ACCESSION

2005

You really hadn't been asleep when Justin left your bed for the last time. You'd simply lain there, unmoving, face down in the bedding, for at least the better part of half an hour. Silently inhaling the relics of sex and lust and sunshine and fuckinglove that you knew would fade within hours to goodbye. Listening to the breaking of the one fucking muscle you had never, ever planned on using in the first place. Feeling it cramp and spasm from the strain you'd put it through during the last five years.

You'd struggled to stay still as you felt his eyes sketching you for what you knew would be the last time, converting it to a mental picture 'cause it would last longer. Cataloguing and storing it like a souvenir he would pull out to remind him years later of what he did on his summer vacation. And you tried to remember what it had felt like to live without this knife twisting in your gut - tried to remember how to breathe...

And when the last echo of the closed door faded you got up and dressed in black and sat on the end of that bed and lit a cigarette. You sucked in the numb of nicotine, formed your lips into ‘O's' and blew out smoke wedding rings.

And you wished everyone had been a little more right and you really had been a whole lot more unfeelingly selfish 'cause doing what was best for someone else could sometimes kill like a motherfucker.

Two days later you knew you were still alive because that damn unwanted muscle beat a little faster when he'd called. And yeah, New York was big and the new apartment was cold and the men were hot. You could hear the lie in his voice when he said he was ‘fine', but you closed your eyes anyway, knowing the lie would be the truth soon. And yeah, we'll see each other soon, and we'll call each other all the time, and things don't have to change. You closed your eyes again, knowing those lies would still be lies tomorrow. Next week. Next year.

Two weeks later you had avoided his every call, deleted his every email and dismissed the advice of everyone who knocked at your door. Then Mikey came and pulled your ass out of the loft and hauled it to the shell of Babylon and reminded you that you would always be young and beautiful, that you were Brian Kinney for fuck's sake, and you let him believe the illusion. And rebuilt the playground. For months you spent your days at Kinnetik, your nights with anonymous body after anonymous body and danced with your eyes shut so you could pretend your memories were still your reality.

And Justin eventually stopped calling.

You were relieved that Lindsey kept her promise and your son didn't forget you, so you visited from time to time. Lindsey was the one who told you about his job at the small gallery in Chelsea, about his second article in that off-beat art rag, about his bout with the flu. She was the only one who talked to you about him because she knew. Knew you needed to hear even if you wouldn't ask. And she was there to hold you tight in her arms on Gus's birthday when - after the party and with Gus all tucked into bed - you fell off their porch in Toronto, stinking drunk and high and singing about sunshine.

So you worked and you saw your son and you fucked and you danced with your eyes closed.

At the end of that first year, on the first anniversary of that day, you decided to dance with your eyes open.

You decided to let yourself be okay with missing him.

You decided to let yourself be okay with breathing again.

And you knew you had started to move on.

::

2006

You finally sold the house in West Virginia. You had bought it for Justin and, well, you hadn't seen Justin in a little over a year. Nobody else knew about the rambling property out of state, or the number of times you'd driven there, only to sit in the driveway watching the door. As if you were... waiting.

You never walked through that door again.

But by all accounts, the nice young family who bought the manse loved it, and you couldn't help a small smirk settling on your face when you thought about them sharing their early morning repast on the built-in breakfast bar where you and Justin had shared an entirely different kind of meal. Then you wondered when you had started to remember without that crushing pain. Wondered when you had become able to recall the inexplicable beauty of and attraction to him so easily.

He was doing well, by all reports from Lindsey. He'd been featured in an artist's showcase in a trendy gallery. Was becoming noticed. You knew that Debbie still held on tightly to the hope that he would return, as did Jennifer. But you knew. Knew he wouldn't be back except for the occasional family visit or holiday, and it almost broke that damned unwanted muscle again when you realized that knowing that was okay. He didn't belong here. He had only been on loan for awhile to this town, to this family - to you.  And you had all been privileged to have that time.

You started to smile a bit more after that. Breathe a bit more deeply. Sleep a bit more soundly. And you didn't get as drunk on Gus's birthday that year.

You were moving on.

But you still made it home by 3:00 a.m.

::

2007

No one mentioned the changes and you wondered if anyone had even noticed them. You knew Justin would have seen them. Of course, he would have had a reason to notice the lack of drugs and alcohol in your daily routine. The near absence of anonymous bodies. For the first time in what seemed forever you missed having someone that familiar, that intuitive - someone who would have noticed that Brian fucking Kinney had changed. Someone who would care that Brian fucking Kinney had changed. Someone who would challenge you beyond your career, push you further than your image, force you to face your demons and your truth.

Make you more than you were alone.

And the day you turned 37 you finally realized that Justin had gifted you with more than his body and his intellect and his humor and his heart. So much more. He had given you the gift of your own heart, that fucking muscle you had never wanted to use in the first place. He had given you the understanding of what it was to love and be loved in return. He had given you the need for that. And you knew you would give everything you had to have that.

Justin Taylor - miracle worker.

The day after you turned 37, you sat in first class, laughing inside and nervous as fuck, hoping like hell that he still believed in the ridiculously romantic. And praying to a god you were completely unsure of that there was one more miracle left for you.   

~ FIN ~