Wow this one took forever. Like I said, the plot for this one is only very rough, and I'm just sort of rolling with whatever my mind puts up here. So I really dont know what exactly is going to happen each time. Also, I've been off being a counselor at a summer camp. So I was computer-less for a while.
As he sat with his head in his hands, Debbie rubbing his back gently, trying to comfort, Justin realized that over the years he ands Brian had switched places. Justin had always been the one to walk away, to leave with uncertainty as to whether or not he'd return, but now he was also doing Brian's part. He was the one who had pushed Brian off that huge cliff to the end of their relationship. Brian had been waiting for him, like always, but he had also been the one that was hanging on, that was rooting for them and pushing to keep their relationship alive. But Justin had pushed him off a cliff, and not for Brian's own good, but for his own.
Brian had been the one gripping tightly to the crumbling stone of their affection, trying with all he had to stay alive and stay loved and in love. Brian had been the one doing what had always been Justin's job, the job of staying a real couple. They had really and truly switched places. Justin wondered now, what he could do.
"Sunshine?" Debbie's soft voice cut through his thoughts, and he realized suddenly that he was breathing heavily through barely held back tears. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know how to get him back. I don't know what to do."
"Justin, you were always a persistent little fucker. Just keep going. Keep trying. Like you did when you were seventeen. You knew you'd get your man, and you did."
"Yeah, but now I don't know. What would I have done when I was seventeen? Debbie, what would I have done?"
"You would have kept coming back, Sweetie, don't you remember? That's what amazed me about you. Every time he pushed you away or something happened between you two, you always returned to him, you always were there, waiting for him and you wouldn't leave no matter how hard he pushed you."
"You're wrong, Deb. I left him. I left him too many times. He was the one who was always there and always waiting."
"It doesn't matter. Do what you would have done years ago. Don't let him go. Be persistent and don't give up. Do whatever it takes."
Justin nodded. Whatever it took. He could try. He'd have to try. He gave Debbie a firm hug. She patted him on the cheek and left the cookies on the table, shutting the door and leaving him to stare contemplatively at his newest painting.
When he finally left the room and made his way downstairs, his bag over his shoulder, Debbie gave him a kiss and patted his cheek.
"I'm going over there. I don't know what I'm going to do, but I'll try."
"Good luck, Sunshine."
"I'll need it." He gave her a smile, rueful smile and left, plodding off to grocery store and then the loft. He needed to do what his seventeen-year-old self would have done. He needed to be persistent, not give up, and not let Brian shut him out or push him away. He needed to push Brian to get treatment and get better. He needed….he needed to show Brian that he still loved him.
He sighed, and thought back to the way he had been before New York, before the bombing, before things had gone wrong. He remembered the way he followed and pursued Brian, going to the bars and clubs he went to, wiggling his way into his circle of close friends and becoming one of those close friends himself, maybe even one of the closest. He remembered conversations on warm, lazy Sunday afternoons, deep and meaningful, about philosophy and rights, politics and books. He remembered the way he would have done absolutely anything for Brian, including risk his own life to keep him from being prosecuted for sexual harassment, or go behind his current boyfriend's back to help him out. He remembered helping him with anything he could, and not leaving or queening out when Brian said awful things to him or tried to push him overboard or tried to get rid of him.
He remembered knowing, an instinct or inherent perception, of Brian's unspoken yet extremely dysfunctional and unusually intense, tender love for him. He remembered, even after such a struggle, his power over Brian, the fact that he was the one person who could cut him to the bone; he could flay Brian alive, tear his heart out and twist his fingers deep into the wound and Brian would stand there, defenseless, and take it, staring at him with large, aching hazel eyes because Justin was the only one to which he was completely and utterly exposed and vulnerable, and he couldn't close himself off because his heart had been taken by the younger man, and Brian wasn't willing to risk the pain of taking it back. So he'd left it with Justin and walked away.
And Justin had gone ahead and torn that heart to pieces and left it in the dirt, alone and despairing. Emmett, Ted, Michael, even Debbie and his mother, they'd all had someone in their lives who they loved and who loved them back, who they could take care of and need. And Brian had needed Justin, and had tried to take care of him. But Justin had left him alone and hurting in Pittsburgh, surrounded by people who loved him but didn't love him enough, didn't love him with all of their hearts enough to help him through the pain and torment of each hour and day of empty loneliness.
Justin had to mend that now. He had to. He needed to let Brian know that he still cared for him, that he still needed him. He punched in the code to Brian's building and headed up the stairs.
He knocked on the door with his free hand, but there was no answer. A flash of fear ran cold up his spine, making him shiver and a tingling tightness make its way up his back to clench tightly at his head. He unlocked the door and pulled it open. Stepping inside, he peered about and called Brian's name. Silence responded; there was no one home. He rolled his eyes as he realized he should've expected that. It was eleven-thirty on a Tuesday morning. Brian was probably at Kinnetic.
Justin closed the door, put his groceries down on the counter and began to wander around the loft, taking in the changes from the last time he was here, and the things that had stayed. And noting the little things. His painting on the wall, the one that was so purely them, visible through the pain and intensity of each brushstroke, hanging where the Naked Man used to be. He wandered over to the small shelves by Brian's bedroom and opened one, peering in. All the books he remembered were there, along with a small black binder. He opened it, and his eyes widened, a gasp caught in his throat. Inside was every single newspaper or magazine or internet article about him or his art or a show he was in, carefully clipped or printed and preserved in plastic sleeves. He bit his lip and put the binder back.
He began to walk around again, looking at everything. On the small glass shelf by Brian's computer were pictures of the "family," and of Gus as he grew. But a small collection of photos were lumped together a little apart from the others. And they were all of Justin, smiling or working or playing with Gus. The glass inside the frames were smeared with fingerprints. Justin heaved out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair.
The kitchen was still the same, but there was almost no food in the fridge or the cupboards. Although the last cupboard Justin opened had some ridiculously sugary, fruit-flavored cereal that, upon examination, seemed to have expired about seven or eight years ago. He put it back.
He poked his head into the bathroom and found that nothing had been changed. He wasn't surprised; Brian adored that shower. He sat down on the end of the bed, glancing around. He remembered the last time he'd been here and truly felt at home. It had been another sad day. He remembered the loss in Brian's eyes as they'd kissed and fucked for what they thought might have been the last time. He knew that Brian loved him more than anything, and yet he left anyway.
Out of the corner of his eye, something that clashed brightly with the dark blue of the bed sheets caught Justin's attention. He got up and moved to what had long ago been his side of the bed. Balled up beside the pillow, practically shoved down between the mattress and the bed frame, was a red jacket with threadbare sleeves, a jacket he'd worn for years until he'd forgotten to take it with him back to New York, a jacket he'd owned since he was in high school and never thrown away. It was creased, like it had been folded and unfolded and then crumpled and uncrumpled dozens of times. Justin spread it out on his old pillow and stared at it. A small, strangled noise pushed its way out of his throat. He'd had no idea just how much pain Brian had been in after he left. Now it was hitting him hard, squeezing his heart and making him wish he could take everything back and start over from before he left.
He pushed the shirt back into its place and lay down where it had just been. He closed his eyes, but they flew open again as he recognized a box sitting unopened in a corner. It was the first thing Brian had ever bought for him when he moved to New York.
Like most summers in New York, it had been sweltering hot. Brian had come to visit a few times, but he refused to brave the heat just for a fuck. Justin couldn't come home because of his job, but had promised to come down sometime soon. Stuck in his new shitty apartment without air conditioning, he'd complained to Brian about the blistering temperature.
"See?" Brian said. "That's why I told you I'm not going up there. No way am I going to stand both of us bitching about the New York heat."
"At least you'd take us to a hotel." Justin grumbled. "I just have a cramped, overheated apartment that shouldn't really even be called an apartment."
A few days later, a package had arrived for him. He recognized the handwriting as Brian's. Opening it, he found a fancy multi-settings fan. With a snarl, he immediately wrapped it back up, scribbled out his own address and wrote Brian's, and shoved it back to the UPS guy. He'd called Brian, pacing angrily across the floor.
"Kinney."
"I don't need your fucking charity, Brian. You don't need to buy shit for me, okay?"
"Justin, I—" But Justin was on a roll.
"Look, I came here to make my own way in the world. I told you that. I don't need your help, or your money. I can take care of myself, Brian. I don't need you to do it for me. I'm not your fucking kept boy. So quit buying me shit. I'm not seventeen anymore. Jesus."
He hung up the phone without letting Brian respond, then turned off his cell phone. He'd gotten an email the next day.
Justin-
What the hell was that all about? I was trying to send you something you could use. It's sitting here in the loft if you ever want it. Just tell me and I'll send it. Take care, Sunshine.
-B
Justin sighed, lying back on the pillow and scrubbing a hand over his face. Brian had just tried to help him, and what had he done? Pushed him away over one silly little fan. He couldn't believe after eight years Brian would still have the stupid thing.
He imagined Brian sitting in his office after that angry call, staring at the phone in his hand, the dial tone still screaming at him to hang up. He imagined the man's hurt, confused expression, the need to help and love Justin the way he'd always wanted to be loved simmering beneath his skin. He imagined Brian sliding into bed every night, glancing at the box in the corner, maybe looking at the articles about "New Artist Justin Taylor", pulling the red shirt from its hiding place and holding it to his chest, pressing it to his face and inhaling the scent of his lover, hoping it wouldn't fade, clutching the pillow on Justin's side of the bed, imagining that it was a warm, solid body. It made Justin's heart hurt, more so because he had a feeling that his imagination was probably right. He closed his eyes to the package from the past and drifted off to sleep.
He awoke with a start from a strange dream that involved Ethan, Michael, Mel, Cody and Lindsay grabbing him by the arms and pulling him away from the loft, kicking and screaming, and throwing him over a cliff to a dark pit as soon as he'd stopped struggling and tried to reason with them. The sound when he'd hit the floor of the hole had sounded like a wooden bat on bone. He'd jerked upright, breathing hard.
He shook his head and got up, stepping into the bathroom and splashing cold water on his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked older, more weary. But he also looked broken, lost, like a piece of himself was left somewhere and he hadn't been able to find it again. His eyes were colder than before, the bags underneath them darker and deeper. His face was a little scruffier from not shaving for a few days, and he knew for a fact that his smile, when he did smile, was not as bright as it had once been.
He glanced into the bedroom towards the clock. It was almost five-thirty. He'd slept a long time; Brian should be getting home soon. Stepping out of the bathroom, he sat down on the couch, staring out the window at the buildings below.
The whirring of the elevator broke him from his zoned out thoughts, and he braced himself for Brian's reaction as he listened to the heavy door slide open.
Brian looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped and circles darkening around his eyes. His former lover glanced around the room, noticed him on the couch. They held each other's gaze for a moment, memories and heat, regrets and pain and need and some intense unnamable emotion crackling between them. Justin felt frozen in place by the aching stare.
He was the one to break the eye contact, feeling flayed and guilty, pinned to the wall by the intense hazel gaze. The memories from the last ten years burned bright in Brian's eyes, as much as Justin had tried to forget their life together, Brian's gaze forced every sense memory to the front of his mind, and he didn't know how to feel. His entire life, who he was, had been shaped by Brian and his experiences with Brian. He looked away, afraid of what he might feel if he stared too long. Brian turned away from him to the kitchen.
"What are you doing here?" Brian asked wearily, dropping his briefcase on the counter and heading towards the bedroom, tugging at his tie. Justin got up off the couch and approached doorway, noting the way Brian avoided taking off anything but his tie and shoes with Justin looking at him.
"Making you dinner."
Brian shrugged. "All right."
Justin frowned. Brian had put up less of a fight than expected. And he hadn't even questioned how long he'd been there or what he'd seen. Justin glanced at Brian one more time before stepping back toward the sparse, pristine kitchen.
He pulled out his groceries and began cooking, wondering if Brian would even eat what he made. Keeping his head down, he glanced over toward the bedroom and stifled a small gasp. Brian had pulled off his shirt, and was in the process of pulling off his slacks. Justin could see that he was much too thin, his ribs sticking out, his belly looking much too skinny, his hips bony. No longer was he healthily lean, more muscle than fat. Tears sprang to Justin's eyes, and the visual evidence of Brian's ill health made him scared and nauseous. Justin looked back to the meal he was preparing before Brian could see him. He made his decision then. He was going to do whatever it took to make Brian better.
Brian sat on the couch, flipping through channels on the television as Justin made dinner. The younger man threw furtive glances at him every so often. When food was ready, he set it out on the dining table, calling to Brian, who turned off the television and joined him, plopping apathetically into the chair.
Justin remembered when he used to make dinner for Brian every so often. Brian would complain and complain, griping about how he could be at Babylon right now, or how Thai was so much quicker, instead of sitting tiredly down and eating it complacently without a word.
They ate in complete silence, and that made Justin ache. He remembered dinners together when they'd talk about anything, everything, whatever popped in their heads. He remembered Brian mentioned one night when they were stoned, that Justin was a better best friend than Michael sometimes, because he couldn't really talk to Michael about anything remotely intellectual. He had told him that Michael was only interested in comic books, like he was stuck being fifteen years old, he told him that he had to dumb his words down for Michael sometimes, that it was great to have an intellectual equal to hang out with sometimes. That compliment had made Justin glow and smile sunshine for a month.
They finished dinner, still silent. Brian got up and went back the couch, pulling a book from his shelf and flipping it open. Justin cleared the table and washed the dishes. If it wasn't so tense and awkwardly silent, Justin could have imagined it was nine or ten years ago, and he was making dinner for them before Woody's. He finished with the dishes and dried his hands. Brian looked over.
"You're done now?" Justin nodded. "Good. Now you can go. You really don't need to do these things for me. I'm a big boy. I can make my own dinner and I can piss by myself."
Brian had tricked him. But Justin decided not to be intimidated or affected. He was not going to leave just because Brian tried to push him by being a total dick. "Fuck you, Brian. I'm staying here. I don't care what you say."
"Get the fuck out. I don't need you or your pity. Seriously, I lived without you for eight years. I can do just fine by myself now. Go away. Go back to New York, go back to whatever boyfriend you've got." He spat the word 'boyfriend' out like it burned. "Go back to your successful life. Leave me alone. Go back to your awesome life in the big city."
"Fuck you, Brian! I came back here for you!"
Brian's eyes flashed pain and anger. "I know! You shouldn't have. You don't love me any more, you said it yourself. You left. You don't need me anymore, and much as I would like to say that I don't give a shit, I do, I give a very big shit, and I don't need you around to remind me. So go the fuck away." Brian's face suddenly blanked, his eyes widening, startled, then his expression wiping away into an emotionless mask.
Justin didn't have an answer for that. It was a huge admission, thrown out in the heat of the moment. He'd thought Brian had suddenly disappeared, that some empty, apathetic shell had taken over and Brian no longer cared anymore. He was wrong; Brian was the way he usually was, hiding how much he cared in anger or apathy or confrontations.
Brian got up without a word and went to the bedroom. He pulled off his clothes and got silently into his bed, rolling onto his right side so his back was to Justin. The blonde watched him for a long time, wondering how much Brian had really lost, how much time he'd spent aching for him the way Justin had not. He wondered whether Brian hadn't been able to cover up or shove away or forget about the aching loss the way he himself had. He lay down on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, wishing his brain wouldn't force him to think of these things. He soon fell asleep, though he tossed and turned on the white couch that he remembered still held the sensation of Brian sliding inside him, tears mingling with tears on both their cheeks as they said goodbye to what had been something magical and almost impossible.
Justin dreamed of the days after the Stockwell incident, when he and Brian had known exactly who and what and where they were. When they were comfortable with each other, when Brian was perfectly alright with pulling him close and nuzzling his face lovingly in public, when he didn't give as much of a shit about his badass image, when the poverty they faced brought them together as partners. He dreamed of Brian's quiet smiles, of their days together lounging on pillows on the floor and reading books that Brian hadn't sold. He remembered some of the best fucks during that time. He remembered the love that was obvious in Brian's eyes, the fact that Justin didn't really see it even though Brian never even hid it.
He woke with a small start, still silent, and turned a little on his side to see Brian staring out the dark window, across the buildings and into the night. Justin guessed it was probably about three AM. Brian was shirtless, but his arms were slightly wrapped around himself. He sighed, and Justin could see his ribs. He could see in the slump of his shoulders, in the dullness of his gaze, that Brian had given up, and he wasn't going to fight this sickness. He could see that Brian thought he had nothing left to live for. He huffed a small sigh, he'd already decided that he wasn't going to let Brian die. Now he had to convince Brian to help himself. But it was so hard because he didn't even know how to help his former lover. He didn't know what to say or do to keep Brian hoping and living, because he'd seemed to have changed, so much more than Brian had, and he no longer knew how to read Brian, or even how to read himself.