Reverberations

Chapter 16

I can't believe it when I'm woken up in the morning by the alarm. It's Saturday, for fuck's sake!

But then Brian's sitting up saying all too fucking chirpily, "Rise and shine, Sunshine. Places to go, reporters to meet with."

And that's when things start to come painfully into focus. I groan and force my eyes open. He grins at me, running his hands through his hair, which makes the whole bed head thing worse than ever. And it's so damned unfair that it just makes him look even sexier. Before I can jump his bones, he's out of bed and heading for the shower. I follow him, but as I do, the enormity of everything that's going on suddenly hits me and I come close to panic, feeling like my life is getting away from me.

I think about the interview I did with that guy Chris last night, and I get the shakes. Mainly I guess that’s because of the dreams that haunted me all night. Nightmares, really. Stupid things like turning up for this breakfast thing this morning and finding Chris Hobbs waiting for me. And dancing with Brian at Babylon, while falling all around us, instead of glitter, there were showers of body parts and blood, and yet we just kept dancing, like that was totally normal. None of the dreams were bad enough for me to wake up screaming the way I used to do. But they’ve left me feeling exhausted; and not ready to face a real world that includes making a fool of myself in some dumb interview. Part of me wants to rush downstairs and grab a paper to see if last night’s effort is in today and find out the worst; but the other part of me wants to hide, wants to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head and just stay there until all this goes away.

But that's totally stupid and I know that. So I pull myself out of bed to head into the bathroom, and get into the shower. Maybe what I need is just...

He's standing there, all slippery-wet and beautiful, and when I join him, he gives me one of his slow smiles and then scrunches down to look into my eyes.

For some reason, that nearly brings me undone.

I wrap my arms tightly around him and press myself against him, almost as if I'm trying to crawl inside him. His arms wrap around me, and I feel better. I draw his head down so I can reach his lips and kiss him desperately. He pulls back a little, and peers into my eyes again. I feel mine starting to sting. He raises an eyebrow, and I want to gulp out, "Don't let us lose this. Please, Brian. You have to promise me that no matter what happens, you won't let me lose you."

I don't though. I can't. I can't be such a total pussy. I want to be his partner, his equal, want him to treat me like a man, so I have to be one. I can't find any way to tell him what I'm feeling; how I feel like I'm teetering on the brink of some huge torrent that's going to sweep me away from him, how scared that makes me. I press harder against him, and find myself breathing, "Please."

He gives me a long look, then he smiles.

For a moment I think he's going to say something, then he just pulls his lips in and I know the moment's lost. But he kisses my forehead gently, letting his lips flutter down over my eyes, my cheeks, until they find my mouth in a kiss so tender it nearly breaks my heart.

"What do you want?" he purrs.

"You," I tell him. Which is the truth in so many ways that even I don't know which one I mean right in that moment.

He pulls back and gives me another of those intent looks, and it feels like he's looking right into my soul.

"I'm here," he says seriously. And I know that he's answering all of the truths at once and I can hardly breathe for a moment, because I believe him. He isn't going to go looking for some cliff to throw me off. He's planning on us being together through all this. And that is so fucking amazing that I can't find words to express what it means to me.

All I can do is try to show him. So I grab his head and bite at his lips, sucking his tongue into my mouth.

I feel more than hear a rumble of laughter from his chest, and then he's turning me round and even as he does, I realize that I'm hard and for a while at least everything else fades away while we thrust and slide, and it's all heat and need and it's fucking wonderful.

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Brian

We get out of the shower and I decide to let him figure out what to wear while I go down to get a newspaper. Might as well find out now, while I'm here to spin things, what bullshit they've published. He's on the verge of a major queen out and I can feel it. Maybe that's why, when I sit down to pull on my boots, I hear myself saying, "There's something I want to do before we get on the plane for Chicago."

"Sure," he shrugs, trying to decide between two boring as shit fucking checked shirts. Christ! After all this time you'd think at least the basics of fashion sense would have rubbed off on him. I reach past him and pull out an ivory cable knit sweater that makes his eyes glow and his skin take on a soft rich luster like honeyed cream.

"It's a house," I manage to get out before my self censor can kick in.

He lets go of the shirts that he's still clutching and turns to stare at me. Well, that's given him something to think about beside whatever shit had the gerbils scurrying anyway. He looks completely fucking stunned for a moment. Then he gives a sort of gasp and shakes his head.

"Brian," he says, voice all thick with emotion, silly twat. "Brian, I don't need a house."

He shakes his head again, drops of water flicking everywhere.

I pick up my discarded towel and rub it over his head for a moment; then I pull it away so he can see my face when I say, "We need a house. Well... somewhere bigger than this, anyway."

I swallow and force the next words out. "If we are going to ... you know.. do something ... about Gus ..."

Despite myself, my voice completely dies on me then.

Fuck! Why the fuck did I start this now? Why did I start it at all? But ...

He seems to get the message I was trying to give him anyway, because that deer in the headlights look that he's had since he woke up is gone. And he's right back with me. Him. Justin. The one that every other fucker thinks is the soft touch in this whatever the fuck we have.

Partnership.

That's what we have.

And this is the reason.

"Brian," he starts.

Then he stops. And nods.

"Whatever..," he says. "Whatever it takes," he promises.

Then he takes my face between those amazing fucking hands of his, those magical hands that can create beauty and passion out of nothing, that can even turn me into something resembling a decent human being, and says into my eyes, "We'll make it happen, Brian. It might take a while, but we'll find the way to make sure you have rights to your son."

I try to look away, but he won't let me, so I close my eyes. Then I open them again and let them meet his. I let myself hope. I let myself believe ... in him, if in nothing else.

And I let him see it.

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Justin

He heads off to get the paper then, and I finish getting dressed and make the coffee. But my mind is ... everywhere.

Up, down, sideways.

At first, I tried to put all the things that Brian has said and done in the last few days down to the bombing.

But it's finally sunk in that ... he means it. He wants it. He wants us. Me. He wants me. Not just here ... sharing his loft, his bed. He wants me to share his life. He's doing everything he can to make me see that.

Even mentioning the thing with Gus is huge. Letting me see, really see, how badly he's hurting, how scared he is ... that's ...

My head is reeling from how much that means.

And the house ...

Brian - the Brian I think I know, the one I've lived with for five years, more or less, on and off, that Brian - he might have gone ahead and bought a house ... if that's what he thought he needed to do at the time.

But he wouldn't have involved me. He just would have gone ahead and done it.

But he - this Brian, this Brian that I suddenly recognize as the Brian I've known he was all along, or could be - this Brian has told me what he's thinking of doing. And why. And he's set it up for us ... us ... to go and look at the place first. Before he buys it. So I can feel that he at least values my opinion.

That's ...

Despite all the traumas and terrors and excitement of the last week ... suddenly I want to dance. And sing. And shout from the rooftops that 'Brian Kinney loves me!'.

And I want to send a letter to all our friends to tell them, 'He's made it! He's fucking done it! We've done it! We're fucking partners. Honest to God fucking partners!'

But really, that last part, that's ... that's something no one else needs to know. As long as I know. And I do now. I really do know how Brian feels about me. And I ...

When he gets back I'm sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging my legs with a silly smile on my face. If he'd got back two minutes earlier he'd have found me standing on it, shouting in a deafening whisper to the empty loft, "Take that, you fuckers! Now back the fuck off and leave us alone!"

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Brian

When I walk back in clutching what I suspect might turn out to be a time bomb, he's sitting on the fucking counter smirking like that damned twink I found one night outside Babylon. For a moment, it crosses my mind how fucking amazing it was that I happened to walk out at just that moment, and see him standing there looking like ...

He looked like a chicken hawk's wet dream.

But the weird thing is ... I've never been into chicken. Juicy boys don't do it for me. Never have. I like red meat, lean and slightly mean, with enough experience to hopefully make them not a dead fucking loss. Most nights, I wouldn't have given him a second look. Or maybe ... if it had been any other twink ...

How the fuck do I know?

Right now, I have other things to worry about. Like whether seeing himself on the front page of the home town newspaper is going to send him into another fucking tailspin.

He grins at me, all wide eyed enthusiasm now, reminding me even more of that boy who used to claim so loudly that he was onto me. Maybe he was right. Looks like he's onto me well enough today to at least get him past some of his jitters.

"Did you read it yet? What does it say?"

I shake my head. "Thought I'd save it to read with you," I tell him and damned if that doesn't make him light up even brighter.

He reaches out his arms and somehow I walk into the "V" of his spread knees and his arms twine around my neck and then his tongue is rubbing against mine, and for a few moments I just let things flow. Then I pull back, and hand him the paper. I've got the front page folded so he can see it straight away.

He takes it, staring like he can't fucking believe it. "Holy shit!" he says.

He slides down from the counter and turns to open the paper and spread it out. I stand beside him and his hip rubs mine as we read the article.

I'm braced to hate it and to want to kill the fucker who wrote it, but it's not that bad. It gives some info about the bombing, but mainly it concentrates on him. On how fucking surreal it was to go through that nightmare of smoke and dust and blood and pain and then, less than forty-eight hours later, be standing all scrubbed up in a pristine gallery, sipping wine and living out an artist's dream.

There are some of his thoughts about hate and bigotry, and how self defeating they are; how destructive; and how ultimately they can only turn in on themselves.

Sounds enough like his damned idealism to be close enough to actual quotes, without any fucking editorializing of what he's said.

When he's finished reading, he lets his head drop down for a moment, and then he straightens and turns to me.

"You are not going to let this fuck us up," he says.

Guess he read the last line. The one about how lucky Pittsburgh is that the bomber didn't succeed in wiping out one of its brightest young talents. And how America should feel the same way. How his talent's going to make him sought after across the world.

That one.

Looks like he really is fucking onto me. Because right now I'm wishing I'd never mentioned the fucking house. Wishing that I could just back away from anything that might put limits on what he can do, on what he can be.

I want to turn away from him, just like I've done all the times before, but .., I don't have the strength any more and he pulls me against him.

"You aren't going to let this bullshit fuck us up," he repeats, and butts his head against mine till I allow our foreheads to rest together.

"I fucking need you, Brian," he says, and when I begin to respond, he cuts me off with, "and don't give me any of your bullshit speeches, because you fucking need me, too."

Then he takes a shaky breath, and leans his head into my chest. "Don't, Brian," he says. "Just don't. Okay?"

What the fuck am I supposed to do? I wrap my arms around him and hold him close. "Okay," I tell him.

He makes a noise that might be a rather soggy snort, and gives my ass a pinch.

“You’d just better not, is all, you twat,” he says, straightening up.

He fixes his game face firmly back into place and takes a quick look at his watch.

“Fuck!” he spits. “I have to go.”

I can feel his jitters starting up again, and I don’t want to send him off to meet with another fucking reporter worrying about whether I’m going to queen out and throw him – or myself – off some fucking Kinney cliff, so I take a deep breath and say evenly, “So, after you’ve finished dazzling another member of the Press, we’ll go look at the house, yes?”

He stands and stares into my eyes for a long moment. I force myself not to look away, to let him see inside me, let him see that I have doubts, that I’m not sure this is the right thing, but that this time I’m leaving the decision about where we go next up to him.

And he does fucking see it, he really is onto me, because suddenly he lights up in a pure Sunshine smile and nods.

“Yes,” he says.

He throws his arms around me in a hug and I have to pry him off, because if I let it go on any longer he really will be late to his fucking interview.

Then I pull him back and kiss him, just to make sure that he really does get it; and then we walk out together to meet whatever else the day is going to fucking bring.

That’s when it occurs to me … Some movies end up with the hero riding off alone into the sunset, sure. But some end with him wrapped in the arms of his one true love, and them facing the future together.

I’ve always taken it for granted that I belonged in the first kind.

But maybe I was wrong.

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Justin

By the time Brian comes to pick me up, I’m almost calm again.

I’m hoping I’m calm enough to fool him, anyway. Or at least to have him think that the only thing I have the jitters over is the general shit about these stupid fucking interviews.

If he finds out before I can get him away from here just what I’ve been talking about to this woman, the kind of questions she asked, then the reporter and I are both going to be fucked and not in a good way.

What I’d really like is some time to think about what was said. Think about what she asked me, and about my reactions. And, even more, to think about the implications of how and where the interview is going to appear.

I feel kind of guilty about that. I let Brian think that this was just some color piece on a rookie artist for some local rag, when I knew it wasn’t. Sydney told me last night who I’d be talking to, what paper she was from.

I could hardly believe it at the time, but this morning Shana - the reporter - explained it all to me in a way that kind of made sense, and made sure that I went on sitting there, while my stomach was churning so much I could hardly force down even a mouthful of the breakfast. It looked good too.

Seems that now that the Democrats have control of the House of Representatives, the political agenda is changing again. And as part of that, there is a move for more and stronger Hate Crimes legislation. The Washington Post are doing a series of articles to highlight the need, looking at some of the things that have been going on all across the country. The bombing was an example of exactly the sort of thing they wanted to focus on anyway. Then, Shana said, they did some background checks on various names that came up among the survivors, and found mine. And Brian’s. Because we’d made the papers before.

The last time someone tried to kill me.

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