The receptionist put Brian on hold for a few minutes that felt like an eternity, and he tried to calm his pounding heart as he listened to the tinny-sounding smooth jazz hold music. He put the handset on speakerphone, because, frankly, he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to hear this or be able to digest it on his own. He wanted -- needed -- Justin to hear it too.

Finally, the doctor was on the line, and it was time for Brian to face his fate. At least, that’s how it felt. Like he was going before a judge, jury, and executioner, all at once.

Brian was trying to pay attention, but he was so distracted by the swirling thoughts in his head and the feeling of dread in his stomach that he felt like he was only hearing about half of what the doctor said.

“Biopsy results… Early stage… Common… Optimistic… Radiation treatment… Chemotherapy… Risk… Success rate…”

Several of those words sounded positive, which helped alleviate some of Brian’s worry and untwist his gut a little.

“It’ll be your choice, Mr. Kinney.” That was the first complete sentence he’d managed to comprehend since the doctor picked up the phone. “You decide how you’d like to proceed from here. We can do chemotherapy, which will further reduce your chances for recurrence, but there are certainly some significant side effects and risks involved. Or you can choose to go through with radiation treatment, which will be shorter and have less side effects, but has its own risks. Or you can do neither, and we will continue to monitor you, but that will leave you with a much more significant possibility of recurrence.”

“What would you do if you were me?” Brian was surprised he’d even managed to speak, much less ask a coherent question. He’d been expecting for Dr. Rabinowitz to tell him what to do, to lay out a treatment plan in front of him and tell him where to be and when. Instead, the man was giving him choices. That put Brian on edge. He wasn’t the one with the medical degree. Justin, being the silent partner here, laid a reassuring hand on Brian’s knee, as if to remind Brian that he was there, supporting him no matter what.

“I really can’t answer that, Mr. Kinney. It’s up to you. There are benefits and risks to either treatment. Looks like I do have an email address on file for you. I can send you some information if you like.”

Brian took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Can I have some time to think about it?”

“Absolutely. If you decide to pursue follow-up treatment, I’ll be referring you to the office of a colleague in Pittsburgh, so you won’t have to commute back and forth. Let me know as soon as possible, Mr. Kinney, so we can get everything set up. I know this is a difficult choice to make. I’ll have someone send you some more information that you can look over, and I’ll talk with you soon, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.” Brian hung up the phone, his fingers groping blindly at the buttons as he leaned forward to lay it on the coffee table. Feeling numb. How the fuck was he supposed to decide any of this? Why was any of this being left up to him? He didn’t feel qualified to make this choice. Sure, it was his life, but he didn’t have any sort of medical training or knowledge. The fact that it was being left up to him felt frustrating. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all.

“Well, that was...not at all informative,” Brian said, sighing as he leaned back against the throw pillows on the sofa.

“He sounded optimistic,” Justin said, gently squeezing the hand that was on Brian’s knee. “They caught it early, so that’s good.”

“I guess. I just don’t know what I should do. This is too fucking...much.” Brian raked his fingers through his hair, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes. “How in the hell am I supposed to decide this?”

Justin slid an arm around Brian’s shoulders and tucked himself in close to Brian’s side, pulling his feet up onto the cushion. “I’ll support you in whatever you decide,” he said.

“What would you do?”

“I don’t know, Brian. It’s not an easy choice.”

“If I do nothing, then it might come back. Losing one ball is bad enough. So, I know I have to do something. The chemo, or the radiation...something. But what?”

“You don’t have to decide tonight. Let’s wait until tomorrow, look over what he sends you, and go from there. Make an informed decision, when you’re not dead tired. Let’s go to bed, get some rest, and come at it with fresh eyes in the morning. Okay?”

Justin got up, put the phone back on the charger, and started turning off lights in the loft, while Brian still sat on the couch, feeling like he couldn’t move because the weight on his mind and soul was too heavy right now. Making the wrong choice here could have far-reaching consequences.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Justin said as he passed by Brian again and brushed a hand over his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “Why don’t you go lie down? Close your eyes, rest a little...we can talk about all of this tomorrow.”

Brian rose slowly and limped up to the bedroom, trying to somehow move his left leg as little as possible as he walked, no longer caring about appearing “normal.” Walking hurt right now, and he’d been trying to hide that all day. He climbed carefully into bed, then collapsed down onto the soft sheets. The second his head hit the pillow, Brian realized just how bone-tired he really was.

Trying to spend the entire day at the office hadn’t been his best decision. He’d snapped at Cynthia more than once -- if he wasn’t careful, she’d probably rip his other ball off with her own two hands -- and had nearly fallen asleep at one point on the sofa that he kept in his office. He’d fumbled his way through a meeting with a client, thankful that he’d done this for so many years that it felt like he could do it on autopilot. Cynthia was still pissed at him. Still thinking he’d gone off to Ibiza and left her to cover for him while he tanned his ass on the beach. If only she knew the truth. That the only thing even remotely close to tanning he’d done was lie under that bright-ass light in the operating room as he counted backward from 10.

He felt like he’d watched his life flash before his eyes as the numbers counted down. Justin. Gus. Michael. Lindsay. Deb. Joan and Jack. Justin. The flow of oxygen through the mask they’d stuck over his nose and mouth had made him feel dreamy and disoriented. Slightly high. Like a good buzz. He remembered his eyelids suddenly feeling impossibly heavy, and a dark curtain closing in from the edges of his field of vision. He’d tried to push aside the fear he felt in that moment by remembering why he was doing this -- because he didn’t want to leave the people he loved. And he did love them, even if he didn’t have the balls to own up to that. The irony of that statement wasn’t lost on Brian.

But Cynthia couldn’t know the truth, because then she’d feel sorry for him, and he couldn’t deal with that. Didn’t want to deal with that. Even as much of a heartless bitch she could be where business was concerned, Brian knew she cared about him. And he cared about her. Trusted her. Would trust her with his life. But he couldn’t tell her this. He didn’t want or need sympathy from anyone.

He hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Not even Justin. But Justin was too close to hide it from. Maybe Brian had known that all along. He hadn’t counted on the doctor selling him out so soon, though. Now, here they were. And maybe Justin knowing wouldn’t be so bad.

Brian had nearly drifted off to sleep by the time Justin joined him in the bed, startling him a little.

“Sorry,” Justin breathed. “I was really trying not to wake you.”

“S’okay,” Brian mumbled as he felt Justin curl up against him, hugging him close. Justin kissed his chest twice, so lightly and gently, then sniffed softly, like maybe he was crying. But Brian couldn’t muster the energy to open his eyes.

“Love you,” Brian heard Justin whisper, just before he slipped off into oblivion.

The next morning, nothing felt any clearer to Brian. Sleep hadn’t brought with it any divine wisdom or reassurance, and he still felt like shit. He shuddered at the thought of what he was going to feel like a week or two from now, if the surgery on its own had left him feeling this wiped out.

He was up much earlier than usual -- a distinct disadvantage of going to bed before 8 p.m. -- so he slowly slid out of bed, successfully managing not to wake Justin, and hobbled into the bathroom to take a piss. Brian paused to examine his reflection in the mirror after washing his hands. He didn’t look any better than he felt. Shit. How long was he going to be able to pass this off as jet lag?

Justin was still sleeping soundly as Brian passed through the bedroom, on his way to his computer. He hoped that the email he’d been promised the previous evening was waiting for him in his inbox, and it was. So he got up, went into the kitchen, made coffee, then settled in to weigh his options. An hour later, he was armed with a lot more information, but he still had absolutely no fucking clue what he should do. And his coffee cup was empty.

He rose from his desk chair and padded slowly into the kitchen, where he put the empty mug into the sink and was trying to figure out how he could cobble together a decent breakfast from what little food he had in the loft, when Justin came down from the bedroom.

“You’re up early,” Justin said, yawning and stretching his arms overhead as he spoke.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Not at all. Feeling any better this morning?” Justin wrapped his arms around Brian from behind and tucked his chin over Brian’s shoulder.

“Physically or mentally?”

“Either. Both.”

“Not really.” Brian shrugged.

“Hmm. So what did you find out about your treatment options?” Justin released Brian and gestured toward the corner where Brian’s computer resided. The glow of the screen reflected softly against the brick wall behind it, making it relatively obvious what Brian had been doing.

“A whole hell of a lot. And not fucking much.” He sighed. “I still don’t know.”

“What’s your gut telling you?”

“My gut is telling me that I should have run off to Ibiza when I had the chance.” Brian let out a breathy, sardonic laugh. “Then I wouldn’t have to decide.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t go to Ibiza.” Justin grabbed Brian’s hands and pulled their bodies together before kissing him. “I’d have missed you.”

“Give it a few weeks. You might be wishing I’d have gone after all, when you’re stuck dealing with my sick ass. I’m not nice when I’m sick.”

Justin let go of Brian’s hands, then got down a mug from the shelf and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You’re not nice most of the time anyway.”

“Thanks a lot, you twat,” Brian said, playfully smacking Justin on the arm with the back of his hand.

“Hey, aren’t you glad that your asshole persona is still believable?”

“Gotta keep up appearances. Can’t be going all soft in my old age.”

“Brian, I’ll gladly deal with you when you’re sick,” Justin said, suddenly serious again. “I just want you to be okay.”

Brian didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to be okay too. He didn’t want to be sick at all. But that ship had sailed, and long since disappeared over the horizon. Brian really didn’t want to have to stand by and watch while Justin proved how much he loved him. But he knew he wasn’t going to have a choice but to bear witness to exactly how much Justin cared about him. No matter how little Brian thought of himself, or how unworthy he felt of such love and devotion.

So he kissed Justin on the cheek and patted his shoulder, then went to take a shower. He was putting on his tie when Justin came back into the bedroom, looking confused.

“Where are you going?” Justin asked, his brow furrowed.

“Work,” Brian replied, keeping his inflection nonchalant, as he tightened the knot.

“The fuck you are. You need to rest.”

Brian exhaled loudly. This was definitely one reason he hadn’t wanted anyone to know -- he didn’t want anyone trying to tell him what to do. What he needed.

What he needed was to feel normal. Like nothing was amiss.

“I have things I have to do at the office,” Brian said. He tried to keep his voice neutral and not sound annoyed. Being mean to Justin had never worked. Past experience told him that being mean only made Justin push harder to get what he wanted. He knew Justin was trying to be supportive and caring, but it was still annoying as shit. Brian Kinney wouldn’t consent to being taken care of or ordered around like a child. “I was out for a week. I’ve got a huge pile of work I have to catch up on.”

“Brian, you have to take care of yourself.”

“If I don’t have any money, I won’t be able to take care of myself. Or you.”

“I’m sure your staff can handle it for a few more days. The ship won’t sink just because you took a couple more days off.” Justin crossed his arms. “You need time to recuperate.”

“Been there. Done that. Don’t have time for more.”

“Brian--”

“Look, Sunshine...I just got Kinnetik off the ground. I’ve already had to put off meetings with the clients who are practically bankrolling this little venture, and I really can’t do it again. I’m stressed as shit, and I can’t afford to be off work right now. End of discussion.”

This illness certainly had piss-poor timing. Not that there’s ever a good time to be diagnosed with cancer, but right after opening your own business had to rank up there as one of the worst.

Justin sat down onto the wooden ledge around the bed and put his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay,” he said. “I know I’m not going to win this argument with you. But promise me you’ll at least try to take it easy. And if you start feeling bad, you’ll come home. Can you do that?”

Brian rolled his eyes. “I think I can survive sitting in my executive chair, looking over paperwork and approving copy. It’s not that strenuous.”

Except that’s exactly what he’d been doing -- almost all he’d been doing, save for that one meeting -- the day before, and he’d come home feeling like he’d been put through the wringer. Hopefully today would be better. He truly had no fucking idea what he was going to do about work once he started treatment and had even more fatigue to look forward to, complete with a side of nausea and vomiting. Lovely.

“Call me if you need anything,” Justin said. “I mean it.”

Brian leaned down and kissed him, then pulled on his suit jacket and walked back out of the bedroom, stopping to grab his briefcase from the barstool in front of the kitchen island.

“I will,” he said, over his shoulder. But he knew he wouldn’t.

Brian stopped at the diner on the way to the office, for some breakfast and another cup of coffee, to go. He went for a muffin instead of his usual egg white omelet, since he didn’t really have time to wait and didn’t want to linger too long in the diner, in case one of his friends came in. His friends that he had already decided he wouldn’t be sharing his news with, at least not anytime soon.

Michael couldn’t know, because he’d almost certainly go all Italian mother on him, trying to cook for him and buy him groceries and do his laundry and a whole list of shit that Brian really didn’t need or want Michael trying to do for him. Michael would hover. Michael’s mind would immediately jump to thinking of the worst possible outcomes. He’d inherited a penchant for drama, being half Italian and half drag queen, and Brian didn’t want to deal with drama right now. Michael would probably cry. Brian would end up being the one to comfort Michael, even though he was the one who was sick. He wasn’t fond of keeping something this big from his best friend, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand it when Michael’s love for him turned overbearing. And it would. So Michael couldn’t know. At least, not for as long as Brian could manage to keep it from him.

Emmett couldn’t know, because he’d be right alongside Michael, making Brian feel like an invalid who couldn’t be trusted to take care of himself, although with less tears and slightly less drama. Ted would be harder to hide it from, since he’d be around Brian at work all day. But Brian would have to try. Ben -- was he a friend? Or was he only connected to Brian because he was Michael’s boyfriend? Ben would probably be the only one who would understand Brian’s need to not have people fawn over him. But Brian couldn’t ask him to keep it from Michael -- he refused to be the one to come between Michael and Ben like that. Ben made Michael happy, and Brian wanted Michael to be happy. So none of them were going to know, either.

Debbie still wasn’t speaking to him, so she probably wouldn’t give a shit. After what he’d said about Vic, Brian didn’t blame her for slapping him or throwing him out of her house on the night Vic died. The night his sought-after trick had found a lump on his testicle, and sent Brian’s stomach plummeting to his knees right there in the back room at Babylon. Brian hadn’t been able to bring himself to look at Debbie for the entire duration of the graveside service -- partially because of what he’d done, and partially because he was too stuck inside his own head. As they all shared their fond memories of Vic and laid roses on the casket, Brian had been thinking about the news he’d received at the doctor’s office earlier that morning. About the prospect of being the one inside the box, about to be on the wrong side of the dirt, sooner rather than later.

Brian felt like he was on board a runaway train, speeding off through hills and valleys and around sharp curves at a speed far too great. He wanted off. He wanted to jump. But he was stuck. He’d have to ride it out. Even if he had no idea where he was headed. Sometimes he didn’t want to know.

Coffee and paper bag in hand, he walked through the lobby of Kinnetik without speaking to anyone, went into his office, and cursed his decision to partition off his space with a clear glass door that he couldn’t hide behind. Beautiful and architecturally interesting as it was, it didn’t provide the privacy he desperately craved right now. The stack of file folders on his desk looked daunting, even more so than it had the day before. Like he’d made no headway. And he probably hadn’t. Yesterday, he’d barely been able to focus, because he couldn’t find a comfortable way to sit, and he was trying to not have to take any of the narcotics he’d been prescribed that made him feel loopy and high, but not in a good way. He had to hope that today was going to be better, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

He took a sip of the coffee -- straight-up black today -- as he sat down in his chair and eyed the pile of paperwork that awaited him. Suddenly, he wasn’t very hungry anymore. He felt anxious and a little sick, wondering how he was going to dig out of this and still keep up with everything that needed to be done for his business for the next who-knows-how long. And he still had a decision to make. A very important one, that would decide so much about his future.

The knot of trepidation remained in the pit of his stomach as he moved through his workday as well as he could, making the familiar motions more out of habit than out of conscious thought. Approve this. Sign that. Fix something that you told someone else to do but they fucked it up so you have to do it yourself if you want it done right.

It wasn’t until the afternoon meeting he had planned with Ted, Cynthia, and his art director and lead copywriter, that his facade started to crack. He was standing, like he always did, because he liked the effect it had on the power dynamic in the room, with everyone else sitting while he stood. It punctuated the fact that he was the boss -- he was in charge. In control. And then the room started to spin. And he wasn’t in control anymore.

He was forcing out words two or three at a time, trying to respond to what was happening in the meeting. Trying to sound like his head wasn’t swimming and he didn’t feel like he was going to vomit on the floor. Drinking water to try to force down anything that might be trying to come up.

“Brian?” Ted asked when Brian was forced to make an awkward pause and lean on the table to keep his balance and stay upright. That was the moment when he suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten anything all day. Ted’s eyes were laden with concern that Brian didn’t want to see. “You okay?”

Cynthia’s voice came next. “Brian?”

Then all of their eyes were on him as he tried to steady himself, to stand up straight so he could leave the room and sit down in the safety and solitude of his own office, on the other side of the sliding partition.

Fucking Ted followed him, though. And Ted had already seen more than Brian had wanted him to see. More than he wanted anyone to see.

“Brian?” Ted said again.

“I’m fine,” Brian lied. He knew he didn’t sound very convincing right now. But he had to find some way to throw Ted off his trail.

“Well, you sure as hell don’t look it. You practically fainted in there.”

“Yeah, I’m just a little tired from my trip. That’s all.”

“Well, maybe you should go home. I mean, we can finish this tomorrow--”

“I said I’m fine,” Brian said, perhaps a little too loudly. But he needed Ted to believe it as much as he needed to believe it himself. “Now let’s finish the goddamn meeting.”

He got up and went back into the conference room, with Ted trailing behind.

They finished the meeting, with Brian sitting at the head of the table instead of standing, and all four of his senior staff members throwing worried glances his way periodically. After they adjourned, Brian sat alone in his office again, where he picked at the muffin he’d bought this morning, in an effort to get something in his stomach to try to calm the turmoil in his body. How in the hell was he going to keep this up, possibly for months?

His thoughts returned to weighing the pros and cons of the choice he needed to make about his future. Chemo seemed to be the surer bet when it came to preventing a recurrence, but it would mean a month or more of some rather torturous side effects, not to mention one very obvious one that would mean that everybody would know exactly what was going on. Brian shook his head. He didn’t like to think about that one. Then there was the radiation -- probably two or three weeks, with an appointment every day Monday through Friday to fry his remaining ball and the lymph nodes in his groin that could still be harboring the precursors for cancer. He’d still feel like shit, but for a shorter time, and he’d still have his hair. Vanity definitely preferred the radiation route.

Brian lasted another hour at the office before he crammed a few of the folders on his desk into his briefcase to take home and review where no one would be watching him out of the corner of their eye, wondering what was going on with him.

Justin was home, drawing on his computer, when Brian pulled back the door to the loft, which suddenly felt much heavier than he remembered.

“You’re home early,” Justin said as he turned to face Brian and raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Brian left out the fact that he still felt lightheaded and shaky and probably shouldn’t have driven home. But he sure as fuck wasn’t going to ask Ted to drive him, and he hadn’t wanted to worry Justin. He'd save that for later.

The look on Justin’s face told Brian that Justin didn’t really believe him, but he wasn’t going to challenge him either. Brian would take it. He didn’t really want to have to explain or defend himself right now. He abandoned his briefcase on the barstool -- he’d come back to what he’d brought home to work on later -- then took off his jacket and loosened his tie before going over to the sofa and collapsing down onto it. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he willed the slight vertigo he’d had for most of the afternoon to go away.

Justin came over and stood behind Brian, then started rubbing his shoulders, working his agile artists’ fingers into the muscle. It felt nice, but Brian didn’t think there was anything that could possibly work out the tension that was in his body right now. Brian let his eyes close and his hand fall down to the cushion.

“Brian, your hands are shaking,” Justin said. “What’s going on? Have you eaten today?”

Fuck.

“Talk to me,” Justin said as he stopped massaging Brian’s shoulders and came to sit down next to him on the couch. “Don’t shut me out. I want to help you. What do you need?”

“I need this knot in my stomach to go away. I need to just make a damn decision so it will.”

“A decision about what?”

“You know. What I want to do.”

Justin nodded and took one of Brian’s hands in his. “What are you thinking?”

Brian exhaled, forcing air through barely parted lips. “Is it too vain of me to say that I really, really don’t want to lose my hair?”

“I don’t think so. I’d say most people who have been through chemo would probably say the same.”

“Except that I have a fucking choice and a lot of people don’t. And that particular potential side effect has a lot more weight in this decision than I’d like to admit.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. You feel what you feel.”

“I guess. It just...deciding to go with chemo seems to make it feel a lot more serious too. The radiation seems a lot...neater. Tidier. Less serious? I know that doesn’t make any fucking sense. I mean, it’s going to suck either way. But it might suck less.”

“Maybe.”

“So what do you think I should do?” Brian turned his head to look at Justin.

“I think you should do what you’re comfortable with.”

“You’re no help.”

“Sorry. I think you know which one you’re more comfortable with though.”

“I’m not comfortable with either, to be honest. But yeah, I do know. The radiation. Still fucking scary. Maybe a little less scary.”

“Okay. Then that’s what you should do.”

So Brian made his decision, called the oncology center to let them know, and set the ball in motion that would carry him through this particular chapter in his life. For better or for worse. Now, he just had to strap in for whatever came next, and try to be okay with it. But he did feel like he had an enormous weight lifted off of his shoulders now that he knew what path he’d be following.

He did manage to eat some dinner, now that some of the unease in his gut had abated, although it still wasn’t completely gone. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And he figured it probably wouldn’t be gone for a long time -- at least, not until he knew with some degree of certainty that he would come out of this on the other side, and be okay.

Knowing that Justin was fully by his side and one-hundred-percent on his team definitely helped, and Brian found that he was actually a little bit glad now that Justin knew. That he wouldn’t have to do all of this alone.

They spent the rest of the evening on the sofa, Justin curled into Brian’s side, with his head resting on Brian’s shoulder, watching old movies on some obscure cable channel. Brian never touched the work he’d brought home with him. For some reason, it seemed a little less important now, at least for the moment. It could wait until tomorrow.

Eventually, they’d gone to bed, with Brian’s body pressed against Justin’s from behind, conforming to Justin’s every curve, holding him and feeling grateful that he had someone to hold onto. Someone to help carry him through this. Even if he wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve such companionship.

“Will you be there with me?” Brian whispered, long after silence had fallen between them.

“Huh?” Justin asked sleepily.

“Will you be there with me?” Brian murmured the words again as he pulled his arms tighter around Justin’s body, hugging the younger man’s back closer to his chest. “For all of it. No matter how ugly it gets.”

“I will, Brian. I love you. I’m staying. No matter how ugly it gets.”