The
funeral had been that afternoon, out in Irwin where the family church was
located. It was a cold day and had been snowing lightly on and
off.
It
was almost nine, now, dark and had gotten colder. The reception back at the
Kinney house was long over and Justin wanted to make sure that Brian was
alright. He had been closed about the whole thing, seemingly his only feeling
being annoyance at the inconvenience of it all—the arrangements, the
obituary, the choosing of his father’s clothing and the casket itself.
His sister was no help and his mother, who Justin had never met, was a complete
bitch from all he’d heard.
Throughout
the last couple of days, Brian had insisted, firmly, that he was fine, thank
you now leave him the fuck alone.
He
had been adamant that Justin not attend either the service or the burial.
He had told the boy that if he showed up at the house, he’d live to
regret it.
Worried
and concerned, Justin decided that he would just check, that he wouldn’t
stay at the loft more than a few minutes and then he’d leave. He wanted
Brian to know, to be sure, that he was cared about.
Daphne
had dropped him off in front of Brian’s building after a quick glance
up to make sure there were lights on up in the loft. From where he stood,
it looked like the counter lights in the kitchen were on and he thought he
could see the glow of the blues over the bed.
Shit—even
Brian wouldn’t have a trick over tonight. Probably not,
anyway.
He
punched the door code in, heard the lock release, walked up the stairs, knowing
that Brian could hear the elevator and not wanting to disturb him if he was
sleeping or something.
Using
the key he’d been given months before, he let himself in as quietly
as he could.
There
were enough lights on to see to get across the main room but he couldn’t
hear anything. Taking his coat off he looked around, seeing no
one. He walked over to the stairs.
Yes, there he was, lying on the bed, his jacket off, his shirt open. His
shoes were on the floor next to his tie.
He
looked passed out; in fact he probably was passed out. The bottle of Beam
on the floor near the main door was empty.
Justin
had quietly gone up the stairs to make sure Brian was still breathing and
in no immediate distress from the amount of liquor he’d drunk, he had
looked closely enough to watch the smooth chest rise and fall a few time
and to smell the reek of the Beam and was just starting to leave when,
“Don’t go.”
“I
thought that you might be asleep.”
“’To
sleep, perchance to dream.’
No, I’ve just been lying here thinking.” He reached his
hand out for Justin. He took it, sitting beside Brian on the bed, hands still
locked together. He was high, of course, but still
coherent.
It
was obvious that besides the drinking he’d probably been doing other
shit as well. Self-medicating the day away in true Kinney fashion. “Did
you drive yourself home?”
“No,
Mikey did—is he still here somewhere?”
“I
didn’t see him. Can I get you anything? Are you
alright?”
Brian
didn’t answer, just put his other hand up on the back of Justin’s
neck, pulling him down, pressing him to stretch out along side him. “I
wanted to fuck Mikey, but he wouldn’t. Can you fucking believe that?
I offer him what he’s wanted for fifteen years and he turns me
down.”
Justin
had no idea how to respond to that. He sat up, Brian’s hands falling
limply away. “C’mon, I’ll help you get ready for bed.”
He
pulled the larger man to a sitting position and started to push the torn
shirt off Brian’s shoulders. Saying nothing, Brian watched his every
move, shifting so that the fabric could be slid off of him. Next Justin moved
him as he would a large child, undoing the belt and fly on his slacks and
getting him to lift his hips so that they could be pushed down. Socks followed.
Brian lay there, naked, his eyes having not moved from Justin the entire
time.
It
bothered Justin, the way Brian was solemnly watching him as he worked. It
was almost as though he was studying the boy, as if he was a subject in some
kind of experiment or an actor on a stage.
He
pulled the duvet up, covering the man and was about to stand up to go when
Brian’s hand caught his wrist.
“Stay
with me.”
He
took a breath, nodding. Taking his shoes off, then his shirt and khakis but
not his underwear, he silently moved in beside
Brian.
“How
was it today? I mean, are you alright?”
Brian
was still just lying there on his back, staring up at the ceiling, Justin
on his side, his head resting on one hand, one hand lightly on Brian’s
stomach.
“I
hated the prick. I’ve hated him all my
life.”
Justin
had no idea how to react to that.
Brian
shifted his eyes back to the boy. His voice was mild, merely asking for
information. “Your parents never hit you, did
they?”
“…No.
I mean, I was spanked once or twice, but that’s all. They didn’t
believe in it.”
“Jack
did. I don’t know if he believed in anything else, but he sure as fuck
believed in hitting me.” He looked at Justin. “He never hit Claire.
Did you know that? He hit me all the time. Sometimes he’d knock me down
and kick me, but he never touched her or my mother.” There was a pause.
Justin thought he was done speaking but then he continued in the same mild
voice. “He broke twenty three of my ribs. Well, mostly it was the same
ribs. They just kept rebreaking.”
“Brian,
he was…”
“A
sick fuck? I know that.” His voice was surprisingly calm, as though
he were merely discussing a boring day at work. “I actually asked him
once why they had me, I mean, he always told me that he wanted my mother
to have an abortion and all but obviously she didn’t—at least not
with me. They were later. You know what he
said?”
Justin
shook his head.
“He
said. ‘You’re smart, you never figured it out?’” He smiled.
“You know what? I never did.” He mumbled, almost to himself, “So,
I’m not so fucking smart.” He seemed about to pass out, his eyes
closed, his breathing slowing.
Frightened,
Justin got the phone moving out of the bedroom so he wouldn’t disturb
Brian, dialing Michael. He picked up on the second
ring.
“Brian?
Are you OK?”
“Michael,
it’s me, Justin. I think he passed out, but I’m scared, he’s
never been like this before. He was talking about his father and
asking…”
“Justin,
listen to me.” His voice was calmer than Justin had heard him, but then
this was Michael talking about Brian—and they’d known each other
forever. He’d been through this before. “He’ll be alright.
Is he out? Are you sure?”
“I
think so. I got his clothes off of him and put him to
bed.”
“OK,
good. Make sure he’s not on his back in case he throws up. Just roll
him on his side.”
“…I
did. He’s unconscious.”
“That’s
fine. He’ll sleep it off. In the morning make sure that he doesn’t
take aspirin, it will make him sick. You’re going to stay there,
right?”
“Yeah,
I think I should.”
“Call
me if you need anything. I’ll be home.”
“Michael?
How was the funeral? I mean, were there any problems or
anything?”
“…Yeah,
well it was bad and Brian burned a few more bridges. Just let him sleep it
off and we’ll try to pick up the pieces
tomorrow.”
They broke the connection, he went up to check on Brian again, but
he was out for the count. Justin was going to crawl in and try to sleep until
he glanced at the clock. It was only
Sighing
and knowing it would be a long night, he rummaged in the kitchen for sandwich
makings then took his snack over to the TV. If nothing was on he could always
put in a DVD.
He ended up with The Godfather, Part 2. Damn, that was a good movie.
The sections down in
That
had been strange.
Talk
about your surreal day.
He
was just really getting into the New Year’s party scene when everyone
has to run away and Michael Corleone kisses Fredo when the pounding started
on the loft door.
Fuck.
Now
what?
He
slid the door open, trying not to wake up Brian, to find a distraught and
disheveled middle-aged woman in a black dress in front of him, pushing
inside.
“Where
is he? Where is the bastard?—Brian? Where the Hell are
you?”
He
caught up with her, taking her arm before she managed to get to the bedroom.
“Excuse me. Who the fuck are you?”
“And
you’re this week’s plaything, I take it? Where is
he?”
“He’s
sleeping. Who are you?”
“I’m
Claire, the prick’s sister and after what he pulled he can damn well
wake up and talk to me.” She brushed past him up to the bedroom before
he could stop her.
“Brian?
Wake up, you shit.” She was shaking his shoulder with no response.
“Jesus, you smell like a Goddamned bar. Brian, wake the fuck up.”
She fixed Justin with the Kinney glare. “How much did he
drink?”
“I—I
don’t know.”
“Fucking
Michael was supposed to keep an eye on him.”
“He
did. I mean, he brought him home and stuff.” She was still shaking him,
he was starting to mumble, but it was incoherent. “You’d probably
have better luck if you came back tomorrow.”
She
paused in her semi abuse of her brother, considering for a moment. He was
right. “You tell this son of a bitch that I’ll be back in the morning
and he’d better fucking be here.” The chances of Brian going anywhere
for a while were pretty small. She gave him a once over. “He certainly
likes them young now, doesn’t he?”
And
like a small unpleasant tornado, she was gone.
Jesus.
No wonder Brian tended to over self medicate.
He
went back to the bed; Brian seemed to have settled back down. It was still
only eleven but, damn, it had been quite a day. Turning off the TV and the
DVD player, snapping off the lights, he went up and slid in beside Brian’s
inert body.
His
last thought before he fell asleep was that Claire was right. He did smell
like a bar.
Some
hours later he was woken up by the slight shaking of the bed and an odd,
quiet almost strangled sound. Confused at first and still half asleep, he
snapped awake when he pieced together that he was at Brian’s, it was
after the funeral, Brian was really drunk and he might be suffering from
alcohol poisoning or something. Shit.
He
turned on his side, his hand on Brian’s shoulder. It was
shaking.
“Brian?
Brian are you alright? Do you need help?”
The
larger man remained on his side, his back to Justin, saying nothing but taking
a couple of deep, ragged breaths, trying for some kind of
control.
Fuck.
Brian was crying.
Saying
nothing, not knowing what to say anyway, Justin spooned behind him, wrapping
his arms around him, stroking him and giving what little comfort he could.
With
the first touch Brian stiffened in his arms, resisting the contact but after
a minute he began to relax into the embrace, his own hands coming up to grip
Justin’s, holding on as though they were a
lifeline.
Justin
didn’t say anything. He had no idea what he could say that would mean
anything, that wouldn’t be superficial or trite or cliché. He
began a series of soft kisses to Brian’s neck and shoulders, moving
to his back and up again to his jaw. Disentangling one of his hands from
Brian’s, he stroked his chest before moving up to his
cheeks.
He
felt tears, carefully wiping them with his
fingertips.
Shifting,
he moved so that he could turn Brian over onto his back, resisting at first
but finally moving. He looked at Justin, his eyes wet but calm as though
he were waiting for the young man to say or do something. He looked as though
he though Justin might have the answer to whatever he needed to
know.
Leaning
in, still not knowing what to say, Justin kissed him lightly on the lips
then moved to kiss the tears from where they still lay on his cheeks and
the damp trails starting down the sides of his face into his hair. Brian’s
arms came loosely up around Justin’s back and the two of them lay there,
quiet, watching as the night slipped past and the room became
brighter.
They
got up around eleven, having finally dozed off again while holding one another.
They showered, Brian took the Advil Justin handed him without comment, he
ate the food Justin put in front of him and as Justin started to move away
he caught the younger man’s hand, pulling him down so that they could
kiss, deeply and fully. As the kiss broke Brian pressed his mouth against
Justin’s cheek, exhaling almost soundlessly.
“Thank
you.”
Smiling
just a little, Justin nodded.
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