Brian choked out, "What?"

Justin was still avoiding Brian's gaze, looking down at his hands now. "I took a bat to the head."

Brian rasped, "Who? Why?"

Justin shook his head. "A friend. I'd come out. Right before prom. He hit me twice and left me for dead. In the weeks that followed, sometimes, sometimes, I wished he'd finished the job."

Brian's entire body suddenly burned, and he felt like he was going to puke. "The cop. At the station." At the time, he'd heard "fag" and little else. With the tapes and the assault charge, he'd had a lot on his mind. Well…and fucking…Justin had just purchased their new bed. But now…what the cop had said, Justin's social anxiety…it all made sense. And he felt like the worst kind of asshole.

Justin nodded. "That cop 'lost' evidence, which led to a mistrial. The guy who bashed me…he walked." Justin still wouldn't meet Brian's eyes. He was focusing at a point on the floor a little to the right of Brian, but back by the windows. He'd made air quotes on lost.

Brian swallowed hard and moved to stand. But Justin beat him to it, standing and walking over to the windows. Brian followed. Brian saw the tears in Justin's reflection. So he buried his face in Justin's neck and slid his arms around Justin's waist. Clearly Justin didn't want him to see.

"I can't draw like I used to. That's why I write."

Brian's entire body clenched, and he held Justin tighter.

They stood there like that, in silence, for a few minutes. Brian was desperate to know what Justin was thinking, remembering, but he couldn't think of what to say. How to ask.

Just when Brian was about to blurt out the only thing that had come to mind, the lamest thing ever ("What's going on in there?"), Justin's chest heaved, and he bowed his head. The crying was still inaudible, but Brian could feel the tears shuddering through him. Justin took a deep breath and whispered, "I don't want her to see…"

"See what?"

"What I've become."

Brian stiffened.

Justin shook his head and wiped away his tears. "The last time we spoke, I was whole. All potential. And now…"

Brian spun Justin around in his arms. Justin looked up in surprise. More sharply than he intended, Brian asked, "And now what?"

"Now I'm nothing."

"Bullshit."

"What?"

"You're not nothing. You are.." Brian clenched and unclenched his hands, but then slid them more tightly around Justin's waist. "You are someone very special to me. And to your readers. Thousands of people depend on you to make their crappy lives better. You made my crappy life better for almost a year before we met. What did that tree-hugger say… 'The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.'"

Justin giggled. "Tree-hugger? You mean Henry David Thoreau?"

"Yeah…he hung in the woods, didn't he?"

"Well, yeah."

"There you go."

"And now…you make my life…"

Justin supplied, "Even less crappy?"

Justin was smiling. Not a full-on Sunshine smile, but he was smiling. And Brian wanted to keep that going, so he admitted softly, "Perfect. You make my life perfect."

Ironically, this did not preserve Justin's smile at all, much to Brian's consternation. Instead, he gaped at Brian, his eyes wide. Solemnly, Justin asked, his voice almost a whisper, "Do you mean that?"

"Yes."

"Oh God, Brian." Then Justin was in his arms. And crying again. Fucking Christ.

"I'm such an asshole. I didn't mean to imply that you don't do the same for me. But not even you can make my hand the way it used to be or make me normal again. God, I want to be normal for you."

Brian pushed Justin back so that he could look at him. Brian just stared at Justin for a moment. Then he said, "I don't want you to be normal. Normal's boring."

"I just mean…" Justin sighed and moved out of Brian's arms. He turned around. "I just want to be able to do normal things. Like leave the loft alone."

"You did. You came to get me from Ian's."

Justin laughed. Ian. Then he turned back around. "That was once."

"And you came to the diner to meet me."

"Okay, twice."

"And how many times had you left the apartment alone before?"

Justin sighed. "Never. Not once in three years."

Brian nodded and smiled. "Well, there you go…a 200% increase. And it's even more meaningful if you factor in the time frame. A 200% increase in the space of a month after a three-year lull."

Justin shrugged and wrinkled his nose (fucking adorably, Brian thought).

"You're making progress, and all on your own."

"No. No, no, no. You were my inspiration to go out by myself. Both times. And if you hadn't assaulted Ethan…"

Brian grinned. "According to the state of Pennsylvania, I didn't."

"I wouldn't have gotten the CBT CDs so I could go to the hearing."

"You don't need to tell me how fucking awesome I am. Trust me, I know."

Justin's expression was suddenly serious. "I'm not sure you do." He moved closer. Brian immediately pulled him into his arms. Justin wasn't sure how to put what he saw in Brian's eyes into words. Something tentative, hesitant, even vulnerable. "I love you, Brian. So much."

Brian could no longer stand the weight of Justin's eyes on him. He pulled Justin into his arms and whispered in his ear, "And I love you, Justin. Fuck, I love you."

Justin, who'd been nuzzling Brian's neck, now drew his tongue along Brian's shoulder and up the curve of his neck before sucking on it, at the pulse point. Six seconds later, the rest of Brian's clothes were on the floor, next to Justin's tight little shorts. And six seconds after that, Justin was on Brian's lap (on the couch), beginning to push Brian's cock inside him. Brian had (of course) his fingers threaded through Justin's hair and his tongue deep in Justin's mouth.

Just then, they heard knocking. Justin and Brian froze, breaking apart, and looking at each other. Brian shook his head. He yelled, "Go the fuck away!" and slid his hands to Justin's waist, pulling him down further on his cock. Justin moaned softly.

"Umm…Does Justin Taylor live here?"

Justin muttered, "Fuck. How did she even find me?" Then he buried his face in his hands.

"Daphne?"

Justin nodded, but didn't remove his face from his hands. Brian sighed. Apparently, the universe was conspiring to deprive him of sex. He lifted Justin off of him and into a standing position. Justin turned and walked toward the bedroom, Brian assumed to grab clothes, but when Justin didn't re-emerge, Brian followed him. He was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Justin?"

"I don't want to see her."

"If this is about your hand…"

"It's not just that. I didn't realize until I heard her voice…I think I hate her."

Brian sat down next to Justin. But he didn't say a word. He just waited. He didn't have to wait long.

"I was in a coma for a week. I almost died. I had to have brain surgery, and I'll never be 100%. Do you think she visited or called?"

"I'm guessing not."

"Nope. She didn't even email me to ask if I was okay. I could understand my dad not visiting. Hell, my mom only came once, and she didn't even bring my sister. I could understand my so-called friends not visiting. To them I was nothing but a faggot who got what he deserved."

Brian swallowed hard. Again, he was at a loss. Brian was starting to understand why Justin had said what he had about betrayal. Why in so many of his stories his protagonists had been abandoned by family and friends or never had any to begin with. So he did the only thing he could think to do. He slid his hand over Justin's and threaded their fingers together.

"But Daphne…she was…we were going to spend our lives together. I mean, I know I screwed that up…"

"How? You didn't choose to be gay."

Justin sighed. "I know…but I disappointed everyone. Her, my parents, her parents…everyone. Even still, she should have come. Or at least called. She said she'd be there for me. But she wasn't there when I needed her the most. When I needed someone, anyone, to care what happened to me (Justin's voice broke on "anyone"). And three years later, she emails…comes knocking at the door…Fuck her. Fuck her. This is way too little, way, way too late."

"Alright then." Brian stood. He wasn't going to try to convince Justin to talk to her. It wasn't his place. Besides, Brian's chest ached at the thought of a 17-year-old Justin alone in the hospital. He'd come out only to be bashed and abandoned, apparently, by everyone who ever mattered to him, left with social anxiety, posttraumatic stress, and brain damage. But it made Brian's heart swell with pride, too (though he wouldn't have phrased it that way). Justin had survived. He'd shacked up with a loser, but he'd made his way in the world all the same. Becoming a writer. Making a good living doing something he enjoyed. And he still drew.

"Where are you going?"

"To tell her to go the fuck away." After a pause, Brian asked, "That's what you want, right?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely certain."

TBC…