ka·lei·do·scope (noun)

1. An optical instrument in which bits of glass, held loosely at the end of a rotating tube, are shown in continually changing symmetrical forms by reflection in two or more mirrors set at angles to each other.
2. A constantly changing set of colors.
3. A series of changing phases or events.

This isn’t your life.

You thought it was. For a long time, you thought it was, thought you could learn to be happy, to accept it, to take all the things you didn’t like for all the things you did.

But… it’s not. It’s not who you are, who you want to be. Never will be what you want, no matter how hard Brian tries to tell you that it is. Tries to convince you that this *is* your life and that you’re enjoying it.

You’re not enjoying it. You’re not liking this. In fact, you’re coming to hate it. To despise it.

And you don’t want that.

So you thought long and hard and made a decision. You can’t just float along unhappy and unfulfilled anymore. You simply can’t. So the decision was made, and yeah, it was fucking hard to make, it brought tears to your eyes when the thought first entered your head… but when you’d made it…

You felt a little relieved.

And you knew you could follow through with it.

You had your last fuck, and though Brian didn’t realize that’s what it was at the time, you knew. You knew that this would be the last one.

You’d waited till late afternoon, then showered and shaved in all the right places and laid out flat on the bed waiting for him to come home from the office. Naked... sprawled out on your stomach, hands tucked under your cheek, ass in the air. You’d lain like that for almost an hour, drifting in and out of sleep, but you didn’t move – you’d wanted him to find you like that, sheets hiked up between your legs, knee pulled towards your chest.

Open and willing and wanting. That’s the way you wanted him to find you.

And he did find you, kissed every inch of your skin, tongued your ass, then covered your body with his and slid his hard cock inside you, filled you, fucked you, loved you in the only way he knows how.

You kept asking for more, kept twisting and turning in his grip to change position till you were face to face, damp foreheads pressed together, bodies humming with heat and passion, waves of euphoria drifting through you. Intense and raw and carnal and just so fucking amazing. Colors behind your eyes shifting and turning and brightening as the pleasure intensified, as you climaxed, as you let go.

You whispered I love you a hundred times against his face while you fucked, but you know you didn’t say it loud enough for him to hear. It was enough that you said it. You had to say it. You wanted to say it this last time.

When you’d both come and come and come again, and you lay still and silent on the dark sheets, you felt sated and completely satisfied. He’d looked at you and smiled and asked what’s gotten into you? And you’d just stuck your tongue between your teeth and whispered, you.

It wasn’t over yet; you gave him one last blowjob in the shower, swallowing his come then kissing him for long minutes under the spray of water. Tongues and lips colliding, saying the things that words couldn’t.

And then he left for Babylon. You knew that he’d leave eventually, no matter how amazing the sex was. You didn’t even consider that he might want to actually stay home tonight.

It might’ve changed everything… might’ve not.

But he left and you dressed and slowly started packing. Pulling socks and underwear and t-shirts out of the drawer he left empty for you.

Turns out it really was only an empty drawer, nothing more, nothing less.

And now you sit on the couch and wait.

He gets home and you talk and it goes pretty much exactly as you expected it would. Volleying the ball back and forth and back and forth and he tries to play games but you don’t let him. And you start to get angry and upset but don’t want to, so you bite it back.

Don’t let him know how much it hurts for him to change your can’t to his won’t.

You want to ask why won’t you? But the answer is clear, so you don’t bother bringing it up.

He answers all your questions, as you knew he would. You can see he’s lying and know that maybe he wants to say something more, but to him that’s a sign of weakness and all the things he hates and so he doesn’t.

You realize he’d rather be alone and who he is, than be with you and pretend to be someone he isn’t.

And you respect that in a fucked up kind of way because that’s the way you feel too. Too late to change or mold yourself into something different. Despite every effort from Brian, you turned into the kind of person he loathes. Wanting a husband and a family and a home.

You want to tell him that’s not being hetero or homo, but just being human.

But you don’t.

So you finish it and pick up your bags all neatly packed and waiting for you in the bedroom. And when you stop in front of him, drop your stuff and reach your arms around him for the very last time… he hesitates. You get a little freaked out because you don’t want this to end badly, you don’t want to lose everything, you just want to set him and yourself free. You want to make him happy, and yourself happy and stop all this shit and misery before you start to resent each other and lose everything completely.

But then his arms reach up around you, and you sigh… he holds you lightly, his heart is beating fast against your chest and it feels like he’s holding his breath and you swallow hard and smile and resist your urge to kiss him and then pick your bags and walk out the door.

Don’t expect to hear the words wait or stop or don’t go.

Not this time.

And he doesn’t say them anyway.

You’d almost resolved yourself that he wasn’t coming back in the first place… you’d said it a million times, and you’d said it enough so that you’d begun to believe it. Everything had changed… he was living in Hollywood and why would he ever come back?

(Because he loves you)

But then he *did* come back, and it was perfect and amazing, and you loved it. He was there all the time and wanted to live with you and you opened up that drawer, opened up your home, and even opened up your heart to him.

What a surprise, a beautiful surprise. He was here like you wanted.

But he’s just pulled the fucking rug out from under you.

Then why are we still doing this if we both know it’s never going to work? The words left his mouth and you felt cold, so cold all inside.

It *is* working, you wanted to say. This is all I want. I just want to do *this*.

You wanted to say that, but standing in front of him you couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

He doesn’t want *this* or what you want. Doesn’t want it at all.

So you smiled a little… swallowed back what you wanted to say and looked at his expectant face. He wasn’t waiting for declarations of everlasting love now… he was just waiting for confirmation that he was doing the right thing. That leaving you was the right thing for him to do.

And it probably is the right thing for him to do.

Not the right thing for you, though.

And so you said what he expected you to say. Not what he wanted you to say, because you’d just told him you wouldn’t ever give him that.

You think maybe you were a little rash with those words now.

He picked up his bags, all ready to go, and headed for the door. He hugged you and you almost couldn’t touch him back, for fear you’d never, ever let go.

But then you did touch him, put your arms around him, all small and warm and smelling so good. Your Sunshine, your sonny boy... your lover, your partner.

And then you let go.

He walked out that door, standing there for a moment, hand on the heavy door… waiting… no, you don’t know that he was waiting anymore… you fought with yourself for moments, battling inside about what you couldn’t and wouldn’t do, because Jesus Christ, all you really wanted to do was to ask him to stop or stay or not to go.

But you didn’t really think you had the right to say that. Not now. Not after this.

So you said nothing.

And watched as the door slid shut.

At first all you feel is panic, but then the numbness sets in.

The panic makes you want to run out after him and bring him back, to hold him to your chest and rain kisses on his face and never, ever lose the smell of his hair in your nose. You want to ask him to tell you what to do, what to say, how to be… you want to tell him you’re sorry, that you love him, that you don’t want him to leave and that you’ll give him what he needs.

But then the numbness makes you realize that you won’t do any of those things. Absolutely won’t.

So you set the alarm behind him and get the bottle of Jim and a glass, and sit on the couch and roll a joint. You drink too much and smoke too much and then the numbness spreads from your heart and soul to your head and fingers too. Till you truly can’t feel anything anymore and you pass out on the couch, heavy and sick and heartbroken inside where no one will ever see.

The kaleidoscope of your life had been shifting and sorting itself but now it’s back where you started. A little broken and destroyed, but back where you started before he ever came along.

And the world follows, shifting and tumbling again, and you’re on your own like before, and before, and before.

Forever.

Like you wanted.

You always thought he was too young. Too young to be out on Liberty Avenue late on a Thursday night, too young to be in the delivery room with you and Brian and Mel and Lindsay and all the lesbians. Too young to be staying over at Brian’s house to get his virgin ass fucked God only knows how many times.

Too young for Brian to fall in love with.

And when he shows up at your door, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, messenger bag overflowing with books and art supplies… you think he’s definitely too young to have gone through all the shit he has.

You’ve become friends with him, and despite a few bumps along the way, you’ve come to accept him as part of your little family. And now you know that you accept him with or without Brian. That Justin is as much a part of your life now as Brian is.

In fact, these days, even more so.

He looks at you and Ben with pleading eyes and you don’t have to ask, don’t need him to say anything… you just take his messenger bag from his shaking fingers and watch as Ben ushers him inside.

He drops his duffel bag and looks from you to Ben and back to you.

“Just a few days, I promise,” he says quietly, swallowing hard.

“Of course, whatever you need,” Ben says, and pulls him into his arms for one of his tight hugs and Justin looks so little in his arms. So small.

So young.

He lets go of Ben and comes to you and you wrap your arms around him too and hug him hard, feel a shake in his back and you lead him into the kitchen, and pull out a chair for him to sit down.

You realize suddenly that when you first met Justin, he was just barely older than Hunter. You think about how you feel about Hunter – your son – you have no hesitation in calling him that. And then you realize a little about how Brian feels for Justin.

But it’s so very different with them.

He looks up at you with his sad blue eyes and you see a little of that high school kid again… smart and brave and beautiful and determined. He looks almost as young as when you first met him, with his shock of blond hair and crazy notions of love.

Brian tried to cure him of those, but he sure didn’t succeed.

“I just feel so fucking *stupid*,” he says and puts his face in his hands. Trying not to cry, you can see that. His shoulders shiver a little and he sucks in a breath and Ben grabs a Kleenex and passes it to him. When he looks up his eyes are red and wet and you wanna hug him again, tell him it’s okay, do anything you can to make him stop.

But he clears his throat and shakes his head and wipes at his eyes. “I’m fine, I’m okay.” He puts his hands flat out on the table and stares at them for moments and Ben covers one of them with his.

“You can stay as long you like. Don’t worry about anything,” Ben’s voice is soft when he says it and he looks up at you to make sure it’s okay and you love him even more. You know how lucky you are to have Ben, to have the I love you’s that you do. In the morning, at lunch, after work, before bed. Ten times a day, every day of the week. A million I love you’s.

And all Justin wants is one.

“Thanks,” Justin says back, and swallows hard and laughs a little, nervously. “I did the right thing, I know I did… it’s just… hard.”

You nod and the kitchen is quiet and all you can think of is that you never figured it would end like this.

It’s so much easier to blame everyone else, and so you do. You’d already convinced yourself it was Justin’s fault that he changed on you. That he listened to Michael’s bullshit, got infected with his crazy ideals. You always knew Michael was a pussy, but it surprised you that Justin could be one too.

And then you hear he’s moved in with the little happy homemakers, Ben and Mikey.

How perfect. How goddamn, fucking perfect.

So you drink and you drink and when you get so fucking drunk you can barely see the lines on the road in front of you, you dump your wasted ass into the Corvette and show up at Mikey’s doorstep.

Aaahhhh, the memories.

But you never showed up because of a reason like this before. Nu-uh.

Bastard little shit, taking Justin from you.

Because that’s what he did. He took him from you, he filled his head with stupid ridiculous ideas and he stole him. Stupid comics and stupid movies and stupid Rage and stupid, stupid, stupid…

You almost get into a fist fight with Ben, and you’re ready to… set your jaw like you did when you were a kid, and got ready for the punching, the pain. Nothing’s going to stop you now.

But then Michael comes and you stare at Ben. Ha ha, he’ll always love me, you want to spit in Ben’s face. But you figure Ben knows that already. Knows that Michael will always, *always* love you, no matter what.

And when you see Michael, heading for the coffee pot, so fucking predictable, and you just start railing into him. You don’t hold back. Not one fucking word. You let him know that *he’s* responsible for this, for everything. For Justin leaving you. For your world shifting and changing and falling apart.

When Michael tells you Justin was never happy… you don’t hear it. When he tells you that Justin was just waiting for you to tell him that you loved him… you don’t hear it.

But when he tells you that Justin left because of you… because of who you are, who you’ve become.

You hear it. And it fucking *hurts*.

You think that maybe “no matter what” didn’t include this.

Always have, always will.

No more. 

You don’t even bother keeping your voice down, you never have with Brian. You just get louder and stand on your toes to try and feel taller and yell back at him all the things you’ve been thinking. Not because Justin told you – he didn’t have to. You see it in his eyes, the sad way he looks at things that you know remind him of Brian. You just see it and know that he’s dying inside.

You admire him for making the decision he did when you know his heart is breaking because of it.

So you scream at Brian knowing full well that everyone can hear you including the fucking neighbours and the funny thought goes in and out of your head that Brian has been showing up at your house drunk and angry for one reason or another since you were 16 fucking years old.

But this one can’t be hugged or kissed away. This one is for good.

He stumbles around and you can see he’s in pain, but there’s no one to blame, no father, no mother, no sister… no gym teacher, no homophobic boss, no idiot jock at school.

Brian is the only one to blame right now. And he needs to realize that.

He leaves in a flurry of alcohol and harsh words and you hear the squeal of the ‘vette as the tires peel away from the curb and your heart lurches in your chest and you pray like you have a hundred thousand million times that Brian makes it home in one piece without killing someone or himself.

It’s so quiet when he’s gone, and you take a deep breath and wipe at your eyes, surprised to find they’re wet. You’ve just told off your very best friend in the world, made him face the things you know he didn’t want to face. And you don’t know that your increasingly fragile friendship can withstand this final blow.

You head up the stairs quietly, knowing everyone is awake, but hoping they’re not there and then you see him.

Small and young and blond and listening. His eyebrows furrowed, arms crossed against his chest, bottom lip stuck between his teeth.

He shakes his head slowly, then looks down. “Thanks for that, Michael.” He says it softly and you know he means it.

“I couldn’t just let him-” You start to say, your voice ragged and tired.

“You didn’t have to,” he cuts you off. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear anything else.

You nod. “I know.”

He turns and goes back into Hunter’s bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.

This is bothering you more than you ever imagined it would. You never thought you’d care this much for him, the blond twink who barged into your life, the kid who had no business being where he was, the cocky chicken who made everything different.

You never thought you’d be on his side instead of Brian’s.

And yet here you are.

The beat goes on. What did he say?

Whatever else happens, by all means, keep on dancing.

Little shit.

No, but you’re not angry with him. You just miss him. Miss him, miss him, miss him.

So you take control of the things you can. Become the asshole they all expect you to be.

You were fucking stupid to have ever thought he’d want to be with you anyway. You always knew what star-filled dreams laid behind his eyes, no matter what words of understanding he threw your way.

Michael was right. Who *would* want to be with you?

Son of a bitch asshole that you are. And love you? Bullshit.

Besides…

You. Are. Not. Worthy.

You answered Justin’s question, but he’s not here to say I told you so.

You’d think every day would get easier, but somehow it’s not really. But you know what you want, what you did, why you left, and so you lean on that.

You still feel a little like you’re in that haze, that daydream state that you entered when you first took that step onto Liberty Avenue.

But now it’s time to wake up. To stop spinning and changing and shifting. It’s time to figure out who *you* are, rather than the reflection of who someone else wants you to be.

So you spend time with your friends, and you paint and draw and create and you love it. You take Molly to the movies, visit with Jenny Rebecca and ask Ben to teach you how to make awesome tofu stir fry that you cook for Daph one Saturday night.

You get your own place, and let your mom take you out for dinner and you have all the lines so down pat that you can say them with complete sincerity.

We decided it would be best to move on.

This’ll be good for me.

We each want different things.

And you are sincere. It’s just at night, when you’re alone in your bed that it eats at you, gnaws at you, curls your stomach inside out and makes your head and heart pound too hard.

But you can put on a pretty good face for everyone else.

You do truly wish it could be different. But you know it can’t.

Won’t.

And the sad truth of it is... no matter what you do, or what you say… you find yourself loving him as much as you ever did before.

You try to go, know you should go, and with every take care of yourself and see ya it just gets worse until your feet won’t move and you’re stuck standing there, smiling and looking at him. With every millisecond that passes, the desire to put your arm around his shoulders and bring him back to the loft gets stronger and stronger... and yet you can’t do that.

Christ, this is hard. Harder than before. Ever before. He smiles and a kaleidoscope of colors shines forth.

And then he walks away and all you see are your own dark colors mirrored back at you.

You spare a glance behind you. But he’s not looking back.

Just not looking back.

The way you see the world shifts and tumbles and changes again.