The pill thing started when I was 3 years old.

It was around the same time my mother started noticing I got sick more often than the other kids (I know, it took her a second) and she’d started having me tested for all these different things to try and figure out why I was the way I was. 

I’m not really sure of the whole logistics or whatever - I was 3 - but I do remember some parts that still make my stomach clench in irrational fear or stupid things that shouldn’t matter. 

I’d been getting these shots for a few weeks, something the help with the allergies that were probably getting worse as I got older or something, and I didn’t quite mind the needles. They gave me a sticker and a fizz pop afterwards, and I thought that was a damn good trade in all honesty. Mom would take me home and I’d lay around in the living room for a while because the shots made me drowsy but I was very strict with her on my nap time routine, so she would pull out the vacuum or go dust all the rooms I wasn’t in while I just laid there with Gus-Teddy, thinking about whatever 3 year old Justin thought about. It wasn’t fun, but I wasn’t a difficult kid when it came to stuff like that. I pride myself in knowing I was more than willing to make my Mom’s life easier. 

Anyway it was an afternoon of one of my shot days and I was laying upside down on the couch, my feet resting against the back and my head barely reaching the edge, when I felt a funny sort of sensation in my legs that kind of scared me a little. I could hear the vacuum and I knew it would drown me out if I called, so I’d turned myself over and slid my feet onto the floor. I wasn’t supposed to go near the vacuum, because it stirred up a whole heap of dust that made me sneeze for hours, but I felt wrong and I wanted my Mom to make the funny feeling go away, so I let my feet drag slowly over to the stairs, swaying a little as I tried to take the first step up. 

I missed, my body slipping forward and just- 

You know how things happen awkwardly and you don’t really remember how it happened but suddenly you’re bleeding from your nose and you’re pretty sure the only reason it happened was because the world tilted on it’s axis...because that’s literally the only way you possibly could have ended up in the position? That’s what 3 year old Justin felt like. I was so fucking confused by how I’d managed to do whatever it was I’d done. 

I must have made enough of a racket though, because the vacuum shut off and I heard my mother worryingly call my name. I looked down at the blood that was dropping from my nose to my legs and I called out, “I feel funny,” and then I woke up in the back of an ambulance. 

I wasn’t very happy about that, of course, because my nap routine was ruined and I was verystrict about it. 

—-

I don’t remember what happened from then on with that storyline. I know that something had went wrong with the shots I was taking, some drug was in there or something that I was allergic to that triggered some sort of seizure or whatever. It wasn’t a one off thing, I had a few more of those episodes as I grew, but at the time it was like the end of the world for my mother. 

In reality it just meant I had to try a tablet version of the shots I was taking, just something that didn’t have that one specific drug in it, which wasn’t made on a liquid form because the world likes to see me suffer and burn, obviously. 

Except I couldn’t take tablets yet. I was 3. They put it on my tongue and I immediately spat that shit out. They crushed it up in some jam and I threw up on them. They hid it in food like I was a dog and I cried for an hour and refused to eat for 2 days. 

My parents took me to a doctor to see if he had any suggestions and he was a lovely guy, really. I thought he was pretty great. He took Gus-Teddy and tucked him into my arms, making me wrap them tightly around myself, and then he took a blanket that smelled like the backseat of an old car and wrapped that around me too, and then told my dad to hold me tightly in his arms and keep me straight so I couldn’t fight as hard. I’d felt safe. I always felt safe in my fathers arms back then, he was big and strong, stronger than Gus-Teddy, who fought off all the monsters while I slept. 

Then he’d started talking about how much of a big boy I was or whatever and he’d made me drink a few sips of water to prove I knew how to do it and then he’d popped a pill into my mouth and made me drink another mouthful, holding his hand under my chin and telling me to swallow all in one quick motion that was easy and simple but still something I never wanted to experience again because I gagged a little and it was just a generally shitty experience. 

I guess my parents thought that was the way to make me take my medication from then on, because that’s what I had to do every week and it become a routine that I hated it significantly more than the shots because I always thought I was going to throw up, I hatethrow up, and I never got a fizz pop afterwards. Not even a sticker. 

Then Molly was born and my dad started expecting me to let go of Gus-Teddy and he’d get frustrated with me for not knowing how to swallow pills alone yet and I mean...looking back on it, he could have just asked me to try it alone when I was like 6. But he didn’t. I stopped feeling safe in his arms. 

—-

Anyways those pills were switched to a smaller dosage once a day thing in as I got older, I learned to take my inhaler without my mom counting and my nightly nebuliser routine didn’t involve either of my parents coming in the check on me every few minutes because I learned how to do it all on my own. I even cleaned my own mask. 

Molly never got sick like I did, so she didn’t have to suffer through needles and pin pricks and hospital beds and tubes being shoved up her nose or anything like that. All that stuff was just a Justin thing. She didn’t even have asthma. Some sort of miracle child, that one. 

I took two antihistamines a day, one in the morning and a drowsy one a night, because I had sleeping problems or something like that. (I was almost always certain I was going to die from taking too many. I’ll never understand how medication works.) I have different sorts of sleeping problems now, but I think it had something to do with my asthma. I’m not sure, really. I had to swallow 3 pills a day and try not to gag around them every time and I just really developed a hatred for the act. I don’t choke on dick very often, but dear god do those little demon candies get me. 

Sometimes I’d get these nasty chest infections, or tonsillitis, or just the common cold and I’d need to take antibiotics and I’d literally cry on the bathroom floor because it just seemed like such a chore. I never fucking asked for this shit. I still don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me to this day. None of this shit makes any sense to me and I’ve been living with it for 21 years. 

What I’ve been trying to say is that I’ve got a complex when it comes to popping prescription pills. And they fucking scare the shit out of me because I’m allergic to a lot of them, but we’re not getting into that today. I’m messed up over them and since prom I’ve had to take like 80 a day. 

That’s an exaggeration, obviously, it’s probably like 10 and a few of them are vitamins I’ve been taking since the dawn of time, but it’s still a double digits dose of tablets. 

Brian likes to sort them out for me. He makes it seem like it’s some great sacrifice of his time if anyone catches him doing it, but he has them all lined up in the cabinet above the fridge and he organises them every week to make it easier for me and doesn’t make me feel guilty about the fact that he does it. 

I’d tried to let it be my own responsibility at first, I’d tried to get my own little system going but I was still bad at remembering little things and I wasn’t sure if I was meant to double up on some pills or not, my hand had turned into a very painful claw and all I could think of to do was crawl under the table and cry until Brian got home. 

It was all very dramatic. 

He took it in his stride though, taking the weight without a second thought and just being the truely great guy he can be. It was like a breath of fresh air. 

—-

Brian was the one who taught me how to swallow more than one pill at time, which shouldn’t surprise you really, but it was a sort of sweet moment. 

Sort of, cause I was crying around a mouthful of pills, sweet cause he’d just stood there stroking my cheek and smiling at me softly. 

“Just swallow like it’s a really good dick,” he’d said. I knew he wasn’t making fun of me, so I did just that and then I gagged and he’d wiped my tears and said, “was that so hard?” 

I nodded and he’d pulled me into his arms and then that was that. 

—-

The germ thing was something I’d dealt with my whole life. Some nagging urge that’s always sat at the back of my mind, willing me to keep my body clean and my hands cleaner, safe from anything that could land me in the hospital. I think more than anything that I’m scared of being sick, but it’s always lead back to germs. They’re so easy to imagine as actually gloopy, green chunks that slide around on you with their illnesses and just damn dangerous microorganisms. Disgusting. Get it off get it off get it off. 

I hate germs. I hate dirt and grease and any slimy substance that touches me. God it’s all so gross. I’d rather take a million baseball bats to the head than even sit and think too long about how dirty and virus ridden the world truely is. Ew. 

—-

Despite what people seem to think, Brian didn’t throw me into the deep end with the whole sex thing. Sure, the first time was this whole thing that was new and hurt like hell for a while but like...besides that, once he realised I was actually pretty fucking uneducated in that department and I was willing to dive right in, he was the most patient person on the planet with me. He took it one step at a time, kiss by kiss, a touch and feel sort of classroom on his bed. I didn’t give my first blowjob until a few weeks in, after he’d given me a few on at least 10 different occasions, before we reallygot into the good stuff, his way of ensuring I’d be able to hold off through the whole show - you know how teenagers get - and he didn’t ask for one in return until a while in. And even then he wasn’t really askingme to do the act itself, he just sort of offhandedly put out a “did you wanna try?” and I’d said a very slow and anxious “no” and then he’d smiled and rolled me over. I was never pressured into anything and it’s why I clung to him so tightly. I was terrified to go find another teacher, wary of the fact that they wouldn’t treat me so kindly. Fairly. 

Brian was gentle. He walked with me from the shallows and held my hand as I tread into the deeper waters, being so calm and patient while I felt my way out. Keeping my head above water but not forcing his support onto me. He taught me how to swim out here. 

The first handjob was gross, of course, and he’d chuckled at me while I made a face at his jizz and then rushed off to scrub it away. He was still smiling when I wandered back into him and he’d kissed my hand when I apologised. “It gets grosser,” he’d said. 

“Great,” I’d replied. 

—-

And it did get grosser, oh god did it get grosser. Have you ever had a dick in your mouth? It’s great, if you’re not acutely aware of the fact that at any given moment it could erupt with gross spunk, right there on your tongue. I was nervous the first time, trying so hard to do what Brian did and make it feel good for him, I put in the effort and made all the noises I thought I was supposed to make and then I cringed when Brian pulled away to stare down at me with one eyebrow raised. “If you don’t like it-” he’d started to say. I didn’t let him finish, because I wasn’t going to roll over and never give a proper blowjob in my life, but he didn’t complain so it couldn’t have been that bad. He’d come, his hands in my hair trying to pull me off and my stupid self pushing back because of he could swallow 10 of my loads I could take one of his. 

I couldn’t, of course, because it was the weirdest and most nasty taste I’d ever had on my tongue (I got used to it, don’t worry. I actually started to like it. But only Brian’s.) and I’d gagged right there on my knees before him. Yes, I’d spit it out and let it dribble down my chin because anywhere was better than on my tongue. Yes, I’d realised a little too late that now it was on me and yes, Brian had plucked two tissues from the table by the couch and yes, he’d been really sweet and wiped it off for me, cupping my cheek when he was done and pulling me in for a kiss. He hadn’t had the best first experiences with all that stuff and I knew that, so I appreciated that he was trying to give me something good. 

I heard a few days later around a game of pool at Woody’s that ‘spitters are quitters’ and I glanced at Brian with a little shame in my heart, but he’d just shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Who Care’s where your jizz goes once it’s out of your dick? At least you’re getting off.”

—-

So I got over handjobs being gross after I’d had literal spermon my tongue, and then I got over the blowjobs when I started experimenting with rimming and then I got over how gross licking assholes is when I started tricking because thatact in and of itself is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever done because at least I know Brian showers, no offence to the others. But it felt nice and I enjoyed it most of the time. I was jealous a lot, but it wasn’t so bad when Brian would kick them out and shower with me once they’d left. I grew out of that being gross too. There’s a reason  exposure therapy exists. Anyways, germs are always something I’m conscious of. I know they’re there and I know their one and only job is to make me sick and spread around and make people sick and I hate them. I hate being dirty and I hate germs. Not to sound like Brian, but fucking sue meover it. 

Let’s get to the good stuff now, cause I know that’s what you’re waiting for and I’m getting kinda tired of having to give all this backstory or whatever. 

Turns out, depression meds are also used to help with phobias. Crazy, huh? I had the same pill for depression and anxiety as I did for my PTSD and the little fucker was working overtime and also tackling my fear of germs, too. Crazy, I know, this whole thing is just riveting. 

I didn’t want to be touched after prom because I was scared to be vulnerable. I didn’t want to be a position where I had no leverage or escape, I needed to be in control and I had nothing if I was being touched. That had nothing to do with germs, but it stuck with me and developed into an outright fear of being restrained, a fear of being helpless. It grew until I’d shake and back away from sexy games with Brian and he’d sigh deeply because he was sure we’d gotten past all that and he thought we’d be back to square one because I didn’t want my hands pinned above my head or whatever, but he’d back off and I’d feel safe again because Brian’s always held my head above water when I needed him to. He doesn’t make me dive in, like I said, he holds my hand and guides me. I’d let us get back into the mood and he’d keep his hands in safe places and I’d thoroughly enjoy every other aspect of the sex and there wouldn’t be any nightmares because just him backing off would be enough to make me feel so...protected. He’s really sweet sometimes. 

I didn’t want to be touched during those few weeks of us being apart, and a little before that too, because my meds were doing something weird inside me or they just weren’t cutting it anymore, and my whole mindset did awhile 180. I could all of a sudden see every single spot of grime that was on the planet and I could feel the sickness in people’s breaths. Brian was clean one moment and covered in a thick layer of disgusting green globs the next and I swear to god they were taunting me. 

I’d been riled up about his excessive drinking then, having to deal with him stumbling home drunk and stinky most nights of the week was wearing me down and I’d thought about just leaving again, just picking up my sketch pads and locking the door on my way out, not even stopping to leave him a note. But I was scared he’d hurt himself trying to get to bed and I was scared that Daphne’s apartment would be harder to clean than the lost is. I couldn’t spend hours on my knees trying to scrub her floors clean with a toothbrush, which yes, that was something I did during those god awful 3 months. The loft was safe and I was content with being able to only get my daily fix of filth from the diner. 

Then Brian had come home early on a Thursday fucking afternoonwith a hickeyon his neck and probably some other disgusting things under his clothes that I was not prepared to deal with, drunk out of his mind and swaying on his feet. 

My first and immediate reaction was to ignore the fuck out of him, because I’d been going on about germs for a few weeks at that point and he should have known to go straight to the shower without me having to be there to disinfect him, so I didn’t actually see the hickey until I’d turned to snap at him and then there it was.  

Iwasn’t even allowed to leave marks on him. Me.And I’m really fucking into the idea of that. I don’t know why that was the nail in the coffin but suddenly I couldn’t take how disgusting the air around me had become, so I was shoving clothes and my phone charger into this ratty only backpack that I kept tucked behind a few crates of art supplies in the closet, Brian was out in the dining area still swaying on his feet and staring at the table I’d set with a deep sort of frown on his face and my heart was picking up speed with every millisecond that passed. 

I picked up my sketchbooks and pencil case, shoving them in as gently as I could in that moment, which translates to: my art is fucking ruined. He grabbed at me, gentle of course, he not a total asshole, but his skin on my skin was contaminating me and I’d ripped myself away with a regrettably hysterical, “DON’T TOUCHME.”

He backed up, again: he’s not a total asshole, and I felt the familiar trickles of safeness, protection, Brian won’t hurt you, creeping up the back of my spine. But everything was strangled out by the growing stuffiness in the room. The extra oxygen being taken up by the slimy green monsters. 

I could hear Sober Brian in my head, hear this soothing voice telling me it was okay, I could feel his clean and sure hands resting on my shoulders, pulling me in to his strong embrace and holding me until everything just melted away. I could hear Drunk Brian in my head too, hear him complaining about me not wanting to be touched, hear him egging me on as I stormed around to the cabinet above the fridge. 

He seemed to catch up to speed when I went for my medication. It almost gave me pause when I opened it and saw how it was all lined up, set with equal distance between each box and bottle, split between morning and night doses down the middle by my weekly divider. Almost. 

“I just want you to shower and be clean, I need you to be clean so you can hold me. I don’t want you to smell like a bar, bars are dirty and if you’re dirty I can’t touch you. You get dirty when they touch you too, you know? And I don’t want them to-“ I spun around to him, looking at him for a second, but he was staring up at the cabinet. “I don’t want them to touchyou!” 

“Who gives a fuck what you want,” his voice was sort of blurry, like he was trying to speak around cotton balls, but maybe that was me and the blood racing past my ears, “put those back.” 

“NO!” I was grateful he stayed where he was, because if he’d touched me then I surely would have died from a fear induced heart attack. “Igive a fuck what I want! I give a fuck and I don’t want their germs,” some piece of my brain, somewhere right at the back, was clinging to Sober Brian, and I needed him to know that he wasn’t the problem, he was just covered in the problem, “I don’t want their fucking germs!” 

And then I’d been out the door. 

—-

I went to my Mom’s, because she’d always been considerate of my needs, you know, cause she’s my Mom, and it was immediately like a breath of fresh air. Her house was clean and sparkling and it was like she knew I needed space because she didn’t try and drag me into a hug as I shuffled into her condo. 

There was food cooking and I could hear Molly’s music playing from somewhere down then hall and I wondered when she got old enough to have a stereo in her bedroom, but I didn’t dwell on the thought because I knew she’d been spending more nights a week with Dad and Mom was complaining about all the shit he was buying her...it wasn’t that surprising that she had one and that her music was loud enough to be heard from the front door. 

“What a surprise,” I nodded in reply but she was already bustling off towards the kitchen. “Molly is,” she waved a hand in the direction of her room, “she’s studying, though I don’t know howwith all that noise in there. How are you, sweetie?” 

I didn’t want to tell her I’d walked out on Brian (again) because whatever form of Mysophobia I had was playing up so bad I couldn’t handle a fucking hickey on him, and I didn’t want her to think the tears in my eyes were from the paranoia I knew was swimming beneath the surface, just waiting for the perfect chance to trigger my Agoraphobia, so I said, “Brian’s been drinking a lot,” she gave me this horrified, yet pitying stare, “I just...I just need a break.” 

She didn’t question me any further, but she did reach out for a hug, and she did make another odd face when he stepped back from her reach. 

—-

Molly was a little bitch for the first hour that she knew I was there, sneering at me across the table for whatever reason, before she seemed to remember that it was me, her brother who she used to climb into bed with every morning before breakfast because Dad would lock their door to keep her out. Her brother who not only learned to braid Daphne’s hair so he could help braid Molly’s hair, but who also sat patiently with Molly to teach her to do it herself too. Her brother who would walk the long way home from school so he could pick her up on his way, even though she was meant to catch the bus, just because she felt safest with him there. 

Her big brother. Me. 

I got the feeling maybe Dad was just spending a lot of time talking shit about me to her, and she’d started to believe it, but she snapped out of whatever it was she was doing and started asking questions about Brian. She’d always liked Brian. 

Brian had liked her, too, the few times he’d met her, because he had tried to scare her the first time by saying something about feeding little girls to zombies, but she’d just laughed in his face and I was remembering that so clearly that I started to feel a little guilty about telling my Mom that my problem was Brian’s drinking. It was, in a sense, because it was getting worse and worse and I wanted him to stop, but it wasn’t the reason I was there in that moment. I was there because of my own fucked up brain, I just didn’t want to admit it. 

Molly was asking about Brian and Mom told her to quiet down about it, that Brian and I were having problems, so she changed the subject, but not before looking at me with a weird sort of grimace on her face. “Brian loves you, though. And not like in the way Dad used to say he loved Mom.” 

I didn’t comment on that, because I already knew. 

—-

What Molly said filtered back into my brain 4 days later when I was sitting alone at my mother island bench with all my pill boxes laid out before me in a horrifying mess that I was struggling to organise. Brian usually did that shit. Why the fuck had I taken them when Brian usually did that shit? He had a whole fucking system and everything, why the fuckhad I taken them?

When Molly was first born, Mom had to deal with having a new born and an 11 year old who had more allergies than Brian Kinney had condoms, and I remember her politely asking my father to help her sort out Molly’s clothes for her bath time while she pulled out my inhalers and antihistamines and whatever else it was that I was taking back then. She’d been so softly spoken back then, I always thought she had such a calming voice, but my father had been rude and dismissive, saying some shit about how I should have been doing my meds by myself and it wasn’t his job to bathe a baby when he’d worked all day while she’d sat around and done nothing. I knew my mother hadn’t done nothing. I knew. 

She’d allowed him to snatch the container that held all my stuff and shove it towards me and she’d dutifully shuffled off towards the stairs to get started with Molly while my dad had stood above me, hands spread out on the counter all intimidating and grumpy, nodding towards the stuff he’d just put in front of me. 

“You’re not a childanymore, Justin,” he’d said, “you can do that on your own.” 

I’d nodded, inhaling deeply and I’d let my shaky hands pick up the first inhaler I knew I had to take, and when I confidently sprayed the first puff into my mouth, he’d gone off to watch golf in the entertainment room. 

Long story short, I had no fucking clue what I was meant to take and I’d done something wrong and popped a Tylenol that wasn’t meant to be near my shit (yes, he’d put it in there carelessly) and I’d taken two of my morning pills instead of my nightly ones, which ended with a very scary trip to the hospital and my mother looking more tired than I’d ever wanted to see her. 

‘Brian loves you, though. And not like in the way Dad used to say he loved Mom.’ 

Brian had found me under the table and didn’t even fucking hesitate to deal with all this shit for me, because he’s not a complete fucking asshole. 

I know, partially, what I’m supposed to take and I know now to read the sides of the boxes for instructions, but that doesn’t take away the fact that Brian had gone out of his way to make the whole routine of me throwing back anti depressants and migraine tablets and some weirdly coloured blue pill that held off the seizures in my hand...as easy as mentally possible. As stress free as he could. So it’s a lot to go from having him be there to count out the pills and double check and to put them in my weekly divider, to not even knowing if he’ll ever look at me again. 

I cried for 2 hours, sitting there, recounting and double checking every ounce of progress I’d made. I just cried. 

—-

He’d glared at me in the diner the next time we’d crossed paths. I’d drawn his eyes more times than I think I could count, I’d seen them with every emotion I’d thought imaginable, but I never thought I’d have that look of pure frustration, unconcentrated confusion and a deep, hidden shard of fear. I’d drawn each of those emotions in those eyes, but I’d never seen them like that. I’d looked away in shame and washed my hands three times before starting my shift. 

—-

I’d stared down at my hands throughout most of Ted’s celebration dinner. He’d been 4 years sober or it had been 5 years since he woken up from his coma or something, I’m not really sure. I could feel Brian trying to catch my eye but I’d been pointedly avoiding his eyes, scared I’d see them clouded with those emotions again and terrified of the shame he’d see in mine. 

Ted had rested a hand just above my left wrist at some point, giving it a quick squeeze before thanking me for coming, he said he’d noticed I was having a bad week. I’d nodded silently and tried not to shove his hand off me, but Ted’s pretty great a taking a hint, so he hadn’t lingered too long. I’d tried to be subtle about the way I’d pulled out my pocket sized hand sanitizer and gone to town all over my arms, but I knew Brian had seen, because when I glanced around he was frowning in the direction of my elbows. 

—-

His whole body was kinder come the next Sunday dinner. He’d just sort of gently stared at me across the table, watching me like a fucking unhinged psychopath every time I moved towards the sink or snuck off upstairs to take deep and harsh breaths to try and calm myself down, to step back from that edge I’d been dangling over. I was sort of starting to realise that something was reallywrong that night, because I’d taken my anxiety medication and I’d gagged around it and then I’d cried because Brian was usually there to rub my arms and kiss my forehead whenever I was struggling to take them. It was terrible when I was with Ethan, what with his mindset being similar to my fathers, I should have known how to swallow a pill by now, but that Sunday dinner had been so much worse. 

I hadn’t even wanted to go. I’d wanted to be left alone because my moms apartment had started to get dirtier and dirtier and I was starting to think that maybe I was the problem, and everyone at Deb’s had decided to start randomly touching me and just rubbing their grossnessall over me before I’d even had my first mouthful of potatoes. Everyone except Brian, of course. I was going out of my fucking mind and I knew, I knewso deep in my soul that there was something going wrong with my meds but my brain kept telling me it was because the baseball bat was catching up to me and I know that hardly makes sense but I still believed it. 

Brian followed me up to the bathroom at one point, closing and locking the door behind him, but it was Brian, so I’d didn’t feel trapped. He still scared the shit out of me when I glanced up in the mirror he was just suddenly there. 

“Out.” 

He stared at where I was rubbing my wrists, trying to just get it all off off off before I had to jump in a boiling hot shower that would hopefully melt the germy monsters away. 

“I’m clean,” he said, and I let the heat I felt in my stomach bleed out through my eyes, ‘I’m not,’ I wanted to say, but I just stayed silent instead, “I promise.” 

I let myself look at my hands, willing myself to stop but not really knowing if I could. I was so fucking dirty and I couldn’t get clean enough. 

“You know that shit Deb buys gives you rashes.” 

‘Brian loves you, though. And not like in the way Dad used to say he loved Mom.’ 

“I don’t want anyone to touch me but they keep doing it anyways.” I felt tiny, like the world was too big for me to even stand on and with ever breath I took, I was getting smaller.  

“Have you been taking your meds?” 

“I’m not a fucking imbecile,” I snapped, because fuck him. Yeah, he counts out my meds or whatever but I’d done just fineon my own without him. I’d cried like a fucking lost little girl in a haunted mansion, but I’d fucking done it. “I can deal with my own medication. I’m not a child.” 

I’d tried to get past him, reaching around him for the handle but I couldn’t reach it without touching him and he smelled so so familiar and safe that it set my mind spinning.

“Sunshine...I haven’t tricked in a week, okay?” 

I said he’s not alwaysan asshole. Doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole sometimes, even if he’s saying stupid shit like that on accident. 

“Well you’re not fucking me!”

“I haven’t drank since you left. I couldn’t really figure out why you left so I guess I wanted to keep a clear head until I got an answer but I just-“ his breathing hitched, and I really really wanted to hold him right then. “You’re washing your hands a lot.” 

“You stopped drinking?” I mean I heard the whole ‘haven’t tricked in a week’thing but I didn’t care about the tricking. I hated his fucking drinking with a hot and seething passion. 

“Yeah, I...you just left.” I stared at him, really took in the bags under his eyes that looked more from a lack of sleep than from an excessive amount of alcohol. And I saw the sincerity in his beautiful brown eyes. “And I won’t start again.” 

“Why?” 

“Because there’s something wrong with you, Justin.” I pulled my back straight and dropped my eyes to his chin. “And I don’t want to be a part of the problem. I want to be a piece of the solution.” 

That was myBrian, my Brian who was soft and gentle and not always an asshole and he was trying so hard to keep his hands off me and I was trying so hard to be able to handle them on me but I needed to keep that conversation with my Brian going. Sober Brian. 

“You can’t give up drinking for me. That’s not how it works.” 

“You’re pretty full of yourself,” his tone was light in the heaviest of ways, “I’ve got a kid you know. And I don’t want to be the dad that gets walked out on at 5 o’clock on a Thursday afternoon because he’s too drunk to realise his partner is falling apart at the seams.” 

“Okay,” I said. 

And then he’d led me downstairs and out to the car, passing by the rowdy group in the kitchen without any fuss. 

—-

I cried when they said I’d need to have blood drawn and I cried when they said I’d need to do some standard allergy testing and then I cried some more when they told me their only solution was to switch my drugs up and then, because I’m the biggest baby on the planet, I cried because Brian didn’t force me to hold his hand, but he did put on a pair of gloves and rested his fingers as close to me as the thought I could handle. 

The nurse came in to me after she’d just dealt with someone else so I knew she hadn’t washed her hands and that made me cry too, but the worst part was having to be in that god damn hospital. Brian had gotten me in on the pretence that my reaction to Deb’s hand soap was so severe that I’d broken out in to a deadly rash or something, and obviously given my medical history they’d taken me back pretty quickly. I hated that place though. I was sure, every time I entered it, that it would be the place I died. It almost happened once, too. 

I got an earful from the doctor when they asked about my drinking habits, because despite how much I despised Brian’s slowly worsening problem, I wasn’t a complete angel myself, and then they’d told me to stay a little longer to make sure the new meds didn’t awaken some sort of demon within me that would form boils on my skin and close up my airways. 

I told Brian how gross they tasted on the way home, and his fingers kept twitching not he steering wheel  while I kept looking at my shiny new pills. 

“Guess we’re sober together,” Brian murmured as we turned onto Tremont. 

“God we’re gonna be so boring,” I sighed, all melodramatic and drugged up. 

“Happy,” Brian said, popping his door open and rushing around to my side so I wouldn’t have to touch the door handle. He was leading me inside before I could dwell on what that meant.