“I still don’t remember anything. Last thing I remember is you telling me that you wouldn’t come to my prom. But they said that you showed up, after all. And that we danced together, and it was amazing. Daphne said that we were amazing.”

“We were alright.”

“Shit. I wish I could remember that.”

*****

It was a fucking Christmas miracle. At least, that was how it seemed at first.

When Brian first arrived at the hospital grounds with Michael that morning, his only focus had been getting Michael to drop him off without coming in. He loved Michael and appreciated everything his friend was doing for him, but he wasn’t loving how Michael was constantly trying to get him to talk about his feelings. He didn’t want to talk about them, because talking about how he felt would almost certainly lead to talking about his nightmares, which would lead to talking about the bashing, and he still didn’t want to talk about that, even after all these years. He knew he was going to have to talk about it with someone, but that someone wasn't going to be Michael. It needed to be someone with a college education in psychology, and Brian knew it. He didn’t like it, but he knew it.

He was fucked up in the head right now, and it was scaring him a little, but it was also a holiday, so there was no one to call. He just needed to make it through 24 more hours without losing control. He could make it through 24 more hours. Until then, he just had to keep the way he was feeling to himself and try to not let it show through too much.

And, on top of everything else, last night his head had apparently decided to add in some good old fashioned neuropathic leg pain. It hadn’t been this bad in for-fucking-ever. It was bad enough that it kept Brian from falling asleep for a long time -- not exactly the way he wanted to get a reprieve from the nightmares. This morning, he hadn’t even wanted to get out of bed, much less go anywhere, but he had no choice. He wasn’t going to spend any more time away from Justin than he absolutely had to. So he’d grit his teeth and bear it and try not to let anyone see how much pain he was in. That was all there was to do, because this wasn’t about him.

He managed to shrug off Michael, but not without noticing the slightly hurt look in his friend’s eyes after Brian told him he should go spend the day with his husband and not worry about him. He told Michael he was fine. That lie was getting easier and easier. By now, it was like the words meant nothing. They were just words. Words intended solely to allay people’s fears and guilt and get them off of Brian’s back. And the words seemed to be working.

Brian had never liked hurting Michael, but sometimes it was unavoidable.

Besides, there was no point in dragging Michael down into the shit day that Brian was sure he was about to have. It was fucking Christmas, and he was going to be spending it sitting by his husband’s hospital bed, wishing and hoping for said husband to suddenly become fully coherent and, well, his husband again. Michael deserved to spend Christmas at home with his own husband.

Brian would resume what had now become a daily vigil with Jennifer Taylor, sitting by Justin’s bedside, waiting for him to come back to them.

An hour into said vigil, just a few minutes after Jennifer stepped out to get some coffee and food for both of them, it seemed that Brian had at least partially gotten his wish. Justin fluttered his eyes open, said Brian’s name again, complained about his head hurting again, then added a new question to the mix: “What happened?”

It was said in a stilted way -- like the word “happened” didn’t come easily -- but it was still something that was new. Something that indicated that Justin was ready to engage in at least some sort of conversation, since he was asking a question.

Brian wasn’t sure how much detail he should give. He didn’t want to overwhelm Justin, so he went with, “You were in a car accident, Sunshine.”

Justin nodded slowly as he studied Brian’s face, like he was trying to wrap his head around those words.

“You hit your head, and there was some swelling in your brain, so they put you in a coma,” Brian continued, still not sure where he should stop with his explanation.

Justin was staring at Brian, blinking as he digested what Brian was saying. At least, Brian hoped Justin was understanding what he was saying. He was looking awfully confused, so Brian wasn’t sure.

“Were you…” Justin said, pausing and then squeezing his eyes shut like he was concentrating really hard before continuing, “...with me?”

Fuck. As if Brian didn’t already feel bad enough that Justin had been alone. Now he was going to have to tell Justin that no, he hadn’t been there. Brian took a deep breath and reminded himself that this was about Justin, not him.

“No, I wasn’t. I was in Rochester.”

Suddenly, Justin looked even more confused, and Brian wished he had left it at, “No, I wasn’t,” rather than adding the detail about being in Rochester. Now he’d have a lot more to explain, and Justin would have more to try to wrap his addled brain around, and it would all be pretty goddamn pointless because it really didn’t fucking matter where Brian was at the time. All that mattered was that he wasn’t there.

“What happened...to you?” Justin asked.

Now it was Brian’s turn to be confused. What was Justin asking? Had he already forgotten that Brian wasn’t there when the accident happened? He’d just said that. Fuck, how bad was this?

“What do you mean, Sunshine? I’m fine,” Brian said, hoping his voice wasn’t belying the worry that was building in his head. “Nothing happened to me. I wasn’t with you.”

“No…” Justin started to speak, then closed his eyes again, sinking back into the pillows for a moment and taking a deep breath.

Brian hated that it seemed like all of this was such an effort for Justin. It looked like just the simple act of speaking wasn’t so simple anymore.

“It’s okay,” Brian said as he took Justin’s left hand between both of his. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. If it’s too hard.” Fuck, he wanted to hear Justin’s voice, but he didn’t want to cause him pain.

Justin opened his eyes again and focused them first on Brian’s face, then looked down, toward Brian’s legs.

“Were you…” Justin started and stopped, seeming to lose the words he wanted to use to complete that sentence. “How long…” Another pause, this time accompanied by a look of frustration. “How long...was I...asleep?”

“Just a few days,” Brian said. “Not too long. We’re all just glad you’re okay. Why don’t you just rest and relax for a little bit... Don’t try to talk.”

“No…” Justin pulled his hand out from between Brian’s and gestured toward Brian’s lower body. “What...happened?”

Shit. Brian knew that memory loss was a distinct possibility here, given the extent of Justin’s brain injury and the fact that it wasn’t his first one, but was Justin really telling him that he didn’t remember that Brian was paralyzed? How much did he not remember? Maybe it was still just the confusion of waking up in a strange place and not remembering how he’d gotten there. At least, that’s what Brian hoped it was.

“You mean this?” Brian laid his hands on the wheels of his chair and backed up a few inches.

Justin nodded.

“I was in an accident.” Brian wasn’t sure how much he should say. If he should try to explain it, or if he should let Justin rest and wait for Justin’s brain to fill in the gaps. Hell, Brian didn’t even know what the gap was or exactly how big it was, much less where to start or how to fill it in.

“But...you said…”

Fuck, Brian thought to himself. Justin was still thinking that all of this had happened at the same time, apparently, and was trying to reconcile the information he knew -- whatever that was -- with what Brian had already given him, and Brian could see it clear as day on Justin’s face that none of it was making any sense. He wished he would have just kept his goddamn mouth shut and encouraged Justin to rest, rather than trying to explain any of this. It seemed like every time he answered one of Justin’s questions, he was only making things worse. But he was already in too deep to stop now.

“I’ve been like this for a long time,” Brian said gently, hoping that he was keeping his face neutral and free of the anxiety that was quickly rising inside him. “Ten years.”

Justin took in another deep breath, let it out, and turned his head to look away just slightly. Brian could see from Justin’s facial expression and the look in his eyes, that he was trying to put things together. Running through whatever information was in his head to try to figure out how Brian had been in a wheelchair for ten years and he hadn’t known about it.

Justin was still looking away from Brian when Dr. Helton came in and greeted them both with a smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Taylor,” she said, “I’m glad I’ve caught you awake. How are you feeling?”

“Head hurts.”

“Yes, that’s normal. It might not go away for a while. We can try to adjust your pain medication to see if that helps make it a little more bearable, at least.”

Justin pushed his head back deeper into the pillows again and closed his eyes. “Tired,” he mumbled.

“That’s normal too,” the doctor said. “Your brain needs rest. It’s asking you to give it what it needs. Don’t fight it; just let yourself rest.”

Justin nodded slowly but didn’t open his eyes. Less than ten seconds passed before Justin’s breathing deepened and it seemed like he was already asleep. Part of Brian was jealous of how quickly and easily Justin had fallen into slumber. He wished he could sleep without his brain constantly conjuring up nightmares of past horrors, embellished with extra blood and gore and misery and fear. But that didn’t matter right now. He was here for Justin and needed to focus on Justin. His own problems could wait. They had to.

Dr. Helton studied a couple of the monitors that were attached to Justin and noted some things on the tablet she was carrying around. Brian assumed she was writing the order to adjust Justin’s pain medication. He hoped she was, because he clearly remembered how much it sucked to be lying in a hospital bed in an extreme amount of pain with no end in sight, particularly when the meds only really took the edge off and didn’t resolve it completely. The doctor tapped the screen a few more times in different places, then turned her attention to Brian.

“How long had he been awake? How did he seem?” she asked.

“Uh...maybe about five or ten minutes. And confused, mostly. He was asking me what happened to him.”

“That’s normal for there to be some amnesia surrounding the event.”

“I know,” Brian said. “He, uh… he’s had that before. With his prior brain injury. He never remembered most of it.”

Dr. Helton nodded. “Did he ask anything else?”

“He asked what happened to me. He wanted to know if I was with him. I think maybe he thought I’d been hurt in the accident too. I’ve been like this for ten years, so...that’s a little strange.” Saying it out loud made Brian realize just how significant it sounded that Justin had forgotten about that. Had he forgotten the last ten years entirely?

Brian didn’t have much time to worry over that thought before Dr. Helton told him that was normal as well.

“The human brain is very complex, and there’s a lot we don’t completely understand about it,” she continued. “And every brain and every injury is unique. Particularly after an injury like this, there can be some temporary amnesia as the brain works to rebuild connections and reorganize information. I wouldn’t worry too much about the memory loss yet. Just keep answering his questions as he asks them. That should help as well.”

Dr. Helton told Brian that they might be able to move Justin to a regular room soon, which was a relief for Brian, because once that happened he would no longer be beholden to the intensive care unit’s strict visiting hours, and he’d be able to spend even more time with Justin. Maybe he could even work out a way to spend the night, so neither of them would have to be alone. Brian knew he didn’t want to be alone; he assumed Justin probably wanted the same.

For the rest of the morning and early afternoon, Brian stayed with Justin, answering questions as simply as he possibly could. Justin would sleep for an hour or two, then wake up and ask a couple of questions, and go back to sleep. He asked about Brian’s accident, and Brian ended up having to tell him the whole story again, but most of the questions were related to Justin’s accident. He seemed to be trying to fill in why he’d been driving to Pittsburgh without Brian. Brian wasn’t sure if Justin remembered if they lived in New York or not, but Justin didn’t ask, and Brian didn’t volunteer the information, not wanting to confuse Justin any further than he already was. He just answered the questions at face value and tried not to read too much into them or allow his own worry to run away with worst-case scenarios. He had to keep remembering what Dr. Helton had said -- this was all perfectly normal.

Talking with Justin more often also provided a nice distraction from the fact that Brian still felt like absolute shit, and it wasn’t getting any better. He’d had a headache now for days, he was still feeling nauseous, and his legs really seemed to have a lot to say, between the burning and the random spasms. And he was so exhausted, but he couldn’t seem to get any decent sleep without drugs, which he was trying hard not to fall back on. But he was starting to get desperate.

Even though Brian felt crappy and Justin’s memory loss was making him very apprehensive, he still couldn’t seem to wipe the stupid grin off his face that had appeared when Justin first opened his eyes that morning. And it only got better when Justin kept waking up, and kept talking. The day had definitely been better than anticipated. Maybe his husband was coming back to him, finally. Merry Christmas.

In the late afternoon, Lindsay and Mel stopped by, along with Gus and Jenny Rebecca. Brian noticed that when Gus hugged him, he held on for longer and much more tightly than normal, particularly for a 16-year-old boy hugging his dad, who by default was considered old and uncool and not to be too closely associated with. Then, the Peterson-Marcus family went on to the Novotny-Bruckner house, and Lindsay tried to talk Brian into coming with them. He declined, of course, not wanting to take any time away from Justin -- especially not now that he was starting to come around. Gus looked disappointed for a very brief moment before he managed to rearrange his face into a neutral expression. Man, was that kid his son -- so much so that it was like watching a past version of himself -- and fuck did it make Brian feel guilty to have made him feel that way. He made a mental note to himself that he’d have to plan an extra trip to Toronto just to visit Gus, once things settled down with Justin. Hopefully soon.

Right around dinner time was when things started to fall apart.

Justin was awake again, and complaining less often about his head hurting, which Brian was thankful for -- maybe the medication was working a little better now. He still wasn’t any less confused, though, and his speech was slow and it seemed like he needed to search for words quite often. This time, he lifted up his right hand, slowly, like it weighed much more than any hand ever should, and studied it. Brian noticed that it was curled into a familiar shape -- the shape it took on when Justin overworked it and it gave out on him. The same shape it had been stuck in for so many months after the bashing. Goddamn it, Brian thought. That hand was Justin’s sanity. His livelihood. But he had to keep it together for Justin -- he couldn’t let his own worry show through, or it would only make things worse for Justin.

So he reached across and took Justin’s right hand between both of his. He tried to give Justin his most reassuring smile, which seemed very un-Brian-Kinney-like, but whatever. Since when had Brian Kinney ever been the same person around Justin Taylor that he was around the rest of the world?

“It’ll be okay, Sunshine,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

Brian didn’t even know what “it” was, but he had a pretty good idea that they’d probably just reset the damn clock on Justin’s use of his dominant hand. However, he didn’t have much time to entertain that thought, before Justin was reaching his left hand up and running a finger over Brian’s wedding ring. Justin looked at Brian and cocked his head slightly, his eyes inquisitive. Justin looked down at his own left hand -- at his finger that didn’t have his matching wedding band because the hospital had taken it off and given it to Brian what felt like ages ago -- then back up at Brian.

“Are we…” Justin started to speak.

Brian felt his heart drop into his stomach. Justin seemed to be taking forever to finish this sentence, but Brian didn’t even need him to finish it. He knew what it was, and it hurt. But he couldn’t show that to Justin.

Brian had almost forgotten that Jennifer was next to him until she spoke up.

“Yes, sweetheart, you and Brian are married,” she said. “It was a beautiful ceremony.”

Justin started chewing his lip anxiously, looking back and forth between Jennifer and Brian. Brian didn’t know how to read Justin’s reaction, but he knew it wasn’t the happy one he’d expected and wanted so badly to see.

Suddenly, Brian had to get out of that room. He excused himself by saying he needed to go to the bathroom, although he didn’t, not really. For once, anyway. He’d already been what felt like a dozen times that day, and he didn’t know why. Maybe it was all the excess coffee that he wasn’t supposed to be drinking but was drinking anyway to try to stay awake because he wasn’t sleeping. This time, though, he just needed to get away for a moment to collect himself before he ended up making Justin feel guilty for not remembering that they were married.

He decided to go ahead and take a piss for good measure, since he was already in the bathroom and it made for a decent distraction for a few minutes. He was feeling unusually warm, particularly since it was December and it was cold as balls outside, so while he was in there, he also shed his sweater and went with just the t-shirt underneath.

When he came back out of the bathroom, Justin was still awake, talking to his mother. Brian still couldn’t quite read Justin’s expression, and they were talking in such low voices that he couldn’t hear what was being said. Justin’s eyelids were quickly getting heavier, though. Just as Brian got back to his bedside, Justin closed his eyes and soon fell asleep.

After that, Justin stayed asleep until it was time for Jennifer and Brian to leave for the evening. They each gave him a kiss -- Jennifer on the cheek and Brian on the hand because it was all he could get his lips to. Brian was more than ready to give Justin a real kiss, but it would have to wait. Although now, he was wondering if it would come at all, depending on how much Justin remembered and how much he’d forgotten. Together, Brian and Jennifer headed back down that long hallway to the elevator.

Tonight, Brian wasn’t quite as reluctant to leave as he had been for the past several days. It wasn’t that he wanted to leave Justin -- not at all. It was that he needed some time to himself, so he wouldn’t have to hide how much it hurt that Justin didn’t remember they were married. Brian felt guilty for even feeling that way, because, again, this was not about him. But his chest was aching, and he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to hold back the emotions that were threatening to spill over. If Justin didn’t remember that, what else did he not remember?

Jennifer dropped Brian off at the hotel, hugging him as they both sat in the parked car, then kissing his cheek.

“Love you,” she said, cupping his cheek with her hand. “Take care of yourself, please. Get some rest. You feel warm...are you feeling okay?”

Brian shrugged. “Just tired, mom,” he said. He knew he wasn’t okay, but fuck if he knew what was going on or if he had time to try to find out.

“Get some sleep,” Jennifer said as she moved her hand down and patted Brian’s shoulder, then returned it to the steering wheel.

Yeah, right, Brian thought to himself. Sleep. If only it were that simple.

Brian completed the whole fucking process that was getting in and out of a car -- Christ, this was one of the times when he really missed having legs that worked -- and bid Jennifer farewell. He could already feel the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he made his way up to his room. His hands were shaking as he stuck the keycard in the lock and pushed the door open before pushing himself into the room and shutting the door behind him.

At that point, he couldn’t hold it back anymore. This was too fucking much. Brian had reached his breaking point.

This pain was far too familiar. The feeling of having his heart ripped out of his chest and stomped on by the only man he’d ever seen fit to give it to.

He still remembered what it had felt like to stand in his kitchen at the loft while Justin told him that the last thing he remembered was Brian telling him that he wouldn’t come to his prom. It hurt because he had gone to the prom. He’d pulled off a ridiculously romantic gesture that Brian Fucking Kinney just didn’t do, and he’d done it for Justin. He’d done it to show that he did care. He’d taken a scary and uncertain step into unfamiliar territory when he entered that ballroom. He’d let himself show love. Brian Kinney didn’t feel love, at least not in a romantic way. And he certainly didn’t outwardly display it in a public setting.

Sure, he could go to Babylon and show lust all night long, but love? Brian Kinney didn’t do love.

At least, not until Justin Taylor came along.

Justin Taylor made Brian Kinney feel things he’d never wanted to feel.

He wasn’t sure of exactly when he’d changed his mind about going to the prom. He’d told Justin no, because he wouldn’t be caught dead in a room full of teenagers. Fuck, he was a 30-year-old man. Newly 30, yes, but still...30. He was officially old. What the fuck would he want with a bunch of 17- and 18-year-olds? But then Michael told him he’d always be young and he’d always be beautiful. Was that what made Brian want to recapture his lost youth?

Brian didn’t know why it had hurt so damn much all those years ago to hear Justin say that he didn’t remember any of it -- not the dance, not the kiss, not the things they’d said to each other in the garage. Brian had put himself out there, for the first time. He’d let himself be vulnerable, and Justin didn’t remember a goddamn thing. He’d never recovered the memory. The only one he ever got back was the moment just before Chris Hobbs swung that damn bat.

The one that probably would have been best if it remained forgotten.

And it didn’t matter that Justin knew the story of the prom by heart because he’d heard it from other people. It still hurt that Justin didn’t remember seeing it with his own two eyes. That he’d never remember what he felt. That they’d never be able to reminisce together about that night, because Brian’s feelings about it were now tainted by baseball bats and blood and sheer terror, and Justin’s had been stolen completely.

Now, it seemed that their marriage had suffered the same fate. And that fucking hurt more than Brian thought was possible.

It had taken Brian years to come around to liking the idea of being married to Justin. Of being married, period. It was something Justin had wanted long before that, though. Something Brian had resisted, because along with marriage came the other m-word: monogamy. That wasn’t something Brian thought he could ever do or would ever want to do. Sex wasn’t something that only came along with love in Brian’s world. It was also a release. A way to escape. With Justin, it was different, but he still hadn’t wanted to let go of the part of him that loved being sucked off by some random guy in the back room at Babylon, or bringing home a particularly hot specimen to fuck. And, at one point, Brian’s refusal to let go of that had looked like it was going to cost him Justin. It hurt, but Brian still didn’t change his mind.

It took a bomb to change his mind. To make him realize what he’d almost let go of and then lost forever. He couldn’t stand the thought that Justin could have died without ever knowing exactly how much he meant to Brian. He could have died before Brian had the balls to say those three little words: I love you. So, motivated by the desire to hold onto Justin and never let him go again, he proposed. They planned a wedding. Then they mutually decided it would be best not to get married -- not to sacrifice who they were and what they each wanted, purely for the sake of vows and rings and a piece of paper.

Over the next year, though, everything changed. The next time Brian proposed, there were no feelings of fear underlying a desperate need to tie the knot with the one person who had cracked him wide open. The one person he felt incomplete without. The second time, it was only love. No desperation. No fear. Only a desire to share his life -- forever -- with Justin Taylor. This time, they were both so sure it was exactly what they wanted.

They’d planned it together, and it was the best day of Brian’s life. He still loved thinking about it. Remembering it. It was the day he’d finally gotten what he’d known he wanted for a long time but simply hadn’t been willing to allow himself to have. And he’d stood on his own two feet in front of Justin as they vowed to love each other for the rest of their lives, no matter what. Brian had meant every word he said on that day nine years before, and he wasn’t going to go back on it now, but damn was it painful to think that Justin didn’t remember any of it.

Now, it seemed those memories were lost to brain injury, just like the prom. And Brian felt like he’d lost a piece of himself.

If Justin didn’t remember they were married, did he even remember that he loved Brian? That thought hurt most of all. That was what was tearing Brian’s heart out.

That was what made him cry.

That was what made him throw things.

That was what made him need a drink.

He didn’t think he’d ever needed or wanted liquor that badly in his life, but he needed something to numb the pain. He didn’t even give a fuck that he was doing exactly what Jack Kinney would have done -- using alcohol to try to escape from the shitshow that was his life.

So he left his coat on, grabbed his new gloves, turned back around, and headed out into the Pittsburgh winter in search of a liquor store that was open on Christmas day. It didn't take him long to find one. He guessed he wasn't the only one needing to numb some pain on the holiday. But he probably was the only visibly distraught, angry, borderline-rude customer in a wheelchair. Hell, the clerk probably shouldn't have sold him the alcohol in the first place. Although he hadn't been drunk then, and he supposed that being pissed off at the world probably wasn't enough to disqualify someone from being able to buy a bottle of Jim Beam.

He took it back to his hotel room, got into bed, propped himself up on the pillows, and settled in with the bottle. He turned on the television, which really made him think of his dad, who would get shitfaced in front of it regularly. Sometimes he'd make Brian sit in there with him while he drank and groused and occasionally yelled about whatever was happening on the screen. Brian hadn't ever really wanted to join him, but he also didn't want to be the one being yelled at. And he definitely didn’t want his father to hit him, which was likely to happen if he refused. So he'd sit through it and try to nod and agree with Jack at all the right times.

He felt the familiar burn of the whiskey as it slid down his throat. He hadn't drunk straight from the bottle in a long time. Not since the night he'd pretty much had a nervous breakdown in front of Justin because he was so fucking frustrated with living life in a wheelchair and how hard it made everything. How it had seemed back then like everything revolved around it and it was all anyone ever saw.

Brian couldn't deny that Justin forgetting that not-so-minor detail about Brian's existence hurt a little bit too. It had made him feel like he was repeating that Christmas Eve scene where he had to come out of the paraplegic closet to Justin and tell him what had happened. He had to explain it to new clients and contacts all the time simply because they were curious, and he didn’t usually mind getting it all out in the open so they could focus on the task at hand, but explaining it again to his fucking husband? He shouldn't have had to do that. He knew it wasn't Justin's fault, and it was stupid and irrational for Brian to bitter about it. But, well, here he was. Being bitter.

Why the hell couldn't he just be thankful that Justin was alive and talking? Why was he feeling like his husband was suddenly a different person?

Of course Brian still loved Justin and would do anything for him. But he wasn't sure how much he could take, and he felt like a selfish, insensitive son-of-a-bitch for even feeling the way he did. This wasn't about him. It was about Justin.

But even that knowledge didn't take away the fact that Brian was starting to feel like every time he got a good thing going, it would all turn to shit. Like his goddamn parents had put some kind of a curse on him to make sure he remained just as unhappy as he had been for most of his childhood.

The alcohol started going to his head rather quickly, and he wasn't sure if it was because he hardly drank anymore or if it was because he was gulping it straight from the bottle. Or maybe it was interacting with all of the medication he took now. He didn't give a shit, to be honest. All he wanted was to not feel anything anymore. And it seemed to be working.

His phone rang about an hour into his binge. It was Rob. He didn’t want to talk to Rob right now, because Rob would try to talk some sense into him. Brian didn’t want to be sensible. He wanted to escape. So he didn’t answer. He did listen to the voicemail, though, wishing him and Justin a merry Christmas. Yeah, right, Brian thought to himself. A very merry Christmas indeed.

Brian kept drinking until his head was swimming and he could no longer focus his vision on anything. He kept waiting for the numbness to kick in, but he was still really fucking frustrated and angry. He wasn’t even sure what he was angry at. He couldn’t be angry at Justin -- that wouldn’t be fair. The whole situation was just so fucked up. Again, Brian had to ask himself, how was this his life? What had he done to deserve this?

He was well into the bottle when he realized he had to piss, for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. But alcohol will do that to you. He was well acquainted with that, thanks to his past as a frequent and often heavy drinker, and he also knew it was one reason why getting drunk for him now was particularly ill-advised. But fuck it. He didn’t care anymore. If Justin didn’t remember he loved him, then what the hell else was there to live for? Fuck his health. Fuck trying to keep his shit together. He was done with it. To hell with it all.

Brian sat up slowly. He had to wait for the room to stop spinning before he could even attempt to move. It seemed to take a long time for that to happen, and it started up again as soon as he pushed his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up further. He waited for it to stop again, but once he reached for his wheelchair, he felt like the entire room had been turned up onto its side. The increasing tightness in his lower abdomen told him he didn’t have any more time to waste, so he pushed his body weight into his right arm, then suddenly realized that he was feeling weak and shaky. Some combination of that plus the strange tilt of the room ended with Brian on his ass in between the bed and his chair.

The jarring motion caused by landing square on his ass -- hard -- sent pain shooting up his spine the second he hit the floor. Brian squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that sprang to them, grateful that it also kept him from having to watch the room continue to rotate around him. Fuck. Now he had to figure out how to get back up into his chair from the floor, which was going to be a hell of a lot harder than doing it from the bed. He managed to slowly maneuver himself into the right position, but he couldn’t seem to gather enough strength to push his body up far enough to get his ass into the seat. After three attempts, he was feeling even more exhausted than he’d ever thought was humanly possible. He used what little remained of his strength to push himself over just enough where he could lie down and close his eyes while he tried to figure out a way out of his predicament.

Brian wasn’t sure if he’d passed out or fallen asleep, but when he opened his eyes, he was suddenly nauseous on top of everything else. Goddamn it. He pushed himself to sit up and repositioned his body so he could try once again to get back into his chair, at which point he realized that his pants were wet and so was the carpet around him. Fuck fuck fuck. He hadn’t had a bladder accident this bad since he was just a few months out of rehab and he’d ignored his body’s signals so he could sit through a meeting with a client because he’d been too embarrassed to ask if they could take a break. He’d made it through the meeting, just barely, but he hadn’t made it to his private bathroom in his office in time. That unpredictability and lack of control was one of the things he hated most about his injury -- not that there was much that was particularly fun. But this part definitely sucked balls. Right then, on the floor of a hotel room in wet pants and sitting in a puddle of his own mess, it seriously sucked balls, and not in a positive, life-affirming way.

He used his arms to pull his legs in as close to his body as he could get them, trying to ignore the fact that he felt like he was falling because he was so damn dizzy. He gripped the frame of his wheelchair with one hand and pushed off the ground with the other, but he still couldn’t get his body up far enough to get into the seat. The second try, he barely managed to move himself at all. He was completely spent, and he didn’t know what was wrong with him. The churning in his stomach continued until it overpowered him, and he ended up vomiting on the floor. As if sitting in his own piss wasn’t bad enough.

The tears came as the reality sank in of what he’d done and just how fucked he was now. He laid back down again and covered his eyes with his hand, shielding them against the light that was starting to make his head pound. Here he was, lying on the floor, surrounded by his own bodily fluids that he’d lost control of, and he couldn’t even get back up. What the fuck was he going to do now? Just lie there until someone started missing him in the morning and thought to check on him?

Shit, he didn’t even have his phone. Not that he relished the thought of calling anyone in his current condition. The only person he could even think of calling was Michael, who he knew would probably lecture him about getting shitfaced, and Brian didn’t think he wanted to listen to that. But he didn’t have a choice, unless he wanted to stay in the floor all night, which he knew he couldn’t do. Even in his inebriated state, he wasn’t stupid enough to chance getting a pressure sore by sleeping on the floor. So he had to find his phone, so he could call Michael.

First, he pulled the bedspread down into the floor to see if he’d left his phone on the bed. It wasn’t there. So that meant it had to be on the nightstand, which was on the other side of his wheelchair. He pushed himself over onto his side so he could unlock the brakes and push the chair out of the way, then painstakingly dragged himself toward the nightstand until he was close enough that he could reach up to it. He groped around for his phone until he found it, knocking the bottle of whiskey to the floor in the process.

When he looked at the time on his phone’s display, he thought his eyes must have been playing tricks on him. No fucking way was it almost three in the morning. Apparently he’d been passed out or asleep for a while, although he still didn’t know how long, since he’d lost all sense of time shortly after Rob’s phone call. He hated to call Michael at this hour, but he honestly didn’t know what else to do. So before he could talk himself out of it, he scrolled through his contacts and tapped on Michael’s entry, then called his oldest and dearest friend.

He let himself lay back down as the phone connected and started to ring. He was doing his best to stay away from the mess he’d made, but he didn’t have the strength to go far. What dignity did he have left to save anyhow? Did it really fucking matter?

The phone kept ringing, and Brian kept trying to breathe. He realized he was crying again, and he didn’t know why. Fucking alcohol. What the fuck had he been doing when he’d started this shit? Oh, yeah...trying to escape. He’d escaped alright. Now he’d been knocked right back into reality -- the reality that he couldn’t drink like this anymore, and that his body had betrayed him.

Finally, Michael answered.

“Hello?” he said. He sounded sleepy.

For some reason, Brian couldn’t find his voice to speak. He kept trying to get control over his breath -- to stop crying, at least.

“Brian? Is everything alright?”

Brian tried and failed to keep the shakiness out of his breath as the tears fell from his eyes and ran down his face. Now that he had Michael on the phone, he didn’t even know what to say. Where to start.

“Talk to me,” came Michael’s voice again. Gentle and encouraging. Not judgmental. Brian really needed Michael not to judge him right now. He knew he’d done this to himself. He’d fucked things up royally this time, and he hated that he needed help, but he needed it. There was no getting around that.

“Please,” Michael said. His voice was quiet now, and Brian could hear an edge of desperation starting to come in. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Brian took a few more deep breaths -- cursing how emotional he knew he sounded -- before he managed to choke out three words: “I fucked up.”

“Where are you?” Michael asked after a few beats. “Are you hurt?”

Brian barely managed to tell Michael he was at the hotel and he wasn’t hurt, before he could feel himself losing his grip on consciousness again. Michael’s voice sounded far away as he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I love you. Just hang on… Can you do that for me? You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

He definitely wasn’t okay. He didn’t know if he was ever going to be okay again. He’d already let Justin go too many times in the past -- he didn’t think he could do it again. Not now. Not after nine years of marriage.

Brian pulled the bedspread around himself and tried to tuck some of it under his head, doing his best to keep it out of the mess he’d made, and let his eyes close again. The phone slid out of his hand and fell to the floor.

Michael would be there soon. But that wasn’t really who he needed.

He needed Justin. He needed to hear Justin say the words. He needed to know Justin still loved him.

He had to.

Or Brian didn’t know what he’d do.