~Brian~

It had taken some convincing from him, but I'd finally agreed to let Justin go to school for his class day that he'd insisted he couldn't miss. He would only be gone a few hours, and I wanted to be there to drop him off and pick him up. I called Cynthia and told her I was taking the day off, deflecting every one of her prying questions, and dropped Justin off at school, waiting until I saw him disappear inside the building before pulling out of the parking lot.

For the first time since speaking to Ted and Emmett the previous day at the diner, I sat and really thought. Everything had just been happening so fast and so furiously that I hadn't had time to catch a breath. Now, though, with the loft quiet and empty, I had the opportunity to think.

Justin needed help. More help than I could give him. I had no idea where to even begin. I spent some time online, looking up information on rape survivors. There were web sites, support groups, suggestions and personal stories...though nothing particularly helpful. Information about STD's, medical examinations, pressing charges, encouraging friends and family members of the victim to be supportive... Justin had already gotten tested, he'd said his injuries were mostly healed, and he refused to go the police. He knew I was here—as was Daphne, it seemed—and he knew that we'd be here for him through this...what more could we do?

I really wanted him to at least consider therapy, but he'd shot me down almost before the suggestion had fully formed on my lips. I understood that he didn't want to talk...I wouldn't, if it were me...but he couldn't go on like this, and I didn't know how to help him on my own. I wondered if it might help if he talked about it, even to me or Daphne or just someone...but he refused to say much more beyond how torn up he was inside. He'd mentioned drugs, a possibly altered drink...but not much past that. I could only continue to prompt him to talk, and hope he'd confide in me when he was ready. Fuck, I just wished he'd see a therapist...I was so over my head here, and he needed someone who could help him for real.

Something else that was hovering on the edge of my consciousness was this whole situation with Michael. We needed to talk, that much was certain, but I didn't want to do it in his shop during the day and I didn't want to leave Justin here alone quite yet. I'd have to go back to work eventually, but I could afford a few days off. He needed me right now, and frankly I needed to be with him, too. I wouldn't be able to concentrate properly at work, thinking about him here, alone and afraid and in pain.

I just...didn't know what to do about any of this. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so lost. I couldn't erase what happened, I couldn't magically heal him, I couldn't take away his pain...so what could I do?

I was early for picking him up from class. I sat in the jeep for a few minutes, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel until his class let out, then went to meet him at the set of double doors I'd told him to wait by. They were close to his class, and this way he didn't have to walk too far alone. He was hunched against the outside wall when I arrived, and gave a weak, relieved smile when he saw me approaching. I took his hand and led him back to the jeep, trying to cut a path through the throng of people so that he didn't have to touch any of them. He gave a little sigh when he finally climbed into the passenger seat, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"You okay?" I asked.

He nodded, not opening his eyes. "Fine...can we just go home?"

In answer to his question, I merely turned the key in the ignition, bringing the jeep to life, and navigated my way out of the parking lot. We drove in silence for a while. I could see his reflection in the passenger side window, watching the trees and roads and cars all pass by in a blur.

"So, how was class?" I asked, trying to sound casual. It was harder than I thought...nothing about this was normal. It was all so fucked up, and my attempt at the usual conversation was as transparent as the glass he was staring out of.

He shrugged. "My professor didn't like my last piece," he said sullenly.

"Why not?"

"Do you want the art-speak version, or the English version?" he asked wearily.

I almost smiled. I recalled, as though from a past life, one without all this new pain in it—the way he would always start in on some rant about a random piece of art, using terms and pulling out references I didn't understand, always laughing when I told him to repeat it again in a language a "normal American" could understand.

"English," I told him wryly.

He sighed. "He said it was a mess. And he was right...it was all over the place. I haven't been able to concentrate."

"I'm sure he'll like your next one." The last thing Justin needed to worry about was art and school and his idiotic professors, and yet that was exactly what he was doing, thanks to those assholes. I was, naturally, all for honesty and being constructively critical, but now, when he was so obviously broken already, couldn't they give him a break? This...his art...it was the only way he knew how to express himself right now...and if he was drawing something other than Sap and his attackers...couldn't they just let him have this without making him feel worse?

"Maybe," he said, though he didn't sound convinced. "I just...I can't help what I paint, or draw...this—whatever it is—these pieces...they're all that come out," he said sadly. "And now my fucking professors are on my back because every time it's the same thing...it's always dark and it's nothing like what I used to be able to do...and I just fucking can't do it like I...like before..."

"Shh," I consoled him. I timidly reached over to lay a hand on his knee. He jumped, and I was about to pull my hand away, when he grasped onto it, holding it in place. I drove one handed the whole way home.

"You hungry? I'll order something," I offered as I slid the loft door shut behind us. He dropped his backpack on the floor, heading immediately for the bedroom.

"I'm fine. You go ahead, get whatever you want." I frowned as he pulled open the closet door and began rifling through the shirts hanging up.

"Why don't you come sit with me, then?" I asked, gesturing at the couch.

He looked hesitant, now pulling a pair of pants from the drawer. "I think I'm just going to take a shower."

"Come sit with me," I repeated gently. He seemed to deliberate a moment longer, then reluctantly came down to take a seat at the very edge of the couch. Taking the hint, I sat down at the other end.

"I've been doing some thinking," I began. He was immediately on the alert; his eyes widened and his shoulders tensed up even more.

"About...about what?"

I knew he wouldn't like this, but I had to try. "Look, I know you said you didn't want to, but I think you need to get some help, Justin. Professional help," I said, bracing myself for his reaction.

"I—told you, Brian...I don't want to see a shrink," he said simply, frowning.

"I know you don't, but...I think it'll help. I think it'll help a lot," I said honestly. He lowered his head, staring at the floor. I sighed. "Justin..."

"You don't want to help me," he interrupted quietly.

"What?" I asked, confused as to how he had come to that conclusion, when, in fact, the exact opposite was true.

"You changed your mind. You don't...you don't want me," he mumbled.

I sighed again wearily. Why did he interpret everything I said to mean I didn't want him?

Of course, I knew the answer to that already. I may not be a shrink, but I could, despite what most people would probably say, understand the basics of the human mind. He felt worthless. He was still harboring some of that self contempt, and as long as that lasted—as long as he hated himself—he'd remain almost neurotically paranoid, always afraid that someone else would see what he saw in himself.

"That's not it," I reassured him firmly. "Justin, listen to me...are you listening?"

"I'm listening." His voice was small and hurt and I barely heard it, but it was an answer.

I took a deep breath. I had to explain this to him, it seemed. Make sure he knew it was me, not him. I couldn't fix this on my own, and he desperately needed some real help. "You were raped, okay? By...fuck knows how many guys. I don't, uh...fuck...I don't what they did, exactly, but...Justin, you're hurting. You've been this way for the past month, and you're obviously not getting any better. You need to start dealing with this. And as much as I wish I could...I don't know how to help you with this. So, I think we need to find someone who does."

"You don't get it," he accused softly, tears already threatening to fall. I wished I could just stop the tears, just this once...I hated seeing him cry. "You don't fucking get it, Brian..."

"Justin, you need to start dealing with this, okay? You need to start...healing, and..."

"I know how shrinks, are, Brian! I've been there before!" he cried. "They all just want to get inside my head..."

"Maybe that's not a bad thing. You need to talk about this...and if not to me, then you need to talk to someone who can help you..."

"I don't want to fucking talk!" he yelled. "And where do you get off telling me that I need to, anyway? When have you ever fucking talked about how you felt?!"

He had an unfortunate point. If I had been in his position, I wouldn't want to see a shrink either. "We're not talking about me. You...can't keep living like this, Justin. You need help," I said sternly. "I'll get the numbers of some therapists, okay? You can pick."

"I'm not going!" he insisted, standing up. I mirrored his actions, getting to my feet; I took a step toward him, intending on a consoling hug, but he took a step back. "Don't!"

"Justin, I'm just trying to help you," I said gently. "I'm just...trying to do what's best, here."

"You don't know anything, Brian!" he said hotly. "Kick me out if you don't want me here...but I'm not going to a shrink!"

"Justin, don't...damn it!" I yelled as he took off for the bathroom, his clean clothes still folded in his arms. I hadn't really prepared for that reaction...I knew he'd be upset, knew there'd most likely be some arguing...but I also thought that he might eventually listen to reason, especially when it would most likely benefit him. But he didn't seem to want that kind of help. He wanted to feel better, stop hurting...but he didn't want to take a step towards healing. He was afraid, he was suffering, and he wasn't listening to logic right now. How was I supposed to help him if he didn't want help? If he was too afraid to take the first step?

I'd only had a few instances in my life—at least as an adult—where it literally felt like everything was falling apart, out of my hands, beyond my control. Where I didn't know how to fix what was wrong, didn't know how to deal with it, get past it...where there just didn't seem to be a light at the end of the long, winding tunnel ahead of me.

This was one of those times.

~Justin-A Few Days Later~

I never imagined he'd be so great with me. He was acting...sweet. Gentle. Caring. And so un-Brian-like.

I had been sure he'd yell at me, lecture me, tell me how stupid I was for letting this happen, and then I'd be out the door. I was mad at myself. I was disgusted by myself, and I couldn't see how anyone else wouldn't be, especially him. But it wasn't like that at all.

Take, for example, a few nights after he'd found out my secret. I was sitting by the window, which had become one of my favorite places in the loft, sketch pad in hand, concentrating with everything I had. The curve of Brian's shoulders giving way to his arms...his perfectly sculpted chest that I always snuggled into...the little trail of hairs leading down from below his navel, his hips, he was so beautiful...

But I couldn't. I couldn't finish. Why couldn't I just make myself draw him? He'd always been my favorite subject, and now I couldn't sketch him. Art had been...it had always been something that was mine. Ever since I was a kid, it had been the one thing I could count on, the one thing I knew I could always fall back into. A fight with Daphne, or my parents, being picked on in school...whatever life threw at me, I had my art, and I'd always been sure that nothing could take it away from me.

Then I had gotten bashed, and lost control over my hand for what felt like forever. If I couldn't draw...what was I? It felt like an essential piece of me was missing. It hadn't lasted...I wasn't completely healed from that attack, but I could draw now. Things weren't the same, and never would be, but they were good enough. Life would go on if I had my art. If I had that bit of me back.

Then this had happened. I'd been attacked a second time, I'd been raped, and this time it wasn't a physical disability holding me back. It was something inside. Mental, emotional...where my body had held me captive before, this time it was my mind. It made me feel constricted, not being able to do what I wanted. Not being able to express myself the way I loved best.

I'd been staring at my half finished drawing for several minutes when Brian entered the room and saw me sitting by the window, almost in a trance. He approached me carefully, looking over my shoulder at the drawing I didn't bother to hide.

"It's good," he said kindly.

I shook my head. "It's not finished."

"So finish it."

I didn't answer. His hand brushed my shoulder, massaging it gently. "You will eventually. It'll come back to you."

Suddenly, I couldn't stand the feeling of his hand on my shoulder, touching any part of me. It made me feel suffocated. Trapped. I felt trapped in this body, trapped in this life...and I was sick of waiting for it to get better, because it wasn't.

"It WON'T!" I yelled, standing up and hurling the sketch pad across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor. I wanted to tear it, shred it to pieces. All the drawings of Sap, all the ones I couldn't finish of Brian...I wanted to ruin them, as though by tearing the paper I was tearing them all out of my life. Ridding myself of this pain. "It won't come back! I'm just stuck like this, Brian! They took it, and it's not fucking coming back!"

He stood and watched, not saying a word, which irritated me just as much as it relieved me. Couldn't he say anything? Couldn't he make this better? Or was he realizing, for maybe the first time since the party, that snapping me out of this, making me whole again...was hopeless? Was he reconsidering his decision to let me stay?

Having had enough of feeling so out in the open, I made to stomp off to the bathroom to be alone for a while, but his softly spoken words made me halt in my tracks.

"Come here," he said quietly.

"Why should I?" I snapped. It wasn't fair to treat him like this, I knew, but...I was just so fucking angry...but it was at myself and not him, and I knew he didn't deserve to be yelled at like this.

"Because I asked you to," he said, as though he thought that were reason enough. "You don't have to talk to me, just...stay out here. You can't hide from everything, Justin," he added.

"Watch me!" I said icily, and fled into the bathroom anyway. After a few moments, he came knocking on the door, asking me just to say something, anything. A little confused by the odd request, I'd demanded to know what he wanted, but instead of answering, I just heard his footsteps retreat from the door, and I supposed it was just Brian's way of making sure I was okay without making me feel smothered. Even still...he hadn't hesitated to take both our razors out of the bathroom and put them in a dresser drawer. I knew where they were, he hadn't bothered to hide them from me, and I didn't think that was the point, anyway. He just wanted to make sure I had no way to impulsively hurt myself during one of my self-imposed lock-downs. Whatever.

A little while later, I emerged from the bathroom to find him watching TV in the living room. I walked up to him cautiously, not sure what his reaction would be. He should be angry. He was just trying to help me...he'd been nothing but wonderful with me since he'd found out what happened, and I repaid him by screaming at him.

"Brian?" I asked tentatively. He clicked off the TV at once, giving me his full attention. Waiting for him to protest, I sat down on the other end of the couch and just stared at the blank TV. When I continued to not say anything, he turned it back on, and after a while, I realized that he wasn't mad, and edged my way down the couch toward him. He let me lean against him, and put his arm around me.

It had meant more than I could say that he was doing this. Letting me have my outbursts, have my space...and then still being right there when I needed him. How did he always seem to know exactly what I needed?

Or at least, it seemed that way.

The day Brian had found out, as well as the day after, he'd suggested I return to therapy. I had refused.

I didn't want to go to therapy. I had talked to Daphne about what had happened to me, though never in great detail...and I hadn't even told Michael who had done it. No one knew. No one except for me, and all those men at the party. Not even Brian knew. They didn't know the details, they didn't know the extent of the pain constantly with me, weighing me down...and I planned to keep it that way. If I couldn't even talk to the people I cared about most in the world, how was I supposed to talk to a complete stranger? Trying to get inside my head...psychoanalyzing everything...I didn't want that. I remembered therapy after I was bashed, and I had hated it. If I was going to talk, it would be on my own terms, not someone else's, and not to some shrink. This was my head, my thoughts, my pain...I wasn't about to let some stranger with a degree have full access to it all.

Brian had barely left the house since finding out about...it. He'd taken off work for the entire week, he hadn't gone out to Woody's or anything...he was just here with me, constantly. I'd insisted that he get out, go back to work, go somewhere that wasn't here with me and this, but he still hadn't set foot outside the loft except to give me a ride to and from class that one day, and once to the video store. I was convinced it couldn't be good for him, staying shut up in here with me like this. Maybe before, it wouldn't have been so bad, as we would most likely have spent every waking moment we had fucking our brains out...but with me like this, all damaged and helpless and fucked up, he needed to get out and away from this. From me. Just because my life was a mess, it didn't mean I had to drag him down, too.

"Hey, Brian?" I asked quietly one evening, as we watched a movie together on the couch. We'd been spending nearly every night like this since he had found out; He was even suffering through all the cheesy romantic comedies I liked...crazy antics, true love, happy endings and all the shit he hated...just for me.

"Hmm?" he asked, looking down at me. I was curled against his side, his arm around me, where I always felt just a little more secure. He'd been a little hesitant to do this kind of thing at first, but I'd quickly assured him that it was okay, that I even wanted it. Similarly, he'd also started wearing his boxers to bed, despite all the weeks of me having dealt with him sleeping naked beside me. I'd told him he didn't have to do it, but every night when he curled up behind me, there were now two layers of clothing, mine and his, separating our skin.

Now that most of my bruises had faded, there was no real reason for me to continue wearing clothes to bed, except that they made me feel, like Brian's arms, just a bit more secure. I particularly liked wearing Brian's shirts...they were always so much bigger and they were comfortable and warm, just like him. I'd been a little worried that he'd be mad when he came out of the bathroom one night to see that I'd paired one of his old shirts with my sweat pants, but he'd just offered me the smallest of smiles and climbed into bed next to me. He'd laid spooned behind me for a while, fiddling with one of the buttons on the shirt, not trying to undo it, just twiddling it between his fingers. I'd fallen asleep with the sensation of being completely surrounded by Brian, and I hadn't had a nightmare all night.

"I was thinking, um..." I began, not looking at him. "I think I'll go over to Daphne's tomorrow. I haven't seen her in a while, not since...well, I just thought I'd stop by and hang out with her. It's a weekend, so she won't have class or anything, and she invited me over yesterday...you think you could maybe give me a ride?"

Once upon a time, this last question would have been met with a smirk and some deviant remark, but now, he just nodded. "Yeah, 'course. What time do you think you'll be home? Do you want me to get dinner?"

"Um...no, you get whatever. I'll eat there."

"Will you?"

I caught the crisp note in his voice, and was sure that, if I looked, that one eyebrow would have crept halfway up his forehead. "Yes, Brian. I'll eat. I promise."

He'd been on my case even more than usual about my lack of an appetite, something that had been driving me crazy for the last several days. So I had a slight lack of desire for food...why couldn't he just accept that and let it go? Instead, he had to get in all these irritable little remarks, to the point where I'd snapped at him for sounding like an overbearing nutritionist. It wasn't like I was starving myself...I ate enough. It may be true that I had lost a few pounds in recent weeks, but I could take care of myself. I didn't need him playing doctor and telling me when and what to eat.

"Fine. I'll pick you up whenever...call me when you're ready to come home."

I nodded, snuggling closer against him, and his lips brushed the top of my forehead. Good. He wasn't mad at me. And hopefully he'd take tomorrow as an opportunity to get out. Fuck knows he deserved it. It had been less than a week that he'd been shut up in here with me, but for Brian Kinney, that was nothing short of a lifetime.

We'd fallen asleep on the couch that night, moving to the bed only when I woke us up with my nightmare at around four in the morning. A few hours later, we were up again, with Brian in the shower while I attempted the beginnings of my new art project I'd been assigned. We lounged around the loft for a few hours, I'd forced down a little breakfast to appease Brian, and called Daphne at around eleven. Her offer for me to come over apparently still stood, and by noon I was on my way.

I didn't want Brian anywhere near Daphne for a while if I could help it, in case he was harboring any resentment over the fact that she had known my secret all those weeks and not mentioned anything to him, so I asked him just to drop me off in front of the building and let me go up to her apartment alone. He kissed me goodbye on the cheek, telling me to call him if and when I needed him, and waited until I disappeared between the doors of the building before leaving. There weren't a whole lot of people around, and I made it up to Daphne's place okay.

"So...how's Brian been?" she asked as we sat and watched some old video together on the floor. Neither of us was paying much attention to it, but it was a lot less awkward than sitting there with no distractions from each other while talking about already uncomfortable topics.

"He's been...great. I mean I thought he'd yell, or kick me out, or...something, but...he's been really sweet, actually," I told her. "He took off work this week, he hasn't been out at all...we've just been sitting at home watching movies and stuff."

The distress in my tone apparently did not go unnoticed. "You don't sound too happy about that," she observed.

I sighed. "I just—don't want him to feel like he has to babysit me, you know?" I admitted. "It has to be driving him crazy...and what if he gets tired of always having to take care of me? What if he decides he wants me out?"

"Are you still on that?" Daphne demanded, sounding a little annoyed. "Justin...Brian's not the kind of guy who does this kind of thing for just anyone. He cares about you. A lot. And if he's doing all this to try and help you, it has to be because he wants to."

I shrugged. How could I believe that? Of course Brian didn't want to do this...who would? Maybe...he felt guilty. Like after I was bashed. Maybe this was just his way of assuaging his own conscience because he blamed himself for this, too.

Daphne took a deep, frustrated breath, and let it out between her teeth. "Justin, do you think it didn't fucking hurt when you came to my house that night and told me what happened to you?"

Tearing my eyes away from the screen I wasn't even watching, my attention closed in quickly and exclusively on her. "I..."

"It did," she said bitingly. "But I let you in, and I let you stay, didn't I?"

"I...yeah, but, Daph..." That was different. She was Daphne, and he was Brian. She was my best friend, and he...just didn't do these kinds of things for no reason.

"And this is hurting Brian," she said. "But not for the reasons you think. Look, you didn't see him when he came over here looking for you that day."

I sat up a little. "What? He came looking for me?"

"Yeah, I guess it was the day he found out. About a week ago. He was banging on my door. I've never seen him like that...he looked ready to kill." I listened as she recounted to me what he'd said, the anger he'd radiated, the desperation in his voice...Brian had been that way because of me? Because he'd found out I'd been hurt? But he'd seemed so calm and together...did he really care that much?

"I didn't know," I said quietly, picking absently at her carpet.

"I told you, Justin. He's your boyfriend, whether he wants to admit it or not. And he cares about you."

I nodded, allowing a watery smile to tug at my lips. I opened my mouth to speak, but froze as the soft melody of my ring tone cut me off. "Hang on, that's my phone." Reaching across the couch cushion behind me for my cell, I flipped it open and answered it.

"Hello? Yes, this is him. Oh, you have? Can you tell—I...I do? I'm...so, what does that mean? So, I...yes, I can. Yes...okay...thanks."

I hung up the phone, turning to Daphne, who was staring at me questioningly. "Justin?"

I gripped the phone tightly in my hand. "That was the clinic...they, uh...got my test results back."

~Brian~

I had a sneaking suspicion that Justin's sudden desire to leave my side and flee to Daphne's had less to do with the reasons he'd given me, and more to do with the fact that I'd been with him all week. He'd insisted more than once that I go out to Woody's or somewhere, but each time he brought it up, I'd tell him I'd go out the next night, though I never did. I didn't feel comfortable leaving him alone for any prolonged period of time, not to mention I wouldn't be able to enjoy myself, knowing he was back at the loft, miserable and alone.

But today, my first day without him since finding out about the rape, I didn't take the opportunity to go to the baths, or wait around for Woody's to open...for once, I wasn't in the mood for that atmosphere. And although I wouldn't be against a few strong drinks, I did want to be sober when he called me to pick him up later. Besides, I had something else I needed to take care of.

I watched the double doors at the front of Daphne's building swallow Justin up before driving off. I would be paying Mikey a little visit today. It was time I get some answers from him.

My heart was pounding, my fists clenched tightly around the steering wheel as I pulled up in front of his building. I sat outside in the car for a few minutes, trying to work out what I was going to say in my head, and convince myself that I should at least listen to whatever explanation Michael had—and I was sure he would have one—as to why he hadn't told me about Justin. When these careful considerations only succeeded in intensifying my anger, I figured I'd contemplated enough, and headed into the building.

I had a key, but I decided that banging loudly on his door was a lot more satisfactory and relieved some of the fury pumping through my veins, so I continued to pound on the door until Michael finally pulled it open.

"Brian? What the fuck's all the banging for?" he demanded rather gruffly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" I asked with false politeness.

"It's...no. Come in." He opened the door wider and let me inside. Well, it was either that or I'd have broken the door down. Good choice, Mikey.

"What the fuck's going on?" he asked, a mixture of concern and exasperation as I strode purposefully into the apartment. My skin felt hot, and suddenly I just wanted to break something. Or someone.

However, I forced my rashness under control. "Not much. I was just wondering if you were doing anything tonight?" He was watching me closely, his brow furrowed, as I paced around his living room, unable to hold still, a restless energy pulsing through me.

"Not that I know of. Brian, listen, I'm glad you're here. I need to..."

"Great. You wanted to go to Woody's later?"

"Woody's?" he repeated weakly. "I don't know, I..."

"You know, since Babylon's shutting down and everything. At least for a while. You hear about that?"

"Um, yeah...Emmett told me," he said. I had the impression that I'd caught him off guard.

I nodded. "Same here. And Sapperstein getting arrested..."

"Yeah, I...I heard about that, too. It's..."

"For rape charges," I interrupted him, fixing him with a scrutinizing look. "Did you hear about that? About that dancer?"

Michael nodded, still obviously a little bemused. Or maybe that was distress. "He...he went to a party at Sap's house, didn't he? At least the guy's pressing charges...hopefully Sap will end up behind bars..."

"I didn't mean that dancer. I meant that other guy that used to dance at Babylon. That blond teenager? You might have seen him around. Turns out the same thing happened to him."

Just like I had with Justin's, I saw the spark of realization light up in Michael's eyes. He seemed to have nothing to say, and just stared up at me, mouth half open. Well, I had plenty to say. There was no more pretending. No more lying. No more secrets.

"Why the fuck..." I said slowly, taking a step toward him, "didn't you tell me?" My voice was low and deadly, shaking with suppressed rage.

It had only been a week, I reminded myself. He'd only known for a week before I'd found out on my own, but that wasn't the point. That was one week more that Justin was dealing with his secret pain. That was one week more that I was dealing with Justin's nightmares and depression and obvious inner turmoil without knowing what was causing it all. One unnecessary week that we were hurting on opposite sides of the wall that seemed to have forced itself between us. Michael had lied to me. He knew how difficult the last month and a half had been for me, and he kept the one thing that could have made it better to himself. He'd had the chance to help, and he hadn't taken it.

"How did you find out?" he asked quietly, not meeting my eyes.

"Well it sure as hell wasn't from you, Mikey," I said, stressing the endearing nickname to the point of sarcasm. "So? Why the fuck wasn't it?"

"I was going to tell you..."

I huffed a humorless bark of laughter. "Of course you were..."

"I was. That day I asked you to come over. You canceled on me. And I've been trying to get a hold of you all week," he tried to defend himself, but I wouldn't hear it.

"You should have fucking told me the second you found out!" I spat. He was still avoiding my gaze, looking anywhere but at me. "You should have told me that day in your fucking comic shop!"

"He told you about that?" Michael muttered.

"He let it slip."

"He begged me not to tell anyone..."

"I don't give a shit!"

"Look, I'm sorry, okay!" he yelled, looking up at me at last.

"Sorry's bullshit!" There was a decorative plastic ashtray on the coffee table, and in one swift movement, I had seized it and thrown it clear across the room. It was only an ashtray, and plastic at that, but it made Michael jump. I had never hit him, but this was the closest I had ever come to violence directed toward my supposed best friend.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked desperately.

"Oh, now you want to speak up?"

"Brian..."

"You knew something was wrong with Justin. You knew I'd been worrying my fucking head off about him for a month, and you didn't think the best thing to do would be to tell me, his fucking boyfriend, that he was raped!?"

"Hey, in case you didn't notice, I'm not the only one who didn't tell you anything!" he was going on the defensive now, yelling back. But he couldn't win this. In my opinion, there had been only one right solution from the second Justin had confided in him, and he hadn't taken it.

"No, you're just the one that should've told me!" I yelled back. He had to have known the best course of action was to tell me all he knew, and he just hadn't. How could he keep something that important to himself when he knew how much pain it had been causing? Daphne was different. Justin was different. Michael...there was no excuse.

"Fine, do you want to know the reason I didn't tell you?!" The expression of indignation on his face now closely mirrored the fury on mine.

"Yeah, lets hear it! This should be fucking entertaining."

"It was because I had to sit there watching him crying on my fucking floor, begging me not to say a word to you!" My stomach twisted at that thought, and Michael wasn't finished.

"So why don't you fucking figure that one out, instead of blaming me because I didn't tell you the second he let it slip to me? Your own boyfriend didn't want you to know! What does that tell you?"

It told me...a lot of things I didn't want to think about. Doubts and guilt and pain...

Michael was still wrong not to tell me. But he had made a point that I couldn't ignore. Justin didn't...he didn't trust me.

Justin hadn't told me either. I'd asked him about it...and this—hearing this, that he'd been begging Michael to keep me in the dark—seemed to just reaffirm what he apparently thought of me. He'd been afraid, he'd said so himself. He had told Daphne, he had told Michael, however impulsive that decision had been...but he hadn't trusted me?

The frenzied rage seemed to have died down inside me, to be replaced with a sensation I didn't want to place.

"Fuck you, Michael," I said quietly. His eyes blazed at me, registering only surprise. Whether at his own words or my response, I didn't know. "Fuck you."

I felt his eyes on my back as I turned and strode from the apartment, slamming the door shut behind me with a resounding bang.