Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. SMASH.

Brian's alarm was now in a million pieces on the floor.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. THUD. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck!" CRASH. The offending object, a one-of-a kind and extremely expensive chrome and glass Mies van der Rohe end table, was now bent and broken. Brian had thrown it so hard against the wall that most of the glass was, not in shards, but dust. It looked like one of the piles of glitter littering the dance floor just before close at Babylon. Brian hopped the rest of the way to the bathroom. The hot water did little to ease the pain. In fact, by the time Brian exited the shower, his (big) toe had swollen up, and his nail looked reddish-black. Brian rolled his head in a half-circle backward to get the kinks out of his neck (he'd been sleeping funny lately, waking up with various aches and pains every day this week). The shower had been almost useless (except at getting him clean). Brian tested his toe, putting more weight on it. Less than a second later, it was back in the air. "Fucking Christ!" He might have to go to the emergency room.

Brian managed to dress, all except his right foot. He couldn't get a sock on, let alone a shoe. Brian would need someone to drive him first to the hospital and then to work. Brian pulled his cell out of his pocket and hit 1 without thinking. After two rings, a sleepy voice answered, "Lo."

Brian shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd forgotten that he bumped Mikey to 2 shortly after meeting Justin. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Brian was at a loss. Should he simply hang up? Say hello? In the end, he opted for the latter. Justin would know that he'd called from the caller ID anyway.

"Justin, it's…"

"Brian?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"You sound funny. Are you in pain?"

Brian smiled a little in spite of himself (and his aching foot). From their first dinner together, Justin had been able to read him and understand him in ways people he'd known most of his life couldn't, didn't. But then he sighed. He wasn't supposed to brighten like a light bulb just talking to Justin. He wasn't supposed to feel a dull ache in his chest because they hadn't spoken in a few days. He didn't even know what to say to Justin. He'd snuck out the morning after they fucked, like a coward, although that was kinder than the goodbye he usually gave his sexual partners ("See you never" or "Get the fuck out"). And…he'd been avoiding Justin since. Again, cowardly. But Brian thought it kinder than brushing Justin off.

In a near panic, Justin asked, "Brian? Are you still there?"

Brian decided to be honest about the reason for the call. Excluding the fact that he'd dialed Justin's number by accident, why he didn't even want to contemplate. "I think I broke my toe. I need someone to drive me to the hospital."

"I can come right over, but I need your address." All Brian heard in Justin's voice was concern. No disappointment. No anger. No hurt. Brian wasn't sure whether he was relieved or disconcerted by this reaction.

"I can call Mikey if you want to go back to sleep…"

"No, no. I'm up. I'm up."

"51 Tremont. Apartment 6."

"K. See you soon."

Brian hit the end button, hopped over to the couch, and lay down, propping his right foot up on a couple of cushions. With the press of a button, he'd shot his plan to shit, and his resolve was weakening. With the press of a button, he'd shot everything to shit. Brian had kept Justin away from the loft because he didn't want thoughts of Justin to plague him everywhere he went, but now, Justin was on his way here. Ten minutes later, the bell sounded. Brian pulled himself to his feet, or, more accurately, to his foot (his left one), and hopped over to the door. Brian buzzed Justin in without a word of greeting. Now that Justin was actually here, Brian's unease was growing exponentially. Brian slid the door open and leaned against the jamb, pounding his fist lightly against the door. Normally, he would have been pacing, but that was out of the question at the moment.

Justin breezed past Brian, setting a bag of…were those frozen peas? on the coffee table, a move that would have had Brian reeling if he hadn't been leaning on the door jamb. Brian hopped around so that he was facing Justin and gasped a little when he realized that Justin was now directly in front of him, very close, and smiling, like all was right with the world. What the fuck? Brian was full of anxiety, and Justin was completely relaxed, or so it seemed. Brian was starting to get annoyed. Why wasn't Justin nervous? And what was up with the fucking peas?

Justin slid next to Brian and wrapped an arm around his waist, throwing Brian's arm around his shoulder and guiding him to the couch.

"Lie down."

"What?"

"Lie down." Justin's tone was firmer now, and, for some strange reason, Brian responded to the authority in it, following his instruction. Justin lifted Brian's legs, sat next to him on the couch, gently lay Brian's foot on the two cushions, which were now on Justin's lap, and started examining his toe.

"You probably don't have to go to the hospital. You just need to elevate your foot, ice it, and take some ibuprofen. But you should stay home, at least until the swelling goes down."

"What, are you Florence fucking Nightingale now?"

"No. But my best friend Daphne is. That's what she told my mom to do when she broke her toe kicking my dad."

Brian's eyebrow shot up.

Justin chuckled. "My dad used to be a kickboxer. He told her to kick him. He was bragging about still being as in shape as he was in college. And maybe he was. She did break her toe on him."

Justin got up, gently placing Brian's foot back on the cushion once he was standing, carefully set the peas on top of Brian's foot, and then went into the kitchen in search of a glass. He returned a moment later, handing Brian a glass of water and two pills.

"Here." He lifted Brian's legs again, repositioning himself, the cushions, and Brian's foot. Then he picked up the remote. "Want to watch some TV?"

Brian just stared for a moment, but then said, "Sure."

Justin clicked it on and began channel surfing. "Ooo, The Price is Right. I bet you're really good at guessing."

Brian rolled his eyes. "I'm in advertising, not marketing or sales." He shrugged. "But yeah, I am."

TBC…I might write a bit more later