Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction
Author's Chapter Notes:

A/N: I'm really, really sorry for the wait on this one. I actually started this the day I posted the last chapter, but I got sick, and I didn't feel up to finishing it for a while. I'm feeling a lot better now though, so here's chapter thirteen, a little later than I hoped, but here. And I know the rest of the group found out what happened last chapter, but they're only mentioned in this one. But there will be more with them in some of the upcoming chapters.

~. Justin .~

Quit screaming, you know you love it...”

I don't...I don't want it...I don't want to...

Put something in his mouth. Shut him up.”

You want to suck my dick again, little Taylor? That keep you quiet?”

No, please stop...I don’t want to…God make it stop, please...

Hey, I've got something that'll make him shut up.”

GOD oh God...that hurts...stop hitting me! What is that...?

Kinky. You like it, Taylor?”

NO please...please stop...just stop...

Quit screaming, or I'll do it again.”

No don't...please don't...no more...

Hey, have you tried out the new toy yet? He's great, nice and tight, aren't you, blond boy? Almost virgin tight...”

No not again...don't do it again, please...don't do it, please don't do it...please don't—

NO!

“Come on, Justin, show me how much you want it...Ooh, we got a feisty one here, look at him fight...and what a hot little ass...”

Stop, please stop...someone help me...get off me...can't you see I don't want it? Oh, God, I don't want this...

“Wake up!”

“No!” I cried, swinging wildly where solid shapes should be, but my fists weren't connecting.

“Justin, it's a dream. Open your eyes!”

“Don't!”

I could feel a pair of hands on me. They were vaguely familiar, but all I could see imprinted on my eyelids were their faces, their phantom hands ghosting over me now like shadows...

“Justin, it's Brian!”

Brian?

Brian was saving me?

I struggled to open my reluctant eyelids. The darkness receded.

It was morning. Full of blinding light and a duvet soaked with sweat and a concerned Brian staring at me from the other side of the bed. He looked like he wanted to come closer, but wasn't sure if he should. I gripped the duvet in my fists, trying to steady myself, come back from the hellish nightmare I'd just been subjected to.

“Are you okay?” he asked. I shook my head, burying my face in my hands.

I wished I didn't remember that. Them beating me until I'd cooperated...God, what was that they were hitting me with? It had hurt like a motherfucker, and I figured it, whatever it was, was largely responsible for the more gruesome marks I'd had the day after. They'd already had me drugged, bound, and considerably outnumbered, but apparently it wasn't enough.

I wasn't sure why they'd suddenly wanted to shut me up. Until then, they'd been savagely enjoying my screaming and pleading and protesting. But suddenly they'd been shoving their dicks down my throat to 'keep me quiet,' hitting me when I tried to fight them off...though with my wrists bound, it hadn't been doing much good, anyway.

There was a point, sometime around where whatever they had been hitting me with had made contact with the same spot for the third time, that I had finally given in. I wasn't going anywhere until they were finished with me. Better to just shut up and endure it than provoke them into giving me more pain. I couldn't help the tears, though...they filled up my eyes until I couldn't see, and spilled down my cheeks in rivulets of misery. But they liked them.

Aw, our poor little blond boy's crying...don't worry, it'll be over soon, we won't be long...

Sick fucking sadists.

“Justin?”

I wiped away my tears and looked up at him. He held his arms out, and I gratefully crawled into them, relieving my anguish on his shoulder.

“It's okay...shh...”

Shh, we won't hurt you...quit struggling...we just want to see what all the fuss is about...you must be one good fuck if Kinney's kept you around this long, kid...

A little gasp. I jerked away from Brian. He looked confused, but I offered no explanation. Falling back to the bed, I rolled away from him, tears streaming down my cheeks into the already sweat-dampened pillow.

Memories...fucking memories...why did I have to have these inside my head? I changed my mind...I didn't want to know. I just wanted this out. Gone. I didn't want to think about this anymore.

“Justin...” Brian's gentle whisper. “Turn around.”

Reluctantly, I did as I was told. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, pushing damp strands of hair back from my forehead. I hadn't been to get a haircut since before the party, and my hair was really starting to grow out. It hadn't been this long in a while, but I honestly didn't mind it too much. I liked the way Brian combed his fingers through it, twirled the strands around his fingers.

I stared up at him hopelessly. Just let him see how much of a wreck I was. There was a shift of movement, and then he was lying next to me, not touching, just...resting.

“What was it about?” Same question as always. Same reaction as always. Silence.

“Justin,” he said again, a hint of warning in his voice.

“What do you think?” I asked sharply, but there was an audible waver in my tone. “It was them. It was that fucking party.” He was just trying to help, I reminded myself. He was just trying to be there for me. But honestly, what the fuck did he think these dreams were about?

He let out a breath. “Do you...can you tell me anything else?”

“Like what?”

A pause. “Did you...in the dream, or...did you see their faces?”

My frown deepened. He had never asked me a question like that before. He had asked me about the dreams, about the nightmares, but he never pressed for those kinds of details. I had told him about the dream in the clinic, but I'd left out most of the explicit points. And there were plenty I hadn't mentioned. I always figured he knew that I didn't want to talk about them. Either that, or he didn't want to hear them. Maybe both.

“Two.”

“Two faces?”

“Yeah.”

“What did they look like?” he asked. But...I wasn't doing this. I wasn't telling him what it was like, what they looked like...I couldn't. I wouldn't be able to form the words. They looked...what? Evil? Terrifying? Smirking and leering while they hit me, beat me with whatever it was they had found to torture me with? Eyes glazed over while they stood by and watched everything taking place in front of them, oblivious to my pain? Blissed out when they finally got their turn, pushing inside me while tears flooded my eyes and splashed down my face?

He must have gotten the hint when I didn't answer. Didn't even look at him, just kept my tearful eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“What about voices?” he tried instead.

“What about them?” I asked.

“Do you remember them saying anything to you?”

“What is this?” I snapped suddenly, sitting up. “A fucking interrogation?”

He closed his eyes wearily, but pushed himself up into a sitting position, as well. “You need to start talking, Justin. Whatever you remember, even if it isn't much...even if it's before it—even if it's what happened leading up to it.”

“I'm not doing this,” I said firmly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

“Justin, come back,” he said exhaustedly. “I'm sorry. You don't have to talk. Just come back.”

I stood frozen, halfway across the room. Brian was supposed to be on my side. He should know I couldn't...I couldn't talk about it. I couldn't tell him.

Slowly, watching him suspiciously with every step, I came back over and sat down on the bed. He wrapped his arms around me again, and I let him.

 

~. Brian .~

I didn't want to push him. The last thing I wanted to do was push him and send him spiraling down, lost in the memories of the night that had taken so much from him. Stripped him away, until he was nothing but raw flesh and blood and pain.

He let me hold him, rocking our bodies gently; I could feel him crying softly into my shoulder. He had been muttering in his sleep before I'd been able to wake him up, and I didn't like what I heard. I really didn't like it. Didn't like the images it provoked inside my head. Didn't like the desperation in his voice.

Hearing that, especially, I was struck once again by the question of how? How could they do that to him? How could someone be crying and begging so desperately and they just...they just raped him. Everything in him. They didn't just use his body...they stole something inside of him, too. Something deeper. Something inherently him, and they'd just taken it like they thought they were entitled to him.

Even I wasn't allowed that part of him. I could tie him up in a heated round of role-play, fuck him senseless, dominate him in so many ways, but I didn't get that part of him. I didn't want it. The thing about dominating him was...he let me. He let me and loved every second of it. I never wanted to steal it from him like they had. He could give himself over to me hundreds of times, but I never wanted it to be anything but willing, and I never wanted that part of him that...well, that no one should have. So what right did they have to so brutally rob him of it?

He was crying and sniffling and clutching me tightly, and not for the first time, I realized how small Justin felt in my arms. It was something I had been noticing, strangely. Justin had always commanded attention. He was just one of those people who could walk into a room and you notice them, not unlike myself. Even that night—it felt so long ago—under that street light, he seemed to embrace its glow. Twist everything until he was all anyone could look at, larger than life. He was Justin. He was Sunshine, he was here, and everyone better see it.

But now...there was something different. He couldn't have physically shrunk in size, couldn't have really gotten any smaller...but he lacked that quality he'd always had. That 'I'm here, taking you by storm, so deal with it' quality. I wasn't sure if it was something to do with his comparatively diminished confidence, his low self esteem. Or maybe I just never realized how easily he could be hurt. That he could go to a party one night as Justin, and come out broken and robbed and....raped. He felt vincible. Fragile. So easy to break, and something inside me just needed to wrap him in my arms every once in a while, reassure myself that he was still there, still real and substantial and mine...but all I ever determined during these moments was that he felt so small.

Breakfast that morning was an awkward affair. I usually had to practically force him into eating; if it was up to him, he'd maybe down a cup of coffee a few mornings a week, and that would be it. As it was, he would still only eat as long as I did, too. The first time I'd tried to skip breakfast with the excuse that I was running late for work, he angrily accused me of hypocrisy, and didn't let up until I wolfed down a few extra helpings at dinner that night. Though I had a feeling it was less about my hypocrisy and more of an excuse to not be made to eat.

After the post-nightmare conversation, he had excused himself to the bathroom, so I set to work fixing us both a stack of toast. By the time he emerged, I had just set the last piece of buttered toast on top of the plate, which I placed in front of him at the table. He eyed me carefully, taking a bite of his breakfast only when I sat down and took a piece from the top of the stack.

“Have you thought about having your mom over?” I asked him, more to break the uncomfortable silence than anything. There'd been a lot of them in recent weeks. Whatever was going on inside his head, it wasn't coming out of his mouth, no matter what I said or did to try and coax it from him.

He'd been a lot better about opening up to me lately, but it was like he'd only let me in so deep, before some internal warning bell seemed to alert him that I was getting too close, triggering something in him that he either didn't want to think about or didn't want to talk about. Either way, it was maddening. I could understand it, but it cut like a knife to feel so close to a breakthrough, so close to getting the truth out of him, however painful it may be, and then suddenly seeing him shut down, close off. Or, like this morning, go on the defensive and pull up his barriers. It was nothing personal—it wasn't that he didn't trust me—he just didn't want to talk. Didn't want to deal. I was convinced that keeping all this locked away inside was only doing him more harm than good, but I just couldn't get him to speak up. At least, not about the things he really needed to talk about. I tried to keep the conversation light, just simple chatter over breakfast, but I was sure he could sense the underlying tension as easily as I could.

He shrugged, nibbling on the end of his toast. “I thought...maybe I could go to her place this weekend?”

I nodded, glad that he seemed to be making progress, to the point where he actually wanted to leave the loft to go somewhere other than Daphne's.

Suddenly, my heart sank.

“Why don't you ask her to come here?” I suggested, spreading a little more butter over my slightly burnt piece of toast.

He looked uncomfortable. “Well...I wanted to see Molly...”

“Have her over, too.”

“There's nothing for her to do here. She'd get bored.”

“Justin, why do you want to leave?” I asked sharply, abandoning pretense. “Do you really want to get out, or is this one of your 'I'm-such-a-burden' trips that you're on again?”

Maybe it was a little insensitive to snap at him like that, but really, by now, I was getting sick of him constantly worrying about upsetting me, pushing me too far. For one thing, I didn't want him pushing himself too far, leaving the loft when he didn't have to...what if he panicked and—I don't know, had a complete relapse or something? What if he was all the worse for leaving? For another thing, I didn't want him worrying about me to the point that he was holding things back for that reason. Not again, so soon after our breakthrough, after he finally realized he could trust me. He was suffering enough as it was. If I hadn't made myself clear by now...

He didn't look at me, didn't answer, just ran his finger absently around the rim of his glass of milk.

I sighed. “Invite her over. Molly, too, if you want,” I said sternly. He still didn't answer, but his eyes looked a little watery, and his jaw was clenched a little too tightly.

“Hey,” I said. His finger stilled on the rim of the glass. “If I want a night alone, or out, or whatever—I'll tell you, okay?” The corners of his mouth lifted every so slightly, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. I sat back in my seat, satisfied, and popped the crust of my toast into my mouth. So that was what it was about: he wanted to give me time to myself.

Well, I wouldn't pretend the “breaks” that work provided weren't...appreciated. Or that the sloppy, careless fucks in the bathrooms weren't at least a little relief. But—as Babylon wasn't really an option anymore—Woody's or the baths were really the only other hangouts I frequented, and honestly, the physical relief of sex wasn't as satisfying as I'd imagined. Not that I'd ever admit to it. But, take the other day for example...I'd dragged some client into the bathroom stall, shoved him against the wall, and the moment I'd been about to fuck the idiot, he actually moaned my name. Which, naturally, reminded me of the way Justin cried out my name in that guttural, demanding that way of his that only he could accomplish, how much it turned me on, and...something just didn't feel right about it. I'd fucked the guy, still, no turning back by that point, but...it had felt wrong, somehow, afterward. At first I couldn't place it, but then I realized with a jolt that I was actually feeling guilty. Which I shouldn't be, but...there you have it. Back in my office, I'd called Justin, just to make sure he was doing okay, my stomach turning uncomfortably when he answered with a small “Brian?”

And that was just the guy who'd been readily available at work. Admittedly, getting extremely drunk and pleasantly high wouldn't be objected to right now, but...actually going out and searching for sex, while leaving him here, hurting and so torn up inside...the idea somehow didn't especially appeal to me. Since making up with Mikey a week ago, I'd been out twice. The first time, Justin had been at Daphne's. Mikey and I had grabbed a booth a Woody's, had a few beers, and caught up, enjoying the tension-free atmosphere between us. I'd been back before ten, and Daphne had shown up with Justin an hour later.

The second time, I'd hesitantly left Justin alone for a few hours and sought out refuge the way I knew best: through sex. It had always worked before...Justin would be okay for a few hours alone, I'd had a difficult day at work, and I just needed some release. Surely, I could push my constant worry for Justin aside for a little while and allow myself to let go?

I'd showered when I got home that night, though I'd already done so that morning, and tried to pretend I wasn't washing away the uncomfortable nagging guilt tearing at me. I'd done it again—imagined soft blond hair and blue eyes where there was bristly brown and green—and no matter how many tongues and mouths and asses offered themselves to my service, I just...couldn't let go. Sure, I'd cum—let go in that sense—plenty of times...but it wasn't the freeing, all encompassing release I was used to. The tension in my shoulders and weary ache in my body and rapid spinning of my mind only dissipated when I strode through the loft door and was met with a solemn, but no less relieved face.

So while Justin was here, I'd stay in, at least for now. Suffer through the DVD's with him, which admittedly weren't so horrible anymore. He seemed the most relaxed, the most himself—the old Justin—during these times. Something I relished. I usually spent the hours in front of the TV watching him, as he smiled or occasionally even laughed at the movies. Sometimes, during moments like these, I could almost imagine that he hadn't gone to that party, that we were just sitting together watching a lame DVD for the hell of it...that he was Sunshine again.

So for now I'd just...stay. Be by his side when he needed me. It wasn't as though I'd given up sex, and I had gone out those few times...if he started spending more time with his mother, I'd take the opportunities to go out then, and just figure out some way to ignore the image of Justin's face in my head that never failed to present itself. But I didn't want him going just for that reason, if he wasn't comfortable. I never thought I'd say this about anything...but his mental state was more important than the mediocre blow jobs from the random idiots I picked up in bars. I had done the same thing the few weeks after Justin had come to live with me after the bashing...I still remembered, painfully clearly, the first time I'd fucked someone other than him after that. It hadn't been a pleasant result, but it had lead to the creation of our rules. So what was the big deal if I took a small break from tricking for a little while? I still had the clients at work, and maybe I'd try to get out once a week or something.

We finished up breakfast with only a little argument in which I annoyed him into finishing another piece of toast, we cleaned up, and I dropped him off at school before driving into work. His nightmare had woken us up a little early than necessary, with the result that we'd had plenty of time to eat before we had to leave. Usually, I fixed him something in the morning, grabbed something quick for myself, and he was just starting to eat when I left for work, so I was consequently worrying all day about whether or not he'd finished and if he'd eaten lunch. Some days, I called him around noon to check up on him, ask him if he'd eaten, but I could never be sure he wasn't lying just to get me off his back.

I had a meeting that day, but the client was female, (no fucking), but it had gone rather well, regardless. Cynthia had been endlessly curious as to what had my schedule booked in the early hours those two days of the week that I took Justin to school, but I never revealed a thing. I was getting a little restless, however. Or I suppose anxious would be a better word. Was he doing okay? Was he stressing out? Was his professor giving him trouble?

My mind drifted back to the nightmare he'd had that morning. If it had been any indication of what had taken place at that party...I didn't know what to think. It had sounded terrible. Horrifying. And that was just listening to his one-sided pleas and mutters. He had been whimpering, crying in his sleep...he'd mumbled something about it hurting. Was he referring to the actual...to the rape itself? Or had they been doing something else to him? He had mentioned that he'd had injuries...he hadn't given details, and I didn't want to think about what they had done to inflict those. Had they hit him? And if they had, with what? And why? It sounded as though he'd had a considerable amount of drugs in his system...wasn't that sufficient to subdue him? Justin was strong, but even without the drugs, they could've taken advantage of him without much problem. I had meant what I said when I'd told him, trying to help him shift the blame off himself, that they most likely would have done what they wanted anyway. Whatever was in his system more than likely just made it that much easier. I didn't know the exact number of guys at that party, but he'd definitely been outnumbered. But then what was the point of hurting him, unless it was for the sole purpose of inflicting pain?

A fresh wave of sick fury pumped through me, causing me to squeeze the pencil in my hand so tightly that it actually snapped. I tossed the two halves in the trash, imagining what I could do to their faces, and glanced at the clock. One hour. Justin had one hour of class left before I could call him.

I mentally gave myself a little shake. This was precisely why these supposed “breaks” weren't as much of a relief as they should be. I couldn't stop fucking worrying about him.

I forced myself back to the paperwork in front of me. Work. Job. Advertising. Focus.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket.

I glanced at the name displayed on the screen, and my stomach flipped. 

“Hey,” I said uncertainly, pressing the phone urgently into my ear. He had never called me at work before. “Are you okay?”

“Brian...” Justin's voice was choked. He sounded like he had been crying, and my stomach did another somersault. “Can you pick me up?”

“Uh...yeah,” I said distractedly, already standing up and gathering things I'd need to take home with me. “Where are you?”

“PIFA.”

“What's going on?”

“I—I just need you. Please?” If anyone could've felt what I felt at that quiet, desperate plea, they would never again accuse me of being heartless.

“Yeah. I'll be right there. Where exactly...?”

“Same place as last time.”

Finally finished packing up all my things, I kicked aside my chair and strode out of the room, barking at Cynthia that I had something to take care of.

“You just got here,” she pointed out sharply, looking at me incredulously.

“And now I'm leaving.”

Ignoring the questions she fired after me, I pressed the phone back into my ear on my way down to the jeep. “Justin?”

Silence. Then... “Still here.”

“Justin, what the fuck's going on? You're...you're scaring the shit out of me,” I confessed.

“I just...I don't...”

I sighed. “Okay, I'm on my way, all right? Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

“Please.”

I had reached the jeep, and slid swiftly inside, shoving the key into the ignition with unnecessary force. “All right. I'm here. Just...breathe, okay?” I could hear his quick, shallow breaths over the phone, and he already sounded dangerously close to hyperventilating.

The ride to PIFA, seemingly so short when I'd driven it the other way earlier that morning, was now impossibly drawn out. I finally came to an abrupt halt in front of the building, hurrying toward the set of doors where I had picked Justin up the first time we'd done this, the day after I'd found out everything through Ted and Emmett, and that conversation at the diner.

My heart plummeted when I saw him. Slumped against the brick wall of the building, knees pulled up to his chest. He looked up when he caught sight of me out of the corner of his eye. His face registered nothing but sheer relief.

“Brian,” he gasped, and stood up as I neared him. My pace quickened, and soon he was throwing himself into my arms, nearly suffocating me.

I just managed to hold on to the last vestiges of my cool exterior, refraining from demanding right then to know exactly what had happened that had scared him so badly, and just muttered in his ear, “You ready to go?”

He nodded, and I released him cautiously. I slung his backpack over my shoulder, trying to shake off the utter boyfriendly-ness of the gesture, and put an arm around him as we walked back toward the jeep.

His jaw was set, his eyes staring unseeingly at the road as we drove in silence. I sighed. More silence. What was it going to take to get him to talk? I had thought, after the visit from his mother last week, he might start realizing that he had his family with him, his friends...me...and start to maybe open up a little more. Start actually trying to do more than just deal on a day-to-day basis, and opt for healing. For getting better, instead of staying in this...whatever it was...that he was in now. This depression.

He'd been a little more lighthearted in the days following his mother's visit, but all that disappeared on the day of his follow-up appointment at the clinic. I had taken off of work, (and gotten an earful from Cynthia), to accompany him, and luckily everything was proceeding just fine, medically speaking. So I thought that would cheer him up a little. I'd gotten him some ice-cream, and we had spent the rest of the day watching TV together.

That night, his nightmare was so terrifying he couldn't go back to sleep. It had been one of the worst ones in I don't even remember how long. Not altogether unexpectedly—he refused to tell me about it. He let me hug him a little after I woke him up, then muttered something about a glass of water, and didn't return to bed. I thought about going out after him, but figured if he wanted me with him, he'd come back. I hadn't gotten much sleep either that night.

We didn't say a word to each other the entire way up to the loft. When we got in, I tossed his backpack on a chair, and went to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. He bent over the backpack, rummaged through it, pulled out a sketchpad, and began to wander off. To the bathroom, no doubt, and the thought left me wondering what, exactly, I had been expecting? That he'd just suddenly get better overnight? Just because his mother turned up one evening and had a heart to heart with him? Just because he was physically fine, or at least getting better day by day? As I was beginning to realize, it didn't quite work like that.

“Hey.”

He turned around. He waited as I took a swig of water, and I waited for him to explain. I deserved to know what he was thinking, didn't I? Just this once, couldn't I be let it on it? This was...this was killing me, here.

“Yeah?” he asked tonelessly.

I set the water down on the counter. A little too hard; it sloshed over the top and spilled down the sides, dribbling onto the counter.

“Justin...” he tensed visibly as I took a step nearer to him. He instinctively clutched his sketch pad closer to his body, and I narrowed my eyes, struck by a sudden thought. “Let me see the sketch book.”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly, his fingers tightening over it. His face was pale, and what was left of his color drained from his face.

“Let me see it,” I demanded again, reaching out for it.

“No!” He was ready to bolt. One step closer, and he would run. Lock himself away, in his self-made prison. Or maybe it was a shelter.

“Why not?” I asked instead. He held my gaze for only a moment, then dropped his eyes, as though I could read the answer there if I looked too long at him. “What happened today, anyway?”

He shook his head, still not looking at me, but I could see tears welling up in his eyes. “Justin?” I prompted. “What happened to you? Did someone do something?” I asked, my voice a little sharper than I had intended. He shook his head again.

“Then...?” The seconds ticked by silently, waiting...

“I got scared.”

That was something to go from, at least. “Why?”

He hesitated, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He shrugged.

“That's not an answer,” I pointed out. “Why were you scared?”

“I don't know. I—I panicked.” He shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Brian...”

“How come?” I asked him, ignoring his pleading tone. He shrugged again. “You just panicked for no reason?” I asked. I wasn't sure what exactly triggered his panic attacks, but I did wonder why now, why so suddenly, he was freaking out at school.

“Someone...” he started, but stopped.

“Someone what?” I demanded, an increasingly familiar protective sensation surging inside me. If someone else had laid so much as a fucking finger on him...I was hunting them down. Nothing would stop me.

He remained resolutely silent.

“Justin, what the fuck did they do?”

“I—I dropped my sketch book, and they picked it up.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And?”

He avoided my gaze. “They just...they saw some of the sketches inside. That's all.”

But as firmly as he was insisting that was all there was to it, I was just as convinced that it wasn't. “What were the sketches of?” I asked, eying the little book in his arms. He must have dug it out from somewhere recently—he always seemed to have an endless supply of the things—I hadn't seen this one lying about the loft, so it had to be fairly new. Either that or he'd been hiding them again.

“It doesn't matter. I didn't want anyone to see them, and they just...they overreacted when they did, and I kind of panicked. I couldn't breathe...” His face was suddenly darker, more severe, as he recalled the suffocating sensation. “I just...had to leave, right then. So I came out and called you.”

But something wasn't quite right with that story. His classmate overreacted because of some sketches? I sincerely doubted that he was talking about the ones with me, which meant the sketches were probably the disturbing type featuring Sap or his other offenders. Not for the first time, I really just wished he'd fucking let me in. You have to appreciate the pure poetic irony of it all, that he was the one shutting himself off while I attempted to coax him into opening up. When did this role-reversal occur?

“Justin, let me see the sketch book.”

His eyes widened, his head snapping up to look at me. “No.”

“Why? What did you draw? Let me see it, now.” I was trying to sound, if it was possible, sympathetically authoritative...he needed both right now, and I struggled to find the right balance between pushing him and comforting him. I didn't want to chase him away, but if I didn't do something, he was going to slip away on his own.

“No!” I could hear the alarm in his voice, and he took a tiny step backward from me.

“Justin...” I said warningly. “Just give me the sketch book. I won't get mad, if that's what you're afraid of. I just want to see.”

He looked at me, pressing his lips together, considering. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he held out the drawing pad.

Cautiously, I reached out and took it, feeling satisfaction, or maybe relief, set in when he let go. I flipped the first page, and my stomach received a heavy blow just as my heart took a piercing stab. I had been expecting to be horrified. I'd thought I was prepared for whatever I was about to find, but...

I flipped to the next page. My stomach gave a painful lurch.

Next page. I felt sick.

Next one. I couldn't breathe.

So detailed, so fucking...real. How much thought had he put into these? My fingers traced the latest drawing; was this what he saw in his head? Was this what he fucking wanted?

I stared at the decisive lines and shapes on the sketch pad in front of me, and for some reason was surprised when I felt a lump rise in my throat. He was watching me carefully, bracing himself for my reaction.

“Justin,” I whispered. I didn't think my voice was capable of anything more right now. “Why'd you draw these?” Why? How? He was hurting, but...this?

He sniffed, but didn't answer.

“Christ...” I muttered, looking away momentarily, blinking back the tears that had sprung into my eyes. “Justin...”

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly, lowering his head.

“But you wouldn't, right? This isn't...you're not seriously thinking about...?” I could hear the pleading urgency in my own voice. “Justin, tell me you're not seriously thinking about this.” Please, tell me...tell me what I need to hear...damn it, Justin, tell me right now...

He looked confused. Not by my question, but...his eyebrows were furrowed, his gaze fixed on the floor, as he considered. Just the fact that he had to think about his answer was enough to make me lose it.

“Christ, Justin!” I yelled. He jumped, and I immediately regretted my loss of control. I'd promised I wouldn't get mad...and I wasn't mad...just scared beyond belief.

“You drew yourself...you fucking drew yourself dead!” I shouted at him. My voice shook, and tears streamed silently down his cheeks.

“Are you thinking of killing yourself?! Is that what you sit around here thinking about?” I demanded. He didn't even look up at me. “Do you?!”

He sniffled, and I got my answer.

“Damn it, Justin!”

He didn't move as I stormed past him into the bathroom, throwing open the door to the medicine cabinet. I pulled out every box and bottle of pills in there, opened them one by one, and flushed them down the toilet. When I turned around, he was there in the doorway, watching silently. He moved out of the way when I went to the bedroom next, took out our razors that I kept in a drawer, and without warning, hurled them with all my strength against the wall. I hadn't really intended for that to break them...but tears were burning my eyes, and I could feel true anger now, born of fear, making me simultaneously want to hit something and hug Justin.

I put my hand across my eyes, letting the tears flow out; I heard Justin approach me. He sniffled quietly again, putting a hand on my shoulder, and burrowing himself in my chest as I slowly opened my arms to him. I pressed my face into his shoulder, breathing him in, letting the tears fall. How could he scare me like that? He hadn't tried anything, not really...but just that he had considered it, that he had drawn those...it was too much. Too much to think about. Too much to think about losing him, like I had almost done once before on the cold cement of that parking garage.

I hoped those sick fuckers rotted in hell for this. For making him wish he was...

“I'm sorry,” he said again, so softy I almost didn't catch it. “I didn't...I was just...” He was struggling to say something, and while I didn't help him along, I didn't try to interrupt.

He sighed. “Can we sit down?”

“Are you going to talk to me?” I asked, my voice once again coming out a little too sharply.

He looked down shamefacedly, and I sighed, pulling him over to the bed. I would get the razors later, as well as any drugs left around here, and his medicine on the counter that I would now be hiding and regulating. It was too big of a risk to leave them lying around if he was thinking about...

“Look, it's not like...it's nothing new, Brian,” he admitted softly. “I've been fucking thinking about it since the day after it happened. But...I haven't done anything...and I'm not going to. I just...” He was starting to lose it, plainly struggling fight back his tears.

Fucking Christ...he was hurting this badly? He was in so much pain, he wanted to be dead. He'd prefer no life to this life. How close was he to just giving up right now? What would have pushed him over the edge? What if I would have pushed him, left him to go out drinking or something, and he had...?

I never would have forgiven myself.

His eyes were curiously glazed over, as though a veil had settled between the world and his inner agony. “I can't help it, Brian. You don't fucking know what it's like,” he said, anguish seeping from his voice. Tears slid down his face at an ever-increasing rate, and I pulled him closer to me, just relishing the feel of his body, warm and alive, against mine.

“You're not fucking going anywhere,” I muttered into his ear. “You're not.” He didn't have a choice in this. I wasn't giving him one. He was not going anywhere. He wasn't...he wasn't leaving me. He was going to fucking stand here and be alive, whether he wanted to or not.

He nodded, his entire body shaking now. “I'm so sorry. I didn't...I didn't mean to scare you.”

I gave a dark huff of laughter, completely devoid of humor. “Well, congratulations, you fucking did,” I said bitingly. “I didn't know you thought about...like that.” I couldn't even say the words. I didn't want to think about him wanting to take that way out. I didn't want to know he was hurting so much, just when I thought things were getting better. I didn't want to know he'd prefer to be dead, even if he hadn't actively tried to accomplish it.

“You have...no fucking idea,” he cried, his fingers tangling themselves in my shirt. “I spend half my time just wanting to...crawl out of my fucking skin. I just want to stop feeling this. It's...it's killing me, Brian.”

“This isn't the answer,” I said softly.

“I know.”

I hesitated, not sure if what I was about to say would make him bolt, or if he might actually listen, but... “I want you to go to therapy, Justin.”

He stiffened in my arms. “No.”

“Justin, if you're fucking thinking about killing yourself...”

“I'm not...I'm not going to do anything drastic Brian,” he said firmly, pulling away to look at me.

“How do I know that?” I countered. “How do you think I'd fucking feel if I came home one day and you were...” I couldn't even say it.

“It won't happen. I swear, I wouldn't really...I wouldn't,” he promised. Of course he was saying it. He'd say anything to get out of therapy.

“You drew yourself dead, Justin,” I said harshly. “Did you look at those things? You drew yourself covered in blood. I had to look at you like that once...I'm not about to come home and find you like that again.”

Whatever response he had prepared seemed to die on his tongue, and he just stared at me, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I'm getting rid of that book,” I told him. I never wanted to even think about its existence again. How could he draw something like that? His own corpse? How had I not realized he was hurting enough to seriously consider that? I'd taken the razors out of the bathroom weeks ago, but it seemed like such a small measure to take, now. Now that I knew he was really thinking it...that it was real...

But that particular drawing pad would be gone. As soon as possible. I didn't want it in the loft. Didn't want those fucking sketches detailing his lifeless eyes, his delicate frown, frozen on his face forever, his body, covered in blood...couldn't think about it...yet I couldn't get it out of my head, even as a drawing.

“Just...at least consider the therapy idea, Justin,” I told him. “I'll go with you...I'll stay with you the whole time if you want, all right? Just...please. You need help. You can't keep living like this.”

He didn't answer at first. “I'll think about it,” he promised. I would be making sure of that.

I nodded. “Good. And tomorrow you're going to Daphne's while I work.”

“Why?” he demanded.

“I'm not leaving you here alone,” I said in disbelief. Did he honestly think I was going to leave him sitting around the place alone, contemplating his own fucking death? Not going to happen. “Or you could go to your mom's.”

“I'm not a child, Brian. I don't need a babysitter.”

“That's not what it is, Justin. I just...want to make sure you're okay. You can take your art stuff if you want and do your school work. I'm sure your mom and Daphne won't mind.”

“I'll go to my mom's,” he agreed, though it sounded like a reluctant decision. “Don't tell her...”

“I won't.” I couldn't do that, to him or his mother. In fact, I hadn't been talking with anyone about any this, outside of Michael, and even then, I left out quite a bit. Justin was the only one with the right to divulge any information, and I was not going to take the liberty of doing it for him if he didn't want me to. I'd spoken to most of the group after the whole chain reaction fiasco, appreciating their concern but asking them to kindly let Justin deal with this on his own, and not stress him out with their desire to 'help.' Debbie had been the worst...she'd wanted to come over as soon as possible, demanding to know everything I could tell her and more...but in the end, even she had been convinced to just let Justin be. She made it clear that we were both naturally still welcome to come over for the family dinners, but that there was no pressure if Justin didn't want to. He had smiled when I told him this...I think he was relieved that no one was pushing him away now that they had found out what happened. No one saw him any different, and I think he really needed to understand that. Hopefully it helped his own self-image.

I pressed my lips to his forehead and sighed, my breath stirring the strands of hair across his skin.

Privately, I thought he was still so fucking beautiful. Sweet and pure and all the things I wasn't. Still so fucking innocent—something I used to think was just an attribute of his youth that he would grow out of, but I was beginning to think it was just part of Justin. The fact that he could sit here with me, sleep here beside me every night, after everything he's been through...still so trusting of me...it said a lot. Even if he couldn't bear to really be touched right now...just that he let me hold him like this meant so much. He trusted me not to hurt him, and he trusted that I would put all the broken pieces of him back together. That I would make him okay again. But I couldn't do that. Only he could, by taking the steps he needed to start moving past this.

They say time heals everything. That pain and suffering lessen and fade with the intervening months and years, until it's nothing but an unpleasant memory that you bury somewhere deep in your subconscious and try not to let it find its way to the surface. In a year, in five years...would this be nothing but a memory to him? Could time really be that effective as a remedy? Would he—years from now—hear or see something that reminded him of that night, and shudder, remembering all the tears and sleepless nights, but push it aside? Could hands on a clock or revolutions around the sun or whatever the fuck time was, really be enough to heal him? Maybe...maybe each second of pain, each minute he suffered...was bringing him closer to being healed and happy and himself again. Bringing him back. Maybe.

I supposed we would find out.

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