution, and then retired to the defendant’s chair where you’ve been waiting for the verdict ever since.

The judge tried to tell you several times, “Mr. Kinney, you’re not the one on trial here.”

But you ignored him, secretly believing that sooner or later you would be, so why not just get it over with?

Justin was so quiet during all of this ruminating, you could feel yourself slipping away…

*********************


practice makes perfect,
perfect is a fault,
and fault lines change

At some point when you were in that slippery state between wakefulness and sleep, you realized that Sarah had been the woman in your dream. It was her shoes, her four hundred dollar shoes, and her perfume. When she walked into Daniel’s house that night, you could smell your dream, and when Daniel told you that everyone needed to leave, you thought it prophetic because you wanted to get the hell out of there. Some irrational part of you felt like she wasn’t there for Harper at all; she was coming to get you.

Eventually you were ready to sleep and needed to roll on your side which meant that you were facing Justin, and normally, he would’ve rolled, too, but he didn’t; he just lay there, awake and breathing in the dark. When your hand crossed the space between you, he took it and pressed it to his face; you could feel him smiling. And then you watched as the shadowed outline of his hand slid over yours, moved up your forearm and then curved around your bicep, pulling you toward him, an invitation.

The kiss was soft and quiet, the elixir he ordered to relax the rest of his body. Whereas when you’d entered your room two hours ago he felt it his obligation to replace your anxiety with affection, he was intent on doing the same for himself at that moment, so focused as if he were unable to complete the transfusion his life would be over.

And perhaps because you were physically connected at that moment, because he was reaching for you, because he needed you, you could finally see it so clearly, the quagmire you were in. It was so simple that you’d purposely complicated it just to survive, turned a blind eye as it bled into your career, your vices, your relationships, your dreams. But come that night, it had somehow managed to slink outside of you, escaped through your skin with the ease of a spirit walking through a wall—entitled, as if it had the right to evict itself from your subconscious--and then you felt like it was trying to smother you, felt it stuck to your body like a web of cheap cotton candy…

“Brian, are you okay?”

And that was the tricky part.

Because in a way, you were more okay than you’d ever been and would’ve been for the rest of your life had time stopped at that moment, had the goal of your life been to get to that point and die. But the equilibrium was short-lived; in the blink of an eye, it was beginning to slide in the other direction. And you’d lost that confidence that you always kept in your back pocket; you had no idea what to do. You couldn’t tell him…

You couldn’t tell him because you didn’t know what to say…or how to tell him that this man you loved…that the boy he was deserved better.

……

That to see him pen you as a superhero when the task itself was almost impossible because of you made you so angry—and so he named you—so angry that he couldn’t see that, that he wouldn’t just get the fuck out, get the fuck away from the circumstances you’d imposed on him, stop succumbing to some Stockholm syndrome need to be with you because it was killing you, this thought that you might hurt him again.

Get out because it was killing you.

You.

You took a deep breath.

“I’m fine,” you told him, and he believed you, running his hand over your chest until you stopped it with yours. He thought that meant that you wanted something else so he kissed you, and it didn’t feel right to you, and you thought he’d think that too, but he didn’t; he just pressed himself against you a little more, his body warm and dry. A dead giveaway, you thought. Neither of you were even perspiring.

……

“Did you have a good time at dinner?” he asked.

“Steak was excellent, wine was perfect,” you reported.

……

“Well, something wasn’t good.”

……

You sighed and moved a little so that his head was lower than yours, so he couldn’t stare at you.

……

“Brian,” he started again, “This is why I said that—"

“You know that painting in the tunnels?” you asked.

“Which one?”

“The one you’re in.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it supposed to mean?”

……

He moved back a little, resting his head on his hand, staring at you anyway, “I don’t know.”

……

“It’s your painting.”

“No, it’s not. It’s Alan’s painting,” he corrected you.

“Of your painting.”

“Right, but it’s his interpretation of my work. You’d have to ask him what it means.”

……

“Well, I can’t,” you told him. “So can you—"

“No.”

……

*********************


these crimes between us grow deeper

……

And then the silence that filled the space between you felt like a force field, and you’d felt that feeling before, just usually in a boardroom and not a bedroom. It was the same feeling you got when you finished a kick ass presentation, and the client sitting in front of you had a very important decision to make. Only this time, the roles were reversed.

“You’re not the only one in the painting,” you heard yourself say, the way that you hear doctors and nurses talk above your head while they’re putting you to sleep, and the tone of your voice didn’t match the unrest inside you; it was calm, low, almost resigned. You wondered if you were about to split down the middle.

“You’re in the painting,” Justin said, a quiet confirmation.

“And I didn’t know Alan.”

……

He moved closer to you, making you feel somehow safer inside your own skin, and then his hand was resting on your hip when he spoke, “I wish you had, but it really doesn’t matter, does it?” He was practically whispering.

“No,” you admitted, staring at the wall.

……

“Brian, I started that piece on the bus I took back here after Chris’s funeral. It started as a sketch, turned into several partial canvases, and finally became a painting. Alan was at Daniel’s one day when I was there, and he saw it. He liked it; I guess he took one of my sketches with him.”

“Where’s the painting that you did?” you asked.

Justin sighed, in that tired way he does that makes you feel like he’s disappointed with you, “I sold it.”

Of course he did.

*********************
JUSTIN’S POV


you’ve got the cool water when the fever runs high

And then something happened in the next minute or so that felt familiar, that you could see even in darkness; something that had happened earlier that night, several times that day, and probably a hundred times since the day you met Brian, but perhaps because of the circumstances, and the fact that this time, those circumstances felt more like more yours than his, you saw it play out in real time.

It was the way he said, “Okay,” the way his body relaxed and welcomed yours. It was the reverse of the way it usually happens because it’s rarely a pull, it’s a push; this switch he makes. And to be honest, you probably could’ve intervened and stopped it, but there was a part of you that needed this other part of him.

The man you were talking to before; he was gone. Your marriage to Brian had essentially made you a polygamist.

But that night, you really didn’t give a shit.

Because all you wanted was to cocoon with the contradiction, to borrow the strength he radiated even when it was built on a scaffolding of fear, to lie there against him while he kissed the side of your face, while his finger traced your jaw line, while he told you he was sorry for waking you up and, “Go back to sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” you said.

……

But when he kissed you, it felt like goodnight.

……

The blankets began to feel heavy, your eyes closed, and still he held you, his hands trying to soothe you in ways that had always worked before.

But you fought sleep for purely selfish reasons that you thought Brian would understand, guiding his hand that was running up and down your back a little lower and holding it there while you kissed him. And when the kiss ended, he made a low, deep sound, “Mmm,” that seemed more or less a signal that you could relax, that he’d gladly take over.

Your arms snaked around his neck in gratitude, and the two of you lay there kissing for a long time; Brian’s hand wrapped around your thigh, his grip a possessive, intimate comfort.

Had the artist in you been employed that night, he would’ve been drawing parallels—various intersections of your bodies over the years when the contact transcended the physical, when the conduit was exploited as a means to an end, the quickest way to get where one or both of you needed to be, he would’ve painted long, broad strokes in dark, mercurial undertones, leaving the detail for another time—so often at his own expense—and that night would be no different.

But the artist in you was noticeably absent once Brian began to respond to you because you’d banished him that night, perhaps a backhanded slight for stirring the pot—or maybe out of jealousy; maybe you alone wanted all of his attention.

And so little by little you purposely acquiesced, softening your resistance in tiny increments, allowing the thought of surrendering to him exile every other part of you to some revolving baggage claim area where you’d go back and pick it up whenever you wanted.

*********************


my power
my pleasure
my pain

But Brian seemed hesitant, kissing you and then pulling away, his hand supporting your head, looking at you in a way that made you feel like he was sizing you up or something. But then his thumb would caress the side of your face, and he’d smile a little and come back and kiss you again. And this continued for a long time and to comfort yourself you slid your hand over his chest, his stomach, and then stopped between his legs, relieved that he was as hard as you were, “You don’t want to fuck?” you asked.

He laughed a little, a very low tone, the kind of sound he makes when he’s laughing to himself.

“Was there something funny about what I said?” you asked.

“No, there’s something funny about you thinking that I would ever not want to fuck you.”

……

And then for some reason that you wouldn’t understand until later that night, you felt rejected or minimized or something, and although your heart didn’t want to, your body turned away from him, “Well, let me know when you’re ready. You know where I’ll be.”

……

……

“Justin.”

……

……

“Justin.”

……

……

“Brian, just fuck off.”

……

Less than ten minutes later and without a word, Brian got dressed and walked out of your bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

*********************
BRIAN’S POV


I drink myself of newfound pity
sitting alone in New York City
and I don’t know why

One hour and a crisp hundred dollar bill laying on a bar somewhere, the streets of New York City didn’t look so different from Pittsburgh after all—except that no matter where you walked, you’d never pass by a business you owned, or where one of your friends lived, or a disgusting, condemned bathhouse where you’d fucked half the city in your youth.

And one hour and one hundred dollars later didn’t make the office call you because, hell, they didn’t need you, or your friends because, well, same reason. As far as you could tell, the only person who needed you there was a fucking three-year-old who couldn’t even pronounce your fucking name.

It’s a fucking bullshit lie—okay—no—it’s the fucking bullshit truth that superheroes change into their superhero costumes when they smell trouble. You probably looked a total fucking idiot walking down the streets of New York as a retired gay superhero that never really made it. Even as a superhero, you were fucking pathetic.

In tights.

Justin hadn’t called.

Or maybe he did, and you just couldn’t remember.

Maybe he called you and told you to go home…or maybe that was before.

I could take a cab and get on the airport and go home but not really too drunk to let me.

*********************
ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV


someone’s knocking at the door,
somebody’s ringing the bell

The call came at two twenty-three in the morning, and that’s when Kinney spoke those three little words you never want to hear him say when you’re off the clock, ”Where are you?”

“Asleep.”

”I’m fucking serious,” he said, but he sounded more like, ”I’m fuckinzebras.”

“I’m at Dan’s. Where are you?” It had been years since you’d heard Kinney sound like that. Years. And then he didn’t answer you.

“Brian?”

“Kinney?”

“Boss Man?”

You looked at your phone:

Called ended. 00:54

……

By the time you pissed and put some pants on, he was ringing Daniel’s doorbell over and over and over. You flew down the stairs and opened the door, “Would you fucking stop that?”

“Stopwhah?” he asked, leaning against the door frame.

It was the only thing holding him up.

……

“What are you doing here?” you asked, stepping outside the door, shutting it behind you.

“Free country. Lemme in; I need to piss.”

“You can piss in the bushes.”

But Kinney decided he was going in anyway, so you physically stopped him, “You’re not going in there.” (Apparently, he’d forgotten that he actually pays you to bounce.)

“Get your fucking hands off of me.”

“Piss in the dirt.”

So he did, very deliberately—only not in the dirt--right on the blood stain on the sidewalk instead. When he finished, he zipped up and smiled at you, “All done.”

“I’m going to start some coffee. I’ll be right back.”

“Have fun, Martha Screw It.”

……

You walked back inside, shut the door, locked it, and then saw Daniel standing at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Kinney. He’s smashed. He wants to come in; I told him no.”

“He’s upset?” Daniel asked.

“He doesn’t exactly get upset; he gets—"

“Angry?”

“To put it mildly.”

"Is Justin with him?"

"No."

“He can come in; it’s okay.”

“You sure?” (Jonathon had told you once that Daniel was one of those people that gets off on pain or something. You figured he must be right.)

“Yeah. I’ll go get dressed.”

*********************
DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV


give us a tantrum
and a know-it-all grin

When you opened the door to invite Brian inside, he was sitting on your front steps, his legs sprawled out in front of him, his head leaning against the railing. “That doesn’t look very comfortable,” you told him, “You’re welcome to come inside.”

He seemed surprised to see you, “The ever-generous, benevolent doctor. Weren’t you on Little House on the Prairie for a while?”

“Would you like to come in, Brian?”

“Yes, I would,” he replied, imitating your polite tone. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome.”

You’d hoped that he’d come in and sit down, but Brian had other ideas, refusing your offer of fresh, hot coffee and taking an unsolicited (and rather unsteady) tour of your home instead, commenting on the décor and its owner. He started in your bedroom after inviting himself up the stairs. You stood in the doorway, holding Zeek back, watching Brian as he flopped down in your chair, threw his very black boots on your very white ottoman, and asked what the fuck that fucking thing was hanging over your fucking bed.

“The painting?” you asked. It was one of Justin’s.

“Did you buy it from him?” Brian asked, “Or was that he way he paid his rent?”

“I didn’t charge Justin rent.”

“So he gave it to you?”

“I didn’t pay him for it, so, yes, I guess he gave it to me,” you admitted.

“And all the others? Same with them. Gifts?”

“I suppose.”

“Did he give them to you before or after he stopped fucking you?”

“After,” you conceded. "Although I don't think one has anything to do with the other."

“Well, that makes perfect sense,” Brian said, standing, but using the chair for balance, “Because the only passion in this whole fucking place is on the fucking walls.” And then he got right in your face in the doorway, towering over you, his breath reeking of whiskey and cigarettes, “Do you frame all of your fucks?”

And when you didn’t move and didn’t answer him, he got even closer, “You know, for posterity, for when they’re not around anymore?”

(”Please just let me punch him,” Zeek begged from behind you.

“No.”)

“You don’t like that I have Justin’s work displayed in my home?” you asked your accuser as he shoved passed you.

He laughed, “I think it’s pathetic.”

“You don’t have any of Justin’s paintings in your home?” you asked.

“Not the same,” he slurred, holding onto the railing, ready to go back downstairs.

“Why not?”

“Because I have him.”

*********************


so when u call up that shrink in Beverly Hills
u know the one - Dr Everything'll Be Alright

When you and Zeek managed to corral Brian into the kitchen, get him to sit at the kitchen table, and accept a cup of coffee, you asked him, “What about all the years you didn’t have him? When he was here?”

Brian ignored your question, preferring the role of inquisitor, “Has he ever painted a picture of you, Doc?”

“Not that I know of, but I’ve seen several that he’s done of you.”

Brian smiled, but not in a friendly way. “He has good taste.”

“He loves you.”

……

“He loves me,” Brian repeated, but his tone had changed, the anger in his tone had morphed into something else—something weird, distant. You took it as an opportunity to change the subject,

“Brian, where’s Justin right now?”

He thought about it for a few seconds, “In bed. All by himself. Naked.”

“Does he—" but he interrupted you.

“You can go over there if you want and see for yourself,” he added. “He’s ready and waiting.”

“Does he know where you are?”

“Yes and no.”

Zeek looked at you, rolling his eyes, as if Brian’s responses were exactly what he was expecting.

“What does, ‘Yes and no,’ mean?” you asked.

Brian laughed, “It means that no, he doesn’t know where I am, and yes, he does.”

You filled his coffee cup again, “You mean this is a pattern in your relationship?”

“Re-la-tion-ship,” he said, “They call it that because it can sink.” And then he made his index finger a torpedo and sunk it into his hot coffee complete with torpedo sound effects. “Ow, fuck. Shit.”

Zeek got up, got him a glass of ice water and stuck his hand in it, “Here, you idiot.”

And while Brian was nursing his self-inflicted wound, you excused yourself, went into your office and called Justin’s cell. It went directly to voice mail. You left a message.

*********************


in a white room with black curtains

When you came out of your office, Brian was lying on his back on your living room floor. Zeek was sitting on your sofa staring at you, his eyes begging you to let him put Brian out of his misery. At first, you thought that Brian had passed out, but when you sat down beside Zeek, you could see that he was very much awake. Brian turned his head and looked at you, and although you were sitting at a higher elevation, you felt like you had absolutely no power in that room.

Brian, quite literally and figuratively, had the floor.

But you took the lead anyway, “Brian, I just called Justin’s cell phone and left a message so he’d know where you were and wouldn’t worry.”

“Is that just one of the many amenities you have to offer here at Dr. Dan’s Bed and Breakfast?”

“Did you want Justin to worry about you?”

His eyes moved to the ceiling, where they would stay for a long time, “He’s not worried; he wants me to go home.”

“Why does he want you to go home?”

“Because he’s worried.”

(Zeek spun his finger beside his ear, “Whacko.” You reached up, grabbed his hand and pushed it down, shaking your head at him.)

“Why’s he worried about you, Brian?”

“Because they tried to kill him.”

His voice was getting harder and harder to understand. You found yourself leaning forward, your elbows on your knees, “Who tried to kill him?”

“The cops.”

“The cops tried to kill Justin?”

“The cops tried to kill Alan.”

“The cops did kill Alan, Brian.”

……

And then Brian seemed to freeze, and Zeek got very anxious, picking up a crayon and a coloring book of Amelia’s off the coffee table and scrawling on it: He pissed on the blood stain on the sidewalk.

(“When?” you asked.

“Tonight, when he got here. I wouldn’t let him come inside.”)

And when you glanced back at Brian, he looked completely disconnected—gone--except for the tears pouring down either side of his face.

“Shit,” you said. “I’ll be back in a second.”

“Where are you going?” Zeek asked.

“To call Jonathon. Do you know Justin’s room number?”

*********************
JONATHON MASSEY’S POV


trust in your calling

Daniel’s second call that night meant that you and Father Dick had to cease yet another one of your favorite carnal pastimes: Pope on a Rope. You untied Father Dick from the headboard, explaining to him that the two you had been hand-picked for a mission of mercy which Father Dick said he was totally up for (no pun intended, he promised you) as long as it didn’t involve a third world country.

“Hardly,” you replied. “We’re going to The Regency.”

“Well, they’re definitely not a tax write-off,” he replied. (Being a priest and all, Father Dick was always averse to referring to those less fortunate than himself as ‘charity cases.’)

……

“I’m sorry, sir,” the concierge told you, “I can’t give out room numbers. I can ring the room, but if the guest doesn’t answer, there’s nothing I can do.”

You tried to remain calm, “I appreciate your protocol, but I’m Mr. Taylor’s physician and Father Donnelly is his spiritual advisor, and we need to see him immediately. So either give me his room number or take me up there because if you don’t, you’re going to be the one responsible when the shit hits the fan.” You flashed your Mt. Sinai badge in the guy’s face.

“Yeah,” Father Dick said, you know, like he was twelve or something.

“Okay, follow me please.”

“Thank you.”

The two of you were escorted to an elevator and watched while it was opened with a key. When you got to the right floor, the doors opened, and the concierge said, “Here you go.”

“Which one is theirs? They’re not numbered,” you asked.

“All of them. It’s their floor.”

And then the elevator closed and he was gone.

So Father Dick opened the first door he saw and said, “Nope. Linen closet,” and then kept going, “Nope. Coat closet. Nope. Bathroom. Nope—"

“Would you cut that out? The bedroom’s this way.”

When you knocked on the door (that you prayed was really the bedroom), you heard something, turned, and smiled a little at Father Dick, mostly out of nervousness, and then heard something else, “What’s your problem? Are you too drunk to turn a doorknob?”

“This,” you told Father Dick, “Is why I don’t do couples counseling.”

“Same here.”

“Justin, it’s Jonathon.”

……

“Justin?”

……

“It’s unlocked.”

*********************
DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV


wrong way on a one way track

Again you emerged from your office that night and again things had changed. Zeek was sitting on the floor next to Brian, holding a glass of water in his hand. “He asked me for it,” Zeek said, “But he won’t sit up.”

And then Zeek stood up, urging you toward the kitchen so he could talk to you privately, “He keeps telling me that he wants to see him before they take him away.”

“Okay.”

“It’s like he thinks you’re his doctor.”

“You mean Justin’s?” you asked.

“I think so. He’s freaking me out.”

“Jon went to pick up Justin. They’ll be here shortly.”

……

The two of you walked back into the living room and sat on the floor on opposite sides of Brian, and then Brian looked right at Zeek, so Zeek said, “You gonna be all right, Boss Man?”

“Dumb mother fucker.”

“Did he just call me a dumb mother fucker?” Zeek asked you.

“I don’t think so,” you told him.

“Dumb mother fucker,” Brian mumbled again, his eyes closing for a few seconds.

You reassured Zeek that Brian wasn’t talking to him. “He’s lost his fucking mind, hasn’t he, Doc?”

“No,” you told him, “He’s just confused.”

And while you and Zeek waited for Justin to arrive, you’d check your watch every minute or so, and then Brian opened his eyes again, staring at Zeek like he knew him, demanding, “I want to see him.”

“Brian, Justin will be here in a few minutes. He’s on his way,” you told him.

“In the ambulance,” he mumbled, and then his eyes closed.

*********************


a little out of touch, a little insane,
it's just easier than dealing with the pain

When you heard the key in the door about five minutes later, you got up off the floor, anxious to see everyone. The place had gotten eerily quiet since Brian had fallen asleep, and after all, it was almost four a.m. by that point. Jonathon walked in first, but Justin emerged quickly from behind him, “What happened? Where is he?”

“He’s right there,” you said, whispering and pointing to the floor, “He just fell asleep.”

“He’s drunk as shit,” Zeek added. “No need to whisper.”

Before you could tell him anything else, Justin walked over and sat down next to Brian, holding his hand in his lap, straightening his hair, his shirt, and Brian’s eyes fluttered for a few seconds, opened, and then just stared at Justin, like he was the last person he ever expected to see, “Sunshine.”

“Hey.”

“I think I’m drunk on the floor.”

“You are drunk on the floor. Why did you come here?” Justin asked him.

Brian licked his lips while a crease formed in his forehead; the answer wasn’t coming to him very quickly, ”Cause you’re in the hospital.”

“No, Brian—"

“At night is when I come to see you.”

“Brian—"

But Brian silenced him, putting his finger over Justin’s lips, “Shh, it’s a secret.”

“No, Brian, it’s not a secret,” Justin told him, holding his hand again, “It’s a memory.”

“It’s a dream,” Brian countered, as if this was all a just semantic battle.

And then Jonathon looked at you, his eyebrows raised--how long are you going to let this go on?, and you ignored him because Justin was starting to lose his composure.

“I’m not in the hospital, Brian. That was a long time ago. Remember?”

“I wanna fuck you a lot.”

“Not right now.”

“Not ready yet,” Brian said, “S’okay.”

And then Justin looked at you, hopeless, his eyes reddening around the edges, “I don’t know what to do.”

……

A few minutes later the decision was made: Zeek helped you move the coffee table over; Jonathon got a blanket and a pillow from the guest room; the lights were dimmed, and everyone sat very quietly at the dining room table except for Justin who was lying on the floor with Brian, staying with him until he was sound asleep.

*********************


doctor says you’re cured,
but you still feel the pain

When Justin got up less than fifteen minutes later, he sat on your couch the way you always remembered him, his legs tucked underneath him, his arms wrapped in front of him, clicking his thumbnail against his teeth. Father Dick had gone back to Jonathon’s; Zeek had fallen asleep on one of the sofas, so it was just you, Justin, and Jonathon sitting above Brian who was snoring on the floor.

Justin, assuming he owed the two of you quite the explanation, told the story that unbeknownst to him you’d unraveled earlier that evening, and you and Jonathon listened as though it were the first time you’d ever heard it, and it might as well have been because hearing it from Justin was completely different from reading an article in an newspaper.

“Does Harper know about this?” Jonathon asked at one point.

“I never told her,” Justin said. “I guess I never told anybody, really.”

When Justin finished his rendition, you asked, “So you asked him to your prom, he turned you down, and then showed up unannounced?”

“Yeah,” Justin said. “So they tell me.”

“So you don’t even remember the best part of the story?” you asked him.

He shook his head. “All I remember is him turning me down, and then calling my name in the parking garage right before Chris swung the bat. That’s it.”

“Brian’s memory is in tact?” Jonathon asked.

“Unfortunately,” Justin said. “Sometimes I wish it wasn’t.”

“When Brian got here tonight,” you told Justin, “He was really angry about how much of your artwork that I have on display. He was trying to bait me, implying that it was a consolation prize for a failed relationship or something.”

Justin sighed, “I don’t know why, but ever since we’ve been back together, we’ve been having these bizarre arguments about my artwork.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“It’s hard to explain. It started because he bought a painting from my first show, didn’t even tell me—"

“Which painting?” you asked.

“That huge mural. It didn’t have a name.”

“The one we were standing in front of when I met you?”

'I was drawn to this piece in particular because, well, it has such a quiet violence about it.'

'Isn’t that an oxymoron? Quiet violence?'

'I don’t know. You painted it. You tell me.'

Justin’s eyebrows rose, “Actually, yeah. It was that one. He bought it before the show even started. So, I’m up here thinking my art is selling like hot cakes and he’s buying a chunk of it himself. Fucking pissed me off. So, I told him that it pissed me off-"

“What’d he say?”

"'It’s called capitalism, Justin.'"

Jonathon laughed, “I’m sorry, that’s not a very sensitive thing to say, but it is sort of funny.”

“We’ve been having these weird tug-o-wars about my work ever since. It’ll die down for a while and then come back, and I swear, sometimes I have no fucking clue what we’re fighting about, but it’s something because we’re both off kilter until we resolve it. When he saw that painting in the tunnels today, it set him off again.”

“Did you talk to him about it?” Jonathon asked.

Justin shook his head again, a defeated, almost guilty posture overtaking him, “No, I shut him down. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m over this shit. I want to think about my future, not my past.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell any of us that this had happened to you?” you asked.

“I guess so. I guess I thought that coming here, you know, like an idiot, that I could leave that part of me behind.”

*********************
JONATHON MASSEY’S POV


well, it's too late tonight to drag the past out into the light

Watching Daniel and Justin talk that night—well—they both needed it. Daniel needed to understand and Justin needed to explain, even if it was just to himself. You could feel yourself sinking into the background, almost astounded at how often you knew Justin had raised a paintbrush to tackle the subject at hand and yet made so little progress; there had to be a reason. And you didn’t interrupt until Justin seemed to be slowing down, until his telling of the story began to focus on Brian again, until the three of you began to focus once again on the snoring dilemma on the floor. You had questions…

“Justin, there’s twelve years between the two of you?”

“Yeah.”

“So Brian was thirty when this happened to you?”

“Yes."

“And he’s about to be forty?”

Daniel’s head turned in your direction, his way of saying two points for you, as Justin replied, “In a few weeks.”

“How’s he feel about turning forty?” you asked Justin.

Justin laughed, “There are two subjects Brian will not discuss. One is erectile dysfunction and the other is his age.”

“You said that ever since you came back, the two of you have been arguing about your artwork?”

“Right.”

“That didn’t happen before?”

“No.”

“When you came back, did Brian seem different than how you remembered him?”

Justin smiled then, the first time since he’d started talking, “Yeah, he did. He does, I mean. He’s calmer, more confident, rather than arrogant. He’s considerate, sweet.” And then he stopped and started again, “Okay, now I’m just freaking myself out. I would’ve never described him like that to someone else before now. I mean, he’s always been all those things, but not outwardly. I always knew that he loved me, but it’s almost like he wants people to know now. He doesn’t run from it at all. Sometimes it catches me off guard; I’m not used to it.”

“Shit, Justin. You just made me cry,” Daniel said.

Justin laughed, “I know. Me, too. God, this is fucked up.”

“I noticed it in the restaurant tonight,” Daniel told him, “I remember now because I asked him about that painting, and he got uncomfortable. He looked at you, and you got up, and I felt like I was watching synchronized swimming or something.”

“The first time I saw him after I got out of my coma was in a bar we used to go to, and I was freaking out because I couldn’t handle being in crowds or anything. He had this look in his eyes of sheer terror, frozen in place—"

“Because he blames himself,” Daniel said, “Watching you struggle—"

“He had to teach me how to walk down a busy street,” Justin admitted quietly. “And I saw that tonight. I can’t stand to see that look on his face.”

“So, it’s both of you,” you said, “It’s a mutually intuitive rescue squad.” (Note to self: patent that phrase.)

It was a coping mechanism in their relationship that you suspected had run its course, a perpetual rescue after the fact that no one seemed to be benefiting from anymore. But there was more that you wanted to know because there was something else at play there, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on…

“Justin, what happened to the guy who hit you?”

“He’s dead.”

“No, I mean before that. Was there a trial?”

“Yeah, it was a joke. He got community service in an AIDS hospice.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“I was still trying to hold a tennis ball.”

A skillful dodge. You tried again, “Okay, how did Brian feel about it?”

“He expected it. That’s the way the world works.”

“He didn’t expect justice to be done?”

“I don’t think so.” Justin smiled after he answered you; it was very subtle, but it was there, and it struck you as an odd reaction considering the subject of the conversation.

“He didn’t want to go after this guy personally—before or after the trial--and teach him a lesson?”

Justin laughed a little, “That’s not the way Brian works. He prefers a more civilized approach. He’d much rather destroy your reputation or kill your market share than beat the shit out of you.”

You let your frustration with the situation bleed into your voice a little. Daniel caught on immediately, and as you leaned forward to push Justin a little, he leaned back. “Why? Didn’t he have a right to be furious with this kid for almost killing you, and, for that matter, right in front of his fucking face?”

And still no anger from Justin, still picture perfect civility, “Brian believes that you should take your anger and put it into your work.”

“Is that what he tells you?”

“All the time.”

“And now you’re arguing about your work? Having these tug-o-wars as you described them?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Daniel looked at you for a split second, and even in that instant, you could read him like a book: Call on me, call on me. Please, please, I know the answer. But Justin didn’t seem to notice Daniel’s quiet epiphany, he was staring at Brian on the floor, concentrating, thinking, making you feel like the three of you were on Jeopardy. You were about to give him a hint when he looked up and answered you:

“You probably won’t understand this, but I’m not sure I care.”

*********************
DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV


these are the words I never said

“Jon, let’s just call it a night, okay?” you asked your best friend. “We can finish this some other time.”

You can count on one hand the number of times you’ve asked Jonathon to leave your home, even after that one, but he did as you requested. You walked him to your front door, stepping outside on the front steps with him for just a minute.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset him,” he told you.

“It’s not your fault. I’m the one that told you to go get him,” you conceded.

“We’re off our game tonight, I guess,” he told you, but you knew he didn’t really believe that.

“No, we’re on our game. That’s the problem.”

“You can bring a man to a couch but you can’t make him shrink, right?”

You laughed and then asked, “Did you just make that up?”

“Yeah.”

“You better patent that phrase.”

“No shit.”

“I’m sorry I kept you up all night,” you told him.

“Well, it would’ve been you or Father Dick. I was going to be up one way or the other.”

“I think I just threw up in my mouth.”

And then he hugged you, something he hadn’t done in a long time, “Everything will work out, Dan. I promise.”

“I know. Thanks. I'll see you...later today, I guess."

"Get some sleep, please," he advised you before disappearing into a taxi.

……

Back inside, you closed and locked your front door and then walked back into the living room to tell Justin good night. He was still sitting on the sofa where you left him, cross-legged with a throw pillow in his lap. You weren’t even going to sit down; you felt like you and Jonathon had done enough damage for one evening, but when you went to tell him good night you got the feeling he didn’t want you to walk away.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” You sat down beside him.

He didn’t look at you; he stared at his fingers perched on top of the pillow as he spoke, “Have you even been angry at someone that you knew you didn’t have a right to be angry at?”

“Why wouldn’t you have a right to be angry at someone?”

“Because he saved my life.”

……

You cross your legs, extended your arm over the back of your sofa, and inhaled, “Justin, a feeling is just a feeling. You can have as many as you want in as many varieties as you want whenever you want about whatever you want.”

“I love him.”

“You can be angry at someone you love. It’s okay. It’s usually pretty healthy.”

And then finally he looked at you, “It’s just that he thinks this is all about him, and it’s not. This is about me. It happened to me. I’m the one who got hit upside the head. I’m the one who could’ve been a vegetable. I’m the one who had to lay in that fucking hospital bed wondering where the fuck he was, who had to learn how to hold a pencil again, who had to figure out who I was again. Hell, my personality was gone; for awhile, I didn’t even have that. I’m the one that fought with Chris at school, who provoked—hell--humiliated him in the street in front of all of his straight friends, and not once has Brian ever told me that I might have brought this on myself or told me that I should take responsibility for my part in that whole thing. I mean, if I hadn’t done those things, maybe Chris wouldn’t have clubbed me over the head, and then maybe Brian wouldn’t revert to the mess he is right now every time something happens that reminds him of what happened to me.”

And then he took a deep breath, trying in vain to suck tears back into his eyes.

"Whoa," you said, handing him the box of Kleenex from the coffee table, "You've never said that to anybody have you?"

He blew his nose, "No," and then pointed to Brian’s slumbering form, “How am I supposed to tell him these things when he’s so fucked up? I’m just going to make him worse. I don't want him to suffer anymore. I swear to god, Daniel; I can't stand it."

"Okay. It's okay for you to feel this way."

"I mean, Chris has been dead for three years, and he's still a mess. I love him so much, I--"

"You can feel his pain."

"Yeah."

“Sometimes it seems like you don’t have much faith in him, Justin.”

“Look at him, Daniel. You saw him. He was in your house doing his thing. How am I supposed to have faith in that?”

“You want my opinion?”

“Yes. And not just because you’re a shrink, but because you’re my friend.”

“Okay, but I’ll warn you, you might not like all of it.”

“I’m way past that point now, okay?”

You smiled, “Okay,” and then got comfortable on your end of the sofa while Justin got comfortable on his. “The anger that Brian tells you to put into your work—"

“Yeah?”

“What Jonathon was trying to get at before you stopped him was that Brian may be trying to take some of that back. He’s older now, Justin. You said yourself that he’s changed. He may be ready to face some of this.” Justin seemed okay with that, so you kept going.

"You think we're fighting because I won't let him have the anger back?"

"In a very over-simplified way, yes. I think he might be trying to do things differently, and you're resisting him."

"Well, why the fuck doesn't he just tell me that, then?"

"I think he's trying to, Justin, but this is new territory for him. Your return probably set a lot of dormant feelings into motion, and he may not be conscious of what's going on."

Justin looked at Brian's inebriated form on the floor in front of the sofa, "Yeah, conscious is not a word I would use to describe him at this juncture."

"And now that I think about it, several times tonight, he said something about you sending him home."

"I'm trying to protect him."

"Do you like it when he's over-protective of you?" you asked him.

"No."

The two of you talked for an hour, until you were both too tired to talk anymore, and Justin concluded your conversation by asking,

“And you don’t think that talking about this stuff is going to fuck Brian up even worse?”

“Justin, there is no ‘even worse.’ The man thinks you came here tonight in an ambulance. He thinks I’m your trauma surgeon, and I’m not positive, but I think he thought Zeek was 'Nurse Mother Fucker.'"

“Yo, I heard that, Dr. Jekyll.”

I knew he was awake,” you told Justin, dodging a pillow that Zeek was hurling in your direction.

“Me, too,” Justin said, his laughter infected with exhaustion.

It had been one hell of a bumpy night.



Lyrics taken from Bread’s If, U2’s One, Vertical Horizon’s Everything You Want, Joan Osborne’s What if God Was One of Us?, Vertical Horizon’s Angel’s Without Wings, the Dave Matthew’s Band Crash, REM’s I Believe, Dave Matthews Band’s Ants Marching, Paul Simon’s Something So Right, Seal’s Kiss From a Rose, Collective Soul’s The World I Know, The Beatles’s Let ‘Em In, Sarah McLachlan’s Building A Mystery, Prince’s Let’s Go Crazy, Cream’s White Room, REM’s I Believe again, Soul Asylum’s Runaway Train twice, Howard Jones’s No One Is To Blame, U2’s One, and Annie Lennox’s Why.

Icon bases used throughout this story came from basicbases, basebeat, khushi_icons, obsessiveicons, graphical_love, anithradia, simplybases, randomicons, bases_by_maggie, foryourhead, icon_goddess, some icon communities at Greatest Journal, and the website Absolute Trouble.