Justin was not scheduled to work today, so he was at their new loft. He'd said that he wanted to work on his drawing. Brian had gone to the office, but he was having trouble concentrating. Ever since Justin had started to remember the bashing and the prom a few days ago, Brian was ill at ease whenever they were apart. He sighed and tried to focus on the storyboards for a new commercial he would be pitching the next day.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Brian looked at the clock. Fuck. Cynthia was at lunch. On the fourth ring, Brian picked up. "Brian Kinney's office."

But no voice replied. Instead, Brian heard a click. The person had hung up. Brian stared at the phone a moment before replacing it on the cradle. He jumped a little when it rang again. This time Brian answered on the second ring. And this time, someone responded to his greeting ("Brian Kinney's office.")

"Brian…Brian. Help me…"

Another click.

Brian jumped out of his chair, grabbed his briefcase, and ran out the door. He ran all the way to the parking garage (being too scared and impatient for the elevator). Justin had called Brian and asked for help in a voice that had caused him to tremble. Justin had been crying so hard that Brian had barely been able to make out the words. And he had sounded terrified. Brian blew every red light, making it to the loft in ten minutes (from the time Justin had hung up the second time).

Brian quickly unlocked the door and stepped inside. It was quiet. Eerily quiet. He dropped his briefcase and walked further inside, scanning the apartment for Justin. Finally his eyes lit on the boy. He was lying on the floor in front of the bed, as though he'd collapsed, passed out, as though he'd realized he was about to lose consciousness and headed for the bed. The phone was an inch or two away from Justin's hand, as though he'd been clutching it for dear life and had only let go when the world faded to black.

Brian rushed over to Justin and kneeled down. He touched Justin's face gently. The boy was covered in a cold sweat, and his eyes were red and puffy, as though he'd been sobbing. Brian let his eyes travel along the rest of Justin's body, looking for anything else that seemed unusual. Suddenly, he drew his breath in sharply. Justin was wearing brown cargo pants, and Brian could clearly see a huge wet spot from his waist to his knees. At first, Brian was afraid that it was blood, but there was no red tinge to it, and, when he leaned in closer, he smelled an acrid odor. Piss. Justin had lost consciousness and then, apparently, had lost control of his bladder.

Brian's gaze returned to Justin's face. He could see Justin's eyes moving beneath his lids, as though he were dreaming. Unexpectedly, Justin moaned and then jumped up. He ran from one side of the loft to the other (through the studio/office to the windows and back), knocking over his easel in the process. He squinted like he was seeing everything through a haze, as though he couldn't focus his eyes.

He cried out, "No. No. No. Someone…someone help me. Please."

The pain in that plaintive cry caused Brian's chest to constrict. But he was stunned. He had no idea what to do. Then Justin's eyes lit on the phone. He picked it up and ran to the couch. Apparently, he didn't see Brian sitting next to the phone because he was muttering, "I gotta call Brian. I gotta call Brian…"

Justin smacked himself in the face. He was sobbing uncontrollably now and crying out softly, "Why won't it stop? Why??"

Then he smacked himself in the face again. "I gotta get it together. I gotta…"

Now he was dialing. His face was a mere inch (or less) from the phone, as though he couldn't see the buttons clearly. Brian, having recovered a little from the shock and paralyzing fear Justin's 'episode' had caused, stood up and approached Justin. He sat down next to him and gently took the phone from his hand. Justin followed the phone with his eyes. When they lighted on Brian, he squinted and tilted his head. Could Justin even see him? Then Brian pulled Justin into his arms, not even caring that that meant soaking his Armani suit with piss. He held Justin close, cradling him, and whispered, "Kitten, I'm here. I'm here."

Brian held Justin for a long time. Justin buried his face in Brian's chest and cried. He didn't talk much, but, every once in a while, he would moan softly, "I was so scared, Brian. So scared." Eventually, Justin stopped crying, and his eyelids began to droop. Brian carried Justin to the bed and stripped off his clothes. Then he covered him with the duvet, kissed his forehead, and walked over to his desk. He plopped down and stared at the screen, at first not really looking at it. When he finally did, his eyes widened. He immediately pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed. It took him fifteen minutes to get the number he wanted. Thirty minutes later, a psychologist Brian knew, one who'd desperately wanted Brian to fuck him, was walking into the loft. Brian took him into their 'library' and spent the next hour telling the man about Brian and Justin's relationship before the bashing, the bashing, and their relationship after. Then he recounted what he'd seen of Justin's 'episode' and described what Justin had been reading before the 'episode,' that is, a story in which a man's gay lover strangles him. To death. Then he explained why that scene was significant.

His entire body tensed as he remembered police night at Babylon last year, with go-go dancers in police hats, blue shirts, and black jock straps, wielding night sticks. He'd prowled the back room, looking for something to help him forget. His dad had just died. As much as he had hated him for the abuse, some part of him still longed for his approval, longed to have a real relationship with him. And after his dad had met Gus, for the first time in his life, he thought that maybe, just maybe, that would, that could, happen. But then he had died, destroying all hope of that. Worse yet, Brian was still so angry and bitter about the abuse and neglect. In the end, he had called Justin. Justin had barely walked through the door when Brian had pushed him up against the nearest pillar and planted an angry, passionate kiss on his soft cherry-red lips. He'd ripped Justin's clothes off, lifted him up into his arms, and started fucking him hard. Justin had wrapped his legs around Brian and that, coupled with the fact that he was leaning back on the pillar, allowed Brian to let his hands roam Justin's body. He moved his hands up to Justin's neck, and, then, without even realizing what he was doing, he started squeezing even as he'd continued to fuck Justin. The whole time Brian was looking into Justin's eyes. At first they were dark with desire, but, for a moment, they were filled with fear. That fear snapped Brian out of his trance. He quickly let go of Justin's neck and carried him to the bed. After they'd finished fucking, Brian had sucked Justin's cock for what seemed like an hour. He'd bring him to the brink and then ease him off. Then he'd do it all over again. When Justin finally shot his load down Brian's throat, he'd cum so hard that he'd lost consciousness. That blowjob was Brian apologizing the only way he knew how. He hadn't meant to scare Justin.

"For the moment, let's skip the lecture on why choking your boyfriend during sex is not the best coping method when grieving and get right to what that memory means in this context."

Brian smiled a little, but it didn't reach his eyes. He still felt so guilty, not that he'd ever admit that. Brian Kinney didn't do guilt. (Yeah, right) "Okay."

"Now, you said that, for a moment, when you were choking Justin, he was scared. For a split second, he wasn't sure that you would stop, right?"

Brian swallowed hard and nodded.

"Okay. Now before that moment, he wasn't scared of you. In fact, he felt completely safe with you."

Brian winced and looked down, remembering.

"Well, don't think that you've won. That it's over. Because the minute you do that, you're dead."

"Not as long as I've got you to protect me."

Then Brian looked back up and nodded.

"Okay. Now, even when Justin couldn't remember you or anything that you'd shared, he dreamed of you. And when he was on Liberty for the first time after the bashing, he picked you out of the crowd and approached you, right?"

Brian nodded.

"So he was unconsciously drawn to you. Then, in the middle of a mental break, when the world was in pieces around him, he reached for you, to make him feel safe, to right the world. Whatever your guilty feelings about that memory (Brian cleared his throat and started playing with his sleeve), that experience, the memory in itself didn't hurt him. It was only when the memory was juxtaposed with other memories that it had any negative connotation. It's what we call a trigger, something that facilitates the remembrance of something else, something that is harmful to the patient."

"Like the bashing."

"Right. That moment when Justin wasn't sure you were going to stop probably reminded him of the moment he caught sight of Hobbs with the bat. As you've explained it to me, Justin and Hobbs had a sexual encounter."

"Yeah. Justin jerked him off."

"Okay, so he wasn't afraid of Hobbs at first. Not even after Hobbs started bullying him."

"No. He continuously confronted Hobbs. Every time Hobbs bullied him, he stood up to him."

"Okay, so only when Hobbs took the bullying to a new level, doing the unexpected, did Justin become afraid."

Brian nodded.

"And like the other memory, it was a split second of fear, when he wasn't sure the person causing that fear would stop. You stopped. Hobbs didn't."

Brian looked down, fervently blinking back tears that threatened to fall. Then he looked back up and nodded.

"So the scene in the story Justin was reading called to mind a memory of you where he was scared and wasn't sure what you would do. Whether you would stop choking him. That was the trigger, causing a deeper memory of the bashing to surface, a sense impression, really, and that sent him into a panic attack. Because he knew Hobbs wouldn't stop. That Hobbs was truly a threat to him."

Brian's voice wavered a little as he asked, "What do we do now?"

"Well, I wouldn't try to force him to talk about it or fill in any blanks."

"Right, the doctor said not to do that. That it would hurt him."

"Actually, the doctor and Justin's mother were probably in cahoots there. I think they probably felt that "the gay lifestyle" had put Justin in danger and that the less he remembered the safer he would be. Unfortunately, unless he remembers and deals with those memories, he'll never be whole again, and he could fall apart at any moment. I think you should get him talking, trying to remember, but not yet. People who have diminished support systems are more susceptible to mental breaks. He has you, and that alone has got him this far, but you can't be with him all the time. Plus, he's in love with you, so he's probably trying to 'hold back the crazy' as much as possible. You need to help him widen his support network. He needs to spend some time with people he likes and trusts, but who he's not so afraid of disappointing or scaring away. Then he'll be better able to cope with the panic and the host of other emotions the bashing evokes."

Brian swallowed hard and nodded, a determined look in his eyes. "I can do that."