“Depression”
Monday
To: Brian Kinney
From: Ted Schmidt
Date/Time: Monday, April 10, 2006, 7:37 a.m.
Hey, Brian, just forwarding the projections for Brown’s latest run out on the West Coast. The SpyWhip campaign is going great, btw. Thought you were coming to the meeting Friday? No big deal, we can go over it at today’s 10am.
To: Brian Kinney
From: Ted Schmidt
Date/Time: Monday, April 10, 2006, 10:46 a.m.
Hey, Brian, are your ribs acting up? I thought you’d be coming in today. Anyway, I really do need to go over the Brown numbers with you before the 1pm call from Leo.
To: Brian Kinney
From: Ted Schmidt
Date/Time: Monday, April 10, 2006, 12:17 p.m.
Uh, Brian, where are you? That deadline’s coming up for Leo at 5:00 today, and we gotta get our ducks in a row here; isn’t Leo calling at 1? Did you turn off the cell? I tried calling around, but Michael hasn’t seen you and Justin’s not picking up either.
To: Justin Taylor
From: Ted Schmidt
Date/Time: Monday, April 10, 2006, 12:37 p.m.
Hey, Justin, do you know where Brian is? If you get this before the 3 messages I left on your cell, CALL ME.
To: Brian Kinney
From: Cynthia Wyatt
Date/Time: Monday, April 10, 2006, 1:53 p.m.
Where the fuck are you? You better be hurting bad or I’ll make sure you are. You have no idea what Ted is like when he freaks out, he’d never do it in front of you but since I’m a woman, as you’ve pointed out ad nauseum, people are more comfortable “showing their vulnerability” to me. Great, you’re right again, fuck you.
Anyway, I’m rambling because you’ve made me nervous. You better call me. Your agency is going to hell without you. Okay, maybe not, but you should have seen Ted three minutes before the Brown call. It went fine – he really does know his shit and besides, I had all the info pulled together so all he (and you, for that matter!) had to do was recite my work. The ad’s running in InterPlay, Real Sports and the sales people will market at Foot Lockers and the other shops we discussed around San Francisco and LA, blah blah blah I’m not going to go over stuff you already know, suffice to say, Leo was fine with everything we proposed.
You better not be okay, or I’ll be really pissed off.
* * * * *
When Justin got to the loft after spending the day at PIFA to catch up on projects the past month’s circumstances had put him way behind on, Brian was in front of the television, watching Seinfeld.
“Hey!” Justin called, tossing his bag off to the side. He could only see Brian’s bare feet propped up on the couch back. The rest of him was buried away, deep in the cushions. No reply. Justin wandered over to the sitting area, and sat down in front of Brian’s knees. Brian glanced over, then back at the t.v. Justin picked up the remote and muted the sound. Brian looked down the length of his body toward the other man.
“Did you get in touch with Ted?” Justin asked.
Brian shrugged. “How was school?”
“Good, busy,” Justin answered. He grimaced. “Professor Bartlett was ready to kick me out of her class… again, because I’ve missed three classes. I can’t miss any more. I tried explaining to her…”
“What?” Brian interrupted, his voice sharp.
Justin’s eyes softened. “That the love of my life was in a terrible accident and I had to take care of him.”
“And she melted at your winsome blonde beauty and sad, doe-like gaze.”
“Ha. No, the bitch asked me why that was her problem. She says to me, ‘Life sucks, Justin, but them’s the breaks.’ She tells me, if I didn’t feel capable of fulfilling the basic requirements of the class, perhaps I should take it at a time in my life when I feel more ready to do so. And then she gives me this look, like, ‘I seriously doubt that day will ever come.’ Apparently, my reputation as a student is for shit, go figure. So, yeah, I’ve been working all day on getting her three projects done. One left. I rock.”
“I like this woman.”
“You would. Did you talk to Ted?”
Brian shrugged. “Was he looking for me?” He turned his face back to the television, to the soundless images flitting across the screen.
“Brian… I got emails and calls from both him and Cynthia. I told them I’d see you later, but... you never got their messages?”
“I turned the phones off.”
“And the computer.”
Brian shrugged again.
“You feeling okay?”
The look Brian turned on him wanted to be annoyed, but just… wasn’t.
“Brian?”
“Don’t you have homework?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I was working all day, so no, no more projects tonight. Do you need anything?”
“Thought you didn’t want to be the little woman.”
“Caring for the beloved is not a feminine characteristic. Even Shakespeare dedicated a chunk of his sonnets to his ‘lovely boy.’”
Brian groaned. “Oh, god, old enough for the homoeroticism of intro to lit.”
Justin just laughed, picked up his bag, and wandered off to read Twelfth Night.
***
When Justin came back to the couch a few hours later, Brian was asleep, his legs still draped over the back of the couch. Justin leaned in, touched Brian’s cheek, then kissed him. Brian’s eyelids opened, and he stared groggily upward.
“Hey… time for bed.”
Brian nodded, sat up, and winced. Justin sat next to him, making his body available as a prop. “Ribs?”
“No… yes. Everything hurts.”
“What did the doctor say?”
Another shrug.
“Didn’t you have an appointment?”
“Canceled it.”
“Brian.”
“I know,” Brian replied, the annoyance sharp in his tone now. “Don’t worry, I rescheduled.”
“For…”
“Friday at 2.”
Justin considered. He couldn’t miss class Friday to be sure Brian went to the doctor… could he? Oh, fuck it, no. He couldn’t. “Still hurts, though?” Justin asked, changing the subject. “Do you need any pills or something?”
“Weed would be good.”
Justin nodded. They had a bunch stashed in the bedroom.
A warm desire passed through Justin’s body as Brian leaned onto him and allowed himself to be helped to stand. Justin wondered if they were ever going to make love again. Or fuck. Or, whatever. Damn it, he shouldn’t be thinking this.
They walked up to bed, and Brian settled carefully down, allowing Justin to pull off his jeans, and draw the t-shirt over his head. Justin rolled a joint, lit it, and handed it to Brian, who took a long drag, and asked him, “You have school tomorrow?”
“I have to work on that painting in the morning. And a shift at the diner in the afternoon. No classes. Are you going to work?”
“Dunno.” Brian took a long drag. “I’ll see how I feel.” He handed the joint to Justin, closed his eyes, and drew the covers up over his body.
***
Tuesday
To: Justin Taylor
From: Ted Schmidt
Date/Time: Tuesday, April 11, 2006, 11:17 a.m.
Hey, Justin, did you manage to see Brian last night? Don’t mean to bug you, but have him call if he’s planning on staying home again. Let me know how long. We’re fine, of course, but I need his signature on a few things. Don’t want to just drop by the loft. Hey, maybe you could stop by Kinnetik to make sure he gets the papers? Not that I don’t trust the messenger service, but you know how it is.
To: Ted Schmidt
From: Justin Taylor
Date/Time: Tuesday, April 11, 2006, 12:30 p.m.
Sorry, forgot to let you know that Brian told me to tell you he’d be out for a little bit. I’ll drop by and get the papers.
To: Brian Kinney
From: Kim Eliot
Date/Time: Tuesday, April 11, 2006, 1:15 p.m.
Hello, Brian. Have you given any more thought to coming down to the station? I still think writing out that statement would help us. You never know what you might remember.
You have my number.
To: Daphne Chanders
From: Justin Taylor
Date/Time: Tuesday, April 11, 2006, 5:30 p.m.
Sorry I’ve been so scarce. Just, you know, school and Brian’s accident. I promise I’ll be around. Sometime. Don’t want to drop out without a word.
To: Justin Taylor
From: Daphne Chanders
Date/Time: Tuesday, April 11, 2006, 7:15 p.m.
Hey, I got the rent check, so it’s all good! If the new guy – Brad, don’t you know, or, no you don’t, DO YOU? – if Brad wasn't keeping me so busy, I'd pull a Debbie on you for abandoning me (or not) – but he’s keeping me pretty busy if you know what I mean! and he (and I!) appreciates that we have a bit of privacy here, since he lives three guys in 2 rooms.
Ugh! But, don’t feel like you need to avoid the place you pay rent to! Or, should I say, Brian pays rent to? God, where can I get me one of those?
Seriously, let me know when you’ll be around and we’ll have a movie night. Only, no rush. Really. Brad’s awesome.
***
Wednesday
To: Brian Kinney
From: Michael the Madman
Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 9:15 a.m.
Hey, Brian! We haven’t been out in a while. Wanna do something this weekend? Let me know.
To: Justin Taylor
From: Melanie Marcus
Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 10:00 a.m.
Justin, I got a follow-up from Hammerstein & Forbes – we’re FINALLY getting the ball rolling. They can’t delay any more – the judge is going to get pissed off and they know it. Looks like it’s arbitration. You ready for this?
To: Justin Taylor
From: Ted Schmidt
Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 11:34 a.m.
Thanks for the signatures. That’s all I really need. Tell him Cynthia’s pissed. Actually, don’t tell him that. Just take care of him, and let him know we’re good here, his baby’s well taken care of. Well, I can’t speak for Cynthia. But the agency’s doing great, as always.
* * * * *
Justin walked into Michael’s comic shop, and laid down his portfolio with the latest story boards for Rage’s next edition. Michael finished up a sale. He turned to pull Justin’s art work out of its folder. “Hey, this is great! Zephyr looks awesome…”
“Yep, beefed up the package a tad.”
“Great! But don’t tell Ben, he might wonder why.”
Justin chuckled. “I seriously doubt Ben would think anything of it. He’s a good man.”
“Yep, he is. Oh, great, this part of the story came together wonderful!”
Justin barely glanced at it; he had actually knocked the pictures off in three days. He could do that now: Rage by rote. The comic was definitely on the back burner. He really needed to catch up at the Institute. Plus, try to figure out what was up with Brian, who had been on the couch each night Justin got home for the past five days in a row. TV on. Computer and telephones off.
As if he could read his mind, Michael asked, “How’s he doing?”
“Brian?”
Michael just nodded in response.
Justin shrugged. “Not great. He’s… resting a lot.”
“Still in pain?”
“Yeah. But he’s always watching TV when I get home…”
“Maybe he’s wearing himself out during the day. He’s still on medication, right?”
“I really don’t think that’s it.”
“But we’re talking Brian here. He’ll be up and about soon enough. He’s still healing, right?”
“Maybe that’s it.” Justin gathered the illustrations into a pile, and put them back in the folder, handing it over the counter. “Here you go, all yours.”
Michael watched him leave, his brow furrowed.
***
To: Ted Schmidt
From: Justin Taylor
Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 4:44 p.m.
Thanks, Ted. Let me know if you need anything else. J
To: Melanie Marcus
From: Justin Taylor
Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 5:52 p.m.
Am I ready? Just tell me when and where. Aim for the head and SWING.
To: Brian Kinney
From: Sheila Clark
Date/Time: Wednesday, April 12, 2006, 5:20 p.m.
Please contact me about looking at the mug shots, as we discussed. And, yes, you do need to come down to the station.
*****
Thursday
Justin worried.
Brian had not left the loft in a week. He had contacted no one at work. He moved between the bed, and the couch. He watched t.v.
After getting home from the dinner shift at the diner, Justin sat down in his usual spot under Brian’s knees. The t.v. projected Friends reruns.
“Brian?” Justin asked.
Brian turned his gaze down the couch. His eyes were forming dark circles that weren’t going away.
“Don’t you think you should go into work?”
“Is Ted bugging you again?”
“What? No, he’s not bugging me at all, he’s keeping things going. I don’t mind helping out. He really has got things managed for you.”
“I know. That’s why I’m okay taking time off. He and Cynthia are fine.”
“Really… time off?”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s all?”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Justin picked up the remote and turned the program off. “No motivation, avoiding work, avoiding people, sleeping excessive amounts… I’m worried.”
He expected Brian to snap at him, but again, all Justin got in response was a shrug. “Don’t be. It’s fine. I’m taking vacation.”
Justin bit his lip.
“Don’t you have homework?”
“Don’t you have a company?”
“If I don’t go to work, Ted and Cynthia run the place. Who does your homework for you?”
Well, if that didn’t trump Justin’s argument, nothing did. Justin reluctantly picked up his books, and took them to the dining table to get some studying done. He didn’t ask Brian if he wanted anything to eat; he knew when not to push. Brian wasn’t eating, either, until Justin literally handed him food. He had lost weight, and he could not afford to; he had crossed the line into too skinny. Justin took out his cell phone and ordered from the Arabic place down the street.
*****
Thursday night
Justin was happy. He had finished the third project for Professor Bartlett’s class, a charcoal of Brian’s feet sticking up over the back of the couch. He had such beautiful feet, such a pleasure to draw. He actually managed a beautifully shaded Brian’s-feet charcoal without his hand making him stop before it was done. He had also managed to stuff some couscous and hummus into Brian, plus there was plenty left over to eat the next day. He settled in under Brian’s knees to watch some art house DVD a friend from PIFA had recommended. Ten o’clock, and he had the rest of the night in which to do nothing. Hang out under Brian’s beautiful feet and watch movies. Luxury.
The pounding on the loft door made him jump, and he looked down the couch to Brian, whose eyelids had flown open, and whose chest heaved with a sudden intake of breath.
“Want me to get that?” Justin asked.
Brian’s lips curled into his mouth, and Justin really hoped he would shake his head, but in the end he just nodded. “Yeah. Probably Ted coming to tell me I’m broke.”
Justin got up and braced himself against the dizzying headrush. He chuckled slightly as it passed. “Yeah, right,” he responded, as he walked to the door, “He’s probably coming to tell you he landed a kajillion dollar account, which you would have known about if you’d read your email.”
“Great,” Brian muttered.
Justin wondered if he’d meant that to be heard. Probably not. But it wasn’t Ted on the other side of the door when Justin slid it open; it was Michael.
“Hey, Michael!” Justin’s greeting sounded exuberant through his surprise. He wanted to take it back and tone it down. Too late.
“Hey!” Michael walked in, and over to Brian’s feet. Justin shut the door and followed, taking in the dark shirt and tight black pants Michael was wearing.
“Hey, asshole!” Michael said, smacking Brian’s exposed ankle and falling into Justin’s place on the couch. “Let’s go out! Thursday night. Woody’s is rocking!”
Brian raised his eyebrows. “Do I look ready to go out?”
“No, but that never stopped you before. Quick shower, change of clothes, you already have that bed head look, you’re ready to go!”
“I don’t think so, Mikey.”
“Hey, no excuses now,” Michael said. Justin took in the forcefully cheerful demeanor and cringed. Oh, no. Michael was on a mission. Justin sat down at the computer and booted it up. He wanted to disrupt Michael-on-a-mission, but had no idea how. He would have to ride this one out; what else could he do?
And Michael continued relentlessly. “Look, a night out’s just what you need. You’ve been holed up here all week, and don’t tell me you haven’t. Plus, Boy Wonder says you’ve been acting all hermit-like…”
Oh, well fuck.
“He has, has he?”
“Yeah, well, he’s worried about you.”
Brian sat up, and turned to look at Justin. Justin stared at the computer screen, but he could feel the gaze on him.
“Come on, Brian, it’ll do you good to get out, have a few beers, cruise a few guys…”
Brian grunted, and Justin groaned quietly. Michael’s heart was in the right place, and technically, Justin agreed with him; Brian needed to get out. But he really wished Michael had consulted him first.
“What do you say?”
“I don’t think so, Mikey.”
Silence. Then, “You can’t just mope around here for the rest of your life.”
“So you came to rescue me from my moping?”
“Well, yeah! It’s been what, six weeks since the accident, I looked up recovery times, it says that your ribs should be all healed up. I was just worried when Justin told me that you seemed out of it…”
Again, the feeling of Brian’s gaze cutting into the flesh on the back of his neck.
“…I don’t know.”
“Besides, Brian, that Brandon guy is taking over Liberty, declaring himself the new stud.”
“So?”
“So? You can’t let people think you’ve given up your place.”
“Oh, bullshit, Mikey, I haven’t given up any place…”
“Haven’t you?” Michael’s voice was suddenly sharp. “You’ve been out six weeks and yeah, people know you had an accident, but it’s been long enough and they’re starting to wonder why you’re staying away from the scene…”
“They are? Or, YOU are?”
Silence. Then, “No, Brian, it isn’t like that. I’m worried about you, yeah, but I’m worried about you losing out on what really matters to you just because this thing happened… I don’t think you want it to destroy the life you’ve built up, just because…”
Oh, no, Justin thought. Oh, Michael, what the fuck are you doing? He wanted to say something, change the subject, but he was frozen, staring at the train that was about to wreck itself, while his carcass stalled on its tracks. MOVE, his brain screamed, FUCKING DO SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING! But he just sat there.
Into Brian’s silence, Michael said, “…look, I know. I know what really happened. And I’m worried about you, I think you need to deal with it, and you obviously aren’t.”
“Michael.” Brian’s voice was low and deadly. “What the fuck are you talking about.”
“Ma was at the hospital that night. Justin called her. She told me, ’cause she was worried about me being at the places where something like this could happen, but she’s worried about you too. We all are. Plus, Carl told her this guy had done this before…” Michael’s voice trailed off, as he began to realize he had made a major tactical error. Justin stood on shaking legs, and faced Brian, who sat forward on the couch, staring across the loft to the windows, his back stiff, his hands in his lap.
“Who else?” Brian asked, still not turning his gaze from the windows.
“Um, what?” Michael replied, looking as if he would shrink into the corner of the couch.
“WHO ELSE?! Or maybe I should ask you,” Brian said, cutting his gaze over to where Justin stood. “Who else have you told about this?”
“Brian, I…”
“No, I suppose I won’t get the truth out of you,” and he turned his gaze to Michael. “Who. Else.”
“Ma promised Justin she wouldn’t tell anyone else, she told me she was only telling me, but I…”
Brian closed his eyes.
“…told Ted. And, you know. Ben.”
“And I suppose your little foundling too. Is Rage going to get…” Brian was unable to force the word into existence; he swallowed convulsively, back down it went, down deep.
“Brian…” Justin started. He needed to tell him what had happened that night. He wanted to tell him his state of mind, the fear and the desperation that had driven him to call Carl, and the different fear that led to his decision to not say anything after. But he did not know where to begin; he did not know how to explain in a way Brian would be sympathetic to. Especially in this frame of mind, when he was unlikely to listen at all.
“Get out.” The words were spoken softly, but there was no questioning their absolute nature.
“What…” Michael started, but Justin had already moved to collect his work and his bag. He felt his jeans pocket to check for his key ring, which included the key to Daphne’s place.
“GET OUT!” Brian yelled, his roar dispelling any doubt there could be. Michael scurried toward the door, frightened.
Justin put on his jacket, and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. Then he turned to Brian, and said, as calmly as he could, “I want to tell you what happened.” His heart was tripping over itself so quickly, that he could feel it pushing on his rib cage.
“Oh, NOW you want to tell me,” Brian said, moving swiftly to where Justin stood, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him, hard, to the door. He threw Justin into the stairwell, so that he stumbled and fell, striking his hip on the floor, hard. Michael moved to help him up, but Justin scrambled out of his grip, regaining his feet on his own.
“Tell me by email,” Brian snarled, and slammed the door shut.
The two men stood, stunned, for a long moment.
“You want a ride somewhere?” Michael asked. His voice was very, very small.
Justin turned on him. He saw the pain in Michael’s eyes, but at the moment he just couldn’t care. “I don’t want shit. Stay the fuck away from me!” He turned and stomped down the stairs, leaving the elevator to Michael.