~. Brian .~

I was alone, as far as I could tell. Where exactly I was that was so deserted, I wasn't sure just yet, but I knew instinctively that I had been there before. It was dark, with rows of cars creating isles up and down the spacious lair.

Suddenly, a trill of laughter broke the eerie, surrounding silence. I stood there, waiting and watching, as a radiant young blond rounded a nearby car and came into view. He was, simply put, beautiful; bright and smiling and joyful. And suddenly the darkness didn't matter; it was impossible, but he was actually fucking glowing, celestial rays of light pooling around my feet, over the curves of the cars, lighting up the shadows like the sun.

“Justin!” I called out. But he was too far away, and even though I stumbled forward in an effort to reach him, he was moving too quickly, disappearing around the side of another car. “Justin!”

I quickened my pace, desperate to reach him. I didn't know why, but it was suddenly imperative that I did. So I hurried forward, following the distinct glow, like sunlight, around bends, behind cars, through the maze that I eventually realized made up a parking garage.

And suddenly, I knew I had to run. I had no idea know where this explosive sense of urgency had come from, but I had no time to question it. I had to fucking move...

“Justin!” I gasped. “Justin, please!”

Another distant laugh, and that ethereal light grew brighter. Closer. I pressed myself on, begged my legs to carry me faster, carry me to him, before it was too late, and whatever I was so inexplicably afraid of happened.

And then, without warning, everything went dark. For one terrifying moment, it was silent except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. Unnaturally silent....

“Brian?” Small. Pleading. Terrified. Barely a whimper.

“Justin?” I demanded, throwing my hands out in front of me blindly. “Justin, where are you?”

“Please...” came his voice again, wavering in the darkness. “Please, Brian...”

“I'll help you,” I promised. “I'll help you. Just tell me where you are. I can't see...” And suddenly I realized what had happened. Why it was so dark, so cold, so empty. Why the light in my world had gone out.

Justin had stopped smiling. This wasn't fun anymore. This wasn't a game. Something had gone terribly wrong.

“Brian, please...” he called again, his voice rising in fear. “Please, help me!”

“I will,” I swore blindly. “I will. I will, I promise. Just tell me...”

Laughter. Nothing like the carefree, gentle chuckle that had tumbled from Justin's lips just minutes before. No, this was different...this was cold, merciless laughter...inhuman laughter....

“Brian!” Sharper now. Desperate.

“Justin...I'm trying....” I threw myself forward in the direction of his voice, only to slam—hard—into cool metal. Bars, I realized. Even in the darkness, I recognized it for what it was: a cell. Caged like an animal, while feet away, Justin suffered in the hands of some unknown menace that I could sense more than see.

“Brian, please,” he begged again. “Please...why won't you help me?”

It felt like fire in my chest to hear those words. Didn't he know I'd do anything for him? Didn't he know my heart was racing, that I was scared beyond anything I'd ever known? Didn't he know I was giving everything I had into figuring a way out of this?

“I'm trying. Fuck, I'm trying,” I muttered, almost to myself. The only response I received was more cold, cruel laughter.

“Leave us the fuck alone!” I yelled, flooded with rage, striking out at the bars of my cage, kicking and shaking them until I was sure they were going to break, but they never did.

“If you hurt him, I swear I'll kill you.” My whispered threat was venomous, coiling around the bars of my cell like a snake, ready to pounce. Ultimately, the words were useless, locked as I was inside this prison. Useless rage with no outlet. Up until then, I hadn't noticed, but the darkness seemed to be growing thicker, somehow, smothering me, choking me.

“Brian!” But his voice was faint, and suddenly I couldn't even feel the bars of the cage beneath my fingertips, though I was certain I wasn't free. If I was, I should have been able to fucking move, and yet I couldn't stir a single Goddamn muscle in my body to save him. Feet away, he was in pain...feet away, someone was hurting him...and I couldn't do a thing about it.

“Brian!” Another whimper, even fainter this time. The last thing I heard above that vicious laughter was a sickeningly familiar crack out of the shadows, and the sound of my own pleading screams....

I awoke with a start and a curse on my lips. What the fucking hell...? I glanced instinctively to my left, and let out a sigh of relief. Blond and peaceful and perfect. And sleeping. Actually, it didn't even look as if he'd moved all night. Or, wait...was it morning?

I glanced at the clock. It was well after three. What the fuck had that been all about? I was still just asleep enough to remember some of the finer points of my ridiculous dream, though they were quickly slipping away from me. There'd been, what, a parking garage? So it had something to do with the bashing, maybe? The last thing I remembered was a very loud, nauseating crack....

Justin may have been the one tossing and turning most nights, waking up screaming and crying and all of the terrible things that went along with his nightmares, but it wasn't as though I didn't have them on occasion, too. I may not have physically gone through the things Justin had, but it sure as hell hurt enough anyway. That was the thing about caring for someone; their pain became your pain. His had become mine, so of course I had nightmares about the things we had gone through together. Of course these things scared the shit out of me, too, waking me up in a cold sweat and keeping me awake for hours in the form of restless unease. These things had a sort of ripple effect. They may have started with him, but they ended up affecting everyone around him.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to shake off the lingering anxiety the dream had left me with. I couldn't even really remember much about it now, other than those few details I'd been left with when I'd woken. I just remembered that I'd been scared, gripped with some terror that I couldn't even explain. And all I knew for sure, other than that utterly familiar crack, was that it had something to do with Justin.

Though I doubted anything short of a nuclear explosion in our own living room could have woken him from his medically induced sleep, I was careful and quiet as I slid from my side of the bed and headed for the kitchen. The floor felt cool on my bare feet, something slightly uncomfortable to jar me from my daze of anxiety.

I desperately craved a quick shot of something alcoholic, but all I kept in the loft these days was beer, and I promptly decided against that. I settled for a glass of water, gulping down a glass like a man dying of thirst, and leaned over the counter, my shoulders hunched.

Well, at least his nights were peaceful.

If it was a choice between him and me, I was glad that he, at least, could finally enjoy the relief of sleep. It had been almost...fuck, nearly four months since it had happened. Wait, not it. Kathy was always telling us to say the word, to call it what it was instead of burying it, trying to hide it. It was best if we were open with our pain, she said, than if we tried to shove it down and push it away, like he'd done for so long. She especially encouraged me to help him with things like that—getting him to talk when he didn't feel like talking, getting him to open up—and that included being able to call 'it' by name.

So, it had been nearly four months since Justin was raped.

In some ways, it seemed far, far longer than four months. Day by day, minute by minute...it seemed to drag us on through this haze of fear and pain. We'd been walking around with this heaviness on our shoulders for nearly four entire months now.

Still, in other ways...it didn't seem that long at all. We'd been going to therapy, and attending family dinners—he'd been doing so much better lately, that it simultaneously seemed to fly by. Just in this last month, he'd come so far. Far enough that I trusted him to use our razor on his own, even if I was tense and watching the clock every time he shut himself inside the bathroom.

I did wonder if some of those protective urges were really just out of habit by now...not liking to let him use the razor alone, not leaving his medication out. Of course it scared me, of course I still wanted to keep him safe. But how long was I planning on keeping up this prison guard routine?

I still didn't want him in the loft alone all day. Especially not if I thought he would spend it dwelling on things, and crying, and refusing to eat anything. And he did have those days, the kind where he laid on the couch and did nothing, or the kind where he spent entire afternoons sketching Gary and the others in his gray sketchbook.

But he did seem to be generally—happier, I supposed—lately. He had his bad days, his bad moments, but then there were those days that were neither exceptionally good nor especially bad, but that were just...normal. Perfectly normal, everyday moments during which he smiled more, and sketched some of his favorite subjects. There were instances where things were just so easy and lighthearted that it was almost like it never even happened, when we were just talking like we used to, teasing or chatting over stupid shit like TV shows or my work or the crappy weather.

Finally having calmed my nerves, I headed back to bed and slid beneath the covers. I hesitated only a moment before scooting over to his side, trying not to jostle it too much, and slipping my arms around him. Burying my face in his neck, I looped my leg over his and just held on, as though afraid he'd fall away if I let him go.

I would like to have pretended that I only wanted to hold Justin to keep him safe, to protect him...that it was all for his sake. But the twat was sleeping, and therefore that made very little sense, even to my currently anxious and exhaustion-scrambled brain. In the privacy of my own mind, I could admit the truth. Whatever facade of strength I tried to present to him, Justin wasn't the only one who needed comfort sometimes, who needed the feeling of a familiar body held close to feel safe. Here like this, in the almost surreal fragility of the night, I could believe that both of us really were safe and sound. That holding on and never letting go of the slumbering body in my arms was enough to protect us both from the world forever.

~. Justin .~

I awoke to sunlight glowing behind my closed eyelids and a sensation of complete confinement.

Though my first reaction would typically have been panic, I somehow instinctively knew it was Brian. Maybe it was the familiar way he'd buried his head between my neck and shoulder, or maybe it was the scent of his soap as I inhaled it from all around me, but whatever it was, it kept me calm. Relaxed, even, huddled within this little cocoon of blankets and him. I wasn't entirely sure how I was going to escape the dead weight of his arm over me, but the alarm wasn't going off yet, so it didn't really matter at the moment. I could enjoy this.

He woke up a few minutes later. I knew when he did, because he started rubbing little circles into my arm with his thumb and nuzzling the back of my neck. “We should get up,” he muttered into my ear, but he didn't loosen his grip on me.

“In a minute,” I said. It was nice, just laying here like this. It reminded me of Saturday mornings when I was a kid, waking up way earlier than I had to and just laying in bed for an hour, the sunlight streaming in through my window and warming my face, drifting in and out of sleep.

Eventually, though, we really did have to get up. As much as I would have liked to lay in bed all day with him, he absolutely refused to ignore the alarm and be late for work. We set about our morning routines; he spent a ludicrous amount of time on his hair, and then even more time picking out one of his immaculate Armani suits, while I did twice as much in half the time. While he struggled to choose from three seemingly identical pairs of Gucci shoes, I made us some toast, and brought him a piece in the bedroom while he sifted through ties.

“Extra butter, minimal jelly,” I said, handing him his breakfast. He took it right out of my hand with his teeth, grinning at me from around the slice of toast before turning back around to his collection of over-expensive ties.

“Wear the blue one,” I suggested, wiping my hands, covered in crumbs, on my pants before reaching out to pull his silky blue Armani tie from the closet. “It looks good on you.” Well, okay, everything did, as a general rule of thumb. But I'd always had a thing for this tie on him.

I smiled when he apparently agreed, and moved on to belts. It was a good thing he had never joined the military. Or a private school. I could just see him spending an hour every morning searching through identical ties and jackets and pants trying to find the 'right' look. Which was essentially what he was doing now. Brian was one of those people that, when they saw a pair of shoes in 'black,' and one in 'jet black,' he'd have to get both, with the result that he now had about half a dozen pairs of shoes that looked exactly the same. “Only to the untrained eye, Sunshine,” he would say when I pointed this out.

Fucking label queen.

“Wear this one,” I told him, selecting a thin leather belt from the closet. Without waiting for an answer, I slid the end of it into his belt loop, then through the next, pressing myself close to him and snaking my arms around his waist to thread it through the back loops.

He had taken his toast out of his mouth, and was standing perfectly still. It was like some sort of magnetic attraction keeping our gazes locked and my body against his, with neither of us wanting to break it. He had that look in his eyes, that rare look of vulnerability, of sweetness. The look that reminded me of our Pride festival dance, swaying together to the music, glowing with the knowledge that this time, he'd come after me instead of the other way around. It was that same sort of look now, that private smile, gentle and proud and warm and—dare I say it—loving.

Finally, I tore my eyes away from his and focused on his belt again, fingers fumbling with the buckle as I fastened it.

“There,” I said, leaning back and running my hands over his chest, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of his suit. “Perfect.”

~.~

“You're in a good mood today,” Daphne observed as I followed her inside the set of double doors into her apartment building, turning to look over my shoulder to watch Brian drive off. I shrugged. Normally, I might have told her what had me in such an unusual state of mind, but I wasn't exactly sure myself today. A combination of things, I supposed. I'd slept well, woken with Brian's arms around me, and generally had a good start to my morning. Plus, as it was Tuesday, there was almost an entire week to go before I had to set foot back in Kathy's office. That was always a mood booster.

“So...” Daphne continued, her voice echoing in the stairwell as we climbed the necessary flights of stairs to her floor. I made a mental note to ask her later when the elevator was getting fixed. “How've you been?

It was a routine question of hers, as well as my mother's. At first, I'd hated it, hated being questioned about my miserable, pathetic existence. How the fuck did they think I was doing? What did they expect? But after a while, I had begun to see it for what it was: they cared. They were just concerned for me, just wanted to stay updated with my life. And when I'd started being able to give somewhat positive answers, I found that I began to mind the question less and less.

“Actually...not bad.” I said, weighing my words carefully. “I've been...I've been good.”

Okay, so I'd had a pathetic breakdown in the bathroom on Friday, but that had followed the most amazing experience with Brian that I'd had in a long time. And I'd gotten pissy yesterday after therapy, but I'd woken with his arms around me this morning. It was like the good things were finally starting to even out with the bad, instead of it being a case of negative-majority rules.

We had finally arrived at the right floor, and she began fishing in her pocket for her key. “You know, I think that's the first time I've heard you say that,” she mused.

I stood back as she fumbled with the lock. There was a click, and she pushed the door open, gesturing for me to enter. I allowed a small half-smile to tug at my lips as I realized she was right.

“It's the first time it's been true.”

She looked at me, an unidentifiable expression on her face.

“What?”

She shrugged, averting her eyes, and set her keys on her counter. “Nothing. I'm just...” I waited while she made a show of checking her machine for messages, as if she'd been gone from the apartment for hours rather than minutes, and fidgeted with a stray nickel from a pile of change on the counter. “I'm really fucking proud of you, Justin,” she said awkwardly, but sincerity leaked from her voice.

“I didn't do anything, Daph,” I said, after a moment during which she continued to drum the nickel against her chipped counter top.

She finally raised her gaze to meet mine. “Are you kidding? You...well you're—kind of amazing, Justin,” she said, huffing out an awkward half-laugh.

I snorted.

“I mean it!” she insisted. “You've been through more shit than anyone I know, and you're...well, you're here. And you're still, like...you're still you, somehow. You know?”

She was avoiding my eyes again, trying to shake off the sincere discomfort brought on by the heartfelt confession of pride.

Meanwhile, all I could do was look at her. She was...she was serious. She was actually proud of me. Proud of me for...surviving? Was I a survivor? Had that even been by choice?

And was I still me? I couldn't even...I didn't even know what to say to that. The idea that I hadn't lost that most inherent piece of me, that there was still a part of the old Justin inside that she could see...I could literally feel a lump rising in my throat, and quickly followed her example, dropping my eyes to her floor.

“Most people would have...broken down, Justin. After the bashing...and then this....” she continued.

“It's not like I'm some kind of shining example of strength, Daphne,” I said. It meant more than words could express that she thought these things about me, but really, I wasn't nearly as together and well off as she seemed to think. “It's not like it's been easy. Or that I haven't broken down at all, or...it's not like that. If it wasn't for you and my mom and Brian...I don't know what I would have done.”

Well, that wasn't entirely true. I knew perfectly well what would've most likely become of me...knew that Hobbes's work would have been finished for him. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have come this far.

She nodded. “But still, it takes a lot to get through something like this, Justin. You don't give yourself enough credit.”

I shook my head. I didn't deserve to hear this. I didn't deserve to be commended for getting through something that I wouldn't have even survived without serious intervention. If it hadn't been for Brian monitoring my every move...if he hadn't come after me that night on the roof....

“You give me too much. Look, if it wasn't for Brian, I—” I stopped short, chastising myself inwardly.

“What?” she asked. But how could I tell her? How could I tell my best friend in the world that if it weren't for my boyfriend, I wouldn't even be here right now? How could I tell her about one of the two biggest fucking mistakes I'd ever made? It was bad enough that I'd hurt her with the first, that night, stumbling in at three in the morning in a haze of agony and fear. So...why? Why would I hurt her with something that had no bearing on the present? It was over now. In the past. “What about Brian?”

I cast my mind around for something else to say, some miraculous save. “If it wasn't for Brian, I don't know how I would have dealt with it all. He's been so fucking amazing,” I admitted. There. That was far from a lie.

“It's because he loves you,” she said seriously.

I nodded, and couldn't help but add, “So he says.”

Now I had her attention, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as they snapped to mine. “What?!”

“He said...he told me he loves me,” I shrugged. And try as I might, I couldn't stop the tiny smile from forming on my face any more than I could halt the little bubble of private happiness welling up inside my chest.

“No fucking way!” She was grinning, too, all traces of awkwardness apparently forgotten in favor of this new bombshell. “For real? When?”

“A couple times.”

“A couple times? Why the fuck didn't you tell me? How did he say it? Was it like, all quiet and romantic? Or all meaningful and serious? Did he kiss you afterwards? Did you say it, too?”

And that was why Daphne Chanders was my best friend.

~. Brian .~

“Hello?” I snatched up my vibrating cell from my desk, flipping it open and pressing it to my ear in one fluid motion, not even bothering to check the caller ID.

“Hey, Brian. It's me.”

I realized suddenly that I wasn't breathing, and forced the stale air from my lungs, sucking in a fresh breath that left me dizzy. “Oh.” I leaned over my desk on my elbows, the restless tension draining from my shoulders.

“Nice to hear from you, too.”

“Sorry, Mikey,” I said, rubbing my temple wearily. “I've been expecting a call.”

“I bet I can guess from who,” he said slyly. Actually, the certain blond he was referring to most likely wouldn't be available to text for another hour at least, when he got out of class, but I let it go, not particularly eager to explain myself. “Do you have time to talk?”

“Not really,” I said, stretching my legs under my desk. If we were getting technical about it, I really didn't even have time to piss, but if I had to look at these fucking designs for this fucking campaign for one more fucking minute, a good half of the department would end up getting fired today, as a result of my bad mood. “Why? Anything important going on?”

“Not really. It's just that the guys are all going to Woody's for a drink later tonight, if you want to come.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Tonight?” I repeated. I'd already decided last weekend that, the next time there was an opportunity to go out, I would at least mention it to Justin. Let him make the decision for himself. I had no idea what kind of mood he would be in, but he'd been calm and collected enough when I'd dropped him off at PIFA this morning. “What time?”

“We were thinking around seven?”

I nodded, forgetting he couldn't see me. “I'll think about it...it depends.”

He didn't ask for further elaboration, for which I was grateful. We talked for a few more minutes, and then I heard the distant rumble of voices, as though he'd suddenly walked into a crowd, then, about a minute later, what sounded like the muted chime of the comic shop's door.

“Well, my break's over. I'd better get back,” said Mikey.

“Probably,” I agreed. “It is your civic duty to make sure there's never a zero left without a hero.”

“Shut up, asshole,” he said, and I could just see him, rolling his eyes, but grinning anyway. “See you...whenever.”

“Yeah. See you.”

And with that, I flipped my cell closed, setting it aside and letting out a deep breath. I sat, staring at my computer screen, contemplating his offer.

Normally, I'd probably go. I did go out once or twice a week, leaving Justin with his mother or Daphne for a few extra hours. Besides my generally idiotic coworkers and clients here at Vanguard (I didn't typically count Cynthia in the 'generally idiotic' category, but she was one of few) and the couple of minutes a day I saw Jennifer and Daphne, those one or two days were basically the only real socialization I had these days, outside of Justin himself. I hadn't stopped by the diner for lunch in a while, which meant I hadn't seen Lindsay or Debbie except at the family dinners. Nights out with the guys were rare and lasted only a couple of hours, at the most. And basically the only people Justin saw on a regular basis were his mother and his best friend. The last few weeks we'd attended the family dinners had been something of a breakthrough. I could only hope, for his sake, that it would continue.

But the point was, we'd both basically dropped out of our whole social circle. There were no more late nights with the guys, no breakfasts at the diner. It wasn't as though we'd become hermits, exactly, but I did miss going out without the the little voice in my head nagging me because Justin wasn't there. I missed telling Debbie her diner coffee tasted like stale cum and earning myself a slap on the head. I missed regularly mocking Theodore's inability to get laid. I missed—God help me—Emmett's dancing, Ben's ramblings about philosophy and cultural shit, Mikey's comic book rants. I missed my sonny-boy and I missed Lindsay's irritatingly knowing little jibes. I missed arguments with that bitch Melanie.

Most of all, however, I missed Justin. I missed being us. Ironic, considering that before all this, I never would have admitted there'd been an us, and now it was what I was missing most from my life. Now, I missed pulling him close for a kiss at Woody's or while walking down the street just because I felt like it. I missed digs about our sex life from our friends. I missed a time when I could show him exactly how fucking much I loved him without a single word. I'd never tell a soul, but I missed the fucked up little whatever it was we used to have together.

I'd never tell my friends any of this, of course. And I'd never mention it to Justin, who would only take it as a reason to feel guilty. But I truly did miss life as it used to be.

But—the thing was—so did he. He missed them all, too. He missed me. And I could understand that, which was precisely why I thought it might be a pleasant change for him to go somewhere for fun for once, rather than because I'd placed him on lockdown. I hadn't asked him to come out with me in ages; he'd never shown any signs of wanting to. But he'd enjoyed himself at the last two family dinners. Could he handle more? Would he want it?

I decided it was worth asking.

~.~

I picked him up from his mother's on the way home, listening intently as he told me, glowing with pride, about how he'd gotten a grade back on a project he'd turned in last week. An A. The best fucking mark he'd gotten in months. I'd never seen him so ecstatic over a grade, but I had to admit, I was proud of him, too. After months and months of him feeling like such a crucial piece of himself was slipping away yet again, this was a welcome change.

He threaded his fingers through mine as we headed into my building, only letting go in the elevator to wrap them around my tie instead and pull me down for a kiss. My lips quirked upward as they met his, and I tugged him closer.

“Hey,” I muttered against his lips. “You feel like celebrating tonight?”

He pulled away, eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Celebrating?”

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then decided that, whatever reservations I had, it was only fair to offer him the option. “Michael called me today. He wants to know if we want to come out to Woody's with the guys tonight.” Okay, so he hadn't exactly said we. But that was only because he knew about Justin's issues with crowds. He would be more than welcome.

“Woody's?” he repeated weakly. I could see the internal battle taking place behind his eyes, between what he wanted, and what he felt brave enough to take.

“We can stay home,” I said immediately. “But...the offer's there.”

He fingered the shoulder strap of his backpack. “It might be fun,” he said, almost to himself. “It'll just be the six of us?”

“Just the six of us,” I assured him. “We can get a couple tables to ourselves, have a few drinks...”

“I can't,” he said at once. “I can't drink, remember? I'm taking those pills.”

“So then don't have anything alcoholic,” I shrugged.

We had reached our floor, and I led the way out of the elevator. He still hadn't given me a definite answer, but I decided to let it go for now. We had a little while until we had to leave, if we were indeed going. He followed me inside the loft, slinging his backpack down on the computer chair and kneeling down beside it to unload its contents onto the desk. I began loosening my tie, stripping off my jacket. As I looked through my closet for a change of clothes, the softly spoken sound of my name from across the loft caught my attention.

Justin was standing there, holding one of his textbooks. Or at least, it looked like a textbook. Closer examination revealed it to be smaller, thinner...black. His therapy log. As an almost instinctive reaction, my heart skipped several beats. I'd forgotten that I had left it there earlier this morning after flipping through it. He didn't have nightmares, not anymore. The sole purpose of it now was to document his 'mood evaluation scale' numbers every day. They tended to hover in the 4-6 area lately.

“I want to go,” he said simply, looking up at me.

I stopped trying to unbutton my shirt and stood there, looking right back at him. “Justin...” I sighed. Suddenly I regretted mentioning it in the first place. I should have known better, seeing the glint in his eyes, that book in his hand. It had only been a suggestion, but lately his frustration was getting the better of him, forcing him forward, beyond his comfort levels. Just to prove he could. Because he wanted that ten. Because he wanted just to get over this, and that, in my opinion, was no reason to do anything. Not in a situation like this.

“Look, I'm not...you don't have to go if you don't want to,” I told him. “It was just—an invitation.”

He shrugged, setting his log back down on the desk, and doing his best to smile at me. “Well...I accept.”

~.~

So an hour later—both of us freshly showered, dressed, and ready to go—we headed out, my misgivings put aside, his hand tightly entwined with mine. I actually would have liked to think this was just out of habit, or even some ridiculously lesbionic urge of his, but tonight, I wasn't so certain.

“You're sure about this?” I asked him, at least a good dozen times on the way there.

Each and every time, the answer was the same. A small “yeah,” a nod, and fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt.

“There are going to be other people there,” I said, as if he didn't realize. “And it's not like in school, where everyone's quiet and sits at a desk.” Somehow, this felt more—real—than anything else we'd done, or anywhere else we'd gone. This wasn't like the familiar atmosphere of a family dinner; it wasn't his mother's house or his best friend's apartment. It was a bar full of strangers, and as much as I'd wanted to give him the opportunity earlier, I was seriously second guessing that decision now.

“I know.”

“If it starts to get to be too much...”

“I know, Brian,” he said, annoyance tinging his tone.

I nodded a little to myself and squeezed the wheel so hard that my knuckles turned white. “I just...don't want you to push yourself.”

I saw him shrug out of the corner of my eye. “I'm the one who said I didn't just want to wait around for something to happen.”

“That doesn't mean you need to push yourself, if you're not ready for it to happen,” I countered.

“It also doesn't mean I shouldn't take chances when I see them and make things happen on my own,” he replied coolly.

For a split second, it was like we were back to a time, over four months ago now, in this very jeep. Different argument. Different problem. But for that one second, I could see inside us the same people that we'd been back then.

On one hand, there was him, wanting to pay for school on his own, determined as always, absolutely resolute in his decisions, no matter how self-destructive they turned out to be. No matter what had changed within him, no matter what had happened between that time and now, this convinced me more than anything else that Justin was still there, still the headstrong fucker who knew what he wanted and would do whatever it took to get it. That was something I'd always admired about him. Something I'd always loved.

On the other hand, there was me. Playing the concerned boyfriend. Desperate to help, frustrated when he wouldn't allow it, and hating the feeling of being so helpless in it all. It wasn't that I'd ever really doubted his ability to take care of himself. After all, I did know him, and to know Justin was to also know that he knew how to get what he wanted. He'd gotten me to come to his prom, he'd gotten into my loft and into my bed, he'd gotten a job to pay for school. Justin always got what he wanted, in the end. The only problem was, these things often came with prices, and he was always the one paying.

I did see where he was coming from. I really did. Even if patience and waiting were major requirements on getting through this, we weren't going to get anywhere if we didn't try. If he wanted his life back, it was up to him to fight for it, even just a little at a time. And things like this—going out with our friends—those were all a part of our old lives, too, weren't they?

The guys were waiting for us by the time we got to Woody's. I watched their eyes grow wide, one by one, as they realized who I was with, in much the same way the used to do back when Justin and I were such an uncertainty, and me showing up somewhere with him at my side—well, knowingly and intentionally—was an occasion to remember.

“You can go sit down with them,” I muttered to Justin as some beefy guy in a leather jacket brushed against his arm on his way past us, causing his grip on my arm to tighten to a rather painful degree. “I'll get us something to drink. Or do you want me to come with you? Or you can come with me?”

He took one look at me, then the table around which our friends were grouped. “I can do it,” he said, though he sounded uncertain.

“I know you can,” I said into his ear, and he smiled, slowly releasing my arm. Despite my promise to fetch us drinks, I stood and watched as he made his way across the bar, sighing in relief when he made it. Way to go, Sunshine.

I waited at the counter for the bartender's attention, remembering to order Justin something virgin, and brought our drinks to the table. Ted, Emmett, and Ben were in hysterics about something when I arrived, while Michael looked rather disgruntled. I set Justin's drink in front of him with a clink and took a seat beside him, my hand reaching for his, resting them both on top of his knee. He sighed a little and leaned into me. He was the only one besides Mikey not laughing his head off, settling for a weak smile instead.

“Hey, Bri. Justin was just telling us about Michael's days as a pyromaniac,” explained Ted, sending Emmett into another round of raucous laughter on Theodore's shoulder. Ah. Well...that explained it. The infamous toaster story. I smirked and nudged Justin with my elbow, and his grin widened almost sheepishly.

“I can't believe you told him that,” Michael attempted to glare at me, but his resolve was waning, his irritated demeanor starting to crack. Finally, it seemed, he could contain himself no more, and he snorted into his drink. “Jesus, do you remember how pissed off my mom was?”

And so it continued, the laughing, the teasing, the flammable toaster jokes at Michael's expense, which even he had to join in on. I kept a tight hold on Justin's hand, stroking it with my thumb, and eventually letting go to put an arm around him instead when he began to look a little too tense. He was doing his best to relax and join in the conversation, but every time someone would pass by the table, he'd tense up. Even Emmett, who was sitting next to him in one of the booth-type seats, was careful to give him his room after accidentally brushing his shoulder and making him jump about a foot off the seat.

“Do you want to go?” I leaned over to whisper in his ear, which included the benefit of pulling him a little closer to me. Even with Ted and Emmett next to us and Mikey and Ben across the table in a couple of chairs, I was glad we'd ended up in one of the booths. It made it easier to slide closer to him when he needed it, and alternatively allow him his space when he needed that.

“No. I'm okay,” he said, though his grip on his drink was making his fingers turn white. I pressed a reassuring kiss to his cheek, and he gave a hesitant smile that faded a little too quickly. “Um, I think I need another drink.”

“I'll get it.”

He shook his head, and though his grasp on my arm was causing me to lose feeling in everything below my elbow, he was resolute. “I can get it.”

“Then let me come with you,” I said. He bit his lip, glancing from me to the bar and back, and nodded.

“We'll be back,” I said to the group as a whole, and slid from the booth, Justin right behind me.

I fixed him with a serious look as we took a seat at the bar. “Are you sure you're okay?”

He nodded, letting out a deep breath. He was perched on the very edge of his stool, as though ready to bolt at any moment. “It's crowded in here,” he admitted. “I didn't...it's just more than I expected.”

“We can go,” I said at once, already half way off my own seat. “We'll just tell the guys we're going, and then...”

“No,” he cut me off, not budging an inch. “No. I'm not leaving yet.”

I frowned. “Justin, if you're—if you want to go, they'll understand.”

He swallowed hard, drumming his fingers on the bar. He seemed to catch himself, curling them into a fist and taking another deep breath. “It's not them I'm worried about.”

“Then who?” I demanded. He didn't answer, fingering a discarded coaster on the bar. “Me?”

“No,” he said calmly. “Me.”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, and looked up in surprise when he suddenly slid from the stool beside me.

“Where are you going?” I asked, daring to hope that he was finally giving in and allowing me to take him home. This whole thing had been a stupid fucking idea from the beginning. Whatever he said to the contrary, he wasn't fine. He wasn't laughing or joking at all anymore. He was tense and scared, and I knew it was only his innate stubbornness keeping him here.

“I'm going to the bathroom,” he shrugged. He took one final deep breath before releasing my hand completely.

“I'm coming with you,” I said firmly, grabbing a hold of his wrist again when he tried to walk away. Him going off alone was just screaming bad fucking idea.

“No. I can do it by myself.” He leveled me with a look that booked no room for argument. I wanted to. I wanted to tell him that he was being a fucking twat, pushing himself when past experience had only proved that it was a mistake. But he had that fucking look on his face, the same one I'd seen on him so many times after the bashing. Fierce, unbridled determination.

Reluctantly, I let go of his arm.

He gave me what was probably supposed to be a reassuring, here-goes-nothing type of smile, but my eyes followed him all the way to the bathroom.

I drummed my fingers impatiently on the counter top, my eyes fixed so intently on the bathroom exit that I didn't realize when the bartender set our drinks down in front of me until he tapped me on the shoulder, wanting his fucking money. I wasn't sure if Justin would go right back to the table, or if he'd look for me at the bar. A good half a dozen people were suddenly migrating in my general direction, however, while our the area around our table was relatively deserted, so I took our drinks and headed back to our friends.

I kept an eye on the bathroom while Emmett launched into an explanation about his new party-planning endeavors. I pretended to listen for what I judged to be about five minutes, but was more likely around two, knowing the way that time drug on when you were anxious about something, and then I could take it no longer. Ignoring the questions from my friends as I stood up without warning, mid-conversation, I strode quickly across the bar, sidestepping a few people and simply shoving a few others out of the way.

“Justin?” I called as I slipped into the men's bathroom, my feet echoing on the tile floor even as my voice echoed off the walls, my eyes doing a quick sweep of the narrow room. The sinks. The urinals. No Sunshine.

“Justin, you in here?” I began rapping on the stall doors, but there was no answer from behind any of them other than one or two what the fuck do you wants?

Finally, I reached the last stall in the row, practically banging down the door.

“Justin, are you in there?” I called over the sounds of running water and toilet flushing and mindless chatter. Really, did it look like a good place to hold a conversation? It was no more crowded than usual, but it didn't take much to set Justin off, and there seemed to be a ton of people just standing around, leaning against the walls and talking or kissing.

“Brian?”

And there was no mistaking that voice. That tone—that little whimpering tone that told me he was scared out of his wits, that he was too terrified to move. That I had been right.

“Are you okay?” I called through the crack in the door.

“Um...I'm... I don't....” he stammered.

Shit. Why the fuck hadn't I insisted on coming with him? “Open up,” I ordered. “Open the door.”

“I...I can't.”

“Why not?” I asked, but was met with only silence. “Justin, please. It's okay. I won't let anyone else in there. It's just me.” I knew this had been a bad idea. I fucking knew it. I never should have even mentioned coming here tonight. I should have just taken him home, we could have had dinner, maybe watched some TV. Instead, he was freaking out in a fucking bathroom stall.

Another heavy silence, then slowly, the little silver lock began to turn in the door. I pushed it open, gently, in case he was behind it, and slid inside—shutting and locking it behind me, as promised.

It was a handicapped stall, and therefore quite a bit larger than the rest, or I wouldn't have even fit without practically lying on top of him. He was against the stall wall, his legs pulled up to his chest, his chin on his knees as he hugged them tightly. I dropped down next to him, trying not to think about the fact that these were a particularly expensive pair of jeans that I would ordinarily be too fond of to kneel in on a filthy bathroom floor.

“Justin,” I said, scooting close and laying a hand on his knee, not sure just yet how my touch would be received. “What happened? Look, just...just let me help you. We'll go straight to the jeep if you want, okay? We'll go home.”

“I've been trying,” he said through clenched teeth. “I've been trying to get up and come get you for the past five minutes.”

Fuck. Why the hell had I let him come in here alone? Why hadn't I gone after him the second he'd left my sight? Maybe he would have been pissed at me, but right now, I was pretty sure even he would have agreed that it was a better alternative than this. “Well...I'm here now...we can go. Come on, it's okay....”

“No. It's not,” he said at once, his grip on his knees tightening. “I can't go out there.”

I frowned, trailing my fingers delicately down his arm. “Why not?”

He pressed his forehead into his knees, shoulders slumped, and sighed. “He might be out there still. I don't want him to see me.”

“You don't want...who to see you?” I asked, alarm bells ringing in my head already. Him. Who the fuck was him?

He wiped at the corner of his eye, letting out another shaky sigh. “The guy...the guy who was in here with me."

What the fuck? “Justin, what guy?”

He shrugged, sniffling. “I don't know. Just some guy here. He...he tried to come onto me.”

It was like someone had physically knocked the air from my lungs. “Who? What did this guy look like?”

He must have heard something in my voice, however, some warning, because he suddenly fixed me with a stern look. “You're not saying anything to him. He didn't do anything wrong.”

“He freaked you out.”

“It's not like that's difficult to do,” he said grimly, letting out a huff of dark amusement. “It wasn't his fault. I just—panicked.”

“What did he say?” I asked, trying my best to keep any accusatory or dangerous tones out of my voice. I reached up to brush his hair back from his face, and let my arm fall around him. He relaxed, leaning into my touch. “What did he say to you?”

“He said...just, normal pick-up lines. You know...stuff you'd say to tricks.”

I sighed and leaned my head against the top of his, my breath stirring his hair. “Did he try anything else?”

“He tried to convince me,” he admitted, and continued hastily at the look on my face. “Nothing really physical. He just had his hand on the outside of the door, like he was trying to block me in or something. I was stupid...I just panicked and locked myself in here. I never even got to fucking piss,” he tried to laugh, but it came out all forced and wrong.

“You weren't stupid,” I assured him quietly. It was...understandable. The only person to look at him that way since the party was currently sitting in a filthy bathroom stall with him. He trusted me, knew that no matter what I felt, or what I wanted, I'd never hurt him. But the last time someone else, someone besides me, had looked at him like that, it had changed his life forever.

He shot me a look that plainly told me to spare him the bullshit. Or at least, what he viewed as bullshit. “I fucking freak out just because a guy hits on me?” he asked desperately. “It's fucking pathetic. I could have said no, and it would have been fine, but...”

“...but the last time you said no—no one listened,” I finished. He just looked at me, and I noticed that distant dullness in his eyes that I'd just started to hope would never be returning; just one incident was all it took, and he was right back there, remembering that night and all it stole from him. He swiped at his cheek, his gaze dancing around mine, as though hoping I wouldn't notice the presence of tears.

I regarded him sadly for a moment. “Not...not everyone wants to hurt you, Justin,” I said, choosing my words with care.

“I know.”

And I got the impression that he meant it. It was just that sometimes, the panic became too much, the memories too real, and he couldn't handle it. And after what he'd been through, it was no wonder.

Suddenly, our conversation was rudely interrupted by a loud banging from my right. “Will you fucking hurry up in there?”

“Fuck off,” I called right back. I glimpsed a pair of feet, adorned in the ugliest fucking shoes I'd ever seen, from beneath the door, shuffling away.

“Are you ready to go?” I asked, my voice gentle once again, turning back to Justin. He nodded, and we helped each other to our feet. I swung an arm around his shoulders, hugging him close to my side, as we navigated our way out of the bathroom and back through the crowded bar, to the sweet relief of the cool night air.

~. Justin .~

“We shouldn't have gone...we shouldn't have fucking gone.....”

I had to bite my lip not to respond to that. I was angry. I was frustrated beyond belief. But even then, I knew that taking it out on Brian was ridiculous and unfair. I couldn't let myself get overwhelmed when by my failure. It only made me want to push harder, made me want even more to succeed, and that only left me with more miserable moments like these. So I kept my mouth shut, letting him rant and mutter to the steering wheel, berating himself for his decision to take me with him.

Not that it was his fault, of course; the exact opposite, actually. I claimed sole responsibility. He'd wanted to come with me, and I'd had to go be stubborn and stupid and do it on my own. I'd wanted to be over it, over that incessant fear and helplessness. I'd wanted to deal with it.

I'd thought I could deal with it.

“I'm sorry,” I said after a couple of silent minutes between us. “For ruining your night. You should just...go without me next time.”

“Or maybe next time, you'll let me go with you,” he snapped.

I dropped my gaze to my knees. His gentle understanding had dissipated a bit since the bathroom. He was irritated about that, and rightly so. I should have let him come with me, shouldn't have wanted so badly to prove to him that I could leave his side.

Truth be told, I was kind of—embarrassed? Ashamed, I guess the word was. I'd been so nervous, so scared inside that bar, and still, I'd told Brian that I could do it. That I could handle being by myself, handle being around the crowd, and I'd gone and freaked out on him.

“You were right, okay?” I sighed, closing my eyes against the images rushing past outside my window. “I should have let you come with me.”

“Yeah. You should have,” he said indifferently.

I'd just started accepting the fact that he was pissed enough to keep up his stony silence the whole way home, when he spoke—his voice softer, gentler once again, the fight drained out of him. “But, if you had—you wouldn't be you.”

I could practically hear the end of that sentence being completed in his head, the affectionate stubborn twat he'd no doubt added on mentally, and relaxed.

He went right to the bedroom when we got home, stripping of his jeans and T-shirt and pulling on a pair of sweatpants to lounge around in. He laid with me on the couch, combing his fingers through my hair as I let that night's sleeping pill take effect. We were watching some old sitcom, but I'd admit to paying more attention to the sensation of his hands running through my hair than whatever was on TV.

“Brian?” I asked, my eyelids drooping. I turned my head just slightly to press a kiss to his bare chest. It felt nice to have him against me like that, even if I was still wearing one of his baggy T-shirts. I wondered what it might feel like if both of us were shirtless, his skin bare against mine.

“Hmm?” he muttered lazily.

I rested my cheek against him, right over his heart, listening to its steady beat. Was this what he meant by not 'pushing myself?' If I were to, say, take off my shirt and lay here with him, skin on skin...it would be because I truly wanted to do it, not because I thought I should be able to.

However, I didn't quite have the energy for sitting up right now, let alone taking my shirt off, so I just curled up on top of him, feeling his heart's steady thumpa thumpa beneath my ear.

“Nothing.”

And it was there that I drifted off to sleep.

~.~

On Thursday, the day after my little breakdown in the bathroom at Woody's, Brian and I had dinner over at my mother's house. It used to be even her place and Daphne's apartment would make me somewhat uneasy, but lately, they felt as comfortable as they always had before. There was no immediate need to get back to the loft, no urgency to attach myself to Brian's side. My mother had actually engaged in conversation with my boyfriend, while my sister insisted on giving him a 'gift'— a piece of notebook paper with smiley-face stickers stuck to it. Even without the stress of being away from the loft, I'd at least expected the usual tension between my mom and Brian, but they talked and joked, and actually seemed to have fun.

Friday was a bit of a different story. Brian picked me up from Daphne's that evening, where she apparently explained to him (while I was in the bathroom, unable to defend myself) that I'd been rather distant with her all day, which of course immediately put him on edge. And it probably didn't help that I only picked around at my dinner that night, though Brian had ordered all my favorite Chinese foods.

About a half an hour after my meager dinner, I dragged out a canvas, some newspaper for the floor, and some paint. Brian was supposedly talking to Lindsay over the phone in the bedroom, but he kept his voice unnaturally low, growing even quieter every time I so much as glanced in his direction. The weird phone calls had severely decreased in frequency, at least at home, but that didn't mean much. He could still get them at work, and if Lindsay was really on the other line right now, I'd eat my paintbrush.

Meanwhile, I tried to concentrate on my canvas. 'Tried' being the key word.

I wondered if he realized that it had been a month ago today that I'd stood up on that rooftop, inches away from giving up on everything. Nearly a whole fucking month of therapy logs, of the strictest of surveillance, of trying to recover from that night, along with everything else.

A month ago today, I hadn't been taking sleep medication or antidepressants. I didn't yet know Kathy. I hadn't been able to join the gang for dinner at Deb's, Brian didn't lock me inside my own home, and I hadn't had my three-month HIV testing. A lot had changed in that month.

But maybe the biggest change was that I no longer considered death an option. No longer wished for it as a chance at relief to my pain.

I wondered what it would take to get Brian to see that, too. He was still so careful, so hesitant to trust me. I guess I couldn't blame him, after what I'd done, but it was still hard sometimes. He was letting me shave on my own now, but he still kept my medicine hidden and controlled. He no longer forced breakfast down my throat every single morning—he didn't have to—but still checked in on me if he thought I was taking too long in the shower. I just wished that I could make him feel what I felt, just for a minute, so that he would know that he truly did not have to worry about me like that. Not anymore.

It was well over an hour later that I stepped back from my latest project, eying the colors and the textures and the design itself...taking it in for what it was. What I'd made of it. It was...real. That was the only word I could think of to describe it.

I could hear Brian's footsteps behind me, but I didn't bother to turn around. I knew what was going through his mind anyway. His uncertainty was made evident when he cleared his throat, obviously racking his brains for something to say. My name was what came out. Soft, worried.

“I just...needed to,” I told him truthfully. He knew what I was talking about, and I prayed that he wasn't about to make a big deal out of this. It really wasn't a big deal. At least, not in a bad way. This was a good thing. No matter what residual negativity the memories still carried, this had been a form of closure, I supposed. A checkpoint, to remind me, to hold me to my own personal promise to fight. To live through this, even when taking one more breath felt like drowning. Lately, though, I would admit...it was becoming easier to breathe again.

I stood and stared at the city unfolding before me, tiny dashes of light, like stars as they lit up the view. Two figures, shadowy and indistinct, but clearly embracing, on the precipice of everything. The night I'd almost lost everything, lost the fight. Lost myself.

It was strange, but I'd almost felt—numb—painting this. Because it truly wasn't me dwelling on death, or escape... it was about life. It was proof that I'd been there, that I'd survived it. A memento. A reminder of a place I swore I'd never to return to. Not when there was the here and now, not when I could look back and know that I'd made it through that. That I had outlasted my own expectations just be standing here and being alive this very second. This was a vow. Or rather, the cementation of that vow. It was a promise to myself and to the world...to Brian.

I felt his arms go around me as we stood there, just gazing at the painting. It wasn't really finished, but the basics were there, and I kind of liked it that way. Raw, as I was caught up in the memories of that night on the rooftop, even the ones I didn't want. Memories of tears streaking down Brian's face, of his voice breaking as he tried to talk me down from my decision. Things like memories of memories, dawn breaking outside the window as I'd come clean and told him everything about the night I was...about the night that had changed my life.

“I—I need to shower,” I said, breaking the unnatural silence that had descended over the both of us. “I've got paint all over me.”

He nodded, apparently still trying to shake off the effect of the piece. I really hadn't meant for it to be some monumental thing. It was just the image that came to mind when I closed my eyes, just the closure, the final silent promise to myself and to him that I would never be returning there. And maybe the fact that I was able to paint it at all meant something, meant that I was moving past it. That we could move past it.

Maybe it meant that I was moving past the reason I'd ever even done it in the first place.

I quickly cleaned off my brushes, and with a final glance at my painting, departed for the bathroom, peeling off my paint-streaked shirt as I went. It was kind of strange, and probably stupid to anyone else, but I always liked having paint-shirts. They were all old and ratty and stained, but every time they gained a new blotch, every time I manage to accidentally paint my fingers or smear my cheek, it made me feel like a real artist. There was something about being streaked with the essence of your inspiration that just made you feel accomplished. It was something that told me this was who I was and what I did. What I lived for.

Well, one of the things I lived for.

I took my time scrubbing at the dried paint on my arms, turning my skin pink where it was particularly stubborn and refused to come off. I was going at a particularly obstinate streak of gray on my elbow when the bathroom door opened, and Brian was suddenly there.

“Hey, are you going to be in there a while?” he asked.

“Not really. Why?” I called over the rush of the water, straining my ears to catch his response.

“I need a shave,” he admitted, running his hand over his stubbly chin. I kind of wished he wouldn't shave it just yet. It was always rough on my face when we kissed, but I liked the way it felt under my palm when I would cup his cheek. He'd admitted once that he liked me that way, too, but I'd never really liked the way I looked with a beard. I'd let it grow out a little once, but finally, even Brian had ended up wanting me to shave, his reason being that my prickly hairs irritated his thighs when I went down on him. I supposed I could do it now; there was no need to worry about that anymore.

“Go ahead.” I really did appreciate the way he was trying to give me my space and let me climb out of the shower in privacy, but up until a few weeks ago, he'd insisted on standing outside the door until I'd finished; I'd kind of gotten used to him being in the room with me. I watched him from behind the steamed glass until finally, I could prolong the inevitable no longer.

As always when he was in the room, I took a deep breath, wrapping my towel firmly around my waist, and stepped out. I was used to it, but I was also still naked, and he was still standing right fucking there. I could sense his eyes on me in the mirror, and wondered if I could handle not making a mad dash for my clothes right away. I used to be able to walk around naked after showers or sex—or shower sex—without a second thought. He was looking; I knew he was looking. How long could I handle drying myself off without freaking out and hastily grabbing for my clothes?

Keeping my breathing nice and even, I dried off every inch of my body, occasionally using the towel to cover as much of myself as I could. But I didn't lunge for my clothes, and that was good, right? I could let him see me naked. Even if I did eventually give in and pull on a pair of pants.

I didn't really mind him looking, especially when he was so discreet about it. It meant he still wanted me. It meant he still found me worth looking at. Though I couldn't help the way I was so overly aware of how close he was, or the way my heart started beating faster in my chest, I was at least grateful that he still seemed to be attracted to me. Hopefully someday—assuming I could—he'd want to be with me again.

“I need a shower,” he sighed, setting down the razor and running a hand over his freshly shaven face. I had a sudden desire to run my own fingertips over it. As much as I liked his rough stubble, I loved the way his smooth cheeks and chin felt against my skin, too. Okay, so I fucking loved him any way I could get him.

His eyebrow quirked when I took a step closer, his black wifebeater soft against my bare chest. I ran my hand over his cheek, his chin, smiling a little.

He smiled back, and leaned down to kiss me. His hand dropped from my face to my shoulder, the other gently cupping my neck. I continued just to run my fingers over his clean-shaven skin, enjoying the way it felt, while his hand slid further down my arm, brushing my chest lightly and coming to a rest at my hip, right over the band of my sweatpants.

I broke the kiss, nudging his nose with mine. Maybe I couldn't really go out just yet, and maybe we couldn't really do much physically with each other here at home. But I could kiss him the way I'd always kissed him, and as long as that still belonged to me, I was going to enjoy it.

“I need to shave,” I muttered, still not letting him go.

“I need to shower,” he said again, resting his forehead against mine. “Do you want me to wait?”

Frowning just a little, I shook my head. “No. Go ahead. I'll be fine.”

Finally, I released him and turned back to the sink. I didn't have to look in the mirror to know that he was hesitating, but then there was the unmistakable sound of clothing hitting the floor.

I was always careful not to look at him when we were like this. If I didn't look, I could handle him moving around me, as long as he didn't touch me. I could handle knowing he was there.

But maybe...he was in the shower, shut off from me by a thin sheet of glass. And besides that, it was Brian...

I took a deep breath, and dared a quick glance over my shoulder.

Christ.

He looked as beautiful as ever, water cascading down his shoulders and over his gorgeous back. For the first time in a very, very long time, I really looked at him. I really let myself see.

He really was gorgeous. Hell, he was more than that. He was...sexy? Was that the word I was looking for? Was I feeling real, sexual attraction towards him?

For some reason, I didn't want him to catch me staring, so I turned around and picked up the razor and shaving cream. But there he was anyway in the mirror, so—I looked. Even observing from a distance, it had been a long time since I'd allowed myself to enjoy the view of my boyfriend like this.

So...okay. We could be naked in front of each other, for reasons other than him wanting to keep an eye on me. That...had to be good, right? It had to be good that I didn't really mind him watching, that I was just more hyper-aware of it than anything. And it had to be good that I could at least appreciate the view of him in the shower. Maybe we couldn't really do anything yet, but that had to be a step in the right direction.

The question was, how did I bring myself to take another?

~. Brian .~

I'd been cautious about undressing in front of him, ready to leave at the slightest sign of his discomfort. But I'd climbed in the shower, turned on the water, and—

Caught him looking.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I'd caught him looking at me in the shower. It was only for a few seconds, and it was hard to read the expression on his face, through the water in my eyes and my pretending not to watch him watching me.

But he was. He most certainly was.

That had been last night. Today was Saturday, the night of yet another family dinner. In truth, I actually wasn't looking forward to this one as much as I had last week's. I'd so far managed to avoid any calls from the guys, but they would be there tonight, and would naturally be bringing their questions with them. Questions such as what the fuck had happened to us on Wednesday night at Woody's, and why we'd suddenly disappeared without notice. Knowing Michael, he'd have a few words for me about that. He worried far too much for his own fucking good. Wonder where he got that from.

Justin and I had mainly lounged around the loft for most of the day. He'd put a few finishing touches on his painting from the night before, and I worked a little on my computer.

The painting was...well, it was intense, but it was a kind of intensity no one but the two of us would ever be able to understand. Just the shadowy edge of the building, two indistinct figures embracing against the star-flecked backdrop of sky.

But the thing was...it wasn't a bad kind of intensity. Dark as it was in color, with its shadowy blacks and navies and grays, it never crossed the line into painful dark. Miserable dark. Because that wasn't what it was; it wasn't out of pain this time.

This was behind him. This had happened, we had both dealt with it, were dealing with it. But we'd survived it, and I understood that. This was part of his life, part of our lives, documented on a canvas. This whole thing, every hardship, every torturous second that we went through...it was all a part of us. Part of what had happened to him.

Around five, we decided to head over to Deb's. As usual, he kept his hand intertwined with mine, but his grip was loose and I had a feeling this was more out of his urge to be a complete lesbian than out of fear or unease. Whatever. If he wanted to hold my hand, it wasn't the worst thing in the world.

His fingers were almost painfully torn from mine, however, when Debbie swung open the front door and swept him into in a hug tight enough to crush half the bones in his upper body. We'd been at her place several times for dinner now, but she still, apparently, hadn't gotten over her jubilation at seeing him again.

Once she released him and led us to the kitchen, I purposefully took a seat near the Munchers. Halfway through dessert, however, I made the mistake of vacating the table to go to bathroom; I opened the door on my way out to find my best friend leaning against the opposite wall.

“All yours,” I muttered, attempting to pass him.

“Hold up a sec,” he said, throwing out an arm to stop me.

I sighed, berating myself for not seeing this coming. I knew I should have returned his calls, but I really hadn't been looking forward to explaining about Justin's bathroom freak out. It was no one else's business, and I doubted Justin wanted everyone knowing.

Mikey started in on me immediately. “Look, what happened last Wednesday? I've been worried as hell about you. You're not answering my calls...I left you three messages yesterday!”

“You could have stopped by,” I pointed out, ignoring his tirade of questions. If he was that worried, he could easily have stopped by the loft instead of bombarding me with phone calls that it should have become apparent I wasn't going to answer.

“I did,” he said hotly. “Thursday night.”

Thursday...Thursday....oh, right.

“We were at dinner with Jennifer Taylor. Christ, you're acting like we ditched you in the middle of nowhere.” Okay, so it wouldn't have been the first time I'd done that to my friends...but I'd actually had a legitimate reason this time that they could understand and sympathize with. One that didn't involve getting laid.

“It's not about you ditching us,” he argued. “You just went off to the bathroom and never came back. Emmett and I even went in there to look for you. We didn't know what happened. Is Justin okay? He was acting really quiet—we were worried about him. Did something happen?”

“He...kind of freaked out,” I admitted, sparing him the details. He didn't need to know, and Justin didn't need for the world to find out. “We decided to just go home.”

Whether or not he'd been expecting an answer like this, it obviously had not been the one he'd wanted to hear. His entire expression shifted at once. “God, is he okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Now. He just needed to get out of there.” He'd needed to leave, and I hadn't wanted to take the time with goodbyes and arrangements to call later or anything that could have possibly held us up. Not to mention I hadn't wanted to put him through the discomfort of explaining why we were leaving.

“Just...don't broadcast it, all right? He's having a hard enough time as it is.” The last thing he'd want was for everyone to think he was some kind of fucking coward or something. Not that they would, but I knew the way Justin's mind worked.

Michael nodded, lips pressed together. “Of course. Listen, we kind of thought something like that might have happened. We were thinking, maybe next time, if Justin still wanted to come...we could just come over to your place instead? Would he be more comfortable there? It's not exactly going out, but if you just wanted to hang out or something...”

“That...sounds good,” I said, surprised, though I wasn't sure why. I'd have to find a way to mention it to Justin without making it sound like they were all taking pity on him. He wasn't ready to go out yet. At least, not out out. And this way, we'd still get to talk to our friends, and he could still enjoy the comfort and safety of the loft.

Hopefully, someday, Justin would start getting more confidant, more assured, and places like Woody's would no longer be a problem. I couldn't blame him in the slightest for his fear, but maybe one day he'd realize that he wasn't in constant danger every time he set foot out the door. Maybe one day he'd be able to move on and not let fuckers like Hobbes and Sapperstein control his life.

“Hey, Mikey?”

“Yeah?”

I hesitated for the smallest of moments, then asked anyway. “Any idea when Pittsburgh's finest detective is set to make his next appearance?”

He grimaced. “If you mean my mother's boyfriend....”

“Who the fuck else would I mean?” Really, it wasn't as though either of us knew a lot of detectives.

“He couldn't make it tonight,” Mikey said, rather unnecessarily, as I could quite plainly see for myself that he wasn't there. I bit my tongue, however, and let him continue. “I think she said he might be coming next week. Why?”

I shrugged, and began heading back for the table, leaving him no choice but to follow.

“No reason.”