Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER
DEATH
“Jesus, Brian, that was amazing.” Justin was laughing, gasping for breath, enjoying the weight of his lover collapsed on top of him and the feel of sweat running down his sides, not caring if it was his or Brian’s. They had just ended round four of one of their marathons—it had moved from the couch to the shower, down to the white rug and then up to the bed and had occupied at least two and a half hours. It was now about four in the morning and thank God they could sleep in tomorrow.
Well, OK, it had really started in
Saturday night after an incredibly crappy week and both Brian and Justin were needing to blow off some steam, blow off some tensions and blow each other.
Justin’s butt felt like he’d be eating standing up for at least a week and Brian, though he wouldn’t admit it, wasn’t sure how long it would be before he could go another round. No time soon, and that was a fact.
With what was likely the last of his energy, Brian withdrew and rolled onto his side, his arm resting across Justin’s waist. Neither of them consciously moved for the next ten hours.
Justin slowly climbed his way up out of exhausted sleep. He could tell that he was alone in the bed. It had that empty feeling and as he became more aware of what was going on, he heard Brian’s voice coming from the kitchen area—at least he thought it was Brian. It didn’t sound like he normally did, his voice—though definitely Brian—was different somehow, younger, less sure of himself. He sounded upset, almost in tears and, something he’d never thought to hear, like he was whining.
Jesus.
He turned his head toward where the voice was coming from and listened to half of the conversation that was going on.
“Because I don’t want to…No, I don’t want to and you can’t make me…Mom, please?…You said I could, you did, you promised…Yes, you did. You said I could go…But you promised…you did, to…Mom? Please? Pleeease?”
Justin moved enough to peer around the corner to where Brian was sitting cross-legged on the white rug in front of the sofa. Pinky and the Brain was on the TV and it looked like Brian was eating a bowl of what Justin could swear was Cap’n Crunch.
Jesus.
“Mom?…Mom…please, don’t hang up…please—Mom, please… Mom…Mom…?”
Slowly Brian put the phone down, sniffling and wiping his eyes.
Shit.
Justin went back into the bathroom, quietly just sitting for about twenty minutes then, making some noise with the water and the door, he went down to the TV area to find that Brian had moved to the kitchen. All traces of the previous scene were gone. The TV was off, there was no sign of the sugary cereal and Brian was his usual calm and composed self with the newspaper and a cup of black coffee.
“Something wrong?”
Justin shook his head, feigning surprise. “No, why do you ask?”
“The look on your face.”
“I’m fine—any plans today?”
After a pause Brian let it go. “I’m going into the office for a couple of hours to finish up a couple of things before tomorrow and then I told Lindsay that I’d take Gus to a birthday party around two. What about you?”
“Daphne’s coming over at ten then we’re going to that Impressionist Exhibit over at the Scaife.” He still felt odd, wondering what the fuck had been going on earlier but wasn’t about to ask.
“Want to hook up for dinner later?”
“Yeah, sure. Say six or seven back here?” Justin took the tea mug Brian handed him. Nodding his thanks.
“Fine.” Brian moved up to the bedroom, Justin could hear him getting dressed and readying himself to leave. About five minutes later he came back down in jeans, a long sleeved tee, shaved and smelling of toothpaste. He kissed Justin’s cheek as he went by. “Later.”
That night at dinner Brian was his usual self, nothing out of the ordinary. There was nothing to hint at anything being off.
The next two weeks went by with no incidents. Brian was as he ever was, cool, controlled, somewhat aloof and reserved. He got up in the morning, went to work, often stayed late, won a couple of new accounts, bought some new clothes, went to the gym and Babylon and Woody’s. He screwed Justin every morning and every night. Things were normal and Justin forgot about what he’d heard and seen. It was a fluke.
Wednesday on the third week, Justin stopped by Vanguard to pick up the paperwork for PIFA that Brian had absent-mindedly slipped into his briefcase that morning on his way out the door.
Walking down the hall to his office he could hear the shouting as soon as he rounded the corner.
“I don’t give a flying fuck what he told you. I’M telling you it’s for shit and unless unemployment is today’s goal for you, get your bony ass back to your fucking hole and Goddamn redo this.”
Cynthia’s significantly quieter voice was next.
“
Justin peered through the door from a discrete distance of about ten feet. Brian was giving Cynthia a look that would have terrorized most people. She just stood her ground.
“Get the fuck out. You’re fired.”
“What?”
He came around the desk, grabbing her upper arm and bodily moving her out. “You heard me, cunt. Get the fuck out. You have til ten to have your shit out of here.”
“Brian—you don’t mean…”
He gave her another push out the door then turned back to the hapless Tony. “And you have til one to get this crap looking like something.”
Cynthia and Justin exchanged a look as she crossed to her desk, sitting somewhat numbly.
“What the Hell happened?”
She shrugged slightly. “I’m not sure.”
He went to Brian’s door, knocking lightly. “Brian?”
He looked up from where he had gone back to checking copy at his desk, a smile spreading over his face, all signs of his tantrum and foul mood disappeared.
“Justin! God—nice surprise, this morning is for shit and then here you are. What are you doing here?” He came around from his desk again; this time arms open and enfolded Justin in a hug, kissing his forehead.
“I need those tuition papers for the Bursar. I think you still have them.”
“Oh, right—fuck me.” He opened his briefcase, pulled them out and handed them over.
“Can you stay? We can get some lunch.”
“It’s only
“Who gives a fuck? Come
on.” Taking Justin’s
hand, he started out, pausing at Cynthia’s desk.
“What crawled up you ass? Call Thompson and
cancel my
She just sat there staring at him.
“You go deaf last night? Call the fucking client.”
“I don’t work here. Call him yourself.”
He took a beat. “PMSing, are we? Call the man then finish those letters that have to go out today.”
Justin and Cynthia exchanged a look, he gave a slight shrug and they headed towards the elevators.
“Hey, Brian?”
“Yeah?” He had his arm around Justin’s waist while they rode down the fifty-three floors to the garage.
“Rough morning?”
Brian looked at him, questioning. “…Not particularly. Why?”
“You seem sort of tense, that’s all.”
He seemed confused. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“…You were sort of hard on Cynthia just now.”
No response, then, “I asked her to make a phone call and type some letters.”
“Brian, you fired her and you threatened that other guy who was showing you some presentation when I came in.”
“You’re full of shit. I asked him to make some corrections.”
“You were kind of…”
Brian’s face went still and there was something about his expression that scared Justin. In the three years they’d known each other and the different things that they’d been through—both good and bad—Justin had never been afraid of Brian, but now he was suddenly aware that they were in a deserted parking garage and Brian was bigger and faster and stronger than he was.
Fuck.
He was afraid of Brian. He didn’t know what Brian was going to do and he was terrified.
Shit.
“I was kind of what?”
“Nothing.”
They were at the car. Brian opened the driver’s side, got in, closed the door, started the engine and peeled out of the spot leaving Justin standing alone and grateful that nothing else had happened.
Shit.
Around seven that evening he slid the loft door open with a sense of dread, wondering if Brian would still be in the same mood he had been in that morning.
What greeted him were soft lighting, the sound of good jazz and something incredible in the kitchen. Brian handed him a glass of wine as he relieved Justin of his courier bag, then handed him a single long stemmed white rose, sweetly scented.
Justin blinked as Brian kissed him tenderly and led him to the set table.
“I was worried about you, it’s getting late and you didn’t call.”
“…I’m sorry, I meant to, but my cel needs recharging.”
Brian smiled. Kissing him again. “Chicken parm, your favorite, right? I spent most of the day shopping for the ingredients and making the thing, so I hope it was worth the effort.”
He served up two plates that seemed to have been ready and waiting in the oven. It really did look good. “I was worried about you after that little tantrum you had down in the garage. I mean, I know you rank up there with Emmett when your queen genes kick in, but why did you refuse to get in the car? I thought we were going out together.”
Refuse to get in the car? Christ.
“Oh, you know me. I guess I was just having a day.”
“Over it now?” Christ, Brian’s eyes could look through you.
“Yes—all over it.”
A relieved smile. “Good. OK, eat up—I worked hard on this.”
The food was good and somehow it didn’t surprise Justin that Brian would be a good cook if he out his mind to it, just as he was good at anything he decided he wanted to do. The chicken was moist; the breading was seasoned to perfection, the cheese freshly grated, the pasta it topped was perfectly al dente. Even the wine was the perfect compliment to the meal.
Brian cooking—who knew?
Brian was happy and chatty, joking and laughing. He was attentive and Justin was starting to doubt what he had witnessed a few hours earlier. OK, sure, he knew that Brian could be surly and rude, obnoxious and demanding. There were times when he could even be called unreasonable, but this morning he’d been, well, shit, he’d been out of control and that wasn’t Brian.
Never had been, never would be.
Clearing the dishes, Brian suggested that they have dessert in the other room, over by the couch, maybe with a movie. Maybe Justin would like to put in Yellow Submarine?
Relaxed against the cushions, Justin started on the chocolate mousse which, Brian informed him; he had also made from scratch. They were sitting pressed together and when the mousse was finished he ended up held in Brian’s arms. It was nice.
About three quarters through the film he started feeling queasy, hoping that if he just lay quietly it would pass. Ten minutes later he knew it wasn’t going to happen.
He made the bathroom with no time to spare, vomiting violently and repeatedly before the spasms temporarily subsided.
Brian was with him, holding him, wiping his face, getting him cool water to sip and rubbing his back.
The attacks lasted almost all night. It was starting to lighten before Justin thought he might be recovered enough to even consider moving out of the bathroom onto the bed and by then he was so weak from the constant throwing up and stomach pains that he could barely walk. Brian helped him the short distance, covering him with the duvet and making sure that he had whatever he needed to ease the discomfort.
Finally he managed to sleep, but the fever was still there and his stomach hurt.
Sometime mid afternoon he woke up to that special silence which lets you know that you’re alone and he thought about calling his mother. It wasn’t so much that he needed her for anything, but she always made him feel better when he was sick. She was such a mom. He thought better of it, not wanting to upset her.
Maybe it was just some kind of stomach flu or virus or something?
Maybe.
Why the fuck was Brian OK? They had sure as Hell swapped enough spit to get each other sick and Brian was just fine and they had eaten the same food at the same time, too. He had gotten sick and Brian was fine.
Well, maybe he’d just had some kind of reaction to one of the ingredient. God knew he was allergic to almost everything. It could have been that.
What the fuck could be in chicken parm that he’d be allergic to? He’d eaten it all his life and never had a problem.
Maybe it wasn’t the dinner that made him sick, but the timing sure made it look that way. It couldn’t have been the lunch he’d had at school—besides, if it was he’d have heard of other people getting sick, too. No, that wasn’t it.
OK, maybe he hadn’t gotten sick from the dinner, but he’d been fine up until he’d eaten it and he’d had food poisoning before and knew what it felt like, how it ran it’s course. He knew that was what he’d had. He knew it.
Shit.
The door slid open.
“Feeling better? I got you some soup over at the diner. Think you can manage?”
“Are you off work today, Bri?”
“I couldn’t leave you here alone when you’re sick.” Brian looked like he really was concerned about him. He really did.
“You didn’t have to baby-sit me, I’m better. I think I got rid of whatever it was.”
Brian smiled at him. “That’s great.”
“It’s good that you didn’t get whatever I had.”
“Luck of the Irish, I guess.”
He was over whatever it was. By dinner time that evening he was almost completely recovered, though still weak. A day or so later it was as if he’d never been sick.
Things were on an even keel for a month or so after that. Brian was his usual self—smart, workaholic, snarky when the mood hit him, loving to Justin most of the time and always up for sex. He was back to his norm.
At first Justin had felt like he was treading some sort of straight—as it were—line, but slowly started to relax again.
Then there was the night at Woody’s and it fell to shit.
They had been playing pool with the boys. Ted and Emmett were watching and making their usual lameass comments, Brian and Justin were playing against Michael and Ben.
There was a guy, just some guy, who was cruising Justin. He wasn’t pushy or rude or anything, he was just hanging around and it was annoying Brian.
After half an hour Justin told the man that he wasn’t interested, but he didn’t leave. Twenty minutes later he told the guy that he was there with his boyfriend and he really wasn’t interested. The man didn’t move and Brian was getting pissed.
Justin suggested that they move on to
The man was still leaning against the bar watching the game from ten feet away. When he ran his hand down Justin’s back, resting it on his ass when the boy went for beer Brian saw what was going on.
It happened so fast that the people who saw it couldn’t state without doubt what they had seen, but one of the pool balls somehow jumped the table and hit the guy square in the face, breaking his nose.
Paying no attention to the hubbub and the screaming man gushing blood through his hands, Brian calmly took Justin’s arm, whispered, “Let’s go” and pulled him out to the street.
“Jesus, Brian you could have killed that son of a bitch. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I was defending your honor, Princess so shut the fuck up and get in the car.”
“Screw you.”
“Get in the fucking car.”
“No.”
“Fucking slut.”
The slap was so quick and so sharp and hard that at first Justin didn’t even react. He just stared then he crumbled and cried and would likely have gone with Brian when Ben took his arm and told him that he’d be staying with him and Michael for at least the night.
Brian was restrained by a couple of Woody’s bouncers as Justin left between Michael and Ben.
He was put in Michael’s car with no effort or thought on his part and was put into the bed in the spare room. Outside he could hear the corvette revving in the street and neighbors shouting at Brian to shut the fuck up and get lost. The motor continued for another ten minutes before fading away down the street.
The phone stared ringing next—every minute. It would ring twice and stop. In sixty seconds it would ring twice and stop. Over and over until Michael took it off the hook. Then Justin’s cel started. He shut it off.
Ben sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
Ben took a space to phrase his next sentence. “This sort of thing has been happening for a while, hasn’t it, Justin?”
“He never hit me before. I swear. Never.”
“What happened? Look, I’m not trying to pry, but he seemed pretty upset that guy was cruising you—is he worried that you might, well, have a change of heart?”
“You think he’s upset because he’s afraid that I’ll pull another Ethan on him? Shit, Ben, he knows that won’t happen.” He shook his head, trying to convince himself. “He knows that.”
Michael joined them. “You’re not scared of him are you? The truth, Justin. I know Brian can get ideas in his head and when he does he can be pretty stubborn.”
“No. I’m not afraid of him. I’m not.” It was a little too quick. No, He won’t hurt me. He’d never hurt me.” Unspoken was the obvious thought they all shared. He’d hurt Justin less than an hour before. The boy came to a decision. “I know it’s late, but could you drive me over to the loft?”
“In the morning.”
“Now. Please, Michael? He’s probably there all alone.”
Ben and Michael exchanged a look. “I think you might be better off giving him time to cool down.”
“If I don’t go home tonight he’ll think I was tricking. Please.”
Michael handed Justin his own cel phone. If there’s a problem, even if you just want to talk, you call. Anytime. I mean that.”
Fifteen minutes later he was letting himself into the loft. The lights were all off, even the ones over the bed. It was one of the only times Justin had seen the place completely dark. He made his way up to the bedroom, undressed and slipped under the duvet. Brian was seemingly asleep on the left side, where he always was. He rolled over, embracing the boy in his sleep, slightly waking himself enough to nuzzle the soft skin on his neck.
“I was afraid that you’d miss curfew.” It was quarter of three.
“Michael drove me home.”
Brian had redoubled his efforts on Justin’s neck, moving to his jaw and around to his mouth. “Did you fuck him?”
“Brian…?”
“Did you?”
“The only person I fuck is you. You know that. You’re the only one I want.” He tried to return the nuzzling, the kisses, but Brian held him off. Using the leverage of his longer legs and arms he flipped Justin over onto his back, rolling on top of the smaller boy and pining him beneath him. The kisses were almost an assault, he was using his teeth to bite, leaving marks and drawing blood. His hands were pinching sensitive skin, leaving bruises. He ground his hipbones into the smaller man, crushing his flaccid penis—this wasn’t arousing. This was another attack.
Justin tried to gain some advantage, but Brian was simply larger, stronger and angry. There was no way that Justin could get out from under until he finally brought his knee sharply up with as much force as he could muster.
He crushed his leg into Brian’s balls as hard as he could.
“Fuck!” He rolled off, gasping, onto his own side of the bed as Justin jumped out of the bed, scrambling into a pair of sweats he found lying on the floor.
As suddenly as the earlier slap, Brian changed again. Curling into a fetal position, his arms hugging his knees, he started crying.
Justin froze. Jesus. What the fuck was going on?
“Brian?…Bri?”
The only other sound was crying.
Justin came around to Brian’s side of the bed, sitting tentatively, placing his hand on the shaking shoulder. “Bri, please tell me what’s going on…Please…I want to help you…tell me, OK?”
The quiet crying continued for almost half an hour then, with a final sniff, Brian seemed to shake himself and sat up, staring at Justin. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
“…Brian?”
“It’s four in the morning. Why are you up?”
“Are you alright?”
“Justin—what the fuck are you talking about? It’s late, I’m tired. Get your ass in bed and get the fuck to sleep.”
Michael’s phone rang. “Yes?…No, I’m fine…nothing happened, we were just going to sleep…sure, but make it late, around one.”
“Who was that?”
“Ben wants to meet us for lunch at the diner tomorrow. I told him we would.”
Brian gave him a look. “Whatever. Go to sleep.”
The next morning, not surprisingly, they slept in. They would have stayed
in bed longer, but Justin got them both up at
“What happened?” The bruise wasn’t terrible, but it was there.
“You don’t remember?”
“If I remembered I wouldn’t ask, you twat. What happened to you?”
“Brian—you hit me last night.”
“Right. Bullshit. What happened?”
They were getting into the ‘vette. “You were pissed that some guy made a pass at me at Woody’s and you slapped me. And you broke his nose.”
Brian was about to tell him he was full of shit and it wasn’t funny when he saw the look on Justin’s face. The kid didn’t know how to joke like that.
Fuck.
Instead of starting the engine he turned to the younger man, speaking quietly. “Then what happened?”
“We were going back to the loft but you left without me. I went home with Ben and Michael but I asked them to bring me home a little while later.”
Brian’s hands were in his lap, his head down, lost in thought. The silence stretched on too long and Justin became more uncomfortable than he had even been earlier.
“Bri?”
“Justin—I think it would be good if I went away for a while.”
“Why? What’s happening?” Both the questions and the answers were quiet. There were no dramatics, no queening.
“Call the boys, tell them we can’t meet them…it’s OK, I just want to talk.” Justin made the call, promising that he was fine and that he’d talk to them later.
They drove to Phipps Conservatory, still one of Brian’s favorite places after he had first discovered it as a teenager. They found a bench in a secluded corner. There was no one else in that particular room. The sound of splashing water from a small waterfall came from close by.
“I was afraid that it was starting again, but I don’t always remember…I’ve been acting sort of weird, haven’t I?”
Taking his hand, Justin nodded.
“It’s been going on since I was about seven. I’d have these episodes, that’s what they’re called. It happens when something’s going on—more stress than usual or if I’m really tired or something—I sort of flip into being someone else for a while.” He rubbed Justin’s fingers. “I really hit you last night?”
Justin nodded. “It didn’t hurt, really, it wasn’t anything.”
Brian didn’t answer. He seemed incredibly sad. “I’ve never hit anyone before, when I was ‘out’. I never hurt anyone, at least not physically.”
“I knew you didn’t mean it. It’s OK. It is, Bri. We’ll get you some help and deal with this. You’ll be fine.”
Brian just sat, thinking, staring at a bank of flowers. Their perfume was sickly sweet, cloying.
“Do you know what caused it? I mean, why you have this?”
“A shrink when I was a kid told my parents that they were so fucked up that they’d made me crazy. I’m paraphrasing, but that’s what it came down to. When I get overwhelmed by something I become someone else to cope.” He gave a not funny laugh. “Pretty screwed up, right?”
“No, just self-defensive. What can be done? If you know what it is, how is it treated?”
“Therapy and drugs. The usual.”
“OK. So we’ll do what has to be done.” Justin had a plan. He was ready to go with it. He would, no doubt, start calling shrinks in the morning and would have an appointment set up by two in the afternoon. Justin leaned over, kissed him. “I love you. We’ll take care of this. You’ll be fine. And I’ll be with you every step just like you’re there for me.”
Brian looked at him—peered, really, as though he could see inside of him. Damn his eyes were piercing when he turned them on you. Then he smiled, his ‘we’ll do this and it will be great’ smile.
They stood up, they had a plan, they’d be OK and this would just be another rough patch in their road.
The next day, Monday, Brian wasn’t the least surprised to get the
call from Justin that he’d set up a meeting at ten the next morning
with a Doctor Kirby at
He said that sounded fine. Did he want Justin to go with him? No, not really. He’d rather go on his own but would see him after to go over what happened.
The next day at about eleven thirty he called Brian’s cel to hear a recording forwarding him to voicemail. Shit.
He called Cynthia and asked if Brian had kept the appointment he’d had at ten. Why, yes, he did and was Vance pissed about it. Justin could hear the man in the background… “If he thinks he can just come and go as he pleases when we have clients waiting to see him then he has another thing coming. I want to speak with him the minute he sets foot back in this office...”
No, he wasn’t back yet. She’d ask him to call when he came in.
Justin tried the loft and got the answering machine.
Next he tried the doctor’s office. Yes, Mr. Kinney had kept his appointment, but he’d left about an hour ago.
Shit.
He decided to go back to loft and wait there. When he walked in it was
obvious that Brian wasn’t there. Checking the answering machine, he
skipped through until he heard the one from Joan Kinney. It had come in at
just about
“Justin? This is Brian’s mother. He came to see me a little while ago and then he asked me to call you. He’s been in an accident. The police called me when they arrived at the scene. He’s been taken to Allegheny General. I’ll be at home if you’d like to speak to me. The number is listed.”
That was all she said, not what had happened, not how was he, she didn’t even leave her Goddamned number.
Fucking bitch.
He dialed the number for the hospital. Yes, Mr. Kinney had been admitted, but due to the new privacy laws, they couldn’t release anything over the phone. If he would care to come down to the hospital, perhaps…
He called Michael. “He’s been in some kind of an accident. I need a ride to the hospital”
They were there inside of half an hour.
ER was quiet on a Monday afternoon; almost no one was around, just an admitting clerk who smiled at them as they ran up.
“Brian Kinney?”
“Are you relatives?”
Michael answered. “He’s my brother.” She checked her monitor as a professionally blank expression came over her face.
“If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll see if the doctor can speak with you.”
“Mr. Kinney?” Of course, Brian’s brother would have the same name.
“Yes?”
“I’m Doctor Ortiz.”
“Brian—how is he?”
“I’m terribly sorry. We did everything we could, but the injuries were simply too extensive. He passed away while in surgery shortly after he was brought in. He was unconscious, he wasn’t in any pain. I promise that. He probably didn’t know what happened.”
Justin, his face white asked, “What—how?”
Michael turned to the wall, sobbing loudly. The sound annoyed Justin. Fucking queen.
“From what I understand he was driving and somehow crossed the center divider. A small car like a corvette—he hit a semi.” He shook his head. He might as well have driven into a wall.
Justin stared at the man then found his voice through the numbness. “Was it suicide?”
The doctor just spread his hands and gestured with his shoulders. “…I don’t know.”
Justin did.
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