Pairing: B/M, of course, with initial B/J, Be/M overtones. Very, very slight mention of Brian/OMC in this chapt.
Rating: R
Genre: Angst, Romance, WIP
Summary: Michael has some news for Brian. Brian can't cope, and pushes Michael - and himself - too far.
Special Thanks: To my friends at livejournal and the Yahoo! list, which I like to refer to as my B/M family. :)
Spoilers: Through Season 4
Warnings: AU (which constitutes only the plot - NOT the characters), WIP. And, er, its rather angsty. However, I promise when I say it has a very happy ending. Violence to a major character is implied, but not mentioned.
Disclaimer: No profit is generated from this. QAF and Brian/Michael are not mine.
Be My Downfall
Chapter 6
Two Months Later
Nights merged into days, hours dwindled to minutes, and human fraternization became his surreptitious enemy. It was an accurate observation to say that he had cut himself off from all the normalities of his life, including the more prominent people and activities that were congruous with his person.
The only indication that he was even alive, given the promiscuity of his seemingly former self, was the zealous integrity with which he approached formulating his very own advertising agency. He was consumed by it - possessed with the creative process and curiously rejuvenated by the mental exhaustion and hours of tedious details. It was the only human affiliation he derived pleasure from; excluding his new acquaintance to one dark haired man.
He turned down the bountiful invitations to extravagant dinner parties and lavish banquets, preferring to remain in the dark corners of his self-constructed shadow. He knew the social mingling would benefit his business efforts, yet he simply couldn't bring himself to participate. His resumé and charm alone got him places and landed negotiations that normally took others in his position years to accomplish. The difference between himself and the other schmucks in the ad world? He knew he was the best - and he used it to his advantage with unrestrained hauteur.
It also helped that Brett Keller graciously circulated his name and aptitude. A quaint little headquarters and catchy name later (courtesy of Justin); and Kinnetic was on its way. Which meant the workload was augmented and his budget constantly tested.
It was a good excuse to further disconnect himself. In a tone a bit to sharp to be labeled 'teasing', Justin often told him he was jealous of Brian's love affair with his desk. These comments always seemed to follow on the heels of another rejection from Brian - either to go out for the night, or to fuck, or to simply go to sleep together. Problem was, Brian couldn't sleep at night. Especially not when he looked over at Justin beside him in the bed, and was forced to remember why he was here, in this ridiculously luxurious excuse of an apartment; and when he feared his sleep would not be dreamless.
The light of day was hardly a relief. Justin was gone for the majority of the morning, noon, and evening; a relief within itself. Solitude - and good ole dependable Beam - were the only balm for the aches of the turbulence that had so violently uprooted his life. Justin would plead and beg in his usual fashion for Brian to accompany him to one of Brett's parties, but Brian invariably refused following the events of the first time he'd accepted. He had hated the experience, all of it - the people - so arrogant and conceited, too much like himself - the bullshitting, the reverence of wealth. But that was insignificant compared to his reaction to overhearing a group of men discussing the creative genius of Michael Novotny, and what a respectable man he must be. Brian had excused himself, pale and suddenly loathing the martini in his hand, nausea overtaking him as he brushed past a concerned Justin. His undoing had been looking up, high on the vaulted ceiling of Brett's mansion, to find himself stared down upon by a life-size poster of Rage and Zephyr, in classic super hero pose, just the two of them.
He had proceeded to search blindly for Brett's bathroom before emptying the contents of his stomach. Between heaves, he noted that the bathroom was adorned in V-Men theme, and thought of how much Michael would like it, only to be broad sided by another wave of acrid queasiness.
After that, he had called a cab to take him the few miles back to the opulent apartment he could never call home, and sworn off all and any parties of Brett's - however, he kept a characteristically sharp eye on Rage, seeing to it, in his covert ways, that everything was exactly as Justin told Michael. Justin had come back from the party that night fuming, demanding to know why Brian left without so much as a word. Brian had easily matched Justin's anger with his own, enraged that the blonde even fostered the notion that he needed to answer to him, or had reason to explain his actions. It was one of the worst arguments they had ever engaged in; and it was the starting point for many more.
Things between them grew cold after that; not that they were warm to begin with. They co-existed much like two combative college roommates; coming and going as they pleased without question of the other's whereabouts, taking turns with bathrooms and household appliances with annoyed patience, and occasionally sharing a casual conversation or a spontaneous fuck.
Neither was blind to the action taking place behind the scenes. Brian was no fool; he knew that Justin was beginning to realize that LA had a substantial amount to offer when it came to the availablity of hot, gay men eager to fuck. Compared to Liberty Avenue, it was the cream of the crop. He soon found that Brian was not the only lucratively gorgeous gay man in the world; and in LA, a personality to match was not uncommon. For Justin, Brian's novelty as a gay man was beginning to wear off, the thrill rapidly decreasing as he was introduced to a whole new realm of possibilities.
Analogously, Justin was regularly fed glimpses of what was actually eating away at the indestructible Kinney. Although the person in question would have him to believe that it was simply the strain of starting all over as an ad man, Justin knew a line of bull when he heard one. When Brian never called Michael, and vice versa; he grew suspicious. When Brian left the apartment every time Justin talked to Michael about the developments of Rage, his suspicions grew. When he came in late one night to find Brian asleep in bed, fully clothed, a picture of Michael clutched to his chest, partially obscured by the desperate grip of one hand; his suspicions had been confirmed. From then on, Justin had backed off from Brian, sexually and emotionally, yet he never let on that he knew. Each secret side of their relationship was silently acknowledged; the issues were there, but not there. As they had always been. Brian didn't seem to notice - or chose not to notice - Justin's careful distancing. Justin often surmised that Brian was grateful for it.
Each became a superficial fixture in the life of the other, and the last thread between them - money - was fraying rapidly. Justin no longer had need to depend on Brian financially. Brian was well past the point of regaining the financial footing he held at Vanguard. They were becoming two separate men. Justin felt he was moving forward in his life, and that Brian - hindered by what Justin suspected was agonized love for his best friend of twenty years - was moving in entirely the opposite direction.
They both knew that their days together were numbered. To Justin, it was a healthy balance of wistful sadness and anticipated freedom. He mourned for what could have been, but rejoiced over what had been. Brian had helped him grow into his own man, but now, Brian could only hold him back. Over the span of time they had been in LA, the nagging feeling of being Brian's scapegoat, his second plan - the substitute for Michael - became increasingly apparent day by day, as Brian withdrawled into himself.
The evidence of their impending separation was met with indifference from Brian. Justin could go, or he could stay, it was his call, like it had been in times past, except this time, Brian knew which choice Justin would make. He didn't like to think about it, however - cross that bridge when you get to it.
Which they both knew would be very soon.
There isn't enough hot water to be in....There isn't enough salt lake to to lie in....
Brian huffed a frustrated sigh, leaning his forehead against the palm of his hand and jabbing at the touchpad of his laptop in agitation.
There isn't enough sky to fly in, so softly...
He had been exceedingly lucky to land this client, though at the moment, he felt anything but. The song blaring on the stereo wasn't helping much.
There isn't enough breath to breathe...Not for me...oh God damn me...
He often wondered, in times like these, sitting in completely foreign surroundings and musing over a catchy phrase for toilet paper, just why exactly he had aspired to pursue advertising.
There isn't enough snow to see through...Snows too deep... There isn't enough fog to see through...Not through to me...
Fuckin' toilet paper. This wasn't how he wanted to spend his evening. He briefly envied Justin, who had left hours before, announcing with unconcerned nonchalance that he was 'going out'. Brian had merely grunted in response, their usual form of communication these days - minimal and to the point.
There isn't enough gain to get from...Not from me...Oh God damn me...
He reached for the remote, turning the stereo off with a scowl. The lyrics were too close to home. He never did like Justin's choice of music, but he didn't dare listen to his own. Brought up too many things best left where they were.
He shifted his focus back on the project at hand. Why did toliet paper companies have to compete, anyway? Not as if it was a unique invention.
His mind inevitably strayed. Times like this were dangerous. Usually, his job did a sufficient task of diverting his mind, but late at night, when his muse abandoned him, his thoughts wandered and he always ended up in the same place; in the same pitiful, self-induced state. He could always feel it coming, but could do nothing to stop it.
Brian stared off into the air, hazel eyes fragile and distant. He leaned back in the plushness of his chair, attempting to slowly exhale the pent up tension of his body. Before he could stop himself, his hand was reaching for the middle drawer of his desk, opening it slowly.
He sighed a sigh of defeat, contentment, and pain as he gently lifted the object that held him captive from velvet interior of the drawer, being careful to keep his fingers on the edge of the thin paper as he cradled it lovingly between his fingers.
A hand reached up to cover his mouth, as if to stifle a whimper, as he stared, elbow rested against the wood of the desk. He closed his eyes tightly, reopening them slowly to continue gazing at his world.
It was a photo of Michael and Gus - Gus was atop Michael's shoulders, smiling down upon the dark haired man with pure joy in hazel eyes that were so much like his father's. His small hands were entwined with Michael's larger ones, a grip of complete affection and absolute trust. Michael's head was tilted to look up at the beaming toddler, the expression of adoration reflected in the beautiful abyss of his deep brown eyes. Coupled with the plain white t-shirt, faded jeans, and entrancing smile; Michael looked exactly like he had at eighteen, prompting a bittersweet smile to Brian's lips.
It was Brian's favorite photo, and he kept it close to him at all times. There was one in his wallet, one on his desk at Kinnetic; sometimes, one in his pocket, close to his heart.
After his last phone conversation with Michael, he'd stared at the same picture for hours, until he had fallen asleep, the image of his best friend's smiling face his last coherent thought before the dreams wrapped around him like a blanket, nought but a replay of the sequence of events that had formed the bitter depth of the chasm that separated him from Michael.
I'll always love the false image I had of you.
The words haunted him. The desolation he remembered hearing in Michael's voice reverberated through his senses, inescapable both night, day, and all spaces in between. He'd been a wreck for days afterwards; a walking, sneering, enraged glob of gay man is how Justin so benignly described his demeanor. Clueless, of course, to its true origin.
Brian finally had an answer to appease his morbid curiosity. How far could he push Michael? Their friendship? Their need for each other? Could they stand as corollary downfalls, and saviors?
He knew one thing with deadly certainty: he needed Michael like he needed water. He could go for days without it; only to slowly weaken, slowly waste to nothing but a mere wraith of his former self until finally, he dwindled to nothing at all. Just like the human body is comprised of eighty percent water, Brian's existence, his very soul, was eighty percent Michael. Apparently more. Probably all.
He had constantly wondered what Michael had done that night, following their heated conversation. He prayed someone had been there to comfort him, that he hadn't secluded himself, as was his tendency.
Brian would probably not be thrilled with the knowledge that Michael went home that night, to Ben, who had quietly laid next to Michael's trembling body, stroking his hair with tender fingers as Michael shed silent tears. Ben had always been tolerant of the dynamic that was Michael and Brian's relationship; too tolerant, in Brian's private opinion. He wasn't supposed to be so composed and wordly-wise all the time. He was supposed to view Brian as a threat - like David had. He was supposed to demand that Michael choose. He was supposed to get fed up and fade away, leaving Michael to him, returning things back to the way they should be.
Brian put the photo back in its place, shutting down his laptop and switching off the lamp. No way he could muster the concentration to work now. He reached for his cell phone, dialing a familiar number, exchanging a few familiar words, then grabbed his keys, disappearing out the door.
"You know why I hiredz' you?"
"I'd like to think it was because of my unerring secretarial qualities, but I have a feeling your going to tell me." Dark eyes regarded his companion skeptically before raising a warming, sweaty beer bottle to his lips, downing a quick swig.
"'S smart man you are. Very's clever's." Brian leaned in towards the smaller man conspiratorially, a drunken gleam in his eyes. He was perhaps as drunk as he had ever been in his entire life.
"If I squintz 'm eyes...just..like...so..." he demonstrated, closing one eye completely and narrowing the other to a mere slit, eliciting an amused snort from his companion, "you almost look...'jus like him."
The dark haired man shook his head softly, deciding to humor his boss. They'd had this same conversation, under the same circumstances, quite a few times.
"And if I squint my eyes, just...like...so," he said, mimicking Brian's example, "you look just like Ashton Kutcher."
Brian hiccuped a laugh, resting his forehead on the lip of his empty beer bottle.
"Your're 'good man, Russ. Too kind."
"Whatever you say, Boss. Just remember it when your sober."
It was true. Russel Abernethy bore uncanny resemblance to Michael Novotny. A hair taller, eyes far less expressive, and cheeks a little slimmer; there were differences, although subtle. Upon interviewing secretary candidates, Brian had ceased looking upon meeting Russel. He'd broken an internal business rule when he'd fucked him not once, but twice. The ache in his heart was subsided for few hours as he fucked Russel with an intensity he knew was caused by an illusion the man created in his mind. Russel knew; though he didn't care. He'd been instantly attracted to the elusive Kinney, and didn't give much thought to the motivations of fucking - to him, it was just fucking, which resulted in a stand-offish, quirky friendship developing between them.
"Hey, Swartzly, 'nother beer." Russ motioned for the bartender, but held up his hand when the stocky man placed one in front of his punch-drunk friend.
"Gimme that. No more for Kinney. Can't you see the man is drunk as a skunk already?"
'Swartzly' shrugged, busying himself elsewhere. Bartenders in distinguished establishments such as the ones found in LA did not go out of their way to socialize with customers, not like in the small joints of the country. Sometimes, Russ missed the simple ways of the south.
"So, Kinney, what happened tonight that made you think you needed my company? Did you talk to him?"
Brian continued to lie motionless on the bar top. Russ waited, sipping leisurely at the fresh, ice cold beer in his hand and idly cruising the expanse of room for a potential trick as he waited for Brian to assemble cognition.
He didn't mind lending an ear to the romantic woes of his boss. In all honesty, he was rather intrigued by the whole story. It would make a fabulous premise for a novel.
Brian peeked out from under his elbow with bloodshot eyes. "Talk to him?"
"Yeah, you know, as in to converse by means of spoken language? Pardon my saying so Boss, but your a fucked up mess. Don't you think its time you quit pissing and moaning and told him how you feel?"
Brian laughed, but it came out series of interrupted hiccups.
"It's not that easy, Russ.'S married."
"And? From what you've told me, he'd drop the Big Bad Buddhist in a heartbeat if you would just tell him you love him."
"'M not so sure anymore, Russ."
Brian made a grab for Russel's beer, but Russ swatted the hand away.
"No. Mine. You're practically marinating in beer already."
Brian smiled, and Russel was once again dumbstruck with how beautiful he was. He also knew that whenever he smiled like that, he was thinking of him.
"You sound like Mikey."
"And you sound very drunk. I think its time you got back home to Lover Boy."
"Your 'm secretary, not 'm chauffeur. And 's not home, and 'e's not 'm 'lover boy' or whatever shit it was you said."
"Uh, you fuck him, right?"
"Not for weeks. We're practically over. 'Jus can't stand it anymore. Too different...too 'like. Not what I want...need."
"Give me a minute while I translate that. Meanwhile, go get your ass in the car. I'm taking you back to your apartment."
Russ turned to to walk away, but was halted by a firm grasp on his bicep.
"Why does it hurt, Russ? Why am I so afraid?"
Russ was rendered momentarily speechless by the raw pain he glimpsed in the depths of Brian's eyes, a palpable emotional struggle and love for a man that had to be extraordinary. From the very start, Brian did not strike him as the type that pined and longed, yet here he was, a veritable mess. Russ had never seen someone so desolate...so lonely. It was as if Brian was walking around with half a soul, half a heart. Walking wounded indeed.
Brian's gaze held him firmly in place, begging him for an answer that would assuage him. Russ didn't have one - except that life was a bitch, and then she has puppies. Many thought that Brian Kinney was intimidating sober; a cynical, sarcastic man who never hesitates to tell the truth, no matter how harsh. But Russel was beginning to find that he was even more so drunk, with all barriers lowered and his vulnerability shining through. He didn't know how to handle him, and admired any person that did; that is, if they existed.
Russ sighed, sitting back down on his bar stool and facing Brian's derelict face.
"You know that old aphorism, 'you can't always get what you want'?"
"'S a song."
"Whatever. So, maybe you should just forget him, if you don't think he loves you."
Brian's eyes grew wide, and for one dreadful moment he thought the man was going to initiate another plastered, yelling fit. He held his breath.
"No. I can never forget him. You dontsz understands," Brian said resolutely, staring at Russ with calculating eyes as if he had severely insulted him.
"You're right. I don't. And I don't think you do at the moment either, because your veins are flooded with alcohol. But answer me this, if possible. Why the fuck are you here, in LA, if he's there, in PA?"
Brian turned away, staring at the polished wood of the bar and picking at the soggy paper of his beer label. Russ realized he'd hit a brick wall, and sighed. Even thoroughly intoxicated, Brian would only open up so much, before he clamped back down again.
Several moments of silence followed, Brian's eyes faraway and melancholy. Russ involuntarily flinched when he finally spoke; a low, soft voice inflected with nostalgic retrospection.
"The moment I laid eyes on him...I knew. Just like that. It was almost visceral. I wanted him...everything about him. His heart, his soul, his body, his mind...everything. And I wanted him to have me. All of me. But I realized I couldn't give it to him...I couldn't give him everything. And everything is what he deserves."
"And your afraid your going to hurt him. Your afraid of losing him, so better to just keep him at arm's length, under the guise of best friend. Because if you lose him, you lose yourself. So you've rejected him, made him believe that all you want is his friendship, nothing more. You've rejected him so much, in fact, that he's given up hope, and therefore you can't make him believe you, because he's protecting himself. Correct?"
"Vanna, show 'em what he's won..."
"Fuck, Kinney, the solution is simple. Although I don't think you'd realize it even if it came up and bit you on the ass."
Brian lifted a quizzical brow, eyeing Russ dubiously.
"Go.Back.To.Pitssburgh. Sweep him of his feet."
Brian scrunched up his face at the phrase, turning his head away.
"And just exactly how am I supposed to do that?"
"You know, Kinney, you really can be a dumbass sometimes."
"What kind of way is that to talk to your boss? Your friend?"
"I can get away with it 'cause I'm your only friend here."
Brian shrugged somberly, returning to the task of de-labeling his beer bottle.
"Firstly, you get back to the Pitts by this nifty little invention called an airplane. It flies. Secondly, you sweep him off his feet by telling him what you just told me...the little 'moment I laid eyes on him' bit. For a prickly fuckin' cactus like you, it was rather sweet. And I hate sweet, but anyways. And I guarantee you, that the moment you get to the 'I can't give him everything' part, you'll be fucking like rabbits and declaring your undying love. And if I'm wrong, you are cordially invited to fire me."
"Like I need to be invited."
"Like your business can function without me."
"Cheeky bastard, aren't you?"
"Comes with the job. So, what about it? Or are you going to continue wallowing in the dregs of your own misery?"
Brian glared at him through murky eyes.
Although they held a mutual respect for one another, Russ realized that he could never get away with talking to a sober Brian so bluntly. At work, Brian carried on as if everything was roses and peaches, and did an admirable job of convincing everyone, including Russ - that is, until Brian had called him up one night, shortly after he'd been hired, asking Russ to accompany him for a night on the town. Russ had been suspicious, to say the least; but had agreed from an entirely professional aspect. At Russ's suggestion, they'd found themselves at Firefly, a bar renowned for their Mediterranean style dishes and al fresco setting. Then it began.
Aloof, ceremonious, and haughty Brian Kinney began telling him about Pittsburgh, Babylon, and Woodies as if he was an old aquaintance from years past. He sat for what felt hours and listened as he described Michael Novotny, their friendship, their childhood, and every thing in between - and Russ was mesmerized.
With each sentence, Brian had taken a slow sip of beer, gradually inebriating himself as his story progressed to the more painful parts. Russ had simply listened with attentive ears, realizing that underneath the callousness, lied a man who was desperately miserable and terribly lonely, and only wanted someone who would listen to him. However, only one man could ease his pain; anyone else was merely a temporary fix for a voracious addiction. He had been clueless as to why him, until he remembered that he supposedly looked alot like this Michael Novotny. At first, he had been more than a little freaked by the fact when Brian began to ask for his company, even after they had fucked, but as time wore on, he realized that Brian was always fully aware that Russ was not 'Mikey'.
Sometimes he felt he knew so much about Mikey that he could write his biography.
"Hey, look, is that Tom Cruise over there, sipping a martini?"
"Don't change the subject."
"Well, you wouldn't answer me."
"What did you say?"
"Nevermind. Look, Brian...this can't go on. Your a fucking fall down mess."
"Somebody once said that to me."
"No shit. What exactly are you waiting for? With Michael, I mean."
"I'm not gonna fuck with his happiness, Russ."
"I don't see how telling him you've been in love with him for twenty years qualifies as such."
"I don't deserve him. Everybody shares my sentiments. His mom, his friends..."
"Oh, get off it already. Who gives a flying fuck what they think. What does he think? What would he more than likely say if he heard you spewing such pathetic horse shit?"
Brian smiled, swaying slightly as he turned away from Russ. He was loathe to admit that he actually liked this guy.
"He'd tell me to shut up and then he'd kiss me."
"My point exactly," Russ said, raising his hands in a display of exasperation.
"I'm just...Jesus." At a loss for words, Brian let his forehead fall to the bar, eyes shut tightly against the world.
"So now your Jesus?" Russ said lightly, nudging Brian's arm a little. Brian had a good heart, he'd come to realize, but it had serious baggage. Even though his perpetual stubbornness irritated him to no end, he didn't want to see Brian in such pain.
"I'm just afraid of failing. Of not being what he needs, of hurting him. I'd kill myself before I'd hurt him like that, Russ. That's why I started what I did with Justin. I had to see if I could do it. If I could make it work."
Russ sighed for at least the thousandth time that night, rubbing wearily at his forehead.
"You haven't failed with blondie. I don't see how you survived as long as you did. The kid's a selfish little prick, if you ask me. He wouldn't piss on me if I was burning."
Justin had immediately picked up on the connection the moment he saw Russ, and generally ignored the man; and when he didn't, he always had a caustic retort to aim in his direction. Russ had returned the vindictiveness in kind.
Brian snorted, his tone mock surprised. "Really? I kinda thought you had a widdle crush on him."
"Shut up. That isn't even funny. It's demeaning."
"Don't get all pissy. It was a j - o - k - e."
"Look, Patrick Swayze," Russ said nonchalantly, motioning with his head towards the left corner of Firefly.
"Did I ever tell ya 'bout the time me and Mik-"
"Yes, Brian, you have. Numerous times. Listen, why don't you go find yourself a nice hot twink and put a great big cherry atop the evening, with a few nuts on the side, eh?"
"Not interested. And didn't your mother ever tell you to avoid nuts and fruits? You are what you eat."
"Damn. So that's where I went wrong."
Silence followed, excluding the horribleness of the current song and the inane cackling of tipsy patrons.
"Did you know that Mikey was the first person who ever told me he loved me?"
Russ was taken aback by the raw emotion which pervaded that single statement. "Oh, c'mon, surely your parents said it to you."
"Nope. Not that I care to remember. If they did say it, it was worthless."
The one thing Brian never shared with him was the details of his life prior to meeting Michael. All he knew was that his father was dead, his sister was a cunt, and his mother a hypocritical devil dodger.
"But when Mikey said it..."
"Made ya feel all fuzzy inside?"
A belch, and a hiccup. "Yeah. Except I could never say it back. I don't talk to him like he does me. He's a bleeding heart...always giving me everything, whether I deserve it or not, whether I give back or not." He sniffed lightly, digging around in his pockets. "He never expects anything from me. Never asks me to change. Only once...for Gus."
"Your son."
Brian nodded. "You know, when I talked to him that night, told him we needed to go our separate ways...I was waiting. I waited, and I waited. I wanted him to tell me to come back to him, that he didn't care about Ben. But he wouldn't and I didn't...I didn't..." he grappled with words, biting at his lower lip furiously. "Fuck it all."
He tried to flick open his lighter, but his fingers refused to sustain a grip.
"Here, let me help."
Brian shoved Russ away gruffly, and threw the uncooperative lighter into a nearby ashtray; which, somehow, tumbled into it miraculously.
Brian attempted to stand, reaching out to the bar for support as he swayed violently.
He threw a wad of cash on the cherry wood surface, mock saluting the bartender with a wobbly hand before turning and stumbling towards the stucco door, holding up an index finger as if to make a valid point as he looked back towards Russ deliberately.
"I don't need any fucking help," he grumbled, right as he walked into the wall.
"Can you make it in alright?"
"I always make it in, but better than alright," Brian slurred, stumbling away from Russ's red camaro.
"Right. See you tomorrow."
"Your ass better not be late again."
"Jesus Kinney, it was two minutes past the hour."
"'S still late," Brian mumbled over his shoulder.
Russ peered out the passenger side window of his idling car, watching to make sure Brian staggered successfully inside the building. The right building. He wasn't going to be responsible for that again.
He shook his head softly as he pealed away from the curb. This could not go on. Didn't that blonde airhead realize what was happening to his lover? What would happen? Brian was practically falling apart in front of his eyes, yet the twink did nothing, acting as if it were of no concern to him.
Jealously, Russ thought. If the kid subtly disfavored him, he must loathe Novotny.
Obviously, Justin was turning a blind eye to Brian's emotional state, feigning ignorance but in truth possessing complete knowledge of the real deal. Selfish prick indeed, Russ thought with a scowl.
Brian was not his responsibility, barely a friend; yet he knew that his tenuous friendship was keeping Brian's head above water - barely. But for how long? He shuddered at the thought of the predicaments his boss would be in, if not for him. Things were even beginning to show at the agency, and somehow, Russ knew that was a very bad sign.
He was tempted to set a trap, sedate him, and ship him first class back to Pittsburgh on a UPS jet with Michael Novotny's address scrawled atop the box in big bold letters.
He doubted that Brian would protest much.
"Brian. Wake up, Brian."
The bed was warm and very soft - softer than he ever remembered it being. He didn't really want to find out what was going on outside the soft, liquid warmth in which he was floating. It was too sinfully delicious. He could feel tingling warmth radiating from someone, or something, hovering above him; a warmth that was reflected in the voice, though faraway.
It was wonderful.
It was home.
"Brian."
Closer now. A puff of hot breath against his ear. He shifted in his sleep, still not persuaded to abandon the pleasant cocoon of warmth that enveloped him. His eyelids quivered, hazel tipped lashes stirring. The voice was magnetic, the dulcet tone seductive in its intimateness. He was drawn to it's familiarity, even deep within the cusp of long needed, euphoric slumber.
"Wake up."
Playful blows of breath across the whirl of his ear.
"Mmpfh tickles." He laughed sleepily, head lolling to the opposite side as he continued to bask in warmth and peacefulness that had evaded him for two months. He wasn't ready to shatter the illusion, to open his eyes and face bitter emptiness.
But the lovely voice, undertoned with amusement, was gently insistent that he awaken.
"It's me."
Incredibly soft lips pressed against his own in a delicate kiss, slow and expressive. He couldn't help but whimper when they pulled away much to soon. He knew those lips. He knew that taste. He knew the voice.
He knew the sensation.
"Mikey?"
"Silly rabbit. Who'd ya think?"
Abruptly, he opened his eyes, and was met with a smile so bright and eyes so deep and brown, he felt sure his heart would burst. Michael crouched above him, palms and knees on either side of his body.
He could only stare in wonderment as Michael continued to gaze at him adoringly, a translucent luminous of unidentified origin casting an ethereal glow upon pale skin.
"Mikey." Very soft. Barely a whisper. Somehow, Brian knew the moment was fragile. "Oh, God." It was a quiet utterance of overwhelmed gratefulness as he leaned up to encircle his arms around a trim waist, leaving them in a sitting position on the bed as Michael gently returned the desperate embrace.
"How...why...?" He murmured against Michael's t-shirt, letting the familiar scent coalesce with every breath.
Michael drew back, placing a single finger across Brian's parted lips as he lowered them back onto the pillows.
"Ssshhh. Just let me look at you."
Michael moved to straddle Brian's bare chest, sweeping his form with affectionate eyes. Brian suddenly felt suffused with warmth, and never wanted to move again.
Once Michael had looked his fill, he giggled faintly, the corner of his lip caught between white teeth. Brian didn't know what was funny, but found himself encapsulated by the infectious laugh. He reached up a hand, and starting at the top of Michael's ear, ran his fingertips through jet hair, grasping the silken spikes between his fingers as he reached the back of Michael's head, pulling him in for a kiss; but cool fingers clasped his wrist, guiding his hand downward to rest upon his heart. Michael looked at him meaningfully as Brian reveled in the feel of Michael's heart beating beneath his palm.
"What do you see when you close your eyes?"
Brian lifted an eyebrow in puzzlement, opening his mouth to speak, but Michael halted his response.
"A horizon. At sunset. Or maybe dawn. I can't really tell. But the clouds are always an array of pastels; warm yellows, soft pinks...oranges that glow like the embers of a dying fire. You can just barely see the sun. But you know it's there, because it touches everything with gold, warms your skin."
Michael's smile was suddenly eclipsed by a sad frown, and Brian wanted to kiss it away, return the smile he loved and longed for.
"That is what I see," Michael continued softly, a wistful quality to his voice as his eyes unfocused.
Confused, Brian tried to sit up, but Michael placed both hands lightly on his chest, returning his focus to Brian's face. He wanted control, and Brian gladly relinquished it.
"What do you see?" Michael's hands slid up Brian's smooth skin, until they cupped over his eyes, causing his world to go dark.
"Tell me what you see." Brian felt a moist kiss along his stubbly jaw. He relaxed, closing his eyes and descending into the pacifying quiet of Michael's presence.
"I see...a horizon. With mountains."
"What color is it?"
"I can't tell. Too much fog."
"Can you see through it?"
"Barely. I see something. Someone. A person, at least." The fingers covering his eyes twitched imperceptibly.
"Who?"
"I don't know. The fog is too dense. I can only see abstract forms. But the horizon, it's...half of the clouds are deep blue. Like storm clouds. The other half is...empty. "
A sigh, and the blockading hands where gone, the pleasant pressure on his chest relieved as Michael straightened his spine.
"Empty skies but a butterflies wings beat silent like air."
Michael scooted backwards so that he could rest his head upon the center of Brian's chest, kissing the taunt skin softly as he did so.
More than a little bemused, Brian stared at the dark head with a furrowed brow. Michael was acting a little...odd. The light in the room was odd. But everything else was perfect, and he once again decided that he could lay like this forever and be a very happy man.
Michael's words of seconds prior were vaguely reminiscent. A song? An apothegm? He couldn't remember, but knew Michael was not yet finished with his recitation.
"Call us free by a promise torn, you said I'll meet you there." The breath of each word teased his left nipple, muddling his attempts to decipher the cryptic remark.
"Meet you there." Michael lifted his head to look into Brian's eyes, the smile reappearing. "You know I'm there." A peck on the lips; ended before Brian could turn it into more.
"Mikey? What the fuck - "
"The person...was it me...or..." Michael drew back again, tangible fear wrinkling his forehead and dissipating his smile. Brian wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt, but the right time had yet to present itself. He was notorious for bad timing; this time, he vowed, he was going to get it right.
"....or what, Mikey?"
Michael regarded him nervously, and did something Brian had never seen him do in all the long, wonderful years of knowing him. He chewed his fingernails. To say it mildly disturbed him was an understatement.
"Stop that."
Michael blinked, in that confused way of his; like he had on the rooftop the night Gus was born. He continued biting at his nails.
"Stop what?" In answer, Brian pulled his hand away from his mouth.
"This." He kissed the offended fingertips lightly. "You never bite your nails."
"Was it me or Justin? The person you saw? That you see?"
"God, Mikey. You. Always you. Don't you know that? Always you." He stroked a pale cheek softly before clasping his hand securely behind Michael's neck. This time, he didn't let Michael pull away. He pulled him down on top of him in one smooth motion, taking his lips within his own and moaning softly at the fire that coursed through his body, down his spine, taking some erotic detours on the way. Michael allowed Brian to dominate the kiss, to devour his pliant lips as they melted into the heat of each other's bodies - and souls. Time seemed to slow.
Brian reached a hand underneath their crushed bodies to lift the corner of Michael's white t-shirt, yearning to feel soft skin against soft skin. Just as he was about to rest his hand along one of his many favorite places of Michael's body - the gentle curve of the small area between stomach and hip - Michael stilled his questing hand with a sharp hiss of breath, brown eyes pleading and tinted with barely perceptible pain.
Brian was momentarily frozen by the trickle of alarm that seeped through his consciousness. Staring into Michael's eyes, he pushed gently on his chest, putting just enough space between their bodies to allow him to pull the t-shirt all the way up to Michael's chest in one swift jerk.
Another sharp gasp pierced the silence, and he realized it was his own.
"Fuck."
The lower portion of Michael's stomach was a distorted myriad of unsightly bruises; black, purple, blue and yellow surging together in an angry cloud that marred perfect, pale flesh. The discolored contusions began to fade, though not much, to a dusty yellow at hipbones that were visible due to the low-rise of his jeans.
It was painful to even look at.
"What happened? Who the fuck did this to you? God dammit!" Brian felt pure rage flood his veins, his voice rising, prompting Michael to flinch unconsciously.
"Talk to me. Tell me who did this."
Something dark and amorphous flared in Michael's eyes. He looked away.
"Fuck! I want to know what bastard did this to you. Was it Ben? Is that fucker using steroids again?" He grabbed Michael's biceps, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Who did this to you?!?!"
"Why do you want to know?"
"What the hell - "
"How do you know this isn't what I look like...on the inside. That is, if you could see me from the inside out."
Brian glanced down at the horrifying bruises, tearing his eyes away as he felt another swell of anger hit him as forcefully as an ocean wave. His heart lurched and nausea surged when he saw that the massive bruise extended to cover Michael's lower back.
"But if you could, would you understand me? You told me we didn't understand each other anymore. So how can you understand this? If you think these bruises are painful - which they are - your words are even more so. This is what it does to me, everytime...on the inside."
Nausea overtook his anger. He went numb, held in place by Michael's eyes. So innocent, so full of love. He wanted to drown there.
With infinite gentleness, he turned Michael over onto his back, and laid to the side of him, mindful of his bruises. Michael watched with rapt eyes as he lowered his head to the abused skin, never breaking their gaze as he placed tender butterfly kisses all along the expanse of his undoubtedly sore stomach, seeking to soothe aches both external and internal.
"If I could take away everything," he murmured between wet kisses, occasionally blowing on one and absorbing Michael's appreciative shiver, "I would. Every word that ever hurt you. Every move that ever made you doubt me, doubt yourself. But I can't. It's who I am, and sometimes...I hate myself for it."
A finger smoothed over one hazel eyebrow to slowly trace the curve of his cheek. "I love you for it."
At the words, Brian held one soothing kiss longer than he had all the rest. Hearing those words fulfilled and brought to him more than any orgasm with a nameless trick ever had, ever would. He could almost feel Michael's smile, an acknowledgment of their unspoken language.
"Did you ever read the book "A Toad for Tuesday" when you were a kid?"
"Mmm nnnn," he hummed, lips still busy tenderly caressing black and purple flesh.
"I was reading it to Gus the other night. Before bed. You shoulda been there. He smelled so good, like the coconut baby shampoo Lindsay washes his hair with. His room is alot like mine was at his age...Spiderman on the bedspread, Captain Astro on the curtains. Anyway, he brought a book to me, and said, "Uncle Michowl, wead this to me?" And it was that book."
Brian stopped, looking up into Michael's distant eyes. With one last lingering kiss just below Michael's bellybutton, where the bruise was a particularly sickening shade of purple, he crawled up the bed and buried his face in the hollow between neck and collar bone, reaching blindly for Michael's hand and twining their cool fingers. He sighed contentedly, waiting for Michael to continue his story.
"The toad, Warton, decides to take beetle brittle to his Aunt, even though it is cold and the ground is covered with snow."
"'Beetle brittle'? Isn't that something your mom makes?" he teased, tightening his arms around Michael and nuzzling the softness of his neck with the tip of his nose. He loved Michael's neck. He loved Michael's scent. He always berated him on the rare occasions that he used cologne, dishing out a snide remark to cover up his true distaste for the manufactured fragrance.
Michael giggled, both from Brian's tease and from the ticklish sensation he was creating at his throat. "I think your confusing that with her meat loaf."
"Ohhh," he purred playfully, craning his neck to briefly bury his face in the silk of Michael's hair.
"You smell so good," he whispered, no longer afraid to speak his heart.
"So do you."
He trailed his lips along a feather light path of dewy kisses, starting at Michael's ear, gliding back down to the niche of his throat to rest there with a satisfied exhalation. "Go on. Tell me the story, Mikey."
"Warton decides to brave the cold anyway, being the brave and kind-hearted toad that he is. So he bundles himself up with many layers of warm sweaters, and dons a pair of skis, setting out on a three-day journey. But an owl swoops down and carries the toad to his lair, telling him he plans to eat him on Tuesday, five days away, as a birthday treat. Toads and owls are natural enemies, of course. But the toad and owl start to learn about each other, and the toad begins to see through the cold exterior of the owl, to the goodness of his heart. He sees that the owl is lonely, wanting only to be loved. They become close friends, so close that they realize their friendship is more important than being part of the food chain."
Brian heard Michael's breath grow faint, and panic shook him to the core.
"Mikey?"
"Yes?"
"Oh." Something weird was going on. He heard a rumbling in the distance, unable to pin point exactly what it was, so he dismissed it.
He leaned up to whisper in shell of Michael's ear.
"I wanna break the food chain, Mikey. I want more than friendship. Always have..."
"...Always will." Michael finished, leaning into the warmth of the lips that grazed his ear.
"I missed you."
"I know. But not enough."
"What?"
"Not enough to stop it. Not enough for us."
Brian realized with a jolt that the rumbling was thunder.
"What are you talking about?"
"You know the time and place between dreams and reality, between sleep and waking?"
"....Yeah..."
"I'll meet you there. But the sky won't be empty." He kissed Brian's forehead softly, framing his cheek with one hand.
Lightening briefly illuminated Michael's face, which was odd because the room had been suffused with light, a glow even, since he had awoken. Uneasiness caused him to tighten his hold on Michael, cleaving to the feel and touch of him, the soothing pressure of the warm lips grazing his forehead. The last thing he saw and heard was another blinding flash of lightening and a hair raising crack of thunder.
"No!"
He jerked forward violently, heavy breathing filling the cumbersome silence. Sweat soaked the sheets, chilling his body. Bright light shone through the octagon window which faced his side of the bed. The other side of the bed was empty and untouched. Justin hadn't come back last night. Just as well.
Fuck. A dream. It was all a dream. The thought almost pricked his eyes with tears; but then he remembered the less than favorable things that he had witnessed and tried to be thankful. To no avail.
That dream...to say it disturbed him more than anything had in a very long time was a tremendous understatement. It scared him fucking shitless. The fact that he couldn't drive to Michael's apartment and see him with his own two eyes (like he had a few times years ago when the occasional nightmare plagued his sleep) scared him even more. He had always covered it up with a sly "Can't a guy visit his best friend on a whim?" goosing Michael playfully while he brushed his teeth or holding him tight as he mumbled irritably in his rudely interrupted sleep. Brian Kinney wasn't supposed to believe in superstitions or premonitions. But Michael was his responsibility - fuck the Professor.
He took a shaky breath and raised an equally shaky hand to glance at the watch he had never removed in his drunken stupor the night before. 10:43 am.
"Shit!!! Sonoffa bitch, god damn fucking..." Spouting an incessant string of markedly vile profanities, he leap from the cold bed, puzzled as to why his alarm had failed to go off. He was three hours and forty-three minutes late. And he'd scolded Russ for two minutes.
Stark naked, he stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the kitchen area, greeted by the tableau of Justin, paper in hand, sipping his morning coffee leisurely, like a scene straight from Gay as Blazes.
"You little shit! Why the FUCK did you turn my alarm off!"
"Um, so you could sleep?" Justin drawled sarcastically. Brian, however, was in no mood to mince words. He stepped forward, glaring daggers as his fist connected solidly with the table, rattling its contents and causing Justin's steaming coffee to leap from the mug and into his lap. He yelped, jumping up and swatting at his crotch.
"What the fuck did you do that for?!"
"Don't fuck with my stuff ever again."
"Would you calm down! I called Russ. He's taking care of the agency today."
Brian steepled his fingers together, his voice laced with feigned patience. "And why, pray tell, did you do that, darling? So we could have tea and crumpets together? So you could get a good morning fuck?" His voice went from mock sweet to enraged in one second flat. "Because you think you can do whatever the fuck you deem necessary?!"
"Because you came in reeking of alcohol last night. Because I heard you talking in your sleep. Because I heard you asking for Michael," Justin said, never backing down, arms crossed defiantly.
Brian scowled, and turned to leave. Justin grabbed his arm.
"Did you know that other nights, when you came in drunk, you called me Mikey? You say his name in your sleep practically every night. You're constantly looking at pictures of him. I don't understand. Look around you, look at yourself. What are you doing here?" Justin's voice was unequivocal.
Brian jerked his arm from Justin's grasp.
"Mind your own fucking business."
"I plan to. From now on," he said to Brian's retreating back. Brian stopped, and turned slowly, facing the young man with what could only be described as an unmitigated weariness in the depths of his eyes and in the lines of his gloriously nude form.
"Justin...I want you to know that I care for you. I loved you, even. But I can't give you what you want, and I think you know that. So maybe...wherever you were last night, you should stay there this time."
Justin, to his credit and to Brian's surprise, smiled. "You know I loved you, so I don't need to say it. My bags are already packed. I always knew you could never give me everything. That belongs to someone else. Always has, and always will."
He walked up to Brian and kissed him softly on the cheek. "But I want to say thank you." With one last look, he walked to the door, a confidence and maturity in his steps that made Brian proud.
"Justin? Thank you, too."
Two men exchanged smiles, each headed for his own, separate destiny.
TBC...
Author Note : The first set of lyrics are from "God Damn Me" by Filter. The second, quoted by Michael, are from Kosheen's "Empty Skies." Also, I adore the character of Cynthia, but she just couldn't suit my purposes for this story and I couldn't see her following Brian all the way out to California. So, I created Russ, who can see Brian's love for Michael, (from a unique perspective) similar to how I always imagined Cynthia does. (after all, she immediately knew the cause of Brian's grumpiness in 112)