Going or Staying

Chapter 6

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His original intent had been to pick up a trick and take him back to the loft after leaving the comic shop, but even that hadn't gone according to plan. He'd been so angry when he'd left Mikey, he'd driven straight back to the loft with little thought to his intended dalliance. Once there, he realized it was just as well. A bad blow job at that point would likely have sent him over the murderous edge he was already teetering on. The last thing he needed was 25 to life and he seriously doubted the 'fuck defense' would help under the circumstances.

In a feeble attempt to vent some of his anger, he slammed the door to the loft - well, as effectively as one could slam it, anyway. Note to self: get at least one slammable door installed in the fucking place.

He headed straight to the fridge and grabbed a beer, downing a third of it in one pull. As he made his way to the futon he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wishing he could wipe his memory clear as easily.

He couldn't fucking believe Michael. While he hadn't been overly surprised by Daphne's reaction, Mikey's had come as a shock. Hell, he never even really liked Justin, for Christ's sake! What right did he have to go off on Brian for doing what had to be done? There was no fucking way Justin wasn't going to take the job, but Brian Kinney wasn't about to sit at home pining away like some lovesick housewife who's lover was at sea. Why couldn't anyone see that this was best for all concerned? Everyone knew it would end someday. Shit, they'd even bet on it for fuck's sake! All he'd done was make the kid's choices easier; how did that make Brian the bad guy here? Justin was the one who left without so much as a fucking goodbye!

he really didn't have anything to stay for, did he?

Daphne's words resonated in his mind. Though he hadn't been able to see her face at the time, he could well imagine the expression of disdain she'd been wearing.

So your solution is to kick him out again?

"Fuck off," he muttered as Daphne's image was replaced by Michael's in his mind. He hadn't actually kicked him out this time, not really. He'd merely told him he should take the job. It wasn't like he could live in L.A. and Pittsburgh at the same time, now, was it?

Do you honestly think he's going to be able to do his best work leaving like this?

Daphne again. Jesus, when had his quiet loft become Grand Central Fucking Station?

Since he couldn't escape the words, he thought he might as well give them token consideration before discarding them. As he did, he realized that there was likely a grain of truth there. Justin had always been too emotional for his own good. No doubt, the circumstances of his leaving would have him sulking for a while, but he'd get over it. By the time he started his job, he'd be well on his way to a new and better life.

And his reward is another one-way ticket out of your life?

Michael had a point there. He hadn't wanted to admit it in the comic shop, but he did feel somewhat bad about not celebrating Justin's achievement. Being asked to work on the movie was a big deal, and if Brian were to be honest, he was proud of his lover. Why was it so hard for him to just say that?

How can you do this to him? Do you derive some sort of perverse pleasure from tearing him apart?

Though he was becoming used to the tag-team assault, Daphne's words still stung. He never wanted to hurt Justin intentionally, and if he did, it was always for his own good.

Are you trying to break him, Brian?

I wish he'd never laid eyes on you …

Are you punishing him?

He loves you, though at the moment I can't understand why…

With a growl, he threw the empty bottle, watching as it shattered against the wall. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He'd heard them the first fucking time! Why did the words have to keep running through his mind over and over?

Even as his mind formed the question, he knew the answer. He'd heard the words, but he hadn't really *listened* to them. And as he did, he finally realized how true they really were.

"Shit," he murmured, slumping back against the futon.

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After showering and changing his clothes, Justin felt marginally better. A nap still sounded like a good idea, especially if he'd be socializing later, but he had promised Daphne he'd let her know when he was settled. Making his way back downstairs, he found Brett in the kitchen.

"Hey," he greeted the director with a smile. "Would you mind if I make a long distance call? I terminated my cell service back home until I could get hooked up with one here."

"Sure," Brett nodded. "Feel free to use the one in your room whenever you need to."

"Thanks," Justin replied. "After I make my call, I think I'll take your advice and have a short nap."

Brett nodded again. "I called the restaurant and we have reservations for seven."

"Ok, I'll be ready," Justin promised. With that, he made his way back to his room and placed the call to Daphne.

"Hello?" his friend's voice greeted him.

"Hey," he said, smiling into the receiver. "Just wanted to let you know I made it in one piece."

"I'm glad," she replied.

He picked up on the hesitant tone of voice and knew she was debating whether or not she should tell him something. "What is it?" he asked.

After a brief pause, she answered. "Brian called."

Even the sound of his lover's name tugged at his heart. "Oh?" he replied, trying for nonchalance. "What did he want?"

"Duh!" she retorted in true Daphne style. "To talk to you, what do you think?"

"What did you tell him?"

"That you left for L.A., of course. What should I have told him?"

"That's fine," Justin replied with a shrug even though she couldn't see it. After a moment, he added. "I guess he wasn't too happy, huh?"

"You should have talked to him, Justin," she said quietly. "I know I'd be pissed if I found out you'd left without saying goodbye."

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows. "I couldn't," he whispered hoarsely.

She recognized the pain in his voice and felt bad for her friend. "Justin," she sighed, wishing there was something she could say.

"We've never said goodbye," he said sadly.

"You still could have told him you were leaving," she chastised him gently. "Did you think he wouldn't find out?"

"You don't understand," he murmured miserably.

"You keep saying that," she replied, her voice edged with irritation at her stubborn friend. "Every time I suggested you call him before you left, you said I wouldn't understand. After watching you two together for close to four years, what exactly do you think I wouldn't be able to understand?"

He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his emotions. Despite his efforts, a single tear tracked its way down his cheek. "We never said it because we never meant it," he whispered, not trusting his voice. He was suddenly glad that she was so far away. He hadn't been able to say this to her before he'd left; he hadn't been able to explain it, knowing the pain he'd see in her eyes. Pain for him.

"This time it's real, Daph," he choked out, no longer able to maintain a hold on his turbulent feelings. "This time it really is goodbye and I just couldn't do it."

"You don't mean that, Justin," she tried to soothe him. "You know Brian. He says things but he rarely means them the way they sound…"

"I do mean it," he cut her off. "I can't do it anymore, Daph. I love him so much, but … but it hurts." He was practically crying into the phone at that point. "I've gotta go."

"Wait!" she pleaded. "Justin, please. Please tell me you'll call him."

His pain tempered with anger, he emitted a harsh laugh. "Why? So that he can tell me again that he doesn't want me? I get it, OK? After four fucking years, I finally get it." He sat up, angrily wiping the tears from his cheeks. "I'm done chasing him, Daphne," he sighed. "It's like chasing fucking Chris Hobbes, asking for another bat to the head."

There was an audible gasp on the other end of the line. "Jesus, Justin. You don't mean that!"

He ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I do," he said, his voice quiet and resigned. "Remember when Shanda Lear got bashed?" he asked.

"Yeah," she answered hesitantly, concerned that he was bringing up yet another bashing incident.

"He told me he grabbed onto one of his attacker's feet and hugged it to him, hoping that would stop him from kicking."

"Jesus," she murmured.

"Yeah," he breathed. "He said it didn't work."

She had no response to that, so she waited for the point he was trying to make.

"That's what it feels like I've been doing," he continued sadly. "Holding on tight to the one thing that has the power to hurt me the most, hoping when the blow comes, the pain won't be so bad."

"Justin," she whispered, her heart breaking.

"Didn't work for me either," he managed around the lump in his throat.

"Don't…"

He cleared his throat, effectively cutting off what she was about to say. "Listen, Daph, I just called to let you know I got here. I have to go. I'll call again once I have my new number. Bye."

Without waiting for a response, he hung up the phone and sat staring at it for a long moment. He felt bad about rushing her off and briefly considered calling back to apologize, but he just didn't feel like he had the strength. With a heavy sigh, he curled up on the large bed and allowed his silent tears to lull him to sleep.

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Dinner was a shot of Beam, a green apple and a shitload of jumbled thoughts. On one hand, he still believed that he'd done the right thing. Justin's life was in L.A. now. He'd meet new people, make important contacts, begin an impressive career. Those were all good things, weren't they?

Of course, the downside was that he'd be starting his new life with a broken heart, but he'd survive. He was the strongest person Brian knew; he had already overcome so much in the last few years.

And of course, Brian, the ever supportive partner, just kept piling it on.

In the privacy of the empty loft, he could afford the luxury of regret, an emotion he professed to be immune to. He could admit to feeling bad about the way Justin had been thrown out of his home, the way he'd had to struggle to be accepted as a part of Brian's life, hell, of anyone's life. At 17, his father hadn't wanted him, his mother had been struggling to understand him, Michael had barely tolerated him, and Brian had tried hard to keep him at arm's length. A steady parade of tricks in his face to remind him that he could be replaced at a moment's notice. It's a wonder the kid didn't have a fucking complex by the time he turned 18.

But he'd made it to that milestone, only slightly the worse for wear, just to come face to face with a whole new set of hardships. Bashed at his senior prom, a night that should have been one of the happiest of his young life. And then all the repercussions that followed - the coma, the therapy, the lingering weakness in his hand, the fear that he'd never draw again.

Then came aborted floor picnics and birthday hustlers. Zucchini men and cancelled trips and verbal reminders that he'd never be loved the way he hoped, the way he longed for - the way he deserved.

But through it all, he managed to maintain his sense of self-preservation until he was forced to do the one thing that could possibly save him. He left.

And he took a piece of Brian's heart with him.

Though the memory still caused a stab of pain, Brian had to smile as he remembered the display of balls that followed. Realizing he'd made a mistake, Justin had set out to win back that which he'd lost. He'd obtained the internship at VanGard and had once again begun to insinuate himself into Brian's life.

His groin pressed against his jeans as he remembered the night of the reunion in his office. Justin had been so fucking bold and Brian had never experienced anything so hot in his life. From there, things had started to look up, even through the Stockwell mess. Justin had come back to him with a whole new level of maturity and purpose that Brian admired. He'd allowed himself to be kicked out of school rather than compromise his integrity. He'd stood beside Brian through the loss of his job and all his possessions and was still there during the conception of Kinnetik. Hell, he'd even named the burgeoning business.

Then came the cancer and Brian's nagging fear that Justin would leave again. He hadn't handled that one well at all. He'd verbally denounced their fledgling partnership before bodily throwing the blond out of the loft. And even then, it had been Justin who'd once again taken the first step to repair the rift in their relationship. Brian could still remember coming home to find him cooking fucking chicken soup, oblivious to the fact that Brian didn't want him there. The confrontation that followed was probably the most intense and significant of their time together.

And now, here they were again, this time separated not only by emotions but miles. Brian had been half expecting to return home one day and find Justin there, ready to ream him out and tell him once again what a motherfucking piece of shit he was for pushing him away. Instead, he'd received the news that Justin was gone.

With that thought came the sinking realization that maybe this time he'd pushed too hard. Maybe this time it wasn't up to Justin, but him, to resurrect what he could of their life together. As much as he'd tried to convince them both otherwise, the prospect of Justin never looking back was too painful to contemplate.

But was it too late to change it?

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