A/N: boriqua522 suggested that G be for either 'Gus' or 'Gun'. I decided to go with Gun, but not exactly what was suggested, but with a slight twist. I hope you enjoy.
G is for God and Guns
Brian Kinney could recall only a handful of times where he has prayed. Naturally, he didn't do it often, considering he wasn't even sure he believed in God. Only when he was so desperate, so hopeless, that he couldn't think of anything else to do.
The very first he could remember, was when he was eight, lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit. He had been sick for the past two days and didn't keep the house spotless. Didn't answer his father's question fast enough, as it took a moment to comprehend through his fever fogged brain. He moved too slowly, and his father ended up catching him. He could still remember his teeth snapping against each other, and his head spinning wildly as he was lifted off his feet and jerked back and forth as he was screamed at, spittle flying in his face, and his stomach threatened an upheaval. He remembered his small body being thrown down, onto, into the coffee table, remembered his face bleeding, and a small child's panic as it wouldn't stop. As it became too much, and it hurt so fucking bad he vomited on his mother's pristine carpet. Remembered being too weak to move from where he lay in the bile as his father took another bottle from the cabinet. Remembered his mother's hushed, reverent prayers from the other room. Remembered being alone, and wishing he wasn't. Remembered thinking he was going to die there, as his vision swam in and out and he whimpered, biting his own tongue hard so he wouldn't be heard. He remembered begging, God, please; please just make it stop…
The second time was when he was seventeen. He found a family, people who actually cared about him, who he would protect against anything or anyone who would try to harm them. And one of his family ended up in the hospital, fighting against a disease Brian couldn't protect him against. He recalled how sic Vic looked lying in the bed, how his skin was as pale as the sheets draping over his thin frame. Debbie cried, and cried and cried as she was told that her brother was probably going to die. Michael cried, too. His family was hurting, and he couldn't stop it. He sat by Vic's side, and prayed that he would get better, that they would stop hurting, thinking these people didn't deserve this. There are so many awful, hurtful people in the world, and this fucking amazing family is the one suffering? They don't deserve this. God, they don't fucking deserve this.
Justin could be dying. Fuck, he's in that hospital room, and he could be dead any second. His head could be smashed in completely. He could've lost too much blood. Justin could die. His Sunshine might die. Oh, God please, please, please don't let him die. Please, oh fuck please, it's my entire fucking fault, just don't let him die, oh god his blood is on my hands… Please, God. Please. For the third time in his life, he prayed.
And now. As he stared out the window in the loft, and Justin ran around with that fucking Cody, a gun in his hands, determined to right everything. Brian prayed. He prayed that Justin would come home safely. That Sunshine wouldn't do something to make him hate himself. He prayed that he could heal properly. That this amazing, innocent man-boy would stop hurting. That he wouldn't use that gun he had. That he wouldn't have the police knock on his door, telling him Justin was wanted for murder, or that he was lying somewhere, dead.
He prayed that Justin would just come home, safely, without that fucking gun.
This one was slightly difficult for me, and I'm not very happy with it, but I wanted to update this weekend.
Reviews are welcome, whether to criticize me, or to compliment. Any type is welcome with opened arms.
Thanks to all those who have reviewed so far, you are amazing.
-Soho
