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We’re lying on the bed in the loft, in the middle of the night, sharing a joint in silence. I think this may be the longest Brian and I have remained fully clothed on this bed with no intention of fucking. I laugh to myself at the thought, feeling thoroughly buzzed. He turns his head at the sound and looks at me, confused. I shake my head, dismissing the question before he asks it.


“I’m going to ask you something,” he tells me after awhile. “And I want you to be honest.” I glance over at him and raise my eyebrows, silently telling him to continue. He sighs. “This is going to sound stupid.”


I shake my head, giggling. “Nothing could sound stupid to me right now.” I haven’t smoked in a few years, especially not the good stuff Brian always manages to have, and I can feel the effects of the long span of abstinence after only a few tokes.


He laughs softly. “Lightweight.”


“Fuck off,” I tell him playfully and nudge his side with my elbow. “Ask me.”


He looks up at the ceiling. “Do you – believe in God? You know, heaven and hell, the afterlife and all that shit?” he asks.


I lean up on so I’m resting on my elbow, facing him. “Honestly?” I ask and he nods. “Yeah, I guess I do believe in something like that.”


He sighs. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”


“What are you getting at?” I ask him, curious.


“Nothing. Just thinking,” he shrugs, and I’m sure he’s hoping I’ll drop it. I don’t.


“About –“ I urge him to continue.


He sighs again. “About – fuck, I don’t know. I’m pondering the possibility that maybe my mom was right all along.”


“What do you mean?” I ask again.


He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”


I feel myself starting to sober up. I know what this is about. Brian thinks he’s going to go to hell. “Brian –“


He waves me off. “Don’t start. Forget it, it was just a question.”


“Well, then I’ll just say this. If there is a God, and if he’s anything like what I was told, I think he just wants us to be happy. He’s the one that made us all and regardless of whether we’re straight or gay –“ He snorts loudly, interrupting me. “What?” I demand.


“I think most would agree that being a fag is the least of my sins, Father Taylor,” he muses with a smirk.


I sigh. “You’re not a bad person, Brian. You never were. And besides, I’m sure Deb and Vic put in a good word for you.” I smile sadly at the thought.


He looks thoughtful for a moment before shaking it off and replacing it with an indifferent gaze. “Let’s talk about something else,” he says shortly, his tone leaving no argument to be had.


“Okay. Can I ask you something now?” I ask hesitantly.


“I suppose,” he sighs dramatically.


I bite my lip. “Are you scared?”


He looks at me questioningly for a minute before realization finally hits. “Of dying?” I nod. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. He takes another hit off of the joint before putting it out in the ashtray. After blowing the smoke out of his lungs he looks at me, his eyes soft. “Maybe,” he finally answers in almost a whisper.


I slide closer to him and readjust my body so I’m resting my head on his chest. He tentatively rests his arm across my torso. I can hear his heart beating from here. A sound I once fell asleep to at night; a sound I once took for granted; a sound that’s now the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard; a sound I never want to stop hearing.


He reaches beside him on the bed and grabs a cigarette. “Maybe you should stop smoking,” I suggest.


He laughs. “What’s the point now?”


I sigh. “Brian, don’t say that,” I insist.


“Well it’s true, isn’t it?” he asks, eyebrow cocked as he places the cigarette in his mouth and lights it, inhaling deeply.


“Maybe not,” I tell him.


“Hmm.” I bury my head deeper into his chest and breathe in his scent. He’s still uncomfortable with me touching him like this, I can tell, but he’s at least come to accept that I’m here to stay, and he hasn’t argued with me about it since we had that discussion. It’s been a week and we’ve settled into our old routine again, only now the night drags on and most of the time I don’t leave until the wee hours of the morning, if I leave at all. Sometimes he’ll fall asleep and I’ll just lie here, watching him, until the sun rises.


Sometimes I think he’s still expecting me to up and leave. He knows I’m not planning on it, but maybe he thinks this will all wear thin soon enough and I’ll scamper on home. Well, he’ll be waiting forever if that’s true. I’m here to stay.


Though I spend a lot of time with Brian, I’ve managed to work in some time to spend with my mother and catching up with Daphne; sometimes I even sleep, but not much. I feel like if I close my eyes, I might miss something. I don’t want to miss any of these moments; specifically, the ones when I’m with Brian.


“Radiation starts tomorrow,” his voice brings me out of my thoughts.


“Can I go with you?” I almost asked if he wanted me to take him there, but I knew I had better word it differently. If it sounded as if he was unable to drive himself there and back, he’d never agree to my going. Brian Kinney doesn’t need anyone – what a crock of shit.


He huffs a laugh. “Why the fuck would you want to be there? It’s not like you can be in the room,” he tells me.


“That doesn’t matter. I still want to go,” I press.


“And watch soap operas in the waiting room for a couple of hours?” he asks as if it’s the most stupid thing he’s ever heard.


I sigh. “Can I go or not?” I demand.


He hesitates for a moment. “Whatever,” he shrugs. That’s better.


“So how often do you have treatment?” I ask him.


“Monday through Friday for six weeks,” he sighs, obviously dreading it.


“Shit,” I breathe. That’s a big difference from the last time he underwent radiation. It was a long time ago, but I don’t even remember it lasting more than a couple of weeks.


“You can say that again.”


“Shit,” I repeat with a ghost of a grin. He starts to laugh softly, and I follow, still feeling the lingering effects of the pot we just smoked. A few minutes pass and I feel his breathing even out, signaling he’s fallen asleep. I yawn and begin to drift off, still listening to the strong beats of his heart beneath my head.


___________


I softly rub his back as he heaves into the toilet. He’s been throwing up for about two hours, so it should be over soon. By now it’s just dry heaves anyway, with nothing left in his stomach to expel. He lays his head on the cool surface of the toilet seat – too sick to even care about how unappealing that would be to him in any other situation – and sighs heavily. I press a wet washcloth to his forehead and he closes his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.


Brian’s been in treatment for a month now and the schedule is like clockwork. He gets up, attempts to eat breakfast – though it hardly ever consists of anything more than toast, and only that much because the doctors insisted he have something on his stomach before going to the hospital – and then he has his daily treatment while I wait for him in one of those uncomfortable waiting room chairs, not that I’m complaining, and then we drive to the loft. Exactly three hours later the wave of nausea hits and we spend the next couple of hours in the bathroom, him vomiting the contents of his stomach into the toilet while I do anything I can to help.


Most of the time he allows me to offer him water in between or a damp cloth toward the end. If he feels especially shitty, he’ll even let me rub his back and talk to him like I am now. He says that the sound of my voice takes his mind off of how bad he feels. I can’t help but feel incredibly happy when he says that.


“I think I’m done,” he tells me. I nod and help him to his feet so he can walk over to the sink and vigorously brush his teeth and splash cold water on his face, just like the other days, before we head into the bedroom. And, just like the other days, this is about the time that Gus gets home from school. He drops his bag to the floor and heads straight to Brian’s bedroom and stands in the doorway.


Brian drops onto the bed, oblivious to Gus’ presence, buries his head in the pillow and attempts to sleep. I pull the duvet over him before glancing up at Gus.


“How is he?” Gus asks, just like he does every day.


“I’m fabulous,” Brian grumbles from beneath the covers before I have the chance to answer.


Gus huffs a laugh. “You damn well better be.”


I vaguely hear Brian mumble, “Watch your fucking mouth, Sonnyboy,” before drifting off. He’ll be asleep for an hour or so, and then he’ll wake up and attempt to spend time with Gus. He’s done throwing up for the night, so later I’ll try to force him to eat some dinner before he finally stumbles back to bed and falls asleep just so he can wake up the next morning and do it all over again.


To put it lightly, treatment has been hell for Brian. He tries so hard to keep how bad it actually is from Gus, but I know he’s very well aware of how awful his dad feels all the time. Weekends aren’t so bad since he has a much-needed break from treatment. He’ll get a lot of work done and spend more time out of the bedroom. I keep telling him he should rest on weekends and maybe he won’t feel so bad during the week. He usually tells me he can rest when he’s dead. I hate it when he says that.


Days like this are what we consider normal days – almost good days, especially compared to the others. Every so often, mostly on a Monday or a Tuesday, Brian will be so tired and so very unwilling to go through this shit for another week, he just lies in bed the entire day – not sleeping – just lying crunched up on the bed groaning quietly. On those days he won’t let anyone near him and he shuts himself out to the world. Gus and I just sit in the living room or the kitchen, talking about other things, trying not to let on that the only thing we’re really thinking about is Brian – waiting for the day to pass and hoping tomorrow will be a better one.


Now I’m finishing up dinner while Gus does his homework at the bar in the kitchen. “So, how’s the girlfriend?” I ask him.


He glares at me. “For the millionth time, she’s not my fucking girlfriend.”


I turn from the stove and point at him. “Hey, you heard your dad, watch your fucking mouth,” I laugh, only half serious. “She may not be your girlfriend now, but you want her to be, don’t you?”


He shakes his head in denial. “I don’t do girlfriends,” he grumbles.


I sigh dramatically. “Oh please, don’t even start with that shit.”


He laughs. “But really, it’s not like that,” he says with a shrug.


“Have you had sex with her?” I ask out of curiosity. His eyes widen. “Oh come on, you can tell me. I won’t tell Brian.”


He guffaws and shakes his head. “He doesn’t care. He said I should’ve fucked her a long time ago.” I huff a laugh, how very Brian of him. He sighs and lowers his head. “No, I haven’t. We haven’t even kissed or – anything.”


“What’s stopping you?” I inquire.


He sighs. “I don’t know. It’s just – she’s great. I don’t want to – ruin anything, you know?”


I nod. “Yeah, I know. But if the way she looks at you and acts around you is any implication, I don’t think she’d turn you down if you made a move,” I tell him honestly.


He raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about? She doesn’t look at me like anything. She only sees me as a friend,” he tells me. “It’s just as well anyways.”


“Oh come on, why else would she want to come over all the time?” I ask him.


He smiles. “She really likes Dad – she thinks he’s, like, the coolest dad ever,” he says in his best preppy girl voice. Ashley visits the house every other weekend, usually on a Saturday, and spends the day with all of us. She does like Brian, that’s obvious. She’s a sweet girl, and absolutely gorgeous. I know Gus has been pining for her for awhile, though he’d never admit it.


“You know that’s not the only reason why she wants to be here,” I insist.


“Do I?” he asks, and I’m not sure if it’s rhetorical or not, but before I can think of an answer he starts again. “I don’t want to talk about it. And I definitely don’t need any advice from you. I mean, what the hell do you know about girls?”


I pick up a dish towel from the counter and toss it at him in mock anger. “Fine, then I won’t give you any advice. Just don’t come crying to me when she finds someone else because she’s sick of waiting for you to do something.”


He looks at me for a moment, then sighs and shakes his head. “Anyways –“ he says loudly.


I laugh and glance toward the bedroom when I hear a sound. “Morning sweetheart,” I greet Brian in what he calls my “Stepford fag” voice as he comes down the stairs into the kitchen. He grunts in response and slumps onto the stool next to Gus. “How do you feel?” I ask.


“Like shit,” he answers, his voice hoarse from vomiting earlier. He glances over at Gus, “How’s the girlfriend?”


Gus sighs dramatically. “I hate both of you.”


I laugh once and Brian smirks at me, his eyes dark and tired. “What’d I say?”


“I was just giving him a hard time about Ashley,” I explain.


Brian nods and looks back at Gus. “Well if you don’t marry her, I will,” he tells him.


“I’m not talking about it anymore,” Gus says in a sarcastically cheerful tone.


I laugh again. “Dinner will be ready in five.”


“Finally,” Gus grumbles. “My stomach is eating my spine over here.” I shake my head at his antics.


“I’m going to take a shower,” Brian announces and stands up from the stool.


“Aren’t you going to eat?” I call out as he walks toward the bathroom.


“Later,” he mumbles. I watch his steps become unsteady and sluggish before he finally pauses before he even reaches the stairs and I see him hold his hand up to his eyes. He wavers slightly.


“Brian – you okay?” I barely get the words out of my mouth before Brian collapses to the ground.


“DAD!” Gus calls out and rushes over to Brian. The three plates I have in my hands crash to the ground and I run to Brian’s still body on the ground. Oh fuck – no, no, no, NO!


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