Title: Remembering

Author: Sharp (fadinglantern)

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Gods don't die. The perfect do not die. And Brian Kinney was perfect.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

---

They say it was a trick, the guy who shot him.

They say his name was Marshall Evans. They say he was thirty-six, married, and had a baby daughter.

They say he decided he was going to pull the gun the second he walked into the loft. That he had some personal vendetta against Brian – or more likely, against guys like Brian. The ones who bring tricks home, top 'em, and forget about them.

They say he shot him right in the head and then just walked out.

But he didn't.

Justin, Michael, Lindsay, Melanie, Emmett, Ted, Debbie and everyone else who loves Brian – they all can feel the gun pressed into their hands, finger on the trigger.

Sure, that asshole was the one who fired the gun.

But ask anyone else and they'll take the blame.

---

Brian Kinney's life was playful, adventurous, always exciting, and dangerous. He loved Babylon and he loved to fuck. He almost got married once, but didn't, and deciding not to marry him wasn't even Brian's idea. He had a son, Gus Peterson-Marcus, who was seven when his father died.

He had a lover, Justin Taylor, who was four hundred miles away at the time of the murder and was still the first to know.

His stash of condoms was the size of Mount Everest, and he never failed to use one. Not once.

He didn't give a fuck about his parents, and they didn't give a fuck about him other than extorting money from him every so often. As far as Brian was concerned, his family was Debbie, Michael, Emmett, Ted, Lindsay, Melanie, Gus, and that blond kid he couldn't get enough of. Justin.

The big thing about Brian is that he hated anything fake. False emotion, oversentimentality, those loathsome three words he only ever said to Justin, drug- and alcohol-induced stupors (Brian was always a quiet drunk, because he could never bring himself to say things he didn't mean) and those lies, those little lies he told mostly to himself when he didn't want to acknowledge the way he felt.

And Brian hated – positively hated – funerals.

---

Justin Taylor doesn't wear black.

He's never dressed like that. Not in a suit, not for his internship with Brian… never. Even that time he went to Chris Hobbes with the gun, he was wearing navy blue. Black was just not his color.

Brian wore a lot of black. He had that black wifebeater and a shitload of Armani.

That black wifebeater clings to Justin's skin now, as well as a pair of pants Brian never wore because they were too small. He's even wearing Brian's shoes. Not only because he – Justin – didn't own any black clothes, but because he needs this closeness now, needs to be with Brian. The first funeral Justin ever went to was with Brian. The only other funeral he ever went to was with Brian.

The boy doesn't know how to grieve.

---

"Where are we going to hold it?"

It's Emmett. As usual, he is planning the occasion. He hates it that he plans joyous occasions normally, but then, of course, people turn to him to plan a funeral. That just isn't the kind of thing Emmett knows how to handle. Funerals in Hazlehurst… well, they were full of religious bullshit. Blaming the person for dying, saying it was God's will.

It's not that Emmett doesn't believe in God. He just doesn't believe in bullshit.

Fuck 'em.

So there is not going to be any fucking church involved. Brian would roll over in his grave. (Not that rolling over was something he didn't do when he was alive.)

"I say somewhere unconventional," Ted volunteers, like that wasn't obvious.

Justin is quiet. He hasn't really spoken since Brian's death. Sure, he's said a few words, talked about what Brian should be buried in and made the necessary phone calls to those assholes Brian wouldn't even want at his funeral anyway, but he isn't Sunshine. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

"Justin?" Emmett asks carefully. "Do you have any ideas?"

Yes.

Justin does.

"Yeah," he murmurs. In the silence that follows, he reviews his idea one last time before at last saying it out loud.

"Babylon."

Eyes widen.

"Not with the lights or the music on or anything – but – well – "

Ted interrupts. "Just before Brian bought Babylon," he says, "he and I had a little chat about what Babylon meant to him. I can't forget what he said. 'This is where I live. It's who I am.' The place was his home. I say it meant more to him than it meant to anyone else in the world – the back room alone is evidence enough of that. And it was important enough for him to buy it, to save it after the bombing. So… I say give it to him."

"Me too," Michael echoes.

Emmett exhales deeply and examines his fingernails. "I wouldn't dare."

There is a pause.

Then he adds, "If he were anyone else. If I didn't know him as well as I do, I'd say fuck you, no way. That place has held enough corpses. But he's Brian. The essence of Babylon."

"Cut the drama," Ted cuts in.

Emmett huffs. "Babylon it is," he declares.

---

"He's beautiful."

"He always was, you know. Even when he was a baby. I remember staring into his cute little hazel eyes and he had so much trust – so much love."

Overhearing Claire's oversentimental lies, Justin snorts. She's probably telling the truth – not that she can remember, but aren't all babies like that? Still, it's hard to imagine Brian with trust in his eyes. Sure, there are the few people he trusts, but he never lets that show. No. He's Brian Kinney. He wouldn't dare.

He…

He was Brian Kinney.

Is he still? Does his body still possess that state of being? Is he anything at all, anything other than a hollow shell of the man who once… was… everything…

Justin is suddenly nauseous. He – the boy who puked on a Ferris Wheel when he was ten – spins around and races out of the club before bending over and hurling all over the sidewalk.

He's never seen Babylon in daylight before, not like this.

He walks back into the club. It's the only thing to do.

---

Because Brian was the most nonreligious person on the planet, Emmett didn't dare hire a priest or other religious leader for the purpose of the man's funeral.

Instead, leading the service is… well, no one. It's an intimate sort of ceremony – like the man himself – and everyone is simply sharing stories, memories, words that need to come out.

He meant everything to everyone. Brian did. He was a constant, a steady – the healthy one, the perfect, godlike one, the stubborn one who thought he was such an asshole when really, he was the most moral person any of his friends had ever known. He was always trustworthy – almost every word he said, except when he was denying emotion – and steadfast in his opinions. He was unchangeable. Unmoving. Like a rock.

He was like a god.

And like any god, Brian lived to be worshipped.

But not just worshipped, although there was plenty of that. There was plenty of fear, too. But more than any of that, Brian was loved.

---

"I met Brian when I was fourteen. He was… well, there were these kids slapping him around, calling him a faggot. And he wouldn't take it. You know how he gets." The eyes of the people surrounding Michael light up at the memory. Smiles tickle at some people's lips. "His eyes got all bright, he clenched his fists, and I could see in his face he was furious. So he grabbed one kid's… uh… cock, and he squeezed it so hard through his jeans you could see his face turning purple. And he said, dead serious, 'That's what faggots can do.'"

Michael pauses.

"That's when I knew some people are meant to be heroes, and some people are meant to look up to them. Brian… from day one, he was a hero."

---

"Selfless. Brian was selfless. He worked for every penny he ever earned, and still, he gave money to people who didn't deserve it." Lindsay's icy gaze turns to Joan. "He never asked for anything. We all took advantage of him – asking him for a child, for the money needed to support him, for his parental rights, for just about everything. And he gave and gave and it was never enough for any of us, so Brian just kept giving."

She looks around, trying to make eye contact with everyone in the room.

"And because we all just kept asking, even though he gave us everything we ever needed and so much more, Brian thought he didn't give enough. Thought he was being unfair. And he would never have admitted it, of course – you know Brian – but all he ever wanted was to give enough. So that we'd stop asking, maybe, or so he could feel like he did his good deed – whatever. But he never got that satisfaction."

---

"He didn't like me. Never did. All my life, I've been addicted to something or other – porn, crystal meth, even a certain person. So he thought that made me weak. He was right. Addictions do make you weak. And I'm not saying Brian didn't have his vices, but he was crazy careful never to ever lose control of them. He was kind of anal about that – well, about other things too." Ted forces a laugh. "But yeah. He was a control freak. Always needed to be in control. And I think we all know why."

"So he had his drugs. Alcohol. Sex. I think a good three-quarters of the room either has seen Brian fucking or actually been fucked by him." Ted snorts. "And he loved those things, but they weren't additions to who he was. They were who he was. He wasn't addicted. He was always in control. And that's one thing even the strongest person has to love about Brian, has to admire. He never let anything control him."

Ted slowly turns to face Justin, quietly gazing directly at Brian.

"Well. Nothing he didn't trust, anyway," Ted amends.

---

"We, uh, we didn't get along."

Well, well, well. Melanie Marcus, struggling to find the right words. Nobody ever expected to see that in their lifetimes.

"We were always fighting over Gus – because he was my son's biological father and at first, I didn't have any legal claims to the child I intended to raise. Brian… I know his mom's here, but I may as well say it, because it's not anything people here don't know. He was raised by an abusive father and a mother who didn't do anything about the abuse. And he – Brian – was petrified that he couldn't be a good father. After what he went through? Justifiable. He didn't want to be responsible for a child, not after what he went through."

Joan is clearly livid.

"But… I knew it almost immediately. As much as I am Gus' mother, Brian is – " Melanie chokes on what just might be a sob – "Gus' father. He loved the baby from the moment he walked into the hospital room."

Everyone present who was there that evening takes a moment to think back. A little shiver runs down Justin's spine.

"I knew it, even if I didn't acknowledge it. Brian loved Gus, always did. And in spite of everything – in spite of his "bad-ass" pretense, in spite of going out tricking occasionally when he should've been watching his son, in spite of being an irresponsible little shit sometimes… he was a great father."

---

"I planned the event – isn't that enough?" Emmett protests half-heartedly, but prepares to deliver an impromptu speech nonetheless. Everyone else's speech thus far has had some sort of theme. Some quality Brian had that was utterly unforgettable – completely admirable.

"He was proud."

That's the big thing Emmett loved about Brian.

"Sure, he thought he would sacrifice everything to get ahead in his job, but there was one thing he wouldn't do – he would never pretend to be straight, or monogamous, or anything like that. Brian was proud of who he was… in every step he took, in every smile or annoying little smirk, he showed people that he didn't regret or deny being gay. It was one of the best things about him – fuck, he went above and beyond pride, he was heterophobic. I mean, it wasn't good or anything, but you know what I mean. He never wanted to be anything other than what he was."

---

Unsteadily, Joan takes a few steps forward. "May I?" she asks, clearly expecting to be turned down.

Nobody responds, because nobody is leading the service. Justin grunts noncommittally. "Brian didn't like you," he mumbles. "He wouldn't want you to speak here."

Joan stumbles backwards.

"Go ahead," Emmett encourages her.

Justin fixes him with an angry stare.

Nervously, Joan clears her throat. "When I… when Brian… when Brian was born, he was… fussy. He almost never cried, but when he wanted something, he would hold his breath until I gave it to him. If his milk was too warm, he'd hold his breath. Too cold – he'd hold his breath. And whenever his sister touched him, I'd walk into the room and see his face all scrunched up, turning blue."

Claire interrupts. "He did not, Mother – "

"Oh yes he did," Joan continues. "And he never stopped. Well, obviously, he stopped that silly holding-his-breath trick, but he never stopped manipulating people to get exactly what he wanted, and the Lord will – "

"Liar!" Justin hisses, spinning around from his former position. "Brian never did that! He was the most fucking generous person I ever knew, and if you never saw that, you obviously didn't know your son."

Dead silence.

Justin walks across the room to Brian's mother and sister, yanks the roses out of the former's hands, and snarls, "Get the fuck out."

---

"He never had a mother. He had a mother, but he didn't have a mother. She didn't care about him. So naturally, he spent all that time at my house to make up for it. And I got to watch him grow up from the time he was fourteen. So I know how he's changed. I'm probably the only person in this room who's seen all that. Not even Michael, because, well, Michael was pretty thick as a teenager."

"Ma!"

Debbie ignores him. "Everyone in this room knows him as this imperfect, impenetrateable force."

Years of sex jokes have Michael's eyes flitting over to Justin.

"But he wasn't. He was treated like shit as a child, and by the time I got to him with my motherly touch, it was too late to fix him. He was a wreck. Who here has seen him cry? Ever?" Predictably, only one hand goes up. Justin's, of course. "How about this – who here trusts a word he says about how he feels?" No hands go up this time. "He trained himself – by the time he was, oh, I'd say ten – to never say how he felt, never express emotion, except through booze and drugs and sex. And it worked pretty well. He had a great job, a shitload of great friends, an amazing fucking boyfriend, and more confidence than he knew what to do with. And even though we all know most of his life was just spewing out whatever bullshit came to his mind, that he wasn't really as confident as he let on, nobody in this fucking room can picture him dead – can we?"

---

Justin steps up and crosses to the center of the room. His hair – longer now than it's ever been, because it gets fucking freezing in New York and it's nice to have something covering his neck – falls in his eyes. He can't stop gazing at Brian.

Flawless.

Perfect.

Dead.

Justin recoils, like he's never thought that before. Brian is dead. He thinks it again and again, trying to make himself feel something beyond this emotionless sulking, this apathy.

"I… most of you were there when I met Brian," Justin says, just to keep himself talking, distracted from everything else. "Michael, Ted, Emmett. He blew you guys off to take me to his loft. Then he found out his kid was being born, and he brought me with him. Suddenly, even though I barely knew him and he didn't even know my name, he changed. When I was… well, we didn't actually get to the sex until after the hospital. But when we were in his loft, he was intimidating. Sexy. Powerful. Then he saw Gus, and it was like he was melting. Like there were no inhibitions – he could be himself around that baby.

"At first, of course," Justin continues, "I was jealous. The way Brian looked at that little kid – he had all the love in the world in his eyes. And I was seventeen and those of you who knew me then know how fucking persistent I was. My mission? Simple. To get him to look at me the way he looked at Gus. And to get him to admit it – that he loved me, that is. Well, that part was a bust, at least if I was aiming for it to happen within the next four years. But at my prom…"

Some people glance at each other. Like sensitive subject alert. Well, it's a funeral. Sensitive subjects abound.

"Well, he looked at me like that. Like he didn't want to let go of me after we stopped dancing. And that was his way of telling me he loved me, or telling himself. Whatever. I just know that after that… well, I was even more persistent. And you know what? I can't even remember the prom. But I know that's how he looked at me."

For a second, it looks and sounds like Justin is done. But then, he quietly adds something else.

"Then I realized that wasn't the only way he showed it. Every time he kissed me or held my hand or tried to teach me something, he was showing me he loved me. Every time he paid for something of Gus', every time he gave money to anyone or helped someone solve a problem… he was telling them that he loved him. And when he finally told me he loved me – after the bombing – it was like I'd heard him say it a thousand times before. Because in a way, I had."

---

Joan was the only one stupid enough to bring roses.

Brian hated roses.

They litter his grave with tiny notes. Ink explosions of thought, scribbled on napkins and scrap sheets of paper and such.

Because Ben had the foresight – and, perhaps, rudeness – to bring a notebook to the funeral, all of the eulogies (save for Joan's) are left for Brian to look back on.

"Let's go get a drink," Ted murmurs in Emmett's ear. It's too depressing. It is.

Emmett follows. Ben follows. Debbie, Mel and Lindsay follow. Michael and Justin stay by the grave. Justin is hoping that they do not engage in a game of "I loved him more." That would be awkward.

"Great speech," Michael pipes up awkwardly. "Dramatic as fuck – but good."

"Thanks," Justin replies, his mind on Brian. "Oh. I came up with something for you." He digs in his messanger bag – looking bizarre over the tuxedo he has on – and pulls out a scrap copy of a new edition of Rage.

The first page is black. In bold, bright green letters, it says: This issue and all other issues are in loving memory of the true Rage, Brian Kinney.

Not knowing what else to do, Michael throws his arms around Justin. They hold each other until tears stain each other's suits, but Michael isn't holding Justin, and Justin isn't holding Michael.

Brian is holding them both.

And they both are holding Brian.

And that's why, when they finally separate, they both take a last glance at the grave before them, like they'll never be able to really recognize it as being there.

"I still can't believe he's fucking gone," Michael says softly.

"Me neither." Justin's tone is untouched by emotion. "He… he made me who I am. You know what I was like before."

"A little asshole, to be exact," Michael offers helpfully. "And now you're…"

Neither of them can figure out how to fill in this blank.

Neither of them can figure out how to fill the void, the emptiness where Brian would be, could be, should be. With a sarcastic comment, with a joint and a drink, with a gesture towards his Mount Everest of condoms, with a little smirk and a raised eyebrow. With his Kinneyism.

Justin squeezes his eyes shut.

"What are you doing?" asks Michael, even as he does the same.

Justin opens his eyes for a brief moment, then closes them again. "Remembering," he says.