Later, he would realize that he had been in shock, but of course he was not aware of it at the time.

If Brian had been thinking at all, he might have tried to locate a phone. But even had he been able to grasp the idea, then he would have had to decide who to call, what to say, and, well. All that was something else altogether. His only concern regarding a phone, in any case, was that his own cell phone was gone, in his jacket, with his car. No car. No jacket. No cell phone. No phone call. Shock simplified everything; thinking became quite linear.

Under extreme stress, human beings revert to instinct. And Brian’s instinct was to curl up the essence of his self underneath the surface he displayed, a surface that was more image than substance. To shut the world out as completely as he needed, as he absolutely positively must at this moment, he had to get home. Home. The loft. He had ejected from his car miles from Tremont. When he came to, he started walking, comprehending only a dazed urgency to get there, to get home. Walking the entire way, he numbly plodded along, not feeling his feet on the pavement, and certainly not feeling…

No. Nothing but an urgent instinct to get to the loft. Not exactly a demand, this was far more than that. Certainly not a scream, but maybe something like the echoes of a scream from way, way, way far off. He had the odd, disconnected sensation that this weird lack of focus was essential, that this sensation of being wrapped up in cotton were the only thing keeping him moving. If it were stripped away, something else might come too close, an overwhelming screech. He did not exactly think of this; he was simply distantly aware that the cottony numbness was important. Any direct thought was held at bay by this strange distance, this sucking vacuum that surrounded him, through which penetrated only a strangely thrumming, urgent echo of something that might be a scream if he tried to clear away the sense of cotton blanketing him. The sensation moved him home, and that was enough. Home, Brian. Home to the loft.

It was three o’clock in the morning, and the streets were deserted. Not a good time to be out; the thought flashed through his head like an advertising banner, flashing almost palpably before him, and he giggled at the warning that blinked on and off in his consciousness. It’s bad to be out in the dark; you might get hurt. Memory of a long-off boast, isn’t that part of the thrill? The unknown, the danger…

The giggling seemed to come from somewhere else, and its nearness startled him. Then he realized it was coming from him, and it wasn’t stopping even when he thought maybe it should. The weird sound echoed through the empty air.

Home. Home.

Home.

Justin woke upon hearing the loft door open. He had been home since midnight, having returned early from Babylon. He took PIFA classes Friday afternoons, and then had filled in an evening shift as a favor to Debbie when the diner’s dishwasher had simply not shown up. He hadn’t been in the mood to party with Brian, and so he had made an early night of it despite the fact that they had made plans to celebrate Brian’s landing a tough account. There had been a vicious competition between Kinnetik and three other ad agencies, including a fairly prestigious New York firm. But the days Justin would have stayed to party just because Brian had wanted him to were long past.

“Hey,” he called as he heard Brian pass through the bedroom on the way to the bathroom. Justin couldn’t see him; since removing the fixture over their bed, light only came in at night from the street lights outside the windows. Justin’s eyes fell on the clock face, the faintly illuminated arms pointing toward 3:35.

Brian walked by, into the bathroom, and shut the door without a word.

Shit. Justin took a deep breath. Was Brian pissed? Justin had felt pretty bad about leaving early. Michael hadn’t been able to come out, Emmett was throwing a party for some charity event, and Ted had cut his partying way back and wasn’t around. Brian had actually asked Justin to hang out. Directly.

“Just one more, promise, I’ll make it worth your while,” Brian had cajoled, slipping his arm around Justin’s waist and sliding his hand down his hip, behind his ass, between his leg, skimming his balls.

Tempting. But no. “I can’t, I really feel like hell. But you stay, enjoy.”

“Fine,” Brian had shrugged, turning away as Justin hesitated for a fraction of a second. But again, no. They weren’t at that dysfunctional place any more, and Justin was damned if he was going to slip back into any sort of belief that he needed to take care of Brian before he took care of himself. That was Michael’s position; well, it used to be. Michael had a whole family of his own now, and somehow he and Brian were maintaining a much healthier friendship, whether because Michael was drawing his lines, or Brian had become more secure in general, Justin didn’t care. It was good for both of them. Hell, Justin thought, it’s good for me.

But he wasn’t going to become young Mikey II, no way. And Justin had really felt like shit. So he had cast one last look at Brian’s back as Brian walked away, as Brian had already begun to cast his gaze around the dance floor to see who was available. Justin shook his head, but accepted the fact that Brian could, and would, take care of his own needs, whatever they were, whatever drove him. And so would Justin. In any case, the tricking had cut back since Justin had moved in. Not that they discussed it, and not that it had disappeared entirely, for either of them. There was no requirement, and had been no discussion; they did not discuss a physical commitment to each other alone. Maybe they were headed in that direction. Maybe one day they would be there. Not today, but maybe some day. Fuck, Justin went whole weeks without anyone else touching him. In fact, it had been almost a month this time. Most likely, that day would arrive for Brian with his AARP memberships. Maybe not. Who knew?

Justin didn’t really care. He was content. He listened to the shower running, and dozed while waiting for Brian to come out of the bathroom. Maybe Brian would let Justin make up his refusal to stay at Babylon without words. Certainly, that was Justin’s favorite method. God, he hated to talk to Brian about serious shit. It was so much easier to just fucking let it happen and go with the flow. That seemed the best way to work and live with Brian Kinney. Maybe he’d get a chance to make up for leaving early, for leaving Brian alone. And Brian had been alone; all those tricks, nameless, faceless… it wasn’t exactly company. In fact, sometimes Justin felt really sad for Brian when he watched him, after a bad day, run through one, two, three or more blowjobs from anonymous backroom sources in a row. Anonymous sex may provide solace for the single self, but it didn’t provide a connection to the world outside the self. And it was there that one found peace. Fuck, how did he know this at 20, and Brian didn’t know this at 32? Or did he know, and just rejected the idea? If that was the case, what did it say about his conscious desire to self-destruct? And how sad was that?

Justin had long made a conscious decision to be patient. But talking would never change any of it; Brian was what he was. And Justin felt himself letting go of the hope that he would find a way out of Brian’s self-destructive lifestyle. Actively trying to change Brian only made him resent the effort, and strained their relationship. As if they needed more stress between them. And, as Daphne so helpfully reminded him any time he lost his mind and professed some starry twinkified hope of a better Brian: “People don’t change for anyone but themselves. And then only because they have to, not because they want to.”

On that thought, Justin slipped into sleep, hoping that Brian had saved most of himself for what awaited him at home. One thing that was never difficult between them was the sex. And with that thought, Justin dozed off.

He had no idea what snapped him so abruptly awake, nor for how long he had been drifting in a half-sleep, but he suspected it had been a while. The shower was still running. And as the cobwebs of sleep cleared from his head, he became aware that the light illuminating the outer room was not that of the street lamps outside the window. Instead, there was a strange angle to the shadows in the bedroom, an odd cast to the light. He sat up and grabbed his sweat pants from off of the floor, drawing them on and lifting himself out of bed. He crossed to the top of the bedroom steps, and looked out into the loft.

The front door was wide open. The hall light spilled in across the floor.

Well, fuck. Brian must be in quite the mood. He never left the door open, no matter how wasted he was. Not after the robbery: with the amount of grief he had visited on Justin’s head, anal retentive behavior regarding the door was to be expected on Brian’s part. Justin walked slowly down the steps. Brian couldn’t be that wasted, Justin thought as he pulled the door shut and locked it, securing the alarm. Wasted Brian usually just passed out on the couch. After shutting the door.

How long had he been in the shower? Justin wondered. The familiar dim light from the street filtered in through the windows as Justin moved back to the bedroom. And realized, in the dark of the loft, that the light in the bathroom was off.

It would be pitch black in there. Justin felt the first stirrings of unease as he moved cautiously toward the bathroom. He stared at the door, uncertain about what he should do next. He was probably being ridiculous, worrying needlessly. But still…

The dark bathroom. The shower, running for… he glanced at the bedroom clock. Forty minutes?

“Brian?”

No reply, of course, not through the door and over the water. Justin pushed the door open. He had been right; it was pitch black in here. “Brian?”

No answer. Okay, this was not right. Justin walked in, announcing, “I’m turning on the light. Okay?” And he flipped the light on.

Brian was still in the shower, but he was on the floor, huddled against the wall in a fetal position, not moving, his arms around his legs, knees up in his chest, forehead on his knees. The water beat onto his head.

Justin stepped over to the stall cautiously, and opened the door. The water was ice cold. “Brian? What’s going on?” He turned the water off. Brian didn’t move. Justin reached down, and touched his shoulder, and Brian flinched, pulling away, without lifting his head. He merely twisted his body sideways, almost cringing. Justin squatted down, somewhat at a loss. “Brian?”

And then he saw the blood.

He hadn’t noticed it while the shower was going, but with the water off, a steady, thin stream of crimson flowed down from under Brian’s body toward the drain. It was not stopping.

“Oh, fuck,” Justin whispered. With the sudden change in Justin’s tone, Brian lifted his head.

Justin saw a developing black eye and swelling cheekbone. They stared at each other. “Brian, what happened?” But he received no reply, just an oddly blank look. Asking questions about what happened was not going to help right now. “You’re bleeding. Can I check and see? Will you stand up for me?”

Brian stood, a puppet on strings. He closed his eyes and swayed, leaning against the wall to catch a sudden imbalance. Justin stayed kneeling at Brian’s feet and looked up Brian’s body. He saw that brian’s side was turning purple, but there were no openings on his skin, nothing like a knife having done any work… and then Justin saw where the blood was coming from.

Justin left the shower stall and went to the closet. He got out three of the towels he kept for his art work, clean but ragged. He went back into the bathroom, breathing deeply but steadily in an effort to keep his heart from racing. He felt cold panic spasming through his limbs, but kept the reaction tightly reined. Brian had slid back down the wall, back onto his haunches. Justin ran water over one of the towels he brought back with him.

“Stand up,” he said. When Brian complied, he wiped the blood carefully from Brian’s ankle, up his thigh, and then held one of the dry towels up between his legs. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“No.”

Brian hadn’t opened his eyes. He began to slide back down the wall.

“Brian…”

“No.”

Justin leaned toward him. “Something’s torn inside you. You’re bleeding, badly. Is the car in the garage?”

Just a head shake.

“Is the car outside?”

“I don’t know where the fucking car is!” Brian yelled, suddenly, loudly, raising his head and glaring wildly at Justin, who flinched back. Just as suddenly as the outburst came, Brian seemed to collapse back into himself. His head dropped back onto his knees. Justin noticed that the wet towel under him was turning pink. He made up his mind, and stood.

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Brian had expended his energy in the earlier shout, and this was more whimper. He attempted to get up, but he swayed, and leaned to the side in an almost drunken pitch, sitting back down abruptly. His hand clutched at his head. Justin practically ran into the bedroom and snatched the phone from its cradle, and dialed 911.

“Emergency operator, do you require fire, ambulance or police?”

“Ambulance,” Justin answered.

“Sir, may I have your address and to whom am I speaking?”

Justin gave the address and his name.

“What is the nature of the emergency?”

“My boyfriend’s been assaulted,” Justin answered. Now that he was speaking to someone in a position to assist, he felt the panic begin to take over. “He’s bleeding, I was sleeping when he came in and he got into the shower for about forty minutes, and it isn’t stopping…”

“All right, Justin. We have an ambulance on the way, they’ll be there in five minutes. Can you tell me the extent of his injuries?”

“He’s beat up, his face… he’s got a black eye, and I think his cheek is swelling, maybe his ribs…” Justin couldn’t avoid the worst. “I think… I think he was raped,” Justin finished, closing his eyes.

“Is he bleeding from the anus?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay, is he bleeding anywhere else?”

“Justin, damn it…”

He heard Brian’s voice, weakly calling from the bathroom. He shook himself and stood, walking back into the bathroom. “He’s not bleeding anywhere else that I can see, but like I said, I think he might have some broken ribs, and his cheekbone… his eye’s swollen. Hang on.” He took the phone away from his ear. “Five minutes, Brian.”

“Is he conscious?”

“Yes… wait, just a sec… Brian? Brian!” Justin dropped the phone even as he dropped himself down to the shower floor. He placed his hand under Brian’s jaw line, and gently lifted his face. Brian’s head rolled sideward. “Fuck, he just passed out!”

“Okay, Justin, calm down. What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

“Oh, oh, right. It’s Brian. He was out, at the club, I was asleep. What can I do?”

“You should try to staunch the bleeding, if you can, press a towel to the site.”

“Yeah… I did that. Oh, damn, he’s still wet, he’s on the floor, shit, I can’t lift him.…”

“Don’t move him. Dry him off if you can and get a blanket around him. He’s probably in shock. Can you feel a pulse?”

“Shit…” Justin moaned, and probed at Brian’s neck where he felt the pulse still beating, quickly but strong enough. He conveyed the information to the emergency operator, before rushing to comply with the rest of the instructions. He dried Brian’s skin with the dry towel discarded to the side of the shower stall, and he had just put a blanket around Brian’s limp form, when the door buzzed.

He ran across the loft, almost falling down the bedroom stairs, to hit the door buzzer. “Ambulance?”

“EMT,” was the reply. As if it could be anyone else, Justin thought, somewhat hysterically. He waited for the two EMTs to come up in the elevator. They brought a stretcher, and Justin stepped back, trembling. And then he fell apart.