After being disconnected from Justin I curse, confused and pissed off. I snatch my keys from the kitchen island and race down to the Jeep. What the fuck is going ON? Tremont, he said Tremont... there aren't any payphones on Tremont that I've ever seen. Hell, these days there aren't any payphones ANYwhere! Why the fuck the center takes everyone's cell phones is beyond me- well, not really (it's so easy to contact your dealer from the delightful privacy of your own room)... but still... I race the only way down Tremont that won't land me in the river within 2 blocks and within a half hour, the neighborhood is decidedly different. Lining the littered, grimy streets are mostly abandoned crack houses or makeshift hovels. I've never been on this side of town before, amazingly enough. Even the shitty area I grew up in wasn't like this. Gangs are milling on street corners, drugs are being bought and used right out in the open, people are either wasted or on their way to wasted. It's disgusting. Is Justin around here? Is this... is this where he was living just months ago?? I stop and ask a few people if they've seen a young, upset blond- but not only is everyone pretty much stoned out of their gourd, they simply don't care. Slowly scanning Tremont, I wend down through the neighborhood keeping my eyes peeled for a payphone. At the corner of Tremont and Gilpin, I see one about a block away. With someone curled up at its base. Bingo. That asshole motherfucker. I speed up a little and pull over next to the huddled body. I sigh in relief. It's him. Passed out and clinging to himself...I try to determine if he's high before I get out of the car. I can't tell- he's basically motionless. But I can see he's been crying and in a panic. I get out and look around; the street's deserted. "Justin!" He doesn't stir. "JUSTIN!" I'm mad. Really mad. The stupid shit could've been killed out here- ! How'd he get all the way here from the center? He can barely walk! "**JUSTIN!**" I yell. He shifts a little and I vaguely hear him muttering something. I shake him and his arm falls away from his body to the sidewalk; I suck in a breath. His hand is badly scraped up and there's blood, dried and fresh, dripping from several small pinhole-like wounds on his palm... needle marks? But in his *palm*? I shake him roughly. "JUSTIN!" His eyes slowly open and he looks at me blearily, his sclerae are almost completely yellow and pink. "What did you take, Justin? What are you on?" I try to keep the panic out of my voice. "Brian! Brian!? Is that really you?" Fuck. "Yes. What are you on...? Justin, tell me!" "Brian..." he breathes, relief evident in his tone. "Nothing. I didn't use! I didn't take anything- honest." He coughs uncontrollably a few moments. "Brian…" he rasps. "I feel so cold and my whole body aches... I feel like I'm--" he suddenly sits up a little and retches, something green and orange spews from his mouth. Peas and carrots... lovely. He retches until he's dry heaving; I press softly on his back to let him know I'm here but I don't say anything. When he's done, I gently pull him away from the stinking mess and help him to his wobbly feet. "C'mon Sunshine," I say, pulling his arm around my shoulder, supporting him. He's almost dead weight and I have to throw my hip against him to maneuver him to the Jeep. "Fuck... try to help me out here, Justin," I mutter- but he's oblivious. I get him sloppily into the passenger side and get in to drive. I start the ignition but don't pull away yet. I look over at the feverish kid and swallow the bile in my throat. "Justin..." he looks at me. "Tell me what the fuck is going on..." He smiles wanly. "Brian..." Okay, this nearly constant 'Justin-delirium' thing has gotten OLD. "Justin, talk to me." I'm so pissed. "Why is your palm bleeding?" He raises his arm and practically smashes his nose to look at his hand. He frowns exaggeratedly. "Needles!" He exclaims as if just remembering. So, needles... terrific. "Explain," I demand. "I fell - needles were everywhere... Everywhere! I didn't feel the pricks at first." He starts giggling. "Didn't feel the pricks! Heh! I was crawling for my life to get *away* from the pricks!! Oooo- Brian... you have to be careful too. Andy knows about you- his goons have followed you!" What is this, the '50's? 'Goons'? "I've put you in danger, Brian! I'm sorry..." His tone has gone from drunkenly giddy to very somber. I believe him that he hasn't taken anything- not on purpose anyway. But if he was stabbed by needles when he fell, it's very possible that a trace amount of drugs entered his bloodstream from one or more of them. If he hasn't used in awhile, even a small amount can hit him hard. Besides that, he looks like he has the flu or something. This kid is a walking disaster, I swear. And this 'Andy' garbage- I'll get more out of Justin about that later, when he's more lucid and healthy. I pull away from the curb and head towards the loft; "Justin, don't focus Andy, whoever that is- just relax, okay? I'm taking you to the loft. You're going to clean up, get lots of rest- and most of all, stop fretting like a mother hen. And even MORE than 'most of all': you're going to stop being a fucking, goddamned TWAT all the time!" I spit. He winces slightly and I try to calm myself down. "Look, you're sick and maybe a little tweaked- but you're fine. So do what I say and don't argue." I glance over as it starts to sleet outside; Justin's not listening. He's passed out again, his cheeks jiggling with the motion of the Jeep. He's so fucking pale, if it weren't for the short gaspy breaths coming from his ashen lips, I'd worry he was dead. Finally, we're at the loft; the sleet is falling harder- what is it that when I get around Justin, there are rather severe weather disturbances? The huge amount of snow that bombarded the city in Justin's honor 3 weeks ago is still piled in mountainous drifts along the edges of walk- and roadways. I get out of the Jeep; I can't wake him so I carry him slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. When I step off the lift at my floor I stifle a groan- there's Mikey, wet, angry, arms crossed and foot tapping. "YOU FUCKER! YOU WERE GOING TO MEET ME AT WOODY'S TWO HOURS AG--" his mouth clamps shut when he registers me, bedraggled and angry, carrying what looks like a dead man over my shoulder. "Brian?" He whispers incredulously. I sigh deeply. "Mikey," I acknowledge curtly. I shove past him, unlock the door and enter the loft. My muscles thank me profusely as I flop Justin onto the sofa. He's a twig by looking at him- but hell, his bones must be made of lead. Cold, sore, creaky, I turn around and face Michael who's followed me in. He stares at me, then Justin, then me again, his face completely horrified. "Michael, this is Justin," I introduce perfunctorily. "He's a guy I met through that community service shit I have to do. He's sick and got stuck out in the sleet so--" "Brian, he's more than sick! He's a junkie! He's toasted! And look at his clothes! Muddy old sweats and sneakers that were probably 'in' in the '80's!" He peers at Justin closer. "Brian! Those are YOUR old sweats!!" I glance at Sunshine. Sure enough. He's wearing my sweats- and from the looks of them, he's been wearing them daily since he left over three weeks ago. "Nevermind that. And he's not toasted, Mikey. He's sick, like I said. He needs rest. Come back tomorrow." "Briiian!" He whines- fuck, I hate that sound more and more every time I hear it- he's 39! Whining is something I expect from someone Gus' age, not Mikey's! "Michael…!" I warn. He huffs. "Fuck you, Brian Kinney! You chose to help some strung-out, half-dead, dead-end teenaged twink over hanging out with ME? Fuck you! I won't come over tomorrow and I'll never call you again!" Gawd, he's made that threat so many millions of times, it's laughable. I half-wish he fucking meant it. But I know he'll go home, gripe to Debbie, bitch to Emmett in hopes that Emm'll spread the 'evil, heartless Brian' rumors around Liberty Avenue, and call me tomorrow by 9AM to make plans to go out for lunch or drinks... He's so predictable it's pathetic. It's been years and years since Emmett has taken any of Michael's tales of woe on face value-- particularly when they involve me. I honestly have mixed feelings about that-- before, by the time I'd get wind of whatever story or stories were flying around about me, some have been so outrageous and hilarious I've actually written them down. Y'never know- I like writing - maybe someday I'll write my memoirs and include a few of the more ridiculous anecdotes. All this is going through my tired brain as I watch Mikey stalk off, slamming the loft door behind him- which jars Justin awake. He looks around. "Brian?" My shoulders slump a little and I go over to the sofa. "Right here, Sunshine. Can you get up? I'll help you to the bed." He looks at me confused and dazed. "Brian?" He repeats. "C'mon." I grunt as I lift him to his feet. We hobble, weaving, to the bed where I let him go and he collapses onto the mattress. He's soaking wet and cold- and still very feverish. I take off his shoes, strip him down and wrap him securely in the covers. I trash the wet muddy sweats of mine he was wearing, strip down myself and curl up next to him under the covers, turning out the light so that all that glows are the blue neons over the bed. Well, and Justin's pale, pale skin- which normally is like porcelain but now is pasty and a sickly shade of very light grey. He's out again so I hold him to me, feeling how alarmingly hot his skin is even though he's shivering. "Brian..." he sighs in his sleep. I hold him tighter and close my eyes. I drift into an uneasy, restless sleep. And I don't allow myself to think too much. --------------------------- I wake up with warm, strong arms around me, soft blue light everywhere, a sharp and confusing sting in my hand and a thumping pounding in my head. I then notice Brian wrapped around me sleeping and I know I must be dreaming. Not only is it impossible that this looks like Brian's loft and I'm secure in Brian's arms- but everything is foggy, like there's a thick mist in the room. What happened? Am I really sleeping? I mean, this feels 'real'. I shift a little. I check if I'm asleep like Bugs Bunny would and pinch myself. "Justin," Brian mumbles groggily, his eyes staying closed. No. No way. He's not real. Hazy images of being in my old neighborhood swim briefly into my consciousness. I must be having a very confusing wet dream: Brian next to me naked, beautiful, alluring, safe-- this, juxtaposed with more blurry images of whoring myself, drugging, being raped by Andy as he would laugh and tightly fist what little money was 'my cut' from the sometimes dozens of johns he sent me to that night... I shudder involuntarily. "Justin." Brian's eyes are open now; they startle me. They're gentle, sleepy and twinkling softly, reflecting the blue light. He looks slightly irritated. "Hey..." he says simply. "Hey," I whisper, afraid if I talk loud I'll wake up and find myself in Andy's room with dust and grime everywhere, cum stains all over the mattress... I find myself staring at Brian for the same reason: if I blink, he might disappear and reality will take over. But wait. How can I be dreaming of Brian and having a nightmare about Andy simultaneously? I didn't know them at the same time... in fact, if I know Brian, is the Andy shit all in the past? I shake my head, trying to make some sense of this. Brian shifts and I feel him against my body, naked, warm, strong... "Justin, are you okay?" He asks with a yawn as he gently presses the soft, cool inside of his wrist to my forehead for whatever reason. He pulls it away with a barely perceptible smile of what looks like relief. Huh. He doesn't say anything. Am I okay? "Confused," I answer honestly. "You're fever broke," he mutters more to himself than me. I gaze at him disbelievingly. There's just no way… "Are you a dream?" He chuckles a little. "Pfft! What is it with you? Nearly every time you see me you ask me if I'm real, if this is real, if this is a dream, if I'm a dream... if I wasn't such a megalomaniac, I'd start questioning my own existence." It IS Brian! It all falls into place then- running away from the center, going to the crack house I lived in for years, seeing Andy, him threatening me and Brian, getting jabbed by discarded needles, crawling as fast as I could to escape, calling Brian in foggy desperation, Brian finding me - rescuing me after I'd curled up under that payphone... then briefly waking up in a haze… and there's something in my memory about someone else here in the loft. I think Brian called him 'Mikey'... *Here in the loft*. Hmmmm! I smile way more happily than I should. "Brian... oh, God... thank God..." I breathe, wrapping my arms around him, reveling in the warmth of his skin pressed against me. "Brian..." Brian frowns a little as he wakes more fully. "Justin," he says quietly, "why did you run away from the center? Why'd you go to that horrific neighborhood?" He pauses. "And why'd you call me?" "I dunno why I ran away... honest..." well... yeah, I do. I clear my throat. "Well, deep, deep down I guess I knew why." He cocks an eyebrow in question, but says nothing. "I... hm. I... uh. I'd rather not tell you, Brian. You'll get angry." He looks at me thoughtfully- there's even a wee glimmer of humor in his eyes. Then he scowls. "You may as well tell me. I'm way past angry." Huh! "No!" He narrows his long lashed, beautiful green-chocolate eyes at me- they're evil. "Tell. Me." "NO!" "Did you leave to find me?" Truly? Yes. "No." "'Cause if you did, you went the wrong direction on Tremont. And they have phones at the center..." I don't want to say anything so I don't; I just rest my head on his shoulder and take a few deep breaths. I glance at his face; he's looking at me bemused, worried, angry, confused. After a couple minutes, I reach out and touch his cheek. "I... I'm sorry, Brian. I really am. I wanted to get out of the center. I deep down wanted you- but I tried to bury that, Brian. Honest I did. I thought I could go back to my old 'life'- turning tricks to get money and drugs. I know going back to that will kill me- but that's what I want. I want to die. You know?" Fuck, I sound SO lame but what have I got to lose right now by laying it all out on the table? Brian's held his ground till now-- if nothing else, what I have to say should push him off into the safe world of 'no Justin'. "I tried killing myself," I whisper. I feel his whole body tense. "The 'fast way', you know. After we talked about all that shit. I tried ...many times since we last were together weeks ago." Brian's eyes have narrowed further and now he looks... pained. "I tried- I really tried to slit my wrists!" Fuck, I sound like I'm begging Brian's forgiveness for NOT killing myself! "But I couldn't." "Justin," he finally interjects. "DO NOT EVER 'TRY' AGAIN." "But..." "Justin, are you fucking *apologizing* to me for being unable to off yourself? Because if you are, you need to be tied up and left in a rubber room somewhere. Do you know how angry and... fuck it... well, how angry I'd be if you killed yourself?" "It wouldn't have affected you. I'm no longer in your life..." He sighs shaking his head slightly. "Where are you right now, moron?" "I mean, I haven't been in your life for weeks. I truly meant to keep it that way. It's better for you – I'm dragging you down… And now I've put you in physical danger!" He waves that last bit off. "This Andy thing? Put that on the back burner right now, ok? You can tell me about that later... "Listen to me: You're giving yourself some enormous power there, Taylor. You affect me; but it's hard to drag a healthy person down." "It's just- sometimes you seem to get a little... I seem to bring out dark feelings in you. Ones I can tell you don't like or let yourself think about... I don't want to do that." "Christ, Justin, you're so literal-minded. Listen. Are you listening?" I nod warily. "I don't like talking like this- I *don't* talk like this. So listen now. LISTEN." Not that he didn't already have my undivided attention, but I find I'm practically holding my breath. "Yeah- shit you've been through and are going through brings out my demons a bit. I hate that. But. But, that wouldn't happen if they weren't there, would it? That's a no-brainer—right up your alley-" I snort. Fucker. "They're there, the demons. I've learned to cloak them with success, arrogance, money, looks that attract men and women alike for whatever reason, self-centeredness-- I've dressed my 'evil self' with ugly 'clothes'- but they're effective clothes: outwardly unpalatable for the most part, but still far better than the real me, the demons underneath. I rarely come face-to-face with the real me- the few times I have almost killed me. So I've avoided it. You're kind of like a dirty little man who likes to undress my demons. Sicko." I chuckle despite the seriousness of what he's saying. "You aren't 'dragging me down'. I don't get close to people for a reason, Justin. I think the core of that reason is oddly similar to yours, but mine's much more selfish. Like you, I don't trust. "Also like you: you don't want to hurt me; *I* don't want to hurt me, either. I don't want to face... " he clears his throat and seems to rethink his choice of words. "I hate emotions. They're mushy, messy, saccharine, phony, painful and frankly, they tick me the fuck off. So I put'em down. Which is easy, because of all the reasons I just listed. "You on the other hand have all those emotions in spades and let them out. You get all syrupy and gross and lovey and stupid--" I scoff although he's kind of right. "I mean, I don't think I was *ever* anywhere near as sappy as you--" Again I scoff. "--But I used to let myself feel more. Once or twice, when I was a dumb kid. Then… shit happened, kept happening…" he's vague but I get it, "and the demons set up house, killed off all the emotions they could, accepted the 'wolf in sheep's clothing' routine I gave them and here I am. I guess the long and short of it is that you aren't sucking me into some bizarre dark vortex, Justin. To honestly think you have that power over me is kind of silly- I've fucking wanted to die a million times," his voice gets a little hoarse and he clears his throat again. "I tried to make it happen 3 times, and I'm 38- an aging playboy. Mikey-- you've 'met' him although I don't think you were really aware of him-- he thinks I need to settle down. He's full of shit, wanting his schmaltzy suburban picket-fence ideals for me. That'll never happen. But I *am* getting old... oldER," he amends. "And what's worked for me in the past isn't quite as effective as it was before. Pretty soon, I won't be the 'Stud of Liberty Avenue' anymore." He's gotten so quiet, I barely hear him. He's dead serious. Still, I bite my lip so I don't laugh outright- I can't help it. As much as my heart is breaking for him, he just doesn't get how he is- it's ageless: his hypnotic magnetism, raw sexuality, intense and complex beauty… it's daunting, actually. But I say nothing. It's both not the time, nor do I think his 'demons' need more of an ego boost. Let them feel this unwarranted but healthy dose of humility, y'know? He hears my smothered laugh. "--Shut up. Fuck. I never talk shit like this and for some reason, I guess my stupidity overwhelmed my better judgment to give me a reminder why. What I've been babbling on about, trying to say, is you're like a 17-year-old 5-year-old *me*, if you can follow that. But hotter and nicely grown up. You don't need someone like me around you- it's not you affecting me. I'm an adult- you're a young man. What you don't need is me affecting YOU. I don't want you to end up like..." he stops himself; his voice is barely a whisper. "Forget it. Just never, ever try to kill yourself again- don't even think about it. You blind, brain-damaged, freakish twat," he adds. Now I'm still. Silent and still. He's 'selfish' my ass. I'm not laughing, there are no gushy words, nothing outwardly fucked. Just inwardly. All those syrupy and gross and lovey and stupid emotions he called me on are simmering inside. They're trying to spill out my eyes but I hold them in. He looks at the ceiling and then closes his eyes. I study his face- ideal, beautiful, outwardly well-practiced to be hardened and blank. Practice makes perfect, but I know the vulnerability he's masking. I suck in a breath feeling like a cross between an elderly wise man in love and an adolescent with an unbearable, all-consuming crush. Before I know it I'm kissing him deeply, the fucking tears that had been trapped in the corners of my eyes splash down onto his now-open, surprised eyes and he blinks. Then the most incredible feeling I've EVER experienced overwhelms me as he kisses back with a passion I never knew was possible. It's HIM. All of him. All. Of. Him. Pain, sadness, sorrow, confusion, lust, love, raw HIM. I can't believe my eyes are still open- his shut and he rises up and lies on top of me, the weight of his naked, pliant body covering me completely. His hands almost desperately, ALMOST clumsily paw and explore my body. His smooth, warm fingers caress and knead my muscles; my flesh willingly marked and claimed. When our lips part I'm gasping, his hungry mouth nips and bites and suckles sensuously down my body, saliva leaving hot trails on my skin, turning chill when his tongue, mouth leaves his mark and moves on. I'm shivering and realize I'm moaning and babbling his name. Oh, God... "Brian...." Yes. He gently teases my nipples with his teeth and tongue; I arch my back involuntarily. I've been fucked by so many men- fucked so many- been raped, molested, used... and as much as I've wanted this with Brian, I've been frightened of it. Frightened because I knew I couldn't compartmentalize the experience like I always have. Until this moment, sex was about pain and bringing the man off. I've always treated the experience like a task... I knew that wouldn't be possible with Brian. I was more than right- he's touching all of me. All. Of. Me. With all of him. But as frightened as I anticipated being, as I *should* be: I'm not. My legs fall open wantonly as he kisses and mouths his way down my body; he tenderly nips the inside of my thighs, inhaling deeply as his face slowly nears my hard-as-steel cock; I hear a low, deep growl in his chest as his head fills with my scent. Some iota of self-consciousness flits through my head but is gone in an instant - I cry out, his tongue finally touching my leaking, nearly purple cock, the slightly rough flat of his tongue licking up my shaft a few times before he engulfs me, gently but firmly clamping his hot, wet mouth expertly around me. His eyes are closed, eyelids fluttering slightly; he's completely absorbed in the taste, feel, texture of my dick as I fuck his mouth. Uselessly I try to hold back at first so I don't gag him or scare him with my urgency- 'scare'- huh!; Brian? Within about one second that attempt at self control disappears and my hips buck as I thrust into his willing mouth. He doesn't try to hold me down; he takes it all. I try to watch this, him, us- my dick almost violently sliding in and out past his full, coral lips but I can't help myself and my eyes close as the euphoria builds... "Hhgh... fuck... oh fuck... Brian!... I'm gonna... Briannn!..." Within seconds my world goes white and the pulsing rhythm of release throbs deliciously throughout my entire body; I keep thrusting slightly into his mouth, riding the shuddering waves of the most intense orgasm imaginable until what seems like hours later they calm into ripples, and then still into a puddle along with my completely blissed out, spent, sated body. He gently releases my cock from the warm confines of his mouth, having swallowed with relish what felt like gallons of my cum. My eyes have slitted open; he's looking up at my face from my crotch. He gives my penis a tender kiss and climbs up my body, eyes locked on mine. He doesn't smile, frown, roll his eyes, smirk- nothing. His expression is peaceful. Utterly peaceful. We kiss and I taste my seed on his tongue and hum. Oh... God. I've been with many, many men- with the 'job' (literally) of giving pleasure. Giving pleasure without thought of my own; men taking pleasure without thought of my own, as well- in fact all too often, their pleasure was taken by inflicting pain on me. This is new. This. Has. Never. Happened. I try to move, to say something- but my body has taken over my feeble, addled mind and I automatically respond only to Brian's languid touches. Somewhere in the mush I generously call a brain I remind myself that Brian hasn't gotten off; I haven't given him pleasure. Fuck, he just gave me more than 'pleasure'. He practically gave me an aneurysm. "Guuuhhh..." I blither stupidly. Hey, I'm *trying*. He caresses my cheek, his face so close I can feel his warm breath on my skin. Our sweaty bodies are loosely tangled, the air around us is musky, heady, erotic. His cock is hot, hard against my belly- but it feels like it's slowly softening. I must quirk my eyebrows because he smiles a little shyly. Shyly? Brian?? "I have to change the sheets anyway. You got them a little muddy a few hours ago..." Huhhhhh... "I... love you," I blurt. Great, one tiny iota of coherent brain capacity returns and what do I say? The worst thing possible. "I mean--" I backpedal desperately. He doesn't lose his lazy smile as he kisses me. "Shhhhh. You're just in a post-orgasmic haze..." Yes, I am. The ultimate in 'post-orgasmic hazes'. But in this haze, my brain couldn't fabricate ANYthing. I'm NOT spouting delirious nonsense. "N-no... I mean yes, I am... but..." "Shhhh." His cock only softens slightly and is quickly hard as a rock again, pushing into my hip. Shit, he's as horny as I am- which is saying a lot at the moment. Something has happened between us at this insanely early morning hour- my head fumbles and trips over the enormity of whatever it is. I don't know and my mind's too wired, weary and overwhelmed to even attempt to figure it out. I stretch out under Brian and simply give myself over to him completely. Again and again. And again.