A/N: I discovered this show just very recently through someone's tumblr account; they had tons of pics of Brian and Justin, and Brian caught my eye, of course. I ended up buying the entire series on DVD, and watched everything during two weeks. Anything to do with Brian had me hooked; I've always been artsy, and the darn guy actually made business look interesting, plus he's easily the most complex character, and therefore the hardest to pinpoint. I know a casual viewer of the show who called him 'the little whore,' which I thought was hilarious, though highly inaccurate. I don't think anyone who's only watched a few episodes could begin to understand him, and that is fascinating in itself. My other favorite character is Emmett. Michael's too whiny, and it took past the Pink Posse for me to be able to tolerate Justin for more than short stints.

However, I found myself very conflicted with Brian's obviously dangerous lifestyle, and once dumpster boy, Jason Kemp, was found, and Brian reassured Justin he would be fine, I kept expecting something to happen every time Brian walked alone at night, especially leaving Babylon. Since nothing ever did, and I know how life can really work, I ended up writing this. The closest the show ever came to this was when one of Brian's previous tricks punched the first Jeep right before it got rammed at the red light. Of course, that wasn't the trick, but Justin's father, but how many other guys had he been rude to? How many knew each other? How many had egos big enough that they might not let him get away with brushing them off and insulting them? People'll kill you for a lot less these days.

This is disturbing material, but I don't get highly graphic, because I don't feel it's necessary. The point of view switches with each paragraph, except Michael gets two in a row with the line break, at the 'before' and 'after' points. The timeline is iffy if you're looking to place it: maybe towards the end of Season 2, before Brian gets a new boss. Justin's fairly mature, but they're still iffy, but Ethan's not on my radar. I kept Michael's whining out of it, though he's still Brian's biggest fan, maybe to their detriment.

I HEREBY DISCLAIM.

A Not-So Perfect Life

He'd remember bits and pieces, but no more. Leaving Babylon a lot more wasted than usual, and a lot more alone, at least at first. Had somebody spiked his last drink? He'd woken up briefly in the back of the Jeep, but he definitely hadn't been alone, nor with anybody he knew, certainly not by name. He was lying on a strange floor, and somebody was keeping him there. He'd been part of orgies before, but willingly, and consciously, and he'd been neither of those things this time. Everything had gone completely strange, completely out of his control, and he could do nothing about it. He remembered needle pricks in his left arm, and a feeling of floating and being restrained at the same time, and inhaling sweet air through a mask, and leather tighten around his throat until he wasn't sure what he really remembered anymore.

Justin was at the loft when the call came in, and maybe he should've answered it, but he didn't, and he wasn't sure if he should be there or not. Hell, if Brian hadn't come back since Saturday afternoon, it was because he had somewhere else he wanted to be, and that was just fine. But now it was late Monday morning, and Brian's boss was calling to find out why the hell he hadn't come in, you always come in, you never miss work, and there's an important client or two, but if you're sick, you're sick, that's okay, because you never miss work, and maybe you just don't realize that normal people call out sick when they either can't make it in or just won't, but we know you're not like that, Brian, please, just pick up the damn phone, and let me know you're alright, of course you're alright, you're only 30 years old, you're too damn fit to drop dead of a workaholic heart attack and dammit, Brian, just call me back when you get this, because I'm worried about you. And Justin called Michael from his cell phone.

What do you mean, nobody's seen him since Saturday night? Brian never misses work, but sometimes Brian does shut off his cell phone, but nobody's heard from him? He left Babylon, alone and moody, but that's not unusual. The Jeep's not there, and it's not at the loft. Nobody's seen him. He didn't visit Gus. Hasn't been to the diner. I've locked up the comic book store, because Justin and I are going to find him if it kills us, because it will kill us if we don't. How hard is it to spot that Jeep in Pittsburgh? We hardly ever leave Pittsburgh, and Brian usually flies out when he does. Not a road trip kinda guy; more like a first-class member of the Mile High Club. Mom wants to call the police, call Detective Horvath. If we don't find him by dark, she can, but to the police chief Stockwell, Brian'll just be another missing faggot they can ignore. Justin and I know this looks bad, but we have to try. Brian leads the most dangerous life we've ever known, but he's always done it fairly safely, and fairly sober. I want to be angry, to think it's some elaborate game he's playing, but I know he would never do this to any of us. As heartless as he can seem to be, it's all an act.

The Jeep's parked outside an abandoned warehouse, and Brian's inside the building, hanging naked from the ceiling by his wrists and ankles, leather around his neck, head tilted back towards the floor where a metal loop has the other end. There are needle marks in his left arm, and he's completely unconscious. I call Horvath myself, but we're not waiting. Apparently all of Brian's abusers are at their own jobs. We should've been more cautious, but we really didn't give a shit. Justin finds Brian's tattered clothes, and we cut him down, cover him up, and bundle him out to the car. I drive to the nearest hospital while Justin cradles Brian in the backseat, and we're both half-crying in relief. Brian doesn't wake up, and we're not sure how we feel about that, but we both agree that he still looks beautiful. It could be just because we were lucky enough to find him alive, but I doubt it.

My wrists and ankles are cut to shit; I look like a desperate attempted suicide who tried to slit the ankles as well when slashing the wrists didn't work. I think I slept for two days, make that two more, so that I wouldn't wake up a deranged, dehydrated maniac. And I'm still sedated, even though I have a concussion; apparently I fought my attackers harder than I'd realized, as they dented both my head and the Jeep. I have never had a headache like this before. I have some internal bleeding, and I don't know how many rape kits they had to use: Do they use one for each attacker? Can they separate one type of semen from another? And don't even think about my as-until-now-negative-HIV status. Maybe Mikey thought it would help him understand Zen Ben better, but I'd prefer to stay far out of that club. Somehow they figured I was given four heroin shots, so now I'm being monitored for withdrawal symptoms. They're actually thinking of putting me on Methadone! But then they're giving me oxygen to clear my head, since my throat was nearly crushed; my neck looks like Mikey and Justin took turns giving me hickeys. Yeah, restraining me'll work well, Doc. It did wonders for my attackers. I really just need to get the fuck out of here. They're waiting for me to 'stabilize', which is about as likely as waiting for me to go straight. I wonder if it was the same fuckers who burglarized my loft. Rumor has it that it was a bunch of guys that wanted a repeat performance that I never give. They actually liked me so much that they felt compelled to rape me. What an honor.

Brian's so angry they've actually threatened to restrain him, which horrified everyone, but of course just amused him, although his caustic reply just made the doctor turn on his heel and slam the door. Of course it's a private room; he'd have one, anyway, but I think he really needs it, now. All his friends will be cocooning him for a while, especially from his own family. Everyone there is apparently a worse version of my father, and nothing will make Brian lose it faster than having any one of them show up. He has Michael as his emergency contact, with Lindsay as a backup, but he's letting me stay in the room with him, though I have to sleep in a chair. He's testing me by not letting me have a cot, but I don't care in the least, though of course I'm tiptoeing. I speak carefully when spoken to, and study and draw him when he's sleeping. It's killing him that he's not actually physically able to just walk the fuck out like he wants to. He's on IV, with an oxygen tube, and his wrists and ankles are thickly bandaged, and his fever keeps spiking past 100, and he's hot, then cold, then sweating, and then shivering. One minute he's famished, and then he'll turn a shade of puce that's not flattering even on him. His neck looks awful, and his voice is raspy, even softer than usual. His voice is incredibly seductive normally, until you actually listen to the venom behind it. Speak softly and carry a big dick is a great description of Brian in general. It takes a lot to actually make him yell, but of course the staff is doing a great job of that. Maybe they're doing it on purpose to stretch his vocal cords, but he just ends up in a coughing fit if he speaks too loudly or for too long. Methadone; really? Four forced shots, and he's suddenly a heroin addict?

Apparently, they've dropped the Methadone bit, because Brian's already withdrawing. The chills, the cold sweats, the nausea . . . I mean, what the fuck did they think that was? He's too young, and far too masculine, for menopause! Heroin always was the nastiest shit you can imagine. Whoever raped him knew how strong he was, since they had to subdue him six different ways; a lesser man probably wouldn't still be alive after all that. It just breaks my fucking heart. I hate telling him he's lucky, but I do it anyway. He knows what I mean, and right now he's too weak to argue, and I hate that even more. I really love that kid.

God forbid you died, Brian. What would Mel and I tell Gus? I don't care if that's a low blow, and I don't care if you find what I just said funny. But it was; wasn't it? Well, we all have to laugh at something. It's nice to hear you laughing again, even if it does make you cough. Please, please, think of your son before you continue playing Russian roulette with your life. Gay people aren't any less fucked up than straight people. There are frustrated psychos in every walk of life.

I wasn't doing anything, or anyONE that night; all right? I was just trying to go the fuck home!

And that's what really scares you, isn't it, Brian? That something so mundane can turn so deadly. You figure you would've been better off if you had left with someone specific, instead of a few anonymous ghosts of your past. And of course you'll tell me that you're not scared, and well, it's too late to change, now. The past is past, and you can't help what comes out of that. But you can change what happens from now on. Don't create more of the same past. I know you will, though, because you can't let them win. You do this in the first place, because you can't let your parents win. And I'm just Emmett, and you can't let me win by me being right, even though you know I am. You're a genius Ad man, but you're an idiot in the heart department. I know you'll figure it out someday, on your own. I just hope I'm not making it take longer by spelling it out for you, and I really hope you don't die beforehand. At least Teddy says that you've made sure your affairs are in order in the event that you do die. But, that's business. And, 'Business is business', as you always say.

You're Brian Fucking Kinney, and you can do whatever the fuck you want. We love you.