Chapter 1: Graffiti

Monday's child is fair of face,

Tuesday's child is full of grace,

Wednesday's child is full of woe,

Thursday's child has far to go,

Friday's child is loving and giving,

Saturday's child works hard for his living.

And the child that is born on the Sabbath day

Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

TUESDAY'S CHILD

Tuesday, March 5, 2002

"Brian."

"Hey, Daphne." He looked over at the pretty young woman, hair tied back loosely in a thick ponytail. A few strands had escaped and played around her light chocolate skin, the red-brown highlighted with tinges of gold from the late morning sun. He wished he knew what she looked like without that constant sorrow etched around her deep brown eyes. But it was part of her now, the same as it was with him. And every Tuesday the sorrow settled in a bit thicker, filling them up, shoving away every other possible emotions.

There was just so little room left over. Hadn't been for almost a year, now.

"How's he doing?"

It was always the same. Same conversation. Same question – same answer.

"The same."

"Yeah," Brian said as he crushed the butt of a cigarette into the concrete with the heel of his boot. It was the last one he would have for awhile. "I figured."

He rubbed his face with his hands, settling the heels into the hollow of his eyes, and leaned back against his Jeep for a minute. He always had to gather himself before he could walk across this particular parking lot. Before he could walk through that particular gate.

Before he could see him.

"How'd the chem test go this week?" Safe. Small talk was safe. Nothing else seemed to be.

Not on Tuesdays.

"Hey, Justin… wanna suck me off?"

The memory jarred Brian and he turned to look at the Jeep, surprised when he didn't see the bright pink 'FAGGOT' spray painted on the side. That fucking word started it all.

That one fucking word.

"You okay, Brian?" He could hear genuine concern in the soft voice. They'd learned a lot about each other over the last several months. She could read him now. His moods. His body language. He felt so fucking exposed.

He reached and pulled the young woman into a tight embrace, lightly kissing the top of her head. "I will be, Daph." he replied. "But it's still Tuesday."

She nodded against his chest, pulling him just a tiny bit tighter to her.

When had she stopped hating this man? When had all the anger she had poured out on him magically turned into this comfort – this focused friendship? The man who was holding her now – the man she was holding – bore no resemblance to the vile being she had built up in her mind a year and a half ago. This man cared. About her. About Justin.

"I have to go, Daph. It's my turn," he whispered to her, neither one of them really wanting to let go of the embrace. As he pulled away, he brushed a lock of her hair behind one ear. "Call me later?"

"Yeah. After I get home tonight. Remind him I love him, okay?"

"I will, but he already knows." He let his arms drop from around her small shoulders, turned away and began the long walk across the broken concrete of the parking lot, toward the guarded gate leading into the Mercer Correctional Facility.

TCTCTCTC

Eighteen months earlier –

"Justin. I've had you. What happened last night…was for fun. You wanted me, and I wanted you. That's all it was."

"A fuck?"

"Well, what'd you think it was? ... Listen, I don't believe in love. I believe in fucking. It's honest. It's efficient. You get in and out with a maximum of pleasure and a minimum of bullshit. Love is something straight people tell themselves they're in so they can get laid. They end up hurting each other because it was all based on lies to begin with. If that's what you want, then go and find yourself a pretty little girl and get married."

"That's not what I want. I want you!"

"You can't have me. I'm to ol… You're too young for me. You're 17. I'm 28."

"29."

"Alright… 29. All the more reason… Now, go do your homework."

Brian watched the young man's face crumple as he slid behind the wheel of the car. He stood and watched for a few extra moments, as the tail lights faded into the shadows of Fuller Avenue, a weight settling over him. Something – regret? Shit, no. He didn't do that shit. Waste of time. You do what you do and you move on, good, bad or otherwise.

He'd been honest with the boy, hadn't led him on, hadn't promised him anything other than a great fuck. The same great fuck he promised old George waiting upstairs.

But… he knew George wouldn't stay the night, knew he wouldn't fuck George in the shower. Wouldn't fuck George again and again all night long.

George wouldn't be with him when he saw his son for the first time, wouldn't fucking help name his son.

Christ…

Brian sat down halfway up the first flight of stairs, his arms hanging off his knees, his head tilted against the banister. Shit! He thought back over the night before, and realized it was no fucking wonder the boy thought it was more than a fuck. It was – to Justin. And Justin was just a kid. A kid without the emotional experience to put that night into any kind of perspective… And he had just blown him off… cruelly.

"Fuck!"

A lean, leather clad body sat down next to him, pulling him out of his self-pity.

"You catch the kid?"

"Yeah," Brian sighed and rested his head against the banister once more. "I… told him the truth."

George laughed lightly. "Yours or his?"

"Fuck you, Father Goodfuck!"

"Sadly, not tonight, Kinney. Look me up some other night. You know where I'll be. And it's Attorney Goodfuck to you."

"Now wouldn't my mother have just been so proud? An attorney…" Brian snarked at the man. He felt shitty enough right now. He didn't need this man piling it on and leaving before he fucked him.

"You really can be an asshole, can't you, Kinney?" George stood up and walked toward the door of the building. He slowed his steps as he reached for the handle. "If you didn't want to deal with the drama of a kid that young, you probably shouldn't have fucked him," he shot out as he let the door shut behind him.

Brian sat staring at the closed door, knowing that Attorney Goodfuck was completely right. Fucker.

TCTCTCTC

He laid his head back on the headrest of the rental car and silently cursed every woman he'd ever known. Somehow they had to have infected him with some little known estrogen transfer syndrome. He certainly wasn't sitting out here in front of St. James waiting to catch sight of the kid because he had an overabundance of testosterone raging through his system.

He felt ridiculous. He'd dreamed about the boy over and over after he'd blown him off last night. He refused to think he actually regretted his actions. Just wanted to make sure the kid was okay.

The third time he'd jerked awake…

"When can I see you again?"

"You can see me right now."

"I mean later. Tonight."

"Who knows where I'll be later tonight."

"Please."

"I'll see you in your dreams."

- and the irony of those particular words, of that particular memory haunting him in his sleep wasn't lost on him - Brian realized he didn't even know the boy's last name. It should have been a shock that he even knew his first name.

No names.

No repeats.

No overnights.

No taking you to see my newborn son before I fuck you.

Yeah, breaking all of those rules should have been what bothered him. Not that he didn't know the ki… Justin's… last name.

So here he sat, watching random teenagers pouring out of the door of some suburban high school, holding his breath in hopes of seeing that shock of white-blond hair, those blue eyes, that flawlessly pale skin…

Shit!

As he shook his head to expel the image of a naked and flushed boy in his bed, he saw the white-blond flash he had been waiting for. And he saw the group of other boys shoving and beating him inside a gated area of the schoolyard, heard the vile epithets being hurled at him. Faggot. Cocksucker.

"Justin!" he yelled as he got out of the car and ran toward the group. He saw a large boy slam Justin to the ground, hands around that sensitive throat – "JUSTIN!" And then there was a scream and a flood of red and, oh fucking god … deadly quiet.

TCTCTCTC

Tuesday, March 5, 2002

"Brian Kinney. For Inmate Justin Taylor."

He knew the routine well. He'd been practicing it almost every Tuesday for the last ten months. He'd left his wallet, his belt, his phone and every other forbidden object in the locker at the front of the room, the plastic locker key in his pocket. He'd passed through the metal detector. He'd been sight searched and hand searched. His ID had been matched with the registered list of visitors. He'd been given the requisite refresher speech on acceptable behavior. Hug going in, hug going out. No PDAs. Hands in plain sight at all times. Hand holding okay for short periods of time. No loud voices, no shouting. Sit where we tell you to sit. You have at least one hour, no more than three hours, but if we need to cut it short, all bets are off.

Yeah, he knew the routine. He could recite it in his fucking sleep.

He stepped through the wire cage door into the common room filled with round plastic tables and plastic bucket chairs, making his way to their assigned seating area. There was a television playing quietly and a group of children playing loudly in the background. The crash of a soda can falling through a vending machine. The sobs of distraught wives-daughters-mothers seeing their husbands-fathers-sons for their weekly visit. A small kiss here, a loud laugh there. Pandemonium.

The 8th level of Dante's Inferno.

Tuesday.

Justin.

Brian couldn't help the smile that erupted as he saw him walk across the floor of the common room. Brown on brown prison uniform, his hair cut back a bit more than it was last week. But, god, he was still so beautiful. Even in this hell he was a beautiful man.

"Hey, Jus," Brian spoke quietly as he gave a quick hug, burying his face in the soft hair for a mere moment. No PDAs, he reminded himself. But he closed his eyes and imagined a different embrace as he felt Justin return his hug.

"Hey. Glad you're on time," Justin responded. "You see Daph when you got here?"

"Yeah, we caught up with each other in the parking lot. She wants me to remind you that she loves you." Brian's face flashed a pained expression, as if the words were difficult to say. Justin laughed at the man's discomfort.

"Oh, yeah. You know she just does that so you'll have to say the word. She knows how much you hate it." Justin sat in one of the steel gray plastic chairs, placing his hands on top of the table, palms down. Brian did the same, inching his fingers forward so the tips almost touched. Justin looked down at the hands – so different in shape and size and color. He wanted so desperately to just place his skin on top of Brian's, to dare to take that chance. But he didn't. Couldn't. Not here.

"I've missed you," he whispered.

"Me, too, Jus." Brian cleared his throat quickly. "You look good."

"Yeah, well, they let me model the Armani Correction's Collection today," the young man laughed. He didn't get to do much of that in here, and he loved Brian all the more for making him want to. "Oh, and this…" Keeping his palms firmly against the table top, Justin spread the fingers on his left hand wide to show a roughly inked tattoo on the inside of his middle finger. It simply said 'FREE'.

"Christ, Jus… be careful with that stuff. You'll end up losing your damned hand!" Brian hissed, but a single elegant finger traced the still slightly red and swollen skin as the word seemed to burn itself into Brian's own hand.

Free.

Christ.

"You will be, Justin. You will be soon."

"Stop… Brian, stop." The sharply clipped words brought Brian's eyes up to Justin's questioningly. "I know where your head's going. We've been there, Bri. And we don't fucking need to ruin this visit with guilt and blame… Just… stop."

He knew he wouldn't stop. The guilt and blame was as much a part of Brian as the sorrow. If he hadn't been such a motherfucking asshole, if he hadn't wanted to prove some fucking point to himself – and if he was honest with himself, prove something to Mikey – if he hadn't dropped Justin off at school in that fucked up graffiti painted Jeep…

But he wouldn't ruin this visit. Tuesday. It was all they had right now. He cleared his throat again and pulled back his hand, even as he desperately wanted to curl it around Justin's… just touch him. Let him know what he couldn't say here, in this place.

I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I'll always be here. I love you.

"Okay," he whispered and raised his eyes to briefly meet those now perpetually guarded blue ones. He hated that more than anything. The total loss of Justin's innocence. Stolen away with a single announcement from a fucking court bailiff. We, the jury, find the defendant guilty on the charge of aggravated assault.

"Okay."

TCTCTCTC

Eighteen months earlier…

"I fucking know what I saw, George! This is fucking bullshit!" Brian threw the documents across the large oak desk, back to his former almost-fuck. He repeated, "This is fucking bullshit!"

"That may be, Brian, but you are the only one who saw it that way, apparently." George Pappas retrieved the documents and, stacking them one by one, carefully placed them back into the file lying open on his desk.

"You mean I'm the only one who isn't telling it through some goddamned fucking homophobic filter! They were beating the shit out of the boy, George! Hobbs was choking him, strangling him, for chrissake! All they had to do was look at his fucking throat!" Brian squeezed his eyes shut against the frustrated tears pooling there. They were fucking liars! Every last goddamned one of them!

"And you're another fag, Brian. While they are… good Christian boys and girls. You and I both know the score. If we had even one more witness, one more person who could verify that they attacked him first… As it is, their story makes sense and they have corroboration. Justin snapped and jumped Hobbs, hit him in the head with the rock, and the others then attacked Justin to save their friend. Explains Hobbs injuries and Justin's and… well… unfortunately it rings true."

"And all Justin has is the truth and the word of another godless fag. Christ!"

George looked at the pained man across the desk from him. He was aware of the odds here. More than aware. They both were.

"It's not going to be quick, easy or cheap, Brian. I wish I could tell you that truth is all you need and money would not be a factor here, but Justin's parents are refusing to pay for his legal fees. Hell, they won't even post his bail. That's going to leave him with an overworked and under involved public defender. I represented him at the initial arraignment, but…"

"Fuck the money, George. Whatever it costs, I'll cover it. This is my fucking fault… I outed him…"

"Whoa there, Kinney. You didn't cause those shits to attack Justin. He wouldn't have stayed in the closet much longer. You know that and you know that something would have happened eventually…" Brian stood up, shaking his head at the attorney's words. He knew where the fault was, where the blame squarely belonged. And he knew without a doubt that this was the biggest regret he would ever have in his life. Yeah, he did regrets – fuck his own motto. His own stupidity and fuck everyone attitude was ruining a beautiful boy's life.

Hey, Justin… wanna suck me off?

Brian bowed his head and grimaced at the memory of the unknown boy holding his crotch and loudly baiting Justin, of Justin slinking down in the backseat of the offensive Jeep.

"But I didn't give him a goddamned choice, now, did I? Coming out of the closet is one thing. Being shoved out…" Brian reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card, laying it directly on top of the file on the desk. "It's my dime, Pappas. Do what you have to do. Right now, I have to go post some bail. He's been there too long."

TCTCTCTC

Tuesday, March 5, 2002

It was hard not to notice the guards lining the paint chipped, discolored walls of the common room. Their eyes looked dead, but Brian knew differently. They were heat seeking missiles, waiting to hone in on some infraction or another. Justin watched as the man surveyed the room, taking in his weekly dose of Justin's everyday experience.

"They're doing their job, Bri. Just stick to the rules, don't piss 'em off and they'll leave us alone." The matter-of-factness of the statement, said without any animosity or affect, irritated Brian.

"How the hell can you be so blasé about them, Jus? About this?" He motioned around the room slightly with his hand. Only a small wave. Nothing to attract attention, Kinney.

"And just what would you have me feel, Brian?" Justin pulled his hands back from the center of the table and sat up a bit straighter in his chair. This was his existence now. One he had no choice but to accept. He kept his voice low as he continued. "Perpetual anger? Pissed off every second of every fucking day? What? This is my fucking life, Brian, and it will be for quite some time." He sighed as he closed his eyes at his painful reality. He was angry. He was pissed off. But what the fuck good would wearing that on his sleeve do? None. Absofuckinglutely none. He inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly. Just like the counselor showed him.

When he'd first arrived at Mercer, he'd been a fucking mess of panic attacks and crying jags. He learned pretty damned fast that pussies don't last long, even in minimum security lockup. So he had pulled it in and bucked up. There just weren't enough guards to keep the hard asses at bay all the time, and sometimes the guards just didn't give a shit anyway. He'd managed – so far – to avoid the worst of the treatment by the few gangs who tried to run the place, but he'd suffered his share of black eyes and swollen lips. A few bruised ribs here and there. But he'd survived okay so far. So far.

He had his own cell. Eight by eight with a toilet and a sink so at least he didn't have to shit in front of an audience. He had learned to be quiet and creative enough to jack himself off at night without the guards catching him. But the showers… that was the worst part of the day. Totally fucking exposed. He was an eighteen year old gay man with no outlet for his sexual urges. It was hard to hide his reaction to a room full of naked, wet men. But he had fucking learned. Fast.

Yeah, this was his life and damn Brian for thinking he should feel or act or be a certain way because of it!

"You don't have a fucking clue what it's like in here, Brian. Not a damned fucking clue. And don't ever assume what I feel from what I show. You, of all people, should understand that." Brian had revealed himself, little by little over the last ten months. He'd barely known the man before he landed in Mercer. One night of fucking and a few meetings before the trial didn't make for an intimate knowledge. But he'd learned him. Bit by bit, layer by layer. And he knew Brian had been locked in his own kind of prison his entire life.

The difference was that Brian could choose to unlock his prison doors and had chosen not to. Justin would give anything to have that choice.

He also knew that, even when he walked out of Mercer, it would follow him, locking him into a different cell everyday for the rest of his life. An unforgiving society would make sure of that. People like his parents would make sure of that.

He would always be a felon. A dangerous risk.

Mercer was his present.

It was also his fucking future.