BRIAN'S POV

“In bed,” I say softly.

He humms through his nose and looks at me in that way he does sometimes, when I say something he thinks doesn’t make any sense at all, blond eyebrows all crunched up together, nose crinkling just a little.

“You’re supposed to add ‘in bed’ to the end of every fortune,” I say, letting my arm fall down on the pillow beside me.

He grins. “I was thinking, ‘on the floor’,” he retorts, biting his lip and letting his eyes wander across my face.

“Okay,” I barely whisper and then his mouth is on mine, with kisses that taste like ginger shrimp and fortune cookies, his lips clinging to mine, sticky with plum sauce. He slides his palm, wide open, down my stomach, warm fingers circling my belly button, pushing up my shirt and I think about doing all those things he said, taking out my dick and watching him suck it, rimming him till he’s crazy and ramming my cock up him and fucking him so hard he passes out.

He rolls towards me more, pressing his body all along mine, his cock pushing against my hip, leaning into me, warm pressure against my chest and I wrap my arm around his neck and pull him to me, hold him against me, brush my fingers into his short hair. He pulls back from the kiss and looks at me, a little smile on his face, grinding his hips against my side slowly, and I close my eyes and feel his lips on mine again.

Creeping fingers slip into my jeans, make me tip my head back into the pillow, those fingers wrapping around my cock, warm and welcome and Jesus Christ, even this feels so good, so good, God… I could lie here and let him jack me off slowly, wait for him to climb down my chest, take my aching cock between his soft lips into his wet mouth and suck me off till…

Don’t even think about it, not even consciously aware of it, just feel this heat in my stomach and then my fingers are gripping his wrist tightly, hard, pulling his hand out of my pants. Away from me. Don’t touch me.

Heart thumps loudly in my ears, breath catches in my chest and I feel almost dizzy.

“What?” Justin asks, surprised, pulling his hand away, over my hip.

I don’t know. Don’t know. Don’t know.

Roll away from him, and feign a stretch. “Nothing.” Everything.

He touches my arm, trying to roll me back onto the pillows. Pushes his hips against my ass, curling closer to me, wrapping his body against mine, and I can feel his hard cock brushing against my thigh.

I pull my arm from under his hip and twist away from him. “Your hand is cold,” I mumble, the lamest excuse ever. But I can’t do this. I can’t. I fucking can’t.

He laughs a little and sits up. “I’ll warm them up,” he starts to massage my shoulders, and his touch makes me want to cringe, makes me want to pull away and wrap my arms tightly around my chest. Feels hot on my skin, even through my shirt. Sends goose bumps across my arms, hair prickling up on my neck and I can’t stand to have him touch me. Can’t stand to be here. In this body. Here. No. Can’t.

Didn’t expect to feel like this. Didn’t expect to lose this. Lose everything.

I swallow hard, hope my hands aren’t shaking, because I feel like they might be.

“I’m kinda tired,” I fake a yawn and kiss him lightly. His hand presses against the back of my neck, holding me there, but I pull away, grabbing the empty takeout containers and climb to my feet.

Don’t turn around, don’t you fucking turn around, I tell myself. I don’t wanna look at him, don’t wanna see him sitting there staring at me, looking at me like he doesn’t know what the fuck…

“Brian,” he barks it out, a funny laugh in his voice.

Deep breath. Slowly I twist around and see him sitting there on the pillows, this annoyed look on his face.

“Hmm?” I say, raising my eyebrows, pulling my lips into my mouth.

“What…” he starts then stops. Lets out a laugh, then throws his hands up. “You’re tired?”

I nod a little and drop the containers in the trash. “Got a shitload of stuff to do for the Remsen account. New ad, new copy, gotta make up the bill and prep phase two of their campaign. Then I have to start—”

He stands up. “Yeah, okay, I get it,” he waves his hands at me, brushing me away, and goes to pick up his bag.

“You going?” I ask him. Don’t go. Please get the fuck outta here. Don’t go.

His sketchbook and pencil case appear and he drops his bag again. “No, just gonna draw for a bit,” he pulls one of the cushions over to the square table and opens up his sketchbook.

I stand in the kitchen, watching him as he falls to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the cushion, pulling at his crotch a little, adjusting his stiff cock. His cock that should be pressed against my leg or held tightly in my grip or buried down my throat.

He sighs quietly, glancing up at me, back down to the paper, then back up at me again. “What?” he smiles a little. “Change your mind?”

I shake my head and tear my eyes from his. “Too much to do,” I mumble and flop down into my desk chair. Open up PhotoShop and try to concentrate. Fucking try. Have to do something.

After a while, he flicks on the TV and lies stomach down on the carpet, ass rocking back and forth. I wonder if he’ll go home. I want him to go. I want him to stay. I don’t fucking know what I want.

The channels flick by and I hear him yawn loudly, then soon enough the channels stop flicking and I hear a thump. Slowly push out of my chair and take quiet steps over to where he lies, asleep on the carpet, arm stretched out, the remote control fallen to the floor. I debate leaving him here, but know I’ll get an earful if I go to bed without him.

Push at his side a little with my toe. “Justin,” I say it softly.

He doesn’t move, and I bend down and shake his shoulder. His eyes slowly open and he lifts his head.

“You going to bed?” I stand up and look down at him, squinting at me, stretching out.

“Hm, yeah,” he climbs to his feet, and stumbles to the bedroom, shedding clothes and leaving them in a trail behind him. He glances at the clock, reads how late it is and looks at me. “Thought you were tired?” he asks, pointing at the single digits on the display.

I smile a little and pull off my shirt and jeans, and slide into bed. “I am,” I sigh and turn onto my side, my back to him. Go back to sleep, I whisper in my head.

But he humms and breathes against my neck and then there’s a hand on my shoulder, that turns into a leg pressed against mine, his chest against my back, his cock against my ass. His fingers wrap around my waist and drag across my skin slowly.

He sighs. Rubs his dick against me. Kisses the back of my neck. Tongue touches against my skin.

I lie still and try not to tense up. Try not to let that ice cold fear inside me take over. Eyes wide open. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want him to feel me. I don’t want him to know that anything’s wrong. That I’m not perfect and beautiful and… my heart pounds in my temples and suddenly I feel it deep inside, this hard shake, this intense cramp that starts in my groin and spreads up to my stomach and…

I push off the duvet, his voice ringing in my head, and I run into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. Barely make it to the toilet, clanging open the lid and heave, everything inside of me coming up. Everything spilling into the bowl, spewing out of me, wrenching from my stomach.

“Jesus, Brian!” Justin pounds at the door. I’d had the sense of mind to lock it. Unbelievable. “You okay?”

Shallow breaths. In out. In out. I blow my nose and wipe at my eyes.

More pounding on the door. “Brian!” Justin’s near frantic. The handle rattles.

“I’m okay!” I yell out louder than I mean. “Bad shrimp or something,” I say it softer. Amazing how easily the lies come out of my mouth.

“You sure?” he asks, and I hear him leaning against the door. The ssshhhhhh of his shoulder sliding against the wood.

Pull yourself together, Kinney…

I force out a laugh. “Yeah, holy fuck,” I flush the toilet and open the door, reaching for a face cloth.

Run some cold water over the cloth and press it to my face. And then he’s there, at my side, hand on my shoulder, running down my arm and all I want to do is pull away, push him away, ask him to please go away.

“Well, we had the same dinner and I feel okay,” he says, but then he doesn’t sound so sure. “Maybe I don’t.”

I smile despite myself. “I think it was lunch. I’m sure of it,” I wipe my eyes and run the cloth under the tap again, the cold water numbing my fingers. “Cynthia picked it up from some new takeout place. That’s gotta be it.”

I catch his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His face is kind of screwed up and he’s got his hand on his stomach. “Maybe…”

“You’ll be fine,” I give him a half-smile and stick my toothbrush in mouth, quickly washing away the taste of bile.

He walks back into the bedroom. “Damn, I hope so,” I hear him say under his breath, then the light thump as he rolls back into bed.

I finish brushing my teeth and drink a glass of water and take a couple extra-strength sleeping pills, then climb back into bed, sliding under the covers. He doesn’t touch me now, just rolls onto his side, and stares at me.

“Feel better?” he asks, and I swallow and don’t really know if I do.

“Yup,” it kind of comes out of me slowly and I realize the pills might be kicking in.

And then it’s dull and I’m asleep.

He gets this look, like… Christ, I don’t even know what it’s like. I’ve never seen it before.

Brian walking away from sex.

Nope, never seen that before.

I have seriously fucked up.

“Brian,” I call out to him, but he keeps retreating. He slides the door shut behind him without even looking back.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

“Hey,” guy number one says as I walk towards the door. I’m not going to follow him, not going to call him back. Just… I don’t know.

“So what if he left? Come on,” guy number two says. I turn around to the bedroom and see the two of them tangled up together, mouths pressed to skin, arms wrapped around chests, fingers twisted into each other’s hair. Guy number one – or was it two? – told me they’d been together for two years. Didn’t normally fuck other guys, but they were looking for some fun tonight. Sucked my cock in the back room to prove how eager they are.

And I told them my story, how my boyfriend wasn’t interested or something anymore, and they told me he must be crazy and told me how cute I was, and what a great ass I had, and that they would *totally* come home with me, if my boyfriend was half as hot as me.

And I felt good and it was fun, and Brian and I hadn’t really been tricking that much, at least not together and so I asked them to come back and we had a couple beers and smoked a little weed and I watched as number one or number two pulled off his pants and sucked his boyfriend’s dick, and it made me ache for Brian and want him to hurry the fuck home.

Weird he was working so late, I mean, yeah he has late nights all the time, but it’s like almost midnight and he’s just getting home, and that’s just crazy ass late, and now he’s gone back to the office.

There’s nothing, absolutely *nothing* that he needs from the office at 12:05 a.m.

“Justin, right?” one of the guys asks, and I step back from the door, wondering if Brian is still standing on the other side.

I turn around and lean against the cool metal.

“I think I fucked up,” I mumble and close my eyes. I hear the shift of clothes, a light whisper, the smack of lips. Thump-thump as bare feet hit the steps, then the hardwood floor.

“Hey, don’t worry,” the short-haired guy says. “We get it. Shit happens.” They put on their shoes and twine their fingers together, heading towards the door.

I slide it open and they stop in front of me. “I hope you work it out,” the other guy says and gives me a kiss on the cheek, touching my arm as they walk out.

Push closed the door behind them and look around the loft, wrapping my arms around my chest. I feel cold and sick and fucking lonely.

I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.

I guess I should leave.

Clean up the empty beer bottles, dump out the ashtray, turn off the stereo. Make the bed, stuff my extra t-shirt into my bag, put on my shoes, and stand at the door, hand on the latch, ready to just fucking walk out.

But then I stop.

Dammit…

I can’t walk away. He didn’t tell me to get out. He didn’t ask me to leave. He kissed me back and he looked… I don’t know how he looked, but…

Somehow I just don’t want to leave.

So I take my hand off the latch and dump my bag on the floor and pull off my clothes and take a long, hot shower. Climb into bed, lying in the middle and swapping pillows with him. I breathe in the smell of his hair, the scent of his cologne, the tint of cigarettes and fabric softener and I curl up around the duvet and close my eyes.

I hope he comes home soon.

BRIAN’S POV

He doesn’t say anything about last night and neither do I. We talk about the classes he’s going to take at PIFA, talk about how he’s going to organize his shift at the diner. Talk about the comic book and how crazy Deb is and… he just keeps talking and talking and talking like it’s totally fine that I’ve turned him down three nights in a row, that I walked out on a foursome, that we haven’t fucked in almost five days.

And it churns inside me.

Begging to get out. I have to tell him. I want to tell him. I fucking need to tell him.

But I can’t tell him.

I can’t.

Just… can’t.

So I listen and he talks and it hurts because he knows something, but doesn’t ask me what and that hurts me even more and now there’s this thing between us that I’ve never felt before.

This thing that… feels foreign and wrong.

This fucking cancer. That’s exactly what it is, in all sense of the word. Eating away at me, inside. Eating away at my body, my mind, my life. Destroying me and breaking me and I can’t live like this. Can’t fucking go on like this.

And they’ve all given me a thousand millions reasons to go on like this, but if I have to worry about dying when Gus is older, if I have to worry about leaving Mikey all alone, if I have to worry about living with this thing between me and Justin forever…

Maybe that’s not worth it after all.

I know it’s all my imagination, but it hurts now. I feel it inside. Burning. Waiting. Ticking like a timebomb.

It goes on like this for a day, and I avoid him for another and then it’s too late to pretend or hide or think that it’ll never come. Thursday creeps up too fucking fast and there’s no more time left to steer clear of him or make excuses or finish up things at the office because I have to go. Now.

So on the last day I wait till everyone’s almost gone home, and I put it all on a memo, a 3x5 piece of paper that says, “I’m taking a vacation. B”. I leave it on Cynthia’s desk and she’s there in two seconds, screaming at me like a fucking wife, and then Justin’s there and he’s looking at me and this thing between us is so big now. So fucking big I can hardly see him, hardly hear that he’s really joking, that he doesn’t mean it, that he’s trying to pretend that this thing isn’t there, and he’s trying not to be really hurt and then I just…

Take it out on him.

Scream at him.

“We’re not fucking married!” my voice echoes in the office that used to be a bathhouse.

I know everyone heard it and I’m embarrassed for having screamed it and I feel ashamed that he had to hear it and I wish I could take it back, but I know I never can.

I don’t know how he’ll react. Don’t know what he thinks, what he thinks about me, about my words, about what that fucking statement is really saying.

But he just stands there looking at me, through this thing, through the clouds and haze and I expect to see anger, fucking *deserve* to see hatred and rage and fury.

But I don’t. Just see confusion and shock. And that’s so much worse. So I walk away from him, saying even more hurtful things, reminding myself of being 29 and telling some stupid young twink that I don’t believe in love, and realizing how many times I’ve proved myself wrong.

I expect to hear him stomping away, hear him yell back at me, call me an asshole, walk away from me, walk away from this life.

I want him to go, need him to go, I can’t stand to keep hurting him, hate myself for saying these things, and yet they keep coming out, keep churning out of me and I hear myself, this tone in my voice that I haven’t used with him in a long time. Christ, I’ve never yelled at him like that before. I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at anyone like that before, and it makes me sick.

Walk blindly around the corner, ignoring the glare from Cynthia, the surprise on the copywriter’s face. Take a breath, swallow hard. Wonder if he’s gone. Wonder if he left.

But no, I turn the corner and there he is, and I try to see past it, past this thing that sits between us, and just try to see him and then I do.

Standing there, an apology on his lips, telling me I’m right, that I don’t have to tell him anything, don’t have to…

And I shake my head wishing I could stop him from saying these things. He shouldn’t feel like this. God, he shouldn’t feel like this. He looks at me, so much more man than boy now, asking me what he’s done, apologizing for nothing, and he comes to me, brave that he is, and puts his hand on my shoulder, touching me, knowing that we talk much better like this, with hands and touches and kisses and arms wrapped around each other.

I bite back on my lips, on the hundreds of lies that pop up. The things I could say to hurt him, to make him leave forever. The things I could say to end this right now.

The truth I could tell him that would… I don’t know what it would do.

But all that comes out are a few words… tell him it’s not him.

Can’t tell him he doesn’t deserve what I said. Can’t tell him he doesn’t deserve to hear that shit. Can’t tell him to run away and get away from me as fast as he can.

That’s all I can say. It’s not you.

And I have to feel him now, touch him, and put my hand on his shoulder and pull him close, press his body to mine and avoid his eyes, looking at me, staring into me, trying to see inside, trying to see past the thing that’s come back to sit between us.

His face in my neck and he whispers to me, asking what it is, begging me to tell him, kisses on my skin and I still can’t look at him, just hold him close. He kills me, tortures me with his eyes, his scent, the tone of his voice. Makes me hate myself even more for being such an asshole. Hate myself for thinking that I need to be this way, when I know I don’t have to.

“Then what?” he asks, still staring at me, still trying to catch my eyes, sure that the truth will be revealed in my gaze, will be written on my face. I turn my face towards his to kiss him, then stop. Pull away from him, from his fingers, his grip, his eyes… pull away so I can’t feel him, can’t smell him, can’t touch him. Pull away and open my mouth to say… what?

More hurtful things? More lies?

I can’t say anything now. Just shrug and walk away.

He’ll leave. He’ll go and it’ll be better for both of us.

Don’t look at him. Don’t…

Leave, Justin. Go. Go. Go. Leave.

“Okay…” he says, still standing there. Just standing there. “You go do whatever you have to do for whatever reason you have to do it,” he starts to close his arms around his chest, then drops them.

Defeat.

I stare down at my desk. Expect him to say that he’ll see me around, to call me when he gets back or…

“I just want you to know that I love you,” he says and it’s…

Sudden and unexpected.

He pauses and looks up at me, and our eyes meet and I know he’s waiting for me to chastise him for that.

But I don’t.

And I think he wants to hear it back, but I can’t. No way. Not now, not maybe ever.

But I look at him and don’t dismiss it. I owe him at least that much.

“And I’ll be here when you get back.”

We stare at each other. I smile a little and nod my head and he waits to hear something from me. Anything.

But I can’t. I simply can’t.

He turns and goes and it’s all stuck in my throat. Bursting inside me, hurting, killing, my heart racing and head throbbing and hands shaking and there’s nothing I can do.

Flick off the lights. One, two…

Pick the last lamp up and smash it to the floor. The clang echoes in the halls and I wonder if he heard it and I let myself stand there, shaking my head and biting on my lip so hard it bleeds.

Want to scream out after him, don’t you fucking love me!

I deserve none of this.

I didn’t ask for any of this.

And I refuse to feel sorry for myself.

I walk away.

The air seems heavy and the bed too cold. I haven’t slept here in nights, haven’t changed the sheets in weeks and everything smells musty and stale. I toss over onto my side and punch at my pillow.

I told Daphne what happened and she shrugged and said that life was never simple with Brian and I agreed and pretended I didn’t care. We drank beers and ate cold fried chicken and watched bad reality TV till both of us were tired and headed off to bed.

But now… in the silence, in this bed that feels unfamiliar, even though it’s my own… in this room filled with my things that don’t even really mean anything to me anymore…

Nothing seems right.

I wonder where he is right now. Probably still on the plane, flying over the Atlantic Ocean. Flying away from me. I should be beside him.

I should be there.

But I guess he doesn’t want me to be.

I trust him. I know I have to. He gave me that – knew I had to deal with all that fucking Chris Hobbes shit and he let me. I know he hated that. Hated that I had a gun. Hated that I let Cody teach me things.

Hated that I learned *how* to truly hate.

But he trusted me to do those things because I knew I had to.

He has to do this.

I get that.

It hurts. I mean… I don’t like it.

Christ, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound of his voice screaming those words at me… we’re not fucking married!

I don’t think I breathed for an entire minute. Just stood there bewildered and stunned, and let him scream at me. Somehow knew he *had* to scream at me. That maybe that was the only thing he could do.

And I liked the screaming and yelling a lot better than the quiet looks and stupid lies about being tired or having work to do or needing to stay home.

I knew that Brian was back and that I had to tell him everything right there. I told him I loved him, and expected to get a barrage of lies and truths thrown back at me. But instead he just looked at me and sucked on his lips and then nodded and smiled kinda funny when I told him I’d be here for him when he got back.

He didn’t tell me not to.

Didn’t laugh at me or call me a stupid twink.

And I knew I had to let him go.

Maybe like how he let me go to Ethan. Like how he let me go with Cody.

I have to let him do what he has to do.

I told him I’d be here and I will.

I throw the covers off and climb out of bed. Grab my pillow and creep into the living room quietly so I don’t wake Daph. Curl up on the couch and bunch my pillow under my head.

Somehow it’s better here. My bed just felt too empty.

My brain rattles again with a thousand possible explanations for what the fuck is going on.

I’m okay. I can do this. I will *not* worry about him.

I miss him already.

Damn.

Wonder how long I’ll have to wait.

Eight o’clock comes and goes, and I’m still lying in bed. I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Don’t even know why I bought the fucking plane ticket except to cover my ass in case anyone should care to check up on me. I booked the surgery ten minutes after I bought the ticket. Trying to fool myself, I guess. Keep all my options open.

Just in case.

In case what? I change my fucking mind? I decide to check out and leave it all behind?

What a laugh.

If I’d ever truly wanted to kill myself, I’d be long gone by now.

Looooooooong gone.

God knows I’ve thought about it. Considered it. Set it up and planned it and fantasized about it and wished it and imagined it and pretended it had happened.

Pretended I’d finally had the balls to fucking do it.

Course now, one ball short, I’ll never do it.

Ah, yes. Laugh in the face of adversity. I’m so good at that.

I lie back in bed and remember being 12 and drinking an entire bottle of bourbon. Just to spite Jack. Thinking how mad he’d be that I’d drank his favourite liquor and then died on it. I’d swiped it and taken it upstairs to my room and drank the whole thing in ten minutes. Sure I was going to die. Sure that was it.

But then of course it wasn’t. I’d puked within twenty minutes of drinking it. It all came back up again and I’d barely made it to the bathroom and when Jack got home and smelled the stench of bile and liquor that permeated the house, god*damn* did he kick the shit outta me. Thought maybe I’d die at his hand, really.

Thought that once or twice.

But after that one time, I never really tried again, not like that.

No, I just drink too much and smoke too much and drive way too fast. Take home fucked up guys with pretty faces and screwed up heads, tie scarves around my neck and jack off and take too much coke and smoke too much weed and stand at the edge of tall buildings and wonder if God will push me off this time.

Do all those things, just tempting fate.

Never expecting this to happen.

Never, ever, expected this to happen.

Sure, lung cancer crossed my mind. Jack had it. And I smoke a helluva lot of cigarettes and breathe in even more second hand smoke.

When Jack told me he had cancer, the first thing I thought of was myself. I couldn’t give a fuck about him or about Joanie. Nope, just thought, damn, maybe that’s what’ll get me, after all.

But I didn’t stop smoking or spending too much time in smoky bars and promised myself, hanging from the rafters with the biggest fucking hard on I’d ever had, that this was how I’d take myself out, the day the cancer results came in.

But it’s not my lungs.

And the doctor said 99%.

Can’t hardly get better odds than that.

I hold my breath and remember being a kid at my parent’s house, lying in my skinny bed and pretending I was dead. I must’ve been 15 when I started playing that game. Hold my breath as long as I can, till my fingers and toes feel tingly and I get dizzy and see stars and it finally comes out and I gasp in a breath.

I can hold my breath for a long time now.

Glance at the clock. Midnight. The nurse told me I shouldn’t eat or drink anything now. Won’t be able to for a day or so. IV and shit like that.

They told me to make sure I had someone there to pick me up at the hospital. They gave me the room number and phone numbers to pass along to my family. The nurse asked for names, but I didn’t give her any. Promised her that someone would be there.

Thing that’s fucked up is the person I’d like to be there the most is Vic. The one I could trust. The one that would know. Wouldn’t look at me *like that*. Wouldn’t say, poor Brian, let me do this, can I get you that…?

No, Vic would understand.

But Vic is gone. And there’ll be no one there to drive me home. No one there to help me walk to the bathroom. No one there to bring me juice or change the sheets or help me bathe.

No one there.

Fine by me.

Fucking… fine by me.

I hold my breath again and wonder if I could die like this.