Justin’s POV: It’s funny…we never really actually know what’s going to happen next. Most of the time we like to think we do; the fact that 99% of the time what we think will happen actually does reassures us. Then there are times like this; times where we have no idea what will happen next, or even what to expect. I guess that’s what makes it so frightening- being at the utter mercy of your own fate. Well, I’m shit scared right now. May be I’m glad Mom had told Brian about the cancer, the surgery, the ‘post-surgical options’…now I wouldn’t have to do it myself. But wasn’t planning to tell him, was I? Until this morning, I was going to keep it from him- pretend that nothing was wrong- except may be for a common case of the flu… Did I ever think I could hide it all from him- the pain, the nausea, the vertigo, the all-encompassing helplessness? Did I think when I walked in there he wouldn’t question my unexplained absence, my hell-warmed-over appearance and- oh shit, I forgot- the hospital band still around my wrist? I’m at the top of the stairs now…in front of the loft door. I stand perfectly still for a few moments, straining to hear any noise within, but there’s nothing. Suddenly I wish Mom had come up with me, could have faced Brian with me, and reassured us both. May be this wasn’t something I had to do alone, as I’d told her…but of course it was. I give a half hearted tug at the end of the paper hospital band around my wrist. It twists and tightens, distorting the words ‘Taylor, J.’, but gives no indication that it’s coming off anytime soon. I’ll need scissors to slice it off…ugh- I hate that word; ‘slice’. Slice, cut, incise, remove, replace, stitch up… Suddenly angry with myself, I lay a hand on the sliding door and push. It rattles and slides along the runners but instead of glimpsing the room beyond as I had expected, he’s there, as if he had appeared out of thin air. With a shock the registered somewhere deep in my sub-conscious, I see he has been crying. He had been standing behind the door waiting for me, and he’d been crying. An emotion I can’t identify- guilt, fear, pain, helplessness- wells up inside me and I feel a lump rising in my throat accompanied by the tell tale burning behind my eyes. Even as I tell myself I am not going to cry, tears escape from the edges of my eyes and cascade down my face, my indrawn breath coming out as an ugly, shuddering sob. I feel him take me tenderly in his arms and press his face against my hair. Longing for comfort, something solid and real I can grasp hold of, I put my own arms around his waist and squeeze hard, still making a half hearted effort to quell my childish weeping long enough to say something. “Shhh…don’t say anything.” I feel his words vibrate against my chest, “I know. It’s going to be alright. We’ll be OK.” We never know what will happen next, but at this moment, I know that whatever is to come, whatever tragedies or fortunes that unravelled…will be alright. Two Weeks Later At two thirty-six in the morning, I was lying spread-eagled on Brian’s bathroom floor, staring up at the ceiling, and thinking that the bathroom tiles weren’t too uncomfortable after all. At least it was nice and cool down here- may be a little hard, but I could sacrifice that inconvenience for the close proximity of the toilet. The last time I had been sick in the bed, Brian had shushed my stammering apologies with a harsh ‘Shut the fuck up and go back to sleep’ before relocating me to the couch and remaking the bed. I was sure he was going to make me sleep on the couch all night, but when I woke up the next morning, I was back in the bed with Brian’s arms around me. Tonight…well, I guess I should say this morning…I’d saved him the trouble by extracting myself from the bed when it was apparent dinner was about to make an encore, and making a silent dash for the bathroom. Now the problem was I couldn’t get back off the floor. Instead, I lay there, waiting for the nausea to subside, and tried to make myself feel better by alphabetizing conditions that were worse than radiotherapy. A for Alzheimer’s, B for Bubonic plague, C for Cholera, D for Dengue, E for Ebola, F for Flesh-eating disease, G for Giardia, H for Hemorrhagic fever, I for Irritable bowel syndrome… “What the fuck are you doing on the floor?” Brian’s voice cut through my thoughts just as I had reached “S for Scarlet fever”. I looked in the direction of his voice and saw him in the bathroom doorway, bleary-eyed, tousle-haired and completely naked. I swear he has an infrared sensor embedded somewhere in his body specifically programmed to detect when I leave the bed. I mean, shit, I’d only been here about ten minutes and I’d had the courtesy to close the bathroom door behind me before I started. He couldn’t have heard me…could he? May be Rage had acquired super-human hearing at some point. “I’m making ceramic tile angels” I groaned as I made a valiant attempt to unpeel myself from the bathroom floor. The world swung alarming out of focus and I hastily decided that my urge to get off the floor was really not that desperate. Instead, I opted for rolling onto my frount, propping myself up on my elbows, and lowering my pounding head into my hands. It felt like a very small construction crew with jack-hammers had crawled in through my ear when I was asleep and were now energetically excavating part of my cranium. Brian huffed in exasperation, closed the distance between us and grasped me under the arms, lifting me to my feet. I did actually try to stand up, but I sort of ended up distributing most of my weight onto his chest and arms. Adjusting his grip slightly to accommodate my dead weight, he peered into my face. “Done?” he asked, massaging the sides of my neck gently with his fingers. Then, adding as an after thought, “Don’t you dare puke on me.” “No. I’m done…for now.” I murmured tiredly, while repeating “I will not puke on Brian, I will not puke on Brian” over and over to myself. He hauled me back into the bedroom and gently laid me down on my side of the bed. After drawing the soft indigo sheets up to my chest, he reached for the ever-present bottle of water on his bedside table and uncapped it. “Drink it,” he ordered, handing the bottle to me. Brain had this thing about me getting dehydrated after I’d been sick- something about losing electrolytes and salts essential to one’s biostatic equilibrium. Whatever- it’s just proof that he reads to many of those health columns in Fitness Today. I think he was afraid he’d come home one day to find me mummified, immortalized forever, knelling over his toilet. Even though the water made me feel queasy again, I drank it to avoid an argument which, I knew, would ultimately lead to Brian getting his way. I swallowed a few mouthfuls, washing away the sour taste of regurgitation, and put the bottle down on the ledge by the side of the bed. Brian looked as if he was going to say something, but closed his mouth again. Instead, he took me in his arms, stroked my hair, and laid gentle kisses along my neck and jaw. “Go to sleep, Little Boy,” he instructed, spooning me tenderly into his body. I twined my hands in his and held them tightly against my chest, knowing again, that everything would be alright. One Week Later Brain POV: Although I would never admit it to anyone except myself, I got very little work done on the days Justin went for radiotherapy. I’d spend the morning sitting in the clinic waiting area, pretending to work on my laptop, but would instead be wondering if this was the day one of the nurses (dressed in an ex-Soviet Chernobyl radiation suit) would sweep out of the swing doors to tell me they’d accidentally fried my Significant Other to a smouldering crisp. Once (in a moment of intellectual absence), I’d found myself envisioning Rage saving JT from his eminent death-by-laser by storming into the radiation room and snatching him from the operation table (and, of course afterwards, ripping JT’s hospital gown off and making hot, passionate love to him). I’d spend the lunch hour back in the loft, badgering and bullying Justin into eating something because the doctors had told me, once again, that they were ‘concerned about his weight loss’. Well, no shit -when they put him through a treatment that caused incessant and violent vomiting, what did they expect? Although I did have to admit to myself that the kid was undoubtedly looking more waif-like by the day. Finally, when he’d insist that he was fine and that I didn’t need to stay in all day to watch him sleep (and puke his brains out), I’d haul my ass to Kinnetik to spend the rest of the afternoon resisting the urge to call him every five minutes to make sure he hadn’t died. I convinced myself it was my duty to worry, as his mother, under tearful and rather impressive pleading on Justin’s part, had agreed to allow me to care for him in his hour of need. At five o’clock, after trying, and failing, to look over the minutes from the last executive meeting, I picked up the phone and dialled the loft’s number. The phone rang one, twice, three times. Shit, hadn’t I told the kid to keep the phone by the bed? After the fifth ring, the phone was picked up and something that I’d taken to be a greeting, but sounded more like grunting was muttered down the line. “Jesus, it’s a good thing I’m not someone calling for me. They’d think they’d called the Sick Animal Hospital by accident.” Justin didn’t answer, but I heard his muffled ‘piss off’ and continued, “Did I wake you up?” “No.” His voice was echoing suspiciously. “You’re not on my goddamn bathroom floor again, are you?” I had found him, on more than one occasion, curled in the fetal position on the bathroom tiles, arguing pathetically that the trip to the toilet was too far from the bed when he was about to toss his cookies. I couldn’t figure out why someone who was support to be lying in bed all day could be so incredibly exhausted. “You stupid twat- get off the fucking floor and get your ass back into bed. Now, or I’ll tie you to the bedpost and leave you with a bed pan next time.” “Ok, Ok...” I heard some rustling on the other end of the line, a thud, a muffled curse, a few more thumps, and finally the squeak of bed springs. “Shit...Oops…There, I’m back in bed. Are you happy?” “Good Boy.” I applauded, not really wanting to know what ‘oops’ meant. “I’m going to pick up something for dinner on my way home. What do you want?…No, you cannot have ice cream for dinner…I don’t care if it tastes better coming back up, you are going to have something wholesome and nourishing…Fuck you- I do NOT sound like Mary Poppins…” We argued about our next meal for a few minutes before, slightly jaded by the Mary Poppins comment, I decided to put my foot down and told him he would damn well eat whatever I brought home and enjoy it. (I made a mental note to pick up some ice cream.) “Fine, be like that. Jerk Face” “I will, Princess, thank you very much.” “You’re welcome, asshole. So, are you coming home anytime soon? Puking and sleeping is so incredibly boring. If you’re going to force feed me, you may as well have to grace to provide the pre-dinner entertainment.” “You are one demanding twink, Sunshine. I’ll see what I can do about rounding up a few animated penguins to put on a show for your benefit.” I couldn’t help smiling when I heard him burst out laughing, “I’ll be home in half an hour- and I’d better not find you on the bathroom floor.” As I put the phone down, I felt better. Another day, another hurdle, another step towards a world that was alright. That night “Fuck-it’s no use. Brian, stop.” I looked up from my position between Justin’s legs where I had been administering my expertise in an attempt to get a rise out of him. He’d grabbed me under the chin, pulling me off his impossibly soft dick as he sat up. His face, as always, betrayed his feelings and he looked as if he might burst with frustration and indignation. “Why can’t I do it?!” he wailed, “I can’t even get it up when you’re blowing me- can there be a more definite sign of failure?” Jesus, the kid was such a drama princess. I remained where I was, lying on my belly with my hands at his waist, and gently kissed his inner thighs. I slid my hands up his back soothingly, encouraging him to lean back as I moved forwards, trailing kisses up along his chest and collarbones. Letting out another soft sigh of frustration, he lay back on the bed, and allowed me to lie down on top of him. Christ, was he getting even skinnier? “Hey- relax, Crackerjack.” I whispered in his ear as I took his face in my hands, “It’s only temporary. Testicles are like kidneys- one works as well as two.” “Well something sure as to hell is not working down there,” He sniffed, “What if I never get another hard-on again?” When I stifled a laugh, and he burst out, “You asshole- it’s not funny! I’m fucking twenty years old and going through male menopause!” “Shh- don’t get so worked up.” I stroked his hair and face tenderly, repositioning my legs so they were on either side of his, pressing us more closely together. I became acutely aware of his pelvic bones jutting into my hip, and of the fact that I could feel every one of his ribs, but not wanting to break the mood, I pushed the thought aside. “Your body gets blasted with industrial strength radiation on a weekly basis. Your sperm are probably convinced there’s been a nuclear holocaust and are still waiting for the all-clear.” A raised myself on my arms and yelled “ALL CLEAR!” in the direction of Justin’s errant anatomy. After a pregnant pause, I lowered myself on my elbows again, “Well, it was worth a try.” He shook his head and gave me his sunshine smile, which was what the goal of my pseudo-military antics had been. He twisted his body suddenly and clung tightly to me with his arms and legs, surging upward against me. My sperm were certainly responding to the ‘all clear’, and seemed to be responding to a resounding ‘all hands on deck’. “Fuck me.” It was not his usual demanding hiss, but more like a cry of desperation, “Please Brian. I want you…I need you. Please?” Since the operation, I’d restricted myself to giving him hand and blowjobs (or attempts at them rather). I’d been concerned about harming him in some way, somehow making it worse. “Ok,” I agreed grudgingly, looking into his pleading eyes, “But we’re going real slow, got it? Slow, or not at all.” He nudged me with his chin and made a move to roll over, but I stopped him with a restraining hand on his belly. I wanted to watch his face to know if I was causing discomfort. He was so absolutely trusting, his eyes brimming with emotion, his hands pleading for contact, his body desperate for the familiar, safe feeling of me inside him. I prepared us quickly and entered him as gently as I could. He closed his eyes and wrapped his legs around me again, running his hands from my hair to my neck and down my back. He squeezed his muscles rhythmically so that I barely had to thrust at all before I was approaching my climax. I nuzzled at his neck and leaned down to kiss him just as I came, gasping into his mouth as his tongue caressed my lips and teeth. After a few moments, I raised myself on my arms and pulled out slowly, causing him to whimper softly. I made a move to roll off him, but he laid a hand on the nape of my neck. “Wait. Stay- stay with me.” I know it had done nothing for him- he had barley even gotten hard. But his eyes were so full of gratefulness and love that I felt a lump rise in my throat. I wrapped my arms around him again, rolled us onto our sides, and pressed our bodies together, lying gentle butterfly kisses on his closed eyelids. As we listened to each other breathing- slowly, deeply, in synchronously, I felt everything would be alright. Three Days Later Justin’s POV “Can you describe to me how this feels, Justin?” I swear there is nothing quite so awkward as being laid out on an examining table and having a formable matron of a doctor with her hand between you legs, fondling your balls and asking you to describe it. I mean, what are you suppose to say? It feels like your giving me a really bad hand job? Because, honestly, that is what it felt like. Biting back the urge to tell her Brian could do it way better, I dutifully described the sensation to Dr. Wendy Piktle as accurately as I could, blushing furiously. Finally, Dr. Piktle removed her gloved hand and wrote something down in my chart. “Well, Justin, it looks as if you are responding well to the treatment. You have not lost any tactile sensation in your groin area which means that there has been no extensive tissue or nerve damage.” Well, thank God for that. I couldn’t imagine life with no tactile sensation down there. That really was a scary thought. “Now jump down,” she ordered, “Let’s get your weight.” I cringed inwardly and braced myself for what I knew was coming next. Silently wishing the flimsy hospital gown had pockets so I could fill them with rocks, I slid off the table and stepped gingerly onto the weighing scales. Dr. Piktle slid the weights along the bar, way past where I knew they would finally end up, and slowly pushed them back until the balance was suspended between the upper and lower bars. She didn’t say anything as she wrote down the figures, but motioned for me to sit back down on the table. “Justin, is your mother here with you today?” she asked, turning to me. Feeling dread creeping over me, I grudgingly told her that is was Brian who had accompanied me here today. Pursing her lips, Dr. Piktle relied, “I would like to ask Mr. Kinney to step in here for a minute, if that’s alright with you. I assume he’s out in the waiting room?” Feeling suddenly trapped, I nodded and she went out of the examining room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. Shit! I was so fucking busted. She knew I couldn’t lie to her again with Brian in here. Why were doctors so fucking smart? May be I could make a dash for it and…and, what, run through downtown Pittsburgh in a flimsy baby blue hospital gown that barely covered my nether regions? Damn. But, even in my desperation, I had to give credit where credit was due, and I sent out a mental ‘thank you’ to the potential homeowners from Finland who were the reason it was Brian and not my mother who was sitting out there. At least I could be thankful for that. Far too soon for my liking, Dr. Piktle returned followed by Brian, who took a seat in the chair next to the examining table. He was wearing his professional ‘expectant look’- eyebrows slightly raised, lips slightly drawn in, chin tilted to the side. Cool as a cucumber. Under normal circumstances, I would have thought it was totally hot, coupled with his pin-stripes and perfectly styled hair. But instead, all I could think of was how to save myself from what I knew was inevitable. “Mr. Taylor,” Dr. Piktle began, her use of my surname confirming my worst fears, “I recall telling you at our last appointment that, at this point in time, we expect you to be gaining any weight back that you may have lost during the surgery and treatment. I also recall saying,” she cut off my attempt to defend myself, “that your weight loss was considerably more than we would expect to begin with. Justin, as you are still losing weight, I can no longer continue to believe that you have been adhering to my recommendation that you rest and allow yourself recovery time. You have not been following that advice, have you, Mr. Taylor?” Brian shifted ever so slightly in his seat. I felt so godawful at the moment because when Brian himself had tried berating me for being too thin, I’d told him he was a fucking hypocrite. Mr. No-carbs-after-seven- who was he to talk? Didn’t he realize that incessant nausea did not lend itself to abundant weight gain? I did not mention that the hours I spent at the gym weight training, or the intense workouts on his treadmill when he was absent, didn’t help either. I felt a deep flush of humiliation and embarrassment creep up my neck and face – all the evidence Dr. Piktle needed - and decided I should start taking pronto. “I’ve been, um, working out a little,” Shit, c’mon, Taylor- if your going to own up, you may as well do it properly. “Well, a lot actually…every day. I…I was sort of scared by what you told me about losing muscle mass, and I guess…I mean, I already feel so weak all the time…I just wanted to…” Christ! I heard my voice was quavering on the last word. I could feel my throat suddenly closing up and heat rising in my face. I would NOT cry. I could feel Brian’s eyes on me- looking into my face, but I didn’t meet his gaze- I couldn’t. “Justin, this is important. Tell me what kind of activity you’ve been doing, and for how long. I would like the truth this time, if you please.” Dr. Piktle’s voice had suddenly gone hard and stern. I think I may have flinched visibly at her ‘this time’, and wanted nothing more than to sink into the hard sterile floor. Completely defeated, I owned up to everything: the long evenings at the gym when Brian thought I was studying, Brian’s treadmill when he was at work, even the time I spent running up the fifteen flights of stairs to my 8 o’clock class on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I wondered desperately if they would understand why I did it -because I wanted to come out of this healthy and strong, not crippled and weak and flabby. Because the thought of losing everything- my youth, my sexuality, my immortality- at twenty was the scariest thing I could possibly imagine. The tears again threatened to escape, but I ordered them back savagely. I was NOT going to act like some stupid faggot who’d been caught stealing chocolate bars. “Justin, I know this is frightening for you,” Dr. Piktle’s voice so soft and understanding suddenly that I felt the hot tears welling up again. “However, you must understand that what you are doing is dangerous. Radiotherapy is an extremely aggressive treatment and by weakening your body further, you are endangering yourself to permanent, long term damage. This is the reason we stress taking it easy for at least a few months following these procedures.” She turned slightly so she was addressing both me and Brian. “In order to continue with the necessary levels of radiotherapy, you must gain back most, if not all, of the weight you have lost. You have to stop this compulsive exercise, Justin, you must. If I don’t see progress by our next appointment, I will have no choice but to order admission to an inpatient program.” I stole a look at Brian who was nodding gravely, looking more serious than I’ve ever seen him. “I’m also going to prescribe you with an anti-depressant which may help deal with some of the anxiety.” She came up close to me and put a firm, but gentle hand on my shoulder, “I know this is rough for you, my dear. But you are going to pull through. You are an incredible young man, Justin. Remember that.” She stood up, suddenly official again, “Get dressed, and I’ll meet you out in the lobby so we can make some arrangements.” She left the room, closing the door softly behind her. The tears burst forth as if my emotional flood gates had just opened, the tearing, wracking sobs shaking my entire body. I felt so helpless and defected and vulnerable at that moment, sitting on that table in my paper gown, trying desperately to grasp what had just happened. Brian had me off the table and into his arms before I could register that he’d moved. He grasped the nape of my neck and pressed me into his chest, his arm so tight around me that I could barely breathe. Bringing my hands up between us, I covered my face, trying to staunch the flow of high-pitched, kneading wails that I loathed myself for making. I felt him take his hand from my neck and put it around my shoulders, cradling the back of my head in his open hand, massaging it gently with his fingers and swaying us slightly back and forth. After a time, I managed to stop and pulled away from him, gasping for the breath my sobs prevented me from taking. Brian held me close, pulling back just enough to look into my tear-streaked face. “I’m sorry.” I whispered, feeling my face crumple again, “I’m so sorry.” “Justin, listen to me.” The use of my given name shocked me and I looked up at him. Brian only called me by it directly when he was deadly serious about something. “Are you listening?” he ducked his head and looked directly into my eyes, putting his thumbs under my chin to maintain the contact. I nodded, looking directly back into the hazel depths of his eyes. “It will be alright. I’m going to make sure it will be alright.” A Week Later “Hey, sweetheart, can I buy you a drink?” I looked up from by position at the bar, preparing to mutter a ‘no thanks’, and stared into the face of what could easily be taken for the Angel Gabriel. It seemed to emit its own halo of brightness under the flickering lights of the Babylon dance floor. The guy was simply celestial. My traitorous hormones were certainly not going to let me pass this one up. In my head, I quickly ran over the long list of conditions Brian had laid out for me earlier that evening that were necessary if he was to bring me to Babylon. No dancing (‘That’s called exercise, Sunshine.’), no boozing (‘It doesn’t mix with the meds very well’), no smoking (‘I don’t need you to get lung cancer, too), and absolutely no fucking, sucking, grinding, jerking, or fondling (“If anyone is going to coax your sperm out of hiding, it’s gonna be me’). God, what was the point of coming? Or not, as the case may be. I’d only managed to convince Brian to bring me here because I’d insisted that I needed to still feel young and alive again- that being here would ease my anxiety and help me relax. I’d used a lot of big words and threw in some psychology terminology that I’d picked up from Daphne for good measure. Brian had relented, more to shut me up than because he believed any of the bullshit I was spouting. To be completely honest, I just really wanted Brian to be here. I wanted him to be himself- not feeling like he had to be some mother hen, clucking over me. It was Brian whom I wanted to feel relaxed and young and immortal. Angel Gabriel was still looking at me with his big, round, beautiful eyes and had now rested a feathery hand on my arm. I stole a quick glance down the bar. Michael had been designated as my ‘minder’ by Brian, who was currently ‘mingling’ in the backroom. God knows he needed some mingling time after what I’d put him through. At the moment, my not-so-vigilant babysitter and his hubby were being taught the ‘Electric Slide’ by Emmett, who looked as if he was either doing semaphore or was trying to signal a low-flying aircraft. It seemed unlikely that any of them would notice if their sullen charge was swept away suddenly in the arms of a gorgeous celestial being. “Do you want to dance instead?” I asked Gabriel. Hell, this song was slow enough- we’d just sway. I mean, c’mon, you can’t burn off the calories from a lettuce leaf by swaying. Gabriel gave me an absolutely stunning smile and put his hands on my waist, moving us towards the dance floor. I closed my eyes, put my hands on Gabriel’s perfect muscular shoulders, and swayed to the music. I wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, but somehow we managed to make an irreversible quantum leap from ‘swaying’ to ‘grinding’ in a very short space of time. Before I knew it, Dylan’s “Like a Pony” was playing and we were truly dirty dancing, grinding against one another like a couple of horny teenagers. Man, it felt SOO good to dance again. Somehow, Gabriel’s hand had also managed to find its way into my pants and somehow, although again, I had no idea how, we ended up in the entrance to the back room. Truth be told, I was actually rather proud of my testosterone-induced antics- it had been weeks since there’d been any sign of life from down below. It was obvious now something was certainly stirring as my body seemed to be taking orders from my dick and not my brain. We entered the smoky darkness and just inside the door I pressed my celestial being up against the wall and began to rub his hard-on (I secretly hoped this might stir my malfunctioning machinery into action). I was flushed and panting hard. Casting a lazy, lust-filled glance over my shoulder, Gabriel’s angelic face suddenly dropped like a tonne of bricks, and before I could turn around, I felt two hands seize my shoulders from behind in rough, hard grip that said ‘you are so busted’ all too clearly. “He’s off limits.” I heard Brian’s voice snap at my soon-to-be-former dance partner. His hands moved from my shoulders to my arms, pinning them roughly to my sides in a vice-like grip. Gabriel melted back into the crowd, giving Brian a look that, in my humiliation, I interpreted as, ‘OK, sorry, buddy- didn’t realize it belonged to you’. Brian spun me around, seized me hard by the upper arm and yanked me over to a dark corner. I vaguely remember feeling thankful to Brian for having the compassion to not humiliate me in frount of a crowd. Shoving me up against the brinks, he pinned me to the wall with his body and grabbed my face roughly with his right hand, gripping it between fingers and thumb. “What the fuck did I tell you before we came? What did I say?” his voice was harsh, his eyes smouldering with anger and…was that fear? He gave my head a sharp shake and I mumbled a sullen reply to his question. “I can’t hear you, Justin.” The use of my name was enough to tell me I had over- stepped the line on this one. Shit. He gripped my face harder and gave it another shake, “What did I say?” “You said…you said not to do…that,” I said more clearly, feeling ashamed and guilty because I knew the source of his emotion. Not anger because I’d disobeyed him, but real, deep concern for my well-being. “I’m sorry, Brian…I guess I got carried away…” “Sorry is bullshit!” he hissed and pressed harder against my body, thrusting a leg between mine, pinning me so hard against the bricks that I couldn’t even squirm under his stare that could have pinned a butterfly to a board. “I don’t give a shit if it was Johnny fucking Depp who walked in there and asked to be blown. You’re here on my watch, so you are goddamn fucking well going to do what I tell you. Am I making myself perfectly clear?” He rammed his leg up between mine and I gasped at the sudden pain, trying instinctively to push his knee down with my hands. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them roughly to the wall on either side of my head, pushing his knee further into my groin. “I said, have you got that?” “Yes! I’ve got it!” it came out as a wail. He gave a final upward thrust which made me give a gasping sob, before he released me altogether. I doubled over, clutching my throbbing, aching crotch, more shocked by what had happened than at the pain. He’d actually meant to physically hurt me, felt he had to in order to make a point. He’d never done it before. I knew I had really upset him…or scared him. “Good.” Brian spoke after a few moments, reaching out and taking my shoulders to hold me at arms length against the wall. His voice was quieter now, more gentle, but still stern. “Because what you were just doing was not just fucking with me- it was fucking with you, too. And I won’t stand for that.” He moved his hands and placed them on either side of my head, gently this time. “Look at me. I meant what I said; I want you around for a long time. So if you won’t let me keep you safe and healthy, I turn you over to the hospital and let them do it. I’m absolutely serious, you can cry and beg all you want, I’ll do it if I have to. The choice is entirely yours.” I felt suddenly overwhelmed, my vision went blurry and I felt hot tears spill from my eyes and stream down my face. Christ! This was so fucking hard. Why did I always end up crying? It was so desperately, utterly, deeply unfair. I leaned forward and put my forehead against Brian’s, starting to cry like a goddamn baby, and wrapped my arms around his neck, wanting comfort. He didn’t move. “I’m sorry- no, don’t say it’s b-bullshit- I’m so s-sorry. For everything. I just f-feel so…I just wish… I want to be m-me again. I want this t-to never have ha-happened. I w-want to do the th-things I want to.” Shit! Conversation completely aborted because Justin Taylor cannot string two words together. Shut up, you stupid, fucking, nelly faggot! I heard Brian sigh as he wrapped his arms around me, rubbing my back, and blowing air gently against my ear. “You will, Sunshine.” His voice was quiet, gentle, sincere, “I promise you will. But you have to trust me. I want what is best for you and me, and I’ll do what I have to.” “I know.” I gulped into his neck, “I know. I trust you. I do.” We stood like that, holding each other, for- what? Minutes? Hours? I couldn’t tell. When I’d calmed down and stopped crying, Brian gently pulled away and began to mop up my streaming face with the hem of my t-shirt. “Now,” he said, dropping the material and stroking the last residual tears away with his thumbs, “I want to stay here a little longer and have a few more drinks. Or many more drinks. I need to relax.” Hell, he could say that again. “And you,” he levelled a finger at my face, “are not to leave my fucking sight. I’d seriously put a goddamn leash on you if I had one.” He took my hand and led us back to the bar where, to my absolute and utter relief, it seemed as if no one had noticed our little song and dance. They were still attempting the line dance- Emmett still trying to signal that airplane while Ben and Michael repeatedly crashed into one another on the side steps (Michael was apparently dexteritally challenged). Brian leaned back against the bar, but didn’t let go of my hand. Looks like I wasn’t going anywhere else tonight without an honour guard. But, in a selfish kind of way, the fact the great Brian Kinney was willing to stand, in full view of Babylon’s finest, holding my hand like a lesbian, made me feel good. As I leaned back with him, watching the sweaty fags twist and gyrate to the music, I felt that, come what may, things would be alright. Three Days Later Brian’s POV “Is that a vibrator?” the trick- I think it was Lee or Liam- looked up at me as my cell phone began to buzz in my back pocket. Irritated, I directed Leroy’s mouth back to the task of sucking me off while I pulled the offending object from my pocket, squinting at the call display. Michael. Why did he always call at the most inopportune moments? Unwilling to be interrupted at this particular juncture, I chose to ignore it, and leaned back against the pillar with one hand gripping the cold metal above my head, the other tangled in Leo’s ridiculously perfect hair. My phone however, unimpressed with being shunned, buzzed a second time. “Sounds like someone really wants to talk to you,” Leon remarked, looking up again. Thank you, Captain Obvious. “Shut up and suck harder so I can answer it.” I snapped. I had to admit to myself afterwards that the trick (Lenny?) was good, having successfully managed to bring me from ‘comfortably aroused’ to ‘staggering climax’ just over 90 seconds. Justin could admittedly do it in less than 60- but he, of course, had worked out all the tricks of the sucking-Brian-Kinney trade. After rewarding Lester by allowing him to clean me up and refasten my jeans, I made my way out of the back room and headed towards the bar. I ordered myself several shots before hitting the speed dial button on my phone. “Yeah?” Hunter’s irritatingly nonchalant voice answered. “Didn’t your aunties ever teach you the finer details of phone etiquette?” I snapped in a mocked disapproving tone. I began to idly cruse the guys standing a little further down the bar from me. “Lemme talk to Michael.” “What’s the magic word, Mr. Etiquette?” Christ, that kid was obnoxious. No wonder Michael and Ben didn’t throw him to the wolves- they’d probably have thrown him back. “Now, you little shit. Go get Michael.” I heard Hunter yell ‘Michael! Rage for you on line one!’, as he dropped the phone, quite literally, onto something considerably hard. If I hadn’t just spotted my next conquest looking at me provocatively from along the bar, I would have wondered if Michael and Ben would notice if their little ward accidentally-on-purpose fell down a steep-sided well… “Brian?” Michael’s voice spoke a few moments later, and evidently hearing the background noise, he asked “Are you at Babylon?” “No, I’m at the fucking zoo.” I replied sarcastically, “Of course I’m at Babylon- it’s Colossal Cock Night, remember? Look, I’m kinda busy here. There’s someone here who’s dying to meet my colossal cock.” By this time, the trick, a hot young thing in leathers and a stretch top, had reached me and was now hooking his fingers into the waistband of my jeans. “Sorry if I’m disturbing your romantic evening,” Michael replied dryly, “I was just calling to let you know that Justin’s at our place, in case you care.” I turned abruptly dislodging the trick’s hand from my belt. “He was supposed to finish his shift at the diner at ten tonight, but he looked like shit, so Ma sent him home with us.” “Is he sick?” I asked, trying to sound casual. Justin had already been to radiotherapy this week, so the barfing, retching, lying-on-the-bathroom-floor show wasn’t set to begin again for another three days. Had he had not been OK when I’d dropped him off at the PIFA this morning? I tried to think, but my thoughts were starting to be crowded out by panic as I envisioned worst case scenarios. “I dunno.” Michael confessed, “I haven’t really asked. He just, you know, looks like shit.” Barking at him that he’d make a really shitty nurse, I cut Michael off, shot the trick (who apparently still fancied his chances at getting into my pants) a withering look, and headed for the exit. Twenty minutes later, after having driven rather faster than I should have to the Novotny-Breckner residence, I was admitted by a grinning Hunter who looked ecstatic to see me in all my clubbing splendour, and who didn’t take any effort to hide the fact that he was oogling my goodies. Fucking teenagers. I scanned the room briefly from the doorway, but I didn’t see Justin anywhere. “Where is he?” I asked as I spotted Michael, looking a little bit startled to see me, coming out of the bedroom. As I turned my back on Hunter, he wolf-whistled appreciatively at his new view of my derrière. For Mikey’s sake, I resisted the urge to turn around and throttle him. Instead I took off my jacket and flung it in his direction, telling him that if he was going to be Michael and Ben’s little limpid, he may as well make himself useful. Holding my jacket like some priceless treasure, Hunter retreated. “You mean Justin? He’s in the bath.” Michael informed me, still looking shocked to see me so soon after I’d told him I was about to get jacked off again. “ It was Ma’s suggestion- she tried to get him to put oatmeal in it- one of those old wives tales, you know?- but Ben had some organic flower crap that he thought would be less messy.” “Oatmeal? That’s fucking disgusting.” I interrupted incredulously, “Your mother is now officially the reason I don’t have a bathtub in the loft…” “You should get him out, though.” Michael continued, ignoring me completely, “He’s been in there a long time. Hunter’s been checking on him every ten minutes to make sure he hasn’t drowned.” Biting back the urge to tell Michael that Hunter probably wanted Justin to drown, I headed in the direction of the on-suite bathroom. Pausing outside the door, I knocked softly. “Fuck off. Leave me alone.” Justin’s voice, sounding very tired, but irritated none the less came clearly through the panels. “It’s me.” I informed him, “Can I come in?” Without waiting for a reply, I opened the door, slipped in, and closed it behind me. The room was damp and misty with steam, but I could make out Justin’s form lying completely still in the greenish water, his head laid back against the slanted head of the old fashioned clawed tub. His pale skin and ash blond hair seemed to blend into the porcelain, and his eyes glowed intensely blue. He didn’t speak, but raised one of his arms out of the water and lifted it towards me, the fingers outstretched. “Hey.” I said quietly, as I took his hand and knelt down by the edge of the tub. I laid a hand on his damp hair and stroked a circle onto his forehead with my thumb, finding the skin there cool and clammy. “What’s up?” “Nothing. It’s still down.” Oops- I kept forgetting not to use that terminology. I leaned forward and kissed the side of his nose affectionately. He gave a small smile and said matter-of-factly “I feel like shit.” “Yeah, you kinda look like shit. You need to get some sleep.” I dipped a finger into the bath water to test the temperature, “And sitting in a lukewarm bath is not gonna help either- even with Ben’s magic potions in there. C’mon- get out and I’ll take you home.” “That would involve moving.” Justin’s groaned, quite truthfully, “Can’t you just take me and the tub?” “It wouldn’t fit in the elevator. Besides, Deb would only insist on filling it with oatmeal. Now, c’mon, get up.” I picked up the towel that was lying beside his pile of clothes and held it out to him as he climbed slowly and painstakingly out of the tub and stepped onto the bath mat. He wrapped himself in the proffered towel, but made no further efforts at moving and stood there, looking like a pathetic wet puppy. Realizing that any further move towards home made on Justin’s behalf was not immediately imminent, I proceeded to rub him dry with the towel which he continued to hold tightly around himself. He sighed and leaned against me, nuzzling his face in my neck. I could smell the scent of rose and lavender rising with the steam from his skin. Relenting to him completely, I took him in my arms, with the damp towel still around him, and pressed my nose into his hair, again smelling the sweet floral mixed into the soft ash blond strands. Standing there with his warm, wet body against mine, the steam rising around us, and our chests rising and falling in unison, I was oddly the one who felt comforted. “You shouldn’t have to come.” His voice, muffled by the towel and my shirt, startled me out of my daze. He pulled away from me enough to look up into my face, “You were supposed to go to Babylon tonight for Colossal Cock Night. I told you to go and not to worry about me.” “I did go.” I replied, but I for some reason, I found myself unable to add the expected ‘and I didn’t worry about you’. Instead, I opted for, “I got bored. There was nothing there worthy of the title ‘colossal’- there wasn’t even a ‘really big’.” “That’s such bullshit.” I could tell that if he didn’t feel so godawful, he would have launched into one of his irritating reprieves. Instead, warn out and fragile, he pressed his face into my neck again. Feeling a surge of protectiveness, I kissed his forehead and tightened my hold on him. “Michael told me you were getting jerked off when he called. You shouldn’t have left because of me.” I hated myself then for not being able to voice the words in my head that were desperately seeking release; ‘I’d rather be here with you when you need me than with some trick whose name I can’t even remember.’ ‘I needed to know that you were OK because I’m so fucking scared of losing you again.’ ‘I would always leave because of you.’ ‘I…Love…You.’ But I couldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that. “It’s OK,” I said simply, rubbing his back again through the towel. Loathing myself again for not being able to take this conversation- this confrontation- any further, I created a distraction by pulling the towel off him and using it to dry the rest of his body. I brought the towel up over his head and rubbed his hair and when I pulled it away from his face, I found him staring at me intently with those passionate blue eyes. He took my hand, the one that wasn’t still wrapped in the towel, kissed the palm, and put it to his face, nuzzling at my fingers. “I love you, Brian.” He whispered, and looked up at me again. He knew I wouldn’t say what I wanted to. But he wanted me to know he knew, as if saying he loved me was the same as me saying I loved him. As if my thoughts were being spoken with his voice. I put my mouth to his and kissed him hard, deeply, intensely, trying to show him I understood. Dropping the towel, I ran my hands through his hair, over his neck, his back, his belly, his buttocks and legs; stroking, soothing, caressing, learning, feeling. He stood still and silent, letting me love him with my touch. “Brian,” he whispered after a time, “I’m getting cold. I want to put my clothes on. I want you to put my clothes on.” I found this request oddly erotic and complied willingly. I dressed him slowly, one piece of clothing at a time- each button and zipper carefully attended to, each crease smoothed out, each label tucked in. I made a mental note to myself that from now on, I would insist on undressing and dressing him. Putting clothes on was almost as good as taking them off. “Take me home.” He whispered, as I lifted him up to sit on the vanity so I could put his socks on, “I feel better. I’ll be alright.” Five Days Later I fucking hate Wednesdays. In grade ten English, I remember learning that the English idiom for Wednesday was ‘hump day’ because it was as far away from the next weekend as it was from the last. I only remember that because Mikey just about pissed himself laughing every time I acted out the physical homonym every Wednesday thereafter. Although I had to admit that now, Mondays, on top of being crappy to start with, was also the day Justin went in for radiation treatment, so they weren’t much fun either. Nor were Tuesdays, because I’d spend the whole of Monday night peeling my dear old Sunshine the bathroom floor. Actually, come to think of it, Thursdays weren’t exactly a kick-ass party either. Fuck- I hated every weekday that wasn’t a Friday. There should be more Fridays. I was brought back from my idle reflections on the deeper meanings of the Judeo-Christian calendar week by Cynthia’s voice on my desk intercom. “Brian? There’s someone out here who desperately needs to see you.” “Well, I can’t see them now- I’ve got a shitload of work to do.” I snapped back at her, “Tell them to go fuck themselves”. (That was shop talk for ‘ask them to make a goddamn appointment’.) “I think this one wants to be fucked by you,” Cynthia told me, a hint of a giggle in her voice. “I’ll tell the next few people who call that you’re out of the office, shall I? And Bri? Don’t make too much noise, OK? Some of us are trying to work.” She clicked the speaker off. I was about to click it on at my end in order to ask her what the fuck she was talking about, when both doors to my office flew open and the embodiment of an explosive ball of energy bounded into it. “GUESS WHAT?!!” It took a few nanoseconds for my brain to register that the intruder was not, in fact, a small, blond rhinoceros, but was a deliriously happy Justin. He looked more ecstatic than I’d ever seen him- or anyone for that matter- his dazzling sunshine smile could have lit up the bat cave on a stormy night. He began to prance energetically around my office like a ballerina, giving little kick-ball-changes every now and then and crowing, “It’s up, up, UP!!!!” OK, stay calm, I thought. May be he was just tweaked. Or drunk. Or had just gone temporarily insane. Rooted to the spot, it was all I could do to watch him as he waltzed around the room at high speed, swinging his arms energetically like he was trying to take off and soar away. He suddenly took a flying leap in my direction, landing on my desk with a loud thud, before crawling across it to me and pressing his lips hard against my mouth. To say that I was surprised was a bit of an understatement. “Didn’t you hear me?” he asked breathlessly, eyes shining, as he let me come up for air, “It’s up! I’m up! I’m rock hard! I’m not in menopause anymore!” Click. A little slow on the uptake, Kinney? Feeling myself suddenly elated with happiness, joy, relief, thankfulness, pride and a whole mess of other emotions I couldn’t be bothered to identify, I scooped Justin into my arms, laughing like a goddamn lunatic. He wrapped his legs around my waist, and I spun us around the office in dizzying circles, laughing, kissing, caressing. When I got so dizzy I could not longer maintain my equilibrium, I set Justin down on his feet and knelt in frount of him, holding onto his hips. “Show me.” I breathed. With a flourish, Justin whipped open his fly and shimmied energetically so that his jeans slid off his hips. He raised his arms and face to the ceiling as if he were a sun-god worshipper and allowed me to admire him in all his rock hard splendour. “Well, well, well.” I said, simultaneously removing his jeans, shoes, and socks while continuing to reveal in this sight for sore eyes, “Mr. Taylor, what are we going to do about this?” I kissed the head of his cock ever so gently and he shuddered and clutched at my hair. With a suddenness that made him yelp in surprise, I wrapped my arms around his legs and stood up, so that his upper body flopped over my shoulder. As I carried him over to my desk, he snickered and retaliated by sticking his hands down the back of my pants and squeezing my ass. Swatting at his, I swept aside a few papers to a clear space on my desk before lowering my giggling burden onto the edge of it. “Now lie back.” I told him, gently pressing down on his chest. He leaned back on the desk so that he was propped up on his elbows, but I shook my head, “All the way.” Grinning at me, Justin lay down completely, spreading his arms and grabbing the edges of the desk that was level with his shoulders. I sat down in my swivel chair and manoeuvred myself so that I was between his legs. Justin raised his head and looked down at me, but I shook my head again. “Lie back.” I told him again, stroking his belly, “Relax- concentrate on feeling.” He did as he was told, and I moved forwards, put his feet flat on my shoulders, and held onto his hips. I placed warm, wet, sloppy kisses all along the inside of his thighs. When I got to the hollow between his legs and pelvis, I made a sudden onslaught of the sensitive skin there- biting, licking, sucking, soothing. He writhed and bucked slightly, his toes curling and gripping the fabric of my Armani jacket. I strengthened my hold on him as I turned my attention to his throbbing dick, which had been sadly neglected for so long. He moaned and writhed again, trying to push of my shoulders with his feet to get more leverage with his hips. After a few more minutes of my oral worship, Justin’s moans, muttered profanities, and bleated pleas were getting a little too loud to be ignored. He’d always been a bit of a screamer. Cynthia and Ted were used to it, of course, but I did have to be mindful of the impressionable student interns that I had just hired. I quickly pulled him off the desk and onto my lap so that he was straddling me, his back pressed against the edge of the desk (not exactly comfortable, but he obviously didn’t seem to mind). I continued stroking and caressing him with my hands, but pressed my mouth firmly over his in order to stifle the cascade of primordial noises he had started to make. When Justin finally came, he pulled away from my mouth and instead bit down on my shoulder, uttering a sound, mercifully muffled, that was somewhere between a sob and a scream. I savoured the feel of him as he came into my hands- relishing the warm, sticky ‘liquid Sunshine’ which I’d not experienced for what seemed like a very long time. He sat aside me for a few seconds, shuddering slightly, before slithering off my lap to kneel in front of my chair, grasping my thigh with one hand and swiftly unbuttoning and unzipping my pants with the other. I found myself groaning and gasping as he administered his “60-second-wonder” on my painfully hard cock. Cradling his head with both hands, I grasped at his hair (which I secretly wish he hadn’t cut), and ran my hands down his neck, under his shirt, and over his shoulders and back. When I came, gasping and savouring the prolonged feeling of ecstasy (although admittedly doing it bit more quietly than Justin), he greedily swallowed everything I had to offer. I pulled him back onto my lap and hugged him tightly to me as he laid his head on my shoulder and breathed hot air onto my throat and down my neck. We stayed like that for some time, until our breathing had slowed and our heart rates had returned to normal. Justin sat back on my knees and pressed his forehead to mine. “Again.” He demanded, “Fuck me.” I had to laugh at that because Justin never changed- he was now and would always remain a demanding little twat. And I loved him for that. I kissed him. “Not here.” I put my mouth right next to his ear and whispered breathily, “What I want to do with you will make you scream the house down.” Justin apparently liked that idea as he shivered and squirmed in my lap. I stood up, with him still clinging to me, and lowered him down into the chair I’d just been sitting in. Crossing the room while refastening my pants, I picked up his discarded jeans and brought them over to him. He reached out to take them, but I shook my head and proceeded to put them on him myself. He raised himself up so that I could pull them up over his ass, and I took advantage of the position to lay a few more kisses on his already re-hardening cock. He mewed like a cat and arched his hips up a little further to give me better access. Deciding to indulge, I spent a few minutes longer reacquainting my tongue with its favourite playmate. I was careful not to bring him too close- they’d be plenty of time for that later. “I’m glad you’re back, Sunshine.” I told him, as I carefully zipped up his fly and pulled him out of the chair into my arms, “And I’m glad you ‘came’ to show me- pun fully intended.” “Did you ever doubt it?” he asked, wedging his head under my chin, wrapping his arms around me, and smoothing his hands over my shoulder blades. “Because I did.” “I didn’t.” I answered, slipping my hands under his shirt to touch his beautiful soft skin, “I never doubted it. I never doubted you.” I knew those words were absolutely true as I spoke them. Wanting to make sure he knew that, I put my hand on the back of his neck and my mouth on his ear, “I’ve never doubted you.” He didn’t reply, but he tightened his hold on me and pressed his face into my shoulder. He knew. “C’mon,’ I said pulling away and bending down to pick up Justin’s shoes and socks. I tossed them at him and went to retrieve my jacket from its hanger and my car keys from their hook. Fuck work. Fuck Wednesday. We were going home to celebrate. Deciding that a dramatic exit was in order, I swooped down on Justin who squealed as I scooped him into my arms (still with one of his shoes in his hand) and swept grandly out of the office. As I carried him out of the building like a bride on her wedding day, I called a cheery goodbye to my thunderstruck employees (Justin throwing in a royal wave for effect). God, I was never going to hear the end of this one. But fuck it. Tonight would be better than alright. Tonight would be fantastic.