~. Brian .~

In a way, I supposed Justin's frustration was a good thing. It was more than just his aggravation at what he perceived as his own weakness...it was more like yearning, and no matter how painful it sometimes was to deal with—it was still want, it was need—and it was something positive. Something he wanted so badly it hurt, but at least it gave him something to fight for. A month ago, this wouldn't have been an issue. There was no way he could have done as much as we had earlier. He'd been in too much pain and full of too much fear back then.

He might be frustrated now, but that was only because there was a part of him that truly wanted it. There was still a piece of him inside that longed for me, for what we had together, and it was still fighting to breathe. If he was thinking about trying things again, even just what we'd done earlier on the couch, it was something...it was more than something. It was everything. It was hope. Things still weren't perfect, but we were hanging on by more than just a thread these days. And though I hated the way he got so upset with himself, so miserable and frustrated every single time it hit him that things weren't like before, this longing of his could prove to be, if not productive in itself, then at least a sign that we were headed in the right direction.

He'd told me that he had wanted it...or at least part of him did. It was only that other part of him that held him back. It was the part that still tried to skip out on meals when he was feeling particularly stressed, the part that—up until last Monday—had woken him up every night for weeks straight, drenched in sweat with tears streaking down his cheeks. It was the part that told him what happened was his fault, and needed the comfort of my hand in his when we went out, and drew pictures of strange men that featured so prominently in his memories.

It was the part of him that was still screaming.

There was something inside of him that had never stopped living within that nightmare, a bit of him that still existed inside that pocket of time, still felt those hands on him and saw those faces and heard those voices. He always carried it around with him, even now, locked away in the back of his mind. That one night had cost him so much; he would never be truly okay until he could let it go. But was that even possible? Would he ever be the same Justin he'd been before? Had he ever really even come back from the bashing?

There were times when I didn't think he ever had. Times when I was sure he never would. And still, there were other times when I'd glimpse that light in his eyes, genuine happiness on his face, and I was so sure I was looking at the old Justin.

But maybe that wasn't fair, to expect him to be the same. Maybe parts of him were different, maybe they always would be. But wasn't that the case with us all? Wasn't that part of being human? Life happened. People changed. Maybe not always for the better, and maybe sometimes it fucking sucked, the way things turned out. Maybe there was no turning back after the fact. Maybe there was no point in wishing for how things used to be.

Maybe things could still be somewhat okay.

What had happened earlier...Christ, that kiss...I didn't know what to make of it. Didn't know whether to celebrate the fact that it had happened, mourn over the loss of it, or some bittersweet mixture of the two. It was like living and dying all at once. It had been so good, so incredible...and then something had changed, a flash of panic to bring it crashing down around us. But it had happened. He'd let it happen. Wasn't that something to be happy about? Just the tiniest shred of hope for us to hang onto?

I shouldn't have let it get that far. I knew that. I should have known that it was too much, too soon...should have known when to stop. I'd just gotten so caught up in it, in the moment, in him. After so long, and he tasted so fucking good, and it was the most wonderfully intense sensation of drowning. I'd been waiting for him to push me off or tell me to stop, and when he didn't at first, I thought maybe it meant he was okay. While I was careful not to take it out of his comfort range, I'd wanted him to enjoy the feeling of really being touched again. Like maybe if it felt good enough and he knew that he was perfectly safe and that it was only my hands on him, my lips against his skin...then maybe it would help. Maybe it would give him something happy to hold onto, to prove that things really were going to be okay.

Huddled on the bathroom floor with him, I let him cry into my shoulder, soothing him with kisses to his hair and whispers in his ear, wishing with everything I had that together, we could chase away his demons.

~.~

Saturday morning marked the date of the second family dinner Justin and I were scheduled to attend. When he awoke from another night of dreamless slumber, padding barefoot into the kitchen where I sat with my newspaper and a cup of coffee, I would admit to feeling a bit wary. Between the impending dinner that evening, and what had happened between us the night before, I wasn't entirely sure how he would be feeling.

“Hey,” he greeted me quietly, reaching over to take a sip from my coffee mug. I almost smiled, mostly because it was such a casual gesture, one that he apparently thought nothing of. It was something natural by now. Comfortable.

“Hey,” I replied, setting my newspaper down as he went to grab a second mug out of the cabinet and proceeded to fill it with coffee. I watched as he poured in a good deal of milk and sugar, grimacing. He certainly knew how to ruin a perfectly good cup of java.

“Do you have the comics?” He nodded at my paper, taking a sip of his doctored beverage as he slid into a seat beside me. I took the hint. Apparently, we were to make no mention of the previous night's events. He was playing it casual, though I detected just the slightest hint of unease, as though he was doubting his luck at getting away with not talking about it. But what was there to even say?

“Yeah. Right here.” I handed over the section of the paper that I'd set aside just for him, lifting my coffee mug out of the way as he spread it out on the table in front of him.

A half an hour later, after a second cup of coffee each, a quick breakfast, and a reminder that we were scheduled to be at Deb's for dinner that night, I sat down to do some work at the computer, while he worked on school assignments. He finished first, and when I pulled my attention from the computer screen to check on him, it was to find him curled up on the couch, a sketchpad in hand.

Shit.

Deciding I'd done enough work for the day, I shut off the computer and got up, my gaze sweeping the loft for the sign of his gray sketchbook, hoping desperately that it wasn't the one currently in his hands. I even checked the bedside table on my way to the bathroom, but all that was there was his therapy log, the clock, and his inhaler.

Green or gray. To anyone else, this wouldn't have mattered. But to me, it marked the difference between a highly distressed Justin, drowning in despair, tortured by his own memories...and a Justin who would look at me with a spark of something akin to pride in his eyes as he lost himself in his passion. Green or gray. Light or darkness. Happiness or misery.

I took a deep, nervous breath as I came down the stairs, joining him on the couch and trying to discreetly get a glimpse of his sketchpad cover. Unfortunately, it was propped against his lap, not even giving me so much as a hint to its color.

“Another Picasso-worthy masterpiece?” I asked casually, pulling his bare feet onto my lap and massaging his calf through his sweat pants. At one time, I might have joked about it, asked him if he was drawing my cock again or something of the sort. Not now. Not anymore.

He shrugged, tongue caught in between his teeth in an expression of utmost concentration. I recognized the request to wait while he finished, caught up in the flurry of inspiration. Finally, he seemed to reach a stopping point, cocking his head to the side as he surveyed his work, then held the sketch out for me to see.

“It's for Gus,” he explained. “He asked me last week to draw him something.”

I smiled, both at the partially completed sketch and his words. It wasn't the first time my son had asked Justin for such a thing. During visits with the Munchers, Justin had often entertained Gus by helping him draw, sketching his 'portrait,' and taking requests. Gus generally insisted on repayment, with the result that Justin was typically bringing home pages of colored sticks and blobs and generally unidentifiable shapes whenever he visited Mel and Linds.

“He'll love it,” I told Justin confidently.

“It's not bad, huh?” he asked, obviously quite pleased with the sketch...and justly so. There were only two things that I'd ever known to cause his eyes to light up like that; the first was art—his passion, his purpose, an integral part of who he was—the second was me.

I glanced back at the sketch: a sleek, picture-perfect race car, no doubt Gus's request. There was only the basic outline completed, but I could already tell that it would be brilliant once it was finished.

“Move over,” I told him, sliding his legs from my lap and crawling up the couch to lay beside him. He grunted something in protest, but repositioned himself until he was lying between my legs, back against my chest, my arms draped loosely around him.

We laid there for a while as he continued to work on Gus's gift. Every so often, I would look away from whatever TV show I was watching and glance down at the page, taking in the new developments and massaging his hand when it started to tremor and cramp.

As he lost himself in his world, I leaned forward and gently pressed my lips to the pale scar on his temple, still visible beneath his hair, even after all this time. You could only see it if you searched for it, and as I didn't spend copious amounts of time dwelling on the events of that night, I usually forgot it was even there. Laying here like this, though, when he shifted at certain angles in my arms, twisted just the right way—there it was. Unmistakable. Irremovable. Yet another scar he'd carry with him forever. A scar that had healed over, no longer open and bleeding, but serving as a constant reminder of one of the worst times of his life.

But...as horrible as it had been, whatever pain he'd experienced from that sliver of a scar...it was over now. Healed. It couldn't hurt him anymore.

Which prompted the question, was it ridiculous to even hope that internal scars could heal the same way?

~.~

It was a quarter to six when we left the house that evening, his newly completed sketch in one hand, my fingers clenched within the other. The hand holding thing had become such a habit for us after the bashing that even after he started getting more comfortable on his own, I had to check myself whenever we went out together, and not automatically reach for his hand. We looked exactly like all those pathetic fags I always used to make fun of, but secretly, even when it wasn't solely for Justin's comfort, I didn't mind the actual gesture too much.

This time, huddled on the doorstep of Debbie's house, he took the initiative to knock, his grip on my hand tightening for just a second when the door swung open, revealing an ecstatic redhead.

“Hey, Sunshine!” she practically squealed in delight. “Hi, honey!” she acknowledged me, though I had a feeling, at this point, it was only because I was actually physically attached to Justin.

We were promptly dragged into the house and directed toward the kitchen, where Gus, Mel, Linds, and Vic already sat. I leaned down to kiss Lindsay's cheek in greeting, and took care to give Melanie's chair a good kick on my way past, before taking a seat beside Justin, who Debbie had conveniently lead to a seat just beside hers.

“Hey Deb, where's your boyfriend?” I called above the chaos of greetings and chatter.

“He's running a little late,” Debbie answered dismissively. “He'll be here. At least, he better be.”

It wasn't long before Mikey and the Professor arrived, then Theodore and Emmett, and then, finally, Detective Carl Horvath. I'd seen Debbie, and even, on occasion, the Munchers or Carl at the diner during my lunchtime drop-ins, and every so often I'd go out with the guys for a drink after work before picking up Justin from his mother's or Daphne's. However, I would admit, if only within the secrecy of my own mind, that I'd actually sort of really missed seeing everyone like this. I'd missed just hanging out and having a good time, the whole gang together, with Justin right where he belonged, among all our friends.

Maybe the next time I stopped by Woody's with the guys, he'd want to come along. True, sitting in a crowded bar full of strangers probably wasn't at the top of his to-do list right now; it was certainly a far cry from gathering around the table in Debbie's familiar little kitchen, surrounded by people he knew and loved. But it wouldn't hurt to mention it, and let him decide for himself.

All through dinner, I kept watch for signs of his discomfort, just in case. His nerves hadn't been nearly as bad today as they had been the week before, but I was still determined to make sure he remained at ease. Not that he seemed to need my comfort all that much. It didn't take him long to shed his reserved demeanor, and halfway through his first helping, he was already chatting and joking with Melanie and Lindsay across the table. He never let go of my hand, but that distant hope existing so frailly inside me seemed to burn brightly, watching Justin come alive among all our friends.

For so long, there had been nothing but the knowledge of what had happened, that incessant video inside my head that refused to shut off. There had been my imagination's cruel impression of Justin's tortured face, Justin's screams as he cried for help, Justin begging and calling my name and a thousand other things I didn't want to see or hear or know. It always came back to that, the night that had sealed his fate, left him stranded in this world of confusion and fear and pain. Part of our lives, part of us. One experience, one night, one word.

Same thing with prom. All it took was the one innocent, devastatingly haunting word, and no matter how sure I was that we'd put it behind us, no matter how positive I was that it couldn't hurt us anymore, it always did, always managed to prove me wrong as I crumbled to pieces inside. Until finally I understood: we would never truly get over that. We would never completely heal from it, put it behind us and move on. It was something that had happened, something we had gone through and that had left its mark on our lives for good. Just like the scar on his temple, it would forever remain. Over, but not forgotten...never forgotten, except by the one person who had more right than anyone to remember.

But hadn't we been doing okay? Weren't there periods of not days, but weeks where we didn't spare it an ounce of thought? There would always be moments where it would suddenly feel like a kick to the gut...a song on the radio, the ache in Justin's hand, a toy baseball bat...but that didn't mean our lives had been destroyed by it. True, it nearly had killed us both, him in a very literal sense, myself in a more metaphorical one...but we'd picked up the shattered pieces and gone on with our lives. We hadn't let Hobbes win, hadn't let that night define us.

Maybe...maybe we could learn to do that now. Because maybe Justin sketching presents for Gus and laughing with our friends and making out with me on the couch meant that things might someday be okay. Not perfect, and not the way they were before, because it was something like stepping off a cliff—once you did, there was no going back—but maybe it didn't have to end with a head-on collision, either. Maybe there was a way to catch yourself. Maybe we could actually go one day without feeling this and breathing this and living this. Maybe these minutes and hours of sweet refuge would someday turn into weeks and months, and maybe Justin would smile more, and maybe I could really kiss him again, and maybe it would be enough.

Maybe.

~.~

“I think Gus liked your gift, Sunshine,” I said generously as we stepped from the elevator outside the loft. My son had waited all of five minutes to ambush Justin, excitedly demanding to see his present while pressing a gift of his own into Justin's hand. It consisted of what seemed to be five colored blobs...all orange with a streak of yellow or brown on the top. Lindsay had kindly explained that the blobs were meant to be her and Melanie, Gus, Justin, and me. Justin had seemed nearly as pleased with the gift as Gus had been with his. “You'd think you told him Christmas was coming a month early.”

Justin smiled, trying admirably to shrug off his jacket even as the thing clung to him desperately. “Good to know I always have one fan I can count on.”

I watched in amusement for just a second longer, then took pity, grabbed the sleeve of the coat he was struggling with, and helped slide it from his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Two.”

He didn't say anything as I turned to toss his jacket on a chair, but when I looked back, I thought I caught the hint of a grin.

“So, what's on the agenda for tonight? It's still early.”

He shrugged, slipping off his shoes and heading for the bedroom, Gus's drawing still in hand. “We could watch that other movie you got,” he suggested. I watched from the top of the steps as he slid the drawing between two pages of a sketchpad for safekeeping.

I cleared my throat, which suddenly felt dry, and agreed. If he felt even a fraction as uneasy as I did at the idea—the undeniable symmetry to the night before—he didn't show it. So after promising him that there were no deadly mutating viruses involved in this movie, we ended up on the couch together, my arm around his waist, spooned up behind him.

I couldn't explain it. All I'd expected—all I thought he'd wanted, especially after last night—was to lie here and watch a movie. But fifteen minutes in, something seemed to change. I didn't know what, or why, but I could feel it, something almost...familiar. Like we had done this before. Been here before.

His entire body tensed against mine, pressed as close as it could get. My skin seemed to burn where it touched his, his neck sprouting goosebumps where I exhaled across it. I was longing to press my lips to that little patch of skin, just to taste it, remember how it felt beneath my lips, but I held back.

Maybe he felt it, too. Maybe somehow, he was creating it—this tension, his own persistent frustration, thick with electricity. I let out a deep breath, stirring his hair, and tried to focus on the movie, just focus on the way it felt so comfortable just to have him in my arms. And it did. I didn't need anything else with him right now. And as hard as it was to put thoughts of the night before out of my head, the way it had felt so fucking amazing, I really just needed this.

“Brian.” His voice was a whisper as he turned to face me over his own shoulder, our breath mingling in the air between us. It hit me then...Gus's birthday, after the party...curled behind Justin, every inch of him pressed up against me as he turned to meet my lips. That was it. Why it felt so physically familiar.

Why it felt so emotionally familiar. Not that night, but that era of our lives, after the bashing. Frustration and pain and a very real need for what we couldn't have.

I didn't move, waiting. Slowly, he shifted in my arms until we were chest-to-chest, and kissed me, his trembling hands at my shoulders. I could already see where this was going, and I wasn't sure it was a place we wanted to end up. Or at least, take the chance of ending up, not tonight, when everything was so pleasant and relaxed.

“Justin...” I admonished, pushing him back gently. Ironic, really, that I was the one stopping him. But I remembered last night, I remembered that night—that first night he'd come to live with me after he was hurt—and had to stop it here. Those were moments of our history that needed no repeating.

He allowed his lips to be separated from mine, but beneath the curtain of fierce determination, I could see the desperation that had settled over his eyes. Immediately, I felt my resolve weaken. He wanted this. I knew he did. I just didn't know if it was because he genuinely wanted to kiss me, or if it was to somehow erase what had happened last night, take it a step further, prove that he could.

He continued to just look at me as if he'd never seen me before now, his eyes boring into mine, waiting, wanting....

So I kissed him. He sighed into my mouth, his hand coming up to curl in the sleeve of my shirt. I wrapped an arm around his back to keep him from slipping off the side of the couch, which included the added bonus of pulling him closer to me. I could literally feel every nerve, every deprived sense in my body crackling to life, going fucking haywire as his lips moved against mine.

Christ it felt so good to kiss him. It was nothing like last night—slow, but with that edge of hunger—I didn't dare let it go that far, even though it really had been comparatively innocent to what we had once been capable of. But I kissed him chastely and he kissed me back and it still felt amazing. I gently maneuvered him until he was lying on top of me, still holding him close, my hand tangled loosely in his hair.

There was a part of me, just as there was of him—the part that had been craving this with everything I had—that wondered what else he'd be okay with. It was impossible not to wonder how far we could go. But the other part of me, the part sighing into his lips and leaning into his palm with every gentle caress of my cheek...was perfectly content to just let this happen. Whether he wanted to or not, this wouldn't be going any further than innocent kissing tonight, not after his breakdown in the bathroom the night before. No way in hell I was I taking the chance of sending him into another panic attack. Not as long as I could help it, and that included establishing boundaries when he was too fucking stubborn to do it for himself.

“Mmm—”

It was a noise of protest, rather than pleasure. It caught my attention, and I froze instantly when he pushed himself back from me, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He wasn't crying or screaming, however, so that was a good sign, though it did little to still my rapidly beating heart, frenzied with sudden fear, hoping that he would be able to fight it, wouldn't let it overcome him.

“Justin...” I said softly, not sure whether or not I was supposed to talk to him.

His eyes opened, clear blue orbs beneath thick lashes. “Um...” His voice was as uncertain as mine, about an inch away from panicking. His eyes had that anxious, frantic edge to them that always served as a warning.

“It's okay.” I brought his focus back to me, rubbing his arm through his sweatshirt, pulling him back into the present and far away from whatever terrible flash of memory he was currently struggling with. His wide blue gaze locked with mine, steadying himself in the moment. “Slow down. It's just me.”

He nodded, taking a deep breath as I continued to rub his arm soothingly.

Then, very hesitantly, he leaned back down to kiss me.

.~.

Initially, I wasn't sure what had woken me up. The first thing to come to mind was how perfectly comfortable I felt, neither too hot nor too cold, inhaling a familiar scent that I recognized to be Justin's hair. I blinked, bleary with exhaustion, suddenly aware that we were not in our bed, and that he had fallen asleep draped over me, warm and pleasantly heavy. His body seemed to mold itself into mine, rising and falling with every breath I took. I'd always loved that, the way we fit together. It had always felt so natural to wrap my arms around him, let him rest his head against me and fold him within my embrace. Not that I'd ever, ever admit to even allowing such lesbionic thoughts to make an imprint on my brain.

We'd been kissing on the couch for...well, I really didn't know how long it had been. The movie had still been going, the last I recalled, though we hadn't been paying it that much attention. At all. Somehow, between then and now, he'd ended up with his head tucked into my shoulder, my arms wrapped around him, both of us sound asleep.

It was with a bit of confusion that I now pulled my face away from his hair, taking in the blank TV screen, the remote on the floor, the discarded DVD case. I hated to shatter this—this utterly peaceful, most intimate of moments between us—but I was already feeling quite sore in certain places, and I was sure Justin wouldn't appreciate the aches and pains tomorrow morning, either. Though he probably was getting the better deal, curled up on top of me.

As I forestalled the moment where I'd have to get up and carry him into bed, my mind drifted lazily to our earlier activities. There was really no way to describe the way it had felt. I'd never imagined that something so innocent could feel so intimate, so simple yet so amazing. I'd never thought that just kissing someone could be the highlight of my day. Okay, fine, my week. But then again, he wasn't just anyone. He was Justin, and shouldn't I have been used to him shattering my expectations by now? I'd forgotten just how easily he could get to me, and how intense it always was, especially strengthened as it was now, after all this time without him.

And he'd actually let me do it...his mind had actually allowed his body what it so desperately wanted. I imagined a fraction of it, however small, had been out of a desire to needlessly prove himself...but there was more to it than that. He'd been genuinely happy to be with me in any way he could, trusting me, trusting himself. That had been obvious when he'd settled for such innocent kisses, smiling into my lips whenever I would run my thumb along his cheek or nuzzle his forehead.

Kathy had assured us that his sexual appetite would start returning on its own when he was ready. She assuaged his fears—both of our fears—telling us that it was unlikely that anything was really wrong, that it was an emotional issue rather than a physical one, that people who had gone through what Justin had didn't usually have much sexual desire to speak of at first. The prospect of anything real happening was so far off it was practically nonexistent, but I could honestly say I didn't really give a damn at that moment. I gazed down at him in wonderment, at the almost angelic expression of deep sleep frozen on his face, the way his hair fell across the arm of the couch—a halo of blond.

I'd never understand how the fuck he'd managed to do that. More than anything, me not caring proved just how much I really fucking did care.

I was jarred from these uncomfortably sentimental thoughts by a disturbance in the form of a small whimper.

As if by instinct, I froze, held my breath, and waited. If there was worse on the way, I was about to hear it. Was this what had woken me up?

I couldn't even count the number of times I'd woken with him, both post-bashing and post-party, holding him and letting him cry, bringing him back from breakdowns, soothing him and telling him over and over that he was safe, that everything was all right. I could never remember being such a light sleeper before all of this, but it was as though my body always knew not to drift too far away, that Justin would be needing me awake and coherent.

Sure enough, just as I'd expected, a second little whimper broke the silence, accompanied by unintelligible mumbling.

“Justin,” I whispered, immediately attempting to shake him awake. I tried not to hear any of it, just block it out, but grumbled words slipped into my awareness regardless. At my touch to his shoulder, he let out another pathetic whimper, his hands clawing weakly at my chest. The muffled little noise seemed to penetrate the haze of sleep and relaxation my brain was currently still wading through, pulling me fully into consciousness with disorienting speed. “Justin!”

I continued trying to jolt him awake as he let out whimpers and moans and snatches of words that I didn't want to hear, obviously in the midst of some terror far beyond what I could see or feel around me. “Justin, wake up!”

He awoke with a gasp, his eyes flying open. For a moment, he didn't move as reality slowly made its approach to his brain. I could practically see wave after wave of recognition as it crashed over him, the tension literally just draining from his body as it all came back to him. He ran a hand over his face, struggling to suck in a deep breath as he valiantly fought back tears.

“It's okay,” I whispered, once again taking up the slow rubbing of his arm. I wished, not for the first time, that I could think of something useful to say or do. Soft assurances only went so far. More than almost anything about all this, I hated the feeling of helplessness. I hated having nothing truly comforting to say or do, hated having to just sit off to the side and watch as his mind tortured him brutally. All I could do was offer the same worthless, uniform words of comfort. Sometimes they helped, but still other times—most times—they did nothing at all. “Did you take your pill tonight?”

I racked my brains, trying to remember if I'd set one out for him. I hadn't. Shit.

He shook his head, his entire body jerking with the force of a silent sob. Fuck. We'd both forgotten. We'd been too caught up in dinner at Deb's, and drawings, and DVD's...each other.

“What was it about?” I asked routinely, sighing just a little. I'd been so sure we were done with these, I'd forgotten just how truly easy it was to bring this all collapsing back down on top of us, as if we'd never been free of it in the first place. He let his hands drop to look at me.

“Do I have to...?” he began.

“No,” I said. But I knew he understood the offer for what it was. I was here to listen, if he wanted to talk. After a moment of silence, he huffed out a breath, once again running his hands over his face as I stroked his hair. “You don't have to.”

“It just...it started good,” he admitted softly. “It was about us.”

“What about us?” I pulled him closer, still soothing and stroking wherever I could...his arms, his face, his hair. That much was within my power. That much I could do for him. Maybe it would never be enough, but it was all I had to offer him.

“You were kissing me,” he continued, his eyes already fluttering closed again. “I was painting something, and you just...came up behind me and you were kissing me.”

“Was I?” I kept my voice low and pacifying, trying my best to lull him back into a somewhat relaxed state. I wasn't sure exactly what time it was, but if the movie had shown all the way through and left the TV screen blank, it was probably far too late for him to take a sleeping pill now. We would just have to deal without them tonight.

“Yeah,” he said, a soft smile gracing his features at the memory. I smiled too, remembering what had to be just hours before, kissing him for real. I hoped to end it there. Hoped that he would just drift off thinking about the two of us, and be okay for the remainder of the night. “It felt really nice, you know?”

“Mmm.”

“But then...” his voice wavered. “I don't know, it—it all changed. I don't know what I was painting, but suddenly it turned into—him, and it was just...”

“Justin,” I interrupted as I heard his breath catch. He could write all this down tomorrow. If it had really started as such a good dream, there was no reason that he shouldn't just concentrate on that for the time being. “You don't...you don't have to.”

I ran my thumb along his cheek, catching a few tears as they leaked out from beneath his eyelids. I felt my heart throb with reciprocated agony.

“Just sleep, okay?” I whispered. He nodded, eyes screwed up against his tears. “I'm right here. You can sleep.”

He let out a shaky sigh, and pressed himself even closer to me, his head buried in my chest. I'd move us to the bed in a few minutes, once he drifted off again. No need to disturb him more than necessary.

“Just think about us,” I told him, reaching up to trace his cheek again gently. “Think about me...the first part of your dream. Just us.”

Gradually, his breathing evened out, his body going slack on top of mine as he surrendered to his own exhaustion, and the knowledge that I was there to protect him.

How the fuck had we forgotten his sleeping pill? Of course we'd had other things on our minds, but Christ...we finally had the closest thing possible to a cure for exactly this type of situation, and it just slipped through our minds like nothing. One night without one of those little pills, and this was the result.

I was relieved that the medicine at least seemed to be doing its job. It was well worth it, if we could fucking remember to take advantage of the fact that he had several nights' worth of ready-made sleep in that little bottle. I didn't mind having to carry him to bed, or regulate his pills for him, as long as he was finally getting the undisturbed sleep that had eluded him for so long. It had been a relief for me, too...no more nights waking up to the sound of him screaming, no wiping away his tears and soothing him until he slipped back into a restless slumber. Until tonight, that was. It was a physical burden off both of us; we'd woken up every morning this week refreshed and well-rested.

If his antidepressants could help him as well, I had no doubt that they'd be every bit as worth it. I knew his decision to go on them had been a reluctant one, but he'd been taking them religiously once a day, as instructed. Kathy had warned us that it would most likely be a few weeks before they took effect, and I was just waiting for some sign that they were working, though I admittedly didn't know what exactly those signs might be.

Maybe just the fact that Justin had chosen to accept them was a sign in itself that he was getting better, getting back to a place where he cared enough to fight for his happiness. I couldn't blame him for not wanting the pills, not when I would have turned them down in a heartbeat myself, but unlike before, unlike when he'd turned down my offer to pay for PIFA, he was finally accepting help. Contrary to what he seemed to think—hell, contrary to what I often thought—that didn't signify weakness. Quite the opposite. It showed admirable strength, to be able to set aside your pride and stubborn self-sufficiency and let someone offer you what you needed. As I'd told him, sometimes a man knew when to accept help.

I got the feeling, during those moments he allowed himself to just let go, those instances where he wanted just so much to get better...that for the first time in a long time, I was looking at Justin. Sometimes just bits and pieces of him shining through, but there he was, the man I knew him to be, beneath all his pain. He had gotten his wish...he wasn't a victim. He'd had a lot of shit happen to him, but it had always been a choice, whether or not he let that define him. You couldn't always decide what hand you were dealt, but you always had the decision of how you would play it.
 
And he had made the decision to live...was still in the process of making that decision. He was choosing to live rather than just exist, had chosen strength over agonized passivity...had chosen fighting like the determined fucker I knew him to be. He had fought me every step of the way those first few months I'd known him, until he'd gotten where he wanted to be, here at my side. He had fought like hell after the bashing, give or take a few bumps along the road, to get out of the hospital, into PIFA, and back into my arms. And he was fighting now, yet again, to reclaim the life he once knew. And there was no doubt in my mind that, as long as he wanted it badly enough, he would get it. He always did.

Within a few minutes, he was asleep again, but still I postponed the moment I'd have to get up and take him to bed. It honestly felt kind of nice, in this exhausted haze of mine, to just lay here, wrapped around him. Not as comfortable as the bed, but comfortable enough that I didn't find the idea of moving particularly favorable at the moment. I shifted slightly, trying to alleviate the strain in my back from lying in one position for so long.

We actually often fell asleep like this these days. Not on the couch, but wrapped around each other or holding hands or just touching in some way. I never used to be able to sleep having someone else so close, but I'd gotten used to it since he'd come along...even craved it, in a way. I liked the feeling of a warm body next to mine, listening to him breathe, knowing I'd wake up to his face and his eyes, though I'd happily rip out my own tongue before telling anyone that, including him. Some things really were better left inside one's own mind. Particularly things that made me sound more like a lesbian than I already did these days. I didn't regret any of it, but I wasn't so far gone that I couldn't recognize just how damn pathetic it was. I told myself that it was all for his comfort, all because he lost it completely if he woke up and there wasn't some part of me to hold onto. But with the exception of tonight, he hadn't needed me once all week, so I supposed my excuse didn't really hold up anymore. I just liked touching him, I supposed.

I let my fingers caress his sides over his shirt, tucking his head beneath my chin. Pathetic—but not necessarily so horrible. There was something just so intimate about this, holding him while he was so serene and vulnerable. I used to watch him like this after the bashing, too. Sometimes I could catch his nightmares during the early stages, gently soothing him or waking him up before they got too out of hand and resulted in a panic attack. Pressing my lips to his forehead, then his hair, I couldn't help but marvel at how beautiful he looked like this.

I cringed at the thought of how sickeningly sentimental I had become, how my pre-Justin self would have mocked me relentlessly for even thinking things like this, but I couldn't deny any of it, either. And did I really want to? Everyone had a guilty pleasure. I was allowed mine.

And so, knowing that he was safe and at peace, I indulged myself just a little while longer before allowing myself to drift off to sleep.

We never did make it to the bed.

~. Justin .~

Brian spent the majority of Sunday afternoon complaining about a stiff back, the result of our night on the couch. When I'd mentioned that I'd been perfectly comfortable on top of him, he'd rolled his eyes, making some sarcastic comment that I knew better than to take personally. Brian hated a sore back, particularly when accompanied by a bad night's sleep.

I'd taken the liberty of apologizing—profusely, about eight times—for forgetting my pill, and waking us up with my stupid nightmare. He'd brushed me off, all bitterness gone from his tone, and asked me—also a good eight times—if I was okay. As though I hadn't been having nightmares like those every night for nearly four months anyway. Christ, I couldn't believe I forgot. All the shit we went through with my nightmares, all the money Brian was paying for my medicine, and I fucking forgot. It wasn't like before, when I couldn't help the nightmares. Now, we actually had a proven method of management, and I forgot to take the fucking pills.

I decided to make us dinner that night, as Brian had work to do on his computer, and I didn't feel like ordering in. I mentioned this to him, watching his eyebrows practically disappear into his hair, though he hastily arranged his features into a look of casual disregard, as though worried he'd frighten away my rare desire to actually do something besides watch TV and sketch. I'd only cooked dinner a couple of times in the last few months, and he seemed to enjoy the occasions when I did...though I couldn't be sure if it was for the food, or simply the brief returns to near-normalcy. Maybe it was both.

So an hour later, I set to work in the kitchen, enjoying the feeling of having what little amount of edible food that was in the loft at my fingertips. I'd always enjoyed cooking. I loved the idea that every chef had their own style, their own unique way of doing even the most common of things. I figured being a chef was something like being an artist. It was all about taking what you had, and creating something more. Creating a masterpiece.

I ripped the corner of a bag of fresh lettuce with my teeth, tearing it open just wide enough to shake into a bowl. Not my first choice for a side dish, but I figured the only way I was getting Brian anywhere near my fried chicken was to at least pair it with a healthier alternative. And according to him, salads went with anything.

Speaking of my maddeningly mystifying boyfriend...he'd been on the phone for the last half an hour in the sanctuary of the bedroom, his work at the computer abandoned, careful not to raise his voice loud enough to carry. Which wasn't the easiest thing to do inside a place like his. As hard as I strained my ears, I couldn't quite make out the conversation. He'd said something about it being a work emergency, which was apparently more important than whatever he'd cast aside at the computer at the first ring of his cell phone. Once again, something about his explanation seemed just a little...off. I hadn't pressed for details, but I hadn't really let him off the hook just yet, either.

Finally, he hung up the phone and joined me in the kitchen, plucking a piece of lettuce from the bowl.

“Everything okay?” I asked innocently, sinking the blade of a knife cleanly through the edge of a tomato to add to the salad.

“Hmm?” he asked, though I knew full well that he heard me. So either he was distracted, or stalling for time. Neither seemed to bode particularly well.

“Is everything okay? Your work emergency?” I reminded him slowly.

His expression went from confused to completely neutral in under three seconds. “Everything's fine,” he assured me. “Just a minor problem with a new account. So, what's on the menu for our dining pleasure this evening, Chef Boyardee?”

I very nearly rolled my eyes at the ridiculously obvious change in subject. “Chicken. And salad.”

If it wasn't for the fact that I rarely showed such a desire for cooking or food—or much of anything really, lately—he might have protested the fried chicken a little more. As it was, he merely nodded his approval and helped me set the table.

As we sat down to eat, I couldn't help but remember another evening I'd fixed him dinner. Complete with candles and the whole deal. To this day, I couldn't believe Brian had ever gone along with that.

“What?” he asked suddenly.

I cocked an eyebrow at his question.

“What are you smiling about?” he clarified, and turned his dubious stare to his chicken. “All right, what the fuck did you put in this?”

I grinned and shook my head. “Just...thinking about that time I made you jambalaya for dinner.”

For a split second, I thought he might actually deny even remembering such a thing. But then a small, private sort of smile stretched across his face, and he hastily shoved a bite of chicken into his mouth.

“Remember, I said it was better—”

“Better the second day,” he recalled. He always surprised me with things like that. Surprised me that time at Babylon when he'd repeated my words to him from that first night in the back of his jeep: I'm going with him. Surprised me by telling me that he wanted to come home to me every night. Surprised me when he vowed that my lips would be the only ones he'd ever kiss. Always, just when I thought I had all the rules figured out, he'd go and change the game by doing something so incredibly amazing like remembering the first meal I'd ever made him.

“It's not bad.” My eyes flew to him, narrowing slightly in amused disbelief at the words, and he cleared his throat. “The chicken, I mean.”

The little smirk he was currently sporting was sufficient evidence, in my opinion, that the chicken was not all he was talking about, but I let it go. “It's Debbie's recipe.”

He nodded. “Makes sense. After the failed attempt to teach her own son how to cook, she had to try saving some pour soul from starvation,” he rolled his eyes. “Did Michael ever tell you about the time he caught his toaster on fire?”

“No,” I laughed.

And from there, he launched into a highly amusing story involving a teenage Michael, a flaming toaster, and a very pissed off Deb. I hadn't laughed so hard in a long, long while, and even despite the residual ache in my stomach and ribs, it felt good, as though a weight were being siphoned from my shoulders. I filed away a mental note to make a passing comment to Michael concerning the toaster story the next time I saw him.

“We are going back to Deb's next weekend, right?” I asked as our laughter finally died down. “Provided there are no flammable toasters in the house?”

He snorted, and was forced to gulp down half a glass of water before he was able to speak again. I could feel the delirious edge of our laughter-induced buzz fading rapidly, especially at the mention of Deb's, but I didn't want to let it go just yet. I could easily see these dinners at her place becoming a recurring routine—or rather a return to that recurring routine. And while I relished the company of my friends once again, there was still some of that old doubt lingering at the edges of my mind, try as I might to suppress it. 

Or maybe it was new doubt, brought on by this thing with Brian, this frustration inside me at being so close and so far away from what I wanted most. I wanted him, I wanted things to be the way they used to be, I ached for that...and yet I couldn't have it. I wanted to go to Debbie's every weekend and laugh and joke and feel happy surrounded by all my friends. I had done it twice, but who was to say there wouldn't be some setback? Who was to say I wasn't really fucked up enough to actually lose what I already had? It was irrational and it didn't make sense. Being with Brian and hanging out with my friends were two completely different concepts. I just—I felt like...well, a failure. Like I was just too weak, too scared, too broken. Sometimes that feeling could just get so overwhelming that it all began to feel hopeless.

“Definitely,” he promised me. I let the vow sink in, nodding.

Suddenly, we were interrupted by the insistent ringing of his cell phone, clattering across the computer desk where he'd left it after his earlier conversation. I met his eyes across the table, but he dropped them quickly, his entire demeanor shifting on the spot. His expression went carefully neutral, his eyes slipping behind that fucking impenetrable shield that I hated so much.

“You going to get that?”

“Let it go to voicemail.” He shrugged indifferently.

I frowned. “Are you... I mean, is everything...really okay, Brian?”

“Okay?”

I swallowed thickly, fidgeting with my fork. “Yeah. At...at work, and everything? I mean, you've been on the phone a lot lately...”

He shook his head and stabbed another piece of chicken. “Everything's fine. Like I said, there was a minor crisis with this new account. But we're taking care of it.”

He spoke as if I didn't know he was lying. As if I could not notice. But how could I miss it, knowing him the way I did?

“Oh,” I said, though I was becoming increasingly suspicious about even the existence of this particular account. If it was this important, he would have mentioned it before now, wouldn't he have? But why the fuck would he lie? Brian didn't lie. He favored brutal honesty far too much to have any patience for tactful untruths.

I didn't know why, and I didn't know what he was hiding, but I was certain that he definitely was lying.  But if, by whatever fucked up justification he was feeding himself, he had decided that I was better off not knowing, then there really was nothing I could do about it. If he didn't want me to know, he certainly wouldn't be telling me. And did it matter? Whatever it was, it was most likely something trivial that he was, like he'd told me, taking care of just fine. Maybe it really was about work. Some client or coworker.

Okay, that was bullshit. Even if it was about work, there was no reason—at least, no good reason—for him not to tell me. Shit, what if he was in trouble of some sort again? Maybe he really was telling the truth about it concerning Vanguard. What if all those days he'd been taking off had become a problem for his boss? He sure as hell wouldn't want me knowing about that, worrying for him and feeling guilty as hell the way he knew I would.

But what could I do? I'd pleaded, ordered, and reasoned with him, to no avail. The past was the past, I supposed, but he still insisted on coming with me every Monday to therapy, and staying home the rest of the day, in case I needed him. I could admit to feeling a bit more—vulnerable, I supposed—after the hour spent in Kathy's office, but that didn't mean he needed to take the whole fucking day off to be with me.

It had finally happened. All my shit, my problems, my insecurities, my fucked up life had gotten in the way of his. But Brian Kinney did what he wanted, how the hell was I going to convince him to fucking put himself first for once? Sure, he pulled the whole I don't give a crap routine sometimes—he had since I'd known him with very few exceptions—but when it came down to it, he'd sacrifice everything in a second for someone he cared about. I'd once told him that I loved that he'd do anything for me. Now, I wished it wasn't so painfully true. I didn't want this. I sure as hell had never wanted to drag him down with me.

I didn't mention the phone calls for the rest of the evening. He spent the night alternating between the computer and the phone, stopping only to set out a sleeping pill for me. I shuddered when I remembered the previous night's terror, waking up out in the living room, scared and confused. I had less than no desire to repeat that experience again any time soon, so I swallowed my pill, and eventually fell asleep sketching on the couch.

~.~

When I awoke the next day, it was to find that I was somehow snuggled beneath the duvet on my side of the bed. Dimly, it registered that something didn't feel quite right, but I didn't feel like opening my eyes to check what it was. I tried anyway, then shut them again quickly when the light hurt too much.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

They fluttered open again anyway, however, at the pleasant surprise that was Brian's voice. I ran a hand over my face, letting it block out the blaze of the morning sun. 

“Did I fall asleep?” I mumbled, realizing suddenly that I was still in the same clothes I'd worn yesterday. I had no memory of ever crawling into bed last night, and I highly doubted I'd have done it in jeans, anyway. Really, they were the most comfortable pair of blue jeans I'd ever owned, but wearing them in bed like this, they felt much too tight and awkward.

“Yeah,” Brian answered, from somewhere to my right. Slowly, I lowered my hand from my eyes, letting them adjust to the light. It was official: whoever the fuck had invented mornings must have been blind. “I left everything on...I wasn't sure if—I thought you'd be more comfortable,” he said sheepishly.

In other words, he'd been afraid I'd freak out if I woke up in bed naked after he'd stripped me of my clothes. There had been a time when he wouldn't have hesitated to tear them off and curl up around me, arms draped over my waist and breath tickling the back of my neck. I sighed. I really did appreciate his thoughtfulness. Though these weren't the most comfortable clothes to sleep in, I had to admit, I probably wouldn't have enjoyed the vulnerability that came with waking up completely naked and open and so—bare—even next to Brian. The last time someone had done something like that, torn off my clothes without my explicit consent, had been....

“No...I mean, yeah...thanks. I'm glad you did,” I told him. A familiar sort of emptiness stole over his expression. Almost the same look he'd gotten yesterday when I'd asked him about those phone calls. It was the one he employed to hide his pain or concern or whatever human emotion he didn't want to show. In this case: Pain. Nostalgia. It hurt me beyond reason to know that I was the one responsible for putting that look there now. It just felt so terrifying to be with him, and yet so wrong not to be with him.... It was like we both were still searching for the past only to be disappointed by the future.

“Come here.” His tone was soft, almost a whisper, and almost sultry in that simple request. I blinked in surprise, but slid closer to him, my jeans moving awkwardly between the sheets. I just barely had time to appreciate how beautiful he looked with his hair mussed and with lingering sleep clouding his eyes, before he kissed me. Nothing too much—no passionate, searing lip-lock that made my insides turn to mush. Well, they sort of did anyway, just from the way it felt to have his lips tingling against mine. But it was nothing like Friday night, and maybe that was okay. Not everything had to be a challenge, a game of risk. After all, this alone, right here, used to be my favorite part of waking up. I'd forgotten how wonderful it felt to just lay here and have him kiss me and kiss him back and start my entire day off with Brian, Brian, Brian. Even if, back then, it always used to amount to more.

“What was that for?” I asked as he pulled away.

He surveyed at me for a moment, bathing me in contemplative hazel, then shrugged. “Because we can.”

And before my still sleep-and-Brian muddled brain could really understand the full meaning of this, he had disappeared into the bathroom and started the water for a shower.

Yes. Yes we could.

~.~

“You know...” I began, glancing over at him as he alternated between keeping his eyes on the road and darting them down to the radio. “You could always...you could go into work. Once we're done with Kathy, I mean.”

He didn't even look at me, but his fingers tightened noticeably around the steering wheel as he navigated through static and commercials to find his favorite station.

“You could drop me off at Daphne's...I'm sure she wouldn't mind,” I continued, as though I hadn't noticed.

“I told you before, it's fine, Justin.” His tone was crisp with a note of finality, so naturally, I took the liberty of ignoring that as well.

“What about those fucking phone calls all weekend, then?” I demanded, a hint of aggravation in my voice. “Your 'work emergencies'?”

His expression hardened. “Don't worry about it, all right?” he asked tightly. “It's my business. I can take care of it.”

I shook my head in disbelief, glaring out my window. Fine. If he wanted to get his ass fired, then so be it. Okay, so I really didn't know for sure what was going on...that could be just me, being dramatic. But what if they really did fire him? Then what?

Neither of us said a word the rest of the way there. Out in the waiting area at the office, another thought occurred to me, one that didn't appease my concern in the slightest. What if this went beyond simply omitting information? What if the whole thing was a full-on lie?

But, if that was true, if it had nothing to do with Vanguard...then what was going on?

~.~

Within minutes, my name had been called and we were back in Kathy's office on that tiny reddish couch, a Kleenex in my left hand and Brian's fingers in my right, our spat already forgotten. I couldn't stay irritated with him, not when I needed him so fucking much. Whatever was going on, Brian would figure out a way to handle it. He always did, but I couldn't do this with Kathy if I didn't have him.

“So, how has your medication been working, Justin?” she asked almost immediately that morning, after the usual question concerning my 'mood evaluation scale' in my therapy log. All in all, it had been a fairly good week.

“The sleeping pills have been good,” I told her honestly. I absolutely relished the feeling of falling asleep at night, and waking up the next morning, refreshed and at ease. No three-in-the-morning tears, no stressful nightmares to write about in my log. Just blissful oblivion. Well, except for Saturday night, but that had been the sole exception.

“No nightmares to speak of?” she prompted, scribbling something on her clipboard. “No side-effects?”

“No, and no.” Except for feeling generally less exhausted, I didn't feel any different. Nothing that could be considered a side-effect.

“Good,” she murmured happily. “And I'm assuming there's been nothing from the antidepressants? No change?”

I shook my head, my stomach flipping at the reminder that I was actually on fucking happy pills now.

She nodded. “That's to be expected. You've only been taking them a week. If you do start having side-effects though, I want you to tell me. A lot of times, they can be taken care of just by adjusting the dosage. Some of them are clear side-effects... headaches, skin rashes, nausea... but some of them are less noticeable.”

“Like what?” Brian spoke up, his voice taut, as though he really didn't want to know the answer.

“Well, there's loss of appetite,” Kathy informed us. “I know you've said you've suffered from it in the last few months anyway, so that's something you'll need to be particularly wary of. Another is loss of sexual craving, in some cases.”

I felt my face going red, though I tried to will my cheeks not to burn in shame. If there was anything I was more ashamed of than having It happen in the first place, it was this. It was not being able to get over it. It was not being able to do fucking anything to get past it. Brian and I used to not be able to go a single fucking day without sex, and I hadn't even gotten hard in over three months. And now I had medicine that could possibly make it even more difficult. Great.

“And, that'll...” I muttered, staring at the single window in the room as though wishing I could soar right out it. “You said before...that'll come back, right? I mean, if the medicine doesn't...?”

That was what they'd been saying. Kathy, Brian...the hopeful little whisper in the back of my head that refused to be stomped out completely. That it would all come back to me, that I'd have it all again one day. That I'd be able to touch Brian, show him how much I loved him, kiss him and touch him and let him touch me back. I tried to imagine it, tried to picture the day it would happen. It was highly unlikely that I'd just wake up one morning and it would all be okay again. But maybe I'd be kissing Brian and it would all just....

“In time, Justin,” said Kathy gently, her face registering none of the embarrassment and discomfort as mine. Next to me, I felt Brian shift, his hand squeezing mine in silent support. Much to my intense chagrin, I felt the beginnings of tears in my eyes.

It had never gone away, that little voice whispering that I'd better give him something and soon, before I lost him. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that it didn't matter, at least not right now. It didn't matter that I couldn't suck him or let him fuck me or do much of anything besides kiss him, and sometimes not even that. He loved me. He obviously wanted me around for something other than sex, or I'd be gone by now. But it felt so strange, so foreign, to not be able to touch him like I used to. It had always felt so natural, so right to be with him, and now, there was just nothing. That sexual spark we'd always had had just fizzled out and died, at least on my end. I'd give anything to have it back, anything just to be able to let him do what he wanted. But I couldn't even do that. It wasn't just that I didn't want to have sex, it was that I couldn't.

Sometimes, I tried to talk myself into it. Tried to tell myself that it was just Brian. Just Brian, who loved me, who had fucked me more times than I cared to count. He would never hurt me...never, as long as we lived, do anything against my will. Beneath Brian had always been my favorite place in the world, his warm weight on top of me, talented hands and a skilled tongue and lips assuring mine, hazel eyes telling me everything I'd ever need to know. Telling me that he loved me, that he wanted me, that what was about to happen would be the most wonderfully intense experience of my life, and he never disappointed. It was safe. Familiar. It was nothing like that night, nothing like them.

And none of that mattered in the least.

It really didn't. It never mattered that I would be perfectly safe or that Brian would take things slow or that it had been over three months or that none of it would be anything like that night...none of it mattered because it was still sex, and I couldn't do it. They wouldn't let me. It wouldn't let me.

Kathy was talking again, and I nodded miserably at whatever she was saying, my eyes still at the window, hoping that neither of them could tell that I was about five seconds away from crying.

“With time, and your continued sessions with me, and even more so, your own determination, there's a good chance it'll happen one day, Justin,” she said.

One day, someday, in time. Of course. She'd said it before. Brian had said it before. Someday. Well, what about right now? What about this moment, this second? What about what I wanted today?

“However, it's important that you make sure you're comfortable with whatever is going on,” she said, an almost stern edge to her voice. “You need to let your sexual appetite return on its own, and not push yourself into anything you're not ready for.”

Once again, I just nodded. She'd told me this before, too, during our last sex discussion. “So...I'm just supposed to wait around until something happens?” I clarified. It didn't sound like a particularly satisfying way to make things happen, but I was beginning to honestly wonder if they were right, and it really was the only way. What else could I do? I knew perfectly well what happened when I forgot where I was and who I was with. Was there even another way around it?

“Well, there are some things you could do to sort of—reacquaint yourself—with the idea of sex. Things that would help you to start relaxing and letting yourself be touched again,” Kathy said. “There are any number of things you could try. Little everyday things...even things that you used to do with each other that you stopped doing. Just basically anything small that would help you start growing comfortable with the physical aspect of your relationship.”

I listened while she went through ideas. Fully or partly-clothed showers. Massages. Anything I was comfortable with, she stressed. If she wasn't a professional, I'd wonder how she managed to keep all trace of awkwardness out of her voice and off her face, while mine was flushed with embarrassment from the fact that this conversation was even a necessity. Except for right after the bashing, we had never once had a problem with the 'physical aspect of our relationship.' I didn't think there was one fag in Babylon, including our friends, that hadn't seen us fucking at least once. We used to be practically infamous for our insatiable appetite for each other, and now it almost felt like I was the same scared little virgin I'd been that first night with him. Only this time, the fear was for an entirely different reason. It was more. Real. Alive inside me.

What if even Brian couldn't rescue me from its grasp?

~.~

“So.” After a solid ten minutes in the jeep with neither of us saying a word, it appeared he'd had enough.

“So?” I asked, somewhat aggressively, when Brian didn't complete the thought. He sighed, apparently realizing by my tone that the direction this conversation was already taking wasn't somewhere he had particularly wished or intended.

“About what Kathy said...” he continued cautiously.

“Which part?”

He hesitated. “What she said... what she said we could try,” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Do you think...would you want to?”

I didn't answer, watching cars fly by outside my window in variously colored blurs. I wanted to say something, I could hear that little voice in my head screaming at me to open my mouth and say yes, Brian, I want to, I always want you...but I couldn't. I wasn't sure if I meant that—wasn't sure about much of anything—and while I was in such a state of uncertainty, I decided it would be best to say nothing at all.

I saw him nod a little out of the corner of my eye, as though accepting that I wasn't going to answer. For some reason, this irritated me.

“What, you want to fuck me?” I asked, my tone quiet but bitter. I wasn't sure where the frustration was coming from, or why I was directing it at him, but I could feel a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes and being angry at him was a lot simpler than actually trying to deal with it all. What had I been expecting? That after kissing him like that this weekend, Kathy would tell me, oh, you're fine now, go ahead and have sex. “Is that it?

I could almost sense his distaste with the conversation building with each word I spoke, growing and transforming into something almost alive in the air between us. Choking us. Suffocating us. This restless frustration was killing us both.

“You know that's not what I meant,” he said sharply. “Don't turn this into something it isn't.”

“And what is it, exactly?” I snapped.

He sighed. “It's me, asking if you want to take your therapist's suggestion, and take a step towards what you said your goal was. It's your decision what you want to do, so stop trying to turn it around and make me into some asshole who only wants to fuck you, because we both know damn well that's not what I was asking.”

Well. That shut me up. I turned to glare out the window, trying to hold onto some of my last vestiges of anger and frustration, but they were fading fast.

He was right. I knew he was right...when was he ever not? It wasn't fair to turn this around on him, when all he was asking was if I wanted to take a step forward for myself. And that was what I had committed myself to doing, wasn't it? Fighting. Surviving. Getting through this.

“Sorry.”

He didn't answer, but let out a deep breath, his eyes focused purposefully on the road.

“Look, it's not...it's not you.” It wasn't him I was afraid of. It had nothing to do with him personally. It was just sex. It was just them. They had become sex for me, and sometimes it was just so hard to look past that anymore. Too impossibly difficult to distinguish that night from now.

None of this, however, warranted me getting pissy and taking it out on him. He was trying his best to help me the only way he knew how. This wasn't about fucking, and I knew it. It hadn't been just about fucking for a long, long time for him. No, it was about healing. It was about taking back what was ours.

I glanced over at Brian to catch him nodding. “I know,” he said simply. His voice had reverted straight back to being gentle and compassionate. He always seemed to know just when to do that. When to push me into opening up or breaking down or letting him in. He always knew just what I needed to hear, right when I needed to hear it most.

“I just...don't know if—I don't know what I can do, or what I can't...”

“That's the whole point of this,” he interrupted me. “Look, all Kathy wants...all I want...is for you to be able to enjoy it again. For your sake. This is about helping you.”

I fidgeted with my sleeve, picking at the threads. “I know.”

“We'll just...take it slow, see what you're okay with, or what you're not okay with...see what happens.”

“I don't want to just wait and see what happens,” I said through clenched teeth. “You and Kathy...you just—have all the fucking patience in the world. All that it'll happen someday shit...I don't want just someday, Brian.” I was so sick of this. So tired of going in circles with Kathy, with Brian, with my own fucking mind. Or maybe we weren't. Maybe I was only frustrated because they weren't telling me what I wanted to hear. There were no quick-fixes, as I was still in the process of realizing. There was no easy way out. Maybe they were right. Maybe time was all that could fix this.

“I know you don't,” said Brian, coming to a stop in a parking space outside his building. I hadn't even realized we were almost home. “But just because we're not where you want to be...it doesn't mean we can't have anything. And it doesn't mean we won't get there someday, eventually. It just means it's what we have for now.”

“I'm...I mean, I can kiss you,” I told him, though it felt like grasping at straws. “That's a good thing, right? And I can have you in the room with me when I'm the shower....”

“See? You've made progress,” Brian noted, sounding just a little like Kathy. Patient and relentlessly optimistic, which sure as hell was not the Brian I knew. Maybe therapy was having an effect on him, too. “You need to tell me what you're okay with, and what you want, Justin, so I can help you,” he finished.

I absorbed what he was saying, taking it in and turning it around and around inside my brain. What if I didn't know what I wanted? What if I wasn't sure what I could handle and what I couldn't? What if part of me was screaming that it wanted everything back the way it used to be, but the other half was falling to pieces at every reminder that it never would be that way again?

“I...” My words faltered and died on my tongue. I wasn't sure what Brian's reaction would be to hearing them, but when I glanced over at the driver's seat, he was waiting expectantly for me to finish. “I miss you.”

I'd mumbled the words, half-hoping that he wouldn't hear, but I knew he did. His expression softened, and he averted his gaze to the steering wheel.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You too.”

“Are things—they're never going to be like...like before. Are they?” My voice shook, trembling under the weight of unshed tears. But I refused to let them fall.

He considered me seriously, haunted hazel against tearful blue. “I don't know,” he admitted. “I don't know if it'll be the same, or how long it's going to take. I...I don't know.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat before forcing myself to voice one of my deepest fears. The type that cut me deep, just a little too close to the heart. “And what if...we're always waiting?”

His eyes were back on the steering wheel, his fingers clenched around the edge of it. He sighed, his forehead creasing as he stared at it. There were no tears in his eyes that I could see, but he closed them, swallowing hard, as though trying to fight them back anyway. “What do you want, Justin?” he demanded.

“The fucking truth.”

“Fine,” he said grimly. “The truth...the reality is, it might not happen for a while. Maybe never again. The fucking truth is that it might not be the same. It could be months, it could be years. We could always be waiting.”

A week ago—fuck, a day ago—this would have reduced me to tears. But I think I needed it, to hear it from him, to know that I wasn't alone in my fears.

“The truth...” he broke off, pressing his lips together as he gathered his bearings. “Is that if or when it happens—whenever it happens—we'll wait as long as we have to. It's...it's only time, Sunshine.”

For days, those words would echo inside my head. It's only time.