The Reckoning
bySoledad
A "Pathways in the Dark" story
Part 14 of "The Toreador Chronicles". Follows "Bad News".
For disclaimer and background information see the Introduction.
Rating: 16+, for this part, mostly for language.
Author's note: This is an edited version, because I don't want to start any shipper wars. The full version can be read at the hiddenrealms LJ community.
Summary: When Ben Bruckner dies back in Pittsburgh, leaving his devastated partner behind, Michael is in a strange state of mind. Brett Keller's phone call comes like a life-saver, but the solution doesn't meet complete agreement from the Pittsburgh crowd's side – to put it mildly.
Ben Bruckner died four days later, peacefully, in his sleep. Michael had remained on his bedside till the last, shallow breath, holding his hand in mute support, although it was clearly visible – at least for Brian and for anyone who was willing to see the obvious – how much of his remaining strength it had cost him. Unfortunately, those people weren't too numerous, as Emmett, the only one aside from Brian of whose unconditional support Michael could have counted, was half across the country.
In the following chaos, marked by Debbie's constant wailing and tearful assurances of how she had loved Ben like a son and what a good man and good husband Ben had been, Brian quietly, inconspicuously, took over the organizatory tasks, relying heavily on Cynthia, as he'd always done. Starting with Ben's funeral – for which the Professor, true to his own philosophy of living in the now, had never wasted a thought. For a man with a definite death sentence hanging over his head for years, Ben Bruckner had sure as hell been reluctant to think about the technicalities concealing his passing… and what dealing with such details would mean for his grieving partner.
Debbie, as expected, was no help at all. She wasted the time with bawling, self-accusations for not having wanted Ben in Michael's life in the first place, steamrolling Michael with her unasked-for "comfort" and berating him for not showing the proper devastation, while trying to stuff as much food into anyone as humanly possible – and beyond.
She was loud, ever-present, smothering her son both physically and emotionally, in the worst possible theatrical manner, and generally being a royal pain in the ass – and that not in a good way, Brian added mentally. On the third day after Ben's death Michael couldn't take it any longer and fled from his mother's house to Brian's loft, where he was taken in gladly and unceremoniously. He felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut. After his one, particular breakdown in Brian's arms in the hospital, he seemed strangely subdued since Ben's death. All he wanted was to be left alone; to dig himself in somewhere where no one could find him. Especially his mother.
Alonzo took a look at him and declared that he'd be off visiting some local friends all night – which was a nice enough euphemism for hunting, although there actually were some stray Brujah Anarch in The Pitts – and left them alone.
"I didn't want to chase him away," Michael commented, a little uncomfortably. Brian shrugged.
"Don't worry about Alonzo," he said. "He's not a fuckbuddy and not even a close acquaintance. His boss wanted a campaign and loaned me his private jet in exchange, complete with pilot."
"Wow!" Michael seemed properly impressed, coming out of his dull state for a moment. "You've finally done it! You're really playing in the upper league now. I knew you'd get there, eventually."
"It gives me the means to be there when you need me, and for that, I'm grateful," Brian replied simply. "Now, let's sit down, order some Chinese takeout and discuss the most important things that have to be done."
"I'm not really hungry, Bri," Michael said tiredly.
"And I don't really care," Brian answered. "You look like shit. You've lost at least twelve pounds, and it doesn't become you. You're exhausted and overstressed – you need to gain at least some of your strength back."
Michael felt too tired to argue, and so Brian ordered food for both of them. Granted, he didn't need food anymore, but there was no way to make Michael eat alone, and besides, the spicy food still had its attractions, even though it wouldn't nourish his changed metabolism. Not entirely sure how his body would react to solids, he only ate some soup – batter safe than sorry, he thought – and made sure that Michael would polish off a decent portion of everything.
"You're worse than Ma," Michael complained.
"Nobody is worse than your Ma," Brian declared, relaxing on the couch with a tall glass of bloodwine and a cigarette, content now that he had his Mikey for himself, at least for the time being., and glad that Michael never drank wine – not since the Doctor Dave episode two years past. It would have been… complicated to explain why he wasn't allowed to test Brian's drink. "Deb is a force of nature; and a disastrous one at that."
"No kidding," Michael sighed, leaning against him unconsciously, listening to his heartbeat as it was his wont. Having recently fed, Brian actually did have a heartbeat, albeit a slower one than the average human being, so there was no chance to endanger the Masquerade. "Another day at home and I'd have gone mad."
"Why the hell did you go home in the first place?" Brian asked. "You knew what it would be like, didn't you? Deb performed the same circus after Vic's death."
"Of course I knew," Michael sighed, "but I… I couldn't return to the apartment, now that Ben's gone. Too many memories…"
"You don't have to go anywhere you don't want," Brian said. "You can stay here, in the loft, for as long as you want. It's not so that I really need it, you know. And you have your own set of keys."
Michael gave him a long, inquisitive look, showing some interest for the first time for anything. Of course, they had always been something special for each other, so it was small wonder that even in his indifferent state, Michael cared at least a little for Brian's affairs.
"You're not coming back, are you?" he asked quietly, and Brian shook his head.
"Not for the long run, no. I've outgrown The Pitts for good. But I'll stay here as along as you need me – unless, of course, I can talk you into coming to LA with me."
If the offer surprised Michael, he didn't show it.
"Bri, I don't know," he said. "It's too sudden… I've got a lot of things to take care of: my store, Hunter, the apartment, Ben's things…"
"Take your time" Brian said. "I'll help you with everything; well, actually, Cynthia will. She's the right person for such tasks. What do you want to do with the apartment anyway?"
For what seemed like eternity, Michael remained silent.
"I don't want to keep it," he finally said. "In fact, I don't want to see it ever again. But I'll have to go there, eventually; to get my things, to have Ben's things put in boxes and sent to his family – people who never wanted to see me," he added with sudden, unexpected bitterness."
"You don't need to go there," Brian said. "I can get your stuff for you – I know your things as I know mine. As for the rest – there are companies that take care of that sort of thing, you know. Unless you want to keep a few personal items, you won't even have to set foot in the apartment."
"I don't want to keep anything that wasn't mine… before," Michael said. Brian raised a surprised eyebrow.
"Really? I always thought you to be a romantic. One to cherish keepsakes, like your Ma."
"Up till now, I used to think the same, "Michael answered slowly. "But now… I just want to be done with that part of my life. To be over it."
"Even Ben?" Brian asked in mild shock. Michael nodded.
"Yeah… and I feel so fucking guilty because of it, you know?" he said. "I mean, Ben was my husband, right? I loved him, I really did. And now he's dead, and I should be falling apart, shouldn't I? He gave me what I always wanted: a stable relationship, a home, a family. I should miss him like crazy, shouldn't I?"
"You don't miss him, then?" Brian asked carefully, suspecting some untold tales behind Michael's indifference – not necessarily pleasant ones. Michael smiled at him in a self-deprecating manner.
"To be honest, Bri, the only thing I really feel is relief. Whatever the others might have told you about us, things weren't going so well lately. For quite some time, in fact. It started with his steroid abuse, then he took in Hunter, against my protests…"
"I thought you loved the Littlest Hustler," Brian said in surprise. "You've surely risked more than enough for him."
"I did – I do," Michael agreed, "but to tell you the truth, Ben never asked me if I wanted to share our life with an underage whore, when we've just started getting used to living together. Or if I wanted to become active in all those gay rights organisations. Or if I wanted to take part in events like that stupid Liberty Ride. He should have married Ma," he added maliciously. "They had a lot more in common than he and I could ever hope for."
"That's a relief," Brian commented. "It would seriously worry me if you'd been completely re-moulded by the Nutty Professor."
"And then, that stupid, boring book of his got rejected," Michael continued almost on autopilot, as if he hadn't heard Brian's comment at all, "and he couldn't deal with it. He was so fucking jealous of my moderate success with Rage, so nasty about it. I… I think he was insulted that people liked it so much, although it was just a comic, while nobody but a few sycophants was interested in his great literary work. And when Brett Keller's offer came…"
"… he lost it completely," Brian finished for him. That part of the whole sorry tale he'd witnessed, first-hand. Michael nodded.
"He became very… demanding, as soon as it became clear that the Rage movie was a go."
"Using his illness as an excuse to commandeer your every step," Brian added. Michael closed his eyes.
"He did need me, you know," he murmured. "He was so used to be in control, despite the virus. He thought he could outsmart it, with all that healthy food and Zen shit, but in truth, he was scared shitless in the inside, just never willing to show it. That would have been… improper for the cool, supreme Professor Bruckner. And Hunter was no help."
"Of course not," Brian agreed. "He is an annoying little shit who takes advantage of the fact that some people feel sorry for him. The most unlikeable teenager right after my nephew. I'm sure Deb will be happy to 'save' him, just as she was happy to take in her precious Sunshine."
"I can't roll off my responsibility onto my Ma," Michael said resignedly.
"Why not?" Brian asked. "Saving lost queer souls seems to be her vocation. And besides, she's put every stray fag before you for a long time. Sometimes I really wonder if she's still aware of the fact that you are his only son, not all those young sluts of the Liberty Avenue."
"Bri, you're being unjust to Ma," Michael protested, with suspiciously little heat behind the words. Brian raised an eyebrow again.
"Am I? Be honest, Mikey, when did she ever side with you – or with me, whom she assumedly loved like her own son – in any conflict? She tried to throw you at Doctor Dave, and later at Ben; and she tried, in league with the lezzies, to get me back together with Justin, no matter the costs. And she keeps treating you as if you were a stupid child. Including calling you names and hitting you upside the head in public."
"Not to mention that she had me live with a lie for thirty years," Michael said slowly. "With a phantom father who never existed."
"The presence of fathers is overrated," Brian said cynically. "You knew mine; trust me, you were better off without one."
"But I wasn't without one," Michael pointed out. "I had a lie. A myth. A dead war hero to compete with. I'd have been perfectly happy as Michael Grassi, with Uncle Vic as an ersatz father, you know. At least his expectations weren't impossible to meet. But a straight war hero I never knew…" he shook his heat. "That I could have done without."
"I never knew you had such a hard time with this," Brian said after a long pause. "You seemed to take it pretty much in one stride when it turned out that your actual Dad was an elderly drag queen."
"I never gave it much thought," Michael admitted. "I tried not to, and I had enough other problems in the recent years to keep myself occupied. Besides, after thirty years, what did it matter anymore? But I've had a lot of time to think lately, at Ben's bedside. And now that he's gone, there will be changes. I just don't know yet where to start."
"Getting a change of scenery would be a good start," Brian said. "You can hire someone to runt he store permanently. You need a break; and besides, you'll have better things to do with your time than sell comics. Like working on the Rage movie."
"I don't wanna give up my store," Michael replied. "It's something I've made to work for myself, and it works well. I'm proud of it, even if it's just a comic store."
"You won't have to give it up," Brian said. "I don't give up Kinnetik, either. I just delegate the day-to-day business to capable employees. We live in the twenty-first century, Mikey, and there's the Internet and e-mails and cell phones. You don't have to actually sit in the store."
"Yeah, but I like sitting there," Michael said. "And what would become of Hunter if I left town?"
Brian shrugged. "You don't really believe they'd allow you to raise him alone?" he asked. "It was the Professor's position the judge took as an assurance, not your store. They might allow Deb to take him in – or they'll give him back his loving mother."
"She doesn't want him anymore," Michael said.
"Small blame to her – neither would I," Brian replied bluntly. "But in no way will you be allowed to keep him alone, especially now that you're gonna quit the apartment, among other things. Besides, he's almost seventeen. Soon he'll be legally allowed to stand on his own feet."
"He'd end up on the street, just like before," Michael said, depressed.
"Likely," Brian agreed. "So what? You and Saint Ben – well, actually more you than Ben – have tried everything to help him, including running away with him, so that his mother couldn't lay hands on him. How did he thank for it? By being an annoying, ungrateful brat."
"He's not ungrateful," Michael tried to defend his fosterling whom he'd grown to like, despite everything. He just has difficulties to show his true feelings, that's all."
Brian shook his head in exasperation.
"Mikey, when are you gonna learn that you can't help people against their wish? Stop being the drag queen version of Mother Teresa and try to do something for your own fucking life for a change. Like getting a life in the first place, instead of being everyone's doormat."
"Bri, if you're gonna go on like this, I'll move on to a hotel," Michael warned. "I've got enough problems; I can't deal with your shit, too, right now."
But his words lacked the usual heat, and he didn't make any attempt to leave, either – and that worried Brian. He knew better than anyone that – contrary to common belief – Michael was well able to stand up for himself, if pushed too hard. With an angry Michael he could deal – or with a devastated, crying, grieving one, for that matter – but this… this blankness frightened him. It had an eerie reminiscence of his own suicidal-depressive phase around his thirtieth birthday, and he hadn't dealt so well with that, either. Without Mikey, he'd probably have died on that fateful day.
But how was he supposed to catch Mikey if Mikey was falling? It had always been the other way round.
The ringing of the phone came as salvation in the last minute. He glanced at the display: the caller ID seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it right away. He picked up the phone, ready to give the caller a thorough dressing down, should it not be a case of life or death.
"Kinney," he barked.
"Brett Keller," the familiar voice of the Brujah replied. "I've heard that you're in Pittsburgh right now, and thought that you might be able to help me. I've been unable to reach Michael. Have you an idea where he might be?"
"Actually, he's sitting right here, next to me," Brian said in relief. "They had a… family emergency, and he put his cell phone off."
"I know about that," Brett said. "Alonzo has called in. Anyway, I really, really need to speak with Michael. It's urgent. More than urgent."
"Be my guest," Brian offered his phone to Michael. "It's Brett, Mikey. He says it's urgent."
Michael took the phone, a bit bewildered, and Brian made shameless use of his recently sharpened vampire hearing to listen to their conversation. After just a couple of sentences, he'd have kissed the Brujah director, had it been physically possible, because Brett Keller was telling Michael that they needed him for the preparations and the storyboard drawings weeks before the actual shooting would begin. Which meant that Michael should go to LA; preferably yesterday. Or the day before.
"But I can't leave just now," Michael protested. "The funeral is in five days' time, and there's so much to do…"
"Delegate," Brett said bluntly, as if he'd listened to Brian; they both were merciless businessmen, after all. "I can't stop the entire movie industry on your behalf. I'm sure Brian will be able to help. And after the funeral, Alonzo will fly you – both of you – back. That's all the time I can give you. Use it well. The show must go on. There's a lot at stake, and I can't afford to take unnecessary risks."
"B-but I have a foster son…" Michael tried to argue, but Brett interrupted him.
"Bring him. We'll organize a babysitter on the set, or a tutor, or both, whatever he needs. Won't be the first time."
"Erm… he's almost seventeen…"
"That makes it easier," Brett said. "He'll find the sets interesting; teenagers of his age usually do. And I'll have studio security keep an eye on him, so don't worry. Your only concern should be to meet your deadline," and with that, Brett hung up.
Holding the muted phone with numb fingers, Michael turned to Brian in distress.
"Brett wants me in LA, right after the funeral," he said, a bit dazzled. "Whatever am I supposed to do?"
"Board the plane with me in five days, what else?" Brian replied. You've signalled a contract, Mikey; the sharks of Hollywood won't be impressed by your little family emergency. They're ruled by money, and this time ungodly amounts of it are at risk."
Never in his entire life, mortal or undead, had Brian Kinney been more grateful for the ruling power of financial necessities. What he'd have needed weeks, probably months for – namely persuading Mikey to move to LA with him – Brett Keller had managed with a simple phone call. Oh, Mikey would argue for a while, but in the end he would give in. Not only because the Rage movie was his pet project, his favourite brain-child, but because he needed to get away from The Pitts desperately… and he knew it.
And Brett Keller had just provided the most excellent excuse possible for that move. After all, who in their right mind would argue with that much money?
"Ma will go ballistic, though," Michael murmured, having already moved on to the practical issues. Brian nodded.
"No doubt. But she will calm down eventually and realize that you don't have a choice in this. And even if she won't… she has abused you long enough. It's time for you to free yourself and learn to breathe again."
"Ma didn't really abuse me," Michael protested. "She's just… she's what she is."
"Exactly," Brian agreed and started counting on his fingers. "Let's see. There's the slapping you upside the head like a stupid child – one. There's the calling you names – two. There's the never telling you that you're actually good at anything, while mouthing off for years about her precious Sunshine – three. There's the pushing you to move in with Doc Dave, after what? A couple of months? – four. There's the taking Justin's side over yours in everything – five. And last but not least, the fact that she made you believe that you'd never be good enough for me – six. Yep, sounds suspiciously like emotional abuse to me."
"Well, she was sure like hell right in one thing," Michael replied slowly. "In twenty years, I was never good enough for as much as a pity fuck for the great Brian Kinney. And don't come me with that slogan of yours that one doesn't fuck one's best friend. Because that's bullshit, and you know that."
Brian felt as if someone had punched into his guts. With a boxing glove filled with lead.
"That's what you think it was?" he asked in a low voice, with a glint of silver in his eyes; he was shaking with anger. "That I never wanted you? Jesus, Mikey, I always wanted you; sometimes so badly that it hurt! But what good would it have brought to act on it? You wanted things that I could never give you, cause it's not in my nature. I can't live in an exclusive relationship, and we both know that. I'd have broken your heart, and our friendship would have been over."
"And what makes you think you haven't broken my heart this way?" Michael asked with a humourless grin. "Fuck, Brian, it broke my heart every goddamn time when you dragged off your trick-of-the-night. And when Justin managed to worm his way into your life like nobody ever had done, it nearly killed me. Do you think I'd have run off with David to fucking Portland, had Justin not stood between us?"
"He never stood between us, tried as he might have," Brian said. "Like everyone else, you've greatly overestimated Justin's importance in my life."
"You could have fooled me," Michael commented dryly. Brian shook his head.
"Nah, Mikey, you're mistaken. I tolerated the little twat because getting rid of him would have required more energy than I was willing to waste on him. And after he'd gotten bashed – you were right, you know? I felt so fucking guilty; I couldn't just throw him out on his ass."
Michael winced. "He told you?"
"Sure he did," Brian replied with a grim smile. "Perhaps he hoped to turn me against you. The little idiot."
"Well," Michael said slowly, "you did punch me at Mel and Lindsay's eighth anniversary party, didn't you? Just because I said nasty things about him… on your behalf, by the way. So, perhaps he wasn't that wrong, after all."
"Not exactly my proudest moment," Brian admitted.
"It shouldn't," Michael said, his voice unexpectedly sharp. "You've nearly broken my fucking nose, Brian! No one has ever punched me in the face… well, save those idiots in high school, and you used to be the one who protected me there! What was I supposed to think?"
"The sad truth is," Brian answered, "that you've spoken out loud what I was feeling myself at that moment. And I hated myself for thinking it. Hearing the same from your mouth…" he shook his head. "I'm so very sorry, Mikey. At that moment, I wasn't a tad better than my goddamn father – something I've always tried not to become."
"I thought I knew you," Michael said. "But when Justin elbowed himself into your life – into our lives – suddenly everything was different. I still don't understand how could you take him back after the whole Ethan thing."
Brian shrugged. "In hindsight, neither do I. Perhaps I panicked when you've found Ben… was afraid to be left alone."
"I thought you preferred to be alone," Michael said.
"I used to think the same time," Brian replied. "But being free of restrictions and being without you are two different things."
That silenced Michael for a while. Then he smiled, almost reluctantly. "Now, who's pathetic?" he asked.
"I am," Brian admitted freely. "Getting soft at my old age and all that shit."
"Old age, my ass!" Michael was laughing now. "I've told you on your thirtieth birthday that you'll always be young and beautiful, haven't I?"
"Mikey," Brian said dramatically, drawing his best friend closer to him. "You have no idea how absolutely right you are."
Michael laughed and opened up to him – how could he know how very true his prediction had become? The familiar warmth and taste of him exploded on Brian's tongue with an intensity that the recently sharpened vampire senses could barely bear. The fledgling deepened the kiss, praying that he wouldn't drop his fangs and cut Michael's lips by accident. He knew if it happened there would be no way to keep the Beast on the leash, and he could kill Mikey in frenzy, just as Celeste had done with Emmett.
Luckily, the mere thought of it brought him down from his rush. He broke the kiss and took Michael's now flushed face in his hands, admiring the moist, kiss-swollen mouth and that glimmer that was back in those dazed but beautiful eyes.
"Hey," Michael said weakly," I haven't planned to get mauled here as part of my grief therapy."
Brian raised an eyebrow. "So? Are you telling me you didn't like it?"
"I would, but as you've told me often enough, I'm such a miserable liar," Michael laughed again, and Brian's heart leaped with joy at that long-missed sound. "Thanks, Bri. I really needed this right now."
"Anytime," Brian combed the dark hair with his fingers. He'd have loved to offer Michael more than just a kiss, but this wasn't the right time to map out their possible future. Michael needed to come to terms with the things that had gone wrong in his life during the recent years before they could jump each other's bones. They needed a clean cut between that which had been in The Pitts and that which might wait for them in LA.
"You might be hot, but you still look like shit," he said instead affectionately. "Go, have a long, hot shower, and then go to bed. You'll need your strength tomorrow and in the days after."
"Don't remind me!" Michael pulled a face. "Telling Ma and the lezzies that I'm leaving right after the funeral is not something I'm looking forward to. It will be a screaming match of epic proportions."
"You have the perfect excuse," Brian pointed out. "Blame it on Brett."
"Nah, I don't have to," Michael said, walking towards the bathroom. "They'll blame everything on you, as usual."
"What's new?" Brian asked cynically, admiring his best friend's ass as Michael turned his back to him. It was one damn fine piece of equipment, despite the ridiculously baggy pants Mikey tended to wear. He'd have to work on Mikey's fashion sense in LA. The future star screenwriter of Tinsel Town had to put up a stellar appearance. Besides, he'd like to show Mikey around in a more proper package and watch all the fags get cross-eyed from the sight. Perhaps he should introduce Mikey to Ash Rivers; now that was a guy who knew how to present himself.
Hearing the rain-like sound of the shower, he thought it would be the right time to call Alain. He hit the number 2 on his speed-dial -- #1 was still Michael's and would always be. Alain picked up after the second ring.
"How are you doing?" he asked without preamble. Thank the display, he didn't have to ask who called.
"As it can be expected," Brian answered. "I can keep the Thirst under control; Alonzo looks into it. But I guess you've spoken with him already."
"Twice a day, sometimes three times," Alain said. Brian rolled his eyes, which was a useless thing, of course, as Alain couldn't see him anyway.
"Really, Sire, is that necessary? I might be a fledgling still, but I'm not a baby."
"Yes, you are," Alain interrupted, "at least in Kindred terms. Besides, I wanted to remind Alonzo that I'm keeping tabs on you. Both of you."
"Possessive, aren't you?" Brian grinned. As a mortal, he'd have gone ballistic had someone stalked him as Alain was doing. As a newly Embraced vampire, he interpreted it as a reassurance that he could always count on his maker.
"You bet I am," Alain's voice revealed that he, too, was grinning on the other end of the line. "I can't wait to take possession of your ass again… and all the assorted parts. Has Brett called you?"
"Barely an hour ago," Brian said. "Mikey was a bit shocked at first, but he didn't need much persuasion to move on."
"When are you coming back?" Alain asked.
"In five days," Brian replied. "Right after the funeral."
"Good," Alain said. "I'll book a room in the D'Oblique for your friend."
"That's not necessary," Brian said. "He'll be staying with me. I do have a guest room, as you know."
The silence on the other end of the connection clearly signalled his maker's displeasure.
"Childe, I don't think this is such a good idea," Alain finally said. "For a number of reasons."
"I don't care," Brian replied tersely. "You knew from the beginning that Mikey would always come first. He's always been there for me, whenever I needed. And now he needs me – I won't let him down, not a chance!"
"Don't get obnoxious with me, Brian," Alain's voice was sharp and hard like steel. "I'm not one of your idiot buddies, and you'd do well to remember that! If I say it's not a good idea, I mean it's not a good idea, not that I won't allow if. If you insist on having him here, we need to take precautionary measures, though."
The few weeks spent in the Dark had already taught Brian to back off hurriedly when his Sire was in one of these moods. Even though he couldn't feel their connection from this distance – that would have been impossible even for a millennia-old Methuselah – he knew that pissing off Alain was a very bad idea. The artist was good at keeping grudges and could make his unlife an endless misery, without physically hurting him… too much.
"What kind of measures?" he asked.
"The kind that are needed if we put a clueless human under the same roof with a newly-Embraced fledgling who's still learning the intricacies of the Masquerade," Alain replied dryly. "Despite what we might plan for him in the long run, it wouldn't be a good thing to freak your friend out before he's gotten used to us."
"So, what can we do to help him fit in?" Brian asked.
Alain laughed. "He'll already have the most important thing – you," he said. "I'll have to think about the mundane details, though, and to discuss them with Peppone and Sarina. I'll tell you everything in time – and I expect you to stick to the rules, understood?"
"Yes, Sire," Brian murmured obediently, feeling himself stir, like every time when Alain went into Alpha mode. Fuck, he missed his Sire already. Regardless of his more… tender feelings towards Mikey, his body yearned for Alain's expert handling of it.
"Good," he could feel that Alain was smiling again. "I miss you, too, Childe. See you in five days," and with that, he hung up.
The day of Ben's funeral was, fortunately, a rainy one, so that Brian didn't have to worry about being exposed to the sunlight in the early afternoon. While the priest – Ben's parents belonged to the Episcopal Church and they insisted on the ceremony and got their will, as Ben hadn't left a will – was droning on, raining platitudes about a man whom he clearly hadn't known, Brian was standing at Michael's side, holding a large, elegant black designer umbrella over both of them and watched the grieving audience with disgust. Hypocrisy had always annoyed him, and his little dysfunctional family was giving a stellar performance right now.
Debbie was sobbing in the arms of his detective, who was trying to comfort him, although clearly not quite understanding the reason for such despair. Brian felt unexpected sympathy for the poor man. One could have thought that Debbie had lost her own son, not the man she at first hadn't even wanted in Michael's life. The thought that Michael might need support in this our apparently didn't occur to her.
Lindz and Mel were holding each other for comfort. Lindsay's eyes were reddened, and Melanie, her usually thin frame shockingly large with Michael's child, murmured little nothings into her ear, with the usual pinched expression on her face. Again no thought wasted on Michael here; they were mourning for a lost ally for their gay rights movement, and the personal loss of an old friend was of secondary importance.
Ted was standing on Michael's other side, trying helplessly to give comfort with his mere presence, little though that might be. But at least he was there, uncomfortable in the crossfire of hateful looks coming from Ben's family, who glared at Michael as if he'd been responsible for Ben's untimely death. As if he hadn't gone through hell with the Nutty Professor (and not just in the past phase of his illness), never wavering in his love and support. Because despite Michael's outburst a few days earlier, Brian knew that he'd loved that stupid husband of his, always forgiving, always looking for excuses for Ben's shitty behaviour – just as he'd always done with Brian. That was Mikey's nature, and even now, he was more concerned about Hunter, who stood there, stone-faced and with an almost convincing mien of utter boredom, than for himself.
Brian glanced at the Bruckner family again. At Ben's father, who had a shocking similarity to his son, minus the excess muscle and with grey hair – he had the same air of studied superiority about him too, an attitude that always made Brian's fists itch. The older Bruckner was also a college professor somewhere in Minnesota, and by the sight of him an unbearable snob. He radiated indignant displeasure, as if being here alone would be an insult for his august person.
Ben's mother was one of those Betty Ford wannabes who still tried to look thirty at the age of sixty or more, forgetting that no amount of beauty products and cosmetic surgery could make their neck and hands look young again, and who liked to appear on charity parties, wearing expensive clothes and tasteless jewellery, made up so thickly that they could be mistaken for Egyptian mummies. She held a lacy handkerchief in claved hand, symbolically touching it to her eyes but making sure she didn't ruin her make-up. Her white hair had an unnatural blue glow, as if it had been polished for the occasion.
Their daughter, Ben's older sister, was on her way to become a carbon copy of her mother. She was leaning on the arm of her husband, some kind of small-scale bank manager, with an expression of vague disgust on her face whenever she glanced in Michael's direction. No, Michael definitely wasn't the person the Bruckners would want in Ben's life. Even if he'd be a woman, they would reject him, for coming from such a simple family, for never going to college, for not being an academic. That he was a man only added insult to injury in their eyes.
A small, warm hand touched Brian's clenched fist, supportive, female. He glanced to the side and recognized Cynthia in a sudden flush of gratitude. She had always been his greatest supporter… well, right after Mikey, that is. And that while being straight as a board and never feeling the urge to appear on any gay-supporting events, just to prove that she was not a homophobe. She didn't stand to him on some abstract principle. She stood to him out of friendship and simple, old-fashioned loyalty.
Plus, she had the sensitivity not to come in black, pretending to mourn for a man she'd never met in her life. She was here for Brian's sake first, in Michael's second, and didn't care for anyone else present.
"Don't kill them in front of so many witnesses," she murmured, giving the Bruckner clan a glare of pure disgust. The idea was so absurd that Brian could barely hold back an inane giggle. Which must have been her intention – she knew him better than his friends, even, having been exposed to his nasty, snarky, aggressive side for many long years. She was practically bullet proof now – and they respected each other greatly.
"Remind me to make you the boss of the local branch when I open the LA office," Brian replied in the same low voice. She gave him one of her rare, genuine smiles.
"What if I want to go to LA? Too?" she asked.
"You can if you want," Brian said. "But there you'd be only an employee. Here, you can be the boss. It's your choice."
"I'll think about it," Cynthia said primly, playing hard-to-get. It was a joke, of course. Brian knew she didn't really want to leave The Pitts. She had a family here, friends, well-established contacts. She wouldn't give all that up and begin from square one again, unless it was absolutely necessary. But she'd provided a distraction, and Brian was grateful for that.
The ceremony, in the meantime, was nearing its end. The priest had finished his part, and now people were standing ion line to throw their flowers on top of the coffin, already lowered into the grave. The line seemed to have no end, with Ben's fellow professors and students coming on and on and forming a semi circle around Professor Bruckner Sr. and the rest of the family, expressing their condolences, while the representatives of the local gay community did the same with Debbie.
Not one of them thought of Michael – or Hunter, for that matter – who were standing on the side, isolated, with only Brian, Ted and Cynthia to support them. Not a single one offered condolences to him. Not even the lezzies or his own mother.
For that, Brian could have cheerfully killed them all.
When the long line of black-clad mourners friendly came to an end, Michael finally could have said his goodbyes to Ben, too – but he was unable to move. For the first time, all eyes turned to him, disapprovingly and a little impatiently. Brian nudged him gently, wanting to be over with the whole painful scene, but Michael just stood there, as if rooted deeply in the graveyard soil and couldn't move.
Before the whole thing could have become too embarrassing, though, the murmurs unexpectedly quieted and the black mass parted like the Red Sea before Moses, giving way to a man. To a sleek, beautiful man, with bluish-black hair and jewel-like eyes, clad in black leather pants and a blood red, flowing silk shirt. Alonzo Solace, holding a single, long-stemmed red rose in his hand, walked through them like a hot knife through butter, wrapped in an invisible aura of immortal power and almost animal magnetism.
He walked straight to Michael, took his hands and looked into his eyes.
"Let the dead mourn and wail over their dead," he said in a quiet but clear voice that no one could pretend not to hear. "This, too, will pass. We came to this world alone, and alone we shall leave it again. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Remember that you are still alive and celebrate life as long as you can; for this is the way all of us must go one day: the good and the bad, the wise and the fool, the ugly and the pretty, the brave and the coward. In the end, we are all alike. You, however, walk in the sunlight while there is still time."
He lifted Michael's chin with his free hand, kissed him on the mouth, long and hard, and then walked away, dropping the rose into the open grave on his way out.
Till the day of his Final Death could Brian Kinney tell how he had been able to suppress his hysterical laughter at that moment, seeing the absolute shock on the faces of Ben's family and colleagues.
"That," Michael declared later, during the half-assed dead watch in Debbie's house, when they finally found a moment for themselves, "was a scene for the gods. I know I should probably be pissed off at Alonzo, but whenever I try to get angry at him, I see the faces of Ben's fucking breeder family, and those of all the snobbish academics, and I just double over, laughing my ass off."
"I bet your mother will blame me for it, too," Brian said dryly. "After all, I was the one who's brought Alonzo here."
"I thought he was the one who's brought you," Michael said.
Brian raised an eyebrow. "When did such technicalities hinder Deb blaming me for everything?"
"Good point," Michael agreed.
"Ready to return to the she-wolves before they realize that we've dared to speak a few words uncensored?" Brian asked, glancing towards the living room where Debbie, Lindz, Mel and Ted were sitting with Hunter, Gus and about a dozen of Ben's college groupies.
"Not really," Michael replied with a sigh, "but we need to drop the bombshell tonight if we want to take off for LA tomorrow."
They went back to the mourning crowd that Debbie was still trying to force-feed, adamantly sure that large amounts of pasta, home-made marinara sauce and ice-cream were the miracle cure for all possible problems in anyone's life. Michael nibbled on his pasta without appetite, knowing that it was better to pretend he was eating than trying to explain his mother that he was not hungry. Besides, concentrating on pushing the food around on his plate made it easier to shut off the conversation around him.
Conversation? Well, make it an eulogy of the great man Ben Bruckner had supposedly been. As if nobody else but him and Brian had been present all those times when the Professor had displayed less than stellar behaviour.
Perhaps they hadn't really been present. Not consciously enough to see beyond the façade of love, fun and picket fences Michael had tried to keep up at any costs.
He was so deep in his thoughts that he hadn't even realized that his mother was already planning out his immediate future. How he would step into Ben's place in all those gay organizations and discussion forums. How he would help organizing demonstrations for the legalization of gay marriage, give interviews to gay magazines and small, independent TV channels that showed interest for the topic. And so on. It was Brian's voice that shook him out of his indifference.
"I'm afraid Mikey won't have time for all that," Brian was saying. "He's needed in LA. Brett Keller had called six times during the last four days," which was a blatant like, but the others couldn't know that. "They want him to help with the pre-shooting preparations of the Rage movie, and that yesterday."
For a moment, Debbie was too shocked to react. But only for one moment. In the next one, she practically erupted in self-righteous indignation like a volcano, calling Brian a heartless asshole and Michael an ungrateful little shit who couldn't think of anything else than of his fucking comics, and anyway, when would he finally grow out of that silly childhood fetish and take over some responsibility."
That was the point when Brian stood, so abruptly that he turned his chair over.
"Are you listening to yourself, Deb?" he asked with such cold fury in his voice that – oh wonder of wonders! – Debbie shut her big mouth from the sheer shock of it. "Do you still know whom you're frothing at? This is your goddamn son, for fuck's sake! The same one who turned up a scholarship at nineteen because he didn't want to lie on your pocket. The same one who slaved in the fucking Q without complaining too much because it was a more or less safe pay. The same one who was always, always there for you, for Vic, for me, for every single one of your fucking hypocrites! Who endured Saint Ben when he was on steroids and rabid and dangerous. The same one who never turned his back on any of us, no matter how shitty we sometimes treated him – and that includes you, Deb, above everyone else!"
Debbie was still gawking, unable to do more than giving inarticulate protesting noises. Since he was now on the roll anyway, Brian went on.
"You're speaking about responsibility?" he asked, shaking with anger. "You1ve kept tossing Michael at any halfway passable man for years, just to keep me available for your precious Sunshine! Have you ever considered that Justin does have a mother of his own, but by favouring him you all but abandoned Mikey? What kind of mother are you anyway? Calling him names, smacking him in public and playing down everything he'd ever achieved in his life?"
"I never…" Debbie tried to protest, but there was no stopping Brian today.
"Yes, you have. You always treated him like a stupid child. As if working his way up through the ranks to the manager of a large department store and then to the owner of his own business were nothing! Well, let me tell you that it takes brains to handle all the day-to-day intricacies of running a business. It includes accounting, inventory, sales, payroll, scheduling, customer relations… and that's just a short list! He's done all this without help, juggling with work, Hunter's foul moods and Ben's ego trips, and still managed to be there for everyone else who needed a sympathetic shoulder."
"Nobody argues about that, Brian," Lindsay intervened smoothly. "Debbie just wanted to remind Michael that he has to stand in for Ben, too, in the future."
"No, he doesn't," Brian said bluntly. "He doesn't have to live Ben's life, and nobody gives a fuck what Deb wants him to do. It's Mikey's life, and for the first time in thirty-plus years, he'll actually get to live it. You spoke about responsibility – well, what about this? Mikey has signed a legally binding contract with Brett Keller and the Vignes Studios. They could – and believe me, they would – sue him, unless he gets his ass over to LA tomorrow and sits down with the producers to do some work for which he's already been paid. That's called responsibility out there, in the real world, even if your warped minds can't comprehend it."
"I'm afraid Brian is right, Debbie," Melanie said reluctantly. "I've helped to put that contract together… before Michael transferred the rights to Navital & Waters," she added bitterly. "He's agreed to help with the pre-shooting preparations, ad h has to go there, whether he wants or not."
The last part must have been some futile attempt to build a bridge between mother and son, but Michael was having none of it.
"Oh, don't worry, Mel, I do want to go," he said coolly. "Why should I not want to go somewhere where people actually value me? To do something I didn't hoped to done, ever? No; I only have this like, and I intend to make the best of a chance that won't likely come again."
"But-but you've just buried Ben!" Debbie protested.
"I have," Michael said, "and nothing that I can do would bring him back again. I've done my best for him while he was still alive. Now that he's gone, I won't give up the chance to become something more than just the owner of a comic shop. I'm sorry if you can't understand it, Ma, but I'm not willing to live in the past."
Like you, was the unspoken addition, but even so, Debbie understood it all too well. He face was pale as dough, her much too dark lipstick like a wound in the middle. She opened her mouth, but Brian silenced her with an abrupt gesture.
"That's enough, Deb. You've said all you wanted to say… and then some. It was unpleasant and nasty enough; there's no need to spit any more venom. Like it or not, we're leaving tomorrow, and that's final."
"More like tonight, actually," the low, seductive voice of Alonzo corrected, and the Brujah sauntered into the living room, uninvited. "You should start packing, guys."
"What, you want to fly in the night?" Michael asked, a bit worried. He didn't like flying to begin with, and the idea of nighttime flying scared him. Alonzo shrugged.
"My plane, my choice," he declared. "I prefer it that way – less traffic, more fun. Don't wet yourself, little one; I have night eyes."
Which was one of the most blatant euphemisms concerning undead lifestyle that Brian had heard, ever sine he'd learned about the existence of vampires.
"Chill out, Mikey," he said encouragingly. "I happen to know first-hand that Alonzo is good at what he does for a living. Now, say your goodbyes to the gang; we're leaving."
The End – for now