Disclaimer: Queer As Folk ain't mine. :(
Rating: PG for language
Author: D. Angel
Pairing: Justin/Brian
Summary: This is a death fic and takes place just after that episode. Justin's been bashed and it all goes downhill from there.
Author's Note: Just a little angsty I was in a mood...This isn't a 2.5 kids and a white picket fence story. I love Justin and Brian and I hope they stay together.
I discovered this after I'm not sure how long and thought what the hey, let's publish it. Please please review.
If you live through this with me I swear that I would cry for you and if you live through this with me I swear that I would die for you- Hole.
Justin walked back to the Prom, his sunshine smile brightening the deserted carpark. His hands were coiled tightly around the pure white scarf as his name echoed through the carpark. He turned; his smile fading slightly as a metal pipe hit his head with a sickening crunch. Brian sprinted towards the man; hate contorting his features as he wrenched the pipe out of the man's hand and drew back his fist, landing a satisfying blow. Brian collapsed next to Justin's crumpled body, his hands shaking as he pulled out his cell phone.
Brian Kinney. Brrr...ai...aann...Kinn...eeee. I carefully enunciate my name to the silent room. I smile, but almost immediately the smile is wiped off my face.
Brian Kinney is never amused, his laughter is never heard.
I take another drag from whatever the fuck it is that Anita loaded me with. I fumble for the white package of miscellaneous drugs. I attempt to count the pills I'm downing but I can't be fucked so I slide them into my mouth and finish it off with a scotch chaser.
Brian sat next to the still figure, carefully watching Justin's half hidden face. He closed his eyes, placing one hand to the back of his neck attempting to relax his sore muscles. Opening his eyes he let his gaze wander down to the I.V trailing from back of Justin's hand. In a uncharacteristically vulnerable gesture Brian bit his lip as he reached out to hesistantly slide his fingers up Justin's hand, he traced a finger around the needle.
Unnoticed, Justin's eyes fluttered open in response and focused on Brian. A faint smile appeared as his eyes slid closed. Brian abruptly pulled away and leaned forward, resting his head against the metal bar protecting Justin's upper body. He pulled the bar down and rested his head on the stark white bedsheets. The frown and worrylines on his face relaxed temporarily as the slow, methodic beep of the heart monitor lulled him to sleep.
An invasively loud and high-pitched drone shattered the silent room. Brian jerked awake He was shunted aside and pushed out of the room as doctors rushed in.
Chris Hobbes. Fucking Chris Hobbes. The name etched in my mind inspite of the supposedly mind numbing fog of booze and drugs. The catatonia affecting my body doesn't seem to stop my mind from seeing him swing that pipe. The booze doesn't stop me from smelling that coppery metallic tang of blood. The drugs don't stop me from thinking that it would always be my fault. A missed chance, moments past that could have made it all right.
Michael pushed open the loft door. He grimaced as the stench of the unaired, dark apartment hit him.
"Brian? God, what have you been doing?" He stared at Brian's stretched out, naked form on the floor. A spilt pack of cigarettes mingled with white pills and his hand tightly clenched an almost empty bottle of malt whisky.
"Living like you never had the guts to." His voice was harsh from disuse.
"Geez, put some clothes on would you?" Michael edged past the clutter surrounding him to get to the curtains.
"Why? Does this bother you?" Brian reached out a hand to stop Michael. He turned and stared down at Brian.
"You haven't been to work, you haven't been answering your phone. Brian, you still have a life. There are people depending on you." Brian's eyebrows raised and he stated laconically,
"Piss off Mikey, I don't give a shit."
"So, is that what you want me to tell your son?"
"When did you become so sanctimonious?" He sat up and brought the bottle to his lips Michael leant down and pulled the alcohol bottle out of Brian's grasp.
"It's been two weeks since...you haven't left this apartment in two weeks Brian. You need to get out of here. You also have to stop drinking, you stink."
"Fuck off Michael, go mother someone else."
"I'm trying to help. You shouldn't be doing this, you shouldn't be drinking and taking E or is it something worse?"
"Get a life. I don't need you trying to lead mine. Oh wait I forgot, that's the problem..."
"You are such a fucking asshole Brian."
"I know. Why don't you leave?"
"Is that what you want?" Brian looked up and for a moment the cynical, sarcastic half smile was replaced by something else. Michael recoiled, for a second Brian Kinney was laid bare. Without another word Michael walked out of the darkness and back into the sun.
I step out of the apartment for the first time in weeks. The door remains open and you can see the bottles that litter the usually immaculate floor. The odour of ashtrays full of stubbed out cigarettes and spliffs of wonderdrug linger in the air.
It's night-time but the fucking street lights still burn my eyes. I stagger to my jeep. My legs are unsteady and my hands are shaking again. Somehow I don't think it's from the drink or the drugs. I drive slowly; I don't need the cops hassling me.
Left turn, straight ahead past two traffic lights, right turn, straight ahead for three traffic lights, one left turn, a right turn and park.
I get out and my eyes are instantly drawn to the spot. In my mind's eye I can still see his limp body, I can still smell the metallic tang of his blood and I remember thinking there was too much blood, that he couldn't contain so much blood.
I reach into my pocket and bring out a white scarf. I wrap it around my neck and I lay down arranging my body in the same position as his was. How ironic it will be.
Have you ever felt like you couldn't breathe from the thoughts clouding your mind? When you're lying in bed it takes all your willpower to stay still and allow yourself to rest?
Have you ever been so scared that you can't even light a fucking cigarette? When you stand, your legs can barely support you and you feel as though you're drunk without the high?
Have you ever felt so guilty you were willing to die? Tell me, would you? And as you pick up that blade, or the gun, or the bottle of sleeping pills and vodka what goes through your mind? I'll tell you what went through mine, a sunshine smile.