“I didn’t think you wanted to see me,” Brian said as he took a seat next to Debbie on the sofa.

“Well, I didn’t think I did either,” she said, looking down at her hands in her lap.

“So what are you doing here, then?” Brian was trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but it was difficult.

“I felt guilty about the way I treated you last night. At the diner.”

“What, like I wasn’t even there?”

“I know you didn’t really mean what you said that night. The night Vic died. At least, not the way it came out. I know you loved Vic. That he meant a lot to you growing up. To you and Michael both. You were grieving too. We all were.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Now it was Brian’s turn to look down at his own hands.

“I know you didn’t, honey.” Deb laid a hand on Brian’s knee. “We were all upset.”

“You do have a mean right hook.” Brian looked up at her and let his mouth turn up into a slight smirk. His trademark move for trying to take control of uncomfortable situations that involved too much talk about feelings.

Debbie’s eyes met Brian’s. Her expression was sorrowful and apologetic, and a touch guilty. “I overreacted,” she said. “I shouldn’t have hit you. Knowing what things were like for you as a kid…and I should know because I was fucking there...I should never have hit you. I’m sorry.”

Brian shrugged. “I’m not a kid anymore. I can handle it. And I probably deserved it.”

“No, you didn’t. I took something out on you that I shouldn’t have. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the last two words I spoke to my baby brother were, ‘Fuck you,’ and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“He knew you loved him.”

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t show it then. And now I can never make that right. But I can make things right with you. That’s why I’m here.”

Brian snorted. “I’m not dying, Deb.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this, it’s that none of us are ever promised tomorrow, kiddo.”

Deb’s words were ringing far too true for Brian right now. No one is promised tomorrow. Or even good health, for that matter.

“I’ll drink to that,” he said. He hoped his commiseration was vague enough.

“Surely you’re not drinking this early in the morning. You look like you just woke up.”

“I did.”

“What’s going on with you anyway? Michael said he hasn’t seen you in over a week. Are you two fighting or something?”

Leave it to Deb to meddle in his and Michael’s business, as always -- even when there wasn’t anything between them to meddle in.

“Nothing’s going on,” Brian said, looking away because he knew if he looked her in the eye, she’d know he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I just have a lot going on at the office.”

“Ah...how is it, owning your own place? Being your own boss?”

“There’s a shit ton of bureaucracy. And I feel like everything is coming down to me now. But it’s nice to not have to answer to anyone.”

“Well, I’m proud of you, honey. The way you turned things around. I always knew you would. Nothing and no one keeps Brian Kinney down.” She was quiet for a moment, then took a deep breath and continued, her expression suddenly turning from pride to concern. “Now, why don't you tell me what's really going on?”

“Huh?” First line of defense: try to play dumb. Act like you didn't hear.

“You heard me.”

Shit. He knew this was going to happen. It was why he'd been thankful she had avoided him the past couple of weeks.

“Nothing,” Brian said. He tried to make eye contact with her in an effort to make himself more convincing, and hoped it wouldn't have the opposite effect.

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me. I know you too well. This isn't about being busy at work. We've hardly seen you since the funeral.”

“We just talked about this. You fucking threw me out of your house. Pardon me if I didn't think you’d miss me.” Second line of defense: sarcasm.

“Let me finish,” she chided him in the way that only she could. “Now, the Brian Kinney I know would be fucking his way through half of Pittsburgh if he was stressed about work. But the boys said you haven't been going out with them, either. Now don't bullshit me this time. What's going on?”

Justin, who had been trying to busy himself cleaning up the kitchen the entire time Brian and Debbie were talking in the living room, suddenly paused and stared at Brian from across the loft, one eyebrow raised and head cocked slightly to the side.

Meanwhile, quite the fight was taking place in Brian’s head. Should he tell her? He remembered how close he’d come to telling her the night before -- how his pride had stopped him. How badly he’d wanted her touch, and how that desire had almost been enough to push him to apologize. To tell her everything. Now, here she was, apologizing to him instead. And here he was, lying to her.

“I have cancer.” He blurted it out before he could stop himself. Before the fear that she’d tell every goddamn person in Pittsburgh won out over his need to have the love of a mother when he felt like his world was falling apart. Before he could think better of it. Much like he had with Justin, once he’d been backed into the corner by an ill-timed phone call and the resulting answering machine message. It still felt so strange to wrap his tongue around the words: I have cancer. Like somehow saying it out loud made it even more real than the surgical scar and the plastic ball already had.

“What?” Debbie’s voice was so quiet he almost couldn’t hear the single word she’d uttered, but her disbelief was clear as she looked at Brian and let her jaw go slack.

“Are you going to make me say it twice?” He hoped not, because he really didn’t think he could say it again. He didn’t want to hear it again.

“I just want to be sure that I heard--”

“You heard it,” he cut her off, turning his head to look away from her as his shoulders slumped forward, almost curling in on himself. An old measure of protection that he did involuntarily anytime he felt exposed.

“Shit.” She reached out and touched his shoulder. “Are you--”

“Alright? Maybe. They already took my ball. I had surgery in Baltimore when I told everyone I went to Ibiza. I start radiation on Monday.”

“Oh God, honey.” Debbie wrapped her arms around Brian and pulled him into a tight embrace. The one he’d been craving so badly as he watched her walk away down the dark street the night before. It felt just as good as he hoped it would -- comforting, grounding, pulling together the pieces that felt so close to falling apart at any moment. Her touch was warm, bringing him back from the numbness he’d been drifting in and out of since his diagnosis. He let his face sink into her shoulder and his eyes close as she rubbed his back and whispered, “You’re going to be okay, you hear me? You’re going to be okay.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Debbie holding Brian while he breathed against her and tried not to let his emotions get the best of him. It was hard, because her touch brought with it such release -- he’d let someone else in. Someone else who could be an ally. Someone who could help take a little bit of the burden, so that it wouldn’t all fall to Justin.

“Do you need anything?” she asked him once she’d released him, her hands still resting on his shoulders. “Tell me what you need. What I can do.”

“I need you to keep this between us. Don’t tell Michael.”

“But--”

“No buts. Please. I’ll do it myself when I’m ready, and right now I’m not ready.” Truthfully, he didn’t know if he ever would be ready.

“He cares about you. You know that.”

“That’s the problem.”

“Why do you have such a problem with people caring about you?”

Brian chose not to glorify that question with an answer. Mostly because he didn’t want to think about the answer.

“Just, please don’t tell him. Don’t mention it to anyone.” He looked into her eyes and hoped that the urgency of his plea was clear in his own. “Don’t make me regret telling you.”

“Who else knows?”

“Just you and Justin.”

“But, Sunshine was here when you went on your trip…” Brian could see Debbie putting the pieces together in her head as she let her voice trail off. “He was covering for me at the diner. Don’t tell me you went by yourself.”

Brian pulled his lips into his mouth, the way he always did when he felt contrite or was nervous about something. Right now, he was both. And his non-answer probably told Debbie everything she needed to know.

“Oh, honey…” She hugged him again, even more tightly this time. “I wish you weren’t always trying to prove how much you don’t need anyone. We love you. I know you’re scared. But you don’t have to do this alone. You’re not alone.”

He knew she was right. Even if he still didn’t quite believe her words -- couldn’t fully wrap his mind around other people caring about him. Not in this way. Not unconditionally. He’d been told all of his life -- implicitly and explicitly -- that he was alone. That he didn’t deserve love or a connection with others. The connection he’d desperately sought for most of his childhood, until he started to find it in Michael and Debbie. But even once he’d found it, he was already so jaded that it had been hard for him to believe it was real. That their feelings for him were sincere, and not some cruel trick to draw him in and make him let his guard down so they could push him away and make him feel even more alone.

He’d found that connection with Justin as well, but that one had been even harder to come to terms with. And he’d been burned by it twice already -- once at the hand of Chris Hobbs when he’d nearly stolen Justin’s life and Brian’s soul along with it, and once at Justin’s own hand, when he’d left Brian standing in the middle of Babylon in disbelief, watching Justin walk away with another man who had promised him the romance that Brian wouldn’t allow himself to give. Back then, Brian couldn’t bring himself to show how he felt, because it meant putting himself out there. Being vulnerable. Letting someone past the walls he’d built to protect himself so many years before. Accepting whatever came, even if it hurt. Acknowledging what he felt for Justin, even then. How deep those feelings went. How unfamiliar the territory had been for Brian. And back then, Brian had ended up being the one who got hurt. Left alone.

But he’d let Justin come back to him then, because he’d realized how lonely he was without Justin. And now, here they were, with a whole new situation that could so easily come between them and end with Justin deciding he just couldn’t do this anymore. That he couldn’t deal with Brian’s stunted emotional growth and inability to let someone care for him. Brian knew that, if he was being honest, he had to acknowledge that he really did have a need for love and affection and belonging. Even Brian Kinney couldn’t escape that, no matter how much he wanted to protect himself from the pain that seemed to inevitably result from letting his guard down and giving into those needs. Letting himself feel loved. Not alone. He was trying, but it was definitely unsettling. Maybe even scarier than the cancer itself.

Debbie had eventually promised not to speak a word of what she knew to anyone, not even Michael, so long as Brian promised to let her know if he needed anything from her -- anything at all. And he was thankful to have someone else to lean on, even if it meant that this situation he’d once been so desperate to keep a secret from everyone, including Justin, was starting to get out. He just hoped it would stop there. He had his lover and his surrogate mother to lean on, and that would be enough to carry him through, although he hated to admit that he needed carrying at all.

He stood at the door for a few seconds after he let Debbie out, rehashing in his head what had just happened. Still not sure if he should have told her or not. He had his doubts about whether or not she’d keep her word and not tell Michael, but it was out of his hands now. Whatever happened from here, he’d deal with it. He didn’t have a choice.

Justin walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around Brian’s waist.

“You okay?” Justin said.

“Yeah. I didn’t really intend on telling her. It just sort of...happened.”

“Do you wish you hadn’t?”

“Not yet.” Brian sighed as he turned around to face Justin and pulled their bodies back together. “I might if the next person who comes to the door is my oldest and dearest friend.”

“Hopefully she won’t tell him.”

“I know he cares about me. But I just can’t deal with him right now. I love him, I do...but I can’t.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Or anybody else. It’s your story to tell, not mine or anyone else’s.”

“Let’s go out tonight,” Brian said, abruptly changing the subject. “Woody’s and Babylon. I need a distraction.”

“You sure you’re up to that?”

“Don’t start that shit, Sunshine. I feel okay today. And I know my good days are probably numbered, so I’d better put in an appearance now while I can, before I have everyone beating down the goddamn door to make sure I’m not dead.”

Later that day, Brian found himself standing in the shower, staring down at the tiny purplish dots that now permanently marked his body. They were pinprick-sized tattoos, framed by temporary ink-drawn lines that would assist in lining up the gigantic torture device that would hopefully fry any remaining cancer out of his body. He’d spent nearly two hours at the oncologist’s office on Thursday while they set everything up and made their marks, preparing him for what was to come next week, and the week after that.

The marks were a part of his body now, and always would be. Just like the scar that was now on its way to becoming a thin, pink line on his groin. Another imperfection. Another reminder of something he’d really prefer to someday forget. The whole process on Thursday had been intended to put him at ease, but it had ended up having the opposite effect. It was all such serious business, and everything had to be absolutely precise, or else the radiation therapy would do more harm than good. There was no room for error. And the consequences could be deadly.

Looking at his body now, Brian wondered if he’d ever be able to bring himself to be seen at the baths or in the back room again. Or had the legend of Brian Kinney died when Dr. Blow Job told him he had a lump on his testicle?

After a few minutes, Justin came through the bathroom door that Brian had left slightly ajar this time -- a departure from what he’d been doing daily for the past two weeks -- bringing Brian back out of his thoughts and into the present.

“Mind if I join you?” Justin asked, somewhat seductive, somewhat trepidatious.

Brian pushed the glass shower door open slightly in a silent invitation. They hadn’t showered together since before he went to Baltimore. Brian hadn’t wanted Justin to see him. To see his new imperfections. He still wasn’t sure that he wanted Justin to see him, but here they were. It was happening. And unless he planned on never letting Justin see him naked again, it had to happen. Might as well be now.

Justin stepped in and kissed him, softly at first, then harder. Eventually their hands wound their respective paths down each other’s bodies to where they usually did when they showered together. Brian knew this wasn’t going to work -- at least, not the way he wanted it to -- but it felt so good. He closed his eyes and tried to let the pleasure he was feeling push out the garish images that kept flashing through his mind of a bloody, disease-ridden ball being sucked out of his body and plopped into a sterile metal tray. A scene he didn’t even remember, but had imagined in a dream that simply wouldn’t go away. It tried to haunt him every time he closed his eyes. This was no exception, even as much as he wanted it to be.

He snapped his eyes open and shook his head slightly, in hopes he might be able to dislodge the disturbing mental picture. Then he reconnected his lips with Justin’s for a moment before running his tongue slowly down the younger man’s torso until his mouth took over the work for his hand. Brian focused all of his energy on bringing Justin past his tipping point, and it wasn’t long before he was successful. Justin came. And then Justin tried to return the favor.

As Justin sank to his knees in front of Brian, the older man became more and more uneasy. Justin was eye level now with everything Brian hadn’t wanted him to see. Brian laid a hand on the wall and leaned against it to steady himself, fighting the impulse to pull Justin back to his feet and do something -- anything -- to keep him from looking at the marks that signified the nightmare Brian currently found himself trapped in. He felt Justin’s thumb lightly trace the scar, followed quickly by Justin’s warm mouth around his cock, which still wasn’t doing what Brian wanted it to do. Not all the way. And it was fucking frustrating. Embarrassing, even though this was Justin, who knew exactly what was going on and would never attribute it to some kind of personal failure on Brian’s part. Even so, that’s exactly what it felt like -- a personal failure.

So Justin wasn’t more than a few seconds in when Brian pulled away.

“Stop,” he said, as he turned his face toward the hand that was still on the wall and pressed his forehead against the tile.

Justin did as he was told, and the next sensation Brian felt was Justin’s hand on his shoulder. He still didn’t turn his head. He couldn’t bring himself to look into Justin’s eyes.

“Okay,” Justin said softly. “It’s okay.”

No, it’s not, Brian thought to himself, unable to verbalize exactly what he was feeling. How inadequate he felt. How worried he was that this would be permanent. That the doctor had been wrong when he’d told him that nothing would be affected. And now he wouldn’t only be a one-ball wonder, but a fucking impotent one at that. Unable to give his lover what he needed. What he deserved.

“You just need time to heal.” Justin was always the voice of reason. And sometimes it was maddening as hell.

Brian kept his forehead against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut, willing back the tears of frustration that burned at his eyelids. He wanted to cry because he hated feeling this way -- like his body was never going to feel normal again. But he wasn’t going to fucking cry about this.

Justin was rubbing Brian’s shoulders now, and the touch felt sublime -- cool fingers on hot skin.

“Do you still want to go out?” Justin asked, his voice still quiet and careful, as if he was afraid he’d spook Brian if he spoke too loudly. “We can stay in and relax. I can go rent some movies.”

“No, I need to feel like everything’s okay for a few hours. We’re going out.”

They were at the diner around 7 p.m., sharing a booth with Michael and Ben.

“I was starting to think you’d turned into a hermit,” Michael said, his gaze fixed on Brian. It was clear from his eyes that he was partially joking, partially not.

“Just a lot of shit to do at work.”

“Bet you’re wishing you hadn’t taken that vacation now, huh?”

You have no idea, Mikey, Brian thought to himself. No fucking idea. But he had to stay noncommittal, so he just shrugged and stole a french fry from Justin’s plate.

Justin and Michael spent the rest of the meal chattering excitedly about Rage and Brett Keller, while Ben looked bored and Brian only half listened to them. He was distracted by what Justin had told him that morning -- that he wouldn’t leave if Hollywood came calling, not now. Not while Brian needed him. And Brian felt exceedingly guilty at even the possibility of being the catalyst for Justin giving up such a huge opportunity. Brian was a big boy. He’d figure things out if he had to. Find some way to make it work. To get through this without Justin, just like he had the surgery. But he’d be damned if he was going to let Justin stay back in the Pitts playing nursemaid and pass up a chance to work on a film.

Justin had mentioned on the night they met that he’d always wanted to become an animator. Although Justin’s artistic interests had certainly diversified during his on-again-off-again attendance at PIFA, Brian knew Justin still had a love for animation. It showed every weekend that Justin would spend watching television intended for children more than 10 years his junior, purely to enjoy the art. While it sounded like Rage was headed for being a live-action feature rather than a cartoon, this could still be a huge break for Justin, with a lot of exposure that could lead to a successful career doing exactly what he’d always wanted to do. And isn’t that what everyone wants?

Brian knew Justin would disagree with him on that point, though. He’d probably say something like, “Yes, a career is important, but family is more important.” He’d say that he considered Brian to be his family. And that he wasn’t going to abandon family in the middle of a crisis.

What Justin wanted out of life and what Brian wanted were two very different things. But Brian had to admit that the line between the two men’s ambitions had become increasingly blurred over the past few months. Starting with the whole Stockwell debacle. Career success was still important to Brian, sure, but he was also starting to realize that other things were important as well. Namely, feeling like you had someone you could depend on when you needed it. And not just yourself. But that didn’t mean that the possibility of needing help was any easier for Brian to accept. He still resisted it. And he knew he would resent himself and this whole fucked up situation if Justin ended up losing out on anything because he was stuck caring for his sick lover.

Brian was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice that the conversation at the table had gone silent until Justin’s hand came over his own that had been resting on the table. “Are you going to eat or are you just going to sit there and stare off into space?” Justin asked. The question sounded innocent enough -- light and jovial, even -- but the look in his eyes that only Brian could see said a lot more.

“Yeah, sorry. Just distracted. Thinking about work stuff.” He knew that Justin was fully aware that wasn’t really the case, but it seemed to be the most convenient excuse to give Michael.

“Well, quit thinking about work and just enjoy yourself,” Michael said. “I’ve never known Brian Kinney to put work over pleasure.”

Christ, his reputation was really coming back to bite in him in the ass. He’d spent his entire life managing various pains and stresses by drinking, drugging, and fucking -- apparently to the point that no one could handle him doing anything different.

Brian knew he needed to pull himself back to the present, before Michael or Ben or anyone else read too much into his mood, which he was fully aware was a very un-Brian-Kinney-like blend of reflective, anxious, and sullen. If he wanted this few hours of feeling normal, then he was going to have to act that way.

So he finished as much of his meal as he could force down, trying to ignore the concerned and confused looks he was getting from Ben across the table, and taking a moment every now and then to try to actively participate in the conversation -- throwing out his usual sarcastic barbs in an effort to throw off anyone who might suspect something was up.

Brian played a couple of games of pool with Michael and enjoyed a few beers at Woody’s, feeling like he’d successfully managed to convince his best friend that everything was a-okay. Then they continued on to Babylon, where they met up with Emmett, who was the only person that night to provide a reasonable distraction for Brian without making him feel like he was trying to avoid landmines. Em was just...Em. Bright, happy, and pulling no punches. Brian never thought he’d be thankful for Emmett, but tonight, he was. After a few minutes, Justin successfully managed to pull Brian away from the group and off to the dance floor, where they could have a conversation none of their friends could hear.

“You still doing alright?”

“Christ, this is fucking exhausting.”

“We can go home if you’re tired.”

“It’s not that. It’s fucking...emotionally exhausting. All of this pretending to be fine.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“We’re in fucking Babylon, Sunshine. Not exactly the place for an emotional breakdown.”

“And we don’t have to be here. We can leave if you need to leave.”

“I need a drink.” Brian turned to walk toward the bar, but was stopped short when Justin grabbed his arm.

“Brian--”

“Just let me have this, Sunshine. While I still can.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Brian could hear Justin’s voice behind him as he walked up to the bartender and ordered a glass of his preferred substance of pain relief -- whiskey. He needed something to calm his nerves, because the stress of keeping this secret was starting to wear on him, even though he still had zero desire to come clean with anyone except the two people he already had.

They drank and danced until 2 a.m., both of them turning down several guys who’d tried to cruise them. Brian, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to perform and didn’t want to be on display in the back room, and Justin, because he apparently felt beholden to Brian. The copious amount of alcohol Brian had consumed helped him not be too angry about that. At least, not for right now.

Brian was comfortably numb by the time he fell into bed at the loft. He vaguely remembered Justin pulling off his shoes and pants, and feeling Justin’s warm body press into his, before he closed his eyes to drift off into a sleep that he hoped would not be plagued by nightmares of bloody, disembodied testicles and Vic Grassi coming back to taunt him about being old, diseased, and imperfect. All of the things he’d never wanted to be, that now he was. And now he was afraid he was holding Justin back too. The kid wasn’t even 21 years old, and now here he was, stuck taking care of a sick partner. Brian’s doctors had assured him he’d be fine -- that this type of cancer had a 99% cure rate with surgery and follow-up treatment -- but all of the platitudes in the world couldn’t assuage the guilt he felt for saddling Justin with this, coupled with the nagging thought in the back of his mind that he wasn’t worth Justin’s trouble, no matter what Justin said to the contrary, and no matter how hard Brian tried to convince himself that Justin was telling the truth.

Brian awoke the next morning with a raging hangover, worse than any he’d felt in years. How much had he had to drink? Knowing just how much pain he’d been trying to numb, he figured it was probably much more than he should have. He rolled over and squinted at the clock -- just after 8 a.m. T-minus 24 hours until he’d be lying on a metal table in the oncologist’s office, half naked, while they shot radiation into his body. Until the countdown began to Brian hoping and praying that somehow he’d be the exception to the side effects he’d already been warned about, because he wasn’t sure he could bear to be seen that way. Not even by Justin or Debbie. And certainly by no one else. Though he might not have much of a choice.

Brian didn’t want to end up driving Justin away, because he loved Justin and didn’t want to think about what life would be like if he left for good. But he also didn’t want to deal with the guilt of having Justin take care of him. Having Justin put his own life on hold for Brian. Justin, who would probably be too fucking nice to tell Brian off if he turned into a raging lunatic during this whole process. Not that Brian really wanted to be told off in the first place, because that would probably mean Justin walking out on him. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. There was no way to win. All he could do was hope that everything would work out in the end.