“Would you like to let me in on what the fuck is going on?”

Brian blinked his eyes and tried to focus on either Cynthia or Justin. He wasn’t sure what was going on at the moment himself. Why were they both standing in his office? Justin was here to pick him up and drag him out of the office and back to the loft -- that much he knew -- but why was Cynthia with Justin? Had she followed him in? Or had she already been in the room when Justin came in?

Cynthia’s voice was only slightly angry. She sounded more worried and confused than anything.

“I’ll...be outside,” Justin said, taking a wary step toward the door.

“No,” Brian said. “Stay.”

Justin looked around nervously and apparently decided to take a seat in Brian’s desk chair, probably so he could be as far away as possible from Brian and Cynthia.

Cynthia took a seat next to Brian on the sofa, and seemed to be taking in his full appearance, which he was sure wasn’t up to his usual standards right now.

“Now, I know there’s something going on, so don’t try to tell me nothing is,” she said. “We’re not just coworkers, Brian. We’re friends. I would hope you feel like you can trust me.” Her usual no-nonsense tone morphed into caring, concerned friend with her last two sentences.

Brian didn’t say anything, partially because he didn’t want to, and also because he was having to put a lot of effort into not being physically ill right now. Clearly, the medication he’d taken had not done anything to abate the upheaval in his stomach, which was coming right on schedule, at the same time it had the day before.

“You can either tell me, and save us both some trouble, or you can not tell me and I can find out myself,” Cynthia said. “I have my ways and you know it.”

Brian could barely concentrate on her words, because he was so distracted by what was happening inside of his body. He didn’t even know why he was bothering to try to not be sick in front of Cynthia, because he was about to have to tell her everything anyhow, regardless of whether or not he wanted to. If he didn’t, she’d find some way to dig it up, and probably be even more pissed that he hadn’t told her.

He decided to give up on that before he lost the battle with his stomach, and pushed himself up off the sofa, making his way to his private bathroom as quickly as his sore body would allow, not even bothering to say, “Excuse me,” because he was afraid of what would happen if he opened his mouth and tried to speak.

Brian was a little surprised that Justin didn’t follow him into the bathroom, but grateful that he didn’t. He guessed Justin knew him well enough to assume that Brian wouldn’t want an audience for what was, so far, the most undignified part of this. He hoped and prayed that he wasn’t going to come across a more undignified part, but there was still time, unfortunately. Too much time.

When he thought he was done enough to at least have a conversation, Brian rinsed his mouth out at the sink and walked slowly back out into his office. Cynthia was still on the sofa, but Justin was gone.

“Where’d he go?” Brian asked as he made his way back over to the sofa and sank down heavily onto it, running a hand over his face as he leaned back against the pillows. God, he was so fucking tired.

“He had a phone call,” she said. “So, like I said, you can either tell me, or I can find out myself. Your choice. But I wish you would trust me. Remember when my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer two years ago? And I was coming into work day after day, just trying to push through when what I really wanted to do was fall apart? And you sat me down one day and made me tell you what was wrong. From then on, it seemed like everything was taken care of. Every time she needed a ride to treatment, there was a cab waiting for her, already paid for. There was a constant stream of all of the right foods being delivered to her house. And any time I needed a day off, I had it, no questions asked. You took care of her, and me. And I never asked you to do that. But you did, and I don’t know how either of us would have made it without you. Please, Brian, let me repay you. Let me help you. With whatever this is.”

Brian was staring straight ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he could still see Cynthia’s pleading look. He’d done all of those things for her two years ago because it was how Brian Kinney took care of friends. Did everything he could to help them, quietly, never expecting or even wanting a thank you or any sort of fanfare. He preferred to do it all under the radar. Keep up the mystique of the man who everyone thought didn’t give a shit about anybody but himself.

But she was right. They weren’t just coworkers. They were friends. He cared about her, and she cared about him. And he owed her this much.

“I’ve got cancer,” he sighed. The words still weren’t getting any easier to say, no matter how many times he had to repeat them. “Testicular cancer. I didn’t go to Ibiza for a fucking vacation a week after I opened my own firm, like I let you think I did. I had a ball removed in fucking Baltimore.”

“Brian…” Cynthia let her voice trail off, and Brian felt her hand come to rest on his arm. “Are you--?”

“Alright?” Christ. He was so sick of that being the first question out of anyone’s mouth when he told them, because he didn’t really know how to answer it. He was, but he wasn’t. “They think. I’m in radiation now, and it’s making me sicker than I’ve ever been in my entire goddamn life.”

“Then why the hell are you here? You should be at home, in bed, and you know it.”

“Because there’s too much shit here that needs done, that only I can do.”

“Now, Brian, you know I love you, right? And we both know that there’s only one of you, which is probably a very good thing. But I’ve worked with you for five years, and I’ve got a pretty good idea by now of what you like and what you don’t. I know that isn’t all of what you do, but I could probably take quite a bit of this off your plate, if you’ll let me. And I hope you will. You need to take care of yourself. I can take care of things here.”

She wasn’t wrong. She probably could take care of everything. But did he want her to? Could he relinquish enough control to let her?

Did he have a choice?

“Ted knows too.” Brian worked his jaw and braced himself for her reaction.

“And you told him before you told me?”

“He practically forced me to. If I didn’t, he was probably going to drag me to one of his 12-step meetings,” Brian grumbled.

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “And that would be the worst thing possible for you, wouldn’t it? Mr. Pain Management himself.”

“Hey, I’m not an addict.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say. You can tell me all about how you’re not an addict the next time you’re standing out in the snow, smoking a cigarette on a day when the art department can’t do anything right, and you have a tight deadline to meet.” She laughed a little, then turned serious again. “So, will you let me? Let us? Will you let Ted and I take care of things here?”

Brian sighed. Piece by piece, and person by person, his plan to not let anyone know, to deal with this on his own, was falling apart. And along with it, his mask was slipping. Revealing the vulnerability underneath.

Cynthia leaned forward and picked up the proofs that had apparently slid out of Brian’s hand and onto the floor under the coffee table after he fell asleep. She considered them carefully, then pulled out one and handed it to him. “This one, I think,” she said. “Right?”

“Right,” he said. Shit. She did know him pretty well. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Brian reluctantly agreed to Cynthia’s plan. “But I’m bringing my laptop home with me,” he added quickly, his voice firm. “I want to be kept updated. And I want you to bring me things when I ask for them. None of this telling me no and reminding me to take care of myself. I’m not a goddamn invalid.”

At that moment, Justin walked back into the room and looked between Brian and Cynthia cautiously.

“Everything okay in here?” he said.

“Yes,” Cynthia answered for both of them as she stood up and straightened her skirt. “Brian just agreed to go home and stay home for the next two weeks.”

Brian opened his mouth to object -- he’d agreed to no such thing -- but she shushed him by purposely stepping on his foot, which Justin couldn’t see from his vantage point.

Cynthia strode over to his desk like she owned the fucking place, picked through several of the items on its surface, made herself a stack to take back to her own desk, and stuck the few things that were left on top of Brian’s closed laptop before stuffing it all into his computer bag and handing it off to Justin.

“Tell him he’s not to touch any of that until he’s gotten some sleep,” she said, in her matter-of-fact, all-business voice. “We don’t need our CEO doing shitty work because he’s too proud to take a goddamn nap.” She turned to address Brian again. “Now, get your ass out of here before you pass out.”

With that, she strode out of the room, her heels clicking on the tile floor, clutching all of the work she’d just removed from Brian’s desk to her chest. Brian wanted to be angry at her for taking charge like she’d just done, but he couldn’t be. He had to admit that he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had a lot less to worry about. He knew she would take care of things. And what she couldn’t, Ted would. He did have friends. People who cared about him and wanted to help. Even if accepting their help still left Brian feeling a bit unsettled.

Justin slung the computer bag over his shoulder, picked up Brian’s coat from the back of his desk chair, and carried it over to the sofa where Brian sat. He held it up while Brian put it on, and they walked out of the office together.

As they walked toward the front door, Brian tried his best to stay upright, not stooping over like he wanted to because of how much his stomach hurt, and to walk as normally as possible, in spite of how much his body was aching. He just needed to try to look and act like his usual self for 30 more seconds, until they got out the door. Maybe to the car. Which he hoped to god was parked close by. It was -- it was parked on the street right outside the front door.

Justin opened the car door for him, which Brian would have normally protested, but right now, he was too tired to care. He just wanted to get home and crawl into bed. The less he argued, the faster that would happen. Brian collapsed heavily into the passenger seat and closed his eyes.

“So, who was your phone call from?” Brian was just making conversation, as Justin climbed into the car on the driver’s side.

“Huh?” Justin started the car and put it in gear.

“The phone call you were taking while I was barfing.”

“Oh, that. It was Michael.”

“Why the fuck was Michael calling you?” Brian opened his eyes and gave Justin a sidelong glance.

“Something about Rage. We do write a comic book together, you know...in case you forgot.”

How the fuck could he forget? One of the only times in his life he’d ever truly regretted his actions was the night he literally pissed all over Justin and Michael’s work in a fit of drunken jealousy after discovering his boyfriend in bed with his best friend. Even though they weren’t being physically intimate -- at least, not on purpose -- Brian’s head had been filled with all of the thoughts of the emotional intimacy Michael and Justin were sharing, planted there by Ben earlier that night at Babylon. Fortunately, all he’d had to do to fix his colossal screw up was reprint all of the comic book pages from Justin’s computer, and apologize to Justin and Michael. That was one instance when he’d had to throw aside his mantra of “No excuses, no apologies, no regrets.” And now, his partner and his best friend could have a shot at Hollywood fame, all because of their little comic book about a gay superhero.

“Have you guys heard from that Keller guy again yet?” Brian asked.

“Uh, no...not yet.”

“Well, I’m sure it won’t be long until you do.”

Justin didn’t say anything. He reached down and turned the radio up instead, which Brian thought was strange, given that Justin hated the ‘70s and ‘80s rock station that Brian preferred to listen to, and that’s exactly what was playing.

But Brian didn’t have a chance to question Justin’s odd behavior, because at that exact moment, Brian found himself gripped with an abdominal cramp far worse than what he’d experienced the day before. This was so intense it brought tears to his eyes almost immediately, and for a few seconds he couldn’t breathe. When he finally could breathe again, he inhaled with a sharp gasp, which was what caught Justin’s attention.

“Shit, are you alright?” Justin hastily turned the radio back down and pulled over, even though they were only a block from the loft.

Brian squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, waiting for it to pass so he could speak.

“Brian?” Justin grabbed Brian’s arm, hard. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Feeling the tears pricking at the inside of his eyelids, Brian squeezed his eyes shut tighter and gripped his thighs with his hands just to have something to hold onto. Justin let go of Brian’s arm and slipped it under Brian’s left hand, allowing him to shift to clutching Justin’s hand instead. Brian was sure he had a white-knuckled grip on it, and even that wasn’t helping. He wanted to pound his fist on something just to work out this pain, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of his thigh or Justin’s hand. After several more agonizing seconds, the pain finally started to subside a bit, enough to allow Brian to utter two tense words: “Drive. Please.” He needed to get back to the loft, because his body seemed to be threatening to do more than just vomit this time.

Justin had to let go of Brian’s hand so he could drive, although he seemed reluctant to do so. When they finally pulled into Brian’s reserved parking space in the lot behind the building, Brian was already trying to calculate if he was going to be able to make it upstairs and to the bathroom before something really, really bad happened. He suddenly felt impossibly hot. Sweat quickly formed on his brow and started to run down his back. He was also feeling a bit lightheaded, and was thankful when Justin helped him out of the car and up the stairs to the back door. Brian didn’t have the wherewithal to fight with his pride right now, so he didn’t.

The elevator took fucking forever to climb up to the fourth floor, and by the time Justin got the door to the loft open, Brian practically had to run to make it to the bathroom in time -- at least, as much as he could run with the amount of pain he was in. It seemed that diarrhea had joined vomiting as one of the side effects of his treatment. Lovely. Just fucking great.

Brian was fairly sure that what he was feeling then must have been at least similar to giving birth. He’d have to remember to ask Lindsay, if he ever told her about this little adventure. Although with the way things were going, Brian was sure it wouldn’t be long before his dirty little secret was practically plastered across the front page of the local fag rag. No matter how much he didn’t want it to be.

He ended up spending most of the afternoon either sitting in front of or on the toilet, with the time in between spent lying down on the ceramic tile and allowing its coolness to seep through his sweat-soaked t-shirt, although it seemed like nothing was going to cool him down. He’d shed the rest of his clothes almost as soon as he came in, and really wanted to forego the t-shirt and underwear as well, because he was so goddamn hot. But he’d left those on, so that if he died, he at least wouldn’t be butt naked in the bathroom lying in his own mess. Brian knew that thought was melodramatic, but right now, it didn’t seem so far-fetched.

Justin seemed to be at a loss, not really knowing how to help. Not that there was anything he could have done anyhow. The only thing either of them could do was just wait this out. Justin had called Debbie at one point, to let her know that he wasn’t coming in to work again that night, and also seemed to be asking for her advice on what to do. Apparently Brian and Justin were both far outside of their comfort zones, here, and neither of them could truly help the other. There wasn’t much Justin could do for Brian, and Brian had no idea what to ask him to do. But Justin did what he could -- bringing Brian water, and wiping his face with a cold, damp washcloth, which felt so good, even if it was something Brian would never have ordinarily allowed anyone to do for him, and he’d probably murder Justin if he ever mentioned it to anyone else.

Once Brian had gone more than thirty minutes without being sick, Justin asked him if he wanted to move to the bed. He did, but he wasn’t sure he could get up off the floor. Brian felt like he’d expelled every bit of his strength into the toilet that afternoon. It took them a few tries, but eventually Justin managed to help Brian get up, and guide him to the bed. Brian was embarrassed at how unsteady he was on his feet and how, without Justin propping him up, he probably would have ended up in a heap on the floor. Justin helped him into the bed, where Brian lay there on top of the covers, still far too overheated to even consider getting under them. Brian felt like the room was spinning around him, and had to close his eyes before that sensation made him nauseous again.

The nurse certainly hadn’t been lying when she’d told him this morning that things would probably get worse. He shuddered at the thought of what the next several days were going to be like, if this was what happened on day two. He hoped that the worst was over for today. And that maybe tomorrow, the pills would help.

Brian spent the next few hours sleeping off and on, but thankfully not as sick as he had been earlier. He woke up around 8 p.m. to find Justin sitting on the bed next to him, poring over his art history textbook and making notes.

When Justin realized Brian was awake, he turned to him and gave a small smile, and his usual quiet, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Brian said back, his voice hoarse. “God, that was awful.”

“Yeah.” Justin flipped the textbook shut, keeping his pen inside to mark his place. He set the book aside on the nightstand and laid down, propping himself up on his elbow. “You scared me.”

“Well, buckle up, because I have a feeling it’s going to get worse before it gets better.” Brian sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

“I know. But it’s hard to watch.”

“Did you change your mind yet about staying?”

“Brian…”

“Don’t stay because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not. And I don’t.” Justin exhaled a frustrated-sounding breath.. “What do I have to do or say to make you believe that I’m here because I want to be? Not because I feel obligated. The reason it’s hard to watch is because I care about you. I don’t like to see you sick or in pain and not be able to do anything to help. That’s all.”

Brian didn’t respond to that. He had nothing to say. He was the one who felt guilty for making Justin feel that way -- scared and frustrated -- even though there was absolutely jack shit he could do about it.

“You should probably drink some water,” Justin said. “And try to eat something.”

The mere thought turned Brian’s stomach. He didn’t really want to do either of those things, even though he knew he needed to do both. He felt like his body was working against him -- like he was stuck in some horrible catch-22. He needed to eat and drink to support his body because he’d been so sick, but the unpleasant truth was that doing either of those things could likely end up making him sick again.

“I’ll try,” he said. “No guarantees.”

Justin got up and rummaged around in the kitchen for a bit, and eventually brought up a bowl of soup and a glass of water. Brian pushed himself more upright and piled up the pillows behind him so he could lean back on them. The water went down easily -- once he started drinking it, he realized how thirsty he was. Justin went to get him some more water, while Brian took a hesitant first bite of the soup, followed by another, then another. It took him longer than usual to finish it, mostly because he was nervous about seeing it again. But it seemed to settle fairly well. Thank god. Maybe the meds were helping more than it had seemed earlier.

Once he’d finished the soup and a most of a second glass of water, Brian managed to convince Justin to bring him his laptop and the files Cynthia had allowed him to bring home -- apparently he’d fulfilled his nap obligations, as demanded by his office assistant herself. Justin had resumed his studying, and Brian was typing an email when Justin’s cell phone started ringing somewhere in the living room.

He set the thick book aside again and stood up, walking quickly down the stairs and across the loft so he could get to the phone before it went to voicemail. Brian heard him answer it, then the door to the loft sliding open. Brian looked up from his computer just in time to see it slide shut again. He wondered why Justin would need to go out in the hallway to take a phone call. Shrugging as he returned to composing his email, Brian figured maybe whoever was on the other end was outside -- perhaps another student from PIFA collaborating on a project. Maybe dropping something off. Brian wasn’t terribly concerned about it, although he did notice that when Justin came back into the loft -- alone and with nothing in his hand but his phone -- he did seem a bit tense.

Brian fought not to ask Justin who he’d been talking to, like he had earlier. He’d really only been making small talk to try to distract himself from how awful he felt, but he’d since realized it had been a little nosy of him to ask. It really was none of his business, he reminded himself. Just because they were partners -- which Brian was almost ready to begrudgingly admit to, even if only to himself -- didn’t mean they had to tell each other every little thing. Justin had his own life and had just as much of a right to take a phone call in private as Brian did. Brian knew how that was, and he respected it. But he did wonder what had Justin so on edge.

“Everything okay?” he asked, figuring that was innocuous enough.

“Fine,” Justin said. He didn’t elaborate any further, and Brian didn’t ask any more questions.