Brian looks around the loft for one last time. The furniture was gone, so was the fridge, the plasma TV, the refrigerator… The closet empty, the drawers open, hanging out like the tongue of a dog, and the only things that remain on the shelf in front of his bathroom mirror are the circle stains, where once his lotions stood. There is nothing left to tell him that he used to live there for years.
Except for the bed.
He walks right behind him, almost making no sound at all, with a worried look in his eyes and pity, so Brian hates him for this. He doesn't need anyone's pity.
"Are you okay?" He asks, slowly, as if he was afraid of hurting him.
Brian wants to hit him now. The feeling is getting hard to resist by second. Yet, he manages to answer.
"Yeah. Why shouldn't I?"
He grabs his shoulders and turns Brian to face him.
"It's okay to feel bad. Even you can feel bad time to time. Even Rage-"
Brian slowly pushes him away. "Oh, cut the Rage crap. I'm not Rage, okay? I don't wear fucking masks and save the guys to fuck them. I don't need any heroic action to get laid."
"Why are you doing this yourself?"
"What?"
"You're selling the loft. Your loft. After everything… This is your home, you-"
"This isn't my home. This is just a place."
He tilts his head slowly, implying he knows that Brian is lying, but he doesn't say anything. Brian feels the urge more than ever, now.
He slowly walks towards the bed, climbs the stairs and sits on the blue sheets. Brian doesn't want to think about the past, but seeing him –someone- sitting on that bed, brings the memories. The past flashes right in front of his eyes, haunting him. Brian turns his head to the right, he suddenly sees his couch, his TV; he turns left to escape, but he sees the kitchen. He looks forward and there are two guys fucking each other's brains out on his bed, he can hear the moaning coming from the shower, he can swear that he can see the water dripping of their bodies. All he can do is to close his eyes, and get out of this place as soon as he can.
"Why are you leaving the bed?" He asks, and Brian feels his hands clenching into fists.
"Because I don't fucking want it."
"Why don't you admit-"
"Why don't you fucking leave me alone?" Brian yells his lungs out and it feels so damn good.
He doesn't look offended and Brian doesn't understand how he always gets away with his shit. Is it because they know he doesn't mean any of those things he says –because he always does– or is it because nobody gives a damn. Brian doesn't know. He actually doesn't care.
He walks to Brian and kisses him on his lips. Brian thinks that his lips used to feel warmer, sweeter… Happier. Now they're just a piece of meat, without any sensation, any need, any thirst, any feeling. The old saying, 'dead as a doornail' comes to his mind and Brian feels like laughing for the first time in days, since his loft doesn't even have a normal door. But he knows that if he laughs, he won't be able to stop for God knows how long, and he can't take any of those 'Oh, he is a mess' looks anymore.
"I'm always here for you Brian," he says, and Brian feels that his fists aren't fists anymore.
"I know."
"Are you ready to go?"
"Yeah."
"I'll be downstairs, then. Will you come quickly?"
"Sure. I just have to-"
"You don't have to explain anything. I'll be waiting." Brian feels guilty even thinking about hurting him. He is the one who stayed. That meant a lot, if not anything else.
When he leaves, Brian looks at his bed one more time. Justin is sitting on it, now.
"Is that it?" He asks, with that knowing smile on his face, trying to look wiser for his age.
"I guess."
"So, this is goodbye?"
"This is goodbye." Brian looks at him, with that never ending need to touch his silky hair, his smooth skin, his soft hands. But he can't. Not anymore. This is goodbye.
"I still don't get why you have to sell the loft. I'm the one who's leaving."
"It's too much." Brian says, tears running to his eyes. It's not like him, he's very much aware, but there's nothing he can do to stop it. Once, he thinks, once and for all.
"I thought you would cherish the memories, but, of course, you're Brian Kinney. The one who always runs away from his feelings."
"I can't cherish them. Not when you're not here."
"I can't be here; you don't want to be here. There's a difference."
"You left." Brian feels the feathery touch of the tears on his cheeks. "You shouldn't have."
"Why? So that you could go around and fuck others?"
"Because I loved you," Brian says softly.
"You should have told me this, Brian."
"I should have," he sobs.
"You should have."
When Brian looks at Justin, he sees that he's crying, too. He wants to go to him, hold him in his arms, rock him back and forth, saying everything will be alright. He wants to feel inside of him again, run his fingers across his back, and sense him shiver underneath him.
It's too late.
"I love you, Justin."
"I love you, too, Brian."
"Don't go," he begs.
"If only I could stay. You think I wanna leave you?" He smiles slowly and it's like sunshine after the rain. Sunshine. Brian finds himself smiling, too.
Justin continues. "You know what? When you told me that you didn't believe in love, I knew you were lying. I've always known that you loved me."
"I've always loved you Justin."
When Brian can't take it anymore, he reaches for Justin, just to touch him for one more time.
But all he can reach for is thick air, but he can swear that it smells like Justin, just a hint of vanilla.
"I love you," Brian says into the loft, then turns around and leaves, never to come back ever again.
No one ever sees him visiting Justin's grave from that day on, but when Michael goes there every Monday morning before opening the store, he sees the same red roses every time.
Until the day Brian is buried next to his one and only love.