A/N: Thank you for reading! Updates will probably be 1X/2X a week now- reviews are encouraging and I'm very grateful for them! [I don't think I'd say this is 'extreme sappiness' at all-- Indeed, I personally don't much like sappiness. But I thought I'd mention it since some may interpret it as such. See what you think.] ---------------------------------- Ooooookay. Justin's finally drifted off to sleep after I fucked him the seventh time (seventh!); his expression is… pure. It's kind of creepy- I don't think I've ever seen someone whose face was so truly happy, at peace and serene in my life. Even the few dead ones I've seen at viewings. Frankly, it flips me the fuck out. And that doesn't happen to Brian Kinney- until this twat stumbled (literally) into my life. Let's be accurate here: *Justin* doesn't happen to Brian Kinney. Not the carefully constructed Brian Kinney OR the 'real' Brian Kinney. Blissed but freaked, my mind wanders dangerously. Hell. I've only truly- *truly*- faced the 'real' Brian Kinney once. Not the first time I tried to kill myself. Or the last. I faced him full-on the second time when my flatmate Ned found me. I don't want to think about that time. Pfft. What I want doesn't seem to make a difference anymore. The first time I tried to kill myself I was scared, alone, beaten down and beaten up; I was a child trying to escape. Same in a way when Mikey found me: I was scared, feeling the death knells of the construct I'd built up- facing the fact that it couldn't last. I was 30, I was aging and I knew the raw magnetism I seemed to have couldn't possibly last- I felt it, knew it, believed it utterly. All that was worth living for in me was soon to dwindle away to nothing so I figured I'd take it away myself, kill myself before age could take it from me. But still, I didn't dare face my demons again that time, at 30. As I said, I'd done that at 25. That was the second time I tried to end it. I was so angry at Ned for finding me that time I barely talked to him for a month. And once I did talk to him, it was superficial and polite until we were able to completely sever our connection at the end of the semester. I never saw him again after that or tried to get in touch with him. While it's about thirteen years later and I ought to contact him, I suppose to 'thank' him for saving my life, I still wish he hadn't. He had no idea who he saved that night. He thought he saved his best friend, the guy who teased him and snarked at him but was there for him when his little sister was killed by a drunk driver 8 hours before her confirmation; the guy who stayed up with him many nights in a row after his girlfriend got an abortion two days after breaking up with him; the guy who introduced him to gay nightlife despite his reluctance- and who gloated when he had way more fun at Babylon than he'd ever had at the bazillion frat parties and straight stoner parties he'd gone to. WAY more fun, even though he was straight. (He was one of the very few breeders I truly liked.) No, he didn't save *that* Brian Kinney- because that one's made up. Genuine, but still not the real me. He saved the real Brian Kinney: the sum of a million demons. Demons that had surfaced the night before while Ned was out. Surfaced in a chaotic maelstrom of morbid, sickening memories and feelings triggered by an unexpected visit from Jack. I still dunno what *really* tripped the wire. Him finding me fucking gorgeous twin soccer players may have had something to do with it. Now, I don't know why, but not only did Jack think me a strapping, handsome young ladykiller (he had zero evidence to prop up *that* delusion- except my close friendships with Lindsay and Daphne), by the time I was 25, he believed I was like he'd been as a 20-something: no one woman could ever satisfy me. He was right about there being no one woman—and about 'no one' man, as well, although he had no clue about that angle. Until that night. He literally went into cardiac arrest moments after seeing me with two men. At 9AM the next morning I'd returned to the dorm room I shared with Ned after spending 10 nerve-fraying hours with Jack in the ER and then ICU; I'd returned to the flat and immediately swallowed a bottle of pills. Fuck, if only I'd had *two* bottles of Vicodin that morning, Ned still would've found me an hour after I got back from Mount Nittany Medical Centre - but it would have been too late. I'd've been dead. I shiver, remembering the burning words my father hissed at me before he keeled over, before the 10-hour ordeal at the hospital. By that time I thought I'd heard it all: I shouldn't ever have been born; Jack should have cut off my head as soon as it emerged into the world (he sneered that he desperately wanted to at the time- but there were 'too many fucking doctors' around); I was a mistake, a burden, a waste of money and food (I don't know where that came from- Jack and Joanie barely even bought me clothing and VERY rarely fed me. Thank God for my bussing job at the diner, the terrible school cafeteria and my meeting the Novotny's at 14); I was satan; I was an abomination, etc., etc. All that shit 'hurt' when I was younger, I guess. I took it in, believed it even, but buried it over the years under the bright, shiny construct I developed. And in believing it all yet also burying it (what else could I have done? I've wondered at times), I 'gave birth' to the cast of demons that is the 'real' me. But that Night of Jack and Soccer Twins, Pops basically reiterated all the old shit plus some choice bone-shattering bon mots about 'fucking fairies', etc.-- I expected that, of course-- but then he said he was glad I'd never have children. Glad- *happy*- I would never be a father. Never have a child. Never 'reproduce'. Not so shocking, eh? He said he was glad Claire was the Kinney to pass on the light and joy of the bloodline (my words- just be sure to understand the tone used is that of the deepest sarcasm possible). Claire (the wonderbitch) was pure, Jack said. He said I was so contaminated, so evil, so wrong that were I to have a child, that child would be death. Death. He cursed my non-existent kid-- his own non-existent grandchild- and said how ironically pleased he was that faggy Brian Kinney (not of course, *his son*) would never have a kid. Y'know, again: it doesn't sound like much, does it? I mean, I would guess in comparison to everything else I'd been made to believe during my lifetime, it's not much of a stretch to damn any child I'd have simply because it was mine. Hell, I'm surprised I hadn't heard it before; I guess me possibly having a child hadn't really occurred to Jack. He always considered me to be just like him: not a family man because of my lust for the ladies. Not having kids for that reason was macho, manly, 'Kinney'. Then he found out I was a 'fairy' and not being a family man took on a whole new meaning: any life I brought into the world would be as sickening, evil, unnatural and heinous as me- it wouldn't be life, as I said before. That innocent child would be *death*. So, yeah, just more hurtful words- but those words hit home. For some reason, they hit home and all the other shit beaten into me during my lifetime hit home all over again. Like the creatures in Night of the Living Dead, ALL the demons attacked that night. Old and new. They attacked me- fine- but they also knifed an innocent, unborn unknown. A never-even-considered person. That person years later, of course, turned out to be my only unconditional love: Gus. A warm hand lands lightly on my shoulder. "What's going on?" Justin softly asks behind me. The pressure of his hand wavers as he attempts to keep steady. I now notice I've been standing here over an hour in the dark, staring blankly out the loft windows at the sleet. It's 4:00AM. I turn slightly to look at Justin. "You... um, you okay?" he asks hesitantly. I shrug him off without a word and stalk over to the fridge for a bottle of water. Fuck, I'd like to pull out a bottle of Beam, but out of deference to my would-be gutter-bound ward, I won't. "Brian...?" Out of the corner of my eye I see him take a small step towards me and then stop, seemingly afraid to come closer. He reaches back and tries to be subtle as he supports himself by gripping the windowsill. I sigh. "Nothing's going on that isn't just a rerun in my brain. I'm okay," I lie. He nods slightly, obviously unconvinced. He looks concerned and confused. "Want uh..." he notes my water and pauses. "Want something to eat?" "Justin, I'm fine. I have no food anyway." Now he releases his grip on the sill and wobbles slightly as he bravely walks to me. Instinctively I hold out my hand to help him as he nears. He grabs it gratefully and I slowly lead him back to the sofa; I wince when he trips a few times but I don't say anything. We sink into the cushions and he boldly cups the back of my neck, tenderly drawing me down to lay on his lap. "Brian," he whispers, carding his fingers through my hair, "whoever you think is the 'real' Brian Kinney, isn't, you know." I tense. Do I broadcast my thoughts on a Justin-only wavelength? "I don't know what's in your head, obviously. I don't know who you think you really are. I think I have a good idea though. And it's fucked." I snort. He ignores me. Surprise, surprise. "I get the sense that you believe the core Brian Kinney is so awful, so poisonous that he should never be 'allowed out'. I may be dead wrong, but I think you believe the man we all see is a carefully constructed trick of mirrors and the real man you think you're masking is the devil himself. You even said something like how the Brian you show everyone is outwardly 'unpalatable' or something, but it's not as genuinely evil as the real you underneath. That's total, complete crap. The real you is the man we all see, Brian- or at least the one *I* see. You may think you hide him but you don't. You can't. Whatever your family or whoever drilled into you about yourself is bullshit. Utter bullshit. The only thing 'wrong' about you is your ability to instinctively know where my ticklish spots are." I chuckle a little, although what he's saying makes me want to scream. Throw shit, break shit, stomp shit- and scream. "The terrible things you believe about yourself aren't you or in you," he continues softly. I wish he'd shut the hell up. "It's amazing really. You're amazing. Pfft- I can't put anything into words anymore. I'm not saying this right. And certainly not in a way you'll hear or listen to without wanting to knock me senseless." Fuck, the only reason I haven't knocked him senseless and thrown this obvious bad-judge-of-character out on his ass is because OF his ass. Well. Well, okay. And he went through similar shit himself growing up. Not the same but he's not talking out of his ass. He's not talking from a textbook or sense of pity. He's tasted horror- horror that's all the more acridly bitter when experienced as a kid. "I just wish you knew that the real Brian isn't the sum of a million demons personified." I thought that, didn't I? I mean, I didn't say anything like this shit out loud, did I? But he's using MY words; it's creepy. "The REAL Brian is the one who without thought reaches out to steady me when I waver, who doesn't put up with my bullshit, who comforts me in a backhanded way when I've had a seizure, who drives in the middle of the night into a crack neighborhood to save my ass when I'm delusional, sick and wasted, who—" he looks at my expression and sighs. "Shit I can go on and on but I don't think you'll listen. You're stupid that way." Huh. "You never lived up to what your family told you you were. Thank God. In trying to cover up the Brian you were made to believe in, you ended up becoming *Brian*: a blindingly beautiful, insightful, self-created, narcissistic ass." I can't help but let out a humorless laugh. This freak is SO wrong. He frowns. "Fuck. "I can't say this right...." he repeats in a whisper; his voice tapers off on a frustrated note. "No. You can't," I agree acerbically. "Because you can't see or think straight... you're brain-damaged." Ouch. Even for me, that was low—I look at him quickly to see his reaction and it flashes from shocked anger to… I don't know, understanding or something when he sees that came out more harshly and callously than I'd intended. "Justin, honestly, you sound like a hybrid between a self-help book and a terrible sham psychic." Then, fuck me: Despite my quiet but blunt words, I turn my head and bury my face in his lap. He just doesn't know the truth. He's obviously right that there's more to me than meets the eye. He's obviously wrong to think the real me is 'blindingly beautiful, insightful, and self-created'. Pfft. What a pie-in-the-sky little chump. No, what doesn't meet the eye is the medusa inside. "Nnngh..." I manage to say, ever the clever devil. Justin just breathes out a shallow laugh and continues fingering my hair. "Brian, I walk and talk like a drunk three sheets to the wind, I write worse than a three year old, I have brain-damage as you just needlessly reminded me, seizures and a million other things wrong with me, many caused by my own stupidity-- but I feel certain about this. I do. I don't feel certain about anything, really- that's why I concede I might be dead wrong here. But I *do feel* certain about this. I saw into your whole soul a few hours ago, when you made lo-- fucked me. I saw all of you; and it wasn't frightening, horrifying or mortifying at ALL, Brian. It was... it was beautiful. Even you couldn't fake, construct or be that intense without it being real. Even you aren't that good an actor. Even I'm not that much of a fool." My cell rings. Phew. Thank God. Wait: It's fucking 4:30AM. "Let it ring," Justin mumbles under his breath. "N-no..." I stammer, trying to gather my wits. It has to be Lindsay- Gus...! I get up in a flash and grab the phone. "What!!!?" I sound more panicked than I want to- I sound like I feel. *"Brian!" Shit. "Lindsay, what? Gus!" I can't string together a coherent anything at the moment. She's in a panic herself. *"He's gone!!" she manages, the hysteria in her voice is unmistakable. I grab my coat and keys and race out the door. "Where are you? What happened?" Before I know it, I'm fumbling with my keys, my hands are shaking so bad that I can't get the fucking car started. I curse and finally the Jeep roars into life; I nearly fly out of the garage and suddenly realize I'm not alone-- Justin must've been on my heels and is nervously buckling himself into the seat beside me as I speed towards Lindsay's. *"I'm h--h--home..." she sobs through the phone. "I'm on my way right now. What happened?" I repeat, coating my panic with numb practicality. I have to keep myself together right now. *"He's gone..." "WHAT. HAPPENED...!?" I ask yet again. *"He's g-g-gone... th- the mannn.... took hi- him..." "Lindsay, WHAT MAN? WHAT THE ***FUCK*** HAPPENED??" *"G-g--gone..." Shit!! This is useless. I flip the phone closed as I pull up to the munchers' house, tires squealing. The front door is wide open; I leap up the front steps 5 at a time. Lindsay is in the front hall, one side of her face is bruised and blood is trickling down her cheek from a deep gash on her temple. She's crouched with her back against the side of the stairs, clutching the phone, her knuckles white, her face streaked with tears, her eyes so wide and terrified I'm struck speechless for a split second. She doesn't notice me. *"B-Brian....? Ohh... please Brian, don't hang up..." she says into the receiver. "Lindsay!" I bark, startling her; instantly her dilated eyes dart to my face. "What the fuck is GOING ON?!!??" She moves her mouth soundlessly. Her eyes flit to something behind me; it's then I remember Justin. He's hurried up right next to me. "Who-o-o...?" she rasps. "LINDSAY!!" I'm about to shake the shit out of her if she doesn't talk. Her eyes waver and come back to mine. She still says nothing, her mouth gawping like a fish out of water. "Lindsay?" Justin says urgently, nervously. "I'm Justin... a close... a friend... of Brian's. Lindsay, there was a man? He hit you?" "Gus," she babbles still staring at me in terror- now I'm 2 seconds from slapping her hard to snap her out of it. Justin looks at me panicked. "Brian, who's Gus?" "My son," I hiss. Justin sucks in a breath. "Lindsay, the man took Gus…? Please," he says hurriedly, not waiting for her to answer his incomplete question, "please- what did the man look like?" Her gaze wanders back to Justin- too slowly. She's in complete shock, still holding the phone in a death grip. * B-Brian...?" she whispers into the receiver. "LINDSAY, SNAP OUT OF IT!! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED? WHERE'S GUS?" Nothing. I rush into the kitchen and put some ice into a dishcloth. I race back, kneel down next to her, put it against her swollen face and gently brush the tears from her cheeks. The fear in my gut is like molten lava. "Lindsay, please..." I beg. "Young. Young. Boy. High. Tweaked. He was crazy. He said to t-tell the 'gor'--" she hiccups slightly. "He said t-to...tell... the 'gorgeous sug-- sugar daddy'..." she lets out a whimper. "To tell *you*, Bri…an, t-to t-t-tell sssomeone h-h-he called 'Justin'--" her eyes fly over to Justin, making the connection- I look over too. He looks utterly terrified. "Lindsay!!" Her eyes turn to me again. "WHAT!!?" She looks at me in horror. "Brian!" She seems to have suddenly 'come to'. "Brian! This is your fault!! Who is this---" "Lindsay, later! Where IS GUS!!? What happened???" She hisses, glancing with sheer hatred and fear at Justin. "The boy- he said to tell YOU- this hot sugar daddy- to tell 'Justin' to get his 'ass' back to work!! He had a... big... a big aluminum bat... and he hit me... everything went black..." she starts sobbing again. "Brian, please do something! I woke up and Gus was GONE!! I called you right away- but I was knocked out at least an hour!!! He could be anywhere!" "No..." Justin whispers. "Not anywhere..." "JUSTIN!!" He's in some other world. "WHERE?" Justin looks at me desperately, anguished tears in his eyes. "JUSTIN!!!" His eyes suddenly roll back in their sockets and he collapses; he starts twitching uncontrollably. SHITSHITSHIT. "Brian! What's happening?" I hear Lindsay gasp. "Lindsay, give me the dish rag!!" She dumps the ice onto the hardwood floor and thrusts the rag at me; I vaguely notice her panicked, confounded expression. "MAKE THAT SHITHEAD TALK! HE KNOWS WHERE OUR SON IS!" she shrieks a second later. I ignore her and quickly go to hold Justin's head in my lap and carefully fold the cloth into his mouth to protect him from biting his tongue. "Fuckshitgoddamfuckshit..." I breathe oaths in a hushed litany as I tend to Justin, knowing 1., he knows who has Gus and where my son is, 2., he can't help that he's seizing and can't tell me what he knows while he is, and 3., until the shit who has Gus (Andy, I just KNOW it- or one of his boytoy lackies) gets what he wants or is caught, Gus won't be hurt. He'll be terrified, yes- and that stabs me in my heart like a thousand knives - but physically, he'll be alright. To get Gus home safe, Justin has to be okay. And Gus is all I can think about right now. Gus and Justin. It's been maybe 10 seconds that seem a lifetime, me cradling Justin's head, his body wracked with jerking spasms and froth spilling past the thin rag down his cheeks; a wet stain grows at his groin. Lindsay is all over me, slapping my shoulders and face in a rage- "WAKE HIM UP! THAT SHIT HAS GUS!" "Lindsay," I say as calmly as I can as I fend her off, "No, he doesn't. He has a good idea where to find him. Lindsay, stop it!" I grab her wrist before her hand can connect again with my shoulder. "Lindsay! He's having a seizu--" "I DON'T FUCKING CARE! WAKE HIM UP!! WHO IS THIS LOWLIFE? HOW DO YOU KNOW THIS SHIT? FUCK, YOU BROUGHT HIM HERE! HE'S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS! *YOU'RE* RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS!" She wrenches her arm from my grasp and turns her attention towards Justin and starts hitting him. "YOU FUCK! WAKE THE HELL UP!" she screams. "LINDSAY! STOP IT!" I yell, trying to grab her arms again to restrain her but she evades me. I hunker over Justin's helpless, twitching body to protect him from her blows. "LINDSAY!" I finally scream. She collapses and wails out a helpless sob. "Brian, oh, Brian... save Gus..." she pleads through her fingers, head in her hands. "Shhhhhh.... Lindsay, I will. I will," I promise desperately. "I will..." I whisper again, holding Justin's head gently, praying once again to no one, to every one, that Justin will pull out of his seizure safely and tell me where to find my son. "No..." I mutter. "No." I'm not just gonna wait for Justin to wake. "Lindsay, go start the Jeep," I hand her the keys hurriedly. "Now!" I pick up Justin and rush outside. "NOW!" I yell over my shoulder and she runs past me, slamming the door. She gets in the car and starts it, grinding the gears. I quickly follow, holding Justin as gently as I can as I get into the back seat. "Go to Tremont- the other side of town-- GO. NOW!" Fuck. I'm quietly glad Mel's moved away to Canada- I can barely hold it together with just Linds. She peals out, crying and confused. I know approximately where Justin saw Andy last night-- at least, I know where I found Justin, and it can't be that far from Andy's abandoned crack and whore house. And that's where Gus is, most likely. If we can't find the shithole ourselves, we'll be in the right neighborhood within a half hour and Justin will HOPEFULLY come out of his seizure by then. I hold Justin, trying to keep it together, rocking him and directing Lindsay where to go even though it's a straight shot down my street- just clear across town. She's crying so hard she can hardly shift gears and I vaguely worry that she'll break the cogs on the gears as she grinds them with every shift. Right now, I could care less if the car is destroyed- so long as we get there. "Faster, Lindsay!" I whisper urgently. She's trying, I realize that- it's just that every second my son isn't safe in my arms is one too many. We fly through stop signs and red lights; I'm thankful it's the wee hours before dawn and the cops aren't lurking at every corner waiting for traffic violators. The sleet has gotten heavier and the roads are fucking slick- but Lindsay hardly seems to notice, slipping and skidding on icy patches in her nearly blind race. I don't give a shit about skidding all over town- again, so long as we get there-- nothing matters now but my child. Clasping Justin's head gently, I worry as his small body jerks and weak, gaspy, strangled sounds gurgle from his throat- no wonder he wakes up from these episodes in a total daze. He's breathing erratically and his spasmodic motions must be completely exhausting- let alone the electrical chaos I know is sizzling his brain under the surface. I continue rocking him softly and huddle over him, whispering his name and begging (yes, begging) him to wake, to tell me where to find my boy. I whisper as I watch the neighborhoods blur by, neon bar signs and dim nighttime store lights fractured by the hailing ice. The houses get seedier and seedier the closer we get to where I believe Andy is. Andy- and Gus.