“I know what happened to you sucks. And I’m not gonna give you some Pollyanna shit about how everything happens for a reason, or this was God’s gift to make you strong, because if anybody had said that to me, honey, when Vic was dying, I would’ve punched them right in the fucking mouth. All you can do at a time like this is just hang on, until the scenery changes.”

*****

His mother went home. And Justin went back to his life.

Such as it was.

And Justin wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel.

Having his mom there had been a nice distraction from the shitshow he felt like his life had become. Now, it was back to reality.

It wasn’t that all of his current reality was bad, because it wasn’t. But right now, Brian was pretty much the only positive part of it. That was why it helped him so much to do things for Brian -- it took his mind off of everything that was going wrong and focused it on the one thing that was right.

His mom was another thing that felt right, even if she drove him crazy sometimes with her attempts at motivation and encouragement. That was just her -- she wanted to give him the world, and was willing to move heaven and earth to make that happen. She’d always been like that. Right now, though, there was really nothing she could do.

When she was there, Justin had two people to focus his attention on. Two people that he could glean some semblance of happiness-by-proxy from, just by doing things he thought they would like. Now, if only he could find some of that happiness for himself.

He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Brian that the therapy was helping, even though he could tell by the look on Brian’s face when he said it, that Brian didn’t believe him. It really was helping. His thoughts might not have been exactly bright and cheery now, but they were a lot less dark, and that was something. He was sure that a good part of it was likely a result of chemical intervention rather than an actual change in his mood, but still -- it was something.

His memory had been improving as well -- bit-by-bit, things were coming back to him. He’d learned that when he got a flash of something that seemed inconsequential, he could follow it -- keep thinking about what had happened next, or what had happened around it -- and usually find its place in his head. He tried not to think about the fact that he still couldn’t remember his and Brian’s wedding, because it hurt to have that hole in his memory. And he knew it hurt Brian, too, even though Brian pretended it didn’t matter.

Maybe that was part of what made it easier for Justin to do nice things for Brian. He’d put Brian through so much in the past few months, and it made him feel a little guilty, even though he knew it was silly to feel that way, and Brian would tell him that, no questions asked. Either way, he liked being able to bring a smile to Brian’s face, and it made him want to smile too. So that was a good thing.

But even so, Justin still felt a little bit stuck. Like he was trying to find himself and figure out who he would be now, but he just couldn’t quite get there.

Justin had fallen into a comfortable routine over the last several weeks -- physical and occupational therapy on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and talking with John, his psychologist, on Wednesdays. Working on what needed to be worked on, in all aspects of his life, but still sometimes wondering if any of it was doing as much good as he wanted or needed it to.

He hadn’t seen much improvement with his hand in a while. He still couldn’t pick up the fucking paper clips. Still couldn’t throw a ball with any semblance of control. Still couldn’t hold a pencil, or a spoon, or a paintbrush. He had a little bit more movement in individual fingers now, instead of feeling like it was all-or-nothing, but still no real dexterity. He had a tiny bit more grip strength, but still not anything approaching functional. He still had to struggle to hold his pill bottles when he needed his medication, but he still wasn’t willing to let Brian do it for him unless he was desperate. Brian had bought him one of those weekly pill organizers and left it on the bathroom counter -- already filled -- without saying a word, but so far Justin had refused to use it, because he preferred to pretend he didn’t need the easy access that it would provide.

Then, there was the sensation. Strange was about the best way he could manage to describe it. It was like his nerves were confused. Sometimes, it felt like his hand was partially numb, and other times, there was an intense pins-and-needles feeling that made him want to scream. But it wasn’t like his hand was asleep, because if it was, touching it would increase the pins-and-needles sensation. Instead, it was like he couldn’t feel the touch at all. Everything remained exactly the same. He could feel deep pressure more than light touches, but when it came to being able to tell if something was hot or cold, he got radio silence, which kind of scared him. The numbness affected his control, because he couldn’t really rely on what he was feeling, but the problems with thermal sensation could be dangerous, and Justin knew that. He’d developed a habit of testing everything with his left hand first, because with his right, he could easily burn himself and not even know it. It made him paranoid that he was going to get hurt.

So, given all of the the cold, hard evidence Justin had that his hand was probably exactly the way it was going to be, forever, he didn’t know why he was surprised when his physical therapist took him into her office for a private conversation at the end of his appointment, to let him know that there was really nothing more she could do for him that he couldn’t do for himself. That she was officially releasing him.

She gave him a printed list of exercises and stretches and activities he could do at home, and the addresses for a few different websites where he could purchase tools and aids to help make up for his own physical shortcomings. He still had one more session left on Thursday, but beyond that, there would be no more. He was on his own.

Justin didn’t know why he felt so blindsided by that. He knew that they’d met in that same office every few weeks to discuss his progress. They’d been taking measurements of his strength and mobility all along the way, and he knew that there hadn’t been any significant change for a while. But he’d never really been listening when all of that was discussed, because if he was being honest, he didn’t want to hear it. He guessed he’d just assume that they’d keep trying indefinitely, waiting for something to change, even though he knew full-well how ridiculous that sounded.

Now, he felt like she might as well have taken him into the office to tell him that she’d given up on him, and he should give up too. He knew that wasn’t at all what she’d said, but that was how it felt.

Justin was torn. He didn’t know if he should be glad it was over, or disappointed that he’d already gone as far as he could go, when he wanted so desperately to go further.

It was time to face the music and start learning how to accept the new him. Learning how to adapt, and how to do things with what he felt amounted to one-and-a-half hands, with the knowledge that nothing was likely to change from here on out. Only Justin wasn’t sure where to start with that. How to accept that this was his life, and it was going to be his life from here on out, and he needed to find some way to move on.

He carefully folded the printouts, mostly with his left hand, holding them against his leg with the right, and stuck them in his jacket pocket. He nodded numbly as his physical therapist kept talking, although he wasn’t comprehending much of anything else she said beyond, “I can’t do anything more for you than you can do for yourself at this point.”

Now, it was down to what he could do for himself. But what was that, exactly? Was there even anything he could do?

When it seemed like she was done talking, he thanked her politely -- fucking WASP manners -- and got up, left the office, rode the elevator down to the ground floor, and wandered out onto the street with no idea where he should go or what he should do.

Brian was probably home -- he’d been working in his office earlier in the day on something that seemed to be stressing him out. Justin wasn’t blind to the increases in spasticity that would happen to Brian when he really got stressed, and that was exactly what had been happening for the last week or so. It had started a few days after his mother had left to go back to Pittsburgh, when Brian’s phone started ringing almost constantly with some sort of crisis at Kinnetik over a multi-million dollar account. Even if Brian tried to hide how tense he was, his body would give him away, and it had been doing exactly that. Of course, Brian was pretending that wasn’t happening either, as was par-for-the-course and always had been -- Brian never wanted to be anything other than cool, calm, and collected.

Even though Justin knew Brian would drop everything to talk to him, comfort him, and help him work it out and come up with a plan, that wasn’t what Justin wanted. Not right now. Not yet.

He needed some time to think. To just be alone with himself for a while.

It was a nice day in New York -- a little bit of a spring preview, with temperatures above average for late March -- and it seemed like there were a lot of people out. It was late afternoon, and the sidewalks were bustling with people as if it was already five or six o’clock instead of three. Justin tucked his right hand safely in the pocket of his hoodie, suddenly painfully aware that he’d probably be doing that forever. His hand felt vulnerable, like he needed to protect it. It made him self conscious to have it out in the open when he was in public. So most of the time, he kept it in his pocket. It had become an unconscious habit, that at one point had seemed likely to have an ending date, whenever something changed or shifted and his hand felt less like a useless appendage and more like a vital part of him again. Now, he was hit with the sobering thought that none of that was likely to happen anymore.

Someone bumped into his right elbow accidentally, and Justin inhaled sharply. Not because it hurt, but because it made him feel exposed. It reminded him of the months after the bashing, when he’d hold Brian’s hand with a death grip as they walked down Liberty Avenue, because he’d been so afraid of everything and everybody. But he’d learned how to deal with it, and he’d gotten over it, with Brian’s help. Now, he had to figure out how to do the same, again, this time with a completely different issue.

He started to walk past a deli, and his stomach growled as if it could somehow smell the freshly baked bread too, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten much for lunch because he’d been feeling nauseous for absolutely no reason that morning. The nausea was gone now, but he didn’t feel any better, thanks to the news he’d just received. He wondered if the random bouts of dizziness and nausea were yet another thing that wasn’t going to go away. If the migraines were going to be something that plagued him too. He wondered if he was about to get more bad news at his three-month checkup with his New York neurologist next week.

Justin pulled the door open with his left hand, noticing how awkward it was to do that when the door handle was also on the left side and the door swung open to the right. How it essentially made his own arm block his way as he opened the door and moved to go inside. He pushed his right elbow against it to hold it open and stepped over the threshold and into the bright, fluorescent lights of the deli. Not his fucked-up brain’s favorite kind of lighting, to say the least, but he’d survive for however long it took him to eat a sandwich.

The man behind the counter was your typical New Yorker -- gruff and ready for you to get to the damn point and just order already and stop wasting his time. He didn’t actually say any of those things, but his body language and his tone said it all. Justin ordered himself a grilled cheese, because right now all he really wanted was two slices of sourdough slathered in butter with at least five slices of cheddar stuffed in between. He could see Brian in his head, rolling his eyes and muttering something about clogged arteries and 30-year-old metabolisms. The man shouted out Justin’s order to another man standing not four feet from him, while Justin started fumbling with his wallet to get his money out one-handed. Eventually, he got it, but not without a struggle, which didn’t go unnoticed by the impatient clerk, who was huffing and puffing the whole time, in spite of the fact that Justin was the only person at the counter.

Brian probably would have told the guy off -- told him to go fuck himself, to be exact -- but Justin was too embarrassed to even consider doing that. He really just wanted to get his sandwich and not be noticed at all.

He took a seat at a table near the counter and waited for his number to be called. Suddenly, he had a flashback of sitting with Brian at a cafe on the Lower East Side, talking about Brian not wanting to be noticed, because he felt like everyone was staring at his wheelchair. Justin remembered encouraging him to not give a shit what other people thought, and at the same time, internally marveling at the fact that Brian Kinney felt that way at all, and how un-Brian like that was, although he didn’t say those things out loud. Justin had known how Brian felt, even back then, because he’d felt that way after the bashing. But as things got better -- thanks in no small part to Brian -- he’d gotten over it. Now, he felt like he was right back where he’d started all those years ago. He and Brian were reversing their roles again. Brian was back to not giving a fuck what anybody else thought, and Justin was back to being extremely self-conscious.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Now, he realized how much Brian must have felt like he wanted to murder Justin with his bare hands ten years ago. But Justin hadn’t given up on Brian, and Brian had eventually gotten past it all. He’d waded through all of the shit and come out on the other side. Justin hoped he could do the same, even though he knew it would be hard, and there would probably be plenty of times when he wanted to give up.

Hell, there already had been. And he hadn’t given up yet. But today’s events weren’t exactly giving Justin a confidence boost.

His number was called, and he picked up his sandwich at the counter, bringing it back to his table. He sort of hated eating with his left hand, even after nearly three months of doing it. But, it was what it was, and it sure as hell wasn’t changing any time soon, so he had to live with it. Still, it felt...strange. Sometimes it was hard to believe that he’d once been considered ambidextrous. Just goes to show that school and society really can train you out of anything that goes against the norm. His teachers had discouraged the constant switching of hands that he used to do in his elementary school years, encouraging him to go with the right, because it would “make things easier,” they said. If only they had known how wrong they would end up being almost thirty years later, after he smacked the left side of his head against the side window and the B-pillar of a car.

How could they have known though? How could anyone have guessed that Justin would find himself unable to use his right hand, not once, but twice in his lifetime? Sometimes he had to wonder just who he had pissed off upstairs to make all of this bad shit happen to him.

Sure, there were plenty of good things that had happened to him in his life, and he wasn’t denying that. But sometimes it was hard to not get dragged down into the darkness where all of the bad things seemed to take over. John and his meds were working together to try to keep him out of that dark place. Today, though, the darkness felt inviting. Almost comforting, as strange as that sounded. Trying to stay positive was a lot of work. He didn’t have to work as hard if he just let the darkness take over.

The sandwich was every bit as greasy and gooey as he’d wanted it to be, and it was delicious. Justin didn’t know why making a grilled cheese at home was never as good as getting one at a diner or a deli. One of life’s great mysteries, he supposed. He finished up the last bite and took his empty plate over to the dishpan that sat on a cart by the counter, then wandered back out onto the sidewalk.

He still didn’t want to go home, but he wasn’t sure where to go, so he walked around midtown aimlessly for a while, making it a point to avoid Times Square because the last thing he wanted right now was to find himself in the middle of a throng of tourists. He kept walking north -- still not quite sure why he was walking in the opposite direction of home -- eventually finding himself at the southern edge of Central Park. He’d walked at least fifteen blocks without even realizing it.

Justin kept walking, following one of the paths that led into the park. He bought himself a cup of coffee from a street vendor, then found a bench to sit on, so he could think.

Where would he go from here? Where could he go, really? So much of his existence had always been wrapped up in his art, and his identity as an artist. He felt like that had been stripped away from him, and as a result, he didn’t know who he was anymore.

He knew what Brian would have told him if he’d said that: “You’re still you. You’re still my husband, and I love you, no matter what.” Brian would tell him that he just needed to get out of his own way. And his mother had basically told him the same thing when they’d been sitting at the coffee shop across the street from his studio. That he was letting fear rule his life and keep him from moving on. But this whole thing was so fucking scary that Justin didn’t know how to push the fear away so he could move on. It was too big and too overwhelming.

Justin sipped his coffee and looked around at the people moving past him, trying to guess details about their lives based on how they looked or how they moved or what they said. If Brian could see him right now, he would have laughed and told him that he’d been around Rob too much. But Justin agreed that it was interesting to just sit and observe people, and he could absolutely see why Rob did it so much. Actually, Justin was pretty sure Rob scheduled it into his week, even if he didn’t exactly call it that.

The breathing technique Rob had taught Justin really had helped -- he’d already used it several times when he got frustrated or angry. And he had been kicking around the idea of calling Rob and asking him if he could show him more -- maybe some yoga poses. He wondered if there was anything that might help with his hand, or if it would only be a hindrance, like it was in so many other aspects of his life. Justin felt stupid even considering that, given that Rob was a paraplegic, and if not being able to use his legs didn’t hinder him, there was probably a way for Justin to not be held back by his hand either. But he felt like that was what he had to consider now when he started to do anything -- can I do it one handed?

Either way, he wasn’t quite ready to make that call yet.

Right where the pathway made a curve, Justin saw a caricature artist set up just off the sidewalk, making sketches of tourists. At least, Justin assumed they were tourists, and he felt pretty safe in that assumption, given that in more than ten years as a New Yorker, he’d never had a desire to have a caricature drawn of himself.

Justin sat, and he watched.

He could see the conflict in the man’s eyes -- on one hand, he was making art, and that was probably something he enjoyed doing, or else he would haven’t gotten into it in the first place. But on the other hand, he could see the longing -- the same longing Justin had when he was spending time waiting tables so he could pay his rent, when he would have rather been focusing on his art. He could clearly see that this artist would also much rather be doing exactly what he wanted, which definitely wasn’t making these quick sketches in the park for $20 or $30 a pop.

But Justin also couldn’t ignore his own jealousy -- how grateful he’d be to just be able to draw right now. How much joy it would bring him to draw anything, even a caricature for a family of tourists in Central Park. He wanted to curse all the time he’d wasted -- how he’d taken for granted that he had all the time in the world to draw and paint. If only he’d realized that time would be finite, he would have let Brian convince him to devote all of his time to his art much sooner.

He sat and continued observing everyone around him while he finished his coffee, which had gone curiously cold. He watched the families with young children, the runners and cyclists getting in their daily exercise, the groups of people taking tours they’d probably bought on a discount app. A lot of people smiling, who looked much more content with their lives than Justin felt right then. At some point, Justin started to become aware that the light from the sun was getting more and more golden as it made its descent in the western sky. Had he really been out there that long? He glanced at his watch and noticed it was almost 6:30. He guessed he had been out there that long. Reluctantly, he got up from the bench, tossed his empty cup into a nearby trash can, and started toward home.

Justin ran the fingers of his left hand over the folded-up papers in his pocket as he pushed the button for the elevator in the lobby of the building where he and Brian lived. The papers that represented all he’d be able to do for himself at this point. He still wasn’t ready to go home, because he didn’t want to have to tell Brian his news. But he didn’t have a choice -- he couldn’t just wander around the city all night. Not without Brian sending out a search party. Frankly, he was a little surprised he hadn’t heard from Brian all afternoon, but he also knew that when Brian really got absorbed in his work, he often didn’t realize how much time had passed either.

So when Justin unlocked the door to their apartment and pushed it open, he halfway expected for Brian to be in his office, still working. But he wasn’t -- he was in the living room, and it looked like he’d been pacing. At the moment when Justin walked in, Brian was facing the sofa, looking at his phone like he was trying to will it to ring.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Brian said loudly, sounding relieved. He let his phone drop into his lap and ran a hand through his hair nervously as Justin closed the door. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? Where the fuck were you? I thought you’d be home hours ago. I’ve been calling and calling and you haven’t answered.”

At that moment, Justin suddenly remembered that he’d put his phone on silent before going into his therapy appointment, and he hadn’t turned the ringer back on when he left. He’d been too distracted. He pulled it out of his pocket and saw a string of texts and missed calls, all from Brian.

“Sorry,” he muttered, knowing that it wasn’t enough, but it was all he could manage. He shrugged out of his hoodie and hung it up by the door, stepping out of the dark corner of the living room and into the light, closer to Brian.

Brian took one look at Justin’s face, and his expression immediately softened. Jesus, Justin thought, I must really look bad. Brian came closer to Justin, taking Justin’s hands in his own.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Brian’s brow was furrowed, and his concern was clear on his face.

Justin took a deep breath, not quite sure he was ready to have this conversation, but also not sure how to get out of it.

“I just needed some time to think,” he said, fully aware that he was stalling.

“What about? Did something happen at therapy?”

Leave it to Brian to cut right to the point, every single time.

Justin pulled his hands out of Brian’s grasp and sank down heavily on the sofa, putting his head in his hands. Still stalling.

“Justin, what? What’s going on?” Brian rolled closer to Justin and gently pulled his hands away from his face. “Tell me.”

“I’m being released from therapy,” Justin said, his voice flat. “They’ve done all they can do.” Justin closed his eyes, because he didn’t want to look at Brian right now.

Brian used Justin’s hands to pull him forward and into a hug, but didn’t say a word. Justin could feel Brian’s palm on the back of his neck, holding him close. He could feel Brian’s fingers moving through his hair, ever so slightly. It was soothing, in a way. At that moment, feeling Brian’s strong arms around him -- holding him, supporting him -- all of the emotion that had been running just beneath the surface all afternoon broke loose, and Justin collapsed into Brian’s arms, sobbing.

Brian only held him tighter -- his long fingers alternately combing through Justin’s hair and gently cupping the back of his head.

Brian didn’t say anything. Didn’t tell him it was going to be okay. He just sat there, and held him, for a long time. And that was exactly what Justin needed.

“I don’t know what to do,” Justin whispered through the tears, once he’d stopped gasping and sobbing for long enough to speak. He lifted his face from Brian’s shoulder and looked at him. Brian’s eyes were glistening. He looked as devastated as Justin felt. “Where do I go from here? What happens now?”

“I don’t know, Justin,” Brian said quietly, blinking away the wetness. “I wish I did.”

“Brian, I’m scared.” Justin almost didn’t recognize his own voice, it sounded so small and so...broken. “I’m so fucking scared. I’ve spent this whole time waiting for everything to get back to normal… But…”

“I know.” Brian nodded solemnly. “God, do I know.”

“I know I’m being stupid. This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Brian brushed the tears from Justin’s cheeks with his thumbs.

“I know I’m lucky. It’s just my fucking hand. I can walk, and I can think, and I can talk… I’m fucking lucky. I should just shut the fuck up and count my blessings.”

“Justin, stop.” Brian took Justin’s hands again, pulling them into his lap until they came to rest on his knees. “We all have our own shit to deal with, okay? You and me and Joe Schmoe on the street corner, we’ve all got our shit. But that doesn’t mean that any one of us doesn’t have a right to fucking feel something about it.”

“It’s just so much effort, you know?” Justin sniffled and looked down.

“What is?”

“Staying positive. Looking at the bright side. Being fucking...Sunshine. Sometimes it’s just easier to let the darkness take hold. It’s less work.” Justin felt Brian’s hands squeeze his own, the different sensations between the two only serving to remind him of how fucked up his life was. “I feel pretty dark right now.”

“Do you know how many times in rehab I had to put on a happy face for Deb or Mikey or whoever, just so they wouldn’t hassle me? How fucking hard that was to do? What a relief it was when they left, and I could just let myself fall into the darkness, where I wouldn’t have to think? I get it, Justin. I really do. I know it’s a lot of work. It gets easier, though.”

“When?” Justin sniffled, raising his gaze to meet Brian’s.

“It’s a process. There are a lot of steps, and they aren’t clear-cut, and they aren’t linear. This is a loss. You’ve lost something that was important to you. It’s okay to let yourself feel that. Grieve for it.”

“I know. That’s what John says too.”

“Then listen to him.”

“I just… I wasn’t expecting this. I feel like I should have been, but I wasn’t. I’ve had my fucking head in the sand this whole time, pretending that things were getting better when they weren’t. And now I feel like reality just hit me in the face. I don’t know where to go or where to start.”

“You start with one step. A small one. I don’t care what it is, just something. Then you just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and you get closer and closer. And when you’re afraid to take the next step, you jump, and you don’t look back.” Brian ran his thumbs over Justin’s knuckles. “What do you think moving to New York was for me? It was a fucking jump, and I didn’t really know what was going to happen when I got here. But I had to do it. And if I hadn’t, where would we be right now?”

“You’re stronger than I am, though.”

“Bullshit. That’s never been the case and you know it. And it’s sure as hell not the case now. So you got some bad news today. Okay. We take that, together, and we come up with a plan. We move on. You jump, and you know that I’ll be there to catch you if you fall.”

“What if I can’t get back up? What if I just keep falling?”

“Then I’ll still be there. Every single time. That’s it. That’s the only option.” Justin could see in Brian’s eyes how much he meant what he’d just said. “You’re not in this alone. You never have been, and you never will be. But I need you to talk to me. You scared the shit out of me tonight. I didn’t know if you were dead or hurt or passed out somewhere with a damn migraine.”

“I really am sorry for making you worry. I just didn’t realize my phone was on silent.”

“I know.” Brian took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Just… don’t give me any more heart attacks, okay? And promise me that you’ll try something. I don’t care what it is. And if it doesn’t work, then try something else. But this… this giving up. It’s not you.”

“Yeah,” Justin said softly. “It’s still scary, though.”

“Anybody in your position would be scared, I think. But you never know. This could be the beginning of something really great for you -- your second coming as an artist, or something. It’s a chance to start fresh. Try new things.”

Justin let out a breathy laugh. “You make it sound like I’m Jesus Christ or something. A second coming?”

“You know what I meant. But if you let fear get in the way, and you don’t try, then you’ll never know what might have happened.”

“That’s what mom said, too.”

“She’s a pretty smart lady.” Brian raised an eyebrow. “Even if you won’t listen to me, you should listen to her.”

“I miss her,” Justin sighed. “I wish she was closer. I could use one of her hugs right now.”

Brian tugged Justin closer once more and wrapped his arms around him. “I know, Sunshine,” he murmured. “Me too.”

They ordered takeout for dinner that night and ate it on the floor, which Justin felt like they hadn’t done in a long, long time. Maybe they had and he just couldn’t remember it. Either way, it felt good. When they were done, they laid down together on those floor cushions that Justin was surprised Brian had kept all of this time, Justin’s head on Brian’s stomach, Brian’s fingers carding lightly through his hair. They were quiet, but the silence wasn’t heavy -- it was nice. Comfortable. It existed because they didn’t need words to show what they were to each other -- friends, partners, and confidantes.

And when they fucked later that night, it was just like old times -- Justin’s legs atop Brian’s shoulders, his ankles crossed behind Brian’s head, as they moved together. Making love. It was still almost unbelievable to Justin how transformative that one little online purchase had been for their sex life. It might not have been exactly like it was before, but they’d found a way. The end result wasn’t the same either, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t just as good.

Maybe the same would be true for Justin’s art.

The next day, Justin met with John. He expected to cry when he told John his big news, but he didn’t. Apparently he’d gotten all of that out with Brian as he laid bare all of his fears about what came next for him.

They talked about those fears -- why he had them, where they came from, what he could do to get past them. And that suddenly didn’t feel quite as impossible as it had just 24 hours before.

That’s not to say that the fears were resolved -- they definitely weren’t -- but it felt good to have a game plan. And support. Even if he didn’t quite know how he would execute the plan.

The day after that, Justin went to his last physical therapy appointment, which was mostly focused on showing him how to do the things he could do from home to keep working toward whatever improvement he could expect from this point forward, if anything. When his time was up, she led him to the door, gave him a hug, and wished him luck.

Then, he was on his own. Anything that happened from here on out would be of his own doing.

He started spending some more time on the internet, looking up more he could do to try to help himself. He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so invested in it, when he’d been sloughing his way through rehab and therapy for nearly three months now with minimal interest in spite of how desperate he was to get something -- anything -- back. Why he’d suddenly realized that he was only going to get out of this exactly what he put into it. That his life would be what he made it. And even though he was scared, he had to at least try to move forward.

He owed it to Brian, who gave him unwavering support no matter how much he felt he didn’t deserve it. And he owed it to himself.

Oddly, he felt more at peace right then, than he had since this whole ordeal started back in December.

The next few days, however, weren’t nearly as peaceful.

It seemed like Brian’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Whatever crisis he’d been dealing with the previous week at Kinnetik had kept on going, and from what Justin could hear, things were getting worse instead of better. Brian was up before Justin most days, and staying in his office just about every waking hour that he wasn’t out meeting with a client. Justin could barely get him to eat, because he said he didn’t have time. This was a very important account, they were working on a tight deadline, and no one in Kinnetik’s art department could manage to bring Brian’s vision for the campaign to life.

Justin heard the clear frustration in Brian’s voice as he tried, over and over again, to articulate what he wanted. And, over and over again, his disappointment when the so-called “finished” product failed to meet his expectations.

As Justin was on his own computer researching ways to retrain his left hand to become his dominant hand -- now that he no longer had medical professionals telling him not to do that or he’d slow his recovery -- he could see the artwork Brian had been sent. He could hear Brian describing what he’d like to see, and he had an idea he thought might work. But, there was fear. He wasn’t sure he could pull it off alone. And what if it didn’t work? Brian was already agitated enough -- Justin certainly didn’t want to add to that. So he stayed quiet and pretended to mind his own business.

Brian’s shoulders were constantly tense, and there were plenty of times as they lay together in bed that Justin wondered if Brian even noticed the tremors in his legs, or if he was too tired to care.

And once again, Justin’s desire to do something nice for Brian drove him to push himself just a little bit further, offering Brian a massage one night after he finally came to bed, well past midnight. Even in his exhausted state, Brian looked surprised, and maybe a little confused, but Justin didn’t give him an opportunity to object. Slowly and carefully, Justin used his left hand to pour some of the luxurious massage oil that Brian had purchased a while ago, mostly for Justin, into his right hand. He willed his hand not to shake so he wouldn’t spill it, even though he knew Brian wouldn’t care. He snapped the bottle closed and rubbed the oil between his palms -- it felt good, even with the noticeable difference in how each hand perceived it.

Then, he set to kneading the tight muscles in Brian’s shoulders and upper back. He knew he was doing a much better job with the left hand than with the right, which was doing next to nothing, although neither felt particularly agile or adept. He switched his hands back and forth periodically to try to make up for the significant disparity in capability between them, and it seemed to be working. Brian’s eyes were closing, and he let out a quiet moan as Justin’s left hand worked on a particularly stubborn knot.

His eyes were drawn to the scar that marred the otherwise perfectly smooth and flawless skin of Brian’s back. It was a pale whitish-pink, indented slightly, and very long. Justin hesitated to touch it, because he didn’t know how it felt. And he wasn’t sure if that was something he was supposed to know -- something he might have known before. So he stayed to the left and right, treating the scar as a dividing line.

As his hands crept downward, he felt the change in Brian’s muscle tone -- where taut and tense gave way to soft and unresponsive. He heard Brian’s involuntary sharp intake of breath, which he wasn’t sure whether to owe to pleasure or pain. He didn’t want to ask, and he couldn’t tell by looking at Brian’s face. Silently, he pushed his hands back upward, away from that spot, and kept going, using the heel of his right hand for what his fingers couldn’t do.

Soon, Brian was asleep -- snoring softly, the funny little wheeze he had when he breathed deeply through his nose clearly audible. Justin kissed Brian’s shoulder, turned out the light, and lay down, as close to Brian as he could get without being on top of him. He could feel a muscle in Brian’s right calf twitching, leaving him wondering if he should have kept his massage going, all the way to Brian’s feet. But he hadn’t, because he didn’t want to cause Brian pain, even if it wouldn’t be pain in the traditional sense. Instead, it would likely be a neuropathic pain flare-up, or even more spasms, which would defeat the purpose entirely.

So he stayed with what he knew was safe. Because of fear.

Funny how that theme seemed to be a common thread running through all aspects of his life now.

The next day, Justin continued his quest to take care of Brian -- bringing him coffee, making him breakfast and lunch and staring at him until he ate, forcing him to take a break and lie down when Justin could tell he was physically uncomfortable. Justin didn’t have anything else to do, so why not focus all of his energy on Brian?

By late afternoon, Brian was lying on the sofa, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he rode a wave of pain that Justin could tell he wanted to take medication for, but he couldn’t afford to do that because he needed to be awake and alert to get done all he needed to get done. He had presentations to prepare for and ad copy to approve and artwork to tear apart. So he insisted on suffering through it, and Justin didn’t like that one bit.

Justin was sitting in the armchair in the corner, trying to watch-without-really-watching, while pretending to be absorbed in a book, when Brian’s voice broke the silence.

“When are you going to your studio?” he asked. His voice was tight with discomfort, and if he thought Justin was going to leave him alone when he was in pain, Brian was sorely mistaken.

“I don’t know,” Justin answered honestly. He hadn’t thought a whole lot about it.

“You should go. No sense sitting here watching me work.” Brian shifted his body a little bit on the sofa, hissing in pain as he did so. “Fuck,” he muttered.

“You should take your meds and go to bed for a little while. You’re not going to get anything done if you’re hurting so much you can’t move. You’ve been sitting at the computer too long.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Brian said, through gritted teeth.

“You know I’m right.”

“You’re still changing the subject.”

“I’ll go when I know more about what I want to do,” Justin said calmly. “There. Happy now?”

“No, what would make me happy is if you went down there and at least tried to paint something.”

“Well, what would make me happy right now is if you would take a break and take care of yourself.”

Brian pushed himself back up into a sitting position, wincing as he did it. “Fine,” he said. “But don’t let me sleep for more than an hour.” Justin could see the clear discomfort on Brian’s face as he transferred himself back to his wheelchair. He cast Justin a somewhat defiant glance -- even though he was doing exactly what Justin had asked him to do -- then went to the bedroom. Justin heard him shake the pills out of the bottle, followed by the water running briefly. Then, he heard the soft creak of the bed frame as Brian got into bed. Justin made a mental note of the time so he could wake Brian up later, although he knew Brian needed more than an hour of sleep. By this point, he probably needed to sleep for an entire day to make up for what he’d lost in the last two weeks. And it didn’t sound like he was any closer to having what he wanted to present to his client, even as the deadline neared.

Meanwhile, Justin’s brain had been continuing to work on Brian’s art problem, even though his lack of confidence in his own abilities right now was keeping him from speaking up.

He kept reading his book, although he wasn’t exactly sure what he’d read, because his mind was elsewhere -- thinking about graphic design and everything Brian had said he wanted, that his art department had yet to actually produce.

After an hour had passed, Justin went into the bedroom to wake Brian, as much as he didn’t want to. He found Brian lying on his side, still in his jeans and t-shirt, his legs bent to a 90-degree angle and one of their extra pillows between his knees, providing cushion between them. Brian never laid like that, and it made Justin wonder if the pain Brian was feeling was more about his legs than his back. Even in his sleep, it was obvious from his face that he was uncomfortable.

Justin lightly touched Brian’s upper arm, but Brian didn’t stir.

“Brian,” Justin said, keeping his voice soft as he gently shook Brian’s arm until his eyes fluttered open. “It’s been an hour.”

“Fuck.” Brian closed his eyes again and breathed out with a heavy sigh. He curled his fingers around part of the pillow that was under his head, and Justin could see the tension in his jaw. Brian laid there for a few seconds, just breathing, before he said, “Call Theodore and tell him I’m taking the rest of the day off, and if anybody calls me, they can consider themselves jobless.”

“Okay,” Justin said, not quite sure what he should do here. Not sure if there was anything he could do, really. “Are you alright?” It was a stupid question, but it might get Brian to tell him what he needed, so he asked it anyway.

“Don’t worry about me,” Brian grunted.

“That’s not what I asked. Tell me what you need.”

“Another pain pill,” Brian mumbled, still keeping his eyes closed. “And help me get out of these pants.”

Ordinarily, that last request would have been a sexual one, but this time, it definitely wasn’t. Carefully, Justin removed the pillow from between Brian’s knees, unbuttoned his jeans, and slid them down as slowly and gently as he possibly could, even though he knew Brian wouldn’t feel it, and whatever he was feeling had nothing to do with actual physical sensation in his legs. He helped Brian move off of the duvet a little so he could pull it out from under him, then replaced the pillow and covered Brian up.

Once he had Brian settled, he went into the bathroom and looked through Brian’s many prescription bottles until he found the one he was looking for. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get it open, so he took the whole bottle back to Brian, then went into the kitchen to get him a glass of water.

Brian pushed himself a bit more upright so he could swallow the pill, then sank back down onto the bed and let his eyes close again.

“Do you need anything else?” Justin asked.

Brian shook his head a little.

“Okay,” Justin said. “Let me know if you do, and I’ll get it for you.”

He turned to walk away, but Brian reached out and grabbed his hand. When Justin turned back around, Brian was looking at him, the corners of his lips turned up into a small smile, still tinged with pain.

“Thanks,” Brian said softly.

Justin returned his smile. “Anytime,” he said. “Love you. Now go back to sleep.”

Brian nodded and closed his eyes, releasing Justin’s hand.

Justin left the room, glancing over his shoulder at Brian, wishing there was something more he could do to help. All he could do that he hadn’t already done, was call Ted and deliver Brian’s message. He walked down the hallway and into their home office, where Brian’s phone was laying on his desk, to the left of his keyboard. Justin picked up the phone and unlocked it with the passcode -- Gus’s birthday -- then scrolled through the contact list until he found one Theodore Schmidt.

He held the phone to his ear as it rang on the other end of the line, before being picked up on what was probably the last ring before the call was sent to voicemail.

“Bri,” Ted said breathlessly. “I know, I know, it’s late, and we’re running out of time, but half of the art department is out with the flu and the interns don’t know what to--”

“Ted, it’s me,” Justin interrupted Ted’s explanation.

“Justin.” Ted sounded surprised. “Is Brian okay?”

“He’s sleeping. He’s not feeling well. He wanted me to tell you that he was taking the rest of the day off, and if anyone called him, they could consider themselves jobless. I believe those were his exact words.”

Ted laughed a little on the Pittsburgh end of the line. “Sounds like Brian,” he said. “If he wakes up, tell him I’ve got it covered.”

“From what you said earlier, it doesn’t sound like you do.” Justin couldn’t help but smile, remembering the years he spent as a graphic artist for Kinnetik. How challenging it was sometimes, but how accomplished he felt when he got something done and the client really loved it.

“Well, you know Brian. A perfectionist, and a queen, even though he’ll deny the latter until the day he dies. We’ll get it done. We always do.”

“I’ll let you get back to work.”

Ted chuckled again. “Throwing me back to the wolves, huh?”

“You’ll get it done. You said it yourself, you always do.”

“Bye, Justin. Take care.”

“You too.”

Justin hung up the phone and returned it to the desk, accidentally bumping Brian’s mouse in the process. The offending graphic was still up on one of Brian’s two monitors. He stood back and studied it, tilting his head to one side and thinking about everything he’d heard Brian say he wanted to see, that he wasn’t seeing. He grabbed his desk chair and pulled it over, taking a seat in front of Brian’s computer. After a few more minutes of thinking and brainstorming, it came to him -- almost like one of those cartoons where a character suddenly gets hit by a bolt of lightning in the form of a genius idea. Hesitantly, he laid his hand on Brian’s mouse and clicked around until he had created a copy of the image and sent it to himself so he could work with it on his own computer, with his touchscreen. Then, he rolled his chair back over to his own desk, sat down, and started working.

It all came back to him pretty quickly, even though he hadn’t done much graphic design work since he had resigned from his position at Kinnetik years ago. Of course, it was also quite a bit more challenging now that he had a lot less use of his right hand than he had the last time he’d done this job. He found himself using the stylus in his left hand, the way he’d been doing pretty much everything else. It still didn’t feel right, but it felt less and less odd with each passing minute, as he started to lose himself in his work.

He used to do quite a bit of drawing when he’d design an ad, but this time, he was focusing more on the different manipulations he could perform in his graphic design program, and how to use them to bring Brian’s vision to life.

The fear was still there, making him doubt whether or not he should even be doing this, but something else drove him to keep going. Maybe it was the fact that he was helping Brian. Or maybe it was the realization that he really didn’t have anything to lose. If it worked, then great. And if it didn’t, at least he’d tried. And that felt huge.

He’d taken this big step without even thinking much about it, all in the name of helping Brian.

As he put the finishing touches on the graphic and hit “save,” Justin glanced at the clock in the corner of his screen, realizing that nearly three hours had passed. It had felt like only minutes. He sat back in the chair and put his arms behind his head, elbows out, fingers interlaced as best he could. It stretched his right hand a bit, and that felt good.

The bathroom shared a wall with the office, and Justin could hear the sound of Brian moving around in there. After a few minutes, the water in the sink ran briefly, then shortly after that, Brian appeared in the doorway to the office. He’d changed into a pair of sweatpants, and he still looked tired, but the pain in his eyes was gone.

“Hey,” Justin said. “Feeling better?”

“It’s bearable now.” Brian shrugged. “I fucking hate it when that happens.”

“I know. Me too.” Justin took a deep breath and turned his screen to face Brian. It was now or never. “I’ve been working on something.”

Brian came closer, squinting at the screen and tilting his head to the side, then looking at Justin and cocking his eyebrow upward.

“You did all this?” he asked, still looking back and forth between the screen and Justin.

Justin nodded.

“It’s perfect,” Brian breathed. “Fucking finally. Someone with some goddamn brains and vision managed to…” He paused and studied the screen again. “But how?”

Justin picked up the stylus with his left hand and wagged it back and forth. “I do have two hands,” he said. “I think maybe I forgot about that. And I had a little help from some really expensive computer software that some asshole bought for me.” Justin grinned.

“Some asshole, huh?” Brian came around behind Justin’s desk and kissed him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m just glad you like it. I wanted to help.”

“Well, you did. You saved my ass. Say, do you want your old job back?”

Justin laughed. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that just yet.” He paused and bit his lip. “But maybe I could help out sometimes, if you need me.”

“I’ll take it.” Brian kissed him again. “My little artistic genius. The only person to ever grace my art department who had an actual brain and actual artistic vision.”

“Don’t let the others hear you say that, or you won’t have an art department at all.”

“That’s why I’m saying it to you.” Brian took Justin’s right hand and linked their fingers together, then brought Justin’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “I feel like I should thank you properly,” he said in a low voice, as he made a grab for Justin’s cock with his other hand.

“Brian, if you’re not--” Justin started to object, but Brian silenced him quickly by laying a finger over his lips.

“Take my mind off it,” he said. “Let me do something for you.”

With that, Brian turned and headed back in the direction of their bedroom, beckoning Justin to follow. Once they were both in the bed, Brian pulled Justin’s pants off, then traced a warm, wet trail with his tongue up Justin’s thigh, all the way to his cock, which was quickly becoming hard. Christ, Brian was a fellatio expert -- even more so now than back when he was the Stud of Liberty Avenue, if that was even possible. Slowly and steadily, Brian took him in, and Justin’s mind was immediately cleared of all thoughts except for the feeling of Brian’s lips and the warmth of his mouth and the sensation that made Justin’s back arch up off the bed and a moan come from his lips when Brian’s tongue traced the tip, just before he practically swallowed Justin. And when Justin came, Brian swallowed that as well, then pulled himself upward and kissed Justin deeply. Justin could taste himself on Brian’s tongue.

“I hope that was a sufficient thank you,” Brian said softly, between kisses.

“Oh, it was more than sufficient, Mr. Kinney,” Justin said, still a bit breathless. “It’s a pleasure working under you. Even when you’re the one doing all the work.”

“Speaking of work, I think I’ll let the art department squirm a little bit more,” Brian mused as he rolled off of Justin and laid back on the mattress.

“Ted said half of them are out with the flu.” Justin reached down and retrieved his pants, pulling them back on.

“Bunch of pussies,” Brian snorted. “I’m still letting them squirm. Then I’ll send them your version and ask them why the fuck they couldn’t just do this? Why I had to hire some outside artist to do it?”

“You aren’t going to tell them it was me?”

“I will if you want me to.” Brian turned to face him, and hazel met blue in a questioning glance. “If you want the credit.”

Justin considered it for a minute, then took Brian’s hand and said, “Maybe we’ll just let it be our little secret.”

“Okay,” Brian said. “But if you change your mind…”

“I know. I’m just not sure I’m ready.”

Brian pulled the duvet over their bodies and wrapped an arm tightly around Justin, kissing him once more. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?” he said. “Don’t you ever forget it.”

Justin wasn’t sure if he’d quite go that far, but as he settled into Brian’s arms, he certainly did feel loved. Cared for. Supported. Like maybe he could do this, after all.

Later that evening, Brian forwarded Justin’s graphic on to Ted so it could be be printed and mounted for the client presentation. He never mentioned who had designed it, although Justin had a feeling Ted would know. Justin made them dinner, and for the first time in almost two weeks, they enjoyed a quiet evening at home, without Brian’s phone ringing even one time.

When they returned to their bed a few hours later, Justin’s mind kept wandering back to what he’d done. How he hadn’t even thought about it -- he’d just gone for it. And in the end, it had worked out.

The next morning, Justin was up before Brian for the first time in a long time. And he knew exactly what he wanted to do. He slid carefully out of bed, dressed and got ready as quietly as he could, then left a note on the counter for Brian -- just a few words in the uneven, slightly-too-large scrawl he could manage with his left hand -- before leaving the apartment and heading for his studio.

He’d spent most of the night thinking about what he might need to do in order to work again. How he could take what he’d learned while he was making the graphic for Brian and apply it to his own work. As the subway train rocked back and forth gently on the tracks, Justin thought back to their trip to the art museum with his mother. How everything he’d seen had been so inspiring. So different. Maybe now, his artwork would be different, but that didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter if the strokes changed, or if everything changed and he wasn’t painting at all, but instead creating sculptures or fiber art or collages. All that mattered was that he was making something, and whether or not he was happy with it when it was finished. Whether or not he’d said what he intended to say.

When the train reached his stop, he stepped out into the busy station and walked up the stairs and out onto the equally busy sidewalk. It was morning rush hour, and everyone was heading to their jobs, most of them looking none-too-happy to be doing that. It reminded Justin that he was lucky -- he had the opportunity to do exactly what he wanted. He was no longer stuck doing a job he hated just to pay the rent and put food on the table.

He rode the elevator upstairs, then walked down the hallway and unlocked his studio door. The work from his show was still hanging on the right-side wall. But instead of reminding him of what he’d lost, this time, it reminded him of what he had. His mind was intact, he could still create, and he still had his left hand. It might take some getting used to, just like it had with the computer and the stylus the day before, but now, he felt like he could do it. The defeated, hopeless feeling was gone, replaced with a blossoming confidence... and hope.

Justin picked up a tube of paint and held it steady against his workbench with his right hand, then twisted the cap off with his left. He squeezed some of the paint onto a palette, then did the same with another color, and another, then mixed a few of them with the palette knife until he had exactly what he wanted.

He looked at the half-finished canvas he’d been working on before his ill-fated trip to Pittsburgh, and pictured what his original vision had been. Then, he brought to mind his new vision -- the one he’d thought of as he lay in Brian’s arms in their bed, watching him sleep. Thinking about how Brian’s life had changed a decade ago, and how he had adapted. How his own life had changed after the bashing, and how he’d had to learn to do things differently to keep his anxiety at bay, and to keep his gimp hand from cramping. But he’d adapted. He’d had a lot of help from Brian, but he’d adapted.

Now, fate had changed the direction of his life again, and dealt him what seemed like a cruel hand. But he still had Brian. And he could still adapt. He just needed to have the right frame of mind.

He needed to jump, and not look back.

Justin picked up a brush in his left hand, and dipped it in color. Then, he took a deep breath, and put the brush to the canvas.