JUSTIN’S POV

If he wants me gone, I’m gone.

I called him a million times this weekend. I camped out on his doorstep for hours. I waited.

I thought he’d get over it.

But apparently he didn’t.

Fuck it. This was my last chance. I’d been sitting in his office since 8:00. Missed my shift at the diner to be here. Knew he’d have to turn up eventually.

But he hardly looked at me. Ordered me out, threatened me with a restraining order, of all the stupidest things ever, and walked away.

Shut me out.

I push out the glass doors of Kinnetik and into the alleyway. What. The. Fuck.

I don’t get it. He can’t throw me out. He can’t.

Why? Why why why why why??

But it’s useless to ask why. Brian-fucking-Kinney doesn’t tell anyone ‘why’. Never explains himself or his actions. Brian-fucking-Kinney only has one person to answer to. Himself.

He doesn’t care that I’m hurt, doesn’t care that I love him, doesn’t care that I just want to talk to him, to listen to him, to help him, to be there for him. Doesn’t care about any of that.

I know he’s freaking out and going through tons of shit that maybe I can’t really understand.

But he should just try me. He shouldn’t treat me like this. I don’t deserve it. I just don’t.

So I can’t give a fuck what he thinks. I’ll make myself crazy if I do.

I can’t.

So I go to class. And I stay way too late in the studio, and I push myself too hard and make my hand hurt even more. Keep seeing the deep purple bruise running up the side of my hand from pounding on his door.

Still feel his hand on my back, pushing me out the door.

Out of his life.

Pushing me away.

And when the clock hits midnight, I pack up my shit and head home. Sneak into the kitchen, grab a glass of juice and go straight to bed, avoiding Daph and her questions about why I’ve actually slept in my own bed for four nights in a row.

Next morning I barely make it through my shift at the diner, anxiously wondering if Brian will come in, like he normally does. But he doesn’t. Just fucking Michael, who actually has the nerve to ask me for something. Who actually thinks I want to work on his stupid comic book with him now.

After he betrayed me and lied to me and fucking ruined *everything* for me.

He tries to talk to me, but I just walk away and don’t stop. He talks after me, playing innocent and dumb and I can’t stand to hear him, can’t stand to listen to him and turn around and just fucking scream at him. I should’ve known he would do this to me. Should’ve known that he’d fucking break down. Should’ve known that he couldn’t handle it.

Should’ve followed my gut and done what I wanted to do, what I felt like I had to do.

And I stay late in the studio again, and concentrate on drawing, on sketching, on creating something, anything other than pictures of Rage. Other than pictures of Brian. Pictures of that life.

Draw violently, passionately, intensely and when I’m done I’ve got a couple of great pieces and a throbbing in my fingers that won’t go away. The pain only makes me think of Brian again.

By the next night Daph totally knows something’s going on, because a week in my own bed is more than I’ve ever spent since I got back together with Brian, and instead of doing the logical thing, the *smart* thing, and talking to her about it, I pull on my tightest t-shirt and those jeans that hang real low on my hips and head out the door.

Go to Babylon and let guys buy me drinks and smoke a little pot and dance and dance and dance till my head spins and my heart pounds wildly in my chest. Dance till I feel dizzy and drunk and wanted and sexy, till the hands wandering over my ass, my back, my cock, all lead me to the backroom.

Then I’m on my knees in front of this hot blond guy, sucking his dick, and pulling him deep into my throat, his fingers brushing across my scalp. And it feels good for a second, but then not. It’s not exactly right somehow, and I let his dick fall from my mouth and I stand up, put my hand on his shoulder and turn him around to face the wall, pulling his pants down over his ass.

Slide on a condom, push my dick inside his hole and fuck him. His tight ass takes me and takes me and takes me and it should feel good, it should be a relief, I haven’t fucked or worse, been fucked in weeks, and I really need this, should need this, have to need this, but all I can think about is… 

Brian pushed me out.

And that thought keeps spinning in my head, and after I cum I feel hands on my ass pushing down my pants, fingers at my hole and I wonder what am I doing here? Who am I trying to punish?

Brian or me?

So I squirm out of there, pull the condom off my cock and yank up my jeans, weaving out of the backroom, out of the club and onto the street. The warmth in my groin quickly settles, the buzzing in my head gets even louder and I walk and walk and walk until, where do I find myself?

Outside the loft, sitting on the sidewalk.

Cold, alone, desperate.

I love him. I miss him. I can’t stand this.

I don’t want anyone else.

I’m right back where I was three years ago, sitting out here waiting for him, wanting him, needing him and not being wanted or needed back.

I don’t get it. I just don’t fucking get it. He told me he missed me. That was no lie. Everything was getting so good.

Everything was right. Felt right.

And I know he’s sick and I know he must be scared. I know it’s *not* right now, that things are fucked up, but Christ! It’s not the end of the world. He’s not going to die. I know that. I did research on the Internet and talked to a doctor and I know he’s not going to fucking die. I was way closer to dying than he was.

And he treats me like this.

I don’t get it.

I should be there with him. Like he was there for me. Calming me after nightmares and massaging my hand and fingers and getting me glasses of juice and pills for my headaches.

I should be there with him.

My feet start to freeze and snot slips out of my nose and my ears get so cold they burn.

I wait till I can’t feel my toes anymore and go home.

Lie in bed like every other night this week. Wide awake. Staring at the ceiling. Punching at my pillow and tossing and turning and groaning and sighing and getting too hot then too cold and just feeling fucking lonely. Wishing I was staring at the beams of the loft. Wishing I heard the humm of the old elevator and the buzz of his fridge. Wishing he was lying beside me, arm thrown over my chest, little snuffling snores in my ears.

Jerk off and it only makes me feel more alone.

Soon the room starts to get a little brighter and I realize the sun is coming up and I finally drift off to sleep with only an hour or so left before my alarm goes off.

Wake up cranky and impossible and fight with Daphne about something ridiculous like leaving the fucking orange juice container on the counter and just storm outta there, angry at the whole world, at everyone and everything.

Hear from Deb at the diner that Michael got a check from Brett for Rage. Fucker. Was he even going to tell me about it? Christ. As soon as I get off work, I head over to the comic shop and think about what I can do with the money. I know I should just give it to Brian. Start to pay back the money he gave me for tuition.

But another part of me wants to just take it and blow it on a trip to Ibiza. Fucking irony of that, right? It would be perfect. And maybe I would meet some hot Spanish guy and I could stay there forever.

Never have to come back here.

Because this isn’t right. I hurt. I fucking hurt. I miss him so much and everything, my whole life, feels out of synch, out of order, completely twisted around. It’s like everything I thought I knew, I don’t. I lost something that I know I’ll never get back. I can’t get back.

I can’t live like this, but I don’t know what else I can do.

Michael shows up just as I’m about to leave, and gives me the check. Lays on some crap about how shitty Brian looks and I want to shove my fingers in my ears and go la-la-la-la because I can’t hear this.

I can’t. Not when I’m so desperate to be there with him. And when he’s even more desperate for me not to be.

But fucking Michael. Goes on and on with shit that maybe I really know, but can’t understand. Tells me that Brian doesn’t want me to see him, not the other way around. That Brian thinks I won’t love him, that I’ll leave him, that I won’t want him.

I can’t even get my head around that. Can’t even process that.

But I listen to him. And I hear him.

I stay late after class again and draw Brian. Not Rage, not the comic book, but Brian.

I draw him the way I see him. Imperfect. Needy. Egotistical. I draw him the way I’ve always seen him. Flawed and crazy and funny and sexy as hell. Hair falling into his face and those lazy smiles he’d give me after a drunken fuck, lips shiny with my kisses, cheeks flushed. Love that. And it’s only for me. I know that.

How could he think I wouldn’t love him anymore? How could he possibly think that?

I go home early tonight and apologize to Daph and we eat pizza and ice cream and watch old movies and I don’t tell her anything because I really don’t have the right to tell her that Brian’s sick. But I tell her that things are just a little crazy right now and she smiles at me and nods and lets me put my head in her lap and she brushes at my hair till I fall asleep.

And somehow things seem a little brighter in the morning. Don’t know why, just feel like maybe I can do something. Maybe I’m not so powerless after all.

Head off to the diner and on one of my trips back to the kitchen to drop off dishes, I see the wall of notes. Probably stared at it a million times, but somehow something catches my eye this time.

Deb’s recipe for chicken soup. Hand-scrawled, covered with spills, wrinkled and yellowed with age.

I steal it.

Skip my afternoon class and take all my tips and go to the grocery store. I walk up and down the aisles and remember being here before and buying expensive cheese and baguettes with stupid idealism and romantic notions.

And now I wander up and down these aisles and all I want is for it to be like it was before.

I pull the faded recipe card out of my back pocket and pretend not to notice that I buy everything on it. And I take the bag full of groceries, my tip money somehow turned into fresh vegetables and cooked chicken and don’t think about how I’m walking towards the loft. Don’t think about how it’s kind of wrong that I’m using the keys that I pretended to forget to give back.

Don’t think about what might happen next.

I chop vegetables and cube pieces of chicken and follow the recipe exactly, stealing glances at the clock and wondering how much time I have before he comes home and it all goes to hell. Wondering if I can be angry enough or mean enough or fucking strong enough to live through this. To do this.

But there’s no other way.

So the soup is ready and I hear the pull at the door and I feel my whole body tense but I just carry on. Start to ladle out soup into one of his fancy bowls and he calls me a shit and tells me he wants me gone, but I just don’t hear him now.

And when he tries to pull me out, grabbing my arm so hard it really, really hurts, and I push back at him and he falls and I panic and he pushes me, hits me and screams at me… I scream back and tell him everything. Tell him how angry I am, what an asshole he is and I don’t give him a chance to walk away this time.

I tell him I’m committed to him, because I’ve realized that he can’t hear the word ‘love’.

We yell at each other because it’s easier than talking and I think we’re both a little scared because we know we really can’t fuck this away. That fucking isn’t really an option right now, not when he’s so sick. Not when he’s like this. Not when I don’t even know if he hurts or wants to or even fucking can.

And finally I tell him to get his ass into bed and eat the goddamn chicken soup.

He stops fighting. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets me push past him.

My hands are shaking as I pick up the bowl, but I take a deep breath and try not to hear the grunt as he takes the couple steps up to the bed.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and watch him breathe.

We sit there for ten whole minutes, and he doesn’t say a fucking word. Just stares. Stares at the bowl, stares at his hands, stares at his feet.

Looks at anything but me.

“I don’t expect you to say anything,” I finally say, breaking the silence.

He raises his head, and his eyes fall on me.

And my heart breaks a little. I’ve never seen him like this. Never wanted to see him like this. Never ever imagined I’d see him like this.

And it makes me love him even more.

Because now I know he’s human.

He’s like me and like everyone else. Throw shit at him, and maybe it will stick.

I pick up the bowl of soup from the side table.

“Want me to heat this up?” I ask, feeling the underside of the bowl to see if it’s still warm.

An imperceptible shake of the head.

I put the bowl back down and sit here, staring back at him.

“Trust me, Brian,” I say it quietly. Softly. Say it because I feel like it needs to be said. Say it because I feel like he needs me to say it. Needs to know that I understand that this is about trust and respect and knowing what to say and what not to. About knowing when to push and when to pull back. About knowing what he needs and not asking, not telling, not pitying or being sympathetic or coddling or overbearing.

About listening to him and knowing when to let go.

He has to know that I understand that loving him as much as I do simply isn’t enough.

He nods a little and doesn’t look away.

And somehow things just seem to line up and everything feels a little right again.

BRIAN’S POV

I give up.

Give in.

Let go.

Slide down the bed a little till my head rests on the pillows.

I can’t hardly look at him.

I feel like a failure. A wreck. A washout.

I feel old and useless.

I feel unlovable and not deserving of him.

I feel like he shouldn’t be here, like I shouldn’t be here, like I wish all of this could go away and I could wrap my fingers around his neck and pull him to the bed, capture his wrists with my hands, pressing him against the sheets… slide my cock in him and take him, fuck him, make him groan and whimper and cum… make him happy and me happy at the same time. I wish I could do all of that.

But all I can do is lift my hand and put it on his arm. Whisper, “C’mere.”

He tilts his head and hesitates, but I pull him towards me, and he creeps up onto the bed, climbing over me, and rolling onto his side. I turn to face him, and he kisses me, pressing our lips together hard, his mouth so warm and moist and soft against mine. Licks at my lips gently, and I know I must smell like vomit and look like shit, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He runs his fingers through my hair softly, sifting the strands through his knuckles.

He sighs.

And I keep letting go until I let go too far. I let go too much. Because soon there are tears on my cheeks and my face feels hot and I pull my knees to my chest and he sits up and wraps his arms around me, holding me tightly, fingers digging into my arm, face pressed into my hair and I feel his warm breath brushing across my scalp. 

I hate this. I hate that it happened, I hate that I feel like this, I almost hate that I survived it.

I hate myself like this but I’m not strong enough to be any other way.

His fingers weave through my hair over and over and I cling to him, wrapping my arms around his chest and burying my face in his sweater and breathing in his smell, warm cotton and fresh carrots and I wonder again…

How it came to this.

But I have no answer now.

I can’t control everything.

I guess I figured that out.

I can’t control everything.

And not everything has to change.

“Brian?” his voice is rough and he clears his throat and says it again.

I don’t answer, just wait for him to speak.

“You’re not really a motherfuckingpieceofshit. I just said that to get your attention,” he says and I twist my head around to look at him.

He stares at me for a second and I stare back at him. And I can’t help it. Despite how shitty I feel, despite how much my stomach hurts and my head hurts and how much I just want to bury my face into the covers and make it all go away…

Despite all that, he makes me smile. And he grins back at me, his face a little wet too, cheeks kinda red, fingers still in my hair.

“No, you’re right. I *am* a… what was it again?” I screw up my face at him, trying to remember, and he just smiles and shakes his head.

“Well, maybe sometimes, you are,” he says and slides down the bed till we’re lying side by side, face to face, bodies pushed together, arms twisting around backs and fingers in hair and eyes so close that there’s nothing either one of us can hide.

“I missed you again,” I say because I don’t know what else to say. Because it was true. Because lying here in my bed all alone, with no one there, with no one pressed up against my back, with no one to wrap my body around and hold tightly, without *him*…

It just wasn’t right.

Somehow, somewhere along the line I did end up needing him. Needing that warm little body beside me in bed. Needing that arm around my waist and that soft kiss and that grin that always makes me smile back. Needing to laugh with him and get drunk with him and dance with him and cum with him. Needing to listen to his stories and needing to admire his drawings and needing to watch over him while he sleeps.

And maybe needing him for all those things, and maybe needing him to help me with this, isn’t all that that bad.

Not that bad at all.