I wake up and I smell Brian... Huh. I wonder where the hell I am, what the hell happened to me and why the fuck I have a headache like someone drilled a hole in my brain. And, of course, why I'm dreaming of Brian, dreaming of his scent. Vague images of kissing him play before my eyes, tactile memories come up of fingering Brian's face and feeling tears... *shit!!* I had a seizure! I realize my head is resting in Brian's lap. I'm on his bed. Brian. Brian's lap. Brian's bed. Brian. He helped me during my convulsions -- he didn't toss me into the hallway and leave me there seizing. In fact, he insisted I stay over so I wouldn't be alone. Well, I'm reading a little into his motives but honestly, what other reason could there be? He said it was either stay here with him or go spend the night in the ER. The easiest choice in the fucking world. I look up and see Brian on his back, his legs crossed under my head- he must've been exhausted to fall asleep like this. All I can really see from his lap is his lean belly and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes deeply. He's still in his suit. It's all mussed and wrinkled. I notice now that his hands are gently cradling my head in his lap. My slight movement wakes him and his head bolts upright as he checks on me groggily- worriedly. "I'm not having a seizure, Brian," I say softly. "Good morning..." "Hmm." He relaxes. "Mornin'," he mumbles hoarsely. "Sleep okay?" I smile. "Better than I have in a very long time. Not because I'm in a comfortable position, though. My right arm's asleep." He shifts and I pull my numb arm from under his leg- how it ended up there, I haven't a clue. "So you slept good though? I didn't feel you move at all during the night... I didn't feel another seizure..." "Hm. I think I had dreams about you." He snorts. "Did not! Fuck, I've known you two days total- you're doomed if I've already invaded your psyche…" Ha. "Not doomed at ALL," I say quietly. "Oh, shut up," he snaps, lifting my head from his lap and sitting up rather stiffly. "I mean it." I sit up too, trying to ignore my wooziness. I scoot up so I'm even with Brian's head; I gently wrap my arms around his torso and lean my head on his shoulder. "It's only 4:30- it's not even sunrise yet. Do you want to sleep a little longer? I can go sleep on the sofa. I... well, since being off the streets and being at the center, I don't sleep well in my clothes- obviously unless I pass out exhausted or drunk or both. But sleeping in my clothes... it brings up too much shit. I like to sleep nude..." I'm not sure how I expected to not have this problem come up last night when I asked if I could sleep next to him. It just didn't occur to me. He shrugs. "I haven't had to sleep in my clothes on the streets and I still have to sleep nude to be comfortable. I guess for both of us, last night was the exception... " Shit- yesterday and last night were exceptions all around- what high drama. He eyes me warily. "There are extra blankets in the closet. You sure the sofa's okay?" No. It's not. Not at all. "Sure." Reluctantly, tiredly, I get up from the bed, get some blankets and make my way to the sofa, trying to hide how unsteady my legs feel. It's like they're made of wood and I'm walking with no knees; yet I feel like if my knees bend, they'll buckle completely. I have to sit to undress myself so I don't crumple into a heap on the floor. I hate this. I hate this so much... I don't really make up the sofa. I just lay down and curl up under a blanket. I close my eyes and let my imagination go... I love the debonair, handsome playboy I am in my mind, in my waking dreams. Mmmmmm: I'm in the city, walking out of a bar-- no, it can't be a bar anymore. I grin; okay: I walk out of a Baskins Robbins and smack dab into... Brian! Brian *has* invaded my psyche! I find myself smiling a little as I doze, letting go and allowing my imagination to roam, even with Brian in it... forbidden, beautiful Brian… The top scoop of my hunky-dream-self's double dip cone falls onto Brian's chest, staining his suit. "Fucker! This is Cavalli!" He yells. Heh- I guess that even in my dreams Brian's a bastard. "Sorry!" Handsome-fantasy-me says. "Sorry's bullsh..." his voice trails off when he looks up from the stain and sees me; he's smitten. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning," hot little ol' me offers coyly. "I really am sorry." I must fall totally asleep at this point in my little fantasy because next time I open my eyes, it's 5:30. I only slept an hour! Not allowing myself to think about it, I tiptoe up the stairs to the bedroom trying as hard as I can not to wobble-- or at least not to wobble and hit anything that would make noise. Brian's asleep, his features serene in the soft blue neon lights. He sleeps on his side facing me; his toned arm lightly holds the blankets over his presumably nude body. Carefully, I lift up the covers on the empty side of the bed but before I can climb in, Brian opens one eye and raises his brow at me standing there raising the covers, naked. Expecting to be yelled at, kicked out- anything- I shrink back. "I... I...I'm..." "Shhhh..." he says wearily. He gently draws back the covers for me completely, basically inviting me into the bed. I get in without another word. He closes his eyes after I settle. After a moment I snuggle a little bit closer to him; I reach out and caress his side savoring the feel of his smooth warm skin. He opens one eye again. "I'm just touching you. I promise it won't go any farther... " I say meekly. Meekly. Huh. He's right- I'm a twat; or I'm acting like one. It's like the air around Brian has some kind of personality-altering, brain-numbing effect on me. Argh. He keeps his one eye open a few moments, sighs, and closes it again. I scoot just a little closer, close my eyes and let my fingers softly trace along his chest. It's comforting. I soon find myself drifting off. ------------------------------------- I wake up at around 10AM not feeling terribly rested; I see a peaceful, cherubic, rosy face resting next to me. Justin. Ugh. I remember now that he came to my bed (stark naked) hours ago. Fucker. He stroked my chest and sides, but it wasn't sexual. I think- I *think*- he was seeking comfort. His eyes slowly open, a dark indigo blue in the morning light. He smiles. "Brian..." "Uh huh. Feel okay?" He nods and stretches. I try not to stare at his alabaster skin as his arms raise over his head and go taut. He's surprisingly toned; he wears such baggy clothes, I didn't know. He yawns and relaxes out of the stretch. His smile widens and he moves so our bodies are pressed softly against each other. Fuck. His body... it fits mine or something. Shit- I sound downright tacky. Justin suddenly shudders. "Justin?" I say cautiously, hating it that I'm somewhat alarmed. His smile weakens. "I'm fine," he says. I'm thoroughly unconvinced. "I just need a minute or two to wake up..." I don't say anything more about it. "Sunshine, we need to at least call the center..." I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up and for maybe the first time in my adult life, I realize I'm self-conscious standing here naked with my back to someone. I used to be traumatized if anyone saw me naked because of all the bruises and welts on my body. My self-consciousness started when I was about 14, when Mikey saw me naked for the first time. He walked in on me in the bathroom at his mom's house- I'd slept over after one of Jack's drunken beatings and was going to take a shower to try to soothe my aching muscles and bone deep bruises. I can still hear his gasp and choked sobs like it happened a minute ago. He ran from the bathroom with his hand over his mouth, crying like he'd just seen his dog run over. Immediately when it happened I hadn't understood- I was so used to my body being battered and bloody and/or bruised that it was normal to me. Sure, I knew not to let my injuries show, I knew to wear long pants and long sleeved shirts... but Mikey's reaction surprised me. Then I glimpsed in the bathroom mirror and saw myself through his eyes. Myriad deep purple and blue bruises covered my body. I'd seen Mikey naked which, even to me was unremarkable- except for the fact that his skin was totally unmarred. He was pure white, evenly colored; there were no scars, scabs, bruises, welts, round little cigarette burns, cuts—there was nothing but white skin. For years since that day in the bathroom I was terrified to undress around anyone until I finally developed fully and became strong enough that Jack started to think twice about laying into me. Boy, how times have changed- now well more than half of Pittsburgh's male population and a healthy number of males from other towns, cities, states and countries have seen me naked. And from what I hear and understand, every single one of these men has appreciated it. I haven't been at all shy about my nude body. Till right now. But the 'shyness' I feel this time isn't rooted in shame or embarrassment; it's rooted in the fact I know Justin wants me. 'Duh', you may say-- all the other men want me, too. But Justin's different. Somehow. "Brian...?" Justin whispers behind me on the bed. "Are you okay?" I realize that for as self-conscious as I am right now, I've stood here naked in full view for a relatively long time. I clear my throat. "Yeah... I'm fine..." I quickly and clumsily pull on some sweats and hurry from the room to get my cell from the kitchen island. I'm fucking grateful to be away from Justin's scrutiny. I call the center and tell the receptionist the story of last night and why we didn't make it back- and she tells me that she'd be surprised if Justin and I *did* get back to the center last night- or this morning OR the rest of the week, in fact. "What the fuck are you talking about? I'll drive him over there in a half hour!" "Mr. Kinney," she answers wearily. "You haven't looked out a window or turned on the TV recently, have you?" I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at the receiver dumbly. What??? I glance over to the windows and then I get it. "Oh..." "Yeah, 'oh'," she snarks at me. Normally I'd tell her to fuck off and ask for her supervisor but I get the impression she's stuck at the center and will be for a loooong time. "14 inches so far," she tells me. "Happy holidays," she adds sarcastically and hangs up. I go to one of the windows and rest my hand on the cold glass pane. I can't see anything but white, the snow is falling so thickly. I look at the enormous drifts that have blown up the sides of the windows; they're actually taller than the glass. I jump when I feel a soft hand on my shoulder. "Wow..." I hear quietly behind me. "'Wow'," I agree. I reach over and flip on the radio-- we listen a moment or two before I turn it off. Everything's closed. No one's moving. Ambulances are struggling but they aren't able to go very fast - if they don't get stuck, that is. 'Don't leave the house' is repeated ad nauseum, as is the phrase, 'The Blizzard of 2007.' As the woman at the center said, the snowfall *so far* is at 14 inches... they're predicting 24 or possibly 40. "Shit. Sunshine, I'm afraid you're stuck here for the duration." He turns me from the window to face him. He's grinning. "Woe is me," he says mockingly. "A fate worse than death: stuck in a warm, cozy loft with plenty of food, a very comfortable bed... and a very beautiful but wretched and mean man. What EVER will I do?" I show my superiority and utter maturity by sticking out my tongue. I brush past him and go to the bedroom; I pull on a heavy sweater and slide into some slippers and come back downstairs. Justin's still at the window staring out at the blinding whiteness; his eyes look glazed like he's a million miles away. He's swaying a bit but oddly, he's either unconcerned or really doesn't notice at the moment. He's usually hyper aware and self-conscious when his balance falters. I walk over to him, the shuffle of my slippers the only sound in the hushed loft. I put my arms around him from behind and rest my chin on his shoulder, having to stoop just a little. "What are you thinking?" I whisper. In the back of my mind I realize how I *despise* that question, how lesbionic it is- how lesbionic I've *become*; and how I still truly want to know what he's thinking about. I see from my backwards angle as he blinks at my presence and my question. He smiles slightly. He wraps his arms around mine tightening my hold on him. "Hmmmm. What am I thinking about? Really?" I open my mouth to speak as I truly reconsider the question but he doesn't give me a chance. "You. Me. What's happening if anything. Honesty. How the hell I'm going to pick myself up from the quicksand I'm in; how I'm ever going to be strong enough, healthy minded enough or committed enough to make just one step; to even really, really WANT to make just one step. Believe it or not, even though my life's been fucked up I've always taken the easiest way out. The easiest possible way. Drinking. Drugging. Fucking for money. I never bothered to think of the future... I never bothered to do any schoolwork, I never believed I'd make it or be anyone. But I always thought that somehow it would work itself out. Things would just become 'right' all of a sudden. I wouldn't have to do anything. And while I never bothered to think of the future, I honestly... I honestly never seriously thought of suicide. You were right the other day- even though I don't remember saying anything about making sure my life will be a 'short one', I don't doubt that I did, Brian. And I meant it. But at the very same time, I've never had any plan or genuine resolve to end it all. It's always been a vague concept to me. I can't imagine really doing it. "You know? In a lot of ways, although drinking and drugging have harmed me- physically, mentally, emotionally- drinking and drugging have also sort of saved me. It's been a kind of slow suicide that was (maybe) stopped in time for me to continue living. A slow suicide as opposed to a fast one like blowing my brains out, jumping off a building, taking a whole bottle of pills, slicing my wrists, etc.... I had all sorts of quick suicide options at my fingertips and I didn't even seriously consider any of them. Instead, I drank. I escaped, but not into final darkness- at least not yet. "…And can you imagine, Meeeeester Kinney," he adds with a sly smile. "If I hadn't gone the slow route to death and stopped just before I got there, I'd've never met you." Huh. Whoa. Holy shit. Well: I asked what he was thinking. Stupid me. So I get an unnecessary reminder why I hate that question- what'd I expect? I despise when I get in a maudlin shitass mood like this. I should be on Maury Povich: 'lesbian trapped in a gay man's body'. I pull my arms from around him and walk over to sit on the sofa. Suicide. Slow suicide. Slow enough that he could stop it. When I was a mere 7 years old, I took my father's straight razor and slashed my wrists. I still have very faint scars, one of which is hidden by my cowry shell bracelet. I'd seen it done in a movie; I forget the name of it. But there was a woman, a character who was in an abusive relationship with some asshole. She felt no hope and after a particularly brutal beating at the hands of her husband, she went to the bathroom and slit her wrists. At 7, it was fascinating to me. She had the power to escape, to simply kill herself and the pain ended. Being a child I didn't understand it really, but one night about week after I saw the movie I'd come home with a 'B' on a math test and Jack used it as an excuse to beat the shit out of me. I should've gone to the ER- the fingers in my left hand were broken. But that was too expensive, Joanie told me. And the fingers would heal alright by themselves, she added. I was a bloody mess and my fingers *didn't* heal alright. The bones knitted wrong and it wasn't till I was about 21 and had insurance that the doctors re-broke the bones and set them properly. Well, they set them as 'properly' as possible. My fingers still ache like hell when they get cold. Anyway, the night of that beating after both Jack and Joanie had passed out drunk, I went into their bathroom and slit my wrists with that straight razor. I wanted out like the woman in that movie. I was so young and naïve then. Luckily or not (I'm still not sure), I didn't cut deep enough to sever the arteries or bleed to death but I remember watching in fascination as my blood, so red, so deep red, pulsed from the wounds. I remember wanting to get away from the shit at home, to get away from the fear of my father, to get away from the derision and beatings both my parents inflicted on me... Pfft. The next morning, Joanie apparently found me passed out near death on the bathroom floor. I woke up in the hospital, was made to talk to some therapist who discounted the whole thing citing that essentially 'the movie made me do it', and within 2 days I was back home. They hadn't even 'fixed' my left hand- it just remained in the makeshift splint Joan had concocted. When I got back from the hospital, Jack was angrier than ever. Hhh. Slow suicide. Not for me. Pain management, I can do that. But killing myself - that has to be quick. I tried to again at 25 (roommate found me) and on my 30th birthday (Mikey found me hanging from the rafters when I about to have the most incredible orgasm of my life. Ha. My *life*). I shake my head and notice that Justin's now sitting next to me on the sofa. "Now you tell me what *you're* thinking about," he says gently. I look at him and frown slightly. "Nothing." Ass. "Brian, do you think you have the market cornered on recognizing bullshit? News Flash: you don't, and answering 'nothing' is bullshit." I growl. I hate when my words are used against me. "Brian?" "Suicide, alright? I was thinking about suicide." He looks at me shocked. "No, you twat- I'm not saying to lock up the sharps and flush all the pills. I'm not planning anything. I was just thinking about the… topic." "What about it?" "…How you're healthier than I am," I say before I realize. He looks incredulous. "Hardly! You're so healthy it's disgusting! You're graceful without trying at all, you're strong, you're gorgeous, fit, incredibly fascinating, successful--" Fuck. "--Justin, I've attempted suicide. Three times." Needless to say, the man gasps. "Yeah. Surprise, surprise. I purposefully tried to kill myself- again: three times and each time I tried the 'fast' way, as you put it." "Why?" He asks quietly. "No... I'm sorry... that's a stupid question and it's none of my business." I shift my gaze over to the windows and watch the snow fall in a blinding spray of white, blowing and whipping into every crevice it can. "No, it isn't any of your business." Justin looks at me sadly but thankfully doesn't push or say anything for that matter. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him swipe his lashes and reach for me. He gently pushes me to lie down on the soft leather cushions of the sofa and he lies next to me silently. I close my eyes and feel him pull a blanket over both of us. --------------------------------------------- I must drift off because the next time I open my eyes, it's dusk. Brian's still asleep. The snow seems to be falling even harder- not that I mind of course. I wouldn't mind being snowed in here 'til Spring. I carefully untangle myself from Brian, our limbs having entwined while we slept, and plod to the bathroom. I have to go BAD. On the way I clumsily stub my toe on his chaise lounge and try desperately not to curse and whimper. A staggery feeling attacks my legs and I silently pray I don't fall, have a seizure or pass out... but I do: I fall. On my hands and knees I crawl to the bathroom and close the door quickly. Somehow I maneuver well enough to relieve myself but as soon as I reach out and claw the lever to flush the toilet, I know it's about to happen. Shit. The last I remember, I hear my own strangled sob over the sound of the flushing toilet. Then I'm out cold.