Title: Bearing the Burden

Disclaimer: I don't own Queer as Folk.

In retrospect, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when I came home to find him cooking at my stove. Fixing me soup. After I'd made it, in my opinion, more than clear that I wanted him gone. After I'd literally thrown him out the door. After all, throwing him out has never had much of an effect before, so I probably shouldn't have expected anything different this time. Stubborn asshole.

I heard the scraping of the ladle against the metal of the pot he was using almost the second I walked inside the door, and without even having to check, I somehow knew it would be him. The twat could just not leave me to suffer in peace. All I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and die, and now I was going to have to deal with him, which was practically guaranteed to be all kinds of exhausting.

Sure enough, there he was, standing resolutely in front of me as I knew he would be, unable to ignore. As always. Refusing to leave or back down, something that I simultaneously admired and hated about him. And he was telling me that he didn't care what I wanted, offering me soup, and... didn't I make it clear that I wanted him out of here? The thing that really got me was that he wasn't asking me to let him stay, he was essentially telling me that he was staying, whether I liked it or not. It surprised me, though I wasn't sure why. Justin had always done whatever he wanted, regardless of what other people told him to do.

I underestimated him, though. His strength. He'd always been stronger than I had, even if I sometimes overlooked that fact...or at least pretended to. He was emotionally superior, and had been, I realized, for a long time.

And now, with me hurting and weak and in less than perfect health, he was stronger physically, too. Something I had the misfortune of discovering when I tried to bodily remove him from my space, and subsequently ended up with my ass on the floor.

But if I had underestimated him, then he had overestimated me. Me and my strength. My ability to hold my own, as I always had done. He hadn't meant for me to end up hunched over on the ground, and was almost immediately at my side, swearing at his miscalculation and concern weighing in his words, asking for assurance that I was okay.

I snapped at him that I was all right. Hadn't that always been my default answer for everything? I was all right. I was fine. Untouched. Untouchable. Always making sure I was safe from the world, that nothing could hurt me. It had never occurred to me what I'd do if the pain came from the inside. If the damage was wreaked from within me. I could try my absolute best to shut out the world, live in my own personal bubble where there was only pleasure, no pain. But whenever I thought I had finally succeeded, had finally secured every weak spot, there would always be times like these to remind me in the cruelest way possible that reality has a way of leaking back in...through the unsealed cracks, under the wire...and then it was in.

Just like him.

He, for one, didn't buy my icy answer that I was 'fine' for a second. He knew better, always had. So I snapped at him again.

What the fuck had I been thinking?

I suppose I had been thinking that he wasn't him. That he was just like Michael or Lindsay or one of the countless other people who would take what I threw at them, accept it as a part of knowing me, and deal with it.

But he was not Michael or Lindsay or anyone else. He was Justin Taylor. The one person who had never been content to just let me be.

Again, I really shouldn't have been surprised.

I could do nothing but listen as he yelled right back at me. I knew, though I didn't want to admit, that I deserved it. I deserved being called a motherfucking piece of shit. I had been a shit to him. Again. And I deserved to have to hear the pain in his voice, and see it written on his face, as he let everything out. And I deserved to have to hide the slight hurt at hearing him confess that he'd had plenty of better reasons to leave me if he'd wanted to.

"Maybe you should have." It wasn't the first time the sentiment had been spoken. Not even the first time it had been spoken by me. It wasn't the first, and would not be the last time that someone knew that somewhere along the line, he should have left me, given up and let me drown myself the way I knew best. Like everyone else had done.

But it was the first time he agreed.

"Yeah, maybe you're right."

The words didn't sound hostile. They didn't sound as though he was now regretting his decision to stay. They sounded...accepting. Like maybe he really knew he should have left, but simply didn't care. Like he didn't care what he should have done, only cared that he was here and that was where he was staying, whether he was doing the right thing or not. Whether I wanted him to or not. And honestly, I think we both knew full well what I really wanted.

"But I thought we had a commitment...and I plan to stand by it..."

I was too preoccupied with the current tirade being directed at me to realize that he had actually said the word 'commitment,' and I hadn't even flinched. When did things get so far that he could say these kinds of things without me saying a word? When did things get this fucking deep?

I may be an asshole, but I know when I deserve to pay for it. And so I didn't say anything. Just let him continue with his angry ranting, taking it all in as he lashed out. And when he yelled at me to get my ass back in bed, I moved, almost in a trance, my feet carrying me without really being aware of obeying.

He brought the chicken soup in to me, insisted on feeding it to me even as I insisted that I feed myself. Blame it on being sick and tired, but rather than waste energy arguing, I consented and let him raise spoonful after spoonful of hot soup to my mouth. I ate as much as I could stomach, then pushed it away. He seemed to understand without me saying anything, and following my example, didn't say a word either, as he set aside the bowl and climbed into bed next to me.

I'm not sure how it happened—all of this seems to be taking place inside some kind of foggy haze where I can't quite muster the energy to feel what I'm supposed to feel, or do what I know I need to do—because now I'm laying here, with my head on his chest, as he holds me. Not me holding him. Not me pulling him close and protecting him and making things better for him, but him doing all those things for me. It's actually...it's a new feeling. And one that I'm hesitant to admit isn't all that bad. His body is warm, and the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes is somewhat soothing, as gentle artists' fingers trace patterns into the skin of my back. Sue me if I sound like a lesbian, I'm...fuck, I'm sick, I'm hurting, and miserable...right now I don't really fucking care how dyke I sound. Christ, I'm miserable, and he's making me feel better, so I don't care.

He's running his fingers through my hair, and his other arm is around my back, and it's comfortable. I'm still aching, physically, but for the first time since...hell, since I was diagnosed, I feel comfortable.

And...and I'm sure this is the illness talking, but...I'm actually...shit, touched. Touched that he's here, even after I told him he wasn't welcome. Wasn't wanted. He's still here.

I raise a heavy head when I hear him sniff. "Justin..." I say quietly. This...this I can handle. This is territory I'm familiar with. If I can turn it around and make it about him and not me, I can handle it. "Maybe you should stay at Daphne's tonight..."

"No," he snaps immediately. "I'm not fucking going anywhere, so shut the fuck up."

Surprised, affronted, and a little impressed, I let my exhausted head fall back to his chest.

"This...is how it works, okay?" he says after a moment. His voice is soft, and I can feel the vibrations in his chest under my cheek. "I take care of you. You take care of me. No matter how bad it gets."

I try to nod, but my head hurts and it's heavy and I don't bother.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" he's not really asking. More like wondering aloud. I know and he knows perfectly well the logic (or lack thereof) behind my reasoning.

"Because," I answer, and as hard as I try to keep the grogginess out of my voice, I know he can still hear it. I can too. "I didn't want you to get all 'Novotny' on me, and start worrying your ass off and driving me up a fucking wall."

His body jerks as he gives a small chuckle, but then he sniffs again.

"Hey..."

"Hmm?"

I close my eyes, suddenly too tired to keep them open. "That night, you said you had food poisoning...?" I let the unfinished question hang suspended in the open air.

"Yeah," he admits. So, he knew then. And he tricked me into coming back here with him, for him... for me. Because he knew I wouldn't do it on my own, for myself.

"Justin?"

"Yeah?"

"What the fuck are you doing?" I mutter, the words a little slurred. I'm barely moving my lips, barely moving at all, just sinking further and further into this peaceful, painless oblivion with him.

"What?"

"What the fuck are doing?" I repeat. I don't have the energy at the moment to yell or even be angry. But I want to know. "Why are you doing this? Do you not know what cancer means? Is that it? Or what...you feel guilty?" I try to guess.

He takes his time to answer. His chest has stilled beneath me, and I realize he's holding his breath. Finally, he speaks. "I'm here," he says slowly. "Because I want to be here. With you."

"Why the fuck would you want to be with a one-balled wonder?" I say before the thought crosses my mind not to, some of the harshness returned to my voice. I can't help but think it almost sounds like me again. Fuck, I hate this. I truly, physically hate everything about this.

"Don't say that," he reprimands just as harshly. "Having one ball doesn't change anything. You're still the arrogant, self-absorbed asshole you've always been," he says, in an embarrassingly transparent attempt to lighten the mood.

If I wasn't so drained, I might've been able to think up some witty retort to that. Instead, I just manage a small, but no less sarcastic "Thanks."

His arms tighten a little around me, and I feel his lips press against my forehead. His way of saying all the words he knows I don't like to hear.

"You don't owe me anything, Justin. There are no—"

"—Locks on our doors," he finishes for me. "I know." His voice is a whispered assurance, and for the first time since...what? Since finding out about the cancer? Since the bashing? I don't even remember, but...for the first time in a long time, I allow a tear to escape my closed eyelids. I feel it streaking down my cheek before Justin reaches down to catch it. And he catches the next one. And the next one.

I don't know who was the first to stop crying long enough to sleep. I don't remember how long we stayed there, the hurt and the comforter, the weak and the protector, with neither one of us really fulfilling either role...not truly. It's an equal trade off of sorts. We take turns carrying the load, until the other gets tired, then we step up and take it upon ourselves for awhile, until it's time to hand it back. As Justin had said, it was how it worked.

Lying there, finally beginning to surrender to the blissful respite of sleep, I realized I no longer minded bearing his burden for him. And hell, he'd practically pried mine from my fingers. Feeling him breathing under me, his heart beating reassuringly against my cheek, I wondered if I'd ever had a choice in the matter. I was beginning to doubt it. He was around for as long as he wanted to be. If he chose to stay, he would, no matter what I had to say about it. A deal was a deal, a commitment was a commitment.

A promise was a promise.

At least one of us remembered.

A/N: Review, please?