AFTERMATHS
Michael
Brian has never kept secrets from me before. Well, only a few. Very few.
He's never told me much about Lindsay. I remember how scared I was of their
relationship all those years ago when Brian was out of my reach at college. They
are good friends; I suspect they were lovers, though he never told me and I
never asked.
And he never told me about his relationship with Justin. He always denied, to me
and to everyone else including Justin, that there even was a relationship. I was
stupid about that kid and what he meant to Brian. Well, I didn't want to know.
You can choose to be blind to things you don't want to see. I remember being
jealous of Justin's confidence, his beauty, his sexuality; but it never occurred
to me that a skinny, incredibly bratty little teenager could mean anything more
to Brian Kinney than a few hot fucks.
Brian's always bragged to me about his conquests, his hundreds, his thousands of
men. Yet he never talked about Justin, not after that first night. Whenever the
kid showed up, barging his way into our group, I stood back and waited for Brian
to flip him off, to snub him so harshly the kid would run away in tears. And he
was harsh, Brian was harsh with Justin, yet Justin never ran away. Again and
again the two were together, and when Brian continued not to talk about Justin,
I began to suspect something was up.
Even so, I managed somehow to remain blind to the hold Justin had over Brian. My
own life had got complicated, I was working hard at my new management job and
trying to make things work with David, and Brian supported me. We've always
supported each other. Despite Brian fucking his teenager in my bedroom, despite
Brian arranging for Justin to live with mom and to work at the diner, I still
refused to see what was going on under my nose.
Brian was falling in love.
The man who denies the existence of love was head over heels. Oh, he denied it.
He did not act like a lover, but the evidence began to mount. The fact that he'd
let Justin live with him for a while was amazing by itself. And always, always
Justin was there, showing up at Woody's, at Babylon, and many times Brian took
him back to the loft. Not openly at first; usually they would just slip away at
the same time, but it wasn't hard to figure out where they’d gone. Emmett and
Ted and I often talked about Brian taking advantage of Justin's infatuation just
to satisfy his urges, but gradually it became clear, even to me, that more than
sex was going on.
I think the age difference between them worked for good and bad with Brian.
Maybe Justin reminded him of being young and carefree; or maybe it just made
Brian feel the weight of years pressing on him. I remember the night Gus was
born, how Brian kept saying “tick-tick-tick,” reminding himself that his son was
ticking away the hours of Brian’s life. Did Justin slow down the ticking of that
clock, or did he speed it up?
Lindsay
Mel always says I make excuses for Brian’s outrageous behavior, and she’s right.
But I understand him. Or anyway I used to. We were so close in college, and he
confided in me. I’m the only woman he’s ever let get close to him. But I’m not
sure that I understand him any more.
Was it a coincidence that Justin came into Brian’s life the same night as Gus
was born? I know that Brian senses drama in all the ordinary things most people
take for granted. I can see Brian imagining some kind of symbolism surrounding
the two events. Birth and rebirth? I don't know. In the past I tried to get him
to talk about it, but all along he's denied he was even having a relationship
with Justin.
When I saw him in the hospital corridor, I almost fell down from shock. Brian
himself was in shock, his face wet with tears, his eyes unfocused. He was beyond
comfort, he wouldn't let anyone near him except Michael. We all stood far back
in the hallway, huddled together, it was like watching a train wreck – we
couldn’t tear our eyes away from the unbelievable sight of Brian Kinney
derailed. Until Debbie had the good sense to round us up and move us away, into
a waiting room, make us all stop staring at Brian. Not that he even knew we were
there.
I was sure that if Justin survived, Brian would be a changed man. Mel says I'm
an eternal optimist, but the fact is that Brian really is a changed man. Just
because he continues his frantic lifestyle, his sexual conquests, his abuse of
drugs and liquor, does not mean anything. The others can't see it, but I can. I
don't pretend to understand what's going on under the surface, but I can sense
the depth of his pain; Brian is suffering.
Yet I feel bound to chastise him, especially since he takes it from me better
than from anyone else. And I love Justin. He needs Brian, and Brian is not there
for Justin, not the way he should be. Not the way Justin needs him to be. Still,
in spite of everything, I believe in Brian, and I believe he is doing the best
that he can.
Vic
I've always had a soft spot for Brian, ever since he was a teenager - gangly and
awkward but always beautiful, his sensitivity reflected in his murky hazel eyes.
I've lived long enough to know a lot of men and I've known men like Brian, men
who fuck frantically, fuck almost anybody, fuck as fast as they can. Some are
afraid of dying, some are afraid of living. I don't think Brian's afraid of
dying, though he's desperately afraid of something.
Oh, I know him all right, I've watched him for years - from afar, when I lived
in New York, and up close, once I moved back home to Pittsburgh. People would
laugh if I tried to tell them that Brian is a good man, Brian himself would deny
it. But it's true. He takes care of the people he loves - quietly and
anonymously usually, or sometimes in grandiose gestures, like Michael's 30th
birthday party. That's the reason I can't understand why he's not taking care of
Justin. Brian loves the boy. No matter what he says. No matter what he does.
It's like he's determined to convince himself and everyone else that Justin does
not matter to him. What is he afraid of?
I have enough distance from the group of friends to see them more clearly than
they see themselves. Brian works hard to maintain his image of cold unfeeling
fuck, and most people buy it. I've watched the way Michael protects Brian by
helping him maintain that cool, uncaring façade. And for months now it has
amused me to watch Justin wriggle past Brian's façade, slip under Brian's guard,
assault the previously impenetrable fortress of Brian Kinney’s heart. I was so
sure Justin was winning. In fact, I’m still sure that Brian loves that boy. I
just wish I could help him, but I’ve lived long enough to know that you can’t
change people, can’t make them see what’s staring them in the face, if they
don’t want to see it.
Debbie
I love Brian Kinney. I love him in the way a mom always loves her kids, even if
they turn into serial killers. But I could murder him myself, and with my bare
hands. He's hurting little Sunshine.
From the beginning I've been torn about those two. I always knew Brian was no
good for that kid, I always knew Justin would be used up and tossed aside, but
after while, I started thinking maybe I was wrong this time. He’s a persistent
little bugger, that Sunshine. And finally something about Justin got through to
Brian. I saw him start to soften, to lose that cruel edge he keeps sharp to hold
people off from him.
There’s a saying for that but I can’t remember it, something about a knife
cutting both ways. I think that’s what’s happened to poor Brian. He’s turned the
knife on himself. He’s bleeding. But he’s making Justin bleed, too.
I could kill Brian for that, I think I really could. Or at least smack him
upside the head. No, he got enough of that rough stuff when he was a kid. I need
to go talk to him instead. Or maybe not. Hell, look what happened the last time
I pushed Brian Kinney to do something! Michael’s birthday party. I better stay
out of this. But God, it’s killing me to watch my little Sunshine suffer.
Justin
In my old life, I felt good all the time. I knew what my body could do, I knew
what my brain could do, I remembered everything no matter how important or how
silly. Now I doubt myself, physically and mentally. When you can't count on your
brain or body, it destroys your self-confidence.
In my old life, I loved my job at the diner because I enjoyed meeting people,
flirting with cute guys, and zipping around from booths to kitchen to cash
register. Now I have to force myself to greet strangers, who all seem to look at
me with curiosity or pity or sadness.
In my old life, I felt sure my dad would eventually come around, would accept me
for myself and love me once again. Now I know my dad is gone. If a man won't
come to his unconscious son's bedside, he's gone forever.
In my old life, I could pick up my sketchpad and pencil and draw. One-two-three.
Draw anything I wanted. Now. . .
In my old life, I could find Brian at Woody's or Babylon and feel pretty sure
he'd take me home with him, at least a few nights a week. Now I know he is
avoiding me.
In my old life, I could push him. Now I can't push.
In my old life, I knew in my heart that Brian loved me. Now I don't know any
more. Now I don't know if I want him to love me. I don't know if I want anybody
to love me.
That probably sounds like self-pity. Maybe it is, I don’t know.
Brian. . .is Brian. For a while I thought he was becoming somehow different.
Opening up to me a little, letting me get closer. Now I almost smile at how
naïve I was.
Once I went with my mom to the bank when she needed something from her
safe-deposit box. I watched the clerk lead her into the vault where boxes lined
the walls, and I remember noticing the door of that echoing chamber. It revealed
the vault wall, several inches thick, impenetrable polished steel. That's how
the wall around Brian feels now. I used to think I had the key to his door, but
now I wonder if there even is such a key. And if I had the key, would I use it?
If only I could remember that night, maybe there would be clues to help me deal
with the aftermath, with all the aftermaths. God, I wish I could remember.
Brian
God, I wish I could forget. Every time I look at him, I remember. Fuck, I don't
have to look at him to remember.
The crack of a wooden bat connecting with a fragile human skull. The sound of a
soft body collapsing onto concrete pavement. The sight of a beautiful boy's
lifeblood pouring out in a red stream across the garage floor. The sound of my
own scream echoing in the garage, echoing inside my head, the overwhelming
feeling of helpless fear. Sometimes I wake up hearing that scream. I don't know
if that sound is inside my head or if it's real, but it bounces off the walls of
my loft. I won't let anyone sleep with me, in case I wake up screaming. I fuck
them and send them away as soon as possible.
Justin knows I am avoiding him. I see it in his eyes. I see it in the eyes of
all of them, accusing and angry. Justin's eyes don't accuse. His eyes are not
angry, they are sad, sad. The bashing is not my fault. But the sadness in
Justin's eyes is my fault. And I can't separate the two.
When I was a kid the nuns always said, “The wages of sin is death.” They lied.
Death is the easy part. The real punishment is to keep on living.
1/5/02