Chapter 2

2007

Brian felt a bit of trepidation as he unpacked yet another box in the new headquarters of Kinnetik. He'd thought twice - hell, he'd thought a thousand times - about his chances of making it in the Big Apple. About competing with the big dogs in the big kennel. About leaving everything he'd ever known behind in Pittsburgh. About relocating to the city where Justin lived. And really, wasn't that last concern the one that troubled him most? But what were the chances of just running into each other in a city of over eight million? Especially now that Brian wasn't doing the club scene anymore. And honestly, Manhattan wasn't exactly known for its bustling artist communities.

It had been almost two years since they'd last seen each other, last spoken. Right before the cops had raided Cal's little party and Brian's life had been upended. That wasn't the last night he'd gotten fucked up, although it was pretty close to it. But Brian had been clean and sober for well over a year and a half now. For the most part. There were a few tense moments at the beginning of his arrest-inspired legal journey that had sent him running back for chemical relief. And Mikey... shit, Mikey had eagerly been right there pouring consolation into a highball glass for him, rolling it up in a Randy's Wired, and reminding him he was Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake.

That had been the hardest thing to come to terms with. Harder than admitting his dependency on the chemical crutches, harder than figuring out why he was compelled to service his dick at a rate the sex industry could only aspire to, harder even than recalling - and talking about - his totally fucked up childhood. No, it had been coming to terms with his and Michael's twisted friendship, a friendship that enabled both men to avoid every psychological aspect of real individual growth.

Dr. Berm had called it an "unhealthy confidence", a "reciprocal addiction to denial", a "negative codependency founded in mutual lack of self-esteem". Brian had scoffed initially and then grudgingly read the information on toxic friendships the good doctor placed in front of him. He really wasn't surprised at how well it described the fucked-up relationship Mikey and he had developed since high school. He'd already known that bit of high school holdover was fucked up. What was more surprising to Brian was how well parts of the narrative criteria fit his relationships with Lindsay and Debbie, as well. Nearly everyone in his inner circle.

Fuck. Even Justin.

It was weeks after that before Brian actually owned it, however. Weeks in forced rehab therapy sessions, talking - Jesus! - about feelings and abuse and codependency and denial and fucking self-esteem issues - before Brian was able to process the destructive correlation between his own behavior and Michael's. But when it hit, when it actually sank in, he'd made the excruciating decision to end his longest friendship. 

When Brian walked out of rehab, face-to-face with the realities that had essentially landed him there in the first place, he ended up on Theodore and Blake's sofa for a week. He wasn't sure he could live in the loft again and stay sober. It wasn't just his home - it was an iconic representation of his myth. It was crammed full, wall to wall with old patterns and the ghosts of old behaviors. He could re-key it, redecorate it, renovate it... but it would still be haunted in every corner with tricks and booze and drug binges and Justin. He also knew he wouldn't make it, wouldn't succeed at any level of sobriety, if he didn't significantly address - in fact as well as theory - the impact 'the family' had on his life. And he was surprised at how fucking much he actually wanted to succeed.

Thus began the plans to relocate Kinnetik. It would essentially put Brian in a new location without an existing support system, but he had no healthy support system in place in Pittsburgh, either. Just the opposite, in fact. No, he wouldn't succeed in Pittsburgh. He had to distance himself from his triggers.

So now, here he was. Unloading boxes and unpacking suitcases in New York. Theodore and Cynthia firmly behind him, the number of Dr. Berm's colleague programmed into his phone and an appointment already on the books. And his fucking fingers crossed that this limb he was walking on would bear his weight. At least, perhaps, there was no one behind him with a damn chain saw.

:::

A hazy glimmer blinked back at Justin as he let his eyes sweep the City panorama. Bertie's rooftop provided the perfect vantage point and he could almost make out the lighted silhouettes of a half-dozen landmark buildings.

Funny. He'd been in New York for over two years now and hadn't made it to a single one. His mom just said that made him more a resident than a visitor, that he belonged here, but Justin wasn't quite as prone to self-delusion as he had been not so long ago. In reality, the last two years blinked back at him with just as much hazy glimmer as the city spread out below him, and none of it contained anything like the feeling of belonging he'd left behind in Pittsburgh.

"Inspiring, isn't it?"

Justin turned his head briefly toward the soft voice at his right. Tommy - at least he thought that was the man's name. They'd been introduced briefly when Justin arrived earlier, but hadn't spoken at the time. "It's a deception," Justin answered with a lackluster smile. "Illusory. All glitz and glamor from up here, but all grit and sweat and bone-breaking weight when you get a closer look."

"Ah, but isn't that true of life itself? Reality is merely some sensory illusion we live?"

Justin turned again to the man at his side, raising the Sam Adams he held in salute. "To the Wachowski siblings."

Tommy laughed. "Damn. And here I was hoping you'd find me all philosophical and mysterious. I need to brush up on my material."

"If nothing else, it's unique. First time I recall anyone using the Matrix as a conversation starter." Justin held out his hand. "Justin Taylor."

"Tommy Jiang, but you can call me Neo."

Justin chuckled and rolled his eyes. "Oh, you're right. You do need some work on your material."

The next hour passed in conversation about reality, illusion, and a mutual crush on a young Keanu Reeves. Justin discovered that this soft-spoken man with the honey-butter skin and the twinkling almond eyes taught art history at a local university; that he was the first of his family born on American soil; that he was intelligent and witty and beautiful. And Justin discovered that for that hour, he felt just a little less out of place in this illusory world of bright lights and graffiti scrawled concrete.

He'd almost passed on the invitation to the midnight barbeque on the roof of Bertie and Billie's apartment. He and Billie had only worked together for a few weeks, but had bonded on at least a surface level as he cataloged ownership documents and bills of lading for the Montoya Gallery and she worked the floor in sales. But she and Bertie had cajoled and pleaded and flirted him into coming, in much the way that Daphne had always done. So here he was, debating the finer points of perception and reality with an intriguing man and feeling a little more than set up by two persistent lesbians. And for a little while, he forgot to miss Pittsburgh.

Two weeks later, Justin lay in bed in that few moments just before sleep took him, smiling at the memory of his day. He'd spent the early evening sitting on a bleacher court side, eating one of the worst hot-dogs he'd ever had, tears streaming down his face from laughter as he watched the elegant, graceful Tommy Jiang throw up his hands petulantly when he missed basket after basket in a faculty/charity basketball game. The man obviously knew nothing about the game, but he knew when not to take himself too seriously - and he looked great in the shorts. As sleep finally claimed him, for the first time the eyes meeting Justin's in dreams were deep brown instead of hazel, the skin butter-honey instead of soft olive.

:::

The office of Dr. Leon Basquait was, oddly enough, in the building across the street from the one that housed the new offices of Kinnetik NY. Brian hadn't really planned it that way, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, as his grandfather used to say. At least this way, he wouldn't have to take a whole day away from starting up the new office when he had an appointment. And leaving therapy at this juncture just wasn't an option. His probation was in effect for another year and continued therapy was one of the requirements. If Brian was honest with himself - a self-honesty he was still struggling to embrace - he would admit that he now valued the long-vilified psychoanalysis, even if he didn't like it much. He knew he'd made a mess of his life, letting his childhood demons control him, all the while loudly proclaiming how little that childhood had affected him. Coming to grips with the fact that he was a product of even those early experiences was still a daunting thought.

"Brian, welcome. Please, have a seat."

Leon Basquait had been a bit of a surprise to Brian. Small in stature and slightly built, he also had an authoritarian presence about him. Brian could tell he'd been blonde at some earlier point in his life, but his hair was now the faded creamy gray that came with age to so many fair-haired men. Brian thought it some kind of karmic joke that the man reminded him a bit of Justin.

"Dr. Basquait," Brian greeted as he shook the man's hand. "Good to see you again."

"But you'd rather be having a root canal?" Dr. Basquait chuckled and settled back into his chair, folding his hands on his desk.

Brian Kinney had made his feelings about counseling and therapy quite clear during their first session. In the beginning, the doctor thought this was going to be yet one more instance of a non-compliant patient and prepared himself to coerce every single word from the man's mouth. He was pleasantly surprised when Brian had followed up his declaration that "psychotherapy is bullshit" with a quiet "but apparently, I'm told, I need more bullshit in my life." 

He'd read Brian's file, forwarded to him by Dr. Berm, and had gained a beginning understanding of the issues that haunted the man's life. Again, before he'd met Brian Kinney, Dr. Basquait had prepared himself for a totally different kind of patient. With a recounting of childhood abuse, drugs, alcohol and prolific sexual acting out, the basics could have been ripped from the pages of a psychological journal profiling any number of men from various jail cells or homeless shelters. Failure to thrive within society's sometimes unyielding constraints wouldn't have been the least bit surprising given those stumbling blocks in one's life. When he met, instead, a successful and charismatic businessman two weeks ago, he'd been alternately pleased and pained for the man. Pleased to see that Brian Kinney had ostensibly navigated the harsh terrain of life's rules and regulations to arrive at a successful adulthood somewhat intact, and pained to think of the inner turmoil the man had obviously endured by hiding his own pain from that world. Until, that is, Brian's arrest last year made hiding the chemical addictions, at least, an impossibility.

"So, tell me how you've been since we met last week."

Brian ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a small laugh. "You boys really need to get some new intro dialogue."

This was the part he hated, this extemporaneous offering up of his feelings. Give me a 'yes/no' question, give me a damned fill in the blank, he thought. Instead, he searched for a way to begin the resurrection of Brian Kinney's angst. "It's been... tough. Trying to settle into the apartment and the office... Hell, into a whole fucking new life, without..." He let the sentence dangle. They both knew the list of things he was leaving out.

"Reconditioning your psyche to handle stress without the usual crutches... Of course it's going to be tough. Your whole life was crafted around those crutches, Brian. And remember, it's really only been a matter of months."

"I fucking hate this feeling... this lack of control. It's... not Brian Kinney."

Dr. Basquait smiled to himself. "Brian, you realize you've never really been in control. Control implies actually dealing with your issues. What you call control was a form of sublimation. The drugs, alcohol, sexual acting out, codependent relationships... They were all mechanisms used so you didn't actually have to deal."

Brian closed his eyes and laid his head back on the chair. He knew all this, had been through it time and again in rehab and in counseling with Dr. Berm. He knew it. Didn't make it any easier to handle when the stress crept up, however. He was continually surprised that the one thing that threatened him most wasn't the loss of constant indiscriminate sex. That had been, after all, the crux of The Legend, the hallmark of The Myth. He missed it, yeah, but he was able to cope for the most part through the talents of his own hand and the occasional hook-up. No, the most dangerously attractive of his poisons was the booze. Everything else seemed to hover around that.

"Have you attended any support meetings? Here, in the City?"

"Not yet," Brian replied quietly and waited for the responding sigh from the doctor. Truth of the matter was he hadn't even looked for a group. He had a visceral aversion to AA. The religious aspect of that particular group was detestable to him - he imagined his mother, Bible and bottle in hand, clutching her faux-pearls, weeping and 'sharing'. No, that was not a group he particularly relished joining.

"Brian," - and there was the sigh - "setting aside the fact that I'm legally required to report to your probation officer if you don't find a group and attend regularly, you're also setting yourself up for relapse." Dr. Basquait leaned back in his oversized chair and ran a hand across his chin. "It's highly unlikely that you can control this alone... not even with our bi-monthly chats."

With a wan little smile, Brian acknowledged the warning. Both warnings. "I won't do the God crap, Dr. Basquait. The 'higher power' mantra, the indoctrinating bullshit..." He snorted. "The cult life of bowing to the ineffable isn't my thing, not even for sobriety's sake." 

"Ahh...Well, luckily for you there are dozens of secular groups available - some step based, others not. In this city, you could find one on every other corner. But you need to find something and commit to it, Brian."

Another wan smile flickered across Brian's face as he thought about the irony of the doctor's phrasing.  "Yeah, well, commitment hasn't historically been my strong suit."

The doctor shook his head at the negativity coming from his patient. Perhaps his initial assessment of Brian Kinney wasn't so far off the mark after all. He suspected that the negativity, as real as it effectively was, however, was merely another crutch. Beneath the man's self-aware facade resided a very insecure and damaged young boy who had no idea how strong he really was. Months from now - months filled with anger and pain, both physical and emotional, months steeped in wrenching despair and solemn acceptance - both men would look back indulgently on young Brian's Herculean strength and thank him for the survival.