Bittersweet Lies

Chapter 3 - Breaking and Not Bending...

Brian's POV

Lounging on the sofa only clad in a pair of worn jeans after just having had a long, hot, shower, I'm rolling a joint with some of my best reefer.   God, work was a bitch today, and I can hardly wait to take the first puff.  I swear to God, sometimes I think I should get paid a lot fucking more for putting up with some of those no-talent, fuck-head idiots. 

For some reason I'd been under the delusion that making partner would ease up my workload -- wasn't that a fucking laugh in my face!  If anything, it's increased, since not only am I working on my own campaigns, researching products and doing my part in wooing clients with business lunches, dinners and tickets to whatever event in Pittsburgh their hearts desire; but thanks to my brilliant works of persuasion with Leo Brown last year, Vance insists that I do most of the out-of-town travel to gather up new clientele, since it seems I have the "magic touch".  Fucking lazy bastard. 

Oh, and did I also mention that I'm expected to look over and approve all the other ad campaigns before they're presented to the clients?  And of course, it's as if practically every fucking idea presented to me lately is complete shit, which means that I usually end up having to redo most of it or even the whole fucking thing myself.  Well, you know what they say about wanting things to get done right the first time!  Sometimes I think it might as well just be me and a few other people running this fucking company -- and that doesn't include Gardner.   I'll give him this; he's a good business man, and he's great with the clients.  They all like him.  He's charming, witty, and smart, and most importantly, he can kiss some ass with the best of them.  Unfortunately, though, he sorely lacks in creativity, which, I suppose, is the reason he relies so heavily on me to do most of the work in that area. 

Shit, I'm putting more time into this company now than I ever have, working 12 and 13 hour days sometimes.  But then, working hard is nothing new to me.  I've been working my ass off since college, continuously focusing on building myself up so I could make something of myself; always striving, needing to be at the top.  Needing to be the best, and knowing that I could be.   And it meant a lot of dedication and hard work, but I was more than okay with that because it gave me a purpose.  It still does, and so I still remain a workaholic.  Having a heavy workload definitely has its advantages, though.  It's the perfect distraction and excuse to avoid any bullshit in my life that I'd rather not think about, which is why I've welcomed my chaotic schedule for years.

I feel the day's stress slowly slip away as I deeply inhale my perfectly rolled joint, and contemplate my plans for the evening.  What shall it be?  The baths?  Babylon for some dancing, drinking and fucking? I'm not sure if I feel like being sociable though.  Maybe I should just stay home; order some take-out, continue to get stoned, and watch my favorite James Dean movie?  Then there's always the internet.  I could peruse the local Gay Pittsburgh chat room for a potential trick.  Choices, choices. 

As I exhale another long cloud of smoke, I promptly decide that this weed is way too good, and I'm feeling way too mellow to get up and go anywhere, so, I guess, staying in, it is.  I also realize that I'm fucking starving, and well aware that there is nothing in my kitchen that is worthy of eating... except for maybe the thousand-calorie snacks that Justin bought from the Shop 'N Save that are still in the cupboard.  His cupboard, that contains various bags of his favorite kinds of potato chips, a box of Oreos, beef jerky, Top Ramen, buttered microwave popcorn, pretzels, and a couple of packets of cocoa.  It's all still there.  Why, it's still there, I have no fucking idea.  I should have thrown all that shit out by now, but I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I thought that maybe...

No, fuck that.  I'm not even going to go there. 

I quickly push all thoughts of a certain blond out of my head, and I glance towards the direction of the kitchen, where I know all the take-out menus are located, which, right about now, seem so far away.  As I'm next contemplating how long I should wait until getting up to retrieve the menus to decide what I want to eat, my cell rings. 

I glance at the Caller ID and hesitate a moment before answering.  Mikey.  Shit, I'm not really in the mood to deal with him right now, but then it occurs to me that maybe he'd be willing to stop and grab some food and bring it over.  That would be one less thing I'd have to do.

"Hey, Mikey," I say into my phone.

"Hey, are you coming out to Woody's?" Mikey asks, his voice competing with some loud music in the background.

"Not tonight. I'm staying in.  I was actually just about to order some take-out," I tell him, and take another lazy hit from my joint.

"Oh...  Well, I've got some news. I thought we could hang out."

"You're in luck.  It just so happens I've got some really great shit... and plenty to share.  Care to join me?" I ask, already knowing his answer, and I swear I can hear him smile through the phone. 

"Sure, I'll be on my way... did you want me to stop and pick up some dinner?" he asks.

I grin at that.  Good ol' Mikey.  "Yeah... but do you think you could handle getting something that won't turn me into a fucking lump of lard?  The last time you brought food over, it took me a month to burn off all those fucking calories." I frown, looking down at my shirtless stomach, as if I expect to see disgusting rolls of fat there.  Thankfully, there are none.

He laughs.  "I'll see what I can do," he says, and hangs up.   

I smile and toss my cell next to me on the sofa, then put my half-smoked joint into the ashtray.  I light a cigarette, and enjoy my nice buzz as I lean my head back and suck on the filter.  Carelessly, I put my bare feet up on the coffee table and switch on the television to CNN.

 

***
 

The heavy metal door opens, and I feel my stomach rumble a bit.  I was too busy to eat lunch earlier, and all I had for breakfast this morning was two pieces of dry toast and a triple non fat latte, so right now I could eat just about anything. 

"About time," I say, immediately getting up to take the bags of food from Michael's arms, as he struggles to close the door.  "If you weren't here in five minutes I was going to call for reinforcements."

"Reinforcements?" he laughs, as I take the bags from him.  The aroma escaping from them almost has my mouth watering.  "What reinforcements?  My mother?"

I shrug.  "Desperate times calls for desperate measures."  I set the bags on the kitchen table and start unpacking the food.  "Where did you go?"

"That little hole-in-the-wall authentic Mexican restaurant on the corner of Liberty Avenue.  Yours is the one labeled 'GC', for grilled chicken," Michael says, pointing to the bag with the burritos in it.  "And there's beans and rice and an order of chicken Tequitos in the other bag," he adds, getting a couple of plates from the cupboard. 

"I knew there was a reason I've kept you around all these years," I tease, and walk to the refrigerator to get us a couple of beers.

"Uh-huh.  Well, when I figure out why I've kept you around all this time, I'll let you know," Michael shoots back.  I just smirk at that.  We both know the reason... but we never talk about that, and hopefully it stays that way.

While we eat, Michael does a lot of the talking, mostly bitching about that teenage hustler that he and the good professor have taken in as of recently.  I listen and let him rant, but don't say much because, well, even if I told him my opinion over the whole fucking ridiculousness of what they're doing with that kid, he'd just ignore what I had to say anyway. 

When we're finished eating, Michael says he has to make a quick call to the professor, and volunteers to clean up while I pad to the living room where my stash is, and immediately get to work on rolling a couple of joints for us.

"So, you said you had some news," I say, as Michael comes to join me on the sofa several minutes later.

Michael gets a dawn of recognition on his face.  "Oh, right!  Yeah.  Actually, that was the whole reason I was at Woody's earlier.  I wanted to celebrate."

"What, did Melanie finally realize she'd suffered temporary insanity about wanting you to father her kid and change her mind?" I smirk.

Michael rolls his eyes.  "No, asshole.  Besides, it's too late for that.  I already gave her my sperm."

"Fuck, Mikey, I just ate!" I say, giving him a sour look.

He rolls his eyes.  "Do you want to hear my fucking news or not?"

I wave at him to continue, and then spark up the newly rolled joint. 

"Justin came to see me today."

That gets my attention, and without thinking, my eyes dart up to meet Michael's.  I realize I might seem a bit too eager to hear about a certain blond from my past, and I quickly look away, hoping that Mikey doesn't pick up on it.  God, I hate that just the mention of his fucking name makes my whole body tense, and my pulse raise. 

"And so what did young Sunshine have to say?" I ask, feigning disinterest.

Michael shakes his head in disbelief.  "I still can't believe it.  I don't know what made him change his mind, but he's agreed to work on the comic again."  

"You seem surprised," I say, holding smoke in my lungs, as I pass the joint back to Mikey.   Of course, I won't mention that I, too, am at least a little surprised.  Justin is a stubborn little shit, and although I hoped I was wrong, I had my doubts about him changing his mind about working with Michael again.

"Brian, you weren't there when he said no the first time.  It was as if I'd asked him to commit a felony or something.  He made it crystal clear that he wasn't interested in having anything to do with me or the comic."

I shrugged.  "Well, maybe once he had some time to think about it, he decided that money was more important than his fucking pride."

Michael stares at me for a few moments, then looks away.  "Shit," he says, and then gives me that look.  The one that says, Oh, shit, Brian... you didn't!

I frown at him.  "What?  Why the fuck are you looking at me like that?"

"You talked to him, didn't you?" he asks and passes the reefer back to me, his eyes not leaving mine.

"Who?"

"Don't fucking pretend like you don't know who I'm talking about.  Justin!  Of course, Justin.  Who the fuck else?" he says, irritated.

It was my turn to look away.  I don't answer out loud.  I don't need to.

"Shit.  You did," he concludes.

I shrug at him.  "Why the fuck does it matter?"

"Brian..."

"Look, don't make a big fucking deal out of it, okay?" I say, waving him off.  "Something needed to be done since the two of you obviously couldn't get your heads out of your asses."  

I take another deep drag from the joint again and then pass it back to Michael, and there's a quiet tension between us for a minute or so until he speaks again.

"So... was that the first you'd spoken to him since..."

"No.  But what the fuck does that matter?"

"Well... I know how hard it was for you, you know, after he left..."

I smirk at him.  "I think you're being a bit melodramatic, Mikey."

He frowns at me.  "Deny it all you want, but I'm not fucking blind.  We've been best friends for a long time; I know you.  I've seen you go through the motions enough times in my life to know when you're... hurting," he says, his eyes softening as he gazes at me.

I know it's a bit ridiculous to deny it.   He's right.  He's known me since I was a scrawny, helpless, kid, who got knocked around by a drunken father all the time, and had always tried to avoid it or forget about it as best I could, in whatever way I could.  Michael probably knows that better than anyone aside from maybe Debbie.  He's always taken care of me when I've needed him to, and he has always known whenever I was in pain management mode and have needed to escape the fucked up reality that's been my life. 

"Brian, I know that you refuse to admit that what you and Justin had was a relationship -- which by the way, is bullshit, and you know it.  Still, whatever it was that you had with him wasn't some casual thing.  It meant something.  You cared about him.  And I'm not just saying that.  It was apparent to anyone who watched the two of you.  When you were together, it was like there was no one else in the room.  Like nothing else mattered."

I feel my throat tighten and look down at my hands.  Was that really what other people saw when they saw Justin and I together. I don't even want to think about what that might mean.

I immediately get up and make my way to the liquor cart and pour myself a drink, keeping my back to Michael so he can't see my face; a bit nervous about what it may reveal.

"Brian?  Are you --"

I quickly throw back a shot of Jim Beam.  "Look, I've already explained this to Lindsay, so listen up closely, because it's fucking getting old and I'm not going to say it again.  Justin and I weren't married.  We had an understanding.  He was always free to go and so was I.  I never expected to live happily ever after, Michael.  Not with him, or anyone.  Shit, I didn't even expect it to last as long as it did..." I pause, realizing I've revealed more than I wanted to, and that I'd better shut the fuck up.  

"But --"

"It worked out for the best," I say, cutting Michael off.  "He's where he wants to be now... where he needs to be..."

I hear Michael come up behind me.  His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and then I feel lips there, pressing lightly against my bare skin.  Comforting.

"That might be true.  Maybe Justin is where he needs to be.  But... are you?" he whispers.

I turn my head and look at him, those knowing eyes.  "I think you should go," I say softly.

Michael nods, like he was expecting that reply, and gives me a small smile before reaching up to peck me on the lips.  "Thank you," he says.

"For what?" I ask.

"For fixing things.  Thanks to you, Rage will continue to rescue helpless fags in Gayopolis." 

I grin back at him.  "With Zephyr's help, of course."

 

***
 

Michael's words keep repeating in my mind like a broken record, long after he's left. 

"Maybe Justin is where he needs to be. But... are you?"

I lay in bed smoking a cigarette and stare at the ceiling as I think about our earlier conversation. 

Looking back now, I realize that when Justin moved in, things got a little too comfortable.  That definitely wasn't supposed to happen.  In fact, his staying with me was only supposed to be temporary.  I was doing his mother a favor, and that was the only reason I'd asked him to move into the loft in the first place.  Actually, I didn't even really ask him; I told him, and of course he came willingly and eagerly, and had all his shit packed and ready to go in record time.  I knew it wasn't a permanent thing, and because I did know that it was temporary, I tried not to encourage his excitement in moving in with me, but when I saw that smile of his, the pure look of joy on his face in the jeep on the way to the loft, I decided to let him have his moment.  Whatever happened later didn't really matter right then, as long as he was happy.  I hadn't seen him smile like that since... well, in a long time.

Fuck, I had no idea though, what I was getting myself into, and how it would all affect me and what I'd be dealing with when I brought him home with me.  I had no clue to the extent of how fucking bad off he was. His mother had said that he was having outbursts, nightmares, and also that he wouldn't leave the house, which actually surprised me since he'd been to Woody's once and to my loft twice, right after he'd gotten out of the hospital.  I didn't expect to deal with the fact that he was afraid to have anyone (including me!) touch him; that a small plastic toy baseball bat would cause a flashback of the bashing, or that he was incapable of walking down the street without going into a full fledged panic attack.  That he was seeing Chris Hobbs in his dreams at night and still fearing him during the day, knowing that homophobic prick was still out there, and terrified of what might happen if he ever came face to face with him again.  What the fuck did I know about handling this sort of thing?  The kid should have been in therapy; not sent to live with me, but Jennifer obviously thought she had no choice in the matter.  I was a last resort.

Justin thought of me as his protector.  I was the only person he was willing to let in, and trust.  Why he had that kind of faith in me, I'll never know.  I'm just a man.  The man who took his virginity and then tried (try being the key word, here) to drop him.  But for some unknown reason, he saw something in me, Brian Kinney, that was worth fighting for.  And fuck, did he fight me on it!  The little fucker was nothing if not persistent.  And it didn't matter if I used him, played games with him or was mean to him (which was often); it didn't change how he felt.  Justin knew what he wanted, and didn't care what he had to do to get it.  Even when he got out of the hospital.  He couldn't even cross the fucking street without freaking out, but he ran all the way to the loft because he wanted to see me.  And what did I do?  I turned him away.  Slammed the fucking door in his face.  When I didn't hear from him the next day, I figured I finally got through to him.  That was when I had the visit from Jennifer.

I knew that Justin had been through a lot of trauma.  But I really didn't know just how broken he was.  My beautiful, brave, confident, talkative boy was hardly recognizable to me.  He trusted me to help him... and no one has ever depended on me in that way before. And it scared the shit out of me.  Things started getting more intense between us.  Things had changed.  I wasn't constantly pushing him away, and he wasn't constantly fighting to stay.  We were comfortable just being together, and it was a situation I was unfamiliar with, since I'd never been in a serious relationship or lived with anyone aside from college roommates.  And amazingly enough, despite the kid's annoying unmindfulness to clean up after himself, shoes being left in the middle of the floor for me to trip over, and him constantly forgetting to put the cap back on the toothpaste,  I actually enjoyed living with Justin and looked forward to seeing him at the end of the day, in spite of myself. 

I began to feel as if I were getting carried away with some sort of unknown sick hidden hetero fantasy, and obviously, freaked out a bit, and so when I saw my opportunity with the "zucchini man", I grabbed it, in hopes that Justin would understand that we weren't some happy hetero couple; that I was still the same person.  Yes, I cared about him, and he knew that -- at least I hoped he knew.  I didn't surprise him with roses or romantic getaways, but I did do my best to show him that he was someone important in my life, and that he was the exception to all the rules I'd previously lived by.  Whether he understood that or not though, it wasn't enough; and I knew it was only a matter of time before he would start wanting more.  More than what I could give.  More than what he would ever get from me.

I thought the rules would show him that I was serious about being willing to give him things that I wouldn't give others.  That he wasn't just some kid, some roommate, or some charity case; but that he really meant something to me, and that I was making sure he knew that I had opened a sacred place for him in my life -- a place no one else was granted permission.

Yeah, I knew it was only a matter of time before someone like Ian would show up promising Justin the world... and then would likely hurt him.  I couldn't prevent that from happening.  All I could do was silently promise to do my part in our... arrangement and hope things would stay as they were with no further problems... at least for a little while.  I wasn't naive enough to really believe that Justin would be fine with how things were, no matter how much he insisted he was okay with it.  I knew what he wanted, but fuck all if I was about to play the good hubby with him!  Floor picnics?  Romantic rendezvous?  Flowers?  Declarations of love?  I might as well chop off my dick and change my name to Brianna, if any of those crazy things start to appeal to me!

Sometimes, though, I can't help but to think that it may have been worth it to bend at least a little bit.   


 

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