Meeting in the Middle

LaVieEnRose

We all know the little lamb's had a rough time of it these last few go arounds, so let this story serve as a reminder that Justin Taylor, in health or in fucking sickness, is a goddamn force of nature.

And don't you fucking dare think you're allowed to call him a little lamb, but that should go without saying.

**

A couple days after Christmas, Justin and I went out to Flushing to see the house. It's the world's fucking easiest subway ride from midtown—get on at one end of the 7 and get off at the other—but he wasn't cleared for crowded transport yet, so rather than spend the cab fare I got the car, picked him up at his studio, and we took the bridge, since the tunnel gives him nightmares sometimes, and hell, why would anyone prefer the tunnel anyway? Justin was having a good day and was feeling amped that he'd gotten some work done for the first time in a while, so we cranked up songs he'd known since he was a kid and sang along on the drive to Queens.

The construction team was there, tearing down walls and fixing the bannister and generally stirring up a lot of shit that makes Justin not breathe, but he was still wearing a mask when he was outside of the apartment anyway, so he was pretty okay. He was, naturally, entirely unbothered by the construction noise, so he wandered around the house calmly while I had to step outside and talk to Cynthia about some fucking work crisis. It was the first time Justin had been back here since we put the offer in, and that was right after he'd gotten out of the hospital and as excited as he had been to see it and okay the buy, he was having a really awful day, could barely walk more than a couple of steps on his own, so I'm not sure how much of it he honestly remembered from that. Most of his tour that day was sitting against the wall that was currently being demolished, watching one end of a Facetime call on his phone while I walked around the house with mine. By the time we got back to the apartment, that artist brain of his had mapped out where all of our shit would go, even as sick as he was.

I came back inside after fixing Kinnetik yet again to Justin very much not where I'd left him. I found him eventually in the master bathroom, looking thoughtfully at the tub.

I put my hand on his shoulder. That main room is going to be enormous once the wall's down.

Bigger than the loft, do you think?

Close. What's on your mind?

He said something out loud, but fuck if I could hear him over the jackhammers or whatever the fuck, plus it's always kind of hard to understand him through the mask.

Sign, I said. It's loud.

Sorry. I don't think I like this.

The tub? It was fucking enormous. I figured it would be his favorite part of the house.

He shook his head. The steps.

Oh. The tub was raised off the ground with three steps leading up to it.

We'll put a bar in that you can hold onto, I said. And we can put mats on the steps so they won't be slippery.

I don't know, he said. I'm going to want to take baths when I feel like shit, and that's when I won't want to do stairs.

You're not going to be using it when you're home alone anyway, I said, because that's yet another fucking thing epilepsy's taken from him that I have to pretend doesn't make me furious on his behalf because who the fuck does that help. I can help you with the stairs.

He shook his head, eyes still narrowed and focused on the steps. I don't like them. Would you mind if we got the tub lowered, so it's sunken into the floor? Is that even possible?

Sure, with enough money anything's possible. You want to ask them?

Yeah, I think I'm going to. He took out his phone and started typing out a note, which is how he does a lot of his communication with hearing people when he wants to be precise. I watched him for a little while, trying not to smile, and then kissed his cheek and said, I'm going to take some measurements in the space upstairs.

Sure, he said absently, totally focused on his note, and I laughed a little as I passed the construction workers on my way up the stairs. They had no idea what they were in for.

**

Justin was working on floor plans that night when I got out of the shower, drawing little boxes where everything would go. The main floor had the open space that would serve as a living room, kitchen, and dining room, with some work space for Justin and a door opening out to the deck and backyard. Off that, the spare bedroom for Jane, our bedroom and bath, and the extra room we were converting into a walk-in closet. Upstairs had my office, a small home gym, and another guest bedroom, and that left the basement for Evan to do whatever the fuck he wanted. It had its own kitchen and bathroom since it was set up for a second resident, was essentially a separate studio apartment, so he'd have his own space for just about the first time in his life.

Justin had been napping when I got in the shower, or else he would have joined me, so I wasn't expecting to see him up, but there he was sitting at the counter, his hair fluffy and messed-up from sleep, his tongue between his teeth in concentraton as he drew. I rested my head against the doorframe and caught my breath.

He noticed me. “What?”

Nothing. Making progress?

“Just trying to figure out all the bookshelves.”

I came up behind him and hung out there for a minute, looking over his plans—how does he draw such perfect squares? I realize in the grand scheme of Justin's artistic feats this is pretty minor, but seriously, who sits down and draws a perfect square?—and running my hands over his shoulders. He tilted his head back eventually, and I smiled and kissed him. Are you hungry? I asked him. He was finally starting to looking a little less skeletal, but he still had a lot of weight left to put back on and his appetite was unpredictible. He still had to be on all these antibiotics off and on, and they made him nauseous, and his breathing was a big distraction for him.

“Yeah, I was gonna take the salmon filets out in a minute.”

I went around into the kitchen, daydreaming a little about when everything would be one room, and studied him over the counter while I opened the fridge. I didn't want to get ahead of myself, but I thought there might be some pink in the boy's cheeks today. How are you feeling? I said. You look good.

“Thanks.” He stretched a little. “Pretty good. Trying not to push myself too much until after the party.” Emily was having a New Year's Eve party in a few days, and Justin had gotten the okay from his doctor to go as long as he wore a mask and didn't spend too long out in the cold.

That's quite the change of pace.

“Hmm?”

I'm used to corralling you.

I've never been corralled.

Still, it's important to have goals.

He made a noise that was pretty successfully skeptical for someone who hadn't heard a peep in six years, then turned and coughed into his elbow for a while. He was fighting for air a little, but he didn't sound like he was going to to drop dead too imminently, so I gave him some space and put a pan on for the salmon. I took my phone out to set a timer—we generally do that instead of using the oven timer, since our phones can light up for alarms—and noticed I had a message.

Who's calling me and leaving me a damn message after eight? I said.

Justin erased something in the floor plan. “Hearing person.”

I knew I didn't like them. I hit play on the message and tucked my phone against my ear while I swirled oil around the pan. It's the construction company, I told Justin.

He raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

Yeah, you could say that. I sighed and hung up. They said they can't do the tub sunken because of how it'll cut into the basement ceiling.

I already asked Evan, it's fine with him. He keeps reminding me he's just a guest there.

I don't have time to unpack that right now.

You and me both.

They say it's a building code thing, he said. We'll put a bar on the wall. On the left side so you can grip it well.

That would be my right side getting out of the tub.

True. Okay, both sides.

Justin clicked his pen, thinking. It's an accessibility issue, right?

I nodded.

I didn't tell them that back at the house. You think there's a chance that overrides the building code?

It might. I have no idea.

What's their number?

I fingerspelled it to him, nice and slowly, letting him scribble down each digit before it had a chance to fall through one of the holes in his brain. Okay, I'm gonna call, he said. You've got the salmon?

Yeah, how much garlic?

“Just like a shit ton.”

Okay.

Justin set his phone up on the counter and called the relay service and had them connect him with the construction company. He had the sound on on his phone for God knows what reason so I could hear the interpreter speaking what Justin was signing. Listening to people interpret for Justin can be frustrating sometimes because sometimes they'll just phrase stuff in a way that I know isn't exactly what he means, because I can still hear Justin's voice in my head when he signs, but interpreting for him is not my job. And it's not as if the meaning's wrong, it just...doesn't sound exactly like Justin. This interpreter was good, though. I have had to step in a few times when they're just goddamn awful, like the time one of them misunderstood what Justin was saying about a symptom at a neurologist appointment and almost lead them down the completely wrong path, or when the one at Janie's naming ceremony kept referring to Gwen and Emily as her “mom and dad,” every time Justin signed parents.

I mostly just listened while the interpreter argued Justin's point and every once in a while glanced up at him, staying calm but fucking resiliant while he schooled these fuckers on the ADA, while I cooked the salmon and made a salad, thinking vaguely to myself that Justin had implied he would be the one making dinner but hey, he had to eat my cooking now so he was going to suffer for it too.

It was clear after about fifteen minutes of this though that they weren't listening to him. He was repeating himself and getting frustrated, and the interpreter was starting to have an edge in her voice on his behalf from the pissed-off way he was signing. And that's fine, and normally I'd let these assholes keep poking the bear until they were stuck with the whole wrath of Justin, but his breathing was starting to get involved, and I had hopes of fucking him tonight so those lungs needed to keep working. Wrap it up, I signed to him, when he started hacking into his elbow, and I gave him a hang tight squeeze on the shoulder on my way to the bedroom to get his inhaler. He used to get really freaked out when he couldn't breathe—who wouldn't—but as this whole saga continued he'd started to be really calm about it, and frankly that was a hard thing to watch, both because it was depressing as fuck and because it meant he wasn't always noticing when he needed to step back and take a non-metaphorical breather. I'd just said that thing about corralling him, but...fuck, my main goddamn role since he'd gotten sick was managing that fucking can-do attitude of his because no, Justin, sometinmes you can't do. Getting Justin to accept the help he needs has always, always been a struggle, against his pride and his shame and his internalized ableism and his goddamn stubbornness and yes, maybe still some youthful short-sightedness, so I wasn't exactly champing at the bit here to convince him he should be fine with stairs up to his bathtub. Justin being the one to handle problems with people we'd hired was about the furthest thing from new—I hate it, and he's better at it anyway, so it's always fallen to him—but doing it for something that just he needed was.

But he still needed to breathe.

I got back with his inhaler just as he was ending the call. Came on quick, I said, watching him wheeze.

I think the dust back at the house didn't help.

Probably not, no. It was an adjustment, having to keep this stuff at the forefront. Justin's always had asthma, but it used to be so far down the list of concerns. He'd wheeze when the pollen count was high and he'd had a few scary attacks through the years and it meant even before his immune system was trashed he'd hang onto colds for a long time, but we'd never really had to worry about it before a few months ago. I think it was worse when he was a kid, so he was more used to thinking about it than I was, but he'd still gotten complacent over the years. And now we just didn't know what sort of long-term effects he was going to have from this bout of pneumonia, and here he was getting used to this new normal, and...well.

Just, y'know, add it to the pile. I sat on a stool next to him and propped up on my elbow on the counter.

I thought I looked good, he said, his eyes warm.

You do. You don't sound good.

Just getting it all out of my system before the party.

Oh, is that how it works?

He nodded.

So what did they say? I said.

He held up a finger for me to wait and took another hit of the inhaler.

Yeah, take your time. I'll finish up dinner.

I can do it.

It's okay.

I cooked the salmon and steamed some green beans and set the coffee table with plates and a glass of wine for me and half a glass for Justin. He was sounding a little better already, and he came over and lay down the floor cushions and he told me about the conversation with the construction company while we ate.

“Basically they don't know shit about the ADA,” he said. “You'd think they'd just signed it into law.”

So they're not budging.

He shook his head. And honestly, I was talking out of my ass trying to get them to. It made me realize how much I don't really know about legal protections either. Usually I just threaten to sue people and hope they don't call my bluff.

You didn't do that here?

He shook his head. “With all the shit they know about building codes, they were going to call my bluff. The interpreter was fucking using legal signs I don't know! I'm out of my depth here.”

So what's the plan? Stairs?

He snorted and reached for his wine. “No. No stairs. I'm going to do some research and maybe call our lawyer tomorrow if I can't find the answer on my own. But mark my words, that tub is not having stairs.”

I bit back a smile with a forkful of salmon. Consider them marked.

We went out after dinner, just to the bar for an hour or so to see everyone. Daphne was transferring hospitals at the end of the month, moving up to midtown, and between that and Molly graduating this spring we wouldn't have much of a reason to trek down to the village anymore. There was a bar in Sunnyside near Emily's apartment that I liked a lot, and I was already planting the seeds in everyone's minds that that would be our new spot. As hard as I'd balked initially at moving out of Manhattan, fuck, I was all in at this point. Big cities have always been more Justin's thing than mine anyway, and nowadays a bit of stimulation goes a long way with him. Meanehile I'm happier being the biggest motherfucker in a smaller pond.

Justin wanted to stay at the bar even after I could see him getting tired, and he dug his heels in and insisting he was okay when I tried to tug him out of there. It took a pile of dirty little sweet nothings in his ear—metaphorically speaking, the boy is Deaf—about what I was going to do to him if he let me bring home to get him to budge, and then, of course, I had to pay up. Such a hardship.

His doctor had given us a whole damn heap of warnings about easing back into sex slowly, and honestly after this many fucking years of this shit I'm self-aware enough to know that even if she hadn't I would have been careful with him. You don't get through an experience like we'd weathered the past few months without a few scars; you just don't. So of course we were skittish. Of course every time I laid so much as a fucking finger on him there were hands in my head signing don't hurt him, don't hurt him, for the love of God don't you fucking hurt him. You can't imagine how hard it was to convince myself to put a hand on him.

At the same time, I hadn't fucked him in two months and I'm only human, for God's sake.

So I nipped so carefully at his neck and cradled his head when I lay him down and went through half a bottle of lube every night, and no, it wasn't the drag-out, break-your-fucking-bones sex we're both awfully fond of, but it was sex and it was Justin and there's no combination of those two factors that hasn't worked for me.

God, he just felt so fucking good. I hadn't been tricking much these past few months because there was always the worry in the back of my mind that I'd bring home a cold or the flu or fucking gonorrhea and kill him, but even if I had...Christ, we're not going to pretend there's anything out there like Justin, are we? There's some kind of awful joke in here about epilepsy or allergies and hyper-responsiveness, but...fuck, no one responds to stimuli like Justin does, no one's that fucking alive and goddamn reactive, fucking lightning in a bottle, this boy, pushing back against me before I've even closed around him, reaching up to meet my lips before I realize I'm coming towards him. Justin was made to be touched, turned on, teased. Given things.

So then of course we come full circle on that awful joke thing and his arm started seizing while I was inside of him. I paused, panting, and rested my forehead against his cheek, dropping a kiss on his neck. You okay?

“Yeah.”

Want a break?

He shook his head, kissing me.

It was all the way from his fingers to his shoulder, though, and it had to be painful. He wrapped his legs around my neck and dug his heels into my shoulderblades, trying to get me to keep thrusting, but I shook my head and pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead and blew on his neck to cool him down a little.

He shivered. “Brian...” He hates making me stop. He hates stopping.

Patient, I signed over his lips, kissing him as soon as my thumb passed his mouth. No rush.

His arm stilled eventually, fingers still clenched, and I ran my hand down his arm and carefully uncurled his hand. He watched me.

Good? I asked.

“Good,” he said, and we kept going.

**

Justin was up coughing a lot of the night, but he was still out of bed before I was in the morning, which used to be fairly common but wasn't nowadays. I found him in the office when I got up, reading something on his laptop. I started some coffee brewing and stamped on the floor of the office doorway.

He looked up and smiled at me. Hi.

Doing research?

He nodded.

Did you eat yet?

Not yet.

You want cinnamon rolls?

“Yeah.”

Well, come make them, then, I'm not your waiter.

You're not eating them anyway. I'll do them later, I'm not really hungry yet.

We gotta be out the door in forty-five.

He rolled back in his chair. I thought I'd stay here today. I have to call our lawyer, and I wanted to get some studio time in too.

“Oh,” I said out loud.

He smiled a little. Is that a problem?

I stalled. Of course it wasn't a problem, not really, but...he'd been coming to work with me every day for three weeks now, except when he was in the hospital. So maybe I'd gotten used to it, sue me. I thought you liked coming to the office, I said eventually.

He laughed. “I do. But I can't tag along forever.”

That's what I thought when you were seventeen, and look how that worked out.

At some point I have to start working again,

I don't know about you going to the studio.

Okay, well, we'll see if I go, and then I'll tell you what happened, and then you'll know.

And maybe I should have hidden how I felt about this a little better, but I'd just fucking woken up, so okay, maybe I pinched the bridge of my nose and leaned against the doorframe.

He crossed his arms and watched me.

You are so sick, I said to him. I don't want to micromanage you here, but I know you're getting used to it and it's like you don't see it.

“I'm getting better.”

You are. I know you are. But you are supposed to be resting for months. Months, Justin.

“I can't just sit around and do nothing.”

There's a lot between nothing and going to your studio when you were up a lot through the night and your breathing's bad and it's ten degrees out there.

He sighed, with that ugly wheeze he didn't even fucking realize was there, and what do you do about that?

You are not supposed to feel like this, I told him. This feels okay because you've been feeling so goddamn awful for so long, but this is not normal. It's not your normal.

But I can do this, he said. This is managable.

And if you push yourself too hard, it's never going to get better than managable. And you're going to get sick again.

He spun around in a slow circle.

I know you mean to be responsible, I told him. I know you're not trying to run yourself ragged, I know. You're just...very fucking adaptable. You bend and you bend and you bend until...

I thought you liked that, he said, going for the joke.

It scares me, I said, somehow.

He watched me.

I wish you could fucking be in my body for a minute, I told him. See what all us normal fuckers are walking around feeling like. We're tired just listening to you breathe.

“I just want to move on,” he said quietly.

You will. I came over and took his hands and pulled him up. Plenty of time, remember?

He nodded and let me pull him into his arms, and I breathed out, face buried in his hair. He's fine he's fine he's fine. God, I needed to not live in this fucking apartment anymore. I needed him to not be in this fucking apartment.

We separated and I squeezed his hands and let him go. You can paint at the office, he said. We have a whole department for it.

It's easier to handle the lawyer stuff here, he said.

I sighed, and he ran his hands up and down my arms.

“I haven't been on my own since this all started,” he said. Before he was well enough to come to the office, I used to stay on Facetime all day because I was sure he'd end up falling or fainting or not fucking breathing and need me to get home—and let me be clear that all of those things absolutely fucking happened at least once, so this is not just paranoia—so...no, he wasn't wrong. Let me handle this on my own.

I studied him.

I can do this, he said. I'm okay.

I sighed and kissed his forehead. Eat before I go.

He stood on his toes and pressed his lips to mine. Okay.

**

So I spent the whole day fucking worrying, basically. I snapped at Emily and Cynthia and anyone else who dared to talk to me, and I kept finding dumb excuses to text Justin and he was indulgent and acted like it was completely reasonable that I needed him to tell me right now whether we were running low on trash bags or if he had anything that needed to go to the dry cleaner's before Emily's party.

Evan came in with a sketchbook at around eleven and frowned at my empty couch.

Home alone today, I said. He's all grown up.

“Well, shit, I was hoping he could help me out with this sketch.”

Too bad.

Yeah, too bad for you, you're the one who has to present this ugly fucking ad. He pulled a chair up in front of my desk and sat down. You look grumpy.

I look beautiful. Are you coming over tonight?

He shook his head. I told Emily I'd do a liquor store run with her for tomorrow. I'll probably just stay over there after.

Yeah, that'll probably be a project.

Knowing her. Justin okay?

I tapped my fingers on the desk and said, Yeah, I think I need a sick person on this one.

At your service.

So you don't like help when you're sick because you just...fucking like being alone. It's not some big dramatic thing.

Right.

I can understand that, and I can understand the fucking shame spiral I fall into, and I'm not saying Justin doesn't do some of that too, but there's also this part of him that just fucking...he doesn't see what he needs. He's so used to feeling like shit that other alternatives stop occuring to him and he just plows on. And I'm just fucking terrified he's going to decide he's better and this is normal and start taking risks and...I don't know what to do here. I can't make him see this stuff.

But we're there to make sure that doesn't happen.

I don't want to be his fucking parole officer. He doesn't want that either. I rubbed my forehead. He's working himself to death right now trying to get them to take some stairs out of the house.

So that he can get around easier.

Yeah.

So that's what we want, right? Realizing that he needs something? Asking for it?

And the thing was...yes, of course, in the longterm. But right now? Right now I just want him to sleep, I said.

He called during my lunch break, while I was picking at a sandwich and rather despondently shopping for ties online. He was still in his chair in the office, curled up with his legs up on the chair.

I called our lawyer's office, he said immediately. But his secretary said he's out of town until the fourth.

Guess we can't get divorced this week then.

I know. But then I remembered my mom's boyfriend is a lawyer—

Right, I forgot about that.

So I called him.

I nodded.

“And basically...” He sighed, wheezing. “The long and short of it is, I have a right to have it done, but they have a right not to be the ones to do it.”

So we find someone else to do it.

“I don't want to do that,” he said. “People can just keep saying no, and before we know it this thing's been dragged on for months. And I did my research when I found these guys in the first place. They're the best. I want them to do it. There's a way to get this, I just haven't figured out how yet. I will.”

And there was, of course, no doubt in my mind that he would, and he did. I'm honestly aiming to not get sappy here, but I don't know how to describe to someone what it's like to know someone the way that I know Justin. I see what he's capable of like it's already happened and I'm watching it in reverse, I...there was no point in this little saga that I forgot what a fucking force of nature he is, and I want that known, because...because I do, I don't know.

He was fucking beautiful sitting there scheming.

Have you been up since I left? I asked him.

He nodded, blinking a little slowly.

That was almost five hours awake. He hadn't gone that long yet. Sleep on it, I said casually. Bed is where I get all my best ideas.

Yeah, but not sleeping. He yawned and coughed some.

I tiilted my head and watched him. Maybe not.

He smiled at me, pulling the cuffs of his sleeves over his hands. “How's work without me?”

Quiet.

“What's that like?”

Funny.

He twisted his hands. “My tub's not going to have stairs,” he said.

No, it won't.

“I'll sleep on it.”

That's my boy.

**

Justin jumped on me the second I got home from work, arms around my neck and legs around my waist. Christ, he didn't weigh a fucking thing these days. I kissed his cheek and set him on the kitchen counter. “Hi?” I said.

He grinned at me. “I did it.”

Tell me.

“I paid a lot of money!”

I laughed. I couldn't fucking help it. Phenomenal.

“I called them and told them how much we'd pay them to do it and all of a sudden they weren't so worried about building codes anymore.”

I kissed the tip of his nose. I love when you use my money to solve your problems.

He beamed. “I know you do.”

God, you're so fucking cute.

“I know that too.”

We pushed and pulled at each other for awhile, him swinging his legs on the counter, me warming his hands between mine.

I knew you could do it, you know, I said after a minute.

“Oh, you want the credit?”

Yeah.

He smiled and watched me.You taught me everything I know.

What a coincidence.

He caught my hand between his and kissed it.

So did you rest today? I asked him. Up for a celebration?

He sighed theatrically. I don't know. You might have to convince me.

That'd be quite the change.

He laughed, his head back.

**

I got stuck at the office until eight the next night, on fucking New Year's Eve, and with the traffic it was almost nine by the time I got back. I expected Justin to be standing by the door ready to chew me out, but he was nowhere to be found when I walked into the apartment. I flicked the lights on and off, and when that didn't make him magically appear, I headed towards the bedroom and heard the shower running.

I opened the bathroom door and waved for his attention. Hey, we need to leave soon.

Okay.

Okay. I stepped back into the bedroom to change my clothes and try to decide if I had time for a shower, but before I'd made up my mind the water turned off and a minute later Justin was leaning against the doorway, a towel around his waist.

I held up two shirts. Which?

You're asking me for style advice?

Color advice.

He rested his head against the wall. “Brian?”

Yeah? I said, rooting throught the closet.

“Would you hate if we didn't go?”

I stopped and stepped back from the closet and looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since we got home. He was pale, and breathing hard, and looked just about dead on his feet.

“Hey,” I said.

I just...I'm really not feeling good, he said.

Do you have a fever?

He shook his head. I'm just so tired, and it's so fucking cold out there, and then we have to go to Queens and get back here and there's no fucking way I can stay awake until midnight. You can go if you want. You should go.

I ran my hand over my mouth.

I'm sorry, he said. Are you disappointed, I didn't—

Sunshine, I said. I am so fucking proud of you.

You are?

I kissed his cheek. Get dressed. I'll make some popcorn.

**

At midnight, I watched the ball drop on TV, heard faint fireworks outside, and looked at Justin fast asleep next to me.

Happy New Year, I signed to him, with a kiss next to his ear. It's going to get better now.