Justin

We get home to an answering machine full of messages. Seriously. They must have taken up the whole tape. Mainly from Michael. For Brian, I guess. Not sure because as soon as Brian heard the voice he just deleted each message.

Towards the end there were a couple of others. One from Lindz asking me to call her - about Sunday, I guess, although she didn't say. One from Deb, for Brian, which, as it started out, "Asshole! What the fuck's going on now?" he also deleted without listening to the rest.

We'd been giggling and fooling on the way up in the elevator, but all this sort of killed the mood more than a bit and I felt kind of guilty. I was the one who'd insisted on finding out why the light was flickering so fast you could hardly see it blink. I'd argued that it might be some sort of crisis with Gus.

But of course it was the other, much more demanding baby, who was apparently having a crisis. It didn't take much to guess that it was to do with the money, and maybe Mel's involvement. Or that Brian knew exactly what it was about. I didn't say anything, though. What would be the point?

After hitting the delete button like twenty times, Brian gave a really deep sigh, and rubbed his hands over his face. He unplugged the phone, and took his cell out, turned it off and tossed it on the bench. Then he got some water from the refrigerator and took a long drink. After that he started up the steps to join me in the bedroom.

He offered me the water bottle and I took a few swallows. Finally he said, "We can talk about it at dinner. Or after. But for now ... can we just fuck?"

I stole a look at him and he was looking almost desperate. Desperate enough to be thinking ‘Fuck dinner. Let's go to Woody's'. Or maybe not. Maybe some other bar, where everyone would be a stranger.

Which in a twisted way, gave me an idea.

"You are direct, aren't you? You pick up many guys with a line like that?"

He gave me a ‘what the fuck?' look.

"Guys usually at least buy me a drink before they try to fuck me."

I toss my head back and stand with my hips pushed forwards a bit, the goods on display.

He catches on then, and gives me that slow tongue rolled into his cheek burn of a look that always makes me hot.

"Is that right?"

I shrug. "Sure."

He comes close and touches my chest, letting his fingers trail down.

"Maybe you're not worth the price of a drink," he says as his fingers brush softly over my flies.

"Oh, I haven't had any complaints," I respond, letting the tip of my tongue touch first my top lip, then the bottom. But I make no attempt to touch him. Tonight he's the hunter. I'm just the quarry.

He kicks it up a notch, stroking his thumb across the mound of my cock. I pant a bit, letting my mouth fall open a little, and my tongue flick across my lips a couple of times.

I drift my eyes down his body, and it's obvious he's beginning to enjoy himself as well. With hardly a pause in the rhythmic stroking of his thumb, he shrugs out of his jacket. Then, abruptly, he grabs mine and pulls it roughly off.

I let my breath catch, and say huskily, "Careful, mister. I don't like it rough."

His eyes widen and then they flare with laughter and lust.

"Too bad, little boy. You should have picked another trick for the night."

"Oh, please," I murmur, pretending to fight him as he pushes me down on the bed. He places his knee on the bed between my thighs and undoes my pants.

"Too late. You've been teasing me all night. Now you're going to get it."

He pulls my pants down and moves only enough to pull them off. Keeping in character, I try to get up which gives him the chance to push me further up the bed. Then he's on me, dragging my legs up and apart.

"Let's have a look," he leers, holding me like that, fully exposed to him and looking down at me. By now I'm really hard, and he's still fully clothed. Damn!

He pushes my legs back over my head and bends to poke his tongue at my hole.

I writhe. "Oh, no! Mister, please. I don't do that."

He licks me and then says, "Well, what the fuck do you do?"

"Just like... with my mouth. I don't let anyone fuck me."

"Well, you are tonight."

Then he licks me again, and pushes his tongue inside. I moan loudly.

"See, you like that. And you're going to like having my big fat cock shoved up there even more."

"Oh, please," I gasp. And even I'm not sure if I'm still playing reluctant whore or if I'm begging him just to get on with it.

He reaches for the lube and the next thing I feel him push one finger into me. He immediately realises that I'm already up for more and shoves another in with it. They stroke right across my sweet spot and I arch off the bed so hard, I nearly lose them.

"Oh, no, mister," I manage to gasp out, "please don't."

"It's way too late for that boy, I am going to fuck your arse so hard you won't sit down comfortably for a week."

He moves his fingers again and I moan in pleasure.

"And you want it, don't you boy?"

"Oh! Oh, no!"

They stroke my sweet spot again and I moan and writhe trying to get more.

"Yes, you do. You want it."

Once more and I'm nearly ready to start begging.

"No."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Oh, no, please. God, please."

"Say it then."

With a bit of help, he finally has the condom on thank God, and I know that soon, soon ...

"Tell me you want me to fuck you.," he breathes, leaning down over me now and licking at my lips, while his fingers are still working their magic up my ass.

"Oh, oh!"

"Say it. Say it boy. Say you want my big fat cock up your hole."

Another finger joins them, and once more I arch up hard, trying to get more.

"Oh, yes. Yes please. Please mister, fuck me.

"Beg me. Tell me to fuck you hard."

"Oh, God yes. Now. Fuck me. Shove your big cock up my ass and fuck me hard. Now!

With a throaty laugh, he obeys at last, pushing into me maybe a little too hard and fast for comfort, but it's not comfort that I'm looking for right then.

It's a rough wild ride, just the way we both like it sometimes. I cum all over his shirt, of course, and wonder if he'll bitch about it, but when he's done he just collapses beside me on his belly saying nothing. I roll onto my side facing him and rub my hand up and down the back of his neck.

He gives a sort of growling purr, and I drag myself up and straddle his hips so that I can rub his back properly.

I know how tired and tense he must be when he just lays there and lets me do it. At some point he wriggles out of his shirt, but apart from that he hardly moves as I do my best to work some of the tension out of him.

My hand gets a bit tired after a while, but I try to ignore it.

Eventually he says sleepily, "If a drink earns a blow job, then I guess dinner earns more than one fuck, right?

"Dinner?" I ask.

He starts to roll over, so I get off him and kneel on the bed beside him.

"Sure dinner," he says, looking at me as if he can't believe I've forgotten.

"Gee, I'm sorry, mister, but you see ... I don't do dates. I just ..."

I don't get any further because with a cry of "You little shit!" he's on me and we roll around on the bed laughing for a while till the laughter turns into kisses, and they go on for a long time.

He doesn't seem to want to take it any further right now though, and I don't mind. I'm more than content to save some for when we get home from the restaurant.

Eventually, he clambers up.

"Come on, you!" he says.

So we head for the shower, and although we wash each other down with great care and attention, it seems like just touching, just enjoying the freedom to caress each other's bodies is enough for the moment and we towel each other down and get dressed without the need for anything more.

We take the stairs down, and on the way, he suddenly snakes an arm around my waist. When I look up at him he smiles and touches his forehead to mine.

"That was hot," is all he says, but he kisses me lightly and bumps his hip against mine, and all the way down to the car, he keeps his arm wrapped tightly round my waist.

Brian

I should be scared shitless that he can read me like that but for some reason I'm not. That he can take me on when I'm right on the edge of shoving him away and running off to somewhere that no one knows me and no one is interested in anything much except my face and my body and no one wants anything from me except what is in my pants. That he can look into my face and see all that and not pout or argue, just see past it to how much it means I ... need him. And somehow find a way to make it alright.

That's the best thing I've ever had in my life.

As we get into the car (thank God for the car, just about any car, so that tonight we can go out and not fight about the bus or have to fuck about with taxis!), I have to reach out and touch him again. I take his hand and rub his fingers.

Suddenly I think of those hands of his working their magic on the Gordian knot that my back had become and I reach for the other one.

He gives me a look as I rub it.

"Is it okay? Did you let it ...?"

"Brian!" he says a bit huffily, "It's fine. Really."

I go on rubbing it for a minute, and he gives a bit of a sigh, but then he smiles. "That feels good."

I smile back and kiss him while I go on massaging his hand. Then another kiss. Then I kiss the palm of his hand.

And start the car.

See? Sometimes I can even give him what he needs.

Justin

I hate it when anyone notices something wrong with my hand. Anyone. But somehow this time, it feels good. It feels like ... like this is how it is when you're a couple. And that is such a dangerous thought that I try to put it right out of my mind.

But it's such a seductive idea that banishing it isn't easy. And the rest of the night doesn't make it a lot easier.

For some reason Brian insisted on us taking our heavy coats and gloves. One of the best bits about having the car again is not having to cart all that stuff around. But I guess he knows what he's doing. Maybe we can't park anywhere near the restaurant.

We drive up Liberty and across the bridge and up to the Mount Washington side of town. Brian has chosen a small restaurant called Isabella with an amazing view down across the three rivers and the Golden Triangle. It's more of a family, hetero sort of place than I would have expected him to pick, but the food is great. Spicy and varied and lots of it.

We talk over dinner, but mainly work stuff. He tells me about how his accounts are shaping up, and I tell him about Vance's offer. He looks almost as excited as I am about it.

"Shit, Justin! That is the best news I've had all day. Does that mean the diner's history now?"

I shrug. Partly because I hate the thought of letting Deb down, but also because I kind of like working there. But I know that it's not the best use of my time, so I say, "Well, I might still pick up a Saturday lunch shift or something, but ... yeah, I guess so. At least ..."

He raises one eyebrow at me when I hesitate.

So I go on. "You don't mind, do you? I mean, it won't seem weird to you ... me designing stuff for ... you know ..."

I can't articulate what I want to say to him: that I know how much the partnership and the new company name mean to him. That I'd totally understand if he wanted to ... keep it for himself ... not somehow sort of have to share it with me, because I was doing the design on the logo. But I know that there are so many problems with what I'm trying to say that I should just keep my mouth shut.

First and foremost is the lame idea that just by doing the design I somehow share in the whole deal. That's really fucked. Or desperate. And I thought I'd got past being so desperate to share in his life that I clutched at straws like that.

He sits and looks at me for a few moments with his head on one side a bit and his fingers up to his mouth. Then he says, "You really want to hear this?"

I don't. I don't want to hear what he's going to say. But it's not about what I want. It's about what we need. And we need to be honest with each other, especially when it's hard to say, or hard to hear. We did way too much dancing around each other before. We can't afford to go down that path again.

I nod. "Yes."

He gives a little nod himself, like he's acknowledging where I'm coming from, and I force myself to keep meeting his eyes, then he says, "You're asking me if I'd rather have the logo for my company ..."

He pauses there for a split second and for just a moment we grin at each other because that sounds so damned good.

He rubs his tongue over his lips as if he's tasting it, tasting those words, then he says, "If I'd rather have the logo designed by an outsourced firm who know nothing about me, or what I do, or the way I'd want to present myself; or by the dickheads downstairs who can't even get a design right when I spell out for them in words of one syllable exactly what I want; or by someone who understands me, understands the sort of style that I'd like to bring to things, knows exactly how I like to present myself ..." (again there's a moment while we share the levels of meaning in that sentence) "...and is incredibly talented into the bargain.?"

As he speaks I feel my heart start to thump. I don't think he's ever paid me a greater, more precious compliment and I have to swallow hard and take a sip of my wine to get rid of the lump in my throat.

He sticks his tongue into his cheek and looks at me like he doesn't expect to have to spell out the answer to that one. Then he grins at me, "Justin, when have I ever not wanted the best?"

Our eyes meet again and I can feel myself blushing, which makes him grin even wider. Just looking at the sexy knowing look in his eyes makes me start to get hard. Then he drops his eyes and starts playing with his dessert fork.

"Of course, there is another side to it," he admits. "I mean, if you design the fucking look for the company then every single fucking thing that comes out of our office will have that look all over it. And every time I look at anything we produce, I'll have to think of you."

He looks up at me again, serious now. I stare into his eyes, trying to read him. Finally I see the smile in them. Then he grins at me again, the shit.

"What, you think I'd find that a bad thing?"

I shrug, trying not to let all this affect me too much. But it means so much to me that I'm not sure I'll be able to keep my face calm and not let him see ...

Then he reaches across and touches my hand. He doesn't say anything more, just tangles his fingers round mine, but suddenly it's okay. More than okay. It's fucking wonderful, and I smile at him then and let him see, let him really see, how happy he's made me by what he's said.

Brian

I knew what he was trying to ask me. I knew it was about him not being sure how much I wanted to share with him; because he knows that my "boundaries" are out in the fucking stratosphere, and he didn't want to cross them. I guess I was hoping he'd give me an out, when I asked him if he really wanted to hear what I was going to say. Turn it into a joke or something. I should fucking know better. I should know by now what a brave little shit he is. Much braver than me.

He tilts up his head like he's fucking bracing himself to hear me announce that I don't want to share any part of my business with him. Stupid faggot! But I can't have him thinking that, feeling that, not again, not now.

So I break every rule in my life and actually tell him what I feel. Well, I don't go into the lesbionic fucking details. I don't tell him that just the idea of having the whole company handing out his logo on cards and letters and every presentation we do damn near makes me come in my pants. I don't exactly say that the very thought makes me so proud of him that I'm scared I'm going to want to tell every fucker I give a card to, ‘my boyfriend designed that'.

Shit!

But I think I get the general idea across to him, because suddenly he's smiling at me like ... like ...

Fuck!

Like he did on that night nearly two years ago.

For a long time I thought he'd never smile like that again.

Then I thought he'd never smile any smile for me again.

And now he's sitting there, smiling that smile at me, and I hardly know how to deal with all the fucking feelings that brings back. Things about that night that I thought I'd forgotten. Things that I never wanted to remember.

I don't mean Hobbs and the bat and the blood. I mean the good things. The way he looked. The way it felt to hold him, dance with him, kiss him in front of the whole world. The way it felt to have him look at me the way he did that night.

Because I'd lost it. It was all fucking gone. And I could never get it back.

Even if I'd wanted to there wasn't anyone to share the fucking memories with. Daphne, I guess, when it came to the dance. But she's Justin's friend, not mine. I hardly know her. And I couldn't let her see, let anyone see what it cost me to remember.

And no one else was there during those moments in the parking garage; we'd been alone in the world, just him and me. "Best night of my life," he'd said.

And I'd wanted to say, "Mine too."

I didn't of course. Fucked if Brian Kinney would ever be that stupid. That brave. So I'd just made some crack about it being ridiculously romantic.

But he'd understood me. I'm sure he had. He'd looked straight into the places inside me that no one, not even Mikey, has ever seen, and didn't run screaming from what he saw. For a moment I'd been almost too scared to even fucking kiss him, so I'd hesitated, like I was waiting for permission or something. Then, I don't know, it was like he ... gave me the courage to lean in and touch my lips to his.

And then, like the fucking fool I am, I let him go, and ...

I can feel my heart squeezing, and he sees something's wrong, because he looks almost scared and says sharply, "Brian!"

I can only tighten my grip on his hand, and he reaches the other one across to me as well. I hold on to them as hard as I can. For a moment I feel like I'm drowning, then I look over at him.

And I hear myself saying, "You haven't smiled at me like that since the night of the Prom."

Fuck! What did I have to say that for? As if he fucking needs that to deal with right now. Especially since the only fucking thing he can remember is the bat coming at his head.

But amazingly he smiles again, and stokes his thumbs across my fingers.

"I wish I could remember," he says. "I bet we were amazing."

He doesn't wish it half as much as I do. But it isn't going to fucking happen so I just smile at him somehow and say, "You'd better fucking believe it, Sunshine."

He gives my fingers another squeeze then lets go and picks up his glass.

"Well," he says, "here's to us going right on being amazing. And if the straights don't like it ..."

He pauses and looks at me with a grin, and we clink glasses and say together, "Fuck ‘em!"

Justin

We didn't talk too much after that. Just had dessert and coffee. Well, I had dessert and Brian had coffee.

But that was okay. I didn't really want to talk. I just wanted time to take in what he'd said. And what it meant that he'd said it.

Not the fact that he mentioned the Prom. Which he never does. Never has. That's something I want to take home and think about later. It's almost too precious to examine too closely. The memories that Brian has of that night, they're all I have, all I'll ever have probably. And they're so painful for him that he never talks about them. So when he does, I just want to hoard the few precious glimpses he gives me. It's almost as if I'm afraid that by thinking about it, somehow I'll wear those fragile images away.

No, I didn't mean that. I meant the other stuff.

If there's one thing that tells me we're in a totally different place to where we were before I lost my mind, or my balls, or both, and fell into the fucking lake of bullshit that was my relationship with Ethan, it's not that Brian says things that he would never have said before. Or that I can say things that I didn't feel free to say before. It's not that he's fighting as hard as I am to make this work. It's not even that he doesn't run screaming or start making snide remarks every time we're treated as a couple.

What tells me things are really different is this look he gets when he says or does something that he wouldn't have done before ... it's like he expects the sky to fall in or something, and when it doesn't, he gets this look that's like ‘fuck! that was okay. I'm okay.'

He looks kind of surprised, and then he looks ... happy. He just looks happy.

Like maybe he's actually starting to believe that it's alright, that he can afford to let someone close to him without them taking advantage of it, or using it to hurt him. That he can afford to let someone, let me, close enough to love him.

Every time I see that look, I think I fall in love him a little bit more. I'm damned if I'm going to let anyone spoil this for us. And if anyone tries, they should look out. Because nothing and no one counts as much with me as the need to protect Brian, to protect us.

When we leave the restaurant, Brian puts on his coat and his gloves, and helps me into mine. I don't say anything, maybe he wants to drive with the top down. But he doesn't head for the car, instead he starts walking alongGrandview towards the Incline. I stroll along beside him, and he reaches out and takes my hand. Even through the gloves I can feel the warmth of his hand on mine and I'd feel really happy, except that I know that now he's ready to talk. Now he's going to tell me what's been eating his guts all week. Why do I have the feeling this won't be good?

We walk along on the river side of the road, admiring the view. There must be a Pirates game on at PNC Park, that side of the river is lit up like a carnival, and below us the riverboat restaurant floats in a glow of light on the dark water. It's cold, and there are a few clouds, but from up here with the lights of the city refected in the rivers evenPittsburgh looks almost romantic. I move a little closer to Brian, and he puts an arm around me as we walk along.

Then we come to one of the seats that are scattered along here so the tourists can take in the view and he sits down and pulls me with him.

We sit without saying anything for a few minutes, his arm round my shoulders, my hand on his thigh. Then he rubs his other hand over his face and says with a sigh, "Monday night, when you were working, I went to see Michael."

I try not to stiffen, try just to be there for him the way he needs me to be. If I only knew exactly how that was.

"He rang me as soon as they got back. I was with the Senator," he sounds bewildered and exasperated and exhausted all at once. Just the tiredness in his voice, and the strain, is enough to make me want to do serious damage to Michael.

"Anyway, he kept saying he had to talk to me, so ... so I met him at Woody's."

He stops and takes a breath, and lets it out in a harsh whoosh of air.

"He was going on about Boston and Ben and how he doesn't know what to do. I ... I tried to tell him that it's his life. He has to ... he has to get on with living it."

Again he stops and I find a way to press closer against his side. I feel his face rub against my hair.

"He ... he told me he'd stay if I ... if I asked him to."

His voice cracks on the last few words, and this horrible cold feeling of pure fury comes over me. I seriously want to mash Mikey's whiny little face. Want to hit it so hard and so often it just turns to pulp and melts away.

Fuck! Shit! Fuck!

No wonder Brian has been so fucking tense all week. That little asshole who keeps calling himself his best friend has tried yet again to make Brian fucking responsible for his whole life's happiness. Now if he goes to Boston and it doesn't work and he's miserable, that's Brian's fault for not getting him to stay. And if he stays, he's making Brian responsible for him losing Ben.

He always used to pull this sort of shit. Like, it was Brian's fault when things got rocky between him and the doctor. Not like Mikey was just stringing poor David along because he couldn't have Brian and thought he might as well make do. Not to mention maybe make Brian jealous. Oh, no! Nothing like that, because sweet little fucking Mikey would never do anything so fucking manipulative.

Or like he wouldn't dump Ben in a heartbeat if he thought that Brian ...

Fuck! Brian.

I take a deep breath, and try to figure out what to do, what to say.

I have to believe that Brian hadn't done it; hadn't asked him. No. I know he didn't. I know because I know Brian wouldn't. But also because if he had Mikey would have found a way to let me know it yesterday. He wouldn't have been able to help himself. He would have had to gloat, at least a little.

While I'm trying to figure out how to react (I'm not sure that Brian wants or needs to hear what I'm thinking about his "best friend" right now), Brian lets out a big sigh, and leans back against the seat.

"I didn't know what to do, Justin. Why ... why did he have to do that to me? Why can't he ..." his voice cracks again, "why can't he just let me go?"

He looks at me with bewildered hurt in his eyes. "If he really loves me ..."

He breaks off without finishing the sentence, and now I really don't know what to say. If I say he's right, that if Michael really loved him he'd just want Brian to be happy, then that's saying that all these years, all the love that Brian had counted on, had held on to when he had nothing else, it was all just a fantasy, an illusion.

I can not do that to him.

"He ... some people just aren't good at loving, Brian."

He gives a sad sort of laugh. "Like me, huh?"

I touch his face and make him look at me. "No, not like you," I tell him seriously. "You might not be good at saying the words, or doing the easy things, but ..."

My own voice cracks and I put both arms around him and hug him hard. I want to tell him that he's better at loving, really loving, than anyone I know, but I can't get my voice to work.

It's true, though. He's a stubborn, arrogant asshole, but I'm not sure there's anything he wouldn't do for the people he really loves - Gus, Lindz, Deb, me ... and Mikey. He'd been ready to tear his own heart to shreds so that Michael could have a chance with Dr. Dave. And what he gets back is ... I hug him even tighter.

He gives another awkward laugh, then he wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my shoulder. I hold on to him tightly, and feel his breath coming in shuddering gasps.

"Justin, I couldn't do it. I know he really wanted me to, but ..." he sounds now like he's almost crying and I loosen the grip of one hand enough to stroke the back of his neck.

"You did the right thing, Brian. It's Michael's decision to make. He has to decide for himself. If he doesn't want to be with Ben enough to leave Pitts, then it's up to him to deal with that."

For a few moments he stays like that, his face in my neck, letting me hold him, then he pulls away, sitting up straight and rubbing his hands over his face and then through his hair. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder again and just sits looking out at the lights for a few minutes. I put my head on his shoulder and he tightens his arm around me.

"Is it my fault?" he asks. "Deb says ... Deb says that I just keep giving him enough to keep him hoping."

He sighs. "I think I used to do that. I don't know if I meant to. I just ... I thought ... I thought there'd never be anyone ... anyone that I'd ever want to be with. So, if he didn't want anyone either, then it sort of didn't matter. When we got old an ugly and no one wanted either of us any more, well, then, maybe ... But meanwhile, I thought we were both just having a good time the way things were."

He sighs and then gives a sort of laugh. "Then one night under a fucking street light ..."

I grin and look up at him and find him looking at me. There's not all that much light, but there's more than enough to show that he's smiling now as he touches his forehead to mine.

"How the fuck could I have known you'd come along?"

Brian

I find myself looking down at him in fucking amazement. Because it is fucking incredible that somehow, someway, for some reason this extraordinary beautiful man came into my life and just fucking refused to leave, no matter what I threw at him. Even when he was with the fiddler, he was still there, still part of my life. He didn't leave me completely, not ever. He didn't run off and cut me out of his life no matter how much Ian would have liked him to.

Hell! he even let me pay for his tuition. I wasn't sure he would. I know what a proud little fucker he is, and I wasn't sure he wouldn't rather throw it all in rather than have me keep to our bargain. But he didn't. That told me more than anything else that he didn't hate me. That no matter how bad things had been, how badly I'd fucked up, I hadn't made him hate me.

He saved my ass over the thing with John. Then he let me talk him into working on the Carnivale poster, even came to the loft to go over the drafts with me. That was when I first started to feel some sort of hope ... not that he'd ever come back to me. Not that. But that we could still have something.

I mean, I knew the thing with the fiddler wasn't going to last. I thought that I'd just have to watch while he went through the same fucking thing with a whole lot of other guys.

I think I'd realised by then that Justin was always going to want the relationship shit. That he might trick occasionally, but that he liked having someone at home who meant more than just another trick.

I'd thought that the rest of my fucking life was going to be spent watching him in "relationships" with a shitload of guys, none of whom were ever going to be good enough for him. And I was okay with that.

I wasn't what he wanted, what he needed, and all I could do was hope that while he was going through all these guys, looking for Mr. Fucking Right, that I could somehow have maybe ... something. Friendship, maybe. I don't know. Just something. So I didn't have to really fucking lose him. Not completely.

Except that ... one day I walked into fucking Vanguard and there he was. My stalker was back. And I still don't know how I stopped myself from dragging him up to my office and locking him in and making damned sure he never left again.

Instead of which I panicked and tried to sack him, and when he called me on my shit, I just played right into his hands.

Which I guess was okay. I mean, it was pretty much where I fucking wanted to be anyway.

And now, here we are, sitting on a fucking bench above the river looking at all the pretty lights like a pair of ... Like a couple. We're sitting here like a fucking hetero couple, arms around each other, fingers twined together, an occasional soft kiss on the hair or the neck or the throat. The whole deal. And I've just been spilling my guts out about a whole lot of shit that I should probably just have kept to myself. Except that somehow it doesn't seem to feel that way. I feel ...

Relieved. I feel relieved. And somehow I feel stronger. Because he hasn't fucking gone into drama princess mode. But he hasn't made me feel like a fucking queen, either. He's just sitting here with me, holding me, letting me hold him, and he understands; he understands that it hurt. When Michael said that, it fucking hurt like hell that he would try to manipulate me that way.

And Justin understands that I've been trying to deal with that pain all week, trying to work out if there's some way that I can salvage something out of a friendship that's lasted more than half of my fucking life. And somehow him understanding makes it okay for me to feel bad. Like I don't have to pretend that I'm untouchable, that it's okay not to be invincible, that it doesn't make me some sort of pathetic fag because my best friend said something that hurt so much I wanted to fucking cry.

When Michael told me that he'd leave Ben, let Ben go off to Boston alone, if I wanted him to, it ... it was like he'd punched me in the gut. It left me feeling sore inside and confused and pissed off. And fucking scared. Because I think that means it's over. I think that it means that there's no fucking way that Michael can ever really deal with just being my friend; forever, just my friend. And if he can't deal with that, can't fucking accept that the only person I am ever going to be in a fucking relationship with is Justin, then ... there's no where for us, Mikey and me, to go.

I don't want it to be over. I thought Mikey and I would be friends forever.

But, apart from all the shit he's always pulled over Justin, there's been a whole new level lately to the fucking games he's playing.

There was the scene at Deb's the other week, and our conversation after it, when he'd promised me he was sorry, fucking swore that he would never do anything like that again, that he'd never try to come between Justin and I, would never try to make me choose.

Then he went off with Ben and as soon as he got back, he pulled this shit. Trying to make me say I wanted him to stay. Not just because he's too gutless to make the decision for himself, but because if I didn't ask, he could tell himself it was because I was afraid to, and that could only mean one thing, in Michael's fucked up mind, anyway. And if I did ask him to stay ... Jesus! you can just imagine how much he'd enjoy making sure that Justin knew about that.

And then there was this morning's fucking mess ...

Shit! I need to tell Justin about this morning.

He's not stupid. He will have figured out something went on. So I can either say nothing, just like I would have done back then, back before it all crashed and burned, and leave him trying to deal with all of that, all that it means that I cut him out like that, or I can fucking talk to him about it.

I'd rather have fucking root canal work, but ...

"I still haven't told you about my scary moment with Mel."