Improv #19: bruised, envious, reality, deadly, avalanche
He's bruised. Bruised worse that the shittiest apples from the bottom of the barrel at a farm market. Or rather, his ego is. Brian doesn'tdo jealous, nor boyfriends, nor age, or anything really, but right now…right now he's just plain exhausted.
Okay… and maybe a little envious.
Why shouldn't he be? He finally gets the guts to tell the love of his life-the fact he can admit to that alone is astonishing-that he loves him, after everything they've been through, and what happens? Some Big Apple gets his man while he gets Beam and a joint in a steel city past its prime, or in better terms, jack squat. But hey, that's life. And life happens.
Life happened the night that they met, and the time he went to New York for the first time, the Prom, Rage, and the night in his office. Life went on like the thumpa-thumpa music that queer high and low used to dance away the troubles. After all, some dance to remember, but some dance to forget.
Where was he…oh yeah. He's tired, stoned, drunk on Jim Beam and sorrow and the shadows that he just didn't notice until the sunshine left the building like some mock-up Elvis, just skinnier and with better hair. And he's tired, and jealous, and lovesick and a million other things that alcohol is perfect for hiding away. And even if it isn't, then the weed is. And the combination should do just fine.
But what do you do when the memories just don't quit? When all you can think about is his hair and eyes and body and laughter and smile? When you finally realize, that love isn't always enough. That hope can only do so much, that the beatings and suffering and heartbreak have to end eventually, except that they don't. And that'sreality.
And reality is staring out the loft windows for the last time, listening to his latest voicemail on a loop inside your fucked-up, stoned, piss-drunk mind.
Hey Bri. I found an apartment today. It's a lot better than the last one. I swear that some of the stuff on the walls there weredeadly. So, how are you doing? And don't bullshit me either, Brian Kinney. Tell everyone I said hi. Oh, Lindz and Mel called today. They said that Gus and JR are getting along okay, even though it's only been a few weeks. I wish I could say the same for me. Miss you.
And he doesn't know what's worse. The fact that he somehow keeps dragging that boy, man-child, magnificent and beautiful person down with him, or that he's waxing all poetic and lesbonic. Which doesn't happen unless he's i really /i stoned. Which means that he should probably stop. He could see Justin's face if he did something stupid and overdosed. A mix of what-the-fuck-you-son-of-a-bitch and scared shitless that he understands perfectly, having been it a few times himself.
He turns his gaze from the window, the dreary weather suiting him perfectly. Fitting him like his Armani or Prada; sleek, dangerous. He frowns as his brain registers what his eyes landed on. That Polaroid of him and Justin. And he feels the tears, the sobs, the avalanche of emotions flood him and he finally realizes that to beat life you need to let it go. Watched kettles and all that. And like boomerangs and puppies and karma, he'll come back. His prize for beating the fucked up Game of Life. And he deserves it, considering the house he grew in, and his experience that the house doesn't always win, but he will. After all, he's Brian Fucking Kinney. And he always wins.