“I want the full-color comps on my desk first thing in the morning. And set up a conference call with Remson for 10, so that he can sign off. … When it’s your own business, the sign on the door says, ‘We never close.’ Come to think of it, that’s what it used to say on the old bath house door.”

*****

Stress. That was all it was. Just stress.

It had been a rough last few days -- last couple of weeks, really. And Brian’s body was definitely revolting.

Sometimes he forgot how fucking annoying involuntary muscle spasms were, even in parts of your body that you can’t feel. Most of the time, the medication he took daily for it was enough to keep it from happening, but when he was really stressed, it always came back. Like the paralyzed part of his body saying, “Hey, you really shouldn’t abuse me like this.” And he knew he shouldn’t. But sometimes he didn’t have a choice.

Sometimes there were just things that needed to be done, and Brian had to do them, regardless of what the fucked-up nerves in his lower body had to say about it.

The ever-present ache in Brian’s back had increased to more of a painful throb as well, likely thanks to spending so much time sitting in front of his computer. Justin had been right about that -- he was spending too much time there.

He didn’t normally do that much work on his computer anymore, and when he did, he tried to mix it up a little and take the laptop to the sofa sometimes, where he could lean back into the pillows and prop his feet up.

He knew his posture wasn’t always the greatest when he was sitting at his desk, and he was glad that it was coming up on time to order himself a new chair, because something definitely wasn’t right anymore, and he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Maybe he just needed a different kind of backrest, given that the back pain that had been a constant presence in Brian’s life for a decade now seemed to be ratcheting up a notch for some reason. Fuck whatever anybody said about taking advantage of the fact that he had good abdominal control and thus, good sitting balance, which meant he could go with the lower height options without any problem. He wasn’t getting any younger -- a fact he’d only admit begrudgingly -- and he was starting to think some more support might be a good thing. Although that thought was making him wonder when he’d turned into an old man.

He also knew what Rob would tell him if he even so much as mentioned any of that. That his body was changing and that was normal and it happens to every single person on the planet, and it’s going to keep happening. That yes, spinal cord injury complicates it, but at the end of the day, it’s just part of getting older, no matter how old you are. That you just have to accept it and move on. Although that was a skill that Brian had never been particularly good at when it came to aging.

It was why he’d dreaded turning 30. Why he’d always said he wanted to go out while he was still young and beautiful. He no longer felt that way, but change was sometimes still hard to accept.

Brian knew what he was getting into any time he got boxed into having to work like this. He knew the result wouldn’t be pretty, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made, he supposed.

The nerve pain, though, he could have done without.

He’d thought he was done with that after Justin woke up and remembered that he loved him and Brian started at least trying to take care of himself again. He’d suffered through the burning and the stinging and the never ending pins-and-needles for a while, but then it faded away again, mostly once he managed to get a little bit of sleep and got over the urinary tract infection.

It was yet another thing that was usually well-managed, but when he was stressed out, it would creep back into the picture.

And yesterday, it had come back with a vengeance.

After several hours of trying, Justin had finally talked Brian into resting for a while on the sofa -- although really, Brian had only done it to shut Justin up. Once he got there, though, he realized how much he needed it, even though he’d never admit it. He could see how swollen his feet were as soon as he got them up onto the cushions, and his back felt like it sighed in relief as he took the pressure off by lying down. But Justin didn’t stop there -- he was still as persistent as he’d always been, and he kept going until he’d talked Brian into a nap. Although, really, it hadn’t taken much convincing, because a nap sounded pretty good, even though Brian tried to act like he didn’t want to do it. Truthfully, he did. He was exhausted, and he knew it. And maybe, just maybe, it would quiet the uncomfortable burning sensation that he’d had in his legs all day.

It didn’t.

If anything, it might have somehow made it worse. Or else it just got worse on its own and the nap had no effect whatsoever. That was the more likely explanation.

It had taken a lot for Brian to ask Justin to call Ted and tell him he was taking the rest of the day off. Brian didn’t feel like he could afford to do that, really, but at the time, he also hadn’t been sure he could get out of bed without tears springing to his eyes involuntarily because he was so stiff and sore and his legs hurt so fucking bad and the pain medication he’d taken was doing jack shit for it.

So he’d asked for another pill and had Justin help him take his jeans off just in case they were part of the problem, and he’d kind of liked it when Justin had tucked him in, if he was being honest. Then, he’d fallen asleep. When he woke up, Justin surprised the hell out of him.

The first surprise was finding Justin in the office, instead of on the couch watching television, like he spent most of his days now. The second surprise was what he saw when Justin turned the screen to face him.

There it was, exactly what he’d been trying unsuccessfully to get his art department to do. And Justin had done it. All by himself, apparently. Brian hadn’t even known Justin was listening to all of those conversations, but clearly he had been. And he’d done it. He’d taken the leap.

Brian could tell how challenging it had been for Justin to do what he’d done -- he could see it in the shy smile on Justin’s face when he revealed his finished product. But he could also see in Justin’s eyes how proud he was of it.

It made Brian proud too.

And it was the last thing Brian expected to see less than a week after he’d held Justin while he cried tears of despair over being released from physical therapy. Brian had tried his best to say all the right things that night, but he wasn’t sure if he got through to Justin. He tried to be encouraging and supportive without being overbearing, and he managed to push aside all of the fear and worry and the tiny bit of anger he’d felt at Justin for going missing all afternoon and a good chunk of the evening. What mattered in that moment was that his husband was hurting, and he wished harder than he’d ever wished for anything in his life that he could fix it somehow. But he couldn’t. No one could.

All that there was left to do was grieve the loss and try to move on. Brian had been there, though, and he knew that was a long process. He also knew that, in the end, it would all be up to Justin. There really wasn’t anything Brian could do other than offer support.

But as he’d sat in his home office, looking at the artwork Justin had created for his campaign, Brian had felt like maybe he had gotten through after all.

Brian rolled over in bed and looked at the clock, surprised to see that it was after 8 a.m. They’d gone to bed relatively early, but apparently Brian’s body had decided it needed more sleep. He wasn’t surprised after the long day -- and week -- he’d had. But he needed to get to work.

He was still tired, and the low-level burning sensation that felt like it was emanating from his legs in pulses made him want to curl up and stay in bed, but he couldn’t do that. He had too much he had to get done.

He sat up, pushing his legs over the side of the bed, and transferred to his wheelchair. The apartment was oddly quiet. Brian couldn’t hear the sound of the television in the living room, nor could he smell coffee -- two things that were always present whenever Justin woke up before he did.

Brian took care of everything he needed to do in the bathroom as quickly as he could, put some clothes on, picked his phone up off the nightstand, and went out into the living room. He expected to see Justin reading a book or doing some other quiet activity, but he wasn’t there. So Brian checked the office, but he wasn’t there either. Did he have some sort of appointment this morning that Brian had forgotten about? He was reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone so he could check his calendar, when he saw the note on the counter.

It was just a small scrap of paper, torn off of the magnetic notepad that hung on the refrigerator, written in handwriting that, at this point, still felt unfamiliar to Brian. The note consisted of just a few words:

Studio. Back later. - J

Brian couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face as he held the piece of paper between his fingers. Those three words held so much significance, especially in the face of what had happened over the last week. And in spite of it all, or maybe even because of it, Justin had finally gone back to his studio.

Just that knowledge made Brian want to go down there himself, to see what Justin was working on, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He shouldn’t. He needed to let Justin have his own space to do whatever he wanted to do, and he needed to wait until Justin wanted to show him whatever he’d been working on. It was hard, though, and the impulse to grab his coat and head down to the subway was strong.

Still smiling to himself, Brian laid the note down on the counter, went into the kitchen, and started making coffee. He’d just closed the lid and turned it on when his phone started to ring. It was Jennifer.

“Hey mom,” he answered, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he reached for a coffee mug and set it down on the counter. Christ, his neck was stiff.

“Hey,” she said. “I’ve got some good news. Can you talk?”

“Yeah, I’m the only one here.” Brian stretched his neck from side to side as he held the phone to his ear, wincing as he did it. “So are we good to go?”

“We’re good to go. Your offer was accepted. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, we’ll be able to close in a couple of weeks.”

Brian watched the coffee drip slowly into the pot. So this was becoming reality. He was buying a house in Michael and Ben’s neighborhood. Brian still wasn’t sure what had possessed him to call Jennifer the day after Justin’s next-to-last therapy appointment and tell her he wanted to make an offer on the house she’d told him about. She’d sounded every bit as surprised to receive his call as he was to be making it, but there was just something about Justin’s voice when he said he missed his mom. It made Brian want to take action. So he’d jumped. Taking a bit of his own advice, he supposed.

“Where’s Justin this morning?” Jennifer asked.

“At his studio, believe it or not.”

“Wow,” Jennifer said. “That’s great.” She sounded relieved, and Brian could practically see the smile on her face just from hearing her voice. “I’m almost afraid to ask, because I don’t want to jinx it, but what brought that on? I mean, the last time you and I talked, it sounded like...”

Jennifer let her voice trail off, as if she wasn’t sure how to finish her sentence, but Brian didn’t need her to finish it.

“I wish I knew. It was like he just...decided to do something. He designed a graphic for me yesterday that no one in my entire art department could manage to produce, saved my ass for the presentation I’m supposed to give this afternoon, and this morning, I woke up and found a note saying he’s at his studio and he’ll be back later.”

“I’m glad he’s doing something. I just hope he’s happy with the results.”

“You and me both.”

The two of them worked out the rest of the logistics for how they’d close on the house, with the purchase being made by Kinnetikorp -- the umbrella under which Brian operated both Kinnetik as well as Babylon -- and Ted acting as his representative. Everyone involved had been sworn to secrecy, as Brian wanted the house to be a surprise for Justin. Now, he just had to work on getting everything lined up so renovations could start as soon as they closed.

The house was single-story, but it still needed some work to make it fully accessible -- ramps at the front and back doors, modifying the bathroom, and making the kitchen work for someone who used a wheelchair were at the top of the list, along with tearing out the carpet in the bedrooms and replacing it with hardwood flooring that matched what was already in the rest of the house. Ideally, Brian wanted to make it ADA compliant, because he was planning on taking Jennifer’s suggestion of offering the house up for short-term rentals when he and Justin weren’t staying there, and he knew firsthand how difficult it could be to travel as a person with a disability. Particularly, how frustrating it was when you booked something and they claimed it was accessible, then you got there and it wasn’t. It was almost enough to make him not want to travel at all, because not only was it frustrating, it could also lead to some embarrassing situations. Even though it would require less renovations was he merely adapting it to himself and his own needs, he had a feeling his investment would pay off even more if he took it one step further. So he was.

But thinking about all of that would have to wait, because Brian had a presentation to prepare for. He had a mid-afternoon appointment with the first big client he’d landed in New York, with a total overhaul of their campaign, and he still needed to put the finishing touches on what he wanted to say, as well as pick up the boards featuring Justin’s artwork from the printer. He couldn’t wait to show them what Justin had created.

Brian could already feel a headache starting behind his eyes. Christ, he thought, not today of all days.

He just needed to get through today, then he could take a few days off. Maybe. If all the stars aligned.

Brian poured himself a cup of coffee, adding a generous amount of sugar, then made his way back to his office. He wanted to hold his breath as he opened his email, because he wasn’t looking forward to wading through the pile of messages he was sure he’d accrued between yesterday afternoon and now. Half of them were probably crap that other people could have -- and should have -- taken care of, that they would shove off on him. And because he wanted it done right instead of done half-assed, most of the time, he’d go ahead and do it himself. Maybe they knew that, and that was why they sent them his way in the first place. Because then they wouldn’t have to do it themselves.

He was about halfway through the new messages in his inbox -- and had kicked most of the bullshit over to Cynthia to take care of -- when his phone rang again. This time, it was Rob. Brian looked at the phone for a few seconds, letting it ring, before sending it to voicemail. He hated to do that, but he had too much he needed to do. Rob left a message, but Brian didn’t listen to it. He waited a few more minutes before sending a text message to Rob, letting him know he’d need to cancel their lunch, because he’d be working through it. He’d had to do the same last week, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Rob refused to be ignored, but for right now, Brian was going to let it ride and try to stay focused on his work.

Brian closed the text messaging app, his eyes settling briefly on the icon for the meditation app he’d downloaded after his last session with Rochelle. The app he hadn’t used at all. He hadn’t promised her anything -- in fact, he’d laughed out loud when she suggested that he try meditation as a way of helping him deal with stress, regardless of its source. That if he could find an effective way to neutralize stress and let it go, he might find it easier to move past the memories of Justin’s prom that were still lurking in the back of his mind, ready to pop up at the most inopportune times.

“The response you’re having to those memories is stress-based, Brian,” she’d said. He’d bitten his tongue to avoid giving her the smartass response he wanted to, concerning the fact that post-traumatic stress disorder did, indeed, have stress in the name. “So this is what we’re dealing with,” she continued. “You need tools to help you process those feelings in the moment. Meditation can help give you that. There’s a ton of scientific evidence out there supporting this. To put it simply, when you’re having a nightmare or a flashback, your brain is stuck in a loop. Certain parts of your brain become overactive when you have PTSD, and they keep that loop going. But meditation can help slow those parts back down, helping you get out of the loop. It also helps you practice feeling things without reacting to them or getting caught up in them. I know it doesn’t sound like your cup of tea, and trust me, I hesitated to even bring it up to you, but I really think it could help.”

She was absolutely right that it didn’t sound like his cup of tea. In fact, it sounded like she’d been talking to Rob, even though he knew she hadn’t. Surely there had to be another way to get past this. Hypnosis or witchcraft or some sort of quick fix that wouldn’t involve sitting and communing with the cosmos for ten minutes a day, or whatever-the-fuck people did when they meditated.

Still, he’d downloaded the app, and he’d even opened it up a couple of times when he was feeling particularly on-edge, but he hadn’t tried it. And he didn’t know if he ever would.

Brian opened up the outline for his presentation so he could go over it one last time. He’d been working with this client for seven years now -- the first really big account he’d landed in New York. Everything in the first few years after his move had seemed like small potatoes after he got this one. And the victory felt even sweeter because the client was extremely picky and notoriously difficult to please, but Brian had been able to deliver everything they wanted. He hoped that trend would continue with this complete overhaul of the campaign for their flagship product. He also knew that if he wanted the trend to continue, the presentation would have to be as perfect as Justin’s artwork was. There was no room for error.

After he’d overanalyzed every aspect of the campaign and the presentation at least half a dozen times, Brian headed for the shower so he could get ready for the meeting. As he undressed, Brian wondered what Justin was doing in his studio. Curiosity was really getting the best of him, but he knew he had to give Justin space, and he was going to do that, even if it killed him.

The warm water in the shower brought with it a slight sense of relief for the ache in Brian’s back, and it helped relax him a bit too. Today was one day when he was grateful for the modifications he’d made to the shower a few years ago, adding a second shower head on the back wall of the shower, so it would be behind him when he sat on his bench, and he could let the water sluice over his shoulders and down his spine without having to hold up the handheld portion that was attached to the main shower head on the other side. Sometimes it was really nice to just sit and let the water run over his body, especially when he was tired. And today, god, was he tired.

He hoped that the pain in his legs would stay at the level of just irritating, without crossing over into full-on distraction today. He’d much rather not have it at all, but that clearly wasn’t happening. At least, not today. The shower always helped a little, even though Brian didn’t understand why. Maybe just the fact that he was relaxing for a bit, or perhaps the way the warm water soothed his muscles, even the ones he couldn’t feel or control.

Brian really needed for this presentation to go well -- with nothing needing revising -- because he knew he needed a break. He was pushing the limits of what his body could handle, and he could feel it in the exhaustion that seemed to be permeating every fiber of his being. Physical and mental.

He leaned into the water, tilting his head back and letting his eyes close. Just one more day. He had to get through today, then he could sleep.

After several minutes, he finally managed to bring himself to turn the water off so he could finish getting ready, before he ended up making himself late. He slid the door open and reached for a towel, drying himself off quickly before laying another towel in the seat of his wheelchair, pulling it closer, and transferring himself to it. He wrapped the ends of the towel over his lap so he at least wasn’t completely naked going through the bedroom to get dressed, not that it mattered since no one else was there. Brian had never been a modest person. At least for most of the first 35 years of his life, he had never hesitated to let it all hang out, but that was one thing spinal cord injury had changed about him. He wasn’t really ashamed of the way his body looked anymore -- not the way he had been during the first year or two -- but sometimes it could be hard to look at, because it had changed so much, and was continuing to change as the years went by.

He went into the closet, pushing aside several suits before he settled on the one he’d bought most recently -- the one that had been custom tailored to his body and to the fact that he sat all the time. It had been expensive, but it was worth every penny because it looked really fucking good, if he did say so himself. So it was perfect for this presentation.

Brian put on his pants and his favorite Armani shirt, dried his hair, added the jacket and the tie, then checked his reflection in the mirror. He could see in his face and his eyes that he was tired, further backing up the notion that he’d been pushing himself too hard, in case he didn’t already know that. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too obvious to his client.

He called the car service to come pick him up, while he finished gathering up everything he needed from the apartment. Using a car service on days when he had important meetings made things so much easier, because he was no longer dependent on the subway schedule or whether or not elevators were working or trains were running on time or crazy people weren’t causing delays that made everybody late. Brian was glad to be free of that stress, without having to deal with finding a taxi driver that was willing to take a chance on picking him up, either.

His car arrived right on time, and Brian was waiting in the lobby of the apartment building when it pulled up. Brian’s first stop would be picking up the boards from the printers. He couldn’t wait to see Justin’s artwork in print. If it looked half as good in print as it had on the computer, it was going to be perfection.

Brian barely managed to get back in the car after picking them up, before he was sliding them out of the bag to check them out. They were exactly as he thought they’d be -- impressive, perfect, and precisely what he felt the client has asked for. Of course, that would be up to them, but Brian was rarely ever wrong about this. Hopefully, today would be no exception.

Everything started off going perfectly -- exactly the way Brian liked things to go. They were practically eating out of his hand, and they’d loved everything he’d shown them so far. Then, he started feeling that slight tightness in his belly that told him he needed a bathroom, and he’d need it soon. He furtively glanced at the clock on his laptop, trying to determine how much longer he had to go in the presentation, calculating whether or not he could wait, and trying not to let his face show how annoyed he was at his body for doing this right now.

He’d thought he had the timing down to a science by now -- his body was well-trained, and he’d done the same thing today that he always did to prepare for a meeting, so that he could avoid any potentially embarrassing situations arising during said meeting. He’d learned his lesson during his first few months back at work after his injury, when he’d ignored his body’s signals throughout an important meeting because he was too embarrassed to ask for a break, and it had resulted in his body deciding to do its own thing and get the relief it wanted one way or another -- thankfully after the meeting had adjourned, and not during it. Brian didn’t particularly want a repeat of those events, but he also really didn’t want to have to take an unscheduled recess in the middle of the presentation. And especially not with this client.

His body, however, had other plans. The feeling wasn’t going away -- it was getting worse. It was always subtle, and nothing at all like what he remembered it felt like before his injury, but there were definitely degrees of it. He tried to keep talking, tried to ignore it, and tried to not get too distracted by his internal fight about whether or not he should call a time-out before he ended up pissing his pants in front of a client. But when his right leg started to shake, he knew he wasn’t going to have a choice.

Brian excused himself, apologizing profusely to the client, but in his head, he was cursing. Cursing his body. Cursing this day. It pissed him off when his paralysis got in the way of things, because it reminded him how his physical situation was always going to take precedence in his life, over everything else. All of the acceptance in the world didn’t matter -- it was frustrating because it was always there, and it was always going to be paramount. But he never wanted it to be an excuse for anything, so he hated it when it basically had to be -- when he had no choice but to say something along the lines of, “Sorry, my body’s broken, so I need to waste ten minutes of your valuable time while I do this so I don’t piss my pants.” He knew it wasn’t broken -- just different -- but situations like this always made it feel broken.

And it was shit like this that made clients doubt his ability to do his job effectively. It shouldn’t, and it didn’t really make any sense that it did, but he could always tell when it was happening. Whenever his body decided to do something that turned their attention to his disability, the look in their eyes would shift, and he could practically see them losing confidence in him. He knew that it didn’t matter -- that his legs didn’t help him do his job at all, and he was every bit as good at what he did as he had been before, likely even better now that he had ten more years of experience owning his own firm. But their judgments were rooted in their own unconscious prejudices, and no matter how maddening they were, he couldn’t call them out if he wanted to continue to have a thriving business. He had to simply try to prove them wrong, and that took a lot of effort sometimes. Too much fucking effort. And that kind of pissed him off too.

When he finally finished what he needed to do -- thankfully he’d already seen where the bathroom was and hadn’t had to ask, making his request for a break even more explicit than he’d ever want it to be -- he made his way back into the room, and he saw the look. The look that told him he was going to have to bust his ass now to keep this account. He cursed silently to himself again, trying to be sure he kept his game face on and didn’t let on that he was rattled, and more than a bit annoyed.

He picked up where he left off, and had only been talking about target markets and return on investment for a couple of minutes when the CEO interrupted him to say, “Mr. Kinney, I have a flight to catch, if we could speed this along.”

The man’s impatient, slightly judgmental tone told Brian everything he needed to know. It took everything Brian had to not say, “Fuck it, and fuck you,” and to simply nod, agree, and continue. He wanted to keep this account, so he had to keep his cool. Brian managed to get through everything else that was essential to say in the next ten minutes, and they adjourned the meeting with a handshake and a promise that someone from their office would be in touch early next week.

So Brian left without even really knowing exactly what the result would be, after two weeks of burning the candle at both ends trying to get this pulled together. All of his hard work might have been undermined by one unscheduled ten-minute break that planted that seed of doubt in the client’s mind, and he’d have to wait all weekend to find that out.

Sometimes this shit really, really sucked.

It didn’t matter how much he’d embraced his life now, or how confident he was, or how charismatic. Sometimes it all still came down to superficial, ableist bullshit.

And dealing with that type of bullshit almost always left Brian needing a drink. Old habits die hard.

By the time Brian got back to the apartment, he had a headache and a deep-seated need for a glass of whiskey. He also kind of needed to see Justin’s smile and for Justin to tell him that it would all work out. But Justin still wasn’t home.

He hoped that was a good thing -- that it meant Justin had lost himself in some sort of artistic endeavor and not another fit of frustration.

Brian was stretched out on the chaise lounge at one end of the sofa, about halfway through his second glass of whiskey, when Justin walked through the door. It was dinner time, but Brian wasn’t hungry.

“Drinking already?” Justin said as he crossed the room and came up behind Brian, starting to massage his shoulders. God, it felt good, even if it could only be done one side at a time. “Should I even bother to ask how your meeting went?”

“Fuck if I know,” Brian said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice but not really succeeding. “Won’t find out until next week.” Brian reached over and set the glass down on the end table, then looked up at Justin. “I’d rather talk about your day. How was the studio?”

Justin smiled that shy smile he had that could make Brian do any goddamn thing for him. “It was good,” he said. “Really good.”

Brian didn’t have to ask Justin if he was happy with what he’d done -- it was written all over his face.

“What did you work on?” Brian asked, leaning into Justin’s touch.

“Just experimenting,” Justin said.

“Experimenting with…” Brian trailed off, hoping Justin would finish the sentence for him.

“That’s all. Just experimenting.”

Brian decided not to push any further -- if Justin wasn’t ready to tell him, then he would respect that, no matter how much he wanted to know. He was just glad that Justin had gone to his studio, and he’d come back happy. At least one thing had gone right today.

Justin came back around the sofa and plopped down next to Brian, leaning his head on Brian’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry you had a crappy day,” he said.

Brian shrugged and reached for his glass again, downing the rest of his drink in one swift gulp. “It is what it is,” he said. “No sense worrying about it now. I’ve done all I can do.” He interlaced his fingers with Justin’s. “Your artwork was killer by the way. The boards are amazing. I put them in the office if you want to see them.”

“I’d rather cheer you up first,” Justin said, starting to plant a series of small kisses along Brian’s jawline. Soon, Justin’s hands were unbuttoning Brian’s shirt and sliding across Brian’s chest as Justin kissed Brian hungrily. It all felt sublime, until Brian’s shirt was off and his pants were unbuttoned and Justin’s hands hit that area where everything could either be really, really good, or really, really bad. Tonight was one of the nights when it was really, really bad. Brian couldn’t stop himself from crying out, because it felt an electric shock when Justin’s fingers pressed against his hip. It was sharp, and it was strong, and it fucking hurt like hell.

Justin stopped, his eyes full of concern as he looked up at Brian.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

Brian closed his eyes and swallowed, steeling himself against the reverberation he was currently feeling as his fucked-up nerves sent a cacophony of mixed signals up the line to his brain.

“Shit,” Justin said. “I’m sorry.” He moved his hand and tried to smooth Brian’s pants back down, hitting Brian’s hip again in the process.

This time, it felt like Justin’s finger might as well have been a red-hot poker, and Brian had to bite his tongue to stay quiet. The burning sensation stuck around -- pulsating with each beat of Brian’s heart -- long after Justin’s hand had moved to clutch Brian’s.

“Are you okay?” Justin whispered, his lips lightly brushing Brian’s cheek in a soft kiss. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Brian squeezed his eyes shut more tightly and tried to regain control over his breath. He knew Justin didn't mean it, and he didn't need him to apologize for it. If anything, hearing him apologize only made Brian feel worse.

What the fuck was going on with his body? Was all of this just because he’d spent too much time sitting at his desk? Too much time working? Too much time not sleeping?

Once Brian’s breathing had returned to normal and the pain had faded to a tolerable level, he brought the hand Justin was holding up to his lips, kissing Justin’s fingers.

“I’m sorry, Sunshine,” he said softly. “I want it. I do. But...I can’t tonight.”

Brian hated having to say that. He hated knowing that his fucked-up nervous system was getting in the way of giving Justin something he wanted. Hell, he really did want it too, and that made the whole situation even more maddening.

But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

They went to bed early that night, and Brian fell asleep with Justin’s hand brushing lightly -- soothingly -- over his shoulder.

Brian woke up the next morning alone in the bed. He could tell by the angle of the sun streaming in the windows that it was much later than he normally got up, and one glance at the alarm clock confirmed that -- it was after 10 a.m. He groaned as he rolled over, feeling all of the muscles in his back tense up at the movement. Christ, he was glad he didn’t have to work today. He really had overdone it this week, and now he was going to pay the price.

He was moving very, very slowly -- out of necessity -- as he got himself out of bed and went about his morning routine.

When he made it into the living room, Justin was standing in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. He’d even bought wine, which Brian thought was strange, given that Justin still wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol, by order of his neurologist, and Justin knew that Brian preferred whiskey.

“Expecting company?” Brian questioned, pointing toward the bottle and raising an eyebrow.

“We’re having Rob and Adam over tonight, remember?” Justin said brightly, as he started pulling vegetables out of one of the bags.

No, he didn’t remember. In all of the chaos that the past week had been, he’d completely forgotten that this was their weekend to host.

Brian didn’t really want to have dinner guests, but he also didn’t want to say no, because Justin seemed excited about it. The last thing Brian wanted to do right now was put a damper on anything Justin was excited about, so he went along with it, even though he spent the afternoon dreading whatever Rob was going to say, given that Brian still hadn’t returned any of his calls, or even so much as listened to the voicemail messages.

Justin took care of everything -- from straightening up the apartment to cooking the meal -- which was a good thing, because Brian didn’t really have the energy to help out. He had a headache that nothing would touch, and his back was stiff and sore. But he tried to smile through it. Tried to act normal. Tried not to let his discomfort show in his face. Tried to at least eat something, even though he didn’t feel much like eating.

Brian was shifting his weight again, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t hurt, when Rob suddenly took their dinner conversation in a completely different direction.

“Alright, what’s going on with you?” Rob asked. When Brian looked up, he found Rob watching him curiously. There was a good amount of concern there too, that Brian didn’t like seeing because he knew what was about to happen, and Brian didn’t want to talk about it. He knew he’d been pushing himself too hard, and he didn’t need anyone else to call him out on it.

“Nothing,” Brian shrugged. “I’m fine.” Brian knew he wasn’t fine, but he also hoped that Rob would let it go.

Instead, Rob turned to Justin. “Okay, is everything alright with Mr. Hard-Headed over here?”

Justin glanced apprehensively at Brian and opened his mouth to speak, but Brian spoke first. “I said I’m fucking fine. Seriously. Jesus Christ.” The words came out harsher than he intended, but whatever -- it would get his point across.

Adam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Rob turned back to Brian. “For a guy who is ‘seriously fucking fine,’ you seriously look like shit,” he said.

“Just tired.” Brian picked up his fork and turned his attention to his plate, purely to avoid looking Rob in the eye. He’d been feeling nauseous all day, so he wasn’t really interested in eating, but he could at least pretend to be, for the sake of distraction.

The incredulous look he could see Rob giving him in his peripheral vision was exactly the reason he was avoiding Rob’s gaze.

“Can we please talk about something else?” Brian said, cursing how weary his voice sounded, but he was desperate to change the subject and move the focus away from how shitty he looked, which he knew matched how shitty he felt. “I don’t particularly enjoy being the topic of conversation when I’m right fucking here.”

Rob, thankfully, let the subject drop, but Brian had a feeling that wasn’t the end of the conversation. They spent the rest of the meal discussing plans for the conference they’d be attending that summer, just as they had been for a few years now -- where they’d convene with over a hundred other people whose lives were affected by spinal cord injury, and spend the week meeting with legislators and advocating for disability-related issues. Brian continued picking at his plate and trying to participate in the conversation, but the amount of pain he was in was making it hard to focus on anything else.

After everyone else had finished eating and Brian had managed to make it look like he’d eaten more than he actually had, Justin took Adam into the office to show him something he’d found on the internet, leaving Rob and Brian alone in the kitchen, cleaning up.

“Okay, tell me what’s really going on,” Rob said, as he rinsed plates and put them in the dishwasher. “And not the watered-down, ‘I don’t want to worry Justin because he has enough to worry about’ version. Justin’s not here, so give it to me straight.”

“I told you. Nothing.” Brian focused his attention on putting the leftovers into containers, just so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with Rob. Not that Rob wasn’t seeing right through him anyhow, but Brian really didn’t want to be having this conversation.

“Then why do you look like you haven’t slept in a week?”

“Because I’ve got a lot going on with work.”

“And Justin is just standing by, letting you run yourself into the ground? Or is he trying to make you stop, and you’re refusing to listen?”

Brian shrugged.

“Look, Justin might not have a frame of reference for this because he doesn’t remember, but I know this isn’t normal for you.” Rob stopped what he was doing and looked at Brian, saying nothing, until Brian met his gaze. “I know that you know what you need to do to take care of yourself, and for most of the past nine years, I’ve known you to do it. You work hard, and you’re a stubborn son of a bitch, but you still do what you need to do. Right now, though, you’re not. You’re burying yourself in work. You won’t return my calls. You’ve canceled lunch with me twice. And I’m serious when I say that you look like shit.”

“That’s been firmly established. Thanks a lot.” Brian looked away again and started putting lids on the containers, stacking them up in a neat pile. He swallowed hard against the sick feeling in his stomach.

“Brian, you know what I mean. I can tell that you feel like shit too. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Doing what to myself? It’s just a busy time at work, and I have a lot of shit to do. That’s all.” Brian checked the temperature of the containers with the back of his hand before setting them in his lap to carry them to the refrigerator.

“I’m not buying that, and you know it. What are you hiding from?”

“I’m not hiding from anything.” Brian pulled the refrigerator door open and took an inordinately long time to transfer the containers to the shelves. He needed to find an escape from this conversation, and having his head in the refrigerator was a convenient temporary reprieve.

“You’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I know that. You’ve had a lot to deal with. It’s hard to watch someone you love suffer.”

“It’s a lot harder on him.” Brian closed the refrigerator door and turned to face Rob again.

“I won’t argue with that, but it affects you too. You can’t act like it doesn’t. Again, I’m not buying. There’s something going on with you. Are you still having nightmares?”

“No, I take a pill and I sleep like a baby. I just don’t have much time to do it lately.”

“Tell me what’s going on, then. How can I help?”

“I’ve already told you. It’s just work shit, and I’m fine. Now drop it, please.” Brian turned to leave the kitchen, but Rob stopped him with a hand on his wheel.

“Brian, I’m not saying any of this just to hassle you,” Rob said. “I’m saying it because I care, and because I know what can happen if you don’t take care of yourself. Trust me, I’ve been there, and I’ve done it. It can get really, really bad. You don’t want it to get that way.”

Brian didn’t say anything. He looked at Rob’s hand gripping his tire, then raised his gaze to meet to Rob’s eyes. Brian could clearly see that Rob was concerned, but that didn’t make it any easier to be on the receiving end of what felt like a lecture. He knew Rob meant well, but he was a grown man, and he didn’t need anyone telling him what to do.

“I know you don’t like to talk about this stuff, and I know I’m probably putting myself at the top of your shit list right now,” Rob said.

Brian huffed, but still said nothing.

“Just promise me that you’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do to help,” Rob continued. “Please don’t wait until you’ve got a big problem. I know you like to do everything yourself, just to prove you can, and I get that, but sometimes we all need help.”

Rob moved his hand, and Brian left the kitchen without responding, right as Justin and Adam came back into the living room. This was one time that Brian was thankful that Justin was talkative, because the excited, bubbly conversation about art that he and Adam brought with them into the living room was a perfect distraction.

Brian’s stomach still felt queasy, and his head was pounding. Rob had been right -- he did feel like shit -- but being interrogated about it certainly didn’t help. At this stage in the game, Brian didn’t know what was going on with his body, but he knew he needed it to stop, whatever it was.

As they all sat in the living room together, Brian tried to stay engaged in the conversation, but the throbbing pain in his head was making it impossible to pay attention, so eventually, he let his eyes close as he leaned back into the pillows he’d stacked up behind him on one end of the sofa. A few minutes later, he heard Rob say something about needing to get home to relieve the babysitter. Adam started to speak, but stopped after two words, then abruptly shifted to agree with Rob. Brian opened his eyes, noting that his eyelids suddenly felt heavy, and he was having trouble focusing. What the fuck was going on? What was this, and why was it hitting him so hard, so quickly?

Rob came over to give Brian a hug, saying quietly in his ear, “Get some rest. Whatever else there is to do, it can wait. It isn’t worth your health.” Brian nodded tiredly as Rob squeezed his shoulder. Even through the haze of exhaustion, Brian could see how worried his friend was. Rightfully so, he guessed, considering that he couldn’t manage to keep his eyes open long enough to watch them go out the door.

It wasn’t much longer after Rob and Adam left that Justin was whispering, “Come on, let’s go to bed,” and gently helping Brian get from the couch to his chair -- something Brian normally would have objected to, but he was too tired to care. He also felt shaky, which he knew from unfortunate past experience could certainly precipitate a fall, so it was better to let Justin help, even if it hurt his pride. He knew Justin wouldn’t judge, but it still hurt.

Justin stayed outside when Brian went into the bathroom, where he completed just the essential parts of his normal nightly routine, because he was too spent to do it all.

Brian was only about half awake as Justin helped him get into bed and take off his jeans, leaving him only in his t-shirt and underwear.

“You’re shivering,” he heard Justin say softly as he retrieved a pair of Brian’s pajama pants from the dresser.

“Those won’t help,” Brian mumbled, too tired to elaborate on why.

“Well, I don’t think they’ll hurt.”

Through half-closed eyes, Brian watched Justin slide the pants up his legs. Brian pushed his hands down on the bed to lift his hips up a little to help out, but that was all he had the energy for. Fuck, he thought to himself, what had happened to him over the last couple of hours? He tried to think back over the rest of the day, and the week, to see if he could figure it out, but he was too worn out to give it much thought. All he wanted to do was sleep.

The duvet was warm and cozy, which was comforting because Brian felt chilled to the bone. He felt Justin put an arm around him and snuggle up.

Too exhausted to fight sleep any longer, Brian let himself drop off into unconsciousness.

Justin’s voice seemed far away at first, as he repeated Brian’s name. Brian felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He vaguely became aware that his stomach felt damp, and part of his t-shirt was wet. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open and tried to focus on Justin’s face. His head felt like it was going to explode, and every bit of the chill he’d been feeling when he fell asleep had been replaced with burning heat. He wanted out from under the duvet, but his arm felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Brian,” he heard Justin say, in that strange, high-pitched tone he used when he was anxious about something but was trying to sound calmer than he felt. “You… You had an accident. I think this is blood. It’s a lot of blood. Fuck, what do I do?”

Brian wasn’t sure if Justin was talking to him or to himself -- all he knew was that he still sort of felt like he was underwater, and he didn’t have the energy to fight his way to the surface. He was trying to keep his eyes open, trying to figure out what was happening, but he was so, so sleepy.

“Yeah, I think that’s blood,” Justin said again. His voice still sounded unnatural. Not like him at all. “Shit, I don’t know what to do. Brian? Can you open your eyes for me?”

He managed to open them again and keep them open for a few seconds, long enough to see the panic and worry in Justin’s eyes, but he still couldn’t make his brain work to try to make sense out of what was going on. It was like all of his thoughts were moving through molasses. “Tired,” he mumbled, as his eyes closed again.

“Okay,” Justin breathed. “Okay.” The second repetition sounded more confident. “Brian,” Justin said loudly, as if he wasn’t quite sure if Brian could hear him or not. Brian wanted to tell him that he could, but he couldn’t get his lips to move. “I’m going to call an ambulance. I think we need to go to the hospital.”