And then, nothing happened.

Justin went back to school, and Brian went back to work – remotely, from the loft, with Cynthia stopping by to drop off and pick up work while Brian complained about being unable to go anywhere (“stupid accidents”) or do anything. Justin filled his prescriptions, brought him his pain medications, took care of his wounds, and drove him to the hospital in the Jeep, which they took out of storage.

“You put it in storage? Why don’t you let me drive it?”

“I’m already minus one car.”

Silence.

Brian put up with Justin’s driving for all of one ride, and then insisted on driving himself. He tried to think about what car he wanted to replace the Corvette, but could not come up with any good ideas. He figured, it could wait.

Justin tiptoed around him. The casual touching and affection had disappeared as if a tornado had touched down and dissipated, taking any semblance of intimacy with it. In a sense, Justin supposed, it had.

The police did nothing to keep them updated, and frankly, Justin did not really want to know. Brian only incidentally mentioned the attack, his rapist, the days and nights in the hospital. They never spoke specifically of what happened. Brian stayed in bed for ten days, and then lounged on the couch for another week and a half, complaining the entire time.

Justin stayed at the loft most nights, but he did not get much sleep. He lay awake, listening to Brian breathe. When he heard an increase in respiration, he would place one hand on Brian’s chest and the other on his stomach, pressing firmly and then pulsating rhythmically, as he murmured in Brian’s ear, talking him down from whatever dream had possessed him. Light touch woke Brian up in a panic, more often than not pissed at Justin for scaring the shit out of him. The rate of nightmares was slowing, but they happened with enough regularity to keep Justin exhausted.

Justin learned to move carefully. But that didn’t really make any difference.

***

In the middle of one work/study session, Brian yelled, “Mother fucking asshole!” seemingly out of nowhere, making Justin jump.

Justin stood quickly to move over to the couch.

“Don’t interrupt your work just because of my motherfucking backache!” Brian moaned, pushing the computer away from him and standing to stretch. “Fuck!” he yelled again, as the pain cut through him.

“Here,” Justin said, taking his hand and pulling him back to lie down on the couch, face-first.

“Yeah, don’t even think it,” Brian muttered, as Justin removed Brian’s shirt and straddled his upper thighs.

“Um, what?”

“Just because I’ve now bottomed twice in the past year, don’t get any ideas.”

“BRIAN!” Justin was genuinely shocked, and he stopped the gentle massage he had begun. Even if Brian were so inclined, anal sex was out for a while yet.

Brian huffed out what might have been a laugh.

“Brian,” Justin repeated, completely stunned. Did Brian genuinely equate what had happened almost four weeks ago with what Justin considered one of the most loving moments in their relationship?

“Oh, fuck, Justin, it’s a joke.”

“It isn’t funny,” Justin attempted to explain, without sounding completely self-serving in his hurt. “It’s not like…”

“I know what it isn’t like, don’t you tell me what it isn’t like. But fuck, what the fuck else am I supposed to do, get all maudlin and weep how my life is over? Jesus Christ. I’m just fucking uncomfortable, not dead.” This last, muffled in the couch as Brian turned his face into the cushion.

It was easier to address the subject with Brian’s head turned away from him. “You can talk to me about how you’re feeling…”

Brian lifted his head to answer. “How I’m feeling. My back hurts, my ass hurts, but it’s this motherfucking rib pain that’s really pissing me off. That’s how I feel. Okay?”

It wasn’t okay, but Justin did not know what else to say. Instead, he dropped his hands onto Brian’s back and lightly kneaded the muscles, focusing on the immediate problem. “My therapist told me if you break your ribs, you can get a back ache as they heal. Apparently, the muscle overcompensates for the loss of the support structure.”

“Yeah, you and your therapist, a couple of Chatty Cathies. And thanks for the Public Service Announcement; should I expect one about not picking up any casual fucks?”

Justin just shut up.

Brian didn’t continue, but the massage helped. It felt good. Better than good, those gentle hands on his skin. He rolled over, releasing his suddenly hard dick from his jeans. “Suck me off,” he demanded.

Justin hesitated, staring down into Brian’s flinty gaze. There was something so… off about this. Brian held his dick in his hand, pointing it up at Justin’s face, his other hand reaching to tug Justin downward.

Justin didn’t resist.

After, Justin returned to his project, and Brian pretended to return to his. But really, he studied Justin out of the corner of his eye. Justin had seemed so reluctant; he usually was one to dive right onto Brian when he offered any of himself. Especially his dick. What was that hesitation? He probably had been worried about hurting him. That was probably it.

Justin glanced over, and caught Brian’s eye, smiling a bit before returning to the computer. Brian quickly turned his own eyes back to his own screen. Was that look condescending? Had Justin not wanted to suck him off? Wait, come on. Justin, not wanting to touch him. As if. Still…

The next day, Brian announced he was going back to work.

***

Fine, it was fine, work was fine. Yeah, his ass was still sore, but thank god he didn’t have to submit to wound care anymore.

That had been truly disgusting. And completely undignified.

Fuck, everything about this was undignified. Facing the doctors with their clinical cut-and-dried explanations was bad enough, but the damn nurses… you could see it in their eyes. And Justin. Those looks he had. All Justin’s looks, he just kept watching, and these looks were all new. Brian didn’t know how to read them.

Well, he knew all about Justin’s looks. He never needed to read Justin. His gaze was lust-tinged. It always had been.

“ARGH.”

Oh, hell, did he actually growl out loud? Okay, work. Work was the refuge, here, he was in charge. Completely, absolutely. Right. He called Andrea, told her to bring him the work on the SpyWhip campaign. Then he called Ted for the projections on the campaign costs.

SpyWhip was a software program that revolutionized anti-spyware software. Instead of merely recognizing known spyware programs and requiring continual updates, it recognized the mode of programming and moved to block all programs downloading onto the computer with the recognized signature type, without requiring monthly updates.

Brian had been fairly skeptical, from a business point of view, even after the program was proven to work. “But aren’t the continual updates where the money is in anti-spyware software?” he had asked Randall Hicks, the creator of the program and owner of the company. “You’re telling me, with this, a person only needs to buy the software one time, forever. Where’s the profit?”

Hicks was 27 years old. He’d spent the last four years post-college eating Ramen Noodles, living in the space above his mother’s garage, and working on this thing. He was thin and pasty, and reminded Brian of that slimy creature from Lord of the Rings that Mikey hated and Justin insisted had gotten a raw deal. He laughed away Brian’s question. “You think I want to spend the rest of my life slogging away working? No fucking way, man, I want to either make a one-shot killing on this shit and retire to the Bahamas, or I want Norton Anti-virus or AOL to take one look at the campaign you’re going to whip up for me that kicks so much ass Norton buys me out, and then I want to retire to the Bahamas. Either way, no way am I allowing some stupid company to make me its suckpig.”

That had been enough for Brian. He knew what this guy needed to see. “Okay,” Brian began, “your target consumer is young, computer savvy, and the product is about whipping spyware into submission, right? The problem is, you want a campaign that appeals to the target’s love of thrill and risk, but makes clear the control factor.” Standard fare, Brian could rattle this out in a coma.

Hicks had nodded, following the pitch.

“So, I’m thinking we go with the ‘whip’ motif and do a campaign focusing on a dungeon master, lording over a group of tortured subjects, rendered anonymous. The chief fact you want to get out in the ad is that the program neutralizes all spyware, nameless, faceless. So you have something like, ‘In command, all spyware, at once,’ or, ‘One fee, spyware bound for all time.’ Obviously, that’s rough, but you need a brief text that makes clear the product buys a permanent place in the Spywhip dungeon…”

“That’s it!” Hicks cried. “Something like, ‘Banished to the Spywhip dungeon,’ and then like, ‘SpyWhip, one price, dominated for life…’”

Brian had raised an eyebrow. That was it, Kinnetic had Spywhip and Hicks. “Well, it needs some work, but…” and he had started his notes for the file.

Hicks had signed on.

Brian had been back in the office for two days when Andrea came by with the results of the photo session. Hicks was coming in two days with his two “colleagues,” as he called them, both friends from college who had helped him with writing the program, and a woman named Avalon who was handling marketing. She was a total pain in the ass, insisting that Kinnetic show them the work only a week after the actual photo session had taken place, a week before Brian could be as ready as he would like. They did have other accounts. And SpyWhip was paying their bulk in a cut of the gross, not in a single upfront fee. Avalon was hardly in a position to dictate terms.

Andrea handed over the series of pictures that had been taken so far, showing a blonde woman in leather . “First, the field is too crowded, I think,” she said. “I know the point is that SpyWhip can take on any number of anonymous spyware programs, but I like these…” she laid down three other pictures, “in terms of aesthetics. See? Three victims, gives much more balance and less to clutter up the thrust of the picture. And you were totally right; a male whipmaster is much more effective, especially if the audience is male. A woman with a whip made all the hetero guys in my department identify with the poor little man-programs in chains, and not the one holding the whip. You definitely have to convince Mr. Hicks that a busty blonde isn’t the way to go.”

The alternate pictures Andrea handed him showed a tall, muscular man all in leather, holding a whip, gazing at three hooded men, one on the rack, one locked in stocks, and the last strung up on the wall.

“We started discussing alternatives when you were out,” Andrea continued, “considering casting the story anachronistically. That way, the threat of sexuality of a man over men is displaced in time – for instance, the Spanish Inquisition.” She placed three other pictures down, this time the man with the whip dressed as a monk, and the tortured men in jersey and woolens, their puny chests no comparison to the man in control.

In every other instance, at any other time, Brian would have known immediately which way to go.

But he had no idea. His instincts did not speak to him. At all.

“Who came up with that?” he asked, hoping to gain some time.

“I did, actually,” Ted answered, walking into the room. “I’d been listening to Don Carlo, you know, the opera…”

“I know the opera, Ted. Verdi does Quasimodo.”

“Well, no one else did!” Andrea inserted cheerfully. “We all thought it was brilliant.”

Brian glanced down at the pictures. Every time he glanced between the leather man and the monk, trying to focus on the composition and impact of the picture as a whole, on the whole of each picture as a selling point, the man hanging on the wall distracted him. It was the same model in each picture, Brian could tell, despite the fact that the man was hooded. His attention was dragged to the emotion of the man on the wall. He was a model, for god’s sake, this was his job, to hang there and project a submissive demeanor.

Why could he not see past the terror of the hanging man?

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Brian?” Andrea asked, confused by the length of time that had gone by since she had stopped talking.

“Yeah, that guy, hanging on the wall. Get rid of him.”

“What? But, that would break the symmetry in line there, the eye would fall off the page…”

“I don’t fucking care what the eye does, get rid of him!”

Andrea took a deep breath, and collected the pictures. “Um, sure, I’ll get something back to you tomorrow.” She dropped a picture in her hurry to leave the room, glancing over to where Ted was standing on her way out. He raised his eyebrows at her expression.

Ted picked up the picture she had dropped as he moved to sit in front of Brian’s desk. “You don’t think this is good? The scene hangs together – heh! Get it? Hangs?” He took in Brian’s scowl, and quickly continued, “Anyway, this is brilliant, as usual, Brian. Hicks is positioned to spread your true campaign of gay sexuality becoming the subtext of all art and aesthetics everywhere, and he won’t even know it.” Ted smiled, looking up from the photo, but the gesture was pointless, since Brian had buried his face in his hands. “Brian? Don’t you think these are good?” He was gesturing with the Spanish Inquisition shot.

Brian slid his hands down to cover his lower face, and then moved them to prop his head up. He was unaccountably tired. “What do you think?”

Nothing could be more calculated to startle Ted. “Uh… I’d have to consider it more carefully, but you know, since I did come up with the whole idea, I’m more inclined to go with my vision. Just, you know, you always make the final decision…”

“Fine, go with your idea. And, by the way, you’ve got the account.”

“Um… what?”

“Cut the stuttering, Ted, the account’s yours. You have an obvious grasp of this. Unless you just want to crunch numbers the rest of your life? Here’s the file…” He handed over the SpyWhip file into Ted’s disbelieving hands. “Go. Talk to Andrea. I’ll sit in on the meeting Monday, but you’re running it.”

“Um. Okay… Cool. Actually, yeah, great! Thanks, Bri!”

“Don’t fucking call me Bri.”

“Sorry. Mr. Kinney.”

Brian rolled his eyes but actually laughed. “Fuck you.”

“Would you like to look at the numbers forecast for the account, anyway, Brian?” Ted held out the folder he had carried in.

“Sure, what the hell.” Brian leaned forward in his chair, as Ted spread the sheets over his desk.

***

He woke up to a ringing cell phone, and looked around groggily. Shit. Must have passed out on the couch in the office. He sat up, passed a hand through his hair, and flipped open the cell. Justin. Great. He was being checked up on. The good little wife. He was fine. Why couldn’t Justin get that he was fine?

“Yeah?”

“Um, Brian?”

“Yeah, what?”

“I was just wondering where you were.”

“Working, you know, Kinnetik? Remember?”

“Oh. Well, it’s 10 o’clock, and I stopped by but you weren’t at the loft…”

“Fuck, ten? Time flies when you’re catching up.” Brian laughed. Or sleeping. Those pills had knocked him out. Truthfully, after Ted had left the office, he hadn’t been able to get anything done. He had opened the files for a couple other accounts, but had been unable to focus on anything important. The numbers all blended into each other, and every time he tried to concentrate on the concept behind a campaign’s strategy, he just could not think of the proper configuration for ad placement.

He had planned to go down to the Art Department to catch up on the work down there, but after meeting with Andrea, he just wanted to spare himself the censure surely coming from her, maybe even spread around the minions, his mood. He could hear the whispers, isn’t that just what happens when you’ve been in an accident, just humor him and it’ll pass. Poor guy.

Fuck that.

He flexed his hand open and closed, thinking of the talk, the judgment. Damn it. Andrea and her fucking symmetry. He knew she was right, but still. Well, it was Ted’s baby now, let him deal with it.

Brian ended up taking another pain pill and stretching out on the couch. He hadn’t meant to sleep five hours. Probably a good thing Justin had called him. “Fine, stay there, I’ll be back and then we’re going to Babylon.”

“Babylon? Brian, I don’t…”

Brian hung up.

***

Friday night, the club was loud and pulsating, the beat focusing attention on no single place, but on the scene in general. Still, eyes turned to Brian when he entered. “Hey, Brian, I heard you were in an accident. They said it was bad,” the bartender greeted him, waving away his money and giving him the drink for free. Brian had already had a few. Justin trailed in his wake, shaking his head at the bartender’s gesture with the bottle. Michael accepted a beer, let Brian pay for it, and leaned back against the bar.

“Where’s the better half?” Brian asked, leaning over Justin to talk to Michael, after knocking back the shot and gesturing for a beer.

“Grading papers. I thought I’d take a night, go out with my best friend.”

Justin watched Brian, counting four drinks now since Brian had gotten back to the loft and changed into the club clothes. Dressed in black, his clothes hugging the curves, Brian had fretted in the mirror over the fact that he wouldn’t be able to work out aerobically for another month, at least. His diet had gone to shit in the first week back as compensation, but Justin had threatened to match him bite-for-bite. Brian had scoffed that Justin was certainly chowing down at school until Justin stepped on the scale and tipped out at five pounds beneath his normal weight. Brian got pissed, ate a tuna salad sandwich, and made Justin eat two.

But Justin was getting no calories from alcohol so far tonight. He watched Brian turn his attention to the club scene, his gaze narrowing.

“See anyone interesting?” Michael asked, his eager tone matching the look he turned to follow Brian’s gaze.

“Yeah,” Brian breathed, stalking out onto the dance floor and grabbing a young man by his belt loop. The kid was lean, with silver-white hair. He took one look at Brian and surrendered to being pulled off to the backroom.

Justin turned furiously on Michael. “Why are you encouraging him? He needs to heal.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael retorted. “He’s getting back to normal. It’s good for him. He’s got to feel like himself again.”

“This isn’t the time for Brian’s normal!” Justin yelled over the music. “He was…” He stopped, and glanced around, noticing the men leaning up on the bar next to them who pretended not to listen. Always some parties interested when it concerned Brian Kinney. Shit, this was not the place. At worst, the story would be everywhere in seconds. At best, there would be new rumors of jealous twinkiness. Justin had worked hard to put such talk to rest, but the chatter always flared up, out of the background noise, waiting to be released, the vicious dogs of gossip. And it just so wasn’t true. Anymore. “He’s still not healed,” he only said, lowering his voice and moving toward Michael. “He should be taking it easy.”

“He is taking it easy, he’s only got one guy with him!” Michael answered, chuckling. The guy on Michael’s other side, who Justin didn’t even know, laughed as well, to himself. He stopped when he caught Justin’s Look of Death, but giggled again as soon as Justin looked away.

Justin turned his back on both of them, toward the bartender, and ordered a beer. What the fuck. He ignored Michael, who moved off when the guy asked him to dance. Justin sipped his beer and ignored the various men cruising him, his focus concerned with only one man in the place. So what if they talked about Justin as a jealous twink. What was more important?

And so what if, aside from that one blow job, Brian hadn’t touched him? Brian damn sure hadn’t touched Justin during said blow job, either. Just a quick pulling of Justin’s face down to his groin, his prick filling Justin’s throat, over his tongue and slamming back in before Justin’s lips could come into play, three short thrusts and shooting, that was all. Maybe the speed of it shouldn’t be a surprise; it had been a long time since Brian had had his cock serviced. But it hadn’t been sexy. And there had been nothing since then, no touches, no come-hither looks, nothing. So Justin had been fairly surprised when Brian had insisted on coming here, and, once here, seemed intent on fucking non-stop. He watched as Brian emerged from the backroom and dragged a second guy back without a pause. He hadn’t expected Brian to dance, not with his rib pain, but he hadn’t expected this either.

I am, Justin thought, completely pathetic. He knew how Brian was. And this is probably a perfectly normal reaction to being out of the loop so long. Oh, hell, to trauma. Brian was doing exactly what Michael said, getting back to his normal life. So why did watching Brian drag nameless fucks off to screw hurt so damn much?

Probably because his own relationship with Brian was anything but back to normal.

“Having a good time?” Brian asked a while later, when he finally reclaimed his place next to Justin at the bar.

“Not as good as you, apparently,” Justin answered, regretting his sharp reply instantly.

Brian’s brow cocked upward. “You should go get laid, Sunshine. Been a while since someone’s been up your ass, you might enjoy it.”

Justin bit his lip and turned his gaze back to the dance floor. He was not batting at that ball.

But damn, what was wrong with him? Clearly, Brian was acting out. I mean, Justin thought, obviously. This wasn’t about their relationship. Brian was going through something, not that Justin could understand the sexual aspect of the violation, but he sure could understand the helpless rage from being violently assaulted. Clearly, Brian’s reassertion to the top of Babylon’s fuck chain had nothing to do with his relationship with Justin. So Justin just needed to hold steady, right? Of course, Brian’s ribs had to be hurting him, maybe Justin should try to diplomatically suggest they bring someone back if that’s what Brian needed. One guy was manageable, and Brian would be in bed, anyway. On his back. And then maybe Justin could kick the guy out, and deal with the Kinney wrath. And take care of Brian’s needs himself. In his bed. On his back. Carefully, the way these guys definitely wouldn’t. Whatever it took to make sure Brian was well.

“Brian…” He turned back to face his partner, to make this suggestion. But Brian stopped him.

Brian had pulled a fabulously built young man to him and had locked lips, his tongue deep in the other man’s mouth. His hand had clasped onto the ample ass encased in leather, and he was rubbing his groin up against the man’s hips. The guy was gorgeous, Brian claiming another trick for another run.

“Hm…?” Brian asked, half-turning so his body twisted to face Justin, but his hips remained buried between the man’s spreading legs.

“Uh… um.” Justin did his best to recover. “I was just going to suggest we take someone home.”

“You just want to put me to bed. I told you, I’m fine, and you’re not my wife!” He practically shouted this last, before pulling the other man off toward the backroom. Number three. Or was that four?

Justin stood, stunned. He knew that every man in the near vicinity had heard that last, including Michael, who had returned to the bar after dismissing the other man. “Wow,” Michael said, coming up to Justin and putting his hand on his shoulder, “guess he really wants to stay!”

Justin didn’t even dignify that with a response, but pushed off of the bar and moved to find a couch and sit. It was going to be a long night.

***

Four. Four tricks after he walked through the door and about two hours later, Brian found Justin talking with a man dressed in sequins, mesh and heels, who was regaling Justin with the rigors of performing drag.

Shit, he was tired. Four tricks, four lousy blow jobs, and he didn’t even cum satisfactorily. Then again, he hadn’t exactly felt like fucking anyway. Probably why he could drag four guys in the back there in the first place; his dick remembered the motion, but his heart just wasn’t in it.

This fucking blew. Or, he should say, didn't.

And this was hardly great for his reputation. But what the hell. At the moment, Brian was too tired to care. The last trick had actually said to him, “Maybe you want to take it easy for a little while longer.”

Definitely time to go.

“Yeah, he’s not going there, so don’t even think it,” Brian said to the drag queen, taking Justin’s arm, and tugging for him to leave. He wanted to leave.

“We were just talking,” Justin answered, remaining as calm as he could, as they wove their way through the crowd and out into the night.

“I hope you got laid like I told you to,” Brian said, as they approached the Jeep.

“I’m not your wife, I don’t need to follow your directions.”

“You pissed at me?” They stopped by the bumper. Brian looked over at Justin, measuring, and Justin felt his stomach knot. He recognized that look. He hadn’t seen it since before he’d been bashed.

“I’m not pissed at you, Brian. But I am driving.”

Brian surrendered the keys easily. Too easily. “Fine.” They got into the car, and Justin pulled out to drive home through the quiet streets. Brian slumped in his seat, forcing his eyes to remain open as he watched the city slip by.

They did not speak again until they were on their way up the lift. “Brian…” Justin tried. He wasn’t sure what to say. Yeah, he wasn’t Brian’s wife, but to announce it so publicly. And the deep lip lock with that guy…

Brian was leaning heavily against the back of the elevator, his head resting on the wall, his eyes closed. “Hm?” he replied, tilting his head forward and staggering slightly.

Justin knew he hadn’t had that much to drink, well, for Brian, and it had been several hours. Obviously, Brian was feeling the effects of what he had just put himself through. Justin moved forward quickly, placing his body under Brian’s arm, supporting him. “You okay?”

“Just, tired,” Brian answered, leaning heavily. The ride back had allowed him to relax, and the strain of keeping up had proven too much.

Justin dismissed what he had been on the brink of saying. Instead, he opened the door and helped Brian through, bringing him to the bed and undressing him as Brian more or less passed out. Thank god the next day was Saturday. Brian could sleep.

Justin sat at the kitchen counter and knocked back a shot, okay, two shots of Brian’s Johnny Walker, and sat, sipping on a third. He watched the man in the bed sleep, and wondered what the fuck he should do. He did not want to stay. No matter what he told himself about Brian needing him, about this not being about himself, not really. Nonetheless, watching Brian stick his tongue into that guy’s mouth, watching his lips press up against another’s, that was fucking painful. To say nothing of the fact that he had practically dry humped the guy in front of him. The comment about Justin’s not being his wife, well, just icing at this point, but good god, that had been cruel, and nothing Brian could say would make that better. If everything were equal, he would tell Brian to fuck off, enough was enough. But nothing was equal at this point.

The worst part was that Brian would say nothing about any of this. The night was over, it was done. And Justin would look like the asshole for bringing up the whole rotten evening, for mentioning his own feelings here. But, damn it, it hurt. And worse, there was no way he could open the subject and not look like just what Brian had accused him of, the little wife, complaining over being taken for granted. Or worse. Much, much worse.

He closed up the liquor bottle, and walked over to the refrigerator, taking out two bottles of water. He took the cap off one, walked into the bedroom and placed it on the side table near Brian. He got thirsty at night after drinking, and usually woke up at some point in the night for a drink of water. Then Justin walked back into the living room and called for a cab.

He got back to the apartment he shared with Daphne. She was asleep. It was two in the morning, after all. He walked into his tiny closet of a room and lay down on the bed, still fully clothed. The moonlight poured through the window, bathing him in silver light. He looked through the glass at the moon’s cool serenity.

This can’t go on, he thought. I can’t bear this. I’m just not that strong. I am plain not strong enough for this.

He picked up his pillow, hugged it to his chest, buried his face in it, and allowed himself to cry, to really let go, for the first time since all this started.