“You kissed me? In front of everybody?”

“Yeah. You should’ve been there.”

*****

Justin was nervous about leaving Brian home alone. He knew he’d have to get over that eventually, because Brian was an adult and so was he, and they’d have to eventually get back to their regular lives. But right now, the anxiety he felt at the prospect was overwhelming. Right now, he felt responsible for taking care of Brian, even though he knew that if he ever said that out loud, Brian would do everything in his power to prove that he wasn’t.

He still felt guilty about what had happened to Brian. What would have happened if he’d spoken up earlier, when he’d first had the inkling that he might be able to help Brian with the artwork he needed? If he’d saved Brian a couple of days of stress, would that have made a difference? Could he have prevented this if he’d gotten over his fears and insecurities just a little bit earlier?

The anxiety attack he’d had at the hospital had left him feeling on-edge ever since. Like he’d never completely gotten over it. It had never gone totally away. There was still an undercurrent of anxiousness buzzing in his body, and his brain was continuing to tell him things he knew were unreasonable and just plain not true, but that were still hard as hell to let go of.

Like the idea that he shouldn’t leave Brian home alone.

In the end, the only way to make himself feel like he’d be able to leave the house and make it to his therapy appointment without having a panic attack -- how ironic would that be, on his way to therapy -- was to ask Rob if he could come over. He’d still have to leave Brian alone for a few minutes, because he would need to leave before Rob could be there, but that seemed more manageable than the thought of leaving Brian alone for two hours.

And Brian might be pissed, so it was probably better if Justin was gone when Rob arrived.

He felt like he couldn’t tell Brian how he was feeling either, because Brian was still dealing with his own shit, trying to get back to normal after a major health scare. So he was trying to keep it to himself, but wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to hide it. Brian had been there in the early days after the bashing. He’d seen an anxious Justin before. Still, if Justin didn’t say anything, and he tried his best to act like nothing was bothering him, he could at least pretend Brian didn’t know. That it was his little secret.

He knew he needed to go see John today, which was why he hadn’t tried to reschedule his appointment again. He needed to talk some of this out with someone who was completely unattached from what had happened. He needed someone with a balanced, neutral perspective. Someone who could tell him when he was being unreasonable, or when his brain was telling him lies.

It seemed like it was telling him a lot of lies this time around. Even more than after prom. Just getting back to feeling like himself this time had been a struggle -- not only physically, but also mentally. His neurologist had told him that brain injury often affects your brain’s ability to process serotonin, so depression and anxiety were common long-term effects. And it might not ever go away. It might not just be related to the deep sense of loss he’d experienced due to losing most of the use of his right hand -- it might just be his brain’s new chemistry.

He knew there was no shame in that -- and no shame in doing what needed to be done to treat it -- but hearing that hadn’t exactly helped him feel upbeat and hopeful for the future. Slowly, though, he was starting to feel more normal. Maybe not the old normal, but still, some semblance of normal.

Justin glanced at his watch as the subway train’s doors slid shut at yet another stop -- the third of eight stops it would be making before he disembarked and went back above ground to make the trek to John’s office. Rob was probably at the apartment by now, and had likely been there before Justin got to the subway station. Brian hadn’t sent him any snide text messages or called him to chew his ass for not trusting him to be by himself, so Rob must have made up a believable story for why he was there. Good.

He idly traced patterns across his thigh with the index finger of his left hand -- almost like he was sketching, just without pencil and paper. He remembered doing that as a kid, when he wanted to draw but couldn’t because he didn’t have the supplies, or because he was somewhere it would have been frowned upon -- like one of his father’s stodgy country-club dinners or in the middle of some boring science class at school. It had been good practice back then. And he was using it the same way now. It was something he could do anywhere to increase the coordination and dexterity of his left hand.

He’d been surprised thus far at how quickly his comfort level at working with his left hand had gone up. It seemed like once he’d made up his mind that was what he was going to do, his body had just gone along with it. All of the struggle he’d had back in rehab with the few drawings he’d made in the middle of the night on the computer Brian had borrowed for his room seemed to have completely vanished now. He knew he still wasn’t back to where he’d been before, but he was pleased with his progress.

He was eager to try some more painting, but most of his painting supplies were at his studio -- including the most important part, the paint -- and he’d been spending all of his time in the apartment with Brian. He hadn’t even left to buy groceries -- he’d ordered everything on an app and had it delivered. Modern technology was a wonderful thing sometimes. Justin was hoping to have a few minutes today after his appointment to stop by his studio and pick up a few things to bring home. Assuming his anxiety would let him stay away from Brian for that long.

Justin hated feeling this way, because it made him feel like a prisoner. A prisoner to his own irrational thoughts. It was the same thing that had made him petrified to walk down the street in the weeks and months after the bashing, because his brain was continually conjuring up images of people on the sidewalk suddenly turning on him, trying to kill him because he was gay. Now, it was conjuring up images of Brian, ill or hurt, unable to get help, all alone in the apartment.

Justin hated thinking of Brian that way, too. Because it simply wasn’t the Brian he knew. Brian wasn’t helpless. Brian was one of the strongest people he knew. Brian had lived through a serious trauma ten years ago and come through it as strong as ever, probably even stronger. He’d kept living his life. He refused to let people tell him “no.” And god help the person who ever told Brian he couldn’t do something, because that only meant that he was about to prove he could.

The events of the last week had been a temporary blip on the radar -- that’s all. Justin’s rational brain knew this. But his irrational brain kept taking it and building on it and using it to come up with catastrophic scenarios, all of which ultimately involved Justin losing Brian for good.

He kept hearing the doctor’s words echoing in his head, from that first day at the hospital -- you’re lucky you came in when you did. After hearing that, he’d made the mistake of looking up sepsis on his phone while Rob and Adam were gone to the apartment to pick up the things he and Brian needed. He’d known it was serious, but the things he read only served to ratchet up his anxiety. He wished he’d never done that. But he had, and he couldn’t undo it. Nor could he banish the thoughts from his head of all of the things that could have happened to Brian if they’d arrived just a little bit too late.

He wanted to focus on how lucky they were, but his brain kept pulling him back to the what-ifs instead.

What if things had been worse? What if they hadn’t been able to get Brian diagnosed and start treatment quickly?

What if he’d ended up losing Brian, forever?

What would he have done if that happened? How would he go on? Could he even go on at all?

Justin shook his head to try to rid it of those thoughts, but it didn’t really work. Not completely. He knew they’d stay, right there in the back of his mind, ready to pop up at the most inopportune times.

Justin had spent every night since they got home from the hospital with his body touching Brian’s -- holding onto him in some way. Whether that was holding his hand or laying his arm over Brian’s back or having his legs entangled with Brian’s. He just needed to know that Brian was right there with him, at all times.

Finally, the eighth stop arrived and Justin got up from his seat and stepped off the train, walking through the crush of people to the staircase that would take him to the street level. As he emerged onto the sidewalk, he took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at it. Still no messages or calls from Brian. He fought the impulse to send off a message or a call of his own, stuffing the phone back in his pocket before his fingers did that of their own accord.

The three-block walk from the subway station to the building where John’s office was felt like it took much longer than usual. Idly, he wondered if he’d have to go back on some of the medications he’d been taking back in those weeks and months after the bashing -- the ones that had helped him function at least somewhat normally, even if they made him feel kind of numb. It was as if in taking away his anxiety, they also took away his ability to feel much of anything at all. He hadn’t felt this way in such a long time. He didn’t like it then, and he didn’t like it now. Why had it all come crashing back down on him?

He was grateful that he’d called Rob. If he hadn’t, Justin didn't know what state he would have ended up in. Rob probably had no idea how helpful he’d truly been. He’d arrived at exactly the right time, right when Justin was on the edge of losing his grip on reality. Justin had tried so hard to stay calm, but in the end, he’d been overwhelmed by his thoughts and feelings and had no choice but to yield to them. He’d needed someone else with him who was calm, who could remind him what was rational and what wasn’t. What was true and what wasn’t.

On some level, he’d known what had happened to Brian wasn’t really his fault, even before Rob told him that. But it was his irrational brain, telling him lies, that was keeping the guilt turned up. Telling him that it was his fault. If he’d only done a little bit more, been a little more perceptive, asked more questions, he could have kept Brian from having to suffer. And it was still doing that -- running through the various scenarios of how Justin could have changed things. Should have changed things.

Justin had been hoping that those feelings would go away once Brian was out of the woods. Or maybe once they got home from the hospital. But they hadn’t. Instead, he’d been fighting with his anxiety for days, trying to keep it hidden as best he could, with no real end in sight.

He wondered what John would say about the state he’d gotten himself worked into. He supposed he was about to find out.

Justin took a deep breath as he pulled the door open and stepped into the lobby. He tried to look as put-together as he possibly could as he walked to the elevator. He didn’t particularly want to fall apart today, but that was probably what was about to happen. And falling apart here might keep him from falling apart somewhere else, so maybe it was a good thing.

He kept focusing on the feeling of his breath moving in and out of his body as he pressed the “up” button and waited for the elevator to return to the ground floor. He was the only person going upstairs, so he got several seconds of solace on his way up, where no one was watching him. Judging him. That helped.

When he got upstairs, he pulled open the door to the office space that John shared with three other therapists and checked in with the receptionist, who motioned for him to head on back. Apparently he wasn’t going to get a few minutes in the waiting room to try to collect himself. Although he wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to try to do that -- surely John had seen everything. Hell, John had seen a lot just from him. But it had mostly been depression and frustration and anger -- not this overwhelming, take-over-your-life anxiety.

He knew these thoughts weren’t rational. That they didn’t make any sense. But that wasn’t enough to stop them from happening.

They didn’t get more than a minute into his session before everything he’d been keeping bottled up came spilling out. He had a fleeting thought that it was probably going to take more than an hour to even begin to unpack all of this shit. Justin did most of the talking for a long time, doing better than he thought he would not to cry, while John listened attentively -- nodding and looking Justin right in the eye, when Justin could bring himself to look at him. He wasn’t even writing anything down. He was just listening. Justin couldn’t read his face. He’d noticed that was kind of hard lately, and he wasn’t sure yet if that could just be yet another “gift” brain injury had given him. Probably. Seemed it was the gift that kept on giving, whether you wanted it to or not.

“It sounds like you’ve both had a traumatic past week,” John said, when Justin finally reached the end of his almost breathless recounting of everything that had happened and how he felt about it.

“Mostly Brian,” Justin said.

“No, both of you. Just because you weren’t the one who was ill, that doesn’t make your experience any less valid. Nor does it invalidate what you’re feeling. What are you feeling right now?”

“Stupid.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t leave my husband home alone without freaking the fuck out. Because I’m so scared that I’m going to lose him. Like my whole fucking existence is wrapped up in his or something. If I lose him, I’ll lose myself.”

“But he’s recovering now, right?”

“Yes. And I know it’s stupid to keep fearing that I’m going to lose him, when I’ve got all of the evidence right in front of me that tells me he’s getting better, but I can’t stop it.”

“Let’s go back to you feeling like you can’t leave him alone. What are you afraid is going to happen if you do?”

Justin recounted his list of all of the horrible things that could possibly befall Brian while he was home alone, while John listened and nodded some more.

“What’s the likelihood that those things will actually happen?” John asked. “Do you have past evidence to prove that they might?”

“No, I don’t, and I know it’s not likely, but my stupid anxiety brain refuses to listen to the rest of my brain.”

“Maybe you need to prove it to yourself, then. Leave and come back and see for yourself that he’s okay. That nothing happened. Is he home alone now?”

“No.” Justin looked down. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as they flushed with embarrassment. “I called a friend and asked him to come over, and I didn’t tell Brian that I did it or why.”

“Did you tell the friend why?”

“No, but I think he knew.”

“Do you think you’d be able to leave him alone for a few minutes at a time? Just to test out how it feels?”

Justin picked at his jeans with his left hand, still looking down. “Honestly?”

“I always want you to be honest with me. I hope you feel comfortable enough to do that.”

“I don’t know.” Justin hated that he’d just said that. How big of a basket case was he that he couldn’t even commit to leaving Brian alone in the apartment for a few minutes?

“Alright, I know you like coffee. Is there a coffee shop nearby where you live?”

Justin nodded. Of course there was. There was probably a coffee shop on every block in most of Manhattan.

“Okay, how about this as your homework for this week? Go down to the coffee shop three times, on three separate days, by yourself. Do it when Brian will be alone while you’re gone. Get yourself something you really enjoy. Bring it back. Or, if you’re feeling confident, enjoy it there. Either way, the purpose is to prove to yourself -- to your ‘anxiety brain,’ as you called it -- that Brian will be fine. Nothing will happen to him.”

“But what if something does?”

“How likely is that to happen?”

“I know, I know.” God, did he know. But he still couldn’t stop himself. “But what if it does?”

“You tell me.”

Justin was quiet for a moment, just thinking. A little embarrassed that he couldn’t even accept that simple assignment without a fight. “Then, I guess…” he started, then stopped, taking a breath. “I guess it won’t have been too long, and even if something happened, I’ll still be there in time to help.”

“Exactly. But remember, that’s still a cognitive distortion -- catastrophizing. We’ve talked about those before. Keeping things in check by remembering the odds can help with that, even if your mind doesn’t completely believe it. It’s still better than letting it take hold completely. Identify what’s going on, what you feel...validate that it’s okay to feel that way. But also tell yourself that it doesn’t mean you have to keep going down that path. You’re already aware of what’s happening and that it’s not rational, and that’s a huge victory right there. I’m confident that you can do this too. And that Brian will be fine.”

Justin knew this was exactly what the therapist he’d worked with all of those years ago, after the bashing, had told him to do. It was why he’d walked down Liberty Avenue with Brian so many times, clinging to his arm at first like he was holding on for dear life, then finally walking down the street, all by himself, to Brian waiting with open arms. It was the same thing. Testing it out, little by little, to prove to himself that he could do it. That the horrible things his mind was dreaming up weren’t going to happen.

“You mentioned earlier that you felt guilty, or like this was all your fault,” John said, interrupting Justin’s thoughts. “Why is that?”

Justin gave John the whole story there, too. Everything he would have, could have, should have done that might have made things go differently.

“Do you really know, though, whether or not those things would have made a difference?” John asked. He was still looking Justin squarely in the eye, even though Justin was finding it uncomfortable to do the same and kept having to look away. Justin wasn’t sure why he felt so embarrassed about this. Why this one particular feeling was making him feel so ashamed.

“I guess not.”

“You're right. There’s no way to know that. It’s understandable to want to have done things differently, to have saved your loved one some pain. But when you let that guilt take over, you aren’t doing either of you much good. There are a lot of what-ifs in this scenario. And there’s no way to know the truthfulness of any of them, because they aren’t what happened. By the same token, feeling guilty about not putting any of those what-ifs into action, doesn’t change anything either. It’s just another one of those cognitive distortions. What do you think Brian would say if you told him that you felt like what happened to him is your fault?”

“I already mentioned it to him. And he told me that it wasn’t. Actually, I think he was a little bit confused that I even thought it was my fault.”

“Did you talk about it any more? Or was that as far as it went?”

“That was it. I kind of changed the subject.”

“Maybe you need to talk about it again, and this time, resist the impulse to change the subject. I’m sure you both have a lot of feelings about what happened, and they’re all valid. Talking about them with each other can really help.”

Justin sighed. He knew John was right. He also had already kind of known that these were the types of things John was going to tell him. They were the same kinds of things he’d been trying to tell himself for a few days already. But there was just something different about hearing it from someone else. Someone you trusted. Someone who had already helped you quite a bit.

He left with his two homework assignments -- talk to Brian about the guilt he was feeling, and leave the house three times to get coffee at the shop on the ground floor of the building next door to theirs. It sounded simple, but it wasn’t. He knew that. He knew it would be challenging. But that was the point.

As Justin made his way back to the subway station, he had a decision to make -- take the train that would lead him to his studio, or the one that would take him back to the stop closest to their apartment building. On a whim, he made the right turn toward the platform for the train that would take him to his studio. He wondered if he should have called Brian while he was still outside, just to be sure he was okay.

No, Justin told himself. This is part of what you’re supposed to be working on this week. It’ll be good practice. Rob’s probably still there, and Brian is fine.

Justin’s studio was in a modern-looking building on the edge of Greenwich Village. There were nine stops to get there from John’s office. The train wasn’t busy, as it was an awkward hour in the middle of the afternoon when it wasn’t lunch time, but school wasn’t out yet, and people were mostly still at work. Still, the stops seemed to crawl by as Justin fought the urge to pull out his phone and see if he had enough signal to text Brian.

Finally, the train arrived at his stop, and he at least had the distraction of making the trek up to the street level and down the few blocks to the building that housed his studio. He shifted his mostly-empty messenger bag on his shoulder, letting his mind wander to thoughts of what supplies he wanted to bring home. Not too much, because he didn’t want Brian to freak out on him, thinking he was never going back to his studio again. He was, just not right now. Not while Brian needed him.

Justin was fully aware that, even at this point, that thought was ridiculous. Brian was able to get up and move around now, didn’t need any more help with transfers, and seemed to be feeling a lot better. It probably wouldn’t be long before he was back to work. Brian didn’t need Justin now the way he had several days ago. Yet, here Justin was, still paranoid to leave Brian alone -- just in case Brian did need him. He didn’t want to think about Brian needing him, and him not being there.

As he rode the elevator up to the floor where his studio was, Justin could feel his anxiety rising. He tried to focus on taking deep breaths and pushing the paranoid thoughts out of his head. He could do this. He was already here, might as well take a few minutes to get some paints and brushes and a couple of canvases. Then, he could go home to Brian and stay there.

Justin had already set aside the brushes and the canvases and was picking through his vast collection of paint, trying to choose a good variety of colors since at this point he didn’t know what he wanted to work on, when he heard his phone emit the sound that indicated he had a new text message. He hoped it wasn’t a text from Brian, angry with him for setting him up and sending Rob over without him knowing about it. He didn’t think he’d be able to deal with Brian being mad at him right now.

Instead, it was a text from Rob.

Brian wasn’t feeling well, so he decided to lie down and take a nap. He was asleep when I left. I brought you that club sandwich you like so much. It’s in the fridge. Hope your appointment went well.

Immediately, Justin’s anxiety brain took off down the rabbit hole of negative thoughts, entertaining several of the possibilities he’d listed off for John earlier. Why wasn’t Brian feeling well? What could possibly be wrong? Had something happened after he left?

No, Justin told himself. Rob’s message didn’t seem worried or panicked. It was just a heads up. That’s all it was. Nothing more. If it was something urgent, he would have called. And he wouldn’t have been talking about lunch or therapy appointments.

Still, Justin wanted to get home and get to Brian as quickly as possible, even if only to prove to himself that his worries were unfounded and Brian was fine. So Justin hurriedly stuffed several tubes of paint into his bag along with his case of brushes, threw the messenger bag over his shoulder, and picked up the carrying case that he’d already loaded two blank canvases into. He hailed a taxi because he thought it would be faster than the subway, and gave the driver their home address.

He tried his best not to look agitated when he greeted the doorman, and also tried to be patient as he waited for one of the two elevators in their building to return to the ground floor to pick him up. Finally, it did, and he stepped inside before the doors were even fully open, punching the button for their floor, followed by the button that would cause the doors to close again.

He tried not to make too much noise digging his keys out and finding the right one to open the door to their apartment -- if Brian was asleep, he didn’t want to wake him up. As quietly as possible, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, setting his load of supplies down just inside the door. Carefully and softly, he walked back to their bedroom, turned the knob slowly, and pushed the door open.

Brian was asleep in their bed, on top of the covers, a stack of pillows behind him. He looked peaceful. He was fine.

See, Justin told himself. You were worried for nothing. He’s fine. He’s just tired, but that’ll be gone soon.

John was right -- Justin had absolutely no evidence to support the notion that something awful would happen to Brian if he was left home alone. But that didn’t make those thoughts any easier to let go of.

Softly, Justin closed the bedroom door again and went back into the living room to get the supplies he’d brought with him from his studio. He carried them back down the hallway and into the home office that they’d once both shared, that was now primarily Brian’s office. Justin still had an easel in there, though, behind his desk in the corner. He opened the case that he’d stowed the blank canvases in and set one of them on the easel, then dumped all of the paints out of his bag and onto the surface of his desk. He knew Brian would have a coronary if he left them in a haphazard pile, so he started straightening them out, putting them into some semblance of order, as he let his brain wander to what he thought he might want to create.

He’d separated out about half of the paints, grouping them by color family, when he thought he heard Brian’s voice coming from their bedroom. Maybe he’d woken up and he needed something. Justin hadn’t noticed anything amiss, and his wheelchair had been right there, practically up against the bed, so he wasn’t sure what it would be, but whatever it was, he’d take care of it. Maybe Brian did still need him.

When Justin pushed the door to the bedroom open again, Brian appeared to still be asleep, although not as peacefully as he had been only a few minutes before. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He was moving around -- tossing his head from side to side, picking up one hand and letting it fall back to the bed, over and over. Then, he spoke again.

“No… no…” It started off as a mumble. Brian’s voice low and pleading. “No… no…” Slowly, it got more urgent. More panicked. “No! Goddamn it!”

Justin stood frozen in the doorway. He’d thought this was getting better. He couldn’t remember now the last time Brian had a nightmare, but he was pretty sure it had been months ago. Why was it happening again now?

Brian punctuated his urgent plea by smacking his hand down on the mattress, hard. The next time he spoke, his voice was quiet again, although no less desperate.

“Please,” Brian said. “Don’t take him from me now. I know I don’t… I’m not…” He paused, his breathing unsteady and shaky. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter as a tear fell from the corner of one of them. “I was going to tell him,” he said. “I was going to tell him.”

Justin’s feet felt like they weighed a hundred pounds as he hesitantly approached the bed, climbing in carefully alongside his husband, still not sure whether to touch Brian or not. The older man continued writhing and flailing next to him, whimpering and mumbling phrases Justin couldn’t understand.

Suddenly, Brian’s voice rose again. And with it, came clarity.

“Shut the fuck up, Hobbs! Why the fuck did you do this?” His voice sounded broken as he repeated, “Why? Why?”

Justin had already suspected what this dream was about, but now he knew for sure. He started trying to wake Brian up, first with a gentle touch that Brian jerked away from so hard that Justin was afraid he was going to fall off the bed, then with soothing words, repeating Brian’s name, over and over. That had worked in the past -- hopefully it would work now.

But Brian kept thrashing and mumbling and pleading. And Justin kept trying to wake him up -- saying his name, quietly at first, then louder. Eventually, he was able to add soft touches without Brian pulling away, although it still took Justin a few more minutes that felt like an eternity to get Brian fully out of the clutches of the nightmare.

Brian took a few more deep, trembling breaths, his eyes still closed. When he blinked them open, they were shining with tears. They were dark, and tinged with fear. He looked at Justin and blinked back the wetness. He looked as if some part of him might have still been back in his dream -- like he was struggling to believe that Justin was right there in front of him.

Then, Brian rolled over and reached his arm out, wrapping it around Justin and pulling him in tightly to his body. Holding onto him as if his very life depended on it. Like if he let go, Justin would simply fade away and be gone forever.

“What was it?” Justin whispered, trying to look at Brian’s face but not really able to because Brian was holding him so close.

Brian shook his head. “Just be here,” he whispered as he buried his face in the space between Justin’s neck and his shoulder. “Please, just be here.”

“Okay,” Justin said softly. “I’m here. It’s okay. I’m still here.”

He could feel the dampness of Brian’s tears on his shoulder, and feel the hitches in his breath as they held each other.

If Justin wasn’t sure how much Brian had changed in the sixteen years he’d known him, the scene he found himself in now told him exactly how much. Brian trusted him enough to cry on his shoulder. To let him provide comfort, just as Brian had done for him so many times.

And if he wasn’t sure how much Brian loved him, the way his husband was clinging to him now told him exactly how vital his existence -- his presence -- was to Brian’s very existence.

Brian had always spoken louder with his actions than his words.

Justin had no idea that these dreams were still haunting Brian. He hadn’t witnessed any since the days just after they’d returned home from Pittsburgh. Brian had told him then that he’d been having them while they were in Pittsburgh, too, but he’d also said that he was talking to Rochelle about it, and they were working on it. Brian never talked to him about it after that, and he never brought up anything he discussed with Rochelle, but Justin had assumed that things must have been getting better for Brian. They seemed to be.

Apparently it had only been hidden beneath the surface -- behind Brian’s walls. The walls that Justin had thought he was fully inside of.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Justin said softly, remembering how Brian had blamed himself for the bashing from the beginning -- how he’d said over and over again that if he hadn’t gone to the prom, none of this would have happened. That wasn’t true, but how could he get Brian to believe it? Justin had told him over and over again that it wasn’t his fault -- it couldn’t be. Hobbs was the one who swung the bat, not Brian.

Maybe, eventually, if he said it enough times, he could convince Brian of it too. He had to, because this guilt was destroying Brian, and it probably had been for a long time.

They laid there together for a long time, holding each other, Justin occasionally whispering affirmations in Brian’s ear -- that he was okay, that he was still here, that it wasn’t Brian’s fault. Justin kept his arms tightly wrapped around his partner’s body until he could feel Brian’s breathing begin to smooth out and slow down.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself,” Justin said, once he felt Brian was calm enough to hear it.

“I know.” Brian pulled back enough to be able to look Justin in the eye. “I’m trying, Sunshine. I’m trying to believe that. I’ve tried every way that I know, and I just can’t stop. Nothing is working, nothing is helping… I don’t know why. All I can do is just medicate. Numb out. That’s the only time it’s gone.”

“Has it been this way the whole time?” Justin was almost afraid to ask, but he had to know. Had this all-consuming, unrelenting guilt been in the back of Brian’s mind for the past 16 years, through everything? Not just during his recovery, but through his affair with Ethan, the Stockwell debacle and him dropping out of school, the cancer, his failed venture to Hollywood, their almost-marriage, and his big move to New York to chase his dreams? Through Brian’s accident, their reunion, their actual marriage, and everything else that Justin wasn’t quite sure he could remember? Had it been there all of this time, and he just didn’t remember it? Hadn’t noticed it? Or had Brian hidden it?

Brian shook his head and pulled his lips into his mouth. “No, I don’t…” he started, then stopped. “I guess I don’t know. Maybe, somewhere.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Justin interlaced the fingers of his left hand through Brian’s right, as they lay on their sides, facing each other.

“How could I? What right did I have to lay anything on you when you were the one who…” Brian stopped again, like he couldn’t finish that sentence. Justin didn’t need him to.

The words John had spoken to him earlier kept echoing in Justin’s head -- that just because Brian was the one who was ill didn’t mean Justin didn’t have a right to feel something. Didn’t the same thing apply here? Even though the situations were different, in the end, the result was the same. Justin had been stuck in a spiral of guilt ever since Brian got sick, and Brian had apparently been stuck in one for the past 16 years.

“You still get to have feelings about it,” Justin said. “I want to know. I want to know how you felt. How you feel.”

It took Brian several seconds -- and several breaths -- to answer.

“Like I had stolen your life. Like I had no right to be with you anymore, but I couldn’t let you go either. I guess you wouldn’t let me. I kept feeling like you’d be better off without me.” Brian looked away and closed his eyes.

“I wouldn’t be, though.” Justin hated that Brian thought so little of himself that he always seemed to think that everyone would be better off if he wasn’t in their lives -- him, Michael, Gus...the list seemed endless. “I wouldn’t be me, without you. I wouldn’t be the person I am today, without you.”

“I tried to let you go. Twice...three times. I kept letting you go. It was all there was for me to do. I couldn’t hold you back. Saddle you with all my shit. I’d already done enough.”

“Brian, listen to me. Are you listening?” Justin put his hand on the side of Brian’s face and gently turned it back toward him, waiting for Brian to open his eyes before he continued. “Are you listening?”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Chris Hobbs is the one who is responsible for what he did. Not you, not me, not anybody else. He brought a bat to prom. Who does that, unless you’re already planning something? He couldn’t have possibly known that you’d show up. He swung the bat. You didn’t. And you blaming yourself isn’t going to fix it.” Justin paused and took a breath. He had an idea. He just hoped it worked. “Was your accident my fault?” Justin asked, his gaze fixed on Brian’s.

“What?” Brian looked confused. “No. You weren’t even there. If it was anybody’s fault, it was mine. I was the one who was driving too fast on a wet road with old tires. Why would it be your fault?”

“If I had been there, though, would it have happened? What if I hadn’t left and moved to New York? What if I had come back to visit more often, and we were still using the house for that? What if I hadn’t asked for a country manor at all? Would it have happened if any of those things had been true? Maybe not. But does that make your accident my fault?”

“That’s fucking ridiculous, Justin. No, of course not.”

“But it’s the same. It’s exactly the same. It’s a bunch of what-ifs and things that we don’t know would be true because they didn’t happen.” Justin realized just how much he sounded like John right now, and how ironic that was. But maybe this was what he needed to start moving past some of his own guilt and fear. “The bashing was no more your fault than your accident was mine. They’re both just things that happened. They had serious consequences and altered our lives significantly, but they are what they are. Nothing is going to change that. There’s no point in assigning blame. We lived. Blame is nothing but wasted energy.”

“I know, but I can’t stop how I feel. I don’t know how to let it go. I’m trying. I know it doesn’t sound like I am, but I am. It’s just this endless cycle. I can’t get out of it.”

“So you medicate. You always have. Whether it was alcohol or drugs you bought at Babylon or anonymous sex in the back room...you numb out. Now, you do it differently...but it’s the same. Nothing gets resolved. You don’t feel it anymore, but nothing gets resolved. You have to put it out there. Stop holding it in or shoving it behind some imaginary wall like it didn’t really happen, because it did. It fucking happened. It’s with me all the time -- the scar, my gimp hand, my lack of trust. I can’t push it aside because it’s always there. And it’s always there with you, too.”

“Not like that, though. I was just the bystander. The witness.”

“You saved my life, Brian. You saw the whole thing. Yes, you were the witness. But you were a victim of a hate crime that night too. Maybe not in the most literal sense of the word, but something happened to you too. Just because you weren’t the one bleeding doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt. You have to let go of the guilt. That’s what’s hurting you. And I don’t want it to hurt you anymore. So stop sidestepping it, stop changing the subject, stop trying to push it aside and pretend it didn’t happen or that it doesn’t affect you. Because it does. I lived. I’m okay. And I want you to be able to live too. Without the nightmares, without the guilt. Let it go.”

“I don’t know how.” Brian’s voice was so soft that Justin barely heard him. “I’ve held onto it for so long… I don’t know how to let it go.”

“You know what helps me sometimes? To let myself get really pissed off about it. To let myself scream and cry. The day I destroyed my bedroom because my mom wouldn’t let you see me anymore, all of that made me feel better. If I try to hold it back or hold it in, that’s what ends up happening -- it bubbles over and comes out some other way, but a whole lot worse. Like the day I destroyed my studio. The only difference here is, you’re destroying yourself. So let yourself get angry instead. Get pissed off. Fucking feel it -- it’s okay, you have a right to feel it.” Justin reached behind him and picked up the book he’d been reading off his nightstand and pushed it into Brian’s hand. “Here. Throw this.”

“I don’t want to throw your book.”

“It’ll be fine. Just throw it. Get mad. Feel what you feel. Make the book feel it too. Do it. You’ve held this back for 16 years. Let it go.”

Brian sat up a little and halfheartedly tossed the book toward the foot of the bed and flopped down onto his back, letting his head fall back down onto the pillow.

“You can do better than that,” Justin said, sitting up and reaching for the book. “That wasn’t 16 years worth of being mad.”

“I’m not mad.” Brian was staring up the ceiling now.

“Okay, then tell me what you feel.” Justin reached out and ran his fingers over Brian’s arm. Asking Brian Kinney -- even this Brian Kinney -- to talk about feelings was a little bit like poking a bear, but Justin had to do it. Otherwise, he was never going to get Brian to let his walls down and finally let him in, completely and totally, one-hundred percent.

“I don’t know what I feel,” Brian said. His inflection was strange -- almost detached. Like he was still trying to separate himself from this awful memory from his past. Or maybe he knew what he felt and he simply didn’t want to feel it. “But I’m not mad. I don’t need to throw things.”

Justin let out a quiet sigh. They sat there together for several moments, in silence, before Justin spoke again.

“Will it help you if you tell me?” he asked gently. “Everything. All of it. So you don’t have to hold onto it all alone.” Justin was sitting up next to Brian in the bed now, studying his face. Trying to read the man he’d once been able to read so well. Hating that it was a struggle now.

“I’m not sure I can.” Brian turned his face away. Justin reached over and gently turned it back to face him.

“I want you to tell me. Tell me everything.”

“Justin…”

“Please. It happened to me. I have a right to know.” He felt bad using that against Brian, but it was true. And if it got Brian to open up, then it was worth it. “I want you to tell me.”

“I can't--”

“Please. Do it for me. We danced, and we were amazing, and you kissed me, and then…what? I want to hear it all from you.”

“Trust me, it’s better if you don’t know the rest. The parts you don’t remember.” Brian closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again and looked at Justin. “There’s a reason you don’t remember them.”

“I don’t think it’s better. Not if it means that you have to carry it all alone. Don’t make the decision for both of us. Let me decide. I want you to tell me.”

Brian was quiet for several moments, just staring up at the ceiling, breathing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if he was trying to summon the courage to do this. Then he started talking.

“I knew it, back then,” he said. His voice was soft, and he sounded like he was lost somewhere inside a dream. “When we were dancing, and I put the scarf around your neck, I knew I loved you.” When he opened his eyes, they were glistening with tears. “Then you took off my jacket and put the scarf back around my neck and pulled me to you. I’ll never forget how that felt. And when we kissed...it was like we were the only people in the room. It was just you and me, and I’d never felt anything like that before in my life. It was exhilarating...and a little bit scary. But god, I loved you.” A single tear fell from the corner of Brian’s eye and slid down his cheek, landing on the pillow. “I wanted to tell you, but not there. I was going to do it later. Back at the loft. I didn’t know how I was going to, but I wanted to.”

Brian closed his eyes again and inhaled a shaky breath. Justin curled up next to him, laying his head on Brian’s shoulder, holding Brian’s hand tightly in his. Supporting him. Silently urging him to go on.

“I could have told you in the garage. I almost did. Even with all the times we’d kissed and we’d fucked, when I kissed you there, leaning against the Jeep, and I looked into your eyes, it felt...different, somehow. Like I’d already made up my mind -- I was doing this. It might be new, and it might be scary, but what the hell -- I was doing it. And that was when everything changed. We said, ‘Later.’ I got back in the Jeep… I remember smiling to myself as I watched you walk away in the mirror… Then, I saw him. With the bat. You know this part.”

“Tell me again,” Justin said softly as he pulled Brian’s hand in close to his chest and held it there.

“I wanted to warn you. I wanted to get to him before he got to you. But it was like my feet wouldn’t move fast enough. I remember pushing off the car next to me, trying to get just a little more momentum, and running as fast as I could, but I couldn’t get there in time to stop him. My voice didn’t get there in time either. All I did was make you turn around, so I had a perfect view of your face and that smile -- your smile -- when he swung that damn bat.”

Justin had always wondered if maybe that was what saved him -- Brian shouting his name and him turning around, changing the trajectory and the position of the hit. But that was another what-if.

“I’ll never forget that sound as long as I live,” Brian said. His voice sounded haunted. Distant. “The sound of wood on bone. It was sickening. I can’t get it out of my head. When I dream about it, sometimes I hear it over and over and over again, like we’re shooting some sort of horrible movie and the director always wants ‘one more take.’” Brian paused for a breath. “When he hit you, you fell to the ground, and that’s when I finally fucking got there. I pushed him down and hit him with the bat, just because I wanted to keep him from coming after you again. And there you were, lying on the cold cement...the life bleeding out of you onto the concrete. I felt like my life was bleeding out too.”

Justin stroked the back of Brian’s hand with his thumb, but said nothing. No, Brian wasn’t angry. He was devastated.

“I know I called 9-1-1, but I don’t remember doing it. I think I was in shock. I don’t know how long it took them to get there, but it felt like an eternity. I remember hanging up the phone and leaning down and putting my cheek next to your lips to see if you were still breathing. You were, but it was shallow. I kissed you again. Because I was afraid I wasn’t going to get another chance.” Brian swallowed and blinked back more tears. All of this was hard for Justin to hear, but not nearly as hard as it seemed to be for Brian to tell it. “Daphne came out to see where you were, and she found us. God, I wish she wouldn’t have had to see that.” Brian shook his head. “She shouldn’t have had to see that.”

“You shouldn’t have either,” Justin said softly. Nobody should have. Hobbs shouldn’t have done what he did. It had nothing to do with you.”

“I just kept holding you.” Brian sounded almost dazed as he continued, as if Justin hadn't spoken at all. Brian was elsewhere, lost in the memory. “I didn’t know what else to do. There were kids starting to gather around us, and I wanted to scream at them to go away, to give you your privacy, your dignity… Couldn’t they see you were dying?” Brian choked back a sob. “Then the ambulance finally got there, and they made me let go of you. The police kept asking me questions… I don’t even know what I said. But I guess it was enough. I told the paramedics I was your partner so they’d let me ride with you in the ambulance, because I didn’t want to leave you alone. I didn’t want you to die alone. I wanted you to have someone there who…” Brian paused and bit his lip. Another tear fell. “Someone who loved you. I held your hand until they made me let go, when they took you away from me at the hospital.”

Justin was fighting back tears now. He never knew Brian had been with him the whole time, holding his hand. No one had ever told him that. He guessed no one else had been there to tell him. No one except Brian.

“It was three days before we knew if you were going to live or die. I wouldn’t leave before then. I couldn’t. Not when I knew I had done this. That all of it was my fault. Once I found out you were going to live, I suddenly had to get out there. It was like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t look at you. I couldn’t look into your eyes and know what I’d taken away from you that night. Your life. Your whole future. I know I should have visited you when you were awake instead of sneaking around at night like some sort of coward, but I... I just couldn’t deal with it. I couldn’t think about it. But I couldn’t let it go either. I just...kept it. Locked it away. It was my burden to carry. And then when I found out you didn’t remember any of the good things that happened that night...that hurt. I had put myself out there… I was doing something I’d never done before. And then it all just slipped away, and it was gone. Like it never even happened. I got what I’d always deserved. What I’d always gotten any time I thought I might let myself feel something for someone.”

“But it’s not what you deserve.” Justin squeezed Brian’s hand. “You deserve so much better. Those good things did happen. You did those things for me. I loved it then, and I love it now. And even if it took me a long time to remember it, I’m glad I did. It’s still my favorite memory, even though it had an ugly ending that changed my life forever. I danced at my prom with the man I loved. Who’s to say that my life would really be better had it not happened? To change that one thing, we’d have to take back everything that happened after it. All of those things, they’re a part of us. Even the painful parts.”

“I know. And I don’t want to give any of that up. I love the life we’ve had together. That we have. I felt like I was okay. Like I’d moved on. My life was completely different than how I’d ever imagined it would be, but it was all so good. And then your accident happened and it was like everything just came flooding back. Like it was happening all over again. All of the things I wanted to forget. The blood and the brain injury and the not knowing… And the fear. I was so scared. I finally had you and everything was so good, and then I thought I was going to lose you again. Everything good that happens to me always gets taken away. And somehow, some way, it would be my fault. I should have been in the car with you, we should have come on a different day...things should have been different. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“But it did. And it wasn’t your fault. It was just a freak accident. I’m still here.”

“I know, Sunshine… I know.”

“Sometimes I wonder what life would be like right now if I hadn’t forgotten most of the last ten years. But that’s what we have to stop. No more what-ifs. No more keeping things from each other. No more not saying what’s important. No more letting fear get in the way. We’re both so scared we’re going to lose each other, that we’re forgetting to live our lives. I’m scared, and I know you are too, but we can’t let that be all there is. I know that now. We have to be honest with each other. Hold on to what we have, because we’re lucky. We’re so damn lucky. We have each other. That’s all we need.”

They stayed there in bed, just talking -- saying the words that needed to be said -- for hours, until darkness fell outside their bedroom window and they both eventually drifted off to sleep.

Justin felt like a weight had been lifted. He hoped that Brian did too.

Just the same, Justin knew that he needed to hear his words as much as Brian did. He needed to take them to heart. He needed to take on his fears -- the fear of losing Brian, the fear of the unknown when it came to his future in the art world, and the fear of what it would mean to fully accept what had happened to him and how his life had changed as a result.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy, and he would still struggle to get back to normal, just like he had all those years ago, but he felt like he’d at least made the decision -- that this was what he was going to do, and he wasn’t going to let anything get in his way. Not anxiety, not guilt -- nothing.

The next morning, Justin found out he was right -- it wouldn't be easy to let go. He wanted to, and he was committed to doing it, but it wasn't like flipping a switch. It was a process. And he knew from past experience that it could be a long one.

Justin woke up alone in the bed, at first surprised that Brian was up so early, then remembering that they’d probably fallen asleep around dinner time. So it made sense that Brian would be up, since he probably had things that needed to be taken care of and couldn’t be neglected. Justin had been trying to be more observant of those things, in light of the fact that he had a little more background knowledge now, thanks to Rob.

He found Brian in the living room, on the sofa with his laptop.

“I’m not working, I swear,” Brian said, looking up at Justin as he came into the room. “Just in case Cynthia has given you any orders.”

“She hasn’t, but I’m glad to know she’s on my side,” Justin laughed. “I could use some help keeping you in line.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Brian rolled his eyes.

Justin walked into the kitchen and started to reach for the coffeemaker, then suddenly remembered his “homework” from John. Maybe today would be a good day to start. Might as well. Putting it off would probably hurt more than it helped.

“I think I’ll do something different today,” Justin said, trying to keep his tone bright. Nonchalant. “Maybe I’ll go get us something from that coffee shop in the building next door.”

Brian looked at Justin and raised his eyebrow. “Okay…” he said slowly, drawing out the vowels.

“Be thinking about what you want.” Justin ignored Brian’s obvious confusion, which had seemed, oddly, to be mixed with suspicion. He walked back down the hallway toward their bedroom so he could get dressed, already starting to go over in his mind what the steps would be to getting this done without freaking out. But the problem with thinking about that was that it was already causing his anxiety to rise.

He looked up at the ceiling and took a few deep breaths, trying to psych himself up. Telling himself that it would only take a few minutes. And Brian seemed to be feeling really good. He could do this. Everything would be fine.

He pushed aside the thoughts that were trying to creep into his mind, telling him how quickly things could change. After all, they’d changed pretty quickly yesterday, when Brian went from sleeping peacefully to having a violent nightmare. But no, he couldn’t go down that road. Mentally, it helped him to address the thoughts as if they were a person and say to himself (and his thoughts), I see you, and I hear you, but I’m not going there right now.

Justin continued to fight that mental battle as he pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt -- still his daily uniform, no matter how much Brian tried to get him to care about fashion as much as he did. Justin liked to be comfortable. And he knew his pants were too long -- he didn’t care.

By the time Justin got back into the living room to ask Brian what he wanted, he was already feeling nervous. He just hoped it wouldn’t show.

He sat down in the chair on the other side of the room, facing Brian. Stalling. Because he really didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to say, I’ll do it tomorrow. But then, he’d just keep saying that until he ran out of tomorrows, and he knew that.

Brian looked at him curiously over the top of the computer screen.

“Well, are you going or not?” he said, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Probably wondering why Justin had been so gung-ho about this a few minutes ago, and had merely come back into the living room to sit down and do absolutely fucking nothing. Justin was fully aware that what he was doing made no sense; he really didn’t need Brian to remind him. “I probably should pass, since one of the things on my list of ‘don’ts’ was coffee.”

Justin was only sort-of hearing Brian’s words. He was too far up in his own head to actually comprehend them. He was still going over the steps in his mind of what he needed to do -- get up from this chair, stop being a pussy, ride the elevator down to the lobby, go outside, walk however many feet it was to get to the building next door, go into the coffee shop, remind himself to stop being a pussy, order his coffee, wait for it, and go back home, calmly. Without running to try to get back upstairs as soon as possible. And without freaking out during any part of the process. That was probably going to be the tall order, because he could already feel his brain on high alert.

“Justin?” Brian said. “Did you hear what I said?”

Justin shook his head, in a desperate effort to break up the cacophony of thoughts that were currently racing through his mind.

“Justin, what’s wrong?” Brian was definitely concerned now. He folded up the laptop and set it aside, then scooted himself down to where his wheelchair sat and slid his body over to it. He was over at Justin’s side seconds later, taking his hand. He knew Brian would be able to feel his nervous energy -- he always had. That was one thing Justin remembered.

“Nothing,” Justin said, knowing full-well that Brian wouldn’t believe him. And he was right.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Brian said, in that gentle, patient tone he used when he knew Justin was upset about something. “If you don’t want to go, then you don’t have to go.”

“I have to go,” Justin said, more to the floor than to Brian. He immediately regretted saying that, but he wasn’t sure what else he could have said. He did have to go. He didn’t have a choice.

“Why? Why do you have to go?”

Justin didn’t say anything, and he didn’t make eye contact with Brian.

“Justin, what? Why do you have to go?”

There was no getting out of this now, and Justin knew it. “Remember when we had to walk down the street all those times, with me hanging onto your arm, to prove to me that no one was going to jump out at me with a baseball bat? That no one was going to hurt me?” Justin looked up at Brian. He didn’t want to, but he did anyway.

“Yes…” Brian was wary now. And concerned. And still confused. Justin could clearly see that in his eyes, even through the weird curtain of misunderstanding that it sometimes felt like brain injury had pulled over him. Brian always said so much with his eyes. Thank god Justin hadn’t lost his ability to read them.

“It’s the same thing.”

“If you got mugged and you haven’t told me…”

“No, it’s not that. It’s…” Justin took a deep breath and blew it out with a sigh. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not at all.

“It’s what? Remember what you said last night about not keeping things from each other? If something has you this upset, I’m pretty sure it fucking qualifies.”

“I, um…” Fuck, how could he say this? What should he say? He had no fucking clue where to start.

Brian didn’t say anything, but his eyes were worried.

“I’m kind of struggling right now,” Justin said softly. He looked away again, not wanting to see Brian’s worry deepen and know that he’d caused it. “With anxiety.” He figured he’d save Brian the trouble of asking the question. He ran a hand through his hair nervously. “My brain chemistry’s all fucked up. Actually my whole brain feels fucked up.”

Brian reached out for Justin’s chin and tilted it up to face him. He was really, really worried now. Shit. “I thought that was getting better,” Brian said. “You told me things were better. That you felt better. That talking to John was helping.”

“It was.”

“And it’s not anymore?”

“I kind of had a setback. When you got sick.”

“Justin, I’m fine. I’m okay now.”

“I know you are. But I can’t seem to tell my anxiety brain that and have it actually believe me. I, um…” Why the fuck couldn’t he just be honest with Brian? Why was this so hard? “I had a panic attack when you were at the hospital.” The words came out carefully. Measured. As if he wasn’t sure how Brian would react. “It was a pretty bad one.”

“Why don’t I remember that?” Brian’s worry had melted into confusion again.

“Because you were unconscious. It was while you were still in the emergency room. They made me leave so they could take you up to your room, and by that point I’d already been fighting it for over an hour, and I just lost it. I lost my shit in front of everybody in the ER waiting room. Thank god nobody touched me. I think maybe they all thought I was crazy. They were afraid of me. That’s how Rob ended up coming to the hospital -- I called him, because I knew I needed someone there, in case…” He and Brian both knew the end to that sentence. In case it got bad enough that he passed out. He needed someone to think for him when he couldn’t think straight. “But, it doesn’t matter. No guilt, right?”

“Right…” Brian let his voice trail off, like he was waiting for Justin to continue.

Might as well just say it.

“So, I’m afraid to leave you alone. I’m afraid something’s going to happen. That you’ll get sick again, or you’ll need help with something, and I won’t be here, and you’ll get hurt...” Justin felt so stupid saying all of that out loud, especially to Brian. It sounded like he didn’t trust Brian, or like he didn’t think he was an adult who could take care of himself. “My therapy homework is to go to the coffee shop next door three times this week. Just like when we walked down the street. Only this time, you can’t help me. I have to do this by myself. I know you want to fix it for me, but you can’t. You can’t fix this. I’m the only one who can. And I can’t manage to get the fuck out of my own way.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Brian said. “You can do this. You did it before, and you can do it again. And I can help you. By staying right here, and being just fine when you get back. You go and get your coffee, and I’ll be right here. I promise I won’t leave this room.”

Brian made a couple of jokes about planting roots and seriously not moving a single muscle, trying to make Justin laugh. It took a minute, but it worked. Brian still had to gently prod Justin out the door, but he went.

A few minutes later, he was out the door, down the elevator, into the lobby, out onto the sidewalk, into the coffee shop, and ordering his “candy bar in a cup” as Brian called it. As if his white mocha from the shop by Justin’s studio wasn’t the same thing.

In the elevator on the way down, he’d been thinking about what he was going to get, wondering if Brian would eat a scone if he brought him one. But once he got to the coffee shop, all he wanted to do was complete the task at hand as quickly as possible and then run back to the apartment. He felt like he probably wasn’t supposed to run, but he wanted to.

He tried his best to not look like a tweaked-out crystal queen while he was ordering, but he was so damn worked up that it was impossible. He ordered the drink and practically threw the cash down on the counter.

Now, he had to wait. He was standing at the other end of the counter now, with at least five other people who were also waiting on their drinks. Apparently it was going to be a while.

As Justin stood and tried to wait patiently, his mind was racing, and he could feel his heartbeat picking up the pace to match. All he could think about were his what-ifs. What if Brian needed to go to the bathroom and missed the transfer and fell out of his chair? What if he needed to lie down but he was too weak to get up to their bed? The list of possibilities was endless, and even though Brian had promised he would stay in the living room, there were plenty of situations that could unexpectedly come up that would mean going elsewhere. Doing something. Taking risks.

Thinking of it that way made Justin feel even dumber than he already did. His brain was making it sound like Brian was skydiving or something. Not just sitting in the living room on his laptop, probably chatting with Michael about something only Michael found interesting.

Two other people got their drinks. So he was getting closer. But he was also starting to feel like the walls were closing in. He was fighting to keep the pace of his breath normal. Trying to tell himself that this was stupid -- standing in a coffee shop about to have an anxiety attack over your 45-year-old husband being at home by himself.

Why was it so easy to talk about letting go of worry, but so hard to actually do it?

He knew this wasn’t his fault -- it was his fucked up brain blowing everything out of proportion -- but that did nothing to make him feel like less of an idiot. Right now, he just needed to not lose his shit in public. Particularly not when there would be no one to rescue him.

One more person got their coffee, and it wasn’t Justin.

What if he did lose it? Would Brian come looking for him after a while? How long would it be before Brian started doubting whether or not everything was okay? How long would Justin have to fight off well-meaning strangers until Brian got there and made him feel safe again?

Those thoughts weren’t comforting either.

Those thoughts made him want to curl up in the corner and hide from the world.

He had to fucking stop this. He had to.

This was why he was doing this. Because he had to get past this. He had to push these irrational thoughts out of his mind.

The last person who’d been there before Justin got their drink and their warmed muffin. Finally. Justin was up next.

Anticipation almost made things worse, though, because now he knew he’d be going home soon, and it made him want to run back even more. But he couldn’t come back without his drink. Shit, he thought to himself. He forgot to order Brian’s scone.

Oh well. Too late now. He wasn’t getting back in line and starting this process all over again. Not when he was probably less than a minute from being able to go home and get some semblance of relief from these intrusive thoughts. Labeling them didn’t help -- catastrophizing, black-and-white thinking, overgeneralization… He knew they were stupid. Knowing just how stupid they were and why only made him feel worse.

Justin was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn’t hear the barista call out his name. Come to think of it, he didn’t even remember giving the cashier his name. But he must have.

Christ, he was a mess.

When he realized that he was free to go, he grabbed his drink up off the counter so quickly that he nearly knocked it over, and practically ran out the door. He fought to keep his pace at a brisk walk as he traversed the distance of the sidewalk between the door to the coffee shop and the door to their apartment building. He hoped that one of the elevators would be waiting on the ground floor, but no such luck. He had to wait what seemed like for-fucking-ever for one of them to come down and pick him up. He almost gave up and took the stairs, but he wasn’t sure he trusted his balance -- another thing about him that still wasn’t quite right but wasn’t “off” enough to feel worth mentioning most of the time.

After the slowest elevator ride in the history of the world, Justin practically burst through the door of their apartment, incredibly relieved to see Brian still sitting in the living room, moving his wheels back and forth just slightly in that fidgety way he did sometimes, when he was nervous or when he was thinking about something. Their eyes met, and Justin could see the distress in his eyes. The tension in the way his hands gripped the wheels. Brian had been anxious too.

But Justin had made it. He’d even been gone longer than he’d anticipated. And Brian was fine.

The same was true the next day. The trip wasn’t quite as long, but it also wasn’t quite as nerve wracking.

The third day, Brian wasn’t in the living room when Justin came home. Justin fought back the momentary panic and instead walked as calmly as he could down the hallway, pushing back the what-ifs. The bathroom door was shut and Justin could hear movement from inside. Nothing unusual sounding -- just the normal things he was used to hearing. He made himself go back in the living room and wait patiently, telling himself that there was absolutely nothing out-of-the-ordinary going on and he had no reason to hover outside the door like some sort of worried wife. A few minutes later, Justin had his visual confirmation that Brian was still just fine. And he’d managed not to panic in the meantime.

Maybe he could do this after all.

By the end of the week, Justin had been to the coffee shop almost every day, and nothing had happened to Brian. He’d even ventured a couple of blocks away to buy them lunch once, too -- a bonus trip, leaving the house twice in the same day. And, best of all, Brian was starting to get back to normal. He was still really tired and sleeping a lot, but his strength was coming back, and that helped lessen Justin’s worries too.

Justin had been painting a little bit with the supplies he’d brought home from his studio, but having only brought two canvases home with him was posing a bit of a problem. He knew what he needed to do, but could he do it? Was he ready to jump from staying gone for a few minutes at a time to get a latte or to pick up soup and sandwiches, to staying gone for almost an hour? Or longer, if he just stayed at the studio to work instead?

Brian sensed Justin’s apprehension as they sat together at the table, eating breakfast. Brian had just sent off a text message to Cynthia, who was conducting Brian’s client meetings for him this week -- still very much against his will. Brian looked up right as Justin was scratching behind his ear, debating with himself about whether or not such a long time away was feasible. He tried to avoid questioning whether or not it was safe. But the ear scratch was all Brian needed. Given that, he might as well have been able to read Justin’s thoughts directly.

Damn nervous habits. And damn his husband who pays attention to every little thing, even when he acts like he doesn’t.

It took a lot of bargaining, and a lot of convincing, but ultimately, Brian got Justin to go to his studio -- at least to pick up some more supplies so he could keep painting and creating from home. And again, when he got back, Brian was fine. Actually, Cynthia was there too, promising Justin that she would have kicked Brian’s ass personally with her stiletto heels if he tried anything funny.

Just like with the coffee shop, Justin kept going, day after day -- proving to himself that none of the horrible things his mind was conjuring up were coming true. And the more times he saw that, the easier it got to believe. Just like when Brian had held his hand as they walked together down Liberty Avenue.

By the time Cynthia went back to Pittsburgh, all of Justin’s art supplies had migrated back to their rightful home -- in his studio. And Justin was back in there working. Experimenting. Continuing to build his confidence, in more ways than one.

He could do this.

It might not always be easy, but he could do it. One day at a time.

And Brian would be okay.

They both would.

Because they had each other, and that was really all they needed.