Author: Samantha (Sam)
Feedback: I greatly appreciate feedback.
Pairing: B/M, of course, with initial B/J, Be/M overtones. T/E
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: Everyone who has sent me such lovely feedback, on and off-list.
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.
Disclaimer: I'm just playing in Cowlip's sandbox. No profit is generated from this. QAF and Brian/Michael are not mine. But oh, if they were...evil grin
Author Note : I will warn my readers that I am not exactly nice to Ben in this chapter. Also, certain parts are rather dark.
What lies behind us, and what lies before us, are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson --
BE MY DOWNFALL
Chapter Eight
Black coffee.
A gentle catharsis; suffusing the ceramic of the simple mug with languorous warmth, in turn suffusing the hand that encircled it, maybe even the soul - for he exhaled and inhaled the quelling scent with each preoccupied breath.
Michael had never stopped to appreciate the regenerative effects of something so ostensibly austere as coffee; but here he was, captivated by the way the steam drifted skyward to bathe his face in an intoxicating blend of moisture, warmth, and stimulating aroma.
It might, he considered, have something to do with the fact that the night prior, he had consumed more alcohol than he had in the last two years combined.
But whatever it was, it didn't matter. All that mattered was him, his cup of beautifully frothed coffee, and the comfy nest he had created for himself on the worn old couch he never remembered being quite so comfy before. And the silence - couldn't forget the silence; glorious, exquisite silence.
It was a matter of minutes before dawn - the still moment of time where the heavens are a painter's canvas; a perfect bisection of fleeting stars against a backdrop of obsidian sky, mingled with a fusion of pastel clouds and wispy rays of orange and slivered luminescence. However, to the comatose man on the couch, it was merely - regrettably - the ass crack of dawn. Nothing flowery nor poetic about it. Especially not when there was a jackhammer in your head, one hour of sleep to your name, and a foot of snow on the ground.
He shifted his free hand - ever, ever so slowly - to tuck the fuzzy afghan closer to his bare side, halting the sudden flow of chilly air. That was better.
He instinctively knew, without seeking a clock, that Hunter and Ben would be up any second, initiating their morning routines before school and work, respectively. Which...oh God...meant noise...and...lights. He burrowed further into the couch, wishing it would just open up and swallow him (now wasn't THAT a pervy thought to have about your couch). He was getting too old for this shit, the dismal side of him grumped. He never remembered being this hung-over back in his glory days.
He paused mid sip, and frowned thoughtfully, reflecting on why he had just classified his twenties as his 'glory days' - and the answer was immediate. Because it had been just the two of them. Michael and Brian.
He thought back on his first real hangover, and smiled. He'd been a rowdy (at least when in Brian's presence), insatiable boy of eighteen, and Brian had been a freshman in college of likewise virility. He remembered they had partied particularly hard that night beneath the glittering strobe lights of Babylon's dance floor, and as a circumstance, he ended up spending the night under Brian's watchful eye in his cramped - but never messy - dorm room, awakening the following morning with something akin to an elephant sitting on his head. It was only alleviated by the fact that first thing he had managed to pry his eyes open to, was Brian; propped up on an elbow and staring down at him with amused empathy. "Mikey has a hangover", he'd singsonged, smacking a wet kiss on his cheek. And Michael had thought at that exact moment - certainly not for the first time - that he wanted nothing more than to wake-up to that face every morning for the rest of his life.
Toeing the line of incoherency, he'd merely eyeballed the much too cheery face with blurred vision, watching in disbelief as the blur rose from the bed, clad only in snug boxers, and brought back to him a cup of steaming coffee, thrusting it under his nose with an uncharacteristic smile.
Brian Kinney, bringing anyone coffee? In bed? No. That just wasn't possible. But it had happened, and Michael had decided that even though he didn't have the intimacy of his body, or the waking image of his beautiful face every morning - he had this. The Brian Kinney no one saw, that no one was allowed to see. The caring, compassionate man who loved with his entire being.
That was the first - and last - time that particular phenomenon occurred, but he cherished it nonetheless.
For the next hour, they had been content to simply lay smushed together in Brian's tiny bed - laughing and goofing as if they were fourteen and up in Michael's old room, getting high on cheap pot and fanning it out the window - until it was time for Brian to leave for class. He had insisted that Michael was welcome to stay as long as he needed, but Michael had reluctantly lugged himself out of the bed, and pieced his clothes back on with questionable precision, determined to accompany Brian the one mile walk to campus. He remembered the look in Brian's eyes when they reached their destination, remembered how time seemed to slow as they stood there, staring into each other's eyes, surrounded by milling students yet oblivious to everything else in the world as Brian pulled him in for a kiss - long, slow, unabashed. Michael's lips burned from the memory of it.
That was the last time they would see each other for three long weeks.
Michael shivered, feeling the familiar ache rise within his heart. The coffee suddenly wasn't that remarkable anymore, as reality began to assail him in small, painful increments. He almost wished he were drunk again; blithely ignorant to the reason he felt as if he were walking around with half a heart, half a soul, and half a mind.
He took a long, appreciative sip of the swarthy liquid, eyelashes fluttering as he savored what little time he had left alone.
"CRAWLING IN MY SKIN...."
"Fuck!!!"
He didn't know how he kept his coffee mug from flying across the room, or his head from exploding; but he knew that the instantaneous blare of Limpin Shark - or whatever the hell the name of that group was - was NOT how he had wanted to end his ambrosial solitude.
He gritted his teeth and grabbed at his temple, the dull pounding of his skull matching that of the song.
"Dude, you look rough." Hunter stood above him, hands on his hips as he bellowed down at Michael's unmoving form.
Michael could only glower. The riffs of heavy bass jarred the window, and Michael swore his coffee was rippling - but maybe that was just his head.
"Could you...please...turn that down?" he managed to croak.
Hunter looked nonplussed for a moment, then broke into a wide grin.
"Oh, that. My new way to start the morning. You like it?"
"No. I dislike it. Profusely."
"Dude, you need to broaden your horizons, branch out from that jazz and country shit you listen to."
"I do not listen to 'jazz and country shit'," Michael grumbled, turning away and pulling the afghan with him.
"Damn your grumpy in the morning. Just what is it then, 'cause that's what it sounds like to me."
"For your information, it's called classic rock. And if you don't turn that down, your brand new stereo is going to take a lesson in flying."
"Okay, okay. Chill. I read online that invigorating music is beneficial to the start of a productive day," Hunter replied smugly, backpedaling towards his room with an impish grin.
"The fuck it is."
The ear-splitting music abruptly ceased, and a relieved sigh escaped Michael's lips.
"Hey, you said not to use that word," Hunter called, peering around the corner as he pulled a sweatshirt over his head.
How come it was that children failed to hear what you wanted them to, but always heard that which you didn't?
"I said YOU couldn't use it. I never said I couldn't."
"I have to disagree. Parents are to teach by example." Ben emerged from their bedroom, never sparing a glance towards the lump on the couch as he rummaged around in the kitchen.
Michael rolled his eyeballs at Ben's self-righteous tone. "Good morning to you too," he growled, voice muffled against the back of the couch.
"What was that?"
"I said, I have to agree with you."
"Don't leave yet, I need to talk to you," Ben said before closing the bathroom door, his tone brittle and imperative.
"Does it look like I'm going anywhere soon?" Michael mumbled as he ran a hand through sleep mussed hair, carefully attempting to sit up. His effort was rewarded with a sharp stab of white hot pain across the back of his head.
"No school today," Hunter stated nonchalantly as he perused the contents of the fridge with a scrunched up nose. "Thought I'd go to the mall. That okay?"
"The mall? Is it even open at six o'clock in the morning?"
"Of course not, Einstein. Thought I'd get something to eat at the diner first, since there isn't a single edible thing in this joint. 'Sides, you and Ben need to hash out your connubial differences - maybe watch the Dr. Phil marathon together."
"Thanks, Hunter." And he meant it. Not the sarcastic advice - but that Hunter was willing to give them some much needed privacy, without Michael having to awkwardly ask for it. He didn't want the teen anywhere near when he and Ben said the things he knew would be said between them.
"No problem. Adiós, amigos."
Michael smiled fondly at Hunter's retreating back, then attempted to stand - and thought better of it. He figured if he maintained exactly the same position he was in, without moving a muscle, that his head just might not fall completely off his shoulders. Nor would the daggers, buried in his temples, twist themselves any deeper into his brain.
"Rough night?" Ben challenged, drying his hands with a towel - and talking entirely to loud.
His back still facing Ben, Michael groggily ran a hand down his face, deciding to just get it over with as he slowly climbed to his feet - with a considerable amount of assistance from the couch and coffee table - and finally stood on his own wobbly two feet. He lumbered his way into the kitchen, making a effort to keep his gaze anywhere but on the other man in the room.
"You could say that." He opened the fridge, unknowingly examining the contents with the same expression Hunter had accommodated, until he carefully bent to retrieve the orange juice carton.
"Mmm," Ben murmured with flippant disinterest, eliciting a sidelong stare of puzzlement from Michael as he lifted the carton - and drank straight from it.
"Michael..." Ben stared back at Michael with mild disbelief.
"What?"
"Nothing." Ben sighed as Michael continued to drink from the carton, looking every bit of sixteen.
"Hunter's school was canceled. Maybe you won't have to go in."
"I can't go in."
"Huh? A little snow never stopped you before."
"I'm not talking about that. I got a call last night. Do you remember Kurt Hanchett?"
"Yeah. Used to sub for you. You went through college together, right?" Michael remembered more than that.
Kurt Hanchett was positive.
"He died Saturday."
Michael was momentarily at a loss for words, and was suddenly very cold; clad only in flannel pajama pants and a wedding band.
"His funeral is today." Ben's voice was devoid of any perceptible emotion, and Michael was suddenly bombarded with a slew of unpleasant flashbacks featuring the weeks following the death of Ben's ex, Paul. A time and event he rather forget.
"I'm sorry," he said softly, feeling goosebumps rise along his skin, the ache in his temples sharpen. "I'll go with you."
"You have work."
"So? I just won't open the store today. From the looks of it outside, I don't think people are gonna be banging down the door."
There was no hesitation in his response. "No, really - it's okay. You don't have to go."
You don't want me to go, or I don't have to go?
Michael paused for a moment, and seemed to be searching for the right words. He was not going to beg, not going to insist. Not this time.
"Okay then. Make sure you tell his family why I'm not there," he replied softly, giving Ben a meaningful glare as he passed him on his way to the bathroom.
"And why would that be?" There was more than a little mock sarcasm in the well-known voice.
Michael laughed - aloud. As if he didn't know.
"Because," he tossed over a retreating shoulder, "it's not my world."
Pillowy, flawless, and unobstructed by human footprints; the crisp blanket of snow was painfully beautiful. Literally. Michael was sure that had he forgotten his sunglasses, he'd be squinting like an eighty year old man and struggling to gain his bearings. Luckily - miraculously - he'd remembered to snatch them off the dresser before leaving the apartment, bundled up in about three days worth of clothing. That was the thing about wintertime - there was always more laundry. Hurrah.
Just as he unlocked the door to Red Cape comics, flurries began to fall liberally, settling the vicinity into an eery silence and shadowing the blinding rays of the burgeoning sun. It had been like this for two days now; daybreak commencing with the promise of ample sunshine, only for ominous snow clouds to creep up like Border Collies on a flock of unsuspecting sheep, sweeping the Pitts with gusts of frigid wind and a caliginous screen of fat snowflakes.
Once inside, Michael released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Today was a good day to flip the sign over to closed, pile your arms chin-high with comic books, and hit the old bean bag.
But, truth be told, his store didn't bring the serenity it had always solicited in the past; but Michael chose not to examine that oddity too closely, preferring to be the proverbial ostrich, and bury his head in the sand.
Too many things had happened here. Too many memories.
There, behind the counter, is where he'd first laid captivated eyes on Ben. And over there, against the wall in front of the door, is where Brian had backed him, groped him, and left with a victorious grin and the knowledge of his 'secret identity' - of which the true meaning still eluded him, for Brian had always known Michael wanted him sexually, hadn't he? And finally, slumped against the wall over by the steps, is where they had ended it all with a handful of embittered words.
It's not the end yet, dumbass - it's just the beginning.
That prick of a little voice inside his head would just not shut up. Was it his angelic side, or his devilish side, he pondered with a remorseful shake of his head.
His phone vibrated against his thigh, prompting his heart to leap into his throat.
He peeked at the screen with guarded eyes, his heart falling back into place as he saw that it was Emmett.
"Hey, Em," the words rolling off his tongue as a weary sigh.
"Michael! I'm so glad I got you. You won't believe who just called me."
"After the morning I've had, I'll believe anything."
"I just got off the phone with Brian."
Okay, maybe not anything.
"Brian?" he breathed, a thousand thoughts swarming his mind, clouding his ability to focus.
"Brian," Emmett confirmed, his words hurried, "at first I was pissed because he didn't call you, but Michael, he sounded so...un-Brian. I mean, he was still the same old cynical smart ass, but he sounded almost...sad. Which is kinda creepy."
Michael felt...something...flare within his heart. Could Brian possibly be feeling the same way he was feeling?
"Oh! And you won't be believe this either. He broke up with Justin."
Whatever the flare had been - it was now effectively doused.
"Actually, that's not so hard to believe."
Emmett didn't seem to notice Michael's dour tone. "He said he missed you...and that Hollywood wasn't all it was cracked up to be...and...oh! - he said to tell you that he'd see you soon, whatever that means - which with him could mean practically anything. He hung up before I could ask him. I just don't understand why he won't call you. In fact, he asked me not to tell you he called."
Michael snorted. "I'm not surprised. Being the quintessential asshole and all."
Michael didn't know how much of Emmett's recap to take with a grain of salt, how much to consider de facto, nor how much to just forget, if at all possible. It was much too early, much to cold, and his brain was much to debilitated for any of this to be remotely comprehensible. Emmett was prone to over-dramatize, though he'd like to think that for just this once - he wasn't.
"You ought to call him, Sweetie. You've always been the peacemaker of the duo."
Michael struggled to keep the acerbity from his tone. "A role I hereby relinquish. I'm sick of it. Sick of him and his stubborn pride," he said firmly, stabbing in the password to his email account.
"He asked how you were," Emmett ventured.
"Through the backdoor. I didn't do anything to him, yet he's the one afraid to call me. If he thinks for one second that I'm going to just...give him the easy way out, he's in for a rude awakening. I'm not his dutiful, unfailing, devoted little Mikey anymore."
"O-kay. It was just a suggestion," Emmett replied defensively, unnerved by how easily Michael's anger had been incited.
"Good. 'Cause I'm not doing it - I'm not saying a single word to him until he starts acting like the thirty-two year-old man he is and apologizes. Or least explains himself. "
"Good for you, honey. I think it's wonderful that you're standing up for yourself."
Michael laughed - with no mirth. "I've learnt the hard way that I'm the only one who can and will."
Emmett didn't know what exactly to say to such an uncharacteristic remark. "Well, I'm just the lowly messenger - but I did stand up for you. What exactly happened when - "
"I don't want to talk about it," Michael bluntly interrupted, knowing to what Emmett was referring.
Emmett instantly regretted the inadvertent slip. Of course Michael wouldn't want to talk about it. It dawned on him just how bad their argument must have been. He was almost immune to the various squabbles they sometimes - rarely - engaged in, for they never lasted longer than a day, if even minutes, and were invariably the type of quarrels that emanated from knowing someone better than yourself - like an old married couple (although Emmett doubted Brian would appreciate the description). But this - this was vastly different, and Emmett felt an acute rush of sympathy for the man on the other end of the line; and yes, even for Brian.
He remembered Michael's devastation at the apartment before his departure to Boston - and it seemed Michael was taking his advice, to a lesser extent.
Awkward silence transpired, and Emmett was inclined to change the current topic of discussion.
"Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. Teddy and I further discussed our idea last night, and came to a definite decision. We're really gonna do it, Michael. We're going to get married!"
Michael couldn't help but smile at the pure exuberance in Emmett's tone. "That's great Em. I'm really excited for you guys."
"I couldn't wait to tell you. We talked about how great it was that you and Ben tied the knot, and how more gay men should do the same - and then it came to us. Teddy's going to take his vacation time early, so we plan to leave within the week."
Michael chuckled. "So soon?"
"Well, we hope to be back before Christmas. We just can't wait. God, Michael...I never dreamed of myself getting married."
"That's the same thought that went through my mind when Ben popped the question." Michael paused, willing away the tightness in his chest."Look...I'm sorry I wasn't more enthusiastic about it last night, but I know you know I think it's wonderful, and something every committed gay couple should consider. I was just...having a bad night. Bad day, actually." Bad two months.
"Oh, hun - I completely understand. Don't you even think about it. But you did scare us last night. Feeling better this morning?"
"Yeah, I am," Michael fibbed, clenching his jaw. "After I regurgitated the entire contents of my stomach, I was good as new."
"Well, that's one way to learn not to binge drink," Emmett volunteered cheerily, attempting in his ever sensitive way to salvage a rather unpleasant event with light-heartedness.
"Thanks for calling and letting me know, Em. I gotta go and get some work done," Michael said, hoping his voice did not belie his distractedness as he eyed a familiar email address curiously.
"You're welcome, sweetie. I'll see you later."
"Bye." Michael hastily tossed the cell phone aside, and continued to stare at the email, slowly dragging the cursor over the heading as he worried at his bottom lip. He clicked, and began to read.
Dear Michael,
You received my letter of confirmation in the mail yesterday, if my calculations were correct. But I wish to send you a personal note of congratulations from both myself and my crew. Welcome aboard, and my most heartfelt thanks for so graciously allowing us to film your brilliant creation.
You may start on the script anytime you wish, and for the moment, at any pace you desire. Once you have completed a rough draft, Justin and the art department will begin the preliminary storyboards. This process includes several additional details, of course, but we will discuss this more extensively via phone.
For now, congratulations; Rage is on it's way.
Yours Truly,
Brett Keller
For the first time in two months, a genuine smile tugged at the corners of Michael's lips. He pulled his chair snug under the counter, clicked open Microsoft Word, and began to type.
He feared it might be the only way to keep himself sane.
"Stover called, Gehle left you a message, the airheads in the art department need a fire lit under their asses again...and..." Russ drawled, tapping a pencil on his chin as he skimmed through the pages on his clipboard.
"That 'and' better include a flight to Pittsburgh," said Brian churlishly, tilting his head back and popping two Tylenol's. He took a generous swallow from the styrofoam cup on his desk; grimaced, scooted it away with a finger, and regarded it disdainfully.
"Did something take a piss in that?"
"In what?" Russ said, looking up.
"THAT." Brian nodded toward the steaming cup.
"Oh," Russ said distantly, returning his attention to the clipboard. "Not that I'm aware of."
"Well, get me something that doesn't taste like wood tar and get THAT toxic shit off of my desk and out of my sight," he snarled, jerking open a drawer to his file cabinet.
Russ observed Brian from beneath lowered lids, finally raising his head and sliding the pencil behind his ear.
"Whatever's eating you must be suffering terribly."
"Unfortunately, nothing's eating me at the moment."
Russ shook his head softly at Brian's uncanny ability turn everything he said into a sexual innuendo.
"Did you hear anything I said?" He queried gently, watching as Brian thumbed through the folders with an agitated frown.
"Gehle the airhead left a message, the art department needs an ass again, and Stover lit a fire." Brian perused the contents of a folder with a customary air of bored indifference.
Russ allowed himself a small sigh, and walked across the glinting marble floor of Brian's office. The design reflected the abstruse ad man to a perfect tee - smooth, uninterrupted lines of polished chrome and stainless steel; modern, contemporary furnishings of minimal quantity, and strategically placed plants and knick-knacks that suggested an intelligent eye and impeccable taste. Sleek, refined, and eminently pleasing to the eye - integrally mirroring the man in control.
Russ perched himself atop the corner of Brian's desk, eyeing the crabby man below him expectantly.
"You also have a message from Justin Taylor." Russ tried to conceal his curiosity.
"He can wait," Brian grunted.
Russ smiled knowingly. "Of course. You can talk to him when you get home."
Brian's head snapped up, and icy hazel eyes pegged him with a glare that would melt lesser men where they stood.
"I'm not telling you again, Russell - it's NOT home, and if you refer to it as such again, I WILL make sure there is a significant deduction in your next paycheck. Understood?"
Russ saluted, unperturbed. "Yes sir, thank you sir."
"And Justin and I are no longer together."
Russ's face lit up. "Hey, congratulations!"
Brian did a double take, quirking a smooth brow.
Russ shook his head, but his smirk belied the flippant apology. "I mean, uh, sorry to hear that, Sir."
"Cut the 'sir' shit, would you?" Brian chucked his pen down irritably, lifting a hand to rub at his temple. "And why haven't you booked my goddamn flight?"
Russ cleared his throat. "Because there are a few details we need to discuss."
"Like what? The draperies?"
Russ ignored the sarcasm. "Kinnetic is still a relatively new company - a fledgling agency, if you will. And we both know that the newbie in town hardly gets special treatment; but is perhaps compared and contrasted with the larger companies even more aggressively than the established ones. Competition elimination."
Brian huffed. "Save your lecture for the actual lecture. You're not helping my headache."
Russ held up a finger. "Hear me out, Brian. I'm your biggest supporter - well, your only supporter - as far as flying back to the Pitts goes. And I'm not trying to play the bad guy here; I'm merely doing my job as your secretary...and your friend. So I think it's appropriate for me to remind you that if you decide to go back now, Kinnetic could fail."
"That's what interns are for."
"You know better than me that some fresh-faced kid isn't even close to a suitable replacement for a senior manager like you - not even for a short term basis. Planning, Brian, planning is the key. The graphics team - do you trust them with this new client, Gehle?"
Brian tugged at his lips, deep in thought.
Brian didn't have to speak for Russ to discern his answer. "Me neither. Brian....I've already talked to Gehle about your absence at the meeting, and he refuses to sign on unless he meets personally with you - and he's flying in the day you're wanting to leave for PA. These big wigs - they're paying for YOUR impressive resumé - not an intern. Your staff is very green. Hell, half of them still have to be told every fucking move to make."
Brian shook his head, his jaw set. "I have to go Russ. I can't be away from him for one more day."
Russ's sigh was patient. "I know Brian, I know. But you are going to lose not one, but two accounts if you leave tomorrow. That's a loss we can't afford to take. All I ask is that you wait. Wait until Stover and Gehle get here. Meet with them, sign the contract, set it in concrete. Then you can go."
Brian stared into space. "How far does that set me back?"
"One week exactly. Not a minute more."
Brian swiveled his chair, returning his attention to the file cabinet and avoiding eye contact. "I can't do it. I can't wait that long."
"Brian, the last agency I worked for - Blue Marvel Media. The senior ad man took two weeks worth vacation time. His agency was two months old. He went bankrupt because of it. I don't want to see that happen to you. You have FAR too much talent."
Brian's voice was strained, and Russ could almost see the inner struggle. "I've never chose my job over Mikey, and I'm not about to start now. I have this...nevermind."
"This...what?" Russ prompted in a gentle voice.
"I said nevermind," Brian snapped, burying his face in his hands with a weary sigh.
Russ realized he was about to tread on dangerous water, but he figured it was the only way. "The guy you just got off the phone with - "
"Emmett."
"Emmett. How'd he say Michael was doing?"
Brian snorted. "He wouldn't fucking tell me."
"This guy Michael's with now...the Buddhist. He takes care of him, right?"
Brian's voice was thoughtful and distant, qualities that were reflected in the depths of his eyes. "Yes."
"Then let him have Michael for one more week, and meet with these clients - secure the accounts, get the campaign going. But call Michael, and let him know that you're coming. Don't go back to Pittsburgh jobless, or worse, leave your agency behind in incapable hands. The failure of Kinnetic would hurt your resumé severely, Brian, and you may never be able to regain the ground you've gained in the last eight years of experience. The ad world isn't very forgiving. From what you've told me, Michael would want you to do he same. Don't take the chance of having to turn around and leave, only days after getting there, because of a crisis here that could have been avoided. I swear to you Brian - one week from today, and your ass will be on a plane headed for PA and Michael Charles Novotny."
Silence lingered for several moments, both men motionless and contemplative; waiting for the impending answer. Brian finally lifted his head, a weight shadowing the edges of his eyes that Russ didn't remember seeing before.
Brian stared intently at a picture enclosed within a seashell frame; and took a shaky breath.
"Okay."
THREE DAYS LATER
The apartment was still and shrouded in darkness, save for the splinter of pale moonlight that seeped through the small window across from the couch, creating a column of bleached fluorescence.
Michael gritted his teeth, closing the sqeaky door and toeing off his sneakers with agonizingly slow movements. A soundless sigh of relief escaped him when he accomplished both tasks without the barest hint of noise.
He thought it wise to strip right there at the door, the particular area being the farthest point from the two separate rooms which held what Michael hoped were deeply sleeping occupants. He considered simply leaving his clothes on; but the thought of sleeping in his jeans was not the most enticing.
Finally peeled down to nothing but black boxers, he tiptoed stealthily towards the couch, a corner of his lip caught between straight teeth in determined concentration - until his toe connected with something unmistakably solid and painfully unyielding. He froze, eyes clamping tight as a sharp hiss he really wish he'd been able to stem filled the deathly silence.
His big toe throbbing, Michael hobbled the remainder of the way to the couch, making a mental note to remind Hunter NOT to leave his ten pound, thick-assed biology book in the middle of the goddamn floor. To which, of course, the teen would probably retort with something along the lines of "how was I supposed to know some strange guy that looked like Michael would be sneaking around the living room at two AM in the morning" - and thus, effectively blowing his cover.
He tunneled down into the eminently uncomfortable indents of the couch cushions, reaching back an arm to blindly grab for the pile of blankets; but a hand stilled his wrist. He gasped loudly, his heart racing and body jerking as he looked up; and found himself stared down upon by a face obscured in shadow.
Ben's face.
A wave of relief flooded through him, exhaled in a startled gust of breath. "Jesus Christ Ben, are you trying to kill me? I didn't even see you."
Ben tightened his hold on Michael's wrist. "Obviously not." The two words were harsh, cold, tense. Almost without inflection.
"I'm sorry if I woke you," Michael whispered, a trickle of uneasiness quaking his voice as he studied what little he could discern of Ben's silhouetted, upside down face.
Ben moved from behind the couch to stand before Michael, twirling the captive wrist around with him. Michael fervently wished he could clearly examine Ben's expression - for anger, hurt, something - but the darkness seemed to devour everything around him.
"Is that all you're sorry for?" Ben crooned, cold fingers absently stroking the pale skin over the veins of Michael's wrist. Michael stifled the urge to squirm.
Something was wrong. Dead wrong.
Michael's eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "What do you mean?"
Ben angled a hip - obviously perturbed by Michael's response - and Michael saw that the larger man was naked save for his customary nighttime attire of white boxer briefs.
"Don't play dumb, Michael." Ben sniffed contemptuously. "I hope he was good."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Michael snapped, attempting to snatch his wrist away - but Ben held fast.
"Every night, Michael. You come in at the same time. You never come to bed. Don't try to fool me. You love being fucked. Looks like it's my turn now."
"You asshole! Is that what you think I'm doing?" Michael yelled, brown eyes widening with incredulity.
"Yes. It is. Unless you have a better way to explain it."
"I do. I've been at the store, working on the script for Rage. I wouldn't lie to you, Ben - I'm not cheating on you."
Ben's quick bark of laughter sent chills down Michael's spine. "Oh, but Michael - you've cheated on me the whole time we've been together."
"What the HELL is wrong with you?!" Michael snarled, moving to sit up, but a strong hand found the center of his chest, and pushed him back down none to gently.
Ben stepped into the ray of moonlight, and Michael gasped.
The cerulean eyes were bleak and cold - enflamed with a lurid gleam.
Michael's blood ran cold. He knew that look.
Steroids.
Ben saw the knowledge register on Michael's face, and his lips twisted in a feral grin. He lowered himself to lie flush with Michael's body, pinning suddenly limp wrists to the armrest above either side of the raven head.
Michael drew a deep breath, fighting for composure, his features slack with disbelief - and suddenly, he found it difficult to breathe, as if all oxygen had been siphoned from the room.
The glacial voice that broke the silence prompted him to flinch. A knife to his heart.
"You can be so innocently deceitful, Michael. Or maybe not so innocent. Maybe your not as naive as you would like everyone to think." Ben's face quirked into an angered sneer, as if a sudden thought had struck him.
"Brian." His eyes flashed with resentment. "Everytime you were ever with him, every time you uttered his name - you cheated on me. How many times, when we made love, was it his face that you saw? His cock that you felt?" Ben punctuated the words with a grind of his hips.
Michael shook his head, trying in vain to worm his body out from under the massive weight that pinned him.
"Don't do this, Ben. You're on steroids," Michael breathed, as if that explained everything - and it did - just not to the drug enraged man that writhed atop him.
Michael's mind fully acknowledged what was going on, but his body remained locked in disbelieving shock; paralyzed and numb. At first, he almost believed that he was suffering from some kind of bizarre optical illusion - but it was shattered the moment he glimpsed the steroid induced frenzy of Ben's gentle eyes.
Ben chuckled, as if greatly amused by Michael's bewilderment. "And?" He dipped his head, a warm, slick tongue running a wet line up the center of Michael's chest, pausing to lap at the hollow of Michael's throat.
"Ben...stop - right now. Why are you doing this?"
The tawny head lifted, a thoughtful gaze darting between Michael's parted lips and wounded eyes.
Michael cocked his head to side, staring deeply into what used to be familiar ocean blue orbs.
"Everytime, Ben? Is this how it's going to be? Everytime, when someone positive dies...are you going to pump your body up with that useless shit, and put me - US - through hell?"
Ben tightened his grip on Michael's wrists with bruising force. "You don't have the first idea what hell is, Michael." The grip tightened further still. Michael gasped, feeling the blood flow rapidly constricting.
"You never will. You'll never know what it's like to live your life knowing...dreading...that you could drop over dead from a fucking cold germ."
"Ben. Let go of my wrists," Michael panted, his voice dead calm, yet insistent.
Ben didn't seem to hear him. "You'll never know what it's like to live with the knowledge that death itself flows through your veins."
Michael growled through clenched teeth, jerking his arms with each emphasized word. "LET GO of my FUCKING wrists RIGHT NOW!!!"
Ben obliged with a frigid smirk - but only to run cold hands up the smooth length of Michael's forearms, across his shoulders, then up and down the muscled biceps with tender strokes. Without pretense, he encircled his hands around the sloped muscles, grasping with such force his fingers trembled.
Michael was forced to pause - to take a deep breath - and to call on every ounce of control he possessed to force down the urge to knee Ben in the groin. He bit the inside of his mouth, feeling the bruises forming, all the way down to the bone.
Almost as if reading his mind, Ben's thighs squeezed Michael's hips, holding him firmly in place.
"Michael, Michael," Ben admonished in a hushed tone, "there's nothing..." he kissed Michael's ear, "more sexy..." bit at his ear lobe, "then you when you're mad..." he dove in to kiss quivering lips, but Michael deftly turned his head, closing his eyes against what Ben had forced him to do; forced them to become.
He whipped his head back around, eyes black with fury. "Get the fuck off of me, you fucking drug addict."
Ben chuckled. "What are you going to do about it Michael? Are you gonna try and jab another needle in your vein?"
"No. I'm going to leave you."
Something in Ben snapped, and he drew back, blinking.
"The only reason I'm still here is sleeping in the room behind us. But you know what? I remembered something Brian once told me. He said, 'staying together for the sake of the children is a fucking poor excuse.' And he was right."
Ben ground his teeth so furiously that Michael saw the tremble of his jaw, heard the dull grate of his teeth. He could feel his own lips trembling, feel a hot tear snaking from the corner of his eye; elicited both from the pain of Ben's fists around his biceps, and from the pain of what had just been destroyed.
Their trust, their love, their commitment - everything that ever stood within them, now stood between them.
Michael glared at his husband with blatant defiance, grappling to apprehend the emotions in Ben's glazed eyes - but it was no use. The drug was in control.
Rage burned clear in eyes dark with passion, and Ben used all his considerable strength to hold Michael still as he ravaged his lips in a bruising kiss, their teeth clattering together, lips splitting and bleeding. Michael briefly struggled, then went completely still, allowing Ben's tongue to snake inside his mouth.
Then he bit down as hard as he could.
He absorbed Ben's muffled cry, tasting the metallic tinge of blood. Ben leapt back on his haunches as if burned, finally freeing Michael from his unrelenting grip. Finger shaped bruises dotted Michael's biceps, and dark, purple rings circled his slender wrists, the discolorations growing deeper with each passing minute.
Ben dabbed at his tongue with an index finger, his eyes widening when the finger drew back red with blood.
"Fuck! You bit me!"
Michael's voice was deadly calm. "Don't you fucking touch me ever again," he snarled, wiping at his swollen lips with the back of a hand.
The collective sound of their heavy breathing filled the apartment. Michael turned away, unable to look at what once owned his heart. A commitment - a love that had glowed so bright within him - now ruined and devastated.
Everything familiar and comfortable to him was nothing but ashes in the wind, eclipsing his heart with darkness and threatening to consume him.
And he knew, that whatever part of his heart had not yet been shattered - crumbled at that moment in time.
Eyes hollow and empty, he walked towards the bathroom, feeling his steps falter. He barely made it before emptying the contents of his stomach for the second time that week.
"So tell me - is it really that uncool for one of your parents to pick you up?" Michael joked, giving the lanky teen beside him a sidelong grin.
Hunter shrugged. "Not really. Why? Didn't your mom ever pick you up?"
Michael dug his hands deeper into the warm, fleece pockets of his jacket. "No. She had to work, plus we didn't have a car for a quite a while. I always walked or rode the bus."
Hunter smiled slyly. "And I bet you sat in the back and made out with Brian."
An almost imperceptible wince jerked the muscles of Michael face, but he smiled thinly, staring down at the sidewalk.
"Sorry," Hunter mumbled, suddenly enthralled by the scuffs on his Nike's.
"No, it's okay. It just...hurts."
They continued to leisurely stroll through the park, shoulder to shoulder, an uncomfortable silence settling between them. Hunter thought the symbolism was very unbefitting, for life as of late was anything but a stroll in the park, though he admitted to himself that he was glad, if not surprised, that Michael had met him outside the highschool, asking him if he would like to 'just take a walk and go for a burger'.
But Hunter knew. He knew what was coming.
"Yeah. Kinda like...well...there's this girl I like. Her name's Shawna. I haven't ever tried to talk to her or anything, but the other day at lunch...I saw her kissing this guy. And it...y'know, made my chest feel all funny."
Michael arched an eyebrow, pinning him with a fond look. "You haven't told me any of this."
Hunter shrugged. "I'm telling you now. 'Sides, you've been busy."
Michael sped up and stepped in his path. "Hunter, I'm never too busy to talk to you. You do know that you can ask me anything, right? Talk to me about anything?"
Hunter merely nodded his head, worrying at his lower lip. Michael sighed, and laid a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder.
Michael tried to still the quaver of his voice - but he feared it would be with him for the duration of the conversation to come. "There's something I need to talk to you about. C'mon, lets sit down for a minute." He nodded towards one of the few empty benches. The park was full today; echoing with the giggles of playing children, the calls of parents, the whispers of lovers.
A freak current of unseasonably warm air had breezed throughout the Pitts, melting the pearlescant carpet of iciness and leaving in its wake ubiquitous thatches of lingering snow. Snow clouds still hung low, dabbing the sky like huge grey cotton balls. The forecast predicted two foot within the next couple of days, and the temperatures to dip below freezing.
Once seated, Michael turned to face Hunter, tucking one leg under the other and leaning against the back of the wooden park bench. Hunter stared straight ahead, watching a mother encourage her toddling son, and Michael could read dread in the slump of the teen's shoulders.
It didn't seem at all possible - but Michael felt his heart breaking. All over again, and more painfully than all the times before. He wanted to leap up and scream and run. To run and run until finally he was away from it all, and simply couldn't run anymore.
But he couldn't, and he wouldn't. He had Hunter's well-being to think about. He couldn't think about himself right now. The mothering instinct in him was too strong - and the guilt too potent.
Hunter finally had a family to call his own. Michael was about to rip it apart.
He took a deep, shaky breath, attempting to calm himself.
It didn't work.
Jesus. He needed a drink. He needed a joint.
He needed...
Michael didn't know if he could do this. He just wanted away. Far away.
He understood at least a little now, perhaps, how Brian may of felt. Although, Michael sure as hell wouldn't waste such feelings on a replaceable job and an ungrateful twink - the latter of which Michael wouldn't trust as far as he could spit cum.
For a reason he didn't want to analyze, the thought of Brian evoked an illusional image of his smiling face - and gave Michael a sudden rush of courage, a willfulness to be strong for the teenager that sat beside him; a child who had been through what no child should. He also wondered - in that place of the mind that is distant and involuntary - if maybe some very tiny part of it was because Hunter reminded him of Brian at that age. He didn't know. He wasn't sure of anything, except that he was still needed by the boy, so close to being a man, sitting beside him.
"Hunter, I don't exactly know how to tell you this - "
Hunter's head whipped around, and Michael felt a warm hand grip his knee.
"Then don't."
Michael didn't bother to conceal his confusion.
"Like your mother said about knowing you were gay - I'll spare you the pain of having to tell me. It's the least I can do, after all you've done for me."
Michael didn't care that tears were blurring his vision. He didn't care that there were people all around, enjoying the warm December day, laughter carrying on the wind.
Hunter held Michael's unblinking gaze. "I'll go with Ben."
Michael let out a heavy breath, forehead crinkling and his expression clearly seeking an explanation. "Hunter, you - "
"No, Michael. Ben needs me more than you do. And you...you need some time to yourself..." Hunter's eyes sparkled with knowledge, "...to find the other half of you. And for once I'm not talking about your tendency to lose things."
Michael made a comical face of feigned offense - and ignored one particular part of Hunter's statement.
The levity didn't last for long.
"But what about school? Your friends?"
Hunter smiled softly. "It's no big deal. Don't forget that when I was with that bitch of a mother, and later when I was hustling on my own, I was moving all the time. To keep the cops confused. It doesn't bother me."
"But " -
"I mean it, Michael. 'Sides, New York is right up my ally, don't ya think?"
Michael reached out to touch Hunter's cheek. "Definitely."
Hunter surprised them both by grasping Michael's fingers within his own.
"I just want you to know one thing. I'm not good at saying what I feel or think...but I think you're used to that. But I'm working on it, and I've learnt alot from you."
Hunter paused, and Michael could feel the slight tremble of the hand within his. Then, words seemed to stumble from the youth, as if he were afraid they would not be said if not in haste. "I want you to know that I'll miss you."
Michael felt something within him break - couldn't be his heart, it was already broken - and the tears rolled freely now, as he pulled Hunter into a firm hug.
His voice was muffled against Hunter's jacket. "I'll miss you, too. I'll call you all the time. You can come and visit me anytime you want. And remember how we were talking about college the other day? I'm paying for it. You just call."
Hunter drew back, and in his eyes, there was a glimmer of excitement lurking beneath the sadness. "Rage?" he breathed.
Michael nodded, smiling through his tears. "You can go to any college you want, so you better start looking. Almost less than a year now."
The teen looked down, fiddling with a stray thread on his jacket. "Thank you. I'll make you proud." The carefully ducked eyes shone with sincerity, and warmed corners of Michael's heart that weren't dark after all.
Michael lifted Hunter's chin, and pulled him back into a hug. "You already have, Hunter."
They embraced for several moments, and Michael wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a sniffle from somewhere over his shoulder.
"Michael?"
"Yes?"
The voice was very soft, very timid. "I always...I wondered...if I could call you dad."
Squeezing the trembling frame tighter, Michael felt a gentle breeze cool the hot tears that streamed down his cheeks, fog his breath as he breathed out the raw emotion choking his voice.
"Of course you can, son."
Author's Note : Hope everyone is having/had a great weekend. My thoughts go out to those of you in Florida - I have family in Daytona/Ft. Lauderdale, so I'm just a little worried. Anyhoo, I can hear the collective groan of "but I thought this was a Brian and Michael fic!!" I can't scream it enough...it is! IT IS! lol. I care too much about Hunter to just let his character fade away, and when Brian comes back, I want Michael unattached, so this chapter was completely necessary if my plot is gonna work, so don't think I've forgotten our boys...the best chapters are yet to come, believe me. Now that Hunter and Ben are out of way, (that sounds cruel, doesn't it? lol) the fun will really start to begin. As for what I did to Ben in this chapter, I hope no one thinks it was terribly OCC, because it was all 'roid rage, folks. I've seen what that crap does to people first hand, and I've always wanted to expand on that particular storyline. I also needed something to push Michael over the edge - because I really think he would stay as long as possible, for Hunter. And I don't like the idea of Ben leaving him - Ben was reallly an ass to him this season, and IMO Michael should have given him the boot about three times already, so this is like my little fantasy coming alive. lol. Anyway, thanks for reading!