Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction

~. Justin .~

Out of all the scenarios my mind had conjured up to explain Brian's weird behavior, him seeing a therapist hadn't been one of them.

I hadn't really meant to ask him about the email. I'd even decided to keep it to myself, sure that he had a good reason for not telling me about whatever was going on. In the end, though, I just...couldn't. I couldn't pretend I didn't know something, couldn't keep quiet while he sat there and purposefully hid things from me. I'd never imagined, however, what that secret would turn out to be.

I mean, it was great that he was talking to someone and hopefully dealing with some things. All this time, he'd been so strong and supportive, because it was what I'd needed. Only I hadn't been in any position to offer the same thing to him. It was good that he was getting that, that he had a place to concentrate on himself and what he felt. Despite the titles he sometimes earned from our friends— 'selfish asshole' among the most popular— Brian was far too selfless at times, and I knew he had to have been lugging around a certain amount of emotional baggage from these last six months, just like me. You didn't go through times like these and come out unscathed. And even though he'd told me that the general topic of discussion during his therapy sessions was me, I sincerely hoped he was talking about his own problems, too. I mean, we already had Kathy to help me get through shit. It didn't really make sense for him to have a therapist for himself, unless he was indeed using the time to work through some of his own issues.

That said, I wasn't entirely thrilled that he'd hidden this from me, but I understood it, in a way. I mean, this was Brian Kinney, who, despite helping me work through so much of my own shit, was rather lacking in skill when it came to dealing with some of his own. He'd never once thrown the fact that I was in therapy in my face, or made one of his snide remarks about it. He'd been the one who had suggested it in the first place, after all, and I knew for a fact that he liked Kathy.

However, Brian was also a big fucking hypocrite about a lot of things. What was okay for other people was just unacceptable for him, and I had a feeling that included therapy. Even though he sometimes talked to Kathy about what he was feeling, I supposed having his very own therapist was just one of those things Brian saw as a threat to his untouchable facade of strength, or whatever. I still didn't appreciate the secrecy, but I could let it go and chalk it up to Brian being...well, himself.

“So, when are you supposed to meet with your therapist?” I asked him on Friday morning. I sat on the bed, watching him fidget with his tie in the closet mirror. He stiffened slightly, and I wished, somehow, that I could get it through his head that therapy was nothing to be ashamed of. He didn't have to feel bad about needing it, too; honestly, I wouldn't have been nearly as okay as I was if it weren't for our weekly sessions with Kathy.

“Today, actually,” he admitted. “He wanted to meet me...after work.”

I frowned at his hesitant demeanor, the tension in his shoulders. “You told him 'yes,' right?”

He cleared his throat, pulling off the tie he'd just spent five minutes picking out and throwing it on the floor. “I told him maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He shrugged. “I don't know how long it'll take.”

“It doesn't matter,” I said earnestly. “If it's me you're worried about, don't. I'll be fine. Daph and I can just hang out and watch a movie or something.”

He met my eyes in the mirror. “You sure?” he asked after a moment.

I nodded. “Yeah, definitely.” After all the shit he'd done for me, there was no question in the matter. He was doing this, for himself. I pushed myself off the bed, selecting a smooth silk tie from the closet and holding it up to his shirt. “Wear this one.”

He just looked at me for a moment, an unidentifiable expression on his face. My eyes fluttered closed as he leaned in and kissed me, then opened when he took the tie from my hand. “Good choice. So why don't you have this kind of taste when it comes to your own clothes?”

I rolled my eyes and decided not to answer that one. Instead, I left him in the bedroom and headed for the kitchen to make us some breakfast. “So, do you want me to come?” I asked him when he joined me a few moments later, still messing with the fucking tie.

“Well, that's up to you, Sunshine, but I'd be happy to lend a hand.”

I rolled my eyes at him and his fucking innuendos, even though I'd come to appreciate them, in a way. They were his usual bad puns, but maybe that was why I liked them: they were something normal, something he wouldn't have done as recently as a few months ago, but that he was starting to do more and more lately.

“I meant to your therapy session.”

He squinted into the toaster, using the reflective surface as a mirror, still struggling with the tie. Before we left, he'd have to make at least two trips to the closet mirror, and I'd have to assure him at least three times on the way to Daphne's that the damn thing was straight.

“I'm a big boy. I can handle it on my own.”

“I know you can.” Heaven forbid anyone doubt Brian Kinney's self-sufficiency. It wasn't about that, anyway. For once, I had an opportunity to be there for him, to show him how much I loved and supported him, and I wanted to take advantage of it. Whatever he may like to think, he couldn't do everything alone, and I was determined to be his support system if and when he needed it. “I just thought...if you wanted me there, if it might make things easier....”

He stopped me with a look; after a moment, it softened. He sighed and straightened up, coming over to kiss me as I fumbled with getting some bread out for toast.

“Thanks,” he said shortly. His hand cupped the back of my neck, his forehead pressed against mine. “But...no thanks.” He nudged my nose with his, the tender gesture most likely meant to take some of the sting out of his words. I knew it wasn't anything personal, but still...it felt like a rejection.

He must have caught the expression on my face, because he sighed again, clearly resigning himself to the fact that his answer was simply not good enough. “It's just something I need to do alone...at least for right now.”

I let out a deep breath, trying to accept this. I could understand it, I supposed. As much comfort as he'd offered me during the countless Monday mornings we'd spent in therapy, I had to admit that some of it would have been a hundred times easier had he not been there, had I not been worrying about hurting him with the things I had to say. Maybe he was just trying to protect me from that— his own emotions. I may not have liked that, but I could empathize.

“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly. “Fine. Just...if you do ever need me, for anything....”

“I'll let you know,” he promised.

And that was that.

~.~

“A therapist?” Daphne repeated, scrunching her nose, taking another drag off her cigarette. She'd switched brands again, I'd noticed, as a result of her newest relationship. She'd developed a tradition of switching brands after break-ups, (“That brand was for smoking after sex with Josh. New boyfriend, new cigarette brand.”) Her philosophy was that, once she found a brand she couldn't quit, she'd find a man that she felt equally loyal to. Evidently, she had taken romance tips from Brian.

“I just...can't imagine it,” she continued. “Brian in therapy...he doesn't seem like the type.”

“He's not,” I agreed. “But I mean, I'm not complaining, if it helps him get through whatever he's dealing with. Maybe it'll help him as much as it's helped me.” A hushed infomercial played across the TV, the remote lying forgotten on the floor. We hadn't really been paying attention since she'd demanded that I tell her 'everything, and don't leave out any of the good details,' about the shower Brian and I had shared the previous Saturday night.

She'd been disappointed; I'd left out plenty of details, if only because it just felt like way too intimate an experience to share with anyone but Brian himself. The hard, raunchy fucks of six months ago had never really been declared off limits, but this felt...different. In fact, I hadn't told Daph much more than that it had been amazing, and that I was so grateful that I'd been able to enjoy it.

I'd also told her about the weird email I'd seen in his in-box, and his explanation, which she seemed to find almost odder than the email itself.

She considered me for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe his therapist can help him figure out why he always has to make the bed on the left side before he does the right...you got to admit, that's fucking weird.”

I nodded my agreement, taking a drag off my cigarette. Brian definitely had his idiosyncrasies. “Yeah. But he says it's not normal to put the toilet paper on so that it rolls off the bottom, so I guess we're both weird.”

She pointed her cigarette at me. “He's right, you know. That's not normal.”

“You're not normal.”

She made a face at me. “Hey, you're the one with the boyfriend with the weird bed-making-related mental abnormalities.”

“That's because your boyfriend doesn't know how to make a bed,” I pointed out.

She grimaced. “That's true. I think I saw a pair of his underwear under his pillowcase last weekend.”

“At least now you'll never be surprised by his 'dirty laundry,'” I joked.

She stuck her tongue out at me, and we spent a few minutes in companionable silence, sprawled lazily across the couch, watching a commercial that looked suspiciously like something Brian would come up with play across the TV screen.

“You know what we should do again someday?” she asked randomly as the lame horror movie we were watching came back on. I was pretty sure it was from the eighties, one of those shitty ones that Brian would deem a 'classic,' even while verbally ripping it to shreds. “We should make one of those drinks...like those ones we used to make at your house when your parents were gone?”

I snorted, dozens of memories flickering to life on the miniature television inside my head. “God, remember that time Molly walked in when we had my dad's bottle of scotch in my room?”

“Shit...yeah,” she giggled. “I thought we were gonna get in so much trouble for that.”

“But we said it was for a science project....”

“Bottles on Bunsen Burners,” she remembered. “God, we were fucking stupid.”

“Yeah. Who knew all you had to do was get a fake ID to get into a real bar?” Shit, I'd been naive back then. We both had.“What brought this up, anyway?”

She shook her head, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. “You remember Cindy McPherson's sweet sixteen? How she got her older brother to buy alcohol for her party, and practically everyone went home drunk?”

I snickered, then winced at the memory of puking my guts out the next morning. I'd been fifteen, and it had been the first time I'd ever tried alcohol. I'd been so nervous, it had taken Daphne offering to try it first to get me to take my first sip...the first of many for both of us. “Yeah...”
“I ran into her the other day.”

“No way,” I said, sitting up a little straighter. “How is she?”

“Pregnant,” said Daphne frankly. “Huge. Anyway, it just got me thinking about that night. We went over to your house afterward...remember your parents were out of town for some wedding or whatever? We snuck in that beer from the party, and then you made us those drinks from their stock?”

“That was fun,” I said, laughing and flicking the end of my cigarette into the ashtray she passed me. “Fuck, I was hungover the next day.”

“Our first hangovers,” she smiled. “An occasion to remember, for sure. Anyway, I was just thinking...we haven't done something like that together in a while.”

“Gotten drunk off our asses?”

“Had fun,” she said, then seemed to realize how it had sounded. “I mean...we have fun, you know, together, but...we haven't really gone out and done something stupid in a while.”

“We could always break into my dad's place, I guess,” I mused. “Steal some of his scotch....”

“Stealing, underage drinking, and breaking and entering...I'm impressed,” she said thoughtfully, grinning. “Nah, I just meant...we should do something sometime. I mean, I know there are... reasons that we haven't, but...when you're up to it— it might be fun. No pressure or anything, really, just...maybe sometime we could go see a movie or something?”

For just a moment, I hated that thing inside me that had to think that proposition over. I forced it down into the darkest recesses of my mind, and let out a breath, cleansing myself of it. Or at least trying to.

“Yes,” I said decisively. “Yeah, definitely. Sometime.”

She nodded, looking pleased. Or maybe that was relief. “Great.” Her smile faded as she stared down at her knees, as though wondering whether or not she should say anything more. “Listen, Justin...I get that you're still going through a lot. But...I mean, if you ever want to just...do something, get away from it all, or whatever...you're still my best friend. And I promise we can do, like, whatever you need to feel comfortable. I know I'm not Brian, but....” she shrugged, her voice trailing off.

I let a smile of my own pull at my lips. Even after everything, she was still my best friend, too, the one I spilled all my secrets to. The one I counted on.

“Sounds great,” I said truthfully. “We'll do that...we'll go out. See a movie or something.” Someday. Hopefully someday soon.

“Cool,” she grinned back. “Ooh, hey, guess what Cindy McPherson told me about Trisha Mason? You remember her, right?”

I nodded eagerly, stubbing out my cigarette and leaning forward to listen.

 

~. Brian .~

“Hey, Mikey,” I said, holding my cell phone to my ear with one hand and steering with the other, wishing I had a third hand to grab a cigarette with.

“Hey,” his voice had that somewhat frazzled tone it took on at the end of a busy day. “What's up?”

“You still at the shop?”

“Just closing up. Why?”

“Feel like a drink?” I asked, pulling into the turning lane that would eventually take me to Woody's. The question was mostly perfunctory; I knew that Ben taught late classes on Friday nights, and that Michael would otherwise be sitting at home waiting for his husband to return for the next two hours if I didn't drag him out with me. “I mean, let's face it, it's not like you've got anything better to do.”

“Right, like you just got back from your worldwide tour and Hollywood premier event,” he said sarcastically. I heard the ding of his shop door, and could imagine him standing just outside it, locking up as we spoke. “Sounds good. Look, my cell's almost dead. I'll see you at Woody's, okay? About twenty minutes?”

“See you there.”

I snapped my phone shut and reached for a cigarette and a lighter, steering with one hand while I lit up and took that first drag, watching the smoke rise and drift out the open window. Storm clouds had been steadily accumulating in the sky all day, threatening to unleash their wicked fury on us all at any moment. The rather dismal atmosphere did nothing for my already less-than-stellar mood.

There was an aching knot of overwhelming guilt in my stomach that even nine hours of mulling things over at work had done nothing to dispel. I hadn't realized the other night how complicated my initial lie had the possibility of becoming. I'd lied to Justin about the email, the thought never crossing my mind that I might have to do it again, to cover up for the first one. But that was exactly what had happened.

Now, I was on my way to Woody's to waste time with a fake appointment with a therapist that didn't even exist. Was this going to become a regular occurrence until I could tell him the truth? How often would he expect me to “meet” with “Carl,” anyway? I didn't like this. I'd never liked lying, preferring the truth— no matter how brutal— over feeling-sparing falsehoods ninety-nine percent of the time.

The problem was, this was about more than sparing feelings. This was about sparing Justin from what had the potential to be complete and total devastation. Only somewhere along the line, I'd apparently decided to develop a conscience, and now that little knot of tension in my stomach was growing, making it harder and harder to justify keeping this secret. It hadn't been so bad when he hadn't known, had barely suspected. I'd hidden this all for months, in the early stages when nothing was for certain. Things still weren't set in stone, mind you, still had the potential to go wrong at any given turn. But now, things were worse. Now, I was actually spinning elaborate, outright lies to his face.

The only thing that kept me from spilling everything was the memories that had seared themselves into my brain: his face, when I'd told him that Sapperstein was walking free; my fear, when I'd woken up later that night and he was nowhere to be found; our mutual devastation at what he'd tried to do up on that rooftop, hours after I'd given him that news.

I wasn't naive enough to believe that it had only been the information about Sapperstein that had made him do it. Whatever he said, thoughts of suicide had been on his mind long before that. They had to have been. But still, that news had played a major part in pushing him over the edge, the idea that his attacker was free while he lived within the confines of his own personal hell. And while I knew he was in a better place now, and that another failed attempt to get Sapperstein locked up probably wouldn't devastate him as much as it had the last time...there was no pretending that he wouldn't take it hard. Time after time, the world had let him down, first with Hobbes, then with the Sap...how many injustices was he supposed to fucking face? How much was he supposed to fucking go through before someone fucking paid the price for hurting him? This second attack had nearly killed him— in a different but equally devastating way as the first— and it wasn't exactly difficult to see why. What he'd gone through was bad enough on its own, without him already reeling from the bashing. It was like he was the world's fucking punching bag or something, and I was fucking sick of it. I was going to make damn fucking sure that justice was served on his behalf this time, and that no one ever let him down again.

I was still struggling with this justification of my own actions when I pulled up at Woody's, about ten minutes before Michael did. I ordered a much needed drink, relishing the taste of the cool liquid as it slid down my throat. I couldn't get too fucked up— Justin was, after all, under the impression I was with my therapist tonight. I was pretty sure you were supposed to stay mostly sober for such things.

It had started to rain in the few minutes I'd been inside, so that Michael bore the unmistakable signs of this by the time he arrived. The soaking wet soles of his shoes squeaked their way across the floor, tracking footprints all the way.

“Hey,” he said, cheery despite his rather sodden appearance as he slid onto a bar stool next to me.

“Hey. When did the monsoon start?” I asked, making a show of angling away from him as he pulled off his rain-soaked jacket, nearly smacking me with it in the process.

“Just now. It's pouring,” he said, as if I hadn't realized. “Last time it did this, the power went out in the apartment. Ben had to grade papers by candlelight, and—”

I snorted. “Why am I not surprised that the most exciting thing the two of you can find to do in the dark with candles is grade papers? And here I thought I raised you better than that.”

“Guess I managed to turn out normal anyway, despite your best efforts,” he grinned at me cheekily.

I tried to return the smile, taking another deep swig of my beer to hide the fact that I couldn't quite muster it up, daring to hope that he wouldn't ask questions. Of course, this was Michael, so naturally it turned out to be in vain.

“So, how's Justin?” he asked habitually, leaning over the counter to get the bartender's attention. “Is he home tonight?”

I shook my head. “He stayed at Daphne's today.” I hesitated. “He, uh...he thinks I'm meeting with a therapist right now.” I don't know why I said it. Maybe because he was the only one besides Carl who knew about what was really going on. Or maybe because of some fucked up hope I had that he might assuage my guilt a little, tell me I was doing the right thing, brush off any misgivings I had.

He frowned. “Why does he think that?”

“Because I told him I was.” I sighed, flagging down the bartender myself and ordering a beer for Michael and a second for myself, inwardly promising that it would be the last one I had tonight.

He waited until the bartender disappeared before turning to me. I wasn't sure if the spark of accusation in his eyes was real, or simply my conscience fucking with my head; either way, I didn't like it.“You told him you were seeing a therapist,” he repeated.

“Yeah.”

“And...you're not,” he clarified.

“No.”

“So...you hate the concept of therapy. You hate therapists. You hate anything to do with being analyzed and questioned about your feelings...and yet for some reason you figured it would be a good idea to lie and tell Justin you're seeing a therapist.”

“Right.”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if the proper reply to this eluded him. “I would say that I'm sure you have a great explanation for this, but...I really have no fucking idea what it could be,” he admitted finally.

I sighed, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I fucked up,” I began simply. As strange and ultimately unreliable as this process was, I was sort of hoping to gauge Justin's potential reaction by the severity of Michael's. If Mikey flipped out on me, I was pretty sure Justin's reaction would be even worse, considering he was the one I was fucking lying to. And if Mikey understood...well, okay, there was still a very good chance that Justin would be flipping out once he discovered the truth. And honestly, all things considered, I wouldn't really blame him. At all. But maybe— just maybe— there was a chance that he might understand.

“He, uh...he found something...an email, on my computer.” Fuck, why the hell hadn't I been more careful? Why hadn't I made sure to sign out every time I'd checked my mail? Why hadn't I fucking password-protected every single fucking thing on that goddamn computer that had any potential to make him suspicious? “I told him it was from a therapist I've been seeing.”

Michael was nodding slowly, as if so far, everything was making perfect sense. “And...who was it really from?”

Suddenly, I was aware of how thick the crowd was around us, how many pairs of ears could catch even a snippet of conversation, and leaned in closer. “You remember that guy I told you I'd been trying to get in contact with?”

Michael's eyes widened. “You found him?”

I smiled, partly at his excitement, partly at my own relief that this whole thing was finally almost over. I mean, yeah, we still had fucking months— maybe even years— of residual issues to work through. I didn't entertain even for a second the idea that I could make this all go away just by giving Gary Sapperstein what he deserved. However, it did feel like...closure. Like maybe we could finally put this behind us once and for all, for real. We'd never really gotten that resolution after the bashing, we'd just sort of pushed ourselves on until we were once again standing tall. I fucking needed some sense of the end this time, because honestly, I didn't think it would ever be over otherwise. Maybe this act of justice could help us start putting all of it behind us, the bashing and the rape, once and for all.

“I found him.”

“That's great,” he gushed, his voice low, but his eyes conveying his excitement. He fell silent when the bartender reappeared with our drinks, waiting until he wandered away down the bar again to take the orders of two young twinks that I doubted were even legal. “So, what did he tell you?”

“I haven't met with him yet. He just got back to me a couple days ago,” I explained. “We're supposed to meet in person sometime next week.”

“Shit,” Michael said quietly, blowing out a seemingly awestruck breath. “Shit, Brian...does that mean they're gonna do it soon? They can arrest him?”

“Hopefully. Carl thinks they've finally got enough information as far as the drug deals go. We want to make sure it's definite, though.” I took a swig of beer from my bottle, grimacing. “Apparently he's been arrested before, for everything from drugs to sex crimes, but they think he's got someone— or a few people— pulling strings and helping him out, because somehow, he's managed to avoid actually having the charges stick and being sent to fucking prison, where he belongs.”

“So, how are they going to make sure it sticks this time?” Michael frowned.

“Well, that's where my newest contact comes in,” I said grimly, feeling somewhat smug, despite everything. “He has a few contacts of his own, and we think he might know enough to end this fucking thing for good.”

“God,” Michael whispered, his eyes wide. “So...it's really gonna happen? He's gonna fucking pay?”

I let my lips curve into the smallest of satisfied smiles, just at how fucking good those words sounded to me. “Looks like it.”

He swore softly, taking a gulp of beer. “Fuck...it's just so...fuck.

“I know.”

“So, why didn't you tell Justin? I mean, this seems like a pretty definite thing now, right?”

“Nothing's definite until it's done,” I said roughly. “And I'm not fucking telling him a thing until it's over. The last time he thought Sapperstein was going to pay and he didn't...it really fucking tore him up. I'm not taking that chance again.” I knew Michael wouldn't get the severity of Justin's reaction, not without the full story, but I wasn't about to go into it. What had happened on that rooftop was between me, Justin, and Kathy— and I planned to keep it that way.

“Just...promise me you'll be careful,” he said pleadingly. “Legally...emotionally...it could hurt you, too. And I know you're just going to say it was nothing compared to what Justin went through, but he's not the only one who's gone through hell these last few months, and you know it.”

I took another drink from the bottle, ignoring the sensation of his eyes boring into me. “You've already nagged me about this, remember? I told you I'd be careful.”

“First of all, I'm not nagging,” he said crossly. “And second of all, you just...you scare the shit out of me sometimes, Brian. I've already seen you go through hell— twice— and I'm just not particularly eager to fucking see it happen again. Haven't you been through enough? Hasn't Justin?”

“Through hell and back,” I muttered. “And now it's the Sap's turn.”

He sighed again, as if I was causing him unparalleled anguish just by making him worry about all of this. “Look, I get that you have to do this, I do...”

“Do you? Get it?” I added when he raised a questioning eyebrow. “How fucking horrible it's been?”

“I...”

“You don't,” I said quietly. “You can't. You don't fucking know what it's like...until you've been through it.” He showed every sign of interrupting, but I pressed on. “I don't just want to get him on anything. And I don't want this case against him falling apart like the last one. I want him gone for a long, long time...as long as possible.” Forever might be long enough. Maybe. “I want him to fucking suffer as long as possible. This...all of this, it's Sapperstein's fault. Justin's not the only one he's done this to, and he sure as hell won't be the last if someone doesn't do something. He fucking deserves whatever he gets.”

In true queenly Novotny fashion, he didn't look any less mollified by this. Only Michael (and probably Debbie, to be fair) would worry about the legal ramifications of catching a criminal. “I'm not arguing with that. I mean...if it were Ben...I'd want Sapperstein dead, too, but...”

I shook my head. “I don't want him dead.”

“You...don't?”

“Not at first. At first...I want him to feel what Justin felt,” I said, cold hatred making my skin crawl, my grip on the neck of my bottle tightening. “I want him to want to die way before he ever gets to.”

Michael made a noise that might have been alarm. Now that I thought about it, I don't think he's ever heard me sound so ready to kill someone. “And we're back to the scaring the shit out of me thing again.”

I glanced over at him, forcing myself to relax a little. He didn't get it. He couldn't get how much I longed to see Gary Sapperstein suffer, the way Justin and I had suffered for the past six and a half months. He'd fucking...he'd killed Justin inside for the longest time. That was it. He'd fucking killed Justin's soul, for a while at least, and I wanted prison to do the same thing to him. I wanted more than his physical life: I wanted him to suffer the death of his livelihood. And Michael, no matter how much he cared, could not possibly have a chance at understanding this until he woke up nearly every night for months on end with his boyfriend screaming and crying over the memories that piece of shit had given him to suffer...until he saw the person he loved on the roof of a fucking building, desperate to end their pain...until he'd given everything he could of himself to fix what had once seemed irreparable.

“Don't,” I said simply. “Don't freak out on me. I told you, I'm taking the high road on this one. As much as I can, anyway.”

He blew out another deep breath. “I know. It's just...fucking scary. It's like you're messing in this whole big thing, and....look, I just don't want you to get in over your head.”

“You worry too much,” I grumbled.

“You don't worry enough,” he countered. “And even if I do worry, I'm entitled. I'm half Italian, half drag-queen, remember? It's in my blood.”

I snorted softly. “Well, recklessness and alcoholism are in my blood, so that justifies pretty much ninety percent of my life.”

His hand was warm and firm on my neck, guiding me away from my contemplation of the last vestiges of liquid at the bottom of my beer bottle, and down to his lips for a kiss. He pressed his forehead to mine, his eyes sparkling with something akin to admiration, and maybe a bit of love.

“You're fucking unbelievable. You know that, right?”

I smirked. “As a matter of fact, I do. And you're totally pathetic, you know that, right?”

He rolled his eyes, his beer-scented breath huffing against my face as he laughed.

 

~. Justin .~

“Christ, Brian, that's disgusting.”

I grimaced at the image on the television screen. It was a Sunday evening, and once again, we were sitting home watching fucking movies. Well, he was watching a movie. I'd had some school shit to do, and he'd been adamantly refusing to watch any film of my choice since I'd forced him through an admittedly cheesy animated movie that had gotten great reviews online. Brian just couldn't appreciate it for the animation, probably because there were no hot guys to stare at and not a single sex scene throughout the entire PG-rated monstrosity he seemed to think it was. Not that it would have made a difference— unless we specifically rented (or bought, or downloaded) a film with gay sex scenes, most of them tended to be all about the Hollywood heteros of the moment, much to Brian's aggravation.

“Well, who the fuck wants to watch a sex scene and look at tits and pussy the whole time?” he'd grumble in disgust. “If I wanted to see that, I'd watch Mel and Lindsay go at it.”

He tilted his head at the screen, as if viewing the TV from a different angle might make the image on it any less revolting. “For once, I think I agree with your film evaluation, Sunshine. So far there've been a total of three naked women, two sex scenes, and not one glimpse of cock. Who the hell wants to watch something like that?”

“I was talking about the mutilated body with the intestines spilling out of it, but I see your point.” I rolled my eyes. “What kind of twisted mind comes up with this stuff, anyway?”

“My guess is the same kind that invented lesbian porn,” he shrugged. “But if you want, we can change it to something a little better suited to your tastes.”

He held up the remote, and with a few clicks, the gore disappeared, something ridiculously bright, cheerful, and made specifically for preschoolers appearing in its place.

“Hilarious, Brian. Really, thank you.”

Another click, and the TV went black. “Whatever. I need to shower sometime tonight, anyway...unless you wanted to go first.”

I shook my head, and he pushed himself up off the couch. I found myself trailing nervously behind him all the way to the bathroom.

“Brian....” I forced my eyes away from his bare chest as he stripped of his shirt— not because it made me uncomfortable, but because watching him get naked was not exactly conducive to my goal, which having a serious discussion with him. Naked-Brian tended to distract me. Of course, then he began sliding his pants over his thighs, and I nearly forgot what I was supposed to be saying. Fuck, maybe there was a better way to have this conversation. “Can I join you?”

He faltered in the act of pulling his foot free from his pant leg, stumbling slightly before steadying himself with a hand on the wall. “Join me? In the...in there?” He gestured behind him, as if there were any doubt that I was referring to the shower.

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “Do you mind?”

“Have I ever?”`

I smiled and began stripping of my own clothes, tossing them into a pile with Brian's. His gaze swept appreciatively over my body, lingering on my cock as I stepped out of my underwear and kicked them aside. I ignored the shiver that passed over me as we stepped into the shower together, closing the door behind us.

I stood back as he turned on the water, waiting until he'd adjusted the temperature to step into the warm spray. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, letting it rush over me.

“This okay?”

I opened my eyes when I felt him start to massage shampoo in my hair, gently pulling me from underneath the spray so that he could work it in.

“Yeah.” I had half a mind to simply save my announcement for after our shower and enjoy this, but I'd been working up to this moment for a good portion of the week, and was finally ready to take the plunge. Of course, the truth of it was, it didn't really matter whether Brian liked it or not. I could do whatever I wanted, and I certainly planned to do so. But still...I wanted him to be okay with it. I'd debated and thought it over and planned out every argument, ever since last Wednesday night, when I'd stayed home alone— and finally, I was ready. I wanted this.

I let him guide me back beneath the water, soapy rivulets pouring over my shoulders as he ran his hands through my hair, rinsing out the shampoo. I kept my eyes and mouth closed until he was finished, then stepped back out from directly under the spray of the shower, reaching for the shampoo bottle and pouring some into my palm. Wordlessly, he bent his head to let me work it through his hair, then ducked beneath the water to rinse.

“Listen...I need to talk to you about something,” I began.

He kept his eyes squeezed shut, but I could sense that I'd gotten his attention anyway. I decided to just say it, get it in the open instead of drawing it out and making it worse. “I'm...I'm going to stay home tomorrow. By myself. While you're at work.”

I saw his shoulders tense, and after a few seconds, he stepped back out of the water, shaking his head and splattering me with droplets from his hair. He just looked at me, like he expected me to continue. And so I did.

“Actually...I'm going to stay home the next day, too. And— every day, from now on, while you're at work. I'll go to school, but...I want to come back here afterward. Instead of my mom's or Daphne's.”

There. Plain and simple, the best way to go about things like this. I'd thought it over long and hard, and this was what I wanted. I was sure of it...sure of myself, for once. Even earlier this week, when I'd stayed alone those few hours that Brian had gone out to Woody's, I'd been surprisingly okay. Comfortable. Of course, I enjoyed having Brian here even more, but it had been nice to have that freedom back, just for a little while. Mostly, it had just felt weird, having so much time to myself and no one to share it with. I hadn't been nearly as scared as I'd been right after it happened, with the fear and the paranoia, when the silence and loneliness had screamed at me until I'd wanted to shout myself hoarse just to hear the sound of a human voice. And last Wednesday, I'd been given that little shove I'd been needing— I knew I'd be okay here during the day, and I was ready to make it happen.

He pressed his lips together, giving a slow nod of his head. “And you're, uh...” he cleared his throat. “You sure you're up for that?”

I nodded, holding his gaze, never once wavering in my decision. It was time for this. I was ready for it. “I'm sure.”

He swallowed hard once, tearing his gaze away for a moment during which I imagined he struggled with the idea a bit, as I knew he would. Finally, he forced his eyes back to mine. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I repeated. I'd been almost sure that he'd go along with it, but to hear the acceptance in his voice, to see the trust in his eyes...it meant fucking everything to me, and it felt better than I could have imagined.

He shrugged. “What the fuck else am I supposed to say? You want to do it, right?”

“Well...yeah. But...I want you to be okay with it.” As ready and determined as I was, there was something about knowing that Brian trusted me to do this that reassured me more than anything else. His confidence gave me confidence.

He closed his eyes briefly, sighing, as if he couldn't quite believe he was saying this.“I am okay with it.”

The warmth of his faith in me seemed to spread throughout my body. Within seconds, I had closed the distance between us, my hand around the back of his neck.

“Thank you,” I whispered against his mouth. He leaned forward ever so slightly, answering with a simple brush of our lips. We just stood there kissing for a long time, relief and happiness bubbling up inside me.

Of course, however innocent it started off, kissing a naked Brian in the shower was bound to lead to things. I felt my dick start to respond as I melted into him, felt his own arousal pressing into me, and my breath caught in my throat. For something I'd been so afraid of for the longest time, it seemed there was still a part of me that stood no chance against the perfection of his body.

I fumbled for the soap, breaking our kiss with a small smile. He stood there and let me clean him, running the soap over his skin, admiring the sculpted muscles beneath my hands. He allowed his eyes to slip closed as I slid the soap across his stomach, up his sides, down his arms, over his hips.

There was something just so sensual about doing this that got to me each and every time. The longer we stood beneath the water, soaping each other and kissing playfully and just touching as often as possible, the harder we both grew. The shower hid nothing, and I found that I appreciated this when I looked down and saw his dick, begging for my attention.

Something about making him hard him never failed to make me feel powerful, just knowing that I could make him feel that way. Knowing that he wanted me— it made me feel beautiful, sexy. After everything, it was a nice feeling to have, when I'd once been sure that no one could or would ever touch me like that again. I sometimes wondered, even still, if it ever bothered Brian. If— when he was touching me, running his hands and lips over my body— he ever thought about the other pairs of hands and lips that had once done the very same thing. To me, sometimes it was like he was erasing those hand prints, replacing them with his own and making everything right again. I wondered if it felt the same to him, or if it ever bothered him to know that so many other men had taken what I was always trying so hard to give to him.

He'd taken the soap from me and was tracing soapy patterns across my skin, brushing his lips against mine every once in a while. We held each other's gazes as he pulled me closer to wash my back, trailing lower and lower. Our dicks brushed against each other, making me bite my lip to keep from moaning.

“Touch me,” I whispered, goosebumps shooting up my spine when his hand finally slipped down to my ass. He caught my lips with his and backed me gently against the wall, his other hand roaming down my chest and stomach, playing with the hairs just above my cock. “Brian....”

He heeded my plea and stopped his teasing— or maybe it was a test— pressing a reassuring kiss to my lips as his hand closed almost tenderly around my dick. I gasped and let out a whimper, my fingers digging into his arms as he began to stroke me.

I tilted my head up to receive his kisses, pulling away every so often to catch my breath, take stock and maybe alleviate some of the nerves in my stomach that were starting to make me somewhat nauseous. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Brian. I had to remember that I was with Brian.

It was sort of overwhelming— pleasure like this— when I was still so unused to it. Me actually getting an erection when we made out was steadily becoming the rule, rather than the exception, but I'd still only gotten off a total of one time in the last six months. Hopefully even that would start to become more common, but right now, it felt sort of like I was discovering sex all over again, only with this dark cloud hanging over my head that hadn't been there the first time.

I kept my eyes open even when we kissed, now, needing that extra bit of reassurance. After a while, he let go of my ass and wrapped his hand around his own dick, and I watched in fascination as he jerked us off, his movements synchronized, both of our dicks achingly hard in his grip. I had the strongest fucking urge to just sink to my knees, take him into my mouth and suck him dry. I couldn't, I knew, but that didn't keep the thoughts away. I'd always loved sucking him off, loved the taste and weight and sensation of his cock in my mouth, and it seemed a part of that had never really gone away. Unfortunately, there were other parts that had disappeared— such as the actual ability to do it— but I could just envision it for now and concentrate on the sight of his fists moving over both our cocks, cause truth be told, just watching it was almost enough to make me come.

It also helped keep my mind off things, kept my focus on us instead of the unease I felt, and the whispers of things I didn't want to think about at the back of my mind. I alternated between watching his gorgeous face twist in pleasure from his own ministrations, and watching him pump his own beautiful dick.

“God, Brian....” Never once did he take his eyes off of me, and never once did he falter in the leisurely pace with which he was jerking us off. I began to rock against him, pushing into the pleasure I was receiving. “You feel so...fuck, so good....”

His answer was yet another kiss, gentle and nonthreatening. His tongue stroked mine inside my mouth as his hand did the same to my cock, and all of it was just so much and so good and finally, I couldn't hold back anymore. I think I was shaking as I gave a final gasp into his mouth, right before my head fell back against the shower wall.

“God....” I squeezed my eyes shut tight, my entire body shuddering as my orgasm overcame me. Seconds later, I felt warm jets of his own cum shooting between us before the spray of the shower could wash them away. I slumped against him to keep my knees from buckling, silently asking him to keep me on my feet, to hold me together for the moment because I honestly wasn't sure if I could do it for myself.

Fuck...I wondered if it would feel like this every time I came from now on, if it would always be this overwhelming, momentous thing. I wondered if it would always send me into his arms, begging him to help me sort this out, to just let me breathe and take it in and gather my bearings. And I did, I did all of it, hating myself for not being able to hold myself together, but loving him for having the strength and willingness to do it for me for now.

He rubbed my back for a while, pressing kisses to my soaking wet hair and asking every so often if I was okay. I just nodded into his neck, closing my eyes and basking in the sensations of warmth and safety and pride and what could only described as sheer joy. Maybe someday, this wouldn't be such a big deal. Maybe someday, we would once again take this for granted, the way we had before. In a way, I hoped this would be the case. But if not, this tidal wave of intensity each and every time— while it would take some getting used to— might not be the worst thing to have to deal with.

This time, we actually did make it out of the shower before the water ran cold. We lay on the couch together for a while— him watching TV at one end, me sketching at the other— our legs tangled together in the middle. He rubbed my calf a bit with his foot, shooting me little glances every once in a while that made me wonder what he was looking for, and what he was seeing.

I smiled to myself as I worked on my drawing, happily doodling a little sketch of Rage and JT— my two new favorite subjects, after Brian and myself— in a rather intimate position, wearing identical expressions of ecstasy. It wasn't even close to being done, but I'd have time to work on it more tomorrow, when I was home.

Home— the concept of being left home alone for such an extended period of time was almost foreign to me. I was somewhat nervous, I'd admit, but more than that, I was excited. It was like everything was falling into its perfect place again. We were moving towards that perfect place, and I knew that, whatever we still had to get through to make it, it would be worth it. I mean, we were starting to develop a sex life again. Admittedly, the extent of that life was a total of two hand jobs so far, but it was something...more than something. And, I was going to be staying home alone for the second time in months, which was a privilege I'd once thought lost to me forever. It wasn't just me, either— things were getting better for Brian, too. Hell, he was even seeing a therapist. Things were just getting so much better for us...for both of us.

Sometimes, that perfect place inside my head didn't seem so far off at all.

 

~. Brian .~

I'd told myself I wasn't going to lose it and freak out on him. I'd told myself that if and when he wanted to start staying home alone again, I would stand back and let him do what he needed to do. After all, I trusted him with his life, his own well-being. I trusted him with everything I had.

It was just that up until I'd started making him go to Daphne's and his mom's during the day, he'd spent endless hours crying, sketching extremely disturbing images, and locking himself in the bathroom while I was at work. Not that I thought he'd suddenly relapse if I left him alone for a day, but still...being gone, knowing he was at home alone... it brought back a lot of memories of times I wasn't exactly eager to return to.

I called him a good four or five times a day for the first week I left him by himself. Sometimes, I just needed the reassurance that we weren't living in those times again, that things were different now. And the sound of his cheery— albeit exasperated— voice never failed to remind me.

Once upon a time, I probably would have instigated a steamy session of phone-sex during at least one of those calls per day. However, I didn't really like the idea of him jerking off alone, without me there in case things started to go wrong. Instead, I saved all those dirty little thoughts for him until I returned to the loft, then I kissed him senseless. We rarely made it further than passionate make-outs and mutual hard-ons, but every once in a while we'd get lucky and manage to jerk each other off.

I never, ever would have imagined that a hand job could feel that amazing, but when it was Justin's hand, and Justin's dick, and after everything...well, I no longer took these things for granted. Every moment spent kissing him, or touching him, or jerking him off...it filled something inside me. That normalcy we'd lost— every time I touched him, every day he spent alone, we gained a little of that back.

So, all in all, him being home during the day was working out just fine. I got to come straight home after work instead of picking him up from his mom's or Daphne's, and unless my imagination was exaggerating, he seemed even happier than usual to see me when I walked in the front door. Sometimes, he'd have a meal on the table or take-out on the way. Other times, he'd be studiously bent over some school project, a look of deep concentration on his face.

One downfall about the whole thing was the fact, once a week, I had to lie to him. It was something I would have had to do anyway, but somehow it was worse, now, knowing he was at home alone and not hanging out with Daphne or something. But every Friday, I'd leave in the morning with either an explanation or a note, if he was still sleeping, that I would be late because I was meeting with my therapist.

It wasn't even the fact that I was staying out later than usual that bothered me— he never cared when I went to Woody's after work, and I knew he was fine at home by himself— I didn't feel guilty for that. I felt guilty because the one thing I'd always promised him was honesty, and now I was lying through my teeth to him every week.

To my credit, though, I was also doing everything I could to ensure that any additional lies wouldn't be necessary. I regularly cleared my cell phone call history and made sure to sign out of my email when I was done, even going so far as to change my password. I'd always gone with the philosophy that it wasn't really lying if you were forced to do it, but really, how could this possibly be Justin's fault? I justified it to myself with the knowledge that it was only temporary, that it was for his own good...but every single time I had to lie to his face, I felt the guilt set in.

“So, I'll see you around seven, then? When you're done with Carl?”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose, wishing that, for once, Justin wouldn't be so fucking understanding. “Yeah. Seven.”

“You don't mind if I order some dinner, do you? I'll save some for you when you get home.”

“Yeah...sounds good,” I said, trying not to think about him eating dinner alone while I spent yet another night at Woody's with Michael. I couldn't even get well and truly drunk on these little outings...though I had been known to be a bit more open while intoxicated, getting wasted with my therapist might serve to arouse Justin's suspicions. And honestly, out of all the things Justin-related I took pleasure in arousing, his suspicions weren't included. “Well...I better get going.”

He kissed me goodbye softly, sweetly. Somehow, having him kiss me after I lied to him made things even worse. My kisses were my promise to him, my commitment...the one vow I'd always assumed I'd honor. “Later.”

“Later.”

This most recent occurrence of overwhelming guilt had been this morning, barely five hours ago. Tonight, he'd eat that dinner alone. Tonight, I'd be out with Michael, or as far as Justin knew, with my therapist. Tonight, I'd add yet another crime to the list I knew I'd eventually have to pay for. I couldn't hide this forever, and didn't plan to, but...fuck, every time I lied, I made it worse. Every week, every day that passed that I didn't tell him the truth was another day he's resent me for later on.

I stared at the unsent text message on my phone, my thumb hovering over the button that would send it straight to Justin's cell. I'll be home at 6. Need to talk to you.

I took a deep breath, and flipped the phone closed, effectively erasing the message. Fuck, I just needed a few more weeks, just to make sure. Just to make sure everything was happening the way it was supposed to.

I gave a sigh of helpless aggravation, hunching over the desk, trying to mentally ward off the headache I could feel building behind my eyelids. Perhaps it was simply a result of the thousand images pressing against them, of Justin's face, Justin's tears, Justin's misery. His expression when I'd told him Sapperstein wouldn't be paying for his crimes. His attempts to brush off the injustice of Hobbes' unfair sentencing. All the times his “allergies” had acted up when dealing with his asshole father. All the people who had let him down...all the times the fucking world had let him down, breaking him just a little more inside each time in the process.

It was time someone fucking got him the justice he deserved. And if I had to tell a few little lies to protect him until that happened— if it prevented, in the long run, even one more unnecessary tear— it would be worth it. It had to be.

~. Justin .~

One thing I don't think I was really prepared for when I told Brian that I would be staying home alone was the silence.

I'd been staying at the loft during the day for about two weeks now. It wasn't even the absence of conversation that unnerved me, because it wasn't like I spent every waking moment talking to my friends and family. It was just that I'd gotten used to the sounds of another person always being close by, and now that there was no one in the next room making lunch, or taking a shower, or watching TV...it was weird. Sometimes, I had to turn on the TV or some music, just to fill the loft with some noise.

Despite the peculiarity of the situation, however, it really wasn't all that bad. I kept the phone by me at all times, taking comfort in the fact that Brian was only seven digits away if I needed him, and I texted Daphne occasionally. Brian called during his lunch breaks, and sometimes my mom dropped by to visit with Molly.

I did a lot of sketching, too, when I wasn't doing school work. My favorite drawings were those of Brian and me, and sometimes Rage and JT. Most of them involved sex in some way, most likely because it was a topic consistently at the forefront of my mind these days.

At the moment, I was working on my sixth sketch of the week of us. This one featured him with his legs open, me lying between his thighs, his hands twisted in my hair as I sucked him off. It saddened me as much as it turned me on; I'd been thinking about it a lot lately, but for now, I'd resigned myself to the fact that it just wasn't a possibility for me. I had to remember to take one step at a time.

I didn't think I'd ever get tired of having his hand on me, though; it was beyond amazing, knowing that this part of me still existed. It was like there were now two separate entities when it came to sex— one was the shaken, terrified part of me that still lived within my memories...the part that belonged to Them. But then, there was this whole other part— the bigger part— the one that belonged to Brian and me. It was like that piece of me was slowly coming out of hiding, reasserting its place in our lives.

I flexed my fingers, willing my hand to hold out just a little longer as I put the finishing touches on my drawing. Smiling to myself, I held it up to look at it, my gaze raking over every line, every detail. It was hot; there was no denying that. And it got me thinking all sorts of filthy things about Brian, which was unfortunate, as I still had several more hours to wait before he got home. I sighed, setting the drawing aside.

I debated over whether or not to start on another sketch of us. I was still running on that creative high, but I also didn't want to push my hand too much. I closed my eyes, letting my mind wander through possible subjects to draw. Something inspiring. Something worth getting down on paper.

My eyes fluttered open, my gaze gravitating to the stack of comics on Brian's desk, the ones Michael had wanted me to look at. What I was supposed to do with them was beyond me, but I supposed it was kind of cool, in a way, that he was reminded of my sketches when looking at real, professional comic books.

I pushed myself off the bed and went to retrieve them, dumping them all over the duvet when I returned with a sizable stack. I sat up by the pillows, arranging the comics in front of me, flipping through them one by one. I found that I was more intrigued by the designs than the stories, the artist in me drawn to this particular style of illustration.

After a little while of looking over random superhero pictures, I opened my own sketchpad and flipped to a page with one of my Rage drawings, setting it at the end of the line of comics, comparing and contrasting the respective styles— finding that I was comparing considerably more often. Finally having enough with just sitting and looking, my fingers brushing over the pages, I snatched up my sketches again and turned to a new page, grabbing my pencil and putting it to paper with renewed vigor.

~. Brian .~

It was after seven by the time I got home. I stood outside the loft for a moment, my hand on the door, attempting to shake off my own unease. I would have liked to have simply blamed it on the guilt I'd been stewing in all day long, but this tension was a sensation I'd familiarized myself with every night for the last two weeks.

Of course, all I had to do was open the door to see that everything was as it should be, that life itself was once again more or less the way it was supposed to be. So I shrugged off any remaining apprehension and slid open the door.

I found Justin passed out on the bed, sleeping away amidst a bunch of the comics Michael had made me bring home. His fingers were curled loosely around a sketchpad, and if I titled my head a bit, I could see what seemed to be a freshly completed drawing of Rage and JT. He opened his eyes when I sat down beside him, stretching and smiling when he saw who it was that had disturbed his sleep.

“Hey,” he managed through a yawn. “What time is it? Did you just get home?”

“Yeah, just got done with Carl. I didn't see any take-out— did you eat yet?”

He shook his head, dropping it back to the pillow. I took this as an invitation to run my fingers through his tangled hair. “No. You bring something with you?”

“No. We can order something. Chinese sound good?”

He nodded, closing his eyes again. He'd let go of his sketchpad, and I took the opportunity to pick it up and look at it properly.

“This is fucking hot.”

He smiled, not even opening his eyes. “Thanks. I was thinking about you when I drew it.”

I smiled, too, a little bit sadly as I gazed down at the image he'd created...Rage's fingers in JT's hair, JT's face in Rage's lap, the expression on the latter's face leaving no doubt as to what was taking place. It made me nostalgic, in a weird way. Justin had always given the best fucking blow jobs, and most of that skill seemed to just come naturally, even if I had supplied him with a tip or two in the beginning.

“Yeah? What about me?”

His grin widened, and he laughed softly into the pillow. “What do you think?”

“It's hotter when you tell me,” I teased, shoving at him playfully with my leg.

“Mmm...okay...” he laughed again, and I got that usual weird, inexplicable feeling in my chest at the sound. “Um...well, I was thinking about you kissing me, at first.”

“Oh?” I murmured, reaching over to rub his back through his T-shirt, slow and easy.

“Yeah, and...you were taking off all my clothes.”

“Everything?” I moved slowly, pulling his shirt up his body, revealing the skin of his back inch by inch as I did so. After a moment, I helped him lift up off the pillow so that I could pull off the shirt completely, tossing it aside. I kept up the gentle rubbing motion on his back as he lay down again, then leaned over to press a kiss to his neck. He sighed in contentment, his eyes closed, face half-buried into his pillow.

“Yeah. You felt so good....” he whispered. “You were just...on me...kissing me everywhere....”

I pressed another kiss to his neck, then slowly began trailing them across his shoulders, down his back. “Like this?” I muttered into his skin.

“Mmm...yeah.”

“What else?” I never stopped the gentle circles of my hand on his back, even as I peppered his skin with kisses. I had reached his lower back now, and gave the skin just above his jeans a quick lick, making him shiver. “Okay?” I checked, just to make sure.

“Uh-huh.”

“What else?”

“Mmm...your cock,” he continued, his voice somewhat muffled by the pillow. “I had your cock in my hand.”

“Was it hard?”

“Yeah...so hard....” His voice was growing raspy, his breathing becoming slightly uneven as I began to plant little kisses up his spine, intent on making him feel as amazing and comfortable as he possibly could. “Mmm...so good....”

I wasn't sure if he was talking about his earlier fantasy, or what I was doing to him now, but either way worked just fine with me.“Then what?” I prompted.

Right now, any possibility of this going wrong seemed so completely...nonexistent. For once, I felt in control of things, as if I could erase any potential for pain by making him feel only pleasure. As if I could actually stop a possible panic attack before it started. As if being pressed against his every muscle gave me the power I needed to keep him calm and feeling safe. In my head, I knew this wasn't true; if he lost it, it would happen in a split-second. There would be no preparation, no chance to bring him back before it happened.

Still, I clung to that sensation of security, because it was sure as hell better than the helplessness I felt every other time things started heating up between us. I felt scared and nervous and out of my element, vulnerable and uncertain and I hated it. Still, in a way, it seemed almost fair that I felt these things. It seemed...right...that I was feeling so much of what Justin was going through, at the exact same moments that he was going through it.

I shook these thoughts from my head, chastising myself for thinking too much when there were so many more interesting things to be concentrating on. Justin was talking, telling me all the things he wanted us to do to each other, his voice low and seductive...hypnotic, almost. And if he was okay, if he was into this, then there was no reason why my head should be anywhere other than here with him.

“Then...I was kissing you...your lips, your chest, everywhere...” He drew a sharp breath as I apparently found just the right spot on his neck to kiss and nuzzle. “And...I started sucking you. You tasted so good...so hot and hard...I miss that.”

His muscles tensed beneath me, and my lips stalled for a fraction of a second against his skin. For that moment, as always, I feared the worst. I feared a flashback, feared a meltdown. But then he was shifting his weight, sighing his contentment, and I let out my own breath of relief.

This was the part that I hated most...this constant fear that the next move I made, the next thing I said, would set him off. The guilt when he had one of his panic attacks— as a result of something I'd been doing to him— surpassed even my remorse over lying to him. Knowing that I was even partly responsible for forcing him to relive that experience inside his head one more time...it killed me.

I let out a deep breath against his skin, doing my best to push these thoughts away, as well. “Then what happened? What were you thinking about?”

“I don't remember...I had to stop,” he confessed. “I didn't want to jerk off without you here.”

Just one more freedom that had been taken from us. From him.

Maybe this therapy thing, though— the actual therapy with Kathy, not the made-up “Carl” bullshit I was spouting to Justin— really was having an effect on me, because the first thing that came to mind when I felt that familiar pain set in was her advice, her voice, telling us to replace the bad with the good. Positive over the negative. There was no denying that sex— or even the simple idea of it— had never been this difficult for either of us. But hell, even a semi-functional, consistently unstable sex life was a step up from where we'd been a month ago. And I'd learned, these last few months more than ever before, to cherish every second.

So, I shook the negative thoughts from my head concentrated on him and only him, sprawled beneath me, relaxed and clearly relishing the attention. So fucking beautiful...waiting and perfect and fuck, I had to touch him.

“I'm here now,” I said, whispering the words into his ear like a promise. I trailed a hand down his side, watching the goosebumps crawl over his skin. I wanted to kiss every inch of it.

His breath caught audibly. “Please, Brian....I want to.”

I kissed his ear, resting my lips against it. “Roll over.”

He didn't hesitate to comply, rolling onto his back and staring up at me in anticipation. I wanted to sink into him, plunge my tongue into his mouth and get lost in his warmth, his kisses. I wanted every inch of our bodies touching, wanted to get high on him..

Even more than that, though, I wanted to see him close his eyes in pleasure, wanted to see his toes curl, to hear my name fall from his lips. Wanted to make him feel nothing but ecstasy in every part of his body. Wanted him to— fuck, I wanted him to stay here, in this loft, in his own mind, with me. I wanted him to have everything he wanted, and I wanted to be the one to give it to him.

“Tell me—”

“—if I need to stop,” he finished for me. “I will.”

I nodded, mollified, then lowered myself over his body to kiss him. He kissed back hungrily, and any attempts to keep this slow were quickly cast aside. My tongue tangled with his inside his mouth, and soon my shirt had been removed, too, so that both of us were naked from the waist up.

“What do you want?” I asked between kisses. A year ago, this would have been a prompt to get him to talk, to get him to tell me exactly what he wanted me to do to him, just because I would have found it hot to hear the words coming from his lips. Now, it was an honest question; I was never quite sure what he was up for, and lately, I'd come to hate going into sex blind.

His fingers tugged at the top of my pants. “Get them off,” he muttered back. I complied, breaking our contact to sit up and pull them off, along with my underwear. He was still looking at me expectantly, so I reached down to do his, too.

Unfortunately, this was usually the hardest part. All at once, as if someone had flipped a switch, our movements became slow, languid— cautious. I cupped his cheek with my palm, stroking his face with my thumb as he held tightly onto my wrist. He was hard— we both were, despite the thick blanket of hesitation that had descended over us. I took a chance and pushed my hips into him, eliciting a moan.

Slowly, I rolled us over so that we were lying on our sides, facing each other, my leg over one of his. I could practically feel the tension between us in the air, begging to be released. I kissed him, pulling him close with a hand on his back. Every move was gentle, deliberate, and I made sure to give him time to protest if he wanted to.

Sometimes, his bravery amazed me. Every time we attempted to have any semblance of sex, there was just so much to deal with...so much for me to deal with, emotionally. Whatever he was going through had to be a hundred times more difficult, and yet...he did it. He pushed his fear aside, every time, for something he wanted. Because to him, it was worth it. I was worth it.

And he was worth everything I had.

~. Justin .~

I let him roll us to our sides, trying to breathe out my own tension and just let Brian take care of us both. I got the not-altogether-unexpected flurry of butterflies in my stomach when his hand found my ass, cupping it gently in his palm, but then he was kissing me again, and I was hard, and he was making me feel so good, like always, and the nerves failed to matter much.

It kind of pleased me to know that he still found my ass to be one of my greatest physical assets. I'd always loved his ass, too— okay, in addition to every other part of him— but if his favorite non-fucking sexual activity was rimming me (and it was) then mine was easily sucking him off. I'd known, from the very first time I'd ever done it, that it was what I was meant to do— who I was meant to be. I was gay, I liked dick, and I particularly liked sucking Brian Kinney's. It turned me on, got me hard, so much so that sometimes I had to jerk myself off while I was doing it, unable to wait for him to return the favor afterward.

Of course, I now realized that I'd taken all those seconds, minutes, hours with him for granted. I no longer had the pleasure of sex whenever I wanted it, and each day that passed with no further gratification reminded me of that. We'd only gotten off four times since that first night— five if you counted it— though that wasn't for a lack of trying. Sometimes, my painful-as-fuck flashbacks had held us back; other times, it was simply the overwhelming nerves. The times we managed to get past all that were rare treats.

Each and every time there was even the remote possibility of anything happening, I would pray that my mind would cooperate, beg my body to let me have what I wanted so desperately. Despite knowing better, I could never quite keep the anticipation out of my movements; even if I was happy with simply kissing him or being naked with him, there was still always that distant thought of more.

I tried to take it slow, however, breathing deeply in between our kisses. I groaned when his hand wrapped around my cock, stroking and teasing it expertly. He ran his thumb over the head, and I thrust into his grip, putty in his talented hands.

“Fuck,” I muttered as he worked me. I fought to keep my eyes open, fixed on his, both for my own security and because it was just so fucking hot to watch his face when I took his dick into my hand and began to jerk him off. “Ugh...God...”

He made some incoherent noise that sounded like it could have been a groan, if it hadn't gotten all choked and gaspy right in the middle. It was times like these, with my fears at bay, that I wondered how it was possible that I kept myself from this so often. It may not have been all it had before, but it was so fucking...just, amazing. Intense and perfect and complicated and just...so worth it. So worth everything.

He tried to press a sloppy kiss to my lips, but ended up missing and getting my chin instead. I leaned over to give him a real kiss, our tongues tangling together, caught up in a dance of their own. And still, he kept up the steady pace of his hand on me, and I did the same, relishing the feeling of his hot, hard dick pulsing in my palm. There was nothing like knowing I was bringing him such pleasure, and nothing like knowing that it felt good to do it.

It wasn't long before I could feel that tension building up inside me; I was close, so fucking close. He was everywhere, the most amazing heat and pressure, and I was moaning my appreciation, and it all just felt so good, so perfectly right in every way....

“God...fuck...fuck me, Brian...”

I felt his hand still on my dick, and it took a moment for my brain to register anything more than that the pleasure had stopped.

My eyes had slipped shut despite themselves, but they fluttered open now to fix almost accusatorially on him. “Brian—” He looked fine; he was staring at me with a weird look on his face, but I could find no indication of what had caused him to stop. “What are you doing?”

“You didn't...” He looked hesitant, anxious even, as the heat of his hand left my cock. “You didn't mean it...right?”

I continued to look at him blankly, the hesitation on his face, something I couldn't identify in his eyes as he held my gaze. “Mean...?” And then suddenly, as if someone had flipped on a light bulb inside my head, I got it. I'd asked him to...I'd requested that he fuck me. Shit. “I didn't...no, I was just...”

He nodded. “I thought so. Just— making sure.”

“It was just...what came out,” I tried to explain myself. It was something I'd requested a million times before, and in the heat of the moment, it had just sort of...slipped.

He swallowed hard, avoiding my eyes now. I didn't like it. “Yeah. I figured.”

My throat felt suddenly dry, and I shifted rather awkwardly on the bed, dimly realizing that my hand was still around his dick. I let him go, something like false bravado— or maybe that was sheer recklessness— stirring inside my chest. “Do you...want to try?”

He took a moment to answer, and I got the impression he was thinking it over carefully. He was almost more tentative about these things than I was. “Do you?” he finally asked.

Fuck. Fuck, this was just so...wrong. Me and Brian, playing I-want-to-if-you-want-to. One of my favorite things about our relationship— or at least, it used to be— was our insatiable desire for each other. We could never get enough, could never get our fill. It made me feel hot and sexy and treasured by him— loved by him— because I was the one he fucked a hundred times. I was the one he kissed, the one who got to stick around afterward and talk to him and be held by him and fall asleep with him inside me.

Christ, I missed having him inside me.

And if it was a question of whether or not I wanted it— of course I did. Of course I wanted to try, wanted to have that back. But it wasn't. It was a question of could we and should we and did we dare, and that wasn't nearly as easy a question to answer.

“I don't know,” I said honestly. We'd only been somewhat sexual for a few weeks now, and even that wasn't a steady, regular thing. More often than not, it ended in misery and frustration. “Maybe.”

He sighed. “Let me rephrase...do you think you can? Or should?”

I pressed my lips together, eyes on his chest, and didn't answer. He let out a deep breath, pulling me even closer and pressing a kiss to my head, nuzzling my hair.

“I miss having you inside me,” I whispered into his neck. For a moment, he just lay there, resting his chin against the top of my head. But then he was moving, pulling away and kissing me, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. It wasn't the slow, leisurely pace of before, but determined, hungry, as if he was trying to devour me.

His hand was trailing over my arm, my lower back, just inside the crack of my ass. I jumped a little as his finger brushed against my hole, but he just held me to him even tighter, letting me sneak my leg in between his so that we were completely entwined.

My breath caught in my throat at the sensations he was causing in me. His finger kept tracing my hole, making me want him in me even more, so that soon I was humping his thigh, my dick hard and leaking.

At first, I didn't realize he was even saying anything. But then I heard his whisper over the white buzz of my own pleasure. “Imagine me there,” he was saying, speaking the words into my skin, as if he expected me to simply absorb them. “Imagine me inside you.”

Finally, he seemed to take pity on me, and released his grip on me so that he could reach between us and take my cock back into his hand. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, and soon I was coming all over him. It didn't take me long these days; in some ways, it was like I was an inexperienced virgin all over again. Everything felt so new sometimes, like it was happening for the first time, like we hadn't done it all hundreds of times before. It didn't bother me too much— I was just fucking happy to even have any semblance of a sex life at this point. But it was a strange idea, having to 'discover' it all over again.

And I guess that was essentially what were doing. I had no idea what I liked anymore, really. What had happened had changed so much of who I was— it made sense that sex would change drastically for me as well, maybe more dramatically than anything else. Things I'd once loved, I could very well hate from now on. Things that had been no big deal for me before might be things I could never handle again. I doubted I'd be into many of our 'games' anymore— I couldn't imagine ever feeling comfortable with being tied up or being gagged or blindfolded or anything like that, even if it was only Brian doing it to me. It saddened me, to think that we'd lost that...not even really the sex itself, hot as it had been, but our creativity where it had been concerned. Our freedom. Maybe someday, I'd feel differently, but right now, it was all still so scary and new and I was still trying to figure things out. I knew I liked having his hand on me, and that was about it.

Well, I also knew that I loved touching him, too. And I loved having him kiss me, loved having his hand join mine around his dick, loved having him assist me in jerking him off until his cum joined mine in the mess of sticky residue covering us both. He moaned his appreciation, stealing kisses between gasps. Afterward, we just lay there, letting our breathing slow, coming down from the high of our respective orgasms.

“Fuck,” I muttered, shifting a little in the uncomfortably sticky mess, barely even caring that we both desperately needed a shower at this point. I'd finally stopped falling apart so completely after sex, but it still left me physically and emotionally spent.

“Yeah.”

It was quiet for a while. He played idly with our hands, entwining them on top of his chest while I closed my eyes and just enjoyed the euphoric bliss that accompanied these moments. Five. Five times in less than a month we'd done this. Well, four for him. I'd sort of lost it last week after he'd gotten me off, and I hadn't been able to help him finish. I'd apologized later, but he'd brushed it off as usual, kissing away my concerns. But still...five times in about three weeks. Holy fuck.

“Next time,” I said, not opening my eyes. “We'll try next time.”

“Yeah,” he agreed softly. I knew even then that neither of us meant it, but I was glad to hear him go along with the fantasy anyway. “Next time.”

I nodded, starting to drift off now, warm and sticky and sleepy. “Do you miss it? Being inside me?”

He took so long to answer, I was almost asleep before his voice pulled me out of it. “Not for the reasons I thought I would.”

I mulled this over as we lay there on the edge of consciousness. I kissed his arm where my head rested, and curled my fingers around his. “Next time,” I promised again. It was as empty as promises came, but I knew he'd accept the hopeful assurance anyway. We both knew that 'next time' could have meant anywhere from a month to a year to ten...but we could hope, could pretend that next time everything would be better, that we would be closer than ever to what we wanted.

“Next time,” he repeated, giving my hand a squeeze.

I curled closer, nestled in the crook of his arm, and fell asleep.

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