~. Justin .~

I hadn't wanted to mention the whole Woody's incident to Kathy on Monday, but Brian insisted that if I didn't, he'd tell her himself. The story itself had sounded pretty good up until the point where Brian had discovered me cowering in a bathroom stall, but to my bewilderment, Kathy actually called this “progress.” Maybe she was proud of me for trying? I didn't see much else that warranted a remark like that, considering I'd had a miniature meltdown on the bathroom floor during a night out with my friends.

Other than that, the session went unusually well. Kathy flipped through my log, commenting brightly on the increase of the numbers on my daily emotional scale. They certainly were better than the lowly twos and threes I'd been awarding my life when I'd started with the exercise.

“Still no nightmares, I see,” she noted. “Good...that's good.”

I smiled; I couldn't help myself. I'd never have believed it was possible, but that little book, once detailing such misery, had somehow become a cause of pride for me.

“I'm going to give you a new assignment today, Justin,” she said, handing the log back to me. “Since you no longer have nightmares to write about, I want you to use the space for something else. Every day, I want you to write down one thing that happened that made you happy.”

I bit my lip as I considered this. “What kind of things?”

“Anything,” she said at once. “Big or small. Just something that made you smile.”

One good thing a day. A month ago, I would have said I didn't have one good thing to write about per week.

Now, the idea didn't seem quite so intimidating.

~.~

I sighed, rapping my pencil against my sketchpad, my eyes going out of focus as I stared down at the partially completed drawing.

Brian. Again. Actually, most of the pages in this book were devoted to him. Sometimes just his face, sometimes his upper body, and there were a few of him stretched out on the couch.

In this one, he was in the shower. His hair had that rumpled look it used to get when it was wet and I'd run my fingers through it, his hips dissolving into nothingness as the lower half of his body faded away off the edge of the page.

I bit the tip of my pencil, held it between my teeth. Not right. Something was off. Something was...missing.

Irritated, I flipped to a new page with yet another drawing from that very morning. A close-up of his head and shoulders, in the shower once again. Beautiful—more than beautiful, he was fucking perfect. He was Brian Kinney.

And still, it just...didn't feel right. It was supposed to be completed, but I couldn't quite shake the feeling that it ought to have something more to it.

Finally, I flipped to a fresh page, willing myself to try and draw something else—anything else—anything I knew I could manage and that wouldn't leave me so incredibly frustrated.

The new drawing began to take form: strong arms that always managed to find their way around me...a chest that I loved to curl up on...perfect lips and hair and eyes....

“Fuck,” I groaned, throwing my head back against the arm of the couch when I realized I was drawing the exact same image of Brian in the shower. This was getting pathetic.

“Michael...Michael,” Brian's voice was sharp with impatience. I tore my attention away from my fifth rendering of his bathing rituals to listen to his increasingly bored, agitated tone as he talked to Michael over the phone and looked through the refrigerator. “Honestly, I really don't give a shit about—yes, I've seen the damn movie. I just don't give a fuck about whether Superman would kick Spiderman's ass in a fight. I wasn't aware it required reflection fit for a psychology class.”

I hid a smirk, sketching the intricate beginnings of a spider web in the corner of a new page.

“How the fuck do I know? Ask your husband to watch it with—you're kidding me, right? Sixteen times? There are porn videos I haven't even watched sixteen times.”

I snorted, now doodling the rudimentary outline of a little figure in my sketchbook.

“Fascinating. Let me know how that works out.”

I bit my lip to keep from grinning in amusement as the phone was hung up with unnecessary force, and Brian wandered in from the kitchen, flopping down on the couch near my feet.

“Superman versus Spiderman?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, now beginning to fill out the little doodle-man's broad chest and shoulders.

“Apparently Michael was a fervent participant in the debate of the century today,” said Brian, rolling his eyes and pulling my feet onto his lap, one at a time. “Some geek in his shop had the nerve to suggest that Superman would kick Spiderman's ass in an ultimate showdown. Never mind the fact that they're, for all intents and purposes, on the same side....”

I chuckled, now filling out doodle-man's eyes. Brian began rubbing little circles into my feet through my socks, making me moan and stretch my legs out towards him. “What are you drawing?” he asked, giving the sock on my left foot a little tug.

I shrugged, sketching out a little mask—not even a mask, just a little shaded cloth with two slits over the doodle's eyes— making him look something like a raccoon. Superheroes never showed their faces. There was Batman, Spiderman, Zorro...they all had masks.

Brian pulled the sock the rest of the way off my foot, still massaging it expertly. I flexed my toes at him, and held up the drawing for him to see. “Personally, I think he'd kick both their asses, easy.”

It was a crude drawing, rough in every way, of a bulking figure with a familiar, albeit hurriedly sketched face and two bubble letters emblazoned on the tight outfit stretched across his chest.

He laughed. “Is that supposed to be me? What does 'SS' stand for?”

“Super-Stud,” I answered at once.

He snorted. “My stud status makes me a superhero now? Then what does that make you? The damsel in distress?”

I smacked him with the sketchpad. He smirked and bat it away. “Fuck you. Now you're not getting any awesome super powers,” I decided, going back to my drawing.

“Now there's a tragedy.”

“It is,” I said seriously. Or as seriously as I could manage with him now tickling my soles of my feet. I kicked his hand away. “Super Stud was going to have amazing powers. Like...flying.”

“Flying?” he repeated, his eyebrow creeping up his forehead. “Wow, do I get a cape, too?”

“No. Capes are overrated.”

“Ah.”

“You get something sexy,” I said thoughtfully. “Super Stud has to be sexy.”

“Obviously. By the way, if you ever mention this to Michael, you're taking every one of his phone calls for the next three years.”

“Deal.”

“So...” he said after a moment. I braced myself. Any sentence that began with that word and that tone usually meant something I wasn't going to like much. “Did you write anything in your log yet today?”

I'd only had it for a few days, but Brian was already utterly pleased with my new “assignment,” as well as the things I'd been writing down. On the first day, I'd written something about kissing him, and on Tuesday, I'd written about a watercolor painting that Molly had given me as a gift.

“Not yet,” I shrugged. “I'll get to it.”

He nodded, patted my feet, then slid them from his lap and pushed himself off the couch. “I'm going to go shower. Unless you want to go first?”

I shook my head. “No. I need to shave, though.” It was purely coincidence that I'd put off shaving all day until the exact moment he decided to shower, and had absolutely nothing to do with watching him undress or anything like that. Really.

He leaned down to kiss my cheek, nuzzling his nose against it as if affirming my statement, then departed for the bathroom. I put a few last finishing touches on Doodle-Stud, and headed after him.

Unable to help myself, I let my gaze drift to the mirror as he climbed into the shower, highly appreciative of what I saw. I would have given anything, anything at all, just to be able to strip off my clothes and clamber in after him. I would have given anything to be able to feel him against me, smooth and wet and wonderful.

As it was, I could only watch safely from a distance, my eyes glued to his reflection in the bathroom mirror. I followed his every movement, took in the closed eyes, the way his head tilted back under the spray of the water. Soapy rivulets cascaded over his shoulders, down his bare chest, lower, over his stomach, always lower....

My tongue came out to wet my lips, and I suddenly caught my own reflection in the mirror. I looked—I didn't know what the word was. Interested, definitely. Something a little less than full-blown lust, but settling instead for a dull kind of hunger, an ache for what I couldn't have. But still...for now...it was enough. More than enough, because it actually made me—watching myself watch him, I actually felt somewhat like the person I used to be.

I supposed this could technically count as my “something happy” I was supposed to be writing about for therapy each day. But the truth was it seemed a little too—well, nothing was really private with Kathy—but too intimate to talk about, to tell anyone at all, even Brian himself. It didn't make sense, but I kind of wanted to just keep this for myself. Sex was something that had felt so far beyond my control for so long, I just wanted to hang onto this one little piece of it. What was more, I didn't want to jinx this—whatever it was—by saying it out loud. As long as it was my little secret, it was safe.

Every night that I could be in there with him, even just to sneak the occasional peek in the mirror, it was like a little thrill went through my body, a jolt of something I hadn't felt in far too long. It was just what Kathy had suggested...it was something we used to do that we'd given up after it had happened. And while the incident at Woody's had shaken me somewhat in my ferocious determination, something akin to genuine confidence would bubble up inside me every time I was able to look at him, and not want to run. It made me happier than I'd been in a long time; there was no question about that.

Too soon, though, he was shutting off the water and climbing out, pulling on boxers and sweat pants and a wifebeater. I loved the way those fit him, though; they made his sculpted arms look even more enticing, so that I was endlessly tempted to run my hands up them and over them and have them wrapped around me.

I'd just finished up at the sink when I got my wish, his arms coming to fold around me from behind, his lips brushing against my ear, my cheek, my neck...letting me lose myself in him. He rested his lips there innocently for a moment, then, slowly, they parted against my skin, sucking lightly for just a second before kissing it again. I sighed and leaned back into him, my head on his shoulder, eyes open just enough to see the two of us in the mirror. We looked pretty perfect together, him all wrapped around me, arms over my chest. I decided that if this was what being lost in him felt like, I never wanted to be found.

~.~

Despite having taken my sleeping pill a little too late on Thursday night, I still woke up before Brian on Friday morning. I was tempted to wake him up, just to hear his voice and have someone to talk to, to keep my mind off the one thing I really did not want to think about right now. I felt wrong all over in a way I hadn't since I'd had to deal with my nightmares, those types that I could never quite remember in detail, but whose general impression always stayed with me just the same.

Today was it. The four month anniversary of that night.

I rolled over and pulled Brian's arm around me, snuggling up close, seeking the comfort of his body. I couldn't believe it. Didn't know how to believe it. Four months. I'd been a rape survivor for four fucking entire months.

In the past, these monthly anniversaries...these milestones in my life...had all been accompanied by change—usually something rather drastic. They'd all left their mark, left their evidence that another month had passed, another four weeks had gone by.

The first month had been the night I'd done my best to “heal” myself and my relationship, and ended up sobbing on Michael's couch when my pathetic attempt had failed. Of course, the very next day had marked Brian's enlightenment; it was the day that he'd found out what had happened to me at that party, just over a month after the fact. A month of being scared and alone. A month full of nights spent feeling sick to my stomach, hoping against hope that Brian would be too tired to try initiating sex, so that I wouldn't have to lie to him and see the hurt in his face. A month of running without getting anywhere and putting everything I had into just getting through each day.

The second month had been a little more understated, but still carried with it a considerable change in my life. It had been around then that I'd managed to scare Brian enough for him to decide that I needed constant security during the day while he wasn't home. It was that two month milestone that had marked my imprisonment. Two months of the both of us stumbling along in the dark. Two months of pain and fear and neither of us ever really gaining our footing. Two months that had broken me down until I'd just about given up.

The third month had been more about the past than the present; the worst thing that had happened on that particular day had been getting tested again at the clinic. Three months afterward, and my life was basically falling apart. Three months, during which I'd given up hope, and attempted to end it all. Three months, during which I'd scared my partner badly enough to land my ass in therapy. Three months during which my life had slowly deconstructed itself until all that was left behind was a pathetic, wretched mess of a person.

And now, I'd arrived at the four-month anniversary of that night, and I wasn't quite sure what to think of it. There was nothing really drastic or life-changing that had happened lately. The last three “anniversaries” had all seemed to mark something, something important; this one...it had just sort of crept up on me and happened without much ado.

The alarm started wailing a few minutes later. Brian rolled over me to shut it off, while I kept my body perfectly still, breathing him in as he fumbled with the clock on my side of the bed. He apparently hit the 'snooze' button instead of the 'off' one, though—he never allowed himself the possibility of falling back asleep without the reassurance of an alarm—and a moment later, he'd slumped back over the bed and me, his face buried in my neck, hot breath ghosting over my hair and skin.

“Morning,” he whispered after a moment. I wondered how the fuck he knew I was awake, but didn't ask.

“Morning,” I answered instead. I felt his lips at the back of my neck, beneath my hair, not really kissing me, just resting there.

It was quiet for a few more peaceful moments. “You going to Daphne's today?” he slurred sleepily into my skin.

“Yeah.”

“We need to get up.”

“Yeah,” I agreed again, but made no immediate effort to move.

It took us a few more minutes and a second round of the alarm to drag ourselves from the bed and into the bathroom. Some mornings, we easily shared the bathroom space, each of us going about our separate routines, but working well together. Today, however, seemed to be one of those mornings where we always seemed to be in each other's way, so finally I went out to get dressed while he fixed his hair in the bathroom mirror. I watched under the guise of making the bed while he went through his usual ten-minute suit-choosing routine, trying hopelessly not to smirk in amusement as he looked through every suit he owned in huffy irritation—three times—before finally deciding on one. Only when he seemed truly desperate did I finally take pity and help him pick out a tie.

He offered to fix breakfast that morning as I took my turn in the bathroom, but Daphne had said that she would be picking up donuts after some early morning obligation, so I refused all but the cup of coffee he offered me as I joined him in the kitchen. I busied myself with adding sugar and milk to my mug, not needing or wanting to look within those suspicious slits of hazel to see the battle taking place behind them.

“You are going to eat, though, right?” he asked slowly, his effort to trust me immediately checked by concern. I found myself appreciating both, in very different ways. He hadn't had to hassle me about this in a while, but I had to admit, he had a genuine reason to be concerned today. I was pretty sure I could expect more than few texts from him while I was at Daphne's.

“Of course.”

“Promise?” His eyebrow crept skeptically up his forehead.

“Yeah, I promise, Brian.” It wasn't unusual in the least for Brian to be a bit...overprotective of me. But I'd been really good about eating in general lately. I still had my difficult days, but the ones where I starved myself and refused to help myself survive seemed to be behind me, hopefully permanently. Those had been some of my darkest days, back when I'd felt so powerless and so unable to hold onto anything as my life just fell to pieces around me. Maybe there really was something to the theory that Brian had suggested so long ago—that my lack of an appetite, or more accurately, my reluctance to do anything about it, was somehow related to my need for control in my life.

But that was then, and I wasn't living that life anymore. I took care of myself. I ate when I was hungry, and my appetite had returned, for the most part, to the point where Brian had felt justified in making a 'bottomless pit' joke last week when I'd eaten the majority of our Thai dinner. Not that that had stopped him from 'discreetly' shoving more in my direction, and asking me to 'try this,' or 'does this taste different than usual?' I knew I'd scared him before—fuck, I'd done almost nothing but scare him for months—not eating, not sleeping...not even really living.

But, however warranted his concern was, I didn't need him to keep me alive today, didn't need him worrying...four month anniversary or not. I knew he had to be thinking along those lines, too, but the truth was, it just wasn't necessary.

Finally, we were both ready to go; the grumbling of my stomach seemed even louder than usual in the heavy silence of the jeep, and this, more than anything else, seemed to convince Brian that I really wasn't planning on skipping any meals today.

He flipped through radio station after radio station, barely giving any of them a chance before moving on to the next. He skipped through some drawling country tunes, a cheesy pop anthem, and some hardcore heavy metal that sounded more like a screeching contest than anything resembling music. Finally, he seemed to decide that there was nothing worth listening to, and switched it off, silence once again filling the jeep.

And still, I couldn't keep my mind off of that undeniable, inconceivable fact that it had been four months. Four months, at least two months spent like this, with these incessant security measures. And one month, one week since I'd given in to that desire that this daily ritual was supposed to prevent.

I wondered what he'd say if I were to tell him that I wanted to stay home alone. Not that he really had a choice in the matter, when it came down to it...well, maybe he did. He couldn't force me to go to my mom's or Daphne's, but he could certainly take off work and stay home with me himself, which he had threatened to do the first and only time I'd ever brought it up. I didn't want that, nor I didn't want him worrying about me, and—if I was honest—I was secretly kind of glad that I didn't have to spend my days all alone in the empty loft. So, all in all, it was for the best...even I could see that.

But still...four months. Shouldn't something have changed by now? Shouldn't I at least be able to have that much back, at such a crucial juncture? Shouldn't I have something pronounced, something that would leave a noticeable impact on my life?

I could have mentioned it. In fact, I should have mentioned it. But in the end, my nerves got the best of me. I fought with myself the whole way to Daphne's, but somewhere along the line, it hit me that the reason I couldn't open my mouth wasn't because I was fearing a 'no' as an answer. Even if Brian didn't trust me enough to be completely alone all day yet, and told me so, I could handle that.

It was a 'yes' that I was afraid of. As much as I knew I should've been able to handle it, the idea of being inside the loft all day, all alone...I wasn't sure about it just yet. Brian and Daphne and my mom...they kept me out of my own head and firmly in reality. I didn't have time to dwell on things when Brian was regaling me with various stories about work, or Daphne was chattering about the latest twist on her favorite soap, or my mother was telling me about how Molly was upholding a fine Taylor tradition, having sworn impressively at her teacher and bought herself two days' detention.

“Where the fuck she picks up this kind of language, I'll never know,” my mom had said with a miraculously straight face. Debbie really was the best thing that could have happened to her.

But these things were what kept me laughing, and smiling, and living. And even when I was alone—or at least as alone as Brian allowed me to be—left with my thoughts...it was these memories that I ran over in my head, these things I looked forward to. It was what kept me away from them, away from it, and gave me something good to live for.

“You going to be okay?” Brian asked as we pulled up in front of Daphne's apartment building.

I nodded. It felt a little like lying, but...well, I would be okay. Eventually, somehow...I would have to be. I had no other choice anymore.

“Yeah. I'll be fine. It's just Daphne's,” I pointed out, as though I hadn't caught the deeper meaning of his question. He knew—he realized what today meant just as well as I did.

“If you need me, just call,” he said. I nodded, and before he could start harassing me about anything else, I leaned across the seat to kiss him goodbye. There was no instinctive reaction to push him away. No barrier coming up between what I wanted and what I could allow myself. My fingers brushed his ear, gripped his hair even as he did the same to mine—and suddenly, the image of him, water pouring over every inch of beautiful skin, flashed through my mind as I kissed him harder....

Something was dancing in his eyes as we pulled away from each other, and I struggled to find a label for it before realizing it didn't have one. It was just as uncertain, just as ambivalent as I felt. He didn't know what to think, probably hadn't expected anything like this from me today.

“See you tonight,” I said, reaching for my door handle.

“Yeah...see you. And swear to me you'll take advantage of the free food,” he growled playfully after me as I slid from the jeep.

“I will,” I rolled my eyes. “Don't worry, okay?”

Whatever he read in my face, it seemed to be enough to satisfy him of my honesty, because he smiled briefly, nodded, and let me shut the door.

~.~

If I had been distant with Daphne last week, the one month mark of my suicide attempt, I was far worse today. I completely zoned out while she was talking to me, watched an entire hour of television with her without taking in a single moment, and, from time to time, reached into my pocket to let my fingers brush against my cell phone, reassured that I had the power to hear Brian's voice at the tips of my fingers. I didn't know why today was affecting me like this; it didn't make sense. This was nothing like the last three monthly markers...nothing had even really happened. Nothing to upset me, no drastic occurrence to change my entire way of living. And maybe that was the problem: something should have been changing. I should have had something to show for all this time.

“Are you okay?” Daphne asked when she made a comment about some TV advertisement, I mindlessly agreed, and snapped out of my daze long enough to realize I'd just made some stupid remark about a tampon commercial.

“I'm fine,” I muttered, sinking a little further into her couch. I fingered the little hole in the fabric where she'd once burnt the cushion with a joint. I'd been here that day; we'd been passing the joint back and forth, when these three incredibly hot, shirtless guys had come on TV for an advertisement about something I couldn't even remember. I'd made some inane comment, and she'd laughed so hard she'd forgotten about the joint. The result? A nice, round, brownish burn mark on the couch. The next day, I'd accompanied her to the store to buy pillows, in an attempt to cover it up.

“Think about it,” she'd said. “I'm getting it on with some really sexy guy on my couch, right? When suddenly, he's sees this burn mark, and is all 'what's that?' So then I have to tell him all about how I was watching TV with my gay best friend when these really hot guys came on TV and he made some comment about a chain fuck and cleaning products, and I laughed so hard I burnt a hole in my own couch. Kind of ruins the mood, don't you think?”

I was brought out of this rather fond memory when she slid a little closer, the crappy sitcom we were watching momentarily forgotten. “You're not fine,” she argued. “What's up?”

I shrugged evasively, but she wasn't having it.

“If you don't tell me what's wrong, I'm talking to Brian,” she threatened, in much the same way my parents always used to do when I was little and had done something wrong, holding it expertly over my head...just wait till I tell your mother, and the like. But Daphne telling Brian that I'd been distant all day and refused to tell her what was wrong probably wouldn't be much help in convincing him that I was, indeed, fine, so I sighed and resigned myself to explaining.

“Do you know what today is?”

She thought for a moment. “Friday, isn't it? It's...oh...oh,” a look of dawning comprehension washed over her features. “Today's...well, it's it...isn't it? Four months since....”

She spoke so softly, so gently, it was like she was afraid her words might actually shatter me.

“Yeah,” I said, my fingers once again straying to my pocket and cell phone. Things hadn't been this way for a while, but it had become a sort of comfort to me today. “Today's it.”

She didn't seem to know what to say, dropping her gaze to her couch cushion.

“I didn't think it'd be this...weird. But it's like I'm just...going over all this stuff in my head, you know? Stuff that's happened, what it was like...all these months....”

“But you're here now,” she pointed out swiftly. “You're over that.”

I nodded absently. “Do you think...I mean, Brian and Kathy say I shouldn't worry, or push myself, but....” But, I couldn't exactly expect an honest, unbiased answer from either of them. Kathy was supposed to be patient with me, it was what she was getting paid for, and the last thing in the world Brian would want to do was pressure me into anything I wasn't comfortable with.

“I don't know. I feel like—I should have...more, or something, you know? It's been four fucking months of this, Daph. I can't even...it's not back to normal. I don't know if it ever will be. I just—it still feels like my life is so...unstable, I guess.” I looked at her desperately, begging her to understand. “I'm never sure what I can and can't do, or...it just feels like I should be further—have more—by now.”

“Well...you do have more. Or at least, more than you did,” she pointed out.

I shook my head. “But it doesn't feel like that. I mean...things are different, it's just not....”

“Enough,” she finished for me, frowning.

“Well...yeah.”

She nodded, staring unseeingly at her television screen. She was silent for a moment. “You realize when Brian came to pick you up the other day, you nearly set off my smoke detectors with that kiss?”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “But we always kiss like that.”

“Exactly,” she said at once. “And you and I are always talking. You were always kind of—withdrawn—before,” she continued. “You laugh more. You seem happier. Your marks are improving at school.”

All true. I'd been so ecstatic about a few of my recent marks that I'd gleefully, if childishly, shared the news with my best friend. But I'd worked hard on that shit. And yeah, we laughed and talked more, that was true, too. But still...those were just normal, everyday things.
“I mean...what do you want, Justin?”

I frowned. What did I want? She was right about me having more than I did before; there was no denying that. “I don't know,” I admitted, frustration leaking into my voice. “I...it just feels like there should be something...real, by now, you know?”

“Well...” she said thoughtfully. “Whatever it is you're looking for...you're closer than you were four months ago.” And that was true, too. Even if I wasn't quite there...I had all these smaller things, propelling me forward, like little checkpoints in my life. Events and occasions and moments. Was that the problem? That I was looking for something that would scream success rather than these little whispers of encouragement? Was I overlooking the smaller things that made life what it was for me in favor of the earth-shattering events?

“I mean, you're—anyone can tell just by being around you—you're doing so much better. When you're here...it's like you're here just—because. Like you're here just to hang out or something,” Daphne continued. “Being with you, around you, it just seems like you're...like you again. And things are better with Brian, aren't they? I mean, you're kissing him like...well, like you used to. You're moving through it all, Justin, you know? You just seem more...you. Happier. And that's something you didn't have four months ago. You weren't feeling that.”

I chewed on my lip, my gaze once again finding that little hole in her couch as I considered her words. I remembered how lighthearted we'd been that day, and it wasn't just because of the weed. It was because we'd truly been happy...I'd been happy. And she was right; that was something I hadn't had four months ago today.

“These things—take time, Justin. Just because you're not exactly where you want to be, it doesn't mean you're not getting better. I don't know what you want from yourself, but...I don't even think you realize exactly what you have.”

I gave a weak smile. “You're starting to sound like a shrink...or Brian.” There was a sentence I never thought I'd say. Right up there with Brian hates sex and I'm flying to the moon on Tuesday, as far as impossibilities went. Which in all honestly kind of freaked me out.

She laughed softly. “Could be worse.”

It could, and wasn't that true about everything? Four months ago, I had been a fucking fall down mess. I had just gone through one of the most horrific experiences of my life—the one contender in the running being taking a bat to the head—and I'd been falling apart, terrified out of my mind and victimized for the second time in less than a year.

Four months ago today, I couldn't kiss my boyfriend. Even the mere thought of sex petrified me. I'd shown up at my best friend's house in a stolen jacket, bearing tear-streaked cheeks, shaken to my very core.

Four months ago today...I'd learned all over again what pain felt like.

And even still...I could barely go out in public. I couldn't be with Brian the way I wanted. The bruises were long gone, but the internal scars still remained. I wondered if, back then, I'd expected to be over this by now. If I'd held out hope that, in four months, I'd be further along than I had turned out to be. That I'd be past this. It was stupid, but it felt almost like I was letting myself down, falling short of my own expectations. Expectations I probably hadn't even really had back then—I hadn't been thinking that clearly or that far ahead.

It was like we'd reached some turning point somewhere along the way. Things may not have been getting worse as much as they were getting better, but back when I'd been falling apart, it had been every piece of me that was crumbling. It was epic and terrible and my entire foundation, everything that held me up, was cracking beneath the pressure. Now, on the other side...it was only ever bits and pieces that built themselves up again. Parts of that progress still crumbled and fell away, and every scrap of success was absolutely essential in keeping me standing. So shouldn't there be something, some definite, concrete sign that proved that I wasn't the same person I'd been four months ago? Shouldn't I have something to fucking show for it? Sure, I felt different, but having collapsed so spectacularly, it was cruel and unfair that it took so much time and hard work to rebuild from nothing.

But maybe that was all wrong. Maybe I expected too much, too soon, and I really did have something to show for it. Because I wasn't that same wreck of a person I'd been back then. My nights were no longer spent crying myself to sleep, lost in my memories. It may have only been due to pharmaceutical drugs, but I no longer had nightmares, and I could kiss my boyfriend as I pleased. Even if I couldn't actually have sex yet, I was at least thinking about it, at least wanting that piece of my life back, and that was more than I could even bear to imagine back then. I didn't feel so much like a victim anymore. I felt...well, like me. Less weighed down with pain. Less broken.

So as long as I had these little bits and pieces, these achievements that I'd worked so hard to win back, I was going to hold onto them. Because things were different. I was different. Brian was different. Our entire lives were different, in so many ways. We both smiled more...laughed together...and it was more like us and less like those two people who had suffered through months of trauma and pain. He teased me and I teased back. He kissed me and I loved every second of it. He trusted me more, and I gave him reasons to.

Four months later...and life had changed. And this time, it was for the better.

~.~

Brian, for his part, decided that the best possible way to handle today was with blatant overcompensation. In addition to his usual security, he texted me during his entire lunch break, called me twice, and barely left me alone all that night at the loft. For the first time in weeks, while I showered, he stood outside and “cleaned” the counter around the sink—as if Brian had ever cleaned anything in his life. With an excuse like that, there was no way he genuinely needed to be in there.

“Brian, I'm serious, if you don't fucking let me draw, I'm going to stab you with this pencil,” I snapped at him finally. I was on the couch, sketchpad propped open on my lap, my pencil held dangerously tight in my fist. I'd barely sat down when Brian had shown up—big surprise—asking me what I was drawing, where my other sketchbooks were, how the sketch was coming along.

He stopped trying to peer over my shoulder and backed off. “Fine,” he said coolly, with the air of one attempting to recover their facade. “Fine, I'm taking a shower.”

“Fine.”

So, predictably, he checked the alarm—ensuring I was well and truly sealed away in here—before heading for the bathroom.

“Christ,” I muttered when I heard the water start up. “I'm fucking fine,” I said to no one in particular.

When I was a kid, at my house on New Year's Eve, we'd all write down and read aloud five things that had happened in the last year that we were proud of or thankful for. The purpose, of course, was to see how much our lives had changed in the last year, how we were moving forward. Being around eleven or twelve, my list had usually consisted of things like video games or new art supplies or summer vacations. That was something about anniversaries...whether weekly or monthly or yearly...they got you thinking. Thinking about where you were back then, and the changes since. Thinking about what you wanted, and how you were going to get there, and when.

So, yeah, things had been tougher than usual today, but that was to be expected, wasn't it? And it wasn't like I was a fall down mess like I'd been four months ago—fuck, even one month ago. The hardest part of today had been just the knowledge of what it was. Of where I was. Less about the pain of what had happened then, and more about the frustration of getting over it in the here and now.

I stared down at the completed sketch before me. Or at least, what should have been a completed sketch. I sighed, flipped the page closed on Brian's bare, muscled form, and tossed the sketchpad aside.

I left it there on the couch, and went to find my therapy log in the bedroom. I found this week's page and date, and inside Friday's little box, wrote: I said I was fine, and I meant it.

~.~

“I thought we'd leave in about a half an hour,” said Brian. He'd been working on his computer for the last hour or so, but he was stretching now, standing up. It was Saturday, and we were due at Debbie's for the usual weekly dinner. “I'm going to take a shower.”

I nodded, flicking the edge of my sketchpad. “Have you seen my one blue shirt with the collar? I wanted to wear it.”

“Check the closet,” he replied, rather unhelpfully. I rolled my eyes, but got up anyway.

I looked through all our clothes twice, including his side, before I was forced to admit that it just wasn't in there. I began pulling open drawers next, sifting through my ratty paint-shirts and Brian's perfectly good but out-of-date-by-six-months-or-so-clothes in the top drawer in case one of us had thrown it in there by mistake. We apparently hadn't, but the next drawer contained jeans, and I highly doubted it had gotten tossed in there, so I skipped to the third drawer down. Most of my dressier clothes were in there, rather than in the closet, since I didn't wear mine nearly as much as Brian wore his suits. I hadn't even touched this drawer in months. The shirt I was looking for was relatively nice, however, (even label-conscious Brian approved), so it wasn't too unlikely that he would have thrown it in with some of my more formal clothing without thinking.

I flipped through a few formal jackets at the top, and was about to give up, when the edge of something small and white caught my eye. I flung a shirt out of the way and discovered that it was a pill bottle. Pulling aside several pairs of pants, shirts, and a few ugly ties, I realized there were several of them. Everything from antidepressants, to my sleeping pills, to a bottle of Advil. So this was where he'd been hiding everything

I picked up the bottle of antidepressants, turning it wonderingly in my hand. Brian hadn't wasted much time in hiding my medicine from me the day we'd picked it up, and I hadn't even seen the pill bottles since then. I'd bet my art supplies that, up until a few weeks ago, he'd hidden our razor in here, too.

Suddenly, my heart leapt into my throat: the water had stopped in the bathroom.

Completely forgetting about my long-lost shirt, I hastily began piling the clothes back into the drawer, trying to fold them as best as I could. It wasn't as though I'd done anything wrong; all I'd fucking done was go through a drawer in search of a shirt. But with the way he was about...things...I really didn't want him freaking out on me for something so stupid and trivial.

I was on the couch sketching when he came out of the bathroom, desperately trying to look like nothing had happened. Which was stupid, really, since nothing had happened. So, I'd stumbled upon the medicine my boyfriend had kept hidden from me for months, for my own good. But it wasn't like that anymore; I'd never been happy about him hiding the pills, but even I could admit that it had been for the best. Now, though...well, Daphne had been right. I was in a different place.

“Did you find your shirt?” he asked as he came down the bedroom steps, parts of his own shirt plastered to his still-damp skin.

I shook my head. “No...um...I'll just wear something different.” I did my best to remain calm under his scrutiny, then let out a breath of relief when he apparently decided I was telling the truth, striding off to the kitchen.

~.~

I managed to put aside thoughts of my mysteriously disappearing shirt and Brian's personal secret pharmacy long enough to actually enjoy dinner at Deb's. There was something just so normal—if Debbie and the rest of our friends could ever really be called that—about the whole thing. Michael was finally able to corner my boyfriend long enough to engage him in a one-sided rant about his critical Spiderman versus Superman issue; Brian earned himself a smack in the head when he used a “tone” with Debbie that she apparently didn't appreciate; other than that, we all just sat around and feasted on the meal she and Vic had prepared while listening to Emmett chatter about his new party planning business.

There was nothing unusual about Brian keeping his hand on my knee under the table, but tonight, he kept moving it up to squeeze my thigh, right on the inside where he knew it tickled. I tried to kick him, but missed and hit Michael, so I settled for a quick pinching assault on his sides. Finally, we drew Debbie's gaze, like two misbehaving children in a restaurant, and cut it out.

He managed to slip away during the post-meal cleanup, as did Ted (who had received an unavoidable business-related call), Melanie (who had just realized she'd forgotten her cell phone in the car and absolutely had to have it in case the sitter called), and Carl, who seemed to have no excuse, but just disappeared. Funnily enough, they all returned just in time for dessert.

By the end of the evening, Brian had made plans to babysit Gus the next week, Michael had invited himself over to the loft, and Debbie had forced both me and Brian to promise to call her, lest we have certain parts of our anatomy rather crudely dismembered.

“And I want to see your ass in the diner more often,” she said sternly, pointing a finger at Brian, “make sure you're getting proper meals. You can't live on coffee alone.”

Brian let her hassle him about his dietary habits with a minimal of returned sarcasm, but when Emmett rechristened him “Kinney McSkinny,” we were all treated to a reminder of exactly why Brian was the king of being a snarky, sarcastic shit.

“Why do we go to those things again?” he moaned during the elevator ride up to the loft, his head thrown back against the wall, as though the few hours spent with our friends had drained him of all remaining energy.

“Because...you'd miss them if we didn't. And so would I,” I replied. He snorted softly, but didn't deny it. And the thing about Brian was—typically—not saying no was as good as a yes.

“Do you want your pill now?” he asked as we filed back into the loft. “It's getting late.”

My stomach gave a weird little flip at the thought that I could get my own pill now, if I really wanted, but I kept that particular thought to myself. It wasn't as though I couldn't always have gotten to my medicine, if I'd looked hard enough. I'd just never bothered. “Um...sure.”

He waited until I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth to retrieve one of my pills from the drawer, and it was waiting for me on the counter when I came out. I grabbed my sketchpad, pulled on a pair of sweat pants, and crawled into bed. A half an hour later, I was asleep.

For the first time in a while, I hadn't put a shirt on when I'd climbed into bed. I woke up the next morning with Brian spooned behind me, his bare chest flush against my back, his arm draped over my waist. My fingers were still curled loosely around my sketchpad, flipped open to the same page I'd been pouring over the night before—the same uncompleted drawing of him.

I sighed, stirring the edge of the pages. As usual, I felt it when Brian came to, his lips pressing a good-morning kiss onto my bare shoulder.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he muttered.

I stretched in his arms, my fingers curling around his, over my stomach. “Mmm...morning. It's Sunday, right?” I asked just to make sure we didn't have to fucking move, for once.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Good.”

His fingers traced idle patterns into the skin of my stomach, his breath coming in steady huffs that sent bits of hair falling into my face. I had just about drifted off again when he spoke into my ear, jerking me from the comfortable embrace of sleep. “That sketch...it's good. The one of me.”

“They're all of you,” I snorted, which was pretty much true, especially the more recent ones. It was like, every single fucking time I sat down to draw, he was all I could see. All I could get my hand to sketch. Not that I was complaining—Brian wasn't exactly difficult to look at—but it was especially frustrating because, lately, they all had the same air of incompleteness about them, and it drove me crazy. They should have been complete. The pictures on those pages were exactly what I'd set out to draw. So...what was missing? Why was the artist in me crying that it ought to have something more?

“The one on the page there,” he explained, gesturing at the little book still clasped in my fingers. Actually, that had been the same sketch from earlier that week, the one of him in the shower. Or at least, one of them. I'd tried on numerous occasions to finish it, but so far had been unsuccessful.

“Thanks.”

We continued to just lie there in silence as he played lazily with my fingers and randomly kissed my shoulder blade, his lips always staying just a little longer than necessary. I loved the feeling of him pressed against me like this, skin against skin. He still had his boxers on, and I had my sweatpants, but we were both shirtless...I'd forgotten how good that could feel. There were a lot of things that I'd forgotten could be as amazing as they were. A lot of things to relearn, to get comfortable with. But I was working on it, and as much as it sometimes frustrated me, there seemed to be something to Brian and Kathy's suggestions to wait. It sucked, definitely, but waiting had gotten me this far, hadn't it?

As Brian kissed a little path from the back of my neck to my shoulder, it was hard to find a reason to complain.

~. Brian .~

I wondered precisely how long you had to be doing something on a regular basis for it to become routine.

We'd been going to therapy for over a month now. He seemed to be used to it, and it had become as much a part of my weekly schedule as dinner at Deb's, which, now that I thought about it, had become integrated right back into our lives, as well.

On Monday, three weeks after Justin had started taking his antidepressants, Kathy informed us that we could probably expect them to start taking effect within as little as a few days, or as long as a couple more weeks. She skimmed over Justin's log, reading his entries and offering a few encouraging comments on the 'one good thing a day' part of his assignment. I'd quite enjoyed reading those, myself...a hell of a lot more than I'd liked reading about his nightmares, that was for sure. Especially when these new entries were things like I let Brian kiss me and I got a B+ on another school project.

As Michael had suggested, the guys all came over to the loft on Thursday night. Justin was certainly more comfortable here than anywhere else, and it showed. It wasn't exactly a night out on the town, but Emmett turned on some music, Michael and Ben brought beer in addition to my own stock, and though there was no one else around, it was a pretty convincing imitation of the bar scene. Michael, to my dismay, stumbled upon Justin's rendering of “Super Stud,” who quite obviously resembled me, with the result that all four of them had made at least half a dozen cracks each about Super Stud and his—and I quote—studly powers of studliness, by the time they all went the fuck home. On the bright side, Justin was apparently now known as “JT,” Super Stud's— and again, I quote— blondly-adorable boyfriend of blondliness, according to Emmett.

I advised Ted to begin drinking heavily as soon as possible.

On Friday, Mel and Linds brought Gus over for us to babysit for the day while they went to some big important wedding or funeral or bar mitzvah or some shit. I stopped listening around the point where Justin wandered down from the bedroom, his hair still wet from his early-morning shower, pulling a plain white T-shirt over his head.

The Munchers had brought over a shopping bag full of toys for him to play with while he was here, which meant that Justin and I were forced to spend four hours alternating between watching stupid kiddie shows on TV, playing with the plastic toy cars and trucks my son was partial to, and fixing him snacks of applesauce and cheese and crackers. Finally, he ended up passed out in front of the TV watching 101 Dalmatians.

“Fuck, if I have to look at one more talking animated dog....” I muttered threateningly a few hours later, once the Munchers had left with Gus, but Justin wasn't buying it.

“Please. I saw you mouthing all the words to Cruella DeVille.”

I glared at him. He smiled innocently. I thought about defending myself and explaining that the only reason I did know the words was because I'd seen it with my son, which always seemed to make Justin go all sentimental and admiring on me, but he was grinning in that way of his that told me that I'd already lost this one, so I didn't bother.

“Well, you knew half the mutt's names—and you don't even have a kid. That's fucking disturbing,” I countered, grabbing his wrist and pulling him flush against my chest. He smirk softened into an actual smile, and he ran his hands up over my shoulders, reaching up to tuck my hair behind my ear on one side.

He rolled his eyes. “I used to watch it with Molly.”

“Christ, what is it with kids and talking fleabags? It's not like Gus even understands half the actual plot.”

Justin snorted. “You'll be praying for these days in twelve years when he's watching porn for the non-plot. Of course, he still has to go through the whole 'kissing is gross and girls have cooties' stage first.”

“Well, they do have cooties.”

He laughed, a light-hearted, beautiful sound, and nuzzled his nose against mine. “Well, luckily we don't have to worry about that.”

“Luckily,” I murmured in agreement, and then he was kissing me. I didn't know what it was about him—okay, that was crap. I knew exactly what it was, and why I loved kissing him so much. I could never get enough...there was no such thing as enough of him. He had always been an amazing kisser...a natural...always surpassing anyone and everyone else; that rule about only kissing him had been nothing, no sacrifice at all because, after him, no one else could compare anyway.

His lips parted against mine, granting my tongue permission to slip inside his mouth, extracting every flavor that was Justin. I didn't even realize we were moving, backing up, but suddenly the kitchen counter was digging into my waist, his arms were around my neck, pulling me down and pushing me backward all at the same time.

I broke our kiss just long enough to gently turn us around so that he was against the counter, lifted him up, and set him on top of it. I heard something clatter behind him, but couldn't quite bring myself to care as I moved to stand between his legs, his hands gripping my hair as I explored every already-familiar part of his mouth. I ran my hands all over him, up his thighs and down his back and between his long, blond locks.

To my surprise, I felt his legs come up to lock around my waist, pulling me closer, and fuck if I didn't just lose myself in him. He was just too good, too amazing, too Justin, and then it was all happening so fast and great and his hands were sliding up the front of my shirt and mine were sliding up the back of his....

He broke away suddenly, unexpectedly, but to my relief he didn't look freaked out when I opened my eyes. He was smiling softly, and, unable to resist, I pressed my forehead to his in an intimately familiar gesture, one just for us. He kissed me once more, innocently—sensually—then, forehead still nuzzling mine, his breath hot and heavy in my face—his hands slid over my shoulders, my chest, the collar of my shirt. He used to be able to undo the buttons with such expertise, but his fingers fumbled with them now, tugging them loose one by one.

He ran his hands over my shoulders again, this time beneath my sleeves, bringing the garment along and sliding it off. I didn't move, didn't know what he wanted. Didn't know if I was supposed to help, or stand perfectly still. Didn't even know what he was doing.

His face no longer carried that windswept look of passion he'd had when he'd been kissing me, but was curious, calculating...his bottom lip caught up between his teeth as he gently pulled one of my arms free from my shirt, then the other, so that I was soon standing half naked in the middle of the kitchen.

“Justin,” I whispered as he leaned forward to kiss me once more. He leaned back, thoughtful, considering. “Justin, what...?”

Suddenly, one hand was gone, stretching...reaching for something, and then he had it...the sketchpad containing Super Stud and most of his other recent drawings, left on the counter the night before by Ted, once he had finished mocking my new “superhero” status. There was a pencil tucked into the rings, and he slid it out, leaning back from me and flipping pages of the little notebook.

“What are you doing?” I asked now as his legs dropped from around my waist. He didn't answer me at first, just stared down at one of his drawings, apparently seeing something that I couldn't. I waited, let him do what he needed to do.

“Damn it,” he hissed suddenly, his fingers curling into a fist around his pencil. “It's not going to work. It won't fucking work....”

“What won't work?” I asked, laying a hand on his knee. “Justin, what are you trying to—”

“I can't fucking finish these!” he said heatedly, shoving the sketchpad in my face for me to look at. “I thought maybe...if I saw you...if I could actually look at you and feel you...”

“And...that won't help?” I asked cautiously. I wasn't really sure what to say or do here. When he got like this, I never knew. I was no artist—I couldn't do a thing for him when he was blocked or frustrated like this, and I hated it.

He shook his head bitterly. “It's useless. It's fucking useless,” he said, and slid off the counter, brushing past me on his way to the couch. After a moment's hesitation during which I briefly considered the possibility that he'd rather be alone, I followed, his sketchpad in hand.

“Justin...” I said quietly, sitting down at the opposite end of the sofa near his feet. I touched his leg gingerly, rubbing his calf through his jeans when he didn't seem to mind. “Look...what do you need?” I asked desperately.

“I don't know,” he said, his tone bursting with quiet frustration. “I need to finish these fucking drawings, but it's like...something's missing. I don't know what, or....”

“I'll be your model,” I offered, only half-joking. To my relief, it made the corners of his mouth twitch in a reluctant smile. “Come on,” I continued, encouraged, and sprawled out over the cushions in a dramatic pose, throwing my head back and closing my eyes, as if being an inhumanely gorgeous inspiration was such a burden. “Draw me.” I opened one eye to see him shaking his head, a reluctant huff of laughter escaping.

After another moment of nothing, I raised my head to peer down the couch at him. “I can understand being mesmerized my by mere presence, and I sympathize, but I do have about a dozen other artists who would swallow their canvases for a chance to draw me. So if you'd like to get started....”

He snorted. “You're such a dick.”

I grinned and closed my eyes again, quite enjoying the little laughs and smiles I was slowly managing to procure from him. Though I tried, it wasn't every time that I was able to pull him from these states of artistic hopelessness he seemed so prone to since the bashing. Hell, it wasn't every time that I was able to pull him from any state of hopelessness, and he was so often the victim of them these days. “I was lying anyway. You're the only artist I trust to do justice to such a level of perfection,” I said airily.

“A dick with a big ego.”

“A dick who's waiting for you to draw him,” I said, begging him to take the bait...let me do this...let me help make him happy and give him what he needed. “Come on. I'll do whatever you want. I mean,” I corrected myself hastily. “I'll move...however you want. I'll be your model.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, but didn't make a move to get started.

“Come on,” I tried one last time. “Draw me, Justin...finish your work. You know you want to.”

That got him. His gaze met mine and held it for the longest moment. Then, he offered me the weakest of smiles and reached for his sketchpad again, his expression thoughtful once more.

He shifted until he was sitting cross-legged at the other end of the couch, his sketchbook in his lap. He frowned, his lip between his teeth as he considered me, sprawled out to do with what he pleased. I closed my eyes again just to avoid staring at him while he was trying to think.

“This isn't going to work,” he said after a minute or two.

My eyes flew open, ready to do whatever he asked. “What do you mean? Do you want me to move, or....?”

He shook his head slowly. “No.” He was moving again, this time crawling to sit just in between my feet. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of my jeans, then he crawled up my legs a bit more to unbutton my pants before moving to sit back at his end of the couch. After another minute of silent contemplation, he growled in frustration, pushing himself off the cushion and beginning to pace back and forth in front of the sofa.

“What can I do?” I asked patiently. This was one of the very worst things about all the shit he'd been through. Both times, he'd lost this...this integral part of himself that he needed more than air. I remembered the way he'd been when he'd quit art school after the bashing, that facade of reckless, upbeat optimism he'd kept up that no one in their right minds could have possibly believed. All you had to do was look in his eyes, and see that dull pain there, that deadened look. Not having that, not being that person—an artist—it had been killing him. He'd gone through something like that after the rape, too. He couldn't draw what he'd once been capable of. He yelled and cried and threw sketchpads and hated his life. He needed his art; he needed to be an artist, and I never knew what to do to give that back to him when he lost his way.

“Nothing,” he snapped, impatient and irritated, but his frustration was directed at himself and not me. “You can't do anything...I can't do anything. Fuck...I just need to....”

I waited in silence while he continued to pace, sometimes muttering to himself and occasionally pausing to take in a new angle, a new position. I said nothing, did nothing—determined to be exactly what he needed right now...whatever that was.

Finally, he stopped right in front of me, scrutinizing.

“Do you need me to move?” I offered after a full two minutes of his staring.

He shook his head, a blank look coming over his features. “No,” he said, his voice wavering just a little. His eyes were wide, as if he'd suddenly realized something of the utmost importance. “I need...I think I need to draw you,” he said, almost wonderingly.

Right...well, wasn't that the point of this? “So, draw me,” I said, nonchalant.

“No, I mean....” he took a deep breath and let it out, all previous frustration gone from his features. He ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head to the side as he continued to stare at me. I could just see his mind's eye planning every line, every curve against the white of the page. It was a look of inspiration I'd seen him wear a million times. “I need to draw you. I mean, like...like I used to.”

I let this sink it, every implication, every possible meaning of those words. But I only came up with one; the only one he would be talking about with that waver in his voice and that uncertainty in his eyes. I slowly raised my gaze to meet his.

“Okay,” I agreed, but even my own voice didn't sound quite...believing. Slowly, not quite trusting any of this, I stood up and began sliding my jeans off. Justin turned his back, flipping through pages of his sketchbook and getting situated on one of the chairs across from the sofa, deliberately not looking in my direction until what remained of my clothing had been deposited on the floor.

He'd been watching me in the shower for weeks, ogling me the way he always used to. Even now, without that thin layer of glass separating us, his eyes raked over me when he turned around, taking in everything. My first instinct, oddly enough, was to grab something to cover with...a towel or a blanket or something...but it was just Justin, I reminded myself, the same person he'd always been, who had seen me naked hundreds of times, and he seemed...fine, really. A little flushed, but fine.

I laid back against the couch as he picked up his sketchbook, pencil poised above the page, eyes darting between me and the paper. He took a deep breath, tongue between his teeth in concentration, but his hand quite steady as he began.

I didn't know how long I laid there, how long I let him sketch me for, but it was long enough that it allowed me the time to once again appreciate all the things I used to love about watching him draw me like this. That interest, that hunger that he had with no one and nothing else. Not just inspiration or love of art, but love of me. His eyes sparkled and he chewed his bottom lip, smiling occasionally for reasons I couldn't understand. Once or twice, he was forced to stop and shake out his hand, willing it to hold out just a little longer, but refusing to let me rub it. He wanted this far too much to stop now, no matter what the reason.

It took too long and yet somehow, it didn't last nearly long enough. “Finished,” he announced finally, his eyes not leaving the page.

“Let me see,” I demanded, reaching for my discarded clothes even as I held a hand out for his sketchpad. He admired it for just a moment more, then handed it over.

And for what seemed like the millionth time since the night I'd met him, I had my breath taken away.

~. Justin .~

Four months and one week after the party, I drew my boyfriend naked.

Jesus.

I really had no idea how I'd done it. Sure, I'd been admiring him for weeks in the shower, but this was...different. More. And with a much more significant payoff.

I waited until he was dressed again to kiss him, laughing lightly against his lips. He grinned and pulled me closer, his hands everywhere, his tongue in my mouth and his nose bumping affectionately against mine when we drew away for air.

Maybe four months ago, it would have been different. Drawing him naked while he was awake and aware had always been a surefire lead-in to fucking...I would have crawled between his legs, taken him into my mouth, and it would have ended with the greatest payoff imaginable.

But however ordinary that would have been four months ago...just drawing him like this was extraordinary now. It surpassed today's version of normality with ease.

A week ago, I'd wanted something real, something solid to prove that, four months later, I was moving forward. The first and third month milestones had both been streaked with misfortune and gloom...huge strides, just in the wrong direction. And there was some kind of irony, or symbolism, or...fuck, something deep and meaningful, I was sure...that it had been around the second month-marker that Brian had found those drawings that had scared him so badly, and now here I was, taking a great step in the other direction, pulling myself up instead of falling, once again letting my art speak for where my mind was at.

Later in bed, my sleeping pill working its magic on my body, I laid there and stared at the drawing in my hands. The body I loved, the man I loved...perfect and amazing and beautiful. And I'd drawn him. It was like two parts of me, two of the most important parts—Brian and my art—had finally met once again, to create the happiest experience I'd had in weeks. I'd been ready—or restless, maybe—with artistic frustration. But either way it had been enough, apparently, to get me here and allow me to do this.

I traced the outline of his body with my finger, every line, deep and dark and slight and shallow, that made up his face, his hair, his shoulders, his chest, his legs, his cock. It had made my heart race just looking at him, seeing him sprawled out over the couch with no nauseous butterflies in my stomach, no pounding nerves to make me sick and make me shake and cry and break down. Because it was him, only him, and I knew that. It was safe. When I was just looking, just admiring him, there was never a chance of totally losing it, of forgetting where I was and who I was with. It was just him, all him, and the rest of it disappeared.

The last thing I remembered thinking before I fell asleep that night, still staring at my new drawing, was that it had felt amazing to complete it.