These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not reach any destination. - Rabindranath Tagore

Part II

Brian pulled off his gloves and laid them on the stool beside his briefcase. He placed his overcoat on top. The loft was quiet. Early evening shadows drifting through the window made it seem even more so. He pressed the button turning on the sound system, the smooth strains of jazz filling up the empty spaces around him. Walked to the bar and poured two fingers of bourbon and downed it before ever loosening his tie. Picked up the worn sketchbook he kept near his desk and flipped to the third page. This was his routine and his routine hadn't changed in months.

He knew he had, at most, an hour before the phone rang. The voice on the other end was never the one he wanted to hear, but it was the one he'd painfully chosen to listen to. So he'd spend that hour alternately tracing his fingers over the lines on the sketchbook page and listening to the wind rubbing itself against the large window. This was life. Work. Interlude. Michael. He'd stopped thinking of him as Mikey a while ago. He'd hoped that this would be enough. Enough to make Michael happy again. To make his own life bearable. To make the fucking guilt he felt at his unforgivable treatment of Justin fade into the night.

From the moment he'd heard of Jennifer's death, heard that it was a private ceremony and none of the Liberty Avenue family had been asked to be there, Brian knew the final stake had been hammered into his heart. Justin had, understandably, severed his life from theirs. But Brian knew it was he who had cast the young man away, who had pushed him overboard and left him floundering without so much as a reason why. Brian had chosen Michael over Justin, his past over his future, and in the process had scarred Justin's memories of them. Like a coward, he had sacrificed his pride and his soul and his future to become someone he could barely stand to acknowledge.

I hope Rage and Zephyr have a marvelously fucked up life.

Well, Sunshine, I think you've got it half right.

It didn't go without notice that there was little to no interference from the family into the quasi-relationship that Brian had begun with Michael. No one was betting on how long it would be before they broke up or when Michael would walk out or when Brian would kick him out. No one was handing out warnings of how Brian didn't do relationships or boyfriends or love. There were no detailed retellings of Brian's latest backroom extravaganza over puttanesca at the family dinner. Brian held his tongue, knowing the difference in his own behavior was just as strange. No passionate interludes between lovers that lent themselves to catcalls, no late arrivals with freshly fucked faces. Hell, Brian hadn't even had Michael spend the night at the loft. That was his space, his refuge. As time passed he even found himself touching Michael less and less. Michael, somehow, seemed blissfully unaware.

Planning a trip to Toronto brought tension from the moment the idea arose. Michael insisted on going with Brian since both Gus and Jenny Rebecca were there. Brian had intended on going alone, to talk with Gus and ease him into the loss of Justin.

"I have to talk with Gus, Michael."

"Well, of course you do, Brian. I mean, that's why we're going, to visit with our kids."

"About Justin. I have to let him know why Justin isn't coming to see him."

Michael tensed, as he always did with the mention of Justin's name.

"Jesus, Brian, he's not even seven. He'll get over it." Michael's voice had risen. "You tell him we're a couple and that's how it is. He doesn't exactly get a say in this, you know!"

Images of Justin holding him, agonizing with him as he decided to hand over his son to Mel, of Justin babysitting the young boy, drawing with him, teaching him his colors and how to fold those little paper boats assaulted Brian. Michael's words demeaned everything that Justin had been to Gus!

"First of all Michael, don't ever presume to lecture me on how to deal with my son. Gus loves Justin and he will mourn losing him, whether you want him to or not." Brian paced the length of the loft before turning toward the bedroom. "Second, we are not a couple, Michael."

"The fuck we're not, Brian."

"No, Michael. You were part of a couple! I was part of a couple! But we both sure as fuck screwed ourselves out of that. Now, we're just... two men who fuck each other." Brian knew he'd gone too far when he glanced at Michael's face. He simply didn't know what to do any more. Didn't know where the lines were drawn, what the parameters were. This is why you don't fuck friends, he thought. It changes too much. "I love you Michael, I always have. But... I'm not now nor will I ever be in love with you. I've been there... I know the difference." The ball was in Michael's court now. "Take it or leave it."

Brian went to Toronto alone. When he came home, little had changed with Michael, but much had taken place inside Brian. He couldn't do this dance with his old friend, he realized. Not on Michael's terms. He'd stuck with Michael - hell, he'd sacrificed his entire life for Michael - because the man had been a total wreck after his split with Ben. A split Michael had essentially caused himself. Rather than being forced to take responsibility for screwing up his own marriage, he'd been rewarded for it. Had been given the green light to do the very thing that caused his marriage to fail in the first place. To continue his obsession on Brian. And he'd taken to it with gusto.

Oddly enough it had been Mel who'd taken the scales off Brian's eyes as they shared a beer alone together one evening. It was surprising how much better they got along when they didn't see each other often.

"I see Michael's keeping your dick on a shorter leash than Justin did, eh, Brian?"

"Just because I won't let you play with my cock, Mel, doesn't mean its been taken out of the game."

"Right," she laughed. "Something does seem strange though."

"What?"

"Just how fast Michael got over all that Ben's-gone-poor-me angst once you finally fucked him and fucked over Justin." Mel tipped her bottle up and swallowed. She patted Brian on the shoulder and left him to his thoughts.

Brian had always thought himself an astute man, someone not prone to being manipulated. Justin had often tried to point out how very easy he was to be manipulated by his friends, much to Brian's dismay. He was beginning to realize just how very wise Justin might have been. Fuck. Yes, Michael had become increasingly possessive once the initial fuck was a fait accompli. When he thought about it, Mel was right. Gone, seemingly in an instant, were the panic attacks and baleful tears, the depressive moods that had been a constant following Ben's departure. The ones that had pulled at Brian, that had compelled him to be there for his friend. Michael had always been so vulnerable in Brian's perception. He had to admit, though, that there was now a different kind of nerve beneath the childlike persona Michael had always shown. There was also the sudden, noticeable absence of Michael's constant caveats that Brian Kinney didn't do boyfriends/relationships/dates/love...

Regardless of what else was going on in the world, Brian was still Brian, the gang was still the gang, and Woody's was still Woody's. Brian seldom stepped foot inside Babylon, even though he'd rebuilt it. He probably should have left it as the pile of rubble and stones it had become through hate and bigotry. Michael had convinced him that it should be reborn, should rise from the ashes as a testament to the fortitude and courage of queers everywhere. Brian had gone to dance there only once. Now, he merely went to check on the nights' tallies or peruse the offerings in the backroom.

Woody's was a different matter and he enjoyed the banter and bitchiness of Theodore and Emmett. Even Michael, from time to time. Tonight he needed more than that, however.

Brian couldn't miss the raised eyebrow, come-hither look from the dark haired man leaning against the bar. He also couldn't miss the hand resting on his thigh beneath the table. He pulled his leg away, stretching it out into the walkway. He nodded at the dark haired beauty and stood up.

"You're not going with him," Michael stated.

"Excuse me?"

"You're here with me, with us, tonight, Brian. You can trick on your own time."

"My own time, Michael?" Brian looked around as if confused. "And exactly when is my time not my own?"

"You know what I mean, Brian."

"Yeah," Brian laughed softly, thinking back to his conversation in Toronto with Mel. "Yeah, I think I do." He nodded to Emmett and Theodore, gave Michael a firm pat on the shoulder and walked out of Woody's alone. He knew if he stayed, he'd say something he could never take back.

Brian Kinney had always been certain of a few things: that the sun rose and set on a pretty regular schedule, queers were meant to fuck, and there was an innate goodness in Michael Novotny. He'd always perceived a naive honesty in the man he had trusted and loved longer than any other. He'd respected him. Now he felt frozen, watching that respect evaporate, molecule by molecule, as he began to grasp the lengths to which his long-time friend had gone in manipulating him. The crying jags, the sudden bouts of anger and blame, the spiral into depression, the adamant refusal to seek any kind of help... and then the almost instantaneous 'recovery' when Brian had finally given into his pleas to 'just fuck me'. He'd fucking given up everything for a man who he now knew was incapable of moving beyond the unfinished hand-job of an adolescent. Brian had come to realize his friend had been unworthy of the sacrifice.

And he'd hurt Justin, the most worthy man he knew. Maybe irreparably.

Jesus.

So he sat in the aching emptiness of his loft, listening to the wind and running his fingers over the ghosts of what had been and waited for the phone to ring. Hearing Justin's words from months ago in his head over and over - I hope Rage and Zephyr have a marvelously fucked up life... He has no fucking idea what alone really means. And if he now let the call go to voice mail, there was no one there to question him.