"I told you I was easy to please," Justin murmured, flat on his stomach. Brian grunted behind him, rolled the condom on in one smooth, practiced moment. He wondered if he gave up tricking if he could fuck Justin without a condom. Not that he was going to do either.

"You're a living, breathing piece of cake Sunshine," Brian muttered, laying a hand against his lover's back, lightly, fitting himself into the familiar space. The other arm above Justin's shoulder, braced against the bed. A long sigh, echoed, as Brian pushed inside. Justin was as smooth and heated and tight as if he was the virgin he'd claimed he felt like. Just the same as all those years ago. Fuck, it hadn't been that long, had it? Brian stilled, his balls against Justin's skin, his lips on his lover's sweaty sweet neck.

"Brian." A plea, a command. It didn't make any difference. His name was the important thing, reminding him that he was a separate entity, capable of moving. Out. And in. A slow stroke, steady, deep, drawing moans from the pale throat below him, muffled in the pillow. White skin, and white pillow. But Justin was warm now — hot — safe. Brian licked the skin under Justin's ear, just to be sure. Justin's head turned in response, lips reaching. One strong thrust, harder, and an answering puff of breath.

The pace quickened, Brian sitting back, drawing Justin up, onto his lap, so his body slid up and down Brian's chest, his cock, so Justin's head slipped back against Brian's as he moaned, so Brian's fingers could reach Justin's cock, so they could stroke together in unison with Brian's thrusting. So. The endless heated movement, that unfortunately was not endless at all. Eventually the crashing of their bodies would speed up, the inevitable tightness of his balls — his one ball — the ripples of ecstasy, and fusion of bodies would give way to cold again, separation. Fucking hospital beds and fucking nurses and how the fuck did they think he felt? Justin was moaning, arm reaching back and up, sliding through Brian's hair, asking for something. Their hands tightened together on Justin's dick, and Brian thrust upward harder, mouth closing around Justin's ear, tongue and teeth. The coming climax longed for and dreaded in equal measure.

Sweaty skin filling his mouth. "Was that reason enough for you?" Brian asked, voice soft and almost unguarded. Justin couldn't make the connection at first, his mind too full of the weight of Brian's body, face down across his. Then why are we even together? His own voice, frightened and angry. Brian's reply: Fuck if I know. He was trying to make it right, to provide Justin with a reason to stay. As if he could go. Justin opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. Some of Brian's hair was resting against his lips, tickling his mouth as he breathed in. The air around them was beginning to cool, or maybe it was Justin, the parts of his body no longer touching Brian protesting the loss. Yes was the answer to the question. Yes, the sex alone was reason enough to be together. But it was only one of a million reasons. And it didn't answer his question.

Brian stirred at Justin's silence, lifting his head slightly, peering at his lover beneath messy bangs. He needed a haircut, Justin thought, brushing them away. "Gus asked where you were," Brian reported, changing the subject. Always easier than actually addressing the one they were already on, Justin thought with an inner smile, chagrined but real. "He said you promised you'd come."

"Oh shit." Justin closed his eyes, hand leaving Brian's forehead for his own. "I completely forgot. I'm sorry. Is he mad at me?"

"No, he still thinks you're god's gift to little boys."

"I thought I was god's gift to really big boys," Justin replied, opening one eye. Brian pinched his ass, making him jump, pushing their bodies together.

"We're talking about my son here." Brian's voice was grave, admonishing, though the way he was biting his lower lip ruined the effect, made Justin want to bite it too.

"Sorry."

"Don't lie. Even if I had to, to save that pretty, god given ass of yours. He thinks you had to work."

"Thanks. I really did forget."

"I figured." Meaning Brian didn't think Justin had deliberately skipped the outing because he was mad, and/or considering some sort of break with the family. Good. Brian turned over onto his back, leaving Justin exposed to the air. Fingers reaching for a cigarette from the bedside table. Justin tugged at a sheet, skin protesting the cold. "He wants you to teach him to be an artist 'just like you'! He said you were one of his parents."

"Really?" Brian had delivered the news in a bored monotone, searching for a lighter, but Justin was excited by the news. He loved Gus, like his own kid, and it was gratifying to know the affection was returned in kind. Funny of Brian to tell him though — was he annoyed about it? Pleased? Justin eyed his partner, who was sitting back with a lit cigarette and a satisfied look.

"No, he said he hates your guts for not showing and he thinks I should get rid of you as soon as possible."

"Ha ha." They were both sitting up: Brian leaning back breathing in smoke, Justin half-covered with a sheet, propped on an elbow.

"Did you have a good time?"

"He made me go watch baseball, it was hell. If only you'd been there…"

"Oh yeah?" Justin waited, because Brian would never end with that, something sentimental. He had to ruin it, to prove he didn't mean it.

"The first baseman was really hot. If you'd been there to watch Gus, I could have fucked him after the game. As it was, I had to go without."

Justin smiled, satisfied at fulfilled expectations. Brian would never leave his son to go have sex, even if Justin had been there; he'd learned his lesson with the leather ball, and besides Gus asked too many questions. It was all image. "Poor baby." Better he hadn't gone anyway, Justin realized. He still didn't like watching baseball — more than didn't like. That bats swinging made him jumpy. They'd taken Gus to a game once before and Brian had to practically carry them both out of the stadium, Justin like a baby himself and Gus asking innocently what was wrong. His hands had been so gentle around Justin's shoulders, his voice a steady stream of nothing, you're safe I'm here it's okay.

A glance at Brian, who looked oblivious, taking a drag of the cigarette. All image, Justin repeated silently. He was used to that, expected that Brian would put up a front, even here, even now, when they'd just made love in their bed. Back to square one: was Brian capable of being open with Justin, here, where it was safe? Would he ever be? Did it matter? Justin knew the truth, so what the fuck did it matter what Brian said? Because when Brian was sick, Justin hadn't known the truth — some things you couldn't intuit.

"Thinking again," Brian accused.

"You shouldn't have made me go to college," Justin replied automatically. "If I'd stayed a go-go boy, I guarantee I would think a lot less."

"You went to art school. You're not supposed to think in art school, just draw straight lines and lose your inhibitions."

"I didn't really have many inhibitions to lose," Justin reminded him, reaching for the pack of cigarettes. Brian slapped his hand away.

"I thought you were quitting."

"What's the point? I'm going to die from secondhand smoke anyway." Justin's hand darted, but Brian was faster, tossing the pack across the room. It slid along a wood grain, one cigarette falling out and rolling down the stairs. Justin's hand went for Brian's side instead, digging in briefly. Brian's hand closed around his wrist, pulling him off, holding. They paused, together. Brian smashed the butt of his cigarette in the ash tray, released Justin's wrist.

"Do you want Thai?" Brian asked, rolling off the bed and padding toward the bathroom, back straight, hand on neck.

"I'm not really hungry, but if you want I'll call," Justin offered, pulling on clean underwear, going for water. The papers on the table mocked him. Should he take Brian's offer? It was the best he was likely to get.

"Forget it." Brian picked the discarded towel off the floor, throwing it over a shoulder. The buttons of his jeans were undone, the denim hugging his pelvis. "I still smell like hot dogs."

"No, now you smell like sex," Justin corrected him, touching a shoulder as he went back to the bedroom with a glass of water.

"My preferred fragrance."

Unsaid things were catching on the inside of Justin's ribs. He set the water down on the bedside table and sprawled out, face down. There were things he should be doing, emails to answer and he had to alter some sketches, and look at the new action figure designs, plus he'd wanted to spend some time this weekend on his own art, non-Rage-related. But everything in his life was Rage-related now.

Brian's weight shifted the bed. "If you're not going to sign the papers, could you at least stop acting like a dyke?" Justin made a rude gesture with the hand that wasn't trapped beneath under his body. "Fine. I'm going to Woody's."

"No." Justin sat up, before Brian had a chance to move. "No fucking way. You are not going to run away from this again."

"Again? You're the one that's been invisible for three days." They glared, Justin's hand pushing Brian's down into the mattress. "What?"

"Why didn't you come see me? Or tell me, ever? Were you going to?" The questions were the same, but the last few days had added edges to Justin's voice.

"There was no reason," Brian snapped. "I couldn't do anything for you."

"You said that before. Then." The pressure of Justin's hand let up, his brow creasing. When had Brian said that?

"Well it was true," Brian insisted, the heat gone from his voice. He sounded tired. He looked tired.

"No it wasn't. Do you really think that?" It was just the sort of ridiculous thing Brian might believe. "You could have done everything for me — given me hope, love, a reason to get out. You saved my life Brian, and then it was like — you didn't care." Brian's jaw clenched, his head rearing back slightly, and then down again.

"That's not true."

"When I found out you had cancer, and I couldn't do anything, or say anything… I felt so helpless," Justin admitted, voice scraping. Brian kept moving, small, casual movements as if trying to escape, or pretend he wasn't listening. "I couldn't protect you. I couldn't save you. But I could have been there with you, I could have supported you, fed you, wiped your ass, whatever the fuck it was you needed. If you let me, I could have done something. You made me helpless. You made yourself helpless Brian."

"I'm really over the Debbie impression Sunshine. One is enough."

"Brian, look at me." The struggle was palpable, the twitch of Brian's mouth as he turned his head. Justin's body was open, his arms and legs bare and vulnerable.

"What do you want Justin?" Brian's voice was quiet but inescapable. "Are we going to keep reliving the high points of my life until one or both of us really does die?"

"No." Justin forgot sometimes the look in Brian's eyes when they went to that garage, how his body shook. He still didn't remember anything besides Brian calling his name, Hobbes and the bat. "Before I found out you were sick, I was worried, because — because you wouldn't have sex with me." A slight smile on Justin's face. "When does Brian Kinney refuse to have sex? When he's dead. And then I found out it was close to true. Or it could have been. Cancer. Surgery. And you looked so beat up, so exhausted, you didn't wake up when I cried all over you like the world's biggest queen."

"I thought we were going off the greatest hits reel," Brian commented.

"I want to believe that you won't do it again." So much for trying to make Brian understand, get him to admit he was wrong. They could keep going like this forever, Justin expressing his feelings, Brian making snide remarks. They'd tried. Time to be blunt. "That's what I want. I want to believe that you know you made a mistake. Several mistakes."

"Or else what?"

"Nothing." Brian squinted at his partner, who shrugged. "I'm not going to leave Brian. This is my life. My home. I'm not going to go running off because I don't hear what I want to. But you asked what I want, and that's it. I don't like having nightmares in which Lindsay calls to invite me to your funeral, or I'm trapped in a burning building and you can't be bothered to singe your suit rescuing me — hypothetically, of course, I would never have a dream that lame — but they're not the end of the world. I just… would like to register a complaint that what you did fucking sucks, and not in a life-affirming way, and you were stupid to do it, and next time, if there is one, you should rethink."

"That's it?" Brian asked, eyes moving restlessly, searching for something more punitive. "You want to believe deep in your little twink heart that I've changed, I've become a more mature, committed man, capable of expressing his feelings and thinking instead of pushing people away irrationally?"

"That's it." Justin made to get up, hungry now, but Brian stilled him, pulled him down.

Brian's hands on Justin's face were firm, possessive. There was no movement now, no attempts to escape. They were looking straight at each other. "I made a mistake," he said softly, almost a whisper. As if someone was listening to this unprecedented confession. "Several mistakes."

"Okay." Justin almost mouthed the word, his throat dry. He made no attempt to reach for his water glass, far too intent on the look in Brian's eyes. The need, which was not false or masked.

"I needed you, then. That's why."

"Okay."

Enough, enough. Part of Justin hated moments like these, when Brian was open and raw. It felt like a forcing, like a rape, as if he were pulling things out of Brian that didn't want to come out. Part of him knew they needed to come, that it wasn't a matter of want. Brian needed to say these things as much as Justin needed to hear them, but they still beat in the ears, heavy and wrong. Enough. Brian leaned forward and Justin met him, warm lips, their breath too fast, synchronized in unsteadiness. Justin closed his eyes, kissed the corner of Brian's mouth, his jaw, turned his face into the skin of Brian's neck. Their lips again, cracked and thirsty. Enough.

Deep breaths, leaning on each other. Justin turned his head, saw the floor, the cigarette box. "Are you still hungry? Thai?" he asked.

"Sure. None of that cream shit though."

"Dieting again? You are looking a little — ow." Justin jumped off the bed, rubbing at his ass, where Brian's fingers left their mark. "I guess for a man of thirty six it's only—"

"Thirty five."

"Oh, right, thirty five and eleven months and — how many days?" Brian retrieved the cigarettes from the floor, lit one as Justin went for the phone. "You really should quit you know. We could do it together."

"Wouldn't your mother love that," Brian snarked.

Justin grinned and blew him a kiss. "So what do you want? Pad thai? Or one of those curry things?"

"What'd we have last time?"

"Pad malay."

"…'cause it was shit."

"I thought it was good."

"That's because you have no taste."

Eyebrows arched, and Brian shrugged, having left himself open, as Justin said, "Clearly," and dialed the phone, the kitchen light turning his skin gold, his smile broad and bright.