Talking About It

LaVieEnRose

Justin told me he had PTSD on our third date. We were walking back to the subway from the theater, where we'd seen this interpreted performance of an off-Broadway play that I didn't even sort of understand, but it was way too early in the relationship (God, what relationship—I was still just thanking God that someone who looks like Justin had even noticed me) for me to let Justin know that. We'd just crossed 8th Avenue and some guy brushed past us and shoulder-checked Justin. I'd seen his lips to know he'd said “Excuse me,” but obviously Justin didn't, and he wasn't expecting it.

And he didn't melt down or anything. Honestly Justin's PTSD from the bashing was fairly well managed by the time I came along. He has nightmares, and he startles if you approach him the wrong way, but that's usually all it is, a startle. And that's all it was this time. His hands went up, and he froze, and I said, Are you okay? while he shook himself out.

Fine, he said with a smile. Sorry. PTSD thing.

Oh, I'm sorry.

He shrugged, still with that little smile. Someone tried to kill me once.

I didn't know if he was joking or not, so I said, No shit.

He just nodded, put an arm around my waist, and kept talking about the play.

I know a lot more about it now, obviously. It's one of Brian's favorite diagnoses, whenever anything's going on with Justin that he can't explain. I swear, Justin will snap at him over using the rest of the jam, and Brian will give me this look like, see? PTSD. He says I have it, too, from walking in and seeing Adam that day. Emily's a little jumpy in hospitals nowadays and Brian says it's because Jane's birth was traumatic. For someone with such an aversion to like, the idea of sitting down with a therapist for like, one hour Jesus Christ Brian just give it a try, he loves diagnosing other people's mental illnesses.

I asked Justin about that once, actually, back when he sat me down and told me the full story of the bashing, long after our third date. We talked about what happened, and how it connected to the seizures, what he'd had to go through for physical therapy, how he felt about it now, all that stuff, and then I finally asked, How is Brian, from seeing all that?

Justin smiled a bit, cocked his head to the side. Nobody ever asks that, he said, and maybe that was a sign or the start of something, some harbinger of how much I was going to love Brian and how close that would bring me and Justin, I don't know. He struggles with it, Justin says. He definitely has some demons about it. But he says he's okay.

I know that game well, so I just nodded.

It's Brian, Justin said. He never admits anything.

So this is a story about that.

**

I was thinking about that conversation kind of idly one evening after dialysis stopped working, when I was slung over the armchair in the living room. I wondered if I would have PTSD from all of this. If I lived.

There was a movie playing on the TV that none of us were watching, and Justin was on the couch with his legs across Brian's lap and his head tucked into his shoulder. Brian rubbed up and down his back with one hand and looked at the thermometer in his other. He set it down with a sigh. Yeah. That's definitely a fever.

Bronchitis again? I said, watching how Justin's shoulder blades came together when he breathed.

I think so, Brian said. Justin gets bronchitis a lot, between his damaged lungs, his crappy immune system, and his allergies. The good news is it's not contagious. The bad news is everything else.

“Want me to get the neb?” I asked.

Brian shook his head. You rest. I'll get it. He put his arms around Justin and rocked them both from side to side, just a little. He eased Justin off his lap, carefully stepped over Martha on the ground and headed for their room—our room. He trailed his fingers over my shoulders on the way. Doing okay? he asked me.

It was kind of a rough question. I felt really terrible all the time nowadays, just so nauseated and dizzy and tired, and Brian knew that. There was just nothing to do but wait. We were all waiting. Brian was on edge and micromanaging everything, Justin was, of course, staying aggressively normal and keeping us all taped together, and I was....I don't know.

Maybe I was giving up. I know that sounds dramatic, but it wasn't really. My body was already doing it for me, and it's really, really hard to have a lot of fight in you when your body is actively dying. That's what organ failure is, I mean, a part of my body was dead. That's fucked up, right? Justin's lungs might be half-useless, but that's because they're damaged, not because they're actually...dead. Do you know how fucking weird it is for part of you to actually, literally be dead? It's creepy as shit.

And I just...I can't really describe what it feels like, to be that sick. Justin knew, of course, and Brian understood as well as a healthy person can, so at least I didn't have to explain it to them. But it's just...you don't feel like you're really in the world. You're in some liminal space—that's what Justin's always painting, liminal spaces—between life and death. It's like you're being haunted but by yourself.

And of course you also just feel like warmed over shit, but that's less poetic.

Anyway, that thing I said about Justin keeping us all sane? It's harder when he's sick, and he was really sick tonight. Brian had been willing to entertain the idea that it was just a random low fever and a horrible asthma day for a few hours, but now that the fever had spiked it was clear he was going through it. After I told Brian I was fine and he disappeared into the bedroom, Justin pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around himself.

You need anything? I asked him.

He shook his head. I really don't feel that bad, it's okay. He stretched. I don't think it's a bad one.

Okay.

God, I haven't been paying attention to this movie at all.

No one has, I said, just as Martha got up and barked and nudged Justin's hand. Uh-oh.

Damn it.

“Brian?” I called.

Brian came back in and set the nebulizer on the coffee table. Yeah, I heard. We need to get that fever down, Sunshine.

Justin nodded and covered his face with his left hand while the other one started shaking all the way up to his shoulder. Brian sat down next to him and sandwiched Justin's right hand carefully between his own. Justin was sweaty and breathless when it was over, and he coughed into his elbow while Brian rubbed his back.

I wanted to go over there so fucking badly, but I was so, so tired.

Justin drew in a slow breath. I'm okay. Really. I don't want to stress out Evan.

You're not stressing me out, I said.

See, you're not stressing him out.

Justin reached for the neb and started setting it up, and Brian brushed some hair off his face. I'm gonna start running a bath to bring your temperature down, he said. You're going to hate it.

Not too cold.

It'll be warm. He looked at me. Let's go ahead and get you to bed.

I stretched. “You might need help with him.”

He's fine. It's a bad cold. We do this all the time. He came over and helped me out of the chair, keeping his hands near me as I wobbled a little. All right?

“Yeah.”

Say goodnight, Justin.

Justin yawned. Goodnight, Justin.

Cute. Brian gave my shoulders a squeeze. Yell if you need me.

He went into the master bathroom to start the tub, and Justin went with me into the bedroom, pulling back the sheets for me and getting the heating pad on the small of my back while Martha sat at his feet. You've been quiet today, he said to me, settling down on the edge of the bed and stroking my arm. You okay?

I'm okay. Just tired.

Justin coughed and breathed in slowly, and I gave his wrist a squeeze.

How do you feel? I asked him.

Feverish, but not so bad. Nothing that should worry you.

I wasn't worried, really. I know you mostly hear about the disasters, but Justin's sick all the time, and most of the those aren't a big deal. We have a life that allows him to rest, and a lot of time that's all that he needs. Rest, meds, Brian, and Martha. And maybe me.

I pulled myself up and kissed his cheek. You look cute all flushed.

Oh, fuck off, he said, and then kissed me deeply. His lips were warm against mine, and I breathed cool air into him, rested my hand on his chest to feel it working. He pulled back just a little and rested his forehead against mine. We are making it out of tonight alive.

We are making it out of tonight alive.

He kissed the bridge of my nose. That's my boy.

We talked a little more as I drifted off, just idle chatter about what we were going to do tomorrow—sleep, mostly—and I played with the sleeve of his shirt and felt safe. Brian came in before I was all the way asleep and rested his hand across my forehead and helped Justin up and into the bathroom, Martha at their heels. They left the bathroom door open to the bedroom, just out of habit I guess, and I took my hearing aids out and watched them joke around, pushing and pulling at each other and laughing while Brian undressed Justin, and I smiled and closed my eyes and went to sleep. When I rolled over about an hour later, Brian was fast asleep next to me, and I rested my cheek against his back and everything was okay.

**

So of course, I woke up some time later in the middle of the night to Brian scrambling out from under me. He kicked me sort of in his scramble out of the bed, so I pulled myself up and closed my eyes and swallowed against the wave of dizziness that tried to bring me back under. “Brian?”

It was clear pretty quickly what was going on. I'd seen enough of Justin's nightmares to know. He was on his back, crying with his fists pressed into his eyes, his legs thrashing around like he was trying to break free of something. He was gasping for air, and once I put my aids in I could hear him screaming.

Brian crouched down next to the bed. He put his hands on Justin, signed fine fine fine fine on his chest, then fussed with the oxygen tank and got the mask over Justin's nose and mouth.

I turned the light on so I could read his lips. “What do you need?”

I—

“Just talk, it's fine, your hands are full.”

“I'm trying to figure out if he's awake or not...” He ran his hand down Justin's cheek but pulled away when Justin flinched and started crying harder. “I think he's awake.”

“Can he breathe? I can't hear him.”

“It's swampy, but I've heard worse. His fever's high.” He rubbed his palm in circles on Justin's chest. “Come on, Sunshine,” he said, but Justin just screamed again and rolled onto his side, rolling into a ball and sobbing into his pillow. My stomach twisted.

“Can you get up?” Brian asked me.

I nodded. “What do you need?”

“Klonopin, in the medicine cabinet? Oh it'll say...” He fingerspelled. Clonazapam.

“Clo...okay.”

“Just grab anything that might be it, I'll double-check.” He lay the back of his hand on Justin's temple, and this time he didn't jerk away. “God, he's warm.” The first night Justin's sick, he always spikes a high fever. Every time. It wouldn't be a big deal if not for the seizures. And the nightmares. And it's not as if Justin's never been sick down in the basement with me, or that he's never had a nightmare even when he didn't have a fever fucking him up and leaving him unsure of where he is, but...this was the worst one, I think. I'd never seen him cry like this.

I want five minutes with the guy who did this to him. Just five minutes.

I went into the bathroom and looked through the medicine cabinet, and by the time I'd found a few bottles that seemed like possible candidates, Brian had Justin sitting up and answering a few questions, where he was, what year it was, how he was feeling, if he could breathe okay. Justin seemed really panicky about the last two, and Brian talked him down gently: you have a fever, it's making everything seem a lot worse than it is, you're breathing, I can hear you, you're breathing. I sat down on the edge of the bed next to Justin and kissed his cheek, and he leaned into me a little, panting. I handed Brian the bottles and he picked out the right one and gave a pill to Justin.

You're still shaking, I said to Justin, putting an arm around him.

I'm so fucking scared.

You're safe now, I said, and Brian nodded and kissed him gently.

Justin cried a little more and pushed his palms into his cheeks, and Brian just ran his hands over him, like he was looking for some magical way to touch him that would make it all go away.

It's over now, he said. You're safe now.

It's going to happen again, Justin said.

Brian shook his head. I did too.

Someday, Justin insisted. It's going to happen again. He looked at Brian, desperate, begging. You can't promise me it won't happen again.

And we both knew that was true. That Brian would never, ever, make a promise to Justin that he wasn't sure he could keep. He said, “Fuck,” and took Justin's hand's in his and pressed them to his lips.

Justin shivered. “I'm sorry.”

Brian shook his head, and when he looked up at Justin his eyes were shining.

I'm okay, Justin said.

It shouldn't have happened. I should have stopped it.

Justin's chin shook, and Brian got up on his knees and wrapped his arms around Justin, holding him close with one hand, so gentle, on the back of his head.

It hurts, physically hurts, to know how much Brian needs nothing to ever hurt Justin and how deeply he knows that he can't stop it.

And, God, it's not as if I wouldn't do anything to, to wrap him up and protect him. And I didn't even know the full story yet, even though I thought I did at the time.

Justin started coughing after that, first softly, but then harder and harder as he couldn't hold it back anymore. Brian braced his shoulder to keep him from falling forwards. “I hate when I can hear the scarring,” he said to me.

“I can't tell.”

“Yeah. It's ugly.” He sighed and ran his palm up and down Justin's back.

I'm okay, Justin said, when the coughing stopped.

Brian put a hand on Justin's chest. You poor fucking thing.

You always get sappy in the middle of the night, Justin said. Embarrassing me in front of Evan.

Yeah, put it on my tab. Can you go back to sleep?

He shook his head. I'm just going to go out to the living room. Watch TV for a while, try to turn my brain off.

I can come, I said.

You have dialysis tomorrow, Justin said, as if I didn't have dialysis every day, but whatever, he was right that I would just fall asleep the second we hit the couch anyway.

I'll come, Brian said. Age before beauty and all that.

I don't need a chaperone, really, Justin said.

But Brian just laughed a little. Let me try to turn my brain back off too, okay?

Justin tilted his head to the side, looking at him, and said, Yeah. Yeah, okay.

Sometimes I'm glad I can't hear the screaming.

**

My vibrating alarm under my pillow woke me up to an empty bed at nine, but a minute later Brian was there, already dressed and ready to go. Rise and shine, Shivers, he said, and I sat up and stretched.

Where's Justin?

Out on the back deck with Martha. Convinced me some sunlight would do him good. I think it might be his sinuses after all. He's been sneezing like a banshee all morning.

What's a banshee?

Like a very loud witch. He handed me my hearing aids and my meds. You about ready to go?

I want to take a shower first.

Okay. No fainting.

Dream big.

I showered, didn't faint, got dressed, and went out to the main room to get something to eat and go out to the deck and see Justin. He was sitting on the edge of the deck, throwing a ball to Martha, who was just about losing her mind fetching it, she was so excited. She's always amped in the mornings.

“Hey,” he said, and held his arms up to me. I leaned over and hugged him. How are you today? he said.

Same as always. How's the infection? Fever doesn't feel too high.

It's not bad. It's always worse at night.

Brian came out and stomped on the deck for our attention. Ready? he asked me.

Yeah. I turned to Justin. Duty calls. Martha scampered over and licked my hand as I stood up.

Have fun, Justin said. Bring me back a present. He always says that when we leave him alone.

Brian and I got in the car to head to dialysis, and we did what we always do when we leave Justin alone: obsess about him. Thank God we have each other. No one else in the world would put up with us.

“Did he ever get back to sleep?”

He did, around five.

“What about you?”

As soon as he was settled.

That was pretty awful.

Brian nodded. It's not usually that bad. The ones about the bashing are quieter, at least.

It took me a minute to understand what he was saying. This wasn't about the bashing?

Brian shook his head. This was about being sick.

“I...oh.”

He glanced at me. Sometimes when he gets a fever he gets really scared he's going to get really sick again. And he dreams he's back there and it's as bad as it was the last time.

“God.” God. Sometimes the fucking enormity of everything Justin's been through just hits me like a truck. It's too much. It's too much for one person, and it's certainly too much for a person as sweet, as goddamn trusting, despite everything, as Justin. And I know, I know he's resilient as fuck—if not he wouldn't be here—but that doesn't mean he should have to be, over and over again. It's not fair that going to sleep should be a fucking roulette wheel to see what trauma he'll end up reliving. It's not fair that even with all he's lived through, we can't promise him safety, security...life.

“I can't die on him,” I realized.

No, Brian said. You can't.

We pulled up to the dialysis place, and as always I got out of the car so that Brian could park and meet me inside. As I was starting to walk away he hit the horn, loud enough for me to hear, and I turned back around and looked at him through the open passenger window.

“Yeah?” I said.

He was looking straight ahead, then he finally turned to me, his tongue in his cheek, and said, You can't die on me either.