~. Brian .~

I knew this would be hard. I knew there would be tears, breakdowns, moments of despair and hopelessness on both sides. I knew it would be weeks, months, maybe even years before things remotely resembled normality with us again.

I didn't know I'd have to deal with what seemed to be Justin's complete distrust of me. It felt like I was expected to climb some vast mountain, and he just wouldn't show me where the footholds were to grab onto.

He hadn't told me what had happened to him at that party. Okay. I'd asked for a reason why, and I thought I had accepted that he'd been scared. Of course he had trust issues. Who could blame him? So, as much as I hated it, I thought I could accept that he hadn't told me, thought I could accept his reasons, even if I didn't fully understand them.

Then Michael had gone and thrown those words at me, wielding them like weapons, and suddenly it became a whole lot harder. It was different hearing it from Justin than hearing it from Michael. If other people outside Justin and I were realizing this...it made it more real, somehow. And besides...hearing it from Michael was...well, it hurt. Justin had told me how afraid he was because I had asked him, he was just being honest. Michael...he had done it just to throw something in my face. I was pissed and yelling at him, so he had fired back.

Okay. Justin had some trust issues. He told the world his secrets before he told me. He was afraid I wouldn't want him. Fine. We could get past that. We were past that. It was over, and we could move on now. No more secrecy. Or so I thought.

It had been two weeks since I'd discovered the truth about what happened at that party. Two weeks of hell, in which I realized that Justin was just...he was drowning. He hadn't come up for oxygen in a while and I was getting scared. It was like I had finally found a flotation device to throw out to him, and he just wouldn't take it. So what could I do besides pull on a life preserver and dive in after him?

He had gone over to Daphne's twice in the last two weeks. The first time, that day I'd confronted Michael, he'd stayed late, and came home only when I called and told him I was on my way to pick him up. I should have known something was wrong the moment I saw him. He was even more quiet and withdrawn than usual, and what was more, Daphne was quite obviously anxious herself. At the time, I thought it must just be that Justin was stressed after being away from the loft for so long, and Daphne was just uncomfortable around me at the moment, after our little encounter the week prior. But then we had gotten home, and over the next few days, it became clear that there was something more he wasn't telling me. Again.

The second time Justin had fled to Daphne's, he had come home pale as a ghost. I must have asked him at least a dozen times what was wrong, what was going on, but...nothing. It was like we had reverted straight back to where we'd been a month ago. His appetite had finally started to pick up a little since I'd found out his secret, he was growing just a bit more comfortable with me...I thought we were making progress.

Then something just changed. He wasn't eating. He wasn't sleeping. He was just...existing. Barely. I was trying to be patient, gentle. Which is difficult when you've reached unrivaled desperation and you feel like you're way in over your head in the middle of the ocean and your feet can't touch the bottom. So...it was time to dive in and save him. I just hoped we could both make it back to the surface.

Justin, meanwhile, didn't seem to be listening to a word I was saying. He was cleaning the counters, wiping down all the surfaces with a sponge he'd found under the sink, despite me having told him several times to just leave it. Eventually I figured he might just need something to do with his hands, a distraction, so I shut up about it and left him to it.

But I was not letting this go.

His diet had decreased, if possible, even more in the last week or so, and I was at a complete loss as to what to do. Should I just leave him alone and trust that he would eat when he was ready? I didn't like that idea a bit, and I even briefly considered taking him to the hospital to get an IV put in. There were several things preventing me from doing just that, however. For one thing, I had a feeling being shut in a hospital room with nurses and doctors and possibly a roommate was a horrendously bad idea. For another, I was pretty sure he'd refuse...not that that would stop me if I really thought there were no other options, but this dramatic change in his eating habits had only occurred recently, after the second trip to Daphne's, and I was still clinging to the hope that he would just get hungry and suddenly crave some Thai or something. And who knew what the doctors would want to do with a borderline anorexic? What if they wanted to put him in some facility to get better? I honestly thought something like that would do him more harm than good.

“Justin, will you put the fucking sponge down for a second?” I asked, wearily rubbing my eyes. They were rimmed with red and extremely sore, courtesy of barely having slept in the last three days. I'd spent the majority of time between the hours of midnight and seven AM awake with him, usually just holding him, both of us lying there in bed together. He couldn't—or wouldn't—sleep, and I didn't like the idea of him being awake and miserable and crying while I was on the other side of the bed, asleep and oblivious.

I sighed. “You're losing weight,” I remarked gravely. “This whole not eating thing you're doing isn't healthy. Even if you don't feel like eating, your body still needs food.”

“I don't—”

“Want to,” I finished for him. “I know, Justin...I know you don't want to. But...whatever reason you're starving yourself for...it's not the answer, okay? Look, I don't know if this is your way of controlling things, or...”

“It's not!” he said vehemently, squeezing the sponge so hard that a small puddle of water dripped onto the counter. “I'm just...not hungry. That's all.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You're going to cook?” he asked, his skepticism more than evident.

He shrugged. “Just some water is fine.”

I sighed again. He was really beginning to scare me with this shit. How was I supposed to help him if he wouldn't let me? “Look, Justin, I don't...know exactly how you feel, all right? And I'm not going to pretend I do. But I sure as hell am not going to stand around and let you starve yourself to death. So either you sit down and eat something right now or I fucking force-feed you.”

His head jerked in my direction, suddenly alert, and he seemed to shrink inside himself a little as though I had yelled at him.

“You'd force me?” he asked quietly, and I immediately understood. Shit, I hadn't even thought...and now he was scared. And this time, I'd been the one to cause it, and that wasn't okay. He had enough trust issues already. He needed to be able to feel safe with me, at least, and that wasn't going to be the case for very long if I threatened to force things on him...even for his own good. I didn't want him comparing me to them, making him do things he didn't want to do.

I had my face in my hands, eyes closed, not far from falling asleep right at the table. My eyes were red and sore, my body ached, and even still...none of it compared to the pain I felt, just watching him hurting like this. Especially when he just wouldn't tell me what was wrong, because once again, there had to be something I was missing. I knew there was.

I heard his footsteps approach, and felt his hand on my arm. I looked up, and my red rimmed eyes met his. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and I pulled him into my lap, holding him tight. His body jerked a few times, and I knew he was crying. Again. I wiped a few tears from the corners of my own eyes. I hadn't had a complete emotional breakdown, not like he had, but I had shed a few tears here and there—try as I might to suppress them—on more than one occasion these last couple of weeks.

“What's going on, Justin?” I whispered.

“What do you mean?” he sniffled.

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low and wavery, and he didn't look up from my shoulder. “They, um...they got my test results back.”

I was pretty sure my heart stopped beating completely for at least a few seconds. Finally, I forced myself to speak around my leaden tongue and the dryness in my throat. “And?”

He took a deep breath. “Um...”

I tried my hardest to keep the sharp note of panic out of my voice. And failed miserably. “Justin, what did they say?”

“It's...it's not HIV,” he assured me, sensing my panicked tone. I relaxed, but only slightly.

“But...?”

I let out a sigh of relief, my shoulders sagging. Finally, something that could be fixed. “But that's treatable, though, right?”

He nodded. “Usually with penicillin, but I'm allergic so they decided to give me doxycycline instead. And I've still got to go back again...I need to have a three and sixth month check up for HIV, in case it hasn't shown up yet....I still won't know for sure for a while. And I have some check-ups to make sure the syphilis is clearing up.”

I rubbed light circles into his back, relieved I had been sitting down when he told me all of this. If I had been standing, I was pretty sure I'd have collapsed from the sheer relief. It may not be certain yet, but so far he was safe. Syphilis, but they could cure that. If that was the worst...we could handle it.

“Justin?”

“Hmm?”

He sighed, his breath fluttering against my neck. “That day I went to Daphne's, a couple weeks ago.”

I nodded. “Do you have your medicine yet?”

Of course she had. Why had I expected anything different? Why had I fucking expected him to trust me? I'm only the one who's woken up with him nearly every night for a month and half, and held him while he cried out his pain. I'm only the one who's had to see him practically starve himself, witnessed him storm off to be alone whenever he couldn't handle what was going on, brought him out of panic attacks while he relived his ordeal in detail inside his head. I'm only the one who's watched him spiral deeper and deeper into this black hole of misery. Why should I be told what's going on?

“This has got to fucking stop, Justin,” I said quietly. We needed to deal with this trust issue of his, once and for all. I was so fucking sick of being left in the dark.

“What?”

“This—” I said, “you not telling me shit. Why the hell wouldn't you tell me about this?” Hadn't I proved I wasn't going anywhere? What was it going to take to convince him?

“I was going to,” he said softly. Of course. Just like Mikey was going to tell me when he found out. But they all only ever meant to tell me, they never actually did—and that just wasn't good enough.

“Why didn't you? What the fuck do I have to do to get you to start telling me this shit, Justin?” I demanded. I leaned back, and he picked his head up off my shoulder to look me in the eye.

“I'm sorry,” he said, looking at me pleadingly.

“Forget sorry. I want to know why you feel like you can tell everyone else what's going on in your life, and not me.”

“That's not it, Brian...”

“Then what? What's the problem? Why are you so fucking scared of me?!” I wasn't yelling, but my voice was firm and agitated, and I knew he could sense the tension in my words.

“Because I don't you want you to leave!” he cried, tears welling up in his eyes. He pushed against my shoulders, and I released him. His warmth was suddenly gone from my body as he stood up, arms folded across his chest.

“I'm still here, aren't I?” I pointed out.

“Yeah, for now!” he said shrilly. “But what about next week, or next month...”

“Then I will still—fucking—be here!” I said slowly, determined to get my message across. I got to my feet, as well, though I didn't attempt to go near him.

“But why?! What have I given you? I can barely even kiss you! Why would you stick around?”

“Why not?!” I countered. “After a month and a half, why would I leave now?”

I stared at him. He was going to make me say it. He knew it...or at least, he used to...but he was going to make me admit it out loud.

Fine. If this was what it took to make him get it, understand that I wasn't leaving him with this...if this was what he needed to hear, then so be it.

“Because I fucking care about you!” There. I cared. I cared about him, more than I ever expected or wanted to, and if he was stuck with this, then I was too. If he was hurting, so was I. For as long as it took to heal.

He stared at me dubiously. “They raped me,” he said softly, his voice choked with tears. “They gave me this fucking disease, they...they ruined everything. I can't sleep at night. I can't be around people without freaking out. I can't even fucking breathe without feeling them with me, Brian.” He looked down at the floor before forcing his gaze back up to meet mine. “And I don't know if...if I'll ever be okay again. So if you want me here...that's what comes with it. Just so you know. And if you don't want me here...just fucking tell me now, and I'll leave.”

He looked at me steadily as I closed the distance separating us, staring down at him. We just looked at each other in silence for a moment, stormy eyes the color of the ocean meeting scrutinizing hazel.

He blinked up at me, causing a few tears to spill out of the corners of his eyes, and I wiped them away. I leaned forward, waiting for him to pull away, but he didn't, so I let my lips brush his cheek, lingering against his skin, tasting the saltiness of his tears. He let out a content, shaky breath, and hesitantly, giving him the opportunity to pull away if he wanted to, I pressed my lips to his.

After a moment, he broke the kiss, but he looked calm and content. I swallowed around the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat, and offered him a weak smile.

“Brian?” I asked, taking a bite out of the grilled cheese sandwich my boyfriend had made me. I was surprised to find that it was actually pretty good.

“Yeah?”

Brian had told me all about his encounter with Michael...with his face blank and his voice expressionless, the way he gets when something's bothering him and he's trying not to show it. I had apologized for the whole thing...I claimed at least partial responsibility for the part I'd played in it all...but Brian dismissed my guilt without a second thought. I knew I shouldn't have told Michael in the first place, and I really hadn't meant to out him to Brian like I did...so I felt largely responsible for their current feud. It was good to know Brian didn't blame me, but I still wished they'd start talking again. I had Daphne...who knew what had happened, who I could talk to, who wasn't directly in the middle of all this...Brian needed Michael in that same way.

Brian shrugged.

“You should call him.”

“What for?”

I hadn't been surprised when Brian told me that Michael had intended to confess everything. I knew it would only likely be a matter of time before Michael could no longer keep the secret to himself. Actually, it probably would have been a better way for Brian to have found out, if it had worked out that way. I knew it must have hurt him, finding out the way that he did. Something that only contributed to my guilty conscience.

I averted my eyes shamefully, and he sighed, looking as though he regretted his choice of words. “It's different with you. Michael should have fucking told me.”

“I still think you should call him.”

“I'll think about it,” he promised, though I had a feeling he was just saying it to shut me up. “Right now, you just need to finish your lunch. In the last two days, you've had a bowl of salad and a couple glasses of water...you need to get some real food back in your system.”

He gave me one of his patented Looks from across the table, and it was almost like old times...he'd say something, being his usual grouchy self, I'd make some sarcastically innocent comment, and he'd give me that you-are-such-a-fucking-twat look that always used to make me giggle.

“Seriously, though, Justin,” he said, the playful look disappearing as fast as it had materialized, to be replaced with the utterly solemn expression he'd been wearing the last several weeks. “You can't keep fucking with your body. You need sleep, and food...”

“I can't sleep,” I said quietly. “It's these stupid nightmares...it's been the same one ever since I went to the clinic the last time.”

I recognized the familiar invitation to talk, but I hesitated. Having the images, the sounds, the sensations, in your head is one thing. When it's in your mind, you can push them to the back of your awareness and pretend they don't exist. When you speak them out loud...they're real. There's no chance of escaping them anymore.

I took a deep breath, letting my grilled cheese sandwich fall to the plate. “Well I'm—in the dream, I mean—I'm at the clinic.”

“Yeah?” he prompted me when I didn't continue.

“Um...there's a nurse, telling me that I'm...I'm sick. I've got HIV, and...she says I'm-I'm going to die the next day.”

“Oh.”

“I'm not finished,” I said, grinding the crust of my sandwich into crumbs between my fingers. “Uh, the nurse...she leaves. And I'm sitting there crying, because I'm going to die and I'm alone and someone knocks on the door, and I think it's you. So I get up to open it, and...”

I sniffed, trying to blink back the ever-present tears in my eyes, but it was no use. “And...and it's them. They're all standing in the hallway, so I try to shut the door, but...but they push it open. There's too many to fight, but there's a window in the room, so I try to climb out of it...but they pull me back in and...and Sap is there. I ask him where you are...I want to see you. And he tells me that you don't want to see me now that I'm sick. And then he...he tells me he's going to make the most of my—my last day. And...and they...they all hold me down while he...while—”

“All right, shh...come here...” Brian, thankfully, seemed to have realized I couldn't go on even if I wanted to, and pulled me from my chair into his arms. I dampened the sleeve of his shirt with tears, but he didn't even seem to notice.

“Maybe we should get you something to help you sleep,” he suggested after a while, one hand resting against the back of my neck, the other rubbing circles into my lower back. It was quite soothing to my aching body.

“You mean like medication?”

I nodded. I hadn't had a good nights' sleep in weeks. I was constantly exhausted, I always had bags under my eyes...I just wanted so badly to sleep and not see anything when I closed my eyes. I just wanted them out of my head.

The slow, even rise and fall of Brian's chest was more relaxing than the gentle rocking of a boat out on the water, his hand seeming to just rub the tension out of my body. His breath was warm in my ear, his other hand secure on my neck, idly playing with the tousled strands of blond at the back. I closed my eyes, resting my full weight against him, my head on his shoulder...he was so fucking comfortable...better than bed...

I woke up several hours later, snuggled beneath the duvet without any memory of being deposited there, with Brian sleeping soundly next to me. I moved a little closer to his sleeping form, lifting his arm up and pulling it around me, pressing my back against his chest. His arm was heavy and secure around me, my eyelids drifted shut, and though it was now only about six in the evening, we were both so exhausted we slept straight through the night, and didn't wake up until the first teasing rays of sunlight streamed in through the window, announcing morning.

~.~

“Morning, Sunshine,” Brian greeted as I traipsed out into the kitchen the next day. He'd always found that a particularly clever way to acknowledge me in the morning, ever since he'd started using the nickname, even though it had stopped being clever and become more of a familiar comfort a long time ago.

The very first time Daphne had taken me to the clinic and gotten my prescriptions filled, I'd hidden the medication bottles in a pair of old socks in a drawer, all the way at the back. Now, every one of my pill bottles from the last month and a half, even the empty ones I hadn't thrown away, were lined up on the counter, from oldest to newest.

“I found them,” Brian said, as though that explained everything.

“How?” The only way I could think of that he would have found them was if he'd gone purposely looking for them. Though we shared the dresser, we divided the drawers, as we both got too impatient rummaging through them trying to find our own clothes. Therefore, that drawer was mine, and he had no other apparent reason to search through it. “When?”

“When you were in the shower.”

“But—”

I thought I understood that. Kind of. Though I normally wouldn't really care if he went through my drawers, I was a little miffed that he had this time. He knew about my current health state, he knew about my medications, but...I still didn't like the idea of him finding the bottles like that. But I understood where he was coming from, and he was right. It was time to be open. No more secrets. No more hiding from him. The medication would remain out here.

I looked at him over the rim of my coffee mug. “Next Tuesday. Two-thirty.”

“I'm taking you.”

“Are you sure? You have work, and...”

I nodded, sipping at my coffee. It needed sugar, and it left a weird aftertaste in my mouth, but oddly, I relished the overly strong flavor.

I gave a slow, thoughtful shrug. “Physically...I feel fine, I guess.”

I averted my gaze to my coffee cup.

I swallowed, shrugging again. “I'm just this...this fucking diseased rape victim now...I mean, they got me sick, I'm...I feel so disgusting, like I'm...infected.” They'd left their mark. The mark of what they had done. The bruises had faded, the marks had gone, but they'd given me this. It, like the bruises, could be cured, could be healed, but it felt...inside me. It made me filthy. It made me diseased and dirty and used. They had forced me to have sex, and given me this disease, and I had been powerless to prevent it.

Ever since the very first time I'd had sex with Brian, I'd always been so careful, always using protection, so aware of all the dangers I was potentially subjecting myself to...it was a part of sex, after all...but I played it safe. And then they had gone and done what they did, and hadn't left me any choice, and in the end it hadn't mattered that I'd always been so careful, because they had gotten me sick anyway.

And you know what the worst part of it was? They'd enjoyed it.

I'd been crying while they were laughing. I'd been begging while they were taunting. I had been living through the worst experience of my life, and it was all just one night to them. Just a night of fun. I was just a good time. My rape, the thing that haunted my nightmares and terrorized me every second of every day, had been just a good time to them all. A forgettable experience. Something they'd look back on, months from now—if any of them were sober enough to remember it—and they'd just remember that one blond kid they fucked in that swing. They wouldn't remember forcing me in it. They wouldn't remember how I pleaded with them to stop and leave me alone. And they wouldn't know that I revisited that fucking swing every night in my dreams, my nightmares. I knew so many of their faces. Knew their harsh touches. Remembered their mocking words. It wasn't fair that I was stuck with this, and they weren't. It wasn't fair that I had these memories, this experience, this disease...and they had nothing. Not even a mark on their conscience.

Brian had told me about Sap being arrested for the rape of another dancer. The one that had been strong enough to do what I hadn't. He'd pressed charges, tried to ensure that Sap wound up behind bars. How many others had Sapperstein hurt? How many would he have hurt if someone hadn't spoken up? I felt sorry for the other guy. I knew what it felt like, I was living it, too...and I felt the uncomfortable nudge of guilt at the back of my mind. If I had done what he did...if I'd spoken up, there would've been no need for him to go through what he had. What we both had.

I hoped, with everything in me, that Gary Sapperstein ended up in jail. Brian also told me that he'd named all his friends that had been involved. I wasn't sure if they were all the same friends who had hurt me, but even if they weren't, I hoped they all suffered for it. Anyone who caused this kind of pain deserved to suffer for it. That said, I found it just a little amusing how quickly Sapperstein was willing to give up his 'friends.' There was nothing definite yet, but I hoped they all went to jail.

“Have you...heard any more about Sapperstein?” I asked hesitantly. Brian's face darkened, just as I knew it would.

Like always, I felt just the smallest tendril of uneasiness in my stomach at the hatred in his voice. It wasn't as though I didn't despise them, myself. And it wasn't as though I hadn't seen Brian furious before. I liked the fact that he wanted to protect me, and I knew that he wished anyone who hurt me nothing but hell, but...I had never seen him like this. Whenever the subject of my attackers, my rapists, came up, he got this look in his eyes that plainly spelled murder. Like I said, I loved that he was protective, but this electrified, dangerous Brian put me on edge just a little. It makes you a little uneasy, seeing someone you know, who you've seen smiling, laughing, playful and teasing...look so uncharacteristically fucking homicidal. It was a side of him I would never get used to.

Brian looked as though it was something he seriously did not want to consider, either. “Then...I don't know.”

I didn't know either. There were too many scenarios, too many thoughts and feelings and complications that went along with that. I didn't know, and I didn't want to think about it.

I sighed, swallowing down the last dregs of my coffee, and stood up to put it in the sink. The pill bottles, all lined up in a little row on the counter, seemed to glare at me, incapable of just fading into the background, letting me live without the knowledge of what was in me, what could be in me.

I ran a finger around the top of one of the newer medicine bottles, fingers wandering down the line to the empty bottle of post-exposure meds I'd gotten from the first time I'd gone to the clinic. I hadn't thrown it out. At first, I didn't want to throw it in the trash, in case Brian would happen to catch sight of it. But there were ways around that. There was something in me that just couldn't throw it away. Each little empty bottle of pills felt like a checkpoint. I looked at them, each of the bottles I'd finished off over the elapsed month and a half, and it let me know that I was just that much further along than I was. Just a little safer. I wouldn't know for sure for months to come, but I had come this far. I was better off, physically and otherwise, than I had been. And so I kept each and every bottle like a memento, a reminder. I was still moving forward.

There was a rustle of newspaper behind me. “There's a good chance you're going to be fine.”

I nodded, squeezing the bottle in my fist, leaving little indentations from the cap. “Yeah.” I could feel his eyes on me, but he didn't say anything else. “Brian?”

“Yeah?”

“What if...I'm not?”

“Not what?”

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Finally, I heard him sigh. “Then we'll deal with it, Justin.”

Another huff of breath. “Disgusting, no. But I've always thought you were a freak, Sunshine.”

I shouldn't have felt like laughing. There was nothing funny about this situation. Nothing the least bit lighthearted. But I felt the weight on my chest lift just a little, and suddenly I felt like laughing, despite the fact that the gentle joke was probably true. Or maybe because I knew it was.

“But you'll be here?” I asked. If he was staying, if he really wasn't running...I could handle it. Maybe. At least...I wouldn't feel so much like crawling out of my skin with him here. With Brian, I could live. With Brian, I could breathe.

And that was as good as a yes.

I hoped our little breakthrough marked the end of his secrecy, his fear of me seeing something in him and fleeing. If he needed to hear that I—that I cared—then it was worth the words. If it meant I wouldn't have to guess what was wrong with him, that neither of us would suffer alone, then it was worth it. It didn't make everything perfect, but at least it left things open. And it was far easier to deal with a problem when I knew what it was than when he was trying to hide it from me.

He still hadn't really talked. He told me about a few of his nightmares, and occasionally had emotional outbursts in which he seemed the most open...but he hadn't really talked about what happened, and I wasn't sure if pushing him was the best idea. He still pulled away from kisses, he was still haunted by nightmares, he was still withdrawn, and there was still that aching sadness in his eyes I could see so clearly whenever I looked at him. He was still dying inside. And I still didn't know how to help him.

He was determined to force himself through school twice a week, and though I had offered to go in late to work to drop him off and come and get him when his class was over, he had refused, point blank, to allow it. After several arguments over the subject, we had agreed that I would drop him off, and Daphne would pick him up when his class was finished. I had been reluctant, at first, to let Daphne once again be there for him in a way that I wasn't...though I wasn't sure why. She'd been a part of this long before I had, and she was more than capable of taking care of him while I wasn't there. For some reason, I just didn't like the idea that, yet again, she was the one caring for him when I wasn't.

I had started up work again, though I hadn't been eager to leave him, knowing the state I was leaving him in. But there were bills to pay, and a tiny, guilty part of me was glad for the escape. I hated myself for thinking it, but going to work, despite the concern weighing heavily on my chest all day, was like a breath of fresh air. I could throw myself into my job, push the unpleasant thoughts to the back of my mind, just for a little while. There, I didn't have to watch what I said, or second guess everything I did and wonder if it was going to freak him out, the way I did at the loft.

I had fucked a few clients in the bathroom, though I suspected that should have been much more of a release than it turned out to be. It wasn't the same, somehow, knowing I wouldn't be able to erase the memory of a mediocre blow job when I got home with his lips around my cock instead...and it only caused me pain to imagine that the guy I was fucking against the bathroom wall was just a bit smaller, his hair a bit blonder. Because that was over, and I didn't know when or if it was coming back. I would never pressure Justin into anything, but I couldn't help picturing his face in my head when I was buried in some random guy's ass...but then I would cum and I'd open my eyes and it wouldn't be his eyes staring back at me, and it would feel like a kick to the gut.

Justin usually let me kiss him now when I came home in the evenings, though the kisses never lasted long or got too deep. Though some lesbionic part of me couldn't help but think his kisses, restrained and infrequent as they were, easily surpassed the second-rate fucks with the random tricks at work. Just something else I tried not to think too much about. I didn't want to think what that meant.

One day, I came home to find a message on the answering machine from Justin, informing me that he had gone over to Daphne's to hang out after she had picked him up from school. I felt a lurch of uneasiness, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. If something was going on, he would surely tell me now, right? He was just hanging out with a friend. That was all.

I had just sat down at my computer with a nice, strong drink in hand when a sharp rapping at the door had me on my feet and across the room in a heartbeat. Justin had said in his message that Daphne would be giving him a ride home, and though things were far from easy and comfortable between me and Justin these days, coming home from work and seeing him was still one of the best parts of the day. It was a slight, albeit guilty relief to step away from it all, but I truly did still want to be with him when I could.

Only when I slid open the door, it wasn't a pair of familiar blue eyes staring back at me.