Second Year

October

"NOW will you fucking slow down?"

Brian was lying on the big platform bed, back at the loft after being examined and released at Pitt University Hospital. He was diagnosed with acute exhaustion and some vitamin deficiencies caused by his poor and sporadic eating habits. He had been given prescriptions for vitamins and sleeping pills. The doctor had offered tranquilizers, too, but Brian had curtly refused to consider them, insisting that he was fine, thank you.

They'd been back home for a couple of hours, the family had left after making sure that he was well cared for and there were promises of follow up visits the next day along with likely pots of soup from Deb and Vic.

Brian was in mid ream from Justin. They had gone through how frightened Justin had been, how he had to slow down, how selfish Brian was behaving, how his priorities were screwed up, how he was about to leave his son fatherless, and had now moved on to if he didn't cut the shit Justin would be moving to his mother's and he could just fucking kill himself in peace, since that was obviously where he was headed.

Damnit.

Brian had a headache, he was tried and he really just wanted to go to sleep. He had a ten o'clock meeting in the morning and he still had some prep work to do for it and when he was foolish enough to mention it—proof of the level of his fatigue—Justin had blown another gasket.

"Goddamnit, Brian. You're not even making an effort here. You fucking passed out flat on the Goddamned sidewalk for shit's sake."

There was no reaction other than annoyance.

He tried another tact, maybe this would work—unlikely, but it was worth a shot. "When Debbie passed out at the diner you were the one who told her that she could take a couple of days off, in fact you insisted, remember? You were the one who dropped by to make sure she wasn't going to show up for her shift. You told her that it wasn't worth getting sick over—any of this sounding familiar?"

Long suffering patience was wearing thin. "You're not actually equating my having to pitch Dell Computers in the morning with Deb working the breakfast shift, are you?"

Full drama queen mode.

"It's the same fucking thing. It's about commitment and believing that you're indispensable and that no one can do the fucking job as well as you can."

"No one there can do the fucking job as well as I can."

"Bullshit, Brian. Vance can do it and you fucking know it."

"Vance is in London dealing with one of his ex-wives."

"Then reschedule the damn meeting. The doctor said you should have complete bed rest for at least three days."

"I can't reschedule the damn meeting. The CEO is here from California specifically for this. It goes on tomorrow at ten. Fucking deal with it."

"Goddamn it, Brian…" He was about ready to take a walk. Fine. Shit.

"Look…I'll take the meeting, take them to lunch and come home. I'll even tell Cynthia that I won't be in for a couple of days. Will that shut you up?"

"You are so not getting this, are you, asshole? You're my husband. I fucking love you and you're going to fucking kill yourself if you don't stop." He shook his head, knowing it was doing a complete flyby. "What the Hell will it take to get through to you? The first heart attack? Jesus, Brian."

"I told you, I have to deal with the pitch tomorrow and when I'm done with that I'll come home. Now leave me the fuck alone so I can get some sleep." He turned over, the conversation over.

Knowing that further argument was useless, Justin went down to the living room, trying to decide what the Hell to do next. He sat for about twenty minutes then after checking to make sure that Brian was asleep, took the phone up to the roof for complete privacy.

"Mrs. Kinney? This is Justin." She'd know who he was, whether she acknowledged him or not. "I was hoping that I could speak with you, it's important."

"I'm sure that whatever you may have to say to me about my son couldn't be anything I would want to hear. If you'll excuse me, it's quite late." She was going to hang up but…

"Mrs. Kinney, please. I have to talk to you about him—could I come over tomorrow? Please?"

"Is he alright?"

"That's what I want to talk to you about. Please, Mrs. Kinney. It's Important."

An annoyed silence then, "…Come at ten."

"I'll be there, thank you. I'll be there."

Brian dragged himself out of bed at seven, as usual, refusing to consider going in late. He had the coffee and eggs Justin made him, picked at a piece of toast and left, still annoyed and obviously wanting nothing more than to go back to bed.

At nine thirty Justin took his car, the small used one he'd allowed Brian to get him a year or so ago, and made his way out to the suburbs. He'd only been to Brian's house—OK, his parent's house—once before and it amazed him to think that he'd grown up there. It looked like a normal house on the outside. It sat on a normal street; the houses were all similar and were probably about half the size of the place he'd lived in with his own parents. He was sure there were no private pools on the street. Every house on his old block had one.

There was a statue of Mary on the front lawn.

The place was neat, clean, just as he would expect, and it seemed so—normal.

Just to look at it you would never suspect that the people who lived there beat their kids and hated each other and were alcoholics.

Parking in the driveway, careful not to block Joan's car—considerate, like he had been raised, he walked up to the door, rang the bell.

She answered quickly, expecting him.

She showed him to the living room he'd sat in a year ago and saw no real differences between then and now. She was still rigid, unyielding. The house was still cold and formal with nothing out of place. She had a glass of wine beside her, he declined her offer. He had trouble not staring at a heinous painting on the far wall, one of those starving artist' creations that could be bought at a Marriott Hotel near you on a given Sunday.

"What is the problem with Brian this time?" She sounded like she'd been around this block a few too many times than she wanted to.

Taken aback more than he probably should have been by her tone and attitude Justin tried to recover but she made him feel like a five year old. "He's working himself so hard that he's becoming sick. He passed out yesterday and he refuses to slow down…and he's losing weight, too. I'm getting, well, I'm worried about him."

She looked at him as if he were telling her that his dog had messed her lawn.

"Brian is an adult. What on earth do you expect me to do about it?" She sipped her wine; it was a very big sip. "You're his husband', aren't you? I would think at he'd listen to you before he'd listen to me."

"The doctor said that if he doesn't slow down he'd have a heart attack."

"And did Brian hear the doctor say this?" Justin nodded. "Then he should be able to deal with it. He has always been intelligent, if nothing else. I'm sure that he'll make some sort of decision about it. He usually does, sooner or later." She was ready to dismiss him. "Was there anything else?"

"Mrs. Kinney, I just wish that you…"

She stared daggers at him, each one hitting dead on. "You wish what, young man? That perhaps I could drive over and have a talk with him? If you'll recall that last time I did that I arrived at an awkward moment for all involved."

He was going to say he wished she could let him know that she loved him, but he knew that wouldn't happen and in all likelihood neither she nor Brian would have the slightest clue about how to even begin to go there.

It was pointless and he was wasting her time as well as his. Besides, he had a painting to finish. They all had to be crated by Monday and shipped by Tuesday. He had to go.

He stood up. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, Mrs. Kinney."

He was almost to the door when she spoke. "You're quite worried about him, aren't you?"

He nodded.

"I suppose that in your way, you care for him, don't you? You wouldn't have come all this way if you weren't concerned."

"Brian can't stop proving he's the best and he's…he's working so hard." He paused. That wasn't her question. "Yes, I care about him very much."

"He must be quite good at what he does, isn't he? He makes all that money and I assume that he supports the two of you very well, from what I've seen."

"Mrs. Kinney, please. Could you try to talk to him?"

He thought that he'd gotten through to her, that she would agree to help. Justin was convinced that the shock value, if nothing else, of having Joan Kinney show up at his office or somewhere and tell him to take it easy might be enough to wake him up, but he was just jerking himself off to think she'd do anything. After all, he'd heard the stories of how she would stand by while Brian was being beaten, that afterwards she's go to church and light candles while her son was bleeding.

She made Brian seem like an open book—no one would get through her. He was closing the door behind him when he glanced in before it shut completely. She was filling the wine glass again.

Around three that afternoon, after the pitch and the lunch, when Brian had promised that he would be on his way home and was, instead, in his office going over some copy he'd seen and hated, Cynthia buzzed to say that there was a call for him, someone named Tom who said they were friends. Would he take the call?

Who the fuck was Tom?

Sure, whatever. He could always hang up.

"Yes?"

"Brian? I'm sorry to interrupt you at work, but I've had a call from a friend of yours who asked me to have a word with you if it's alright."

"What is this about?"

"Well, this is a little awkward, but your mother called me and…"

"My mother? Joanie? Who is this—oh, fuck me. Father Tom. Of course, the dynamic duo."

"Brian, she's concerned about you. Would it be alright if I came over to talk wit you? We could meet wherever you'd like. I can come to your office or your home, you could come to me—whatever is easiest for you. You decide, we'll meet wherever you'd like."

Jesus H. Fucking Christ.

"Look, Rev, this isn't going to happen and how the fuck did Joan come to the conclusion that I needed your help? Is my faggot soul rotting in Hell again? Shit, I thought that was where she wanted me."

"I only know that our friends and your family are concerned. Would you agree to meet me? I could come to your home his evening if you don't mind."

"As a matter of fact I do mind, Rev. In fact, I mind very much. Now if you'll excuse me, this is a working day."

"Brian, please—I would like to talk with you. I'll call you this evening, is that alright? I may be able to help you put things into perspective."

"I doubt it, Rev, but I tell you what—you light a couple of candles for me and we'll call it square." He cut the connection, annoyed.

Fucking Twat. Fucking Justin. He bent back to his desk, pissed. When Cynthia stuck her head in and asked what would be a good day to reschedule the dinner meeting he was supposed to go to he told her, with little finesse, that he'd go to the damn dinner and now leave him the fuck alone. When she said she'd thought that he wanted to leave early he told her that he'd changed his mind.

At ten that night Brian pulled the loft door open. He was planning on getting home early, like he had told Justin the night before, but he was pissed knowing that he was being watched.

They cared about him—how nice, how lez.

He was a grown up, he was fine and he didn't need minders, Damnit.

"Brian?" The voice came from the bedroom. "There's food if you're hungry."

No rants about where he'd been? No tantrums? No scenes?

Damn.

And—he wasn't standing by the door, ready to take his coat and kiss him and shove a plate of warmed over something in front of him?

This wasn't normal. Then he saw the suitcase packed and ready to go, sitting next to the door, considerately placed out of the way so no one would trip over it. That was Justin for you, always thoughtful.

"You going somewhere?"

Justin gave him a look like he was a complete asshole in addition to being a total idiot. "San Francisco, remember?"

Fuckfuckfuck.

"You forgot? You fucking forgot that I was leaving in the morning? Brian—Goddamnit." He started back up to the bedroom, pausing on the top step. "The whole fucking world isn't about you, Brian. You promised me that you'd come to California with me and then you downgraded to telling me that you'd meet me there in a couple of days. You know how important this is to me and now you can't even remember when I'm flying across the Goddamned country." He shook his head. "I assume you forgot to get a ticket for yourself, right?"

"I'll do it now." He'd go on line. It would take ten minutes.

"Just—fuck it, Brian. Don't bother."

Shit. Brian knew he'd blown it, and not in a positive, life affirming way. He had promised Justin that he'd go, but Damnit—Vance was in Europe and these were big contracts on the line.

It had been a long day, he was tired. He thought about and dismissed the idea of a shower. The morning would be soon enough. Turning off the lights he went up to where Justin was on his own side of the bed, turned away and likely to stay that way.

There was no point, nothing to be gained by trying to placate Justin now, he was simply too angry to listen and Brian was too tired to deal with another quick argument right now. Screw it; it could wait til morning along with the shower.

He opened his eyes. Morning. The loft was quiet, Justin not beside him. Stretching, he got up. He could tell by the absolute silence that no one was there. He was alone. Shit—what time was it?

Ten forty-five.

Fuck and fuck again.

He looked; the bag by the door was gone. A quick search found no note, nothing.

And he was late for work. Rushing, he made it in time for his eleven thirty. He didn't hear from Justin that day and when he called the hotel he was forced to leave a message. Justin's cel was off. The same thing happened the next day when he tried, several times, to get a hold of the boy.

The next night, alone in the loft, most of the lights off and thinking hat he needed to diffuse this while he could, he made a decision.

He picked up the phone, dialing direct.

A sleepy voice picked up. "…Hello?"

"Cynthia? Brian. I'm not going to make it in tomorrow. Reschedule whatever I have on and handle whatever needs handling. Next, call and get me a ticket to San Francisco for mid afternoon, late afternoon if that's all they have. I'll be back Monday. The return can be for Sunday night."

"OK…right." The phone clicked down, he hoped she remembered what he had said.

At one thirty the next day he was waiting at the gate, ready to board, just sitting, working on his laptop when his phone rang. He answered as he heard the announcement for business class to board.

"Yes?"

"Brian? I'm glad I caught you. I just got off the phone with Mr. Vance. He was supposed to get back tonight but there's some kind of delay. He says that you have to be here for the wrap up with Dell in the morning."

"Fuck that."

"He said that if you think going to—let me get this right—Your Goddamn wife's opening is more important, you can bloody well stay there and hope the show's a sell out because if you cost the company the signing he'll make sure that the problems you had after the Stockwell debacle will look like a walk in the park.'" And he would, too.

"Can Pendleton reschedule?" He was the head of Dell.

"I called. He's leaving for Japan directly from the signing tomorrow. He wants the contracts done before he goes. He won't change his plans."

Ah, shit. And with an account this size a partner would have to be there. There was no choice. Last call for business class. One of the attendants was looking at him.

"Brian?"

"I'll be there."

"Do you ant me to reschedule your flight?"

"...Sure."

When he walked into the opening he was two hours late and he still hadn't been able to get a hold of Justin. He was hoping that the surprise would help to smooth things over. He'd even, God help him, arranged for a chic flower arrangement to de delivered to the gallery. He saw the youngster standing with his back to the main room, talking to a man who looked like a gallery owner. Brian took a moment to just look. The dark blue cashmere turtleneck set off his coloring and he was, beyond doubt, a beautiful young man.

There were people still hanging around and a number of the paintings had sold stickers on them. The show had gone well.

Brian smiled to himself. He admitted it, at least to himself, he loved the twat. Going over he put his hands on both or Justin's shoulders, squeezing gently.

"Hey."

Justin turned, didn't look all that happy. "You showed up."

"I told you I would."

"Uh-huh."

"Is this yours?" The man Justin had been talking to indicated Brian with a smile

"I'm sorry, Adrian. This is Brian Kinney, Brian, this is Adrian Smith, he owns the gallery."

"So you're the husband I've heard so much about."

Justin's face was carefully blank. "This week."