JUSTIN’S POV

“Brian!” I bang my fist on the door and rattle the latch. Locked. “For fuck’s sake!” Kick at it. Hit it. Pain shoots up my arm, but I slam my fist into the metal door again. And again. And again.

“Brian, please!” my voice kicks up an octave but I can’t help it. “Don’t do this!” 

This can’t be happening. It can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. I push my hands up into my hair, my fingers shaking and my face on fire and just this brutal mix of rage and fear pulsing through me. He can’t kick me out. Not now. Not like this.

I punch at the door again, scraping the skin off my knuckles. Walk back and forth, pacing in the small space, trying to focus through this, trying to see, trying not to freak out.

I know he’s hurting, I know he’s pissed but he has no right to be and I’m so angry right now. Just so fucking angry I can’t stand it, feel like I’m gonna explode, feel like I’m gonna have a panic attack, and maybe I’m not angry, maybe I’m just scared, scared of what he did, what this means, what this could mean. Scared that he’s serious. Scared that he’ll do something. Scared that something will happen. Scared that this is really happening.

Scared that I’m gonna have a fucking panic attack right here and now and there’ll be nothing and no one to…

Okay, calm down. Press my forehead to the door and take a couple deep breaths. Try to calm down. I have to be rational. Think about this.

“I love you, doesn’t that mean anything?” I say it loud enough that I know he’ll hear me. But there’s nothing. No response. He’s gonna ignore me? Throw me out like the last three years have been nothing? Fucking nothing?

“Doesn’t that mean anything!” I scream it now, face pressed against the metal, my harsh voice bouncing back in my face and echoing in the stairwell.

I know he hears me. He has to. Push my ear against the door and listen for footsteps, for a voice, for anything. Just anything.

“Brian!” I yell again, pounding against the door, debating whether or not I should fish out my keys and just go back in there myself. Unwarranted, unwanted. Risk losing my keys forever, risk him taking them from me and pushing me out again and me not having any way to get back in here in case he needs—

“Hey!” I hear a yell from downstairs and I stop, frozen. Suck in a breath. Al, the building manager. “If you don’t get your fucking ass out of here right now, I’m calling the cops!” he hollers up the stairwell.

I run over to the stairs and look down at him, standing there looking up at me. “Now!” he yells, pointing with his thumb out the door.

“Al, you don’t understand, there’s been a…” I stop. There’s been a mistake? A misunderstanding? What?

“Justin, Mr. Kinney specifically asked me to get your ass out of here,” he says, starting up the stairs. “And you have two seconds to start coming down these stairs or I’m going to throw you down them.” He takes another step up and I quickly pick up the DVDs and shove them into my bag. Start running down the stairs, thumping loudly so Brian knows I’m gone.

That I left.

Push by Al and slam open the door and then I’m on the street. Cold air slaps me in the face, cools down my skin, bites into my lungs and I take a couple steps one way, then turn around and go back, and then just stop.

Holy fuck. What happened?

This can’t be happening. It can’t. There’s no fucking way.

I look up towards his window, staring up at the brown bricks that bleed into the sky. I wanna scream out his name like I did three years ago. I wanna scream out that I love him and that I’m here and that I want to help him and that I’m never fucking going away.

But I can’t do that. I can’t. I can’t do anything. I drop my bag and fall down onto the sidewalk, leaning my back against the building. The cold pavement burns my ass through my cargo pants and I feel 17 again.

Feel stupid and ignorant and immature and naïve and that’s so wrong, because I’m not any of those things. Yet here I am sitting outside in the cold, sitting outside Brian’s building because he fucking kicked me out because I he found out that I knew. That I knew his secret and I didn’t do what I thought I should’ve done, didn’t tell him I accidentally found out and instead I told that asshole Michael who must’ve told him that I knew and fuck, who knows what Brian’s thinking now, just that I was trying to pretend and trying to lie and trying to placate him and tiptoe around him and condescend to him which I totally know he hates more than anything else and…

Oh God.

This can’t be happening.

He thinks I don’t understand, can’t understand, but he’s so wrong. He forgets I lay in a hospital bed for weeks. He forgets I almost died. I went through the hospital shit and the rehab shit and I went through everyone trying to baby me and look after me and pretend like there was nothing wrong, when in fact my brains had just been stuffed back into my head.

I’d catch my mother staring at me with tears in her eyes and when I’d ask her what was wrong she’d always plaster this horrifying false smile on her face and tell me nothing. It was always nothing. Like I couldn’t handle it if she told me that she was sad because I was almost dead.

And Deb was trying to mother me, and Lindsay and Mel and Em and Ted and fucking Michael, oh he was the worst, looking at me like *that*. You know, that pitied look, eyebrows scrunched up a little, mouth in a downturned frown, and the way all of them would make their voice high and soft like maybe I was going to totally break down or something if they talked to me normally. Like poor wittle Justin couldn’t handle it.

Daphne didn’t treat me like that.

And neither did Brian.

Does he really think I don’t understand? Does he trust me so little? Respect me even less? After everything we’ve been through does he really expect that I wouldn’t get what he’s going through?

It makes me sick to think that he doesn’t realize how well I know him. He couldn’t possibly feel that. He couldn’t.

I pull my hands into the sleeves of my jacket, curling my fingers into fists to try and warm them. Pain shoots up my right hand and into my fingertips, sharp, biting pain that makes me grit my teeth together hard. My fingers start to quiver a little and I squeeze my hand into a tighter ball to make it stop. But it doesn’t. The quiver turns to a shake and then it’s in my whole body, rattling my teeth and settling in my muscles and bones. Starting inside where I’m so boiling hot with anger and fear and leaking outside, weeping out my pores and turning cold in the night air.

He can’t do this. Not now.

I know what it’s like to be sick and be alone. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Sure my mom was there. Sure Daph was there.

But they weren’t enough. It wasn’t the same.

I needed Brian the way I know he needs me right now, no matter *what* he fucking thinks.

Is this some guilt over that? Is he pushing me away because he wasn’t there for me? But that makes no sense. No, he’s angry. Really angry. I’ve never seen him like that. Never heard that… that tone in his voice. Shit, the way he looked at me? There was no guilt on his face. Only anger. Almost hatred.

He was trying to hurt me, I know that. Saying those things to me. Deliberately saying those things to me.

Not anymore. I don’t want you here.

Talking to me like I was a stupid teenager again. A trick that walked in off the street. Like I meant nothing to him.

Like I was nothing.

It kills me to know he’s sitting up there alone when I could be there beside him. When I *should* be there beside him. We wouldn’t have to talk about it. I wouldn’t ask him. I wouldn’t push him to tell me anything. I wouldn’t look at him with pity in my eyes.

I just want to be beside him. I want to be with him. God, I want to spend every fucking second with him because…

No. No. NO! I will not think that. I will NOT think that. No.

Swipe at my nose with the back of my hand.

I won’t think that at all. Not even let the thought enter my head.

No way.

Nu-uh.

Nope.

I stand up, my knees shaking together and the cold passing through me. Swing my bag over my head and shove my hands into my pockets and walk away. Fast. Get away from here. I can’t be here and think these things. I can’t be here.

I can’t…

I’ll go home and lie in bed and think about the other night… think about lying in his bed and wrapping my arms around him and holding him and kissing him and being with him. Smelling his warm skin and listening to his heartbeat and just being with him. That’s what I’ll do.

That’s all I can do.

Christ, I’ve never felt more alone in my whole life.

BRIAN’S POV

He knows. He knows. He fucking knows.

“Brian…” Michael’s whispered words brush past my ears. But I can’t hear him. I can’t deal with this.

Justin knows.

He knows.

And he pretended like he didn’t. And he let me make a fool out of myself. And he lied to me about it. And he played games with me.

And he knows.

I’m so fucking angry. I’m beyond angry. I’m… I’m…

I don’t even know what I am anymore.

Jump to my feet, Michael’s arms falling from me and Jesus Christ, I can’t… I can’t deal with this.

I feel exposed and vulnerable and humiliated. Fucking humiliated. And…

Scared.

“Brian, what’s wrong?” Michael’s stuttered voice behind me. He climbs to his feet and stands behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, but I can’t move.

I just shake my head. I can’t believe this. Can’t believe this happened. I thought I could manage. Thought I could do it myself. Should’ve known that they’d figure it out.

But the least he could’ve done was come to me about it. Not pretend. Not hide.

“I told him not to tell you, I told him that we shouldn’t say anything,” Michael’s words mean nothing. Justin knew. And worse, instead of coming to me, he told Michael.

And now I have to deal with this. With Michael. Michael’s fear, Michael’s insecurities, Michael’s tears, Michael’s hugs and hanging on and those *looks*.

“Mikey, it’s fine,” I twist around in his grip and put my arms around him. “I’m okay. I’m gonna be okay.”

“God Brian, I’m so scared,” he presses his face into my chest and I feel 15 again. Feel 21 again. Feel 25 again. Feel 29 again. Feel like I’ve felt a million times before. Holding Michael in my arms, holding him up. Supporting him. Helping him. Telling him what he needs to hear.

It’s got so he can’t hardly hear it from anyone else.

“Listen Mikey, I’m tired, and you should go home to the Professor,” I push my fingers through his coarse hair, rubbing the back of his head.

He nods against my chest. “Yeah, I know. He’s probably got dinner on the table and he and Hunter are just waiting for me. I can’t…” he stops then squeezes me tightly.

“Maybe I should stay here with you,” he says, but I pull him off me, peeling his arms from around my waist and pushing him back lightly.

“No, I’m fine,” I say, holding my arms out wide. “See? Good as always. Perfectly fine,” I suck in a breath and hope to God he didn’t see me wince. I let my arms drop and my chest doesn’t feel so tight.

“You sure?” he asks, but he starts to pick up his jacket.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I put my hand on his shoulder and gently urge him to the door. He eyes me for a second, then turns around and hugs me again, hard. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the grunt from coming out. Ouch.

“I love you Brian, I mean it. Always have,” he says, smiling at me through his tears, waiting for the rest. But I can’t do it. I can’t say it. I need him out. Now. I need to just think about this.

Nod, smile. “Yeah Mikey,” I kiss him lightly on the forehead and put my hand on the door and start to slide it shut.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says and I nod and close the door.

Okay. Okay. Okay. So… now what?

I pick up the take out containers from the early dinner Michael brought over. He ate most of it—I can’t hardly stomach food these days. I just feel like puking all the time. Even just the smell of it makes me wanna throw up and I quickly toss everything into the garbage and tie it up tightly to stop the smell from coming out.

Pick up my cigarettes. Go sit at the dining table. Sit there.

Think.

Justin knows.

He heard the message… and that was what, four days ago? Before we went to Babylon with that asshole director. Before he tried to pretend he had ‘food poisoning’ to get me home. Before he laid on my chest and let me tell him stories he knew I made up about a trip I never took and he let me tell him because he felt sorry for me.

He pitied me.

And he treated me differently.

He treated me differently because he knows. And even though he probably thinks he wouldn’t treat me any differently, he did. He doesn’t realize it, but he did.

He told me lies and placated me. Convinced me to let him take me home and I let him undress me and fall asleep with him on my chest, and he didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t push me for sex or question why I didn’t want to go to Babylon every night or why my so-called jet lag lasted a week. Didn’t ask where my tan line was, didn’t ask why I started wearing underwear, didn’t ask why I’d close the bathroom door and not invite him into the shower with me.

Didn’t ask all those questions because he knew.

And knowing changed him.

He changed.

How fucking blind was I not to see it?

Goddamn.

He changed to start lying to me, and he’ll change again to start pitying me, and he’ll change again to start tolerating me, and he’ll change again to want to leave me.

Just like I always knew he would.

Crumble the cigarette beneath my fingers. Roll it back and forth.

I know I’m being irrationally angry. But I have to be angry. If I’m not angry, I’ll be weak. I’ll break down and scream, why the fuck is this happening to me!!

And I’ll regret not telling him when I know I should’ve. And I’ll regret taking him back into my life again. And I’ll regret that day not too long ago, when I smiled at him and pulled him close when he asked me what he was to me, when he asked me who he was in my life, and I whispered into his ear partner…

I’ll regret that shit and even more that I haven’t done yet and I don’t need that, don’t need him, don’t need anyone.

Hear the door start to open and I wind up inside, get ready, pull it in from everywhere I can, all the anger and hatred that I have from this, from this fucking disease, from this insane loneliness that I’ve forced on myself, from the despair I heard in Mikey’s voice, from the pain in my gut and everything, everywhere balling up and I seethe inside, grind my teeth together and get a cramp in my stomach, a twitch in my arm and I sit here and wait for the next little lie he’ll tell me.

So he has a new ploy, to pretend he wants to stay home with me and watch movies. Nice little plan, Justin. Just keep pretending.

He sits down beside me and I look at him. Just… stare at him. Wonder how it came to this. Wonder why this had to happen.

Wonder why I let it come to this.

I know why. Because I got weak. Because I let myself need him. I let myself miss him. I let myself want him and loved having him there, falling asleep with him and letting him hold me and kiss me and listen to my stories that I had to tell more for myself than anyone else. I loved that and I needed that and I can’t let myself have it because I know it’ll go away and I try to let this feed my anger. Remember him walking away from me before and remember him pushing into my life and I get angry at myself as much as at anyone else but I turn it all around and get it ready and stare at him.

He looks back at me, his eyes searching my face, and then he tears his gaze away. I’m sure he knows it’s coming. I’m sure he knows…

This has to happen.

And I let go.

I tell him I know he knows and all he can do is just look at me, all shocked and confused, so I let loose with all those words I didn’t say before, when I should’ve said them, when he was standing there those few weeks ago, looking at me with all that hurt and pain and sadness… all those words just come so easily this time. All the things I know to say that will hurt him, that will make him go, that will make him hate me. I say them this time.

I tell him we aren’t partners anymore.

I tell him I don’t want him here anymore.

I tell him to get the fuck out.

I’ve only kicked him out once before, and that was a long, long time ago.

He came back that time.

I don’t think he will this time.

I love you and I wanna help you.

Sunshine, such the wrong thing to say to me. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Don’t love me. Don’t help me.

I don’t need your love. I don’t need your help.

I don’t fucking need you. I can’t need you.

I stomp away from him and pick up his bag and throw it into the hall and he comes over and stares at me, this hurt plastered all over his face and I can see he doesn’t know what to do, so I make the decision for him and put my hand on his shoulder and push him the fuck out now and push him hard.

If I don’t do it fast and quick and mean and permanent, I won’t do it at all.

And I have to do it now.

I get a flash of his face, those pink patches high up on his cheeks, mouth hanging open in shock, eyebrows scrunched up and his eyes shiny and glistening and just on the verge and I slide the door shut and that’s all I’m left with.

I can’t talk to him or see him.

I’m not strong enough right now. Not nearly strong enough.

He starts screaming at me and kicking at the door and pounding on it and I feel so jittery inside, thought I’d feel better, thought I’d feel good like what I had to do was done, but I don’t feel like that.

I feel fucking alone. And powerless. And imperfect. And weak. And a thousand other things that I just can’t put my finger on and I don’t… can’t…

His voice echoes into the loft again and I pick up the phone and call the building manager. Tell him Justin is to be escorted out of the building. Tell him to feel free to call the police if necessary.

This has to be over.

“I love you! Doesn’t that mean anything?” he yells against the door, the sound muffled, but I can hear the strain in his voice.

I clear my throat and swallow hard. It means nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I almost want to scream that back at him through the door, but I refuse to acknowledge him anymore.

Yelling in the stairwell then thump-thump-thump as he pounds down the stairs and is gone. Gone.

Gone.

I take a couple steps to the door and lean against it, the metal cold against my heated face. Think about my hand on his shoulder, pushing him out, pushing him hard. Really fucking hard.

Don’t think about it.

I was fine before he came along. I’ll be fine now that he’s gone. I was fine when he left me before.

My stomach cramps up and I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge, drinking it all back. I was totally fine.

So why’d you take him back… that fucking little voice in my head.

Whatever.

Doesn’t matter. I’m not letting him back again. He’s not coming back.

It’s over.

Take a couple steps into the living room. Couple more. Fall down on the cushions, relaxing into the foam and feather mix. They bunch up beneath my body, holding me up, and I curl over onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest a little. It hurts, everything hurts. I feel sick and wasted all the time. I feel hungover but I haven’t touched a fucking drink in days. I feel hungry and empty but the thought of food makes me feel sick. I feel horny and desperate to fuck, but I can’t. I know I could, physically, but I can’t. Just can’t do that.

And I’m tired. So fucking tired. But anxious, so I can’t sleep.

I climb to my feet slowly and find the anxiety pills they prescribed. Swallow down a couple and take the few steps to the bedroom. Strip off my shirt, my jeans, and pull open the covers. Slide in under the duvet and sigh. Breathe in, breathe out.

Too much is happening. Everything is changing. And nothing will ever be the same again.

I push down the band of my underwear, slide my hand in, and stroke my cock lightly, just running my fingers up my shaft. Let my fingers creep lower, touch my balls. The fake one. Feels different. Really different. Not bad, not wrong, exactly. Just different.

It’s all different.

I pull my hand out of my underwear and the band snaps down against my stomach.

All fucking different.

The pills start to kick in and I guess it’s because I’m horny and lonely and feeling so goddamn fucked up that all of a sudden Justin’s in my head. And all I can think about it is the last time we fucked. It wasn’t anything mind-blowing, just our typical good morning fuck in the shower. I’d pressed him up against the glass like the first morning and a million mornings after that, and he’d said my name when I pushed into him and laughed that way he does when I started stroking his cock and we rocked together and push-pulled together and moved together like we know how to do because we’ve fucked each other more than either one of us has ever fucked anyone else before. Because there are things that you do when you’ve fucked each other as much as we’ve fucked each other and there are ways that you fuck and everything, every part of it gets so much better when you’ve fucked each other as much as we have.

Never thought that would be the case, but it is.

Was.

I had to push him out. I had to. I fucking had to. He would’ve left. I know he would’ve.

So I gave him an out. A "get out of jail free" pass. That’s all he needed. All I wanted to give him. An out.

I owe him that much.

Christ.

I should’ve gone to fucking Ibiza.