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: To everyone who has sent, and continues to send, 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 : Another pretty dark chapter. Sorry! I'm such the angst-ho. Also, there is mention of Michael/OMC in this part, so if you don't like that, then be warned.
So I look in your direction,
But you pay me no attention, do you.
I know you don't listen to me.
'cause you say you see straight through me, don't you.
On and on from the moment I wake,
To the moment I sleep,
I'll be there by your side,
Just you try and stop me,
I'll be waiting in line,
Just to see if you care.
Did you want me to change?
Well I change for good.
And I want you to know.
That you'll always get your way,
I wanted to say,
Don't you shiver
I'll always be waiting for you,
So you know how much I need ya,
But you never even see me, do you?
And this is my final chance of getting you.
And it's you I see, but you don't see me.
And it's you I hear, so loud and clear.
And you know how much I need you,
But you never even seen me.
-- Shiver -- by Coldplay
BE MY DOWNFALL
Chapter Nine
...You can be so innocently deceitful, Michael....
...You'll never know what's it's like, to live, knowing...
...death itself flows through your veins...
The words rolled deliberately from the curled lips hovering ominously over his own. He couldn't get up, he couldn't breath; he could do nothing but listen to the words and believe the stinging truth they held.
...Brian. It's always been him, hasn't it?....
Before Michael knew what he was doing, what was happening, a red haze crossed his vision. Now he couldn't see, he couldn't think. Why would anyone say Brian's name with contempt? The weight of the body molding his was crushing, and there was a strange pressure on his arms. He couldn't feel them. Couldn't feel anything. Except anger, fear, betrayal. What had he done?
A sudden, bruising kiss sent ice through his veins. He tried to move. He couldn't move. He didn't want this, not from the man who had whispered between gentle carresses that he would never hurt him.
An insistent tongue grappled with his own. It was so familiar, yet so completely foreign. He had to stop this. But something or someone had numbed his entire body.
He felt hard muscles move against him. The red haze morphed to black. He bit down on the tongue, and the wet muscle instantly retreated. He felt and tasted the pool of blood left behind on the curve of his own tongue. His body seemed to thaw, and he leaned over the side of couch, spitting a red splatter on the white rug below.
The indignant form looming beside him did not realize what had just happened. Neither did he; until he began to walk away, feeling his legs give out as he told the man he didn't know anymore to never touch him again.
"Now you'll know Michael, and maybe you'll care."
Something stole the breath from his lungs like a blow to the stomach. Each word hit him with physical force.
"Now you'll know Michael, and maybe you'll care." The voice repeated itself, over and over, until the echoes overlapped each other like angry waves.
And then he was falling, but an arm reached for him, screaming his name with desperation, and the outstretched fingers shook with fear. He smiled when he saw the white of cowry shells, but he couldn't find the strength to raise his arm. He wanted to touch the fingertips so badly, to grab hold of them like he had so many times before.
But he was already descending.
Michael woke with a violent start, his sluggish muscles protesting. A choked sob threatened to burst from his throat, but he raised a hand to his drenched face and clamped it over his mouth. Only then did he realize that the entire bed was damp, as if someone had brought in the garden hose and misted down the sheets. Trembling with labored breaths, he fought to regain any shred of control he could grasp.
He didn't have to consult a mirror to know he looked like he'd just stepped out of a pool. His skin was slick with a sheen of perspiration, and the tips of raven strands dripped with moisture. He brushed the hair from his eyes, feeling muscles drawn way too tight begin to relax and unravel as his body acknowledged that it had all been a dream. No - a nightmare. Dreams left behind pleasant sensations of tingling warmth; submersed you in mellifluous slumber.
Which ensured that this was no dream.
It was very real.
He'd soaked the sheets through with profuse amounts of sweat before, namely the first time Ben had taken up steroids, and nightmares had consumed Michael's sleep; but he couldn't seem to convince himself that this time, it didn't mean anything. It could. It might. The abstractions of the mind were too powerful; the instant replay of scenarios conjured up in his imagination too intrinsic.
Still encumbered by sleep, his hand impulsively reached for the cell phone lying quietly atop the nightstand - but he stilled his hand. It would be so very easy to punch in the unfamiliar number, so soothing to hear the smooth voice he loved and longed for speak his name...
He had went to the clinic yesterday to be tested. Alone. No one knew - and no one was ever going to know. What was he supposed to say? Guys, Ben was having a bout a roid rage, and forced a kiss on me, so I did the dumbest thing I could have possibly done and bit him.
The doctor's words of empty encouragement sting rang in his ears like a raspy, worn out record. The mouth is an inhospitable environment for HIV, meaning the risk of HIV transmission through the throat, gums, and oral membranes is lower than through vaginal or anal membranes. You didn't swallow any of the blood? Good. Do you have any open cuts or sores in your mouth? Lets take a look.
He felt like laughing away the ludicrousness of it all, but restrained himself. The walls of his childhood home were so damn thin, and the last thing he needed was his mother bitching about him keeping her up.
He pulled the tangled sheets completely free of his body, feeling cold air seep down to his very bones.
Hiding everything was the hard part. Thank God it was winter, so he had no excuse to make for wearing long-sleeved shirts. The bruises on his wrist were a little harder to hide, but a little easier to explain. His watch did a bang up job of covering the band of faded yellow encircling his left wrist. The other hand, he kept in his pocket or simply told those who enquired he had dropped something on it or had caught it in the screen door or had clumsily slammed it shut in a car door. Ben had obviously squeezed harder on his right hand, and of course, it just had to be the hand he used the most, the hand that was splotched with black, like someone had taken a sponge soaked with black ink and dabbed at his wrist. Which, of course, he'd used that excuse already - it was ink and wouldn't come off. He knew that his friends would never buy such a lame excuse, and he was again fortunate they were in Boston. They weren't around to watch his every unpredictable move, questioning him on his sudden break-up with Ben, confused by his erratic moods. They weren't there to tell him not to drink to much, to make amends with his mother, or to wonder why he was already dancing and kissing strange men, and not a crying mess locked away in a dark room.
When it finally became too much to look at the one bruise he couldn't seem to hide, too much to relive the memory it evoked; he'd gone to the mall and invested in a leather wrist cuff. It screamed 'punk rock' and was anything but his style, but he liked it. He debated on whether or not to buy a matching companion for his other wrist. Probably. Wearing just one looked kind of funny. He might do that today, he considered. Indulge in a little shopping. Take his mind off things.
He hugged a pillow to his chest. The same pillows that had sat on his bed when he was fourteen. A smile tugged the corners of his lips from the thought of how his mother kept everything - every picture he ever painted, every note he ever wrote her, every single craft he'd ever made in kindergarten with his wobbly little six-year-old hands and brought home to her with a proud smile. She would hug him and kiss him and tell him how much she loved it, then she'd pin it on the fridge or set it on the mantle; and he had loved to make her so happy with little things, had loved to see her smile.
Which caused him to adopt a new perspective on the current situation between them. No matter what she had done to manipulate his life in selfish inconsideration, he could not continue to ignore her, could not keep refusing to speak to her or return her calls. Not when...and not if...
He rolled over onto his stomach, facing the window and squeezing the pillow a little tighter. Amazing that the damn thing was still soft, though a bit smushed and flat. Brian had probably slept on the same one he was clutching. He breathed in deeply, imagining he could smell the spicy scent of his best friend, but all he got was a nose full of mustiness and lingering fabric softener.
His mind drifted.
What is he doing right now?
Michael almost laughed again - a better alternative to crying - from the memory of halting the exploring touches, the bites, and the searing, tongue filled kisses between them in Babylon's bathroom - all because of Ben. If he could go back, he never would have allowed his better judgment to kick in, and let Brian - begged Brian - to fuck him into oblivion against the cold steel door. But that was flawed logic. He had been in love with Ben at that time, respected him and committed to him.
Why did he always have to think so much? To care so much?
He had hurt Brian that night; more deeply than he would probably ever know. He realized that now, but he also knew that Brian had hurt him just as deeply. He silently wondered how it could be that the people you love the most hold the potential to hurt you the most. How could it be that the person held closest to your heart could be the one to hover over the trigger of your downfall? Funny how the notion of death could cause a person to see things, to think of things, that they never gave thought to before.
He'd never felt so torn about Brian in his life. He wanted to scream and yell at him, he wanted to hold him tight, he wanted to tell him what an asshole he was, and he wanted to kiss him senseless and beg him to never leave him again - all at the same time.
Maybe he was finally going insane, but one thought beat within him as steady as his heart.
I'm so sorry Brian. I love you.
He wished the silent plea of his heart could carry across all the long, lonely miles and straight to Brian's heart. He wished an answer could be sent back.
He wished...for the tranquility of sleep, and sleep took him, the whisper of Brian's name on his mind and lips. He knew it was only the tendril of a dream when he heard a murmured reply.
I love you Michael.
The view was breathtaking and beautiful.
A hot wind teased through the spikes of his hair like loving fingers, ghosted over his parched lips. Michael smiled, closing his eyes as a hot breeze kissed his eyelids and whispered in his ear. He could almost pretend it was someone; if only arms were around him, holding him tight. He felt invincible and acted on the sensation, spread eagling his arms and legs, as if offering himself as a sacrifice to the magnitude of his surroundings.
He opened his eyes and looked down his nose to the empty chasm below, at the copper colored rocks, rich in the bright sunlight and jutting out irregularly. His foot nudged the edge of the precipice, sending pebbles and dust tumbling out into nothingness. It would be so easy; to fly, to fall....
"What are you doing?"
An arm, strong and sinewy, warm and possessive, encircled his waist, long fingers splaying over his stomach. The other arm bracketed Michael's shoulder and collar bone, pulling him flush against the front of a body he instinctively knew the identity of. Michael lowered his arms, laying his hands atop those of his companion and stroking the knuckles softly.
Michael ignored the question. "Isn't it beautiful? I've seen pictures, but this...this is the real thing."
"Breathtaking. The real thing always is." A strong jaw dipped and molded into the neck of the smaller man in his arms. Lips rested against the soft skin behind Michael's ear.
Michael turned to gaze into pools of hazel. "But how do we know the difference between those things that are real and those that aren't?"
Brian pressed a lingering kiss to Michael's mouth, neither closing their eyes. "That's how," he whispered against Michael's lips.
Michael's fingers found the back of Brian's head and combed through silky strands. "It's too good to be real. Too perfect."
"Then why are we afraid of it?"
"Because is has the power to destroy."
"Only if we let it."
"We don't have control over everything, Brian."
"But we have each other. You have my heart, and I have yours. How can we not be safe?" Foreheads found each other and breaths were shared.
"You left me."
"So did you, Michael. You gave your heart to another."
"Do you want my heart?"
"I already have it. That's why it hurts."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
"I never really left you."
"I know. Neither did I."
Michael rested his head on Brian's shoulder. A hand rubbed slow circles over his back. "I don't want to feel anymore."
"Why? The query was shrill with alarm and confusion.
"Because you were right. You only get hurt in the end."
"No, Michael. I was wrong. You learn in the end, and you become stronger. You come to realize what means the most to you."
"I want to believe that. I can't anymore."
"Yes, you can. You taught it to me."
"Then why?"
Brian kissed the top of Michael's head. "Why what?"
"Why did he do it?"
"Who, Michael? You have to tell me."
"I...I can't."
"You can. We don't keep secrets from each other, remember?"
Michael used the hand still twined in Brian's to push himself away, their arms stretched between them as he walked backwards.
"I told you, I don't want to feel anymore."
"Michael, stop."
Michael backed until he could feel himself encroaching the rocky ledge, then turned to stare out at the picturesque mountains, lifting a hand back towards Brian without looking.
"C'mon, Brian. Just one step is all it would take, and I wouldn't have to know."
"Mikey! Get back. Right now."
But Michael wasn't listening. He was listening to the echo of an all too familiar voice, reverberating throughout towering walls of solid rock and soil. "Now you'll know Michael, and maybe you'll care."
The words numbed something deep within him, and the sensation of falling threatened to overtake him, but someone tackled him from behind. He landed on his back, the fall cushioned by the give of a body beneath his. He tried to crawl towards the lip of the rocky edge, towards the infinite chasm that offered freedom, but hands held him strong and tight.
"Goddammit Michael, if you destroy yourself, you destroy me. I'm not letting you go."
Michael squeezed his eyes shut and pushed against the warm body holding him down. "Don't you see?! I can't stop it, Brian. I have no choice! I don't want to destroy you!"
"Then stop! Don't do this! I can't live without you. Please Michael, don't do this! Don't be like me!"
The mountainous canyon was suddenly filled with fog. Black clouds filled half the sky above them, contrasting sharply with the vivid emptiness of the remaining portion. The crystalline tableau of the purest shades of blue, green, and white was no longer visible, clouded by a murky haze. The perfection was shattered.
"I don't want to be like him. I don't want to know!"
Michael opened his eyes, and no longer did the body holding him belong to Brian. Cold eyes of ocean blue stared back at him, and he jerked his arms away, anticipating a bruising touch. He scrambled backwards, unable to tear his eyes away from the smiling features of his husband. Ex-husband. The word was foreign and flared within him a trickle of shame, though he knew it should not.
He backed and backed, unaware of how close he had come to the edge until gravity abandoned him, and frigid water engulfed him. A hand dove beneath the surface, reaching for him, but there were no cowry shells laced around the wrist, and he could not recognize to who the flailing fingertips belonged. Ben, or Brian?
When he finally had an answer, it was too late.
He couldn't breathe.
Michael awoke to the savory sweet smell of baking muffins.
For a moment, he wasn't quite sure where he was. Bleary eyes swept surroundings that were familiar, yet not familiar - from the hideous wallpaper, the faded Captain Astro curtains, to the cluster of small photographs tacked to a slab of cork board - the setting was recognizable and comforting, but it was not right.
Everything can back to him at once. Ben. Steroids. Blood. New York. California. An empty apartment. An empty loft.
Emptiness.
He didn't know whether it was exhaustion or pure luck, but after the third nightmare, sleep came deeply and soundly and without unwelcome interruption, until his internal alarm clock signaled the start of a new day, which was equally unwelcome.
He rubbed at eyes grainy and itchy from too little sleep and too much crying, and swung his legs over the side of the tiny bed. He almost headed straight for the bathroom, but remembered he was more than half naked, and more importantly, in his mother's house.
Once beneath the steamy rush of hot water, the subfusc voices and images from his dreams recapitulated in his mind. Why did Ben keep saying that to him in the dream? He had not said it that night, and Michael knew he would never do or say something of that nature, and certainly not with such cruel intent - not even under the intransigent pull of steroids.
With a twist of his wrist, he turned the shower nozzle all the way over to cold, flinching when the awkward turn sent a sharp pang splintering up his forearm. He ignored it and let water cascade over his face, the cold bite tightening his pores and lavishing skin sticky from sweat.
Michael cursed under his breath, remembering that everything, save but a few changes of clothes, was still in the apartment. Which of course included his shampoo. He picked a random bottle off the shelf, rolling his eyeballs at the corny name. "Fruity Fusion Passion Berry Peach Blast." Couldn't it just say berry scented shampoo? He snapped open the cap, sniffing at the pink, syrupy liquid with a scrunched up nose. Smells like a fucking fruit pie.
Trying - without success - to block out the sickening sweet smell of the thick, pink suds that slithered down his face; he scrubbed at his scalp, feeling the last vestiges of sleep diffuse with each icy spray. It didn't smell THAT bad, he admitted, but he rather not walk around smelling like a flower all day.
He finished up in the bathroom, and returned to his old room, toweling jet hair that was just long enough to curl over his forehead. He slipped on a pair of dark blast jeans, (quite a bit tighter then usual - another thing he had invested in, along with the wrist cuff) pulled on a snug, black shirt with sleeves that ended just below the elbows, and toed into his shoes without using his hands, an old habit that usually sent him hopping around the room.
As he fastened his wrist cuff, he walked slowly around his childhood room, smiling as each picture, each old toy, action figure, stuffed animal and knick-knack brought back a vivid memory.
The slow survey and nostalgic smile faded when his toes bumped against the wood chest standing at the end of his bed.
And he remembered. He remembered what lay in the bottom, untouched for nearly a year, but never forgotten, the meaning never dulled nor buried beneath the progress of time and separate lives.
His knees seemed to bend and kneel upon the frayed carpet by their own accord, his butt resting lightly on the heels of his tennis shoes. He watched as his fingers unclasped the locks on either end of the curved lid, popping open with a soft clink. He pushed gently through years of memories, accumulated junk, and things so sentimental and irreplaceable that he was sure Brian would compare him to a pack rat crossed with a lesbian. His questing fingers finally found the bottom of the chest, and a thin thread of leather slipped between them. He tugged gently, and a necklace lifted from the confines of the chest. At the end of the leather, a smooth river stone of deepest turquoise dangled and swayed in front of his eyes.
Michael held the cool, flat stone within the palm of his hand, tenderly tracing the faint flecks of ivory and beige with the tip of his pinky, and turning the stone over, he traced the carved outline of six smoothly embedded letters.
He remembered. His chest tightened and he closed his eyes against the sting.
Nearly a year ago, when his relationship with Ben had turned serious; he had quit wearing it, placing it safely in the bottom of his keepsake chest. If Brian had noticed it's absence around Michael's neck - or had cared - he hadn't made it apparent.
Michael slipped the braided, black leather cords around his neck, and with deft fingers, tied the ends together for a neat, sturdy knot; just like he had so many times before. He tucked the irregular shape of the stone safely beneath his shirt, drawing comfort from the cold press against his sternum.
Michael closed the chest, and walked from the room.
"Good morning, Ma."
Bent over the open oven door, Debbie regarded her son - casually leaning against the wall, easy smile in place - with an open mouth. How long had it been since that beautiful smile had been directed at her?
Since he had greeted her with such simple, yet cherished words?
"Michael....?"
"Yes?"
"...Nothing...I just...I thought you weren't talking to me."
Michael smiled softly. "We have alot of things to talk about, Ma. Alot of things you need to say, if I'm going to keep talking to you."
Debbie stared at him unblinkingly, feeling the waves of dry oven heat flush her cheeks.
"Um, Ma...your muffins are burning."
"Oh! Shit." She pulled out a pan of a puffy, golden brown muffins, topped with peaks of crispy black. She set she the pan on the counter with a soft plop, and tossed her oven mitt aside. "Yeah, I uh...I made you breakfast."
"Smells good, but I'm not hungry."
"Nonsense. They're your favorite, chocolate chip. Growing boys need their breakfast."
"I think I quit growing a long time ago and I think I said I wasn't hungry," Michael firmly replied, stepping across the kitchen to slip into a chair.
Debbie's smile was one of relief and affection as she laid a hand on Michael's cool cheek. She didn't care what he was saying or how he said it - all that mattered was that he was actually talking to her. "I know, it's just...sometimes easy to forget that you're not my little boy anymore. Some mornings I can almost hear you, bounding down the stairs like an elephant, babbling non-stop about your plans for the day. It's nice to have you here again."
Michael smiled patiently, but Christ, he hadn't intended for her to get all teary-eyed. "Thanks Ma. I appreciate you letting me stay with you, and I was wondering if I could stay for a few more days."
Debbie sat down across from Michael and laid her hand atop his. "Sweetheart, whatever happened between you and Ben, it's not too late - "
"Ma - please. Listen to me. It's over."
Debbie frowned, apparently waiting for a more thorough explanation. Michael sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"Maybe one day, I'll be able to tell you what happened. But not right now. If you have any respect for me, then just let it be. Don't make this more difficult that it needs to be. I know you love both Ben and Hunter, and I know you want me to be happy. I love them too, Ma, more than you'll ever know. But I wasn't happy."
Deb's eyes glistened. "But you were both so happy. You got married, and you, you - "
Michael held up a hand. Fuck - he didn't need this right now.
"We were happy, Ma. But it didn't last. Things happen...and people change. I need you to understand that. Ben and I are finished. There is no going back."
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart."
Michael nodded, waiting for the anvil to drop, but his mother pleasantly surprised him - for a change - and continued in a humble, albeit shaky tone.
"When you wouldn't talk to me, I realized what I'd done. And I realized that I need my son. I know that I've...said some things, and done some things..."
Michael's eyes widened in unmitigated agreement and he nodded his head.
"...I shouldn't have done. But please believe me - all I've ever wanted is for you to be happy. And I thought that I could make it happen the way I saw best, and I know I've hurt you with my thoughtlessness. I wanted to shield you from the world, from getting your heart broken; but Vic was right. I can't keep you away from those things, I can only guide you the best I can, and be there for you when you need me; but I haven't been there for you, not like I should. When you wouldn't talk to me, Michael...I was so fuckin' scared that I'd finally went to far...that I'd pushed that forgiving heart of your's too far."
Debbie dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a nearby dishtowel. Michael leaned across the table and enveloped her in a hug.
"It's okay, Ma. It's okay."
"No, it's not okay. I can't help but feel like this is all my fault."
"It's no one's fault. Okay?"
"It's somebody's fault, dammit."
Yeah. Ben's. "If you even hint that any of this is my fault - "
"No, no, of course not, sweetheart. It's just...you two were so perfect and happy together - "
Michael felt like screaming. "Were, Ma, were is the keyword here. And please lets drop the subject."
Debbie complied reluctantly, and hugged Michael again. He heard a sniff over his shoulder.
"Is that...my shampoo?"
"Well, it certainly isn't mine. I had to use yours."
She pinched his cheek. "Aw, you smell like a peach!"
Michael rolled his eyes. "I know, Ma. Please don't remind me."
Silence ensued, and Michael didn't know which unnerved him more: his mother's adoring gaze, or the ease of her repentance.
Maybe the silent treatment worked after all.
Nevertheless, and whatever the reason, he was glad; because if she had engaged in her usual 'what did you do, fix it now' rant, Michael was prepared to walk out the door and never come back. And he honestly didn't want that to happen. Too many people had left his life already.
Debbie's voice was very small when she finally spoke. "What are you going to do now?"
Fucking hell, Michael thought, that was a loaded question if he ever heard one.
"Ben's out of the apartment, but I don't want to go back. Not yet. I'll just hang here for a few days, if that's okay with you."
"More than okay. Since your Uncle Vic moved out, this old house has gotten so damn lonely."
"Well, I didn't say I'd watch QVC with you or sit through Bette Davis."
"Sit through? Are you saying she's unbearable?"
"Nevermind. Do you have an extra key?"
Debbie stared at him bemusedly.
"For the front door. I don't want to wake you up."
"Oh, don't worry about that. I go to bed at a godawful hour."
"Ma, really, I think its best if I have my own key. I might come in really late."
Debbie arched a faint eyebrow. "And just why will you be coming in late?"
Michael didn't think an answer was necessary. "I can always find somewhere else to stay. Somewhere that doesn't require a curfew and debriefing."
"Sorry. There I go again. I just don't like you out late at night by yourself."
"I won't be by myself. Babylon is full of people."
"Babylon?! What the hell are you going there for?"
"I happen to go there alot."
"Yeah, but..."
"But?"
"But Emmett and Ted aren't here, and neither is Brian. What the fuck are you gonna do?"
You mean who "I seem to recall a lovely little speech about someone realizing I wasn't a little boy anymore?"
"I still worry about you."
"Jesus Ma, I'm thirty-two years old."
Debbie smiled and ruffled his neat spikes. "But you look sixteen."
"Thanks. I'll be sure to take my forged identification," he drawled.
"Promise me you'll be careful."
Michael's heart lurched. It would break her, break her fragile heart, to know that he might...
"I promise. Your turn to make a promise."
Debbie's eyes narrowed in confusion, and magenta lips pursed; but Michael could tell she was waiting and listening.
"No more meddling in my life."
"Michael Charles! I do not meddle!"
Michael propped his elbow on the table and rested his forehead in his palm.
"Don't start, Ma. You can make this easy, or you can make it very, very difficult. And I'm not going to tolerate difficult."
"But...meddling? I don't do that!"
"If my fifth grade vocabulary serves me right, I believe the word meddle is defined along the lines of 'to intrude into other people's affairs or business'. And that means my relationship with any man - any human being for that matter - as well as what I do with my life. I want your advice, and I want your wisdom - but I don't want your interference."
Something within Debbie seemed to melt and wither, and she nodded her head. "Okay. I promise not to meddle - even if Brian tries to screw up your life."
"Wow, Ma - that lasted for about one second."
"What?!"
"Jesus, do I need to write up a contract complete with fine print? Enough with the derogatory Brian comments. If he screws with my life - which he doesn't - then it is nobody's fault but my own for letting him. I'm not fourteen. I can make my own choices."
"But after what he did..."
"He didn't do anything." Michael's eyes narrowed, suspicion flitting across his face. "I thought you wanted him to go?"
Uncomfortable with the turn of discussion, Debbie rose and dabbled around in the kitchen.
"You want a muffin? They're still warm."
"Not, I don't want a muffin. What I want is for you to answer my question."
Debbie stood perfectly still, her back facing Michael as she stared down at the sink. Her proud shoulders slumped as she succumbed to an unseen force. The silent surrender was almost palpable.
"He loves you."
Michael swallowed, and suddenly, all he could see were beloved hazel eyes. "I know he does."
"No, Michael. He loves you." She sighed, and began swiping at the counter with a damp dishcloth. "A mother can tell when a man is in love with her son."
It was Michael's turn to be stricken speechless. He wondered for a moment, if he had underestimated the obstreperous woman before him.
"But he wasn't a man when I first realized. He was a boy. A beautiful boy, with a rebellious spirit and a brick wall surrounding his heart, and a fucking irresistible, magnetic pull that I knew had you trapped from the very first day you said his name, your face all bright and your eyes glowing from that precious touch of first love." Debbie laughed very softly, and Michael knew she was lost in reminisces. "But that wasn't what scared me. It was when I looked in his eyes...and saw the same thing. Everytime he looked at you, touched you, a tiny piece of that brick wall came down, and a part of you went in its place. And I thought to myself, what's gonna happen when there is no more brick wall? Will he love you like you deserve, or will he have his way with you, fuck it all up royally, and break your heart beyond repair? He will always have all of you within him, but will you have all of him? I didn't know the answer, and I still don't. You may trust him with your life, Michael, but I don't. I have a hard time trusting anyone with my son."
She turned, and seated herself once again in the chair across from Michael, placing her ringed fingers atop his, covering the gold wedding band. A subtle weariness pronounced the lines of her face.
"But I knew, that whichever one it may be, I would eventually lose you to him. Whether in the good sense of the word, or the bad sense. And you know me...I can't let go of a fucking ceramic angel, much less my own son."
"If you thought you knew...then why...why did you always tell me I could never be enough for him? That he could never love me like I wanted?"
"It's complicated."
"I want to know. Even if I don't agree - and I have a feeling I won't."
"It's meddlesome."
"Now you want to apply that rule? Past instances of meddlesomeness don't count." Michael offered a tiny smile, and got one in return.
Debbie sighed very deeply, her gaze locked on their joined hands. "You are a beautiful man. Brian is a beautiful man. And of course, there is a tension and mutual attraction between you. And sometimes, people can't always hold back their feelings. I used stay awake at night while you and him were out dancing at Babylon, and I worried my tail off that the two of you would lose control, and there would be no going back. Brian wasn't ready. You weren't ready. It could be the end of your friendship, I realized, if you slept with each other before you were ready, before you were able to give each other what you need. So I thought... " Debbie looked away. Glimmers of shame and remorse shadowed her eyes.
"..Yes? Thought what?"
"I thought that maybe if I planted the thought in your head that Brian could never love you or want you, it would stop you before you both crossed that line. Because God knows, Brian thinks with his dick, but you...you think with your heart. I didn't want to be the once trying to convince you that he was in love with you. I waited for him to do it, to finally confess, but time wore on. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty...he didn't tell you, and he didn't change. I began to think that maybe I had been wrong, until he came into the diner one morning, after you told him about your marriage to Ben. I have never seen a man's eyes filled with such devastation in all my life, and I've seen alot of men in alot of circumstances. All the fears came back to me...all the anger, stronger than ever before, because I couldn't believe that he would have the nerve to make his move now, when you had developed a home and family, had found a comfortable place in life."
Michael didn't know whether to be outraged or thankful, disappointed or dismayed. His head was spinning. But he knew all those emotions were worthless, useless. It was in the past, done and over with. All he could do was wonder - wonder if her words held any truth.
He felt the onset of a headache.
"So basically, you put me down all those time because you wanted to keep us out of each other's pants."
"That's what it seems like on the outside, but underneath, I just wanted to save you from destroying the most beautiful friendship I've ever seen. You needed each other, but more importantly - that boy needed you. He still does. Unlike I've ever seen someone need another person before."
Michael's faraway eyes jerked to meet his mother's. Had she just said that?
"Answer me this, Michael. I know there have been times - at least one that I know of - when you and Brian have treaded the line between friends and lovers; maybe it was years ago or maybe it was recently. At those times, were you ready for each other? Was Brian ready to give you what you want?"
Michael rubbed at his eyes. "I don't know."
Debbie leaned back, and nodded softly. "And only you can know. It was wrong of me, very wrong of me, to presume to know. To try and take control. I'm sorry, Michael."
"Yeah. I just...I'm trying to digest all of this."
"I know, sweetheart. Love is a complicated thing."
Michael sent Debbie a good-hearted glower. "So are mothers."
Debbie grinned. "Eat a muffin, you little asshole." She rose and fixed two plates, not noticing when Michael leaned his head on the table and massaged his temples.
"Butter, or no - Michael? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just a headache."
"Oh. I was afraid you decided that you hate me, so in that case, butter or no butter?"
"No butter. Gotta keep my figure," came the muffled reply.
"Speaking of which, have you been working out?"
"I always work out."
"More than usual, I mean. Your biceps look like a fuckin' rib roast." Debbie reached over to pinch the aforementioned body part, but Michael jerked his arm back.
"So now you're comparing me to a piece of meat?" he teased, attempting to erase her concerned frown with projected nonchalance. Fuck, it would be just like her to yank up his sleeve up, and...
"Honey, I wouldn't be the first," she cackled, turning to retrieve the plates. Michael let out a silent breath of relief. She returned and placed in front of him a bright orange plate, complete with gooey muffin and pools of melted butter.
"Ma, I believe I said to forego the lakes of butter."
"Ooops, I forgot. Well, your gettin' too skinny anyways. And what's with that contraption on your wrist? Some kind of kinky, built in hand-cuff?"
"Ma, please, can we eat breakfast without the lewd comments? It's a wrist cuff, and it happens to be in style."
Debbie snorted. "If that's style, then I should be runnin' around in my knickers."
Michael pushed a soggy bit of muffin around with his fork. Food was not his friend today. "And give Pittsburgh a collective heart-attack?"
"No need to flatter me. I don't look that good in my drawers."
Michael rolled his eyes and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. "I gotta get to work."
"Sure honey. Oh, by the way, Rodney and Vic are coming over for dinner tonight. Eight o'clock. I'm making your favorite, so I expect you to be here."
Michael rose and took a swig of his untouched orange juice. "Can't."
"And why the hell not? Your single now, for chrissakes."
Michael held back a sarcastic retort, and headed for the door. "I have other plans."
She flinched when the door closed, even though the sound was not loud. Michael was hiding something from her. She knew it - deep down in her bones.
She also knew that no matter how much she raved about Brian getting Michael into trouble, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that Michael wasn't safe without him around. It was a secret she would never let go of, but whenever Michael was with Brian, she always knew he would be safe.
Which is why she wished he were here right now.
Babylon was different tonight.
It wasn't the music, the pulsating lights, nor the typical assemblage of horny patrons. It was the man who observed these things from beneath a fringe of sooty lashes, lowered seductively against pale cheekbones. An intoxicating blend of sensuality and innocence.
It did not go unnoticed.
Michael's steps were sure and unhurried as he converged on the dance floor. The sea of sweat slicked muscles seemed to part and turn as one, examining the assumed newcomer with appreciative stares. Lust infused gazes were prompted to track his every move. Compulsive hands, itching for even the lightest brush of contact, reached out to touch cotton, denim, or glowing skin. Whatever could be reached.
With liquid ease, Michael found his place in the dead center of Babylon's floor, and just as easily, found his own rhythm to the slow, heavy beat. He tipped his head back, and closed his eyes. He could feel, advancing slowly from all sides, the heat of swaying bodies, oozing with tangible auras of lust and sex. It emanated through the sexual miasma like waves of radioactivity, soaking him to the very core. The tangible sensation of so many eyes, raw with prurient intents, concentrated on him at once was enough to make his skin burn and prickle with anticipation.
He wanted to forget. He wanted the voices, both real and imagined, to stop.
"Now you'll know Michael, and maybe you'll care."
"I'll call you, Mr. Novotny, with the results of your test within the week. And remember that..."
"So maybe we should just stop. Go our separate ways. Because we don't seem to understand each other anymore."
"I can see it in your eyes, how this is affecting you. It will destroy you, piece by piece, if you let it. So..."
"No, Michael. He loves you."
"Always have, always will. I don't know how I could've made it without you."
"Mr. Novotny, I have your test results, and hate to inform you..."
True to his intention, suggestive touches pulled him from the fog of voices. Hands gripped his thighs, pulling, sliding, and Michael opened his eyes. Too young. He shook his head, and the twink moved on with a shrug. The vacancy was immediately filled. A lithe body sidled up behind him, the owner making no effort to hide the accumulating proof of his arousal. A hand snaked around to grab for his crotch, but Michael deftly slid out from under the greedy hands. Too demanding.
It wasn't long before another body pressed against his back, but the hands were slow and persuasive, smoothing up and down his sides with feather touches. Fingers slid through his belt loops, and with a gentle tug, his ass was molded against a hot groin, fitting like a piece of a glorious puzzle. Simultaneously, lips kissed the base of his neck and he felt the tickle of short hair sweep the skin beneath his jaw.
A voice roughened by lust whispered against the back of his ear. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."
"Excuse me?" Michael turned his head, the movement bringing his lips a breath away from those of his companion. Sapphire eyes bore into him. The fingers left his belt loops, and sneaked underneath his skin tight tee, caressing the bare flesh beneath. Warm fingertips toyed with the baby fine hairs peeking above his low rise jeans. Michael sucked in a sharp breath, and pushed against the hardness behind him, earning a little grunt of surprised appreciation from his dance partner. A deep rumble of laughter followed, and the husky baritone sent pleasant vibrations across the back of Michael's neck.
"Okay, so maybe that sounded like a lame pick-up line, but I did think of you for days after you came to my apartment, looking for your friend." Lips created delicate suction on the skin behind his ear. "You never told me your name."
Michael turned in the arms that held him, stepping back. An ice blue gaze raked over his body, then pulled him close, craving contact after having stared his momentary fill. Michael rested his palms against firm pecs and allowed himself a lopsided grin - and a wicked look from beneath lowered lashes. "Yeah. But you told me yours. Grant, isn't it?"
Grant dipped his head to lick the trickles of perspiration from the side of Michael's neck, growling against the salty skin. "Yes. Please, tell me your name. Before I go insane."
Smiling, he thrust his lower body tight against Grant's hardness, and leaned in just long enough to whisper one word in Grant's ear before pulling back again. "Michael."
Grant raised his head, and let his lips hover over Michael's flushed cheek while he gazed into the deepest pair of brown eyes he'd ever seen. He couldn't believe it was him. A few days after he had knocked on his door, and Grant had finally been able to forget the sad chocolate eyes, the perfect ass, the pouty lips, and the black hair that looked so incredibly soft; but now that he saw him again, and felt the tight, compact body move against him, the surge of desire was as white hot as it had been that afternoon.
"Michael." His lips burned to taste the plump, pink ones so achingly close to his own, yet so far away. "May I kiss you?"
In answer, Michael fisted the short hair at the back of his head and pressed their mouths together. Grant could only moan as a long, warm tongue flexed and lapped, massaging his own. He drank him in, enraptured by his touch. Fuck. He couldn't ever recall being kissed so thoroughly.
Michael pulled back after a immeasurable amount of time, but Grant followed the retreating lips, not willing to let go just yet. Michael laughed into their joined mouths, finally pulling far enough away that Grant was forced to let go. Michael traced Grant's kiss swollen lips with the end of his thumb, a mischievious glint dancing in his eyes. "Yes, you can kiss me."
Any response or eager acknowledgment Grant might have offered died on his lips when flashing strobe lights caught and refracted off Michael's ring finger. Damn. He had forgotten.
"You're married." He was already beginning to pull away in embarrassed disappointment. He could do many things, but he could not have sex with a married man. And he really didn't trust himself in this situation.
Michael looked down, and Grant was so riveted to the sight of long, dark lashes fanned against ivory cheeks that he almost missed Michael's soft reply. "No, I'm not."
"Then why are you wearing this?" He lifted the hand wearing the gold band, unable to resist brushing his lips against the pads of long fingers.
"Do you always ask so many questions?" And then Michael was kissing him again, and he didn't care if he was married, single, taken, or what-the-fuck-ever. He had to have him, if only for a quick fuck.
"My place," he breathed, intoxicated by Michael's subtle dominance, by the way he took charge without being loud and rough about it. He gave a temptingly perfect, jean-clad ass cheek a promising squeeze before pulling Michael along behind him. As they hastily exited the club, the blast of cold December air hit their hot faces like the sting of a slap.
The car ride was made in deafening silence. Michael stared out the window, and Grant pushed the speed limit. Once in the elevator, hands and mouths roamed freely. Their positions against the wall alternated until the lift halted, and Grant was left slumped in the corner, breathless and boneless.
"You coming?" Michael's voice was shaky, and his eyes, black with desire, held a note of fearful diffidence. Grant rushed forward and covered the parted lips with his own, pushing them closer to the door. He wasn't going to give Michael any chance to change his mind.
The closer they got to entering the loft, the more reluctant Michael became. Grant's heart fell. Had Michael changed his mind?
Once inside, he pushed Michael against the cold door, trying to set the alarm and remove Michael's shirt at the same time. He finally abandoned the alarm, and tasted soft lips before pulling the tight black tee over Michael's head, noticing, with increasing discomfort, how Michael's eyes flickered over the expanse of the loft with an unreadable expression.
He moved to taste creamy white skin, and then he saw them - dark, purple bruises, in the shape of hands and fingerprints, splotching over sloped and muscled biceps.
"What happened?"
Michael emerged from his sexual haze, snapping from his strange examination of the loft and meeting Grant's eyes with an indifferent shrug that screamed "none of your business".
"A guy got a little rough with me."
Grant was about to curse, about to assure the trembling man in his arms that he could not fathom how anyone could even think of harming him; but Michael was devouring his lips, his chest. Clothes were removed with agile fingers. Grant could focus only on shards of pleasure shooting through his body from scrap of Michael's blunt nails. He backed them towards the raised platform, towards his bed.
Michael froze and jerked on Grant's belt loops.
"Not there."
"What?"
"Not there. Please. Here."
Michael's eyes were bright and reflective in the wash of moonlight, the brown depths almost pleading. What was going on? He looked physically ill for a fraction of second, but then he grinned slowly, seductively, showing every one of his straight, white teeth. Grant forgot everything as he pulled Michael to the soft rug below, and was conscious only of the trails of fire left by Michael's tongue, teeth, fingers and lips. Breath became ragged and sharp, and the apartment echoed with guttural utterances of pleasure.
"Fuck me. Now."
On all fours, Michael wanted nothing more than the empty fulfillment of a meaningless fuck. He wanted to forget; he wanted to purge the fear, the anger, and all the hurt with quick, hard thrusts. He wanted to lose himself on the edge of bliss.
What am I doing?
All contact was removed from Michael's body as Grant prepared himself. He looked over his shoulder, making certain that protection was used - not that it mattered in his case, he thought wryly - bitterly. The sudden lose of physical contact roused unbidden voices, thoughts, and images to fill the diversionary void. He fisted the short strands of the shag rug when Grant entered him in one smooth motion. The voices disappeared. Fuzzy pin-pricks dotted his vision as the burn of pleasure crept from his belly and flooded his entire body.
They began to move, and Michael met Grant's slow strokes with vigorous, upwards thrusts of his hips, encouraging a faster pace. The river stone around his neck bounced softly against his chest with each frantic motion.
The frenzied pace continued until bursts of white shattered behind his eyelids. He was so close. But instead of spasms of piquant pleasure, his roiling emotions surged together like the clouds of a hurricane, tightening and coiling in his chest, breaking with an anguished cry that was near painful. He opened eyes stinging with sweat, and hanging below him was the turquoise stone. Reminding him. A single tear fell to mingle with the droplets of sweat.
After a strangled cry, Grant withdrew, and Michael rolled over onto his back, trying to remember the last time he had climaxed with the mental image of Brian in place. It had been a very, very long time.
He wouldn't even have remembered that another man was beside him, if not for the exclamations of a quaky voice, still reeling from orgasm. "Fuck...Holy shit..."
Michael wanted to get up and leave, but he didn't trust his legs yet, and he wasn't ready to leave the loft. He didn't want to walk through it again, didn't want to be reminded of what was no more. His fingers absently sifted through the shag rug, remembering that warm October day, so long ago, when he and Brian had shared lunch, a joint, and a soul shattering kiss.
He ached for him. Ached, even after rough, titillating sex, for the emptiness to be filled.
Michael glanced over at the nearly incoherent man beside him, and took in the high cheekbones, the gentle, piercing eyes, and the glistening, sculpted body - and the way he kept a protective hand resting at Michael's back. A rush of abashment swept through him, sponging up the last prickling tingles of his release.
Is this what it felt like to use someone? For sex, for a cursory escape from reality? How had Brian lived his entire sexual life like this?
Grant rolled over and nuzzled at his neck. Michael resisted the temptation to pull away. The touch, though unwanted, was concededly soothing. He allowed himself to simply lay there, the softness of the rug absorbing his sweat. His head throbbed from withheld tears.
Grant settled an arm over Michael's chest, his fingers skimming over the faded edge of a bruise.
"I could fall in love with you."
Michael wanted to laugh, but that would border on cruel. "You just met me."
"I don't care. I could."
Michael turned his head. "Then don't."
"Is it my age?"
Michael sniffed. "I fucked a forty-year-old when I was nineteen. I was in a serious relationship with one when I was thirty."
Grant looked away and nodded. Wounded silence followed.
Michael let his eyes wander over the loft. How could just being here hurt so bad, yet feel so good? Minutes ago, when the elevator had stopped, he almost bailed. He wasn't sure he could do it. He had forgotten just what exactly Grant's seductive plea to go his place meant; he had forgotten that Grant lived in Brian's loft. Once in Grant's Dodge, he had almost demanded to be taken to his place instead. But just how silly was that?
And at first, the thought of fucking another man in Brian's bed fulfilled some kind of sick, twisted revenge for the time Brian had so carelessly fucked Justin in his childhood room. The room where they had made so many memories together; where Brian had touched him intimately for the first time.
But he wasn't like Brian. He couldn't do it.
Grant's voice broke into his thoughts and jerked him back in the moment. "What's this? It's beautiful." His fingertips brushed over the smooth surface of the stone resting atop Michael's chest, rising and falling with each breath. Michael looked down at it, contemplating it, trying to find words.
"It's...special." Michael scooped the cool oval into his palm, flipping it over to reveal the small, carved letters.
"What does it say?" Grant squinted in the dim light, reading off the letters. "A...l...."
"Always."
He could feel Grant staring at his profile. "Did your husband give it to you?"
"No. Someone I love."
"I see."
Michael bit his bottom lip. Grant leaned over for a kiss, but he turned his head, rising up to search for his clothes. He didn't want to send Grant the wrong message, and he didn't want to lead him on. He seemed like a nice man.
"So are you some kind of minimalist or something?" He asked, referring to the sparse amount of furnishings within the loft.
Grant watched his every move, taking in the supple lines of Michael's body as he pulled on his jeans. "No. I'm moving again. Family problems. Again."
Michael paused in the midst of buttoning up his fly. "So you'll be selling?"
"As much as I hate to, yeah. I really love this place. But I have to go back home, to Colorado. In a few weeks actually."
Michael retrieved his shirt, pulling it over his head and tucking away the stone. "Good luck. I hope everything works out for you."
Grant's smile was tinged with sadness. "Thank you."
Michael returned the smile, looking over his shoulder and pulling a Red Cape business card from his back pocket, setting it atop the kitchen counter on his way to the door.
"Call me. I might be interested in the loft."
With the choice of walking or hailing a cab, Michael opted the latter. He needed to get away from the loft. Fast.
Once in the back seat, he buried his face in his hands, his breathing shallow and uneven against his palms. He tried to pretend that tears weren't slipping through his fingers and pattering on the leather seat below.
Without looking up, he knew the cab was close to his mother's house. He straightened himself and dried stray tears with his sleeve.
The instant the loft door had slide closed behind him, a brief inner battle had been fought. Home, or Babylon? He knew if he returned to Babylon, he would only repeat what he'd just done with a different face and a different body. And then he'd feel twice as shitty. Or maybe twice as good. He couldn't decide. All he wanted was the gratifying escape of sleep, but even that particular simplicity was a dubious guarantee.
He paid the driver and walked down the concrete path with heavy steps, dismayed by the sight of a soft glow sifting through the window. He had hoped his mother would be in bed.
He thought it best to knock, or else scare the shit out his her and risk having his face smashed in with a baseball bat. When she didn't answer, he used his key, creaking the door open slowly as he peered inside, the smell of garlic and fresh bread lacing the air and filling his lungs.
His mother sat at the kitchen table, her face in her hands and her shoulders hunched and shaking.
"Ma, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
She shook her head, and he caught a few garbled words between muffled sobs.
They were enough to know.
Air that was already hard to come by left his body in a rush, and he kneeled on the floor beside her, burying his face in the itchy fabric of her sweater and hugging her midsection. Michael felt a great weight settle upon him. Like a blanket made of soft lead, it pressed on him; and he could hardly kneel there without bowing. He heard himself muttering quiet assurances, but he didn't know exactly what he was saying, or if she even heard.
He could only hold her, and hope she knew that everything would be okay.
NEXT DAY - KINNECTIC - LOS ANGELES
"I'm impressed, Kinney. That was a very comprehensive pitch. "
"Please, call me Brian."
"Certainly, Ryan."
From his position behind and to the left of Stover, Russ smirked in Brian's direction - revenge for the smirk his boss had tossed him when Stover had mistaken - misheard? - his name and repetitively addressed him as 'Brussel'.
Stover, an aging man with a gravelly voice and a generous waistline; proved to be overtly hard of hearing, notably farsighted, and the type of person who seemed to take great liking to everyone he came in contact with. Only minutes into the pitch, and Brian knew the account would be a cinch to land. Stover was butter in his hands.
"Very good indeed. An informative presentation and unique approach, Mr. Kinney. It will be a great pleasure working with you. You'll go far, my lad, with brains like yours. The advertising world is becoming quite rote these days. You're a breath of fresh air, my boy."
Brian mentally cringed at the umpteenth use of 'my lad' and 'my boy'. A few years ago, he doubted he would have possessed the ability to keep the blatant irritation from his tone. "Thank you, Mr. Stover. The pleasure is all mine."
My, how the meaning of those words had changed over the years, too. In this case, at least.
They shook hands, and with great effort, Stover rose from his chair.
Brian aligned a stack of papers with a tap on the table. "May I interest you in lunch? Unfortunately, previous arrangements demand my attention and keep me from joining you, but my secretary knows some of the finest steak houses in the area. Russell?"
Brian saw Russell's jaw clench as he paused in the midst of jotting notes on his clipboard. He looked up at Brian with a patient smile, but Brian could discern the barest glint of irritation in the brown eyes.
"Of course, Brian, I would be glad to accompany Mr. Stover to lunch. Do you like seafood, Mr. Stover?"
Stover looked at Russ as if seeing him for the first time, squinting over the rim of small, round spectacles. "Dear boy, I adore seafood! I grew up on the coast, you know. All the fresh crab and lobster you could imagine. That is, way back in my day, before they put these preposterous new laws into effect. I do say, it is a shame, you know, the things they must do these days." Stover paused and eyed Russ with curiosity. "Have I met you before?"
"No sir, I don't believe you have. I would remember a gentleman such as yourself." Russell's tone was polite and sincere, but Brian knew the smaller man well enough to detect the hidden sarcasm.
"What a charming young lad you have as a secretary, Mr. Kinney! My granddaughter Bessie would simply adore you. She likes the smaller, less imposing type of men - the 'yes dear' type of man. Runs in the family, actually - all the poor girl knows. Are you attached?"
Russ's eyes widened at the man's brazenness. He bristled when from the corner of his eye; he saw Brian duck his head in restrained amusement.
"No sir, I'm not."
"Ah, lovely! I will simply have to introduce the two of you. Well then! Lets get to lunch, shall we young man?"
"Of course." Stover turned and started for the door, and Russ took the opportunity to look pointedly at Brian and rub his middle finger between his eyes. Brian smirked and crooked a finger, signaling for Russ to meet him in his office. Russ showed Stover out the door. "Just one minute, and I'll be right with you."
He walked briskly across the stark conference room and through the clear double doors of Brian's office. Brian was already pecking away at his keyboard, but looked up at Russ with a satisfied grin.
Russ crossed his arms, waiting for Brian to speak. "Well? I take it that was not a sexual gesture," he said, referring to the 'come here' motion of Brian's index finger. "What was that 'previous arrangement' line of bull? You always take the client to dinner."
"Not this one. Besides, he's quite smitten with you."
"You don't say. The old buzzard practically got me engaged and arranged my wedding. Why do I always get the annoying ones?"
Brian just looked at him.
"Nevermind."
"I need you to do something for me. Take all my calls for the next few hours."
"What? How I am supposed to do that with grandpa in tow?"
"You're the charming, 'yes dear' type of man, you figure it out."
Russ sighed and looked towards the ceiling in exasperated resignation. "Fuck me."
"If I recall, I already did."
"Twice."
"Don't remind me. Can you do that?"
"Between stories of the good old days, fishing lobsters out of the sea, and arranging my wedding, yes, I think I can handle it," Russ said with a pout. He'd probably get flamed for his next question, but he felt Brian owed him, and he'd also like at least a small warning if there was even a chance his evening might consist of bailing the ad man out of jail or coming to his rescue when the cops found him passed out in an alley somewhere.
"What are you going to do? Get shit-faced again?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm going to call him."
Russ didn't need to enquire on who 'he' was. He grinned and affected Mr. Stover's accent - quite well, too. "Well, jolly good, my boy!"
It was Brian's turn to glower. "Russ, get your ass out of here before I fire you." He tossed Russ the cell he used solely for business purposes.
Russ clipped phone to his pants. "If Gehle calls, should I connect him directly to you?"
Brian rubbed at his forehead, and Russ noticed dark circles underneath the hazel eyes. "No. Tell him I'm in a meeting."
"Got it. Anything else?"
Brian's personal cell chose that moment to ring. Russ felt the first frisson of unease when Brian bit his bottom lip and scrunched his eyebrows together as he read the LCD screen.
"'Lo?"
The unease intensified when Brian paled, leaning back into his chair as if all the muscles in his body had suddenly turned to jello. Brian's gaze remained unfocused for several seconds, listening to what Russ could only guess was very bad news, before long lashes fluttered closed in distress. Brian leaned forward, rifling through the various papers of his desk and snatching up a pen. Looking almost as if he were in terrible pain, he scribbled hastily, then held up the paper for Russ to see.
GET ME A FLIGHT - NOW.
Russ slipped out the door, not waiting to question.
Brian tried Emmett's cell. No answer.
He tried Ted's. Voice mail.
Swearing, he dialed Deb's house. No answer.
He pounded the steering wheel when he tried Michael's apartment, and for the tenth time, was met with no answer.
"Where in the fucking hell is everyone?"
He heard honking and realized he'd cut someone off. Eyes darting between the slushy highway and the green glow of his phone screen, he casually flipped the bird in the reflection of his rear-view mirror.
The traffic came to a trickling stop. He scrolled through the digital phonebook until he found Ben's cell number, stored in case of emergency. He dialed it, frowning when a mechanical voice informed him that the number was out of the service area. He put his perplexity aside, and tried Michael's cell one last time.
"Hi, you've reached Michael Novotny, please leave a message. Thanks."
Just the recorded voice of his best friend was enough to send Brian's heart frantically hammering within his chest, enough to make his mouth dry and the crisp air suddenly difficult for his lungs to circulate.
Out of numbers to dial, he could only rap his fingers against the window, cursing the weather, useless cell phones, shitty vehicles, self-righteous police officers, and all the asshats surrounding him that somehow possessed driver's licenses. It wasn't the end of the world - just a little goddamned snow, for chrissakes.Well, not really - his flight had been delayed because of it.
The traffic began to move - albeit slowly. Snail-fucking slow. Brian ground his teeth.
Two painfully long hours later, and he found himself at Deb's house.
Michael's apartment had been empty. With those accursed butterflies partying in earnest, he'd used the 'widdle key' he had never taken off his key chain, and opened the apartment door to darkness and emptiness - not the warmth he had longed to be his and Michael's everytime he had visited Michael and Ben. It belonged to him. Not Ben.
But something was wrong, something was different - and after walking into Michael's bedroom, he knew what. Ben was gone. Hunter was gone.
Oh God. Where was Michael?
Brian felt sick. He had to get to him, and somehow, he knew where to find him. He knew the places Michael went when he was hurting, and Brian couldn't get the desolated voice from his head.
Uncle Vic is dying.
He had fled the apartment like a bat out of hell and headed for Deb's house, driving as fast as the shitty rental car and slippery roads would allow.
Now, after all the rushing and agonizing, he froze, hand poised over the doorknob. Fuck! Brian Kinney didn't do nervous. He didn't care what other people thought of him. He didn't fear rejection.
But the sole exception was Michael - and the need to see Michael, to hold him, to touch him - overwhelmed any and all fears.
The smells of Debbie's kitchen encompassed him like a warm bath, and the mere essence of the house in which he had spent the majority of his childhood evaporated the better part of his rampaging jitters. Until he reached the stairs. Stairs he had treaded so many times, with one destination, one person, in mind.
He walked, for some reason, very slowly up the steps, and stopped at Michael's door. Leaning his forehead against the cold frame, he took a deep breath, blew half of it out, and slowly turned the knob.
He felt so many things at once that he almost fell to his knees.
He felt whole again.
Michael lay asleep on the small bed, his back curved and facing away from him. The covers were pulled halfway up his fully clothed form, rising and falling with each gentle breath - reminding Brian to breath. And he did. For the first time in three months.
He didn't know how long he stood, staring at the back of the raven head, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. Time seemed mired in thick mud.
Finally, he quietly shed his clothes, laying them neatly on the chest at the end of the bed. His eyes never left Michael. His steps faltered when was finally able to see Michael's face, to take in the features he loved, so beautiful in the repose of slumber.
He kneeled upon the carpet next to the bed, leaning towards Michael's peaceful face until they were inches apart. Michael's hand was fisted, resting over his mouth. His other hand was sandwiched between cheek and pillow.
Brian ached to touch him. Ached to taste his lips. Ached to hold him and never let go.
He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, and reached out a tentative hand to stroke the spiky softness of Michael's hair, studying the face that had filled his dreams, his every waking thought, and his very being. The face he had memorized so many years ago for those times they were apart.
How had he ever brought himself to leave this man? Why do I ask myself questions to which I already know the answers? he mused absently, stealing the line from Michael's favorite movie. Not seeing Michael at all was better than seeing Michael with Ben. Happy with Ben.
The need to see Michael's eyes, hear his voice, and have to his touch reciprocated was overwhelming. It took conscious effort, but he didn't want to wake him. Not yet. He was content to watch Michael sleep, to soak up his presence, so warm and soothing - like the rays of the sun.
Eyelashes stirred, and Brian's heart seized within his throat. Burying his fingertips in the silky hair, he stilled the hand that had been petting the top of velvet spikes, and rested his other arm on the edge of the mattress.
Sleepy brown eyes slowly fluttered opened, and gazed at Brian - through Brian. It was as if Michael had known Brian had been there all along, and had anticipated waking to his beautiful face. The curled hand fell from Michael's mouth and landed atop Brian's arm, gliding over soft, downy hairs to finally thread their fingers together.
Neither knew how long they stared into each other's eyes. No words were needed - nothing verbal could articulate what they were feeling. When Michael's lips curved in a small smile, Brian mirrored the action. Jesus Christ. He's not mad. What a fucking relief.
The relief rapidly gave way to a myriad of other emotions, none of which could possibly be described.
Brian felt he would shatter into a million pieces when Michael began tracing the contours of his face with the tip of his index finger; brushing over his lips, across his forehead, down his cheeks - no surface was left untouched. Brian's eyes closed and a breath shuddered through him, shaking his very soul. So long; so long he had thirsted for the feel of Michael's hands.
"Mikey."
"Brian."
The names were spoken as a gentle caress, a consummate acknowledgement of the mergence of tactility, simulacrum, and reality. An acknowledgement that this was real and happening - and more importantly, that what had happened between them, the angry words that had tore them apart; were forgiven.
Then Brian was in Michael's arms, wrapping around him. Their fronts melded together, pressed close and tight. Legs entwined, squeezed, and clasped. They could not get close enough; they wanted crawl beneath the safety of the other's warm skin, and stay there forever.
Brian held Michael's head lightly within his hands, and placed soft, butterfly kisses all over his face, tasting the salty remnants of sweat and dried tears. Then he felt the wetness of fresh tears - his own tears - and they fell to mingle with the warmth of Michael's skin, pooling in the curve of his neck. He buried his nose behind Michael's ear, above his nape, and with soft anticipation he inhaled Michael's scent - one that he secretly defined as the the purifying smell of the air before a rain or thunderstorm, tinged lightly with vanilla. But instead, he breathed in the acrid tang of sex, drugs, and alcohol.
He breathed in the smell of another man. Other men. It clung to Michael's pale skin and cotton tee like a deadly parasite. Brian's stomach lurched. It seemed unfair - impossible - that with one breath, thousands of unwanted thoughts were summoned; thoughts that threatened to ravish the moment.
Something he didn't want to examine pierced his heart like a knife - not sharp, but dull. Painful.
Michael was murmuring Brian's name and pressing small kisses beneath the soft skin of his jaw. Brian moved his head, their foreheads bumping and sliding. They rubbed their noses together, and lips nudged whatever skin could be reached. Their hearts, pressed close, beat as if they had been running for miles, running to find each other, until together, they finally beat as one.
Questions and demands formed on Brian's tongue, but Michael caught his lips with his own, stilling his fears with a brief kiss.
"Don't say anything. Please. Just hold me."
Brian could only nod against Michael's forehead, and kiss him like he had in his dreams; parting slack, welcoming lips with his tongue and tasting the warm recesses of his mouth. It was a deep kiss of relieved desperation; like that a man who has been wandering a barren desert in unquenched thirst, and is finally given the water he craves - the water he needs to survive.
When Brian feared his heart would burst within his chest, he slowly pulled his lips from Michael's, and placed three short, sloppy kisses on reddened lips before drawing the raven head to cradle against his neck.
Clinging to each other; they fell into deep, dreamless sleep - for the first time since that warm October day in the loft, so long ago.
TBC.....
Author's Note : (the last one, really!) : sigh Those two are going to have alot to talk about in the morning. I hope that the necklace idea hasn't already been done. I've read alot of fics, but not all, so if this idea has been used, my apologies for being redundant. I just like the idea of Michael giving Brian the bracelet, and Brian giving Michael something; something that they wear to keep each other close at all times. I'm going to touch on it more in later chapters, but thought I'd leave it as a little bit of a mystery for the time being. As always, thanks for reading. :-)