AN: This story should not come as a surprise to anyone who's been following my tumblr the last few weeks. It was written as a one-shot but was divided due to length (I tried to end it but it wouldn't stop and suddenly it broke 20 pages and I don't know). I think Brian may be a bit too sappy, especially considering this is season 1-2 Brian, but I couldn't help myself. EDIT: name corrections

Talisman

Brian Kinney has never felt better.

The hallway is long and beige and smells like bleach. The intercom clicks on every so often but never with anything important to say. Orderlies trundle by with trolleys and don't look at him. Brian sits forgotten in the hospital and feels great.

There's a nervous energy making his limbs twitch, making his fingers skitter in his lap. He stands up because sitting suddenly won't work, he's too hyped, he needs to move. From his own metal folding chair, Michael looks up at him with concern. Are Mikey's eyes tearing? Precious.

(His own have been dry for an hour at least.)

"Where are you going?"

Brian lifts his shoulders in an expansive shrug, his coat threatening to slip. That would be a shame. Such pricey fabric on the floor.

"Brian?"

This time he disregards his best friend altogether. They've been sitting here for three hours—four hours?—without saying a word, and frankly Brian doesn't see why that ought to change. He feels as though he's on the tail-end of the biggest high off the weirdest drug, and he's been very high off a lot of very weird drugs in his life.

"Um…" Michael stands up too, because heaven for-fucking-give he misses a chance to play nursemaid. "You know, it's been a while. We could ask how he's doing…"

And now Brian doesn't feel fine, now he's fucking angry, because earnest Mikey is going to make him say it and remember. "He took a bat to the skull, how do you think he's doing?"

His first words in four hours, and he can't make them sound as livid as he'd like. There's a tremor to his voice much like the tremor in his hands.

Michael says, "Maybe he's out of surgery, at least. Come on, don't panic. People have survived worse."

"Save me the sanctimony before I puke."

"It's not sanctimony. It's the truth."

"Whatever."

"I called Ted and Emmett and everyone, by the way. As soon as we know more they're gonna come but they don't want to clutter up the hallway—"

"What, like us?" Brian laughs because his laugh is rarely friendly and usually a threat. "Neither one of us is his parents. They're not going to tell us anything. Oh, hey." He widens his eyes. "Do you think he gave me power of attorney too? Life and death at my fingertips, you know, I've really missed that."

But his sarcasm falls flat against Michael, who just stands there with soft, sympathetic eyes. Brian says, "How about you take your hopeful bullshit and go fuck yourself?" because maybe that will work. Because he was having such a nice, muddled time before. Because he won't be pitied. He won't give anyone the chance.

All Michael says is, "What, and leave you alone?"

"I'm a big boy, Mikey. I know how to clean my dick and everything. Want to see?"

Michael says patiently, "You just spent four hours staring at a wall. I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh." Brian draws his lips back, showing teeth. "Great. Lucky me."

"I know how upset you are, ok?"

"You don't know shit," Brian snaps, but not loud enough, because his ears hear other things and suddenly they're ringing with the crack of wood against bone, the thud of body striking concrete, suddenly he's sick with the smell of car exhaust and he could strangle Mikey, right here and now.

"I know that when you're really upset you get really mean," Michael says. "It's fine. But if you're trying to get me to leave you're wasting your breath. That's all."

"Get you to leave? No, stay here and let's have a party. Tell Emmett to put on a dress and Ted to bring his meth-head, you know they're always good for a laugh, and, hm, why don't we start an orgy in the emergency room? Bet they have some real hot doctors. Oh! Speaking of doctors, where on earth is—"

"In Portland," says Michael, evenly. "I've still got my ticket. I'll meet him later. And I'm staying with you tonight."

"Fine." The rage leaves as fast as it came. "Do what you want."

Michael puts a hand on his shoulder. The load there is so tremendous he can't shake it off. "Listen, it's going to be fine."

Brian ignores him.

"It is. Justin's more stubborn than you, he's not gonna…" But then Michael's face screws up with disgust, with sympathy, and he lowers his hand. "Christ, Brian," he says with his voice starting to shake, "will you take that thing off?"

Slowly, Brian touches the scarf hanging limp around his neck. His fingers land on silk first. Then blood. Strange that he doesn't remember taking it back from Justin, but here it is, sodden and heavy. It clings to his skin, clammy, moving with his breathing like it's got breath of its own.

He'd given it to Justin. He'd made the mark that made what followed.

"Justin's going to be fine. So take that off and let's, I don't know, are you hungry? You wanna get something to eat?"

That's when Brian realizes that although Michael is without a doubt his best friend, right now he hates him with a rushing fervor. Mikey is so sincere and loyal, so concerned with the rights and wrongs he finds in his crap comic books, and usually Brian appreciates that polar opposite, but not tonight. Usually he relies on that balance, that chance to point out the good in Michael for every flaw of his own, the saving grace of friendship. But not tonight.

Tonight has proven that Mikey's righteousness is bullshit, all of it, every sticky platitude. Tonight Brian knows, just like he's always known, that the world is vicious and Michael is wrong. And because he won't admit his wrongness even now, because he is so in denial, because he gave up his own happiness for Brian yet again and somehow he dares act content with his choice…because Michael is wrong Brian hates him.

Nothing lasts, nothing good, pity is an insult and self-pity a waste of time. Depending on others will get you nothing but a ring of blood around your neck.

"Brian, are you listening to me?"

Michael looks like he wants to pull the scarf off himself, and even the Brian that is nauseous looking at him doesn't want him to lose his fingers. So he leans in very close, bending to get in Michael's face, and he says loud and firm and enunciated, "Hey, Mikey? Go to Wyoming and choke on David's dick. Not mine."

There's a certain thrill in watching Michael try valiantly to keep the hurt off his expressive face. Just like there was a thrill in almost punching his father, in telling Melanie he wasn't signing any papers. In showing up late to a high school prom and turning it into his personal stage. In flaunting himself and his—but what can he call Justin? None of the usual words work, his boyfriend, his lover, his one-night-fuck, he doesn't know what Justin is but annoying, but his. And that is also a certain thrill. His to ruin, because that is his power.

Mikey doesn't get it. Mikey is short and small and built for hapless mothering; Brian is tall and sharp-edged and made of something sour. Something malformed in an expensive, black jacket. It's that malformation that lets him say horrible things to his best friend and not really care, it's that sour smell that has him feeling so delightful now. Brian at his most typical, and only Mikey could be surprised.

And again he hears the crack and the thud and the voice caught helpless around a giggle, saying, "It's the best night of my life."

Michael talking is something Brian can only half-focus on: "Trying to piss me off isn't gonna work. You called me, remember?" Which, no, he doesn't, not really. Just like the scarf around his neck, it's something that happened to some other Brian. But Michael has a hand on his and is pulling him back to the folding chairs.

Brian lets himself be pushed into his seat, and only after he's steady does Michael say, "Portland's in Oregon." Then a sigh: "And I'm still staying with you."

Brian says dully, "I know."

But it's not all bad. By now the drug-energy is riding his veins hard again, soaking him in comfortable disconnect. Like a handful of valium washed down with hard liquor. Like screwing a total stranger who never says anything and leaves after it's done. Like closing his front door on some heart-sick teenager with a mess of blond hair who didn't know shit about himself before Brian fucked him, who had the nerve to stick around.

Tonight was the prom, tonight he made a surprise visit, tonight the boy who loves him is dying with his skull cracked open and tonight Brian Kinney has never felt better.

-i-

Four things happen that make him decide to leave the hospital.

The first is the sight of Debbie rushing down the hall, her coat thrown over flowery pajama bottoms and her wig askew. "Mom?" says Michael when he sees her, getting to his feet, "I told Uncle Vic to tell you not to come until we knew…"

Debbie cuts him off with one of her bone-crushing hugs. "Sunshine's in the hospital and you think I was gonna wait at home?" she shrills. "He's practically my son! I helped convince him to go to that stupid prom!"

"I know, I know, but Mom, it's not like we can see him right now anyway."

"That doesn't matter," she says. "We need to be here for him." She finally releases Michael and takes a step back, turning to run her eyes over Brian. He knows she's never quite liked him—being resigned to his existence isn't the same thing—so it's disconcerting to be given her kindness. "Oh, honey," she says softly, reaching out to pat his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Brian jerks away from her touch. He grabs the scarf to keep it secure and Debbie and Michael both blanch, but Debbie is faster to force a watery smile. "Vic's parking the car," she says. "I would have driven us both into a tree."

"Mom, does Uncle Vic have a license?"

"What does that matter?" She's pacing now, settling into the crisis, devising her strategy. "He still knows some of the doctors in this place, I figure maybe one of them might tell him something. You know, be a contact."

"He knows the AIDS doctors, not the…the brain surgeons."

Debbie's face crumples, although she does her damndest to hide it. "Still," she says, but after a moment she sinks into one of the folding chairs. "Jesus," she whispers. "Oh, Sunshine."

No one says anything. Brian studies the wall, hackles rising. He is absolutely finished with the color beige.

"How," Debbie begins, stops, takes a breath and starts again, "How bad is it, Brian? Was he, was it a direct hit or just…? Because the head can take more than you'd think, it's true, I dropped Michael once when he was a baby and…"

"Mom," Michael says. "I don't think he wants to talk about it right now."

The man who's been reduced to he looks from mother to son and then back to beige. Debbie tries another smile. "Of course, sweetie," she says. "You're right." She stands to fuss with Michael's jacket collar; he rolls his eyes but lets her. Without looking up she asks, "Have you seen his parents yet?"

"Not yet."

"His poor mother. Oh…" Debbie rubs her forehead. "To think, I was the one who told her to just accept it. That the best thing for Justin was to be out and proud! I told her he couldn't be happy otherwise!"

Michael says firmly, "You told her the truth. If he'd stayed in the closet he would have been miserable."

"He would have been safe."

"He would have been lying to himself, and it's an insult to Justin to think he'd do that. Come on, Mom. You know how brave he is."

"That's for sure," she sighs. "Going to that hellhole of a high school every day. Must have taken more courage."

Michael gives a rueful grin. "Yeah, I used to just skip class."

Debbie straightens her wig, features hardening. "Well, no use standing here wringing our hands," she says. "We'd better make plans."

That's when Brian gives up on the wall and turns his paint-stripping gaze on her. "Make plans?" he echoes. It's the first thing he's said since she's gotten here and immediately Michael looks worried.

Debbie nods. "We've gotta track down the doctors, don't we? Get some goddamn answers instead of standing around in the hallway like a bunch of lumps. What good are we to Justin out here? And I want to talk to the police, find out what they're doing with that homophobic prick who did this. I'd like to go at his head with a baseball bat!"

She falters when Brian rolls his eyes, but Debbie rallies quickly: she always has. "And as for you," she says, and again she offers him kindness and again he doesn't know what to do with it besides throw it in her face. "You come with me. Vic's got a change of clothes for you in the car. And I don't want to hear any bullshit about them not being fancy-shmancy high-end labels, you hear? Take off that scarf and we'll get you sorted out."

That's when he turns and walks away. But he doesn't make it more than five steps down the hallway before the second reason arrives to stop him: Daphne, still in her prom dress, utterly hysterical. She sees Brian and careens into him, her skinny arms wrapping around his waist; he stands stiff and shocked, arms out to either side. He hasn't been seriously hugged by a girl since college, when Lindsey had too much to drink.

Something churns in his stomach and he pushes Daphne off, rougher than he should have. She's too upset to notice.

"Chris Hobbs!" she gasps at him. "That scumbag!"

Brian wonders, who told her? Michael? Who the fuck even has her number?

Then Debbie comes up, her mothering a blessing for once. Daphne lets herself be hugged, calmed down, and doesn't notice when Brian takes a step back from the whole mawkish tableau. "The police called," she says, sniffling. "They wanted to know when was the last time I saw Chris tonight. If they were fighting earlier. Whether…" Her voice cants upward with anger. "Whether Justin came on to him or something."

Debbie goes as red as her hair. "What the fuck would it matter if he did?"

Brian curls his left hand into a fist and presses his knuckles into the wall, very gently. "He didn't," he says.

"Of course not, honey, but even if he did, that doesn't mean he deserved to be attacked. He's gay! He's allowed to flirt. Because this Chris Hobbs kid can't take a compliment he gets an excuse to try and murder someone? For shit's sake, Justin could have—"

Brian decides he's being quite reasonable when he lifts his hand away from the wall long enough to punch it. His knuckles burn, Daphne squeaks and Debbie finally shuts up. "He. Didn't," Brian tells them, and traces the dent he's made in the plaster.

Everyone's staring at him, but he's used to that. Doesn't bother him a bit.

"Chris Hobbs didn't have any excuse," Michael says, speaking warily, as if Brian is going to leap out and bite him. "We all know that."

"Um, Brian." Daphne reaches out a hand he doesn't take. "The cops said you were the reason Chris didn't run off. You broke his leg."

(The force of the blow ran all the way up his arms while Chris Hobbs sobbed curses, and Brian wanted to crush his face in until his brain ran out his ears but the motherfucker was mewling like a frightened kitten and he couldn't remember where he'd thrown the bat and Justin—)

"Should've broken his head," mutters Debbie, but she sounds grimly satisfied.

Michael asks, "Brian, you talked to the cops too, right? What'd they ask? Did they say if…hey, where are you going? Brian?"

He stops at the end of the hall, spinning around so that his coat flares open. Everyone sees the blood splattered down his front from chest to thigh. He makes sure of it. "Am I allowed to go to the bathroom by myself? Is that ok with everyone? Or would you rather if Mikey held my hand?"

Brian starts walking again without waiting for an answer, leaving a trail of fallen faces in his wake, and really, what the fuck were they all expecting? Suddenly he's supposed to be the widow in mourning, clutching sleeves and rending garments? Who shall he wail with first, little Daphne or Michael's mom?

Since when does Brian Kinney grieve?

He's almost strutting now, aiming for the bathroom although he has no idea where that is, remembering with pleasure the heft of the bat in his hand. It'd been heavier than he'd expected, not that he'd ever held one before, since that sports-jock-athletic bullshit had never been his scene. Bunch of 'roided, tough-guy idiots throwing balls at each other, and then wouldn't they all come skulking behind the bleachers and beg Brian for a blowjob?

Everyone's got an act. But as long as Brian gets his pleasure, who cares? Everyone's got an act except Justin, the naïve punk, refusing to lie even when his truth made him unhappy, thinking he was in love just because Brian knew how to make him cum.

Brian knows how to make everyone cum, and that's not an act either. Doesn't Justin get it?

So busily is he fuming that he walks right into the third reason, the worst reason of them all. Somehow he's standing just outside the hospital's trauma unit, and the door to the waiting room is opening, and Justin's parents are walking out.

The last time Brian saw Justin's dad he was sitting in their tacky-straight-Americana living room, rubbing his sore ribs. The man looks like he's diminished since then, his hair shot through with grey, his weight fallen off, his face cut deep with stress. Justin's mom keeps herself apart from him, apart from everything, her teary eyes unfocused and her hand shredding a lump of tissue. The way he doesn't hold the door for her, the way she doesn't expect him to, reminds Brian that Justin had said they were divorcing. Had been sullen about it. Had seen himself the center, the cause (like he always does, for everything).

Brian stands still and watches them, and after a moment they look up and see him too.

"Oh," says Ms. Taylor, like she hasn't the strength for anything else, like that one, wavering syllable must convey everything at once. He knows she sees the blood on him, her son's blood on the man who took him away. Brian's scalp starts to itch. He tastes bile and bites his lip to keep it in.

Then Justin's dad steps forward and points a nail-bitten finger in his face, and everything goes to shit.

"How dare you," the man says, his voice so glutted with emotion it stays halfway-steady. "How dare you come here? You son of a bitch. You pervert maniac."

"Stop," says his ex-wife, "stop it, please."

"I asked you a goddamn question. What are you doing here? You're the reason he got hurt at all, aren't you? Well? He wouldn't have been—flaunting himself at his own prom if you hadn't come and made him into a symbol. You turned him into a, a, you took advantage…you made him a target for all these horrible people." Mr. Taylor's eyes fill. "He was normal. He was happy. Then you came and ruined everything and now a monster's killed him. They've killed him and you're here and you don't even care."

"Stop," says Ms. Taylor again, without strength. "He wasn't happy before. You wanted him to be, you needed it. A normal, straight son. That's what you wanted."

"I wanted him to grow up! Go to college, get a job, have a family! This bastard ruined it. Took advantage of our defenseless son."

She shrieks, "He can still do all that. He's in a coma, he's not dead, and please, don't give me that crap about Justin being defenseless. He's stronger than you'll ever be, I've seen him since he left, he's…"

But the man is too wild with his own grief to listen to her desperation. He turns back to Brian and spits, "You must think this is hilarious. A big joke! Standing here pretending to be his, his you-know-what. But I've asked around, I've checked on you, Brian Kinney, you bet your ass I have. Fucking everything that moves, that's you, always adding to your conquests. Picking up strange men in bars and bathhouses and…what is Justin to you? Some silly kid with his head in the clouds. Why should you care you've ruined his life? You can get your dick sucked elsewhere."

"Oh," says Ms. Taylor, and turns her back on both of them. Buries her face in her hands. Goes silent.

"That's what these people do, sweetheart!" he calls to her, while Brian realizes he can't remember either of their names. "That's what your son was doing to this piece of filth. Being manipulated, being lied to."

"That's not fair," says Michael, suddenly there (he's always there), and Brian jumps to hear him. He sounds scared as hell, both hands opened towards Justin's father in a plea for reason. "Brian didn't lie to him, it's not his fault. He's the only reason Justin's still alive! If you could ask Justin you know he'd agree."

"But I can't ask him, can I?"

The shouting goes on and on, but Brian, who has turned his back on several conversations tonight, isn't listening. He's watching Justin's mom instead, watching her hand press to her lips, her eyes searching the hallway for something to seize. Her son, healthy? Instead they fall on Brian. She meets his gaze and mouths something he doesn't need to hear to understand.

He's given you everything. Can't you fix this?

He tightens the scarf against his throat. Ms. Taylor's gaze dims, and Brian knows one thing for sure: Justin, if he dies tonight, will never have the chance to look at him with the same disappointment. Justin, if he dies tonight, will be spared a lot of grief.

-i-

The fourth reason for Brian's abandoning the hospital is delayed. It comes three days later, amid the comings and goings of dipshits who want to pat him and tell him to be strong, amid Michael's begging for him to take a nap or a drink or a bite to eat, amid his own strong odor from sitting in the same sweat-drenched suit.

It comes after a doctor Vic knows says that Justin's vitals are steady, an optimistic sign, and offers to let Brian sit with him, for a little bit, before his parents get back from the cafeteria. After Brian takes one step into the room and sees all the tubes and all the wires and Justin's sallow, swollen, unrecognizable face. After his mind slams down around the only safe thought, which is, Fuck this, and his legs propel him back down the hall.

The fourth reason is that the same well-meaning doctor says, "It's looking better. We think he's going to pull through." Which sends Debbie cheering. Which lightens Michael's anxious expression. Which is not the same as, He'll be fine.

Which sends Brian to the exit.

In the general din no one notices him leave except Michael. Brian takes his hurt look as a caress and doesn't bother to explain.

-i-

In the soothing privacy of his loft, Brian sheds his layers.

His coat, his gloves, his suit jacket, his pants, he drops them one by one. His floor becomes a river of fabric smeared with blood. Into this sterile space he brings the grime of three days without showering, without shaving. His chin is only rough with stubble, because he never could grow a beard worth a damn.

Brian stands in the middle of the loft, naked except for the scarf. In the reflection off his fridge he recognizes his long limbs, his hips, his dark eyes, his penis hanging flaccid between his thighs. In the reflection he sees Michael's last frown and bites his lip.

"Whoever said I was a nursemaid, Mikey?" he asks. "Whoever said I'd do him any good?"

He turns his back on the reflection and runs a hand along the scarf. It's really come into its own self these last three days, become a creature of religious magnitude, a holy icon, the body and blood. It loops once around his neck and hangs down past his chest, to his hips. A bit lower and it might brush his groin—might make up for the hands that aren't here to stroke him, the mouth that isn't here to suck. Everything in Brian Kinney's life must serve a purpose.

The blood, long since dried, mars the silk in large, brown splotches. The stains scratch where they touch him.

The apartment is hushed in a clinical way, which is how he's always liked it. The furniture is all high-market, everything modern, everything sleek and streamlined. He walks over to his computer, where Justin's art supplies do not clutter his desk. He drifts to the couch, where Justin is not flopped over the side in Brian's bathrobe. He stands by the window, where Justin isn't pressed chest to glass, moaning as Brian finger-fucks him, fretting about being spotted by people on the street and then climaxing onto the windowpane anyway, blushing afterwards as he wipes off the ooze.

He takes the steps in one wide leap and stands by the bed, where Justin isn't, because Justin is in a coma. Brian squints, trying to see him lolling naked on the sheets, his smile so white and wide. Instead he sees the neck brace and the arm bruised by the IV needle. He sees the smile vanishing as Justin's head jerks backwards, his body twisting under the bat's impact.

Brian stalks to the bathroom, turns the shower knob as far to the left as it'll go, and when the water is so hot it steams he steps in without taking time to adjust. The scarf clings to him. He hasn't had sex since before the prom, so he pushes his hand between his legs, determined to break this bullshit record. The bat, the IV, these things want to distract him, but sex for Brian is almost a business transaction. As with any client, he doesn't let himself be put off.

Closing his eyes he pictures what he always does, a body kneeling before him, driven to distraction by Brian's touch. He imagines the quivers of this naked, faceless stranger, the wet mouth, the fluttering eyelids; he imagines the grip on his thighs, surprisingly strong, surprisingly demanding, the groans almost taunting; he imagines the tongue licking along his cock until he bucks his hips with impatience, and even then all he gets is a snicker.

He sees water streaming off the thin, hunched shoulders and the white smile and the teasing eyes peering up at him from underneath all that blond hair…

Brian ejaculates with a strangled sound, half-bellow and half-whine. His mind goes as white as the steam, as the cum dripping from his fingers, and for a blessed second there's no Justin and no hospital and no friends clustered silent at a bedside. There is nothing but messy, meaningless sex. The lovely nonentity. The ease of it.

Afterwards he washes himself off, steps out of the shower without reaching for a towel, grabs a bottle of scotch from a cabinet and settles himself in his most comfortable, stylish chair. He sits, dripping wet, no doubt ruining the upholstery, and rubs the soaked scarf with one hand while holding the scotch with the other. The stains haven't come out of the silk. Blood is a bitch to remove once it dries.

He drinks straight from the bottle, not bothering with a glass, taking long, slow sips. Until finally he finishes the last drop and bites his lip. Without thinking much of anything he chucks the glass bottle halfway across the room. It shatters against the floor, leaving gouges in the wood he knows he'll never bother to buff out.

If his breathing comes in smothered heaves there's no one to notice. If his eyes are red there's no one to see.