He follows Brian up the stairs, barely able to keep the plate with the bowl on it from crashing to the floor in one huge explosion of chicken soup and broken black china, one that’ll probably incite Brian once more. Steady. God, oh, God. He tries to keep his face blank, but his hands shake, his heart pounds, he has no spit left, little courage. Yet, as he sits down on the bed’s edge, Justin gives himself an even bigger lecture than the one he’s just given Brian. No way. You are not queening on him, not now. You can do this. You can. He sets the soup onto the bedside table, keeping his head down, not making eye contact with Brian. Give him a moment. Let him save face, maybe shift into a less hostile mood, if that’s possible. It isn’t easy, right? He knows that, he’s been there. Been needy, clinging to Brian like all the bogeymen in the world were leaping out of the shadows, claws out, ready to eat him. God, so pathetic, hanging onto his hand every time they went out, freezing whenever someone touched him. Even when Brian touched him, which had to be totally whacked. Still, he knows. That’s what makes this whole thing so totally fucked. Who’s better equipped to help? Doesn’t Brian realize that? Has he thought about it at all? He’d already come close to death and knew what it felt like to be helpless, to need other people, to not want them, to have to depend on them anyway because otherwise you’d never get better. Doesn’t Brian know? No, of course not. Brian didn’t think shit like that. Ridiculous notion. Brian was … Brian. Just trying to survive, to make it day to day. Doesn’t he know that by now after all this time pushing his way in, insisting he was a part of Brian’s life? Hasn’t he seen the man’s pain, the way it flashes in his eyes sometimes when he doesn’t think anyone is looking? You get slammed by your dad a thousand times growing up and it sticks with you, buried deep down where no one will ever see … except maybe a lover. A very observant lover. You keep that certain face, develop that attitude, won’t let anyone or anything sneak past your defenses for fear of what might happen if you once again open yourself to someone’s love. God, so fucked, so totally fucked up. It made him cry to think that something like that had happened to Brian. Justin looks up under his lashes. Still staring straight ahead, Brian was hardly blinking. What the fuck am I going to do with him? The thought washes over him, little tingles of fear prickling his skin. It could go south again, couldn’t it? He hadn’t won the war, not yet, just a battle. Brian might stage a comeback, start screaming again. Insist he leave. Call him a little shit or a prick or any kind of bullshit. Try to hurt him so bad he couldn’t stand it and would leave. Which had happened once already but somehow—somehow—it would not happen again. He couldn’t let it. Because Michael, whom he sometimes hated so much he’d like to kick his scrawny little ass from here to wherever, was right this time, more right than he cared to admit. The Kinney Operating Manual. Cute. The thing is, hadn’t he written whole sections of it? Sure he had. So, why the hell had he so completely missed this particular trick? He’d heard it before, that tough guy act cranked up to full volume. “I’m not your occupational therapist, I’m not your trauma specialist …” Right, sure. I’m just the guy wearing your bloodstained scarf around my neck twenty-four hours a day, but, no, can’t say that I give a fuck about you. Not me. No way. Justin’s heart rate steadies. Maybe it’s time to speak? He checks again, but Brian is going to remain impassive and disinterested even if it kills him. Damn him. Just who in the fuck does he think he is? Even for Brian fucking Kinney, he’s being a prick. “You need to eat.” He says it quickly, feels the words leave his mouth just as he raises his head to stare into Brian’s eyes. “The soup will get cold.” There. Good. He still sounds strong. “I’m not hungry.” Brian is detached, a zombie who can barely speak. Justin straightens his spine. “Did I ask if you were hungry?” Surprise. He sees it immediately in Brian’s eyes. Good. Let him be surprised. He ought to be. It’s time he realizes that he doesn’t operate in a world where no one else exists. Justin picks up the bowl, stirring the soup. He gets a good-sized spoonful, offering it. “Here. Eat.” He uses his nastiest voice, trying not to sound wheedling or pleading, just eat-the-fucking-soup strong. He thinks Brian will just go back to his impassive, staring mode, but, instead, he opens his mouth, allowing the soup to be tipped inside. Trying not to gulp, Justin does it again. And again, feeding the man, relaxing gradually as he’s able to get half a dozen, then a dozen spoonfuls down him. He stops when a trickle of soup escapes Brian’s mouth, dribbling down his chin. Damn, no napkin. He uses his finger, wiping it free, but, as he does, Brian captures his hand. “It’s good,” he says in a voice that’s lost its edge, a voice that’s soft and barely there at all. Justin manages to set the bowl down without spilling it, the feel of Brian’s gentle fingers in such marked contrast to their earlier roughness he wants to cry. Wait. No crying, no drama, just toughness, remember? The whole love thing, that wasn’t going to work, ever. Never had, never would. He lets himself look directly at Brian, at his whole face rather than just his mouth, daring to confront the beast, and is shocked by the change he sees. Gone is the rage, the distorting anger, the snarling features that had twisted the man’s expression only minutes before. Now Brian looks … well, old, worn out, defeated. The lines have multiplied, the pain has left a sheen of sweat on his forehead, the fear has clouded his hazel eyes. Beautiful eyes, ones he’s always loved as they’d change from a clear amber to a light brown to near green, just as he loves Brian. God, how he loves him. Even if that makes him a silly little faggot, it’s true, so true. And it kills him, just really kills him to see him this way. Brian tugs on his hand and their gaze locks. He makes a slight motion with his head, moving on the bed as he does, opening up a space next to him. Heart pounding once more, Justin inches forward, not resisting when Brian drags him into a sideways embrace. He turns slightly, lying against the man’s chest, blinking rapidly. Stay strong, he reminds himself, but he can feel the pressure build in his chest and behind his eyes. Not sleeping for the last three nights hasn’t helped. Damn, damn, damn. He snakes his arm around Brian’s back and tries not to tremble as he leans into his body, the musky perfume of his aftershave, the cigarettes, the JB, Brian’s faint citrus scent achingly familiar, so glad—so fucking glad—to be there once again. Really thought it would never happen again and that fear …God, it’d been paralyzing. “I was out of line.” Brian is whispering, his chin on Justin’s head, his voice a deep rumble. His hand skims down Justin’s arm. “You know that, right?” “That you behaved like a shit? Yeah, I know.” “Did I hurt you?” “Don’t be an idiot, Brian. Of course you hurt me.” He wants to pull free because being tough is hard this close. “But … I’ve hurt you too. So, I guess we’re even.” “I’m not keeping score.” “Neither am I.” “Stop the fucking shaking.” Justin turns his face into Brian’s shirt and tries to concentrate on doing just that. “Sorry. Just a little cold.” “Right.” Brian’s right arm joins his left to gather him even closer, close enough that he thinks maybe he can’t breathe. That’s when he realizes he isn’t the only one who’s trembling. He raises his head, struggling to see the man’s face, and confirms the wetness there. “You fucker.” Justin pushes to get closer, kissing the tears as they fall, the salt taste on his tongue, his own tears streaking down even faster, and wonders how they could’ve gone from an out-and-out bloody brawl to this, two weeping fags. “God, you make me so mad, Brian. So fucking mad.” “Yeah, I can tell.” Brian twists his mouth, but a tear runs down his face and into his mouth even as he says the words. “You too. Little shit.” “If you ever do something like that again, I swear I’m going to feed your dick to you on a silver platter.” “Better my dick. My balls are getting kind of scarce.” Then Justin presses his face into Brian’s chest and, for a long moment, he’s shaking, sobbing, and being ten all over again, a real basket case and the last person Brian needs right now. Oh, yeah, some tough queen, that’s him all right. Real tough. Fuck. “Stop,” Brian says awhile later and his voice sounds faint. “It’s okay, Sunshine. Don’t panic on me, not now.” He snuffles and sniffs, wiping his face then wiping Brian’s. “I’m not. Just emotional. You know me.” “Yeah, I know.” Brian scrubs at his cheeks then swipes a hand across Justin’s, rubbing out the tears with a thumb. “I need to rest. All this shit .. it wears me out.” “I’m sorry, I—” “Just lay with me, okay?” Brian closes his eyes, sliding down a little in the bed. His grip on Justin is still tight though his mouth opens a little the way it does when he’s drifting off to sleep. “Miss you sleeping next to me,” he murmurs a moment later. He wants to cry again, but that’s getting old. Besides, the idea was to take care of Brian, right? Not go sloppy all over him. “I’m here. Go to sleep, okay? You can eat more soup later.” “You’ll stay?” He bites down on his inner lip so hard he wonders that he doesn’t draw blood. “Of course.” He settles in next to the man and kisses Brian’s face, once, twice, over and over again until he forces himself to stop. “Not going anywhere.” Brian’s eyes are already moving behind his lids. “Good.” He sighs. “Feel better already.”