~. Justin .~

My most recent milestone kept me happy for days. Brian finally convinced me to part with my sketchpad long enough to carefully tear out the page with my completed drawing and—my eyes about popped out of my head when I came out of the bathroom and saw it—stick it in a frame and prop it up on the nightstand as a decoration. That simple gesture alone spoke volumes more than he ever could with words about how proud he was of me.

And—something else that surprised me—I was proud of myself. After all the long weeks and months of nightmares and tears and feelings of general worthlessness, I was actually proud of myself. Of something I had done. Something I had accomplished. I was really just—glad to be me, to be honest. And I was—and always would be—an artist.

A couple of times, I'd caught Brian staring at it. And for a change, I didn't think it was his own ego that kept his eyes glued to his own perfect form, but something deeper. Something we could feel changing, now had the evidence of it. Something we could sense more than see, just knew was happening all around and beneath and between us. Happening to us.

Maybe one of the most in-your-face signs, the kind that shocked me and shook me and took my breath away in the best possible way there was, was the day he'd finished up in the shower and come out of the bathroom, glancing over to find me absorbed in a sketch on the bed.

“Drawing my cock again?” he'd smirked. There was something gentle in his tone, something knowing. But it was that question, that fucking normal, amazing question, that had nearly turned me into a complete emotional wreck right there on the bed in front of him. He'd asked me that, with slight variations, dozens of times in the past. It was a mark of the happier lives—the simpler lives—we'd once known before all this. And he'd fucking said it again, asked me like nothing had ever happened, had ever changed, and I hated to admit even to myself that it was responsible for the burn of tears in my eyes.

“So,” he said a little while later, plopping down beside me in bed, an apple in hand. He took a big, juicy bite out of it, the crunching sound right in my ear as he spooned up behind me, leaning over my shoulder to look at my newest drawing. This one was of a man I'd seen walking his dog earlier that day on the way to therapy. For some reason, I'd been inspired. “When can I expect to be asked to pose for another Justin Taylor original?”

I couldn't help but smile. “Whenever you want. But I've got to say, framing too many of your own naked portraits is a little egotistical, even for you.”

He bit my earlobe playfully; I grinned, and shoved him back with my shoulder. “Not when they're celebrating artistic genius.”

I pressed my lips together, trying to control my grin. I'd never understand how he always managed to make me melt, and at the same time give his compliments with that dismissive, I-don't-do-nice edge to his tone that was basically bullshit.

“Did you take your pill tonight?” he checked. I leaned back into his warmth, and he moved to rest his chin on my shoulder as he watched me draw.

I felt, as always at the reminder of my medicine, an uncomfortable little somersault in the pit of my stomach. I still hadn't told him about accidentally stumbling onto his secret stash of meds in the dresser drawer, and he'd still been dutifully setting them out on the counter for me every morning, and every night.

“Yeah. I should probably put this up soon, actually.” My eyelids were starting to get that familiar heaviness that I knew would give way to absolute exhaustion within twenty minutes.

I felt the peck of his lips against the side of my neck, and he waited for me to put on the last finishing touches for the night before I set the sketch aside, rolled out of the middle of the bed and onto my side, and snuggled in beneath the duvet. As usual, after a moment or two, I felt Brian curl around me, smelling fresh and clean from his shower. His hair was still wet, and it was cool against my bare skin as he pressed up close.

~. Brian .~

He'd taken to sleeping with his shirt off at night.

He'd always liked the way the sheets felt against his bare skin, and liked the way my skin felt against his even more. Some nights, while we waited for his sleeping pill to kick in, we'd lie awake in bed and talk, arms around each other, occasionally kissing, as he drifted off to sleep.

“Lindsay called today,” I informed him one Monday night. I'd come out of the bathroom to find him in bed, sketchpad propped open in his lap, drawing away. He'd drawn a few more pictures of me, but it was almost as if by drawing me the way he had the week before, by gaining that piece of himself back, he'd opened a doorway to artistic possibility. He'd been drawing almost non-stop, incessantly inspired by everything around him.

He was getting tired, though, his sleeping pill kicking in. Especially now, the lights off, his eyes closed...it wouldn't be long.

“Mmm?” he murmured, stroking light patterns into the arm I'd draped over his chest. I relished this feeling of being pressed against him, even with the two layers of clothing separating us from the waist down. I kissed his shoulder blade, something I could never quite resist doing when we were like this. I loved the sensation of pressing my lips against his skin, kissing him everywhere I could. And there weren't many places I was allowed to, but once or twice in the last week or so, he'd been able to let me take things a little further than usual.

“She wants us to come over for brunch this weekend.” I drew my fingers lazily across his stomach, tracing little circles around his belly button. I used to love being able to worship his stomach—usually on the way to his cock; he'd always been so fucking susceptible to being teased along the way, I was rarely able to resist.

I felt his shoulder muscles tense against my chest. “Are we going?”

I pressed another kiss to his bare skin, right over the tiny, barely visible freckle marring the smooth skin of his shoulder blade. “I thought I'd leave that up to you.”

He was quiet for the longest time. I was just about ready to check to see if he'd fallen asleep, when he answered me.

“Let's go.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, my hand finding his and winding our fingers together, squeezing firmly.

He nodded, and I could practically see his thoughtful frown, his little lip bite as he thought it over. “Yeah,” he said finally. “It'll just be them, right? Mel and Linds and Gus?”

“Just them,” I promised. There was a part of me that wondered if maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it to him, after the disaster that had been our outing to Woody's a couple of weeks ago. But this wasn't like that—not so different from dinner at Deb's. Plus, it might be good for him to go out, stretch his comfort zone just a little. Just like before, he'd eventually become dissatisfied with what he had and—more importantly—what he didn't. I figured it was better for him to take another step in a relatively secure, familiar environment surrounded by his friends than some crowded bar full of strangers. I still meant what I said, about how he shouldn't push himself too hard, or too fast. But no matter how big a step back the whole Woody's fiasco had been for him, the basis of his reasoning still stood true: we were never going to get anywhere if we didn't try.

“They've never asked before,” he said quietly, stretching and yawning in my arms. He would definitely be gone within a few minutes. His words were starting to drag, his body relaxing, surrounded by mine. “Not since...”

He didn't need to say it. Fuck, he never needed to say it. It was never a question, never forgotten. Not between us. It never would be.

“Well, they're asking now,” I pointed out. It was true; they had stopped asking after this whole thing had blown up in all our lives. But I knew the way their minds worked, and the way his mind worked, and knew that whatever conclusion he was drawing in his head, it most likely wasn't matching up with their intentions. “They were just giving us time, I guess. To get our feet back on the ground.”

He nodded, the movement barely detectable, except for the fact that I had my chin resting on his head. “I want to go...I mean, I'm pretty sure I can.”

I smiled softly and kissed the side of his neck, never really able to get enough of him. “I know you can.”

He sighed contentedly and snuggled in deeper. Five minutes later, he was sound asleep.

~. Justin .~

I felt his sweet, full lips descend on me, my head rolling back as he worked his magic, leaving a deliberate mark against the pale skin of my neck. A mark that let the whole fucking world know that I was his, that he left it there in his desire for me.

His hands were all over me, running up my thighs and down my sides and pulling my jean-clad legs up around him. He whispered something meaningless into my ear before licking it, making me shiver. He grinned against my skin, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down onto me.

“Justin...” he whispered against my lips as I kissed him hungrily. “Justin...”

And suddenly, he pulled away, his lips abandoning mine.

“No,” I protested, trying to drag him back down to me. I tried to open my eyes, ask him why he was going when all I wanted him to do was kiss me, but my eyelids were oddly heavy and reluctant to obey.

“Justin...”

“Don't. Don't go,” I said, still trying to force my eyes open as his body retreated from mine. “Please....” I didn't want him to go yet. I didn't want him to stop.

“Justin!”

Finally, my eyes snapped open. I blinked rapidly against the light assaulting them.

“Are you okay?”

I was on the couch, I realized, a sketchpad on my chest and what I assumed was a pencil poking me in the side. Brian was leaning over me, his eyes wide and full of a familiar expression of concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked again urgently, trailing his fingers gently down my arm, as though unsure if he'd be allowed.

“What?” I muttered, confused, rubbing a hand over my eyes, wondering what had happened to the bed I'd just been lying on, and why he wasn't kissing me anymore.

“You were...you were talking in your sleep,” he said uncomfortably.

Finally, it registered. It had only been a dream. I frowned as it slowly came back to me...dragging out a sketchpad and drawing out here on the couch...my eyelids feeling so heavy...promising myself that I'd just close them for a minute....

“Mmm,” I said, yawning. “What time is it?”

“A little after six,” he answered, still peering down at me in concern.

“Ow,” I said, reaching for the pencil stabbing me relentlessly in the side. I tucked it back into the rings of my sketchpad, flipping the cover closed on the drawing I'd been working on before I'd dozed off.

“You all right?” he asked as I slumped back against the couch cushion.

“Fine,” I said, an unintentional edge to my voice. Of all the dreams to be woken from....

Slowly, as though not sure if I would allow it, he picked himself up from his place on the floor and perched himself on the few inches of couch cushion my ass wasn't taking up. “Another nightmare?”

I could see that haunted look settling behind his eyes, as usual, and pushed aside my own disappointment at having been shaken from the dream. He was honestly concerned about me here.

“No...no, it wasn't like that. It was good—really good.”

He raised an eyebrow, obviously as surprised by this as I was. “Oh?” he asked, smiling a little as I reached for his hand, sitting up so that I could pull him down beside me. He settled in, both of us moving awkwardly so that I could lay on top of him, my leg draped between his, my fingers curled in his shirt. “What was it about?”

I smiled and kissed his chin, causing his lips to twitch upward. “This,” I said, trailing a few little kisses down his jaw before pressing my lips to his. He played with the hem of my shirt as he kissed me back, his hand slipping beneath it to stroke my skin. It was even better here, I decided, in reality...never having to stop. Never having to wake up.

He kissed me softly and ran his hands down my back and over my shoulders, pulling me to him and holding me there. He tilted his head back as I left his lips to leave light, fluttering kisses over his neck and collar bone.

“What were you drawing?” he asked huskily as my forgotten sketchpad slipped off the couch and landed on the floor with a small thud.

“You,” I smiled against his lips before kissing them soundly. “In bed. Sleeping.”

He smiled, too, and returned my fervor, his tongue brushing my lips, requesting permission. “What was I wearing?”

His hands never left my back, never stopped with that familiar, soothing caress, a gentle reminder that it was only him, that I was okay, that he would take it easy. And I loved him for it.

“The sheet,” I said matter-of-factly. This only made him kiss me harder, made both of us hungrier. One of his hands left my back, slipped lower, resting against the denim of my jeans. I held his face in my hands, kissing him with everything I had. He was starting to get hard; I could feel him against me. I ignored it, and kept kissing him, concentrated on the feel of his lips against mine...his hands on me...his tongue inside my mouth.

“Mmm—don't,” I said, breaking away, eyes screwed shut. His hands were at my shoulders at once, bracing me, his voice desperate as he called me back to reality.

“I'm fine,” I dismissed him, shaking my head to clear it. Okay, so sometimes we had to stop. Seeing him, drawing him, wanting him was one thing. Touching him for real, feeling him in all the places I'd once felt them, was quite another.

“I'm okay,” I assured him, hating the fear in his eyes, the panic in his voice. Nevertheless, I pushed myself off him, not really wanting to feel him against me right now.

I wasn't going to cry. I was not going to cry about this. I ran a hand over my face, slumping forward, my head in my hands. There was nothing to cry about. I was fine. It hadn't even been a real memory this time...just a sensation, more than anything. I hated it, hated how he felt nothing like them, and yet I couldn't escape the memories. I remembered their kisses more clearly than I ever wanted to. Or—I didn't really like to think of them as kisses—they were more like vicious assaults on my unwilling mouth. I could remember their foul breath as it invaded my senses, their tongues fucking my mouth as they did the same to my body. I could remember that most of them tasted like cheap alcohol. I could remember not being allowed to breathe, and the threats growled at me that it was either their tongues down my throat, or...well, worse. Suffocation. And it was precisely that split-second sensation that would sometimes assault me when I was kissing Brian.

He was rubbing my back, telling me it was okay. And I knew it was. The sensation was gone now. As though to prove that I was truly okay, I leaned over and kissed him again...nothing really heavy, just something to prove to both of us that I was as fine as I said I was. Besides, I needed that, to have his taste as the last thing on my lips...the last sensation there.

He wouldn't do anything serious again tonight, I knew. He'd kiss me lightly and hold me later in bed, but that would be it. I'd ruined the chances of anything more happening for now, which was just another reason to hate it when I panicked. Sometimes, I could let him take things a little further. Nowhere near sex, or even mutual nudity, but I could let him run his hands all over me, pretty much wherever he liked, and sometimes, the kisses would stray just a little further down than behind my ears or my neck. I knew wasn't much by anyone else's standards—especially by our old standards—but I knew how to appreciate it, now.

He'd picked up my sketchpad from where it had fallen on the floor, and was flipping through some of the more recent drawings. I saw his eyes lingering on the last one, the one of him in bed. It wasn't finished. I'd only gotten his face and upper torso done before I'd fallen asleep, but once I was done, he would indeed be wearing only the sheet, just like I'd told him. Just the way I'd found him this morning, looking somehow erotic even in his sleep.

My stomach gave a low rumble, effectively lightening the moment and making Brian snicker.

“Shit,” I said, laughing a little, too. “I was going to fix dinner.”

He set the sketchpad aside. “Speaking of dinner, your mom called while you were sleeping.”

“She did? What did she want?” Seeing as I spent two or three days a week over at her house as it was, I didn't hear from my mom all that much here at the loft.

“Dinner with us,” he said, leaning back against the couch cushion. “This Friday. Molly's off school and spending the entire day at a friend's place, so it'll just be your mom. She said she thought she'd stop by...and she'll treat, if we want to order in.”

“That's nice of her,” I said honestly. “What did you tell her?”

“That I'd check with you, but that it sounded good,” he said, shrugging. “Hell, it's a free meal.”

I rolled my eyes, as if I hadn't noticed lately how much better he and my mom and been getting on. I wasn't sure what it was, or when it had happened, but they were actually acting as though...well, as though they liked each other. Most of the problems between them had usually revolved around my mother's attitude towards Brian, which hadn't been helped at all after the bashing. But she didn't seem to blame him for what had happened at the party; she seemed to know how essential he was to keeping me together after everything that had happened.

“Christ,” he said suddenly. I looked over at him. His face was an amusing mixture of horror and hilarity. “Dinner with the mother-in-law. When the fuck did my life become a bad sitcom?”

I snorted, but couldn't quite hide my surprise at him referring to my mother as his in-law. That was basically the same as admitting what we were to each other—whatever that was. Boyfriends...partners, I supposed. Not that I expected him to start calling her “mom” or anything. We'd had dinner with her a couple weeks ago, at her place, and he'd respectfully called her “Mrs. Taylor” the entire time.

“I have dinner with my mother-in-law every week,” I pointed out, figuring that if we were talking about in-laws, Debbie was pretty much as close as I was going to get to having one. Or at least, one either of us had anything to do with. I nearly laughed at loud at the thought of referring to Lindsay as my lesbian-in-law from now on, and, figuring that Brian probably wouldn't find this quite as funny as I did, had to bite my lip to contain my grin.

Predictably, he chose to ignore any and all implications of my statement about Debbie, and was suddenly very interested in finding the TV remote. As though I didn't know exactly what she was to him. But rather than deny the way we'd sort of integrated ourselves within each others' families, he chose to say nothing at all—which, somehow, for him—said just as much.

And speaking of Debbie... “You really should go the diner more often. Debbie's not gonna let up until you do.”

We'd been over for dinner the week before, during which Brian had received a thorough ass-chewing for not stopping by more often. It was obvious she missed him, the weekly visits nothing after years of routine stops by the diner for breakfast or lunch, or a bite to eat before or after Babylon.

He shrugged, now flipping through channels on the TV.

“You could at least go for lunch,” I pointed out. He hadn't been to breakfast there in months...at least, ever since he started forcing me to my mother's or Daphne's house in the mornings. There wasn't time. “Just because I can't handle it, doesn't mean you should just drop out of life.”

His expression softened a little, and he tore his eyes away from the television to glance at me. “Don't worry about me, all right? You've got enough shit to deal with.”

“So do you, and you still worry about me,” I pointed out. “You should do more with everyone. When's the last time you saw Michael?”

“Saturday at Deb's. And the Thursday before that, when he came over here.”

“Yeah, but he was here,” I stressed. “If you want to go out more...just because I can't doesn't mean you shouldn't.”

He just stared at the TV screen in an obvious dismissal of my concerns. When I continued to look at him and it became apparent that I wasn't letting this go, he sighed, put an arm around my shoulders, and pulled me close to kiss my forehead.

“Don't,” he said quietly against my skin. He didn't need to elaborate; he rarely did. Don't start this again. Don't worry over me. I knew what he meant. “I'm fine. Look, we're going to Lindsay and Melanie's this weekend, remember?”

At the look on my face, he seemed to give in slightly. “And...I'll do something with Michael sometime this week, okay? Come watch some TV with me.”

Sighing, I allowed him to pull me down on top of him again.

~. Brian .~

As promised, I went out with Michael on Thursday night.

I felt a little guilty, as per usual, about leaving Justin behind, but he and Daphne were ordering take-out and having dinner at her place, which assuaged my conscience a little. As much as we cared about each other and enjoyed each other's company...it didn't change the fact that there was always this thing between us now. It built up and simmered and bid its time until it exploded in a storm of frustration on his end when he wasn't able to do what he wanted, and desolation on my end when I had to watch it.

But with our friends, we could just...let go of it for a little while. Be free, clear our heads, and come back refreshed and ready to deal with whatever we had to.

Aside from my single drink at Woody's a few weeks prior, I hadn't had a good, strong drink in fucking forever, and was taking the opportunity to remedy that now. I wouldn't get too shit-faced—Justin would need me sober and coherent when we both got back home—but it felt good to let go just a little, as guilty as that thought made me feel. Because the truth was, things were getting better with him. We were back to a stage where we could usually manage a semblance of—if not happiness—then contentment and normalcy. And when we were together, that feeling doubled. At least it did for me. It was back to the point where we could actually enjoy just being ourselves and being around each other, and I loved it.

I found, however, that not getting out much meant not having that many new stories or experiences to relay that didn't involve things like sleep medication or therapy or naked drawings of me. So mostly, I sat and listened while Mikey regaled me with news about our friends that I hadn't already heard at Debbie's last dinner, about the Professor, about the comic shop and a million other trivial things that I managed a few snarky comments on, but secretly hung on every word of.

Finally, it seemed, he ran out of things to say. A first for Mikey.

“So, what about you? And Justin? How is he?”

I bit back a sigh. I knew he cared about Justin; all of our friends did. It was just that there were a million other topics we could discuss about Justin, and yet all anyone ever asked about was that. They didn't even really have to say it; that tone, the sympathy in their eyes when they asked about him...it said enough. They had the best of intentions, I knew, and I supposed it would be even worse if they didn't seem to care at all, but...during these moments of reprieve, these moments where he was perfectly capable of keeping himself alive and happy...the last thing I wanted to think about was it.

“He's doing better,” I said truthfully, reaching into my pocket for a cigarette and a lighter. “He has good days...some bad days. More good than bad, lately.”

Michael nodded, then—it was bound to happen eventually—managed to actually say just the right thing. “Is he still drawing you as Super-Stud?”

Okay, a very irritating, pain-in-the-ass-best-friend type of thing, but if we were discussing Justin in any way, I'd rather talk about stupid superhero sketches than the other shit.

“Oh, now he's moved on to everyone else. You're now Captain Geekwad from planet Dorkon,” I snapped, but there was no spite in it.

He snorted, half indignant, half amused, and sprayed his drink everywhere as he began hacking over the counter of the bar.

“Christ. That's disgusting,” I remarked, even as I thumped him on the back and grabbed a few napkins to clean up.

“Captain Geekwad,” he choked, now definitely laughing. “I'm having flashbacks to the ninth grade here. Remember, Tommy Randon started calling me that after I walked into my own locker door in the hallway?”

“Yeah. Who do you think gave him the nickname?”

“Asshole,” he laughed, shoving me so that I came dangerously close to falling off my stool. “That's complete bullshit. You were the one who shoved him into his gym locker for me after he stole my lunch that one day in the cafeteria.”

“Christ. You were such a fucking nerd,” I took a jibe at him, grinning around the cigarette in my mouth.

“Chemistry club?” he took the liberty of reminding me. Christ. Could no one let that go?

“Fuck off.”

He laughed again, shaking his head, eyes softening as his snickers died away. “Still, you were always the one to stick up for me.”

“Well, someone had to do it, and with your underwear pulled up over your head, you weren't exactly in the optimal position to take care of the brainless breeder bullies of shithole high yourself.”

“Asshole,” he said again, but grinned. He cleared his throat and gulped down some more of his beer. “Um...speaking of heroes and—and standing up to bullies....” At once, his entire demeanor seemed to shift. It was exactly the type of split-second change I'd gotten accustomed to in Justin, and it put me on edge.

“What about it?”

He looked nervous, fidgeting with the label on the bottle clutched in his hand. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes fixed on his half-empty bottle of beer.

“It's called having a cigarette,” I said, exhaling a stream of smoke in demonstration.

“Not with that,” he said, his voice still low and his gaze fixed anywhere but on me. I got the feeling he'd been trying to work up the nerve to say this—whatever it was—for a while. “I mean...” he took a deep breath and released it, and I bit back the urge to tell him to spit it out already. “With Carl Horvath?”

I froze, midway through a drag off my cigarette. Slowly, I let out another huff of smoke, then stubbed it out, reaching for another. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

His hands twisted around the neck of his beer bottle. “I'm talking about...last week at my mother's. You and he disappeared after dinner. And the week before that, you asked about him.”

I shrugged, deciding to test how little of the truth I could get away with telling. “We weren't the only ones that disappeared. Everyone who can always snatches up the nearest excuse and bails. Beats washing dishes,” I shrugged.

Apparently, though, I was going to have to do a little better. “For one thing, Melanie went right out to her car and came back. And we could hear Ted on his phone. You and Carl just...disappeared. And for another, you still didn't answer me about why you were asking about him a couple weeks ago.”

I felt tense. I felt nervous, which was not something I dealt with well, and suddenly I wished Justin and I were at home, on the couch, watching some stupid movie. “Just drop it, Michael, all right?” I implored him, my voice low as I leaned my elbows against the bar.

“You're doing something,” he said. It wasn't a question. “You're doing something to get back at that asshole, and Carl's helping. Isn't he?”

Fuck.

The first time in his life Michael decides to be observant, and it's about this, of all things.

“Look,” he sighed, and I felt his hand on my shoulder as he leaned closer. “I know you. I know the way you work, and how you are when someone you...love...gets hurt. I've seen you in action enough times.”

I forced myself to look at him. He seemed to falter for a split second, then went on, his eyes pleading with mine.

“Just...be careful, okay? Whatever you're doing...don't try to take more than you can handle. I mean, I understand—”

“Do you?” I asked coolly. There was nothing accusatory about it. Just a simple question.

He sighed again. “Okay, no. Not exactly. And we'd all like to see that asshole pay for what he did to Justin, just as much as you...”

I highly doubted that—not because I didn't think they cared, but because I was convinced that no one but Justin himself had hurt over this quite as much or the same way I did. No one wanted that fucker dead more than I did.

“But just...don't end up getting yourself in trouble. The last thing either of you needs is you getting arrested or—or thrown in jail, or...”

“I'm not going to fucking jail,” I snorted. “Don't fucking worry. I'm taking the high road on this one...as much as I can.” Really, I was being too merciful. Then again, anything less than unbearable torture followed by an equally painful death was too merciful, in my opinion.

He nodded, still looking slightly unconvinced. “Just promise me you'll be careful.”

I shook my head, and took another drag off my cigarette. “Fine. But promise me you'll fucking relax. Look, do you really think Carl Horvath is going to go along with anything illegal?”

He seemed to think I'd made a valid point. “That's true,” he muttered.

“Besides, we're not doing anything the fucker didn't already have coming to him,” I said truthfully. He'd asked for everything he was going to end up with. Every single bit of it.

Michael sighed. “I believe you. I just—and I know this a little maudlin for your taste, but—I may not have been there for every second, but I've seen you both go through a lot in the past few months. And the last thing I want is for something else to come along and wreck everything. You both...you both deserve some happiness.”

There was no way I was backing down. No fucking way on earth that a well-intentioned warning was going to stop me from doing what I had to do, no matter who or what it involved or who it pissed off. But even so, I could at least recognize that best friend's heart was in the right place.

I raised my mostly-empty bottle to his, clinking them together. “To happiness,” I said in response to his questioning look.

“To happiness,” he echoed, and took a swig from his bottle.

“And listen, Mikey,” I said, lowering my voice even further. “No one hears about this. Not Ted or Emmett, not your mother, and especially not Justin,” I said firmly. “If this doesn't work...if the fucker gets out of this somehow...it's just easier if no one knows.”

He nodded. “I promise.”

I raised an eyebrow, clinked our bottles together once more, and drained mine in one last gulp...seriously hoping that he would manage to keep this secret better than he had—oh, every other thing told to him in confidence, ever.

Well, save for one.

~. Justin .~

We took my mother up on her invitation for Friday night. She came over to the loft for a Thai dinner, which she tried to pay for, but Brian refused and insisted on treating her. I watched the two of them interacting, hiding a small smile. Brian really was a good son-in-law...type person.

The phone rang soon after dinner, and he politely excused himself to go answer it, claiming it was important. We'd finished with the meal and had opted to sit around and talk, but Brian's departure seemed to be the thing that sparked us into action. My mom helped me clean up while he dealt with whoever the fuck was on the phone this time.

“We should do this more often. It's nice to be able to have a conversation over dinner that I actually get to be a part of,” she said, packaging up some leftovers while I wiped the table. Then, at my questioning glance, added simply, “Your sister's a lot like you were at her age.”

“As in, never shuts up?”

“I was going to say energetic, but that works, too.”

I snickered, going to rinse the sponge in the sink. “Yeah—that'd be great, Mom. For the sake of your sanity, we'll definitely have to have dinner more often.”

“Maybe next week? You and Brian could stop by. We'll order something, the four of us. I have to warn you, though, the last time Brian was over for dinner, Molly couldn't stop talking about him all week. He seems to have quite the effect on my children,” she mused.

I laughed. “Great. My sister is after my boyfriend.” Not that I could blame her, really. No one was immune to the charms of Brian Kinney. “Bet you never thought that was a sentence you'd have to hear.”

“I also never thought you could find a good Thai restaurant for that price around here, but after that meal, I stand corrected.” She finished sealing the container she'd just stuffed full of food, and handed it to me. “There.”

“Oh, no...you take it,” I protested. “You and Molly can have it for dinner tomorrow or something.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If I look in the fridge right now, will I find anything other than water and beer?”

“Um...”

“Take it.”

I smiled and accepted, with a sincere, “Thanks.”

She smiled back, and I moved to put the container away in the refrigerator. When I shut the door, she was standing there, an odd expression on her face, like there was something she wanted to say.

“Mom?”

She looked at me, opened her mouth, then glanced over at Brian in the bedroom, still dealing with the phone call. “He's...he's really being good to you, isn't he?” she asked finally, her voice low. Her expression was soft, her eyes oddly clear.

I nodded, wanting no mistake about that. “He's great, Mom. He's...he's done everything for me.” It was completely true. I wouldn't have even been standing there in front of her if it wasn't for Brian.

She shook her head, smiling faintly. “He really...well, he really does—love you,” she said, looking as though she couldn't quite believe the words had come out of her mouth. That made two of us.

My eyes drifted to the bedroom, where Brian stood, his back to the rest of the loft, his voice soft and low. “I know.”

“I love you, too,” she said, and my gaze snapped back to her.

I smiled. “You, too,” I said, and suddenly I found myself wrapped up in one of those hugs that only a mother could give, not entirely sure which of us had initiated it. She squeezed me tightly and I squeezed back, holding onto each other in a way we hadn't done since that day she'd found out everything and come here in search of me, both of us crying and hurting and hugging.

Finally, we pulled away, and when I caught sight of her face, there were tears in her eyes.

“I'm fine,” she dismissed my look of concern. “Just...”

I nodded, somehow just knowing exactly what she was trying to say. She took a deep breath, a clarity settling in the air between us. Fortunately, we were saved the discomfort of an overemotional moment by the reappearance of Brian, who had returned from the bedroom at last.

“Sorry. Work emergency,” he explained courteously. I narrowed my eyes at the flimsy, overused-as-of-late excuse, but he didn't even look at me. “So, Mrs. Taylor, how about a drink?”

If, three years ago, someone had told me that I'd be here today, sitting with my boyfriend and my mother, having a drink (well, ice water, in my case) and a good time, I would have laughed in their face. But here we were, despite everything. And I thought at last I understood the reason behind my mother's and Brian's recent— acquaintanceship? Friendship? It wasn't only for my sake, because they knew it made me happy to see them getting along, but because of this whole thing. Because my mother had not only come to see what Brian was to me, but accepted that he made me happy. As for Brian...despite his estranged relationship with his own mother—or maybe because of it—he knew how much motherly love meant, knew how important my mother was to me, and therefore she was important to him, in a way.

“Well, I'd better take off,” she said a couple hours later, once the sky outside the windows had darkened to a deep navy and the first few stars had begun their sweep over the night sky. “I need to get Molly from her friend's house, and hopefully get her to bed at a decent hour for her soccer game tomorrow morning,” she rolled her eyes as if to express her doubt that this was ever going to happen. From what my mom had been telling us, Molly had been in this hardcore soccer phase lately, something I'd witnessed firsthand a few weeks ago at dinner. No wonder she idolized Brian, who had regaled her with stories of old soccer games, all of which, naturally, involved him singlehandedly leading his team to victory.

“Aren't you glad I was always such an angel?” I smiled innocently. She gave me this deadpanned look of disbelief that I was sure she'd perfected with Brian's help.

“I'm trying to see it,” Brian added unhelpfully, squinting and frowning at me. I rolled my eyes.

“Christ, that's exactly what she's started doing,” my mom said, shaking her head. “If I ever find out which one of her friends taught her to do that....”

“See? Angel,” I said in satisfaction. She snorted and leaned in to kiss my cheek.

“I'll see you later, honey,” she said, giving me a quick hug. “You coming over next week?”

I caught Brian's eye over her shoulder, and nodded. “Yeah. If that's okay.”

She pulled back and looked me in the eye. “Always,” she said firmly, then smiled, let go of my shoulders, and turned to Brian.

“I'll see you then, Brian,” she said, and to my utter shock—and by the looks of it, his too—stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. She cleared her throat as she released him, and he stood there, looking alarmingly close to stunned disbelief. I wondered, if I poked him hard enough square in the forehead, if he might just fall over.

“Thank you both for dinner,” she said sincerely, now gathering up her purse and grasping my hand one last time as we walked her to the door.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Taylor.”

“Bye, Mom.”

“Bye Brian—see you later, sweetie!” she called as the door slid shut. When I turned around, Brian was standing there, still looking a little stupefied. He shook his head a little as if to clear it, then smirked at me as I moved forward into his arms.

“Hi, sweetie.”

I grimaced. “Don't call me that. Ever.”

He grinned, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down for a searing kiss.

“What was that for?” he asked as I drew away, pressing my forehead to his.

I shrugged. “Because my mom was right.”

He cupped his hand behind my neck, twisting his fingers into my hair. “Mmm...about what?”

I traced his cheek lightly with my fingers, deep hazel eyes boring into mine. “That you're so fucking good to me,” I said quietly. He didn't say anything to that, but kissed me again, long and deep.

“Dinner was great,” I told him when we broke away again, brushing stray locks of hair from his forehead. “And thanks for having my mom over.”

He snorted. “Don't thank me. Have her over whenever.”

I smiled and leaned up to kiss his chin. “She likes you.”

He laughed outright at this. “I don't know if I'd go that far.”

“I do,” I said truthfully. “I told you what she said.”

He shrugged, but I could see the slight smile struggling at the corners of his mouth. I leaned up and kissed it, pressing my lips to one corner of his mouth and then the other, and then he was capturing my lips with his and kissing me for real.

“It's true,” I whispered as he slowly backed us up to lean me against the counter. I stroked his cheek as he kissed me, soft and sweet. “You're amazing. I know I never really...I mean...”

“What?” he asked, the word muffled against my lips.

I sighed, my fingers curling in his hair, my back pressed against the counter. “I never say thank you. For everything you do for me. And I know you said it's not my fault...and I guess—I mean, in a way maybe it isn't, but—I'm still sorry for putting you through this. And...so fucking grateful that you're here. And I just...I...”

“Getting sentimental on me, Sunshine?” he asked, but he smiled, his eyes expressing everything more clearly than he ever could with words. He was, after all, still Brian Kinney. But that was fine; ultimately, we came as a pair. There wasn't much that went on with his half that I didn't catch over on mine, and I recognized his look for what it was—a selfless deflection of my gratitude, a promise to always be there, as long as I needed him—and just wrapped my arms around him and kissed him until neither of us could breathe.

~.Brian.~

“Are you sure about this?” I asked yet again, shrugging on a shirt as he tugged on his shoes. He nodded, pulling his foot on the bed to tie the laces. “We can still cancel.”

“We're supposed to be there in twenty minutes. We can't cancel now.”

I frowned into the closet's full length mirror, decided I looked amazing, and turned around, sinking onto the bed beside Justin. “'Course we can cancel. Just say the word.”

He shook his head. “I'm fine,” he said, finishing up with his shoes and offering me a reassuring smile. “I promise.”

“Still, if you need to leave...”

“I know,” he said firmly, and leaned over to kiss me squarely on the lips, effectively shutting me up.

Conversationally, the ride to the Munchers was rather quiet. He filled the void with crappy music stations until finally he dug out a CD and played that instead. He didn't seem all that nervous, though I couldn't be sure if that was genuine confidence, or if it was all artificial, for my benefit. He'd told me not to worry, but really, he should know by now that it wasn't a reasonable request.

I led the way up to the house, asked him once more if he was sure about this, and knocked, the door swinging open a few seconds later.

“Hey,” Lindsay greeted us cheerfully.

“Daddy!” Gus cried from his place on her hip, stretching his arms out towards me.

“Hey, Sonny-boy,” I said, reaching out to take him into my arms. Lindsay hugged the both of us as she welcomed us inside. I tried to keep an eye on Justin over Gus's shoulder as we followed Linds into the kitchen, but he actually seemed...relaxed. So far, so good.

“Melanie's just finishing with the pancakes,” Lindsay told us as we took our seats at the table, Gus in my lap.

“Ah, Kinney McSkinny,” Melanie smirked, setting down a plateful of pancakes with a small thunk. I was going to kill Emmett for that one. Apparently, the nickname had stuck within our little circle of friends. Just what I needed. “You sure you'll be able to handle this?”

“What, a whole morning of you? Give me enough shitty coffee—and drugs—and I can survive even the worst of conditions,” I said with faux pleasantness.

“Oh, here's your shitty coffee,” Lindsay said, setting a mug of it down in front of me with an exasperated eye-roll at our usual bickering.

“Don't choke on it,” Melanie warned me with sickening sweetness.

“Linds,” I muttered, beckoning her closer as Mel went to check on the eggs. “There's no poison in this, is there?” I gestured to my steaming coffee mug.

She laughed and shook her head, then whispered conspiratorially, “It's the biscuits you've got to watch out for.”

I nodded, and made a mental note of it.

“Hey,” I said quietly, nudging Justin's foot with mine as Lindsay went to help her wife. “You okay?” I mouthed.

“Fine, but you're about to have a lap full of hot coffee.”

“Shit, Gus, no!” I said, quickly grabbing the porcelain mug out of my son's hand and pushing it out of his reach. “You don't want any of that. Here's your juice...you like juice....”

Fortunately, Gus seemed to decide that he'd rather suck down grape juice than scald me with hot coffee— much, I was sure, to Melanie's displeasure. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I was almost sure she'd taught him to do that on purpose. Justin helped Lindsay set the table while Smelly Mellie herself finished up with breakfast and I helped by keeping Gus entertained, and soon the five of us were all eating and enjoying ourselves. I had to admit, the meal was good. If Mel absolutely had to be there, at least we got a killer breakfast out of her presence. And I really did mean killer, too. I was going to have to do at least an hour on the Stairmaster when I got back home.

“How are you doing?” I seized my opportunity to ask while an ill-tempered Gus pitched an unreasonable fit over his scrambled eggs.

Justin squeezed my hand under the table, both our palms sweaty by this point. The insistence of this connection between us had been the only indication that he was nervous in any way. Otherwise, he seemed as at ease as he did at Debbie's these days.

He forced himself to swallow a mouthful of bacon before answering. “Fine,” he said, looking almost amused by my perpetual concern. “I'll tell you if I'm not. I promise.”

I nodded, satisfied with his good mood, and went back to my eggs—declining after a moment's hesitation when Melanie offered me a biscuit.

~.~

After breakfast, Justin got up to help the Munchers clear the table. I started to help, when my son grabbed my hand and tried to drag me off, demanding “Daddy, up!” which I took to mean 'upstairs.'

“He's been waiting to show you this new toy I got him yesterday,” said Lindsay, smiling warmly. “It's been his pride and joy for the last nineteen hours.”

“I'm pretty sure that's a record,” added Melanie.

I glanced at Justin, torn.

He caught my eye, and seemed to know exactly what I was thinking. “Go.”

“Are you—”

“I'm fine. Go,” he said firmly. Ignoring Melanie's expression, I pecked him on the cheek for luck and comfort and allowed my insistent son to drag me upstairs.

“Look!” he said proudly, grabbing a toy truck from his dresser. “Daddy play,” he ordered in all his duckie-shirt-clad seriousness, forcing one of his toy cars in my hand.

We sat there for a while playing cars, which I'd learned from mine and Justin's experience the previous week generally just meant a lot of rolling the toys over every available surface, and occasionally making the appropriate sound of an engine roaring to life.

There was a creak at the doorway, and I looked up. Lindsay stood observing the scene before her, shoulder against the door frame.

“Never thought I'd see the day when Brian Kinney drove a beat up pick-up truck,” she smirked. I opted to ignore her completely, and ran said truck playfully over my son's bare feet, making him giggle. I didn't have to look to know that Lindsay was smiling. Next second, she'd dropped down beside us.

“Can I play?” she respectfully asked of Gus.

He blinked at her, frowned at the pile of toys next to him, and chose a plastic hunk resembling a motorcycle.

“Mama's,” Gus declared.

“Ooh, it is like Mama's motorcycle, isn't it?” asked Lindsay, and mimicked me by rolling it gently across his feet, making him laugh again.

I could sense it coming; I'd known Lindsay for too long and too well not to know. She'd just opened her mouth before I intercepted the conversation, turning it around effortlessly.

“So how's he been?” I asked. She looked confused for half a second, most likely because it was the very question she'd been intending to ask, herself.

She sighed, looking a little weary as Gus apparently decided that my truck wasn't cool enough, and demanded I play with a bright red car with a smiley face sticker on the hood. “Great, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“He hates daycare.”

I frowned. “Endless games, toys, snacks, and naps. Give it a few years and he'll be pining for these days.”

Lindsay gave a halfhearted snort. “Oh, he loves that part of it. There's just this kid he doesn't get along with.”

My frown deepened. “Did you tell him the best way to deal with a bully is just to kick him in the nuts and steal his juice and cookies while he's down?”

“It's a girl. The only nuts she has—or had—were in the ice-cream cone she 'accidentally' smeared on Gus's shirt last week.”

“Okay, then...pull her hair and chop the head off her Barbie while she's not looking.”

She actually laughed at this. “I'm sure you were a delight to grow up with.”

“Daddy!” came Gus's scolding tone. “Play!”

I quickly began to roll my new car along the floor along an invisible road; he seemed satisfied, and went back to ramming two of his own cars together in a head-on collision.

“We'll figure something out, I suppose,” sighed Lindsay. “Mel tried talking to one of the assistants there. We'll try that again, and maybe talking to the girl's mother. Aside from quitting my job and staying home again, I guess we could always switch daycare centers.”

At that moment, watching my son innocently rolling plastic cars and trucks over his bedroom floor, I felt a surge of mingled anger and protectiveness. It was only some Pre-K bully, I knew, but fuck....that was how these things started. You tell yourself and your kids that there are bullies everywhere, that people are just shitty to deal with sometimes, and then you end up on your knees in the middle of a parking garage clutching the bloody, lifeless body of someone you love, praying that they'll be okay. Cynical as I was on any given day, for just a second, I really fucking hated more than I ever had before how unfair life could be.

“So,” Lindsay said, and I realized I'd fazed out for a moment. “How's he doing?”

It was as though she knew exactly where my head had gone; there was no need to specify who she meant.

I masked a wince as Gus rammed his truck a little too hard into my finger, my palm spread flat on the floor. “Better,” I said honestly. “A lot better than he was.”

Lindsay nodded. “He seems...comfortable. A lot happier than the first time he came to dinner.”

I, too, recalled how tense he'd been that first time at Deb's, how he'd sucked it up and had the best time he could possibly have, but had never really relaxed.

“He is,” I said, and at her questioning look, added, “happier.”

“He's not the only one.”

I glanced up at her as Gus ran his truck over her shin, apparently mistaking it for a road. I just arched an eyebrow, letting it ask the question for me. Besides, I had a feeling I already knew the answer.

“Come on,” she said knowingly, a soft, gentle smile tugging at her lips. “All those weeks you'd stop by the diner, and no one knew what was really wrong, or what was going on...just that you weren't the same? And then it came out—what happened—and you still...you were different. It was almost like...like it had happened to you, too.”

I'd never really considered what it all must look like from the outside, to everyone who wasn't involved in this day-to-day battle. Sure, I'd realized that I had become somewhat neglectful of my friends, that I'd become distant and almost as tortured as Justin himself at times, as he worked through months of trauma and pain with me right there beside him. I'd just never really considered it from their points of view. In a way, Lindsay was right: this had happened to the both of us.

“Sometimes things have to change,” I said quietly. Sometimes there wasn't really a choice involved.

My gaze, fixed determinedly on the hunk of plastic-on-wheels in my hand, jerked up when she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“You're full of some pretty damn impressive surprises, Kinney,” she muttered so that only I could hear. “And I know I'm basically asking for some witty comment for even saying this, but...I'm proud of you. All of us—we see what you're doing for him.”

“I'm not doing anything,” I snapped, my tone a bit harsher than I'd meant. Justin's words of gratitude and regret from the other night came back to me, words I knew he'd meant but wished he hadn't, in a way. He didn't owe me a thing, and that included an apology. “It's just...it's not like that.” No matter what they thought, hell, no matter what he thought...I didn't do charity. I wouldn't be here, wouldn't be doing a thing if I didn't care. If I didn't love him the way I did. If I didn't fucking want to be there, on some level. It was as much for me, because I'd rather live in pain with him than in emptiness without him, as it was a desperate desire to see him truly happy again.

As usual, Lindsay seemed to think she knew exactly what was going through my head. And, as usual, she probably did. “I know it's not,” she said, offering me a smile. “That's what's amazing about it.”

~. Justin .~

The day after brunch at Melanie and Lindsay's was a Monday, and with all Monday's came therapy. It was hard to believe I'd been going to Kathy for almost two months now. But I'd actually come to sort of—not really look forward to it, because honestly, it was the toughest time of the entire week—but I'd gotten more comfortable with talking to Kathy and to Brian, and even though it sometimes felt like it was tearing me apart inside to get the words out, I always felt better when I wasn't the only one with these things inside my head.

That particular Monday, I got to proudly share the new development that was brunch at Melanie and Lindsay's. Kathy seemed pleased. Brian had been even more so the day before, when I'd made it through the entire visit without freaking out. I'd actually been able to let it go, and relax, and the girls had even invited us back the next week.

Kathy had always given me “assignments” to complete during the week between sessions. Writing down dreams, rating my moods from day to day, scribbling down something that made me happy. That Monday, I got a new assignment...a two-part, two-week project.

Part one was supposed to be a letter. When I asked her what she wanted me to write about, she told me, simply, everything. Any thoughts, any emotions I hadn't been able or willing to share. She wanted one paragraph on a positive realization I'd had since since my rape, one paragraph about the most significant changes I noticed in myself lately compared to right after it had happened, and a final paragraph in which there were no rules. I was just supposed to write about anything I wanted to say, anything I wanted to get out of my head.

The second part of the assignment was supposed to be a piece of art. Creative therapy, she called it. All she asked was that it was something passionate. She didn't care what it was, how it looked, or if it was angry or happy or miserable, as long as I felt something while I was creating it. She said most people did drawings, but I was free to do whatever I liked, as long as it was something that spoke of what had happened and how I felt about it. Something final, something to get everything I felt out, and hopefully start to make some peace with what had happened.

Brian, as with most of Kathy's assignments, seemed to like both ideas.

“But—I don't know what to write,” I said as we made our way back out to the jeep after our session.

He swung an arm around my shoulders as we navigated through the crowded parking lot. “Anything. That's the point. It's all about what you feel.”

“But I already talked about it. I talk every week.”

“Well, maybe there's something about seeing it down on paper, ” said Brian, hitting the automatic lock for the jeep from his keys.

Kathy had said that a lot of people, upon completing the assignment, found that they felt as though a weight had been siphoned off their shoulders. Something about it made them think, made it sink in. I supposed Brian had a point. Clutching my therapy log tightly in my hand, I nodded in acknowledgment to what he'd said, and climbed inside the jeep.

~.~

It was late on a Tuesday night. Brian had been up working on his computer, and I'd been on the couch, working on my letter for therapy. I'd been stuck all evening on paragraph one: my realization. I'd realized a lot of things in the four-plus months since I'd been raped, most of them negative, which ruled them out as contenders for my paragraph topic. Finally, as I replayed memories and moments from the last few months in my mind, my own words and the accompanying emotions came back to me.

“...I know you said it's not my fault...and I guess—I mean, in a way maybe it isn't...”

In a way, it wasn't. That was the part that stuck. I'd admitted that maybe, it wasn't my fault what happened, and finally begun to see things the way Brian did, the way Kathy did. I could have been smarter—should have been smarter—about the whole thing. I'd made mistakes, but that didn't justify what Gary and his friends had done. It felt good, knowing that; it let me breathe a little easier.

It took me a while to get down everything I wanted to say in the exact way I wanted to say it, during which time Brian finished up at the computer, rubbing his eyes wearily, and came to join me on the couch. He turned on the TV, keeping the volume low so he wouldn't disrupt me, and after about a half an hour, he was asleep. Fuck, he must have been tired. It was late, but it wasn't that late. Not for someone who could go all night and still get up for work the next morning the way he'd always been able to.

I decided to grab a pillow and blanket for him and just leave him there. If he was that tired, I didn't want to wake him, and I couldn't very well carry him to bed the way he did with me.

Still, that left me with a choice. Either I could go to bed myself and take the chance that I would have one of the terrifying nightmares I was so prone to, or I could get my sleeping pill myself and hope Brian never found out.

My unease was senseless; how could he possibly find out if I went rummaging through a drawer? And what was more, so what if he did? It wasn't as though I was doing anything wrong. It was my medicine, and it wasn't like I was going to do anything stupid. Again. Then I remembered the look in his eyes when he'd found those drawings of my corpse...when he'd found me on the rooftop...all those times I refused to eat...and doubted that he'd see it the same way.

Still...he was sleeping on the couch. And it would only take a few seconds to get my pill from the bottom of the drawer and put everything back the way it was. He'd never have to know. So, doing my best to be exceptionally quiet, I crept into the bedroom, opened the drawer, and....

The phone rang.

I froze, praying that Brian wouldn't wake up, and cursed the next second when I saw his head pop up from behind the couch.

I knelt in front of the drawer, unmoving, as he got up and went to answer the phone. I saw the moment where he glanced back at the couch to see my abandoned notebook with my therapy letter, saw his gaze sweep the loft for me.

Shit. His eyes had found their target.

He quickly dealt with whoever was on the other line while I got the pill I'd come searching for in the first place and generally tried to appear less guilty. I was screwing the lid back on the bottle when I noticed that, despite having just renewed my prescription, it was almost empty. I snatched up the bottle of Advil he'd hidden in there, too, and shook it. Maybe three or four pills, and that was it. I checked my antidepressants. Same.

I didn't have much time to ponder this, though. He was saying goodbye to the person on the other line and hanging up, appearing suddenly, silently, at the foot of the stairs, like a villain out of an old horror movie.

“Brian—look, don't freak out, okay?” I implored him immediately, preparing to argue out my case.

“I'm not freaking out,” he said, his voice cool and calm.

I didn't buy it. “You were sleeping—I just wanted my pill for tonight, and—”

“Justin,” he said, taking a step forward and catching my attention. “It's okay. It's not a big deal.”

When I just stared at him in confusion, he shrugged, running a hand through his hair, adorably ruffled from lying on the couch. He sighed. “I know you found them a couple weeks ago, that day we went to Debbie's.”

My eyes widened. “How the fuck...?”

“The tie,” he explained, now climbing the steps slowly and coming to sit on the bed next to me. “That striped tie you've got...it was moved. I would always fold it a certain way, and keep your medicine under it between two shirts. It was messed up that night when I got your pill for you.”

Shit. Of course. It wasn't as though I spent a lot of time not under his watchful eye, but I should have realized, being him, that he'd arranged everything just a certain way after packing the pills in here, set it up each and every time he retrieved anything from the bottom of this drawer...a surefire way to know if I'd gone through it. It was such a paranoid-Brian-thing to do. And so was not busting me, not immediately letting on that he knew, and waiting for me to say it first, now that I thought about it.

“And...you didn't move them?” I asked slowly, shutting the drawer and going to sit beside him on the bed.

He shook his head. “I didn't move them.”

For a moment, I felt elated at the idea, then I frowned. “But, why are there hardly any pills left in any of the bottles?”

He looked suddenly uncomfortable, avoiding my eyes, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “There are more,” he admitted. “Just...not in the drawer.”

I frowned. “So...around the loft? Hidden?” Not in one place. No way for me to get to them all, or too many, at once.

“Right.”

“But you didn't move the medicine in the drawer.”

“No.”

“How come?”

He took a moment to answer, fidgeting with the duvet beneath his palm. “Because...” he sighed, eyes closing briefly, and finally looked at me. “I'm trying—to trust you...I do trust you.”

I couldn't help it. I smiled, just a little. Whatever precautions he still felt it necessary to take, he'd known that I had found my medicine, and not hidden it all immediately. Slowly but surely, I was gaining his trust back. And that fucking meant the world to me.

“You've been...different,” he continued quietly. “Things are different than they were.”

“And you trust me,” I said softly.

He hesitated. “I'm trying,” he admitted. “And—and on some level, I do. It's just...you're worth too much, Justin...to take a chance over.”

I felt a lump rising in my throat, and cursed myself for being so stupid and emotional. “So...can we move them to the counter again?” I asked hopefully. It seemed we would never be over this secrecy where my medicine was concerned. When it had first happened, it had been me hiding it from him, and now...well, it was ironic how much everything had turned around since then.

He nodded, though, offering me a smile that made me melt.

He followed me out to the kitchen, the bottles of medicine in hand. A sense of triumph bubbling inside my chest, I placed each one side by side on the counter. We stood there staring at them for a moment, letting the implications of this new development sink in.

“I like this,” I said, as he wrapped his arms around me and kissed my cheek. I loved this slowly deepening trust between us, the bond between us being reforged, little by little.

“Me too,” he said quietly, and I could hear the sincerity in his words. It was a great feeling, being on the same page. Knowing that whatever was going on inside me, this will to live, this change that had slowly started to steal over my life...it was starting to show.

I hesitated, wondering if I was pushing my luck here, then decided to do it anyway. “Maybe...in a couple of weeks...you could get the rest of it from wherever you hid it, and put it all together.”

He nodded, but I could sense his unease at the idea. “Maybe,” he muttered. He sighed, his breath tickling my ear, and I felt my heart drop, just a little bit.

“Brian, you said yourself things were different.”

“They are,” he admitted. “I just...”

“What?”

He paused, then let out a huff of amusement. When he spoke, it was soft and deliberate. “I want you safe,” he whispered. “And I want you around for a long time.”

I smiled and turned to look at him over my shoulder; answering the unspoken plea, he leaned down and pressed his lips tenderly to mine. I kissed him back, and there was only the sensation of him against my lips.

“I will be.”