Awaited by a few... and Brian's: Brian

We haven't talked about it, but we're here now: the clinic.  The Results.  We've just heard.

And… Justin's fine.  No Hepatitis, HIV, VD- nothing.  Part of me wants to seep into the rug in a puddle of relief (it's been a week of nerves as taut as a piano wire); the other part wants to take what little strength I have left and spin my Sunshine around the dance floor like Gomez spun Morticia in that scene in Addams Family Values.  Yet another part of me wants to throttle the little shit.  Except for my son and sometimes Mikey, I do NOT WORRY about people and this freak staggered into my life mere months ago and I've been a white knuckle for a week.

"This doesn't mean I'm in the clear, Brian," Justin whispers as the nurse smiles artificially and mumbles some sort of goodbye as I hold the door open for Sunshine.

Yes, it does.  It has to.  "It does for now," I say rather stupidly.

"Daddy?"  Gus whimpers as he nearly trips off the front step.  I hoist him up and he giggles a little.  "Dus okay?"

Surprised, I look at him as I follow Justin to the Jeep.  "What do mean, Sonny Boy?  Of course Justin's okay."

"He's not going to die?  Did he hear the test results?"

Justin looks around sharply and nearly falls down.  "Gus?"

I look at Justin's expression and he looks petrified.  Oh, for Christ's sake.  "He just picks up on shit, Justin.  Relax.

"Gus, Justin's not going to die.  I didn't know you were worried about that- I realize we've hardly talked about why we're here… I…"  Hm.  Two young men freaking out in my Jeep:  Great.  What to say?

"Gus, how'd you know about test results?  About why we were going to the clinic?"  Justin manages after my lame sentence trails off.

Gus looks at me and then shyly at Justin.  "I didn't… really.  It's jus' that Daddy… Daddy was kinda watery last night…"

Huh?

"What?"  Justin asks, surprised.

Gus looks back at me- if he were older, I'd say he looks almost apologetic.  But he's a 3 year old- he's too young for such grown-up decorum.  Right?  Still, I lower my gaze and start the Jeep.

"Gus, what?"  Justin repeats.

I take a deep breath.  This sucks.  "Daddy…"  Gus continues, "Daddy.  I needed Daddy las' night… I couldn't sleep.  I went into Daddy's room and he was sorta… he was sorta holdin' you all soft and he was cryin'.  Daddy doesn't cry."

Out of the corner of my eye, I *feel* Justin's disbelieving stare creep from my son's face to mine.

"You were sleepin', Dus."

Oooookay.  This beyond 'sucks'.  "Gus, quiet."  I had no idea he came into the room last night, no idea he saw me and no CLUE he or ANYone heard me.  "Just be… just hush," I whisper.  There's really nothing I can say – I can't call my son a liar (he's not), I can't brush off what he saw with some excuse, I can't slug him… fuck.

"He was tellin' you that you couldn't die, couldn' be sick- he called you a 'fucker'…" he continues to inform Justin, apparently completely disregarding my quiet pleas.  I snort though, despite myself.  Now I'm sure he heard me last night if he heard me call Sunshine 'fucker'.  

We're almost home- and I abruptly turn, just now deciding to head to the center.  Justin should get back into the 'program' full-time;  I mean, we know he's fine at the moment and we both need to get back to the way we were.  Right?  Right.  I decide this right now because, of course, this moment in Brian Kinney's grand lifetime is too intense for an audience of a brain-damaged, drug-addicted, alcoholic, prostituting freak and my own child.

It takes a few moments of Justin gaping at me, incredulous, before he looks around and recognizes where we're heading.  "Brian!"  he exclaims.  "Where are you going?"

"You're going home."

Justin laughs humorlessly.  "Oh, fuck no I'm NOT!"

I turn my eyes to him fully at the corner red light- I notice the Baskins Robbins we never went to on my left.  "You say you're a bad presence in my life.  Now I agree.  So, 'oh, fuck YES you ARE'."

Then, unbelievably, Justin's hand snakes out, snatches the keys in the ignition, fully disengages the engine and throws them out the window- we're 'parked' at the light and Mr. Brain-Damage is looking at me fiercely.  Gus is in the back in his car seat, watching this exchange with curiosity and a touch of apprehension.  "Don' get mad at Dus, Daddy!" he whimpers.  "I'm sorry!"

"Gus, quiet," I say again, my eyes never leaving Justin's.  I'm so pissed, raw, vulnerable right now, if I had a gun, I'd probably shoot the fucker – Justin, that is- not Gus.  No, I wouldn't.  Well, okay then:  I'd actually probably shoot myself, if anyone.  And no.  No, I wouldn't- not here, now, today. "Justin, go get the keys."  The light changes and the car behind me honks.  

"No," he answers simply.  Stubborn twat.  

"Go. Get. The. Keys."

"NO."

I'm startled by an impatient rapping on the window beside me; I look over and it's some pissed-looking meek nerd yelling at me that I'm blocking traffic, that the light's changed, to fucking go.  I ignore him and look back at Justin, whose stare hasn't wavered.  Fine.  I unbuckle my seatbelt, get out of the car, fetch a softly whimpering Gus from his car seat and walk away, again ignoring the yelling nerd and the rest of the honking cars stacked behind the Jeep at the light.  I have no clue what I'm doing, where I'm going, or why it seems I'm 'running' even though I'm walking at a calm, normal pace.

As I turn a corner, my son still crying on my shoulder but remaining wordless, I hear a stumbling behind me.  

"Hey, man!!  Are you alright?"  I turn around and see Justin lying on the sidewalk some distance away, convulsing.  SHITSHITSHIT!!!  A skater-type is standing over him and scratching his head.  "Man?  Dude, are you okay?"  he asks again.  "I think we need help, here," he announces to nobody.  Idiot!

Like lightning, I rush over and put Gus down.  "Daddy??  Daddy, is Dus okay??  Daddy?"  I've picked Justin up; he's twitching and strange noises are coming from his throat; his eyes are closed but his eyelids are fluttering, exposing only the whites.  Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitnonononononono!

"Gus, follow us, okay?  Stay close to Daddy- grab my pant leg.  We're going back to the car…"  Trying to sound, act, 'be' calm, I hold Justin's spastic body to mine as I carry him back the short way to the Jeep; I buckle him in, gather the discarded keys from the gutter, strap in my son and finally allow myself to move with the urgency I'm feeling- we screech away and race like a bat out of hell back to the loft.