Tuesday was one of the bad days. And it didn’t show itself to be until Justin had already left for another meeting with some of his classmates concerning their group project. Justin hadn’t really wanted to leave, even though at that point, the day looked pretty average. At least, Brian’s current average -- which was truly anything but. Justin had complained that the only reason the group had to meet again today was because a couple of members had refused to pull their weight in the prior day’s meeting, so they didn’t get everything done that they needed to. Brian had told Justin that he should go -- not to worry about him. He’d be fine.

And then, it started. Tuesday was edging closer and closer to being far too similar to Friday. Brian awoke from one of the approximately five thousand naps he felt like he now took during the day to a sharp, shooting pain in his stomach, and barely managed to drag himself into the bathroom in time. He sat in there for a long while, burning up hot and sweating like he was in the steam room at the baths. Eventually, he felt it was safe to try to go back to bed, where he fell asleep again, because sleeping was far preferable to suffering through this shit while awake. Not too long after that, though, he was awakened by the sound of someone banging on the metal door to the loft.

“Brian!” he heard a voice call from out in the hallway, in between the banging. “Brian!”

He recognized that voice. Michael.

Fuck.

Brian wasn’t sure he had the energy to get out of bed and walk to the door at the moment, but that was okay, because he didn’t want to answer it anyhow. He didn’t want to talk to Michael. He prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that Michael would think he wasn’t home and would give up and leave soon.

The alternating bangs and shouting stopped after a minute or so, and Brian breathed a sigh of relief. But that relief was stolen from him the second he heard a key being turned in the lock and the door sliding back.

“Brian?” Michael called from the doorway as he stepped into the loft. Brian was lying as still as he could, as if he hoped he wouldn’t be seen. But that was stupid, considering the fact that his bedroom didn’t really have walls, just sliding, frosted glass partitions that, at the moment, were about as open as they could be.

A string of expletives made their way through Brian’s brain as he frantically tried to figure out what the fuck he was going to do. Michael’s footsteps were edging closer to the bedroom as he continued calling Brian’s name.

Then, Michael saw him.

“There you are,” Michael said. “What are you doing in bed at noon on a Tuesday? And what the fuck are you doing home, anyway? I drove by Kinnetik, and I didn’t see your car, so I came over here to see if you were home…”

Brian was only half paying attention as Michael chattered away at the bottom of the steps to the bedroom. He was still trying to come up with some kind of a plan to explain all of this to Michael without telling him the truth. And he was coming up empty.

Michael suddenly paused in the middle of his babbling, probably because Brian wasn’t responding.

“Hey, are you okay?” Michael said as he came up the steps.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Brian opened his eyes and looked directly at Michael, knowing full well that he looked every bit as shitty as he felt right now. And there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it. Apparently, he was coming clean with his oldest and dearest friend right-the-fuck now. And it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” Michael murmured as he stood still in the bedroom, his big, brown puppy dog eyes wide with shock as he looked Brian up and down.

“Chernobyl,” Brian replied sarcastically.

“What?”

“Christ, I’m so sick of explaining this shit to people.”

“Explaining what shit? To what people?”

Brian groaned, half out of exasperation and half out of actual physical discomfort, but didn’t answer Michael’s question.

“Brian, what’s going on?”

Brian took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. He was stalling for time and he knew it. Because he honestly didn’t know where-the-fuck to start.

“Are you okay?” Michael asked again. His voice was suddenly quiet, and full of concern, as he took a seat on the edge of the bed and turned slightly so he was looking directly at Brian. “Oh God...Ben mentioned he thought something might be going on… It’s not…” He let his voice trail off, with an unasked question hanging in the air. But Brian read between the lines. HIV. Michael was afraid he had HIV and now he was sick.

“No,” Brian said. “It’s not that.”

Michael breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he said. He paused for a moment before saying, “Then what’s wrong? Something’s definitely wrong here. Don’t try to tell me there isn’t.”

Might as well get it over with, Brian thought to himself. “It’s cancer,” he said simply, not bothering to elaborate. He’d give Michael a moment to get over the freakout Brian knew he was about to have, before he gave him the rest of the information -- surgery, radiation, blah blah blah.

“What?” Michael said again, blinking at Brian in disbelief like he was trying to make a different vision of his best friend appear by closing and reopening his eyes. Maybe he wasn’t going to freak out, after all

“Cancer, Mikey. I’ve got cancer.”

“Christ, Brian.” Michael’s eyes were filling with tears now, just as Brian had figured they would. “Are you…”

“I’m not fucking dying, Mikey.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask.”

“I’m not okay either. Well, I am, but I’m not. I don’t know how the fuck to answer that question, and everybody and their goddamn brother asks it as soon as I tell them.”

“Wait, who else knows? And why didn’t you tell me?”

Brian really, really didn’t want to answer this question truthfully. Because he didn’t want to listen to Michael’s reaction after he answered it. So he shrugged and gave a vague answer: “A few people. Only because I had to tell them. Kind of like how I’m having to tell you right now. I wasn’t going to tell anybody.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Not even Justin? He’s your partner for Christ’s sake, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“No. Nobody.”

“Why not?”

“Are you a fucking broken record, Mikey? I didn’t want anyone to know because I just...didn’t. Okay? That’s why I told everyone I went to Ibiza.”

Realization was dawning now in Michael’s eyes. “So what were you really doing when you told everyone you went to Ibiza?” he asked, his voice full of trepidation.

Brian looked away from Michael, breaking eye contact before he answered. “I was having surgery at Johns Hopkins. I had a testicle removed. I have testicular cancer. I’m in radiation now.”

“Oh my God, Brian.” Michael’s eyes had filled with tears again, and this time one fell and made its way down Michael’s cheek, where he wiped it away with the back of his hand. His voice was barely above a whisper. “If I lose you, I don’t know what I’ll do…”

“You’re not going to fucking lose me,” Brian said, barely concealing his exasperation at Michael’s theatrics. This was exactly why he hadn’t told Michael sooner. “I’m fine. This type of cancer has a 99% cure rate with surgery and follow-up treatment. I’m going to be fine.” He pushed himself up into a sitting position, then stood up, so that he was standing over Michael, as if to prove exactly how fine he was at the moment, even though he was well aware that standing took more energy than he could afford to give up right now. “Now, we need to talk about your use of your emergency key to my apartment.”

“You weren’t fucking answering,” Michael said, attempting to defend himself, as he stood up as well. Since Brian was taller, though, he still had the upper hand.

“Me not answering the door is not a goddamn emergency. I have the right to not answer the door, even if I’m home.” Brian tried to casually move over by the closet so he would have something to lean on if he needed it. And he probably would. But he needed to stand for this part of the conversation, even if it took every last ounce of stamina he had.

“But, I’m your best friend…”

“Michael, we have those keys so we can water the fucking plants and bring in the goddamn mail when one of us is out of town, or for when there’s an actual emergency. Not to barge in on each other, best friends or not.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Maybe because I didn’t want you to know!” Brian yelled, even though he knew he was expending energy he didn’t have. “Maybe because it’s none of your fucking business! We don’t have to tell each other fucking everything!” Suddenly, he was feeling dizzy and off-balance. He caught himself with one hand on the closet door, trying desperately to hold himself up, because the last thing he wanted to do right now was fall. Not in front of Michael. He steadied himself enough to take a few shaky steps to the bed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and propped his elbows up on his knees, burying his face in his hands.

“Why did you come over here, anyway?” Brian mumbled into his hands. He looked up and waited for Michael’s answer.

“Because I hadn’t seen you in a week…” Michael paused and shifted his weight from foot to foot, like he was uncomfortable. “And I wanted you to help me convince Justin to go to Hollywood. But I guess now I know why he’s not going.”

Now, it was Brian’s turn to be surprised and confused.

“What?” he said, squinting at Michael. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t he tell you? Brett asked him to fly out to help convince some of the studio execs that Rage is a film worth making.”

“No, he didn’t tell me.” Brian’s frustration at the fact that Justin had kept this from him was building, quickly. “Why the fuck can’t you go instead?” he asked Michael.

“Because Brett doesn’t want me. He wants Justin. Something about how they respond better to pictures than words.”

“And Justin told him he can’t go right now...and it’s because of me. Fuck.” Slowly, Brian was putting the puzzle together. The bits and pieces he’d picked up from Justin’s phone calls were now starting to make more sense. Brian ran a hand over his face. God, why hadn’t he figured this out sooner?

“I’m sure he doesn’t--”

“Shut up, Michael.” Brian cut him off. He really didn’t care what excuses Michael had on Justin’s behalf. What he cared about was the fact that Justin had been lying to him by fucking omission. He’d said no to a fucking golden opportunity so he could stay home and take care of his sick partner. Justin had turned down something that had the potential to change his life as well as Michael’s, and it was all Brian’s fault.

“I didn’t mean to--”

“Shut. Up.” Brian laid down on the bed and pulled his knees up toward his chest, burying his face in one of the pillows and pulling another over his head, hoping Michael would take the hint and leave.

“Is there anything I can do?” Michael sat back down on the edge of the bed and put his hand on Brian’s shoulder. Brian moved away from his touch.

“You can leave me alone.”

“There must be something I can--”

Brian lifted the pillow up off of his face before saying, “What don’t you understand about fuck off?”

Michael ignored him and kept right on going. “Why are you alone anyway?” he asked. “Where’s Justin? You can barely stand up. Don’t think I didn’t notice that, because I did.”

“Justin had to do something for school,” Brian mumbled into the pillow that his face was still halfway pressed into. “He has his own goddamn life to live. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

“I can stay if you--”

“Would you just go home, Michael?” Brian shouted as he pushed himself up onto his forearm so he could look his best friend square in the eye. “Go home! To your wife, and your kid!” With that, he collapsed back down onto the bed and sandwiched his head between the pillows again.

For a few moments, Michael seemed to just be standing there in Brian’s bedroom, probably giving him the gobsmacked look that he was so good at. Then his footsteps retreated, and the door the loft slid open and shut. Brian heard keys jingling outside the door, and the deadbolt sliding in the lock.

He’d wanted to tell Michael to leave the goddamn key on the counter on his way out, but he didn’t. Because he was too afraid that there might be an actual emergency while he was still at the mercy of this damn disease, and he might end up needing Michael’s help. Particularly if Justin went to Hollywood. Which he would be, if Brian had anything to do with it.

Brian was lying in bed, trying to come up with a plan to somehow convince Justin to go to Hollywood, when the heavy, metal door slid open and shut again. This time, it was Justin’s voice that rang out through the loft.

“I’m back,” Justin called. Brian heard the soft thump of Justin’s messenger bag hitting the floor. Goddamn kid, always leaving his shit all over the floor. Justin’s familiar-sounding footfalls ascended the three steps up to the bedroom.

Brian kept his eyes closed. Maybe he’d pretend to be asleep, so he could buy himself more time to come up with a reason why Justin should go to Hollywood and become a big, fat, fucking success. The success he deserved to be. The success he would be if he wasn’t tied to a partner who had fucking cancer.

But the bed sank down a little as Justin took a seat, and Brian felt a hand come to rest on top of his own. “You okay?” Justin said softly. “I know you’re not asleep. Because when you are, you snore a little.”

Brian cracked an eye open and looked at Justin. “Fucking deviated septum,” he muttered.

“Answer the question. What’s wrong?”

“Michael came by.”

“Shit.”

“You’ve got that right.” In more ways than one, Brian thought to himself. “Used his key and forced his way in here.”

Justin didn’t say anything, but Brian could see the nervousness in his eyes and his facial expression. He seemed to know exactly what was coming next. And that it wasn’t going to be good.

“He had something very interesting to tell me,” Brian said.

“Oh? What was that?” Justin feigned ignorance. It was all Brian could do to keep from rolling his eyes.

“You tell me. I think you know.” Brian fought to keep his voice controlled and even, and not to explode with the anger that had been simmering inside of him since Michael’s revelation.

He was angry with Justin for not telling him what was going on, and he was also angry at the fact that Justin apparently felt he couldn’t go. That he’d told Brett he couldn’t go. And it was all because of Brian. Although he was sure Justin had omitted that part. From the pieces of phone conversations he’d overheard, Justin wasn’t being 100% honest with Brett either. And he knew Justin hadn’t been honest with Michael, because Brian had asked him not to tell anyone about the cancer. Now, Brian was wondering which of those phone conversations had been with Brett, and which had been with Michael. Not that it mattered at this point. Brian was just hoping that Justin hadn’t already fucked things up with the director who held the keys to his partner and best friend’s futures.

“What did Michael say?” Justin asked again, in a slightly different way.

“He told me that Brett has been asking you to fly out to L.A. to help him make the case for turning Rage into a feature film. That he wants you to come show off your art to the studio execs. Help convince them that film about a queer superhero is worthy of their studio.” Brian stopped for a moment and took a deep breath before continuing. “I think you should go.”

“I can’t do that right now, Brian, and you know that.”

“Because you’re stuck here, taking care of me.”

“I’m not stuck.” Justin nervously ran a hand through his hair. “Like I’ve told you a dozen times, I’m here because I want to be. I don’t want to go to Hollywood right now.”

“If I wasn’t sick, would you already be gone?”

Justin opened his mouth to answer, but Brian cut him off.

“I think we both already know the answer to that,” Brian said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Brian climbed out of the bed, around Justin who was still sitting beside him, and walked slowly into the bathroom.

Justin followed behind him, watching him as he knelt in front of the toilet and vomited. Justin crouched down beside Brian and ran a hand down his arm. “Don’t stress yourself out over this,” he said. His voice was pleading. “You’ll make yourself sicker.”

“What do you care?” Brian shot back at Justin, once he felt like he could catch his breath. “You’re leaving anyway.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Brian wasn’t fucking worth this. He wasn’t worth this sacrifice. Not on Justin’s part, and not on Michael’s by proxy.

“Brian,” Justin said, reaching his hand out to touch Brian’s arm again. This time, Brian wrenched it out of Justin’s grip.

“Don’t touch me.” Brian kicked his legs out to the side so he was sitting on his butt, and scooted over by the shower door, sagging against it. He pulled his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them, resting his forehead on his knees. He was curled up into a ball, like he’d done so many times as a child in an attempt to protect himself from the wrath of Jack Kinney. But this time it was for protection from the hurt he was about to bring onto himself. That he had to. Because he wasn’t going to be the reason that Justin fucked up his life and his future.