The One Where Brian Meets Justin's Brother
By: LaVieEnRose

I fucking told him the wait here was going to be ridiculous. I said, we have thirty places that will deliver until 2 AM. There is no reason to go get takeout at eight o'clock the last Saturday before Christmas from the trendiest fucking Bistro in Pittsburgh, not to mention it's a fucking twenty minute drive from the loft, past all thirty of those aforementioned delivery places, and you've been laid up with your head between your knees all evening and not in a kinky way so I'll be the one making this sojourn on my own, all so you can have the one thing you think you could eat right now, please, Brian.

“Lawson?” the hostess called.

That last bit, that one one thing he could eat right now, obviously, is why I was fucking here anyway, waiting with every other sad sack in Pittsburgh for the hostess to call my name and tell me my order was ready. The people here were so goddamn somber; it reminded me of all the time I've spent waiting in hospitals, if I'm honest. I don't remember much of right after Justin was bashed, but there have been plenty of much less traumatic, much more boring times—when Gus broke his arm, in college when Lindsey got her stomach pumped, about eight thousand MRIs through Justin's various cranial adventures —when I had extensive time to just sit and look at the motley crew I was stuck with, and it was this same sort of vibe: not enough chairs, not enough distractions, way too many children running around ready to take out one of your kneecaps. One sprinted past me just now, waving a toy plane around, a blur of blond hair and a red shirt.

“Yamaguchi?”

I leaned against a pillar and tried to find some article to read on my phone that wouldn't bore me to tears. Maybe I needed to suck it up and download one of those stupid games Justin was always fucking with...I could always delete them before I got home and he could see them.

“Stevens?”

He'd been feeling shitty for two days at that point. It was never as bad now as it was back when he was still in the process of losing his hearing, and his brain just couldn't adjust fast enough, but he'd still have days when his equilibrium was a mess and he had vertigo too bad to stand up. Pot helped, but tended to bring on the nightmares, so, just like everything where Justin was concerned, it was a balancing act. Help the nausea, fuck up his sleep schedule. Talk in his language, fuck up his hand. Paint a pretty picture, be unable to sign for the rest of the day.

He kept such a positive fucking attitude about all of it too. It was aggravating as shit. I just wanted to piss and moan about how unfair it was and instead he had to sit there and Pollyanna about it, so then what the fuck was I supposed to do? I swear, he's only nice because he knows it pisses me off. If I ever came around on it, he'd morph into an asshole just to keep the dynamic alive.

“Taylor?”

I looked up. Justin had placed the order online, so it was possible it was under his name instead of mine, but the idea of picking up food with his name hit me with that nowadays rarely-accessed relationship panic that still likes to rear its head once in a while, and I was overtaken by an urge to run for the hills and change my phone number and remove everything Taylor-branded from my life and other sorts of reasonable responses to hearing your partner of six years' last name in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

Then I figured I should probably check what the first name was on that order before I fled the town. Hell, maybe Taylor was the first name. I took a step towards the desk just as the fucking Antichrist himself appeared and accepted the bag of food.

I am referring, of course, to Craig Taylor.

This wasn't the first time I'd seen him since I removed young Justin from his picturesque home; Pittsburgh's not a big town, and Craig somehow hadn't had the good sense to get the fuck out of it. But hell, if my presence couldn't scare away St. Joan, I guess there's no hope this fucker would run either. Last time my eyes had been graced with the loose folds of flesh Craig Taylor calls a face (it's all right—Jennifer's beautiful, so there's still hope for Justin, plus the little shit seems to not age) it had been across the row at a gas station and it was easy enough for me to turn away and pretend I didn't notice him, and he either truly didn't see me or was returning the favor. Now, he turned around from the hostess and there we fucking were, two foreign superpowers in the middle of a a packed restaurant lobby. Negotiating Justin like a treaty, I thought vaguely to myself, though the metaphor didn't really fit, since I was always trying to pass Justin off to the highest bidder anyway and Craig, of course, didn't want him.

For a second I thought maybe he wouldn't recognize me, but the look in his eyes let me know pretty quickly that was a bust. The asshole had probably spent the past eight years hate-jacking off to my face. He wouldn't be the first.

“Surprised to see you here,” he said, after a long moment.

I tried out my best smirk. “Queers gotta eat too.”

He clenched his jaw. It was suddenly incredibly, unavoidably important that he know that Justin and I were still together. I'm not exaggerating when I say that for that one moment, all my anti-commitment, anti-labels bullshit was gone and replaced with new, overwhelming relationship bullshit, and it was the most crucial thing in the discovered world that Justin's father know that the boy had not wised up and gotten himself away from me. Fuck, if I'd had the paperwork with me I would have whipped out the marriage certificate and asked if he could do me a favor and get it framed.

I settled for a simpering smile and, “After all, this is Justin's favorite restaurant.” It completely wasn't, and honestly Justin asking for this place tonight was showing buckets more taste than I'd come to expect from the lad, but it had the effect of making Craig look like he wanted to fling his takeout into the nearest dumpster before it made his new attempt at a family homosexual as well, so, that'll do, pig.

He managed a “How is Justin?” that sounded like an insult, and it struck me that I had no idea if Craig knew that Justin had lost his hearing.

When Justin was bashed and I was doing my little midnight vigils by his bedside, I was sure I was going to run into Craig one of those nights. I knew, of course, that he wasn't coming during the day, because I kept tabs on everyone who came by, since I was similarly paranoid that the Westboro Baptist Church was gonna make a day trip out here, but I thought...God, I don't know what I thought. That they'd only been estranged eight months, and that couldn't have been enough for Craig to shake himself of any sort of affection for him? That being gay starts to look a little...I don't know, in relief when viewed next to brain hemorrhaging and permanent motor cortex damage?

But, well. We know how that story ends. Six months after Justin had his Sleeping Beauty moment, Craig celebrated by cutting off his tuition and leaving him to shake his ass for spare change. Quite the Get Well card.

Anyway, my point is, it was not outside the realm of possibility that Craig was well aware that his son was no longer among the hearing and hadn't felt any real urge to reach out for him about that. It was just as likely that had no idea. It was also, of course, possible that he had been in touch and Justin hadn't mentioned it to me. I'm not in charge of his correspondence.

So basically, I had no idea if he knew, and although it was hardly some sort of shameful secret, I still didn't know how Justin would feel about me being the one to drop that bombshell.

So I just said, “He's phenomenal.”

Craig nodded once and hiked the takeout bag up his arms. “Luke,” he said, looking around the lobby, and he caught the little blond boy by the arm on his next lap around the lobby. Something in my stomach twisted. “Let's go home, come on.”

All right, so Justin had a brother. And this kid looked fucking exactly like him, so there goes the hope of our Sunshine inheriting his mother's looks. I tilted my head and tried to imagine waking up to a Craig clone thirty years from now. Lord have mercy. Shoulda gotten a pre-nup.

And then Luke turned his head to point in the corner and say, “Daddy, he has a plane like mine,” and all my smarmy prayers for the integrity of Justin's collagen flew away, because on the side of Luke's head was something I'd seen roughly a million people with at Justin's audiologist appointments.

The kid had a cochlear implant.

So let's break this down.

Now, we'd known, of course, that Justin's condition was genetic. And we'd known, after testing Jennifer, that it came from Craig's side, and that Molly was unaffected.

We just didn't know there was another kid in the equation. A kid who, judging from his height, was about six, and from the not-entirely-clear way he spoke, had been deaf from quite an early age.

It had, at this point, been under three years since Justin was diagnosed. I'll let you run a little bit of math in your head there.

We can put together a few things out of this information. Craig almost definitely knew about the condition before we did. Justin almost definitely didn't know that he had a brother. And Jennifer and Molly almost definitely had been keeping some shit from us that really should have been out in the open.

And then there's the little matter of whether or not it's ethical to give a small child irreversible brain surgery he can't consent to to prevent him from being a minority but...not hard to guess where Craig and I are going to fall on the sides of that argument, and the last thing we need is one more hearing asshole spouting opinions about the Deaf community so I'll leave that bit here for now.

At the time, though, Luke looked up at me, nervous, and being the warm hearted motherfucker I am, and absolutely not because I wanted to test if Craig had cut open his child in order to not have to bother introducing him to his culture, I signed, I like your plane to him.

He looked up at Craig, confused, and Craig looked like he was about to try to kill me for the third time.

“I didn't realize your son was Deaf,” I said. Of course, I could have also said I don't realize you had another son, but where's the moral high ground in that? There's also the matter that I did, naturally, know that Craig's son was Deaf, but subtleties were wasted on this man.

Sure enough, his eyes flashed and he spit out, “My son is not Deaf,” in the voice of a person well-practiced at throwing out slurs.

He pushed past me and out the door, Luke in tow, and I said, “Nonsyndromic Genetic Sensorineural Hearing Loss, right? Has he had problems with vertigo? We've found marijuana pretty helpful.”

Yeah, yeah, I know, so much for not revealing Justin's situation, but I could never resist getting the last word, and I was feeling a little more strongly about the whole being Deaf if not a dirty secret thing than I did a minute ago, imagine that.

Craig turned and stared at me.

I gave him a tight smile. “Might want to give your ex-wife a call,” I said.

He blinked and scowled and yanked Luke out the door, and I stood there and wondered what the fucking fuck I was going to tell Justin.

“Kinney?” the hostess called.

**

Justin was up and dressed when I got home, which was an improvement—well, not so much that on the dressed part, but you know—from how he'd been the past two days. Look who's vertical, I said.

Giving it a shot. What's with you?

Goddamn this kid. How the fuck does he do it? All I'd done was walk into the loft and he knew something was going on. How the fuck do you fucking...guard yourself against that?

And when those blue eyes are looking at you, softening you up like butter on the counter...I mean, fuck, how do you even make yourself want to try?

He hadn't kept food down in days, so the last thing I was going to do was spring this on him and wreck our chances of him getting a meal out of this. After dinner, I told him. Let me decompress. Really I just signed relax, but we'll make do.

Justin nodded and got glasses out of the cupboard. On his way past me I guided him into me and gave him a quick kiss. “Hey,” I said, out loud. I don't speak to him often, but...sometimes.

“Hey,” he said back.

I kissed his forehead. His hair smelled like his lime shampoo, and his skin tasted like sweat and sickness, which at this point...it worked for me. It’s not as if Justin hasn’t been confusing my urges to fuck him until he passed out and wrap him gently in blankets since the night I met him. One day you wake up and you've tied your life to someone with a chronic illness and it turns out you don't divide him up into parts that you like and that you don't like. At some point you learn to stop questioning.

I ran my hands up and down his sides. Too skinny. You ought to pitch your disease as a diet plan. Thousands of middle aged women will be gouging out their middle ears.

Justin stood on his toes—if he ever finds out what that does to me, I’m a dead man—and kissed me. Unfortunately for them, I’m starving.

Go sit, I said. Couch. I’ll bring you a plate.

He gave me a strange look—“eating on the couch” and “doing small, nice things for Justin” aren’t two of my usual hobbies—but shrugged and went to the couch with our drinks. I fixed up plates for us and brought them over and watched him eat for a while, left-handed with his plate balanced in his lap. He’s working on being more ambidextrous, like he was when he was a kid. Saving his right hand for important tasks like signing, painting, and hand jobs, though I had to say there was an odd appeal to the left-handed hand jobs. Like getting jerked off by a stranger, but one who was as talented as Justin.

He ate so carefully, balancing that fork in his wrong hand, gently setting it down to reach for his glass, and God, breaking his heart with the shit about his dad and his brother felt fucking Herculean. You’d think I was some novice to hurting him, with how hard it was for me to even think of doing in that moment. I put down my plate and kind of dove into his collarbone.

His hand found the back of my neck. “You’re being weird,” he said out loud. since I couldn’t see him sign. His voice was a little too loud because of course he didn’t know, and it’s not as if that doesn’t happen all the time but God, something about it right then in contrast to that fucking little boy with the cochlear, God, my Deaf fucker talking too loud right here being the most enchanting goddamn...I would have given him anything, that’s what I’m trying to say. You could have told me you were carving out one of my kidneys for him and I would have held out a hand for a scalpel to help the process along. I was garbage, in that minute, is what I’m telling you, and if you think I’m ever forgiving Justin for the bullshit he does to me you’re more brain damaged than he is.

I know, I signed with my eyes closed. Just let me.

He stroked my hair and said, “Okay,” and that was nice for a while until it occurred to me that he was still petting my hair and that he was essentially comforting me for his own trauma that I’d been too chickenshit to tell him about, and that pissed me off, so I sat up and put a hand on his waist and sighed and let go of him.

I saw your dad, I said. At the restaurant.

Justin stared at me like I was signing in some non-American type of sign language for a minute, and eventually coughed out a humorless laugh. How’d he look?

I shrugged. The same. Older. Still has his hair.

Good sign for me, I guess.

I shook my head. That’s passed down from your mother.

Oh. Well, my mother still has all her hair too.

I couldn’t let him sit here thinking the news was over. Did you know he’d had another kid?

Justin blinked. He does?

Fuck. So much for the anti-reveal I'd been hoping for. Yeah, he was there. A little boy. ASL doesn't have gendered pronouns, so I had to specify. Looked like he was born when you were about nineteen, twenty.

Molly never said anything.

Do you think your mom knows? I said, as gently as I could.

Justin thought about it. She must, right?

I don't see how she wouldn't.

What's his name?

Luke, I fingerspelled.

He nodded a little. What does he look like?

You know that picture of you at the park with your mom and...whoever that other lady was.

My aunt Sally, Jesus, Brian, you've met her like three times.

Whatever. He looks just like you in that. Except...

Justin raised his eyebrows.

I laced my fingers through Justin's and signed, He has a cochlear implant.

I watched Justin sit back and just kind of...absorb this. It's never going to stop amazing me how he handles getting slammed with information like this. Me, I'm yelling before I even realize I'm yelling, and fuck, now that I sign it's goddamn worse. I thought my mouth moved before my brain, but you should see my fucking hands betray me. I'll be halfway through a paragraph before I've even realized I'm talking. But Justin..God, you can see every emotion pass over that face of his, and it's painful as hell, but he stays so quiet.

Does he sign? he asked eventually.

I don't think so.

God, Justin said. That poor kid.

Because here's the thing. I'd been listening during Justin's appointments, I paid attention, I did my homework. I knew just as well as Justin did that a cochlear implant is not a magic wand or whatever the fuck. It rewires your brain to process sound in a different way. It's not perfect. You're still not hearing.

To continue the queer metaphors we hinted at earlier and that are going to continue throughout this sordid tale...think of it as, I don't know, say a bisexual in an opposite sex relationship. They're gonna look straight, everyone's gonna look at them and think they're straight, fucking other queer people are going to look at them and think they're straight, but they're not, and they can pass all the live long day until they can't. And who the fuck says they even want to?

And fucking sue me if watching Justin make all his Deaf friends had changed my opinions about...fine, I'll say it, the importance of goddamn community. Look, even when I was pissing and moaning about it, I had a gay family, we just don't gather at the GLC to Kumbaya and endorse Republican police chiefs, so the fuck what.

And look, I don't know what I'd have done if Gus had been born Deaf, if Justin was still the seventeen-year-old very much hearing kid standing in the doorway of the hospital room when the doctor told us there was a problem. I don't really want to picture it, if I'm honest. But I do know that no matter what we did surgery-wise, Lindsay would have fucking made sure that kid knew how to sign and knew where he belonged, and thank the goddamn hypothetical Lord for that. God, Justin probably would have been on top of it too, the shit. Giving me midnight lectures on the importance of Gus knowing his identity. How the fuck did Justin even happen?

I shook my head a little and said, I think...so I heard him speak. Luke. And he's...you know, he doesn't sound like you. He has an accent, he sounds Deaf. This was probably politically incorrect as shit, but fuck you, it was just me and Justin here, you're goddamn lucky I'm relaying this conversation to you at all.

He didn't get it, and probably was just thinking about how I clearly needed one of his country club etiquette classes. Okay?

I sighed. So he must have lost his hearing before he was very comfortable speaking.

I watched Justin nod, then gradually understand what I was saying. He ran his hand over his mouth.

We could have known years ago, he said eventually.

I...think we could have known years ago. What do you want to do? I asked him. Anything. Seriously, did he want that kidney?

I want to call my mom and find out what the fuck she knew, Justin said.

I nodded. Sounds good to me.

**

Jennifer sighed. “I knew he'd had a kid,” she said. “I didn't know if I should tell you.”

She and Justin were really just starting to get their footing back, too. Things had been rough since he lost his hearing; she'd held onto a lot of hope that he was going to spring forth this incredible lip reader and Justin's lipreading really, really leaves a lot to be desired. The other day we were at Starbucks and after he ordered the barista asked him what size he wanted and he didn't get it. What the fuck do you think she's asking you, Justin? Jesus, you don't have to lipread to figure that one out if you just use some basic logic, but, well, basic logic has never been his strong suit. And neither is lipreading.

Jennifer had finally resigned herself to the fact that her son was fucking Deaf and not getting any un-Deafer, and after a great deal of tears about it that Justin was much more patient about than I was, she finally, at least two years too late, enrolled herself in some sign language classes. She was now at the point where she could introduce herself and say, I don't know, colors or something, so nothing really useful, but I knew it meant a lot to Justin that she was trying, so whatever, I slapped on a nice encouraging smile every time I saw her.

Not that I needed one now, because I was standing behind the laptop, facing Justin, interpreting for her and occasionally for him, when he got so heated he forgot to speak instead of sign, which I normally find pretty hilarious—Justin's like a mad cat when he's pissed off, all hissing and spitting—but somehow wasn't really feeling tonight.

“How old is he?” Justin said.

“I guess...let me see. He was born while you were dating Ethan, I believe. However long ago that was.”

I gave Justin a look to tell him just how much I appreciated having to sign that fucker's name, and Justin rolled his eyes to show me exactly what he thought of the great sacrifice I was making. He counted on his fingers. “Seven years ago,” he said.

“Brian's sure he had a cochlear?” Jennifer said.

It was annoying when she talked to me, because I had to sign her question for Justin, then my answer for Justin, and finally tell her, “I'm sure. I know what they look like.”

“Well...that's good, right?” Jennifer said. “I mean, I know it wasn't an option for you, sweetie, but...”

No way in hell did Justin want to get into this with her. “You really didn't know he was Deaf?” Justin said.

“Of course not, honey. You really think I wouldn't have mentioned that before now?”

I mean, I don't know, you managed not to mention that I have a brother, Justin signed, and I was grateful for the chance to interpret that because I wanted an excuse to be a little snarky at Jennifer.

“Are you sure he has the same thing you have?” Jennifer said.

“It would be kind of a huge coincidence.” Justin rubbed his forehead. “What about Molly? How could she not know?”

Jennifer was quiet for a minute, then she said, “Justin, Molly hasn't seen your father in five years.”

“What?”

“She was always asking me what happened, why you stopped living here, and...I decided she was old enough to know, and after that she said she didn't want anything to do with him, and she stuck with that. He calls on her birthday and sends a Christmas present, that's it.”

Justin tapped his fingers against his lips.

This was, obviously, news to me as well. Molly was...I'm gonna say sixteen, at this point, I wasn't completely sure, but somewhere around there, and she'd grown on me as much as as a sixteen-year-old or something girl probably can. She took ASL classes at her school so she could hold a basic conversation with Justin in person, and they'd go out to a movie once a month or so and she'd sleep on our couch twice a year when Jennifer was pissing her off. Justin was always giggling at his phone at bad times over something ridiculously stupid she sent him that he thought was funny (remember I told you he's fucking brain damaged? You can keep it in mind here, like I do when he goes to the grocery store and buys the wrong brand of mouthwash twenty thousand times in a row).

So anyway, it wasn't out of the question that Molly would cut Craig out in Justin's defense, but...still, it raised the kid up a few notches as far as I was concerned. Which was good, since I'd just spent the past few hours cursing her and Jennifer's names for acting like Justin going Deaf was a huge shock, and I'm concerned that all my time spent hating people is giving me frown lines.

The only person who could have told us years ago that this was going to happen was Craig.

“I'm so sorry about this, baby,” Jennifer said. “I just...I didn't know if I should tell you.”

“I don't know if you should have either,” Justin said.

“Are you glad you know?”

“I don't know yet,” he said.

**

We took a shower after that, but he was starting to feel dizzy again so he got out pretty quickly. He sat on the sink and leaned against the wall and watched me, and we fooled around like that, getting each other off with glances and our own hands. He got back in with me to clean himself off, and I turned down the water temperature for him and held him up in case he lost his balance, and also just to hold him for a while. He'd been quiet ever since we got off the phone.

Suddenly, he said, I think I'm going to ask my mom for his number.

I nodded slowly and showed remarkable restraint by not asking what the fuck.

The kid...Luke, Justin said. He needs to know a Deaf person. Having a cochlear isn't the same as being hearing. He needs to know that...that if playing the part of a hearing person works out for him, then great, whatever, but if it doesn't...he needs to know there are options. That there's a place.

You know he's seven, right?

Justin shrugged. I remember stuff from when I was seven. Don't you?

I pulled Justin into me to shut out the flashbacks. Nothing good, I said.

“Knowing my dad, it's probably not much good for Luke either.”

I squeezed him.

“That's why I've got to do this,” he said.

I kissed the top of his head. Okay.

After a beat, I said, What do you want to bet he suggests talking on the phone? and Justin snorted and laughed, and I felt him relax against me.

**

Well, fuck if I was letting Justin have dinner with his father alone. How would that even work? They sit across from each other and jot shit down, like the high school bully passing notes to the doe-eyed freshman? No thanks.

Justin had set this all up through texts, so I didn’t know the details, but he’d somehow managed to get Craig to agree to eat with us and to bring the kid along. I was trying to look at this purely through the perspective of Justin achieving his goals—you have to keep that in mind here. And that meant that my opinions on everything going down here were not relevant. I was there to interpret. I was a neutral third party. All that jazz, in the words of the somehow straight Bob Fosse.

You promise you’ll let him talk? Justin asked in the car, for the eightieth time.

I told you, I said. I’m not Brian Kinney. I am devoid of personality or concern for your well being or hatred of homophobes and audists. I’m here to voice for you, sign for him, coo at a small child, and make sure Craig doesn’t punch you in the middle of a restaurant.

Justin stared at me. And you wonder why I've made you repeat this so many times.

I groaned. Look, do you really not get that I'm taking the easiest possible way out here? Fuck if I know what to say to the guy. The only confrontation I ever had with my father involved cancer and a garage full of boxes, and somehow I doubt either of them's going to be making an appearance at Cafe Monongahela—don't make me fingerspell that again—

You spelled it wrong.

—eat shit, so that experience isn't giving me much help. I don't know what to say to him, and this way I don't have to think of anything. I also don't have to be all supportive of you because, again, I'm an interpreting robot, so I get out of having to be all caring and encouraging and I can just sit there and make you handle everything.

You're right, Justin said. It does sound a lot more believable when you put it that way.

I'm saying.

But thank you for making sure he doesn't hit me.

Well, sure, I said. I'm not letting you mess your face up in service of this little mission. Plus I can't go letting you have more head trauma. One more hit might turn you straight.

It would take a lot more than one, Justin said, with a grab for my crotch, and I grinned.

Craig and Luke were already seated when we got there. Luke was coloring peacefully on his placemat, and Craig looked about ten seconds away from coming out of his skin. They hadn't seen us yet, and just as I was about to head over, Justin took a breath and kind of ducked behind me, and God, right then he was the eighteen-year-old who flinched in crowds again, and I don't think I can explain the amount of willpower it took to not forcibly remove him from that restaurant, to not physically lift him up and place him somewhere safe.

I brushed his hair off his forehead and said, You good?

He nodded, but he was still breathing hard.

Okay, you don't really sound good. Gonna have to trust me on that one.

He rubbed the back of his neck. What's the volume like in here? I wasn't sure if he was planning on speaking or not—it's possible neither was he, yet—but he likes to get a feel for a place in case he decides to.

Pretty quiet. I'll let you know if you're too loud.

He nodded, chewing his lip.

Or, I said, We could just get the fuck out of here right now.

No.

Okay, I said. Let's do this, then.

He headed towards the table, me trailing behind. He cleared his throat and said, “Looks like you've got another artist on your hands, huh?” as Craig scrambled to his feet.

He said ,”Well...um, we'll see,” and I signed it out for Justin. The thing about interpreting is, it's not just about signing or voicing the words. You have to capture the tone of it, to make sure all the non-verbal shit doesn't get lost in translation. Which meant if Craig was going to stumble awkwardly over his words, well, I had to capture that. I had to be Craig Taylor, and did you figure out as quickly as Justin did that all my shit in the car about taking the easy way out was just that: shit?

Then Craig reached out and gave Justin the world's most tentative hug, the kind where you touch as little as physically possible, and then he reached out and shook my hand like he was trying to strangle it, but I let him. Justin and I took seats at the table while Lucas stared at Justin in undisguised fascination. Hard to blame him; Justin was looking at him pretty much the same way.

Craig said, “So, um, how are we going to...”

Justin watched me, then signed, Brian will sign what you say, and then he'll say what I sign. Like this.

Craig's eyes darted to me. “But you can talk,” he said to Justin.

I just did, didn't I? Justin shrugged. I like to sign.

The waiter came by to take our orders, and I think Craig was surprised I didn't jump right in and manage Justin, but that's not how we do things, if you remember the barista story. He'll ask me if he needs help, and generally he manages fine on his own. The waitress asked him whether he wanted soup or a salad with his sandwich, and Justin didn't get it. He motioned for her to write it down—he'd ordered by pointing, he doesn't like vocalizing with strangers if he doesn't have to—and I could tell it was killing Craig not to jump in and smooth the situation over, and he kept looking at me like I was some kind of mutineer.

“He can do it,” I said softly to Craig, because...because I do get it. I do. If you're not used to it, it's not easy to watch a struggle when you could clear it up in a second. I get it. “He can write it down. It's only going to take a second.”

The waiter wrote it down, and Justin smiled and pointed again, and the waiter turned to the rest of us. Craig ordered for Luke, and I noticed he had a little trouble getting his attention to find out what he wanted. I think Justin noticed too.

It's not like regular hearing.

“So...how long has it been?” Craig asked Justin.

I was diagnosed when I was twenty-three, he said. And it took about a year to lose my hearing completely. He looked across the table. How about you, Luke?

Luke had no idea where to look. I smiled and pointed at Justin, who gave him a little wave.

How old are you? Justin asked him. He was signing so gently, warmly, so I tried to do the same thing with my voice. It wasn't hard.

He was still looking at me when I spoke, not Justin, but I don't think that was because he didn't get Justin was the one asking. He needed to watch my lips.

“Six and three-quarters,” Luke said.

Justin nodded. You know, Brian—this is Brian, the one talking—he has a son who's a little bit older than you. He's eight and a half.

“That's a lot older,” Luke said.

Justin smiled. Is it?

“Uh-huh.”

Justin finally turned back to Craig. “So when...?”

“They diagnosed when he was two,” Craig said. “But he didn't need the surgery until he was two and a haf.”

I took a deep breath and signed that to Justin in the same matter-of-fact way Craig said it.

Craig said, “Can I ask why you haven't...? If it's an issue of money—”

It's not. It's not an option for me, Justin said. Because of...what happened at my prom.

Craig nodded slowly, then said, “Justin...I want you to know that I...I regret the way things happened, when you were younger.”

That's nice, right? If you ignore all the things that that isn't saying, isn't that nice? Because it's not saying, I'm sorry for calling your sexual orientation a disgusting lifestyle. I'm sorry for hitting you in the face. I'm sorry for making you unwelcome in the only home you'd ever known. I'm sorry ramming my car into Brian's and then beating the shit out of him—I mean, not that this is about me, but the fucker did. I'm sorry for not coming to visit you when you were hurt—and I know, I know I don't have a fucking leg to stand on for that one, but the fucker didn't. I'm sorry for not letting you know that my new child had a genetic condition that you might want to get yourself tested for.

If you completely ignore the complete lack of an apology in Craig's apology, man, what a sweet gesture, am I right?

Craig got a little choked up and said, “It's so hard to see you like this,” and I had to fucking sign that in his choked up way without an ounce of sarcasm, so don't let me hear you complain about how your life is hard.

Justin just shook his head and said, Look, Dad, I didn't want to meet you to rehash the past or anything like that. It's over. I just...I wanted to meet Luke, and I wanted him to know that I exist.

Luke watched us.

Craig said, “Oh...um, of course, you're his brother, you should—”

He needs to know Deaf people. Justin was hardening up now. Even if he has a cochlear, even if he's in mainstream school...that's fine, but he needs to know this part of himself too.

“This isn't a part of himself now,” Craig said. “He's had the surgery. He's fixed.”

That's not how it works, Justin said. He's never going to have it as easy as a hearing kid does. There's always going to be extra hurdles for him. He's always going to be different.

Craig shook his head slowly. “That's what this is, huh? You, and your...your pathological obsession with differentness.”

“That's not what this is,” Justin said, out loud. Too loud. I touched his wrist, and he nodded in acknowledgment without looking at me.

“You have this romanticized idea of being an outsider,” Craig said. “You always have. You think it makes you better than all those poor assholes who are the same. You're an intellectual, that's it, right? You're an artist. And now you're Deaf. Us poor regular Joes, we couldn't possibly understand.”

No, Justin said. You can't.

“What I understand,” Craig said. “Is that I don't want Luke to think that he's weak, to think that he has to depend on someone the way you depend on Brian. God knows how long he's going to stick around, and then where will you be?”

What a fun thing to sign.

Justin set his jaw. “I do not depend on Brian,” he said, out loud, because...because he fucking had to. “I get along just fine when he's not there.”

“Oh, like you did with the waiter just now? You had no idea what he was asking.”

“And I figured it out,” Justin said. “I made it work. Without needing some hearing person to hold my hand.”

“Daddy?” Luke said, and Craig ignored him and kept glaring at Justin. .I reached out and gave Luke's hand a quick squeeze. I didn't even mean to, it just fucking happened.

“See, there you go,” Craig said. “You want Luke to have to overcome some kind of adversity because you think it'll make him more interesting. Because the Justin Show maybe isn't as interesting as it used to be, and you want to recruit someone else? Well, you can keep your hands off my son. I bet you hope he's a fag, too.”

All right, listen. It's not that I don't say the word fag on a fucking daily basis. Whatever. But the idea of turning to Justin and signing it with that kind of hate, after the shit this man had already me say to his fucking son...

I looked at Justin and just said, Please.

I already saw it, he said. Just say it.

Justin...

You promised, he said. Say it.

So I did. And it fucking sucked, if you're curious. I realize there's no shortage of cruel things I've said to Justin over the years. But God, they're never fucking premeditated, they just come out of my mouth when he's too stubborn or clingy or naive or...close. I've never looked at that face and thought, I'm going to be cruel to him.

How the fuck could I? How the fuck could anyone?

Justin stayed very calm. He crossed his arms and shook his head slightly and said, “No, I don't,” he said, like it was a vaguely interesting fact. “I hope he's as straight as they come. I would never, ever wish on anyone the hell that's growing up gay with you for a father.” He stood up. “Brian, we're going to go now.”

Gladly. I got to my feet.

Justin put his hand on the back of Luke's head on our way out and waited until Luke was looking at his lips before he spoke.

“It was really, really nice to meet you, sweetheart,” he said.

**

We were quiet in the car. There wasn't much to say. I was pissed off as hell and feeling like some sort of lion over someone saying that shit to Justin, and whenever I start to feel too protective of Justin my instinct is to lash out at him because I'm fucking disturbed, but he would have been all patient and understanding about it and I didn't want to deal with that shit right then. What I really wanted to do was get the hell away from him and snort something and fuck someone and just not fucking think for as long as I goddamn could, but even I'm not enough of an asshole to just leave Justin by himself after all that shit, so I'd resigned myself to stewing in silence and drinking us out of house and home by the time we parked at the building.

Except the second we got in, Justin charged to the closet and changed into his going out clothes. Hell if I was going to discourage him. Now, I'm not oblivious to the fact that going out and getting plastered and fucking your troubles away is not the most healthy of coping mechanisms—at least not for Justin, of course—but it's not as if I had previously been under the impression Justin was handling this well, so what was I going to do, wring my hands about it? No, I put on my hottest shirt and shaved and styled my hair so I looked like a fucking dish because the kid deserved it and then I changed him into something sluttier and dragged him out and licked him up and down on the dance floor and put his arms around my neck and made sure everyone in that club wanted to fuck him. We had several guys interested right away, but fuck if the next thing I knew I wasn't on my knees blowing him in the back room. I don't even remember how we got there. We'd had plenty of E at that point, and I just...

It was important that Justin feel like he was the one in charge, that's all. It didn't even occur to me until his cock was in my throat that we'd never done this in public before. God knows me blowing him isn't a rare occurrence at home, but here there was an image to uphold or...something. Something that used to seem important and no longer mattered nearly as much as getting as much of Justin inside of me as I possibly could.

“I love you,” he whispered when I was done, I don't even know if he knew he said it, and I closed my eyes and left my forehead on the soft skin of his stomach.

And I'll tell you what: thank God my little fucker is different from everyone else.

**

We could have known years ago, I said suddenly that evening, when I just couldn't take it anymore. I was standing in the bathroom doorway brushing my teeth, while he sat in bed spreading lotion all over himself, turning me the fuck on, which was not helping to make me any less angry.

I know.

We could have been preparing, or...

Honestly, I think it's for the best that we didn't know, he said. I did the math, and it would have been right around when you had cancer. Can you imagine us trying to deal with that shit then? We had enough on our plate, and we weren't...like we are now. It's better that we didn't know.

You're so aggravating.

I know. He paused. Do you wish I had a cochlear?

No.

Why not?

Because your neurologist said the surgery would kill you and it takes too long to break in a new boyfriend.

He gave me a look. If I could have one.

No. All that shit you said about Luke would be true for you too. You still wouldn't be hearing. You'd struggle. And you'd be doing it without a language, without a culture.

Justin considered this. Then...do you wish I was hearing?

I wish he wouldn't do this shit. I hate talking about crap there's no reason to talk about. I hate even more that I can't just give him some pat answer. Sometimes life would be easier if I could lie to him.

Or maybe it wouldn't be. Maybe moments would just be easier, and big picture, it would be harder because...just to cut through the bullshit for a minute? We're doing fucking fine.

But that didn't mean I didn't wish I could weasel out of this moment. Do you wish I were Deaf? I stalled.

Sometimes, he said, and then looked at me expectantly.

I sighed and braced myself. Sometimes, I said.

He nodded thoughtfully.

I wish I didn't worry about you this much, I said. But I've been wishing that since...you know. Since you were eighteen.

His expression softened, and God, I can't handle the way he looks at me. I don't know how to be a person worthy of the way he looks at me

You're happier now, I said. You didn't used to be happy. You're happy now. So no. I don't wish you were hearing.

I went and spit out my toothpaste and left him to sit with that for a minute. When I came back, he was sitting up with his arms around his knees, still watching me some kind of way, and he looked so small and fragile and before I knew it my hands were moving. I told you they do this shit to me. Just start signing without my permission.

How did you know I wouldn't bail? I asked. When you got sick.

I didn't, remember? I worried about it.

Yeah, but you didn't...you didn't really think I would. God, it was too late to go back now. I just don't get how you...why you had that faith in me. After how I fucking vanished when you were bashed.

Justin tilted his head to the side. You...know that I know that you visited me every night, right?

Well, the world was suddenly a very different place than it had been a few seconds before. No, I most definitely did not know that.

Jesus. He laughed. I've known since a couple of days after I woke up.

What the fuck?

He rolled his eyes and held his arms out, and I crawled onto the bed and tucked him into me. The nurses told me, he said.

But I asked them not to, I said, pathetically.

Yeah, and I'm sure it was a real struggle for them to decide who they wanted to be loyal to, their sweet, brain-damaged teenage patient whose recovery was slowed down by all his crying about his boyfriend, or the weird guy who showed up at two AM every night. Must have really been a tough choice for them.

Hmm.

Justin said, Plus, the night you brought me back here you were throwing around the terms occupational therapist and trauma specialist like you'd been using them every day. You weren't exactly subtle.

I flopped back down on the pillows. Can't a guy have a secret around here? I asked.

I'm sorry. I promise I still think you're very mysterious. Practically inscrutable.

I sighed dramatically. No. You know everything. I bet you even know what I'm thinking right now.

Sure enough, he rolled over onto his stomach, and it was hard to be too pissed about anything for a little while.

**

Two days before Christmas, Justin had turned the loft into some sort of gift-wrapping horror show. Snowflake paper. Santa paper. Reindeer paper. Awful, awful, awful.

Don't worry, he said. Yours is in a brown paper bag.

Thank God.

He had two piles next to him, ones that he'd finished wrapping and ones that hadn't yet met their maker. I picked a Lego fighter jet out of the to-be-wrapped one and looked it over. It wasn't for Gus; he'd emphatically declared himself too old for Legos and Justin had gotten him some bottle rockets.

I held it out to Justin, my eyebrow up.

Justin shrugged. Someday he might want to know me, he said. I'm going to have to keep reminding him I exist.

I cocked my head and looked at him, and he squirmed. What? he said.

I took his wrists and pulled him up. You already know, I said. You can read my mind, remember?

And then, just in case he couldn't, I kissed him like my fucking life depended on it.