"Every angel is terrifying." Rainer Maria Rilke Part Four He wanted to leave. Leave for good; leave Pittsburgh, leave Michael, Gus and Lindsay, leave the loft, and leave Justin. Especially Justin, who'd told him months ago in New York that he loved him and wanted to be like him. Now Brian's plan to go to New York again, alone and permanently, on to bigger and better things and away from this crazy kid and the romantic ideas clouding his judgement, had fallen through. He blinked at the bars of blue lights on the wall in front of him, the cell still at his ear. "When I walk out that door, I don't plan on ever looking back," he'd told Justin a couple of days ago, and the kid had believed him, clutched him in a hug that made Brian feel his hand prints for hours after he'd left. He'd made Justin cry. Shit. That told him more than anything else that it was time to get the hell out, and now his plans had fallen through with a single phone call from New York. Promoting from within; some 25-year-old hotshot. Motherfuck. "Who was that?" Justin asked behind him. He felt Justin's eyes on him and realized he'd been holding the phone in his hand, staring at the wall, his whole posture tense. He turned and descended from the bedroom area, placed the cell on a table and walked over to where Justin was still marveling over New York's rental prices, listed in the online ads. He was watching Brian uncertainly, hand hovering over the wireless mouse. "Nobody," Brian said. He wrapped his arms around Justin, bending to look over his shoulder at the images on the monitor. "Just some lunatic." Justin laughed. "Well this stuff is pretty crazy too. Look at this one, do you believe this?" Brian watched the monitor absently, only half-listening to Justin's comments as he clicked from one ad to the next. He seemed cheerful and carefree, but Brian knew it was only a front put up for his benefit, Justin being brave, keeping silent. He'd been doing that a lot in recent months, not mentioning a lot of shit, not mentioning his anger and fear when he did mention things that had been happening lately. Not that it was necessary; Brian only had to focus on that corner of his mind that Justin had started to inhabit before he ran off to New York and he knew. He knew about the attacks at St. James led by one of the students there, Chris Hobbs. He could see the scene that led to Justin's two-day suspension, could almost feel the sting himself when a sudden image of Justin touching a smoldering locker had surprised him in the middle of a presentation. He never mentioned any of that to Justin either, not even when Justin's courage had taken a turn to recklessness, making him stand in front of Hobbs and announce he'd jerked the kid off, much to the delight and gleeful howls of the Liberty Avenue crowd. Brian found himself wondering if that ability to practically watch Justin no matter where he was would have faded eventually if he'd left Pittsburgh for good. He found himself wondering how often he would have done it, and realized probably more than he would like to admit, and if there would have been a sense of loss if it would have faded in time. "Brian?" Justin turned in his chair to look at him quizzically. Brian gave a start. "What?" "Everything all right?" "Why wouldn't it be?" He realized he was gripping Justin's shoulders much harder than he'd been aware of, let go and straightened up, keeping his eyes glued to the monitor and a blank expression on his face. Justin smiled, tilting his head back to lean against Brian's stomach, looking up at him. "You didn't answer my question." "And what would that have been?" "Jesus Brian, you're really out of it." Justin grinned and rose from the chair, then wrapped his arms around Brian's neck and pressed close. "Now I forgot what I was asking about too, see? Must not have been important." Brian grinned, the morose thoughts fleeting as he looked at Justin's smiling face and half-closed eyes, felt the fingers caressing the back of his neck, and the warmth of his stomach firm against him. His hands went around Justin's waist, then travelled lower, slid around the curve of his ass and pulled him tighter against his hardening cock. "If it wasn't about this, then no. It wasn't." "That's what I thought," Justin laughed. He tugged at the towel wrapped around Brian's waist until it loosened and pulled it away from Brian's body. He caught the towel in both hands, the scarlet terrycloth vivid against his pale skin and spilling over his arms as he wadded it together clumsily. Spilling red. Brian felt his heart seize and suddenly felt ice cold, his skin seeming to crawl with goosebumps. "Brian?" Justin said. He reached for Brian, letting the towel drop to pool at his feet, and Brian wrenched back, startled. "Brian. Jesus Christ. What's wrong?" Brian shook his head, realizing his heart was thudding crazily. He rubbed his eyes. Get a grip. What the fuck is the matter with you? "Nothing," he said. "It's nothing – probably overdoing the double bumps a little recently." He laughed shakily, giving Justin's arms a reassuring squeeze and pushing him back gently, suddenly not wanting to touch him. He felt his stare as he went to the coffee table and grabbed the bottle of Beam standing there. He felt a wave of exhaustion, and almost wished Justin were gone.
*******
Justin was ecstatic, bouncing around him like an excited puppy when they were back at the loft, alone. "You're not leaving – I still can't believe it. Why didn't you say so? How long have you known?" "Justin," Brian chided. He pushed him back and trudged to the couch, picking up the almost-empty bottle of whiskey on the way, unscrewing it and taking a swallow. "I didn't get the job. What difference does it make?" "But you wanted it. It was all you were talking about." "Yeah. So?" Justin flopped down on the couch next to him, and he wished the kid would just shut up and stop wriggling. He was exhausted. He'd lost count of how many men he'd dragged back to the loft in the last couple of days, feeding on them and then tossing them out, only to head back out later and drag back the next one. It hadn't helped. Alcohol helped for a short while; sleep helped for a short while until it was interrupted by nightmares he couldn't remember, and then he woke up to find the alcohol-assisted numbness interrupted by the short period of sleep. Endless cycles within an endless cycle. He dragged his eyes to Justin when the kid waggled his fingers in his face. "So why didn't you use your powers of mind-control to get the job," Justin said, grinning. "I thought vampires could do that kind of thing." "Shut up. I'm not a fucking vampire, get off it." "Yeah right. You're just too hung up on your ethics and morals to get ahead with that kind of thing. I think you could make anyone do anything you wanted." "Well obviously not. You're still here." Justin laughed, making him wince when his tickling fingers poked at his ribcage. "Hard work and accomplishments – you're such a fucking martyr, Brian. Too honest for your own good. I'd make people do all kinds of stuff." "Like you don't already," Brian said. He slapped at Justin's hands and snapped at him. "Cut it the fuck out, Justin. I mean it." "You know what I think? I think you didn't even really want to leave and you're glad it fell through. I think you care about me too much to leave, Brian. I think you soo looove—" "Hey, shut the fuck up! Just shut up already." Justin shrank back at the aggressive tone, his smile fading as he stared into Brian's baleful eyes. Then he huffed and rose from the couch. Brian scrubbed at his face tiredly, letting out the breath he'd been holding. The hiss of fabric behind him told him Justin was pulling on his jacket, and he heard the snap of buttons. "Justin –" "No, it's fine. You want me to leave, I can leave. Forget it." Brian dragged himself to his feet and went to where Justin was fumbling at one of the sleeves of the jacket. Brian pulled his hand from the cuff and when he placed his hands on Justin's shoulders, Justin looked up at him, a hurt expression on his face. But he made no move to protest when Brian unfastened the buttons again, pushing the jacket off and tossing it on the couch. "No. Stay," Brian said. "Okay?" Justin hesitated, then pulled him into a hug, wrapping both arms around Brian's waist. "Brian, what is it? What's wrong? Is it really the stupid job?" "I'm just tired," Brian said and wrapped his arms around the kid. I'm scared, Justin, he thought. I don't know why but I'm so fucking scared.
*******
"Do you want to come to my prom with me?" Brian froze on his way down the stairs as the unexpected question drifted down from the landing overhead and into his ears. Into his stomach, making it curl into itself with the same sense of dread he felt when he bolted awake late at night, mind whirling and trying to grasp at images that eluded his memory. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he looked up to stare at Justin, hovering over him and gazing at his face, looking almost like an angel descending on him out of the blue of the strobe lights. "As what," Brian said, "as your chaperone?" "As my date," Justin said, a touch of "duh" in his tone and expression. "I'd love to." "Yeah?" Actually hopeful. "But my prom dress is still at the cleaners." "Oh c'mon!" "Are you out of your mind? Go ask some girl." "I don't want to ask some girl. I want to go with someone I care about; and if that happens to be a guy, who cares?" The kid just wasn't letting up. Who cares indeed. Brian almost snorted. "That's just what I need. To be at a dance in a room full of fucking eighteen-year-olds." Justin's grin was knowing and almost evil, making the vague sense of dread curl in the pit of Brian's stomach again. "I thought you liked fucking eighteen-year-olds." Brian leaned close, lips near Justin's face, where the grin was fading, anticipating the brush-off. "Go buy a corsage. For someone else." If there were more protests from the kid, Brian didn't hear them. He descended the staircase quickly, making his way to the back room and not slowing down until he got there. He strolled to the back, barely glancing at the naked and half-naked bodies, writhing together in twos or threes at various intervals against the black walls or in the corners. It was one of these groups of threes that broke apart when he walked by, one of the men catching his gaze and heading toward him slowly, bare-chested and in jeans, handsome in an unremarkable way. He drew near, eyes asking silent permission, and Brian reached out to hook his fingers through the man's belt-loops, turning him to face the wall. He reached around the man's waist and popped the buttons of his fly, hands delving in quickly to stroke his hard cock, lips hovering over the warm and slightly damp skin of his neck, anticipating. He yanked down the stranger's jeans and then undid his own, pausing only to tear open a condom and roll the thin latex over his cock. The trick gasped as he felt cold lubed fingers prodding at him and arched his back slightly. "Boy you don't waste any time," he said, chuckling softly. Brian began to push into him and the man's head fell back as he braced his hands on the wall inches in front of him. Brian put his mouth to his ear. "You won't remember this anyway, so it doesn't matter." "What?" The man tensed and his voice was almost a frightened squeak, but Brian shoved into him roughly enough to flatten him against the wall. He grasped a handful of dark hair, pulling the trick's head back with enough strength to make the man's struggles seem almost feeble in comparison. "I said you won't remember this," Brian said, and the man moaned, his movements ceasing like those of a cat grasped by the scruff of the neck as Brian's incisors pierced his throat. Warm wetness flooded his mouth and ran down his throat as he swallowed, thrusting into the trick at the same time he stroked the man's cock, keeping his grip on the trick's hair and the man's head tilted back. The warmth burned in his chest and pooled in his stomach, much like swallows of Beam he took directly from the bottle but feeling more substantial, spreading through him slowly and branching out until it pulsed in his fingers and toes. It made his cock throb and seem to expand as he felt his balls tighten, and then rushed through his stomach and back into the trick as he came. At the same time the man crushed between him and the wall was coming, moaning and jerking against Brian, almost making his mouth lose its hold on the man's neck before the heavy flow had ceased. Brian tightened his grip on the teetering body, feeling his own stomach draw together in a cramp, the warmth it contained suddenly hot and heavy as lead. He felt a rush of nausea and swallowed against it, gritting his teeth. What the fuck was that? He stepped back, spitting bitter saliva still mixed with blood on the ground and wiped his mouth. The trick was leaning against the wall, breathing in shallow pants. Brian stared at him, quickly discarding the condom and fastening his Jeans. He backed away, then turned and headed out. What was that – was the man sick? No, he thought, he was sure he wasn't, he was never wrong about that. But the immediate nausea had passed and he decided it didn't matter. He was dizzy and wanted to leave. Fuck this shit. He spotted Justin near the bar with the others, made a beeline and grabbed him by the arm, starting to drag him out, ignoring his look of surprise. "Come on," Brian snapped. Justin started to grin, then he took a closer look at Brian and stopped in his tracks. "I said: Come on!" Brian repeated. "Brian?" Michael's voice behind him. Shit. He turned to face his friend's concerned face and felt a wave of impatient anger. Always concerned, always fawning, thinking he knew Brian and having no clue. Pathetic, he thought. "Brian are you OK?" "Leave him alone," Justin said, and now he was the one pulling Brian along toward the exit, but Michael cut him off, stepping in their path, and Brian was tempted to shove him aside when he felt Michael's fingers brush his chin. Brian felt another wave of nausea as he realized the fingers were wiping at something wet, and cold. "Jesus, Brian, you're bleeding," Michael said. "Holy shit, there's blood all over your—" "Leave him the fuck alone, Michael," Justin hissed, and gave the man a hard shove, his eyes shooting daggers and at the same time full of fear. Afraid for him, Brian realized. Michael stumbled backwards a few steps, staring at Justin for several seconds before his eyes narrowed. And then Michael was shoving Justin back, screeching furiously. "Fuck you, you stupid little shit! Who the fuck do you think you are after all the trouble you've caused. You don't know shit! Go home and fuck yourself, you're nothing but—" Brian's backhanded slap hit Michael squarely on the mouth, sending him reeling backwards. He caught himself, staring at Brian wide-eyed, and put his fingers to his lips. Brian stared back, furious, only vaguely aware of Ted and Emmett rushing over to Michael's side, gaping in confusion. Justin stood at Brian's side, frozen motionless as a statue, but he recovered from the shock first. "Come on, Brian," he said and gave his sleeve a soft tug. "Let's get out of here." Justin led the him toward the exit, and from the stares and the way the crowd of men parted to make room for their passage Brian concluded their little drama had gotten more attention than he'd realized. Shit, he thought, glowering. Fuck them. Fuck them all.