Introduction:
I suspect the reason that there are so many stories about these two post-5.13 is that it is not the ending we wanted, however necessary it may have been, but more importantly, we see Brian at the crossroads of a life that is very different from the one he had been living before. Many of the anchors in his life-Gus, Lindsey, Justin, and even Michael in some ways, are now absent, and it would be all too easy for him to abandon the lessons he's learned and return to a place similar to where he started. What motivates him not to retreat? What would instigate regression? That is what this story, and Brian's, is all about. However, while this story will begin with a trope, I hope you'll see that it is hardly the primary motivator at all.
This story is set in the very recent past- before the Marriage Equality Decision, which I think is too historic for me not to weave it in. It changed the character of this story so much I had to stop and rewrite.
The air conditioner was the source of a dull, deafening racket. He rolled a few words in his mouth, but he was caught somewhere between anger, shock, confusion and the tolerance he had been building with himself for this inevitable, albeit it, early outcome. He thought, "What the fuck happened?" He thought, "It didn't happen. There's a mistake."He thought, "How do I fix this?" and "You aren't usually early for things, why this?"and "Gus" and "Everybody dies." He said, "Ok," and "Let me call you back," but did not wait for a response.
"The Pittsburgh Pretzel company called again. They want to know if could do some market research for a charitable tie-in, like the "Pink for Breast Cancer" business. Pink pretzels? I wouldn't eat them. I sent it over to Liam, but they want to meet at the end of the week so…"
Brian watched as Ted stampeded into the room, without so much as a hello or any eye-contact, so fixated on the task at hand. Normally, Brian would have made light of Ted's dalliance with methamphetamine and the permanent scar it left on his mannerisms, especially in response to stress, but even as he thought this idly to himself, he found himself more concerned with Ted's left shoelaces, undone. The chatter was muted anyway, underneath the roar of the air conditioning.
Ted, pausing for breath, looked up to see Brian looking at his shoe, crouched down and proceeded to tie it. "Sorry, thanks. Are you ok?" he continued, tying his shoe quickly so that he could resume flipping through his folders. He eyed Brian cautiously as his put the pertinent article in front of Brian, "Just need some signatures for the Yoder account."
Brian put his pen down, deliberately, and considering his response. His throat thickened as he attached her name to words like Cancer, Sudden, Aneurysm.He swallowed them, leaving only her name behind. "Lindsay," he said, "Mel just called."
Ted's response did not even register- just a disjointed, spew of desperate denial diarrhea- written in the muted rhythm of his speech, and the jerky motions of his lips. A younger Brian would have held this display with disdain. He, however, had very recently participated in the exercise. Instead, he regarded Ted with passive curiosity as his voice thickened, color rushed to his face, water to his eyes, and he found himself envying the man. Somewhere in the distance, he heard, "I'll call Mel and see if she needs us to do anything up for her," and "I am so sorry, Brian."
XXX
Michael was sitting at the foot of his door, already two inches deep in a bottle of liquor, thumbing his phone awkwardly through the tears. He made no attempt to hide them as Brian exited the elevator door, "I thought I was special, Mikey. You drunk dialing everyone this evening or just me?"
Michael laughed half-heartedly, and scrambled clumsily to his feet, embracing Brian, bottle still in hand. Only then did Brian feel the tears come, but he stubbornly resisted, squeezing his friend tighter and standing strong for him...Like I will have to do for Gus, he thought.
Inside the loft, and into bottle number 2, Michael and Brian sat on the floor beneath his sofa. They talked, Michael cried, they drank, and Brian listened. They discussed the indignity of how Lindsay's parents intended to fight Mel over her body and memorial services, because anger was easier than grief. They even had a moment of levity, over Michael's crass realization that they would both have more time with their children with Mel moving back to Pittsburgh. Mostly, though, the two sat in silence, punctuated occasionally by the concerned texts from Ben, who was trapped in an airport, awaiting the next available flight out from the conference he was attending in Texas.
At some point, Brian was lulled by the silence into slumber, and only after his equilibrium was disrupted by slouching forward, did he wake to find Michael almost obsessively turning a folded piece of paper in his hands. The ink was starting to seep through the other side from the oil on his skin. "Mel had me call people here in Pittsburgh- she gave me a list," he confessed, obvious guilt written on his face, "She said after the horror of Lindsay's parents, you and I were the best she could do for now. It was horrible- I didn't know what to say, and every word hurt like I was killing her myself. I tried practicing…" Michael tried to discreetly brush away a tear, but it landed on the paper, and he rubbed a disintegrating corner into his hand, "I keep thinking, will I have to do this for Ben one day? Or for you?"
Brian wiped his own face with his hands to stir himself to wakefulness, and pulled his friend onto his shoulder. With his spare hand, he took the last drink from the bottle carelessly lying on its side between them. He sniffled under the guise of bourbon burn, "Ben is still here, and so am I. You're all done now, Mikey. Let's go to bed."
Brian felt Michael shake his head against his shoulder, and offer him the list, "There's still one name left. It needs to come from you."
XXX
He knew the name before he even unfolded the list.
What would I even say?It had been 5 years since they spoke last, worn down by demanding careers, distance, and a disinterest in the drama that resulted from trying to keep their candle lit in infrequent, desperate couplings and increasingly frustrated phone calls.
Fuck. Brian threw the list on the counter, paced in front of the bar, hands on hips, face wrenched in a determined look. He willed it to give him the answer, the same way he often did with his advertising ideas.
Goddamn it.For the better part of 5 years, Brian thought he had successfully numbed, compartmentalized and moved beyond his adventure with romance. He moved uneventfully back into a pattern of back room hookups, although at a much reduced frequency. Between the club and Kinnetik, he was too busy to be bothered- at least that's what he told himself. It was more palatable than alternatives like an aging-related decline in his virility or desirability, or the scars left behind by his first and last foray into a relationship.
Pathetic. Brian milled around the kitchen, opening cabinets to scrounge for a joint, a drink or anything to numb the impending misery of the task at hand. Of course, he and Michael cleaned out the place the night before. He settled for a hit from the world's littlest roach, and turned back in the direction of the list.
Fuck. "Sonny boy, Lindsay's gone. Call Ted if you want the memorial service information. Oh, and can I give away that Palace I bought you to Mel and the kids?. Great. See ya."
No. "Sunshine, how've you been? Great. You remember Lindsay had cancer? She died suddenly from an aneurysm yesterday. You comin' in for the funeral? Gonna need you to sign some papers to give away the mansion while you're in town."
Or, he could go with the usual, "What are you wearing?"
Fuck it. Brian picked up the receiver with determination, and rapidly punched in the numbers before he had an opportunity talk himself out of it.
Ring.
Ring.
Just my luck the fucker doesn't pick up.
"Taylor-Harris residence. Shawn speaking!" the exceptionally perky, annoyingly male voice answered. Fuck.
He made no effort to disguise his disdain. "Justin Taylor, please."
"May I ask who is speaking?" the man replied with the same tone of a super helpfulreceptionist.
"Tell him it's Brian." He was tempted to lie, but somewhat relieved at the notion that he could thrust this responsibility on someone else if Justin refused to speak to him.
The super-helpful receptionist departed. "What do you want?" It was almost funny. Clearly, Brian had threatened Shawn in the course of their one and only meeting. Brian had shown up as a surprise to one of Justin's art shows, conveniently hunting for real estate for offices for Kinnteik New York that weekend. Shawn had been the reason he immediately stopped searching.
"To speak with, Justin, please. It's important."
"He's not here, right now. I'll tell him to call you back."
"You know what? Don't bother. Tell him…" his voice thickened with cowardice. This was not the way to do things. He knew better, "Tell him… it's about Lindsay, and that it's urgent."
"Lindsay?" the voice on the wavered, "One second." In the background, he heard dogs barking as the super-helpfulreceptionist shouted, "Babe! Phone!"
"So he is there."
"That's not news I'm interesting in delivering. Here, he is!"
"Hello? Justin speaking." The voice was warm, and strange, and familiar, and wrenching with the weight of emotional baggage and the news he had to deliver. Predictably, he shielded himself with apathy.
"What are you wearing?"
"Really? What do you want, Brian?" The warmth dissipated quickly.
"Did you lose your sense of humor in your old age, sonny boy?" Brian bit back the remark, but it was already out of his mouth. Way to set the tone, Kinney.
Brian could hear Justin sighing with aggravation. He imagined the way his hair would fall over his eyes, and he'd punctuated the noise with the smallest shake of his head.
Reflexively, Brian rolled his lips together, trying to fight the fire of dread rising in his torso. He cleared his voice, "Lindsay," he stated, as if he could be sufficient. In truth, his voice was already cracking.
"I don't have time for riddles right now, Brian. What about Lindsay? She was just here last weekend helping us plan the…"
Brian interrupted, unwilling to learn anymore details of Justin's NewLife™- details he already knew, but didn't want to hear directly. That made them real. That made the permanence of the distance between him and Justin, real, and not just an obstacle to be negotiated.
Instead, combatting the creeping dread working its way through his eyes and his fingers and his throat and his cheeks, he delivered with classic Kinney dispassion: "It was sudden. An aneurysm related to her treatment." He cleared his voice a second time, swiping the tears from his eyes with a gesture intended to convince himself he was just tired. He would not crack. Not now. "There are some issues moving the body back to the United States, so we haven't scheduled the memorial yet. I'll have Ted call you when we know something more."
"Oh, my god." Justin's response was breathy with shock. After a few moments, pregnant with tension and shared grief, he continued, "Thank you for calling, Brian." As if I was letting him know his dry-cleaning was ready to pick up.
"Justin, wait- there's one more thing."
In the background, he heard Harris's concerned inquiry: "Are you ok? What happened?" Like he didn't already know Brian was delivering bad news… He imagined them sitting together on a colorful couch, perhaps flecked with paint stains- remnants of the wet paint Justin often wore home, and then threw carelessly onto nearby furniture. Shawn with his arm around Justin, using the guise of comforting him to eavesdrop… He needed no more incentive to hang up. He wished he could hang up.
Justin sniffled a reply, "Anything." The word hung in the air between them, and Brian thought of a million requests instead of the one he needed to make. Leave the fairy. Take your shirt off. Tell me how you have been for the last five years. But mostly, Come home.
"The house," he finally speaks, "I'd like to give it to Mel and the kids."
"You still have it?" Justin sounds surprised. Clearly he has never checked his credit report.
"It's in both of our names. I can fax over the paperwork for you to review, but it'll be easier if we can all sit down with your mother and sign it over to Melanie. Maybe sometime after the memorial, when things are not so.."
"Yea, of course," Justin cuts him off, and he can hear Shawn prattling on in the background again. He's had enough.
"See ya, Sunshine," he replied lamely, and put the receiver down. At least this time, I got to hang out first, he congratulated himself. Pathetic.