“Joy and Woe are woven fine, A Clothing for the Soul divine; Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine.” --William Blake Justin’s POV I was hauled unceremoniously back to consciousness by the same intense, unpleasant sensation that had woken me every night for the last three weeks. Disorientated by the clinging cobwebs of sleep, I struggled to remember where I was and what had happened. However, my bladder was informing my brain in no uncertain terms that such trivial concerns could wait; it didn’t matter where the fuck I was, as long as there was a washroom in the immediate vicinity. I stumbled clumsily off the bed, whacking my shin painfully on the platform I’d forgotten the bed was mounted on. Cursing the damn thing audible, I hobbled into the washroom still half-asleep, fumbling with the buttons of my jeans. Now that I knew the reason behind it, the sting I felt while relieving myself seemed to be magnified and exacerbated, blowing the perceived pain ridiculously out of proportion. Jesus. I was such a fucking baby. At least this time there wasn’t any blood. After I’d finished, I stood for a long time in that position, propping myself heavily against the wall with one arm. My head was swimming. Now that the immediate business at hand had been seen to, my brain just couldn’t seem to process what came next. I couldn’t even think far enough ahead to button up and return to the bedroom. Everything came streaming back to me like an incoming flood tide of memory. The diagnosis, the frantic arrangements, the flight, the airport…and above all, that overpowering, blessed relief that had surged through me when I’d seen Brian standing there. Being there, seeking me out, waiting for me. Coming for me against all odds and human limitations. A saviour. As if he’d heard me thinking his name, he materialized behind me and I felt his fingers wrap lightly around my upper arm. A moment later, he pulled gently on my other arm to turn me towards him slightly so he could look me in the face. I found myself automatically leaning into his arm that was now draped across my lower back. It felt so secure, so safe. “Are you OK?” His voice was uncharacteristically tender, but laced thickly with concern and anxiety. The undertones in his voice were mirrored in his face and eyes; he looked worried, tired and haggard. Amid the frenzied blizzard of other feelings that had started to swirl around my mind, I felt guilt start to twine and twist its way in, creating a whirlwind of its own. “Yeah.” I replied tiredly, in answer to his question. I fumbled with the buttons of my jeans, but my fingers felt numb and I couldn’t get the snaps to do up properly. I felt Brian’s fingers gently brush mine away as he reached around my waist to do them up for me. “I’m just…I’m just…” Just what, Justin? ‘Just’ absolutely terrified because your worst nightmare has become reality? ‘Just’ utterly horrified at the thought of having to do it all over again? ‘Just’ panic-stricken because Brett had probably reported you missing or abducted by now? ‘Just’ worried because you’d spent every last fucking cent you had on the plane trip back? ‘Just’ heartbroken because your chances at being someone- at making something of your life- had just been smashed into a million pieces? ‘Just’ so fucked up. Instead of attempting to finish my pathetic explanation, I turned and wrapped my arms around him, leaning my head against his warm, solid chest and listening to his slow, rhythmic breathing. I felt tears welling unexpectedly behind my eyes and felt strangely thankful for them; they had finally found a way out. They had been down there for so long, building and multiplying, but until now there had never been sanctity enough to release them. Now that I’d found my sanctity in Brian, the tears seemed about to escape in an unpreventable tidal wave of release. But crying made me feel weak and childish and needy, so I tried to stifle the tears against the soft fabric of Brian’s shirt. He pulled away abruptly and cradled my face in my hands. His expression was one of intense relief which confused me because I didn’t understand what the source of it was. He stroked his thumbs gently along my lower eyelids, as if trying to draw the tears out. “Let them come, Sunshine.” He whispered to me softly. And so I let them come, in all their dramatic glory. Brian held me patiently, tenderly in his arms while the shedding of few quiet tears turned into crying, and then into full-fledged sobbing. It was like an eruption of emotion, like everything I had thought or felt for the last two days had been lying dormant just under the surface, seeking a weak spot to explode out of. Some kind of a dam inside me had burst wide open and everything was suddenly flooding out of me in the salty cascade. It lasted a long, long time, but Brian never released his hold on me or tried to stop or stifle my fretless weeping. At last, the storm petered out and I clung to Brian, utterly spent, but relived of the tremendous emotional burden. He didn’t say anything, but led me over to the sink and slipped a hand under my shirt to caress the skin of my back while I splashed ice cold water on my face. My head throbbed dully and my breath was still coming in hiccups, but I felt better. Purged. “Come out to the kitchen,” Brian instructed with a tone of gentle authority after I’d turned the water off and dried my face on his towel. “You need to have something to eat.” “I’m not really hungry.” I told him truthfully, before realizing with a jolt that it had been more than 24 hours since I’d last eaten anything. In fact…shit- the last thing I’d consumed were the Fruit Loops I’d had for breakfast the morning before. I couldn’t remember ever going so long without food and was astonished that I hadn’t passed out cold from hypoglycaemia. “I know,” Brian replied, looking as if he was reading my mind, “But I want you to eat something anyway. Then you can shower and I’ll find you something to wear.” The thought of clothes made me think of the walk-in closet in Brett’s mansion that was filled with mine, now orphaned by my sudden abandonment of them. Drama princess that I was, I imagined police officers digging through my underwear drawer, looking for clues to explain my abrupt and unexplained disappearance. The panic began to rise again and, impossibly, I felt the storm clouds start to gather and reform themselves. This time, Brian did make a move to console me, coming back and taking me once again into his arms. He was endlessly patient with me, as he had always been. “Hey, hey, hey.” He said softly, running his hand through my hair as I pressed my face into his shoulder, trying to order the hysteria back. “What’s up, Sunshine?” “I…I don’t have any clothes.” I answered, lamely. Christ. Could I sound anymore like a fucking three-year-old? I thought Brian would laugh at my response, but he didn’t. I felt his long fingers on the sides of my neck, gently messaging the taut muscles soothingly. “You left some things here.” I felt the words vibrate against my cheek. “You cleaned out your drawer, but I think you forgot about your stash under the bed and between the couch cushions. I could only find shirts, though. You’ll have to wear some of my sweatpants until Brett sends the rest of your stuff back.” I pulled away and looked up at him, startled. Brett? How did Brett know? He’d obviously let something slip that he hadn’t intended because he looked suddenly as if he was inwardly chastising himself. Before I could ask him what he’d meant, he took me by the wrist and led me out of the washroom and into the main room. He seemed determined to feed me, and giving my recent impromptu 30-hour famine, I didn’t blame him. “I’ll explain when you’re finished eating,” he resolved, sitting me down at the table. Wondering whether or not that was a bribe, I watched as he went into the kitchen, put on a pair of oven mitts I’d never seen, and pulled something out of the oven. I was absolutely flabbergasted. I think I felt the world stop rotating, the magnetic poles reverse and the oceans freeze over. A few pigs may have flown by as well. “Brian, you weren’t…you weren’t COOKING, were you?” “Not really,” he answered, looking adorably embarrassed, “Putting a frozen lasagna in the oven doesn’t exactly constitute slaving over a hot stove…Wipe that fucking smirk off your face! I’m not a complete culinary ludite.” I realized then just how much I’d missed him. ~~~ Brian’s POV Not hungry, my ass. Starving lions couldn’t have devoured a wilderbeast carcass with the same zeal as he showed to the lasagne. It was like an episode of the fucking ‘Animal Planet’, but with tomato sauce replacing the blood and gore. I couldn’t help but smile to myself; both because I had managed to prepare a hot meal without the aid of the fire extinguisher, and because of how much Justin reminded me of a blonde, sun-kissed garborator. Guess I’d have to take up grocery shopping again. I sat opposite him to keep him company, idly peeling a pear with a penknife because I knew he would ream me out for not eating as well. What I really wanted was another cigarette. But I’d already smoked at least half a pack that day, figuring if I was going to have a mental breakdown, at least I was gonna do it with style. I thought perhaps I should lay off the smokes for a while before I got cancer too. When Justin had devoured at least half the lasagna (which was supposed to feed 5 people), he picked up his plate and moved in the direction of the kitchen. As he passed me, he drew his hand lightly across the back of my neck and told me that was the best home cooked meal he’d ever eaten. “Thank you for that heartfelt piece of bullshit.” I smirked, grabbing his hand and bringing it to my mouth to kiss the fingers affectionately. He bent down and gave me a peck on the lips, made a move to straighten up, and stopped. Putting his plate back down on the table, he leaned down again and deepened the kiss. Realizing that it was the first time we he actually done this in more than two months, I grabbed Justin’s arm and hauled him around, pulling him onto my lap so he was straddling me. The kiss was intense but not rough, loving but not lustful, deep but not penetrating. I ran my tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, across the gum line and into the dip just behind his frount row of teeth. I felt the skin of his chin and jaw, its roughness contracting with the softness of his lips, sliding against mine as he opened and closed his mouth slightly, trying to draw me in. His taste was so unique; sweet and salty, striking and mild, exotic and yet so familiar. His skin was soft and warm, rippling and sliding under my fingertips. His hands on the skin of my neck and back were light, soft and gentle, moving in perfect rhythm with the rest of his body. All together, the sensations were euphoric, orgasmic and incomprehensible beyond a haze of impenetrable bliss. He pulled away first and looked down into my eyes. His skin was flushed the colour of rose petals and, like me, he was panting slightly. Wanting the closeness of his body for a few moments longer, I reached up and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. He responded, as he knew I wanted him to, by leaning his forehead against mine and closing his eyes. Our breathing slowed in steady, peaceful synchrony. “God, I missed you.” I whispered to him. He didn’t reply or respond at all, but maintained his closeness. I thought I could feel his love and longing flowing out of him and into me through our physical and internal connection. Perhaps this was fate, for better or worse. The lemonade from the sour lemons. The silken thread. After a while, I let him up and he picked his plate up from the table and took it to the dishwasher. I watched as he surveyed the wreckage of the kitchen which, even I had to admit, looked as if a herd of marauding rhinos had been using it to play hop-scotch in. “How,” Justin asked, looking at me with a carefully concealed smirk, “can you make such a fucking huge mess just by making frozen lasagna?” “Just talented, I guess.” I relied with a smile, getting up and abandoning my half eaten fruit. I never really like pears anyway…they were way too feminine. I went into the kitchen and helped Justin make some order out of the chaos. He hadn’t asked about what I’d promised to tell him, but I could tell he was waiting for an opportune moment to bring it up. Deciding that I’d relieve him of the burden of anxiety, I decided to spill the beans. “I called Brett Keller when you were asleep.” I said conversationally. Yup, I’d been right. He looked at me suddenly interested and relived. “Y’know, just so he didn’t send the Coast Guard or the FBI after you.” “What did he say?” Justin asked, trying to sound casual, but looking a bit apprehensive. “You didn’t…tell him, did you?” “Of course I didn’t tell him, you Twat. It’s up to you if you want him to know or not.” Justin looked immensely relived. “I just told there was an emergency and that you needed to come home for a while. And then I asked him to send your paraphernalia back to Pitts.” “Thanks.” He said softly after a moment of silence. I went over to him and kissed his cheek gently, hoping to God I hadn’t let anything else slip. What I had neglected to tell him was Brett’s unspoken suggestion that there was really no point in Justin returning to Hollywood. The Rage movie was about to fold because Keller couldn’t get the authority they needed to continue it. Surprise, surprise…welcome to homophobic America. He said he’d ‘speak to certain influential people’ to try and get the thing on track again…but… I just couldn’t tell Justin that. Not on top of everything else. I couldn’t shield him from reality, much as I would like to, but I could make things more bearable for him…knowing it would be more bearable for me. We were woven tightly, the two of us. Anything that was to come, anything that could slash and rip would have to tear us both. It could never tear us apart. ~~~ An Hour Later He was standing, naked and dripping wet from his shower, beside the bed just outside the bathroom door. He looked like a statue, poised in the act of bringing the soft orange towel up to his body to dry his chest. Frozen in action and thought. In the glow of the late afternoon sun that came streaming through the window, his skin glowed gold, shining with rivulets of silver. It had been he himself who had told me of Hogarth’s Line of Beauty; the curve, the s-shape, signifying liveliness and activity to excite the attention of the viewer. The beautiful, gentle curve of his spine, now defined and illuminated in gold and silver was perfect; a perfect line of beauty. I could have just looked at him, gazed at his beauty and perfection, forever. But that would have been selfish. Instead I went to him, and he turned to me when he heard my approach. The golden light fell on his face to reveal an expression of hopelessness and loss with fear, deeply underlain. “What is it?” I asked, putting a hand out to his arm and feeling the fine, pale hair under my fingertips. These sudden changes of emotion and upwellings of unknown feelings alarmed me because they were so unlike him. “It won’t ever be the same…it won’t be…I won’t…” His words made no sense to me, but I could see that they certainly did to him. I had to understand this. I knew it was important. “I don’t understand you.” I told him, bluntly but not harshly, “Tell me what you mean.” “The prostrate.” He explained in a whisper, as I made him look at me with a hand under his chin, “It’s what makes it…what makes fucking feel good. If it has to be taken out, I’ll never…I’ll never feel it…We won’t…” He choked on the words and I pulled him gently against me, understanding. Yes, this had occurred to me, too. Sexual pleasure, erotic desire, intense arousal in foreplay and fucking were all achieved primarily through the stimulation of the prostrate gland. For a gay man, particularly a bottom, its removal could have impossibly harsh ramifications. And unlike a testicle, there was only one. “Shh. Justin, listen to me.” The use of his name, a rarity coming from me, made him look up at me, silver tears now glistening on his golden skin, overflowing from the deep azure pools. “This is not last time. There is still an ‘if’. We don’t know that it will have to be removed. And if it does, we’ll find ways around it. You know I’m very resourceful, right?” He gave a small, choked laugh through his tears, and I pulled him forward to rest his head on my chest. “And if that doesn’t work…I’ll bottom for you. For the rest of my life.” Justin gave a heaving sob and pulled away, suddenly gripping the sides of my face with his hands. His streaming eyes, once again that strange unity of azure and indigo, stared hard into mine, as if trying to find the certainty he needed to believe it. I stared right back down at him. “I will, Justin. If it would make you happy, if it would make things right, I’ll do it. And I’ll love every second of it. That’s my promise to God.” Justin began to sob again, and I pulled him against me again, cradling his head against my shoulder. I felt the tears pricking at my own eyes, and couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Those words had come out of their own accord, but even as I’d spoken them, I’d known that truer words had never been spoken. I’d felt a sense of relief, of freedom. He’d made me climb out of my arrogant, self-assured, aggressive Brian Kinney box into a world that was only him and me. A world without tricks and fucking and poppers and booze. A world that was just us. What was happening now, all the hardships and pain, complied one on top of the other like weights of misery…it was all fucking horrible. But this, being here with him, hearing those words from my own lips, had come out of it. A silver lining? A promise of hope? The silken twine.