Ethan slides his hands along Justin's bare shoulders, up his neck, and then into his hair, fisting it. The moment he slips his fingers into Justin's hair, he tilts Justin's head and thrusts his tongue into Justin's mouth.

"You're my baby." Words whispered against lips. Parted slightly.

Another kiss.

"My baby." Another murmur.

Ethan's fucking Justin from behind in their bed. In black and white. Justin watches himself fist the comforter and bury his face in a pillow. He can actually feel the scratchy fabric grazing his skin, the looseness of the comforter, whose stuffing has been partially pulled out through a hole in the corner. Him and not him.

Daphne slips her hand around Justin's dick and squeezes. Hard. Chris's face swims into view. A few droplets of water roll down Chris's chest. Justin's dick explodes, and the bat makes contact with his skull. Justin screams in ecstasy and agony.

Cum. Blood.

"My baby."

"I love you." Daphne.

"I love you." Ethan.

"You're beautiful…" Brian.

Brian.

Brian.

"I'm so in love with you that it actually hurts…"

Fuck.

"Fuck me harder." Brian.

Oh God.

Hurts.

Justin shoots up. Into Brian.

Kayla's crying. Daphne's holding her, rubbing her back, and murmuring into her ear, all the while watching Brian and Justin. Nervously.

A hurried husky whisper: "Do you want me to tell her to leave?"

A brush of lips against Justin's ear.

Justin flushes. He's not sure why. Whispers, too. "No. Yes." He shakes his head. "I … I don't know. I don't know." He looks up at Daphne and Kayla tentatively. Then he stands a little unsteadily and approaches them.

Kayla looks over at him, big blue eyes glittering. She stops crying. Maybe she's surprised.

Daphne is, too. And touched. So much so that when Justin runs his hand along Kayla's arm, down her hand, to her fingers, slips one of his into the crook her hand makes, and asks softly, "Can I hold her?" Daphne nods. For a moment, she forgets about Ken and the adoption papers. Her eyes widen when he lifts her gently into his arms and, without thinking, rubs her back and bounces her softly, all the while walking. His parenting, natural and effortless. She smiles when he lilts, "Hi. I'm Justin." Aches at the word he doesn't say. And laughs when Kayla looks down and then back up, all shy, and responds, "Hi. I'm Kayla."

And for a moment, Daphne is wishing again. Wishing for things she'd resigned herself a long time ago to not having. Not with Justin.

Justin's sitting on the couch now, Kayla on his lap, a book open in front of them.

Oh God.

"Do you recognize her?

For a moment, Justin has forgotten, too. Forgotten about Daphne's three-year absence. Forgotten about milestones he missed, time he'll never get back.

"Mamma."

"She's pretty, huh?"

Kayla traces a finger across sketch-Daphne's face, smudging her lips. She repeats, "Pretty," but it sounds more like "Pre-y."

Daphne swallows hard and shakes her head, slowly, as though waking from a deep sleep. Then she walks over to Justin and says woodenly, "We need to go." She takes Kayla's hand and guides her as she steps down back onto the floor. "The papers are on the counter. Sign them. I'll be back."

Justin simply gapes.

The metal on metal of the loft door's sliding shut grates. Issuing a grinding sound. One that only Justin hears. Sparking a chain of shivers that chugs up his spine and then ripples throughout his body. Grinding. And painful shocks. Justin rolls his shoulders and winces.

The grinding resounds and echoes. Justin covers his ears. Why is it so loud?

Then there's nothing. No sound. His chest so tight, his breath coming in gasps. Dizzy. He closes his eyes. Focuses on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. A less threatening shiver. He shakes his head and lets it fall. More breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Nothing exists. Nothing but the soft rush of air.

So he has no idea that Brian had made coffee until he feels the slick red ceramic cup being pushed into his hands. It's hot. But Justin doesn't really feel it. He looks up at Brian, who is kneeling, and tries to smile. He rattles off the random fact he has filed under coffee: "Some researchers conducted an experiment involving coffee … on rats …" But his heart's not in it. His words come out in a monotone. "The rats they'd given coffee to were more … uh … amorous than the control group." Justin blushes slightly. But it's automatic. He doesn't feel the heat surging, racing up his chest to his face and radiating outward, down along his arms and legs, back down to his groin.

Brian sighs and smiles faintly. That, too, is automatic. He doesn't feel the customary nudge of annoyance … and the antithetical yet always accompanying warmth upon which is carried a chuckle and a murmur, "Twat." Even if only in his head.

Sometimes the chuckle-murmur is voiced. Always followed by wide eyes, flushed skin, and a defensive exclamation, "What?" Then pushing, plunging, biting. Fisted hair. Too much space to close. At the memory (the last random fact was that Eratosthenes calculated the circumference of the Earth using a rod—a term that gave Brian a giggle—and simple trigonometry in 240 BC), Brian's cock stirs. When embarrassed and turned on, Justin radiates so much heat … it's like standing near an inferno and trying to breathe. Actually makes Brian feel dizzy. Intoxicated. But with a heightened consciousness. Never more aware of every neuron firing. Unconsciously, Brian slides his hand up the back of Justin's neck and threads his fingers through Justin's hair. His breathing is suddenly ragged. And his dick rock hard.

Justin is still largely unaware of everything. A condition that is not lost on Brian. He sighs, lets his hand drift back to Justin's neck, and then holds it there, tracing a finger lightly up and down the curve of Justin's neck.

Justin sips his coffee. A mmm that's like a hum. Another automatic reaction. But Brian doesn't know that. He grits his teeth.

But the 'hurt' of Justin's rejection (not that Brian would acknowledge its existence) fades with Justin's fading voice, "I … I don't know if I can do this."

Brian rolls his lips into his mouth. Then he declares, matter-of-factly, "You can."

Justin laughs. Well, he tries to laugh. It comes out more choking than musical. Justin thinks bitterly, Brian has no idea.

"If James, the shy near-hermit-like artist, can go all Ralphie on a bunch of angry homophobic soccer players, well one of them, then you can do 'this.' Whatever that means."

"I'm not James." Justin lets his head fall.

Brian lifts Justin's chin with a finger. His eyes are intense. Almost angry. "You said …"

Justin flinches away from Brian's touch, his space, and then stands abruptly. He thrusts his mug onto the coffee table and threads his fingers into his hair, pulling it hard. "Look, I know. I know. And on a good day, I believe it. I believe that James isn't my best self, a much stronger version of me. But now … I don't … I can't." He removes his hands from his hair, gestures wildly, and spins around. A defeated "I'm sorry."

Brian tries to pull Justin into his arms. But Justin wriggles away and then takes two steps back. He can't bear to be touched when he's this far gone.

Brian's not hurt by this. Nope. He soldiers on. "You were honest with Ian. You put up with up with Deb and Mikey … You went to the hearing."

Suddenly Justin is shouting. The suddenness of the outburst and the sharpness of his voice startle even him. "You don't get it! This is worse than everything! It's like every horrible thing that's ever happened to me all wrapped up into one! I can't! I can't do this!"

Brian is stunned. A rare state for him. But after their talk about the bashing … Brian can't imagine anything worse. "What the fuck did she say to you?"

TBC…