WHITE ‘White light is made up of many different colours and you can see this when you spread the light out into a rainbow’— Amazing-space.stsci.edu GREEN ‘Green is the colour of the astrological sign of Cancer.’ – Sensationalcolor.com ‘Green is often associated with nausea and sickness.’—Dictonary.com ‘In Dante's Divine Comedy, green is the colour used to symbolize hope.’—Wikipedia ‘Aqua green is associated with emotional healing and protection’—Colour Wheel Pro The next morning Brian’s POV “Would you vote for him?” Justin asked me quietly, leaning across the arm of his chair to look down at the image on my laptop. It was one of the new icons I was toying with for the Stockwell campaign, which was turning out to be a royal campaign-in-the-ass. I’d had a strategy meeting arranged with the great man himself for that morning which, of course, I’d had to ditch at the last minute. Vance had predictably gone off like Mt. Vesuvius when I’d informed him of this; what could possibly be so fucking important that I’d have to forgo ‘invaluable time with such an important client at this critical point in the campaign?’ I’d stretched the truth a bit and told him it was a family emergency. Evidently remembering the encounter with my Sister the Witch and her spawn of Satan, Vance had backed down. “Would I vote for him?” I repeated softly, trying to hide the relief I felt that he’d actually said something, “Hell no. The guy’s a fucking prick. And he looks like a walrus. I’m thinking of going with ‘I am the Walrus’ for his campaign jingle.” Bringing the cursor down so that it was positioned on top of Stockwell’s image, I typed ‘Vote for me: Koo-koo-ka-cho’ across his face in bright green text. The results of my own handy work made me give a snort of laughter, and I heard Justin’s ‘hmph’ of appreciation. This muted exchange earned us several severe looks of disapproval from the other straight-laced patrons sitting around the waiting room. Jesus, the place was like a goddamn library…you could hear a fly clearing its throat. But, hey, wasn’t laughter supposed to be the best medicine? I’d picked Justin up from Daphne’s at 6:45 that morning- which had seemed obscenely early for an 8:30 appointment, but the John Hopkins Centre was literally on the other side of the city, and we’d be driving through rush hour traffic. Justin had looked like shit; besides appearing distinctly green about the gills, it didn’t the American Academy of Sleep Medicine to figure out he’d been awake all night with worry. I’d practically had to carry him out to the ‘Vette, and almost as soon as I’d bundled him into the frount seat, he’d fallen into a deep, comatose-like sleep. I’d wondered vaguely why my presence had that soporific effect on him; may be it was the first time he’d felt safe enough to let down his guard. Justin’s smile disappeared almost a quickly as it had come, and seeming to recall where he was and why, he looked away from the computer screen and concentrated the Scientific American he was pretending to read. I was pretty sure he could have read the whole fucking thing cover to cover by now- we’d been here long enough. The CAT scan itself hadn’t taken very long- Justin’s name had been called by the receptionist shortly after we’d arrived, and he’d disappeared into the bowels of the imaging studio for about half and hour, leaving me to converse with my laptop in the impossibly quiet waiting area. I’d noticed, naturally, one of the incredibly hot technicians checking me out as he trekked through the room on the way out for his coffee break, but feeling it would be grossly inappropriate, I resisted the urge to follow him to the little boy’s room. Justin had come back looking tired and anxious, and hadn’t spoken as he resumed his seat beside me. Concerned, I had touched two fingers to the back of his wrist and gently inquired if everything had gone alright. He’d given me a small smile and nodded, turning his hand over to grip my fingers briefly before reaching out to sift through the magazines on the low table in frount of us. And so the waiting game began. I could almost see the questions- ‘Was It malignant? How far had It spread? Was it too late?’- scrolling through his agitated mind. That had been a least an hour ago. Justin’s anxiety was actually becoming palpable, mounting exponentially as the minutes ticked by. He’d been awfully quiet, which was supremely unlike him- his question about my political feelings for Stockwell had been some of the only words he’d spoken to me since we’d parted the night before. The boy was so obviously exhausted, but distraught, in mind, body and spirit. I wanted so badly to comfort him- to do or say something to ease his extreme trepidation. But the ball was in his court. This was about him- what he wanted and what he was ready for. Déjà vu…at least this time he would let me touch him. “Justin Taylor?” One of the nurses’ voices ripped through the silent waiting room like a cannon blast. Justin jolted as if he’d been shocked with an electrical current- jerking out of his trance-like state so violently he tore the page of the article he’d been staring at unseeingly. Instinctively, I put out a hand and took hold of his upper arm in a firm, reassuring grip, while taking the magazine from him and laying it back on the table. It was as if all his anxiety had suddenly came bubbling to the surface and was now boiling over into something approaching terror. It was plastered all over his face; the pupils dilated, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow, his pale skin going as white as chalk. He tried to get up, but actually fell sideways into me. Alarmed, I stood up (somehow managing to snap my lap top shut at the same time) and wrapped an arm around his waist to support him. “I’m gonna be sick.” He gasped urgently. The nurse, who had come to escort us to the consulting room, fortunately heard him and hastily pointed the way to a small washroom just off the corridor. Shoving the laptop back into my briefcase and slamming it shut so it would lock, I left it by my seat and hauled Justin in the direction of the washroom. Arriving there just in time, he immediately fell to his knees in frount of the bowl and I knelt with him as he began to give painful, violent, wrenching heaves. I held the hair back from his face with one hand, the other between his shoulder blades, kneading the muscles lightly with the heel of my hand. I felt totally helpless and utterly wrenched knowing there was nothing I could do for him. I could only lay my head on my arm, close my eyes and pray that it would end soon. After what seemed like eons, Justin’s heaving subsided and he sat back on his heels, wiping the tears and bile and perspiration from his face with the sleeve of his sweater. Without stopping to think what I was doing, I put my arm around his shivering body and drew him into my chest. I just couldn’t help myself. I was trembling, but I was too agitated to try and comprehend why. I whispered, a breath away from his ear, that it would be alright, that I wouldn’t let anything happen to him…that he was going to be fine. I desperately, deeply, urgently wanted this to be true, even though I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. Eventually, I felt Justin relax and his breathing gradually return to normal. “Are you ready?” I asked softly, reluctantly releasing him from my embrace. He nodded weakly and I helped him to stand, maneuvering him towards the basin so that he could wash his face and rinse the foul taste out of his mouth. I hadn’t troubled to close the door, and our nurse escort, who’d been patiently waiting just outside, gave me a look, not unkindly, that said ‘Don’t worry- this happens all the time.’ ~~~ Justin’s POV “Now, there is a fairly standard protocol we will be following in order to achieve the greatest success in you treatment. The system we use is an excellent one and everything generally goes like clockwork,” Dr. Soffe’s calm, gentle voice had a sort of hypnotic quality, as if he was giving me a mental anesthetic. “As this tumor is almost certainly malignant, you will automatically be bumped to the top of the waiting list for your surgery, which is the first step.” When I didn’t reply or acknowledge this, I felt Brian squeeze my hand, and I gave one slow nod. I was still concentrating on the CAT scan image that had been laid out on the desk before us; a swirling blur of grays and whites, and right in the centre, the offending black splotch that was It. And all around It’s edges were the ripples of progressively lighter shades, radiating outward like the rings of Saturn… the cancerous cells. The cancer; discovered, naked, exposed. Real. But it was infinitely better to know. Waiting in that room, where the atmosphere had been so thick with tension it could be cut with a knife; that had been torture, the worst thing I had ever experienced. I had been entirely engulfed, completely swallowed up with dread and that sickening, nauseating uneasiness. I thought that no one could possibly understand just how all-consuming and terrifying it was to have to wait like that…but then I remembered. The thought had struck me like a bolt of lightning as Brian had held me in his arms a minute ago on that sterile washroom floor. This was what it had been like for him the night of my prom, and the days and nights following it. It would have been drawn out, prolonged, and infinitely more horrible, orders of magnitudes worse than this. I couldn’t have survived that. But he had. He’d survived it for me. And I would survive this for him. “The orchiectomy itself is a relatively simple operation,” Dr. Soffe was continuing. That term, which seemed to carry a blackness of its own, jolted me from my thoughts, snapping me out of my mental anesthesia. I tensed involuntarily and felt Brian, seated in the chair next to mine facing Dr. Soffe across his desk, give my hand another firm squeeze. He began to massage the inside of my wrist soothingly with his thumb and I felt myself relax a tiny bit. “It is preformed under a general anesthetic- that’s the one where we put you out for a short time- the operation itself takes less than thirty minutes, baring any complications.” Dr. Soffe pulled out a variety of colorful pamphlets and diagrams from his desk drawer and proceeded to explain to us exactly how the operation was preformed, pointing out the stages with the various illustrations. (If I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn Brian defiantly turned a shade paler when the diagram of the extraction was featured). Dr. Soffe then reached back into his desk drawer and extracted a small box which he opened to reveal a dozen or so small, egg-shaped objects of different sizes that looked like giant bath pearls. “These are what we put in the place of the testicle,” the doctor explained, handing one to me so I could feel it. It was smooth, soft and squishy. “We match the size and shape as closely to the original as we can, so it shouldn’t look or feel any different.” I gave the object a gentle squeeze and weighed it in my palm before handing it to Brian. “What do you think?” I asked him, giving him the ghost of a smile. Brian’s verdict would certainly count as an expert opinion…especially where I was concerned. Brian raised his eyebrow a fraction of an inch, knowing exactly what was going on in my mind, and made a big show of examining the ovular object closely. “It would have fooled me,” he announced finally, giving me one of his secret smiles before replacing the object in the box. The examination of what we would forever refer to as my ‘Surrogate Second’ had lightened the mood a little, and I felt confident enough to ask the question that I knew would make me sound like a pussy, but that I just had to know. “I’ve never had an operation before.” I confessed, “Does it hurt? Afterwards, I mean?” Dr. Soffe explained patiently that yes, it would certainly be tender and a bit painful for a few days or even weeks following the operation. The area was, as I for one was well aware, extremely sensitive and wrought with nerve endings and sensory receptors. The incision would not be so much deep as wide, and would require a lot of special attention following the procedure. I could have sworn I saw Brian trying to hide a smirk at that. I knew what he was thinking and knew also that I would be more than happy to except his particular brand of ‘special attention’. “However, it is going to be the post-surgical treatment that will really set you back.” Those words brought the fear bubbling to the surface again. Shit. I knew Dr. Soffe meant radiotherapy. So far, I’d avoided bringing the subject up in that childish hope that it would just…go away. Now I’d have to face it, head on. I’d heard nothing but horror stories about people who had gone through the treatment. Nausea, vertigo, pain, weakness, loss of hair…But it was better than dying. There was no other way. The chasm yawning before me suddenly began to grow incalculably wide and perilously deep. I closed my eyes and took several steadying breathes, preparing to take the bull by the horns. Seeing the return of anxiety to my features, Brian brought my hand, still held in his, to his lap and wrapped his other hand around the back of mine, engulfing it. His hands were warm and his grip firm. It said, as clearly as words, that he was there and that he cared. Thank God. ~~~ “That was officially the worst morning of my entire life.” I told Brian tiredly as we made our way to the elevators that would take us down to the parking garage. I hadn’t let go of his hand since we’d left the consulting room and he hadn’t protested, which was unusual. He’d always detested holding hands in public- it was ‘too fucking hetero’. But now he didn’t seem to mind, and I was grateful for it. “Join the club.” Brian sighed. His response to my comment made me come to an abrupt halt halfway along the corridor. I stared up at him, not daring to believe he had actually meant what he’d just implied. He returned my gaze unblinkingly. He was unashamed, not taking back his words or correcting himself. “What, you think that was a kick-ass party for me?” “Brian,” I began, not really sure how to phrase what I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him that Ethan wouldn’t have done what he’d just done for me. That he’d just proven to me, without the shadow of a doubt, that no one had ever or would ever care for me as he did. That he was my lifeline, my rock. That I still loved him more than anything in my life…But it was too soon to say those things. Instead, I said, “Thanks for coming with me. I couldn’t have done that alone.” Something like grief or guilt was flashed across Brian’s eyes, but it was gone to quickly for me to register its meaning. He pulled me around so that his back was against the wall and put his arms around me, holding me to him as he seemed to collect his thoughts. I leaned against him, desperately missing his touch and protection. I wanted to stay like that all day…I wanted to stay like that forever. But Brian, having decided on a response, pulled away slightly and laid a gentle kiss on my forehead before leaning his against it. “I’m proud of you, Sunshine.” He told me softly, “You’re a hell of a lot stronger than you think you are.” “So are you.” I whispered back, bringing a hand up to stroke the side of his face. He took that hand and pressed it to his cheek for a few seconds, still looking deeply into my eyes as if he were searching for something there. Then, evidently realizing we were having a deep, emotional, lesbionic scene in the middle of a public place (how embarrassing!), he straightened, took my hand again and pulled me towards to elevators. I knew then that, even though this was a chasm instead of a hill, the grass would be greener on the other side.